We Janakpurians are most proud of two things: first, the Ramayana would not have existed without us, and second, ours in the only city in Nepal with a railway station. You should hear my father talk about the latter; he speaks about it for hours. Like any other Janakpur local, I too am proud of our train—rickety-raggedy and tortoise-paced as it might be. As a child I always looked forward to riding the railgadi. It was the first train I ever sat on. I obviously did not know that only very, very slow trains take three hours to cover twenty
miles. I did not know trains were supposed to run faster than people and bicycles. I did not know they were not supposed to have planks missing from their wooden floors. All I knew was that I was on a train, a vehicle many of my friends had not yet seen or seen only in the movies. I sat in the crowded coach, looking out at men on motorcycles zooming past, birds
flying along and children striving to keep up as the train chugged along.
I have been on many trains since—fast, efficient, air-conditioned trains that whiz past neighborhoods like glimpses from the future. A quick break at a station is too risky; these trains pull away fast without you. On one occasion, my father got left behind at the Lucknow station and it was almost a week until we next saw him. But the Janakpur railway is different. My father jumps on and off the Janakpur railways trains, without worry or care. If the trains pulls away from the station and leaves him behind, he simply runs to catch up. It’s never a big deal.
So, fast is not always the most desirable and it certainly wasn’t on this occasion.
Papa, Ma, and I were going to Jaynagar to visit relatives. As always, the railgadi was terribly crowded. The roof—or what was left of it—was fully occupied by men. Bicycles and slippers hung from the windows, tied to the bars with gumchas and naadas. Towels and kerchiefs fluttered like flags in the wind. Hair ribbons flapped. The entrance to the coach was perpetually jammed with crowds of half-dangling men who occasionally stepped off to relieve themselves upon adjoining tracks. Behind these men, children performed tricks and stunts, hopping and climbing over people until they got spanked and yanked. There was bawling and screaming. Mothers, querulous and haggard, traveled with sacks or merchandise—firewood, potatoes, onions and mangoes. They seemed to flutter like birds, like crows cawing at their chicks.
Outside, men climbed the windows, their slippers, worn to shreds, stumbling on and bars bicycles as they pulled their bodies onto the roof. The coach smelled of vegetables and oil. It felt like the end of the world—hot, humid, full of bodily stench and noisy beyond belief. All along, the train chugged on at its mind-boggling speed of five miles per hour. Next to us sat a couple of newly-weds: the bride with her veil pulled low over her face, the groom with his tall turban. Between them was the groom’s sister, who looked exactly like the groom. I felt sorry for the bride and the groom with the veil and the turban in such heat, and a sister in between!
At the Khajuri station, the train came to a slow halt (there are five stations in the twenty mile stretch between Janakpur and Jayanagar). Immediately, people started getting off. Khajuri is well known for its hot and delicious pyajies, deep fried onion fritters. Papa got off as soon as he had pushed away enough people and the groom followed straight after. A little later, the bride whispered into the sister’s ears and made her way out too. The sister immediately took her sandals off and put one sandal each on either side—the Janakpur crowd is notoriously fluid and any unwatched seat is snatched in an instance—so I took off my sandal and put it on Papa’s seat too.
The Khajuri station looked like a bustling bazaar. I kept an eye on my father. There he was, taking his time buying fritters and making small talk with everybody, and continuing even after the train had blown its feeble whistle. After another minute, the train began to pull away. Papa jogged merrily towards us, still carrying on with his conversation. He ran up to our window and handed over the snack, then slowed down to meet the entrance. Somebody there pulled him up into the vehicle and Papa pushed his way towards us, grinning—he had just caught a running train. The bride and the groom were not back yet and the sister, quiet so far, began yelling out the window. “Bhaiya! Bhabhi!” I could not see the groom anywhere, but I caught sight of the bride, small, petite, brighter than the sun in her golden saree—rooted at her spot.
“Run, run!” we shouted to her, but she did not move.
It was after the train was a good way away that we saw the groom appear suddenly under our window. He was running, panting and screaming to be heard. “The bicycle,” he yelled. “Untie it, please! Please!”
“Go to the door,” Papa shouted back. “They will pull you up.”
“The bicycle, the bicycle,” the groom insisted, so Papa untied the bicycle. The bicycle—why did it not collapse on the ground and break into a thousand pieces? Because the train was so damn slow, of course. The bicycle fell off and we did not see the groom or the bicycle again for some time. The sister wept in panic. Then we saw the groom again. There he was, on the bicycle, pedaling hard while his bride sat behind him, hands around his waist. She had pushed her veil back and was looking around with large, young eyes, smiling. They made a lovely couple on the bicycle, waving at their wonderstruck sister. We all waved back. They rode by our side until the train pulled into the next station.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Superheroes and Shape-shifting Snakes
I am thinking about superheroes. Superman flies, the Flash moves at incredible speeds, Spiderman can sense danger, Wulverine heals faster than he is injured. But I cannot think of a single popular male superhero whose primary authority is derived from his ability to disappear. I can, however, think of three female superheroes whose power is that of invisibility — the Invisible Girl from the Fantastic Four crew, Violet from the Incredibles, and even Wonder Woman, who has super-speed and super-strength, and can communicate with animals, rides an invisible plane.
Apparently, when asked to choose between the power of invisibility and the power of flight, more women opt for invisibility and more men for flight. Flight is thought to be chosen by people with nothing to hide and invisibility by those with secrets. Flight by the strong, invisibility by the weak. Flight is displayed, invisibility covered. There is something heroic about flight while invisibility brings about stealth — who knows what the invisible are capable of?
But of course we are discussing western superheroes here. When I try to recall Indian silver-screen superheroes not many come to mind. Gods and goddesses take up so much space not much is left for the desi superhero. Desi superheroes are far spread and one might feel hard pressed to find even a single female desi superhero. However, the more I think of it, the more amazed I am at the number of female bollywood superheroes that exist and go unrecognised despite their tremendous power and popularity.
The eighties was bollywood’s nadir. The worst movies, the worst music, and terrible dance sequences, but the eighties gave the audience two superhero movies that have with time acquired the status of classics. In 1986 the movie Nagina starring Sri Devi was released, and 1987 saw the movie Mr India starring Anil Kapoor, and though Wikipedia describes Mr India as a “Hindi science fiction superhero film” and Nagina as a “Hindi film” without any superhero qualifier, I am inclined to see both Nagina and Mr India as superhero movies. However, it is only now that I classify Sri Devi’s character in Nagina as a superhero. Earlier I had thought of her as a very pretty, patibrata shape-shifting snake, an interesting character but nothing more. On the other hand, I recognised the hero in Anil Kapoor the very first time.
