Fishy Chronicles 77: The Webs We Weave (9) – Breaking point (cont'd)

Photo credit: A. Peter

We sat in the shade of a large tree in my great uncle’s courtyard, the heat and sweat adding to our stress. The older girls discussed what had happened, explored explanations and excuses, raged at Bobby the Brute and then slipped into silence.

Strangely, I wasn’t too bothered. This was an average day for me, though I was pleased my cousins had given Bobby the hiding of his life. Not for a moment had he thought his sisters would have had the courage to set him straight and how! (FC76)

I went to the back of the house and scratched the goat’s head. I wondered why someone would name their goat Petty. One of Appachan’s older brother Kunjappachan’s grandchildren had named the goat, and had been too young to know what it meant. Aju called the goat Petty because it liked to be petted. It didn’t have a petty bone in its body. It was sweet and gentle and ate everything in sight, including money. Unusually, Kunjappachan once gave Sarayumama a cash gift and, after leaving her uncle’s house, stood out of sight of the windows to count his generosity.

The story goes that the resting goat got up, plucked one of the notes from Sarayumama’s hands and gobbled it up. It took her a couple of seconds to register what had happened before she screamed, dropped the rest of the notes, pounced on poor Petty and tried to pry its mouth open – which is like opening the jaws of an inert crocodile. Mathan Uncle was conflicted – help his wife retrieve a masticated note or pick up the money on the ground. He chose the latter because by then her cousins had come out of the house and pulled the goat away from Sarayumama. My aunt wailed so much that Kunjappachan gave her another note to replace the one she had lost.

I decided to go and see what was happening with Sarah chechi. “You stay right here,” Shyla said.

“Why?”

Nina and Shyla, my older cousins, looked at each other blankly and then Nina said, “Because we should all be together when we have to go back and face them,” she tilted her head to indicate my grandfather’s house.

“I’ll be there when you face them. I’ll just come from the other direction.” I began to walk away.

“Don’t let anyone know we’re here,” Shyla said when I reached the road.

“They’re going to know when Kunjappachan returns home,” I didn’t turn because the girls and their complaints jarred my senses.

Except for the occasional vehicle on the main road, there was no noise in the village. The only sounds were of birds talking to each other or sometimes, if you listened for it, the movement of the river’s water.

I slowed as I reached my grandfather’s house, all was silent. The front door was open and there were people in the sitting room. The silence felt suspicious.

I climbed into the field adjoining the house from a spot where the barbed wire sagged, I had seen the workers come in this way, and darted behind the trees and got into the compound through the side entrance. I hugged the walls and crept along until I was near the Mathans’ room, from which a great deal of noise was coming.

“Those girls! Ammachi, you’ve got to deal with them firmly,” Sarayumama said. Her voice shrill and somewhat hoarse. I swatted away the idea of her voice leaving her this vacation. So far I had only seen this happen in the movies. And with my aunt’s luck she and her voice would bounce back brilliantly.

Ammachi murmured soothingly. In the background Bobby groaned. I felt fear creep over me but still crept closer to the open window. Through the worn half curtain stretched across the bottom of the window, I could make out my cousin lying on his parents’ bed and people sitting or standing around him, the stance of their bodies serious.

I crept towards the front of the house, but lost my nerve, so I turned and ran to the kitchen and slowed. Sonimol chechi, our servant, usually sat on the steps during quiet moments. Today she was not sitting here. With all the girls absconding and Ammachi and her daughters bent over Bobby, Sonimol chechi was probably neck deep in work.

As I moved I wondered if I was being foolish and courting more trouble. If the family caught sight of me, they’d immediately brand me the leader of the pack because I had broken Bobby before and he had it in for me bad. I stopped at the study window. Only the neighbours next door would be able to see me, but my great uncle and his family were sitting in my house now. Through the trees on both properties, I could see my cousins standing and watching me.

I leaned against the cool wall and parked my bum on the narrow ledge that ran right around the house. There were low murmurs coming from the study. I pressed myself into the wall by the window.

“You have to get her married sometime. The family is not very well off, but the boy is smart and has a good job in Mumbai. He’s also bought a flat, that is what Ivachan said. And once she finishes her Masters, she can get a job. Nowadays everyone wants a working girl.”

I tried to peer through the curtains. I couldn’t figure out who my great uncle was talking to. Or about which cousin.

“She’s attracting a lot of attention. Kunjumol says she doesn’t do any housework and disappears when she’s told to do something. How can she just walk away like that!” Appachan said.

I held my breath. There were several people crowded in the room. A chair scraped the floor and one of the doors to the study closed with a click. “Bobby says she ordered the girls to run and locked all the doors.”

“Not exactly,” Appa said. “Bobby said some of the girls beat him and Nina and Sarah locked him in.”

“It’s the same thing!” Appachan shouted. He hated his children countering him and Appa had done more than his fair share of it. “I am sure your daughter had a big role to play in it. She’s becoming a mirror image of Sarah everyday.”

“Bobby didn’t mention her. And Sarah is a smart, sensible girl, brilliant and full of promise. You shouldn’t force her to marry and ruin her chances at life just because she wants different things in life.”

