The Evil Eye

Draaaamm …a resounding reverberation…..thannnnn…..and then trangggg…. with decreasing intensity — a loud crash in the small three-feet verandah which we call our dining space. A rumbling voice, a pair of red eyes pinning the lady of the house who is cowering in a corner, wide eyed and terrified. No … not again … Trisha cowered too but there was an hatred and anger deeply rumbling inside the little girl…. Whatever she had studied since 4 o’ clock diffused into eternity. Her mind went blank. She calculated silently how far she was into the war zone. She wanted to be invisible and clutched her English notebook as if it could stop those steel plates from flying and crashing into the wall, she wanted to hide in a safe spot. She measured her steps to the cot and also to the dark corner below the dining table. Inching towards the dining table might be dangerous. She would warrant unwanted attention.

She decides to back of to the only bedroom in the house with the only king-sized bed balanced on blocks of concrete to raise the height so that all the trunk full of things that are not used usually can be stacked away from prying eyes of the neighbours who keep on calling in at any time of the day and that too without permission.

But then she cannot blame Ragini Aunty, whom she lovingly called Ragiamma. She was a figure whom none of the three family members of the Banerjee household would even want to disrespect. She was a balm to many sores of this family. But she was also the carrier of much gossip too. On dull grey days when the Banerjee house was black and bruised, it is Ragiamma who brought the silver streaks of joy in the face of the lady and the eight-year-old Trisha.

Through the tumultuous but familiar furore, Trisha had already backed step-by-step and she could feel her small delicate back touching the soft somewhat ragged bedsheet that hung from the four-posted bed.

She turned around as lightly as possible, climbed up the bed which was quite high even for an eight-year-old and moving to the farthest corner decided to pull the bed sheet over her face and fake sleep.

Sleep was elusive, she strained her ears to know what was going on in the battlefield. She wondered what the issue could be today at this dinner time. It was good that Ma had served  dinner a bit early and though she takes ages in completing her meals, today she was somewhat hungry and wanted to finish off before Baba came for his dinner. Maybe it is the premonition that some trivial but intense drama would unfold.

She calculated again in her mind. Yes, its been at least a week. So now, the time was ripe for the next domestic farce. She had daal, and echor, just but raw jackfruit cooked in a flavourful mix of spices. It must be so tedious to take the flesh out and discard what is not to be cooked. Trisha used to watch her mother and also her grandmother cook this vegetable in summers. At times her grandmother graced Trisha’s household from the big city called Kolkata, where she stayed with her younger son. It tasted yummy and was somewhat akin to another delicacy – the hot dish of mutton jhol – mutton cooked in masala gravy. Echor is the veg counterpart and was cooked similarly. When Grandma cooked, Trisha noticed it was less oily and has somewhat more gravy, with more of the liquid part, which tasted a tad bland though. But when Ma cooked, even young Trisha had to accept that it was really yummy. And today there was also that regular ‘macher jhol’ — rohu fish cooked in a gravy of onion, ginger and garlic with a sprinkle of coriander and jeera powder. There was some tomato puree also added, Trisha licked her lips. She barely had time to wash her hands when the crash landed on her senses. Now the so-called dining area was in a mess. And her favourite aroma of macher jhol was now all over the small two-bedroom house.

Trisha knew that Ma will sit in a stupour, with her silence and agony, will curse her fate without showing it in her expressionless face and Baba will continue sitting for a while on the dining table glaring at her. Ma knew that reacting would mean another volley of hurting words.

Is this what you serve to your husband who comes back home from an eight-hours gruelling duty in a boiling furnace. Trisha knew her Baba worked in a big plant, Durgapur Steel Plant. She wanted to know more, but Ma said she could learn more when she grew up. And she can even visit the plant in some educational tour from the school. Ma knew a lot. She was good in studies, Trisha heard it from her mashis, she had four of them. The youngest one was only about 10 years older to her.

So, what went wrong today! Trisha wondered. She sucked her lips and tried thinking fast. So this time it was possibly not the food. It might be something else. Oh wait, didn’t Ma mention the visit of Amal Kaku, Baba’s friend in the evening! She strained her ears again. Yes, she could hear the name mentioned in a growl and scorn from Baba. He was coughing venom for him; bechara Amal Kaku, he will not sleep peacefully today. Ma mentioned in a feeble voice that she had told him that Baba was not at home and that it was his B-shift and so Amol Kaku did not enter the house. But who bothered! Baba’s rant knew no reason. Why did Amal Kaku have to drop in when he knew Baba would not be at home!

