Where it all began

Dear readers,

I started writing very early, when I was probably ten or so and those stories were predictably ripped off from Enid Blyton and other writers I was reading at that time. I didn’t think writing would become my career and it had been a hobby for me. When I was 28, I wrote Kite Strings, my first novel, and it had taken me two years to write it, simply because I didn’t know how to write at that point.

I was an instinctive writer, opening up the Word document and letting my characters take my story forward wherever they wanted. This led to much heartache for me because sometimes, the characters would paint themselves into a corner and I would have the most difficult time extracting myself from there.

I’ve learned quite a bit, since then and although Kite Strings was eventually published when I was 31, I realised that this was what I wanted to do all along. Write books. So, in 2012, I took back the publishing rights and released it myself on Amazon KDP. Of course, there is that whole story about how I didn’t know how KDP worked and wondered why my book never showed any sales.

Since then, I’ve let Kite Strings stay on Amazon KDP although I’ve changed the cover a couple of times. (Another post to discuss covers, maybe?)

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(I also saw a couple of recent reviews on the book and I had to agree with them. One of them was very sweet, written by someone who wanted to go back to the very first book I had written because she liked my other books so much!)

Sharing a couple of chapters from the book here -

Chapter 1

Vellore, 1990

If I were to know that after today, the three of us will never play again, I still won’t be able to do anything. We are on the terrace flying kites and a warm wind buffets them wildly. Puffs of breeze blowing about only serve to undo hair that our mothers have pulled back tightly and held in place with pins. Rehana and I are mere spectators watching Basheer shake and tug at the thread, as he holds his head against the cobalt blue sky, eyes squinted.

A memory of holding the gritty manja covered string in my hand surfaces. I remember the crisp, papery kite with a weight of its own in the sky, the wind crackling it and then the lightness in my hand as another captured it. Naturally, Basheer has never let me fly his kites after that.

The terrace of our house looks out over Vellore and we can see really far, right into the imposing mountains in the distance. Other flat terraces are dotted with children flying kites like Basheer; some are just watching.

Across the terraces, no one speaks. Concentration from the kites wavers for only a little while, before it slides back to the sky with determination.  However, for Rehana and me, watching Basheer fly a kite is like watching TV. We continue talking to each other, while encouraging him periodically. He glares at us now and then and it is the only indication that our constant chatter bothers him.  

Basheer is a little younger than me and he’s a silent boy. He’s shy and he stutters when he speaks to us but when he is staring at the sky, he becomes a different person altogether.  His brow bunches together in numerous lines, his eyes turning inward into slits as they follow the kites bobbing around in the sky.

Once I asked him what’s the big deal about flying a kite.

‘I mean, you just make sure it rises in the air and then you try to make it fly high. What’s the point in that?’

He curled his lips and sneered, ‘What would you know, Api?’ It’s one of the few times he’s spoken to me disrespectfully. He’s the only one to ever call me Api. Rehana always calls me by my name and Mateen, my three-year-old brother calls me ‘Pee’ sometimes.

I pestered Basheer to explain what he meant. He shrugged and stumbled over the words. ‘You have to…you’ve got to feel the power of putting a kite in the sky and, and… letting it fly without letting it go out of your control.’

The logic seemed warped. ‘You want to let it fly, and you still want to hold it in your hands?’ He turned away, a little irritated and proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the evening.

I look up and see his sky-blue kite duel with a maroon one. I pluck Rehana’s sleeve and we both try to follow its journey in the sky. The maroon kite is wildly circling ours.

‘Yes, Basheer, go on, cut out his kite!’ we scream.

With deft flicks of his wrist, Basheer moves his kite up and down. His fingers have a crisscross pattern of cuts, some have dried and some have bled afresh from the manja on the string. Sweat runs down in a thin stream at his temples as he concentrates on saving his kite. He’s desperately trying to manoeuvre it away from that horrid maroon one.

The fight is over in two minutes. Basheer stamps his feet and flings away the spindle, walking away angrily. Our blue kite dances a bit in the air, flips and falls away from our sight. A whoop follows its descent. On the same line of houses as ours, a young boy is jumping and waving wildly on his terrace. He’s probably fifteen.

