To Sweeten Boredom Page 2

Murli’s midnight vision came hauntingly back and he shivered involuntarily.

  A Woman’s Aura

  A narrative set in suburban Madhya Pradesh (India)

  Seema loved the house. It was bigger and airier than the house they had moved from. It boasted a pretty lawn in the front and a vegetable garden and tube well in the back. It wasn’t a patch on the house next door though, which was large and handsome and surrounded with shady Gulmohar trees on a large plot. 'Bloody richie!' she said to herself.

  ‘Bloody richie’ was at that moment observing Seema through his spyglass, he liked what he saw: slim, of average height dressed in black slacks and ‘tank necked’ top; she looked svelte and sexy. He would have to meet her he decided; he would call her and her husband along with some friends over for dinner.

  The following party night Baldev (‘Richie’) saw Seema sashay through the front door with her husband; she was draped in a shimmering sari wrapped tightly around her stunning figure. He quickly stepped forward to meet her. ‘This is my husband, Doctor Arun,’ she said in a husky voice. ‘And I am Seema.’

  Baldev caught the whiff of a cheap though pleasant perfume. What his senses also recorded was the exudation on her breath of a powerful female pheromone: an indescribable primordial sexual aroma some women exude; coupled with her easy assured manner and smart get-up it was heady and irresistible … was Cupid stringing her bow?

  Baldev had no time for any one else that evening; he was enchanted by Seema and reveled in it. If only he could have some moments alone with her. But it was no to be. He was, after-all, the host and had to look after the needs of all.

  In the morning Baldev took stock: last night he had drunk the other half of the bottle after all had departed. What the hell! He could look after himself. He had encountered numerous offers of marriage through his forty-two years and indulged in various flirtations, yet he chose to remain a potential 'prize catch'…but his market worth would have crashed and his single stature ravished had he met Seema in those earlier days.

  Arun had seen it all immediately. He was aware of the sway Seema had on men; she had produced that influence on him too.

  “I see you have bowled the ol’ geezer over,” said Arun. “He was almost having a seizure over you - there’s no profit in that area, is there?”

  “Don’t be silly, darling; can’t you see he is loaded?”

  “So what if he is?”

  “Well, we could do with a bit of his wealth…?”

  “Sure we could, but how do you intend getting it. I can’t see him spreading it around?”

  “I don’t know… perhaps if I string him along … who knows, it’s early days yet.”

  “And what does that ‘string him along’ mean?” he asked archly

  “Oh, stop being a fuddy. It means nothing like what it sounds. I meant we’ll just see how things unfold. So relax hon.”

  On the pretext of borrowing a half-cup of sugar, a little milk, or an egg or two, she visited Baldev regularly. Baldev splashed on a little more aftershave every morning in anticipation of her visits. Some days only Charan and Henry, his assistants, would sample this expensive aroma. Every footfall outside his door fueled his anticipation – the office peon bent low offering salaams for not often was he greeted with a big smile from the sahib.

  Baldev offered her coffee and cakes - anything to extend her stay; she rarely stayed longer than was necessary. She noticed how he would maneuver to touch her hand in passing her a cup of tea or a plate of savory. He was always well dressed in designer casual wear and she loved his lotions.

  On one occasion he sat her behind his large desk and chatted whilst he worked. He was on the telephone a lot and large sums of money were discussed. She was impressed. Later during her conversation with Baldev, she happened to make the observation that one couldn’t get what one wanted unless one first made an appropriate investment. Baldev fixed his eyes on her and nodded slowly.

  Arun bent over with laughter, “So, after the big hint you gave him he gave you this cheap trinket? What is it anyway? Some cheap white steel with colored glass bits embedded? I knew he was a miser. How did you ever accept such cheap junk?”

  “It was packed in an expensive looking box, how was I to know what it contained?” Seema was annoyed. “What does he take me for, the cheapskate?” Seema stopped going to his house; she would show him!

  Baldev wondered what he had done wrong - should he change his aftershave or what? Perhaps he shouldn’t have given her the present; maybe, her husband didn’t like the idea of him giving her such an expensive present. It was an exclusive ‘designer’ piece in solid platinum studded with semi precious stones and had cost him an arm and a leg. Well, she had dropped the hint, hadn’t she - and turned his bachelorhood on its head.

  He knew he couldn’t live without seeing her close up and without smelling her womaness; he would have to find out what was keeping her away. He would go across and enquire; and to not make it look sly, he would go when her husband was back from his clinic.

  “Baldev!” Seema cried, and she sounded genuinely pleased: “How nice of you to drop by! Come, come we are just about to have tea.”

  Arun smiled warmly. In the next half hour Baldev was more perplexed than ever: both husband and wife behaved like nothing untoward had happened; and Baldev had suffered such torture in the last two days.

  They offered him drinks and now he was feeling in an expansive mood. These were nice people he thought; surely he could do something for them.

  “Look, why don’t you both spend more time in my house? You know I am mostly stuck in the back office. You can have the run of the house: cook a meal there… I would love a woman’s cooking. Just do whatever you please.”

  Now that they had free access to Baldev's home, a plan nudged around Arun’s covetous mind; he had done some stealthy probing and discovered a large cache of money hidden in secret chambers under the wardrobe. Obviously ‘black money’: unaccounted and untraceable. He discovered some concealed chambers in his bedroom which could contain other valuables.

  Arun decided to put a plan into action; he took Seema into confidence. He would purchase a poison he had been working with in his lab and as Seema was cooking most of Baldev's mid-day meals she could slip very minute quantities of the poison into Baldev’s portion of the meal, that way he wouldn’t suspect her as she was eating the same meal; he would slowly get ill and over a period of time Baldev would be bed ridden and finally the end would come quite swiftly.

  Seema burst into peals of laughter. Arun was always mesmerized with the purity of her laughter, the gleam of her even teeth and the turn of her slim neck. “You are so silly, my darling! This plan of yours is so old and so hackneyed, even prehistoric humans must have tried it. This is no plan, darling; it is a red flag with our names on it. You are a doctor you should know that the simplest autopsy would show up traces of the poison.”

  Arun looked at her amused, “Do you really think I am that stupid? You just do your bit, sweetheart; I have worked out a formula that will remove all traces of the poison from his viscera and his tissue cells. It is completely full proof. Do you think I would suggest such a seemingly crude plan?”

  Arun was now getting impatient. The miserly fool was not going to part with his money; if he was to use his plan he must do so now before the situation changed.

  He consulted Seema and unobtrusively slid his plan into action: every day a small amount of the poison was mixed with Baldev’s food. Nothing happened the first few days; by the end of the week Baldev complained of vertigo and nausea. Arun was sent for in the evening and, after medically checking out Baldev, prescribed some pills. The next day Baldev was even worse. He took to bed and both Arun and Seema fussed over him incessantly.

  Arun was now medicating him constantly and reassuring him. Seema sat next to his bed and pressed his forehead. Baldev was pleased, but he felt too ill to enjoy it. Arun took blood samples on the pretext of sending it for analysis. Baldev, meanwhile, was deteriorating progressively – as per plan.

  He saw the time was near now, another couple of days and he could give Baldev the antidote - for by then he would have progressed too far into his ailment to recover. The special antidote would remove all traces of the poison from Baldev’s system, but could not reverse the damage. Arun had already taken the precaution of disposing off the remainder of the poison a few days ago: he had buried the packet of poison deep in the ground in his backyard and had planted a sapling on the disturbed soil.

  Arun and Seema returned late from Baldev’s house one night, they had eaten their meal in Baldev’s kitchen and so went straight to bed. At three in the morning Arun awoke to the sound of Seema retching. Her ingesta were streaked with blood. Arun blanched. Could Seema have possibly ingested some of the poison? No! Impossible! They had been very careful. It had to be something else.

  Seema was looking at him with terror in her eyes, “what’s happening, Arun? Why is there blood in my vomit? Tell me, oh my God! Tell me!”

  Arun’s heart turned cold, but he managed to control his panic, “It’s probably nothing, darling. I’ll check it out at the hospital. It is certainly not the poison. You very likely have a leaking ulcer.”

  He knew that after a certain stage there was no antidote to the progress of the poison. ‘Induce vomiting’ the instructions said. He thought he might just do that to himself - to be on the safe side. He put two fingers down his throat and vomited in the bathroom washbasin. The basin turned red. Arun’s knees gave way. “This is bullshit, man! What the hell is happening? Please, God, what the hell is this? Shit! How the hell can this happen? This is bloody unreal!”

  He controlled himself. “This is not happening, God! How can it? I know there is not an atom of the poison anywhere around. I hav
e personally got rid of every grain of the stuff. So what the bloody hell is this?”

