Mayas New Husband

Blood in the Shrine (Bonus Chapter)

Mayas New Husband
This was a chapter that was written to be included in the Part 1 of Maya’s New Husband. It did not make it past the editing stage, as it was thought to be too spoilery. If you have already read the book, you may enjoy this chapter. And if you haven’t read it yet, well… why haven’t you?

***

The night was darker than the inside of a beating heart, but the rag-picker knew exactly where to look. This street had been his domain since the last several years of his young life, and he had no qualms stepping even into regions that other mortals feared to venture into. His survival hinged on finding the best spoils anyway, and he could not leave before he had thoroughly scoured the area for all that it had to offer.

As he placed his unshod feet on the slippery grass, he suddenly winced and pulled back. It was the scream that came out of his lips first, and then the impulse to hold the brutalized foot with his free hand. In the ambient light, he saw the broken half of a bottle rolling away obscenely from the spot where he had just stepped on. It left a trail of blood behind for sure, but the darkness prevented him from seeing that.

He kept his bag down and hobbled along on one foot to a puddle, with the intention of plunging the burning foot into the cold water. Trivial matters like the possibility of the foot getting infected did not matter to him much. He had spent more than twenty years of his life in this filth; he was sure he could bear whatever filth nature and civilization gave him.

And so he came up to the puddle, whose darkened water shimmered in the wan moonlight, and dipped his foot in it. The wound didn’t seem to be quite deep now, and he knew he would survive it. He had survived worse things anyway.

Then he noticed that he was not alone. There was another man sitting by the puddle, probably washing his hands in it. Even though he was on his haunches, there was no doubt that this stranger was quite tall.

Who was this? Like a dog that feels threatened when another of its ilk steps into its domain, he felt threatened. He almost bared his fangs and was just about snarl something in anger, when the other man spoke.

“Are you hurt, brother?” he asked.

The sudden gesture of compassion threw him off-balance. “Who be you?” he asked.

“I am no one,” the taller man said. “Let me see the wound.”

“You doctor?”

“No, but I can help.”

The rag-picker thought about it, his slow mind trying to weigh the pros and cons of the situation. Then he seemed to have arrived at a decision and sat down on a rock next to the puddle. He raised his foot and pointed it at the man. “Look.”

The taller man, still on the ground, turned and took the foot in his hand. Ignoring the audible wince that the rag-picker made, he examined the wound, his head very close to it almost as though he meant to heal it with a kiss. But he only came as close to the wound as he possibly could, perhaps so close that he could smell the blood, and then stopped. The rag-picker looked at the scene with an amused interest at first, but when the man’s head began to twitch, he lost his grin.

“I have the medicine for this,” the man said. “It’s a mix of herbs. If you do not mind, I can apply that on this wound and it will be gone forever.”

The rag-picker shook his head. “No, no, what’s the need? This be a small wound. Clean gone by tomorrow, I know.”

“No.” The tall man shook his head in the way a doctor does when a patient refuses good medicine. “Believe me, I have seen a lot many more wounds than you have. This one looks small but it can get septic. Do you want to lose your foot?”

The rag-picker shuddered. “Can that happen?”

“Yes, if you are careless. Trust me.”

And then a smile arose on the other man’s face, and despite the poor light, the rag-picker could see that the man’s kind words were a sharp contrast to his face. The marks on his face reminded him of the creases on a molted snake skin he had seen years ago.

“My house is right here,” said the man. “Come in. I will take care of you.”

The rag-picker hesitated. He had been to houses of strange people and done strange things with them, special favors for gifts as they called it, but he did not know what to think about this man. Was he a kindred soul who just wanted to help him? Or was there something poisonous laced in his honey-dipped words? He could never tell. But what did he have to lose either way?

“Where be your house?” he asked.

“There,” the man pointed vaguely. “Walk with me. Can you walk?”

“Very much,” he said and began limping behind his inviter.

***

It was not until a few minutes later, when they were actually standing near the place, that the rag-picker realized where they were headed.

“This… but this place be always locked.”

The other man nodded. “I like it that way,” he said.

“That means… you own this place?”

There was another nod but no words.

“How?” the rag-picker went on. “This be not a house. It be a garage. All these broken cars.”

“You ask too many questions,” said the man, and there was a tone of finality in his voice. “I am only trying to help.”

