Growing Up

Moving On

I had barely put down my school bag when I got to know of it. Actually I kind of sensed it even before I heard or saw anything. Yes! Baba’s got transferred again. In the next few days all of my – our life here would disappear, mostly neatly folded away in cardboard boxes with hand stitched gunny covers, to be taken to the new place. But what about all our friends, the familiar pealing of the school bell and me running along the brick path to beat it every morning, our small tortoise which we kept in the backyard and which perpetually tried to escape, the little hideout behind the Jamun tree which fell on one stormy night? What would happen to our brood of hens that we fed and cared for even though they had collectively decided that they were too refined to indulge into lowly activities like egg laying? I knew these, as always, would be left behind. I know the routine; yes after so many transfers I know it well. Baba would soon be off to an unknown place – soon to be our home, to take over charge and hopefully find us a decent house before we and our luggage arrived. Ma would get into a frenzy of activity –airing the blankets, giving out stuff, arranging the boxes, bidding goodbyes to friends. It was always a race against time and we kids participated as best as we could –but mostly by not getting in the way. Ma would barely have time even to comb her long luxuriant hair – usually tying them back in a stern bun, completely immersed in the million things that needed to be done. She had just one request of us, “Please don’t fall sick!� I still remember during the preparations for Dad’s last transfer one of us came down with a high fever and the doctor suspected ‘chicken pox’. My harried Ma just dug her heels and told the hapless doctor, “Doctor, I am in the middle of a transfer, I hope you understand I do not have the luxury of my children coming down with chicken pox now, they’d have to wait till we reach the next place. For the time being I can settle for a minor cold or even better a freak rise in temperature which would go down in a few hours.�

Ma was busy, Baba was away and we children partly unattended carrying on as best as we could, putting up a pretence that nothing has changed. That is the other thing I have noticed about our oh! so many transfers – there is always an element of make believe, an attempt to continue with the regular schedule almost till the last minute – schools till the last day, muted goodbyes and almost all meals at home. Ma is particular about keeping meals simple to avoid unexpected upsets and the household’s cooking tools, the very basic – pressure cooker, the stove, a few plates and the spices always travelled with us. But this time I was getting irritated – why this hush! hush! about the impending, this ridiculous routine to ‘not upset the kids’. I definitely was not a kid anymore and I would have really appreciated if I were not treated as one. Thank you!

Finally the day arrived for us to leave. Our stuff had already left the previous day –large array of cartons in hand sewed gunny covers – Ma’s patient efforts for over a month. The house suddenly looked much larger than we remembered from all our months of stay here –unfamiliarly large. Sunlight streaming in through the bare windows with the curtains gone, the broken tub, our bicycles, cots and quilts, the garden chairs, everything gone – either packed or given away. Our familiar home has become merely a house again and we were off to the faraway house soon to be our home.

Baba was transferred to Assam this time – a very long way from Gujarat where we were now. A cursory attempt to figure out our destination on the ‘political map of India’ hanging in the school library made me realise it was even beyond the farthest that I have ever been. Silchar – a place which did not even exist for me a few weeks back was where we were headed. I remember noting idly during one of our school’s long drawn assembly programmes that even our national anthem forgot to include Assam: Punjab Sindh Gujarat Maratha Dravida Utkala Banga, Vindhya Himachala Yamuna Ganga,…. Hey! Is it not part of our country after all, I had wondered in dismay? The feeling of resentment welled up again against this uncalled for disruption in my life. Oh! Why was I still so young? And then almost simultaneously I was also getting swamped with the growing attractions of going away, the breaking from the familiar. The excitement slowly started sipping in and in a while, gripped me even. Thus even at the final moments of taking adieu from the familiar got mingled with the excitement for the unknown, for the new.

