I was recently at a writing seminar where a popular author shared his tips for churning out nail-biting thrillers. I was happy to note that most of the things he said were in accordance with my own ideas, and which I have already followed in my book Maya’s New Husband. Now, people who know me will corroborate with this — if I stumble upon something interesting, I want to share it with others. In this case, I decided to share these writing tricks, tips or whatever you might want to call it, with my fellow authors and aspiring writers.
Forever, My Valentine
Every house tells umpteen tales; we only need to have the right ears to hear them. If we are able to cut through the cacophony of the noise that surrounds us, we can hear these stories — stories of ecstasy and distress, stories of pride and humiliation, stories of inflicting and suffering pain. Houses also live with the people who live in them; if we could only hear them…
February 13, 11:00 p.m.
Mercy Gleeson went through her motions before she could tuck herself into bed. Her house was silent on this day, which was quite different from the previous year. For then, her house was filled with enthusiastic sounds — those of hers and her boyfriend Jake’s — and they had lent a different atmosphere to the house.
But now the atmosphere was somber. There was an ambiance of reticence and defeat all around. The musty air and dust balls didn’t help. Even the furniture seemed to creak with agony at odd hours of the night.
She had nothing planned for the next day. This wasn’t the right time to do anything. Jake had planned to make the big move on Valentine’s Day the previous year. There was no secret about it, and she knew she would have said ‘yes’ had he gone down on one knee before her.
However, that was a life that could have been. The reality she faced now was entirely different.
One accident was all it had taken to turn her life upside down.
That was the only scene that had played in her mind, in some kind of a bizarre loop, all through the last twelve months. Their rollicking adventure in the cottage in the woods, unknown to the world outside, the lying in each other’s arms unhindered and uninhibited, the drifting away to sleep, and then the fire…
Her instinct had helped her back then. She got up and ran, moving out in the nick of time. But before doing so, she woke him. He sprang out of the bed, and he ran out for his dear life too.
That was the last she had seen of him.
For long moments, she stood outside looking at the house burning down, praying at every instant that he would emerge from the fire. She didn’t have the courage to go in herself. All she could do was scream her lungs out for help, but no one came.
Valentine’s Day had begun for the rest of the world. People everywhere would be celebrating with their loves, but Mercy’s world had just collapsed around her.
She finished preening herself in the bathroom. The mirror showed her a haggard reflection of herself, but she didn’t care. The cold water helped her relax and, switching the lights off, she proceeded to her bed.
Her eyes had been closed for scarcely a minute when she heard the doorbell.
At first she thought it was a trick of her mind as it was drifting away into sleep, but then it rang a second time.
She got up now, put her feet into her slippers, and tiptoed to the door. Her meticulousness for silence was needless; there was no one in her house that she could disturb anyway.
The horror tales of single women being attacked and raped in their houses ran through her mind. Just two weeks ago, a woman had been ravaged by the security man of her own society. Standing at the peephole, she craned her neck to peer through. The lights in the corridor weren’t intense enough, and her eyes were half-groggy, but after she focused them for a few moments, she gasped.
There was no mistaking what she had seen.
Out in the corridor, stood Jake — the Jake she had not seen after the fire — dressed in a black tuxedo, holding a bouquet of white orchids in his hand. He was dressed for Valentine’s Day, just like the previous year.
“Who is it?” Mercy said in disbelief, with fear dripping through her every word.
“Open and find out.” The sound was distinct, clear, just as she had heard him always.
Since their first meeting, Mercy hadn’t stopped loving Jake for a minute. There was nothing she wanted better than to see him again, knowing that he had somehow escaped the fire. But now, really seeing him out there in such an abrupt manner made her goosepimply all over.
“I cannot wait here the whole night.” His voice brought back the memories. It was as though he had always been by her side.
Slowly, she moved her fingers over the latch and unfastened it. Lingering on for a minute more, she undid the lock.
“Oh!” he said, his voice dripping with dejection. “I thought you would like seeing me like this.”
The merriness in his voice goaded courage back into her. She felt her own voice returning.
“What? How?”
“Shh!” he moved in and handed the bouquet to her. “You need to calm down first. Do you still keep drinks in your house?”
She pointed a finger towards a cabinet. Jake opened it. “Ah! Scotch!” he exclaimed. “Great medicine for frayed nerves.” He poured the liquid into two glasses, neat, and handed one over to her. “Won’t you close the door and come in?”
Almost mechanically, Mercy kept the bouquet on a table and closed the door behind her. Then she went and sat next to Jake on the couch, maintaining a safe distance from him.
“All right, let me explain,” he said. “First of all, sorry for giving you such a fright. I had forgotten what a sissy-pants you are. And, I also apologize for not being in touch.”
“Where have you been?” Her composure was slowly returning.
“Healing.”
She gasped.
“I did escape the fire,” he said, “and I also saw you leave, but I was a bit too late in escaping. Got a few burns here and there. It took a while for those to heal and mend.”
“Was it bad?”
“Not much pain, surprisingly. And it healed well. Look.” He took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. “Nothing now. I am clean.”
Without meaning to, she found her hand moving towards his chest. It was perhaps the touch with his skin that did it, but something snapped inside her and she felt no fear anymore.
“The flowers?” she said. “What are those for?”
“Why?” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t Valentine’s Day start in an hour? Are you reneging on your promise?”
