“You want me to take it out for you? Of course!” said Bhave, tapping the desk with both hands. “We’ll go over there now.” As she rose, she said, “I’m not at all surprised that Saul was able to help you in this way. Despite all the poor organization and record-keeping, I think he must know our collections better than anyone here.” Saul smiled in embarrassment as Nada and Shyamala shot him an admiring glance.
They walked through the north wing to the back door, and crossed to the library in the light rain. Nada gave Bhave the slip of paper on which she had written the book’s title and call number, and with only a few civil but commanding words to the head and assistant librarians, Bhave accomplished what would otherwise have been all but impossible: the issuing of a book to a member of the Institute who did not belong to the highest rank of its hierarchy. The three of them thanked Bhave profusely, and she breezed out of the library with her usual regal step.
At Nada’s suggestion, they had not mentioned the second copy of the Amrutajijnasa to Bhave. Nada was disoriented by the twin revelation of the previously unknown book and the previously unimaginable second manuscript, but not so much that she did not think of the danger: Avinash could be anywhere, and they could not know how long it would take to search for the manuscript in the manuscriptorium’s oblivion-shrouded obscurity, how successful the search would be, and whether they would be allowed to take it with them even if they found it.
Of course, Avinash could also be in their own minds—he was certainly in some part of Nada’s, at least—but he was sure to learn everything when they actually began searching, whereas there was at least some possibility that his knowledge would remain incomplete for as long as they didn’t make a move.
Nada needed time to digest this new development. Because this was definitely the final act, the final element of the plot. Whatever else they might discover in the new manuscript, they would certainly find one thing at least: the missing third quarter of the mutilated verse, the eight syllables that were the key to Avinash and Nada’s freedom. The vetala was cornered, and he would fight like the desperate creature he was.
“I think I need to be alone with this book,” said Nada to Saul and Shyamala, holding the thin, brittle volume. “And... I don’t know how long I’m going to take.”
They were looking at her with solemn concern—and resignation.
“I’m here in the library till closing time,” said Saul. “Come talk to me before you go home.”
“I’ll be here too for a while,” said Shyamala. “And in any case, we’ll be seeing each other tomorrow morning at the usual time.”
Nada nodded, smiling weakly, then turned and went out the door.
Nada took the thin volume and sat on the steps of the library’s second, unused entrance. The rain had stopped. Every few moments, the scene was bathed in sunlight, and the paths were beginning to dry.
The book was just as Saul had remembered it: the Avinashalatacharita, 1934, Mysore, Sanskrit introduction. The poem itself consisted of 312 verses of straightforward Sanskrit, written, according to the introduction, by one Vasuki who lived in Mysore in the eighteenth century. In all of her vast reading, Nada had never once encountered a mention of this book: such were the miraculous discoveries that could occur in the still largely unmapped terrain of India’s libraries and archives.
Reading the poem, Nada had the feeling of returning to her own forgotten words: to some lost masterpiece of youth which now seemed too flatteringly brilliant to be hers, or a rediscovered journal that decades later shockingly confirmed and validated a lifetime of uncomprehending agony by restoring the long-suspected facts to light:
There was a Brahmin, Avinasha by name, young, handsome, skilled in speech, one who had attained the far shore of the Veda, who delighted in the wellbeing of all creatures. He had a brother, his twin, seemingly equal to him in everything, known as Amruteshvara. Dear to each other as their own lifebreath, in recitation of the Veda, in teaching of the texts, in performance of sacrifice and rituals, they were always together. In debate, no one could defeat them. In mastery of the texts, they had no equal except each other. They seemed to people to be a single man divided into two. No one could see any difference between them. But there was a difference: Avinasha was more passionate and kindhearted, stronger in anger and desire. But between them there was no occasion for dispute, and they carried out their work in complete unity.
