Delhi

The next year was spent in relative tranquillity in Saraya. I gave my Intermediate exam privately and when talk about choosing a college began, I felt complete panic at the idea and refused to even think about going. As a result of this unreasonable phobia I remain till today, supposedly unlearned and unqualified for all intents and purposes.

My aunt Kiran whom I affectionately call Kay, lived in Delhi , and it was decided that I would go stay with her for a few months until I decided what I wanted to do with my life. I landed on her doorstep, waif like and lost and she immediately took me under her wing.

The first stop was the beauty parlour where I had never been before. I was  given a cotton  gown to wear and then firmly ensconced in a chair, where Mr V was told to give me a head massage followed by a hair cut. He began to do the needful, and then whilst kneading my shoulders, suddenly  reached down and whipped his hands much lower than he should have. I glanced in the mirror expecting to see an evil glint in his eye, but was only met with a stony blank stare. I presumed then that the touching of taboo places was part of the 'maalish', so stared blankly back at him, as ever so often he ventured downward for a quick swipe. Once we got home I told Kay that I never wanted another head massage because I was uncomfortable with strange men touching certain body parts. She was furious and exclaimed that it was definitely not part of the deal and I should have shrieked blue murder. I told her sheepishly that I did not want to appear like a village idiot so had held my tongue.

Darling Kay was my ideal in those days and I wanted to be just like her. I tried to dress, talk and conduct myself like her, whether I was comfortable in that avatar or not. I tried hash and opium and  puked violently after every session, so these social drugs were avoided. In fact I was lucky enough to react badly to every thing I experimented with, so never ever got addicted to the more dangerous and heavy stuff, unlike so many of my less fortunate peers.

My parents decided that I should make a trip to Mauritius to spend time with very close and dear family friends - Uncle G and Aunty S. Their son SK, whom I had known all my life, was in Delhi at the time and was supposed to put me on the flight from Delhi to Bombay, from where I was to catch the connecting flight to Mauritius. Tickets had been bought and all arrangements made, but en route to the airport he began to lecture me on how I was expected to behave while I stayed with his parents - no bad language, no freaky clothes, no smoking. I decided on the spot that I did not want to go on this trip at all, and told SK to drive me back to my aunt's place immediately. I refused to listen to any reasonable argument put forth by the poor man and defiantly landed back on Kay's doorstep a couple of hours after I had left, while poor Uncle G waited at the Mauritius airport and my parents tore out their hair in frustration at my unreasonable and impulsive behaviour.

I stayed on in Delhi for a few years after moving out of Kay's flat and finding  accommodation of my own. I enrolled in the secretarial course at the YWCA which bored me so I left half way through. I worked for a while at Jean Junction in Connaught Place, which was a hep and happening place back in the day, but got fed up there as well and quit in a few months.
Days were spent hanging out at The Cellar and nights were spent dancing at Wheels in the Ambassador Hotel.  "The Exorcist" and "Omen" were released and this genre of movies were a new experience for die hard horror fans like me. Money was saved to buy records - Saturday Night Fever, Fleetwood Mac and Giorgio Moroder's From Here to Eternity were the hits of the day while Donna Summer's Love to Love you Baby made hearts beat faster. CP was where one wiled away time and Nirula's was THE joint where one ate. I had a good looking boyfriend from Jalandhar who would drive up to Delhi most weekends in his red Mercedes and life was great.
But knowing my penchant for misfortune it was not long before trouble found me again.

Runaway

Kathmandu - in happy times

With mind and spirit in turmoil after "the rape" I came to the conclusion that I needed to get away to sort myself out. There was no way on earth my parents would have allowed this, so the next step was an elaborate plan that I hatched to run away from home. The destination I had in mind was Kathmandu, which was a place I was familiar with, and where there were enough freaks roaming the streets so  I would fit in perfectly.

I left a note telling my parents not to try and find me and that I would return on my own when I was ready. My mother recounts the sickening sensation of shock and disbelief that she felt at reading this terse missive, since it was beyond her comprehension how I could be capable of doing something so drastic and unthinkably selfish.

