AnuKathaa: Story 1: Mukti Kuteer
Over the past year, as I got more regular with my writing, I've been having this thought of segregating my writings based on the genre. So, this new blog called AnuKathaa.....which is a pun of sorts because these are SMALL stories written by ANU.....
So, without further ado, let's get on with it. Here's the first short story I wrote in 2018......as usual, I'm waiting eagerly to hear your thoughts and suggestions in the 'Comments' section ....
Mukti Kuteer
Prompt: The Bridge | Word count: 1200 words exactly | Genre: Mystery
Finally, we are here. So, this is the place. What a tiny name board for a place that makes such tall claims. “Mukti Kuteer” looks like nothing more than an ordinary guesthouse in Kashi. But the name reveals its special purpose. This is where people – like my master Babuji – go, to die. Yes, that’s right….I was shocked too, when I first heard of it.
I mean, how can someone promise death escort services in a holy land? Isn’t that a sin?
But no, they’re not hastening death; just providing a place to stay for those who think they’re dying. We Hindus have this concept of cycles of birth and death and “mukti” is the final liberation of a soul from this cycle. It’s THE ultimate prize, you know…Dying in Kashi, on the banks of the holy Ganga river is a sure-shot way to Mukti, we believe.
Wait, what’s happening to me? Why is a hardened soul like me spouting this philosophy? I’m here on a mission with Babuji – I mustn’t lose sight of that.
We enter Babuji’s name in the register. Not mine – I’m just the helper who’s come along to take care of ALL his needs. Which suits me just fine. We’re staying here for 15 days. Don’t ask me why…it’s one of the rules this Mukti Kuteer has. If you don’t die in 15 days, you’re asked to make way for someone more in need of the space. How do people know they’re going to die in 15 days without outside help? Beats me – but from what I’ve heard about this place, they do the trick somehow…..or go back home. No such fears for Babuji, though. He’s going to kick the bucket in this fortnight.
Sharmaji – the caretaker – bows to Babuji. Now, why is he glaring at me? I stare back defiantly and still, his eyes bore into me, as if probing the very depths of my being. I must stay away from this man…something about him is unsettling….those eyes, I think…they see too much…
A boy shows us to our room. A tiny bed for Babuji. Nothing for me. It’s okay, I’m used to sleeping on the hard, cold floor. One small cupboard to keep our things. I sort and set up our stuff. We’re traveling light – nothing you can really carry on the final journey, you know….
Babuji sits on the bed. He’s already looking tired, I think.
An old lady brings us two plates with the evening meal. I take them from her and hand over one to Babuji, keeping the other aside for me to eat later. I move to the cupboard to take the glass to pour out water for Babuji. Don’t forget to give him lots of this special water, I’ve been told. I’m not likely to forget. Anything to help the dying soul.
Dinner over, Babuji sinks into his bed. I cover him up with the blanket that’s been given to us. I eat quickly, for I have places to see outside this guesthouse. Babuji may have come here to die, but no such plans for me….I’ve still got a lot of living to be done.
I walk out trying not to notice those eyes of Sharmaji. Creepy guy. I’ve heard people in our village talk of him with awe. He can recognize death, they say. There have been times when he’s turned would-be lodgers away from his guesthouse because he feels their time hasn’t come, it seems. And sometimes, he’s predicted the death of people in the pink of health too, they say. Whatever. I don’t like the guy and its best I stay away from him.
There’s a quaint little bridge just a little away. A steady gush of water in the river below. The current isn’t very strong for someone like me. But it’s probably dangerous for kids and the elderly. No one in the vicinity at this time of day. Wonder what it looks like during the day. I can bring Babuji for a walk here tomorrow, maybe.
Oh, I’ve walked all the way to the Ganga. This life-giving river, who renders the soil fertile and gives people water to drink, is also the one who sees them off after their death. The smoke from the ritualistic fire mingles with that arising from the funeral pyre….wow…quite a poet this place is turning me into.
I must bring Babuji here too. He can walk down the few steps to the river. The current here is much stronger, and the river is deeper too.
I buy a tiny basket with flowers and a lamp from the nearby vendor. She lights the lamp for me and I set the basket afloat on the river, sending up a small prayer that I get success ..in all I do…What’s come over me, I don’t know. Never before have I actually said a prayer. This place is getting to me…its best Babuji embarks on his journey soon, and I get away from here.
