Wishes Do Come True

'Mom, where are you?' Roohani bawled. Restless, she began to throw the bed-covers and kicked the air aimlessly, endeavouring to make a circle with her feet. The yoga teacher had taught her how to do it in the school today.

All of a sudden she sat down to draw a fairy. Once done, she coloured it bright red. Her favourite colour.  Gently she cut the picture out from the A4 sized sheet and put it on her study table.  Now onwards for all her wishes, she knew whom to go.

Then she grinned from ear to ear. Her laundry list of wishes was ready. And her topmost wish was. That 's my secret. No one will know. The fairy seemed to wink at her. Am I dreaming?

Suddenly she dropped her feet to her side and scrambled to the bedside mirror and practiced making faces. Whenever, the young girl earned solitude she would make funny faces.

‘Your face will freeze one day,’ Brinda reprimanded when she saw her.

‘‘No, it will not. You are lying to me. I have tried so many times, it never did,’ argued Roohani donning the most adorable smile. Brinda knew that smile. She had named it, ‘get-the-job-done’ smile

‘This will happen in an inauspicious moment.’ Brinda made up a story quickly to instill an element of fear in the heart of Roohani.

‘Story time…’ the little girl began to pull the edge of her dupatta. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Gently Roohani wiped the perspiration that had beaded on her face and threw her head in her lap. She kissed her and blessed Soham once again. Roohani was the greatest blessing in her life and for her, just for her, she blessed him once again. Soham, her love, in another life from whom she ran away till the end of the time.

Barely had she crossed the dreamy years of twenty, she got married to Soham. He was territorial by nature. Grays had no place in his world. It was stark white or black. She was his now. Earlier relationships had to terminate, which included, friends, siblings and parents. Very soon, she realized that she was trapped in a marriage where love was a synonym to possess her soul. Five years went by. Each day was as long as a year. All the temples and the deities residing in them were worshipped that she had known of. She even visited god men, tantrics recommended by friends and relatives. Nothing worked. Soham never felt for her. Then, she joined a cooking class, to hone her culinary skills, the easiest shortcut to a man’s heart. From basic cooking class she graduated to advanced baking course. Soham relished the delectable dishes.  But the road to his heart was not paved, not even a lone brick was laid. Yes, she did set up her cooking school. Students gathered and learned cooking delicious dishes from her. Her loneliness evaporated a bit, but the crater in her heart widened. She missed him, or his touch: the warm embrace, the touch of his lush lips, the intertwining of tongues and his impatient hands. Sometimes, she crawled from the bed to be by his side in the study where objects of his affection writhed and groaned. Looked like they were in agony or on drugs?

What was she missing, love or physical intimacy? Several times she questioned herself. The answer was not clear. If only she had a baby! At times, she thought of sperm donation. However, she could never muster the courage to broach the subject with him. Then she resigned to her fate. The destiny had not finished with her, it had more quirks in store for her. On a fateful monsoon night, Soham returned late from work all drenched and drunk.

‘Monsoon party,’ he slurred.

She gave him the change of clothes and left. He held her hand and pulled her. She gave in. A month later, pale blue lines confirmed the arrival of a newborn.

Soham was outraged. He ordered her to abort.

‘I can’t,’ she pleaded. ‘I have been waiting for it. I don’t know why you shun me like plague,’ she argued, ‘the baby will keep me busy. It will give me a purpose to live.’ Can’t he see that?

‘How can you be so insensitive to me?’ She begged. ‘I never asked the reason for our missing intimacy,’ she finally blurted, ‘but I am not going to abort the baby.’ Her tone rang with finality. Something he had never heard before.

‘Joe will leave me, if he learns about this,’ he whispered softly. He is my partner for the last seven years. We were in a relationship before I married you,’ he came out of the closet.

‘I tried to make our marriage work, but I am not cut out for women,’ he spoke with downcast eyes.

‘And the porn you watch,’ she questioned

‘That was just a ploy, to keep you off. I was never into it.’

‘And how did the relationship work?’ She had to know the answers now. The lid had come off.

‘You forgot, meetings, business trips, late night work hours,’ he smirked. She looked at him. The eyes did not belong to someone whom she had married. He had transformed.

The pieces were falling in place.

‘Why don’t you leave me?’ ‘I will not tell anyone anything,’ her words were tinged with grief. She had lost him, and the faith too on all the Gods and their god men. He was never hers, not even of any other woman, that she had suspected several times. She laughed.

Baffled he looked at her. ‘What will I answer my parents? You are an ideal daughter-in-law for them,’ His dilemma was apparent.

