The Silence of Doom

In that cold room on the night of the new moon, I respectfully closed the eyes of the Rajah Sahib with my palms. I looked at his grieving family and shook my head. Surya Mahal was now in mourning for its head.

I noticed the prince-in-waiting Nakul Hans gesture in my direction, so I followed him out of the deceased Rajah’s bedroom. The Ranee Sahibaa silently wiped her tears, clinging to her last moments with her husband and her vermillion. Nakul’s younger brother Vardhan knelt beside his mother and put his arm around her. He paid no attention to us.

"Thank you, Dr. Indraneel, in this hour of grief, for attending so patiently to my father", Nakul said outside, his voice faltering.

"Please, I implore you not to say so", I said, a tremble in my whisper. "It was all I could do. His time had come. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it any easier for him."

"I’m sure you gave it your best shot, Doctor", he said, regaining the crisp command that spoke eloquently of his public school education.

"About that other matter?" I ventured haltingly.

The latest successor to the estates and titles of Daalipore considered this carefully. "Let us go upstairs", he said.

Nar Bahadur, Nakul’s faithful retainer, was summoned for torches. We walked up those four flights of steps to the Mahal’s South Tower. Bahadur was dismissed at the ante-chamber to the Tower, a place that I had grown familiar with in the last three months without once feeling accustomed to its musty and dank chambers. She lay in the corner.

This may come as shock to you, dear reader, so I will try to expound on our odd visit, the latest of a series of visits which I had now been performing for three months. You see, I have also been treating the Banshee of Surya Mahal all this while. She was resident in these dark Tower chambers. You must excuse the pride that regrettably creeps in my voice when I recount these episodes. I have been sworn to secrecy by the Royal Family and may my throat be slit if I have ever breathed a word of this to a fellow being before. But the fact that I am surely the only Indian doctor in Her Majesty’s Raj to have the rare privilege of actually administering medicine to a living banshee stirs up an equally rare vanity in my soul.

Like most of my fellow countrymen, I had never heard of a banshee. However, in my last year as a medical student at the University of Edinburgh, my Professor of Anatomy, to whom I had endeared myself, had opened new doors of medicine to me. To me and two other favoured pupils, he introduced the magical world of the banshees, these fantastic creatures who attached themselves loyally to households and wailed when death was imminent there! However, on return to my native land, I had set aside this memory when confronted with the more mundane ailments of my fellow-men, whose cholera and malaria had cured me of all my fancies.

However, six months ago, Nakul Hans came to visit me with a question concerning the health of his family’s banshee. This came as quite a shock to me. The scion of the local kingdom, he put forth the facts before me. His grandfather had obtained the banshee from England, but had kept it a closely-guarded family secret. Now, folklore says that banshees shriek when any member of the household faces death. Little does anyone know that this death need not be inevitable. It can serve as a forewarning of doom, which can be held at bay if precautions are taken. Living constantly with the threat of external aggression and internal intrigue, as the royals and their forefathers did, the banshee became a valuable harbinger that had saved some lives. But one must also bow to the wishes of the great Almighty above, so when illness or old age came knocking at the doors of Surya Mahal, the family could prepare for the worst once the banshee had spoken.

The death of the Rajah a few minutes ago was the first time in 75 years that the Banshee had not moaned in warning when death had come on its dark journey.

The banshee cowered in the corner as I approached her. Her mouth was open and she was clearly making a desperate attempt to call out. But only silence rushed out to meet the air.

"So you’ll be able to reverse the condition now?" whispered Nakul.

"I will, sir, er, Your Highness", I said, as I held the poor creature firmly and shone my torch in her throat. "As I have told you, I must confess that I have never done the procedure before, but the literature does cover it in great detail. I have no reason to doubt its effectiveness, since the earlier procedure worked so well".

"Indeed, doctor. You do realize that I must have her by my side now that the Rajah, may the gods bless him, is no more. Vardhan has been suspicious and I have reason to believe that in his last days, my father had started to agree with him. This despite the discretion of the highest order."

"Do not worry, your highness. You have some very discreet men in your employ. Like me".

He smiled that quick smile, which reminded many of a tiger’s smirk. I must be careful with this man.