Trisha could think of a million reasons … maybe he happened to pass by our house. There are so many other Kakus, uncles, living at close corners. Baba often mentions being in the same batch. There is that Paresh Kaku, who lived two streets down and in the same locality, a few houses away lived Amlan Kaku. Then in the avenue just across the main road, lived Shailen Kaku. So, Amal Kaku must have been crossing by and peeped in to have a look.

Why couldn’t he come to our house when Baba was not there? Trisha was there and Ma was there. Trisha loved it when Amal Kaku came. His pockets were always filled with small toffees with golden and maroon wrappers. They made cracking sounds when you unwrapped them. And once you put it inside your mouth, you feel the juicy filling melting in your mouth. It’s heavenly. Baba also bought chocolates for Trisha. But not the sticky and gooey ones. He says those kinds will only spoil Trisha’s tender teeth.

Thinking of all possibilities and tricks of having her favourite chocolates and yet not getting those black bugs in her teeth, Trisha fell asleep quietly even before she realized or intended to. Maybe the tooth fairy would visit her in her dreams and tell her that those black bugs are not actually insects that creep and crawl inside and out of the teeth cavities but are a sort of bacteria that accumulates and spreads till they wear away the whole teeth. Ouch! That might be very painful, hope the tooth fairy clarifies that part.

Why did the cycle tyre marks come up to the window, Baba had shouted. This was what Trisha heard last before she dozed off.  Surely her dreams weren’t going to be rosy. As long as they are not nightmares it is is good. Trisha lives in a more harrowing hell when she is not sleeping and when she is at home. This scandalous domestic feud ensues on a regular basis, once every fortnight, if not even more frequently.

Trisha’s night was indeed restless. She was still clutching her notebook that had her incomplete homework. Sister Maribelle would again make angry dissatisfactory faces when she saw Trisha’s half-baked work. She needed her Mom’s help. Only if she did not wait till the last moment. But when she was about to ask her doubts in the evening, Amal Kaku had called from the outside the fence gate.

Hey Banerjee, are you at home!

To which Trisha’s mother had instinctively pulled her saree pallu across her faded blouse, partly because she was embarrassed about the tiny hole on the sleeves which she was too careless and ill-motivated to sew and partly because she remembered the displeasure in Trisha’s father’s eyes whenever her pallu slided off from her shoulder even a little.

That distraction kept Trisha from completing her task, in the hope that Amal uncle would put his Bajaj scooter on the stand and come in. Her ears were all piqued to hear the clang and then creaking sound of the garden gate opening. But Ma went out partially peeping through the verandah grills and nodded that the Master of the House was still not back from work.

Amal Kaku kicked the scooter to a start immediately and left in a blurb of sooty fumes. The carburettor needed checking and maybe cleaning. This Trisha had picked up from Baba while he was discussing fuel consumption with Amal Kaku once over a breakfast of puri and aloo bhaji on a more cheerful Sunday morning.

Early in the morning, Trisha woke up in a flurry. There seemed to be a lot of movement around her. Still dazed by her disturbed inadequate sleep, she hazily saw Baba pulling out his full-shirt and trousers to get ready. While Paresh Kaku was waiting for him outside the gate with a worried expression urging Baba to hurry. Ma was silently standing in a corner seeing Baba off. Did Trisha see a tear glisten in the corners of her eyes! As Baba was coming out and putting on his chappals, Paresh kaku started talking to him in a loud voice. “Banerjee, we have to get there as soon as possible. The accident happened while Amal was coming back from the plant. He was hit by a truck and his head was crushed, spot-dead, Banerjee ….” He couldn’t continue further. They left in a whirl, leaving fresh murky soot.

What! Trisha’s eyes were wide open. She peeped out through the faded window curtains. What did she hear just now! Amal Kaku …! Accident! Trisha thought she saw Ragiamma’s shadow moving away from the adjacent fence. Was she listening, even at this wee hour of the morning. Did Trisha see her lips curving into a strange smile! Can this be fuel to her incessant gossip tale trail.

Trisha thought hard … was it Baba’s night-long curse or was it a simple coincidence! Could there be a divine retribution?

Trisha’s little body shivered with some treacherous thoughts.

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