Disowned

by Tikiri

  Meena’s voice was rough and low, and her shoulders, visible through the sheer sari wraps, were muscular, but her face showed another side. Her black lined eyes were soft and her heavy lipsticked smile was warm, and through it all, it was clear she was not much older than Aunty Shilpa. She wore cheap makeup on her face, but that didn’t cover the scar on her cheek. “A knife scar,” Preeti explained to me, before going on a long monologue about how good girls don’t go talking with street beggars.

  That evening, I saved up a roti from my dinner plate, wrapped it carefully in newspaper, and hid it in a corner of Grandma’s kitchen. The next morning, I packed it quietly in my school satchel and brought it with me to the bus station. I never forgot her smile when I handed the food packet to her. The packet contained not more than a few dry bites, but I knew it wasn’t the food that made her smile. She knew I was as foreign to this place as she was, and that formed an unspoken bond between us.

  The three teens harassing her were a mainstay at the station and had been there ever since I started school a year ago. We usually found them squatting like vultures hunkering for prey on the concrete barrier at the station, under a big yellow sign that said “Good and Fast Immigration Broker.” There were days when they threw pebbles at incoming buses to get a rise out of the overworked, short-tempered bus drivers. Other days, they used slingshots to shoot pebbles at schoolgirls disembarking from the buses. The worst were their insistent hollers at us to “come closer,” be their “friend,” or to “touch this.”

  All three boys lived in the same apartment compound as us so we knew their family names, but Preeti and I had decided to bestow special names on them. The oldest was Nuthead, the biggest of the three. He wore a dirty, oversized sarong, a square piece of cloth wrapped around the waist and hiked up to the knees to make it easy to walk. In that neighborhood, what you wore indicated how close you were to manhood. Shorts were for boys, pants were for teens, and sarongs were for men. In my mind, though, none of these juveniles were close to becoming men anytime soon.

  Scratchy liked to rub himself between his thighs whenever he saw girls. He was as thin as a rake and was always holding his ratty pants up with one hand. “Doesn’t he know what a belt is for? What a twit,” Preeti had said in exasperation one day, when Scratchy had been particularly annoying. He heard her and hollered right back, “It’s to thrash you girls to a pulp, that’s what!” That day, we ran home so fast, I got a cramp in my thighs.

  Fartybag was the short and chubby one, and with his curly mop of hair, he looked younger than his friends. He always wore a faded Rambo T-shirt and had a tendency to urinate on the concrete barrier in public view. Even while doing so, his head would swivel around looking for girls to whistle at, while we tried to scurry out of his view.

  No one complained or called the authorities about these boys. The other girls didn’t seem to notice anything. When the boys catcalled, as they always did, they simply clutched their books against their chests and hastened their steps. They ducked under the bus shelter, eyes downcast—like girls were supposed to. They pretended nothing was happening, but they got picked on too—on the street, at the school, at the bus stop, even inside the bus. The worst was inside the bus.

  Some days, when I got stuck in the middle of a sweaty, smelly crowd, I’d feel a slimy arm rub on my chest, or worse, a hand crawl up my leg underneath my skirt. When that happened, I’d scrunch my body and stop breathing. I’d feel like I wanted to puke. I’d pretend it wasn’t happening. I’d pray for it to stop. I knew I needed to say something, cry for help, but every time, my voice disappeared. The minute the bus lurched to a stop or people moved even one inch, I’d push through the walls of sarongs and saris to get away from the creepy hands. On those days, I’d walk home, shoulders drooped, feeling sick to my stomach, angry at the world until I got home and buried the nauseating memories under my pillow.

  The three teens at the bus stop were getting louder.

  “You dirty man!” Fartybag yelled at the beggar woman.

  “I will show you how to be a woman!” Scratchy shouted, making Meena crouch lower.

  “I will trash you just like a woman!” Nuthead said with an ugly laugh.

  I looked around me. Normally Preeti would be with me, but that day, Aunty Shilpa had forced her to stay home to recover from a bad flu. The other girls had walked away quickly as soon as they’d seen what was happening. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what or how.

