Funny Boy (2 page)

The visits at my grandparents’ began to change with the return from abroad of Kanthi Aunty, Cyril Uncle, and their daughter, Tanuja, whom we quickly renamed “Her Fatness,” in that cruelly direct way children have.

At first we had no difficulty with the newcomer in our midst. In fact we found her quite willing to accept that, by
reason of her recent arrival, she must necessarily begin at the bottom.

In the hierarchy of bride-bride, the person with the least importance, less even than the priest and the page boys, was the groom. It was a role we considered stiff and boring, that held no attraction for any of us. Indeed, if we could have dispensed with that role altogether we would have, but alas it was an unfortunate feature of the marriage ceremony. My younger sister, Sonali, with her patient good nature, but also sensing that I might have a mutiny on my hands if I asked anyone else to play that role, always donned the long pants and tattered jacket, borrowed from my grandfather’s clothes chest. It was now deemed fitting that Her Fatness should take over the role and thus leave Sonali free to wrap a bedsheet around her body, in the manner of a sari, and wear araliya flowers in her hair like the other bridesmaids.

For two spend-the-days, Her Fatness accepted her role without a murmur and played it with all the skilled unobtrusiveness of a bit player. The third spend-the-day, however, everything changed. That day turned out to be my grandmothers birthday. Instead of dropping the children off and driving away as usual, the aunts and uncles stayed on for lunch, a slight note of peevish displeasure in their voices.

We had been late, because etiquette (or rather my father) demanded that Amma wear a sari for the grand occasion of her mother-in-law’s sixtieth birthday. Amma’s tardiness and her insistence on getting her palu to fall to exactly above her knees drove us all to distraction (especially Diggy, who quite rightly feared that in his absence Meena would try to persuade the
better members of his team to defect to her side). Even I, who usually loved the ritual of watching Amma get dressed, stood in her doorway with the others and fretfully asked if she was ever going to be ready.

When we finally did arrive at Ramanaygam Road, everyone else had been there almost an hour. We were ushered into the drawing room by Amma to kiss Ammachi and present her with her gift, the three of us clutching the present. All the uncles and aunts were seated. Her Fatness stood in between Kanthi Aunty’s knees, next to Ammachi. When she saw us, she gave me an accusing, hostile look and pressed further between her mother’s legs. Kanthi Aunty turned away from her discussion with Mala Aunty, and, seeing me, she smiled and said in a tone that was as heavily sweetened as undiluted rose-syrup, “So, what is this I hear, aah? Nobody will play with my little daughter.”

I looked at her and then at Her Fatness, shocked by the lie. All my senses were alert.

Kanthi Aunty wagged her finger at me and said in a playful, chiding tone, “Now, now, Arjie, you must be nice to my little daughter. After all, she’s just come from abroad and everything.” Fortunately, I was prevented from having to answer. It was my turn to present my cheek to Ammachi, and, for the first time, I did so willingly, preferring the prick of the diamond mukkuthi to Kanthi Aunty’s honeyed admonition.

Kanthi Aunty was the fourth oldest in my father’s family. First there was my father, then Ravi Uncle, Mala Aunty, Kanthi Aunty, Babu Uncle, Seelan Uncle, and finally Radha Aunty, who was much younger than the others and was away,
studying in America. Kanthi Aunty was tall and bony, and we liked her the least, in spite of the fact that she would pat our heads affectionately whenever we walked past or greeted her. We sensed that beneath her benevolence lurked a seething anger, tempered by guile, that could have deadly consequences if unleashed in our direction. I had heard Amma say to her sister, Neliya Aunty, that “Poor Kanthi was bitter because of the humiliations she had suffered abroad. After all, darling, what a thing, forced to work as a servant in a whitey’s house to make ends meet.”

Once Ammachi had opened the present, a large silver serving tray, and thanked us for it (and insisted on kissing us once again), my brother, my sister, and I were finally allowed to leave the room. Her Fatness had already disappeared. I hurried out the front door and ran around the side of the house.

