The Ruby Iyer Diaries: A Bombay Story

by Laxmi Hariharan

  ELEVEN

  Thwack! The ball hit the bat, and Sid bats it away, before running like crazy between the wickets. One run, two… Three runs! Wow! How cool was that anyway? Not that he deserved it of course. He and that Tania— What kind of a name is Tania anyway? — Are going steady too. Imagine, that? Tania cheers from the sidelines of the cricket pitch. I try to be envious of her but truth be told, I am more resentful of her boyfriend. Not about him being her boyfriend: but that he is able to run fast, and jump and play without a care in the world.

  I wanted to be down there with him, on the pitch: once more, feel those sweet shudders run through my hands when the ball is hit for a four? That’s the sensation I live for: the feeling, which has me racing through school every day, just so that I can run home, finish my homework and be down at the playground by 4pm every evening.

  I am always the first person at the pitch on Oval Maidan. It is my special time when I can still smell the freshly cut grass, feel the sun warm my skin, anticipate that thud of my sneakers as they hit the ground, the dust flying in my wake when I run towards the crease to score a run. Soon.

  If there is a life to live... it is this. Or so I thought, till a few months ago.

  I can still go down and join them.

  I really do want to… more than anything in the world.

  But, something holds me back now. This new emotion inside me, something so delicate I can’t put a finger on it. It is there though, and it’s for real. Like a stone, which having entered an oyster shell, now can’t be cast out. So, you simply have to make peace with it: until it is transformed into a pearl.

  Not that I am an oyster.

  Far from it.

  Still, it’s the first time I am hesitant about anything. Till now, life has been a ride on a super fast train, with me hurtling at top speed. Refusing to stop at any stations, I have chortled gleefully as I leave the passengers at the stations far behind. I push aside that which comes my way.

  Until I come face to face with that most unexpected of barriers: myself.

  I look at myself: under my long sleeved shirt, I wear a second shirt, below that, a third skinny, sleeveless vest. The layers almost smooth out the ripples. From a certain angle, I can almost pretend my chest is as it once was: Flat.

  If I close my eyes as I run, I am once that straight sharp line, cutting through the wind, euphoric in my single-mindedness. But now, something has shifted within. Something incomprehensible. Huge.

  It is just a step forward really. Yet, it makes me hide on the side, frustrated, even as the thirst to be out there with them consumes me. Here I am then chained, pulled back.

  So why not just jump in and join them regardless of how I think that would make me look.

  Good question. Conflicting isn’t it? Now imagine multiplying that by a thousand times through the years. That’s where I am just now!

  The ball appears in front of me and I put out my hand, grasping it.

  “Catch!” Screams the bowler

  “Catch?” Sid scowls.

  “Howzat!” Smirks the umpire, holding up his hands, bouncing on his heels as if in parody of a bird flapping in joy.

  “What? How can that be howzat, I am not playing, I am just watching,” I protest, my heart sinking at the pout on Sid’s face.

  “We know you, so you are part of the team and you count as a fielder… So Sid is out.” The bowler is now almost turning cartwheels in joy.

  “Howzat! Howzat!” The fielders chant.

  “Ha! Your girlfriend got you out,” the umpire sneers, to my mortification.

  In response, Sid walks up to him and hits him on the head with his bat. Forgetting my promise to myself to not run, I break into a sprint, hoping to console. But now the various parts of me bounce in that much hated way reminding me why I decided to stand aside in the first place. I stop so suddenly that the fielder behind me crashes to the ground.

  “Ruby!” I look up from my perch on the muddy ground, the other boy sprawling on top of me. There she is, dressed in her silk-kanjeevaram saree on her way to another party. Ma looks like a goddess. The others think so too for they all fell silent.

  “Too busy being a boy. When you finally want to be a girl, no one is going to look at you.” Pausing to brush a piece of lint from her shoulder, she moves on, leaving behind the remains of me. I never want to be like her.

  TWELVE

  The call comes a few hours past twilight. After the sun has descended into the depths of the Arabian Sea, its golden rays setting the curve of the Gateway of India on fire.

