Chapter 1- Goodnight

This Chapter also includes a prologue. I hope you like it.

“Tell me a story.” She demanded. She sat on my lap, swinging her legs in the air.

“Right now, Titli? I’m a bit tired, princess. How about tomorrow?” I suggested, and watched her face fall slightly. “Alright, alright. Once upon a time…” I scrunched up my eyebrows. I was out of stories.

“Shall I tell you the story about the rabbit that broke it’s leg?” I asked.

“Already finished.” She giggled. She enjoyed this.

“Um, the turtle who failed his test?”

“Already Done.” She said, her face glowing in delight. Laughter bubbled out of her.

“Well, uh..”I tried thinking of what else I could share.

“Actually”, she bit her lip, “I wanted to listen about something specific.”

“Oh? And what’s that, little butterfly?” I asked, and she blushed.

“You.”

“Me?” I laughed. “I’m so boring, butterfly.”

She puffed out her cheeks in defiance, “No, you’re not. You’re the coolest person 

alive, papa.” I wondered how long she’d think the same, but my heart glowed at the praise.

Titli was my ten year old daughter. She was named Titli, because it meant butterfly. 

She had the grace and captivating presence of one, and her colourful nature was the icing on top. She was a tiny little thing, barely measured till my waist, and chubby. Her hair was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen. It smelled like the crushed leaves her mother used as shampoo, and was a mop of fuzz. It lasted till her ears, and I loved ruffling the soft tuft just to annoy her.  Her forehead was slightly large, but her beautiful, ever-curious eyes took away all the attention. They were her mother’s gift to her, those eyes. They were transparent windows to her soul, and you could read them like an open book. Her nose was a tiny button nose, her lips were ordinary. 

When she smiled, she lit up the entire room.

Her nonstop babble could keep anyone occupied. When I met her mother, I had told her that I had never seen anyone more beautiful than her. However, if the same statement was asked to be repeated now, it was my Titli who stole my eyes.

“So, start.” She said, tapping her foot impatiently.

She was too young to know the truth. And yet, I had been her age when my life went through some harsh developments. She had a right to know, but it felt bad uncovering all those memories. Like a body from a grave, decades after it’s burial. What would you expect to find, except the skeleton?

“Well, Titli, I think you’re old enough. My story wasn’t the prettiest. I wasn’t rich neither very lucky. So, I’ll tell you but you have to listen properly, okay? I love you, Titli.”

She nodded earnestly.

I sighed.

 

 

 

 

 CHAPTER ONE:

 

 

They say I was born a Viven, but frankly, my memory fails me. I’ve always been a Chotu. For as long as I can remember, it’s always been ‘Chotu, pass me that glass of paani’ or ‘Chotu, massage my feet.’

Chotu, meaning young one or small one. 

I guess the name stuck just like any other meaningless nickname, and over time, I learned to embrace it.

When I was two, my mom died of a disease known as kala azar. It was quite a freaky time, my dad muttered, to watch his hefty wife shrivel and become akin to a stick.

The emotions didn’t really get to me. My mom was just a stranger, a person I’d always admire…respect, even. But there was no love.

My dad took the loss very seriously. He looked for a substitution of my mom, in me. When he realized that two year olds couldn’t make chapattis at the tawa, he changed his mind and adopted the bottle instead. I suppose that the bottle couldn’t make chapattis either, but surprisingly, that fact never did seem to bother him.

So I grew up, deprived of a mother and a father. But just like in any protagonists life, my saving grace came in the form of my neighbor. We lived in tiny flats in a small building in Mumbai. The flat may have been tiny, but it was large and full of adventurous opportunities for a two year old, and my fascination with it was justified. I never knew a world outside my flat, until my neighbor came knock-knock-knocking at the door.

‘Papa.’ I had called, hopelessly trying to reach the handle of the door. He had emerged, large and drunken from the next room, and swung the door open. It had barely missed hitting me. I had peeped out the door to see an old lady, with big, brown eyes.

I had clapped in glee as she had handed me a chocolate. I had looked at my dad warily, who had grunted his consent, and the chocolate had been in my stomach in less than a minute.

‘Kya hua, daadi?  What happened, grandma?’ he had slurred, and she had smiled a toothless grin.

