‘I’m your mother,’ she replied. ‘I know everything.’
‘But how do you know?’ he persisted.
‘Because you have a penis,’ she said as she threw a handful of something into the frying pan. It crackled and sputtered, and the kitchen was filled with a pungent smoke that stung his eyes.
‘You mean girls don’t have penises?’ he asked her, alarmed, his hand inside his shorts.
‘No, they don’t,’ she said, stirring the thing that was in the frying pan.
‘How do they pee then?’ he asked.
‘They have a little opening, right where your penis is.’
Orko thought about that for a while. He still remembers the moment when it became clear as day. ‘So if I didn’t have a penis, I could do whatever I want?’
‘That’s not entirely true,’ his mother said. The pressure cooker let out a terrifying hiss, and Orko waited patiently for his mother to finish whatever she was doing to it. He felt desperate.
‘What if we went to the doctor and asked him to cut it off?’ he asked. ‘Can I wear a saree then? And earrings, like Urmi?’
‘You can’t just cut off parts of your body,’ his mother said. ‘Each part of your body is there for a reason.’
‘But you don’t have a penis, and you’re okay,’ he said.
‘There are things that you won’t understand until you’re grown up,’ his mother replied.
Orko walked back to his mother’s room, crestfallen. He remembers that he left the shawl on the kitchen floor, because he got a scolding afterwards. It wasn’t very long after this that his mother disappeared. Everybody said she died because her heart stopped beating; Orko didn’t believe it then, and he only half-believes it now.
His mother’s wardrobe is an everyday piece of furniture. There’s one like it in almost every bedroom that he has been in. The taupe paint has begun to peel near the edges. There’s an arc around the keyhole, flecked with rust, where the keys scraped the paint when his mother left them hanging there. There’s a full-length mirror on the left panel. He removes the keys from his father’s wardrobe and holds them up by the clasp. He selects a key at random and inserts it into the keyhole of his mother’s wardrobe. When it turns all the way, he’s breathless.
He gently pushes the handle downwards. It lets out a screech of protest. He tugs at the handle, and the door comes ajar with a dull metallic whine as the hinges grate against the rust of the years. The lower shelves are empty, lined with yellowing newspaper from a decade ago. Above them, level with his eyes, are his mother’s dress sarees – she wore these to weddings and to dinner invitations. She would be very cross if he took one of these.
He gingerly touches the blue silk saree in the far right corner. It’s smoother than it looks, and it’s cold to the touch. This is a special saree; his mother wore it two days after her wedding, for a ceremony that required her to serve food to her new husband’s family. The saree looks fragile, and he moves on to another one. This one is peach, with a black border. It’s stiff with starch. He carefully takes it off its hanger and spreads it out on the bed, like his mother used to. The folds are stubborn, like the folds of a letter that was forgotten for decades between the pages of a book. He tucks the top edge of the diaphanous garment into the waistband of his jeans. He surprises himself by the dexterity with which he brings it together – the wrap, the pleat, the tuck. As he’s draping the trail over his shoulder, he realises that he’s worn it the wrong way around; his mother always had the drape over her right shoulder. He unwinds it, all the way. He wants it to be just right, and wearing a saree over a pair of jeans and a T-shirt doesn’t feel right.
On the top shelf is a stack of blouses and petticoats, but he can’t find a set that goes with the saree. He picks a different saree – the mauve one that his mother wore when she went to visit Urmi’s mother, or to the grocery shops in the neighbourhood. He takes off his shirt. There’s a wispy growth of hair on his chest, and he tries not to look at it as he puts on the blouse. It’s a little tight around his shoulders as he fastens the hooks. He steps out of his jeans and into the mauve petticoat. When he’s done fastening the drawstring around his waist, the garment falls an inch short of his ankles. He tucks the edge of the saree into the waistband, and he winds it the right way this time. This saree is lighter, and it isn’t starched.
He’s almost pleased by what he sees in the mirror. His hair is too short, his earlobes are bare and his chest is as flat as a board, but the saree looks pretty on him. He whirls around and around, until the room is turning circles around him. He looks at his reflection, sideways, like his mother used to when she dressed for a special occasion. He clips the keyring to his waistband and paces the floor, as if he’s trying on a new pair of shoes.
