Thursday, December 06, 2018

He tossed in bed, too shattered to think and rubbed his shoulder. It was a reflex action and he wondered why it ached, the day was a blur with the only thing playing on a loop was the doctor's resigned words, 'I am sorry but there is nothing more we can do.'

Broken hopes and shattered dreams could shriek, he learnt, but he could not say a word of comfort to his family. The helplessness of the situation filled him with rage and he wanted to do something, anything other than simply giving up. Springing up from the bed, he changed into warmer clothes and decided to take a walk.

Kamakshi, too fatigued to cry, lay in bed, staring at him listlessly. She would normally have a thousand questions for him. He could make out her silent lament, 'what had they done to deserve this? How could they live watching their son die?'

The same questions would echo in his parent's muted whispers, they would not be sleeping either.

He crossed the corridor outside Trisha's bedroom and he could hear the same entreaty in her soft sobbing. There was no sound from Tarun's bedroom, and though he felt like a coward, he was grateful; he could not face his son, yet.

Downstairs, as he passed down the hallway and the guest room, he was startled to hear Khaleed and his wife, Ameena, talking. It was surprising, he did not know that they were staying the night, it was not unusual, but he was bewildered that he was not aware of his friend's presence. Some part of him wanted to knock on the door and call Khaleed out, it would do good to see him but then another part of him did not want any company. He would be better being miserable alone.

Hyderabad was always a hot city, but in December, the nights were cold. It was welcome, for the chill helped him clear his head. He reminded himself that he was a military man, a man of action, not a dithering fool who relied upon and accepted the whims of an unseen and unheard power; which was what they had been doing for the past few months.

All they got was radio silence from the heavenly deities and it was nothing new for him. He had never seen or heard of God answering any prayers, irrespective of the religion one practised and he had seen quite a few.

His paternal grandmother was an Italian who had fallen in love with his grandfather, a sepoy in the 8th Indian Division, which had been part of the Italian campaign during the Second World War. His grandfather had later turned into a zealous proponent of the Advaita Vedanta while his grandmother continued to follow her catholic faith. His father had converted to Buddhism as an answer to the question as to which faith he would follow. And had gone ahead to fall in love with his Jain mother, who had never given up on her faith. He was witness to mild religious arguments though there had been strong battles in the kitchen over the dietary habits; a vegetarian grandfather, a bacon-loving grandmother, a beer-guzzling father and his mother, who would not include root vegetables in the list of foods that could be consumed. And his best friend, his partner in crime and fellow soldier, was a Muslim. It had been an enlightening childhood, religions could be different but love was same, irrespective of the faith one followed. It became all the more evident when he had met and married Kamakshi, a devout Hindu, who fasted for more than sixty days a year, all in the name of God.

He had seen different practices, different philosophies and different arguments as to who or what God was. He was not sure then and he did not care now, and wondered if just like him, God did not care for humans.

The night seemed to grow colder and he was grateful that he had pulled on the old sweater. It belonged to his grandfather, knitted in the finest merino wool by his grandmother. He had loved watching his grandmother knit and he prized this sweater and had been sad when it had started to wear around the elbows. Trisha, named after his grandmother, Teresa, had inherited her great grandmother's passion and penchant for knitting. Instead of unravelling the sweater and knitting it all over, she had simply stitched in knitted elbow patches and added a kangaroo pouch pocket. Tonight, as he walked with his hands warm in the pocket, it made him thankful for the presence of the wonderful women in his life, though it was not strong enough to reign in the despair. And that brought back memories of his grandmother.

"Raggio," his grandmother always called him that, a throwback to her Italian roots, "God has his ways. And just because he does not answer what we pray for does not mean he does not exist. You must have faith, you must believe. And when you do that, you will have your answers. And above all, do remember, you might not get what you pray for but what you get is the answer to your prayers."

He had scoffed at his grandmother's words and now he pondered, 'What sort of an answer was silence? And was God expecting him to fall on his knees and beseech him? Why would he do that when his entire family had been doing it and there had been no reply?"

And then there had been her firm belief in angels and demons.

"Angels and demons do exist. You cannot see God but you can mark their presence. Remember that the angels are always watching you, even as the demons do."

"Nonna, you know a spell to summon demons? That would be handy, I could use it, could you teach me?" At fourteen years, he had believed in magic.

His teasing earned him a whack on his head, another trademark action of his grandmother; he had lost count of the number of times he had been whacked. One would think he must have learnt what irritated her and would avoid doing those things, but he loved teasing her.

"There is no spell or summoning charm to call them."

"Oh, so all those tales of crossroads, and candles and Latin sentences, all of that..."

"... is mere mumbo-jumbo to mislead the people. You use that head of yours. Why would someone as powerful as a desire fulfilling demon or a wish-granting angel answer something that is more like a sophisticated mumbling of sentences to the accompaniment of flickering candles? Why would they bother?"

That disturbed him, and though he welcomed the chance to debate, he wanted clarity, "So those stories about demons and angels are false?"

"They exist, Raggio, they do. And when you call them, they do answer. But not to the supposed summoning charms or the calling spells. They answer to the cry of your heart, the call of your soul. They respond to the reek of despair and the stink of desperation. That helplessness which blinds you to everything, every belief, it is the beacon that draws them. However, who answers? That is luck or...maybe fate?"

He walked around, his brisk steps silent on the tarmac, years of being in the military had taught him how to walk silently. And when a sudden power failure plunged the colony in darkness, he did not break his stride. They were trained to find their way in the dark too, and this was familiar terrain, the Army Cantonment in Secunderabad. He continued, unmindful of the lateness of the hour and the deep darkness; there was a park around the corner and he wanted to sit on one of the benches for a while.

His eyes adjusted to the lack of light; just his luck that it was Amavasya, there was no moonlight either. But it somehow befitted his sombre moods, reflective of the dark despair that threatened to engulf him.

For a time, nothing happened. The night grew darker and the wind fell silent. Then he felt it, a faint flicker of a flame, a slow heat that enveloped him as the silence raged around him. Visions of towering flames and echos of thundering hearts swirled around him.

And he heard the voice behind him, "Well, well, well. Who have we here? Colonel G Raghuveera Rao himself, in flesh and bone. This is interesting."

A sliver of unease crept along his spine as he wondered who had answered his silent cries of desperation. He felt it in his bones; that voice could belong to no human and though his mind found it difficult to accept the presence of a supernatural being, he knew that there could be no other rational explanation. A part of him hoped that it was an angel who was behind him, one who would simply answer his prayers, but his gut screamed demon. And then there was disbelief, it was his mother and wife who were devout humans, why should one appear to him and not to either of them?

And as though that being could hear his thoughts, a voice echoed in his head, "It is not every day we come across such a despairing and contradictory human. One who believes in God, as a sort of abstract belief, but is quite irreverent. Do you have any clue of the theological complications you have caused with your decision to summon me? I am curious and there was no way I would send any of my trusted demons, not that they know the meaning of that word."

Rahguveer rose from the bench, his limbs stiff from the chill air, which was now rapidly heating up. He turned to face the direction he had heard the voice, though the steamy mists that enveloped them reduced his visibility and all he could see were flaming shadows.

"Anyway, it is back to business; the Devil at your service. What do you want?"

So, the Devil himself answers Raghuveer's silent prayer. What do think would happen next? (Oh, well, it does seem rhetorical, but I would still love to hear your thoughts.)

Thanks for reading,
Nyna