Devi Read online

  NAG MANI

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotation embodies in critical articled and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published:March, 2019.

  © 2019 Nag Mani

  [v1.0]

  ~

  Also by Nag Mani

  THE GREEN ROOM

  CONTENTS

  I

  1. THE RITUAL

  2. THE MORNING OF

  II

  3. THE SUMMONS OF THE VILLAGE

  4. THE NEIGHBOURS

  5. THE MAN IN THE DARK

  6. THE TEMPLE

  7. THE BLUE RAJDOOT

  8. THE FIELD TRIP

  9. AAMBARI

  10. THE LEGEND OF THE DEVI

  11. IN THE NAME OF LOVE

  12. THE PRICE

  13. AN INNOCENT WISH

  14. THE NIGHT OF

  III

  15. A SMALL GIFT

  16. THE ANCIENT TREE

  17. THE CONSPIRACY

  18. DEVI

  19. THE RITUAL

  20. THE RIVER

  IV

  21. THE CHEAP CHILD

  22. THE BEGINNING

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  THE RITUAL

  Amavasya is the night of the new moon.

  The inky expanse of a clear starry night. Cold, refreshing breeze. A river gushes nosily besides a dark canvas of tree-tops. Lights flicker on the other side of the trees – dim oils lamps hung outside huts and shades, emanating feeble rays of hope and strength against the cold darkness of the night. Dogs curl on the softest spots they can find. Bells tinker as cows and goats shuffle under their shades. An old woman coughs.

  The night grows older…

  Away from this sleeping village, under the foliage of the trees, walks a lone human figure amid silent glares of the trees. It is holding a candle. Slung over its shoulder is a heavy jute bag. A little white goat follows close behind, tied to a rope. The light from the candle falls on thick, twisted trunks of the nearest trees, dark and gloomy, but nothing beyond. It is bright enough to see a crumbling brick-path on the ground though.

  The figure un-hears the whispers coming from the trees; it un-sees the movements beyond the dwindling sphere of light and recites an unholy prayer in its mind, for it has come so far to pray, and pray it must…

  A clearing in the foliage. The night sky peeps down from the heavens. And in that clearing sleeps an ancient mango tree. It has grown taller and deeper and broader for centuries, looming high above the canopy, its foliage forming a dome above the clearing. The branches spread wide and hang low. Its crown looks down at the vast expanse of the trees around. It sees the rushing river. It sees the sleeping village. It sees the glittering stars. And it sees a human and an animal enter the clearing.

  Graves protrude from the ground along the periphery of the clearing – a broken stump, a withered slab of stone, mounds rising under layers of decaying leaves, a crumbling stone pillar…

  In the silence of the night, the cloaked figure sits under the gnarled branches of the ancient tree. Close to the trunk not only grows, but blossoms with exuberance a red rose shrub. The jute bag is put down to one side. Two more candles are lighted and fixed on the ground. A blanket is pulled out. Draped around the body. Hooded over the face. The field of vision is narrowed. The narrower, the better, for then it will see less of those who intend to interrupt the proceeding. It closes its eyes. Folds its arms. Takes a deep breath. And the ritual begins.

  First comes the awakening.

  Its lips move in silent verses. The chanting grows louder and coarser. The figure begins to sway. The young goat is terrified. It noses its way into the blanket, away from the coldness that is rising from the graves.

  The chanting stops abruptly.

  There is going to be pain now.

  The cloaked figure pulls out a rope from the jute bag. It drags the goat out from under the blanket. Puts a knee on its chest. Pins it down. Ties the rope around the snout. A rusty and not-so-sharp dagger comes out of the jute bag.

  One by one, the limbs of the goat are hacked off. Red stains the white fur. The little goat wriggles in pain, faint bleats emanating from its throat. Blood falls on dry leaves. Blood on the blanket. Blood in the air.

