Ink Drift - July

Issue 12 - Fear
The Banyan Tree of Deuli
crime even before he is taken to the tree
because he will be forever damned with
nightmares and guilt.”
He went on marveling and laughing
some more, ignorant of the fact that I
was lagging behind, once again frozen
in my steps. I bent down on a knee and
started to tie my shoe lace again, keeping
my eyes to the ground.
“Some see them; I killed a dog and now
I see, too”, I remembered the words
of the boy. I killed my wife and I see,
too, the realization came to me. I had
learned to ignore the truth but after
twenty-seven years it came rushing
through my memories like water from a
broken dam. It all came back: the sunny
afternoon in the hills of Mussoorie, the
sunset, the cliff; that simmering dissatisfaction
I had harbored against my
wife; she had inherited a fortune from
her industrialist father yet was loath to
invest even a single penny in my dream
project.
For her movie-making was only a
business and when it came to balance-sheets
and prospects of profit,
even her husband’s aspirations turned
to dust. “It wouldn’t work in the first
place,” she had said, rejecting the script
brusquely. That was when I had decided
she needed to go. I had pushed her
down the cliff. Her death got me enough
to make a start in film-making. And so
far I had no reason to complain. All was
well, until now.
“Boss, are you okay?” someone placed
a hand on my shoulder and it took me
the stupendous courage to stop myself
from screaming. It was one of my crew
members bending over with anxiety.
“You’ve been sitting like that for more
than a minute.” He pointed at the looming
foliage of the banyan up ahead. “Let’s
get into the shade; I’ll get you some water.
Your face is white, you’re sweating.
Come on.”
I took his proffered hand and got up on
my feet. Dragging my feet toward the
tree was the most difficult task possible
then. I didn’t want anyone to get the
impression I could see the dead. The boy
gave me a bottle of water and I closed my
eyes as I tilted my head backward for the
drink. I didn’t want to see what was up
there.
“What are the pages of our script doing
here,” I heard the screenwriter shout.
“The pages are all missing. And there
were notes scribbled on it!”
My cameraman gestured at me. “Boss,
the equipment is still malfunctioning. I
don’t get why. I mean we have fresh cells,
a tip-top generator, and all other riff-raff
and yet.”
CHIRR-CREAK-CHIRR-CREAK—the
ropes groaned above me.
I didn’t hear what the man was saying. I
lifted my eyes and to my immense relief,
saw only the branches and snaking roots
hanging down and the crows on them.
They were still there; blinking their
beady, dark eyes, cocking their pointed
bills left and right. They were all looking
at me, I know I wasn’t imagining that.
“Boss?” the cameraman repeated. I
pulled my gaze away, forced myself to
not look up anymore. For I knew I would
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