  Baldev heard Arun and his dear lovely Seema were ill, very seriously ill. It was two days since they had visited - two days over which period Baldev had slowly grown stronger – now that there was no poison in his meals. He decided to visit his dear friends: supported by Charan and Henry, his assistants, he set off gingerly.

  Arun heard his name being called repeatedly and forced his eyes open and saw Baldev sitting next to his bed with tears running down his face. Arun’s face was wet with tears too, he had been crying for hours. Seema’s dead body lay next to him on the double bed, one slim leg exposed. She had died a few hours ago. He knew he was very close to death too; he had nothing to live for, anyway.

  “I’m going now; I’m going to join Seema. Please forgive me, Baldev, if you can find it in your heart.”

  “Forgive you; forgive you? It is because of you both that I am alive now!”

  “No, Baldev, this is my dieing declaration,” he whispered. “We tried to kill you, poison you for your money, but God has punished us and reversed the poison onto us.”

  “What do you mean, I don’t understand?”

  In a fading voice, Arun gave the outline to Baldev. He told him where he had buried the poison. Baldev saw Seema’s body half covered with a sheet; even in death she looked beautiful. Baldev’s heart was overcome with sorrow; he put out a trembling hand and squeezed Arun’s hand, “I forgive you, my friend,” he whispered, “I forgive everything!”

  The twin funeral was taken out that afternoon.

  The police dug up the packet of poison, it was soaking wet. Arun had, inadvertently, buried the poison next to an underground natural water channel to his tube well – the source of his drinking water!

  Compelling Persuasions

  A tale from rural India

  Young Panak considered himself a thinker and writer; his collogues considered him opinionated and mad; his thinking was at variance to theirs, he was stubborn and bull headed to boot.

  The human ‘soul’ was the singular obsession of Panak’s preoccupation. He would contemplate for days in deep thought – missing out on food, snacking when hungry, and sleeping fitfully at night.

  I suppose ‘soul’ is a combination of energy a life-giving force, with somehow a destiny intertwined. But what is this force? And what is energy? Both terms are so vague and interchangeable. He decided he needed a ‘soul’ to properly study it. But how would he get hold of a ‘soul’? Nobody had ever done so!

  He would kill his wife.

  Yes, of course, killing her would help his experiment; he would have to make sure he captured her soul - that was the whole idea – he wanted her spirit.

  Panak lay awake at night: he thought of ways to take her life and the method he would use to capture her spirit.

  Kanika was his wife of five years, but there was nothing between them; he wouldn’t miss her – she never was anyone he thought about; she was just there. At times he didn’t notice her, forgot her existence, he would see her as she walked past, a couple of feet from his nose, and he would wonder who it was until his mind came back to the present

  Panak had married Kanika when she was fifteen –good looking, good figure, but dumb! Her father had let out a big sigh of relief after the ceremony. Her family had painfully accepted that no one would marry her, for she was dull and stupid. The malaria that had struck her down as a child had affected her brain: she would sit for hours looking at nothing, saying nothing. She was ‘all grown up’ now and though her brain was underdeveloped, her body had matured unhindered.

  Panak had married her because his mother kept badgering him to marry before she died, ‘I’m getting old, son,’ was her constant whine. He didn’t want to marry at all, but his mother’s hounding was distracting him from his writing; from his study of the occult. Though he had eventually conceded to marry, he was angry at being coerced; he would like to ‘turn the tables’ on his mother.

  During his travels through the country to collect material for his writing, he had visited the village where Kanika lived. One look at the girl and he knew he had his revenge! He would marry this 'retard' and show his mother what comes of harassment.

  His mother was horrified when she saw the girl, but he insisted. If she wanted him to marry he would marry only her.

  And so a wedding took place.

  That was five years ago; he had slept with her once! He would not take her out, for people would stare and patronize her which embarrassed him. As compensation for her loss of outings with him, he paid her bus fare back to her village every few months; she was grateful and happy to go. But her parents looked sad on seeing that fate had struck their only daughter this cruel blow.

  She had a friend in the village pundit who was always patient with her: he would explain to her, like one would to a child, that which she could not understand. She learned slowly. She didn’t mind him groping her breasts in exchange or making her handle his front part; it did nothing for her; she was glad to please him and grateful he took time to explain things to her. He had entered her a few times too, not in front…“No, no,” he had said, “that will put a child in you.”

  She realized, over time that she had a certain hold on him, tenuous though it may be, but it was there. She had never had sway over anyone before.

  “But how am I going to think like you people?” she asked the pundit on her visits. “I know I am stupid and just cannot think, but you’ve got to help me.”

  He gave her herbs to eat and concoctions to drink saying it would help her. But it did not and she became more insistent that he help her.

  “Eat a lot of brain in your diet,” he told her in desperation, “it will help your brain to develop.”

  She had consumed brain in her diet: chickens’, goats’ and sheep’s for years now and it had not helped.

  “It’s not working,” she told him.

  “You are eating the brains of animals; they are not very bright so it is not showing quick results. Perhaps, it will take a long time.”

  And then one night ‘like a bolt from the blue’ a thought entered her dim mind: it would have to be the brain of a human being! Someone clever, someone clever like her husband! That’s it, she decided, she would have to eat her husband’s brain!

  She mulled over it for months; she would have to kill her husband and eat his brain. But she could not think of a way to do it…her brain was too weak to plot it. She studied him every day: he would sit at the dining table, oblivious of his surroundings, pen in hand and eyes staring into space. She would walk around him a few times, but he would not see her. This looks too easy, she thought; even she should be able to kill him.

  Of late, Panak noticed his wife kept staring at him. Could she possibly be picking up some faint brain transmission from him indicating he planned to kill her? These dumb types had some strange powers. He looked hard at her, but only encountered a blank look from her glassy eyes.

  She confided in the pundit:

  “You said I was eating the brain of animals and as animals are not clever it is not helping me.”

  “Give it time, it will help eventually.” how was he going to get out of this one he moaned?

  “I have decided to eat a clever brain.”

  “What do you mean, what’s a clever brain?”

  “I’m going to eat a man’s brain, a clever man’s brain – like the brain of my husband: he’s clever, his brain should help me.”

  The pundit was staring at her open mouthed. She couldn’t be joking – no, she was too dumb to joke. Oh my God, she is serious

  “Look, don’t be silly that won’t help.” Lord, what have I got myself into?

  “Of course it will help – you said so yourself. And how can you now say it won’t help?”

  “Just relax, Kanika. Let me think this out, don’t do anything stupid.” Please, God, help me, he prayed silently.

  “Have you been lying to me so you can play with my breasts?”

  “No, no, I haven’t been lying, promise!”

  “Well then it is settled. You will have to help me.”

  “Help you…to kill your Husband?”

  “Can you think of any other way I could eat his brain?”

  Panak was putting the last touches to his plan. There were still a few lose ends he would have to tie up. He had located a lead lined coffin: “It’s completely air tight,” the undertaker had assured him. Well, that was one angle that was covered. He still had to talk to a Christian priest. He needed clarification on certain points: if a devil’s spirit could enter a human body; then surely a human spirit could be made to enter an animal’s body - stood to reason. He would have to ensure everything was perfect; there would be no second chance

  He would refrigerate the coffin by filling it with ice and after drugging his wife place her in it along with a ground squirrel. Whilst her body would succumb to the extreme temperature, the squirrel would go into hibernation and survive – squirrels could do that. It would survive until a certain temperature, beyond which it too could perish; the trick was to catch it before it succumbed and so ensure that its weakened metabolism would accept his wife’s spirit. He would then have a squirrel with a soul!

  Ha!

  The doorbell rang jerking him out of his reverie.

  “Yes?” He opened the door tentatively.

  “I am a pundit from the village your wife comes from. May I come in please?”

  “Okay… I am busy though.” He noticed the saffron robes and the smell of incense about him.

  “I won’t take much of your time.”

  The pundit had come on a whim; he didn’t have a plan, and would have to play it by ear.

  Kanika walked in and her face lit up: he has come t
o help me, how nice! She smiled at the pundit and joined her palms. “Namaste. I’ll bring you some tea.” She said and went through to the kitchen

  “Well, what is it you want?” Panak asked, somewhat annoyed at being disturbed.

  “Nothing really, I was in the area, I thought we would chat.”

  “Chat! About what?”

  Punditji scratched the stubble on his chin, “Well, I believe you don’t get along with your wife…I mean you don’t exercise your conjugal rights…”

  “What’s it to you?” Panak was now getting angry.

