The Ruby Iyer Diaries: A Bombay Story

by Laxmi Hariharan

  I drag my sorry self into class.

  ***

  This is the street, there are no rules.

  I hold up my arm, ready to take guard and then making a fist strike away the hit from my opponent. She is almost five-feet-ten-inches to my just about four-feet height with broad shoulders almost double the width of my narrow fledgling ones. Oh! And she has rather wide knuckles. I know because right now I am taking the brunt of her hits. It hurts! With every thrust of her arm, each of which carries the full weight of her nearly sixty kilograms, my slender forty kilograms of body shakes. But the more she tries to get me, the more adamant I am to hold my own. I just have to don’t I? I can’t back down. I do enough of that at home. Keep my tongue tied while my Ma puts me in my place. Bah! Who wants that dull and boring life they are trying to get me to lead? No, actually its not that Ma leads a dull life. Far from it. It’s more that she’d rather not have me around at all. She regrets I am the one who survived instead of her Sanjay. Now, she’s at a loss with what to do with me.

  It doesn’t matter really. None of this does.

  All that is important is that I hold my own against this big bully of a girl. I may be just thirteen, but already I know that she is only the first of many challenges I have to overcome.

  So, I stamp my feet on the ground, anchor myself and defend, though with every hit now I can feel my bones protest. Yet, they hold, they don’t break…. Thankfully.

  I know I am supposed to just keep practicing my defence, but she is not playing fair. For, with every hit, she continues to put her entire body weight behind it, leaning on it, trying her best to shove me to the floor.

  If you get hit, it’s not the end of the world.

  Do you know that in jiu jitsu a smaller, weaker person can successfully defend against a bigger, stronger assailant by using proper technique and leverage. All you have to do is take the fight to the ground, and then apply joint-locks and chokeholds to defeat the other person.

  I know now, because that’s what I did. Funny how when your back is to the wall new ideas just pop into your head. It’s like when someone holds a gun to your head, you forget your name, but can suddenly remember that complex, mathematical equation your teacher tried to make you solve in class. I have no idea how prophetic these words are too; for it a few years I will have a real gun held to my head. How will I react then?

  I can tell she is growing lazy, relaxing into the uncertainty that I am just a skinny girl: a pretty, young thing. I allow myself to slacken my defence, seeing a smile come to her face. Her moves are totally lackadaisical now as if she is only half present in the room with me.

  Our instructor is fond of quoting Sun Tzu from his book The Art of War, where he says in times of insufficient strength, defence should be prioritized and that offensive tactics should only be used in a situation of physical advantage. What does Sun Tzu know anyway? Times are changing. I’d rather attack, fight to get a grip on my opponent. And so, the next time I see a gap in her offence, I yell and shove the flat of my palm against the most vulnerable part of her anatomy, her lower abdomen. She shivers back a little, but does not fall. Before she can regroup, I kick her in the abdomen.

  That’s not any technique I learnt; it’s just fear, and hate and rage… Anger unleashes itself as if cola from an uncorked bottle. It feels good to just launch myself at her. I kick her once, twice and then she is grabbing my other leg. Splat! I hit the floor, her weight collapsing on me. Perhaps Sun Tzu has a point after all?

  Too late, too late!

  My brain is screaming, berating me for jumping in so recklessly.

  My heart is singing with pleasure at having let loose, at finally following my instinct in that second.

  The rest of me? Well various body parts are humming in agony as she puts her fingers around my neck, her breath hot on my cheek. The world goes dark around the edges. I am aware of my hands and feet thrashing trying to hold onto something.

  Then suddenly the air rushes into my lungs, as the weight around my chest and across my legs is lifted. I am dimly aware that the brute has been flung off me. I cough and open my eyes to look at worried faces filling my vision. I smile tremulously.

  Inside I am rejoicing at the looks of compassion, admiration and sheer surprise shimmering around me. It is my moment and I have to milk it to the fullest. I close my eyes and groan, rewarded by a flurry around me. Shrugging off the outstretched arms waiting to help me up, I struggle to my feet. When I am standing, I stamp a foot on the ground and grin. The crowd around me roars too.

