What’s in Grandma’s Suitcase? (Part 2 of 2)

Read the first part of this story here.

No one spoke with no one in my house after that. I rarely saw Eddie, and whenever I saw him, he was too drunk to see me. And mother lost all her beauty in that one day. She sat forlorn and sad, up in her room, hardly ever moving out of it.

No one had ever visited our house much anyway. The front door rarely opened, except for Eddie going in and out as he pleased. There wasn’t any food prepared in the house either. When I felt hungry, and asked mother about it, she would not respond. On the third day, when my stomach began to growl with hunger, I walked up to the kitchen myself and tried to get whatever I could.

I hoped and prayed to Jesus to make everything all right. All these things, despite all those Sunday Masses… was this because we were all living in sin in some way? But Jesus is all-forgiving, isn’t He? Yes. Hadn’t Father Jacob said at Mass that Jesus knows all and forgives all?

Would he forgive my father? Or my mother?

I do not know. I would not have forgiven them even if I were Jesus. But I wanted their forgiveness. It was the only thing that would make things better in the house.

The loneliness began to eat me up. Being undesired is one thing; being unwanted is entirely another. I would probably understand one day why my mother had not desired me before my birth, but how could she not want me after I was here? How could she shun my very presence when I was here, in front of her, in flesh and blood?

I think all her silent brooding was repentance for her evil thoughts.

Finally, the day arrived when I knew I could not stay in that house any longer. What would you do in a house where no one spoke a word to you, much less prepare food for you, or involve you in anything they did? Of what use are their tears and silence? Grandma had left the home, and then I suddenly realized—no one had ever taken my name in the house except her.

In the darkness of that night, I made an important decision.

I decided to run away from the house.

I knew exactly what to do. So, when both of them slept that night, I walked up to the door, opened it as silently as I could, walked out in the same clothes I had been wearing since the past three days, and closed the door behind me.

The night was dark, but I hadn’t expected anything else. I had chosen the night for I did not want to bump into anyone my parents knew, for there would be uncomfortable questions I did not have answers to. Thus, I stole away, my hands in my pockets, braving the cold and the horrors, and walked along the single road, which was all my village had. I hoped I was going in the right direction.

And I knew in the morning that I was right.

When the first light of dawn broke in the sky, I saw the thatched hut where the village seemed to come to an end. And the moment I saw it, I whooped with joy.

***

I had seen this hut only once before. That was when I was four, I guess, the time when my mother had come to this house—Grandma Grace’s house—to fetch her to her house. I remember she had desisted back then, but my mother had insisted and had prevailed.

What was the use of that?

My Grandma Grace was once again in that same house. Nothing had changed.

I looked around for her, and found her quite easily. She was sitting in her garden, and digging up something. I knew how much Grandma Grace loved her gardens. She had a green thumb for sure, for she knew exactly what needed to be done with her plants. As I moved ahead, I saw her digging up something in the soil, probably preparing her farm to bear fruit once again.

I did not want to disturb her. And so I sat for a long time in silence, at a little distance from her, watching her work.

Then, when the day started turning to noon, I could take it no longer and softly spoke to her.

Her ears immediately pricked up. She looked in my direction, without seeing me, and said, “W’at’s dat noise? Dang dese eyes. Can never see as I used to.”

I walked up to Grandma Grace. All I wanted to do is to hug her and let her ruffle my hair. I surrendered myself into her arms, but she was stiff. Still as a statue. Why did she not respond?

Then I got my answer.

“My Immanuel! My dear Immanuel! Look at w’at t’ey did to you. ’ow will I ever get back de Immanuel I loved?”

I looked up at her, “Do you mean you do not love me now?”

There was no answer to that. Instead, her eyes filled with fresh tears and she looked away.

I walked into the hut and saw something that surprised me.

It was that suitcase. It was still packed and placed on the bed. It was evident that she hadn’t opened it yet, and that nagged me. “What has she brought in that suitcase that’s so precious?” I wondered.

But then Grandma came inside the room and I fell silent. Soon, absolute sleep came over me and I moved on from one world to another.

The next morning when I woke up, I again found Grandma Grace in her garden. She was doing something with twigs and digging up weeds, or whatever it is that she did in the farms. I went and sat next to her, hoping that she would talk to me at least today.

But another day passed in almost silence. Was she angry with me? I really would not want to think so. The tears in her eyes gave evidence that it was not anger that deterred her from speaking with me.

Even the slightest provocation moved her. I asked her, “What are you doing, Grandma?”

And just that much brought a fresh flood of tears in her eyes.

***

Then that afternoon was the last time I saw my Grandma Grace.

It happened all so suddenly, but had been a long time coming.

It must have been lunchtime—I do not know for sure because we did not eat anything, nor did she prepare anything—when she got up from her garden and walked into the room.

She came up to that suitcase of hers and took it off the bed. That relieved me, and I told her as much, for finally we would have a proper place to sleep. The bag seemed to be more difficult to carry now, or probably it was because she was burdened with something else now.

With a thud-thud-thud, she lumbered the suitcase through the house and brought it out of the door.

What was in it that she wanted to use in the garden? Was she trying to hide her gold and jewels in the soil like she had told me once? I wouldn’t disbelieve it if that was indeed what she was doing.

“Grandma, what’s in that bag?” I asked.

But she did not answer.

All she did was take the bag out into the open, and pull it all the way to her favorite place in the garden where she had been working.

Then she placed the suitcase next to the new patch, and even as I stood behind her, I saw her opening the lock on the suitcase.

What was inside the suitcase? Now I wanted to know it all the more.

And then I saw it.

***

When Eddie had fired the shot that night, it had been a thunderously deafening noise and nothing more. But I should have felt more. After all, the bullet had been shot right at me, right in the heart. It was an accident, everyone would like to believe, but since when has death been partial to accidents?