“Keep quiet! Let’s organise a meeting with the boy’s family as soon as possible. Georgie, you speak to your daughter. Make her understand she has to get married soon. Maybe all this nonsense will end. She is almost 24, old by today’s standards. She’s a bad influence on the girls. A marriage will set her right. It will set everything right. You’ll see.”

I waited for Georgiechyan’s rebuttal, but there was silence in the room.

Soon, the men started leaving the room.

                                                    ******

I stayed plastered to the wall, feeling repulsed by what I had heard. I felt a deep disappointment for my cousin Sarah.

Because my relatives perceived her as stubborn and given to new ideas, she was going to suffer for it. I thought of my father’s sister Sarojmama and wondered at the haste of her wedding. After her marriage, she had given up all plans to study further or even sit for the civil services exams, which is why she had wanted to go to Delhi in the first place. Or was it?

I roused myself and darted to the front gate. I heard someone shout, but sped down the road towards the junction. I wondered whether to tell Sarah chechi what I had heard. There was no knowing how she would react. Sometimes I was scared of her.

I slowed near the junction and groaned. My nosey second cousins, who lived opposite Kunjappachan, were stuffing their faces at the bakery and called out to me. I listened to their sarcastic chatter, but smiled and shrugged at their queries. The girl, Eenya, who had just begun college, said, “I saw Sarah chechi and some of the girls walking around the church compound. Is it someone’s birthday or death anniversary today?”

“No, Eenya chechi, they are just there to pray. I’m going to join them.”

I turned to run, but her brother Thomachan grabbed my upper arm to hold me still. “Wait. We heard a lot of shouting in the afternoon. What’s going on at the big house?” On a quiet day one could hear people quarreling in other houses. And if people stood in their courtyards, they could probably make out the gist of the argument. People usually stopped what they were doing to listen.

“There was a rat in the house, we beat it some but it escaped into one of the rooms. We don’t know where. No one wants to be in the house until it’s trapped.” I did consider Bobby a rat, and for sure Appa and Amma would consider my take on today’s happenings (FC76) a travesty of the truth – but then, who was ever going to know the truth.

“Uh-huh.” My cousins looked at me closely, but I held their gaze. Finally they nodded slowly.

I broke into a run, only slowing as I reached the tall gates of the church. The gates to heaven, Sarayumama once told me. There were some older men standing by the church offices, watching Sarah chechi and the girls. They were in the graveyard adjoining the church, walking over the graves in the crammed cemetery and reading out the names on the tombstones.

“Have you also come to check out the graves? Is it a city thing? Aren’t there any graveyards in Madras or Bombay*?” One of the men tossed at me, laughing at his friends. I didn’t know who he was, but for sure he knew my family.

I walked into the dark, cool church, light coming through the open doors and windows. I felt alone and free and at peace. I stood by the huge lamp hanging from the ceiling at the centre of the church and filled with holy oil. I prayed that only the best should happen to Sarah chechi. I dipped three fingers in the holy oil and drew a cross on my forehead.

Rita waved to me. She was holding Sarah chechi’s hand and they were leaning over a grave. I knew it was our grandfather’s grandmother’s grave. Some of her children and grandchildren were in the same grave and I sometimes wondered if they got out when it was quiet and played or talked. We stood on another grave to stare at the stone slab, reading again the names and years of births and deaths. It was a plain white slab that had grown in height over a century and a half. The original cross was cemented into the face of the grave.

“When are we going back, chechi?” I watched Eva, Tanya and Teena sitting together on a bench at the side of the church. Roma was lying on another bench, the only movement a hand fanning a newspaper over her face. She got up when she heard me and started walking over.

“If you’re bored you can go home,” Sarah chechi said. I didn’t care for the sarcasm.

“What about the others?”

“They’ll probably go home when they get the courage… or hungry,” she looked up and grinned.

“Aren’t you scared, chechi?” Rita said.

“Of what, baba?”

“Of what they’ll do to us. We beat Bobby and they will punish us for it.”

“Okay, and then what? Do you think they’ll beat us?”

“Er… n-no.”

“Shout at us?”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t that what they do every day? So they’ll shout louder and try to make you more scared.”

“But aren’t you afraid?” Rita persisted.

Sarah chechi shrugged her shoulders and laughed, all her perfect teeth showing. Her face was pink from the heat and she looked beautiful. “No.”

“So why didn’t you stay back to face them?” I asked, irritated by her nonchalance.

She grinned even more, “Felt scared, for sure, but I wanted some peace of mind too.” She started jumping across the graves again.

Roma and I turned to look at the young men who had just entered the compound. They glanced at us and went into the church. One man lingered near the entrance, looking at us, and then joined his friends.

                                                               ******

He waited until the rest of the girls had gone ahead and joined Sarah chechi who was walking slowly.

“Which of your cousins is that?” I heard the deep voice say. I shivered.

“One of my Bombay cousins. Hey, you, come here, slow coach,” Sarah chechi said and I hurried to her.

“Say hello to Johnny,” I shook hands with him and he laughed. He was dark and tall and quite good looking. “He’s Thomachan’s friend.”

