The nightmare had ceased to recur. He couldn't thank the heavens enough for that.
But there were still shoddy nights, oh yes, when he'd wake up from deep slumber - dreaming likely of cuddling with tamed wolves, no idea why - to the sound of hauntingly familiar humming. And he'd see Grandma, like how he'd seen her that day
(he will be there for you)
-and he'd just thrash his nails and throw away his covers. Why was it too much to ask for a normal life?
Meanwhile, Shweta had grown distant. Not cold or callous. Just . . . distant. Bibi's death would still give her fits of sorrow at times. And when she would be on her most vulnerable, that's when Dhruv would come in. He'd just be standing in front of her, almost real - almost - with a belt in his hand, or sometimes a switchblade or even that broken bottle of booze from that night.
Shweta would think of what she had ever seen in that guy in the first place. He'd been handsome, rough, the Mr. Tough Guy every girl thirsts for. She'd been twenty, young, energetic and stupid as an ass's ass.
It was hurting to think now, that in those first few years of marriage, she'd actually thought things could be good. She remembered how it had been the first time he had abused her.
I don't like you talking to him that way, he had said. Drunk as he always was. It was surprising how he'd managed to keep his job for all those years with that attitude. I don't like how he talks to you, either.
She had tried to explain, "Sahil's a nobody, Dhruv, you've met him before, it's nothing, I love you so much" - but no. To him, she hadn't sounded convincing enough, right? Those had been his exact words.
I'm not convinced, was what he said. I don't want you talking to that dipshit again. Do you fucking hear me?
She had never seen him like this before; she'd taken it lightly, as a joke, tried to laugh it off. But then he had shown his true colors, bellowed like the goddamn monster he was straight into her face: DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?!
She had been rattled to the core. She'd nodded, taken aback. She'd sunk back into a corner and just cried herself dry. Hours later, he had approached her, sober as a kid's deciduous tooth. I'm sorry, Shweta. It's just . . . I was drunk and wrong and it won't happen again.
No, no, no, it's my fault, she'd said (what a stupid bitch she was). It was my fault, I couldn't explain myself, I couldn't understand you and blah blah blah until they had both hugged it out. Everything set back to normal. She loved him, and he loved her.
Dance much? he had said. And they had danced, even though she didn't know how to because she just wanted things to be perfect between them, for him to be happy, for their marriage to hold. For it to not be an issue.
But then, it had happened again, a month later. For another reason. And then again, after a week. For another nonsensical reason. Every time it ended with her crying and him apologizing and them dancing and everything going back to normal mode. Every time it happened, she would tell herself how it's alright, how it's a phase, how it happens in every marriage, how he loved her and she loved him.
Soon after the beatings had come. Grown more often. She had never stood up to him, for the sake of "love." She'd fought her mother for this marriage, she wasn't going to let some minor setback blow it to shit.
But in truth, now she looked back at it, she had never had the guts to do something, anything. She had been the ideal woman, the ideal bride, and taken it like a good little wife. He had grown less and less interested in her, more and more so in his "business." Shweta had seen right through it, but tried to convince herself, No, he's an honest man, you don't even deserve him.
The dancing had ceased, so had the apologies and the gifts and the fake transient shitcake called love. God, what a beautifully crafted ship that sails too promptly.
And then Avish had come. Dhruv had not given a shit. She would see other parents caring about their kids, nurturing them with utmost care and then there would be Dhruv, calling his own son a pussy and what was it?
(a weasel)
Yes, a weasel. He had cursed in front of Avish. He had lost it several times. Beaten her up in front of him. Later, Shweta had had to counsel Avish, that hey honey, don't tell anyone. Hey honey, nothing happened. Hey honey, it's no big deal. Hey honey, look, mommy's not hurt and daddy's not a bad guy.
Hey honey, this. Hey honey, that.
Hey honey, your Dad's an arse.
If she could have accepted that reality.
If she could have just yelled right back at him one day, given him a whip of his own belt. She could have. The "if" was put there by god-knows-what. She should have learnt to tear it down. Society, parents, go to hell. I'm not happy with this man.
