Varadharajan Ramesh's Blog, page 2

Mohini – the insatiable lover

Ganpath hated his master. As an Indian, he was programmed to hate the goras. They did come into his country as traders and settle down as rulers after all. Yet Ganpath found, much to his chagrin, that not all goras were bad. Most of them simply followed orders from above, and Ganpath was content following the orders of those he served.

But he hated his new master with a passion. Detective Inspector Samuel Thacker was young, fresh off the boat, bigoted, and brash. He made it a point to point out that he was better than Ganpath and his fellow countrymen.

One evening, Thacker had asked Ganpath to come to the police station to carry some files back home. By the time Thacker finished his commitments at the station and had had a few drinks at the Gentlemen’s club, it was well past midnight. Thacker climbed on his horse, and in his inebriated state slouched atop the beast. It was left to Ganpath to lead the horse home while balancing the files atop his head.

As they passed through the village’s common well, a beautiful melody came wafting through the air. Someone was singing a melancholic song.

‘Gapanth…’ Thacker slurred. ‘Who’s singing at this time of the night?’

Ganpath knew. He spat three times on the ground.

‘Saheb, please spit three times on the ground like I did.’

‘That’s bloody disgusting!’ Thacker got down from the horse and straightened his cap. ‘Someone seems to be in a lot of distress and I intend to find out.’

‘Saheb, no!’ Ganpath pleaded. ‘That’s no someone. It is Mohini. Let’s go back, please.’

‘Nonsense!’ Thacker handed the reins of the horse to Ganpath. ‘Lead the chap back home, he clearly looks spooked. I’m going to investigate.’

‘But Saheb…’

‘It’s a bloody order. Go!’

A woman clad in white was standing near the well. In the pale moonlight, she looked gorgeous. Thacker walked towards her with a spring in his steps. Ganpath sighed, shook his head and led the horse towards Thacker’s quarters.

William Thacker fell sick. The doctor who tested him was amazed by the amount of dehydration Thacker had suffered and the extent of his exhaustion. Thacker’s room smelled of betelnut juice and the servants heard the tinkling sound of anklets from inside the room at nights. Thacker never recovered and passed away a little over a month from that fateful night he encountered the Mohini.

Note: Mohini is an enchanting female supernatural entity that preys on men, and is said to inhabit South India, haunting old wells, tamarind and coconut trees, forests and wandering along lonely stretches of road. It is believed that girls or women who commit suicide or suffer unnatural deaths without having found a romantic partner or experiencing physical pleasure return as this vengeful spirit.

[image error]

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details, click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries: A , B , C , D , E , F , G , H , I , J , K , L

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Lavsat -the wicked widow of lore

The mud road was slushy owing to the heavy downpour of the afternoon. The bullock cart’s wooden wheels kept getting stuck in potholes and slush, slowing their journey. The merchant and his wife, the passengers on the cart, cursed the driver and their servants for choosing that route. Their young son was sick and he was asleep on the cart. The servants bore the insults patiently; they were paid to do so. They wouldn’t bother replying that it was the merchant’s wife who had suggested that route.

The sun bid adieu for the day and went behind the western ghats. Night came in quickly, mixed with the pleasant sea breeze. One of the servants lighted a lantern and fixed it on the yoke of the cart. The bells on the bull’s horns jingled as they stumbled along. The combination of the breeze, the darkness, and the gentle tinkling of the bells lulled the merchant and his wife to sleep.

A sudden scream jolted them from their slumber. Their servants and the driver were running away, screaming. They didn’t understand what was happening. The merchant jumped down to see something that shook him to his core.

A hideous creature descended from a tree and pounced on the bulls. It ripped open the throat of one started feasting on its innards. The second bull was spooked and it tried to run away, but it was harnessed to the yoke and hence fell down toppling the cart. The merchant’s wife and son were thrown away into the slush. The merchant ran over to his wife and kid and lifted them up. He made a sign for them to be silent and pointed towards the dark cover of the woods. He carried his son and grabbed his wife’s arm as they plodded their way through the bushes and hid behind a huge banyan tree.

‘What is that creature?’ She asked.

‘Oh no! Oh no!’ The merchant whimpered, ‘It’s a Lavsat.’

‘What?’

‘The ghost of a widow.’

She started crying, ‘We are doomed.’

The Lavsat had made short work of the bulls and was bounding over the ground like a four-limbed beast in search of them.