When they reached the age of marriage, their father urged them to choose from among the girls of the Brahmin village. There was a girl, Lata by name, the daughter of a scholar who had attained the far shore of the Veda. Dark, tall, intelligent, pure in mind, she came to love Avinasha as she heard him expound the histories and ancient tales to the women day by day. Avinasha, completely absorbed in study, did not notice that Lata had fallen in love with him. But others noticed, and Amruteshvara noticed, and he told him, and from that day Avinasha began to observe Lata when she came with the other women every evening to hear him expound the histories and ancient tales.
One evening, Avinasha began to tell the story of the Ramayana: how Rama won Sita by breaking Shiva’s bow, how he married her and took her to Ayodhya, how she followed him to the forest when he was exiled, how he searched for her when she had been abducted by Ravana the demon king, how he invaded the island of Lanka with the army of monkeys and bears and killed Ravana in battle, how he returned with her in joy to Ayodhya and ruled for many thousands of years. In this way, telling and listening to the story of Rama and Sita’s love, Avinasha and Lata fell in love with each other without even having spoken to each other, and their love grew day by day, observed by everyone. They seemed to everyone to be as like to each other in every way as Avinasha and Amruteshvara were, like one person divided into male and female. At last, Avinasha and Lata’s fathers, seeing their love, agreed to their marriage, and the date of the wedding was set on an auspicious day.
Everyone was happy for the imminent marriage of Avinasha and Lata, and Amruteshvara too was happy, because he loved his twin brother as he loved his own lifebreath. But while observing Lata amongst the women who came to listen to Avinasha, while observing her beauty and intelligence, and her passion for his brother, and the growth of their love, Amruteshvara too fell in love with her, and began to burn with impossible desire. As the day of the marriage drew near, Avinasha began to notice that his brother had changed. While studying together, while performing sacrifices and rituals together, even while eating together, Avinasha noticed that something was tormenting and confusing his brother’s mind. He knew his brother’s mind as he knew his own, and so it was not long before he realized that Amruteshvara had also fallen in love with Lata.
Then, seeing the opening offered by his suspicion, Manyu, Rage, entered Avinasha, and he began to hate his brother. By many signs and hints, Amruteshvara could see that Avinasha’s mind had changed towards him, and this saddened and tormented him, because although he too loved Lata, he was not seeking her for himself: he loved his brother more than he loved his own lifebreath, and so he was happy for their love. Burned by remorse, one day Amruteshvara confronted his brother when he happened to meet him in the forest.
“Why do you hate me?” he asked him. “I am not your enemy. I am your brother. I do not wish harm to either you or her.”
But Avinasha was enraged, and would not listen, and walked on without replying.
Manyu had entered Avinasha, and began to nurture the defect created by his doubt. Day by day, Manyu swallowed more of Avinasha’s mind as Rahu the demon of eclipse slowly swallows the sun. While reading, while writing, while reciting, while expounding, even while eating, walking, and sleeping, Avinasha was burning with suspicion and hate. Lata saw how Avinasha was being swallowed by Manyu. She longed for the day of marriage to arrive, because then, she thought, Manyu would weaken and leave him. Avinasha loved her as much as ever, but now even his love was corrupted by Manyu, because he never ceased to fear that Amr
uteshvara was about to take her from him. Seeing this, Lata began to despair. Burned by remorse, she felt that it was she who had corrupted Avinasha’s love both for her and for his brother. As Avinasha went more and more into the power of Manyu, so Lata went more and more into the power of despair.
Seeing that his brother’s torment was only increasing, Amruteshvara wondered what he could do to save him. He began to believe that some evil spirit must have entered Avinasha, and he resolved to gain control over this spirit through understanding. He began to read books about spirits, demons, and vampires, and to talk to people who knew about them, people both literate and illiterate, noble and common, who knew the science of dealing with spirits. He began to collect what he learned from books and people into his own book, hoping that when he had collected all he could, this book would become the weapon with which to drive the spirit out of Avinasha. He no longer met Avinasha. Each pursued his own work alone, and others were afraid to even mention them to each other.
