“Cursed at Birth”

Creators of Justice Award 2020 | Second Prize: Short story (tied)

Shashi Kadapa is based in Pune, India and is the managing editor of ActiveMuse, a journal of literature. His short stories have appeared in many anthologies of Casagrande Press, Anthroposphere (Oxford Climate Review), Alien Dimensions #11, Agorist Writers, Escaped Ink, War Monkey, Carpathia Publishing, and others. Review his works at Active Muse.

Prelude

I could see them hiding in the trees, under the bushes, swathed in blankets, holding sacks, axes, and sticks. I could spot at least twenty of them, as they crouched in the thick growth. They were waiting for nightfall, and the new moon, when the countryside would be shrouded in darkness. Then they would slip in, snatch their booty and flee. 

The beginnings

It is the mid 1960s. My name is Soumya Desai, and I serve as a social worker with a small, special orphanage, located in a village near Pune. The number 20 appears to have an attachment to my life. I am 20, we care for 20 children, the incident occurred on the 20th day when the new moon sank with the eclipse.

The orphanage is special in many ways, such as the location on an isolated hill overlooking the Indrayani River. The most special aspect is that we care for ‘children that are cursed at birth’. 

These are children some of them young, others 20 with the mind of a three year old, the mentally retarded, suffering from Down’s syndrome, and the constant targets of these villagers. If god had not cursed them at birth, why would he create such hapless beings, which had to be fed, bathed, and their personal hygiene taken care of?

These were the ‘mati mand’ people, or the mentally challenged people.

Deep bias and fear about these children followed and haunted them, like an unholy spectre. They were considered as inauspicious and unlucky creatures, which brought bad luck if their shadow fell on you. If a pregnant woman saw these children, then she would give birth to such babies. If a person stepped on the spit of a mentally retarded child then he would be infected.

Even parents abandoned such children since the stigma of having a retarded child was unbearable. No one would give their girls in marriage to such families, and their sons would never find brides. Such was the dogma that surrounded the children and the orphanage.

We always guarded the gates, keeping the home safe from raiders.

“Now, what did a poor orphanage for the mentally challenged have that was worth stealing and getting ‘infected’?” 

The superstition was that if such a girl, was raped and sacrificed on a new moon night, then bad luck would disappear. The twisted dogma was that since these children were bad omens, violating and sacrificing them would help the sponsor of the black magic rituals to kill bad luck.

We now had 20 children who had to be constantly guarded. While god had hindered the development of their brains, he was quite liberal with their bodies. 

So, these girls moved around, with curvy thighs, bouncing breasts and bottoms of a normal girl that men watched lasciviously and tried to fondle, and grope. 

When lust emerged, all the taboos and fears were forgotten, and men turned predators. It was only the fear of the stout and dedicated maushis, matron assistants who wielded a lathi, stick that deterred them

The village was desolate, on the far outskirts of Pune, very backward, rife with superstitions, and taboos. Communication with the outside world was sporadic, very occasional. The telephone rarely worked and if an urgent message was to be sent, we sent a runner to the telegraph office. 

I and three matrons, maushis, cared for the children. These matrons were middle aged, barren, driven out by their husbands, disillusioned, and found new hope and purpose in serving our orphanage.

About me, nothing much to tell. I have a BA in Arts from Fergusson College, Pune, and I got into social work when I was in college. A disastrous early marriage with a philandering and abusive swine left me broken. 

When this orphanage job came up, I gladly took it, the work and mission was very meaningful and satisfying. Now, the region was deep in the grip of drought, wells and fields had dried up everywhere, and the villagers blamed the children for the bad luck.

Slaughter of the innocents

Coming back to the gang outside, the horde, they and were shouting threats and abuses at us to hand over four children. They had lit some wooden torches and the light glimmered through the barred windows, the shadows dancing, the fingers reaching, drawing whimpers from the cowed children.

There was no one we could call for help. The telephone and electricity wires were cut, cascading the place in terrifying darkness. The hordes were determined to get the kids and they smashed the gate open. 