It would be useful for the purposes of this article to list each character’s powers. Sri Devi’s character in Nagina is a venomous shape-shifting cobra. She can tele-transport, look into the future, read other people’s minds, live for centuries, and disappear. She has two equally venomous cobras deployed as henchmen for her protection, and most importantly, has in her custody the mani, a jewel that can pretty much be used for world domination. Anil Kapoor, on the other hand, has no innate powers and requires a gadget to disappear (he is the only male superhero with disappearing powers that comes to mind). Without that gadget he is an ordinary man. Despite the discrepancies, it is Anil Kapoor’s character that ends up saving India from the evil Mugambo. Anil Kapoor uses his power not for himself but for the nation and the nation’s citizens and that is what makes him heroic. He does not strive for personal betterment, instead, he steps out on to the streets to punish cheating shopkeepers, wicked landowners, desh-drohi politicians, and merciless dictators. He is involved with society, with civics and politics.
He does not let his personal life dominate his public duties.
On the other hand, Sri Devi’s character has no understanding of a social, civic, or political reality. Her reality begins and ends with her husband. Having no family of her own, she is completely unaware of the world beyond her husband’s. She could probably eradicate much of India’s problems but she does not belong to that world.
The immediate dichotomy is that of the perfect man vs. the perfect woman. The perfect man is involved with society, the perfect woman involved with her husband. The perfect man is selfless, the perfect woman selfish for her husband’s sake. The perfect man has nothing to hide — Anil Kapoor’s character is invisible, yes, but he loves to show off that invisibility by being loud and leaving behind footsteps, the perfect woman never flaunts her powers.
But of course, the hierarchy is higher than just man and woman. There is also the equal and the unequal, the safe and the unsafe, the One and the Other, the first world and the third world. Like Mr India, Captain America has no innate powers. His powers, like Mr. India’s are acquired but unlike Mr India, invisibility is not one of them. Captain America’s world does not need stealth to secure justice for the common man. Being strong, fast, smart, and rich is always enough. But Mr India, with his third world status is forced to be stealthy, to hide, to scheme. The villains he fights are sometimes too complex for an open attack. Mr India is also not out on a quest to save the universe or the planet. His domain remains local, remains India and in that sense, he is not a superhero the Fantastic Four are, who win inter-planetary wars.
When Sri Devi’s character becomes socially safer she might step out of her house and eradicate India’s poverty. When India becomes a fair and straight nation Mr India might solve the ozone layer problems. When men and women, ruling and ruled, first and third (whatever that really means) come to equal footing, everyone might opt for transparency over stealth. But for now the dichotomies stand. And just yesterday when asked what I would choose, I chose the power of invisibility. I rank the ability to move within a crowd without fear the highest of all powers.
Apparently, when asked to choose between the power of invisibility and the power of flight, more women opt for invisibility and more men for flight. Flight is thought to be chosen by people with nothing to hide and invisibility by those with secrets. Flight by the strong, invisibility by the weak. Flight is displayed, invisibility covered. There is something heroic about flight while invisibility brings about stealth — who knows what the invisible are capable of?
But of course we are discussing western superheroes here. When I try to recall Indian silver-screen superheroes not many come to mind. Gods and goddesses take up so much space not much is left for the desi superhero. Desi superheroes are far spread and one might feel hard pressed to find even a single female desi superhero. However, the more I think of it, the more amazed I am at the number of female bollywood superheroes that exist and go unrecognised despite their tremendous power and popularity.
The eighties was bollywood’s nadir. The worst movies, the worst music, and terrible dance sequences, but the eighties gave the audience two superhero movies that have with time acquired the status of classics. In 1986 the movie Nagina starring Sri Devi was released, and 1987 saw the movie Mr India starring Anil Kapoor, and though Wikipedia describes Mr India as a “Hindi science fiction superhero film” and Nagina as a “Hindi film” without any superhero qualifier, I am inclined to see both Nagina and Mr India as superhero movies. However, it is only now that I classify Sri Devi’s character in Nagina as a superhero. Earlier I had thought of her as a very pretty, patibrata shape-shifting snake, an interesting character but nothing more. On the other hand, I recognised the hero in Anil Kapoor the very first time.
It would be useful for the purposes of this article to list each character’s powers. Sri Devi’s character in Nagina is a venomous shape-shifting cobra. She can tele-transport, look into the future, read other people’s minds, live for centuries, and disappear. She has two equally venomous cobras deployed as henchmen for her protection, and most importantly, has in her custody the mani, a jewel that can pretty much be used for world domination. Anil Kapoor, on the other hand, has no innate powers and requires a gadget to disappear (he is the only male superhero with disappearing powers that comes to mind). Without that gadget he is an ordinary man. Despite the discrepancies, it is Anil Kapoor’s character that ends up saving India from the evil Mugambo. Anil Kapoor uses his power not for himself but for the nation and the nation’s citizens and that is what makes him heroic. He does not strive for personal betterment, instead, he steps out on to the streets to punish cheating shopkeepers, wicked landowners, desh-drohi politicians, and merciless dictators. He is involved with society, with civics and politics.
He does not let his personal life dominate his public duties.
On the other hand, Sri Devi’s character has no understanding of a social, civic, or political reality. Her reality begins and ends with her husband. Having no family of her own, she is completely unaware of the world beyond her husband’s. She could probably eradicate much of India’s problems but she does not belong to that world.
The immediate dichotomy is that of the perfect man vs. the perfect woman. The perfect man is involved with society, the perfect woman involved with her husband. The perfect man is selfless, the perfect woman selfish for her husband’s sake. The perfect man has nothing to hide — Anil Kapoor’s character is invisible, yes, but he loves to show off that invisibility by being loud and leaving behind footsteps, the perfect woman never flaunts her powers.
But of course, the hierarchy is higher than just man and woman. There is also the equal and the unequal, the safe and the unsafe, the One and the Other, the first world and the third world. Like Mr India, Captain America has no innate powers. His powers, like Mr. India’s are acquired but unlike Mr India, invisibility is not one of them. Captain America’s world does not need stealth to secure justice for the common man. Being strong, fast, smart, and rich is always enough. But Mr India, with his third world status is forced to be stealthy, to hide, to scheme. The villains he fights are sometimes too complex for an open attack. Mr India is also not out on a quest to save the universe or the planet. His domain remains local, remains India and in that sense, he is not a superhero the Fantastic Four are, who win inter-planetary wars.
When Sri Devi’s character becomes socially safer she might step out of her house and eradicate India’s poverty. When India becomes a fair and straight nation Mr India might solve the ozone layer problems. When men and women, ruling and ruled, first and third (whatever that really means) come to equal footing, everyone might opt for transparency over stealth. But for now the dichotomies stand. And just yesterday when asked what I would choose, I chose the power of invisibility. I rank the ability to move within a crowd without fear the highest of all powers.
