Growing Up

Growing Up

Their plan to take food from the kitchen and sneak out through the same window came to an end when their mother saw them. She pulled them down from the window-pane, and bellowed that their father was a mongrel, a dog, and showed them her bruises and told how he hit her with his belt and kicked her on the stomach; they looked down, and tried to bring pity on their faces. Their mother wailed and slapped each of them twice. She hollered that they were not listening, ran away when their father beat her. She hastened out, cursing, when she heard the sound of their father’s scooter. When she looked up, she saw her brother climbing out of the window. Panicked, she gave a cry and clutched his shirt. I’m coming, she cried. Wait for me, I’m coming. As they walked away from the house, they could hear abuses, curses; falling of objects—on floor and flesh; and shrieks, moans, and coughs. She tightened her clutch, and moved closer to him. The sound of his feet brushing the grass, his muffled breaths, and the warmth of his hand against her cheek – these were the only things that mattered. The sounds from the house now seemed to come from a faraway place, and didn’t matter.

He had said that he would teach her how to whistle, but instead, after their frugal meal on the rocks, he squatted with her in the tall grass, and looked at the empty bench. They had been playing this game since four days, and all they did was hiding in the grass, filling mosquito-tummies, until a girl came and jogged past the bench.
Can we play something else? she asked.
This is not a game, he replied.


Barely audible above the cursing and crying of his parents in the other room were the shrieks of his five-day-old sister, who lay in the cradle, fidgeting in her cocoon-cover, her hand stretched out towards the Almighty. After a moment’s hesitation, he went back, tied her cocoon with a cloth to his back, and came out. He did this for four years, and by then she was old enough to climb the window and follow him on her own. In the tall grass outside their house, he taught her how to clap, walk, speak, peck his cheeks, pray with closed eyes, and shut ears when their mother wept and called their names from the house. Before she went to kindergarten, he taught her that A is for Apple, B is for Ball, and before he reached C is for Cat, their Nanaji arrived with Nina. Nina regularly met them at six in the evening, and he started spending their growing up hours Nina, laughing, playing, and accidently pecking her cheeks, while his sister waited for him with a pencil and a copy in her right hand. She hurt her right hand, and had to miss the first three days of kindergarten. With a pencil and a copy in her left hand, she waited for him to come and start again from A is for Apple. When he didn’t come, she realised that the problem wasn’t with C is for Cat. He started beating her, didn’t help her climb the window, didn’t include her in his game, and even whispered to Nina that her B’s looked liked two punctured balloons. Without his teaching, she learnt how to cry, without a sound. She cried in her books, in the tall grass, in the closet at two. No one saw, no one heard. And one day he ran away with Nina.


Three years had gone since he had run away. As she crouched with him in the grass and looked into his eyes, which were staring at the empty bench, she understood why, since four days, he had been talking rudely to her, didn’t help her climb the window or teach her how to whistle. She didn’t know from where those two tears came, choked her eyes, and blocked him from view. She wiped them with her skirt. When she tried to grab his shirt, she realised he wasn’t there. He had run away with the jogging-girl. She couldn’t stop him this time also. She looked around, bewildered, and scratched and pillaged the air, but it didn’t spit him out. She whined, and attacked the grass, but it too didn’t spit him out. She was about to shriek when she saw him sitting on the bench they had been staring at. He gave an angry glare when she tried to dash towards him. She squatted back and cried, silently, wiping each tear soon as it appeared in case it again blocked him from view.

After he was asleep that day, she joined her hands, closed one eye (kept the other on him), and prayed to Bhagwanji to kill the jogging-girl in an accident; she had prayed the same for Nina when he had run away with her. Her prayer was answered then, because he had come back ten days later. She climbed on a chair and checked if the door and windows were latched, and then, content, clenched his shirt with both hands and went to sleep.


When he met her outside his class, he didn’t ask her why she was waiting under the sun not shade, how her day went, or if she had finished her tiffin. Nonetheless, she told him. He took her to the tea stall outside Hansraj College, and told her to hold his school-bag. After the classes were over, he followed a group of students to the public library, and made his sister sit outside to guard their school-bags. She shivered with fear when, on the fourth day, she saw the jogging-girl’s face among the students they had been following. Next morning she told him she was ill, and asked if they could stop going to school. Outside the college, she told him that it was too hot, the bags were too heavy, and she was going to faint. She caught his shirt before he went into the library, and said, Please, let’s go home. Please. Please. He hit her on the head, and said, You can go if you want. She had started praying to Bhagwanji three times a day, but He still hadn’t heard her. She told her brother one evening, You don’t help me with homework anymore and don’t even see if I have done it. Miss beat me all the time because of it and even make me stand in the sun. She wiped her tears and added: Nowadays you only follow that girl all the time. He slapped her, pushed her into the wall, and tore her homework notebook. She quietly collected the torn papers, and tried to tape them. She woke up at two in the night, after he was asleep, hid in the closet, and cried without a sound. From the next day on she quietly trailed behind him, carrying his bag, while he followed the jogging-girl, and when they came home in the evening, she prayed to Bhagwanji five times. At night, she cried, without a sound - in the torn notebook, in the pillow, in the closet at two – until she ran out of tears or the dawn broke. She collected her tears in a handkerchief, and washed them off in the washbasin. No one saw, no one heard.


