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ETWA|Ch5b: What’s Happening Here?

Every Thing We Are is a coming of age novel where Samyukta aka Sam learns that every thing we are is not always on display. This is my first attempt at writing a novel. I started this project as part of #NaNoWriMo2020 before I fell off the wagon. Hope you will read along as I get back to writing it. All episodes of this series are available on the ETWA page. Subscribe to my writing here.

“You will sit down and finish your breakfast. I don’t want to hear another word”, Papa pointed at the lonesome idly idling on the plate. That’s when I realised that I was no longer sitting at the table. I had no memory of getting up but I was now standing on the opposite end of the table. I had no idea how I got there. I stared at Papa, unable to process.

I sat down as instructed. I focussed on my plate. When did I get up from the table? I remember drowning my idly in chutney, just the way I like to eat it. I remember Papa saying that no boy will marry me. What happened then?

Papa was not finished. Taking my devices away was not going to be enough.

“You will not go anywhere without one of us with you. You will not talk to those useless friends of yours. You will prepare for your board exams. You will score above 90%. And I will make sure that you have a bright future” he said.

“And you will help out with chores around the house. No more dancing. No more watching TV. I’m done being your slave.” That was Mama. She had returned as soon as Achams got back to our room.

It was as if at the end of their life, Chetta would give them a certificate of merit for outstanding performance as parents.

I knew from the face she was making that Mama was worried about the impending phone call. Chetta called Amma everyday at noon. It was their ritual. She would tell him of all the little things that happened here and he in turn would talk about his plans for the day. And today it meant that in a couple hours, she would have to tell him about me. I’ve always felt that my parents looked up to him for approval. It was as if at the end of their life, Chetta would give them a certificate of merit for outstanding performance as parents. They also refused to call it my ‘relationship’ with Madhu. They referred to it as a ‘prashnam’, meaning problem.

“When Siddu calls…”, Mama sounded unsure. “I don’t know what to say to him. I can’t lie to him. Can I? He is so far away. To tell him about this prashnam. I don’t know how he will react.”

I focused intently on my idly, squishing it into a paste, moving it around the plate. The lump in my throat wasn’t letting me eat.

“I mean, when he hears about this, at first, he will definitely get angry and shout at me. Once he calms down, he will perhaps say, I’ll come back and deal with her. I’ll show her what happens to children who go astray. Alle?” she turned to Papa for approval.

“When I think of how Chinnu’s family will take it, ayye! The shame makes my skin crawl”, Papa was worried about my sister-in-law’s family’s reaction. “Imagine us going to a wedding in their family. How will we face them? She has stripped us of all dignity. Che!” Papa shook his head.

It was as if they had forgotten that I was there at the table with them. As if I were invisible. They couldn’t see me and I didn’t matter.

“What do we do, Sreeja?” Papa sounded desperate. Mama looked up, confirming that we had both heard the desperation in his tone. “We should not have come to Bangalore. I thought the city would offer our children the best opportunities. But I was wrong. It’s ruined us!”

Mama was never without a response. “Shall we send her away? Maybe to live with Siddu in the UK. Better opportunities for her as well.”

“Are you mad? Papa lashed out. “If she does this here, god knows what she will do there. Also, between the home loan and the loan we took out for Siddu’s wedding, we won’t be able to afford it. Who else can we send her to? You can’t send her to my brother. How about your youngest brother? That could be a good option. Let’s think about it a little. I am sure we can find someone to take her.”

They were trying to wash their hands off me. Palm their ‘prashnam’ off to someone else. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. My tears breached the eyelids and tumbled down to their death. Hopeless.

I’ve been toying with the same idly the whole time. Not that they were noticing it. But if I didn’t finish it, they would definitely hold that against me. I don’t want to put myself in that position. Not right now. My food pipe was still closed to traffic. I continued to chew on my mouthful.

“You know who I was thinking of? Mr. Roy’s son”, Papa begins and both of them laugh out in magic unison. I look up at Mama and Papa. They seem to be genuinely happy.

“What was his name? Ashok? Or was it Alok? Pch, something like that. Amogh?”, Mama is sure this time. “No no, something with ‘S’, I am sure” says Papa.

“Wait, wait, wait…got it”, it’s on the tip of her tongue.

But Papa beats her to it. “Pratap!”

“Yes, of course! Pratap with an S!” They both laugh again.

“What a name for a pansy fellow! Hijra he wanted to become it seems. After attending IIT—IIM. His entire family’s hopes he wanted to crash. Mr. Roy knew what had to be done. Got him married asap. You remember how he used to open the door and say…”

Papa got off the chair and opened the imaginary door, pushed his imaginary hair behind his ears and said coyly, “Hello Mrs and Mr Nair. Good evening! Your earrings are stunning! And your tie…”

“I can’t!” Papa sat down laughing uncontrollably. Mama was too.

“You should have auditioned for Chandupottu. You would have been brilliant”, Mama said referring to a Malayalam movie from the 2000s with an effeminate hero.

Papa gets into character again repeating a rape joke from the film. It’s a wordplay joke where the effeminate hero is accusing the rather manly heroine of ‘raping’ him everyday since they met. “Allengilum njan ivide vannappo muthalu Rosy enne ivide ittu peedippikkale?”

What is happening here? I keep asking myself. They are beside themselves with laughter. They don’t notice when I put the final piece of idly in my mouth, gulp it down forcefully with water and leave the table in tears.

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ETWA|Ch5a: What’s Happening Here?

