by Neil D'Silva
The nurse came to her side and placed the baby on her chest. “Here’s your son,” she said, her voice weary with the pain of standing for the hours it took. Her arthritic knee was troubling her today and all she wanted to do was to find a spot and put her legs up before the pain began exploding through her cranium.
The doctor who had delivered the child came to her. “There’s a slight growth at the tailbone. We can get it surgically removed later. Else all normal. Congratulations.”
Her mother took the baby from the nurse and opened the swaddling quickly, scanning the baby’s body quickly. Perhaps to check that all was normal and well. She reached out for her baby. Her mother, having assured herself of all being well, tied the baby back into a tight bundle and handed it to her. “Just like his father,” her mother said as she peered at the newborn’s face.
She gathered the newly swaddled baby to her chest. “My baby,” she thought to herself. She had been waiting for him for all these months. The hormones flooded her bloodstream, making her uterus clench and begin expelling the nine months of blood and tissue it had accumulated within. The baby had stopped wailing and was now a wizened, squashed face topped by a mop of thick dark hair.
Her mother came with her to look after her and her baby and stayed with them for a year before the cancer took her from diagnosis to the grave within five months. “This boy of yours,” she had told her in one of the lucid moments before the pain overtook her toward the end, “This boy is precious. Keep him safe. Don’t let them take him too.” Her words had been slurring into each other, barely escaping from her emaciated frame, hollowed out by chemo and pain.
“I will, Ma,” she had promised, not knowing what her mother was going on about.
“Don’t let them take him,” her mother had continued, hacking out the words from the depth of her being, battling the pain that came and went in waves of excruciation. “They want him. Don’t let them take him.”
She put it down to the delirium brought on by the medication. When her mother passed away, her maternal aunt came to stay with them a while, till the boy was older and toilet-trained. When he grew older, she went back to her home, where her life kept on hold awaited her. “It is not normal,” her aunt had told her, “How long do you plan on living like this? Get married again. A boy needs a father when growing up.”
Her son didn’t know his father. She had barely known her husband or the father of her child too. It had been an arranged marriage of convenience. But it was expected in her community, that once a girl crossed a certain age, the parents would find an eligible match for her and get her married off. Few girls defied the diktat of the community, and the few that did were ostracized immediately. She had been married within the community to a man who was an absentee husband. It suited her fine.
Her eyes filled up with tears that spilled over and down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her palms, a childlike gesture, a realization that she now had no one. No one. Her father had passed away a couple of years ago, barely after he’d got her married off. And then, her mother. And finally, her husband.
“Take me with you,” she’d pleaded the last time he came down. “I can’t get family accommodation yet,” he’d said. “I’ve applied. The moment they okay it, I will call you over.” And then he never went back to the Gulf, to his job as an onsite construction supervisor, dying in his sleep of an unexplained heart attack the night before he was to return.
She had her boy. He was all she needed. How he grew, from baby sucking at her breast with an appetite that knew no satiation. She would beam proudly when they told her he looked like a baby who had crossed his first year when he was barely six months old. He was big for his age, and quick on the milestones. Children born at around the same time as he were still crawling while he was taking his first fumbling steps. But he wouldn’t speak. It dismayed her. She took him to the topmost pediatricians in the city, and they referred her to specialists when they couldn’t find a physiological cause for the delay. They said he would speak when he was ready. He could make all the sounds required for speech, but he would not attempt stringing them together to create words and sentences. He would stare at things, and she would know what he was trying to tell her without him saying a thing. And over the months, she realized she could hear his voice in her head. It just felt completely natural; they spoke to each without needing to speak. The neighbors found it strange, but soon it stopped bothering everyone. It also helped that her son was so beautiful, almost carved from a block of marble, with his exquisitely sharp profile, deep eyes so black they sucked you in when he looked into yours, fringed with lashes so thick they cast a shadow on his cheeks, skin like alabaster, so different from her own. But he looked just like his father.
