THE AFTERNOON SIESTA

No No No No, my 11 (or was it 12?) year-old mind told me. Don’t lie still. Shout. Scream. Don’t lie still. Push. Do something. My vocal cords seemed to have jammed up.

Childhood summer holidays

Summer holidays after school. A mad rush. Trunks, the vintage name for suitcases, were packed. Thick army-like canvas bags, with a quaint name of “Hold-all”, were rolled out to fill in the mattresses and pillows needed for the forty-eight-hour train journey from Bangalore to Odisha. The four of us siblings looked forward to freedom. Getting off the train, at Cuttack, each one of us looking like having rolled and played in a coal yard, we hug our uncles and aunts. “Touch their feet”, a nudge and stern glace from my mother. “Oh, should I bend touch and touch or bow town and touch? I should remember to ask next time. Her nails need a cut. My nails have soot lots of it. Did I get my nail cutter? Maybe my elder sister’s well-filled bag has it. My lovely story book which is there in the bag can help me escape the cacophony of trucks of cousins”.

A touch on my shoulder tells me I have been down there too long! The ride home in sweltering heat- the kind of damp, intense heat that makes you think your brain cells are melting. Sweat and soot. We look like the urchins I avoid. A good wash, some warm steaming rice with lentils, mustard-coated vegetables, a specialty of Odisha, and tomato “khatta”, which translates sour but is sweet with dates and coconut. I pick some more from my elder cousin brothers plate- he turns to ruffle my hair. I look up to see his face which now looks unfamiliar. He is sprouting little hair over his lips. Looks nice I think.

The afternoon Siesta and…

Time for some siesta. The creaky bed I plonk myself on faces a little water runoff. The kinds that wind behind every house, carrying everything that the garbage man hasn’t picked up. The road is slightly higher- elevated above my eye level. The afternoon sun forces me to draw the curtain. I doze off.

After what feels like a few minutes, the cousin comes in and sleeps next to me- burping loudly. I wake up, he pats me back to sleep.
Is this how we sleep with cousins, my mind is groggy as I feel a heavy arm land over my stomach. I try to sit up looking for my sister. He taps me back again.

Adjusting my top which is wet from the sweat and humidity, I move towards the edge of the bed on my left side. I still sleep that way today. A rustle and suddenly an arm goes in through my top. He touches me. Didn’t the doctor tell me just a few months back that they will hurt while they are growing? He had applied some ointment and put a beigish-pink or was it pinkish-beige bandage. I didn’t even know how to accept and understand “this growth” in my body and now suddenly someone else was there. It hurt. It pained. My mind was a blur.

Minutes dragged on. The touch, now rough and strong was uncomfortable. No No No No, my 11 or was it 12?) year old mind told me. Don’t lie still. Shout. Scream. Don’t lie still. Push. Do something. My vocal cords seemed to have jammed up.

Sweat. Sleep. Pain. Blur. Doctor. The smell of ointment.

I get out of bed as my mother calls me for some samosa and milk. Pulling down my ruffled top and skirt, I bounce out into my mother’s arms.

I grow up…not happening again.

I was 15, we had now moved to Bhubaneshwar. My father’s work brought him here. A few months into the new city, the story is re-enacted. A different city, a different cousin. This time I know. As it begins, I tell him off. I stand straight towering over him. Never again.
The summer holidays are four weeks away- but now it’s time to go back to my Math book and the half-done sum.

Today

This is the first time I have shared this. My family didn’t know. Till today. The incident is true with, some fillers for the 30 min writing setting. The feelings are true. Long gone. I have made my peace. As my daughters were growing up, I did teach them about good touch and bad touch. I hope and pray that they didn’t experience anything like this.