Namita met with her life’s great tragedy when eight-year-old Anubhav died in a fatal bus accident while coming from a school picnic. Several children were injured, and a few of them died on the spot. Anubhav was one of them. The sudden demise of Anubhav was traumatic for Namita like it would be for any mother. She lost her inner peace and began to talk less, distancing herself from people, even her husband, Manish. She was submerged in melancholy. Manish kept himself busy with office work and taking care of Namita. He and her parents were worried about Namita’s broken emotional state. Her parents would often come and stay with them. Her mother would spend much of her time during the day when Manish was not around. Life was racing, but Namita’s life was upside down. Her happiness was gone. A reversal of fortune, she was compelled to bear the loss of her only son. Namita would sit for hours in Anubhav’s room, arranging his books, copies, and clothes and keeping them in the cupboard. She would lay in Anubhav’s bed, crying her heart out at times and controlling her emotions afterward.

One afternoon, Namita dreamt of Anubhav. She saw Anubhav saying, “Maa, please, don’t cry for me. I want to see you happy. I am gone.” Namita was restless to see Anubhav and tried to pull him towards her. But he vanished in the air. She soon woke up shivering to find no one was beside her. Namita asked herself, “Was it a dream? My son left me. He wants me to be happy again.” She wanted to be a happy person like before but failed to feel tranquility after Anubhav’s death. She decided to stay home with her parents for some time to regain herself. 

Namita phoned her mother one evening and said, “Maa, I want to stay with you and Papa. I want to be myself again and get hold of my life.” Her mother replied, “Yes, dear, you are most welcome. Your father and I are always with you.” Namita spoke to Manish about her decision to stay with her parents. Manish said, “Alright, Namita. I welcome your decision. If your parent’s house were not in the same city where we live, I would probably not have liked you to stay with them away from me. But I want your happiness. I will come and see you often. Promise me, you will overcome melancholy.” Namita’s eyes were moist, and she promised Manish, saying, “I will be back home again with my happy self and live with you.” 

Manish would visit Namita at her parental home at weekends and sometimes after office hours in the evening. She was fighting a great battle inside and wanted to keep her son’s memories alive. But Namita did not want to hurt her dear ones and desired to retain her inner peace to bring happiness to her parents and Manish’s lives. 

One morning, Namita was sitting in her home garden. She spotted some tiny new fresh green buds at the edges of a few flower plants, marking spring’s arrival. The blooming of colorful flowers and luscious green creepers at the sides of her garden was attracting her eyesight. The chirping of birds and fluttering of butterflies around warmed her heart. She thought about how spring’s greenery everywhere was the new hope for dead trees to breathe life again. The old dry leaves had fallen and been replaced by new light green leaves that welcomed the spring. She remembered planting a jasmine plant some months ago. Anubhav was waiting for the plant to bear flowers. He loved gardening and used to buy small flower plants from nurseries. She missed him dearly that day, spotting the blossoming spring flowers and beauty of nature to which Anubhav was so close. She was thoughtful about the mystery of nature and its serenity and aspired to live her life like a growing plant. She softly touched a red rose, smelled it, and smiled. Namita’s mother saw her from a distance and felt eased at heart. Days passed, and Namita was healing and opening up. Things were getting normal for her. She would clean the rotten, dry leaves from the garden and water the plants early in the morning and evening. She began to take care of the garden and house like before. Her parents were glad to see her coming to her previous self. She was talking and spending more time with her parents. Manish was ecstatic to find his lost Namita again. 

One fine evening, Namita told her parents about her desire to live with Manish. Namita said, “Papa and Maa, I want to return home and stay with Manish. He is alone there. I want to care for Anubhav’s garden, plants, and other things. I am missing all of that.” Her parents were happy to hear that. Soon, after a few days, she left for her home.

One Sunday morning, Manish drove Namita home. She saw Manish had put some new flower pots in their garden. She went near the jasmine plant and was delighted to see tiny flower buds appearing all over the plant. Entering the house, she saw beautiful flowers adoring the crystal vases of their living room. Manish wanted to make her feel so very welcome back home. But Anubhav was still waiting to be found. She missed him dearly that day but did not lose her emotional control. She walked to Anubhav’s room and saw Manish had kept his room clean and arranged his things in order. He had put a giant photo frame of Anubhav on the bedside wall. Namita’s eyes were moist enough to see the photo frame, but those were tears of love for Anubhav. She entered her bedroom and fell more in love with Manish. He placed her favorite pink roses in a crystal vase on one corner table near the bed and a family photo frame. It was taken during Anubhav’s first birthday. She held the photo frame close to her heart, and Manish held her shoulders from behind. Within a few minutes, Namita was in his caring embrace. Manish said, “I want you to be always with me. Anubhav is in our beautiful memories. He is with us in our thoughts and hearts. I want you to accept the truth of life and let us move on.” With teary eyes, Namita replied, “You are right, Manish. I have realized the meaning of life today like never before. Anubhav is very much a part of our lives. I will not lose myself but love you more to keep loving myself and my dear Anubhav.” The warmth of the hug brings them closer to rejuvenating their lives with the new season of hope and love, the spring.

About the Author:

Meenakshi Gogoi holds a PhD from the Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), Delhi, India. She writes short stories/fiction and loves to read non-fiction and biographies. Her works are published in Muse India, The Mocking Owl Roost Magazine, The Wild Word Magazine, Otherwise Engaged: The Literary and Arts Journal, the Literary Cocktail Magazine, Sunkissed Short Summer Romances: An Anthology by Red Polka Books, Shiuli Magazine, Double Speak Magazine. She is passionate about nature photography and gardening. She lives with her spouse and little daughter in Guwahati (Assam), India.

The post “Spring is Hope” by Meenakshi Gogoi first appeared on Prachya Review.

When they saw her closing her eyes for the first time, they knew death had arrived at their home. Everyone knew it would be difficult for only three people, maa, granddaughter and her grandson. It was quite an ordeal. For almost a year maa had devoted herself to her mother who was a ninety-year-old dementia patient. What happened to her, or what had happened to her or what would happen to her- were a few questions that she kept looking for answers for that one year. Maa had lost her husband at a young age of twenty-nine, her body learnt the art of mourning very young. Since then, she and her mother were the only one who could look after the children, house and society. 

Dementia I asked my maa. 

What is it? I remember my grandfather having it faintly. 

The loss of memory, she replies. 

I remember. My grandfather also suffered from it. 

Really? 

Yes. We would serve him dinner and all. He would go upstairs, change into nice clothes, and in a firm voice tell us, “I am going out to a hotel, for having dinner”. 

This was my only journey with humans having dementia. When I met my husband and his mother, sister and grandmother, I realized it was beyond the loss of memory. His grandmother who had a series of tragic events at a very young age, was now in her nineties. As the family recalls, once she had gone into a garden, she had maintained with love to see what had uprooted that year. It was only when after fifteen minutes of it, that they had found her plucking all the lettuce leaves in her excitement. That was the very event that they had known, she had developed dementia as well as Parkinson’s. My grandmother also had a very strange childhood, which everyone thinks is a part of who she had become now. It was in her late twenties, that she lost her first daughter to domestic abuse and cancer. Her daughter who was fair, tall and slim had an upbringing of a higher class and knew what it meant to have self-respect. When her husband had come as a suitor to my grandmother, she had said yes only to one factor: that he was educated. Time had proven that to be a lie. Even though her husband had just passed LLB degree, he could not match her upper-class thinking and as a result, she became a victim of domestic abuse and suffering. This event in my grandmother’s life had created a havoc. She had lost her loving daughter to someone who had promised to be someone else but came out to be a different person. Meanwhile, maa was also turning to be of a certain age of marriage. Learning from the first daughter, my grandmother waited for her second daughter’s husband as Muslims wait for Eid Chand. After a lot of anticipation, maa’s prince charming had arrived with a mustache. He was fair, rather blonde. Had olive-brown eyes and thick eyebrows. When he walked everyone cried out Sahab! Sahab!

Guddi! I have chosen a guy for you. 

Maa, really mai?

Yes Guddi! He looks like English.

Maa, looking at his photo, smiling. 

It was at this moment that their engagement was fixed. My grandmother wore a polka dot phiran and maa’s husband wore a tie-suit. Looking like a proper downtown gentleman. In the early hours of August, they were engaged to each other, and both promised to write letters to each other, travel and explore each other like anything. During the turmoil, in Srinagar, the city saw itself burning. The shops were burnt, the roads were painted black, and the graffiti asking Azadi was sparkling in the light of gunshots. How did they know what kind of azadi lovers wanted? My maa had written to her then fiancé. He had replied rather spiritly, 
“ to make love under the gunshots” that kind of azadi, my dear Guddi (as she was lovingly called). 

Days passed and the conflict had somehow maintained its rhythm. Both my maa and her fiancé had decided to explore the Dal Lake and cinema. To her surprise the cinema halls had all the actors dancing through the camera. That day he had also sang for her old songs defining her beauty and charisma. It was however, on this day, that my grandmother who was furious about maa’s late coming, decided to put a curfew on newly engaged as a fact of protest. Then my grandmother who wasn’t in dementia and worked actively from 6:00 am to 10:00 pm around the household chores etc., was adamant about not letting them meet anymore before the wedding. My maa pleaded and begged to be forgiven for being that late, and that her fiancé had no mistake in it. Extremely angered my grandmother called their act a selfish act that only caused tension to their parents and humility in society. 

There were many days to the wedding. With a strong protest my grandmother showed, both maa and her fiancé wrote letters to each other. They wrote about how their parents were angry, how the state had gone nuts over politics and how they were eager to get married. My maa’s fiancé had even written in one of the letters, that there are 1000000 etc. constellation of stars waiting for us to get married. 

After few weeks and days, on the decided date, finally, they got married. She had worn a beautiful brown and golden dress, while he embraced his blonde self in a brown suit. Everyone sang, danced and gave blessings to the new couple. Her body looked like a tree full of flowers glittering in heaven and it was this beauty that he couldn’t hold. It is known that in the seven days of their marriage, she got pregnant with my grandmother’s only grandson: my husband. 