Her son. He ran through the crowds. A flash in a red and white T-shirt, his feet unsteady as he struggled to negotiate the swarms of people moving in gusts. He fed off the energy of the crowd, it made him excitable, and then when they returned home, exhausted by the hyperstimulation, he would fall off to sleep the moment she put him down on the bed. And she would sleep too, deep undisturbed sleep, populated by all the strange creatures in her dreams in places she had never visited in this life, but which her son took her through, now grown up, holding her by her hand, leading her through lands of blue moons and red grass, and creatures that swam in the sky, and crawled under a transparent glass like earth. She was never scared, because her son was with her, and he knew the way, this strange place that was home to him.
And then, she couldn’t see him. In a flash, a blink, he had disappeared. She called out his name, loudly, with her lips and her mind. Surely, he would hear her. Perhaps he’d gone behind the pillar. For a moment, she had a glimpse of his face, and then another child darted into view.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice high-pitched in her panic, asking faces in the anonymous crowd. “Have you seen a little boy in a white and red striped T-shirt, around this high?” She held a hand out to indicate his height; he was almost to her waist. They wouldn’t believe he was just five. No five-year-old was that tall.
“No,” they said, “sorry we haven’t.” There was disinterest in their eyes, a distant, uninvolved pity. “Why don’t you go to the helpdesk and get them to make an announcement?”
The public announcement loudspeakers blazed into life, “This is not a drill, this is not a drill. There is a fire on the third floor of the mall. The fire brigade will be here shortly. Please evacuate immediately, in an orderly manner.”
The voice was calm and measured. All hell broke loose in an instant. People stampeded through the atrium in waves, she got pushed over and fell down. Unseen hands helped her up and she began getting swept up with the crowd toward the exits when she spotted a flash of white and red in a corner. She pushed with all her strength through the crowds, getting battered by the pressure and reached the corner. The bright day had turned into an ominous greyness, a pewter sky brought on by sudden dark clouds that had rushed in from nowhere. A storm was coming. And then she spotted him, her son, standing calmly, his head inclined down, seemingly rooted to the spot unaware of the chaos around them. She ran to him and hugged him hard, going down on her knees.
“Oh god, oh god,” she cried, “I was so frightened, I thought I’d lost you and would…” Her voice trailed off as she realized he hadn’t looked up at her but continued to stare fixedly at his shoes. An old lady stood next to him, one hand on his shoulder with an air of authority. She barely registered her. Her features slid from her mind with a slipperiness that defied remembrance later. All she would recall, when she would think back to this moment later, was a lady with a shock of white hair, and a gaze amplified by spectacles that sent a shiver down her spine. Her clothes were not those of someone who would visit a mall. She looked a little down on her luck in a frayed tunic and trousers. She was barefoot. Perhaps, she’d lost her footwear in the melee that had just broken out.
“Thank you so much for taking care of him. I thought I had lost
him.”
The lady smiled, a smile that was gentle, yet with a hint of menace. “Don’t thank me, I must thank you for bringing him to me.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, feeling the roar of the crowds and the pell-mell of the folks dashing to the exit, coupled with the announcements over the loudspeaker, begin to pound at her brain.
“There’s nothing to understand.”
She fished in her handbag and found a five-hundred rupee note, folded carefully and tucked into the back for an emergency. “Here,” she said, handing it across to the old lady. “Thank you again, I owe you so much more. Come, son, let’s go.”
The old woman put a hand out and stopped her. “He will not go with you.”
She was taken aback and put a hand out to her son, “Come, son,” she said again but he did not look up from the ground. His voice did not come to her as it always did. There was a blankness from him that terrified her. Come to me, son, she said, in her head, trying to probe into his head to reach out behind this wall he had erected against her.
The old lady laughed a laugh that sent icicles tap-dancing down her spine. The chill seeped into her bones, right into the marrow. “He cannot come with you now. Didn’t you realize that his father would ensure he took his son back someday? Today is that day.”
