Fishy Chronicles 71: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (3) – Afterwards

Before we left our bedroom in the morning, my father listened quietly to my account of what happened the previous night (FC 70). He asked me about the photographs and journal that were still in the loft.

“Did you read the diary?”

I was embarrassed at how bad I looked. “No-no. Bobby found me by then.”

My father’s mouth tightened and his eyes bulged. He took a deep, noisy breath through his nose. Was Appa going to thrash me like his father did? “Keep away from Bobby.” Appa’s hands gripped my shoulders tightly – his face close to mine, looking deep into my eyes. “Don’t let any man touch your body. No one should touch your chest or in places that make you uncomfortable, understood?” My face burned, but I nodded.

My parents eyes met, their faces grim. Soon, my mother left our bedroom for the kitchen. All the women were expected to start chores early in the morning. Appa caught my hand and pulled me to a corner of the room. “Mol, this area,” he pointed at his groin, “is a sensitive area for men. If someone is attacking or touching you and you don’t want them to, punch hard here. Ball your fist, like this, and slam this area or grab and squeeze hard. You have my permission to do that to Bobby if he touches you again. Okay?” I nodded, wondering how I would ever grab a man’s privates. “Shout loudly that he’s a bastard and should keep his hands to himself. Make a noise, scream. If someone grabs you from behind, what will you do?”

I shook my head.

“Bite, kick, scratch. Keeping biting. Bite anywhere. Bite like your life depends on it. Tear out flesh, inflict as much pain as you can. Kick the knees, punch the Adam’s apple, punch their noses upwards, my darling, anything to free yourself. Don’t be frightened. Be calm when someone is attacking you. Think and plot attack. Also, him grabbing you is not your fault. And, it will happen again and again.”

“What?”

“Yes, mol. Men are like that. Any woman or child is fair game. Hit, fight, scream, bite. Throw stones and run like mad. Be smart and cunning. Hurt the bastard and make him scream.”

I nodded, unable to make much sense of it. My gentle father was asking me to inflict pain on another human being. And I was relieved. What Bobby had done was wrong (FC 70).

The bedroom door flew open and Sarayu Aunty charged in. She planted her hands on her hips, her face was red and her eyes burned into me. “What is this I hear that you are saying my son touched you.” Behind her, my mother’s eyes bored into the back of my aunt’s head. My grandparents were pushing each other to fit into the doorway.

My father put his arm around me. “I will thrash Bobby if he so much as looks at my daughter again, chechi (older sister).”

Sarayu Aunty screamed a volley of abuse and her husband mouthed something incoherent. My father pushed me behind him and my grandmother pushed my mother out of the door, jabbing her in the chest with her elbow. My mother’s mouth opened in pain, but she barged in through the crush of people, her hair askew, furious. She stood in front of us, her arms stretched wide.

The air was full of tension. Some people stood with arms akimbo, others were ready to pounce. Everyone looked unsure.

The silence stretched and then my grandfather said, “Teach your daughter some manners! Teach your daughter to behave herself around boys!”

My father leaped at the group of people standing near the door, an angry wordless roar reverberating around the room. My mother ran after my father and Bobby’s father and mine were scuffling and wrestling, Appa seemingly trying to push him out of our room. My grandfather shouted abuse at me, his eyes full of venom. I threw myself into the scrum, landing an explosive punch into Mathan Uncle’s lower back. He screamed in pain, arching backwards. He let go of Appa, his hands trying to reach his back to stanch the pain.

Sarayu Aunty shook me roughly, hitting me a couple of times until my mother grabbed her hand and held it tightly skewering my aunt with an icy look. Aunty pulled her hand out of my mother’s and rubbed her husband’s back, all the while glaring at me. My arms were around my father, his shirt torn and hair messed up, all of us breathing hard.

My angry grandfather pushed his daughter, son-in-law and wife out of the room. “Teach your daughter some manners… hitting elders!”

Appa pulled me closer. When the last person was out of the door, he murmured, “Good punch, mol. That’s the way to do it.”

                                                            ******

Things did not get better. The three of us were suddenly out in the cold. When the rest of my father’s siblings and their families arrived, we were left out of conversations and activities. No one talked to us and the children refused to let me play with them. Snide remarks were passed in my hearing. Only Roma talked to me when the others weren’t looking. A couple of days after their arrival, she asked me what had happened.

But the look of disbelief on her face and the doubts she voiced humiliated me all over again. She thought I was lying! I raged at her, angry at her reaction and we stopped talking. All the while, Bobby smirked at me. I stayed far away from him.

I felt sorry for my parents. They were being punished because of me. Something as innocent as wanting to look at the photos and journal in the loft had taken a horrible turn.

And its cause, Saroj Aunty, was sitting pretty and looking scornfully at us, and judging us. She had no clue what had led to the skirmish in the loft. The photos and diary were still in the loft. I had to get them out now, and have a good look. Now I had to know what was written in the diary. I wanted to punish them all.

A few days later, the family was readying for a baptism in church and I had the runs. My parents did not want me to be alone at home and were planning to stay back when my grandfather began to shout at my parents. Appa cut his father off midway, unusual for my obedient father. “She will sit alone at home.”

The others smirked and I went back to sit in our bedroom. “Lock the door and don’t open for anyone unless it is your mother or me, okay?” Appa said.

I read a book near the window. Sometime later, I unlocked the door, my heart beating insanely fast, and turned the door handle of Sarayu Aunty’s room. The door squeaked open. No one was there and I breathed deeply to ease my tension.

I listened for sounds in the house and tiptoed along the corridor. I ran lightly through the house to check for the dregs of humanity that might have lingered. No one.

I quickly climbed the table in the store room and hoisted myself into the loft. I looked for the photos and diary. I checked all the bags and holdalls – they were gone!

In one of the bags I found an old slingshot – the rubbery portion could still stretch. I took it and climbed down, ran to my room and locked the door.

Fear chased around my being. Who had the photos and diary? I was certain my grandfather didn’t know about them. I couldn’t believe Bobby might have them. I hadn’t heard him boasting or making fun of the photos with his male cousins. I lurked around all the time, I knew what was going on. Maybe I didn’t know my cousin enough.

My parents returned home early, before the others. My mother came around the house to the window of our room to check on me. I opened the kitchen door for them. 