He has never felt like this before. He loves the sensation of the soft fabric against his skin. He feels unfettered, his legs unconstrained. He pictures himself walking down the Gariahat boulevard with Urmi. The tables are turned now – she’s the child, in her school uniform, and he’s the grown-up, in a saree. He feels afloat, like a feather in the breeze.
When he glances at the mirror again, he remembers a tram ride with his father a few years ago. A woman boarded their carriage, in a saree much like the one he’s wearing now. She had a well-worn handbag on her shoulder, and a large jute shopping bag in her hand. Some of the men in the carriage started heckling her, and when she protested, the pitch of her voice was lower than the average woman’s. The conductor refused to sound the bell until she left the carriage.
‘Who was that woman?’ Orko had asked his father when they got off the tram. ‘Why did they treat her like that?’
‘That’s no woman,’ said his father. ‘He’s a hijra. A damaged man. They shouldn’t have treated him so badly, though.’
‘Why didn’t you say something, then?’ he asked.
‘When you live in society, you agree to follow a set of rules,’ said his father. ‘When you break the rules, you have to be prepared for the consequences.’
‘But she wasn’t bothering anyone,’ Orko protested.
‘Well, if he dressed like a decent man, no one would bother him,’ his father replied.
To Orko, the woman in the tram didn’t look like a man at all. Nothing about her manner was masculine in any way. He imagined her in trousers and a polo shirt, like his father was wearing that day, but it didn’t quite fit.
Since that tram ride, Orko has come across many more hijra people. Although his father said that they were men, this is difficult for Orko to accept. It is true that some of them are more manly than others, but it seems inaccurate to refer to them as men. They don’t dress like men. They don’t talk or walk like men, with that air of entitlement about them. When they speak among themselves, there is a distinct incongruity between the timbre of their voices and the inflections at the end of their sentences. They don’t work in offices and in banks; they aren’t shop minders or bus conductors or rickshaw drivers. They are on the footpath, milling around food stalls, clapping, until the vendor pays them or gives them some free food to make them go away. They are at traffic signals, clapping at car windows until disembodied hands appear through hastily rolled down windows to drop a few coins in their outstretched palms.
Last Tuesday, Orko was going to Bishu’s house, riding on the crossbar of Bishu’s bicycle, when they passed a troupe of hijras, singing and dancing in front of a one-storey house. The youngest of them couldn’t have been much older than Orko. She was wearing a yellow saree, and her golden earrings shone in the sun. Her long black hair was in a bun, held together with a pencil. Her features held the faintest of clues that she had once been a boy.
She smiled at them when they passed, and this made Bishu very angry. He let loose a string of expletives, many of which Orko had never heard before. When they had left the hijras behind, he told Orko that they carried off babies and young boys and chopped off their penises with a machete. The boys’ families were so ashamed that they didn’t even file
a police report. The boys with the severed penises remained with the hijras, and that was how they grew their number.
‘But why do they do that?’ Orko asked, incredulous.
‘Because they themselves are damaged. They’re perverts. Deviants. And let me tell you this – if you don’t change your ways, they’re going to come after you.’
Although a part of him was horrified, Orko couldn’t help but wonder about the girl in the yellow saree. She was like any other young girl, and she didn’t look like she was being held against her will.
When they went upstairs, to the room on the terrace, Bishu was still angry. ‘I saw the way you looked at that young one,’ he said. ‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’
When Bishu asked him to take off his clothes, he complied swiftly. Bishu’s gaze followed him as he hurried to the bed. He lay face-down, and imagined that he was alone in this room, with no one leering at him. The sheet smelt of mildew, its block print a maroon blur. He bit his lip as Bishu moved inside of him. It went on forever and, near the end, all sensation ceased. It was almost as if he were floating above the bed, watching Bishu’s corpulent form writhe against the body of a stranger. He came crashing down when the familiar grunt escaped Bishu’s throat. He hoped Bishu wouldn’t ask him to do the other thing, and he realised, in that moment, that Bishu had his own designs on him, and the lessons were just a pretext. He no longer believed a word Bishu said. The hijras couldn’t possibly be so cruel as to chop off penises with machetes. He didn’t see that depravity in their eyes. Bishu was the depraved one. Bishu was the pervert.
