Fishy Chronicles 95 – The Webs We Weave (27)

 

A shadow fell on me. I belatedly realised it was a cloud.

My legs felt leaden but I pushed myself to put one foot ahead of the other. I felt I was crawling, but reached Appa’s side in a matter of seconds. I forced myself to look at the fair man standing next to Sam Uncle. He was handsome as hell, especially with his black hair slicked back. Sam Uncle’s son Paul Mathew took in my slow plod expressionlessly. His equally handsome cousin Ashok Thomas, who had a fan following (male and female), in school, smiled, looking embarrassed.

Some weeks ago, my cousin Roma, her best friend Serena Mammen, and I were watching a group of boys from a corner of our church’s compound in Mumbai. We mimicked an intense conversation, but our eyes and ears were on the group of boys-cum-men in front of us.

Evelyn John, a senior at school and from another parish, had started coming to this church and was often seen in the company of these boys.

“Why is she hogging our guys?” Serena groused.

Had the boys ever been ours in any sense?

“Beauty Verghese said Evelyn already has a boyfriend in her church. She was found out, but is still seeing him. Why is she coming here now? Do you think she’s broken up with him?” Roma said, looking at Serena.

“Is Beauty related to Kurian?” Serena said, referring to the tallest skinniest boy in the group.

“One of those guys is her brother or cousin," Roma said.

“Isn’t Ashok’s sister in your class?” Serena looked at me.

“No.”

Roma poked me. “She is!”

“No. She’s not,” I said with feeling. Nidhi made my life a living hell. She had hated me for no reason for years, had managed to isolate me in class, and made snide jokes behind my back.

“Why so hoity toity?” Serena turned her warm caramel eyes on me. It felt like a pool I could slowly drown in. Did girls like girls? Yes, they were called lesbians. I shook myself and continued to look at the boys. I saw Paul, now in engineering college, glance our way and a heavy sigh escaped me. Our eyes met and I turned around and began to walk to the other side of the church. I needed to go home and eat.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, and forced me to slow down. The arm attached to the hand quickly slid around my neck and Serena fell in step. “What happened at school yesterday?” she asked softly.

Roma was on my other side and they had me hemmed in. “Nothing.”

“I heard you got into a fight with Nidhi Thomas.”

I took a deep breath. These nosey, irritating girls. Didn’t they know a mob would set on me if I blabbed? I walked on, with difficulty. Both girls now had me in a vice-hold, forcing me to stop.

“No fight. I’m not talking to her and she and her… ‘friends’ … have been troubling me.”

“Why?” Serena asked.

“She thinks I’m interested in Ashok and warned me off.” Ashok was Nidhi’s older brother.

“Really?” Roma said with glee.

“I don’t know how she came to know this.”

“So you are interested in Ashok!” Serena said.

“NO, damn it! I’m not!”

“See, when you get so defensive it means something’s up,” Serena said.

“I agree,” Roma chimed in. They now had me pinned against a pillar near the church’s doorway. Roma started tickling me.

I laughed. I couldn’t stand it. “No. Noooo. No! Anjali likes him and I’m keeping tabs on him. But please, please, please it’s a secret.”

“She’s a Hindu and nobody would stand for it,” Roma said of my best friend.

“Who’s getting married? We just look at them. It’s not like they look back!” Those pretty, very hairy, boys only had eyes for the beautiful girls in school and in church. What chance did two 14-year-olds, that everyone looked through, stand at romance. Worse, Anjali looked Rastafarian with her curly hair, which resembled dreadlocks.

Nidhi and her group were giving me side glances and giggling. It was awful being near them. Worse, other girls had started ignoring me and keeping their distance.

Roma and Serena looked at the girls opposite us and murmured. I had been sharing my misery with Roma at recess everyday and even then my trauma didn’t lessen.

Nidhi’s pack began to swan towards us. One of the girls shoved me aside and walked into the church. I backed away.