I nodded. Sarah chechi pointedly looked at the group at the end of the road, and tilted her head towards them, telling me to be gone. I started walking reluctantly towards my cousins. I turned to look and Johnny waved. I waved back. I waited at the end of the road and watched the two say goodbye. Johnny walked the other way and disappeared.

                                                             ******

At the house, the girls disappeared around the back of the house to enter it through the kitchen. Sarah chechi scowled at them but walked in through the open front door. I, with Rita and Roma clutching my hands, followed.

The family – with a variety of expressions on their faces – was arranged in the front room. I was surprised at the looks of sympathy from some of the older women and men, but felt fear bubble up at the rage on Sarayumama’s face. Surprisingly, Kunjappachan was still at our house. And he had a warm smile on his face.

And then we saw Bobby, in the middle of the large red rexine sofa, propped up by his father and brother Mobby. He shifted position and let out a low groan.

“Look what you did to my son!” Sarayumama shouted. “You beat him, you junglees, where do you learn these things from!” she tossed a disparaging look at her sisters-in-law, who looked back at her stonily. “Well?” She screamed at Sarah chechi.

There was pin drop silence. She came closer and screeched into our ears, “Nothing to say?” Rita, Roma and I lowered our heads to avoid looking at her. “Aren’t you going to put some sense into your daughters’ heads? Are they going to go about bashing up boys and behaving like they aren’t from good families.”

Kunjappachan made a tutting sound. “Now, now, mol. I’m sure they will get a talking to.”

“Not good enough!”

“It will do for now,” Appachan said coldly.

“B-But…”

Bobby made a snivelling sound. And Sarayumama leaped at us. She grabbed Sarah chechi’s arms and tried to shake her, but Sarah chechi looked our aunt in the eyes calmly and stayed still. Sarayumama, much shorter than her niece, shook vainly instead.

Sarayumama let Sarah chechi go. A cunning look replaced the angry one. “Don’t worry, mol. A marriage will fix your stubborn temper for good. And sooner than you think.”

Sarah chechi’s eyes widened and her mouth opened, but closed immediately.

Sarayumama continued watching her niece gleefully. “What a pity your sister is hiding in the US, else both of you would have been sorted by now. You girls don’t have any manners.”

“Don’t talk about my daughters that way! Things will fall in place when they have to,” Georgiechyan said gruffly. He stepped forward and stood between his oldest daughter and sister, forcing both to move backwards. “Go to your rooms, children. The elders will talk to you about what happened.”

Sarayumama stood with her arms spread wide, blocking our way. “That’s it? That’s all? They brutalise my son and get away scot free?”

“If he had manners and learnt how to respect women, no one would have laid a finger on him,” Nina said from the dining room doorway.

Sarayumama ran to her and managed to beat my cousin a couple of times before Nina was pulled away by my aunts. Nina began to cry and there was sudden uproar.

The children and adults were screaming and shouting at the same time and Kunjappachan and my grandparents looked aghast at what had just happened.

“Quiet!” Appachan shouted. “Stop hitting the girls. We won’t talk about this now. Control yourself, Sarayu!”

“B-but…” the sound died in my aunt’s throat. For once my aunt couldn’t find her voice. There were angry looks from the rest of the room and some of the elders blocked the dining room entrance. From the dining room, we heard Nina crying and we pushed towards her.

This wasn’t the end of the matter. There would be an inquisition. My parents were glaring at me and I could feel my spirit, so far strong, wilt.

                                                             ****** 

Kunjappachan left after evening tea. His jokes and chatter loosened his brother. We girls first hid in the dining room and later moved into various corners of the house, answering the boys questions and then discussing plausible responses to any of Appachan’s questions between ourselves.

“What’s wrong with telling Appachan the truth?” Sarah chechi said sarcastically.

“He won’t believe us,” Shyla said.

“So what? You know he won’t. So why waste your time cooking up alternatives. Tell the truth and get it over with.”

“Did you see how Sarayumama beat me!” Nina raged.

“Why did you let her? You’re an adult, why did you let her touch you. She’s half your size, by the way. You could have pushed her away or pinned down her hands.”

“I-I didn’t think… besides the rest of them would have turned on me!”

“You don’t know that. And Sarayumama has a screw loose anyway.” There was silence and then a chuckle echoed around the room.

“You can’t say that,” Nina said, weakly, smiling.

But Sarah chechi had lost interest. Her father’s head appeared at the doorway. “You girls are wanted in Appachan’s study,” Georgiechyan smiled kindly.

We filed out of his bedroom and were walking towards Appachan’s study when I heard Sarah chechi ask, “What was that bit about my marriage?”

“Later.”

“What?”

I turned to look. Sarah chechi had grabbed her father’s arms, was leaning into his face and murmuring furiously, but Georgiechyan did not respond. He pushed his daughter forward. I held out my hand, and after a couple of seconds of hesitation, Sarah chechi took it. Her face was angry.

