***
Mohan stood outside the manager’s office, lost in thought. He jumped when Pramesh came up beside him and glanced into the office. The manager picked up the paper cone, still half full of fried mung dal, and handed the packet to Mohan to dispose of.
“What did you think, Pramesh-ji?” Mohan asked.
The manager shook his head. “No thoughts anymore, Mohan-bhai,” he said. “Better to stop thinking, better to set yourself to whatever Rama wills.”
Later, Mohan wondered about this. How did one stop thinking? He was not especially contemplative, but lately his thoughts would not let him be. One particularly made him speed about the bhavan at a pace more frenzied than usual looking for something to do, some task to focus on. The familiar gait, the tall figure rounding the corner. The thought returned whenever he was still, especially these last nights when he tried to sleep but instead found his body stiff and braced as if readying for a barber to pull a tooth, unable to relax until the pots were quieted.
Having settled a newly arrived family of leatherworkers in No. 3, tended to the other guests, looked in on Sheetal, and asked the priests if they needed anything, Mohan was left with a dangerous free moment. In his room, he remembered Govind’s paper cone, tossed on the metal cabinet next to his bed. He unrolled the top and smelled the spicy saltiness of the mung dal, no longer warm, but still comforting. He was not especially hungry, and such a snack was forbidden in the bhavan. But his door was shut, no one would see him and be tempted, and eating was something to do. Munching away, Mohan felt the prickles of unease in his stomach subside. When the cone was empty, he crumpled and threw it away. Back in the courtyard, as he soothed an argument between two brothers over whether their father was more comfortable on his back or on his side, the taste dissipated from his tongue, as did the memory of eating it.
***
Guests rarely demanded admittance to the bhavan late at night, the unspoken rule being that once Mohan locked the gates for the evening, Shankarbhavan would accept no one else until the next day. The iron creaked in protest when Govind arrived, his white hair shining in the deep black night, another paper cone clutched in his hands. Shobha had cleaned up from the evening meal some hours ago but still tried to offer him food, irked that a stranger to the bhavan—and an elder, at that—had decided to bring his own, and at such a late hour.
“Next time, next time,” he said, palms folded together, declining the meal. “The task comes first.”
The cone held puffed rice mixed with sev, golden with spiced oil, and he held it open to all, rattling the contents when Pramesh, Narinder, and Mohan all declined. “Well,” he said, eating on his own, “No point in all of you remaining awake. Two hours after midnight, you said? Shall I wake you, Manager-bhai, a few minutes before?”
“We hardly sleep around here anymore,” Pramesh said, but he agreed that it was best that they all go to bed and convene again closer to the time. Govind made to lay down on the stone outside the office, but Pramesh insisted that he take the rope bed in the kitchen.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather I move it outside?” Govind asked. “It’s no trouble. It’s better than what I’m used to, Manager-bhai.” It occurred to Pramesh that perhaps Govind had other reasons for giving up the profession—that despite his talent with the dead, his status in the world of the living demanded he walk rougher paths than those deemed above him.
“Wherever you wish,” Pramesh said. “You are here as a friend of Narinder-ji. So we offer you whatever we would offer him.” He left the man standing in the kitchen, staring at the bed with his brow creased with uncertainty.
Stretched out on his own bed that night, as Shobha sat next to him and worked on a dress for Rani, Pramesh traced his eyebrow with his fingers, rubbing the thick hairs back and forth. “This is the right thing, I suppose,” he said. “Unseating the ghost. Moving it elsewhere.”
“Yes,” his wife answered without hesitation. “That soul has to continue its journey, and it cannot do so until we help it along. Once it leaves the bhavan it will have no other choice.”
“So many things unfinished, unsaid,” Pramesh said. “So many things left unbalanced.”
