A Life Less Ordinary (2 page)

Baba felt very bad at this. Gently, he asked me what my brother and I wanted. I said I wanted to study. A few days after this Baba sent me to Jetha's house, saying I should stay there and that way I could carry on with my studies as well. But he never once considered that Jetha did not have a lot of money to spare, that his health was not particularly good, and that it would be unfair to impose this burden on him. Once there, I realized there was no way I could carry on studying, so I decided to at least seek out my old school friends. First I went to see Tutul. She had just come back from school and was really happy to see me. I used to call her
mother Kaki-ma, and when she saw me, she welcomed me and quickly cooked some food for the two of us. Kaki-ma's kindness reminded me of my own mother and my hand stilled while eating. When Kaki-ma asked if anything was the matter, I told her that had my mother been there, she, too, would have fed me with the same care and love. Kaki-ma merely said, “Yes, child, but what is to be done? It's your fate to not have a mother even while you do have one.”

After eating, Tutul and I started chatting, and then we went off to meet our other friend, Dolly. Dolly was a beautiful Brahmin girl and our fathers knew each other. One day, when Dolly's father asked me about Baba, I gave him all the news and also told him everything about myself. Dolly's Baba talked to the school headmaster, who knew me because I had been a student in his school. I was really happy when he told me to start coming to school the next day. And so I started at school again.

But now another problem came up. Because I was now living in Jetha's house, my third ma found it really difficult to cope with all the household tasks. And one day she and Baba arrived at Jetha's house to take me away. Jetha refused to let me go, saying, “She's going to school and doing so well, I will not let her go away.” But Baba insisted and said all kinds of terrible things to him. In the end, Jetha gave in, but he told them that if they made me unhappy there was no way they would get any happiness themselves.

They took me away from Jetha's house, and once again my studies stopped. Now I thought of only two things: whether I was asleep or awake, my thoughts would constantly turn to my studies and my mother. I had heard that excess of worry makes people ill, and sure enough, that happened to me. Baba took me to a hospital, but the doctors were unable to diagnose my illness. This worried Baba, and he called in another doctor. I told the doctor
everything that had been worrying me, and he was very angry with Baba, and scolded him.

Gradually I got better. One day, while I was still in the hospital, I woke in the morning to find my bedsheets wet with blood. I was frightened and I began to cry. The nurse heard me and came to find out what was wrong, but I was so scared I could not say anything to her. But then she noticed the sheet and asked me if anything like this had happened to me before. I said no, and she understood the reason for my fear. A few people had gathered there and they were all smiling. Patients in the other beds tried to explain to me that there was nothing to worry about, that this happens when girls grow up. The doctor came and told me I was well now and could go home. I begged the nurse to allow me to stay on for a few days, but she said there was nothing wrong with me, and that all would be well if I followed her instructions.

Baba came and took me home. When my new Ma saw me, I thought she looked a little concerned. I went in for a bath and when I had finished I saw her looking at my bloodstained clothes. I told her what had happened in the hospital and then I thought she was telling Baba something—he looked a bit worried, too, although he did not say anything. In fact, every time I looked at him, it seemed that he was thinking about me, but I did not have the courage to ask what was on his mind.

 

NOW, ONCE AGAIN, I BEGAN TO WORRY ABOUT MY STUDIES.
Perhaps Baba understood what was in my heart, although he did not say anything because he knew that my new Ma would not want him to talk to me about it. I was constantly surprised by her behavior. At times she would be so loving toward my brother and me, and then suddenly we would become the cause of tension and conflict between her and Baba, and the whole house would
become a battlefield. Baba's behavior had changed, too. He no longer scolded me, and if I did anything wrong or made any mistakes, he would simply say, “You're not a child anymore. You should be more careful.” He told me so often that I was no longer a child that I began to wonder if perhaps I had grown up after all.

Slowly, I began to see signs that told me this indeed was so. One day I was sitting on the
chowki
, reading aloud, when I suddenly looked up and saw Baba watching me intently. He was listening carefully to what I was reading. When he saw me looking at him he asked me if I would like to go to my aunt's house. I made no answer. I don't know if he thought I was being rude, but he did not say anything. Earlier, if I did not reply to something he asked, he would sternly tell me off.

I think the boy who lived in the hotel behind our house, like Baba, had also begun to think I was now grown up. Every time I sat down to read in the room, I would find him watching me from his window. If I went to fetch water from the tap outside, he would come and stand there and watch me. One day I noticed him talking to my brother and pointing at me. I think he was asking about me. Another day I saw him asking a friend I used to play with about me. She came and told me afterward, and asked, “Why does that boy want to know everything about you?”