This couldn’t be happening. All she’d asked for was a child. She was tired of the taunts of being barren and infertile and a curse. And the children who were formed in her uterus kept falling out in a couple of months. Her mother had told her about the father of her child. And how she’d turned to him when she had wanted a son to carry on the family name. She remembered her little brother going missing when he was five. He had never been found. Her mother had never tried to search for him.
She put her hands on her son’s shoulders, “Look at me,” she commanded in desperation, “Come with me, I am your mother.”
He looked up, his beautiful eyes pure black pebbles in an alabaster face, and spoke for the first time ever, his words clear and crisp, his voice high and silvery. It pierced her ears with its metallic ring. “You were a vessel. I have no mother.” It was noon, the moment her son had emerged from the womb five years ago.
She fell to the floor, huge heaving sobs escaping from her, feeling her heartbeat accelerate within her chest, cold clammy dread clutch her intestines and squeeze them, a sweat breaking out all over her body that had nothing to do with the temperature outside the air-conditioned mall.
And she knew then from the huge shadow that fell across the three of them, that her son’s father was standing right behind her and had come, as he had promised all those years ago, to collect his son in flesh and blood.
ABOUT KIRAN MANRAL
Kiran Manral published her first book, The Reluctant Detective, in 2011. Since then, she has published nine books across genres till date. Her books include romance and chicklit with Once Upon A Crush, All Aboard, Saving Maya; horror with The Face at the Window, psychological thriller with Missing, Presumed Dead and nonfiction with Karmic Kids, A Boy’s Guide to Growing Up,True Love Stories and 13 Steps to Bloody Good Parenting.
Her short stories have been published on Juggernaut, in magazines like Verve and Cosmopolitan, and have been part of anthologies like Chicken Soup for the Soul, Have a Safe Journey, Boo, Grandpa's Tales, Best Asian Speculative Fiction 2018 and Magical Women.
She was shortlisted for the Femina Women Awards 2017 for Literary Contribution. The Indian Council of UN Relations (ICUNR) supported by the Ministry for Women and Child Development, Government of India, awarded her the International Women’s Day Award 2018 for excellence in the field of writing.
THE HAUNTING TALE
Suhail Mathur
It was a lazy Sunday morning during the chilly winter of Delhi, way back in 1958. Ranjit was busy reading the newspaper and sipping tea in his beautiful apartment when there was a knock on his door.
Checking his wristwatch, he wondered who could have arrived so early on a Sunday morning. He opened the wooden door and was pleasantly surprised see that it was his cousin, Mukesh, who had come to pay him a visit.
“Arre, bhai sahab, aap? Please come in,” he said, inviting Mukesh into his house.
“Arre wah!” remarked Mukesh on seeing his cousin Ranjit open the door himself despite having many orderlies working in the house.
“Have you eaten breakfast?” asked Ranjit with a smile on his face.
“Nahin, bhai. When I was coming to your house, why should I have eaten and come?” joked Mukesh, for it was well known that Ranjit was a great host.
Acknowledging his guest’s compliment with a smile, Ranjit called out to his cook and asked him to prepare breakfast for the two of them.
Ranjit and Mukesh both came from influential and affluent backgrounds and it was due to their vast knowledge on various subjects that the two of them had a great rapport despite a 20-year age difference between them.
Ranjit had an uncanny ability to read people’s faces and he could make out that there was something troubling his cousin, Mukesh.
Once they had finished breakfast, they settled down in the cozy study over a cup of coffee.
“So, bhai sahab, tell me, what is troubling you?” Ranjit asked.
Mukesh was a little surprised but after a brief pause, he said in a low voice, “Ranjit, do you remember our old mansion located atop the hill on Camel’s Back Road in Mussoorie?”
Ranjit had a good memory and almost immediately responded. “Well, yes, of course, I remember that house. What about it?”
