13 Jumbie Beads
“Om bhur bhuva swaha, tat savitur varenyam,
Bhargo devasya dheemahi,
Dhiyo yonaha prachodayat...”
Pundit Jeet chanted deeply, his eyes half-closed and heavy lidded, as he focused intently on the agnihotra before him. Anjanie watched everything. The gestures of his hands, the deft sprinkling of the milk and ghee into the fire, and the addition of more sandalwood to feed the perfumed flames. She watched the pundit, as he, eyes still half-closed, arose and began to lead those assembled in singing the “Om Nama Shivaya” and “Jai Shiva Shankar.”
Premchand was laying in the grip of a fitful sleep. His mat of banana leaves the only thing separating him from the dirt floor of the garage. His dhoti was perfectly white, but his brown skin glistened with sweat and his breathing was ragged. The tremulous rise and fall of his potbelly animated by the flickering shadows cast by the firelight. Occasionally, he groaned in his sleep as the fever burned on in him.
Pundit Jeet continued singing and reciting bhajans from the Bhagavad Gita and the Ramayana as Anjanie’s mother kneeled over Premchand, holding her tears back. Dutifully wetting his forehead with a moist towel, she also sang along with the pundit. Anjanie bit her lip, fighting back the urge to cry. She knew Premchand was not going to get better. He was going to die.
Fiction
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May 6,
2020
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11-minute
read
“Oh gosh gyul, yuh could take long eh?” chuckled Anjanie’s father.
“Sorry, Pa.”
“Doh mind dat Anjo. Jus’ bring de plate and dem, nah.” Premchand smiled.
“Yes, Uncle Prem.”
Premchand whistled appreciatively, eyeing the tray of food and glasses of ice- cold lime juice, now turning pink with the bloody diffusion of Angostura Bitters.
“Oh gosh boy, Manoo. Me eh know how you eh get fat like me when yuh wife could cook so. I wish I did come out first, Pa woulda make me married she!” he laughed.
“For what? Yuh would just get ten times more fat, yuh ass.” Anjanie’s father countered.
Both men laughed. Their almost identical faces folding in the same way. Creasing at the corners of the eyes and wrinkling around the mouth.
“Dis one is mine?” asked Premchand, reaching for the perfect plate with the red scotch bonnet pepper and a glass of juice.
“No, da one is for Pa. Dis one is yours Uncle Prem.”
“Yuh see? Ambhika know how I does love meh peppah!” laughed her father as he took the plate from Premchand.
“Watch yuh Ma good eh Anjo! Dat is a wife! When you could cook so, you could have any husband yuh want!” Premchand smirked.
“Pa, all yuh want anything else? Ma waitin fuh me to eat.”
“No princess, you go an eat with yuh Ma.”
“Oh shucks. Anjo wait, ah want yuh bring someting fuh me,” said Premchand, as though just remembering something of critical importance.
“...”
“Bring yuh uncle a kiss, nah gyul.” He laughed again, turning his cheek towards her.
Anjanie’s father sat before the sacred fire, praying fervently—so close to the flames that his own kurta was soaked with sweat and sticking to his back. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and dripped from the proud beak of his nose. His eyes were open and stared deep into the flames—praying for Premchand. Anjanie could feel every iota of her Pa’s attention beseeching Vishnu to preserve his waning life, begging Bramha to restore his shattered health, and pleading with Shiva to destroy the illness wracking his brother’s body.
All around them neighbours also prayed. Deokiesingh and his wife Gayatrie had come with their children, Amrita, Shivana, Shivanand and little Amritam, who was too young to know what was happening. Even Ma Toolsie came, lame as she was, assisted by her grandsons Praim and Nityananda. She had known Anjanie’s father and Premchand since they were children, stealing padoo from the now decrepit tree in her yard.
“Anjo! Whey yuh!?” her mother’s shrill voice called from the kitchen.
“Ah comin’ Ma! Jus now!”
The small kitchen was warm and smelled strongly of spices. Anjanie’s mother was standing at the stove, hand on her hip, dabla in one hand, shiny and smooth with ghee.
“Gyul, yuh eh hear meh callin yuh fuh de las’ half hour?”
“Sorry Ma, ah was in de toilet.”
Anjanie’s mother sucked her teeth and tapped her on the bottom playfully with the dabla.
“Yuh eh too old for me to chunkay yuh lil tail, yuh hear?”
“Yes Ma.”
“Come, take food fuh yuh Pa and Premchand, de two of dem dey in de garage. When yuh come back, we go eat.”
“Yes Ma.”
“It have some parsad from Geeta and dem wedding fuh afterwards.” Anjanie’s mother winked as she prepared two plates piled high with roti, curried channa and aloo, bhaji, and pumpkin talkarie. She tenderly picked the red scotch bonnet pepper out of the bhaji pot and placed it gently on one of the plates.
“Dis one is Pa plate?”