I go back to Mukti Kuteer and make my way to our room. Babuji is sleeping, but no point waking him up, for he won’t fall asleep soon again. I’ll have to listen yet again to his tales of a glorious past that include a business empire he built from scratch. He complains a lot about his nephew who’s managing things now, but Babuji has no alternative. No son of his own, you see. I grope in the dark cupboard for my water bottle, and take a long gulp.
I spread my mat and blanket and lie down. How many more days like this, I wonder. Be patient, I tell myself. The money is coming in a fortnight, anyway. All you need to do is wait, watch, and make sure you don’t mess up. I fall asleep…dreaming of funeral pyres and the Ganga rushing by….
My throat….it’s burning in the fire….what’s happening to me? My body is drowning in the Ganga….how can that be? Am I not in my room, sleeping on my mat on the cold, hard floor…dreaming of the money to come my way…..but no, I’m awake…..water! water! Why isn’t anyone coming to help?
I pull myself desperately to the cupboard….I gulp down the water from my bottle….what’s happening to me? Why is my body burning so? I’m up in flames….I can’t bear it…I must dump myself into water or I’ll die…wait, wait…there’s the river under the bridge close by…let me take a dip there…that’ll surely cool me down…
I’m running to the bridge, I fall…no, no, I must get up…I must get into the water….oh, I’m on the bridge already….why didn’t I see those steps leading into the water? No, no…there’s no time to wait …I cant bear this burning anymore…the river isn’t very deep…I can bear the current….let me jump…. Ahhh….finally…the burning is gone….the cool river has embraced me….I’m at peace….let me sleep….I’ll think of how to send Babuji to Mukti tomorrow….
Hey…who’s that peering at me in the dark? God, those eyes! Why has the guy followed me here? What’s that? He’s saying something…. “….water bottle…..I knew it…..whatever your plans for Babuji….God has different plans…it’s you who’s being set free….he has more time, still….”
⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹
I'm grateful to my colleague Mrs. Veena P. who provided inspiration for the theme of this story by forwarding a video on WhatsApp. Later, I read about it here.
So, without further ado, let's get on with it. Here's the first short story I wrote in 2018......as usual, I'm waiting eagerly to hear your thoughts and suggestions in the 'Comments' section ....
Mukti Kuteer
Prompt: The Bridge | Word count: 1200 words exactly | Genre: Mystery
Finally, we are here. So, this is the place. What a tiny name board for a place that makes such tall claims. “Mukti Kuteer” looks like nothing more than an ordinary guesthouse in Kashi. But the name reveals its special purpose. This is where people – like my master Babuji – go, to die. Yes, that’s right….I was shocked too, when I first heard of it.
I mean, how can someone promise death escort services in a holy land? Isn’t that a sin?
But no, they’re not hastening death; just providing a place to stay for those who think they’re dying. We Hindus have this concept of cycles of birth and death and “mukti” is the final liberation of a soul from this cycle. It’s THE ultimate prize, you know…Dying in Kashi, on the banks of the holy Ganga river is a sure-shot way to Mukti, we believe.
Wait, what’s happening to me? Why is a hardened soul like me spouting this philosophy? I’m here on a mission with Babuji – I mustn’t lose sight of that.
We enter Babuji’s name in the register. Not mine – I’m just the helper who’s come along to take care of ALL his needs. Which suits me just fine. We’re staying here for 15 days. Don’t ask me why…it’s one of the rules this Mukti Kuteer has. If you don’t die in 15 days, you’re asked to make way for someone more in need of the space. How do people know they’re going to die in 15 days without outside help? Beats me – but from what I’ve heard about this place, they do the trick somehow…..or go back home. No such fears for Babuji, though. He’s going to kick the bucket in this fortnight.
Sharmaji – the caretaker – bows to Babuji. Now, why is he glaring at me? I stare back defiantly and still, his eyes bore into me, as if probing the very depths of my being. I must stay away from this man…something about him is unsettling….those eyes, I think…they see too much…
A boy shows us to our room. A tiny bed for Babuji. Nothing for me. It’s okay, I’m used to sleeping on the hard, cold floor. One small cupboard to keep our things. I sort and set up our stuff. We’re traveling light – nothing you can really carry on the final journey, you know….
