Free Boats on Land: A Collection of Short Stories by Janice Pariat Page B

the worst of them all. She’d joined the previous year—appearing out of nowhere like an odd April shower—and had never quite fit in. Perhaps it had something to do with the rumours that followed her into school. The stories varied, changing shape with every retelling. Parents waiting outside the school gates discussed Carmel’s mother. A string of affairs with some naval officers in Bombay… No, an Israeli, and now he’s returned to Jerusalem. That’s why she’s come back to Shillong. Within the century-old walls of the school building, teachers in the staff room debated over the possibility of Carmel and her siblings all having different fathers. Rapidly, and as pervasive as pine dust, the rumours filtered to the schoolgirls in strange, contorted forms— Carmel meets boys after school… She takes them home… She goes with them to the Risa Colony forest to drink alcohol…who knows what they do there. Here, where the family name was passed down through the mother, the children also had to bear the weight of her weaknesses. It was ‘wantonness’, that temerarious trait of lust and shame that marked Carmel for its own. She is sure to turn out just like her mother , the senior girls hissed. Amanda, sitting amid a cluster of delighted girls, declared Carmel a kynthei dakaid. A bad girl. It was that easy. Her fate was as tightly sealed as Sister Josephine’s pursed, disapproving lips.
    The other reason the girls disliked Carmel was one they didn’t talk about. She was exceedingly pretty. Whoever her parents might have been, that was something no one could deny. They merely punished her for it. For looking like the girls in the British Woman magazines that Natalie’s grandmother so assiduously collected from second-hand bookshops. Exotic as the things they advertised—Kit Kat chocolates and Yorkshire pudding. Natalie sat at the edge of the chair, as far as possible from her new benchmate.
    ‘Now, who can tell me about the process of distillation? Anyone apart from Swapna.’ Mrs Chatterjee beamed at her favourite student—a Marwari girl with a red hairband and enormous kohl-lined eyes.
    Natalie sighed. It was going to be a long morning.
    During lunch break, a band of girls took over the only sunny corner of the summer house in the playground. It was a rambling wooden structure, coated with a thick, bubbly layer of blue-grey paint. Iba occupied the seat near the window, while the rest arranged themselves around her—Amesha, petite and fairy-like with a pale, heart-shaped face; Doreen, whose dusky skin reddened with every tempestuous outburst; Eve, Iba’s cousin, who had thick, dark hair reaching her waist; and Miranda, a skinny teenager who was unusually tall for a Khasi girl. Sitting slightly outside the sacred circle was Natalie, unsure yet whether she was fully part of the gang. She tried joining in the conversation but found it was dominated by Doreen and Miranda jostling like skilled duellers for Iba’s attention. At the opposite end of the room, a group of dkhar girls animatedly conversing in Hindi, occasionally erupted into raucous laughter.
    ‘Marwaris,’ muttered Doreen. ‘My dad says we need to kick them all out of our state.’
    Natalie shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t dare say anything, but she didn’t quite like it when they spoke this way about the others. Her friends in the neighbourhood where she lived, whom she played with in the evenings, were Assamese. Like her, born and brought up here, and who considered Shillong their home. If Doreen knew this she’d call Natalie an ieid-dkhar. A dkhar lover. The thought made her nervous. Was it something that could be sniffed out, as dogs sense fear? Did it show? Could they tell? ‘So, Nat–’ She looked up in alarm at Iba addressed her. ‘What was it like sitting next to Carmel?’
    Everyone’s attention was suddenly trained on her. This was her chance to say something witty, clever, and impressive.
    ‘She smells,’ blurted Natalie.
    Iba