Over time, I realized that she wasn’t actually his grandmother, and he had just been addressing her with respect, but to me it never made any difference.

It was a drunken mistake, or he actually had cared, but my father accepted as she asked him permission to take care of me.

From that day on, daadi  became my everything. She woke me up with her knock on the door. I’d recognize her trademark knock-knock knock- knock anywhere. I’d wake up and run to the door, jumping about until I managed to reach the handle, and welcome her with a hug.

“Chotu, get ready.” I’d listen. Then she’d teach me Hindi and work on perfecting my Marathi.

Om Bhuur-Bhuvah Svah
Tat-Savitur-Varennyam |
Bhargo Devasya Dhiimahi
Dhiyo Yo Nah Pracodayaat

“This is the Gayatri Mantra, chotu. May it protect you forever.” She’d end every class like this, kiss me on my forehead, and leave…leaving me longing for the next day.

Sometimes, she used to bring along treats. Occasionally, she’d take me out. One day, she had come home with a cake she’d bought.

***

The cake; It was tiny, with sloppy whipped cream and I devoured it.

“Happy Birthday, chotu.” She said, and I looked at her quizzically. “You’re five, today. Did you hear that, beta, you’re five today.” She directed the look to my dad.

He averted her gaze, which made her pounce on him.

“School, sahib, he needs to go to a proper school.” She announced. I was secretly thrilled.

He shook his head, “I don’t have money, daadi, I’m sorry.” One swig of his liquor bottle, a hasty wipe of hand across mouth.

She looked at him, disgusted and narrowed her eyes, “What about the money his mother saved for him?”

Another swig, another wipe of hand. His eyes darted nervously.

“You spent it all, didn’t you? You…You…blew all of the money she had been saving for Chotu on alcohol?” She screamed.

“Please leave, daadi,  this doesn’t concern you.” He had said, shifting his enormous body.

She screamed back, “Doesn’t concern me? What are you saying? I’ve been teaching him all these days.” Her eyes had begun tearing up, and I ran up to her. I hugged her knees, and buried my face among the many folds of her sari.

“Then you can please stop. You don’t have to do us any favor.” He roared, his temper aroused. He hunted his pocket, and found some coins. He flung it at her, causing her to flinch, and shouted, “Get out of my house.”

I  bawled into her sari. Strong hands enveloped me, and lifted me in air. I began squealing in terror, and kicked my legs wildly. Suddenly, the arms left me and I was plummeting towards the ground. Thud, I hit it hard, and the pain silenced me.

I could hear daadi screaming, “You just threw him aside!”

“It won’t harm him to toughen up. Look at him, crying like a girl. You leave, what I do with my son is none of your business.” The door shut. Papa’s heavy footsteps.

I ached to be carried by Papa, even though he was the one who afflicted this state of pain on me. I reached out my arms for him to carry me; however, the footsteps receded as Papa locked himself in the room.

I sucked at my thumb and went to sleep.

***

Daadi came back the next day. In spite of everything, she returned. Papa didn’t look too pleased, but didn’t comment on her arrival. I, however, did more than comment. I ran to her, practically flying, and landed into her arms. I rested my cheeks on hers and cried. After a while, I realized I had made her entire cheek wet. I pushed away, feeling a bit guilty, but when I saw her eyes, I realized it wasn’t my tears that were making her cheeks wet. It was hers.

We stayed like that for a while, and then she said something that had surprised me. 

“I’m going to teach you how to cook.” She said.

And so she sat patiently with me in that stuffy little kitchen. She sat by me when I sucked at my cut finger, and she sat by me as I proudly displayed my burnt chapatti. She sat by me as we watched Papa eat the meal I’d cooked for him, and she sat by me as my chest swelled with pride when Papa said it was nice.

Apart from cooking, she taught me little things a father should have taught his son. She took me out, and showed me the dingy locality we lived in. She taught me lessons on life, about the growing population and our rich Mughal history and the difference between salt water and fresh water. One day, she even took me to the local garden and pointed out the different plants.

However, Daadi’s visits slowly dwindled. She spent lesser time with me, and came to visit less often.

On one fine day, she came three hours late. I had been in an irritable mood at her absence, which had led to a whack on my back from Papa.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Chotu.” She said, and coughed. I turned away. She hobbled towards me, wrapping her arm around me. Her skin felt like crackling paper, and I pushed her hand away.