“All okay, mol?”

“Yes, Appa.”

(Continued in the next episode)

                                                            ****** 

This is a fictional series following the Mumbai-based narrator. She is recounting a story about her aunt Saroj during a childhood holiday spent at their ancestral home in Kerala. Read the previous episodes here and later ones here 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91.  

 

Fishy Chronicles 70: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (2)

I waited till I heard my parents snore. It took a long time. They had spoken in whispers and I occasionally heard a familiar name.

I grabbed the small torch I had kept under my pillow and slowly got off the mattress on the floor. I waited until my eyes got accustomed to the dark and then switched on the torch in bursts to show me where the door was and not wake my parents. I crawled forward until I reached the door and opened it slowly. I had oiled the squeaky hinges and door handle a couple of days ago and had been caught in the act by my grandfather.

“Good girl! I’ve never seen any of the other children show so much interest in managing a house. The hinges of all the doors and windows in my room are crying. Some days it is because of the wind moving the windows and it almost gives me a fright. Come on, I will be your assistant.”

I was tongue tied at first, and then gave in to my grandfather’s enthusiasm. Plus, he genuinely seemed to think I had a yen for home improvements. That day I oiled the hinges of the door of his walk-in cupboard, the hinges of his bedroom door and all the hinges in the windows. Because he smiled at me so sweetly, I gave in and cleaned all the windows of his room from the outside of the house. I wondered if I needed to avoid Appachan (grandfather), but he had so many stories to tell that I forgot my irritation soon enough.

At the back of my mind, I could hear my maternal great grandmother telling me how doing something bad would come back to haunt me. The more I thought of the photos and diary in the loft, I couldn’t figure out what was evil about wanting to have a better look at them.

A few days ago, I had discovered (FC69) photographs of my aunt Saroj with a man, who was not her husband, and a journal. My paternal grandmother, who had commandeered my services to clear out the loft in the storeroom, had emptied out a holdall that had belonged to Saroj Aunty and asked me if there had been anything else in the bag. While I was in the loft I had removed the photographs and diary and hidden them.

I shivered in the dark. My grandparents didn’t believe in keeping a weak light switched on in the long corridor outside our room. I was somewhat of a nocturnal being and didn’t need a light, but pitch dark in a rural household in Kerala is an eerie, scary business. So I switched on and off the torch until I reached the store room.

I opened the door and shut it. I didn’t switch on the light because the store room was opposite my grandparents’ room and there were opaque glass windows in the sides of the storeroom – you couldn’t see who was in the room, but you could make out outlines and see light. Earlier in the day I put an old plastic stool under the table. Once in the loft, I took out my stash from inside a holdall in a distant corner.

I shone the torch’s light over the faded colour photographs. Saroj Aunty was beautiful. She didn’t look like a typical Malayali and my grandmother had told me often that there had been many marriage proposals for her. She had also been smart and ambitious, which was why my grandparents had agreed to let her study in Delhi. My older aunt Sarayu, just as pretty as Saroj Aunty, had been married off young.

All the photographs were either of the handsome Sardar, or of Saroj Aunty or both. All the stories I had heard of people falling in love or marrying, had ended badly. Either the girl or boy was found out and dissuaded from marrying their loves, or the ones that married now couldn’t get along.

While my cousins wanted to have boyfriends and love marriages, having boyfriends was taboo and we only discussed them when we knew there would be no adults around.

I reached for the holdall to remove the diary and a hand grabbed my wrist and tugged. I recoiled in fright, trying to pull myself backward and out of the strong grip. I struggled to free myself but the hand tightened like a deadly noose. A light flashed into my face and I tried to shield my eyes with my free arm.

“What are you doing in the loft?” my cousin Bobby said. He was Sarayu Aunty’s youngest child, around 18 years old. He tried to pull me to the edge of the loft but I struggled to keep myself away. “Come down, you idiot. What are you doing up there?”

“Let me go!”

“Why?”

“Er…”

Bobby was now standing on the desk and squinting at the pictures with the help of the light of my torch, which had rolled to my feet in my struggle. He let go of my hand and reached for the photos and I kicked his hand away and moved further into the narrow loft. I grabbed and pushed the photos out of his reach. “Fool! Give me that! It has to be something mischievous if you need to look at it in the middle of the night!”

“NO!”

Bobby grabbed my arm, shook me angrily and tried to drag me off the loft. I kicked him, catching him on the chin. He snarled and grabbed my hair and neck and shook. After an eternity, my head stopped shaking and I was free. But now his hand squeezed my breast. With his other hand he tried to pin me down. I flailed and toppled some of the things near me on to the ground.

“Shhh!” Bobby’s cold spit sprayed my cheek, his hands slamming me against the loft's wall.

Suddenly the light came on and I was blinded. Bobby let me go and jumped off the table. I lay supine, hearing someone speak. The door opened and closed.

I cried silently, until I heard a throat clear. My heart beats thundered in my ears, throat and chest. I reached for my torch, willing myself to beat Bobby if he looked into the loft again. I stayed flat, listening for noises, my breath escaping in shallow gasps.

“Come down, mol,” Appachan said.

I stilled, trying to stop crying.

“Come down. I don’t want anyone else to come in and find us.”

I sat up and looked at my grim grandfather. My eyes veered away. He held out one of his hands. My body trembled and I sat and slowly moved to the edge and let my legs dangle on the side of the loft. The life seemed to have gone out of my limbs.

Appachan stood under me and I caught his outstretched hand and slid off the loft slowly.

Suddenly I felt stinging pain across my arms and bare legs. I threw out my arms to fend off my grandfather’s attack, but he was hitting me with a plastic flyswatter that had rested on the storeroom's dusty window ledge for years. I yelped in pain wherever the flyswatter struck me and bits of it broke and flew about as it made contact with my skin.

“You… you…” Appachan choked. I pulled the flyswatter out of his hand and threw it into the loft and fled when he came rushing towards me with a raised hand.

I ran down the hall, and into my father’s arms, both of us falling backwards and onto the ground. I begged Appa to save me from Appachan and Bobby. By now lights in the other rooms were being switched on, my father immediately pushed me towards my mother and she pulled me into our room and shut the door.

