Haunting Bombay

by Shilpa Agarwal

  Lethargy crept into the limbs of the bungalow’s returning inhabitants as they climbed the verandah steps. The engagement luncheon had been a success. Everyone had approved of the nuptial liaison between Savita’s sister, Sunny, and her fiancé. Even Jaginder had taken a liking to his soon-to-be brother-in-law and was in an unusually good mood. Now, exhausted from an afternoon of socializing and the intense summer heat, the Mittal family gratefully gravitated towards the dining table where Cook Kanj, refreshed from his long nap, had laid out a light dinner of rice and dal.

  He returned with a plateful of hot papads, spicy crackers made from urad and moong lentils, black pepper, and asafetida, that were toasted over an open flame before being served. The Lijjat Company papads, made by a handful of women in the slums of Bombay, were one of the few foods that Cook Kanj bought rather than made himself, grudgingly admitting that they tasted better than his own.

  “Baap re! Bahut garmi hai! God, it’s suffocating!” Savita exclaimed after eating, turning the ceiling fans on high.

  Pinky padded in and wordlessly took a seat.

  Tufan flapped his arms in a futile effort to ventilate his armpits where talc had long ago turned into sludge.

  “The cuckoos haven’t completed their flight from Africa,” Nimish reported, scanning the newspaper. “When they finally arrive, the monsoons won’t be far behind.”

  “Turn on the radio,” Jaginder ordered. “Let’s see what the bloody weatherman has to say.”

  “Pinky, beti, did you sleep?” Maji asked, listening as Lata Mangesh-kar’s love songs were replaced by an equally evocative weather report.

  Pinky nodded.

  Tufan eyed Pinky but refrained from rude commentary. He had spent the better part of the afternoon on his best behavior in an itchy and overstarched kurta. The effort had taken its toll. He wanted nothing more than to undress and fall into his bed.

  “Good,” said Maji, noticing with concern the pallor of Pinky’s face, “then help Cook Kanj bring the chai.”

  Pinky walked to the kitchen where a pot of milk had begun to bubble on a black iron oven burner, releasing the scent of fresh ginger. She fetched the box of Brooke Bond Red Label Tea, glancing at the attractive family of four on its cover—mother, father, brother, sister— that were forever frozen in a happy moment with their milky glasses of steaming tea. She touched the picture of the mother and recalled the ancient tale of Savitri whose love for her husband Satvayan was so great that she won him back from death’s immutable grasp. Love isn’t enough, she decided.

  Cook Kanj shook the black leaves into the frothing milk, adding crushed cardamom, cloves, a touch of cinnamon, and a good, long measure of sugar before stirring. He then poured the liquid back and forth, a full meter of distance in between the two pans, until the caramel-colored tea frothed on top before dispensing it into small glass tumblers that were arranged on a tray.

  Seven hands reached out for the tumblers. As the hot liquid slid down their throats, the family members relaxed into their seats, letting out audible sighs. Nimish took his glass to his room, muttering something over his shoulder about having to get back to work.

  “Chalo, that’s over,” Jaginder said, unbuttoning his top and vigorously scratching the thick pelt of hair that popped out from underneath.

  “You liked Sunny’s fiancé then?” Savita asked carefully.

  “Yes,” Jaginder said, the chai buoying his spirits, “it will be helpful to have a lawyer in the family. Bloody smart chap, too.”

  “I thought he was boring,” Tufan added, feeling resentful of the wasted afternoon.

  Savita shot him a withering glare. “Go before I give you one slap.”

  Tufan tossed a handful of roasted fennel seeds into his mouth before gratefully taking off.

  “Most importantly, the boy’s from a good family,” Maji said before draining her cup and, with Kuntal’s help, slowly making her way to her bedroom. “Come soon, Pinky, I’ll massage your scalp before bed.”

  “Coming Maji.”

  Jaginder let out a roaring burp followed by an equally impressive fart. “Chalo, I think we all should get an early night.”

  He and Savita rose from the table. Cook Kanj came out from the kitchen and picked up the dishes.