“Of course. Yuh know how Pa like pepper. Now go an’ carry de man food fuh him. I waiting fuh you to eat.”
“Yes Ma.”
There were other men from the village there too. Sookdeo, Narine, Mukhesh, and Raj were standing at the back along with some others that she did not know. They were men that Anjanie did not like. Their heavy moustaches overlooking tobacco stained teeth and grubby madras shirts, stretched taut over full, pronounced paunches almost like a uniform. All wore too much cheap cologne. They stood in the midst of a cloud, sick with strong, choking scents. Imitations of Faberge’s Brut and Davidoff’s Cool Water mingling with the smell of old sweat, cigarettes, and stale rum. They made Anjanie retch.
Pa and Premchand sometimes drank or played All Fours with them. Whenever she walked down the street to go to the parlour or on her way past the rum shop from school, she could feel their jaundiced yellow eyes on her, like stray dogs eyeing a piece of fresh meat. Sometimes she could hear them talking about her or if they were very drunk they would call out to her in high falsetto voices, laughing, “Dulahiiiiiiinnnn! Sexy Dulahin!”
Twelve years old wasn’t too young to be married in some villages, even out there behind God back, chook-up in some small corner of Barrackpore. Why, even Anjanie’s mother had been married to her father when she was just fourteen. Their marriage had been arranged by Anjanie’s Ajii and Ajaa, and Nanii and Nanaa when her parents were still infants.
“Lali, how much it does take?”
“De book say just three of four,” Lalita held up three fingers and screwed up her face.
“But I eh know, I can’t read all de Hindi.”
“What yuh Ajii say to do wit it?”
Lalita bit at a hangnail, frowning.
“She say yuh does have to mash dem up and den soak it in water. But doh drink de water or touch it neither. Yuh go get sick and die.”
“And?”
“And, after yuh soak it fuh a night, put it out in de sun to dry up.”
“Yuh could cook it?”
“No. Ajii say if yuh cook it, it go turn into medicine and make yuh strong. Yuh just hadda let it evaporate.” Lalita smiled, proud she had used a big word correctly.
“...Dat go work?”
“Yeah... I think so,” she said uncertainly.
“It have anyting else yuh suppose to do?”
Lalita’s eyes opened wide, her face took on a nervous expression.
“Ajii say yuh hadda do a prayers. Yuh hadda do a prayers for Kaali Ma to make sure.”
“Kaali-puja?”
Lalita nodded slowly, her eyes were wide and terrified.
The assembled well-wishers prayed, and Pundit Jeet continued to recite bhajans one after another, calling to mind the prowess of the old sages and the austerity and sincerity of their penances. He recalled the mercies and benevolence of Maha Lakshmi, Maha Saraswati, and Maha Durga. For hours, Pundit Jeet prayed and the fire burned, and Anjanie’s father looked deep into the fire, searing his eyes until all he could see was the flame.
Until finally, with his mind still somewhere in the nest of sandalwood embers, caught up in the hypnotic drone of the bhajans, he collapsed, exhausted. Anjanie’s mother began to wail as Deokiesingh and the barber Indar rushed to lift her husband away from the fire and began fanning him vigorously with old newspapers. Gayatrie quietly sidled up to Anjanie, and squeezed her arm.
“Doh worry Anjo, yuh Pa go be fine. Premchand too. So doh worry yuh head.”
Anjanie’s mother continued weeping and singing weakly while Pundit Jeet paused to drink some water and wipe the sweat from his brow. In spite of it all, Anjanie knew there was no way Premchand would live.
“Anjanie, why you hate yuh uncle so much? He always nice to you. Ent he does give you pocket money and sweeties?” Lalita asked.
“He not nice. He evil. Yuh see how he face darker than the rest of his body? An’ how he eyes yellow-yellow?”
Lalita nodded, her eyes as big as saucers.
“That is all the evil in him. You could see it in he face even.”
“He does use black magic too?” A shiver of fear, brought a tremor to Lalita’s voice.
“I feel so. You ever hear of a ritual where dey does touch yuh private parts? Or where you does have to take off all yuh clothes and let them wash yuh nani?”
“N-no. I never hear about that,” Lalita screwed her face up in disgust.
“Right. I feel is black magic, like jadoo. Aks yuh Ajii about it, nah. But doh tell she is he doin’ it.”
“Okay, but why?”
“I doh want she to know is me.”
As the hours wore on, and Pundit Jeet and the gathered villagers prayed, Anjanie continued her own silent prayers. Like her father, her eyes grew transfixed upon the sacred flame until at last she began to see them dancing. She could see Lord Shiva, in the avatar of Nataraja, stoic and warlike. His small drum beat a steady hypnotizing rhythm while his face—serene and calm, belied the martial precision of his dancing limbs. With him, there was Lord Vishnu in the avatar of Krishna playing the bansuri. And then there was her. With long curved swords grasped in each of her four hands and her garland of skulls rattling ominously, Kaali Ma danced furiously into battle.