  There were others near the station. They saw, but took a wide berth to avoid the beggar and the teens. A group of bus drivers on their breaks were squatting nearby, playing cards, absorbed in their game. I ran up to them.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Please?”

  One of them looked up and squinted.

  “Those boys are shouting at Meena,” I said, pointing. “Can you do something? Please?”

  One of the men snickered.

  “They’re said they’re going to hit her.”

  “What business is that of yours?” One of the men waved his hand dismissively.

  “Go home, girl, and stop bothering grown-ups,” another said, not looking up. He slapped a card down with gusto. “Aha!” he said, and the others turned back to the game like I wasn’t even there.

  I looked up. The teens were still at it. I watched in horror as Nuthead punched Meena on the head. For real, this time.

  “Aii!” she screeched, her face contorted in fear as Nuthead’s arm went up for another blow.

  “Hey!” I jumped.

  The blow came down, harder this time. Meena quivered on the ground.

  “Stop that!” I yelled and ran toward the group, my arms waving madly. “I said, stop it!”

  The three boys turned and stared.

  “Leave her alone!” I shouted.

  Fartybag was looking at me, his mouth open.

  “Huh?” Scratchy said, his hand paused in the air, forgetting to scratch himself for an instant, making his pants fall a few dangerous inches lower.

  “What did you say?” Nuthead said with a scowl.

  “I said, leave her alone!” My voice was firm. My legs were solid. My hands were fists. It felt good to stand up to them, to tell them how I truly felt for once.

  Fartybag snorted.

  “Oooh. Stop this,” Scratchy jeered.

  I scrunched up my face, trying to look as menacing as I could. “Stop hitting her or I’ll tell my monitor!” I said, looking at each of them right in the eye.

  “Is that right?” Scratchy said. “I’m so very scared of your m-o-n-i-t-o-r.”

  “She’ll show you,” I said. “You big, fat bullies!”

  Nuthead’s face turned dark. “I’ll teach you to talk to us like that,” he said in a dangerously low voice. He took a step toward me.

  “No!” It was Meena, gesticulating behind him. “Run, Asha, run!”

  I watched as Nuthead strode toward me. All of a sudden, I didn’t feel so solid anymore.

  I was trying to decide which way to run, when a series of loud pops came from Fartybag. He’d surprised Preeti and me on more than one occasion with his personal noises. Normally, we’d cover our mouths and walk away, snickering, but I didn’t feel like laughing now.

  But that stopped Nuthead in his tracks. He and Scratchy turned and looked at Fartybag in surprise.

  “Wowzer! That was a big one!” Nuthead said, crinkling his nose.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Scratchy laughed. “You’ll stink us to death!”

  “You’re all so disgusting,” I said, without realizing I’d said it out aloud. With all the laughing around me, I didn’t hear Fartybag race toward me. Faster than a cheetah, he was within inches of my face, backing me against the station wall. I looked at him in surprise. He normally shuffled when he walked, always behind the other two, slow to move and slow to think.

  “Don’t you laugh at me!” he shouted, pointing a stubby finger at me. His face was beetroot red, either from the exertion of running the few steps or from the fur
y at being made fun of.

  “I wasn’t laughing at you,” I said, looking at him squarely. “It’s your friends who’re laughing at you.”

  Behind him, I could hear Meena beseeching him to leave me alone and for me to get out now.

  “You talk back to me?” Fartybag said. “I’m gonna punish you!” His black eyes bored into mine.

  “Back off!” I said, looking straight back into his eyes. My blood was pumping through my veins and my breath was coming fast and furious. Something strong, something like a steel thread, was weaving through my spine.

  Fartybag’s friends were hollering behind him.

  “Get her!”

  “Show her who’s boss!”

  “She’s only a girl.”

  Fartybag thrust his hands up and slammed me against the wall. “I’ll teach you to make fun of me!” he said. I could smell his breath, a vile mixture of cigarettes and curry.

