by Faraaz Kazi
“When she knocked on the door, a half-dressed woman answered and she found out that the bastard was already married with a couple of kids. My daughter went into a shock but somehow came back home and went into her room. She didn't open the door the entire night, even when I called for dinner, she would not answer. We thought she was tired and had fallen asleep. The next morning, we had to break open the door with the help of some
The Other Side
141 neighbours. We found her lifeless body suspended from the ceiling fan,” she said turning to look at me.
For some strange reason, my entire body shook from the mixture of those words and her lost gaze.
“B… but I did see her last night, talked to her…” I tried to voice.
“Since then, every year post Eid a Salim lands up at our house with a similar tale saying he met Aarusha, talked to her, dropped her home and so on. It happens every year on the night of Eid, only the location keeps changing in the city. Initially, we thought someone was playing a joke on our misery but fate had already played that prank five years back. Aaru's father couldn't even make it past a couple of years after her death. The shock of the incidents was too much for us…” she said amidst mild sobs.
“But w…why?” It was the only question I wanted to know.
“No one knows, no one will know. Perhaps her spirit still searches the love of her Salim and it is this love that she comes to seek once every year,” she said, looking at her daughter's grave while walking around me.
Suddenly the sun seemed right over my head, my insides burned and my legs clanged against each other as I tried to hoist myself up, trying hard not to look at the grave, at Aarusha, at the girl who had claimed my heart and taken it three feet below the earth.
As I finally managed to stand up on my wobbling feet, I turned to ask Aarusha's mother one final question. My rickety feet gave away and I fell down again. There was no one behind me. I looked around frantically; there was not a single soul in sight in this part of the cemetery.
I gripped the nearest gravestone apprehensively trying to balance my unsteady frame. Beads of sweat swam on the surface of my body as the yellow orb overhead cast a glittering shine on the marble beneath my hand. I read the words slowly at first, and in a panicky state the next.
Shehnaz Khan
1957-2011
Loving Wife of Hasan Khan and Doting Mother of Aarusha Khan I smelled the gravel before my head spun and my body hit the
ground. The damp mud engulfed what would have been half a scream. This time no one held my hand. No one seized my heart.
“We ask only to be reassured
About the noises in the cellar
And the window that should not have been open.”
¯ T.S. Eliot
A Mother's Love
A
s the taxi came to a halt just outside the grandiose gate, Bhagyalakshmi looked at the bungalow with a mixture of dismay and delight. A quintessential urban girl, she had grown up in the organized chaos of Chennai and the magnificent isolation of her new abode generated awe, pride and apprehension in equal measures inside her heart. Her husband, Swaminathan, had recently taken up the position of General Manager of Windsor Tea Estate in Munnar and they were in the process of moving into the GM's bungalow situated in the heart of the estate.
“It is huge. How am I going to keep it clean?” She wondered but refrained from articulating her thoughts. But over and above that, she was happy they had moved out from the city of her in-laws who would keep pestering them and raising doubts on her ability to bear children even after five years of marriage. It was depressing that the Goddess had not blessed them even after numerous poojas, fasts and purification ceremonies. The doctors whom they had consulted also had found nothing unusual in their reproductive capabilities.
After spending the first five years of their married life in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Kochi, Swaminathan now looked forward to a life of cosy domesticity in their new residence. He too was worried about the possibility that he would never get to hold their offspring in his arms but he had not given up hope and continued to pray fervently to the Goddess. As he proudly ushered his wife into the biggest bungalow in the tea garden, he had visions of practicing a lifestyle similar to that of the English Tea planters who lived there a century back, albeit with few modern amenities.