The younger man balked at that tone. His body shivered for a moment, but then he stilled. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

At that, the other man smiled and ruffled the rag-picker’s hair. “Now that’s good, young man. Come with me.”

He expected a door perhaps, but there was none. And then his host did a strange thing. He hopped on one of the junk cars with practiced precision, and then on another atop it.

“What be this, now?”

The man looked down at him and grinned. “Well, the door is on top. Come on. There is hot toddy and chicken waiting for us inside. Do you eat chicken?”

That was it. Chicken! The young man loved chicken. It was a pity his rag-picking did not yield him much money for such delicacies. It was perhaps a couple of months ago that a lady had kindly given him a bowl near the orphanage.

He went behind the man, his emotions having suddenly transformed from those of skepticism to those of anticipation of a free meal.

They went right to the top. Hopping from one car to another in the heap, they reached the roof of the building. He thought of asking about the strange way to enter a building, but he had entered stranger buildings before. He knew better than to ask at this point.

The tall man reached the roof first. With his long legs, he lumbered on it, and stopped at a particular spot and beckoned him to follow. But when he reached there, he was aghast.

There was a hole in the roof, and it opened out a room below. There was a dull light, perhaps of candles, shining in there. But what was unmistakable was the fact that this place wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed from the outside.

“Someone lives inside,” he said in amazement.

“Yes, I do,” said the tall man.

“So how do we get there?”

“You have to jump.”

“Jump? You be joking? With this foot?”

“That’s the only way to go in,” said the tall man. “All right, let me go in first and then I will keep a chair or something so that you can climb down easily. Hold on here.”

The man jumped like a panther and that was when the rag-picker had a better look at the bunches of skin on his face. He had hardly got that image out of his mind’s eye when he returned with a chair and stood on it. He held his arms wide, and the injured man slowly eased himself into them.

“Phew! This place stinks,” said the rag-picker once he was inside and could walk on the floor. “What be this smell?”

“Dead rats,” said the man. “But we are going in that inner room. I’ll anoint… treat you first.”

He opened a rickety door and the smell suddenly changed. Now it was a sweet smell of burning incense sticks and flowers. There was a trace of sandalwood in the air.

“Oh!” said the rag-picker looking at all the incense sticks. “Is this something religious?”

“Something like that,” said the man.

The walls around the place were covered with several artworks. At first, the young visitor could not see them clearly, but then as his eyes attuned to the light, he saw the strange sketches. They were unholy beings of all kinds—vetalas and pishachas and asuras—and they were painted in the goriest details.

“I drew them,” said the man. “You like?”

The rag-picker tried to ignore the gruesome details in the pictures. “Where are the herbs? I must leave.”

“What’s the hurry?” said the man. “Come on, hobble over here,” he said and put his arm around his shoulder. “Let me show you my art.”

“Ouch!” the rag-picker winced.

“What happened?”

“Something bit me on the back.”

His host looked behind his back. He brushed something off. “There is nothing,” he said. “Must be a bug or something. Come.” And he held the man more firmly and took him to the first picture of a rakshasa devouring a horse.

The man looked intently at the picture and was soon lost in the various red and orange lines that made up most of it. He looked at the eyes of the rakshasa, which were in perfect symmetry with the dead horse’s shut eyes, and yet were in perfect contrast with them. Even with his very limited knowledge of the arts, he could say this was a brilliant piece of work.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow!” he went suddenly, snapping out of his hypnotic appreciation of the art.

“What? What?”

“It’s still there, whatever it is.”

“Take your shirt off,” the man said.

“Is it there? Is something there?” the rag-picker asked frantically, removing the offending garment in a panic.

“Don’t fear,” said the man, and now his voice was ominous. “It’s over. For now.”

“What?” the rag-picker said. “What’s over?”

And then he caught a glimpse of his naked back in a faraway dusty mirror. He saw the eight lines that crisscrossed each other, forming a kind of intertwined pattern etched right into his back.

And before he could question the man on how that tattoo of death came upon his back, he saw the glinting weapon wrapped around his knuckles. Its sharp points over the four fingers mocked his very being.

And then he turned and saw the lone chair in that room. This is where his heart leapt out of his chest. For, on that chair was seated a wizened skeleton with no face. Or rather, it was a face that was painted with red and orange paint. But what scared him all the more were the various materials of worship rituals that were around that seated corpse. As though the corpse was a deity and this was his shrine.

