Authors: Kishore Modak
Occul
t
,
isn’t that the part where people in long hair and painted faces
dance around in a trance, casting spells on other people, playing
with dolls and needles, wishing others dead, diseased or possessed?
Maybe she just wanted to carry it back in case she needed to cast
tantric-hypnotic-long-distance spells on us, commanding us to
transfer money into her account. Stupid bitch, money was all that she
wanted from us. I did not believe in hocus-pocus but it disturbed me.
David thought I was
daft to go and meet Mary on the following morning, after what she had
attempted. Yet, I persisted. She had lived with us and I wanted to
see her off, that was that.
I should have listened
to him, because what I found at the airport redefined the rest of my
life. As if the present turmoil was not enough, it shook me again to
the roots, reminding me how little I understood my own family. It
left me close to giving up.
In the morning, I woke
up and headed to the temple early, well before her flight back to
Manila. The temple at Changi village is close to the beach, a
ten-minute ride from the airport terminal. It is a Ram temple erected
by British Garrisons after the World War, around 1946. Standing in
front of the Lord, I folded my hands, making a mental note, for
getting an appointment with Dr Paul Ng for later that afternoon. I
missed the beach temples of Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, probably the
only real lasting memory from my roots in India. The priest offered
prayers on my behalf, anointing my forehead with ash. I sat in front
of the Lord and cried, compounding my trials, leaving the priest
helpless, as he hovered about me. I covered my head with a scarf, a
bit out of respect in the house of God, but more from the need to
hide, from any acquaintances that may walk up and ask, ‘Hey, I
saw the photograph of your apartment in the papers the other day,
hope all is well.’ What would I reply, other than evasive
nothings and meaningless mumbles.
I got up and left,
relatively composed. As I swung the rope attached to the bell at the
temple’s threshold, the priest came to me and tied a sacred
thread around my right wrist as he blessed me. I bowed and left.
Something was holding
me back from going to the terminal and seeing her. It made me stop at
the beach twice, walking up to the benches on the waterfront, where I
sat down. A few optimistic fishermen cast lines in the dead,
industrial, seafaring waters. A flotilla of trading vessels marred
the seascape like warts on an otherwise beautiful face. A few jobless
people floated listlessly about. It was quiet, hot and sultry. A fish
eagle swooped athletically into the water, coming up with fish, much
to the consternation of the lazy anglers.
It is best to spend
time privately in public places, like empty parks and deserted train
stations.
At the terminal, the
officer greeted me, asking me if I had had anything to give Mary, who
was in a wheelchair next to him. I handed him the packet, he counted
the notes—all of ten thousand dollars— made a record and
then handed them to Mary. He walked a few metres away, leaving us
somewhat private.
She took the money,
‘Thank you, mum. I am sorry, mum. Please forgive me, mum, if I
caused any pain to you. I really did not mean to.’ She seemed
fine, sitting in the chair, one arm in the sling while the other held
the boarding pass, the passport and the money.
Which route of
conversation should I take? Should I ask her why she had fucked my
husband and then tried to kill me, or should I let it pass, accepting
her apologies, letting things go?
‘You know you are
pregnant. How will you take care of the child,’ I touched her
shoulder with a consoling pressure. All around us, passengers milled,
searching and rushing for flights.
‘Don’t
worry, mum. I will be with my husband soon. We don’t go to
expensive doctors. He won’t know. God will take care of the
child,’ she said.
Devious bitch would
pass off another man’s child to her own husband.
‘Sorry, mum. You
are a kind person and I have been like a devil in your house. Please
forgive me if you can. Please, mum,’ she was now weeping into
the tissue that I gave her.
‘It’s okay,
don’t cry, let bygones be bygone, go home and start a new life.
I cannot forgive you, but I will not curse or condemn you.’ I
did not go anywhere near the growing child’s suspect paternity
or the child’s future.
In a final act, I
wheeled her to the sliding doorway before immigration checks; the
officer handled her travel document. She went through and onto the
other side, finally out of our lives, beyond the geographic
boundaries of Singapore. From the other side, she waved goodbye and
pointed at her cell phone, as if she wanted to tell me something.
