Haunting Bombay

by Shilpa Agarwal

  Finally understanding the plan to desiccate her, the ghost prowled the bungalow for water, absorbing it into her body with the palms of her tiny hands or with a sweep of her effulgent mane. The monsoons broke over the bungalow once more, angry and full as if Mother Nature was attempting to rescue one of her own. Rain lashed at the bungalow’s windows, dripped from the ceilings, pooled onto the floor.

  The makeshift canteen out back grew perilous; each family member was forced outside, one by one, to consume watery vegetables and drink lukewarm tea. Except for Dheer, most lacked the energy to eat. The latrine began to overflow. Bodies emitted stale, sweaty odors. Greasy farts hung in the air, pungent and toxic. Tufan continued to be betrayed by his bladder, wetting his pants at the most inappropriate times. Each accident was repaid by sharp slaps from Jaginder who was sure that Tufan’s incontinence was deliberate so he didn’t have to use the fetid toilet.

  Savita rarely left her room, not even to eat, drink, or urinate. Kuntal secretly brought water and a bit of roti to her, and emptied an urn of Savita’s waste in the latrine out back. Savita, meanwhile, refined her strategy to erode Maji’s authority, regain Jaginder’s loyalty and marry off Nimish.

  That afternoon she pulled out her own wedding jewelry, setting aside pieces to pass to Nimish’s future wife. What better way to spend an afternoon, she thought, delighting in sorting through her glittering collection and estimating how much it was worth—how much she was worth. Briefly she thought of her lost daughter, of how they would have sat together sifting through the gems, her little Chakori pleading, Mummy, I want this one. Save this one for my dowry please? And Savita would have laughed. Of course my moon-bird, you are more precious to me than any daughter-in-law could ever be.

  “Oh,” Kuntal gasped, averting her eyes from the jewels as she walked into the room.

  “Come and see.” Savita laughed carelessly. “No need to feel ashamed.”

  Kuntal approached tentatively, allowing her gaze to fall upon an exquisite raw-diamond and Burmese ruby necklace.

  “All this is meaningless if Maji’s plan doesn’t work,” Savita said, gingerly choosing her words. “She’s not looking well these days.”

  “Maji’s not well?”

  Savita clicked her tongue. “So much strangeness going on, nah? How could it not affect even the strongest person’s mind? Now tell me which necklace you like. I’ll give it to you when you get married.”

  “No, no,” Kuntal backed away, shocked. Savita had made wild promises before, all of them contingent on Kuntal getting married, the likelihood of which dimmed with each passing day.

  “You mustn’t tell Maji that we’re all concerned about her,” Savita added. “Otherwise she’ll be angry.”

  Kuntal nodded. She had so fully believed in Maji’s invincibility that the possibility of her incapacitation had never crossed her mind.

  “Now come here,” Savita teased. “Let me try this necklace on you.” She draped the jewels across Kuntal’s dark neck; a ruby dangled at the curved entrance to her bosom. Kuntal shyly pulled the palloo of her sari across her face. For a moment, neither spoke. And then Savita clapped her hands. “Wah! You look like a bride.”

  Kuntal stole a glance at the mirror. Would she really give this to me? She thought of Avni. Has she come back for me?

  “Now go,” Savita said, taking back the necklace. “Go ask Jaginder Sahib to come here and then see if Maji needs anything.”

  Kuntal retreated reluctantly. She enjoyed taking care of Savita, draping her slender, fragrant body in silk saris, putting away the open tubes of lipstick and overturned tins of kohl on the vanity after Savita had gone out, touching each one with rapt attention. Taking care of Maji, on the other hand, was like trying to tend to a beached whale. Her massive flesh made even the simplest tasks difficult, from soaping the sagging areas of her body that Maji could no longer reach to wrapping her dull white sari around her enormous hips. And through it all, especially while Kuntal was massaging her, Maji rarely spoke unless to give a command.

  Oh pho! Kuntal thought, if Maji was falling ill then she would have even less time to attend to anything else. It wasn’t just Savita’s chattiness that assuaged Kuntal’s loneliness but something more, something intangible, unspeakable. In the past few days, when she changed the stained dupatta from around Savita’s breasts, she had let her gaze fall on their moist fullness. She told no one of her thoughts, not even Parvati whose growing waves of nausea caused her to throw up in wide arcs across the muddy back driveway.

