The Novel     

By Jane Caryn Thomas

I was an average student at school. I stood fourth in line, skirt always a little too lopsided, toes peeking from the shameless window in my socks. Hiding the hole from my mother was a whole different ball game altogether. I barely made it past the finish line in exams, yet avoided failing. At times like these Mum would tell me how different life was growing up under my grandfather‘s reign – of terror! 

“Appa always wore a tie to work. He ironed his clothes the day before,” with a click of the tongue and a disapproving look at my perfectly wrinkled shirt and skirt. And,

“Any grade below A+ was equal to failing in his eyes! You are lucky I am so lenient with you,” and,

“Once, when your aunt Pamela and I had a fight, he threw us out the gate and locked it. We had to spend the night outside!”

I’d always scoff (internally, of course) at these stories. I’d give them the same weightage I gave Appa’s tales of how he walked three districts, barefoot through the deserts of his hometown in the boiling heat, with no food or water to get to school. Family legends, you know?

Plus, Appa, who was the sweetest, most awesomest grandfather who always bought me mango jelly could never be the Hitler she made him out to be. I was also sceptical about Mum’s ‘good girl’ image. Her photographs painted her in two plaits, a shirt that had to belong to Appa, and a skirt that could readily qualify as a pavada-chattai. I was sure she hiked it up the moment she left the premises of her home. 

     I was so tired of her perfectionism that I never allowed her to be human. Coincidentally, I think that’s what Appa wanted to teach me.

                                                                *********

I sniffle, picking up the disintegrating Bible on Appa’s bedside table and placing it beside the suitcase on the floor as a noisy sneeze escapes me. The dust, coupled with the constant supply of water from my tear ducts makes for a very unappealing situation in my nose.

Blinking rapidly, I brush my hands on my pants. All the yellowing novels under Appa’s bed, the bedsheet with the fading flowers are covered in thin layers of dust. Except for his Bible of course, which he reads everyday. That is in a completely different state of wear and tear, mostly tear.

Hands on my hips, I survey the pile of knick-knacks that litter the space surrounding me. Luckily, Appa wasn’t a hoarder like the rest of my family (famously my parents) so the majority of his things boil down to –

1. Cassettes from the 80’s 
2. Bottles of Old Monk he had hidden behind his coats in the cupboard 
3. His dress shirts and suits for church and lungis he wore at home
4. Packets of sugar-free he was collecting despite being far from diabetic
5. His coveted, leather-covered bedside Bible that he read everyday

The air is thick with a confluence of earthy perfume and faded cigarette smells that makes an ache build at the back of my throat yet again. We’d probably be taking most of these with us to Bangalore – one of the few pieces of Appa we can keep with us. The sight nearly makes me pour out the tears I’ve been holding in. I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop if I do. 

I can hear Mum’s focused footsteps in the hall, packing up the remnants of Appa’s life into heavy suitcases. She won’t stop for a minute. To stop would mean to think. To think would mean to feel. And to feel is not feasible. M

I hear a sniffle or two from there from time to time, due to the dust no doubt. 

“Mumma, I’m done here!” I cry out, hoping to get a tea break after all the minutes of manual labour I’ve put into pulling these items out from underneath the bed.

“Okay, Jo. Then come here and give me a hand!” 

Oh come on.

“Fine…” I mumble and pull myself up from the floor.

“Or you can put everything in the car!” She yells.

“Okay!”

It’s the easier option. Plus, the thick silence choking with words we’re holding back makes me want to run all the way to Bangalore on foot. 

I still can’t believe Appa’s gone. A week ago, he was sitting on this very same bed. I can still feel the warmth of his embrace as he hugged me goodbye when I left after Christmas. 

“When are you coming next, Jo?” His eyes sparkled with joy and childlike hope. He seemed to have Benjamin Buttoned then, the 79-year-old transformed back into a 5-year-old. I remember wondering how Mum’s father, the great disciplinarian, could turn into this sweet old man I would always love.

I laughed and replied, “My next vacation is in May, Appa.”

His eyes had lost some of their glimmer. “I will be counting down the days,” he said.

I should’ve known then. Since Amma’s passing five years ago, Appa had been struggling to adapt to living alone. His house, once filled with constant chatter and lively laughter, had succumbed to silence over the years as one by one, all three of his girls grew up, married and left to start families in other cities. It was better when Amma was with him, until she too died earlier than expected. He wasn’t the same man he was thirty years ago, after all. The passage of time and the little devils that were his grandchildren had softened him up. 

There is so much of him inside me bursting to be let out – how he never complained once about my silly pranks which are sure to have irritated the hell out of him, how he built the best cribs for Christmas. I have so much to tell him, the fact that I finally got into a good school like he always hoped. It’s unfair that life seems to move on without him, and that he will never be here to witness my milestones. 

Mum’s dealing with it differently, in the sense that she’s not. She’s trying so hard not to let it affect her, which is a futile attempt because her faraway eyes when a passerby stops by to say ‘my condolences’ and tight-lipped smile can’t hold for long. 

“Jo, have you finished putting everything in the car?” 

Uh oh. 

“Uh yes, mumma I’m almost done…” My voice turns high pitched, as it usually does when I’m under high maternal scrutiny. I haven’t touched a thing.

Mum walks in, her hair dishevelled, face ashen like she hasn’t slept in three days. Her eyes scan the piles of books, cassettes from the 60s, knicknacks, and Bible spread out on the floor. 

The Bible. It’s on the floor. 

Her exasperated-parent-at-parents-teachers-meet eyes finally fall on me.

