Haunting Bombay

by Shilpa Agarwal

  “No!” Pinky cried out, “no! no! no!”

  “All this time I’ve been waiting, watching over you,” Lovely said. “Don’t be afraid. I will set you free.”

  Lovely leaned in, her hand grasping Pinky’s arm, the other hand pressing at her heart.

  “No!” Pinky screamed.

  The ocean boiled over into the small boat, tossing it like a toy. Pinky felt something beginning to enter her body, a deadly tightness grasping at her chest. With all the strength left inside her, she lunged sideways at the oar and swung it. A terrifying shriek radiated from Lovely’s mouth as she fell overboard, the heavy contents of her satchel dragging her downward. A torrent of water crashed against the boat, slamming Pinky against the side.

  Lovely’s hand surged from the dark water, clawing at the air.

  Pinky reached out—precariously, dangerously—to grasp it.

  CHALICE OF DESIRE

  Maji spat on the floor of her parlor, something she had never done before. But the ayah’s name had lodged deep in her throat, causing it to tighten and constrict in fury. To inflame and swell with horror. She unwillingly remembered that drowning day, making her rounds around the bungalow, pausing before her bathroom door where the laundry was done back then. She’s a witch! she heard Parvati say, the accusation piercing like one of Lord Rama’s arrows. At that time, Maji had frowned, thinking it no more than irreverent, mindless banter between maids. But now, now the first seeds of doubt began to blossom.

  “You saw her?” She gripped a bolster and held it to her abdomen.

  “Yes!” Gulu cried out, still crumpled on the floor. In a disjointed narrative, the retold the details for Maji, the glow of the headlights, the gate swinging open on its own, his confrontation. “It was like she was a spirit! A demon like in King Vikramaditya!”

  “There’s no such thing,” Maji said, the statement coming out more like a question, for she herself was no longer sure, the foundations of her belief having been shaken. The drowning had haunted her for so many years. Now the ayah had come back, her purpose seemingly clear. Maji fell into silence.

  Gulu dropped his eyes.

  Maji’s face suddenly hardened. “I won’t let her take my granddaughter.”

  A sharp honking outside pierced their thoughts. The two of them looked towards the door with anticipation.

  “Jaginder?” Savita, appearing with a glass of warm water which she sipped almost hesitantly, her hair disheveled, manner confused, halted. As angry as she was with him, his bulky presence would be a comfort to her, especially after the terrifying events of the evening. The ghost had not shown herself in the boys’ room while Parvati and Kuntal were cleaning in there, despite Savita’s tearful appeals. Please come to me, she had begged. Please let me see you, hold you. Just once. But there had been nothing, no sign of recognition. Let her be, Parvati had finally told her, wet rag in hand, the ghost will show herself when she wants to.

  “No, Mummy,” Nimish said, dragging a dense mattress into the room with his brothers. “It must be the taxi.”

  “Go now.” Maji waved Gulu towards the door. She had made arrangements with Bombay Hospital. “They’ll take care of your finger.”

  “Maji,” Gulu said, noticing how his entire arm was now throbbing. “I must stay here, in case . . . in case she returns.”

  “Who returns?” Savita asked.

  Maji looked at her daughter-in-law and sighed deeply. “Avni,” she finally said, her voice barely audible.

  Savita dropped her glass. “She’s come back?”

  “Yes.”

  Kuntal let out a gasp, holding herself back from racing to the door to see if it were true. She remembered the last time she had talked with Avni, offering to bathe the baby herself that morning. They had fought. She remembered Avni’s angry voice, gritty, as if it held the sandy beaches of her youth.

  “Why is she back?” Savita shrieked.

  The taxi blared impatiently.

  “Go now,” Maji ordered Gulu, dismissing him with a wave.

  “She wants to kill all my children!” Savita began to sob. Unwillingly, she remembered how Avni managed all three of her boys with amazing skill and patience, especially little Tufan whose terrible colic drove her mad. But as time passed, Savita had fresh brass-and-thread amulets tied on the boy’s upper arms each month to ward off Avni’s growing hold on them. If someone else could manage the boys as well as she does, she had said helplessly to Kuntal from the privacy of her room, I would find another ayah fut-a-fut. A simple girl like you.