And I had not felt anything because death had accorded me with its infinite mercy—the mercy of painlessness. When you are dead, pain is the first thing that you stop feeling.

And that’s what Grandma Grace had rushed to fight for—to make them know that they had killed me. But when she saw that no one cared for me, perhaps she knew she had to take me with her.

That suitcase. The perfect size for my little body.

“Is mine! Is mine!” I laugh at it now. That’s not what she was saying. She was saying, “He’s mine! He’s mine!” with her dropped ‘h’s, the way she always spoke.

That is why she wouldn’t talk to me. Can she even see me?

When I came back from the reverie, my gaze fell upon the little cross she had made out of the twigs she had been sizing up all morning.

On those twigs, in her handwriting, were etched the words:

My Dear Immanuel

R.I.P. with Jesus

(2006 – 2016)

I wanted to hug her, tell her that I was there with her, but it wasn’t to be. The cross was a sign that it was time for me to leave. And as I left, I saw two things. One—the dear, dear face of my Grandma Grace, the only person who truly loved me; and—two—my own decaying face as she opened her brown suitcase.

END

 

For more psychological thrillers and horror stories from Neil D’Silva, check out Right Behind You, a collection of 13 stories that will make you sit up and read them a second time.

 

 

What’s in Grandma’s Suitcase? (Part 1 of 2)

My earliest memory of Grandma Grace is of her holding me as an infant in her arms; my tiny head nestled in her palm, and her slightly myopic eyes smiling down at me. She must have surely told me something then, something like, “W’at a wonderful boy ’e is! Let’s name him Immanuel.” It sounds about right, with that dropped ‘h’ thing she does, but I do not remember exactly now. You must forgive me these little lapses, for I am all of ten years old, and ten years is a long time to remember all these details.

But one thing is for sure—the first touch I ever had in this world and the first words I ever heard belonged to my Grandma. I know that for sure because she herself has told me this several times, and Grandma Grace can be many things but she can never be wrong.

My mother did not want me to happen. I can understand these things now, and Grandma has told me, on one of those long dreary nights when the wild dogs come out, that my mother had decided not to have me. Give me back to Jesus, as she puts it. But Grandma convinced her, and here I am. And good things did happen. My birth probably caused the change in my father’s heart that made him marry my mother. So, in a way, my entire family is because of Grandma Grace—the woman who cannot see what is right in front of her, but can see years into the future with the accuracy of an eagle swooping upon its prey.

Yes, Grandma Grace is a strange woman. I have seen her in so many forms that I am sure her true form is buried somewhere in that clump of cashew trees that’s in our backyard. That’s where we buried Timothy, my Labrador, who used to protect our house. That was when I saw Grandma at her saddest. As she dug up the little grave and buried Old Tim, she mumbled a prayer too, and told me to put a handful of dust on his fallen body. Later, she told me she was sad because I was sad, and that made me want to forget Old Tim.

I have seen her angry too, especially when she is standing up to Eddie, my dad. I don’t like it either, when Eddie comes home drunk and tries to act funny with me. One night, when his breath stank of cheap liquor, he hoisted me on his shoulders and danced in the middle of the room. I protested and screamed, but he continued dancing to Ya Ya Mayaya, till he moved too close to the wall and banged my head on it. I couldn’t stop bawling throughout that night, but even that could not drown the angry tirade that Grandma Grace had unleashed on him.

I have seen her brave. Whether it is stomping cockroaches that enter our bathroom almost every evening to chopping off the heads of chickens for our Sunday meals, she does not as much as flinch. There are tales of her husband having died in the middle of the night long ago of some sickness. Back then, she lived in a little hut outside our village. In that desolate area, there was no one she could contact or nowhere she could go to. Without any alternative, Grandma stayed in the hut with his dead body till the morning, even sleeping on the same bed as him. That’s how she is, my Grandma Grace.

I have seen her sick. Oh, that I have seen a lot! She keeps growing sicker nowadays. When I asked her once, she told me her age is eighty-one and I suddenly realized that day that her hair had all gone grey. And what happened to her teeth, the ones that formed the first ever smile I saw in this world? She does not know her ailment though. My parents do not bother to take her to the doctor much. I called Dr. Fernandes once, and he said it was old age and nothing could be done about it. After he left, Grandma Grace took me close to her and told me not to miss her if she went away. She’d go to Jesus and be with Old Tim. She’d be fine.

And I have seen her frightened—stark, white with fear.

That happened three days ago.

***

When Alberto came into our little Goan village of Antolina and joined the choir of our St. Benedict Church, there was something for everyone to talk about. Alberto with his Hawaiian shirts and flannel pants was unmistakable at Sunday Mass. Soon enough, the attendance at Mass shot up. Whether he sang Here I Am, Lord or In His Time, people exulted with him and felt God had come into their hearts. The priest’s sermon had little meaning or effect over Alberto’s singing, and it was no surprise that the Mass itself became one huge Alberto performance rather than a celebration of the Holy Eucharist.

It was no surprise that among the attendees, the women outnumbered the men. And among those women was my mother, Betty. Even I could not mistake the transformation in her. Over the weeks, her ‘Sunday best’ became better and better—she bought clothes from Panjim and ornaments from Anjuna and shoes from Mapusa. She changed the place she sat at for Mass, coming ahead a pew or two every subsequent Sunday, till she was finally on the very first pew for a complete ringside view of Alberto’s performance.

It did not take long for Alberto to take notice of her. Between his highly musical renditions of Alleluia, their eyes met, and locked.

How do I know all of this? Because I sat right next to my mother, week after week, and it did not take me long to understand what was going on. I am a ten-year-old, but a very intelligent ten-year-old. I have no illusions about that.

That was when the fights began.