When she woke up at three in the night, she realised that she was clutching his blanket, not his shirt. She searched the blanket and pillows, but didn’t find him. He had finally run away. She pulled her hair when she realised that she had forgotten to latch the doors and windows. She hid in the closet and cried, and on her way to the washbasin to dispose off the tears, she found him sitting on a chair, panting, holding a photograph. He stood up two minutes later, and saw her squatting by the door, smiling, looking at him, with two tears stuck on her chin. She had barely wiped them and whispered, Where had you gone? when he started slapping her.



* * * * * * * * * *



From watching TV and listening to his friends, he knew that there were beautiful girls in big schools in metros. But that was a different world, and far away from his; so far that it didn’t seem to exist. When he first saw Riya, he felt the two worlds had momentarily touched each other, and she was its beautiful tangent. He dashed about the tall grass gasping like a hungry dog, trying to steal another look at her white arms and cheeks, and the curves of her lips and hips and hair.
He would refuse to go with his friends when they roamed about the town after school hours, scouting for girls. Two of them had girlfriends now. What stopped him? His self-righteousness? Or the little girl crying at home? She squatted next to him now, looking into his eyes, clutching his shirt more tightly than she used to until last week. What are you looking at? he hollered. She looked down and played with a grass-blade. He jerked away her hand from his shirt. It crept back. He slapped her.


He realized that not only his eyes, but his other senses were hungry as well. From fourth day onwards, he went and sat on the bench. Every ten days Riya would come and sit next to him to tie her shoe-lace. Her bare hands would be a foot away from his, but his skin could feel their heat. For a moment, he stopped breathing to listen to her breath: it was loud, warm, and filled with her smell. He relished every time he breathed in, for it was the same air that touched her when she breathed out. He was about to ask her name when she jogged away; he felt something precious from his hands had slipped into an abyss. He shifted to where she had sat. The bench and air were still warm with her. He breathed fast, trying to take in whatever smell was left of her in the air.


He stood outsider her college, followed her to her house and started at the door which she touched each day, and sat on her chair in the restaurant after she had gone. He smelt all the cosmetic-shops around her house, searching for her smell, and finally found it in a Rs. 1200 Lancome bottle, the perfume she used. He stole money from his father’s wallet, and bought it. When he woke up at three in the night, closed his eyes and smelt it, he felt her presence in the room. But whatever he did, he couldn’t quench the hunger of his senses. At night, it became wild and his senses ached for her. He would rush to the bathroom and cry and pull his hair and claw his hand. He asked God why couldn’t he have been born in a richer family, gone to a bigger school, and have had Riya for his girlfriend. He asked Him why life wasn’t fair. He sat on the commode and waited for an answer. After the tears and hunger had ebbed, he went out.

One dark, sweaty night he discovered a new way to quell the hunger. It was like an epic discovery; he had found a new source of joy hidden in own body, his member. But in a few weeks, the new discovery became an obsession, a struggle, with promises of joy remaining unfulfilled at the climax.

It was the third time he was doing it that night. Sweat dripped from every part of his body, his wrist ached, and he felt a sense of defeat. It didn’t come as easily as it had the first time. Exasperated, he buttoned his pants and turned back. His sister was squatting next to the door, smiling, looking at him. Where had you gone? she whispered. He clutched her throat and slapped her. You bitch, he said, who told you to come here? After throwing her on the bed, he went to the bathroom, and tried again.


When he woke up, he found himself sitting on the commode, his pants unbuttoned. She was knocking at the door. Come out fast, she said. We are getting late for school. Miss will be angry. He looked into the mirror. His eyes were red and heavy. He hadn’t slept for more than an hour. Today he would be bunking school to stand outside the SSG Stadium, where Riya would come to play tennis, wearing short skirts; when she would sit on the bench to drink water, she would take in deep breaths, her chest would rise and fall, and air would be filled with her presence; and the sweat drops would drape her body like a blanket of dew. The hunger became violent. He sat on the commode and unbuttoned his pants. He could hear her crying from the other side of the door. Are you there? We are getting late. Speak, please, are you there or not? Please, please, speak. He called out, Go away, I am not going today. She felt relieved, and said, OK. He washed the semen and his tears and came out. Why didn’t we go to school today? she asked him. He picked up his wallet and said, I’m going somewhere. You stay here. She tried to follow him when he walked out. He hit her and locked her in the room.