  Sarita has taken Sanjay to the Taj Mahal hotel, for a kiddies’ birthday party. My little bro is just eight, but already he has a more active social life than me. Its 9.30 pm and they are not home yet. Apparently my bro is already inculcating the habit of staying out late at night.

  Ma is all settled in for the evening, sunk in the cushions of her favourite settee: the Chesterfield Leather Sofa imported from the UK. She’s already got her third G&T of the evening in hand. Fully happy she is just now.

  Dad is in the study, the closed door indicating a do-not-disturb-I-am-working-mode.

  I wander the corridor: wearing a path in the space between my room, the living room and the kitchen. A restless ghost. A bored spirit.

  I suppose I should be doing my homework… Who cares about algebra anyway?

  I could complete the art assignment… Yeesh!

  Then there is that essay to write… UGH!

  I look to where I can see Ma’s toes, the nails painted a bright coral. Against the dull brown of the sofa, it resembles a pale, slimy, fish with a pouty, pink mouth.

  From the dining table, I pick a bunch of grapes from the fruit bowl. Sarita has placed them there on strict instructions from Ma… Its not like Ma wants me to eat fruit, to stay healthy or anything like that. Oh! No. It’s just that, a cluster of grapes in a wooden bowl, next to shiny, red apples look really good on display. Just like in Good Housekeeping.

  I pop a grape into my mouth, breaking the skin so the juice spurts out. It’s sweet and trite at the same time. Taking aim, I pelt one in the direction of Ma’s foot… And miss.

  I raise another to my eyes, aligning it in line with her toe. I let it go and am rewarded with a flinch of her foot, nothing more. I need something bigger, a rock perhaps?

  There’s no guarantee Ma will notice me even then.

  Instead, I walk into the living room and picking up the remote control, point it in the direction of the TV, switching it on.

  The harsh music of a breaking-news program cuts through the calm, followed by a small shriek from Ma: "Really Ruby, do you have to scare me like that?"

  She reaches to take the remote from my hands, then stops transfixed by the images on the screen. The screen shows the red blush of the grand dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel. There are gun shots somewhere off screen and in response greyish blue smoke rises in the distance from one of the upper windows of the note. The images are shaky as if the hands of the person holding the camera are trembling. But there is no mistaking the news scroll:

  Breaking News. Series of explosions in the city. Terrorist attack suspected

  The news reporter continues: "I am reporting live from the Taj Mahal hotel, where shots have been reported. In at least another two areas of the city shootings are going on. We believe that gunmen went into the Oberoi hotel and the Taj Mahal hotel and opened fire. I can’t confirm any of this at the moment, but at least four people are reported dead…"

  A fist slams into my stomach and the hairs on my forearms stand on end as if I have been blasted by an arctic burst of air-conditioned air. I maybe young, but at twelve am old enough to recognise it for it is. Disaster! How strange to see a turning point in my life, play out in front of me. I feel like I am in a dream.

  Then, a sound makes me turn. The glass has fallen from Ma’s hands onto the settee, staining it with colourless liquid. The lemon twist bounces on the sofa before falling to the white carpet below.

  I
flinch awaiting a flurry of angry words at making her spill her drink. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even notice the leather shrivel under the onslaught of the spilt drink.

  She is really, upset… And it’s not at me.

  Something makes me walk over.

  I really should leave the room now.

  I don’t want to feel anything for her.

  Why does her pain seem like my own?

  Slipping onto the seat next to her, I put my arms around her. Ma hesitates. I sense the turmoil in her; something is shattering inside, squirming to be let loose. Fear!

  Her hand creeps around my waist and she pulls me to her… Close enough for the orange-cinnamon of her perfume to waft through me.

  We watch wordless at the people running away from the hotel. Shots are fired… Sparks of red in the distance.

  Neither of us has voiced the unspoken. Sanjay! He is there. If we don’t say it aloud, it can’t be true right?