  See? You need to hit first, and ask questions later. Oh! Yeah.

  SIXTEEN

  First day of college

  I hated the blue and white pinafore I wore to school. Now that I have a choice, trying to figure out what to wear to college is worse. A dress is what I should choose to declare my newly grown up status to the world. Instead I have opted once more for my skinny jeans. My only concession to stepping out a grown-up is to tuck my shirt into the waistband. I guess it is okay to show off the shape of my butt to the world?

  The car dropped me off earlier and I stand there now on the threshold of life as a collegian. Ma and Dad may not have been around much, but at least they have made sure I don’t lack for the basic comforts of life: like having my own transportation.

  I walk through the imposing entrance of the Indo-Gothic style building. I should be excited, instead I am filled with a sense of foreboding. All my life I couldn’t wait to grow up, but now on the verge of that last step, which will push me over the edge I hesitate. That’s me alright. Always losing my nerve at the last moment. I am about to turn and run, when a group of boys slinging insults at each other walks up behind me.

  I am horribly unprepared for my first conversation with a boy. I panic. I don’t want to face them. All those years of being trained by the nuns: to look down at the ground, pretending to be suitably subservient rush over me, swamping me with the weight of guilt. I cringe shrinking into myself, and then I am over the threshold. I take care not to make eye contact, telling who is ahead of me by looking at their shoes instead. If you don’t meet their eyes, they don’t know you exist right?

  I slip unnoticed onto a bench midway in the class. Not too far ahead to be picked out. Not too far back where I am bound to come up against the more adventurous of the species.

  The last thing I want, is to be seen as ordinary.

  I slither further towards the wall, leaning against it in the hope of being completely invisible. The class fills up quickly and through the hair falling over my face I survey my new classmates with curiosity. I see a familiar face: Shali. We’ve never spoken since that a fight we had a long time ago… Without the veneer of the school uniform she looks so grown up. From the glossy blow-dried hair to her pedicured feet. I have forgotten why we fought. But that feeling of hitting her has stayed with me. I don’t do much of that anymore: following my instincts.

  The class is almost full, when a gaggle of boys walk in. They saunter past, coming to a stop a little ahead of me: looking to the back and then to the front. There is no more space. They edge towards me. I find my throat drying up with the realisation that they are coming towards my bench. I sit up rigid, and stare ahead. My hair falls over my face, shielding me. The bench shakes slightly as first one boy, then the other slides in next to me. I can barely breathe now, as apprehension grips me. I successfully avoided them earlier, but like homing pigeons they have arrived right on my doorstep.

  I hear a snicker next to me but ignore it, thankful when the teacher walks in, and the psychology class gets underway. I am soon lost in trying to keep pace with her dictation, focused on trying to get down my notes, when a touch on my shoulder has me jerking up. The boy next to me is holding up both his palms in a gesture of apology. He whispers: "Sorry, but do you have a pen?"

  I nod and hand him mine, before swinging my eyes back to the paper in front of me. The words blur as I stare at the sheet, trying to fold into myself further. If I shrunk any fur
ther I’d be as flat as the wall I am plastered to.

  I am almost not surprised when there is another pat on my shoulder. I swivel around, eyes flashing this time. It wouldn’t do to get irritated. Not yet. I call to mind Dr. Poonawala’s advise of taking a deep breath. Blowing it out I meet the boy’s eyes with a query.

  "Do you have a sheet of paper? I forgot—" Even before he has completed his sentence I am tearing off a page and handing it over. I feel the first sparks of anger, just a tremor inside and quell it. It really will not do to get angry. I must not, should not, will not—

  I know he is trying to tease me, to get to me and I will not let him do that. I will not get upset. Besides he has been quite polite so far no? Perhaps he really just wants a pen and paper? Likely story!