When Eddie came to know of the real reason why my mother had turned a Mass regular, he fumed. He opened his bottles right inside the house, and yelled all over the place, especially at my mother.

“You two-penny whore!” he shouted seven days ago. “You think I do not know what’s going on between that pansy-ass and you? You have made a laughingstock of me in the village. Where I go, people laugh behind my back. That halkat, that Rodrigues, he tells me to stay more at home. Who gives that lowly bartender to speak to me like that? You! That’s who.”

My mother said nothing. She tried to go back into the room.

“Stop here this instant!” Eddie shouted at her. “What do you think? Going away is going to solve this? Tell me, what are you doing with him? Are you sleeping with him?”

I was hiding behind the door, my one eye barely able to see what was going on in there. But even from that position, I could see the expressions on my mother’s face change. It was like some veneer had peeled off and the ugly interior was exposed.

“Yes, I am. So?”

It was a horrid voice. An ugly horrid voice. I did not like my mother like that.

“You bitch! You—” Eddie could not control himself now. He stumbled against the squat coffee-table and his Royal Stag quarter bottle fell down, the whiskey inside it gushing to the floor. “What do you not get from me, you whore? You want more? Come inside, and I will give it to you.”

“Learn to control yourself first, you pig-ass!” said my mother.

I had heard it often, the way these two called each other names. Even the names were standard by now. I knew them all, but every time a new one came up.

“I will kill that bewarshi!” Eddie screamed at the top of his lungs. “And then I will kill you. And then I will kill that little bastard you have hung around my neck.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as I heard that. It wasn’t unexpected though. I figured in all their arguments nowadays. If his shirts weren’t ironed, I was a bastard. If the fish curry had less tamarind, I was a bastard.

At that moment, I heard Grandma Grace coming down the stairs behind me. The noise might have dragged her out of bed. She whispered to me to move away, but I wanted to hear more. I pushed her back.

“You dare talk about Immanuel?” said my mother. I could only see her back now but I could perfectly picture the expressions on her face. “You think I hung him around your neck? You fucker, it is you. It is you who stuck him around my neck like a… like a grinding stone.”

Grandma was now horrified. Even I was, from whatever I could understand of it. She placed a hand on my shoulder and tried to drag me away, but I stayed put.

Eddie laughed his evil stinking laugh. “Look at this mother, people of the world! A mother who thinks her son is a grinding stone! She thinks he is a burden, and why not? How can she sleep around so freely with him around?” And then the color of his face changed again. “I don’t give a fuck about your son. But you bitch, you slut, you go behind my back with that man? You want to divorce me so that you can shame me? No! That is not going to happen. I will put an end to this. Right here, right now—”

What happened next took only a moment but it seemed like time had stopped. Three pairs of horrified eyes looked as Eddie stumbled to the mantelpiece and pulled out his hunting rifle.

He hadn’t touched that rifle since years, but I remember him having told me once long ago, in a much happier time, that it still had one bullet left in it.

And that was when I saw my Grandma Grace the most horrified. There was pure terror on her face, like her world was going to collapse around her. I just could not take that look anymore and I looked back into the room.

Eddie’s finger was on the trigger, and my mother seemed frozen to the ground. Before any of us could make a move, he had pressed the trigger, and a shot rang out.

And I became deaf.

A few seconds later, after the smoke cleared, I saw the hazy figure of my mother now trying to wrest the infernal rifle from my father’s hands. There were words—angry thoughtless words—but she was unhurt. That was all that mattered.

I felt Grandma’s voice falling on my back. “My boy! I ’ave nothing left ’ere anymore. I cry for you. I cry.”

Then something came over her. She ran into the room and stood right in between the two angrily fighting people. I moved a few steps ahead, but desisted. I knew Grandma would put a stop to this.

“Stop, you fools!” she said. “Stop!”

But her very presence seemed to turn Eddie wild. “Come, come, you come too, mother of the bitch! See what your daughter says! Am I a fool to give food and shelter to all of you? This woman who does not respect me one bit—why should I take care of you?”

“Go away, mai!” said my mother. “Why do you come between us?”

This stunned Grandma. She could suffer violence, but words! For a woman who had lived her life with fearlessness and pride, insulting words were more hurtful than violence.

“I will go,” said my Grandma. “T’is very moment, I will go. I ’ave my ’usband’s ’ouse. I will go dere.”

“Go wherever you want, bitch,” said Eddie. “Who cares?”

Grandma Grace turned and left the room. She crossed me in the corridor and then went back up the stairs. I followed her and saw her getting her large worn-out brown suitcase, the one that she had come to this house in. Then I saw something that made me numb, number than I was then—tears. In all my days with her, I had never seen Grandma tearing up. And it was too much to take.

Little did I know then that Grandma’s tears weren’t going to go away anytime soon.

The next memory I have is of Grandma lugging that suitcase down the stairs and hobbling out of the house. There were no goodbyes, no turning back, just the soft thudding sounds made by the suitcase as it dragged along the floor.

Then there was a sound. From my father. “Hey woman! What are you taking away from my house?”

Grandma kept walking without turning back. But the man, drunk with liquor and his power over the weaker people in the house, lunged forward and tried to pry open her fingers that held the handle of the suitcase.

“Is mine! Is mine! All mine!” she shouted and protested, and those words seared into my memory. Her words were all a garble now, a spouting of emotions rather than any comprehensible expression of language. This was the beginning of the end of my Grandma. Only, I did not know it then.

“Let her go!” my mother hollered. “At least let her go!” And then slumped by the wall of the house and wept in a loud hollow voice.

Perhaps the sudden burst of emotions unnerved Eddie. He retreated, and I saw Grandma’s hunchbacked figure—when had she become a hunchback?—stealing away into the darkness of the dog-infested night.

Continue to Part 2 of this story.