It came back to her. A few years ago, in the prelude to Valentine’s Day, they had promised each other that they would be each other’s Valentines forever.
“This is so all of a sudden!” she said. “What if I were seeing someone else?”
“But, why would you?”
“Because I didn’t hear from you.”
“So? Oh, I see. Did you think I was dead?”
There was silence in the room. It couldn’t be heard, but it could almost be seen.
“I couldn’t fault you for that,” he said, now sounding like a schoolboy who has been reprimanded. “I never thought… I was healing too; so, maybe I wasn’t in a position to face you. Yes, I think it’s that. That’s the reason I didn’t contact you earlier.”
“I understand.”
“So,” he said, getting up, “will you be my Valentine…” He checked his watch. “…eleven minutes from now?”
She got up, her eyes flooding with tears of joy.
“Yes,” she said.
The embrace they had following that was one of the longest they had ever had.
“Let me just go and put on something presentable,” she said, getting out of the hug. “And you tell me later what your big plan is.”
February 14, 0:00
Mercy put herself into the red dress she was saving for an occasion, without really knowing what that occasion would be. And now, that the occasion had arrived, she found it was the best it could be.
Thus dressed, she came out into the room where he was still sitting on the couch.
“That’s amazing!” he said. “You are looking younger than you did last year.”
She nodded and sat down next to him. “Now tell me what your plan is.”
“I have come to take you with me.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know for sure. But, let’s start by going back to the cottage.”
That made a shudder run through her spine. The mention of the cottage took away the composure she had gained, causing her to breathe heavily once again.
“Why the cottage?” she mumbled.
“Let’s make it as though this year never happened,” said Jake. “I think we should pick up from where we had left off. The same bed, the same stance. It will be like we never missed anything.”
“Why do you want to do that?”
“To remove the sense of loss.”
“But the cottage won’t be there. It must have burned down.”
“It is there,” he said confidently. “I know it is.”
A few minutes later, he was driving her on the freeway. It was the same old car they had had so many passionate moments in. Nothing had changed about it, not even the tickets shoved into the glove compartment.
As they drove, they saw motels decked up with bright heart-shaped signs, shops with blinking love lights, and advertisement boards spreading the love in their own commercial way.
An hour into Valentine’s Day, they reached the cottage. Mercy skipped a few heartbeats as she saw it.
It stood just as it had on that fateful day, though the signs of the fire were evident in its burned windows.
“It is still empty,” she said.
“Yes. Let’s go and check if the bed is still intact.”
They went in, hands tightly clasped with each other. Most of the furniture had burned down to ash. However, the bed still stood in an inside room, though parts of it had been irrevocably singed.
“Is that it?” Mercy said. At that moment, a strong wind rattled the already broken window panes and made her jump. “I think we should leave now.” Her tone was insistent.
“There’s no hurry,” he said, making her sit on the bed. “I have to do something first… some unfinished business.”
She kept looking at him, her heart still thumping wildly, but now in a good way. Anticipating what was to come, she primed herself in her sitting position.
Her hope wasn’t belied. Jake went down on one knee before her, and thrust his hand into his coat pocket. She held her breath as he extracted a small square box and opened it to reveal an ornate ring.
“Here it is then,” he said, holding out the box. “Mercy Gleeson, my one and only true love, on this Valentine’s Day, I ask of you — will you be mine forever?”
The whole experience had been ethereal so far. A couple of hours ago, she had been wallowing in her misery, shunning the world as she could not face its sympathetic stares, rarely going out of her house; and now, her love was back — in such a real way, that too. In that moment, nothing else mattered to her. The past was too far gone, the future held a distant promise. It was only the present moment she wanted to live in.
He was still there, his handsome face eagerly awaiting an answer.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes!”
He put the ring clumsily onto her slender finger, and lifted her in his arms. Holding her like that, they kissed, his warm lips feeling like summer dewdrops on hers. And then he whirled her round and round, till she felt she would collapse with the happy dizziness.
It was then that the light began to appear.
She didn’t notice it at first, but when he stopped whirling her, the glow behind his head was quite apparent. He smiled, and the smile was surreal, unlike anything she had seen before. She struggled in his arms, and he kept her down.
“What’s this?” she said, referring to the halo.
But he only smiled.
“No, tell me. What is this?” she repeated.
And then, he led her by her hand.
“Come with me,” he said.
Not understanding a bit of what was happening, she let herself be led by him. He brought her out of the house, treading carefully over haphazardly placed pebbles, and took her to the gate.
“Why does your face shine?” she asked. “What is all this, Jake?”
He didn’t utter a word. He took her outside the gate, and made her stop. Then, he pointed a finger at a board placed on the fence.
“What?” she asked.
He pointed harder, and she looked.
It was a notice-board. On it was written:
Unsafe House
Fire Casualty: Stay Away
Following the accidental deaths of two young people, Jake North and Mercy Gleeson, this house has been cordoned off by the municipal authorities. The cause of fire is not yet ascertained.
By Order.
Now, she felt the warmth grow within her too. She looked up, and a luminescence was beginning to appear.
“You see,” he said. “We kept our promise. To be each other’s Valentines forever.”
END
More love stories with a twist await you in Neil D’Silva’s acclaimed book Bound in Love. Check out the book now!
