Night Theatre

by Vikram Paralkar

  There wasn’t much else to do at the moment. Saheb had told her to get some rest while he operated on the boy’s mother. She went into the back room and pulled the door shut. After a moment’s thought, she slid the latch into place, but slowly, so that the dead wouldn’t hear her.

  The room held two beds, each a simple frame with a webbing of rusted iron strips holding up an old mattress. The bedsheets were threadbare. She searched the cupboard for better ones, but they were all the same. She picked one that seemed cleaner than the others and spread it out on a mattress. From the pile of blankets in the cupboard, she chose the one at the very bottom. It was quite coarse, and smelled of mothballs, but she, who had washed every conceivable human secretion off these blankets, knew it to be the cleanest.

  She lay down on the mattress. The frame creaked so loudly in the still room that she was worried that the iron strips were coming apart under her. With her eyes shut tight, she began to take slow, long breaths to make herself fall asleep. When she found herself lying awake as time drifted by, she blamed the moonlight and the breeze. Rising on one elbow, she closed and shuttered the window and buried her head under the blanket.

  Her body felt sore. She tossed on the bed, tried this position and that, but every lump in the mattress seemed to prod her. The pinwheels in her mind showed no sign of slowing down. The more tightly she closed her eyes, the more it seemed that sleep was being squeezed out of them, and the blanket’s sickly sweet mothball odour didn’t help. She surrendered, threw the blanket off, and stared at the wall at the foot of the bed.

  The calendar hanging there had a picture of Goddess Durga printed above the days of the month. When the pharmacist first started working in the clinic, she’d thought of asking her husband to put up a little shelf on that wall, on which she planned to arrange little statuettes of Ganpati and baby Krishna, a picture of Vithoba, maybe one of Sai Baba. But after witnessing Saheb’s tantrums at the mention of anything religious, she dropped that plan. The lack of gods in the clinic troubled her, though. In a place that people visited for fear of death, there needed to be some source of hope. Then one day it struck her, while strolling through the district market. A calendar with a different god for every month. Twelve gods at the price of one. And Saheb couldn’t object to that, could he?

  She shuffled to the foot of the mattress and examined the picture, her face inches from the paper. Even in the darkness, she could appreciate Durga’s ten hands with their weapons, her large eyes, the lion on which she was seated. The tip of Durga’s spear was in the belly of a demon writhing at her feet, his blood splashing on the lion’s paws. A violent picture, but the face of the goddess was serene, as if she were barely aware of her victim. Perhaps that’s what it was like to be a god – to perform bloody deeds and remain completely untroubled by them.

  The calendar was hanging a little crooked on its nail. The pharmacist straightened it and looked around. There was a single spot of light in the room, coming through a hole in the door where there’d once been a doorknob. She’d never been in a position to observe the door from this angle before, with the room darkened and the corridor lit. She left her bed and crept up to the door, placed her eye against the circle, careful not to let the dead see her.

  The boy was on the bench, leaning against his father’s shoulder. There was a scar on his knee, a little below the point where his short pants ended. It was an old, healed cut, unlike the wounds the three had brought for Saheb to fix. His father was rocking him, humming a lullaby, singing a word once in a while. Why the lullaby, since they couldn’t sleep? Was that something the dead did on that plain of theirs – rocked each other and hummed, unable to sleep, unable to stop wanting to sleep?

  She stood, looked once again at the calendar, joined her palms in front of her mouth and muttered a few lines of prayer, and then undid the latch and nudged the door open. The man fell silent. The boy raised his head from his father’s shoulder and sat straight, as if anxious not to be thought of as a child. She glanced at them out of the corner of her eye, but jerked her head away when she saw them looking back. In all the hours they’d been here, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say a word to them. When the drunkard had appeared, she’d relied on a few frantic gestures to herd them into the back room.

