by Sunil Sharma

The shock was great!

Billo was a cat!

“How could you manage this for long?” asked Rani.

“What?”

“That you are a cat?”

Billo meowed. “How did you discover this?”

“I followed you to the b-b-b-a-ack of the r-e-strooms and saw you ch-ch-change form!” Rani, when excited, stuttered. Her tiny hands shook. The bell sounded in the distance as the high-school came alive again, after the day’s classes got over.

“Did you?” Billo purred.

“Y-y-e—e-s-s,” she said. “So-o-o-o thr-i-i-ll-ing! I could not believe my eyes! My desk-mate, a cat! Wow!”

Billo purred.

As the two girls began walking down to their homes in the suburb, Billo advised Rani: “Next time, let me know. If in transition, startled, I might attack the intruder with my retractable paws! You might get hurt. And…”
“…and?”

“Don’t reveal this secret.”
Rani, the smaller of the two, nodded. “N-n-n-ee-vv-er-rr!”

“Good girl!” Billo meowed, whiskers and paws, all out, eyes cold and glittering.

“Promise!” Rani said, thrilled and scared both, at the same time, legs walking as fast as her slim frame could allow.

Billo, taller, slimmer, pranced on the cold asphalt of a dusky road on that wintry evening.

The next day, the entire school knew her hidden identity!

A cat as a young girl; a young girl as a cat—in their midst; in a dull, pedestrian universe regulated by profits and large appetites for the branded items and food.

It was the news of the century: exciting for the laid-back townspeople, their wards and outlying areas of similar complexion.

Billo was surprised by the betrayal!

And, paradoxically, happy from the inside!

Rani was nowhere to be seen for days.

As happens often in such cases, the girls were on one side and boys, the other.

The divide was clear.

It lasted for a few days and nights.

jealousies erupted.

Slowly, the girls got divided. Grew green-eyed of the one-that-can-become-a-cat; an impossible destination, but achieved by one of their own.

The boys loved the idea.

High-school football captain, Mr. Hunk—star and favouraite of the girls off/on the campus—showed interest in the cat-girl.

The latter blushed for the first time.

Earlier, her teen-heart crush hardly cared for her.

Oblivious of her!

Some classmate had made a nasty remark, weeks before this odd discovery: “Billo, he calls you the black cat. A street cat at that, alley cat, kinda thing. Not a desirable beauty for him, a sexy girl he likes to court!”

And the reporter laughed, loud and vicious.

This remark had utterly devastated the poor girl with the protruding teeth and listless black hair.

Her heart sank below the rib cage.

She cried under the banyan tree, in the middle of the campus, forlorn, abject, tears falling in a stream on her sunken cheeks, as the November wind further hit her with icy punches; highlighting the forlornness of a young heart; a typical miserable subject in the quest for love, compassion and understanding in a world of glam; not subject to the ridicule and daily taunts of the two-faced stepmother and the cruel school kids—not an ideal situation for a simple and honest thing, living in a different world and rooting for the finest ideals.

She shook badly, sadness amplified by the silent sobs; a shunned pathetic figure.

Nobody ever noticed the hot tears that came readily in those round eyes or the living source of those hot tears!

Except!

As the legend grew quickly, a gentle fairy whose temp shelter was that ancient tree with its thick and green branches—home to kindred spirits and birds.

She—it is further claimed by Rani—the fairy mother startled the poor girl by materialising before her that time and told her in dulcet tones that rode with the winds to far-off horizons: “No tears, child! Your mother called you Billo. Endearingly! remember that?”
Billo, frightened, asked: “Who are you?”
The airy visitor—all transparent but still visible in a glowing sequinned dress and glass shoes of solid quality, replied softly, “I am the fairy godmother you and kids like you always dream of during lonely and cold nights.”

Billo stared hard at the apparition-like figure, stammering, “Oh! y-e-e-ss-s!”

The fairy, never still for a minute, because fairies are conceived that way, cooed: “What we dream, we get!”

She, the heroine of our story, blinked.