                                                             ******

As Sarah chechi had predicted, Appachan didn’t believe a word we said. It wasn’t anything he said, but his coldness all through. Worse, he let Bobby and the others sit in and we were interrupted often. Sarah chechi looked at the others calmly and refused to be drawn in. Only because our parents were present were we saved from a thrashing. 

We were soon told to leave. My aunt and grandmother smirked and laughed, telling us we deserved it. I wondered what “it” was. The study door closed with Appachan, Sarah chechi’s parents and my father and his brothers.

After everyone left the dining room, I returned to the closed study door, feeling fearful. I heard snatches of the conversation. Appachan spoke about a boy coming to meet Sarah. He had good prospects, he lived in Bombay. Plus he was highly recommended by Kunjappachan.

Sarah chechi declined politely, citing further studies and job prospects. At this point my grandfather shouted at her, telling her she had no choice in the matter. I felt a cold wet hand on the back of my neck and a ladle sting the back of my legs. I screamed when Ammachi started hitting me harder, trying to twist myself out of her grip. The study door flew open and Sarah chechi yanked my grandmother’s hand off my neck, pulled the large stainless-steel ladle out of her hand and threw it across the dining table. She dragged me away and let go of me in the corridor.

“Why do you have to sneak about! Why? Why can’t you be a normal kid and be silly and foolish and girly, like, like, like…” she pointed, frustrated, at my cousins watching us from a corner of the sitting room.

I felt my face on fire. I stayed quiet, unable to think of anything. Sarah chechi pushed me away from her and stomped off to her parents’ room and locked the door.

I stayed still against the wall until my parents took me to our room. We didn’t speak that night. Nor did anyone speak at dinner time. 

                                                             ******

* Madras is now Chennai and Bombay is Mumbai

This is The Webs We Weave (FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93. 94) series and is about events that occur during the narrator's childhood family vacation in Kerala, India. 

Please note that this is a work of fiction.  

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

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

I asked Roma what was going on.

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

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

“Er… was anything stolen?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How many uralis were stolen?”

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                        ******

* Grandfather in Malayalam

^ Grandmother in Malayalam

                                                                        ******

This is a continuation of The Webs We Weave (FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93) series and is about events that occur during the narrator's childhood family vacation in Kerala. Please note that this is a work of fiction.   

Fishy Chronicles 75: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (7) – Mobby Dick

I tossed about in bed, thinking of my cousin Mobby and our servant Sonimol chechi coochie cooing (FC74).

My cousin and I had a level of closeness earlier – I admired him as one did an older male cousin. But the shenanigans of the past few weeks (FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74) had me hating the entire Mathan family and the sentiment was reciprocated stoutly.

In the morning, I set out to watch my cousin – Mobby the Dick. I hung around the kitchen, which led to many inquiring looks. I did errands for my mother and chatted with Sonimol chechi, who, I felt, looked on edge. But I was a kid – what did I know. I followed her outside, and her eyes went to the shed, from where we could hear barks of laughter and inaudible chatter.

Most days I sat under the guava tree at the side of the house to avoid Ammachi (grandmother). She had started giving me more housework. I raised the matter with my mother but she had no solution. “Just do what Ammachi asks. It won’t kill you to do some more chores,” Amma said.

“Okay.”

My mother’s eyebrows rose, but she handed me a knife and showed me how to peel a potato the way Ammachi wanted – scraping the wet skin off. Ammachi had given cousin Shyla an earful for peeling off thick strips of tuber. Shyla was now on dish-washing duty and hated it. If the dish was even a bit dirty or had soap suds on it, she was made to wash it again.

“She’s Margaret Thatcher without the charm or dress sense,” Shyla said. She was sitting, with other cousins, on a step leading out of the kitchen. Sunlight flashed off the blue stone on her finger (FC73). I hurled wheat grain at the chicken – they scurried away and then returned for more of the same punishment. Now, I threw a grain at a time to listen to my cousins.

“M-itler… without the polished propaganda or moustache.” My cousins giggled at Shyla’s assessment.

“Shhh,” Nina said when my grandmother came out of the kitchen to scold Sonimol chechi, who had been slow in getting firewood from the shed. Mobby was near her.

“She does look like Hitler. Her moustache is quite becoming,” Shyla continued.

I was surprised at the jokes. My grandmother had been generous to the older girls, gifting them sapphire earrings and rings. The younger girls had got rings.

I lost interest in Shyla. Mobby had been talking to Sonimol chechi while she walked slowly to the shed, picked a piece of wood and walked back to deposit it in her large basket near a wall of the house. At the rate she was moving, a season would have passed. No wonder Ammachi had come out in search of her.

I was mesmerised by the idea of love unfolding. It was illicit, forbidden, and my junglee idiot cousin was involved. Someone else’s love story had commandeered all my attention.

I moved towards the lovers. When I was near Mobby, with Fatty (Ammachi) yapping at my heels, I threw handfuls of grain at him. The hens dashed towards him and he screamed, trying to find escape. I had just remembered he was frightened of farm animals and hated the way they looked at him – a childhood fear he hadn’t outgrown.

Sonimol chechi stood in front of Mobby with her arms spread wide, but the hens rushed around her towards the grain falling off my cousin. I showered him with more until I felt the sting of Ammachi’s stick.

