Disowned

by Tikiri

  “You girls need to get to bed now,” Grandma said as soon as we walked in. I glanced at her wallet lying open on a chair on top of a pile of papers.

  “What happened?” I demanded. “What did you do?”

  Grandma snorted but said nothing else.

  Aunty Shilpa didn’t look up.

  “Tell me what happened!”

  No one spoke.

  It was not until the following week I understood the future I’d been promised.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’d just come home from school to find Grandma having her afternoon nap. Aunty Shilpa hadn’t come home from work yet and Preeti was nowhere to be seen.

  Ever since the marriage broker had visited us, the apartment felt claustrophobic, like the air had thinned and the walls were closing in. I felt nauseous just walking through the door. Aunty Shilpa was appearing more and more downcast. She may have won a few battles here and there, but she had no power to win this war against Grandma. There were days when she stopped looking me in the eye.

  Preeti had begun to get absorbed in her books. She stopped going to the beach, listening to music, or eating pineapple ice pops with me. She kept her nose firmly planted in her textbooks, eighteen hours a day, at school, on the bus, and at home. I found myself on my own more often than not. In one night, I’d lost my two closest friends.

  I threw my satchel on the sofa and decided to go to the beach alone. Still in my uniform, I slipped outside and pulled the doorknob gently behind me. The last thing I wanted was for Grandma to wake up and ask where I was going.

  “Where you going?”

  I jumped and nearly banged the door shut.

  “Oh!” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t see you… um… er…Uncle Kristadasa.” In India, it was customary to address anyone old enough to be your parent as Uncle or Aunty, even if they were strangers. It was a matter of respect, I was told. I stood by the door, confused. What do I call someone older than Papa, but who’s planning to marry me? Uncle? Brother? Cousin? Preeti and Aunty Shilpa would have known the right thing to say, but they weren’t with me.

  The man stood in front of me, his bulbous nose bigger than ever, his floppy belly hanging out of the top of his dirty pants. As usual, he reeked of feni, the vile liquor sold at night at the corner coffee shop, where I’d seen him loitering with the rest of the men from our housing complex. Aunty Shilpa said I’d go blind if I ever drank that stuff. Kristadasa was looking at me with bloodshot eyes, and I couldn’t help but notice the hair popping out of his ears like black thickets.

  He cleared his throat loudly and spat phlegm on the floor. I quivered in disgust.

  “What you doing going outside alone?”

  “I…I, er, was going to join Preeti and Aunty Shilpa,” I said.

  “You come with me.”

  I looked at him, startled, and shook my head.

  “You come upstairs,” he said, louder this time.

  I glanced behind him at the corridor. The place was deserted. The neighbors were either having their afternoon naps or out doing chores. The kids in the complex were probably playing in the dust patch outside. This man lived just above us. All he had to do was pull me up one flight of stairs. I felt a shiver go through me.

  “Sorry, but I’ve got to go back to school,” I lied.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said and looked away. I never could lie well.

  He shook his head as if he’d caught me up to mischief. He looked down at my school uniform and leered. “Just like foreign girls, no? Running around in short skirts by yourself.”

  “I’m not a foreign girl,” I replied in a defiant tone that surprised even me. I was getting tired of everyone calling me foreign. Isn’t this my father’s hometown? When am I going to belong like everyone else?

  “Yes, just like foreign white girl.” He leaned in and put his hand on the door. “But I own you now.” I felt the weight of his arm on my shoulder. His face was inches from mine. He was scaring me now.

  “I have to go,” I said, ducking under his arm. Within half a second, I felt my body slam against the wall. He’d pinned me with his body, my face squished against his disgusting belly. I struggled to push him away, but he was too strong, too big; it was like the weight of India was on me. I heard his belt slither out of his pant loops and I felt him undo his zipper. He pulled up my skirt. I opened my mouth to scream but a hefty hand clamped down on my mouth. I desperately moved my head from side to side. I struggled to pull away. I tried to scream. But he had me pinned down tight. There was no way out. That was when the feeling of steel started to weave through my spine. His dirty, greasy fingers were over my mouth. I pulled back my lips, bared my teeth, and bit down. Hard.

