Fishy Chronicles 73: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (5) – Showdown

I hadn’t expected things to unravel fast.

I had thought my cousin Bobby would have wanted to keep quiet about what he had done to Rita (see FC72). But not so, it seemed. Bastard Bobby had now become Brazen Bobby.

The family had taken the idiot to hospital, but sadly his injuries had warranted a quick discharge and he was back home by evening.

At the entrance of our home, he leaned his head on his mummy’s shoulder and whimpered. Mobby, Bobby’s older brother, was holding him upright. Even though his legs hadn’t been injured, he was feigning difficulty in walking.

Bobby’s left eye was shut and swollen, his head bandaged and he had to turn his head 180 degrees for his good eye to look for me in the crowd that had formed in the sitting room. He pointed at me.

“Your daughter hit my son with her slingshot!” Sarayu Aunty screamed into Appa’s face.

“My daughter isn’t violent,” Appa murmured, his gaze fixed on Bobby, who looked scared now.

“SHE BEAT UP MY SON AND HE NEARLY DIED!”

“Don’t be silly, chechi. My daughter is half your son’s size. There’s barely a scratch on the brute… er… Bobby.” There was a gasp and people stared at Appa. At this point, I felt scared.

Sarayu Aunty screeched several unladylike words, forcing her father to tut-tut in shock. And her husband Mathan chee-cheed first and then did an about-turn and smiled and nodded in agreement.

It reminded me of the time I overheard my mother say that Sarayu Aunty and Mathan Uncle’s union was made in heaven. It did not sound like a compliment and I lingered near her to catch the rest of the story. Mathan Uncle had spent much of that summer vacation, indeed every vacation, surveying all of Appachan’s farm and identifying what he wanted to take back. Sarayu later told her mother what she wanted packed. The provisions were usually enough to last several months to a year.

My father turned to me. “Mol, did you use a slingshot on your cousin Bobby?”

“N…o.”

There was another gasp, this time of disbelief. A commotion broke out. People babbled, fingers pointed at me and angry words hurtled in my direction. There was not a kind eye on me, except Rita’s who was quivering behind her mother.

“Quiet!” Appachan (grandfather) shouted.

“I see her with the slingshot every day…” gurgled Mathan Uncle, the rolls of fat at his throat jiggling in tandem with his agitation “… shooting mangoes off the trees.” I knew Mathan Uncle watched me, no doubt worried there would be no mangoes for him when his family returned to their home after the holidays. Satan’s spawn, now defiantly facing him, would in all likelihood have eaten all the ripe, unripe and budding mangoes.

I saw others nod in agreement, though the girls stayed silent. It must have been the result of sharing my mangoes with Rita, and indirectly them, this morning.  

“Go and get your slingshot! You can’t be allowed to play or behave like a boy!” Ammachi (grandmother) shouted. My eyes were glued to her hairy double chins quivering dangerously. Her jaw looked like an ultra-shaky caramel custard.

“Go on,” Appa nudged me.

“I don’t have it.”

“What?”

“Someone’s flicked it.”

“Liar! You filthy, lying child!” Sarayu Aunty raged, taking several steps towards me.

My mother was instantly behind me, her hands tight on my arms. But Appa pre-empted Amma. “Don’t call my child names.”

It was clear people wanted to say more, but they were unwilling to cross swords with Appa.

“Get your slingshot, child!” Appachan roared.

“B-but I don’t have it. S-someone’s taken it.”

He got up from the old teakwood armchair and walked towards our room. All of us followed. He ordered my father’s brother Joy, younger sister Saroj and her husband Pillipochyan to check our room. They rummaged through our things and cupboards. 

I felt numb watching the shabby exercise unfold. I looked up. Appa's lips were in a thin line. The three searchers were egged on by the onlookers, but there was no sign of the slingshot.

“Look through the whole house,” Appachan shouted, and more people were pressed into service. Other relatives went through Saroj Aunty’s, Joy Uncle’s and the children’s rooms, the dining room, the study and storerooms.

