Tooth and Nail, Fur and Scale

by Anupam Arunachalam

  ‘Excellent! Now, I see that you have a good measure of control over his body.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. But I can’t take full credit for this. His mind is feeble—his was easy to overcome.’

  ‘Humility! I like it. Tell me, how will you dispose of this vessel?’

  ‘I will wipe its memories of the possession and then deposit it in a deserted location. I will leave the human to find his way back to whence he came.’

  ‘Right. And how did your last one go?’

  ‘Not too well, sir . . . I tried to bite off just his memories of the possession, but I think I took out a few motor functions as well.’

  ‘That’s all right, child. It takes time to learn how to do that cleanly. There are several pishachas who, even after centuries of practice, can’t manage it without driving the vessel a little insane! In fact, if you had reported a perfect or even near perfect mnemonic excision, I would have been very suspicious.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Good job, Bhaya. Now get rid of this meat-suit and look for another one. You still have five to go before you graduate.’

  ‘Yes, guruji.’

  We are almost out of the door, our body flooding with warm elation, when he clears his throat.

  ‘Er . . . child? Next time, try possessing a female. It’s a slightly different experience, as you’ll see. Plus, you’ll need a decent gender and age variance to get a good grade.’

  ‘Thanks, guruji. I’ll keep that in mind.’

  The Uber driver, an oily haired man with a taste for severely autotuned Haryanvi music, ignores us in the back seat of his white WagonR. And we’re glad for it.

  I can’t believe it worked!

  Ha ha . . . why not? We were disguised, weren’t we?

  Well, if you can call a pair of glasses and a cushion tied across my stomach a disguise.

  The wig and the clothes as well! Come on.

  I still look like me!

  Like I said, not to us. To pishachas, humans all look pretty much the same. You all have the same four limbs, two eyes, a single mouth. We can barely tell the difference between male and female ones unless we’re really looking.

  Who was that guy, by the way? The man who offered us a bite of himself.

  Some half-arsed tantrist, looking to curry a little supernatural favour. They’re all over the place. Beggars, really. They have just enough knowledge of pishachas to get in our business.

  And not enough to know to keep out of it? Why don’t your people kill them or eat them or something?

  They’re guarded by some low-level protection spells. Makes them taste really nasty. The gurus make us practise possession on them sometimes. Which is easy, because they’re very willing to let us enter them.

  But what about eating their memories?

  Well . . . we don’t really have to. They’re not going to go around telling people about us. And even if they did, who’s going to believe them?

  So you just let them go after you’re done with them?

  M-most of the time.

  We feel a gush of guilt, laced with anxiety and fear.

  What do you mean?

  I—I was told to erase the memory of one of these guys once, after I’d possessed him. Th-that’s how I found out that I wasn’t good at it. I’d practised with animals, of course, and I thought I had it down. But then . . .

  But then?

  I overdid it. I ate his memories of being possessed, but then I also ended up biting off a big chunk of his cognitive functions.

  Oh, no!

  Yeah. He couldn’t use language any more, and he had no short-term memory. The guru gave me a B+ and went on with his life—they don’t really care about what we do to humans, as long as we’re not revealing the existence of the pishacha race . . . b-but I—I couldn’t.

  What did you do?

  For a while, I acted as though I couldn’t do it any more.

  Possession?

  Yeah. Like I couldn’t enter a mortal body. So they wouldn’t make me eat the memories. It’s like I told you—I don’t want to hurt people. You’re too much like us.

  That’s why you found me.

  Mmhmm.

  And you don’t have to erase my memories because you trust that I won’t rat you out?

  Partly, yes. But also, if it’s just you saying you were possessed, people might think you’re insane and let you go. If I possess ten humans in one term like I’m supposed to, there’s no way I could leave them all with their memories intact. Ten testimonies from the same city in a few weeks’ time would be . . . disastrous.

  Huh.

  Also, you’re pretty open-minded about this whole thing. Most people go nuts when they realize there’s a demonic being in their mind.

