by Nag Mani
She was gone!
He sat there. The fact that she had ignored him was torturous. She was certainly embarrassed about hugging him. He closed his eyes. The world was cold without her, charmless. He had already begun to miss her. The school already seemed empty. She would come back for Boards, but he wouldn’t be here then. His session started late. He was so accustomed to seeing her around a random corner that he dreaded the moment he would come back and not find her. It would hurt to train his instincts not to look for her. Seven years, and every day he would get restless to catch a glimpse of her. Seven years… and it had finally come to an end. He closed his eyes, and lost track of time.
She was gone and all he did was watch her leave.
“Hi!”
He spun around and his jaw dropped open. There she stood, smiling at him. She had unhooked her badge and had drawn her hair loosely back into a chignon, revealing her prominent jaw line. “How did you find it?” Chandni asked.
He felt a pinch in his heart. All she wanted was the story. Of course, the story of how he discovered a dead body and its aftermath was interesting enough to bring any girl from the hostel to him. And he thought she had come for him.
Nevertheless, Rohan began to tell her the story while she sat beside him and listened. She did not speak when he had finished. He avoided any eye contact. They both stared blankly at the main gates, lost in their own thought. She seemed to have known a lot about the previous evening. Apparently, the principal could not keep prefects in the dark.
Rohan threw her a glance. She was wearing a light pink nail-polish and he had a sudden urge to hold her hands. His eyes fell on her bare neck. Her hairstyle, her perfect jaw line, her cream-like skin… Aware that his eyes were straying, he quickly looked if she had noticed. She hadn’t, and he withdrew his gaze. A black SUV roared passed the gates, carrying a trunk and bedding. “I thought you had left.” Rohan could not hold himself any longer.
“Without meeting you?” She came out of her trance and turned to face him.
“Yes, I saw you leave,” he shifted uncomfortably.
“But I came back, didn’t I?” her voice softened. “These last few weeks have been very special for me. I don’t know… but, it was kind of… nice… working with you. I don’t know what you might think of it but I will always cherish the time we spent together.” She looked away, a demure smile on her face.
What the hell was going on? It was his imagination, right? He refused to believe it. But his heart… it always did.
“Please don’t forget me!” she said in a casual tone, but kept her head low, not daring to meet his eyes.
“Forget you?” and he could say no more. All these years… just a glimpse of her made his day. Forget her? He took her hands into his. He knew his ears had gone as pink as the lovely fingernails in his hands, but he couldn’t stop himself. He knelt down before her. “You are my star, Chandni; the most beautiful star that ever existed. You are my loveliest dream! I have always looked up at you… admired you… wanted to be with you. And now, when my star has come down to her admirer, do you really think I will, ever, let you go, leave alone forget you!”
Chandni covered her mouth. Her eyes began to sparkle. “Since… when, Rohan?” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“Since the first time I saw you.”
She hugged him and he hugged her back. “Come to Delhi after you finish here,” she whispered in his ears, pulling him deeper into an embrace.
“You are going to Delhi after Boards?”
“Yes. And I will be waiting for you!”
“That is one full year. What if you meet someone else?” he grinned.
“Now,” she said and moved away, “if I meet a boy who thinks that I am the most beautiful star and is dumb enough to wait seven years to speak up, I don’t know, I might ditch you then! But practically speaking, you have no competition for next seven years, have you?”
Rohan laughed and sat down. The sky had darkened and the air turned extremely cold. She sat close beside him and they talked and talked. There was so much to say and so less time. It began with her standing under the lamp-post and him frozen in the centre of Junior School courtyard; but the mountains knew, seven years later, they would be sitting together behind the Library, telling tales of the years they had spent without each other.
A car stopped in front of the gates. She had to go. But she lingered as long as she could. Eventually, she stood up, gave him a final hug and left. Rohan watched her get into her car and wave him good-bye. The car rolled away, and this time, she was inevitably gone. But he was happy. All he had to do was wait another year.
