by Radhika Malhotra

It was quiet. My eyes were closed; I was not awake, not fully asleep, like in a daze. I felt the grip around my ankle. I felt how my skin slid over the folds of the bedsheet, how my body slid down the bed. As the grip released, I opened my eyes, and there was nothing. The sun rose; I stepped out of the room, into the lift, not looking at my reflection around me. And when the door opened with a ping, I hesitated for a moment before lifting my chin just the slightest bit and stepping out. I told no one.

I didn't plan on coming. The air feels thick in the underground early this morning. The airport is stations away by now, and each announcement comes with the rattling that goes through my body. I hold my suitcase; I fidget with my phone. The connection is weak, coming and going. 

We look up at the house in silence, our eyes wandering from curtained window to curtained window, resting on the stained glass of the entrance door, the brass letterbox too high for a small child to peek through. The house has a fresh coat of paint, white, as it always used to be. I remember standing next to my mother on that hot summer day, in which she poured boiling water over the ants making their way from the crumbling brick pillar of the front gate to the house. My brother shifts uncomfortably and the gravel on the street screeches under his feet. I stare blankly, my throat closed, when I look up at my other brother. He is the oldest of the three of us and I can see how he nods silently, while his eyes keep wandering. It has been twenty-five years or more since we left this house. My brother came back several times; I didn't.
 
But this day is different. My brother doesn’t look at me as he says, “When you came into the house, things changed.” The sentence feels like a silent request to say more, an invitation to step into it, to see what they saw. 

I was born in 1976, nearly ten years after my parents met. London was electric, but also bleak and full of tension. I had a twin sister. My mother didn't know and when I was born, so was she, dead. I would think of her often. A companion that never walked this earth, but was omnipresent, simply because I existed.

He says: “It started with the teddies. Yes, I am sure.” I look up at the window next to my parents' bedroom. The smallest room in the house, just a crib and a dresser tall enough for an adult to reach the top. Each night, with a step and a little stretch, my mother would carefully place all teddy bears on top of the dresser. And each morning, she would find them scattered around the room. 

I hear the gravel screeching, and I know my brother wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He knows what he saw. I look at him with pity. A grown man haunted by a memory. A memory that repeats itself.
My brothers were three and five by then, sharing the room right at the beginning of the landing, opposite mine. For many nights, an elderly man, heavily hung with jewellery, would appear from their dresser, stepping into their room next to their beds. Never saying anything, never doing any harm. 

It is not long ago that I asked my mother if my father knew. She said she believed so, but didn't remember. You could see her drifting away for a moment, until she said: “I don’t know if it was the house why we left, or if it was because of what he did.”

An old photograph of all of us in the garden comes to my mind. We smile into the camera. A white, blonde woman, a brown, dark-haired man. We would get our freckles from our German mother and the thick hair from our Indian father. At that moment, in the very outskirts of London, with families smiling and children playing, we didn't feel the rise of the extreme right-wing National Front. For a penny, we ran to the corner shop to get the newspaper. My father read the first-page article and felt the unease rising within him, which he couldn't name. So many people were living in fear of day-to-day harassment and brutality. 

None of us has moved. I make a picture of our house. My brother says I should send it to him later. We stand here and it feels like it’s the four of us. It’s our house; in this moment, it is our house. We run through the hallway, out of breath, the tie loose, the sleeves of our school uniform rolled up. I proudly wear a red pin with a white three. A woolen dress is a little itchy. A birthday cake. The Chihuahua is tipsy; he found my father’s whiskey glass. His name is Billy. “Fiona still lives here. You remember, the first house at the corner.” My brother’s first love. 

The light in the hallway between our rooms kept going on and off. In the mornings, she would find flour and sugar all over the pantry. My mother told our neighbour while having tea and biscuits, saying, “It’s just a small girl playing.” And when she stood at the stove, she could hear the tip-tap of children's feet on the lino floor. One day, she heard the sound of a knife being stabbed between fingers that were spread on a wooden table. The sound became louder, faster and faster. The knife was gone.

