Mummy viewed Mrinal’s plants with suspicion. Two hundred years, and she was still deeply perturbed by anything that needed the sun. Mrinal often caught her stroking the silky leaves of the devil’s ivy at night, idly poking the aloe’s spines.
The haveli had never held plants. The courtyard was a flat square of dirt, the earthen tower for the tulsi, cracked and bare. Mrinal hadn’t been within the dead walls in twelve years, but the feeling of being unwelcome rushed back like an old smell.
The house had, in fact, changed. The structure itself no longer loomed. She saw it for what it was: a crumbling, squat, two-storeyed house, dwarfed by its gentrified neighbours of steel and glass and marble. The uneven stairs, the unseasonal drafts, the creaks and groans were mere inconveniences. The most terrifying thing was the lack of internet.
Mummy too had changed. Still beautiful, still pale, still perfect, but she had a new air of anxiety. She hid in the shadows, dared not peek from the curtains, made furtive trips to the freezer in the basement to count the bags of blood again, and again, and again. Never picked up calls.
Sometime, within the last three years, the Delhi police had ended their implicit agreement with vampires and started killing them en masse. Mrinal had learned that over a frantic call in July, six weeks ago, from a number she promised to never respond to. ‘Please, please,’ Mummy had sobbed, ‘They’ll kill me. I have no humans here. They’re afraid of the media people, maybe if you’re here…’
Mrinal had stopped listening after that. She didn’t feel a lick of empathy.
She did, however, want to be in the circle of spectators, a witness to Umrao’s humiliating end, with the power to save her but, more importantly, with the power to choose not to. Apart from that, the south Delhi rent was cutting steeply into her savings, after the digital media company she’d worked with for three years had gone bust between a money laundering scandal and a very expensive libel lawsuit.
*
It was midday, a week after she’d moved back into Chandini Chowk. Mrinal was pouring over her CV but the damn phone in the living room kept ringing. She finally stormed downstairs to answer it. Mummy was on the dusty sofa, still, stiff. She only showed a hint of life when Mrinal pressed the receiver to her ear, turning her head, neck creaking, and rasped, ‘No.’ But Mrinal simply looked away.
‘Hello?’ Silence. ‘She’s not going to respond, you know. I’ll take a message.’
‘They got Keemat.’ Click.
‘They…’
‘I heard!’ Mummy’s voice splintered. She pressed her face into her knees, ‘I heard.’
She sat frozen for days, while Mrinal flitted around her, threw open the curtains, installed more potted succulents, used air freshener and incense and those cheap mass produced diffusers to chase away the scent of mildew and rot and leave behind an airy, citrusy fragrance. She remembered how at thirteen she’d had to fight tooth and nail for a single tube light, and how she’d found it broken over her bed, glass shards on the pillow, two days later anyway.
Mummy was still beautiful. But her strength had been leeched by news of missing friends, by the terror of every passing car, by the dwindling blood supply in the basement. Her claws were cracked and chewed down. She could no longer poke at the rolls of fat in Mrinal’s belly, cackle at her small attempts at style, poison her relationships with her lies.
I will leave, Mrinal told herself, I will leave soon. But she bought a new dressing table and repainted the walls, and put up a bookshelf. Unpacked another box. And after a week of fighting with and eventually bribing a technician, installed a router. She went for long walks in the meandering, fragrant streets of Chandini Chowk and bought trinkets and sweets and kebabs. And once, a glittery wall hanging made of glass beads that she hung up in the living room – it was too much, even for her, but that was not the point – and waited. She wanted Mummy to see it.
Umrao did, and her lips twisted, but the complaints died in her mouth. She stared for a few moments, and then scuttled back into her room.
Mrinal drew a deep breath, her first, in her home.
*
Day by day, she picked apart at Umrao’s little faults. Her mother wasn’t all that beautiful. Ethereal, sure, but in a strict, literal, unromantic sense. Inhuman. Her pale skin stretched too tight over her skull, and her hair was as brittle as hay. Her fingers were long and elegant but her knuckles were knobbly. She was too tall for a woman. Picked at the little cracks, until they grew into deep chasms, revealing her as no untouchable goddess, but a corpse. Obsolete. Outdated. Old.
