Short Story

After All, He Was Never a Cat Person

Summertime it was. Which meant at least eight weeks of uninterrupted sleep, or maybe even ten if you got lucky. It meant long playful and partially careless afternoons. Partially. Because summer homework was always due, lurking on our tiny heads like annoying summer mosquitos. Mosquitos you could ignore but they always made sure to make you feel their pitchy presence. Sometimes in the form of Ami’s sudden ‘auditing and control’ moods, other times with Baba’s surprise handwriting checks.

There could never be absolute freedom.

Freedom has to be restricted. Controlled. Especially when it comes to children.

But freedom it was.

Apart from the metaphoric and real biting mosquitos, sweltering sun, sweaty stinky playmates, and all the horrors summer brought for a winter person, it also meant long motorcycle rides, tractors, tube-wells, far-stretching farms, mango trees, and a lot of cousins.

We would always spend vacations at Dada’s in our ancestral village. All of my cousins would also spend their vacation there. Dada’s place was fun, sure, but it was my Aunt’s place that we all preferred. Her Haveli was traditionally designed with a vast front yard separated into two portions by a medium-sized temporary wall. One portion had a giant Black Plum Tree we called Jamnu that we naturally thought was possessed.

But the Jamnus were definitely ours. After all, human children are far superior to Jinns’. We have got the brains and the choice and all. God’s chosen children. If we want something, we get it. That’s that. Scare them animals, if you want. The Jamnus are ours.

But scared we were anyway.

All of us would play in that portion for hours without a break, throwing half-eaten Jamnus at each other; half-eaten because it would stain the cotton outfits we all wore an inky purple. Small delights.

We all would. All but one. She was my Aunt’s youngest. We avoided her, wouldn’t play with her. Yeah, kids are cruel creatures. But also honest with themselves. We wouldn’t play because she was different. Unique. Quiet but loud. Her presence always spoke for her. And we all felt it. She wouldn’t feel anything. Or maybe, didn’t know how to express herself. She and words never went along. And words were never sufficient to describe her. Smile and frown were her only weapons. She wouldn’t even feel any pain cutting herself or a snake or a donkey, whatever crossed her way. For different she was.

And if you’re a different kind, the other normal ones would either bully you or ignore you. But we could neither bully her nor ignore her because, first of all, I would like to believe (and would like you to believe) that we were no little normal jackasses; we were just frightened of her for she was the happiest heaviest slapper I have ever seen. She would just reach you with a big smiling face and slap you with all her might. So whatever we were playing would immediately turn into Pakrran Pakrrai, only that she was the only chaser and the rest of us, frantic frightened runners. This particular afternoon, someone from among us got caught, and she beat the hell out of them. I don’t remember who exactly.

My Uncle as a mediator, who was resting under the shade in the other portion of the yard, got hold of the situation; for only he had the hands big enough, and muscles strong enough to resist her unstoppable pounces. Chachu — as we called him — knew as an adult that all she wanted, and rightfully deserved, was a little attention. So, he tried to console that tiny energy packet and took her away briskly walking towards the veranda, talking to her, as if she listened, randomly. Because of her communication problems, she would normally use simple nouns only when she was excited or angry. Charpai, Jamnu, Ami, Mano.

However, that day, sitting next to Chachu on the Charpai placed near the veranda exposed to the main courtyard, she suddenly interrupted his adult nonsense and pointed her finger on the ground next to one of the pillars on which the roof of the veranda stood, saying, “Mamu, the black one is his and this white belongs to me.”, in a clear playful voice. It was completely random, but at that time, she spoke clearly. Whole sentence!

Chachu paused to reflect and gather his thoughts in an attempt to comprehend what she just said, and decided to finally open his mouth.

“What, beta?” was what he could come up with.

She replied innocently, “Mano”, smiling with all her tiny glistening teeth.

“Uski, kiski?” (Whose is it?), he asked without thinking.

“Jinn”, she blurted out, pointing at the same pillar but now in the air slightly above the ground.

All brightness on his face diminished, for there was no cat, black or white, and no one else his limited sight could see. So as a mature responsible adult, he left her with her Manos and ran towards the living area where there were real people, talking about real stuff.

After all, he was never a cat person.