Last night I tried to kill myself. Everyone in my family had at some time. They all aspired to die; it was a searing ambition with some, a dull ache with others.

As a child I remember one of them throwing up green vomit. They stood around and I had pushed through, my little head snuggled between two hips – one large, the other slender – and watched fascinated as a gush of mossy liquid fell on the floor, some sliding on the bedsheet, little slivers like blades of dull grass. I could hear the sighs, and one sentence uttered under breath, “Not a good sign.” I did not understand. We all knew about puking. It was a family tradition. Tomato puke. Meat puke. Grease puke. Garam masala puke. Often, before the antacids could work their chewable magic, I would spot the remnants of the Digene tablet.

I was the inheritor of bile, and with time became a connoisseur of the genuine and a critic of the fake. I knew when someone was throwing up to draw attention or to disparage the culinary efforts of another. I did not have too many problems with food. I vomited to feel another’s pain. For us, although it was a regular occurrence, the shaking of the body near the washbasin was our collective catharsis. At the centre would be the tragedian and we the chorus, clothed in black emotions, our sobs muffled. There was the occasional time when I would thrust my finger deep into my throat and force out phlegm only because I wanted to see how one meets one’s end. I would prepare a little speech and they would listen to me. But each time I hoped, nothing happened. I would be given some soda, tucked into my rocking chair with a shawl to cover me and made to watch some silly soap on TV.

That day it was different. I had been waiting for the showers. The grey sky looked like ashes strewn across a river, the clouds like smoke from a pyre. I thought these were ominous signs. There was promise of rain, but not a drop fell. Two hours and my life had flashed before me. If this is all it takes for a lifetime to be encapsulated into, then what has one done? How has one lived? Has one lived at all?

I tried calling out to someone. They were out for the day, some at work, and some on vacation. It was a huge family where everyone was my own, but no one was mine. I was an orphan, so they had given me a fancy name – Taraana. I was happy with it. It sounded alternately like a film star’s and a prostitute’s, and I wanted to be both. I fancied myself attending premieres with ornaments that heaved on my bosom, silks that draped me like a lover’s illicit embrace… I could feel the flowers, slightly wet, slobbering at my neck. Then as night would fade, so would those fragrant strands in my hair, and in my mind I would transform into Taraana of the kothas. My feet in a trance, trapped by bells, as I glided on the carpet and smiled wickedly at a man old enough to be dead.

I had visions of a four-poster bed and of this near-dead man being revived by my sight. I had to be close enough for his cataract eyes to register me as his lips puckered with dried saliva; I would moisten them and his head would bob on the pillow as his body racked with ecstasy and guilt. I could sense history in that imaginary room, feel connected with a past I never had and he with a future he never would.

What little pleasure we would find in bodies not made for each other. He would believe he was reliving every sensual moment, and I would pine for him as I had for the taste of clay in my mouth when I scraped the phirni from the bottom of the small kulhads they used to be set in for special occasions. Whenever I fantasised about this, I never gave him a name, a background. His identity was like the ruins, crumbling but statuesque. I clothed him in pastels that would not contrast too much with his face. He had a lovely face, like burning wood, some parts darker than others, skin creased like the log simmering between their folds. He always felt hot to the touch. The whites of his eyes had turned a pale yellow and the hazel brown had become grey at the edges. The jawline had lost its resolve, but I could trace its old rigidity when my fingers pulled back the sagging flesh and felt the bones. Was I getting too involved? Was this love?

* * *
At 15 I did not know what love was, not because I was young, but because I did not recognise most emotions. I did not remember being angry, hurt, jealous, happy. I just found everyone fitted into nice slots and they must mean something. Like the shelf in the corner. I could not think of it as being anyplace else. My life would be completely destroyed had they decided to move it. I understood destruction. When they threw stones at my window and broke the glass, I cried. But was that an emotion? Often, I forced myself to feel because I had to. They would whisper in the afternoons, “What should we do with this girl? She is growing up so fast, but she says nothing.”

I did not know that the inches I was gathering were meant to chalk up a speech. Then one day they bought me four bras, all white. I tried them on, thinking that this was the moment when I would finally get raped. With rising excitement, I took off my kameez. I opened the box which had the picture of a blonde looking like she enjoyed what was happening to her. I smiled at the thought of all that awaited me. The tag read 32 A. I thought that was something very important. I slid the straps and tried to button it, but it just wouldn’t close. I called out to Phillu, the maid, and she came in and started laughing, like those whores in the Hindi films we watched. “Hahahahhah…uhuhuhuh….baybee, you too big-big for this ting.” And then she came round and pinched my breasts, and ran away giggling. This was the first time any hand other than my own had felt what I thought were painful boils. I had attempted to hide them, wearing loose clothes, and once when we were to attend a wedding and I had to dress up in an old silk tight-fitting kurta, I had quietly bandaged my chest with a dupatta. I thought no one knew I had these things, for they never did look at me. They would hug me close on Eid, birthdays or when something broke, but touch was not part of my heritage. They spoke wonderfully, words poured out of their mouths like honey from bees. Slow drops, thick and sweet.

