Mother of Mine: A short story in parts

Part 1. The Arena of Misery

The Times of India woke me up today. The papers might have rapped against the door when the newspaper guy lobbed them into my flat. I collected the thick bundle, skimmed through the full page advertisement on my way to the loo and closed the door behind me. The toilet seat was warm and musty, so I used the advertorials to wipe it dry. I opened the paper to read in detail.

Going from page four to page five, I thought I spotted a familiar face in the obituaries section.  I did a double take. I instantly recognized the face in the photo.

It was the man who had fucked me when I was 6.

It was awkward sitting there, in the loo, realizing my life’s biggest mystery had solved itself. The smell of shit and urine hung in the hot morning air. I had trouble breathing. I went for the hand shower. The newspapers fell to the wet floor, getting soaked. I slipped my feet inside my flip flops and cleaned my ass. The air stank even more and the heat grew unbearable. My gown stuck to my back due to sweat.

I picked up my phone and called mom for the first time in 30 years.

*

 “Ma,” cries Namah from her bedroom, thirty years ago. She has been hollering for a good minute, but the screams have not attracted Maya or Kamal’s attention. Kamal is the first to rush in. The baby’s skirt is bloodied, her eyes are puffy and her hands are trembling after a trauma.

Her undies are pulled down to her ankles.

“What the-"

The young father runs towards her and hugs her, but she does not stop howling. Maya enters the room restlessly, only to confront a shocking sight. She rushes to her daughter’s aid and breaks down.

“What happened?” “Who did this?” “Tell us, don’t be afraid.”

But Namah is not fit to speak. She is taken to the hospital, her body is thoroughly examined and the reports come out within a day. She has been raped, but there is another bizarre revelation: no semen samples are found on her vagina. There has been forcefully penetration, and the urethra is bloody, but it is likely to have been an object than a penis.

She remains mortified and silent despite the continuous requests of her parents. The police flags off a dispirited investigation. They begin questioning the usual suspects: the building security guard, the washer-men, the neighbors and other daytime loiterers. No one claims to have seen anything. Even the parents themselves had been busy with their own chores.

Back at home, Namah refuses to enter her bedroom again. At the door, she falls down in a crippling fit. Her pulse quickens, her eyeballs roll up, and her limbs pulsate with a life of their own. When she regains consciousness, she has been safely shifted to her parent’s master bedroom.

“Let’s call if off…she doesn’t deserve us then.”

“She doesn’t deserve you, yes. Why don’t you fuck off from our lives?”

She can hear her parents from the other room - her room - fighting. She steps off the bed, trying to make as little sound of her feet as she can.

“I was in the kitchen, Kamal. You were supposed to take care of her. Why couldn’t you?”

“Are you blaming everything at me? How am I at fault? We don’t even know-“

She hears them struggle and topple over some furniture. Tactfully, she returns to her bed, pulls over the blanket over her head and pretends to be asleep.  

The next day, after a dose of anti-depressants and mild sedatives, she finally recounts the ordeal in short, trembling sentences to her parents.  

“The bad man climbed in through the window. He looked…funny. He looked like a clown but he did not smile. His face was white-colored. His hair was thin and grey. His arms were slim and he wore a black coat. One with those lines running all over. He wanted to hurt me really bad. He held my mouth and undressed me…”

She chokes up and snuggles back into the comforting embrace of her parents, whom she knows are drifting away – because of what happened.

The police launch a district-wide manhunt. Big money and publicity ensure that they are not caught napping another time. There is a rapist on the loose and not a minute to waste. The suspects are picked up again, locked behind bars overnight, but no confession is extracted. The parents are questioned over and over, their place is searched from top to bottom but nothing substantial is found. A sketch is drawn on the basis of Namah’s descriptions: a monstrously pale face with round, youthful eyes and small, narrow lips; the cheeks are puffy and the hair is greying. Black and white posters of the much-despised child rapist are splashed in the papers and stuck on police station walls. The police hold little hope, though; Namah’s testimony is unreliable and sketchy. They fear her state of mind is affecting her judgement greatly. No concrete arrests are ever made and the case slips from public consciousness and media eye. For the many social media crusaders closely following the case, something fresher and more revolting comes along and Namah’s absconding rapist is forgotten.

During the day, when her parents are at their respective workplaces, Namah is left alone with a female caretaker. Her fear of excessive human interaction seems to have taken deep root. Concerned about her education, Kamal and Maya consult a psychologist to counsel their daughter into normalcy.  Between ensuing fights and arguments, her parents find a common ground only in the well-being of their daughter. They anticipate the meeting with Ms. Taraporevala, their psychologist, who is gracious enough to make a house visit. It’s a weekly ritual they are comforted by as much as their daughter.

“Did you dream of anything today?” Ms. Taraporevala questions Namah.

Namah is quiet, staring into space.

“Namah…” eggs on her mother. “Tell her what you dreamt of.”

Maya seems as rattled as her daughter, whereas Kamal maintains a composed exterior. In the weeks since the crime, she has lost her obsessive pursuit of cleanliness and presentability. Her hair is wispy, singled out, and quickly losing volume. She nags her husband less but violent fights erupt ever so often.

“I saw a ghost.”

“What kind of a ghost?”

“He sleeps under my bed and whispers in my ears…every day.”

The adults exchange worrisome glances.

“There’s nothing like ghosts, Namah,” assures Kamal softly. Ms. Taraporevala gestures him to keep quiet.

“Every day? Even today?” she asks.

“No, I’ve stopped sleeping on my bed.”

“She’s shifted into our room since…” explains Kamal. Maya shudders at the reference of the dreadful day.  

“Will you show me?” she asks.

She leads the adults to her bedroom, which is locked.

“Ma’am, she is still a bit anxious about entering the room, so we’ve had it locked…” explains Kamal.

“Namah, are you scared of going inside?” asks Ms. Taraporevala.

She nods, her eyes wide with palpable fear. Some color from her face has vanished; her naturally rosy cheeks are pallid. The psychologist considers for a moment if she should press on. She looks back at Maya, who is distraught and frazzled, and then at Kamal. He manages the subtlest of nods, barely perceptible.

On his cue, her bedroom - the arena of all her misery – is opened for the first time since the fateful day. 

--

Read part 2 here.