Zebra Tears Read online

  ***

  These stairs led from the main entrance into a short hallway with double stained-glass doors that opened out onto the large balcony overlooking the front garden. To the left was a great family room, where paintings of the royal family hung, while my father, who was commissioned by the raja, did all the murals up- and downstairs. There were scenes of a tiger hunt, and sadly, a beautiful buck with an arrow that had brought it down. These pictures were over trophy cases that held stuffed heads from the raja’s kills.

  The living room had lazy sunken armchairs arranged in the center of the carpet and divans with long, rolled silk pillows. To the back of the living room were French doors that opened onto a small balcony large enough for two people overlooking the back garden and ocean. I think this balcony was built just for the glorious sunsets! North of the main living room were four bedrooms and a huge bath right out of Arabian Nights, while on the south side was a sunken dining room, a moderate kitchen, and two full bathrooms. The back door led you down an iron spiral staircase to the servants’ entrance to both floors. The servant quarters were a good distance away from the palace and included a royal laundry and a garage that housed their cars.

  Therefore, here is where I was born, but after the fact, with the palace the worse for wear, now converted into rental property by the independent ruling government of India. The ground floor was ours, while another family occupied the second floor.

  ***

  “Now let’s meet my sister, Ava.”

  “What is she to us, Nana? Nick asked, looking a little confused.

  “I believe, since she is your mom’s aunt, she would be your grandaunt.”

  “Of course, Nick, she’s my grandaunt too!” remarked Vicky.

  Becky just shook her head and asked me to continue with the story while memories of Ava and I growing up in boarding school started to flood my mind. “Let’s go back in time a little and learn about my big sister.”

  ***

  It was decided early in life that my sister, Ava, who was three years my senior, had received our father’s gift. After all, she had received personal training by him at the early age of three on how to draw stick figures. He doted on her, while she adored and loved him deeply for the short time he was with us. Ava felt the great loss of her father, so much so that in her innocent mind she believed I was the cause of her sorrow. It appeared to her that I, a baby, had replaced her beloved father. I discovered later in life that my mother would come into my nursery to find me screaming, covered with pinch marks. My mother proceeded to have Ava treated by a child psychiatrist between the age of four and five to help her get over her trauma, while I continued to survive.

  My mother, God rest her soul, is a part of my life that brings memories of unrest and almost unforgivable hard times. She made my youth one of both physical and mental torment. Even my earliest recollections reignite the horror. Once, when I was approximately five years old, she was handed a note by my nanny from my kindergarten teacher implying I had made off with another child’s school fees. Without asking me for an explanation or believing her own child would never do such a thing, she grabbed me by my left hand and dragged me into the kitchen, yelling, “Which hand did you steal it with?” all the time holding a fork over a hot gas flame. I cried and tried to explain I had not taken anyone’s money, but she did not believe me. The fork was almost red now, and she held my hand and pressed the scorching fork onto it. My skin separated with a hissing sound, and I screamed and tried to jerk away, but the still red-hot fork grazed my right hand, burning a hideous mark to match.

  At that moment a calm came over me, and I stopped struggling. I remember it did not seem really to matter anymore. I was looking into her twisted, scowling face, where she seemed to become a total stranger to me. I know I had been marked for life, both physically and emotionally, but at the tender age of five, who knows or understands why a parent would hurt a child? Today I still carry the faded marks on my hands. Of course, she bandaged me up and felt it was a lesson well learned, only to find out the next day from the same teacher that it had been a big mistake. She let my mother know that the money had been found and profusely apologized.

  ***

  “Oh, Nana,” said Vicky as she took both my hands and turned them over to see the fork marks. Nick was tracing the marks on my hands, and Becky stifled a sniffle. The marks were slowly disappearing with age, but you could still make them out.

  “No big deal,” I said. “No need to cry over the past. I forgave her a long time ago, even though she never apologized for judging me that day.”

