Fishy Chronicles 87: The Webs We Weave (19) – The secret

Though it was a state secret, everyone in the family got to know of Sarah and Johnny’s ‘disengagement’ (FC86) in a few days – even the youngest kids.

We had just spent awkward hours in a humid church, squeezed into an increasingly stinky crush of people there for the Sunday service. All the while people glanced our way, whispered to each other, hastily looked away when we looked at them, and either spoke with a smirk or double meanings.

Elsamama and Amma stood on either side of Anniemama, effectively fending off questions. But then some girls approached Shyla and Nina after church and asked. They were saved the trouble of answering when a stony-faced Sarah stepped out of that side entrance and almost bumped into them. The girls scattered in different directions like an army of ants interrupted, while Shyla and her sister stayed rooted to the spot in shock. Sarah raked her cousins with a filthy look and walked past.

I kept out of everyone’s way. It was too much tension. Today people who had seen through me for weeks wanted to speak to me. My nosey second cousins who lived opposite Kunjappachan’s house, Eenya and her sister Tara, blocked my way. I composed myself – lying, or being economical with the truth, was easier when emotions didn't come in the way.

“Is it true?” Eenya asked.

“What?”

“The engagement is off?” Tara said.

“Engagement?”

“Sarahchechi’s engagement to Johnnychyan!” Eenya burst out.

“As far as I know it’s still on,” I pushed past and walked quickly to the dirt road leading out of the church. The church had loads of money – every parishioner had someone in the Middle East, the US, UK or Australia and the church often got hefty donations from those wanting to make good impressions – yet the road outside the church stayed clay red and untarred year after year after year, and when it rained there was a strong chance you would slip. 

A puddle splashed and I felt cold wetness at the back of my salwar. But I hurried on. A hand grabbed my elbow. I started in fear, but relaxed when I saw who it was. I started walking away from the church’s gates.

“What does it mean? They aren’t going to get married?” Rita asked. She had been standing a way off but must have heard the conversation with our second cousins.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“Johnnycha’s family called and said they didn’t want to marry.”

Rita caught my upper arm and made me stop. I sighed and stood under the stoop of a shop. I watched people go past in their Sunday whites, and slippers, unperturbed by the 99.99% possibility of top-quality slush scarring their whites for life.

Rita looked confused. She opened her mouth, but words didn’t come out. Finally she said, “He doesn't want to marry Sarahchechi?”

“Yes.”

“He said that?”

“Ye… er… there was a phone call. I don’t think it was him.”

“So he didn’t say.”

“Someone in his family said it for him.”

It doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does.”

“Someone could be doing it chumma (just like that).”

“Too serious a business for someone to do chumma.”

“I mean… I don’t think he wants to.”

Something about the way she said it made me pause. “What do you mean, Rita?”

She looked around and pushed me back into the damp brick wall. “You remember we went over to Eenya’s house for her birthday?”

I snorted, but stilled my cynical tongue. There was no traditional payasam that Eenya’s mother was known for, but some awful cake Tara had baked. The plain yellow cake at the bakery was better. “Yes.”

“Achacha was there.”

“Which Achacha?

“Johnnycha!”

“What?”

“Not at the party, but he was in a car down the road. And after a while, Chechi disappeared. I saw her sitting in the car.”

“But... how? He's in Bombay... and... and... his family would have known! Thomachan would have known!” Thomachan was Eenya's brother and Johnny's friend.

Rita shrugged. "He was in the car with Sarahchechi."

I shook my head. It was too farfetched. No one took such risks. Not in this village at least. “Kasam se, God promise, chechi!” Rita pinched her throat with one hand and touched her head with the other, indicating that God would smote her if she lied.

Rita squeezed my arms and pushed me deeper into the wall. “Believe me, chechi, Achacha was in his friend’s car – like the car Appapa has. A white one, with big scratch marks. You remember Johnnychacha used to drive around in that.”

"Rasool?" Johnny’s friend drove a dented Padmini Premier. They spent a lot of time in the car. Apparently there was no way to enjoy the company of adult friends in this village, because even if you hid in the fields someone would see you.