  She slipped into the pharmacy, feeling her way in the dark, careful not to dislodge the empty boxes she’d piled so foolishly high on every shelf. One pile almost fell over, and she steadied it, her heart pounding. She inched along the room, feeling the ground with her toe, and stopped when it hit the base of the stone platform at the end. Her eyes had again adjusted to the dark by now, and she lifted the stove that sat atop the platform and gave the tank a quick shake. There was enough kerosene in it. She opened the small bottle of alcohol tucked against the wall. The alcohol spilled as she poured it, but she steadied her trembling hand enough to get a teaspoonful into the spirit cup under the burner. The first match broke in her grip, the next two refused to spark, but with the fourth she managed to light the alcohol. The small flame heated the burner in the centre of the blackened brass rings, and she pumped the drum to get the kerosene flowing. Once the kerosene in the burner was hot enough, it ignited, and blue jets rose from the stove.

  The burner made a soft sound, and she sat there a moment, looking at the little roaring ring of fire. In the dark, it seemed to hang in mid-air. And it seemed impossible that something so beautiful and blue could also be so hot. It looked like something she could just scoop up and steal away in her pocket.

  She felt under the kitchen platform for the covered bowl she’d left there in the afternoon. It still had some bhendi in it. She scooped half out into a small copper cup and placed it on the flame. The rest she left for Saheb, in case he should want any. She’d also had the good sense to make extra chapatis for lunch that day. She unwrapped two and felt around for some butter to brush onto them, but couldn’t remember where she’d kept the can. She didn’t want to switch on the light. That would only draw the attention of the dead.

  So she put the chapatis, dry as they were, on a plate along with the bhendi, and folded her legs under her on the ground. She held the plate where the thin ribbon of light from the corridor fell across it. Her grandfather used to tell her to chew every morsel thirty-two times, once for each tooth. Only old people ever had time for habits like these, but now seemed as good a time as any to give it a try. With each bite, the bhendi grew more slimy and flavourless. It was missing something, salt perhaps, or ginger, though it had tasted fine that afternoon. But she was hungry, and she wiped the plate clean with the last piece of chapati and rinsed it under a quiet stream in the sink.

  There was no reason to expect another attempt at sleep to be more fruitful than the last. So she went into the corridor. The eyes of father and son followed her as she sat on the bench opposite them, her hands pinched between her knees. Above the dead, insects were buzzing against the fluorescent light.

  ‘I—I would have made you something. Some tea at least, and biscuits for the boy. But Saheb said, in your condition, you don’t—’

  ‘We don’t eat,’ said the teacher. ‘We don’t need food. But thank you. We’ll eat again once we’re alive, won’t we?’ He patted his son’s shoulder.

  ‘If you need something, just call me. I’ll be in—’

  ‘Sorry about—about earlier this evening.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When I had to hold you like that. I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just afraid you would scream.’

  ‘I did scream. Inside my own mouth.’

  The man smiled meekly. ‘I hope you aren’t afraid of us any longer.’

  She tightened her fingers against each other. ‘No, I’m not afraid.’

  She didn’t really have much else to say, and it wasn’t clear the teacher did either. She rose.

  ‘Did you study in the city?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Your pharmacy training? Was it at the university?’

  ‘I’m not
… not really a pharmacist. I only did seventh standard in school. No training or anything. It’s just—there’s nobody else here, and Saheb needs someone to look after the place. So my husband and I, we help him take care of it. Saheb registered me as a pharmacist so I could get a salary from the head office.’

  ‘Really? I wouldn’t have known. The way you were assisting him during the surgery, it seemed that you knew every instrument, Saheb didn’t have to ask twice. How long have you been working for him?’

  She sat back on the bench, her ears warm. ‘Two and a half years. Since my marriage, when I came to this village. Saheb was looking for someone who could read and write. I don’t know English, but Saheb taught me the names of the medicines and instruments. He writes them out, and I practise them every morning. Right after my prayers.’