  ***

  She did mention it once when I was all grown up. In her own way she was telling me she was sorry by asking, “You haven’t forgotten the fork, Tess, have you?” I told her then that it was forgotten, and I understood that she thought she was doing her best to bring me up decently and honorably, even though the results were hurtful.

  Since the death of my father, mother became a homemaker, without a clue at earning a livelihood. She found it necessary to turn our home into a bed and breakfast for reputable bachelors. According to her, that atmosphere was not appropriate for young girls; it was healthier and safer in a boarding school environment in the care of nuns. Mum struggled to make ends meet in a baffled state of affairs, not comprehending how to carry on after years of father’s extravagant way of life. He had not made provisions for his family in case of his demise, only to be in debt to bill collectors.

  Mr. Singh was one of the first young bachelors to use the now-transformed home. He witnessed her torment and stepped in to help advise her on how to run the place, as well as her finances, thus being able to restore her sanity. I never understood what she must have gone through, only that I thank God that someone was there for her. Little did I know that this was the beginning of the most unsettling and frightening time of my young life.

  ***

  “Let’s take a break from these memories, kids. How about a quick swim before we have to head home?” Becky reminded me that we were still in the time machine somewhere in India and had to get back to the present beach in Florida. We had a good laugh and then raced to the water for one more swim. I glanced back at the castle we built, and in my mind I told myself we would return.

  As we packed up our time machine blanket, dusted off the sand, and piled into the car. We all sat on towels so as not to mess up the seats. Becky and the kids wanted me to go on with the story, as they were dying to know what happened next. I told them that I would tell them about my first year at boarding school, but they had to promise not to get upset, as it was sad yet quite an adventure.

  “OK, Nana, but you have to finish it before we get home, please,” Vicky begged.

  Nick had an idea. “How about you sleep over, Nana, and we can stay up all night?”

  “You mean like a camp out with ghost stories?” I asked. Becky was smiling and had a few memories of her own begin to assemble in her mind. “I know what you are thinking of, Becky. Remember your sleepovers?” Becky replied that she did, and it would be great if we did it with our kids this time. “OK,” I said. “It’s settled. We are having a sleepover at your house, but someone will have to lend me some pajamas.”

  While driving home, I started telling them about my first year in boarding school. Becky turned off the radio so she could hear it too.

  Layout of St. Mary’s Convent Grounds

  St. Mary’s Convent Boarding School

  Chapter 3

  One of my earliest recollections is when I was nine years old, and I went to join my sister Ava at boarding school. Mum and I traveled overnight by train to get to Belgaum, India.

  I took such delight in the train ride, even though the compartment was crowded with so many Indians. The hectic noise of peddlers attempting to sell you their wares at each train stop filled the air. They would literally stick their baskets in the window and run with the train as it took off while trying to retrieve their merchandise. The seats were just planks of hard wood made
smooth from constant use, and I found myself moving from one window to another trying to get as much of the sights of the vast but soon disappearing terrain. I stuck my head out of the window, only to have coal dust from the smoke stack hit me in the face. I didn’t care though; it was such a new experience that I would break out in songs to the sound of the wheels clanking along. Once it got dark, I must have dozed off, because I heard a commotion of people pulling things down from racks and saw Mummy was busy getting our things together. “Get up, sleepy head,” she said. “We have arrived.”

  Belgaum Station at last! A coolie (porter) took Mum’s commands on which baggage was ours. They were moving so fast that I had to run alongside just to keep up with them. I was astounded when I saw our taxi, a dumni (covered wagon) being led by two oxen. I walked around the whole contraption to make a distinction: Did the oxen have the beefiness to carry my heavy trunk as well as myself? I climbed into the wagon very carefully in order to generate as little weight as necessary for the poor animals, while the driver just hopped on with his whip in hand and made odd clicking noises with his mouth. The oxen seemed to understand him as they pulled out in a slow rumble. The anticipation of getting there the same day diminished, as we traveled at the velocity of a snail.