Then smiled through tears.

“Yes, now, you are a good girl! Our dear Billo. The way your mother always thought of you in a house that never liked girls.”

Billo remembered every insult, nodded sheepishly and again burst out in a dam. Bitterness swept over her and she cried more.

This time, remembering her Ma whose death was a mystery!

“Now, justify this, the other name for the cats, the name Billo!” the fairy said in a musical voice. “You can do it, child! Prove your Ma right.”
“How can I do that, god-ma?” Billo asked, desperate, one tear suspended in the right eye, mouth agape at the unbelievable sight, so fairy-tale-like, happening here, mid-day, on the school ground.

“Act like one! Like the true cat! She is your totem!”
“Then? What will be the outcome for me? Pa should not get cross with me.”
“Oh, no! Stop bothering me!” The fairy whispered: “Let me tell you, you will become one, a real feline. Claim your pride—and the inner cat! Win the world! Go, Billo, go! Never sulk! The world hates the complainers—and loves the Winners! Conquer them all!”

Then the fairy was gone—vanished—in a jiffy, as only fairies can do, sans any visible mark or trace!

 

Billo wiped her tears, stood up resolutely and walked back with confidence towards the long hall and sailed through the usual sea of indifference, her gait changed, manners altered forever.

She knew who she was—and hardly cared for those eyes that failed to see the core, beneath the exterior!

She was on her own, now onwards!

 

When nobody played or called her to their side, recess or no recess, she would go to the backside of the restrooms and change form and climb the tree and watch the children play below, a queen surveying the humans, at their obnoxious selves and worst behaviours, fighting, cursing, beating the weak!

She lightly danced on the tree branches, purred, growled, whimpered, chased down the squirrels, and leaped in the damp air…coming down when the bell sounded, in female form.

Enjoyed her newly-acquired freedom and the shapeshifting art.

She mastered the magic of change so well, blending perfectly in both worlds, like a natural!

Billo!

Her decrepit, deceased mother knew the inner source of strength for her child.

How apt!
Ma had named her correctly.

Mothers!
They always know secrets, things others cannot—the good mothers only.

Time she justified that faith!

Billo smiled.

Broadly. A grin like that of that famous Cheshire cat seen by another adventurous girl, another timeline and nation.

Now she was a real Billo, a cat justifying her name, thanks to the fairy mother also, that kind and warm being with a pair of translucent wings and a silver rod that sparkled in the clear breeze.

Billo: The friend of the lonely souls, especially the vulnerable kids or kids-at-heart folks, seeking stars as guides.

Always ready to help those, like the one she encountered, the tiny and resplendent airy creature, out there for those willing to see it.

She was happy shapeshifting in the quiet.

Now, caught and exposed finally—cover blown—she marched on; head held high, eyes blazing, each step determined—almost a model-like figure, un-afraid of the public gaze.

 

Surprisingly, afterward, post-discovery, everybody started noticing the shy girl and the transformed version—her feline grace, dark complexion, supple movements, agility, arched eyelashes, and paw-like hands that moved swiftly and rotated easily in and out, a pair of deadly weapons, actually, according to a version.

The metamorphosis was stunning and natural!

Exotic!

The public declared the new avatar walking the mean and dim streets of the old town under threat from the forces of the consumption industry.

A feline woman on the cusp of change. Media stated this addition to their juicy news about murders, elopements, kidnappings, and crimes against women.

 

Billo’s social image improved!
Instagram and Twitter handles grabbed her more eyeballs.

The accounts with her picture of the raised eye-lashes, lean face and glittering eyes got many admirers across the continents.

Teachers, earlier dismissive, were in awe now!

How can this slip of a young girl, ugly duckling, slip into a feline seductress, an icon for the youth hungry for instant fame, fans and prestige, in a dark void called internet or cyberspace or, simply, social media?

 

The questions swirled.  So did conspiracy theories.

People talked of a Netflix series on her as the origin stories were becoming big.

Fandom followed quickly.

