An Eye For An Eye...

AN EYE FOR AN EYE...

A SHORT STORY

BY

NAM SOHANTA

EMAIL:
coolnam@btinternet.com

4500 WORDS (APPROX.)

(c)opyright Nam Sohanta 2000

Revenge, someone once said, is a dish best served cold--and my plate
is cold, indeed.

Opposite me looms the gothic malevolence of the fugitive Tanar
Tarlochan Singh; my spiked gauntlet, the Nemesis of my enemies, the
Grim Reaper that will mercilessly pursue his victims and exact belated
yet inevitable revenge. He is a Notra Dame gargoyle; another dark
servant of Kali--the goddess of Death--loose in this monster of a city.
His gold teeth glint in the burning Calcutta sun as he grins--an
unnatural, unpracticed grin, as if he works atrophied muscles in that
scarred face. The grin is unnerving; I flash a smile back uncertainly,
never sure of his motives.

'You have the right girl this time?' he asks, then adds with
ill-hidden amusement, 'We don't want another mistake.'

'This time I'm sure,' I say blushing. It's Nisha.'

'Eh! Gurnik!' he barks to a man on his right, 'throw your card before
I get angry!'

There is a an insolent sman from Gurnik Singh, a tall
broad-shouldered man who clutches his cards in his left hand and
nervously taps the table with a metal claw of his right. A discolored
saffron turban clings to his head, from which hangs the customary long
beard of the Sikh warrior. In his lap lies a short karpan--a sword that
his religion compels him to carry at all times. I doubt he is a
religious man.

Tanar swigs whisky, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and
belches loudly. He pushes the bottle across then remembering that I
haven't drank alcohol since my 'accident' hands it to Gurnik instead.
The stench of whisky, sweat, and noxious gases from the nearby chemical
factory turns my stomach.

'I followed her,' I say, 'for a week. She lives on the Strand.' I
recall the hypnotic allure of the rich suburb of Calcutta--large
Victorian houses, white columns sparkling in the sun, the manicured
lawns neat and well-watered: the grandeur of the British Empire, when
we were slaves to some distant Queen. The British have gone, yet some
of us remain slaves, unable to break mental shackles compelling
submission to caste, power, privilege, and wealth.

I glance at Tanar's squalid house, a fragile shack of cardboard,
tarpaulin, and tin sheets, located next to an stinking drain. Along a
wall stand a row of blood-red bottles: rat poison, that Tanar sells to
eke out a meager living when he isn't running from the police. Further
up the alley a noisy rabble of naked street urchins splash in a brown
puddle. In the distance climb the slum tower blocks, hazy in the dense
gray gases of Calcutta's heavy industry.

Tanar frowns, scratches a four-day stubble then tests a shining blade
of a knife against a thumb. A trickle of dark blood drips on the table.
'Does she own the house?'

'It's owned by Dr. Gurcharan Singh, a transplant surgeon at the
General Hospital.'

They light a handful of cheap cigarettes. The smoke adds to the steamy
atmosphere in the alley.

I tell him about the high wall, guards, and dogs loose in the
evening.

We wait while a short weary-looking man in a loin-cloth shuffles past
with head bent low tugging a skinny cow.

'Also. . . Kumar was at the house,' I say.

'Police?' barks Tanar. 'What was the Inspector doing there?'

'He is friends with the surgeon.'

Tanar glances sidelong at Gurnik. 'You should've slit the Inspector's
throat when you had the chance.'

'Next time!' says Gurnik, in a voice like grinding rocks. 'We'll have
to get her away from the house, Tanar. It's too risky if Kumar is
sniffing around.'

Tanar nods, grimly. 'We'll kill here in a back alley, or even a
crowded street. This city is an assassin's dream. I could stab her in a
crowd and be gone before someone checks on another body lying in the
street.'

'Does she employ a bodyguard?' asks Gurnik.

'No. She has a boyfriend,' I say, 'Amitabh Aman.'