"Yes."  

"He was in the car with them?"

"I didn't see him."

"Er, so who drove the car?"

Another shrug.

“I don’t understand. If Johnnychyan had come everyone would have known.” 

“Yes, but he was here last week.” She counted her fingers. “On Sunday.”

How was it I hadn’t seen them. It was impossible. But even more impossible was the possibility of Rita lying. 

“He stopped calling on Wed…” 

“Who stopped?”

“Nothing.” No one knew about the calls. I pushed her away but suddenly Rita was pinning me against the wall. 

“So they are talking!”

“Er…” I clawed at the little fingers that were digging into my fleshy forearms.

“How are they talking?”

“Let me go, ouchhhhhhhh!”

She let go, but stood on tiptoe, her small body pressing aggressively into mine – a most determined expression on her little face. “He’s called Sarahchechi? When?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

My chest compressed into my shoulder blades and the damp came right through the back of my clothes. Amma would get mad at me if the mossy bricks stained my clothes. “Come on, Rita. A secret is a secret is a secret,” I mumbled.

She didn’t move or ease the pressure on my chest. I tried pushing her, but she jammed her feet into the ground and pressed me against the wall with her upper body and arms. This was something Roma sometimes did to Rajiv and now Rita was doing it to me!

“Ok, ok. He calls late at night.”

A calculating look settled on her face, and she stepped back. “What movie are you watching?”

“Eh?”

“Which movie?”

“A-a s-serial. Crime programme – CSI.”

“What time?”

I remained quiet. That was the only 'me' time I got in our overcrowded household. I didn’t want another person to join. Rita pressed into me again, but this time I didn’t budge. But when her index finger wouldn’t stop skewering my right kidney, I gave up, “ouch... one o'clock... ooouuucccchhhh.” I shoved with some effort, and she staggered back.

Rita grinned and walked to the middle of the road. “Come on. Let's go before Ammachi comes out and thinks we're loitering.”

******

After a nice fat Sunday lunch we sat in the sitting room waiting for the adults to leave for their afternoon naps. But the boys grabbed the TV remote first and after watching them surf channels and laugh at their sisters’ entreaties to allow them to watch a certain film, I walked out. The house was stifling.

I opened the sitting room door and looked back at the scene in the room. The long baby pink curtains (Appachan’s choice) were billowing with the breeze coming in from the windows, the boys were spread across all the chairs and sofas, unwilling to let their sisters sit, the only exception being Rajiv and Roma who were squeezed into a love seat. None of the boys were willing to toy with Roma, especially after the chapter of violence Bobby was subjected to some weeks ago (FC76).

At this moment, I hated the boys with all my heart. They were crude, awful to the core and I did not know how my family favoured them. I shuddered when I looked at Mobby and Bobby, their heads together discussing something in low tones. Idiots.

I wanted to bang the door, but that one moment of rebelliousness would unleash demons that were right now safely snoring in their beds. Why chance a typoon when you could eat a sweet chubby mango. I closed the door gently and ran around to the back of the house for the mango-lassoing pole. It lay near the shed and I hurled it over the side gate and climbed over. I ran joyfully, but carefully, through the pineapple patch, enjoying the sudden rain-induced coolness. 

From a point on the property it was possible to see the river. You could hear it all the time if you stood still and slowed your breathing – a gentle whooshing sound that almost sounded like the trees shivering, but not quite.

Rita followed me and we smiled at each other. I howled and barked, imitating the dogs in the neighbourhood, enjoying our moments of freedom. Rita bared her teeth and yipped like our neighbour's pomeranian. We howled and yipped until we noticed a passerby stop to watch. Another nosey idiot neighbour.

******

Past 12.45am, I peeped warily at the sofa and sighed in relief. Sarah was not there. I felt my spirits sag thinking of how she had been forced to give up on Johnny.

A cold hand caught my arm. I leaped backwards and hit the wall. I cowered with my arms up to protect myself, when I heard someone shush me. I opened an eye and saw Rita. I wanted to wring her neck.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“I want to watch TV too,” she whispered in my ear.

