The Narrow Road to Palem by Sharath Komarraju

hose-like tube, and as we stood over them, brother and sister both had their hoses wrapped together, lying on their sides facing each other. Their eyes were dilated, and their paws – no, I cannot call them feet – clawed at the air.
    Beside them sat a contraption made half of fleshy, biological material and half of hard metal. Jutting out of one corner of the machine were Avadhani’s legs and half of his torso. The upper part of his body was already embedded within the machine, and the rest was slowly getting sucked in with each whirr, as if into a mire.
    I do not know how long we stood there looking at the scene, sir, but it was Satyam who sprang to life first. It must have been when the boy turned a lazy eye to look at us that Satyam realized it was time to strike. With a yelp he leapt at the sprawled bodies and hacked repeatedly at their tentacles, and a white pasty substance squeezed out onto the floor. I entered the fray then as well; I closed my eyes and stabbed like a madman, not knowing where and what I was hitting, but every now and then the point of my spade drove further down than other times, and made them squirm that little bit harder, so I know I’d hit a tender spot.
    They put up no resistance to us, sir, though I would say we gave them no chance. After it was all done Satyam and I carried them over to Avadhani’s well and buried them there. We also pulled out Avadhani from the thing – his face was all bloodied, and he was dead of course – and laid him to rest. It was then that I looked around the room and found the sitar.
    ‘Let’s burn it,’ Satyam said. And I almost agreed to it too, but then I remembered what sweet notes it used to make under the girl’s hands, and I just could not bring myself to burn it. So I told Satyam that I would take it home, and here it is, right in front of me as I write this.
    In these seven days since we’ve killed – those things – all our bad omens have stopped, sir. The feeling on my back is no longer present, and everything seems to have settled down. But you can never tell with these things, can you? I would still like it if you came and gave Palem a thorough cleansing. Maybe you can take the sitar away with you to keep in a place where evil cannot reach.
     
    Sincerely,
    Subramanya Shastri
     
    * * *
     
    Lata opened the front door and looked up at the gibbous moon. The sound of the table thudded in her mind. These last two days the sounds had not gone away after she had stopped playing the sitar. Now they were ever-present, goading her on to the front door, then to the path leading up to the road, then along the road…
    ‘Lata?’
    Sister Agnes . Sister Agnes was going to have her neck slit, she knew. She had seen it in one of the images the tabla notes had sent her. Somewhere deep within her she felt sad; Sister Agnes had been good to her. She did not particularly want her to come to harm. She poked herself in her waist and felt hard calluses pushing back from under her skin. These had appeared on the first day and had grown in size each day. She did not question what they were or where they had come from. It was like she knew; more or less.
    ‘Yes, sister?’
    ‘Are you going somewhere, child?’
    Lata turned back to face the older lady. She did not know the answer to the question, but the thudding of the tabla inside her head continued unabated. She knew it would stop only if she were to go to that well, where that ditch was dug, where both of them were buried…
    ‘You’ve told me about the tabla notes,’ Sister Agnes said. ‘Do you still hear them?’
    Lata nodded.
    Sister Agnes came close to her and placed an arm on Lata. In her mind Lata willed the nun to stay away, to keep her distance. When her hand touched her shoulder Lata could sense a momentary twitch on the fingers – at the rubbery, scaly feel. But they relaxed soon enough.
    ‘I can help you, child,’ said Sister Agnes in a murmur.
    The tabla notes in Lata’s head grew louder.