Yama's Lieutenant and The Stone Witch Page 4

  The richer ones who ran afoul of the law were much better off. They had bigger and better cells where the ceiling fans actually worked. They received good things to eat from the fancy world they had occupied before they got kicked out, and were allowed to listen to music or read. Nobody put scorpions in their crotch or beat them bloody, provided they were not close-fisted with the contents of their fat purses. Even the special janitors who cleaned their latrines had better uniforms than him. And state-issued gloves.

  Corrupt prison officials, tenderers and the authorities at every level of bureaucracy grew fat on the money allocated for food and other provisions. The prisoners who dared to complain or went on strikes were fed nails and the contents of the bucket that doubled as a latrine or were beaten to death.

  In line with his status as a nobody, Ram remained invisible, sweeping, scrubbing and repeating the process. Not that his labours made a whit of difference. The place still reeked of days-old urine, spilled bodily fluids, foul perspiration and disinfectant. But he continued to sweep, swab and empty the contents of the overflowing buckets, shutting his eyes and ears to what went on around him.

  Ram contemplated the acid bottle again that night. It was an insufferably sultry night, only the mosquitoes were making merry. He could not sleep a wink. The German shepherds were barking up a storm and refused to quiet down even when the keepers took a stick to them. He was feeling distinctly uneasy and gave up trying to sleep. Instead he went past the line of trees and into the backyard to squat. Not that his bowels were cooperating.

  After straining in vain (was that why his heart was palpitating with sudden urgency?), Ram got to his feet, wishing his nerves would quiet down. He was only a few paces away from the kennels when he stopped. He felt, heard and smelled—rather than saw—what happened next.

  There was something dark and terrible coming for them all in an almighty rush. It was the sound of a dam bursting, releasing a tsunami-like outpouring of frenzied madness that swept away everything in sight. Beings, numerous and possibly winged, came at him from the inky blackness, clearing the impossibly high compound wall as well as the barbed wire and broken glass with effortless ease. Ram distinctly heard them streaking off in every direction, intent on the pursuit of their prey. He felt the burning hunger in their bellies and the terrible rage that drove them. The stink of them made his stomach turn and he promptly expelled his dinner from both ends.

  He would have run back had his legs not turned to jelly and refused to pay heed to the commands of his panicked brain. Retching, he stumbled towards the furious barking and the kennels, seeking refuge in the dogs’ indomitable courage. Tarzan, the bigger of the German shepherds, had snapped his shackles and leaped past the chain-link fence, which was, in full, eight-feet tall, and stood in challenge, his hackles raised.

  Countless pairs of demonic red eyes glowed high above him. There were too many of them. But Tarzan held his ground while Ram inched past the edges of the fence and dragged himself up the peepul tree that provided cover for the kennels; he was nearly hysterical with panic and prayed for all he was worth.

  Shaktiman, in the adjacent enclosure, was made of sterner stuff and he leapt into the air, eager to jump into the fray, but the metal chain held firm, digging into his powerful neck and hauling him back. Tarzan did not wait for him and went on the offensive. He tore into their ranks, bowling some over, the reds in their eyes flickering out like gutted candles.

  Though hopelessly outmatched and outnumbered, he kept up the offensive, fighting fiercely, lashing out at the things he could not see but feeling them out with remarkable accuracy, slashing at flanks and going for the forelegs where he could. It was an intense struggle, punctuated with growls of rage and clashing teeth. Blood and fur flowed freely.

  The demonic beings had also closed in on Shaktiman and launched themselves into his domain. Once again it was an uneven contest, and would have been so even if he had not been chained. The dog moved back and forth in agitation, teeth bared, while the snarling mass came at him, red eyes burning with the heat of battle; he looked in vain for an opening so that he could at the very least deliver a crippling wound.

  They slashed at his exposed flanks and he went down howling in fury. In a final gambit, he crouched low, hoping to rip open a belly or grab a mouthful of leg, but he had exposed his neck and one of the beasts seized it between its monstrous jaws and snapped it with a single vicious jerk. Shaktiman was dead before he even hit the ground, in a crumpled heap, mercifully unaware of the fact that one of his hind legs had been ripped off.

