Hope

Aniruddha Sen

Never a poet, I opened my account yesterday.

When I look through my apartment window, it’s a heap of rubbles beneath. Weeks before, there was a grassy patch there, with sprinkles of wild flowers. They’re gone, now that a parking lot is coming up. Well no – today I saw some red and green shoots, sprouting up from a corner.

And that stirred up the unthinkable in me – I penned down my poetic tribute ‘Hope’.

 

The first person I wanted to confide to was my poetry guru, Sumeet. Till the other day we would sit in the coffee house and discuss all hues of poetry, from Pablo Neruda to Joy Goswami over cuppas. Our housemaid, Radha, as usual, was cursing the sparrows while cleaning up the twigs and straws accumulated by them on the window sill. Signaling her to tone down, I dialed my pal.

“Hello Sumeet, I wrote a poem at last!” I triumphantly announced.

“Wow – I knew you’d finally make it!” He said, in cheerless monotone.

“In case you’re interested –” I eyed my masterpiece sheepishly.

“Well, I’ll call back later,” he mumbled. “Have to rush to the office now.”

“S-o-o soon?”

“Yeah – this bloody recession, you know! The company is downsizing and you’re never sure about your ass.” He sounded despondent.

Good bye hope – at least for now.

 

Still buoyant, I dialed my sister Rinku, my ardent fan until her marriage.

“Hello sis, what’s up?” I started cautiously.

“N-nothing. Just fine.”

“What’s that? Were you crying?”

“N-no, what made you think so?”

“Come on, Rinki!” I pointedly asked, “Did he… beat you up again?”

“Beat you up again!” She mocked, “Need I repeat? Dead drunk, as usual.”

“May I come and –” I was fuming.

“You may not!” She interrupted. “You’ve done your bit – have secured a prosperous groom for your sister. The rest is her destiny.”

“But can’t I –”

“Help? Sure – Keep mum! Let dad and mom have no inkling,” she snapped and hung up.

 

So my ‘hope’ had another rebuff! God – is it so impossible to convey the message of the sprouts – that life is not a lost cause and there’s light at the end of tunnel?

Well – how could I have forgotten Priya, my sweetheart! Never mind she’s not a poetry buff, my words would for sure find a reverberation in her sensitive heart.

“Hi darling, couldn’t see you for some time – how’re things?” I asked. I could hardly wait to hear her cherished voice, after eons it seemed.

“Fine.” She was rather circumspect in her reply, “What’s new?”

“Wrote a poem on hope – want to hear?” I blurted it all in one go.

“Great – but will hear it in person, when I call on you tomorrow evening.”

“Coming tomorrow?” I could hardly suppress my excitement.

“Yeah, to invite you. I’m marrying my boss.”

“Don’t say! He’s thirty years older than you are!”

“Yeah – but rich and understanding. I always fought shy of telling you I’ve a brother in asylum and a senile mother, both my dependents. He’ll now take care of that.”

“Can’t do it to me!” I wailed.

“True, dear – I can’t kill a sensitive and creative soul that’s you with my albatross. Well, looking forward to meeting you and listening to your poetry tomorrow. Bye.”

 

Time froze. When I came back to myself, I found the piece of paper, my ‘hope’, soggy with briny drops. I lifted it affectionately, shredded it into pieces and consigned it into the waste paper basket.

 

It’s morning. I woke up amidst chirping. The sparrow couple is busy filling the window sill with shreds of my ‘hope’ – in their untiring quest to build a nest.

A Time to Love

Barnali Saha

At the onset of a romantic life, a couple usually experiences a strange kind of dumb animal love. A sort of love that lives and breathes with them and there is no running away from it. For many, such love, as is felt by the turtle doves in the initial stages of romance, more often than not leads straight to the altar – and that is just the beginning of a fairy tale with highly complicated plots and subplots to be presented to the protagonists in the later years of the married life.
In a majestic outburst of jubilation and in the presence of hundreds, the bride and the groom share their ‘I do’s, hoping that the walk down the road to happily ever after would be a cakewalk. Immediately after the wedding, the couples love is usually fuelled by a shared sense of insecurity and hopelessness. Still caught in the wedding tizzy, they are apt to experience a medley of confused wishes, desires and future aspirations that bring home the idea that life without the spouse is implausible, if not impossible altogether. Such emotions deepen the already deep bond of love and bind the two protagonists by a knot of a satin ribbon that might in the commoner’s eye seem to last forever.
But ‘forever’ is a dangerous word when love is concerned, for when romance becomes routine and habits occupy the somewhat drained compartments of affection, animal love corrodes and is replaced by prudence in general. Under such circumstances, a couple is prescribed to spend a good amount of their day recalling the happy memories of the past, and thereby, constantly remind themselves that they are still in love. In course of the connubial life, there often comes a period of considerable misery and mental pain, a condition termed by shrinks and marriage experts as the ‘seven-year itch’ – in reference to the extemporaneous appearance of the symptoms of this malady around the seventh year of marriage. Couples that survive this mysterious disease usually finish writing the epilogue of their romance in fine hands. And those who fail to adroitly handle the situation and end up exhuming skeletons of the past are torn asunder.
And if a bond of love is broken at a mature stage of life, it is broken for good. Couples separated by this malady are extremely vulnerable. Once split, they either try their best to find a new partner or accept solitude, frozen food and maudlin soap operas. Those who try to interest themselves in new romance habitually find themselves attracted to people who are either very much like their ex-partner or a totally different from them. These people, mind you, are a very sensitive bunch and are forever debating in their minds whether diving into a new romance is feasible at all, since such an action is always accompanied by the caveat of a fresh heartbreak. But then risks are meant to be taken and no two people are alike. And there, my friend, lies the dichotomy of the situation. When the confused bunch of newly split couples is presented in solid terms the prospect of a new matrimony, they, in a great number of cases, start flashing in their mind’s eyes experiences of their past relationship; and when I say experiences, I mean the bitter ones, of course, for human mind tends to brood more over distress rather than happiness. So, when they start refreshing their old memories they end up digging out the inequities that led to the severance of their old relations. A moment of truth dawns on them, and they cringe away from new romance leaving their prospective partners clueless and distraught.

In Mark Edwards’ case, however, the heartbreak and separation was not the result of the seven-year itch; it was a fatal car crash that tore him and Lisa, his wife, apart. He was not with her the time the ominous incident occurred; he was at home sitting in his plushy armchair brooding over the things Lisa had said to him during the course of an altercation they had in the morning. She was angrier than usual having found Mark talking to his ex-fiancée, Isabelle. There was an unusual vigor in her words that day and Mark found himself reduced to ashes when he was accused of being a spineless and characterless bloke among other things. Lisa had a peculiar character: happy and gay at one moment and throbbing with anger very next. She was a strange and vague girl; she seldom could make her own decisions, leave alone be independent, but she was high-strung emotionally. When Mark, in the heat of the moment, accused her of being a perennially spoiled girl and suggested that she visited a shrink, she just flew out off the handle. A distressing situation arose and a number of china was smashed. Mark’s Blackberry was trampled upon and destroyed. All for the simple reason that Isabelle needed a word of advice regarding the setting up of an online craft shop at a website. She refused to listen to Mark and left the house, shouting with rage.

