*Who do you think you are?' he slapped me hard on my right cheek. I sat down on the dining room chair.
*Leave us and go. Why do you even come back?' My mother folded her hands at him.
*Don't beg, mom,' I said, fighting a lump in my throat. My father had made fun of me earlier for crying. To him, only weak men cried.
"Look at his voice, like a girl's,' my father mocked. He gave me a disgusted glance and went to the bathroom to change.
*Go to sleep, son,' my mother said.
*He is sending her away next week,' I said.
*What girl have you involved yourself with? You are so young,' my mother said.
*I am not marrying her tomorrow.'
*Is she Punjabi?' my mother asked.
*No,' I said.
*What?' she said, shocked as if I'd suggested she wasn't human.
*Will you meet her father, once?'
My father came out of the bathroom. He had heard my last sentence, *Don't you dare go anywhere, Kavita,' my father said, his eyes wild.
I stared back at him.
*Go to your room,' my father said.
I came back to my bed. I heard noises in my parent's room. I couldn't sleep. I woke up and came towards their room. I'd heard enough arguments of my parents throughout my life to care, but I placed my ear at the door, anyway.
"He is growing up,' my mother said.
*With all the wrong values. What does he know about this girl? He is my son, he is from IIT, see what deal I get for him at the right time.'
There it was, for all my father's principles, I was his trophy to be sold in the market to the highest bidder.
*You are responsible for bringing him up like this,' my father screamed at my mother.
I heard the sound of a glass being smashed against the wall.
*What have I done? I didn't even know about this girl....'
Slap ... slap ... my father interrupted my mother. I banged the door open as I heard a few more slaps. I saw my mother's hand covering her face. A piece of glass had cut her forearm.
My father turned to me. "Don't you have any manners? Can't you knock?'
*You don't teach me manners,' I said.
*Go away,' he said.
I shook my head. I saw the tears on my mother's face. My face burned with rage. She had lived with this for twenty-five years. I did know why a to bring me up; I didn't know how she did it.
My father lifted his hand to hit me. Automatically, I grabbed his wrist tight.
*Oh, now you are going to raise your hand against your own father,' he said.
I twisted his arm.
*Leave him, he won't change,' my mother panted.
I shook my head at her, my eyes staring right into his. I slapped his face once, twice, then I rolled my hand into a fist and punched his face.
My father went into a state of shock, he couldn't fight back. He didn't expect this; all my childhood I'd merely suffered his dominance. Today, it wasn't just about the broken glass. It wasn't only that the girl I loved would be gone. It was a reaction to two decades of abuse. Or that's how I defended it to myself. For how else do you justify hitting your own father? At that moment I couldn't stop. I punched his head until he collapsed on the floor. I couldn't remember the last time I reveled in violence like this. I was a studious child who stayed with his books all his life. Today, I was lucky there wasn't a gun at home.
This insanity passed after five minutes. My father didn't make eye contact with me.
He sat on the floor, and massaged the arm I had twisted. He stared at my mother, with a *see, I told you' expression.
My mother sat on the bed, fighting back her emotions. We looked at each other. We were a family, but pretty screwed up as they come. I took a broom and swept the broken glass into a newspaper sheet. I looked at my father and vowed never to speak to him again. I picked up the newspaper with the glass pieces and left the room.
36.
*That's it, Guruji,' I said, tears now dry on my face. *I've never shared so much with anyone.'
The sound of the sea could be heard, the waves asymmetrical to my tumultuous thoughts.
*Open your eyes,' Guruji said.
I lifted my eyelids slowly.
*Come, we will go to the balcony behind,' Guruji said.
I followed him to a terrace in the rear of the house. The sea breeze felt cool even in the hot sun. I sat on one of the two stools kept outside. He went inside and came back with two glasses and a book.
*It's coconut water. And this is the Gita. You've heard about the Gita?'
*Yes,' I said, *sort of.' I took a sip of the coconut water.
*What have you heard?'
*Like it is the ultimate book. It has all of life's wisdom. You have to work and not worry about the reward. Right?'
*Have you read it?'
*Parts of it. It's nice, but a little....'
*Boring?'
*Actually, no, not boring. Hard to follow and apply everything.'
*I'll give you just one word to apply in your life.'
*What?'
*Forgiveness.'
*Meaning? You want me to forgive my father? I can't.'
*Why not?'
*Because what he did was so wrong. He has ruined my mother's life. He has never loved me.'
*I am not saying he did the right thing. I am asking you to forgive him.'
*Why?'
*For you. Forgiving doesn't make the person who hurt you feel better, it makes you feel better.'
I pondered over his words.
*Close your eyes again,' Guruji said. *Imagine you have bags on your head.
They are bags of anger, pain and loss. How do they feel?'
*Heavy,' I sighed.
*Remove them from your head one by one,' Guruji said. *Imagine you are wearing a thick cloak that is wearing you down. Pardon the hurt others have caused you. What they did is past. What is bothering you today are your current feelings that come from this load. Let it go.'
Strange as Guruji's metaphors were, I felt compelled to obey the imagery in my mind. My head felt lighter.
*And surrender to God,' he went on. *You don't control anything or anyone.'
*I don't understand,' I said.
*Do you control your life? Your life depends on so many internal organs functioning right. You have no control on them. If your lungs don't cooperate, if your kidneys fail, if your heart stops, it is all over. You'll drop dead now. God has chosen to give you the gift of life, surrender to him.'
He kept me in meditation for the next few minutes.
*And now, you are free to go,' Guruji smiled.
I opened my eyes. The sharp afternoon sun shone on Guruji's face. He went inside and brought a small cup with grey ask. He dipped his index finger in the ash and marked my forehead.
*Thank you' I said as he blessed me with his hand on my head.
*You are welcome,' he said. *Anything else I can help you with?'
*Yes, which way is Hotel L'Orient?'
*Oh that,' Guruji laughed, *It is on Rue Romain Rolland. One kilometre from here.'
I reached L'Orient at four. Ananya was waiting at the entrance. The hotel is a renovated heritage building and was originally the Education Department Office when the French had colonised Pondicherry. Now a ten-room boutique property, it had a small restaurant in the indoor open patio. We ordered coffee and a slice of ginger cake with custard sauce.
*Isn't this place lovely?' Ananya breathed in deeply.
I nodded, still deep in though.
*So, tell me, what did you do? And what's with the tilak on your forehead?'
*I hit my father.'
*What?'
*A long time ago. Remember, how I would always avoid talking about my father in campus?'
*Yes, and I never pushed after that,' she said. *But what are you saying?'
I repeated the story of that night.
She looked at me, awestruck *Oh dear, I didn't know your parents were like this.'
*I nvever told you. It's fine.'
*Are you OK?' she said and moved her hand forward to hold me.
*Yes, I am fine. And I met a Guruji, who gave me good advice.'
*What? Who Guruji, what advice?' Ananya said.
*I don't know the Guruji. It doesn't matter. Sometimes in your life you just meet someone or hear something that nudges you on the right path. And that becomes the best advice. It could just be a bit of common sense said in a way that resonates with something in you. It's nothing new, but because it connects with you it holds meaning for you.'