12/05/10
Banana and cornflakes.
My mother believed this was the healthiest breakfast I could ever eat. Yes, those definite hyperbole are intended, because that was her conviction, and it was contagious. And today I am reminded of a story. One from childhood, when the likes of us were different, placed on corners and lived only on margins. But I didn't know all this then, I was 13, I know it is not too young, but age is always comparative. So is feeling old. You always feel old 'compared' to how you were, or what you were. So, I was 13 and I had a sister who was 4. It is a story which only this diary can hear, because I believe in not telling real stories to people, the pretension of understanding and the burden of melancholia gets too confining for me. And you never know how they see you after it.
Early summer, when its not excruciatingly hot, but the sun realizes the strength of its warmth and switches slowly onto heat. Just between that transition, that's where the day was. Banana and Cornflakes, again, like every other day. Yes, I was bored, my sister didn't understand much to object, it somehow tasted sweet, so she liked it. Slight drizzle of honey, sliced bananas, cornflakes and the right amount of milk, it was like an art that my mother had mastered. This was probably the thing she could make, only thing she was able to make. Only thing she was allowed to make. My father had dictated the menu to her right after they got married. Married. Yes. It was one of the days which are deceptively pleasant. Deceptively hopeful and swift cheaters.
Breakfast and then we left. Mother might have stayed back and addressed her wounds from the night. Though I didn't understand why, but she always walked crippled in morning, like her legs were separated by a barbed club. I know better now. My parents were not the kind they made on boxes of cornflakes. The happy kind sitting around the table and enjoying breakfast and all those god forsaken meals. There were always five people, five different entities, separated by walls of their temper and convictions. Me with my disagreement of everything and the boredom of it too. My sister, with her newly formed language and penchant for sweetness. My father with his encroaching hands and feet. My mother with her loss and morning pains. And my mother's illness.
We had breakfast and left. Did whatever 'normal' kids do in school and came back. There was no light, just like the time when I saw mother stuffing my sister into the cupboard. Just like the time when I heard my sister laugh while she was doing it. Just like the time when I saw my father's bloodied knuckles for the first time. Just like the time when I first wet my pants, out of sheer fear. Fear is always of the unknown. Not of heights, depths, darkness or spaces. It's always of the unknown. And in 13 years of age, I had understood that fear. So, as I entered the dark house which haunted every nerve in my body, I looked across and forward. Moving ahead, hoping I would find my sister and take her away with me. I could hear loud breathing, anticipating the terrible.
"I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you."
I heard my mother scream this repetitively from her room, and as I entered I couldn't see who she was saying this to. My father was right there but she wasn't saying this to him, if she was he wouldn't have been grabbing her hair and shouting a louder "Shut Up!" after every "I See You". The voices got louder and louder, from the room it filled the house. From the house to possibly the street and my fucking soul.
"I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU.."
"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"
The room started vibrating and father's grip got stronger, he really did want her to shut up, and maybe she really was seeing someone. But the floor was trembling beneath my feet and my sister was sitting in the corner crying and wailing. She too wanted them to stop. My father's patience was on the edge, and my mother...she really was seeing someone. The voices kept getting louder, and in my head they created a crises, a life endangering situation for myself and my sister. And that's when the survival instinct kicked in.
And then after a loud bang the noises stopped, and all I could hear was my fathers panting. Mother didn't see or speak anything after that. I found out that day, the rage in my father's eyes was not anger or a sadistic demon, it was fear. He dictated the menu because he never trusted her enough. He was not the reason for those bruises. He was not the one banging on the bed. the blood on his knuckles was the left over of a bloodied arm. The reason for his absence was not me. The death of my mother was not on him.
I woke up very late the next morning, head hurting like it does after a very long and very bad dream. There was still some smell of blood coming from my pare..father's bedroom. Ignoring that. Ignoring that what I had realized will turn my life into a constant battle for the blurred line between sanity and insanity. Ignoring that the mother from whom I got my beliefs, believed in something else altogether. I left everything to be thought about later, or never. Went to the kitchen, and saw my sister sitting on the table. Her tiny chair, her small figure. She looked at me hoping I would already have the answer for what she wanted to ask. So I asked,
"You hungry?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
And in her broken language she replied,
"Banana and cornflakes."
