Whispers at the Village Well

“Sometimes, I feel that you are hiding something,” Ridhima said while looking at me. I tried not to look into her probing eyes. So, I got busy saving the Excel file, shutting down the PC, and keeping the notebook in my bag.

“Aren’t we all?” I said as I stretched my arms and got up from the chair, “Little secrets that are either too important or too unworthy to be shared.” She was still looking at me. An unspoken question lingering in the air. I turned away from her to look out of the window of the school’s library. The sun was about to set. I loved looking at the farms – the crops swaying with the flowing cool breeze. Nothing like the dull grey evenings of the city when traffic got heavy. I wish my time in the village never came to an end. The air was fresh, the evenings were beautiful, and the people were nice. To top it all, being in Ridhima’s presence gave me all the comfort in the world.

When I turned around, Ridhima had a smile on her face. She was pulling the belt of her purse on her shoulder. I couldn’t help but observe how she moved – so much grace in every movement. Being lost in her also helped me take my eyes off that damned purse. If only I could…

“I am not sure if I’d remember all those Excel functions,” I said shaking my thoughts off, “… even though I have written most of them in my notebook. I will go over them again at my quarters.”

Ridhima let out a stifled laughter. “Who writes Excel functions in a notebook? You just practise them and you will get used to them in no time,” she said as we started walking out of the library.

Almost as a habit, Ridhima switched off all the lights and locked the library door. The dangle of her bunch of keys egging me on to grab them. Soon, we were at the gate of the school. Damu Kaka was sitting on his stool. He was lean and soft-spoken, about 45-50 years old, and always dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers. I wondered if he stayed back only to keep an eye on us. Not like we were 20-year-old desperates eager to pounce on each other at any opportunity.

Ridhima had been working at Saiwadi’s only school for 12 years now. Given the absence of literates in the 300-people village, she worked multiple roles. Officially the school librarian, she was also a part-time administrator at the Panchayat that had its office within the school premises. She also engaged classes when a teacher was absent. At the end of the day, she was my Excel tutor. I wasn’t sure how many of those roles she got paid for – I was certainly not paying her.

As for me, I was in the fifth month of my six-month project at Saiwadi. All I had to do was ask the villagers about their past – especially about whatever they remembered about their previous generations – professions of their grandparents, where they came from, where someone from another family migrated to, and so on. Just usual questions for a Cultural Researcher. The village folk were non-committal to begin with – assuming I had hidden motives behind my questions. (And in a way, I did, didn’t I?) But over time, they had warmed up to me. I had caused no harm to anybody. Not yet.

“See you tomorrow, Damu Kaka,” I said as he smiled back at us and raised his hand in acknowledgement. I walked with Ridhima until our paths separated. “See you at the well then,” she said as she pressed my palm with her hand and walked off. Did she feel the unusual sweatiness of my palm? Why had she asked if I was hiding something? “Sure,” was all I could manage. Even with the discomfort, I couldn’t wait to meet her at the well.

Saiwadi’s history made it a worthy candidate for cultural research. Four centuries ago, the coast had witnessed multiple skirmishes between two opposing kingdoms. Eventually, the king of the region established a defence post at the village. Initially habituated by families from the king’s navy, the village had remained largely eventless. Even today, the beaches were largely untouched by economic activity.

What Saiwadi needed for prosperity was a massive upheaval – something that would take it out of its years of underdevelopment. That is where I came in – an agent of change (or a harbinger of chaos?) Being a Site Scout at a real-estate firm in the nearby town of Dinpur meant that I had to make sure that a particular location was apt for development. That didn’t involve just studying the site topographically but also ensuring that its compliances were in place. No construction company wanted to touch a location by simply assuming its future glory if its present was in the dark. My ‘Cultural Researcher’ mask was only a way to convince the Naik family – the owners of a significant land mass in Saiwadi.

After dinner, I spent a couple of hours pacing my quarters. It was close to midnight – the time when Ridhima and I sneaked out to meet at the well behind the village temple. I decided to leave my quarters a little early so that I could get to the well and calm my thoughts. It was dark outside, not a being in sight. As I approached the temple, I saw a few old men sleeping in the temple’s courtyard. Not unusual for a village – it was easier to find shelter in the temple than to make the house bigger. I reached the well, placed my bag down, and sat on the edge with my legs swinging inside the well. ‘What if she asks more questions? Has she found something already? Is this job even worth hurting someone? Even if they develop properties in this village, what are you going to get out of it? Possibly a raise? Or a lifetime supply of guilt.’

I met Ridhima Naik after spending a couple of weeks in Saiwadi. Literate, elegant, and interesting - she was severely misplaced in this tiny village. The villagers had slowly grown comfortable about us spending more time together. Maybe because nobody had spotted us at the well yet. 