  “What did you do while we were away?” Dheer asked. His cream-colored kurta was spotted with greenish stains. Unlike the rest of the Mittal men, he enjoyed nothing more than attending social engagements. There was bound to be an exciting assortment of foods, mainly fried—pakoras, samosas, aloo tikkis—that he could smother in mint chutney and eat to his stomach’s content. He was bursting to tell Pinky about the luncheon’s vast menu which he, as usual, had expertly sampled and memorized.

  “I slept, what else?” Pinky said with an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. Then, checking behind her to make sure no one was in earshot, she dropped her façade. Tears came to her eyes. “I need your help, Kemosabe.”

  “My help?” Dheer said, tossing a handful of candy into his mouth.

  “Come,” she said, pulling on Dheer’s arm, “come with me.”

  “In here?” Dheer scanned the bathroom in disbelief, eyeballs darting back and forth, aware that they could get into serious trouble for being behind a closed door together. Suddenly, a disturbing thought came to his mind, causing him to involuntarily suck in his gut. Oh my God, what’s she going to show me? “Ah, you, ah . . . well,” he stuttered, carefully avoiding looking directly at her blouse but nonetheless noticing its delicate curves. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I can’t take this anymore!” Pinky began to sob softly.

  Dheer turned a dull shade of red, backed himself against the door, and began sweating profusely. “Okay,” he soothed, “there’s no need to yell.”

  “I don’t want to be the only one,” Pinky said. “I want you to see it, too.”

  Certain that it was not a new type of chocolate bar, Dheer shook his head wildly and frantically unlatched the door.

  “Please,” Pinky motioned toward the bucket. “Just once, look inside once, and then you’ll know.”

  At the words look inside, Dheer burst out into a fit of coughing. Flecks of brightly colored candy shell flew from of his mouth, decorating Pinky’s blouse.

  Pinky thumped him on his back.

  Dheer could smell the coconut oil in her hair, the powder on her neck, the spicy clove scent of her skin. He felt faint.

  And then, most unexpectedly, he was overcome by another odor. His eyes flew open. “Fenugreek!”

  “The spice?” Pinky sniffed at the air but could not smell it.

  “I hate the smell of it,” Dheer confessed, grateful for the diversion.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, fighting the sudden tightness in his throat. A vague memory overcame him of when he had been a baby, happily playing next to his mother on her Jaipuri bedspread. He remembered how she held a glass tumbler in her hand filled with yellowish liquid, a tea of boiled fenugreek seeds, and how he had pulled on it and burnt his hand. For weeks afterwards, his skin reeked of acrid bitterness. “Boiled milk,” he said, “I smell boiled milk now. And sugar.”

  “Maybe it’s the chai from the kitchen.”

  “Now almonds.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “Me?” Dheer looked at Pinky, unlatched the door, and stepped out, tears welling in his eyes. “Please don’t do this. It’s not . . . right.”

  “What are you talking about?” Pinky called after him but he had already fled to his room.

  I’m utterly alone, Pinky thought, standing miserably in the hallway, utterly alone.

  ELEMENTS OF DEATH

  Pinky dreamt she was drowning. She felt herself being pushed down into water, down, down, down until her lungs began to burst. The only way out was to push her head further in, to stop thrashing, to trust that she would not die. But each time she grew afraid, each time she thrashed. Each time she startled awake just as she was about to pass out.


  Cautiously, Pinky crept out of the bungalow, past the garage where Gulu slept, and into the dark garden. Almost immediately she was hit by a wall of heavy, premonsoon air that knocked her back. Her hair stuck to her face and neck where sweat congealed like glue. Threatening clouds now completely obscured the moon. An occasional bolt provided flashes of light, saturating the sky with electricity. Thunder rumbled menacingly.

  The looming storm could be unleashed any moment, Pinky knew. She wiped the dampness from her face. Sweat poured from every crevice in her body and soaked her pajamas. Large bloodthirsty mosquitoes hovered in her face, undeterred by her swatting. Dense foliage swept the garden into darkness. Spiny shrubbery stuck into her back, curling ivy swung in her face, and shadows loomed in front of her, yet she continued to creep forward, the thickness of the garden closing in around her. Further and further she groped her way to the passageway.