‘What about me?’ She screeched, seething with rage. She was married to a stone, a rock. She didn’t exist for him.

That night she packed her bags and left.

For two years, she lived in Ranikhet. Bela, her closest friend lived there. She was married to an army man who was stationed there. Eight months later she gave birth to a daughter. She named her Roohani.  Each time she said it, it touched a chord in her soul. In few months she began to work in a school. In two years time Bela had to leave. Brinda too got a chance to work in Ranchi, as a school teacher. Leaving the past behind she decided to carve a new life. She was happy, had never been happier before. Five years had lapsed, since she stepped out of the home. The memory of those days had faded. Roohani was a blessing. Each time she saw her, she blessed him.

Roohani had slept in her lap. She put the baby on the bed. ‘The drawing of a fairy caught Brinda’s eyes. It looked real. The girl had a knack for painting. I will get her enrolled in the painting class, Brinda thought.

‘My fairy,’ the little girl mumbled in her sleep.

‘Yes, my love,’ said Brinda and slept by her side. She was her fairy. Her life had changed. She didn’t know the change was yet to come.

For the next couple of days Roohani and her little fairy were inseparable.

'Hi Lal Pari! How are you today morning?' Roohani peeked inside her pencil box and asked the drawing when no one was watching.

‘Let me pull you out of the pencil box, you must be feeling suffocated there,’ Roohani held the drawing affectionately and put it on her table. Her partner Misha immediately peered at the drawing.

'Oh! You brought Lal Pari today to school,' she said in a lilting tone knowing the outcome fully well.

‘What’s going on with you Roohani. Put your notebook on the table, 'Mrs. Mookherjee'smanly voice boomed in the class.

‘I forgot to get my notebook Ma’am, Sorry!’ she stuttered with downcast eyes.

'Good excuse for not doing homework. Doesn't work with me. I have no tolerance for laggards,' Mrs. Mookherjee strode with determined steps and stood beside Roohani to imprison Lal Pari in her infamous cupboard. Several objects of affection of kids were lying there uncared for, unloved, waiting for the day when of their independence, from the tyranny of Mrs. Mookherjee.

 ‘I will never get her to school Ma’am, Please excuse me this time, the first and the last time,’ she begged.

Her entreaties had no effect on Mrs. Mookherjee. She had made up her mind.

  

A tear drop welled in the corner of Lal Pari's eyes.

‘Did I really see it? How can this be true?’ Roohani saw from the corner of her eyes.

‘This can’t be true. I am imagining,’ she wondered. With a heavy heart she opened her English notebook. Her mind had already wandered to think ways to get back her Lal Pari

‘I hate my school and I am not going to study there, Roohani announced the moment she saw Brinda after the school. The mother-daughter took a rickshaw back home, which was just a kilometer away from the school.

Brinda picked her in her arms and sniffed in her baby powder smell before depositing her on the seat of the rickshaw. The stress deposited in her shoulders had begun to melt. Roohani was the soul of her life.

‘Why darling?’ She probed gently as the rickshaw picked speed.

‘I hate Mrs. Mookherjee. She took away my Lal Pari,’ Roohani lamented.

Brinda was no stranger to Mrs. Mookherjee's characteristic stingy behaviour. She had earned a notorious reputation for confiscating children's treasured possessions and she never returned their prized possessions. Once inside her closet the keepsakes languished in kalapaani forever.

Braving her own fury, she consoled Roohani who had graduated to a full blown bawling by now. Gently she put her on the lap and thought of ingenious ways to get a duplicate key made for her closet. It was not that difficult after all. She grinned. Immediately Roohani paused and looked at her suspiciously.

‘Do you have a plan to get Lal Pari back?’ she quizzed.

‘Yes, I do. Let's have lunch sweethear first. Then I and you will together draw the Lal Pari again and this time, you better not take her to school,’ Brinda said.

Roohani nodded her head. She wasn’t convinced. But, there was no other way either. She knew. For a girl who was just four, Roohani was exceptionally mature for her age. An old soul, Brinda always thought. Seeing tears in her eyes was an unbearable sight for her. All parents loved their children but for Brinda Roohani was the source of joy and the purpose to live.

Together they sat in the afternoon to draw Lal Pari again. Brinda had to draw her and and Roohani had agreed to colour and cut the edges. A thick chart paper would be just perfect, Brinda decided.

Roohani rushed in her room to drag her big rectangular metal box containing all her art supplies at their art junction, the space where she nurtured her creative skills. The box even had a tiny lock attached to it and Roohani kept the key in her pencil box. Every day the box accompanied her to school. Lest her art supplies should get redistributed amidst children of her class, she had put a lock in it. As she opened her pencil box to pull out the key she saw Lal Pari inside.