He sat down and watched cars pass the gates, and soon, another car stopped and his father’s assistant stepped out. He had brought a local porter to carry his luggage. Rohan went down to receive him and led the porter to his dormitory. He gave a last glance around once the porter was ready. Bare beds lay scattered. He heard muffled music coming from the prefects’ cubicle. They were probably in the middle of a party. A lone gown hung on a peg. Old shoes and slippers were thrown on the floor while a few pairs were carefully placed beside the television by some attendant.
His eyes fell on the window. He saw the front quadrangle and in the front quadrangle, standing all alone by the parapet… was a girl. He rushed to the window.
Kajal!
He told the porter to go ahead and ran downstairs. He was too excited to realise what he was doing. He stepped out into the quadrangle. Kajal had her back towards him. A sweet breeze came from the mountains. Straight ahead, the horizon, straighter than a ruler, separated the dark grey air below from the orange-red sky above. The deep violet sky lightened as it flowed westward, ending in a deep shade of red above the horizon. The moon glowed magnificently above the mountain ridge to his right with a bright star below it. And far ahead, denser than stars in the night sky, shimmered a town spread out in the plains.
Rohan moved towards her in a small arc. Slowly, he approached the parapet and she turned to face him. He felt a fresh wave of excitement thrill him to his core. She was so beautiful! Yet her eyes emanated sadness that made even the mountains cry. All his excitement drowned. He felt a lump in his throat. He took a daring step forward and stopped, too afraid to come any closer, too nervous to even flex a muscle. She smiled, a sad smile. Rohan stood rooted to his spot. They looked at each other. Time paused. She was so close, yet she belonged from a place that was separated by time, far away from his reach. He looked… and he looked…
And then he blinked… and she was gone!
Rohan stood alone in the cold night. He went over to the spot she had been standing on, and tried to view the world through her eyes. A little girl joins a school, shy and intimidated and alone. She studies in the same classrooms, plays in the same corridors and grows up among the same mountains. Years roll by and she is now a part of a play. How happy she is, how excited! She sees a bright future, weaves new dreams. Then that cruel night… the darkest in her life. That part of her life he would never be able to visualise. She knows how dying feels. But she doesn’t tell. There is a gap. But she is back. She is standing next to the same parapet. The same moon is shining down upon her, the same mountains encircling her, the same sparkling city, maybe denser, unaware of her. She is looking at the same Auditorium, and what she thinks, only she knows. And there is this boy. Maybe same… like all the juniors of her time. Maybe not.
Rohan shook his head. Something caught his eyes, something in the flowerbed of the parapet. It was an earring; the same earring he had thrown away. Rohan looked around, expecting to see her again. But she wasn’t there. He picked it up, smiling unconsciously. He was not going to lose it again.
He watched the silent mountains on his way to Kathgodam. Their peaks bathed in silver moonlight while their feet were lost in the darkness of the valleys. A few lights twinkled in some of them, coming from distant villages or lone houses. The moon followed him all the way. His car meandered down the mountains and before he realised i
t, he was sitting by a window in a train, looking out at the silhouette of the giant mountains against the sky, cold breeze ruffling his hair. Somewhere out there, spread out under the moon, was his school. Somewhere in that school was the Library and behind that Library he had been sitting this evening with someone. A smile spread over his face. And then, somewhere in that school was the Green Room and he almost heard her scream again. But she was gone now… forever. Then why did he have this feeling that she was still there, watching him?
The train began to move and the mountains began to diminish. Rohan craned his neck. The tracks curved and the mountains disappeared abruptly.
He caught a movement from the corner of his eyes. It had to be her! She couldn’t just… go. She had to come back.
No. It was nothing.
And ever since, his eyes searched for her in every dark corner, always alert, thirsty for the slightest glimpse of her. He knew he would see her again.
But he never did.