Even though I had seen Ammachi, I was too slow avoiding her. Blows rained on my arms, back and legs, until I pulled the stick out of Ammachi’s grasp, broke it and threw the two bits into Sonimol’s basket. I grabbed my grain tin, intent on throwing the contents at Mobby, but stopped. If I deliberately annoyed Fatty I would be sent back to Bombay on the next train. She was sated now that she had given me a thrashing.

I had to chill. There was more to come.

I walked away and sat near the guava tree, calling out to Romeo. He was a young rooster with dark green and red brown feathers. I adored him and fed him kitchen titbits every day. He hurried to me and ate out of my hand. Then he let me hold him and listened to me grumble about Mobby Dick and Ammachi.

******

Over the next few days I felt cheered – my father couldn’t get tickets back to Bombay. There was some peace in the house and my cousins had started involving me in their chatter.

Some even commiserated with me about my grandparents not giving me a ring (FC73). But it rang false. I felt they were happy I hadn’t got a ring. I couldn’t understand why, but it was an emotion I had witnessed many times during my vacation.

One day I was in the fields and Babychyan, who had worked for Appachan (grandfather) for decades, asked me where my sling was.

“Ammachi destroyed it because she said I was becoming a boy.”

“Oho. Like that, is it.”

“Yes.”

“So, no more mangoes.”

“I have been able to pull some out of the trees with the long stick, but…”

Just then Mathan Uncle passed by, gave us a haughty look and disappeared between some banana trees. Babychyan walked to the rubber trees and gestured to me to follow.

The old man walked into the rubber thottam (estate) and used a long stick to probe the ground. He bent and picked up, and threw away, twigs and leaves. Eventually he found a couple of sturdy branches, pulled out his sickle-like knife and started hacking at them.

He cut away until they resembled white sticks. He scraped his blade across the twigs until they became smooth. He wound coconut leaves around the base of the twigs, and firmed them with strips of dried rubber milk he peeled off the trees. I was aghast at what he was doing and turned to look around. All the elders were busy.

“Won’t Appachan be angry with you for taking the rubber milk off the trees like that?”

“He won’t mind,” Babychyan smiled, a black hole appearing where his front teeth should have been.

He rolled and rolled the rubber strips around the contraption and I felt lightheaded with happiness – Babychyan was fashioning a slingshot.

He handed it to me and we turned to go. I hesitated as we left the thottam. I hadn’t brought my bag with me and Babychyan was half naked, with only a mundu on. So I darted behind a tree, tucked my blouse into the waist of my pavada (long skirt) and dropped the sling into the back of my blouse, where it lay uncomfortably half way down my back.

I chafed at how long the men took, yakking about the weather, crop price, manure and blah blah.

“Appa, I need to go to the toilet. Badly.”

“Oh. Go behind a bush. I’ll stand guard,” he grinned.

“Appa!”

“Okay, come on. Let’s go home. Too hot anyway.” He put his hand to the small of my back and stopped.

“Please, Appa, not here. Babychyan gave me a gift, but I can’t show anyone.”

“Ok-ay.”

Appa waved at the others and I walked in front of him till we reached the road. His hand caught my arm, “Well?”

“Babychyan asked me about my old sling and then made me one.”

“Why do you need to hide it?”

“Ammachi may burn it again. And,” I turned my head in the direction of the clearing, “Appachan may get angry.”

“Don’t you think it caused you too much trouble last time?”

I opened my mouth to contradict him and realised Appa didn’t know what Bobby had done to Rita (FC72) and that I had sprayed a hailstorm of stones on Bobby to free her from his clutches. I was the reason Bobby had to go to hospital and I was still sticking to the story that I had nothing to do with his injuries.

“Is there any truth to what Sarayu chechi said?”

“Eh?”

“That you shot stones at Bobby?” I stayed silent, trying not to look away from Appa’s steady gaze. “Amma and I think you did. Why?” He stopped at a chayakada (tea stall), ordered two teas and gave me money to buy meat puffs from the bakery nearby. We sat on plastic stools near the chai shop and bit into our puffs.

“Isn’t it better to tell the truth and get on with life?” Appa persisted.

“When I told the truth about the business in the loft (FC70), no one believed me.”

“True. But Amma and I believed you.”

“But the rest of them didn’t, and look how bad things are now.”

“So you are going to run scared all the time.”

“No… but-but…”

“Did you hit Bobby with the slingshot?”

The joy of biting into a sinful meat puff died instantly. Appa knew. I would be a bigger liar if I didn’t tell the truth now. I nodded. I took a bite. “Ya-th,” I said, spraying pastry crumbs into our teas. We watched them float and sink, while we finished our puffs silently.

I wiped my hands on a piece of newspaper that Bakery Uncle gave me. “Aren’t you going to shout at me, Appa?”

“No. I’m not happy at how much you hurt Bobby. I don’t understand why.”

I got up, but Appa stayed seated. I waited for him to stand, but he ordered another chai.

I sighed and went to him. “You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“What if you don’t.”

