THE LETTER
T
he next day, Diya had all the locks changed and a new burglar alarm installed. She called a cleaning service to scrub the house from basement to attic. She could not bring herself to touch anything tainted by the intruders.
Once the cleaning crew left, Diya emptied the overflowing mailbox and made three piles of correspondence: one each for her father, mother and herself. Most of the correspondence was addressed to either her father or mother. Only two envelopes were addressed to her.
Diya sifted through the bank and credit card statements, and discarded the magazines and advertisements. Then she opened the two envelopes addressed to her. First was a Christmas card from a car rental company, offering her cheap rates in Italy.
Diya opened the second envelope, expecting yet another Christmas card. Instead, it contained a thick wad of folded notepaper. When she took out the letter, something fell on the table. Her parents stared at her from the faded sepia photograph. Her mother was dressed in a sari with a big bindi on her forehead. Her father wore a suit and a tie; he had a dark, thin moustache along his upper lip, like something drawn with an eyeliner.
Another couple stood next to her parents; a thin bemused woman with a laughing curly-haired toddler and a smiling well-built man with a head of abundant hair, a fistful of which was in the child’s greedy grasp. A boy of three or four stood in the foreground with his arms folded and a sulky look on his face.
Diya had no difficulty recognizing the toothless curly-haired baby. It was her. Who were the other couple and the sulky boy?
Diya unfolded the letter. The handwriting was neat and precise, but it was unfamiliar. She began to read.
My dear Diya,
I am sorry that I could not write to you in happier times and that I am writing now when life has so cruelly snatched away your father and mother.
My son, Ronnie, found out about the accident on the internet only yesterday.
I called him names for saying such things, but now that I have seen all the evidence, I have no option but to accept that dearest Manu and Meera have departed for a better world.
I cannot tell you how sad I feel about this incident. But right now, we are most worried about you being all alone in a foreign country in your time of grief.
Lord always calls the good people away first and we must abide by his decisions, but it is not so easy. There was never a more pious and saintly woman than your mother Meera, and never was there a better brother in this world than dear Manu.
I still cannot believe I will never be able to meet Manu again in this world and my chances of meeting him in the next world are remote.
We are all worried about you, dear Diya, and feeling helpless because we cannot come to you in your hour of need. We want you to know that you are not alone in this world. We, your family, love you and are always there for you.
The last time I spoke to Manu, he told me that all of you were planning to come to India. I know it is not the same coming here now after this tragedy, but I hope it will be better than living alone.
Grandma says you must come home at once and stay with us for as long as you want. I must say I agree with my mother. In fact, your aunt Ruth, your uncle, Albert, his wife Mary, and your cousins Ronnie, Rini, George, and Shelby are also of the same opinion.
Our house is not large and can be different from what you are used to, but only last year we added another room and a western toilet, so you will not be too inconvenienced.
So, Diya, do come home.
Once again, I want you to know we love you very much and your grief is our grief, as we all deal with the sudden expiration of Manu and Meera.
Send an email to Ronnie at [email protected] and let us know when you are coming. Our home phone number is 09825785439 and you are welcome to call anytime of the night or day.
With lots of love,
Your uncle Sunny Varghese and family
Diya read the letter twice before the words made sense. Her parents had always maintained they were only children and that their parents were long dead.
Then how could she have a whole family with aunts, uncles, cousins and even a grandmother and not know about it?
Yet, for some reason, the name Sunny rang a bell. Then Diya remembered the only time her father had told her about his childhood.
One summer, three or four years ago, they had watched a horror movie. Instead of being scared, Diya thought it was hilarious. She had ridiculed the premise of the movie: scary childhood bugaboos.
‘At times, life is stranger than fiction,’ her mother had said. ‘You should never underestimate danger.’
‘They are nothing but stories made up by grownups to keep children in line,’ she had declared.
‘That’s not always the case. Danger is real, and you should be aware that monsters can hide around in the guise of normal people, even friends and family,’ her father had said.
‘Oh, come on Daddy, I know that stuff,’ she had protested, wondering if her father was about to lecture her on staying safe from predators and the internet.
‘It’s not always a stranger or a scary beast that poses a threat. The everyday, the mundane, is equally dangerous. I talk from experience,’ her father had said.
‘Let me tell you a true story.’
Trickster
A
s far as I can remember, no one had lived in the blue bungalow at the end of our lane. One of my earliest memories is standing in the middle of the road, clinging to my mother, as my father tried to pry me out of her arms.
He was threatening to lock me up in the empty house for some childhood misdeed. Unlike my father’s threats, the specifics of my crime elude me.
I cannot gauge if I was more afraid of the blue bungalow than the other children in the neighbourhood were, but it was a well-known fact that everyone feared the empty house. Even adults gave it a wide berth at night when its dark bulk loomed over us.
I was not scared of the house. Really, I was not. Only of the one who dwelled inside. I do not know what they call him here. In India, we called him the Chakwa – a trickster. He could take any form he desired: animal or human, and walked amongst us without arousing suspicion. He befriended people who were foolish enough to venture alone near the house and lured them to the dark woods behind to feast on their flesh.