“I had to tell you something, Chotu. Will you listen?” She asked, her voice soft and soothing. I shook my head firmly, continued to look out the window.

“Okay, are you sure? Chotu, I’m leaving. I won’t come back.” I couldn’t believe her. How could she think, even for a moment, that I’d fall for that?

I lifted my chin high in the air.

“Okay, as you wish, my child. Here, I’ve got you something. May God bless you, chotu.” She said, stood up and left.

She left a package near me. I refused to look at it. Once the door closed behind her, I ran towards it.

Well, she left.

That annoyed me even more. How could she leave like that?

I sat by the window. I’d count to ten…she’d come by then.

10, I said out loud. “Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four…” I paused. There was no sign of her returning.

“Three.” I said, again waited. Nothing.

“Two. One.” I sadly ended, and there was still no sign of Daadi.. That was strange. 

This hadn’t happened before.

I looked out the window as the light blue colour became darker, mixed with oranges and reds, and finally settled on a dark black. The stars twinkled proudly, and my eyelids drooped.

The door opened. My eyes opened wide and I ran towards Daadi. Instead, I practically bounced back from “Paapa.” I croaked, a little startled.

“I got us some food.” He said, and I sighed. I didn’t want food, I wanted Daadi.

I went back towards the window, and noticing my lack of enthusiasm, my dad ate my share of the food.

My stomach grumbled, but my dad was too busy snoring on the couch to pay any attention. He reeked of alcohol, and my nose burned. I felt claustrophobic, I felt trapped.

I jumped down the creaky stool and tip-toed to the door. I reached for the handle, stretching. I knocked over Papa’s plate which he had left on the floor, and cringed. 

Twisting, I noticed he hadn’t stirred.

I was almost outside the house when Daadi’s package caught my eye. I ran, tucked it under my arm, and closed the door behind me.

***

The stars guided my way. The roads were more of holes than actual roads, and I had a hard time moving along. There was no one about, but I still walked warily. I caught sight of the familiar garden, and sat on the bench.

I placed the package on my lap, feeling like a criminal all the time. I tore it open. A white envelope fell from it, along with two packets. In one packet was a cream cake, something which could be bought from the local store for a nice sum of money. As my stomach grumbled again, I ate it in one gobble. It was soggy, and moist, and honestly not very delectable but it was the tastiest dish I had ever eaten, and it left me longing for more.

I brushed away the crumbs and opened the second packet. It had a brand new shirt, and I squealed in glee. The one I had been wearing for the past week had holes all over, and I had been itching to feel the taste of new cotton on my skin again. 

Quickly, I replaced my old shirt with the new one. It was blue, I noticed. I folded the old one, and placed it in the packet. The envelope held a fresh piece of white. The page had ink splattered in beautiful swirls and the letters kissed each other gently. It looked alien to me. A letter.

I wondered at Daadi’s thinking. I knew she was smarter than this. She wouldn’t write a letter to a person who couldn’t read. But the thing that puzzled me most, was the fact that I knew she couldn’t write, either. I shrugged and put it in my pant pocket.

Suddenly, in the far end of my vision, I saw orange. Was it day time already?  I frowned. I could still see the moon and the stars. I squinted at the light. Suddenly, my ears came alive. I could hear shrieks and screams. The orange became brighter, and with a jerk, I realized it was fire. I could hear the sound of glass crashing, I could hear terrified howls and violent threats.

I was confused. What was happening? I had a vague recollection of something like this from before. A Riot, Daadi had called it. A riot.

I stood up. And ran. I placed one leg in front of the other, and as fast as possible, I ran. I knew I had to hide, I knew I was in danger. My breaths came out harsh and short. I entered a gully.

It was dark, and I found the corner of the narrow road. I crouched low, and covered myself with my bony hands, hoping to merge with the background.

The sounds grew louder. I could hear drum beats. Why were there drum beats? Were they celebrating something? I covered my ears as a high-pitched wail took to the sky. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be with Papa. I wanted Daadi.

Tears filled my eyes, and I felt around for Daadi’s letter in my pocket. It wasn’t there.