Just then Santosh George, a boy two years my senior in school, waved at Nidhi and she went over to him. They had a short conversation and he passed her a piece of paper. She smiled like she had eaten a big bowl of custard and began making her way towards the church entrance. Most of her friends were now inside. One of them waited at the doorway. Nidhi wrestled with her fluorescent pink satchel, took out her pencil box, shoved the folded paper in and closed it.

But Nidhi didn’t notice it fall out and flutter to the ground. I walked past her and picked it up. This particular kind of blue paper note was being passed around by some older girls in school – they huddled in groups and giggled over it. Did people spray perfume on it, like in the movies? I felt a sting on the back of my head. I felt another harder blow and whirled around to see Nidhi’s face stretched into an ugly snarl. She hit me on the forehead, before a hand caught hers and Paul said angrily, “Stop it, Nidhi!”

Roma and Serena were now by my side, as were Paul’s friends. Roma babbled angrily at Nidhi and tried to press my forehead. I felt tears fall and pushed away. I slammed into my father.

“What happened, mol? What happened?” He tried to pry my hand off my forehead, but I couldn’t stop the pain in my temple or stop crying. He held me close and around me there were sounds of people coming nearer and questions from the parishioners. Serena and Roma were taking turns to tell Joychayan what had transpired. Appa pulled me backwards, to the side of the church, out of everyone’s view, and after a long time I let him look at my face. He touched what felt like a mountainous swelling on my forehead and I moved his hand to the back of my head to rub gently at the other nubs of pain, where that vicious, vicious girl had hit me twice more.

He massaged my head silently. My mother was by our side in a few minutes, asking questions and wiping my face with her sari pallu.

Appa disappeared soon, and Amma ordered me to stay put and rushed after him. I followed them, suddenly frightened for their well-being – Nidhi’s family were bigshots in church, and everyone either fawned over them or claimed they were related to them.

Nidhi’s father had his hands on my father’s arms and was talking to him, rather calmly considering the severity of his daughter’s crime. But my father was staring angrily at Nidhi, who was now conveniently bawling into her brother’s shirtfront. Joychayan tried to push away Nidhi’s father Joey, but seemed more interested in the conversation. Soon, Nidhi’s uncles and aunts surrounded her family and they all slid into their cars and evaporated. The remaining onlookers, mostly friends, were embarrassed at being caught watching. Joychayan made light of the incident – much to Roma’s and Serena’s indignation. Something was clearly rotten in the state of Denmark. So, so unfair.

I sat on the bench at the side of the church and felt sorry for Appa and Amma. We were as minute, invisible and powerful as an atom in the universe. And unfortunately Appa lacked even his brother’s loyalty.

Which is why I could not understand how Appa was being so friendly now to Joey Uncle’s brother Sam. They are good friends, the contrary voice in my head reminded me. But I lost my nerve looking at Sam Uncle, his son Paul and nephew Ashok, feeling guilty and embarrassed – even though I was the one who had been damaged. That word seemed most appropriate considering the overall harm Nidhi had caused me – the beating, the mental trauma, the intense humiliation. She was Satan’s spawn and I was breathing the same air as she in school, in church and as family friends… and I couldn’t do a thing about it. I fretted about her tyranny over me most days and it was affecting me emotionally. My only support was Anjali, who had a name for Nidhi – bully, or rather several – big bully, stupid bully, brainless bully, crack bully. Nidhi was scared of Anjali, and for good reason.

Nidhi, or one of her cronies, had locked Anjali into a school toilet one day, leading our class teacher to punish Anjali for loitering. Nidhi and her friends had laughed when Anjali was ordered to stand outside the classroom for the whole period.

But Anjali fought back. She locked the girls in the toilets or classroom several times after that, forcing all of Nidhi’s mean girls to be in a constant state of terror. Not just that. Their things disappeared. And sometimes they were found lying outside, on the ground below – probably thrown out of our classroom window. Even if Nidhi and her friends could see their belongings strewn on the grounds, by the time they raced down three storeys their things had disappeared. The crows took little things like sweets and shiny objects and tore apart small packets of chips and snacks, while the kindergarteners on the ground floor took whatever they could get to before the crows. Most of the KG class kiddies burst into tears and screamed if the big girls tried to prise their belongings from the little ones’ fists, pushing the KG teachers to complain to the principal.