I was stumped. “You’ll get into trouble.”

“Ok.”

I glared at her, until she gestured for me to come closer. I leaned towards her lips. “What?”

“I got a plan for that.”

“What?”

“When anyone comes, we should run in different directions.”

“What if they block the corridor?”

“We can run through the study to the dining room, get to the store room and wait there till all is clear.”

“But what if they go after only one person.”

“Then we’re screwed.”

******

Fear didn’t deter us. We watched our crime serial without sound, trying to figure out what they were saying, until Rita leaned into my ear and said, “We’ve got to call Johnnychyan.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Ask him the truth?”

“How?”

“Just ask.”

“He’ll laugh at us and complain to our parents.”

“Ok. I’ll do it then,” Rita straightened in the sofa and continued watching TV.

You irritating pimple. “Ok, let’s ask.”

“Deal. You get his number from Sarahchechi.”

“Whhatttt? She’ll bite my head off!”

“Hmm. Ok. I’ll try and get it,” Rita whispered nonchalantly.

“How will you do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find a way. Now keep quiet and let me watch. Here. Eat this.” She pushed a large oily ball of sugiyan into my hand. Ammachi had made the ladies cook namkeen and other eats the last few days – she was preparing to send off her children with many goodies. The sugiyan, filled with a sweet moong (lentil) filling, had been made fresh and would stay a few days.

“How… how…”

“How did I get them? Ammachi changed the lock and Rajiv saw her hide the key under the paper at the bottom of the sideboard.”

I had been made to clean said sideboard recently, and had lined its shelves with clean back editions of the Malayala Manorama newspaper. I eyed the little one… had we corrupted this 10-year old more than we knew?

“Eat. Don’t drop any crumbs, or the ants will come and Ammachi will track us down.”

“Ok. Got it.”

After the sugiyan and the serial, too lazy to wash our hands, we wiped them on the back of a curtain in a neglected corner of the sitting room and parted ways, promising to keep the whole day, and night, a secret. 

******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related
to a family vacation gone wrong in Kerala. 

In this episode she comes to know, through another cousin, that their cousin Sarah had been meeting her fiancé Johnny without the family's knowledge. Johnny's family ended the engagement a few days previously.   

Read the entire The Webs We Weave series here FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94

#ants #antarmy #river #bombay #crumbs #washinghands #fiction #keralachristians #keralastories #kerala #keralavacation #keralafamilies #love #loss #brokenengagements #marriage #food #mobby #bobby #sarah #fishychronicles87 #grandparents #websweweave #mumbaimalayalis #malayalistories #cake #secret #padminipremier #crimesceneinvestigation #crimeserial #CSI #malayalamanoramanewspaper #sideboard #payasam #bakery #kidney #johnnyandsarah #keralachurch #typhoon #mango #sugiyan #namkeen #10yearold #corrupt #neighbour's #dogs #pomeranian

Fishy Chronicles 49: Lovers, Beware

“Is something bothering Anjali?” our newfound friend Simran said. I could detect tension in the words. She was being polite. Only I imagined it was a matter of time before the hot-blooded Punjabi lass walking beside me would race upto Anjali and gave her a whack to remember.

We had hooked up with Simran and her boyfriend Dharamveer in the evening. He had promised to take me to some interesting shops he’d found in Katra Jaimal Singh Market. We were going to look at spices, vessels, masalas, clothes, shoes and jewellery. Mostly I just thought he’d show me a little of Punjab that I thought I wouldn’t know to look for.

But I couldn’t understand Anjali’s behaviour. She had clung to the man since we left the hotel, jumped into the rickshaw with him – forcing Simran to ride with me in another rickshaw. Even though it bothered Dharamveer, the rickshaw had already moved and he turned and frantically gestured at Simran to follow in a rickshaw. 

Not that I thought for a moment Anjali was making a move on Dharamveer – even though we looked at him every now and then, surreptitiously. He was good looking and, even better, nice. By the looks of the two walking ahead of us in the narrow lanes of the market, I could understand Simran’s distress.  

