Tales of horror, p.11
Tales of Horror, page 11
“What about all the sacrifices we have offered you over the years?” Shamitha heard Rishabh plead for his case.
Blood had completely soaked his clothes, and he was in a weakened state, but the wily man tried to weasel his way out of the sordid fate that awaited him.
Devika opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, like a fish. Her vacant eyes had the look of someone who had resigned to their fate.
Within moments, the ghastly procession vanished into the forest, leaving Shamitha to mourn alone.
She sat there for ten more minutes, weighed down by the immensity of what had just transpired. Then she got up, leaving the gun beside her on the floor.
She tottered to her car, her head hung low, and climbed in.
The forest threatened to pour into the confines of the vehicle. She slammed the door shut and locked it, shutting out its lecherous intentions.
Even the fear of the darkness blanketing her surroundings could not bring her mind back to life. She felt drained.
She began driving along the gravel road that she knew might lead to a vacuous freedom.
She drove for what felt like several kilometres through the wilderness.
Once, when she glanced to her left, she half expected to see Narain sitting there with a smile.
“Eyes back on the road, missy. You have plenty of time to admire my good looks when we get back home,” he would have said.
A fog that rolled down from the hills reduced visibility. The headlights were struggling to pierce its stubborn presence.
She came dangerously close to colliding with a mass of dark shapes that abruptly materialised in front of her, blocking the way ahead.
She held her breath as feelings surged back into her nerves. Fear embraced her with its chilly arms.
‘It was foolish to expect they would let you go. Time to flee,’ her limbic brain said.
The mist thinned as a wind rose and shepherded the clouds deeper into the wilds. The LED lamps revealed the forms of the kinnaras. A dozen of them, unarmed. They watched her intently.
“What do you want now? Did you just let me go to give me false hope? So you can hunt me again, you fucked up bastards,” she said to no one in the car.
They did not move for what seemed like an eternity. Tension ached in and around her shoulders as she waited impatiently.
She honked at them.
They cocked their heads sideways and studied the car briefly before resuming their vigil.
Shamitha mentally prepared herself to drive through the horde.
She had just placed her foot on the accelerator when the mob parted and a small figure emerged from the throng.
It stepped into the light and revealed itself to be a human boy.
On closer inspection, his features seemed familiar to her.
She tracked him breathlessly as he walked to the passenger side of the car and tried to open the door.
As the boy struggled with the handle, recognition dawned on Shamitha.
‘Is this an illusion to trick me?’ she wondered.
The boy looked upset as he stepped back from the door.
“No. It can’t be,” she muttered.
Throwing caution to the wind, Shamitha disengaged the lock, leaned over, and pushed open the door.
The boy stepped forward.
They both stared at each other before a smile of recognition blossomed collectively on their lips.
“Come, darling,” Shamitha said.
Ashwath climbed into the car seat.
He did not have bald spots on his head or black bags beneath his eyes. His grin was as dazzling as the sun.
He was not the kid she had laid to rest. He was from the time before that awful disease sapped all of his vigour.
He resembled the bundle of energy that tore up the grounds of Don Bosco School—the chatterbox who kept her entertained during their trips to the mall.
“Ma,” he called out to his slack-jawed mother.
Shamitha unbuckled her seatbelt and hugged him close to her chest.
She took in the sweet scent of his hair and knew it was her beautiful boy.
A sob broke free from her lips.
The warmth of their embrace radiated outward, comforting her mind, healing her broken body, even as the tears streamed freely from her eyes.
Shamitha turned to face the road ahead, even as she stroked her son’s back.
It was empty. The kinnaras had returned to their cursed abode to continue their penance; to persist with their rituals to appease the dweller in the darkness.
Shamitha put the seatbelts on Ashwath and herself. Then she drove on, hoping for the sight of dawn.
C h a p t e r
1
“He must meet the Black Man, and go with them all to the
throne of Azathoth at the centre of ultimate Chaos.”
H. P. Lovecraft
“The Dreams in the Witch House”
Inevitably, this pennukaanal (the pre-wedding ritual of the groom and his family visiting a prospective bride) too would end in failure for Roshan. It was also fated that someone would remark about the early onset of his baldness as a cause for the rejection.
Ramya was blunt when she confessed to him in the confines of her room that she had never found him attractive.
“I had told them when I saw your photograph initially not to bother with this visit,” she said sheepishly. “But they insisted, saying that a photograph is never a good representation of what someone actually looks like.”
Roshan pulled down his shirt, as if to shield himself from the humiliating words.
He skirted the comment to ask about her sketches on the wall.
“Well done,” he said as he got up from the rickety chair. “You must keep drawing.”
He exited the room and hurriedly ushered his stunned family members—his mother, two uncles, and a cousin—out of the residence.
As they walked towards the bus stop, he heard a hushed conversation between his maternal uncle and the marriage broker. “This is the 23rd one ending in failure. Is it possible for you to find him a suitable match, or should we get a new broker?” he said angrily.
