Men are bastards, Mishu-moni, was a pronouncement for which my grandmother switched to English. She’d pause for effect, take a measured sip of her whisky and tell me stories of bastardous men. I was 13 or 14 at the time. Thima somewhere in her sixties, with a dead husband and a dead son behind her, and her body neatly divided into three sufferings – spondylosis on top, irritable bowel in the middle, arthritis below. But her evening ritual did not suffer. At half past six, when other grandmothers in other houses were lighting incense, ringing their little brass bells and sending up prayers to 33 crore gods, Thima attended to more important business. She unlocked her almirah, stroked her chiffons and organzas for the right sari to wear, before ringing her own little brass bell for Bani, our help, to bring in a glass of Scotch. Thima. In front of the mirror. In a perfectly tailored sleeveless blouse, matching petticoat. Thima wrapping her sari in intricate folds and tucks, her fingers spread out like a dancer’s mudra, swishing this way and that, magically gathering cloth into neat concertina pleats like the paper fans I made on breezeless summer days. And I, her partner, playmate, pleat-tweaker, poised at her feet, ready to perform two precise tasks: a) to hold each pleat of her sari and give it a shake if too long and a tug if too short, so Thima could pull it up or loosen it down, b) to circle Thima like the earth does the sun, making sure the sari ended an inch off the floor so she wouldn’t trip. Cataracts were beginning to curdle her eyes by then.Chhani. That’s “cataract” in Bangla. Always made me think of “chhana”, Bangla for cottage cheese; a small wiggling of a syllable and cataract turns to cheese. Bani used to make chhana by squeezing lemon into boiling milk till it split; soft clumps of white floating in pale green. As I circled Thima, I imagined her eyes separating into whey and cheese. Oh, these eyes, Mishu-moni! Thima lamented. Once upon a time, they could make poets out of plain men. When I was your age, there’d be a queue of boys outside our house waiting for me to come out. “Who’ll she look at today, who’ll she look at today?” They knew, the sneaky buggers, ten o’clock and I’d be on the balcony drying my hair. They knew and I knew and they knew that I knew, Thima giggled like a girl. They threw up crumpled balls of love letters like flowers to a god. Ah, those days! Then she’d look at me. She’d take in my face, my forehead, nose, eyes, chin; untuck my hair from behind my ears, cover the sides of my face. You’re a good girl, Mishu-moni, but no great beauty; what to do? It’s from your mother’s side. An amra tree can only bear sour amra, not sweet mangoes. She’d stroke my hair in consolation, her expression sad and cruel. Her lips curving in a soothing smile, her eyes encouraging me to share her regret – How I wish I’d inherited your great beauty, Thima, was what I needed to say. But I did not say it. And after a second her smile would drop, her nose crease as if a whiff of bad smell had been carried in by the breeze. Smile more, at least! she’d say. When I was your age, a smile was enough, no one could hold the boys back. Does a single boy come round for you?Ticktock ticktock. Quarter to seven. Thima rings her bell. Bani walks in with a tray, on it a glass of Scotch with soda and ice, a plate of prawn fritters or paneer pakoras or bhetki fry. Bani, grumbling: Shotti baba, other women are ringing their ghonta for the gods, and in this house? For fish fingers! And that (jerking her chin at the whisky), why not straightaway ask for poison? All’d be over then! Thima: Mishu, please inform her that she’s forgotten the napkins. Don’t know about other women, but I should prefer not to die with crumbs of her delicious fish fingers sticking to my lipstick. Bani (pulling the curtains shut): Ha. Mishu, tell her – she won’t die so easy. Thima: What’s the madwoman doing with the curtains? The conversation that followed took place every day as if for the first time. Bani: Can’t you see? Closing them. Thima, to me: Mishu, dear, do look up the Calcutta Lunatic Asylum in the telephone directory. Then to Bani: Pray why, in this heat? Bani: You know very well why. Mr Mitra’s sitting in his balcony, can’t you see? What’ll he think? You with that? (Again, chin-jerk at whisky.) Oh lord. What am I to do with this backward buffoon? Yes-yes, call me whatnot, I’m nothing but a servant. Now she remembers! Mishu-moni, open the blooming curtains, and tell this silly woman that I don’t care two hoots about what Mr Mitra or anyone else thinks of me. Not two hoots, you hear? Ei Mishu, hear that terrible hoot-hooting? Must be a poor owl stuck in the house, again! And with a wink at me Bani would make her exit.Bani was my hub of all abdaar, that untranslatable mishmash of affection and demand, cuddles and complaints, tantrums and rebellion. Though any tantrum I unleashed on Bani was brought to a halt by Thima’s low and ominous Mishhhhhu! (no “moni” when angry), you will not talk to Bani in that tone! That was Thima and Bani. Guarding and fighting each other. One moment bristling on the other’s behalf, the next having a stand-off. Their short, intense bouts of feral fencing, in fluent Sarcasm, seemed to bring them both enormous pleasure and leave no scars in their wake.Excerpted with permission from And I Am the Arrow, Pia Ghosh-Roy, Pan Macmillan India.