The Cursed Inheritance

by Sutapa Basu

  Lokkhi mashi and Bultu approached, tears streaming down their faces. They were grateful that I had stood up for them despite the housekeeper’s brief antagonism. Now that the hunt was over, effects of adrenaline withdrawal overcame me. Assuaging their fears, I confirmed that Lokkhi mashi and her son could stay at Sarkar Bari from now on.

  In my room, I went up to the mirror. Looking closely at myself, I wondered why I was not feeling upbeat. After all, I had completed a fine bit of sleuthing. Large, brown eyes stared back…eyes like…Shurjo’s! So that’s why he looked so familiar…his eyes…his smile were replicas of mine! My mind buzzed. Shurjo…my friend…my mentor…is certainly my uncle!

  ‘Were you calling me?’

  Our eyes met in the mirror…one reflecting the other. I turned around and smiled at him. And then I remembered the sad pile of bones. A mélange of emotions flooded me; sorrow, pity, grief, regret…mostly regret.

  ‘I am sorry…,’ I began.

  ‘Why should you be sorry?’ He cut in. ‘None of it was your fault. It was fated to happen.’

  ‘What really happened that day, Shurjo?’ I whispered.

  ‘Destiny. That day, I wanted to look for some smooth pebbles under the neem tree. But I went out into the patio only when it became dark. Suddenly, Karta Babu appeared before me. I was going to run away but he called out, softly. I was surprised because he usually shouted at me.

  He asked me if I wanted to watch some magic. Magic always excited me, so I went along with him. We entered a dark room under the ground. There was a big box there. When he opened it, I saw gold coins…heaps and heaps of them. I was sure this was magic. After all, how could a box of golden treasure get inside this dark dungeon?

  Karta Babu told me to sit on the floor. He lit a few earthen lamps and explained that we were going to play a game. He put a garland of flowers around my neck. Sitting down, he kept a big pot of water between us. Muttering something, he touched my forehead with a finger. Then he offered me a bowl of white liquid…’ Shurjo’s soft voice faltered.

  ‘Did you drink it?’ Must have been laced with some narcotic substance.

  ‘Yes, it was an intoxicant,’ he said. As always, Shurjo knew what was in my mind. ‘And I drank it. It tasted sweet like buttermilk.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Sprinkling red powder on the floor, he drew patterns around the pot of water and began to chant. I believed it was all a game. I did not know that your grandfather was invoking tantra sorcery. As I watched, the water in the pot began to ripple though there was no breeze in the room. Around me, the air grew chilled and I began to feel sleepy.’

  ‘Did you fall asleep?’

  ‘I suppose so. When my eyes opened, it was pitch dark. I called out but nobody replied. Karta Babu had gone… I shouted and shouted and shouted until my voice choked up….’

  ‘Oh Shurjo! I wish somebody had heard your calls. You must have been so frightened.’

  ‘I was scared and tired…couldn’t breathe…and…and the blackness suffocated me.’

  I could not speak as my mind played out the horrifying scene.

  ‘Shurjo, why did you remain in Sarkar Bari? So many terrible things had happened to you, here. Why did you not go away…wherever people go to after…?’ This question had been haunting me.

  He regarded me for a long while. In those eyes…so like Dad’s…I saw the affection that I used see in his. ‘I was waiting for you, Anna, to release me.’ He had uttered my name for the first time.

  My eyes brimmed over.

  ‘You were going to give me my mukti.’

  ‘Mukti?’

  ‘Anna, my soul was trapped in a yaksha’s spirit. Your grandfather had bound the yaksha to his wealth hidden under the ground. The tantric incantation permitted freedom to the yaksha only when the treasure was handed to the rightful owner…your grandfather’s heir. Until then, my soul could not be released from the yaksha. I could not attain mukti…be released from the cycle of life and death, until you…Anna… came along to be bequeathed the treasure. You are your grandfather’s heir.’

  ‘Is that why you helped me? Why you were so keen that I reach the treasure?’

  ‘Yes, Anna,’ he said, gently. ‘You are the hope of Sarkar Bari. You have the faith and strength to carry its torch. All the evil rendered in its precincts will be washed away by your purity of purpose. Only then can I obtain mukti.’

  ‘I? How did I do that?’ I was confused. ‘What have I done to wipe away all the misdeeds committed here?’

