Short Story: The Curse by Sneha Pathak

This short story by Sneha Pathak is a part of Kitaab Quarterly Vol-1.

Do you want to know my story? I knew you would, babuji, I knew you would. How, you ask? Forgive an old woman for snooping around, but I heard you tell the passenger who just alighted that you were a writer. A not very successful one perhaps, but a writer, nonetheless. And every writer needs stories, doesn’t he? After all, one can create worlds in their head only for so long. After a point, you too need the company of people to find stories and characters for your stories. And let me tell you, I am not at all embarrassed at the thought of becoming a character in one of your future stories. I see you are smiling. Perhaps you are thinking I am counting my chickens already before I have even told you my story. You are thinking that perhaps mine will be one of those run-of-the-mill sob stories that have been told too many times already. But accept it, you are curious. The sight of a woman like me – just a rung above a beggar – travelling in a second AC compartment of this train has piqued your interest. Ah, there, you have accepted it. Doesn’t it feel nice to be open and honest? But we have still not been completely honest with each other. You are the same person who declined to help me last month when my purse had been stolen on this very train, aren’t you? Now, now, no need to be embarrassed. I know you were in a hurry to get down and you would have helped me if you could. There, now that we have got this all in the open, we can put it behind us.

I can see the question popping into your head. I can read the words almost as if they were written before me: how does this old, wasted crone get the money to travel in such comfort? Ah, don’t look so guilty, I would have felt the same if our positions were reversed. Don’t worry, I am not a thief. I know I look poor. I also know that my skin hangs in loose folds around my face; my hair has all gone white and has thinned; my body seems on the verge of collapsing. But trust me, I am stronger than I look. Strong enough to survive this journey, and then some more. How old would you say I was? Trust me, I have heard people say much worse and it won’t hurt to be called older than my age. What did you say? I look around seventy-five. I am actually forty-five. Don’t look so alarmed, I am not lying. And to answer the question utmost in your mind, I am not mad either. Don’t look around as if you were trapped in this bogey with a mad woman. Yes, I know, most of our fellow passengers have alighted at the last station and it seems you and I are the only two people left in this carriage for the time being. The next station will come in about five hours, at one in the morning. But you can’t be sure of the time because this train tends to run late. I have seen that happen almost every time I have travelled on this train – thrice every month for the past ten years. Aha, I have your full attention. Perhaps I should have opened with this line.

I can see that you are a smart man. You didn’t ask me why I have been travelling. Instead, you asked me if it’s my job that makes me travel so much. But I don’t have a job. Or home. I have a roof over my head, but that is just a place to spend my days when I am not travelling. My only job is this train ride. And to answer the question which you were too polite to ask– I travel in search of redemption. I always book my ticket for a Thursday because I know it is only on a Thursday that I can find it. How do I know that? I just do, you can call it a gut feeling.

At last! You ask the right question, my friend. What do I need redemption from? I need redemption from this curse that has been haunting me for the past fifteen years. It feels so strange to think of that day when it all started. I was thirty then, a young, energetic woman who thought she could conquer the world. I worked as a graphic designer in one of the leading companies in my field and was one of the best. Don’t look at me like that. Why do you find it so hard to believe that I was good at what I did? No, no apologies are needed. Just a little bit of patience and credulity. Because if we are going to get so testy right from the beginning, I doubt we will be able to finish our storytelling.

I was young then, hopeful and in love. I was living in a metro but was soon moving because I was getting married. I had quit my job and wasn’t much worried about what I would do next. I was certain things would work in my favour once I had settled in the new city. You see, I had always been fortune’s favourite. I had plans to start my own business. I was marrying the man I loved and knew he would support me till I started earning money through my art. I was a very good painter, and everyone advised me that I should give more leeway to the artist within me. They used to call me a ‘true artist’ back then, and very often they meant it as an insult because I would take a less-paying job if it gave me artistic satisfaction. Ah, I can hear you sigh in solidarity. You have been jeered at too, then? Called an artist with disdain? Yes, I knew it. Only an artist can understand another artist. What do you say? Do you doubt yourself sometimes? I did too. But like you, I knew there was nothing I wouldn’t do to feed the artist within me. I knew I was on the cusp of change.

I was then living in one of the “posh” areas of the city. It had wide roads, a working drainage system, more trees, and fewer beggars. I had started packing a week ago and was almost done when I realised that I needed a few more cartons for some of my most precious drawings which would have to be marked fragile for the transporters. It was summer and the yellow amaltas were in full bloom. I was wondering if I should go down in the evening or the next morning when I heard the notes of a flute carried on to my flat on the fifth floor by the wind and was mesmerised. I was curious to know which of my neighbours was such a maestro. Despite the heat, I went out onto my balcony to see who was playing. It was then that I realised that the flute player was a flute seller who was standing on the other side of the road under an amaltas tree, playing his flute as if lost to the world. It was surprising how the notes reached me clearly despite the flow of the traffic and the distance. I felt pity for the flute seller who had to work in the burning sun and was wondering how he managed to make ends meet when my phone rang, and the spell was broken.