He had been waiting outside the stadium since half an hour but Riya hadn’t come. He realised that he was never so impatient, so desperate before he knew Riya. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he had fallen in love with her. His heart leapt with joy at this new discovery: his incessant desire now had a sacred identity. The world suddenly transformed into a more beautiful place. She was rich and four years older, but it didn’t matter. He practiced the words as he stood outside the stadium: ‘Excuse me, what is time right now? Ok, thank you. It is nice watch.’ He was adamant he would take the first step today. When she didn’t come, he jumped over the fence when the guard wasn’t watching, and went to look in the locker room. Dejected, on his way back he saw a momentary glimpser of her in the windshield of a rocking car in the parking lot. A boy’s hand appeared and pulled her down. As he stepped closer, he heard them breathing loudly, and inhaling and feeling each other. He ran away, and abruptly stopped when he reached the open. He looked around with ghastly eyes, like he had fallen into a strange world, and was coming to terms with reality. He clutched his shirt and gasped for breath. He pulled his hair and grunted. He felt an urge to burn the whole world down. He picked up a big stone and threw it randomly. It hit a window, and an old man’s voice followed, Are you out of your mind, young kid? He felt a hot liquid being poured into his veins. His blood was charring inside. His next stone hit the old man. Someone came from behind and grabbed his throat.


His parents were fighting in the drawing room, so he had to come in through the window of his room. When their voices approached his room, he hid in the closet; he was too tired to run again. She was kneeling opposite to him.

She searched with her fingers for a part of him among the clothes. She found his hand. He had come back. He hadn’t run away. She wiped her tears. Her fingers crept closer and touched his fingers. She saw that he was crying. He grabbed her finger, and dug his nails into them. She winced and tried to draw back her hand. He banged his head against the wall and wailed. She shivered with fear; she had never seen him like this before. Then she heard her mother’s voice calling her name. She stole her fingers from his grasp, and went out. After she went away, he heard a tumult of noises from the other room: his mother pleading and cursing; the chairs and tables being upset; his father bellowing; and his sister squeaking. After five minutes, his sister came back and knelt opposite to him. She was crying.


At two o’clock, he whispered to her, Wake up and get ready, we are going to Nanaji’s house. After he switched on the light, they stared at each other. Her chin was cut and bleeding, and his face was battered, swollen, and his shirt torn. How did that happen? he asked. Papa hit me, she said. Any you? He stuffed their clothes, saving-boxes and her school books in a large polythene-bag. You took Papa’s money? she asked. He stared at her for a second. We won’t be coming back, he whispered, so take whatever you want. When she saw the thick crowd trying to squeeze into the bus, she moved closer to him and clutched his shirt with both hands. She hurriedly made her way in, pushed those who tried to pass from between them, and checked every now and then if he was there on the other end of her hand, like a mother keeping an eye on her child. He saw relief on her face only when they were seated.

He wanted to go away. He didn’t like this place anymore. Nanaji had come three years back, with his cousin Nina, whom he hadn’t met before, to quell the fight between his parents. He hid in the trunk of Nanaji’s car when he and Nina were going away. When Nanaji saw him, he didn’t chide him, and asked him to stay. He didn’t know why he came back after ten days. Now he would never come back. He didn’t care about Riya anymore. He had realised that their worlds were far apart, and separated by an untraversable distance. He would never remember her again, never, no matter how hard. He would start a new life at Nanaji’s house. You want something to eat? he asked his sister. She nodded. He rolled a puri and gave it to her. She held it toward him. No, you eat, he said.

When he had returned from Nanaji’s house, he had thought that his sister would be angry with him. Instead, she beamed with happiness when she saw him on the bus station. She talked about her school as they walked back home; she didn’t ask why he had gone. She latched the doors and windows each night after that, never let him out of sight, and clutched his shirt whenever he went out. He shouted and slapper her, but she never said why clutched it. He didn’t understand it then.



After eating, she looked outside the window. The buildings looked like series of identical dots, but she could still point out her house. She wanted to go away. She didn’t like place anymore. She put her whole weight on the handle, and tried to shut the window, but couldn’t. She leaned to her right and saw the driver lazily smoking at his seat. Whenever the thought of jogging-girl crossed her mind, tears suddenly tried to leap from heart to her eyes. From now on, she will forget the memories of the time she already had lived; she will remember the time she would live from now on, and make memories of them, which she will recall after growing up. If somebody ever asked her if she knew the joggling-girl, she would say, No, I’m sorry, I don’t know any joggling-girl. A large part of her unanimously believed that if they went away from there, things would be like they were before Nina came – they would always live together, and he would teach her different things, and help her with her homework, and always ask if she had finished her lunch box. She sighed with relief when he bent over her, and shut the window she was struggling with. When will the bus move? she asked him. In five minutes, he said. She had no more questions. She rested her head against his hand, tightly clutched his shirt, and went to sleep.

