Traitor In The House

Chapter 1

I’ve only heard this story, even though it’s my story too.

Actually, it is the story of all of us who have been born into my family.

This is what I have heard.

It was the early 1920s. My mother lived with her parents in Amritsar, Punjab, in a lane behind Guru Bazaar. This was the old part of town, the home of Punjabi Brahmins— - the original Punjabis, not immigrants from Pakistan. This breed of Punjabis is quite different from the brash, opportunistic type that live in New Delhi now. The Punjabi Brahmins in my family are strictly vegetarian, genteel and unostentatious.


My maternal grandparents’ home was in one of the labyrinths behind the market. Later, I saw that house. It was narrow and tall, with iron grates planted horizontally between the three floors. If you threw something on the grate from the top floor, it would land with a clutter on the ground floor.

The houses sat cheek-to-jowl and you could could jump from one roof to the next, ducking under dupattas and leaping over pickle jars. And in those days, everybody knew everyone and nothing was private.

If you are finding the pace of my narration somewhat slow, it’s not deliberate. This is a difficult story to tell.

My grandfather was a trader of sorts. One day, he met with an accident and died .He was in his early thirties and he left behind a widow with two daughters. Sumitra was twelve and Swarna, only eight.

The body was brought home in the early hours of the morning. The congested lanes were clogged with mourners trying to make their way to the house. Women keened and beat their breasts. In the courtyard, the body lay prone on the brick floor, shrouded in white. A pandit muttered Vedic chants. The widow and her two daughters stood close by. Little Swarna began to sob and an aunt took her away. Menfolk came forward and expressed condolences to Baipa, my grandfather’s younger brother, who was to be one of the pallbearers.

A hush descended as the pandit completed his prayers. It was time to leave for the cremation.

No one noticed the widow as she crept away from the scene and climbed the steps up to the terrace. Without breaking her stride, she mounted the parapet and jumped.

Sumitra looked up. She saw her mother’s oily, black, snaky, hair streaming behind her head, and her white sari billowing like a cloud as she landed with a sickening thud on top of her father’s prone figure.

My four siblings and I are Sumitra’s children.

They say that after she witnessed this calamity, something happened to Sumitra.

She became weird, crazy, paranoid and panicked. Everything, just about everything, frightened her, and nothing could make her happy.

Weird. Crazy. Paranoid. Panicked.

The above description is apt for me as well.

My four siblings and I are Sumitra’s children.

It took one instant to ruin the lives of several generations.

My mother suffered from bipolar disorder all her life.
We followed suit. Life is a game of Russian roulette. We lost out.