The bungalow was situated on the top of a hillock, a huge garden surrounding it. The front verandah looked over a lawn bordered by flowerbeds, the fragrance of a hundred blossoms running in the air touching it. A large swing which could comfortably seat two occupied pride of place in a corner overlooking the large window on the lower level of the house. Tall pine trees lined the edges of the garden that in turn was surrounded by a white picket fence. The backside was devoted to a large kitchen garden that separated the main bungalow from the outhouse that was being used as the servant's quarters. The high-ceilinged bungalow consisted of a huge hall, a drawing room, two bedrooms, a library, a kitchen and numerous storerooms that would take much time to explore. Bhagyalakshmi noted with a touch of amusement that the bathrooms were larger than the bedroom of their Kochi apartment. Most of the furniture qualified being labeled as antique, being as old as the bungalow itself.
Bhagyalakshmi gradually got used to the lonely existence in the huge place. There was not much to do as the couple of servants took care of all the cooking and cleaning. All she had to do was supervise over them, teach one of them to cook Tamil dishes and take some interest in the affairs of the garden. The taciturn gardener did not like to pay heed to the advice of the new mistress and preferred to work alone. The newly installed Dish antenna provided her with some moments of solace but she had never been an avid television watcher and got tired of it soon. A month passed and she started chaffing at the forced inactivity, developing insomnia that made her kohl-lined eyes swell up. While Swaminathan, worn out after his work in the estate, slept like a baby on the other corner of the ornate teak double bed; she would toss and turn on her end of the bed, listening to the myriad sounds that punctuated the silence of the night. While she could explain the squeak of the mice, the call of the nightjar and the sounds of the wind whistling in the trees; she could have sworn that she sometimes heard the light patter of running feet or an occasional suppressed giggle that echoed across the house.
She thought of asking Swaminathan but hesitated as she thought that probably she was imagining things. But the unexplained happenings did not cease. One day after finishing her bath, she realised that her towel was missing from the rack. She thought about it but could not quite recall if she had actually carried it in with her clothes. She fumbled on the ground outside the bathroom, one hand exploring the possibility that she had dropped it there. As her hands checked the door mat outside, her mouth straining against the door, she felt something damp brush against her fingers. She shrieked, immediately pulling her hand inside. She struck her neck out of the bathroom door to look for the person who had dared to be a peeping tom while she bathed. She looked left and right and straight but could see no one and hear no sound. She shouted for the girl to get the towel but she seemed to be nowhere around. Irritated, she wrapped her gown around her wet torso and went to change in her room, still thinking about whom or rather what she had touched. She could swear she had felt a little palm touch her hand.
A week later, she was sitting in the verandah going through The Hindu when she felt someone tug at her tresses from the back. She whirled around but there was nothing there. She saw the gardener working in the flowerbeds and called him over.
“Did you see someone in the verandah just a minute back?” she asked, feeling very silly immediately. “I could have sworn that I felt that there was someone here,” she added by the way of an explanation. The gardener merely shook his head and went back to his work. She wondered if a gust of wind had made her imagine the tug. In the mornings, she would also notice that however hard she tried; the milk would not curdle to make some curd. As it was inconce
ivable that a Tamil Brahmin couple live without their daily fix of curd-rice, she got a servant to fetch some readymade curd from the nearby shop almost daily. Sometimes, the utensils in the kitchen would not be found at the place she kept them and wondered if that could be attributed it to the carelessness of the girl or was there a deeper cause to it?
Another fortnight later, Bhagyalakshmi's insomnia worsened. She would toss and turn through most of the night, falling into an exhausted sleep just before dawn. She was perturbed about the incidents but curiously, she was not afraid. She felt that the house wanted to communicate something to her. Something important was about to happen, something that involved her. She felt an inexplicable feeling inside her whenever she walked in the hallway. When she was in the house she felt warmth, a sense of belonging and of being protected. Even the small incidents that she could not explain did not generate any fear but simply piqued her curiosity. A couple of evenings later, Bhagyalakshmi decided she wanted fresh flowers for the vase on the dining table and decided to get them herself as the gardener had left for the day. As she stepped out of the verandah towards the flowerbeds she heard a flapping of wings and a large jungle crow swooped down on her. It flapped around her as if it wanted to drive her back into the house. She shooed it away and moved determinedly towards the flowerbeds. She felt a tug on her sari and turned around to see a small child standing there. He was fair skinned almost Caucasian, blue eyed, dressed in matching grey striped shirt and shorts that hung loosely over his thin body.