Tanar stares at me as if he hasn't heard. 'Not. . . You don't mean. .
.'

I nod back.

Gurnik nods slowly. 'I've seen his new film. It's very good. Lovely
music, and songs. Some say he's the best actor in Bollywood.' He
glances at Tanar. 'It'd be a shame if we had to kill him too.'

Tanar sits back and draws a long puff on his cigarette. 'No,' he says
finally, spitting the word out like venom. 'We can't kill him. He's too
famous. They'll be fans around him, always. It'll be difficult to
approach him with a knife and escape without being spotted. Also, the
police would leave no stone unturned to find his killer.'

A moment of stark silence follows, interrupted by Gurnik's metal claw
tapping the wooden table. I feel a drop in temperature as sunset casts
an orange glow over the city.

'We must separate them,' says Gurnik, 'if only for a few
moments.'

'Yes,' agrees Tanar. He rises from his seat. 'We'll come up with a
plan, Nitin. Meanwhile, watch her. They'll be times when she's alone.
Perhaps we'll have to wait until Amitabh goes back to Bombay. And don't
worry--Kali looks after her own.'

I rise to my feet, ignoring the sudden sharp pain in my right knee (
another reminder of my 'accident' as Tanar likes to call it. As I'm
about to turn he grabs my shirt and pulls me inches from his face. I
hold my breath and stomach.

'Don't,' he says, slapping my face gently, 'forget our fee. Remember,
it's only because we once toiled together unblocking filthy drains that
I offer my. . . services, so cheaply.' He jerks an unconvincing smile
and winks.

I nod. 'A bottle of whisky for killing her. You'll get it.'

'Don't forget the cigarettes,' says Gurnik. 'A good brand. Nothing
cheap. American or British, but definitely not French.'

'Goodbye,' says Tanar finally, and lets go.

As I return through the fetid streets and narrow alleyways, it begins
to rain, the shower quickly becoming a typical monsoon torrent. It
masks the reek of human excrement, rotting vegetation, and the
occasional carcass. I trudge past a settlement of ramshackle huts,
where scarred, desperate-looking men stand in dark doorways, then slip
into an alley to emerge into a crowded muddy street, dense with people
and steaming cattle.

I turn a corner and am startled by my own grim reflection in a shop
window. A tall gaunt figure stares back. He has short black hair, wet
and plastered to his scalp; a face, perhaps once handsome, but now
wizened with pain and despair; an untidy stubble; a worn leather
eye-patch over his left eye. A soiled white T-shirt and dark trousers
hang loosely on a wiry brown body.

I am disgusted and would hardly recognize myself were it not for the
eye-patch. The thought brings back memories of Nisha, all those years
ago. . .

I had first spotted her at 'The Lotus Flower', a trendy downtown
night-club where my friends and I had been de-stressing from our first
hectic year as medical students at Calcutta University. I had glanced
her sitting alone and was immediately struck. I thought I recognized
her, as one recognizes an old school friend though years have passed
and appearances changed, but I quickly recalled the resemblance. Here
was a cynosure of the Indian movie ( tall, elegant, golden-skinned,
oozing sexual charm, yet chaste and demure; she would frolic in fields
singing of love; she would sigh on a moonlit balcony dreaming of a
lover's embrace. A fantasy, that millions of Indian women could never
achieve, lacking necessary karma, wealth, and sufficient lifetimes free
from sin.

I consider approaching and asking what roles she might have played but
I realize how cheap it would sound and reluctantly return to my drink
and shyness.

'Hello,' says a voice like warm ghee dripping onto a hot chappati.
'I'm Nisha. Are you a student?'

I stare at her. 'Er. . . Yes. Yes. I'm a medical student.'

'Really?' she says, flashing a smile. She runs a hand through silky
black hair. I glance down at her body, unable to avoid the urgent
contours. She wears a tight, white Calvin Klein T-shirt and buff Armani
jeans behind which thrusts the figure of a temple wall-carved goddess.
She leans closer, provocatively, dangling a gold necklace with a locket
that glitters in the nightclub lights. 'I'm thinking of doing medicine
too--abroad though, England perhaps.'