Oh, and yeah, he exercises domestic violence. That too.
It had been arduous raising Avish like that. Of course, he had only ever been a darling. So premature, so . . . self-sufficient.
She was still disbelieving in regards to what had happened that night. How Dhruv had barged in, stinking and swaying. Lost me job, he'd said with a faint assertive smile. Heh-heh. Lost me job.
And the damned soccer match. And the involuntary I want a divorce line she'd said out of nowhere.
And then he had done what he always did, only it had been so much more extreme this time around and she had broken a bone - O, that bone, it still hurt, dang it, it hurt to think of that - and then he'd hauled her to the living room and then Avish had been there and he'd done something and then she'd hit him with that bottle of his - again and again and again until she had gotten all of her years of anger and frustration out at him. And yet, the bastard hadn't died. Like Bibi had said in the hospital: pity he's still alive. The bastard lost a ton o' blood and still he lives. 'tis true; bastards don't die easy. Shoulda smacked him a bit harder and he'd be done for.
Yeah, I should've, she would think. When had her mother not been right? Don't marry, she'd said. Right-o. Tell me, Shwet, she'd said. Right-y right.
Losing her was like . . . well, there was no analogy to it. Just . . . she'd lost a part of herself. Been amputated. And now she would never be what she once was.
Again, it would be her son who would suffer. And she knew it. She knew it, godammit. And still, she couldn't help herself. She was a closed book now. Her life now was regretting her earlier life decisions. Her life as a mother had been terminated. Killed, slaughtered, whatever.
She was a whiny bitch who had lost everything now, not a mother.
Avish was going to find a way to survive on his own, like he'd paved way for a decent enough childhood. All she could do was wish him luck. Bless him with more wisdom than her stupid self had had at that stupid age.
Hope that he'd not screw up.
____________________________________
Kids at the new school stared. And not in a positive way. They thought he was a freak, and was he not? These were countryside kids, Avish was a delicate city boy to them; they were jute bags, and he was crockery. Apparently, a few of them knew of Bibi, and her goodwill helped. A girl blocked him in the canteen one day - Mom wouldn't cook anymore, and Antra had left, at least temporarily, for her village - and told him essentially how "my father knew your grandma and he tells me she was a real quality person, I'm sorry for your loss but you can't really fit in here because, you know, you're a friggin' freak".
And Avish didn't really mind the spectators or the whisperers or the downright obnoxious twats. He didn't mind being an outcast, a contemptible foreigner.
What troubled him was the memories. Thing is, he had some really good ones, too, with his old friends. Be it playing "Guess Who" or composing songs with Roy and Deep and Divyam or the kiss Radha had given on his cheek once. A lot, lot, lot of things he missed. He craved. He could make friends here at the new school, he could score well, he could get into everybody's good books, but what was the point?
Radha wasn't here. None of his friends were. His Mom wasn't there, not the way she had been, at least. Dad was gone; sure, he was an asshole, but he'd been a part of his life. Bibi wasn't here, and could never be. So what had been the point of the last fifteen years of his life?
When all had to be reset and voila, you get to make new friends now, Avish boy. You get to escape your past. I don't care if you want to or not. It's God's will, Avish boy. Life's just a messenger.
There was one person, still, that Avish could get back at. He just had to figure out how.
______________________________________
He stared at the portrait of his grandpa. He stared for quite a while.
'You know,' he said, 'you look an awful lot like him, Grand-Pops.'
Like who, Grandson? asked the portrait Manohar.
'A friend,' Avish replied.
The portrait seemed to raise an eyebrow at him, though of course, physically, it could not.
Avish shrugged. 'Yeah. He used to come to me when I was a kid, make things fine.'
As I see it, said the portrait, you are still a kid, Grandson.
'Oh, well. Your wife - Grandma - she . . . she told me he would always be there for me. Only I'm not sure what percentage of that was real. I'm not even sure if he's real. Dang it, I'm having a conversation with you, so . . . yeah. I guess I'm crazy, eh.'
