Don’t look at me that way. I get upset. I am perfectly
normal, like any one of you, no matter what others may say about me. There have
been a few accidents in the last year for which I was in no way responsible.
You can ask my mom, and she will vouch for my sobriety. Though in the last two
months she has become strangely quiet and looks concerned. There is a reason
which I shall explain.
I have always been an introvert and not given to much
talking. My mother used to admire my large, dark eyes, saying they resembled lotuses.
But most others were jealous and accused me of staring or gawking at them even
when I was merely looking. This naturally made me angry, and either I would shout
at them or sometimes scratch them with my long nails.
It began when I was 12. But I looked bigger and slightly
older than many of my classmates. Our science teacher was unusually gentle with
me. He patted the girls when returning their homework books or gently touched
their cheeks to express his appreciation. I felt his hands lingered a little
longer on me than on others and invariably got a feeling of a cockroach running
over me. I used to shrug away, and he would laugh. I feared telling my mom lest
she withdraw me from the school.
One day, as I was leaving for home after school hours, he was
standing at the entrance of the staff room. He beckoned me inside, saying he
had something to tell me. I found the room was empty, and I was scared to
enter. He put his arms around me and dragged me close to him. I struggled to
get out of his clasp, but he embraced me tighter. Luckily, I had my pen
in my hand with me and opening the cap, I stabbed him hard with the pen and its
sharp nib several times on his neck and face. As he loosened his grip, I ran
away as fast as my feet would carry.
My timid mother,
instead of complaining to the school authorities, stopped me from going to
school at the insistence of my paternal grandmother, who was living with us. My
dad worked in another town and visited once a month. All my friends stopped
talking to me since then. Other schools refused to accept me.
With nothing much to do, I did most of the chores to help my
mom. My grandmother disliked my mom and would always hurt her with
insults and her poor background. She would carry tales to my dad when he came
home with many false charges. The couple of days he spent with her would be torture
for my mom, with him beating her. I developed a deep dislike for my granny ever
since she stopped my studies and frequently quarreled with her, taking cudgels
for my mom.
One day I was
cleaning the bathroom and found it slippery. I sprinkled soap powder and was
scrubbing with a brush. I left it midway when my mother called me to fetch
water from the well. As ill luck would have it, Grandma meanwhile went inside
to take her bath and fell flat. She had a severe injury on the head and was in a
coma for a fortnight before breathing her last. My dad accusingly pointed his
finger at me for her tragic demise and never failed to mention that I did not
shed any tears for her.
Two months later, my dad’s brother came for the first time
after my grandma’s demise. He called me a killer and a madcap. I was naturally
hurt as I was in no way directly responsible for grandma’s fall. When I
resisted his accusation, he hit me. I suppressed my anger and went inside the
kitchen. I had stored the cleaner liquid in a mineral water bottle as no other
container was readily available. I normally use it for cleaning the cupboard
and electrical parts. How can I be held responsible if my uncle drank from that
bottle, mistaking it for water? He had to be rushed to the emergency room and given
repeated washes before he recovered, after incurring a hefty bill that included
ICU charges. He accused me of wishing to kill him too, making my dad lose
his temper and shower blows on me.
Another instance comes to my mind. My dad had come for a
week. My mom had gone to the temple, and I was away at the neighbour’s house.
When I returned unannounced, I caught my dad hugging and cuddling our maid. I
was shocked at this monstrosity and retraced my steps unnoticed. I then thumped the
front door hard as if I was entering the house just then.
A week later, the
maid, who had taken the leftover rice soaked in water and buttermilk, vomited
many times at her place. She was taken to the hospital by her neighbours but
could not be saved. The doctors, it seemed, said it was a case of food
poisoning by a lizard. I did not tell anyone that I had seen a long object in
the rice; I mistook it for a cooked eggplant vegetable. My dad was saddest, and
my mother wondered at his compassion for bearing the hospital expenses in full.
I have been frank and truthful to you. Tell me now whether I
am insane, as others accuse me of. My mom hardly talks to me these days, and Dad
rarely comes home. Do you think I need help from a shrink? I strongly believe that
they were all accidents, though there was a vicarious pleasure in them.
I expect your honest reply.
