Dad puts out his hand and I take it.
He will always be my hero.
Dad swings me up into a bear hug. I put both my hands—the smoking cigar still clutched—around him and hug him tight. "Love you Dad." I whisper. It’s the first time I have said that to anyone. It will be a very long time before I say those words to anyone else.
6
Age 11
So, this is what PW has in mind.
He’s telling me the only way to manage my spurts of anger is a lot of physical activity. Apparently this leads to lot of ad-re-na-li-ne in my blood stream, which will help me work off all that anger and stress inside me, and also stop me from being so moody and depressed. Huh? Who’s moody? Not me.
I just sometimes feel these splotches of red and violet bubbling up inside and it makes me all hot and bothered and mad and then I just have to yell at whoever is in front of me; and okay sometimes I throw things and break stuff and … Yeah! Okay, guess I do get quite mad and stuff, but doesn’t everyone?
So, he wants me to enroll for jiu jitsu and sword fighting and kick boxing and … Well, basically every single exercise class in town. Hey, this way my social calendar is going to rival Ma’s very soon. Ha! Joke. But no, seriously I do like it. I asked if I could also take part in cricket practice but he said "No".
Huh? Apparently its not 'physical' enough. How strange. I don’t care anyway. I still get to play cricket with the boys at Oval Maidan. That’s pretty cool too.
So overall it’s quite okay I am seeing PW. I get to do a lot more fun stuff this way.
Today, he’s making me sit on the table in front of him. And he keeps touching the front of my T-shirt again. I think, he’s only like this when I wear my superhero T-shirt (it’s Batman today). I tell him I can get him his own Superhero range of T-shirts. But he refuses; says he is too old to wear cartoon characters on his T-shirt. Hmm! Wonder why he keeps touching the characters on my chest then?
Should I tell Ma?
Nah.
She’s too busy, she’ll probably just ignore me anyway. Still, I am going to try to speak to her on the way home.
7
Age 12
Thwack! The ball hit the bat, and Sid bats it away, before running like crazy between the wickets.
One run, two… Three runs! Wow! How cool was that anyway?
Not that he deserved it of course. He and that Tania— What kind of a name is Tania anyway? — Are going steady too. Imagine, that? Tania cheers from the sidelines of the cricket pitch. I try to be envious of her but truth be told, I am more resentful of her boyfriend. Not about him being her boyfriend: but that he is able to run fast, and jump and play without a care in the world.
I wanted to be down there with him, on the pitch: once more, feel those sweet shudders run through my hands when the ball is hit for a four? That’s the sensation I live for: the feeling, which has me racing through school every day, just so that I can run home, finish my homework and be down at the playground by 4pm every evening.
I am always the first person at the pitch on Oval Maidan. It is my special time when I can still smell the freshly cut grass, feel the sun warm my skin, anticipate that thud of my sneakers as they hit the ground, the dust flying in my wake when I run towards the crease to score a run. Soon.
If there is a life to live... it is this. Or so I thought, till a few months ago.
I can still go down and join them.
I really do want to… more than anything in the world.
But, something holds me back now. This new emotion inside me, something so delicate I can’t put a finger on it. It is there though, and it’s for real. Like a stone, which having entered an oyster shell, now can’t be cast out. So, you simply have to make peace with it: until it is transformed into a pearl.
Not that I am an oyster. Far from it. Still, it’s the first time I am hesitant about anything. Till now, life has been a ride on a super fast train, with me hurtling at top speed. Refusing to stop at any stations, I have chortled gleefully as I leave the passengers at the stations far behind. I push aside that which comes my way.
Until I come face to face with that most unexpected of barriers: myself.
I look at myself: under my long sleeved shirt, I wear a second shirt, below that, a third skinny, sleeveless vest. The layers almost smooth out the ripples. From a certain angle, I can almost pretend my chest is as it once was: Flat.