The next evening, I heard the notes of the flute again. This time, they were much more plaintive. It had rained that evening, and I was sitting outside in the breeze, watching my surroundings being engulfed by an inky darkness that had suddenly descended. I looked down when I heard the flute, and I could make out the outlines of the flute player. For a moment I had the feeling that he was looking in my direction as if he knew I was there. I felt a sudden chill and went inside.

The next day was busy as I had plans to move out that night. The movers were there and by early evening, I had loaded almost all my luggage in their vehicle when one of the cartons tore under its weight, and all my belongings scattered on the floor. The movers, who had already reminded me multiple times that they were running late, began grumbling at this unexpected delay. To avoid any more unpleasantness, I told them to go ahead with all the other luggage thinking I could take this one box in my car. I put all my remaining bags in the car and went towards the market to get a carton. I also wanted to get a good look at this locality for the last time before I said goodbye forever.

The weather was cooler that day and I decided to take a walk. Before I knew it, more than an hour had elapsed. It was getting dark and clouds were threatening rain again. I bought a carton and walked homewards the last time. I was almost at the gates of my home when a voice stopped me. “Buy a flute, madamji.” It was the flute-seller. I was in a tearing hurry and just shook my head no and moved on. Perhaps he didn’t see my gesture because he continued, “I know you will enjoy playing it. Buy it and grant a cursed fellow redemption. Only an artist can help another artist.”

Those were strange words, and if I were not in a hurry, I would have perhaps paused to ponder why had he called me an artist, or perhaps even bought a flute from him. But I hurried on, shaking my head no. As soon as I had left him behind, I was stabbed by a feeling of guilt. What would it have mattered if I had given him some money? I should have, shouldn’t I? When I reached the lift, I heard the notes of his flute again and made up my mind to give him some money after keeping the carton upstairs.

I kept the carton at my door and went down immediately. I could hear his flute when I was getting in the lift, but by the time I reached the gates, he was nowhere to be seen. I walked up and down the road, but the man was not around. Puzzled, I decided it was not wise to waste time anymore and headed upstairs. I had started packing when I realised my head was beginning to ache. Gradually, it spread to my limbs and within fifteen minutes, I was burning with fever. Till today, I have no recollection of how I took the medicine, moved to my bed (a mattress really, which I had planned to leave behind), and called my landlady telling her that I would hand her the keys the next day.

That night was full of terrifying dreams. I was on the streets, running away from the notes of the flute which seemed to follow me wherever I went. At one point, the flute-seller came to me and whispered in my ear, “I have passed on to you, my curse. I am now free.” I woke up with a start to find it was already morning. My fever was gone, and I was feeling better. I remembered the dream and shuddered. Don’t they say what you dream in the morning is a reflection of the truth? But in the morning sun, the dream didn’t seem so menacing. It was, after all, just a dream. Or so I told myself. I dressed and left quickly, getting something to eat on the way.

And that reminds me, don’t you think it is time we should eat too? The servers have already served our meal packets and I am too tired to go on without a break. You seem surprised. Oh, you hadn’t realised it was dinner time already. I think I have you hooked, haven’t I?

That was a good meal. I feel rejuvenated again. You didn’t like it? Ah, I get it. It was not the best of meals; I grant you that. But when one is able to eat every morsel without choking, when one’s appetite doesn’t disappear as soon as food comes before her, that is a good meal. You don’t seem to believe me. But it’s true. For years I haven’t been able to swallow more than a few mouthfuls at a time – barely enough to survive. But I am getting ahead of myself. Where were we? Yes, thanks for reminding me. It was the day I was going to move. The morning passed pleasantly enough. I was feeling healthy and was thankful that the fever had left no weakness because I had to drive a long way home. By ten in the morning, I had loaded everything and was set to say my final goodbye to the city. I had just started the car when the plaintive notes of the flute floated from somewhere. I looked around but could not see the flute seller. I shrugged and drove on. The journey was uneventful, and I reached home on time. The next few days went by in a flurry of activities before the wedding.

It was the night before the wedding that the nightmares started. The same nightmare that I had before, only this time, the flute seller was present at my wedding, whispering in my ear. I woke up gasping for air, bathed in sweat. I spent the entire wedding battling the irrational fear that the flute seller might appear. But of course, nothing happened. I did not have any nightmares the next few days either. Gradually, the fear subsided, and I forgot all about it.

