My Innocence

I have been born to serve and I have served diligently. I have lived with a family for three decades now and know them as well as the back of my hand. A horrendous twist has however left me shattered at this old age. As I hobble towards the dingy cellar window I reminisce about the good old days and a tear oozes out of my eyes and cascades down my cheek. A child, not my own, was murdered a few days back and I was held responsible for the murder.  Pray tell, how could an old man be capable of such atrocities? A shudder runs through me as I think of the cold blooded murder. I had lived with Maria since she was a baby and I took care of her as I would take care of my own little girl. What motive could an enfeebled man have for such a dreadful deed? I was a chauffeur and did not even have access to the house. It’s not cynical to believe that an old man like me will get no justice; it’s just the stark reality. I am disfavored and frail, someone who has already given up on life. Will I spend the rest of my days here? I wonder desolately.

Other servants did not like Maria because she wasn’t of a genial disposition and was a tad bit rebellious. She really liked me though. I think I was her mentor; a father she never had. How could I murder someone I was so fond of? The police are still investigating and I am plagued by the thoughts of who the real murderer could be. Could it be the neighborhood guy, who always seemed to be stalking Maria?  Nobody even considered him a suspect. Why only me? Was I an easy target? A scrape goat maybe.  Marias sister is a little dove and a free spirit. Maria was younger than her sister and they both loved each other dearly. Maybe she will free me if I ask her to. Would she go against her family though?

So many questions. Yet no answers.

Marias mother was a sympathetic woman and might come to my rescue but the aunt will surely not let her do so. The cursed woman has always accused us servants for almost everything that has ever occurred in that household. It was almost as if she was trying to cover up something else. Something big. The father was a nefarious man and will probably make sure I rot behind these bars forever. How could he not feel even an ounce of guilt? They all know I was nowhere near the house when Maria was killed yet I am being castigated.  I hear an echoing clang of metal doors. Suddenly guards arrive accompanied by another woman. Marias mother. I stand rooted to the spot, staring at her. Could this be a mistake? They lock her up in a neighboring cell and I eavesdrop on their conversation. Marias mother was bipolar and had actually murdered her own daughter.  My Maria. My heart creeps up my throat and I hit the grubby floor.

An Infestation

Sometimes I reminisce about the joy of being a child, huddling in a crocheted orange blanket with my mother while she narrated stories to me. I can recall my grandmother telling me about the sinister yet seductive fairies who wanted to cross a mountain to murder several nymphs. I can’t seem to recall the time when my cousin was apparently possessed by multiple ghosts. I just remember the stories she told me about her experience and her absurd facial expressions. There are so many enchanting tales, but they have all become vague memories now. Regrettably even the story tellers cannot seem to recall the tales they filled my ears with. There is only one story that actually stands out and that I remember details of.

It wasn’t a story about fairies, dwarfs, ghosts, princesses but a story about a bug infestation. When my mother was young, a girl lived in her house whose hair overflowed with bugs. Apparently only the bad girls suffered from this infestation during my mothers time, girls who lied, cheated and never studied.  So this young girl, who was called Baby, was the foulest of the foul. She liked shirking from household chores and loved cheating and telling lies. Some say that she was a compulsive liar and could not help but lie, they pitied her. The bugs however did not.

One fine night as my mother was sneakily walking towards the living room to watch TV she saw baby gliding on the floor. My mother shrieked but baby seemed to be in a trance. She slithered towards the door resembling a skinny python while mother just stood there with wobbly legs in her flowery shalwar kamiz. Suddenly my mother saw the ‘million’ bugs that were carrying her towards the door. They lived in her hair and plotted the kidnapping while Baby remained oblivious.  My mother claims that Baby was being taken to the land of doom where all the evil kids went. 

So my mother reacted by throwing an entire jar of pickled mangoes on Baby and successful woke everyone up (except for Baby obviously). By the time everyone woke up and came to the living room baby had disappeared. My grandfather was apparently the hero of the story since he successfully retrieved Baby from the land of doom where she was being held against her will. She came back with a bald head and a transformed personality. She was now the epitome of honesty and volunteered to do even mothers chores.  I just don’t understand why the bugs did not take mother away for sneakily watching TV at night. That was the only flaw in mothers story, a made up story I realize now.

The Fall

When you’re a kid there is a certain charm in doing what you’re not supposed to do. You see parents admonishing their children left and right – don’t touch this, don’t eat that etc. The funny thing however is that most homes have this one place that is out of bounds for the little ones. For us, it was always that little gap between our first floor terrace and the garage roof. A three foot leap from either side, it was a very convenient passage from one end of the house to another. I am almost positive that the wrinkly old architect had knowingly sniggered to himself while sketching the flaw in his blueprints.

Being a child gives you a certain degree of imagination. And because I was a strange kid, I thought of myself as a daring explorer, jumping across the gaping hole of a volcano to escape a tripe of wild monkeys. And so there I was one day, trying to fend off the baboons; and I slipped. My left hand frantically reached out for anything to grab onto and miraculously found a supporting rod. During the agonizing seconds that I managed to remain suspended in mid-air, I saw my life flash before my eyes and my heart had strangely crept up my throat. Then as dramatically as any Bollywood movie scene, my sweaty hand lost grip of the rod and I plunged into the depths of a volcano. A very shallow volcano it was, as something metallic broke my fall, I felt myself losing consciousness.

Meanwhile the sound of the falling had alerted my mother, who ran downstairs in two shakes of a lambs tail while successfully managing to continually scream my name at the top of her voice. I was smacked lightly on the face a couple of times and was brought back to reality. The look on my mother and brothers face portrayed the situation perfectly, they looked deathly pale and rightly so. It’s not everyday someone falls off the first story of your house. I was sure I had broken something, a rib maybe? A leg perhaps? But no, I was a completely fine and effortlessly walked back inside the house with my family. Turns out I fell onto a pedestal fan our guard had so smartly tucked away behind the pillars of the facade of the house. That had partially absorbed some of the impact energy and the rest will always be shrouded in mystery. But as my mother began hurling a barrage of spontaneous questions at me and my brother laughed at my luck in the background, the flame of my imagination was rekindled. This was when I contently thought to myself, ‘I am indestructible.'