Suicide Point (Part 2 of 2) | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

 

Suicide Point | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

Part 2

(This is a two-part story. Read the first part here.)

“How can you promise that?” she asked.

“I know,” said Sahil. He sat down next to her. “I have a wife whom I love dearly. More than anything else in this world. One year ago, we found out that we cannot have kids. There’s something wrong with her uterus. It shattered her. I have never told her, but it shattered me too. I cannot tell her that, can I? I have to be the strong one. But becoming a father would have meant so much to me. Anyway, we are fine now. We thought there was nothing left in our existence, but here we are, each day finding new meaning in our lives. It’s her birthday today, by the way.”

“I see,” said the woman. “A happy birthday to her. She’s a lucky one indeed! What’s her name?”

“Mala,” said Sahil. He was sharing personal details with a strange woman on a strange night, but if the conversation could veer her out of her suicidal thoughts, it could be his good deed for the day.

“Why aren’t you with her on her birthday then?” asked Sumanlata. “Is she in the car?”

“No,” said Sahil. “I am going to her. I hope I can make it in time.”

“Then you must go. Don’t wait out with me.”

“I cannot leave you like this,” said Sahil. “I cannot leave a woman to end her life this way. I won’t ever find peace if I did that. It would be like having blood on my hands.”

“Oh!” said the woman. “Don’t say it like that. I don’t want my decision to affect your plans. You seem to be a nice man. You carry on.”

“Does that mean you are going back home too?”

“No,” she said. “There is nowhere I’d like to go to at the moment. I’d better wait out here for a while.”

Sahil looked at his watch. “Okay,” he decided. “I’ll hang around for a few minutes more. Let’s see if I can talk you into going home. Where do you live, by the way?”

“In the city. About half an hour from here.”

“How did you come here? Is there a car?”

She pointed towards the bushes. “It’s parked in there. Your car is a nice one, you know.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s Mala’s choice. She wanted the more expensive one.” He smiled.

“I see,” she said. “Does Mala work?”

“No.”

“How did you two meet? I’d like to hear the tale,” she said, “that is, if you really intend to sit here.”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s one of my favorite tales, you know. I was this geeky nerdy person in college, oiled hair and buttoned-down shirts and all, totally into studies, and I bumped into this girl in the canteen. Quite literally, you know, I dropped her books like it happens in the movies. There was a moment, but then I reminded myself I was in my final year of engineering. I could not afford distractions. It was she who took the lead though. She chased me till I fell for her—not literally this time, fell in love I mean.”

“Interesting!” she said. “Did you complete your engineering?”

Sahil laughed. “No! That never happened. That was the year I discovered what love meant. We got married and here we are.”

“So, what do you work as?”

“I tried to start a business with digital electronics.”

“Oh, a brainy one! I like to meet a brainy one. What happened to the business?”

“It didn’t work. Now between things.”

“Why did it not work?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was too depressed. Who knows?”

“Because of the news of your wife?”

Sahil looked at her.

“The uterus, I mean?”

“Yeah, could be,” said Sahil.

“But that does not matter, does it? So what if you could not complete your education or become a rich man. You still have your wife, don’t you?”

“Don’t say it like that,” said Sahil. “I have no regrets at all. She’s the best thing to happen to me. Money isn’t everything, you know?”

“Of course, it isn’t. Love is. Look at me; I am still looking for love.”

“Are you okay now?” Sahil asked. “I hope your mind is easier.”

“I’m feeling better, that’s for sure,” said the woman. “You are such a wonderful storyteller. I can almost see Mala. So, how is she? Long hair or short?”

“Short. She’s almost a boy,” Sahil laughed.

“What kind of clothes does she like?”

“She likes casual. Oh, she wouldn’t want to be caught dead in a saree.”

“Why? Sarees are nice,” the woman said. “I love sarees. See this white one I’m wearing.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit strange. Aren’t white sarees usually worn by—”

“—widows,” she completed. “Yes, say it. I don’t mind. I am a widow already, isn’t it? He’s gone.” A teardrop formed again in her almost dried up eye.

“I’m sorry I said that,” Sahil said.

“Forget it,” she said. “You should be going now. Mala will miss you.”

“Yes, she will, but it is all right,” he said. “I can tell her I was held up.”

“You will lie to her? Why?”

“She’d be upset if I told her the real thing.”

“Why?” the woman asked. “Are we doing anything that’s bad?”

“You don’t understand,” said Sahil. “We are in a situation that’s easy to misinterpret. Anyone would.”

“Then go.”

“I don’t know,” said Sahil. “I am enjoying this conversation actually. I have never spoken about these things with anyone. You are helping me see the light.”

“Am I?” she said. “About Mala, she seems to have you on a tight leash.”

Sahil looked at the woman. The tears had again gone, and there was a genuinely curious look on her face. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said the woman. “You are rushing to catch her on her birthday. Isn’t it because you are worried she’d be angry at you? Driving at this hour means you couldn’t get out of your work the whole day. Now you tell me you need to lie to her. All this, despite the fact that she chased you into marriage and not you?”

He shot an ugly look at the woman. He should have got up at that moment and stormed out of the conversation but a part of him wanted more of this self-analysis. Such things had crossed his mind earlier, but he hadn’t dared to think about them further.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “Mala is a bossy one. She did send me a letter in blood when she was, you know, pursuing me.”

“That’s horrid!”

“It was. I was repulsed actually.”

“Why doesn’t she work? It might be difficult for you, right?”

“She’s not the working type,” said Sahil.

“How does she spend her day then?”

“Watching television mostly. Sometimes she goes to her friends’ houses and has parties.”

“Funny how one person has to do all the work,” said the woman. “I mean, it’s expensive, isn’t it? A house in the city is terribly expensive. Do you have your own house?”

“Yes. It’s on installments.”

“Good Lord! How many years more?”