Taxi, tempo, train, bus and finally an aeroplane, we travelled in all to reach our destination. And we saw the terrain change so many times over – the cotton fields and the arid landscape changed to the dense forests of central India, and then the wonderfully green stretches of the fertile delta – paddy fields lined with coconut trees. The final lap of our journey was the most beautiful though – green mountains, adorned with small brooks, innumerable tunnels and a winding path, flowers all along – this was October and nature seemed in its festive best. I do not know whether I registered all these on the very first journey or not, but I guess most likely no. It just seeped through naturally during all those many trips we took during our first week of stay in Silchar. Baba’s site was a cool hundred kilometres from the main town and the airport around 30 kms on the other side, and Baba seemed to be making alternating trips between these two places – Kalahandi and Kumbigram and we kids tagged along every time. Ma used to be rather stressed out in the beginning – trying to get used to her new surroundings and converting it to as near as could be to our familiar one at the same time and I guess the going was not easy. I the eldest ought to have pitched in, I admit, but I did not – my excuse being that at 14 it seemed worthwhile facing a few tirade from Ma shamefacedly rather than getting seriously bogged down with what seemed excruciatingly mundane. All those numerous trips made for a good excuse to get away. And I was dying to grow up. I looked grown up some these days – the face that stared back at me from the mirror looked familiar but whatever I could see of my body from the bust sized mirror in the bathroom, that looked definitely grown up. Bulges and curves, hair at odd places and of course my newly acquired accessory the brassiere. Frankly it was darned uncomfortable to start with – the cold clasp in the middle of my shoulder blades, the tight grip, I did not like it one bit – I could not even breathe. But when I saw the class heartbreaker staring at my new and stiff frontal elevations, I grudgingly thought to myself: “maybe it was worth it after all�.

That brings me to my new school. It was as always terrible to begin with. I guess the small bunch of tightly grouped boys and girls were not too keen on a mid-session intrusion. So I sat on the last bench alone for a week before anybody made any overture and that too as it turned out to be, an unfriendly one.

“Do not hang your raincoat on that hook – that is reserved.�

“Reserved? I did not know.�

“Well! Now you know and do remember!�

“Sorry, but where should I put my raincoat then? Can’t keep the wet thing in my pack.�

“I am sorry too, but am not interested in baby sitting. Grow up man!�

This set the pattern for the next few weeks and one got resigned to be referred to as the ‘sour-faced chashmish’ in audible whispers.

And then one day when I was coming back from the physics laboratory – I heard somebody calling out.

“Hey! Miss, Hey New Girl with Specks, just a MINUTE�

I turned around unwillingly – did not wish to face a fresh bout of unpleasant exchange, was feelingly rather lowly today. But the girl had almost reached me by then and she shouted out again.

“Hey! Whatever-is-your-name - you seem to be in trouble.�

“You telling me!� I thought to myself – staring at the slim and fair Salwar Kmameez clad girl standing in front of me. Aloud I said hesitantly:
“My name’s Shalini. And what is yours?�

“We will exchange our biodata later – right now you are in a mess, a Technicolor Mess.�

As I stared back at her uncomprehendingly, she rolled her eye and looked pointedly at my skirt, “Miss Shalini, you are all grown up and it is showing. Your skirt’s got a big red stain.�

I was engulfed in deep shame and a huge dollop of self pity made me want to cry. But Sudha, my new found friend and only friend in this whole wide universe (or so it seemed at the moment) was not merely a harbinger of awful tidings but was very resourceful too.

We rushed to the bathroom together – I clutching my stained skirt tucked awkwardly between my knees. This was a huge disaster – I did not have a change and home was four periods and 25 kilometres away. But Sudha seemed in control. She asked for my handkerchief, which I wordlessly passed on and she dug out her own and neatly folded them into a makeshift pad. I gratefully fitted the flower patterned pad into my soiled garment, well this seemed to take care of the unwanted flow, but how would I get through the rest of the school and the bus journey home with my stained skirt. I wondered desolately. But my despair was uncalled for – I had not yet reckoned for Sudha’s resourcefulness. She fished out my ink pen from my box and liberally sprayed Chelpak’s royal blue ink on to my stubborn stain. And as I looked on in reverential wonder the haunting red stain was soon tamed into an indescript purple. Lo and Behold I was ready to face the world. To my grateful query as to whether my friend was a genius in the making she comfortably replied that this was merely passed on knowledge of collective sisterhood. I was impressed and perhaps more importantly I had a friend.