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The Birth of Maya’s New Husband
The Calling at Calangute
In the pleasantly warm month of August 2014, my family and I went on our annual food, fun and frolic pilgrimage to the wonderful carnival and cashew feni state of Goa. Over the years, this has become almost a ritual for us, a way to unwind from the hectic mores of the routine Mumbai life.
Now my family consists of me, of course, my wife Anita, and our two lovely angels, Gilmore and Felicia. The kids are quite a handful, but they keep our spirits high. Most of our trips are centered on them, as they should be; there’s precious little that we do for ourselves.
Every year, our trips to Goa turn out to be the annual highlights. We begin looking forward to them from March itself, and the year of 2014 was no different. However, that was only as far as anticipation goes. For, when the trip actually began, we suffered, right from the outset, from a severe case of Murphy’s Law. For the uninitiated, this Law states: If anything has to go wrong, it will.
So, in Goa, this year, everything began going wrong. We decided to go by train this year, which turned out to be a bad idea. Blighted by gregarious co-passengers and facing inordinate delays, we somehow reached Goa. We alighted during a sudden torrential downpour, in which we traveled to our destination — Colva. This was a long and onerous journey because of the rain and a major road accident ahead of us. The next day, we had to go to Calangute, our final destination, and that journey turned out to be misery personified as well. In any case, when we reached Calangute, we were told — horror of horrors — that there was an issue with our booking. Despite having a two-month advance booking, due to an oversight (mea culpa), we had to give up the reservation and then footed it along the beach to another hotel I knew had rooms available.
Finally, we downgraded ourselves, and found ourselves in a passable accommodation, where we would pass our next three days in bliss.
But, alas! Bliss it was not meant to be! For, the very moment that we dumped our bags at our hotel, Anita caught the chills. She ran a temperature, which was brought down by the antipyretics we carried with us, but she was too emaciated to travel anymore. She could only join in the fun from the hotel room.
So, this was the trip in summation. But, what has all of this got to do with Maya’s New Husband?
I’m coming to that.
The one most wonderful thing about our impromptu accommodation was that it gave us a magnificent view of the salty Goan sea. We were right on the beach, and the balcony opened out to the sounds of the lashing waves at every hour of the day.
On the second night there, after the kids had slept, Anita and I sat on this very balcony, close to each other, snuggled in one warm blanket, and looked at the stars. We spoke of general things, mostly about our lives back home, because that ghost never seems to leave us. But, somewhere midway through this conversation, I was reminded of Longfellow’s brilliant phrase: Footprints on the sands of time.
This created a passion in me like no other. I began thinking aloud, with my patiently-listening wife for company. What would happen of me when my journey here is done? Would I be obliterated just like that? Would I be one of those nameless, fameless grains of sand? Or, would I leave a few of my footprints on the sands of time?
What legacy would I leave behind?
I thought aloud, and she listened. And then I told her that I have to follow my dreams. Because, well, ars longa, vita brevis. I decided, then and there, that from that moment on, I will give wings to my fancies. I will leave my footprints in the form of my stories.
I brought my laptop out that night when everyone had slept, and sat through the dead of the night, in that quaint hotel on Calangute Beach, Goa, chipping away at the machine. It was around 3 in the morning that the initial words of Maya’s New Husband began to take shape.
The Inspiration
The story of Maya’s New Husband chose me. I did not choose it.
Horror had always fascinated me, but, for me, horror isn’t just about spirits and ghosts and vampires. It is much more. Real horror is that which you can feel. Real horror needs to have its element grounded in reality. Horror stories that play out in our real world are the ones that are the scariest.
Here, again, my marriage with Anita became an inspiration for the story. Ours was a so-called ‘arranged’ marriage. We knew each other just for a little less than a year before we got married. This is too short a time to understand each other, their likes and dislikes, their pet peeves and fond fancies, or anything for that matter. Despite that, we took the plunge.
From that first day of marriage itself, I had an awareness of how much harder the marriage must have been on her than on me. She was the one who had left everything behind and made a home with me. I was still in the same house I lived in. Her stakes were undoubtedly higher.
Millions of women marry in this manner in India each year. Knowing practically nothing about their husbands, they aspire to make their homes with them. And, a lot of times, they face unspeakable horrors at the homes of these unknown husbands.
What if, a woman married someone who held the most terrifying secret within him? Won’t each moment with such a man be present a new horror for the poor woman?
This was the basic grain of the horror element of Maya’s New Husband. The horror is not because of the themes; it is because of this desolation that Maya surrounds herself with in her new house.
My inspiration took form from my personal observations, and Maya took shape.
The Process
I could not have written the story if I hadn’t been introduced to National Novel Writing Month in 2014. Towards this end, many things had been instrumental. My brother, Roy, helped me in creating an author website. As the website was created, I saw how my short stories got a concrete platform. My interest was piqued, and I started sharing my stories with people, and got a heartening response.
This was what made me confident of writing a full-fledged novel. It was time to give Maya’s New Husband a shape too. During the NaNoWriMo month, I started writing right from November 1, 2014. I wrote all through this month, religiously clocking in several hours every day. Finally, the manuscript was finished on November 21, 2014.
I won the certificate as a NaNoWriMo 2014 Winner. I proudly shared it with everyone I knew.