Shobha did not indulge him. “You completed his final rites as best as you could. And you are dealing with this new problem. You cannot keep looking back when there is nothing more to be done.” She drew a needle in and out of the bright blue fabric, her fingers pushing in tucks and pleats in a way that seemed like magic to Pramesh. She was so certain, always. If the roles had been opposite and women had the task of circling the pyre and breaking the pot, Shobha would not have looked back. She would have completed the rites perfectly, without hesitation.
He continued to think long after Shobha put her sewing away and went to sleep. A few more hours, then Govind would see the problem and dispatch the ghost. Detach, Pramesh told himself, repeating the word to himself until he felt sleep come over him. The body is burned; so should the memory be. Let him go. Detach.
He woke some minutes before the hour, his body as tense as a spring in a clock. He checked on Rani, thinking it might be better to wake her himself before the sound wrenched her from her dreams, but her eyes were already open when he pulled back the curtain shielding her part of the room. Pramesh’s heart twisted when he saw her skin shining with tears, her face red and her breathing hoarse. “She feels warm,” he said, handing her to Shobha, now awake.
“Likely a summer cold,” his wife said, touching the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead, then wiping the wet face with the end of her sari and cradling the small head to her chest as she rocked her. “She was with the Mistry grandchildren today; perhaps one of them had it first.”
The pots erupted then, silencing whatever else she might have wanted to say. It seemed louder tonight, more violent, penetrating the ancient stone of the building and making its way to the upper story of the family quarters, sending Shobha’s hair pins on the side table skipping and shaking to the floor, her rolled-up sewing shivering with the vibrations. Shobha squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her grip on Rani.
Pramesh found Govind in the pitch black of the washroom, without even the candle that Mohan had left for him, standing in the furthest corner and watching. He seemed completely in control of himself—no green visage like Mohan’s, no frozen terror, no sick unease at being so close to something so unnatural. He was so calm that Pramesh almost forgot why he was there, and only when the old man looked up, questioning, did the manager remember to say the word of silence.
The sound and motion cut out instantly, echoes ringing in the dark. Mohan, lingering outside the washroom until then, stepped into the doorway, his round frame smudged in shadow. “Some water, perhaps?” Govind asked. He moved, stiffly at first, and was slow to exit the washroom. Seated in the kitchen, he refused the glass Pramesh offered and instead bade the manager to pour the water in his cupped hands. He gulped a glass’s worth, and then another, before speaking.
“Has it done this every night?”
“Yes. This is the fifth.”
“It is perhaps more assertive than most,” Govind allowed. “But count yourself lucky—it hasn’t possessed any of you. And it obeys when you speak to it—very strange.” He peered at the manager. “What was it you said again? To make it stop?”
Heat rose to Pramesh’s neck. He glanced at Narinder, silent and still. Govind looked at him steadily. “There’s no profit in this business if I talk about what I’ve seen, Manager-bhai.”
“Bhaiya,” Pramesh said, eyes unable to meet anyone else’s. The pressure on his chest returned, a now familiar weight.
Govind showed no reaction; he merely took another sip of water.
“Can you banish it now? This instant?”
“Morning would be better,” Govind said. His eyes were alert, with a new spark. He reached for his cone of puffed rice and popped a few grains, considering.
<
br /> “Is anything wrong?” Pramesh asked.
“No, nothing wrong. Different, perhaps—not wrong.” He chewed some more. “It’s already seated itself, you know,” he said. “It’s an inconvenience, but you don’t need to do anything just yet. All I would be doing is moving it elsewhere. Whether here or there, the hope is that it will move on eventually. As I said, it hasn’t possessed anyone, and that is often the bigger difficulty.” He dusted his hands, twisted the top of the cone, and shoved it away. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait?”
“No,” Narinder spoke before Pramesh could. “Nothing can be gained from waiting. And if moving it can help it along, when it never should have been here to begin with, then it is our duty to do so.” He looked to Pramesh, who swiveled his chin.