‘It’s going to kill us… it’s going to kill us…’ The merchant’s wife started blabbering. The merchant stood up and made a sudden loud sound.

‘What are you doing?’ His wife hissed.

‘Shut up!’

The Lavsat heard his voice and made its way towards them. Its hair was long and jet black and it had long, sharp nails that resembled claws. Its eyes were hollow like a bottomless well and its mouth that was bared open contained no teeth. The creature stood in front of them, making a weird gurgling noise.

The merchant picked up a stone and used it to hit his wife hard on her head. The woman fell down, blood oozing from the wound. He picked his son and laid him at the feet of the Lavsat and ran away without turning back.

As he ran, he closed his ears but still heard his son’s scream that was followed by a sucking noise.

Note: Lavsats, in the Konkan folklore, are ghosts of widows who die unnatural deaths. They usually don’t have teeth and hence tear the jaw of their victims and suck the innards completely. Lavsats are said to attack domestic animals and people and the only way to appease these creatures is by offering a young being (animal or human) as a sacrifice. 

[image error]

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details,  click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries:  A ,  B ,  C ,  D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

 

Kutti Chathan – the prankster

My father was an honest man. He was a goldsmith, but an unsuccessful one. Despite possessing the skills to make intricate ornaments, he lacked creativity and was hence not looked favourably by patrons. Our family lived in abject poverty as father’s business dried up and we were forced to sell all our meagre possessions to buy food grains.

‘Unni, you better become a blacksmith.’ Father’s friend Madhavan suggested one day. ‘The farmers are always in need of tools and implements and you have the necessary skills to work iron.’

To my father, it was an insult thrown at his face. He refused flat out and scolded Madhavan maman with very harsh words. I was stunned; it was the first time a swear word had escaped my father’s lips. That was the day when my father changed for good.

He started drinking alcohol and hanging out with a strange guy who was rumoured to dabble with the dark arts. One day, father woke up just before the middle of the night and grabbed the solitary lantern we possessed and went outside. I woke up and peered through the thatched walls of our hut. Father and his new friend were walking towards the south. I was surprised, only the burial ground was in that direction.

Father returned in the early hours of the morning. There was some bad smell coming from his body, even though he took a bath before coming inside. Another thing I noticed before I fell asleep was that a boy was sitting near the well. He was dark-skinned and was wearing a dirty white mundu. He looked no older than I was, but his eyes…his eyes scared me a bit. There were red veins all over the white and they looked to possess more wisdom than any other twelve-year-olds I have met. When I woke up the next day, he was nowhere to be seen. I asked father about him and he shrugged it off. Might’ve been some kid from the nearby slum, he said. I never saw the kid after that.

But something changed for good from that day. Father borrowed a small piece of jewellery from his elder sister and melted it down to make the most beautiful looking brooch for her daughter. Word spread and soon everyone in the city started queuing up in front of our hut. It was as if the Gods of crafts had blessed father; one beautiful ornament after the other started flowing out of his little workshop. Soon, news reached the King and he ordered father to be present at his court with the ornaments he had created. The samples were enough to convince the Queen.

We became rich, and moved over to the Capital. We lived in a palatial house, had the finest silk to wear and ate the most sumptuous meals. But something had changed within father too. He stopped smiling, he drank a lot, worked exclusively in the nights, and behaved aloof with everyone. Another thing he made very clear was that his workshop was completely off-limits. I tried to sneak in once, but father caught me snooping and sent me away with a thrashing. Sometimes, late into the nights, I heard voices coming from the workshop. One was father’s, but the other voice was rough. Very rough. The man to whom the voice belonged kept asking father for more work, more alcohol, and more food – especially meat. I figured that he was father’s helper and a very strong worker.

Something else started happening. Things kept getting misplaced. Sometimes, the food prepared in the kitchen contained manure. Someone was playing pranks, but the frequency of such pranks was not high and we chose to ignore it. Life went on. I didn’t follow my father into his profession but instead ran a jewellery store in the market. I was married to the daughter of a wealthy merchant and we had four kids. Mother passed away few years ago and father became even more a recluse. The year I turned fifty, father called me to his room. He had been ailing for the past few months and we were fearing the worst.

He was lying on his bed, frail and haggardly in appearance. His breath was laboured and his eyes were clouded over. I knelt beside him and held his hand.

‘Vasu!’ He said, ‘You have to take care of the jewel making as well.’