  “Oy!” he yelled, pulling his hand away.

  I wasn’t finished. I pulled up my knee and hit him squarely between his legs—Slam!—with a kiai cry, exactly like I’d done many times at my martial arts classes at the international schools, long ago.

  “Aaargh!” he said, clutching his crotch. He dropped to his knees in front of me, his hair standing straight like he’d been given an electric shock. My heart was pounding, fear and anger coursing through me. I lifted my knee again. “Nooooo!” he screeched, shielding his body with his arms and shuffling back on his knees. I aimed for his thigh instead. Wham. As soon as I made contact, I slipped out. He howled, either in pain or shame, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t care.

  “You witch!” On his knees, still clasping his groin, he turned to me, his face flushed red in rage. “I will trash you to pieces!” His roar blew back my hair. By now, he’d have woken Grandma and everyone else in the building. “Wait till I get my hands on you!”

  I didn’t wait to find out. I turned around, pulled our apartment door open, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut. I stood staring at it for a few seconds, shaking like a jellyfish, until I realized I hadn’t locked the door. Oh my god. I turned the latch quickly, thankful he hadn’t come barging in.

  After a few seconds, I put my ear against the door and listened but only heard my own heart beating like a hammer. Then, I heard heavy footsteps dragging outside. Loud cursing. A door slamming. Then quiet. Not another sound from the corridor.

  “Grandma!” I screamed, turning around. “Grandma!” I ran toward the bedroom. My legs felt like they’d give way any minute. My heart was thumping like crazy. What just happened? Why did he try to attack me?

  Grandma was lying on her mattress in the room she and Aunty Shilpa shared. “What is all this banging and shouting, girl?” she said angrily, looking up. “You will give me a heart attack, I tell you.”

  “Grandma!” I plopped down beside her. “Kristadasa tried to hurt me!”

  “What are you talking about?” Grandma said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  “He pushed me on the wall. He pulled my skirt up. Just now. It was awful! He tried to—”

  “What is this sacrilegious thing you are saying?” She stopped and stared at me through her cataract-white eyes.

  “He’s just outside our door! Right now! He pushed me on the wall and tried to attack me, but I bit on his finger and—”

  Smack. I sat stunned for a few seconds, then slowly brought my hand to my cheek. My face was throbbing in pain. I looked at her in shock.

  “Grandma, why did—?”

  “You say bad lies like that and I will disown you from this family. You understand?” she hissed.

  “But, but… I’m telling the truth…”

  “If I ever hear you make up dirty stories like this again about your future husband or anyone else, you will sleep on the street, do you hear? You will live in the dump and pick garbage with the untouchables. You won’t be part of this family anymore.” Grandma’s voice was steady. This wasn’t like the angry scoldings or slaps I’d felt before. Her mouth was set in a straight grim line. Her white-washed eyes were cold, hard.

  “I won’t have this kind of behavior ruining our family’s honor.”

  I stared at her
with my mouth open.

  “Shut your mouth, girl. That is not attractive for a bride.” Grandma got up from the mat and fixed her sari. “This is all your stupid mother’s fault,” she said, throwing her hands in the air and giving me a scowl. “You don’t know basic decency.”

  Grandma walked out of the room muttering to herself, but I heard her. “What was he thinking, that son of mine, marrying a foreign girl? Should have disowned him years ago.”

  A chill went through my spine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I walked out of the apartment like a zombie.

  As soon as I got outside the complex, I picked up my pace and walked faster. I began a mindless jog, and after two minutes, I broke into a run. I ran past the bus station. I ran past the markets, and all the stores and streets that were familiar to me now. I ran and ran until I could run no longer, until I felt my feet slither on sand.

  I stopped to catch my breath. I was on a stretch of beautiful white sandy beach, next to a line of coconut trees swaying in the afternoon breeze. I leaned against a tree and stared at the ocean in front of me, panting, my mind buzzing like I had live electric wires in my head. I listened to the waves crashing on the shore, a soothing sound in contrast to the hammering of my heart.