“What's so strange about that? Everyone here wants to know everything about everybody. But don't tell Baba about him—otherwise he'll beat me up.” She kept smiling at me as if she knew something I didn't—that's why I had to add that.

This friend of mine was named Krishna. She was short and fair, with a slightly crooked tooth, but she was still good-looking. Her sister, Mani, was also lovely. The three of us took tuitions together. I remember that one day there was no electricity and we were sitting and studying by the light of a lamp. I tried to
move the lamp a bit and the hot glass brushed against the teacher's knee! I was scared to death!
Now he's sure to tell Baba and then I'll get a beating
, I thought. But he did nothing of the sort. He just kept quiet. But even though he did not give the incident any importance, Krishna and Mani kept reminding me of it and teasing me.

They must have also told their father about me, for one day their Baba and mine talked a lot about me and my brother. Their father asked Baba why he did not let his children be children. “Why do you keep scolding them all the time?” he asked. “Why don't you let them play when they want to? You're always stopping them playing, or going out if they want to…They're still children, after all: do you have to keep them busy with household chores all the time? Don't you think they want to go out and play, like all children do? Your daughter is so scared of you that even when she is ill she dare not tell you. And anyway, what good would it do even if she does? She also knows that. Tell me: is this right?”

Krishna's father was not wrong. When my mother left, she took all the joy in our lives with her. Baba did not allow me to wear bangles; I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone, to play with anyone, and often not even allowed out of the house. I was so scared of being beaten that I would look for opportunities to go out and play only when I knew he was not around to stop me. I was only eleven or twelve years old at the time, and I used to think that no one could be as unfortunate as me. I used to think that only I knew what it means to lose a mother. Sometimes when I thought about Ma, I would think that if it had been Baba who had left instead of her, perhaps things would not have been so bad. After all, what had Baba given us, except fear? I used to think that perhaps there were no children who feared their own father as much as we did. His appearance, with his round, plump face; his
tall, solid frame; and his huge moustache, did not help. He frightened everyone away—other children were scared even to come near him!

I longed for my mother. I used to think that if only I could have her love and support, my fear of Baba would be manageable. Had she been around, I would not have had to abandon my studies: of this I was sure. She wanted so much for me to study. In fact, had it not been for her, and her support and constant encouragement, I would not have studied even as much as I had. It was only now that I was able to appreciate how important it was to be able to read and write. The years I had spent at school had taught me that much at least. History was my favorite subject. I loved it and really enjoyed it, and perhaps that was why the history teachers also liked me. They used to tell us about different battles, about the Rani of Jhansi, about Nawab Sirajudowlah, about all sorts of kings and queens and nobles. I often wished I could meet all the people whose stories we heard. I would have liked to have talked to them. And whenever I studied history, I would remember my mother. I don't know why…I just did. Maybe it was somehow connected to the things that our neighbors used to say about us—about how such a well-knit family had fallen apart with just the departure of one person. Or perhaps it was that Rani Lakshmi Bai's story—about how she took her little boy and fled with him on her horse—reminded me of the day Ma took my little brother and left us. But then I thought,
What's the use of wondering and speculating?
History reminded me of Ma, just as women walking down the road did, and that was all.

Baba also kept on searching for Ma. Every time he came home from somewhere, the first question we asked him was whether he had any news of Ma. He'd say, “No, child,” and then he'd let out a long sigh. I felt very bad for him at such times. I thought that finally he was beginning to understand that if he had
not treated her so badly, she would never have left. And yet he was the same father who seemed so happy when our new Ma came into the house. It was difficult to tell whether he was really happy or not.

It was a few days after Krishna's Baba had talked to mine that Baba called me and asked if I wanted to live at my elder aunt's house. At the time I had not answered. Shortly afterward, I heard him talking to my new Ma. They were talking about my marriage. I had no idea what marriage was. All I knew was that it was an occasion for song and dance, that often lots of people went to marriages and had lots of fun.

I had only one elder aunt, and she was very fond of me, so even though I had not answered when Baba had asked me if I wanted to go and stay with her, when he did send me there, I was very happy. My elder brother was already with her—he was working in a large restaurant. I stayed at my aunt's home for some months, and those days passed well for me. My aunt would take her daughter and me out somewhere every evening, and every night she would tell us stories. It was while listening to a story of hers one night that I was suddenly reminded of a funny story that my friend Dolly used to tell us. I started to laugh, and my cousin asked me what was so funny. When I told her, she insisted that I should tell her the story. And I was keen to tell it as well, so I said to her, “Okay, so listen…”

I had only gotten this far when my aunt sternly told us to stop chattering and go to bed. But my cousin insisted that I finish the story. So I said, “Okay, listen again…”