The Twisted Child

The Twisted Child

He was walking so quickly, I had to struggle to keep pace with him. Prashant Gupta, was a tall, heavily built, fleshy-faced gentleman with cruel eyes. At least, they seemed that way to me. As a fourteen years old I tend to see things in black and white, not shades of grey. And Mr Gupta I didn’t like, not one bit. First of all, he always spoke to me in Hindi, not my strong suit. Secondly, he never called me by my name, it was always either ‘tu’ or ‘Ei bachche’, both of which I hate. I have a perfectly good name: Anand, what’s wrong with it?

So we effected some kind of compromise: he spoke to me in Hindi and I replied in English. Either he didn’t know a word of Konkani, or he refused to speak the language, despite having lived in Goa for all of seventeen years. And he didn’t bother to disguise his contempt for us locals; it was evident in the way he looked at us and the way he spoke to us. We were kachchra as far as he was concerned, he made that very clear by look, speech and gesture.

I noticed that Smita Aunty was also having a hard time keeping up with him. It wasn’t so much that he walked quickly, I realized, it was the fact that he was a shade under six feet tall and had longer strides. I’m rather short for my age, and Smita Aunty is shaped like a dumpling, so she was struggling to keep pace with him and panting while she talked.

‘Sahib,’ she was saying in her broken Hindi, ‘We are poor people, and this house and property are all we’ve got. It’s our ancestral property, Sahib, and the house was also built by our ancestors more than two hundred years ago. It is ours, Sahib, not Rajaram bhatkar’s; all the property surrounding our house and land belongs to Rajaram, but not this piece of land. I’m sure the documents in the government office will prove it.’

‘And I have documents that say otherwise,’ replied Mr Gupta, also in Hindi, brandishing his file, ‘And yet I am offering you Rs fifty lakhs and a two-bedroom flat not far from this place. Isn’t that generous? Just accept my offer, Mrs Naik.’

‘But how can that be, Sahib?’ wailed Smita Aunty, ‘This place has always been ours, for as long as I can remember. Someone must have bribed someone in the land records office, to change the name on that document from my grandfather’s to someone else.’

Mr Gupta sneered.

‘I am offering you half a crore,’ he said, ‘Have you ever seen that much money in your life? Can you even dream of earning that much in your lifetime?’

‘No, Sahib,’ replied Smita Aunty, brushing away a tear that was inadvertently rolling down her cheek.

‘We don’t want the money, Sahib,’ she repeated, ‘We just want our house… and our land.’

‘So do I,’ said Mr Gupta callously, ‘There’s no point in my purchasing all the property around your house and keeping your house intact. It would come in the way of all my plans. I intend to have it all, anyway, so either you accept my very generous offer or, I will evict you and go ahead with the construction. The choice is yours.’

A steady rain began to fall as he was speaking, and I heard him cursing under his breath. He hadn’t thought to carry an umbrella, since it was only the end of May. I unfurled the large black umbrella I carried, nipped over to Smita Aunty’s side and held it up, sheltering us both. The ground squelched under our feet as we trod the mud road to Smita Aunty’s house and mine next-door. The rain increased in intensity. I took a perverse pleasure in seeing Mr Gupta getting thoroughly soaked, from the top of his thick head to the soles of his elegantly shod feet. There’s a silver lining in every cloud.

‘This place is in the middle of nowhere,’ said Mr Gupta, ‘There isn’t even a proper road here which would make it easy for someone to reach this spot by car. It’s close to town, of course, but I will have to spend a lot of my own money levelling the land and building roads that connect it to the city. That’s a lot of investment and I have to recover it.’

‘It’s a little over one kilometre Sahib,’ said Smita aunty timidly, ‘We walk this path morning and evening. It’s nothing.’

Mr Gupta snorted. ‘For you, maybe,’ he conceded, ‘Not for me. I travel by car everywhere.’

Despite the rain, which had brought the temperature down considerably, he was puffing and panting and his face had turned the colour of an almost ripe tomato. Me and my sister, Laxmi, walk this way every morning to school. We also trek to town every evening to go for tuitions and to buy provisions from Tulsidas’ grocery store. I don’t find it a problem at all. Neither does Smita Aunty who works as a ‘nursing aide’ at the district hospital. The strange thing is, none of that walking seems to have slimmed her down. But Laxmi and I have told her time and time again that she’s perfect the way she is and we love her rounded figure, it makes her all the easier to hug. That always brings a smile to her face. She is the most loving person I know, even more than my mother.

Suddenly, without warning, Smita Aunty reached out and pulled Mr Gupta, who had been striding ahead, to one side.

‘Careful, Sahib,’ she warned, You almost fell into Rudresh’s well. It’s just by the side of the road. It’s almost invisible in twilight, and Rudresh has never bothered to cover it despite our pleas and the Panchayat’s warnings. Stupid drunkard, that fellow! We know where it is because we’re from this place, but a stranger such as yourself…’ And she shook her head.

