The City of Good Death

by Priyanka Champaneri

  Narinder veered into a narrow lane. They passed shuttered stalls and came to a residential street, close to the woodworker’s alley. The priest sped up his pace, looking over his shoulder for the manager. They arrived at a narrow house with heavy wooden double doors that arched in scrolled carvings at the top. Narinder rapped lightly on the door, which a wide-eyed child eventually opened.

  “Go get your Dada,” Narinder said, and the floppy-haired boy ran off, leaving the door wide open. Soon Govind came, and when he saw their faces he visibly deflated, as if someone had set a load atop his head. He gestured for them to follow.

  The house was similar to many in Kashi: old, with water-stained ceilings and rusting door hinges, but warm and dry and smelling of chai and fried spices. Though it looked small from the outside, Govind led them through room after room, hallways branching out or ending in staircases that snaked upward, voices chattering and footsteps running overhead. Near what seemed to be the back of the house, he led them into a sort of sitting room with low rope beds and bolsters and cushions on the floor and gestured for them to sit.

  His face glum, Govind sighed. “Chai will be coming. You will partake? Even if it is from my house?”

  “Of course,” Pramesh said. He felt himself relax, and as he did so, more sounds of the house opened to him: chatter in an upstairs room, clanging cookware from another part of the house, a bird calling from its caged perch. “Is the entire house yours? Or do you let some of the rooms?”

  “My family and mine alone,” Govind said, with a hint of pride. “Ten years as an apprentice, and then forty years on my own, Manager-bhai. My wife and I saved every coin so that my children’s children could run through as many rooms as they wanted to one day.” The floppy-haired grandchild walked in, bearing an unwieldy tray set with bowls of sev, snack mix, and spiced puffed rice, and he set this in front of his grandfather. A teenage girl followed him with another tray of steaming chai glasses, and Govind put a large spoonful of snack mix in their hands before letting them go, watching with a soft smile as they left the room.

  The three men sipped and nibbled first, as was polite, though they substituted silence for the usual chai-chatter. Sitting there, putting scant bits of snack mix in his mouth and tasting nothing, Pramesh wondered what would come next. Govind had tried twice already to move Sagar along. What would a third try accomplish?

  “Failure is not easy for me to swallow, Manager-bhai,” Govind said. “Especially when the task was requested from an old friend—one very dear to me. All I can ask is that you believe that I did not deceive you. I did the thing properly the first time, and the second time, I truly did not feel him in that space. He was gone. But if you don’t believe me, I will understand. A man like me is often scoffed at, or worse.”

  The manager met Govind’s eyes. Then he looked at Narinder. “Govind-bhai is no fool,” the head priest said. He’d brought his prayer beads, and he stretched the strand between his fingers. “He knows how to do these things properly. And he had nothing to profit from, coming back after all these years, doing a favor simply because of our friendship.”

  Pramesh felt only weariness. “You said that the rains make these things more difficult. Even so, will you try once more?”

  Govind stayed silent for a long moment, shaking the sev in his palm as if the crunchy gram were a pair of dice, before tipping it all gently into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Rain or no, my skills are no longer useful when it comes to that ghost,” he said, looking at his now empty hand.

  “What else can we do? What else will work?”

  “You did Narayana bali, didn’t you?” Govind turned to Narinder.

  “On the eleventh day. I thought it best, knowing that his death … knowing how he died.”

  “It’s a difficult ceremony,” Govind said after a moment, looking askance at Narinder.

  “I had not done it in some time,” Narinder admitted. “The only thing left to try now is tripindi shraddha. The rites to appease those who suffered a bad death.” He did not meet Pramesh’s hopeful gaze, focusing instead on a spot near his feet as he spoke. “But it’s not something I advise doing during the rains.”

  Govind took a sip of his chai. “It is the logical next step—the only next step. Unless the ghost moves of its own will.” He looked up at Pramesh. “Tell me, do you know why a soul would become a ghost in the first place, in Kashi especially?”