*
‘Take your meals inside,’ Mrinal said one November afternoon, as she sat on her sofa, ‘you’re spilling blood everywhere.’ Mummy had had to start rationing her food, and her hands had grown shaky. She couldn’t hold the bag still, and there was red on the table. Mrinal pointedly ignored Mummy’s eyes, but her palms were sweaty around her phone.
Silence. A shuffle. In her peripheral vision, she saw the lanky figure rise. Too far, she thought, I’ve pushed too far this time.
Umrao retreated to her room.
The next morning, the splatters were no longer there. Mrinal touched the wood. Blood didn’t go away easily. It sank into the grain. Did Mummy scrub at the stains in the early hours of the morning when Mrinal was in bed? She imagined her mother, her silk saree tucked up, her hair falling in her face. She must’ve been too embarrassed to do it at an hour where Mrinal could walk out and catch her in that moment of imperfection.
Embarrassed. She had embarrassed Umrao. Mrinal ran her finger over the hewn surface again and again, and, later, bought sheet glass for the table, ‘So it’s easier to clean,’ she told mother, who was exiled to her bedroom, because Mrinal had thrown open the curtains and let the sun flood the walls.
*
There was a loud banging at the door. ‘Mrinal! Mrinal!’ Umrao cried out in her creaky voice. Mrinal slowly extricated herself from the blankets, and squinted over in the dark to the door.
‘What?’
‘Police, police – at the door. Hurry.’
Mrinal fetched her glasses and her wallet, and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Didn’t change the fluffy slippers. At the door, two police officers in khaki peered down at her, ‘Where is the madam?’ The taller one asked, after a few seconds of a confused pause, ‘We have to do a talashi of the house.’ A search.
She knew they were not here to do a search. There were here to drag Umrao off to Delhi Ridge and decapitate her in that patch of the jungle. Mrinal’s fingers tightened around the doorway, and Umrao, who was flattened against the wall, invisible to the officers, tightened her fingers around Mrinal’s wrist.
And wasn’t that what Mrinal was here for too? To watch Umrao be hauled off? To sit in the house, comfortable in knowledge that she was gone?
Umrao squeezed her wrist.
Mrinal paused.
‘Show me a warrant,’ she said, pulling herself straighter, dragging her wrist away from Umrao and crossing her arms. No response. ‘What’s this? No warrant? No lady officer? It’s three am. Who is your superior officer?’
They fumbled a bit, arguing amongst themselves, and then she flashed them her journalist pass, ‘Who is your superior officer? I want a name.’
‘Madam,’ the taller officer said, after a couple nervous glances, ‘Must be the wrong house.’
‘I want the name and the phone number.’ They handed it over a few minutes later, and left. The moment the door shut, her mother threw herself across Mrinal’s torso, and pulled her closer. Mrinal was chilled to the bone, and her nose was flooded with the scent of moths and musty walls. But she hugged her right back.
Mrinal never called the policemen’s boss, but she did get back in touch with a few lawyer friends. There were tokens, left lying for her on the tables and the shelves. Colourful wall hangings, tiny plants, uprooted from gardens, handfuls of dried fruits, and, one time, a bolt of ferozi blue silk.
Mrinal replaced the ratty curtains in her mother’s room with thick plastic blinds, and introduced her to Nilanjana, a high court attorney.
‘Where did you meet her?’
Mrinal decided to be honest. ‘Tinder.’
‘What?’
Mrinal hesitated. ‘She used to be my lover.’
A pause. ‘Oh.’ They were eating. Mrinal was having Chinese, Umrao was having, well, what she always had. Mrinal had never mentioned her sexuality to her mother. She hadn’t mentioned her favourite colour to her, before July (blue).
‘That’s why the,’ Umrao gestured vaguely at her, ‘the nails.’ Mrinal laughed, and then sputtered when she accidentally inhaled a bit of spicy noodle soup.
*
Unsurprisingly, the police didn’t come again. Umrao became bolder, started leaving the house. Mrinal didn’t see her exit, of course, but the pile of bags in the freezer grew and grew.
Umrao’s movements grew fluid, her hair regained the shine. After another round of job interviews Mrinal could sense would go nowhere (she was tainted. A very public face of a very public downfall) , she noticed that the sparkly wall hanging in the living room was gone. Over the course of next week, she kept finding blue beads in various nooks and crannies.