  The dog trainers had arrived on the scene. There were two of them. Ram knew them well. One was taciturn, preferring the company of his dogs to humans, while the other had a vicious temper and had once kicked sand into his plate. They were looking around in confusion, unable to make sense of the madness that had overtaken them, when both went down as something flashed out and ripped out their throats. Blood spurted out in copious bursts as they writhed on the floor in bizarre unison before they went still.

  Tarzan was dead too. The predators had made quick work of him, before tearing off into the darkness in a concentrated rush. Ram knew the valiant German shepherd had taken down at least a few among the enemy. He was sure of that, even if he could not be certain of anything else. If only there was something he could do besides saying a prayer for the fallen beasts.

  Looking at them, Ram realized that though he had never been a hero in life, perhaps he still had a chance to die as one. All he needed was a weapon to deliver the supernatural beings to the depths of hell before joining them there. (He remembered the boys and hoped they knew he had never meant to hurt them.)

  And then he saw it, two pairs of red dots at ground level, beside the carcass of Tarzan, approaching with hypnotic slowness, surveying their surroundings. The mute one and the brute—the trainers whose throats had been ripped out by invisible assailants mere moments ago—had returned from death. Ram saw it clearly enough. Before his very eyes, the men transformed into something huge, dark and wolfish, before vanishing altogether. Eyes the colour of blood turned slowly in his direction and locked into place.

  Ram fell. In a desperate attempt to escape that gaze, he had instinctively tried to run, forgetting that he had climbed a tree. The fall jarred his joints and left his injured leg in agony.

  But the attack was not forthcoming, and he supposed they had looked right through him as well. Or perhaps he had gone mad and was imagining it all. He lay curled up against the remains of Shaktiman for a bit, sobbing and spluttering, trying to remember the words to a prayer Amma used to recite, while trying to stay firm in his resolve to find a weapon. But even if he did, was it even possible to shoot at those ghost wolves or whatever those creatures were? Aim between the eyes, he advised himself, pushing away the thought that he had never before handled a weapon in his life. And keep moving, he told himself.

  He stumbled upon the warden, the scourge of the penitentiary, who had been ripped open from throat to groin, entrails spilling forth from his pudgy belly, which had deflated. His eyes were wide open, stiff with horror. He wore no pants. Ram did not see the scared child hunkered down beneath his bed. It was too bad, as it might have inspired him to save her and follow through on his plan to die a hero.

  A bunch of guards who had seen better days lay around him, bodies broken and discarded. One lay face down, the muscles and tendons of his thighs ripped all the way to the bone, which showed up starkly in the moonlight. A few had their throats torn out. Someone’s entire arm had been mangled beyond recognition, and his face was a ruined mess of shredded flesh. Ram Chandra wept for them too.

  All he could hear were the sounds of death and dying. The hidden enemy did not discriminate on the basis of caste or class. Officers of the state, guards and convicts, armed or otherwise, had been killed just the same. The creatures had overwhelming numbers on their side and moved at the speed of light. Fired shots ricocheted off them and claimed the shooter instead. Ultimately, it was only the G
erman shepherds who had managed to put up at least a modicum of resistance.

  His courage having deserted him, Ram decided to crawl back to his mat, though he knew not why. It was not like he would find any sanctuary there. Ram slipped on somebody’s blood. And then he saw it, as he was trying to put some distance between himself and the corpse, whose face seemed to have been chewed upon. The dead man’s pupils were glinting a dull red. Like they had been pricked with a pin and the tiniest drop of blood had oozed right out.

  With an enormous shudder, the recently deceased man rose up on all fours, testing newly formed, impossibly large paws. His spine was arched, and the transformation from man to monster was almost instantaneous. Ram screamed. Then the thing disappeared, turning its back on Ram and its wicked old life before bounding off to join its fellows in a worse one.

