Maya's New Husband

by Neil D'Silva

  “Do what you want with me,” she said between her sobs. “But, let me go. Let me go, please. I have a son.”

  However, there was no way this nightmare would end.

  He raised his right hand.

  And Padma saw the most fiendish contraption stuck onto his fingers. It was a weapon of some kind that he wore over his fingers. But what alarmed her intensely were the four sharp points the weapon had.

  “What is that?” she asked, her words stumbling to come out of her mouth.

  In response, Bhaskar grimaced till his face looked almost animal-like. Uttering some kind of battle-cry, and brought down his armed hand in two quick sweeping motions on her naked thigh.

  The pain made her convulse so hard she could hear her backbone snap.

  But, even as she was about to pass out, she did not fail to see the symmetry of the pattern that had been created on her thigh.

  The tattoo of death.

  “Lie down here for a while now,” he said with mock reassurance. “I’ll be back later.”

  ~ 13 ~

  Reverse of an Oasis

  Anuradha cooked a humble meal for two on the day most of the world celebrated Christmas. It was a simple fare of khichdi and a vegetable preparation with potatoes and cauliflower. Namrata liked such uncomplicated food anyway, and she was home for her Christmas holiday.

  “I had been to Maya’s house,” she told Anuradha when they were having their lunch.

  The older lady heard that in pensive silence. Then she graced the conversation with a grunt, which acknowledged the fact that she had absorbed the information.

  “It is not a happy house,” Namrata continued. “He wasn’t there, but what I saw wasn’t good at all. I haven’t seen her like that even when Samar died. Large black circles under her eyes, that torn gown, the dilapidated house… it gave me the creeps to even look at it.”

  “When did you go?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Didn’t you have work yesterday?”

  “I took a leave from work,” said Namrata. “But, what the hell, Ma? Can’t you see the real problem here? Maya is going through some really hard times, and all you are worried about is whether I bunked work or not.”

  “Maya chose this life.” There was a cageyness in Anuradha’s words that pushed her daughter to the brink.

  “What does that even mean? If she takes a wrong decision, do we just give up on her?” said Namrata.

  “Did she ask for help?”

  “God, no!” simmered the younger woman. “Why would she? She is as stubborn as you are.”

  “Don’t go to her house again.” There was uncharacteristic precaution in the mother’s tone. “Her husband might not like it, you never know.”

  “I know what this is about.” Namrata kept her spoon back into her plate. “Oh, Bhaskar is a lecherous bastard? Isn’t that the germ inside your head? Well, maybe he is. I saw him staring at my breasts that day too. Yes, I did. I am not blind, Ma. But, you know what? I am not a child anymore. I know how to take care of myself.”

  “Namrata, quieten down,” said Anuradha, keeping her spoon back too. “I know you can take care of yourself. Or, would I have been so cool when you spend most those long nights out? Do I object when you move around with that Gujarati boyfriend of yours?”

  “Sheesh, Ma! Why are you always so racial?”

  Anuradha tightened her jaw. “Everything sounds racial when you don’t have an answer.”

  “Once again, this is about Maya. Not me.”

  “Don’t you think she’ll be able to take care of herself too? If you can, she can too. She’s your older sister, after all.”

  “Why are you so obstinate about this?” Namrata’s tone softened. She needed to get this message across to her mother. “Forget what happened. Forget whom she chose. That is water under the bridge now. The thing right now is that she is not happy. She’s your favorite daughter, isn’t she? You need to look out for her.”

  Anuradha stared blankly at her younger daughter.

  “Or wait,” said Namrata as though a sudden thought had occurred to her. “Is the problem that Bhaskar is not a Maharashtrian like we are? Is that the problem? It’s a frigging racial thing again, right?”

  Namrata nodded as she said that, urging her mother to nod in response too. Anuradha stayed put.

  “But you should see,” continued Namrata, “right now, the problem is with Maya. We may have to do something about it. And, as far as I am concerned, don’t you worry.” Saying that, she left her mother at the table alone, and went into her room.