Crying in the Rain

Crying in the Rain

When the eight-year-old girl heard her name, she dashed for the nook behind the bed and crouched there. When the door opened, she closed her eyes and hid her face between her knees and chanted, Ramji Ramji Ramji Ramji. Her rhythm broke when she felt a cold wooden stick being poked against her face. She tried to chant again but the sharp pain she felt above her eye from the second poke made it hard.

“Come out,” shouted Amma.

A third poke.

“Haramzadi, are your coming out or you want me to kill you right there?”

A silence followed, which was disturbed by a screeching sound of the moving of the bed. She looked up and saw light staring at her in the face. Amma wrung her ears and pushed her head against the bed, and said, “Haramzadi, what were you doing near that tree?”

“Amma, nothing.”

“Nothing? Tell me, or I’ll break your legs. You have blackened my face today. Tell me what were you doing?”

“Amma, I was just playing. Nothing else.”

“Talking to trees and you call it just playing, huh? Haramzadi, do you know what happened? Mohit saw you talking to the tree and he told the whole basti about it. All the women were laughing at me, and some even had the guts to say, ‘Show her to a tantric and get rid of the ghosts.’ Do you know how ashamed I was feeling? Tell me the truth, was Mohit right?”

She wiped her tears and looked at Amma.

Amma gave a muffled cry and said, “So Mohit was right. I will kill you today.”

She lay on the floor, curled up, while Amma pounded the baton on her body frenziedly. A silence followed, interrupted only by her sporadic snivels. She heard a sob, which was not hers, and then the sound of the baton being thrown on the ground. When the pain eased a bit, she opened her eyes and saw Amma sitting on the floor in front of her, her face streaked with faint tear marks, her fingers pressing her eyes. She was muttering, “Why don’t you listen to me my child, why? Why are you ruining your life? Why?”

“Amma,” she said through her tearful face, “why do you beat me? I have not done anything. I was only playing with it. Why don’t you beat those people? I didn’t do anything. They even pull down my skirt down in the market and laugh at me and keep calling me, “Mad, mad”. But I don’t do anything. I wanted to throw stone at them and bite them. But I didn’t do anything because you say. Why don’t you beat them?”

“Why don’t you understand my child, why don’t you understand? I know those people are animals. But didn’t I tell you to stay away from them? They just want to prove you are mad, just like you Baba. It gives them pleasure.

I am working day and night to save for your dowry. Even I have dreams of seeing my daughter in her wedding dress—but you will ruin everything. Why will anybody marry a mad girl? Why? They will throw stones at you and call you mad. Mad. Like your Baba. Nobody will marry you. Nobody.”

She looked at Amma’s wretched, tearful face, and said wiping Amma’s tears with her fingers, “Amma, don’t cry. Amma, I am sorry. Very sorry.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down.

Amma slapped her.

“What will this ‘sorry’ get you now?”

Amma wrung her ears and rammed her head against the bed and kept slapping her. Amma’s bangles broke, some shards of which dug in her flesh.

“Why didn’t you die the day you were born,” Amma said. “Why? You are nothing but a curse on me. A curse. You never listen to me—you never try to understand things. My parents told me to kill you when you were born. But I didn’t. I loved you, I brought you up, but I was wrong. I should have thrust sand in your nose the day you were born. Why didn’t I do it!”

Amma released her hand from her ears. She lay down, curled up and sobbed. Amma went out. A fire was burning inside her. Fire of Anger. She cried and cried and cried but the fire didn’t extinguish; the flames leapt up with every tear, searing her from inside.

Nandu, her puny five-year-old brother was peeping from behind the door. He could see her lying on the floor, her face covered with her hair, the sound of her sobs filling the air with gloom. He came in and squatted in front of her, and kept the glass of water on the floor and gently pushed it towards her. She looked up at him through the tears. He was looking at her like a curious little kid looks at an unfamiliar insect; his head was bent at an angle, the light shone in his eyes, and his lips were wry, as if he could feel the pain. She raised her hand in the air, as if to hit him. He fell back and his head rammed on the door. He went out.

When Amma came in an hour later, she was still lying on the floor. Amma sat besides her and passed her fingers through her hair. She jerked away Amma’s hand and uttered a grunt. Amma sat still for a minute, looking at her.

Amma said, “Forgive your Amma.”

She started sobbing loudly.

Amma said, “Look up.”

She didn’t look up, because if she did, she knew she would melt.

“Please forgive your Amma. Look, I am holding my ears also. Forgive me, my child.”

She screeched and started banging her head on the floor.

Amma placed her palm between the ground and her head and said in a tearful voice, “No my child, don’t. Forgive me, please. Beat me if you want, I wont complain.”

She raised her head and looked up into Amma’s eyes; they were as wet as hers. Her anger faded away somewhere. Like always. She never knew where. She dragged her body forward and kept her head in Amma’s lap.