We were only four women, me, and three matrons, and we stood facing the door, with the children cringing in the back. We had lathis, but we were futile as the men swept in, smashing us into a corner and grabbed a few children, throwing them into sacks and ran off into the darkness.

Chasing them would leave the remaining children helpless. All we could do was to hold the shivering children, console them, even as we cried silent tears. I sat silently in the darkness, swallowing the terror and outrage, determined not to cry. If I started crying, the rest would be demoralised.

The next day, a police jeep came up. They were useless appendages with twisted authority used perversely. I and a maushi set off with them on foot, through the outlying fields and forests, hoping that a few children had managed to survive or escape.

We came upon the sacrificial fires and mounds under a neem tree. The place was littered with dead flowers and torn leaves of the black magic tantric rites. Lemons, chillies, vermillion and turmeric powder were spread over the ground, mixed with the blood of my darlings.

The ground showed signs of frantic struggles, where the children had mutely resisted, torn and bloodied pieces of their knickers were flung out. Perhaps this was the spot where they were violated, then dragged, and their throats slits. 

We found their headless torsos in the bushes, with the hands and legs chopped off. Later, the flesh would be peeled, the bones dried out, broken into pieces and sold as good luck charms at village fairs. 

There was no point in hunting for the heads. The savages would have taken them away as trophies and buried the skulls in the fields of the sponsor of the rituals. They would expect the skulls to guard their fields.

The torsos were wrapped in bed sheets and cremated in the forest. If we had buried them, then other people would have exhumed the remains, and ripped away the remaining bones. 

To the villagers, the children were no different from the goats and chickens they slaughtered. The press came, went back, reported the ghastly tales of the massacre, they carried my photo and that of the children. The story was buried in the inside pages. Nothing much would happen people were busy with their own problems. They did not have any time for the children that were cursed at birth.

Meeting with the Panchayat

After a couple of days, the villagers and the panchayat came over for a meeting. The panchayat is a body elected by villagers and settles disputes, requests aid and funds from the government, and are expected to serve the villagers. I looked at the faces with trepidation. Some were good; some were wicked, despotic, and evil. 

While the local policemen were ready to provide a guard, they could not protect us in the night. These males were licentious; sex starved, and it was not safe to have strangers around. One option was to close the orphanage and call it a day. This would mean abandoning the kids, and it was not acceptable.

The panchayat leader, Patil, and others, squatted on the ground, just outside the gate, waiting for us. 

He spoke up when we approached “O Bai”, a term for a lady. “Do you have any idea of the bad luck that the children have brought us? Look, the whole area is stricken with drought. Our animals are dying of sickness.”

He paused to look at the other villagers who nodded their heads. “The other day, Anil, the eldest son of one of our farmers died in an accident.”

Another leader shouted “We know that the children are the reason. We want you to go away.”

I stared deep and hard at the panchayat leader, making him look away. 

“These children are helpless, they cannot even eat. Instead of supporting us, you blame them for this drought?

I fought down the bile that rose from my stomach. “Have you gone mad, lost your reason, are you not ashamed? Don’t you have any self respect or pity? Even the animals you kill are better.”

There was a murmur of anger among them. They did not expect a woman to talk back to the panchayat leaders. Women were expected to do domestic work, meet the sexual demands of men, and bear insults without any complaint. 

Well, this woman was different.

Angrily I shouted, “If what you say is true, then it is better that you stay away from here. Else, bad luck will follow you. That Anil, I know him. He drinks heavily and had an accident. Why do you blame the children? Now please go away, else, I will tell the police.”

“Yes Bai. We will go away. The police? What can they do?”

“Be careful Bai. Surya Grahan is due 20 days from now on the next new moon.” 

I knew that there was a huge tragedy waiting on the next new moon. It coincided with a solar eclipse, and the time for the eclipse was 6.17-6.20 pm. The sun would be eclipsed when it set and go down with the face covered. This was a celestial that occurred every 20 years, and considered very inauspicious.

