Sunday shot story

(Excerpted from Saris and Grapefruit, an anthology of short stories by Rukmini Attygalle)

My daughter Kumi felt that she had been tied to my apron strings for far too long. She felt grown up and considered herself to be on the verge of stepping into adulthood. She thought that we, her family, were holding her back, by limiting her independence. She was all of ten years old, although in my mind, it was not so long ago she had two missing front teeth!

We were living in London at the time and Kumi and her friend Nilmini were the only two Sri Lankan children in her class. They had obviously discussed the matter of their independence (apparently a common grievance) – or rather, the lack of it – and, decided to take up the issue with their respective mothers. One night, when Kumi and I were clearing the kitchen after the evening meal (every member of the family had to do certain chores, and it was Kumi’s turn in the kitchen), she broached the subject.

“Amma,” she said trying to sound formal – she hardly ever called me Amma, preferring to call me by some silly meaningless words she coined. “Why does everyone in my family treat me as though I was a small child?”

I knew from the tone of her voice that this was no simple question but a precursor to an emotionally charged argument.

“Do we?” I asked in feigned surprise. “I didn’t realise we did…” “Do you know that Nilmini and I are the only two girls in our class who are not allowed to travel by bus alone?”

“But there is no need for you to travel alone by bus,” I argued. “Your Your father drops you and your sister at school by car, on his way to work, and, after school, the two of you come back together by bus. So, the question of travelling alone does not really arise.” I was of course dodging the issue!

“Oh yes, it does! What about when Akka is ill and she doesn’t go to school? You always make arrangements for me to be picked up by Nilmini’s father or you take time off from work to collect me from school and then we both come home by bus! You don’t, think that I am capable of travelling by bus by myself.” Her voice quivered and I knew that tears were around the corner.

Realising I was in a tight spot I tried to extricate myself as gracefully as I could.

“Well, I suppose with you being the youngest in the family, I didn’t quite realize that you are growing up fast and, can do things for yourself.”

“It’s not just you! It is everybody! Akka always insists on holding my hand when we cross the road as though I am an idiot. My schoolmates cross the road by themselves. Every year a policeman comes to our school to teach us the ‘Green Cross Code’. I know it by heart! I know exactly what I should do and should not do when crossing the road. But what’s the use! I am never allowed to put it into practice. If I refuse to hold Akka’s hand, she grabs my arm so hard it hurts! She is such a Bossy Boots.”

Tears were slowly trickling down and I knew that the flood gates would soon open.

The Akka was eight years her senior and took her childminding responsibilities very seriously.

“I will tell Akka that there really is no need to hold your hand when crossing the road together. I think she is doing it through habit and not because she thinks that you are not capable of crossing by yourself.” I was trying to make an excuse for the sister.

“It’s not just Akka … Aiya as well …!” Flood gates had opened. The tears were now gushing freely.

This was the first time I had heard a complaint against the brother, as he was her favourite person, her ideal in the whole wide world; and generally, he could do no wrong.

Between sobs she told me that the previous week, her brother had insisted that he was not going to take her to the sweet shop up the road unless she put on her boots and coat. He had said that it was too cold outside, yet, he himself had gone out in his ordinary shoes and his denim jacket.

I explained to her that he was concerned about her health as she was prone to colds and coughs and suffered very badly with tonsillitis every time she went down with a cold. That he was only trying to protect her and was not ‘just being bossy’.

She seemed reasonably appeased but, continued to cry and wouldn’t drop the subject.

“All I know is that if you lot don’t let me do things for myself, I’ll never learn to be independent…” she said wiping her tears and blowing her nose into a piece of kitchen paper, “I am going to end up being retarded.” Her voice squeaked and turned into a sob.

“Retarded?” I exclaimed surprised.

“Yes. You know … people who can’t do things for themselves…”

She was going through the stage of using ‘big words’ and although she was quite good at using new words in the appropriate context most of the time, she did miss the target once in a while.

“No,” I said quite definitely. “You will never be retarded. You won’t need to worry yourself on that score!” I had to suppress a smile.

What I wanted to say was, “Your problem my girl, is that you are too sharp for your own good and if you don’t look out, you will cut yourself!” but of course I didn’t say it. Such comments were not really appropriate in this scenario. I helped her wipe her tears, gave her a hug and a kiss and promised to speak to the rest of the family about her problem.

This outburst did however make me wonder whether we were being over-protective of Kumi. I knew that some children of her age, did actually travel to school and back alone by themselves. Perhaps it was time that she was allowed to try out her wings. At any rate we had to make her feel that she was capable of doing certain things in order not to undermine her self-confidence.

On the spur of the moment I said, “How about you taking a bus ride to Streatham High Street on Saturday, all by yourself?” The High Street was not very far away, being seven bus stops from where we lived.

Kumi’s face immediately lit up. Her big round eyes got bigger. Her face widened with a grin that spread from ear to ear. “Can I really?” she said overcome with excitement.

“Yes,” I said, “I think it’s a good idea – don’t you?”

“It’s a great idea!” she beamed. Tears and complaints all forgotten; she ran to give the good news to the rest of the family.

Kumi was usually the last to get up on a Saturday morning, especially when it was cold. But that Saturday she was up at the crack of dawn – or so it seemed to me – when she tiptoed into our room and shook me gently by my shoulder.

“It’s Saturday today,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb her father. “Shall I start getting ready?”