  A phone rings in the distance, jerking us from the trance the flickering images have flung over us. Then a door slams and Dad runs into the room. He stops when he sees us cowering in a corner of the sofa. I look up and see the lines on his forehead. His eyes are terrified. He comes to a stop near the door, hovering there, not sure what to do.

  I hold out a hand, a plea in my eyes. Help us! He too hesitates. A look I can’t interpret scuttles over his face: Confusion? Anxiety? Distress…? It is gone before I can put a finger to it. Brow still furrowed, he walks towards us, sitting down next to me.

  "My baby, my poor baby. God save my little boy…" I have never heard Ma pray as she does that day, or ever evoke the powers above.

  After today, she never will again.

  Dad embraces both of us: a large, warm hug. The smell of wood smoke-citrus and something else nutty flows over me.

  I watch the tragedy unfold on screen.

  Enfolded for the first time in living memory between my parents, I am happy.

  THIRTEEN

  Ma is away on one of her transatlantic journeys: this time in Europe to research her family tree. Of late, she is more preoccupied than usual. There’s a strange burn in her voice. It pelts my skin, slivering off small pieces so they fall off, like withered leeches. She seems driven, as if she has suddenly found purpose in life. Apparently, in death there is redemption for the living after all.

  “In grief there is goal,” is her new mantra.

  Well good for her.

  Nothing’s really changed for me. I never featured high on the list of things important in her life. And now... I never will. It is weird. I am alive and here and she doesn’t see me. Sanjay is dead and gone, and all she can see is him. Even in death my bro is the one who occupies her every waking moment.

  I suppose I should be upset that she doesn’t notice me at all now.

  Truth is, I am relieved I don’t have to bear the brunt of her sharp tongue any more. If words could kill, my mother would be a champion murderer.

  No, I don’t mean to sound so cruel, it’s just a fact of life… Know what I mean?

  Dad’s been gone too: on an extended trip. Anyway, he is so absent-minded, he’s not there even when he is in the room. Yet, I miss him.

  He is a warm, comforting presence, full of big bear hugs. And besides, he really has a great sense of humour: one which often has me in splits… Most of his jokes go over Ma’s head, which of course is half the fun. It should be cruel that we share a laugh at her expense. It’s only right that I get back at her in some form.

  So, while they are away, I have full reign of the house. I am not alone though. Sarita—now Ma’s trusted cook and housekeeper—is there, along with Hari, her husband and our resident driver. This couple has dedicated their life to taking care of our family. When Mum is mad the only person who can calm her down is Sarita: the last person to have seen Sanjay alive. Ma looks at her and sees Sanjay now. She will never let Sarita go for fear of losing Sanjay forever.

  Sarita also knows all of her’s tastes: in food, in clothes… in men. There I’ve said it aloud.

  She is the soulmate Ma never had. But I don’t begrudge Sarita her facetime with Ma, for she’s always been good to me. So, this trip —with Ma and Dad both away, and me being able to do whatever I wanted around the house— starts exactly like any other. I run through the living room screaming at the top of my voice. Then back, this time tracing my path across the sofas, leaping onto the chair. Springing back I use it as leverage to high jump over the antique central table. Ha! What a thrill.

  All through this time there is no sign of Sarita. I go in search of her, bursting through the door at the back of the kitchen, leading into the room the couple share. It’s the smell, which hits me first: the reek of unwashed bodies, of food gone bad, of clothes that have not been washed in a while. A dry, bitter, mouth-curling odour that makes me want to turn tail and run away.

  I am rooted to the spot.

  For I have walked in on Hari, raising a rolling pin to hit Sarita, who is on the floor. Her one eye is swollen shut, and there is blood dribbling from a cut to her lip. She has raised her hand to protect her face, and even as I watch Hari brings the stick down on her hand—Thwack! —It breaks in two. Sarita cries out, cradling her arm. Surely the bones of her forearm have broken too?