  ***

  Anuradha wasn’t a woman who wore her emotions on her flamboyant silken blouse sleeves. She did not like to show her vulnerabilities, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have any. Her younger daughter had touched a nerve during the conversation. She didn’t like to admit it, but her older daughter was her weakness. Indeed, being the only one in the house for all those initial years, she had bestowed more tender loving care upon Maya. The soft corner wouldn’t go away so easily.

  Despite being her only parent, Anuradha had sulked all through Maya’s wedding day, and a part of that was out of selfishness. Blinded by her vanity, she wanted Maya to learn her own lesson. Let her find out what life is really about, she argued with herself.

  She had convinced herself that Maya was happy where she was. But now that her younger daughter had painted the true grim picture of reality, she knew she could not keep quiet. Her maternal instincts had now come to the fore. She had been afraid of this eventuality all along—that Maya would not be happy on her chosen path—and now that seemed to be true. The mother inside her could not sit silently. There was something she needed to do.

  After lunch, when Namrata went out to be with Hemant—He’s much better company, she had said before storming out of the house—Anuradha opened the drawer and took out the chit of paper she had kept inside. Maya had written her new address and given it to her on her wedding day, which she had folded and tucked into her blouse without so much as glancing at its contents. However, now she saw it—her daughter’s neat cursive handwriting outlined the address clearly, supplemented with a neat sketch to assist her less-educated mother.

  She changed into the saree she wore when she usually went out to meet relatives, tucked the chit between her blouse and her cotton bra, and stepped out of the house. It was several years since she had taken a train all by herself, but when things have to be done, they have to be done.

  She could have called Maya before the visit. But she chose not to do that because an advance phone call would give Maya time to set up her house in a flattering way and she did not want that. The old woman wanted to see her daughter and her house in their raw starkness.

  When she had been younger, she had worked for a firm that was at the other end of the city, and she had been an avid traveler. It wasn’t difficult for her to board the ladies’ compartment in the train, alight at Naigaon Railway Station and take a rickshaw to her daughter’s neighborhood. All through the hour-long journey, she was plagued with thoughts of what she might find in her daughter’s house. Her long salt and pepper hair tied in a neat bun, and her traditional saree neatly draped around her ample body, she presented quite an elegant picture in the chaos that existed in that part of Naigaon and, despite her age, she did manage to make quite a few heads turn. When she asked for directions, young men went out of the way to help this well-heeled woman.

  So she walked on, hoping that she was in the right direction; and finally arrived at a place that bore the signboard she was looking for—Hussein Lakdawala Chawl. She smiled, thinking how her visit would surprise her daughter.

  The filth made her crinkle her nose. She hitched her saree almost up to her knees as she navigated water channels with stinking water and dodged ducks and hens that roamed freely in the street, quite unmindful of the nearby butcher’s shop. Her upper middleclass mind thoroughly disapproved of these surroundings. She hoped none of her sisters-in-law from Dadar would catch he
r here, and she walked on hurriedly, eager to get this over with.

  But, before she could turn into the A Block, she saw the familiar figure of her son-in-law emerging from a shop. She looked at the shop board, and was appalled to see that it was liquor shop, the kind that sold cheap alcohol to hardened drinkers. He had a black polythene bag in his hand. She could easily make out that the bag contained a bottle, his recent purchase from the shop. She retreated and observed him.

  He stood out in the crowd. His lanky frame and his gait set him apart from the riffraff.

  For a moment, she contemplated on going up to him as he walked ahead of her, greeting him and saying some good things to him—after all, he was an undeniable part of the family now—and then going along with him to meet her daughter.

  The temptation was strong but a stronger temptation stopped her from going up to him. She saw her son-in-law going away from the A Block. He seemed to be walking in a hurry, sweaty and heaving, as though on an errand of grave importance.

  What could be doing with a bottle of alcohol and walking away from the house? Who was he going to share it with?