A large number of people would descend and kidnap the children. The sacrifices would start with the eclipse and end at 6.20 pm. 

I spoke to the maushis,. “There was nowhere to run, no place to keep us safe. No agency or hostel would risk the anger of the superstitious masses. Besides, what guarantee did I have that the hostel wardens would not give us up for reward?”

The eclipse and our escape from the village

In the coming days, the village was seeing a lot of activity. Strangers would stand at a distance from the gate, peering at the orphanage, and then hurriedly move away when I accosted them. One of the provision delivery men, Balu Jadhav, a widower, was sympathetic, and did not believe in the rumours about the bad luck that the children carried.

My plan was to run away with the kids to Pune, wait until the eclipse was over and for the turmoil to settle down, get some support from right thinking people, and then come back.

As Balu came to delivery groceries, I spoke to him casually.

“Balu, I see a lot of activity in the village. Many new people around, what is the problem?”

He kept quiet as he shouldered a bag and went to the store room, then muttered.

“Bai, something bad is going to happen on the day of the eclipse.”

“What Balu? 

“Bai, they plan to lock you people inside and burn the place.”

“What!”

“Yes Bai. The fakirs and the tantric’s agreed on this. They feel that by burning all the children and this place during the eclipse, all bad luck will be burnt and satisfy God Shani. Then, all their problems will be solved.”

“Balu, will you help us escape?”

“Bai, if the villagers even come to know that I have told you their plans, they will kill me.”

He hesitated and softly whispered, “Bai, I can take you and the other maushis away. The villagers do not want you. They only want the children.”

He looked over his shoulders and hissed “You and the maushis can walk out now. No one will stop you, but the children cannot move out”

“You know I will never abandon the children. How can you make such a suggestion?”

He went away quietly. The eclipse was 20 hours from now. I was resigned to our fate, and awaited death

He came on the afternoon of the eclipse, in a slightly bigger truck and claimed that the villagers looked suspiciously at it. 

It was late afternoon almost touching evening, but not yet evening. He backed inside and gestured at me.

“Bai. I will help you. Get the children inside quickly. Ask them to be quiet. Place the tarpaulin over them.”

He added “Bai, I do not know if we will escape. I would rather die today rather than live with the guilt of having done nothing.”

I looked at him thankfully, folding my palms in a namaskar.

The children came out in a huddle, and we hushed them into silence, warning them not to even whimper. They glanced at us in blind trust, knowing that they were safe with us.

“Now Bai, lock the door from inside, close all the windows, come through the back door, crawl, and get into the back.”

Then he made pretence of lighting a beedi and puffing, and looking at the horde of villagers who were now brazenly approaching the compound with logs of wood and kerosene. Their intent was clear. They were waiting for Balu to clear out.

I crept through the back door and made it to the truck. Balu hoisted me inside and fastened the tarpaulin.

The truck started, chugging along slowly, grinding and heaving on the rough road. I hid under the tarp, lifted a corner slightly and saw the villagers getting into the compound and stowing the wood around the walls, splashing kerosene on the windows, roof and rafters.

The sun was going down and the moon’s shadow was licking at the edges. In minutes, the sun would be covered. The eclipse had begun and a great cry went out among the villagers as they lit the wood. It was the lustful, vengeful cry of satisfaction and victory that a depraved coward makes, like when my ex-husband beat me.

The fire soon engulfed the structure, burning down the walls and roof, and then the structure collapsed in a huge blaze. My heart went out, a lump formed in my throat that would not go down.

Where was god? Did he even exist? Where would I house these children? Who would take them? I was a woman in a superstition torn world, where women were regarded as vessels to release lust.

The journey to Pune

The truck chugged on through the night. I tapped on the driver’s cabin and he stopped the vehicle besides the Indrayani River. We hopped out and the children got down, glad to stretch their legs. 

They were hungry, and I could see them searching for food. While I had some money, we could not walk into a Dhaba. We would attract too much attention, and there was a chance that the children would be molested.