Mark stayed home that day. In no mood to face his colleagues at the school all beaming with joie de vivre, he took the day off to regard the aspects of his difficult marriage. The whole day he sat in his arm chair, his mind nonplussed, his excited nerves throbbing; his head in his palms and lips quivering with emotion as he recalled the morning incident and the thousand other fights he had with his wife. There was not even a speck of love in their relation; love had been reduced to routine and romance had bidden adieu long ago. What was left in their relation was a trash box full of unfulfilled expectations. Lisa always hated Isabelle, called her “she” and never addressed her otherwise. It was curious since it was Lisa and not Isabelle who was the other woman in Mark’s life; the reason Mark’s engagement with Isabelle broke in the first place. But Lisa had always been jealous of Isabelle and called her “a bitch”. Often she woke up in the middle of the night to ask Mark the same old question, “Honey, is she better than me?”

Lisa usually returned home from her boutique around six in the evening. So, when the ticking clock – beating like a shocked, weary heart – announced the approach of the deadly hour, Mark began praying for help. He knew the fight hadn’t abated, but he lacked the energy to continue. Lisa never came home. Not in the evening, not ever.

The call from the police station came early the next morning. The telephone began ringing with a horrendous note, waking Mark. The metallic ectophony of the telecommunication device was an augury of evil. Mark knew instantly something was wrong; in a matter of moments he would come to know what it was. He picked up the telephone.
The next so many hours passed like a whirlwind, such that Mark could never recall their passage later. A series of fast paced events went by, like the changing scenes of an action thriller: a group of uniformed policemen, a couple of bloody bodies, two cars, a head-on collision, talk about drunk driving, the blinking red and blue lights of the cop cars, the sounds of the ambulances, a sea of confusion. Mark’s doppelganger took over his earthly role carrying out his duties without any sentience. He didn’t cry at the funeral. He was in a state of shock; numbed by an unforeseen disaster. He didn’t even know if he should blame himself in any way for the mishap. Conscience, when available, told him he should, but logic spoke otherwise. For days he fought with the two antithetical feelings and took to heavy drinking to assuage the mental discomfort.
In the months immediately following the accident he felt a strange discomfort in his chest. A longing to hear the same old voice of his wife; the kitchen noises; the wish to see the new clippings from the ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ magazine which hung in the study from a number of clothespins glued to brightly colored scrap wooden boards. He wondered sitting in his lonely home in the late evenings what he would say if he saw Lisa once again. He endured endless hours of self-pity, dejection and a series of other confused emotions. A feeling of lethargy overtook him and life in general took on the appearance of one long inebriated journey.
On certain bright mornings when he woke up with morbid headaches, he often questioned himself what he was doing with his life. He tried to make himself understand that life with or without Lisa must continue in its regular course, and it was high-time he accepted that fact and gave life a new chance. He made routines and to-do lists; tried going out with friends and colleagues and even went on a couple of dates to put his life back on track. He was unsuccessful in all cases. After a few outings, the vapid conversations with friends seemed unbearable and the prospect of seeing a new person next to him in bed appeared loathsome. He drew himself in his shell and started drinking once again. He didn’t know why he drank, he just did. The wriggling nameless pain that nudged him was forever impatient.
Mark knew it was not love that caused this pain since he and Lisa were already drifting apart when the accident took place and might have had a separation soon, had she not died. So, it was not love but solitude in general that cowed him. The idea of finding the empty house sitting all by itself in an empty plot of land at the end of a given day sent shivers down his spine. The uninhabited corners of the dwelling bearing vestiges of a dead relationship, the pictures hanging in the hallway, and the overall creepiness of the house made it unbearable. One night the pain was worse than usual. He had spent the whole evening drinking from a bottle of Mexican tequila and was filled with self-loathing. He blamed himself gratuitously for Lisa’s death and inculpated himself for several other disgraceful incidents that had happened in his life. He even tried calling Isabelle, but she wouldn’t talk to him and put down the receiver without one word. She was evidently scared after she heard about Lisa’s death and feared the police might blame her for the death in some way. The investigation was long over, still she wouldn’t talk to Mark anymore. In desperation, around midnight, he put on his running shoes and walked out of the house. The night was cool and pleasant and the crickets were busy with their drones. Mark took a couple of deep breaths and began walking down the sidewalk. The houses on either side were dark and sleepy; those which had the windows opened allowed a ray or two of faint light to escape through the sides of the drawn drapes. The street lamps, which stood like lonely lighthouses at regular intervals, illuminated the neighborhood with their yellowish glow. It was a pleasant, dreamy and peaceful night. Mark walked in slow steps, the intoxicated feeling started to abate in the cool air and he felt refreshed. The tumultuous thoughts that wrought him also started to disperse, and after he had walked a mile or two, he felt positively rejuvenated. He did some soul searching and for the first time in the eleven months that passed since his wife had died, he felt peace. He made himself promises, he counted the positive aspects of his character and intended to nurture them; he decided to finish the memoir he had started writing some time back. By the time Mark reached home, the soft light of the morning sun had already started to set the world aglow. He eyed the morning sun and went inside. The next day he forced himself out in the evening, and in a week brisk walking after a day at school became an indelible part of his routine. In a month he felt better, almost like those cancer patients who are awarded a new life when there was no hope for survival. Mark lost a great deal of old weight and felt refreshed and invigorated. He gave up frozen meals and began to cook.

****

He saw her at the Annual Artisans’ Festival that was being held at the Richmond Park. It was a very hot summer afternoon. Mark was out on his daily run and after jogging up a few blocks he found himself in front of the park entrance. The park was dotted with several white tents and temporary stalls, food-carts, face painting tents, children’s activity corners. A live musical performance by some girl with a heavy country voice was underway and most of the crowd had gathered around her. There were only a handful of people and a few dogs that were roaming about checking out the stalls. The stalls displayed a range of crafts from traditional paintings to handmade jewelry, furniture and woodwork. Mark walked in and began to look around. He stood outside a unique shop that sold goods made from recycled stuff and was appreciating a wind chime made of Coke bottle caps when he heard her laugh. It was a mouthful of laughter, a fresh and melodious little gag. Mark turned round and saw her. She was having a nice conversation with the store owner of Artisan Clocks – a stall that displayed brightly colored hand painted wooden clocks with little wooden pendulums. She stood with her back to him, her yellow curly hair tied in a loose ponytail. Mark walked in the direction of the store; his mind blank, his heart ready for some unknown excitement.