  “I believe you married her to spite your mother. Well, your mother has been dead these four long years now – God rest her soul - should you vent your anger on an innocent young girl? She has not been at fault, so why torture her? Give her a chance; I dare say she deserves it.”

  “Right, okay. So you have now had your say, finish your tea and then I would appreciate if you left.”

  Kanika went to the woodpile at the back of the house; she picked up the axe and ran a finger over the blade: it was sharp enough - it would have to do. Punditji was here to help her; she must do it now.

  She had heard that in the ‘Hindu Tantrik’ way when a woman was to take the life of her husband she would loosen her hair, bare her chest, and apply mustard oil over her upper body and breasts. Kanika did that now and holding the axe aloft entered the room where her husband was conversing with the pundit.

  Both men looked up, their mouths fell open: Kanika was panting with excitement; her bare oiled breasts heaved rhythmically and her eyes stared out demonically.

  “Hold his arms,” she shouted to the pundit.

  But both men were too shocked to react. Kanika, with raised axe moved towards her husband. The men jumped up: Panak grabbed her arms and twisted her around whilst the pundit removed the axe from her grip.

  “Kill him!” she screamed.

  Panak turned her around and slapped her hard twice on the face. Kanika collapsed on the carpet in a heap, her nose bleeding.

  That was three days ago. Panak had kept her sedated and she had slept all day. Panak assumed she must have suffered a trauma, possibly because he had not touched her sexually for years now – not since their wedding five years ago, and she was a young healthy girl! He would compensate her before he killed her: let her die sexually contented.

  Next day Panak gave her a lethal dose of sedatives. He had packed the powerful sedatives in ten capsules that would dissolve in her stomach in twenty minutes – time enough to make love to her for the last time and to give the final touches to the coffin; time too to place the ground squirrel in a sequestered corner in the coffin.

  Panak disrobed and walked naked to his wife’s bed and undressed her. She looked at him with big eyes, but didn’t say anything. He stroked her breasts: she did have a very lovely body he saw, and then he entered her. When he climaxed he heard a little involuntary moan from her – that touched him. He too had enjoyed it very much and had sweated freely during the embrace. He got off her gently and went to the room where the coffin lay.

  He sat by the coffin thinking: perhaps, he should give her a chance; she had really done nothing to displease him. If, when the sedative began to work, he were to exercise her, forcing her to walk and induce vomiting she would recover from the effects of the sedative. Of course, if he put her into the ice filled coffin she would die. He wondered which option to take.

  This was a whole new development: for the first time in his married life he was thinking of her and of her feelings. The pundit was right, it was no fault of hers that she was struck by cerebral malaria as a child and had suffered brain damage; perhaps a neurosurgeon would be able to do something with her… he would have to investigate that line.

  But what of his experiment… he would have to put it ‘on hold’ until he could get around to it. It really needed to be re-thought; he would take one thing at a time. First he would see if his wife could be helped; it would probably cost a heap, but he now felt he owed it to her.

  Kanika crept up very quietly behind him, axe ‘on the ready’. She could feel the sedative taking hold - she must hurry. He was crouched over the ice filled coffin and did not hear her. She lifted the axe and brought it down hard on Panak’s head: splitting it open and killing him instantly. The momentum of the downswing threw her off balance; she tottered and fell headlong into the ice filled coffin jolting the lid shut. She struggled feebly, but the sedative had now taken hold.

  She relaxed and let the soothing waves overwhelm her.

  A Mindset

  There weren’t many left now!

  I leaned across the wooden fence and surveyed my stock. The horse had been killed two nights ago - the frill top Tonga would be useless without a horse. I never liked bicycles and had never learnt to ride one – learning at my age would be ridiculous. I would just have to walk.

  I looked at the forest scrub twenty yards away – that was the distance that separated my stockyard from the forest …twenty yards! He sighed. How could he protect his stock from marauders?

  His wife was too frail to walk any distance; perhaps he would sell the buffalo to buy a horse. There would be no milk to sell and his already strained resources would be stretched still further. If he didn’t take his wife out every once in a while, she would just sit in a corner and let her sorrow overwhelm her, she could again fall into a comatose state, to rouse her from which would be a difficult task.

  A tiger had killed their only son, eleven year old Tinku, three months ago, as he grazed the family cattle and goats in the forest scrub. They had been losing an animal every now and then to visiting tigers. On that unfortunate occasion Tinku had been over enthusiastic in his efforts to chase a large old tiger away. He had got too close to the tiger that was very hungry and angry - one swipe from his massive paw and Tinku had almost been decapitated.

  Girdhari Singh and the Village Headman along with some friends trekked the dusty track to the Forest Department’s office in the small adjoining town to report the case and to persuade the Officer to declare the tiger a man-eater. But the unsympathetic Officer had shaken his head, no!

  “How can I declare the tiger a man-eater when it didn’t eat anybody?” he leaned back in his chair, his ample stomach making a little mound behind the desk. “The tiger swiped at Tinku as he got too close. Obviously, it felt threatened and took action to protect its self. Don’t you all agree?”

  The villagers, who were kept standing in the sparse office, nodded their heads in understanding, but Girdhari was furious – the large turban on his head shook with fury, “How can you say it is not a killer and a potential man-eater?”

  Girdhari’s chin jutted out from his creased face in impotent rage. “It has been systematically decimating my stock and getting more and more daring! You want it to kill and eat a person before you declare it a menace?” his index finger waved in the air above his head with impotent anger. “Is that what you are waiting for? I don’t think you will have long to wait!” he stared belligerently at the Officer.

  “I feel for you, Girdhari,” said the Officer patronizingly. “You are a father and you have lost your only son. Believe me, I am really sorry and sad that this should have happened, but the tiger can only be declared a man-eater when it kills and eats a person. Not otherwise.”

  He looked at their faces with smug superiority. “Like one cannot hang a person on the assumption that he is a potential murderer. I similarly, can not declare the tiger a man-eater unless it is one!” With finality in his voice, and an open handed thump on the desk, he ended the meeting.

  Girdhari secretly swore revenge. He told his wife he would avenge their son’s death. She only looked at him blankly, not much was registering with her he saw with apprehension. She was closing her mind from the world, retreating into herself. She had shed a lot of weight. Her sorrow was progressively overwhelming her. ‘Please, God! Don’t let her fall into a coma again, for I don’t think, in her weakened state, she will survive it,’ prayed Girdhari silently.

  Girdhari set to studying the tiger’s habits and would follow it for miles – birds and other animals gave out signals to indicate the tiger's presence and so Girdhari had no need to keep the animal in sight. Every tiger behaves a little differently and Girdhari kept a mental note of how this one was different. Eventually the tiger would complete his circuit and return to the village with Girdhari in tow.

  The villagers noticed Girdhari’s abnormal behavior. The Headman broached the subject advising him to move his stock from the forest fringe to a place closer to the village so his stock wouldn't get taken.

  "If I move my hut and stock to the other side of the field, my crop will get eaten." Girdhari loved where he lived: the forest sounds, the morning mist, the oxygen laden air – he would miss it all if he moved further away.

  “But they are getting eaten, anyway!” pointed out the Headman. “You have taken to roaming senselessly around the forest. You go absent for days. What’s with you? Are you losing your mind? Tell us, for we can collectively help you.” He looked compassionately at Girdhari

  Girdhari smiled; they would soon see how he, the fearless Rajput, avenges any wrong done to him. “No,” he said. “I am okay!”

  “No, you are not!” said the Headman. “We take food for your wife when you are absent; do you know that? She forgets to cook for herself. And you go on a ‘walk-about’ through the forest? Now if that isn’t peculiar and dumb behavior, then what is? Pull your self together, Girdhari, we are here to help you!” said the Headman consolingly.

  “I suppose you are right.” Girdhari nodded looking outwardly contrite. “I will have to take more care of my wife. Just give me a few days; I am getting over my grief. Roaming in the forest takes my mind away from that terrible memory
.”

  The Headman understood. Tears came to his eyes in sympathy for Girdhari’s shattering loss. He hugged Girdhari and held him close: “We all understand, my brother, we will continue to look after your wife as best we can; after all, what is village brotherhood if we don’t have empathy for our own brothers?”

  Girdhari would have to be more circumspect. He would have to be seen to have taken heed to the advice of the village Panchiat (court). He thought of a plan: he couldn’t poison the watering holes as that would also kill other innocent animals and, who knows, a human might drink from it too. Girdhari himself had drunk from these water sources on occasion. He took to poisoning the kills. He had studied the tiger’s eating habits and only poisoned those parts of the kill that he was fairly certain the tiger would eat during his next meal. Over poisoning or using strong poisons ran the risk of infecting other scavengers that would also partake of the kill when the tiger was not around. He used Echinacea seed, finely ground, which he sprinkled on the raw meat. Echinacea would be a mild poison, which would weaken the tiger with continuous diarrhea and stomach cramps.