If I close my eyes as I run, I am once that straight sharp line, cutting through the wind, euphoric in my single-mindedness. But now, something has shifted within. Something incomprehensible. Huge.
It is just a step forward really. Yet, it makes me hide on the side, frustrated, even as the thirst to be out there with them consumes me. Here I am then chained, pulled back.
So why not just jump in and join them regardless of how I think that would make me look.
Good question. Conflicting isn’t it? Now imagine multiplying that by a thousand times through the years. That’s where I am just now!
The ball appears in front of me and I put out my hand, grasping it.
"Catch!" Screams the bowler
"Catch?" Sid scowls.
"Howzat!" Smirks the umpire, holding up his hands, bouncing on his heels as if in parody of a bird flapping in joy.
"What? How can that be howzat, I am not playing, I am just watching," I protest, my heart sinking at the pout on Sid’s face.
"We know you, so you are part of the team and you count as a fielder… So Sid is out." The bowler is now almost turning cartwheels in joy.
"Howzat! Howzat!" The fielders chant.
"Ha! Your girlfriend got you out," the umpire sneers, to my mortification.
In response, Sid walks up to him and hits him on the head with his bat. Forgetting my promise to myself to not run, I break into a sprint, hoping to console. But now the various parts of me bounce in that much hated way reminding me why I decided to stand aside in the first place. I stop so suddenly that the fielder behind me crashes to the ground.
"Ruby!" I look up from my perch on the muddy ground, the other boy sprawling on top of me. There, she is, dressed in her silk saree on her way to another party. Ma looks like a goddess. The others think so too for they all fell silent.
"Too busy being a boy. When you finally want to be a girl, no one is going to look at you." Pausing to brush the dust from her shoulder, she moves on, leaving behind the remains of me. I never want to be like her.
8
Age 12
The call comes a few hours past twilight. After the sun has descended into the depths of the Arabian Sea, its golden rays setting the curve of the Gateway of India on fire.
Sarita has taken Krishna to the Taj Mahal hotel, for a kiddies’ birthday party. My little bro is just eight, but already he has a more active social life than me. Its 9.30 pm and they are not home yet. Apparently my bro is already inculcating the habit of staying out late at night.
Ma is all settled in for the evening, sunk in the cushions of her favorite settee: the Chesterfield Leather Sofa imported from the UK. She’s already got her third G&T of the evening in hand. Fully happy she is just now.
Dad is in the study, the closed door indicating a do-not-disturb-I-am-working-mode.
I wander the corridor; wearing a path in the space between my room, the living room and the kitchen. Boring. Boring. Boring.
I should be doing my homework… Who cares about algebra anyway?
I could complete the art assignment… Yeesh!
There’s that essay to write… UGH!
I can see Ma’s toes, the nails painted a bright coral. Against the dull brown of the sofa, her foot resembles a pale, slimy, fish with a pouty, pink mouth.
From the dining table, I pick a bunch of grapes from the fruit bowl. Sarita has placed them there on strict instructions from Ma… Its not like Ma wants me to eat fruit, to stay healthy or anything like that. Oh! No. It’s just that, a cluster of grapes in a wooden bowl, next to shiny, red apples look rea
lly good on display. Just like in Good Housekeeping.
I pop a grape into my mouth, breaking the skin so the juice spurts out. It’s sweet and trite at the same time. Taking aim, I pelt one in the direction of Ma’s foot… And miss.
I raise another to my eyes, aligning it in line with her toe. I let it go and am rewarded with a flinch of her foot, nothing more. I need something bigger, a rock perhaps?
Not that Ma will notice me even then, of course.
Instead, I walk into the living room and picking up the remote control, point it in the direction of the TV, switching it on.
The harsh music of a breaking-news program cuts through the calm, followed by a small shriek from Ma.
"Really Ruby, do you have to scare me like that?" She says.