‘But accha, what do I know about goldsmithy?’

‘Don’t worry!’ He said and coughed. Phlegm mixed with betel juice came out in spurts through the corner of his mouth. ‘He will take care of everything. Just make sure you feed him well and keep him busy.’

‘Who?’

‘Workshop….workshop…night…’ Father closed his eyes never to open them again. A few days after the cremation, I walked towards father’s workshop carrying the pots of arrack and ten freshly slaughtered chickens. Father had left me instructions in writing. I opened the door and entered inside. The first thing that struck me was the filthiness of the place. It stank… a lot. The next thing I saw was the mounds of raw gold bars and completed jewellery that were strewn across the floor. There was a rustling sound that came from a dark corner.

‘Have you brought food?’ It was the man with the rough voice. I shivered involuntarily.

‘Yyyyyes…’ I stammered.

‘Liquor?’

‘Yesss…’ I placed the chicken and pot of arrack on the floor.

‘Good! Now get lost. I have to eat. The ornaments your father had asked will be ready in the morning.’

I nodded and turned to leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him rushing towards the chicken. It was him – the dark-skinned boy I had seen all those years ago. Only, he was no boy. I knew then.

I left the workshop as the kutti chathan started drinking the Barack.

Note:  According to Hindu mythology, the God Vishnumaya was created by the union of Lord Shiva with a common woman. Vishnumaya aka Chathan was created for the sole purpose of destroying a demon called Jalandhara. During the battle, Vishnumaya’s blood spilled 400 times, forming kutti chathans. In Kerala, India, there are several temples dedicated for Vishnumaya and the 390 kutti chathans that survived the battles. 

Kutti chathans appear like young boys, though they speak with a harsh, grown-up man’s voice. Folklore states that these kutty chathans could be tamed by practitioners of magic. (both white and dark) These tamed kutty chathans would be then forced to do their owner’s bidding. 

The kutty chathans are said to be pranksters. They also have a huge appetite for alcohol and meat. 

[image error]

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details,  click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries:  A ,  B ,  C ,  D, E, F, G, H, I, J

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Jann is a Jinn

Abu was a poor fisherman. Every morning, he rowed his boat to the middle of the ocean, where he cast his net and waited. Some days he had a good haul, but gone were those days. Off late, he’d been returning empty-handed while his fellow fishermen were hauling in fishes by the score. It appeared that the fishes just refused to come anywhere near Abu’s nets alone.

Abu didn’t give up. Every single morning, he ventured out into the sea with hope in his heart and a prayer on his lips. He smiled good-naturedly at others’ success and accepted their condolences on his failure with grace. He knew that his luck was due to turn a corner.

One night it started raining. A storm was brewing which turned into a huge cyclone and destroyed all the huts in the fishing hamlet. The distraught fishermen had lost their boats and nets as well. Surprisingly, Abu’s boat and nets had survived as he had taken care to tie them up to a tree. He decided to venture out into the sea to catch some fish so that everyone could have something to eat.

Other fishermen tried to stop Abu from leaving; not because they felt it was dangerous, but because they felt that Abu was being followed by bad luck. Few of his friends offered to take his boat out to fish, but Abu refused. It was his boat and he would be the one to go out to fish, he declared.

The sea was still rough, waves were larger than usual and keeping the boat steady in one place while trying to cast the nets was next to impossible. After a while, Abu gave up and decided to cast the smaller net first. Soon the net snagged something heavy and Abu used all his strength to haul the net in.

There were no fishes in the net, but there was a sealed copper pot with strange inscriptions on the lid. As Abu placed his hand on the pot, it started vibrating with a strange energy. The storm clouds drifted away and the sea calmed down. A voice came from inside the pot.

‘Release me…I’ve been a captive for too long…’

Abu was shocked. ‘Who are you?’ He asked.

‘I’m a Jann,’ the voice replied. ‘I’ve been trapped inside this pot for centuries. Release me and I’ll shower you with riches.’

Abu looked confused, ‘What is a Jann? I’ve heard of Jinns, but never a Jann.’

‘I’m a Jinn, yes. But one from the lowest classes possible.’

‘What!’ Abu exclaimed, ‘Do you Jinns have a class system as well?’

‘Of course,’ the Jann replied. ‘There are Marids – the most powerful of us, Ifrits, Shaytan, Ghul, and then us – the weakest of the lot. Now please open the lid and let me out.’