The girls complained, and their parents did too, to the class teacher. But Anjali and everyone else denied all knowledge of what was going on. And when the parents became bold enough to approach Anjali’s parents, Narayanan Uncle, a well-known lawyer, suggested they advise their children that it was a crime to harass and beat children, even if their children were minors.

Also, Anjali’s siblings were popular in school and Nidhi soon stopped trying to bully Anjali.

Appa dragged me along with him, his arm firmly around me, and Sam Uncle and Paul fell in step.

“Feeling okay now?” Paul asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Your head. Nidhi.”

“No, I’m not. How can I be?” I forgot how tongue-tied I got in Paul’s presence. “She’s a brute and was allowed to get away scot-free!”

Paul’s mouth tightened and his back stiffened. He hurried forward to join Ashok.

I felt something in me sink. I couldn’t remember a time when we ever conversed, and here I had driven Paul away by tearing apart his cousin. But Nidhi was someone who needed to be torn apart.

While I looked longingly at his bobbing back, my father whispered in my ear, “They are coming back with us for lunch. You know Sam is a good friend of Rajan. Your Upappan (paternal uncle) will be happy to see him.”

                                                            ******

All through our journey home I wondered how to handle things hereon. I didn’t want to spoil my relations with Paul or Ashok just because Nidhi was an unadulterated ass. We were all family friends and because of her conking me on the head with her metal pencil case relations between our families had become strained. This was why I was staying mum about how Nidhi was treating me in school.

We were never friends. I was too boyish and she too girlish and we did not care for each other from very early on.

As we got off our scooter at the house, I felt a tap on my shoulder and Paul murmured, “Hang back a bit. I need to talk to you.”

My spirits soared – what did he want with me?

I dawdled while Appa led the others into our house. I walked towards my guava tree and Paul followed. Most of my family had come into the sitting room to greet Sam Uncle and Ashok.

“What is it?” I said, trying not to sound hoarse. I felt nervous alone with Paul.

“What was in the note you read that day?”

“Eh?”

“The note you picked up in church last month.”

There was a kind of intensity in Paul. “Why do you want to know?”

He was taken aback. “Just… curious.”

“I didn’t read the note.”

“You’re joking! You spent almost a full minute reading it.”

It had taken me that long to read the six lines because of the shitty handwriting. Perhaps the reader had had to guess at things and imagine love. Perhaps that was why the notes were an ongoing affair.

“Did you forget that your cousin conked me on the head?”

“Who was the note addressed to?”

“I couldn’t make out. The handwriting was bad.”

“Bullshit! Stop toying with me. Be careful or you’ll have more to worry about from me than with Nidhi! Spill it out!”

I stared at the pink-faced fart in front of me. I couldn’t believe he was threatening me.

“Abhay sala, kuthe, kaminey. How dare you stand in my compound and threaten me. If I shout out my uncles will come and make mincemeat out of you and spread you under the tapioca trees like manure!”

I opened my mouth to recite this Bollywood-style dialogue I had just concocted. The swearing I had been practising for some weeks to lay it on whoever I could, after duly evaluating how far I could get with it of course. I closed my lips and licked them. As the air cooled my lips, I realised I was tossing away my fraction of a fraction’s chance to marry this man of my dreams. If I was an idiot and used my angry-young-woman dialogue, I would probably stay unmarried for life. Even though the voice in my head laughed at the idea and told me I had a better chance of marrying Brad Pitt, I wondered what Nidhi would do. Anjali’s voice sounded in my head, “She would act like a pathetic, whiny, sugary, twisty woman!” We had debated that often, watching older girls in action – the extra-wide coy smiles, unwavering eye contact, fluttering eyelashes, wild laughing at bad jokes, inability to smell the boy’s terrible body odour, etc, etc. Mostly it involved smiling and being constantly wide-eyed and blinking. It looked uncomfortable, but according to Anjali’s dad, who was listening to us while we watched a couple through a pair of binoculars, it would get easier in time. Anjali and I agreed he was joking.