He’s clapping and hooting and my face feels warm. Without really thinking, I slide my foot from my rubber chappal, pick it up and fling it hard in his direction. The slipper falls on his terrace and Rehana shakes my arm and whispers in horror, ‘Are you mad?’ The boy is laughing again. Feeling a strong surge of irritation, I pull out my other slipper and this time, with a short prayer I swing my arm right behind me and fling it forward. The slipper hits the boy’s shoulder and he flinches.

We stop laughing when we see him bend down to remove one of his slippers. Rehana and I run to the door that leads to the terrace, and we barely get it open when we hear a thud! Rehana giggles. Dark streaks are spreading across the sky, gently bringing in dusk when I realise that I don’t have my slippers. How will I explain their absence to Ammi when I go downstairs?

Rehana runs across the terrace once more, and is back before I can even guess what she’s doing. She holds out two well-used slippers. The sole is flat like a chapathi and it’s almost the same colour as my own.

I slip my feet into them. They feel grainy, as though they have been sprinkled with wet sand. Yuck! Rehana glares at me. ‘Just wear them Mehnaz! You’ll be lucky if Taima doesn’t notice the difference.’

The sole of my chappal slaps against the stairs. It’s two sizes big. We walk down the darkened stairway and when we finally reach down, Rehana and I run to the bathroom to wash our faces and hands. Is there any guilt on our faces? Will I be able to wash it out, I wonder, as I rub my face vigorously with the Hamam soap that is kept on the soap dish.

Surprisingly, Ammi has not been curious about where I have been all evening. For once, I don’t hear the litany that I dread so much - ‘Kahan thi…Kidhar thi…Kya kar rahee thi…’

The kitchen smells gloriously of biryani. If our family and Rehana’s is in Vellore at the same time, Ammi makes biryani at least once. Chachi is a good cook too but to me, biryani-making is like an obstacle race. Obstacles that Ammi clears with utmost ease. (I’ve often imagined her saree-clad, holding a huge ladle, jumping over large barricades) Of course, Asifa Chachi is so petite and demure that the obstacles just collapse all around her.

In the hot kitchen, Asifa Chachi is with Ammi, trying not to look like an eager pupil when Rehana walks into the kitchen, declaring that she loves my mother’s biryani. I can see the strain on chachi’s face as she fights to keep the smile pasted there.

‘What’s for dessert? Chachi, why don’t you make some of that chocolate pudding?’ I ask with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

She beams at me. ‘I’d love to! But I don’t think there’s any cocoa powder here,’ she says glancing at the shelves. ‘When we return to Bangalore, I’ll definitely make some for you!’ I nod, thankful that Ammi hasn’t reminded me that she has given Chachi the recipe for the pudding.

Basheer’s mother, Zohra Phuppu hardly speaks to anyone. She’s like a spectre, observing her sisters-in-law usurp her kitchen whenever they visit from Bangalore. That night when Sadiq Chacha asks her about Basheer, she shakes her head because she doesn’t know where he is. When Basheer comes back, Abbu and Chacha both question him. ‘Kyon, mian, where were you?’ Abbu asks, looking officious as he sits on the sofa.

Basheer hangs his head and doesn’t answer. Abbu’s face is turning red, a sure indication of his rising anger. I don’t want Basheer to face Abbu’s ire especially on the day he’s lost a kite.

‘Abbu! I had sent Basheer to the market to get . . . to get some things for me,’ I intervene, laughing a little nervously.

‘Go have your dinner. And if I hear from your mother that you came home late again, I’ll skin you.’ Abbu says to Basheer sharply. Basheer wipes a tear and runs away. Abbu is the same man who dotes on me, and yet he can inspire such terror in another. It’s not a comforting thought.

*****************************************************

Sometimes Ammi and Chachi take Phuppu with them to Gandhi Road and force her to buy new clothes. But Phuppu prefers her frayed sarees and Ammi and Chachi stop taking her along on their expeditions in search of blouse pieces and new jewellery designs.

Abbu and Chacha bring new clothes for Phuppu and Basheer from Bangalore each time. Once, Abbu got angry when we arrived in Vellore and found Phuppu wearing a faded saree. Ever since then, Phuppu wears the clothes her brothers bring for her, but probably only till we stay in Vellore. After we return, I’m sure she wears her old clothes again. Maybe they comfort her, make her believe that things aren’t too different from when those very clothes were new.

Rehana and I sleep next to her in the nights. She’s changed drastically since her husband went away. We are not supposed to talk about it, or mention the subject in front of her but we talk about it when we are alone.