  After what seemed an eternity my body stopped swaying from side to side, which snapped me out of my daydream. We had arrived! In front of us stood a towering stone wall that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. Glittering multicolored glass lined the top like candles on a cake, but unsightly barbed wire took away its beauty. I climbed up on the bench to get a better look and behold the gates of heaven, so I thought. Huge iron gates coming together in a pointed arch were held together by a giant chain and padlock. There was a long driveway lined with hedges as tall as the walls, while spider webs as large as four to five feet wide hung from trees that glistened like shiny silken threads in the morning sun. The occupants of the webs were as large as my wide-open hand, which sent adventurous shivers down my back.

  At the far end of the driveway, as if in a cluster, I saw the nuns. One of them turned and noticed us there and broke into a run. She reached the gate with smiles and waving, at the same time pulling out a big bunch of keys that attached to her waist. She unlocked the gate and swung them wide open to let the dumni through. I looked back at the gates as we rumbled forward; they were being shut once more, which left me with a foreboding in the pit of my stomach. Mummy seemed preoccupied; she could not have noticed my melancholy face as we reached the end of the driveway. Mummy looked at me and then out the dumni, not uttering a word. I felt so alone it actually hurt. I started to tell her that my stomach ached but was interrupted by a shout.

  “Mummy! Mummy!” Ava was running toward the dumni with flying arms, dressed in white. I wondered then if we were all going to become nuns and have to wear white. Ava’s hair shone blackish blue in the sun, yet her cheeks were pale, giving her a stony look. Mummy stepped off the dumni to hug and kiss her. She held her for such a long time, sparking a little envy in me.

  I smiled at Ava, and she smiled back, which felt so good. My big sister came up to me, tugged my pigtails, and commented on how much I had grown and how she loved my long hair. My hair was light brown with a dark complexion alongside her snow-white skin. Mummy was now talking with the nuns while I again trailed behind in silence just sneaking peaks at the whole place. She tugged at me to keep up as we entered Mother Superior’s office. She introduced me while signing some papers, handing me over to them. I finally got a send-off hug, and Mother Superior instructed Ava to acquaint me with the dormitory so I could settle in. I turned to gesture good-bye to Mummy and saw her face torn with emotions; she had become teary-eyed as she blew us farewell kisses. I ran back to her, gave her a big hug, and told her I wanted to go home, and Ava followed suite. Mother Superior pulled us off her and held onto our arms while she climbed back on to the dumni for her lonely trip back to Bombay.

  My trunk was already at the foot of my assigned bed. Ava unlocked it and pulled out my clothes and neatly put them on my bed, remarking, “Your number is thirty-four, and I’m sixty-four.” She proceeded to show me that all my clothes had the number and would explain why at another time. We were to address the nuns by “Mother” and then their name.

  Mother Doris, our dormitory, nun walked in at that moment. She looked at me and, without a word, held my shoulders and turned me around, saying, “Welcome to St. Mary’s, Tess.” I looked up at this towering, dark-faced nun and saw that she wore a smile. Mother Doris picked up one of my socks, noticed the number, and remarked, “Thirty-four. Now I shall remember you.” She noticed my puzzled look and waved Ava away as she went on explaining to me. “Tess, come with me, I have to show you around my dormitory and explain the rules. I only do this once, and I expect you to follow them.” I felt uneasy and tugged on her long white skirt complaining that my stomach felt queasy. She took me to her room and brought out a bottle and spoon, saying, “Open wide.” Yuck, castor oil! I almost heaved on her. I noticed that whenever I was afraid or anxious about something, my stomach would ache, but I learned from that moment on to never complain of a stomachache to her.