“Don’t worry, she’s not making a move on him,” I said before I realised what I was saying. Simran looked at me, shocked. “Oh, that came out badly. I meant she’s not flirting with him.”

“Then what is going on there!” Simran waved a hand in their direction, red spots of colour coming to life in her cheeks.

“I don’t know. Let’s catch up with him… er… them. By the way, what does your boyfriend do?” 

Simran looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”

Yes, why? We were not going to see them again after today. And it was unlikely that we would keep in touch. Shit! What was Anjali doing! She was exchanging numbers with Dharamveer. And Simran almost ran towards them.

“What’s going on?” Simran said stiffly.

Her boyfriend gave her a nervous look and opened his mouth, but Anjali cut him off. “Ah, I’m sorry I hogged Dharamveer. I may need legal services and was asking for references. I’ve taken his number, I hope that is okay with you, Simran?” Anjali smiled.

“Er, yes, of course. What sort of legal advice were you hoping for?”

“There’s this guy who is basically stalking me. Though he says that I’ve based one of my characters on him.”

“Characters?”

“Yes. A character in one of my books. I’ve been trying to fob this man off, but he’s found out where I live and is threatening legal action. My publisher says the man doesn’t have a leg to stand on. No pun intended.”

“You’re a writer? What are the names of your books?”

Oops. Simran was swimming in rough waters. Anjali watched her for a while and then moved her mouth to form a makeshift smile. “Peepal Junction,” she murmured.

There were blank looks on Simran’s and Dharamveer’s faces. This was one of Anjali’s serious books – far removed from the sex-filled ones she was famed for. Peepal Junction was released two years ago and had fared poorly. But luckily the insipid reviews had not fazed Anjali and she kept writing both kinds of books. It was not likely that these two would ever get to know who they were dealing with. Her series surrounding a lothario mercenary were bestsellers several times over, which Anjali wrote under a pseudonym. She lived in a ratty little house in the Himalayas, barely ate and lived mostly for her craft. The only sign she was making money was her frequent travel, which only her closest friends knew.

“Interesting,” said Dharamveer into the silence. He scratched his head absently and then put his arm around Simran’s shoulders and pulled her forward with him.

“That was close! I thought Simran was going to hurt you,” I hissed at Anjali when we were at a safe distance.

“Why?”

“From behind it looked like you were coochie cooing. Of course, I didn’t think so,” I said when Anjali looked annoyed. “But, really, what were you talking about?”

“I want legal advice. When Dharamveer mentioned he was a lawyer I wanted to know where I stood.”

“Really? That bad?”

“I mean, no. At least, not yet. But it feels like I have to weigh my options soon.”

“What does your publisher say?”

“Says my disclaimers should take care of everything.”

“But?”

“It’s time to weigh my options.”

I nodded. I couldn’t say much. I had no clue who was following Anjali or why. But I imagine I would know when she was ready to tell me. “Where’s my copy of the latest book?”

“Ah, that. Publisher said to hold off on it until I weighed my options.”

“What? That sounds serious! What is this shit you’ve walked into?”

Dharamveer and Simran stopped and waited for us to catch up. We walked too slowly for Simran because she waved at us impatiently. Anjali and I looked at each other. We hated jealous women. We hated aggressive women even more. I do not know how we are best friends with my cousin Roma.

“Put on your sweetest smile, darling,” Anjali muttered under her breath.

We smiled sweetly and pushed our way between them – to their shock.

                                            ******
This is a fictional series about the narrator, her pet fish and former manservant. She is on holiday in Amritsar, Punjab, with her best friend Anjali. A day in the wholesale market with newfound friends does not end well.

                                             ******

The market proved a half-hearted effort for Dharamveer. He was overwhelmed by the drama unfolding in front of him – Anjali openly flirting with him, Simran’s jealous looks and increasing coldness and me a silent, enthralled spectator.

After a few shops and an argument between the lovers, Dharamveer suggested we go our separate ways. I poked Anjali in the ribs when I realised she was keen to prolong the lovers’ misery. She nodded reluctantly and we shook hands with the two.

