Free Home by Manju Kapur Page A

into a hole in the corner connected to the drain outside. Raju was getting in his way, squirting water at the swept areas, flooding them all over again, grabbing the broom, insisting on sweeping himself.
    Nisha was staring at the glass of milk in her hand.
    ‘Drink, beti, drink,’ urged the grandmother. She took the glass and held it against the resisting lips. ‘One for Papaji, come on, one sip.’
    Nisha took the smallest possible sip.
    ‘One for Mummy.’
    Another infinitesimal swallow.
    ‘One for Bhaiyya.’
    Sip. The grandmother looked into the steel glass. ‘Beti, your sips must be larger. Otherwise how will you grow into a big girl? Bhaiyya will race ahead of you.’
    Nisha said nothing. ‘Now finish, finish,’ coaxed the grandmother. ‘One for Bhaiyya.’
    ‘You said that.’
    ‘Achcha achcha, sorry. One for Vijay – one for Chacha – one for Chachi – one for Dadi – one for Dada – one for Vicky –’
    ‘I don’t want to drink to Vicky.’
    ‘Arre, why? He is your Bhaiyya, just like Raju –’
    ‘No, still.’
    ‘O-ho, poor Vicky, what has he done to you?’
    Nisha pushed the glass away.
    ‘Whatever it is, forgive him. He has no one else, poor boy. Now, one for Rupa Masi – one for Uncle –’
    The names of the family slowly recited took almost twenty minutes, as the level of the milk sluggishly dropped. The grandmother kept her eyes firmly on the little girl. She knew that if no one was looking she would pour her milk down the angan sink.
    The milk finished at last, Nisha got up, put her glass next to the tap on the floor of the kitchen for the utensil washer-woman, and disappeared into her grandparent’s room, where she had been placed after Raju’s birth.
    She lugged her school bag over to the bed, and took out her English book to learn the names of the months for tomorrow’s dictation. Twelve names, five sums in addition, an eight-line poem in Hindi, and then she could go out to play. Back and forth on the bed she swayed, her hand covering the words she was trying to memorise, chanting the spellings softly to herself.
    She had reached August when she heard Vicky settle himself on the bed behind her. He too had dragged his bag in, and was making a great show of opening his books. Nisha kept the letters of August firmly running through her mind.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Vicky asked after five minutes.
    Nisha bent her head further over her book.
    There was silence for a while. Then Vicky murmured, ‘Nishu?’
    ‘I’ll tell Mummy you are not letting me study.’
    ‘Mummy has gone upstairs with Raju.’
    ‘Dadi then.’
    ‘She is talking to the neighbour.’
    ‘Go away.’
    He shifted a little closer. Instantly her skin began to prickle.
    ‘Nishu,’ he whispered, ‘are you angry with me?’
    The smallest shake of the head.
    ‘Then why aren’t you talking to me?’
    ‘I’m talking to you.’
    ‘Here,’ he coaxed, drawing her stiff, resisting body nearer him, ‘show me that you are not angry with me.’ His hands reached under her dress. She pressed her thighs tightly together, but his fingers forced themselves between her legs. A little su-su she could not help came out and wet her panties. She wanted to die of shame.
    ‘What have you done, naughty? So big, and wetting your panties?’ he said hoarsely, his lips against her ear. He started stroking her, the wet panty resting on the knobbly knuckle. ‘See, I am drying you,’ he rasped. ‘You must thank me, dirty girl.’
    She tried shaking her head, bumping it against his shoulder, but he was concentrating on what he was doing and his grip grew harder. She winced in pain, his deep, uneven breaths burnt against her cheek.
    In a daze she struggled against the body that was pressing itself so completely into her. Her book fell from her hand. She could feel him tugging at something behind her back. Then he reached around, took her hand, and clasped it on that hot monstrous thing. She turned away her head, he gripped the