fiction

Hell

( first published in Savvy, Bombay, March 1990 )

Deep down in her heart she knew she could never love again. Not after what had happened. Not after Raymond.

Shirley Browne looked out of the window at the speeding countryside dim-lit by the afterglow of sunset. The wheels of the train pounding on the rails sent sound waves reverberating not only inside the compartment but also inside her head.

The pain within her was unbelievable, as if etched on her very soul. No one could imagine the anguish she felt. It was almost suffocating – she couldn't sleep, eat or even think properly. No matter what she tried to do, her mind drifted back to Raymond. There just wasn't any diversion, no escape; the pain stayed.

Why did I have to love him so much? she asked herself over and over again. Now look what's happened to me. She knew they were momentary, vile, selfish thoughts, thoughts formed out of sheer anger and frustration. How could she blame Raymond for the pain she now suffered – he had nothing to do with it. She realised that if ever at all she had to throw off her anger, it should be directed at Fate and not at Raymond.

Their love had been pure and simple, yet fierce and strong – a wholesome beautiful love. They had loved each other completely. And nothing was going to stop them from taking love's own inexorable course. Or so she had thought. Fate did just that: it put a stop – an abrupt horrible stop – wrenching them apart. When Raymond died, a part of Shirley died, too. Her world crumbled. Life that seemed so natural, so divine, so eternal, suddenly exploded into tiny topsy-turvy fragments – and Shirley knew she could never put them back into their former coherence again.

From many friends came many words of consolation. Standard clichés that could never lessen her grief. It did nothing to help.

From her roommate: "Time heals the worst of wounds, Shirley. It takes time. But you have to pull yourself together and help the process. It's no use letting yourself go. You'll be alright. It takes time..." Words that meant well, but... it did nothing to help.

Then, from a tactless acquaintance: "Oh, you'd forget him soon enough when you find another chap..." Forget Raymond? Another man? Love again? It did nothing to help... only caused more damage; people can be so unwittingly cruel with what they say. But then, not everyone understood true love.

Time did not heal the wound – it only deepened it. More than three months had gone by since the accident, and Shirley still struggled desperately to fix the broken world she now lived in. Every single day was mental hell for her. She lived a trance-like existence, going about her daily chores like a robot.

Her roommate did many things that she thought would ease Shirley's pain. Shirley was grateful for her kindness. But how could anyone ever share emotional pain? It was Shirley's alone to bear.

Finally, from her roommate: "Shirley, I guess it's not working. You must take a break from work, from Bombay - go home. Trichinopolly will certainly help you heal quicker. And it is much safer for you there than being here in Bombay now. You have leave to your credit. Take it. Go home..."

In a way she was right. Bombay was a dangerous place to be in for Anglo-Indians. 1947 was a very tense and conflicting year for every Anglo-Indian. It was a time when most families were leaving in droves, looking elsewhere – at England, Australia, New Zealand and Canada – for anything that looked greener.

But go home? Shirley never really had a home. Her father was not on the scene when she was born. Whereabouts unknown. Living or dead, no one knew. And Shirley's mother had died while giving birth to her. It was Aunt Marie who saved the situation. She took Shirley under her wing, or was rather forced to: her sister's little baby had no other place to go to. Aunt Marie was a forty-five year old spinster who eked out a living by working as a seamstress at a private garment factory in Trichinopolly. She was a man-hater and it showed in the way Shirley was brought up: she hated seeing Shirley having anything to do with the opposite sex. She severely punished the girl for even a trivial contact such as handing over a ball that was accidentally shot over the compound wall, back to the boy next door. Shirley was never allowed to do anything however remotely connected with boys, without her aunt's approval. Religion and morality were the two prime philosophies Aunt Marie believed in, and unconsciously instilled into the young girl. And there was not a day that went by without Aunt Marie telling Shirley what a burden it was to feed, clothe and educate her. Always, the lecture ended with Shirley's father being the villain – a man after all...

* * *

As the train rattled noisily over a long bridge, Shirley couldn't help but think of Aunt Marie. She was seventy now. Still fiercely independent, still hating men. In a way, Shirley looked forward to going 'home' to Trichinopoly and seeing the old lady, which she hadn't done for over two years now. Spending two whole months with Aunt Marie, she hoped, might bring some sort of meaning back into Shirley's ruptured life. She hoped.