There were a number of other people in the store, all casually checking out the goods, but he wasn’t interested in the goods, he wanted to have a look at her.
“It was great meeting you, dear. Do visit us next year,” said the store lady to the girl, cordially, handing her a package and a couple of dollar bills.
“Sure!” she replied, the same melodious voice like drops of honey, smooth and delicious. Then she turned around and faced Mark. She was a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, well-built, and had a round, friendly face and a couple of deep brown eyes decorated with heavy eyelashes. She was wearing a maroon t-shirt that said ‘Department of Social Sciences University of Southern Illinois’ in bold white letters. A little blue from the cotton candy she had just consumed smeared across her upper lip area like a delicate beauty mark. Mark was smitten.
“Excuse me,” she said, looking confused. Mark woke up from his reverie and realized he was blocking her way. She smiled at him.
“I am so sorry,” he said, apologetically. A rush of blood warmed his face.
“It’s okay,” she said and walked out.
“How may I help you, sir?” the store lady asked Mark.
“Oh! Nothing! Just browsing,” he replied with a confused smile and walked out to pursue the girl.

Mark followed her around. She stopped and checked the items of several over-expensive pottery stores. Mark looked at her. She was an ordinary girl, a little on the plump side. There were marked deposits of adipose tissue around her waist. She had freckles too. But there was a strange kind of magnetic attraction in her that pulled Mark; he could not say if it was the floral scent she was wearing, the blue cotton candy mark or her laughter, but he felt like drowning into a forbidden pool. Standing in the middle of the park on the hot summer afternoon, Mark Edwards felt love-struck.
He never hoped it would happen to him. He knew not how it happened, it just did. A rush of blood pumped through his heart and it began to beat with a curious lub-dub noise as he approached near her. She did not notice him, however. She walked around some more checking out the other stores and then walked in the direction of the parking lot, the package hanging from her fist. Mark walked behind her, consciously maintaining a distance lest she should think he was a stalker or something. She approached a red Buick and headed out of the park.

It was more than a week before he saw her again; Mark had the ingenious idea of doing his daily runs in the university campus. It occurred to him one evening, two days before his actual experimentation of the idea, to search the university website and find out more about her. For a pretty long while he had been fighting roughly with his mind, asking it to calm down, do some work and forget the cotton candy mark. But love is such a strange emotion, an untamed, a deaf-mute kind of a feeling, always yearning for something that it knows in its heart is impossible to gain. In his midmorning reveries he admired her gentleness, her musical voice and wished he knew a way to get in touch with her again. She was a mystery to him, an imperfect Southern mystery – a woman who in many ways was so different, yet so delicate and perfect for him.
He called himself stupid and was filled with abashment for his teenaged stance at a mature age of 37. The emotion did not suit him; what did he know of love? A mundane computer science teacher at The Goreville Community High School, what could he possibly know about a deep and poetical, polished and revered emotional we fondly call ‘love’? Thinking about it he got the jitters; he had never felt like this before, not about Lisa, not about Isabelle, not about any woman for that matter. It was strange, it was new, and it was love. At least Mark thought so, for the more he tried to launder the dirty linens of his soul, the more violent the emotions became. His mind wouldn’t simply listen to him and would spend the twenty four hours of a day, if given a chance, on vague thoughts about her. Mark knew it was time for action.

The university website provided a grand list of students and grad students, assistant professors and associate professors who belonged to the Social Science Department, but they had no pictures posted in the site. Mark had no way to find out if she was a grad student or a master’s student. She certainly could not be a professor; she was too young for that. The website, however, presented a well marked map of the campus which showed the campus lake only yards away from the Social Sciences building and boasted of a well maintained walking and biking trail of a mile and a half around the lake. The precise information proved useful since Mark had his brainwave in no time. He smiled, sideways, a sort of mischievous smile unbecoming of a mature man; yet, what the heck? Love is love.

It took him approximately one hour fifteen minutes to leave his home, walk three miles to the university campus, ask random people and find the Department of Social Science. Eventually, he found himself standing in front of brick building of moderate dimensions neighbored by tall trees with nameplates on them. Mark walked around the building. The parking lot at the back of the building had a number of cars. He spotted a red Buick. ‘Genius!’ he wanted to shout, but somehow controlled himself. It was now a matter of mere moments before he knew he would see her. He had no idea what he should do once he saw her; go and ask her for a date or continue ogling. What if she did not show up? Mark, sadly, had no back-up plan. He felt optimistic; he trusted he wouldn’t need a plan B.

He was tired after the four something miles walk and sat down at a bench under a tree facing the building. It was six in the evening and he had waited for almost half an hour, yet there was no sign of her. His mind was wild with excitement. The blood inside his body rushed with Bacchanalian ecstasy; the dancing, prancing, confused feelings pestered him; they wanted to know how long? Mark did not know what to say. He got up and began to pace up the graveled road that led to the campus lake. Hardly had he taken a step or two when he heard a laughter, the musical voice said, “See you tomorrow, Nancy.” Mark sprung around as if stung by a beetle. She was there, right in front of him, the hair flowing in the wind, the face glistening in the sun, the eyes sparkling with unknown mysteries. Mark noticed it all. She seemed unreal, a mirage of some sort, a passing fancy that never stands stable. In a moment she was gone; the red Buick backed up and then headed out. The plan had worked. Mark smiled and paced up toward the campus lake for a little breather.

*****

“Can I offer you a ride?”
Mark looked up and saw her peering out of a passenger seat window of a red Buick with an anxious eye. Mark nodded.
“Come on in,” she said, opening the door for him and clearing away a couple of magazines and soda bottles that occupied the passenger seat.
Mark seated himself and sighed. He was exhausted, his legs hurt, he was hyperventilating, and his throat was dry.
“Are you all right?” she asked with concern. “Here, drink some water.” Mark took the pink water bottle she handed and drank from it. Instantly he felt better. The water was sweet and tasty, a touch of cold. He closed his eyes.
She started the car and looked at him. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Mark replied.
“You come here often?” she asked.
“Oh yes; everyday for almost a week now. You see, I am preparing for the marathon and have been doing daily four to five miles of brisk walking and occasional running.”
“Really? Wow, that’s great,” she said with a smile. “So where do you want me to drop you?”
“I live on Elmer Street; you can drop me at the intersection and I will walk the few yards,” said Mark. He tried to drink her features in surreptitiously. He was meeting her after four long days and he wished he could show her how grateful he felt to her for showing up like a good angel in a moment when he felt he wouldn’t see her anymore. People are right when they say wishes do come true.
“Elmer Street is on my way; I can drop you at your place. You shouldn’t walk now, you know.”
“I guess I overdid it,” Mark said apologetically.
“I am afraid so,” she said, smiling.
“I am Mark Edwards, by the way,” Mark said, extending his hand. Awfully stupid, he thought later, since she was driving.
“I am Hillary. Hillary Perfloff.” She touched his extended palm with the fingers of her right hand.
“I am a graduate student at the university’s Social Science Department,” She said. Of course that was not new information. Mark knew all about the Social Science Department and her. He was somewhat hurt by the fact that she had not noticed him ever pacing up and down the graveled road right outside the department.
“So, what do you do, Mark?” she asked casually.
“Oh… I… I am a computer science teacher at The Goreville Community High School,” he replied clearing his throat.
“You lived here long?” she asked.
“Yes, all my life. My parents lived and died here so I never left the place. What about you? Where are you from?”
“I am from Tennessee. Nashville, Tennessee. My family lives there. I have been going to school here for the past five years.”
“Cool,” Mark replied.
“Actually, I am finished with my graduate work. I will be getting my degree this fall,” she said brightening up.
“Wonderful,” Mark replied with less enthusiasm than he had actually wanted to put in those words. She would be leaving the place soon; that wasn’t good news.
“Will you be staying here or shifting?” he asked with considerable curiosity.
“Oh… I am of going to Bangladesh for a year with couple of others in my department,” she replied turning the car right into Elmer Street and slowing down. “Which way now?” she asked.
“The yellow house on the left,” Mark said. “It is a few yards, I can manage, don’t worry.”
“Are you sure?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh… yes,” Mark smiled and she unlocked the car door.