“Who is…” the rag-picker began to ask, suddenly aware of the blood that was now copiously oozing out of his back.

“You won’t need to know,” said the tall man. “Ever.”

The rag-picker fumbled for words.

“It’s a divine purpose,” said the man. “I will be easy on you, though. All I need is the heart.”

***

An hour later, the tall man sat with the heart, neatly diced and fried, and offered it to the dead man in the shrine.

“I will atone for my sins, Father, I will,” he said. “Accept this—my humble offering to you.”

NaNoWriMo-2014-Winner-Certificate

Accolades

The first draft of Maya’s New Husband was written during the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) of November 2014, where it was a winner.

NaNoWriMo-2014-Winner-Certificate

Shortly after the launch of its first edition, Maya’s New Husband was declared the winner of The Literary Awards 2015 in The Entertainer category.

Winner Lit Awards The EntertainerIn addition, it was the first book to be requested to be read at The India Readathon.

MNH India Readathon Request

 

 

 

Maya Event Announcement

Launch Event (Print Version)

Maya Event Announcement

The launch event of Maya’s New Husband was covered by the online press. Here is an article about the unique launch party.

One-of-Its-Kind Launch Party Sets the Ball Rolling for Maya’s New Husband

 Maya’s New Husband, the debut novel of Indian author Neil D’Silva, was launched in its print version at a happening event on 18 January 2015. The book, which has already met a good response in its eBook format, is one of the newest additions to India’s sparse reserves of horror fiction. However, what set the online writer fraternity buzzing is the way the launch event was designed.

The launch event was shaped up as a Facebook event and invitations were sent out to several self-published writers a week in advance. Apart from being just a launch event, it was a platform for indie authors to get in touch with their readers and fans, and promote their books as well. The link for the print version of Maya’s New Husband was released at 7:30 p.m. IST and it was followed by an interview with Neil D’Silva and the other authors in attendance.

The attending authors included Rasana Atreya, Surya Vaidyanathan, Sujata Rajpal, Rachna Gupta, Devika Fernando, Deep Downer, Saurabh Garg, Amar Vyas, Roy D’Silva and others. Rasna Atreya, the author of the Tibor Jones contest-winner Tell a Thousand Lies, which was also featured in UK’s Glam magazine as one of five best Indian stories, spoke at length about how self-publishing is the future of books in India. Surya Vaidyanathan, known as S. Nathan in her works, spoke about her book The Falcon’s Eye and gave tips to writers of fantasy fiction. Sujata Rajpal spoke about her novel The Other End of the Corridor and how she could manage to create drama that held readers’ interest. Rachna Gupta, the author of the poem anthology Myriad Hues, gave cues on writing poetry that tugs at the heartstrings, while Devika Fernando of Kaleidoscope of Hopes spoke about how living in Germany and Sri Lanka influenced her writing. Deep Downer, author of The Love Is Dead, Long Live the Lust, spoke about the importance of having a catchy title to accompany a good story. Saurabh Garg spoke about creating a crime thriller as he has successfully done in his book The Nidhi Kapoor Story. Amar Vyas, the author of N.R.I., spoke about writing comedy that leaves a message behind, as he has done with his book. Roy D’Silva, author of Tiny Tales, revealed his inspiration to write detective fiction.

This was perhaps the first time that such an eclectic blend of writers from diverse genres, such as drama, comedy, romance, horror, thriller and detective fiction, came together on one podium and spoke to readers. As an offshoot of the event, a Facebook group named For Writers, By Authors was also launched, which saw a signing up of close to 70 members on the first day itself. This group has published authors interacting with writers who aspire to get published.

Several marketing aspects of Maya’s New Husband set it apart from other books that have been released of late. For instance, the book release was preceded by the release of a video promotional trailer, which is a rarity for Indian books. The video trailer can be found on YouTube. Contests were held a week in advance. The contests were theme-specific, such as narrating horror experiences or suggesting locations for future horror novels.

Neil D’Silva’s Maya’s New Husband has started off on the right foot. It received over 20 sales within an hour of its release, which is quite commendable for an online release of a debuting self-published author. More information on the novel, along with free chapters, can be obtained from the author’s website http://www.NeilDSilva.com/. The book is currently available in eBook formats on Amazon and Smashwords and can be ordered in its print version from Pothi.com. The success of this novel has made him more confident of his future releases, Sapna’s Bad Connection and Kalki’s Bundle of Joy, which will be released in March and May respectively.