Memories flashed in her mind like scenes from a movie. The good ones and the bad ones went past her inner eye. She remembered the bad memories more clearly. Shirley could never forget the day when Aunt Marie had grabbed a pair of scissors and gone berserk: she cut all of Shirley's curls away. "I saw that Dickson boy looking at you in church with that all-too-familiar gleam in his eye. I also heard him say things about your hair to other boys. I cut your curls off because it makes you look too pretty. It's dangerous to look pretty when you live in a man's world. It's for your own good, Shirley; mark my words, you'll thank me for protecting you one day. Don't trust men. They're all the same."

Shirley was seventeen then. That night she looked into the mirror and cried herself to sleep. But she loved Aunt Marie. She had no one else in the world. Days, weeks and months passed. After graduating from college and doing a secretarial course, she applied for a job in Bombay. She got it. She was excited to make the move.

The day Shirley was leaving for Bombay, Aunt Marie had come out into the compound to see her off. "Be careful, Shirley girl. There are many men in Bombay. It's a big bad city. Remember, men are all out to hurt young girls like you..." Aunt Marie said, leaning over the wooden gate under the shady mango tree. Shirley gripped her small suitcase more firmly and nodded, "Yes, Aunt Marie, I'll remember." Before she turned away to walk down to the bus stop she noticed that tears had welled up in Aunt Marie's eyes; it was the first time in her life she saw her cry. And it was funny that Shirley never did find out why Aunt Marie hated men so much – it had always remained an off-limits question.

When Shirley met Raymond Conway in Bombay she was scared to even admit to herself that she loved him. Guilt seemed to encase her. He's a man! something had screamed inside her. Beware, he's a man. But a couple of months after going out with him, all those years of fending off boys seemed such a silly thing to have done. Surely God did not intend it that way when He made man and woman. Why should a woman feel guilty when she loved a man? And why should she hate him? When Raymond kissed her for the first time, Shirley hugged him tightly and laughed. "Oh, what a silly old thing my Aunt Marie is. She doesn't know what she’s missed!" she said, and seeing Raymond's quizzical look, laughed even louder.

* * *

The train was climbing a gradient and the old steam locomotive was letting out a lot a smoke and noise. Thousands of tiny red sparks flew across the nightscape reminding Shirley of the fireflies they'd once seen in Khandala. Treasured occasional weekends spent away from Bombay with Raymond. He had come running into the room lifted her up from the bed and carried her out onto the balcony. "I want you to see this, Curly." He fondly called her Curly because of her curly hair. And she adored him all the more for giving her a pet name.

The fireflies were circling a tree nearby and they seemed to form a nocturnal dance of lights, choreographed by Nature itself.

"Oh, Raymond, it's so beautiful..."

Raymond held her close and whispered into her ear, "Not as beautiful as you are... will you marry me, Curly?"

Her heart almost burst with joy. That night, inbetween intervals of love-making, they spoke of nothing else but the preparations for the wedding. He said, “Let’s have it in Trichinopolly!” She said, “No, let’s have it in Bangalore! It’ll give Aunt Marie a reason to see Bangalore!”

The following week Raymond died; three weeks before their scheduled wedding day. She had gone into the morgue surprisingly calm – it was all a mistake. Raymond was not going to be there – how could he die in a stupid train accident? Crossing the railway lines near Byculla station and getting killed was just not the way to die. It couldn't be... it was all a big mistake. The body they showed her was not Raymond's. It was mangled and torn beyond identification. But the face – miraculously, there was not even a scratch on the face – was Raymond's. Shirley had gone straight to a nearby church. She stood in a corner and sobbed silently; then she looked up at the altar and said softly: "Why...? Why...? Why...?"

* * *

The sharp whistle from the engine snapped her back to the present. There was a lump in her throat and she found that her eyes and cheeks were wet. The old Sardarji sitting opposite to her was taking quick glances at Shirley, with concern showing on his bearded countenance. She wiped her face hastily with her handkerchief.