Birds and Bees
Some mornings Ma would leap out of bed, throwing the quilt away, uncaring if she stepped on my feet in her hurry, or on my father’s. She rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind her. I would sometimes notice the brown stain, oval and well-shaped, like a bird’s egg upon the sheet. Some mornings I would also notice the stain on Ma’s petticoat before she ran out in her hurry. I was not much older than 7 or 8. Ma’s saree seemed always to have come undone these mornings, or perhaps she ripped it off, too fast for me to remember their patterns now. I saw only the light brown petticoat and the darker brown shape of an egg upon it. The spot fascinated me, so perfectly shaped, like a disproportioned moon. But Ma’s rush to get into the bathroom left me disturbed and curious. And when Ma returned from the bathroom she asked, “Was there any blood in your potty? Your soo soo? Let me know if there ever is, okay?”
I became still and just stared at her, confused. She repeated herself. All I heard was some mumbling and nothing else. I shook my head, barely breathing. Was I about to die? Was there a death-disease in my belly waiting to extract from it chunks of blood? For hours after the question, I held my motions. I did not want to go, did not want to look into the commode, and did not want to find the tint of blood upon its ceramic. Had the death-disease already crawled in? Had Ma locked herself in the bathroom so she could cry?
There was never any talk of the birds and bees in our house, meaning that there was very little to speculate from. Ma, a non-believer in any faith, never quarantined herself or other women during their period. She continued to cook and clean, to pray and eat, to sit with friends and neighbours. She even went to the temples. She really did not care, and had it not been for those occasions when she had to make a dash, I would have thought, even now, that my mother never suffered the awful days of menstruation.
However, because she never made a big deal about her period, she also never told me anything about it. I was very young, and by the time I was nine I was already away, getting an education in India. She had missed the window of opportunity to have ‘the conversation’.
In India, I lived in a hostel. There were around forty girls between the ages of eight and 18 living there. At least 50 percent of those girls had hit puberty and were in the cycle, and yet, even there, menstruation was a subject not openly talked about. The older girls thought it their duty to protect and shield the younger girls from puberty. When asked about the sanitary napkins, the older girls made ridiculous and desperate excuses: calling the pads everything from little mattresses for dolls to stationary items required for their senior curriculum. “You will know when you grown up,” they would say, but they would never provide a satisfactory explanation. With 40 girls around me, I still grew up only partially aware about my own body, my sexuality, my future as a woman and a mother, my blessings and my curses.
When in Grade 7, at the age of thirteen, I finally saw blood. But did I fully comprehend? I cannot say for sure. Vandana, a classmate, had started her period earlier and her older sister had taught her all that she needed to know in a manner so hush-hush that Vandana, already a shy person, told us nothing. And we too were afraid to ask what exactly it was she was not telling us. When I finally did get my period I was alone and unsure. We were in Shimla, in the midst of a school excursion, supposed to be having fun, and here I was in a bathroom, close to tears, without a clue about what I was supposed to do. I asked Vandana for a sanitary napkin and when she gave one to me she burst into tears. “It hurts,” she wept, unable to stop her sobbing. I cringed. I wanted to throw the pad down, to run away, become a child again—to remove every drop of blood from my veins so there would be none on my underwear. I stepped away from her, perplexed by her tears, unsure of what it was that hurt.
The irony is this: I was not a naïve girl. I had by thirteen fallen in and out of infatuation with several boys, had experienced eve-teasing and street-side harassment and had some boys scribble poems referencing my non-existent breasts on the school bathroom walls. I had been teased and called Smriti Jessia—suggesting I was a wannabe model because, in a moment of inspiration, I had let a slim strand of hair slip off my ponytail and dangle over my face. I had watched movies with semi-explicit sexual scenes; “close your eyes,” our seniors would say and I would, although only for the first few seconds. I knew all the common ‘bad’, words, but I did not know how to use a sanitary napkin, did not know what it really meant to have your period, did not know that for years, I would live in dread of certain weeks and days. I did not know that for five days every month I would lose my appetite for food, fun, and life. For five days I would want nothing more than to curl into a tight ball and weep, pray for the cramps to stop, and wonder why evolution had not taken care of this menace.
Everything that transitions a girl to a woman is taboo in our society. Everything is rendered dirty through silence and mystery. Nothing is seen as biological; nothing is looked at through medical eyes unless something goes wrong. I wonder how it would be if girls could live in an open world of comfort and camaraderie, how much more we would understand about our bodies, ourselves, our parents and peers, if only we were better informed.
I became still and just stared at her, confused. She repeated herself. All I heard was some mumbling and nothing else. I shook my head, barely breathing. Was I about to die? Was there a death-disease in my belly waiting to extract from it chunks of blood? For hours after the question, I held my motions. I did not want to go, did not want to look into the commode, and did not want to find the tint of blood upon its ceramic. Had the death-disease already crawled in? Had Ma locked herself in the bathroom so she could cry?
There was never any talk of the birds and bees in our house, meaning that there was very little to speculate from. Ma, a non-believer in any faith, never quarantined herself or other women during their period. She continued to cook and clean, to pray and eat, to sit with friends and neighbours. She even went to the temples. She really did not care, and had it not been for those occasions when she had to make a dash, I would have thought, even now, that my mother never suffered the awful days of menstruation.
However, because she never made a big deal about her period, she also never told me anything about it. I was very young, and by the time I was nine I was already away, getting an education in India. She had missed the window of opportunity to have ‘the conversation’.
In India, I lived in a hostel. There were around forty girls between the ages of eight and 18 living there. At least 50 percent of those girls had hit puberty and were in the cycle, and yet, even there, menstruation was a subject not openly talked about. The older girls thought it their duty to protect and shield the younger girls from puberty. When asked about the sanitary napkins, the older girls made ridiculous and desperate excuses: calling the pads everything from little mattresses for dolls to stationary items required for their senior curriculum. “You will know when you grown up,” they would say, but they would never provide a satisfactory explanation. With 40 girls around me, I still grew up only partially aware about my own body, my sexuality, my future as a woman and a mother, my blessings and my curses.