While I was still unsure about what we would talk tonight, Ridhima arrived and tapped my back, “Maal laaya hai?” she asked with a smile.

I took out a cigarette from my bag and handed it to her. This right here had to be the most scandalous bit of our spending time together. I knew that Ridhima’s parents were alright about our mingling but I am sure her smoking was where they’d draw the line.

She sat next to me, lit the cigarette, and took a deep drag.

“Heaven!” she said.

“You look so beautiful when you smoke,” I said as I couldn’t help but wonder what was about it that 

made her so appealing.

“You have told me that before, Mr. Secret Keeper,” she said as she took another drag.

“Says the girl smoking secretly at midnight,” I said.

“Then tell me a secret,” she said as she kept her hand on mine.

“I am going to live with you someday,” I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“Ha ha! My family would forgive you for supplying me cigarettes. But that dream… You are just a greedy pig,” she snuggled in closer.

“Your parents like me so they won’t oppose my idea. Then when you will die of smoking, I will inherit all your property,” I got my hand on her waist as I clutched my other hand in the air.

“I will haunt you if you don’t bring cigarettes to my ghost,” she whispered as she looked at me.

“You’ll make the world’s unscariest ghost,” I kept looking into her eyes.

“Okay, seriously. Where are we going with this? Forget secrets, but what after your project is done?” she asked, suddenly serious.

I took my hand off her waist, then placed it back, not willing to make her feel unwanted.

“I have a plan but you won’t like it. Nor will your family. But if you cooperate, we can go somewhere with this,” I said as I felt her hair brushing against my chin.

“As long as we aren’t running away, I am listening,” Ridhima said, all attentive now as she threw the cigarette butt away.

“I have a friend in the city. He works for a property developer who deals in hotels and resorts. Your family is sitting on a gold mine here-,” I said, hurriedly pushing the words.

“Okay, I said I’d listen,” said Ridhima, “and I think I’ve listened enough,” she straightened, not leaning against me anymore.

“But what’s wrong in that? Your family will be paid-,” I protested.

“It’s not about that. But you won’t understand. Listen, sorry for tonight. Let’s meet tomorrow for your Excel class. And please, don’t bring this up again?” she stepped down and began walking away even before I could reply.

Over the next few days, the words and the touches between us had dried up. It was strictly business as I fake-learned Excel formulas and mechanically copied them down.

Almost a week later, during our Excel lesson, Ridhima had stepped outside to give money to Damu Kaka to buy something from the grocer. I wasn’t going to let this golden chance slip by. I slid my hand inside her bag, took out her bunch of keys, and pocketed the couple that I knew were for her house door and its treasure chest. When Ridhima came back, she saw me lost in an Excel sheet.

I got the chance to put the wheels of my plans into motion after a couple of days. Ridhima told me that she and her family are going to a nearby village for a wedding. I couldn’t be happier. Saiwadi’s development was not too far ahead in the future.

On the night of their departure, I sneaked into her house, and opened the treasure chest – some cash, a few ornaments, and there it was – an old file with all the land documents. With my torchlight shining, I read through it quickly. It was not just the ownership documents – but there was a land study report from not so long ago. I read a highlighted line – “… presence of coastal water seeping under the beach. The entire landmass known popularly as Saiwadi is unsuitable for any form of construction.”

I read and re-read the report. There was another one under it – from a few years earlier with the exact same conclusion. So, that’s why this place was left untouched. I kept the papers as I had found them. The failure of this months’ long effort was pinching into my heart. As I locked the chest, I saw Ridhima’s picture – sitting on a swing with a smile so fulfilling that all my dejections evaporated immediately.

After Ridhima returned to the village, I couldn’t help but hug her before our Excel lesson.

“Are you alright?” she asked in confusion but not pushing me away.

“Time for a secret,” I whispered in her ear, “How about I stay back here and offer courses in cultural studies?”

“Okay… that is a start. Who would want to study Saiwadi?” she asked.

“Not just Saiwadi, but all the regions around it. You people have a rich and unique history. And let’s give Excel a break today,” I said looking into her eyes with determination.

Those probing eyes again. I had no clear answers for things ahead but all I knew was that I needed to be around these eyes. And in this serene village.

I glanced at the computer screen and was glad Ridhima hadn't insisted on Excel lessons. Had she looked at the monitor, she would have seen my job resignation staring from my mail’s outbox.

And then that thought which I kept dreading all this time - What if the land report had been any different?  

Smoke in the Mirror

Birthdays shouldn’t exist - especially after a person dies.