I jumped up, hunting for the letter. A few yards away, I saw it lying amidst the rocks. I ran for it. Just as I grabbed it, the darkness was replaced by light. A massive amount of light and my eyes burned. There was chaos, there was sound.

I began crying.

“Papa! Papa!” I wailed, and a few people turned to look at me. Their expressions masked each others. Hatred. Hatred. Hatred.

They came towards me in a menacing way. I screamed, “Please! No!”

One among them instructed the others to leave. They left.

His hand connected with my ear, and the sound of the blow left me stricken. I flew a couple of yards and landed with a harsh thud.

“What are you doing here?” The man asked. He had a beard. A black beard. He was bald, and his eyes were a piercing green.

“Your eyes are green.” I whispered, momentarily mesmerized.

He grinned, and revealed missing teeth. He grabbed me by the collar and dragged me towards the main street. Tears streamed down my face as I resisted.

The street filled me with dread. Houses were on fire, people were breaking down the glass windows.

The lady two blocks down was crawling on the ground, her legs broken and bleeding. I wept for her.

The two kids whom I used to play with- Amrit and Abdul. They lay still on the floor, almost unrecognizable. Bodies were everywhere, Terror was everywhere.

And then I saw it. My house. My dear, dear house. It was ravaged by flames and reduced to char.

“PAPA!” I yelled, fighting vigorously.

The man holding me stopped, a bit annoyed.  “Your dad was in there?”

I nodded, crying. I beat at him as I sobbed. “Papa!”

Again, my throat choked. “Daadi.” Where was she? Was she…alive?

I wailed, and the man lifted me up harshly. He slapped my across the cheek, 

“Answer me.”

 I nodded, “Papa. He’s in there.”

The man groaned. “He would have got out.”

He was sleeping. He was drunk. He wouldn’t have got up.

“No! No! No!” I shook my head vigorously. I saw the man’s expression change.

“What’s your name, son?” He asked.

“Chotu.” I said. He looked at me, sadly. I could see the inner turmoil. Finally, he hit me hard and dropped me down.

“You’re a kid. You don’t deserve to die here. Go, run! Run! Don’t come here for some time. Go hide somewhere.” He pushed me, and I stumbled along blinded by my tears.

I did what he said. I ran. I clutched at the letter, and the old shirt, and I ran. I went back to the garden, hiding and crawling, and hid amongst some bushes.

Then I felt them. The insects. They bit my exposed hands and legs, and I sobbed pitifully. I wrapped myself with the old shirt, sucked my thumb, and went into a sleep-like state.

***

Natural light replaced the fiery one, and an eerie calm took the place of the noise. I climbed out of the bushes, and stood. Air escaped my mouth in one short breath. 

All the buildings were broken and burnt. The roads were littered with bodies. I recognized a few, and had to choke back my tears.

I waded through it. Down the road. The second right. Still more bodies. And then I stopped. I looked up. Instead of seeing my window, I saw the sky. The building no more towered over me. It was just a mass of rubble instead. I climbed on the rocks, aimlessly calling out, “PAPA! PAPA!” Slowly, the tears arrived. I frantically hunted through the rocks. My hands were bloody, my ears were bloody, my legs were bloody, yet it was the blood around me that terrified me more.

I threw the rubble aside, again and again. I found nothing. And then, as I reached the corner, I saw that damned object. I was quiet, now. No more tears, nothing.

I reached for it, held it gingerly. The liquor bottle that had ruined my entire life. I held it like a baby. I held it like it was my life. I smelled it, and it reminded me of my dad. My drunken dad. My wasted dad. My dad who couldn’t protect himself because of this bottle.

I looked at it. My seven years of life had surrounded this. I wouldn’t let it rule my life anymore. I was just seven years old, but I was seven years wise, and I threw the bottle with all the strength I had. It broke into a million little pieces, and I watched, hypnotized. I watched, disgusted.

I pitied my father. I pitied his death. But I had escaped.

Maybe it was co-incidence Daadi left and didn’t die. Maybe it was co-incidence that I had decided to go for a walk. Maybe it was co-incidence that I survived, while my dad died.

But I was alive.

Maybe I was alive yet distraught.  Maybe I was alive yet homeless. Maybe I was alive yet an orphan. Maybe I was alive yet isolated.

But most importantly, I was alive, and I would survive.

***

Author's Note

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