If I have to describe myself in a single word, I would happily use the word ‘Rational’ because I take everything with a pinch of salt that is to say I do not believe in anything without analysing it. Now once you are hardened by this mould of rationality, you feel constrained by this compulsive need to find logic in every little transgression in the natural order of the things which takes away all the mystery that is inherent to these transgressions. My wife though, has a completely different outlook
Having been brought up in what one would describe to be a fairly religious household, she believes in the Ultimate authority of the Supernatural and seeks to find God’s will in every idiosyncrasies of this universe. It is her version of ‘God works in mysterious ways’ while I am trained to question and analyse, to dissect and disrobe the supernatural and discover the truth that is cloaked to the naked eyes.
I have been married to my lovely wife for the last seven years and we are a small family of three people, my son, whom I love more than anything in the world is only six now. My wife on the other hand is thirty two and yet doesn’t seem to have developed the sense of critical thought that would be expected of her. Her lacking in those faculties have become rather more disturbing in the recent years.
Just take this instance for example.
When my son was born six years back, she told me one of her grandmother’s spooky stories and till today I cannot think about it without breaking into a fit of laughter. I know this sounds outrageous but I simply cannot help it. We live in an age where we have successfully dispelled the notion of a Supernatural Being micromanaging each and every moment in the lives of billions of people, while my wife believes in a story that is not only stupid but outrightly condescending to the human faculties of critical thinking.
We were yet to name our child when she narrated to me this particular story. It goes something like this.
Once upon a time, my wife’s late great-great-grandfather, when he was a little boy, had accused his friend of stealing a silver cup. So when the friend was confronted about it, he naturally denied stealing it but was beaten black and blue until he accepted the guilt of stealing the cup. It was only discovered later that my wife’s great-great-grandfather had misplaced the cup and falsely accused his friend of stealing just to escape punishment. But the ‘friend’ who was grievously and quite mercilessly beaten by my wife’s then family members succumbed to his injuries and has since then haunted the family for several generations seeking vengeance for the injustice meted out to him.
At this point I had already stopped listening to this nicely concocted cock and bull story and continued playing with my newborn. I vaguely remember her describing several inexplicable events that cemented their fear that the boy was really back as a spirit for vengeance and seemed to haunt only the newborn male members of the family.
Later she went on to describe how her grandfather invited an esteemed exorcist and performed a seance to speak to the vengeful spirit. Then she told me how negotiations were made and the spirit agreed to spare the family if a price was paid.
The price was a Silver cup.
And since then every time a boy is born in the family, they have to offer a silver cup to the ‘Spirit’ as mark of their repentance for the ignoble sins of their ancestors. Not just that but with every child they have to increase the ‘weight of the cup’ to reduce the ‘burden of the guilt’.
For the past six years my wife has pestered me incessantly to make this so called ‘Offering’ and each time, I have denied succumbing to her antics. At some point she even claimed that the spirit had appeared in her dreams and sought the offering.
“Wait for a few years and the ‘Spirit’ will be content with a steel cup and then for a few more years and it will tell you that it is satisfied with you just bearing the guilt”, I told her.
My wife didn’t like my attitude regarding the whole situation but she knew my stubbornness pertaining to such things.
I even questioned her relatives regarding this and all they told me was that it was a belief passed on for many generations and had turned into some sort of tradition. They personally didn’t believe in it but took the path of least resistance and made their respective offerings but I was determined enough to not let my sanity get muddled with this concoction of utter garbage.
I do sometimes wonder what happens to those silver cups.
The story had almost died of its natural death until my son developed this habit of listening to stories before going to bed. Now I’m quite unimaginative when it comes to all these things but my wife is an excellent story-teller. She derives this talent from her own grandmother. I like the way she tells her stories.
It’s always Omniscient God defeating the Ultimate evil and how we have to emulate it in our own lives but once in a while she tells him one of her spooky spirit stories but what really ticked me off recently was when she tried to narrate to him the story of the pending ‘Offering’.
