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Stories
The Man Who Spoke to Ashes
by Jai Jui
 Dwarkanath
figured he must have been evil in his previous life to get such a lousy
deal in this present one.
Brought up in an orphanage he never knew his parents. In appearance he was
dark skinned scrawny and bug eyed. At least he had thick black hair and a
straight long sharp nose.
The other kids always teased him ...called him Darkee or Dracula and what
not. He almost wished he was Dracula the undead, living for centuries on
the blood of other human beings.
Without funds to put him through college, Dwarka learned to live by his
wits. He had realized there was a segment of population longing to connect
with their dead family members either from guilt, insecurity or simply
love. They preserved the ashes of their departed ones in glass vases
Dwarka became the self proclaimed authority on connecting with the
departed by contacting their ashes.
There was both cunning and logic in his approach. Since most men died
before their wives he always targeted widows especially rich old widows
He would first Google the dead man obtaining whatever information he could
then call up friends and neighbors of the deceased pretending to be a
reporter.
A week ago he was at the house of Jeroo Bamji whose husband Firdaus after
one too many Scotches had tried to balance on the terrace edge on one leg.
The crowd below had said that Firdaus' dive to the concrete below was
Olympic class.
Dwarka kept rubbing the glass urn with Firdaus' ashes his eyes closed
while Jeroo waited anxiously for the spirit to respond.
“Aah he just loved the grey suit you gave him," murmured Dwarka.
"But he never wore it except once," protested Jeroo.
"That’s because it was tight at the crotch"
"If only he had told me that," cried Jeroo, "what else? What else?"
"He never liked the number 7 he wants you to know"
"If only he had told me," said Jeroo as she got up, took the broom and
smashed the number 7 in all three clocks in the room, then ran to the
calendar and scratched out the number 7 on every page.
"That applied to money too," reminded Dwarka," after every six hundred you
know what comes next."
Saying so he pocketed the suit and the money. And so he made his living
but he was not proud of it.
It was October end, Halloween according to the Westerners.
Dwarka received a call from the countryside. Three brothers and their
sister had lost their father before he could tell them where he had hidden
his life's earnings.
They were hoping Dwarka could talk to the spirit of their father through
his ashes and locate the fortune.
It was dark. The old mansion was rather foreboding and on top of that this
family of four looked as wicked as could be.
Dwarka entered their dining room with utmost reluctance. He had no
information on this family except that their grandfather Sharad Pande had
dealt in witchcraft or something evil.
He saw several urns on the mantle.
"It's a Pande tradition," explained Ulhas the eldest, “even the old
bastard Sharad's ashes are around here somewhere. For some reason they had
to be saved in that old earthenware jar instead of glass jars like the
rest. Here are my father's ashes Start talking to him. We must know where
he kept his khajana."
Dwarka stated rubbing the jar while four pairs of eyes stared at him. For
the first time in his life he was lost. He should never have accepted but
the money offer was too tempting.
He tried guesswork pretending he had established communication with the
dead father and sent the family looking at several bookcases, attics,
floorboards until it was obvious that he was bullshitting the four.
Every moment their impatience and rage was escalating.
Finally they looked at each other. Ulhas approached Dwarka saying, "We
need to discuss something amongst ourselves in the next room."
Dwarka was alone, afraid and began looking for a way to escape.
As he stepped back he stumbled over the earthenware pot and broke it.
He was mortified. He looked down to see the ashes of Sharad Pande spilling
on the floor. Funny though! The color of the ashes was unusually black,
almost purple. He rubbed his eyes to clear them and knelt down with a
morbid curiosity.
To his amazement the ashes began to slowly move in a counterclockwise
circle faster and faster until they reared up in the air like a mini
cyclone and Dwarka unconsciously inhaled the particles.
His body immediately felt charged like a thousand volts of electricity
going through him. His senses became ultra acute. He could see clearly in
the dark outside.
Looking in the mirror his eyes were red and blood shot.
He felt a trickle of wetness in his mouth. He touched his lips to find
that his two incisor teeth had become at least an inch long sharp and
pointed.
Dwarka's hearing became so acute that he could hear the wings of the moth
outside the glass window.
Above all he could hear the four discuss how they planned to kill him,
steal his wallet, watch and car which they could sell in the next town.
He smiled an evil dreadful smile. He realized he had turned into a
vampire. and began feeling a tremendous hunger for blood.
The door opened and the four entered the room with a gleam in their eyes
and confident expression.
One look at the changed Dwarka and their expressions turned to horror but
it was too late.
In a split second the vampire Dwarka was upon them tearing limbs and
throwing the three brothers like rag dolls against the walls and
furniture.
The stunned sister could only stare for the last second of her life as
Dwarka's teeth tore into her neck sucking her blood with awful smacking
sounds.
His feast was just starting. There was plenty of blood to be sucked from
her brothers.
Dwarka's childhood dream had been realized. From now on his life was
endless, his victims were legion and his frontier had no boundaries.
Behold the Indian Dracula.
October 31, 2009
Image under license with Gettyimages.com
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