Swapna Gopinath
You wake up early on school days. You have chores to do, before you prepare for school. You see your dad walk around, reading the newspaper and drinking black coffee as you wake up. You go and sit by him as he lets you sip his coffee. It is bitter, and you look up with your face scrunched up. Your dad smiles, caresses your hair and prods you gently to go and brush your teeth. You step out of the house, and the chilly air hits you, and you turn around. The flowers are in bloom. You had been waiting for this since the day you helped your dad to plant them. “It’s your job to water them. I’ll get Keshavan to come and prune them and check their progress”. You nod vigorously as your mom shakes her head. Today, they are glorious, red, pink, red, purple geraniums and yellow and white dahlias in flowerbeds planted neatly. Your mom always said: “Flowers look good on plants. Don’t hurt them by plucking them”. Mom had strange ideas, showed you the stem bleeding when it was wounded, the thin oily liquid was its blood. You wouldn’t want to bruise the plant.
Mornings are hectic and you busy yourself. You have to arrange your notebooks and texts according to the timetable, choose your snacks, fix the lunch box inside your crammed up bag as your mom watches you, remember to push your water bottle inside your bag, and check your pen and pencils, remember to pack your crayons, and sneakily put in a rupee coin for candy in your skirt pocket. All this had to happen before you had your bath and ate your breakfast and slipped into your uniform, including your black shoes and white socks. Then came the ordeal of tying your hair, mom finds a perverse pleasure in pulling your hair through the comb and tying them till your head ached with the pressure. “You are going to pull my hair out.” You scream. Dad responds. “Don’t be so harsh”. Mom has a zillion things to do before leaving for work. She ties your hair and wipes your face clean before the kiss goodbye. Then she takes a moment to admire you and smile, while your dad rushes you to leave. The school van has blared the first horn and you scramble out with the bag heavy and filled to the tilt.
When you are a ten-year-old girl, the darling of parents who work diligently to provide you with the best in life, you are a happy person. You care for them. You strive to make them happy. You are the perfect baby to your parents. Your dad is the sweetest, you know how he carried you around till last year. He will do it if you ask now. Your mom is rough, scolds you when she is stressed but holds you close when you are ill and shivering and scared. You love her fragrance as she comes out after her bath, fresh lavenders and wet hair that has droplets of water dripping. Sometimes she ruffles her wet hair and showers you with droplets that smell of coconut oil. You scream at her and she laughs. You pull the bedsheet closer and pouts at her. The smile lingers on your lips. You dream of making them smile, you strut like a peacock when they boast about you to their friends. You have dreams, your parents’ dreams.
The school van is packed with kids. You sit with your best friend, Sita. “Did you know Gourav’s father is a soldier?” Sita’s eyes were wide as she described Gourav’s father. “He has a huge rifle and kills enemies with it”. “Who told you?” “Gourav, of course. He says his father has promised to let him shoot with it when he grows taller and stronger”. You see the mousy Gourav growing tall and strong and holding the rifle in his hand. You smile and Sita is hurt. “You don’t believe me? Ok.” Sita curls her lips and turn away from you. Then you remember the ripe red rose apples in your bag. “Sita, I brought you rose apples”. Sita turns around and smiles. The day is a bright and sunny one and as the van bumbles along, sunlight falls in odd shapes and designs across our blue and yellow dresses. You remember about the dance practice in your school and you are thrilled. “I can’t wait to show the steps to my dad and mom”. Mom will be busy in the kitchen and she will nod and encourage when you talk, but you know her thoughts are elsewhere. You have heard her complain about her manager who scolds her and harasses her. You have heard her cry and dad consoling her through the thin walls as you dream of things at night.