“Don't go there. There is a King Cobra in the flowerbed,” he whispered softly.
Her blood froze at the mention of the snake. As she turned back, she asked the boy. “Thank you. Who are you?” The boy giggled and replied. “I live nearby.”
The little boy had a cherubic face and his eyes shone with mischief. She felt a sudden surge of affection for him. “And how do you know that there is a snake out there?”
“I know everything!” He replied seriously. “And didn't you notice how the crow was behaving?” the boy pointed skywards, making her look up.
“Why don't you come in and I'll treat you to a milk shake,” offered Bhagyalakshmi and turned towards him again.The boy was gone.
She mentioned the incident to Swaminathan when he came back home looking weary.
“Yes! There are many snakes in the vicinity and you should not venture out after twilight. But who was the boy? There are no Europeans in the garden or nearby. The only people living here are the workers and the tea pickers and they are mostly of local origin. Are you sure you are not imagining things?”
Bhagyalakshmi decided to make a few enquires the next day. She made her way to the lawn where gardener was weeding the flowerbeds. He looked up when she arrived but as usual he went back to his work without saying anything.
“Listen, I need to talk to you,” she said.
The old man continued working in silence.
“Look, I know that there is something wrong with this
bungalow. You have been living here for long. Have you heard or seen anything unusual?” she said.
“No, I have never seen or heard of anything of that sort, madam,” the gardener replied, continuing to work on weeding the flowerbed, apparently intent on the task.
“But I saw a small boy who appeared to be European. I even talked to him and he talked back in a British accent. And then just as suddenly he had appeared, he was gone,” she argued.
The old man finally raised his eyes and looked at her. There was an unfathomable expression in his eyes. “Did you see James baba?”
“I saw a little boy who warned me about going into the flower beds. He said that there was a King Cobra there. I invited him in for a milk shake but... who is James baba?” Bhagyalakshmi raised an eyebrow.
“It is an old story I have heard from my grandfather. Little James was the only son of Holden Sahib, the British manager of this Tea Garden who lived in this bungalow some hundred years back. His mother passed away while giving birth to him. An affectionate child, he grew up in the hands of a succession of ayahs. The garden was his favourite spot to play hide and seek with his friends. One day he fell into a well that used to be here and drowned. No one even realised his whereabouts for a long time until a search party found his little floating body. The sahib was distraught with grief and went back to England. The well was filled and its traces removed by the subsequent resident of this house,” the old gardener stopped abruptly, quite overcome by his own loquaciousness.
Bhagyalakshmi talked to the others and picked up bits and pieces of the legend surrounding the bungalow. She decided not to tell anything to Swaminathan as he would have shifted out of the bungalow immediately. And she did not want that. The pathetic tale of the little boy who died a century back and who perhaps still roamed around the bungalow tugged at her heartstrings. She hoped to see him at least one more time.
One afternoon, when Swaminathan was away, she walked to the town cemetery. She bypassed the grand CSI Church with its sloping tinned roof and looked around, trying to locate the grave of James Holden. The cemetery was surprisingly well maintained, with trimmed grass and an occasional floral tribute to the departed. There were a number of graves, mostly of the British residents of the town from a bygone era. She found the graves next to each other.
'In loving memory of Susan Holden (1880 - 1905)
Beloved wife of William Holden, who died in childbirth. Rest in peace.'
She read the first inscription.
The inscription on the smaller grave next to it said. 'James Holden (1905 -1913)
He preferred to be with his mother even in death.'
She plucked a wild rose from the nearby shrub and placed it on the grave. She felt an unexplained bond with the little motherless boy who had died almost a century ago.
