Bewitched
Nimi Kurian
23 June 2008, 06:06The jasmine grew just outside their bedroom window. When they moved in it was but a small dried up plant – attracting no attention. Raghu of course had no interest in the garden. For that matter neither did Srimathi. But then every Friday she needed flowers in the morning for her puja. That was the only time she noticed the garden.
As far as Raghu was concerned the house was good. Large rooms, high ceilings, well ventilated and most importantly, it was secluded. So he was not disturbed by neighbours or speeding bikes or irritable drivers honking as they drove past. Every morning at 8, Srimathi got into her Hyundai Verna and drove off to the city for work. Almost 30 kilometres! But she didn’t mind. In fact she enjoyed the power of driving…
The rest of the day Raghu had to himself. He drank pots of coffee and thumped away at his computer. As a writer he was never at a lack for words, ideas or stories.
They settled down to an easy routine and the house provided enough space to entertain even their wildest foibles.
With the beginning of spring, the garden or what there was of it, slowly came to life. Srimathi was happier now on Friday mornings because there were more flowers to pluck for her puja.
One morning she came in from the garden and said, “Raghu, there’s a bush outside our bedroom window. I think it’s a jasmine. Can you tend it and pour some water etc.,? Kind of revive the plant? It would be nice to have some jasmine buds for my puja.”
Raghu nodded absently as he scanned the newspaper. Once she was out of the house Raghu took a walk around the garden. He found the little bush. It was just below the bedroom window and almost dying. Raghu brought out the garden tools and set to work. All morning he worked hard and by noon the bush looked like it had a chance of survival. He decided to water it only in the evening once the sun had gone down a bit.
“Take a look at your jasmine,” he told Srimathi when she returned. “Soon you will have your jasmine buds.”
Every day Raghu spend time with the jasmine. He watered it, talked to it and watched it grow. With every fresh green leaf that sprouted he was overjoyed. And then one morning his joy knew no bounds when he found a tiny bud peeping out.
He rushed into the house, “Srimathi! Srimathi! Come quickly!” Srimathi rushed out of the house. She too was overjoyed. She clapped her hands and giggled excitedly.
“I think by next week you will have sufficient number of buds,” said Raghu as he kissed his happy wife.
On Friday, Srimathi had to go out of town for a weekend conference. When she went into the garden plucking flowers for her puja she found the bush covered with pretty white blossoms. The strong, heady perfume of the jasmine lingered in the morning air. Eagerly she plucked the white buds. She was giddy with the scent. She took the basket inside and placed it in the alcove in the bedroom which was their puja room.
Srimathi left after a brief farewell with promises to return on Monday. Raghu went back to his coffee and wondered what to ask the cook to make for his lunch. Having placed his order for lunch he went for his bath.
Entering his bedroom he was taken back by the scent that filled the room. For a moment he thought Srimathi had sprayed a bit too much perfume. So he opened out the window before he went into the bathroom. After his bath when he came into the bedroom he was again assailed by the stong perfume. He realised it was not Srimathi’s perfume. He followed his nose and it led him into the alcove. There he found the jasmine buds.
“I must remember to tell Srimathi not to bring these buds into the room. The smell is overpowering,” he thought.
He shut the window and went to his den. He worked hard all morning. After lunch we walked around the garden for awhile and then went in to have a lie down. He was dozing when he heard the sound of anklets. Half awake he opened his eyelids. He didn’t see anyone, but he thought he heard a hurried rustle like someone trying to get out of the way and then a faint giggle. In his sleep he remembered that he had to tell the cook she was not allowed to bring her friends or her daughters to his house.
The cook woke him up at four. Her perisistent knocking at his door, forced him to open his eyes. He thought he could smell jasmine on his clothes now. Groggily he jumped out of bed and opened the door. She handed him his tea and looked at him rather strangely. After having cooked his dinner, the cook was off.
Raghu was now alone in the house. For the first time he did not fancy the prospect of spending the night alone in this house. It was not that he was scared. It was as if he had sensed another presence. For the house had become very silent – like it was watching, and there was this strange perfume that hung about the house. It seemed to be filling every quarter now. And there was a peculiar chill he could not fathom, for it was almost summer and the evenings were long and warm.
He dreaded getting to his bed. It felt cold and unwelcome. It was well past midnight when he crept into his room. He kept the light on and taking a book to bed, lay down and read.
He awoke with a start. The light had gone off, and his book had fallen to the ground. He was almost suffocating with the smell of jasmine. Choking, he tried to jump out of bed. But he seemed helpless. The perfume made him weak, drugged. The room was bathed in darkness. He stretched out his hand to try and switch on the bedside lamp and his hand brushed against something soft, silky… Quickly he withdrew his hand. He smelt jasmine on his hand. The drowsiness was overwhelming. He fought sleep but could not stay awake.
Finally just before his eyes closed in deep sleep he saw a figure in white, standing very close to his bed. “Srimathi?” he called out. “Have you come back?”
The fragrance of jasmine dulled his mind and he couldn’t think. He closed his eyes and slid into a state of semi- consciousness. He felt her fingers touch him, he felt her body, he felt her jasmine perfumed breath…
In the morning, he was tired. His body ached. His head hurt. He sat up and tried to rub the dream out of his eyes. Just then the cook came in with his morning cup of tea.
“Good morning, sir!” she said as she handed him the cup. And then her eyes travelled accusingly over the rumpled bed. She arched an eyebrow, curled her lip and stalked out.
Raghu wondered what had made her so disgusted. He turned to look and there on his bed lay some jasmine buds. Fresh, white and glistening…sending out its heady perfume.
