Justified violence against women

The title sounds macabre and controversial but its just a somber title for the story which is to follow.
As a boy growing up in the 80's, girls were a entity that was not understood by me and like Calvin I considered them to be my sworn enemy. What they had done to me was not important but having an entire species to target my shenanigans towards was a juicy prospect. The following episode in no way represents my feelings towards the fairer sex today, to which my wife should readily attest to (right?)

Rohini, was my first girl friend (the friend who is a girl variety). She used to live close-by and would drop in to play with me. Thats when I realized that the female gender was strikingly different from me. They didnt think, play or want the same things that I wanted. Our play sessions would typically be
Step1: Excitement, when she arrived as I had someone to play with.
Step 2: 5 minutes of fun
Step 3: Heated arguments about the game, rules, and other such triviality
Step 4: Either physical violence or both of us screaming at each other at the top of our voices.
Step 5: me asking her to get out while she stormed out in a huff, swearing to never return again and me swearing never to play with her again.
Invariably a day or two later, she ended up at my gate and the same sequence of events played out.
Once Rohini was at my place while my mom was forcibly trying to get me to drink my evening milk. As usual I was throwing a fit and my mom gave me a quick whack to get me to comply, Rohini was enjoying this domestic tussle. Finally shedding a few tears I reluctantly drank the milk. Now a background on my persona is essential to understand the next sequence of events. In those days I was a maverick of sorts to my class mates, the brat who was not afraid of anything or anyone. In class I openly challenged authority by playing pranks, I terrorized girls by pulling their pigtails and generally giving them a hard time. Being athletic, I was able to run faster and jump farther than most boys which earned me their respect and I was the de facto leader. So when a sworn girl enemy sees the so called stud being reduced to tears by his mom, she realizes that she has stumbled on a gold mine of information. By the time I reached school the next day, girls were giggling at me, talking in hushed tones and looking in my direction and laughing. I was foxed with their behavior, some of my loyal cronies told me that Rohini was spreading some story about me. Thats when it hit me that my unflappable reputation was in danger of being torn to shreds. My worst fears were confirmed when Rohini did a mock act of me getting whacked by my mom and shedding tears. The entire class were laughing at this parody and Rohini was enjoying it to the hilt. Anger rose through me like the Mt Vesuvius awakening after a decade long slumber. I chased rohini all round the classroom., her shrieking and all her friends giggling egging her on. Finally I caught her, pushed her to the ground and put my leg against her throat. My anger had completely blinded me, here I was a stud till yesterday and because of this mocking girl, I was a laughing stock. I had to punish her, I had to hurt her. I pulled out my school belt which was a leather belt with our school emblem on our buckle. With this weapon of choice, I started whipping a now startled and frightened Rohini. The laughing had ceased and the screams came out loud and clear. I don't know how long I continued in this fashion, but I remember being hauled off to the principal, Sister Yvonne. She was aghast at this new prank of mine which was bordering on the criminal. Poor Rohini was in a state of shock and was sobbing. I was asked to stand outside the principals office while the rest of school had gathered to get a glimpse of the drama. Everyone was asked to get back to lessons and I stood sullenly in the principals office. She angrily asked me what the devil was wrong with me, I told her that Rohini had irritated me (with a lot of venom emphasized when I said irritated). She in her very Christian overtone told me that a small child like me should not use such big words like irritating. I said I knew bigger words than that. Immediately Sister Yvonnes ears pricked, she thought maybe I knew some abusive language and asked me in stern voice what it was that I claimed to know. I told her in a bold voice “Condensation, evaporation”. She almost would have laughed if it wasn’t for poor Rohini standing sobbing in the same room, waiting for justice.
Sister Yvonne asked me to apologise immediately to Rohini. My anger had not subsided and I refused to do so. Christanity always is merciful to the repentant, but what do you do with the unrepentant like myself.The sister just dialed my home number and asked my mom to come down to school…………again. By this time Rohini and I realized that I was in big trouble. She made faces at me through her tear stained face, I just looked away. Once I told the Sister that she was making faces at me, at which I was asked to be silent and reflect on what I had done. I just put my head down and didn’t look at her but was imagining the kind of faces she must be conjuring up. Mom did come and after a long discussion with the principal, she told me in a stern voice to apologise immediately. By now my bravado was deflated and in a meek voice I told Rohini I was sorry, without looking her in the eye of course. To add insult to injury Rohini said “Its alright”, to me drawing immediate praise from the mercy appreciating Christians. I don’t remember being punished for this capital crime, but I did stay away from Rohini for a week after that. But I was soon back to my old ways.