Doors opened and we could hear Mathan Uncle, Bobby’s father, ask what was going on. But Appachan and Appa stayed silent. Later we heard angry voices, but mostly Appachan’s voice. After an eternity, my father returned to our room.

I burned with shame, unable to talk or make sense of what had happened. So I buried my head in my mother’s lap and cried. She patted and rubbed my back, begging me to tell her what had happened.

When I looked up, my father was lying on the bed his eyes staring at a spot on the ceiling and his arms over his head – his face unreadable. “Lock the door,” he told Amma. I was bundled into the bed, in between them, my heart speeding and bumping insanely. I turned away from Appa and curled desperately into Amma, afraid and unable to understand his silence.

Adrenaline rushed through my body. I relived Bobby’s hands on me and felt utterly humiliated and betrayed by my grandfather’s beating.

Sometime in the night, my father’s arms came around me and he whispered and told me to calm down and that he loved me. We spent most of the night staring at the play of light and shadows of leaves on the wall caused by the moonlight streaming in through the parted curtains. 

None of us slept.

(To be continued in the next episode.)

                                                                ******

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator who is recalling an incident from her past. The first part can be found here (FC69). And the rest of the episodes here  

71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91.

 

Fishy Chronicles 69: Lockdown Diaries – The Webs We Weave (1)

When you go long periods without a goal in life, something gives. Maybe things about life become clearer. Or the muddle in your head gets worse. Do you learn to navigate the confusion? Does one adjust and forge ahead?

I did have a goal. Travel. Some, anyway.

My resignation from the Bombay Sentinel newspaper had been impulsive. I had not told anyone about it, except my best friend Anjali. Being unemployed is a rude reality, especially if you’ve worked for many years. The unnatural feeling is often heightened by unsympathetic family. 

I once overheard Joy Uncle tell his wife Elsa that I had deserved it. I assume he was referring to the punishment of losing the bulk of my savings when the Reserve Bank of India froze the assets of my rogue bank. It meant that my hiatus would end sooner than later. Uncle didn’t know that crazy unfounded fears gnawed at my gut almost all the time. Being a journalist, I knew the chances of getting back even a small portion of that money were slim.

Joy Uncle’s offhand remark had riled me. Later, when I had analysed the statement to death, I thought Uncle was a hypocrite for many reasons. One of them was the successful engineering of a very good marriage for his daughter Roma. It was understood that she would never go to work and the MBA she had acquired just before she married, apparently a precondition for increased and prosperous marriageability in our community, would be better utilised in creating and nurturing a set of accomplished offspring and keeping house.

But Roma, as hot-headed as her father, found her in-laws suffocating and her husband a stuffy stethoscope that also functioned as the mouthpiece for the Charter of Chauvinists. In an extreme act of rebellion, Roma found a job and worked through both her pregnancies despite various threats and entreaties to be a stay-at-home mother. The job helped her to escape her family and maintain sanity, she told me several times, and the income meant she had a say in her own fate.

So, I reiterate, Joy Uncle is an unalloyed hypocrite.

But, I was still unemployed and I was still being reminded that I had made a huge mistake giving up my job.

For instance, yesterday Saroj Aunty, my father’s youngest sister and mother of Eva (Mutiny At Pretty Villa, Noises In The Dark, etc) called me up. She said she was sorry I didn’t have a job, when was I going to get one, how would I survive without one, I was so imprudent with money I had to get married so that my new husband would give me some good sense, and why had I alienated that nice young divorcé boy Danny (Uncle's Man) that Joy Uncle had made me meet, a nice husband would make me see what I was missing and handle all my money, make it grow, give me children and all I had to do was marry, go to work, give my salary to my husband and I wouldn’t have to worry about a thing and if I married a rich man things would be even better.

I felt numb – the thousands of exclamation marks ricocheting in my cranium during the conversation attempted mass hara kiri.

How does one talk to the Sarojes of the world. She was another hypocrite. I made a noise every now and then lest she thought I was rude and complained about me to Joy Uncle, but my mind wandered to an incident in my childhood.

I was spending the summer vacation with my paternal grandparents in Kerala and my grandmother had ordered me to follow her to the storeroom. It was a dark room in the middle of the old house, with no windows, but surrounded by other rooms with two doors – one leading into a large room adjoining the kitchen and the other into a corridor. The storeroom’s utility had changed over the years, sometimes becoming a servants’ quarters, but eventually staying a storage space.

My grandmother pointed at the loft-like space that ran along one wall. It was about three feet high. I went into the dining room and dragged one of the old rickety teakwood chairs into the storeroom and placed it on the table. The impression I got was that the table would become useful to a family member someday, but years on it still hadn’t found another use. I climbed the table and then the chair and was able to hoist myself onto the loft. It was a dusty cobwebbed section and I started coughing.

“Cover your nose and mouth with your handkerchief, child!” Ammachi (grandmother) shouted from below.

“Don’t have one, Ammachi.”

She grimaced but went out and returned. I managed to grab the balled-up handkerchief as it flew up in the air for the fourth time. I tied it around my nose and mouth. It was my grandfather’s. Only he used pristine white Irish linen handkerchiefs that he often asked relatives to get him from abroad. Now, I wondered how he and Ammachi had got together. Perhaps they had only met at the altar – and she had never had to open her mouth until after the wedding.

“Stop dreaming! Here’s the broom!” It sailed through the air, narrowly missed my head, smacked the wall instead and landed on my ankle. It stung, but I grabbed the broom and waved it through the cobwebs about me and they disintegrated. I had to remove the webs sticking to the broom, which made me feel icky, but a look at my grim-looking granny kept me going. 

I swept what I could in the poorly-lighted haze of dust. There were many plastic bags stuffed with possessions, and boxes, holdalls and appliances. The appliances needed fixing. My orders were simple – to hand down all the bags to Ammachi. As the hour passed, Ammachi changed tack. She ordered me to open all the bags, have a look, tell her what to expect and then toss the bags down.

It was slow and very boring. I opened cardboard cartons tied with brown string or rope, rummaged through old clothes, torn sheets, papers and toys. Several piles rose on the floor below.