Amma caressed her hand and said, “Your Amma is so bad. She is a devil. When you go up, complain to God about her. Tell Him that she was a bad mother and she used to beat you—”

“No Amma, no.”

“No, my child, do tell him. Tell Him she was so bad to you. Tell Him to beat her with whips and throw her in hell.”

“Amma, no. Amma you won’t go to hell. No, you won’t go.”

Amma cradled her lap and said after some time in a calm voice, “This world is very harsh. If people think you are mad like your Baba, then who will marry you?”

“But Amma I am not mad.”

“I know my child, I know. And I know you were just playing with the tree. But people don’t understand this. It is because of Mohit’s family that your Baba is in this condition; just because of an old family feud. Now they are searching for clues—they want to prove to the world that you are mad, so that no one can marry you. Amma is just trying to save you. When Amma beats you, it hurts her more then it hurts you. But what can Amma do? She is also helpless. If you don’t listen to her, how will you get married?

Now, promise me, you won’t ever go in that area. Promise me you won’t even go beyond Ramlal’s shop.”

“Promise.”

“Good girl. If you listen to me, you will get married in a good place. I want to see you in a wedding dress and then I can die peacefully.”

“No Amma, you won’t die. Amma, no, I won’t let you.”

“No, my child, every body has to die one day.”

“No” she shrieked and burst into fresh tears.

Amma wiped her tears with her pallu and said, “OK baba, I won’t die. Now, I have made parathas, you want to eat?”

“No.”

“Why no? You have eaten only one apple since morning. And because of you I have also not eaten. We both will eat together. I will feed you with my own hands. Wait here, I’ll get the plate.”

Before going out, Amma bend down and thrust a one-rupee note in her hands, and whispered, “Buy nankhatai with this.”

After Amma had gone to Vasant Colony for cleaning the utensils, she beckoned Nandu, who was sitting in his underwear and shirt near the tulsi plant. Nandu put the insect he was surveying in his shirt pocket and ran after her.

She turned back and called out, “Nandu, run fast.”

His speed was slow as he took short steps and ran with his eyes firmly fixed on the ground for impediments. He uttered a feeble cry. She turned back and waited for him. He made his way over the boulders and rocks, and tightly clutched her skirt when he reached her. She held his hand and they ran towards the deserted garden behind the Municipal Corporation building. Baba was sitting cross-legged on a platform, under the tree, looking at the ground, drowned in deep, deep contemplation; the cotton thread tied around his ear waved in the air. She and Nandu went and sat besides him. Baba raised a hand in the air and moved his index finger rhythmically, as if doing a sum. He turned towards Nandu, who was watching him with utter concentration and opened his mouth to speak something. His mouth remained opened, as if he was about to make a grave point of observation and someone had rudely interrupted him. He rubbed away with his palm the sum he was doing in the air and patted Nandu’s back—at which Nandu almost fell off the platform—and said, “Hello, Nandi, how are you?”

Nandu looked at his sister. She said, “But Baba, he is Nandu, not Nandi.”

Baba’s eyes lost their mirth and again became clouded with confusion; he withdrew his hand, as if Nandu had at once become a child unfamiliar and strange.

Baba said, “But why do you change his name every week?”

“No, Baba, we don’t. His name was always Nandu.”

Baba looked at Nandu, then at her, and then at Nandu. He took out the small steel box from the sack kept near his feet. He once searched for newborn mice in the trash mounds and placed them in this box. He would look at the little, wriggling, pink bodies from the air-holes and say, “They look so happy.” He felt they were wriggling out of happiness, and to spread more happiness, stuffed more of them in. For mysterious reasons, he released them one day. He then started collecting a different thing in it.

He brought the box closer to her and Nandu, like a magician about to perform a trick, and said, “Very very cold air inside. I caught it in winter.” Baba slowly opened the lid and said, “Ah! So cold!”

“Yes Baba, very cold,” she said.

Nandu looked confused.

Baba raised the box up and snapped it shut, like he had caught a mosquito. He clasped it by his chest and quickly tied a string around it, and said, “I have caught hot air. Now we will open it in winter.” Nandu looked at the air-holes, and then at Baba, and then at air-holes. He scratched his head and was about to say something, when Baba kept the box back in his sack.

“What is this?” Baba said looking at the nankhatai she had held out to him.

“Baba, this is nankhatai. Eat it.”

She gave two pieces to Nandu. Baba surveyed the brown square pieces on his paper and then licked them.

“Baba,” she said, “you have to eat it. Like this.”

Baba reluctantly ate it.

She kept a piece from her paper to Nandu’s paper. He looked at her for clarification, and when he got none, continued eating. When one piece was left, he neatly wrapped it in the paper and kept in his pocket. He looked at his pocket in dismay, for the insect was gone. He took out a golden wrapper and unfolded it. Inside was a piece of Cadbury, not larger than a shirt button. He promptly held it towards her. She shook her head. He held it towards Baba.