When we were a week into December, I sat with the editing of the novel. Anita sat next to me all through those hours, and as she read it, I saw the expressions on her face and realized this was something that could hold people’s interest. I shared the story with a few other people and found similar reactions. I knew I had something monumental in my hands; now all I had to do was to edit it thoroughly and share it with the world.
Maya’s New Husband underwent three complete revisions. I added scenes, deleted fluff and when the third version was done, I got the feeling that this was ready to go.
Around this time, I did some research on self-publishing. This is really an amazing thing! Writers no longer have to grovel at the feet of traditional publishers; they can hold out on their own. The Internet is a wonderful place.
On January 1, 2015, I put forth the eBook to the world. It earned strong reviews right from day 1. Maya’s New Husband had taken off.
On January 18, 2015, I was ready with the print version. This was launched at a happening online event, where some of the best self-published Indian authors attended. The event was buzzing through the night, and the book arrived in its print form.
Today, as I see the print version of Maya’s New Husband, I get a feeling that cannot be described in words. Yet, I am only humbly reminded of the beautiful words of another masterful poet, Robert Frost:
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.
Read the entire success story of Maya’s New Husband here.
Interview with Spectral Hues
Author Neil D’Silva’s debut book Maya’s New Husband, the newest entrant in the Indian horror fiction world, has been released in its print version at a unique online event. We catch the author on the sidelines of the event. Here are the excerpts of the interview:
Congratulations, Neil, on your debut novel Maya’s New Husband. Please tell us about the book.
Maya’s New Husband is a novel in the much-unexplored Indian horror genre. At the core of it, it is a horror story, but what inspired me to write it was the concept behind it. It is about a woman named Maya, living in the Mumbai suburbs, who finds a strange attraction towards a mysterious man in her life.
Launch Event (Print Version)
The launch event of Maya’s New Husband was covered by the online press. Here is an article about the unique launch party.
One-of-Its-Kind Launch Party Sets the Ball Rolling for Maya’s New Husband
Maya’s New Husband, the debut novel of Indian author Neil D’Silva, was launched in its print version at a happening event on 18 January 2015. The book, which has already met a good response in its eBook format, is one of the newest additions to India’s sparse reserves of horror fiction. However, what set the online writer fraternity buzzing is the way the launch event was designed.
The launch event was shaped up as a Facebook event and invitations were sent out to several self-published writers a week in advance. Apart from being just a launch event, it was a platform for indie authors to get in touch with their readers and fans, and promote their books as well. The link for the print version of Maya’s New Husband was released at 7:30 p.m. IST and it was followed by an interview with Neil D’Silva and the other authors in attendance.
The attending authors included Rasana Atreya, Surya Vaidyanathan, Sujata Rajpal, Rachna Gupta, Devika Fernando, Deep Downer, Saurabh Garg, Amar Vyas, Roy D’Silva and others. Rasna Atreya, the author of the Tibor Jones contest-winner Tell a Thousand Lies, which was also featured in UK’s Glam magazine as one of five best Indian stories, spoke at length about how self-publishing is the future of books in India. Surya Vaidyanathan, known as S. Nathan in her works, spoke about her book The Falcon’s Eye and gave tips to writers of fantasy fiction. Sujata Rajpal spoke about her novel The Other End of the Corridor and how she could manage to create drama that held readers’ interest. Rachna Gupta, the author of the poem anthology Myriad Hues, gave cues on writing poetry that tugs at the heartstrings, while Devika Fernando of Kaleidoscope of Hopes spoke about how living in Germany and Sri Lanka influenced her writing. Deep Downer, author of The Love Is Dead, Long Live the Lust, spoke about the importance of having a catchy title to accompany a good story. Saurabh Garg spoke about creating a crime thriller as he has successfully done in his book The Nidhi Kapoor Story. Amar Vyas, the author of N.R.I., spoke about writing comedy that leaves a message behind, as he has done with his book. Roy D’Silva, author of Tiny Tales, revealed his inspiration to write detective fiction.
This was perhaps the first time that such an eclectic blend of writers from diverse genres, such as drama, comedy, romance, horror, thriller and detective fiction, came together on one podium and spoke to readers. As an offshoot of the event, a Facebook group named For Writers, By Authors was also launched, which saw a signing up of close to 70 members on the first day itself. This group has published authors interacting with writers who aspire to get published.
Several marketing aspects of Maya’s New Husband set it apart from other books that have been released of late. For instance, the book release was preceded by the release of a video promotional trailer, which is a rarity for Indian books. The video trailer can be found on YouTube. Contests were held a week in advance. The contests were theme-specific, such as narrating horror experiences or suggesting locations for future horror novels.
Neil D’Silva’s Maya’s New Husband has started off on the right foot. It received over 20 sales within an hour of its release, which is quite commendable for an online release of a debuting self-published author. More information on the novel, along with free chapters, can be obtained from the author’s website http://www.NeilDSilva.com/. The book is currently available in eBook formats on Amazon and Smashwords and can be ordered in its print version from Pothi.com. The success of this novel has made him more confident of his future releases, Sapna’s Bad Connection and Kalki’s Bundle of Joy, which will be released in March and May respectively.
Chapter 1.5: Kidney Beans on Toast
The girl opened her eyes with some effort. Her head hurt as though she had been hit. She tried to touch the part that hurt her, but realized that her hands had been tied with a thick rope. The rope—made of pure coir—had cut into her fair flesh and even in the near-darkness, she could see the blood trickling down her wrists.