That was the time when sunset spoke itself in poetry, and the sunrise spoke in verse. They frequently went in taxis and roamed around the city exploring the ghats and lake with shikaras. All of that included the series of letters, they continue to write to each other. It was after some five years that maa had conceived again and it was a girl. Both had wished for her birth as a dream. And God had heard it. The ways they had built this beautiful family of four, everything felt like magic. It was only after some years that maa’s husband had sensed a deep pain in his knees. It was not before two weeks, that it was diagnosed that he had lung cancer. The body had diminished into weak bones sculptor and had left nothing but an empty structure to it. In the anguish, deep emotions, and trauma that maa had to undergo, she felt as if she had to mourn again. Or else her body was preparing to mourn again. They had waited in lines for the hospital bed in Batra, New Delhi and were lucky enough to get one. But for what? His cells had already diminished and lost its power. Doctors had declared that no amount of blood, energy or fluids will save him. Cancer had slowly, slowly spread all over the body not realizing what would it mean for the family who had just started the magic of happiness? 

It was strange for my grandmother. This was the second most brutal death she would witness in front of her eyes. What did the family of the husband say? Weren’t they robust about their son who was going to marry? I asked maa sometimes, how does it feel to have lost so much?

“I don’t feel anything. My tears have dried up”.

Really?

“See, I cried for almost one year, shutting myself inside the room and not letting the sunlight reach me”.

Hmmm.

“I was very fond of him. I made little dreams about life with him. We also had plans to teach our kids poetry”.

That sounds great.

“He was a great poet. In his letters to me, after every paragraph he had written a verse to compliment or match the words in the paragraph”.

In those few months, we dated “he showed me the love of a century”.

I am sorry. I sighed. This shouldn’t have happened to you. When he was buried what did you feel? How was your body syncing in with the burial of your loved one? I kept asking. She mildly laughingly said, “Patience”. I had watched my sister die in her husband’s house through my own eyes. Her patience in tolerance with her mother-in-law’s dialogues over everything. She gave me her patience in a way that I can’t return it back. And when she passed away, my husband had warned me to be patient forever. I did remain patient with life, kids and other challenges that it had to throw on me. 

It was my grandmother who had insisted her to remarry. Maa was yet only twenty-nine years old. For the love of the dreams that she had shared with her dead husband, she refused every offer of remarrying to anyone. That was when my grandmother had her second shock of her life. Her body had started to shrink, memory weaken, and wrinkles spread from every direction created a design of impossible life events. 

*

From that point on my grandmother’s health started to deceive her. It was like a never-ending tale of retrospect and future mixed with the little tinge of present. At least that is how I described and saw dementia. Her mornings began with a typical excitement of calling everyone out. She used to call her daughter’s name, twice/ thrice and an infinite time just to tell her that she was right there sitting in her everyday corner. Her phiran which was a fine work of silver tilla spoke of every meal my grandmother would spill. Her daughter used to nurse her by wrapping the napkin around her neck and then helping her hold the cup in her hand. It was a task but always a failed one. With age, my grandmother had grown more into Parkinson’s. The loss of the grip on her hand caused her enough stress on how to hold the cup straight and upright. Maa would always then leave everything and hold the cup in her hand and make her eat her desired meals. This was the time when maa knew that this wasn’t going very well. 

My grandmother behaved like a five-year toddler. Her anxiety towards everything had raised to a point where every other person in the family felt quite nauseous. She would go to the toilet thousand of times, ask for food numerous times, and look up to the sky as if she knew when it would rain or snow. What is the sign of this? My grandmother yelled as one day the sky gathered clouds around and burst into light showers. Maa screamed. She ran out to the main door just seconds after my grandmother had announced that it would rain. The two of them looked at each other, grabbed each other as rain dropped itself on the glass panel and made a sound. Maa turned to look at my grandmother and grinned. ‘How did you do this’? she said. ‘Did what’? The Rain.

The two women in a Victorian constructed kitchen looked at each other. Maa heard her mother’s screeching of her hair. ‘Spare it,’ she muttered. 

‘I know’, said the grandmother. She raised her hand and called for maa. I know that you think I caused the rain. But how could I? I can’t neither walk nor eat with my own self. Maa stared up at her old mother and calmed her down. 

‘I am too exhausted’. 

*

No wonder maa was exhausted. She was the one who took my grandmother whenever she wanted to go to toilet. Feed her, wash her and even at times dress her. She once said to her son, my husband with pursed lips, 

“Look Son, she is going to die very soon”. “I want to be of her use till I die”. 

I Understand it, but why would it matter to me. 

“Because even I am not that young now”.  I have multiple illnesses and medications. I feel exhausted, she fumbled while patting his hair. Maa was flushed and close to tears. She thumped back on the chair and looked into his eyes. My husband twirled his beard between his fingers, and into his time to soothe maa into calmness and peace. 

*

It had been a week since my grandmother had fallen in front of the washroom. Maa shrugged and had said, “I had warned you for not coming here”.  Maa had vowed never to leave my grandmother alone now. She nursed her through her last days. In a rented hospital bed that had been bought from an SRO, she could sit day and night in patience caretaking and powdering the burnt half legs of my grandmother. 

My grandmother kept her eyes shut. And when she seldom opened them, they twinkled. 

‘So, what do you think’? Doctor, maa asked. 

‘Uffoh, Dr. Zoravar said’.

‘She is waiting for someday. She is 90% dead’. 

‘You heard me’. She is in coma. The doctor said when he came to the front door out of his own shadow. He picked up his kit and began to leave but turned again, my money. 

Maa slammed her fist helplessly on the bed. With this warning and announcement everyone came to meet my grandmother for the last time. She laughed at some faces who had come for the first time. She struggled as she knew tomorrow, she had to re-learn the art of mourning. My grandmother twitched her fingers and groaned at exactly 5: 30 in the morning. It was at that time, she promised her mother, for one last time, that she wll become like her till her last breath. 

About the Author:

Takbeer Salati was born and raised in Srinagar, Kashmir. She is a doctoral student working in the field of South Asian Partition studies and is also a creative writer. Her short stories have featured in Samyukta Fiction, Nether Quarterly, Muse India, Outlook India, Café Dissensus among others. She has a forthcoming essay in The Bombay Literary Magazine, titled as ‘I’”. Her writing was also short listed in 20 under 30 best Short Story Writers 20 under 30 in The Bombay Review, 2021.  

The post Half-Burnt Legs by Takbeer Salati first appeared on Prachya Review.

The post It’s Haunted! by Zeke Jarvis  first appeared on Prachya Review.

            The back room of the seamstress shop served double duty as an apothecary. Jars of dried herbs, roots, and animal parts lined the shelves. Below them, an entire shelf crowded with leather bound books and sheaves of yellowed papers. A folio packed with diagrams and geometric shapes and lists and images and myriad other things covered the entire far wall. A few live plants sat on the small windowsill with its poor sunlight that struggled through the oak tree in the front yard. Outback was the garden, always with something sprouting, blooming, or dormant, depending on the season. The work counter faced the back wall. A small fire with a purring pot of water sputtered in the hearth.

Of the two women in the room, the Seamstress, the older woman, stood at her counter and crushed minced herbs with a stained wooden pestle. The rounded tip of the tool ground against deep sides of the mortar. The pestle droned a low base note as it circled around and around. The Seamstress gripped the protruding lips of the cavity and hummed a lullaby her mother hummed to her, and her mother to her, as far back as the family stories went. She brushed the ground herbs into a heavy-hewn wooden bowl.

“What are you humming?” the younger woman said.

She sat in a chair by the door. She held an empty mug in her hand. A pair of men’s pants hung on the back of the chair.

The Seamstress glanced over her shoulder.

“How long?” she said.

The older woman reached for a small container on a high shelf. She shook a few spoons of the content into the rough-hewn wooden bowl.

“Eh,” she said. “Did you hear me?”

She carried the bowl to the pot of water simmering in the hearth.

            “Three months,” a younger woman said.

            At the hearth, the Seamstress ladled the warmed water into the bowl. She returned to the workbench and stirred the steeping herbs with her fingertips. She muttered something, blow softly over the bowl, muttered again, tapped the workbench with her knuckles, then let out a sigh.

            “Are you praying?” the younger woman said.

            The woman preparing the tea shook her fingers over the bowl and sprinkled the brew with droplets that formed concentric circles that expanded until they merged with each other and disappeared. She wiped her fingers on her apron.

            “Worrying,” the Seamstress said.

            “Worrying?”

The younger woman began to stand up.

            “Sit.”

The older woman signaled for the younger woman to come to the workbench.

“Worrying and praying are the same,” she said.

The young woman sat back down, then began to stand up, then sat down again.

“You told me to—”

“Come,” the Seamstress said.

She nodded towards the workbench.

“I don’t worry God,” the young woman said as she stood. “I pray to God.”

“If you pray to God, then you worry God. Have no doubt about that.”

            The younger woman stepped forward, stopped, looked at the door, then at the old woman, again the door, and finally walked to the bench. The Seamstress took the empty mug from her client. She scooped the steeped black brew from the rough-hewn wooden bowl into the young woman’s cup. She smelled it with a deep and audible breath.

            “Drink this.” The old woman inspected at the stained wood of the workbench. She pulled her fingernails across the grains. Her fingertips were stained. “And rememeber—”

            “What is this, in my cup?”

            The older woman hmphed and stretched her arm towards the mug as if to take it.

            “If you don’t want it, then—”

The younger woman held the tea against her swelling breasts. 

            “Three months,” the woman with the mug said.

            “Three months what?”

            The pregnant woman bit her lower lip.

            “You asked how long.”

The older woman angled over the sitting woman and considered the youthful body. She felt the younger woman’s breasts.

“Three months? Humph.”

“My husband—”

“Always the husband.”

“The people, here, in the village.”

“The people? The people.”

The woman standing next to the workbench and holding the mug of black bitter tea struggled to speak. The woman who had brewed the bitter tea shook her head and waved her hand.

“You should have seen me sooner.”

“I didn’t know—”

“It’s been more than three months.”

The young woman began to cry.

            “Go,” her older host said. “Sit. Drink.”

            The Seamstress led her client back to the chair and forced her down. The client rested the mug on her lap until the herbalist gently guided the mug to the young girl’s lips.

            “Drink.”

            The Seamstress tweaked the young woman’s nose.

            “Do you want me to hold your nose and force your mouth open?”

            She smiled and laughed and stroked the cheek of a girl as if she were comforting a daughter distraught by a nightmare.

            “No,” the seeming daughter said and drank. At first, she wet her lips, then she sipped just a bit. She frowned.

            “It’s bitter.”

            “Better to remind you, my dear.”