  That steel thread had become stronger. Without hesitating an instant, I clenched my right hand into a fist and swung my arm up. I punched Fartybag’s nose, just like I’d learned in my martial arts classes at the international schools. Upper hook. Right on target. Hard. Then another one. Harder.

  “Argh!” Fartybag clutched his nose and backed away. I stepped forward, fist still in the air. He stepped backward, holding his nose.

  There was silence as his friends took in what had happened. I stood immobile, staring at my clenched hand in surprise. Did I just hit him? Twice? I looked up fearfully at the other boys, who were now staring at me in shock. Behind them, Meena was on her feet, her hands on her head, looking at me in a mixture of awe and confusion.

  “She-dog who came out of the back of a mongrel,” Fartybag mumbled, glaring at me.

  They’re going to kill me.

  I was about to run out when Nuthead blocked me. I turned the other way, and bumped right into Scratchy.

  “Where you going?” he said, with a nasty grin on his face.

  “You think you can run away after you hit my friend?” Nuthead said. He was standing with his arms crossed, smiling, but it wasn’t a nice smile. Before I could blink, he pulled the satchel off my shoulder, ripped it open and threw my books on the ground.

  “Hey!” I said, grabbing my empty satchel back. “Give that back!”

  He picked up my history book, tore it, stomped on it, and spat on the ripped pile of paper. “Go tell your monitor now!” he said, while the other two surrounded me, howling with laughter.

  I bent down to pick up my books. Just as I stooped, I felt a sharp kick on my thigh.

  “Ouch!”

  Someone tried to pull down my skirt. I heard it rip.

  “Hey!” I straightened up quickly, clutching my skirt. “Get away from me!”

  “Ha, ha!” The boys were enjoying the show. That’s when Nuthead grabbed my chest.

  “Booby! Booby!”

  “Stop that!” I let my books fall to the ground, and hugged myself to stop them from touching me.

  They laughed.

  I ducked around Nuthead, before he could grab me again.

  And, I ran. I ran out of the station, my heart pounding like mad.

  “Get her!” I heard Scratchy call out to his friends.

  “She’s mine!” Nuthead yelled.

  I doubled my speed.

  Chapter Eight

  “Oy!”

  I stopped, bent over, hyperventilating.

  I prayed it was a policeman, a teacher, someone in authority. I’d have been happy to see our school monitor, but the voice was coming from an obese, middle-aged man, wearing nothing but a faded blue sarong.

  “Oy!” he shouted again. “What are you doing, you stupid girl?”

  I froze. It was the candy store man whom Preeti and I saw as we passed his store on our way to school every day. His shop was dark and dank, with see-through candy jars on the counter and a million forbidden knickknacks on the shelves. Pictures of Hindu gods hung on the walls, and long incense sticks stuck out of glass jars filled with sand, their gray smoke swirling up and around the gods, making them look ethereal.

  The candy store man had a huge handlebar mustache that covered his entire upper lip, and his face was pockmarked like someone had gone digging on his skin. Though his sweets looked tempting, we didn’t dare step into his store. Preeti, who’d do anything for a candy bar or piece of chocolate, wouldn’t even look his way. His shop looked like just the place where our nightmares would come alive. And he looked exactly like the bogeyman of our imaginations.

  He was now standing at the doorway of his confectionery shop, with a grass broom in his hand and a scowl on his face. I’d dashed right through the dirt he’d carefully swept out of his shop, scattering dust, food crumbs, and loose paper all over the place.

  “Oh!” I said, seeing the mess I’d made. “I’m so s…sorry.”

  He glared.

  Behind me, I could hear the boys getting closer. I looked around desperately for a place to hide.

  Before I could make a move, the candy store man stomped out of his shop and grabbed me by the arm.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Let go!” I struggled, my empty satchel falling to the ground and making the dust fly.

  He pulled me inside the store. I wriggled, trying to get away, but he was too strong. He heaved me toward the store counter and plunked me on a wooden stool. The smell of incense was so strong, it choked me, and my heart was beating so loudly I felt my chest would burst open.

