The Inner Circle

Nonfiction

Located in the Western Ghats of Kerala, India, the 121 residence was The Great Gatsby personified. Visitors filled the house, enticed by my grandfather’s charm as laughter rang through the air. My grandfather would invite the milkman inside, the mailman for a drink, the most powerful politician for a conversation, and provide a full dinner for anyone who approached the doorstep. Each would leave feeling as though they were his best friend. During these parties, the adults were concerned with each other, allowing the cousins free reign of the house.

I was on a mission. I sped past the knees of adults to the stairwell. I had two options: slide down the banister and pretend I was flying or walk down the stairs. Obviously, I did the first. I tiptoed past the giant round dining table where the cooks placed food on the Lazy Susan and went straight to the back of the kitchen. There lay the holy grail: crates filled with club soda.

While the cooks were not looking, I stuffed bottles in my frock. I smiled as I darted past them and back to the stairs. I went up one level and to the living room and peeked my head inside the door arch and studied the surroundings. My parents were talking to guests, and I just had to avoid any attention.

I shifted past a saree, through some knees, and hid behind the curtain next to the door frame.[1] I pressed myself against the wall, while holding the cold glass against me. Step-by-step, I made it out of the living room, into the adjacent hallway, and to the drawing room. My cousin and brother sat there smiling as I pulled out the bottles.

Armed and ready, we shook the bottles violently, spraying each other in the carbonation, drenching each other and the furniture. This was our favorite pastime. Recently, my mother asked us why we loved drinking club soda so much and was shocked to learn what we really did with them. We caused havoc in the house. Sometimes we poured baby powder on the floors and pretended we were gliding ice skaters. Other times we made tents from sheets and acted like hunters.

Most days, however, we spent in my grandfather’s room. He sat in a light brown leather armchair in the middle of his bedroom. His desk stood in front of him, hidden under the piles of papers and books that rested on top of it. I used to wonder if the desk would start floating if the piles were removed.

Achachan asked my mother what our dress size was to order matching pajamas for my brother, cousin, and I.[2] My cousin sat on his lap, and my brother by his side. The Ramakrishnan Grandchildren’s favorite story to hear was when he got kicked out of school. He attended a strict Catholic college, and at the time the reigning pope was seriously ill. They had a holiday at the end of the week, but my grandfather wanted to extend his break. So, he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote:

“THE POPE IS DEAD. CLASSES CANCELLED ALL WEEK.”

He posted it on the main bulletin board and ran back into his class. Later that day the news showed that the Pope was recovering, and the school realized the incident was a prank. Someone ratted him out, and he was suspended immediately. He told us school wasn’t that important anyway, and I could see my mother flinch in the corner.

My brother, the first grandchild, was the favorite. He lived in the house until he was three and gained all the attention there. He became my grandfather’s right-hand man. My cousin always stayed in 121, and she took another seat in his inner circle. I, however, did not have a seat. I was born and taken back to my maternal grandparent’s house. I never actually lived in 121 because we moved to Dubai the months following my birth.

Monsoon summers were spent in Achachan’s room where we chatted about life and worldly matters. I hoped a question would get directed towards me, but it never did. Alone with my grandfather, we did not talk unless my cousin or brother was also there.

When we visited India, we spent a month in my mother’s family’s house and around three weeks in 121. I do not remember when it started happening, but at some point, my brother was summoned there earlier. He would go on a train by himself, and we would join him a week or two later. He spent hours with my grandfather, and they would talk about everything.

Something changed in my brother when we reunited. He had a rougher edge. After jumping off the train, my hand in my mother’s, I ran to the car. On the way to the house, I excitedly showed my cousin how I had learned the sign language alphabet in my fifth-grade class that year. My brother sat in the front and looked back at me.

“I know sign language too,” He said.

“Really? What?” I asked.

He stuck up his middle finger in the rearview and laughed to himself. This was our first exchange since I had seen him. My mother scolded him because I started whining, and he retorted saying that it was just a joke and laughed through half-assed apologies. In his defense, my whines sounded like pig squeals which could either be funny or annoying depending on the mood you were in.

Achachan liked to teach us curse words. Only because it irritated my mother. Once when I was around five years old, I came into the room searching for my brother to tell him that he needs to get ready for a visit. He sat on the bed next to my grandfather.

“What bad words have you learned this year?” He asked my brother

“The one that rhymes with duck,” Adithya said, unable to contain his laughter.