I woke up knowing that life as I knew it had disappeared as I slept. So had all the relief I felt in letting my parents know that I liked girls. In its place was a jumble of sadness, anticipation, longing and fear. A heavy dread carried this ball of emotion from the pit of my stomach, dragging its feet all the way to my throat.

I had to distract myself to survive this day. As I lay there refusing to get on with my morning, I closed my eyes and conjured up Madhu’s lively guffaw that always filled the room around her. I concentrated, rather intently, on her shoulder bone peeping through the collar of her school uniform as she laughed. I felt that new yet familiar sensation starting up between my legs. Just as that pleasant feeling spread like warmth under my blanket, I was pulled back into the present.

It was Mama. She was rummaging through my things on the study table. What was happening? These days, nothing I hold dear is just lying around for anyone to find. It’s all in the virtual realm where she would never find it. But it was still bothersome that Mama was going through my things. I could feel her suspicion sneaking around my room, slimy to the touch, leaving indelible stains.

“Woke up already? Your acting didn’t fool me!” Mama broke into my thoughts.

“What are you doing Mama?” I tried to keep my voice from breaking. “Why are you going through my things?”

“It’s a surprise inspection! I’m going to find everything you are hiding.” she said matter of factly.

“Mama, I’m not hiding anything. I told you everything last night!” I barely recognise my quivering voice.

“If you have nothing to hide then give me the password to your laptop”, she hissed giving me the side eye.

“But why are you going through my things Mama? You can’t do this. You can’t go through my things”. I am not entirely sure if I said this aloud or if it was in my head.

She’s entering the password now. Did I give it to her? I don’t remember. She won’t find anything on my laptop. But that will only make her more suspicious. What is happening here?

It was as if the sense of safety, privacy, security…call it what you will… that I felt at home…that I felt around my parents…was being undone, one slow stitch at a time.

Next, she goes through the books on my shelf, flipping through each of them. She checks my bag and does the same to my school books. She looks calm. She’s in no hurry. As if she were browsing in a library. She’s paying me no attention. I stare at her in disbelief for a while. Achams is not to be seen. I look at the time. She must be having breakfast. That’s why Mama’s here now.

I head to the bathroom because I can’t stand this anymore. I leave the water running and cry my heart out. Why is Mama being so mean? Why doesn’t she care that she’s making me miserable? I take my time in there, waiting to calm down.

But when I come back out, she is still here, looking under my bed. When she hears me, she looks up. I try to look away because my eyes are swollen from all the crying. But I needn’t have. She doesn’t ask me if I’ve been crying. What is happening here?

Mama has always known when I am upset. When I got home after school, she would know how my day was just from an inflection of my voice. It seemed like she had stayed up last night building a stony wall of otherness between us. Now, she was like the Other Mother from Neil Gaiman’s Coraline. She looked like my mother but when she spoke, she was cold; sinister even. My mother would never do this to me.

“Hmm, a girl child…she is like a paper cup at parties”, Papa goes off on a tangent.

Achams was done with breakfast before I sat down. Once she left the table, Papa cleared his throat.

“We have always been proud of you. We have told all of your friends’ parents that we trust you enough to do the right thing. We’ve never kept tabs on you…”

I sniggered to myself at their short term memory. It’s true that they tell other parents that they trust me. But it’s also true that I have had to leave my phone with them after dinner everyday since I started high school.

“Hmm, a girl child…she is like a paper cup at parties”, Papa goes off on a tangent. “It works perfectly well the first time. But if you refill it a couple of times or hold it at the top, the paper loses shape, begins to leak or worse, it will cave. Now, it’s bizarre to try to eat a slice of pizza from a cup, isn’t it? But if you insist on doing that, you will definitely ruin the cup. Instead, if you place the cup down at a table, hold it around the middle and drink from it at intervals like a normal person, it will last you the whole party. What I am trying to say is that, no boy will ever want to marry a damaged cup!”

“But Papa, I don’t want to marry a boy!”, I blurted out.

“You. Will. Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut!” he snarled at me, grabbing my ear and twisting it with each word. What was happening here? I was so shocked that it almost didn’t hurt. They have never laid a finger on me before. Ever. This was all new to me. Perhaps because I was so much younger than my brother or because my parents were older when they had me…I don’t know. But they have never, ever hit me before. But it’s happening everyday now. I feel like I have taken a wrong turn in my life and completely lost my way.

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Next Episode: Ch5b: What’s Happening Here?

ETWA | Ch4b: One Goddess, Maybe More

“Let’s check your BP quickly”, Papa looked at Mama for the BP machine. Mama was the one who cared for Achams. “It’s in the cupboard to your left”, said Mama still revving for a fight. She knew perfectly well that Papa would fumble with the machine. “Could you get it for me, please?” Papa said in an appeasing tone.

“Ammu, why don’t you get it for him? I am a useless housewife, what if I break it? I’ll get some water for Achams”, said Mama, leaving the room without waiting for a response.

Mole, Achams called after Mama. “If you are going to the kitchen, could you make me some black coffee, please.”

Seeing Papa take the manual out of the BP monitor to read the instructions, Achams added, “Or, Sreeja, why dont you check my BP so we can get done with this today?”

“Mon, why don’t you get me some black coffee? It’s really simple to make. Add half a spoon of coffee powder and one spoon of sugar to boiling water. Go. Sreeja will manage here.” Achams was laying it on thick.

Halfway through the BP check, Mama remembered, “I’ve switched off the gas cylinder. He won’t know to turn it on. Let me just…”

In a heartbeat Papa was heard from the kitchen. “Sreeja, have we run out of gas? The stove is not working.” All three of us giggled.

