Girl in a million

by Anitha Padanattil

  Copyright © 2021 by ArtoonsInn

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First Edition 2021

  ISBN: 978-81-949824-1-8

  Published by ArtoonsInn Room9 Publications, India

  Printed in India by Manipal Technologies Limited, Manipal

  ArtoonsInn Room9 Publications

  www.artoonsinn.com

  The words within are dedicated to the one person whose faith in my abilities has remained undiminished.

  Ammae - my mother, this is for you.

  Acknowledgements

  Memories and experiences make you what you are and I thank them for it.

  My thanks to the infinite source—the one that foresees everything and that includes, this little book.

  A big thank you to my father - most reliable troubleshooter, for the unflinching support.

  My thanks also go out to Mithru Rachamalla - Founder and CEO of ArtoonsInn for betting on Girl in a Million. Success follows the footsteps of the dreamers and the passionate. May your dreams continue to blossom and provide happiness to many.

  Dearest Husnazi aka Husna Thaslim – editor and grammar Nazi, what would I have done without your timely insights? Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  Khyati, your tireless support aided by a wonderful team at Room9 has been invaluable in bringing this book to life. Need I say more?

  I would also like to express my gratitude to my friends, well-wishers and, members of the ArtoonsInn family for providing the daily dose of cheer. This has ensured that my bag is always cluttered with smiles and similar what-nots.

  As for Sreesan V.B. whose wonderful illustrations helped in adding a special dimension to this book, I’m glad I always have him by my side.

  ‘You are the Koteeswari. You are the Forcethinker.

  Embrace the disparate and unfold.’

  Sometimes, I shudder.

  Shudder as I reflect.

  On what might have been.

  Was the back and forth worth all the trouble?

  There used to be games that hurt and I flinch at the memory. The stings had been sharp. They had torn through until bits of them- the heinous ones, would ooze outwards to reveal me - make me visible. I was flawed, wasn’t I? It was true and I knew it.

  Then there was the despise. The taunts that reeked; all those failures, the mistakes, countless revisions, hours of hand-holding and the emotional racketeering. In the midst of all this, fragments of joy played peekaboo. The entry had been effortless. Such miniscule moments transformed me, gave me life and made me whole.

  And through them emerged the fabric that constituted the real me. I had begun to take shape.

  A coracle-style ride, slow and wobbly, awaited.

  Seems like yesterday – this undulating path that I had traversed. Was this me? Truly me?

  My thoughts are all over the place. Forgive me.

  There are times when perception gets cloudy and the rambling tends to kick-start. Not at the moment though.

  Often, most often, a chimera arises. It alternates between the scorched earth and three pairs of racing feet in various shades of brown. Feet encased in blue and white flip flops that have puffs of dust enveloping slender calves. Four pairs of eager hands clasping one other to form a rough circle. Soon, heads begin to toss outwards, curls bounce and plaits begin to unwind. Awkward shuffle gets into place and the familiarity of it all makes me smile.

  Loving hands enfold me.

  So gentle is the embrace that I gradually relax. The sensation courses through until I finally let go.

  To bask in the comfort that is on offer.

  I am now safe, Core Z.

  I feel safe.

  PART I

  Sagarika’s Zenana

  (Year 1986)

  Ours was that exclusive zenana that had pimples and charred epidermis along with oil-laden plaits and armpits that could be smelled two classes away. A coterie of assorted spindly schoolgirls whose infectious charm created an instant buzz in school.

  The ‘Silver Flower Higher secondary School’ located in Oothukudi1, Koottupuram1 district was a novel one. Novel as in, English being given prominence instead of the local lingo—Thamizh. The ensuing rush resulted in a massive serpentine queue that stretched outwards of the thatched shed that belonged to the watchman of the school.

  An entrance exam that determined how well each of the selected students proved their competence in the language, assured entry into the famed classrooms. This was where we all met for the very first time. In a class of sixty plus students, the five of us bonded over random assorted incidents and thus was formed a friendship that lasted several, several years. Coming to think of it, the school proved miraculous for us. Studies were dismissed casually with a shake of our heads. I was the designated clown of the group who lived to entertain and defy orders. My life, my rules—was my passionate and fervent diktat and life couldn’t be any simpler.

  To me at first, the place we had landed in seemed quaint, non-social and vulgarly boring. Oothukudi, a name that I hated divulging to my friends up in the northeast, seemed to be a rudimentary place that simple persons inhabited. I therefore christened it ‘Kanhaganj’1 informing one and all by way of letters and postcards, of its vibrant culture and quirky traditions. Kanha or little Krishna’s fanciful life surrounded by friends and family was something I craved to be in. Therefore, I created my very own world, where laughter and gaiety ruled and that would make me the object of envy. I enjoyed the duplicity for a while and delighted myself in my fanciful illusionary world through which I received a sort of temporary happiness.