            “Remind me of what?”

            “Of the bitterness.”

            “What bitterness?”

            “This bitterness.”

            The Seamstress put her hands under the young woman’s elbows. She only nudged the arms to rise. The woman with the mug braced herself then drank the entirety of the contents. She tiled her head backwards. The bottom of the mug faced the ceiling. She held as if she were a fertility lares set in the niche of a home alter.

            The Seamstress took the mug.

            “Rest here for a bit.”

            She poured just bit of the herbal brew into the mug then filled the rest with the warmed water from the hearth. She pulled a chair next to the young woman.

            “I drink just a bit,” the Seamstress said, “to remind myself.”

            “Of the bitterness.”

            “Maybe of the bitterness.”

            “Bitterness?”

“Maybe of the reprieve.”

            “Reprieve?

            “Only a delay.”

“From what?”

            “In ten, twenty years, you will know.”

            The woman who had made the tea sipped and winced.

            “It is bitter, isn’t it?” she said as she rested her hands with the mug on her lap.

            The young woman put on a look of contempt.

            “You never had children,” she smirked.

            The Seamstress smirked in return.

            “I never wanted children.”

            “Many women say that, but they still have them.”

            “I have my work.”

            The Seamstress surveyed her apothecary, waved her hand as much to indicate as to dismiss, and nodded, more to herself than to her guest.

            “What more do I need than my work?”

            Dim strands of sunlight stretched from the window to the floor, except where the taut bands settled on the lap of the Seamstress. She smoothed her apron, as if to capture the light. As her hands moved across the cloth, she seamed to strum the silent strings. She hummed the same lullaby as before.

            The woman who had drunk the entire mug of bitter and black tea let her head fall back and her eyes close. She began to rock to the meter of the lullaby.

            “You never said which one?” the woman with her face turned to the ceiling said.

            “Which one?” the woman strumming the transparent strings said.

            “Which lullaby.”

            The woman who had been humming picked at her apron as if she were turning the pegs of a lyre.

            “My mother taught it to me. My grandmother also sang it to me. Along with my aunts. All the woman of my family knew this song. It’s about love. The love a woman has for—”

            The young woman winced in pain, clutched her stomach, and bent over her knees.

            “It’s time,” the older woman said. “Go home.”

            “How long will it last?”

            “A few hours. There will be bleeding.”

            “What if I need you?”

            “I’ll stop by, on pretense of your husband’s crotch in need of mending.”

            The Seamstress lift the pants and stuck a finger through a hole where the inseams met. She wiggled her finger then let is fall limp.

            “I have some cures for this.”

            Her finger stiffened.

            “I have some cures for that.”

            Her finger limped.

            “And maybe even for . . . .” 

She laughed and pocked two fingers through the hole.

The young woman moaned, almost a growl, like a dying animal.

            “This won’t be as painful as childbirth,” the Seamstress said.

            The young woman looked at her with scorn.

            “No, not that I would know.” The Seamstress snickered. “You’ll be the better for it in the end. Hurry, before dark.”

            The young woman took the door handle.

            “The shadows are already on the common,” she said.

            “Go,” the Seamstress said as she placed a palm on the other woman’s back and ushered her out the door.

            After the young woman left, the Seamstress poured the remainder of the bitter tea into the fire. The flames cackled, almost winked, as if it knew some hidden joke between only it and the woman who worked with herbs. It was time for sleep.

*                    *                    *

One morning, a young mother of one of the village girls stood at the counter of the local seamstress shop and begged for a new coat for her daughter. Sitting behind the counter on a stool, the Seamstress drew on her pipe, hmphed, and quoted a price too high for the poor woman.

            “We can barely afford food,” the young mother said.

“The good you pay for,” the Seamstress said. “It’s the bad you get for cheap.”

She tapped the ashes of her pipe onto the floor. As she was opening her tobacco pouch, the young woman reached across the counter and took the Seamstress by both wrists.

“The fall is coming,” she said. “I need a new coat to protect my daughter, for the cold and the rain.”

The Seamstress chuckled. She shook her arms free and refilled her pipe. 

“Protect your daughter all you want,” she said. “In the end, she’ll be both cold and wet.” 

The younger woman began to cry.

“It seems—,” she said.

“Seems? Seems?” the Seamstress scoffed. “A woman is she seems.”

The mother stopped crying. Her face screwed into a scowl.

“You’ve forgotten what it’s like to love,” she said. “You’ve grown cold in your own way while still alive.”

The Seamstress lit her pipe with a match. She watched the match burn down to the fingertips then tossed the match onto the floor covered with tobacco ash and scraps of cloths. It was true, the Seamstress thought. She had grown old, and alone, but not lonely.

She looked out the window to the dark and deep woods beyond the village fence. Once, she was a young girl, younger than this woman before her. In her memory, the Seamstress saw the dappled sunlight among the trees and the small yellow flowers along the path. And up, further, hidden behind a tree, she saw who she thought was her lover, the most handsome young man in the village, in the entire county! She would go, and kiss him. That was end of love for the Seamstress. Even now, she felt like a fool for what happened and hardened her heart.

Her pipe had gone out.

“Please,” the young mother begged.

The sound of another’s voice awoke the Seamstress from her daydream. She lit a second patch and puffed on her pipe until fully lit.

“Come back in three days,” the Seamstress said. “I will have a new coat for your daughter.”

            When the young mother left, the Seamstress hobbled from behind the counter. She deadbolted the front door and slid the drawbar into place. Through the window, she watched the young mother made her way down the side street. The sun was setting and the shadows grew long and the darkness deepened.

As she watched the young mother, the Seamstress saw one of the bad men of the village. Already drunk before sundown, he lounged against a tree in the common and watched the woman pass him. He wet his lips and ran his tongue across his teeth. His eyes glowed in the dimming light. The Seamstress knew this man. He looked at her. She, at him. He nodded and smiled. His teeth shown large. The Seamstress pulled the curtains shut.

            In the back room of the shop, the Seamstress poured herself a half cup of wormwood tea then filled the rest with clear liquor from a flask. Sat at her stool, she sipped from the bitter cup and smoked her pipe. When finished with both, she tapped her pipe out onto the floor and examined the dregs in the bottom of the tea cup then tossed them onto the floor, too. She staggered to her workbench.

            It is love, she thought, isn’t it, that makes us what we are.

A tightly-bound package of waxed butcher paper lay on the well-worn benchtop. With a pair of scissors, the Seamstress cut the twine and loosened the wrapping. She had bought the cape from another young mother dressed in black. This seller had folded the cape in such a way as to hide the tears and stains.

The Seamstress undraped the coat and held it up to the flickering lamplight so that it hung fully before her. So small, the Seamstress thought, to protect such a tiny body. She fingered the hole along the right shoulder.

“Here,” she said, “I will put crimson silk patches, epaulettes befitting a little princess.”

The Seamstress spoke as if someone were there, stood beside her.

“What do you think? Do I give it to her for free. No? People have contempt for things they do not pay for.”

She drew the loose threads at the neck until the edging began to unravel. These seams never hold, she thought, and showed the wayward thread to her companion.

 “And here, on the collar, I will fasten cutwork lace.” 

In her own mind’s image, she could see this used coat remade into what it should be.

“And the stain,” she said as she pulled the back cloth tight between her hands. “What to do with the stain?”

She shook the cape in the face of the person who was not there.

See, look here, her actions spoke.

Outside, the sounds of night began. The hoot of an owl. The softness that comes with the setting of the sun. Maybe, in the distance, the talk, laughter, and happiness from the tavern. And the whisper of the wild, both those things never tamed, and those gone feral.

“A good dying,” the Seamstress said, “then three days’ rest and this red velvet cape will be born anew.”

She spread the red velvet cape on the bench, her scissors to her right, her thread and needles to her left, and like a priest about to consecrate, she folded her hands before her, bowed her head, took a deep breath, and began her work.

Author’s Bio:

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), over forty poems in Michigan Quarterly Review, Faultline, and december, and others, nearly two-dozen flash fiction in Blue Mountain, Good Life, Typescript, and several scripts. He is a poetry reader for Ariel Publishing and a fiction reader for The Maine Review.

The post Seamstress by Richard Stimac first appeared on Prachya Review.

“Why am I acting like this? Exactly why am I ruminating over this case so much? Do I feel anything for this man? No… No. Obviously, that’s not going to happen.” With that realization, Rajika’s heart begins to ache with a new and unfamiliar sensation.  

The name of this client is Shanta. His demeanor is as pleasant and calm as his name suggests. It’s true that he’s a father of two and in his forties, but she found herself drawn to him because of his inherent dignity and the politeness with which he carried himself in conversation. He also has plenty of cash since he is the manager of a private company.  

“A man with that type of personality is not suited to be with a woman of that kind He is a man with  many gifts.”  

She feared what she would think.  

“Where did this come from? What do I even know about this man? What if this man discovers that I  have started to develop feelings for him? I don’t want him to see me as a woman without morals.  What will my reputation be like then?”  

An unseen dog darted in front of her car just as her mind was about to wander off into a tumult of  thoughts. She slammed on the brakes to avoid having her new car desecrated by the dog.  

“A crazy dog! Where exactly are they going? Bad enough if it wrecks the car.”  The dog suddenly appeared out of nowhere and dammed the stream of her thoughts.  

“Oh my God, I completely forgot to put on my wedding ring for this job. Now there is nothing else that  can be done.”  

The ring, in her opinion, wasn’t all that significant. The man she married is a lawyer as well. On occasion,  he also skips the ring. People who had recently gotten married exhibited a devoted attitude toward their rings. With a wry grin, she recalled the time the ring was lost during a picnic and the ensuing mad dash

1 

to retrieve it from the pool. She cried enough that day to fill a swimming pool. Kamal, her husband was at a loss for words, unable to console his young wife.  

“I want my ring somehow.”  

Rajika sobbed uncontrollably. Kamal made multiple dives into the swimming pool that day. After  spending so much time in the pool, he was beginning to wonder if he still cared about the marriage.  Rajika was a nuisance to the hotel staff and passers-by, as her constant sobbing gave them a headache.  After a long search, the ring was located. It was not in the swimming pool. They found it hidden under a  table in their hotel room. When she thinks back on it, she bursts out laughing.  

Kamal would say, “My head hurts even when I remember that incident,” whenever the topic of the incident came up in conversation.  