There is only one way of recognizing the trickster. Pay close attention. If a stranger approaches you when you are alone always make sure you scrutinise his or her feet. If the stranger’s feet are the wrong way around — heels pointing towards you, toes away from you — then you had better close your eyes and run for your life, because you have just met the Chakwa.
Powerful as they are, they cannot mask this fact. Their footprints always give them away.
Their other weak point is that they have no power on full-moon nights. On that night, they are reduced to mere smoke and dust that even a puff of air can blow away. So, if you must ever take on a trickster after dark, choose the full-moon night, but if you have the option, choose a sunny day. Take it from an experienced hand.
I encountered the Chakwa a few months after I turned ten, and a month after Mrs Mishra went away to visit her mother, or so Mr Mishra claimed.
You tell me, would you leave your home for a trip without packing a bag, even without wearing your shoes? Though no one questioned his claim, I was not the only one who did not believe Mr Mishra’s story.
One day I overheard my best friend Sunny’s parents discuss the topic.
‘I cannot believe she went to visit her mother, especially now that her son’s exams are just two weeks away. It’s not like her.’
‘She might have run away with another man. These things happen, and the way he is, who can blame her?’
‘I would have known if that was the case. No, I am sure she did not run away.’
‘Let’s not get involved.’
The next day, after school, Sunny and I took a detour to eat ice cream with some of our leftove
r birthday money. We share the same birthday. I was not really in the mood, but Sunny was looking forward to the treat so I agreed.
When we came back, eight or ten children were huddled near the blue bungalow. All our friends were there, and there was also a group of boys who did not live in our neighbourhood.
We had to push and shove to get near the house to see the cause of excitement.
There were six muddy footprints near the gate, two outside and four inside, all of them heading towards the house.
Have I mentioned those gates before? For such a large house, they were puny. If I had wanted, I could have climbed over them in two seconds. Those flimsy gates were held together in the rusty grasp of a thick-padlocked chain.
After a while, a new group arrived and pushed us to the back of the crowd.
For all his virtues, Sunny was a bit of a show-off. Take the first six runs he ever scored. He did hit the ball clean over the boundary, but the way he narrated it, the ball didn’t just clear the boundary, it sailed over the school rooftop and was lost somewhere in the marketplace. He just could not leave a good thing alone.
On our birthday, Sunny had decided that since we had reached the ripe old age of ten we should no longer be afraid of the Chakwa. He decided we must touch the gates of the blue bungalow to prove our manliness.
We walked to the gates with pretend bravado, but chickened out at the last moment. We ran back as if the trickster’s sharp claws were within inches of our necks. When the other boys pushed us to the back of the group, Sunny started boasting about our dare. He claimed that not only had we touched the gates but that we had also climbed on them and peeked into the yard.
‘If we had felt like it, we would have climbed over the gate and gone inside,’ Sunny boasted.
‘I don’t believe you,’ a boy from outside our neighbourhood said.
Those may not have been his exact words, but I remember his disbelief.
The next moment, even without realizing it, we had split into two groups: us vs them.
‘My friend Manu and I did it. Ask him if you don’t believe me.’
Sunny dragged me to the front of the group. I tugged at his arm, warning him not to go any deeper. When Sunny was in one of those moods, he was worse than a crazy elephant bashing his head against a tree trunk to prove his might, heedless of self-destruction.
The boy gave us a head-to-toe look, laughed derisively at our skinny appearance, and spat on the ground.
‘We can do it now if you don’t believe me,’ Sunny said.
‘Go, Sunny go. You show them.’ Our friends started chanting.
In the bright sunshine, surrounded by a dozen boys and buoyed by the sure knowledge of the trickster’s absence, Sunny walked to the gate, smacked it with his palm, and came swaggering back like the captain of a winning team. We all jumped on him and embraced him in jubilation.
That would have been the end of it had Sunny left it there, and I may never have found out the truth, but Sunny imitated the boy and spat on the ground. The boy too walked to the gate, gave it a resounding thump, and strutted back to his cheering group.
Stalemate.
‘Anyone can do it,’ he said, depositing a fat gob of saliva on the ground from the seemingly limitless supply in his mouth.
‘If you really want us to believe you, why don’t you climb over the gate and stand on the front steps? And even though we all know that the Chakwa is not inside, we will concede that you boys are not liars and sissies.’
Checkmate.
A hushed silence fell over the whole group and all eyes turned to Sunny.
After what seemed like hours, one of our friends asked, ‘Will you do it, Sunny?’
Sunny looked at me, and against my better judgment, I nodded.
‘Ok! Manu and I will go in, but only on one condition. Everyone must stay here until we come back. Is it a deal?’
He glared at each boy in turn, hand outstretched. Though some slapped his palm boldly, most were reluctant. Yet they all agreed.
Just as there is only one way of recognizing the trickster, there is only one way of staying safe in his presence. Sunny and I turned our backs to the group and peed in our cupped palms. We splashed our clothes and bodies liberally. Even though we knew the trickster was away, we were not taking any chances.