When in Grade 7, at the age of thirteen, I finally saw blood. But did I fully comprehend? I cannot say for sure. Vandana, a classmate, had started her period earlier and her older sister had taught her all that she needed to know in a manner so hush-hush that Vandana, already a shy person, told us nothing. And we too were afraid to ask what exactly it was she was not telling us. When I finally did get my period I was alone and unsure. We were in Shimla, in the midst of a school excursion, supposed to be having fun, and here I was in a bathroom, close to tears, without a clue about what I was supposed to do. I asked Vandana for a sanitary napkin and when she gave one to me she burst into tears. “It hurts,” she wept, unable to stop her sobbing. I cringed. I wanted to throw the pad down, to run away, become a child again—to remove every drop of blood from my veins so there would be none on my underwear. I stepped away from her, perplexed by her tears, unsure of what it was that hurt.
The irony is this: I was not a naïve girl. I had by thirteen fallen in and out of infatuation with several boys, had experienced eve-teasing and street-side harassment and had some boys scribble poems referencing my non-existent breasts on the school bathroom walls. I had been teased and called Smriti Jessia—suggesting I was a wannabe model because, in a moment of inspiration, I had let a slim strand of hair slip off my ponytail and dangle over my face. I had watched movies with semi-explicit sexual scenes; “close your eyes,” our seniors would say and I would, although only for the first few seconds. I knew all the common ‘bad’, words, but I did not know how to use a sanitary napkin, did not know what it really meant to have your period, did not know that for years, I would live in dread of certain weeks and days. I did not know that for five days every month I would lose my appetite for food, fun, and life. For five days I would want nothing more than to curl into a tight ball and weep, pray for the cramps to stop, and wonder why evolution had not taken care of this menace.
Everything that transitions a girl to a woman is taboo in our society. Everything is rendered dirty through silence and mystery. Nothing is seen as biological; nothing is looked at through medical eyes unless something goes wrong. I wonder how it would be if girls could live in an open world of comfort and camaraderie, how much more we would understand about our bodies, ourselves, our parents and peers, if only we were better informed.
Two Incidents of Many
By the time we were in college most of my girlfriends had slapped, kicked, or punched a man. Two of these girlfriends, P and A, were girls I idolised for their intelligence and fearlessness, and for their kind, open hearts. I hadn’t yet slapped anyone.
When P slapped a boy we were in a cinema hall. Hero No. 1 was playing on the screen and we needed to visit the restroom. The hall was dark and when we made it to the aisle we had to be careful, take gingerly steps to keep from stumbling. And that’s when a hand came up and grabbed P’s breasts, and I felt fingers upon my back. I had by then taught myself not to react, to shrug off such incidents, so I continued walking but P turned around and slapped the person. We quickened our pace after that, almost running in the dark. My heart started racing immediately.
Out in the bright corridor we saw that that our harasser had followed us. He was a young boy, not yet twenty, and he was livid with anger. I saw too that P was in tears. Around us were other boys, other men. I felt I was in a circus, ready to perform some hilarious buffoonery.
“Kallai thappad hanya?” the boy asked.
“Kallai chho ko?” said P.
“Kina? Tero chhuna hunna?” said the boy, smirking.
P’s hands were trembling. My heart was burning a hole in me. I imagined this boy following us home, hiding behind trees
and shops while P and I walked mindlessly upon the streets. I imagined acid thrown at our faces, a knife slicing my body. I imagined rape and mutilation. I imagined death. I re-read every newspaper article about murdered girls.
But nothing happened, not to us at least. A group of eager-to-impress youngsters sauntered slowly towards us, blowing and snapping gum in their mouths. “Ke bhayo?” they wanted to know. We pointed to the boy, and just like that a mini war began. The youngsters swaggered to towards the boy. “Ke yaar?” they said, grinning. They roughed him a little, slapped him, pushed his shoulders, hit him lightly. P and I slunk off, afraid of remaining on the scene. Out on the road we ran. We looked behind to make sure no one was following. We kept running, waving for tempos to stop. We hopped into the first tempo that stopped, not caring where it was headed.
two
I had promised Papa I would be home before four but I was running late. My only option was to cross over to one of the pharmaceutical shops by Teaching Hospital and call him up.
The phone was on the counter corner and I dialed quickly, not liking the look of
the few men sitting at the other end. I am wary of idle men. I turned away from them, towards the wall, and spoke into the receiver. When I turned back I was startled to find a man standing beside me, a melodramatic smile on his rapturous face, cheeks resting on palms, elbow resting on the counter, gazing at me.
I had faced assaults before, back pinching, brushing against my breasts, name-calling, but this brazen mockery, this unashamed lechery left me cold.
“What?” I asked. The man said nothing. “What?” I asked again. The man said nothing. And I understood the game. The man was going to say nothing. He was just going to stand there, blocking my way, smiling, while the other men tittered on their seats. The salesman pretended to be busy.
I turned away, determined to ignore everyone, afraid too that the man was drunk and dangerous.
“How much?” I asked the salesman and I had to snake around the man’s elbow to pay the required three rupees. He did not remove his elbow.
An anger was beginning to build within me. Anger against my own fears, anger against the men who would probably call me bahini if I spoke with them, anger against the salesman, against the streets, against being forced into a corner, against that elbow.
“Move,” I said. The man did not move. “Move, or I will call the police,” and the teetering at the other end intensified. I could almost hear their thoughts—Police indeed!
So I pushed the man. He was not standing resolutely. He was merely there, propped limply, easy in his stance and his smile, and with that one push he swung easily away from me, as though he were a door on a well lubricated hinges. He continued to smile.
I walked out the shop and behind me the shop burst into a loud laugh. When I turned around, stunned by the hilarity, I saw the limp, smiling man become sharp and peppy, clapping his buddies on their backs, all of them laughing. So I walked back and pulled the man out the shop. But it wasn’t a real pull. The man followed willingly, his body limp once more, the smile back on his face. The others relapsed to hooting and teetering and left their seats. They stumbled out the shop to watch the show.
By now I had started hitting the man, full flat slaps wherever my hands fell. I was trying hard to keep myself from crying. The man’s expressions did not change. He looked at me with big, doting eyes, and I, in my desperation, hit harder, my palms stinging. I kicked him once and my toes, exposed in the summer sandals hurt.
An amused and entertained circle had formed around us. I looked around briefly and saw a girl, standing probably with her husband, looking uneasy and afraid, but everyone else was enjoying the show, including the man I was hitting. I turned around and the crowd, still amused, still entertained, but maybe a little awed too, made way for me. I head towards the tempo stand and a few drivers dislocated from the crowd and moved to their vehicles. There were no police anywhere. There were hardly any women out on the roads. I continued walking, not heeding the chorus of driver protests—come to us, bahini. I did not want to sit behind a male driver. I did not want to turn around and see the man clapping his buddies, I did not want to see his buddies cheer the man up.
