I think it is about time I wrote about Ronnie. I hate Ronnie. Ronnie is not just a person or a bad memory, his existence stands for everything that is wrong with India's small towns.
People who know me closely don't know about him. I, somewhat of an over-sharer, somehow never brought him up, either in my memory or my conversations.
Ronnie was a kid in my Grandma's building. I was 6 and he was 9. I would go play with the building kids each time I visited my Grandma. However, I'd dread the rest of my time there as soon as I would spot him around. He would come over with his friends and pass snide remarks at the younger lot, particularly picking on me. Now, to the reader it may look like a loser's rant who got bullied as a kid and still has issues dealing with it. That's exactly what this is. But it is also more.
Everyone in that building particularly disliked our family. My Nani and Mama lived there and my Mama had anger issues. He was an alcoholic and would drink and create a ruckus. My Nani, perhaps out of an oedipal weakness, would only egg-him on. No one in that flat was at peace. I was ashamed to be associated with them as a kid. I wished I had a normal extended family, a jolly uncle and a caring and simple grandmother. If only wishing helped. Anyway, as it goes, we were the source of entertainment and disturbance to the families around. There'd be times when neighbors would knock on our doors to intervene in a fight. Out of the goodness of their hearts, I'm sure. The same goodness of heart which made them warn their kids to not go near our flat and to not play with me. Which made Aunties snigger at my mother and make tch-tch noises. Which made them call me over and ask all sorts of questions about my family. This goodness was toxic. Hypocrisy intertwined with perversion, stinking of morals. Ronnie was the unadulterated manifestation of this malevolence.
He bullied me and mocked me and humiliated me with the lack of inhibition natural only to a child. I don't know what compels me to write about him after all these years, but it is only now that I feel rage. I seethe in anger, so much so that my head aches and bile starts to rise in my throat. I'm amazed at my inability to deal with it, and how this memory has resurfaced now.
I tried looking him up on social-networking but, luckily for him, to no avail. I imagine scenarios where I have bumped into him somewhere. What would I say? If at all I do recognize him, I'd probably want to pour a glass of boiling hot tea over his head. I'm sure I will find something nasty to say, since it's a talent I have cultivated with great care over time. But here's the truth, I'm not even sure if my angst should be solely at Ronnie. It should ideally be at the adults who were responsible for ingraining hatred for underdogs like me in a clueless boy of 9.
Nonetheless, Ronnie if you happen to ever read this - I hope you eat shit and give yourself a swirlie in an Indian public toilet.
ila
People who know me closely don't know about him. I, somewhat of an over-sharer, somehow never brought him up, either in my memory or my conversations.
Ronnie was a kid in my Grandma's building. I was 6 and he was 9. I would go play with the building kids each time I visited my Grandma. However, I'd dread the rest of my time there as soon as I would spot him around. He would come over with his friends and pass snide remarks at the younger lot, particularly picking on me. Now, to the reader it may look like a loser's rant who got bullied as a kid and still has issues dealing with it. That's exactly what this is. But it is also more.
Everyone in that building particularly disliked our family. My Nani and Mama lived there and my Mama had anger issues. He was an alcoholic and would drink and create a ruckus. My Nani, perhaps out of an oedipal weakness, would only egg-him on. No one in that flat was at peace. I was ashamed to be associated with them as a kid. I wished I had a normal extended family, a jolly uncle and a caring and simple grandmother. If only wishing helped. Anyway, as it goes, we were the source of entertainment and disturbance to the families around. There'd be times when neighbors would knock on our doors to intervene in a fight. Out of the goodness of their hearts, I'm sure. The same goodness of heart which made them warn their kids to not go near our flat and to not play with me. Which made Aunties snigger at my mother and make tch-tch noises. Which made them call me over and ask all sorts of questions about my family. This goodness was toxic. Hypocrisy intertwined with perversion, stinking of morals. Ronnie was the unadulterated manifestation of this malevolence.
He bullied me and mocked me and humiliated me with the lack of inhibition natural only to a child. I don't know what compels me to write about him after all these years, but it is only now that I feel rage. I seethe in anger, so much so that my head aches and bile starts to rise in my throat. I'm amazed at my inability to deal with it, and how this memory has resurfaced now.
I tried looking him up on social-networking but, luckily for him, to no avail. I imagine scenarios where I have bumped into him somewhere. What would I say? If at all I do recognize him, I'd probably want to pour a glass of boiling hot tea over his head. I'm sure I will find something nasty to say, since it's a talent I have cultivated with great care over time. But here's the truth, I'm not even sure if my angst should be solely at Ronnie. It should ideally be at the adults who were responsible for ingraining hatred for underdogs like me in a clueless boy of 9.
Nonetheless, Ronnie if you happen to ever read this - I hope you eat shit and give yourself a swirlie in an Indian public toilet.
ila
