Fishy Chronicles 98: The Webs We Weave (30)

I looked over at the mound that was my parents – the sheet over them rose and fell with their breathing. How could they sleep with so much going on!

I was seething. My grandfather had endless cunning! He knew exactly what had transpired up in the loft that day (FC70), and there they were – the photographs… and letters – in his lowest desk drawer. Clearly their possession of the incriminating evidence showed he, and my grandmother, had been aware of the romance between Sarojmama and the handsome sardar. A sudden memory of Meeto Singh from school surfaced – he never let me touch his pagdi or showed me what was under it even though we were good friends. Now that he had sprouted facial hair and muscles, and grown a good six inches, any eye contact we had made me uncomfortable. Luckily, Anjali lusted after him too.

I forced thoughts of handsome Meeto out of my mind. Appachan had to have had help retrieving the photos from the loft. I rocked to and fro on my mattress on the ground, trying not to use bad language while thinking of my um… deceitful… grandfather. Deceitful seemed tame, like home lemon juice versus the roadside one where you got heaps of sugar and soda in your glass and it frothed into your nostrils.

After what felt like hours, I went to the sitting room – dark, except for the streetlight streaming in. I shivered. Even though everyone knew I watched TV in the dark most nights, it still felt like I was doing something wrong and this feeling was hammered home every time I passed Appachan’s bedroom. There was always the chance of him intercepting me. As I passed the room I wanted to kick the door, but the dent in it from when I threw the brass vase at it (FC75) made me hesitate. I leaned against an open window in the sitting room and watched Timmychyan totter along the road, his gait extremely unsteady, occasionally squinting around him and murmuring lovingly at the stray dog that walked him home each night. I watched him disappear from sight, around the wall of darkness that comprised the tall teak trees of my granduncle’s courtyard.

I glared at the wall behind which my grandparents snored and moved quietly to the telephone in Appachan’s study. I was going to break his bank with long-distance calls to my friends. I sat at the desk and took out his keys from the unlocked drawer. Some hours earlier I had debated leaving his keys in the lock (FC97), as I had found them. What if he remembered he had left it in the lock, but what if he didn’t and someone else came and rummaged in his drawers just as I did. I ran my hands along the polished wood… thinking… and fast losing interest in punishing him with STD calls. My luck was so good that his wrinkled fingers with their overgrown nails would point at me first.

I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the letters. There had been no copies of the photographs. Even if there had been, would I have been bold enough to take one? Would Appachan have noticed a couple of photos missing?

I pulled the smallish bundle of yellow envelopes and blue inlands out. A tightly knotted brown string bent their sides, and I could see my previous efforts at trying to pull out a letter had torn the edge of the top envelope. Sweat trickled from my brow with the effort of loosening and untying the knot. I reached for the large black-handled scissor in the top drawer. Amma used the same one to snip off fish fins and tails. Why was Appachan using it to cut his envelopes. Something shone in the table lamp light – a small brass letter opener. I sniffed the scissor. It smelt of… nothing.

The letters had remained unopened all these years, but someone had viciously cut out the address at the back with black ink. I could still see a bit of the address, so it seemed a more personal effort at scratching out his name and street rather than to obscure the address.

Rajouri Gardens and a pin code. Why hadn’t my grandparents read the letters. What was a real love letter like? I had read the one a boy had sent across via Nidhi in Sunday School some weeks ago (FC95) and it seemed like rubbish. Laughable. Surely grown-ups, rather college students, could write better ones – and they probably felt love more intensely than us.

I tried to pry the flap away from the envelope but it tore. On TV people steamed letters open. I got the electric kettle from the dining room and started it. The journal with the English and Malayalam entries had also disappeared from the loft. They were probably below all the rubbish in the lowest drawer. When the kettle began to whistle, I closed both doors leading into the study, and drew the curtains. I shivered with fear and tension. I shook it off and held the letter against the billowing steam, which scalded my hand. I then pinched the top left corner of the envelop, holding it as close to the steam as I dared. The whistling noise bothered me, and I wondered what sort of an excuse I could offer in case someone found me with an electric kettle trying to make tea with an old envelop.

When I finally looked, the flap was still firmly stuck to the envelop! What was I going to do! My eyes fell on the untied bundle and my panic began to mount. Hurry, you idiot!

A door opened. Shit. I jumped up and switched off the kettle and the light and crouched under the table, trying to hold my breath. The footsteps come to the edge of the corridor and waited.

After an eternity, it walked away, the footsteps sounding fainter and the bathroom door shutting. The latch, which needed oiling, did not slam into its groove. This person – probably a man – wouldn’t care if someone barged in on him.

There was nothing for it. I took one, two, three letters… and started to retie the bundle. But… when would Appachan leave his key dangling from his drawer again… four, give six… seven for good luck or bartering… or blackmail? What if I got caught going into my room? I stuffed the letters into my armpits. To the naked eye it didn’t look like there were any bulges. My gaze lingered on the four remaining letters in the bundle. What if Appachan decided to tidy his drawer and found the bundle looking skinny.

Nah, the drawer was too dusty and there were cobwebs even in there. I started. A big fat lizard watched me from the ceiling. A dog barked in the distance, and there was a rustle outside – or did I imagine it.