The reason I couldn’t tell was that I was afraid of Nidhi. I had told only Anjali what was in the note. We knew it had to stay a secret.

“Well?” Paul demanded.

“Please believe me, I couldn’t read the note. The handwriting was very, very bad,” I said in a breathy baby-girl voice like Marilyn Monroe’s.

His nostrils flared, and he looked as though he was debating whether to believe me. “Who was it addressed to?”

I shrugged and began to hurry towards the main door.

In the whole minute it took me to read the note, I had chuckled at the rubbish in it but hadn’t been able to figure out who the “baby doll C” was or “your humongous lover” the writer T.

But one thing was certain. Paul knew more about the note than he was letting on.

                                                            ******

The narrator is remembering a long summer vacation at her paternal grandparents home in Kerala. Initially idyllic, the vacation soon takes a dark turn. (Please note this is a work of fiction and is the latest episode of the Webs We Weave series. You can read the earlier episodes at: FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94)

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Fishy Chronicles 94 – The Webs We Weave (26)

Photo credit: A. Peter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!”

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

I hesitated. “What mol?”

“What if Ammachi says no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Appa smiled back, “Hello, mon (son).”

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

“How are you, mol?”

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

“Er, good Achacha, and you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Appa’s shoulders shrugged.

“Why, Appa?”

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you scold them, Appa?”

“Scold who?” Appa asked. 

“Johnny and his parents!”

“For trying to run through a red light?”

“For the broken engagement!”

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

“But why? They looked guilty.”

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

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

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

“Eh?”

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

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

“Why?” Appa demanded.

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

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

“Y-yes.”

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

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, er… Sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The corners of my lips sank to my crotch.

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

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

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

“What’s the connection, Appa!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come quick, mol. See who’s here!” 

                                             ****** 

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

You can read the full series,  at FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93

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Fishy Chronicles 93 – The Webs We Weave (25)

As soon as my great uncles and their families left Rita got Appachan to agree to an after-hours party. First we helped organise a bridal suite for the couple and then Ammachi gave us the keys to her snacks cupboard reluctantly, while Appachan stood nearby watching her. Ammachi’s mouth stayed open as she watched us fill our arms with snacks and concentrates. One of the boys got a music system and another candles.

Rita ordered us all to reorganise the furniture of the room furthest from the bedrooms, one in which some of the children slept. We pushed the furniture to the sides of the room and emptied it of unwanted stools and chairs. We decorated it with tinsel leftover from Christmas that we found in the loft.

Surprisingly everyone took their orders from Rita without a murmur, save for Roma. She dawdled at her duties as much as she could and at one point earned a brutal poke in the back from Rita. Roma glared at Rita’s disappearing back and flopped on to a nearby bed. 

“What’s with you?” I asked.

“Why does Rita get to set up the party?”

“Er, because she came up with the idea, and Appachan agreed!”

“Yes, but he agrees only when she asks.”

That was true.

“Smacks of partiality,” Roma continued.

I took a deep breath and walked off. My cousin was suffering a case of sour grapes. Her family was in Appachan’s A-list, they got what they wanted, everything they did was applauded, etc, etc. But I had not seen Roma’s resentment at being overshadowed coming. Roma only ever saw Rita as an irritating fly. But here in Kerala, at our grandfather’s house, Rita was in with the crowd that mattered. The elders found her charming, and so did our oldest cousins who found none of the younger cousins fun to be with.

I hurried to the large backroom because the music had started and the bride and groom were already dancing with each other, with more spectators than dancers on the floor. They looked beautiful.

Sarah danced with young Tomo and slowly the floor started to fill. I stacked the food on the table in the corner and jumped in. I gestured to Roma and after ignoring me for a while, she stood at the door and sniffed at the scene in front of her. Mobby suddenly pushed his way in, dislodging Roma from the door and she stumbled into the room. I righted her and we started dancing. Soon she was grinning and her poor mood disappeared.