  Soon enough, the illusion began to fade and the letters stopped coming. A slow breach had begun that infringed and transformed contrived perception into haze-filled pockets which were then secreted into designated nooks. These were cubby holes designed to hold in bits and pieces of myself. I realized that friendships of the long-distance kind, was a fickle emotion as it thrived and flourished on constant inputs. When one was immersed in day-to-day affairs, emotions were most often relegated to distant corners unless the dust was not allowed to settle over them in tiered layers. Efforts to revive old, established connections required time and patience… something, which most children would not deign to think or follow through. We were growing and experiencing life. Where was the time to think about matters that were not in the present? Fine dust thus settled and formed layers and we grew accustomed to the new and did not pause to think of the old.

  Having been transported from the state of Assam in my case, to the small town called ‘Oothukudi’ in haste on account of my father’s failed business ventures wherein his trusted friends cheated him out of his life savings, it was a difficult period of transition for all of us. I however failed to realize at the time that my parents and little brother were as affected by the change as I was and so, I found myself sinking into abject gloom on account of the shocking changes my system was being subjected to.

  I attribute the Silver Flower Higher secondary School for transforming me into the person I am now. That, along with other nature-defying incidents, which contributed to the change, of course! All those months of brooding, sullenness, and silent anger dissipated slowly, chiefly because of the persistent efforts of Team Zenana. We looked out for each other. Our bond was genuine. Life was totally un
complicated at that point of time. It was the best period of my life and despite all the highs and lows that I had been through, I still look back and thank the school for giving me one of the happiest times throughout the so-called ‘dreaded’ adolescent phase.

  *

  At first glance, pudgy Marge had me revolted. Her hawkish eyes behind the extra-large ‘shell’ framed spectacles looked me up most thoroughly as I squirmed in my seat and continued to etch out a noodle worm on the wooden tabletop with the tip of my Camlin compass. I sensed the continuous steely-eyed stare but refused to look up. The teacher droned on and commanded that notebooks be taken out. There was the familiar rustle of paper and the gentle thud of books falling onto the floor.

  Meanwhile, I surreptitiously placed the notebook over my handiwork and proceeded to unscrew the lower half of my Hero ink pen. A prized possession in those days, I had received it from an uncle a few months ago as a birthday gift. It was a smuggled item, having been transported over the border by scraps that were the designated courier for pint-sized luxury goods. These impoverished children ran across the border just to make a living. When business was dull, they drove their cattle over to the other side for the day’s graze or even worked in houses as temporary house help.

  Dusk would find them back in their dimly lit mud homes, huddled beneath a solitary kerosene lamp where they would probably share a meager meal. Once the flickering tongue of light that strained through the soot filled glass would sputter and surrender to the darkness, the wild dogs roaming about outside would begin their cacophony. The incessant howling as they moved around would continue until the tiny pinpricks of light dotting the sky would fade from sight and the sky gradually lightened.

  Espying Marge watching me with a bold eye, I lightly inclined the notebook with my left hand. With the right, I proceeded to fill in the etching with blue Camlin ink. The ink ran through the scarred wood, greedily covering up the spaces as I pressed the soft rubber syringe of the pen. So engrossed was I in the artwork of my making that I failed to notice Padmaja teacher approaching my desk.

  ‘Tlinggggg’ sang Marge’s stainless steel lunch box as it spattered its mushy contents all over the floor. Marge had determined the sinister level of the situation quite appropriately and had saved me from a possible caning that day and yes, I had thus chanced upon my first female bestie. She was bold and loud but did she ever take up the rap for me that day and every other day since then? Oh, yes. That she did and a lot, lot more. Our smart phone app calls us ‘soul twins’. After all these years, how could we not be that?

  *

  I was a sucker for books. Rated a close second behind the primary passion was piling on the edibles, shoveling them in until the threat of regurgitation dawned. My accommodative esophagus had no say in the matter and was always put to the test yet, was game enough to hold on and prove its might. That apart, the tiniest scrap of paper merited a quick glance from my bug-sized eyes. Apparently self-taught and obsessed since the age of three-and-a-half, all that kept me attentive and interested were books. Dolls, dressing up, playing girlie games and all things feminine neither interested me nor helped rein in the fascination with all things wholesome and hearty. When a furious parent barred the traipsing of the outdoors, I would hole up with a new book devouring everything that was on offer. My mother spirited away magazines and instructed her friends to hide ‘X’ rated books under their mattresses. Though comprehension level was dim, I still managed sneak peeks at the contents primarily because they were not meant for my entertainment. The rebel heart in me did not allow for subservience.

  It was hence, books of all shapes and sizes: the Amar Chitra Katha’s, the Enid Blytons, the Hardy Boys and their ilk, the dictionary, film posters, folk tales, illustrated books from Russia, The Reader’s Digest, magazines for children such as Sputnik, Target and Tinkle, lab manuals, glossy brochures, a distant cousin’s college textbooks, the newspapers… anything I could lay my hands on, in any home that we visited, inevitably led me to the corner that beckoned and that was that! There were occasions when I would script out fanciful stories into my notebooks and the newness of the worlds I created, enthralled me no end. One in particular, lies nestled within the pages of my little red book and I think that you (the reader) would find it entertaining. It would be good fodder for young mothers with children who require constant engagement. Of course, you are at liberty to blow it out of proportion. The narration coupled with subsequent discussions should be a fun exercise anyway!

