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This was the story my grand mom or Badi Amma narrated when I was young, younger than my children are today, but the memories are etched fresh in my mind. Badi Amma had a special ritual before the commencement of the story telling session.
I would fetch her small shining brass colander containing the condiments required for making of a pan. She would lovingly hold the green betel leaf in her hand and go dress the green leaf. Then neatly fold the betel leaf in a triangle and ensconce it in the depths of her cheek. As she savoured the taste, her eyes would shut briefly, a signal for the beginning of the story time.
Chulbul, my younger sister, true to her name had little patience for Amma’s elaborate ritual and tugged at the dhakai cotton sari of Amma. Ammalifted her in her arms, sat cross legged on the side of the bed and put her in her lap. Chulbul closed her eyes immediately inhaling the smell of Amma, a heady mix of incense, attar, jasmine flowers and pan.
'So where was I?' Amma asked delaying our gratification.
‘You didn’t start,’ Chulbulreminded her.
‘What?’
‘We want story,' collectively we whined
Amma started without any preamble. We hushed to hear her in a pin drop silence.
'On a moonless night, the wedding happened. Moonless nights or amavasya are not auspicious,' the old lady clarified as a matter of fact. Gloominess cringed her voice.
Who knows it better than me?
The sparkle of five carat diamond studded with emeralds, a heirloom jewelry on her withered finger gleamed at her. Amma beamed. The momentary sadness of her eyes evaporated. The diamond ring was a trophy for her ingenuity. Right under the eyes of her scheming mother-in-law, she had exchanged the genuine with fake. The old lady wanted to get it polished to gift her son's daughter-in-law. Amma got the ring on the pretext of getting it polished and the clever craftsman did the remaining. No one knew. Everyone was happy. It was simple, like taking a candy from the baby.
Living in a joint family had taught Amma the value of silence. Unlike youngsters who keep ranting Amma would just go ahead and execute her plans. Neatly. Swiftly. Silently. The old lady believed till her last breath that she had gifted a genuine ring!
'Amma, then?' Our impatient wail jerked her back to reality. Like a lightening.
'Hush! Don’t get on my nerves,' She feigned anger and got back to the track of the story.
After marriage the bridegroom and the bride had to leave at 4 am for the bridegroom's village. Before their departure, as the custom was they had to stop at the ancient temple located at the outskirts of the village and pray to the deity. It was believed that the deity in the ancient temple would grant all wishes.
'Can we skip the temple routine? The bridegroom asked the elders.
'No,' came a stern reply.
'The poor lad acquiesced. After all, he was just of eighteen. No one asked the girl. It was not required,' said Amma.
As per the custom, the bride groom left on a horse and the bride in a palanquin to visit the temple. Close to the temple was a peepal tree. Women of the village poured water on the tree on Saturday to ward off evil eye.
Who would know the tree itself harboured evil?
On the tree lived a witch. She wasn’t an evil witch, rather a benevolent one. However, that day, as the young bride, barely of sixteen bowed before the deity, seeking courage to enter in the world of marital bliss, the witch got enamoured.
The witch was not always a witch. Many moons ago she lived, breathed, ate, drank, danced just like all of us.
‘Then how did she become a witch?’ I asked. It was so difficult to contain the excitement.
‘I am coming to it,’ interjected Amma. ‘Don’t disturb me; You interrupt my train of thoughts.’ Amma curled her silver strands in an effort to give it a ringlet like look.
Bala, the witch of the peepal tree was a mother-less girl. Her mother had died in child birth. The young priest could not bear to see Bala. Her face reminded him of his departed wife, his only love. He never married again, but carnal desire that was a separate subject. He had wives in neighbouring villages, but they lived at their parent’s place. Priest Suryakant belonged to the uppermost strata of brahmins. He was allowed the privilege to have wives more than one. Naturally, wives and religious ceremonies kept him busy. He would rarely remain at home. The girl grew up mostly alone in the company of conniving aunts and relatives. To ward off loneliness, she made friends with unknown. Just like we human beings live on the earth, the spirits also coexist. They can’t be seen by all. Only those who are attuned to them can feel them. Bala was one of those. Amma paused to give a dramatic effect.
‘Continue....’we screeched. Ammagave a contented look. The story had cast a spell on the listeners.
‘Fetch me a glass of water,’ Ammadrawled. I am an old lady, she reminded us.
I ran to get her the glass of water.
Ammafinished the drink in a gulp and continued.
Young Bala fell in love. Her lover was an exceptionally handsome young man. On full moon night, Bala would stay in the middle of the forest waiting for him. He brought her fragrant jasmine flowers in autumn. Bala loved jasmine flowers.
‘Just like you, Amma,’ I said.
Ammagrinned. ‘Yes, my love, just like me.'
No one in the village wore fragrant jasmine in autumn, except Bala. The girls were jealous of her. They wanted to meet her lover, but Balawould not let anyone see him. He was only for her.
Together in the forest they would walk miles hand-in-hand. One day Bala was not well. He carried her in his arms. That day, she noticed the amulet around his neck and a serpent shaped armlet on his sinewy arms. Gingerly she touched his arm. He flinched.
‘Are you okay?’ Balaasked.
‘Yes and No, ‘he answered.
‘What do you mean?’ Balawas concerned.
‘I long for your touch, but can’t bear it. It burns me.’
Balawas hurt. He doesn’t love me, she thought.