  All around him, the fallen rose. Eyelids that had closed in death were flaring open to reveal the rubies within. Ram knew it was all over then. Finally he found the words he had been searching for and said them aloud:

  Eternal Father, whose mercy is boundless,

  shower us with your compassion,

  that in difficult moments of abject despair

  we submit wholeheartedly to your will,

  which is love and mercy both.

  Amen

  It was the prayer the sisters of the convent had taught Amma when she had been in their employ. She had made him learn it. He was glad the words had come back to him. At its conclusion, he heard his acid bottle calling to him and this time he did not resist. When he found it and chugged the contents, it hurt but felt so right.

  It burnt away his fear and confusion. The last thing he saw were the rubies showering down on him. They glowed with a red fire and scared him again just before death claimed him. He felt strangely vindicated. It felt fitting to depart a life that had been lived in morbid fear, expecting the worst and have it actually happen to you.

  5

  Eagle’s Nest

  Agni got down at the railway station and hitched a ride on an empty garbage truck to Kodakara. It smelled even worse than the dried fish but it was the only vehicle that stopped for him on the highway. He could feel his mood lifting as they wound their way up the charming little hill-station. Even the air was so much fresher, and the wind nipped at him playfully. Monkeys that had long made their home on the hilly terrain boldly jumped into the truck, accepting the biscuits he held out for them, and sat next to him, nibbling on the morsels he fed them, chittering away to glory.

  He had always wanted a pet monkey but his twin had vetoed the idea, even before his mother had put the final kibosh on his plans. Varu claimed they were carriers of the Ebola virus, and if bitten by an infected monkey, they would all die horribly, with black puke gushing out their mouths and blood pouring out thickly from every other orifice. His twin had always been a morbid creature. How was it possible that he still missed her as much as he did?

  Anxious to distract himself, Agni wondered what Mino and Dharami were doing. He hoped that both had come to terms with their personal demons better than he had. Thinking about the terrible two made him smile. The truck driver was a nice bloke and drove him all the way to a little store Agni liked to frequent whenever he visited. Thanking him warmly, Agni handed over a few notes and walked on.

  Puja Stores was tucked some distance away from the teeming mess of the town, and Agni loved it because it had not yet made it to the notice of the tourist guides. Besides, he loved how the tiny shop was always warm, with delicious aromas wafting through it, and how, like Hermione Granger’s little beaded purse, it could enclose multitudes within it despite being so ostensibly small.

  He bought toiletries, bread, eggs, butter, tinned ham, house marmalade and Szechuan chutney. The proprietor was famous for her home-made butterscotch ice cream loaded with chunks of pralines, and Agni decided to get a scoop for the road. Plump Puja (he wasn’t sure that was her real name but that was what he called her in his head), with the unevenly dyed hair, placed two scoops in the cup, muttering like she always did whenever her customers confounded her, ‘You youngsters and your fad diets! In my day we ate well, and naturally we were strong, hardy folk, not puny runts like the miserable kids nowadays! Why, you are nothing but a bag of bones . . . If you had half a brain, you would take a wife who knows how to cook and fatten a man up.’

  It was a game they had been playing for a while now. ‘It is your fault,’ Agni told her solemnly. ‘I keep asking you to marry me but your steady refusals have broken my heart and food no longer interests me.’ She blushed at that and looked mightily pleased.

  ‘You come here once in a blue moon and have the nerve to make your indecent proposals to a married woman! Get lost before my husband puts a bullet in that thick skull!’

  Agni gave her a big tip he could not afford. It was angrily refused, but she accepted his handshake with a solemn and embarrassed air. He knew that she would have, like always, snuck in some more of her famous treats with his groceries. Puja the Sugar Fairy, or whatever her name was, was a real doll.