Chapter 1.5: Kidney Beans on Toast

The girl opened her eyes with some effort. Her head hurt as though she had been hit. She tried to touch the part that hurt her, but realized that her hands had been tied with a thick rope. The rope—made of pure coir—had cut into her fair flesh and even in the near-darkness, she could see the blood trickling down her wrists.

The fear came over her like a storm. It was an immediate explosion of memories: returning home after her extra practical classes at college… standing at the bus-stop alone at that late evening hour… the shuffling behind her in the bushes… the sudden sharp blow to the back of her head… and then, blackness.

She tried to yell, but at that moment she became aware of the gag that was stuffed in her mouth. She looked down and was horrified to see—it was her own blouse. Stripped off her body, stuffed into her mouth.

All her dreams turned to nothing in that one instant.

Topper in school and college.

The only girl in the Physics class.

Will go far; will become an engineer.

Will marry a wonderful man; have wonderful kids.

Nothing!—It meant nothing now.

The only thing she wanted was release.

To escape from this unknown place where she was tied to the floor, naked like a hog, terrified beyond measure.

An awareness of pain followed the sense of shame. The pain arose from her thighs, and she looked down at them, frightened of what she might see.

Her fear wasn’t unjustified. It was a strange pattern—four parallel curves intersecting four other parallel curves forming a crisscross spiderlike pattern. She looked at them, amazed and somewhat fascinated at their artistry, and then realized—the pattern wasn’t drawn on her thigh with a pen; it was cut into her flesh with a weapon.

The redness was not ink; it was blood. It was the source of her pain.

Once the consciousness of the pain set in, it refused to go away. She wanted to hold the wound, contain the blood flowing from it, but her hands were tied. She kicked the only free part of her body—her legs—but doing that only made the pain more intense. The cuts were thin but deep, and more blood oozed as she moved her legs.

She squirmed and tried to break free from the pillar where she was tied by the wrists. They began to bleed too, and trickles of the warm fluid started moving along the sides of her torso and mixed in the pool that was already accumulated below her.

It was too much blood. She wondered how such a spindly wound could cause so much blood to flow. It seemed unreal, but the slight tinny smell in the air around her told her otherwise.

The darkness of the night was receding now, but she couldn’t see anything beyond her toes. Then, as her eyes got acclimatized to the darkness, she became aware of something. A figure in the darkness. A man.

He was seated at the far end of this room or whatever it was. She could only see his head and his naked chest. He sat without making the slightest movement, like a mannequin in a departmental store. But the most frightening thing about the man was his eyes. There was something quite wrong with them. The darkness did not tell her much, but she could sense their oddness, and she could sense their unmoving gaze upon her. She squirmed, trying to break free, or to at least move away from the unflinching gaze upon her. But, the more she moved, the tighter her bonds became.

Then a rat, of which there was no dearth here, emerged from behind the head of the distant human and darted towards his eyes. Why did the man not move? He stayed put there, even as the rat sniffed all over his face, and then began to nibble, right into his left eye.

That was when she realized.

She was staring at a long-dead corpse.

The blood loss began to take its toll on her, and she was again plunged into darkness.

***

The hapless girl woke up with a start when she felt someone touching her breasts.

Fully alert now, she attempted to focus her vision, and the shape of a man squatting next to her materialized. There seemed to be a smile on his face, but there wasn’t anything cordial about it. Yes, he was ugly. And the ugliness was not merely of his warty face or his unkempt hair. It came from somewhere within him—from the diabolical look behind those smiling eyes, from the stench of death that underlined his strong odor. For a moment, she forgot the excruciating pain arising from her wounds.

Pain, like everything else, has a limit. It is acute when fresh. It is at this time—when the aggravation is newly inflicted—that it is the most unendurable. But if it persists for a period of time without being allayed, the nerves of the body get familiarized with it. The receptors still carry the physical impulse, but the effectors do not bring back any biological response. It is then that the pain begins to weaken, or rather the body becomes stronger to bear it.

However, this also makes things much more frightening. When one can see a gaping wound in their body and the blood oozing out of it too, but cannot feel the pain, that’s when things become the scariest. It’s enough to drive anyone nuts, and this was just a fragile college-going girl.