I look at her huddled form, my happiness at coming to Vellore dissipating a little each time I see her sad eyes. When life is almost perfectly for one person, why is it all wrong for another?

Her mother-in-law lives with Phuppu and Basheer and she mutters insults at Phuppu and acts ingratiating towards Abbu with equal ease. Abbu dislikes Ammabi (we have to call her that because the old woman disliked being called Dadi), and often tries to ignore her.

In Abbu’s absence, Ammabi likes to boss us around. I often answer her back. Ammi always lets me think I’m getting away with being rude because she never scolds me right away. But after a pause, she reminds me about my manners in a way that makes my face flush with shame.

Phuppu got married when I was very little. But a year after she gave birth to Basheer, her husband just left them and went away. Abbu and Chacha have tried to get her to come back with us but she refuses. She also insists on taking care of her foul-mouthed mother-in-law so Abbu has fixed up the house that he had grown up in, and he settled Phuppu, Basheer, and Ammabi there. 

I love coming here because this is the house which is ‘Vellore’ for me. This is where life becomes an interminable string of events, where there’s no homework and playing with Rehana is all I do. But all this is marred forever because of Ammabi. The old woman is forever taunting and ridiculing Phuppu, rocking her body slowly, her breath emitting strong Pan Parag fumes.

‘Rehaan,’ I whisper. She shifts sleepily and squints at me. The zero-watt bulb glows dully, and I can barely distinguish Rehana’s outline as she turns towards me.

‘What?’ she whispers.

‘Do you think that boy would have found my chappals?’

She half sits up, leaning on her elbows. ‘Why?’ she asks.

‘I was just wondering whether his mother would get upset with him when she finds out he’s lost his chappals,’ I say, unable to meet her sharp gaze.

‘Isn’t it too late to think about that now?’ she whispers and slaps my arm.

‘Ouch! Ok, whatever,’ I mumble and shut my eyes.

Chapter 2

Bangalore

The first time I see Aasia, I feel happy because I foolishly think that she’s here to play with me. Then I learn that Ammi has asked for a young girl to help out with Mateen and so an old acquaintance who we called Khala has brought her to Bangalore so she can stay with us.

Khala’s burkha is faded and each time she visits us, the black seems to have seeped out a little more, making her look tired and insipid. Ammi brings tea in an old brown tea cup which confirms Khala’s social status. Khala sits on the sofa, her back slightly hunched as though she’s afraid her body will touch the sofa completely and maybe sully it and Aasia sits down on the carpet near her leg and looks around awed.

I try to see my house through her eyes. The huge ceiling, the big chandelier that rocks gently, the lovely ivory walls, unblemished and clean; it’s quite intimidating. I feel a little kind towards her at first, but then I realise that this will be her home too.

Aasia—thin, dark, with two oily braids tied right till the curved end with a pink and green ribbon—fascinates and repels me. She’s older than me, but I call her Aasia and she calls me Apa. She comes from a small town called Dharmapuri in Tamil Nadu. Before Khala leaves, she turns to Aasia and says, ‘Now be a good girl. These people will take good care of you. I’ll write to your mother and tell her that you reached safely.’ Aasia nods quietly, her eyes wide and glistening and I wonder how it must to leave her family and come all the way to Bangalore to live with strangers.

Aasia is quiet and keeps out of the way of both my parents but she loves Mateen like her own brother. Each day before I leave for school, I watch her playing with him. She can play all day with him while I struggle with Maths and Geography I think enviously.  But one day, I see her in the backyard, scrubbing Mateen’s clothes. One by one, she shakes the brightly coloured clothes and hangs them out to dry on a thick nylon rope, which is fixed to a pole.

One day when Ammi is making breakfast and Mateen wakes up, Aasia runs to the room to amuse him. I follow her and when I see her bend towards the little cot, something fierce surges in me and I yank Mateen out of her arms.

‘He’s crying, Apa, and I have to look after him,’ she protests mildly.

I hold Mateen’s soft body in my arms and swing him forwards and backwards, a game that used to make him giggle endlessly. But now he just squirms in my arms and stretches his arms out towards Aasia and says, ‘Aashhi!’

I push him back into her arms. Mateen stops wriggling and grins, showing his pink gums and his white baby teeth and although I want to stay angry with him, I can’t.

At breakfast I notice that Abbu looks pensive as he speaks to Ammi. ‘I’ve told him what I feel about going into business with that man. I just hope he’ll listen to me when he comes here this morning’

Ammi nods and calls out to Aasia.

