The Narrow Road to Palem

by Sharath Komarraju

‘Because she is a woman of our village. Tomorrow she will give birth to the boy, and what if she points at one of the young men and say he is the father?’

  ‘What if –’ Shastri stopped himself and hiccupped again. He said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘You are afraid that your son may have – eh?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Satyam lifted the glass to his lips and downed its contents in one large gulp.

  ‘I do not know why, Satyam – eh? – I do not know why this is bothering you so much. She is a crazy loon, that girl. Who is going to believe her word over yours, eh?’

  ‘They might not believe her now,’ Satyam said acidly, ‘but if the boy grows up with my son’s eyes and nose, it won’t take long for them to crow about it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that could be a problem. But you know what, my friend? I think the boy will grow up with that schoolmaster’s eyes and nose.’ The priest tried winking at Satyam a couple of times, failed, and gave up. ‘Eh?’ he said, and stretched out on the porch, looking up at the stars.

  ‘It will all be so neat and nice if that happens. But you know what they say about Avadhani. He’s – you know.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Why do you think his wife left him?’

  ‘Eh? Oh – oh!’ Shastri broke into another long giggle. ‘Any man in the village could have had Lachi. She is always out by herself in the night, is she not? Out by the old Shivalayam, under the Banyan…I have heard of people talk of seeing her by Ellamma cheruvu in the moonlight…if a girl like that walks by you in the night when the full moon runs in your loins, what red-blooded man would resist picking her up and pinning her to the nearest tree and –’ His voice abruptly stopped, and his eyes glazed over, his tongue moistening his lips. ‘Such a heavenly thing is toddy, and a woman.’

  * * *

  Lata plucked at the strings of the sitar and cocked her head, her eyes focused on some far away, invisible point. Somebody in the gathering of women called out for her to play a movie song. Lata smiled indulgently and continued plucking, listening – she ran her fingers along the length of the strings once, one by one, and then strummed them, allowing them to catch in her longest fingernails at the very end of the stroke. She bided her time, allowing her fingers to play idly and yet with enough rhythm to entertain the ladies sitting in front of her. Her hands then changed tack as though with a mind of their own, and her ears perked up in anticipation, following the notes, knowing where they would lead. Her mind, conscious of what had happened on the three previous nights, told her that the first tabla note would hit just about – now!

  Dhum.

  She lifted her eyes and looked around the room once, to make sure no one had heard it this time as well. On the first occasion, three nights ago, she had sat up and stared all around her when the note appeared; much to the ladies’ annoyance. Only after she had heard it a couple more times did she realize she was the only one to hear it. She had resolved to tell Sister Agnes about it that night, but the notes on the accompanying instrument had been so precise, their combination with her own had been so delectable, that she had not had the heart.

  The tabla was also speaking to her in some strange way. Yesterday in the middle of her performance she had begun to see flashes of Palem – now here, now there, flicking into her mind and out of it with such rapidity that she could not tell for certain what it was that she saw. She could make out Avadhanayya’s house amid the slew of images; of that she was sure, and there had been the Shivalayam too…no, not the new Shivalayam in the middle of the village, but the old, decrepit one, in the shade of the big Banyan tree.

  Now, without her knowledge, her mind was being taken over by these notes, and it was floating away, borne by them, into Palem, and this time she was taken into Avadhanayya’s field behind his shack and the irrigation well next to it. Unlike the images of the previous day these were sharp and fluid, as though an old movie was playing in front of her eyes. She went to the well, peeped inside, then went around it to the back; and there she stopped.

  She opened her eyes with a start, in cold sweat, suddenly aware that her fingers had been playing of their own volition on the sitar; that control of her fingers was only now gradually being returned to her. She could hear the notes of the tabla recede, and it seemed like tendrils that had wrapped around her mind were loosening their hold…she looked around the room once again just to make sure that she hadn’t attracted notice…and her eyes fell on Sister Agnes, who was watching her with a curious expression in her eyes…yes, she would have to tell her tonight. She had to tell her that she had to go back to Palem, though she did not know why or for what.

