Don’t Look at Me That Way (958 words)

 

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.