Silence. Even Appa must be holding his cigarette-stained breath, wherever he is. Then,

“What is this? Everything is just as I left it. Have you not sorted out anything? It’s been one hour since I cleared out the bed for you. What have you been doing all this while!?” 

“Mumma I -”

“And why is Appa’s Bible on the floor? Have you no respect for God? Will you throw your useless comic books on the floor like this?”

“For the last time, they’re not comic books, they’re Manga, Mumma.”

“I don’t care if it’s manga or thenga!”

“What the hell…”  I mutter. 

“Are you talking back to me? Where did you learn to talk back to your mother?”

“Oh my God Mum! Will you stop!” 

The silence that follows is horrific, I’m both surprised and proud of myself for snapping at her. And slightly terrified. I have never done this before.

The words don’t seem to stop. I am lost in the moment – a dangerous place to be. 

“You’ve been acting like this ever since Appa died!” My breath catches. 

“Why won’t you just cry? He was your father, right?” I don’t realise I’m screaming until silence descends upon us like a heavy blanket. 

Mum’s eyes get a faraway look. She seems to be looking through me. The realisation that I yelled at my mother for the first time in my life slowly sinks in like a mistake made with a permanent marker that’s too late to erase. 

“Mumma-”

“I have to finish packing. I want everything in the car by the time I’m done. Put the Bible in its cover first before keeping it in the suitcase.”

She leaves with her purposeful footsteps, leaving the room stuffier than it was. I heave a sigh. Where the heck is the cover? 

I kneel down then sprawl out on the floor in a starfish position, reaching under the bed, one with the dust when my fingers touch something. It’s not the leather cover I’m looking for. It’s a book. I reach for it, carelessly pulling it towards me and out of the way. 

That’s when I notice that something’s different about it. It’s less dust-covered. Its pages have been flipped over and over, like a cherished memory. Seems like it has been cherished recently. My eyes fall on the cover. I stare at it with the same blank expression as I do with some of my maths papers in the exam hall. (Before the tears come.) It’s the last thing on earth I expected to find underneath my grandfather’s bed.

The cover of the book looks like one of those hand-painted Bollywood film posters from the 70’s. It illustrates a woman, with painted lips and dark hair flying wildly behind her, wearing a suspiciously low-cut dress. She’s holding on to a man whose shirt isn’t doing him any favours. The artist however, seems to have done him a few, judging by how generously his torso’s been highlighted.

On top of the page, in small font as to not distort the perfection that is the human male body, is the title – 

His Dark Deeds

I take a moment to process my declining eyesight. Only then do I let hell break loose.

“Mum!” My panicked scream catches her off guard. You would have thought I’d seen a ghost. “Mumma! Come here! Run!” 

“I can’t leave you to do anything for two minutes-”

Her hurried footsteps come to a halt behind me. “What is it?”

I hold the book out to her. “Is that-” She turns her confused frown to me. As though I have the answers.

“It’s Appa’s.” I clarify.

“How did you-”

“I found it under his bed.”

She doesn’t say anything as she takes the book from my hands, thumbing through the pages, her expression unreadable. The silence extends for an eternity. I want the ground to swallow me up. She and I are probably having the same thought spiral. So Appa enjoyed the occasional…erotic literature. 

“A man of taste indeed.” I say, then promptly purse my lips after the look mum shoots my way. Although I am repulsed by imagining Appa, Mum or any person I regard as ‘aunty’ or ‘uncle’ possessing a sexuality of any kind, the thought of him sipping his chai as he sits down to savour this book does make me want to laugh a little. 

Mum on the other hand flops down on his bed, her eyes never once leaving the book in her hands. It feels like looking in a mirror, watching a blank expression covering up the whirlwind of emotions stirring inside her. I finally understand how people say I am a carbon copy of her. Just as I’m about to clear my throat to escape, she covers her face with her hands, a groan escaping her. At first I think she’s sobbing, but she seems to be…laughing!

 It’s a sound I haven’t heard in forever, coming from the depths of her heart. I didn’t know how much I missed seeing joy printed on Mum’s face until now. I allow myself an embarrassed chuckle, which quickly morphs into a laugh too. We laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation, the fact that this was probably the last thing we thought we’d see today, from the last person too, until both our faces are flushed. 

When she finally stops, her expression grows solemn. 

 “I couldn’t figure him out, till the very end.” She says in a quiet voice. Fresh tears fill her eyes.

I sit down beside her. Her face can hide so much pain beneath the mask. Sometimes I can see it like an open wound, and oftentimes, in my ignorance, I forget to look. 

With an understanding that feels very new and a strange heaviness in my heart, I say,

“You don’t have to, mum. You loved him…that’s enough.” 

We exchange a look. A ghost of a smile appears on her face. 

“When did my Jo get so wise?” she says. 

“It’s all thanks to Appa.” She laughs through her tears, which are trickling down her face rapidly, one after one. 

“Speaking of whom, I can’t believe he forced us to attend Catechism class every Sunday and confess our sins while he was…reading this.” 

“Maybe there’s more!” 

She slaps her forehead. “No!”

I can’t help but smile. It makes me wonder what kind of secrets she’s hiding from me, but that’s a discovery I am comfortable never making. All I know is Appa’s little secret has cleared some of the fog in this house, making it a little easier to breathe. 

“Ah, I miss him so much.” My voice breaks, and the words come out in a sob.

“I know.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder. It feels warm. We stay like that, just for a minute. 

“Shall I make us some tea?” she asks, smoothing my hair. 

“Yes, please!” I groan. 

I examine the cover of the book until long after Mum leaves. I guess I’ll pack this up too. You know, for a relaxing evening read.