  “The rites,” Pramesh said helplessly. “I erred at every turn. With the pot breaking over the pyre, looking back, with the last day of the mourning period. I tried to keep my mind in check, to—”

  “But it cannot be only because of what you did, Manager-bhai. It must also be because of what the ghost wanted when it was still a living being, your cousin. Those that become spirits—these souls want something. They want it so badly they bypass the natural order of things and stay long past the time they should have exited, Kashi or no, so badly that they resist the pull of the rites.”

  “What about the land?”

  “The land may have been part of it. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the main thing it wanted.” He was speaking more to himself than to Narinder or the manager, but his voice became more confident, and he rocked his chin, pausing to fill his palm with snack mix. “This soul, this ghost, wanted something so desperately that it was willing to give up the thing that Kashi promises all of us,” he said. “A pull like that is no weak thing. Narinder-bhai cannot simply say the great God’s name a few times and send the soul on its way to moksha.” He looked up, a familiar glint in his eyes. It was the same look he’d had upon first meeting the spirit in the washroom. “No. Somehow, the task that soul wanted to complete must be done. If that happens, then perhaps you won’t need tripindi shraddha.”

  “But I don’t know what this ghost wants,” Pramesh interjected.

  Govind frowned. “Can you truly say that? You know this ghost, remember?” Pramesh felt his head grow warm. “You are in a unique position, nah? So often, a ghost is unknown. There is never a way to tell what they want because one usually doesn’t know who the ghost was, so how to appease them? Even if what I did worked, the best I could have done was to remove the spirit and place it elsewhere, to bother someone else. But it lingers on, moving from house to person to thing, never finding comfort.”

  Pramesh looked at his chai glass, still full and hot, and watched the curled wisps of steam melt into the air. All this time, he’d told himself that if Sagar simply received a nudge from the exorcist, that would be enough to turn him toward the Land of the Death, the path that would truly be his end. He could not fathom why Sagar wouldn’t want it.

  “Listen!” Govind said, eyes bright. He set his chai glass down on the tray roughly, and bits of sev hopped out of a bowl and onto the floor. “This needn’t happen in your case. If you know what that soul wanted, it means you have a chance of fulfilling its desire so it can be released to the place it needs to go once Narinder-bhai is ready to perform the rites.”

  “He may have wanted to start a new life here. With me.” Pramesh said. “His life … did not go as planned. It was not a happy one.”

  “And is that the only thing?”

  “What else could there be?”

  “That is your duty to seek out, Manager-bhai. Find out what he was doing here.”

  “But what of detachment? What of never looking back? It isn’t easy, but I have been trying.” He looked to Narinder, who still sat staring at his prayer beads.

  Govind shook his head. “It’s a bit late for that, nah? You admitted it a moment ago: you did look back. You could not let him go, and for his own reasons he could not let you go when he died. That is why you are both in this mess, he as a ghost, and you with a ghost.” Govind softened his tone. “Make no mistake: you will need to move beyond your cousin eventually. But first, you will need to do this. Find out what it, what he, wanted so badly and finish the thing t
hat he could not. Who knows? If you succeed, it may leave of its own accord.”

  Again Pramesh looked at Narinder, this time speaking his name aloud.

  The priest looked up, blinking. “Three months of rains,” he said. “And tripindi shraddha is no easier a ceremony than Narayana bali to perform. We must wait, regardless.” Pramesh’s heart sank. “There is something to what he says. And why not try? You could write to his family—”

  “Nothing could be gained from that,” Pramesh said flatly. The terse letter about the land, the dry thanks, still filled him with disappointment. All those years Sagar had spent with such people, people who could not express even a single line of emotion for him. What could those years have been like?

  “Then think,” Govind said. “Think about what you remember. Try to pretend to be him. Find out where he walked while he was here.”