I reached into the nearest corner behind Appachan’s chair and took a newspaper from the top. The Malayalam Manorama folded easily into a thick square and I wedged it between the letters and retied the bundle. I would have to wait for Appachan to forget his keys again, and for me to return the letters and get at the next few.

Could I keep the keys and… make a set? Too many gymnastics required. I left the key in the lock, adjusted the letters in my armpits and went to the door.

Something wasn’t right. Anyone could ransack Appachan’s drawer. I turned back to the desk and put the bunch of keys in the bottom drawer.

I wiped my dusty hands on the pristine white turkey towel hanging on the back of his chair. There would be some shouting early in the morning when Appachan couldn’t locate his keys. Good. Very good. 

I eyed the phone.

Tomorrow I would phone Anjali with my findings.

                                                         ******

The narrator discovers her aunt's missing love letters and photographs
in her grandfather's table . 

This is a work of fiction and is the latest episode of the Webs We Weave series. You can read the earlier ones 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, 95, 96, 97)

                                                          ******

#younglove #punjabi #love #youngadult #fiction #keralastories #keralavillage #kerala #farmanimals #youngboy #younggirl #teenager #teenagestories #fishychronicles #websweweaveseries #websweweave #bombaymalayalis #syrianchristianmalayalis #syrianchristians #bestfriends #friends #oldphotos #roma #oldromances #oldloves #lovestories #loveletters #teenagelove #teenromance #adolescence #romance #failedromance #sardarji #sardar #youngadultfiction 

Fishy Chronicles 97 – The Webs We Weave (29)

Joys of school
(Photo credit: A. Peter)

At lunch I managed to sit in the chair next to Jimmy (FC96) just as Mobby lowered himself into it. The breath squeezed out of me, I became lightheaded and things blackened as Mobby’s butt pressed my chest and stomach.

“Hey!” Jimmy pushed Mobby with both hands. Mobby jumped off – too shocked to be his usual rude self. Jimmy shook me, and I took in a deep quavering breath and the room stopped looking grey. Unfortunately, the incident only excited more looks of annoyance among some of the elders, notably my mother, grandmother and father’s sisters. I ignored them. A little body pressed into my side, and I groaned. Rita and Eva, Sarojmama’s daughter – a pestilential 11-year-old, sat beside me. But in the next instant, Roma hauled Rita off her chair and flopped into it. Rita protested and tried to pull Roma off, but it looked like she was trying to budge a massive bull. In the end, Eva scooted to the next chair and Rita sat next to her sister. This was awful, like a silent inquisition, a surveillance in progress – I felt like a fly knowing a swatter was over its head.

I couldn’t ask my questions. Despite Roma disliking Jimmy she wanted to know all that we were doing. Anjali had once suggested that Jimmy might be interested in Roma and so never looked at her because he felt shy. But he talked and joked with other girls – so bashfulness wasn’t the reason for his disinterest.

Then Anjali suggested that Roma might be interested in Jimmy and was miffed by his inattention. That was an interesting point of view, so I watched the two at Sunday School, until I felt cock-eyed and decided to stop. Stopping had to do with the realization that I was overanalysing everything and clearly barking up the wrong tree.

“Masticate your food,” Jimmy muttered.

“Eh?”

“Eat! You’re attracting attention.”

I wanted to tell Jimmy that cows masticated their food, not humans, but he was probably learning a new word with all the livestock at his grandparents’ home. I could see what he meant when I looked up, so I mixed the sambar into the rice, my mouth watering with the aroma, and waited till his mouth was full. “Who’s C?” I whispered in his ear.

I acted innocent until Ashok stopped slapping Jimmy’s back. He had choked on a piece of fish and was red in the face. He blew his nose into his brother’s handkerchief, because of course he hadn’t carried one or had lost his, and gave me a filthy look. That day in the church courtyard (FC95), when Nidhi whacked me on the head, I knew who had written the love letter that dear ‘love pigeon’ Nidhi ferried about the church and school courtyards. I just could not figure out who ‘C’ was or why Jimmy was calling himself a humongous lover T and writing such rot. Anjali’s theory was that Jimmy was fronting for someone else.

I didn’t think so. Could it be the impossible had happened and Jimmy had fallen in love with someone in school?

He was grim all through his meal, though it did not affect his appetite. But I was forced to keep quiet because all the adults’ radars were trained on me now.

I used the ensuing quiet to work on my strategy. Jimmy was going to fob off every question I had. I had lost the advantage of surprise by asking him at lunch – where there was no privacy. Now he would build his defenses in anticipation of my next set of questions.

Whenever I glanced at him, he was eating stiffly, and his brother Paul’s eyes darted from Jimmy to me, forcing me to stay quiet.

Maybe I could use the telephone tonight. I had finally discovered the code – Appachan had been making a call and I was standing nearby. I had spent the rest of that day memorising it and celebrating the discovery. 

                                                            ******

Anjali and I couldn’t figure out why Jimmy was using the initial ‘T’.  Was he using an alphabet from his surname. Was he writing the notes to throw off anyone who’d intercept them? It was all farfetched. Why would someone make Jimmy write a note that his girlfriend might not be able to read? Jimmy’s handwriting was worse than a doctor’s.

Plus, it was too elaborate for Jimmy, who liked to charge ahead first and then think. He wasn’t middle-man material.

And then the letter explained Paul’s interest in it. Did he think his baby brother had a love interest? Paul should never know. Jimmy would tell me. In his own time. Maybe. Maybe later. Maybe never.

