Childhood is a luxury. Take it from someone who never had one. While other children ran after fireflies, I collected twigs and brambles that could light a fire and warm a house. When other children uncovered the mysteries of the universe witnessing caterpillars metamorphize into butterflies, I was trying to not get caught in the fibers of my life that were closing in like a cocoon. As other children frolicked in the rain, I strained not to wet the only shoe I had. In trying to bring some semblance of control to my crumbling family, I felt my childhood slipping out of my hands like sand. The tighter I tried to hold on to it, the faster it slipped away.



My father gave up on life even before life gave up on him. As the alcohol consumed him, we saw him diminish and finally become a shell of his former self. His drunken stupor would last for days and when he came out of it we wished he hadn’t as he was more malleable when he was drunk. My mother who faced the brunt of it most; would have run away from it all, found an escape one way or the other had she not been tied down by her children. Me in particular. It was not that she was not attached to the boys, however, when she looked at me something akin to horror ran through her eyes. There is nothing more binding, limiting yet beautiful than the relationship between a mother and daughter. She would have risked any rocky terrain if she was alone but with me, the risks were magnified and she settled for some degree of familiarity instead of the vast unknown. If she resented me and the bondage I represented, I never knew. However, I knew for a fact that considering yourself the reason for someone’s drudgery was a huge cross to bear - especially for a child.



The Satyawali family was one of the most prominent in the entire Kumaon region. The fruits from their orchards traveled miles to Europe and beyond. They had an array of cars, managers, and servants going in and out of the palatial gate; the doors of which led to the magnificent dwelling they called home. I had only seen the imposing gate, but the cook in the Satyawali household was my mother’s dear friend. “Our entire cottage would have fit in the smallest corridor of their house,” she exclaimed once to our bewildered expressions. From the little snippets of gossip, we heard from Manorama it became evident that the Satyawali family had everything one could ever ask for except for a male heir to inherit this golden legacy. The three daughters they had, led the lives of princesses, yet even they seemed like prerequisites to the actual promise – a son. Since the lady of the house was pregnant again, the atmosphere in the house was electric. Elders claimed that this time the lords would be kind to the household and give them a son. They discussed at length the shape of the belly, the temperament of the would-be mother and other facets and asserted that this time it was a boy. I secretly hoped it was another girl. I prayed to the God of small things. There should be some balance in this word. The scales could not be this lopsided.



We learned from Manorama, the cook, that the oldest daughter Maya studied in a boarding school tucked away in the beautiful hills of Mussoorie. She came home only during the winter holidays. The other two girls were much younger, demanding and a bane to their mother’s existence. Since the lady of the house was thus indisposed someone was needed to take care of the girls. Manorama knew the failing condition of our family and her intervention changed the financial and emotional landscape of our lives. She suggested that I get a job as domestic help, assisting in taking care of the girls. It would be easy enough as I was “so wonderful” at taking care of my brothers. Also, what added to my repertoire was the fact I was deemed lucky; as not one but two brothers had followed me into this world. “What better omen to bring to the household?” She would later explain to Dadi ma...