Tara pulled at a stray weed poking up from the parched earth. Her blood boiled and not because of the midday sun. Some of the villagers speaking against her were the same people she had risked her life for; people she had saved from spending the rest of their lives as Vetalas. And yet, based on this one incident, they were ready to condemn her. Tara felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up.
“It’s all right,” said Parvati. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. If Father were here, it would have been very different, but we’ll have to manage on our own until he returns.”
“Serving God is a good thing and Lord Ganesh knows you didn’t do it,” said Shiv. “Even if he cannot give evidence on your behalf.”
Tara nodded, grateful for their support. Even Suraj flung his arms around her and squeezed her tight.
“The meeting is over,” said Raka. “You can all go back to work.”
Tara started walking, scanning the crowd for Ananth, but there was no sign of him. He must have slipped off to tell his mother the news. At least she had managed to keep Gayatri out of this. It was the only thing that gave her some solace.
“Suffer!” A sibilant whisper close to her ear made her jump.
Tara turned around. Layla stood there, sneering at her. Tara felt a deep pang of fear. For the first time in her life she saw purpose in Layla’s eyes — other than the desire to stuff her face full of food.
Tara then knew with absolute certainly that Layla was behind this. But how was she going to prove it to the villagers before it was too late?
— four —
A Deadly Rumour
Tara had never worked so hard in her life, not even when Kali had been around, treating her and Suraj like slaves. She worked from sunrise to sunset, scrubbing, scouring, and washing. Tara spent extra time on the spot where the blood had pooled and seeped into the floor, trying to remove every trace of that terrible incident.
All prayers had stopped while she cleaned the temple. Tara had to endure the malevolent looks of Punditji, who had recovered sufficiently from his illness to supervise her every minute of the day when he wasn’t sleeping or eating. It was like a vacation for him and he was enjoying it tremendously, but tried hard not to let it show.
Punditji also delighted in sneaking up on her, barefoot, and yelling in her ear. After the fifth time, Tara took to looking behind her every few minutes to see if she could catch him in the act.
“You missed a patch there,” he said one hot afternoon. “If you work this way, it’ll never get done.”
“I just did that section,” she replied. “Look, it’s still wet.”
Tara tried hard to keep the disgust out of her voice. He looked like an overgrown child who had not done an ounce of work in his life. His soft, white hands had only ever held pooja thalis laden with fruits, and the prayer bell. Once he blessed the food it was divided equally between the devotee and God. And God really meant Punditji. No doubt, missing all those treats was making him cranky and he blamed Tara for it. This was his way of making her suffer as much as him.
“Are you implying that I’m a liar when the real liar is you?”
Tara opened her mouth, and then closed it again. With a sigh, she pushed the bucket over to the section Punditji had pointed out with his big toe, and started scrubbing. It was the third day of her punishment and she was still working on the inside. She hadn’t even begun to clean up the outside. Punditji had made her start with his living quarters at the back of the temple. It was not part of the punishment, but Tara did it, anyway, trying not to show shock at the mess.
The bell outside the temple pealed loudly, shattering the heavy stillness of the afternoon. They both looked up. Raka stood there, wiping his perspiring face and fanning it with the edge of his turban. He stepped inside and touched his forehead to the Lord’s feet. Then he turned to them. “How is the cleaning coming along?”
Tara wasn’t sure whom he was addressing so she kept her mouth shut and continued scrubbing.
“Slow. This one is very lazy,” said Punditji. “But don’t you worry, Raka, I’m keeping a close eye on her.
She will not get away with a shoddy job. Once she has finished the outside of the temple, I will bathe Lord Ganesh in milk. Then we will organize a grand pooja for the entire village.”
Hmmm,” said Raka. “How long will it take?”
Punditji stroked his ample belly and tugged on the little shendi of hair at the back of his head. “A week at most,” he said.
A week! thought Tara. Her arms were threatening to fall off within the next hour.