  No, she corrected herself, aware of it only as she was doing so, not for what, but for whom.

  * * *

  13 September, 1970

  Dear Brother Abraham,

  Thank you for your kind words. Whatever I feared for in my previous letter, I think, has come to pass, though I am still not sure if we were the victors or the vanquished.

  It was exactly thirteen days after Lachi disappeared. She was just – gone. Without a trace left behind. Her son and daughter did not know where she had gone. Avadhani denied having anything to do with her. No one in the village remembered when they had seen her last.

  That started it. Things started to disappear from the village: Komati Satyam’s langur, which he tied to the corner of his peanut field to scare monkeys away, was gone one night, taken with the rope that tethered him. Avadhani’s own Jersey cow also vanished, and later half its torso was found floating in the Godavari a few miles up north. A couple of stray dogs went missing; so did a pig and six of its piglets.

  All this while, Lachi’s son and daughter were getting bigger and bigger, while Avadhani got thinner and thinner…

  One evening I was sitting with Komati Satyam on his verandah and suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt that same feeling of ice down my back. Why it should have come at that time I do not know. Perhaps it is because at six o’clock every evening, Avadhani went to Ellamma cheruvu and washed his legs. It was a routine he did not miss in all these years, not even when he had that fracture in his arm when he fell off his father’s bicycle. But today, today, sir, he was nowhere to be seen. I knew almost immediately that something was wrong, and I told Satyam that we should go. He got up and picked up a spade, handing me one as we left. ‘You might need this,’ he said.

  When we went to Avadhani’s house the first thing that struck us was the smell. For long periods now his house has been locked up with no outsider ever entering. When we approached the windows we saw that they were all papered up. There was a soft whirr of a machine coming from inside the house, with an occasional jarring rumble. We exchanged a glance, Satyam and I, and decided to barge through the front door. The wood was rather weak, and it was half-eaten by termites, so it gave in on our very first push.

  The view inside – god, it still churns my stomach, sir – they were at least partly human, that much I can vouch for, with human legs, arms and faces. But their chests were tough and rubbery, of a dark green colour that one would see on toads. Lined on their waist on each side were three blinking sockets that I could discern were eyes of some fashion. Their backs were scaly, not unlike that of garden lizards, and little beady structures clicked and clucked under the skin. From what ought to be their stomach there slithered out a hose-like tube, and as we stood over them, brother and sister both had their hoses wrapped together, lying on their sides facing each other. Their eyes were dilated, and their paws – no, I cannot call them feet – clawed at the air.

  Beside them sat a contraption made half of fleshy, biological material and half of hard metal. Jutting out of one corner of the machine were Avadhani’s legs and half of his torso. The upper part of his body was already embedded within the machine, and the rest was slowly getting sucked in with each whirr, as if into a mire.

  I do not know how long we stood there looking at the scene, sir, but it was Satyam who sprang to life first. It must have been when the boy turned a lazy eye to look a
t us that Satyam realized it was time to strike. With a yelp he leapt at the sprawled bodies and hacked repeatedly at their tentacles, and a white pasty substance squeezed out onto the floor. I entered the fray then as well; I closed my eyes and stabbed like a madman, not knowing where and what I was hitting, but every now and then the point of my spade drove further down than other times, and made them squirm that little bit harder, so I know I’d hit a tender spot.

  They put up no resistance to us, sir, though I would say we gave them no chance. After it was all done Satyam and I carried them over to Avadhani’s well and buried them there. We also pulled out Avadhani from the thing – his face was all bloodied, and he was dead of course – and laid him to rest. It was then that I looked around the room and found the sitar.

  ‘Let’s burn it,’ Satyam said. And I almost agreed to it too, but then I remembered what sweet notes it used to make under the girl’s hands, and I just could not bring myself to burn it. So I told Satyam that I would take it home, and here it is, right in front of me as I write this.