I remember the sound of “Taraaaaaaaannaaaaaaaa…..jaan, have you had your glass of milk?” I disliked the taste of Rooh-afza (why could they not give me Bournvita like everyone else?), but I thought orphans got plenty of milk that smelled of roses to make up for denial. I think I was quite bright for my age. So three times a day I felt I was contributing to the values that were being held on to so assiduously by the family.

The family. Hazy figures who solicitously smiled everytime they passed me, as though it were mandatory to do so. My mother, who died in childbirth, was a non-existent figure. She had not been wanted here. A fair household could not accommodate a dark woman. Her photographs were nowhere in the house. I found them in an album, and knew what dark deeds were the minute I saw her mouth, a carnival pink that twisted like it could cause agony. Father had probably lusted for her, and married only because she was pregnant with me. When she was in labour, he was not in the city. The old biji, who was retained only because she knew family secrets, had taken her to the hospital and called up my father who was rushing back from Poona. He had been a reckless man. He drove to his death before he could see me. They said mother was a cursed woman, she killed him. They did not realise she had died an hour before his car crashed against a tree he had hit when he swerved to save a dog, it is said. This image of a kind man made him into a legend. I was reaping the benefits because I had his eyes.

The only time I felt like nobody’s child was when the cousins would call out to their parents to help with homework and other things. There were four chachas, three chachis and ten kids. Since they were older, there was not much I shared with them. They were not curious about me or I of them. I was a singularly uncurious child. I did not care about what happened around me.

One day a precious Chinese vase broke because a window had been left open and everyone huddled together to mourn. It was an heirloom, left by some great-grandparent. Even the kids, who had never given it a close look, started making sad faces. I picked up a piece lying on the floor, hauled it up in the air and deliberately dropped catching it. It fell and became powder. I think that was the first time I felt like a stranger here as they looked at me with meaningful animosity. Not one word was said; it was like a funeral as the pieces, too small to be joined again, were collected not with a broomstick but a large peacock-feather duster and placed in a carved wooden box. As I was not particularly interested, it did not strike me that there could be a story behind that vase. Grandma coughed to ease the tension. It was also a signal that we were expected to depart to our rooms.

I did have a room to myself. It was perhaps the smallest one with a bed, a cupboard and white curtains with huge purple flowers. The walls were lilac. I only slept in the room. Most times I would be on the terrace looking at the tops of the trees, or watering the plants. I thought that if I could not be useful I should stay out of the way. My world was those star-spangled imaginary nights where I was feted and fawned upon; I even practised a fancy signature for my autograph. Or I was in the illusionary kotha.

* * *
That day when the stones came hurling at the windows, I could smell fear. It had the faint whiff of sweat in the armpits. Curtains were drawn, but the sound of glass crashing, the shards on the marble floor, some making way into the Persian carpet, seemed to be piercing us. We had just had a sumptuous meal, December 8 being Khalid’s birthday. He was Chacha Karim and Chachi Sakeena’s first-born. He was a handsome young man soon to be married to the daughter of a film producer. There had been much laughter and song and just when we were all seated around on velvet sofas taking stock of future plans, we heard voices bellowing. We could not catch the words, but we sensed the anger. And then the stones. We had always felt safe, our house a tijori. But it was also a Muslim house, everyone in the neighbourhood knew it. We never announced it, we did not stand out in school and college, but here we were Mussalmans. If anyone prayed, I did not know. Only on Eid, in starched white kurtas, they would all leave at 7 am for the masjid and return and hug everyone as though they were meeting after years.

The news had mentioned that some mosque had been brought down, but none of us had heard about it. We were not interested in the world. We were rich and settled. When the television images showed those fellows brandishing what looked like huge forks, I thought it was some scene from a mythological serial. I cannot recall anyone reacting then. But that day all eyes turned towards me. They sighed. Tehmina, my beautiful cousin, spluttered, “Taraana, what do you think?”

Was I supposed to think? About what?

“Okay, how do you feel?”

She was the only one who had an opinion about me. So, while the rest kept quiet, she demanded, “Who do you side with? The Hindus or the Muslims?”