---*---
CONTENTS - DEVI
I
1. THE RITUAL
2. THE MORNING OF
II
3. THE SUMMONS OF THE VILLAGE
4. THE NEIGHBOURS
5. THE MAN IN THE DARK
6. THE TEMPLE
7. THE BLUE RAJDOOT
8. THE FIELD TRIP
9. AAMBARI
10. THE LEGEND OF THE DEVI
11. IN THE NAME OF LOVE
12. THE PRICE
13. AN INNOCENT WISH
14. THE NIGHT OF
III
15. A SMALL GIFT
16. THE ANCIENT TREE
17. THE CONSPIRACY
18. DEVI
19. THE RITUAL
20. THE RIVER
IV
21. THE CHEAP CHILD
22. THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER 1
THE RITUAL
Amavasya is the night of the new moon.
The inky expanse of a clear starry night. Cold, refreshing breeze. A river gushes noisily besides a dark canvas of tree-tops. Lights flicker on the other side of the trees – dim oils lamps hung outside huts and shades, emanating feeble rays of hope and strength against the cold darkness of the night. Dogs curl on the softest spots they can find. Bells tinker as cows and goats shuffle under their shades. An old woman coughs.
The night grows older…
Away from this sleeping village, under the foliage of the trees, walks a lone human figure amid silent glares of the trees. It is holding a candle. Slung over its shoulder is a heavy jute bag. A little white goat follows close behind, tied to a rope. The light from the candle falls on thick, twisted trunks of the nearest trees, dark and gloomy, but nothing beyond. It is bright enough to see a crumbling brick-path on the ground though.
The figure un-hears the whispers coming from the trees; it un-sees the movements beyond the dwindling sphere of light and recites an unholy prayer in its mind, for it has come so far to pray, and pray it must…
A clearing in the foliage. The night sky peeps down from the heavens. And in that clearing sleeps an ancient mango tree. It has grown taller and deeper and broader for centuries, looming high above the canopy, its foliage forming a dome above the clearing. The branches spread wide and hang low. Its crown looks down at the vast expanse of the trees around. It sees the rushing river. It sees the sleeping village. It sees the glittering stars. And it sees a human and an animal enter the clearing.
Graves protrude from the ground along the periphery of the clearing – a broken stump, a withered slab of stone, mounds rising under layers of decaying leaves, a crumbling stone pillar…
In the silence of the night, the cloaked figure sits under the gnarled branches of the ancient tree. Close to the trunk not only grows, but blossoms with exuberance a red rose shrub. The jute bag is put down to one side. Two more candles are lighted and fixed on the ground. A blanket is pulled out. Draped around the body. Hooded over the face. The field of vision is narrowed. The narrower, the better, for then it will see less of those who intend to interrupt the proceeding. It closes its eyes. Folds its arms. Takes a deep breath. And the ritual begins.
First comes the awakening.
Its lips move in silent verses. The chanting grows louder and coarser. The figure begins to sway. The young goat is terrified. It noses its way into the blanket, away from the coldness that is rising from the graves.
The chanting stops abruptly.
There is going to be pain now.
The cloaked figure pulls out a rope from the jute bag. It drags the goat out from under the blanket. Puts a knee on its chest. Pins it down. Ties the rope around the snout. A rusty and not-so-sharp dagger comes out of the jute bag.
One by one, the limbs of the goat are hacked off. Red stains the white fur. The little goat wriggles in pain, faint bleats emanating from its throat. Blood falls on dry leaves. Blood on the blanket. Blood in the air.
The cloaked figure arranges the limbs into two crosses in front of the tree while the goat squirms like a fish out of water. Eyes wide. Gasping. Gagging. Bleeding.
The dagger now pierces the left eye. Gouges it out. It is placed above one of the crosses, moist and steaming. Now comes out the right eye. The little goat bleeds and kicks with the stumps protruding from the body, eyes replaced with red holes. Leaves and twigs cling onto its wet, white coat.