“If it is the truth, you have nothing to fear. Be brave and say it.”

I wanted to unburden myself desperately. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Amma?”

“She’ll get very upset.”

He sat straighter in his chair. “Okay. Tell me.”

I pulled my chair closer to his and described the events that had led me to send Bobby to hospital. My father was very upset. “Rita hasn’t told her parents?”

“She says she hasn’t.”

“Yet the slingshot disappeared from where you left it.”

“Y-yes.”

“And reappeared in Chechi’s room.”

“Y-yes.”

“Tell me the truth. I won’t punish you. I want the truth.”

“It is the truth! I am not lying. That is what Bobby did to Rita – I saw the whole thing. I don’t know who moved the slingshot from under the bed. I don’t know if anyone else knows.”

Appa caught my arm and pulled me onto his lap. I was too close to tears to feel embarrassed. He nodded several times and I felt comforted by his tight embrace.

At the gate of the house, Appa said, “Let’s not tell Amma… for the time being.”

******

After my heart to heart with Appa, I started feeling better.

I had started sitting next to Pilipochyan when I couldn’t while away my time outside the house. I felt safe near him. One day we were alone in the sitting room and a commotion sounded outside the house. Ammachi and Sarayumama were having an argument. Neither would stop and neighbours started coming out of their houses to watch. It was midday and Appachan was away in the fields and Mathanchyan was nodding his oily head at his wife’s comments.

The two women screamed, though I was unable to make out what they were saying. My uncles’ wives and Amma stood watching from the side of the house, but were unwilling to intervene. In the end, Sarojmama forced herself between her mother and older sister. She pushed Sarayumama towards the house and put her arm around her mother and dragged her away.

When everyone had dispersed, Pilipochyan and I were still leaning against the window, listening to the sounds of silence – the birds chirping, the breeze, the occasional truck on the road, rustling leaves, sighing trees. I loved this silence.

Pilipochyan’s eyes were on a blue bird sitting on a teak tree in the neighbour’s yard. There was a softness about his face and eyes and he looked at peace. “What do you think mother and daughter could have done differently, mol?” Pilipochyan asked softly, without turning his head.

“Er…” Stay quiet? I had seen my parents do this during arguments. But I was beginning to realise this was not the norm. Because I was left out in the cold, I had started watching all my relatives. I had seen my uncles be rude to their wives and forget the incident soon, but my aunts would be distressed about their public humiliation for the rest of the day. I also noticed how happy Ammachi and her daughters were when this happened.

“Yes, mol?”

“Maybe… Ammachi or Sarayumama… er… could have kept quiet?”

“Yes, mol. If one of them had chosen to, the argument would have died. Now, everyone has had a good laugh, and mother and daughter will be angry with each other for days.”

My thoughts exactly. I had found out that not reacting to my fireball relatives was the best torment for them. I had started walking away from angry situations and become friends with gentle Pilipochyan and sweet Rita. Roma and I were close again, but we avoided talking about the rest of the family.

I still roamed the dark house at night. But now there was an ulterior motive. At past 12.40am, I was hiding behind the curtain in the sitting room.

For a couple of days after his last tryst with Sonimol chechi, Mobby did not leave his room at night.

Just before 1am, his door squeaked. He crept along the corridor, occasionally switching on his torch to see the way ahead.

I felt tension build. I hadn’t clearly thought out what I was going to do, but I wanted to stop his nocturnal meandering for good.

He hesitated at my grandparents’ door and then turned right into the storeroom.

I grabbed the old brass vase, on a tall corner table, and ran to the storeroom. I could hear Sonimol chechi’s door open. I hurled the vase at Appachan’s door and ran to my room. The vase ricocheted off the door and bounced on the floor, shattering the silence. I heard footsteps racing into the corridor and Mobby’s door squeaked shut.

But other doors opened and I could hear Appachan’s raised voice. There was knocking on other doors and several people spoke at the same time. I raised my head from under my sheet – my parents were still fast asleep.

Torchlight shone under our bedroom door and several footsteps sounded in the corridor. Up and down, down and up. After a long time, one by one, three doors closed.

I waited for over an hour for Mobby’s door to open again. I drifted off to sleep, certain I was saving Sonimol chechi from a great tragedy.

But I was wrong.

(Stay tuned)

******

This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reliving childhood memories of an unhappy vacation in Kerala, India, with her father’s family. This is part of The Webs We Weave series (FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93). 

She has discovered her cousin is having a clandestine affair with a member of the staff. She tries to put an end to it. She also tells her father the truth about her cousin Bobby.

Fishy Chronicles 74: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (6) – The Mathans

I don’t know if my lot got worse, but I detected lessening antagonism from my female cousins.

While walking around the courtyard, Nina, my eldest uncle’s daughter, ticked off Mobby, Bobby and some of the older boys for bullying me. They dispersed quickly because the events of the last few days had everyone on tenterhooks (FC69, FC70, FC71, FC72, FC73).

Rita still followed me around, and we played hide and seek or board games in the courtyard. I missed my slingshot and was convinced it had been my most useful toy. Certainly it was a great self-defense tool (FC72). But, I spent most of my time with Appa.