“Huh?” I said confused, “Duck? What curse word rhymes with duck… Auck? Buck? Cuck? Duck? Euck? Fuck"

Laughter erupted in the room.

“What? Fuck? Fuck is the word? What does that even mean?”

“Go ask your mother,” Achachan said.

I ran to my mother’s room with new diction, “What does fuck mean?”

“What?” My mother looked down at me. I knew this had to be a terrible word when she marched straight to my grandfather and brother and yelled at them.

“Do not ever repeat that word,” she said as she got me dressed.

We were visiting another family and in the middle of the conversation my grandfather said, “Anagha, why don’t you tell everyone the new word you learned.”

“The one that rhymes with duck?” I asked.

“Please don’t do that. Achan, no, please,” my mother said.[3]

“Yes,” he smiled, egging me on.

“Fuck,” I said, proudly. The room turned silent; everyone shocked at the colorful language of a five-year-old. My mother got up and left the room dragging me with her.

“You really have nothing better to teach the kids, right?” My mother said as she left the room.

“What? It was just a joke,” Achachan replied, laughing.

“No matter who asks you to say it, don’t ever mention this word again,” she said bending down to reach my eye-level, “I don’t care who tells you, this word is not to be used.”

I nodded in agreement.

Achachan’s day began sharply at 3a.m. The rest of us joined him six hours later. My cousin and my brother cracked jokes with him. I sat outside and listened to people entering and exiting his room as though they were passing through a revolving door.

I walked in the room one day to see my brother standing proudly by his grandfather.

“Judas!” My grandfather pointed straight at me.

“Adithya and I are both Jesus. We have been crucified by this entire family,” he huffed, and I could see my brother’s stance grow with his ego. My mother, according to them, was Pontius Pilate, my father was “the Jews”, and my cousin was a devoted apostle. At eight years old I laughed at this silly comparison, as I didn’t fully comprehend what it meant. Years later, the cruelty of this joke felt like a hard slap, as I began to learn who Judas was. At sixteen, small fires would erupt in me as flashbacks of such moments would strike from time to time. I was protected by ignorance.

In a past life my grandfather and brother were probably mob bosses, and I was the cop who tried to bust them. Every time my brother got into trouble, I usually had something to do with it. I think my grandparents felt they had to protect my brother from me. In polite terms, I was called “goody-two-shoes,” but in 121 the title changed to Judas. These were the seeds planted that would later fuel my brother’s anger toward me.

A few days later, it had stopped raining and I was watching a movie, and right when the plot thickened the power went out in the living room. I had to know what happened next, so I ran upstairs to my grandfather’s room, hoping the television was working there. My brother took his rightful spot on the throne. My grandfather was in the middle of his movie afternoon nap and the dark room was illuminated by the glint of the TV.[4]

“Oh, thank god. Can I have the remote? I’m just finishing a movie,” I whispered to my brother.

“No,” he said.

“Please? There is just twenty minutes left to it.”

“No.”

“You’re not even watching anything! You’re just flipping through channels.”

“I will be watching something.”

“I just have to see what happens next. You can watch whatever after.”

“No.”

I felt my cheeks warm as the time went on. I couldn’t hold my anger inside. I wanted to yell at him, but my grandfather was asleep. I tried to grab the remote from his hands, but he moved away quickly, and pushed me to the ground.

“Please, please, please, please.” I begged, hoping my constant nagging would get me the remote.

“No, shut up.”

Selfish jerk, meanie, jackass, bully, dipshit, I thought, and then lunged across the room and hit him with whatever little power my eight-year-old self possessed.

“What are you doing?” a voice behind me yelled, something I had never recognized before.

Wide-eyed, I turned to see my grandmother, furious. This was the first (and only) time I had ever heard her raise her voice to anyone.

“I- he wouldn’t give me the remote.” I said.

“So, you hit him?”

“Yes, but—”

“You hit him.”

“He was rude, he—"

“Go tell your mother what you did, now.”

I sped into the other room with tears streaming down my face. My mother was on the computer, looking at something. Suddenly, I realized the power had been back on for the whole house. I could’ve finished my movie.

“I hit him, okay! I hit him!” I wailed.

“What? What’s going on?” My mother said.

“I-I h-hit Adithya, o-okay! I hit him, I’m s-sorry!” I tried to explain through gasps.