Babuji sits on the bed. He’s already looking tired, I think.
An old lady brings us two plates with the evening meal. I take them from her and hand over one to Babuji, keeping the other aside for me to eat later. I move to the cupboard to take the glass to pour out water for Babuji. Don’t forget to give him lots of this special water, I’ve been told. I’m not likely to forget. Anything to help the dying soul.
Dinner over, Babuji sinks into his bed. I cover him up with the blanket that’s been given to us. I eat quickly, for I have places to see outside this guesthouse. Babuji may have come here to die, but no such plans for me….I’ve still got a lot of living to be done.
I walk out trying not to notice those eyes of Sharmaji. Creepy guy. I’ve heard people in our village talk of him with awe. He can recognize death, they say. There have been times when he’s turned would-be lodgers away from his guesthouse because he feels their time hasn’t come, it seems. And sometimes, he’s predicted the death of people in the pink of health too, they say. Whatever. I don’t like the guy and its best I stay away from him.
There’s a quaint little bridge just a little away. A steady gush of water in the river below. The current isn’t very strong for someone like me. But it’s probably dangerous for kids and the elderly. No one in the vicinity at this time of day. Wonder what it looks like during the day. I can bring Babuji for a walk here tomorrow, maybe.
Oh, I’ve walked all the way to the Ganga. This life-giving river, who renders the soil fertile and gives people water to drink, is also the one who sees them off after their death. The smoke from the ritualistic fire mingles with that arising from the funeral pyre….wow…quite a poet this place is turning me into.
I must bring Babuji here too. He can walk down the few steps to the river. The current here is much stronger, and the river is deeper too.
I buy a tiny basket with flowers and a lamp from the nearby vendor. She lights the lamp for me and I set the basket afloat on the river, sending up a small prayer that I get success ..in all I do…What’s come over me, I don’t know. Never before have I actually said a prayer. This place is getting to me…its best Babuji embarks on his journey soon, and I get away from here.
I go back to Mukti Kuteer and make my way to our room. Babuji is sleeping, but no point waking him up, for he won’t fall asleep soon again. I’ll have to listen yet again to his tales of a glorious past that include a business empire he built from scratch. He complains a lot about his nephew who’s managing things now, but Babuji has no alternative. No son of his own, you see. I grope in the dark cupboard for my water bottle, and take a long gulp.
I spread my mat and blanket and lie down. How many more days like this, I wonder. Be patient, I tell myself. The money is coming in a fortnight, anyway. All you need to do is wait, watch, and make sure you don’t mess up. I fall asleep…dreaming of funeral pyres and the Ganga rushing by….
My throat….it’s burning in the fire….what’s happening to me? My body is drowning in the Ganga….how can that be? Am I not in my room, sleeping on my mat on the cold, hard floor…dreaming of the money to come my way…..but no, I’m awake…..water! water! Why isn’t anyone coming to help?
I pull myself desperately to the cupboard….I gulp down the water from my bottle….what’s happening to me? Why is my body burning so? I’m up in flames….I can’t bear it…I must dump myself into water or I’ll die…wait, wait…there’s the river under the bridge close by…let me take a dip there…that’ll surely cool me down…
I’m running to the bridge, I fall…no, no, I must get up…I must get into the water….oh, I’m on the bridge already….why didn’t I see those steps leading into the water? No, no…there’s no time to wait …I cant bear this burning anymore…the river isn’t very deep…I can bear the current….let me jump…. Ahhh….finally…the burning is gone….the cool river has embraced me….I’m at peace….let me sleep….I’ll think of how to send Babuji to Mukti tomorrow….
Hey…who’s that peering at me in the dark? God, those eyes! Why has the guy followed me here? What’s that? He’s saying something…. “….water bottle…..I knew it…..whatever your plans for Babuji….God has different plans…it’s you who’s being set free….he has more time, still….”
⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹⇹
I'm grateful to my colleague Mrs. Veena P. who provided inspiration for the theme of this story by forwarding a video on WhatsApp. Later, I read about it here.
Was this guy planning to finish off babuji n got finished off instead? Eerie.
ReplyDeleteAnything is possible. People willingly giving up body in kashi n people wanting to cheat on them too !
Yes, that was my intent certainly. :-)
Delete