‘How do I believe you? Will you give me riches as you said?’ Abu asked, ‘What is the guarantee that you will not kill me after I let you out.’

‘A Jann’s promise is an eternal contract,’ the Jann said. ‘I, hereby promise that I will cause you no harm.’

Abu nodded and used his knife to break open the seals and opened the lid. A huge plume of smoke rose up from inside the pot as the Jann appeared. It was black in colour and looked monstrous. Its eyes were red like a roaring fire that terrified Abu.

‘Thank you, Abu’ it said. ‘Now, take me to your village.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m hungry!’ it said.

‘You said that you wouldn’t hurt me…’

‘I won’t hurt you,’ it said and started laughing. Abu realised his folly. His momentary greed had blinded him.

‘Foolish human!’ the Jann said. ‘Let’s go. We have a lot of things to do.’

[image error]

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details,  click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries:  A ,  B ,  C ,  D, E, F, G, H, I

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Ichadhari Naagin, the shape-shifting cobra

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details,  click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries:  A ,  B ,  C ,  D, E, F, G, H

The forest echoed with the sounds of birds shrieking, animals growling, grunting, howling and screeching, and dry leaves being crunched by heavy boots. They ploughed forward, chopping the vines and barrelling through the bushes. The four men looked quite at ease with the surroundings, their scarred faces, weathered skin, and calloused palms attested to that. The woman was quite the polar opposite of them. She looked dainty, her skin flawless, and she moved with extremely soft footsteps that it appeared she was gliding over the ground.

‘Are we close to the target area, professor?’ The huge man who appeared to be the leader of the group asked the woman.

‘Yes, we are quite close.’ She replied and smiled, ‘Don’t worry, we are on schedule.’

‘Is this safe?’ He asked.

‘Any venture that is targeted on gaining something extremely valuable is seldom safe,’ She said sagely. ‘But don’t worry, that’s where I come in.’

‘Are these ichadhari nags even real?’ another guy asked.

‘Trust me, they are very real. I know of a couple of such shape-shifting snakes that reside close by. That’s where we are going.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ She replied. ‘It was many years ago. The male was killed by a bunch of people for the nagmani, but the female escaped.’

‘Nagmani?’ the huge man asked, apparently confused. ‘What are those?’

‘Only the greatest treasure on this earth,’ she replied. ‘Legends say that the ichadhari nags swallow one drop of rainfall and hold it in their throats for more than hundred years while performing penance. The raindrop mixed with their venom crystalizes into a precious gem called the nagmani. It is said that these gems are the elixir of life.’

‘Wow! How do you know so much, Professor?’

‘Trust me,’ Her voice went down a notch, intimidating them. ‘I know!’

An hour later, she stopped and sniffed. ‘Yes, this is the place. The female should be here somewhere. Proceed with caution.’

‘But, professor!’ the huge man said, ‘The female is dead.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She lost her mate and pined away to her death.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because we are her children and we witnessed you and your team killing our father for the gem.’

In front of her terrified eyes, the four men changed into huge cobras and converged on her.

Note: As per Indian mythology a normal cobra will become an Ichchadhari Naag or Naagin after 100 years of tapasya (penance). After being blessed by Lord Shiva, they can take form of any living creature including humans and can live for more than hundred years without getting old.

[image error]

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Hadal the female goblin

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details, click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries: A, B, C, D, E, F, G

The clock in the bell-tower rang twelve times to signal the onset of midnight. Vinayak pedalled his rickety Atlas cycle slowly towards his room. He was in no hurry to reach his place of accommodation – a tiny one-bedroom flat occupied by ten bachelors. They’d all come from different villages and small towns to the bustling metropolis in search of a living. Some worked day shifts and some worked the nights and hence they never had a problem of sleeping space.

Vinayak worked as an electrician in a spinning mill, some fifteen kilometres from his flat. He preferred working the night shifts as it ensured better pay and also commute during the cool evenings. Pedalling the cycle for thirty kilometres in the sweltering heat was not an option. Gawking at the posters of adult movies that looked even more alluring under the sodium vapour lamps, Vinayak reached the intersection.

A huge banyan tree marked the spot. The road on the right-side was a well-paved motorable road, whereas the one on the left was a dilapidated mud road that passed through the shmashan ghat. Usually, he avoided the road on the left but for the past three days he’d been contemplating taking the road through the graveyard.