While Ammachi sorted, I opened a peeling rexine holdall that revealed nice colourful folded and ironed clothes. This was unusual. None of the other bags had ironed clothes. I felt a box underneath the clothes and fished out a Butter Cookies biscuit tin. In it were old beads and jewellery, the kind that dominated the 1960s and 1970s and were now trying to rot in landfills. A fat, ageing envelope lay under the jewellery. I pulled out a couple of faded photographs and saw Saroj Aunty with a handsome man, his arm around her, and she in a figure-hugging salwar kameez. She looked happy and beautiful.

Only, this wasn’t her husband Pilipochyan. The man in the photo was a very handsome Sardarji. My aunt had, unusually for our very conservative family, attended college in Delhi. She had been allowed to then because my parents were stationed there and she had moved in with them. But in the last year of her bachelor’s degree, my father had been transferred elsewhere and Saroj Aunty moved into a hostel.

I knew that she had wanted to do the civil services exams –this I gleaned from a long-ago conversation with Appa. But she had returned to Kerala as soon as she had graduated and married almost immediately. I trained the torchlight on the box’s contents – nothing. I removed the envelope of photographs, closed the box gently and slipped it back into the holdall. I moved to the edge of the loft and dropped the bag on the table below and waited to see what would happen.

Ammachi looked surprised and her hands, hovering over the bag, trembled a little. “This looks like Saroj’s.” I held my breath. She opened it, paused at the sight of the clothes and immediately her hands dived in and fished out the cookie box. She looked at the old tin for a couple of seconds and then pried it open. My eyes moved to the closed side zippers. I had forgotten to look there. Ammachi was now using her index finger to push a few things around the box. I leaned back when I saw her raising her head to look at me. “Was there anything else in the bag, kochumol (granddaughter)?”

“No, Ammachi, only clothes and that tin. I didn’t look in the side pockets.” She immediately tore one of the side pocket zips open. There was nothing in either side. “There are only three more bags to go through here.”

“Well, hurry up. We need to finish before lunch!” Ammachi pushed her hands inside the clothes and felt around thoroughly and then sat on a chair waiting for the next bag.

“You don’t want to throw it out?” Those clothes wouldn’t fit Saroj Aunty. She had thickened everywhere, though she was still beautiful and very stylish. Her daughter Eva would never want the clothes. And there had been no saris in the bag, only salwar kameezes.

“We’ll ask Saroj if she wants it,” Ammachi said.

“Do you want to keep it with you till she arrives next week?”

Ammachi hesitated, “No. There’s no space in my room. We’ll pull it out of the loft when she’s here. Give me whatever is over there,” she pointed at the dark corner to my left. There was a large black spider in the corner, with its eggs in a white mass under its belly. Due to the weight of the eggs, these spiders often made a plopping sound when they fell off the walls. I had never actually seen the eggs hatch or the babies.

“Quickly!” Ammachi ordered.

“The large pregnant spider is there.”

“It is not pregnant, it’s got its eggs under its tummy.”

“Same one.”

“Use the broom to chase it away.”

I jabbed the broom’s feathery bristles at the cobwebs and they gave way, but the spider only crawled upwards, nearer the ceiling, and stayed put. I looked down at my impatient grandmother. I had had enough, but now was not the time to tell her I felt weak with fear. She looked like she’d throw a leg on the chair, climb up into the loft and thrash me. The family, with the exception of my gentle father and even gentler grandfather, was filled with human firecrackers.

I jabbed at the spider again, closing my eyes. When I opened them, the black spider was still in place. I stretched and grabbed the edge of a dusty old holdall and pulled it towards me slowly. I exhaled the tension and slid the bag's stiff zip open.

“What have you got?” Ammachi’s voice said from below. My hands felt about the bag. Only men's clothing. I dropped the bag on the table.

Before she could say anything, I inched towards the spider again. If it attacked me I was going to use the broom to toss it off the loft. The spider watched me drag away the last two bags.

One bag had old shoes, slippers and more clothes – all worn out and meant to be thrown away – and the other books.

“What do you have there?”

Ammachi was now standing and had once again emptied the contents of Saroj Aunty’s bag onto the table’s top. She was behaving so strangely. I emptied the bag with the books, looked quickly at random pages and put them back in the bag. They were all textbooks. I stopped when I came to a diary and saw handwriting. Most of the entries were in Malayalam. I shone the torch on the pages in the middle and back and found some in English.

“How much more is there, kochumol?” Ammachi asked from below.

“Two bags, Ammachi. One sec.” I hurriedly shoved the rest of the books into the bag, wiped the dust off both bags and dropped them carefully onto the table below. I swept the loft absently, wondering how I could remove the diary and photos from the loft without Ammachi noticing. They were too big to stuff into my dress.

I looked over the edge and waited for Ammachi to finish looking at everything. She was shaking the books. Bits of paper flew out. She picked them up, looked at them and frowned.

“Do you want me to come down and read them to you, Ammachi?”

“Eh? Yes… yes. These are in English. I don’t have my glasses either. Go fetch them.

I sat at the edge of the loft, let my bare feet feel the seat of the chair, got on to the table and jumped to the ground.

I picked up the slips of paper. “You look beautiful” was scrawled boldly across a small, yellowed chit of lined paper. The paper had been folded and opened many times and was tearing off at the creases.

“What does it say?” Ammachi asked from over my shoulder.

My heartbeat hammered against my chest. “Oh, it is the title of some textbook.” This morning Amma had told me we would ask Roma for her old text books for my new school year. I picked up the rest of the chits from the floor – all of them were similar. “I love your hair. Don’t ever cut it.” “Come to the cafeteria at 4pm…” “You look lovely in yellow. Yellow is now my favourite colour, I want you to wear it tomorrow too.” How absurd it all sounded! But it screamed of illicit romance. Many of the older girls and boys were passing around love notes in school. Were their notes like these?

“Well? What’s written on those pieces of paper?”

“Ammachi, this one says, “Come to the library at 4pm”. This other one says… oh... I can’t read the handwriting. Looks like rubbish. I’ll throw them away.” I gently crushed the pieces of yellowed paper in my hand and dropped them into the dust pan. Ammachi’s mouth opened in shock and then closed, her mouth set in a thin stern line. I hurried out of the storeroom before she could protest, fished out the balled pieces from the dustpan when I was out of her sight and pushed them into my bra.