…she ventures into emotional territory, where she knows he will stumble.

When he finally gets Achams the coffee, she sends him back for more sugar. She says to no one in particular, “Sreeja usually gets me a slice of bread to dip in the coffee. If you don’t mind… it’s becoming harder to break these habits as I grow older.” When he brings her a cold slice from the fridge she turns to Mama and says, “Mole, is it okay for me to eat cold bread?” Mama is ready to receive this ammunition. “In this weather? Definitely not! What were you thinking?” she snubs Papa, fully aware that Achams approves.

As we wait for Papa to toast the bread, Mama cools down the coffee by passing it from one glass to another. Achams portions the coffee into the two glasses, takes a sip from one, “Here, you drink the rest”, she offers the other one to me as Papa returns.

Achams puts her game face back on, “Mone, I think my days are numbered now. My feet feels unusually cold”, she ventures into emotional territory, where she knows he will stumble.

“Sreeja, you go to sleep. I’ll sit with Amma for a bit,” says Papa as he sits down by the edge of Achams’ bed. Don’t wait up for me,” he adds. It’s nearly midnight when Papa finally leaves our room. He fusses over Achams, fixing her pillow, covering her with a blanket just so and leaving the night light on just in case.

As Achams’ long-winded ruse to diffuse the argument plays out, I feel extremely relieved that the focus is off me. I feel grateful to Achams for this brief moment of normalcy as Papa banters with her at the end of his day.

Now that my leaden secret was out in the open, I felt overwhelming relief. With the secret cut loose, all the fear, doubt, guilt, anger, shame and frustration that I felt settled, giving way to a sense of calm.

As I stared into the darkness beyond my pillow, I thought back to the first time I knew that I liked women. Long before I could articulate it, there had been an incident when I was ten. During my annual trip to Kerala, Achams always organised a Chuttuvilakku, an offering to the goddess Bhagavathy. In the evening at the temple, Registrar Kurupettan made these elaborate powder drawings of the goddess on the floor before the offering began. He mixed turmeric and limestone to create a deep radiating red colour. As the drawing progressed, he filled in two circles on either side of the chest with deep red powder to indicate the goddesses’ breasts. He shaped them till they were two-three inches off the floor. In an instant, those two perfectly curved inanimate spheres that leapt off the drawing, made me blush.

Quickly, I looked around to see how the adults were reacting. No one seemed to notice except me. They were all busy exchanging yearly pleasantries. I shut my eyes quickly but they were already imprinted in my mind. Each time I thought about it, I felt a peculiar sensation; something akin to firecrackers lighting up my body. I didn’t know what that sensation was called back then.

Of course, I told the Zassies as soon as I knew for sure how to put those feelings in words. But by then I also knew better than to tell my parents that I was once aroused by a drawing of a goddess.

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Next Chapter | Chapter 5a: What’s Happening Here?

ETWA | Ch 4a: One Goddess, Maybe More

Photo of an old woman's hands. This post is about an old woman's antics. — *Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash*

Achams is the best but I couldn’t say that about Mama and Papa. Once the early dinner and desktop shifting was done, they retired to their room in silence. But that silence did not last long. I got into bed hoping to still my racing heart. I prayed for a calmer set of parents tomorrow. Achams, as was her routine, turned in when I did. I was just falling asleep when the argument began in the adjacent room. At first, Achams and I hoped that it would subside. In half an hour when it didn’t show any signs of receding, I sat up in bed.

“It’s your family’s culture that she is showing. Your father, that lowly Mr Parameshwaran’s gulf budhi. Dubai kaaran’s one-track mind. Only thinking of how to make money. Do you even care about what’s happening here?” that was Papa shouting about my favourite grandfather.

“No, not really. As you always like to say, she’s your daughter. Fair enough. You deal with her then. How many times did I tell you that we shouldn’t have her? That I do not want to have another child? And what did you say? You said, it’s all in your head. Once you see the child, you will automatically love her. All women do. And that it will be easier this time. It wasn’t, was it?

I was bed ridden for most of my pregnancy. And I was miserable for months after. Do you even remember this? When I told you that I was having bad thoughts, you said I should quit being dramatic. Of course you don’t remember. You haven’t changed a single diaper or woken up a single night to put either of your children back to sleep. But you were so sure about having her. Go for it then.” Mama was furious.

“It is just carelessness, what else is it? You had one job. To take care of our daughter and make sure she doesn’t get into trouble. Have you imagined if this gets out? What will our neighbours say? What about our friends? You just have to sit at home and cry. I am the one who has to face the world. What will I tell people?” Papa could be mean when angry.

“Yes, I just sit at home. Maybe this is a magic house that runs itself. I do everything, from setting up your car service to washing your underwear. I am a glorified maid here.” Mama was not going to back down.

Papa often used ‘panchayat’ as a derogatory term, especially against Mama’s intelligence.

“Oho, why don’t you go out and earn then? You said, we should give Ammu a phone for her safety. You said, we should let her commute on her own so she becomes street smart. Now what? See where your lowly panchayat budhi got us? You can get a woman out of her circumstance but you can’t get that circumstance out of her” Papa often used ‘panchayat’ as a derogatory term, especially against Mama’s intelligence.

“What are you implying? That your family is somehow more cultured than mine? Who exactly do you have in mind? Your brother who quit his decent IAS job to teach useless government school children? Did you mean him? Or your mother who let that low-caste woman desecrate your ancestral home? Is that the cul…” Mama did mean business.