“No… Don’t pass out again,” the squatting man pleaded. “I want you to see. Will you do that much for me? Will you stay awake for me? Please?”

It was a plea, like a beggar beseeching for food.

Then she saw the weapon in his hand. Not exactly in his hand, but on his knuckles. His fingers passed through its four joined metal rings, the ends of which had sharp, pointed nails. The nails were soaked in blood; and she realized it was the blood of her own flesh.

Still smiling that vicious smile, he plunged that knuckle thing deep into her body, this time right into her chest. She could not see this new wound, but she felt it for sure. There was a sound too, a sickening crunch, and her educated mind told her what it was. A memory of a twig she had once stepped on came to her—the poor twig had broken into two with the same crunch.

As warm blood trickled down her torso, she was surprised she still had blood left in her body to flow out of the new wound.

Then, she reacted. A shriek of the newly-generated pain formed on her lips, but the sound died out before it could emerge. Her weakness overcame her response to pain.

She looked into his eyes and, as she could not speak, her eyes did all the talking. Her vision was becoming groggy now; and yet her eyes pleaded, implored, begged, made an earnest request to leave her and to spare whatever was left of her—both in body and in spirit—and, for a moment, she thought that he understood. For he took her head in his arms and took it close to his chest and, smoothening her hair, said, “Don’t worry, dear. It will all be over soon. It has to be done, you know? We all have to atone. Believe me, I am sending you to a happier place.”

There were no more tears, just the ones that had been already let out, drying up on her bloodied cheeks. The last sight of her short life was that of the dead man she had seen before, the one in the distance. His face was still turned towards her in the same manner, motionless in all other respects. But now some daylight streamed into the room. She could see a little more. His face seemed pale; and where his eyes had been, she could only see bloodied hollows, and the tails of rats emerging from them.

“I’ll get started now,” her tormentor said, holding her chin up as though he meant to kiss her. “I’ll get you out of the misery right away.”

Her heart was stopping now, her brain still flickering with its last dredges of life. Her vision stilled itself upon the man. She saw now how white his body had become, drained of all its blood. White as a sheet. White as dead. And, on that white skin on his chest, she saw the dried up mark—the same mark of the spider that she now possessed.

“Oh, him?” her killer looked in the direction of her gaze and said. “It’s been a while since I had him over for dinner. He’s become a bit stale now. Don’t feel like going to him anymore, and why should I? I have you now, don’t I? But let me tell you this—his kidneys! So juicily healthy and wonderful! He made an excellent dish of roasted kidney beans on toast.”

That’s all for the sample! Get the full version of Maya’s New Husband at the following links:

eBook on Amazon India or Amazon Global

Paperback on Amazon India

Chapter 1: That Awful Stink

When Maya Bhargava was appointed the Head of the Biology Department at the Madam Somdevi Khanna High School for Boys, she felt she had reached a milestone towards the fulfillment of her goals. Having taught in the school for seven years, it was about time she received due recognition for her work. At 33 now, she wasn’t getting any younger.

That day, her first day as H.O.D., she and her friend, the English teacher Padma Murthy, sat in her new cabin and had a discussion on how times had flown. They spoke about their past days in the school, and generally cribbed about other teachers and a few of their students. Padma was on the right side of 40 still, but she hadn’t received the recognition her younger friend had. That was a sore point, but in her English Department, such accolades were rare.

They opened their respective lunchboxes and geared up for their small communal meal. Maya had a preparation of okra and eggplant, a dish Padma truly enjoyed, and Padma had vegetable biryani with paneer, a favorite with Maya.

“The students nowadays!” said Padma between mouthfuls of eggplant. “Atrocious! I happened to confiscate a few of the boys’ phones today. Regrettably, I skimmed through their contents.”

Maya chuckled. “What did you see on them, Padma?”

“Don’t ask!”

“Did you see some boobies?” Maya made an obscene gesture to go with her words.

“Good Lord, Maya!” said Padma, scandalized. “The things you say.”

“Come on, Padma, these are boys! At their age, they are all fighting their hormonal demons. What else did you expect to see? But tell me—didn’t you enjoy it at that age too?”

“Shut up, Maya!” Padma almost dropped her spoon.

“Yeah, don’t act like a saint,” said Maya. “Don’t tell me you were any different as a fifteen-year-old.”