“No Nandini, you eat it.”

Nandu started at Baba for a brief period, and then ate it. Suddenly, he pulled at Baba’s kurta and said, “Baba, Baba, see.”

He kept his leg on the platform and searched for something on it.

He found it. “Here Baba, here it is. I fell down yesterday. So I got hurt here.”

Nandu kept his little fingertip precisely on the wound—which was itself not larger than his fingertip. Baba chewed his nankhatai and looked at Nandu; his lips were bent downwards and his forehead had crinkled. Then he took another bite, chewed it and looked at the wound, which also looked crinkled. Then Baba looked at Nandu’s forehead. Then he looked at the wound, and blew air on it. Then he looked at Nandu’s forehead and blew air on it. Nandu put his leg down, content with the first blow and puzzled by the second. He talked to Baba about the various insects he had collected from the rocks near his house, and also told him that he had seen a double-decker dog yesterday.

Not much later, while she was licking the traces of nankhatai from her fingers, Nandu was giving his pocket a forlorn search for the insect and Baba was contemplating, the word “Paagal” slit the tranquillity of the evening as if by a scythe. They all looked around. A stone hit Baba and he uttered a loud cry.

She went to Baba and tried to soothe him.

She shouted, “Who is it?”

Another stone hit him. He was now weeping.

She stepped down from the platform, picked up a stone and looked around. A voice came from behind the bush, “Oye pagalni,” and then giggles. She said Saaley Kuttay, and threw the stone at the bush. A stone hit her on the head and she fell back. She wiped her nose and tears with her skirt, stood up and started picking and throwing stones frenziedly at the bush, shouting after each stone, “Kutteykaminayharamzaadey Kutteykaminayharamzaadey” One more stone hit her but she didn’t stop. The giggles died from behind the bush. She stopped. The stone was clutched in her hand, dried leaves and pebbles were tangled with her hair, her face was covered with marks of tears and dirt stuck to it, and her little chest was rapidly rising and falling. She wiped her tears with her palm ran back to the tree. Baba had tightly clutched Nandu’s hand and was sobbing.

She tugged at Baba’s grip and said, “Leave him, Baba.”

Baba loosened his grip after she bit his hand with her teeth. She picked up Nandu and back home. Fortunately, Amma hadn’t arrived till then. Amma had strictly forbidden them to talk to Baba, to meet him or to even look at him when they passed by him in the market. When Amma had seen her talking to Baba last year, she was whipped with a belt.

She and Nandu were sitting on their respective cots in the kitchen, and Amma was taking morsels of rice between her fingers and feeding them one by one. It was Nandu’s chance when they heard a knock on the door. Amma leaned back to see who it was when Nandu leapt forward and ate the rice from between Amma’s fingers. Amma told them to eat by their own and she went to the door. The telegram announced that Amma’s father had died. Amma hurriedly did some packing and went to her village with Nandu on a bus. Due to the lack of funds, she was to stay with Amma’s friend.

Amma returned three days later, at six in the morning. With Nandu in her hands, she went to the well to drink water. She noticed Nandu was staring at the peepul tree, where Baba was sleeping. “Nandu,” she said, “don’t look there.” Amma did not look at Baba for more than a second, but that was enough for her to know that her daughter as also sleeping next to him. The women who had come to fill water from the wells were looking at Amma; their eyes swollen with pity. She was sleeping within an arm’s distance of Baba; the dirt and mud stuck to her face, legs, fingers but not interfering with their calmness and serenity, her palms joined together and kept under her head like a pillow, a tiny smile on her face that seemed to say, ‘Don’t disturb! I am watching a good dream.’ Next to them lay a paper plate and spoons that smelled of last night’s chutney. Behind them, a board read, ‘Mad House. Do No Disturb.’ Amma threw the packet of rice she had brought on her face. The serenity evaporated from her face. She opened her little eyes and had brought her hand to rub them, when Amma held it and dragged her across the ground. A voice bellowed in the air, “Arre, why do you leave this creature in the open, huh?”

The payal unclipped from her feet. She cried, “Amma, my payal, my payal. Wait.”

But Amma didn’t wait. She saw as the payal slowly drifted away, and was soon just a fleck of whiteness in the brown morning dust. When they reached home, Amma pushed her towards the tap. She said, holding her bleeding lip, “Amma, no Amma, I’m hurt.”

“Haramzadi, why did you go and sleep there? I told you not to go that side of the basti, didn’t I?”

“Amma, those people made me sleep alone. But I can’t sleep alone, I’m afraid.”

“You slept there daily?”

“Yes, Amma, but I was afraid. I can’t sleep alone.”