You have weird dreams at night, awake and asleep. The night is fun, darkness is scary, but fun when you close your eyes and wander away. You have wondrous dreams, journeys across the seas, the beaches, the wind on your hair, the saltiness on your lips as you suck it in, the blue all around, the flowing seas, like a molten blue liquid, you remember your dad lifting you from the sand as it sticks on your legs, your pockets, the seams of your dress, feeling heavy and drooping, your hair sticky and wet and a weariness fills you from within and your mom complaining, “she will fall asleep now and will soil the sheets with sand and salt water.” You can see dad smiling, “she had a fun day. Why do you complain so much?”
You had dozed off and the babble of the students wake you up. You collect your bag and get down from the bus. It is a sea of blue and yellow uniforms all around, blue skirts and yellow blouses, blue shorts and yellow shirts, walking towards the three-storied buildings across the vast playground.
Sita talks about her impending holidays. Her father works in the middle east and she and her mom join him during holidays. After vacation, she comes with sweets and gifts for her friends, along with stories about Arabs and camels and shopping and desert carnivals and cruises, stories that last a whole term. You like Sita and you love her stories, sometimes your dreams have Arabs on camels talking gibberish. You like the chocolates that she brings, a couple of extra sweets reserved for you, since you are her bestie, forever bestie. As you walk along, you are joined by a couple of your classmates, they scare you about the impending test papers, the term exams and excite you about the anniversary celebrations. You remember the dance practice. “Do you know where the dance practice is happening?” “Are you performing?” Of course, you are considered to be a good dancer and Miss Smriti will recommend you for every program.
In your classroom, it is mayhem. It is a wide rectangle, four rows of seats, boys and girls occupying alternate rows, the canary yellow on the walls and amateur paintings on all walls. The shelves around the teacher’s desk store the workbooks and test books. Everyone is in a hurry. The backbenchers nervously copying the homework, the frontbenchers recapping the portions, middle benchers like you have stories to tell. Sita has a bigger audience, and she narrates the story of Gourav’s father as you take out your books and lay them on the desk in front of you. Daksha comes around to collect the homework, apparently, our Mathematics teacher, Cherian Sir has entrusted her with this job. He is one of the teachers who smiles and pats the head of students when they submit their books for correction. Cherian sir is older than many of the female teachers and Sita says he is a favourite of the principal. He takes on several chores, constantly interacting with kids, he says: “I like you, small kids, you are innocent and sweet”. He oversees cultural activities and walks around while the anniversary preparations are in full swing. He arranges food for participants, a constant drinking water supply and never shouts at students. You will see him sitting with kids, talking to them and holding their hands as he explains stuff, sometimes complex Math. “You are my kids; I know you will understand better if I speak calmly”. He was married and Sita once spoke of his wife and children being far away. “Poor Cherian Sir! He must be missing them. No wonder, he is kind to all of us”.
Today you have submitted your homework and you wait for the class to begin. The bell rings, the teacher arrives, and the prayer starts. You chant along with the voices that reverberate from the loudspeaker. Your prayers are honest, you want a good day and then the pledge. You are not sure of the words, yet you recite. Your teacher calls the class leader to read out the news for the day and the class begins. You wait for your name to be called for dance practice. The first hour dragged on to the second hour and third hour. During the break, teachers come in and call out names, including yours. You go, accompanied by teachers to the practice room. Usually, dance practice happens in the large auditorium, but your dance is being taught in a small room adjacent to Cherian sir’s room, the coordinator’s room. You are a tad disappointed, because this place is boring, unlike the auditorium which is full of kids, practising several dance and music programs at the same time. There is so much to observe and talk about, you love to narrate the events to your dad and mom, every day. This time, it was not happening. This was outside the main building, you walked outside, crossed the playground, and to the left was the single-storied building, a couple of rooms, quiet and unattractive along with the coordinator’s room.
There are five girls in this dance, and you are at the centre, the star performer. You feel good and you learn the steps fast. The dance teacher approves of you, and you learn faster. You are not tired, and you repeat the steps again. That is when you see Cherian sir at the door, watching you dance intently. He calls out your name and beckons you. Your dance teacher lets you go. “What was that expression on her face?” You don’t know and you leave, follow Cherian sir to his room.