When I crawled into bed at near 4am, my father was awake. “Forgot to watch CSI?”

“For once, there was something more fun, Appa.”

“I hope nothing’s left of the snacks.”

“Nothing. Ammachi insisted we clean the room before we go to bed.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Appa chuckled. I wondered whether to set my alarm in time to watch Ammachi’s fury in a couple of hours. Nah. Sleep was more important than Ammachi’s torment and this family’s disobedience movement. I put back my clock on the sidetable.

                                     ******

“But why?” Rita mewled.

“Because that is the tradition, mol,” Joychayan smiled, trying to reason with his daughter.

“But what if I talk to Appachan, he’ll agree.”

“Rebecca is now part of another family, so she has to spend time there too.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Next to her my cousins Rebecca and Roy looked amused. Rebecca had had an argument with her mother in the morning. She had worn a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt to breakfast, and Ammachi had blown a fuse about being a bride and something about a period to wear silks and jewels. Anniemama had hurried her daughter to her room and after an inordinately long time, a grumpy Rebecca came back to the dining room in a green silk sari, with several gold chains around her neck and her arms glinting of metal. Roy winked at her and her mood lifted.

“What’s going on?” I asked Roma, currently my fount of all knowledge related to Syrian Christian weddings and practices.

“Chechi has to dress the part for a few weeks. Look bride-ly. Gold jewellery always, silk saris, etc, etc.”

“What about the groom?” I eyed Roy, who was wearing a white shirt and grey trousers.

“Someone must have warned him, else he’d have been in track pants.”

“What was Rita crying about back there?”

“Roy and Reb are going back next door tomorrow. Rita wants them to stay till we return to Mumbai. She’s full of crap. Does she expect people to dance to her tune always?” Roma poked a boiled egg viciously, breaking it in half. Her fingers ground the appam and curry agitatedly.

“Why are they going?”

“I don’t know!” Roma snarled, bits of egg white flying from her mouth.

Silence was best, I felt. All further queries could be answered by my parents.

To escape my grandmother and her list of chores, I followed my father into the fields. “Why is Rebecca chechi leaving us?”

“She has to spend more time with her husband’s family now.” My father stopped and stroked my head. “She’s part of that family now.”

“Er, we’re her family.”

“Not really. She’s married into Kunjappachan’s family and that is now her family.”

“And Georgiechyan, Anniemama and Sarah chechi?” I said, feeling disquiet build. “What about them?”

“They’ll get used to it.”

I stopped midstride, wondering what this was all about. My father put his arm around my shoulders and nudged me forward. “See, mol, a girl is part of her husband’s family once she marries. She has no say in her own family.”

“Nooo…”

“Yes. It is a kind of unofficial family law.”

“But Amma visits her family.”

“Yes, but she’s considered an outsider now.”

“Is that why she cries everytime she leaves after we visit?”

“No,” Appa laughed. “She misses her parents, brothers and grandmother badly. Thinks Bombay is too far. Phone calls are expensive, you know. But she is considered part of my father’s family now – after marrying me.”

I felt glum – I couldn’t understand why. My aunts worked silently in the kitchen like work mules, while only their sisters in law and mother in law spoke. They were always going to be the outsiders, no matter what.

“What happens when I get married?” I was an only child after all.

“Well, you will be part of your husband’s family.”

“And you and Amma?”

“We’ll visit you every now and then. You’ll visit us and stay on holidays.”

“What if I want to stay with you permanently.”

Appa slowed and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t work that way. You’ll have to do what your in laws want, or fall in line with what they say.”

“I rarely do what you tell me.”

“Yes, I am always hoping that will change,” Appa grinned. “Shall we have puffs and chai on our way back?” My father was trying to change the subject.

But I had a burning question. “Who takes care of Georgiechyan and Anniemama when they are old? Like Roy will take care of his parents. Who will take care of Uncle and Aunty?”

Appa looked unhappy for a moment and then the expression vanished. “Oh, they’ll manage. The girls are smart, they will pitch in.”

“But... they will not be living with them...”

