by Sakiv Koch
“Ah, that rascally king hog,” he said with a sigh. His solitary eye turned heaven-ward, as though it was hard for him to express his feelings for the said emperor of hogs in mere words. His eye was still contemplating the soot and cobwebs on the ceiling when his powerful left hand darted out and snatched the bottle-shaped package from an unsuspecting Smast.
The left hand unwrapped and uncorked the bottle, all by itself — without any aid whatsoever from its companion, which continued to hold the cleaver — and brought about a union of the mouths of the bottle and of the butcher. He tilted his head back and took a longish swig from Darshan Singh’s property, making Smast’s heart quail. The butcher lowered the bottle and motioned for Smast to sit on a wooden stool bearing as many stains as the butcher’s apron had.
Smast declined the offer of the seat at first. The joviality left the butcher’s face and its native menace intensified. Smast sat down swiftly. But this acquiescence didn’t appear to pacify the butcher. He took another long draught of whiskey and glared at Smast in an anger entirely disproportionate with its trifling cause. His face was reddening and his blubbery, thick lips formed an unpleasant pout of displeasure.
The cleaver began to hit an already-severed neck, cutting it to bits and pieces, going up and down in a violent, almost-hypnotic motion.
“H-here’s the money Darshan Singh gave for the meat,” Smast said timidly, extending his slightly-shaking hand towards the butcher. He was desperate to buy the mutton, take back the fearfully-depleted bottle, and run away quickly as his feet could carry him. The butcher batted Smast’s hand away, took another, smaller sip from the purloined bottle, and shut his solitary eye in a grotesque wink.
“Is she here then?” the butcher asked, cheerful once again, as suddenly and as inexplicably as he had gotten angry earlier.
“W-who?”
“My highbrow half-sister, Sona Anand.” This piece of unlikely information stunned Smast. “She wouldn’t spit on me if I were lying dying in the street and my last wish was to be spitted on by her,” the man continued. “No, my bony boy, no, she wouldn’t as much as look at me, although the same great man fathered us. Ah, our noble father…,” the lonesome eye once again wandered upwards contemplatively and the bottle raced to the ever-thirsty mouth, while the cleaver pointed towards a filthy portrait hanging high on a wall. A glowering man with a skewed nose, fiery eyes, and thick lips curled in a derisive smile gazed down at the world in a perpetual fury.
“Pa was hanged for killing a spineless coward who absolutely deserved to die. Pa opened that idiot’s skull wide with this very cleaver you see in my hand. No mighty king ever cherished his sword as Pa cherished his tool-of-trade. He called it Vidhvansak, the destroyer!” And then the fondly reminiscing son’s mood shifted again. “Guess what destroyed my eye! The self-same Vidhvansak, hurled by that woman who wouldn’t even look at me! Pa had imbibed a pot of home-brewed spirits one day and was mad at Sona because she had disobeyed him about some trifle or another. He showed her his fist, just his fist. He wasn’t holding his beloved cleaver at that moment in time. Vidhvansak lay resting upon its own special stool at the other end of the room.
Sona, the devil that she is, darted forward, snatched the cleaver, and threw it at our father with all her considerable power. Pa was so athletic he just stepped aside so that the weapon missed him altogether. I was entering our shanty at that very moment and, ah!, my beautiful and bright eye got in the destructive path of the flying cleaver!”
The level of the liquid in the bottle fell rapidly during the thoughtful silence that ensued after the meat-seller’s moving tale. Smast, recovering a little from the shock of the butcher’s revelation, cleared his throat. “Please give me the bottle —,” he started, but couldn’t finish his request. The neck of the said bottle was thrust into his — Smast’s — mouth so suddenly that glass clashed violently with his teeth. Something cold and sharp touched the skin of his throat simultaneously. A hoarse whisper, enveloped in a cloud of stinking breath, scurried down the tunnel of his ear.
“Either you drink this godly brew or my Vidhvansak will drink your blood.” Smast knew instinctively that this wasn’t an empty threat. He understood, too, without any conscious thought, that what was happening was pre-planned.
“I have nothing against you personally, Bony Boy,” the butcher said, “but customers are few and far between these days. People think I’m mad. So, lucrative side-jobs for old friends can’t be turned down.”
