Episode 02: The Confidante

  

Continued from Episode 1

Suresh, 1985

I spoke to Vani today.

I'd had a strong crush on her years ago. I still feel flutters when she is around. In my head, I had been rehearing what I would say when we met. In that imaginary world, I had been funny and charming. The real conversation did not go so well - I sounded nervous and guilty all through.

She had never spoken directly to me before. She would just nod at me when we came across each other in the Economics hallway at the University. On the rare occasions, she might have smiled, although I had never been sure if was just my imagination.

I learnt later that our mothers met regularly at the Riverside temple on Friday evenings. Vani had been in the earshot, and picked up a few things from those conversations, and took it upon herself to find me when she got to the University to tell me how my mother missed me.

I had been walking towards the hostel after borrowing a book from the Economics library when I heard footsteps of someone running up behind me. I turned, wondering if it was the library assistant. Did I forget to sign the book out? It was a pleasant surprise that it was her.

“Suresh, can we speak for a few minutes?”. She sounded a bit nervous.

“What? Sure, Vani. Of course, yes.”.

“You know I am a day-scholar, right?”

I said, “Yes”, at a loss as to why that came up.

“I see your mother often in the Riverside Ganesh temple. You may think this is really none of my business, but as a well-wisher….”. She paused, appearing to lose her confidence a bit.

“Go on”, I said, despite my dislike of where this was heading.

“Your mother misses you a lot. I know you don’t get along with your father, but you should find a way to see her often.”

I remained silent. I felt a surge of anger within and was worried that she would sense it.

“I knew this wouldn’t go well with you. I thought about it, hesitated, and only brought it up because it was heartbreaking to hear your mother. She was telling my mom that you stay in the hostel even for holidays.”.

She was right. I had not set foot on my parents’ house for a year. I stayed with my uncle when I was not at the hostel. I would avoid that too whenever I could.

“Will you consider what I said?”, she asked after a pause.

“How much do you know about what happened between me and my father?”

“Only that you two don’t see eye to eye”.

I stayed silent for a while. “I want to tell you more, but not now. Another time.”, It seemed to me that I sounded evasive, so added, “I need some time to bring up the courage to talk about it. It is not easy for me. I have not told any of my friends.”

“I don’t want to be nosy. You don’t need to..”

“Actually, I would like to share my side of the story with you. I just need some time”.

I agreed to walk with her to the train at the end of the next day.

Suresh, 1980

 

I left home yesterday. To be precise, I left my father’s house, having sworn never to set eyes on him again, collected my clothes and books in a bag and moved in with my maternal uncle.

It is hard for me to say when I started thinking of my father as my enemy, but I am sure he has always had contempt for me.  It’s not my fault that I was born to someone who was a teacher, perfectionist, narcissist, and sadist, all at the same time. Nor was it my fault that I was merely a good student, not an outstanding one. He taught physics at the local college. He had a reputation for being a disciplinarian and an outstanding teacher. The awards he won were all on display in his room, in a row of framed certificates.  I’m sure whoever gave him those awards had not seen him punish his younger child with utmost cruelty.

I always found it trivially easy to understand what was taught at the class, but I was just not interested in memorizing things and go through pages and pages of repetitive mathematical exercises. I never dreaded the examinations. I used to score in high 80s without breaking a sweat, while having the time to read the newspaper in full every day, finish all the Wodehouse and Alistair MacLean books that I could find in the library, go to the riverside gym as a daily routine and play cricket.

Nandini, my sister, was a diligent student. She scored in high 90s, and would cry for losing mark or two in the exams before anyone could ask why she did not score a perfect 100. She learnt things unquestioningly. I was convinced that she did not entirely know the purpose of any of the equations she was solving. She was the apple of my father’s eye. When my father was disappointed with my performance in the examinations, he would hold her up as an example, remind me of his own towering academic achievements, berate me, and take his fury out on me through physical punishment.

In my early teens, my mother and sister would conspire to make up a story to soften the blow. My mother would rehearse the lines with me and my sister to remind my father of all the extenuating circumstances but for which, my performance would have been splendid. I appreciated the effort, fully knowing it would be futile, and would not stop the stinging blows. Over the years, they gave up the efforts, and I learnt to anticipate the physical blows, and learnt to harden or soften the muscles so it hurt less.

Last night was worse than usual. My father was in his room, talking to his students when I took my report card to him for signature. Along with my mark sheet, there was a letter from the principal in sealed envelope. My father opened the letter first read it out aloud. The letter expressed concerns as to my academic integrity, with a vague allusion to my involvement in an incident that ‘did not align with the school’s moral code’. I will tell you more about that later, but to my father the only thing that mattered was that his reputation was tarnished. He slapped me, found a ruler when his palm hurt, and pushed my mother who came in the way so hard that she bumped her forehead on the wall and started bleeding.

Something snapped in me. I was used to him roughing me up, but the difference perhaps was the physical violence on my mother in front of strangers. When he approached me on a fresh charge, I caught hold of both his wrists and held them so tight that he could not move. My father was a small man, and I knew he could not extricate himself from my grip. He tried to wriggle free, shouted more insults and spat at me. I would not budge. I felt a serene calm come over me at that time. I just told him what I thought of his academic credentials, ego and sense of honor. I told him that I was getting out, and I would rather starve than have another meal under his roof. I thundered out of the room after shoving him away. It was exhilarating to see the look of helplessness on his face.  ‘Now you know how it is to be humiliated in front of outsiders’, I thought.