  Why must you always walk where you are never meant to go? A sick thrill pricked him, like a spider running up his arm. He raised the chai glass to his mouth to hide his face and, in the guise of sipping, bit down on the edge of the glass until the memory slunk away. He could see that Narinder did not disagree. Both he and Govind meant well, but how could they know, when they simply did not have enough of the story in their hands to realize their logic was flawed? He set his cup back on the tray. “Ji. I respect your word, both of you. But my cousin belongs to the Land of the Dead now. And I am in the land of the living. I detached myself once, from my old life all those years ago—I simply must do it again. And once I let go of him, my cousin’s ghost will move on. He lingers here because of me, I am sure of it.”

  Govind’s eyebrows crouched low on his forehead, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. Pramesh stood to make his goodbye, Narinder rising with him. Govind held up his broad palm.

  “You have listened to me with patience, Manager-bhai. And you have treated me fairly, despite the difference in status between us two. You will forgive me if I say one more thing. You have chosen your path, and you say you are sure of it. I have lived more years than any of the men in my family, and I have expelled more spirits than I have known living people. There is no surety in life, Manager-bhai. The path after death is just as uncertain. Even in Kashi.”

  At the door, he squeezed Narinder’s shoulder and raised his hand to Pramesh. Outside the house, Pramesh covered his face, pulling at the rough stubble sprouting on his cheeks. Narinder paused in the lane. “I will join you later,” he said, turning in the opposite direction.

  “Is anything the matter?” Pramesh called after.

  “Simply a walk,” the priest said over his shoulder.

  The sky was bruise-colored and swollen. Pramesh began to walk. Ten paces in, the clouds shifted and burst again, and the street soon flooded. He ran through the lanes, dodging others doing the same, until he came to a corner beneath an upper-story balcony where he might wait out the shower. He heard a giggle.

  Only a pair of boys, still in short pants and black rubber slippers, crouched beneath a similar overhang on the building across the narrow lane. The rain soaked the boys’ shirts as one of them held an umbrella over a large brown dog napping next to a stack of boxes. They petted the dog with long and loving strokes, one boy at the head and the other near the tail. The dog dozed on, but the animal’s tail twitched back and forth. The boys giggled again and tried to catch the tail as they continued to smooth the dog’s matted fur.

  Pramesh’s thoughts darted about, drawing him first one way, then another, tempting him just as the dog’s tail teased the boys. A part of him agreed with the exorcist, as he stood at the door of memory, ready to open it wide to the flood within. Wouldn’t that be easier? As he grew chill in the steady rain and watched the boys and the dog before him, he remembered a different pair of boys, a different dog, and a hot summer’s day in a different life entirely.

  The cousins were outside on the veranda, sketching idly on identical slates with identical chalk stubs while their neighbor’s granddaughter Jaya, just arrived for her annual summer visit, braided long strands of grass into a neat plait. The day was hot and thick and the air was still.

  “We could climb the mango trees in the back yard?” Jaya said, twisting the plait around her fingers. Sagar and Pramesh loved climbing the trees in Jaya’s grandparents’ yard, spotting the mangos while they were still hard as stones, but neither one responded to the girl’s proposal. Inside the house the Elders were deep in an argument, the Mothers silent but for an occasional murmur. Soon, the Elders would retire for their naps on the back veranda, but Pramesh did not want to chance his father or uncle waking up to see them sitting among the branches.

  Lulled by the heat, Pramesh felt his eyes flutter.

  “What’s that?” Sagar said. He abandoned the slate and turned to the edge of the house. A dog slowly rounded the corner. Its steps were halting, and it came to a standstill in the shade of the peepal tree that grew before the house.

  “Maybe he’s hungry,” Jaya said. She flung the grass plait toward the dog, but it merely floated down to rest beside her.

  Sagar chanced a quick look at the door, then tore a shred from the roti his mother had left for them and threw it. It landed shy of the dog’s back paws and hit the dirt. The animal did nothing, only continued to stand and stare with blank, glassy eyes.

  “Something is wrong,” Pramesh said.

  “Nothing is wrong,” Sagar answered, his voice testy. “It’s just so hot. Even he feels it.”