“Certainly not!”

“You know, when I was fifteen, we had this amazing teacher. We used to call him Robinson Sir, and he used to teach History. Oh, what a dreamboat he was! That slickly combed hair and those washboard abs and the neatly ironed formal shirts and trousers he wore! We girls spent a lot of time cursing whoever the bitch his wife was. We had to just smell his deodorant and we would have an orgasm.”

“You are a teacher, for God’s sake, Maya!” said Padma.

“Stop being such a prude, Padma. Loosen up. We are all human under our teachers’ garbs.”

They were busy with their colorful banter when there was a knock at the door. Even before Maya could ask the person to come in, the door opened and a head butted in.

It was Bhaskar Sadachari, the Arts teacher of the school. Everyone knew he had been appointed on the recommendation of Principal Rajkumar Purohit himself, and perhaps the recommendation was justified. He did have some skill in those oddly long fingers of his, which he had shown with his work over the past couple of years. However, the esthetic appeal was limited to his artworks. It didn’t extend to his physical form. His hair was always in a state of disarray, his eyes often bloodshot, and a perpetually overgrown stubble tried in vain to hide the ungainly face that lay underneath. Wherever he went, he left behind aftershocks of comments—people buzzing about his near-complete abandon of any aspect of hygiene.

Through the corner of her eye, Maya saw Padma wrinkling her nose and closing her lunchbox.

“Madam,” the man addressed Maya, completely ignoring her friend, “I’d like to know if you need any help in setting up the models for the Science Exhibition.”

Maya thought. She did need help, for she had ambitious plans to make a few large models. This man, who was known for his artistic skill, could be a good assistant. But, accepting this offer would mean spending time with Mr. Weird Man, and that was something she did not want to do. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll let you know,” she said in a dismissive tone.

Bhaskar was probably too boorish to take that hint, or maybe just too obstinate. He hung at the door awhile, giving the ladies one of his twisted smiles. Padma avoided eye contact by trying to find something in the folds of her saree.

“Yes, you may go,” Maya told him curtly.

The sentence was succinct, but it conveyed what it meant in no mean terms. Being snubbed directly, Bhaskar retreated his head from the door and left.

No sooner did he leave than the ladies began gossiping. “What’s the matter with him?” said Maya. “He is so creepy.”

“Have you seen his neck?” said Padma, shoving the lunchbox aside. “Sorry, I won’t be able to eat now. His neck—it’s so red.”

“Is it? I haven’t really noticed.”

“Rajan Sir told me he saw him in the washroom once, washing his face with his shirt buttons open, and he saw his chest was red too. Initially, I thought it must be a rash, but what is it now—a year?”

“Two!” said Maya emphatically. “It’s two years now.”

Padma moved in closer, the way one does when telling something conspiratorially to a friend. “Also, did you notice? I don’t think he ever bathes. The moment he entered, the room was filled with this awful stink.”

“Stink? Really?” Maya shook her head. “I didn’t get that. Probably it’s my blocked nose.” She let out a mucus-laden sniffle to validate her point.

“He is dreadful but what can we do about it?” asked Padma with her hands in the air. “The Principal is besotted with his work. He’s not going to send him away.”

“Yeah! The children like him too. I keep hearing of all the brilliant drawing he does. However, I find him creepy. It’s not because of his looks, it’s the way he acts. Almost like a stalker.” Maya let out a shudder. “I’ll prepare the models myself, but I am not going to take his help.” The resolution in her voice brought an end to the conversation.

***

Anuradha Bhargava was a contented middle-aged woman, proud of her traditional Maharashtrian roots. Her home was filled with symbols of her religious and communal affiliation, and she was proud of having raised two daughters to be such headstrong, self-believing women. Her older daughter, Maya, had just called to inform that she had been promoted to the Head of Department. She didn’t really understand what H.O.D. meant, but she didn’t want to lose the opportunity to bask in her prized daughter’s glory. Her other daughter, Namrata, worked as a Floor Manager at a suburban mall, which was a big achievement, particularly in the male-dominated environment of mall management. Yes, Anuradha Bhargava was certainly proud of her daughters.

Her only afternoon chore was to prepare lunch for herself. Her daughters ate at their workplaces. Eating a simple but delectable fare of vegetables with chapattis and pickles while watching TV was the highlight of her day.