Raka sighed deeply, staring out the doorway. “We also have to do a pooja for the rains. The monsoon season has started and yet, not a drop has fallen from the sky. Our crops are starting to turn yellow and the well water is running low. We need rain now!”
“At this time last year, the crop was bountiful and green,” said Punditji. “This year the gods are angry with us. Can you blame them, with sinful children like Tara in the village? They’re punishing us, that’s for sure. But do not worry, Raka. I have just the prayer for it. It’s expensive, but it’ll be worth it.”
Tara sat back on her haunches, her heart beating erratically. Now they were blaming her for the delayed monsoon? Were they mad?
“We’ve had rains fail before so I don’t think we can put all the blame on Tara,” said Raka. But he did not sound very convincing, almost as if he had trouble believing his own words.
Tara’s eyes met Raka’s, but there was no warmth in them. No smile on his face, either. He had been so happy when she had returned with Suraj and Sadia. He had embraced her warmly and said that she had upheld the name of Morni. It hurt more than anything to see distrust and doubt where once there had been pride and joy.
“But yes, there is a possibility that the gods are angry with us,” said Raka. “Last week the clouds had started to gather and this week, nothing but blue skies.”
Tara resumed scrubbing, her chest burning with anger. They were wrong. All of them! She had to prove it. But how?
“I have to go,” said Raka. “Let me know the moment this is done. We have much to pray for!”
Once again, he supplicated himself in front of Lord Ganesh, then left without glancing at Tara.
The moment Raka was out the door, Punditji said, “I have some important work to take care of. See that you don’t disturb me for the next couple of hours. And when this room is done, you can start on the steps.” And with that, he shuffled away, barely able to suppress a yawn.
Tara stood up and stretched her aching back. She walked to the doorway and stared at the flight of steps. She had run up them so often, never giving a thought to how many there were. She counted them for the first time. Thirty-one long slabs of stone that she had to scrub and wash. She lifted her eyes to the huts that spread out before her, to the paddy fields beyond, which were yellow rather than the lush green she loved to see. It stabbed at her heart. Among these were her father’s fields, too. The sky was still blue and cloudless. Did the rain have to be delayed just now?
“Oi!” said Punditji. “You can admire the view later. Get to work.”
Tara jumped, a curse at the tip of her tongue. He had done it again. She felt an irresistible urge to empty the bucket of dirty, soapy water over his spotless white dhoti and then see him yell. But she was in enough trouble already, so she resisted the impulse and got to work until the vast, glowering bulk of Punditji moved away. The door to his room slammed shut. At least she would have peace for a couple of hours while he took care of important matters; his afternoon siesta. Everyone knew about it, but no one dared say a word for fear of his wrath.
She paused to brush her damp hair from her eyes and gazed at the figure of Lord Ganesh. The brilliant sunshine that poured in from the windows and doorway made the colours seem even more vibrant. The gold ornaments adorning his body glittered, throwing bright, starry reflections on the ceiling. She looked into the eyes of the clay deity. They were so skillfully painted that no matte
r where she stood in the room, it seemed that Lord Ganesh was looking straight at her.
“Why,” whispered Tara. “What is this pattern you’re weaving for me now which I can’t see? And what is it going to look like when you’re done?”
The Lord continued looking at her serenely, and, in spite of everything, Tara felt a calm descend upon her.
“Talking to yourself, Tara?” said a sneering voice. “You better get used to it because soon no one in Morni will be speaking to you.”
The calm evaporated as Tara turned around. Layla filled the doorway.
“Get out,” said Tara. “I’m working.”
“Didn’t look like it a moment ago,” said Layla. She stepped into the temple and deliberately walked over the damp patch that Tara had just cleaned, leaving large, muddy footprints. She walked over to the spot where the dead dog had lain. “So this is where you killed it, right?”
Tara stood up, her heart pounding. She had scrubbed the spot over and over until there was no telltale sign of blood to mark the place. Yet Layla had known exactly where it had been.
“It was there,” said Tara. She pointed to a corner of the room while watching Layla carefully.
“Wrong!” said Layla. “It was right he —” She stopped.