At the gate, while bidding them goodbye, I told Jimmy, “So you’re going to act as if there are no C and T and that you don’t know what the note is about?”

“Shhhh!”

“Why? I have nothing to hide!”

“Shhh!”

“Don’t shhh me! Anyway, Paul’s been asking me about the note.”

Before he could reply, his father grabbed his arm and hustled him into a rickshaw. As the yellow and black rickshaw hurtled down the uneven road, he looked dismayed and did not wave goodbye.

“What did you say to Jimmy?” Roma said softly, her breath tickling my neck.

I turned and walked back to the house. A few steps from the doorway, a sharp pain shot through my shoulder – Roma’s fingers were digging into my flesh. She pulled me away from the door and slammed me against the wall, her arm jamming my throat.

“You idiot. You dare fool around with me!” Roma thundered in my face, her breath smelling of sambar and pickle. There was a bit of curry leaf stuck between her bared teeth.

There was nothing for it… I pinched her breast hard. She screamed and let me go, grabbing her chest but feeling embarrassed to rub it. I darted into the house, and looked for a hiding place. None was available, so I sat near Pilipochyan, and pretended to be interested in a Malayalam magazine. Roma rushed in and stopped. I looked up nervously. She gave me a dirty look, but seemed intimidated by Pilipochyan’s presence, especially when I held out the magazine and pointed at an article. Roma marched off. She would be waiting for me, sometime and somewhere, probably with her minions.

                                                            ******

“I tell you, Anjali, he’s hiding something! He’s probably T!”

“No way! There’s no girl in school who could make him interested in her.”

“What rubbish. There are hundreds of pretty girls in school. It’s a paradise for boys.”

“But you know Jimmy, na. He doesn’t like ordinary girls.”

“Kuch bhi. He talks only to ordinary girls.”

“Why are you whispering? And why are you calling me so late at night?”

“Everyone’s sleeping and I’m not supposed to be using the telephone here. They’d skin me if they knew I was making a long-distance call. Why haven’t you been replying to my letters?” My cries of desperation in longhand, I wanted to add.

“Er, I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You know Trevor?”

“Trevor Mascarenhas, your brother’s friend?” And Anjali’s latest crush.

“Yes. He’s got a new girlfriend.”

“What! Who’s your source?”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is.” It was the difference between reliable and unreliable gossip.

There was silence on the other side, so I asked, “How is Anita taking it?” Anita was Trevor’s erstwhile girlfriend. She was a year our senior in school and only became our focus because she and Trevor had become close walking up and down the shady corners of the school during recess. Their break-up had been a hot topic for days in our class, because many girls had a crush on Trevor. And, unfortunately for Anita, she was in our school bus. Not that she spoke about Trevor, although when she did speak to her friends about him it was in whispers. We tried to catch every word despite the sounds of whooshing air and Mumbai traffic coming in through the bus’s open windows. We closed the window next to us, and suffocated in the heat while listening to the whispered conversations going on in the seat in front of us. We heard snatches, mostly cuss words and expressions of sympathy from Anita’s friends.

For this privilege, we had to dislodge the kids that were already in the seat behind Anita, which led to a one-sided scuffle. One sided because we were bigger than the younger kids, although we had to get through some loud wailing and the occasional well-aimed kicks to our ankles. Things settled down soon, when the children couldn’t get a rise out of us – our efforts at eavesdropping meant we stayed hunched unresponsively in our seats for most of the long ride home.

“I think Anita has taken the breakup very well. She’s hooked up with Benny Wong.”

“What!”

“And Trevor took Sarita Kumar to Juhu Beach.”

There were too many things going on. Suddenly Jimmy was unimportant. Trevor-Sarita, Benny-Anita – the mind boggled. All the girls wanted to be friends with Benny, because he was clearly a foreigner, though his family – originally from China – had been in Mumbai for over 60 years. He was very cute and a flirt. A charmer, a girl’s boy. Anita was the unattainable hottie, and Trevor’s ex.

“So where are we on ‘T’…?” I spotted the bunch of keys dangling from Appachan’s drawer. He rarely forgot them at his desk. At night he dropped the keys into the top drawer of the chest of drawers in his bedroom. But tonight they were innocently stuck in a keyhole. I pulled the drawer’s handle – it was open. I moved the lamp closer to the edge of the desk – papers, envelopes, official-looking letters, printed pamphlets.

“You’ll have to try harder with Jimmy,” Anjali said, startling me. This was easier said than done. Anyway, I had probably run up a large telephone bill for Appachan. Would he ask the telephone exchange for a bill with all the telephone numbers listed, like the cops did in American TV serials? Or maybe he’d call all the telephone numbers and verify them for himself. “Will ring you another day, Anjali.” I hung up before she could reply.

Anjali would be annoyed, but there was Appachan’s desk to be explored. I listened for a sound around the house, then used the keys to open the other drawers – files, bundles of cash – 100s and 500s and smaller ones of lower-denomination notes, a little filigreed silver bowl containing small change, a pair of spectacles. In the lowest one, I found some dried flowers sticking out of a dictionary, big fat books that seemed to be encyclopedias but were ancient telephone books, some smooth white stones that I suspected were the ones that were found in the flower pot in Sarayumama’s room and had likely been in my jhola the day I damaged Bobby (FC72, FC73), and irrevocably spoilt relations with my eldest aunt at the start of my vacation here. In the lowest drawer, there were some albums, yellowing documents and leaves of loose paper, and… I gasped, feeling the adrenaline rush through me faster, the photographs from the loft – the ones of the handsome Sardar and Sarojmama (FC69, FC70). How had Appachan been able get up into the loft and retrieve them?