“That is not a story for a six year old”, I told her.
“But I want to listen to it”, my son said.
“You are only six, you don’t know what you want”, I told my son and shut his eyes.
“You do this all the time”, my wife burst out, “I dont say anything when you put those heavy books in his hands but dare I tell him some of my stories, you behave as if the world will stop spinning”.
“Those books improve his knowledge”, I told her.
“Well my stories improve his imagination”, she told me.
I could continue arguing with her but there was really no point. Besides I was drained of my patience and I didn’t wish to scream or shout before my little boy. I simply got up and left for the living room while my wife resumed her spooky story.
I might dozed off or something but when I opened my eyes, it was still dark and something was clutching on to my feet. I looked down and my six year old had crawled all the way from the bedroom to the chair on which I was sitting.
“What happened? What are you doing here?”, I asked him.
“I don’t know father, but I think mother is acting very weirdly”, he said.
I got up and took quick steps towards the bedroom. The room was still dark. The windows were open and the twilight shined on my wife’s face. She was peeping out of the window into the abyss of the night while she continued narrating her story. I stood there at the door maintaining utmost silence. My son was hiding behind me.
She continued to narrate the same story. I had heard it before, for infinite number of times, but this time it felt different. There was an uncanny zeal in her tone, her expressions got animated with every passing moment and narration became more descriptive as if she was witnessing the event unfold before her bare eyes.
“Your father despises you”, she said, “he cares little about you, he wants to separate you from her”.
At this point something happened and my wife’s gaze shifted back towards me. She looked at and smiled.
“You are back”, she said with a hideous smile on her face, “Why have you come back again?”, She asked me.
I was too dumbfounded to reply. She then looked at the empty bed and realised that her son was missing. She turned her attention back towards me again. Her smile made my insides crawl. I was positively creeped out and could feel the nervousness capture my senses.
“So you have chosen this night”, she said, “To make the Offering”, She asked as she took a few steps closer to us. I stood still, numb and bewildered. The closer she came, the more animated her smile became.
“Where is he?”, She asked again, “Did you throw him into the well or bury him in our garden”.
At this point I knew what exactly I had to do. She kept coming closer and I gathered all my courage.
“WHERE IS HE?”, She screamed at my face, at the top of her voice.
I switched on the lights, pulled my son out of his hiding and screamed with all the courage that I could muster.
“YOUR SON IS HERE JYOTHIKA AND HE IS AFRAID OF YOU”.
Her expressions changed drastically. She tried to reach out to her son but the boy slipped through her grip and hid behind me again.
“What is wrong with you?”, I asked her.
“I shouldn’t have taken his name”, she said and quickly left for the bathroom. My son tightened his hold around my waist as if the ground beneath his feet were slippery.
A few moments later, she returned from the bathroom, her hair wet and her hands shivering and rushed to the small temple room. I had so many questions in my mind at this point but all I got in return was the fragrance of glowing incense and the ethereal reverberations of a few holy chants. As soon as she was done, she returned to her room, latched the door behind her and went back to sleep alone.
It was fairly idiotic of me to assume that the night’s event were a one time thing and would have no impact on our daily lives. I was wrong on so many levels. Firstly it completely changed the dynamics of our relationship. My wife barely spoke to me after that. She didn’t even let me touch her or even let me come close to her for all she did was lock herself up in the room. Then my son had distanced himself from his mother effectively turning our family into fragmented clusters where the wife never spoke to her husband and the son never spoke to his mother.
A few days later, I started receiving threatening letters from my in-laws accusing me of manhandling her and abusing her. Apparently she claimed that I threatened to beat her every night and kill her child. I tried to confront her about those accusations but she only pushed me away.
Gradually the distance between my wife and me widened with every passing day. The accusatory letters only fueled my disbelief about continuing this relationship and I began to contemplate a divorce.
Believe me, I didn’t want my son to grow up without a mother but I also knew very well that any form of reconciliation, however exhaustive would not erase the rancid memories of the past few days from my heart.
