In 2003, I received a call from Mamaji asking me for a favor. He wanted me to take a small trip to Bhalanetra, my ancestral village, to collect some property documents from the man he had just sold his land to. At that time, I was living in West Bengal and was in the final year of my graduation from law university. My exams were getting over in a week and I was planning to go back to Mumbai as soon they were done. Since the journey would only take three or four hours by train, I agreed - on the condition that he would bring a gift for me from Europe when he came back. A week later I was on board the Mithila Express and on my way to Darbhanga. It had been a couple of years since I had last travelled by train and I had forgotten how uncomfortable these journeys could get. I had my seat exchanged twice during the four hours: first by an elderly couple who wanted to sit together but had seats in different compartments, and then by a group of pilgrims. When I thought I could finally rest, I found myself in a berth next to a family of seven who had happily accommodated all of their extra luggage below my seat. I suffered in silence under the weight of two large college trunks for the rest of the afternoon. I arrived at the village just before sunset. My father had arranged a ride for me from the railway station to our house and had sent for someone to clean up the place before I got there. I spent the trip gazing out, trying to recognize any of the houses and shops from memory as they passed by and to see if I could spot anyone I knew. But it was of no use, I had been to Bhalanetra only twice in my life: once for my grandmother’s funeral and later for my grandfather’s.
My father had grown up in Mumbai, and although he visited the village every summer during his childhood, he never grew attached to it the way my grandfather did. After he got married to my mother, who was from Madras, he never went back to Bhalanetra. This choice wasn’t out of any personal spite against the village; but because there wasn’t anything left to go back to. The house that my grandfather had built was beginning to grow old and break apart. No family members lived in the village, or rather any people at all. With the exception of four or five families – who were all just old people – the village was dead. Just acres and acres of empty land spreading out for miles with a few houses here and there. Even at its peak in the 1950s the population was always barely a hundred.
But despite the apparent absence of activity, there had been quite a buzz a few years ago in the village at the Sarpanch’s house- which happened to be the one next to ours. The maid who worked there entered their home as usual one morning and discovered that nobody was home. There were plates with half eaten food lying on the ground in the courtyard and the television was still on. The stove in the kitchen was switched on, the flame on low and the food in the pan an indistinct burnt crisp. The maid, a middle-aged woman who had worked at the house for twenty years, didn’t think this was unusual at all and simply thought they must have gone to their relatives for something urgent. She washed all the dishes, sweeped the floor, dusted the furniture and left an hour later. It was only when she came for her second shift that evening and found the house still deserted that she realised something was not quite right. She alerted the neighbours and the next day, for the first time in almost fifty years the police made a visit to Bhalanetra. People from all over the village arrived in flocks to see the ordeal. The police made their investigation- they spoke to several neighbours, shopkeepers and the maid, and a thorough search of the house was made to examine any signs of a break in or crime having took place. It was reported that no money, clothing, furniture or jewellery was missing from the house. The lockers in the almirah were intact, the windows were closed shut and there was no evidence pointing at foul play. As baffling as it was, everything was right where it should have been, apart from the family. Six human beings had vanished into thin air overnight. The case ran on for two more weeks and when all their efforts to trace them failed, the investigation was shut down.
I had just begun my first year of college when this incident happened. I remember my mother telling me about it on the phone, but my mind was too preoccupied to register it properly at the time. Now that I had to spent two nights right next to the house, I couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled.
My thoughts were interrupted as the car took a sharp turn and all of a sudden the house popped up into view. The headlights briefly flooded the building with white light and I caught a glimpse of the wall with the paint peeling off it. Then the car swerved to the right once again and the house disappeared completely. It was pitch black outside. I quickly took out the flashlight from my bagpack and stepped out. The driver, a timid looking boy who didn’t look much older than me, helped me carry my luggage inside. I pulled out a twenty rupee note from my pocket, which he wildly refused to accept while mumbling something about my father. I insisted, and he finally took it while smiling sheepishly at me.
The house was dark. I stepped inside and saw that a wooden cot had been laid out in the courtyard. I took a look at my watch and was shocked to see that it was only half past eight. It was pretty early by city standards, but in the village everybody seemed to have already fallen asleep. I spotted the switchboard and turned on the light, whose only source turned out to be a single bulb dangling dangerously right above my cot. The exterior of the house was in an almost dilapidated state. The last time it had been inhabited was seven years ago, when my father visited the village for a distant relative’s funeral, and since then it had been completely neglected. The only tenants were stray animals and birds, who had were all hiding somewhere at the moment, having discovered me before I discovered them. But it was apparent that at least one of their species was here, because despite the cleaning earlier that day there was the very recognisable odor of cat urine in the air.
I looked around to see if there were any pair of eyes staring at me, or if there were any scurrying movement around in the bushes- but there was no sign of the cat. I laid out my suitcase on the cot, took out my pajamas and changed in the courtyard itself. I glanced once at the house behind me- the one with the history- and only dark, soulless windows stared back at me. There were some snacks I had bought at the railway station earlier and for dinner I ate two samosas. It was a disappointing meal.