  Suddenly, it occurred to her that this could be a good chance to find out a few things about him.

  A childhood spent with Famous Fives and Nancy Drews and The Three Investigators came back to pester her maternal instincts. Her daughter didn’t know of her visit. She could wait a little longer. But, if she followed this man, and did it carefully, she might just discover a few things that could be important.

  There was just this little chance—

  The only problem was that she found it difficult to keep up with his pace. He was tall, and strode ahead of her like a horse, while she, with her rotund aging body, stumbled along fitfully, clutching her saree in one hand, and her purse in the other. She had to keep a suitable distance from him too, for if he suddenly looked behind and saw her, what could she say?

  She didn’t know this part of Naigaon at all—indeed, she had never been here—but even then she could tell he was leaving the chawl behind as he walked towards a desolate area on the other side of the street. This area was like the reverse of an oasis. Oases are fertile patches in deserted lands; but the place he was going to was a barren stretch in a bustling locality.

  Anuradha had been following her son-in-law for about ten minutes now. The road had devolved to a dust path flanked by shrubs and bushes and a few trees. And then she came to a clearing that looked like a junkyard. She could tell from the cars, mostly just skeletons, piled one atop the other in a precarious heap. For a moment she stalled, baffled as to what he might be doing here. There wasn’t a soul in sight. What was he up to?

  But, he went right at the heap, completely sure of where he was heading to.

  Anuradha was bursting with curiosity. A number of questions confounded her hyperactive mind. She observed his every move and a new question arose.

  Why was he climbing up those cars?

  Why was he crouching up there, right on the heap?

  Why did he clutch the bottle close to his chest?

  What was he looking at down there?

  She almost took her cellphone out to call Maya. Perhaps her daughter could tell her something about his junkyard visit that would put her uneasy mind at rest.

  Then, he disappeared. Anuradha opened her mouth and gaped foolishly like a goldfish. He just disappeared among the junked heap of cars! Where could he have gone? From the ground she was standing on, she didn’t hope to get any answers.

  ~ 14 ~

  Thigh Food

  All Padma could see was darkness. She opened her eyes—at least, she thought she opened them—but there was nothing she could see. The stench was undisguised though, the rotting, foul odor of disintegrating human flesh.

  The olfactory assault brought her back to reality—that, and the piercing pain in her thigh. And she saw the spidery mark once again. She didn’t know what it meant or signified, but the blood oozing out of it left no doubt in her mind. This was the beginning of the end.

  She couldn’t do anything to stop the pain. She tried twisting her foot to stymie the bleeding, but it only made her aware of her broken shin.

  The smell came on again, this time fouler than before. She remembered—this was the body odor of her assailant. He was close to her, perhaps watching her misery sadistically.

  And then she heard his voice once again.

  “Oh, do not pass out on me, please… wake up… I just leave you for a while and you pass out! I want you to be awake… Wouldn’t you grace my dinner table? I promise, I am serving the meal of a lifetime.”

  Her eyes became large, fat beads of perspiration falling into her brow and disappearing there. She tried to beat her legs on the floor, trying to get enough leverage to free her arms. Nothing gave, there was only an excruciating pain. The only thing she could do was yell.

  “Yeah, that’s better,” he said. “Yell like that. Yell like a bitch! Ha! Dinner is always better with a little entertainment. Speaking of entertainment, this is what I went to get.” He took a bottle from the black plastic bag in his hands and opened its cap. A sudden pungent whisk escaped from the bottle’s mouth. “Know what this is?”

  Padma shook her head. The way it fumed, she was scared it was an acid of some sort.

  But he put the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. “Ah, excellent!” he said. “Just the right thing to bolster the spirits. This is toddy, you fool. It isn’t served in those rich ‘restaurants’ you go to.” He pronounced restaurants as ress-toh-rons, trying to mimic an upper-class accent. “For this, you have to go to the basics. Climb up the palm tree to get the tadgola, cut it open, pulp it, let it ferment for a long, long time and then this elixir is made. It requires work, you know. Not just throwing money and pouring out from a bottle.”