My aunts were in the kitchen, I smiled at them and emptied the pan’s contents into the dustbin. I hurried back to the storeroom because my grandmother hated being kept waiting.

She made me pack up the text books and good clothes in separate bags. The rest was to be thrown away, after it was inspected by its previous owners.

“How do you know whose stuff it is?” I was curious.

“From the clothes. The boys didn’t want any of the books. Can’t say so with the girls. I have to let them decide what they want to keep?”

That was news. Ammachi never let anyone else’s opinions matter. But she was a little afraid of Saroj Aunty.

I felt a push. So I climbed back into the loft. The spider was still guarding its corner. Ammachi placed the bags on the chair and table. I stacked the bags against the wall and hid the photos and diary and climbed out of the loft.

I was going to come back for them when everyone was asleep and before the rest of the families turned up next week.

                                                            ******

This is a fictional series following a 30-something Mumbai-based divorcée. She is remembering an old family vacation that starts innocently but skews family relationships in the most unimaginable way. The Webs We Weave series begins with this episode. Read the rest here 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91.  

 

Fishy Chronicles 68: Lockdown Diaries – Pinning Down An Insecurity

Cattle egrets. View from our window. 
Photo: A. Peter

After tailing Genie and finding out what he was up to (Stalkers Ahoy) each morning, things went back to normal. More or less. What could be normal in a pandemic-induced lockdown? There was no doubt that Genie knew we had set out to follow him that day. We discovered there hadn’t been a woman, or a secret gym. 

Despite our interfering behaviour and the run-in with the fat cop Motu (Fatty), Genie stayed cordial. When we tried to follow him out the next morning, he put a decisive stop to it. “Mhatre walks along these lanes in the morning.”

“Who’s Mhatre?” Anjali said.

“The policeman you threw the stone at yesterday… you call him Motu. His name is Mhatre. And, in all probability, he will be hanging about Sea View Society waiting for you.”

Anjali’s tea went up her nose and I slapped her back several times. I pulled up a corner of her t-shirt for her to blow her nose in, but she slapped away my hand and looked at me fiercely. I rushed away and got her a tissue.

“I did not throw a stone at Motu!”

“Hmm. That’s what the watchman said you did. Made Mhatre furious. I’ve never seen him run as fast as he did after you!”

Anjali and I stared at Genie silently. We were cornered. Genie knew we were barefaced stalkers and he stood in front of us, his face stretched into a broad smile and pink from the effort of holding in his laugh. Fish were laughing like hyenas in their tanks. I wondered sometimes if Fish had filled in the gaps for Genie or whether we were so naturally transparent that our every thought showed along with our gutless guts.

Anyway, we let that argument go. And hung back.

But every morning we were up early, sipping our teas, mostly to wish Genie a cheery good morning and then watch him through the peephole. Zeba’s door opened at the same time Genie stepped out. She tottered out in a long sleeveless caftan and high heels and canoodled. Genie’s deep voice sounded full of warmth and honey, but was low enough for us not to hear. Did he know we were watching him? Was this the way the rest of my life was going to pass… as an artless voyeur? On the other hand, Anjali was a writer, with many interests. But I wondered if she regressed when she was with me.

After our surveillance efforts at the door, we’d move to the sitting room window and watch who was watching Genie leave the society. Quite a few women, we found. And men. We realised many of the men were out to watch the women.

All this had become a morning ritual and Anjali gnashed her teeth watching Zeba with Genie. Everyday! But, we just couldn’t figure out what was going on with everyone else.

The paying guest (PG) boys, two sets in flats in adjoining wings, would wake up very early and squeeze into the windows in their sitting rooms. Both sets watched the PG girls on the sixth floor opposite my building, who wore thin night dresses or shorts and tank tops leaning out to catch a glimpse of Genie. It couldn’t have been anyone else.

And yet our Genie would walk leisurely towards the gate, nodding at Mrs Duggal and her friends. Some women would lean out of their windows and shout good morning. Their husbands would watch grumpily from another courtyard-facing room, or from their kitchens. Apparently, an annoyed spouse didn’t faze Genie.

“Do you think Mrs Duggal is happy when Genie looks her way?” I asked Anjali, who was keenly watching other spectators with the binoculars. I wondered when Peaceful Society would send us a notice for our “disruptive behaviour”. That was what Uncle John had called it, smiling sweetly.

“Any woman would choose Genie over Duggal!” Anjali said trying to squeeze through the bars of the window. If we held the binoculars outside the bars, we could see a little better.

I clucked my tongue in irritation. That was not what I was wondering. Mrs Duggal must love her odious husband in some way – she still got upset when he looked at other women!

“Do you think he loves Mrs Duggal?” I persisted.

“I don’t think Genie loves Mrs Duggal.”

“I meant does Mr Duggal love Mrs Duggal!”

“He goes back to her every day, na? So, most likely, yes. She’s probably grown on him. She’s the rajma chawal of his life. He’d go hungry and waste away without her,” Anjali chuckled at her own humour.

“Where else could he go?”

“To his mummy.” I glared at her and Anjali laughed some more. She removed the binoculars from her eyes, moved her body back into the flat and turned the binoculars on the boys upstairs. They waved and whistled at her. We saw the PG girls look at the boys. Though there seemed to be some interest between the two groups, I didn’t see them mingle in the building complex.

“They’ve all got girlfriends and boyfriends,” Anjali said reading my mind.

“How do you know?”

“They bring them to their apartments. Then there’s either a huge party, where there are lots of guys and girls, or things are unnaturally quiet. That’s when you know they’re up to something. Did you know the couple in B-606 are not married?”

“No. But how can you tell?”

“I saw an elderly guy going about with her for several days and asked the watchman. He said the old man was 606’s father. Then I asked about the guy who was in her apartment – I called him her husband. The watchman corrected me instantly. Said it was her boyfriend, who had to move out so her old man didn’t know the guy was living there. Though when he said it, it sounded positively… full of masala.”

“Would you live with someone?” I don’t know why that question shot out of my mouth.

“Maybe. If I liked someone. But only as a precursor to marriage. For now. You?”  

“I keep thinking someone would have their fun and leave me. It’s like how we Surianis have marriages quick on the heels of an engagement – we’re afraid the marriage may not materialise if the two get to know each other during the engagement period.”