“Fifteen.”

“That’s an age!” she said. “Do you earn enough?”

“Most times, yes,” said Sahil. “But there’s little else I can do. Like I cannot get her the gifts she wants or take her to the places she wants to go to.” He buried his head in his hands. “The installment decision was horrible. It has fucked up my life. There is this constant fear that I won’t be able to pay and will land in jail. Am I a bad husband?”

“Of course you are not!” she said. “But you have to set a few things in order. You need to make sure you earn more. Ask your wife to contribute too. As it is, you won’t have children to look after.”

“Oh God!” Sahil let out a big breath at the reminder. “I’m in such a miserable condition. I am working my ass off to retain this house, this life, and what for? There is no one to leave this to. One day, the fuse will blow and that’s it. I am gone. What is the use of all this?”

“It will work out fine,” she said, holding his hand. “There’s a solution to everything.”

“There isn’t for this,” said Sahil. “What have I put myself into? Everywhere I see I am trapped. This loan, this loneliness, this marriage…”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I am not trapped in my marriage. Am I?”

She passed her fingers through his hair.

“Am I?” he repeated.

“Once you are in, you are in,” she said. “You know what? I think we are sailing in the same boat. The only difference is that you are married. I am not. You are trapped and so am I. Once my belly starts showing, people will want to know whose child it is. What do I tell them?”

“There’s no way out,” he said. “Not for me, at least.”

“Now you understand why I am here?” she said. “There is something in this—ending your life. You are free from all these problems. What’s the meaning of this existence anyway? What are you going to get out of it? I don’t want to bring this child into the world either because all he or she is going to face is ridicule.”

Sahil had tears in his eyes now. How had the night suddenly become darker? Gloomier? “And to think I bought a diamond bracelet for her. I spent my three months’ earnings on that fucking thing.”

“It could be the last you spend on her,” said the woman.

“What do you mean?”

The woman got up and took Sahil’s hand. He got up too, and she led him into the thicket behind them. There it was—the gnarled banyan tree that was the terminal point of a dozen and a half disappointed lives so far.

“If you are brave, we can end it all,” she said.

He looked at her aghast at first, and then slowly mellowed down into an expression of understanding.

“I have done the research,” she said. “The noose is already put up. I was sitting there crying because I had a weak moment, but now I am sure. I am going to end it.”

He did not say anything. He noticed the midnight hour had passed.

“Do you want to do it together? You can use the noose. I will tie my saree on the other branch and hang myself from there,” she said.

Sahil’s life passed in front of his eyes. The mask had been taken off. So far, he had deluded himself into thinking he led an ideal urban existence, but he now saw the muck that lay beneath the glossy exterior. The reality of his life stared at him now, and there was no mistaking the termite-ridden ruination of it.

“Yes,” he said. “It will put me out of all problems.”

She went behind the tree and took off her saree. “I’ll put this up too,” she said. She climbed up the twisted branch and hung the makeshift noose from a low-hanging branch. Then she came down and placed a log under the two nooses.

“We climb up this log,” she said, “put the noose around our necks and then kick the log away. As it will roll away, our lives will be gone too. It is easy and the most painless way out, believe me. You go up first.”

Sahil put his foot on the log. The log rolled and he fell. Then she held it with her foot and asked him to try again. He balanced himself more carefully now, and took small steps until he reached the noose. She started coming up too.

“Look ahead and put the noose around your neck,” she said. “I am doing the same.”

With trembling fingers, Sahil placed the noose around his neck.

“At the count of three, okay?” she said. Sahil stretched his hand to hold hers, but he could reach her.

“Okay,” he said.

“Here goes then… one… two… three!”

The log rolled instantly. The noose, which was until now a loose coil around his neck, suddenly tightened with all its merciless brutality, and bit into the flesh of Sahil’s neck. His neck choked, completely shutting off his windpipe. His nostrils took in a huge amount of air but there was no way for it to reach his lungs.

He heard a bone in his throat snap.

And just as life was going out of him, he saw the woman standing right in front of him, laughing with a menacing expression in her bloodshot eyes.

“Surprised?” she said as his eyes closed. “Don’t be. Things like death cannot kill me.”

The next morning’s newspapers bore a headline:

Nineteenth suicide at Suicide Point.

END

 

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Suicide Point (Part 1) | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

Suicide Point | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

Part 1

Sahil put the phone down and resumed driving, a smile dancing on his lips. It was past 10:00 p.m. now; he hoped he could make it in time to wish his wife on her birthday. He had cut his tour short by a day to be with her. It would be a shame if he didn’t reach her in person before the day got over.

The call had been to her. She had told him not to hurry; it was all right if he reached late. He had to drive carefully; that was all she needed. However, those words made him feel guiltier. Here he was, a failed college dropout and a flopped businessman who had somehow landed with this wonderful woman. A woman who never needed anything, never asked for anything, was always with him through any situation. And, most importantly, a woman who loved him.

He hoped he could wish her on her birthday.

He looked at the seat next to him. A shiny rectangular box with a label—To Mala with love, From Sahil—lay on it at the moment. How he hoped she had been sitting next to him on this long drive… But that box was a symbol of her too. It was his gift; a diamond bracelet. He had spent a tidy sum on that trinket, but he didn’t mind. She was more precious than anything he could hope to have.

The highway narrowed down now. Surrounded by jungle on either side, he needed to keep his eyes alert. He saw a sign that told him to beware of deer and foxes that could suddenly spring in his path. He didn’t care though, nor did any of the other drivers on the thinly trafficked route.

It crossed his mind that the box was too shiny to have on such display during a lone night ride. It bore the name of one of the priciest jewelers in town. He reached out and grabbed a newspaper that lay on the seat behind him, and placed it on the box, hoping that the camouflage would be enough.