More Childhood musings

The second birth:
I don’t remember too much of my mom being pregnant with my brother, but I do remember that my granny and her male servant thambi staying with us. I vaguely remember dad remarking to me that I would soon have a brother to play with in the house. I don’t know where I first saw my brother, hospital or home, but I do remember his face when I first saw him and to me it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I remember planning a lot of games and things to do with him. I remember mom and dad asking me to think of a name for him. I actually took this task very seriously and came up with some names “Pavithran, Policeman, Deepak etc” Dad and mom even today tell me that I was the one who thought of his name, well I’d like to think so. I remember the pram on which I would push my brother along. I remember his silky hair and small feet and I liked the fact that he unfailingly tightened my finger with his tiny hand every time I put it there.
Lock up:
As a kid and even today I create, think and live in my own fantasies. If I had a toy gun, then the jungle, the enemies, the wounds, the drama everything was conjured up in my fertile imagination. I used to spend hours by myself with some tools of fantasy and my imagination took over. Even today I do the same, the scale and situations vary.
I remember a small godrej (I think) almirah that I used to play a train simulation in. I used to sit inside the almirah and keep pulling the doors. I spent hours there playing out my fantasies. Once when my mom was quite pregnant with my bro, she had gone to collect the laundry from outside. I was playing in my favourite almirah, pulling and pushing the doors with much gusto, making sure that the doors don’t completely lock. As it happens with most of my mis-adventures, I pulled the doors a bit too hard and the damn thing closed on me. A 4 year old hyperactive kid in a confined dark space just reeks of utter panic. And panic I did, I screamed and pushed the doors with all my strength, so much so that the whole almirah was now rocking. Mom heard the din and was rushing as fast as her 8 months of labour allowed her. She was confronted with a daunting sight of a mid sized godrej almirah rocking on its axis and the muffled sounds of her son emanating from within it. Her dizzy spells kicked in just to add a bit more drama to an already tizzy situation. Mustering her maternal instincts, my poor mom waddled up to the almirah and yanked the handle open. Out tumbled her very suffocated, blue bundle of joy. I was apparently blue due to the lack of oxygen and all that shouting. She tells me that she remembers my very white teeth as I flashed a big grin and told her that if there was a light bulb in the almirah I wouldn’t have been so scared. Poor mom must have wondered what she had done in any of her previous births to deserve me, and must have looked with fear at her protruding belly wondering what untold mass of protoplasm was brewing inside this time.
Back to school:
Another incident I remember vividly thankfully does not involve any blood but is not short on drama and trauma value for my parents. I don’t remember who this friend was, but I think his name was pawan. One day he and I got into an argument as to whose school was bigger. I argued vehemently that mine was and he scoffed and retorted on this claim. With no closure looming on the horizon, we decided to take a look at his school and bring an end to this matter of honour. Pumped on adrenalin and fostering a deep resentment for each other, we decided to walk the distance to his school. It was a good 3-4 kms away on the main road, but distance was no barrier when it came to adolescent pride. We started off without of course informing anyone, these things never struck you at that time in life. With Lilliputian legs and strides, we made slow progress towards our destination and I remember crossing crowded roads teeming with Hyderabad traffic, going below an overbridge, and sweating it out in the hot Hyderabad sun. Meanwhile mom had realized that something was amiss as there was no pandemonium breaking out at home. She searched high and low for me and quickly concluded that I was lost. She freaked as most moms do and anxious neighbors started scrounging the neighborhood. Our hyper concerned neighbours started talking of kidnappings, which put more panic in my panic saturated mom. Dad was informed at office that his son had gone missing.
About the same time we had finished seeing his school which was locked being a holiday and obviously we couldn’t conclude whose was bigger. On our way back, a neighbour who was out on his scooter looking for us, saw me and pawan and picked us up. All during the ride back he was admonishing us for gallivanting without informing anyone. I then realized that I was in trouble and every metre being covered by the speeding scooter was a step closer to a good shouting and a painful beating. Sometimes when you expect the worst, it doesn’t happen, well this was not one of those times. Mom hugged me, slapped me and cried all in one motion. The neighbours were all thanked for their efforts. Dad yelled, mom cried some more and I was left to ponder on what was so terrible about a perfectly legitimate adventure.
Some of the stories I have heard about myself and I have heard a lot of stories about me, involve mischief to the nth degree. I was the kind of kid that would have justified infanticide. Satan was a church choir boy compared to me. I cant imagine how my parents put up with my shit, and despite that still loved me and provided for me. My mom was just 19 when she had me. If I think of the nineteen year old girl friends I knew back in college, I can’t imagine anyone taking care of a child, let alone one who made the hair on your neck stand. The mental strength it must have taken for my mom to take care of me is unimaginable. I think mom and me share such a great relationship because of the fact that we are separated by only 19 years and by the realization that many times I was one step away from being abandoned in a dumpster.