“I’m confused. Was that a Yes or a No?”

“I’m confused too. I doubt it. Besides, with my luck, even if I moved to the Himalayas, or another city, I’m sure someone would make a connection eventually and report me.”

“Even if someone does, you’re an adult. Everyone’s doing it. So can you.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember it… if I ever take such an extreme step.”

“See that word is all wrong – negative. Extreme. Drastic. Just sounds like a Never or Impossible. Do you know that many people get engaged and live together and then marry? Many Indians in the US and UK do that.”

“They don’t have their relatives in their faces.”

“They probably do, and care about what their families think, but it happens anyway.”

“Okay.”

“Well?”

“No.”

“That’s my girl. Prudery is embedded in your DNA. No wonder Joy Uncle and Saroj Aunty love getting their claws into you. After working their magic on their own kids, they are training their guns on you. The ‘action’ in their retired lives,” Anjali snorted derisively.

I’d always been their target anyway. “Why do you say that?”

“I thought you being divorced would keep you out of their line of vision. But frankly Danny’s appearance (FC 54) surprised me. Didn’t it?” Anjali said.

“Yes.” The only people who’d suggested remarriage were old friends of my parents. After meeting several divorcés, I had begged my parents to stop setting up the meetings. I had been a little confident then of finding someone on my own, but now it looked like I’d stay single forever. I turned around and saw Fish watching me quietly. I’d be an old maid, with old fish and maybe an aging parakeet. I wasn’t sure if Anjali or Genie would keep me company. I felt an uncomfortable weight in my stomach and my heart tightened painfully.

Anjali turned to look at me and put the binoculars down. “Let’s decide that by the time we’re 65 or 70, we’ll make serious plans to move nearer each other. Either you near me or me near you.”

I nodded. We had thought of this occasionally over the years. We were too young to think this far – being in our early 30s – but neither of us had parents or support of any sort.  

“What if you marry?” I asked.

“What if you marry?”

“We’ll keep the plan at the back of our minds. You and me, if all else fails.”

Anjali crawled out of the window box and sat on the window seat next to me. The boys upstairs continued to wave at us and finally we waved back and moved backwards and out of their view.

                                                              ******

This is a fictional series about the Mumbai-based narrator and her floating coterie.

Fishy Chronicles 67: Lockdown Diaries: Stalkers Ahoy

I lay in bed, unwilling to get up. I had slept fitfully and now my body felt leaden. I waited for more sunlight to seep into my bedroom.

Lying next to me, Anjali’s eyes were closed and her breathing even. I had changed into a t-shirt and jeans in the middle of the night.

Being awake at night is no fun. You think of things you shouldn’t. Of people who aren’t good for you. Of things that twist you. When you lie awake, lucid sane thoughts drift out into the night like vapours through windows with gaps around their edges.

I watched the shadows on the walls. Sometimes when I woke at night they looked like burglars trying to enter through my bedroom window. Sleep would desert me instantly and, after I had screamed senselessly and silently in my mind and my heart beat had steadied and one eye had opened, I would realise that the shadows were the shivering leaves of the tree outside, a night breeze rustling them and the light from the tubelight outside magnifying the leaves shapelessly. It did not help that the watchmen outside banged their sticks on the ground at intervals. To scare ghosts away or stay awake. Who knew.

And then, later, not too often, when I would lay back and take deep breaths, and try to calm my mind and body enough for sleep to claim me, I would remember that my windows had bars on them and a burglar would have to be a human stick insect to squeeze through.

I tiptoed into the sitting room, stopped and backed away quickly. WTF!

I was mesmerised by the sight in front of me.

Genie was naked except for a pair of clinging short white shorts… and was horizontally balanced on his hands, the muscles in his torso, stomach and arms straining – clearly rippled for the onlooker’s benefit. He deserved to be on the Irish Beefcake Calendar. He deserved to be a pin-up! On the cover of the male equivalent of Playboy! The cream-coloured shorts looked as though it was part of his fair skin and thus he looked naked. It was strange but though I had sometimes drooled over this handsome man, I had never pictured Genie without clothes. This was close enough. Have mercy!

I heard a whistle in my ear and nearly jumped a foot. Arms grabbed me tightly and I turned to swear, my heart running like it wanted to escape my throat through my mouth.

“Shhh! He’ll guess we’re staring. It won’t be good if we get caught!” Anjali said in a whisper that I could barely hear and dragged me back behind the hallway curtain. “Why didn’t you tell me! What the eff! Look at him – like a fat scoop of creamy icecream on a short toothpick. Lick fast!”

I glared at Anjali. Any moment now Genie would catch us ogling at him and my game would be up. “Shhh, Anjali. Please stop!”

“What are you up to? I saw you change your clothes in the middle of the night. How could you leave me out of things… shit! He’s coming!”

Indeed. Genie had started to lower his body to the ground and his forehead puckered into a frown. I stayed near the curtain. He folded his body and started doing another asana – a deep-breathing one.

I could feel Anjali press into me. She had worn a pair of jeans and the t-shirt she slept in. Its colour had leeched away long ago and now it was shapeless and grayish white. She had once assured me that we had bought it together and didn’t I remember that day. The t-shirt still fit and the cloth was comfortable and she slept well in it and so it was multipurpose.

Suddenly Genie was untangling himself. He smiled at Fish and his deep gravelly voice asked if they had slept well. I pushed back and felt sudden panic. Anjali moved into the kitchen. I ran into the bedroom. Shit! Genie’s room. I hurried out and debated whether to go into my room… but I saw Genie through a small gap in the curtain, he was moving towards this corridor. I sprinted into the kitchen and looked around. Bugger! No place. Then I saw the gray t-shirt squeezed into the narrow space between the window and the fridge. Genie moved the curtain and I pushed my body into Anjali's and pressed back.

“Ow, you’re suffocating me!”

“Shh!” I shrank back as far as I could and luckily Anjali held her breath and stayed still. Genie had stopped near the kitchen to listen, holding the hallway curtain away from his face with his rolled-up yoga mat sticking out of his armpit. After what seemed like several minutes of his gaze piercing the dim light of early sunrise, he went to his room.

I moved away from Anjali and whispered. “He’s gone to his room. Let’s go back to ours.”

“No. Let’s wait here.”