'Oh, er. . . good. That's good,' I say. I struggle with my puritanical
Brahmin upbringing. "Here is dangerous territory," says the remembered
voice of my family guru. "Avoid it, or your soul is lost!" But I am
weak, the weakness of a flesh-and-blood mortal, the weakness of a
healthy young man, the weakness brought on by alcohol and loud music.
My soul is already lost.

'Well?' she says, fluttering green eyes, 'am I supposed to guess your
name?'

'Oh, er. . . sorry. I'm Nitin Patel. Pleased to meet you.' We shake
hands. I am reluctant to release hers.

'It's hot in here!' she declares. 'Come on. It's cooler outside.' She
leads me out to the garden.

For a while we talk under a starry sky. She tells little of herself,
instead choosing to complement me on ruddy good looks and robust
health. It boosts my ego and I find my shyness dissolving like the
ice-cubes in my Martini. The hours pass quickly, the nightclub begins
to close ( sooner than I'd hoped. I watch the last of my friends leave.
He spies me with Nisha and flashes a wink and a knowing smile.

'Thank you,' I say to Nisha, uncertain what to do next. 'Maybe. . . if
you have a phone number. . . Perhaps, I can. . .'

She lays a hand on my arm. 'Does it have to end? I've a flat not far
from here. Come, I'd like your. . . advice with some decisions I have
to make.'

Before I can reply she has my hand again and is leading me into the
maze of dark streets.

Her flat overlooks a small garden courtyard in an apartment block,
fifteen minutes from the nightclub. I step into darkness and feel a
welcome cool wake from a ceiling fan. I see the light-switch and reach
out.

'No,' says Nisha, stepping in front. 'I prefer candles. They're. . .
more romantic.' She ignites several that stand along a low shelf. The
warm orange glow dances on photographs and souvenirs of the Taj Mahal,
postcards from Delhi and Bombay.

I examine a photo of an elderly couple. 'Your parents?'

'Oh, er. . . yes,' she says, as if seeing the photo for the first
time. 'They live in Delhi. And this is my brother--Prem.' She points to
a photo of a young dark-skinned man, who bears no resemblance to her.
'I'll make us some drinks,' she says suddenly, and disappears behind a
bamboo curtain.

I glance around the room, puzzled. The furniture is old, fusty,
antique. From every wall stare photos of grinning dark-skinned
relatives ( there are none of Nisha. Neither are there bright posters
of heart-throb film stars, style magazines, records or CDs of the
latest film hits: the accumulated paraphernalia of a young person's
dreams. An old TV sits quietly in the corner; there is no VCR.

An alarm is ringing somewhere in the back of my mind, but I am too
drunk, too intoxicated with ( infatuation? The alarm clangs
unheard.

I cross to the open window and glance out to the streets below. A dark
patch of clouds roll forward ominously. Between the houses flap rows of
saris and shirts on washing lines, dimmed to shades of gray in the
darkness. From the alley come subdued voices and a tinny sound from a
radio crooning the latest film song.

'Here, try this.' She hands me a glass containing an orange-colored
drink. I take a swallow: it's sweet and refreshing, like mango juice. I
empty the glass.

She does not touch hers.

The alarm rings again.

'How do you feel?' she asks, smiling.

'Oh. . . a bit dizzy. I think I drank too much tonight.' I laugh,
trying to make it casual but it comes out forced.

'Well, let me help you relax.' She takes my jacket, leads me to the
sofa, and makes herself comfortable next to me.

The first drops of rain spatter on the window.

'Is your brother a doctor?' I begin to feel the room spin.

'No. . . Harcharan is a lawyer.'

'I thought your brother was called Prem?'

'My other brother,' she says quickly, looking away.

The alarm rings louder. I begin to hear the sound.