“It was nice meeting you, Hillary,” Mark said into the open window.
“It was great meeting you too, Mark. You take care, huh.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Bye then,” she said turning on the engine.
Mark realized something. “Listen, Hillary,” he shouted.
“Yes?” she said peering out of the window.
“I know we’ve just met, but would you care to join me this Friday evening for a movie and a dinner?”
“Is it a date? If it is then I am not interested.” She said point-blank.
“No, no… No date. Just a friendly treat to say ‘thank you.’”
“You don’t have to, you know,” she said.
“I really want to, please.”
“Okay then, if it is not a date then I am in,” she smiled. “You can pick me up at the school around say 7:30.”
“I don’t drive,” Mark replied contritely.
“Okay, then maybe I can pick you up around, say…” she thought for a moment, “eight-ish, would that be good?”
“That would be wonderful,” Mark said and pointed to his house. “That is my house over there.”
She looked at the house for a moment and said, “Okay then… See you on Friday. Bye!”
“Bye.”

They had gone out at least five times, and although Hillary always insisted that the outings were just ‘friendly dinners’ and nothing else, Mark knew they meant more. He had come to know her really well. He discovered her liking for chocolate, for every time they went for a bite she always ordered chocolate milkshakes; discovered she hated chick-flicks and girly stuff even though she herself indulged in several of them like carrying a pink pen and at least five different flavored lip glosses in her bag and watching romantic comedies on Netflix when she couldn’t sleep at night. She loved to talk about politics and social issues, hunger and poverty and how she wanted to help but lacked the machinery needed to bring about a change. She was a dreamer and a strong optimist; she believed that someday she might do something groundbreaking. In fact, Mark felt, that she forced a fresh dose of raw energy into her bloodstream every day; she was so lively. Mark doubted if she ever encountered real pain in life.
Their conversations at the dinner table in a restaurant would mostly consist of useless topics, such as the movie they had just seen and how the actress looked dumb and whorish in her black dress carrying a fake gun or how the dialogues in the movie were ‘too mushy and unreal’. Mark wondered if she could handle reality at all. He told her about his wife.
In general, both Mark and Hillary ignored personal topics. All he knew about her personal life was that she stayed with a couple of roommates, all ladies, of course, in a university apartment and her family stayed in Nashville, Tennessee. She never talked about the members of her family, who they were or what they did. She never mentioned if she had a boyfriend or a fiancé somewhere. Mark couldn’t ask her, he was too modest to do so, but there seemed to be no other way. Here he was spending all his energy and efforts trying to woo this woman without having a slightest idea what she was up to romantically. He thought the talk about Lisa might open her up.
But it did not. She listened to him, all serious; the vivaciousness of her face gave way to an expression of deep pathos mixed with confusion. She appeared genuinely moved. She cupped his hand and pressed it, saying, “I am sorry, I really am,” with misty eyes and then got up to leave. “I need to go back home.”
Mark felt embarrassed to have brought up such a somber topic on a casual dining out.
“I am sorry if I have hurt you in any way,” he said and he meant it.
“It’s nothing,” she said, clearing her throat and trying her best to look normal when she was positively aggrieved. Mark was perturbed. He had been quite careful during the course of the conversation and had only given her bare facts like the date and place of the accident, and no hurtful details. What exactly upset her, there was no way to find out until she was ready to share it with him.
Mark asked her if she would like to go for a stroll in the park. “You might feel better in the fresh air,” he said.
“Okay, let’s go from here. The people are staring at me.” Mark looked around and there was nobody around.

They sat on a bench gazing off across the stream to the mounds opposite. The evening breeze was tender and calm, the gnats and insects carried out a curious orchestra of droning and buzzing noises. The stream was relaxed and at ease, a number of ducks paddled upstream. It was a time between the end of dusk and the inception of night; Mark’s watch said 8:00 PM. A bulbous white moon stared at them from a purple sky. A number of casual walkers, bikers, roller-skaters and children still peopled the park. People laughed and giggled, talked in low voices and played Frisbee and ball. Hillary stared at the little mounds and eventually spoke in a hollow voice. Mark listened.
“I had a boyfriend, Andrew was his name. Andrew Ingram. He was from Dexter, Missouri. He was a grad student too; we were the same age. He was very enthusiastic and we had a lot in common. We shared ideas and thoughts, we debated. We were serious about our relation. We had been together for two years and he was returning from a weekend trip home. He called me from his place and said that his parents wanted to meet me. He was excited and said he had lots of things to tell me. I was visiting a friend at the time in Anna, and we decided to meet on Tuesday morning at school. I was happy too. I loved him very much.”
Hillary stopped for a breather. She choked. A couple of drops of tears fell from her brown eyes and streamed down her face onto her lap. She began again. “He drove a 1994 Ford Aspire; it was an old car and was out of shape. He was traveling westbound on Highway 60 when another car, a speeding Pontiac driving eastbound crossed the centerline and hit his car. A head-on collision. He died on the spot. He was a bloody lump. The woman who hit his car died too. She was a young woman.”
“She was Lisa.” Mark nodded with a deep understanding.
Hillary sighed and wiped her face with her left hand. Mark looked away. A train of images halted before his eyes and in the softly rolling water of the stream he saw pictures: images of Lisa, her face, the fights, her fits of anger; her two depressing eyes staring at him with a questioning look and her mouth lipping the same old question, “Honey, is she better than me?”

The Cursed Idol

Ratan Lal Basu

It was all foggy. Everything on the road below was invisible, and the steep downhill path, slippery with dew. I had to clamber down the Tibet Road cautiously. Still, it was very exhilarating and I felt as though I was moving along an uncanny path in a dreamland. The tender caress of fog on my exposed face was exciting. I had to go further down to reach the paan and cigarette stall. Once I turned the corner, the stall was now visible through the tapestry of fog. I started traipsing in the direction of the stall and a meek female voice gave me a start. I turned my head and noticed a stout Nepali woman, aged around thirty, standing only a few feet from me. She repeated, “samay keti bhayo?” – and then, finding me to be a Bengali, she asked in broken Bangla, “What’s the time by your watch?” I pulled back the sleeve of the jacket to peek at the watch and replied, “Seven thirty.” She walked a few paces ahead, only to turn around and remark, “You seem to be a tourist.”