The man gradually lifted the bottom of the bottle as he spoke, so that its burning, unbelievably bitter contents flooded down Smast’s throat, choking him, making his stomach clench and eyes water, making him cringe and shiver. For all his ruthlessness, the butcher was forcing the fiery poison into Smast’s mouth almost gently. It wasn’t clear whether this was a humane consideration for his victim’s health, or an endeavour to keep the precious liquor from spilling out and being wasted.
After what felt like an eternity of intense torture, during which Smast couldn’t breathe, during which Smast felt as though he would drown and die, the butcher withdrew the bottle from Smast’s mouth and reapplied it to his own. He drew away the cleaver from Smast’s throat, raised it high in the air, and ran towards the front of his shop with a madman’s bellow. A knot of people had apparently formed on the pavement outside. The onlookers broke apart and scattered with a collective scream.
Sona’s half-brother came back cackling. He plucked the money from Smast’s nerveless fingers, took one last, parting swig from the now nearly empty bottle, rewrapped it in its sheet of newspaper, and handed it back to Smast. He then whipped out another, heavier, package, from beneath his cash-counter and thrust it into Smast’s free hand. This second packet was squishy. It immediately wetted Smast’s palm and a part of his sweater. A wave of sickness swelled from his belly to his throat.
“Mutton for the King Hog. Take it and run home now, Bony Boy, else that fat devil will make you suffer even more. He ordered me to force-feed you something belonging to a goat’s guts, but I am not going to do it. I happen to have a conscience, although it’s so tiny and so hard I always mistake it for a chicken bone and spit it out whenever it tries to steer me clear of mischief. Run along now, but don’t tell him I skipped the goat-gut part, or else he’ll cut down my fees!”
Smast got up from the stool with great difficulty. The sickness in his stomach grew in magnitude every moment. His head spun and his entire body felt as though its essence had evaporated. The husk left behind wanted to dance away in all directions. Smast tried to say something, but his tongue merely flicked like that of a serpent’s without forming any words. He lurched towards the exit, banging first into the goats’ carcasses and then into the chickens’ cages.
He was conscious that his face was wet with tears, but he couldn’t wipe them away — both his hands were burdened with items he loathed carrying.
“If you ever find yourself in need of services such as I have rendered on that sly pig’s behalf,” the butcher shouted from behind, “you know where to find your friend Kaliram Kasai and his trusty Vidhvansak!”
Smast threw up as soon as he stepped out of the horrendous shop. Kaliram cursed him for making his filthy shop’s entrance filthier. Smast needed to get away immediately, but his mind drew a blank regarding the way back to Raj’s mansion. He started staggering towards his right, actually going away from the garden he needed to cross to arrive at his destination. People stared and pointed at him as he passed. Smast didn’t care. He wasn’t himself. The entire world could go to hell.
A mean, lean, black mongrel dog suddenly came running towards him, slavering and growling. A moment later, two more dogs appeared at the mongrel's heels. Smast did care this time. Panic immediately pierced the thick fog of his intoxication, and Smast took to his heels, running pell mell in the middle of the road. His flight was clumsy, though, and the dogs were gaining upon him steadily.
“Drop the meat, o’ drunkard!” someone advised. Smast, in his terr
or and his befuddlement, dropped both the packets he had been holding. The bottle shattered within its skin of paper and a sharp odour of fumes instantly spread over a large area. The pack of feral dogs completely lost interest in the bony boy and leapt with snarls at the fallen chunks of flesh.
The terror lodged in Smast’s heart didn’t disappear — it merely transformed into a different kind of fear. He had escaped the street dogs, but beasts much more ferocious and blood-thirsty would pounce upon him at finding he had lost Darshan Singh’s precious food and drink.
He wiped his wet face with the sleeves of his sweater and lurched forward, walking with unsteady, faltering steps, seeing the wildly-gyrating world dimly through the sheen of his tears.
Some street boys followed him, jeering him, imitating his involuntary, awkward, dancing gait. A dog behind him yelped so piteously that Smast stopped and turned around. The yelper was smaller than most of the other dogs feasting in the street. Its left hind leg was in the jaws of a monster of a mutt, which looked like the leader of the canine pack.