“Enough! Lower your voice. Amma will hear you”, said Papa referring to Achams.

“Let her hear what I am saying. Let her hear what her son really thinks of her.” There. That was the first sign that this argument was going to escalate.

“Mone!” came Acham’s voice right on cue. She startled me into action. I switched on the light and turned to her. She was sitting up in bed. She smiled at me gently. Mone! She called out again, her tone urgent; not matching her expression. As Papa ran into the room, Achams clutched the foot of the bed and swung into her performance.

“I felt a little giddy when I sat up. I was going to go to the bathroom… I sat up and I could feel my head spinning so I sat back down… I think I was dreaming that someone was shouting. Now that I am old, maybe I am imagining things.” Achams was a clever, clever woman.

Papa glared at Mama in an ‘I told you so’. Amma glared back, unperturbed.

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Next Chapter | Ch4b: One Goddess, Maybe More

ETWA | Ch3b: We All Fall Down

*Photo by Ramakrishnan Nataraj on Unsplash*

Every Thing We Are is a coming of age novel where Sam learns that every thing we are is not always on display. My first attempt at writing a novel, this is being written 1000 words a day through November as part of #NaNoWriMo2020. Hope you will read along as I write. All episodes of this series are available on the ETWA page.

Mama grew dramatic that very second. She fell to the floor turning in the general direction of the pooja room praying, “Bhagavathy, save my child!” I didn’t think much of Mama being dramatic. She was known to be. I turned to Papa.

“What is the meaning of this?” Papa asked, unsure of his own question. I’ve never known him to be unsure.

“Papa, I like girls”, I said lifting a giant rock off my lungs and letting the lightness of disclosure fill me. “I like girls”, I say a second time with confidence.

“Not in this house, you don’t”, he said, lunging to hit me. I ducked and he missed. But it was more than I could imagine in my wildest thoughts. Papa, my hero, raising his hands to hit me. My eyes were smarting again. And my ears were ringing as if he had actually hit me.

“Give me your phone”, he said. I complied. No phone, no TV and no Internet from now on. After dinner, I will move your desktop out of your room. Anyway, you have study holidays from now. In the meantime, your mother and I will decide what to do with you. Go to your room now.

“But Papa…”

“No, don’t call me that, you filthy…” Papa ate a bad word.

By now, Mama had lit all the lamps in the pooja room with an accompaniment of incense sticks. She was picking up her prayer bell when Papa held me by the hand and dragged me to her. He placed my right palm over her head.

“Promise”, he began, “promise on your mother’s life that you will not do such things from now on.” I stood there, agarbatti fumes waterboarding my nostrils. I didn’t know how to get out of here or to make them stop. Were these my parents? Did I know them to be capable of such drama?

“Wait! Before you promise”, Mama intervened, “tell me first, how long has this chuttikali been going on for? How long have you gone behind our backs faking bloody dance practice and what not to sleep around?”

I couldn’t believe the things I was hearing. Words like ‘bloody’ and ‘sleep around’ coming out of Mama’s mouth. I’ve never ever heard her speak like this before. I was not even allowed to say ‘damn’ at home.

“Answer me”, she shouted, chiming the bell over her shrill question.

“A couple of months”, I broke Siam’s rule again.

“Eeeshwara!”, Papa facepalmed, sinking to the floor next to Mama.

“You must have told Zara about this, no? And the others?”, Papa asked suddenly, as if he had just remembered this detail.

I had seen enough of this tacky serial. “No”, I lied.

“Don’t lie”, Amma countered.

“I am not lying. I don’t always tell them everything,” I lied again.

It felt so strange to lie to my parents. I had no experience with this kind of trouble before. Any kind of trouble actually. No wonder Zassies thought I was a kiss ass. This was all new to me.

“Good”, Papa’s face showed an uptick for the first time this evening. “So no one other than you and her know about this?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I just wanted this to end.

“What will I tell your brother? He will definitely say that it’s my fault, my carelessness that this happened to you. Did you stop to think for a second how your brother would feel when you were fooling around with this nashicha…” Now it was Mama’s turn to swallow a mouthful of bad words.

“Who will marry you now?” she let the water works take over.

“Calm down, Sreeja. This is our fate, nothing can change it.”, Papa consoled her.

“Is she Malayali?”, Papa couldn’t but ask. “No Papa. She is Bangalorean.” Mama started another string of prayers.

“Yes, but originally from where?”, Papa was a man on a mission. “Born and raised here in Bangalore.”

“Hmm, what’s her full name?”, he wouldn’t relent.

“Madhumita Swaminathan”

“Brahmin then.”

“Hmm”, I said, my first ‘correct answer’ of the evening.

Bingo! That response seemed to appease them enough to let me go.

“Freshen up and come back in 15 mins. We’ll have dinner early. We have to move that computer out of your room tonight. No more Internet for you.” Papa warned me, again.

I was so listless as I sat on my bed that I didn’t notice Achams walk across the room to the door, until I heard her.

“What’s the commotion there? Are you playing the Vanambadi serial on Asianet?” she called out to no one in particular.

“Alla Amma. It’s err… nothing” Papa fumbled.

“Don’t lie to me, mone. Was someone here crying then? I thought I heard some background music I recognised well. Like bells ringing. Must be the serial, no?”

“You must have imagined it Amma. The TV is not even on. Dinner will be ready soon. Why don’t you freshen up?”, Amma was quick to step in to pacify Achams.

“Okay, I’ll be out in five minutes”, she said, shutting the door gently behind her offering me some much-needed privacy.

