‘Why does your mother call me Tara?’ Rebecca asked, close to tears. ‘And she’s not my mother. My mother is dead.’ She made a crazy face: eyes large and rounded, her mouth twisted. She looked scary. ‘You mother’s crazy,’ Rebecca said.
‘She’s not crazy,’ I said. ‘She’s just sad.’
***
It was a hot afternoon. We were by the lake, dangling our legs in the water. Rebecca threw stones into it, as far as she could. All of a sudden she shed her skirt and blouse and dived into the water. She swam across and in a circle, then back to where I was, and grabbing my feet she pulled me in the water. My shorts swelled like a gas balloon. Tara spluttered in my head. She swallowed more water, more water, and then she screamed. Rebecca held my arms and hauled me up to the shore. I scrambled out of the water and ran to the chakka tree, crouching under it. There had been a strong wind through the night and the ground under the tree was covered with leaves. The earth smelled odd – a mixed up stormsmell: the ground smelled nutty and the leaves smelled of flowers. The dead insects stank; a bitter smell.
Rebecca put her clothes on and came to me. ‘I didn’t know you couldn’t swim.’
‘I am scared of water,’ Tara whispered in my ear.
Rebecca pushed me down on the ground, and then lay down close to me. She crossed her legs, and with her hands behind her head she looked through the leaves at the blazing sun. ‘Daddy says if I study hard and do well at school he will send me to LA,’ she said.
‘You are going to LA?’
‘That’s where all the rich and famous people live. Granny says I have a good voice. I will study music and become rich and famous too.’
‘I will become a scientist like Appa,’ I said, ‘and work at the Georgie Gibbs Institute.’
‘No. You should come to LA. You could become famous too. Then we’ll get married and have children. And we’ll play the piggy game with them.’
‘What piggy game?’
’Rebecca sat up and took my hand in hers. The she bent each finger and said:
One piggy went to market.
One piggy stayed at home.
One piggy had roast beef.
One piggy had none.
And one piggy ran all the way home.
She scrambled her fingers over my arm and tickled my armpit. I giggled. Tara giggled a lot. Rebecca started the piggy thing again and I stopped mid-giggle.
‘Will it cost a lot to go to LA?’ I asked.
‘Daddy will give me money,’ Rebecca said. ‘And when I become famous and make lots of money I can get you there.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’
‘Cross my heart.’
All Good Things Must Come To An End – This was Sister Phyllis’ favourite proverb. She was pessimistic. She was somebody who always expected the worst to happen in every situation. For many, it didn’t; for me, invariably it did, as it did now by pure happenstance. Happenstance was a new word I had learnt. It was a sandwich word, two words stuck together: happening+circumstance = Happenstance. I liked sandwich words. Now by happenstance Amma stood looking down at us bringing an End to All Good Things.
‘Rose-aunty told me I would find you here.’ She held Rebecca’s arm and pulled her up. Rebecca tried to free her arm but Amma held on to it, tightly. ‘You hair is all wet, Tara.’
‘Letgo,’ Rebecca said. ‘I am not Tara. Let. Me. Go.’
With a compelling look in her eyes Amma put her arms around Rebecca and held her as though she would never let her go. Never let Tara go.
I stood up. I held my breath, pressed a hand on my heart to stop its loud beating. I doodled a crazy head in my headbook. I gave it big red eyes, a crooked mouth. I scribbled wiry hair all over the head. I drew a heart fluttering out of the body and into the air. And arms flapping like wings, and flying away.
15
Summer flapped its wings and flew away, and then another, not very different from the previous one. But there was one noticeable difference: at school the girls clung together; some sort of exceptional glue cemented them to each other. They giggled and laughed and spoke in whispers. They did not mix with the boys as casually as they did before, though they couldn’t stop talking about them. They talked about each one incessantly. Mostly they talked about Cyril Ricardo. He was the headboy. He was handsome. Tara liked him a lot. I was with the girls most of the time; they didn’t mind me. They shared their secrets with me. I was thrilled by their friendship and trust. But later on, it occurred to me that their ready acceptance was probably because my presence didn’t bother them. I was not dissimilar. I was almost like them.