  Then, I am leaping at Hari, flinging myself at his back, holding onto him, refusing to let go. I am small, just a little higher than four feet, and my twelve-year-old spirit is a long way from being broken. It’s the first time I truly feel that funny little fizzy feeling at the base of my spine: a violet burn bubbling up as if the cauldron of a wicked witch. Hari’s a full-grown man, almost six feet tall. Thankfully he is quite skinny, like many Indian men from underprivileged backgrounds tend to be. I hold onto him, like a monkey latching onto the trunk of a tree. Except in this case it’s a moving tree.

  He bellows in anger, stamping his feet, trying to shake me off. I hold on, digging my nails into his shoulders, which only gets another bellow of frustration from him.

  Sarita crawls to the corner, like a cat slinking away to lick its wounds. Compressing her body, she wraps her arms around her legs. Trying to flatten herself against the wall, she makes her body as small as possible as if that will make her inconspicuous.

  The movement draws the eye of the demon on whose shoulder I am perched. With a howl he leaps forward, the rolling pin raised in his hand like a weapon.

  It’s the first time I wish I had a real sword in my hand too.

  Instead, I bend down and bury my teeth in his neck. I am Dracula, I taste his blood; once I get past the gagging stench of his clothes. I shut my eyes against the horrible, sour scent of his skin. And, something else. It’s a sharp, lingering spoor. Like when I sometimes walk in to the living room the morning after Ma has thrown a party, and the remains have not yet been cleaned? It’s the persistent smell of rancid alcohol. Ugh! Not even mouthwash is going to get rid of that acrid flavour on my tongue. His blood dribbles, over my chin and still I refuse to let go. With a shriek Hari drops to the floor. He rolls over, once, twice, like a bear trying to get rid of a leech. Crunch! —I hit my head against the floor and am stunned sufficiently enough to loosen my hold on this horrible man, who immediately breaks free. He crawls… The other way to the door.

  After putting enough distance between us, he finally gets to his feet. Now that he is safely out of my reach, he turns to me. His eyes bore into me. Fear, resentment… Revenge.

  I meet his gaze bravely. I am quivering inside but I will not let him see that. I’ve overheard Dad say how you have to always kick men in their balls. I jump to my feet and throw my leg at him. It’s not elegant— I’ve just started learning the basics of jiu jitsu—but it suffices.

  He bends, over and howls. Just like a dog in pain. Taking advantage of his temporary helplessness, I push him out and shut the door. When I walk towards Sarita, she shrinks further into herself. I notice for the first time, her kurta is torn. Pulling off the towel from the hook on the back of the door I throw
it to her and she wraps it around herself, shivering as if it is zero degrees temperature instead of the almost forty-degrees summer heat we are trapped in. She raises her eyes streaming with tears to me: “Don’t tell your Ma… Don’t tell anyone. Please, I beg you. If you do I’ll lose my job.”

  That’s me all right, the world’s best keeper of secrets.

  If you knew the number of little not-to-be-shared-with anyone nuggets I carry around in my head, you’d mistake me for a porcupine: each of these mysteries drilling their way out of me, trying to escape. Soon I am going to run out of space for all of them. What then?

  FOURTEEN

  I am sitting there in the back seat of the car while Hari, our driver is on the phone with someone. He is talking in a thick Bihari accent and so I can only understand every other word. It is unusual that he talks on the phone when Ma or Dad, are in the car. Me? I don’t care either way. He knows that, and takes full advantage of it.

  I look around the parking lot. It’s fairly empty; except for a couple of BMWs and Audis. A graceful Ambassador car rusts gently in a corner. Once found everywhere these vehicles are now rare enough to be considered antiques. Ma is quite fond of showing off the fleet of Ambassador cars her father kept in the garage of the family mansion. But really I don’t care just now, for all the riches can’t help me with the leap of faith I have to make: to go through the torture of walking into a roomful of strangers, feeling intimidated and small, new and awful. It’s tough… know what I mean? I can’t look back, for if I do I am lost.

  Act as if you already have what you need in front of you. If only it were that easy.

  Only consolation is that I am stupid crazy about training. I love simply disappearing into the focus that comes with the concentration needed to flow into each pose. I have no choice. I roll off the seat, and slam the door behind me. It startles Hari so he drops his phone. Good!