“What if he comes back to make tea?”

“Good point. Does he?”

“Yes. Has a cup and disappears.”

“You’ve been watching him,” Anjali grinned.

“No. That’s been his habit for years. Nothing changed even after he returned,” I said, feeling defensive but trying to keep my tone neutral and hoping Anjali would believe me.

“Only his body has become more muscled. What do you think he did out there?” Anjali said, referring to the period Genie chose to travel.

“I don’t know. What would build muscle like that? Rock climbing?”

Anjali shrugged. I thought it was intense body building. I couldn’t remember if the Genie that lived with us earlier had worked out. Anjali pushed me away from her and fanned her face with her hands. I moved quickly to my bedroom, with Anjali in tow. Just in time.

                                                                ******

This is a fictional series surrounding the Mumbai-based narrator and her parents’ former man Friday Genie.

                                                                ******

We heard Genie moving about the kitchen, lighting the stove and making tea. I had studied his habits leading up to today and knew that he would pour tea into a flask and then drink his mug of tea and eat two biscuits near the fish tank. He’d sit on the ground and look out of the window at the sunrise that was blocked by the buildings opposite the window.

When the sun rose some more, Genie would move back into the kitchen and then quickly leave home. I had checked the kitchen cupboards, except those on top. I couldn’t because that meant using the ladder and exciting questions from Anjali and Genie. But from the noise, I knew Genie opened those cupboards every morning.

I heard the door close. I moved to the door and felt Anjali follow me. “No need to come with me, Anjali. I’ll be back soon. Just open the door for me.”

“No way, José.”

“Please don’t. I just need to see where Genie’s going!”

“Me too! If you don’t hurry, we’ll lose him!”

Bloody good point! I closed the door with my key, so that Genie didn’t hear us and we tiptoed down the stairs. We watched him from a safe distance and once he was out of the gate, we began to run. We stayed behind the trees on the narrow footpath and every now and then hugged a gate post, some of which were very dirty.

Near the end of our road, near the public garden, Genie bent to hand out small packets to some people sitting on the side of the road. I felt embarrassed at spying on him. I looked at Anjali across the road. She was staring at Genie. We had agreed to split and to run in different directions any time we felt we would be caught. About 20 minutes later, Genie was sitting on his haunches, watching some stray dogs eat. There were a couple of cats rubbing against him.

I turned to go back and slammed into a policeman. “You’re not wearing a mask! It is curfew, you’re supposed to be at home.” He glared at me. I backed away and tripped and fell. He leaned over me and gave me an angry lecture in Marathi. I turned my head to see if Genie had heard the commotion. I could see him get up. I turned to look at Anjali. She ran into the middle of the road and threw a stone at the street lamp next to me.

It hit the wall of a nearby building and exploded into small bits, spraying the policeman, the watchman and me with sharp pebbles and sand. The policeman swore loudly and began to chase after Anjali. She turned and ran into the housing society behind her. It was a big one with much foliage and several buildings. I scrambled to my feet and followed the policeman. I could see Anjali disappear behind a building on the left. To the right, Anjali, to the right! That was where the second exit was.

The policeman ran to the building on the left. I began running after him, frightened of what he might do to her if he caught her. He had his lathi in his hand. I was sure he was breaking the law, or maybe not. It was 6.47am on my watch.

Suddenly Anjali reappeared from behind another building and waved with both hands to get my attention. She pointed to the exit nearest her and waved her arm in a circle, and then made tea-drinking motions. I jabbed the air with my thumb to show affirmation. She was going to run out the other exit and meet me at the chaiwalla. We would avoid Genie as well.

I saw the policeman run out from behind the building on the left and look at all the other buildings bewildered. He looked like he knew his quarry had escaped but still had a hunt on his hands. He saw me and shouted for me to come towards him. I moved backwards towards the gate and heard the policeman swear in rage, but then I heard running footsteps behind me. Before he could see me, I saw him. Genie!

I ran behind a building on my right. I heard two sets of footsteps. I stopped listening and ran as soundlessly as I could, weaving in and out of the buildings through the stilt parking. I knew this place well because I had church friends here and sometimes they liked to chat in the dark in the parking area.

I had no choice but to get to the other exit and try and catch up with Anjali at the chaiwalla. I had thought of waiting out the policeman, but what if he brought reinforcements. But when I thought of it logically what was he going to do? Arrest me for not wearing a mask? Or for violating curfew during lockdown? Or maybe for not obeying an officer of the law. What if he beat me?

I ran until I reached the chaiwalla and fleetingly thought of the Prime Minister, Narendra Modi. Our chaiwalla was clean shaven and skinny in comparison. Like he didn’t eat often.

I saw Anjali, leaning against the teashop's wall, red in the face and gasping for breath. “Thank… God, you’re… safe. I… thought… Motu… would… run… after… you… next!” Anjali said in between deep breaths.

“He… did."

“If… we… are… struggling to… breathe… after… a short… run like… that… we need… more exercise!”

“Ye… ah!” My lungs were on fire and seemingly unwilling to expand in a hurry. I didn’t want Motu to catch me. I’d heard Uncle John say that his neighbour had gone for a morning walk and had turned around hurriedly when he saw a group of policemen rounding up several migrants, clutching their meagre belongings, and a couple of our neighbours. He had watched them do Indian sit-ups, which meant sitting and standing when ordered – all the while holding their earlobes. It seemed an exercise in stripping the soul of dignity. We were punished this way as school children – useless empty vessels with no rights or feelings.

“So sad the chaiwalla isn’t here,” Anjali said looking at the grimy, tin-roofed shanty on the main road that passed off for a tea house. On good days it had a small clientele sitting inside, feeding on bad samosas and oily batata vadas. But the pandemic and its consequent lockdown had likely killed small businesses like these.

Anjali pulled out a tiny packet of Parle-G biscuits and I ate one whole, starving from our recent exercise.

She looked around, smiling. It was rare to see Mumbai at a standstill, when the only things sharing space with you were joyfully noisy birds and hungry-looking strays. We saw people shop for essentials, but they disappeared quickly. She put a biscuit in her mouth and offered me another.

But Anjali’s eyes widened suddenly and the biscuit fell out of her mouth. I turned to look and felt shock course through me.