“What can I do, sir? The ladies these days want Shahrukhs and Salmans. With a head like that. . .” the broker grovelled.
Roshan focused on the crunching gravel underneath his feet as he swept a palm across his head. He encountered thinning hair swept across the scalp in a comb-over, smooth sections where the hair was completely missing, and rough patches where dry, flaky scales crusted the surface. Over the years, he had tried many ointments (herbal and western) and pills to counter the vicious pestilence ravaging his scalp. But like a stubborn traitorous populace refusing to quell its insurrection, the condition clung to him, slowly eroding his confidence and joy.
Not that he didn’t have redeeming features. He had unblemished skin, an alluring smile that revealed perfectly straight teeth, and eyes that sparkled with intelligence. He was intelligent and held a good position at a successful accounting firm. He was also well liked by his family, colleagues, and members of society. However, despite his many admirable qualities, the women and their guardians could not look past his hair loss.
The hurt inflicted on his soul manifested as a throbbing pain in his temples. He was determined not to shed tears in front of his relatives. He would do that in his room.
As the bus stop came into view, he sensed his mother Sudha’s sad gaze on the back of his head.
C h a p t e r
2
Roshan hated Mondays, like most people. The bitter commentary on his baldness and the rejection over the weekend made it worse than usual. He couldn’t pay attention to his work. Thankfully, he had a quiet day, as the firm had just come out of the hectic tax filing season.
He left early that day, hoping to catch a movie by himself. He didn’t care what he watched, as long as it was not too crowded and he could distract his mind with popcorn and colourful on-screen happenings.
On the way to the theatre, he saw an enormous billboard that was a larger replica of the ads popping up around the city for a herbal hair growth medicine named ‘Black Magic’. It had apparently helped millions of bald men and women attain a full head of hair. Featuring the grinning visage of a famous Bollywood star, the billboard also showcased several before-and-after shots of satisfied customers.
While Roshan had paid thousands for similar snake-oil treatments in the past and had sworn off them, there was something mesmerising about the ad that he couldn’t put his finger on. Shades of sickly yellow, aggressive violet, hurtful blue, and mesmerising green created an unnatural palette of colours on the canvas, like an oil slick cast against the cityscape. It seemed to swirl and ripple with pleasing energies. Roshan attributed this effect to nifty graphic design and printing techniques.
He heard what he assumed was his inner voice calling out to him.
“Worth a try,” it hissed.
He rubbed his hands as he scanned the billboard, trying to decide.
There were expensive hair transplant surgeries available in foreign countries, but he couldn’t afford them. He needed to find affordable and effective options that would suit his budget and were closer to home. Yet, he was hesitant to sign up for another treatment program with high hopes, only to have them dashed again. After all, there is only so much disappointment one can handle.
He shook his head and drew his eyes away from the advertisement and headed towards the cinema. Little did he know, a figure in a black suit and wide-brimmed hat was observing him from the shadows of a nearby storefront.
C h a p t e r
3
Sudha was engrossed in her favourite soap opera while Roshan was polishing his shoes when the ‘Black Magic’ ad appeared on the television. A man of Roshan’s age was shown in the ad, providing a testimonial about how the pills had transformed his life. Now that he looked closely, the man vaguely resembled Roshan, with a similar pattern of baldness.
“I was shunned. Considered unattractive. I even contemplated suicide,” said the man in the advertisement as they showcased his depressed-looking polaroids.
“But then the pills transformed my life,” he suddenly declared to upbeat music, his head now featuring lustrous natural looking hair.
The picture stuttered and Roshan thought he saw the outline of a face on the TV for a brief second. “Say yes,” it mouthed wordlessly before vanishing.
It was so quick that Roshan dismissed it as an optical illusion.
The ad must have reminded his mother of the insult they had suffered over the weekend, because she suddenly remarked spitefully, “Girls, these days are so vain. Fools, the lot of them.”
“Call us on 1300333333,” the ad encouraged viewers.
Roshan stood up and exited the room, chafing at being reminded of the painful memory.
He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He was disgusted with his comb-over, which he had carefully crafted to protect his fragile confidence. The light from the bulb above shone off his bald crown beneath the thin wisps of hair and mocked him like a blazing star behind the bars of a cage. You cannot hide the shame, it declared wordlessly.
He saw in the mirror a weaker representation of manhood, one that
wouldn’t entice a woman to mate with him.
Roshan imagined having a full head of hair like the man in the ad. This version of Roshan was not a skinny wimp. He was an Adonis, with a barrel chest, bulging muscles, wide shoulders, and a sharp jawline.
But the image died out, leaving him with the truth, mocking his reveries.
Roshan cleansed his hands and face, then patted himself dry with a towel. He took one final glance in the mirror before leaving the room.
Later that night, he read the newspaper, since he was always time poor in the morning. He found it to be a very relaxing method to unwind before heading to bed.
He sat on the porch in a wicker chair, reading the updates from the Indian cricket team’s tour of New Zealand. The relentless night-time buzzing of insects came to a halt when he noticed a print ad for ‘Black Magic’, which boldly proclaimed, ‘Banish baldness. Bring back your mojo.’