It was that morning’s paper, which he hadn’t found time to read yet. But now, a headline caught his eye:

18 Suicides on Suicide Point.

And then he realized—this was Suicide Point! He had read about it in the papers a few days ago. In fact, Mala had read it out to him. He recalled snatches of the article—a gnarled banyan tree from where people hung themselves to death, their bodies found in the mornings, on this very same route that he was on.

It sent a shiver along his body. Eighteen suicides meant eighteen unhappy spirits. He wasn’t squeamish or superstitious, but he had a sinking feeling in his stomach all the same. How he wished there’d be some more light on the road…

***

There was a bend up ahead, snaking into an unknown territory that he knew he must take. He held his steering wheel tightly, and braced himself to maneuver the curve. There was about an hour and half left to midnight; and if he drove at this speed, he’d be home soon. Keeping his eyes on the road and slowing down his car, he turned.

It was when he was turning that he saw a sight that made him place his foot on the brake.

There was a woman sitting by the roadside. She was dressed in white, definitely a bad choice for a night out in the jungle, and she had primly positioned herself on one of those stone fences that are built on the sharp turns along highways.

Sahil should have ignored her and gone ahead. He had every reason to disregard this woman and move on. Apart from the fact that he had absolutely no time to spare, there was also the fact that everything about this woman seemed wrong. He was reminded of the horror movies in which witches cruised along highways in such white attire and feasted on the bodies of the unfortunate people who stopped to hear their tale. She could have very well been a spirit of one of those hapless eighteen that had taken this route as a shortcut to hell.

Every shred of wise counsel in him told him to carry on driving. He even stepped on the accelerator and, as the road straightened, prepared to give his engine a boost of energy.

However, at that moment, he committed a mistake.

He looked into the rear view mirror.

Now that he saw her clearly, he saw her crying. He could not see the face, but her moving shoulders left no doubt as to the agony she experienced sitting there on that cold night.

He just couldn’t go on after that sight. Always known as the one to help others in need, he couldn’t let this one pass. And there was nothing such as spirits anyway. No ghosts, no ghouls. He wasn’t going to leave a woman in distress just because of some silly folk tales.

Slowly, he took his foot off the accelerator and pressed the brake again.

***

Sahil parked his car carefully and walked up to the lady. He put his hands in his pockets for it was a cold night. His steps were brisk. He intended to find out where she stayed and call up her folks or the police.

“Is there a problem, miss?” he asked when he was so close he could smell the jasmine in her hair.

She looked up and he saw her face. One look at that face and all his apprehensions were put to rest. The face was innocent, almost like a child who has lost a favorite toy. There was nothing insidious about it.

“Please tell me, miss,” he repeated, “why are you crying?”

“Sumanlata,” she said.

“Yes?”

“That’s my name. You may call me by name.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I am Sahil. But why are you here on the roadside? Haven’t you heard about this place?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you know it isn’t a good place to hang out, right? I don’t intend to be nosy, but please… what are you doing here?”

“This is Suicide Point, I know,” she said distantly.

He nodded, and then it dawned upon him. His eyes grew wide in alarm. “Oh no! Don’t tell me! Are you here to… to… sorry if I am wrong… end your life?”

She let out a feeble smile. “He married another.” Her voice was more distant now.

“Who?”

“I gave up everything for him, you know? I was learning to be a nurse, gave that up midway. There’s nothing in being a nurse, he said. All you have to do is clean people’s vomit and poop and piss. I gave it up. Did what he wanted. Went with him wherever he went. Stayed with him in hotels. And he gave me this.” She passed her hand on her belly.

Sahil did not know what to say. There was an urge in him to somehow wrangle out of this conversation and head back to his car, but that would be so mean.

“What am I to do with this?” Her hand was still on her belly. “He’s going ahead and marrying that other woman. That slut. Who is she? What has she given up for him?” She again broke out into a cry.

“Listen…” stammered Sahil. “Listen, miss… Suman… Sumanlata. I don’t know who you are talking about but I understand your pain. He has been cruel to you. A very bad thing has happened. However, that doesn’t mean you should end your life.”

The crying didn’t stop.

“Crap!” mumbled Sahil. “I absolutely suck at this stuff. But, hear me out, Sumanlata—give up your crying and return home. Tomorrow will be a better day; you shall see.”

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Hank Greenhorn versus Christmas

Hank Greenhorn versus Christmas (Part 2 of 5)

Hank Greenhorn versus ChristmasChristmas came and went, and the New Year dawned, and the days began to pass without incident. Everyone got busy with their routine lives, and little Hank Greenhorn became busy with his school. But the other children didn’t speak with him anymore, and he didn’t speak with them either. He kept to himself even as they played on the street outside his house, never caring to join them. They wouldn’t have taken him in even if he had asked, but he never asked.

Hank Greenhorn versus Christmas (Part 1 of 5)

It was ten days to Christmas. The sleepy neighborhood of Wishing Cross was undergoing its annual transformation. All through the year, people here led simple lives minding their own hectic business, but come December and they would all be out decorating their yards in the most amazing ways possible.

On this particular December afternoon, three families, children and all, were out in their yards decorating them with all the festive adornments they could gather. The Junebottoms had built a wonderful nativity crib, detailed with real cacti and dates hanging from the fake palms. The Ginmallows had lighted up the fir tree in their yard with a brilliant shining star, for which Mr. Ginmallow had to climb all the way to the top of the tree on a rickety ladder held in place by his wife. The Hammonds had put up lights all around their picket fences and built asnow-house with Santa riding his sleigh outside it.

Mr. Junebottom placed the statues in his crib — all except Baby Jesus — and stood back to admire his creation. “Why aren’t you keeping Jesus?” asked his four-year old son. “Oh, my cutie Percy,” said the mother kissing him. “Dada will place him on the midnight of the 25th. Jesus isn’t born yet, is he?”