  Jaginder knocked on his bedroom door hesitantly, not knowing what state he’d find his wife in. This past week alone she had morphed into more avatars than Lord Vishnu had in the time span of the universe. He was able to deal with her wounded-bird incarnation, tears brimming in her eyes as she quivered under his harsh words. And he heartily welcomed the Savita who seduced him in bed for several nights. But her most recent manifestations threw him for a loop: the bitter woman who told him to go to hell the other night and the doting wife who served him his chai this very morning.

  Jaginder was in no mood for his wife’s games; dealing with his addiction now was challenging enough. A terrible thirst had gripped his body causing his head to ache and his fingers to tremble. A thick fog had settled in his head, making it difficult for him to think clearly. Pinching the throbbing tension lodged in the base of his neck, Jaginder pushed the door open a crack. “Savita?”

  “Come, darling.”

  He saw his wife lying on the bed, jewels piled around her. The effect of all that glistening color in the austere room was stunning.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Savita motioned him over, “No hello-how-are-you first?”

  Jaginder cracked his neck, his back, and all his knuckles before sitting on the edge of the bed, touching the silvery sheeting of the bed frame. At one point in his life, this furniture had thrilled him. The colorlessness of it immediately drew his eyes to Savita. Recently though, he realized that it had the opposite effect on him. He, in his monochromatic kurtas and pant suits, all but disappeared.

  Savita leaned her shoulder and head against his broad back. “I’m worried about our Nimi.”

  She began dusting off his shirt with her hand.

  “What’s to bloody worry about?” Jaginder said gruffly. “He’s a normal boy with normal urges.”

  “But what’s this nonsense with Lovely?”

  “He wants to be a hero, that’s all.”

  “Nothing more?”

  Jaginder clicked his tongue, “I’d be worried if he didn’t go pagal after such a beautiful girl.”

  Savita stiffened. “Yes. So we must get him married to a nice Punjabi girl fut-a-fut.”

  “Married? But you’re the one always saying that he must study.”

  “Study, yes,” Savita said, starting to massage Jaginder’s shoulders. “He can still study, but a wife will keep him grounded, nah?”

  “But—but.”

  “But nothing,” Savita interrupted. “With Maji barely able to manage the household and all the terrible events of these past days, don’t you think a daughter-in-law would bring us happiness?”

  Jaginder remembered the first moment after his own nuptials when Savita had been brought from the marigold-garlanded car into their home. The entire driveway and interior of the bungalow had been strewn with rose petals. She had been so beautiful, so coy, so perfect, auspiciously scattering a handful of rice placed at the threshold with a kick of her bejeweled foot, foretelling the prosperity her presence would bring. The desire he felt for her at that moment was indescribable; she had been the answer to all his adolescent dreams. Let Nimish bloody rot a bit, Jaginder thought, jealous that his son would experience that rapture soon. “He’s too young,” he protested, aware of Savita’s warm fingers pressing into his shoulders. “Best that he’s several years older than his wife so he can mold her to his liking.”

  “But I already have the perfect girl in mind and we don’t want her to
be snapped up by someone else,” Savita said. “Juhi Khandelwal.”

  “Falgun’s daughter?”

  “Yes,” Savita said excitedly. “She’s also seventeen and very fair. And very shy. She wasn’t even interested in attending college. And from what I hear, she’s a very moldable type.”

  Jaginder remembered going to Falgun’s home for dinner once, when Savita had taken the boys with her parents on vacation to Goa. Juhi was a young girl then, no more than twelve, but even so her face was striking. In a city of overwhelmingly brown-eyed people, Juhi’s emerald green eyes burned into his memory. And now, he thought, now she could be my daughter-in-law.

  “Let’s talk more once things settle down.”

  “Settle down?” Savita asked. “What if Maji’s plan fails?”

  “It won’t fail,” Jaginder said, growing tense. “The tantrik said four days.”