Now, Orko is angrier than he has ever been. He’s angry with Bishu, of course. He’s angry with his father for suggesting that he join the football camp. Most of all, he’s angry with himself for putting up with it for so long.
It’s three in the afternoon, and although Orko hasn’t eaten all day, he isn’t hungry. When the phone rings he knows it’s his father even before he picks up the receiver.
‘I’m going to be here for a few more days,’ his father says. ‘Kabul-kaka is better, but he isn’t out of the woods yet.’
‘Okay,’ says Orko. When his voice broke a few years ago, Orko was deeply unsettled. It took him a while to grow used to the gruff, uneven sound, and during those months he spoke only when it was absolutely necessary. Now his voice sounds strange again, and suddenly he doesn’t feel pretty anymore.
‘I’ve spoken to your aunt,’ his father goes on. ‘She’s expecting you. You’re to stay with her until I’m back.’
‘Okay,’ says Orko again. He sits there by the phone, wishing that he didn’t have to go to his aunt’s house. He wishes he could be here, by himself, forever. He wishes he could go to Urmi’s, in the saree, and sit at her kitchen table, sharing a pot of tea with her. He thinks about the girl in the yellow saree, and it dawns on him that he doesn’t know her name.
Five
It’s evening when Orko reaches his grandfather’s house. Sudeshna suggests they have dinner at a Chinese restaurant in the neighbourhood. ‘It’s a new restaurant,’ she says. ‘Manju’s family runs the place.’
The name doesn’t ring a bell, and Orko isn’t particularly keen on having a conversation with a stranger. When they reach the restaurant, which is called the Golden Dragon, his aunt asks after Manju even before they’re seated. Orko is relieved when the doorman informs them that she won’t be coming in tonight.
They’re the only diners at the restaurant. They choose a table in the corner, away from the air conditioner. There’s a menu card on their table. Sudeshna slides it across to Orko, but he hands it back to her without reading it. ‘I’ll just have some soup,’ he says. Sudeshna orders chicken soup, with sweet corn. Orko tells the waiter that they’re cold. The man hurries away with an inscrutable nod of his head.
The Golden Dragon is, in many ways, a typical Chinese restaurant. There are six tables in all, draped in chequered tablecloths, red and white. At the centre of their table are three glass pods, containing soya sauce, chilli sauce and chopped green chillies floating in vinegar. The music is typical, and although he hasn’t heard this particular tune, he knows that it’s Kenny G. Their waiter stands by the entrance to the kitchen, and he refills Sudeshna’s glass moments after she takes a sip of water. Orko imagines having a job like that, standing by the kitchen door for hours, keeping track of every sip of water, every mouthful of chow mein.
The dim lighting reminds him of the room on Bishu’s terrace. He counts the squares on the tablecloth to distract himself, but he can’t get to twenty before he has to start over. He hears his aunt speak, but he doesn’t comprehend the words. The inflection at the end of the sentence tells him that it had been a question. He can’t stop counting the squares on the tablecloth. He’s up to sixty-seven when she reaches for his hand.
‘Is everything all right, Orko?’ she asks.
‘I’m just a little tired,’ Orko replies. He tries to smile, but his eyes well up with tears. The glass pods shimmer against the red and white squares.
‘I’ve known you since the day you were born,’ says his aunt. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that.’
Orko considers making up a story, but he knows, from years of experience, that he won’t get away with it.
‘Baba sent me to a football camp,’ he begins. The rest of it comes to him in a series of stills, like a story about somebody else. He tries to make a simple sentence, to describe the images, but he can’t. He remembers the time when he was convinced that his father was mixed up with terrorists – he had been absolutely sanguine, and yet, when he started putting the pieces together so his grandfather would understand, it all fell apart. And then his grandfather died.