When P slapped a boy we were in a cinema hall. Hero No. 1 was playing on the screen and we needed to visit the restroom. The hall was dark and when we made it to the aisle we had to be careful, take gingerly steps to keep from stumbling. And that’s when a hand came up and grabbed P’s breasts, and I felt fingers upon my back. I had by then taught myself not to react, to shrug off such incidents, so I continued walking but P turned around and slapped the person. We quickened our pace after that, almost running in the dark. My heart started racing immediately.
Out in the bright corridor we saw that that our harasser had followed us. He was a young boy, not yet twenty, and he was livid with anger. I saw too that P was in tears. Around us were other boys, other men. I felt I was in a circus, ready to perform some hilarious buffoonery.
“Kallai thappad hanya?” the boy asked.
“Kallai chho ko?” said P.
“Kina? Tero chhuna hunna?” said the boy, smirking.
P’s hands were trembling. My heart was burning a hole in me. I imagined this boy following us home, hiding behind trees
and shops while P and I walked mindlessly upon the streets. I imagined acid thrown at our faces, a knife slicing my body. I imagined rape and mutilation. I imagined death. I re-read every newspaper article about murdered girls.
But nothing happened, not to us at least. A group of eager-to-impress youngsters sauntered slowly towards us, blowing and snapping gum in their mouths. “Ke bhayo?” they wanted to know. We pointed to the boy, and just like that a mini war began. The youngsters swaggered to towards the boy. “Ke yaar?” they said, grinning. They roughed him a little, slapped him, pushed his shoulders, hit him lightly. P and I slunk off, afraid of remaining on the scene. Out on the road we ran. We looked behind to make sure no one was following. We kept running, waving for tempos to stop. We hopped into the first tempo that stopped, not caring where it was headed.
two
I had promised Papa I would be home before four but I was running late. My only option was to cross over to one of the pharmaceutical shops by Teaching Hospital and call him up.
The phone was on the counter corner and I dialed quickly, not liking the look of
the few men sitting at the other end. I am wary of idle men. I turned away from them, towards the wall, and spoke into the receiver. When I turned back I was startled to find a man standing beside me, a melodramatic smile on his rapturous face, cheeks resting on palms, elbow resting on the counter, gazing at me.
I had faced assaults before, back pinching, brushing against my breasts, name-calling, but this brazen mockery, this unashamed lechery left me cold.
“What?” I asked. The man said nothing. “What?” I asked again. The man said nothing. And I understood the game. The man was going to say nothing. He was just going to stand there, blocking my way, smiling, while the other men tittered on their seats. The salesman pretended to be busy.
I turned away, determined to ignore everyone, afraid too that the man was drunk and dangerous.
“How much?” I asked the salesman and I had to snake around the man’s elbow to pay the required three rupees. He did not remove his elbow.
An anger was beginning to build within me. Anger against my own fears, anger against the men who would probably call me bahini if I spoke with them, anger against the salesman, against the streets, against being forced into a corner, against that elbow.
“Move,” I said. The man did not move. “Move, or I will call the police,” and the teetering at the other end intensified. I could almost hear their thoughts—Police indeed!
So I pushed the man. He was not standing resolutely. He was merely there, propped limply, easy in his stance and his smile, and with that one push he swung easily away from me, as though he were a door on a well lubricated hinges. He continued to smile.
I walked out the shop and behind me the shop burst into a loud laugh. When I turned around, stunned by the hilarity, I saw the limp, smiling man become sharp and peppy, clapping his buddies on their backs, all of them laughing. So I walked back and pulled the man out the shop. But it wasn’t a real pull. The man followed willingly, his body limp once more, the smile back on his face. The others relapsed to hooting and teetering and left their seats. They stumbled out the shop to watch the show.
By now I had started hitting the man, full flat slaps wherever my hands fell. I was trying hard to keep myself from crying. The man’s expressions did not change. He looked at me with big, doting eyes, and I, in my desperation, hit harder, my palms stinging. I kicked him once and my toes, exposed in the summer sandals hurt.
An amused and entertained circle had formed around us. I looked around briefly and saw a girl, standing probably with her husband, looking uneasy and afraid, but everyone else was enjoying the show, including the man I was hitting. I turned around and the crowd, still amused, still entertained, but maybe a little awed too, made way for me. I head towards the tempo stand and a few drivers dislocated from the crowd and moved to their vehicles. There were no police anywhere. There were hardly any women out on the roads. I continued walking, not heeding the chorus of driver protests—come to us, bahini. I did not want to sit behind a male driver. I did not want to turn around and see the man clapping his buddies, I did not want to see his buddies cheer the man up.
Slipping Geography
The boy next to me was going to New York. He had taught English in Japan for three years and was driven mad with cravings for dollar menu sandwiches at Burger King. He was going home, and I flying away from mine. Our conversation, obviously, was about nostalgia.
“So,” he asked, “where are you from?”
“Nepal,” I said.
“Ah. Italy,” said he.
“No. Nepal. Not Naples.” I paused to think about geography. “Mount Everest? I am from there.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “India.”
“No, not India. Nepal. The land of Buddha.”
“Tibet?” he asked, finally embarrassed and unsure.
I started to laugh. “Nepal,” I said. “Nepal. It’s that country, smiled-shaped, between India and China.”
He frowned. “Interesting,” he said, then looked at me like I was making myself up.
Six a.m. classes at Padma Kanya College meant a lot of us did not know enough about each other. We were working day jobs and would miss the last lecture to make it to our workplace on time. So, on rare days, when a professor did not turn up and we had the period to ourselves, we would walk off to the canteen and talk over tea. And on a particular morning the talk was about me.
“Where are you from?”
“Maharajgunj,” I said.
My friend shook her head. “No, where? Where are you really from?”
I understood what she meant and answered, “Janakpur.”
She nodded, as though I had suddenly and finally made sense to her, as though all enigmas surrounding my mere existence had been solved. “You are an Indian,” she said.
I sighed. This was a conversation I knew by heart. “Janakpur is in Nepal.”
“Yes,” she said, unconvinced. “So you are an Indian in Nepal.”
“No. I am from Janakpur.”
“That is India,” she said, and took a long, noisy sip.
I was traveling alone and when the train pulled into the Lucknow station I was afraid to leave my things behind and go out for a meal, so I kept sitting, waiting for the hunger to die; but it didn’t and my stomach purred and growled under my shirt. The old woman by the window turned around and said, “Go on, I will look after your things,” so I went.
When I returned we started to talk. “Where are you going to?” she asked.
“Nepal.”
“Where there?”
“Janakpur.”
“Never heard of that in Nepal.”
“It’s in the flatlands, aunty. In the Terai.”
She frowned and I could see that she was getting suspicious of who I was.
“What flatlands?” she asked. “I am seventy and I know Nepal is all mountains.”
