Ink Drift - July

The Banyan Tree of Deuli
Issue 12 - Fear
begin to scream if it looked up and saw
the dead swinging on their ropes.
My associate was frowning at me, his
face full of concern. I was on the other
hand, unresponsive, speechless to
the extent where the connection of my
mind with coherent thought was temporarily
shunted.
CHIRR-CREAK-CHIRR-CREAK—the
ropes creaked. I didn’t look up this
time I did not have the guts to do that.
I could see something from the corner
of my eyes. A pair of naked feet was
dangling not more than three feet to
my left. The hem of a green sari waved
gently above the cameraman’s olive
hat. They were there, the dead, come to
remind me of my sins again.
“We can’t shoot here, not anymore.”
I finally managed to speak, now well
aware of the limp figures hanging from
the tree that no one could see but the
sole sinner.
“But why?” the cameraman blurted,
“You know we’re running on a tight
schedule and budget. We need to present
the rough-cut for the festival entry
and…”
“Because it’s hot as fucking hell,” I
screamed in exasperation almost at the
verge of speaking what was bothering
me. “There are all these bloodsucking
mosquitoes, our leads are sick and this,”
I kicked an empty crate for the camera.
“None of these shit work here, not even
cell phones!”
The cameraman was taken aback, so
were the rest of the crew members. A
hush had fallen. All I could hear was my
own fuming breath, my thudding heart,
the soft swishing murmur of leaves; and
the CHIRR-CREAK-CHIRR-CREAK. A
crow flapped its wings and cawed as if it
was asking me to go.
I looked at my screenwriter holding the
pages of the script, his mouth wide-open
in confusion. “No need to look for the
missing pages. We will work on the script
again. Let’s pack up and leave this shitty
jungle. I can afford the losses and delay.”
That broke the trance. Without any
word, the crew got down to the business
of disassembling the equipment,
unscrewing mounts and packing. After
making myself loud and clear I sauntered
away, too afraid to look back.
CHIRR-CREAK-CHIRR-CREAK—the
sounds seemed to follow me; I knew the
crows still had their eyes on me, their
piercing accusatory glances drilling in
my back. I didn’t need to turn around.
I could remember the faces of the dead
with stark clarity; the lolling-white
tongues, the slack jaws, the stretched
necks.
I was only able to breathe easy when we
were on our way back from Midnapore
and its strange, accursed trees. I still
hear the sound of the swinging ropes in
my sleep. I can see the dead swinging
from the branches of the banyan tree.
Every time I see a crow on the ledge of
my twentieth-floor balcony it makes me
wonder if it’s one of the crows from Deuli,
come to remind me of what I did.
I had learned to live without thinking of
my heinous deed, the crime I committed
to fulfill my dream. CHIRR-CREAK-
CHIRR-CREAK—now I see my wife’s
face, too. In my nightmares, her body
is also hanging up in the banyan with
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