I braved the angry looks. I felt I looked guilty, even to my parents.

“Where is it, mol?” Appa asked, the room seething with tension.

I shook my head, wondering how to make them believe me. Then I heard the low, nervous, boy-man voice. Rajiv, Rita’s brother and Appachan’s favourite grandson, said, “We haven’t checked Sarayumama’s room.”

“She’s the culprit! She’s hidden the slingshot somewhere. BAD GIRL, BAD, BAD GIRL!” Sarayu Aunty screeched.

“Afraid, chechi?” I couldn’t believe my mother said it. It was like we were all forced into a room, once a close-knit family but now everyone a stranger to the other and all of us teetering on the edge of an unimaginable and gaping precipice.

Appachan and Ammachi gave my mother filthy looks, but Appachan said, “Go check Sarayu’s room.”

A churlish scream rent the air, but the mass of bodies moved quickly to Sarayu Aunty’s room and began to search. And there, at the back of the bottom drawer of the dressing table and wrapped in a Malayalam Manorama newspaper was the slingshot.

Rajiv gestured to Roma to come closer and pointed at the potted plant on a corner table. My grandfather moved to look at the plant, a mix of disbelief and fury spreading across his face. We all pushed around him to see. There were smooth, medium-sized white stones placed in a ring around the plant.

My grandfather began to shout at everyone. Most of his ire was aimed at Bobby and his parents, but everyone got a lambasting.

I sneaked out, but was grabbed by my collar and given a good shaking. A few seconds later, my father dislodged my grandfather’s hand from the back of my neck and they stood facing each other for an eternity – with only their faces betraying corrosive emotion.

I squeezed myself between them, my eyes closed – muttering a prayer I didn’t believe. I didn’t think God would forgive me for what I had done. Pitting father against son, being violent with a cousin, inflicting injury on a pervert, being hard headed, stubborn, etc, etc, etc – all vices that had no place in a good Suriani girl. I was bad and would go to hell.

I felt cool air. Appachan was walking away, banging his stick on the ground. Sarayu Aunty screamed at everyone to get out and people moved out and into their own rooms.

                                                        ******

My parents were angry with me for several days and I lurked around the house, avoiding everyone. I stayed away from the mangoes for a couple of days, but soon I hankered for them and tried pulling them off with the long stick with the loop at its top end.

Ammachi had thrown my slingshot into the flames of the stone stove in the kitchen and the burning rubber spread acrid smoke through the house, forcing us to open all the doors and windows. It had led to a fresh argument between my grandparents.

My cousins stopped taunting me, but still wouldn’t let me back into their fold. I knew they suspected me of attacking Bobby, but couldn’t figure out what had happened. Only Rita kept me company when everyone else was having their afternoon nap. 

One day I noticed a glint on her finger and held her hand closer to my face for a better look at the ring. “Where did you get it?”

She looked embarrassed. “A-Appachan and A-Ammachi gave it to me.”

“When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Oh.”

“Didn’t they give you one?” Rita asked. I looked at the ring again – a thin gold band, with a blue stone in the centre. “Ammachi made it from the big stone in her pendant.”

“Did Roma get one too?” I asked.

“Er… y-yes.”

I felt a weight press my chest. “Only you two got rings? Not the other girls?”

Rita squirmed. Her face turned red and she looked at the ground. She tried to pull her hand out of mine, but my hold was fierce. I let it go when my vision blurred.

“Go home, Rita. Your mom will be looking for you. I’m not fit to be around you,” I pushed her towards the house. I turned to the mango tree and my tears fell freely. I picked up the long stick and hit the leaves several times and managed to dislodge a mango. I stayed looking up at the tall mango tree until I heard Rita go.

                                                        ******

My parents looked my way many times during dinner, but I was sitting with my cousins at the end of the dining table. The men and children were eating first.

I ate with disinterest. All my female cousins sported new rings. The styles were the same, plain solid gold bands set with one, two or three sapphires. My grandmother’s pendant had been huge. I could see bulky sapphire earrings, set in gold, in Sarayu Aunty and Saroj Aunty’s ears.