No, she musn't let herself go like this. Life has to go on. She had to live. She looked out of the window at faraway flickering lights slipping past into the night. There was a sheet of lighting in the sky that suddenly transformed the rolling countryside for a quick second into a dazzling spectacle. The distant rumble of thunder followed. Shirley shivered. She realised that she had to go to the toilet; she got up and walked down the darkened corridor. Most passengers were asleep or dozing. She passed an old man who stood puffing away at a cigar, and then turned left to the toilet. She flipped the latch open, pushed the door and entered.

She let out a short scream that ended in a strangled gasp. Her hands flew to her face; her eyes round with fear, she looked at the toilet in horror. Only, it was not the toilet. It was a long room with radiant blue walls. There were no windows. A narrow door at the far end stood ajar. A thin white mist that hung in the air gave the whole room an unearthly look. Shirley whirled around, instinctively groping for the door latch. She couldn't find it. Then she realised why: there was no door! But how had she come in? Suddenly she felt the room closing in on her; the blue walls started to telescope into themselves. The long room was now becoming shorter. Claustrophobic waves passed through her. She screamed. Her rational mind could not figure out what was going on. All she knew was that she had to get back onto the train. No, she was on the train! God, if this was a nightmare, please let me wake up. But it was not a nightmare. It was for real. All of a sudden the room had become icy cold and the blue walls were still closing in on her. The narrow door then started to open wider. And standing one step beyond the threshold was — "Raymond!" Shirley cried. "But ...but... you're dead!"

Raymond stood like a statue staring at her with sadness in his eyes.

"No, he's alive!" A distorted figure in a silhouette appeared behind Raymond; it seemed to dance erratically. "He needs you, Shirley. He wants you." The figure was not still for even a moment, a hazy dancing shadow. Shirley vaguely recognized who it was. Her eyes blurred with tears. The cold, the fear, the unreality of what was happening – all sensations left her body. Only Raymond mattered now. She wanted to touch him. Wanted to hold him close. Wanted to be in his arms once again. I've missed you, Raymond. Oh, how I've missed you.

Suddenly a thought struck her. "Is this... is this Hell?” she heard herself say and immediately regretted asking, for how could Hell be such a cold place?

She saw scaly lips peel back, revealing ugly yellow teeth, and laughter boomed. "You mortals can really be naive." A pointed tail swung into clear view, then was whipped back into haziness. As the grinning porous face danced behind Raymond's back, Shirley thought she saw a pair of horns.

"Come on Shirley – cross over. Raymond needs you."

She moved forward.

"Noooooo! Don't do it, Curly!"

Raymond did not say the words, but she heard them in her head. She hesitated for a moment, looking over Raymond's shoulder into the other room. She couldn't see anything except for a bluish haze, but somehow she felt that she would find solace there. She shouldn't keep Raymond waiting. A chill blast of piercing-cold air swept at her dress, invigorating her body and soul.

She crossed the threshold and stepped into the room.

"Noooooo...!" Raymond's mouth formed an O. But the scream was hers.

The last thing Shirley remembered was seeing thousands of dancing fire-flies. They looked so beautiful.

* * *

The old man was not sure. He stood in the corridor scratching his head. He had heard a scream and in a flash saw something or someone fly past the window. He took another puff from his cigar. Should he pull the emergency cord to stop the train? Should he wake up the dozing conductor? Or should he tell his wife? He shook his head. Damn, but he was not sure. What he was sure of was what his wife would say: "You have bad eye sight and good imagination. Now put that cigar out and get back to sleep!" He shook his head again, took a last puff and threw the cigar butt out of the window. Better leave well alone, he thought; he ambled back to his compartment. And the train rattled away into the black night...

End

CAT

( published in Voices on the Verandah — an anthology of Anglo-Indian Prose and Poetry,
by CTR Books, USA, 2004 )

The classified advertisement in the Indian Express was brief: Accommodation available for one Anglo-Indian girl in Kilpauk - Contact 26287665.

When Jennifer rang the number, she expected an Anglo-Indian to answer. A clear British voice surprised her. "Mrs Burnet speaking. Yes?"

Jennifer drew in a deep breath and said, "I'm calling in connection with the ad in the newspaper. My name is Jennifer Hastings; I would like to see your place..."

"Are you from Calcutta, my dear?"

Jennifer was once again surprised. “Why, yes, I am. How did you know?”