'Oh! I see. . . I. . . I feel strange. I need some air.' I struggle to
my feet, totter to the window. The rain suddenly becomes a harsh,
unforgiving torrent, that tears at my clothes and screams in my ear. As
I turn, there is a flash of lightning. I see Nisha staring at me; a
ghoul waiting to take possession of my soul. From somewhere booms a
thunderclap.

'Feeling sleepy yet?' she says.

I finally hear the alarm somewhere deep in my mind and see the dear
face of my guru. He shakes his head sadly, and says, 'You have failed
your lesson for this lifetime.' The image vanishes, I am left alone
with my failure.

And then I realize, beyond doubt, that I have been drugged.

I crash to the floor. The room spins wildly. I try to focus on a
object but find it impossible. Indefinable shapes and colors swim
across my vision. I sense the door opening, shapes moving around,
voices speaking slowly like in a tape recorder with a flat battery. I
am lifted roughly onto the table. The last thing I see before I lose
consciousness is the ceiling fan whirring above me.

I awake and, for a moment, stare at the ceiling fan and hear the soft
hum of its motor. Slowly, the events of the night seep into my brain. I
glance at the wall-clock: ten hours have passed. As my consciousness
returns, the pain makes itself known. My head aches and my left eye is
so painful I keep it shut tight. I try to rise from the table; there is
a surge of pain in my back; I fall back down. I notice a dark red
stain. I am naked from the waist up and blood is oozing from a cut in
my back. I feel around my right side and notice that some stitching has
been attempted but is only partially successful.

With a shock I realize the truth: my right kidney has been removed. I
wonder about the pain in my left eye. I open it: there is nothing but
darkness. My left cornea has been sliced out.

I slip off the table and stagger to a mirror holding my right side. My
body is almost black with dried blood. The pungent smell is
overpowering. I sink to the floor and vomit noisily.

Something glitters on the floor: the necklace with the locket that
Nisha had worn. Inside is a black-and-white photo of her, looking
somewhat startled. I stare at the visage for a full minute, until a
great rage engulfs me and I scream from someplace deep inside; a dark
place, that cries out for revenge. I stagger to the door and tumble
down the stairs, smashing my right knee cap. Somehow, I crawl into the
street, exhausted. The last thing I see before once again losing
consciousness is the face of a cow looking curiously down at me.

I awake in a clean white hospital bed. A nurse tells me I have slept
for almost a day and have lost much blood. 'The Gods have been
merciful,' she says with a smile. I stare back coldly with my one
eye.

Later that day a policeman interviews me. He tells me that my kidney
and cornea have been stolen for the international black market in
organs. The flat has been searched; it had been broken into, only hours
before I was brought there. The owners are an elderly couple away
visiting their son in Delhi. They know nothing of the events at their
flat. The policeman solemnly informs me that it's unlikely the
criminals will ever be caught. His name is Inspector Ashok Kumar.

Those events occurred three years ago; my life is in ruins; my
ambitions and career destroyed. Yet one thing remains: my thirst for
bloody revenge. And now, I know where she lives! Retribution will be
sweet! Then, after her destruction, would come the death of her father,
Gurcharan Singh, the transplant surgeon, who would have sold the organs
via his connections at the hospital. And after that, Inspector Ashok
Kumar would die for accepting bribes to protect the others.

It would have been better if they had killed me, for I had now become
that most dangerous of men--someone with nothing left to lose. I have
banished the Gods of Light from my life and taken succor from the cold
embrace of the Dark God Kali--the Goddess of death and destruction.
This chaotic seething city has created a new devotee for Her, a new
monster, and I cry for blood.

I turn away from the demoniac reflection in the shop window and hurry
down the street.

Ten minutes later I slip into an dark passage next to the pompously
titled 'Royal Calcutta Restaurant'. Ignoring the brightly clad whores
and their seductive advances, I trot up a flight of steps into my
small, austere flat and immediately collapse onto the rickety
bed.

From below come the sounds of laughter and the tinkle of glass. A
smell of hot spicy chicken wafts through the open window reminding me
of gnawing hunger. I rise and brew some sweet milky tea flavored with
cardamom pods.

