Khonmi aunty had died for the second time. The villagers, who had gone through the rigor of mourning ritual on her death three years ago, didn’t know how to respond to this perplexing news. Which is why the atmosphere of the village was charged with confusion. In some houses this confusion was felt in the form of stunned silence, in some it wrapped itself around the throat of people and, every now and again, allowed itself to be articulated in muffled whispers.
In any case, there was a noticeable change everywhere. Inside the aunty’s bungalow, for example, her husband along with his second wife, their five children, the local doctor, several servants and a forlorn-looking dog stood in silence, which of course was unusual, because the bungalow always had something going on inside its innumerable rooms. As though completely oblivious to the thick aroma of the incense sticks, which had been burning away since early morning, they were breathing calmly but expectantly. Even the dog, its tongue hanging from its jowls, was enveloped in an aura that implied it would jump up at any moment, and wagging its tail, speak in human voice, “Look, she is not dead! I could sniff it. You all see now.”
Meanwhile in the house right across from the bungalow the news was initially greeted with boisterous indifference. Then men continued to gobble up their share of mutton curry. Though it is considered a sign of ill-omen to eat meat on the death of a neighbour and though this family was a devout follower of the vedic tradition, none of them, including the old father, flinch for even a moment, so convinced they were of the miraculous immortality of Khonmi aunty. However, a little later as the women began to whisper in confusion, these men too rose and hurriedly washed their hands. “Can’t you people let me eat in peace! So, is she really dead?” the old father drawled, pulling out a strand of meat that had lodged between his teeth.
“O gods, mercy mercy! They’re planning to take me to the river, but I’m not dead. You all will burn in hell,” came the terror-stricken squeak from the blanket on the verandah. It was the voice of the old mother whose lower-half was paralyzed. During the day she slept in the bed which had been kept out especially for her. Without moving her legs, she propped her upper-half on her elbows and shrieked in rage at her husband, “You think you can get rid of me this easily, huh. You, you. You want to get a new, young wife in place of me. I’ve been watching your tricks. I’m no fool.” “Nobody is taking you anywhere,” the old man, still pulling strands of meat with a toothpick, sat with a sigh beside his agitated wife and caressed her forehead to comfort her.
The confusion, now leaving its lingering buzz in this house, slipped out of the windows, floated past the ancient well, and diffused into the other houses of the locality with unrestrained efficiency. In some families it began to assert itself through phone calls, in some with the help of the members who had gone to the bungalow to confirm the news, while in the others it fluttered its enormous wings through the dreams of those who had been lulled to take afternoon nap by the insomniac weather.
Drifting across the Makanahi pond the confusion swirled through the labyrinth of guava orchard, jolting the nocturnal sparrows from their sleep who twittered drowsily, and then it finally reached Dhalkewali’s ears in the form of the husky voice of her husband, “This woman sleeps all day. Saloni’s mother! Don’t you hear me? Saloni’s mother, do you hear me? They say Khonmi aunty passed away this morning.”
If you were immortal for a day
Saloni’s mother, still under the sway of sleep, began to swing her arms aggressively, “Shoo, shoo you nasty birds. Go away.” Her erratic hand landed several slaps on her husband’s face which she was to realize only a moment later. Sitting half-way up in bed, her legs dangling from knee below, she threw a frozen glance at her husband as if to make sure he was not one of those nasty sparrows. Finally gaining grip on reality she at once jumped to the floor and, being a devout wife, fell to her husband’s feet, “Forgive me for this sin. How could I hit you? O gods, do forgive me!” Accustomed to his wife’s eccentricities, the husband ignored her drama and repeated, “Did you hear me, Khonmi aunty is dead?”
“Saloni’s father, you’re such a simple man,” she said, arranging her saree with one hand and with another deftly bunching her hair into a ponytail. “You believe every rubbish you hear. God, god, how I forget! Do you want something to eat?” “But, how can I eat? She is dead, really," replied the husband. By now, however, Saloni’s mother had already carried herself into the kitchen and, after preparing paratha and omelet for him, went out where she caught sight of Daat-wali, a 65-year-old unmarried woman. She was kneeling by the open drain and had one of her hands thrust into it. Letting out a long sigh, Saloni’s mother spoke to the old virgin, “Why, why there is so much happening these days. Only yesterday that Birtawali, abandoning her two beautiful children and her loving husband, eloped with another married man. How can one live in this god-forsaken world!”
“Think I’m here to talk to your father-in-law, huh, you bitch,” Daat-wali muttered, her hand still in drain and, at the same time, making supreme effort to hide her ghostly buck teeth with her lips which, especially the upper one, had grown pendulous and hung like a dead flesh over her protruding incisors. “I hate that old rascal. Why would I come to him? Huh, you pig. Think I’ve nothing else to do.” Though she was there to talk with her father-in-law and, in fact, the only passion left in daat-wali’s life was to be with him and babble on and on, she lashed at the innocent Saloni’s mother with shameless heat. Picking a frog from the drain by one of its hind legs and twisting her face at Saloni’s mother, Daatwali limped away, struggling to smother her disappointment.