  ‘And how long has Saheb been here?’

  ‘Six months before me.’

  ‘That’s all? Who was here before him?’

  ‘No one. Actually, there was a doctor, but the villagers say he was as good as absent. He visited once every two weeks, wrote something in the account books, and left. The government didn’t care, so this went on for many years. And then that doctor disappeared, god knows what happened to him, and Saheb started here. He began to sit in the clinic all day, even when there were no patients. The villagers didn’t know what to think at first. They were afraid he was going to steal their organs and sell them to rich people. Why else would a city doctor come to a village like this? Saheb paid my husband to fix the pipes and the wiring, and then, when I came here after my wedding, he gave me work as well. It looked like an empty godown, this place, the rooms were full of cobwebs. It’s so nice now, look.’ She pointed at the ceiling so that he could see with his own eyes how clean she kept the corners.

  A sharp whistle made her jump, almost fall off the bench. But it was just the autoclave machine. The teacher started at the sound too, as did the boy, but the boy recovered first, and he giggled and poked his father’s arm, teasing him for being as scared as a mouse. The pharmacist found herself glancing at their legs.

  The teacher wiggled his toes in his slippers. ‘No, our feet don’t point the other way.’

  She brought her hand to her mouth in embarrassment. ‘I was just, my mother told me, many years ago—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Ghosts are supposed to leave footprints that point in the wrong direction. Or they’re afraid of mirrors, because they don’t have a reflection. As if life and death were so simple: just turn one little thing upside down, and the living become dead. All those ghost stories are just that – stories.’

  ‘You can laugh, but they can’t all be false. I’ve seen a ghost with my own eyes, I’m telling you. Outside my parents’ village, there’s a broken-down house. The roof has fallen in, the walls are covered with vines. The man who used to live there, he cheated many women, one after the other – married them with false names and then killed them on the wedding night, can you imagine? He kept doing this – ten times, they say – until the police finally took him off and hanged him. But his wives remained in that house, even after their bodies were burnt and gone. Their souls still roam, looking for some innocent person to haunt, to take revenge for what that demon did to them. I saw one, I swear, once when I was walking back at night a few years ago. I heard a scream that was so loud, my ears kept ringing for days afterwards. There was a woman in a red sari. Her face was white … whiter than milk, and swollen like a balloon. She was floating in the air, above the roof, and she jumped at me. I ran so fast, I didn’t even realize when a piece of glass cut my foot – that’s how scared I was. My mother always says there are things in this world that no one can explain.’

  She stopped, wondering if she should’ve told such a gruesome story in front of a child. But the boy didn’t seem to mind. He was scratching something into the wood of the bench with a rusted nail he’d found somewhere. Maybe he’d seen worse things himself. She felt it strange that she should be trying to convince the dead of the existence of ghosts, but when she’d finished speaking, the teacher just nodded, his face serious. It seemed that he agreed with her mother. There were things in this world – and, who knew, maybe even the next – that no one could explain.

  ‘I’m sorry you have to be part of all this,’ the teacher said. ‘To have to deal with us showing up in this state.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it that way. You’re not that kind of ghost, I know. And don’t worry about me. One night without sleep isn’t that bad. Sometimes if we have really sick patients, I stay awake to take care of them.’

  A feather blew in through the entrance to the clinic, and the teacher’s eyes followed it as it floated all the way to the closed doors of the operating room. His gaze stayed there.

  ‘Everything will work out, with god’s mercy,’ the pharmacist said.

  ‘I hope so. It’s all in Doctor Saheb’s hands now.’

  ‘There’s nothing Saheb can’t fix. So many people come here, so sick, with their legs and stomach so swollen they can’t even stand. And then Saheb does his work and in a few days, the men walk out on their own feet. There’s nothing he can’t cure.’

  The man gave a sad smile. ‘Has he ever cured death? Brought a corpse to life?’

  ‘Have faith. You’re half alive already. Let Saheb worry about the other half.’