Achams walked past me to her chair by the window. I logged into Zassy and typed in the latest code of choice—emoji. Kissed Madhu at Juice Centre. No phone, computer. Much drama. Help.

💏@🍊📵💻🙄🚨헲

A second later, Siam responded. 🙊🤝👮⛖💪📞👄🍭

Don’t say anything. Don’t agree to anything. They’ll interrogate you, just don’t answer. We’ll find a way. Stay strong. I’ll let Madhu know, don’t worry.

I looked over at Achams who had gone back to reading, completely dismissing how she had just played my parents. She was the best.

ETWA| Ch3a: We All Fall Down

Madhu, it feels strange that I am no longer able to access my secret journal. But no one can stop my thoughts, can they? No yet, I suppose. So much has changed since I began This Coded Life back in 2016. In the first entry I had introduced my world as Samiverse and described everyone important as the five elements of nature. I had reserved ‘space’ for someone special.

Madhu, I think you are my space. When I am around you, I feel weightless. I am floating. I am alive. I am aware. Present. It feels like you and I are the heartbeat of this universe and the rest of the world is here to upkeep our lub dub.

When you are around, I lose all sense of time and place. It feels like you are a magnet and my cells are a million little iron filings. All I can sense is your proximity and the pinpricks of anticipation waiting to jump from your body to mine like electricity. When I am around you, I time travel back to our first kiss though we have had many more since. Still, that first kiss is the one my body remembers.

Remember how we hung out at Juice Centre so frequently that when he saw us cross the street, the manager would order us our orange juices?

I don’t know what came over me that day. I think about that evening a lot these days. Perhaps it was because it was the last day of dance class before study holidays for the board exam. And we wouldn’t meet again for a couple of weeks now. Maybe it was something else entirely, I don’t know. Anyway, we were holding hands as we crossed the road. At the Juice Centre, your hair had caught the light. In all its blazing glory the setting sun had shimmied its blinding light across your hair in waves, just to mesmerise me. Just then, you stuck out your tongue, shaking the glass tumbler, coaxing that last drop of juice onto your tongue as you always did.

I am never supposed to be a creature of desire. And if I am not a creature of desire how can I act on it? Not in India, definitely not in public.

And I kissed you. Right there, the ending day as my witness, with the busy street sitting in judgement, I kissed you. And I felt the world pause like a tableau. I heard our lub dub shatter and fall to the floor, helpless, as the world cut us loose from its spell. I saw the Juice Centre manager, flick his eye at me for a nano second. He shot judgement from his eyes and it pierced our ribcage as if we were jelly. A man facing the counter, drank his grape juice with undue concentration. Another pair of eyes, stared at you with eyebrows convulsing with concern. It shot at us an arrow of poisoned prejudice, striking your shoulder bone like a violin’s bow.

Then there were the familiar eyes that bore into my back. I knew they were there. I didn’t know who they belonged to. I didn’t see them. But I knew word would get back to my parents. I just knew it. When I peered out of my head, you were right there next to me laughing but you knew as well. Our love was never going to be easy. I am sure you saw in my eyes the fear of being a girl in India. I am never supposed to be a creature of desire. And if I am not a creature of desire how can I act on it? Not in India, definitely not in public.

With our juices done, we headed back to Nritya making out like rabbits in the changing room. We didn’t know what we were doing but we were desperate, weren’t we? We probably knew that we wouldn’t meet again for a long time, if ever. And we taunted the world’s rules by making a memory that no one could take away from us.

I walked into the eerie silence of my home. My parents were sitting on the sofa in the living room which was reserved for guests and solemn events like marriages. Clearly this was a solemn event.

Papa looked visibly upset but he didn’t say anything. Mama motioned for me to sit down on the couch. As I lowered my bag to the floor, she couldn’t stop herself. She slapped me right across the face. It was the first time someone had slapped me. I couldn’t hold back my tears. Taking a leaf from Siam’s tactics, I stayed quiet. This seemed to aggravate Mama more.

“I don’t know at what wretched time, I decided to keep you”, she said.

“What have we not done for you? Have we not given you everything you wanted? You do whatever you please. I don’t even ask you to help me with any housework”, Mama was letting it all out.

She turned to Papa, “I’ve told you many times not to pamper her but you wouldn’t listen. See what’s happened now?”

Papa wasn’t looking at me. He just sat there. “Papa”, I said tentatively. He tried to look at me a couple of times but he was clearly emotional.

After a couple of minutes he said, “Vaithi sir saw you kiss someone in the juice shop near Nritya. Was it you?”

“Yes”, I admitted.

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Next chapter | Ch3b: We All Fall Down

ETWA | Ch2b: Welcome To Samiverse

Fire is a short walk from school, Nritya I mean. I’ve been going to the Nritya Dance Studio, thrice a week since I was 7. It was Papa’s dream to make me a Bharatanatyam dancer and that dream has become mine over the years. I love to dance. I am good at it too.

Papa is my biggest fan. He picks me up if practice sessions end later than usual. He goes on early-morning market runs for fresh flowers on performance days. He takes me to competitions. He used to have an embarrassing habit of making invitations for my performances and inviting neighbours and colleagues. I’ve put an end to that, thank God! He gets me an entire Death by Chocolate on our way back from every performance. He gives me foot rubs on the post-performance rest day.

Mama constantly reminds him, “You are spoiling her. She has to go to another house someday.” But I am Papa’s pride and joy. He has all my trophies displayed in the living room. When people visit, he calls on me to perform for them. Papa is trained as a biochemist and he works in one of the oldest biotech firms in Bangalore as the Vice President of their research and development wing, along with Zara’s mother. I want to be a biochemist like him.