  Dheer and Tufan shrank under a comforter. Nimish put his arm around his mother and led her to a chair. “She can’t do anything to us anymore, Mummy.”

  “She’s a witch,” Savita wept, “a witch! Don’t you know that witches take the corpses of babies, hahn? Because babies have no knowledge of right and wrong. She killed my baby and is forcing her to do wicked deeds!”

  “Stop, Mummy!” Nimish held his mother tightly. “Please stop!”

  “It all makes sense,” Savita wailed. “The ayah returning, my baby coming back as a ghost.”

  The honking cut through the night.

  “Go now!” Maji ordered Gulu again.

  “She’s not a witch,” Gulu said quietly, standing at the doorway. And then, he vanished into the rain.

  For a moment, no one uttered anything, the bitter night now having taken three away from their household. The remaining family members drew close as if to protect themselves from disappearing, too.

  “Maji,” Nimish finally spoke, fighting to restrain the of emotion in his voice. “What happened to the ayah?”

  Maji clenched her jaw, not wanting to open up the past, that terrible day the baby drowned.

  “Tell us!” Savita cut in.

  “I sent her away.”

  “You sent her away?” Nimish asked incredulously.

  “You told us she was in jail!” Savita yelled.

  “What happened that day was terrible,” Maji replied, her voice was tired, worn away. “But I simply could not send that girl to jail.”

  “How can you say that?” Savita said, pointing an insolent finger at Maji before using it to dial a number on the phone. “If she were in jail, then Pinky would never have been taken.”

  The blow landed hard.

  “Put the phone down!” Maji shouted. Her voice wavered on the last syllable, the only indication that she had been wounded by Savita’s remark.

  “Inspector Pascal, please,” Savita said, perilously disobeying.

  “Savita!” Maji yelled in fury, attempting to propel her gigantic body towards her.

  “Give him this message when he arrives,” Savita said undeterred, her voice clear and crisp. “The perpetrator’s name is Avni Chachar, originally from the Colaba fishing village. She was our ayah thirteen —”

  Maji depressed the white plastic button and grabbed the phone from Savita, glaring at her with such intensity that Savita at last gave in.

  “He’s not to be trusted,” Maji hissed and then began dialing her priest. When Maji was in too much pain to go to the temple herself, she phoned the priest on his direct line, a small perk from the temple to reward generous devotion through the years.

  The phone rang and rang. Maji counted silently in her head seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, determined to let it ring until it was answered. Finally, she heard a click and an angry grumble.

  “Panditji.”

  Even woken from a deep sleep, the priest immediately recognized Maji’s low voice. He assisted the clientele living in Malabar Hill, the most exclusive area within the city’s boundaries. His good fortune was more than apparent in the tiered folds of flesh that spilled over the edge of his dhoti, kept in check only by the thin sacred thread that strained across his chest. He cursed quietly, then vigorously rubbed his bald head with his free hand to bring circulation to his brain and civility to his tongue. “Maji,” he said in his sickly sweet voice. “Subkuch theek hai?”

  “No, Panditji. Nothing’s oka
y. Please come.”

  “Now?” The priest checked his stainless-steel Swiss Favre-Leuba wristwatch, given to him by another of his wealthy clients a few years back. Two in the morning. Who does she think she is, this crazy woman always making requests? As if I don’t have even more esteemed clients to attend to. Tomorrow morning, in fact, I have a Mercedes-car hawan. And I need my rest if I am to function properly. I’m going to tell these Mittal-fittal people no. Absolutely no-no-no! He indignantly puffed out his bloated belly.

  “Panditji,” Maji pressed. “You’ll come, won’t you? I’ll make a most generous offering.”

  “Of course, of course,” Panditji heard himself say. “Always I am at the service of my most devout families.”

  Maji replaced the receiver and momentarily examined her thick fingers, the joints swollen, the nails yellowed. She could hardly believe what she was about to do. Glancing at Savita, she hesitated. Savita braced herself in her chair, ready for Maji’s chastisement. Over the years, they had exchanged many heated words but never before had Savita so openly defied her mother-in-law. She took comfort in the fact that Jaginder wasn’t around to take his mother’s side.