The fear came over her like a storm. It was an immediate explosion of memories: returning home after her extra practical classes at college… standing at the bus-stop alone at that late evening hour… the shuffling behind her in the bushes… the sudden sharp blow to the back of her head… and then, blackness.
She tried to yell, but at that moment she became aware of the gag that was stuffed in her mouth. She looked down and was horrified to see—it was her own blouse. Stripped off her body, stuffed into her mouth.
All her dreams turned to nothing in that one instant.
Topper in school and college.
The only girl in the Physics class.
Will go far; will become an engineer.
Will marry a wonderful man; have wonderful kids.
Nothing!—It meant nothing now.
The only thing she wanted was release.
To escape from this unknown place where she was tied to the floor, naked like a hog, terrified beyond measure.
An awareness of pain followed the sense of shame. The pain arose from her thighs, and she looked down at them, frightened of what she might see.
Her fear wasn’t unjustified. It was a strange pattern—four parallel curves intersecting four other parallel curves forming a crisscross spiderlike pattern. She looked at them, amazed and somewhat fascinated at their artistry, and then realized—the pattern wasn’t drawn on her thigh with a pen; it was cut into her flesh with a weapon.
The redness was not ink; it was blood. It was the source of her pain.
Once the consciousness of the pain set in, it refused to go away. She wanted to hold the wound, contain the blood flowing from it, but her hands were tied. She kicked the only free part of her body—her legs—but doing that only made the pain more intense. The cuts were thin but deep, and more blood oozed as she moved her legs.
She squirmed and tried to break free from the pillar where she was tied by the wrists. They began to bleed too, and trickles of the warm fluid started moving along the sides of her torso and mixed in the pool that was already accumulated below her.
It was too much blood. She wondered how such a spindly wound could cause so much blood to flow. It seemed unreal, but the slight tinny smell in the air around her told her otherwise.
The darkness of the night was receding now, but she couldn’t see anything beyond her toes. Then, as her eyes got acclimatized to the darkness, she became aware of something. A figure in the darkness. A man.
He was seated at the far end of this room or whatever it was. She could only see his head and his naked chest. He sat without making the slightest movement, like a mannequin in a departmental store. But the most frightening thing about the man was his eyes. There was something quite wrong with them. The darkness did not tell her much, but she could sense their oddness, and she could sense their unmoving gaze upon her. She squirmed, trying to break free, or to at least move away from the unflinching gaze upon her. But, the more she moved, the tighter her bonds became.
Then a rat, of which there was no dearth here, emerged from behind the head of the distant human and darted towards his eyes. Why did the man not move? He stayed put there, even as the rat sniffed all over his face, and then began to nibble, right into his left eye.
That was when she realized.
She was staring at a long-dead corpse.
The blood loss began to take its toll on her, and she was again plunged into darkness.
***
The hapless girl woke up with a start when she felt someone touching her breasts.
Fully alert now, she attempted to focus her vision, and the shape of a man squatting next to her materialized. There seemed to be a smile on his face, but there wasn’t anything cordial about it. Yes, he was ugly. And the ugliness was not merely of his warty face or his unkempt hair. It came from somewhere within him—from the diabolical look behind those smiling eyes, from the stench of death that underlined his strong odor. For a moment, she forgot the excruciating pain arising from her wounds.
Pain, like everything else, has a limit. It is acute when fresh. It is at this time—when the aggravation is newly inflicted—that it is the most unendurable. But if it persists for a period of time without being allayed, the nerves of the body get familiarized with it. The receptors still carry the physical impulse, but the effectors do not bring back any biological response. It is then that the pain begins to weaken, or rather the body becomes stronger to bear it.
However, this also makes things much more frightening. When one can see a gaping wound in their body and the blood oozing out of it too, but cannot feel the pain, that’s when things become the scariest. It’s enough to drive anyone nuts, and this was just a fragile college-going girl.
“No… Don’t pass out again,” the squatting man pleaded. “I want you to see. Will you do that much for me? Will you stay awake for me? Please?”
It was a plea, like a beggar beseeching for food.
Then she saw the weapon in his hand. Not exactly in his hand, but on his knuckles. His fingers passed through its four joined metal rings, the ends of which had sharp, pointed nails. The nails were soaked in blood; and she realized it was the blood of her own flesh.
Still smiling that vicious smile, he plunged that knuckle thing deep into her body, this time right into her chest. She could not see this new wound, but she felt it for sure. There was a sound too, a sickening crunch, and her educated mind told her what it was. A memory of a twig she had once stepped on came to her—the poor twig had broken into two with the same crunch.
As warm blood trickled down her torso, she was surprised she still had blood left in her body to flow out of the new wound.
Then, she reacted. A shriek of the newly-generated pain formed on her lips, but the sound died out before it could emerge. Her weakness overcame her response to pain.
She looked into his eyes and, as she could not speak, her eyes did all the talking. Her vision was becoming groggy now; and yet her eyes pleaded, implored, begged, made an earnest request to leave her and to spare whatever was left of her—both in body and in spirit—and, for a moment, she thought that he understood. For he took her head in his arms and took it close to his chest and, smoothening her hair, said, “Don’t worry, dear. It will all be over soon. It has to be done, you know? We all have to atone. Believe me, I am sending you to a happier place.”