  Far away, a bright yellow sun was slowly sinking into the horizon. It winked at me as I watched. I stared at this scene, not sure what to think or how to feel. It was karma raising its ugly head again, I knew. It was karma punishing me for stealing those ruby red sandals for Chanda back in Tanzania, long ago. Haven’t I paid my dues with my parents’ deaths? Is karma so insatiable? How much longer do I have to be punished?

  Grandma’s threat to cast me out of the family hurt far more than what Kristadasa had tried to do. If he’d been waiting outside the building afterward, I’d have made easy prey. My fighting blood had cooled. My thoughts had been elsewhere. Why didn’t Grandma do something? Why didn’t she believe me?

  Part of me felt guilty for being angry at her. This was the woman who’d taken me in when I had no one else in the world. She’d put me through school, fed me, and gave me stability at a time when I’d felt utterly alone. But how can she blame me for what happened?

  The waves continued to crash and pull away, crash and pull away, as if to tell me no matter what happens, life goes on. Yes, life goes on, but I didn’t want this life to go on.

  The sky was a vibrant maroon and purple hue now, like it was preparing for a party that evening. Around me, I could hear the sounds of people finishing their daytime lives and starting their nighttime ones—men hauling their fishing boats up the beach, friends laughing over supper at a nearby fish food stall, a transistor radio cranked up, children running around, playing their last play before being called inside to bed.

  The long fronds of the coconut trees waved gently with the wind, mocking me, taunting me. The more the trees swayed, the worse I felt. I could no longer keep track of my emotions. Anger. Guilt. Shame. Fury. Guilt again. For some reason, I felt like I’d committed an unspeakable crime. I slid down to the sand and put my head in my hands.

  That afternoon, Goa lost its luster. Like my father of long ago, all I wanted to do was escape.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Cheap service. 15,000 rupees for first immigration filing. No problemo is the motto.”

  I had noticed the garish yellow sign above the bus station before, but hadn’t thought much of it. This time, I marched toward it with only one idea in mind. I ducked under the banner and walked up the dingy, narrow stairway that smelled of urine and diesel. I was headed for the offices of the Good and Fast Immigration Broker.

  All week, I’d been lingering at the bus station or ambling mindlessly at the beach after school, biding my time until supper, dreading going anywhere near our apartment complex. The three teens had moved away from the station after the incident with the candy store man. It was a relief not to hear their catcalls when we got off the bus, though after the encounter with Kristadasa, their harassment seemed trivial.

  Meena, though, was still there, her melancholy music giving respite in the middle of the bus station’s chaos. Until then, I’d only made small talk with her, but the day I ran to the beach, I’d walked back up and had sat next to her on the pavement. She’d put her flute down and listened patiently, with a warm hand resting on my shaking shoulders. She hadn’t looked shocked; it was like she’d heard this kind of story before. Maybe she’d even experienced it. When I finished, she’d wiped the tears from my cheeks and said, “Your heart will tell you what you have to do now.” She hadn’t said much more and instead played a song for me. But I knew she would approve of what I was feeling in my bones.

  I wanted so badly to tell Preeti and Aunty Shilpa what had happened with Kristadasa, but every time I tried, my mouth refused to open. It was like a five-ton hippo had settled on top of my shoulders, and had also taken control of my tongue. I had a hard time looking them in the eye that evening, feeling sure they’d blame me for what happened, just like Grandma did.

  But I didn’t have to worry because they hardly talked to me anymore. Preeti had begun to burrow herself in her books, and Aunty Shilpa was working back-to-back shifts at the hotel, and whenever she was home, she slept, and Grandma wouldn’t allow me near her. “She’s working hard every day to pay the marriage broker. Don’t you dare wake her up.”