“Well. It’s certainly one of the more extraordinary possessions I’ve seen, but not the worst. I will stay the night, if you don’t mind Manager-bhai. But, as you wish: First thing in the morning, it will be done.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“A few things I must beg from your wife—cooked rice. A lemon or two. Cloves and cardamom. Oh, and another thing. If you could ask your wife to lead all the women out—to the ghats, to the market, wherever—and if they could stay away until I am finished, that would be most helpful, Manager-bhai.”
“Anything,” Pramesh said. “It will all be ready for you.” His breaths still felt shallow, as if someone were sitting on him, but there would be an end. Everything had an end to it, both good fortune and the bitterest of trials—or so Shobha liked to tell him. This chapter of his life, too, would have an end.
12
The next morning, Shobha went around to all the rooms, speaking to the women. She wanted to take Rani with her, but the child was still warm and had spent the rest of the night coughing. “Leave her here,” Govind said. “She’s not yet old enough to be a distraction to the ghost like the rest of them.” Shobha colored as she realized why Govind had said nothing about moving any dying women from the bhavan, either. Rani was too young, and those guests were too old, but the women in between were capable of the thing that barred them from the temples and rendered them impure each month. “They are attracted to such things, ghosts are,” Govind continued, oblivious to Shobha’s discomfort. “They have their likes and dislikes just as the living do. Anything from a living body—blood, human leavings—it all acts like a magnet, and the ghost cannot resist.”
So, reluctantly, Shobha dosed Rani with black pepper and turmeric-spiced milk sweetened with honey, tucked a light blanket over her, and left her dozing on the rope bed in the kitchen. Then she gathered the women and led them all to bathe at the river as Govind had requested. They filed out in a tidy parade, unobserved except by old Mrs. Chalwah across the street, who sat at her window, fingers doubling the speed at which they moved over her prayer beads, her nod nearly imperceptible when Shobha raised a hand in greeting.
***
Govind crouched over the tray Shobha had prepared and scooped palmfuls of rice, still warm, added some water to make the mixture hold, and formed three balls. He borrowed a knife from Pramesh and set that next to the lemons. A cluster of cloves and cardamom sat in the tray’s center. With his peacock feather shivering atop these things, he entered the washroom, Pramesh and Narinder following.
“Not the right thing,” Dev muttered as the three walked by. “Brahmins consorting with exorcists.”
“It is also not the right thing for ghosts to consort with the living, but here we are,” Narinder replied from the dark room, standing beside Govind as that man set the tray down near the pots. “Have you visited each of the dying yet today?”
Dev relented, setting off to join Mohan on his rounds of the bhavan while Loknath read aloud, the younger priest wearing a sulky look that reminded Pramesh of Rani when she did not get her way.
With the women gone, the men were free to talk as loudly as they wished, with no fear of offending female sensibilities or, worse, being contradicted. While many guests stayed in their rooms, finding nothing fascinating in an impending exorcism, the rest crowded around the mouth of the washroom or sat nearby on the walkway, hoping the scene might provide some entertainment, something to break the monotony of waiting for their kin’s final exit.
“Three rice balls? At home the man who does this kind of thing always has four.”
“Mine uses just one! But who knows Bhaiya—yours probably keeps the extra few to eat.”
“None of these things are real; not even the thing in the washroom is real. It’s probably as that assistant says—an animal, something that looks for shelter at night and ends up here.”
“Yes, but what sort of animal makes you feel ill from three rooms away? And the sound? How do you explain that?”
Govind began with his peacock feather, passing rapid strokes over the pots, the ground, the walls, even reaching his short arms up to the ceiling, all the while mumbling rapid mantras whose cadence Pramesh recognized but whose exact words eluded him. Govind went on for some time, pausing only to draw a breath. When he stopped, he gave Pramesh and Narinder a meaningful look, squatted down, and grabbed a clove from the tray. He held it out toward the pots, never breaking his gaze on it. Suddenly, he howled. “Where is the son of a dog?” he cried in a voice totally unlike his own, and Pramesh felt a chill pass over him. “Here, aren’t you? Land here—no, here! Ah, fine, wander—we both know this is your place; no son of a dog can resist, you will come to me eventually.”