  In these seven days since we’ve killed – those things – all our bad omens have stopped, sir. The feeling on my back is no longer present, and everything seems to have settled down. But you can never tell with these things, can you? I would still like it if you came and gave Palem a thorough cleansing. Maybe you can take the sitar away with you to keep in a place where evil cannot reach.

  Sincerely,

  Subramanya Shastri

  * * *

  Lata opened the front door and looked up at the gibbous moon. The sound of the table thudded in her mind. These last two days the sounds had not gone away after she had stopped playing the sitar. Now they were ever-present, goading her on to the front door, then to the path leading up to the road, then along the road…

  ‘Lata?’

  Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes was going to have her neck slit, she knew. She had seen it in one of the images the tabla notes had sent her. Somewhere deep within her she felt sad; Sister Agnes had been good to her. She did not particularly want her to come to harm. She poked herself in her waist and felt hard calluses pushing back from under her skin. These had appeared on the first day and had grown in size each day. She did not question what they were or where they had come from. It was like she knew; more or less.

  ‘Yes, sister?’

  ‘Are you going somewhere, child?’

  Lata turned back to face the older lady. She did not know the answer to the question, but the thudding of the tabla inside her head continued unabated. She knew it would stop only if she were to go to that well, where that ditch was dug, where both of them were buried…

  ‘You’ve told me about the tabla notes,’ Sister Agnes said. ‘Do you still hear them?’

  Lata nodded.

  Sister Agnes came close to her and placed an arm on Lata. In her mind Lata willed the nun to stay away, to keep her distance. When her hand touched her shoulder Lata could sense a momentary twitch on the fingers – at the rubbery, scaly feel. But they relaxed soon enough.

  ‘I can help you, child,’ said Sister Agnes in a murmur.

  The tabla notes in Lata’s head grew louder. Her fists clenched, and her face contorted into a grimace. ‘There is only one thing that can help me,’ she said, baring her teeth.

  Sister Agnes paled at the sight and took a step back, but held firm with her hand. ‘No, my dear, the only person that can help you right now is Christ; he is our saviour, our lord…’

  ‘Enough!’ Lata stooped low, looking up at the nun with her hair falling over her face. ‘Move away, woman. I am going.’

  ‘You will take lives.’

  ‘They killed us,’ said Lata, in a voice she barely recognized herself, ‘they killed us when we – when we were –’

  ‘Child.’ Sister Agnes reached into her blouse and brought out a cross, fumbling.

  Lata waved her arms around to knock it out of her hands to send it sliding on the floor and under the desk. She turned to the door and opened it, but Sister Agnes was behind her, both hands on her waist, and this time she immediately recoiled.

  ‘Who – what are you?’

  Lata turned around and grinned. ‘Yes, what am I? What am I, woman? I was a woman five days ago, until you gave me that sitar to play. Now what am I?’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Our father in heaven, hallowed be thy name –’

  ‘Oh, yes, very hallowed indeed. Where was the father when they killed us when we were – when we were in union? Where? Where!’ In blind fury Lata struck out with her right hand at the woman, and she saw Sister Agnes clutch at her neck in shock.

  Lata held up her hands. They were the hands of a crone; the fingernails had grown long and sharp in the last few minutes. One of them – or all of them – had struck the old woman’s artery. She was whimpering now, and Lata found herself laughing with her head thrown back as the figure before her hunched, then collapsed on the floor with a groan.

  Lata knelt down in front of the woman and closed her fingers around the neck and squeezed, making Sister Agnes give one final moan. The notes of the tabla in her head reached a crescendo when she heard the last breath of life leave the sister. Lata was just about to lift her hands up to her mouth when she heard a sound in the adjoining room. Lights had come on, and at least four people were approaching.