Suddenly, the door opens and in strolls Vijay, a camp skinny waiter in
a dark red shirt who works in the restaurant.

'Vijay,' I say frowning, 'when are you going to learn how to
knock?'

'Why?' he answers with a grin, 'Are you hiding a girl?'

I stare at him in silence. 'What do you want?'

He sits uninvited. 'Someone was here. Asking about you.'

'Who?' My voice is edged with apprehension.

'A lovely man. From the council. I forget his name. He said you hadn't
been to work for over a week and the drains are blocked with the
monsoon rains. There's a backlog. The traffic situation's getting
worse. He said if you didn't turn up for work by noon tomorrow, you're
fired.'

'Did you tell him I was sick, like I asked?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because you aren't, dear,' he says smoothly. 'My religion forbids
lying.'

I try to control my temper but fail. My fists are clenched; I rise
slowly. 'Get out!'

He sighs heavily, rolls his eyes, and strolls from the room.

Another setback! I need to act fast, because once I start work I will
not have time to check on Nisha's movements. A half-hour later I have
the plan. Tomorrow, I shall get into the hospital through a side
entrance. . .

The following morning I sit at a food stall in a busy street leading
to a trendy shopping area in the city. My clothes are already damp in
the humidity. There is little to do but wait. Across the street I see
Tanar and Gurnik engaged in some heated discussion. I bite into a hot
chappati, folded around slices of mango pickle. A three-legged dog sits
whimpering at my feet. I throw him a piece of chappati, he gulps it
down in one.

My generosity attracts unwanted attention. I am approached by a
near-toothless man, kneeling on a thin wooden board with four castors.
My doctor's training tells me his legs are paralyzed due to polio. He
begs me with dark eyes behind a pair of round glasses. Inside me, the
old feelings of sympathy and compassion return to make a fleeting
appearance. I push them away; I push him away. Today I wish to take
life, not give it.

There she is! And there is her film-star friend Amitabh. How proud and
lofty is her bearing, as if displaying her life on a catwalk to
admiring crowds. An arrogance that loudly proclaims generations of
power, privilege and wealth in a city where most starve on the
streets.

Amitabh dazzles in a cool linen suit and dark shades like a 1970's
disco star, and flashes smiles that remind me of toothpaste
commercials. They laugh like teenagers in love.

The monster in me awakens.

'Amitabh? Amitabh Aman! Is it really you?' comes a shout from Tanar.
'An autograph please! For my daughter!' Others look, a crowd quickly
develops.

Amitabh smiles a film-star smile of a man totally used to adoration.
He signs the bits of paper shoved at him. Nisha looks on coldly.

The monster takes a breath.

Within moments the crowd turns noisy and chaotic. Gurnik steps into
the midst and grinning, says, 'Thank you! Your good deeds will be
rewarded in the next life!' He stares coldly at Nisha and says, 'You
will get everything you deserve!'

I push past a cow and join the crowd. Nisha has been pushed away from
Amitabh, to the edge of the crowd. Amitabh is too busy to notice that
Nisha is no longer at his side.

The monster sharpens it claws.

Gurnik gives me the signal. He lifts a metal bar, and in a blur of
movement strikes Nisha unconscious, then drags her quickly into a dark
alley behind the crowd.

The monster strikes.

The power of Kali empowers me. I take a syringe from a bag I have
stolen from the hospital. It is evidence, held over for a police
investigation into the death of a heroin addict. The needle is
contaminated with the HIV virus. I slide it slowly into her arm and
empty the remainder of the liquid into her vein.

The monster smiles; the deed is done.

I offer my prayers to Kali, toss the syringe away, and whistling, go
to work.

Two exhausting weeks of work follow. Finally, I am given a day off. I
know what to do, my revenge will not be complete until Nisha knows what
has happened. Then will come time for regrets and grief--for both
herself and her boyfriend.

