How to Ward off Evil with Two Words

The bus is late. Again. I squeeze out of the crowded vehicle. A cool breeze stings at my skin, signalling another bout of rain. Rickshaw drivers honk, cyclists ring bells, and women scream, ‘rain coming!’ before they pull their laundry from the clothesline. I scurry, hugging my books, and enter a by-lane. A yellow board says 4th Cross. The street that is usually bustling with children wears a dreary look. A brown stray dog wags its tail, blinks its black eyes, scuttles to the dustbin, and huddles behind it. I quicken my pace when I hear the metallic tak-tak of the worn grooves of a shutter. It is Amma’s grocery store, closing earlier than usual. On the brown surface is writing. Bold, curvy letters. In Kannada. ‘Naale Ba’. Come Tomorrow? I frown. Another strong gust of wind blows, and a flash of lightning sears the skies. I take a deep breath before going further. At the end of the road, where I turn right to go home, is the encounter I dread. ‘Let them not be there. Let them not be there.’ I chant like a mantra. A few steps later, I find them. My teeth scrape at my fingertips, and a metallic taste fills my mouth.

The tallest guy leans his thin frame against the unpainted side of the abandoned building and tucks his left foot in before pulling out a beedi from his shirt pocket. Four other men surround him. The thin roll of tobacco passes from his hands as they cackle over something, slapping their thighs. I stop at a pharmacy to buy candy and peppermints I don’t need. Ten minutes go by, but the men are still there. One of them blows kisses at a schoolgirl and chases her while another points at me. Sweat sticks to my palms. ‘Keep your eyes on the ground and walk,’ Amma had said when I told her about him. He had called me sexy. I tighten my grip around the books and drag my feet towards home. A large, deep puddle obstructs my way. The monsoon wind carries his whistles and a whiff of tobacco. My only option is to go around the water and risk getting closer to him. A hundred fire ants ravage my body as the men slap their thighs. The sounds are followed by a burst of laughter. My fingers shake, a gasp escapes my throat, and I run.

The aroma of Amma’s cooking tickles my olfactory nerves even before I reach the gate. The thought of dipping hot chapattis into the spicy sagu lightens my head.

‘Can it be true?’ I hear Amma in the kitchen. Her tone is shrill but laced with doubt.

‘We can never completely dismiss them.’ Sulo Aunty sounds defiant.

‘What happened?’ I duck my head into the small, dimly lit room. Amma is stirring the masala in the kadai while Sulo Aunty nurses a chai.

‘This ‘Naale Ba’ is everywhere.’ Sulo Aunty’s forehead creases.

‘People are writing ‘Naale Ba’ on the doors,’ Amma adds.

The image of the writing on the brown shutter of the grocery store pops into my head.

‘It is the only way to keep the ghost out!’

‘Ghost?’

‘Yes. These ghosts are visiting people’s houses. If they see ‘Naale Ba’, they go back thinking they should return the following day.’ Amma’s eyes are bright with fear.

‘And when they come the next day, the sign will still be there.’ Sulo Aunty chuckles.

The neem tree obstructs my view from the window. I tilt my head and catch sight of ‘Naale Ba’ in white paint on the opposite residence. I scratch my chin when Sulo Aunty interrupts my thoughts.

‘Do you know what happened in that house?’ She points down the lane. ‘They didn’t believe in these messages,’ she lowers her voice, ‘and it entered the house.’ She clicks her tongue.

I imagine a caricature floating in the air like in the films, slipping through the door. Sulo Aunty takes a step closer and we three form a small triangle in the kitchen. She is barely audible.

‘In the morning, they found the cow tethered in the yard, splayed on the ground. Dead.’ She holds her heart.

Amma cups her mouth in horror. Her eyes dart at me.

‘And our grocer’s assistant, Nandu…’ Sulo Aunty’s voice trembles.

My eyes widen. She smacks her forehead and shakes her head. ‘The grocer refused to display the sign!’

Amma presses her lips.

‘And the ghost let itself in!’ She sighs. ‘Nandu, who used to sleep inside the store, is now in the hospital.’

No wonder the grocer closed early!

Amma draws me closer while Sulo Aunty finishes her chai. 

‘The signs are everywhere,’ Amma declares finally, and we follow Sulo Aunty outside. The tiny row of houses with flowerbeds, dumpsters, and cowsheds is shrouded in an orange glow under the streetlights. Every house is marked. Some have Naale Ba on all the walls.

A low whistle alerts my ears. The bully blows circles of tobacco smoke, and his friends snigger with strange sounds. ‘It is best to ignore.’ Amma’s advice has always thrived on stoicism. Most days, I search the ground; some days, I fight my tears.

Sulo Aunty throws a side glance at the intersection, pulls my arm, and we turn our backs to the corner. Amma studies our faded blue door. Sheets of paint hang from the corners like rags, and a tattered picture of a Goddess adorns the centre. She sighs, ties her long black hair into a bun, and purses her lips while I wipe imaginary sweat off my brow.

‘If we can ward off the evil with two words, why not?’ She tips her head after some thought.

‘You are my Sonia; you are my Sonia,’ the popular Hindi film song with suggestive lyrics is the pick of the day thrown at girls like me. Sulo Aunty’s grip around my arm tightens. Her breathing is heavy.

‘Two words. That’s all we need.’ Sulo Aunty arches her brow. She turns and narrows her eyes. ‘You should do it.’ Her gaze is intense, like a fire-spitting volcano. My lips tremble.

‘Young girls like you should know how to protect themselves,’ she turns to Amma, ‘and the family.’

Amma runs her hand over my face.

Sulo Aunty brings her hands to her hips. ‘Get to it. Now.’

My cheeks burn. I dash inside and rummage in my backpack. The thick red marker I used that morning to paint blood in my sketchbook beckons me. The plastic pen feels cold between my sweaty fingers. Amma and Sulo Aunty step back and watch while I take a deep breath and begin.

It is not easy at first. I scratch multiple times to brighten the first letter on the pale blue door.

‘Oh. I will come tomorrow.’ The tall man from the corner screams. ‘And we will keep coming back,’ someone else shouts as my red pen bleeds ‘Naale Ba’ on the blue door.

I turn around. My eyes are steel. Amma takes a step forward. Sulo Aunty stops her.

‘Yes. Yes,’ a third person claps, ‘we won’t stop.’

They hold their stomachs, bend over, and laugh as a deafening clap of thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Then silence blankets the space.

‘Let’s go,’ the tallest bites into the beedi and pauses, ‘and come back tomorrow.’ He claps.

It is my first time but the unstoppable fire inside spills.

‘There will never be a tomorrow,’ I hiss. ‘Everything evil must be warded off.’ I grit my teeth, raise my hand and get to work. There is enough ink to write more.

‘Tholagi Hogu’ in Kannada shines bright on the door.

Sulo Aunty claps, Amma wipes a lone tear from the corner of her eye, and I finally smile, looking at the sign that says ‘Get Lost’. The street corner drowns in my glow. There is no laughter, and the men leave without a word. A soft drizzle drenches the earth. Amma rubs my back before entering the kitchen.

‘What a day it has been with Sulo Aunty!’ I hoist myself on the kitchen counter and swing my legs.

Amma turns around, scrunches her nose. ‘Sulo Aunty?’

*