Mrs. Ginmallow came out and stood beneath the bedecked fir tree. “That’s fantastic, Shelly,” she said intertwining her fingers with her husband’s. “I am sure in the evenings, when the lights come on, this tree will be the talk of the town.”

Mr. Hammond put on the lights to test them and his whole house lit up. The other families turned to look. His Santa had red lights all over his costume. Regardless of the daytime, the bright red lights shone through, leaving no doubt as to the magnificence his handiwork would display when evening came on.

The neighborhood was so brightly done, even Saint Nicholas would have a difficult time ignoring it during his annual visits.

Little Marsha Ginmallow was inside the house, having a little afternoon siesta. Hearing her mother call her out, she arose rubbing her eyes, and came out reluctantly. She came holding her cuddly teddy bear in her left hand, its foot dragging along the floor, and stood at the doorstep. Still rubbing her eyes, she turned her head upwards along the height of the tree and blinked at the shining star.

And just then, even as she was looking at the star, she saw something come whizzing by and hitting the star, smashing it right there into little pieces that flew all over the place.

She screamed.

“It’s the Greenhorn boy,” shrieked her mother.

Marsha saw him. Hank Greenhorn — the little terror of Wishing Cross — sitting on his bike and smiling evilly at the mess he had created. Mr. Ginmallow ran to grab the boy, but the man was portly and couldn’t run as fast. In a trice, the boy bounded off on his bike and came right up to the Junebottoms’s doorstep.

“Don’t you dare!” screamed Mr. Junebottom, seeing Hank Greenhorn standing near the crib in his yard. But, Mr. Junebottom was away from his crib at that moment, and it did not take any time or hesitation for Hank to pick up one of the statues. It was a shepherd holding a lamb across his shoulders.

“No you don’t,” warned Mrs. Junebottom.

However, Hank had no intentions of letting go. Holding the shepherd by his legs, he smashed it against the gate and held it out for everyone to see. Mrs. Junebottom let out a scream of anger, and Mr. Junebottom ran out in pursuit of the puny rascal.

With two grown men hot on his chase, Hank sped up his bike and came up to the gate of the Hammonds. He already knew what he had to do here. Fishing out a ball of mud from a pocket of the overalls that he wore, he took a careful aim right at Santa’s head.

It took a moment for the slow Mr. Hammond to realize what was going to happen. When he did, the mudball was already plastered on his beautiful Santa’s face and beard, now looking uglier than ever. Not just that, the impact of the ball loosened the light streamer that ran through Santa’s hat and a whole portion of it fell off from its perch on the picket fence.

***

Mrs. Greenhorn had never expected much from her son Hank, but when she saw three adult men dragging him by the ear to her doorstep, followed by their ladies and children, she knew she was in for a big problem.

“Mrs. Greenhorn!” yelled Mr. Junebottom, the tallest of the three men. “Come out this instant.”

The woman came out demurely. She had faced complaints about her wayward son before. She had no illusions about her son whatsoever. If she played silent, this problem, whatever it was, might just pass.

“This has gone too far this time,” continued Mr. Junebottom, his fist shaking in the air.

Mrs. Greenhorn came ahead and took Hank in her arms. The boy didn’t show any sense of regret or shame. He actually smiled at his mother, and that’s what made matters worse.

“See the boy! See the boy!” fumed Mr. Hammond. “Is there any shame in him?”

“What did he do?” asked Mrs. Greenhorn, taking care that her voice didn’t sound defiant in any manner.

“What did he do, you ask? What did he do?” said Mr. Hammond. “He spoiled our Christmas, that’s what. This year again! Don’t you know that by now? Every year, we put up our decorations and there this little scoundrel is, ruining our labors for Lord knows what reason.

“Did you do that, Hank?” asked Mrs. Greenhorn.

The boy only grinned at her. Then he winked.

“He winks!” Mr. Ginmallow put his hand on his balding head. “He winks! You people know what that means? His mother is on to it. The whole family is out to ruin our Christmas.”

“It is not like that,” protested Mrs. Greenhorn.

“Where is his father?” Mr. Ginmallow demanded to know.

“He’s at work.” Mr. Greenhorn worked at the supermarket, and his job entailed packing bags for customers at the billing counter.

“When he’s back,” said Mr. Hammond, “tell him about it. That boy doesn’t need your love. He doesn’t need anyone’s love. What he needs is a good spanking. Tell his father I said that.”

Mrs. Greenhorn nodded.

Mr. Junebottom now came forward, his breath almost running into Mrs. Greenhorn’s face. “No, you don’t understand. This is the third year he has done that. We don’t care he is just twelve. The next time he does that — and I mean it — we are not going to drag him here. We are going to carry him right to the police station. Let them keep him with the murderers and the robbers, for that is where this ruffian belongs.”

A small tear left Mrs. Greenhorn’s eye as the angry crowd stomped out of her house, muttering and cursing under their breaths.

And that night, when the other families repaired their decorations and lit up Wishing Cross, one house remained unlit. It was the house of the Greenhorns. Only a faint flicker of an incandescent bulb was seen through one of the windows, and the dark silhouette of a little boy on his father’s knee, yelling from the spanking he received for his misdeed.

 

She Lived Next Door – Part 5 of 5

Things came to such an abrupt end that they didn’t seem to have gone away from my life. In fact, even today when I am alone, I feel her presence around me. I feel that I am breathing in that jasmine scent and touching those petal-soft lips with mine.

I cried a lot the night my grandmother died, and that surprised everyone because no one expected me to have grown close to that senile old woman with whom all I had shared was a few minutes of conversation. Everyone billed me to be a softie and my father and his friends laughed at me for that. But no one knew what the real cause of my sorrow was—the death of my Grandma also spelled the death of my meetings with Marlena. It wasn’t one chapter but two chapters that had been brought to an end.