“So it was you who did it,” said Tara softly. She came right up to Layla and stared into her black eyes. “You did it and framed me.”
“Prove it,” said Layla. She stared right back at Tara without the slightest hint of fear.
A tidal wave of rage almost drowned Tara, but she knew she couldn’t do anything for now. She was dying to push Layla out the door and see her bump down each one of those thirty-one steps. Instead, she shoved her wet hands into her pockets. In one of them was a smooth orb.
“I can’t prove it just yet,” said Tara. “But you won’t get away with it. I’ll see to it that everyone knows.”
Layla giggled and at that moment it seemed as if a shrunken Kali had returned from the Underworld. She scooped up a spotted apple still lying in one of the thalis and bit into it. Tara dropped to her knees and surreptitiously pressed her wet palm into the vermillion powder that the villagers sprinkled on the Lord’s feet as part of their offering.
“I’ve got something for you,” said Tara. She slipped her hand back into her pocket. “Here — it’s the dog’s eyeball.”
Layla stared at the dark, black orb smeared in red that lay in Tara’s bloody palm. She gave a loud shriek, dropped the apple and raced out the door, retching.
“Come back, you forgot your souvenir,” said Tara trying not to burst into laughter. She watched Layla stumble down the steps, almost tripping over her own large feet. Tara silently thanked Suraj for his favourite marble, making a mental note to return it to him soon.
That felt good.
Tara washed the vermillion powder from her hands and started scrubbing once again.
The Ganesh temple thronged with villagers and the overflow spilled out on to the steps and around the sides. They were here for the grand pooja that Punditji had organized for the village of Morni. Every man, woman, and child was decked out for the occasion in spite of the searing heat of the late evening. The men wore white kurta-pajamas that were already limp from the humidity, and the women were in sarees or ghaghra-cholis. Gold ornaments shimmered on them, catching the dying rays of the sun.
Tara gazed around with pride. The temple sparkled. The stairs leading up to the deity room, all thirty-one of them, were clean and free from years of accumulated dust and dirt. The floor of the main room was pristine. She had scrubbed away all the layers of spilled diya oil, sticky fruit juice, coconut water, and ash from the incense sticks. The black stone slabs shone and were smooth against the soles of her feet. The thick, heavy fragrance of sandalwood incense perfumed the air.
Tara had even pulled out all the weeds around the periphery of the temple. She had replaced them with small, flowering plants that had flourished in the hot sun, their orange and red hues contrasting with the grey stone of the temple walls.
“This room smells so good and it’s spotless,” Parvati whispered to Tara as they stood in a corner. “I never could stomach the odour of rancid oil for long. You’ve done a very good job. I’m sure Lord Ganesh is pleased with you.”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Tara. “Maybe Lord Ganesh is pleased, but Punditji still isn’t.”
Mother shook her head and hugged Tara. “Don’t mind him.”
“Mother, did Rakaji ever find out who killed … who did this?”
Parvati shook her head. “They are still investigating, but I know you didn’t do it. Your father believes you’re innocent, too.”
Tara noted that very few villagers were of the same mind as her mother. They stopped to talk to Shiv and Parvati, and patted Tara on the head. Most just nodded in Tara’s direction and faced the deity, waiting for the pooja to begin.
You’re all wrong, thought Tara. And when the truth comes out, you’ll see.
The small room was hot, made hotter by the rows of diyas lit at the foot of Lord Ganesh. Everyone wanted to be inside rather than outside, and the crush of bodies was almost unbearable. Many fanned themselves with their turbans or sarees, their faces glistening with sweat. Tara couldn’t wait to get out and breathe the cool air, but she would not miss this for anything. She had been ordered to clean the temple and she had done a great job. And she wanted to see the Panchayat’s reaction to it.