Ten minutes later we had reached the clearing where our two houses stood side by side, Smita Aunty’s and mine. Mr Gupta stopped for a moment to mop his face, and I noticed that his white silk shirt was soaked through and through and clinging to his back and heavy shoulders. Serves him right, I thought uncharitably. I couldn’t stand the man; pushy, arrogant and insensitive, and I didn’t like the way he spoke to Smita Aunty. We are well respected in our village, despite not being very well off; Ouy families have lived here for centuries.

He looked at our two houses and I could see the calculating look in his eyes.

‘These two houses will have to come down, of course,’ he muttered to himself in Hindi, ‘And then we will have all this land, from here,’ he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand, encompassing both the houses and a vast tract of land from North to South, ‘to here.’

I had heard that Rajaram bhatkar had sold Mr Gupta all the property that surrounded our two houses and had walked away with seven crores. That’s an awful lot of money, I guess.

‘Come inside and have a hot cup of tea, Sahib,’ said Smita Aunty, ‘You’re looking quite tired. I guess you’re not used to walking much.’

‘That’s a fact,’ conceded Mr Gupta, visibly relieved, ‘I’d like a glass of water first, behenji. I’m extremely thirsty.’

We entered Smita Aunty’s house and were greeted by her son Kartik. Kartik is seventeen, three years older than me, and we’re more like brothers than first cousins. He’s a sportsman and a very brainy guy, tall and wiry, and accustomed to long distance running; he’s won several cups and medals, and has declared his intention to participate in the Ironman triathlon next year. I looked up to him a lot.

My parents and sister Laxmi had come out of our house to greet the stranger with a silent namaste. So had another neighbour and close friend, Jeetu. Jeetu is around sixty-five. He had just returned to our village after working in the Mumbai film industry for over thirty years.

Mr Gupta barely acknowledged their greetings, being too busy gulping down the cool glass of kodso water Smita Aunty had brought on a tray, before asking for another one. She led us into her small, dimly lit sitting room and gestured for him to sit down on the most comfortable chair in the room. We all sat around him, staring at the interloper in silence. Smita Aunty went into the kitchen, returning with a mug of tea which Kartik had just brewed. She placed it on a small table next to Mr Gupta. He drank greedily, slurping the hot tea like a child, and put the mug down with a sigh of relief.

We sat in silence. Just when the silence was beginning to get uncomfortable, there was a rough, guttural sound from another room in the house, a voice of… not a man, nor a woman… something else entirely.

Mr Gupta started.

‘What was that?’ he asked, visibly disturbed.

The voice came again, gruff and hideous, and this time we could discern the words in Konkani.

‘Mhaka udik zai,’ (I want water) it said, and Smita Aunty got up silently and went inside.

‘What was that?’ Mr Gupta asked again, and I saw his face paling a little.

Smita Aunty joined us again.

‘Nothing, Sahib,’ she said, twisting her hands and giving him a strained smile, ‘It’s my daughter, Meenaxi, that’s all. ‘

‘Your daughter?’ asked Mr Gupta, his voice shooting up, ‘But that sounded more like a man. No, not like a man, like a…’ he cast around for a suitable description, but was unable to find one.

‘Like a demon, Sahib?’ asked Smita Aunty in a quiet voice.

Mr Gupta looked disconcerted for a moment. Then he nodded slightly.

‘It’s a strange voice,’ he conceded, looking away, ‘Is she alright?’

There was a small silence, broken by Smita Aunty speaking again.

‘She is twisted, Sahib,’ she said, ‘She’s a twisted child.’

‘What do you mean, twisted?’ demanded Mr Gupta, staring at her.

I could see Smita Aunty wracking her brains, trying to come up with the right word and the right answer. Her Hindi, like mine, is none too good.

Fortunately Kartik came to her rescue.

‘Woh aavisht hai’ he said abruptly, ‘Bhootgrast hai. She is possessed. Twisted in mind and body.’

Mr Gupta stared at him.

‘Possessed?’ he asked, ‘What do you mean, possessed?’

Kartik sighed.

‘She has a devil in her,’ he replied, ‘Right from birth. She doesn’t speak like a normal human being. Even her whole body is… misshapen. Twisted. Like her mind. But she is gifted in other ways.’

I could see Mr Gupta was becoming intrigued.

‘What ways?’ he asked.

Kartik hesitated.

‘She can read people’s minds,’ he said at last, ‘And foretell the future.’

‘Really?’ asked Mr Gupta, setting down the tea mug that he had lifted again to his lips, ‘Can I see her?’

‘She is…’ again Smita Aunty fumbled for an answer, ‘She is not pretty, Sahib. Not normal. She is completely twisted.’

‘Nonetheless I would like to see her,’ said Mr Gupta authoritatively, getting up, and I thought again that he was the most pushy, arrogant and yes, obnoxious man I’d ever met.

Smita Aunty looked downcast for a moment, but her innate grace and sense of hospitality would not allow her to refuse. Silently she got up and led the way farther into the house, to a small, dark room, where she stopped at the threshold. We all followed, and stopped behind them both.

The room was so dark it took time to see what… or who… was inside. The smell of incense was overpowering. Slowly, as our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, we could discern a small mattress on the floor upon which was the figure of a creature that looked hideously deformed. She - or it - had her back towards us.

