‘No…ooo….OOO…ooo…OOO…ooo!’ The sound whined through my slumber like a recalcitrant bit drill. Without raising my head, I opened my eyes and spun them towards the source of the wail. It was Maria Fonesca. Never in all my years here, had I ever heard such raw pain echoing in Maria’s voice. Invariably, she took things in her stride, with calm serenity. ‘Maria, stop being melodramatic. There is no need for hysterics,’ was the irate response in a deeper timbre.
I was so stunned that I raised my head…Was that Pedro Fonesca shouting at his wife? Pedro? The gentle, reasonable, polite Pedro who worships the ground Maria walks on?
Twenty-eight years ago, Pedro had stumbled on his first sight of pretty Maria at a local dance…stumbled helplessly…into love. His parents had passed on some time back and he had no family. So, he simply followed his heart’s edict and took his chances. Finding Maria alone, next evening, in her aunt’s herb garden he offered his heart to her, secure in the knowledge that only the moon would witness his dejection when she rejected it. Till today, he wonders why she accepted him…with alacrity.
Now, he goes on, his voice a few octaves lower yet barely controlling the tremble in it, ‘Nothing is wrong. It is just a small mistake. We will sort it out.’
Something is wrong… very, very wrong.
Sunday afternoons were family time. Everybody in Ponda knew that the popular Fonesca Bakery closed on Sundays. After the morning service at Ponda Church, our family returned to a special Sunday brunch. When spoons had scraped out the last remnants of Maria’s splendid dessert, the family would sprawl in the sitting room. Pedro would flutter the pages of the The Goa Tribune Sunday Edition reading out interesting snippets mostly related to football. Maria would settle down with her crochet and smile as she listened to her husband’s comments. Daughter, Jasmine would curl up with her latest book and son, Jamie would energetically chart the video game he had downloaded. And, I would snore through a well-deserved nap brought on by the chops-licking meal now resting in my swollen belly. These mellow sunshine moments bonded us into the family that we were. Sunday afternoons were precious indeed, f for each of us.
I look at everyone in the room.
Pedro’ face is flushed, and Maria’s is tearful. Instead of slouching on the sofa, Jasmine sits ramrod straight in an armchair. She leans forward a little, her jaw set in a determined line, just like it used when she was being a stubborn little girl. I look at Jamie, my favourite person. Long legs stretched out, he lounges in the chair, scrutinizing his nails carefully.
Maybe too carefully…as though he didn’t want to be part of what is being spoken or unspoken in the room…but…just could not tear himself away from the conversation.
All those years ago, what Pedro didn’t know was Maria was not just besotted by his shy, sincere boyishness. Her sights were trained on the bakery that his parents had left him. Maria’s passion was confectionery. She had been seeking a platform to launch her innovative creations and Pedro Fonesca’s bakery was a perfect fit. They married in a month’s time and moved into Pedro’s tiny cottage. I joined them soon after. Maria’s touch had transformed Fonesca Bakery. While Pedro manned the counter, Maria concocted her delicacies in the dark kitchen behind. Consequently, no feast in Ponda could be complete without Fonesca Bakery’s fondue or mousse or cakes. Maria’s confectionaries became the talk of not just Ponda but all Goa. 
A belch bubbles up. Too late, I realize, the second helping has been a mistake, today.
I am so dull and drowsy that I have failed to notice that neither newspaper, book, crochet needle nor phone is around. Instead, a taut tension spread-eagles the room… so thick that you could cut it with a cake knife.
How could I have missed it?
‘This is not something to sort out, Papa,’ rasped Jasmine, ‘C’mon, we have to act…right now.’
‘Jasmine, what do you mean?’ asks Maria, querulously.
‘Mamma, a rape has to be reported…to the police,’ Jasmine retorts in a hard voice.
‘Jas is right…,’ starts Jamie slowly.
‘You stay out of this.’ Pedro cuts him off, abruptly. Jamie falls silent and lowers his head, but a frown forms between his brows. ‘Rape…what rape?’ Pedro’s last syllable is squeaky. He clears his throat, ‘Jasmine, listen. There is nothing to report. It is a mistake…everyone makes mistakes. We have to discuss it as a family and sort it out.’
Maria bends forward; palms cup her face. She rocks back and forth murmuring, ‘Shameful! Shameful! What will everyone say?’
Pedro places a hand on her back. ‘No Maria. Our children won’t do anything to shame us. It’s never happened in our… the Fonesca family. They have made a mistake. We have to show them the right path. Maria, be strong. You can’t give in, now.’