In a wedding gathering, the discussion turned to religion, and a man, passionately atheistic was wagging his fingers at us. “Why are we anything, eh, but by accident? Accidently Hindu, accidently Muslim, accidently Jain. What are you now?”
“A Hindu,” I said, laughing at his vehemence.
“Why are you a Hindu?” the man asked.
“By default,” I said. “I was born where Sita was.”
“So you were born in Ayodhya and so you are a Hindu.”
I was startled. “No,” I said. “I was born in Janakpur, in Janak’s kingdom, where Sita was.”
“What is that? That is fictitious, like most of Ramayana. In Nepal there is only Pashupati and nothing else,” and he continued to wag his finger.
No matter where I am, my geography, slippery and untenable, unlike any other geography I know, shifts its shape, and I become something I am not, or rather, I unbecome what I am. It’s a fantastic predicament and had it not been directed at me, I would have been amused.
“So,” he asked, “where are you from?”
“Nepal,” I said.
“Ah. Italy,” said he.
“No. Nepal. Not Naples.” I paused to think about geography. “Mount Everest? I am from there.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “India.”
“No, not India. Nepal. The land of Buddha.”
“Tibet?” he asked, finally embarrassed and unsure.
I started to laugh. “Nepal,” I said. “Nepal. It’s that country, smiled-shaped, between India and China.”
He frowned. “Interesting,” he said, then looked at me like I was making myself up.
Six a.m. classes at Padma Kanya College meant a lot of us did not know enough about each other. We were working day jobs and would miss the last lecture to make it to our workplace on time. So, on rare days, when a professor did not turn up and we had the period to ourselves, we would walk off to the canteen and talk over tea. And on a particular morning the talk was about me.
“Where are you from?”
“Maharajgunj,” I said.
My friend shook her head. “No, where? Where are you really from?”
I understood what she meant and answered, “Janakpur.”
She nodded, as though I had suddenly and finally made sense to her, as though all enigmas surrounding my mere existence had been solved. “You are an Indian,” she said.
I sighed. This was a conversation I knew by heart. “Janakpur is in Nepal.”
“Yes,” she said, unconvinced. “So you are an Indian in Nepal.”
“No. I am from Janakpur.”
“That is India,” she said, and took a long, noisy sip.
I was traveling alone and when the train pulled into the Lucknow station I was afraid to leave my things behind and go out for a meal, so I kept sitting, waiting for the hunger to die; but it didn’t and my stomach purred and growled under my shirt. The old woman by the window turned around and said, “Go on, I will look after your things,” so I went.
When I returned we started to talk. “Where are you going to?” she asked.
“Nepal.”
“Where there?”
“Janakpur.”
“Never heard of that in Nepal.”
“It’s in the flatlands, aunty. In the Terai.”
She frowned and I could see that she was getting suspicious of who I was.
“What flatlands?” she asked. “I am seventy and I know Nepal is all mountains.”
In a wedding gathering, the discussion turned to religion, and a man, passionately atheistic was wagging his fingers at us. “Why are we anything, eh, but by accident? Accidently Hindu, accidently Muslim, accidently Jain. What are you now?”
“A Hindu,” I said, laughing at his vehemence.
“Why are you a Hindu?” the man asked.
“By default,” I said. “I was born where Sita was.”
“So you were born in Ayodhya and so you are a Hindu.”
I was startled. “No,” I said. “I was born in Janakpur, in Janak’s kingdom, where Sita was.”
“What is that? That is fictitious, like most of Ramayana. In Nepal there is only Pashupati and nothing else,” and he continued to wag his finger.
No matter where I am, my geography, slippery and untenable, unlike any other geography I know, shifts its shape, and I become something I am not, or rather, I unbecome what I am. It’s a fantastic predicament and had it not been directed at me, I would have been amused.
The Woman Who Climbed Trees
A man had two children and one day his wife died. So the man went looking for another wife but no woman would be burdened by the children and the man remained unmarried for some years. Then one day a new family came into the village and in this family there was a girl of marriageable age. When the man heard of the new family and the marriageable girl he went up to the house and made inquiries. Satisfied, he offered himself as a groom. He had wealth, he said, and lots of youth left in him. He would take care of the girl and the girl would take care of the children.
Show me the children, the girl said, and the man brought his children with him during his next visit. When the girl looked at the children she fell in love with them. They were good children, shy and calm. They had beautiful sad eyes, like those of orphans and they tugged at her heart and so the girl married the man.
For many years the girl was mother to the sad eyed children and eventually the children left being sad. They learnt mischief, learnt songs and dances, plays in the fields. They learnt to chase after carts and birds. Eventually they forgot their birth mother and thought of the girl as their real mother. They grew up well, two handsome children.
One day the man could not sleep and stayed up beside his wife. It was a moon-filled night and the rays fell silver upon the girl. Around an hour after midnight the girl pushed aside the covers and stepped off the bed. She made her way out the room and towards the front door. She stepped off the house and disappeared. She returned only towards the early hours. She did the same the next day, then the day after.
The man was very disturbed by his wife and decided to follow her. The next night he tied a thread to the tip of her hair and held the spool in his hand. When the girl left the bed the thread began to unwind and start a white path behind her. After a good interval had passed the man followed the thread path. The thread went down the lane that crossed the fields and followed the river. It stopped by a large peeple tree and climbed its barks. The man was puzzled. What could this mean? Why had the thread climbed the tree? He looked up to see and sure enough there was his wife, up on the tree, sitting on its branches, enjoying the wind and the stars. The man hid himself behind some bushes and when he saw his wife readying to leave he rushed back home. For a month after that he followed her every night and every night the girl climbed the tree and sat on its branches. Her feet dangled under her saree. Some nights she opened her hair and her hair fell like a waterfall upon her back.
The girl was beautiful and the man was severely in love with her but despite all this he was tormented. What could this mean? What could this mean? Finally he began to talk about his wife with others. He told his friends, his sisters-in-law, his brothers. Word spread. Ah, said the people, she must be having an affair. But after many nights of watching the tree it was clear there was no affair. She must be mad, said others, but all day the girl worked with such surety and skill that insanity had to be ruled out. Then someone said she must be a witch. Think of it, said someone, we cannot understand anything she does. Why did she marry this man, someone so much older than her? Why did she choose not to have her own children and raise somebody else’s? Why do these children love her so? Why does she look more beautiful at night than in the morning? Why does she sit on a tree?
Nobody could answer.
The man thought hard about it and decided it was time to let the children know.
She does not love you, he said. She is a witch.
That is not true, cried the children. She loves us. She feeds us sweets, stitches our clothes, gives us baths, sends us to school, strokes our hair till we fall asleep, and sings in our sleep so we dream sweet. She loves us.