Although the older girls were rapidly turning into little women: they had grown dumplings of flesh on their chest, which they flaunted like trophies. They began to sprout hair on their arms, legs and in their armpits. Their cheeks and foreheads were oily and broke out in a crop of pimples and whiteheads now and then. The boys too were changing: soft coconut fuzz lined their upper lips and their cheeks. But at eleven I remained as I was before. No breasts, no pimples, no fuzz. Of the pimples and fuzz I didn’t care, but Tara was very curious about breasts.
What are breasts made of?
Flesh I think.
All flesh?
Maybe they’re hollow bags filled with air. Like a gas balloon. Or filled with liquid.
How’d they feel?
I don’t know.
Are there bones in them?
I don’t know.
We would soon find out. It was raining hard that day though it was not even the monsoon season. Rebecca and I were drenched when we returned to her house from school. Rose-aunty was on the veranda. ‘You are all wet,’ she exclaimed when she saw us. ‘Becky, go up to your room and change your clothes at once. And Siva, you go and dry yourself with a towel. Or you will catch a cold. And when it stops raining, you had better go home.’
We ran into the house and raced up the steps to Rebecca’s room. She peeled off her wet clothes and stood by the cupboard, almost naked. I stared at the pink bra she had on and felt my own flat chest with my hand. Tara’s hand touched mine. In a quick movement, Rebecca shed her bra and panties on the floor and faced me. The spread of her hips was different from mine, rounded and shaped like a large peepal leaf. Tara guided my eyes upwards from the fuzz-lined plump triangle above the thighs, over the soft pucker of the belly around the navel, past the broomsticks of the ribcage to soft mounds peaked with nipples. Now I walked to Rebecca in a haze, my footsteps echoing Tara’s heartbeat: thud-thud-thud. With a nervous finger I poked at Rebecca’s breast. It felt soft and firm, like a juicy fruit – a ripe mango. Clasping my hand Rebecca pressed it to her breast. Tara curled her fingers around it and squeezed hard. No bones. No air or liquid. Just flesh. Tara’s heart throbbed in my chest.
Rebecca bent down and kissed my cheek. ‘Loveyou,’ she said breathlessly. Then she turned around, took fresh clothes out from the cupboard and started to put them on. When her back was turned Tara picked up the discarded bra lying on the floor and stuffed it into my bag. I darted down the stairs, and then ran all the way home. It was still raining.
Behind locked doors, in my room I got rid of my wet clothes and stood before the mirror, Rebecca’s bra clutched in my hand. I pressed it against my cheek; it smelled of moist husk. I felt Tara’s heart beating hard. She wrapped the bra around my chest and clasped the hooks in front, then she turned the bra around and slid my arms into the straps. The bra hung on my shoulders like a pair of collapsible tents. I bent closer to the mirror and peered at my face, as though I was examining an exotic insect. A few strands of wet hair hung down over my forehead, sticking to the skin. Then puckering my lips I kissed my reflection in the mirror. ‘Loveyou,’ I said.
***
Tara was all over my body and mind. I felt I was doubled and ha
lved at the same time. I was deeply confused because of this. A large portion of my confusion was simply because of not knowing precisely why I was confused. An incident was waiting to happen that would only make me feel worse. It happened at school. I was in the girls’ room with Rebecca and her friend Radha. The girls were going to a movie and to Good Morning Café. I wanted to go with them.
‘Only girls,’ Radha said firmly as she changed out of the uniform and into a frock.
Rebecca pulled out a frock and a pink pouch from her bag. She dressed me in the frock and fastened the red belt tightly around my waist. She tied my hair into a ponytail with the red ribbon from her hair. From the pink pouch she plucked eyeliner, rouge and lipstick. She brushed two rounds of rouge on my cheeks, lined my eyes with the liner and put lipstick on my lips. ‘Now you’re a girl,’ she said laughing.
Sister Mary Edwards, who was passing by, peeped into the room. She froze. She was the Head of the Secondary Section. She had a long, straight nose, which made her look severe. She was a severe Catholic. She chewed on her lower lip indecisively, and then making up her mind she rushed in and picked up my uniform from the floor. ‘Pick up your bag, Siva. At once!’ Yanking my arm Sister dragged me out and down the corridor. The boys whistled and laughed. Sister pushed me into her room, sat behind her desk and looked at me with scorn. ‘What were you doing with those uncouth girls? Explain!’