The hood slips and the figure sees the things it had tried not to see. They have begun to appear in the darkness of the tress, away from the clearing – dark shapes, vague, alive, floating amidst the trunks. Some still emerging silently from the graves. Some floating down from the trees.
The human lowers its gaze. It pulls down the hood and continues the ritual.
The not-so-sharp dagger plunges in between the ribs of the goat and tears through the flesh. Blood rushes out and fingers go in. They grab the bones and pull, and shove. Soft, distinct snaps. The ribs break. A hand goes in. Pulls. And pulls again. Harder… and out comes a heart glistening in the candlelight. Warm. Fresh. Beating.
The cloaked figure stands. It raises the heart to the ancient tree. Bows its head, then tosses the heart at the roots. The goat has stopped struggling – it is a mere mess of sagging flesh, broken bones and warm blood. Its ears are grabbed. Pulled back. Throat exposed. Slit…
More blood. The dagger works its way up. A little twisting. Turning. And the bones snap. The head comes off. It is placed tidily in between the two limb-crosses and the body is flung at the roots.
The awakening is complete.
The cloaked figure closes it eyes. Folds its hands. And it waits…
The ancient tree is silent and still. The stars watch. So do the floating shapes at the periphery.
Is something wrong?
The human panics. The silent shapes feed on its emotion. They move impatiently amidst the trunks outside the clearing. It must not look at them – for the terror they inflict brings instant death. But there is no turning back now. The ritual must continue.
A wish must be made.
From the jute bag comes out something wrapped in a piece of red cloth. It is placed inside the severed mouth of the goat. The hooded figure cuts its thumb and runs it over the snout. Makes small heap of dried leaves. Adds twigs on top. Lowers a burning candle. Waits. The heap catches fire, and on that little fire and the lot of smoke that emanates, it places the head of the goat with the piece of red cloth still in its mouth. There is smell of burning hair. Now the tingling scent of burnt skin. It closes its eyes and sings an ancient song. The fire dwindles by the time it ends. It rubs a little ash on the decapitated head and rises, holding it high in the air. The blanket falls. The dark shapes have come closer now. It immediately lowers its gaze again, walks around the thick trunk of the ancient tree and disappears.
Moments pass. The cloaked figure reappears, trembling. The act is done. It hurriedly goes back to the seat and covers itself again, its eyes always lowered. It touches its forehead on the ground before the tree.
&nb
sp; The wish is made.
Now comes the price it must promise to pay for the wish.
The cloaked figure gets up again and plucks a rose and a thorn. Two petals are pulled out. A pinch of mud from the roots of the tree is placed in between them. Blood from the heart is smeared. The rest of the rose is neatly placed next to the eyes. A finger is pricked with the thorn. A drop of blood falls on the petals with mud in between. It’s time now. It closes its eyes. Takes a deep breath…
“Zeenat!” the figure speaks aloud the name and throws the petals in the dying embers. They shrivel and shrink and turn into ash.
The ancient tree is silent and still, waiting, watching…
The human under the cloak is terrified.
The shapes have begun to enter the clearing now. They are no longer silent. They dance and they laugh… and they whisper to the night.
The figure kneels in front of the tree and begs to accept the price offered. Something went wrong during the ritual, something must have. There is no escape now. The dancing shapes will not let it leave, not after coming right into their territory and provoking them. Yes, something was wrong! Else the ritual would have been complete by now. Did the goat not die painfully enough? Was its soul not innocent enough? The figure folds its hands and begs forgiveness. It has meddled with powers beyond its control. It now wishes to be away from the tree, far away where no such things grew.
A thought suddenly comes whispering into its head – what if the price was not high enough?
No. It has agreed to pay far more than what it asked for. It cannot afford more. But it must offer a higher price, or die, for the ritual will otherwise be left incomplete.
The cloaked figure looks pleadingly at the tree as it rises again. It plucks another rose and prepares two more petals for the ritual. It closes it eyes, wishing this was not happening. Guilty and grief-struck, it takes another name and throws the petals into the embers.