  Well, I guess you’re going to have to find another open-minded person now, right? Your guruji said you needed to find people of other genders and ages.

  Why would I need another person for that?

  This is never going to work.

  We hold the phone at arm’s length, the camera in selfie mode. The screen shows a short, rotund figure clad in a badly wrapped cream sari. White wisps of hair protrude from the hem of the pallu worn over its head. The eyes look huge behind soda-glass spectacles, and the pink lipstick and imitation jewellery are totally incongruous with this parody of an otherwise conservative old woman.

  We’ve got the sari all wrong. It’s going to fall apart!

  Relax! We’ve got all those pins holding it together.

  The girl on YouTube didn’t have it sagging down the front like this.

  Pull yourself together, man. It’s only for ten minutes.

  The pink walls of the shamshan ghat loom before us. We are walking resolutely through the gates.

  Easy for you to say! If we get found out, you only repeat a class in pishacha school. The best I can hope for is to be eaten alive by that guru of yours.

  Shh!

  A sombre mist hangs over the maidan, making blocky silhouettes of the platforms on which the pyres are burnt. The tree with the portal beneath it looks like a gigantic withered hand, and a feeling of unmistakable dread creeps around us as we approach it.

  What’s that by the tree?

  As we move closer, we see that the figure beside it is human.

  ‘Who goes there?’ The man wheels around to face us. He looks surprised to see someone here at this time.

  It’s the guy from before!

  Oh, man.

  ‘Wh-who are you?’ says the half-arsed tantrist.

  ‘You dare question me, human runt?’

  ‘Oh! I-I’m sorry, master! I thought you were just a human—’ The man’s expression suddenly changes as we get closer. ‘Have I—have I seen you somewhere before, master?’

  ‘The drugs you smoke have addled your brain, fool!’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord! I meant, of course, that there’s something familiar about this vessel you’re currently in possession of.’

  Oh, God. He remembers me from the last time!

  Stay cool. We’ll get rid of him.

  ‘Vessels mean less than nothing to me! Now begone, foul beast! This is an inauspicious time for you to be lingering around our realms!’

  ‘Of course, master! I shall take my leave of you then.’ The man skitters away, turning to bow to us every few metres.

  That was close.

  I’ll say.

  We walk to the base of the tree, and start sinking into the earth. We brace for the short drop and land in a crouch.

  Oh, no . . . I think we’ve, er, destabilized the sari.

  We’re fine. Relax. Just let me do my thing.

  We walk down to the foyer, which is milling with students. Pishachas billow about, their bodies pliable and diaphanous. Most of them retain some semblance of the midnight-blue skin and sable veins—their original colour—but a lot are experimenting with other shapes and hues. There are also a few human vessels, moving rigidly, like mannequins on strings, and twitching from time to time.

>   See that? That’s what happens if the pishacha hasn’t fully overcome the host.

  Or if the host isn’t a super-nice and understanding person who voluntarily gives up control of his body to the pishacha, you mean?

  Of course. That’s why guruji was so pleased with my performance. He thinks I’ve got you totally bound.

  Hmm . . .

  We walk past the other students, exchanging pleasantries with some, ribald inside jokes with others. Finally, we reach guruji’s door and rap on it thrice.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Guruji, it is I, Bhayamudra.’

  ‘Ah . . . Bhayamudra.’ There’s a whooshing noise, and then the door swings open. ‘Come in!’ says guruji, revealing all his fangs in a broad grin. The smell of sulphur wafts out of the open doorway.

  The door shuts behind us with a bang as we enter.

  Wow. WOW! I don’t know if I should be feeling glad that he didn’t recognize me, or disappointed that humans are so indistinct that you pishachas can’t even tell us apart.

  Probably the former, because otherwise, you’d have been dinner and I’d have been expelled.

  Yeah. Probably. So what now?

  We do this four more times and call it a day!