I fished my instrument
from my handbag. There was a message waiting for me; it was from
Mary. ‘Urgent - GET JAY’S MEDICAL TESTS DONE QUICKLY.’
I panicked, with all
sorts of possibilities flooding my mind. Looking up, I saw she had
already left; there was no sign of her. I tried calling, but her
phone was off. Instinctively, I started rummaging for the inspector’s
number; he could stop her from boarding the flight. For God’s
sake, he could ground the flight itself if he decided to. I could not
let her go without knowing exactly what she had done to my child, my
innocent baby.
I found the number, but
I did not use it. What was I supposed to tell him? ‘Can you
please stop my maid from leaving since I suspect she has also had sex
with my son?’ What could he do? Was I expecting him to ground
the flight and Mary? And then what? Reopen healing wounds? Hesitation
marred my actions as I thumbed the telephone’s keypad with
angry nail stabs, incoherent, confusing the instrument into
incongruous beeps and baps.
I was quite sure that
the inspector did not know, otherwise he would have mentioned it,
wanting to protect a child’s interest.
While driving back, a
few more pieces fell into place. In most countries with a recourse to
law, sex with a minor, below the age of eighteen, is considered
statutory rape, so if I had called the inspector and spelt my
suspicions, there was a definite possibility of a conviction and a
sentence for Mary. A diplomatic row too, since the criminal, Mary in
this case, was not native to Singapore.
On the other hand, was
this simple barter? Crimes done on her nullifying crimes done by her?
It is possible that she had pressed no charges against David since
she knew that the investigation would have led to the discovery of
her paedophilic ways. In some sense, perhaps a crime committed by a
husband was repaid by his son?
I shouldn’t have
let her take complete charge him, which is where it would have begun,
while we were away at night and she was charged with putting Jay to
bed.
Now I had been cheated
on two counts—as a mother and as a wife—by the same
person. The reactions to infidelity vary for a mother as compared to
a wife, in my case they mixed, forming a poison that started
consuming me from within.
Is it right for me to
be considered cheated as a mother? Was I not supposed to look out for
my child? I was trying to, by getting a maid—clearly failing.
Fourteen, it was the
age at which my child lost his virginity, to the domestic maid. Was
it not classic, the surest pub tale, which would have friends in
peels for the rest of his pub life? I wish I could listen in,
assimilate all the sordid details and be comforted, knowing that I
knew the details, and that he was flippant enough to laugh them off,
with drinks among friends.
In such matters, the
details one needs are mostly the same, irrespective of whether you
are a betrayed mother or a cheated wife—where-when-how and who
initiated it.
Where? It had to be in
the kid’s room, unless she had lured Jay into the comfort zone
of her own bed, defiling at the same spot where she had been defiled,
revenging where she had been ravaged.
When? Mostly, it had to
be when we were away in the evenings at the club, with a distinct
possibility of her slipping into his bed, on the pretext of putting
him to bed.
How? If it was
missionary then that opened up a whole new possibility of fertility
and fatherhood at fourteen.
Who? It had to be she
who initiated it. Legally speaking, a fourteen-year-old cannot force
the matter; practically speaking, he can, especially given dad’s
predilections, and with the onset of teenage curiosity, the surfacing
of sexual experimentation through inheritance did exist.
At home, I fell silent,
busy with household chores that had fallen upon us, with the
departure of the maid. The possibility of a new maid did not exist,
even if I approved, since the Ministry of Manpower had cancelled
David’s maid license.
Jay was in his room,
reading. David was in the living room, reading, with half-hearted
offers of helping around the house.
Later, I took David
down to the poolside, well away from Jay, before I told him.
His initial reaction
was shock, but as we spoke, acceptance crept in. He would know
better, after all, now they had both tasted the same cheap wine.
‘Let me speak to
him, he needs some rational man- to-man talk that is all. He needs to
understand, what he has done is natural and no fault of his. Let me
also ask him if he has any girlfriends at school already,’
David was being reasonable, but I also thought he was bringing on
male bravado, a misplaced one, a stupid one, one that could spoil the
entire game.