Another month passed by. Bhagyalakshmi stayed up late at nights, while Swaminathan snored away; hoping to hear the patter of little feet but nothing happened. One particular night, Bhagyalakshmi was feeling exceptionally distraught for no particular reason. It was the boredom she guessed that was gnawing at her sanity. Sleep eluded her and in a vain bid to settle her mind, she stepped out of the bungalow and started walking around in the verandah. The half crescent moon lit up the stillness of the night throwing an eerie glow over the house and its surroundings. Suddenly, her eyes were drawn to the swing at the side of the lawn. Why was it moving back and forth even when there was no presence of the wind? Was there someone sitting on it? She strained her eyes and squinted through the half-light. A little boy was sitting on it, swinging his legs in glee.
Bhagyalakshmi found herself drawn towards the lawn. She was filled with an irresistible desire to talk to the boy. She found herself moving in his direction.
“James!” She heard herself call out. “Is it you? I want to talk to you.”
She ran on the dew-spattered grass, feeling the moisture on the soles of her bare feet. But when she reached the swing, he was gone.
The Other Side
153
There was no one there and the bare swing moved in the breeze, the creaking noise trying to tell her a story while she stood near the swing, panting a bit from her exertion.
“James! Come to me. I want to talk to you,” she shouted into the dark. Her voice echoed around but no one answered it.
She looked around wildly, hoping to find someone where there was no one. She held the moving swing in a firm grip, making it stationary once again. It was cold to touch. The metal's coldness seeped in through her fingers and she experienced a cloud of feelings envelop her. The metal seemed to heat up bit by bit under her touch. She felt a crushing wave of melancholy arise from her heart, twisting and turning in her mind and overwhelming her entire being. She felt the sobs emerge from the deep trenches of an unexplained grief as she placed her forehead on the swing and allowed the ripples to wash over her. She cried and cried, her body shaking vigorously setting the swing in motion again and the tears trickled down her cheeks, raini
ng on the grass where they blended with the dew. Suddenly, she felt a touch on her shoulder that broke the spell.
“Bhagya, what are you doing in the lawn in the middle of the night, crying like this? Are you okay?” It was Swaminathan, who had come looking for her. She meekly allowed him to lead her back to the bed.
A day later, Swaminathan insisted on taking her to a doctor. The doctor, took a detailed history, and ran a few tests. Two hours later, he called the husband inside and smiled.
“Mr. Swaminathan, there is nothing wrong with your wife. But I have good news for you. You're soon to become a father and that explains your wife's state. Such mood swings are not uncommon in early pregnancy. I also understand that she is very lonely here. You should take better care of her and give her more company for the duration of the pregnancy,” the doctor advised.
Swaminathan was thrilled with the news. He promised to do everything his wife needed. The Goddess had finally smiled upon them. He started coming home early and tried to give her as much time and attention as possible. Months passed and Swaminathan took delight in Bhagyalakshmi's increasing girth and the stirrings of the new life taking form in her womb. He would touch her bulging tummy and rest his head over it, trying to decipher the various sounds that came from within. Bhagyalakshmi was joyous, both with her pregnancy and with her husband's solicitousness. Her insomnia disappeared and she felt a sense of well being as her pregnancy progressed. But whenever she was alone, her thoughts went back to James Holden and she wondered if she would ever see him again?
They considered the matter of her confinement and decided that she would be better off at her mother's house in Chennai for
The Other Side
155
her delivery. Bhagyalakshmi was initially reluctant to go away for such a long duration but Swaminathan managed to convince her only after promising to visit her in Chennai frequently. Thus she was back at her parent's Besant Nagar residence and the sudden exposure to the metro-life around her didn't seem much welcoming to her senses. Surprisingly, she neither missed her husband nor her house all that much. Swaminathan visited her every alternative weekend. On his last visit, Bhagyalakshmi had hesitantly asked him if he had noticed any abnormal activity in their house and he had smiled.