Curried Lamb

Hari’s mother went back to the tent which the family called home and sat down on the floor. The phials had been safely tucked in her bosom, inside her blouse. Where would she get hold of lamb now? She stood up and went to the corner where a ramshackle mattress was sprawled on the earth. She lifted one corner of the mattress and started to scrape the earth with her hands. She drew out a box covered in black soil. She shook the soil loose and opened the box.  She wailed upon opening it, like a demented woman who had lost everything. She had lost everything. All the money that she had saved was gone. It must have been her husband. Hari came running to find her mother sitting with earth strewn all around her and swearing “Saala, chutiya!” She wiped away her tears smearing her face with soil, mixing the earth and the tears.  Hari asked her, “Maa, why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” she said, wiping her eyes. “See, not crying at all. Now, I want you stay inside till I come back, okay. Don’t go outside.” She walked out. She stood outside for a while trying to figure out which geographical direction was ideal for her quest for lamb. If it were possible to borrow some money – her thought trailed off, bringing to her the faces of her neighbors and the items that she owed each of them. Rice. Dal. Sugar. Kerosene. Wood. She walked to the butcher’s, with a resolve to appeal to his human side.

At the butcher’s she waited until his customers were served. She didn’t dare address the butcher before he took notice of her. The butcher took his sweet time, casting his glances everywhere else but on this woman who would have bowed at his feet if need be. The butcher looked at her and questioned her with his eyes. She hesitated and said “Could I have some bit of lamb? Something that’s left over from the sales?”

“How much money have you got?”

“Bhai saab, I don’t have any money now. But, but I’ll pay it later. Could I please have it?”

“You have no money, you’ve already taken god knows how much of my meat on credit, don’t you have any shame, woman?”

“It’s urgent!” she pleaded.

“What sort time are you living in? Is someone going to die if they don’t eat lamb today?”

“It’s for this ritual-a fakir-”

“I’m not giving any meat for your superstitions. Today it’s you. Tomorrow it’s someone else. I have a business to run.”

She waited with the expectation that her waiting would change his mind. After a while she walked back, dragging her feet on the ground.

As she passed Kahn’s house on her way back, she heard the bleating of goats. There was a lamb in that house. The thought made her stand still in the path as though she had been clubbed. There’s no other way to get hold of the meat. The sun was sinking; the trees were silhouetted in the twilight. What if? What if? Her mind raced. She walked to Kahn’s house. The camel looked at the stranger and decided to let her pass – the spirit must have decided that the woman posed no threat. Kahn never locked his doors. She found the doors responding to the slightest of her pushes with whimpers. Summoning courage, she gave the door one big push and it swung open in a clean motion. Once inside the house she found Muskaan, who was trying to nibble at a banana that Kahn seemed to have forgotten. She raised the lamb to her chest and covered the lamb’s mouth with hands. The lamb nestled in her bosom. As it felt the depletion of air inside, the white fleece covered limbs came alive, with jerky motions. She held down firmly, realizing that the animal would fight with every ounce of the life force left it in to make this ordeal pass. She didn’t dare look in the eyes of Muskaan since her mother had told that once you watch the life drain out from the eyes, the look in those eyes would never leave you. She looked at the ceiling, studied the flaky bits of paint on the roof in bizarre patterns and the water drops that seeped in through the roof. The twitching stopped and yet she didn’t take her hands off. From the roof, a drop of water fell and shattered on her nape, making her gasp. She removed her hands slowly and walked out of the house. She went back to the tent in order to fetch her knife. “Maa, where are you taking the knife?”

“No need for you to know. Stay here.”

Hari waited for a while and decided to follow his mother. Anything that he wasn’t supposed to know was worth the risk for him. He was surprised when he saw her go in to Kahn’s house. He watched from a distance. Why would she bring Muskaan out? Didn’t she know that everyone else was forbidden to touch Muskaan? Hari considered yelling to his mother but decided against it when he thought of his father’s belt and the sight of it being used on him. She disappeared behind a bush. No noise. No motion. Hari sat down. She emerged with a plastic bag which appeared heavy. Hari ran back to the tent before she could see him. As she entered the tent, Hari asked her, “Can I go out? I’ll be back before the dark – promise!” She nodded and he ran to the bush. He looked behind the bush and felt his stomach heave. He retched. He clutched his chest and panted. His eyes were streaming. When he walked back to his mother he had red-rimmed eyes and sick green snot poking its head like a snake from his nose. He lay on the dirty mattress. His mother seemed to be surprised that he returned so soon after playing, but she was too busy to investigate. With her arsenal of borrowed spices she cooked the lamb and divided it into three. When the moon had risen she mixed the powder in all the shares and brought out the plates.

When she had dragged her husband back home from the toddy shop, she put down the meal. Hari refused to eat the meat. At the sight of his father’s bloodshot eyes he thrust it into his mouth. His eyes betrayed him and filled up with tears every now and then. He wiped his face on shirt sleeve to avoid being seen by his father.

Kahn upon his return burst into the house to cradle Muskaan in his arms. He couldn’t find her. He called out for her and walked around the house. When he saw what was behind the bush, he howled. He clutched the entrails that had been left behind and called on the spirit in his camel to bring Muskaan back. Kahn’s wails echoed in the night no longer night beneath blood-orange skies.

Priscilla Jolly is from India and is pursuing her postgraduate degree in English Literature at Hyderabad. Her earliest experience of writing was an imitation of an Enid Blyton novel that she read while growing up. Apart from reading and writing, she is passionate about teaching young children English and learning new languages.