By the time I was done settling in, an hour had passed. I was beginning to feel drowsy and since there was nothing else to do for me I decided to call it a day. As I walked over to the switchboard to turn the measly lightbulb off, I heard something behind my back. I turned, and discovered that a scrawny looking cat was sitting under my cot. There was a bowl of milk placed in front of it which I had somehow not noticed until now, and it was looking straight at me. I stood transfixed, taking in its miserable appearance; the ribs visible from under its dark, dirty coat, the bony face, and its tail, which had been diminished to the point that it resembled an electric cord. I slowly stepped towards it, with my hands lowered towards the ground so that it didn’t consider me a threat. It didn’t budge from its place, and continued to assess me with an apprehensive stare. I crouched, and a smile crept across my face when it was within my hand’s reach, still unmoving. And just then, as if realisation suddenly dawned on it, the cat jumped a few feet back and bolted towards the wall that separated the house with the other one. It sprang six feet into the air and landed smoothly on the wall, and from there it looked back at me with almost a snarky expression. Then it opened its mouth and loud meow erupted in the silent night air- a sound that I didn’t think was even physically possible for such a frail animal to make. And then it disappeared.
I was amused by this short encounter and as a gesture decided to let the milk bowl stay under my bed. I wondered if the person who had come in earlier that day seen the cat too and kept the milk bowl there out of pity.
Amidst thoughts of law school, home, Mamaji’s task, and the cat I finally fell asleep somewhere around ten that night. Sleep was difficult to get, partly because it was a hot summer night that rural Bihar is especially notorious for, and partly because of the countless mosquitoes that had besieged me. I tried to shield myself under the blanket, and though it helped momentarily, I couldn’t bear the extra heat and had to give in. Despite that, because it was the first night in weeks that I didn’t have to worry about an exam the next morning, I slept considerably well.
Eventually I was dreaming about getting to eat my mother’s food- cauliflower pakodas fresh off the pan, gulab jamuns, her delicious cookies that had got over in just one day because my roommates ate it all - buying a car from my first salary, taking my little brother for a ride- my professor announcing the top scorer of the year, me sitting in the ocean of faceless students, sure that he would say my name- I couldn’t wait for it, I was already beginning to get up from my seat to walk up to the stage, the professor looked at the piece of paper in his hands, adjusted the mic and opened his mouth to speak- but instead of saying a name-
SLURRP. SLURRP. SSSLURRRP.
I woke up, startled. It took me a moment to realise I had been dreaming, and immediately I became aware of the sound that had woken me up.
SLURP. SLURP. SLURP.
The cat. It was back and was drinking its milk with much too enthusiasm. Slightly annoyed and still half-asleep, I peeked below my bed.
My eyes met with those of an incredibly old woman crouched on the ground, beads of milk surrounding her lips. Dark, dirty long hair covered most of her wrinkle filled face and her cheekbones looked like they were about to burst out. I blinked. The cat was sitting where the woman had been a second ago. It looked at me with wide pupils and licked its mouth. I lifted my head, turned to the other side and went back to sleep. The slurping resumed.
The next morning was more busy for me than I had expected it to be. The man who I was supposed to meet wasn’t home, and I had to ask around the village about his whereabouts. Eventually I found him at the market, having his lunch at ten in the morning at a dhaba. He recognised me immediately, said the last time he had seen me I was no taller than Kunti- pointing to a goat tied to a stick nearby. As he went down the nostalgia road talking about how the village had changed in recent years, I only responded with nods and awkward smiles. One hour later, I finally had the documents that Mamaji needed and I left the man house’s after drinking a glass of milk that he had much insisted upon. When I returned to the house that afternoon I was met with an interesting sight. The cat from the previous night had brought along some of its friends. When I entered they were all sleeping huddled together on my cot. They raised their heads in a synchronised motion and looked at me.
I had not given any thoughts to what I had seen the previous night. There was no way to say for sure I had not dreamt it. And since I had to sleep one more night in the house it seemed like a bad decision to ponder over it while I was still here. In retrospect, I confess that it was unsettling and made me feel very nervous, but I couldn’t accept it at the time. Anyway, the appearance of the five new cats did not make me pack my bags and leave instantly, instead I refilled the milk bowl and placed it on the ground. Immediately the cat from the night before lept from its spot and began to down the milk. The rest five stared at it from the cot.
This all seemed very amusing, so I sat down on the ground right where I was and studied the cats. The one drinking the milk, the tabby, was the smallest of the lot. In comparison to it the others looked like beasts. The biggest was a grey male and by its looks it seemed like it was also the oldest. There was a sleek black cat, another grey, and two gingers. The tabby had almost finished half the milk when one of the gingers finally decided to have some too. It jumped gracefully in front of the bowl and had just taken its first sip when the cats sitting above suddenly sprang to their feets and made a horrible hissing sound. I instinctively backed away on my feet, and shielded my face. But the cats didn’t even glance at me; they arched their backs and their tails puffed up twice their size. And then with a swift motion all of them lunged at each other, screeching and ripping at one another. I stood frozen, my mouth agape- I had never seen cats fight like this before. It looked like a furious furry ball, rolling around the courtyard, six cats yelling and clawing; every one determined to kill the other. Then before I had dead cats in my house, I pulled my slippers from my feet and then without thinking hurled it at the cats. The fight broke out almost instantly and the cats bolted towards the wall, yelping, and jumped across it.
