ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune

by NOMITA KHANNA

  “So, get admitted.”

  “And why would I do that?” I swallowed hard. I’m mentally sound. I’m not mad.”

  “That’s not for the patient, that is, for you to say. I searched.

  Some mental illnesses run in families. You may have an

  undiagnosed disorder. So, don’t give me your middle path

  lectures.”

  “Mummy-mine, there’s a world of difference between

  searching and researching,” I said contemptuously. “Come to think of it, Papa didn’t follow the middle path either. He was an extremist. Is his path you propose we tread on the heels of? Remember when he made me live only on water for the entire

  weekend when I quit girl scouts saying I was spitting on his

  legacy? And you Mummy said, ‘Think of it as a blessing in

  disguise, girl. It’s no longer baby fat—your piglet cheeks are

  overrunning your human eyes. Sort of doughy you’re getting.’

  The way he publicly eviscerated me when that Haldiram

  salesgirl caught me shoplifting a size-zero barfi—are his drastic measures the bricks to pave the path you suggest we follow? Don’t they reek of sheer desperation to wield authority after being fired? Tell me Mummy, do I have a target tattooed on my back?” I continued, my voice scratchy. “He stayed out of jail only because we live in India. Anywhere abroad, child services would have made a meal out of him. I know that now. I wish I knew it then.”

  “Why?” she asked fiercely, “so you could put your own

  father in jail?”

  “No,” my voice fractured pitifully, “so … so that I would not have become this,” —I showed her my tongue, a flakka pebble perched on it. “That was the beginning of it all—I sniffed gum to stave off hunger. I am a drug-addict no small thanks to my wonderful parents.”

  That’s when I heard a disturbing fusillade quite close at

  hand. “Who’s that?” My eyes flew to the door. No one! I realized that the noise was inside my head—fireworks going off at my startling admission of being an addict. Mummy however, sat stoically. Scanning her face for a reaction, sadly, I found none. And then she looked away. I laughed somewhat maniacally. “Go on, do it. Look the other way. Turn your back on me. ‘Cause that’s what you are best at: An insouciant attitude to your girl’s problems. With Papa, it was always the martyrs. They were his children. Not me. Someone united them.”

  “That … someone … is … YOU,” she minced frostily.

  “You are welcome. What choice did I have? When you humiliate others, there will be consequences. You can’t condemn me for standing up to a bully. He beheaded me and played ball with my bleeding head with you hopping around the fringes of the ring.” I gulped air. What’s wrong with you, Tana? She’s not your priest—you are practically confessing. There’s no going back now.

  “My, God, the things you say! Beheaded? You’re not a

  normal, regular girl. You could try saying ‘he bit my head

  off’.”

  “Suddenly my Mummy who can’t say the right word is the

  language expert. Teaching me idioms.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?” I asked, dreading the word ‘hemlock’.

  She stared at me as though I was the blood-streaked heroine

  on the poster of a horror movie. “You’re even more far gone

  than I thought.” She clucked before doing a near perfect

  mimicry of my voice, “‘Make sure Papa eats the cake.’ You

  really are weird.”

  “Duly noted— you’ve made it abundantly clear all my life—but mother-mine, by all means, do feel free to shoulder some blame, with the tainted me being the fruit of the poisonous trees and all. Even so, is there a law against being weird? How about laws against what HE did with you as an accomplice?” I spoke passionately, acid dripping from my voice, “He thought he could get away with anything just because he won a stupid Chakra. And now again you’re chewing me out. Mummy,” —I paused for emphasis— “someone could get hurt unless you are ready to let go of the past. The question is: Will you?” There. I’ve said it.

  Sixteen

  TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR

  SILENCE SHROUDED THE FRIGID ROOM giving me time to realign my thoughts. Mummy adjusted her spectacles.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I put my hand on hers. “No one needs to suffer any longer because of Daddy’s foibles and fallacies. I’ll make sure.” I sugar-coated the acerbic threat, “I’ll look after you. Move in with you. It’s a win-win for both of us.” Take it Mummy/Dummy. I’m throwing you a lifeline. It’s your last chance.