“But you must realize how much I love you.” Typically, Rajika would give a glib response in such a  scenario 

“I understood it perfectly. I nearly froze to death in the pool while searching for a ring, and it was all  because of a ring.”  

Kamal’s tone betrays his displeasure at the thought. These exchanges are constants in their conversations, regardless of the context. However, the memory of that event does not fade away like a  weed that grows to be removed.  

Thinking along, she went to the court grounds. Seeing her, her clients immediately began to follow her as she had about five or six cases to appear that day.  

However, she still could not make out his face. She forgot his face as she chatted with other customers and kept harping on the importance of remembering one’s case number to keep things moving along.  

“What on earth is going on with this person all of a sudden? I should call and see how he is doing.”  

She made an effort to reach him via her Apple smartphone. No one answered the phone after several tries, and the call eventually ended. Her chest felt weighed down as if it were bearing the burden of a  lost case. Her phone rang at that precise moment, and she answered it as hastily as if she had been racing to appear in a case number she had just heard.  

“Madam, I had a problem. My daughter fell at school and broke her leg. I took her all the way to the nearest hospital. I’ll deposit your payment in the evening. You can do today’s job without me, right?”  

There is anguish in his voice.  

“Okay. Sure. I have not even seen your ex-wife yet. She also hasn’t shown up yet.”  

It was clear that she was emphasizing the word “ex-wife” on purpose despite the fact that she was aware it was improper to do so before the divorce was finalized.

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“ Ma’am, my wife and I are here together. The school had also contacted her.”  The pain in Rajika’s chest was as acute as if a sheet of paper had slashed through it.  

“You may find that those things work against you. Forget about it. I have to go now. Bye,” she said as she slid her phone into her bag and walked into the court.  

All the cases were postponed while she looked completely out of it as if she had been sedated. She left work and went home feeling sick, leaving her clients in a bad mood. Her husband was waiting for her when she returned home. He’s also a lawyer. He had to be in another court today. She recalled being informed in the morning that her two children would also be attending an extra class at school.  

The husband had a very serious look on his face.  

“If you are not tired, I would like to speak with you.”  

Kamal exclaimed as he emerged from his office.  

“Let’s talk later, Kamal. I’m exhausted now . Damn,” she snarled at Kamal, sounding like a sunburned traffic cop yelling at a motorist who has been ticketed for parking illegally.  

Kamal found it annoying. 

“I didn’t say anything to make you so angry. What’s that bullsh*t?”  

He attacked her while acting out the part of the frustrated motorist who has had it with the frustrated police officer. This sort of heated English debate is common in the lawyer’s home. However, their  Sinhalese neighbors do not grasp a lot of what they are saying. They can hear the neighbors’ Sinhala arguments, and some of them don’t even bother to hide their profanity.  

“Dumbasses who don’t know anything. Fighting is their job. They’re out of options.” The haughty statement was typical of how Rajika reacted whenever she overheard them arguing.  

Instead of trying to make peace with Kamal, Rajika started behaving like the police officer who had taken possession of the driver’s license, which infuriated Kamal even more.  

“Unlike you. I’ve appeared in many court cases doing much more work. You think you’re a great  lawyer, but you don’t have nearly as much work or clients as I do.”, she said as she tossed her file onto the coffee table in the middle of the living room, implying that she was too good for him.  

Kamal, like an impulsive driver who attempted to assault the police officer, hit Rajika on the cheek with his clenched teeth.  

“You’re not the type of woman I could ever be with. I am divorcing you.”  

All the villagers could hear him as he yelled it out in Sinhala.

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Rajika, acting in a demonic fashion, smashed the corner of her phone into Kamal’s face and forehead multiple times. Kamal covered his face with his hands and ran towards the gate like a driver trying to escape the angry policeman’s baton because he couldn’t take the suddenness and pain of Rajika’s unexpected attack. Rajika slammed her phone to the ground and began sobbing loudly, as if she had just lost a case she was sure she would win.  

About the Author:
Kanchana Priyakantha, a Srilankan author and an educator turned entrepreneur, currently lives in close proximity to Colombo. She was born on October 3, 1986, in Kalutara and attended Sri Sumangala Girls School in Panadura. She graduated from the Open University of Sri Lanka with an honors degree in English. She joined the government sector to serve as an English teacher in 2010. She co-founded KBOOKS in 2017 and then resigned from teaching in 2018 as she realized what her true passion is. Currently she is the head of publishing at KBOOKS and engages in writing while studying for her master's degree at the University of Colombo. She is a director of KAgroo Exports and Plantations Pvt. Ltd. She has been composing literature since school days and has authored eleven books in different genres, both in Sinhala and English. Some of her works have been shortlisted for literary awards, and her latest collection of short stories, Dream Catchers, won national literature awards. Her works have been translated into English, Tamil, and Nepali. She is an advisor and coordinator of the Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature (FOSWAL) in India for Sri Lanka. Her educational publications are included in the curricula of international schools and semi-government schools.

The post The Divorce by Kanchana Priyakantha first appeared on Prachya Review.

Tara dreamt in gestures. Fast-moving hands, fingers, eyes, eyebrows, and lips – each contributed to the conversation as gestures flowed into one another, involuntarily, unhindered; and then they became jumbled up, like a long string of meaningless words, all incoherent, disordered. She woke up with a start and found herself sweating profusely. The loose top that she had changed into just before sleeping was dripping wet and the sheets lay crumpled at the foot of her bed. She knew she had to calm herself, soothe her nerves, strained and excited by the recent series of events. She tried to pray and lay down once again. But sleep completely eluded her this time. In its place, thoughts gathered. Wordless thoughts painted in images that her mind had picked up throughout her journey in this world.

In the morning ululating women, draped in their fineries surrounded her while her mother served her rice with an assortment of fries, vegetables, and fish in a round shining bronze dish. She felt special. It was her last day of maidenhood. She was supposed to feel special, and everyone tried their best to make her feel so before she ultimately left her familiar surroundings in a trade of love.

Yet looking at her weak and pale mother, struggling hard to support herself on her wobbly knees, she felt indignant. She did not let her mother do the strenuous tasks anymore, taking them upon her young shoulders. And who will support this frail woman now? Recently she had taken to accompanying her mother whenever the old lady had to leave the house. Her mother was incapable of negotiating the Kolkata traffic all by herself anymore and Tara had volunteered to be her chaperon. With both the other siblings engaged in full-time office jobs, Tara’s creative entrepreneurship gave her ample time for these chores. In fact, she looked forward to such evenings quite eagerly.

She thought of her own helpless and different childhood. She remembered how gently yet firmly her mother used to help her even with the simplest of conversations. Language of words had been a problem for her always. As a child, she could not understand how others got their message across by simply moving their lips while she could not. She communicated with her hands and facial expressions and her mother could understand her perfectly. But when it was a matter of conversing with the outsiders, she failed miserably. It left her frustrated as well as bewildered. With a complete hearing impairment, speech was an alien territory for her; a territory which left to herself, she found quite unnecessary. It was only when she had to step beyond her home, she felt a gap.

It was her mother who had taught her, painstakingly, to lip-read. It was she, who took little Tara to Rina Aunty, her private tutor, a special educator by profession. It was her mother again who discerned Tara’s love for sketches and nurtured her talent. In short, her mother had helped her to live and succeed. Now that strength was ebbing away from her mother in the autumn of her life, Tara felt a gush of affection towards that lady, replacing her earlier awe. As if, somewhere along the journey of life she had overtaken her mother, to mother her.

Now that she was almost successful, her venture of wall art raking in some plump money, she felt a more pressing need to be there for her mom. She was contented with her life; except for her professional goals which kept evolving the moment she arrived there, she felt she had not much to ask from life. But now she felt a tinge of unhappiness. With the solemnization of her wedding, she will perhaps not have the freedom like before to be there for this woman. Possibly, her mother too would start depending on her two elder sons, leaving this youngest child to concentrate on her new domesticity. Her heart wailed silently at such thoughts. Though she had made it very clear to Avik regarding her attachment and what she thought of her responsibilities towards her parents and Avik too had promised her his full support, doubt lingered in her mind, like a persistent afterthought. After all, this was an arranged marriage. Yes, true that it had been arranged by the two of them after they came across each other on an online dating site. Both of them were looking for partners to settle down and companionship with mutual understanding was their criteria, not love. Moreover, Avik was as stone-deaf as herself. Tara did not want anything more.

Of course, love had once been there. It had showered her young and supple body with many caresses. But that was a past, buried and sealed for good, though those touches still lingered in every fold of her flesh, the joints of her bones, and every nook of her body. Those touches still whispered to her in a language that she had once shared with a man with words. The man who was willing to forego the comforts of verbal language to take his place beside her. He was the one who led her by the hand as she took wobbly steps into the world of hearts and bodies. To her and him, both were important. Love meant absolute trust and complete sharing, or at least that was what she believed it to be.

Her thoughts went back to her dreams. With a half-eaten apple in her hand, she was desperately looking for someone and calling out loud. She was searching for a person with whom she could share it. The apple kept decaying in her clutch till it ultimately became a mass of fermented fruit pulp, oozing out of the closed fingers of her fist. She was trying to free her fingers off that thing and asking someone in the shadows for help. The sticky feeling along with rapid movements and her attempts to communicate had woken her up and she found herself soaked in perspiration.

The dream – why did it keep visiting her? She thought of it as her incomplete affair with the man of her dreams. Somewhere perhaps a trace of hope had lurked, slyly evading her self-scrutiny. That hope too must have turned stale by now, like that partially consumed apple. Just that she was not aware of it.

She knew that such thoughts were blasphemous now with her wedding just in a few hours. But she was happy she was going to marry another like her. The other that had come into her life as a burst of mango showers had proved seasonal. She had walked away from him. It helped her save her dignity and also spared her the looks of sympathy. What else could she do with a man who wanted to project his deaf and dumb fiancee as one with both ears and speech? He said he could handle everything post marriage and he promised to keep her happy. She knew he would, at least he would try in every conceivable way. But she felt uncomfortable, undignified. Her body demanded as much respect as any other. The subterfuges that he was trying to force upon her, pricked her like burning needles! She was at the crossroad of love and dignity. She knew if she compromised on this, she would lose her dignity and her self-respect. So, no compromise.

Even now, she could feel the void. The raw wound of separation was yet to heal. Those pleading eyes, the hurtful looks – Samrat had told her – “Why can’t you trust me just once? Let the wedding pass without any hassle, after that, we shall have a full life to carve out as we want to!”

