Maya's New Husband

by Neil D'Silva

  “Where did you get it from?” asked another.

  “It must be from a baby,” said a third.

  “No, this is an adult heart taken out of a cadaver, a dead body,” said Maya. “The person, a cancer patient, had donated his organs for medical research when he was alive. Our Principal, at my behest, specially requested the hospital to lend us this heart for a day. So there—are all your questions answered?”

  The students nodded.

  “So now, I am going to come up to each bench with this jar,” said Maya. “We have already learnt the parts of the heart yesterday and now I will demonstrate the various parts of the heart to each one of you. If you have any questions, ask. And, remember—no hanky-panky. Do not attempt to touch the jar. The school has to return it to the hospital tomorrow.”

  She walked among the rows of benches, stopping at each bench, and diligently showed the boys the vena cavas, the pulmonary arteries and veins, the aorta and the chambers of the heart. Most of them were fascinated by the opportunity to behold a real human heart, albeit dead, and asked questions. Others did not seem so interested. A few of them, especially the taller ones, were more interested in checking out Maya’s cleavage through her saree blouse as she bent at their desk.

  When she came to the last bench, the school bell started ringing. She borrowed some time from the next teacher, the Hindi teacher, and finished her last demonstration. Then she carefully took the jar with her, and walked out of the classroom, even as the Hindi teacher winced in disgust and moved as far away from her path as he could. “It’s just a heart,” she told him on her way out.

  After class, Maya flip-flopped her way to the sixth floor to keep the heart back in the laboratory. It was to be stored in the laboratory cupboard till the next day, when it would be returned to the hospital.

  The next lectures had already begun and there was no one on the sixth floor corridor. Maya wasn’t squeamish though. If she had been squeamish, she wouldn’t have opted for Human Anatomy as the major subject for her post-graduation. Even at the age of fourteen, she could dissect a frog or even a lizard like a pro, and that was when she had realized where her calling was.

  Distant voices of teachers from the classrooms below reverberated in the empty halls of the sixth floor. But, though vacant at the moment, the laboratories bore several vestiges of abuse from the boys. Graffiti adorned a few of the walls, and plaster had been forcibly peeled off from others.

  She didn’t find it the least bit forbidding to walk along that corridor of the last floor of the building with a dead man’s heart held close to her chest. She walked on evenly, the heart moving in the glass jar in the rhythm of her gait, perhaps in the same manner as it did when it pulsated in its owner’s chest cavity when he was alive.

  The Biology laboratory was locked, but she had the keys. She turned them in the lock and went inside, right to the cabinet where the specimens of tadpoles and chameleons and toads were placed, and placed the glass jar with the heart as far back as she could. There weren’t any more practical sessions to be conducted in the lab that day; and early the next morning the heart would be dispatched to the hospital.

  She locked the cabinet securely and then proceeded to the door of the laboratory, and locked it too.

  Then she turned back and her own heart stopped.

  The woman who hadn’t felt the least bit squeamish when she carried a dead human heart in her hands on an empty corridor, suddenly found her throat drying up in fear. The man she was so anxious to avoid—Bhaskar Sadachari—stood right ahead of her.

  She almost bumped into him, right into his chest, her nose rubbing against his shirt, and the faint musty odor told her who he was before she even saw his face.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled and tried to go beyond him.

  But he arrested her with his stentorian voice.

  “Madam, you did not tell me—”

  “What?” She clenched her fist, bracing herself for anything that might happen next.

  “Whether you need help with the science models or not.”

  “No, I won’t need. Thanks. The students will do it.”

  She hadn’t been so physically close to him before. Now, at this proximity, she could clearly see how folded his facial skin was. They weren’t just pimples or freckles; the skin was bunched up in layers folded upon each other. Like his face may have been larger earlier and shrunk now, the skin sagging over itself. But, even under that sallow skin, his bones jutted out prominently. His face looked like a skull over which a loose canvas cloth had been clumsily draped as skin. To top it all, his reddened eyes looked like burning embers embedded within the canvas.