  Pulling out her hand, she looked away yet again. “You really have a weird way of rationalising things. Weird,” she murmured.

  Seriously? Much to my dismay, she was like a broken record, stuck on the word weird. I was well aware she didn’t scare easily but this was taking it too far. Frankly, I was beyond caring what my fraudulent parents did from Earth, heaven, or hell. So, unfortunately, she had kinda sealed her fate with her unpersuadable conduct.

  Say your prayers Mummy. My breath felt throttled. Tana,

  think. Maybe there’s still something that can save Mummy.

  Like a bag of pus at the root of an infected tooth, guilt pounded

  at me. To buy time, I took out a compact from my tiny cross-

  body bag—quite the contrast to Mummy’s giant-sized one, and

  patted my perspiring face with a powder puff.

  Mummy tapped her forehead.

  “What?” I seized the moment. “You want to say something?”

  “Right above your eyebrows. An oily patch.”

  A speck of the powder got into her nose. “Ah-choo!” She

  sneezed loudly making me catch my breath in a loud gasp.

  Anupam’s out there. Is this room soundproof? Sweat beads

  popped up again on my freshly powdered forehead.

  “First things first,” —I proceeded to dilute the Rohypnol

  with some water— “and then we can do whatever you want;

  coffee, my therapy, and I’ll walk out with my hands raised up

  in the air.” Hearing that, my hands shook as though afflicted

  by a neurological disorder.

  “Good.”

  I steadied my hands.

  “Good,” she repeated.

  “You just said. I told you I’m ready. The question is, are

  you?”

  “For what?”

  To meet your maker. I tore off the plastic wrapping from a

  syringe rather violently before filling it up with the medicine.

  “Lift your saree,” I waved the tube at her.

  She stood up, arranged her saree and in doing so, tripped on

  its loose end.

  Tripping on your superhero cape? Eh?

  In a few seconds, she managed to set it right. “Let’s get this

  over with,” she said without looking at me.

  My thoughts exactly. “There you go… M… mummy.” My

  voice oscillated up and down wildly not unlike the spikes on

  the heart-rate monitor attached to a person with a panic attack.

  Suddenly, she swivelled her head toward me, “You don’t

  get along with anyone. Do you? We never said it out loud but

  all your life you have caused us pain; left, right and centre.”

  Ouch! “You have a daughter, woman.”

  “What?”

  “That would be ME.” I tugged at and stretched my earlobes

  ferociously, almost detaching them from my face. “These here aren’t showpieces. They work.” I could feel a volcano on the brink of erupting inside of me. “Why would you say such things?”

  “Besides the obvious?” she scoffed softly.

  Really Mummy? You have chosen this time and place to

  actually have the first ever real conversation with me? Just when you are drawing
your last disgusting breaths? I clapped. “Fascinating observations! Obvious only to you. From where I am sitting, how about you as parents being disappointing to me on a number of levels? Not exactly Mother India, are you? Have you ever, I mean ever, addressed me as ‘beta’ or ‘kiddo’ like normal parents do? Eh? Given that I …” —my voice failed me hard as I tried to swallow the bitter insult— “oh, never mind.”

  “’Kiddo’? That’s your sorry excuse? All your life you have

  been looking for excuses to blow up relationships. Papa, me,

  Emperor-Ashoka-the-Great. Imagine ‘kiddo’ is your latest flimsy one,” —she searched for something in her bag and then suddenly jerked her chin up— “don’t come crying back to Mummy. Ever. You got married from my home and your funeral will be from your husband’s home. Move in with me? That there is a lose-lose situation. N … O ... My doors are closed. My answer is: N … O.”

  “Still learning to spell, Mummy?”

  “Not funny.”

  “I beg to differ. I think today you’re a laugh riot. Like Mr.

  Chatterjee.”

  “Alright. If you insist as long as you answer my questions.” She narrowed her eyes, “But first, who is Mr. Chatterjee?”

  “See? You can’t remember your daughter’s best friend. He’s the monkey who gave me a nickname—something you never gave me; something I craved for. He called me ‘Tata’ with love. Papa couldn’t even pronounce my name right. He called me—Taaaana,” I dragged the last word a bit too much.