The events of that particular night had left a lasting impression on my mind and I could not think of anything else other than that particular day whenever I thought about my wife.
I made my sincere effort to try and understand her situation but all my efforts were met with hostilities. I continued receiving threatening letters, some very sadistic in nature but none seemed to be really concerned of her or my well being.
By this time, we had completely drifted apart from each other. We were living like isolated islands in a giant emotionless void but the final nail in the coffin moment came three days later when one of her uncles barged into our house.
I was sleeping on the couch when one of her uncles picked me up, jolted me out of my slumber, dragged me through the floor and pinned me against the wall. My head hurt and my vision blurred but I could see the glimpses of a man enveloped in rage as he screamed at me in his rustic tone.
“Where is she?, You scum what have you done to her?”, He asked me. I saw three other men step into the house with thick wooden staff in their hands. I recognised none of them. They all dispersed into the various corners of the house while the man who had pinned me against the wall asked again, “answer me you son of a scoundrel, where is she?”.
“In her room”.
The man wasted no time and sprinted into the room. I sat down, trying to register the turn of events but before I could compose myself, the enraged man returned again.
“I don’t see her there”, he said as he picked me up again. “Now answer me before I run out of my patience”, he said and pulled out a knife from one of his pockets and held it against my neck.
“How did you get in there?”, I asked him. “She locks the door from inside”.
“I said she is not there”, the man screamed at my face again, “Now tell me where she is or this will be the last time you’ll be talking to a living being”. I knew those were not empty words. He meant every one of them.
I put my mind to work. I couldn’t remember anything. I remembered the closed door. I remembered a child crying and then came a wave of memories crashing into my mind. I remembered her screams. “Spare him”, she begged but I didn’t care. “Spare him”, she begged again but I was a monster, devoid of mercy. I held him by his arms and pulled him away from her like I was separating a limb from a living body. My strength was unreal, almost demonic.
I pushed the man away and rushed towards the attic. I hastily climbed up the ladder and there I saw her lying on the floor, naked. Her bare back painted in thick stripes of crimson red. I was too afraid to touch her. It was not real. I knew it was not real. It couldn’t be. I wouldn’t do it to my worst enemy. It was all a story. A figment of her imagination. Yes I was living in her imagination. I was simply enacting a role in a story she concocted.
Her uncle came up and they screamed something but I had turned deaf. My eyes could only see her. My wife was lying in a state of unconsciousness. They picked her up, draped her a long piece of cloth and sprinkled some water on her. Her eyes opened but immediately her tears returned. He held on to her uncle’s arms and cried, “find him, find my son, he took him away, he took him away from me”, she said.
Soon they barged towards me, picked me up like a sack of grains and pushed me against the wall again. It was my end. I knew it. I could see my death in his eyes but then a voice called out. It was broken but it retained its sweetness. I could see her drag herself towards me. I could feel her touching my face.
” Sweetheart “, she said in her soothing voice as she ran her fingers across my face, “how are you doing? “, She asked me.
I collapsed into her arms.
” I’m not doing fine “, I told her. “ What has happened to us? “.
” We should have done it”, she said and we both cried till our eyes rab out of years.
“Now try to remember what happened last night, what did he make you do after you beat me up here? “, She asked.
I tried but there was no memory. I remembered snatching him away from her but I didn’t remember anything after that.
And then I realised something.
“You once said that I would throw him into a well”, I reminded her
” But we don’t have a well”, she said.
I quickly got up and rushed out of the attic. I ran out of our house and sprinted towards our garden. I dug up every possible place but I didn’t find my son anywhere.
I have been digging up my garden for the past thirty years. I am yet to find him. He would have been thirty six years old by now. He would have had a wife of his own and she would have borne him our grandchildren and we would have been on our way to make the Offering.
I dug up a ditch in our garden today. I know it’s a small space for him. He would be six feet tall by now or maybe less. I have apologised to the spirit. I gave him a silver cup. The medium said that the spirit has accepted my ‘Offering’.
I want to see my son before I die.