“I am planning to sell it off,” replied the elder cousin, much to Ranjit’s surprise.
“But why?” asked Ranjit, still trying to fathom as to why someone would want to sell off a property as beautiful as the Mathur Villa.
The questioned seemed to make Mukesh slightly uncomfortable. He fidgeted before finally revealing his reasons. “To tell you the truth, Ranjit, the mansion has become a white elephant for me. We hardly visit the place once a year, but its upkeep and maintenance expenses are creating quite a big hole in my pocket,” he replied, his face twitching.
“Hmm... have you found any buyers?” Ranjit asked.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I have found a buyer who is more than willing to purchase the Mathur Villa. He is a foreigner, an Englishman, but has lived all his life in India. It seems that he couldn’t quite get over his love for this country once the British left India. He wants to spend his last days in the peace and tranquility of the hills of Mussoorie with his children and grandchildren. They seem to be a friendly family and are more than willing to settle the deal on my terms and conditions,” informed Mukesh.
“Well, it seems you’ve hit a jackpot, elder brother. So, how much are you planning to sell it off for? Trust you have no problems in disclosing the amount to me?” probed Ranjit.
“Don’t be silly, Ranjit. Of course, I can tell you. You are family,” said Mukesh while gulping down the water from his glass. “I am planning to sell it for 30 lakhs!”
“Thirty lakhs! Holy cow! That is certainly a lot!” exclaimed Ranjit on hearing the amount, as 30 lakh rupees, in those days, was no small amount.
“Yes! And I need you to accompany me to Mussoorie when I go to sign the deal,” revealed Mukesh.
“Me? Why me? I mean, I can definitely come if you want me to, but why don’t you take your son or any other family member?” enquired a slightly surprised Ranjit.
“Yes, I can do that, but the truth is that I need someone intelligent, who can ensure that there is nothing amiss with either the deal or with the person signing it. You are my first choice,” Mukesh said with a pleading look on his face.
“Alright, I’ll definitely accompany you. When do we have to leave?” he asked.
“Next week. We shall leave early morning on Saturday and shall return by Sunday evening,” informed Mukesh.
“Next week? Bhai sahab, do you realize it would be absolutely freezing in Mussoorie during the last week of December?” cau
tioned Ranjit.
“I know Ranjit...I know. And frankly, if I had my way, I would have postponed this meeting. But the problem is that this gentleman, whose name is Dirk Englebert, is planning to leave for England soon and wants to acquire the rights of the place before the year ends as he wants to give this mansion to his family as a New Year gift.”
“And since you get an off only on weekends... Saturday is the perfect day for signing the deal, right?” concluded Ranjit. “Alright then, bhai sahab. We leave for Mussoorie next week,” he declared with a smile.
***
It was the 27th of December when Mukesh and Ranjit left at dawn for the serene hills of Mussoorie in the latter’s car. Driving at a reasonably good speed, the two men crossed Dehradun and reached Mussoorie in a good 6-8 hours after commencing their journey from Delhi.
As Ranjit got out of his car, his eyes looked at the Mathur Villa, the awe-inspiring multistoried mansion of the colonial era that towered above everything else in the vicinity with its huge iron gates followed by a sprawling green lawn which was partially covered by snow on all sides at that time of the year.
“My goodness! This place hasn’t changed one bit since I last came here. It was overwhelming back then and is overwhelming even now,” commented Ranjit with a smile of admiration on his face. He had last visited the mansion as a ten-year-old kid, almost ten years ago.
Mukesh smiled and entered the premises even as the orderlies welcomed them at the gate, which opened with a slow and shrill creaking sound. Ranjit looked back to take a look at the gate when he saw an orderly staring at him strangely.
The mansion was huge and sprawling, with red carpeting all over the place. Portraits of the ancestors of the Mathur lineage were hung on the wooden walls of the house and a fireplace kept the house warm from the cold outside. Huge glass windows provided an ideal view of the snow-clad mountains.