  Then he moves in closer, the skin of his forearm almost touching mine, almost but not quite and looks over my shoulder. "Oh! You’ve got down all the notes so far, why don’t I just take it from you?" He reaches over my arm, his jean clad thigh scraping mine. Then I am not thinking any more, it is like that last touch tips me over. I jump to my feet. My fighting instincts, honed by years of jiu-jitsu kick in: I punch him in the face so his head flies back, smashing into the skull of the boy next to him with a resounding crack. It resonates around the quiet of the classroom, shoving aside the droning voice of the teacher.

  The boy groans, and shakes his head as if trying to clear it. But when he looks at me I see the flicker of fear in his eyes mixed with grudging respect. I am breathing heavily as if I have run a mile. I should feel perturbed at having disturbed the class, at being the centre of attention. I feel wonderful, like I have been fighting a war and won it. I have been warring with myself.

  It is my first step into adulthood today.

  I’ve also stepped back into myself. Into the child I had been: impulsive, following what I know to be right.

  I shift towards the boys and am gratified when they fall upon themselves in their hurry to get out of the way. My heart is still beating, hands trembling with anxiety. I know there will be a price to pay for what I have done, that everyone in class is already speculating as to what happened. But damned if I am going to show the bundle of nerves I am inside. As I walk unhurried towards the door, the professor springs to action, marching me to the principal’s office.

  I will never wear my fears on my sleeve, ever again.

  SIXTEEN

  “So the prodigal returns?” I turn to see the familiar features of my Auntie Jothi, her dark round face radiating delight like a blue moon.

  “Yes, here I am, the fatted calf: like lamb to slaughter.” Holding up my right hand, palm parallel to the ground, I mime the gesture to cutting my throat, before letting my face drop down to the side, tongue lolling.

  “Stupid!” Auntie Jothi claps me on my head, as if I am still six instead of sixteen: “Well, you are the only person I came to meet; now that I have seen you, I am ready to leave." I have barely taken a few steps towards the door, when I am turned around with enough force that I unbalance… Only to be caught by the only pair of arms, which have ever embraced me, soothed my fears, bathed my wounds… Has loved me.

  “No way, not till I have introduced you to a few eligible boys!” Auntie Jothi pulls away, holding me at arms length, looking at me with a shrewd gaze.

  WTF! I am not yet seventeen, and my relatives are already trying to marry me off. Unreasonable panic grips me. I will never be forced into something I don’t have to do. Never. Ever.

  Besides I don’t live at home anymore, so they can’t make me do anything I don’t want. Right?

  I flutter my eyelashes, all innocence: “Men! Auntie, men—I am so done with boys, I tell you!”

  “Hmm! And, what do you know about men anyway?” Auntie Jothi’s brow furrows.

  When she is distressed her face screws up and she reminds me of a squirrel perched on its hind legs, nose quivering as if scenting something very worrying in the air. Do I now have to pretend I didn’t really know about the birds and bees and all that jazz…? I settle for: “Not as much as you, obviously Auntie!”

  “Hmmph!” Her characteristic grunt makes me grin. I throw my arms around her comfortable round frame. She is wearing her favourite perfume, Poison: a whiff of burnt apples, shot through with cinnamon notes, all weighed down with the smell of the deep blue sea. It is a dense sinking sensation that threatens to pull me down to the bottom of the ocean. It brings back memories of my lost years, a time when puberty enveloped me in a cloud of anonymity. There, I cowered hoping to stay unnoticed. At the same time, it is a reassuring smell: a strange oasis of overpowering aromas, which makes me feel almost safe. Strange, this is the closest memory I have of home.

  “Who invited you?”

  The authoritative voice has me wriggling in Auntie’s grasp trying to break free.

  Auntie’s arms tightening, refusing to let me go: “Why darling, I did!” Her voice pours over me like salted caramel chocolate ice cream. I chuckle, before smothering the sound against her ample bosom. As the silence lengthens, I tense. It’s a stand off: but who is going to give in first?

  I wriggle against Auntie’s grasp, which tightens for a fraction of a second, before her arms drop to the side.