He had missed the point. She kept mumbling, “It’s not about trust, it’s not about us too, it’s about me. Let me survive myself!”. Still, when he went ahead with his plan, thinking he was acting on both of their behalfs, she did the only thing that she could think of.

Before posting the letter to Samrat’s parents, she read it again –

“ I have known your son for the past three years. We were classmates in Art College. Now that we have decided to tie the knot, we thought I must introduce myself properly. Since I am both deaf and mute since birth, this is the only mode by which I could properly correspond with you. I am sure we shall evolve a language of our own too, just as Samrat and I have, when and if we get to know each other better. We have no intention of carrying out the wedding without your blessings…”

And to Samrat, she had written, “Perhaps we are yet to craft a mutual language where we both shall easily understand each other’s mind. It’s not the lack of trust but a huge dent in my dignity that I am yet unwilling to undergo. For a girl without speech or hearing, her dignity is all that she has to cling to. What else will she live for? Hope you understand some day…”

She knew she had killed all her chances of getting Samrat with the strokes of her pen. Yet she waited for the reply which never arrived. In her heart she knew that his parents would never respond; still, a small part of her kept waiting till the wait itself became a part of her. She did not even realize that it was there, the ache was there till she started getting those weird dreams.

The last time she met Samrat, he was devastated; he lashed out at her with all the bitterness in his heart, born out of an unbearable pain of thwarted desire yet he understood her need to be honest. She had held him close to herself, cradling his head upon her breasts, crooning softly in his ears. In those few moments, she had given him her lifetime of love. When he left, she felt strangely hollow, as if a part of herself was gone from her forever.

Even her ever-supporting parents were not too happy with her choice. After all, Samrat was the Mr. Perfect in their daughter’s life and probably their solace in their old age. Who would otherwise take care of this physically challenged girl after them?

“I cannot even die in peace! Why did you refuse Samrat? He loved you so much and was so heartbroken!”

“ But Mama he wanted me to pose as someone I was not! Wouldn’t his parents have felt cheated? Wouldn’t they have held me responsible for the rest of their life?”

Of course, there was no answer to her logic. They could not argue anymore and kept their silence but somewhere a thin line of sulk remained like that hairline crack on a piece of porcelain. Tara knew she had lost her chances of giving her parents a lifetime of happiness.

Dating Avik was partly her way of consoling her parents who were still reeling under the shock of the broken engagement. But partly it was also to find a companion for herself. She did not feel the need to love anymore, but like many other human beings, she too desired a family of her own – a man, perhaps even a child! Samrat was her past. A beautiful past, but one without closure. She wanted to keep it like that. Avik was present. The difference between the men was the difference between the self and the other. With Samrat perhaps she could have traveled in the exotic realms of existence but she knew Avik would be her home, the anchor that she needed to remain rooted. The flamboyance of romance had faded away with the aging youth. She cherished the common sense companionship and light-hearted camaraderie that Avik offered much more than the rush of adrenaline she used to feel each time she saw Samrat. She had promised herself that she won’t compare the two men but somehow, comparisons rose in her mind without any of her conscious promptings. But she was not unhappy with the resulting analysis. In fact, she had agreed to marry quite happily. Lightheadedness accompanied her since the wedding rituals began a week back. She was happy, but somehow those dreams with their faithful recurrence each night for the past few days had cast a shadow over her happiness.

She shook herself out of all morose thoughts and tried to think of happy things. Yet she failed again. Frustrated, she logged into Messenger and pinged Avik.

• Not asleep?

She felt comforted by his promptitude.  

•  You too! Why?
• Because we both are on the verge of a new beginning
• Yes.

She could not say more. But she was smiling. Avik continued the chat, steering it toward their dream project of expanding Tara’s wall art venture in various ways. His training in accounts and finance and his present job role as one of the auditors in a middling law firm had given him insights into the pragmatics of running a business.

With every message exchanged, Tara felt lighter until finally the dead weight of gloom completely fell off her shoulders. It was dawn when they finally signed out. The red sun, the ancient witness to so many beginnings since ages, saw another. And Tara felt love slowly embracing her heart in its fluffy, warm arms. The festered apple had completely disappeared from her clutch.

About the Author:
A translator, creative writer and academician, Nabanita Sengupta holds a PhD in English. She has 2 works of translation to her credit, one volume of edited anthology of critical essays and an edited anthology of poetry. Her latest publication is an anthology of poems Three Witches’ Songs, composed with two other poets. Her research articles, poems and creative writings have been published in various journals and anthologies, both print and online. She also has an e-book of short stories to her name. 

The post Apple by Nabanita Sengupta first appeared on Prachya Review.

Superstitions reside within us as long as we feel incapable of dealing with our never-ending desires which seem unachievable at times. Following these practices provide our mind with the comfort that we have ruled out the probability of the unknown hindrances that obstruct our path to attain what we wish for. One such superstition stayed rooted in our system, even after getting abolished hundreds of years ago.

It was about ten to twelve years ago, I had been to my uncle’s house in a village named Uruwa in the northern part of India. I was a young lad of thirty and so was my brother Ravi (uncle’s son). One day it so happened that after having a bath in the nearby river, he developed a high fever. Though healthcare facilities in the area were available, it wasn’t up to the level that could cure Ravi’s unknown disease. All the family members tried whatever they could—treated him with indigenous medicines, organised prayer ceremonies, casted magic spells with the help of mantras chanted by tantrics—to rid him of the high fever, but nothing worked, and at the end of the fifth day, we lost him.  

Ravi’s wife Sunayana seemed to have turned into stone—a scary figure draped in a pale green, soiled sari that she hadn’t changed since days, with dishevelled hair, dark caves around her eyes, sunken cheeks, face lowered onto her neck, as if in contemplation of something. While the whole family was mourning his death, inconsolable at the sudden demise of their eldest son, Sunayana remained unperturbed. Her appearance disconcerted me, indicated of something sinister that was bound to happen.

It was a bright July morning that seemed to have lost its physiognomy as our hearts and minds were ensheathed with the darkness of our grief. All the family members along with their relatives, eight to ten villagers, including women, in white attire (ladies mostly in saris and salwar–kameez and men dressed in white kurta and dhoti or kurta–pajamas), had gathered in the living room of the one-storied building, adjacent to the courtyard, from where the furnitures were shifted and arrangements made to start the funeral preparations. Ravi’s mortal body was kept on the bier, on one side of the courtyard—covered in a white shroud, with a garland of white jasmine flowers around his neck, white wreaths of flowers (mainly lilies) laid on top of his body and all around the bier. Some of the villagers, mostly men, were seated at one corner of the raised platform, while others stood there, conversing in low voices. The scent of flowers and the perfume of incense sticks wafted in the surrounding, creating an atmosphere of melancholia. The lone mango tree in the compound leaned over the wall of the courtyard—leaves and branches was still, as if holding their breath, silently mourning along with all of us. People were fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs in the hot, humid weather, sweltering in the sultry atmosphere, and perhaps getting impatient at the delay in the cremation ceremony.

Just when we were about to start the obsequies, Sunayana spoke for the first time bringing up the ritual of Sati. It was a Hindu practice (abolished at the time) in which a widow sacrificed her life by sitting on her deceased husband’s funeral pyre. On hearing her plea, everyone remained speechless for some time, stunned at the sudden revelation of her wish to be cremated alive along with her husband.

“Impossible.” My uncle said, sweating profusely, and vehemently protesting against her sudden wish to accompany her husband in his last journey.

“How could you even think of that? The practice is outlawed and illegal. Moreover, how can you decide on something that is horrendous…” I said, shocked to the core, feeling numb and paralysed, losing the power of comprehension.

“Being a sati (pious woman), I am left with no other option but to join my husband in his final journey,” Sunayana said, her eyes featuring an inexplicable stare. “I know women who had been sati had attained salvation, negating the cycle of life and death that one had to undergo innumerous times.” She continued, still captivated with the idea of being a sati, her imagination influenced by the previous narratives of absurd glorification of the superstition, with an unknown glare in her hollow eyes.

“If she wants to become a sati, who are you to stop her?” Someone from the crowd of onlookers blurted out from behind my back.

“Who is it? Why are you giving such  wrong advice?” I turned around to have a look at who the person was but met with silence, while all the staring eyes were fixed on Sunayana.  

The ancient Hindu tradition of sati where a woman performed the act of immolating herself after her husband’s death used to happen hundreds of years ago which was considered brave and heroic. In Hindu mythology, Sati was the wife of Lord Shiva (the god of destruction). Sati’s father disrespected Shiva and held a hatred for him. Registering a protest against her father who humiliated her living husband Shiva, she burned herself in the yajna (fire-sacrifice). While she was burning, she prayed to be reborn as Shiva’s wife. Her wish was fulfilled, and in her next birth she was known as Parvati (reincarnation of Sati). The practice of sati was justified based on the tale, but it was unrelated to it as when Sati burned herself she wasn’t a widow.

Additionally, the Hindu scriptures didn’t mention the act of sati anywhere and therefore was not justified. Sati was initially a voluntary act, as a sign of being a dutiful wife, following her husband to the afterlife. With time, it became a forced practice, drugging the widows and burning them. A widow was shunned, considered to be a burden to the society, and having no children to support her, she was often pressurised to accept sati. The practice of sati was prohibited many times between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries by rulers who condemned the custom, and finally, banned in the early nineteenth century.

There was no way I could permit such a heinous crime to be committed in front of my eyes.

“Being a sati is the greatest form of devotion of a wife toward her dead husband.” An elderly woman with a podgy face said.

“If Sunaya becomes a sati, it would be equivalent to good karma and she would have a much better life in her next birth.” Another peevish-looking old woman said, emphasizing

 the need to carry forward the ritual of sati, peering at me.

“You know that’s a superstition. Right? You attain salvation through your good karma, not by committing suicide.” I turned towards Sunayana to face her, and these were the only words I could utter, feeling a surge of emotions choking me, instigating the voices of women at the back—dissatisfied with my remarks—droning querulously.