  Pulling away from him, she began walking hastily towards the stairs. She decided against taking the elevator for she didn’t want to wait on this floor a moment longer. She decided to walk up to the fifth floor, where the classes were still going on. As she scurried towards the stairs, she cast but one fearful look at him; and saw him still rooted in the middle of the corridor, his tall legs placed apart, arms akimbo and a smile on his tobacco-stained lips.

  ***

  Maya was back in her cabin and safely in her seat but could not find peace. The school bell rang and after a few moments, Padma entered with her bag.

  “What happened to you?” she asked. “You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

  Maya took the bottle of water from Padma’s hand and took a large swig from it. She sprinkled some of it on her face. Then, she buried her face in her hands and lay her head on the table. Padma took her seat and kept watching her. After a few moments, Maya raised her head, breathing more easily now, and smiled wanly at her friend.

  “I got a fright, that’s all,” said Maya.

  “Something spooked you?” Padma teased. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “It was him, that Bhaskar,” said Maya, disregarding her friend’s sarcasm. “I was on the sixth floor and he suddenly accosted me.”

  “Accosted you? Did he try anything?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Maya. “It is just that he popped up all of a sudden and I was scared, that’s all.”

  “What was he doing on the sixth floor? There are only laboratories there. He has no business to be there.”

  “Who knows what he was doing there? He is a teacher; he can visit anywhere in the school premises he wants to.”

  “So what happened?” Padma placed her arm on Maya’s, and found that it was still quivering.

  “He asked me if I wanted help on those models. He did nothing really, but I guess it was the way in which I bumped into him. My nose was right there, in his chest.”

  “Eww!”

  “I will need some time to get over this.”

  Just then the door, which was partly open, was pushed completely ajar. The ladies were startled for a moment, but then they saw the visitor was Rosie D’Souza, the music teacher.

  “Oh, are you gearing up for lunch?” she asked. “I have a class later, and I thought if I could have my lunch with you too.”

  “Of course, come in Rosie,” said Padma, shifting her ample bottom to make place. “Come in, sit. What have you got?”

  “I got cutlets today, easy to prepare in the mornings.”

  “Cutlets?” Padma considered. “Made of?”

  “Don’t worry, Padma. Only veggies in them,” Rosie smiled.

  The women opened their lunchboxes, shared their food equally in three portions and began to eat.

  “You know, I could not help overhearing you guys talk about Bhaskar Sir,” said Rosie, with a morsel of chapatti and pumpkin in her hand. “I mean, I didn’t mean to. I was coming up here, and the door was open and—”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” said Padma. “We weren’t talking anything that people don’t know anyway. That’s the general consensus about him, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but,” said Rosie with some reluctance, “I think we must not be too harsh on him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rosie was profici
ent with her music. When she made her students perform, she was a dedicated orchestrator. However, when it came to articulating her feelings with words, she found it to be a daunting task.

  “I was with him during the Parents’ Day celebration.” Rosie spoke slowly as if trying to find the right words. “I mean—I didn’t like it at all when Principal Purohit told me I was supposed to work with Bhaskar Sir, especially after all the things I’d heard. But, you know, once he got down to the task, he was just amazing. He never once spoke of anything except work. He is brilliant with his craft instruments. Only he can cut Styrofoam with a blade like that. We didn’t have to do anything. We just sat and watched how expertly he prepared the entire temple prototype on stage with just Styrofoam. In three days, that too!”

  “Yeah, we no one doubts his talent anyway,” said Maya.

  “It’s not just that,” said Rosie. “I found him to be a thorough gentlemen. In fact, I have heard he has just come to Mumbai from a small village near Hardwar. He has no friends or family here. He is quite a loner but is trying to make friends. That’s one of the reasons he comes across as creepy to some people, I think.”