  The veranda was shaded and usually received the benefit of breezes, though not on that day. Both cousins had acquired a sheen of sweat as soon as they’d woken that morning, and the hairs escaping Jaya’s two thick braids clung to her neck. Pramesh wanted to get the dog some water, but he knew better than to use a bowl from the kitchen. Sagar tore off another bit of roti and threw it, this time closer to the dog’s front feet. Still, it didn’t move. “You will get in trouble,” Pramesh warned as Sagar reached for a third try. The Elders would see the roti in the dirt and beat them both for wasting food.

  “They will all be asleep soon. And he will eat it—no dog will pass up roti,” Sagar said.

  “Let me do it.” Jaya reached for the roti in Sagar’s hand, but he leapt away and tossed it, sending it far beyond the peepal tree. The dog remained where it was. “I want a turn!” Jaya said, eyes blazing.

  “Fine,” Sagar said, “You do the last one.” He made to hand her the final piece, then shoved it at Pramesh at the last second. Pramesh threw it before he realized what he was doing, and the roti hit the dog squarely in the face.

  The dog opened its mouth slowly, gently, the upper jaw rising like the lid of a box. The pink tongue rolled out. Pramesh held his breath. A gasping wheeze escaped the dog’s throat, its legs crumpled, and it shuddered and shut its eyes.

  “You killed it,” Sagar whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  “I didn’t,” Pramesh said, but doubt cinched his heart in a vise. He felt Sagar and Jaya look at him.

  “No,” his cousin conceded. “You didn’t.”

  “It isn’t funny,” Jaya said angrily. “You both killed it.” Her voice carried. Someone stirred inside the house, and Sagar looked at Pramesh in a panic.

  “We have to go,” Pramesh said, his heart beating quickly. He could hear heavy footsteps nearing the door. Before Jaya could protest, he pulled Sagar off the veranda, and they ran around the house and to the back, plunging into the fields.

  But they had to come home eventually. The Elders beat them that night after dinner, more for the wasted food than the dead dog, which they’d called to be hauled away and buried by the man who lived in a shack near the main road. Pramesh had claimed it was his fault; he’d thrown the last piece of roti. Sagar asked for them to beat him; he’d started the game. Neither boy mentioned Jaya. Both Elders took a turn at beating them equally, yelling at their wives to keep away when the wo
men tried to intervene.

  No difference between the two, they said.

  The fault of one is also the fault of the other, they said.

  That night, cheeks wet, both Sagar and Pramesh pretended to be asleep when their mothers came in, sitting by their sides, smoothing their brows until Pramesh could feign sleep no longer and turned toward his mother, burying his face in her lap. But Sagar stayed angry.

  “Shall I continue the story?” Pramesh’s mother said. She’d been telling them of Hanuman, dispatched to fetch a medicinal plant, who’d returned carrying the entire mountain on his shoulders when he could not identify the right herb.

  “Don’t you want to hear about Hanuman swallowing the sun?” Sagar’s mother asked, running her finger beneath Sagar’s lashes. He wrenched away, turning to face the wall.

  “I don’t want you as my mother anymore,” he said. Hearing this, Pramesh clung tighter to his own mother, not wanting her to think he thought the same.

  “But you are stuck with me,” Sagar’s mother said, stroking his hair.

  “I don’t want you!” Sagar said, throwing off his mother’s hand with a violence that sent her bangles jangling.

  “Careful,” Pramesh’s mother said. “What will your ma do without you? And me? And your Pramesh-bhai?” She pulled Pramesh to sit up, and he moved to crawl in her lap, head resting beneath her chin.

  “I’ll run away,” Sagar sputtered.

  “Ah. Then you should go to Kashi.”

  “You go to Kashi.”

  “Very well.” Sagar’s mother got up, straightened the end of her sari from where it had fallen off her shoulder.

  Sagar turned to her, indignant. “Where are you going?”

  “To Kashi, as you said. You don’t want your poor ma anymore.”

  “What’s in Kashi?” he asked. “How far away is it?”

  “The city of the great God, a day’s journey from here.”