MicroHorror

Kannan took a deep breath and tried once more. This time he succeeded in zipping up his trousers. He inhaled cautiously, and sighed with relief when nothing split or tore. Damn! He was putting on weight like nobody’s business. His landlady was to blame, no doubt. Mrs. Annapoorna loved to cook up a veritable feast every day.

He glanced at the clock. Time for breakfast. He wondered what she had made today.

“Come on, have some more.” Mrs. Annapoorna bustled around him, spooning some prawn curry over his idlis. The fluffy white cakes were soft and melted in his mouth. A generous dollop of butter only enhanced their taste.

“No, no, Aunty. I really cannot have any more,” Kannan protested weakly.

“At least have some of this kesari bath. I’ve made it with pure ghee.”

The sweet dish drew Kannan like a moth to a flame. It glistened with temptation, studded with cashews and raisins, and he succumbed. Poor old lady, he thought, as he savored each spoonful. He was so lucky that he had found such good paying guest accommodation at a mere pittance. In a city like Bangalore, this was pure gold. The only thing Mrs. Annapoorna had asked was whether he had family, or if he was going to get married soon. She had said she could not take the disturbance, annoyance, and tension that unexpected visitors created. It was a good thing that Kannan was alone. The love and affection she had lavished on him surprised him at first, but then old age did such things to people. Loneliness in a big city could rot the very soul.

“That’s all you’ve eaten? A growing boy like you needs to eat better,” Mrs. Annapoorna admonished him, but Kannan felt he would burst if he had a morsel more.

“I’m stuffed, Aunty. I don’t think I can even move out of this chair! I shall have to call my office and tell them that I’m sick.”

“Go on, go on, don’t exaggerate.” She laughed.

Mrs. Annapoorna gazed at him fondly as he left the room. He looked pleasingly plump, a welcome change from the scrawny lad who had showed up four months ago at her gate. Just one more month, she told herself. Then he would be ripe for harvesting. His heart would make such a delicious casserole, and his cheeks, the perfect curry.

• Copyright: © 2009 Anitha Murthy

“Father! Father! Someone’s coming!”

Two ragged snot-nosed children, brown as the earth that baked them in its dust, came running into the little hut. The father, who was sitting on his haunches smoking a local weed, broke into a wheezing cough that racked his skeletal frame.

“Someone’s coming!” The younger one danced in front of him, and received a resounding whack on his head as a reward.

“A man is coming.” The mother hovered in front of the door with a naked toddler clinging onto her filthy skirt, and another in her arms.

Her husband simply grunted, and continued his smoking.

The visitor was a young foreigner, clad in the usual sturdy gear of a backpacker. He was red and sweaty, with pale blue eyes and large hands.

The children ran up to him, laughing and greeting him with howls and cartwheels. He grinned back at them, and searched in his pockets for some candy. He tossed a few mints to the ground, and the children scrambled to pick them up, fighting each other off.

He came up to the door, and joined his hands, bowing low before the mother.

His greeting evoked a shy smile as she disappeared within, and a few minutes later, the man emerged. They sized up each other: one a bag of bones, clad in a loincloth and stooped, the other bursting with health, robust and hearty. They spoke no common language; their bodies did the talking.

The foreigner soon made himself comfortable. The children gathered around him, curious and invasive. Through gestures and signs, they began communicating somewhat.

“Why are you so far away from the village?” the foreigner signed.

“We are not allowed inside,” the man signed back. “They will stone us if they see us around. Stone us or beat us. We cannot go inside any village.”

“Why?”

The man shrugged. “We are considered dirty, not like them.”

“You mean, untouchable?”

“Whatever.” The man seemed to lose interest, and began smoking again.

The children were now helping the mother prepare a fire. She then rolled a large cauldron onto the fire, and poured water into it.

“A feast?”

“Yes.”

The foreigner was used to it. In every village he visited, they touched his white skin in awe, checking to see if the white color had rubbed off onto their fingers. Everywhere he went, they feted him and threw lavish feasts. At first it was an embarrassing novelty; now it was what he expected, as if it were his right to be celebrated.

He rubbed his stomach and grinned. “I’m hungry!”

The man threw an odd glance at him and looked away. He hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind how to respond. Finally, he offered the foreigner what he was smoking. The latter accepted the pipe cheerfully–some of these local concoctions were incredible.

A few potent puffs saw the foreigner relaxing, his mind drifting into a blissful trance. Perhaps it was all for the best, for he never knew when the pipe slipped from his fingers, when he slid to the ground unconscious, or when the sharp knife slit his throat.

“We won’t go hungry for a week now,” the man said, as he collected the blood that spurted out into a mud cup.

The mother looked on with greedy eyes, while the children whooped with joy.

• Copyright: © 2007 Anitha Murthy