Five years after they married, with the bakery galloping ahead, the children arrived…first, Jasmine and then Jamie. Pedro was delighted but worried. Could they be good parents with the bakery taking up all the time? Maria was not deterred. She just turned into a whirlwind with home, children and bakery revolving around her. Each Sunday became Pedro’s opportunity to send heartfelt thanks up to the Heaven for bringing Maria and the children into his life.
Jamie turns to her, ‘Mamma, please…why the hell are you ashamed? I….,’
‘Shut up, Jamie, will you?’ Pedro growls. Jamie looks at him, his expression inscrutable…His hands curl into fists. Is that a glint of tears?
Despite, their chock-a-block life, the couple had turned out to be wonderful parents---always loving, caring and supportive. When Jasmine had been a toddler and Jamie just a baby, Maria would be run off her feet, but I had never heard her complain. Unfailingly patient, even at the end of a hard day, I would hear her singing to them during bedtime. Melodious, her lullabies trickling down from the nursery always brought peace into my heart. Jasmine and Jamie grew up accustomed to family outings to the beach, zoo, museums and exhibitions on Sundays. Any leisure time was devoted to family togetherness. Pedro and Maria made conscious efforts to understand and empathize with their children’s needs. Ours was a small family and we lived for each other.
Why, then, is everyone quarrelling today?
‘Mamma, why are you ashamed? A rapist is a criminal. How does it matter what people think? We have to get him… punish him.’ Jasmine’s voice rises shrilly, ‘Accept the reality. Rape is a crime. We must tell the police. Let’s go. We can’t waste time in discussions and recriminations.’
Crime? What crime? Has something happened to Jasmine? Was she molested at her workplace?
‘Oh Jasmine, don’t go on and on,’ her mother pleaded. ‘We have brought both of you up with so much love and care. You are our gifts from the Lord. How can anything go wrong with you? How can you even mention these things?’ Maria sounds brittle, as though she would break into a thousand pieces at any moment…collapse into helpless weeping. ‘I have done my best to be a good mother…given you my time…taught you right from wrong. Did I make a mistake, Pedro?’
Her husband pats her hand and shakes his head. Maria brings a handkerchief to her nose and sniffs. Jamie presses his hands to his head; screws up his eyes, as though in pain.
But I certainly agree with her there.
Of course, Jasmine has turned out to be pretty headstrong and Jamie is the careless one. We adore him despite his nonchalance, but he has given us some stressful moments.
Even now, my heart stops when I remember the accident. Jamie had turned twelve and had just been gifted with a shiny blue sports cycle. After school, he would ride it through the neighbourhood, jangling its bell. But he was not allowed on the main road. That was forbidden. And so, THAT was exactly what my Jamie did. It was a Sunday, like today. Pedro had just sat down to his evening cuppa and bitten into one of Maria’s delectable raspberry cookies. As I watched out for falling flakes, Jamie’s friend, Swami rushed in with, ‘It’s Jamie. He has had an accident.’
The cookie rolled on the floor. Pedro ignored it, as did I. In a trice, we were out of the door. Terrifying pictures of Jamie bleeding and broken assailed my mind. When we parted the knot of people surrounding the boy, we found him lying on the tarmac next to his new bicycle, now twisted and ruined. He was not bleeding…some bruises, maybe…but broken he was. With a painful fractured ankle, he could not even stand. Pedro scooped him up in his strong arms and soothing him with, ‘Baby, you’ll be alright. Don’t worry. Papa is here,’ we ran all the way to Dr Rao’s clinic. When the doctor had set the ankle in plaster and given Jamie something for the pain, the boy looked at Pedro and gasped, ‘Sorry, Papa.’
Pedro only shook his head, ‘It doesn’t matter, Jamie. You are safe. That’s what matters.’ At home, Maria held him close and rocked him as though he was a baby again. Not a single rebuke.
Parenting is not easy, but Pedro and Maria have made a fine job of it.
‘Nobody has made mistakes, Mamma,’ Jasmine’s riposte is like a razor, ‘…at least till now…but if we sit around and do nothing…that will be a serious mistake.’ Suddenly, Jasmine seems to make up her mind. She starts to get up saying loudly, ‘Why don’t you people take me seriously? I can’t stand it anymore. I am going to the police.’
I also sit up. I can’t let her go alone.
‘SIT DOWN. NOW!’ shouts Pedro. Everyone jumps including Jamie. His eyes swing from sister to father. I have never seen Pedro so angry. Each line of Jasmine’s body spells defiance but she backs off. Slumping into the chair, she glowers at Pedro.