We spotted a Dhaba, ‘Sher E Punjab’ in the distance and pulled into the parking lot, where a number of trucks were standing. Leaving the maushis to guard the kids, we walked into the hotel. A massive sardarji sat on the counter and from the worried and harried look on our faces, he realised that something was amiss.

We ordered food, chappathis and dal, it was the cheapest on the menu, and asked it to be packed. As he handed the parcels over, he looked at me and asked “Bai, do you want any help. Are you in trouble?”

“Nothing Sardarji, it is all right, thanks.”

Our troubles were not yet over. While we were in the hotel, the restless kids had woken up, and a few had climbed down and were staring around.

The blank and muddled look on the faces, the twisted features were easily recognisable and the other truck drivers had realised what they were. They were closing in, rubbing their members, anticipating young virgins.

Dropping the parcels on the counter, we ran out. Balu fell on them and managed to thrash a couple, driving them back. 

Something huge and massive jumped in. It was the Sardarji, he wielded a sword, and he roared in anger.

“Stay away you rogues, I will break the bones of anyone who touches a girl.”

 The horde fell back, not willing to get into a fight with the huge sword wielding sardarji. Well, he was not making idle threats. 

We went back to the Dhaba where the sardarji packed extra food and set us off. When I offered to pay, he pointed to the sky and said “Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh,” This mean that the Khalsa belongs to the Lord God! The victory belongs to God!

As we set off to Pune, I looked up into the moonless night, with stars glittering like a million beacons of hope. I raised my hands in gratitude, a couple of tears streaked down. I patted a child to sleep and it rested on my lap, and the feeling was very satisfying. 

Perhaps god had not forgotten us? Maybe he was testing my resolve and dedication?

--xx--

 Pune of the late 1960s was still recovering from the devastating floods of the previous year. 

The truck drove up to Bal Gandharva Rang Mandir then stopped. We got down from the truck and I turned towards Balu.

Tears rolled down our cheeks. He was a very brave and selfless, and had saved our lives, placing himself in peril. 

He folded his hands in a namaskar and said “Bai, this is as far as I can go. I have to return back.”

I did not know what to say. He was a pillar of my strength. As long as he was with us, I felt strong.

Meeting with the bureaucrats

I had exchanged occasional letters with Shanta, one of my classmates. She worked as a teacher at the Vimlabai Garware School for girls near Deccan Gymkhana. The orphanage trust owners were in far off Bombay. It was not possible to travel that far with these kids.

My idea was to find temporary shelter for the children for a few days, go to Mumbai, meet the trust owners and narrate our woes. I had absolutely no plans to return to the horrible village.

We walked to the college. Leaving the children at the gate with the Maushi’s, I went and asked for Shanta. She greeted me warmly, and then her eyes opened when she saw my dishevelled appearance.

I told her briefly about what happened. 

She was aghast “Such things were unheard of in upward Pune, killing children; black magic sacrifices, were unbelievable.”

She took me to the washroom and I cleaned up. 

Then we met the Principal who ran this school for girls. She listened with rising incredulity and disbelief. 

“Where are the children?” she asked.

“Outside, waiting at the gate!”

“Oh Deva!” She gave orders to move the children to the hostel, arranged for their bath, food, and some clothes. 

Then she said “See Soumya, we cannot keep the children here for long, maybe a day or two. You have to find another place.”

“I do not know anyone in Pune. What can we do? Please help us!”

She hesitated and it was hard for her to say the bitter truth. “Soumya, a bunch of mentally retarded children are not welcome and presentable in a school for normal children. Other parents would complain.”

Pausing to take a breath, she said “Let me see what I can do. You go and take some rest.”

She made some phone calls and I was called over in the evening for a meeting. This was a make or break situation. I had to put forth our case strongly, make them believe our story, the danger we faced, and coerce them to help us. There was no room for tears here.

Meeting with the sceptical government types

Four people sat behind a table along with the principal, two politicians, a government officer, and the fourth, a stern looking lady, the college director.