As they did every day, the fields looked lush and full of possibility. The rain had cooled the air and it was pleasant. In the distance Appachan talked to the bare-chested workers, thin white towels tied around their heads, all of them listening respectfully. In another corner of the field, Mathan Uncle was staring up at a banana tree and jabbing the air with a pen.

“What is Mathanchyan doing, Appa?”

“Counting the bananas.”

“But they’re not ripe!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Appa said, a laugh in his voice, “He’s going to take them.”

Though I felt repulsed, we watched Mathan Uncle move from one tree to the other.

The Mathan family’s return to Madras would be tortured. His children dreaded the journey because they had to carry or drag sacks of coconut, bananas, rice and more, not forgetting the many fights with other passengers because the family’s luggage would take over the entire bogey’s space.

The rest of us loathed their departure too.

At first the Mathans waited till the other families left, and decamped with the leftovers and what they had collected over the vacation. One year, Sarayu Aunty and Mathan Uncle were so occupied bagging their loot they missed their train. In the next few years, they understood the merits of leaving early. They got first dibs on all the fresh produce and the extended family’s considerable muscle ensured the Mathan belongings were tucked under every available train seat in a matter of minutes. In the days leading up to the journey, Uncle would discuss luggage-stowing strategy. 

Every year we hired several cars and each adult and child was responsible for one or more bags. At the train station there would be a mad scramble to find the train compartment.

Yesterday Joy Uncle, Rita’s dad, said, “Mathakutty, Ammachi said you’re going by train this year.” The previous year Joy Uncle felt sorry for his sister and booked airplane tickets for her family.

“Yes.” Mathan Uncle squeezed oil from his etheka appam with a grimace. Strangely, the oil had never bothered him before. He looked up when the silence stretched, and smiled.

“Well?”

“Oh, it was too expensive. Besides, there was less space to store the luggage. We came here by First Class though.” His eyes darted to Sarayu Aunty, whose lips were pressed together and eyes narrowed at Joy Uncle. She was her husband’s most ardent supporter. I watched them with interest.

A few days before this exchange, I had followed the men into the fields, sticking close to Joy Uncle who held up a big black umbrella to blunt the intense sunlight and heat. We could see Mathan Uncle in the distance, walking between the tapioca bushes. He was wearing the kind of straw hat ladies wear on holidays. He also had a notepad and pen.

“Do you think he knows where the kappa (tapioca) is?” Georgie Uncle, my father’s eldest brother, chuckled. Mathan was a second-generation city Malayali and his only interest in the farm was what he could take back for free.

“Achchan (father) said there was a rat problem,” Joy Uncle said. “He said the rats would get most of the kappa. Mathakutty is counting his chickens before they’ve hatched.”

“No kappa even with the traps?” Appa said.

“Achchan asked Mathakutty to drown the rats caught in the traps and he disappeared to the toilet and didn’t come out,” Georgie Uncle said. The brothers laughed. “What’s this about them going by train again?”

“Last year they weren’t allowed to get on to the flight with all their luggage – baggage limit was only 20kgs. Apparently they didn’t know. Mathakutty didn’t want to pay for the extra kilos and Achchan had to bring back most of it. They had to run to catch their flight because they had spent too much time emptying their boxes and trying to figure out what to keep. Achchan was very angry when he returned,” Appa said. The brothers nodded. I imagined my grandfather holding in his anger over the three-hour journey to his home and needing the tiniest spark – Ammachi – to combust. We had watched Appachan explode.

“Mathan had to pay a fortune anyway. He could have saved himself the heartburn and expense at T. Nagar market,” Joy Uncle said.

Appachan was leaning on his stick and watching Mathan Uncle with a resigned, grumpy look on his face. Among the sons in law, he favoured Saroj Aunty’s husband Pilipochyan. He was genteel and usually seen reading a newspaper in a cool corner of the house. The only things the Phillip family took back with them were homemade snacks, chutneys and sambar podi.

We hung around the fields and I hid behind nearby trees to avoid my grandfather’s cold looks. It stung that he could be so angry with me. Appa looked at me and his father, torn.

The only person who struck up a conversation with me was Pilipochyan. He didn’t feel afraid to talk to me even in front of Appachan, which filled me with gratitude.

One day Ammachi had an argument with Appachan and twisted my ear when she saw a ball of hair roll across the sitting room. I burst into tears and fled. I refused to come back into the house and do the rest of my chores even when she threatened to beat me. Ammachi came out of the house, picked up a fat twig and ran towards me.

Despite my misery, the sight of fatty trying to hurry across the courtyard made me smile. I watched mesmerized as her body parts jiggled and moved to their own rhythm. My parents had now come out of the house, as did others. I felt rage steal over me for my grandparents’ unreasonable behaviour. How long could you punish someone. I waited till Ammachi was within reach. She raised her twig to hit me and I stepped back and ran around her.

From behind me, Bobby shouted, “Thrash her good, Ammachi!”