I crept out of the house in the dead of night and caught a bus to Sonauli from where I crossed unchecked,  into the border town of Bhairawa in Nepal. I then took another ride up to Kathmandu where I blended into the throng of hippies, junkies and other strange people that made the Mountain Kingdom so notorious in those days.

It was just a week later that I  met up with a budding pop singer, TB, who introduced me to his family and offered me a decent place to stay. It was not long before I knew that things were very wrong. The family realised where I had come from, and who I was and decided that it would be lucrative for them to keep me under lock and key. The days that followed  passed in a disjointed haze in which I seemed to spend most of the time sleeping, so I presume I was being  given some kind of sedation.
My mother in the meantime had made a number of trips to Kathmandu to try and track me down, but only met dead ends wherever she went. She received a number of strange, frightening phone calls from unknown voices in the middle of the night, telling her not to worry because "they" would ensure I was returned to her safely. My parents lived in terror for the month that I was missing, not daring to hope for the best and trying not to think about the worst.

When my parents could not trace me, they sent a trustworthy Nepali gentleman who was employed in Saraya to try and find out where I was. He somehow, through local contacts, managed to locate me and a deal was struck to let me off in exchange for a large sum of money.

I staggered into my mother's arms a little over a month after I had so thoughtlessly walked away. I had not bathed  in all that time and my hair was a mass of stinking tangles. I was in an emotional vacuum, not really comprehending how lucky I was to have got out of this dangerous situation relatively unscathed.

For the first time in my life I saw my father cry when he met us at the Bhairawa airport, and that was a sight that shattered me completely. I never heard a word of recrimination from either of my parents, though the hurt in their eyes at what I had put them through was very much there.The only reaction I got from them was unconditional forgiveness, understanding and immeasurable amounts of love.  I deeply appreciated this but sometimes wished they would shake me up or even bash the hell out of me, since this kind and understanding behaviour only fuelled the guilt I felt and my down spiral just got worse and worse.
Looking back at that chaotic period of my life I feel I was actually going through some kind of breakdown. The whole journey was so surreal and almost like an out of body experience. I sometimes felt as if I was looking down at myself from a different plane and barely recognised the person I saw.
The first life lesson I learnt from this traumatic episode was the legacy of infinite understanding and support that I got from my parents, which I could in turn hand down to my own daughter. Luckily for me she was not the problem child that I was, but the lessons learned served me in good stead when she went through her own share of teenage trauma.
 The second lesson I learned was the ability to be completely non-judgemental. People were quick to gossip and speculate about the wild child I was, without having any idea of what was going on. Behind every unexplainable action there  is usually some sordid saga which accounts for unreasonable behaviour, and nobody should ever have the right to play God.

If I knew then what I know now I would tell the young girl in the picture to be careful where she sits! You never know when a rude finger can hurt a vulnerable body part!

Downwards

I have spent hours pondering on what the next chapter of this blog should be. It would have been the easier option to just say the next ten years were traumatic ones and leave it at that. After much introspection, I decided to dig up old noxious memories and put incidents down as they happened, without going into too much sordid detail. Each event that took place had an impact in shaping the person I am today, so with that in mind it becomes necessary to put facts down as they occurred.
After leaving Ramnee my life spiralled downwards, completely out of control. I was filled with a sense of guilt at letting my parents down, who were the only people in the world whose opinion ever really mattered to me. I would spend hours locked in my room, listening to music at a deafening volume, doing nothing more than sitting and mindlessly staring into space. I became a social recluse, who only spoke when spoken to and hated leaving the house or meeting people.
 Losing a very dear family friend, RB, who was in the Air Force during the 1971 Indo-Pak conflict, followed by the sudden and untimely death of my Granny Anna, also made me realise for the first time that those around me were mortal and would not be there forever. I spent sleepless nights working myself into a frenzy, worrying how I would cope if anything ever happened to my loved ones.