‘I was cleaning it,’ Umrao said, when confronted, ‘You know me. Can’t control my strength after feeding.’ An old excuse. It went down her throat bitterly, like bile. Mrinal could feel the gravity of old habits tugging her back into a spiral she’d excruciatingly crawled out of.
‘It’s ok.’
The next day, the phone rang, and Mummy didn't hesitate to pick it up. Seconds later, there was a loud crack of the receiver snapping in half. Mrinal smiled to herself, and then looked up.
‘What happened?’
‘They got Madhubali,’ she said, ‘An anonymous tip off.’
‘Hm,’ Mrinal said, ‘Guess you’re lucky you have me to protect you.’
Umrao’s expression was inscrutable. She didn’t leave her room for the next two days. Mrinal replaced the plants that had died with hardier ones, and bought a set of coasters dotted with tiny diamond shaped mirrors.
*
Mummy waxed and waned. She sometimes had meals with Mrinal and reminisced about happier times, and sometimes was stricken with strange pains and groaned in bed, or, sometimes, when she was feeling particularly vindictive, gave Mrinal one of her slinky silk gowns and whined about how much the colour would suit her and then smugly cried, ‘Stop! You’ll tear it,’ when it didn’t fit and the zip pulled and recommended a gym she had never stepped inside. But it didn’t prick as it once had. Mrinal understood now, that her organs, round and pulsating, needed more space, that dead skin didn’t tan or get acne.
Or maybe Umrao was just holding back. Because she’d learned there were consequences. Because she was scared.
*
Nilanjana was over for dinner. Mrinal had never let anyone see the haveli, and she still wasn’t sure that it was a good idea. Umrao had agreed to pour her blood into a wine bottle. She didn’t like it, but at least she wasn’t complaining about it in front of the company, just looking over her goblet through her lashes and smiling. They were having biryani that Mrinal had bought from one of the old kebab houses that were still run by the original families that opened them.
Every time Neel laughed at one of her jokes, something relaxed in Mrinal’s temples.
Neel turned to Umrao, ‘I’m really sorry about Madhu,’ What? ‘Those bastards. I went as soon as I could, but they denied everything, and I didn’t have any papers,’ she said, and reached out to hold Umrao’s hand.
‘It’s alright,’ Mummy said. Her voice wasn’t hers. It had warmth, it had enamel polishing down the rough edges, ‘You tried. It isn’t your fault.’
‘You two talk?’
Neel turned and looked at Mrinal like she’d asked something startlingly stupid, ‘Of course we talk. She’s my client.’ Mrinal stabbed at her rice with the spoon. It clanged against the china. Nilanjana turned back to Umrao, smiling fondly, but Umrao was looking straight at Mrinal.
‘Whoever told the cops about Madhubali,’ Umrao said, taking a slow sip, gaze unfaltering, ‘deserves to be shot. She was a good woman. An innocent woman.’
Mrinal’s knees banged against the table.
‘Shit. You okay?’ She’d spilled a bit of rice on her lap. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she said, but let Neel fuss over her, ‘Thanks.’
Towards the end of the night, as she was leaving, Mrinal hugged Nilanjana, probably tighter than was required, but Neel pressed back just as hard. ‘Talk to me soon,’ she said to Mrinal, and then shouted the same over her shoulder to her mother.
‘Walk with me,’ Mrinal said, cutting off her goodbye to Umrao, ‘I mean, it’s late. I’ll walk you to the station,’
Neel smiled at her, faintly amused, and then bobbed her head quickly, thrice, in that way she always did.
‘Okay.’
It was nearly eleven and the market still bustled like it was noon. ‘Careful here,’ Mrinal said, taking her hand as she guided her through the narrow alleys, weaving around rickshaws and puddles and people. Finally, the crowd and shops receded, and they could walk abreast. ‘You’re not used to this at all, are you?’
Neel laughed, shoved her hand in her pockets, ‘Ah, no. Not at all. I live in Noida, you know. It’s ... nothing like this,’ Mrinal nodded. She understood. Even Noida’s trees were less than ten years old.
Mrinal stopped in front of a tiny perfume shop. She considered a stack of identical lipstick sized glass vials, and picked one with a pale blue label. She held Neel’s wrist, and swiped a line across it, ‘Smell it.’