She finished her chores and sat down on her favorite easy chair and began surfing channels. Her housewifely interests veered towards family soap operas. She could watch several at a time and be passionately affected by all of them. The grandfather clock in the corner told her there was an hour more to watch whatever she pleased. Maya never allowed her to watch her soppy shows once she returned. They curdle your mind, she always said.

When she was engrossed in watching how the daughter-in-law on TV gave a scathing response to her old crone of a mother-in-law, there was an unexpected ring at the door. In a reflex move, Anuradha changed the channel. If Maya had returned earlier than her usual time, she didn’t want to be caught watching this show. When the doorbell went a second time, she got up gingerly and moved towards the door. It scared her to open the door like this; the peephole didn’t help much as the corridor outside was dark in the afternoons, and the safety chain was erratic at best. She made a note to remind Maya about getting a safety door installed.

However, her worry was unjustified. It wasn’t Maya at the door, just the neighboring woman. “Is the electricity working here?” she asked, smiling with her dentally-impaired mouth.

Anuradha nodded, and the woman smiled. She didn’t leave though; it was the unspoken communication between two leisurely elderly women who seek each other’s gossipy company. The electricity had just been an excuse to start a conversation, and it had worked.

“Come in, Laxmi,” said Anuradha, opening the door wide. “I have some good news for you.”

Laxmi sat down on the couch, her bones creaking audibly as she sat. Anuradha put her channel back on and lowered the volume of the TV a bit so that they could still hear it but it would not intrude upon their conversation. “Maya got a promotion today. Headmaster of Department!” she said with suitable awe.

“Oh, that’s great!” Laxmi cackled. “That means Principal, isn’t it? I always knew she will become Principal one day. Our Maya is indeed a talented girl.”

“This is not really Principal,” Anuradha elaborated.

“What did you say?” asked Laxmi. “These days it is difficult to hear anything clearly.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. She got a promotion, that’s all! Would you like tea? I was going to make some anyway.”

“All right,” said Laxmi, “but less sugar, okay?”

Presently, Anuradha came back with two teacups and the room became fragrant with the aroma of masala chai.

“Did you hear about the Bawdi Chawl thing?” asked Laxmi after she had taken her first noisy slurp of the tea.

“What Bawdi Chawl thing?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Laxmi’s face went grave with the importance of someone who is making a somber revelation. Her wrinkles appeared to have increased with that expression. “There was a kidnapping. A young girl of 16-17 years.”

“Who?”

“Who knows about these slum-dwellers? The maid told us. The girl went to college yesterday and hasn’t returned yet.”

“How do you know it’s a kidnapping?”

“What else will it be? Kidnapping, rape, murder, whatever. All the same. She’s a daughter of a cobbler, a pretty girl it seems.”

“It’s horrible,” Anuradha said with sufficient emotion.

“You have two daughters, Anuradha, you need to be very careful. By the grace of Ganesha, I have only sons.”

“You cannot be too sure about sons too these days,” said Anuradha, her traditional upbringing somewhat incensed at having been called the mother of girls. She wasn’t narrow-minded—at least she didn’t consider herself to be—but it was conversations such as these that brought a sense of disquiet to her mind. “Kidnappings have become so common nowadays,” she said. “Anyway, my girls are capable of taking care of themselves.”

The door was slightly open and Maya walked in without warning, worry writ large on her face. “Ma, why is the door open like this?” she asked and then saw Laxmi. “Oh, Laxmi aunty, you are here. Even so, you must keep the door closed.”

“Heard about the kidnapping?” asked Anuradha.

“Congrats on becoming Principal, Maya,” said Laxmi.

“Principal? Oh! No, aunty—”

“Forget that,” said her mother. “See, there was a kidnapping here today. Nowadays, all one reads in the papers is such criminal stuff. Be safe, that’s all.”

“You should tell that to Namrata,” said Maya. “She is the one who returns late at night. And, what’s this? Were you watching that stupid show again?”

Anuradha quickly shut down the television. “Not me,” she said, “this Laxmi here insisted.” She made a sign to Laxmi—a peculiar sign with raised eyebrows that meant she had to play along—and Laxmi quickly gulped the last dregs from her teacup.