“Yes, I’m from Kolkata.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Arrived just yesterday.”

“Which hotel have you checked in?”

Before I could reply, I heard the harsh voice of the Bihari stall owner, “Renu, leave this place immediately or I’ll call the police. You’re again disturbing the tourists?”

She seemed to panic at the name of the police, and left the place hurriedly after uttering obscenities in Nepali at the stall owner who chased her away. He was still panting for breath after returning to the shop. I was really bewildered at the sudden turn of events. Collecting himself, the stall owner explained that this woman was a call girl, used to luring tourists to sexual orgies in exchange for money. He said, “It’s good for you that I intercepted in time and she could not extract the name of your hotel. But I am apprehensive that she would find out nonetheless. So, inform the matter to the manager in advance. Otherwise, if she queries about you at the hotel reception, they might think otherwise of you. But I know your character and you’re to be cautious, so that it’s not besmirched without any reason.”

 

Returning to the hotel, I related the matter to the manager and he started laughing aloud thinking about the condition of an orthodox person like me facing a call girl. He told me that Renu was not a prostitute in the true sense, as she used to reside with her widower father and a ten year old son. Her husband had eloped with another girl and was now settled at Darjeeling. He told me that there were very few streetwalkers in the town as such; perhaps she was an exception. The professional escorts could be there, but they didn’t disturb the innocent tourists. They made contact through the internet.

 

I forgot the matter soon and hastened to meet the Lama at the Tibetan institute. He gave me the good news that he had learnt about antique Tibetan stuff in the house of an old man. The agent of the man would contact me in the evening at my hotel.

The agent came in the evening – a Nepali teenage boy with dirty blotches on sunken cheeks, and his shabby coat, unwashed for years, emitted a filthy odor. He was seated on the floor of the lobby as the manager would not permit such a fellow to sit on the sofa. As soon as I entered the lobby, the boy stood up, bowed and offered me the letter from the Lama. I was startled to notice that his teeth were snow-white in sharp contrast to his demeanor and outfit. The brief note indicated that this boy would lead me to the old curio man.

After getting my assent, the boy announced he would arrange for a hired vehicle, a resort for the night stay and all other accoutrements required for the venture. I gave him the necessary advance for booking a vehicle and the resort, as well as five hundred rupees as his fee and some extra cash to buy a fresh sweater and coat, emphasizing that he should immediately get properly washed with soap and hot water. The manager explained to him in Nepali that he ought to be neat and clean before escorting a wealthy gentleman like me.

The night saw me happy that soon I would be in possession of some rare authentic Tibetan curios which my rich collection lacked. My father was a rich businessman and I was the lone issue of my parents. I did a PhD in archaeology from a US university and had decided to be a professor at some university there. But the sudden death of both the parents in a plane crash made me utterly lonely; returning home I sold all the shares of my father’s company, invested the money in shares of reputed corporations and took to traveling sites of pilgrimage, but peace of mind was to be found nowhere. While touring Rajasthan I came across a Bengali lady professor from Kolkata and we fell in love with each other. She was a nice lady and did away with all my loneliness. I loved her deeply and was obedient and faithful to her. She inspired me to be a freelance journalist and write articles on antiques. My father already had a good collection and I went on enriching it by collecting rare articles from various places. However, I did not have any collection of Tibetan curios. So now I was elated to have the opportunity to get access to them.

 

The boy came on time next morning and looked fresh and jovial in his new outfit. We reached Namchi market by noon; after lunch at a hotel, we bought our dinner packets, drinking water, candles and other essentials for the night stay at the newly constructed resort which had no electricity connection yet. It occurred to me that the large half-built resort at that desolate place in candle light would be eerie and appropriate for inspecting antique Tibetan curios. The path was craggy and the vehicle jolted vehemently. By late afternoon we reached the resort amidst a small valley covered with pines and rhododendrons. The place looked beautiful and uncanny in the reddish glow of the setting sun. The driver left with the vehicle for Namchi market, mentioning that he would return by early morning to pick us up.

 

The boy raced down a narrow causeway and was lost behind the turn of the hill. It was dark inside; I lit the candles, and the half-finished room, where we would be staying, looked mystical. The other rooms were locked. There were two wooden cots in our room. The boy had already brought mattresses which were rolled up at the corner of the room. He would unpack them after he returned. I went out to the balcony and looked around. All sides except the fourth sloped gently up the tree-clad hills, while the fourth went steeply down through bushes and thickets. So, it was not a valley proper but a saddle point. The Bhutia hotel owner had chosen an excellent place for the resort but he would have to spend much to get electricity and water connections.

 

The boy emerged at the turn of the hill and I hastened to open the door. He was almost running and was panting now. After settling down, he informed me that the old man could not come up to the resort and so I would have to visit his place to browse through the curios. I got ready in no time and accompanied the boy down the steep causeway. It was broken and narrow and I stumbled twice, but the bushes on both the sides saved me from falling down. The wooden house of the old man was at the upper end of the small village with houses scattering down a valley that sloped gently down to meet the steep hills around. It was already evening and I switched on my torch.

The house was at the end of the village and other houses, not more than forty, were away from this house. He liked to live alone in peaceful quiet, I thought. The house consisted of a small bedroom and a kitchen and was lighted by a dim lamp. The man had a large puckered face and deep creases on the forehead, the hair around the baldness were all creamy white and there was no trace of hair on the face except a small goatee down the chin; the snub nose was very large and his small eyes were luminous and intelligent. He greeted me with affable smile and requested me to be seated on the stone slab placed at the corner of the room. At the far end of the room there was a beautiful statue of Buddha. He asked if I would like to have chhaang (the locally made strong alcoholic drink) which I instantly declined. I, however, consented to spice-tea.

 

After tea I came right to business and the man asked me to follow him. He carefully closed the entrance door, asked the boy to stand guard and took me stooping through the small door to a narrow passage which caved into the hillside and ended up at the approach of a flight of stairs going steeply down. He carried a lamp and I lighted my torch to step carefully down the steep staircase. At last we reached an underground room much larger than the upper one and lo, there were innumerable antique articles stacked on a stone ledge that jutted out of the sidewall which was but the hillside. Examining the articles I was utterly disappointed as most of them were trash, occasionally displayed in curio shops at Gangtok and Darjeeling. The old man smiled enigmatically and said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, sir. But I’ve not given you so much trouble for these trifles. I’ll show you something that you must like, I hope. This is a rare thing and had been brought along by my ancestor right from Tibet.’