The principal introduced me and said “Tell us what happened and why did you leave the orphanage?”

I narrated the story, of the raids, the sacrifices, the trauma we faced, the killings. My story was met with agnostic silence. I realised disheartened and anguished that I had failed to convince them.

One of the politicians questioned “You say that some children were kidnapped and sacrificed. Why did you not complain to the police?”

“I did Sir. They were ineffective and sided with the kidnappers.”

The other politician broke in “Oh really! Did you write to the minister?”

“Yes Sir, I did and even sent a telegram. He did not respond.”

The government official said brusquely. “Do you have any proof about your claims, other than your story? You say the villagers burnt down the orphanage and you ran away. Where is the proof?”

Sensing victory, he opened up. “See, I talked to the district collector. He said nothing of that sort happened on the eclipse day. I think you wanted to get out of that village and settle in the city, and have made up this story.”

The first politician smirked “Do you have copies of the messages, the report from the police, and statement from the villagers? Why you did not collect evidence before running away? You are a woman, weak, unable to shoulder responsibilities.”. 

I bit my lips and said “There was no time sir. The villagers were piling wood and splashing kerosene on the home. We were seconds away from being burnt alive.”

The politician sneered “So, why did you and the maushis not run away? You could have saved yourself. Do you think you are a film heroine? Do you expect us to clap?”

I said softly, with firmness and belief. “I could have walked away when the trouble started, I could have escaped when the villagers raided our place. I could have done so many things to save myself. But, running away and abandoning the children never occurred to me. I know I have done the right thing. I am a woman.”

It was my word against the bureaucracy and their set belief that such things cannot happen. The government fellow and politicians wanted to deny the incident and save the village from getting a bad name. Worst, there was a strident belief that I, a woman was weak, helpless, and was now begging. 

Then I remembered, the media had covered the raid and kidnapping. 

“There was news coverage in the Times of India, about 20 days back. You can check that please. I know the journalist who took my interview and can request her help.”

The politicians and the government officer started murmuring. They did not want to get the press into this and wanted to disallow my request.

“Silence,” shouted director “Bring the newspapers.”

The newspapers were brought from the library and we went over the pages. 

“There!” I pointed out at the story. The group grudgingly agreed and asked me to wait outside while they discussed.

After a very tense half hour, I was called over. 

“The director said” What you say may have happened. We will institute an enquiry. The children will be placed in a special school. They are taught to make handicrafts, binding books, sewing, and other crafts.”

“Thank you madam!”

“Anything else you want to say?”

“I have three maushis, they have been with me all this time. I request you to appoint them in the school.”

“Yes. That is possible. We will also give you employment. Remain with the children until they get used to the new environment. Then you can decide on what you want to do”

She smiled “You can go now. A bus will take you to the school tomorrow.”

“Send a typed report and complaint in triplicate,” shrilled the despicable, reluctant and beaten government fellow. 

I hugged my friend and we ran to break the news to the children.

Settling down at the school

The next day, we were up and ready at seven. A hearty breakfast, tea, and a good night’s sleep had fortified us. The bus set off, twisting and turning through the narrow roads and lanes, and we entered the gates of Kamayani Institute for the mentally handicapped. 

I saw the neat garden, open spaces, children laughing and playing, carefree, and filled with happiness. I immediately fell in love with the place. 

A sweet lady, Sindhutai Joshi, the director welcomed us. Some matrons led the children and the maushis to their dormitories, where they were given uniforms. The lady hugged me and pulled me inside her office, closing the doors.

"I heard your story from the Principal. You are very brave, and I respect you for your dedication. Anyone else would have given up. So why don’t you tell the whole story, from the beginning?"

She sat down on the carpet and I rested my head in her lap. I broke down then and cried, letting all my pent up fears come out in a torrent, and told her everything. She kept patting my head, encouraging me to push out all the fear and anger. I felt at peace when it was over.

This is the story of the children that were cursed at birth, that god forgot, and perhaps remembered? Maybe god was always with me, in the form of the maushis, Balu and the Sardarji?