I'm crazy, you're crazy, we're all crazy, who cares? What matters, my Grandson, is that you should survive. That's what it's all about. Survival. Why do we eat, do you think? To get those tasty tasty fries down our pipes? And then we shit and it goes out and we eat again. It's all about survival. Take it from a guy who's aided hundreds in the war. You have to talk to a portrait for survival, you do it. You have to call for a friend you're not sure is real, you do that too.
Avish kept staring.
So, you're going to call Bhoo or what?
'How do you know his name, I didn't say?
Grandpa Manohar in the portrait laughed heartily. You're talking to a portrait hanging on a wall, forgot?
'Right.' Avish tapped his temples. 'How do I call him?'
I'm a portrait, what do I know!
'That was more of a question I was asking to myself, sorry. How. Do. I. Call. Bhoo.'
Avish paced in the aisle. The portrait stared back at him.
'Fuck! I can't think! He should just be there, you know. His hat says so, Grandma says so, right before she passes!'
'Deary?' Mom's voice called from somewhere in the room across the clearing. 'Who're you talking to? Is someone there?'
'No, Mom! I'm on the phone!'
'Who is it, honey?'
'Shit,' he swore under his breath, rolling his eyes. 'Erm . . . it's a friend, Mom. From school.'
Her voice, which was evidently risen a lot to reach him, came back delighted this time. 'That's wonderful, deary, you're already making new friends.'
'Yeah, wonderful,' he muttered. 'Fuck my new school. Fuck my fake new friends. Fuck everyone.'
Portrait-Grandpa Manohar chided him: You realize it's not nice manners to swear in front of your late relatives?
______________________________________
Avish locked the door. Barred the windows. Switched off his phone. He sat on the floor, legs crossed like a damn monk from the Himalayas. He waited.
The sky outside was grey as a bellows-steel.
Soon enough, the clock read two in the morning. It was time.
He had no idea what to do.
______________________________________
A curly white smoke rising up to your chest as you inhale. Converting into pure stark energy as you exhale. A curly white smoke rising up to your chest as you inhale. Converting into pure stark energy as you exhale. A curly white smoke rising up to your chest as you inhale. Converting into pure stark energy as you exhale. A curly white smoke rising up to your chest as you inhale. Converting into pure stark energy as you exhale.
'And now rule the void,' he mumbled. 'Rule it.'
The void is yours . . . yours to rule . . . yours to destroy . . .
(yes I've done it yay hurray I'm here I'm in the void Bhoo now think of Bhoo only Bhoo Bhoo Bhoo Bhoo the man in black come on please Bhoo come help Bhoo please come and help think of Bhoo think of Bhoo)
(I can't NOT think of Bhoo)
(Bhoo)
Lightening cracked outside.
(When all hope is lost, when the skies turn grey-)
(grey he said he'd be there when the skies are grey)
(what if they're not)
(they are they are I know it)
(he told you it was dangerous to go to the void without proper concentration)
(I am scared this is scary)
It was raining, too. He could hear the patter of it. He could smell the aroma of the earth.
Grey clouds pelted at the shingles, at the window.
(-the heart yearns warmth; when pain is a familiar rival, and each breath breaks into puffs; when no one is there for you, and you are not truly yours . . . I will be there for you then, my friend. I promise in the name of the Holder and the Holy Jen)
(he promised see he promised I remember)
(Bhoo just think of Bhoo don't get distracted)
This wasn't going to work. He was sure this was a bad idea.
(Bhoo)
(I'm sorry that must be offending for you)
(you want to call me Bhoo)
(can I)
(whatever suits you is fine by me)
(oh my God I named him that night yes oh it's so cold it's so COLD SO DAMN COLD I AM GOING TO DIE FREEZING WHAT IS HAPPENING)
(open your eyes not here to hurt you)
He shivered and writhed on the ground. He probably screamed too, but his ears were now impervious to any sound.
(IT IS SO FREEZING)
His eyes jerked open. But he still couldn't see anything, it was all a blur.
He was still shivering badly. It took him a while to get up. To register reality.
There was someone on his bed.
(you are so dead)
'So,' said the man in black, 'we meet again.'
We'll meet again, too.
Until then.