 

The way he talked ignited my curiosity. An enigmatic smile played on his lips and in the flickering light of the lamp he looked like an aboriginal man. I felt as though I was transported by a time machine to the pre-historic ages and an eerie sensation coursed down my spine. The old man removed the trash articles and took out a wooden box about two feet long. He slowly raised the lid and hesitated for a while, his looks betraying panic, and in a trembling voice he muttered, ‘Here’s something that I’m sure would interest you, but I must relate the hazards associated with it.’ He slowly handed out an idol and I bent forward to peer at it. In the flickering light the metallic linings of the reddish robe of the fourteen inch idol glistened and almost blinded my eyes. The man held the figure in front of the lamp. My eyes got transfixed at the enchanting idol. The body was adorned with an ornamented tight-fitted red robe and only the head was open. The sharp nose and the blue eyes (made of topaz stone, the man told me later on) revealed mockery and cruel sadism but it expressed cajolery at the same time. The sharp heavy boobs, glued tightly to the robe, sloped down to the flat belly and slim waist line which again bulged at the back into heavy enticing butts that curved gently down to the thighs and slender legs. I remained spellbound for some time. My trance broke at the blubbering of the old man: ‘You have liked it I’m sure and would be ready to pay the price I would offer, but babu, think twice before you possess this idol of the vindictive goddess.’

‘I don’t believe that an idol could be alive and vindictive. So I must have such an invaluable thing and am ready to pay your price.’

‘It’s your choice, but still it would be a sin on my part if I don’t disclose everything.’

 

The man started relating the story of the idol made of a very hard but light Burmese teak and plastered with a rubbery substance. It was originally the property of his Tibetan ancestor who was a tantric engaged in occult rites. He had brought this idol from Burma and disregarding the warnings of his preceptor, he started secret worship of the goddess. One night, everybody in the house was waken by his shrill frightened voice. Breaking open his door the next morning, a local lama found him dead with his eyes bulging out in front of the idol. Following the removal of the corpse, the lama entered the room alone and adorned the idol with this sacred robe. Thereafter, he sealed the room, and for two generations the idol remained in the room which was never opened.

This old man’s grandfather brought it along while he left Tibet for Sikkim. Nobody, however, opened the box containing the idol, and it was kept in an underground room of their house in the village. That is, until the wife of this old man discovered it; finding the robe dirty, she had taken it out for a wash, putting it on the idol again thereafter. But that very night she became insane and committed suicide after a few days.

Nobody except this old man knew the reason of her insanity. But again, he forgot to take adequate precaution, and one day his only son was missing. Considering it a bad omen, the man entered the cellar at night only to find his son dead embracing the idol. Once again a pious lama was invited to adorn the idol with a new sacred robe as his son had torn open the old one.

 

I hardly believed this cock and bull story but was still puzzled at his endeavor to dissuade me and lose the opportunity to earn sumptuous money in exchange for something he had no use of. I reasoned it out in this way. Although he was badly in need of money, he was subconsciously unwilling to part with this invaluable ancestral property; this subconscious possessiveness had goaded him to fabricate such a blood chilling story. I did not hesitate a moment to express my strong desire to possess the article. We came out of the cellar and I paid him much more than the amount he had demanded. He once again cautioned me not to uncover the body of the idol. I assured him, and left knowing well that I would never be able to resist the temptation to divest this voluptuous body of the robe. With my scientific bent of my mind, I was confident that no misfortune would befall me at watching the enticing nudity. All the way back, I thought of rearranging the story with further fabrications along with the article on the idol. I must first consult experts on Bajrajaan-Buddhist idols about the origin of the worship of this goddess in Burma and Tibet. The idol resembled the image of Yakshinis observed in many Buddhist monasteries and gumphas.

 

Returning to hotel I called my wife and informed her that I was in possession of a rare curio which she would like for sure. I also talked for some time with my charming son, a class three student of a reputed English medium school. He asked me to buy a Sikkim stamped t-shirt he had seen one of his classmates wearing. In the evening I went to the Nehru market and bought the t-shirt, and from the Lal market below bought some beautiful sweaters for my wife and son, and also sacred wheels and tiny bells, a specialty of Sikkim. I sat for some time in the flower adorned mall and watched the play of multicolored light on the dancing fountains. The fountain right in front of me was tinged orange; the vapors sprinkling around gave my face a gentle touch and my vision gradually lost into the mystic land of the glowing vapor. I visualized the enlarged idol of the Yakshini dancing enticingly, swaying her voluptuous figure and inviting me.

 

I abruptly stood up and rushed unconsciously towards the fountain and stumbled on the grill fencing raising roars of laughter from the boys and girls seated around. They might have taken me to be a drunkard. I soon came to senses and in utter embarrassment for my stupidity hastened to leave the place. I returned to the hotel and stacked the gifts in my suitcase. An uncanny hilarity took possession of me and I started crooning a film song. The dancing idol with all its lustful gestures had taken possession of me, and in my mind’s eye it soon assumed the shape of Renu, the call-girl I happened to meet near the cigarette stall and I felt a strong desire for her. I was a bit embarrassed as I had never experienced earlier such an amorous inclination towards a woman other than my wife. But I could not shake Renu off my mind and she, intermingling with the Yakshini, made me hot and crazy.

 

I felt very tired after dinner and switched off even the night lamp and fell fast asleep. I had a bad dream of a vehement quarrel with my wife. In a fit of anger I started abusing her in filthy language. She remained morose and silent all through and this raised my anger beyond control. I dragged her by the hair. My son tried to intervene and I pushed him aside. His head crashed against the wall and my sleep broke. Even in the cold weather my garments were soaked in sweat. I got up in a terrible mood and changed the shirt and pajamas. Then all of a sudden I remembered the rare Tibetan idol. In the darkness of the room I groped for the box and it was there. I lifted the lid and was astonished to find a glow emanating from the idol making it visible with all its alluring voluptuousness. I handed it out and held it near my face. The foam coating must contain some phosphorescent element which had made it glowing in the darkness. The eyes were sparkling as though inviting me and the large pointed boobs seemed to be heaving. I remained spellbound for a while. An excitement was building up; I felt horny, and disregarding all the warnings of the old man, I stripped open the body of the idol, and it made me crazy. I touched the boobs which had spongy softness and elasticity. I ran my fingers through the entire idol again and again. The butts and the triangle were all spongy like the boobs. Would the idol kill me like the son of the old man? No, it was a cock and bull story, I thought. I could not resist kissing the idol from head to feet most passionately and wildly. I held her tight against my lips for a long time. Although I did not die, unlike the old man’s unfortunate son, I kept my mouth tightly shut as I apprehended that the foam coating might contain some poisonous substance that had killed the son of the old man. I felt extremely sleepy and replaced the idol in the box and fell asleep as soon as I touched the bed. I dreamt of the call girl Renu embracing me passionately ending up in wild love making.