“I left chai in the flask for you,” Genie said, his brown shoulder-length hair moving gently in the breeze, standing some feet away with his thumbs hooked into his pockets and his eyes hooded. A couple of stray dogs stood at his feet, wagging their tails and smiling at us.

“Oh, we wanted to go for a walk. On an empty stomach. Thought we’d go back and have the tea. But…” I shrugged and gestured at Anjali and the fallen biscuit, “we couldn’t wait that long.”

“I see,” he said and set off briskly towards our building. Anjali and I eyed each other and chewed our biscuits slowly. It was like being in a raging cyclone that barely blew up a skirt.

Maybe there was more to come.

                                                                ****** 

Parle-G biscuits sold just outside Madame Tussauds, London. (Photo: A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 66: Lockdown Diaries: Of Just Desserts

The Covid-19 lockdown stretched our days and one day melded into the other, much like waves in the sea. There was no start and no end – just an indeterminate expanse.

Enforced confinement is an unusual state for all three of us. Anjali and I bickered often. Sometimes Genie would be irritated and disappear for long periods, which was a dampener.

A normal day involved housework, cooking, eating, some shouting, on a lucky day some swearing, on a good day lots of jokes and then the TV would come alive to drown out the noise. Most days it started with the news and then veered to the Fox Life channel and then we'd subside into our secret food hell. Genie and Anjali would often turn to me and say, "You've  got to cook that." 

Anjali had taken to joining me at the Gonsalves home, then we’d walk around our housing complex several times until Mr Duggal, the secretary of our housing society, alerted by the annoyed security guards, would ask us to get off the grounds and go home. As soon as we heard the loudspeaker being switched on and Mr Duggal clearing his throat for his big announcement cum name-shame business, we disappeared. So when he did make his announcement, we were looking out of our sitting room window. Neighbours would come to their windows and see other walkers on the ground and, I assumed, wonder why Mr Duggal was making it personal by naming just us.

As in most apathetic Mumbai societies, no one stood up for us. But after the fourth time, Anjali suggested we write a formal letter of complaint to Peaceful Society committee, alleging harassment.

“What do you say, Genie?”

“Hmm.”

“Why is he targetting us when the garden is littered with walkers!” Anjali had a way with words. Littered was apt. Even if lockdown was in place, it meant nothing to Mumbaikars – especially in Peaceful Society. Apparently social distancing was for other people. When neighbours stopped to talk, they invaded our private space and, all too often, we found ourselves stepping back. Surely the deadly virus would overpower a weak mask and conquer all within droplet-catching distance.

Everything was due to the lockdown. We nagged Genie and our every waking moment was devoted to annoying him. He was our mouse and we were two cats arranged on either side of him. Genie ignored us totally, but still made us tea in the mornings and evenings and snacks.

“Do you have to let that awful thing drink out of your cup every day?” Anjali spluttered one morning when she saw my darling mosquito friend Norbert take the first sip of my morning tea, flavoured with lemon grass. I heard Nobby’s satisfied sigh. Yes, I nodded.

“Tell her the universe will not spin if I don’t,” Norbert said.

“The universe will not spin if he doesn’t drink from my cup,” I told Anjali absently, watching my friend fly off and sit on the fish tank.

“Bullshit. Plus, imagine all the disease in his proboscis.”

I imagined it. And let it go. Life was too short. It hadn’t killed me so far. Though I did not know what disease, if any, lurked in me. Norbert buzzed around me and settled on my ear. I shivered from the tickle. “Don’t listen to that silly girl.”

“Norbert is welcome to drink from my cup any time,” Genie gave us a killer grin. And suddenly Norbert was off and flying towards Genie. I saw him sit on Genie’s ear, whispering animatedly.

“Same thing. Disease,” Anjali grumbled. “Where is your electric fly swatter?”

Norbert jumped off and flew towards Anjali. “Nobby, no!” I shouted. He held still in midair and then flew back to Genie and hid in his hair.

“Tell your friend that was a close shave,” Nobby said. How easy it was to rile yoga-loving Nobby – wasn’t meditation supposed to calm the soul?

“Er, we don’t have a fly swatter,” I told Anjali.

                                                      **

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator, based in Mumbai. Her former pet fish and parents’ former man Friday have returned to stay indefinitely.

Lockdown Dairies revolve around the Covid-19 confinement. Time hangs heavy for the narrator... with many irritations.  

                                                     **                                                                             

"Why not?"

“We don’t have a mosquito problem,” I said waving my hands at the room. We had never had one after my acquaintance with Nobby and we were off limits to his friends.

“Bullshit.”

“Have you been bitten while you’ve been here? Ever?”

“Er, not that I can think of. But I’ve seen swarms of mosquitos outside. It won’t hurt to keep an electric bat handy. What if those guys get in?”

“They won’t.”

“How can you be sure.”

“Have they bitten you while we’ve walked about… even at night?” Anjali was silent. “That’s Nobby’s doing.”

“Bullshit. I wear Odomos.”

“I don’t and I’ve never been bitten… at least in this society.”

“Sorry, my darling, I can only manage the guys in my territory. Can’t do a thing when you go outside Peaceful Society, you know that,” Nobby said, sounding upset.

“Of course I know that, my sweet yoga-boy,” I said to Genie’s ear. I suddenly knew what I was going to cook for breakfast. I looked at Genie. He had had a bath, and his hair was wet. He still wouldn’t say where he went every morning. I looked out of the window and took a deep breath to quell my irritation. Some ladies in the building opposite ours were watching. I went to the window and closed the thin curtains.

“You're shutting out the light. Leave the curtains alone,” Genie ordered.  

“Er, there are some girls in Wing E watching us.”

“Some guys too. Open the curtains.”

I pushed the curtains apart slowly, looking out curiously. One topless married guy looked away. But Mrs Bakshi and her daughter from the eighth floor and the paying guest girls on the sixth looked on unabashedly.

“Some would say it is tit-for-tat,” Genie said coming up behind me, amusement in his voice and nodding vigourously at the overjoyed women.

“Why tit-for-tat?”

“Ask your binoculars.”

I felt chastened. Embarrassed by my activities of the past few weeks. “Karma is probably the word to use,” I mumbled.

“Just desserts. Tit-for-tat. Karma. Same thing.”

                                                          **