I pulled out the envelop and looked at the photos. They were a handsome couple. The colours in the photos were fading. There were some photos taken in a garden against a large flower bush. Sarojmama had a large red rose behind one ear and her long plaited hair rested on one shoulder. There was a photo of them holding hands with the Taj Mahal in the background, just one photo – a polaroid snap. I had a strange sad feeling looking at the pictures. I looked at them over and over, wondering what had happened to their romance, why they hadn’t stayed together. I put the pictures back into their cover reluctantly and then saw the letters addressed to Sarojmama, tied in a bundle, right at the bottom. I tugged one out from the side, but it was likely to tear. I knelt on the ground and reached in. My heart jerked at the sound of a door opening.

I shoved the envelop and its photos back on top of the bundle of letters and moved the rest of Appachan’s papers over them and locked the drawer as quietly as I could. I stayed under the table, switched off the lamplight hurriedly, and gently slipped the key back into the top right-hand drawer of Appachan’s desk. I wanted to come back and read the letters, but I didn’t want to risk taking Appachan’s keys – he would raise hell if he couldn't find them. But it was unlikely this opportunity would come again. I wondered if I should have kept one of the photographs, if I needed them. For purposes of blackmail or to put my aunt in her place in an argument.

The door to the bathroom in the corridor opened, and closed noisily. I keyed the locking code back into the telephone and ran back to my bedroom.

                                                            ******

The narrator makes a long distance call to her best friend and is apprised of new developments. 

This is a work of fiction and is the latest episode of the Webs We Weave series. You can read the earlier ones 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, 95, 96)

                                                            ******

#younglove #jimmy #sarita #trevor #juhubeach #breakup #trevormascarenhas #love #cops #americantvserials #crimeserials #americancrimeserials #youngadult #fiction #keralastories #keralavillage #kerala #farmanimals #youngboy #younggirl #teenager #teenageescapades #teenagestories #fishychronicles #websweweaveseries #websweweave #bombaymalayalis #syrianchristianmalayalis #syrianchristians #bestfriends #friends #breath #rita #oldphotos #roma #oldromances #oldloves #brokenlove #lovestories #mol #paul #jimmy #oldphotos #loveletters #teenagelove #teenromance #teenagers #adolescence #romance #failedromance #sardarji #sardar #tajmahal #love #polaroid #silverbowl #filigree #coins #money #cash #bull #youngadultfiction #mumbaitraffic #mumbai #mumbailove #loveletters

                                                            ******

Fishy Chronicles 96 – The Webs We Weave (28)

As soon as we reached home and the pleasantries were done with, Sam Uncle went into my grandfather’s study and called his home.

I hung around the sitting room windows, while the ladies stood at the doorways. Soon enough I heard the steady ringing of a bicycle bell and then saw the lanky raggedy figure on it careening at top speed into our gate. I held my breath. He was able to brake just before he hit the gate’s grills. He hopped off, wheeled the ancient bicycle inside the compound and shouted.

“Mol, come out!”

“Appa, I’m going to meet Jimmy.”

There was sudden silence in the room. Jimmy, aka Chacko, was Paul Mathew’s (FC95) younger brother. I was always nervous meeting him because my family felt there was something going on between us because he was a boy. There wasn’t. But I got all the crazy looks. We had been good friends as children and Anjali and I hung around with Jimmy and his friends at recess in school. Plus we both didn’t care for his cousin Nidhi. We had the same friends, and almost the same enemies – Jimmy didn’t waste time hating anyone. Roma and Jimmy never saw eye to eye and she was annoyed whenever I preferred him to her.

I waited for Appa’s reluctant nod but kept moving to the main door. There was shock on Roma’s face and growing anger.

But Jimmy, a pet name he coined for himself as a child, was already at the door, dirt stains on his orange t-shirt and beige pants, a dark smudge on his pink face and a big smile for everyone. He marched in shook hands with all the elders, cracked a joke, and then grabbed my elbow.

“Mol is going to show me Kunjappachan’s animals… next door. We’ll be right back.”

“Can I come?” Rita demanded, blocking our way, and backed by some of the smaller kids.

“Say no, Jimmy,” I murmured.

“Sure, but I’m going to look for the snake that is behind the cowshed, where the manure is piled. You will have to dig holes in it with me. Are you okay with that… walking in it and carting the manure away?”

There were loud sounds of disgust from the children, and chuckles from the adults. The kids couldn’t back away fast enough. Only Rita looked suspicious and held her ground.

“Get the koondali (hoe),” Jimmy told her. She ran towards the kitchen to get to the shed outside, where we stored the farming tools. “Get two, Rita, and meet us at Kunjappachan’s cowshed,” Jimmy shouted at her back. He pulled my hand and we rushed down the steps of the house. He picked up his bicycle, and sat on it. I opened the gate and closed it after him, and sat sidesaddle on the back seat and we waved at the crowd at the windows. It was amazing how suspicious young people were too – my cousins were at the windows watching us.

