Noises from Another World

By Keerthi Prakasam

 

I had a sister who could not speak. She was older than me. We were both lean, but she was taller than me, I used to only reach until her shoulder. She took care of me, most of the time.

But when she got angry, she would kick or pinch me. I have always had her around me, our way of living revolved around each other.

One day, she left. It was abrupt. But I did not know if I felt sad at once because a lot of new things happened along with it. Good things.
When I woke up from sleep one morning Didi was no longer around. Our Baba got a new cot to take rest once he gets home after a full day of drinking. Baba always complained of his back growing stiff from lying down on the ground.

In the weeks that followed, he would at times let Maa sleep in the cot with him, but he would kick her out later. That was fine by me, I liked it when Maa came to sleep with me below since before, I used to sleep with Didi, curling beside her.

This let me find respite from the cold, rough ground. In the first few weeks, or even months after Baba said Didi had gone to work, life felt good. We got food twice a day, and sometimes Ma even cooked sabzi. I thought it was because my Didi, who couldn’t speak, had started working and was sending us money. Baba started smelling of less horrible liquor, he also got me candy the first few days since Didi left.

My mother never spoke much—she wasn’t born mute like my Didi. But the few times I remember her speaking, Baba thrashed her for it. Since Baba was never home, Ma never spoke, and Didi was born mute—I was always the one doing the talking.

This was at most, to trees and plants like you, because I know you can’t hit me for telling you something you might not like. I’d also talk to strangers and sahibs who came by when Baba wasn’t around.

I'd say 'Baba nahi hain', Didi would stand beside me staring at them. Sometimes they would ask if there was a Maa or Naani inside, but we stared back at them without saying anything. Maa would never come out of the hut in front of strangers; Baba would kill her.

After the newness had worn off, I began missing Didi. It began as a vague realization that despite not feeling tired anymore, I had nothing to do for myself. No one to ask my questions to. That's when I made it a point to keep talking in mind.

Being fed twice a day, —I could chatter endlessly inside my mind while doing chores and staring at things. I had to make peace with it, Didi went to work, that's why I miss her.

But that is also why we get food now. Must be some place nice, my Didi must be living – I used to think.

However, nice things don’t last. After about six weeks we got used to the cot. But Baba started smelling of horrible liquor again. Everything went back to normal. Yes, our normal is always scarcity. Everything was back to normal, except for Didi. We drank water during the day, and if there were any leftover rotis from Baba’s drinking den, we had those for dinner.

We were back to eating nothing at all, when the dabba nearby Baba’s drinking place closed down. Now we were hungrier than ever before. All that hunger even drove me into missing my sister even more -- Didn't she think about us? Had she stopped sending money?

Or was Baba drinking it all away without feeding us? But I didn’t know how to read or write. Neither did she. Did she desert us? Me? No. We both grew up relying only on ourselves. I was good at running fast and sneaking food from the market. Didi couldn’t speak, so people took pity on her, at times giving her free things.

At times they gave me things too, but for some reason Didi always scolded me for accepting those from people. She would later keep it for herself as punishment for me. But the things that people gave her, we'd share like it belonged to the both of us. I didn’t think for a second that Didi deserted us.

Our Baba was born drunk; it is hard to imagine him as anything else. He would come home, eat whatever food we found for ourselves, be it mangoes, berries. Maa must either hate us, Baba or this whole world. Why wouldn't she talk? One night I cried hugging her asking for Didi.

This was sometime after we started starving again; I forgot how to control. She hit me hard on my right cheek, turned around and kept breathing hard throughout the night.

I lay there waiting for the morning to break and run away somewhere. I could not sleep with a hungry stomach, burning cheek and Maa, huffing and puffing. I promised myself to never ask about Didi to anyone, ever again. After seeing the faces of my parents, always sore and not happy - I thought to myself that if Didi did move on, it was good. A better life without us.

Especially me- that hurt me, as much as I agree that our parents were horrible that she could ignore me was something I could not tolerate. I might have even hated her a bit.

When the next summer came, the heat was all for me to bear. There weren’t even any leftover rotis from the closed hotel nearby. I could not move; I had no energy. I stopped leaving the hut. I slept and slept.

My Ma would wet my lips with water she collected in plastic buckets from the well ahead after dark. Baba came home, slept in his cot, and used to leave for the alcohol shop to wait like a dog in front of it.

I wasn't eating much. I didn’t have the strength to roam for food at all. Still, I grew taller somehow. I could now almost see through the peephole at the centre of our tin door.

Outside the peephole, this dry land stretched for many, many kilometres. The only plants we did see had thorns on them, while some had berries, we could not eat all of them.

Didi knew which ones to eat. When she was around, we would walk all the way, cross the bridge and the local market to reach another place. It had streets with tiled roads and houses on both sides.

Some 'bungalows' had big windows on the ground floor. Through them, we could see a magic box in the halls. It played coloured lights, showing things that looked like us—people, places, animals. Everything.

The box was called TV. We’d stand there watching it for four to five minutes before the security guard saw us, and then we’d run for our lives. Yes, I could scout the place on my own, I may even be able to watch the TV box longer since I am small and alone. But what if I got caught? Who will bite the security's hand so that I can run off.

Who will throw soil at his eyes and laugh at him before holding my hand to sprint off together back to our tin hut. Not Didi. I began lying down all the time, it was many weeks since I had at least a dry roti.

Down on the mud floor- cold, rough and nested in dirt. At times I could feel Maa wet my lips with something - must be water. When we were in dire poverty like this, Didi had taught me to rest like this without energy.

My Didi never grew tired. Baba used to scream that Didi's legs compensates for her being mute. Didi used to make me rest, to save my energy and forage food from somewhere. Sometimes even from the place with the big houses with TV boxes.

Slipping in and out of sleep, hunger and consciousness - I kept dreaming about the place we could watch the box. Down on the ground, I had stopped identifying days and nights. I did not count them anymore or get out to see the moon anymore.

The last thing I remember from my house is the tin roof that had holes towards the right side. Sunlight and dust would seep in throughout the day through them. I used to stare at them whenever I remembered I was alive, while my mind was in and out of fatigue.

When I finally woke up, I opened my eyes in another world with something connected to my hand. Baba, Maa, our tin house, none of it, not their smell, nothing- this was not my world.

There were men, women, and one other child with a bottle hanging from the top of another wooden bed. A long, thin tube came out from the bottle connected with the girl’s palm. A plaster held the tube in place, I thought.

When I tried to move my own hand, to rub my eyes, it hurt a bit. There was something sharp inside, not just stuck. I figured it was now a part of me. The people there were telling things to each other, things that I could not understand.

'Bought for twenty to give her to fever.'

'Think of good things, Lakshmi’s are here'

' Lakshmi comes from business, we need to be practical... '

A new place with no Didi by my side, I should have panicked, bitten their ears and run off. But to tell you the truth, I was too tired. The surface I was lying on was better than the cold, dry ground I lain on every day of my life.

I realized, a few moments before slipping back to sleep, that I was in some kind of jail, or someplace not safe. But it felt soft and fresh. This must be what heaven feels like to sleep in. These strangers might kill me, but first, I would sleep here in peace.

I couldn’t fight without Didi by my side. Suddenly food was a problem of the past, it had never felt so good to lie down. I think it is best to rest now. Wait for death — or whatever waited for me when I. . . .If I wake up.

 

Keerthi Prakasam from India is a former journalist who has worked with Puthiya Thalaimurai and The News Minute. She ran a café in Himachal Pradesh before returning to storytelling through communications and documentary work. Now based in Kerala, she works in brand strategy and writes fiction and poetry when she feels like it.