  The teacher was looking down at his palm, as if reading its lines. The pharmacist took the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘Did you find out who you were in your past lives?’

  When the teacher didn’t answer, she said, ‘Our family astrologer used to tell us that when we’re born, our souls lose their memories. So we live every life as if it were our first. But all of us, we’ve had many lives before. Hundreds. When we die, we remember all of them. Is that true?’

  ‘Well, I’m—I’m not sure. It might be, but we didn’t, at least I didn’t, remember any old lives.’

  ‘Oh? Maybe it takes time for those memories to come back.’

  ‘That’s possible. Who knows?’

  ‘Our astrologer told me I was a devoted wife in my past life. My husband had an illness in that life that made him bedridden from birth. I served him day and night, washed him and cleaned his sores right up to the end. I don’t remember any of this, of course, but the astrologer saw this in the charts he drew up for me. He said that because of my service to my husband, and because I kept away from all sin, from now on I would enjoy the fruits of my good deeds. He told me all this before my engagement, before I had even seen my husband’s face, just after the astrologer had checked our horoscopes and told my father that we were destined for each other, lifetime after lifetime. I had forgotten all about it, but I remembered it just now, when we were hiding from that drunkard. What I’m trying to tell you is, I understand tonight why our astrologer took me aside and told me this, though I hadn’t even asked him. He must have seen in my charts that a time would come when I would be very scared, that I would want to run away, but it would be a test from God to see if I would serve others in this life just as I did in the last one. The astrologer just wanted me to know that because of my good deeds, nothing would be able to harm me. So I’ve decided not to be scared. I will help you come back to life, I’ll do whatever I can to help Saheb with his work. I know now that I don’t need to be afraid of anything, for myself or for my husband.’

  All of a sudden, the teacher’s lips were trembling and his face looked as though it would crack. The pharmacist wasn’t sure what she’d said that could have brought about this change. He started to say something, but then a latch sounded, and the door of the operating room opened. She jumped to her feet, as did the teacher and his son. The man kept his face turned to her, with a look she couldn’t read. It was a strange reaction from him, but it lasted just a moment, because then they all ran down the corridor. The surgeon walked out of the operating room, leading the dead woman. Both appeared stiff, as if cut out of cardboard. The pharmacist had to stop herself from
gasping at the sight of the neck swollen with bandages.

  The teacher touched his wife’s arm. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine.’ The woman’s face had no expression on it, none at all.

  ‘Are you sure? Was the surgery painful?’

  ‘No. No pain.’

  ‘Careful,’ the surgeon said. ‘The inner end of that tube is in her windpipe. We’ll need it in the morning to ensure that she can breathe.’

  The pharmacist wondered if that wouldn’t hurt. If a small crumb in the windpipe could make a grown man fall to his knees and choke, wouldn’t this plastic thing be much worse? And Saheb wasn’t saying anything about how the operation went. Nothing about whether the woman would live. They’d been in the operating room for three hours, and the only things he said now were about the bandages and the tube.

  The teacher kept asking his wife, ‘Does the tube hurt?’ to which she kept saying, her eyes turned away, ‘No, it doesn’t.’ The boy pulled at his mother’s fingers, but she avoided his face as well. Though the pharmacist was afraid of what it might be like to touch the dead, she reached out to the boy. She felt his shoulder, skin and bone and soft flesh, there under the shirt, no different than if she’d touched a living child. She kept her fingers there for a few moments, tentatively feeling with their tips, trying to build up the courage to actually rest her entire palm to comfort him, but the boy turned to her with an expression of such anger and annoyance, and shrugged her off so violently, he might as well have slapped her across the face. In an instant, the words she’d just spoken with the dead seemed more remote than the sight of that ghost floating over the house all those years ago. When the surgeon told her to clear out the instruments and replace them with new ones, she was glad to have an excuse to leave the corridor.