Jimmy cycled at a furious pace, and past Kunjappachan’s place. He stopped at the side of the road further along. “Are you comfortable sitting like that?”

“Of course not.” I got off and sat astride.

“You remember the last time I took you on my bike? Dad gave me a lecture about love and arranged marriages. I tried not to yawn,” Jimmy said.

“I may keep getting the lectures for some time this vacation. I’ve got to tell you loads of stuff – a lot has happened this last month and a half. By the way, you holding my hand will tip them off balance.”

Jimmy laughed. “Do they really think we’re going to get married? I’m only 15. I have at least 15 or 20 years more to go.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“I’ve something to show.”

“What is it?”

“Secret. Wait for it.”

We cycled past lush paddy fields, the light glinting off the water in places, narrowly missed the speeding autorickshaws and tumbled into a ditch.

“Sorry, sorry. Are you hurt?” Jimmy asked after he pulled me up with some difficulty. I checked my dress to see if it was torn. I had heard a rip, but probably imagined it. But my left side was stained with mud from our fall. Jimmy tried to pry off the wet mud with a dried leaf. “Sorry, mol. I don’t know how we’re going to explain this,” he pointed at my clothes.

“We can tell them the truth.”

“They’ll stop you from coming out with me.” There was genuine regret on Jimmy’s face.

“I can have a wash before I go home. Tidy up my clothes.”

“Ya. Good idea. Come on.” We got on the bike, which was in cyclable shape, and sped on. I soon realised we were going to Jimmy’s grandparents’ house. I usually visited them with my parents towards the end of our vacations. But Appa visited them often.

As soon as we rode in through the open gate, both of us jumped off the bicycle, and Jimmy leaned it against the side of the house and showed me where the tap was. Most Kerala houses have at least three or four taps outside the house, mostly near the entrances.

He watched while I sluiced water over my left side, and tried to rinse away the drying stains. He brought me a grungy turkey towel to dry myself. Then he took me to his room and told me to take off my skirt, which he’d iron in another room. We closed the windows to thwart voyeurs and I handed him my skirt through the door. He returned in five minutes. Some of the stains still showed but the skirt was dry.

“Hold out your blouse and I’ll iron out the wet patches,” Jimmy said.

“You’ll burn me!”

“Let’s give it a shot.”

So I stood still, and stretched out my blouse while he tried to iron it suspended in the air. It was quite useless and so he gave up.

I knew he was an ace at ironing because his sister Marina had made him iron her clothes, until he managed to burn a nice dress. When I got to know I asked him if he had done it on purpose and he didn't answer. I didn’t know what it to make of it.

He took me to the storeroom, which was at the back of the house, and switched on the zero-watt light bulb. “Be quiet,” he whispered.

While my eyes got accustomed to the dark room, I heard squeaks. It came from the basket in the corner. He lifted the conical lid of the basket and a hen twisted her head this way and that to look at us. She allowed Jimmy to lift her and he kept her tucked under his arm, gently caressing the top of her head and murmuring to her.

“Can you hear the noise?” he asked.

“Yes. But what is it?” I couldn’t see any chicks – only eggs in the basket.

“The sounds are from the eggs. They are about to hatch.”

“That’s crazy. Are you sure?”

“Look here.” A portion of the egg was broken and a large hole had developed in the shell. “Can you see the chick moving?”

I looked in awe. I had never seen a chick hatch out of an egg. Jimmy put the hen down and slowly lowered the conical lid on her. He lifted the egg and peeled away a small bit of the shell from near the hole. We could see the chick trembling inside. It wasn’t fear, it was just the way new life happened.

The wooden doors behind us opened and Jimmy’s grandmother Kunjumaria Ammachi came in and watched us. After a few minutes, she told us to leave the eggs be. Jimmy placed the hen back on its to-be family and latched the storeroom’s doors.

Ammachi put her arms around us and listened to our chatter while we walked through the dark rooms to the kitchen. She served us tea and jackfruit chips and halwa, asked us questions, and seemed keenly interested in the family’s reactions to Rebecca and Roy’s marriage (FC92, FC93). Jimmy and I sat next to each other on the long wooden bench in the kitchen and sipped our tea.

When the phone rang, Jimmy said to his grandmother, “It will be for us.” He answered the phone and said yes three or four times. “Ammachi, I have to take mol back. Is it ok if I eat lunch there?”

A dimple showed in Ammachi’s cheek when she smiled. She nodded her head and held out an arm. We bent our heads to her lips for a kiss and I could smell the clean smell of a fresh cotton sari.

This time we cycled slowly taking in the sights of the village and when we reached Kunjappachan’s house Jimmy rode in, circled the front courtyard, rode behind the cowshed and stopped there. We waved at the aunt watching us suspiciously through the kitchen window.

“What’s going on, Jimmy?” I asked, eyeing the knee-high pile of stinking manure.

“We’ll need to say we were at Kunjappachan’s house.” He turned to face me. “We’ll come back of course, I want to see the animals here. You’ll also need to sit ladylike.” This I had forgotten. So I hopped off and walked to the front of the house. In a minute, Jimmy was with me and I sat sidesaddle behind him. We had to keep up appearances, there’d be any number of hawks at the windows waiting for us to re-appear.