When I reached the back garden I found the girl cousins squatting on the porch in a circle. They were so absorbed in what was happening in the centre that none of them even heard my greeting. Lakshmi finally became aware of my presence and beckoned me over excitedly. I reached the circle and the cause of her excitement became clear. In the middle, in front of Her Fatness, sat a long-legged doll with shiny gold hair. Her dress was like that of a fairy queen, the gauze skirt sprinkled with tiny silver stars. Next to her sat her male counterpart, dressed in a pale-blue suit. I stared in wonder at the marvellous dolls. For us cousins, who had grown up under a government that strictly limited all foreign imports, such toys were unimaginable. Her Fatness turned to the other cousins and asked them if they wanted to hold the dolls for a moment.
They nodded eagerly and the dolls passed from hand to hand. I moved closer to get a better look. My gaze involuntarily rested on Her Fatness and she gave me a smug look. Immediately her scheme became evident to me. It was with these dolls that my cousin from abroad hoped to seduce the other cousins away from me.

Unfortunately for her, she had underestimated the power of bride-bride. When the other cousins had all looked at the dolls, they bestirred themselves and, without so much as a backward glance, hurried down the steps to prepare for the marriage ceremony. As I followed them, I looked triumphantly at Her Fatness, who sat on the porch, clasping her beautiful dolls to her chest.

When lunch was over, my grandparents retired to their room for a nap. The other adults settled in the drawing room to read the newspaper or doze off in the huge armchairs. We, the bride-to-be and the bridesmaids, retired to Janaki’s room for the long-awaited ritual of dressing the bride.

We were soon disturbed, however, by the sound of booming laughter. At first we ignored it, but when it persisted, getting louder and more drawn out, my sister, Sonali, went to the door and looked out. Her slight gasp brought us all out onto the porch. There the groom strutted, up and down, head thrown back, stomach stuck out. She sported a huge bristly moustache (torn out of the broom) and a cigarette (of rolled paper and talcum powder), which she held between her fingers and puffed on vigorously. The younger cousins, instead of getting dressed
and putting the final touches to the altar, sat along the edge of the porch and watched with great amusement.

“Aha, me hearties!” the groom cried on seeing us. She opened her hands expansively. “Bring me my fair maiden, for I must be off to my castle before the sun setest.”

We looked at the groom, aghast at the change in her behaviour. She sauntered towards us, then stopped in front of me, winked expansively and, with her hand under my chin, tilted back my head.

“Ahh!” she exclaimed. “A bonny lass, a bonny lass indeed.”

“Stop it!” I cried, and slapped her hand. “The groom is not supposed to make a noise.”

“Why not?” Her Fatness replied angrily, dropping her hearty voice and accent. “Why can’t the groom make a noise?”

“Because.”

“Because of what?”

“Because the game is called bride-bride, not groom-groom.”

Her Fatness seized her moustache and flung it to the ground dramatically. “Well I don’t want to be the groom any more. I want to be the bride.”

We stared at her in disbelief, amazed by her impudent challenge to my position.

“You can’t,” I finally said.

“Why not?” Her Fatness demanded. “Why should you always be the bride? Why can’t someone else have a chance too?”

“Because …” Sonali said, joining in. “Because Arjie is the bestest bride of all.”

“But he’s not even a girl,” Her Fatness said, closing in on the lameness of Sonali’s argument. “A bride is a girl, not a boy.” She looked around at the other cousins and then at me. “A boy cannot be the bride,” she said with deep conviction. “A girl must be the bride.”

I stared at her, defenceless in the face of her logic.

Fortunately, Sonali, loyal to me as always, came to my rescue. She stepped in between us and said to Her Fatness, “If you can’t play properly, go away. We don’t need you.”

“Yes!” Lakshmi, another of my supporters, cried.

The other cousins, emboldened by Sonali’s fearlessness, murmured in agreement.

Her Fatness looked at all of us for a moment and then her gaze rested on me.

“You’re a pansy,” she said, her lips curling in disgust.

We looked at her blankly.

“A faggot,” she said, her voice rising against our uncomprehending stares.

“A sissy!” she shouted in desperation.

It was clear by this time that these were insults.

“Give me that jacket,” Sonali said. She stepped up to Her Fatness and began to pull at it. “We don’t like you any more.”

“Yes!” Lakshmi cried. “Go away you fatty-boom-boom!”

This was an insult we all understood, and we burst out laughing. Someone even began to chant, “Hey fatty-boom-boom. Hey fatty-boom-boom.”