“No, bhaiya (brother)!” My words never deterred Sunayana, as she continued in her usual tone. “The act would purge me of all my sins, release me from the cycle of birth and rebirth, and also, ensure salvation for my dead husband. If I stay back I have to go through all the pain and sorrow that had been a part of my life for so long. My father was a poor farmer who had to mortgage his land to collect money for my dowry. Now that my husband is no more, he will never ever get back the amount that he had spent on me. I have no children who can support me in the later stages of my life. Moreover, my in-laws won’t allow me to live in peace. They would constantly torture me by calling me a witch who has eaten her young husband. If I become a sati I will gain name and fame. A temple would be created in my name and people will worship me like a goddess.” She ended her monologue to glance at the faces of all those who were present there—her in-laws, parents, brothers, sisters, and their neighbours. Surprisingly, her parents, her own brothers and sisters kept unusually quiet.

Racked with guilt, her mother-in-law came forward, hugged her warmly, and trying to dissuade her from the act of committing suicide, she spoke, “I can understand your state of mind. But ending your life is not a solution. We are all going through the same crisis and we all wish to end our lives. Saying goodbye to my young son is not easy for me. But I am putting up a brave face and dealing with it.”

Sunayana maintained silence for some time, her body stiff in her mother-in-law’s embrace, exhibiting an unrelenting toughness—perhaps ruthless, with a penchant for ancient superstitions. She was at least 10 years younger than Ravi. I recalled having heard that her parents lived an underprivileged life, with economic drawbacks. She would have to lead a miserable life if she had to go back to her parents, and staying with her in-laws wouldn’t be that pleasant, especially when their son wasn’t there. Her in-laws would be engulfed in sorrow, constantly reminded of his absence, inviting what seemed to be a never-ending battle against their dissatisfaction about the irrevocable loss. Moreover, as far as I knew my uncle and aunt were orthodox type and believed that widows need to follow certain questionable customs like chopping off their hair, eating only vegetarian food, remaining secluded in one part of their home, and on top of that, never allowed to remarry. I realised it would be difficult to make them understand that those age-old customs that the widows were meant to follow didn’t have any significance and were meaningless in the present world. It would be tough for my sister-in-law to deal with them. But as people said time was the greatest healer and with time everything would fall into place and the shadow of bereavement and the necessity to follow the illogical customs would slowly be gone and taken over by new deliberations and activities.

“I wouldn’t allow this to happen in my presence.” I registered a protest, to which both my uncle and aunt, along with their youngest son and daughter, who were teenagers, nodded, in affirmation.

“No, it’s already decided. I’ll become a sati.” Sunayana said, adamantly, stomping her feet on the ground, her gait indicating a sudden change, her shoulders taut, opalescent eyes like that of one possessed.

As soon as Sunayana mouthed her decision, the womenfolk of the village intoned, being in the state of enthusiastic exultation, “Sati mata ki jai (all hail goddess sati).”

I couldn’t believe my ears when the sarpanch (headman of the village) started remonstrating with us, “If she wants to be a sati, why the hell are you disobeying her. After all, your sister-in-law is equivalent to your mother. As her son, you are bound to follow her orders. Sati mata ki jai.” I noticed his lips twisted as if in a sly smile, when all the villagers who were present there agreed in unison, further mouthing abuses and cursing us comprehensively for not allowing Sunayana to become a sati—what they termed a sacred tradition.

“Why aren’t you saying something? Your daughter is about to kill herself.” My head swam with nervous agitation, unable to overcome the terror that was slowly engulfing me under its firm grip, imagining the fatal consequence that the whole episode was leading toward, when I told Sunayana’s parents who had kept mum all through the conversation.

“You’ll go back to your own city after a few days but we will have to live in this very village. We can’t go against them. We don’t want the villagers to become our enemies, and be thrown aside like outcasts and treated like untouchables.” Sunayana’s father whispered, smoothing away with trembling hands the wisps of his dark-grey hair from his forehead, which housed beads of perspiration, his thin face and narrow lips had lost their color, while his pale, opaque eyes stared at me incomprehensively.

Assailed by worries, my uncle screamed, holding his forehead, “Shut up, everybody, or else I’ll go mad.”

But nobody listened to him as the villagers chanted themselves into a state of frenzy, dancing around the place like lunatics, which deranged my mental condition.

What followed afterward was unthinkable, people yielding to an illogical superstition.

Several women dressed in red saris assembled, with vermilion adorning their foreheads. Sunayana was also dressed like one of those, with red vermillion smeared on her face. She pretended to be endowed with the gift of prophecy and the power to cure and bless. A monotonous chant of mantras went on by the religious men and priests of the village. As people from all over the village came over and touched her feet asking for her blessings, she obliged them by placing her hand on their bowed heads. If she was really virtuous and pious, would she be worthy of being sacrificed?

“I’ll call the police.” I hollered at the top of my voice.

I took a long knife from the kitchen and brandishing it, I threatened everyone, “Whosoever doesn’t listen will be killed by me.”

People who had gathered around Sunayana started retreating, and only the family members were left in the room along with her.

We tried our level best to calm her down and asked her to think rationally about the whole situation. She kept quiet for a long time and then agreed not to end her life in that manner.

Convinced that things were on the right track, we relaxed a bit when my uncle’s house was thronged by a large group of villagers who came inside with long sticks. One of them hit me hard on my head, and another punched me in the ear, sending me reeling. I suffered a stinging pain in my head and soon fell into a swoon.

When I regained consciousness with a throbbing headache, I found myself, my uncle, aunt, their son and daughter on the floor, locked in the living room with our hands and feet tied. I somehow propped on my elbow and tried to get up. It was late afternoon, the sun obscured by a heavy dark cloud, and the bright sunlight turned pale, as if it had been suddenly polluted with seamless despicable thoughts and evil ambitions of those who lay beneath the sky.

Heaving myself onto my feet somehow, I reached the window from where I could see the courtyard where the womenfolk dressed in red saris with vermillion on their forehead had gathered and were in a state of delirium. Sunayana was already draped in a red sari and sat in the middle of them on a chair, wearing a garland made up of marigolds. Her eyes were blood red, her hair neatly tied in a bun, her head swinging from side to side in a strange fashion, as if she was in a state of trance. Amid the furor, Ravi’s body lay on one side of the courtyard, with a smiling face as if feeling amused at the unexpected drama that was going on. The menfolk in white also joined them as Ravi was carried by four men on the bier and taken to the cremation ground near the Ganges river that flowed through the village.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Please don’t do this to the young woman.” I kept shouting but no one could hear me as they kept repeating some mantra, like zombies focused only on their goal to put an end to the young life of my sister-in-law.

While we tried to unfasten each other, the ceremony had begun. From the window, we could see the orangish-red flames of the funeral pyre, accompanied by drumrolls and exhilarated voices reciting “Sati mata ki jai.” Like a hideous and merciless engine of death, the horror of the untoward incident gripped me in its swelling mist, while tears poured down my cheeks up to a point that I could cry no longer. The state of my family members was no different—all had succumbed to the terror that unfolded in such a horrifying manner—as they lay on the floor smitten by grief and remorse, witnessing a gruesome murder in the name of an illogical belief. After probably a few hours, the violent flames died and thick black smoke originated from the site and reached the sky, veiling it in its superstitious gloom, indicating the end of the funeral. She was immolated amidst huge fanfare, with great veneration.

After that, someone came to release us from captivity—unlocking our door and untying our ropes. But it was too late, as the mortal body of Sunayana had already turned into ashes.

The villagers started building a temple in her name and within a day it got constructed. We couldn’t bear it any longer and to prevent any further incident to happen in that area we called the police. They visited the site and gave strict instructions to the villagers not to fix any deity inside the temple and that Sunayana under no circumstances would be considered as a goddess. Though the police couldn’t destroy the temple as it would hurt the sentiments of the people, but a fear lurked among the villagers who dared not to think along those lines ever again.

Further, there wasn’t any such incident of sati in that area, but the guilt stayed with Sunayana’s in-laws who thought they could prevent her from being one of them if only they hadn’t held other practices—like that of dowry, customs followed by widows—dear to them. The idea of being a sati had nested in Sunayana’s grief-stricken mind, burdened by the socioeconomic crisis that compelled her to take the fatal decision, which was fuelled by the ignorant villagers who instigated the act of ending her life. If only they had been more reasonable.     

About the Author:
Sreelekha Chatterjee’s short stories have been published in various magazines and journals like Borderless, The Green Shoe Sanctuary, Storizen, Indian Periodical, Femina, Indian Short Fiction, eFiction India, The Criterion, The Literary Voyage, Writer’s Ezine, and Estuary, and have been included in numerous print and online anthologies such as Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series (Westland Ltd, India), Wisdom of Our Mothers (Familia Books, USA), and several others. She lives in New Delhi, India. You can connect with her on Facebook at facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1/, on Twitter @sreelekha001, and Instagram @sreelekha2023.

The post The Irrational Belief by Sreelekha Chatterjee first appeared on Prachya Review.

Father Sampson took me in after I passed out on the curb outside his church. He let me use his shower, gave me a clean set of clothes and a peanut butter sandwich. When he drove me back to Ma’s house, he told her I’d go only if she let me sleep in my old room, that he’d help get me on the straight and narrow.

“How many times have we been through this now, Billy? Tell the priest, damn it!” Ma screamed as we stood on the porch, my bloodshot eyes burning holes into my dirty feet.

“I’ll get him right, Mrs. Clover. Just  give him another chance. There’s no shortage of second chances in God’s kingdom.”

The first five days coming off the streets were always the toughest. I spent my time watching TV, sitting on Ma’s big brown leather sofa, but I could only make out a snowy mess of nothingness. First, the tips of my fingers burned with an itch, then spread through the rest of my body until I’d jump up and start rubbing myself against the wall like a love-starved cat.

“You itching for it, ain’t ya?” Ma would say when she’d see me against the wall. “I smell even a trace of it, and you’re out. Ya, hear me?”

Ma had a nose like a bloodhound. But a week without meth was the longest I’d ever gone since getting hooked on the stuff. It was that Sunday after my first mass I got the idea.

Father Sampson invited me into the vestry after the benediction. “Not as holy in here as we make it out to be, is it, Billy?”

The room was tiny, with the walls painted an awful cream color resembling unpasteurized milk. A small offering of light spilled through one little shoulder-height window, hardly helping the dull put-me-to-sleep energy of the room. I stood in a corner next to the giant bronze cross the altar boy carried.

“Now let me just count the collection, and then we’ll get going for lunch.” Father Sampson removed his liturgical vestments and looked like an ordinary man. The offering plate was silver, resembling a giant ashtray, and filled with cash that had to be upwards of a thousand dollars. I watched him count the money, then retrieve a key from beneath the purple flower planter on the window sill.