Life at school improved considerably then on – the girls looked charming and not the mean little bitches as they came through earlier, the boys looked handsomer – in spite of a few of them occasionally bullying my younger brother to tears. And instead of feeling sisterly indignation, I just decided that the brat needed straightening up some. Soon, I even started looking forward to going to school in spite of the droning physics teacher, a pain-in-the-ass crafts tutor and not to mention our terror of a principal. My main problems got focussed down to the erratic and unwanted eruption of painful pimples and the equally erratic behaviour of my ‘heartthrob of the day’. I don’t know if you know but fourteen seemed to be the age when you get acutely aware of your throbbing heart. One would have already read and been told a zillion times that a human heart beats continuously, and it would be a veritable disaster should it ever stop doing so. But at fourteen the vital organ starts doing all kinds of crazy things – it thuds, it lurches, it throbs, it aches, it even stops for excruciatingly long moments. And it does all these ridiculous activities in response to the strangest of stimuli – a laugh, a smile, crinkled nose, a wrist with a broad black banded wristwatch, a chuckle, a voice, a whiff of a distantly applied cologne, long tapering fingers with ink stained tips, anything and many things. Unfortunately for me this truncated list of attributes belonged to a dozen different people. And though when I closed my eye they all helpfully grouped together conjuring up my dream person – whole to the last detail, in real life these got generously distributed over several boys and men I knew- my classmates, the maths teacher, the physical training instructor and a couple of completely unknown persons. I was in trouble alright and as I said I was dying to grow up.

Growing Up

And grow up I did, rather unexpectedly one day.

We were off for a day’s excursion this time and the excitement had begun from the night before. We were to go to a tea estate around a three hour drive away and were told that it was one of the most beautiful around. Ma had delicately squeezed several ripe fragrant pineapples on to ice cubes into a flask – no fizzy drinks for us, she also packed a dozen oranges, and biscuits and namakpare, and tissue and well several other odd things. After a frenzy of preparations our dresses lay neatly starched and ironed on the sofa, sports shoes in a regular file along the wall when Ma finally switched off the lights and we drifted into sleep in spite of the excitement.

We crossed the small town soon enough and then we were onto the long serpentine road through dense forests. The verdant splendour was a treat to the eyes and the magical charm was enhanced by the sunrays filtering through it. Actually the deep foliage around us and the sun seen through it – now there now not, gave the impression of a mischievous toddler playing peekaboo with us – yes one felt naturally poetic in such surroundings. The road led to the river, and like all mountainous rivers this too was narrow and surprisingly vivacious. The rushing water downstream, this was perhaps a young naughty river. I have seen the majestic Ganges at several places along its mighty flow from the Himalayas to the sea – I have seen it thundering down at Rudraprayag, flowing strongly and deeply in Hardwar and Rishikesh, the wide expanse at Kanpur and Varanasi and then at maturity under the Howrah bridge at the shores of Kolkata. Ganges is awe-inspiring at every stage – not to be trifled with. But this was different, jumping, frolicking, gurgling, bubbling, teasing brook. This was a travelling companion – a short poignant and intense relationship and yet more intimate in spite of its brevity. We had to cross the river. The ferry had gone to the other side, and hence we waited and even that was fun. Ma too seemed to revive some from the trauma of the drive so far. It was like this every time – she suffered from car-sickness. And every time the car moved, my strong all-in-command Ma was reduced to a quivering inert form, head back on the backrest barely breathing. Every once in a while she would ask for the car to be stopped in a hoarse whisper and throw up violently. But it would usually be a few minutes’ halt – she would run some cold water over her head and face, drink some and with grim faced determination ask for the journey to be resumed. The beautiful winding, mountainous roads of Assam was probably the worst for her. But we did not miss a single trip because of Ma and neither did she in spite of the painful journey.