Amma picked up the metal bucket and threw it on her, and said “I will kill you today.” The sharp rim hit on her head and she fell on the ground. “Amma, no.” She tried to stand up and run away; but the thick film of tears had made it hard to see: she collided with the tap and fell back. “Amma, no,” she cried. She tried to stand up but something hit hard against her thighs. She saw Amma was holding something in her hands. The bat with which she beats wet clothes. She heard Nandu’s cries. Another blow; this time on her back. She coughed; her red sputum fell on the ground. The next blow made face fall flat on the red liquid. She heard a sound of banging, but felt no pain. She turned her head. Amma was banging her head on the wall. Nandu was crying on the doorway. “Amma, no,” she cried and dragged herself near Amma and held her feet. She stood up with the support of her Amma’s legs and tried to pull away Amma from the wall. But Amma kept hitting herself. She shrieked, “Amma no, Amma no.” She went between Amma and the wall and tried to push her away, but no avail. “Nandu,” she cried, “Nandu help me. Amma beating herself. Nandu come.” But Nandu didn’t come.

Amma cried, “I want to die. I don’t want to see my own daughter being admitted to a mental hospital.”

“No Amma, no. Get away from wall. I’m sorry.” Amma kicked her. But she stood up again and held Amma’s feed and tried to pull her off the wall. Amma rested her forehead against the wall, and wailed.

Amma said, “Now I feel I have started believing people. Perhaps my daughter really is mad. It’s all because of me. Me. Why didn’t I die before I gave birth to you?”

“No Amma, no. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.”

Amma turned back and saw her daughter coughing out red sputum and trying to say sorry, holding her earlobes, her feet red with bat marks, squatting up and down. Amma held her hand and pushed her in the room and closed the gate from outside. Amma’s loud, painful wails seemed to linger in the air like a dying bird with feathers of pain. She cried, “Amma no, Amma, don’t cry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.” But Amma cried. She stood on the stool and looked out from the opening in the wall. Amma had crouched near the gate. “Amma, sorry. Sorry, Amma. Forgive me.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down on the stool. But Amma still cried. Her feet shook with pain; she sat down on the stool. Then she heard Amma’s curses. She stood up and looked out. Amma was standing near the main gate, hollering abuses at some men, who were laughing at some distance.

The air was filled with the silence of a ransacked graveyard, but Amma’s wails still echoed in her ears. She now clawed her ears and twisted them and tried to pull them off; but they remained, and so did the wails in them. She was a devil, causing misery to everyone, including her own mother, her Amma. She remembered how the women would taunt Amma, telling her to throw to her daughter in the well to ward off the evil shadow, and how Amma would hold her and Nandu’s hands and walk away, saying nothing, with just tears rolling down. At home she would hide behind the gate, thinking Amma would throw her in the well, and when Amma saw her, she would cry and say, Amma please don’t throw me in the well; and Amma would wipe her tears, hug her, and feed her with her own hands and tell her that she is a piece of her heart and no one can throw her piece of heart in the well. How much Amma loved her. How much. Amma should have thrown her in the well. She was the reason for Amma’s tears. She felt like she was a mistake, a sin, whom Amma bore for years, without complaining. Amma worked so hard – from seven in the morning till nine in the night – washing utensils, cleaning floors, sweeping streets; and all this to feed her. Feed her. Feed a mistake. And that too with her with her own hands, never complaining when she bit it, never telling her to work in tea shops like other mothers do; loving her, loving again, and again, and more, loving a mistake. Amma even said she wished she had enough money to send her to school. She saw the tear of a failed dream in Amma’s eyes then. How much Amma wanted to give her. How much. She now clawed her face with her little fingers; red lines of pain formed. How much. She now rammed her fist on the wall. When she would wake up in sleep and start crying, Amma would make her sleep in her lap and then all the fears all the worries all the pains would go away, whoosh, like a rocket that never was; Amma would sing lullaby for her and tell her that she is her moon. A small piece of herself. Her world. Her everything. Amma never ever said she was a mistake. Never ever. The tears had now formed a small puddle on the ground. Poisonous tears. Tears shed by a mistake. Why did Amma love a devil so much? Why? More tears now fell in the puddle. Amma hit her only for her good. Her good. Only because Amma wanted her to get married and live a good life. More tears fell. And more. And then more. Amma would say, I will give you a red saree on your wedding, and you will look like a princess in it. She now picked up the stone and brought it down on her hand. Amma wanted to give so much to her daughter. She again brought down the stone and grunted with pain. So much. Again the stone came down, and then again. So much. And then once more. She felt something burning inside her. Fire. She fretted her teeth. Her tongue tasted the sweet blood. She was giving pain to the person because of whom Amma was crying. The flames leapt up. She clenched her hair and tried to pull them off. She banged her head on the floor. The fire seared her. She looked at her hands, hands of a mistake - she hated the design of her fingers, her red skin, her flesh, the sound of her cries, her existence. She the held her fingers between her teeth and bit them. Pain. Consoling pain. She was biting Amma’s miseries; biting a devil, biting a mistake. She turned her head and saw Nandu’s face in the window. He was trying to keep the glass of water on the sill. She leapt up towards him and held his wrist and pulled it. The glass fell down and he winced in pain. She bit his palm with her teeth. He started crying. She clutched his warm, shivering, fragile neck. She pushed his head from the window; he fell down from the stool he was standing on and ran back in the house. Seeing him cry, wince in pain, the fire ebbed, but only for a second. Now it leapt up again; with sound and with fury. She wasn’t able to breathe. She shrieked. The fire was in her throat. She clenched her throat and pressed it; she wanted to kill self. She liked the pain. Sweet pain. Soothing Pain. She gasped for breath, coughed, cried. She coughed, coughed again, coughed more. She wanted the blood to come out. She wanted the life to come out. The tears didn’t seem to dry up; they kept coming.