  “Hmm!” said Padma. “This pumpkin is good. What did you do with the onions, Maya? They are brilliant.”

  “Thanks!” said Maya, politely waving away Padma’s tribute to her culinary skills. “I see your point, Rosie. Maybe we are judging him too much based on his appearance.”

  “Yeah, that many be,” said Rosie, “but we are teachers, aren’t we? Don’t we teach our kids not to judge books by their covers?”

  “Then this is the most horrible cover I have ever seen,” said Padma and laughed at her own joke, sputtering bits of coconut all over the table.

  ***

  When Maya reached home, there was weeping on television. She half made up her mind to give a solid talking down to her mother for watching such inanity, when she realized that this was a different type of crying.

  “Look,” said Anuradha, pointing towards the screen that was crowded with people. “This is the missing girl’s mother.”

  The woman on screen was weeping hysterically. “I’m just a maid, my husband just a cobbler,” she said between sobs. “Please help us find our Suman. Such a brilliant girl! Our only hope. She is the only one in our entire family who goes to college.”

  The reporters made sure they milked her tears for all they were worth. When the cameraman finished zooming in on each tear on her woeful face, the report switched over to sports news.

  “She is still not found,” said Anuradha with great worry. “Be careful, there are some perverted kidnappers out there.”

  “I am always careful, Ma,” said Maya. “Don’t worry; nothing is ever going to happen to me.”

  ~ 2.5 ~

  Quarry on the Cutting Board

  The pan sizzled on the stove. Though blackened by months of abuse inflicted upon it by various kinds of meats, it held out on its own—its ancient red-colored sides, its nonstick bottom and its insulating handle still intact. At this moment, there was a generous amount of fat in it, melting away into oblivion, as it prepared for yet another onslaught.

  The man held the pan over the flames for a while and rocked it this way and that, ensuring that the fat greased its surface evenly. The sizzling grease brought a malevolent grin to his face. He brought his nose dangerously close to the hot vapors and sniffed at them with hungry appreciation. Such cooking wasn’t new to him; he had even become a kind of an expert at it. He knew just the right amount of grease and heat that would do it justice. He knew exactly when to bring in the meat.

  The quarry lay on the cutting board. He only had to slice it now, and then prepare the simple recipe. He took the sharpest knife from the drawer and felt its blade with a little wince of pain. The sharpness pleased him too. It was just the right amount needed for the job.

  But, the next moment, he felt the prickling on his finger. It was a neat, thin cut. It yielded a single drop of blood. He frowned at the red fluid as it oozed out of his tanned brown skin, waiting for more to come out; and when it didn’t, he pressed his finger to draw out more. Its redness appealed to the beast within him. He chortled, and then he put the finger in his mouth and sucked at the blood till he could feel its taste.

  This wasn’t new to him in the least, but it did intrigue him how everyone’s blood tasted a little different.

  He then proceeded to put the meat on the cutting board. This had to be done quickly for the fat was sizzling with the perfect fervor. He placed the flesh at the appropriate angle and cut it into halves and then into quarters, one-eighths, and finally one-sixteenths. They turned out to be neat little cubes. Even he could not say now that the chopped cubes of flesh had once made up a live, beating, pumping human heart.

  He smelled at the cubical pieces of the heart with an appraising face. They still gave out a faint trace of formalin, even though he had washed it for a long time. The deep frying would take care of that though.

  Holding the cutting board as close to the frying pan as possible, so as to prevent even a single fiber from being wasted, he dumped all the little pink-purple cubes into the fire. A stench rose up in the air along with the dense angry fumes, but for him it was an aroma; and he smelled it with eyes closed, taking it in as much as he could.

  Then, dancing a little obscene jig in that small makeshift kitchen in the abandoned garage, he moved around, looking for a plate. He had kept aside a favorite plate for such special meals but at the moment he could not remember where he had kept it after the previous day’s meal.

