Page 18 of Stumped

“What a dumb move that was.”

“Stop the fucking ball!”

Of coursethey’re watching cricket. Trust me to be born into a family of cricket fans. I loved the sport as a kid, knew the stats of every player and understood the rules better than anyone else. I even played with my brothers and neighbours. But over the years, the sport lost its meaning for me. I blame the fans, really. And the ICL.

I lean over the back of the couch and drop a kiss onto my father’s cheek, he turns to flash me a smile.

“Hello my most beautiful child,” he says, standing up to hug me. It doesn’t matter how old I am, when my father holds me, I revert to being a child.

The embrace doesn’t last long, because my brothers are yanking me out of my father’s arms and squishing me between them. They’re taller and broader, smooshing my face into their stinky armpits and messing up my hair. This is how they show affection and I hate it.

“Ugh, get off me! You’re both disgusting.”

Varun, my older brother, chuckles. “Did she say we’re stunning?”

“I think she said we should start humming,” Vikram, my younger brother, announces. Then they’re squeezing me harder.

Every attempt to scream for help is foiled by the neanderthals muffling my voice and hugging me tighter. They’ve been doing this to me since Vikram was old enough for Varun to bully, and they will never stop. The harder I fight them, the stronger their grip on me is. It doesn’t matter that my name and company has appeared in well-respected magazines or I’m one of the few women under fifty to be a CEO in South India. To my brothers I’m still the sister they like to annoy.

Now I understand why my youngest sister, and baby of the family, ran as far away as she possibly could.

“Mathi?1!” my mother admonishes my brothers in Malayalam, gentle slaps echoing before they release me. I collapse dramatically against the woman who birthed me. “Look what you’ve done to her now.”

Looking myself over, I shrug. “What’s wrong with me?” Smoothing down my hair and straightening my dress, I allow her to do her usual perusal.

This ‘checklist’ thing started soon after I moved out of the house. As much as my mother has evolved, there are still some things she’s retained from my grandmother. Analysing me from head-to-toe is the main one. If my hair isn’t tied up, it needs to be neat and combed. It was, until my brothers messed it up.Check. I must always wear earrings or the piercings will seal shut.Check. My arms and legs, especially my elbows, must always be moisturised. The Chennai heat be damned.Check. And finally, my breasts need to be at the correct level or they’ll be saggy when I get to her age.

“I think you need new bras,” she says in a stage whisper.

I was so close!I sigh. “I’ll get right on that.”

She shakes her head at my sass, but hugs me anyway. “So good to see you, chakkare?2.” The affection is brief and when she releases me, I follow her to the kitchen where she’s been cooking up a storm.

In the Thomas family, it’s tradition to meet every Saturday. There are times when we pick another day to accommodate other plans—Varun is the creative director at a video game studio, Vikram is a batting coach for a local sports centre and before my sister left, she was taking music lessons for kids. Having a meal together as a family is a must. Tamara joins us quite often, but her schedule is way more unpredictable than mine, so she has an open invite to show up whenever.

As I pick at the fried potatoes, Chinnakka?3—the older woman that’s worked in my parents’ house since before I was born—squeezes my cheeks before returning to her cooking. I pop the food into my mouth as my mother tsks loudly.

“I think your brother might be wearing your makeup.” At my frown, she continues, “So, who was it? Someone I know?”

Still drunk from a party the night before, I came out to my family at breakfast when I was twenty-one. I’m pretty sure I slurred through my entire confession, but none of them flinched. In fact, my mother asked if the reason I was telling them was because I had a girlfriend. They’ve taken my queerness in stride, asking questions about the alphabets in LGBTQIA+ every time they forget, inquiring about my relationships and making sure I’m happy and safe.

At the same time, after Rakesh, I’ve never told them about people I date. Because none of them stick around and I don’t want to give my folks any hope. Hook-ups don’t need to leave the bedroom anyway.

“What are you talking about?”

She gestures to my throat with a gleeful expression. “Whoever they were, they left a mark on you that’s visible from the moon.”

Running from the kitchen to the bathroom, I lock the door and look in the mirror. And right there on my collarbone is a bruise courtesy Elias’s mouth that isindeedvisible from the moon.Fucking Elias. I could reapply the concealer, but decide to gather my hair over on that side to hide it. It’s not like my family thinks I’m a virgin or a saint anyway.

Muttering to myself and cursing Elias, I walk out as Chinnakka finishes setting the table. My mother calls for the rest of the family and I slide into my seat, picking at the potato dish again. Even though we do this once a week, I’m always surprised by the amount of food that’s served. There’s the staples of brown rice and beef ularthiyathi?4, sambar and a million vegetables all prepared in the standard Syrian Christian style of cooking. In short, everything has coconut oil and it’s fucking delicious.

Varun sets a glass of beer beside my plate as Vikram sits across from me and wiggles his eyebrows at my hickey. I flip him off and he smirks, nudging my mother to look at my throat. She waves him off and starts passing the food around. Honestly, he’sthirty-fiveand still behaves like a kid.

My father smiles, looking at each of us. “It’s so good to have my kids under the same roof.”

“Ach, one kid is missing,” my mother corrects him and pulls out her phone.

The sound of a FaceTime call echoes through the room as we plate our food, my brothers and I fight for dishes even though we know we’ll get a spoonful of the beef and curd.

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