I watched my cousins and then looked at my grandfather. I felt hurt at being left out. I looked away and, despite my best intentions, tears fell into my plate.

I felt a little hand squeeze mine and a whisper against my neck. “Stop crying, chechi. You can have my ring… please stop crying. Everyone is looking at you.”

After I had composed myself as best I could I looked up for a fraction of a second. Indeed, there were people looking at me. My father’s sisters had knowing, happy looks. My parents seemed upset, their eyes boring into my face, and I didn’t want to look at the rest of my family.

I tried to eat but the food had become difficult to swallow.

Something made me look up and I saw Bobby wink at me with his good eye and wiggle his left hand’s ring finger and wink again.

I wanted to throw my steel glass at his head. Instead my eyes crawled over his swollen maroon eye, the fat bandage around his head, the scratches on his face, the bruises on his arms and I wondered if his groin still hurt from the biggest stone in my jhola that I had shot at pointblank range. And then I wondered how the slingshot I had tossed under my bed had found its way into Bobby’s mother’s dressing table. Someone had saved me from an inevitable, and irreparable, fall from grace. Someone here was on my side. But who?

I smiled sweetly at Bobby, balled my left fist over my plate and simulated the stretching back of a sling with a large piece of potato. The potato landed on my plate, splashing curry. The look of shock on Bobby’s face quickly changed to impotent rage. I wiggled my left middle finger at him and then pushed rice and chicken into my mouth. I didn’t look up, but ate my food with gusto and took a second helping of Ammachi’s spicy chicken curry.

When I did care to look, I saw sour looks of disapproval, but surprisingly no expression on Appachan’s face.

                                                        ******

This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reminiscing about a holiday with her father’s family in Kerala. This is the continuation of episodes FC69, FC70, FC71 and FC72. 

On her cousin Bobby’s insistence, the narrator’s family believes she has beaten him. There is a showdown and a surprise twist.

 (Find the rest of 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)

Fishy Chronicles 72: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (4) – Bobby

Being ostracised has benefits.

I became angrier, tougher. My male cousins called me names. The girls gave me haughty looks and locked themselves into a room, playing with dolls, clothes and makeup. The elders tolerated my parents, but looked through me.

I no longer felt close to Appachan (grandfather). We eye-duelled often, each refusing to look away first. One day my father caught me at it and took me for a walk into the fields.

“They are all treating me badly, even though I didn’t do anything wrong!” (see FC69, FC70, FC71) I slapped my hand against a tree trunk, imagining it to be Bobby, and my palm stung. Appa took my hand and rubbed it.

“Every experience is going to teach you something, mol.”

“What is this teaching me?”

“Patience. How to deal with a… a pervert. How to deal with elders who should know better. How to deal with love turning sour.”

“We didn’t seem to handle them well.”

Appa knelt in the wet mud, unconcerned about the dark brown mud staining his starched white mundu  and looked me in the eyes. “Yes. Not to make light of what happened… but it was an experience. Next time you are angry with someone, you know you can handle it better.”

“How can I handle this better?”

“Don’t say what jumps into your head and mouth. Think. Manage the situation.”

“Then, Appa, I’ll be just like every other girl filled with guile. Isn’t that what you keep telling me you hate in a woman… her needing to be manipulative because she doesn’t have the opportunities of a man?” I still hadn’t understood what it meant, but Amma assured me I would understand in time.

Appa opened his mouth and closed it. “No. Not the same. I was referring to a different person in a different situation. You know, I want you to be in a better place… to have choices Amma and your aunties didn’t, don’t, have.”

I was getting bored with this stream of thought and nodded vigorously.

“And Bobby?” I had christened him Bobby Bastard. I called him a bastard several times a day, mostly when he whistled and taunted me in the company of his cousins. Luckily, no one had heard me. Yet.

“Stay away from Bobby. You know what he is. In fact, you know that’s what all men are capable of.”