The Bollywood actor in the ad was beaming as he held a dozen obsidian pills in the palm of his hand.
‘Call us at 1300333333 and leave a message. A salesperson will contact you immediately.’
Roshan looked up from the paper and gazed at the trees in the distant grove, lost in thought. Then he stood up and walked to his landline.
If Roshan had the night vision of a nocturnal bird, he would have spotted a dark figure amongst the trees watching him, grinning with delight.
C h a p t e r
4
The next morning, just as Roshan was about to leave for his office, he received a call from the pharmaceutical company. The salesperson on the line had a pleasant radio voice and informed Roshan that due to high demand, they could only send someone to him on Sunday. Roshan accepted the offer and took the news of the product’s popularity as a good sign.
After an uneventful work week, Roshan made his usual monthly pilgrimage on Saturday to visit his father at the mental hospital.
As he entered the maze of the British-era building, the aroma of disinfectant, the clamour of patients, the scuffed linoleum flooring, and the green-hued lighting welcomed him like an old friend. An orderly accompanied Roshan to the recreation room where his father played carrom with fellow patients.
Sushil’s wrinkled face, covered in age spots, lit up when he saw his son. He stood up gingerly and pointed to an empty couch near the tall barred windows.
Over the last year, his father’s physical and mental condition had improved. A sense of dignity had returned to his person. His once bony shoulders and sunken chest had filled out thanks to his increased willingness to eat three meals a day. As psychotic episodes had become far and few, the doctors had approved more leisure time and the opportunity to mingle with others.
The orderly bid Roshan farewell, but others dressed in navy-blue uniforms watched the volatile occupants in the room.
Father and son sat across from each other and exchanged greetings.
“How are you, son?” Sushil asked in a placid tone.
Roshan felt a tinge of sadness as he updated his father on news from the outside world. Despite the improvements, his father, who was admitted to the institution five years ago would probably never leave. An attack on his mother, days before his father was committed to the clinic, and a few violent incidents during his stay, had sealed his fate. His symptoms could only be managed under close and expert supervision. Outside of these four walls, he was a ticking time bomb.
His mother could not bring herself to see Sushil, which he understood. But he lamented his father’s absence from their everyday life.
Sushil listened to his son attentively and spoke up only once. When Roshan informed him about the pennukanal incident, he consoled him and shared some wise words on how judgemental people can be. His mental illness had gifted him great insights into how the world perceived people who were different; people who didn’t measure up to their standards of beauty or ‘normalcy’.
Roshan grabbed a glass of water for his father when he said he was thirsty. He chatted about the new hair-growth treatment he was considering.
“Just like your medication has been helping you, I hope this one gives me a full head of hair. It has a fancy name too—Black Magic,” Roshan said, grinning.
Sushil spat the liquid he was consuming and slammed the glass against the coffee table. A succession of painful spasms contorted his face.
Roshan gripped the couch as he sat up in alarm.
The change in his father’s demeanour was almost instant. It was as if an unseen force had descended into his soul and altered his being.
“Do you hear the piping of the infernal flute?” Sushil said.
“What did you say?” Roshan asked.
“Maybe it’s too early. Soon you will hear the malign piping,” his father said, a broad, insane grin tearing up his previously serene face.
“What do you mean, Acha?” Roshan said.
“The maddening drums will grace your ears soon. And the black ooze will flow freely. Gifts will be given and fealty will be demanded,” he continued.
Sushil’s limbs flailed and his torso jerked wildly. He mumbled sentences that sounded like nonsense verse as his face twisted into a scowl.
“His dancers have failed. He has awoken, and his intent bleeds through the tears in space and time,” his father rambled.
Roshan stood up and looked at the orderly, who started forward.
His father hooted, startling Roshan. Then he sprang up and slapped himself repeatedly on the cheeks. The loud smacks drew the attention of the others in the room.
He continued drumming his face rhythmically with his open palms, his eyes darting between his fellow patients. It was as if he was transmitting a coded message through the smacks and the crazed intensity of his gaze. It served as a clarion call to their dormant tics and hysterical behaviours.
Soon, the room was a circus of tormented beings removed from reality, their medicated states suppressed to welcome a carnival of mania and phobias. The shrieking patients swung and leapt around the room like wild animals and bared their teeth at those who dared to impede their maddening movements. An impromptu band of musicians playing imaginary flutes lined up against a wall, orchestrating the madness with inaudible strains of unsettling music.The orderlies, realising they needed more bodies in the room to restore order, got on their radios and requested assistance. They intervened minimally while they waited for backup.
Roshan’s skin crawled as he watched the terrifying spectacle playing out before him. The crazed actions of the patients did not seem random. It was as if they were recreating the infernal sights of a throne room from some wretched corner of hell.
He was caught unawares when someone leapt on his back and placed him in a chokehold. He crashed into the couch with his attacker on his back. The forearm that crushed his windpipe compromised his ability to breathe.