Papa and Mama had me a full decade after they had Chetta. They are the earth on which I stand. They are everything. Chetta’s real name is Siddharth, though I don’t ever call him that. He got married last year to Chanchal who is always called Chinnu by everyone. They are both software engineers and have recently moved to Sheffield in the UK. My Mama also holds an engineering degree but she has never worked. She was gearing up to find a job when she had me.

A regular day in my life begins with waking up to bells chiming as Mama prays in a hushed tone akin to gossip. By then, Papa would have gone for a walk with other uncles from the apartment complex. Every morning, Dawn would try to ignore their enthusiasm and hold on to ten more minutes of shut eye before breaking. Before I got ready for school I usually managed to practice an ashtapadi or tillana.

School bus picks me up at 7 am and then I am in my element. At school, time always flies past. There is always more to do than there is time to do it. My zassies and I spend the whole day together usually pulling each other’s legs. Their favourite jibe at me is that my report card often says diligent or dedicated which is teacher-speak for kiss ass! Lunch is the most elaborate affair of the day. We spread out our tiffins everyday and collectively study the peculiar taste buds of our families. Evenings are for dance, homework and family.

“They can say whatever they want. My house was so ancient that it had even developed a hunch. It was just time for that house to go.”

Recently, Papa’s mother, who I call Achams—short for Achamma—has come to live with us. She lost her friend Echmoom, who used to live with her, to cancer a couple of months back. Since then, Papa makes sure that she isn’t alone in her house in Kerala for too long. Either we visit her or fly her down to be with us. Echmoom is what I used to call her. The name in ‘the school register’ as she liked to say was Lakshmi. Achams and everyone else called her Echu. I was supposed to call her Echu ammumma but I coined Echmoom instead. I miss her a lot especially when I think of the old house on the hill in Kerala where Echmoom and Achams lived. As a child, one of the bed time stories Echmoom told me was how she moved in with Achams in the ‘85le pemari’ when her house collapsed under heavy rain in 1985. Every monsoon, Echmoom’s house at the foot of the hill collected water until she move into Achams house till the end of the season. Since she worked all day, every day of the week and went home only to sleep, she didn’t think much of fixing her roof or plugging leaks. Her favourite line in the story was when the village office cited ‘low pressure in the bay of bengal’ as the reason for all weather-related disasters. Her house hadn’t collapsed because of “bangal ulkadalil nyoona mardam”, she would say letting out a laugh. “They can say whatever they want. My house was so ancient that it had even developed a hunch. It was just time for that house to go.”

Achams was awfully quiet and resigned. Since I knew she was grieving her friend, I let Achams be in peace. She shared my room with me even though Chetta’s room was empty, now that he had moved away. My zassy window would always be open, I would often be smirking at the screen or typing too interestedly, on the pretext of studying. As long as I ‘studied’, Achams sat up with me, reading. Never once did she ask me what I was laughing at. It was getting incredibly difficult to continue with this because guilt of tricking her was eating away at me.

One day I asked her, “Achams, don’t you want to know what I am laughing at?”

“Not unless you want to tell me kutta. Do you want to tell me?”

“I could tell you. But if you were Amma, by now would have asked what was so funny in my homework.”

“Ithokke ororutharude private matters alle kutta? If I won’t read your letters, why would I read your messages? Same thing alle?”

I had never thought of messages as inherently deserving privacy. We had always fought against restrictions as a good to have and never as a right. I ended up telling her how Zara had made a fool of herself in front of the teacher she fancied. Achams listened to the story, commenting on how mischievous Zara was for fancying her teacher, “Aha, bhayangari!” And we laughed together, and I saw her face light up for the first time since Echmoom’s passing.

The fifth element—space—I’ve saved that one for love. Space has to be for someone special. Because not everyone gets to go to space.

Next episode | Ch3a: We All Fall Down

ETWA | Ch2a: Welcome to Samiverse

When I started This Coded Life, I was really at a loss for what to write about. Imagining that one day when I am much older, perhaps as old as thirty five, I would make this blog public and laugh at some of my adventures, I narrowed down on my first post. One of Papa’s favourite lines (he has many), “You will look back at this when you’re older and laugh about it” assured me that this will be the case. Mimicking the ‘hello, world!’ prompt that WordPress uses to remind you to send out your first post, I decide that it should be about my world, Samiverse!

Welcome to the Samiverse! I wrote.

My world, Samiverse, is best explained using the five elements of nature: earth, water, fire, air and space.

School is water. I love school. I spend most of my day there. Like the water baby that I am; a Cancerian born on 3 July. I get to school early, by 7:45 on most days, though assembly is only at quarter past eight. I use that time to catch up with my friends—my Zassies. We update each other on what transpired in our lives from the time we last spoke, which was minutes before we met at school. I love my prefect duties at school as well. I am usually held up for an hour or so everyday past school time with those. But I love everything that goes on in school. I am part of the dance club here. I participate in debates though I would argue that I am not the best at it. I am a decent student. I love most of my teachers, my classmates and my friends. School is the best.

“God made two [genders]: man and woman. Why don’t you face the wall all of today and think of the people who clap their hands at traffic lights?”