"I hope so, doctor. By when do you think she’ll have her voice back?"

"The texts say 2 weeks should be sufficient."

"Hmm. Make it a month – it would be extremely odd if the banshee were to regain her voice so soon after my father passing away. I’ll just have to be a little more cautious during this period, but that should be a price worth paying."

"As you prefer it, sir."

I stood up as Rajah Nakul Hans flashed his torch at the banshee whose features were contorted in rage. I did not know she could do so!

You may, O reader, wonder whether a doctor ought to readily sacrifice his scruples. But please consider my position. Nakul would have arranged to poison his noble father even if I had not acquiesced. By silencing the Banshee, I obtained the fortunate prospect of observing this fantastic beast at a microscope’s length away. Perhaps my book on the banshees will one day be on the shelves of stores in London and be studied at Bart’s. The onward march of medical science has always demanded a few human sacrifices. As a token of memoriam, I shall dedicate my book to the Rajah Aryanath Tejatman Singh of Daalipore, who died this nineteenth day in December, 190x, of natural causes. May his soul rest in peace.

---

[Note from me:

* Have steamrolled past word limit like the German army looking for land in the East.

* Could not pick up familiarity with the vocab of the era, so did the following: eschewed modern usages wherever possible, used slightly more flowery/old-fashioned words, used brit-style spelling for some entities, used Doyle's prose as a reference.

The License.

I started out with noble intentions. But I don't think this entry ended up fitting the "social milieu" requirement. Maybe it does. But anyway, here goes.
***

Buddho Babu was elated. This joy expressed itself through another squirt of red betel juice, this one making only a minor red mark near the bottom of his white dhoti. The major part of the projectile found itself nestled at the bottom of a blue bucket placed near the foot of the bench on which he was sitting. Bustling with life, and littered with people - no one in the room really cared. This act was a sign of feeling at home in a government office, nothing really to frown upon.

"Aah" Busho Babu groaned as he got up and made his descent down the final flight of stairs that would complete his year long mission. It wasn't easy when he had decided to take it on. After all, there was the long theoretical and experimental study, the rigorous examination, and the actual live practical, demonstrating that he could do it right. Very few passed. He had rightly surmised that the government did not want too many people with the license. The very fact that they actually sanctioned this kind of thing was unknown to most. He certainly did not know anyone who had one. But then, no-one he knew had needed one either.

He could see a light emerging from the bottom of the stairwell. "This must be it". As he entered the bare, dusty room, the babu at the desk motioned him to wait, while the Chief Sanctioning Officer arrived. Buddho Babu would have a short interview with him, sign the final few papers before he recieved it. Also there was the small matter of the oath.

The Officer arrived in about a minute and gesticulated that Buddhu Babu could accompany him to his office. "Congratulations" he said."This would have been so much easier for you and us, if you had gotten this done when you found out at your Coming-of-Age Investiture . Anyway, better late that never, sign here please!". As he signed, The Officer handed him his small, green card, with his photograph, the official stamp and other details. A small box on top indicated his current status. "Allowed limit : 1500ml per week".

"So, shall we begin with the oath?".

Budho Babu mumbled the words, as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

"I solemnly pledge before The Holy Spirit that I will not misuse the powers granted to me by the Government, and will uphold the general principles of Vampiredom. I will drink the blood of only fresh corpses and the terminally ill, in a manner that will not cause mental or physical pain to any individual involved. I shall not exceed the limits prescribed by my license and will not divulge the details of this transaction to any other individual. I shall lead the rest of my life as an authorized Vampire with utmost integrity and will be forever loyal to the Charter of Vampiric Principles."

Moral Victory

Why here, he thinks – Do I not have enough to worry about already? Why come back to a place, I've hated for years. Sure, it's praised and lauded. Sure, it's written about. But what do they know? If you'd have had the time to ponder over it, to drink it in – in all its moods, in all its seasons, then you'd know. Know her for real. That beast of monotony. Pounding away since eternity. Fleeting in her love, unforgiving in her wrath. Yes, he affirms – she's left him no choice. Hate the sea, he must.