  “Do you remember,” Maji started and then paused.

  Savita looked up. Desperation, not anger, etched Maji’s face.

  “Do you remember the tantrik you called after the drowning?”

  “The tantrik?” Savita asked, bringing her hand to cover her mouth as if to contain a foul word. “But . . . but you were so upset when he arrived, you didn’t even allow him into the house.”

  Back then, Maji would not let her bungalow be defiled by black magic. But now, now things were different. Pinky was in the hands of the ayah who possessed some sort of supernatural powers. Pinky, Pinky, Pinky, Maji silently intoned. She would do anything to bring her granddaughter back. Even bow down to the murky underworld of superstition and demonry. “That was then—”

  “Maji? A tantrik? Are you sure?” Nimish asked in shock.

  “Parvati knows how to find him,” Savita said, apprehension creeping under her skin. Much as she wanted Maji to give legitimacy to her superstitions, Savita felt that as she finally did so, the very structure of the bungalow was crumbling.

  “Oi! Parvati!” Maji boomed, throwing her head back for full volume.

  Parvati and Kuntal hurried in from the boys’ room, wet rags in their hands. Cook Kanj, alone in the kitchen preparing breakfast, rushed in as if something else terrible had just occurred.

  “I need you to find a tantrik for me.”

  “A tantrik?” Parvati asked, checking to make sure she heard correctly.

  “Yes.”

  Parvati paused. She had gone to see one long time ago, Gulu had taken her, when she and Kanj had first married and weren’t able to get pregnant. A year will come when you have long given up hope, a year with such heavy-heavy rains that will finally wash away the past. Then only you will be with child, he had said and then had her drink a bubbling crimson liquid that made her bleed for days after. So much time had passed since then that Parvati had deemed him a fake. Yet, yet—Parvati touched her belly, her period was almost five days late. Could it be? “I can find him for you.”

  “Bring him now.”

  “I’ll take the car. Kanj can drive.”

  Cook Kanj nearly fainted. He hadn’t driven since he was a boy. And now his wife wanted him to take her to the back alleys of Bombay to find this fearsome creature? He remembered when Gulu had taken Parvati to see him. Kanj had begged her not to drink the concoction of goat’s blood with something equally repulsive mixed in. When she bled afterward and grew so weak that she took to her bed for a month, Kanj pulled out one of Maji’s kitchen knives, threatening to gut the tantrik like a fish. It was his fear of returning to those impossibly narrow lanes pullulating with filth and despair that had kept him enclosed within the lush safety of the bungalow’s green gates.

  “Parvati.” Cook Kanj said deliberately as to remind her of what the tantrik had done to her.

  But paying no attention, she tossed her braid and went to fetch an umbrella. On her way back, she pulled Kuntal into a corner.

  “Promise me,” she whispered to her, holding Kuntal’s shoulders, “promise me, no matter what happens, no matter what, you won’t step outside the bungalow.”

  “She’s out there,” Kuntal said, her breathing heavy. “She’s come back!”

  “Don’t go out!”

  “Maji,” Cook Kanj was attempting to cajole her in the parlor, “wouldn’t it be better to enlist Panditji instead?”

  “He’ll come, too. I must go pray.”

  Kuntal helped Maji to her feet, escorting her to the puja room. Cook Kanj brought the puja halwa, fresh water, and tulsi leaves.

  And then he and Parvati left in search of the Tantrik of Dharavi Slum.

  Kuntal excused herself momentarily and retreated to the closed-off living room just to the rear of the dining area.

  When she and Parvati first arrived at the bungalow as young girls, the living room had been the only place Maji could think of to put them. The storage pantry and kitchen were not proper and the two outside garages were already occupied, one by a car, the other by Gulu and Kanj. And so, the very same social convention that held them down opened the doors to the grandest room in the bungalow, a room that was strictly off-limits to the children and used so rarely that the two house maids claimed it as their own.

  When Parvati married Kanj, she moved to one of the outside garages that Maji had converted into a living quarters complete with an outdoor toilet. Even so, it was an adjustment for her, one that she complained about regularly. Maharani Kuntal, she teased, hope you rested nicely in your lavish quarters while your poor sister lay wide awake in a creaking cot with a husband who snores so loudly that even the street dogs can’t sleep.

