A Life Less Ordinary Read Online Free

know everything about everybody. But don’t tell Baba about him—otherwise he’ll beat me up.” She kept smiling at me as if she knew something I didn’t—that’s why I had to add that.
    This friend of mine was named Krishna. She was short and fair, with a slightly crooked tooth, but she was still good-looking. Her sister, Mani, was also lovely. The three of us took tuitions together. I remember that one day there was no electricity and we were sitting and studying by the light of a lamp. I tried tomove the lamp a bit and the hot glass brushed against the teacher’s knee! I was scared to death! Now he’s sure to tell Baba and then I’ll get a beating , I thought. But he did nothing of the sort. He just kept quiet. But even though he did not give the incident any importance, Krishna and Mani kept reminding me of it and teasing me.
    They must have also told their father about me, for one day their Baba and mine talked a lot about me and my brother. Their father asked Baba why he did not let his children be children. “Why do you keep scolding them all the time?” he asked. “Why don’t you let them play when they want to? You’re always stopping them playing, or going out if they want to…They’re still children, after all: do you have to keep them busy with household chores all the time? Don’t you think they want to go out and play, like all children do? Your daughter is so scared of you that even when she is ill she dare not tell you. And anyway, what good would it do even if she does? She also knows that. Tell me: is this right?”
    Krishna’s father was not wrong. When my mother left, she took all the joy in our lives with her. Baba did not allow me to wear bangles; I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone, to play with anyone, and often not even allowed out of the house. I was so scared of being beaten that I would look for opportunities to go out and play only when I knew he was not around to stop me. I was only eleven or twelve years old at the time, and I used to think that no one could be as unfortunate as me. I used to think that only I knew what it means to lose a mother. Sometimes when I thought about Ma, I would think that if it had been Baba who had left instead of her, perhaps things would not have been so bad. After all, what had Baba given us, except fear? I used to think that perhaps there were no children who feared their own father as much as we did. His appearance, with his round, plump face; histall, solid frame; and his huge moustache, did not help. He frightened everyone away—other children were scared even to come near him!
    I longed for my mother. I used to think that if only I could have her love and support, my fear of Baba would be manageable. Had she been around, I would not have had to abandon my studies: of this I was sure. She wanted so much for me to study. In fact, had it not been for her, and her support and constant encouragement, I would not have studied even as much as I had. It was only now that I was able to appreciate how important it was to be able to read and write. The years I had spent at school had taught me that much at least. History was my favorite subject. I loved it and really enjoyed it, and perhaps that was why the history teachers also liked me. They used to tell us about different battles, about the Rani of Jhansi, about Nawab Sirajudowlah, about all sorts of kings and queens and nobles. I often wished I could meet all the people whose stories we heard. I would have liked to have talked to them. And whenever I studied history, I would remember my mother. I don’t know why…I just did. Maybe it was somehow connected to the things that our neighbors used to say about us—about how such a well-knit family had fallen apart with just the departure of one person. Or perhaps it was that Rani Lakshmi Bai’s story—about how she took her little boy and fled with him on her