  Unsurprisingly, the urge to pen down random thoughts proved to be exhausting. It was a tedious affair, the writing. I discovered that reading was far easier and enjoyable. As for the writing…. well, a labor of love was no fun if pleasurable pastimes were to be excluded from my profile. That coupled with several sets of prying eyes gradually deterred the creative urge within me.

  May I have the temerity to mention here that Indian parents have deep-rooted systemic preferences? Their likes and dislikes and mindsets are well entrenched within the very same commonality. Whatever the cultural differences, the mind-set across generations remains unchanged. One word that would suit this condition best would be—herd mentality. Boys vs. girls, fair vs. the-not-so-fair, awesome grades vs. abysmal failures, well-heeled vs. the unfortunate and so on. Opinions are tossed around casually while the mild and the meek endure in silence. It was hoped that I would turn out to be a fair and demure child. A well-mannered doll face who would sing when asked to and speak well when spoken to. Since I loved being the rebel and persevered to be the exact opposite of who I was supposed to be, I suppose expectations were shattered. It gave me great inner pleasure to refuse to sing popular Bollywood numbers, both old and new and I loved to watch expectant faces crumble in the face of my outright refusal. The elders would shake their heads and leave me alone mortifying my mother. There were whispered discussions behind several sari-covered mouths about the unnecessary theatrics and behavioral issues considering the fact that I was already a performer of bhajans (devotional songs) at the All India Radio Station in Silchar, Cachar district, Assam. Being one of the youngest artistes at the station who could sing along with an on-the-spot improvised tune that the instrumentalists managed to piece through, it was a terrific feel to be affectionately carried about on the shoulders of the senior artistes afterwards. I could by then gauge accurately between moments of genuine happiness and all the poison-inducing barbs that hurt my mother the most.

  Perhaps my observation of hypocritical behavior such as these resulted in the deep-rooted dislike towards any outward display of this gift of mine. I gradually stopped singing openly and hummed tunes in secret. Instantly picking up melodies regardless of the language and identification of the singers became a favorite past time. Most friends of mine knew that I sing a bit and I preferred to keep it that way. I tend to croak and cackle nowadays but have managed to pass on a few tips and tricks to some kids who I think could make the cut. How they utilize the pointers and put them to use are for them to choose and work upon.

  We had hardly completed a month of active schooling when the section-wise indoor competitions were announced. There was essay writing, poster painting, light music, best handwriting and several other categories that enticed everyone to apply. I put in my name for the essay writing and light music category. None at home knew what I did in school. I merely came and went every day. Knowing my fondness for instant outbursts, mum always held the peace. She had my brother and her job as a primary school teacher to keep herself occupied anyway.

  D-day dawned. We were called from our classes to the music room. The teacher sat cross-legged on the floor. I noticed the lack of a mike. It was going to be a face-to-face rendition thereby guaranteeing a hindrance-free creative output. New schools such as ours would invest in equipment at a steady pace as years go by depending on availability of resources. The obligatory name was called out and the one who completed his or her piece would be asked to leave. No loitering around to listen in. Curiosity of this sort would ear
n the wrath of the harridan.

  Gayathri, the teacher’s favorite, sang away. It was like listening to the female version of Shri Balamuralikrishna. What irked me was the fact that this being a light music competition, the song that was happening right there had classical inflections and variations similar to those of Carnatic krithis5. Watching the harridan smile and move her head to the vagaries of the tune, I felt my heart sink.

  Weakly gesturing that a visit to the loo was a necessity, I scurried away from the room. It was as if a heavy load had settled on my slim shoulders. Having been the recipient of admiration for this long, I dreaded rejection. This was something that I was unaccustomed to. Warily making my way back from the filthy toilet, I glimpsed Shruthi leaning against the parapet wall, watching me. She watched my expression of disgust and smiled in sympathy. I had had to pick my way through piles of faecal matter that laced the toilet floor.

  Water was a scarce commodity those days and the taps most often ran dry. But when you had to go, you just went about your business and the piles stank and grew in volume. It was only after the school closed that the ayahs made their appearance to clean out the muck. They were no better than the regular scavengers I suppose, being paid a pittance and overworked to boot. The cloying smell of phenyl would cloud one’s senses but very soon, the fetid odor would fight for dominance. I had learnt to clear out my troubles most efficiently. How long was one to hold the breath and practice self-control? A battle-scarred veteran would find the going quite tough, I thought. I dreaded contracting a urinary infection but when resistance proved feeble and automatic relief seemed imminent, the choice was to rush along in a mad, blind run. I, therefore, emerged from the dimly lit cavern and pondered glumly on the upcoming battle that already seemed to be heading for a dismal loss.