  A rat came precariously close to his foot. Undaunted, the little creature sniffed away at the almost wizened skin of the man’s foot. The man looked down at the rodent, amused and motionless. Encouraged by this, the animal moved up his foot. It probably smelled the new meat frying somewhere—an improvement over the stale flesh rotting everywhere around—and wanted a share in it too. It rose up on the man’s leg, and then clambered up his bare chest.

  Its little feet tickled the man, but he bore it with a wry smile and held out his hand. The rat climbed up his shoulder, its tail tickling his nostril; and from that vantage point, it saw the cubes of flesh sizzling in the pan. Its instinct told it that it was dangerous to go near the pan. The bubbling fat spelled doom. But, its olfactory senses told him that heaven lay that way, and it slowly began its descent on the man’s arm, testing the temperature as it went.

  The man gradually lowered his arm until his hand was almost over the fumes arising from the pan. He challenged the creature, daring it to go and sample the succulent meat blistering away in the fat, its final reward. But the animal hesitated, its instincts having warned it of the acute danger. It came down to his wrist and stopped. The oily fumes began to singe its fur and, giving up the quest for the frying delicacy, the rat reversed its path.

  This thoroughly disappointed the man.

  With a mixed expression of anger and dejection, the man raised his other hand and flicked the creature with his long fingers; and it flew away with a sharp squeak, right into the pan.

  Then he laughed as he saw the rat struggling in the midst of the frying meat, squeaking its last squeaks, which grew more and more painful as they increased, until it could squeak no more.

  Will add flavor to the meal, he mumbled to himself.

  He found the plate lying next to the girl who had stopped screaming since yesterday, after her entrails had been scooped out of her abdomen and prepared with mushrooms and broccoli. Looking at the girl, he recalled the juicy texture of her meat. The raw intestines were a tad bit chewier than he would have liked, but young flesh is succulent. He made a mental note to let today’s preparation be on the flame for a longer time. He didn’t like chewiness in his meat. He liked it when the fibers were well-done and firm so that he could easily separate them with his teeth.

  He lifted the plate and a torrent of tiny rats emerged from under it. The sudden intrusion caused them to scurry hither-thither. He slapped them away, hastening
their progress, and cursed them. These rats get everywhere, he muttered under his breath. But, he knew he needed the meddlesome critters. They were his scavengers, the ones who cleaned up the undesirable leftovers of his meals.

  Next he went in hunt of his favorite drink—a sharp-tasting palm toddy sourced for a measly sum from a local market—and found it stacked behind the rat-eaten body of the rag-picker he had cut open the previous week. The man had dared to venture too close to this abandoned haunt in search for a discarded plastic bottle or two. Almost half of the man still remained on his bones, but the rats would get to those too; it was just a matter of time.

  There should be rations for the rats too, the original inhabitants of this place, lest they should not break into revolt.

  The white colored liquid frothed as it was poured into a dirty glass, which still contained vestiges of a cobweb that had grown around it. He observed the texture of the meat. Satisfied, he turned off the flame.

  A moment later, he carefully transferred every morsel from the frying pan onto the plate. He garnished the dish with parsley and celery leaves, and even made a smiley face with ketchup. Finally done, he took the flesh-laden plate into his secret inner chamber where he could enjoy it in peace with the only companion who had the same taste in food as he did.

  ~ 3 ~

  Losing Hearts

  Maya was engrossed in explaining to her students the pathways of reflex action in the human body, when the school prefect, a diminutive lad of fifteen, came looking for her. She was annoyed at the interruption but the boy told her the Principal wanted to see her right away in his cabin.

  Leaving the class at its mercy, Maya scooted down the stairs to Principal Purohit’s office. She sensed something was amiss as the Principal didn’t normally call teachers out of their classrooms in this fashion. Her suspicions were justified when she saw the peons at the door of the Principal’s cabin and the three lab assistants standing in a row near his desk.