The thought lingers in my mind (or whatever is left of it) as I linger around the spot of my funeral. It is my birthday today and I await the monstrosity called Tejas to appear. He will be here any moment now. It is not so much an ‘awaiting’ as it is a ‘helplessness.’ I am trying to find a parallel between this moment and a life experience. That shouldn’t be a struggle for an author.

Child birth? Awaiting yes, helplessness no.

It has been 180 years since I passed on (not entirely but in a way). Every year – a few people turn up at my cenotaph (an empty tomb! How do I remember that one?) on my birthday and even on the day of my death. They offer flowers, letters, candles, and other trash. But among them all, Tejas is the worst. 

Let me tell you a bit about Tejas. 30-something, shabbily dressed, and never talks to anybody else when he is here. He began coming here five years ago. A very short letter, a rose and three incense sticks. I would have preferred a bottle of wine.

Hangovers? Helplessness yes, awaiting no.

His letters “sent” to me are all some variations of:

“For all your sufferings, Bharat.”

“We are not worthy, Bharat.”

“Always in our hearts, Bharat.”

A hint of apology sprinkled with a dash of sorrow. A pinch of memory to suit one’s taste. Debauchery of the finest kind.

What is the point of all this when it’s all a thing of the past? Correcting nothing except soothing the misplaced guilt in their hearts. I died a pauper with a hatred for my writings and a yearning for my death. Time to revisit a review for one of my first books:

“Bharat Doshi’s works are bland and immature - terrible tales of doom and despair rousing a reader’s underlying uncertainties.”

The reviewer must have spent more time on making the alliteration than understanding the book.

A dead child coming back to kill his mother’s murderer, a pet parrot gouging out his master’s killer’s eyes, a poor farmer haunting a moneylender into poverty. Revenge, revenge, revenge! How sweet is revenge, the reviewer would not know. How have these immature tales grown into cult (ha!) classics now!

Oh success, you rise a curious curve. Now that is an alliteration.

Revenge? Awaiting yes, helplessness no.

I hear some mourners asking in a murmur, “How did you die?”

It’s a mystery, they say. Not so for me. Some say I had died of heavy intoxication. Some say it was the handiwork of a competing author. I assure you - it was neither. But why do these mourners need to know?

Talking of mourners, Tejas is here. I see him. But worse. I smell the terrible incense sticks. Are they cheap? Shut up, brain. Price has nothing to do with quality. Don’t we know that?

I wish I could just throw those sticks away. But my spirit is too weak. As it was then? I have had worse thoughts. Tejas’ head. The rock on my cenotaph. What if… Let’s be kind now.

I bear the smell of the incense sticks. It’s a mix of sweaty socks combined with rotten radish. I read his letter to take my mind off.

“Bless me, Bharat.”

Utterly poor - even by Tejas’ standards. I suffer the nausea of his presence. Oh, you shall see! I am going to bless you alright.

At night, as Tejas goes to bed, I wait. I wait for him to begin dreaming. Then I bless him. Most horrendous scenery he could ever have imagined. I do not spare his dear friends or his loving relatives. They’re all in his dreams – suffering the worst fates possible. As he begins to awake, I show him my face. That should do it. The signature sign-off. No more coming to my spot, you rot.

For a year, I am at it. A zest of savagery squeezed in with a crush of cruelty. Now, I await my birthday.

A year passes. Tejas is here again. Is he carrying those incense sticks again? Yes, he is. He is not alone though. A crowd follows him – some are asking him questions, others are clicking his pictures.

He leads them to my funeral spot, and gets down on his knees. He keeps the letter, the rose, and the incense sticks down. The people around him are relentless. “What does Bharat mean to you?” one asks.

He pauses (oh the drama! Somebody, kill me again) and then answers, “Three successful horror books in one year. I couldn’t have done it without Bharat.” He bows.

“Any tips for aspiring authors?” a man asks. This is now a workshop for budding writers.

“Just talk to Bharat,” Tejas answers with his hands pointing towards the emptiness. “Don’t forget the incense sticks,” he adds.

I read his letter. “In death, you have won, Bharat.” Sure, this right here is the sweet smell of success.

Death. Awaiting yes, helplessness yes.

Birthdays shouldn’t exist.

Inspiration: Poe Toaster

The Post Script Store

I am sitting at the counter. A customer hands over a book. It is a recently published love story. Full of light banter and no sadness whatsoever. “Nice choice, Subhashbabu” I smile at the 70-something gentleman who has an undying love for romcoms. “As always,” he replies with a grin. I generate an invoice, collect cash, and return the book to him.

He leaves and I am left alone at the counter. A buzz is setting inside the store. Isn’t it early to get crowded? I glance at the clock on my desk.

2:50 AM. 10 minutes left.

I glance around in the store. Most of the people are at the ‘Best-sellers’ section. I stand and walk away from the counter. I need a break before the rush hour.

