Fishy Chronicles 76: The Webs We Weave (8) – Breaking point

The next morning there was a buzz in the air. People stood in clusters, murmuring and looking wary.

I asked Roma what was going on.

“Someone was in the house last night. Dropped the brass vase in the sitting room near Appachan’s* room. When they checked the house, all the doors were locked.” (FC 75)

I was flummoxed.  I hadn’t thought of the burglar angle.

“Er… was anything stolen?”

“No! That’s the strange thing. Appachan said he heard people running, but no one woke up except Georgechyan and Pilipochyan.” Their rooms were near Appachan’s. “Ammachi^ says she can’t make out if anything was taken.” Maybe except jaggery and snacks. Ammachi’s grandchildren had been making inroads into her legendary stocks of savouries – one of the boys had got a spare key made to Ammachi’s snack-morgasboard and the key was passed around. Snacking never seemed to be an issue in Amma’s parents’ home – my grandmother and great grandmother left cakes and snacks out on the side table for the kids and adults. There was just one rule – everyone had to eat well at meal times.

Every time we walked past Appachan’s door, I glanced at it. When he was away in the fields and everyone seemed busy, I examined the door. I ran my fingers over the dent in the door, where the sharp mouth of the worked vase had gouged out the wood. 

A hand slapped the back of my head hard. I felt humiliation wash over me. I had done my best to avoid being hit during this trip. I whirled around.

Mobby… and Fatty, holding a ladle. I wondered if it was hot. “Don’t hit me.”

“Hahaha. Why not, baby? Do you know something about the door?” He watched me carefully.

“Yes.”

Shock crossed their faces. “What do you know!” Ammachi pushed Mobby aside and I leaned away to avoid the saliva popping out of her mouth. Shee!

She was squeezing my shoulder hard and I twisted myself out of her painful grip. “I-I heard a loud noise and some footsteps.”

“And?” Mobby said. He looked uncomfortable and his jaw was tight.

“Nothing. Is it true, Ammachi, there was a robber in the house last night?” I tried not to watch my cousin openly.

“Yes. They stole food. And were trying to take the brass vase and some uralis (traditional brass utensils).”

“How many uralis were stolen?”

“Er… nothing… so far… but the kitchen was in disarray. I have work to do.” She marched away. I wondered what Ammachi had to do. Every day she sat on a chair in the kitchen and ordered the womenfolk about, while looking for chores for her granddaughters. In Ammachi’s eyes everyone was idle and needed to be gainfully occupied.

“She’s training you girls,” Amma said when I complained.

“For what?”

“For marriage. No need to act so surprised. Your husband’s family will expect you to have all those, these, skills. And more.” I hopped on each leg, trying to keep quiet.

“B-but Uncle John helps Aunty Glory in the kitchen,” I said of my parents’ friends in Mumbai “and Appa he…” I was going to say “Appa helps you”, but my mother shook her head. Even if some husbands helped their wives in the kitchen, that was best kept under wraps here.

“Strange ideas all these girls have,” my father’s older sister Sarayumama said, rolling her eyes at the mound of rice in the wide rattan tray on her lap. “They think their husbands will be modern like American men and do housework. Hah!” She was concentrating on picking out tiny stones from the rice and had barely progressed all morning. Her sisters-in-law didn’t react and kept working.

But Ammachi didn’t relent. In addition to embroidery and sewing, we were made to cook, clean and keep house. For that is what good Syrian Christian girls did! It was a good thing Ammachi didn’t know that all this ended once we went home – all her children employed maids. Ammachi probably wanted to believe that we still swept and scrubbed the windows, even with a maid around. I didn’t understand why. Most of our relatives in Kerala had at least one elderly servant, and managed some staff for busy periods like vacations.

Anyway, early every evening, all the girls were lined up and made to peel or chop or mash something. Then, whether we wanted to or not, we stood next to the older girls while they fried what we had mashed and moulded into flat balls and another older cousin simultaneously boiled a massive tureen of water and milk for the tea on a four-burner stove. In the background, our grandmother shouted instructions.

If guests arrived, our pain worsened. Or, I should say, humiliation. We were made to serve them. All the while our relatives, mostly men, joked about us getting married – how imminent marriage was, that parents had to look for a groom years in advance, cooking skills were in demand, good manners, blah blah blah and bloody blah.

And then there were the sly jokes about marrying doctors, engineers, civil servants and NRIs. The implication was that if we looked pretty enough, or were fair enough, or were ladylike and well mannered, and wore enough gold ornaments to blind an oil-rich sheikh, we’d marry well and save our parents a large dowry.