  “And still you insist you’re not weird? Who names pets Mr. Chatterjee, Emperor-Ashoka-the-Great, Miss Grizzly? You call

  me laughable?”

  “Miss Grizella. No one appreciates being addressed by the

  wrong name. She might be sensitive,” I said in accordance with my tendency to anthropomorphize.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Strangely, I had an absurd desire to scurry

  for a hiding place. “Life’s laughable,” I surmised doubtfully.

  “So, what’s your question?”

  “You think it’s laughable how cruel you are to Vikramji?”

  “What are you saying?” I whispered, the filled device

  poised above her exposed leg.

  “You heard me. And why are we whispering?”

  “Why would I be cruel to him or to anybody?”

  “Because you’re a psychopath?”

  “What?”

  “Shobha Didi called me. That’s what couldn’t wait. That’s

  what I came to talk about. She says Vikramji hasn’t had a

  single peaceful night since he married you. You do have a gift

  for hijacking the happiness of people around you. It’s high

  time you take a good, hard look in the mirror.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You tell us. How-h-how could you accuse the poor old lady of sleeping with your husband?”

  Holy-moly-whacka-Polly-the-Cow: The nerve of the mad buffalo! And this one here? Can’t believe she gave birth to me. And stupid me thought she’s here to have coffee. Mummy really, truly has me firmly positioned in her cross-hairs. Goes to show you can’t count on anyone. The target on my back is not going anywhere. My intestines turned a somersault thus tying themselves into complicated, painful knots. “So now Didiji is your new best friend?”

  “That’s your response? Some piece of work you are.”

  “Fun-fact: Your handiwork, Mummy. Don’t get me wrong

  but who are you to make such statements about me?” I tried to

  sound calm though blood roared like a wounded lion in my ears. Gladly, I could have slaughtered the mad buffalo-didi and

  minced her into a sausage.

  “I’m your mother.”

  “Sadly, yes. I guess the phrase ‘A mother’s love is unconditional’ wasn’t coined with you in mind. It’s the Diary who is my mother, father, sister—my guardian angel.”

  “See,” she gesticulated wildly, “weird! Don’t even get me started about this diary-bonkers bit. In fact, should we be

  doing this?” She eyed her cellulite-riddled bare thigh.

  “Come on, Mummy. This is me.” I suppressed my anger.

  “Precisely,” she humph-ed. “Are you going to sort yourself

  out, Tana?” she asked in a dangerous manner as though she

  held the loose end of a noose around my neck, and my answer

  would help her decide whether to tighten it or not. “Do you really think divorce is the solution to whatever your imaginary problems are? As it is, it’s slim pickings for a nurse from Daryaganj—to add to that you want the divorce label? Will you, for once, listen to me?”

  Old Mother Hubbard, please, please go back to your corner

  of shoe and cupboard in Daryaganj. “Happy to oblige, Mummy.”

  “Not for a second do I believe that,” said my suspicious,

  untrusting, mulish mother.

  That’s it. Piss off. For the first time, I missed Papa. He

  might have pulled her reins in and flicked a whip to make her stop her hinky horseplay. As for me, I was stumped and didn’t know what else to think or say to save her. Ultimately, destiny controls the world. So, in accordance with God’s plans, in that moment, logic dictated I administer an IV injection into Mummy’s left femoral artery, which I did albeit against my true wishes. Within a minute, her head lolled back against the chair. I am well aware of the side-effects of an over-dosage but that’s not the priority right now. In fact, an OD is precisely what the doctor would order for Mummy in her current predicament. Clearly, she was better off with more forgetfulness, more sedation. With that in mind, I injected two or more ampules. As I write, my memory’s fuzzy about the exact dosage. After all, I am still high as a kite. What I do recall regarding the next thing that happened is that just as she slipped into a comatose state, quick as a finger snap, I picked

  up the first good thing that caught my eye. A stone

  paperweight.