  Very soon, he noticed the tiger weakening. But strangely enough, so was his rage and resolve. He wanted the tiger to suffer and die slowly; for, after all, it had killed his son who was only doing his duty by ensuring safety of the herd. Girdhari pictured in his mind, again and again, how he would do a victory dance around the dying tiger so that the tiger would know why he was being killed.

  Girdhari couldn’t follow the tiger all the time; these long marches were sapping his strength. One day it dawned on him that the weakening strength of the tiger would render it unable to kill game… ‘My God!’ he thought aloud. ‘Am I creating a potential Man-eater?’ He must immediately terminate this madness. What was he doing? He was torturing a poor animal…‘poor’, did I say ‘poor’? Girdhari was bewildered. He was beginning to feel sorry for the animal he was pursuing and slowly poisoning. I suppose the Forest Officer is right, he conceded grudgingly, the tiger, could have felt threatened and reacted instinctively.

  Girdhari sat down to think. As 'Forest People' it was a moral duty of his clan to look after the well-being of the animals and birds of the forest, instead he was letting his personal misfortune consume his mind with hatred and revenge. His responsibility now should be to look after his dear wife and nurse and nurture her back to health. Not neglect her to satisfy a personal and self-constructed revenge that would not bring back his son, anyway.

  He went back home. He needed more time to think this through. What if the now weakened tiger was to turn man eater? He shivered involuntarily; the blame would be fully his. ‘Hey, Ram! What am I doing?’

  In time the inevitable happened: news filtered through that in a neighboring village a tiger had killed a young widow who had gone into the forest to collect firewood.

  Girdhari was stunned. He realized there was no other way, he was morally bound to go there and own up to what he had been doing. The fate of the tiger was in the hands of the Forest Department, he no longer could determine the tiger’s destiny. His own future could not be predicted: he may be sent to jail.

  Girdhari approached his brother’s hut a few fields away. He told his brother of all his misdemeanors and begged him to look after his sorrowing wife until he was back…whenever that may be. His brother – naked bodied, wearing a loincloth - argued the point and asked if Girdhari thought his wife could survive alone if he was put in jail for any length of time?

  “And what,” he asked, “makes you think that you are responsible for that widow's death? Sure you weakened the tiger, but that does not mean that it becomes a man-eater. There have been many weak tigers that have died of starvation because they could not hunt. Just because they were weak does not mean they become man-eaters.” This tiger, obviously, had a tendency towards taking Human life. “I say go there, by all means,” said his brother, “and see the situation. Don’t try to be a bloody martyr! You put yourself in jail, and you will have your wife’s death on your head! If you have some misbegotten glorious idea of giving yourself up to the authorities and bask in some very dubious martyrdom, you may as well, before you go, strangle your wife! It would be a far kinder death than what you are planning for her.”

  Girdhari stood aghast. What his brother said was correct; why hadn’t he thought of it? Had he become so ‘self centered’ that he could only think of himself? He would do as his brother suggested: he would go there, but only as a neighborly gesture of concern.

  The village Headman heard that Girdhary was going to the ill-fated village to offer condolences from this village and was very grateful and effusive in his thanks. He gushed with praises for Girdhary: “Even though he is not on the village committee,” the Headman said. “He is still conscious of his ethical duty, and has taken it upon himself to do this onerous task on our behalf. I salute him for his humanity!” Girdhari was sent off with handclasps and kind words from all his kinsfolk.

  “Hai, bechari.” said the villagers of the stricken village when Girdhari reached there. “She was a young widow who has left behind a crippled child. Who will look after this child? The in-laws considered both mother and child unlucky and turned them out of the house, blaming them for the death of their son who was killed in a bus accident.”

  Girdhari trembled with excitement “I… I will look after the child with all my heart!” he exclaimed.

  Girdhari ran all the way to his village with the child in his arms. He placed the child in his wife’s lap. “Here’s a son for you that the good Lord has seen fit to bestow upon us!” he said with a happy catch in his voice.

  “Lord be blessed,” she exclaimed rising with wonder in her eyes and a beautiful vibrant smile on her face. “He has heard my prayers and returned my son to me!”

  Postprandial Peg

  A story based on the life of tea planters in the verdant sub-Himalayan region of West Bengal (India) circa 1960

  Before the mid 1970s, there were no TVs on tea plantations. Reading of club library books or listening to the radio were the normal leisure pursuits after a hard day in the field.

  The filching of their treasured Dry Sack Sherry was of immediate concern; for it was imported, expensive, and of infrequent availability. Purloining of their Indian whiskey, in comparison, would tantamount to a minor irritation.

  Ajit and Pratap were young Assistant Managers working on neighboring tea plantations. Each worked on a thousand acre ‘Garden’ (as planters referred to the plantations), which were owned by British overseas companies. A thousand acres was considered a viable size, anything larger was unwieldy and had to be split into two ‘Divisions”; whereas smaller plantations suffered cash-flow problems when the ‘Tea Market’ was low.

  The young men were lean and athletic and scraped the 5 feet 11 inches bar in stockinged feet. They were lightly muscled and wore their hair, in what was considered the ‘in-look’: shoulder length and loose. Both were popular in the community and exhibited a simple sense of fun and humour.

  Being bachelors left them with not much to do at the close of day. Their options for the evening were limited: they could drive to the nearest suburban town and watch an outdated Indian movie (and consequently get bitten raw by bugs – not an appealing prospect), or visit other bachelors and down some pegs of their favourite libation. Their cherished scenario was to be invited to drinks and dinner by a young married couple. With a lady around, the two friends were at their charming best; the evenings were pleasant, the food delightful, and the atmosphere homely and cheerful.

  However, those invitations were sadly like the proverbial blue moon. Weekends were fine, for one usually took part in sports at the Planters Club, got slurring drunk at the bar, danced like leering wolves, and flirted outrageously with the wives of the ‘senior’ planters who enjoyed the young company.

  The evenings after work on weekdays were like being marooned on a lonely island. From the options available to bachelors, Ajit and Pratap chose to add company to the 'lonely island' by visiting each other every second day. The evenings were then pleasurable. Ajit had a radiogram: a sleek highly polished wooden cabinet with shelves on the left for long playing records and a Philips record player on the right – this made a compelling reason to meet at his bungalow.

  Pratap drove across in the Company jeep in the graying dusk with his bottle of Red Knight Indian whisky; they would drink and argue until dinnertime. Dinner was unerringly western fare: steaming soup followed by a meat roast, buttered mashed potatoes, and thick brown sauce to top it all.

  The meal ended usually with a not too firm caramel custard for desert. A bottle of sherry would then be fished out of the glass fronted cabinet to end the evening with their usual postprandial peg and cigars from South India.

  Saturdays were movie nights at the Planters Club where one saw an outdated English film (black & white usually) and afterwards gathered at the bar to discuss and argue on any subject at hand.

  When married planters left with their memsahibs, conversation turned more colourful: talents of bachelor friends and their prowesses with the opposite sex were roundly debated, derided or ridiculed; swear words became more the norm than the exception.

  Later, much later, in the wee hours, when only a drunk could understand the drooling slur of another drunk, they left, staggering to their jeeps or Ambassador cars, slumped into the driver’s seat and drunkenly lurched away – only Managers had personal chauffeurs.

  Sundays were recuperating and nursing-hangover mornings. Aspirins, Paracetamols and eggnog concoctions were consumed to salve a throbbing head. By lunchtime, there was a gathering at the club to down that hair-of-the-dog peg, usually pink gins or beer. The vigorous types sweated it out on the tennis court or the golf course and quaffed bottles of beer afterwards. B
ut soon one felt the weekend slip away and it was back home to face the grind at the crack of dawn the next morning.

  This pleasant way of meeting and enjoying long (otherwise lonely) weekday evenings that the friends devised became a routine treasured by both; if one friend postponed these evening get-togethers, the other would banteringly ask whether the errant partner was finding the present company boring or had found solace in the arms of the local bazaar women: big bosomed, garlic breath, mustard oil on the skin, and strong aromatic oil on the head.