‘Mom! Lal Pari is back,’ Brinda cried at the top of her lungs. ‘Oh! How much I missed you, my dear fairy, ‘she couldn’t believe her fortune.

You were up in daggers against Mrs. Mookherjee for no reason. She never took your Lal Pari. Brinda said.

Yes, she did, Roohani spoke with contempt. There is no need to be good about her.

Brinda left the subject. A pile of test copies awaited her attention this afternoon.

Roohani gingerly put the Lal Pari on her art table.

Did she wink? ‘Tell me Lal Pari how did you come out?’ 

'I have freed everyone who was imprisoned inside. Many of them were languishing for ages inside. Tonight all of them will go home,'  Lal Pari said in a  conspiratorial tone, in a voice audible only to Roohani.

Lal Pari spoke. 

Didn’t Mom tell me that faith can move mountains.  I have faith in Lal Pari’s magical powers. She was in a contemplative mood. 

'But how did you become real? Roohani hid with Lal Pari at her favourite spot when she didn’t want to drink milk, behind the curtain. It took Brinda really long to figure her hiding spot, by then she will get answers to her queries.  

'You wished me to be real, isn’t it?' Lal Pari reminded her. Just when you wished, full moon cast its reflection on the window. And your wish was granted.

‘Lal Pari can you make my family complete? All girls have dads, I don’t have a dad. How does it feel like to have a dad?’ Roohani spoke the unsaid for the first time. It had been bubbling in her for a long while, but she didn’t want to make her mother sad. The very mention of the word switched her off. 

Lal Pari smiled, but it was a sad smile. The emotions expressed by the curve of her lips didn’t reach her eyes. They were forlorn.  

'That’s why I have come to unite you with your dad.' 

'And how are you going to do that,' Roohani asked.

I will await instructions from the master.

Lal Pari was a programmed robot, who was handled by a tantric. Soham’s mother was desperate to get her daughter-in-law back. She was more than a daughter to her, who left the family when she needed the most help. The guilt was too much. Going to police was equivalent to tarnishing the family's honour. They would ask questions. She had to get Brinda back. But there was no clue. Like they had vanished. Desperately, she summoned a tantric. He came with heavy recommendation. Royal families too used his service. He could get anyone back.

Her son too came out of the closet after Brinda left. There was no need to hide.  The façade of marriage was over. Brinda’s courage gave him a lesson. It’s one life and he decided to live it just the way he desired. Thankfully, he left with his partner to Europe. 

Your daughter-in-law is not alone. She has a baby. I want them back, Soham's mother begged.

The tantric had freed a spirit trapped between death and afterlife, shadows who choose death before their time. The shadow was ordained to sniff Brinda and Roohani. It could morph in a living being or an inanimate object. For the last four years, the shadow was on the run. Now it could sleep. 

Tonight the master would be so happy. He would free me.

The ghost of the peepal tree

Add caption

This was the story my grand mom or Badi Amma narrated when I was young, younger than my children are today, but the memories are etched fresh in my mind. Badi Amma had a special ritual before the commencement of the story telling session.

I would fetch her small shining brass colander containing the condiments required for making of a pan. She would lovingly hold the green betel leaf in her hand and go dress the green leaf.  Then neatly fold the betel leaf in a triangle and ensconce it in the depths of her cheek. As she savoured the taste, her eyes would shut briefly, a signal for the beginning of the story time.

Chulbul, my younger sister, true to her name had little patience for Amma’s elaborate ritual and tugged at the dhakai cotton sari of Amma. Amma lifted her in her arms, sat cross legged on the side of the bed and put her in her lap. Chulbul closed her eyes immediately inhaling the smell of Amma, a heady mix of incense, attar, jasmine flowers and pan.

'So where was I?' Amma asked delaying our gratification.

‘You didn’t start,’ Chulbul reminded her.

‘What?’

‘We want story,' collectively we whined

Amma started without any preamble. We hushed to hear her in a pin drop silence.

'On a moonless night, the wedding happened. Moonless nights or amavasya are not auspicious,' the old lady clarified as a matter of fact. Gloominess cringed her voice. 

Who knows it better than me?

The sparkle of five carat diamond studded with emeralds, a heirloom jewelry on her withered finger gleamed at her. Amma beamed.  The momentary sadness of her eyes evaporated. The diamond ring was a trophy for her ingenuity. Right under the eyes of her scheming mother-in-law, she had exchanged the genuine with fake. The old lady wanted to get it polished to gift her son's daughter-in-law. Amma got the ring on the pretext of getting it polished and the clever craftsman did the remaining. No one knew. Everyone was happy. It was simple, like taking a candy from the baby. 