There were no more tears, just the ones that had been already let out, drying up on her bloodied cheeks. The last sight of her short life was that of the dead man she had seen before, the one in the distance. His face was still turned towards her in the same manner, motionless in all other respects. But now some daylight streamed into the room. She could see a little more. His face seemed pale; and where his eyes had been, she could only see bloodied hollows, and the tails of rats emerging from them.
“I’ll get started now,” her tormentor said, holding her chin up as though he meant to kiss her. “I’ll get you out of the misery right away.”
Her heart was stopping now, her brain still flickering with its last dredges of life. Her vision stilled itself upon the man. She saw now how white his body had become, drained of all its blood. White as a sheet. White as dead. And, on that white skin on his chest, she saw the dried up mark—the same mark of the spider that she now possessed.
“Oh, him?” her killer looked in the direction of her gaze and said. “It’s been a while since I had him over for dinner. He’s become a bit stale now. Don’t feel like going to him anymore, and why should I? I have you now, don’t I? But let me tell you this—his kidneys! So juicily healthy and wonderful! He made an excellent dish of roasted kidney beans on toast.”
That’s all for the sample! Get the full version of Maya’s New Husband at the following links:
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Chapter 1: That Awful Stink
When Maya Bhargava was appointed the Head of the Biology Department at the Madam Somdevi Khanna High School for Boys, she felt she had reached a milestone towards the fulfillment of her goals. Having taught in the school for seven years, it was about time she received due recognition for her work. At 33 now, she wasn’t getting any younger.
That day, her first day as H.O.D., she and her friend, the English teacher Padma Murthy, sat in her new cabin and had a discussion on how times had flown. They spoke about their past days in the school, and generally cribbed about other teachers and a few of their students. Padma was on the right side of 40 still, but she hadn’t received the recognition her younger friend had. That was a sore point, but in her English Department, such accolades were rare.
They opened their respective lunchboxes and geared up for their small communal meal. Maya had a preparation of okra and eggplant, a dish Padma truly enjoyed, and Padma had vegetable biryani with paneer, a favorite with Maya.
“The students nowadays!” said Padma between mouthfuls of eggplant. “Atrocious! I happened to confiscate a few of the boys’ phones today. Regrettably, I skimmed through their contents.”
Maya chuckled. “What did you see on them, Padma?”
“Don’t ask!”
“Did you see some boobies?” Maya made an obscene gesture to go with her words.
“Good Lord, Maya!” said Padma, scandalized. “The things you say.”
“Come on, Padma, these are boys! At their age, they are all fighting their hormonal demons. What else did you expect to see? But tell me—didn’t you enjoy it at that age too?”
“Shut up, Maya!” Padma almost dropped her spoon.
“Yeah, don’t act like a saint,” said Maya. “Don’t tell me you were any different as a fifteen-year-old.”
“Certainly not!”
“You know, when I was fifteen, we had this amazing teacher. We used to call him Robinson Sir, and he used to teach History. Oh, what a dreamboat he was! That slickly combed hair and those washboard abs and the neatly ironed formal shirts and trousers he wore! We girls spent a lot of time cursing whoever the bitch his wife was. We had to just smell his deodorant and we would have an orgasm.”
“You are a teacher, for God’s sake, Maya!” said Padma.
“Stop being such a prude, Padma. Loosen up. We are all human under our teachers’ garbs.”
They were busy with their colorful banter when there was a knock at the door. Even before Maya could ask the person to come in, the door opened and a head butted in.
It was Bhaskar Sadachari, the Arts teacher of the school. Everyone knew he had been appointed on the recommendation of Principal Rajkumar Purohit himself, and perhaps the recommendation was justified. He did have some skill in those oddly long fingers of his, which he had shown with his work over the past couple of years. However, the esthetic appeal was limited to his artworks. It didn’t extend to his physical form. His hair was always in a state of disarray, his eyes often bloodshot, and a perpetually overgrown stubble tried in vain to hide the ungainly face that lay underneath. Wherever he went, he left behind aftershocks of comments—people buzzing about his near-complete abandon of any aspect of hygiene.
Through the corner of her eye, Maya saw Padma wrinkling her nose and closing her lunchbox.
“Madam,” the man addressed Maya, completely ignoring her friend, “I’d like to know if you need any help in setting up the models for the Science Exhibition.”
Maya thought. She did need help, for she had ambitious plans to make a few large models. This man, who was known for his artistic skill, could be a good assistant. But, accepting this offer would mean spending time with Mr. Weird Man, and that was something she did not want to do. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll let you know,” she said in a dismissive tone.
Bhaskar was probably too boorish to take that hint, or maybe just too obstinate. He hung at the door awhile, giving the ladies one of his twisted smiles. Padma avoided eye contact by trying to find something in the folds of her saree.
“Yes, you may go,” Maya told him curtly.
The sentence was succinct, but it conveyed what it meant in no mean terms. Being snubbed directly, Bhaskar retreated his head from the door and left.
No sooner did he leave than the ladies began gossiping. “What’s the matter with him?” said Maya. “He is so creepy.”
“Have you seen his neck?” said Padma, shoving the lunchbox aside. “Sorry, I won’t be able to eat now. His neck—it’s so red.”
“Is it? I haven’t really noticed.”
“Rajan Sir told me he saw him in the washroom once, washing his face with his shirt buttons open, and he saw his chest was red too. Initially, I thought it must be a rash, but what is it now—a year?”