Unable to figure out what had caused this sudden outburst of violence, I took the bowl of milk inside and drained it into the kitchen sink. No more milk for anybody, I decided.
The rest of the day went by uneventfully. I spent it reading my novel and taking naps in between, sometimes both at once. At one point I decided to explore the first floor of the house, but when I stepped on the wooden staircase it made such a frightful groan that I decided against it. In the evening I went for a walk around the neighborhood. I didn’t come across anybody, but I did hear some women singing hymns from a house as I passed it. Apart from the cats, it was a very peaceful place and for a strange moment I wondered how it would be like to stay here forever. No people to bother you, no cars and bikes, none of the modern day amenities. Just a quiet house in a quiet village, with a few rowdy felines.
My thoughts came to a pause as I reached the Sarpanch’s house. It was a two storey building, and apart from its slightly better condition it greatly resembled our own house. I stood there, by the door, thinking about how the entire family had disappeared overnight. I just couldn’t believe it. Surely they must have done something bad and decided to make a run for it when they realised they had messed up. Maybe they were hiding at a relatives’ place and when the police had turned up they had simply hidden again? Perhaps the police were on it and had been bribed by the family to stay quiet about it and help them make it appear as if they had vanised? The law enforcement in Bihar is notoriously corrupt, but I couldn’t understand why someone, much less an entire family, could decide it was a good idea for them to abandon their house and all their things and make it look like they had disappeared. I decided to take a peek inside the house. The wall was low enough for me to climb over. I raised my hands on the top and hoisted my legs on the wall, I was just about to jump over when I stopped. I couldn’t do it. At that moment it felt like a very wrong thing to do, almost dangerous. I cannot explain that feeling. I was not afraid, nor was I overcome by any feelings of moral judgement. Two seconds ago I wanted to see the inside of the house more than anything, but that feeling had completely disappeared. I stood there grabbing the wall like a monkey with my thoughts wavering, then jumped back down and went back home.
I ate at the dhaba I had visited earlier that morning. It turned out to be a surprisingly better dinner than I had expected it to be; sufficiently cheap, filling and nearly delicious. I complimented the cook and promised him I would visiting every night from now. He didn’t reply and just frowned back at me.
The train I had to catch was early in the morning, and after I had packed my bags I went to sleep two hours before my usual bedtime. I kept all thoughts of the previous night out of my mind, and fell asleep soon enough.
I must have hardly slept for an hour when something woke me up. A cat was meowing somewhere. I shut my eyes as soon as I opened them and froze completely, not daring to move an inch. But despite my efforts, I couldn’t drive away the image of the woman under the cot from my brain. She kept staring back at me with her dead eyes. I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, afraid that at any moment someone was going to reach out to pry them open. The meowing grew louder and louder and turned to snarling, and suddenly there was more than one cat doing it. They were somewhere near the Sarpanch’s house. It sounded like they were in pain, but there was no fighting. The snarls turned to howls and then to groans. It didn’t sound like cats anymore. The silent night was filled with a cacophony of human groaning. It was at this point that I opened my eyes an inch and saw what was happening. There were six figures in various positions creeping across the walls of the Sarpanch house. They were slow moving, long haired creatures wailing and crying as they writhed across the flatboards like reptiles. The woman from under the cot was slithering below the rest of them and half meowing, half groaning. Their bodies were naked, their skin stooped so low it looked like dripping candle wax and their mouths were agape- there was no tongue, and the only sound that came out was the long, drawn out painful groaning mixed with feline noises.
How long it went on for, I do not know. Maybe it was just a few minutes, but as I lay there, unable to move and make any sound, it felt like eternity. I kept my eyes shut and did not look even when the groaning and crying seemed to come closer towards me. At one point I felt a sudden warmth near my waist and for one horrible moment I thought they had finally found me, but as the sensation spread I realised I had urinated.
Eventually, it stopped. The night was silent again, except for a faint ticking that was my heart beating to burst out of my chest. I must have slept eventually, but when the first crack of dawn came in I jumped out of bed, fully awake. I went to the bathroom, dressed hurriedly, and then stepped outside to wait for the car that was coming to pick me.
I never told anybody about this incident at home, and nor did I confide into any of my friends either. There was a part of me which said, which tried to plead that all of it had been figments of my imagination and as the years pass I feel it is easier to believe just that. As crazy as it might sound, I visited the village once again after that- with my father. It was for a distant cousin’s wedding whose parents had insisted it take place in their home soil. We didn’t stay at our house however, it had since my fateful visit undergone so much detoriation that it was not safe to be around it. We sold the house and the land later that year, adding further to the emptiness of the village. I suspect that one day in the near future the very last of people will finally abandon Bhalanetra. All that will walk on its soil will be a family of cats.