I wondered why Appa was telling me this. It scared me. “Why are the others siding with him?”

A drizzle began and we moved under a large rubber tree. “Lack of good sense. Your uncles and aunties are taking sides even before they know the truth. The truth can be uncomfortable.”

“Can we go back home to Bombay, Appa?”

“This is home.”

“No!”

“It is. It is my home and Appachan’s and yours. What happened was unfortunate. I tried talking to Appachan, but he’s an old-fashioned man.” 

“It is going to be like this for us… for me… for the rest of this vacation.” My mouth turned downwards. Every night Amma told me to adjust with my cousins. But I could see her get upset when they left me out of their activities. After a while she let me walk about alone in the fields and I played with the slingshot. I got better at knocking mangoes off the trees, and started following Appa into the fields with the workers. I picked kandaris, which were small vicious chillies, wild mushrooms and fallen cashew fruit.

My father had a childhood friend who lived near the fields and every day I drank a small glass of tea and ate hot salty peanuts from a paper cone, listening to Appa and his friend laugh and reminisce. 

Returning to Appachan’s household stressed me, but I counted the days.

                                                ******

I was lying in the shade of the guava tree at the side of the old house. The grass was damp but by the time it was time to go indoors, the back of my clothes would have dried. 

I had eaten some unripe guavas and my mouth felt like a scrap of sandpaper. I opened my eyes, blinded by the light shining through the leaves, and looked for the old mango tree in the adjoining field. I would have to get out of the compound and nearer the tree to get at its mangoes. 

I had tried a combination of shooting down the mangoes with the slingshot and using the long stick with a small noose at its top end to tug the fruit off. I knew the girls watched me often, salivating over the mangoes. So, I always got down just enough for myself.

“Don’t be greedy and selfish. Just because you’re angry with your cousins doesn’t mean you shouldn’t share your booty,” Amma had said, with a smile, when she saw me eating my loot in partial view of my cousins in the room they had kept locked despite my pleas. I knew they could hear my mother scolding me. I nodded, making appropriate grunting noises and keeping my eyes wide and innocent. When my mother disappeared I sat in the shade, my back against a dry patch of mossy wall.

I knew my cousins Roma, Rita, Eva and the others were watching me. After I had gnawed all the pulp off the mango seed, I licked my fingers, hands and arms. Then I washed my hands, face and feet under the tap near their window, not once looking at them.

I smiled at the memory and squinted at the mangoes swaying in the cool breeze, the swishing sound of the moving leaves making me feel lazy and contented. I lay there even though I heard my older male cousins talking. They were hiding behind a nearby shed and smoking.

I felt a hand touch my bare leg and sat up in fright. I must have dozed off and now there was a shadow bending over me – Roma’s sister Rita. “Please may I have a mango?”

I raised myself and wanted to say no, but Rita, about 10 years old, was asking so earnestly. “Sure. Wash it first.”

She looked doubtfully at the four damaged mangoes, resting on leaves on the ground beside me. I had not mastered the art of felling a mango without bruising or splitting it, even though I practised constantly. “They’ve broken open in places, but are all good.”

“May I take one for Roma too?” Rita said in a small voice.

I gritted my teeth, “Take them all.” And I lay back down again. I knew Rita was watching me, but I kept my eyes closed and a little later her footsteps faded and water gushed from the nearby tap.

I sat up with a sudden sense of foreboding. The boys had moved away from the shed several minutes ago and the girls were not at the window. My cousin Shyla had ordered everyone to the dining room to eat the mangoes.

A big red ant bit me and I stood up. I brushed off the large translucent insects from my clothes and skin. Their numbers had suddenly increased and hundreds of them were now marching up and down the guava tree’s peeling trunk. I grabbed my slingshot, wrapped my jhola’s (large open-mouthed bag) strap around my neck and shoulder and straightened.

Revulsion stole over me.