  “He also said that we all must be here now, all of us who were here when our baby died.”

  “So?”

  “So, Gulu’s not here. And that wicked ayah’s not here either.”

  Jaginder cracked his knuckles again.

  “What if our baby lives,” Savita suggested, wishing it to be. “Then what? Maybe she’ll kill all of you who wanted to get rid of her.”

  “Use your head! Do you think we’d be able to control the bloody ghost if it were to stay. No! It would only grow bolder until it certainly killed us all, you included.”

  “Oh, Jaggi,” Savita switched tactics, “aren’t you tired of this water shortage? Of being humiliated in front of the servants?”

  “We must see this through,” Jaginder said with less certainty, his headache growing stronger. “No matter how long it takes. Otherwise, it will be a sign of weakness.”

  “Please, Jaggi,” Savita pleaded, pressing her fingers into his neck. “Please let me make some inquiries about Juhi.”

  “Fine, fine,” Jaginder conceded, waving his hand dismissively.

  Savita gave Jaginder a squeeze of gratitude. “She’ll be perfect for Nimish. I just know it!”

  “Now don’t be crazy. We have to ask Maji first.”

  “She has so much on her mind these days,” Savita said. “Haven’t you noticed how drained she looks?”

  Jaginder remained motionless, not willing to concede this to his wife nor to betray his mother. His fingers began to shake again. His body felt fatigued. He clutched his hands together, willing his muscles to obey him. A cool sip of whiskey! He conjured the image in his head unaware that a solitary bottle of Royal Salut lay stashed just behind the thin metal of Savita’s cabinet. Just one little sip.

  “You must get her to do less, to rest more,” Savita continued. “We can manage things.”

  “But still we must ask her,” Jaginder insisted wearily.

  “Hai! Hai!” Savita lamented. “You’re always taking the fun out of things. Now tell me, which diamond set shall we give our daughter-in-law for the engagement?”

  Jaginder looked blindly at those on the bed. He pointed to the one closest to him.

  “Oh my God!” Savita shrieked. “How can you even think to give her such a simple set, they will think we’re paupers!”

  Jaginder managed a smile as Savita gave him another squeeze. “Oh, Jaggi,” she cooed. “Nimi will be so happy.”

  Jaginder puffed out his chest, absently scratching at it as he thought about Nimish’s recent rage at him. Savita was right, he grudgingly admitted to himself, all the boy needed was a wife. Jaginder had been embarrassingly tense at that age, spending much of his allotted private time addressing this imbalance. Yes, Nimish needs a wife to relieve his tensions. And once Juhi came to their home, it would only be a matter of time before Nimish would agree to forgo his wild plans to study abroad and his romantic delusions about Lovely and instead settled down to family life as expected. Maybe I’ll even be a dadaji in a year’s time, the thought momentarily chasing away the thirst in his throat. Imagine that! A grandfather!

  And then, unwillingly, his mind settled on Savita’s warning:What if Maji’s plan fails? He had been willing to endure the four days of suffering, believing that salvation lay just on the other side. Now, for the first time, he considered they might be trapped by the spiteful ghost in this indefinite state of hell. If Ma fails us, he swore, I’ll sell this bloody bungalow.

  Savita fell into a contented sleep, surrounded by her jewels. In her dream, her daughter came to her again, sucking at her breast as if she were starving. Drink, drink, Savita whispered softly to her daughter, the skin around her delicate features turning a translucent pink, miniscule beads of sweat peppering the arc just under her eyes, hidden shyly under a veil of thick eyelashes. But then, without warning, the dream turned into a nightmare. The baby looked up gasping, eyes hollow. With horror, Savita realized that her traitorous breasts were barren once more.

  Her baby was going to die.

  Nimish spent the afternoon alternately pacing about his room, phoning the police precinct, and pushing the side door open whenever the rains broke to take a peek at the Lawate’s tamarind tree that could be seen shimmering over the wall. “Lovely, Lovely, Lovely,” he intoned like a prayer, “come back to me.”And then, equally fervently, he called out to Pinky, ever more fearful for her safety. Had she really been abducted again? And then, more terrible thoughts invaded his mind. What if Lovely had intended to run away? What if she really was meeting another boy? What if her promise by the tamarind tree had been nothing more than a lie?