All the blows I received from my father had a positive side. I had developed a high threshold for pain. This helped when I was hit on the cricket field. It also helped build my reputation as a ruffian.

There was teacher, universally hated, who could not really teach anything. No one was sure how he got the job, but he was shunted between positions where he could not do much academic damage. He started his career as a teacher of crafts, although he would not recognize any sort of craft if it walked up and punched him in the face. He taught physical education for a while, and later was moved to the position of librarian. He resented not getting more important assignments. He would take his frustrations out on the students. I no longer remember his actual name – we all thought of him as ‘craftan’ - an irreverent title coined from his first job.

It was during the half-early mathematics examination. Craftan was supervising us. I was making good progress through the questions. I knew I would always make some mistakes, but was would normally end up getting about 90 percent, which I thought was good enough. While I was immersed in the problems, someone walked by, took the pile of my completed pages, and handed it to the boy at the adjacent desk. I blinked, not understanding what had just happened. And then realized that it was craftan, He winked at me in what he must have thought of as a conspiratorial way. It just creeped me out. I did not have the courage to get the papers back. The papers eventually came back after the other boy copied what he needed. Meanwhile, I had just sat frozen at my desk, losing valuable time.

When the examination was over, I sat under a tree, berating myself for my lack of nerve. On a whim, I walked to the headmaster’s office, and haltingly told him what had happened. I did not have a reputation one way or another, but he knew that I was the son of a famous teacher. He was eager to see that I did not take this up to my father. The next day, he called Craftan and held a sort of trial. Craftan’s explanation was that he picked up some sheets blown by the wind and ended up restoring them to the wrong desk. I denied his story weakly, letting the lowlife get away with a verdict of not guilty. A few days later, I was summoned to the staff room. When I went there, Craftan was sitting alone.

I walked in, trying to sense who had summoned me and why. Craftan advanced on me with a menacing look. I stood still.

“How did you get the nerve to make stories up?”, he hissed.

“I did not need to make anything up. We both know what happened!”, I said, externally sounding calm, my heart racing.

He slapped me hard. It sounds like a quick event when I phrase it like that. But at that time, it seemed to happen in slow motion. When his hand rose, I was on familiar territory. I hardened my cheek muscles so the blow would not hurt and turned my head slightly in time to soften the blow. Despite that, the slap rang out in the empty room.

It did not hurt at all. It was weird, but I recall thinking that the man could use some lessons from my father. That caused me to smile. He seemed puzzled. I saw something like fear on his face.

I had suggested that the room was empty but for the two of us. That was wrong. We had been facing each other with the entrance to our right. Neither of us had noticed that we were no longer alone. Ramachandran Ayya, our Tamil teacher had entered the room. He looked a but surprised, but quickly assumed a normal expression and quietly went to his desk. Craftan looked even more agitated, perhaps wondering what Ayya had witnessed. My smile widened as I walked out. At the entrance, there was a group of younger students, looking mortified. They were trying to figure out who was being punished. I pushed them aside and walked out beaming. They seemed bewildered at the triumphant look on my face.

One of them must have started the tale that I had slapped Craftan to avenge some unspecified insult. I liked the story and let it spread. When my friends tried to confirm the story, I would just smile mysteriously. There was no masterplan, but this episode helped me think of myself as the aggressor rather than the victim. Outside my household, a few people knew how my father treated me. I used to lie awake at night, wondering how many people knew at school, and what that might do to my reputation. Having a reputation as a bully was a sure way to protect against being pitied or being dismissed as a lightweight.  I never hit any of the juniors, but sinister stories of how I abused them somehow spread as well. I made no effort to counter any of them.

Suresh, 1985

 

Vani was already waiting at our agreed meeting spot near the English department. I was surprised to find that I felt guilty. I blurted out an apology about the professor engaging me longer than I had anticipated. It was as if I had made a social superior wait. This realization surprised me further. I did not have the habit of apologizing. And I rarely acknowledged anyone as my even my equal.

The plan had been to walk with her to the train station as I told her my story. I was initially surprised by the realization and walked quietly for a while.

Then I told her the story. It was her turn to walk quietly. After the pause, she asked, “So, your tough guy routine is to show yourself that you are not easily bullied?”

That was insightful but was none of her business. I did not respond.

She resumed, “I was not prepared for such a story. Thanks for confiding in me. I am not sure that I can really help heal anything, but… “

“I’m not sure anyone can. You would agree if you knew the man”.

“Perhaps. But my concern was about your mom. It could not have been easy for her to be torn between her husband and child”.

“I blame her for my allowing my father to act the way he did”. I realized I could not explain why even as the words came out. Fortunately, she did not ask me to explain.

“Suresh, you don’t really know me. Thanks for letting me intervene in your family matter. I just want to take one more liberty and ask you to think about ways to stay connected with your mom”.

I said I’d think about it. I was worried that I might grow angry at Vani as well if she continued to press me, but I did not say that aloud.

I watched her walk to the large peepal tree outside the train station, join her friends, and disappear into the station.

Continued in Episode 3