Smast picked up a brick from a stack lying near a partially built wall. He then ran towards the spot from which he had fled so energetically less than half a minute ago. His ragtag admirers cheered him on. Smast’s run was erratic. When he hurled the brick with a yell, half the people ducked their heads, for the missile could have hit anything or anybody within a considerable radius. Smast wasn’t good at hitting targets even after taking careful aim. But somehow, in a terrible twist of fate, the brickbat flew uncannily straight and smacked the big mutt on the left side of its head, just below its eye.
It immediately let go of the smaller dog’s leg and fled whining. The street boys clapped and called Smast a champion. Several of them lifted bricks from the stack and started bombarding the dogs until the owner of the expensive bricks came running and swearing. Smast had started moving once again, quickly leaving the hubbub of the frenzied urchins behind. He turned randomly at the first street intersection that he came to.
He walked aimlessly for a few minutes, during which the fear of his heart and the unsteadiness of his body didn’t abate even a little bit. He thought of running away, back to his town, from where he would take Ma with him and then run back to Devgarh with her, to a different part of the vast city, where no one would ever be able to find them, where no one would ever be able to control their lives and force them to do things they would never, ever do of their own accord, things like cutting trees, drinking alcohol, and carrying the body parts of a butchered animal for the consumption of inhuman humans. He chuckled at the fantasticality of his plan and noticed, for the first time, that he wasn’t alone, that he hadn’t been alone for quite some time.
The dog he had rescued was limping behind him. It wagged its tail, tilted its head, and barked a short, happy bark as soon as Smast looked at it. It appeared to be some kind of a terrier, which had clearly been someone’s pet until recently — there was a collar around its neck, and its long, luxuriant golden coat had just started turning matted and shabby.
Smast stopped and the dog stopped. Smast stepped into a park; the dog followed him there. The drunk boy and the lost dog pranced about in the dewy grass for a few minutes. The dog’s companionship magically chased away some of the intense pain, the immense anxiety that had been gnawing at Smast and weighing him down.
The dog saw something interesting — perhaps a passing cat or a chance of coming by some food — on the street outside the park. It ran out, barking playfully. Smast ran after it, zigzagging wildly, a boy pendulum. The wide swings of the pendulum abruptly came to an end as Smast rammed into the back of a man standing on the pavement.
Notes of Gratitude
I am forever indebted to my mother and father for everything — their unshakeable faith, their indescribably-strong support and constant encouragement, and their legacy of an indefatigable spirit. I am thankful to my wife for sharing my dream and shouldering many of my responsibilities during the writing of this book series.
My brother, who is younger to me in age, has always been my role-model in terms of wisdom. I thank you for being my lifelong partner in devouring and discussing stories since we were little boys. My sister is a specialist in uplifting people’s spirits — thanks for always showing the brightest sides of all things.
Neel, Akshat, Arjun, and Sia — my little story-lovers, all of you inspire me in big ways!
A BIG thank you to my writing mentor for the last sixteen years, Ms. Karen Dionne, the Internationally Bestselling author of THE MARSH KING’S DAUGHTER. Your invaluable insights have made my Little Lantern shine all the brighter.
There was a period during which I lost faith and got disconnected from my writing. Revisiting the kind comments and encouragement of Ms. Kelly Mustian, the author of the upcoming NIGHT SONG OF THE SWAMP, quickened my healing process. Thank you, Kelly, for your faith in my writing abilities.
Several years ago, Ms. Sandra Kring, the bestselling author of THE BOOK OF BRIGHT IDEAS, read the first draft of this novel in real time, that is, paragraph by newborn paragraph! Thank you, Sandra, for all the time and effort you invested in my work.
Raahat Manrai, Mashaal Arora, and Shreya Krishna, thanks for being my unconditional flag-bearers! I also want to thank Todd Allen and Sachin Waikar, my writing friends from the days of the turn of the new century, for their consistent help and support.
And thank YOU, Dear Reader. I hope you derived quality reading pleasure from the first phase of Smast’s life. If yes, kindly leave your comments and reviews wherever you like posting your book thoughts. I would LOVE to hear from you at www.sakivkoch.com.
And last, but not the least, thank You, Maker, for fuelling all the past, present, and future stories of the entire world!