I come back from school (another boring day, no girls at the bus-stop, only a blue file which sat next to me). I dump my school bag on the table and go running around the house, yelling, “Free, free at last,” when I suddenly skid to a halt. Vamsi’s bespectacled face peers out of Da’s bedroom and smiles shyly. I immediately stop, say hi back and walk to my room. I stay there till I am called for dinner.
I eat quietly, ignoring Da’s questions. It’s annoying. Nobody has stayed two days in a row before. Doesn’t he have his own home? Is Da going to adopt him, too? We don’t have space; this is a two-bedroom house. I know I am being badly behaved in company and childish, but I feel like being difficult. I can hear Da’s voice in my head and I want to yell at that voice, I want to scream that I won’t be reasonable.
After dinner, I don’t wash up, though it’s my job. Vamsi can do it, since he seemed so good at it yesterday. I can feel Da’s anger when I go to my room. It follows me, urging my back to turn, to go to the kitchen and do what I normally do. My body feels like it’s full of knots and I feel heavy, as if I’m carrying a weight I can never get rid of. I remember not to bang my door shut. I lie on my bus bed and see the taillights of my Roussel R-30 blinking and think what a stupid room, I am too old for this.
I can hear them talking; their voices sound louder than last night and for some reason it irritates me. I hear a knock and perk up. It must be Da, come to say sorry, though I have no clue what he has done wrong. It’s Vamsi. He says, “Goodnight, see you tomorrow,” and walks off. Da doesn’t come all night.
I wake up the next morning feeling very unhappy, as if I have nobody on earth. Even Da doesn’t like me anymore, this poor motherless boy. I sit down at the dining table, sad but hungry, and there’s Eggs Benedict. I break into a grin; it’s my favourite and takes years to make. Da never cooks this on a working day. He must be feeling bad. I finish eating and then realise I haven’t seen Da anywhere.
I run to his room. He is sitting at his desk, looking out of the window. His fingers are interlaced and his chin rests on his crossed thumbs. I go hug him, my nose in his hair, my mouth smelling of eggs. He looks at me, and his eyes are serious-sad. “Vamsi left early in the morning. Shall I ask him not to come home anymore?” I immediately feel bad, like the worst person on the planet. I promise to be better behaved when Vamsi is around. I even say I like him. I start saying sorry like Mrs Sharma, the neighbourhood aunty who keeps apologising to Da for parking in front of our gate. “Sah-sah-sah-reee, sah-sah-sahreee.” Da bursts out laughing; my fake accent always gets him.
I run out; the school bus will not wait for family dramas. I fly towards the bus-stop: I am numero uno. Da will never like Vamsi as much as me. I am not guessing this. He told me in his life I will always come first.
At school, Arin picks me to be in his football team, even though I am one of the worst players. We win. I whoop as much as the boy who scored five goals. I feel good going back home. I carry the win in my bones. I kick open our front door and swagger into the house.
I can smell bread baking. I walk into the kitchen, hungry and triumphant. Vamsi is standing in the kitchen, wearing Da’s apron. I wave at him like a football star and wonder if he knows that Da doesn’t like him that much. I don’t mind smiling at him now.
The next weekend, Vamsi comes with Affidavit. He’s the awesomest, nicest, kindest golden retriever, with a large head and a black nudgy nose. He is the dog I am begging for, but can’t have, as it is difficult for families like ours to have one (Da showed me the study which explained how the stress percentage increases when one-parent households adopt pets). He feels feather-soft and smooth and when I lay my head on his stomach, I can hear him panting and thumping his tail. Whenever I touch him, some part of his body moves. Vamsi’s parents got Affidavit as a “congratulations present” when Vamsi passed his final law exam ten years ago. I immediately feel deprived. Though I’ve passed a zillion exams, I haven’t got a single congratulations present.
I spend the whole evening with Affidavit. I take him for two walks, to see if he remembers his “sit”, “follow”, “heel”, “rollover”. I crouch down on all fours like a dog and yell “jump”. Affidavit leaps over me and I feel thrilled as his body crosses mine in the air. I try raising myself once during a jump and he folds into a fall, whining, a continuous, piercing sound of intense hurt. I am immediately begging, apologising, but he licks me as if he was the one who hurt me.
I watch the corridor; nobody steps out onto it. Da and Vamsi are in Da’s room. I don’t think they heard him. I may have hurt his balls, but he has stopped whimpering. He’s not limping or walking funny either.
Very cautiously, I throw a rolled-up sock to the other end of the room. He bounds after it as if his bones are made of helium. I watch his hind legs and the underside of his stomach as he leaps.
No blood, no discomfort, he doesn’t hate me either. If someone did that to my balls, I’d never forgive them. The second I think that, the word “forgive” breaks away from the other words and grows large in my head; I feel like crying. Do I have to forgive Mama for dying? Did she forgive me for taking her life? The word is bigger than me. I am struggling to breathe, when Affidavit’s pink tongue, which seems longer than his snout, swipes my face ear to ear. I can’t feel unhappy with dog saliva in my mouth.
Vamsi is not staying the night and when he leaves, I am most enthusiastic about him visiting again with Affidavit. I feel a bit guilty, for I usually never ask him to come back. Sometimes I don’t even smile goodbye, but Da hasn’t raised it yet.
Vamsi promises that he will bring Affidavit again. I wish Affidavit could stay with us instead of Vamsi. It would be so great, Da, me and Affidavit. “Can’t we get a dog?” “No Ved, I have shown you the study about single-parent households with pets and what happens to dogs when you leave them alone at home, blah, blah, blah.” Some questions always get no as an answer. I wish there was a day, once a year, where every “No” turned into a yes. I would have so many questions for Da. Can I have whisky? Can I try your cigar? Drive your car? Go to Barcelona to watch football? Not complete high school? And he would have to say yes to each one of them.
Excerpted with permission from Da, Arathi Menon, Pan Macmillan India.