She reaches to take the remote from my hands, then stops transfixed by the images on the screen. The screen shows the red blush of the grand dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel. There are gun shots somewhere off screen and in response greyish blue smoke rises in the distance from one of the upper windows of the note. The images are shaky as if the hands of the person holding the camera are trembling. But there is no mistaking the breaking news.
The reporter says there's been a suspected terrorist attack with a series of explosions taking place throughout the city He's reporting live from the Taj Mahal hotel, where shots have been reported. In at least another two areas of the city shootings are going on. They believe that gunmen went into the Oberoi hotel and the Taj Mahal hotel and opened fire. They believe at least ten people are reported dead…"
A fist slams into my stomach and the hairs on my forearms stand on end as if I have been blasted by an arctic burst of air-conditioned air. I maybe young, but at twelve am old enough to recognize it for it is. Disaster! How strange to see a turning point in my life, play out in front of me. I feel like I am in a dream.
Then, a sound makes me turn. The glass has fallen from Ma’s hands onto the settee, staining it with colorless liquid. The lemon twist bounces on the sofa before falling to the white carpet below.
I flinch, awaiting a flurry of angry words at making her spill her drink. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even notice the leather shrivel under the onslaught of the spilt drink.
She is really, upset… And it’s not at me.
Something makes me walk over.
I really should leave the room now.
I don’t want to feel anything for her.
Why does her pain seem like my own?
Slipping onto the seat next to her, I put my arms around her. Ma hesitates. I sense the turmoil in her; something is shattering inside, squirming to be let loose. Fear!
Her hand creeps around my waist and she pulls me to her… Close enough for the orange-cinnamon of her perfume to waft through me.
We watch wordless at the people running away from the hotel. Shots are fired… Sparks of red in the distance.
Neither of us has voiced the unspoken. Krishna! He is there. If we don’t say it aloud, it can’t be true right?
A phone rings in the distance, jerking us from the trance the flickering images have flung over us. Then a door slams and Dad runs into the room. He stops when he sees us cowering in a corner of the sofa. I look up and see the lines on his forehead. His eyes are terrified. He comes to a stop near the door, hovering there, not sure what to do.
I hold out a hand, a plea in my eyes. Help us! He too hesitates. A look I can’t interpret scuttles over his face: Confusion? Anxiety? Distress…? It is gone before I can put a finger to it. Brow still furrowed, he walks towards us, sitting down next to me.
"My baby, my poor baby. God save my little boy…" I have never heard Ma pray as she does that day, or ever evoke the powers above. After today, she never will again do that. Pray.
Dad embraces both of us: a large, warm hug. The smell of wood smoke-citrus and something else nutty flows over me.
I watch the tragedy unfold on screen.
Enfolded for the first time between my parents, I am happy.
9
Age 13
Finally got around to telling Ma about PW. She laughed saying I am just making it all up to get her attention. As if!
I am never going to tell her anything again.
Maybe it’s just me who finds all this strange.
Maybe this happens to everyone all the time. They are all fine aren’t they? So guess it must be okay. Yes, that’s what it is. All okay. Some things I am never going to tell anyone. Never. Ever.
10
Age 14
I am sitting there in the back seat of the car while Hari is on the phone with someone. He is talking in a low voice and so I can only hear every other word. It is unusual that he talks on the phone when Ma or Dad, are in the car. Me? I don’t care either way. He knows that, and takes full advantage.
I look around the parking lot. It’s fairly empty; except for a couple of BMWs and Audis. A graceful Ambassador car rusts gently in a corner. Once found everywhere these vehicles are now rare enough to be considered antiques.
Ma is quite fond of showing off the fleet of Ambassador cars her father kept in the garage of the family mansion. But really I don’t care just now, for all the riches can’t help me with the leap of faith I have to make: to go through the torture of walking into a roomful of strangers, feeling intimidated and small, new and awful. It’s tough…know what I mean? I can’t look back, for if I do I am lost.