I scan my thumb at the door to the inner room. Should we have an ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ board? Unnecessary and would only invite unwanted attention. Nobody cares to walk inside unmarked doors at a bookstore.

But this is not just a bookstore. Certainly not after 3.

I walk inside the room. Netra is busy looking at a form from last night’s orders. Weighing the ingredients. Mixing them in her test-tubes.

“Give yourself a break, Netra. You up for a coffee?” I ask as I head towards the coffee machine. I know not to go anywhere near her when she’s working. Once, I had tried to distract her and she had emptied a beaker right on my shirt while yelling, “Acid!” only to be followed by a giggle and “It’s only water.” Morbid sense of humour.

“Make it a strong one,” she says with a smile.

 “Too much caffeine isn’t good for you,” I say as I pick up two cups from the machine – my latte and her dark coffee.

“Caffeine, coffin… too much of anything isn’t good, right?” she says while sealing a vial and pasting a label on it.

“Unnecessary,” I say as I keep her cup on the desk.

I hear a buzz from the front counter. Ten minutes up already? I rush out of the inner room – my cup of coffee in one hand and Netra’s OUTWARD tray with neatly stacked vials in it, in the other.

The counter window has a queue. As soon as I sit on my chair, I see the familiar face of Farhan. His eyes are red. He is offering his empty vial through the counter window.

“Empty so soon? You are overusing, Farhan. We had discussed it. It’s not healthy,” I say, yet not stopping myself from taking his vial and keeping it in my INWARD basket.

“It’s my school friend. We grew up together. It’s so difficult-,” he says with a glint in his eyes.

“Friend, father, foe - who cares?” I cut him off. I have heard these stories before and this isn’t the time to listen to a repeat customer. “Come tomorrow to collect it. Just don’t get addicted,” I say as I give him an invoice. He pays immediately and walks away – a smile on his face, something already brewing in his head for the next time he uses.

I see a 50-something woman next. She is hesitant. “I don’t know how this works,” she smiles through the pain on her face.

“I am sorry for your loss. Take this form. There are pens at the writing counter near the ‘Spirituality’ section. Write your name, the name of the departed, date of death, favourite memory. It’s all pretty basic,” I hand over a form to her. She is still confused.

“You will have to make the payment now.” I give her an invoice and the lady pays – more question marks on her forehead. “Drop the filled form in this box,” I keep the box of forms at the counter, “Collect your vial tomorrow. Take a sip from the vial in the morning and you’ll get to spend a day with the departed. Please avoid overusing it. It’s not healthy,” I smile. The lady moves out of the queue while looking at the box, trying to assimilate everything I had said.

Now, we could have printed it all on a board. But Netra thought it would be better to have a human with people skills (me, of course) to talk to people before we take their money.

Throughout the day, and partly through the night, we sell books at our store. The 3-4 AM hour is reserved for selling vials.

“Is my vial ready?” It is Subhashbabu again.

“Sure is,” I hand him the labelled vial from Netra’s OUTWARD tray, followed by an invoice. He pays me but, for some reason, is still in the queue.

“Yes, Subhashbabu?” I ask. He is not easy to get impatient with.

“You talked about my choice earlier. Sheela is my best choice,” he says proudly. I smile at him adoring how he kept it in his mind to reply.

“Of course,” I smile at his use of present tense for someone lost long ago. He begins to move out of the queue.

“I wanted to ask. Why don’t you sell these vials before 3?” Subhashbabu peeks in again.

It would be better to have a board at least for this one but Netra is against all forms of written communication. “Oh, it is just that we are selling books all day. These things take time to prepare. Besides, we don’t wish to mix the two businesses,” I say, wondering if he is convinced.

I spend the hour taking customers’ requests either for a refill or a new request to spend a day with another loved one. I keep nudging them not to overdo it. We don’t know the bad effects of the vial on a person’s physical health. But we know that being addicted to the departed could not be too healthy.

The clock on my desk gives out a little ding. It is 4 AM. I keep the CLOSED slate on the counter. I hear a collective sigh from the unattended customers. They know better than to complain about the strict hours.

I stand up and stretch my arms. It will be a while before the crowd steps out of the store. They deserve some time to collect their thoughts and emotions.

I scan my thumbprint at the door of the inner room. Netra is deeply engrossed in a horror book – a shadow of a house on its cover.

“Do you ever think that these gruesome books could be the reason for your dark thoughts?” I ask as I stand next to her.

“Could be. Or, it could be just an occupational hazard,” she says.

I look at how beautiful she looks even while reading something so ghastly. That ready wit, those expressive eyes, those pretty hair – all gone so soon. I can’t take my eyes off her as I raise the vial to my lips.