Lata fell deeper and deeper into the power of despair. It was as if she too, like Avinasha, had gone into the power of some evil spirit, but in fact it was only the power of her love for Avinasha that was destroying her. The day of the marriage neared, but Avinasha only hated and suspected his brother more and more. Finally, Lata ceased to believe that Manyu would ever release Avinasha, and she lost hope altogether. Believing herself to be the cause of Avinasha’s madness and the division between the brothers, completely overcome by despair, she hanged herself.
When Avinasha found her, the horror and remorse that arose in his inmost soul were so powerful that they overwhelmed Manyu, and drove him back to the margin of his mind. For a moment, Avinasha was again fully in possession of himself. With a mind suddenly cleared, he saw how Manyu had possessed and corrupted him, and deluded him into hating his brother and destroying his happiness with Lata. Like a tree struck by Indra’s thunderbolt, he fell down on the ground, crying out and weeping. Realizing that Manyu had destroyed him, he resolved to destroy himself and Manyu. Saying tvām anugacchāmi, “I follow you,” he hanged himself right next to Lata, and their souls went together to the next world. But Manyu also followed Avinasha: even after death, Manyu clung to his soul, following him from birth to birth as Avinasha, Lata, and Amruteshvara were born together again and again.
Amruteshvara lived on for many years after the deaths of Avinasha and Lata. He never married, but lived alone, performing the work of a Brahmin, and continuing to write his book. As the years passed, he understood more and more deeply what had happened to his brother. But he came to realize that even if he had known then what he knew now, he would not have been able to save Avinasha and free him from Manyu. Only Lata could have done that, if she had understood.
So he finished his book, to be a weapon of knowledge for the future. He also studied other lore, and made himself a master of magic and demonology. Over time, he became as powerful as any vampire, and learned to do everything that a vampire or demon could do. He facilitated many exorcisms, helping the loved ones of the vampires’ victims to drive the vampires out. But he could not drive them out himself. At last, being very old, he lay down to die, saying tvām anugacchāmi, I follow you.
Nada lowered her head, and wept.
10
The Missing Words
Pounding fistfalls on the house’s front door dragged Nada out of dreamless sleep as if out of deep water. She raised her head from the desk, where she had sat reading the Avinashalatacharita through the evening until she could read no more.
She looked around, saw darkness through the window, and the alarm clock on the bookshelf that told her it was twenty past midnight. The pounding continued, massive and irregular as thunder, and then she heard the voice, “Nada! Nada!”
It was Saul.
She started from the chair, stumbled into the passageway and down the stairs in the weak light from the study, unlocked the door as the assault on it continued outside.
“Nada!”
Opening the door, she saw Saul standing with both fists raised, hesitating like a sleepwalker surprised, an expression of confusion and frantic terror on his face.
His skin and clothes were patched with dirt, and round his neck was tied a sari, which hung at his back and loosely wound round his calves and feet.
“Saul! What’s happened to you?” she gasped, laying her hands on his shoulders, caressing his face, gently leading him over the threshold and into the hall, where Kamala was sitting up on her pallet, frightened.
Nada seated him on the sofa, then sat in a chair opposite and looked at him. He was beginning to come back from whatever nightmare had swallowed him. The fear was ebbing from his face as he slowly realized, it seemed, that he had succeeded in escaping into the care of friends.
“Saul, what happened?” she said. “You look like someone tried to kill you.”
He replied with a direct look that told her that this was exactly right. And with that, she understood everything.
Nada turned to Kamala with the most reassuring look she could muster, and said to her in Marathi, “Kamala, this is Professor Saul Levitt. Maybe you’ll remember him: he’s been in this house before over the years, visiting Dr. Kshirasagar. I met him earlier today at the Institute. He’s a close friend, a good person. I don’t know what’s happened to him now, but I’m sure it must have something to do with Avinash.”
Hearing this, Kamala became visibly calmer. “Yes, I... I think I may remember him,” she said, looking at Saul.