The more Pundit Jeet and the gathered villagers sang, the faster they danced, and the harder Anjanie prayed, willing her energy to the ghastly spectre of the goddess. For what felt like an eternity, they duelled. With every leap and turn Shiva changed his forms, becoming a roaring tiger or a terrible cobra and sometimes pounding the ashes with his trishul causing sparks to erupt from the flames. Krishna played the bansuri commanding his sudarshana chakra to whirl about, flitting in and out of the embers. But still, Kaali Ma danced. Like a terrifying whirlwind of destruction, all blades and long hair, her hips swayed with every flicker of the flame, and her limbs whipped and weaved back and forth. Steaming blood dripping—dripping with excitement onto her naked breasts and onto the skulls hanging around her neck as her bare feet threw the fire into a frenzy.
The house is quiet, Pa is still in the fields picking pepper and Ma is busy gossiping with Gayatrie over the road. In one week, Anjanie will turn ten years old. She is a big girl now.
“Double digits! Prem, open de double dog!” her father will say cheerfully.
Her mother will give her a golden bracelet blessed by Pundit Jeet that she will wear until she is a very old woman. It will have a small golden Om on it.
“Anjo! Come gyul. Ah want yuh to help me.”
Premchand will give her a delicate, but beautiful, gold necklace from Maraj and Sons Jewellers. She will never wear it, but she will never throw it away either.
“Anjo, yuh eh hear meh or wha? Come nah gyul, yuh uncle callin’ yuh.”
There will be a cake from the Kiss Baking Company with her favourite Disney Princess, Jasmine, painted on it. The decorations are beautiful—soft icing peaks, airbrushed into golden parapets like the palace of Agrabah.
“Anjanie, learn to come fass when I call yuh, nah…”
Every morsel of cake will stick in Anjanie’s throat and the Willie’s coconut ice cream, will taste salty and of shame. Shame that Anjanie will not understand for many years.
Anjanie’s heart pounded in her chest, following the rhythm of the battle of the deities. Finally, exhausted, Pundit Jeet relented, calling the puja to a close.
“Brothers and sisters, we have done all that we can do. We must now put brother Premchand into the hands of the Creator, into the hands of Brahma who gives life, into the hands of Vishnu who sustains life, and into the hands of Shiva, the consumer of all poisons and ailments that they may purify and purge the—”
But Anjanie was no longer listening. In the dying embers, flickering in the remains of the sacred fire, she had seen Kaali Ma’s terrifying form rise victorious, right foot on the chest of Lord Shiva, who lay serenely in the ashes clutching Krishna’s splintered bamboo flute. Premchand still lay on the banana leaves, sweat pooling under his flabby, hairy body. His eyes were awake and wild. Open, but not seeing anything at all. Spittle oozed noiselessly from his mouth as his teeth clamped tightly together, bared in a rictus of pain. Anjanie looked down at him pitilessly as her mother continued to dab at his face with the now dirty, wet towel.
Anjanie stands in the doorway dumbly, confused.
“Uncle Prem, I have homework…”
“Doh mind dat Anjo, come help yuh uncle.”
“Uncle Prem, whey yuh pants?”
“Doh mind dat Anjo, come help yuh uncle.”
“Uncle Prem, it hurtin.”
“Doh mind dat Anjo, next time it eh go hurt. But doh tell nobody, eh?”
But it does hurt the next time, and the next time, and the next.
That night while her mother and father sat comforting Premchand as he lay dying on his sweat-soaked mattress, Anjanie slept soundly, clutching the small yellow matchbox full of little red and black beads in her hands. There are only thirteen left. The next morning she would make them into a bracelet to ward off evil spirits and to protect her from bad dreams as Lalita’s Ajii said she should. And that night, Anjanie dreams a beautiful dream.
In this dream, Anjanie is sitting in the lap of Durga Ma. The goddess is golden and radiant and beautiful. More beautiful than a thousand Kajols and more joyous than a million birthdays.
She shines with purity and from her many arms she carries many wonderful gifts. They are all gifts for Anjanie!
Durga Ma brushes her hair and tickles her nose, and then they ride on the back of Durga Ma’s tiger through green fields of rice as fast as the wind. Their laughter echoes under the perfect sky in this world without impurity, a place that does not know shame.
And Durga Ma takes Anjanie by the hand and rubs her belly with a golden finger. Like magic, Anjanie’s dirty school uniform, sullied by someone (she has forgotten whom), becomes a beautiful turquoise sari. Just like her favourite Disney Princess, Jasmine. And Anjanie sleeps and dreams within this dream of the waking world.
Om shanti, shanti, shanti, Hari Om...
Ishmael Ho
was accidentally born in Trinidad and Tobago in 1989. He currently resides in Hyogo, Japan where he teaches English and occasionally writes. In his free time he enjoys martial arts, fine art, and trap music.