  The planting community looks forward to the onset of ‘cold weather’. The climate is pleasant, work’s at a minimum, and club activities at their peak. All picking of tea leaves is over and the factories are dismantled for the yearly overhaul. This is the festive season: a season of parties, fêtes and club sport championships (tennis, golf and some indoor games). It is a season when planters travel far and wide to other districts to join in the revelries offered in those clubs. A club-hosted dinner is part of the function. Each club also has its yearly do replete with a live string band from Darjeeling to enliven the occasion.

  Ajit and Pratap awaited this season of festivities like parched amphibians to the onset of the monsoons. Teenage daughters of planters: fresh faced, fun loving, and chaperoned by their proud parent’s would be back on cold-weather vacations from school and college vitalizing club evenings. Bachelor planters would have ‘fling’ affairs with the pretty young things that would last the length of the college vocation – for who knew by the time the next college break comes, the enamoured planter could be hundreds of miles away, transferred to another plantation.

  The mood change in the friends was discernable. Their banter was easier, lighter, and drinking heavier. Their prized bottle of sherry too appeared to take on a joviality of its own, for it emptied itself faster and quicker. This concerned the two friends for the sherry was imported and considerably more expensive than the local whisky.

  They questioned the bungalow night watchman as to how the level of their favourite tipple was dwindling so alarmingly? He scratched his head then his crotch and straight-facedly claimed to be a teetotaler. The house bearer too looked shiftily around, and claimed ignorance though admitting that when he did have an occasional drink, it was always haria / lau pani – the local plantation brewed hooch.

  The young executives were not happy with the excuses they were being offered and so, over the following weeks, hatched a plan to expose the culprit. They conspired to almost finish the sherry that night and fill it up to the half way mark with their own urine. They rubbed their hands in glee in anticipation, for this would surely expose the secret toper.

  When next they met they eagerly checked the adulterated bottle of sherry: the level had gone down by a good peg and a half.

  The friends were stunned. Let’s not say anything yet, they decided; let us see what happens tomorrow. The following night the bottle was a further large peg down.

  “Impossible!” said Ajit. “Do you mean some idiot can’t tell the difference between Old Sack Sherry and our piss?”

  This called for a thorough investigation.

  The servants were summoned to the sitting room. They stood in a scraggly line – all six of them, some in Company Uniform and others in shorts, all were apprehensive and fidgety. This was a serious matter – to be summoned together like this augured a grave situation. They looked at each other…there was some talk of the sahibs’ whisky missing. They glanced suspiciously at the house bearer – he was known to drink every day after work.

  Ajit questioned them repeatedly as to how his cherished sherry was dwindling, but received no answers or admissions.

  “Come on,” bellowed Ajit. “Own up or the lot of you will be sacked from bungalow work and relegated to field work.”

  The servants were shaken and nonplussed; they shifted uncomfortably and looked at each other accusingly. The young kitchen help (gangly and skinny) quaveringly piped up in a small voice, “Sahib, I… I have seen the cook opening the drink cabinet. Perhaps he should be questioned.”

  The cook waddled in; fat, greasy with the Hindu holy mark smeared on his forehead. But like the others, he claimed he did not drink. “I’m a holy man, Sir, it is forbidden to me.”

  “Who then has been drinking our sherry?” Ajit flashed the bottle for all to see, “we haven’t had a drink from this bottle in the last two nights and yet it is short by two or three large pegs?”

  He glared at them fiercely to hide a chuckle that was rising in his throat; for who ever admitted to this dastardly felony would soon be throwing up on the lawn outside when he learned he had been drinking his and Pratap’s urine.

  The gathered employees looked goggle-eyed at the offending bottle.

  “But, Sir,” stammered the cook looking, bewildered. “I… I mean that is the sherry drink, Sir, a peg of which I put in your honours’ soup every night!”

  Angry Innocence

  Young Sandeep crouched hidden above the narrow game trail and watched two brightly colored jungle fowl fight. The combat had continued, off and on, for twenty minutes and both were bloody. He looked down the trail – there was no other movement, the fluttering of the conflict filled the air with sound and fine dust.

  Sandeep: sixteen, sprightly, quick witted, and bright, loved visiting his uncle Hameer and aunt Simi on holidays from school. Uncle Hameer was a quiet person, good with his hands: he had designed and innovated most of the implements on the farm. His aunt Simi (bird like, large round glasses, did all the household work unobtrusively and efficiently). Both uncle and aunt understood each other without many words. They lived in a rambling farmhouse at the bottom of a lightly wooded hill. Animal pens occupied a large area at the back of the homestead: chicken runs with clucking and scratching birds looked over by proud, suspicious cockerels; pens that housed grunting pigs, and enclosures that had docile cud chewing Jersey cows.

  Sandeep observed one of the fighting birds was weakened with injury and was unable to defend itself. He couldn’t bear the pain it must be suffering and hurled a stone towards the antagonists. They broke off at once and strutted, somewhat shakily, into deeper brush.

  The late afternoon shadows were stretching; Sandeep shouldered his uncle’s .22 bore BSA, fifteen-shot long rifle and headed for home. Among the attractions on the farm was permission to use the .22 rifle. His uncle had trained him in the use of it and Sandeep was very careful and aware of safety procedures.

  He saw his uncle at the irrigation well standing draped with a light shawl over his shirt – the air was getting nippy. A Persian wheel – turned by two bullocks - was drawing water from deep within the earth’s bowels; clear water rippled along shallow drains to potato patches and earthen enclosures huddling lettuce, spinach, spring onions, etc. Overhead, crows were flying in ragged formations towards the hill to roost for the night. The sky was turning red – a sign that the morrow would be another clear day.

  Sandeep accompanied his uncle along a raised path to the homestead. Outside, on a cemented apron, a farmhand was filling lamps with kerosene - a lamp would be placed in each room where it would create a warm diffused light. The smell of kerosene was laced with cooking smells; aunt Simi looked out the kitchen window, “Did you see the jackal that has been taking our chicken?” she asked.

  “No, Aunt, other than two jungle fowl fighting, I saw nothing.”

  He glimpsed a movement from the corner of his eye: a teenaged girl, tall, fresh faced, hair pulled back in a loose bun stood smiling at him.

  “Hello Arti, how have you been?” asked Sandeep, happy to see her – a little flush crept to his cheeks.

  “Namaste!” she greeted. “With your blessings, I am well.”

  Arti lived in a nearby village and visited to help with the household work and cleaning. She was given meals and at the end of the month, a sum of money to help her family with expenses.

  Sandeep and Arti were of about the same age and were ‘soul mates’. During his last school break, they had roamed the nearby hills hand-in-hand; climbed trees, experimented with eating wild berries, and chewed leaves that made them violently sick! On the last day of that visit both felt the pangs of parting. Sandeep was to travel by rail back to school - a day and a nights’ journey away. In a moment of tenderness he cupped Arti's face fondly in his hands and kissed her lips. She clasped his body and looked up into his face –tears forming at the corners of her eyes. They kissed again long and tenderly; their hearts thudded in their chests, a flush bathed their cheeks. He felt a sharp stirring in his loins…she was the first girl he had kissed! He would keep the heady memory close in his heart through the long school term.

  When Arti got home that evening she was severely reprimanded by both parents. She was no longer a little girl, and should not be roaming the hills with a boy. “What will people say?” She could ruin her marriage prospects with such behavior.

  Arti would normally have argued against the supposed impropriety of going out with Sandeep – but now they had kissed and their relationship had changed; she could not pretend aggrieved innocence.

  Arti sat on her haunches and helped the farmhand fill the oil lamps.

  “Come inside,” said Hameer to his nephew. “Clean the gun and put it away. If you want to wash up, there is hot water in the kitchen.”

  Sandeep did as he was told. He wondered if Arti would come inside…they could play carom. His uncle would probably start the generator to catch the news on TV and later, Sandeep hoped, he could watch ‘Hindi soap Opera’ with Arti – grasp her fingers tight and, maybe, steal a kiss.

  Arti came in later and went to the kitchen to help with the dinner. Sandeep waited then casually strolled in. The kitchen was awash with amber light from a kerosene lamp and both his aunt and Arti were engaged in co
oking.

  “What would you like?” his aunt Simi asked. “Are you hungry?”

  “Just a little bit.” he said watching Arti kneading dough.

  “Make yourself a sandwich – there is some cold meat and cucumber in the cooler. Or would you like some eggs?”

  “Meat is fine, Aunt.” he was happy to be near Arti.

  Arti had grown and put on curves he noticed. She was bent over the dough and her long hair had come undone and hid her face. Passing her he stroked her arm; Arti looked up, a smile brightening her eyes.

  “Your uncle has gone to put on the generator,” his aunt continued, “You can watch the news with him.”