‘Poor child!’ Ammaexpressed her sorrow for Bala
'Are you not wasting your sympathy on her?' I was quick to judge her. She was the witch of the peepaltree. The curiosity got better of me and I shouted, ‘Tell more.'
Amma rolled her eyes at my insolence. I looked sideways.
'I have to straighten my legs,' Amma said. Chulbul had slept in her lap by then. I picked Chulbul from her lap. She massaged her feet and knees. Ammahobbled to the bed motioning me to put Chulbulon it. As soon as I laid her on the bed, Ammacovered Chulbul with her favourite teddy bear quilt. She lied beside her and I snuggled closer to her.
‘Amma, you didn’t answer my query,’ I persisted.
Ammastretched her feet and stroked my hair. ‘It’s getting late, why don’t you sleep?’ She suggested.
‘No, Amma, I want to hear the story. I can’t sleep until I get to know the end.’
Ammagave me a dejected smile and continued.
Balahad fallen in love with a person from the outer world.
‘Like ghost,’ I enquired.
‘Yes,’ said Amma and became quiet. An uncomfortable silence lingered.
When did Bala know that he was a ghost? This was getting spookier than I imagined.
It was purely accidental. Balaand her lover were walking in the woods. She was feeling tired and stopped by a pond to drink water. Sitting there she caught her reflection, but his reflection was not there. Gingerly she touched the jasmine string tucked in her braid. The flowers were fresh as the morning dew.
Spirits don’t have shadows.
Her father’s words rang in her mind.
Startled she looked at him. His eyes bore regret. They spoke the unsaid.
With feet as heavy as lead she came back home. He was not for real.
The days dragged without mirth. She was a living corpse. Then her marriage was decided by elders. A night prior to her wedding she hung herself from the peepal tree. In the morning her body was found. She was not cremated. Going against the diktats of the religion, her father didn’t let a burning pyre touch her. It would scar her face, the face he loved the most in the world, his departed true love, his wife. They buried her. From then she lived in the peepal tree.
‘And her love….’I questioned. ‘Now that she belonged to his world, did she unite with him?’
No. In their world, she was an outcast. She had deliberately taken her life. Her soul was a shadow now, trapped in a world of darkness. True love had metamorphosed her in a shadow. Her life was pale and had been like that for years. On moonless nights her pain multiplied several times..
That day, when the bride prayed for marital bliss, Bala’s shadow of the soul became restless. Crouched on the peepal tree nothing escaped her eyes:
The way young bridegroom squeezed his bride’s hands beneath her veil. Her downcast eyes, quiver and the shy smile, reserved only for him.
What bliss lies in marriage? How would life have been if I would have united with my love?
As the girl got up and carefully adjusted her veil while crossing the peepal tree, in a whiff, Bala captured her soul and entered in her body.
No one knew and Balaentered the life of matrimony. She experienced shades of emotions she never had: passion, jealousy, anger even hatred, but most importantly attachment. Something she had never felt before.
Madhav, her husband was a farmer like most men of the village. But, unlike other men he was sensitive. Every evening after he returned from the fields she served him dinner, a meager preparation, but they ate it together from the same plate. On everything important or trivial he sought her opinion. Whenever he went out of the village, he got her glass bangles and jasmine flower strings, in season. Once he got her a parrot to fill her void created by childlessness. Never did he utter a harsh word to her.
Every night when they went to sleep, like other women, she didn’t sleep on the mud floor; rather they shared the same bed. Love flowered between them. She was his breath. Then the unthinkable happened. She felt a flutter in her abdomen. A life had begun to live inside her. It was an unmistakable feeling. She felt powerful, akin to God, someone with whom her soul wanted to merge with now. Not any more. She could create life, just like him. The thing called love had consummated her soul. She forgot that she was a witch, a non-living.
In all these ten years, even once, Bala didn’t go back to her home. But now she had to. The custom was that the first child was born at the parent’s place. Bala was hesitant. What if they recognized that she was not her daughter?
‘Can’t I stay here?’ She asked as they prepared for the bed.
‘I also don’t want you to go, but how do I handle these women,’ he expressed his anguish.
‘That’s because you don’t love me,’ she resorted to the oldest argument known to a woman.
‘They just don’t listen to me. It’s difficult for me to live without you,’ he threw his hand up in frustration. Lovingly, he caressed her hair. ‘You smell so good, always of attar, he commented.
‘That’s because, I wear it all the time,’ she teased him.
He held her in a tight embrace. Her soul danced.
I will not go anywhere. If I go you are also coming, her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.
They slept in close embrace. She had never felt happier. In the dead of the night, a serpent came from nowhere. Stealthily he crawled to the bed and bit Madhav.
Madhav yelped. His primal cry woke up Bala. She knew that cry. She had felt it when her soul was leaving her body. Love pooled in his dark brown eyes and they were for her. He knew it was time for him to go. I am thirsty, his voice was just a whisper.
Water from Bala was no less than the sacred Ganga jal. Balacradled his head. Tears were flowing freely. The bite had turned blue. Froth began to appear on his mouth.
Water, he said with all his might.
She couldn’t leave him. Not now. She stretched her hand and it went till the well, filled a pot, poured it in the glass and came back to the room.
She offered water to Madhav.
He was paralyzed with naked fear and venom.
His pupils had dilated. ‘Who are you?’ They asked silently. Before Bala could explain they shut forever.
No one saw Bala after that night.
