[This is part 2 of an on-going short story. Read part 1 here.]
The moment I called mom I realized I’d made a fuck-all mistake. She would surely have changed her number in 30 years. Before I could cut the call, though, the phone had begun to ring. On the second ring, someone picked up.
The moment I called mom I realized I’d made a fuck-all mistake. She would surely have changed her number in 30 years. Before I could cut the call, though, the phone had begun to ring. On the second ring, someone picked up.
“Hello,” spoke a curt, masculine voice.
“Hey, mom…?” I spoke, awkwardly.
“Um, excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, is this Mrs. Maya Kotkar…” I
paused, realizing she might have reverted to her maiden name after what had
happened. “I mean...Menon; Maya Menon?”
Pause. No response. I could swear I heard a
sigh before the line got cut. I called again. The line was engaged. I tried at
least thrice but it gave me the same response.
I hadn’t met or spoken to mom for 30 years. I
couldn’t be sure whether it was her on the other end or not. It had seemed like
a ‘he’, but I could have been mistaken. I had not followed mother on any of the
social media. I had not kept track of her either online or offline. Because of
whatever happened between her and dad, they decided to give up on me and I on
them. Nothing had broken my stubborn stand not to contact her or dad ever…until
today.
And now that I wanted to, I could not.
Upon a whim, I checked my rapist’s obituary details.
The soggy remnants of the obituaries section revealed the hellish face of my
perpetrator, the asshole pedophile. A shiver ran down my spine when I looked
into those monstrous eyes once again. Horrors I had long since locked away at
the back of my mind came flooding back.
His name was given under the photo (in fucking
comic sans): M. Bharam Swami.
‘Bharam Swami’. The man responsible for
everything bad in my life. The manufacturer of all my pain and agony . The man
had died after living a full life, never suffering any retribution or karma for
his crimes against me. His smile in the photograph, though creepy, did not seem
full; he seemed like a broken man, a man possessed by a terrible curse which
even spilled on to his happiest moments.
The brief obituary read,”Mr. Swami, our Beloved
Father and Grandfather left for his Heavenly Abode on the 26th of
June,2016. All Loved Ones are invited to be part of a Prayer Meeting on the 27th
of June, at 5:30 PM. Address – A/242, Zilleh Building, Veera Desai Road,
Mumbai”.
‘Veera Desai Road’: Not very far from where I
was staying.
‘27th of June’: Today.
‘5:30 PM’: Still 8 hours to go.
Like every decision this morning, I decided - upon
a whim - to attend the funeral of my rapist. He had been inside me once, and
going by one line of reasoning, I had a connection with him that was greater
than most. The last time I had seen his face was under my bed, in my
nightmares…
*
It takes a kid
to make adults do stupid things.
Ms.
Taraporevala, Maya and Kamal bend down to have a peek under Namah’s bed. They
lift the untucked bedsheet partially concealing the space between the base of
the bed and the floor. Namah topples back as the drapery is pulled back, as if
knocked over by an invisible force. Her head hits the floor with a thud. The
psychologist continues to look, as if to search for a real entity huddled
underneath. Maya and Kamal rush to Namah’s aid, who is now convulsing
violently. Maya is suddenly unnerved, quivering with every word and action.
Kamal tries to assuage her, but she is as frantic as her daughter.
“It’s all
my fault!” she keeps repeating under her breath, her head hidden in her palms.
“I failed!”
Kamal makes a move towards her but she shirks away from his touch
and storms out of the room. He picks up Namah and gently eases her on the bed.
Ms. Taraporevala still seems to be dazed by the girl’s extreme reaction,
looking under the bed.
“There’s nothing
really there!” he says with a hint of annoyance.
Ms.
Taraporevala knows better. She gets up and checks the girl for signs of mental
trauma.
“Mr.
Kotkar, it is best if you leave this house forever.”
She stares
blankly at him. She’s the best psychologist he could afford. He can’t fucking
believe it.
“What-“ he
starts.
“I’ll take
your leave,” she cuts in.
“But…what
about…”
Read Part 3.
