Crimes

“There are two types of people in the world: those who want to break in, and those who want to break out.” P.K. Shaw

From the first time I was aware that I had independent individual thoughts, my impulse was for freedom. I wanted to break out to leave, and now that I have left Boksic Lug, so long ago, sometimes I do miss it. It doesn't know but on the other side of the world there are people who miss it. Wierd eh.

I faintly recall wandering the neighbourhood and coming upon the houses of my grandmother and her various neighbours. The doors to these houses were always unlocked, of course, as they probably still are – and as they have always been out in the country. I recall sinking my fingers into the flour, sinking them into the silky silky whiteness (not that I’d encountered silk at that stage of my life or had even heard of it). I tried to be so careful. I was very careful. How could anyone have ever known that I was there. I was astounded later, when I was busted, to learn that there had been some flour spilt on the floor and that’s what tipped them off. How they linked it to me, I’ll never know.
Another time at my grandmas neighbours place – at Baba Marija’s – upon finding the door of her summer kitchen open I went in and there I found a bucket of paint.

Baba - for those not familiar with slavic languages means a mature woman. Although Baba has been used in a derogatory sense, from my childhood memories, it was widely used as the colloquial word for grandmother. It was not used as a put-down but was a more neutral word. It was used widely, in the same way that some people refer to all their mother’s friends as ‘auntie’. Its not exactly a term of endearment, but its in the same neighbourhood. A term of endearment from the root word of Baba was ‘Baka’. This is the word we would use for our own grannie, or babushka (in Russian), whereas Baba was the word we used for someone not related to us. I don’t remember calling my father’s mother (my Baba) anything other than Baba. Apparently Baba is also the name of the Easter cake in Belorussian, which is made from yeast dough with eggs, rum, almonds, raisins, and orange peel.

Anyway, back to Baba Marija’s summer kitchen: I looked around for a brush. Some time earlier, I had heard Baba Marija talking with my mother about painting her summer kitchen. I can’t remember now if the paint was pink or a light green but there it was and I found something to use as a paintbrush. Maybe it was more like a sweeping brush rather than a paintbrush, but I dipped it in and started spreading it on the wall. I painted a fair bit of the wall too.

I recall thinking that I was helping Baba Marija and being pleased with myself and thinking that she would be amazed when she comes home and discovers that much more of her kitchen was now painted than when she had left it. I thought it was funny – I still do to this day. But alas, I was to be proved wrong for gormless fate had other things in store for me. I think Baba Marija fronted up at my mother’s house (now mind you they had been pretty good friends) and I recall there may have been some loud words spoken but I don’t recall hearing what they were and I certainly don’t know how I was connected to the crime. I also do not know how such a gesture of helpful friendship could possibly have been interpreted as a crime and there you probably share my dismay fellow travellers.

Early in life I learnt that no good deed goes unpunished. Because I can tell you that I was punished for that act of kindness in no uncertain terms and I can also tell you that noone was more surprised about that outcome than I was. The unfriendly hand of the responsible parent imprinted itself quite deeply upon my smooth and tender pagan flesh and soul, as a result of that incident, and as a result of the flour incident and I vaguely recall there were many other similar episodes.

written by  pavlan on October 12, 2006 from Boksic Lug, Croatia
from the travel blog: travels of the mind to Boksic Lug
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