I shifted to a new city and got busy building a life for myself there. I had converted one of my rooms into a makeshift studio and one morning, when I was feeling particularly inspired, decided to work on a new painting. I had decided to paint the view from my old balcony but when I was done, I realised that the scenery had receded to the background and a solitary figure occupied the prominent position in my painting. It was the flute seller.

I was horrified. Not because I had painted him, but because he had inserted himself in the painting without my knowledge. All the while I was working, I had no recollection of having painted him. I see you are sceptical. What is it that you say? That I had painted him subconsciously, that he had been on my mind as is clear from my nightmares. Well, sir, you are a well-read man and perhaps you are right. Perhaps it all happened as you say it did. But it ruined my day. And to make matters worse, that night I had the nightmare again. I had plans to go to a dinner party with my husband the next day, but I made some feeble excuses because I knew I couldn’t face people in my current situation. The next few days went uneventfully, and I was beginning to get back my bearings when the worst began. I would now hear the notes of the flute any time of the day. The first few times I tried to convince myself that someone was playing the flute on the street or in the neighbourhood. But the notes would spring up anytime. And they seemed to come from somewhere close like someone was playing flute in the room next to the one I was in. I talked to my husband about this, and he laughed it off. To be honest, I did not tell him everything. I didn’t mention the fever, the nightmares, and the curse. I was convinced that he would not believe me – just like you don’t seem to believe a word I am saying – and call me crazy.

Only I could hear those notes, and they were overpowering me little by little. Initially, it happened once every few days. Then it started happening daily and there came a time when those notes became an unwanted but constant companion. They were especially loud whenever I sat down to eat. It became impossible for me to eat more than a few bites at a time. If I tried to ignore the music and continue eating, it would grow in intensity till I felt my head would explode. Even if this were just a product of my mind, it was enough to drive me mad and make my husband angry. Our marriage was still in its infancy and the strain this put on it was great. We were already sleeping in separate rooms and not talking more than absolutely necessary. My nightmares had increased and one day in the second month of marriage, I realised that I could not stay married. This thought came to me in a rare moment of lucidity, and I immediately decided to act on it. I wrote a letter addressed to him, and left home. I had no idea where I would go, or what I would do next. All I knew was that I could not live like this. That I needed redemption. What redemption? How would I get it? Where would I get it? I did not know then.

Is something the matter, my friend? You seem unwell. Do you have a headache? Here, take this medicine. I always keep a medical kit with me while I travel. Why don’t you lie down on your seat and we will switch off the light overhead? I will continue my story, don’t worry. There, are you feeling any better? Good, let me continue then.

After I left home, I wandered from place to place. I even went back to my old locality to search for the flute seller, but he disappeared around the same time I had left. The cursed music did not leave me alone wherever I went. It wouldn’t let me live, wouldn’t let me eat, wouldn’t let me paint. And the nightmares increased till I decided I could live no more. And I chose the surest way – I lay down on the tracks, waiting for the train. After a long wait, the rails started vibrating. The train was coming. There, I could hear its whistle. Now I could see its light in the distance. It was coming closer every second and I was almost face to face with death when I realised that death would not change anything. This curse wouldn’t leave me until I did what the flute-seller had done. I had to pass it on to someone else. The next moment, I jerked away from the track before the train could maul me and chop me into pieces. It was this very train. And at that moment, I also knew that this train would be the vehicle of my redemption.

I started travelling regularly on this train three days a week. I knew I would meet someone, but I had to bide my time. Initially, I travelled more frequently. After a few years, my health was not as good as it used to be and so I decided to travel thrice a month. The rest of the days, I paint and sell my work. I make enough money to cover the cost of this journey thrice a month and to survive. I have also learnt to live with the music, and on some days, it is not as bad as it used to be. I am still paranoid; I still get nightmares but recently the frequency has decreased. I take this as a sign that my redemption is nearby. And today, after years, I ate a hearty meal.

Why have you switched on the lights? You look feverish. Is that why you are staring at me like that? Or is it because the first faint notes of the flute have started reaching your ears? I think it is both. The horror in your eyes is answer enough. Please don’t try to speak in your condition. I can already feel a lightness and the sound of the flute seems to have become almost inaudible. You must be feeling sleepy, I can see you are struggling to stay awake. I think it’s time I leave, and let you sleep in peace for the last time. But there is a question in your eyes. Do you want to know why I chose you to pass on this horrible curse? It’s simple, really. Because only an artist can help another artist.

Author’s Bio

Dr. Sneha Pathak has a Ph.D. in English Literature from Banasthali Vidyapith, Rajasthan, and has taught at the university level for more than five years. She is currently working as a freelance writer and translator. She has also been associated as a book- reviewer with Purple Pencil Project. A list of her reviews can be found by following this link: https://www.purplepencilproject.com/author/sneha-pathak/