  We’re walking down the corridor towards the foyer, our body flushed with the warmth of accomplishment. From the corner of an eye, we catch movement behind us.

  What’s that?

  ‘I recognize you!’ says the bearded tantrist. ‘You’re wearing a sari, and a wig—but I recognize you!’

  He’s standing a few feet away from the door to the guru’s room, and his eyes are shining with glee.

  ‘You dare look me in the eye, whelp?’ Our voice is booming, but there’s a little quiver at the end of the sentence.

  ‘I was listening in on your test, little master. Ohhh . . . you’ve done a very bad thing indeed! Cheating on your exams, deceiving your teacher—it doesn’t speak well of you at all, does it?’

  A chill runs down our spine, and our voice is reduced to a whisper. ‘Begone, vile human! While I am in control of my rage, begone!’

  The human shrinks back towards guruji’s door and hisses at us, ‘Or, I could knock on this door and tell your teacher what you’re trying to do here!’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘Perhaps he will grant me a favour in return! A favour that I have spent months courting!’

  ‘You idiot! He’ll fail me, and he’ll kill you for daring to threaten another pishacha!’

  ‘Oh? Well, let’s find out, shall we?’

  The man poises his knuckles in front of the door and mimics a knock in the air.

  ‘Don’t do it!’

  ‘Why not? I do not believe I have anything to lose—but I do have everything to gain!’

  ‘Fine, I’ll help you! I’ll do you the favour!’

  What! Don’t make him any promises, Bhaya.

  ‘You?’ The man strokes his beard. ‘Hmmmm! You are but a pishacha youngling, it’s true, but my work is not hard for one such as you . . .’

  ‘What do you want done?’

  Don’t fall for it, man! He’s bluffing. Your teacher might not even listen to him.

  ‘It’s a rather important phase of this ritual I’m performing. A great ritual—one that will let me channel great power! After I am done with it, perhaps I will be in a position to grant you a favour.’

  ‘Get to the point. What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing too hard. Nothing too hard at all. Just the bones of a deity.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘A deity. A person whom others worship. A naga, a god-man, a pop star—anyone that people might . . . revere in a fervent way.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not asking you to get me the bones specifically. Just bring me the body and I’ll carve them out myself.’

  Is he serious?

  He’s crazy if he thinks I’m going to help him with a human sacrifice!

  ‘What do you say, my good man? Can you possess one of those babas that have their own television shows and bring him to me? I’ll give you extra points if you drive him up in his Rolls-Royce!’

  You think you can handle it if I jump out for a bit?

  What?

  ‘Well, what’s your answer? It seems like a simple enough task for a pishacha—even a whelp such as yourself.’ The man advances on us, rubbing his palms together in anticipation. ‘An easy bargain, if there ever was one. I mean, considering the consequences . . .’

  Take control of the legs. Keep us standing.

  What’re you going to—

  The wind rushes out of our body, and then there’s just me in here. At first, I see only blue smoke, which streams out of my nostrils and obscures my sight. I struggle to keep my balance, and the sudden vacuum in my head makes me reel.

  ‘What the—’ says the man, but the blue smoke, congealing into a humanoid shape with ivory skin and blazing red eyes for a split second, rushes at him. Into him. My senses are hazy, but I can feel the struggle inside the tantrist’s body. He has more power to resist the incursion than I did—perhaps more than most people do—because of his arcane knowledge. But Bhayamudra manages to silence him, and the man, with flailing limbs, somehow shuffles down the tunnel and away from the teacher’s room. Then he falls to the floor and makes an enormous racket as the two minds battle for control.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  I look over my shoulder and see a couple of pishachas turning the corner. I freeze.

  ‘Is that you, Bhaya?’

  After an endless moment of anxious confusion, I realize they’re looking at me. ‘Yes!’ I say. ‘Hi!’

  ‘We heard you were managing really well with the possession practicals,’ one of them says, his body literally pulsating an envious green.