Their thoughtfulness as parents had helped grow Jasmine and Jamie into sensitive, non-judgmental, caring people. While Jasmine had completed a professional course and now works with a magazine, Jamie studies at the local college.
Jamie is a regular kid with lots of friends. He is on the college quizzing team, organizes class picnics and is always into some fun thing. In fact, my Jamie is a very loveable kid.
Ever since he was born, Jamie and I have been on the same frequency. Till he entered the teens, we had been an inseparable pair. Jamie has been my special care. Obviously, there came a time when he grew away from me. He had new friends and new interests. Still, when he returns home from college every afternoon, and the others are away working, we have a rollicking time together. The entire cottage is ours. We watch TV, play computer games or just snooze wrapped around each other. The only problem is when Jamie’s friends drop in. These guys appropriate Jamie’s room and I am shunted out. Of course, Jamie settles me in Jasmine’s room, but I tiptoe to the closed door. I would hear them laughing inside and know they are having loads of fun. How I wish they would let me join them!
But today, I don’t have the foggiest why the serene yesterdays are exploding…
Now that, he’d had his way, Pedro’s tone is conciliatory, ‘Jasmine, you’ll be alright. We don’t need the police. Young people make mistakes. They imagine things…unbelievable things. We just need to talk it out and everything will be fine. Everything will be normal’
‘Maybe… we should go to a doctor….’,starts Maria, uncertainly.
Jamie’s voice is loud, ‘No doctors. I don’t think…,’
But his father’s shout drowns what Jamie thinks. ‘YES! That’s it! We must go to a doctor,’ Pedro latches on to the straw to save them all from drowning in an incomprehensible quagmire.
Jasmine shakes her head disgustedly. ‘For what?’ she demands. ‘To ascertain rape? Why don’t you believe me…’
She is cut off by an explosive, ‘Jasmine! Will you stop it? There has been no rape…it is all in the mind. We will consult a psychiatrist…it is all in the mind,’ Pedro asserts definitively.
‘Yes. Let’s go to a doctor,’ repeats Maria. Finally, the parents seem to have found a viable solution.
What is in the mind? Rape? Or is it something else? I am fumbling with ideas…
Jamie stands up, agitated; words tumble out. ‘What the bloody hell? Jasmine, just forget it. You tried. I tried. But they just shut their damn minds. What do you think? If you don’t hear it, the bloody truth will vanish? You are ashamed of me. Why? Because I prefer boys? Well, that is how I am…take it or leave it. And don’t you dare give me your drivel about sinning! Remember it’s your God… your bloody, precious God who made me this way. Ask Him why…not me!
Yesterday, I made a mistake…that I agree. This guy was like the others. We were together, he played rough and I objected. I told him to leave. Suddenly, he lost his temper. He became violent and…and…he forced me… raped me.
Oh… that’s why I heard those screams, yesterday… I had assumed it was only some horseplay. You know, boys will be boys…but my poor Jamie was being raped…oh noooo! He was being hurt…and I could not help…oh God, nooo!…
‘Dammit!’ Jamie kicks the table. ‘Who’s bothered about how I feel, my pain, my loneliness? This isn’t about me, is it? No… It’s about your prestige, your shame, hiding the truth from neighbours...’
Pedro opens his mouth…
‘No Papa, don’t. You keep saying, family…family. Whose family? My family? If you are my family, why am I alone? Papa, Mamma, listen to me. This is loud and clear. I. AM. GAY. That’s my choice. Got it?
What’s your choice? Can you accept Jamie Fonesca, your GAY son? If you can’t, tell me. Tell me, now! I will go my way.
All of us have a past. If we let it, our past shapes our future. But there are a few who know how to shrug off the past. I believe I am one of those few... I will walk away without the past weighing me down…dragging me back.’
Disbelief marks Pedro’s face. Maria’s sorrowful eyes are deep and dark. Tears carve rivulets down Jasmine’s cheeks. Silence booms in my ears deafeningly.
Jamie gestures to me. I scramble up and follow him to the door. For a moment, he lays his cheek on mine. I nuzzle him and give him my wettest lick to tell him that I, at least, understand. Jamie opens the door. Waves wink at us…our blue sapphire. We slip out into the evening breeze sharp with the tang of the sea. But the salt on my tongue is not from the salt in the wind.
Thank God, we dogs don’t have our hearts clogged with baggage.
All Rights Reserved. Copyright@Sutapa Basu, 2018 (Originally submitted to Write India Campaign, TOI)