Appa walked off, not hearing me. I stood rooted to the spot, a thousand questions filling my mind and wondering why Appa was not keen to tell me the truth – something I had realised over the years but hadn’t really made peace with – daughters weren’t important, only sons were.

Appa turned around and held out his hand to me. I went to him feeling the burn of the sun on my bare head. I wanted to tell Appa I’d always be there for him, but suddenly I wasn’t sure anymore.

“Appa, yesterday someone called for Sarah.”

“Okay.”

“It was a man.”

Appa turned and stopped, his eyes widening. “He came to the house? Who?”

“Er, no, no. When everyone was in the sitting room, I picked up the phone. The man asked for Sarah chechi, but put the phone down when I asked who he was.”

“Johnny?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think it was a friend of Johnny’s? Maybe he wants to get back with Sarah chechi.”

Appa sighed, “Johnny and Sarah are not going to get married. So stop discussing it or bringing it up. It will upset your cousin some more. She’s a bright girl and will find someone else soon.”

“Er, ok.” I could feel Appa’s irritated look on me, but I kept walking.

“You should go back in a while, Ammachi will want you to do chores.”

“I can do chores here in the field, there must be something I can do.”

Appa shook his head, “Not here. At home.”

“But you promised me puffs and chai!”

“Ah yes. From tomorrow then.”

We’d see.

                                     ******

I was relieved when Appa decided to return home. The menfolk and workers were now at the field and work was in full progress.

True to his word, and despite our heavy breakfast, Appa stopped for puffs and chai. I bit into the meaty puff and disappeared into another realm. The air stirred, feeling cool, and all about us people moved in slow motion, tending to their daily business. The shopkeeper next door watched us eat with interest. Nobody, absolutely nobody, ate puffs in full view of other people here, only outsiders – only Bombaywallas.

I chattered to Appa all the way past the bridge. Once we were at home, I wouldn’t have his ear until late at night when he was tired.

We were almost at the turn near the house when I noticed the white car. It had slowed just past our gate and come to a stop. I could see the man in the passenger seat look at the house, where a boisterous game of volleyball with a plastic ball was in progress but my cousins Rebecca and Sarah were standing at the sidelines holding each other and giggling.

I began to run to the car. The driver looked back at me and then started the engine. It failed. I tried to run faster. Appa shouted for me to hold back, but I hoped I could reach the car before it started. The tin tub revved into life and moved forward, attempting to drive off at full speed. It jerked and stalled and then started again. It was Rasool and he had broken into a sweat – and all because a 14-year-old girl was chasing him. But my eyes were on the man beside him.

I wanted to shout to him, but didn’t want Sarah chechi to know. So I took a stone and aimed it at the back of the car – hitting the fender. My father, gasping, caught up with me, grabbed my arm and raged, “What is wrong with you! You cannot throw stones at cars!”

“I can if Johnnychyan’s in it.”

Appa stared. “You still can’t, even if you hate him. Throwing stones is not a solution. A-Are you sure it was Johnny?”

“Appa, I’m 90% sure, and I don’t hate Johnychyan. Why did they run? It was Rasoolchyan’s car and he was driving. Why did they speed off!”

Appa caught my hand tightly, taking a moment to compose himself. He looked across the road at Sarah and Rebecca. “Don’t ever throw stones at anyone again. Promise?”

“Okay.” I had my fingers crossed at my side. My compliance with this latest dictat would depend on the situation. From the opposite side of the road we watched my cousins play for several minutes and then crossed it.

                                   ****** 

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

You can read the full series at FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94

#lovemarriage #marriage #sarah #roy #rebecca #rebeccaandroy #cousins #kissingcousins #joy #love #grandparents #humour #kerala #keralavillage #keralastories #fiction #loveinkerala #cousinsinlove #cousins #puff #chai #summervacation #bride #groom #appam #eggcurry #gold #goldjewellery #phone #caller #syrianchristians #youngadult #secondcousins #bombaywalla #snacks #christmas #music #appam #curry #eggs #boiledeggs #fishychronicles93 #websweweave25

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