His room is smaller, crammed with books, musical instruments, dance costumes in large bags lying all around. His table is quite bare, with a red satin tablecloth spread out. You walk around gingerly and Cherian sir sits on his chair. There is no chair vacant, and he beckons you to come closer. “You dance well. So graceful you are! Are you learning dance? Who is your dance teacher? I have noticed you before…” He is caressing you gently and patting your head, and then the worms started crawling over you. You have seen them in your garden, dad calls them centipedes, with their million legs they start crawling all over you. The red satin cloth is crumbled as you tighten your grip on the table. The moments drag on, like the crawling snails, pausing and resuming. The eyes of the centipedes creep over your face and the cold legs crawl everywhere. You feel nauseous, your legs fixed, gaze stationary and your hands gripping the table. The white curtains are grimy and sway gently as your eyes are fixed on the sliver of sky, azure, visible through the curtains. Cherian sir is talking gibberish, his eyes narrow and intense. You wait for the moment to be over, so you can walk out of the room and never return. It crawls to the next moment and the next, and then it is over. Cherian sir gently pushes you away as he relaxes and then you go out of the room. The pat on your face stings, burns, “has it turned blue?” You touch your cheeks and turn around to your classroom. You walk around the costumes lying around in bags, peacock blue and white shimmery dresses, several sets scattered in a corner. You end up in the washroom. You hear the bustle and noise, and you wait in line. In the washroom, it stings as you pee into the commode. It hurts and you want to cry but your eyes are dry, like the desert in Sita’s stories, arid and far away.
The dance practice continues in the afternoon, but you stay away feigning illness. “Why is the teacher not asking questions? Why is she silent when you say you are not well?” You sit in class and Sita draws pictures to distract you. But creepy crawly things fester your hands and legs and cheeks and everywhere else. You have the urge to rub them away, but you resist. You wait patiently for the day to end and Sita has found new listeners. Your silence irritates her. You touch your face to see if you are burning and feel the worms in your hands as your teacher talks about the daffodils. The day crawls to an end with the prayer and the national anthem. You see everyone excited, packing bags, stuffing things inside, ready to take off as the bell rings. Sita pulls you along as you dread the moment of returning home. In the bus, Sita sits with you, but she is busy, exchanging the day’s gossip with her friends sitting in the adjacent row while you touch your face for burns, your skin hot and feverish.
At home, your mom has brought snacks and fruits, she seems happy and relaxed today. “Did you have your dance practice?” You look up, your socks in your hands, you see nothing. “What happened? Didn’t they choose you for the dance?” “It’s ok my dear”. “Don’t be disappointed”. You grimace and turn away. You can feel the curious eyes of your mom behind you. In your bathroom, you wash and scrub, the creepies stay put, while you scrub hard. You see your skin red and bruising and you scrub harder. You pour the liquid body wash and scrub harder. “What are you doing there? It’s been hours. Come and finish your homework”. “Once your dad comes home, you will sit and chatter with him”.
You sit with your books, but you feel sick. Your mom sees you disturbed and feels your forehead. ” You have fever. No wonder, you look strange. Don’t study. Come and lie down. I’ll give you paracetamol syrup. You’ll be fine, my dear”. She hugs you as you cringe. Then she made calls to your dad and fumbled with the water bottle. When your dad comes later, you are still awake but drowsy. You close your eyes and feign sleep. “How is she now?” your dad is whispering. “My child, are you feeling better?” Your dad touches you and you flinch. The creepie crawlies return and you wish your skin wasn’t burning so much. “Should we take her to the doctor?” The discussions go on quietly as you slip in and out of wakefulness and slumber.