 

I rose late the next morning. The idol and Renu streamed through my mind alternately and eventually mingled into one, enhancing my desire for Renu. I thought I should somehow find her. It was foggy all around. I took my breakfast and traipsed through the ocean of fog for the cigarette stall. As soon as I approached the steep rise that led to the turn where the pan shop was situated, I was startled by a loud giggle. Hot blood rushed up my spine as Renu emerged from the fog. She smiled lustfully and greeted me. I brazenly ran my devouring eyes through her skimpily clad voluptuous body. The bulge of her large boobs on the pink sweater made me almost hysterical and I found a striking resemblance of her with the idol. She got closer to me and swayed her heavy butts in the style of a dancer to send blood up my spine again. I caught hold of her hand and she smiled approvingly. I felt I must have her by any means and at any cost. I patted her on the back and muttered in a conspiratorial voice, ‘Let’s go somewhere.’ She giggled with the horny swaying of her body and said, ‘Come with me then!’ I followed her through the dense fog without knowing where she was leading me.

 

Soon we were moving down a narrow causeway and we had to remain close to each other. Occasionally, my conscience and conservative nature would overcome me and the call girl would appear like a vampire leading me to my doom. But soon all such inhibitory feelings vanished and my inner mind mocked my utter foolishness. The fog had become denser. I could not resist kissing her madly and she returned warmly. ‘My house is not far off,’ she said in an insinuating tone. She was right and in a short while we were in her bed in a heavenly union as I had never experienced before. I thought what a fool I had been to marry a weakling Bengali girl, and in a moment all my hitherto-cherished self-styled morality was swept away. I felt the joy of freedom from inhibitions that had prevented me so far from enjoying life in full. Her body in deep embrace once again reminded me of the idol and I felt Renu was turning into the idol. I pressed her head against my chest and said passionately, ‘Would you marry me and go away with me to some place?’

‘You are already married and you have a son too, you told me,’ she said in a mocking tone.

‘Hell with them. I would divorce the wife if necessary.’

‘Everybody says so in bed and then forgets.’

‘But I’m authentic. I no longer have any attraction for my wife after having the experience of real pleasure.’

‘Then are you ready to make provisions for my father and son?’

‘How much do you need for them?’

She giggled, scrutinizing my face, and said, ‘Fifty thousand now for buying my father articles for his grocery shop and ten thousand every month. This is for them and for me I want a bank balance, say of fifty thousand more.’ She told that she had a bank account and she may also accept account payee check.

 

The amount was trifling for me and I readily agreed. She at first could not believe my words, but when I assured her that I would issue her a check right after returning to hotel and pay the cash the next day after withdrawing the money from my Siliguri account, she was ecstatic and dragged me into another blissful orgy. She said I need not take the trouble of withdrawing money from the bank and may pay the entire amount in checks.

 

I took her along. Coming to the turn of the road close to the hotel, I asked her to wait there as I did not like the hotel manager to have any knowledge of my hobnobbing with this call girl. I issued a check of two lakh rupees, making her eyes bulge out in astonishment as she could not believe her eyes. She turned her eyes toward me to study if I was joking with her or trying to lead her to trouble. I assured her that it was real and within a few days the amount would be transferred to her account. I gave her ten thousand rupees in cash and told I would pay the required cash the next day.

For other expenses I needed money and so I had to go to Siliguri the next day. I booked room at a hotel at Ranipole over mobile phone and checked out of the hotel at Tibet Road. Renu accompanied me to Ranipole. Dropping her along with my belongings at the new hotel I went to Siliguri and withdrawing adequate money from various accounts returned by the same vehicle.

 

The night was heavenly with wild love making. Renu fell fast asleep out of exhaustion but I could not sleep. The idol drew me like magic and almost in a hypnotic fit I got to the box, opened it and was excited to visualize the striking resemblance between Renu and the idol. My gaze remained transfixed for a long time on the enlivened idol. I got so excited that I had to rouse Renu from sleep. She was drowsy at first but soon her vigor and passion returned and we were lost into the bliss-land again.

 

Next morning we returned to Gangtok leaving all the belongings except the idol-box at the Ranipole hotel. Renu convinced her father that she had got a good job at Siliguri that would keep her away for some time but she would meet him and her son once a week. They could guess what sort of job it was but did not mind, as they were accustomed to her staying away for such jobs. What mattered to them was the money and this time it was a very attractive one. She stayed at Gangtok for a few days to buy articles for her father’s shop and garments and books for the boy. But she spent every night with me at Ranipole. Finally we left for Siliguri. In the meantime I had rented a house of a Marwari smuggler at a desolate place near the Gulma-Mohargaon tea estate. The first floor was meant for his men who occasionally arrived to take contraband goods stored in the cellar. The upper storey, offered to me was, however, completely vacant.

 

I called my wife and informed her that I would have to go to a remote place to collect some rare curios and for about a fortnight I won’t be able to contact them as there was no mobile tower at the place. Her voice revealed worry and sadness. I cut off the connection and switched off the cell phone. For a moment I felt my conscience prick at my brutal treatment of her and my innocent son, but Renu’s emergence in some transparent apparel swept away the silly feelings. Soon she got ready for the journey and the hired car had come on time and was honking to alert us.

 

The vehicle as directed by me dropped us at the entrance of the house that was about hundred meters from the main road and surrounded by bushy sal, pine and jarul trees. It was completely invisible from the main road. I paid off the car and we went upstairs. Renu had bought a broom and other household necessities. In a moment she got busy sweeping and cleaning the rooms and I waited at the balcony watching the Kanchenjungha peaks. They were now covered with specks of reddish clouds that appeared ominous to me. To my consternation, it sent tremors down my spine. The uncanny clouds above seemed to take the shape of the Yakshini idol, menacingly casting her vindictive glances at me. I could no longer withstand it and hastened back to the room.

 

Renu soon got accustomed to the new life, and like a true wife performed all the family chores including shopping from the Sukna market, cooking, sweeping and mopping the floors, and washing clothes. At times I used to roam around the nearby places and meet various people at Siliguri. Renu was always jovial notwithstanding her daily chores. She visited her father and son after a week and told me that they were very happy at her new job which meant plenty of money according to their standards.

****

Renu decamped with three lakh rupees and my diamond-set gold rings which I had kept in the drawer of the table. She would never return I knew. She knew very well that I would not be able to pursue her because of my social position. I, however, had nothing to say against her.