It was because of the woman. Three nights ago, he’d spotted her shivering in the cold and drizzle under the banyan tree. She looked old, around seventy, and was dressed in a tattered white saree. Her cheeks looked sunken and her skin looked withered. Vinayak had felt sorry for her and wanted to ask if he could help her, but hadn’t found the courage to do so. The old woman had looked at him, smiled a sad little smile and had walked into the road on the left.

Vinayak decided that he’d try to find the old woman that night and see if he could help her. He muttered the Hanuman Chalisa as he pedalled his cycle into the damaged muddy road. His body shuddered involuntarily due to the dark, cold night and also an aura of eeriness prevalent in the place. He looked on both sides, other than few damaged unoccupied huts there were no buildings on the road. He decided to turn back when he saw the woman again.

She crossed the road from underneath a pipal tree and walked with a shuffling gait into the shmashan ghat. She was wearing a garland of something white in colour that made a rattling noise as she dragged her feet along.

‘Aaji, waat paha!’

She turned and glared at him before scuttling into the graveyard. Vinayak was puzzled. Was she in any danger, he thought to himself before pedalling faster towards her. As he got closer, an unbearable stench overpowered his senses. Something smelled like rotten eggs. He applied the handbrake and came to a stop. The old woman moved forward towards an old grave. As she moved further away from him, the stench receded. Suddenly, he remembered the stories his grandmother had told when he was a little boy. He knew what the old woman was, he knew what her garland was made of, and he knew what she was going to do in the graveyard.

Vinayak started chanting the Hanuman Chalisa in a loud voice as he turned his cycle around and fled away from the Hadal who had started digging the grave to retrieve bones for the mantrik who controlled her.

Note: Hadals are female goblins that are usually controlled by a mantrik (a practitioner of black magic) Their main purpose is to provide the mantriks with things they need for their sorcery like bones and skulls from graves. They usually reside atop pipal (fig) trees. The lore of Hadals is famous in Maharashtra.

Glossary: 1. Aaji – Grandmother

2. waat paha – wait

3. shmashan ghat – a graveyard, place where dead bodies are cremated.

[image error]

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Ghoda Paak – the Assamese Centaur

Rain poured like a thousand watery whips lashing on his skin. Yet the rider didn’t stop. He urged his horse to go faster even as his ears strained to pick up noises from the hooves of the horses of his enemies who were in pursuit. It was well after midnight, and the rider knew that he had the best part of two more hours of hard riding before he reached his destination.

He muttered a prayer, hoping for the success of his mission. Ensconced within his robes were the documents that detailed the battle plans of the Mughal army. He had to get the documents to his commander, Lachit Borphukan, at any cost. The Ahom army, with its weak militia, had no hopes of defeating the much stronger Mughal army that had formed alliances with other enemies of the Ahom Kingdom. These documents would give the smaller army a significant edge in the upcoming battle.

His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of hooves thundering from behind. It appeared that the enemies had caught up with him. His steed was stuttering – the poor beast hadn’t been given rest or allowed any nourishment. The enemies with their thoroughbreds were faster and they had the numerical advantage. At that moment, the fort of Itakhuli looked worlds away and the rider was losing hope. He didn’t want to fail his kingdom.

A sudden thought came into his mind. He didn’t know if he should act upon it. What if the stories weren’t real? What if they were only the results of the imagination of fertile minds? Yet, he knew that he was exposed on the road and would soon be overtaken. His mind made up, the rider directed his horse through a thicket into the woods.

The dark forest was silent – even the heavy rain could manage to only trickle down through the thick canopy of leaves. There were no howls, grunts, or screeches. The animals were asleep, or afraid; very afraid. The only sounds were from the hooves of the horses and the occasional commands barked by his enemies. The rider hazarded a glance backward and saw that his enemies were flanking him. He knew that it would be minutes before they caught up to him.

He prayed. Not to his God, but to something else.

The thundering of the hooves increased in volume. He closed his eyes. The end was very near. Suddenly, he realized that the sounds behind him had ceased. He stopped his horse and was greeted by an eerie silence. Where were his pursuers?

A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the space behind him and he was shocked to see the bodies of his pursuers and their horses on the ground. They had been killed silently, and violently. The rider now knew that his prayers were answered. There were muffled sounds of hooves that were traveling away from him. He hurried on his way towards Itakhuli.

The Ghoda Paak was indeed real.