  She waited there, nestled in that suffocating greenery. Lightning tore through the sky and in that instant, she spotted Lovely sitting under the tamarind tree.

  Pinky knew why she went there at night, to be away from her brother Harshal who, on the pretense of protecting her from corrupting influences, forbade her from going to friends’ homes, watching movies, or even listening to the radio. On weekdays, he called from work to check that she had returned home immediately from SNDT Women’s University. Vimla had been too fearful to intercede on Lovely’s behalf. And Harshal’s wife, Himani, was too busy protecting her own interests. So Lovely bided her time, suffering patiently, subjected to her brother’s ruthless authority.

  It was Harshal, not Lovely’s unsuspecting mother, who would decide upon her appropriate groom, a weak-willed man that he could control with his money. And when that time came, Lovely would have to be prepared to do something drastic. And so she escaped to the tamarind tree at night to strengthen her resolve, to dare dream of another life.

  “Lovely didi!” Pinky called, racing toward her.

  A clap of thunder drowned out her voice. It was followed by a severe silence. A moment later, crickets began chirping, insects buzzed, leaves rustled.

  “Didi? ”

  “Who’s there?” came Lovely’s terrified voice.

  “It’s me, Pinky.”

  “Pinky? What are you doing here?”

  “I had to talk to you away from the bungalow,” Pinky said, continuing to walk forward into blackness. Her fingers tingled. She held onto Lovely’s voice as if it alone could protect her. An army of fine, little hairs along her arm rose up in unison.

  Another bolt of lightning flashed and they ran to each other.

  “Are you okay?” Lovely asked, clasping Pinky to her. “Did something happen?”

  Pinky began to cry, inhaling the sweet fragrance of Lovely’s skin, her clothes, her hair. “I know about the baby, didi. I know that she died. She died in the brass bucket in our bathroom!”

  Lovely stiffened; a deep pain rose up in her chest. “Oh Pinky—”

  “What happened that day, didi? How did it happen?”

  Lovely sat upon the ground and pulled Pinky to her, holding both her hands. “The ayah was called to do something, and when she returned, she found the baby had drowned. It happened so fast.”

  “And then what?”

  “The ayah was sent away. Panditji was called in right away to do a purification puja. Mummy took us over for that, myself and Harshal. She brought over some food while Cook Kanj transferred all the cooking stuff to our kitchen.”

  Though she had only been four, she remembered how Savita had thrown herself down beside the baby, wailing inconsolably. Lovely and Harshal had sat on a sofa in the parlor, holding the frightened twins, and watched silently as Parvati flung the ayah’s bedding, her clothes, and her few personal belongings out of the bungalow with a sick sort of pleasure. Then she had lit a fire in the driveway and burnt everything that was even slightly flammable. Jaginder had crumpled beside Savita, begging her to stop crying.

  “Maji took charge of everything. Her face was so pale and her hand shook as she dialed the phone. But she made all the arrangements.”

  Pinky tried to picture the devastating scene unfolding. Thunder boomed. And boomed again, closer this time. She began to shake, fighting the urge to sink to the ground. A blast of wind rustled the leaves, and the trees shivered in unison.

  “I don’t remember how long I sat there . . .”

  Lovely fell silent.

  I’ll tell, she had whispered to her brother as they held the squirming twins. I’ll tell them what you did this morning.

  Harshal laughed. You think Papa will believe you over me? He’ll whip you for lying! And Mummy will cry and then he’ll hit her, too. And it will be all your fault.

  Lovely had known he was right.

  “ . . . but a few hours later, Maji, Auntie and Uncle, and Panditji took the baby in the car and drove away. That’s all. Mummy says that Maji was never the same after that. She had wanted a granddaughter so badly. She stopped socializing and all that, except for Mummy.”

  “It’s all so terrible.”

  “I don’t know,” Lovely said, speaking very slowly. “She drowned, yes. But at least she’s free.”

  Nimish crouched in the passageway, watching as a flash of light illuminated Lovely and Pinky together under the tamarind tree, holding each other close. He could not help but feel a sting of jealousy. If he were a girl, how easy it would be to talk with Lovely, to hold her hand, to lie next to her and look to the heavens.