  Soon the neon tubes flashed their white light chasing the soft shadows out of the kitchen. Sandeep sat with his uncle in a deep armchair to watch the evening news. He watched distractedly and hoped it would be over soon for he wanted to be with Arti. But by the time the news was over, Arti was leaving.

  “Namaste,” she said. “I am going home now.” she slipped out the door into the darkness beyond.

  Watching her retreating back Sandeep's plans crashed around him…he must meet her, he was seeing her after such a long time.

  “Excuse me a moment, Uncle,” he said jumping up and running out. Arti stopped when she heard him coming. He grabbed her and without preamble kissed her long and hard on the lips. Hearts raced, breaths mingled. She held him close and felt his young libido straining through his trousers. She released him quickly and ran down the barely visible path; leaving him tingling and panting.

  Arti did not visit for two days – two days that stretched out interminably. Sandeep was desolate; he decided he would stroll casually to the village and find out why Arti had not come. Had he been too pushy the other night?

  In the village square, he did not know which turn to take; all the low roofed houses looked alike, a few were built with stones and all had small vegetable patches around the house. He stood hesitantly on the dusty path. A passerby told him the family had gone to a village twelve kilometers away to attend the marriage of a relative.

  “When will they come back?” he asked and made it sound like it didn’t really matter.

  “Difficult to say,” said the bare bodied man; he had dried mud splattered on his upper body and his legs were encased with dry and flaking mud – obviously returning from work in the field. “It’s not just the marriage; they are also negotiating a match for Arti.”

  Sandeep felt his innards twisting, he gaped at the man. “When is she to be married?” he heard himself say still staring at the man. Blood was draining from his face and his heart thumped in his chest.

  “Soon, I’d say. She is all grown up and ready for marriage now.”

  “But…but she is only fifteen or sixteen – not really of marriageable age… it’s against the law,” his voice trailed away; he swallowed a few times.

  “It’s our custom, Sir. Nobody can change our Traditions!” said the man with finality and walked away.

  Sandeep walked back, stunned and devastated. What could he do? There was nothing he could really do, could he? His rational self told him to forget her – there would be many girls in his life - his sentimental side said he would never forget her; he would have to find a way…perhaps her parents wouldn’t find a suitable match. Or maybe, she will refuse the match. Please God, let her refuse!

  Sandeep was listless and preoccupied all next day. His uncle asked him if he were feeling unwell.

  “Nope, Uncle, I am fine.”

  “You certainly don’t look fine – you may be coming down with something.”

  Sandeep made an effort to look cheerful after that. His uncle and aunt took pains to keep him entertained and occupied. They wanted him to enjoy his holidays – he was such a sweet boy…and they were so fond of him.

  Simi thought she would check out a suspicion forming in her mind: could it be the girl Arti he was missing? She would put it to a test.

  Next morning, sitting on cane chairs on the front verandah scanning news papers, Simi announced in a clear voice whilst surreptitiously looking at Sandeep: “I believe Arti is getting married!”

  There was no reaction from Sandeep – he continued reading a book he had in his hands. Hameer lowered the newspaper and peered over it: “How do you know?”

  “Oh, I sent the farmhand to see why Arti was not coming and he was told the family had gone to some village to arrange a match for her.”

  Sandeep looked up from his book: “Someone aught to stop Child Marriages! It’s illegal and odious! Arti is no older than I. How dare they force her into a marriage not of her choice? By the time she is twenty she will look forty and have half a dozen kids trailing after her. Poor girl!”

  Hameer and Simi exchanged glances. They were surprised at the vehemence of Sandeep’s reaction. So that’s where the problem lay thought Simi – her hunch was right! She wondered how deep their feelings went.

  “How do you know it’s against her wish? All marriages here take place with the parents arranging a suitable match. Why should her case be different?”

  He had no answer and went back to his book. He moped around all day pulling out old moth-eaten books from the glass-fronted cabinet in the sitting room and putting them back unread. He waited – a forlorn lover waiting his beloveds’ return.

  His ‘beloved' eventually arrived ten days later - a day before his leave was to end. She was hollow eyed and wan – a wreck of her former self.

  “What happened?” was on everyone’s lips. At first Arti would not answer and when pressed burst out crying – she had been raped!

  A shocked silence, then the usual questions: where, when, how, and by whom?

  At that far off village - during her cousin’s wedding - when left alone - by three young men - it had been reported to the Police and all three were in Police custody.

  Sandeep was crazed with red hot anger and frustration. How dare they! How dare they revile this angel of innocence and purity! – What could he do? Had the rapists been roaming free he would, single handedly, hunt them down and shoot them; not caring what happened to him. But they were in Police custody – unapproachable! What should he do? His chaste and pure Arti had been defiled by filthy village hoodlums.

  He found a moment free with Arti, and held her hands: “You are blameless and innocent, my darling! To me you will remain spotless and pure – will you wait for me and marry me?”

  Arti bit her lip, her mouth quivered, tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She looked into his eyes and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

  “Why not?” he asked incredulously; “why won’t you marry me?”

  Her body shook and she did not say anything for a while: “I am pregnant,” she whispered. "I know I am!"

  Arti visualized that night many times over; she lived in obsessed memory of it. Three young men had come in; she could smell liquor on their breaths though they didn’t appear drunk. They were well built and muscular from physical work in the fields. She had innocently told them the truth: she did not expect her parents back for at least another two hours, so they’d better come back later.

  The three had a huddled discussion and then approached and roughly pulled her down. Arti looked wide eyed at them from the floor, terror engulfed her. Whilst two held her, the third ripped off her clothes and stopped to gape at her voluptuous body…there was a collective gasp from the three. The tall one, in a delirium of frenzy, entered her roughly and was done quickly. The other two were no better, climaxing almost immediately.

  She did not struggle or resist; just lay there: stark naked, eyes clamped shut; inert, her bare breasts heaving – the pain of the rapture consumed her.

  Watching her lying naked, they were aroused again and went on a second round; they now had longer staying powers and were gentler and almost compassionate, kissing and fondling before entering her. She felt a twinge of pleasure: they were good looking boys, strong and virile. Her young body was prodded into arousal; she couldn’t help her biological reaction. By the time they finished she was aroused, responding, and groaning.

  That had decided her!

  She would now wait with the child in her womb. Wait until they were released from prison. She hoped one of them would marry her and help look after the child.

  Fingers of Fear

  A train journey set in rural India

  He wore an earring in his left ear, a heavy gold ring on his third finger, and a roughly tied large – once white – turban on his head. He sat hunched staring out the third class train compartment window at the rapidly changing scenes outside.

  In typically village fashion, he commented loudly on scenes that went past the window. He would look around at his co-passengers seeking approval, looking from face to face until they nodded agreement. A creased smile revealed tobacco stained long teeth. Obviously the neem stick he used to scrub his teeth with had lost the battle.

  “What do you say, Sahibji?” He asked in his gruff voice, nodding his head, seeking confirmation, “Should the railways not stop the farmers from bringing their cattle so close to the railway line…? That is how accidents happen…no? And then they will stone the next train that goes past, venting their fury on the Sarkar.”

  Rashid paid no attention to this village prattle; he knew these village types: they spoke non-stop about nothing. If a tree went past the window, he would say, “A tree…we have passed a big tree with spreading branches.” After such an inane comment the villager would gapingly look around for approval of a wise observation.

  I mean…what the hell! Thought Rashid with some annoyance; why is that country bumpkin trying to draw me into his circle of appreciative onlookers? He pointedly turned his back and ignored him…Gawddd…!

  Rashid was casually dressed in dark jeans and a
tea shirt with ‘Jack Daniels’ emblazoned across the front. He looked around him with cynical disapproval; he wished his monetary status allowed him to secure a seat in the second class sleeping berths.

  Though he himself had roots in a village, he now worked in town and considered himself an urban socialite. He was visiting his in-laws and looked forward to meeting them in Burpur – a small industrial town from where his wife hailed.

  The train was slowing down; the sound of track changes came from under the coach – a station was coming.

  The man, with the gruff voice, rose and went to the door; he was tall and wore characteristically village clothes: a whitish, rough hewn kurta and pajama and, of course, the untidy looking large turban on his head. He fiddled with the latch and swung the door open inwards and stood holding on to the two outside vertical handrails, his body blocking the doorway completely. The train slowed to a crawl; the man still stood blocking the door looking forward and aft. Rashid stood impatiently behind him. The train was moving slowly and Rashid could easily jump off and meet his brother-in-law at the station entrance who would have a message for him to take on to Burpur.

  “Please give me way,” said Rashid elbowing his way through.

  “What is it, what?” said the tall man. “No one gets off whilst the train is still in motion – that’s how accidents happen.”