***

That evening, there was a small celebration in the Bhargava household. Namrata bought the wine, and the three women cooked a three-course meal together. All three were good cooks, and they could whip up a miracle with their ingredients. The family was vegetarian by choice, quite known in their social circles for their culinary expertise. They prepared their signature dish of cauliflower pakoras to follow up with stuffed eggplant and bhakris and a dessert of carrot halwa.

They sat at the table and began with the wine and the pakoras. Anuradha refused the wine at first but the daughters insisted. “It’s just fermented grape juice, Ma,” said Namrata. “This much won’t kill you.”

“It’s the spirit of the day,” said Maya.

They spoke about Maya’s day at school and about Anuradha’s plan to invest in some gold during Diwali and about how they should contact their relatives in Dadar about a suitable marital alliance for Namrata.

At that point, Namrata chipped in, “No Ma, I have always told you. No arranged marriage for me.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“That’s my lookout.” At that moment, Namrata seemed every bit like a spoiled younger sibling. She understood that, perhaps, for she braced herself for the inevitable reprimand.

“No one in the Bhargava household has ever had a love marriage if that’s what you think,” boomed Anuradha. “This love-shove does not work for long. I had an arranged marriage, and see what a lovely life I have now. Even though your Dad left us early, God bless his soul, he made sure we didn’t have any problems after him. Don’t you remember Maya’s marriage—”

At that, there was an abrupt silence. Anuradha stopped midsentence and looked down into her plate and started playing with the stalk of an eggplant. Namrata looked at Maya’s face and then Anuradha’s. Maya got up with her half-finished plate.

“Sit down, Maya,” said the mother. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay Ma,” said Maya. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

“Oh, sit!” quipped Namrata. “Come out of it. It’s two years for Samar now.”

“Shut up, Namrata,” said Anuradha, “what do you understand of these things? It isn’t as easy to take a husband’s loss as you think. Grow up and you will understand. Maya, sit down!”

Maya sat.

“I tried everything,” said Maya, her eyes brimming with tears. “I changed myself for him. He didn’t ask me to, but I knew he wanted me to. We kept each other happy. And still, he went all the way there and—”

Namrata placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.

“—gave up. Just like that! Who knew he had such sadness in him? Why, Ma? Do you have any answer? Why did he have to throw himself under the train like that?”

Read on for Chapter 1.5 of Maya’s New Husband.

Prologue

Maya knew she was lying down, but something was not quite right about it. She couldn’t turn her head and see where she was. She tried to flail her arms around, but they didn’t obey her. She attempted to kick her limbs in the air, anything to get out of this position, but they wouldn’t move either. A horrible thought entered her half-conscious mind — was she dead?

Her attempt to open her eyes wide failed; all she could see was a blurred vision of the scene right in front of her. Her gaze was fixed straight up, skyward; and even then, she could not see the sky. What she could see was a bright light — a luminescence so bright that it hurt her eyes and she shut them again.

She realized she had to free herself somehow. With this in mind, she made a feeble attempt to move her body, trying to press her back against the surface she lay on. The body wiggled ever so slightly, and it was then that she discovered she was naked. But, why was she naked? She didn’t have any memory of abandoning her clothes.

Then, as she tried to push herself on the surface, hoping to find a fulcrum to increase her effort, she realized there was no surface. There was nothing holding her. She was floating on something abstract. Maybe she was indeed dead, and this was just her soul floating upwards, nothing more.

Then she heard a voice — Are you still there, bitch?

The words were harsh and lashed at her like a whip. If she were really dead, she wasn’t going to heaven. That much was certain.

The menacing voice grew louder.

Wake up!

There will be no fun if you are passed out like that.

And there was another slap.

Even in her half-conscious state, she felt the full impact of the slap. It roused her out of her sluggishness. She was fully awake now. The slap had landed right across her cheek, and it stung like the sting of a dozen bees.

Her floating had been a nightmare. People are usually relieved when they wake up from a nightmare and realize that their agony was merely a bad dream. But, in Maya’s case, her nightmare of being dead was nothing compared to her reality of being alive.

Memories of what had happened to her over the past few hours came dancing into her mind. That groping in the dark, that fumbling for a light switch, that gruesome discovery and finally being captured by who was probably the most dangerous man she had ever known or heard about.

It came to her — being stripped and being tied to the floor; and the imagination of the things he would probably do with her now made her pass out once again.

Read on for Chapter 1 of Maya’s New Husband