I walked to the door and was all I was supposed to be and more. I walked through the door and there was nothing left of me. Traitor. It used to be a smoker's room; there was still the smell. I opened the wide doors to the terrace; I was on the highest floor. The evening air greeted me, a metropolis turning on its lights for the night. I stood there, breathing shallow; staring into it all. Traitor. In a world full of noise, it's hard to hear yourself. In a world full of pressure, it's hard to feel yourself. I walked back into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Every time I shook hands to seal the deal, I collected the cheques and talked about freedom. And here I was, at a loss for words, feeling like a traitor. I made choices every day; why was it so difficult to choose myself? I didn’t want to take off my shoes; I didn’t want to put my bare foot on the stained carpet anymore. I pushed myself onto the bed, kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, and threw them on the floor. I underdressed, crawled under the blanket, and closed my eyes. I would not leave this island any more today. 

The doors were still open; there was a slight breeze. I felt my skin sliding over the folds of the bedsheet before I felt the grip around my ankle. I felt numb; I felt weak; I felt there was nothing left inside me. My arms were now over my head; the blanket had fallen onto the carpet. And as my eyes started to move under my eyelids, so did the fear arise. I pushed myself up, my lips slightly ajar, as I forced my eyes open. There was nothing; I looked around; there was nothing. I felt my hands on the damp sheet; I crawled back to the headrest and sat there in silence. As the sun rose, so did the tears. 

I am not a traitor. Not anymore. It didn't leave me all day; I could still feel the grip around my ankle, but it didn't hold me; it liberated me. 

I got on a plane and left. I got on a plane and came here. I gave in to the pull that brought me back to this house. We look at each other and I say: “Maybe you should ring Fiona’s bell and say hello.” They laugh. “Let’s walk up to the park. I wonder if the weeping willow in which we used to swing is still standing.” We make our way up the street and my brother says: “Don’t forget to send me the picture.” I look back at the house. “I will not.” And I remember. I run down the first flights and halt. I reach up over the handrail, stretching my small body and my arm towards the ceiling, feeling the discomfort as my bones press into the rail. And as my fingertips touch the rope, I grab it, and I swing it and the bell rings, and rings and rings with all the force I have, I am making myself heard.

by Radhika Malhotra

It was quiet. My eyes were closed; I was not awake, not fully asleep, like in a daze. I felt the grip around my ankle. I felt how my skin slid over the folds of the bedsheet, how my body slid down the bed. As the grip released, I opened my eyes, and there was nothing. The sun rose; I stepped out of the room, into the lift, not looking at my reflection around me. And when the door opened with a ping, I hesitated for a moment before lifting my chin just the slightest bit and stepping out. I told no one.

I didn't plan on coming. The air feels thick in the underground early this morning. The airport is stations away by now, and each announcement comes with the rattling that goes through my body. I hold my suitcase; I fidget with my phone. The connection is weak, coming and going. 

We look up at the house in silence, our eyes wandering from curtained window to curtained window, resting on the stained glass of the entrance door, the brass letterbox too high for a small child to peek through. The house has a fresh coat of paint, white, as it always used to be. I remember standing next to my mother on that hot summer day, in which she poured boiling water over the ants making their way from the crumbling brick pillar of the front gate to the house. My brother shifts uncomfortably and the gravel on the street screeches under his feet. I stare blankly, my throat closed, when I look up at my other brother. He is the oldest of the three of us and I can see how he nods silently, while his eyes keep wandering. It has been twenty-five years or more since we left this house. My brother came back several times; I didn't.
 
But this day is different. My brother doesn’t look at me as he says, “When you came into the house, things changed.” The sentence feels like a silent request to say more, an invitation to step into it, to see what they saw. 

I was born in 1976, nearly ten years after my parents met. London was electric, but also bleak and full of tension. I had a twin sister. My mother didn't know and when I was born, so was she, dead. I would think of her often. A companion that never walked this earth, but was omnipresent, simply because I existed.

He says: “It started with the teddies. Yes, I am sure.” I look up at the window next to my parents' bedroom. The smallest room in the house, just a crib and a dresser tall enough for an adult to reach the top. Each night, with a step and a little stretch, my mother would carefully place all teddy bears on top of the dresser. And each morning, she would find them scattered around the room. 