  My mind went over the incident again and again and again. If only I’d stayed home that afternoon like Grandma said I should have done. If only I’d been a good little Indian girl like Grandma said I should. It was my fault for trying to go out alone. Maybe Grandma was right after all. I wasn’t a good girl. I deserved it. Maybe, maybe, maybe… All I knew was Grandma had banished me, Preeti had become distant, and Aunty Shilpa was almost never home. For the first time since my parents died, I felt completely alone again.

  “The vegetable shop is downstairs,” said the man behind the desk at the Good and Fast Immigration Broker. He didn’t even look up from his newspaper.

  I looked around his office. On one wall were outdated travel posters of the Eiffel Tower, the Red Square, and the London Bridge with a double-decker bus driving over it. Above all these hung a white cross. Another wall was dedicated entirely to miniature statues of all the Hindu gods in the world. They posed on their wooden stands on shelves that ran the length of the wall.

  Directly behind the main desk where the man sat ignoring me were three framed pictures. At the bottom was a yellowed black-and-white photo of an old woman in a sari. Above her was a cheap print of Lord Vishnu in all his blue glory, standing on a lily pad in the middle of a river surrounded by beautiful, half-dressed maidens. Flower garlands and gold necklaces decorated his neck, and a halo made of live cobra heads surrounded his bejeweled head. Above this mythical image was a poster of Rambo. I did a double take. Yes, it was a faded poster of the movie First Blood with a muscled-up Sylvester Stallone carrying a gigantic machine gun.

  The Good and Fast Immigration Broker was located on top of the bus station, so I could hear each and every bus rev in and out. The smell of gas fumes and the heat from the station rose up and stagnated in this room. There was another faintly familiar smell—not a pleasant one. How can anyone breathe in here?

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said loudly, so the man could hear me over the buses. “I want to go overseas, and I want to take my cousin Preeti and Aunty Shilpa with me.”

  “Oh?”

  The man laid his paper on the desk and looked surprised to find me. His eyes slithered over me, from my head to my toes. He was a slim man in an ill-fitting gray suit with a pencil-thin mustache above his lips. The V-shaped white dust mark on his forehead told me he’d recently visited a local temple. I stood in front of him with my satchel in one hand, feeling like I was in front of our school principal.

  “What do you want?” he barked.

  “I want to take my family abroad, sir.”

  “And where does this girl, with her cousin and her good aunty, all want to go?�
�

  I didn’t hesitate one second. “Tanzania.”

  Silence. The man burst into laughter. “Ha- ha- ha!” His uneven, yellowed teeth made him look like a hyena under the subdued light. A gold-colored tooth glinted momentarily. “Why on earth do you want to go there?”

  “Because my parents are buried there.”

  He stared at me intently. I stared back.

  Mr. Mudenda had told me my parents would always live on Tanzanian soil. He’d also told me I was welcome to visit when I got older. I was now old enough to travel, I was sure. Besides, I wanted nothing more than to sit at my parents’ graves. The knot that had formed in my stomach after the car crash had never gone away. It sat there, heavy and bloated, interfering with my digestion and sleep every now and then. I had many questions about their death, and I felt it was my duty to go back home.

  “Tanzania?” the man asked. “Are you sure?”

  “You want to go see black people?” Fartybag’s voice came from a dim corner of the room. I spun around. There he was with his mocking grin, loafing on a broken rattan chair. He was sucking on a mango and watching a grainy version of Rambo at low volume on a black-and-white TV. Large letters scrolled across the bottom, almost obscuring the movie. “Violation of movie copyright is a serious federal offense. If you see this message, please call 1-800-259-1009 immediately.” I hadn’t seen Fartybag when I’d walked in, but that was the smell I’d noticed earlier. He grinned at my surprise.

  “What do you know about Africa?” I asked.

  “I saw Cannibal Attack on TV,” he said, pointing a mango-juice-soaked finger at the small screen. “If you go there, they’ll chop you up and eat you. Everybody knows that.”

  “What’re you doing here?” I asked, frowning.

  “I’m the right-hand man. The second in command, assistant in chief,” he said, sitting up and puffing out his chest. “So why don’t you get out like Appa said, or I’ll punch you in the nose.”