Deepak sat at the edge of his bed in his two bedroom flat in Guwahati. It was nearly midnight but he was feeling incredibly anxious. He was tired and drowsy but he was afraid to lie down and sleep. This anxiety had chased him for years but 2 shots of whiskey at night would lull him to sleep. But the pandemic had shut down all the wine shops for months now. Whenever Deepak lay down he felt the overpowering presence of Roopak in the room—Roopak, sitting on the edge of his bed, always watched him as he slept.
Roopak was Deepak’s only brother, who had died a year ago, under mysterious circumstances. Roopak’s body was found floating in the Jia Bharali river by the forest guards who worked in the adjoining Nameri National Park. The guards had covered the bloated body with a bedsheet and the policemen had placed it in the courtyard, just next to his favorite sewali tree.
Even now, their mother’s loud wail echoed through Deepak’s head. Her wailing overpowered the sound of the drums coming from the nearby Durga puja pandal, where they were taking Ma Durga for submersion to the river. All Deepak could remember was how the stench from the corpse overpowered the fragrance of the blooming sewali tree. And the sound of running feet, as people left the Dashami procession and came running into their courtyard, as news of the death spread like wildfire through the village. Stench and noise, stench and noise…
A post-mortem revealed that Roopak had died from drowning.
But ever since that day, Deepak felt that Roopak just watched him all day long as he went about his day’s activities. When he took out his harmonium for his evening reyaaz, Roopak sat on the cane chair in the corner of the room. When he drew water from the handpump in their backyard, Roopak stood next to the betelnut tree watching him. When he packed his bags and moved from his village to Guwahati, Roopak sat in the State Transport bus and followed him. He always had a cold distant look in his eyes, but he was always watching Deepak intently. That was the beginning of Deepak’s anxiety and alcoholism.
Deepak thought that perhaps Roopak followed him everywhere because that’s what he always did as a child. Deepak was the older of the two, and Roopak was six years younger. Such a talented boy he was. He was the first boy in their village to have gone to the State Maths Olympiad. Headmaster Phukan said, “In my thirty years of teaching, I have never seen more beautiful handwriting than Roopak’s.” Roopak was a star.
He was also Ma’s favorite. He always helped her in the household chores in milking the cows, plucking jackfruit and coconut from the trees, in pounding rice flour. During every Durga Pooja, it was Roopak’s job to collect all the sewali flowers which had scattered like little snowflakes through the night in their courtyard. Every morning Roopak would scream in delight, “ Dada, see how beautiful” as though he were seeing the flowers for the first time ever.
Deepak remembered the Saptami before Durga Puja the year before—three days before Roopak died. Roopak and his mother were sitting in the verandah making garlands out of the sewali flowers. They would be offered to the Goddess in the Ashtami pooja the next day. Deepak sat beside them tuning his harmonium.
While garlanding the flowers, Ma told them the legend of the Sewali flowers, “There was this princess who was in love with Surya, the Sun God. The sewali tree rose from her ashes. But since she couldn’t bear to see the sun in the mornings, she would shed all her flowers in grief at night.”
“That’s such a sad story for such a pretty flower,” Roopak said, visibly upset.
When Roopak was not studying or helping his mother in household chores, he followed Deepak around everywhere—to his tuition class, to the football field, to the fishpond when Deepak sometimes went fishing with his friends. Roopak always said, “Dada, when you go to sing in Guwahati, I will also follow you.” And Ma said, “Why should he go to Guwahati? Who will look after our paddy fields?” The only dream Deepak ever had was to become a playback singer for Assamese movies—for that, he would have to go to Guwahati. He was never too good in studies, but he was always the one singing for all cultural programs in school, and even during public shows during the Bihu festival.
Deepak’s reverie was broken by the faint sounds of the mantra “Jaa Devi Sarva Bhuteshwu..” from the neighbor’s house. They were probably playing the Durga vandana on their radio. It was Dashami again, but this year there were no drums, no celebrations. Everyone was confined to their own house, waiting for the curse of the virus to be over.
Deepak decided to practice some singing—his voice was getting rusty. All his auditions were canceled. He had arrived in Guwahati a few months ago and taken up a small one room house on rent, working part-time as a salesman in a pharmacy. His mother was so lifeless after Roopak died that Roopa Mahi, Ma’s sister decided to take her to her home in the neighboring village. Their house was locked, the paddy fields rented out to the village panchayat head.
Deepak pulled out his harmonium, took an old rag and removed the dust in the cover. He opened the lid of the harmonium. There was a note inside the lid of the harmonium. Deepak was puzzled. He opened the note and froze. It said, “Dada you knew I don’t know how to swim…”Deepak knew that the handwriting was Roopak’s. He looked up and saw Roopak standing near the window, smiling. And the unmistakeable fragrance of jasmine flowers.
The next week there was an article on the first page of ‘Assam Tribune.’ “Police have launched a murder investigation after the decomposed body of an 18 year old boy was discovered at a house in Geetanagar….In a mysterious twist, the boy is believed to have been strangled to death by a garland of dry jasmine flowers. Further, a note was discovered…”
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