I looked away and saw Rebecca and Radha by the door. Cyril stood behind them.
‘Look at me when I am talking to you!’ Sister Mary Edwards shouted, and she went to the door and shut it.
I looked up at the statue of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross on the wall. The plaster of Paris figurine was naked except for a bit of cloth around his groin and the headdress of thorns. He seemed sad and weak compared to Patti’s Gods. He should eat more eggs, I thought. Dr Kuruvilla would have made Him eat ‘More Eggs’ had Father Joseph consulted him. I sent a silent prayer to weak Jesus nevertheless. Amen.
While I was preoccupied with Jesus and the terrible state of his affairs, I didn’t notice Sister walk towards me, until I felt the steel ruler on my back. Once, twice, three times. She yanked me by my arm so I faced her. She used her morning assembly voice: ‘Do you not know what will happen when you die? The devil will make you remember all the sins you have committed in your whole life. He will make sure you don’t go to heaven. And if you don’t want to go to Hell you must pray to our Virgin Mary for your sins. Now repeat after me.’
Sister joined her hands.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace.’
Hail Mary, full of grace
‘Our Lord is with thee.’
Avur lord is with thee.
‘Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.’
Blessed art thou…
Unwittingly, a shrill laughter arose from the pit of my stomach and resonated in my ears. Tears streamed down my face. Laughter and tears -- like the sun shining in the rain.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…
‘Amen.’
Amen.
Sister looked into a register. ‘I am going to call your father. Until he comes to fetch you,’ she pointed to the storeroom door on her left, ‘get in there, stand in the corner and say your Hail Marys.’ She smacked her hands. ‘Go!’
The storeroom was tiny with a large steel almirah in it. On one wall were wooden shelves stacked with notebooks, textbooks and stationery. On another wall was a picture of Mother Mary in a white dress, the sun shining behind Her head. With both Her hands she pointed to the glowing heart in the centre of Her chest. I knew this much, for people the heart was to the left side. If the heart was in the centre, I decided then, It must be God. Next to Mother Mary’s picture was one of Joseph holding Baby Jesus. Joseph didn’t have a glowing heart or the sun behind his head, and he hadn’t shaved. The photoframe perched on a small table by the corner had another picture of Baby Jesus in Mother Mary’s arms. This time Mary was dressed like a Superman Queen: blue gown and a red cape, a crown on Her head. Baby Jesus was dressed as a pure-white saint. He had a crown on His head too. He was plump. I imagined Mother Mary carrying Fat Baby Jesus in Her arms, zipping through the sky, Her red cape flying. In front of the photograph was a picture book: Ring O’ Roses Nursery Rhymes. A notepaper stuck out of it; it had these words in Sister Mary Edwards’ slanting rounded handwriting:
Goosey, Goosey Gander is a nursery rhyme with a historical undertone rooted in religious intolerance.
‘Are you saying your Hail Marys?’ Sister’s voice rang out.
‘Yes Sister,’ I shouted back. With my hands joined and my eyes closed I muttered:
Goosey goosey gander,
Where does thou wander,
Upstairs and downstairs,
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers.
I took him by the left leg
And threw him down the stairs.
‘Siva is a brilliant boy,’ Sister Mary Edwards said to Appa seated in front of her.
‘Is this about donations?’ he asked. The last time parents had been called to school it was for a fund-raising drive to build a small auditorium, which could be let out for weddings to raise more money.
‘Oh no, but donations always help, sir.’ Sister looked under a stack of books on her table and retrieved the receipt book. She filled it out. ‘How much, sir?’
Appa took two hundred-rupee notes and gave them to Sister.
‘Thank you very much.’ She put the money in an old biscuit tin, and then said, ‘Siva is really a brilliant boy…’
Appa looked at his wristwatch to emphasise that he was a busy man. ‘Is this about clothes for the poor?’ Only a week ago I had given Appa a flier requesting old clothes.
‘No, no, no.’ Sister shook her head. ‘We have been able to collect a large quantity of old clothes and we have distributed them to poor Christian families in the neighbouring villages. As I was saying…’
‘Yes, I know,’ Appa said, ‘Siva is a bright boy.’