Then there was rape. The gory details are immaterial -  the why, how and when don't matter. What matters is the desolate empty feeling of abuse and shame. When I was young I had infinite faith in the basic goodness of friends and family, and it came as a rude shock when that trust was cruelly betrayed. I personally believe that if one has to be put through the agony of this traumatic situation, it is better to have to go through it with an unknown entity. The sense of disbelief and outrage that a family friend could do this, was almost too much for me to handle at the age of fourteen.

In those long ago days, in a small village like Saraya, I did not have the luxury of psychiatric help and the only person I could confide in was my mother, whose expression of horror and pain tinged by disbelief I can still vividly recall. She spoke to AKB, the man involved, and forbade him to ever enter the house again and all he did was hang his head and look at his toes...no apology or explanation was given....not that it would have made any difference. We decided to keep this ugly episode from my father because I  could not bear to imagine the consequences of his knowing, and we were sure he would have killed the rapist in cold blood for what he had done to me.
Out of all the confusion  in my mind there somehow grew an even more overwhelming sense of culpability. I convinced myself that I was responsible in some way for what happened, since there was no other reasonable or logical explanation for a seemingly  good and kind person to turn into an ugly unrecognisable beast.

What followed  was a period of self loathing and complete withdrawal. I struggled to come to terms with what had taken place and endeavoured to make sense of the whys and wherefores, but never found  answers that made any sense. It was decades later that I came to the conclusion, after a lot of soul searching, that I was not to blame, and I should stop castigating myself for something that so changed my thought process and outlook on relationships. But by the time this revelation occurred I had put myself into so many complicated and unsavoury situations, that in hindsight it seemed almost like I had a death wish and needed to punish myself in harsh and diabolical ways.
I developed the strange habit of pulling out my hair. I could not curb this strange compulsion and it was years later that I found out this form of self mutilation had a name - Trichotillomania! It is an impulse control disorder sometimes affecting those with low self esteem and depressive inclinations. Today this peculiar problem is treated with psychiatry and medication but in those days I had to bumble along, yanking and pulling, on my own. I did manage to eventually wean myself off this quirky behaviour, though I find my hand still creeps to my hair in times of stress, though I  rarely actually pull out a strand any more!
Many years later my mother received a letter from my abuser apologising for what he had done. He claimed nothing had gone right in his life, and wanted to meet me to make amends. She asked if it would help to bring closure to the sordid episode to meet him face to face, but I did not feel the need, since by then I had buried my demons as deeply as the spectre of rape can ever be laid to rest.
The life lesson I took from this  repulsive incident is that no matter how much parents try and protect their progeny, bad things do happen. I believe awareness is the gift we should give our children, rather than wrapping them up in cotton wool to keep them safe. With mindfulness comes a deeper and clearer understanding of the realities of life which are intrinsic to survival, and gives the strength and ability to better cope with difficult situations.
If I knew then what I know now, I would tell the young girl desolately staring into the mirror, that life would be good and she would only be stronger, wiser and  gentler in spite of what she had been through.

 

Destiny

Destiny sat on her stellar throne
  in the furthest realms of the sky
    gazing into her crystal ball.
Sometimes with delight, sometimes with compassion
  she watched reckless mortals
    living lives and playing games
      with events over which they had no control.
Destiny saw a woman lean gently towards a man
  whispering to him that she loved him -
    saw the man react with surprise -
      he had never thought of her that way.
Destiny stretched pale, cold fingers
  into the silence of the night
    wishing she could deflect
      what she herself had written.
She saw the man look at the woman suddenly aware
  caught up in the web she tenderly wove around him
    loving her as he had never loved before.
Yet she belonged to another
  and they had no right
    to fantasise the way they did.
Reality became a nightmare
  as they loved with frenetic intensity
    on a path of self destruction
      they were much to blind to see.
Destiny kept vigil as they struggled to survive
  broken and tormented - paying a price too high -
    bound together always - never wanting to be free
Trying to accept that it was their Destiny.