A week at home and you feel fine. Fever has cleansed you and the worms don’t trouble you anymore. You sit in your dad’s lap and laugh at his jokes. Your dad was on leave and taking care of you during the week. You enjoy being pampered. You play with your dad’s hair, combing it and tying it with mom’s hair bands, small shoots of black hair popping out of his head. You laugh and apply mom’s makeup on his face. He sits indulging your fancies. His face looks funny with stubbles around the lips brightened with red lipstick. You laugh loud and hard. You eat well and sleep sound. Your bruises have healed, and you know you have had a nightmare. You hug your dad tight and sleep with your dad and mom by your side. You know it is over. You will dance like the star performer that you are and Miss Smriti will be so proud of you. You know you are one of her favourites.
On Saturday, your dad and mom decide to visit your grandma. You are exhilarated. You sit with them in the car as it winds and unwinds over the hilly terrain. The journey is exciting: the long winding road, dusty and crowded, traffic thinning as you pass one junction after another, the rubber plantations offering cool shade, the tea and samosas on the way, piping hot and the pleasantries exchanged add spice to the adventure. What you like the most is the raw mangoes sold by the roadside, by old women. Raw mangoes sliced with salt and red chili sprinkled on them is perfect. Mom goes through the ritual: “Don’t buy them. She’ll get stomach pain”. As you start enjoying the sour spicy mangoes, she will ask for a slice. An hour later, you see your grandma’s house, rushing to embrace you. You can’t wait for the car to slow down. You see your grandma on the verandah, reading magazines and she looks up. You jump out and reach her as she hugs you. “Your mom said you were sick. How is my baby now? I have prepared your favorite fish curry and jackfruit curry. There is unniyappam and neyyappam too.” You skip as you enter the house. Two days swimming in the pond, eating cashew apple, sour in your throat, swinging from the low branches of the cashew trees and sleeping in the courtyard, under the sky, gazing at the stars as your dad explains the shapes and patterns of stars. “Maybe I should be a writer!” Dad agrees as mom covers you with a blanket.
The weekend rushes by and you return home, licking the pod of tamarind you had gathered from grandma’s house. Monday morning, you get ready for school, the hectic schedule gives you little time to think. “I will take her to school today. Don’t run around and play. You should not strain yourself too much”. Dad’s bike is a special treat. You hope Sita will see you reach school on your dad’s bike. But you reach school early and wait for your friends to come and for the class to begin. Then you see him crossing the hall. The nightmare returns. He turns around and sees you, you detect the nervous excitement, and he beckons you. You are dumbstruck when he calls your name. You hate your name; it sounds filthy in his mouth and you remember his mouth and his hands and his pale skin touching your face. The centipedes return, like a locust attack, in millions, crawling across your body, invading the microcosms and you feel sick. As you walk towards him and to his room you remove yourself from you, you see you walking, tame, behind him and in his room, as he touches you, you see you cringe and imagine your escape. You see you crushing his skull with the huge rocks in the garden. You see the red brain matter scattered around the room as he lies amidst the dance costumes, the peacock blue and white smattered in red, the ridiculous smile plastered on his face, a grimace, an ugliness. You see the teachers and the principal stare at him and then take turns to spit at his face. You see Miss Smriti kick him and stomp him hard and his lifeless body shake as blood oozes out profusely. You see you helpless and terrified, expecting the worse to be over soon. You see the sliver of blue sky across the filthy curtains and the red satin cloth draped on the table as it slips in your palm. You see the ticking minutes as you succumb to the dirty hands that grow into tentacles and crush you to death. You walk out and back to your classroom as the bell rings, reverberating across the building.
At 29, you are healed. You have moved on, married the man you loved for several years. Sometimes, your wounds return as nightmares, as filthy sticky hands touching you and waking you up to a sense of shame. But you don’t let them disturb you, your husband knows, and you tell him about your nightmares. He hugs you and changes the topic. “Is he uncomfortable with the subject?” You doubt and let it go. You never told your parents; they are naïve and good people. People like Cherian Sir does not inhabit their worlds. So, you decide to let go. You prefer not to talk about it, and never to disclose the details. You have moved on, of course……
P.S. Unniyappam and Neyyappam are delicious South Indian snacks made from rice flour and jaggery.