“What’s that?” I said as he unlocked the cabinet, opening the door.

“This?”

“Yeah.”

“Not many people know about this. But, just between us, it’s worth a whole lot of money. Enough to build five more churches, I reckon.”

“Why?” I asked, walking towards the cabinet, eyebrows raised, studying the cork inside the glass container.

“It’s from the bottle of wine that was used for communion when the pope visited a few years ago. I saved it.”

“They let you do that?”

The glass box rested in his palm, a glint in his eyes. “Why not? I mean, I didn’t really feel the need to ask anyone, you know? I just thought it might be worth a lot of money one day. And an old priest like me has to think about retirement, too, right?”

Father Sampson handed the artifact to me as though it were a bird that had just been born. “Here, have a look. It still has a little wine stain on it. You see that?”

I didn’t study the cork for long, setting the glass container back into the cabinet, pretending to be distracted by the purple flower while stealing quick, serious glances at Father Sampson.

“It’s a violet.” He said.

“What?”

“The plant you seem so interested in.”

Furling the small leaves in his fingertips, Father Sampson smiled, gazing at the flower as though it were animate. “I suppose, a struggling violet more like it.”

“Oh yes, yes,” I managed, turning my vision from the base of the plant, under which he’d set the key. “My mother has one just like it.”

He sprayed some water on the browning leaves. “Is that right?” he said, craning his neck to make eye contact. Then he set the bottle down and approached with sinking eyes and lips pressing into each other like one faint pencil-traced line. “How are things going at home, Billy?”

The grandfather clock chimed. The loud gong made me step back, bumping my head against the wall. “I guess that means it’s time for lunch, Father.”

Father Sampson grinned, halting. “Well, I suppose it is, Son. Where would you like to eat? And promise me you won’t tell anybody about that cork? Our secret, okay?”

I watched him put his keys in his coat pocket, the same set of keys he’d later set underneath the lemon tree outside.

“Of course, your secret’s safe with me. Only if you’re buying lunch! Somewhere fancy!” I said, smiling big.

***

I parked Ma’s old Toyota near an orange dumpster. The stray cats scrambled into hiding. The moon was just a quarter-crescent spotlight on the darkness. I watched and waited, gloved hands on the steering wheel.

I hit my head on the roof as a cat swiped an empty can with its paw. “My mask!?” I whispered.

I combed through the empty fast food boxes on the floorboards, then dug my fingers in the slits of the seats.

Just as I was about to start the engine to return home, I caught a glimpse in the mirror and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the black ski mask loosely fitted above my brows.

I pulled the mask down, readjusting it, making sure nobody would recognize me. “You got this, Billy. You damn well got this.” I took a deep breath through my nose, then slowly opened the car door.

Approaching the backside of the church, I stopped near the small lemon tree. The motion light flashed, and I almost fell back down the steep brick stairs. I ducked below a freshly cut hedge, surveyed my surroundings, inhaling deep breaths through my nose. Crawling to the lemon tree, I carefully watched the busy street and the nearby houses, comforted by the unchanging veil of darkness. I lifted the potted tree with the tips of my fingers, then grabbed the keys with my other hand, doing so with one quiet, swift motion.

The second key I tried opened the backdoor to the church. Before locking the bolt behind me, I gazed at the cats for a minute or two. When an ambulance whizzed by with its dizzying red-white lights, I slammed the church door and tiptoed toward the altar. Two gold-laced candles burned on the altar table. I grabbed one and walked towards the vestry, careful not to spill any wax on the blood-red carpet. The same key I’d used to open the church back door fit the vestry door. A light turned on from a house across the street, shining like a giant sun through the small vestry window. I shuddered and spilled wax onto the grandfather clock. Setting the candle next to the clock, I switched on the floor lamp, then drew the curtains shut. The violet looked even less alive in the low light, shriveled brown-grey leaves drooping below faded purple petals. A leaf flaked off the stem and feathered to the floor as I lifted the pot and found the cabinet key. When I removed the glass container from the cabinet, I noticed the collection plate full of cash. I stuffed a few hundred dollar bills into my pocket, pulled off my ski mask, and studied the cork wide-eyed. The latch on the casing wasn’t moving as I tugged on it, stuck as though glued to the hinge. I shook the container back and forth, but with measured force, scared the cork might get scuffed. A stone crucifix lay on a pile of papers on the cabinet shelf. I grabbed it and slammed it into the glass container until it shattered, and the cork fell onto the floor. I placed the cork into a ziplock bag, blew the candle out, turned off the lamp, then snuck out of the church, safely back to my mother’s car.

I couldn’t sleep that night, checking the cork on my bedside table every five minutes. I’d already secured a buyer, a guy I’d sold cocaine to a few years back.

The following day we met under an old oak tree at a park down the road from ma’s. I handed him the zip lock bag, pretending to tie my shoelaces.

“Nobody’s watching us, Billy. Stand up, would you!? Let me see what you got.” He removed his dark shades. “This thing’s nice. I think I can shop it. You got the papers?”

“What papers?”

“Authentication! How do we know this thing’s real?”

“The priest said it is, told me himself.”

The man laughed then his face went tight. “You wasting my time. I can’t help you if I don’t have papers, kid.” He shoved the bag into my hand and turned for the parking lot.

I thought about breaking into the church again that night to see if I’d missed the papers, but it was a risk I wasn’t willing to take, despite the itching getting worse. I decided to wait three more days to allow the dust to settle.

Three days passed without Father Sampson’s daily call. I wondered if he’d figured it out, giving me space to fess up before calling the cops.

I decided to check out the scene at Wednesday’s mass. Upon walking into the service ten minutes late, I noticed a different priest behind the altar, a much older man. My heart beat a hundred miles through all the hail mary’s, then peaked at the end of the benediction. I waited until most of the congregation had left, then approached the old priest as he headed into the vestry.

“Father, where’s Father Sampson?”

“Nobody told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Some massive insurance payout came through for him, so he quit- packed up everything in a day. I think he headed south somewhere warm.”

The priest moved to the windowsill, fetched the key underneath the violet then opened the cabinet.

“I heard about that stolen cork. Such a pity.” I stepped closer, trying to peer into the cabinet underneath his drooping shoulders.

“What cork?”

“The one from when the pope visited.”

The priest began to chuckle, then turned his head and squinted at me. “The pope?”

“Father Sampson said he was here a few months ago.”

His chuckle grew into a belly laugh. “That Father Sampson sure had a sense of humor. I’ll give him that! You got a better chance at seeing Jesus himself in this church than the pope, my son!”

My eyes moved to the collection plate. “Say, Father, are you still keeping the church’s key under the lemon tree outside? Father Sampson would leave it there so I could come and pray.”

The priest locked the cabinet, then returned the key underneath the violet. “Strictly against church policy, Son. I’m quite surprised to learn he let you do that.”I turned the engine of Mom’s old car and watched the cats jump in and out of the dumpster, then I drove home, scratching myself, without any concern of drawing blood.

About the Author:
South African born, Luke Beling, left home at 19. In 2007, he graduated from Campbellsville University with a BA in English.Luke has had several short stories published in journals and magazines, including: Quiet Shorts (2012), Eyelands Flash Fiction (2019), Academy of the Heart and Mind (2021), New Reader Magazine (2021), The Salt Weekly Magazine (2022), Impspired Magazine (2022), Shallow Tales Review (2023), and Pigeon Review (2023). Luke is the director of tennis for a private club on the Big Island of Hawaii and an indie-folk singer-songwriter.

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The post Billy and the Priest by Luke Beling first appeared on Prachya Review.

     When I was thirteen, I saw a man sitting on a bench overlooking the Santa Barbara Pier. I sat on that bench once. It had a beautiful view. The oceanic tumble of each wave against the shore, the glare of the sunlight in the distance, and the sound of the vast tides after each calm moment; it was a remarkable scene. However, I couldn’t help but notice how lonely the man looked. It was as if he was missing a piece. He looked profoundly incomplete. In my eyes, he needed a woman.

     If there was anything in this world that I didn’t want to be, it was someone like him. To be alone, lacking the sentimentality of having loved. I may have been a poor judge or terribly mistaken, but my free-thinking and ever growing pubescent mind couldn’t help but share his loneliness for that brief moment.

     So many years have passed since I made the decision to find my other half. When I turned eighteen, I wished upon a star. My wish was that I’d find and marry the love of my life. I wanted the excitement, the boredom, the romantic things, and everything in between. I knew in my head that  I’d be the happiest person in the world if I ever found someone.

     I spent a good portion of my teenage years and early twenties wishing to find someone for me. After several attempts to start a relationship, I began to doubt my potential. I pretended to be okay, surrounding myself with one-way friendships and so-called “friends”.

     I’d come home from work, enjoy a frozen dinner and watch actors pretend they were in love while love was becoming a foreign subject to me like addiction or fatherhood. People I knew on a surface level tried to cheer me up but I hated the small talk. I did not want to converse. It was always the same Hey James, how’s it going at work? Any girls? Any new friends? And do you want to talk about it?

     However, when I turned twenty-nine, I met a beautiful woman named Jia. Things were different. Within the first few months of being together, my perspective had changed drastically and I began to feel like a new man. The things  I thought about so deeply began to fade into the background of my new life with her. It was as if I was living someone else’s life and I could finally relate to the films I watched and the music I listened to. I never wanted this life to end so I felt, in a way, that I had something worth living and dying for.

     We shared everything together. When she was happy, so was I, and when she was upset, I was too. We shared the most romantic, intimate moments with each other and had passionate sex every night. When she got sick, I got sick as well. When one of us had money, we both had money. I loved glaring into her eyes as we both rested in bed and I loved brushing the strands of hair off her face. I loved looking at her.

     I was the happiest person in the world.

     As years passed by, however, our relationship had become somewhat broken or questionable. I began to have more bad days than good days and often questioned the notion of togetherness and oneness. I was afraid to believe my unhappiness because it would become real so I hid it the best I could for years at a time. I began to miss my old life and wondered why I ever complained about being happy and single. I was conflicted, for the first time in my life, because I loved Jia so much that it was impossible to imagine my life without her. However, the circumstances that we faced and the way we felt needed to be resolved for the sake of our happiness.

     Was it to be or not to be? Is she the one I wished for? If we stay together, will we find a way for both of us to be happy? If we part ways, will we ever meet again as friends after so long?