Just as Saloni’s mother was about to return inside the house, she saw an anxious group heading towards the bungalow. “Why, why, has another married woman eloped with another married man?” she asked. The first six, who were of course women, simply ignored her. The seventh, a man known for his notoriety with ladies, cast a seductive smile at her and said with exaggerated politeness, “Dear, they’re saying Khonmi aunty is dead which, in the name of all the angels like you, is certainly not true. So I’m fine if you want me to stop by your house. I’m in no rush.” Exasperated, she threw a burning glare at him and, spitting on the ground, retorted, “Wait, wait, let me thrash all the romance out of you with my broom. You dog.”
Is she really dead? Saloni’s mother found herself thinking after the terrified seducer was gone. Only then did she notice the unmistakable mayhem of sparrows in her guava orchard. This was odd of course, because these birds slept during the day and only at night, as if possessed by some spirits, invaded her house. Furthermore, by now the confusion had risen to the sky. The thick blanket of clouds, which had dulled the sky since morning, had now cracked open at the centre, from where the sun was pushing its rays. What is more, a soft drizzle had begun to slant towards the world, as if the sky was unsure whether to rain or to make the day sunny.
Looking pensively at the sky Saloni’s mother reminisced about that unforgettable day of three years ago when the rain had hammered with crushing tenacity. It had seemed the houses, even the concrete ones, would come crashing under the downpour and the world would end any moment. Amid the fear of imminent disaster the death ritual of Khonmi had been carried out with uncompromising rigor. As she was a revered healer, and was believed to possess Vedic secrets to cure any disease, both mental and physical, the entire village venerated her with religious respect. Which is why on her death last time everyone, even the children, had gathered at the bungalow for the mourning ritual despite the storm. However, just as her body was about to be carried to the river for the funeral she had awakened with a start and announced, “The world will not end today. The rain will stop.” Just then, in a flash, the rain had stopped and a vivacious sunshine, swelling with life and freshness, had rescued the houses and the trees, the fields and the ponds, from the iron grip of the disaster.
After that Saloni’s mother, as everyone in the village, had firmly come to believe that Khonmi aunty had powers to control nature and, above all, she was immortal. However, something about today, something more ancient than one’s instinct, seemed to suggest otherwise. Once this feeling took over her, the confusion, mixed with the terror of losing someone irreplaceably precious, seeped coldly through the soles of her feet and began to pound in her heart. Without returning into the house to check if her husband had left from the other door or was still inside, she headed at once towards the bungalow.
The first thing she noticed there were the flowers in the garden. During aunty’s death last time all the flowers, including the roses and sunflowers, the daffodils and marigolds, the primroses and tulips, had shrivelled up, and their petals were already dripping to the floor. Today, on the other hand, a sort of hypnotic confusion had tightened its claws on them. The flowers were neither in full bloom nor were they withered, stood simply slouching there with drooping heads as if unable to make up their mind whether to burst to life or to shrivel away. Saloni’s mother joined the crowd gathered around the aunty’s body which was laid majestically on a bed of white jasmines, her favorite flower. There was grave silence. Even Madhu, the local TikTok star who carried her smartphone everywhere, even to the sites of death, was there empty-handed and with a despairing look in her eyes. Only at dusk did the doctor from the city arrive. After carrying out some tests on the body, he declared with the decisiveness of an experienced practitioner, “She is dead. May her soul rest in peace.”
Still no one believed that Khonmi aunty had really died. Even those, who had gone to the funeral and seen her body turn to ashes with the heap of logs, couldn’t accept this truth. Her death had opened such a huge void in everyone’s soul that they simply couldn’t reconcile themselves with the loss. After all, there was not a single family that had not been touched by the miracle of her hands. Even the half-paralyzed old lady, who had initially suffered from total paralysis, had been treated by the aunty. Nobody ate that night, and kept tossing over in bed as though stung by a swarm of countless bees. At around midnight the entire village, including the dogs and those nocturnal sparrows, found themselves dreaming the same dream: that Khonmi aunty had returned.
In the dream a blinding mist had descended upon the world. Through it a melancholy drizzle was seeping towards the ground. Darkness reigned everywhere, so dark it was that nothing, literally nothing, could be made out through it. Every now and again Khonmi aunty, enveloped in lightning flash, lit up the darkness, then disappeared in the abyss, then with another flash became visible again, her angelic face smiling with otherworldly compassion, then disappeared again, then appeared again, clothed in lightning. Saloni’s mother, turning over in sleep, began to mumble in her tear-soaked voice, “You didn’t believe me. Nobody believed me. I swore in the name of those nasty sparrows, I swore. Yet nobody believed me. See now, see with your own eyes, Khonmi aunty is alive. I knew she would never abandon us alone in this god-forsaken world!”
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