Punditji stepped out from his room in a crisp white dhoti. “All ready?” he boomed. His chest was bare except for the thick, red thread that circled it diagonally, from over his right shoulder to his ample waist. It was part of a coming-of-age religious ceremony that all Hindu boys went through. His curly pigtail was well oiled. Suraj had once remarked that it looked like a pig’s tail. Ever since, Tara had to suppress a smile whenever she gazed at Punditji’s shendi. His small eyes glittered as he saw the piles of fruits and sweets on the glistening steel thalis at the foot of the deity. Nothing put him in a better mood than the sight of food. And today it was evident that he was in an excellent mood.
Raka and the rest of the Panchayat were the last ones to arrive. A place next to the deity had already been reserved for them. As soon as they took their places, the pooja began.
Punditji tinkled the bell and led the villagers through a prayer they could sing, all together. The chants of the villagers echoed in the small room. Tara gazed at the face of Lord Ganesh, thankful that things were back to normal. After this, the villagers would forget this incident had ever happened and no one would look at her like she was a pariah.
Once they finished chanting the prayer, everyone fell silent. Punditji then sang the next prayer solo.His nasal, whiny voice mingling with the heat and smoke from the incense sticks made Tara drowsy.
Sumathy stood beside Raka. She had barely spoken to Tara since that incident. Tara caught her eye and smiled tentatively. Sumathy looked away and it felt like someone had slapped her. Tara scanned the crowd and one by one, the villagers’ gazes slid away. She had completed her punishment. Why were they still angry with her?
She looked around for Ananth, but didn’t see him. Maybe he was outside with his mother. If Gayatri was attending, it would be best to remain out of sight.
With a pang of worry, Tara realized Layla wasn’t there, either. Her drowsiness vanished. Where was her stepsister? What was she up to now?
“Mother, where’s Layla?” whispered Tara. She remembered the look on Layla’s face when she had held out the marble, pretending that it was the dead dog’s eyeball. Her stepsister was not likely to forget that joke.
“I don’t know,” said Parvati softly.
Tara nudged Suraj, whose eyes were closing as he stared at Punditji’s back. “Suraj, have you seen Layla?”
“Obviously, some people think that the pooja is not important enough to pray in silence,” snapped Punditji. He twisted around, his eyes fixed on Tara. “Silence,” he hissed.
Burning with shame, Ta
ra stared at Punditji and then at the rest of the villagers who wore expressions of annoyance and disgust. “Sorry,” she whispered.
Punditji threw her one last dirty look and resumed the prayers. Seated on a flat, low stool, he held the little bell in his left hand. It tinkled nonstop while he threw flowers and rice at regular intervals at the foot of Lord Ganesh. The incantations got louder as Punditji exercised his considerable lung power in front of a captive audience.
One thought continued to nag at Tara: where was Layla? It was not like her to avoid a large gathering if she could help it. She got the answer a second later.
“Rakaji, RAKAJI!” someone yelled outside the temple.
Tara knew that voice. Hated that voice. Yet she couldn’t wait to hear what it had to say.
Punditji huffed loudly, barely able to twist around on his stool without falling off. “What is it with these interruptions? Is anyone going to let me finish this pooja? The auspicious time is ticking away.”
No one answered him. Their eyes were glued to the door as the crowd parted. Layla stepped through the doors, gasping and wheezing for breath, her large hand clasped to her pudgy chest. It was as if someone had lifted Tara from summer and thrown her straight into winter. Cold seeped through her as she watched Layla doing a great imitation of a fish out of water.
“What is it, Layla?” said Raka when Layla showed no signs of stopping her infernal panting. “How dare you interrupt this important pooja? Couldn’t you have waited?”
Layla stopped immediately. She pushed past villagers and came closer to Raka. She folded her hands and bowed her head to Lord Ganesh before speaking.
“Rakaji, this was something that just couldn’t wait. In fact, we may need Punditji’s prayers more than ever now, or we are all doomed.”
“What are you talking about?” said Raka. “Speak clearly, Layla or get out. You’re trying my patience!”
Layla glanced over at Tara for a mere second, but it was clear there was more trouble coming her way. Tara clasped her hands together, not surprised to find that they were sweaty.
The Deadly Conch Page 4