  The cloaked figure arranges the limbs into two crosses in front of the tree while the goat squirms like a fish out of water. Eyes wide. Gasping. Gagging. Bleeding.

  The dagger now pierces the left eye. Gouges it out. It is placed above one of the crosses, moist and steaming. Now comes out the right eye. The little goat bleeds and kicks with the stumps protruding from the body, eyes replaced with red holes. Leaves and twigs cling onto its wet, white coat.

  The hood slips and the figure sees the things it had tried not to see. They have begun to appear in the darkness of the tress, away from the clearing – dark shapes, vague, alive, floating amidst the trunks. Some still emerging silently from the graves. Some floating down from the trees.

  The human lowers its gaze. It pulls down the hood and continues the ritual.

  The not-so-sharp dagger plunges in between the ribs of the goat and tears through the flesh. Blood rushes out and fingers go in. They grab the bones and pull, and shove. Soft, distinct snaps. The ribs break. A hand goes in. Pulls. And pulls again. Harder… and out comes a heart glistening in the candlelight. Warm. Fresh. Beating.

  The cloaked figure stands. It raises the heart to the ancient tree. Bows its head, then tosses the heart at the roots. The goat has stopped struggling – it is a mere mess of sagging flesh, broken bones and warm blood. Its ears are grabbed. Pulled back. Throat exposed. Slit…

  More blood. The dagger works its way up. A little twisting. Turning. And the bones snap. The head comes off. It is placed tidily in between the two limb-crosses and the body is flung at the roots.

  The awakening is complete.

  The cloaked figure closes it eyes. Folds its hands. And it waits…

  The ancient tree is silent and still. The stars watch. So do the floating shapes at the periphery.

  Is something wrong?

  The human panics. The silent shapes feed on its emotion. They move impatiently amidst the trunks outside the clearing. It must not look at them – for the terror they inflict brings instant death. But there is no turning back now. The ritual must continue.

  A wish must be made.

  From the jute bag comes out something wrapped in a piece of red cloth. It is placed inside the severed mouth of the goat. The hooded figure cuts its thumb and runs it over the snout. Makes small heap of dried leaves. Adds twigs on top. Lowers a burning candle. Waits. The heap catches fire, and on that little fire and the lot of smoke that emanates, it places the head of the goat with the piece of red cloth still in its mouth. There is smell of burning hair. Now the tingling scent of burnt skin. It closes its eyes and sings an ancient song. The fire dwindles by the time it ends. It rubs a little ash on the decapitated head and rises, holding it high in the air. The blanket falls. The dark shapes have come closer now. It immediately lowers its gaze again, walks around the thick trunk of the ancient tree and disappears.

  Moments pass. The cloaked figure reappears, trembling. The act is done. It hurriedly goes back to the seat and covers itself again, its eyes always lowered. It touches its forehead on the ground before the tree.

  The wish is made.

  Now comes the price it must promise to pay for the wish.

  The
cloaked figure gets up again and plucks a rose and a thorn. Two petals are pulled out. A pinch of mud from the roots of the tree is placed in between them. Blood from the heart is smeared. The rest of the rose is neatly placed next to the eyes. A finger is pricked with the thorn. A drop of blood falls on the petals with mud in between. It’s time now. It closes its eyes. Takes a deep breath…

  “Zeenat!” the figure speaks aloud the name and throws the petals in the dying embers. They shrivel and shrink and turn into ash.

  The ancient tree is silent and still, waiting, watching…

  The human under the cloak is terrified.

  The shapes have begun to enter the clearing now. They are no longer silent. They dance and they laugh… and they whisper to the night.

  The figure kneels in front of the tree and begs to accept the price offered. Something went wrong during the ritual, something must have. There is no escape now. The dancing shapes will not let it leave, not after coming right into their territory and provoking them. Yes, something was wrong! Else the ritual would have been complete by now. Did the goat not die painfully enough? Was its soul not innocent enough? The figure folds its hands and begs forgiveness. It has meddled with powers beyond its control. It now wishes to be away from the tree, far away where no such things grew.