  Grinning after what felt like ages, Agni ate his ice cream as he trudged towards the largely forgotten gravel road that branched off the main road. It had been severely damaged by a landslide and was abandoned. His leg was killing him but the unconquered wildness that opened up before him was almost worth bearing the pain. So he gritted his teeth and plodded on, leaving behind, with nary a twinge of regret, the dirt-strewn streets, dingy dwellings, garish hotels and tumbledown stores that pockmarked the town like open sores.

  Agni trudged along and into the twisted logging trail on the last left; the path cut through forest and hill alike to take him to the little log cabin that had recently come into his possession, after an uncle he had not seen in years left him Eagle’s Nest in his will. It was without doubt the nicest thing that had happened to him in this lifetime.

  A tiny footbridge stood guard over a slim creek. As children, he and Varu had once ‘borrowed’ their mum’s sari to catch fish at that very spot and had eventually feasted on the tiny, silvery fish, after she had recovered from the holy fit she pitched once the unhappy fate of her favourite chiffon was discovered.

  The tiny ribbon of crystal-clear water no doubt meandered into one of the many waterfalls that made for popular tourist destinations in Kodakara. People would pose with the silver cascade in the background, and when it was warm enough, they dived right in, noisy as you please. Some brought picnic lunches and left behind apple cores, bones and plastic bottles and wrappers around, proving yet again that most humans are far messier than pigs. Agni was not a fan of tourists.

  Eagle’s Nest was a compact, well-built log cabin sitting pretty in the embrace of the lush greenery of a silent, mysterious forest. The structure had clean, classic lines, with a vine-covered porch, decent-sized kitchen and living room, a bathroom tucked in under the stairs, and a loft bedroom on the first floor, artfully perched like an eagle’s nest. It afforded a spectacular view and gave the dwelling its name.

  He did have electricity but there was no TV, DVD player or any fancy electronic gadgets. Agni wanted nothing more than to take the longest hot shower known to mankind, make himself some sandwiches and hit the sack, then repeat the process till the end of time. To his surprise, he got through the first two parts of his grand ambition without a hitch.

  The water had been scalding hot and bracing. And his egg sandwich had been wicked even if he did say so himself. His sweet-treats fairy had packed him a thick slice of hazelnut-and-chocolate cake, and he wolfed it down to the last moist crumb. Varu had always been openly jealous of his ability to stuff his face as much as he pleased without ever gaining weight. She claimed she did not have the luxury of becoming the pig she would have liked to be, for that would have meant ballooning to pregnant-sow proportions. Mino tended to grouse about his tendency to not put on weight too. He smiled at the memory.

  Then there was nothing left to do but avail himself of the comforts of his cosy bed with a fami
liar, well-thumbed manuscript that had long been his only companion in the sack. As was his practice, he read till his eyes closed of their own accord. For a beautiful spell, he was dead to the world and blissful.

  Then, at the point where sleep had torn down every one of his defences, leaving him as vulnerable as the day he was born, they came for him. The dreaded visions. It was the blueprint of a horrific future that would be his inheritance and the world’s as well; it was up to him to unlock its true meaning and somehow figure out a way to stop it from becoming a painful reality.

  Agni was all alone and felt it, as he stood smack dab in the middle of a burnt-out town. He had been here before, in what felt like another lifetime. They were everywhere now, these little blackened shells that had once stood proud and tall, a testament to a time when mankind had reached the pinnacle of civilization. Now they just showed how the humans had destroyed everything, including themselves.

  The great doom that had claimed everything had been sudden and overwhelming. But obviously, in retrospect, they should have seen it coming. Perhaps they did and had done their best, which was too little too late to stop those among them who insisted on stockpiling weapons of mass destruction, bulldozing hills, filling up oceanfronts and dumping their toxins into the waterbodies.

  Malls, offices, apartment blocks, parks, temples, churches, mosques and supermarkets, formerly high-end, swanky and elaborately constructed, were still recognizable though only their charred remains, rust-soiled corrugated roofs and ruins. The burnt debris of the religious establishments bore testament to the fact that humans had always had a tendency to obsess endlessly over the minutiae of irrelevant matters when they should have been paying heed to the big picture.