Living in a joint family had taught Amma the value of silence. Unlike youngsters who keep ranting Amma would just go ahead and execute her plans. Neatly. Swiftly. Silently. The old lady believed till her last breath that she had gifted a genuine ring!

'Amma, then?' Our impatient wail jerked her back to reality. Like a lightening.

'Hush! Don’t get on my nerves,' She feigned anger and got back to the track of the story.

After marriage the bridegroom and the bride had to leave at 4 am for the bridegroom's village. Before their departure, as the custom was they had to stop at the ancient temple located at the outskirts of the village and pray to the deity. It was believed that the deity in the ancient temple would grant all wishes.

'Can we skip the temple routine? The bridegroom asked the elders. 

'No,' came a stern reply.

'The poor lad acquiesced. After all, he was just of eighteen. No one asked the girl. It was not required,' said Amma. 

As per the custom, the bride groom left on a horse and the bride in a palanquin to visit the temple. Close to the temple was a peepal tree. Women of the village poured water on the tree on Saturday to ward off evil eye.

Who would know the tree itself harboured evil?

On the tree lived a witch. She wasn’t an evil witch, rather a benevolent one. However, that day, as the young bride, barely of sixteen bowed before the deity, seeking courage to enter in the world of marital bliss, the witch got enamoured.

The witch was not always a witch. Many moons ago she lived, breathed, ate, drank, danced just like all of us.

‘Then how did she become a witch?’ I asked. It was so difficult to contain the excitement.

‘I am coming to it,’ interjected Amma. ‘Don’t disturb me; You interrupt my train of thoughts.’ Amma curled her silver strands in an effort to give it a ringlet like look.

Bala, the witch of the peepal tree was a mother-less girl. Her mother had died in child birth. The young priest could not bear to see Bala. Her face reminded him of his departed wife, his only love. He never married again,  but carnal desire that was a separate subject. He had wives in neighbouring villages, but they lived at their parent’s place. Priest Suryakant belonged to the uppermost strata of brahmins. He was allowed the privilege to have wives more than one.  Naturally, wives and religious ceremonies kept him busy. He would rarely remain at home.  The girl grew up mostly alone in the company of conniving aunts and relatives. To ward off loneliness, she made friends with unknown. Just like we human beings live on the earth, the spirits also coexist. They can’t be seen by all. Only those who are attuned to them can feel them. Bala was one of those. Amma paused to give a dramatic effect.

‘Continue....’we screeched. Amma gave a contented look. The story had cast a spell on the listeners.

‘Fetch me a glass of water,’ Amma drawled. I am an old lady, she reminded us.

I ran to get her the glass of water.  

Amma finished the drink in a gulp and continued.

Young Bala fell in love. Her lover was an exceptionally handsome young man. On full moon night, Bala would stay in the middle of the forest waiting for him. He brought her fragrant jasmine flowers in autumn. Bala loved jasmine flowers.

‘Just like you, Amma,’ I said.

Amma grinned. ‘Yes, my love, just like me.'

No one in the village wore fragrant jasmine in autumn, except Bala. The girls were jealous of her. They wanted to meet her lover, but Bala would not let anyone see him. He was only for her.

Together in the forest they would walk miles hand-in-hand. One day Bala was not well. He carried her in his arms. That day, she noticed the amulet around his neck and a serpent shaped armlet on his sinewy arms. Gingerly she touched his arm. He flinched.

‘Are you okay?’ Bala asked.

‘Yes and No, ‘he answered.

‘What do you mean?’ Bala was concerned.

‘I long for your touch, but can’t bear it. It burns me.’

Bala was hurt. He doesn’t love me, she thought.

‘Poor child!’ Amma expressed her sorrow for Bala

'Are you not wasting your sympathy on her?' I was quick to judge her. She was the witch of the peepal tree. The curiosity got better of me and I shouted, ‘Tell more.'

Amma rolled her eyes at my insolence. I looked sideways.

'I have to straighten my legs,' Amma said. Chulbul had slept in her lap by then. I picked Chulbul from her lap. She massaged her feet and knees.  Amma hobbled to the bed motioning me to put Chulbul on it. As soon as I laid her on the bed, Amma covered Chulbul with her favourite teddy bear quilt. She lied beside her and I snuggled closer to her.

‘Amma, you didn’t answer my query,’ I persisted.

Amma stretched her feet and stroked my hair. ‘It’s getting late, why don’t you sleep?’ She suggested.