Was it not better to
let sexuality develop naturally, through talk with school friends and
clicks on the computer? It was not like in our times, when there was
no Internet. As regards his unknown girlfriends, the only reason one
would want to check was to warn them of possible venereal infections,
the communication of which could be pre-empted if the doctor thought
our Jay was safe and unaffected.
As regards
natur
e
,
I wish he did not blame all unexplainable shortcomings of humans on
beautiful Mother Nature and her course.
Why take on the risk of
handling a growing boy’s sex life openly with him? Would it not
delineate him from us, possibly for life, wanting him to shy away
from the embarrassment, avoiding visiting home in his term breaks,
when he left for college?
Adolescents are awkward
and ungainly, unable to accept and move on, clinging to things that
should be discarded. Once life delivers a few blows, that art is
perfected by adults.
The matter was best
left a joke, shared deep into a pub night.
‘David, I don’t
think we should speak to Jay about this matter. I don’t see any
reason why we should bring it up?’ I delivered my verdict;
maternal decisions usually take an upper hand in such matters.
‘What if he is
exposed to any sort of infection or medical risk?’ he asked.
‘That we can
tackle. Dr Paul will know what to do without having to reveal
anything to Jay,’ I answered.
‘What if he has a
girlfriend, she may be affected too?’ it was a fair, unselfish
question from David.
‘We can check
with Dr Paul. If he thinks there is a need to take heed, we will,
otherwise just let it be,’ my answer was logical.
‘What about Jay
himself? I have to be sure he has not been impacted, mentally I mean.
I have to ensure he sees the entire growing-up-sex thing in the right
light. I don’t want him to be confused,’ David stopped
abruptly as if in mid-sentence, swallowing the last two words ‘.
. . like me . . .’ It would have been a slip, a Freudian one.
‘Jay will be
fine; he is probably more educated with this incident, than without
it. I am sure he knows exactly what he has done and will be able to
tackle it mentally. Look at him, he has given us no reason to guess
anything’s amiss,’ I was convinced; not miring him in
this, was the right thing.
I meant, this mess of
words. Of course he was at the centre of this mess; just that it was
better to let him believe that we did not know about his involvement
with Mary. Leave him to his devices, letting him work through the
embarrassment of his own adolescence, without help from snoopy over-
protective parents. Protection was late in coming— in this
case, useless, an after-thought, given the reality of his premature
loss of virginity, to my maid.
You may have guessed by
now, given the candid account in these pages, I am not good with
secrets. They haunt me, especially the ones that don’t close
out logically in the mind; they resurface every now and then,
uncomfortably, begging nosey discovery. Once the answers present
themselves, I can let things pass, but until that point secrets
bother me.
At Dr Paul Ng’s
clinic, the awkwardness of the subject was limited to the waiting
area. As soon as I saw him, confidence overtook me. I asked Jay and
David to wait outside, while I spoke to Dr Paul.
‘Hello, Doctor,
we have reason to believe that we may have been exposed to sexually
transmitted illnesses. We are not sure, but for precaution I wanted
my entire family to be screened. This is only for my peace of mind,’
I emptied, readying myself for his interrogation, reading his eyes,
which turned kind and paternal.
‘You mean, even
your son? I see here that he is only fourteen.’ he asked,
pointing at the registration forms, which I had filled a while ago.
‘Yes, Doctor, it
may be excessive and I may be just paranoid, but I want to screen the
whole family,’ I evaded the incident, focusing on the health
screening.
‘Do you have any
specific illness or ailment in mind that you suspect? Any symptoms?’
‘No, Doctor, we
just want to preclude commonly known diseases.’
‘Okay, that
should not be a problem,’ he got busy, measuring temperature,
drawing blood, asking for urine, examining us, here, there,
everywhere, one at a time and reassuring me later, ‘Don’t
worry, you don’t seem to show any outward symptoms. We will
call you in a day or two after all the reports have come in. In the
meantime, I will prescribe a course of antibiotics, just
precautionary.’ We left, relieved for now, but anxious about
the test results. At home, Jay headed back to school, wanting to be
with his friends rather than at home with us.