“You could call it a lucky guess; come over anytime tomorrow." Mrs Bumet then gave the address and added a few directions on getting there.

Jennifer put the phone down and sighed. She needed a room urgently. She had to move from her present paying-guest accommodation; the family she lived with was migrating to Australia.

The following day, as Jennifer rang the door-bell she couldn't help feel a vague sense of anxiety. Why was a Britisher offering a room to an Anglo-Indian girl?

The door opened. Mrs Burnet turned out to be an old lady. And fat. She had rolls of flesh under her chin and a pale-white indoor complexion. Mrs Burnet smiled. The smile transformed her face into a maze of tiny crinkles that somehow managed to convey warmth and feeling.

"Do you like cats, my dear?"

Before Jennifer could answer, something furry brushed against her ankle. She drew her leg up in a start, looking down. Nothing. The cat must have darted behind the door.

Mrs Burnet rubbed her palms together in a sign of satisfaction. "You are from Calcutta. You like cats. And you're pretty. Young too. I see no wedding ring on your finger. Excellent. Well, come on in. Let me show you your room."

The room was everything Jennifer wanted. She fell for it rightaway. It was big enough and furnished simply: a bed next to a window that overlooked the street, a neat desk, a steel-framed chair and an unobtrusive cupboard; it all looked snug on the fluffy turquoise carpet. A bit masculine, though, thought Jennifer; but with a little creative rearrangement and subtle additions she could bring it around to her liking. And the rent was unbelievably within Jennifer's budget. Mrs Burnet was a widow and lived on her own. She said she loved Madras and wouldn’t even dream of leaving it. And moreover she didn’t have anyone in Britain to go back to. She felt quite comfortable living in India. Jennifer guessed she'd have no trouble staying with the cheerful Scottish lady. "I just love the room! When can I move in, Mrs Burnet?"

"You already did, lass, when you walked in through that door. I like you. As a matter of fact, I liked your voice on the phone and didn't bother to entertain other callers regarding the room. And oh, please call me Marjorie or Marge. Mrs Burnet sounds a bit stiff, doesn't it?" Jennifer felt like hugging the dear old lady; but one question lingered at the back of her mind: why only a girl from Calcutta...?

Fur touched her legs again. Jennifer whirled around. This time she saw a bushy tail disappear behind the TV cabinet in the hall. Mrs Burnet giggled. "He's playing elusive, isn't he? Now, now, Angus, come on out; show yourself." The cat slowly came out into the open. It looked up, meeting Jennifer's gaze with its big eyes, then turned its head away abruptly. The expression on the cat's face somehow made Jennifer feel that it was shy of her.

"Meet Angus. Angus dear, this is Jennifer. She's going to stay with us." Mrs Burnet lifted the cat up in her arms and stroked it under the chin. It was a gray and white fellow with extremely long whiskers and looked over-fed. The cat closed its eyes dreamily and Jennifer guessed it was purring. She made a show to touch the cat but didn't make contact with the fur. "Hi, Angus. We'll be friends, yes?" Jennifer said, managing it with a straight face. She had to humour Mrs Burnet. She did not like cats, but she liked and needed the room.

The cat's eyes opened wide – gone was the shyness – and looked directly into Jennifer's face. Then it did something that jolted her: it smiled. Smiled. Uncanny as it seemed, Jennifer felt the cat welcomed her. Angus opened his mouth in a lazy yawn, a pink pointed tongue showing, and that was when it happened – or so she thought happened: he winked. One eye closed, crinkling in a fashion only perfected by young Don Juans.

Mrs Bumet must have seen the bewildered expression on Jennifer's face. "Oh, he's very naughty," she said and put Angus on a sofa. "So dear, you could bring in your things whenever you wish." She turned back to the sofa. "Angus... now where did he go?" Mrs Burnet moved slowly from the hall, her stertorous breath clearly audible, and waddled off into the kitchen like a huge duck. "Bye dear," she called from inside.

Jennifer opened the front door, stepped out into the dim corridor and nearly tripped on fur and flesh. For the third time she drew her leg up with a start. Angus was looking up at her... smiling. She turned and walked quickly towards the elevator. She had a funny feeling the cat was watching her. It was oddly frightening. Out on the street she hailed an autorickshaw. When she sank into the seat she realised how tightly she was gripping her hand-bag. Her hands had become icy-cold.