He draws a deep breath, but it is as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. There’s something straining against the insides of his chest, and the moment he becomes aware of it, it rushes out of him in a wretched whimper. His aunt is by his side in the blink of an eye. She puts her arm around him. The waiter rushes to their table, but his aunt waves him away. She places her hand between his shoulder blades and he feels the air rush into his lungs. He begins to shiver, and he knows that he can’t hold back anymore. He weeps, until his head hurts and his cheeks are muddy with tears. The tip of his nose feels numb. He reaches for a napkin, but it is crisp to the touch. His aunt offers him the trail of her saree. He remembers blowing his nose on this saree, but he can’t remember if it was his mother or his aunt who was wearing it at the time.
They sit quietly, side by side, until the waiter brings them their soup. It smells delicious, and Orko remembers that he hasn’t eaten all day. He wolfs down the steaming bowl of soup in silence. His aunt takes her time, and Orko is glad, because Sudeshna speaks very little while she’s eating.
‘Would you like some chow mein?’ she asks him as she tilts the bowl away from her for the last spoonful of soup. He shakes his head, and his aunt asks their waiter for the bill. Orko resumes his count of the squares on the tablecloth, ashamed that he made such a spectacle of himself.
The waiter returns with the change. Sudeshna leaves behind a few coins, fewer than his father leaves as a tip when they eat at the Chinese restaurant in their neighbourhood. The man at the door smiles at them, but Orko looks away. On the short walk back to his grandfather’s house, he walks a few steps ahead of his aunt. He’s afraid that he’s going to end up telling her about the room on Bishu’s terrace, and that she won’t want anything to do with him afterwards. When they’re back in the house, he heads straight for the bathroom, and he stays there for much longer than it takes him to brush his teeth and change into his pyjamas.
The last time he spent the night in this house, Orko was in his grandfather’s room, and he slept poorly, if at all. There was a presence in the room that night, and he felt as if he were being watched. He switched on the light but the feeling refused to go away. He doesn’t believe in ghosts anymore, but that night he had wished he wasn’t alone.
When he comes ou
t of the bathroom, his mouth smelling of toothpaste, his aunt is in bed, reading. ‘May I sleep in your room tonight?’ he asks her sheepishly.
His aunt looks up from her book. ‘Of course you can,’ she says. Orko feels like he’s twelve years old again, because that’s how old he was the last time he slept in his aunt’s bed. She ruffles his hair. ‘Good boy,’ she says, before she turns out the light.
Orko lies in bed stiffly, his hands on his stomach. He feels distinctly odd, lying beside his aunt in the dark. He worries that he’s going to kick her in his sleep. Outside, the sounds of traffic die out as the evening winds down. His aunt’s silhouette is perfectly still, and it reminds Orko of his grandfather’s lifeless form in the armchair on the balcony. He listens for the sound of her breathing, but all he can hear is the ticking of the clock on the nightstand. Just as he’s beginning to panic, she raises her hand to her mouth and lets out a quiet cough.
‘You don’t have to go to the football camp if you don’t want to,’ she says.
‘Baba said that I should play a team sport,’ he replies. While that isn’t a lie, it isn’t the truth either. The truth is that he signed up for football to spite Urmi, and he continues to go to Bishu’s terrace because he’s afraid that he is going to be expelled, and that she will laugh at him if she finds out.
‘I’ve spent ten years teaching adolescent boys,’ Sudeshna says ruefully. ‘I wish you asked me before you signed up.’ Orko hears her sigh over the ticking of the clock on the nightstand. ‘I don’t know what happened to you, but something clearly has,’ she continues. ‘I just want you to know that you’re a beautiful boy. Sometimes people will treat you badly, for no reason at all. You must always remember that it’s not your fault.’
Not for the first time this week, Orko feels like an impostor. Just this morning, as he spoke to his father on the phone while dressed in his mother’s saree, he felt like the ugliest creature alive. Even the kindest person in the whole world wouldn’t say that he was beautiful. Would his aunt still think that he was beautiful and blameless if she saw him dressed like that?
Fern Road Page 8