  Despite her mortal danger, Padma realized how twisted this man’s thoughts were. If there were still an ounce of a teacher left in her, she would have corrected him by telling him that all alcohols need to be fermented. That she had never consumed alcohol. That she never dined at expensive restaurants. That she was just a simple woman trying to make a living.

  “Don’t…” she pleaded instead. That was the only word that could escape her lips in that instant.

  “Shh…” He placed a grisly thumb over her brow and flicked away a glistening bead of sweat. “See, you don’t have to plead. There’s no scope for that at all. Do you wish to know my plans for you tonight? All right.” He stood up suddenly, and began to flap his arms all around, almost resembling a large bird trapped in a cage, struggling to get out. “Where is it?” he said. “Where the hell is it? Oh, these blasted rat demons!”

  Then, he sat down near a shelf and saw the object he was looking for. “There you are!” he said with an ejaculation of joy. He put his hand under the shelf and, when he brought it out, Padma started thrashing her legs about all the more vigorously. She didn’t mind the broken bone any more. She didn’t mind the bloody tattoo on her thigh.

  The awareness was intense—any pain she currently bore could not compare with the pain he was now about to give her.

  For, in his hand was a small meat carving knife. Its rusty handle and browned blade told her how frequently he had used it, and since how long.

  Ranganath’s words ran through her head.

  Aghoris… aghoris… eat human flesh…

  “No, no, no, no, no… don’t do this…” she pleaded, the mucus rising in her nose and mouth, choking her words. “Don’t do it… Please… please…”

  He laughed at her. “You know what I am going to do?”

  “No, don’t.”

  “What did that fucker tell you about me?” he said. He sat down to come to her level and on his face was a mirthless smile. “What did he say? Ha! That I eat human flesh? Oh, you don’t even know half the truth of it… there’s so much that poor bastard doesn’t know. He’ll be tomorrow’s meat anyway.”

  Padma’s eyes brimmed with tears. Spittle flew out of her mouth, choking
her words.

  “Why, oh why? You weren’t part of the plan,” said Bhaskar. “Why did you have to bring your fat ass over here? But…” There was a sly twinkle in his eyes now. “Anyway, who can flout their destiny? So much the better for me, actually. The fatter the better! That’s the way I like it.”

  Padma lost her voice. She tried to yell, one last bid maybe, but nothing came out except gurgling bubbles of saliva.

  “And it is good for me, you know?” Bhaskar said, menace dripping from each word he spoke. “You will be my sixth.”

  He waited, hoping for Padma to ask him a question.

  “Curious?” he said. “Don’t you want to know sixth of what? All right, I’ll tell you. My sixth heart, that’s what!”

  Padma made one last ditch effort to move back. She violently shook her head, but there wasn’t much room to move.

  “I am on a mission, you know! Eight hearts. Yes, eight. That’s what I need. You walked in just when I was hungry.”

  She gave up. She prayed. Her eyes closed, a broken chant of the Hanuman Chalisa played on her lips.

  “Hah! Don’t tell me you are praying now! What a sham! This is not the time for you to pray, woman.” Bhaskar jerked her head and she opened her eyes. “It’s the time for me to prey.”

  The prayer went on, more in defiance than in devotion.

  “Oh, but I must be hospitable!” said Bhaskar. “I’m having someone for dinner tonight and how can I not feed my guest? Have you ever sampled thigh food in one of those ress-toh-rons you go to?”

  And, without any further warning, he plunged the carving knife deep into Padma’s thigh—the one without the tattoo—and in a quick expert motion sliced off a chunk of her flesh.

  It came off just like that—like a hot knife swished across a slab of melting butter.

  The prayer froze on her lips.

  She looked at the knife passing through the thigh—her thigh—and for a moment, she couldn’t believe it had happened. Was this a nightmare, a bad, bad one? But then how was the pain so real? This is no nightmare, Padma’s shocked mind told her. This is your reality.