Does she? said the man. Come with me and I will show you. So he took the children along the next night and showed them the girl. She was upon the branches, light as a bird, her hair blowing in the wind, her skin without wrinkles. Now, said the man, is that a woman or a witch? The children stared. They had never seen their mother so lovely. She is a witch, they said, and returned home with their father.
The next night the man, the children, the friends, sisters, brothers, surprised the wife by springing out of the bushes. When the wife fell off the branch they gave her a good thrashing. The wife stared at her husband and said nothing, but when she saw her children she began to weep. Save me, save me, she cried. But the children, who had never seen their mother look so beautiful, would not step forwards. They looked away and stared at a distance. They pushed their fingers into their ears so they would not hear her scream. Then the villagers carried her to the river. The children stared at the distance. They kept their fingers in their ears and did not hear their mother thrashing under the water, nor did they hear the silence when it came.
Show me the children, the girl said, and the man brought his children with him during his next visit. When the girl looked at the children she fell in love with them. They were good children, shy and calm. They had beautiful sad eyes, like those of orphans and they tugged at her heart and so the girl married the man.
For many years the girl was mother to the sad eyed children and eventually the children left being sad. They learnt mischief, learnt songs and dances, plays in the fields. They learnt to chase after carts and birds. Eventually they forgot their birth mother and thought of the girl as their real mother. They grew up well, two handsome children.
One day the man could not sleep and stayed up beside his wife. It was a moon-filled night and the rays fell silver upon the girl. Around an hour after midnight the girl pushed aside the covers and stepped off the bed. She made her way out the room and towards the front door. She stepped off the house and disappeared. She returned only towards the early hours. She did the same the next day, then the day after.
The man was very disturbed by his wife and decided to follow her. The next night he tied a thread to the tip of her hair and held the spool in his hand. When the girl left the bed the thread began to unwind and start a white path behind her. After a good interval had passed the man followed the thread path. The thread went down the lane that crossed the fields and followed the river. It stopped by a large peeple tree and climbed its barks. The man was puzzled. What could this mean? Why had the thread climbed the tree? He looked up to see and sure enough there was his wife, up on the tree, sitting on its branches, enjoying the wind and the stars. The man hid himself behind some bushes and when he saw his wife readying to leave he rushed back home. For a month after that he followed her every night and every night the girl climbed the tree and sat on its branches. Her feet dangled under her saree. Some nights she opened her hair and her hair fell like a waterfall upon her back.
The girl was beautiful and the man was severely in love with her but despite all this he was tormented. What could this mean? What could this mean? Finally he began to talk about his wife with others. He told his friends, his sisters-in-law, his brothers. Word spread. Ah, said the people, she must be having an affair. But after many nights of watching the tree it was clear there was no affair. She must be mad, said others, but all day the girl worked with such surety and skill that insanity had to be ruled out. Then someone said she must be a witch. Think of it, said someone, we cannot understand anything she does. Why did she marry this man, someone so much older than her? Why did she choose not to have her own children and raise somebody else’s? Why do these children love her so? Why does she look more beautiful at night than in the morning? Why does she sit on a tree?
Nobody could answer.
The man thought hard about it and decided it was time to let the children know.
She does not love you, he said. She is a witch.
That is not true, cried the children. She loves us. She feeds us sweets, stitches our clothes, gives us baths, sends us to school, strokes our hair till we fall asleep, and sings in our sleep so we dream sweet. She loves us.
Does she? said the man. Come with me and I will show you. So he took the children along the next night and showed them the girl. She was upon the branches, light as a bird, her hair blowing in the wind, her skin without wrinkles. Now, said the man, is that a woman or a witch? The children stared. They had never seen their mother so lovely. She is a witch, they said, and returned home with their father.
The next night the man, the children, the friends, sisters, brothers, surprised the wife by springing out of the bushes. When the wife fell off the branch they gave her a good thrashing. The wife stared at her husband and said nothing, but when she saw her children she began to weep. Save me, save me, she cried. But the children, who had never seen their mother look so beautiful, would not step forwards. They looked away and stared at a distance. They pushed their fingers into their ears so they would not hear her scream. Then the villagers carried her to the river. The children stared at the distance. They kept their fingers in their ears and did not hear their mother thrashing under the water, nor did they hear the silence when it came.
VIOLENCE
Even from the third floor we could only see the walls around the hostel and the twisted barbed wires like cacti upon them. To see the road and the vehicles, the trees lining that strip of asphalt, the shops and the shopkeepers we had to be on the terrace and the terrace was off limits at all times, except after bath time when we were allowed upstairs to clip our underwear on the numerous lines crisscrossing like electric wires under the sky. We imagined that from a far enough distance our panties and bras, our underskirts and underslips would look like prayer flags fluttering in the wind.
From a far enough distance we must have looked like little pieces fluttering in the wind too. We had no roots, nowhere to go, not until the vacations came and we got into separate and unfamiliar vehicles – an autorickshaw, a taxi, a private car – and left the hostel gates to go home. It frightened us a little to leave, to sit, even with our parents, in such an exquisite thing as a private car. We might as well have been buckled in space ships, the way it left us dizzy with excitement.
For the rest of the year we sat only in the large white van that took us to and brought us back from school. Mohan Dai was our driver. He was a short grim man with a large and tight stomach and a balding head. He wore a green shirt at all months and nothing over it, not even in the winters which were so cold. He lived with his wife, Ratna Didi, and his two sons, Sonu and Chutkey, in a small two-room shack behind our dining room. Every evening during dinner we heard him retch and cough into the drain that started at our kitchen, ran past his shack, and eventually disappeared into the land where our matron, a nasty, parsimonious, limping, fat, cruel, evil hag grew vegetables for us. The cooks were instructed to boil the vegetables for our meals, then the leaves, then the stem, and eventually the roots and some of us, unable to stomach the mush retched during dinner too, but unlike us Mohan Dai did not puke unsavory stews into that drain. He puked alcohol. Through the dining room walls we heard him gag and throw up. We heard him beat his wife, beat his sons. We heard his wife and his sons cry. We heard arguments that lasted until Mohan Dai exhausted himself and fell asleep. We heard every day – backgrounds to our dinner hours, much like the clicking cutlery upon our plates.
In the mornings Ratna Didi came to help clean the hostel. She swept the floors while another woman mopped behind her. Sonu and Chutkey were supposed to be in schools but they were always in our hostel too, waiting for us to send them off on secret errands and reward them with tips. Our errands always concerned food and at any hour we were desperate. We gave money to Sonu and Chutkey and they went beyond the barbed wire walls, beyond the gates, out to that strip of asphalt, into the rooms of Tandoor and Taj and returned with thick chicken and thin roties for us. They brought back bars of chocolate for dessert, soda for drink. In exchange we gave them money and expected no change. The change was their tip.