  When they were much younger—still children—they used to play together in the garden, and he would read her entire passages from books he found in the bungalow’s library.

  In unhealthy places a man should chew rhubarb, he once read in his most authoritative voice from Nabobs, a study on the habits of British colonials in India, and stop his nose with linen dipped in vinegar.

  And vomit at the first sign of a chill, Lovely added, grabbing the book from him. Then they fell to the ground, throwing their arms around each other and laughing at their silliness.

  It was Vimla who had come upon them like that and had put an end to their playing together.

  As Nimish grew into adulthood, he expressed his adoration to Lovely from those same books, now scanning through them for a laden line or phrase that he could read out loud whenever Lovely came visiting. It was his way of secretly professing his love.

  Pinky could not contain her shock. “How can you say that, didi?”

  Lovely gave a strangled sort of laugh and squeezed Pinky’s arm.

  “There’s nothing that can be done now Pinky. It happened so long ago.”

  “But,” Pinky braced herself. She could not risk telling Lovely what was happening in the bathroom; she could not risk her disbelief, too.“But how does one die? What happens afterwards?”

  “When Papa died, he was alive one moment and dead the next,” Lovely said. “My friend Bodhi, who is a Buddhist, came over to comfort me. She sat with me and told me that a body actually dies in eight stages: earth to water, water to fire, fire to wind, wind to space, then fl ashes of light in the last four stages.”

  “Flashes of light?”

  Lovely nodded. “In stage five, the thoughts of the mind dissolve into a flash of silver light that descends from the mind to the heart. Then a glowing red dewdrop ascends from the base of the spine to the heart. In the seventh stage, that of near-attainment, they merge together in a burst of blackness. And then comes the white light that ushers in the true dawn of death.”

  Pinky felt a wave of nausea rise up in her chest. She abruptly stood up. The air was so charged with the voltage of the gathering storms that she had trouble breathing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I have to go,” Pinky said flatly.

  She had seen that intense light, those flashes of color. She had seen them exactly as Lovely had described.

  Except in reverse.

  She ran blindly.

  She did not remember precisely where
the passageway was in the connecting wall but she nonetheless ran with her arms in front of her, pounding the grass with her bare feet. She ran straight into the opening and, just as lightning illuminated the sky, crashed right into Nimish, noticing only in that split second, his horrified face. They went tumbling backwards, she sprawled on top of him. A thunderous din deafened their cries. Their arms caught in the vines; sharpened leaves cut their skin, their flesh was pierced by thorns. He pushed at her, trying to pry her away, but the passageway was so small and tight that there was little room to maneuver. She felt his sweaty flesh through the dampness of her thin pajamas, the weight of his legs entwined with hers. The sweet fragrance of the purple phlox was intoxicating.

  “Pinky!” he whispered urgently. “Stop thrashing!”

  He pulled away from her, groping for his spectacles that had been knocked away.

  Pinky sat up, her heart pounding wildly. “There’s a ghost!” she blurted out.

  “What! What?” Nimish grabbed her arms firmly, his breathing hard and fast. “What are you talkintg about? Have you lost your mind?”

  Pinky began to weep.

  “Pinky—please,” Nimish said, his voice softening even as he backed away.

  They sat there in silence, listening to the crickets, the rumbling of the sky.

  “Nimish bhaiya,” Pinky whispered after a few minutes, “how do you talk to someone if you are afraid?”

  He sighed, his aching heart out there in the darkness by the tamarind tree where Lovely sat alone.

  “A story, you begin with a story.”

  THE GHOST

  Pinky wandered into the kitchen in search of Cook Kanj as dawn cast its gray light. The bungalow’s original kitchen and scullery had been dismantled in favor of a larger, brighter room with modern appliances, including a gas cooking table and an Electrolux refrigerator. Stainless-steel pots and pans lined the shelves and a brass basket hung from the ceiling to keep ants away from the fresh fruit. The three windows, two facing the driveway and the third the back garden, were covered with thin screens that diffused the sun’s blazing afternoon rays.