His arm swooped and dropped down and pulled back up, as if something were pulling his hand in many directions. He continued to curse in that unearthly voice, looking like a man trying to catch a fly with only his thumb and forefinger.
Alarmed, the manager looked at Narinder, but the priest remained in his traditional stance, motionless but for the fingers that worked on his beads, his mouth moving in silent prayer. Pramesh had seen exorcisms in his village before, had seen them even here in Kashi, and the crass language and harsh theatrics should not have surprised him. But in those other cases, with disheveled women rolling around on the ground or grunting in a lane, shouting obscenities; or with men speaking without the benefit of drawing breath, servants to a tongue they could not stop even when their faces turned red, nothing that the exorcist did seemed extreme. The aggression of the spirit controlling the person demanded an equal reply.
Perhaps what had happened in the washroom over the last five nights was just as excessive … but Sagar was not some malevolent spirit. Pramesh stayed, unsure of what else to do, but with every word from Govind he felt further conflicted. The spot behind his eyebrow emitted a low ache.
Meanwhile, Govind kept trying to catch the ghost, moving where the spirit seemed to go. After some time, he tired, and he set the clove down and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He blinked and looked at the manager, and when he spoke, his voice was his own again.
“You don’t like it, I can see Manager-bhai. But one must speak to them in that way. They don’t know how to listen to anything else; believe me. And actually, I am being much milder than usual. He hasn’t possessed anyone, so expelling him doesn’t require the same harshness.”
“So he is here?” Pramesh had been trying to feel something, to feel a whiff of Sagar, but the room felt as it always had.
“Oh yes—he can’t make himself seen or felt to most people because the night is when he can be most vocal. But I know he is here. You get a feeling for them, after so many years.”
Pramesh turned his eyes to the pots. Bhaiya, what are you still doing here? Why do you linger? He willed his cousin to listen to him, to realize his folly in staying behind. Pramesh rubbed his forehead, the old pain lingering.
Just then the exorcist let out a delighted shout, and the pots shivered in response. “I have you! Ah, I have you, didn’t I say? Didn’t I?” Govind cut the lemon as a small sacrifice of life, and then he stuffed the
clove into one of the rice balls. He pushed the other two rice balls into the first, making a single large wad of rice, the ghost residing within. “It’s done!” he said, gleeful, holding the rice ball up for the manager to see.
Pramesh felt immediate relief. The sorrow would come later, he knew—but that sorrow would be borne of his natural feeling for the cousin he’d lost, rather than guilt over failing his duty to him. “And now?”
“Straight to the ghats. I will release it there.”
Pramesh wagged his chin, and Govind rushed past him toward the bhavan gate, Narinder following. “I will come by in the morning, Manager-bhai,” Govind said. “But you will sleep well tonight. Believe me.”
When Shobha returned from the river, the rest of the women trickling in after her with fresh skin and saris, Pramesh was with Rani, applying a cooling poultice of crushed mint leaves to his daughter’s back. Shobha greeted her daughter with a kiss and looked at her husband as he smoothed on a last bit.
“The swelling won’t go down—she keeps scratching.”
“She just needs a distraction,” Shobha said, pulling off some of her bangles and handing them to Rani, who put her hands through and tried to make them stay on her tiny arms.
“I don’t know how I could have missed it happening—I was sitting right there!”
“The beginning is always the worst,” Shobha said after a look at Rani’s skin. “It will clear up in a few days. But as for a father who cannot even protect his daughter against a single bug.…” She let the words hang in the air, eyebrows raised in mock disapproval while a smile curled one end of her mouth.
“But see there—” Pramesh pointed to the wall, where the mosquito’s corpse remained from days before. “It had a full drop of Rani’s blood in its belly. So I wasn’t so useless, in the end.”
“Wah—such a hero,” Shobha said, and she set about washing rice and cutting vegetables. “Perhaps the hero can clean up the remains of his brave deed?”
The City of Good Death Page 10