  I turn, careful to keep myself within the circle of that protective embrace, and faced the Damocles sword: “Ma.” The first word spoken by a child. The last time I had called her that was eighteen months ago. “How are you? You look well," I tilt my head, making polite conversation. Next I’ll be asking her about the weather.

  “You don’t,” her nasal voice grates.

  “I look slimmer though, don’t I?” I jeer. “Being away from home is like being on a natural diet.” I hold out the waistband of my jeans, and bare my teeth in the semblance of a grin.

  “Still as uncouth as ever. I wanted to send you to a Swiss finishing school, instead you chose to… to—”

  “—Lead my own life?” I jump in putting words in her mouth. I have always done that, not that I can ever read what’s in my Ma’s mind.

  “If you call that…” she shudders delicately, “living.” She flicks her turquoise dupatta over the shoulder of her blinding, white kurta.

  “I call this… being dead.” I wave an arm in the vague gesture of pointing to the party scene unfolding around me—flinching, when my cheek stings with a slap. Then, I am running: away from Auntie’s hands reaching out to me. I push aside Ma’s still vibrating-with-anger frame, headlong into a couple who have just walked in. The soft, silken fabric of a saree sweeps over my bare forearm; throwing in stark relief everything that’s wrong with my life.

  I run down the stairs blinded by the tears, which hang suspended from my eyelids. I will not cry, will not! I fly down the four flights of steps, past the half-asleep watchman and onto the road. A pair of arms catch me, flinging me back onto the pavement.

  I crash to the ground, my forehead hitting the ribcage of the person who has pushed me. I lie stunned for a second, cushioned by the contours of a body underneath me, until the breath, which has been knocked out of me whooshes right back. Panting, I push in earnest against the steel bands holding me immobile, aware of my breasts being crushed against a flat chest: “Dafuq! Let me up, how dare you…!” Suddenly free, the momentum of my struggle rolls me so I fall over, the back of my head hitting the pavement. I look up into concerned faces peering down at me.

  “What?” I growl.

  “Madam, he saved your life,” a man stutters.

  “What?” I turn in the direction he is pointing, to smell burning rubber. A bus is parked ahead, slightly wonky as if it has careened to a very quick stop. My eyes swing of their own volition to the boy/man next to me. He is sitting up, and looking at the bus, his face wiped clean of all emotion.

  The shivers began somewhere in the middle of my chest, spreading like a greasy, pool of slickness to my stomach. “Th…Thank you—I mean sorry f-f-o-r swearing at you earlier—” I sit up suddenly, pressing my hands to my mouth.

  "So
rry or thank you? Decide now which one."

  Swallowing the disgusting taste, which bubbles up like the tip of an unseen iceberg, I clench my hands into fists: "Neither actually."

  “Well then,” he rises to his feet, shirt now stained with dirt: little leaves sticking out from the shoulder. The headache, which has been knocking at my temples, springs to life, dropping a red filter over my eyes. I take his proffered hand and rise shakily to my feet, swaying slightly as the world tilts.

  “Hey!” He holds my shoulders firmly, looking down with concern from jet black eyes, positioned just above me: “you okay?” My head is pounding, I am feeling quite sick with the after effects of the accident shuddering through me, yet I notice he is of average height, and well built, compact. His grip is strong and I can see the outline of his muscles against his shirt.

  “Ummm- No!”

  Stooping to gather my splayed out slippers he lays them out in front motioning to me to step into them. Taking me by the hand he turns towards the apartment building I had run out off. I stop though. I am not going back into the building, no way. I nod towards the park in front of us: “Please?”

  He leads the way to Oval Maidan, past the people still milling around hoping for some kind of replay of the drama they have just witnessed. Crossing the street, this time without incident, he leads me to the quieter end of the park: seating himself on a faded bench. I lower myself to sit next to him. Ahead, the umpire raises both arms: “Howzat.” In response the boys break into a victory dance. When the tears come this time, I let them flow.

  Through the haze in front of my eyes, I follow the progress of the batsman as he runs across the pitch, touches the crease and runs back to take guard in front of the wickets.