Gather round, people!

Let me recount for you this ’74 escapade. I was on the verge of becoming a mature 13-year-old scholar in Class 8, under the expert guidance of Ms. Rukmani and the watchful eye of Rev. Mullens, the school pastor. Meanwhile, my dear Dad was enjoying his post-retirement work in the neighbouring city of Coimbatore. Wikipedia tells me now that the city is big on chicken eggs! Who would’ve thought that chooks love to scratch around Coimbatore!  My friend Javed was… well, doing his thing.

Home, a place where I pigged out on chapatis, milk and sugar and where, many a time, wore my school uniform well beyond the call of duty. The overcrowded dwelling, as some might call it, only truly reached its peak during holidays and Christmas. The rest of the time, it was just me, my siblings Philip, Sheila, Cony, and our mother, living it up in our two-bedroom mansion, complete with modern amenities like running water and electricity.

My daily school commute was delightful. I got to permanently borrow my sister Jean’s bicycle – Jean was studying her nursing in Poona and couldn’t also keep an eye on her bicycle in Bangalore. I’d strap our school bags onto it, plop Philip onto the back, and pedal us to different schools. Philip was lucky enough to make it to his morning assembly on time, but I, of course, was fashionably late for mine. In retrospect, my chronic tardiness might explain why I used to chase bully ants with sun rays from a magnifying glass.

Then came the catastrophic ice candy incident. This was when bacteria got the better of my white blood corpuscles.  It was the catalyst for my exile to Aunt Jimmy’s home. With her ever-present partner, Dr. KK, and their posh bungalow, I was in for a treat. This house boasted a kennel and gates so formidable, they guarded against both intruders and common sense.

Aunt Jimmy helped me make a speedy recovery, but then was hell-bent on turning me into an academic prodigy. Rising at ungodly hours, I started studying my curriculum of subjects that I never knew existed. My Aunt, a doctor, also kept my nutrition levels optimised with this questionable health drink that smelt of penicillin. My mornings would have been a recipe for disaster if it wasn’t for the rose bushes outside the window. I faithfully nurtured them with this liquid fertilizer. I did monitor them surreptitiously for any side-effects and didn’t note anything that was cause for alarm. My democratic sense of fair play, however, made me periodically swap the pots outside my window.

Aunt Jimmy used to drop me off at school each day with a boxed lunch of sandwiches, a culinary masterpiece without a doubt. I unfortunately suffered from an undiagnosed, unreported, and at that point in history, the unknown condition of anorexia. As a result, I found myself carrying this burden of uneaten sandwiches at the end of the day. Being a natural strategic thinker, I embarked on a quest to preserve the illusion of satisfaction.

Behind Aunt Jimmy’s mansion, the compound wall towered like an ancient fortress. On the other side, in tranquil peace and serenity after a busy day, lay St Ann’s School. Elsie, the ever-vigilant domestic help, played her part in this grand charade. At the stroke of 6.30 pm, as Aunt Jimmy and Dr. KK set off for their clinic, Elsie would perform her ritual, unlocking and locking gates with the precision of the guards in Buckingham Palace – not that I’ve been there. Little did she know, her actions were synchronized with my covert sandwich drops. I can tell you now, these air drops did a lot for my mental wellbeing.

Just as I was settling in, and beginning to climb the academic ladder to fame and brilliance, the inexplicable happened. Baffling crank calls plagued Aunt Jimmy’s household. I imagine the caller or callers made sounds like werewolves on a full moon night.

Aunt Jimmy quizzed me about these calls, and unfortunately, I wasn’t much help. No, I had not given her phone number to any of my friends. No, I didn’t have any girlfriends who loved the moon. No, I was not having sex with my friend’s sister. I did answer some of Aunt Jimmy’s line of questioning without having the faintest idea of what it meant and where it was going.

One evening after the werewolves’ courtesy call, Aunt Jimmy’s hand connected with my cheek. The sharp sting echoed through the room. I realized it was time to go. With the precision of Ian Flemming’s double ‘0’ rated secret agent, I executed my flawless escape.

Elsie, the unsung hero of this tale, would masterfully juggle keys and gates, orchestrating a symphony of clicks and clanks when she heard Dr KK’s car. It was the time when the good doctors returned from their clinic around 10 pm. I used this night vigil as my diversion to slip out the backdoor, flit into the darkness on the other side of the house, race on my toes to scale the front compound wall, and melt into the shadows between the lampposts on the streets.

My heart pounding with the thrill of the chase, I kept running – and walking – towards freedom.  I navigated the broad roads and labyrinthine of streets to Indiranagar, ever so thankful for the night, as I kept a watchful eye for any signs of pursuit.

Upon reaching the safety of my friend Javed’s home, we embarked on a covert mission back to my own doorstep, our footsteps silent, our breaths bated. When my mother welcomed me back, relief flooded the room.

Aunt Jimmy and Dr KK had come home – earlier, and taken Cony to accompany them in a quest for the macabre – floating cadavers! Yes, that’s right. While Joe or Mary would enjoy leisurely strolls around the lake, this fearless trio opted to scour the waters for signs of lifelessness.

Despite my innocent request to retrieve my suitcase, Dad, in his unyielding wisdom, insisted on a mandatory field trip to Aunt Jimmy’s fortress of solitude. Clearly, Dad was determined to impart some valuable life lesson – this could well be a master-class for me to maintain relationships. Upon our arrival, I extended my greetings to Aunt Jimmy, only to receive a reception colder than the Arctic in winter. Elsie, the only human in this android world, assisted me in packing. I graciously accepted her friendship.

I sometimes ponder on these werewolves, the elusive crank caller, a mystery! A girl, indeed, but one who hid her identity for decades. Perhaps this is a tale left for another day, in the annals of my audacious escapades.

Presley Peter