“Not too soon,” Anjali smiled, watching them hurry into a wholesale shop.

“Why did you do that? You should have let them be… especially if you're hoping to get free legal advice from him. You may have scared him off for good!”

“He’s suggested someone I can approach. Even if Dharam doesn’t respond, I can get that information from the net or another Delhi lawyer. Besides, moody, broody, insecure Simran was asking for it.”

Indeed, Simran was. But having had my heart broken a few times, I felt sorry for her. Anjali must have read my thoughts, “Don’t go feeling sorry for that wretch.”

“Why not? We had no business wedging ourselves between them. It was unnecessary, especially as we got off to a good start!”

Anjali pulled me along and we entered a clothes shop, made the owner and his assistant pull out everything, showed no interest in anything and left. I wasn’t sure if the shopkeeper let out a swear word under his breath – so far all the tradespeople had been very courteous. It was doubtful we were going to buy anything – Anjali looked too preoccupied. In any case, we’d already bought shoes and spices with the lovers’ help. It was night now, though there was adequate light in the narrow lanes filled with people, carts, rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, cows, dogs and cow dung.

I looked for a kulfa shop and found one eventually near the city's centre. “What a fake dish this is! It’s a solid version of a kulfi-falooda, served on a plate. And it is bad!” Anjali said annoyed, trying to swallow the tasteless kulfa. I had to agree. So far, our adventures with food in Amritsar were disappointing. We compared incessantly the local dishes with the ‘Punjabi’ dishes we got in Mumbai – the former were bland and mild. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a UK tandoori chicken situation. I once watched a chef in the UK make it. He threw in tomato purée, fried some evil red masalas in lots of butter, poured in water and, after a while, threw in the pieces of chicken, then lowered the heat for the excuse of a dish to simmer and garnished it with several spoons full of butter, cream and coriander leaves. I remember my parents and I watching the TV programme in disbelief. Millions of Brits were clearly being taken for a ride. The Indian version of the tandoori chicken was a vastly different affair and edible and tasty.

But there was hope yet. The sarson ka saag, that we had had bitter experiences with, literally, was excellent and swimming in butter. Plus, we got gyaan on its antecedents from a pair of older women seated near us, one of whom was a food blogger. Ms C said, “Sarson is bitter and usually mixed with palak (spinach) to tone down its bitterness.” We nodded and chatted about strange things. For instance, Ms C’s friend told us about how she hated the pakoras – apparently they were better in Mumbai – to the consternation of the food blogger who had loved them. We mentally crossed pakoras off our list.

In fact, the blogger had found the food a disappointment while the friend hadn’t. “That’s friendship, you know,” Anjali mumbled when the blogger and her friend left and our bill landed at our table.

“How?”

“They can beg to differ… on food.”

“Kuch bhi. Chalo, let’s go. We’ve got to pack. And go back to the Golden Temple one last time.”

“Why?”

“I hear it’s an awesome sight at night. We just have to go back and roam around there. Besides, we’re a pair of free birds on the loose at night in Punjabistan.”

“Do you realise we’ve barely ogled anyone since we’ve been here?”

“Maybe it’s because of all the turbans. Do you think we’re racists?”

“No. We’re just stuck in our ideas about male beauty and, sadly, facial hair and long hair don’t figure. Though, we have to make an exception for Genie. Truth be told, if we fell in love we’d surprise ourselves at how we hankered for one thing and something else overcame our reservations slyly and without our knowledge.”

“You seem to have put a lot of thought into it.”

“Just popped into my head. I’m going to use it in my book.” Anjali grinned and put her arm in mine. We walked out swinging our interlinked arms, much to the amusement of tourists and locals.

                                           ****** 

Cereals, lentils, dried fruits and soap displayed outside a shop in Katra Jaimal Singh market, Amritsar.
(Photo: A. Peter)

Golden Temple, Amritsar, at night. (Photo: A. Peter)

Golden Temple, Amritsar, Punjab. (Photo: A. Peter)