My older cousins preened, drew their eyes religiously, Appachan frowned at lipstick, and went on sari-buying missions. The younger girls watched and our eyes popped at the silks and materials. My cousin brothers waited for every opportunity to tease their cousins about marriage and boys and grooms. And they tossed newspapers and wrappers and even banana peels in corners, expecting the girls to pick up the trash. Bobby told an irate Shyla that it was practice for marriage.  

This sort of crass behaviour was unusual. So far. For some reason, the boys began to harass the girls more. The elders would get into a snit and demanded to know who had thrown the garbage on the ground and why no one had picked it up.

Because of our idiot cousins, we girls were on tenterhooks and had to sweep the house at least twice a day and be on the lookout for rubbish on the floor. All we seemed to be doing was tidying up after our cousins. 

The younger boys, and those with sisters, eventually stopped. But the older boys, Mobby, Bobby, Joey, Tino and Tomo, accelerated their efforts.

One day we decided to see what would happen if we didn’t pick up after the boys for the whole day. Just before tea time, Ammachi cornered the younger girls in a bedroom and gave us a tongue lashing and stiff lecture about filth and faith – it was hard to find a connection. Ammachi sounded like a medieval priest run amok. We kept our heads down because she waved a fat stick at us.

My male cousins listened from the doorway and sniggered, while Bobby and Mobby guffawed. Over the next few days they diligently dropped fruit peels, bits of paper, trimmed nails, plastic bags and more. They took care not to do so in their bedroom – even they were afraid of Sarayumama. The girls complained to their parents. My uncles admonished the boys and they nodded dutifully, but continued their torment.

One day my grandfather’s brother and his family, from down the road, came over for lunch. As is customary, the men and older boys had lunch first. We wiped the table clean for the next set of diners – the ladies. This time, the boys had gone a step further and dropped food on the floors. There was not much we could do about it now. It was awkward seeing our great aunt, her daughters-in-law and grandchildren walking around the dining table to their chairs in discomfort – the food on the ground stuck to their bare feet.

The dining room floor was a mess and soon it found its way into the sitting room with the guests. And, finally, what we had tried hard to avoid for weeks happened. Appachan, finical about cleanliness, blew his gasket. First, he aimed his fury at his wife, then at his daughters and then at his granddaughters.

Ammachi screamed at the girls to get brooms and mops and we went to work cleaning the dining room floor, while the guests sat in uncomfortable silence in the sitting room. Appachan banged the connecting door shut and, slowly the dull murmur of a reviving conversation began.

Rice and curry were smashed into the floor and had dried up. It was disgusting. The braver among us tried to scrape it off the floor with our fingernails but couldn’t. We poured soap water on the floor and tried to wash away the mess with a spindly broom, but the food clung stubbornly to the floor. Finally, we brought in a tough brush we used to scrub moss off the concrete area near the kitchen garden. We scrubbed the floor in turns. It was an effort to get the soap off the floor and we had to swab the floor many times until it stopped being slippery. We watched as years of dirt was sucked out of the floor and it almost shone. But it was a deadening, humiliating experience. All the older ladies had disappeared into the sitting room with my grandmother and we girls were alone in the dining room, toiling quietly, feeling miserable.

Once we were done, we stood to the side, watching the floor dry under the fan. Bobby walked in through the study door at one side of the dining room. We watched in horror as his food-caked slippers instantly dirtied our floors. He seemed to revel in it. Despite our protests, he walked around the dining room, around the table a couple of times, drank straight from a bottle of water without using a glass, smirked at all of us and finally stopped to admire his handiwork.

Most of the girls seemed to be in a stupor. It was when he laughed that Roma ran forward and punched Bobby in his gut. The air left his body in a shrill sigh and he doubled over. Then she slammed her elbow into his back several times until the older girls pried her off and dragged her away. Nina grabbed his slippers, ran into Appachan’s study and threw them out of the window as far as she could in different directions. There was a narrow dirt road nearby and in all likelihood the slippers would fall into the puddles there. Nina returned, locking the study door with the key that always stayed in the lock and tucked it into her bra.

Bobby was cowering and mewling loudly on the floor, a dish towel stuffed into his mouth, and the little girls were now pummelling and kicking him. Nina and Shyla pulled them off one by one and nearly threw them at the kitchen doorway. Sarah, Georgiechyan’s daughter, gently turned the key in the lock of the dining room door leading to the sitting room, pulled it out and slipped it into her kurta pocket. She whispered to us to get out and gestured wildly at the kitchen door.