Random Thoughts

Sick and Sin will be a tad neglected in the next few weeks because of the busy holiday season, but I will keep posting something or the other for those of my addicted followers who complain when I get tardy!
For many years I had a book by by bed which I entitled Random Thoughts. I am sharing a few of them, accompanied by my favourite fantasy art.

The amazing clarity with which memories can take me by surprise never fails to astound me. A certain piece of music, a familiar phrase, the way someone in a crowded room laughs, can take my breath away and summon back forgotten emotions. The remembrrance of a special meeting - I can recall each word that was spoken, every fleeting expression and nuance in a face that is now familiar and beloved.

The surge of pure wonder at the moment of my daughter's birth - the tears that came unbidden - the marvel of holding a new life in my arms, kissing tiny feet that had never touched the ground.

The warmth at a gesture of love from a friend, the gratitude of a comforting hug when one is saddened by the callous vagaries of fate, the laughter shared with familiar confidantes - the purity of these memories can never be forgotten.

I find I have the ability to make unpleasant memories blur away and only treasure those which comfort, warm and stimulate me.

I compare my loss to the amputation of a familiar limb. One gets used to functioning without it but not a single day passes when one is not reminded of that loss in some small way or another. 

Memories - The Ugly

Eva wins first prize!

 Trouble began in 1971 when I was twelve years old. My little sister Juliet joined Ramnee. She was an extremely sensitive child and could not adjust to life in the boarding. She cried continuously and would run away from her class just to seek me out, then would cling to me weeping piteously. Nothing I could say or do would matter to her, and I had no idea how to handle the situation. The seniors seemed to find this whole scenario most amusing and would tease my sister incessantly, calling her mean names, which would set her off howling again. It infuriated me to witness this and I began to pick defiant fights with these girls, so earned the reputation of being rude and 'too big for my boots'. The more they teased my little sis, the angrier I became, which became a vicious cycle of taunting, tears and taking up for her. Julie's class teacher, Miss Carvalho, once slapped her as I happened to be passing by. I stormed up and demanded to know what the little girl had done to merit being hit. Miss Carvalho glared at me and said to stop behaving like a 'walking peacock', whatever that meant and I was reported for being cheeky.

The next problem I had was encouraging the young 'maali' boy ! There was a  gardener who would cheekily grin whenever he saw me and I unhesitatingly beamed back. I would nudge friends and tell them to notice how he smiled, and then we would scuttle off in a flurry of giggles. Someone took it upon themselves to complain to the Principal, Sister Bernard, that I was flirting with the scruffy looking chap, and I was hauled over the coals for being a bad influence, with the devil putting evil thoughts into my head. I actually had no idea what the big deal was, but felt miserably guilty for whatever it was I was supposed to have done. 

The rebellious streak grew worse. Someone told me F&*% was a bad word, but in those days no one really knew what it meant. I sat in class one day, scrawling the word all over a blank page of my exercise book. When the nun in charge saw what I was writing, there was another uproar for my ungodly behaviour. Girls were told not to talk to me since I was evil spawn and they would all burn in hell for associating with me.It was much later that I realised the connotations of the F word but then I was just twelve and not as worldly wise as the children of today.
The last straw came when I asked one of the day scholars to bring me some cigarettes. I puffed bravely on one in the bathing room and then sprinkled talcum powder all over to mask the smell. I had no idea the stink would linger so strongly and half an hour later I was summoned again and stared at in wordless horror for the unspeakable atrocity I had committed.

Two days later I was called to the Principal's office and was shocked to find my mother there, all pale faced and shaky. My bags had been packed and I was told I was being expelled! I could not believe what I was hearing and there was no reaction that I could give, so numb was I by the whole turn of events.

A couple of months later we received a letter from the school saying they would be happy to take me back since they felt I had been taught a lesson.The inside story was that there was some internal political trouble between Sister Dominica and Sister Bernard over the Principalship, and I was made the scapegoat because of my family's closeness to the former.
 The very idea of going back made me so hysterical that my parents reluctantly agreed to let me give my board exams privately. My days in Ramnee came to an abrupt and unforeseen end and I have never been back to Nainital in all these years.