  She showed me the bathroom, which had about twenty sinks, all lined up and joined in two rows. There was a four-foot-by-four-foot black box with wire mesh on top for our dirty clothes. The Dhobi (laundry person) picked up all the clothes once a week and brought them back folded according to the numbers, which made it an easy method to distribute the clothes on laundry day. The lavatory had two stalls with doors and no commodes. I looked inside and was shocked to see no toilet seat, only a big hole in the concrete platform. I climbed up a step to look in and asked Mother Doris how to use it. She sat on her haunches to demonstrate and then stood up smiling, saying, “You’ll get used to it, just like everyone else.” There was no toilet paper either, so I inquired. She showed me a stack of newspapers all cut into neat little five-inch squares strung through a wire that hung from the doorknob. I was to take only four pieces with me when I entered the stall, otherwise the container could get too full. The sewage removal was every other day, when someone would come from behind the building and dump the collected waste. She then handed me a basin with my number, thirty-four, in black paint on its side and base and told me to put it under my bed every night filled with water from the tank that sat outside the bathroom. In the morning I was supposed to take it, with toothbrush and towel, just outside the dormitory to a long concrete and stone wall, which served as an open-air restroom, just for the morning ritual of washing up.

  There were approximately 150 boarders and only one large restroom. I was yet to discover where we took our baths! There were three dormitories with connecting doors: the first for the very little ones aged two to seven, the middle for children from eight to twelve, while the third one had all the rest, from thirteen to twenty.

  By now I was very anxious about remembering all the rules, still clutching my white enamel basin and following Mother Doris all over the place. We had finally returned to my dormitory, and I quickly put the basin under my bed. “Good” she said. “I like girls who learn fast!”

  I suddenly heard slamming doors, followed with quite a commotion outside the dormitory. Bursting into the room, a nun whom I had not yet met walked toward us holding a girl by her ear. She was dragging this crying and hysterical child about my age toward Mother Doris, pushing her into her arms. I was stunned! My eyes enlarged as I watched one nun tell the other in hushed tones what the girl had done. Mother Doris took over with the ear and pulled her to her room. I heard the loud sounds of a cane whipping, and I cringed in fear, thinking, “What have I come to?” The silent screams of despair clutched my throat while unnoticed tears welled in my eyes.

  I could not tell if I was feeling sorry for her or scared for myself. Maybe it was a bit of both. All I could do was look down at my hands. The memory of scorched fork marks now burned, while my stomach decided to twist in all directions at the same time. I felt doomed! Look
ing around the dormitory, I tried to find my sister’s gaze for support, but she was nowhere around. The room was empty, except for the sounds of whipping and screams. Mother Doris finally came out of her room with the girl, now looking like death warmed over. She limped, with huge, blistering welts on her legs. I watched as Mother Doris made her kneel down in front of her and say, “Thank you for correcting me, Mother. I deserved it.” Then the girl got up painfully and limped out of the room.

  By now I was cowering in front of my bed wondering what she had done that had been so bad to deserve such a ghastly whipping. Mother Doris walked back to me and carried on talking as though nothing had happened. She saw that I was crying and sternly asked me what was wrong. Between sobs I told her I wanted to go home with Mummy. I got a pat on the shoulder as she laughed and said, “Tess, your mum has given you and Ava into our charge so that you both will grow up to be good Catholic girls. You will not be seeing her for a very long time, so you had better get used to it fast, learn quickly, and stay out of trouble.” Just then a bell rang out. I was motioned outside to join the rest of the girls, including Ava, who was telling all her friends about her little sister. When the bell rang we had to all line up in groups of two for the refectory.

  What was a refectory? I wondered. What a strange word. We walked in silence because it was one of the rules. The smell that came through the window from the nuns’ building was so appetizing that I soon realized we were going to a dining area called a refectory for lunch.

  We had turned a corner behind the chapel and started descending some steps. I noticed a huge hall that I assumed was the refectory right under the chapel. The sound of nuns singing came through the ceiling, and we were not to make any noise that could transmit into the church. There were about twenty tables lined up, forming eight rows. The wooden tables and benches seated six girls. I had to wait while everyone else sat at her assigned table. Mother Doris took my hand and led me to a table with an opening. There were shorter tables and benches for the little ones positioned in the center rows, and at the head of the whole refectory was a small desk and chair where Mother Doris sat and read scriptures aloud.