     What is it they say?… It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

     Many years have passed. I am now sixty-two years old and counting. I started taking piano lessons and became quite fond of painting, particularly the art of Dadaism. Jia and I have parted ways. We held on as long as we could and pulled on every string just to stay afloat but ultimately, we were better off living separate lives.

     Through the despair, the joy, the manic depression, the anxiety, and the torture of love, it was all worth it. I had loved and having been loved, I can say that I am content with what I put into the universe as a man. It was worth every second.

     I am standing at the boardwalk looking ahead at the watchful glare of the sunset. The waves crash and settle after each moment of silence. The glitter of reflection at the center of the ocean looks still and serene. Suddenly, the only thing I wanted was to be; to become someone like him.

About the Author:
Alex Rafael Encomienda is an author and editor of literary, genre and absurdist fiction as well as poetry. Alex began writing at age nine. He attended writing workshop and lecture classes in college and since then has had his work published in several notable literary magazines such as Adelaide magazine and The 5th Wall Press. His most recent story, "Carnality" was published in The Literary Parrot's fall 2021 issue. 

The post Someone Like Him by Alex Rafael Encomienda first appeared on Prachya Review.

I met her three years ago. She came in at a time when things were real bad. I was in desperate need of help. One July afternoon, she came along with an old gentleman. Well-built and tall, she spoke with an accent I could not place.  I guessed her age, she surely was above 65 years. She did not look it though. Draped in a green and blue cotton saree, her hair tied back tightly into a small bun, not a single grey strand visible. The gentleman who chaperoned her assured me that she was very good at caring for ‘patients’ and that I needn’t worry. But then they all say that. It would take me some time to see how she fared. She kept standing as I spoke to her. The gentleman sat down. I motioned her to sit. She looked here and there, I pointed the sofa to her. She looked for a minute and then sat down, a bit reluctant. As I spoke to her about things, her work experience, her ability to look after older people, things I normally made a point to ask, she answered all pointedly. She had been looking after ‘patients’ for quite some years now she said. Her voice was husky but not harsh. 

“How do I address you?” I asked her. “Shall I call you mashi?” 

Most of the carers I had earlier were younger than me and I addressed them by their names. She looked at me for a while and said, 

“Call me by my name, Kali.” I smiled. 

“Show me how things are to be done and in a couple of days I will make sure I learn the ways of your house”. 

She told me that there were certain things she wouldn’t do – she didn’t cook and there was no way she could run errands outside the house. She sure was straightforward – “Any other work related to Mashima, you needn’t bother about,” she said, “once I understand and learn how things are done here”. 

She looked at Ma and asked “kemon achen”. Ma looked up in the direction of the voice and slowly smiled and shook her head. After a while, she spoke a few words about how the spoons were all missing and walked away. She looked disturbed. Kali looked in the direction that ma walked away for a while. Then, she looked at me.  “Shall I go and be with her”, she asked. I nodded and she went in the direction that Ma had gone. In a little while, I saw them both talking as if they had been acquainted for quite some time. This was a good sign, I thought. Ma was seated on her bed and Kali was standing beside the window just opposite the bed. 

“Mashima is sleeping, now,” she said as she came into the kitchen. “Is she your mother in law?” 

I nodded as I went about showing her things. She cleaned up and sat down, listening to all I had to say about Ma and the things that she needed to know. I took her around the house, showing her places and things, constantly talking about how and why and what she needed to know. Most importantly about Ma’s condition. 

“Buri Ma looks alright,” she said. 

That is something all carers said. Ma had dementia, late onset. She did not recognize me. For her I was a familiar face, someone she liked to talk to, someone she felt comfortable with. She became angry and aggressive at times and so it was very important to let the carer know it. She would soon forget about it, smile and talk almost immediately after getting angry, screaming, shouting, hurling cuss words, as if none of it had happened. The only person she recognized was her son. The only person she still identified by name. Sumit was a busy man. When he came home, he said hello to Ma and moved up to his den. He couldn’t be disturbed by the goings on in the house. “I cannot handle so much at a time,” he often said.  I guess I had got so used to it so much that it no longer bothered. We lived like strangers in that house. It kind of worked well that way. 

I am not sure if Kali understood all I told her about Ma’s condition but I did notice that she picked up small little things that would make Ma interested. 

“Mashima is old,” she often said, “and in old age, people often behave differently”. 

She soon became part of the household, caring for Ma. She slowly learned how to talk to Ma, how to divert her attention away from something that caused her anxiety, or troubled her, she knew when to let her be and when to engage in fun and banter. She spoke about her grandchildren, about her children, of her life. And Ma would soon start talking of stories of her childhood. 

Of Boruitala, of that village that had been her home. Of her Ma, her brothers, all those people in her house, of climbing trees, of her brothers fishing, of how they ran and climbed walls, pushed and had fun, of how her mother got angry with her when she climbed trees with her brothers – “Girls do not climb trees and run around like that”. She spoke of how her brothers cared for her – the youngest one in the family, the only sister to six brothers. Hironmoy, Shubhomoy, Barunmoy, Arunmoy, Shukhomoy and Kironmoy – these days she mixed the names up. She spoke of it all as if it was in the present – “I have to go to school, it is time,” she would say and then maybe get angry. She couldn’t see her mother around. As she got agitated Kali sat beside her and said “yes, we will go home, but first let us get dressed”. That was what we tried to do – try to keep her comfortable and happy, try to gauge her mood and go along. Kali learned it all. 

Her home was in a village too, she would say and that is how their conversations would begin. I noticed her repeating the same stories, they made Ma happy, and made her feel nice. At times I could hear both of them at their stories. It did not make much difference to Kali, she listened for a while and then began her stories. At times I almost felt as if both had so much to say and didn’t bother if anyone was listening. They seemed to need a human being around.

She also told me about her life too, in bits and pieces. I asked her about her home as she made me a cup of tea and she sat with hers. Widowed at 25, with four children, she said she lost her parents when she was seven and was raised by her uncle and aunt. 

“I have been working for, god knows, how long,” she went on. “All kinds of work – tilling the land, working in the farm, at the loom, anything that brought in some money. Of all the various kinds of work I did, tilling the land was the most difficult. I was very good at the loom.”

“That is really interesting.”

“Yes, didi, I can do it all. We get the thread from the Mahajan, the design too and we are told the colours to use.”  

 “My uncle and aunt looked after me well when I was growing up, but then we all had to work There were too many mouths to feed. They were nice to me but there was not enough money. I had to help.” 

She took a napkin and cleaned Ma’s mouth. “Here sip a little water.” Ma opened her lips as she took out the glass her mouth. She wiped Ma’s mouth again and washed the tumbler and kept it upside down on the mall table in the corner of the room.  She said beside Ma on the sofa. 

“They got me married too but my fate never changed. My husband died all of a sudden and I had to fend for myself and my children.”

Her husband had suffered a massive heart attack and even before he could be taken to the hospital, it was over. When did she begin this work? I ask her, the caregiving work that is.  “It has been over 15 years now.” 

She enjoyed speaking about her work at the loom,  the way she worked with the threads,  the colours she needed, and the final product. “It was difficult sitting in the pit though.” The payment she got was a pittance but then any bit of money that came in was good. “There has never been a time when I didn’t work,” she said often.  She was folding the dry clothes and stacking them on the bed. “My children are all married, my grandchildren growing up, a few already married. I saw to it that they got what they wanted. At least I tried.”

 “I gave each of my children and grandchildren a gold item, a ring, a pair of earrings for some occasion or the other. I made sure that each one was of equal value.” 

I asked her if  she had kept some money for herself. My experience with earlier carers had told me that none of them saved up. They couldn’t for various reasons. I often spoke to them about setting aside a small sum each month. “I have all the documents, but don’t have an account. My son has one,” Kali said.  “That is good enough for me. He takes good care of me.” She picked up the cups on the table and put them on the kitchen counter. The water flowed from the tap as she washed them. She dried them, put them on the shelf, and went into Ma’s room. I went back to the book lying on the bed. I could hear the voices in the distance as the two old women went on talking, Ma was awake.

Kali had been with me for over three years now. She cared for Ma like a baby. Ma had deteriorated a lot, she was now almost immobile. Kali didn’t take much leave and if she did she made sure that I got a replacement and that Ma was looked after well. A few weeks ago Kali fell ill, a stomach upset, she said when I enquired. The doctor came home, examined her, and prescribed medicines. She answered his questions but did not seem happy with his answers. She was not keen on taking the medicines either.  When I mentioned  them, she took one tablet quite reluctantly. 

That evening she said – “I want to go home, Didi. Please look for a replacement to care for Ma. I will come back once I am well. I will be back in three months.” 

On Tuesday, the substitute carer arrived and Kali spent the whole day explaining things to her. She sat beside Ma mostly, getting up only if she had to show things to the new carer. Early the next morning she left for home. She called me in the evening to say that she was home. We spoke again a few days later. I asked her if she needed anything. She replied in the negative and asked me about Ma and the new carer. “Do not worry Didi, I will join work, the moment I am alright.” 

It has been quite some months now without her. I had grown completely dependent upon her. She never gave me any cause for complaint when it came to caring. The substitute ayah had slowly learned how to go about things, she was a bit slow, but I could see she was making an effort. Kali’s health was not the way it used to be. Age seemed to be catching up on her. She gave me a missed call once in a while. When I called her she gave me updates on her health. I knew she would possibly never be able to come back here. 

In all these years that I had known her, she had never complained about her children. That day, as we spoke she said very softly – “He took away all the money I had.” It took me some time to realize that she was talking about her son.  “He told me to go and stay with my elder daughter. But I will not do that. This is my house. I will stay here.” The last time we spoke was the day after Ma passed away.  Kali was too weak to talk. 

About the Author

Nishi Pulugurtha is an academic and writer based in Kolkata. Her publications include a monograph on Derozio(2010), a collection of essays on travel, Out in the Open (2019), an edited volume of essays on travel, Across and Beyond (2020), a volume of poems, The Real and the Unreal and Other Poems (2020), a collection of short stories, The Window Sill (2021), a co-edited volume of poems Voices and Vision: The First IPPL Anthology(2021). Her recent book is a volume of poems Raindrops on the Periwinkle published by Writers Workshop (2022). An edited volume of critical essays titled Literary Representation of Pandemics, Epidemics and Pestilenceis forthcoming from Routledge.

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