  No, Tana, no, you can’t do that. You don’t want to hurt

  her. Just make her forget the hemlock talk. But what if she

  doesn’t forget? What to do, what to do? Tana, Tana, the things

  we do for love—you’re wasting precious seconds. Hey, girl,

  not the paperweight—you don’t want a bloody mess. Above

  and beyond, blood spells disaster for you too, can’t have you

  passing out. Before I could process my thoughts properly and

  wrap my throbbing head around the scene, she fell like a

  marionette on strings onto the floor. If she’s dead, so be it.

  In slow motion, I put down the paperweight, my mouth open, sucking in air, baring my teeth, staring foolishly at her.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, we will get through this. This too shall pass. I wish you hadn’t been so pig-headed. I know we love each other in our own sorry, twisted way. Regardless, shit happens. Think of it as a blessing in disguise. You, the emotional slave can go serve Papa, the Lord and Master,’ I cogitated nervously.

  A sudden noise jerked me out of my reverie. Tick-tock, tick-tock. It’s the clock. Plucking Mummy’s limp wrist from under her, I checked her pulse. Thank God, she’s alive. It took all my drug-fuelled strength and then some more to shove her into one of the three blast chillers. For obvious reasons I chose the empty one. Go, go, go, Miss Hulk, you can do it, I had to use my chemical-flooded brain to push my body along with hers. At one point she did give me a nasty scare. Her eyes shot open and she scratched my arm, just below my left shoulder. Chilled me to the bones as though I sat atop the ice packs in the fridge. Mummy, don’t make this difficult. I’ll come back to get you out. Soon, very soon. Still amped—possibly due to the triple-shot-flakka—I managed to shove her in farther, tears pricking my eyes.

  Eventually, I had her in her place just the way she and Papa had me in my supposed one all my life. Drained, I shut the cold box, lurched, and hobbled cadaverously to the
chair before flopping into it. It’s all gone wrong. Blood continued to resonate in my head. I clawed at my ears to wrest the stethoscope off them. Nothing! Tana, you’re not wearing one. Calm … down.

  You want to know Mummy why I said what I said to

  Shobha Didi aka voodooist? Because it’s plain as day she has

  my husband under her spell. He turns a blind eye to her policy of a beggarly budget to run the household, and the torturous ways to enforce that: ‘No fruit-juice—that’s the exact opposite of what we do here. Juice is without fibre. Not those eggs— cook the day-old ones, I’ve marked them date wise. Make do with jam-toast for breakfast—we will use the vegetables for dinner. Don’t throw away the pea-peels or the cauliflower stems. They make for a decent dish.’ It wouldn’t surprise me if she comes up with a recipe using pineapple peels too. Nothing remotely resembling the meals the doctor ordered for the Late Mrs. Patel. “Whatever happened to those,” I asked to which she replied, “She was sickly. Needed them.” As if the rest of us are peasants who merely need sustenance to plough the fields. Do we need to get terminally ill before we can have proper food? If I protest in a bid to change things, she flattens out her back, inflates her lungs, lifts her head off Vikram’s treasure-chest—more like a coin filled piggy-bank—preparing to strike.

  I can’t live with that, despite Lutyens bungalow.

  Suddenly, touch tone beeps cut abruptly into my thoughts.

  Someone’s punching in the door code. Corpse-Guy is at the

  door. Nearly gave me a heart attack. I had been foolish enough

  to fall asleep on the wheel. This extremely unique

  circumstance could do that to you I suppose. Fasten your seat

  belt, Tana. Marvelling at my own stupidity, just in the nick of time, I managed to duck behind a tall cabinet trying hard at the same time to stem an intense urge to puke. Oh, my God! Nausea is the least of my troubles. Mummy’s purse sat right on the table like a monstrous-uterine-fibroid. I’ll go get it. Too late! Anupam walked in, head still bent flipping the pages of a file, making his cheap hair cut visible. Die! Double Die! C’mon, c’mon, don’t look up and I’ll take you out for dinner. I’ll ignore the right-hand-side-price list. I promise, I prayed silently. However, the pathologist did look up though only briefly to pick up a sterilised glass jar and a sheet of stickers from a shelf. He wrote Kidney: Patient No. 92 on a sticker with a felt-tipped pen, before sticking it on the bottle. Seconds later, he walked out the door, the jar tucked under his arm, not once casting a glance at the table with the brown tumour perched atop it.