The night before she fled, my sleep was suddenly broken by her shrill cry and I hastened out of bed switching on the light. I found her standing near the bathroom door and trembling in terror. I reached up to her just in time to hold her before she lost consciousness and carried her to bed. Strangely, the idol box, which had been at the far end of the room, was now in front of the bathroom door. Mesmerized, I returned to the box; my hair rose on its end to find the lid of the box jerking upwards as if trying frantically to be free from the pressure of the heavy spice-grinding stone-slab, which, I guessed, Renu had placed over the lid. Suddenly I turned intrepid and, removing the stone slab, opened the lid of the box. The idol stopped struggling and turned quiet, but its eyes revealed blood-chilling vengeance. I could not endure its vehement glances and put the stone in place again after shutting the lid. I was horrified, too, but did not reveal it to Renu who had regained consciousness by this time. She held me tight and implored that we leave this room at once and spend the rest of the night in the adjacent smaller room. I carried all our belongings to the smaller room after I had shifted Renu, locked the door of the larger room, and remained sleepless on the floor of the smaller room for a long time. Renu seemed unwilling to recount at that moment what had terrorized her and I did not insist. Eventually we fell asleep out of exhaustion.

In the morning, Renu prepared breakfast as usual. When we sat down to eat, she told me why she had panicked. She had to go to the toilet in the middle of the night. She did not switch on the light lest it should disturb my sleep. But as she groped her way towards the bathroom door, she was astonished to notice a ray of light emanating from something close to the bathroom. Looking closely she discovered the box, the lid of which was wide open, and the nude idol inside was emitting rays of light and its terrifying eyes were rolling with unimaginable vengeance. With a quick presence of mind, she forced down the lid and put the stone-slab over it. The sound of something constantly striking the inner side of the lid terrorized her and she could not help shrieking before she lost consciousness.

I went out for a walk in the high road; upon returning, I discovered Renu gone. She left the main door wide open. Instinctively, I opened the bag containing money, check books, and ATM cards. She had taken only the cash. Later upon opening the drawer, I found the costly rings gone, too.

****

I no longer had the indiscretion to open the door of the larger room and inspect the idol, although at times I felt a strong inner urge to do so. A deep, primal fear urged me to leave the house at once leaving the idol where it was.

I stacked all my garments and other essential articles in my suitcase and the handbag and walked up to Sukna where I withdrew money from an ATM and hired a vehicle for Siliguri. I booked a room at a hotel of dubious reputation near Siliguri North railway station. Lying in bed in the hotel room I started planning the future course of my life. It occurred to me for a while to call my wife and return to my peaceful ethical living. But I could not contain the idea for a long time. I felt a deep hatred for my worthless wife, as the blissful nights with Renu flashed across my mind. No, it would be a sheer folly to return to her, I thought. I was now completely metamorphosed and had no way to get back to my former life. It occurred to me that with money I could get access to plenty of voluptuous call girls and decided to look for one right at that moment. At times I thought that everything concerning the idol was simply an illusion and that I should go back to the rented house, but an uncanny terror held me back.

 

I consulted the manager and he showed me a large number of profiles. I selected a few and he contacted them. Only two of them were free that night. I chose a twenty eight year old Bengali widow and made an appointment with her at dinner in a bar-cum hotel. She came on time; after an early dinner, we had a vigorous session. She was charming, and besides, she knew some Kamasutra tricks that gave me intense pleasure. She had some important family business to take care of that night and left after one wild session, promising to return the next evening; seeking to reassure me, she accepted only half of her usual fee. I had already proposed to her for going out with me to some place for about a month. She gladly accepted the proposal for a month’s Bhutan trip. She was virtually free from obligations as she had no issues and her parents used to reside with her elder brother; but she needed a few days’ preparation for such a lengthy stay. I decided not to remain attached to a single woman, and so did not want to engage in any long term attachment with this widow – unlike in the case of Renu. I was very much relieved as the thought of the idol no longer perturbed me. Unlike Renu, this woman seemed to have no resemblance with the idol and I was gratified to think that the relation with her had made me free from the curse of the idol.

So I was on the eve of a vigorous and worth living life. I felt happy and fell asleep as soon as I had switched off the light.

 

At midnight my sleep broke as I stumbled on something hard. At first, I thought it was a dream, but soon realized it was real enough, and I had so far been sleepwalking along the Hill Cart Road. The hotel at Siliguri had a whole-night bar and the main gate remained open all through the night. So it had not been difficult for me to sneak out unnoticed.

But I had never before suffered from this sleepwalking syndrome. I felt something was attracting me with irresistible force. Looking around in the light of the street lamps, I realized I was not far from the rented house and the idol now reappeared before my mind’s eye. I hastened up, ignored the pain on the forehead because of the hard fall and accelerated my pace. I had no longer any fear for the idol. On the contrary, I felt a deep attraction for the Yakshini. As I got closer to the path leading to the house, I visualized the nude idol enlarged into a voluptuous full sized woman, standing at the entrance to the house with arms spread out to receive me. I started running towards the blissful union.

****

 

Last night my feet had skidded on a banana peel and I fell unconscious by the shoulder of the high road. When I came to, it was still dark; I was awash with horror when I remembered how I happened to be there. I did not lose a moment to run away from the proximity of the cursed idol and race back to the hotel. I entered right into the bar, so that the gatekeeper could not suspect anything fishy; after spending some time amidst crazy drunkards, I returned to my room and fell asleep.

Manisha, the escort, called me early in the morning to inform with regret that she had decided to meet her parents that day, and therefore, would be unable to attend me at night, but would over-compensate the next day. I felt blank and dejected, but decided against contacting the second best from the escort profile. As the day drew to a close, I started feeling some change within me. Fragments of disjointed imageries started rushing through my head in quick succession, and eventually I was seized with an intense desire to encounter the idol again.

 

I’m to stop writing the diary right now as my brain is getting jumbled and I’m visualizing the foggy image of the Yakshini beckoning me for the eternal union.

****

Inspector Mitra remained transfixed for a long while after going through the diary that he found in the hotel room of the famous journalist Alok Majumdar. The late Mr. Majumdar was run over by some heavy vehicle on the highway the last night. All these were the trashy and frenzied scribbling of a psychotic person, he thought. He had also found a book on Tibetan tantric cult in the suitcase of the journalist. It occurred to him that the journalist might have lost his head because of some erratic practice of occult religious rites. But he must first find out the hidden house and the idol; At least, the contraband goods stored by the smuggler would be unearthed.

Inspector Mitra drove alone by his police Jeep. He discovered the house easily, and broke into the larger room where he found the box. The exquisite nude idol made him spellbound. Nobody else had yet learnt about the diary and the idol. He covered the box with a sheet of newspaper and hid it under the seat of the vehicle. He then informed the local police station. Soon a large contingent of constables led by a second officer arrived at the spot. Searching the house, plenty of cocaine and heroin stashed in the cellar was discovered and seized, and the Marwari was arrested. Interrogating the smuggler closely convinced Inspector Mitra that he had no idea about the idol. After completion of the necessary formalities, he dined at a hotel and burnt the diary after returning home. Luckily his wife and daughter had not yet returned from Kolkata. So he was free to enjoy the charm of the voluptuous idol.

 

He switched off the light, shut the windows and opened the box in complete darkness and was astonished to find the idol luminous, as was written in the diary. He took it in his hands and held it in front of him. An eerie sensation coursed through him as the idol in his hand seemed to be vibrant with life, and the scintillating eyes, inviting him.