Amma opened the door two hours later.

It was two in the night when she opened her eyes, drew aside the blanket and crept in darkness towards the trunk. She spread her blanket on the floor, and quietly opened the large trunk. An assortment of smells burst forth, like a secret anxiously waiting inside, pervading the dull darkness of the night with a strange feeling of joy. Smell of a little boy who followed a little girl even before he knew who she was. Smell of a boy who loved before he knew the laws. Smell of a mother whose lap promised a sleep without nightmares. Smell of a mother who smelt like love. Smell of a love that always spilled beyond its boundaries. Smell of a love that never made you search old memories for happiness. Smell of a house where three people cried if one got hurt. Smells that she had grown up smelling. Smells she was smelling for the last time.

She turned back; Amma and Nandu were sound asleep. The trunk was divided by plyboards into three compartments; above each it was inscribed with a brick, ‘Amma’, ‘Nandu’, and ‘Neetu’ respectively. As she felt the rough cloth of her green dress, a dimpled smile came on her face. She kept it on the blanket along with the red dress and her undergarments, all of which Amma had washed the day before and neatly folded in the morning. She looked at Amma’s compartment – barren, dull. The smile shrunk from her face. She opened the wooden box from her compartment – a small Ponds cream, a comb hiding from dust inside its plastic wrap, a packet of bindis. She looked at the large comb with broken teeth in Amma’s compartment. She kept her comb and her bindi packet in Amma’s compartment and kept Amma’s large comb on her blanket. After a minute of thinking, she kept the Ponds cream also in Amma’s compartment. From her savings box, she kept a ten-rupee note over Amma’s saree and the rest on her blanket. She kissed the words ‘Amma’ and ‘Nandu’ and quietly closed the trunk. She kept aside her Hot Wheels car, her only toy, and knotted the blanket. She kept her car next to Nandu and a paper slip next to it; it read in Hindi, ‘Now it is yours.’ She whispered, “Bye” and kissed his hand and moved sideways to Amma. She looked at Amma’s face like a child looks at his birthday gift. A dimpled smile appeared on her face, and the past and future melted away into oblivion and what existed was only the present – which was nothing but a happy dream. She surveyed Amma’s eyes, nose, lips, ears, hair, skin. She joined her hands and prayed to God that she never forgets this face. She bent down and kissed Amma’s hand. Lured by its warmth, she rested her cheek on it. Tears came in her eyes, as if someone had snatched away that gift from the child. She snivelled. She couldn’t take her face away from Amma’s hand. One second more, she said to herself, just one second. Finally, she pulled her face away, keeping the last second as a memento. She crept towards the trunk and wiped her tears with the blanket. She knew she had to go before she gets weak. She picked up the blanket by its knot and walked towards the gate, after looking at Amma once again. Outside, the world was asleep, draped in an ebony blanket. She crouched by the doorway, and with the sack kept near her feet, she looked at Amma’s face while she waited for light. When day broke, she didn’t know why, it felt more dark. She pulled her face away from Amma and picked up her sack and walked out, after kissing the main gate.

As she walked towards the horizon, she wondered now who will feed her. She wiped her tears, and thought that she can always eat with her own hands, like most of the children. But—what if she wakes up in the night and cries? What will she do? She will cry a little and then she will go back to sleep. And what will she do if she misses Amma or Nandu? No, she reminded herself, she can’t go back. She was doing this for Amma. She reminded herself that she was a mistake. And by going away she was undoing this mistake from Amma’s life. But, this doesn’t answer the question—what will she do if she misses Amma and Nandu? She will try not to think about them. Yes, she wiped her tears, she will try not to think about them. But then—why is she crying? She kept the sack down and wailed. Why is she crying if what she is doing will bring happiness to her Amma? She didn’t know.

She turned back and looked at the house. Through the thin layer of mist, she could see Amma standing at the door. She wiped her eyes. Yes, Amma was standing at the door. She felt her feet shiver. She took a step towards Amma. In greed of love, she forgot what she was doing. She took one more step. Before she could throw aside the sack and run and hug Amma, she saw Amma go inside and close the door. She remained standing there, amidst the mist.