  Rashid shoved past him pushing him aside. By the time the tall man recovered Rashid was off dodging travelers on the platform and rushing towards the station entrance, “Bloody domineering ass!” he said through clamped teeth. “He would benefit from a tight kick to his nuts. Idiot!”

  At the entrance Rashid met his brother-in-law who proffered a letter, “Give this to Gulam Rasool, the headman, when you get to Burpur. It is very important!” he slipped it into Rashid’s hand. “Now go. The train only stops here for a very short halt. All are well here. Give my salaams to all at Burpur.”

  When Rashid swung back onto the train, the tall man was sitting on his bunk rubbing and mixing tobacco and lime in the palm of his hand prior to putting it into his mouth. He gave Rashid a dangerous look.

  “You push me again and it will be the last time you ever push anyone!” he said in a menacing voice. “Be grateful I haven’t slit your scrawny throat…give me an occasion again and I will slit it from ear-to-ear.”

  Rashid was stunned. He looked around, the other passengers had all heard the threat, but were pretending to have not heard. A little ball of fear was forming; it hung in the air. Who was this tall man, Rashid thought, he could be a gangster: his pocket had a bulge – who knows what’s concealed in it!

  The turbaned man was no longer jovial and lighthearted. He sat looking out of the window, his expression severe and grim. Track changes were loud as the diesel engine accelerated gathering speed. Dusk was darkening the sky; what had the night in store for him? There were eight men in the compartment, would some of them band together, if the occasion arose, against the turbaned one? Could he be a gangster in disguise, pretending to be a villager?

  The turbaned man looked up at a man in an upper bunk; a veiled sign passed between them. Rashid’s heart skipped a beat: how many were they? The silence became sinister. Rashid glanced at his companion, a fat man who looked away immediately, but Rashid saw the fear in his eyes and realized there would be no help there. Rashid felt alarmed and all alone. He was a Muslim in a carriage where, he supposed, all others were Hindus.

  The train would arrive at Burpur at eleven p.m.; Rashid would have to remain awake and vigilant until that time. The train slowed again - another station was coming up; the train halted with a jerk. Hawkers passed the window shouting their wares. No one moved in the compartment. The fans hummed stirring the now stilled air.

  Rashid would have liked to go out to smoke, but he felt a reluctance to do so. All his possessions were in a small Rexene covered box that he was using as a pillow; he wouldn’t like to take it out with him and show distrust of his fellow passengers, and yet he was reluctant to leave it behind; so he sat, head bent, staring at his hands until he heard the whistle and the train started again.

  The Ticket Examiner came in through the swaying vestibule connecting the bogies.

  He wore the official dark jacket and white trousers which was short and exposed his sagging socks. He surveyed the section and immediately saw that there were two extra passengers.

  He harrumphed and sat on the berth nearest the vestibule.

  “Tickets!” he said in a surly voice.

  The occupants handed him their tickets one by one. He examined them closely. The two extra persons had valid tickets for the next station and so were allowed to stay. The tall villager with the large turban was the last to submit his ticket. The Examiner looked at it distractedly and asked: “How old are you?”

  “Look for yourself, or can’t you read?”

  “I have the right to ask you questions to establish you are the same person in whose name this ticket is issued,” retorted the Railway official, “Either you satisfy me or I will summon the Railway Police.”

  “Please don’t hassle us,” said a man who was watching from an adjoining upper bunk. “He is 55 years old as that ticket says.”

  The Ticket Examiner reluctantly handed back the ticket and moved on to the next compartment.

  So, now there are three of them, Rashid noted with alarm. Should he go and ask the Ticket Collector to move him to another compartment, but the train was full; why would anyone want to change births with him when all were making themselves comfortable for the night? And what could he tell the Ticket Examiner? That he suspected the man was a ruthless gangster, with his gang around him?

  Rashid had no peace of mind. He had been sitting for the last hour without moving for fear of attracting the turbaned one’s attention. He sat huddled in a corner and was careful to not let his actions appear provoking.

  He sneaked a look at his watch, 10:45! His heart leapt. He had only fifteen minutes to endure this torture and then he would jump off the train and head for his in-laws’ small town. Yippee!

  The train began to lose speed. He got up and made for the toilet. The turbaned man looked steadily at him and sat up. Rashid’s heart jumped into his mouth. Was the man suspecting that Rashid would get off at the next stop? Would he and his cronies then follow him? A little plan formed in his mind.

  Coming out of the toilet, he announced in a loud voice, “A station is coming and I am going to get off here to smoke a cigarette. I haven’t had one the whole day and I am dying for a puff!”

  He went to the door and yanked it open and looked out. The platform was coming up. He looked back inside and his heart froze: four men including the turbaned man had got off their bunks and stood up. They seemed to be staring at him. Rashid would have to spring a surprise.

  The platform was underneath now and the train was decelerating rapidly. Rashid stretched sideways, grabbed his suitcase, and leapt off the train running with it to keep his balance. But he fell and somersaulted: his elbow and knees were scraped, he was sound otherwise. He got up and headed off towards the fields, jumping a crude, sagging, barbed-wire fence.

  He looked back when he heard the screech of the train brakes and saw the thugs craning their necks looking backwards into the darkness to where Rashid had jumped off. He also saw one of them alighting from a now distant compartment.

  Rashid was not going to risk hiring transport for fear of being followed; he would make his way through the fields sprint-walking along the raised bunds that separated each small plot from the other. The moon would give him ample light.

  He reached his in-laws’ place, disheveled, aching, and panting, but immensely relieved: he had outsmarted the gang of thugs!

  Once bathed and medicated, Rashid was asked to relate the incident in detail. Of late undesirables had terrorized the small town and as this was a ‘Muslim village’, a special vigilante squad had been delegated to look after it.

  Rashid’s story caused a stir in the neighborhood, especially the possibility that the terrorists may have de-trained at Burpur to avenge a slight Rashid had caused to their proud leader. All were advised to be vigilant and to secure all doors through the night.

  Two days elapsed and the incident of the train became a dim memory. Rashid was fêted and looked after by his in-laws. It was two years since he had last visited; on that occasion he had brought his wife along, now he was questioned repeatedly as to why he had not brought her. Rashid’s explanation that she had not been feeling too well lately was not accepted: “Do you mean she is too unwell to meet her parents? If she is that unwell, have you taken her to a doctor?”

  Rashid stated that she was being treated for weakness and the doctor had prescribed tonics for her. Rashid did not want her to undertake a journey that would exhaust her. But he promised to bring her soon – when she felt stronger. “Also,” Rashid pointed out, “had she been with me, I don’t know how I would have got away from those goons. She would not have been able to jump off the train like I did.”

  News one morning that terrorists had raided an adjacent town at night demanding food and money shocked all. Rashid was summoned to appear before the village headman to describe what had taken place on the train.

  The family, along with neighbors, trooped to Gulam Rasool’s headquarters later that day. This was a serious development that needed to be nipped in the bud. The headman had authority to request more police patrolling in incidents such as these, where life to the Muslims was at threat.

  They were kept waiting for a long time before Gulam Rasool walked out, “Salaam alaikum.” he greeted the gathering in his gruff voice. He was tall, wore an earring in his left ear, and his head was covered with a large untidy turban. He smiled showing long tobacco stained teeth.


  A Secret Seduction

  A story of a young maid sexually exploited at her workplace in suburban India

  “Oh my God!” she groaned. “It’s happening again!” She felt a tingling and stiffening down her spine and her toes started to bend downwards. She was grateful it was night time and that she was in the privacy of her cubicle.

  Bitu (a congenitally deformed house help) slept in the corridor a few feet away from the six foot wooden partitioned cubicle that the maid, Lakhi, was allotted. He was awakened by the guttural sounds emanating from Lakhi’s cubicle.

  His heart pounded and his excitement heightened, for he knew what the sounds signified. He picked up a chair and placed it next to the half partition. He climbed with difficulty and peered over. In the dim light he made out Lakhi’s stiff form lying on the cot. He climbed over the partition and lowering himself on top of a chest-of drawers inside the barrier, and carefully stepped down.

  He was aroused and hard already. He fondled Lakhi’s breasts. With shaking hands he undressed her fully, while he too shed his clothes. He’d better hurry, he thought, lest he comes before he enters her.

  The last time Lakhi had had an apoplectic seizure was over six months ago. Bitu had heard her guttural sounds and was frightened. He had knocked repeatedly on her door and had then gone to his master’s bedroom and knocked, but the Sahib and Memsahib were asleep and could not hear his hesitant knocking over the sound of the air conditioner. He did not know what to do…was she dying?

