Ever since I heard the story, I have searched in Maa’s eyes for that streak of insanity which had driven her to let her own mother almost die. What if Didimaa had actually died? Surely our family would have come up with an excuse. Old woman falls from bed, splits her head open. No big deal. To maintain our integrity we would have lied like petty criminals. Our lives would have gone back to normal. The new normal being living with a murderer in our midst. Nothing happened but I can’t help thinking, what if. We were an hour away from being a family of abettors to a murder. A family that can hypothetically do this can do anything. It’s not a surprise that Maa–Baba–Dada haven’t asked me in two years about how exactly Sami died. Neither have they wanted to know why I hadn’t called Sami in the four days that Sami was rotting in my school’s pool. Had I known he was there? They prefer not to know the answers.
Anyway.
In Mina’s mourning or longing, every Sunday Maa used to feed the strictly vegetarian Mittal sisters with her own hands—mustard ilish, muri ghonto and dahi prawns—before the Mittal parents found out. The Mittal sisters are now prohibited from visiting our house, though I can go to theirs.
Today Mittal Aunty served me three chapattis and watered-down daal while we watched the show. When I came back Maa asked, ‘Did the girls ask about me?’
‘Yes. When Mittal Aunty wasn’t around, they told me they miss our food, especially your fish,’ I lied.
Maa smiled brightly and told me, ‘Now only if you and your Dada grow up quickly, we will have a girl in this house. I will make her everything. But only get a Bengali girl, okay? Who else will know the difference between rui and ilish and katla? In our times, long hair and the ability to pick out the right fish was all that was desired in a girl, and Bengali girls have them both!’
‘But even south Indians know their fish.’
Maa was fumbling for a counter, when Baba butted in. ‘Those Dravidians are too smart.’ I tuned in and out as he ranted about how they did not want to be a part of India and how Vallabhbhai had prevented the country from yet another Partition.
‘Ei, chup koro to(Just stop it, okay),’ said Maa and stopped Baba in his tracks.
‘If he doesn’t know about our history, where we come from, how we suffered and for how long, how will—’
Maa asked me to go complete my homework when Baba was mid-sentence. I took my registers and my books and sat in the balcony with them. Over the left side of our balcony is the Mittals’ and sitting there was Richa, with her books and her registers. Getting up and going inside would have been rude so I just sat there for an hour. I regretted it once I came inside. What if she thinks there’s something going on between us? What if she’s attached to me? Would she cry when I’m gone? That’s sad, though if no one cries when I’m gone, that’s even sadder.
My selfishness sometimes baffles me.
P.S. Found a beautiful abandoned building today, a fifteen-minute walk from home. It’s seven storeys. No lifts, which means you have to climb all the way up on the crumbling stairs. But it’s worth it. It’s quiet. And there’s no ledge. Which means you don’t have to climb awkwardly to jump down. You can just lean into the fall. The only concern is the ragged beams below. Wouldn’t want to land on them.
Just saying.
18 March 1999
My fingers tremble as I write this. The serrated military-grade knife Dada’s put in my back, in our family’s collective back, is slowly twisting, gutting me. What would happen when Maa comes to know? Worse still, when Baba does? How did Dada allow this to happen? Does responsibility mean nothing to him? Didn’t the name evoke anything? It wasn’t an ambiguous name like Rehyan or Samir. How could he miss that? It’s us versus them. It always has been, at least in this house. Didn’t Baba’s words, his constant brainwashing, have no effect on him? Didn’t Maa’s warnings mean anything? Dada’s words keep ricocheting in my head. They sort of just recklessly bubbled out of him, no guilt, no second thoughts, nothing. Just a glint of madness in his eyes. Maybe having suicidal tendencies runs in the family.
‘I love Zubeida Quaze with all my life. I spent every waking moment in Bangalore holding her hand,’ he said to me, smiling.
‘She’s a Musalman,’ I said.
‘We really love each other.’
‘She’s a Musalman!’
‘You should meet her.’
‘She’s a Musalman.’
‘I told Zubeida about you. She’s excited—’
‘SHE’S A MUSALMAN! You need to shut up, Dada! You can’t say I love her and what not unless you intend to marry her! And you can’t marry her, Dada. Maa–Baba would accept anyone but her!’
‘Look, we haven’t decided if we are going to get married.’
‘What do you mean by that? You said that you loved her, didn’t you? Why would anyone say that?’
‘We need time to think about our relationship.’
‘So you think about a relationship after you tell someone you love her? What do those words mean if you are not staying together forever?’
‘They are just words—’
‘THEY ARE NOT JUST WORDS! And . . . Zubeida Quaze! Did you not think once—’