I didn’t go to Marlena’s house after that; there was no reason to. We crossed each other several times, and though I spoke casually with her now, there wasn’t anything more to it. I moved on to my next grade and I met girls and Marlena somehow receded into the background. I never thought she would, but it happened over a period of time.

Then one day, Johnny called me to his house. I had to convince my mother a lot to be able to go to his place. When I reached there, the usual gang was all there, and then Johnny took something out from under his shirt.

“Looksie,” he said. “Your girlfriend!”

I kept looking at the jacket of the cassette he clutched. Rachel’s Games, the cover announced. And it featured a picture of a much younger Marlena, bare-breasted, with leather straps all around her body, surrounded by four hunky men.

“Oh, but would this matter to him?” Sam teased. “He must have seen the live performance, right?”

“She made this boy a man!” Rusky said, grabbing my crotch.

It was typical boy banter, not meant to degrade me, but for some reason I felt terribly offended. And I snatched the cassette from Johnny’s hands and flung it on the floor and stamped on it again and again till the blow landed right across my cheek.

Mother asked me several times how I had got the torn lip, and I repeatedly told her that I had tripped over and fallen, but she refused to believe me. She knew that I had been to Johnny’s, of course, and with that annoying motherly instinct, she put two and two together and understood what might have happened. I thought she would go to Johnny’s place and give him a piece of her mind, but she was fresh out of the death of her mother and didn’t want to do anything of that sort.

That kind of saved me.

But the larger punishment of that brawl was yet to come—for that year, when I finished my grade, I was packed off to a hostel where I spent the next three years of my life. “I will have to take a job to make ends meet,” my mother said, “and with your Dad out of the house most of the time, it is best that you are under the supervision of the matrons there.”

***

I never returned home in those three years. My mother came every three months to meet me and once she even brought Dad. She was right—the hostel life did harden me up. Marlena and the hostel, those were the two things that made me a man. Living with my parents, I would dream of an independent life. But here at the hostel when I had to clean my own underwear and shower in the common area, I understood what I had missed. Anyway, it put the edge on me eventually and I was a very different person when I returned home as a sixteen-year old in 1991.

As I walked the corridor to reach my house, most of the aunts came out to welcome me—Aunt Janet was there and so also were Aunts Mercy and Candice, though Candice had become so old that she could not see me properly. “What a strapping young man your son has become, Edith!” Aunt Mercy said, shamelessly feeling my abs. And as I neared my house, my heart started beating faster. Marlena’s door was approaching, and I wondered if she would be standing out there to welcome me too.

But I had no such luck.

All the doors on the corridor were open to usher me in. Even Johnny was there, and he showed me his middle finger as I passed by, but this one door—Marlena’s door—was ominously shut and locked.

Later, when we were inside, the first question I asked my mother was, “Where is she?”

“Who?” my mother asked. “Marlena?”

I nodded, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Oh, that was a really bad turn of events. She died last month.”

I knew it would be something like this. I had seen this a long way coming. Even when I was at the hostel, fantasizing my way through those lonely nights, I knew that there wouldn’t be a happy ending to my story with Marlena. It was too good a thing to have a happy ending.

“What happened?” I said, my mouth choked, though I checked the tears this time.

“She had cancer,” my mother said. “She had it all along. Even before she came here. Who could guess? With all the makeup she put all over her face? Maybe she did that to hide all those scars. And did you ever know she used to wear a wig?”

I didn’t want to act as though as I was in mourning. Marlena had entrusted me with a secret—the secret of the kiss—and I had to keep it. I could not dishonor her by letting loose a volley of tears and making people suspect my affection for her.

But my diffidence in shedding tears was challenged when my mother brought out a large paper envelope. “Marlena asked me to give this to you, in her last days,” she said. I opened it carefully, and saw that it contained the first portrait I made of her. Behind the picture was a line scrawled in her handwriting: Returning it to you because only you can keep it best.

Then mother came back again, holding the statue of the Buddha in her hands. “She never came back for this,” she said.

“Give it to me,” I said, fighting back my sobs. “I think I know where this belongs.”

***

It was difficult to find the house of Alex Morrison. He was listed in the telephone directory, but there were several Alex Morrisons and when the operator asked me what he did, I could not bring myself to say that he was a porn movie director. Finally, through the process of elimination, I hit at the right one.

“Who is it?” he asked the girl who opened the door.

“Some young man named Geoffrey,” she said.

Alex came out to see me. It was evident he had been crying.

“What do you want?” he said in an annoyed tone.

“Sir, you don’t know me,” I said. “But I have something of yours.”

He looked at me curiously as I put my hand in the bag I carried and got the Buddha out.

“How did you get this?” he asked.

“Long story, sir,” I said. “But you should know I was Marlena’s neighbor. She had given it to us.”

“So that’s where she was hiding it all the time!”

“Why would she hide it?” I asked.

At that, he took the Buddha from my hand and held it by the sides with the fingers of both his hands. Then applying some pressure, he managed to pull the two halves apart. And, in those halves was a picture of a little girl.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“You see her here,” he said. “This is Isobel, her daughter.”

Isobel, the girl who had opened the door, was almost my age. She had her mother’s eyes.

“Why would she hide her daughter’s photograph?” I still could not understand.

“Because I have been a bastard, that’s why. She never told me that she had that… disease. When she knew, she just walked away with two things—the Buddha I had given her as a present and our daughter’s photo in it. And when I landed in her house and was a dick and forced her to give it back, she wouldn’t give it to me. She said it was lost. I didn’t realize these were the two things that really mattered to her, and she wanted to keep them safe. With you.”

And, once again, the last two words of a sentence spoken to me had a profound effect on my soul. An effect that still sends a shudder down my spine.

END