a roof, sprawling until I could see no more. Clouds of bats came pouring out of the abandoned rooms. Some of the still-habitable rooms were used by Colonel Uncle. I was desperately curious to find out what was there, but my parents had made it strictly out of bounds.
‘Rahul, you always find a way to do what you want. But I don’t want you to go upstairs—there are bats there. It is dirty,’ my mother warned me. However, I feared another, darker terror upstairs, something menacing that I would do well to avoid. But Rani and I would make occasional, half-hearted attempts to go upstairs, she egging me on. ‘I challenge you to go upstairs,’ she would say scornfully at the end of an argument. These challenges were always at night, of course. ‘I knew it, I knew it!’ she would then crow in victorious delight when she would find me, each time, huddled on the tenth step of the winding wrought-iron stairs, unable to go any farther, frozen in terror of God-knows-what.
‘Are bats dangerous?’ I’d once asked my mother. I was fascinated by them. Each bat had a fox-like, mammalian face, except that the nose was shaped like a leaf. Every sunset, I saw them flitting around like little black butterflies, wheeling and diving. ‘Ignorant people think so because they look so different from anything else that flies. Contrary tourban myths, flying foxes or bats are completely harmless to humans and certainly do not get entangled in our hair,’ Mother had said. ‘I just think that places where bats live are filthy and dark. You never know what else might be there.’
Anyway, the urgent matter of the letter handled, I went to my room and curled up in my favourite chair with a mystery by Enid Blyton. Turning on the lamp, I was soon engrossed in my own world when Rani burst in.
‘Rahul, Rahul! Where are you?’ Rani sounded annoyed when she could not see me. The large armchair in which I comfortably snuggled easily swallowed my thin arms and torso.
‘I’m here,’ I answered, wary and not quite sure whether Rani had a devious trick planned.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be studying and preparing for the exams?’
‘Yes, I am, but I don’t feel like it.’
‘You better do well at school or Baba will be very upset. And then we won’t get to go watch any films this summer.’
‘What about you? Are you preparing for the exams?’ I countered.
Rani raised a hand patronizingly. ‘Please. As if I would ever neglect my studies. You are the one who is always daydreaming and wandering about in the garden. I’m surprised you haven’t been hauled up by your teachers at school.’
I wished she would go away, but Rani continued: ‘Talking about school … I heard from Suresh Khosla’s sister that someone called Amit in your class was expelled. He told her that he had alerted the principal about a love letter that Amit had written. I am sure Suresh made it all up. Suchtroublemakers, Suresh and his sister! I hate people who tittle-tattle and get others in trouble. His sister is always bullying the new girls.’
I sat up, attentive. ‘Suresh is the same way,’ I told Rani, happy we were in agreement about something, thinking about his hatred when accusing Amit. Surprised at how amenable Rani was being, I decided to push my luck and ask her the question that had been preying on my mind all day.
‘Do you know what shock therapy is?’ I asked.
‘It is given to someone who has a mental problem. You know, they put these metal plates on your temples and send some high-voltage electric current through it. It zaps the brain and gets people to stop behaving a certain way. Some people go mad after the therapy. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing …’ I said, sick to my stomach at the thought of Amit gone mad. A stab of fear went through me. What if I were made to go through shock therapy? Misery wound itself like a tight rope through my gut and I thought I was going to vomit. But I decided to push further. Perhaps Rani would know why the
‘Rahul, you always find a way to do what you want. But I don’t want you to go upstairs—there are bats there. It is dirty,’ my mother warned me. However, I feared another, darker terror upstairs, something menacing that I would do well to avoid. But Rani and I would make occasional, half-hearted attempts to go upstairs, she egging me on. ‘I challenge you to go upstairs,’ she would say scornfully at the end of an argument. These challenges were always at night, of course. ‘I knew it, I knew it!’ she would then crow in victorious delight when she would find me, each time, huddled on the tenth step of the winding wrought-iron stairs, unable to go any farther, frozen in terror of God-knows-what.
‘Are bats dangerous?’ I’d once asked my mother. I was fascinated by them. Each bat had a fox-like, mammalian face, except that the nose was shaped like a leaf. Every sunset, I saw them flitting around like little black butterflies, wheeling and diving. ‘Ignorant people think so because they look so different from anything else that flies. Contrary tourban myths, flying foxes or bats are completely harmless to humans and certainly do not get entangled in our hair,’ Mother had said. ‘I just think that places where bats live are filthy and dark. You never know what else might be there.’
Anyway, the urgent matter of the letter handled, I went to my room and curled up in my favourite chair with a mystery by Enid Blyton. Turning on the lamp, I was soon engrossed in my own world when Rani burst in.
‘Rahul, Rahul! Where are you?’ Rani sounded annoyed when she could not see me. The large armchair in which I comfortably snuggled easily swallowed my thin arms and torso.
‘I’m here,’ I answered, wary and not quite sure whether Rani had a devious trick planned.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be studying and preparing for the exams?’
‘Yes, I am, but I don’t feel like it.’
‘You better do well at school or Baba will be very upset. And then we won’t get to go watch any films this summer.’
‘What about you? Are you preparing for the exams?’ I countered.
Rani raised a hand patronizingly. ‘Please. As if I would ever neglect my studies. You are the one who is always daydreaming and wandering about in the garden. I’m surprised you haven’t been hauled up by your teachers at school.’
I wished she would go away, but Rani continued: ‘Talking about school … I heard from Suresh Khosla’s sister that someone called Amit in your class was expelled. He told her that he had alerted the principal about a love letter that Amit had written. I am sure Suresh made it all up. Suchtroublemakers, Suresh and his sister! I hate people who tittle-tattle and get others in trouble. His sister is always bullying the new girls.’
I sat up, attentive. ‘Suresh is the same way,’ I told Rani, happy we were in agreement about something, thinking about his hatred when accusing Amit. Surprised at how amenable Rani was being, I decided to push my luck and ask her the question that had been preying on my mind all day.
‘Do you know what shock therapy is?’ I asked.
‘It is given to someone who has a mental problem. You know, they put these metal plates on your temples and send some high-voltage electric current through it. It zaps the brain and gets people to stop behaving a certain way. Some people go mad after the therapy. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing …’ I said, sick to my stomach at the thought of Amit gone mad. A stab of fear went through me. What if I were made to go through shock therapy? Misery wound itself like a tight rope through my gut and I thought I was going to vomit. But I decided to push further. Perhaps Rani would know why the
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