  That first time too he pulled up a chair and clambered up and looked over the partition: Lakhi lay on the floor… stark naked! Bitu was embarrassed and quickly climbed down. He tried to erase the picture of her from his mind: they were bad thoughts; devil induced thoughts. He had to help Lakhi...perhaps he should cover her body before waking her…that way she would not be embarrassed.

  He clambered up the partition again and tried to not look at Lakhi. He pulled a sheet and covered her. He was trembling and his manhood was embarrassing him. He tried seriously to wake Lakhi, but with no success. He decided he would lift her back onto the bed. He bent down, put his arms around her and tried to lift and drag at the same time. The sheet, caught under his foot, was ripped off her and he was left clutching a naked figure whose ripe right breast was in his face.

  Bitu gasped and started to cry: Lord he had tried to be decent but the devil had won. He sank to the floor, kissing and caressing her.

  It was a night of many firsts: it was the first time he had touched a woman's naked body; the first time he had fondled and kissed a woman's breast; it was also the first time he had had sex.

  When Lakhi awoke in the morning she remembered she had suffered a seizure; she had been prone to seizures from the age of seven - ten years now. People in her village had said she would get over her malaise at puberty. Well, it had not happened. Obviously, the attacks were becoming more severe she concluded, for after the last seizure she had a liquid discharge and bleeding from the vagina which felt sore and sensitive and the orifice seemed larger; her nipples looked red and felt tender; all of which she could not understand.

  She had kept her seizures a close secret, so far, but now thought she would confide in and tell all to Panchu, her sahib (boss). He was reasonable and kind and would surely sympathize and take her to a doctor. Memsahib, though, was an enigma: she may or may not empathize and could very well dismiss her. Her family in her village depended heavily on the meager amounts she sent them each month; she was too poor to risk losing her job.

  Lakhi was the same age as Sunny, Panchu's son. Every time she went to clean his room, Sunny’s eyes would follow her and he would order her to do jobs that would make her bend over so he could look at her breasts. She, however, had eyes only for Panchu – whom she secretly loved and who would tip her well after parties when she had an extra burden of cleaning up the after-party-mess.

  Early mornings she would tiptoe into Panchu's bedroom with his tea, collect his underclothes off the floor, for the wash, and ease out silently. On occasions she had glimpsed his early morning erection under the bed sheet which produced a catch in her throat and sent her pulse racing – she daydreamed of amorous contacts with him. She had once sidled up against him purposely, letting her breasts firmly brush his arm. He had looked hard at her and his gaze had registered some annoyance. She would have to be very careful; she didn’t want the Memsahib to throw her out. She had already been warned to not go into the bedroom without knocking, but Lakhi had a ready excuse: she did not want to wake the Memsahib who usually slept till midday.

  And then, one day, Lakhi threw up on the carpet!

  The family sat in the lounge reading and chatting; Lakhi was dusting in one corner when she suddenly jerked around and clamped her hand to her mouth. She staggered forward with deep retching sounds and vomited. She ran to the pantry.

  The family was shocked and sat in stunned silence. “What happened to her?” Mrs. Madhup (Panchu’s wife) lifted her ample self off the sofa and waddled in pursuit of the maid.

  “Well, to me it looks suspiciously like the nausea of early pregnancy,” she announced on returning.

  “Pregnant?” repeated Panchu incredulously. “How can she be pregnant? Did you ask her who the father is?”

  “Of course I did.” stated Mrs. M. “Do you think she would tell? I can’t imagine how that halfwit, Bitu, could possibly enamor such a pretty girl. But then who else is there?” Every eye turned to Sunny who flushed red and spilt some tea from his cup onto his trousers. All had noticed how Sunny’s eyes would follow Lakhi every time she came into the room. Sunny was spared an answer when Panchu rose and announced that he would take Lakhi to a doctor right away.

  Bitu cowered in a corner in the kitchen. His mind was still that of a twelve year old. What had happened? Could it possibly involve him? Could he have possibly made her pregnant? There was no way anyone could get him to admit that. And if, God forbid, Lakhi was to know what he had done…? No! No! It was too horrible to contemplate. As it was, every time he let his body brush against her she turned around and spat in his face. She loathed him!

  What was to become of him? Would they thrash him? He put his thumb in his mouth - peace came flooding into him - he curled up in a corner and put his other hand between his thighs cupping his genitals.

  Panchu brought Lakhi back from the doctor. “I’m afraid she is pregnant. And she won’t tell who the father is. We have questioned her repeatedly and I get the feeling that she doesn’t know either? Anyway, the Police will be here to question us all, I suppose.”

  “Bloody bitch!” spat Mrs. M. “I knew I should never have employed her - a pretty girl is bound to tempt all you males.” she looked directly at her husband. “Don’t think you are above suspicion. With all your kindness and tipping and all…”

  “Mom, please!” interjected the son. “Don’t be crude. Let’s find out before we start pointing fingers.”

  And so a household gathering was arranged in the lounge. But nothing came of it. Mrs. M was, by now, extremely angry.

  “Look here”, she said loudly, “Did he do it?” she asked Lakhi pointing at her son. Sunny was standing there thinking - which lucky son-of-a bitch got into her pants, when the questioning finger hit his direction. He gasped turning red. “Was it my husband then?” she screamed. Panchu looked annoyed and Lakhi looked at him and sighed, wish it was. “Well, can it be that oaf, Bitu, then?” she yelled pointing at him. Bitu jerked, convulsed and nearly fell, but held the door for support.

  Could they have found out he panicked. He felt he was going to die, but the wrath of Mrs. M had already turned to Lakhi. “Tell me you bitch, before I slap the shit out of you!” Panchu restrained his wife and the meeting was over.

  The Police came a little later, rummaged around and searched each room, confiscating certain articles. In Sunny’s room they discovered a cache of condoms that embarrassed him in front of all.

  All three males of the household were taken into custody and driven to the forensic laboratory for body samples for DNA testing. Lakhi was also taken. All males were later released, but Lakhi was kept at the Police reform institution. She still looked stunned and bewildered.

  Lakhi lay on the cot allotted to her in her new surroundings. She tried to figure out what happened. Everything was normal this morning. She had quietly slipped into the master bedroom with the tea tray, collected the strewn underclothing and departed. All was well until she got sick on the carpet earlier this morning. Hell, was it such a sin? And what was all this carrying on about her being pregnant? How could she be pregnant…surely lascivious thoughts couldn’t make one pregnant, could they? She recalled her daydreams involving Panchu.

  The Police jeep arrived some weeks later when things had settled down.

  “Is the family in?” asked the rotund Inspector, of Bitu.

  “Yes” taking a step back in fright.

  “Please call them out.”

  “Hello, Inspector,” said Panchu. “So have you found the culprit?”

  “Yes, Sir, we have”, in a steely voice.

  “Would the culprit be from this household?”

  “Yes, I am afraid so.”

  “Good heavens, Inspector, I…I...hope it is not Sunny?”

  “No, Sir, it is not.” and the family breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It is you, Sir,” mouth compressed in a straight line.

  “No, seriously, who is the suspect?” asked Panchu.

  “I do not joke in such matters, Sir. I shall have to handcuff you.” Panchu’s eyes popped out in disbelief.

  “I’m afraid, Sir, you have been visiting Lakhi. Your semen was detected on the girl’s underclothing. As she is underage, the charge is serious”

  “That’s preposterous!” bellowed Panchu. Sun
ny looked at his father with mouth agape. Mrs. M looked at her husband contemptuously and sneered, “So that’s why the heavy sedatives. I said I didn’t need them anymore, but you insisted. You bloody womanizing rapist.”

  Sunny couldn’t believe his ears. How could Dad be like that? How would he meet his neighborhood and school friends? What would they say? How bloody crummy! Shit!

  Mr. Panchu Madhup was remanded to judicial custody until the DNA test results became available.

  Panchu was shocked and horrified at the attitude of his family. So easily had they accepted an untruth and condemned him. His honour was defiled and his life lay in shambles. How had his semen been found on the girls underclothing? How, how?

  On 15th December, Lakhi gave birth to a deformed male child. DNA testing later showed that the child matched the DNA of the household male help, Bitu. In her childbirth dying declaration Lakhi admitted that on the day of her medical examination, she was wearing Panchu’s underwear - which early that morning she had picked up still wet with his semen - from his bedroom floor.

  Before the birth of Lakhi’s child, Panchu, desolate and disillusioned, forsaken by his family and friends, had taken his life.

  Bhalwa

  A private forest reserve in eastern India