I hear the gravel screeching, and I know my brother wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He knows what he saw. I look at him with pity. A grown man haunted by a memory. A memory that repeats itself.
My brothers were three and five by then, sharing the room right at the beginning of the landing, opposite mine. For many nights, an elderly man, heavily hung with jewellery, would appear from their dresser, stepping into their room next to their beds. Never saying anything, never doing any harm. 

It is not long ago that I asked my mother if my father knew. She said she believed so, but didn't remember. You could see her drifting away for a moment, until she said: “I don’t know if it was the house why we left, or if it was because of what he did.”

An old photograph of all of us in the garden comes to my mind. We smile into the camera. A white, blonde woman, a brown, dark-haired man. We would get our freckles from our German mother and the thick hair from our Indian father. At that moment, in the very outskirts of London, with families smiling and children playing, we didn't feel the rise of the extreme right-wing National Front. For a penny, we ran to the corner shop to get the newspaper. My father read the first-page article and felt the unease rising within him, which he couldn't name. So many people were living in fear of day-to-day harassment and brutality. 

None of us has moved. I make a picture of our house. My brother says I should send it to him later. We stand here and it feels like it’s the four of us. It’s our house; in this moment, it is our house. We run through the hallway, out of breath, the tie loose, the sleeves of our school uniform rolled up. I proudly wear a red pin with a white three. A woolen dress is a little itchy. A birthday cake. The Chihuahua is tipsy; he found my father’s whiskey glass. His name is Billy. “Fiona still lives here. You remember, the first house at the corner.” My brother’s first love. 

The light in the hallway between our rooms kept going on and off. In the mornings, she would find flour and sugar all over the pantry. My mother told our neighbour while having tea and biscuits, saying, “It’s just a small girl playing.” And when she stood at the stove, she could hear the tip-tap of children's feet on the lino floor. One day, she heard the sound of a knife being stabbed between fingers that were spread on a wooden table. The sound became louder, faster and faster. The knife was gone.

I walked to the door and was all I was supposed to be and more. I walked through the door and there was nothing left of me. Traitor. It used to be a smoker's room; there was still the smell. I opened the wide doors to the terrace; I was on the highest floor. The evening air greeted me, a metropolis turning on its lights for the night. I stood there, breathing shallow; staring into it all. Traitor. In a world full of noise, it's hard to hear yourself. In a world full of pressure, it's hard to feel yourself. I walked back into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Every time I shook hands to seal the deal, I collected the cheques and talked about freedom. And here I was, at a loss for words, feeling like a traitor. I made choices every day; why was it so difficult to choose myself? I didn’t want to take off my shoes; I didn’t want to put my bare foot on the stained carpet anymore. I pushed myself onto the bed, kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, and threw them on the floor. I underdressed, crawled under the blanket, and closed my eyes. I would not leave this island any more today. 

The doors were still open; there was a slight breeze. I felt my skin sliding over the folds of the bedsheet before I felt the grip around my ankle. I felt numb; I felt weak; I felt there was nothing left inside me. My arms were now over my head; the blanket had fallen onto the carpet. And as my eyes started to move under my eyelids, so did the fear arise. I pushed myself up, my lips slightly ajar, as I forced my eyes open. There was nothing; I looked around; there was nothing. I felt my hands on the damp sheet; I crawled back to the headrest and sat there in silence. As the sun rose, so did the tears. 

I am not a traitor. Not anymore. It didn't leave me all day; I could still feel the grip around my ankle, but it didn't hold me; it liberated me. 

I got on a plane and left. I got on a plane and came here. I gave in to the pull that brought me back to this house. We look at each other and I say: “Maybe you should ring Fiona’s bell and say hello.” They laugh. “Let’s walk up to the park. I wonder if the weeping willow in which we used to swing is still standing.” We make our way up the street and my brother says: “Don’t forget to send me the picture.” I look back at the house. “I will not.” And I remember. I run down the first flights and halt. I reach up over the handrail, stretching my small body and my arm towards the ceiling, feeling the discomfort as my bones press into the rail. And as my fingertips touch the rope, I grab it, and I swing it and the bell rings, and rings and rings with all the force I have, I am making myself heard.