Kalpana
It’s hard to describe this kind of agony though it’s right on your skin. I was startled by how loud I screamed.
And so was Amma, before she resumed her shower of whips with my belt.
"Every time I think you grew some brains, is every time you let me down lower! How dare you shout that loud in this house? Do you want the neighbors to know how undisciplined you are?"
Of course, that’s her paramount concern.
Usually, my…disciplinary sessions were never diurnal, but alas, everything falls prey to exceptions every now and then, which is why Amma is worried the neighbors might hear me cry.
"Please! I'm sorry! Please!"
"Please, what, you whore?"
The way my insides turn every time I hear that word never gets old.
"Please, Amma!"
I have long lost what it means to call someone that word or to feel divine using that word on my tongue.
"Do I have to tell you every time to address me with respect?"
Why do my hands not move to block hers? Why and how am I still here on this cold, hard floor?
"Will you ever talk back to me again?" her question was laced with a heavy undertone of authority.
"I wasn't talking bac-"
Another sharp whip on my hand sent shocks through my body as I screamed with paining lungs.
"How dare you talk back to me again?!"
Another whip.
"Will you talk back to me again? Answer me wisely."
I found myself panting from the pain so hard it hurt my brain.
An "Answer me!" was followed by another, right on the nerve on my foot.
"No!" I expressed my fealty in the worst and loudest way possible, but it reached her ears as something else.
"No what?!"
This time she whipped me twice in a second. And right after that, I lost it.
I don't know what 'it' is. I just know it's something I keep losing every time I undergo this. Like a drop and another and another from a cracked pot till there's nothing left. I don't know how much of 'it' is left in me but it hasn't run out yet.
"Are you answering me with silence now?! Is this what I gave birth to you for?!"
Then came another whip.
"No, amma," came my reply, gentler this time.
"Now you want to respect me? Now?! Is this what it will take to make you human?"
And came more of them till the visible marks on my skin quenched her much-starved ego.
She threw the belt beside me and left me to live in my pain, right in the middle of the hall under the sunset of the window.
Appa would have stopped it, perhaps. But he's not home all the time.
It's a perfect day.
It's a perfect day.
I believe it's a perfect day. Because if I believe I am not real, then this pain is not real either.
It's a perfect day.
Urvashi stopped sketching on her iPad and took a long look at me. "You could fry eggs in this heat, Kalpana. What on earth were you thinking, wearing a turtleneck, and a black one at the site?"
"...I'm trying to pull this chic look off? It's been on my outfit inspo board on Pinterest for a while," I tried to sound convincing.
"And pulling it off you are indeed but you look very suffocated, and greasy from sweat. Watching you makes me feel uncomfortable."
Tell me something I don’t know, Urvashi.
This fabric makes my bruises itch and burn. So much for Amma maintaining my spotless skin. No blood or scars on hands and legs. Only perishable yet stinging bruises.
"Meh. I'll change later."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course you will. I believe you attribute this change in outfit to your fiance?"
My response was faster than a camera's flash. "He's not my fiance."
She did the cool pen-twirling trick with her stylus. "But he will be, won't he?"
I did not want to invest thinking about a certain handsome man-child. I had a show to grace as a guest, and grace it hard I will.
Dhruvan
“Dhruvan, make haste! It’ll begin any time soon!”
Ma was as excited as a little duckling when she learned about Kalpana showing up on TV. She woke up from her afternoon nap extra early to make her favorite snacks so she wouldn’t be late when the show aired.
Kalpana had met my mother only a couple of times and now my mother raves about her as if she were her own child being raised in someone else’s house.
Like instinct, I was momentarily happy her attention had averted from me but slowly, it irked me in a way I never saw coming.
Everything turned pink the moment the camera turned to her on the TV. Figuratively and literally.
The multicolored drapes of her saree made her look like a fresh bud wrapped with rose petals. She was like Thumbelina, tiny and fairy-like. The set lighting and fabric reflected just the right amount of tint on her face, making her look flushed.
She moved like…unlike anything. Imagine a person attempting laminar flow. Still, yet in motion.
I could barely look at her face when we held a conversation in her backyard, and even when I did, I was too engulfed with a lot of emotions to pay attention to anything except her voice and command over me.
But now that I chanced upon her appearance…everything about her was just so polished but effortless.
Now I know why and how my mother was bewitched by her.
Before I knew it, I had begun my enslavement too.
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