In the end, our lone hawk turned out to be Rita – who was furious at us for not waiting for her. She claimed she had dug herself a hole in the cow dung behind the cowshed.

“Who told you to do that!” Jimmy said aiming to look shocked, although one side of his mouth twitched. Chuckles sounded behind us.

“You said there was a snake there!”

“But snakes are dangerous. You should have let me come and take care of it.”

That stumped Rita… but just for a few seconds. “But you weren’t there. I waited and waited and waited!” her voice shrill.

“Are you sure you went to the right place? I was there and didn’t see the hole… Do you think the snake filled it up? And normally you’d stink the place up if you were mucking about with manure.”

Roma stepped forward her arms akimbo. “Where were the two of you? You said you’d be next door but weren’t.”

“You were there with Rita?” Jimmy asked.

“No.”

“So basically you don’t know.”

Roma’s mouth flapped a bit, not knowing what hit her. Jimmy turned to Rita, “The truth is mol and I waited for you, but you took too long to show up. So I took her home to show her a hatching egg. I’m sorry, I had no patience. But if you like, we can go now and look for the snake. The snake may have gone off by now, but there may be some large worms.”

“Jimmy…” Sam Uncle said, shaking his head but his eyes dancing and his lips closed tightly – probably trying to rein in a laugh. My eyes darted to Paul and there was a cool look in them, no sign of a smile. I never had a chance with him anyway. Life was for living, and I’d rather do it looking at eggs hatching and falling in ditches with his cooler brother.

“I would have liked to look at the eggs too,” Rita said throwing a cold look at me. I suddenly realised I wanted Rita on my side… always.

“Yes, Jimmy, all of us would have,” Sarah said, leaning against the doorjamb of the dining room, smiling mischievously at Jimmy who looked away and blushed.

“Next time then,” he muttered.

Rita and Roma glared at Jimmy but he sat on the arm of the sofa his father was seated on. When he pointed at the stool next to him, I felt a hand pull my blouse from the back and I was hauled into the dining room. Amma ordered me to set the table for the guests, and Rita and Roma soon followed me.

                                                            *****

The narrator is spending the summer vacation with her grandparents in Kerala and an old friend drops by for a visit and serves up some intrigue. 

This is a work of fiction and is the latest episode of the Webs We Weave series.
You can read all the episodes 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, 95, 96, 97)

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#younglove #jimmy #love #youngadult #fiction #keralastories #keralavillage #kerala #animalstories #eggs #hens #snake #worms #cowdung #cow #cowshed #ditch #bicycle #youngboy #younggirl #teenager #teenageescapades #teenagestories #fishychronicles #tea #websweweaveseries #websweweave #bombaymalayalis #syrianchristianmalayalis #syrianchristians #bestfriends #friends #hawk #sidesaddle #sari #freshsmell #rita #keepingupappearances #rebecca #roy #marriage #rita #roma #cousins #family #school #recess

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Fishy Chronicles 94 – The Webs We Weave (26)

Photo credit: A. Peter

In a couple of days my cousins Rebecca and Roy left Kunjappachan’s home. There were tears all around and a grand farewell. It seemed a mob was in and out of both households and no one mentioned or joked about cousins kissing. I was still confused by what it meant.

On their last day at home, Roy had visitors. A pair of foreigners visited Kunjappachan’s house and some of the younger kids went over to gawk from the doorway. I felt my face turn red at the sight of the very handsome Japanese man, but shuddered at the cold look his partner – a mannish-looking Scandinavian woman – gave all of us. ‘All of us’ were the girls, of course. Word had spread that a blond woman was in the village and I could see my male cousins hurrying over from next door.

It was normal for us to stare at visitors. We peeped through windows and open doors or nonchalantly lolled on the broad ledge that ran around the front of our granduncle’s house. You could tell we were bored out of our minds.

Anyway, Roy and his father soon left to drop off the couple at the nearest railway station, much to our intense disappointment.

Things had become dull. We had to stay indoors whenever it rained. That meant many chores. I loved the rains here. It swished and poured, one moment it would turn grey, because of the sudden darkening of the skies, and then you could see sheets of white pouring rain in the distance. I saw this in Mumbai too, but grey shabby buildings interrupted the beauty of it all. Here the trees bent from side to side with the rain and wind and shook themselves, their leaves dancing. They shone and glinted. They looked nourished with a newfound green. If we were lucky, some mangoes fell off and we might find them intact the next day. In the mornings, my father, his brothers and Appachan did a recce of the fields and the rattan trays in the kitchen would be full of assorted vegetables and fallen fruit. I sorted through them every day, finding small chillies, the occasional cashew fruit. One day there were even wilting white nutmeg flowers, that an aunt had washed and offered to the youngest child. The flowers often gave the tongue a nice zing!

I thought of Romeo (Mob Justice) often, but resisted the idea of getting close to another animal as I would be leaving for Mumbai in a few weeks. I didn’t want to pet another animal either in case someone turned on it out of spite for me. But every now and then I stood under my favourite guava tree during a downpour, and under a wide umbrella and felt pure bliss – even though the effort drenched me. It was in moments like these that I didn’t need to talk to or be with anyone.

One day my father gestured to me, “Do you want to go with me to the village market?” It happened once a week.

“Yes!”

“Ok, change your clothes and go and tell your grandmother and mother.”

I hesitated. “What mol?”