Those people will never understand this though. “It's your culture, boy! ” he's heard mister Kerkar argue. Shit, he's heard everyone argue. He fights back, - “But she's of no use. All she does is infringe and influence. She dominates. She makes us all dance to her charms. And, we do.” He'd prefer not feeling this way. He'd prefer blending in. How he wished, she could charm him too. No antagonism, no upheaval. No hate. Life – they say is not that simple.

Why here, he thinks. Again.

Around him, Nature awaits the rendez-vous. It gasps with the wind, prepares with the sand, heralds with the birds. About 9 o'clock, he remembers reading - she should be on time. But till then, he must wait. That was never an issue with him. Waiting. He was always good at it. That is all that he's done all his life. Wait. Kind of fitting, he smirks, that he should do it now. A perfect way to round off.

“One must wait, when one does not get.”

Some aphorism. “Man! I should have noted all those down.” Fuck - too late now.

A glance at the watch confirms his premonition. It's time. He closes his eyes. She makes her final advance.

It seems repulsive at first – when she first touches his toe. They haven't met in over seven years. And now, all of a sudden, this intimacy. Alien, cold and yet familiar in its touch. “You succumb, at last.” - she seems to whisper, clawing away. With relish. Taking her time. She grows on him, covering him in her warmth. He's repulsed. More than ever.

He feels his body shiver, tremble. Not with fear, but excitement. It's going to be over. Soon. But even in this inescapable finality, he has time to smirk - “Even now, you come to me.”

Mister Kerkar was right, he agrees - she's got her uses after all. All you need to do, is wait.

Takeover

[Submission for Lab 4]

Pardon me if I'm making a mistake, but I do believe a man of my age deserves some luck when he needs it. Therefore, I may be excused for having fled to the seaside today. I could not face another day there - where nothing I do can find appreciation. This must be what rebellion feels like.

I know, I know. Tomorrow, I will be back at my desk, insults and payscales left by the wayside. By then, the ember of revolt would have died from surprise at being given a life. But today, it spends a day by the sea.

I'm on my toes. I look to the left and then to the right. No one in sight. Just like everyone else, the sun is also earning its pay. It is delivering a performance of a lifetime. No surprise that I'm the only grain of sand on two feet.

After an hour, I spy someone walking towards where I am sitting. He seems to carrying a tripod, a pot, and a briefcase. I look back at the vessel of shimmer in front of me. He stops near me, saying nothing. Instead, he pulls out a flier and hands it over with a smile. He starts to unpack. He pulls out a robe.

If he's an artist of any confidence, he has chosen with care. I'm open to all kinds of ideas today, so I open the pamphlet. The contents are shy and do not demand my attention. Without fuss, it says: Hello. I'm 'K the Redeemer'. To prove it, I shall perform a miracle today at 12 noon at the beach, and hide the sun for 15 minutes. Please do come and watch. Thanks.

All he's asking for is my time. I'm any performer's dream today.

It's only 11, but as you would expect of a god and a pro, he's set the stage and is prepared for everything. Though, I don't see Murphy's Law kicking in. It's not as if the power will go out and ruin the show.

Half an hour later. We've been talking and it looks like he's got no worries about the lack of turnout. His publicity has been limited to some fliers and an newspaper insertion buried amidst people trading machine parts. The sole concession to the demands of stagecraft is his robe studded with stars and crescents. He bought it for 200 rupees and admits to being drenched in sweat.

It's time. He walks over to the pot and lights a flame under it. Fragrance surrounds us. A seller of peanuts stops to see what these two idiots in the middle of the beach are upto. The sun waited above, from its vantage point.

He smiles, he waves his hand, he mutters. I look up, and yes, the sun's gone. Yet, there's light, so you wouldn't notice the ball of fire was missing unless someone pointed it out. However, you might wonder why you were not perspiring.

He turned to me, smiling. The vendor could be seen fleeing in the distance. Gone nuts, you might say. It looks like we have a god in our midst after all.

Thirty minutes later, we walk away together. He'd shed those garbs and I was carrying the pot (what an aroma). Things had changed. Oh, and it does seem that we meek will inherit the world. That is, if it isn't a lot of trouble to the rest of you. We apologise for any distress in advance.