Erased

You just can’t get rid of some people. They’re like a bad stain that won’t be scrubbed away. I should know – I’ve been trying to get rid of my grandfather for years.

Dada wasn’t easy. The man called me fodricchya all my life – that’s Marathi for son of a bitch. Every time I failed an exam, and I failed a lot of exams, he would beat me with his blue rubber-soled slippers which were his only keepsake from India. Those things hurt, especially when they came at your forehead with full swing. He never hit my sister, just me. He’d hold down my arms so I couldn’t protect my face from his slaps. ‘She’ll bear someone else’s sons. But you, fodricchya, you are going to carry my name in this world. I didn’t raise myself from the piss and dung and cow-hide only to be let down by you. You have to improve yourself’ he’d say. Failure wasn’t not an option; you know what I mean?

Dada was born in Ahmednagar – that’s a village in India. He was treated badly, you know. Really badly. He was a Mahar, which means he was an Untouchable, so you could say he was the village outcast. He was a long-armed, dark-skinned and unhappy looking man and his eyes – man, they were always red-veined with the strain of scowling.  My great-grandmother, Dada’s mum, collected and sorted and sold rubbish while his dad removed and skinned dead cows. Dada grew up eating beef and to the Hindus, a beef-eater is a dirty thing. Man, could he tell you a thing or two about discrimination. All the dirty work of the village was allotted to Dada’s family. They were even buried separately, you know, like bastards of the gods. Upper-casters would spit at him and shoo him away if he got close. They’d die rather than drink from his family well – even if the day was hot and the water cool and sweet.

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