The ferry got back and we boarded it – car and all, and slowly drifted to the other side.

A rather inconspicuous board indicated the way to the tea estate as we slowly moved over the rather narrow metalled path. Actually the pitch grey road seemed to be the only thing which broke the make-believe of having entered un-intruded virgin nature – bamboo shoots rising to heights I have never seen before, an uninterrupted droning orchestra of some rather loud species of crickets, birds flitting past overhead disturbed by the slow purr of the car engine perhaps. The dense darkness of the forest interiors seem to hold the promise of an array of possibilities – natural and supernatural even, the known and the unknown. We soon passed the gates of the estate – solid and functional, but the barbed wire fence emanating from the entrance was impressive. We were on private property, seemed highly improbable though – what man could own this untameable, majestic nature?

I was so busy taking the immediate and the surrounding that I had not idea which paths our vehicle was striking – but this feeling of being in total isolation continued. And then almost abruptly a large bungalow loomed in the horizon. The muted conversation inside the car was replaced by an awed hush. As the car made its way slowly over the long gravel drive, I took in the details of the majestic structure. I had recently watched ‘Rebecca’ and to my overactive imagination this seemed like the Manderley in its grandeur. And though no Laurence Olivier sat beside me, this definitely seemed like a good omen, a sign of things to come. The large Victorian sprawling bungalow seemed to have been planted there in all its splendour. A wood, bamboo, stone and brick structure over three storeys high, sloping roof, three pretty chimneys jutting out from the red roof top. Several creepers adorned the walls of the building lending a profusion of colours to the monotonous red- purple and magenta, blue, crimson and yellow, orange, pink and several hues of each. A rose garden well tended and in full bloom greeted us from right across the car porch. The other side had a lily pond, complete with a dozen swans languorously bathing in the morning sun. This was straight out of a fairy tale – I thought dreamily.

Our squat ambassador seemed rather puny in the large covered porch which at a glance seemed easily capable of accommodating a dozen cars – or perhaps horse drawn chaise, like in olden times. The long verandah had several sets of cane furniture strewn around in what seemed like a studied attempt at informality. We were ushered in by a liveried man straight into the main parlour. We barely had time to register the large waiting rooms flanking the main hall on either sides with hat stands and coat stands and cushy furniture, complete accessories I guess, for the wait before the owner of this impressive bungalow chose to give an audience. The hall where we finally sank in one of the several Victorian sofa chairs seemed straight out of a movie set. A huge chandelier albeit with electric light glittered from the ceiling with several rows of smaller lamps radiating from the centre piece. The massive walls were lined with more than a few trophies presumably from hunting expeditions – a rhino head, a bear, a barasingha and of course the Royal Bengal tiger with bared teeth, long whiskers, cold gleaming eyes even after the life had been extinguished from this magnificent beast and the wide striped velvety beautiful skin spread out. These were interspersed with several firearms –‘saab logon ke shikaar ke liye’ the footman informed us with unconcealed pride. Each of these still gleaming weapon had a copper placard identifying it, with its date of acquisition and also a list of its accomplishments. There were – 1866 Winchester Rifle nicknamed the ‘Yellow Boy, Enfield P60 Rifle, the Enfield Musket, and several double barrelled ones whose names I do not remember. The other walls had mural depicting young nubile women and chubby toddlers frolicking about in several stages of undress. There were also life size portraits of the owners and managers of this hundred and fifty year old tea estate. Most of them depicted these men seated in high chairs in stiff dinner suits, but a few sat determinedly on proud horses and just one had even struck a pose with one foot atop a slain tiger – impressive! The rich mahogany cabinets contained an array of books and decoration pieces. We sat spellbound in these enchanted surroundings sipping on the iced juice which had appeared magically some time earlier.