When I looked back, I saw my terror reflected on the faces behind us. Sunny grabbed my hand and we clambered over the gate. It was cool and peaceful inside and I felt the first stirrings of curiosity. Since we had come this far, I wanted to see the house. I had only meant to peek through a broken window, but the door opened at my touch.
Sunny turned back, triumphant, and gave a thumbs-up sign to the boys who were now huddled near the gate. He pointed to the open door and signalled that we were going inside. I saw the fear on some of my friends’ faces, but I was no longer afraid. This time, I led the way and Sunny followed.
Our footsteps echoed in the dusty, cobwebbed emptiness of the house. I can never forget that smell: musty-dusty-bird-shit-dead dog.
I do not know why it took us so long; maybe we had always expected the house to smell and sound that way. We peeked into a couple of rooms and then entered the kitchen.
She was lying in the middle of the room, her body wrapped in a multi-coloured rug. Her tongue protruded out of her open mouth while thousands of flies buzzed around Mrs Mishra’s body. I can forget the smell, I can forget the flies, but what I can never forget are the ants that crawled up her arm that had escaped her hasty shroud.
Even now, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night terrified of the ants crawling up my arms.
MYSTERY OF THE NEWFOUND FAMILY
D
iya could not remember how the story ended. Maybe Sunny and her father ran out of the house in terror. The fog of time had obscured the details and all she remembered was the dead woman’s rotting body with ants on her arms.
In the photograph, Sunny and his wife looked happy and carefree. Even her father had a slight smile on his face as he squinted into the camera, but her mother seemed tense, almost terrified as she looked sideways at Sunny’s wife. Was her mother afraid that Ruth might drop her child?
As Diya looked at Ruth’s curly hair flying in the air, a thought struck her that might explain her Hindu father’s Christian siblings and why her middle name was Elizabeth. She had always wondered why she did not resemble her parents. Yes, she was tall like her father and fair like her mother, but her two striking features — noodle-curly hair and green eyes — were not inherited from her parents. Both her parents had brown eyes and straight hair.
Her mother had told her they had struggled with conceiving and had miscarried the baby before her. They always called her their miracle baby.
Could this curly-haired woman be her real mother? Could Sunny and Ruth be her biological parents and the reason why her parents had never told her about them?
Now that her parents were dead, there was no reason to hide the truth. Hadn’t Sunny said that while they were devastated by her parents’ loss, they were more worried about her?
‘What other secrets do you have?’ Diya asked her parents’ photograph.
Her throat constricted and she could not breathe as she wondered whether her whole life was based on a lie.
Throughout the day, Diya dithered between her desire to know the truth and her fear of secrets.
By evening, it started snowing again, thick flat flakes that stuck to the windowpanes and clung to the weeping willows, the kind that isolated you from the living and incarcerated you with the dead.
As night gathered, dark thoughts of someone slitting her throat or burning her alive began invading her thoughts. Diya took a deep breath and made up her mind.
‘Can I speak to Uncle Sunny?’
‘Are you Diya?’ a soft deep voice asked.
Her accent had already given her away, yet Diya hesitated; this was her last opportunity to change her mind.
‘Yes …’ Diya said, silencing the v
oice of doubt in her head.
‘Daddy! Diya is calling from America,’ the voice hollered.
‘He’s in the backyard feeding the chickens,’ the voice explained.
‘Chickens, of course …,’ Diya wanted to laugh.
This was so bizarre. She had called someone who might be her biological father, halfway around the world, and a voice on the telephone was telling her he was feeding the chickens.
‘Sorry, should have introduced myself, I am Ronnie.’
‘Oh …’
Didn’t Uncle Sunny say his son Ronnie had found out about her parents?
‘When are you coming? I mean, we all are waiting for you.’
‘I got the letter only today.’
‘Really? I sent it out like three weeks ago.’
‘I was just …’
‘Sorry, I understand, you just come over here, Ok? And don’t worry about anything.’
‘Thanks Ronnie, I …’
There was a clattering sound at the other end followed by an oath.
‘Stop chattering and give me the phone.’
‘Gotta go Diya, the old man’s finally made it.’
‘Don’t pay any attention to that boy; he is really getting out of hand.’
At first, Diya had difficulty understanding Sunny. He spoke in accented English and the torrent of words pouring through the phone seemed incessant; he did not seem to have any concept of punctuation or a need to pause for breath.
Once again, Diya explained that she had received the letter only that day.
‘The postal service isn’t what it used to be. When are you coming to India?’
‘I am thinking about it.’
‘What’s there to think? Just pack your bags and come home.’
‘I have to check with my school.’ She wouldn’t be starting school until next fall, but how could she travel halfway across the world to meet strangers?
‘They will also agree that the change will do you good,’ Sunny said.
Diya decided to change tactics to avoid this line of conversation. There was no harm in finding out the details even if she wasn’t planning to travel to India.
The Trickster Page 3