Achamma trailed behind me. “Don’t believe her tears, she’s just looking for attention. I caught her trying to hit Adithya for no reason.”[5]

My mouth fell wide open in disbelief. She did not know what happened, and no one tried to listen to me. The shield of 121 protected my brother, and my voice turned to static.

My mother looked at me, “Did you apologize to him? We do not solve problems by hitting.”

“He-He did not let me have the re-remote.”

“Stop crying! Go apologize to your brother,” Achamma said.

I went back next door to the room. My grandfather was wide awake now from the commotion.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” I said, trying to stop myself from crying more.

A hearty laugh filled the room, “You did it, Anagha. The only person to get a nice yelling from Shantha,” Achachan said.

—1 Year Later—

A picture sat by the TV of my grandfather holding my cousin, with their faces pressed together. It was a peaceful image to rest your eyes on when the television program became boring. I walked into the living room, looking for more pictures. One shelf held all the grandchildren’s portraits on it. I stood on the couch and examined each photo.

Four pictures of my brother, four pictures of my cousin, and three pictures of my youngest cousin. I smiled at the photos but couldn’t find any of me. I shuffled the frames, and there lay my picture in the back corner. I, selfishly, moved it to the front, took a step back, and realized it felt out of place, then quietly placed it in the back corner.

“Achamma, why aren’t there many photos of me?” I asked my grandmother.

“Really? I’m sure there are,” She looked puzzled.

I decided to change this. Achamma helped me find materials to create a collage. I grabbed an old, large frame and began working. I found picture albums and selected any photo with me in it. I grabbed a blue sheet of paper and pasted it to the backing of the frame. One by one, the frame was filled with a collage of me.

“I should make a collage too,” my cousin said, excited.

“You don’t have to. This is my project,” I gritted my teeth and saw my cousin’s face fall, but I was on a mission. I was tired of being ignored.

I walked to my grandmother, and requested she take down another hanging frame. Guilty, she did. I placed my frame up on the wall, apart from the rest so everyone could see. I sat down admiring my work when my grandfather walked in. He furrowed his brows and looked straight at the new addition.

“What is this?” his voice resounded. I could feel tears rush to my eyes when I saw his face twist into an annoyed expression. I sucked them back in. My mother explained that this was a project I made.

“Where is my photo? Why was it taken down?” Achachan boomed.

“We will find another place to keep it, don’t worry,” Achamma said.

While this was happening, I was instructed to go downstairs and talk with one of my aunts. I looked at my frame and at my Achachan’s face before heading down. I thought he hated that my photos were in the room.

“My photo was taken down! Where will it be?” Achachan continued.

“Please, we are leaving today. Once we leave, your photo will be put back up,” My mother interrupted.

“This will not do! My picture is supposed to be there! Might as well just throw it away then, right?”

“Your photo will be put back later.”

“Now. It should be put back now.”

“No. Anagha has spent the day making this frame. This is her project, it is not about your photo,” My mother said. Eventually, his tantrum subsided. My collage still stands in the same place on the wall.

He saw me as a pawn in his game. He would call me to his lap, to make my cousin jealous. Achachan normally only called my brother or my cousin to go somewhere with him. I usually was strung along, or not invited. At a young age I did not see these politics play out. I carelessly roamed to whoever called my name. Yet, as I got older, the emotions tied to these memories changed. Sitting outside the circle, I observed but didn’t partake.

The days following his death, I realized his impact on others. Achachan managed and ran 18 different companies during his lifetime, anything from breweries to healthcare to textile industries and even ran a resort. My father went to India for his funeral while the rest of us were in the US and sent us a picture of a poster of Achachan. These posters were hung all over town. No one from our family knew who made them or put them up. My father called home in awe and retold how Achachan had changed others’ lives. Achachan provided jobs to so many people in the town, always rendered help to whoever asked, and was there for anyone.

He had a huge impact on others. His magnetic energy drew people in, like moths to the flame. He had the ability to make everyone in the room feel important, but I think he forgot I was there as well.

[1] A saree is a type of women’s clothing. It is an unstitched cloth, around 9 yards, that is wrapped around the body and worn with a blouse underneath. [2] Achachan means grandfather from the father’s side. [3] Achan means father [4] In Kerala, the electricity is powered by water. Lack of rain causes power outages, and it is a common occurrence. Power outages typically last around 10 minutes. [5] Achamma means grandmother on the father’s side.