She didn't know why, but all of a sudden Jennifer thought of the grinning cat in Alice in Wonderland.

* * *

It was ridiculous. Jennifer started to think of Angus even at the office now; while having lunch; while talking over the phone; while riding the company bus that picked her up and dropped her off; and also in church. Only the other day her boss pulled her up: "Jennifer, I thought I dictated 'pat on the back' in this letter..." His sarcasm was evident. She looked at what she'd typed. Damn. Cat on the back. This cat was really getting on her back.

Only a month had passed since Jennifer had moved into Mrs Burnnet's place and she had a sickening feeling something awful was happening to her: a sense of losing control, losing the concrete touch of reality, slipping into a world unknown – Alice's Wonderland? She never felt like this before. Working and residing in Madras for almost three years had been problem-free... till now. And all because of that wretched smiling cat, Angus. But Mrs Burnet, the kind lady, and the room – Jennifer had become quite fond of both – they sort of compensated for what she had to put up with Angus.

* * *

From the very first day of her moving in, Angus took it into his head to move in too. He spent all his time in Jennifer's room and seemed to enjoy every minute of it. He was always there: relaxing on the chair, on the carpet, sometimes even on Jennifer's laptop. Once she'd tried shooing him out and shutting the door. A few minutes later he was back in the room, nuzzling his body on her legs, smiling. Obviously he'd
taken pains to creep up on the ledge and come in through the window. Jennifer was not flattered.

It was a Friday. Jennifer and Mrs Burnet were having dinner together. The old lady had asked Jennifer to try her chicken curry. She was quite proud of the way she managed to cook a few Indian dishes. Jennifer felt the curry needed spicing-up, but enjoyed it anyway.

Then out of the blue, Mrs Burnet, her face serious, said: "Jennifer, Angus has grown very fond of you. I think he's fallen in love with you." Jennifer nearly choked on her food. That was when she realised with a tinge of sadness the poor old widow was a bit dotty. She tried to smile, but it must have come out as a grimace. Mrs Burnet prattled on, "I know it. He just loves having you with us, isn't that right, Angus?" Angus lay curled up on top of the refrigerator.

Jennifer turned to look at him. Angus winked and there was an imperceptible nod. A thought struck Jennifer, a thought so weird she couldn't continue with the dinner after that: she realised that Angus never meowed and uncannily acted so... human.

The following Sunday Jennifer got the shock of her life when she came back in the evening from church. Her laptop was open. Typed on the screen were words that froze her blood: I LOVE YOU JENNIFER - ANGUS.

Behind her there was a sound of a tiny cough. She swung around. Angus sat perched on the cupboard. He lifted his head and smiled dreamily, then yawned, his pink tongue coming out. Jennifer threw her hand-bag at him.

* * *

“It's getting out of control. I can't stand it any more. I'm cracking up, David."They were having dinner at Wangs Kitchen in Anna Nagar. The soft lighting, the Chinese decor and David's nearness did nothing to quell the anxiety that had built up in Jennifer. David Cooper hesitated for a second, then covered her hands with his. He was a copywriter working in the same advertising agency as she was. "Jenny, it could have been Mrs Burnet. She's a bit crazy, you yourself said it. She could have typed it, right?"

"On my laptop? She dosen’t know a thing about computers; she’d told me that. No, David. I know it sounds weird, but it was Angus. And, you know, last night I got up shaking like a leaf. Damn him. He was under my sheet, close to me!" She shuddered, remembering how she almost screamed; Angus had jumped down from her bed as if he were guilty of having done something bad.

"Now, let's be logical about this. First of all cats do not type." He tried to make light of the situation by smiling, found her serious, continued, "Secondly, cats like to be close to people when they sleep. Nothing strange in that. And Jenny, please don't refer to this cat as him or Angus. Don't make it human." Jennifer was about to interrupt him, but he waved her to be quiet. "I guess you're making a big thing about nothing. I think you should take a vacation, Jenny. Away from Madras, away from that cranky boss of yours. Take a trip to Calcutta, be with your folks for a while..."