I had forgotten that my mother was a Hindu, a “ghaati” they had called her. They had changed her name from Savita Damle to Salma Khan. To me it did not matter, because I did not know her. But it was her womb that had held me, her fluids had mixed with mine. Tehmina kept questioning while my mind went deep into something else. Who was I? Did I have to be anything? Wasn’t I a non-entity, non-intrusive, always just a little late to give others time to prepare for my presence? Suddenly I felt I did not belong. Yet I wondered whether that stone was for me or them.

I began to wonder whether that was the reason I knew no prayers. Why had they not tried to make me one of them? But then were they one whole? What happened in their rooms only they knew. Only Badi Ammi’s life was out in the open. She would run her fingers over the prayer beads, shush the birds if they interrupted her communion with god. Today, she was not shushing Tehmina. Today she was telling me something that she had always wanted to. “Tannu, kamrey mein jao.” I was being dispatched to the room, my prison, by the one person I had felt in some way connected to.

* * *
Badi Ammi was the grande dame, a figure you either felt sorry for or afraid of. She thought she had her say in everything, but she was unaware of whispers and undercurrents. She would seat me beside her and show me photographs of her youth. “See, that is me in the middle, the most beautiful girl at that time.” I would look at her, and although there was every reason to disbelieve, I never did. She could have been lying, but I trusted her. I could not understand that this hawk-like nose had at one time been straight and proud. Does age alter one into so unrecognisable an entity? Does age give one the courage to say things with such confidence? In those yellowing pictures I could not see the skin tone that she boasted of, the whiteness of her teeth, the depth in her eyes. “Like the sea…” she would say. She thought I understood everything. I had a way with words even though I spoke little. I think I was her illusion of vanity, so she called me beautiful. I would run to the mirror to see myself and find a fair face staring back at me – eyes lighter than the rest of theirs. It made me different.

Shamsher, her son, my father, had been different. He, they said, did not work, but always seemed preoccupied, and there was so much indulgence in their voices when they talked about him. I wondered why the others who were lazy were called worthless bums. As the youngest son, he was not expected to make any major contribution to the family name; he would inherit some wealth and help carry Abbajaan’s coffin. As it so happened, he did not have to exercise his shoulders even for that. Old Abba outlived him, and if I am giving him a cursory look here it is because he is lying in bed in a coma for the last four years in a room where they play classical music and the door is kept shut. I used to peep in to see if there was some way to kill him, so that the strains of the crone droning on and on would stop. The other day I switched off the tape-recorder and put in a Britney Spears cassette, and Abba blinked. Almost a wink. Was he lecherous? Did dirty thoughts cross his mind as he lay there unaware of the world around, but conscious of his subconscious? Was he….I hesitated…was he somewhat like the man of my kotha identity?

I rushed out and slapped myself. Could he be the history I was caging in my mind without even knowing it? Was that why my feelings were numb and comatose? I could barely breathe. I rushed to the sink and tried to vomit. Animal sounds spilled out. My mouth was dry. I sat on an upright chair facing the window. This is when I saw the grey sky and smoky clouds. After two hours when I felt all my dreams had died and Taraana was just a name for someone who was lying on a bed, the door shut, uncomprehending the music, I thought there was something more beguiling outside. It was dark. I walked to the balcony of our bungalow, a two-storey derelict structure that was preserved because it had a story. Like mangoes have their stories of being pickled and wrinkled in oils and spices. I put one leg over the ledge, high enough to protect its inhabitants, but low enough for my growing frame and then the other leg followed as though it was being invited. It was a narrow ledge. The toes of my small feet thrust out. I had nothing to pray for, nothing to give, nothing to ask, so I dived, hoping that my head would crash first. In those few seconds that it took for me to reach down, I was like a bird without feathers. The image entranced me. I felt like that, shorn of all identity.

I was on the ground. I could taste some blood and mud. I must have been lying there for an hour or so. Tehmina was the first to return. She pulled at my hair sharply. My eyes were wide open. I remembered everything. She said I had done this to spite the family. But I was family, was I not? I recounted the details of the fall. My memory is my enemy. It never fails me. I had what are called surface wounds, a couple of fractures.

I am in a hospital bed. The nurse comes in to give me a sedative because she says I do not sleep. I tell her I like to be awake, to register everything. She says there is nothing here, I must think of getting well soon and going home. The thought frightens me. I ask her her name.

“Baaarati Menon,” she says.

“Are you a Hindu?” I ask her.

She smiles and says, “Ess, from Kyerala. You go there. Naiss place phor oliday. Now close your eyes, aukay? You want anything, press bell.”

I tell her I want a stone.

She is not surprised. Delirium brings strange demands. “Why for? I will bring for you better things, magsin, film pitchers…want no? Then you become big and try phor heroins role.”

She turns to leave. I call out to her, “Sister, sister, do pebbles also grow up to become stones?”