The lush wall to wall carpet on the wooden floor muffled the footsteps – and I did not register our host’s presence almost till he was right in front of us. I was ready to be impressed with anybody who lived in such a majestic dwelling, but this man was impressive anyway. Tall, dark, old (well at fourteen, 30 seemed over the hill so I guess he might have been in his late 40s), dark haired and dressed in creamy white kurta pajama and Nagra jutis. The starched fine cotton with pearl buttons seemed to enhance the person’s innate elegance, so this is how the rich look up close, I thought to myself. The only thing slightly jarring was the dark glasses hiding his eyes. Why does he need them inside, I wondered idly? We were soon joined by our hostess, and for some reason I remember her even more vividly. Tall and stately, overbearing almost, partly because of her bulk and yet a very impressive presence; she was draped in a white organza saree with bright blue flower pattern. Several strands of pearl peeped out from her barely visible neckline, the loose end of the garment demurely wrapped around the shoulder, large pearl studs in the ears, delicately carved gold bracelet clasping her left wrist and on the right just a wrist watch, very chic. Her face must have been attractive too, but surprisingly I do not seem to recollect the features in any detail, the only thing I remember was the huge diamond stud on her nose – largely overshadowing anything else, twinkling distractingly every time she moved. I felt awkward and shabby and inexplicably shy in such company, though to be fair our hosts were all welcoming, and yet their easy charm seemed to make me even more tongue tied. I found myself staring intently at the tiny stain of mud on my once-pink-now-dirty-greyish-pink footwear. But wait, I seemed to be the only one thus afflicted, Ma and Baba were comfortably contributing to the flow of conversation, light bantering, mild pleasantries, poised. I realised with dismay as if almost for the first time that Baba sounded so knowledgeable about such complex stuff, smart, confident and Ma, she was charming too, I noticed the look of appreciation around. This bolstered my confidence some – these are my parents. And my younger siblings, they I guess were way too young to be impressed by anything and nothing around seemed to touch them. They actually were busy sampling the array of snacks laid out in the centre table along with tea. Tea was special too, the best the garden could offer and the fragrance was tantalising.

Our host Mr Shah kept the conversation flowing, and actually did most of the talking too. He had such interesting tales to tell – mostly related to his work in the estate. The tales some light and delightful, some dark and sinister, some humorous, some plainly unbelievable, all very interesting and they seemed to weave a magically mysterious web about the whole place. This looked like a world by itself with very little intrusion from the outside, a fairytale kingdom, complete with a king, royal family, the servants and courtiers and of course the subjects. As I gathered slowly, for this tea estate, Mr Shah was the rule, the law, the acknowledged authority over everything. He was the ultimate, he was the God! He distributed the largesse and dispensed with justice on all matters – private and public, related to marital affairs, property or community. He punished, he rewarded and he was answerable to none. His was the last word. Several anecdotes, several tales, some old some recent, we hear from him. Several times I found his eyes on me –urging me to speak too, ask questions perhaps, but I could not. Oh! How I wished I were grown up and not the gawky caricature that I felt like at the moment. His wife though did not utter a single word about herself – but played the hostess to the hilt, signalling the footman to refill glasses and plates, coaxing us to help ourselves. They seemed such a perfect team.

Much later we learnt that the Shahs had five children- four of them were away in some of the fanciest boarding schools around the country. But the fifth child, she was very unwell and hence had to stay back at home here with her parents. She was a paraplegic and was confined to bed. The conversation around came to an abrupt halt and only resumed with each of the outsiders offering a word of consolation for the unfortunate parents of the yet unseen child. And then almost abruptly, Mr Shah turned to me and said:

“Young lady – why don’t you come upstairs and I’ll introduce you to my daughter? She could do with some company her age.�

I looked at my Ma, and at a nod from my ever-protective parent I followed Mr Shah upstairs. Long carpeted corridors and several rooms later we entered into a room at the far end of the bungalow. Large, airy, sunrays streaming like a golden dazzling beam from the wall to wall French windows, opening into a breathtaking view of the neat rows of tea shrubs in the valley rising up to the distant horizon. The room was beautiful. And as I looked around I realised it was furnished very differently, it did not have the overbearing regality of the rest of the house I had seen so far. This one seemed to exude warmth missing elsewhere, bright baby pink walls adorned with sparkling blue streamers, familiar Disney characters in large cut-outs and stickers stared back good-naturedly, and then there were stuffed toys of all sizes, shapes and colours, scores of them strewn all over the spacious room. The glass cabinet, prominently stationed at one end of the room housed several doll-houses, each shelf a doll room complete with the accessories. The room opened out to a balcony with rainbow coloured sunshade, the railing lined with painted garden pots spouting out a profusion of colours – flowers in cheerful bloom. This was a dream room, and probably the only thing marring the general merriment and vivacity of the beautiful interiors was its lone inhabitant. I did not even register her presence in my first cursory look around. Only when our hostess who had followed us upstairs, broke the spell by saying: “Come let me introduce you to Mini.� did I notice the crib-like structure, only much larger than a conventional crib placed lengthwise across the room.

The crib like everything else in the room was brightly coloured and decorated and Mini our hosts’ daughter lay there. Mini was 15 years old – and the tired colourless face that stared back at us looked fifteen too, but the body attached to it was a different tale altogether. I have never seen anything living like it. Mini’s body seemed more like a deflated life-sized rubber toy, with the limbs folded over it, as if in an unsuccessful attempt at neatness. Except for the pair of bright monkey eyes, nothing else seemed remotely animated in the broken human form. The inert figure suddenly seemed grotesquely in sync with the large two-dimensional Disney characters leering at us from the walls and the ceiling. A pipe through her nose – probably for sustenance and another leading from the body to under the crib to complete the cycle I guess. My God! The cycle of life reduced to a couple of pipe, all the wonders and possibilities, hopes and despair of life at 15 controlled merely by an uncontrollable pump- the beating heart? I noticed hazily Mini’s beautiful, black, thick, long, silky hair spread all over the frilly flower patterned pillow case; I could have died for such lovely hair. And Mini, does she even care? Something must have shown on my face, I might have shuddered, must have looked visibly shaken, because I suddenly felt a strong reassuring arm around my shoulder. Mini’s father held me close. But even before I could collect myself, I registered another sensation. Mini’s father’s hand, the one draped around me, was fondling my breast. What!!? Was he even aware of it? Was I just imagining this inexplicably uncomfortable sensation? I mean he could not be doing it deliberately in front of his invalid daughter, and even his wife stood solidly beside me. Could she be unaware of it? But Wait!!! He was squeezing my breast now, painfully. I looked up in dismay and confusion and found the man behind those dark glasses, staring back unabashedly. And then he spoke:

“You are upset my pet? Mini upsets you. She upsets me too, my poor daughter. Would you help me, please, - how I’d like a daughter like you.�

As I looked on incredulously, his other hand started massaging my breasts too– he was now openly feeling me all over. And his wife, she merely looked on, a benignly dignified smile still hovering over her face. What the hell was going on here? Am I going mad or was this really happening to me? I was so thoroughly confused. I was blacking out. And meanwhile that man, Mr Shah, continued speaking in his deep soothing voice:

“You know, you’d love it here, you could come over and spend your vacation here, we have a swimming pool and horses too – you could learn to ride. How does that sound, exciting? You must convince your parents – you’ll have such fun here. My! You have such large plump breasts, are you sure you are only 14? You could fool me. How would they ever grow any larger- hai na Asha?� This to his wife. And as I looked on in dismay he squeezed my breast painfully again.