‘No, Amma, I want to hear the story. I can’t sleep until I get to know the end.’

Amma gave me a dejected smile and continued.

Bala had fallen in love with a person from the outer world.

‘Like ghost,’ I enquired.

‘Yes,’ said Amma and became quiet. An uncomfortable silence lingered.

When did Bala know that he was a ghost? This was getting spookier than I imagined.

It was purely accidental. Bala and her lover were walking in the woods. She was feeling tired and stopped by a pond to drink water. Sitting there she caught her reflection, but his reflection was not there. Gingerly she touched the jasmine string tucked in her braid. The flowers were fresh as the morning dew.

Spirits don’t have shadows.

Her father’s words rang in her mind.

Startled she looked at him. His eyes bore regret. They spoke the unsaid.

With feet as heavy as lead she came back home. He was not for real.  

The days dragged without mirth. She was a living corpse. Then her marriage was decided by elders. A night prior to her wedding she hung herself from the peepal tree. In the morning her body was found. She was not cremated. Going against the diktats of the religion, her father didn’t let a burning pyre touch her. It would scar her face, the face he loved the most in the world, his departed true love, his wife. They buried her. From then she lived in the peepal tree.

‘And her love….’I questioned. ‘Now that she belonged to his world, did she unite with him?’

No. In their world, she was an outcast. She had deliberately taken her life. Her soul was a shadow now, trapped in a world of darkness.  True love had metamorphosed her in a shadow.  Her life was pale and had been like that for years. On moonless nights her pain multiplied several times..

That day, when the bride prayed for marital bliss, Bala’s shadow of the soul became restless. Crouched on the peepal tree nothing escaped her eyes:

The way young bridegroom squeezed his bride’s hands beneath her veil. Her downcast eyes, quiver and the shy smile, reserved only for him.

 What bliss lies in marriage? How would life have been if I would have united with my love?

As the girl got up and carefully adjusted her veil while crossing the peepal tree, in a whiff, Bala captured her soul and entered in her body.

No one knew and Bala entered the life of matrimony. She experienced shades of emotions she never had: passion, jealousy, anger even hatred, but most importantly attachment. Something she had never felt before.

Madhav, her husband was a farmer like most men of the village. But, unlike other men he was sensitive. Every evening after he returned from the fields she served him dinner, a meager preparation, but they ate it together from the same plate. On everything important or trivial he sought her opinion. Whenever he went out of the village, he got her glass bangles and jasmine flower strings, in season. Once he got her a parrot to fill her void created by childlessness. Never did he utter a harsh word to her.

Every night when they went to sleep, like other women, she didn’t sleep on the mud floor; rather they shared the same bed. Love flowered between them. She was his breath. Then the unthinkable happened. She felt a flutter in her abdomen. A life had begun to live inside her. It was an unmistakable feeling. She felt powerful, akin to God, someone with whom her soul wanted to merge with now. Not any more. She could create life, just like him. The thing called love had consummated her soul. She forgot that she was a witch, a non-living.

In all these ten years, even once, Bala didn’t go back to her home. But now she had to. The custom was that the first child was born at the parent’s place. Bala was hesitant. What if they recognized that she was not her daughter?

‘Can’t I stay here?’ She asked as they prepared for the bed.

‘I also don’t want you to go, but how do I handle these women,’ he expressed his anguish.

‘That’s because you don’t love me,’ she resorted to the oldest argument known to a woman.  

‘They just don’t listen to me. It’s difficult for me to live without you,’ he threw his hand up in frustration. Lovingly, he caressed her hair. ‘You smell so good, always of attar, he commented.

‘That’s because, I wear it all the time,’ she teased him.

He held her in a tight embrace. Her soul danced.

I will not go anywhere. If I go you are also coming, her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

They slept in close embrace. She had never felt happier. In the dead of the night, a serpent came from nowhere. Stealthily he crawled to the bed and bit Madhav.

Madhav      yelped. His primal cry woke up Bala. She knew that cry. She had felt it when her soul was leaving her body. Love pooled in  his dark brown eyes and they were for her. He knew it was time for him to go. I am thirsty, his voice was just a whisper.

Water from Bala was no less than the sacred Ganga jal. Bala cradled his head. Tears were flowing freely. The bite had turned blue. Froth began to appear on his mouth.

Water, he said with all his might.

She couldn’t leave him. Not now. She stretched her hand and it went till the well, filled a pot, poured it in the glass and came back to the room.

She offered water to Madhav.

He was paralyzed with naked fear and venom.

His pupils had dilated. ‘Who are you?’ They asked silently. Before Bala could explain they shut forever. 

No one saw Bala after that night.