The Mikado - Annual Day Play

Memories -The Good,The Bad

Margaret, Veronica, Loreta, Eva, Cacun, Louisa

THE GOOD

So many memories of forty years ago seem to be related to food.
We struggled to save our tuck and then would sneak off to the loos in the dorms for a midnight feast.It was not the most sanitary place for a party, but the fear of being caught just added to the whispered thrill of the occasion. A teaspoon of Feradol in the lunch break....how I loved swirling the malt around a spoon and then savouring it lick by lick - there was a certain art to the whole ceremony.  I recall the luscious meringues we got as a treat at the end of the year, for being part of the church choir. The candy man with his tin trunk filled with delicious goodies....butter biscuits, bright pink and white coconut sweets and peppermint sticks. The tuck shop, where the pocket money in those days was twenty five or fifty paisa, and if one was very rich one whole rupee. I loved GG's, which were hard, stick jaw like squares of caramel, which were ideal for pulling out loose teeth. One just had to bite hard into the toffee and the offending tooth would be left behind in the goo when one opened ones mouth.

Gross looking yummy 'churan'

Sports holidays were preceded by weeks of practise for races, pyramids and the PT display and were times of competitive fun. For me, the vacations meant horse riding and I spent those ten days galloping  up hill and down dale and there was nothing more I wanted from life. Except maybe suck on some 'Ziffy' tablets and eat the gross looking but yummy 'churan' we could buy on the Flats! The five day October break came just after our Annual Day concert, and that was also a time of hours of rehearsals and costume fittings, nerves and drama.

Back tracking down memory lane can immediately bring  a prickly feeling of nostalgia. Singing The Bells of Saint Mary's, our school anthem, always stirred me to the bone. The girls in the choir carolling Silent Night was something else that I remember giving me goose bumps.My recollection of  other than those in my batch is not particularly good but the beautifully melodious voice of Cacun Nathan still rings in my ears.

THE BAD

The  halls and corridors of Ramnee each had their resident ghosts and accompanying supernatural tales.

The toilets adjoining the dorms were supposedly frequented by a young lass, who had appeared to some terrified girls in a shimmery haze, floating a foot above the ground. If one had to go for a pee in the dead of night, it was customary to wake up the closest sleeping figure and whisper "Come with me to the loo". This request was never turned down and we would stumble sleepily past rows of cupboards, whose locks rattled eerily in passing, because of the vibration of ones steps on the wooden floors. I had a bed next to a window and I really did observe the shadow of a nun on the wall once - I sat up and looked around but saw no one so covered my head with the quilt and had a story to tell the next morning. It must have been Sister Beata prowling around, checking up on us, but I never noticed her and it made an exciting story!

The infirmary was inhabited by a wraith like mother and her two daughters, who some claimed to have seen wandering past the beds of sick girls who were admitted.

The graveyard was a serene and beautiful spot where strange things were supposed to happen. The gates leading to it were normally kept locked,  but on some occasions we would sneak in and put our ears to the tomb stones, since it was rumoured that one could hear uncanny murmuring if one listened carefully enough.

The music rooms were haunted by a 'sardarji' it was said and on one occasion when I was hammering away at a particularly tough piece, I heard a sniff behind me and turned around to see an old 'sardar' gazing at me with a smile. My first reaction was to throw my music book at him and the second was to run screeching to the adjoining room yelling 'Ghost, Ghost!'. It was Sister Cecelia, who calmed me down with great difficulty, and then introduced me to a very flustered and nervous Mr Virdi, who turned out to be the piano tuner!

Off course none of these spectral tales were true, but I recall the spooky sensation of sitting around wide eyed, listening to ghastly stories and narrow escapades of the few who claimed to have seen some other worldly apparitions. Back in the day there was never any doubt in my mind that every word was true, which only added to the mystique of Ramnee.

First Communion - Margie, Me, Cacun, Lulu, Veronica and Lotta