“Two!” said Maya emphatically. “It’s two years now.”
Padma moved in closer, the way one does when telling something conspiratorially to a friend. “Also, did you notice? I don’t think he ever bathes. The moment he entered, the room was filled with this awful stink.”
“Stink? Really?” Maya shook her head. “I didn’t get that. Probably it’s my blocked nose.” She let out a mucus-laden sniffle to validate her point.
“He is dreadful but what can we do about it?” asked Padma with her hands in the air. “The Principal is besotted with his work. He’s not going to send him away.”
“Yeah! The children like him too. I keep hearing of all the brilliant drawing he does. However, I find him creepy. It’s not because of his looks, it’s the way he acts. Almost like a stalker.” Maya let out a shudder. “I’ll prepare the models myself, but I am not going to take his help.” The resolution in her voice brought an end to the conversation.
***
Anuradha Bhargava was a contented middle-aged woman, proud of her traditional Maharashtrian roots. Her home was filled with symbols of her religious and communal affiliation, and she was proud of having raised two daughters to be such headstrong, self-believing women. Her older daughter, Maya, had just called to inform that she had been promoted to the Head of Department. She didn’t really understand what H.O.D. meant, but she didn’t want to lose the opportunity to bask in her prized daughter’s glory. Her other daughter, Namrata, worked as a Floor Manager at a suburban mall, which was a big achievement, particularly in the male-dominated environment of mall management. Yes, Anuradha Bhargava was certainly proud of her daughters.
Her only afternoon chore was to prepare lunch for herself. Her daughters ate at their workplaces. Eating a simple but delectable fare of vegetables with chapattis and pickles while watching TV was the highlight of her day.
She finished her chores and sat down on her favorite easy chair and began surfing channels. Her housewifely interests veered towards family soap operas. She could watch several at a time and be passionately affected by all of them. The grandfather clock in the corner told her there was an hour more to watch whatever she pleased. Maya never allowed her to watch her soppy shows once she returned. They curdle your mind, she always said.
When she was engrossed in watching how the daughter-in-law on TV gave a scathing response to her old crone of a mother-in-law, there was an unexpected ring at the door. In a reflex move, Anuradha changed the channel. If Maya had returned earlier than her usual time, she didn’t want to be caught watching this show. When the doorbell went a second time, she got up gingerly and moved towards the door. It scared her to open the door like this; the peephole didn’t help much as the corridor outside was dark in the afternoons, and the safety chain was erratic at best. She made a note to remind Maya about getting a safety door installed.
However, her worry was unjustified. It wasn’t Maya at the door, just the neighboring woman. “Is the electricity working here?” she asked, smiling with her dentally-impaired mouth.
Anuradha nodded, and the woman smiled. She didn’t leave though; it was the unspoken communication between two leisurely elderly women who seek each other’s gossipy company. The electricity had just been an excuse to start a conversation, and it had worked.
“Come in, Laxmi,” said Anuradha, opening the door wide. “I have some good news for you.”
Laxmi sat down on the couch, her bones creaking audibly as she sat. Anuradha put her channel back on and lowered the volume of the TV a bit so that they could still hear it but it would not intrude upon their conversation. “Maya got a promotion today. Headmaster of Department!” she said with suitable awe.
“Oh, that’s great!” Laxmi cackled. “That means Principal, isn’t it? I always knew she will become Principal one day. Our Maya is indeed a talented girl.”
“This is not really Principal,” Anuradha elaborated.
“What did you say?” asked Laxmi. “These days it is difficult to hear anything clearly.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. She got a promotion, that’s all! Would you like tea? I was going to make some anyway.”
“All right,” said Laxmi, “but less sugar, okay?”
Presently, Anuradha came back with two teacups and the room became fragrant with the aroma of masala chai.
“Did you hear about the Bawdi Chawl thing?” asked Laxmi after she had taken her first noisy slurp of the tea.
“What Bawdi Chawl thing?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Laxmi’s face went grave with the importance of someone who is making a somber revelation. Her wrinkles appeared to have increased with that expression. “There was a kidnapping. A young girl of 16-17 years.”
“Who?”
“Who knows about these slum-dwellers? The maid told us. The girl went to college yesterday and hasn’t returned yet.”
“How do you know it’s a kidnapping?”
“What else will it be? Kidnapping, rape, murder, whatever. All the same. She’s a daughter of a cobbler, a pretty girl it seems.”
“It’s horrible,” Anuradha said with sufficient emotion.
“You have two daughters, Anuradha, you need to be very careful. By the grace of Ganesha, I have only sons.”
“You cannot be too sure about sons too these days,” said Anuradha, her traditional upbringing somewhat incensed at having been called the mother of girls. She wasn’t narrow-minded—at least she didn’t consider herself to be—but it was conversations such as these that brought a sense of disquiet to her mind. “Kidnappings have become so common nowadays,” she said. “Anyway, my girls are capable of taking care of themselves.”
The door was slightly open and Maya walked in without warning, worry writ large on her face. “Ma, why is the door open like this?” she asked and then saw Laxmi. “Oh, Laxmi aunty, you are here. Even so, you must keep the door closed.”
“Heard about the kidnapping?” asked Anuradha.
“Congrats on becoming Principal, Maya,” said Laxmi.