“What if Ammachi says no.”

My father sighed and went to the kitchen. He came back in a few minutes and I dashed off to change. I wore the kurta salwar I had worn yesterday, and scraped a comb through my tangled hair. It poked out oddly in places, but it didn’t matter.

I rushed out of the door, with Rita screaming at my back demanding to know where I was going. Appa and I were out of the gate before she could finish her questions. I waved my dupatta in the air, let the breeze man it like a sail, and then flapped my wings like a bird. What joy to be out of the house.

The men had gone to the market earlier in the day, so my father was likely on a personal errand. I wondered if I could get him to buy me a meat puff or an icecream. But then thoughts of the handsome Korean, not Japanese as I had thought, entered my mind and I forgot food. Maybe it was worth studying hard and going abroad to the US. There might be a romance in it. I shivered at the thought of my cousins hooking up… and my thoughts drifted to my male cousins. Hooking up with any of those idiots was a fate worse than death. Anyone planning a future with them needed to be warned. I hoped anyone planning a future with any one of my cousins had a premonition about it. Then I ticked myself off for those thoughts. Them marrying had nothing to do with me. Maybe they were not all bad. Maybe.

Appa braked hard at one of those signals that are rarely seen in villages in Kerala. Our road was laboriously tarred, narrow for a main road, and with space for very large puddles. As children we sailed paper boats in them. But for any soul that wanted to walk alongside the road, there was no kaccha path in spots but steep drops into the lush green overgrowth of someone’s estate. I would have said bowels of the estate, but with everyone owning a toilet now we rarely saw a stranger’s bare defecating bum.

A large car braked near us as well and I lowered my flailing arms self-consciously. I could see the amused looks and then the faces turned away. I leaned into my father’s back and whispered at his ear, “Appa, don’t turn. Johnnychyan and his family are in the car next to us!”

But of course my father had to look, and after an uncomfortable few seconds Johnnychyan nodded, tried to smile, and said, “Hello, Uncle.”

Appa smiled back, “Hello, mon (son).”

Johnnychyan looked my way and gave me a broad smile that faltered near his eyes, and my good mood of the last 10 minutes evaporated. It felt awkward and I couldn’t drag my eyes away from Johnnychyan.

“How are you, mol?”

I was tongue tied. What do I say? I stared aghast for a long time and then heard Appa murmur, “Say, fine, thank you.” I looked at the people in the car – his parents and an aunt. They looked ahead as though they didn’t see us.

“Er, good Achacha, and you?”

He nodded many times, like his neck was jelly and he couldn’t stop. “Very good.” He held out something. He reminded me of those bobble dolls that we kids wanted but couldn’t convince anyone returning from America to get us.

Appa murmured again, “Be kind. Remember your manners.” There was a bar of chocolate in Johnnychyan’s hand and he was trying to drop it in my lap.

“T-Thank y-you Johnnych-chyan. Th-Thank you.”

Suddenly the car shot forward and immediately swerved to avoid a scooter coming from a side road. Johnny’s father just about avoided hitting a lamppost, before braking to a hard stop. The passengers looking stunned. The scooterist drove up to Uncle’s window and swore at him. Uncle began to apologise profusely. Appa rode near the scooterist to see if he was hurt, but the man ignored him and drove off at top speed.

“Are you okay, Chetta (older brother)?” Appa asked Johnny’s father.

“Y-yes. I’m fine. Just got a fright. We’ll be okay, thanks.”

Appa took in the shaken passengers, nodded at them, and then slowly accelerated away.

“Why did they drive ahead when the signal hadn’t changed, Appa?”

Appa’s shoulders shrugged.

“Why, Appa?”

“Difficult situation – meeting your ex to-be in laws at the signal. Hard to avoid in a small village like ours,” Appa smiled. That was true. Random neighbours even remembered I had worn the same dress two days in a row. And I didn’t even know who they were!

Only outside Appa’s friend’s office did I realise that the chocolate in my hand was now squished into a shapeless mass. Nevertheless, I sat in a corner of the office and licked the chocolate wrapper clean and marvelled at how my dad could stay so cool and polite in a state of siege. Well, not siege, exactly. Maybe war-like conditions. Or, a state of duress. There, that was better.

Afterwards we inspected baskets of wares on the roadside. People jostled each other along the narrow rough concrete paths and everywhere you looked there was red earth and puddles. We walked in and out of the small streets down the main road. I took care to walk slowly, because I had worn white pajamas, and mud stains were difficult to scrub off. I had stopped washing my clothes everyday, and wondered when my parents would discover what I was doing. They were probably just ignoring it. A few days ago I had tried putting some of my clothes in my absent-minded cousin Shyla’s bucket of soaking clothes, but at the washing stone she had thrown a hissy fit and had tossed my clothes into the wet mud, which had led us to argue.

“Why didn’t you scold them, Appa?”

“Scold who?” Appa asked. 

“Johnny and his parents!”

“For trying to run through a red light?”

“For the broken engagement!”

“It is over. There’s nothing to be said.”

“But why? They looked guilty.”

“Rubbish. Things are just awkward. Life is not a bed of roses, you know. There is no happily-ever-after. If you read fewer romance novels and tried to read the good books I give you, you would know better.” Appa gave me a dirty look. This discussion popped up quite often.