I wanted to stop him. I wanted to shout. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to bite him viciously. I wanted to draw out his blood, stomp out his smiling face, cut off his hands. Most of all, I wanted Ma. But somehow I could do nothing - not even move away. I just stood stupidly stuck with this man, while his wife and child looked on. I remember trying to shove his hand off my body once, involuntarily, but could not. Instead the man pinched my cheek, gave a tweak to my nipple and chuckled:

“You naughty, naughty, girl! You are enjoying this. Admit it! Say yes! Say yes Uncle, I like it, I love it. Say it!�

Why was this happening to me? I do not know why, but I was feeling terribly embarrassed. I felt as if I had done something horribly wrong. I wished to physically delete myself. I wished to disappear. I looked at Mrs Shah for help – a helpless mute appeal. But why was she smiling at me if nothing was wrong? Am I really imagining this never-ending nightmare? And as I looked on in resigned disbelief, she said:

“Yes! My dear, we’d love to have you over. I’ll teach all the tasty Gujarati snacks and dishes and rotis wafer thin, and theplas, and dhoklas, everything. Your husband would love you, I can guarantee that. You see we have such a big house; we need to fill it up. The children are away, but we insist that they get friends every vacation. And, yes! I’ll even let you onto my secret recipe of Dahi Vada, the fluffiest you have ever tasted.�

I could not discern anything very clearly anymore – between Mr Shah’s obscenely groping hands and Mrs Shah’s uninterrupted monologue about dishes from Gujarat, and other womanly skills which she was promising to teach me. What a macabrely perfect team. After what seemed like ages, Mr Shah said:

“Okay! I’ll have to break the party, we’d have to continue later. Asha we have guests downstairs; we ought not to neglect them. Sorry pet, I need to go.� And with one lingering squeeze of my numb, sore, breasts he was gone.

We too followed him downstairs, I just managing to put one foot in front of the other dazedly, and Mrs Shah unconcernedly continuing her ridiculous chattering.

I did not register much else of what happened later in the visit. To date I do not know, why I did not blurt out about my painful encounter to my parents immediately. I should have, I wanted to, I really, really wanted to be enfolded in the reassuring arms of my parents and be consoled. Instead I just sat there numbly, held back by some inexplicable feeling of inferiority. I dully watched my parents continuing their pleasantries with our hosts. It was unbearable, the general bonhomie, but I felt strangely helpless, discarded by one and all. I actually felt as if I had contracted a shameful contagious ailment, something which would erupt into painful ugly boils all over my body, or into large festering, putrid open wounds, and everybody would know that I have been involved in something hideous. I hated myself, I hated myself with vengeance. Oh! Why couldn’t I be a child once more and cry out aloud? Why did I have to grow up so? And my treacherous body – I wanted to deflate it, like Mini’s body in the crib; I wanted to flatten it into asexual nothingness. And then a terrible thought came to me – did Mr Shah squeeze his daughter’s body into that awful shape- where she looked like a spent toothpaste tube? Was she too a bright, beautiful bubbling girl, with a body to go with her bright black eyes and silken hair, whom her father squeezed out into the useless rubber toy lying wasted upstairs? Was she actually paying for her father’s action? Oh! My God!

Finally, what seemed like hours later, our visit was thankfully getting over. Those lingering parting exchanges, a last minute anecdote, a souvenir not shown earlier, fruits from the bountiful garden, I could not bear it anymore. It was killing me. But I merely stood by steadfastly, silently. At the door, Mr Shah caught hold of me again, and with one arm tightly around me announced to my unsuspecting parents:

“This young lady is really looking forward to coming back and has promised us that she would spend a few days here in the estate. And before you go protesting like all over-protective parents –let me be the first ones to tell you, she’s not a child anymore –no, she’s grown up.�

The gall of this man, I cringed, still held in his poisonous clasp. He was actually laughing- at least his lips were, the eyes remained invisible still, behind those all concealing dark glasses. He laughed on conspiratorially, and to my shame and horror my parents too smiled back unreservedly, good naturedly, indulgently.

“No Ma, Baba, don’t smile at this vile man – he’d defile you, you are too pure, too innocent to know him for his true self. This man is evil – you’d get tainted by mingling with the likes of him. And Ma, Baba, I am not grown up, I am just your little daughter, I do not want to grow up, Do not let me grow up, ever. Please do not let me grow up.�

No, I did not say this aloud, I merely breathed this plea silently. Nobody heard, nobody understood.

And thus one day, I grew up unexpectedly, unknowingly and reluctantly.