They were perpetually in love with the newest girls that came in. They hung around gathering information about Pooja or Aparna. They were forever playing cool, even as they wooed us. Sonu played the guitar. Chutkey told us jokes. We like them even when we shooed them away. We liked them when we scolded and mocked. We liked them. Some days they were our only contact with the world outside.
Then Sonu killed himself. He poured packets of rat poison into a glass and gulped the mix in a single shot. It was a regular evening. A regular meal of insect-infected bread and a bowl full of bland, tasteless beans. A regular evening of vomiting, hitting and abusing. Like every evening we heard and did not hear Ratna Didi scream. We heard and did not hear Chutkey’s cries. We heard and did not hear Sonu’s silence. We knew he was dead only the next morning after Mohan Dai did not drive us to school and Ratna Didi did not tidy our dorms. We never saw Chutkey again. He ran away from home.
For months after that we were afraid. Too many of us saw Sonu’s ghost in the periphery. He came to me in flashes and I saw him suddenly when I opened my eyes in the morning or when I turned a corner to the corridor. He played his guitar for Solona. Radhika saw him decayed and falling off the bones. We slept together after that –as many as could fit in a single bed and talked nonsensically, trying to keep from dozing off. We imagined Ratna Didi in her two-room shack, wearing a red saree. We imagined Chutkey upon some street in the Hawaian shirt he wore like wings upon his body. We never talked directly about Sonu. His ghost was sure to come if we talked about him.
Too many of us saw Sonu’s ghost in the kitchen. It stole biscuits and buns and its face was white under the tubelight. There was a strip of light under the door even when the kitchen was locked for the day and we heard the fire on the stove. We knew Sonu was behind the door doing whatever it was ghosts did. We heard his guitar at all hours. We had to cross the kitchen stairs to get to the bathroom and we avoided drinking too much water before bedtime.
That was also when some of us began to see through walls. One night Anuja saw Ratna Didi on the terrace. We were sleeping together and Anuja pointed at the ceiling and said she could see Ratna Didi’s ghost flying over us.
But Ratna Didi is not dead, I said.
You don’t have to be dead to be a ghost, Anuja said.
And then I saw her too, Ratna Didi, floating in the wind like a prayer flag, looking for her sons.
From a far enough distance we must have looked like little pieces fluttering in the wind too. We had no roots, nowhere to go, not until the vacations came and we got into separate and unfamiliar vehicles – an autorickshaw, a taxi, a private car – and left the hostel gates to go home. It frightened us a little to leave, to sit, even with our parents, in such an exquisite thing as a private car. We might as well have been buckled in space ships, the way it left us dizzy with excitement.
For the rest of the year we sat only in the large white van that took us to and brought us back from school. Mohan Dai was our driver. He was a short grim man with a large and tight stomach and a balding head. He wore a green shirt at all months and nothing over it, not even in the winters which were so cold. He lived with his wife, Ratna Didi, and his two sons, Sonu and Chutkey, in a small two-room shack behind our dining room. Every evening during dinner we heard him retch and cough into the drain that started at our kitchen, ran past his shack, and eventually disappeared into the land where our matron, a nasty, parsimonious, limping, fat, cruel, evil hag grew vegetables for us. The cooks were instructed to boil the vegetables for our meals, then the leaves, then the stem, and eventually the roots and some of us, unable to stomach the mush retched during dinner too, but unlike us Mohan Dai did not puke unsavory stews into that drain. He puked alcohol. Through the dining room walls we heard him gag and throw up. We heard him beat his wife, beat his sons. We heard his wife and his sons cry. We heard arguments that lasted until Mohan Dai exhausted himself and fell asleep. We heard every day – backgrounds to our dinner hours, much like the clicking cutlery upon our plates.
In the mornings Ratna Didi came to help clean the hostel. She swept the floors while another woman mopped behind her. Sonu and Chutkey were supposed to be in schools but they were always in our hostel too, waiting for us to send them off on secret errands and reward them with tips. Our errands always concerned food and at any hour we were desperate. We gave money to Sonu and Chutkey and they went beyond the barbed wire walls, beyond the gates, out to that strip of asphalt, into the rooms of Tandoor and Taj and returned with thick chicken and thin roties for us. They brought back bars of chocolate for dessert, soda for drink. In exchange we gave them money and expected no change. The change was their tip.
They were perpetually in love with the newest girls that came in. They hung around gathering information about Pooja or Aparna. They were forever playing cool, even as they wooed us. Sonu played the guitar. Chutkey told us jokes. We like them even when we shooed them away. We liked them when we scolded and mocked. We liked them. Some days they were our only contact with the world outside.
Then Sonu killed himself. He poured packets of rat poison into a glass and gulped the mix in a single shot. It was a regular evening. A regular meal of insect-infected bread and a bowl full of bland, tasteless beans. A regular evening of vomiting, hitting and abusing. Like every evening we heard and did not hear Ratna Didi scream. We heard and did not hear Chutkey’s cries. We heard and did not hear Sonu’s silence. We knew he was dead only the next morning after Mohan Dai did not drive us to school and Ratna Didi did not tidy our dorms. We never saw Chutkey again. He ran away from home.
For months after that we were afraid. Too many of us saw Sonu’s ghost in the periphery. He came to me in flashes and I saw him suddenly when I opened my eyes in the morning or when I turned a corner to the corridor. He played his guitar for Solona. Radhika saw him decayed and falling off the bones. We slept together after that –as many as could fit in a single bed and talked nonsensically, trying to keep from dozing off. We imagined Ratna Didi in her two-room shack, wearing a red saree. We imagined Chutkey upon some street in the Hawaian shirt he wore like wings upon his body. We never talked directly about Sonu. His ghost was sure to come if we talked about him.
Too many of us saw Sonu’s ghost in the kitchen. It stole biscuits and buns and its face was white under the tubelight. There was a strip of light under the door even when the kitchen was locked for the day and we heard the fire on the stove. We knew Sonu was behind the door doing whatever it was ghosts did. We heard his guitar at all hours. We had to cross the kitchen stairs to get to the bathroom and we avoided drinking too much water before bedtime.
That was also when some of us began to see through walls. One night Anuja saw Ratna Didi on the terrace. We were sleeping together and Anuja pointed at the ceiling and said she could see Ratna Didi’s ghost flying over us.
But Ratna Didi is not dead, I said.
You don’t have to be dead to be a ghost, Anuja said.
And then I saw her too, Ratna Didi, floating in the wind like a prayer flag, looking for her sons.
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