What makes school the best is of course my Zassies—Akira, Ayaan, Siam and Zara—ZASSY, get it? They are air. Akira is the doer. She is fantastic at minecraft and coding. She built us Zassy The Group, our main chat forum. That was to save Siam from a fix. Siam is the quiet one that perplexes everyone. He is handsome in a way unassuming people can be. Many have attempted and failed at getting him to break out of his natural silence. He sticks with us mostly because we let him be. Once he pissed off our biology teacher ‘lovely Miss Mathews’ in the first hour of class by asking her how many genders there were. She said, “God made two: man and woman. Why don’t you face the wall all of today and think of the people who clap their hands at traffic lights?” The whole class laughed and so did I. He just stood there, staring at the wall with a smile plastered on his face. The whole day, without uttering a single word!

Ayaan or Y as he liked to be called, was the no nonsense one. He was preparing for IIT-JEE with a focus that was usually reserved for do-not-pet sniffer dogs in bomb squads. He was such a good boy that his parents often told my parents that they had nothing to worry about. He was smart but not smug. He was always formally dressed and well-mannered as good boys tend to be. He was definitely a nerd. Akira and him nerded out a lot when we were together. Y and Zara were childhood friends, neighbours and for all practical purposes, siblings. They bickered like cats and on principle disagreed on everything.

Zara is my best friend. I met Zara in dance class when we were 7. We were thrilled for an entire month when our sections got shuffled in 4th standard and we ended up in the same class! I’ve known Zara for literally as long as I can remember. And by extension Y. I love my Zassies but I love Zara more. Growing up, in addition to being together at school and at Nritya, we also spent a lot of time in boring office parties and house parties because Zara’s mother and Papa worked together.

There’s another reason why my Zassies are air. Since we became teenagers, parents and garden variety adults of all sorts have increasingly placed more and more restrictions on us. We are given phones for safety but we are officially allowed to use it only minimally. In school, phones are not allowed. They will be confiscated if found. There is perhaps an hour’s window during commute to school or back when phones can be used. At home, there is a sliver of time between finishing homework and dinner when phones are allowed. In my house, I have to leave the phone with my parents after dinner. In Zara’s and Y’s homes there are randomised checks. Because they are neighbours, their parents follow the exact same rules as if they are siamese twins. Their parents can ask for their phones at any time without warning and check their WhatsApp and other apps. Zara’s mother tried to get Papa to do it with me but he said that he trusted me enough to let me have my privacy. Basically using the phone to chat was generally cumbersome.

That and Siam’s father searched his room for a stapler once and discovered a woman’s underwear instead. They went berserk on him but he refused to spill the beans on where he got it from. Subsequent Internet combing revealed ‘milf’ in his search history. His parents were the most chill people we knew but they took away his phone, grounded him and sent him to counselling. And they put his computer in the living room under constant monitoring.

This was the summer of 2018. That’s when Akira built us a communication mechanism and combined our names to call it Zassy The Group. It sounds so sassy and cool, doesn’t it? It was a web app built on Glitch. All we had to do was log into zassy.glitch.me and we could chat without being monitored. The coolest part was that it could be used without raising suspicion. The main page looked like an online student notebook. It was complete with notes on the genome or macro economics or a differentiation sum, something from our syllabus. It could fool anyone. But when I typed /michelleobama.html into the URL, it took me to a chat window where once I entered a pin, I could chat with Zassies. On the first Monday of every month, Akira remixed the overlay text and the pin. She shared the new pin with us at school or even on WhatsApp just to keep up a semblance of normalcy. We talked about everything on Zassy. It was our safe haven.

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Next episode | Ch2b: Welcome to Samiverse

Every Thing We Are | Ch 1b: Life in Code

Long before those lips I devoured today talked to me in real life, you had liked a photo I posted on Instagram. It featured Sheru, the street dog at Nritya. She was grinning as I gave her a belly rub. I had refreshed the page so many times that day just to check if I was seeing this right. When you followed me on Instagram, I was finishing dinner with my family. We have a no-mobiles-on-the-dining-table rule. So I leave it on the chest of drawers behind my seat. I leaned over to subtly check the notification and legit fell off the chair when I saw the ‘MadU2001 started following you’ notification!

Still, I would often remind myself that none of this is true. That you probably don’t even know that I exist. That it was far-fetched to imagine that you would fall for someone like me. I remember what I was wearing the day you talked to me. It was a Wednesday and I was in my sports uniform which was once white. I was late and hurrying to the changing room while taking off my tie and shoving it into my bag when you came over. Frankly, I was annoyed. Of all the times you could have talked to me, you had chosen this one day when I was late.

I lit up like someone had fired a flare gun at my face.

But you just stood there before me and said so very matter of factly. “Sam, shall we get a juice outside after class? I think I like you.” I lit up like someone had fired a flare gun at my face. I sat in aramandalam with great diligence. I prayed for the class to end early. I felt focused, as though my body and mind were moving in unison.

And just like that, there we were drinking orange juice at the Juice Centre across the road from the dance studio. Months of playing out scenarios in my head and in the matter of an afternoon, my life had tipped.

I must confess that I remember next to nothing of what we spoke off. My mind was preoccupied with your lips. They seemed like a thin, long line, a tightrope stretched across your cheeks. Below were a mouthful of teeth waiting for me to explore them. Further in there was a tongue, fierce and untrained, revving to go. You stuck it out as you shook the upturned glass to get the last drop of juice onto the tip of your tongue. I could feel my ears get hot and my toes get sticky inside my shoes. I wanted you so badly. I wanted to touch you. Feel those fluid lines that make your body. Dance with you, matching your moves, making you move. Together. Alone.