Did Appa know I was currently ploughing through a Georgette Heyer. If he knew I was finding it tiresome he would have been happy. Roma had told me the best way to handle a dull book was to skim-read the boring parts and then slow down when the juicy bits arrived. Luckily, someone had decided to pencil in crosses on the corners of the important pages, and our reading had sped up. Some of the older girls had brought many such books with them and were passing them around. Even Rita was reading one which had sex in it. Everyday Roma and I expected a question from her, but strangely she stayed silent. Had she understood what she was reading? Probably not.

“And what is this I hear about you not attending Sunday School? Where do you go when you leave the house?” Appa was pissed now and was in his ‘stream-of-thought-pick-a-fight’ mode.

“Eh?”

Appa’s lips pursed, “Joychyan told me that Roma and you have been skipping Sunday School. Where are you girls going?”

“Er… to… the river.” We loafed about in the fields, around the junction, and near the river, but Appa didn’t need to know such details.

“Why?” Appa demanded.

“It’s all in Malayalam and very boring. Besides, I have to go back and do Sunday School in Mumbai. It is a waste of time doing it here.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong choice of words! “You let me decide what is a waste of time! When we are here, in this house, we do what Ammachi and Appachan want. And if I tell you to go to Sunday School you jolly well do it. Understood?”

“Y-yes.”

“And if I see that filth in your hands again, I will tear it. Clear?” Appa was referring to the Mills and Boons, Silhouettes and Harlequins hidden in various nooks of the house, some even in Appachan’s book case.

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, er… Sir?”

Appa snorted, and chuckled, shaking his head. He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “If I thought those kinds of books were good for you, I’d have got you many. But all it does is lead you to think there’s a good-looking man out there waiting to sweep you off your feet and take care of all your troubles. That’s not true. You’ll have to troubleshoot and fight fire all by yourself. I’d rather you learnt to do these things yourself than assume some silly boy will come to your rescue. Don’t wait. He’s not going to come.”

That one line made me feel glum. What good was life if there wasn’t any romance in it and, worse, no handsome boyfriend quickening your pulse.

“There will not be a handsome man lying in wait for you… to rescue you. There will be a thousand other beautiful girls he will try to rescue before you.”

Thousand? Now Appa was rubbing it in! “But Johnnychyan is handsome!”

“Yes, and look what happened. And Sarah is extremely pretty, many handsome men will make a beeline for her. So what? Do good looks or money guarantee a happy life?” Appa dared me to argue.

Was Appa asking me to ignore good-looking guys and only aim for ugly ones? I was very confused. I nodded like I understood and agreed with what he was saying. If this lecture ended on a good note, I might still get my meat puff.

“Where do you go when you bunk Sunday School in Bombay?” he said suddenly.

The corners of my lips sank to my crotch.

“Mrs Jeelu Kurian called me. Apparently your group stays away regularly.”

ILU (I Love You) Jeelu was a pain. We called her that because she preached about loving your brothers and neighbours all the time. But never about loving your sisters. Our last Sunday in Mumbai before our vacation began, Roma, a couple of Sunday School classmates who were also in school with us, and I had gone to see a morning show with my best friend Anjali. It must have inflicted some pain on Jeelu, because it was the first time she had ratted on me.

“You will not be able to get married if you don’t pass Sunday School or have full Sunday School attendance,” she had made the outrageous claim one day. When I checked with Appa, he confirmed it was a new dictat, which was still being debated in church. This was a huge source of amusement for him.

“What’s the connection, Appa!”

“Just a way to bring you closer to God. You go into a marriage prepared for a life of service. Of course, you can get married any way you want, but you should know the scriptures and at least know what the basic tenets are about. You should be able to instruct your children. By the way, you don’t know anything. You would have to cheat to pass. I am not sure you will be allowed to marry.”

Appa laughed till the tears fell. He had to blow his nose and hold his breath for a few minutes to compose himself, while I hopped on each foot feeling appalled and enraged in turns. I don’t know why, he was merely stating fact. It took me a while to locate the books in the Bible and I could barely keep awake in class. Each exam was touch-and-go only because I wouldn’t study for it.

Appa caught my hand to his chest, and said hoarsely, “Promise me you will never run away to get married. That you will make an effort to pass those exams.” He laughed some more.

I walked ahead. I didn’t feel like eating a puff. Now I was sure I would never get a handsome husband, and Appa had just ruined romance for me. Also, for all her preaching, ILU Jeelu did not love some of us Sunday Schoolers. So much for loving your brethren.

I heard Appa shout, but ignored him. Another shout. I hesitated. I wondered how to have a tantrum and get away with it. But I was at fault here, I had played truant at Sunday School. I would be forced to attend the Malayalam version here and the Hinglish (Hindi and English) version when I returned to ILU Jeelu.

If I kept walking, it would make Appa angry and force him to give me another lecture. The most popular theme now was my lack of manners. I exhaled and turned, marching back.

But… ahead … I could see my father’s good friend Sam… and my footsteps began to slow. My breathing became laboured and my heart raced. As was usual my tongue felt too big for my mouth but I couldn’t take my eyes off the two people with Sam Uncle.

“Come quick, mol. See who’s here!” 

                                             ****** 

The Webs We Weave series follows the travails of a 14-year-old narrator on a family vacation. An innocent incident spirals out of control and one thing leads to another. 

You can read the full series,  at 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

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