‘That’s right. A bright boy,’ Sister Mary Edwards repeated. ‘And I have no complaints about his schoolwork.’ Sister leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I don’t know sir, if you Hindus believe in sin or not. We Christians believe in Heaven and Hell. We believe in the devil and sin.’
Appa looked at her in silence. Then he said, ‘I am a man of science. God and science cannot coexist.’
‘Oh my Lord Jesus!’ Sister inscribed a cross upon her chest. ‘You are an atheist, a non-believer? Are you not afraid?’
‘Gods are for those who are afraid.’
‘That’s rubbish, sir. We believe in our Lord Jesus because we love Him and He loves us back.’ Sister put on an expression of disgust and betrayal. ‘Do you mean to say that your wife and son don’t pray?’
‘Oh yes they pray.’ Appa said looking out of the window. ‘You need to acquire a level of intelligence to abandon Gods from your mind. Let me say, they haven’t arrived there yet.’ Appa turned his head and stole a glance at Sister Mary Edwards and asked with a melancholic smile, ‘Why did you want to see me?’
Sister responded with a menacing edge to her voice. ‘Because your son has abused our Lord Jesus. He has sinned.’
‘Sinned?’ Appa’s eyebrows shot up. ‘How? What has he done?’
‘It’s terrible, sir. I have reprimanded Siva many times. I have told him he should be with the boys, playing cricket, cycling and all that. He spends too much time with the girls. Particularly that Rebecca. She is a wayward, motherless child and I think she’s a very bad influence on Siva.’
‘I don’t see anything wrong with her,’ Appa said. ‘And she is Siva’s friend.’
‘But she’s not a decent girl.’
‘I don�
��t understand. What has she done?’
A foul look came on Sister Mary Edwards’ face. ‘It’s horrible. See for yourself.’ Sister clapped her hands. ‘Siva, come out, your father is here.’
I stepped out into the room. Appa’s eyebrows arched and his eyes widened, a nerve twitched on his temple. Creases of a smirk showed on his face. He then opened his mouth in an unrestrained laugh. ‘I thought it was something serious.’
‘It is serious. Very serious and it’s no laughing matter, sir. And it is that Rebecca who dressed him like this. I am telling you, that girl is no good.’ Sister’s face was stern. ‘Look at him, sir. See your son. Look at him. See him.’
‘I see him.’ Appa said chuckling.
‘What do you see?’
‘What do I see?’ Appa’s eyebrows knit together; on his face was a scowl of annoyance. ‘I see Siva.’
‘See, that’s your trouble, sir.’ Sister thumped the desk with her hand to prove her point. ‘That’s not who you see.’
‘I don’t? Who do I see then?’ Appa’s face turned from amused to serious. Sister clasped her hands in front of her chest and looked at Appa condescendingly. ‘You see Jesus, sir. That face does not belong to your son, it belongs to our Lord Jesus. How can Jesus wear cosmetics? And if he does then His face will become a lie. And Jesus does not want it like that. Remember, Jesus is watching all of us. You may not believe in Jesus, but for Him you are His son and He believes in you.’ She used her Punishment voice. ‘Your son should be what Jesus made him. A boy. This is what Jesus wants him to be.’ She held out the uniform. ‘Siva, change into these, clean your face and then you can go home with your father.’ She raised her forefinger and shook it. ‘Now don’t forget to say your Hail Marys for a whole week.’ Turning to Appa she added, ‘You should have his hair cut, sir. Look how long it is.’
In the car Appa burst out laughing. Then he gave me a playful wink. ‘Did you hear what the teacher said, Siva? She said you are brilliant. Very good, son, I am proud of you.’ He turned his head and looked at me. ‘But let us give her the benefit of doubt. She may be right you know. You should play with the boys, not girls. Don’t be with that Rebecca all the time, kanna. Did you not hear what your teacher said? You should be with boys, play cricket, football, and bicycle… do something more constructive.’ He leant across, put his arm around me and pulled me closer and kissed my head. ‘Tell you what. We’ll get up early in the morning and go to the beach, you and me. We will play cricket.’
IF YOU LOOK FOR ME, I AM NOT HERE Page 15