“It’s far too early and it must be freezing outside,” I said. “In any case the High Street must be deserted at this time. People don’t start getting out till about nine o’clock on a Saturday. Go back to bed and I’ll wake you at the proper time.”

Although she returned to her bed, I knew she was too excited to go back to sleep.

It so happened that, on that particular Saturday, the others were also busy with one thing or another. My husband had to inspect a worksite; my elder daughter had to visit the library; and my son had football practice. So when I finally got out of bed, I went into Kumi’s room and told her that since there was no rush for her, to let the others finish their showers and once they were out of the way she could get ready for her ‘journey’. I think she was a little disappointed that the others would not be present to witness her stepping out into ‘adulthood’.

By half past nine Kumi was washed and dressed and breakfasted and ready for her big adventure. The bus fare to the High Street was 20 pence one way. So, I gave Kumi fifty pence for the fare and another fifty for her to buy herself some sweets — to complete her treat. I also gave her the front door key saying that she had better take it in case I went out before she returned (of course I had no intention of doing anything of the sort!) Kum] beamed with a sense of importance and responsibility. She had complained on an earlier occasion that she was the “odd one out” who did not have a front door key! She put the money and the key carefully into her purse and put it in her coat pocket, and with a cheeky smile said, “I won’t lose the key like the way you do!”

Losing my key was something that happened to me quite regularly so much so that it had become a family joke. I decided to ignore her comment and kissed her goodbye; and watched her spindly legs and knobby knees go down the incline towards the bus stop.

I started my cleaning chores, but my mind was on the bus. I could picture Kumi scrambling up the steps to the upper deck for that was where she liked to sit. I could almost see her little hands gripping the chrome bar of the seat in front of her; her eyes taking in every sight around her. She was an extremely observant child. So, I was confident that, unlike me who often sat in the bus lost in thought, she would not be over carried beyond her destination.

The day after Kumi’s outburst, I had telephoned my friend Sujatha — Nilmini’s mother — and told her about it. Nilmini too had made a huge fuss and complained bitterly that, “Sri Lankan parents are uneccesarily hard on their children.” So, when I told her that I was letting Kumi go to Streatham by herself on Saturday, she too thought it a good idea and decided to let Nilmini do the same. But of course, we did not tell our daughters that their friend was also doing the same trip.

All the while I was dusting and cleaning, my mind travelled with Kumi. I saw her get out of the bus at the stop near Woolworths, her favourite shop. I saw her heading to the sweet counter, looking at the different sweets, wondering what she should buy. Chocolate mice was one of her favourite sweets. She also liked toffees wrapped in shiny coloured paper. Of course, she could never resist Milky Way or Turkish Delight. I wondered what she would decide on eventually. 50p for sweets was quite a lot in those days and she could get a few varieties.

Then I visualised her mooching around the shop looking at the toys and games and then slowly coming out of the shop. She would have to cross the road to get to the bus stop on the other side. I knew she would walk up to the zebra crossing. I hoped the ‘Lollipop Lady’ (a traffic warden who helps children and the aged, to cross roads) would be on duty that day. I saw her cross the road safely and walk to the bus stop. She would be waiting for the bus impatiently. The 159 bus trundles along and she gets in and manages to find a seat. “Now she will be back soon,” I said to myself and continued my house cleaning.

About half an hour later Sujatha telephoned. “What time did Kumi leave?” she asked.

“About a quarter to ten.”

“Nilmini left a little earlier. Don’t you think they should be back by now?”

Sujatha was one to get alarmed at the slightest provocation. It was just gone eleven.

“They have probably bumped into each other at Woolworths and are wandering around the shop together.” I said to calm her down. But I must admit I was getting a little worried too.

“Yes,” said Sujatha “let’s give them another half hour, before panicking.”

I agreed. But I found myself running to the porch every few minutes to see whether Kumi was walking up the hill.

About twenty minutes later, to my great relief, I saw the pair of skinny legs with knobby knees trudging up, and quickly went indoors, shut the door, switched on the television and slumped on to the sofa. Minutes later I heard the key turn in the keyhole and the door open. I heard the zip of her coat being pulled down, and a rustling sound of paper.

“I’m back!” shouted a very cheery voice. “And guess what I bought?” she exclaimed bursting into the room. She had something behind her back.

“Chocolate mice?”

“Wrong.”

“Turkish?”

“Wrong again.”

“Milky Way?”

“Wrong, wrong. Give up?”

“Yes,” I said.

She took what she was concealing behind her and held it out to me. “It is for you,” she proudly exclaimed.

I was mighty surprised. It was a beautiful orange Tiger Lily! I knew that she would have spent all her money on this flower. “What a beautiful flower!” I said, taking it from her. “Thank

Y’ you so much. It’s so sweet of you to have brought it for me. Did you not buy any sweets then?” I asked, giving her a hug. “No,” she said, “I didn’t feel like any,” and shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s the nicest present I have ever received,” I said.

What Kumi did not realise was that she had given me a flower that would never fade; for it is still fresh in my memory and reminds me of the day it was presented to me with stick-like outstretched arms, a beaming face and a wide grin. It was also the day she turned adult! At least to her way of reckoning.

“And guess who I bumped into,” she nonchalantly remarked, pretending it was of no significance.

“Who?

“Nilmini!”

“Really?” I said, “What a coincidence!”

(The writer and her family lived for many years in England while her children were small and later relocated to Sri Lanka)