Her Fatness pulled off her coat and trousers. “I hate you all,” she cried. “I wish you were all dead.” She flung the groom’s
clothes on the ground, stalked out of the back garden, and went around the side of the house.

We returned to our bridal preparations, chuckling to ourselves over the new nickname we had found for our cousin.

When the bride was finally dressed, Lakshmi, the maid of honour, went out of Janaki’s room to make sure that everything was in place. Then she gave the signal and the priest and choirboys began to sing, with a certain want of harmony and correct lyrics, “The voice that breathed oh Eeeden, the first and glorious day.…” Solemnly, I made my way down the steps towards the altar that had been set up at one end of the back garden. When I reached the altar, however, I heard the kitchen door open. I turned to see Her Fatness with Kanthi Aunty. The discordant singing died out.

Kanthi Aunty’s benevolent smile had completely disappeared and her eyes were narrowed with anger.

“Who’s calling my daughter fatty?” Kanthi Aunty said. She came to the edge of the porch.

We stared at her, no one daring to own up.

Her gaze fell on me and her eyes widened for a moment. Then a smile spread across her face.

“What’s this?” she said, the honey seeping back into her voice. She came down a few steps and crooked her finger at me. I looked down at my feet and refused to go to her.

“Come here, come here,” she said.

Unable to disobey her command any longer, I went to her. She looked me up and down for a moment, and then gingerly, as if she were examining raw meat at the market, turned me around.

“What’s this you’re playing?” she asked.

“It’s bride-bride, Aunty,” Sonali said.

“Bride-bride,” she murmured.

Her hand closed on my arm in a tight grip.

“Come with me,” she said.

I resisted, but her grip tightened, her nails digging into my elbow. She pulled me up the porch steps and towards the kitchen door.

“No,” I cried. “No, I don’t want to.”

Something about the look in her eyes terrified me so much I did the unthinkable and I hit out at her. This made her hold my arm even more firmly. She dragged me through the kitchen, past Janaki, who looked up, curious, and into the corridor and towards the drawing room. I felt a heaviness begin to build in my stomach. Instinctively I knew that Kanthi Aunty had something terrible in mind.

As we entered the drawing room, Kanthi Aunty cried out, her voice brimming over with laughter, “See what I found!”

The other aunts and uncles looked up from their papers or bestirred themselves from their sleep. They gazed at me in amazement as if I had suddenly made myself visible, like a spirit. I glanced at them and then at Amma’s face. Seeing her expression, I felt my dread deepen. I lowered my eyes. The sari suddenly felt suffocating around my body, and the hairpins, which held the veil in place, pricked at my scalp.

Then the silence was broken by the booming laugh of Cyril Uncle, Kanthi Aunty’s husband. As if she had been hit, Amma swung around in his direction. The other aunts and uncles began to laugh too, and I watched as Amma looked from one
to the other like a trapped animal. Her gaze finally came to rest on my father and for the first time I noticed that he was the only one not laughing. Seeing the way he kept his eyes fixed on his paper, I felt the heaviness in my stomach begin to push its way up my throat.

“Ey, Chelva,” Cyril Uncle cried out jovially to my father, “looks like you have a funny one here.”

My father pretended he had not heard and, with an inclination of his head, indicated to Amma to get rid of me.

She waved her hand in my direction and I picked up the edges of my veil and fled to the back of the house.

That evening, on the way home, both my parents kept their eyes averted from me. Amma glanced at my father occasionally, but he refused to meet her gaze. Sonali, sensing my unease, held my hand tightly in hers.

Later, I heard my parents fighting in their room.

“How long has this been going on?” my father demanded.

“I don’t know,” Amma cried defensively. “It was as new to me as it was to you.”

“You should have known. You should have kept an eye on him.”

“What should I have done? Stood over him while he was playing?”

“If he turns out funny like that Rankotwera boy, if he turns out to be the laughing-stock of Colombo, it’ll be your fault,” my father said in a tone of finality. “You always spoil him and encourage all his nonsense.”

“What do I encourage?” Amma demanded.

“You are the one who allows him to come in here while you’re dressing and play with your jewellery.”

Amma was silent in the face of the truth.

Of the three of us, I alone was allowed to enter Amma’s bedroom and watch her get dressed for special occasions. It was an experience I considered almost religious, for, even though I adored the goddesses of the local cinema, Amma was the final statement in female beauty for me.