R olev blf,

Ulivevi blfih

Sam finished typing her love letter, encoded it using Atbash, a simple reverse cipher that replaced A-Z in reverse order from Z-A. She and her friends had read Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code last summer and were enamoured. They had spent a good number of days learning alphabets in the reverse order and practising reading and writing in reverse. They used it in all their text messages. They changed their ciphers every month as they expected to be intercepted by family.

This journal that Sam was writing in was private and no one knew it existed, not even her gang, Akira, Ayaan, Siam and Zara. This was the one big secret that she kept from them. They knew about Madhu and everything else, right down to the minute. The year she entered high school, her parents had read through her diary and confronted her about why she wrote that she hated ‘the lovely’ Miss Mathews, their biology teacher. That incident had made her extremely conscious of her journalling. It had also made her secretive. She had started a private journal on WordPress. This was in addition to the public blog she maintained as suggested by her father. Papa had told her that a blog was important to build her extra curricular portfolio online. She blogged avidly about her dance, her Olympiad prep, competitions in school, what she learned on holidays and even her favourite dog, Sheru. But for the private blog, called This Coded Life, she knew that only a cipher could keep her thoughts truly private. So in addition to a password, each of her posts were written in a different cipher and she spent a lot of time labouring over it.

As she shut down the computer and got ready for bed, she recalled from her brain’s recent folder, the events that transpired this afternoon. She sent Madhu a smiley, just as she was stepping out of the conscious world.

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Next episode | Ch2a: Welcome to Samiverse

Every Thing We Are | Ch 1a: Life In Code

book cover for Every Thing We Are — *Image courtesy: Photo by Efe Kurnaz on Unsplash*

I am not a confident writer. This chapter was meant to be published yesterday but my nerves didn’t let me. What am I so afraid of? Writing badly? Being judged? But I am fully aware that writing is a muscle more than a skill. And I am exercising it everyday. And it can only get better with time. See, logic always has a point. But I am so wrapped up in overthinking that I am rarely listening. So here goes!

When you kissed me Madhu, I felt my centre of gravity explode. I couldn’t feel my feet or hands anymore. I felt light, weightless. As if I, Sam, were floating over the both of us, watching the scene from above. I couldn’t feel the redness spreading across my face and colouring my ears, though I could see them. I couldn’t feel your arms convene over my lower back, tentatively, palms outward but I saw their awkward stance. All I could feel was the numb excitement of your mouth electrifying mine. Kissing was like a million tiny wands of invisible lightning coursing through you with purpose. I imagined this is what neurons firing felt like.

The thrill of kissing you back erupted outward as a colourscape of joy. The pleasant warmth of your body pressed against mine, etching into it, the memory of you. With courage I did not believe I possessed, I placed my hands on your forearm, unsure. You didn’t notice or seem to mind. My hands climbed your forearm, all the way to your shoulders. I could feel your heart run an indoor marathon. In the exhilaration of summiting your shoulders, I felt brave enough to do it. I ran my hands through your hair.

Oh, your hair. I could write an entire post about your hair. You have no idea how long I have wanted to do this. I have ogled at your hair, at your shoulders and your bum more than I have ogled at your face. Your silky, straight hair that flirted with your shoulders, sometimes touching, sometimes not. My fingers inhaled their scent and I knew for certain that they smelt exactly as I had imagined it. Soft.

Isn’t it weird that you can’t see anything when you’re kissing? When I kissed you though, I imagined your eyes looking at me. I thought of the first time I noticed you looking at me. That was back in May when our team went to that audition in Koramangala. I was sure there was something stuck in my teeth or that my hair was out of whack that day. Why else would you be looking at me? I also thought I was imagining it because I liked you so very much. I didn’t even ask Zara to confirm this was happening because I was sure it was a figment of my imagination. To me, it was so unthinkable then that we would be here, you kissing my neck, making me gasp with your urgency.

I see that all the nerve endings on your face are dancing in celebration. Definitely, mine are too.

What do we do next? I am not sure. Neither are you. I can hear you thinking whether to touch my breasts pressed against yours. Your courage seems to be running on fumes. I want you to touch them so badly. But the words to make that happen elude me. We kiss till our throats are dry and our faces hurt. We stop to look at each other. I see that all the nerve endings on your face are dancing in celebration. Definitely, mine are too. We grin at each other, proud of our afternoon’s activity. Even as the thrill settles into my core, I know that I have stepped over a line. There is no going back from here. I can’t get enough of you. I hug you once more, with confidence this time and smell the crook of your neck. I twine your fingers in mine and wrap your hands around me, cumbersome but snug. I want to stay here in your embrace forever.

I feel alive and present. Just like I did when I saw you for the first time during Vijayadashami last year when you joined our dance class. When did you first notice me? What did you notice about me that first time? I’ve had my eyes on you since that first day. At first it was your skill. The grace with which you move, as if your body were fluid, with no skeletal system to speak of. I’ve spent days of practice just standing in a row behind you and daydreaming. I loved how delicate and elegant your ankles looked. This might sound weird but in my head, you and I have conversations every day. I am funny and you are floored by my candour.

In real life though, our first interaction was only in July when I shared a water bottle with you. Since you had touched that bottle, I began speaking to it before bed. I was livid when I forgot it in an auto one day on the way home. I still get angry thinking about it. But whenever I feel angry, I think of the day we met in Nritya’s office to pay the fees. When I got off the plastic seat, it made a farting noise. I could have keeled over and died of embarrassment. But you just burst out laughing before blowing farts out of your elbows. You didn’t have a care in the world. I was so grateful for you that day.

to be continued…

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Next episode | Ch1b: Life In Code