  “Konkani?” the man said, stooping down till he was level with my eyes. His mouth was dripping with red juice and smelled of something putrid. I pulled back in disgust. From the red gobs and splats of spit all over the streets of Goa, it seemed every man in this city was addicted to the beetle nut. Right then, it looked like blood. His hairy arms and chest made him look like a gorilla from the jungles of the Congo. I was sure I was about to be devoured. My throat went dry. I barely managed to shake my head.

  “You not from here?” he said, more to himself than me. The boys were at the store now. I could hear them whooping outside, which meant they’d discovered my satchel. I wasn’t sure which was worse, being chased by the boys outside or being held captive by the bogeyman inside.

  “Found you!” Scratchy came inside first, followed by his friends, all panting hard.

  “You’re so dead,” Fartybag said.

  Nuthead sauntered in behind them, like he owned the place.

  My heart started to pound like mad. The boys were looking at me with hideous smirks on their faces. I turned to look at the candy store man, who was regarding the boys like they were an infestation of insects. I was trapped. I glanced around quickly. The back of the store looked scarier. Who knows what’s back there? The steel in my spine was still strong. I had only one thought in my mind. I’m not getting beaten up. I’m getting out alive. I jumped from the stool and grabbed the broomstick from the candy store man’s hands.

  “Hey!” he said, startled. “What’re you doing, girl?”

  “Get away from me!” I yelled at him. His eyes widened in surprise.

  Holding the broom like a spear, I jumped toward the boys. They jerked back.

  “Oi!” Nuthead said in surprise.

  “Whoa!” Scratchy said, holding his hands up.

  “Stop!” Fartybag covered his face.

  “No, you stop!” I shouted, reverting to English, the only language that came to my tongue when I was cornered. “I’m sick of you lot!” I shouted, slashing the air with my weapon. “I’m sick and tired of you picking on us. I’m sick and tired of you yelling at us every day. You bunch of creepy perverts!”

  No one said a word, just stood and gaped.

  “You picked on poor Meena. I can’t believe you hit her. She’s a beggar! Just a poor beggar and you hit her! How could you do that? How dare you? You horrible, donkey-brained, stupid turkey-cowards!”

  I’d run out of expletives, so I glowered at them instead, my broomstick still aimed at their necks. I was sure they hadn�
��t understood a word I’d said, but when I took a step forward, the boys scrambled over each other and bunched up in a corner of the store.

  “Ha ha ha!”

  I turned around to see the candy store man laughing, head thrown back, his belly jiggling like Jell-O. “Oooh,” he said finally, holding his stomach with one hand and wiping his eyes with the other. “Oooh.”

  He reached a hand toward me in slow motion. I watched him warily. “Give,” he said, pointing at the broom. I didn’t budge. He motioned at the door and gave the Indian sideways head nod. “You, go now.”

  It took me a few seconds to release my grip on the broom. He leaned over and plucked the stick from my hands.

  “Go,” he said with that sideways nod again.

  Keeping an eye on him and the boys, I stepped backward, toward the open doorway. When I got to the door, the candy store man thrust the broom up, like our school monitor held out her steel ruler every morning, and turned toward the boys. Their eyes widened with fear.

  “You boys!” The candy store man raised his voice. “If I see you run after little girls again, I’ll whip you so hard your hide will remember my broomstick for the rest of your life. You understand? Huh?”

  Scratchy’s face went white, Nuthead didn’t know where to look and Fartybag slinked into the wall.

  “This is how you treat your sister? Huh? Your cousin? Your mother? You ignorant idiots!” The candy man gestured dangerously with the broom. “You think you’re so smart to run after little girls? I will teach you smart!” He took a menacing step forward. Fartybag squealed.

  I didn’t wait to see. I stepped out of the doorway, picked up my satchel and raced home like the wind.

  Chapter Nine

  “Aunty Shilpa! Preeti!” I crashed through the doors of our apartment, panting loudly. “Oh my god, you’ve no idea what just happened!”

  Preeti was lying on the sofa. She looked up and gave me a weak smile. Aunty Shilpa was pressing our school uniforms in a corner of the room.

  “Those boys at the station—” I didn’t get to finish.