My First Flight

By Tamanna Mohanty

The shrill tone of the telephone woke me up from my nap. I sat upright and tried to trace back to reality. "Why are you blaming me? I didn't ruin your son." I scratched my little head. Who is she talking to?

I tiptoed to the door of the room where mom was sitting on the bed, phone to her ears. I could hear her stifling her tears. I tiptoed back to my room, blank-minded and in the process, I tripped over my plastic toy that made a noise. "Tamanna?! What are you doing?", my mother asked, her voice choking. "Nothing, mom. Just tripped over a rattle."

She said nothing. I walk into her room and sat beside her, my head against her chubby arms. I didn't know how to console my mom. She was wiping her tears with the scarf around her neck. This was the second time in three days that the phone made my mother cry. I hated that telephone. Whenever it rang, it meant bad news. I didn't know that my grandmother was on the side of the call whenever my mother cried.

My mom ran her fingers through my wavy hair and kissed my forehead. "I won't let anyone harm you." Little did that poor woman know that I was already damaged by the happenings at home.

Dad would come home from the office, crack open a chilled beer bottle and sit on the sofa, watching TV. Then he would ask about what my mother said to his mother that led to a trunk call (an emergency call that was expensive back in the day when calls were connected through people in zonal telephone offices). My meek mother replied nothing. And that led to fights. I shut my door and put a pillow over my face, trying to cut out those screams and shouts. What if I pressed this pillow harder against my face? Will it solve their problems?

Something very similar happened that day. Dad came from the office, pulled out his belt and threw it on the sofa. While loosening his shirt he called me out. "Get me a chilled beer." I became an expert bottle opener at the age of five. I did tricks of throwing the bottle opener and catching it in style, I saw bartenders doing tricks on some show. I flung the bottle opener in the air and while catching it, the sharp side cut my finger and it bled. I sucked off the salty blood and gave the bottle to dad. He didn't notice the cut.

I went to the kitchen to grab some snacks and went to mom's room. She was sitting with her legs stretched and back against the wall. She was staring at the white roof. My presence startled her. Before I could make fun of her for getting scared of me, dad called me again. I was hungry so I stuffed my mouth with biscuits. I tried to chew hastily as I didn't want to keep my dad waiting. But the biscuits made my mouth dry so I went to the kitchen to drink water. Dad called me three times already. I took the plate with biscuits in it and went to the TV room.

"What took you so much time, eh? I earn money to pay for those biscuits that you are eating. You are like your fucking mother, you ungrateful bastard!"

At that moment I remember skidding to the floor and hitting my face on the TV stand. My biscuit plate clattered loudly on the floor. I saw stars. My lower lip was bruised with blood oozing out. My left cheek was burning.

I was bawling. My mother rushed out immediately and took me in her arms, consoling me. Before dad could say anything further, my mom screeched. "SHUT UP! HOW THE HELL DID YOU RAISE YOUR HAND ON MY DAUGHTER!!!!!"

He stood there silently, glaring at me. I smooshed my face into mom's bosom because I didn't want to see him. Mom took me to the kitchen and sat me down on the platform to tend to my bruises. "How did you cut your finger? Were you playing with knives?" What could I say? I sometimes secretly tried to push a knife into my gut. I heard my grandmother call me the black cat who jinxed my parents. I just wanted to stop being the black cat. My five-year-old brain didn't comprehend that pushing a knife into my gut would actually kill me, not kill the bad luck I posed as.

That night there were murmurs and my mom was crying again. Then it all went quiet. Must have fallen asleep. I slept off too, wincing whenever my face rested on the slapped side.

Around midnight, I was shaken up. "Come on. We gotta go. We have a flight to catch." My mom was standing, with a big bag around her big shoulders and held my hand as we walked out of the house. We got into a cab and went off to the Mumbai airport. I was fascinated by the clouds in the sky and the world looked so small underneath. I couldn’t see dad anymore down in the small world and that made me feel happy. We landed at Bangalore airport and I ran straight to my maternal uncle’s arms. That was my first time flying in a plane.

By Tamanna Mohanty