Jennifer got up abruptly, snatched her hand-bag from the table and said, "David, I'm sorry I told you about An... the cat."
"Now wait a minute, Jen; sit down, let's discuss this.”

"There's nothing left to discuss. Just forget I sat here with you." Before turning and walking away she saw the hurt in David's brown eyes. He was a good chap. Always singling her out from the other girls; probably had a crush on her. She felt like a heel – but couldn't help it.

* * *

Sunday. Jennifer was doing the weekly dusting. Angus was lying on the window-sill, watching her. Mrs Burnet called out from the living-room: "Jennifer, a young man's here to see you."

It was David. He was holding something behind his back – probably flowers – looking a bit sheepish. He saw the feather duster in her hands and said, "I'm interrupting." She looked at him. He was not handsome, but with his regular features he was not bad looking either. Jennifer smiled. "David, it's a surprise. Come in. This is my room." It was flowers. As soon as he stepped inside the room, he gave the bouquet to her. "Hey, hey, now what's all this for?"

"I'm sorry I upset you the other day."

"Oh come on, David; don't be." Then suddenly she lowered her voice – she didn't know why she did it –and indicated with her eyes at the window-sill. "That's him," she whispered.

David moved closer to Angus, who now stood up glaring at the approaching stranger. Jennifer had a distinct feeling that Angus did not approve of male visitors in her room. It was a fearful thought. On the other hand she rather relished the fact that David made the cat jealous. David was putting out his hand to touch Angus – probably to show her he was just another Tom – when it happened. The cat spat, back-humped; there was a blur of movement. Then blood spurted out. David whirled around drawing back his hand in reflex. Too late. Three deep scratches, parting skin and flesh, ran down David's right wrist and ended on his fingers.

Angus had left the window-sill. He had also left the mark of jealousy on David. Four days later, Jennifer went to see David. He stayed with his mom and dad in Perambur. He had taken sick leave because his hand was still swollen. Nine sutures. Sutures for a cat's scratch? It was absurd. Jennifer felt she was to blame. David's face was serious. "Jennifer, I have something to tell you. I asked around. Mrs Burnet had a son. He died in a motorbike accident on New Avadi Road two years ago."

Jennifer sat there looking at David, her pulse quickening. David continued, "He had two girlfriends. Both were Anglo-Indians, both from Calcutta. It seems he liked Anglo-Indian girls. After the accident, Mrs Burnet decided to settle down in Madras, having nothing to go back to in Scotland." Jennifer's heart now began to beat erratically like an African drum. "Doesn't it strike you as odd? You are now staying in the same room he was using. The day I came over to your place and got my wrist ripped – well, some of your fears about that bloody cat has caught hold of me, too. Tell me something Jenny, do you believe in reincarnation?"

She closed her eyes. She thought of Mrs Burnet. She thought of the room. She thought of the cat. "David," she said quietly, "what was Mrs Burnet's son's name?"

"Angus."

Her heart almost stopped beating...

"... so Jenny, what I suggest is, you stay here with us – there's a spare room that you could use till you find another place .You've got to move out from that eerie house."

Jennifer thought for a moment then said, "OK, David, I'll go back and pack. I'll move in here tomorrow."

David's face broke into a grin. "I'm happy you agreed Jenny, honest."

* * *

The gray and white cat darted from nowhere onto New Avadi Road. The water delivery truck driver swerved to the left. The autorickshaw intending to overtake the truck had no time to get out of the way. Inside the three-wheeler, Jennifer only heard the crisp sound of shattering glass. She felt nothing.

* * *

Two days after Jennifer's body was flown to Calcutta, David visited Mrs Burnet's. He had promised the Hastings that he'd see to Jenny's effects being sent back home by road cargo. He had really loved Jennifer. He'd never had the right chance to tell her that. What an end.

He pressed the door-bell. A while later, the door opened. Mrs Burnet said, "Yes, come in, David. I was expecting you. I have all of Jennifer's things packed and ready." She led him to the room, unlocked the door and they entered.

On the bed there were two cats. The gray and white one was Angus. The other was a dainty short-haired tortoiseshell. Both cats purred loudly.

Mrs Burnet smiled. "She walked in from nowhere. I've named her Jenny. Don't they make a lovely pair?"

End