  A thought suddenly comes whispering into its head – what if the price was not high enough?

  No. It has agreed to pay far more than what it asked for. It cannot afford more. But it must offer a higher price, or die, for the ritual will otherwise be left incomplete.

  The cloaked figure looks pleadingly at the tree as it rises again. It plucks another rose and prepares two more petals for the ritual. It closes it eyes, wishing this was not happening. Guilty and grief-struck, it takes another name and throws the petals into the embers.

  “Zeba!”

  The ancient tree is silent and still, waiting, watching…

  More shapes glide into the clearing. They seem delighted. Their whispering grows louder, more excited.

  A child begins to cry in the foliage above. A woman tries to hush him. Bangles clink.

  Someone giggles…

  The ritual seems to have failed. The figure begins to sob. Its lips tremble as it again begs forgiveness. It knows there will be none. It is scared, terribly scared. Out of desperation, it utters the name of a god – and creates a stir among the shapes it is surrounded with, for such words are not spoken in the realm of the ancient tree.

  Its teeth are clattering, its body shivering, when another thought appears – what if the price was still not high enough? It is broken now. It can no longer continue the ritual. This cannot be! It cannot think of another name.

  An evil voice speaks inside its head. It had been there all along – another name – but it cannot say it out loud. It begins to cry. No. Not another name. Never.

  Something is floating above its head. It looks up and cringes, shutting its eyes immediately – a hand is protruding from the branches above.

  Something pulls at the blanket.

  The candles blow out.

  The jute bag is being dragged away from the clearing.

  And that dead, headless goat, why is it moving? Why is it wriggling, its severed neck rising and falling? There is a faint bleating coming from behind the tree, from inside a deep cavity in the trunk in which lies the burnt head with gaping eye-sockets.

  The hooded figure makes up its mind as a bony finger pokes its thigh. It plucks another rose and another thorn. It places a pinch of mud in between two petals. It rubs them on the heart. Yet another finger is pricked. Another drop of blood falls on the petals.

  The dark shapes retreat into the night.

  “Zoya,” cries the figure and throws the petals into the embers.

  They shrink and shrivel and turn into ash…

  …and the ancient tree begins to speak.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE MORNING OF

  Blood!

  Dry. Dark. Spewed out on the floor.

  Aditi woke up with a killing headache. Flashes of a woman hovering above her. A knife. She held up her hands. A deep cut ran across her left wrist. It wasn’t bleeding. The blood had clotted into sickening streaks of red down to her elbow. But the pain was excruciating. She held her wrist tight and buried her face in the hard, straw-stuffed pillow. The incidents of the previous night were murky. She had sensed someone lurking by her door. Like always, humming a sad tune. Barely audible – so that she caught just parts of it. And like always, she had demanded, “Who’s there?”

  Only this time, she was answered.

  There were urgent knocks on the door.

  “Memsahib, memsahib,” a young maid was stooping to catch her breath, “come, quick! See… You must see… what happened.” Then she noticed the wound on Aditi’s wrist. She gasped. Retreated. Her eyes widened and with a shriek, she ran away, shouting “Malkin…”

  Aditi heard a faint wailing of women. Holding the walls for support, she limped along a dimly lit hallway into a long veranda. Two lanterns hung on mosaic pillars along the veranda. It was early morning. The sun may have risen, maybe not, for dark clouds hung gloomily in the sky. She stepped out into a crudely cemented courtyard with high walls on three sides and a wooden door in front. Beyond the wall, tall bamboos swayed in a light breeze. Two cows and a calf were lazily swishing their tails under a cowshed to her left. The morning seemed calm and cold, yet the clouds lurked silently overhead, promising a hell of a thunderstorm. She heard distant screams and urgent shouts.