  With a violent swing, Nimish shoved the door shut. As it screeched in protest, a locked-away memory suddenly broke into his consciousness, filling him with a surge of intense pain. He had been only four then, asleep in his bed until the creak-crack of the very same door had pulled him from his slumber. He remembered hearing footsteps in the hallway and assumed that they belonged to Maji whose morning rounds usually lulled him back to his dreams. But that morning Nimish had remained awake, unexpectedly alert. There had been wisps of a melody in the air and then his father’s booming voice. And then more footsteps, fast ones, along with other, more indistinct sounds.

  Frightened, but unsure as to the reason, Nimish had thrown his legs over the side of his bed and considered calling for Avni or Kuntal. After what felt like an eternity, he slid from the mattress and, peeking from behind his door, saw his grandmother lead the ayah from the bathroom and out towards the front of the bungalow. What had happened? Nimish padded quietly to the bathroom. As he approached the brass bucket, he saw his sister blue-faced, towel wrapped around her body, lying still as a stone upon the wooden stool.

  Wake up! He had cajoled her, every hair on his body tingling with dread. Wake up! Please wake up! But his sister remained motionless. Nimish heard the front door close and raced back to his bed, flinging his covers over his head as his heart thudded violently, fearing that he would be caught. He stayed there, fighting back tears, even as his one-year-old brothers awoke and began to cry, hoping that what he had seen could be erased if only he remained immobile.

  Nimish felt a sob emerge from deep in his throat. So much had been lost. He had been awake when his sister died, just a few meters away in the adjoining room. If only, he told himself, if only I had gotten out of bed earlier, I could have saved her from drowning and none of this would be happening.

  He slumped against the wall, recognizing at last the cumbrous guilt he had carried all these years. That’s why I’ve always taken care of Mummy. Because I failed her then. Nimish’s anger at his father had taken root that day, too. It was his father who had called for the milk-production cereal and set the juggernaut in motion. And it was Jaginder who took up drinking afterwards, wallowing in self-pity rather than attending to the emotional state of his family as he should have. Everything had fallen apart after the baby’s death. But even that was not enough. Now she had returned as a ghost to wreak further vengeance. And what better way to make Nimish pay than to take Lovely away from him forever?

  Nimish slid down the wall until he
crumpled onto the floor. “Please,” he called out to his ghostly sister, reaching out to the intangible otherworld, an action he would have considered unimaginable only a few days earlier, “I was only four then. Please don’t take Lovely.”

  Just on the other side, ensconced in the bathroom, the ghost opened her eyes.

  Water, she whispered to her eldest brother, her diaphanous hair billowing like a pure, barren cloud.

  Water.

  A TRAWLER & TRUTH

  Parvati touched her belly, awed that new life was forming inside her awaiting ensoulment in the next days and then, according to the ancient Vedas, its consciousness at seven months gestation.

  “My little pakora,” Cook Kanj said, affectionately calling his future child a fried ball of chickpea flour.

  “Can you believe that after all these years without a child,” Parvati said, her hard edges already starting to soften, “she’ll be here before the next monsoons?”

  “She?” Cook Kanj was offended. He spat, pulling the twig of neem with which he had been cleaning his teeth from his mouth. “It will be a boy.”

  “And how can you be so sure?”

  “The baby inside you is like dough, nah ? Add sugar and you have sweet puras, good for only breakfast and snack. But add a bit of salt and you have roti, the staple of life. My seeds are salty-salty boys, I have no doubt.”

  Parvati laughed. She and Kanj had been the only ones to retain their sense of humor these past days, buoyed by their pregnancy and by the unbelievable change the household had experienced, rendering the Mittal family virtually homeless. Just yesterday morning, in fact, Jaginder had practically begged them for a cup of tea.

  “I’ll be sad when the ghost goes,” Kanj said wistfully. “I’ve never had so much fun in my life.”

  “Oh ho!” Parvati said. “Why take such pleasure in others’ sufferings? Your own cooking has become so watery that it should be served in a glass.”