Despite her angry screams, I ran round and round my grandmother and the twig scythed the air impotently. Was Ammachi mad? Did she think I’d let her beat me? Behind me people shouted – some voices encouraging Ammachi and others begging her to stop. A shadow loomed over me and a hand gripped my shoulder forcing me to stop running.

I whimpered from the pain of the grip and struggled to free myself. I stopped when I saw my grandfather. His face was twisted and I raised my arms over my head, cowering in fright. Ammachi rushed towards me.

I could hear the twig wave furiously and snap. I lowered my arms and saw Appachan bring the two pieces of the broken twig together and struggle to break them again. Ammachi screamed outrage in my ear. In an instant, my mother was next to me, pulling me away. I stood between my parents, trembling with fear and humiliation. I was too ashamed to look around. I put my arms around my mother and wept.

                                                     ******

I didn’t know it then but I suffered from stress. 

I spent most nights reliving the slights I had experienced during the day. Today was worse. I lay on my side, spent from crying. My parents had fallen into an exhausted slumber. They had talked to me and tried to console me. I overheard them making plans to return to Bombay and felt somewhat heartened, but disappointed that nothing had been resolved. Disappointed that my grandparents and family would continue to believe the worst of me, even though it was untrue. Not being given a ring (FC73) rankled too.

When I couldn’t sleep, I left the room. I had been doing this for days.

Today I was earlier than usual. It was about 1pm. Sometimes I watched TV with the sound muted. I watched the mouths move, while my mind wandered. I closed the curtains to avoid the TV’s light attracting attention. Today I was in no mood for stimulation, so I sat in a dark corner of the sitting room and looked out of the window.

I watched Timmychyan, our neighbour down the road, walk unsteadily to his house. He had been drinking all evening and his wife would, in all probability, lock him out of his house. Sometimes neighbours saw him sprawled on the steps leading to his front door. Most days one of his children would open the door and bring him indoors. The stray that had adopted him followed him, wagging its tail. Timmychyan leaned against the streetlight’s wooden post and dug in his pockets. He found a packet of biscuits and struggled to open it. Frustrated, he threw it on the ground unopened and slid to the ground. He watched the dog sniff and bite the small packet of biscuits.

My heart was in my mouth. Most of the time Timmychyan walked in the middle of the road. I often prayed for God to make him move to the side of the road. As an adult, on the rare occasion I thought of Timmychyan, I wondered if he had had a death wish.

A noise startled me and I looked for escape, but the footsteps crept along the corridor leading off the bedrooms. I hid behind the curtain next to me.

My cousin Mobby hesitated at our grandparents’ room and disappeared into the store room. Through the curtain I saw the faint light from his torch in the store room’s doorway. Maybe he was thirsty. Or hungry. But he was going into the wrong room.

My tummy growled. After Mobby returned to his parents’ room, I would look for something to eat.

But Mobby didn’t return. I waited and then peeped at the wall clock illuminated by the streetlight. He had been missing more than 20 minutes. What was he doing? Did I miss seeing him return?

I stepped out from behind the curtain and darted to the store room. When I had summoned enough courage, I peeped in. The doors to the dining room and kitchen were still latched. But the small zero-watt light bulb near the servants quarters, off the kitchen, was switched on. I heard muffled laughter.

The door was shut but light shone from the cracks in the wood and Sonimol chechi (older sister) giggled. I was glued to the wall near the storeroom. Sonimol chechi, the live-in servant my grandparents had for about a year, slept in that room. She was in her late teens and from a poor family in a distant village. Sometimes my cousins and I went into her room to have our faces powdered and eyes drawn with kajal. Then she’d comb and tie up our hair the way we wanted. For some hours after, we would feel pretty and play girly games.

I roused myself. What was Mobby doing in there at this time of the night? Didn’t they know they’d get into trouble? I thought of the pretty smiling girl in the half sari and felt pity for her. Mobby, with the same genes as Bobby, could be upto no good.

I pressed my ear to the gap in the old wooden door. Sonimol chechi giggled. All I could hear were low murmurs and kissing noises. Though I wanted to gag, I was titillated.

I stood back. Mobby was having fun with Sonimol chechi. He was still in college and his parents would never let him marry a servant. Had the two in the room already done ‘it’? The longer I listened, the more my disgust grew. Sonimol chechi mumbled and sighed and then the bed creaked.

I pounded the door with my fist, and raced through the store room back to my door. I thanked God I had been walking around the house at night without slippers and was able to make no noise running back. I had just opened my door when I heard Mobby’s slippers slapping across the store room’s floor.

I threw myself on my bed and covered myself from head to toe with my sheet. A few seconds later, Mobby’s door squeaked open and shut.

I waited with my eyes closed, trying to slow my breathing. I listened for noises of people waking from their sleep. My parents continued to snore. Outside I could hear crickets and a bus clattering on the road. I wiped sweat off my face and neck and turned on my side.

A strange thought crossed my mind.

I wanted to stay longer.

(Please stay tuned.)

                                                    ******

This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reliving childhood memories of an unhappy vacation in Kerala, India, with her father’s family. An altercation with her grandmother leads to a sleepless night. The narrator finds someone creeping about in the dark.

This is part of The Webs We Weave series (FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93).