  She opened the doors. A mud path meandered through the thicket of bamboos. The land beyond was barren. Villagers were trickling in from various directions, all heading to the ruins of an ancient temple at a distance. A crowd was growing outside the gates and along the boundary wall. As Aditi staggered across the land, she saw a throng of women, the source of all the wailing and mourning, huddled next to what seemed to be a sacrificial platform. The maid was frantically talking to them. The women turned to look. Then, from the middle of the group rose a fat, elderly lady with greying hair. “You…” she shouted, running towards her, one hand lifting the hem of her sari. The sudden outburst of anger made Aditi retreat. The woman held Aditi’s wrist and observed the wound. She had been crying. Her hair dishevelled. Blood oozing from minor cuts on her wrists. Signs of bangles being broken.

  “You… daayan!” she screamed at Aditi. “You… you…” and as everyone watched, she slapped her!

  “What?” Aditi protested as she stumbled backward and fell to the ground. She was used to being slapped and kicked. But out in the open, in front of everyone! “What have I done?”

  “What have you done?” the woman screamed. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” She grabbed Aditi’s hair and with a brutal tug, pulled her up to her feet. “What have you done? You summoned the Devi! Your husband came begging to us! Oh! Curse our stars that we helped you! I should have known better. Rumours don’t start on their own.”

  Aditi held her hair, afraid her scalp might tear off. She cried with pain, tears rolling down her cheeks. The woman was surprisingly strong for her age. Aditi’s aanchal had slipped off, revealing her blouse. The men watched. So did the women. But she was past protecting her dignity.

  “Let my son come home. I’ll have you raped! Have everyone watch…”

  Then Aditi saw it. First the blood. Dark red, spread out on the grass. She tried to turn away, but the woman held her face and made her watch. Up the sacrificial platform. Chunks of flesh. Splinters of bone. A severed neck, stuck between an old iron rod and the hollow of a wooden plank. Pipe like something sticking out. Then a body. Fat and plump. Protruding belly. Hairy legs. The lungi undone.

  Then the temple. The haunted temple. And in that small dingy shrine, was that a…

  Her knees buckled and she collapsed. The woman marched in front of her and drove a leg right into her chest. “Burn her!” she screamed at the spectators. “Cut her into pieces and feed her to the dogs!”

  Women were
first to attack. Their assaults were not physical, largely. They slapped and kicked initially, but their strength began to wean. So, they tore off her sari. They spat on her face and abused and pulled her hair. She was in her blouse and petticoat when men arrived. Now she knew what pain felt like. The first kick in her stomach and she knew she would die. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t plead. Someone lifted her and as if a toy, threw her around. Then her face was smeared with the blood on the grass. Hands began to grope her – pressing her breasts, slapping her, touching her thighs, punching her, pinching her breasts…

  She did not have the physical strength to resist. Soon, her will to defend herself weakened as well. She lay on the ground, instincts telling her to cover her head, but no one seemed interested there. She wrapped her arms around her breasts, then her stomach, then her thighs, back to her breasts. Someone’s knee slammed into her head. Everything seemed to pause for a moment. The world darkened; tiny lights criss-crossed in front of her eyes. Silence. Then slowly, the pain began to reappear. So did the mob. It took her a moment to realise where she was. Her hands were limp by her side. There was this rancid smell… of sweat and blood and suffocation…

  And amidst the chaos and war cries, she heard a deafening blast. A gun shot. A young man marched through the gates, a double-barrel in his hands. His face seemed blurred. But she recognised him. Manish Singh. A younger woman followed him, looking down, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes. Aditi knew her too. Gauri.

  Aditi closed her eyes. This time she managed to cry. She somehow missed her mother. She didn’t know why… out of all the few people she cherished, it was the image of her mother that first formed before her. Small face. Pointed nose. High cheeks. A mole under the right eye. And lots of wrinkles. She wanted to see her father… wanted desperately. But his face never surfaced. All she saw was turbulent waters. Angry river. Fierce clouds…