  ‘You have righted all the wrongs by your honourable intentions and sincerely carrying them out, as your father and I wished,’ he replied.

  ‘I couldn’t save your life,’ I cried, choking on the words.

  ‘That was not in your power. But you can save the lives of other lost children.’ He pointed to the open window.

  I looked towards it…a blue square rosily haloed in the setting sun. I knew what I had to do. Turning back to him, I said, ‘Shurjo, you have always swept the cobwebs from my head…’ My words hung in an empty room.

  Next morning, I was up early. Robin was flying in from Los Angeles and I was going to the airport. Once he came in through baggage claim, I dragged him to the airport Starbucks outlet. Sipping cappuccino, I brought him up to date on Sarkar Bari. It helped that Robin has this rare ability to listen without interrupting. But his face told me what he was thinking. Several transitions crossed it…starting with incredulity shifting to anxiety and returning to absolute disbelief. When I finally stopped talking, he only shook his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No. You can’t do that. We agreed to sell,’ he spoke, firmly.

  ‘Okay. Here is the deal.’ I spread my hands nearly knocking over the coffee. ‘You sell your portion to me. And I go on with my plan,’ I declared.

  For a long, long time, my brother contemplated me. Trying to keep a casual exterior, I nurtured my caffeine deprivation. But inside the jeans pocket, my fingers curled around the Egyptian gold coin while silently calling for Shurjo’s help.

  Finally, Robin spoke softly. ‘You really mean it, Sis, don’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then I am with you.’ Holding up his hands to ward off my attempts hug him across the table, he continued. ‘Wait! We need to work out the logistics and funding. You are not giving up the internship waiting in London and nor is my business grinding to a halt. First thing is we need to find who will be in charge here.’

  ‘I have the man,’ I screamed, running around the table to wrap my arms tightly around my brother.

  That is how our NGO, Shurjo Bari began.

  Epilogue

  Two years later, I was on my annual visit to Shurjo Bari. A cacophony greeted me when I stepped into the patio. Loud hammering from the carpentry shop, rustling from the basket weaving groups, looms clicking in the textile house and spellings being chanted in classrooms vibrated through the mansion. I heaved a sigh of utter contentment.

  ‘Annadidi!’ Bultu, his face wreathed in a smile exactly like his mother’s, came rushing up. His face had healed nicely after being stitched together last year. Smart in an open-neck shirt and trousers, he looked every inch the Shurjo Bari manager that he was.

  Few hours later, hands cradling a cup of hot, sweet tea, I relaxed in his office. Bultu was holding forth enthusiastically on all that had been happening; how the number of street children registered at Shurjo Bari had tripled from the first year; how more teachers were willing to teach pro bono here; how bookish as well as occupational skill learning was going strong; how the media has been visiting and running stories about our work and even better, the government funds we had been chasing were due for disbursement.

  ‘And….’ He led me outside and gestured. ‘Is that how you wanted it?’

  Under the neem, on low marble platform was the white figure; back against the tree, knees drawn to the chest and chin resting on arms wrapped around his knees. I went closer. A shock of hair fell into the eyes…larg
e, dreamy marble eyes that could have been brown, looking far into the distance. Shurjo! The soul of this mansion! Wherever you are, hope you are at peace with this avatar of Sarkar Bari.

  ‘He would be proud of you, Didi,’ Bultu said, softly. Oh yes! Shurjo and Bultu had been friends.

  ‘And of you, too,’ I added, smiling at the young man.

  Wintery honey sunshine soothed the mansion’s chequered patio as I sent up a prayer to my forebearers; Shurjo, Thammu and especially, Dad to bless the souls and dreams sustained by Sarkar Bari, today.

  Thump! Dunk! Creeeaak!

  Children passing by giggled, pointing upwards. I tilted my head at the smoky-faced honuman crouching on the balustrade. Lokkhi mashi appeared at my elbow. ‘Annadidi, what will you like to eat for lunch?’

  ‘Mamlette!’

  *****

  Acknowledgments

  Sipping coffee and munching onion fritters, my friend and I were having a lazy afternoon. Outside the window, the thrumming of a heavy downpour accompanied our half-hearted snatches of Tagore’s timeless monsoon melodies. As often happens in these companionable moments, nostalgic memories tinged our conversation.

