‘No. Please, no. Don’t tell me you’re going to start crying now. Oh, c’mon, stop being like Maa. Look at you crying!’ He laughed.
‘Maa has to know.’
‘You’re not going to tell anyone. When the time’s right, I will tell them myself. Okay, Raghu?’
He left the room to answer the ringing telephone. This can’t remain hidden from Maa. She will sniff it out anyway, I thought to myself. I will have to tell her before Dada takes this misstep. Missteps. Why would he casually throw around the word love? But more importantly, he can’t defy the unconditional love that’s supposed to be between Maa–Baba and us. Otherwise what’s the point of it? Dada and I are a pursuit of happiness for our parents; of Maa–Baba wanting to have the complete human experience. What are children if not fully interactive, self-learning, sentient toys made of flesh and blood instead of plasticine with multiple difficulty levels designed to engage the players fully? The game of children is addictive and seldom not liked. The job of the toys is to be grateful and love the players back. If Dada were to disappoint our parents, he’s defective goods, a video game with a flickering screen, a toy with a loose socket. He’s no better than Mina or me. I had been counting on him being perfect. I had been counting on Dada taking upon himself the care of Maa–Baba, giving them the perfect bride and grandchildren they have always wanted, be the sweet, loving son who makes them happy, the one who celebrates their anniversaries and birthdays, who cuts down on his own expenses for their medicines, who bathes them when they are older, hears the same stories repeatedly from their deteriorating brains thirty years from now, cries for their deaths, lights their pyres. I can’t allow Dada to rip this family apart. I can’t let Dada makemethe caring son. I am all but a guest in this family. I might have overstayed my welcome but I have to join Mina sooner or later. I can’t let Dada throw a spanner in my plans.
25 March 1999
Dada’s secret is corroding my insides. Today we got the results of our first unit test of the year and I embarrassed myself by giving her a ten-mark lead. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say my abysmal performance was because of Dada. Brahmi sought me out in the library which was a welcome change. Since our day at Keventer’s I have seen her occasionally go missing and have had to physically stop myself from tagging along. Not once has she asked me to accompany her which confirmed my suspicion that I wasn’t needed in her secret jaunts outside the school. Our conversations too were strictly academic, carried out in an adversarial tone.
‘I was scared you would beat me,’ she said.
‘Huh?’
‘Show me your answer sheet. I want to see how you did,’ said Brahmi.
‘You beat me. That’s all that should matter. I’m not showing my answer sheet,’ I said, clutching my pocket where the crumpled answer sheet lay.
‘You will have to show me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think I won only because you did badly, not because I did well. Show me your answer sheet now. Quick, quick!’
So I did. The mistakes were silly. The joy of her win slowly drained out of her.
‘Do well the next time,’ she commanded.
‘I will.’
‘Whatever you’re struggling with, leave that at home when you attempt your question papers.’
‘I am not struggling with any—’
‘Your lies won’t work with me. Don’t spoil the only reason why school is fun,’ she said.
‘Which is to beat me in tests?’
‘To be the best at something,’ she said as if she was a queen.
‘Fine,’ I sighed and accepted.
I promised Brahmi a fight in the next session.
‘But if I win the next time, do I get to ask you for another story?’ I pointed to her wrist.
‘Why do you want to know them?’
‘No reason. I have never attempted that despite the knives at house being quite sharp. So I’m curious. Moreover I don’t think I’m a knife person,’ I said.
‘What are you then?’ she asked.
We were getting into dangerous territory but a sense of abandonment gripped me.
‘Buildings, tall buildings. They aren’t as ubiquitous as knives or cutters.’
She scrunched her face.
