Bugs Bite

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Crazy, Cold And Desperate

The dancing had ceased, so had the apologies and the gifts and the fake transient shitcake called love. God, what a beautifully crafted ship that sails too promptly.

And then Avish had come. Dhruv had not given a shit. She would see other parents caring about their kids, nurturing them with utmost care and then there would be Dhruv, calling his own son a pussy and what was it?

(a weasel)

Yes, a weasel. He had cursed in front of Avish. He had lost it several times. Beaten her up in front of him. Later, Shweta had had to counsel Avish, that hey honey, don't tell anyone. Hey honey, nothing happened. Hey honey, it's no big deal. Hey honey, look, mommy's not hurt and daddy's not a bad guy.

Hey honey, this. Hey honey, that.

Hey honey, your Dad's an arse.

If she could have accepted that reality.

If she could have just yelled right back at him one day, given him a whip of his own belt. She could have. The "if" was put there by god-knows-what. She should have learnt to tear it down. Society, parents, go to hell. I'm not happy with this man.

Oh, and yeah, he exercises domestic violence. That too.

It had been arduous raising Avish like that. Of course, he had only ever been a darling. So premature, so . . . self-sufficient.

She was still disbelieving in regards to what had happened that night. How Dhruv had barged in, stinking and swaying. Lost me job, he'd said with a faint assertive smile. Heh-heh. Lost me job.

And the damned soccer match. And the involuntary I want a divorce line she'd said out of nowhere.

And then he had done what he always did, only it had been so much more extreme this time around and she had broken a bone - O, that bone, it still hurt, dang it, it hurt to think of that - and then he'd hauled her to the living room and then Avish had been there and he'd done something and then she'd hit him with that bottle of his - again and again and again until she had gotten all of her years of anger and frustration out at him. And yet, the bastard hadn't died. Like Bibi had said in the hospital: pity he's still alive. The bastard lost a ton o' blood and still he lives. 'tis true; bastards don't die easy. Shoulda smacked him a bit harder and he'd be done for.

Yeah, I should've, she would think. When had her mother not been right? Don't marry, she'd said. Right-o. Tell me, Shwet, she'd said. Right-y right.

Losing her was like . . . well, there was no analogy to it. Just . . . she'd lost a part of herself. Been amputated. And now she would never be what she once was.

Again, it would be her son who would suffer. And she knew it. She knew it, godammit. And still, she couldn't help herself. She was a closed book now. Her life now was regretting her earlier life decisions. Her life as a mother had been terminated. Killed, slaughtered, whatever.

She was a whiny bitch who had lost everything now, not a mother.

Avish was going to find a way to survive on his own, like he'd paved way for a decent enough childhood. All she could do was wish him luck. Bless him with more wisdom than her stupid self had had at that stupid age.

Hope that he'd not screw up.

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Kids at the new school stared. And not in a positive way. They thought he was a freak, and was he not? These were countryside kids, Avish was a delicate city boy to them; they were jute bags, and he was crockery. Apparently, a few of them knew of Bibi, and her goodwill helped. A girl blocked him in the canteen one day - Mom wouldn't cook anymore, and Antra had left, at least temporarily, for her village - and told him essentially how "my father knew your grandma and he tells me she was a real quality person, I'm sorry for your loss but you can't really fit in here because, you know, you're a friggin' freak".