Childhood musings

THE BHOPAL EXPRESS MEMORIES (1977 – 1980)
My earliest memories of my childhood are of Bhopal, of dad coming home in his car and the honk announcing his arrival and my running and or falling down the stairs to meet him every time. My closest near death experience came quite early in life, when, excited by the fact that dad had come home, I tried to cycle down the stairs, tumbled and fell cycle et al and landed right at my dads feet as he opened the door to the stairs. Sometimes these memories are so vague that it feels like maybe its just some movie that I saw long back and am mistaking it to be my own.
I don’t remember much of the house we lived in except I remember living on the first floor and I remember my red tricycle which I used to drive around like a madman and a “hit me” doll which always used to bounce back. I vaguely remember our neighbours, but remember a kind old balding man, a slightly portly woman who used to feed me snacks. I however have no recollection of being called “tinku” which apparently was my pet name.

HYDERABAD BLUES (1980 – 1982)
I remember creepers in the front of our house. I remember a lot of trees and a long road along which I used to run. I used to love the gate to our house on which I used to stand and swing for hours. I remember a neighbor down the road where there used to be an older boy who for some reason used to pick on me. I think he was the first “Moe” (bully) I encountered.
I remember my second near death experience so vividly. I even remember the clothes I was wearing, a blue small checked shirt. There was a squabble and then me trying to play David to my goliath. The result was that I was on all fours on the cement walkway in front of my house and he was playing “horsie” sitting on me. He was pushing my head up and down and on one such exaggerated oscillation, I banged my head to the ground. Now a glass piece with a jagged edge lying somewhere on 1000 sq ft of ground in front of the house is not what one would describe as a remarkable fact, but my head banging 1 square inch of that ground and finding that very glass piece could be classified as a wicked coincidence. Well, that happened and a curtain of blood streamed down my face from an angry looking cut right on my hairline. My bronco bully panicked like he had seen a ghost and ran away running down the road to his house screaming “khoon, khoon”. I was bawling, more out of shock than pain. Mom saw me and rushed me to the bath room and the bleeding was soon arrested. Soon we had a two member delegation to my house, my head banger bully and his very concerned mother. If there ever was a time I felt sorry for that boy it was then, he looked like he had cried so much that his eyes were ready to fall out, his leg was red and swollen from a beating his mother had given him and to which she referred to several times during her apology to my mom as a sort of compensation for my loss of blood. She slapped his hung head a couple of times during her tirade to my mom of how she was fed up dealing with the shenanigans of her son. My mom clearly was embarrassed by this violent apology and kept telling her that it was partly my fault also. At one point of time I actually went up to the deflated bully and put my arm around his shoulder. (Well I don’t know if I actually did that coz I was quite a “harami” when I was young, but I think I did, so we leave it at that). I remember dad being angry initially with the whole event but I did get a lot of attention and love post that event. I think I did get stitches for that wound but have no recollection of it.
Speaking of stitches I did get my fair share during my time. The one occasion I remember with some clarity involves my much beloved gate who turned a villan on one dark night. We had some guests in the evening and there was a girl my age to whom I was showcasing my gate swinging abilities. She was clearly impressed and this spurred on my already maxed out confidence. I was on one gate and she was on the other portion, and using one leg as a push off mechanism, I was easily lapping her over and over again. Then the unthinkable happened With constant increases in gate swinging speed, the performance barriers had been breached and for some reason which I am not clear about even today, I found myself off the gate on the ground and her swinging gate hit my head from behind. Again there was blood, tears and concern. After some candy had shut me up, the visit came to an end and I don’t think I said goodbye to this girl who had seen me fall from a swinging hero to a wounded sulking crybaby. After our guests had left us my mom and dad again examined my wound which they had kept telling the guests was just a small cut. I distinctly remember my mom’s gasp when she parted my hair and her remarking to dad that she could see my skull. Wow, skull was a word that I didn’t know then, and I felt a sense of excitement mingled with fear. “What is skull? Why cant I see it? Will my head open up?” were some of the questions I posed to my already beleaguered parents. The doctor examined my wounds and recommended a stitch. Well my mom held my legs and I think dad left the room while I was reacting to this entire episode like a weak secret agent going through Chinese torture. I screamed, squirmed, bit, kicked, spat, howled my way through four stitches which I felt the sick doctor enjoyed. When it was all over, I was given some candy by the doctor which did little to change my hatred for him. Well that was the end of that and to quote my wife “A stitch in time saves mine”.

Monkeys: There used to be a daily migration of the red snouted monkeys across our backyard. They were fairly fearless of humans and always looked out for a quick grab and run opportunity of food items. Spices left to dry, coconut pieces etc used to be disturbed often by this band of simian pirates. We used to have face offs, general mom engaged in a tug of war with an adventurous monkey who dared to waltz away with her laundry.

Uma Montessori: This was my first school, where I did what was then described as LKG and UKG. I don’t remember much about lessons, but I do remember having pencils and a blade to sharpen them, for some reason blades were more popular than sharpeners. There used to be half and full blades and we used to sharpen them. I don’t know why every vivid memory of mine involves blood but I remember cutting my thumb with the blade and rushing off to the bathroom to wash it off. For some reason I remember the classrooms as dark and damp. I remember mom picking me from school and me walking back home with her holding her hand.