I wait across the road from her house. Two hours ago they left in a
taxi--a regular journey to the airport to jet Amitabh back to Bombay.
Soon, she will return, then will come the sting.

Past the wrought-iron gates stands the large white colonial-style
house, shimmering in the white heat of the day. A sweating servant
polishes a blue Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost in an open garage. Nearby, in
the gardens, a peacock struts in flower beds. I find the opulence
disgusting, and wonder how many organs have been stolen to pay for it
all. Another servant in white livery carries a tray of cool drinks to a
white table on the lawn where Gurcharan sits reading the morning
newspaper under a large blue parasol.

He sports a neat white turban above a stern pock-marked face from
which dangles a short black beard. He radiates an air of brutal
confidence and authority. The servant lays the drinks on the table;
Gurcharan takes the drink without comment or thanks.

I study his behavior as if he is a patient. My diagnosis? ( he lacks a
soul. I should know, I lost mine long ago, at the moment I decided on
bloody revenge.

Presently, a battered 1950's style black-and-yellow taxi pulls up at
the gates. Nisha alights and pays the driver. I rush over.

Kali awakens.

'Hello again,' I say with a grin. She studies me with a blank
expression which catches me off-guard. It's not the reaction I'd
expected.

'Recognize me?' I ask. I can smell her perfume. It brings an unwanted
memory of a conversation in a garden under a starry sky.

She looks closer. 'Oh! Are you from Vishnu Jewelers? Tell them I'll
come tomorrow to look at the wedding jewelry. I'm very excited. It will
be a lovely wedding.' She turns to the gates.

Kali takes a breath.

'No,' I say, a little louder. 'I'm not from any jewelers. Take a
closer look.'

She turns once more and studies my face. 'No,' she says finally. 'I
don't know you. I'm not a Goddess--I can't read your mind. Perhaps you
should just tell me who you are.' She waits, arms folded.

'The Lotus Flower. July. Three years ago. We were at a party. You took
me to your flat, except that it wasn't yours. You stole my heart--and
other bits of my body.'

'I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.' She swings around
to the gates.

I grab her arm roughly and swing her around. 'You're lying!'

Kali extends Her claws.

She stares with wide-open eyes. 'Let me go! What do you want? Are you
mad? Do you want money?'

'Think! Three years ago!'

She struggles. 'I was abroad three years ago.'

I notice over her shoulder that Gurcharan is standing arms akimbo
looking at the commotion.

'I was in England,' she continues, 'studying Law. You must be talking
about my twin sister Nisha. She's always picking up strange men in
clubs. Er. . . no offence.'

'You lie!' I produce the necklace with the photo inside the locket.
'Here! Look at your face. You left this at the flat.'

Kali shows Her teeth.

Gurcharan marches towards the gate. By his side is a snarling black
dog tugging at a leash. There is still time for me to say what I have
to say.
'Yes,' she cries, still struggling in my grip. 'That's my picture.
Nisha always carries a picture of me. I carry a picture of her.' She
reaches into the neck of her dress, produces a similar locket, unclasps
it and shows me the picture. I stare at the almost identical
face.

'No! It can't be!' I cry.

'Zinat! What's going on? Who's that man?' shouts Gurcharan, halfway to
the gates. I try to ignore him.

'Now let me go,' says Zinat. 'If you have problems with Nisha, talk to
her. That silly girl is always getting into trouble with men.'

For a moment I stand looking at her in angry bewilderment. I want to
admit my shocking mistake, but I know of no words I can use.
Reluctantly, I let go. 'Where. . . where is Nisha.'

'She's been in England studying medicine for the last two years,' says
Zinat. She turns to the gates. 'She won't be back for another
three.'

Gurcharan arrives at the gates and examines me.

'Nothing to worry about father,' says Zinat slipping through the
gates. She slams them after her with a harsh clang. 'A simple mistake.
It's over now.' She glances at me a final time, pity in her eyes. 'He
didn't harm me.'

Kali smiles; only She has won today...