Note: This story’s backdrop is set against the Ahom – Mughal conflict that occurred between 1615 – 1682. The might of the Mughal army was not enough to defeat the clever and determined Ahom army. The decisive event of the conflict was The Battle of Saraighat of 1671, a naval battle in which the Ahom navy commanded by Lachit Borphukan crushed the Mughal navy.

Ghoda Paak is a supernatural entity from the Assamese folklore. They are supposed to look like humans but with the hooves of horses. Some legends claim that they are helpful, whereas others claim that they are extremely deadly.

There are no available pictorial depictions of the Ghoda Paak. Since their descriptions are close to that of Centaurs, the image of the latter has been used here.

[image error]

 

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details,  click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries:  A ,  B ,  C ,  D, E, F

Fish Loving Mechhobhoot

‘Shona! Come inside and have your dinner. The food is getting cold.’

Eight-year-old Shona heard her mother calling out from the kitchen and made a face. It was a Sunday and she knew what would be on the menu. She had spotted baba making his way to the market in the morning, whistling his favourite song. Completely out of tune, of course. It meant only one thing.

Ilish for dinner!

Iiiiiish!

Shona hated fish – both the smell and taste. To her fish-loving Bengali family, it was nothing short of sacrilege. Her mother had tried to entice Shona into eating fish by pulling out all the stops – She tried steaming the fish, deep and shallow frying it, minced it, made it as a curry, and even batter-fried it. Shona hated them all. It was not just the Ilish that she disliked; She hated Rui, Katla, Prawns, Pomfret, Bhetki…if it was a fish and if it was lying on a plate, Shona made a face and ran away.

‘There you are!’ Her mother called out from the kitchen. ‘Go, clean your hands and legs and sit down to eat.’

‘But I don’t like fish!’ Shona protested and looked to baba for support but he was busy arguing with grandpa about which was better: the ilish from Ganga or the ones from Padma river. Shona scrunched her nose and picked a piece of the deep-fried fish and popped it into her mouth reluctantly. Immediately, she spat it out with a look of disgust on her face.

‘mechhobhooter shonge biye hobe!’ Her grandma said and snickered.

‘I won’t get married to a mechhobhoot!’ Shona replied with indignation and then added, ‘What is a mechhobhoot?’

‘Mechhobhoots are the ghosts who have an insatiable appetite for fish. It is said that those who die a watery death while fishing become mechhobhoots and roam around ponds, lakes, and rivers.’

‘Why?’ Shona asked in a small voice.

‘Because they lie in wait for fishermen and ask them for fish. Machh diye jaa… Machh diye jaa…That’s how they ask for the fish. If the fishermen don’t part with their fish, the mechhobhoot won’t hesitate to kill.’

‘Really?’ Shona’s voice trembled with fear.

‘Yes!’ Grandma smiled and said, ‘Do you want to get married to a mechhobhoot?’

‘No!’

‘Then eat your fish!’

‘Can I go eat in the garden?’ Shona asked.

Grandma nodded and smiled. Shona picked up her plate and made her way to the garden. She loved sitting on the grass under the mango tree. She remembered grandma’s story and forced herself to swallow a piece of the fish. The moon, suddenly, decided to take a quick nap behind the dark clouds. Shona felt a chill creeping up her spine.

‘Little girl!’ A nasal voice came from somewhere behind her. Shona turned to look but saw no one.

‘Little girl!’ There it was again.

‘Who is it?’ She called out.

‘Machh diye jaa…’

Note: Mechhobhoots are said to be ghosts of those who die unnatural death in the water. They have a voracious appetite for fish and would beg/ steal/ threaten/ harm/ kill to get some fish, especially the Ilish (hilsa – a type of herring). This supernatural entity is a part of the Bengali folklore. 

[image error]

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details,  click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries:  A ,  B ,  C ,  D, E

Evil Eyes aka Buri Nazar (Drishti)

When I was a kid, my mom used to apply the most hideous makeup possible on my face. First, she’d apply two or three layers of talcum powder on my face. Then she’d apply kajal on my eyes, not to make me look pretty but to look positively ugly. The kajal would be applied in the most haphazard of ways possible by a human being. At last, came the pièce de résistance; She’d use the kajal to draw a huge circle on my cheek. It looked like a humungous bee sitting permanently on my cheek, and I looked like a doll from a cheap horror movie.