The thing spoke.

‘I see you,’ the rasping, guttural voice said. It sounded so horrible we all took an involuntary step back, treading on one another’s toes. I was peering from behind Kartik, and I could see Mr Gupta’s face paling again.

‘I see you,’ the voice said again, this time one octave higher, sounding like a spirit from a horror movie, ‘I see a man from Delhi with a file in his hand. He comes to buy. To take what is not his. I see him!’

‘How… how can she see me?’ asked Mr Gupta, looking at Smita Aunty. His voice was quavering a little, his face paler. ‘She is not looking our way.’

‘She can see everything, Sahib’ replied Kartik, ‘She has eyes in the back of her head. She can see everything and everyone.’

The apparition – that of a twisted, hideously deformed child – turned around slowly and looked straight at us. Her face was so dark, it was almost black, as was the rest of her body. The white, sleeveless tunic she was wearing only served to accentuate the darkness of her skin. Her face – my God, her face! – was twisted to one side to reveal a rictus of a mouth.

Meenaxi, twelve years old, smiled a horrible smile. There were no teeth in her mouth at all, it was the mouth and face of a grotesque old woman. There was only a black void where the teeth should have been.

The child – the aavisht – looked straight at Mr Gupta, and he recoiled. She lifted her arm slowly and pointed at him directly.

‘You!’ she said accusingly, in a hoarse, gravelly male voice, ‘Be warned. The gods have cursed you! This place is cursed, and any outsider who occupies it is doubly cursed! You will die…you and your family. You will die a horrible death. Thus has your future been revealed to me!’

Then she laughed, a high, shrill, cackling laugh that went on and on and on, higher and higher and higher, far higher than any human voice I’ve heard.

Mr Gupta’s face had turned ashen. He turned abruptly and stumbled away, pushing through the small knot of neighbours behind him. He looked as though he was about to throw up. Smita Aunty hurried after him. So did I.

‘Keep your property, bahenji,’ he blurted, ‘I don’t want any of it. I just want to get as far away from this place as possible.’

He turned and started striding away.

‘Wait, Sahib!’ Smita Aunty called out after him, ‘It’s getting dark! I’ll send Anand with you to show the way!’

Mr Gupta didn’t bother to reply, or even acknowledge her voice. If anything, he picked up his pace.

We stared after him, Smita Aunty and I. Then we turned and rejoined the small knot of relatives and Jeetu, our neighbour, huddled outside the misfit’s room.

The demon child stared at us.

‘Has he gone?’ she demanded, in that hideous voice.

We nodded.

‘Yes,’ said Smita Aunty.

Lifting her arm, Meenaxi pointed at us.

‘You will die! You will die! You will die!’ she shrieked, and burst into that horrible, cackling laugh again.

And then we all followed suit. Holding on to one another, we laughed and laughed and laughed…laughed till we cried, till the tears ran in rivulets down our cheeks! I held my sides – they were hurting with laughter! I had never laughed so much in my life.

Smita Aunty’s face was as red as a tomato, several shades redder than Mr Gupta’s had been when he had walked to the house with us, puffing and panting. She was laughing and wheezing alternatively, and looking at her face my sister, Laxmi, was laughing even harder.

My parents, I had never seen them laughing so much before. Kartik was chuckling and chortling, his grin stretching from ear to ear. Even Jeetu, our Mumbai returned neighbour, was going ‘Heh heh heh, heh heh heh!’ and holding on to a pillar for support.

Meenaxi, my cousin, the possessed one, who practiced Yoga for an hour every day at home, and gymnastics in school, untangled her limbs, un-scrunched her face and grinned at us, showing blackened teeth. O Meenaxi, my talented, talented cousin, you who have acted in so many Marathi nataks at such a tender age, you have played the role of a lifetime!

‘Come, Jeetu uncle,’ she called, beckoning, ‘Please get your bag of tricks and remove this blackness from my skin and teeth. I have never looked so horrible in my life!’

Jeetu stepped forward obligingly, still chuckling, his black leather bag in his hand. He had been Amitabh Bachchan’s No 1 makeup man for thirty years, did I forget to mention that?

I stole away quietly and ran back along the same path Smita Aunty, Mr Gupta and I had trod. Dusk had set in and it was now very dark, but I knew the path like the back of my hand. I ran all the way to the banyan tree a little before Rudresh’s hut, with its uncovered well too close to the side of the road.

There he was, striding along in the faint, very faint light of an incipient half-moon, a dark, diffused, burly figure. I waited behind the tree, straining my eyes and my ears. Was that the sound of a splash?

No, it wasn’t. The lumbering figure paused briefly, as though it had just remembered something; then, gingerly skirting the rim of the well, continued on its way.

‘Damn!’ I muttered, bitterly disappointed. Bending down, I picked up a stone and hurled it after the fast-disappearing figure.

‘Damn!’ I said again, cursing loudly now, uncaring of who heard me. ‘Damn you!’ I shouted unabashedly, tears of disappointment and frustration rolling down my cheeks, as I trudged disconsolately homeward.

OOO