  Always the proverbial bookworm, I recalled that thrillers had been my favourite choice of books as a teenager. Whether the writer was Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle or Satyajit Ray, I spent captivatingly hair-raising hours reading their books. no doubt, tales featuring Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Feluda or Professor Shanku were unputdownable. But I was more enthralled by the detective shorts where the protagonist was an ordinary person. Rather the idea that a sleuth, not a professional detective, could solve a crime and pin down a criminal by simple deductions through observation and common sense, absolutely mesmerised me. These tales were inspiring, and I was convinced that I could be a sleuth, too!

  Musing about these immortal mysteries and their hold on me, even today, I decided to work out an idea that has been simmering in my consciousness for a while. I wanted to actually take up sleuthing! Why not go off on an adventure…the adventure of writing sensational cliff-hangers? The more I contemplated this enterprise, the more it electrified me. After all, reading spine-tinglers has always stimulated me, through the years. Till now, writing has been an exhilarating journey for me but this decision to go ‘sleuthing with words’ has turned this expedition even more fascinating.

  The Cursed Inheritance is the first of many books that I plan to write in this genre. In this tale, I have enjoyed pitting my young protagonist against an older, more experienced crook; the knowledge of age battling against youthful savvy perceptions. I am certain that readers will be delighted by the protagonist’s handling of tricky and hazardous impediments to triumphantly reach the final denouement.

  Writing in a new avatar usually means adjusting one’s equilibrium, but I found it easy to slide into it given the constant encouragement by my publisher, Mr Dipankar Mukherjee, to play different strokes. I am grateful for his deep conviction in my writing and my editor, Indrani Ganguly’s patient burnishing of my rendition making it possible for this book to come alive.

  I hope reading The Cursed Inheritance will bewitch you as much as writing it has intoxicated me. I shall be eagerly waiting, dear Readers, to know your views about my sleuthing foray.

  Sutapa Basu

  New Delhi, 2021

  About the Author

  Sutapa Basu is a best-selling author. Her latest book, The Curse of Nader Shah won the Best Fiction Award by AutHer Awards, 2020 instituted by JK Papers and The Times of India. She is the 2016 First Prize winner of The Times of India’s Write India Campaign for Amish Tripathi while her debut, a psychological thriller, Dangle was nominated for the Anupam Kher Award for Debut Novels in 2017.

  She is well-known for her best-selling historical fiction, Padmavati, The Queen Tells Her Own Story (Readomania 2017). Her second historical fiction initiated the Invader Series with The Legend of Genghis Khan (Readomania 2018) and continued with The Curse of Nader Shah (Readomania 2019). Recently, her two anthologies, Out Of The Blue, Stories with a Twist and The Anatomy of Affection, Tales That Touch You (Readomania 2020) have been released.

  A poet, author, publishing professional, her short stories have appeared in anthologies, Crossed & Knotted, Defiant Dreams, When They Spoke and Write India Stories. Her poems have been published in Kaafiyana and The Dawn Beyond Waste. Read her works on her website storyfuntastika.com & Readomania.com.

  Glossary

  Aashoon: Come in; welcome

  Arati: A Hindu ceremony in which lights with wicks soaked in ghee or oil are lit and offered up to one or more deities.

  Bidesh: abroad

  CESC: Calcutta Electric Supply Corporation

  Chaloge: Want to go somewhere

  Da: Elder brother

  Dadu: Grandfather

  Didi: Elder sister (also respectful address for younger daughters of the employer’s family by house helps)

  Didu: Maternal grandmother

  Ginni Ma: Mistress of the mansion

  Golpo: Story

  Honuman: Monkey

  Karta Babu: Master of the mansion

  Kuber: Stingy deity of the nether world

  Mashi: aunt (also respectful address for house helps)

  Mohor; Gold coin

  Mukti: Release from the cycle of life and death in hinduism

  Nomoshkar: To greet by putting palms together

  Sadhu: Ascetic holy man; hermit

  Shurjodev: Sun God

  Sindoor: Vermilion; red powder used in religious rituals

  Thammu: Grandmother

  Tola unuun: Earthen stove made inside an iron pail which can be carried

  Yaksha: Spirits who guard buried treasure and harm anyone who wants to steal it.