My cousin Bobby was watching Rita from behind the shed. She was washing the mangoes and bent to pick up another from the ground and Bobby lunged. He clamped a hand on her mouth and his other arm was around her stomach. He lifted her. Rita struggled and tried to scream, her legs flailing. Bobby loosened his hold and the mangoes rolled out of Rita’s hands. He turned and moved swiftly towards the shed.

Suddenly he screamed in pain and dropped Rita. “Run, Rita, run!” I shouted, shooting another stone at Bobby. I had a pile of stones in my bag. I preferred smooth, medium-sized ones and these were now pounding Bobby everywhere, each stone finding its mark.

“You bitch!” he bellowed. He was bleeding from his temple, the blood dripping down his face and staining his shirt. I panicked and then remembered Appa’s advice a few days ago. “Stay calm. Plan and attack.” I slowed my breath and the fuzz in my mind cleared. Bobby rushed towards me even though he could see me drawing back the sling. I let it go at pointblank range and Bobby doubled over, screeching. He fell to the ground and rolled in the dirt.

I heard running feet behind me. “Run, chechi (older sister), run,” Rita screamed, looking pale but peering from the front of the house.

I watched Bobby writhe. I wanted to remember this moment for eternity.

Then I turned and ran. I grabbed Rita’s hand and we sprinted into the house through the open front door. There was a ruckus and people were rushing out of their rooms and out of the house through the kitchen.

I pulled Rita close to me, “Not a word to anyone.” She nodded, her face wet with tears. I wiped her face with the end of my skirt and we followed the others out of the house.

“I don’t want to see him,” Rita hiccoughed, dragging her feet.

“He can’t do a thing to you now. And if we hide, the rest will know we had something to do with it. So act as though you know nothing. Else, we'll get a thrashing.” A crowd was forming over my cousin who was still prone on the ground. Sarayu Aunty was bent over him, his bleeding head on her lap.

“But I did nothing wrong!” Rita whimpered.

“I know, Rita, but neither did I and look where it got me.” Our eyes held and there was sudden understanding in Rita’s. 

Then we merged into the group. Rita and I held hands tightly. I felt terrified. Rita now had a look of concern on her face, and I forced myself to look the same way. Bobby stilled when he saw us. We continued to look at him with fake concern.

“What happened, Achacha (older brother)?” I heard myself say. Rita looked at me in surprise and then turned her face back to him. “How did you get hurt?”

I saw fury on Bobby’s face, and then his eyes darted around the crowd. They lingered on Appa and Joy Uncle – Rita’s father. When I glanced at Appa, he was looking from Bobby and Rita to me, and our entwined hands, with narrowed eyes – disbelief creeping over his face. From the corner of my eyes I could see Amma look at Appa and then at me. She turned away quickly and focused on Bobby.

The family members grouped around Bobby shoved us aside and the boys lifted the idiot and carried him into the house like a sack of rice. I heard an uncle tell someone to call the doctor. Neighbours yelled from across the dirt road, asking about the commotion. A couple of aunts moved to the low boundary wall to explain.

“What do we do now?” Rita whispered.

“Nothing.”

“But…”

I shrugged. “You can tell your parents what happened.” I saw the doubt in Rita’s eyes. “Either you tell your parents, or keep quiet.”

“What if they don’t believe me?”

I shrugged.

“What if Bobbychyan says we hit him?” Rita said.

I felt a sudden warmth when Rita said “we”. “There’s two of us to tell everyone what happened. But I have a gut feeling he may not want anyone to know.”

Rita buried her head into my shoulder and cried. I dragged her behind a tree and waited. I had not the slightest idea what to say.

“Thank you, chechi.”

I was thrown. I put my arms around Rita and patted her back. We stood like that until we heard people moving in the kitchen. Rita washed her face at the tap and we went in.

(Continued in the next episode.)

                                                ******

This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reminiscing about a family holiday with her father’s family in Kerala. This is the continuation of episodes FC69, FC70 and FC71. The narrator has crossed swords with members of her extended family and is facing isolation. But something disturbing happens and she addresses the problem head on.

Find 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

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.