Every girl—meek, docile, demure, neglected at home and abroad, unloved, ignored; you talk of any girl- species or subspecies and she was there—wanted to ape her gait, husky voice dripping sexiness, and that languid air and sloppy manners; virtues that were earlier vices and cause for concern for the folks acting as the guardians of their neighbours and their kids; folks who loved forecasting about others as sure future disasters and utter failures in life.

Such folks were routed by this changed Billo.

The smitten girl tribe of wannabes tried false eyelashes and husky tones but the end effect was overdramatic, rather a turn-off, pathetic.

Ridiculous! Judged the boys. The imitators were devastated by such routine rejections.

Her cult status, freshly consolidated, and the corresponding decreased status of the previously-popular girls led to the usual conflict, not less than a mini-scale WWW-III.

The girl gang initially tried to ignore the new sensation, heart-throb.

Pelted stones.

But the feline woman survived the rounds of stony assaults.

Then, the inevitable confrontation happened on a Saturday afternoon, on the dusty ground, near the famous banyan tree, where the Cinderella of modern times had realized her full worth, meaning, and potential as a human being, in a gendered world.

The bunch of pupils, itching to fight, laid claim to Billo’s territory—a corner of the round platform and refused to accommodate her in her usual haunt of glory and brief meditation, in the middle of a crowded space.

The attackers paid a heavy price.

The mix of the boys and girls, working together as the standard bullies, full of venom and hissing, got the drubbing of their collective life: Bruised, clawed; chewed, and scratched; the group ran here and there, screaming at the top of their lungs, escaping the cat that seemed to be everywhere, yet nowhere!

At that precise moment of sudden triumph and the defeat and withdrawal of the invaders, Billo-the Cat got informally anointed as the Cat Queen of the Brown High School, by a consensus, not seen earlier or later.

A symbol of liberation for all the victims of abuse and persecution, bullying and verbal attacks; an anywhere-everywhere icon, this Billo-the Cat!

Billo, the ordinary, cast in a new role!

Reversal of fortunes, teen-level.

Dreamt of but hardly attained!

 

She, Billo-the Cat, got photographed, videographed: giving a spirited chase to her tormentors—to the relief of the fat and balding head mistress, already fed up with the antics of the group of pampered and rich bullies.

Little girls looked up to her as a game-changer, lanky but no longer feeling inferior.

Timid boys called her their patron angel.

B-Gang ruled.

Stepmom was astonished by this rapid transformation and rise in popularity for her daughter, previously considered as a liability.

Dad was happy to see the marked alteration: from diffidence to poise, control, and calmness.

His Billo was proving to be smart.

A new-millennial girl in demand!

A story, re-invented.

An old script, rescripted.

 

The final moment of truth arrived at the ball where departing high-school kids were invited to dance, participate in fun activities, eat dinner, and say tearful and final goodbyes, with promises to meet again, if Covid-19 permitted.

The yearly gala was the most-awaited item on the calendar.

A contest was arranged.

Hosted by the biggest mall of the town.

The annual event where the Young King and Queen of the Suburbs were to be declared by a sanctimonious panel of experts.

Under the glaring floodlights of the media.

Big cash awaited the winner.

They posed inane questions and laughed at the expense of the shy teens.

Her answer to their last question clinched the title for Billo.

“Why young women want to become cats?” asked a bespectacled man in his late 50s, a cousin of the chairman of the trust that ran the mall and cinema theatre.

Billo, the last among the 30 anorexic hopefuls for the coveted title—middle-class souls trapped in the stifling small town, trying out outlets of escape into instant stardom via this title and, maybe, better existence, somewhere-someplace— purred, eyes fluttering, lips pouting, voice decidedly huskier for the occasion: “Cats, the royalty of the natural world! They, as the domesticated animals or the wild ones, teach us to be self-reliant and how to survive among the dirty dogs.”

No doubt, the assembly broke into a deafening round of applause and gave her a standing ovation for a full five minutes, as the flood-lit arena/stage erupted into loud music, cheers, and flower petals snowed them all, on a remarkable evening…