“Saul, if nothing else, you need some tea,” said Nada. “And so do I. What about you, Kamala?”
Kamala shook her head. “Nako,” she said. No.
Nada got up and went to the kitchen, made tea for Saul and herself, came back with it and sat down opposite him again.
“God, Nada, I can’t explain what I’ve just experienced,” Saul began, lifting the tea to his mouth with both trembling hands. “No, I can explain. I could even write a paper about it, because I know intellectually what it was. I’d just never experienced it before, even though I’ve had enough opportunities, if any spirit had wanted to take me. I guess I’ll have to write a paper about it now. It’ll be the scoop of my career.”
He laughed ironically, sipping his tea.
“Avinash possessed you,” Nada said, asking but not asking.
“Oh, is that who it was?” said Saul. “I guess it musta been, who else. Nice guy, pleased to meet him after hearing so much about him.”
Another laugh. He gave Kamala a somewhat embarrassed and apologetic look, and her expression of fear faded into an uncertain but sympathetic smile. Then he looked straight into Nada’s face, something of the terror of minutes past returning to his own.
“I tried to kill myself,” he said. “It was me: all the motivation, all the thinking and memory leading up to it, was mine. But the will was not all my own, there was another will in me, hijacking my mind, my whole self, completely occupying and moving it in a way so like myself that I didn’t realize what had happened until it released me.
“And I think I know why it released me.”
His face and voice became earnest.
“It saw our whole history, Nada, how long we’ve known and... loved each other, how deep our friendship is. It spared me because I’m precious to you. It spared me because it loves you.”
His eyes brimmed with tears, which spilled as he looked down and away from Nada’s.
She sat speechless for a while. Neither she nor Saul noticed as Kamala silently left the room.
Then Nada said, softly, “Tell me. Tell me what happened.”
“So it was after you left,” he began. “Right after we parted from you, Shyamala went home, and I went back into the library. By closing time, 5:30, I was the only one still there. I went out. It was raining again, lightly. There was no one around, besides a groundskeeper who was locking doors at the back of the main bui
lding.”
He sat a forward on the sofa with hands joined between his knees. He was calmer now, and for the most part stared at the floor in front of him as he spoke, but he was clearly intensely aware of Nada’s presence, and from time to time looked up at her with eyes filled with gratitude and faith.
“So I crossed the street to the Hutatma and ordered idli sambar. I was planning to be awake for some hours yet, reading and maybe writing again in my room. I’m the only person staying there right now, as so often over the last forty years. In the early days, the place tended to be quite full, but the numbers have fallen off over the years.
“So I finished the idli, and ordered tea, and sat half-watching the goings-on around me, the other diners, the staff, the street. I started thinking about how long I’ve known this place, how the Hutatma has been part of my daily routine during so many critical moments in my life—it’s even witnessed a few of them. While I was earning my master’s in Sanskrit at the university, for long periods I ate at the Hutatma every evening. And before we were married, Nicole—you know, my first wife?—Nicole and I went there many times with my parents when they were visiting—they used to stay in a huge flat in a side street a five minute walk away.
“On the day Nicole and I were to be married by a local priest in a small Hindu ceremony, on that morning, I sat with her at a table in the upstairs section. And at the last minute—I was so confused and frightened” (he laughed softly)—“I told her that I just couldn’t do it, and that I would prefer that we should just be friends. And she wept, and my heart broke for her, and so we went and kept our appointment with the priest after all.
“Another time, sitting at the table right next to the one where I was sitting last night, I opened the letter from my mother telling me that my father had died. My father Professor Levitt. Before he got to see me become Professor Levitt myself.”
He shook his head.
“At a table on the other side of the room, Nicole and I had had idli and tea one morning before setting out on one of our ‘pilgrimages’—that’s what we used to call them—one of our pilgrimages around rural Maharashtra and Karnataka, hunting for sacrifices and sleeping by the roadside.
The Vetala Page 10