BENGALURU: Now when I think of it, my life started that summer when I first told Inga I was going to write a book. She was about eleven years old then, and I had just entered my fourteenth year. I was in Komala Nivas for the summer holidays and far away from Delhi where my father lived in all the vainglory of being a Member of Parliament, and unleashed too, from his savage controlling. And his viciousness.
We were in our secret place that day, Inga and I, eating raw green mangoes that we had stolen from the store room, where they had been heaped to be sliced, salted and pickled. Mangoes are such egotistical fruit. They demand your complete attention, whether they are ripe or green. My mango was small, the size of a pebble, but it burned my tongue and lips, the salt I held in my palm had become wet and rough. It was hot, my chin itched. I knew we could not be seen by the eyes of the house but I was not sure of the ears. So I leaned close to Inga and whispered, ‘I’m going to write a book. About Sister in law Too.’ Inga laughed.
If anyone could transform laughter to light, she did, Inga. Radiance upon radiance of laughter, chime upon bell chime of light sparkled and shone everywhere. It was as if the sky showered tiny star grains that scattered, glinting, on the hay heap we were cocooned in; they sparkled on the leaves of the jackfruit tree above and dusted my arms with gold. Who could resist such a dance of light...? I couldn’t, I never could. Almost never.
There was a sudden scramble of sound from the far side of the cow shed and I saw Sister in law Too shoot out and run towards the house, tripping and falling in her hurry. She turned for a second to look at us laughing, my eyes collided with hers, and then she was off, buttoning her blouse and trying to gather up her sari at the same time. I watched her go, hoping she would fall headlong; sadly she did not. I hated Sister in law Too. She was the wife of Brother Two, who, at the time, was away studying in Madras or so it was assumed. Sister in law Too considered herself a non-pareil, always smiling at her reflection in the mirror and sniffing into her armpits. Once, I asked her why she did that, smelt herself, and she whipped around and said she was not an ugly black rat like me, she was a goddess, as fair as milk, as graceful as a deer, she was a raashaati, a royal princess. I hated her from then. I vowed to take revenge. “Like Draupadi?” Inga asked. I did not know who Draupadi was but I said yes, like her.
About Inga
Rapa is born into a Tamil Brahmin family, full of dark secrets. She is brought up in Delhi where an ‘English’ education introduces her to literature that is both fascinating and foreign. Her summer holidays are spent in the confines of the family home in Kerala, where she has for companion her cousin Inga. But as the two girls grow up, their lives change through a tortuous, pain-filled process. Forty years after her death, Rapa’s husband has her notes published, the story of her struggles against her family, her marriage and her final encounter with Inga. A tragic tale of yearning and hope, of derision and rage, of miracles and dreams, of commitment and utter rejection.
About the author
Poile Sengupta was born in Ernakulam, Kerala, and began writing while in school in Delhi. Her work includes fiction, poetry and drama for adults, as well as for children. Her collection of six plays was published by Routledge, in 2010, as Women Centre Stage: The Dramatist and the Play. Her recent writing for children includes Role Call and Role Call Again by Rupa, and Vikram and Vetal, Vikramaditya’s Throne and Good Heavens! One Act Plays for Children by Puffin. Her short fiction for children has been extensively anthologised. Poile Sengupta is a well known theatre person in Bangalore, which is now her home. This is her first novel.