Book Title: Dakini
Author: K. Hari Kumar
Publisher: Harper Fiction India
Number of Pages: 299
ISBN: 978-9362130143
Date Published: Oct. 17, 2024
Price: INR 368
Book Excerpt
Chapter 2
Pg. 9 – 12
Bandstand Promenade, Bandra
THE BANDSTAND PULSED WITH LIFE AS THE EVENING shadows lengthened. Families and friends mingled against the backdrop of the setting sun—a middle-aged man in a plain shirt and pants handed an ice cream bar to his six-year-old daughter; a boy in his late teens leaned in to kiss his boyfriend; a group of musicians jammed on their guitars. Then there was the loner, Mamta, who sat alone on a rusty bench. A cloud of smoke trailed from her lips as she indulged in a moment of solitary contemplation.
The AirPods hummed Michael Giacchino’s melancholic Sonata in Darkness in her ears. She watched the sun dip below the horizon, obscured by thick clouds, casting a hue of weak cinnamon glow across the sky, a fleeting beauty against the encroaching darkness. Simmering waves lashed against the tetrapods on the beach, where lovers sat to witness the sunset’s frail beauty. That’s the thing about tragedy—it was personal. While the world moved on, only those struck by tragedy sank into the abyss. There was always hope that the sun would return, but the baby who left Mamta would never return. Not in this world. Maybe in another one it would, but then she did not believe in an afterlife or parallel universes. You only live once. She took in another puff from her cigarette. She thought about what it meant to truly live, and she had come to the conclusion that, in her world, justice did not exist.
‘I see you have picked up an old habit again.’ Her reverie was interrupted by the soft voice of a clergyman. Mamta’s gaze flickered to the man beside her, a brown cassock draped around his frame.
With practiced ease, she extinguished her cigarette, a faint flush of guilt colouring her cheeks as she greeted him. ‘Hello, Father Simon, I … I …’ she murmured, tucking away her AirPods with a sense of unease.
‘It’s all right,’ the clergyman offered, his smile a glimmer in the gloom that surrounded them, adjusting his spectacles with a knowing tilt. ‘I’ve missed your presence at the orphanage, you know. Been a fair while since you last graced us with your company,’ he added, his tone carrying a hint of gentle reproach. Father Simon took a seat beside Mamta on the bench.
Mamta’s response was a weary sigh. That’s when a flash of red caught Mamta’s eye above Father Simon’s collar. It was a bruise, angry and fresh. ‘What happened there?’ she asked, her voice laced with concern.
He flinched slightly, pulling the collar up to hide the mark. ‘Ah, just an old man’s clumsiness,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘Nothing to worry about, child. Now, tell me, how have you been?’
‘I’ve been worse,’ she admitted, her forced smile a feeble attempt to mask the shadows that lingered within. A warm wind blew through Mamta’s hair, and for a moment, the troubles of her life seemed to dissipate.
‘I heard about your abortion,’ Father Simon acknowledged, his words like daggers piercing through the silence, each syllable weighted with the gravity of Mamta’s pain.
‘It has to be Celina. She must have told you.’ Mamta asked Father Simon, ‘Isn’t it?’
Father Simon’s gaze was fixed upon the darkened horizon as if seeking solace in its depths. ‘Your tragedy, my child, was one no soul would wish upon another,’ he offered, his voice a whisper against the murmurs of the sea. ‘I know nobody was supportive when you went through it. But how long will you carry the weight of resentment for those who once held you close?’
‘Tragedy, when it strikes, it takes a piece of you.’ Mamta’s eyes filled as she glanced at the darkened horizon. Her voice trembled as she said, ‘And it took a big piece from me. Scooped it right out of my womb. I don’t even know why I am still alive.’
In the silence that followed, the world seemed to hold its breath, the gentle lapping of waves the only sound to break the stillness. And then, like a beacon in the darkness, Father Simon’s voice pierced the quietude, ‘God works in mysterious ways—’
‘And where was God when everything was falling apart? Don’t tell me this was part of the grand plan!’ Mamta interrupted.
Father Simon’s gaze drifted towards the young girl who was eating ice cream with her father. ‘You were never one for blind faith,’ the clergyman mused, his tone wistful as he recalled memories of days long past. ‘Do you remember when you were a kid, you used to feed a stray cat? What did you call her?’
‘Olive Oyl.’
‘Yes, yes. Olive Oyl. She used to show up every day at the convent looking for you. You’d feed her leftover chapatis from the mess. Then she didn’t show up one day. It was a Christmas eve. You couldn’t sleep that night. But you had hope for the next day, which was shattered when Olive Oyl didn’t show up again. You hadn’t slept for thirty-six straight hours. That night, you said you saw Olive Oyl again. You said she took you to an abandoned shed at the backside of the convent.’ He paused and then continued, ‘that was impossible because the warden used to lock hostel rooms from the outside and no one could go out at night. All of us said that it was a dream, but you never believed us. Stubborn as ever, you woke up early in the morning and dragged me with you to the shed. And we found those beautiful kittens, three of them, and one of them had a black spot on its paw …’ ‘… just like Olive Oyl,’ Mamta remarked, remembering the kitten. She brightened at the memory.
Tears hung at the corners of her eyes. A faint smile flickered across her face.
‘Yes, just like Olive Oyl,’ Simon smiled and said. ‘The municipality worker found Olive Oyl’s body on the road later. A speeding car had killed her two days before. But she found a way to reach you from the beyond, my child, to tell you that someone else out there needed you …’
‘It was just a coincidence.’
‘You used to believe …’
‘I don’t believe anymore, Father. I know it was a dream. A coincidence,’ Mamta said, wiping away the tears that remained.
‘Yes, and that dream, my child, was God’s mysterious way of working.’
Mamta looked at Father Simon. He was old, but his words comforted her as always.
He got up from the seat, revealing his six-foot frame, and said, ‘You are very fortunate because of the gifts that you still have. Use them to help those who don’t.’ He smiled again. ‘Goodbye, my child!’
‘Goodbye, Father.’
The man walked away. Mamta turned back, eyed the horizon. It was pitch black, with only the clouds hovering above the sea. She took a deep breath, savouring the salty air and feeling the cool breeze brush against her face. She reflected on what the clergyman had said about helping those in need. He had urged her to follow a path of compassion and justice, even when the injustice of her own life seemed insurmountable. All she had to do was make a phone call to New York.
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Excerpted with permission from Dakini by K. Hari Kumar, Published by Harper Fiction India.
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