Once we were all in the kitchen, the older girls latched the kitchen door from the kitchen and the other connecting doors. All of us rushed out into the backyard. Nina and Shyla pushed Sonimol chechi, the maid, out of the door and ordered her to stay out of the way and not to tell anyone what she had just seen. They latched the kitchen door from the outside of the house and all of us ran in different directions.

Some of my cousins went into the fields adjoining the house and onto the road. They began walking briskly to the junction. They were following Sarah, who was walking towards the church. That was where she often went and stayed for hours. It wasn’t piety, like the others thought. She hated the tedium of household work and often took books and newspapers with her. Though my grandmother had stopped trying to enslave Sarah, Ammachi didn’t stop complaining about her.

Others walked stealthily to the front of the house, opened the squeaky gate gently and stepped out. We needn’t have worried. There was shouting and a major commotion in the sitting room, with people banging the connecting doors to the study and dining room. I knew the family would try to get into the dining room through the kitchen via the store room.

When I saw a head bobbing into view through the window near the front door, I began to run after my cousins. They were half way down the road, walking to my great uncle’s house – my grandfather’s brother’s. I wondered what his family would make of what had just happened.

I watched my cousins trying not to run. Suddenly I didn’t feel alone. Now my cousins knew how I had felt for most of my vacation.

Bobby deserved what he got, but now we were in serious shit.

                                                                        ******

* Grandfather in Malayalam

^ Grandmother in Malayalam

                                                                        ******

This is a continuation of The Webs We Weave (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) series and is about events that occur during the narrator's childhood family vacation in Kerala. Please note that this is a work of fiction.   

Fishy Chronicles 36: It's Complicated

Dear Diary,

What a mess the last three days have been.

I fought with Ashok, Arief and Nidhi a number of times. We never seemed to get off on the right foot.

Eva patched up with Ashok, making all the uncles and aunties happy. Ashok and Arief seem like brothers from different mothers. Nidhi and Arief seem to be an item, but Roma and I are not sure. Arief is always around to give Nidhi a hand with steps and things. I don't understand why she didn't use the pristine white running shoes she brought with her - she has pock-marked Pretty Villa Hotel's lovely garden with her stilettos. A couple of days ago her stilettos wedged themselves deep into a wet portion of the garden and it was funny watching her kneel to pull out both heels. For some reason Arief was looking elsewhere then and Uncle looked exasperated. Some news article soon caught his attention. Truth be told, just watching us must have been like a high-speed police chase drama. The oldies watched us all the time.

While pfaffing about at tea today, I impulsively invited Ashok and Eva for appams and stew. Arief cleared his throat and I felt cornered. So I asked him home too. In a minute, Aditya stood in front of me and Roma told me that she and the boys were turning up as well.

I felt someone stare at me. I tried to ignore Nidhi until Genie murmured into my ear that I was being rude. If anything, he said, I could watch a new romance ferment (his words) over appams. I was surprised at the speed of Nidhi's assent.

On the drive to Mumbai from Lonavala, I did the sums - the number of cups of rice and coconut milk I'd need for the appams. Would my old/young yeast cooperate? I wrote the math on the back of a toll challan. Arief and Ashok ate like sparrows - they worked out and watched their weight, Eva said. Nidhi needed to balance on chopsticks, making her Starving Sparrow No. 3. If Georgy followed Roma, more worried about Genie's influence on her, he'd make Sparrow No. 4. The boys would eat like one hungry full-grown man. I made no allowances for Eva. It was doubtful she ate - being on a diet perpetually. 

With that done, I started thinking of the tattered recipe book I was trying to mend - my mother's and her mother's.

"Why don't you put out some of those recipes in a book," Genie loudly interrupted my thoughts. The car's windows were down and we were enjoying the breeze through our hair. 

"Done to death," I said in a guttural voice, trying to imitate Genie's deep voice. 

He didn't notice. "Plus anecdotes."

"I don't know any."

"Sure you do. Remember that recipe your granny taught you - you said you had to soak the ingredients several weeks for the liquor to give all the nuts a kick?"

My words exactly. "I think you're referring to the Christmas rum cake. My great grandmother taught me that family recipe when I was eight and keen to bake. I even wrote it down with her and my mother's help." And that fragile, lined piece of paper was in my mother's recipe book, tattered but full of Great Granny-Mummy love.

"And she told you not to share it with anyone."

"Yes." I thought of my poor great grandmother. Her daughter-in-law, my grandmother, had hated her and I once heard my granny tell someone that she hoped my great gran would die fast. Luckily, my great gran lived another 15 years and died just short of 100 years. 

My unhappy gran moved to the US to take care of my uncle's family, learnt to wear pants and play bingo. She returned to India eventually, to another son and daughter-in-law, and steadfastly remained unhappy.