“Principal? Oh! No, aunty—”
“Forget that,” said her mother. “See, there was a kidnapping here today. Nowadays, all one reads in the papers is such criminal stuff. Be safe, that’s all.”
“You should tell that to Namrata,” said Maya. “She is the one who returns late at night. And, what’s this? Were you watching that stupid show again?”
Anuradha quickly shut down the television. “Not me,” she said, “this Laxmi here insisted.” She made a sign to Laxmi—a peculiar sign with raised eyebrows that meant she had to play along—and Laxmi quickly gulped the last dregs from her teacup.
***
That evening, there was a small celebration in the Bhargava household. Namrata bought the wine, and the three women cooked a three-course meal together. All three were good cooks, and they could whip up a miracle with their ingredients. The family was vegetarian by choice, quite known in their social circles for their culinary expertise. They prepared their signature dish of cauliflower pakoras to follow up with stuffed eggplant and bhakris and a dessert of carrot halwa.
They sat at the table and began with the wine and the pakoras. Anuradha refused the wine at first but the daughters insisted. “It’s just fermented grape juice, Ma,” said Namrata. “This much won’t kill you.”
“It’s the spirit of the day,” said Maya.
They spoke about Maya’s day at school and about Anuradha’s plan to invest in some gold during Diwali and about how they should contact their relatives in Dadar about a suitable marital alliance for Namrata.
At that point, Namrata chipped in, “No Ma, I have always told you. No arranged marriage for me.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
“That’s my lookout.” At that moment, Namrata seemed every bit like a spoiled younger sibling. She understood that, perhaps, for she braced herself for the inevitable reprimand.
“No one in the Bhargava household has ever had a love marriage if that’s what you think,” boomed Anuradha. “This love-shove does not work for long. I had an arranged marriage, and see what a lovely life I have now. Even though your Dad left us early, God bless his soul, he made sure we didn’t have any problems after him. Don’t you remember Maya’s marriage—”
At that, there was an abrupt silence. Anuradha stopped midsentence and looked down into her plate and started playing with the stalk of an eggplant. Namrata looked at Maya’s face and then Anuradha’s. Maya got up with her half-finished plate.
“Sit down, Maya,” said the mother. “I am sorry.”
“It’s okay Ma,” said Maya. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
“Oh, sit!” quipped Namrata. “Come out of it. It’s two years for Samar now.”
“Shut up, Namrata,” said Anuradha, “what do you understand of these things? It isn’t as easy to take a husband’s loss as you think. Grow up and you will understand. Maya, sit down!”
Maya sat.
“I tried everything,” said Maya, her eyes brimming with tears. “I changed myself for him. He didn’t ask me to, but I knew he wanted me to. We kept each other happy. And still, he went all the way there and—”
Namrata placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.
“—gave up. Just like that! Who knew he had such sadness in him? Why, Ma? Do you have any answer? Why did he have to throw himself under the train like that?”
Read on for Chapter 1.5 of Maya’s New Husband.
Prologue
Maya knew she was lying down, but something was not quite right about it. She couldn’t turn her head and see where she was. She tried to flail her arms around, but they didn’t obey her. She attempted to kick her limbs in the air, anything to get out of this position, but they wouldn’t move either. A horrible thought entered her half-conscious mind — was she dead?
Her attempt to open her eyes wide failed; all she could see was a blurred vision of the scene right in front of her. Her gaze was fixed straight up, skyward; and even then, she could not see the sky. What she could see was a bright light — a luminescence so bright that it hurt her eyes and she shut them again.
She realized she had to free herself somehow. With this in mind, she made a feeble attempt to move her body, trying to press her back against the surface she lay on. The body wiggled ever so slightly, and it was then that she discovered she was naked. But, why was she naked? She didn’t have any memory of abandoning her clothes.
Then, as she tried to push herself on the surface, hoping to find a fulcrum to increase her effort, she realized there was no surface. There was nothing holding her. She was floating on something abstract. Maybe she was indeed dead, and this was just her soul floating upwards, nothing more.
Then she heard a voice — Are you still there, bitch?
The words were harsh and lashed at her like a whip. If she were really dead, she wasn’t going to heaven. That much was certain.
The menacing voice grew louder.
Wake up!
There will be no fun if you are passed out like that.
And there was another slap.
Even in her half-conscious state, she felt the full impact of the slap. It roused her out of her sluggishness. She was fully awake now. The slap had landed right across her cheek, and it stung like the sting of a dozen bees.
Her floating had been a nightmare. People are usually relieved when they wake up from a nightmare and realize that their agony was merely a bad dream. But, in Maya’s case, her nightmare of being dead was nothing compared to her reality of being alive.
Memories of what had happened to her over the past few hours came dancing into her mind. That groping in the dark, that fumbling for a light switch, that gruesome discovery and finally being captured by who was probably the most dangerous man she had ever known or heard about.
It came to her — being stripped and being tied to the floor; and the imagination of the things he would probably do with her now made her pass out once again.
Read on for Chapter 1 of Maya’s New Husband
What It Is About
[Rated: ADULT]
A marriage isn’t merely a union of two people; it is also a union of the secrets they hold. Some of these secrets, when unraveled could result in conflict and, perhaps, even chaos. When Maya married Bhaskar, her second marriage, despite her best judgment, little did she know what bottomless pit she was plunging herself into.