Neel smiled at her, a bit flustered, and did. Her face lit up. ‘What is it?’
‘Attar,’ Mrinal said, heart palpitating, ‘distilled flowers and essential oils. Sandalwood and night blooming jasmine, I think.’
‘It’s lovely.’
She bought two. They’d smell alike.
‘Your mother isn’t that bad, you know,’ Neel said, when they were almost at the entrance of the station.
‘Yeah?’ Mrinal said, kicking a stone with more force than required, ‘Why’d you say that?’
‘I mean!’ Neel slipped her hands into her pockets, ‘The way you described her, I expected a, well, a monster. She’s just a bit ... weird, I guess.’
‘She was drinking human blood at the table.’
Neel gave her a look, ‘You know what I mean.’
She’d been in that situation more times than she could count. What did your mother do to you, that was so bad? It would’ve been easier, if the answer involved broken bones and concussions. They had words for that, they had evidence for that, they had appropriate reactions to that. How was she supposed to explain how Umrao chipped at her soul, one stray comment at a time? What was the convenient medical term for making someone believe were incapable love? How could she say what Umrao did, without sounding like a stupid, hysterical, angsty teenager? Mrinal stared, silent. She opened her mouth, and then closed it. ‘The last train leaves at eleven fifty-three,’ she said, ‘you should hurry.’
Neel turned, and then she turned back, hand extended and lips pursed. She lowered her arm. Fiddled. She narrowed her eyes and just for a second, it was Umrao’s disapproving face, staring at Mrinal. Neel stepped closer, and she seemed to loom, despite being only a couple inches taller, ‘She … she told me how you opened the curtains, and how you gave her faulty blinds, and how much you wanted to hurt her and…’
‘She’s lying! Those are lies, you haven’t even seen the blinds and…’
‘Did you tell the police about Madhubali?’
Mrinal froze. ‘How can you ask me that?’ Cold sweat broke out all over Mrinal’s skin.
‘Umrao told me all about it. How you were the only person who knew, how she caught you looking at her diary. I joked with her that maybe it was you but I’d never consider it, but, now…’ Neel tore her gaze away, then looked back at her. Her eyes had hardened, ‘Did you do it?’
‘You don’t get it! She…’ Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Mrinal stared, helpless. Saw Neel’s face contort into horror and disgust. Tears of frustration sprang from Mrinal’s eyes and smudged her glasses, turning Neel into a blur against the steel and granite.
Neel didn’t say a word. Mrinal looked away. There was a soft clink of Nilanjana’s purse hitting the metal detector, and then she was gone.
*
In the darkness, the haveli was massive. Each dent and curve casted long shadows, the windows glared down. Mrinal turtled her head into her jacket and ducked in through the doorway.
Mummy was sprawled across the sofa, radiant. She had pulled out one of her old, old silk dresses, perfectly sculpted, with a glistening trail. She cradled the goblet in her fingers, scarlet nails curling up, up, up.
On the floor and on the walls were piles and stains of dark soil, dotted with shards of ceramic and little bits of green.
Words didn’t come.
‘Clean it up,’ Mummy said, rising and striding off with a gentle swish of silk. The door shut.
Her sobs broke out, unbidden. Oh god. Oh god. Mrinal crumpled near the closest pile of soil, leaving dark stains on her light blue jeans. Her oldest aloe, about the size of a tennis ball, lay on top, roots exposed. She lifted it, slowly, held it in her palms. And then she closed her fist, crushing it in her grasp, the spines digging into her flesh as she turned it into a soft sticky mush of chlorophyll and gel.
Her palms bled and the red swirled into the slime. Mrinal looked down at the crushed mess, and then up at the little mounds, the little graves, all across the room. Her coasters were gone, the bright hangings ripped off the walls. There were shards of glass all across the floor, and the table was, once again, rough wood.
She stumbled when she rose, the sudden rush of blood making her head whirl. Mummy had left her a broom resting against the coffee table.
Mrinal placed the vial of attar on the table neatly. Her fingers left bloodied prints on the table surface. She stared at it, unblinking.
And then walked out the door, not glancing back at the mess.
*
Gatha has lived in Delhi her entire life. She's currently studying sociology at University of Delhi.