I took another challan and jotted cooking instructions to myself. I started when Genie shouted over the noisy breeze, "What do you think?"

"Of what?"

"The book idea."

"It's a good idea. I have to fix Mama's recipe book. Something might come to me."

Who knows, something might come of it. On that note, and conversations reproduced almost verbatim, I shall end my journal writing for tonight.

                                         ******

This is a fictional series about Fish who return to their former owner - the narrator. They are joined by her former manservant, and now friend, Genie.  

They return from a tense holiday with the narrator's relatives. Fish lay some rules and issue the narrator an ultimatum. 

                                         ******
At home I fixed a khichdi for Genie and I. Nobby went off to suck blood in Peaceful Society and Fish settled down to their garlic-liver-shrimp meal.

After dinner, Genie stretched out on the divan to look out of the window at the stars in the sky. I soon dozed off on the sofa. 

The voices woke me. Genie was breathing evenly and seemed to be asleep. There seemed to be an argument, or maybe loud conversation, going on in the tank.

"... Arief... Nidhi..."

"Roma... cigarettes... Georgy..."

"... ******* bad influence..."

I struggled to hear without moving. Clearly Fish thought I was sleeping. 

"She needs to steer clear of that lot. Especially Nidhi! And she's gone and shot off her mouth and invited Nidhi home!" Penaaz almost shouted. I tried to stay calm and concentrate on breathing slow.

"Nidhi will come here and look down her nose at everything. We've got to tell Genie to tell her to hide the heirlooms - she'd never listen if we said so!" Pervez said of me. 

"The heirlooms are classy. Elevate the home. They should stay where they are," Gregory said. The heirlooms they were referring to were a couple of very large brass uralis (wide-mouthed shallow vessels) that were more than a 150 years old. One was my great grandmother's and the other my grandmother's, both gifts to my mother. These days Genie filled them with flowers or potpourri.

Dimitri's voice distracted me. "Maybe things may thaw between them," he said of Nidhi and me.

"Hah!" Gregory snorted, "That will be the day. And I don't know what Arief is playing at! One moment he's playing hopscotch with Sleeping Beauty here and in the next he's canoodling with Nidhi!"

I laughed before I could stop myself. 

"Really!" Penaaz said annoyed. "If you're awake you might as well join us. We're talking about you!"

"You've got to stop mixing with people bad for you," Portas said. 

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You had a rotten time in Lonavala, yet you've invited that bilious lot home for more punishment."

"Don't you think you're being harsh? I mean we became friendly toward the end. And Ashok is married to my cousin and he's good fun."

"There was drama and you were unnecessarily wrung out by it all!" Penaaz said angrily.

That was true. I had been out of my element with a group that thought they were superior. And I had rubbed them all the wrong way and not been apologetic - or so Eva tried to tell me. Plus, at tea, loosened by the snacks and banter, Ashok had teased me about how we were related and that he still hadn't eaten a meal I had prepared. 

"It's not a bad thing - inviting my cousins over for a meal. Long overdue, I think. Besides, I like Ashok."

"Yes, yes, but think of the consequences. They'll make mincemeat out of you. By the way, you should make a beef stew," Penaaz said.

"What are you expecting to happen?" I asked.

"Trauma... for all of us," she said with unnecessary theatrics.

I laughed and then stopped. Fish were serious. They shared a point. I liked Ashok and Arief. I thought it a cosmic joke that Arief would turn up in Lonavala as Eva's boyfriend and walk smack bang into his friend and Eva's then-estranged husband Ashok. And look how things turned out - Arief and Ashok rekindled their friendship and Arief couldn't back away from Eva fast enough.

"And Nidhi?" Penaaz prodded, when I had stayed silent too long.

"I don't know what her problem is. I'm surprised she wants to come."

"If she's rude to you again, she's out of our lives forever!" Gregory said, trying to loosen his bow tie and adjust his glasses at the same time. Now his tie was askew and his glasses were on the tank's floor. 

"Or at least lose her at sea," Portas said.

"Just drown her," Penaaz said forcefully. 

"I'll try," I said, "to set things right." I turned to look at the divan. Genie was now on his side, his head propped up on his elbow, listening to our conversation. "What do you think, Genie?"

He got up and joined me on the sofa, stretching his legs out. "This should be her last chance." He held my hand and absently tapped my knuckles with his forefinger, making a point. "You shouldn't let people disrespect you constantly. It means they don't care... and nothing good comes of putting up with it."

I nodded. I never seemed to learn. Now I had to gather my tender heart and guard it with my life. Nidhi had a choice - she was going to stay in, or out forever.