‘Fill the jug with water.’

Ever since Aasia has come, Ammi has stopped asking me for help. She never asks me to set the table, or to fill water in the ice-trays. I get up before Aasia can come and I’m back at the table with the filled jug. Ammi looks surprised.

‘Doesn’t he know what a cheat that man is? Sadiq himself was telling me the other day about how he tricked Raeez bhai out of the partnership. And he wants to start a business with that man? Just because he is his wife’s brother?’ Abbu’s deep voice cuts into my thoughts and I wonder why Abbu disliked Rehana’s mamu, Afzal so much? I can’t believe that he’s a cheat and whatever else Abbu likes to call him. He seems such a nice man because whenever we visit Rehana’s house, he gives us big Cadbury bars, not the small ones that Ammi always buys for me. Rehana and I often compete to see who will eat the slowest and naturally I always lose.

Afzal Mamu has also taught us plenty of new card games and tricks and I display my newly acquired skills one Sunday afternoon when Abbu and Ammi look bored. But with a sense of growing discomfort, I realise that Abbu’s eyes have become small and his face is red. Feeling as if I’m on a hurtling train destined to crash somewhere, I continue. When I finally pick out the correct card and show it to them hesitantly, Abbu leans forward and takes it out of my hands.

‘Who taught this to you?’ he asks quietly. My mouth is dry as I reply, ‘Afzal Mamu.’ He leans back and turns to Ammi who looks embarrassed. ‘You know how I feel about that man. What were you doing when she was learning cheap tricks from him?’ he bellows. The cards that I am arranging slip and scatter near his feet. There are tears in Ammi’s eyes but they flash with anger when she looks at me. ‘Go to your room and do your homework!’ I’m banned from visiting Rehana’s house for a week after that. Not fair.

Later, in my room, I hear the sound of Chacha’s Fiat stopping near our house. I push open the window to see if Rehana has come with Chacha. The compound wall of our house blocks much of my view of our street, but I can still see the top of his car. The white Fiat stands solidly on the road. I hear only one door shut. No Rehana. 

I get engrossed in a book that I have borrowed from the school library. When I shut it finally, I notice that it’s nearly lunchtime and I don’t feel like having lunch, but Ammi will never hear of it. I often wonder how long Ammi will control how much I eat, and what I eat. 

If I don’t want to eat rice for lunch, Ammi won’t let me make a simple sandwich. It’s still food, isn’t it? According to her, we simply have to follow her cardinal rules about rice for lunch and rotis for dinner. Why can’t it at least be the other way around?

The house seems unnaturally quiet, fully and forcefully bringing out the feeling that I inhabit a separate world and visit this one occasionally. In the living room, everyone is silent and only Mateen is playing with his toys.

Abbu gets up wearily and Ammi follows him, looking worried. ‘I’m not having lunch today,’ Abbu says and goes into the room. Ammi is quiet. Does this mean I have to be as old as Abbu for Ammi to stop telling me about having lunch and dinner and breakfast?

Why hasn’t Chacha stayed back for lunch? Later on, I look in on Abbu. He’s sitting up with his head thrown back on the pillow. His eyes are closed and I sit near him. Sometimes just being near him is enough. He makes me feel so safe, but an inexplicable happy-sad feeling also runs through me.

He smiles when he sees me and reaching out behind him, he hands me a small flat bottle of liquid balm. I open it and tip the bottle against my fingers to coat them with the cool liquid. Then I rub my fingers on his forehead and he shuts his eyes.

There’s this line in the middle of his forehead. It’s like a crease, like his skin has been folded there. I wonder if I can straighten it out. Maybe I should use more of the liquid. Feeling the harder pressure on his forehead, Abbu winces. ‘What are you trying to do?’ he asks. He will laugh if I tell him.

‘Trying to get rid of your headache’, I say instead. He smiles. ‘Why didn’t Sadiq Chacha stay back for lunch?’ I ask suddenly. The smile vanishes.

Maybe I should have realised that this is probably the beginning of something big and unpleasant, but it doesn’t occur to me. After all, I am only thirteen.

Much of this book is very close to my own life but it has been fictionalised of course. I’d love to hear from you if you read the book! You can get it here.

I haven’t forgotten about the post on KDP Select. It’s coming soon. Till then, take care!