  ‘Yeah! Guruji’s been talking you up like mad,’ says the other. ‘What’s the secret? Did you get a tutor?’

  ‘Uh . . .’ I struggle for words.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, you better give Dhundaman over there a few tips,’ says the first one, extending a hand towards me. I resist the urge to cower, then notice that his index finger is sticking out. I look over my shoulder, and realize that he’s pointing at the tantrist’s body on the floor, which is convulsing and frothing at the mouth. ‘With you getting your act together, he’s the only one in class who can’t even enter a vessel without causing a scene!’

  They laugh cruelly, then flash me what I assume is a friendly sign before walking away. The white hair from my wig is slick against my damp forehead. The sari is in a shambles. I want to scream.

  But then I look down and see that the man’s body is trying to stand up on trembling legs.

  ‘Bh-bh-bhaya?’ I say.

  ‘Help!’ he says hoarsely through the man’s mouth. ‘Help me get this guy out of here.’

  I slip my hands under his arms and heave him up. The battle of wills is not over yet. The arms are rigid, and cold sweat makes dirty tracks as it drips down the body. He smells like a compost heap.

  ‘Y-you can do it, Bhaya!’ I say nasally.

  ‘Nnngh! H-h-he’s got some training in resisting possession. I’m-I’m having a hard time, but if we can just get him up to the surface—’

  ‘Hold on! It’s not much further.’

  The man’s face winces, and he shudders as I help him walk.

  ‘For an amateur tantrist, this guy’s pretty good,’ Bhaya says through gritted teeth.

  In the foyer, we’re drawing stares. Some of the students snigger at the ineptitude of the pishacha who’s unable to perform a simple possession, and hoot at the man’s floundering figure. Others look on with embarrassed fascination. I try not to think about what would happen if we aroused suspicion.

  ‘Smile,’ Bhaya whispers in my ear through trembling lips. ‘Don’t look so tense.’

  I try to look chilled out but I don’t try to smile, because I’m sure I’d look ridiculous for how anxious I am.

  Eventual
ly, we reach the base of the dead tree. The roots form a lattice that is easy to climb solo, but it’s torture carrying the spasming body of this two-minded man. I almost manage to pull him up, with Bhaya trying to help as best as he can, but then the tantrist manages to let go and slides back to the bottom. Finally, I decide to push him from behind. The body begins to dry-heave as it rises, but Bhaya succeeds in keeping control of the limbs long enough to reach the ceiling of the tunnel. And then we’re sucked up, just as we were sucked in from the surface.

  I spit out globs of mud as I emerge, and crawl away from the base of the tree on to solid ground. The man is lying there face down, panting with exertion.

  ‘Bhaya!’ I say, but he does not answer. ‘What do you want to do now?’

  He moans. I rush to his side and turn him over. His face is caked with mud, which sticks to his hair and beard in clumps. His breath is ragged, and it reeks. His eyes are rolled up, so all I can see are the bloodshot whites.

  ‘Bhaya?’

  One hand shoots out and grabs my wrist tight. ‘Who’s Bhaya?’ he says with a grimace, baring his teeth.

  I jerk my hand away and fall back on my butt. He struggles to get to his feet, and as I try to pick myself up, I notice that I’m exhausted too. I’m on my knees and he’s standing over me. I look at his face and realize that there’s no trace of Bhaya in there.

  ‘Who’s Bhaya?’ he says, and I scream.

  Relax. It’s all right.

  Bhaya! Why’re you back inside me? He’s going to get away!

  I said, relax. I got him.

  What do you mean you got him?

  We look at his eyes; they’re dull and cloudy. He looks confused, and his stance is limp and unthreatening.

  ‘Who’s Bhaya?’ he says again.

  You ate his memories!

  And I have to say, they were seriously yuck.

  You did it! You did it without messing his brain up!

  For the most part, yes. I might have licked off some of his knowledge of magic in the process, but I’d like to think that wasn’t wholly unintentional.

  Wow! You did it!