Act as if you already have what you need in front of you. If only, it were that easy.
Only consolation is that I am stupid crazy about training. I love simply disappearing into the focus that comes with the concentration needed to flow into each pose. I have no choice. I roll off the seat, and slam the door behind me. It startles Hari so he drops his phone. Good!
I drag my sorry self into class.
This is the street, there are no rules.
I hold up my arm, ready to take guard and then making a fist strike away the hit from my opponent. She is almost five-feet-ten-inches to my just about four-feet height with broad shoulders almost double the width of my narrow fledgling ones. Oh! And she has rather wide knuckles. I know because right now I am taking the brunt of her hits. It hurts! With every thrust of her arm, each of which carries the full weight of her nearly sixty kilograms, my slender forty kilograms of body shakes. But the more she tries to get me, the more adamant I am to hold my own. I just have to don’t I? I can’t back down. I do enough of that at home. Keep my tongue tied while my Ma puts me in my place.
Who wants that dull and boring life they are trying to get me to lead? No, actually it’s not that Ma leads a dull life. Far from it.
It’s more that she’d rather not have me around at all. She regrets I am the one who survived instead of her Krishna. Now, she’s at a loss with what to do with me.
It doesn’t matter really. None of this does.
All that is important is that I hold my own against this big bully of a girl. I may be just fourteen, but already I know that she is only the first of many challenges I have to overcome.
So, I stamp my feet on the ground, anchor myself and defend, though with every hit now I can feel my bones protest. Yet, they hold, they don’t break…Thankfully.
I know I am supposed to just keep practicing my defense, but she is not playing fair. For, with every hit, she continues to put her entire body weight behind it, leaning on it, trying her best to shove me to the floor.
If you get hit, it’s not the end of the world.
Do you know that in jiu jitsu a smaller, weaker person can successfully defend against a bigger, stronger assailant by using proper technique. All you have to do is hold your own ground, and then apply joint-locks and chokeholds to defeat the other person.
I know now, because that’s what I did. Funny how when your back is to the wall new ideas just pop into your head. Like when someone holds a gun to your head, you forget your name, but can suddenly remember that complex, mathematical equation your teacher tried to make you solve in class. I
have no idea how prophetic these words are too; for it a few years I’ll have a real gun held to my head. How will I react then?
I can tell she is growing lazy, relaxing into the uncertainty that I am just a skinny girl: a pretty, young thing. I allow myself to slacken my defense, seeing a smile come to her face. Her moves are totally lackadaisical now as if she is only half present in the room with me.
Our instructor is fond of quoting Sun Tzu from his book The Art of War, where he says in times of insufficient strength, defense should be prioritized and that offensive tactics should only be used in a situation of physical advantage. What does Sun Tzu know anyway? Times are changing. I’d rather attack, fight to get a grip on my opponent. And so, the next time I see a gap in her offense, I yell and shove the flat of my palm against the most vulnerable part of her anatomy, her lower abdomen. She shivers back a little, but does not fall. Before she can regroup, I kick her in the abdomen.
That’s not any technique I learnt; it’s just fear, and hate and rage… Anger unleashes itself as if cola from an uncorked bottle. It feels good to just launch myself at her. I kick her once, twice and then she is grabbing my other leg. Splat! I hit the floor, her weight collapsing on me. Perhaps Sun Tzu has a point after all?
Too late, too late!
My brain is screaming, scolding me for jumping in so recklessly. My heart is singing with pleasure at having let loose, at finally doing what I want to do.
The rest of me? Well, various body parts are humming in pain, screeching in agony as she puts her fingers around my neck, her breath hot on my cheek. The world goes dark around the edges. My hands and feet thrash trying to hold onto something, anything for support. Then suddenly the air rushes into my lungs, as the weight around my chest and across my legs is lifted.
Origins: The Ruby Iyer Diaries (Many Lives Prequel Book 1) Page 2
