Adapted to English by Shubh Yashaswini
It is that time of the year again when fear engulfs my heart. It is Mahalaya, the day of the advent of Goddess Durga. If anyone else has heard a cuckoo’s call on an autumn’s night I’m not aware of such a person. But I have heard it and so has everyone in my family. And we live in fear of that which it heralds.
Let me go back to the day this all began fifteen years ago. I was all of sixteen and lived in a traditional joint family replete with parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews. It was a clear autumn day in the month of October just like the one today. Mahalaya. Just like every other Bengali family we would look forward to waking up at the crack of dawn to Mahishasurmardini, the story of the Goddess’s triumph, reverbating through the radio in the awe-inspiring voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra. However, this was the year that would change Mahalaya for us forever.
On the eve of Mahalaya we had all retired to our rooms, settling down for the night when we heard a cuckoo calling. Unusual and eerie though it was at this time of the year, we paid no heed to the melancholic cry of the songbird and gave in to sleep’s gentle caress.
Waking up the following morning I found something amiss. I couldn’t hear the sound of the radio, today of all days. Everyone else was already awake. On leaving my room I found all the members of the household gathered around Dadu’s room. Pushing through the crowd when I got into the room I found Dadu nestled in his antique rocking chair with his head tilted to one side. He seemed to be fast asleep with his radio placed on the table right next to the chair. The sound of this very radio would greet us every Mahalaya morning but this year it was silent as a grave. There was a small red stain at the corner of his mouth. A creature of habit, Dadu never went to bed without mishti paan, the rich scented concoction of betel leaves, nuts and condiments from Banwaari Bhaiya’s shop round the corner. My first assumption thus was it dadu had fallen asleep chewing his favourite paan and that it was betel juice dripping from his lips. But the ashen faces of the others told me otherwise. We spent the holy day praying to the goddess alright, not for fortune and prosperity, but for peace to the departed soul.
~~~
The following year Thakuma passed away under the same mysterious circumstances. Death followed on the heels of the strange cuckoo’s dirge the night before Mahalaya. After a hiatus of two years death struck again this time taking my father away from me. His younger brother, my uncle followed three years later. With each death fewer members of the household would gatheraround the corpse. One would think that after these ghastly occurrences we would seek the help of forces both material and spiritual to explain why this happened. But no policeman, no doctor and no holy man could provide a solution or even an explanation for the mysterious deaths. We even went to live in different places during Debipokkho. But no matter where we were or with whom every single one of us would hear the ominous cuckoo’s call on the eve of Mahalaya and it would be too late to save the next victim of the accursed family.
Mahalaya is supposed to mark the triumph of good over evil, bringing with it the goddess and good tidings. But the homecoming of the goddess brought only paranoia, death and despair to our home. Our once teeming and happy family was getting depleted and we would pace the halls wondering whom death will claim this time.
~~~
Last year Mahalaya had fallen in the month of September. No one could sleep that night. Earlier that year our family had finally had an occasion to forget their troubles and smile on my wedding day. My newly wedded wife of course knew nothing about the tragedy that had befallen us these past years.
My mother hadn’t been keeping well of late and had left to sleep earlier than usual. I sprang up from my bed and barged into my mother’s room the second the cuckoo called only to discover her sleeping peacefully. A niggling doubt at the back of my mind made me switch on the lights. And there it was, a narrow streak of blood on the pristine white pillow on which Ma had laid her head, and a clot formed on the corner of her lips.
~~~
Durga Puja has fallen in October this year, Mahalaya too. I shudder to think who is it is going to be this time. My Jethamoshai, the oldest amongst my father’s siblings has been suffering from a terrible cold these past few days. I urged him to allow me to sleep in his room that night but the death of all the elders of the family had made him nonchalant. He said, “If I am destined to die today, so be it. We must all die someday or the other. It is best to surrender to fate. Let me at least live the way I have been all these years.”
~~~
The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed once. All of us went to our rooms to call it a night. The death dirge hadn’t been heard yet. I was determined not to fall asleep that night but sleep stole over me anyway. I woke up with a start. The bedside clock had just stuck four. Hurrying in the direction of Jethu’s room I found his bedroom door slightly ajar. I was afraid that death had already done its job. Moving forward I heard a loud hacking cough and saw him coming out of the room. He looked at me once but didn’t say a word and went back to coughing. I heaved a sigh of relief. Seemed we had been spared the misery of bereavement this once. I returned to my room with a bottle of water. The sky had begun to lighten and a pleasant vermillion sunrise was waiting in the horizon.
~~~
What I saw on entering rocked the very core of my being and left me paralyzed with shock. The bottle I was carrying fell from my hands and onto the floor, flooding it with water. Some of it even splashed on to my feet but I felt nothing. How could I? For lying in my bed next to my sleeping was a corpse with its eyes wide open and a smear of blood on the corner of his mouth, visible even in the dim light filtering through the windowpanes. A corpse with a face exactly like mine.