  The exquisite room was decorated with heavily embroidered brocade-covered furniture in greens and golds. Giant bolsters in matching fabric reclined against the far wall where a clean, white sheet was tightly spread on the ground. Farther back, three carpeted steps led to an alcove with dark teak chairs and a low table. The alcove was stunning, covered from floor to ceiling in intricate scenes of sapphire-toned peacocks and amber-tinted elephants, emerald-clad sages and ruby-colored jasmine painted upon a lavish silver background. Colored mica glasswork panes, cut precisely with a diamond-tip stylus, were inset into each panel, glowing with scarlet-tinged light.

  Standing beneath its majestic arched ceiling, the diffused hues falling upon her, Kuntal felt as if she were inside a palace. It was here, to the side of the low table, that she unrolled her mattress each night for sleep. Her few possessions—several of Savita’s cast-off cotton saris, some silver jewelry, and a miniature toy kitchen set—were discreetly tucked into the lowest drawer of a carved wooden cabinet.

  On certain nights, when Kuntal was not so tired that she fell onto her mattress with eyes already shut, she sat upon one of the teak chairs or reclined against one of the plush bolsters, allowing the darkness of the room to envelop her. Then, with bangled arm outstretched, she imagined that she was indeed a maharani, listening to concert musicians— their sitars, tabla drums, and shenai droning in the background while a beautiful vassal offered her mango sherbet in a golden, gem-encrusted chalice. Bring the dancing girls, she commanded, diamond rings flashing on her fingers. This recurring fantasy was her one escape from her circumscribed life. And because of it, she desired nothing else beyond the bungalow’s green gates, a world that remained terrifying, reminding her of the days when she and Parvati had been on the run.

  Tonight, however, Kuntal had no fantasies to indulge in. Instead, as the family was gathered in the sitting area waiting for the Panditji and the tantrik to arrive, she sat locked in the living room, letting pained thoughts about Avni wash over her for the first time in many years.

  The morning the baby died, Parvati had awakened in a rage with Avni. She’s a witch! She’s coming between us! she fumed to Kuntal, beating th
e laundry with exceptional vengeance. You used to tell me everything. Now you’re hiding something from me. What is it?

  Unwillingly, Kuntal thought of the rough feel of Avni’s tresses that covered her face like a shawl in the mornings.

  Parvati, suddenly noticing the demure tilt of her sister’s face, began to sputter, Did she? Did you?

  Kuntal shook her head in shock. No! No! No! It’s just that I was so alone. She brings me happiness. Isn’t that enough for you?

  Parvati stared back, eyes hardening with hate. After an interminable silence, she held up a tiny remnant of the brown soap used for washing the clothes and muttered, I must fetch a new bar from the storage room.

  After the ayah’s sudden departure, Kuntal had been inconsolable, hiding her grief behind the living room’s intricately etched glass doors. Once inside, she pulled out the miniature kitchen set, Avni’s sole gift to her, pressing the diminutive tandoori oven to her eyes until she felt they were afire from the pressure.

  She did not relent until the unnamable, unspeakable feeling that Avni had ignited within her had burnt away into ash.

  Though tiny and without an AC vent, the puja room always remained refreshingly cool, as if it had an open window to the heavens. Maji sat on the wooden bench in front of the altar and dropped her head into her hands in sheer exhaustion, wanting nothing more than to lie down and sleep. It was only in the space of this little room that she could let the sternness leave her face, the strength leave her limbs.

  Out there in the rest of the bungalow, she was the supreme power. In here, though, she was the supplicant, the powerless one. It was a transition Maji made daily, easily, for running the household had become a juggernaut, slowly trampling the little health she had left. The puja room was her sanctuary, the only place aside from her early morning rounds, that she was left undisturbed. And now, hidden from the eyes of her family, she let the full weight of Pinky’s disappearance descend on her, distending her chest with a terrible ache. Her granddaughter was out there somewhere, cold and terror-stricken. Gazing at the altar in front of her, Maji did not allow herself to think that Pinky might be dead.