Only when my makeup was complete, my mom allowed me to go out and play with my friends. All the boys used to make fun of me and I used to go back to my home crying. My mom would hear me out, let me finish crying, and then give me a hug followed by either a sweet or a piece of chocolate. The next day, she’d be waiting with the talc and kajal.

I used to ask her why she was so intent on humiliating me. All she said was to ward off our neighbour aunty’s buri nazar. Her answers didn’t satisfy me, so one day when I got out of the house, I went to the street tap and washed my face before running off to play. The next day, I woke up with a very high fever and a nasty stomach ache. Doctor uncle said that I had contracted jaundice and would have to stay inside and follow a strict diet for fourteen days.

My mom went outside and started cursing the neighbour aunty for her buri nazar. I didn’t understand completely because of being delirious due to the jaundice, but I caught the words ‘jealousy,’ ‘barren womb,’ ‘evil eye’ etc. What they meant, I didn’t know. By the time I was cured, neighbour aunty had vacated her house and moved away. I didn’t object when mom started applying talc on my face.

I closed my old diary and started laughing. We Indians are quite the superstitious lot. I was about to sit for dinner when Meetu, my daughter, came in limping. There was a deep gash on her leg that was bleeding profusely.

‘Papa!’ Meetu cried, ‘I was playing near the fence and my leg got caught in the barbed wire. It’s paining a lot.’

‘Rani!’ I called out to my wife. ‘Meetu is hurt pretty bad. I’m taking her to the doctor.’

As we came out of our flat, the door to the opposite flat opened.

‘Manoj bhayya, what happened? Is Meetu hurt?’ It was our neighbour, Shanti. I muttered something about going to the doctor and shuffled away.

Stupid Rani and Meetu! Always hanging out with that witch Shanti. Can’t Rani see the way Shanti looks at Meetu? She’s had three miscarriages, that woman. Guess she has an evil soul to go along with her evil eye. I resolved to get a taweez from the dargah on the way back. I should also ask Rani to rotate some red chillies and rock salt around Meetu before entering the flat.

These evil eyes are bloody real.

Note: The legend or curse of ‘Evil Eye’ is prevalent across many cultures in the world. It is often considered to be someone’s malevolent glare that would bring ill-luck or injury to someone else.

To break the curse of the ‘evil eye,’ a number of talismans or charms that differs from country to country.

Cyprus, Greece, Portugal, Italy, Brazil, Lebanon, Malta, Egypt, Albania, Lebanon, India, Iran, Iraq, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Nepal, Spain, Morocco are some of the countries which have their own legends about and talismans against ‘evil eye.’

Glossary:

Kajal – eye liner

Buri Nazar – evil eye

Bhayya – brother

Taweez – an amulet or locket, usually containing verses from the Qur’an.

[image error]

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist – A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.

Are you a writer? Here’s a great opportunity to get published. The Hive is inviting submissions for their next anthology. To know more details, click here .

My previous AtoZ20 entries: A , B , C , D

Daayan – the fiendish female spirit

The hunter watched as the couple lay down exhausted after their lovemaking. The girl’s lustrous black hair was spread on the white pillow like the rays of a black sun. The man’s eyes twitched and his hands trembled with anticipation. He checked his bag and ran his hands over the knives, zip-ties and a length of nylon rope. Time to pay them a visit.

The young man watched, spellbound, as his lover got up, naked, and walked to make some coffee. He couldn’t believe his luck. An hour back, he was at the bar drinking away his failures and now he was in this gorgeous girl’s bed.

The girl turned and walked seductively towards him, carrying a simmering cup. Sparks and crackles came out of the cup and a gooey substance started trickling out. He watched in morbid fascination as her dark tresses extended towards him. There was something wrong about the way she walked. His eyes went round as coins as he noticed that her feet were facing backward.

The door burst open and the man in black entered brandishing a sinister looking knife.

“Stay away from her hair, idiot.” The hunter bellowed, “She is a Daayan†”

†   Daayan is the term for a fiendish female spirit or witch in Indian folklore. Daayans usually take the appearance of a beautiful young woman with long plaited hair. Their power is concentrated in their hair. They usually gain strength by luring unsuspecting young men and draining their blood and vitality. The supposed way to defeat a Daayan is to cut their hair.

[image error]

My books are available on Amazon: Please click the links to buy them and support a fellow writer. Thank You.

1. Tales With A Twist –  A collection of my short stories.

2. Route 13 : Highway to Hell– An anthology of horror short stories.