  Lata moved into a crouch, and propelling herself with her forelimbs, lunged at the front door and closed it behind her. She sensed her stomach churning, her intestines transforming into tentacles, and one of them smoothening on the outside and forcing its way out through her belly-button, wrenching a groan from the depths of her throat. She staggered to her feet and tore her clothes apart, and just as she heard screams from within the house, the skin on her back gave way to sharp, triangular bumps that clicked and clicked and clicked…

  She fell forward on her forelimbs again, craning her neck up at the moon and baring her teeth. The sound of the tabla still ringing in her ears, she galloped up the path and on to the main road to Palem. Her mind’s eye saw only one image now, frozen in time – that house and the field and the well and the ditch and the two of them buried in it – Well, today they would not stop her! Today they would not stop them. They had come so close forty years ago, but no matter, they had another chance now. Now she would go and awaken him. Yes, my brother, my love, I am coming for you. No one could now stop them becoming one with each other. No, not now.

  Peaceful Are The Dead

  Rama Shastri had just finished his evening prayer and sat down on the fibre mat in front of his plate when a knock appeared on the door.

  Arundhati, his wife, looked up and said, ‘Who could it be?’

  With a sigh, Rama Shastri got to his feet. He spread his shoulder cloth around himself and went to the door. Someone or the other always came to the temple in the evening in search of stray pieces of coconut the devotees left behind, but today, Rama Shastri had brought them all home because Arundhati had wanted to make pickle.

  ‘Must be a beggar,’ he said, ‘looking for a bite to eat.’

  The man at the door was dressed in a tattered grey dhoti stained with mud. He was barefooted, and stood with a hunch. From experience Rama Shastri knew that all beggars at the temple assumed that position to garner sympathy from devotees. The light from inside fell on the man from the chest down, leaving his face in darkness.

  ‘Yes?’ said Rama Shastri.

  ‘Ayya,’ said the man, ‘I have not eaten anything the whole day, and they told me that you would not turn me out.’ He stepped into the light and crinkled his eyes at the sudden brightness. Rama Shastri had never seen him before. Was he even from Palem?

  ‘I come from Rayalapalli, ayya, further up along the river.’

  Rama Shastri wondered who had sent him to his house. Once or twice in the past he had taken the temple beggars into his house, and he had eaten with them, but he had no intention of making it a habit. He also did not want to acquire such a reputation in the village. They might even have a word with t
he temple president and ask for a more ‘upright’ priest.

  He had to keep his distance. And if he were to close the door in this stranger’s face now, no one would know or care.

  ‘I don’t eat much, ayya, and you don’t have to give me any curry. A bit of rice and a spoon of pickle will do.’ The man rubbed his stomach. He had a haggard beard and a dusty mop of hair on his head.

  Rama Shastri looked across the temple grounds in the direction of the shivalayam. He murmured a prayer under his breath. The lord himself was a beggar, an untouchable. Would he not have taken this poor man in? Would he have decreed that one of his own men – another beggar – should starve on the steps of his temple?

  Rama Shastri sighed. Arundhati would not like this. Neither would Bhoomi. But he had to obey the lord’s command.

  ‘We only have tamarind pickle, and we can only spare a fistful of rice. Will that do?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man. ‘Yes, yes.’

  * * *

  If she had felt any displeasure at the unexpected guest, Arundhati did not show it. She unrolled another mat in the corner, and because the tube light was not strong enough to reach that far, she lit a candle and placed it next to the empty plate. Then she brought a mug of water and asked the man to stand in the doorway and hold out his hands.

  The night was a pleasant one, neither cold nor hot, neither humid nor dry. Arundhati had turned off the table fan to keep the candle burning, and it left a thin coat of sweat over Rama Shastri’s forehead, which he mopped with his shoulder cloth.

  From inside the bedroom, Bhoomi came out wielding her phone, wearing one of those pajamas that she no doubt bought in the city. Throughout her childhood and adolescence, Rama Shastri had insisted that Bhoomi wore just half-saris. Now one year in the city, and in the name of higher education and modernity, she had begun to preen herself in all these tight clothes. She smiled at the phone, and as her fingers moved on the screen, Rama Shastri caught the glint of just-applied nail polish.