ANJALI:WHISPERS OF RATANPUR

A Fragile Homecoming

​“Thank Bhagwan you are awake!” Shanti exclaimed, reaching out to Anjali, who lay fragile and pale on the narrow hospital cot, her skin stark white against the numerous surgical plasters marking her injuries.

She had been admitted to the Mundra General Hospital, a lifeline for the village of Ratanpur. The devastating news had struck Prakash like a physical blow. He sped mercilessly, pushing his rattling Padmini far beyond its limit, the car protesting with continuous chuttering sounds, threatening to dismantle itself before they reached the hospital gates.

Mundra General Hospital was positioned on a small, gentle rise, a Pahadi Kinara, just outside the main residential Mohalla. While not a true mountain, the slight elevation offered a commanding view over the surrounding fallow fields and the distant village rooftops. The thirty-kilometer journey from St. Joseph’s High School had underscored a brutal reality: healthcare remained inaccessible to many Ratanpur residents, who still largely relied upon traditional medicine.

The air inside was thick, a persistent, mingled scent of strong antiseptic, damp plaster, and stale, sweet tea hanging heavy, never quite dispersed by the rattling ceiling fans. The waiting area was a kaleidoscope of vibrant saris and kurtas against the institutional grey walls, packed with families sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on hard, metal benches, their faces etched with worry or glazed with exhaustion. The chipped terrazzo floors were constantly being mopped, yet retained the gritty feel of dust brought in from the busy street outside. Nurses in starched uniforms moved with brisk efficiency, their movements a counterpoint to the slow, shuffling gait of elderly patients and the hurried whispers of anxious relatives, all contributing to the low, continuous hum of life, illness, and constant prayer that defined the space.

“Anju, you scared the hell out of me. Your brothers have been crying,” Prakash murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he began to gently rub her legs-an intimate action filled with profound care. He could not stop his silent thanks to Bhagwan for protecting his daughter.

“Father, Mother,” Anjali responded weakly, turning her head towards them as she spoke. “I am truly sorry for having you all worked up. It’s all my fault, father. I suppose I am mentally ill, and these are merely hallucinations,” she continued, attempting to rise. Shanti swiftly assisted her, ensuring she settled back comfortably.

“Don’t say that, Anjali. It is not your fault. I failed to protect you, as I promised,” Prakash asserted firmly. “The doctor already confirmed you are mentally sound. I don’t believe you are hallucinating; I am certain, I can feel this malevolent presence. You are a gifted child, and I believe whatever you say.”

“Daughter, I think you should just take it easy on yourself. If you can only take your mind off this whole thing, it will be fine, trust me; there is no evil lurking,” Shanti gently insisted, still unconvinced that Anjali was truly seeing things.

“Shanti, hold your tongue. You must learn to come to terms with Anju’s feelings. Do not dismiss her this way. It is undeserving,” Prakash rebuked swiftly, cutting off his wife before she could continue.

“Father, where are the boys?” Anjali inquired, looking sternly around the small hospital room. It was so cramped one could register every detail in a single glance, including the old, rickety noise made by the cot beneath her.

“We left your brothers with Mother Laila. We will pick them up on the way home,” Prakash explained quietly. Mother Laila was Mengah’s mother, and the friendship had blossomed from the girls’ bond into a deep, cross-family connection.

“How are Sushi and Mengah?” She asked further, the concern evident on her pallid face.

“Sushi and Mengah are fine. They are in school right now. It is Tuesday, remember?” Prakash reassured her.

“Hmmm, Anju, are you going to tell us what actually happened to you?” Shanti pressed cautiously.

“That’s enough, Shanti. Anju is still recovering. Do not terrify her,” Prakash intervened discourteously before Anjali could utter a single word.

A loud knock soon emanated from the old wooden door. The door was pushed open, and a visibly middle-aged, bald man of modest height walked in, followed by a sister (nurse). The doctor was adorned in a freshly laundered white coat with his name boldly inscribed: ‘Daktar Sanjul’. He offered a wide, welcoming smile that displayed his perfectly arrayed white teeth.

“Daktar-Saheb, Shubh Sandhya Anjali is awake,” Shanti greeted respectfully from a distance. The term ‘Daktar Saheb’ was the customary respectful Indian reference for a male doctor at the General Hospital by the residents of Ratanpur.

“Good morning, Anju. I am glad to see you are up and doing okay,” the doctor noted, bringing out his old, lanky stethoscope to auscultate her chest. “We have assessed her and seen that the injuries she sustained were not critically damaging. Only a few superficial cuts reached the dermis, and of course, we placed her on anti-bio-tik so there is no risk of infection.”

“From the looks of things, she is recovering really quickly, and by morrow, she will be discharged,” he announced, beckoning the nurse to hand him a folder containing a sheaf of rusty papers. “Please, Prakash, follow me. I need to see you briefly.” He then exited the room, and Prakash followed closely behind.

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The chuttering sigh of the Padmini died abruptly as Prakash maneuvered it to a halt just beside the tulsi planter outside their low-slung house. Seeing their home again, after the sterile chill of the hospital, brought a wave of unexpected relief to Anjali. Waiting on the porch, the entire collected warmth of Ratanpur seemed to have gathered: Mother Laila, her face kind but bearing the quiet wisdom of a woman who had lost her husband years before; Mengah and Sushi, radiating coiled-up excitement; Mother Ganga and Sushi’s father, their presence a solid pillar of neighborly support.

The moment the car door opened, a twin eruption of joy burst forth. Rajesh and Suresh, Anjali’s younger brothers, broke ranks, their small bodies launching forward for an immediate, crushing embrace.

“Ruko! (Stop!) Wait, my sons!” Shanti’s sharp, affectionate call admonished them, her voice cutting through the rush of pure emotion. She held up the Aarti Thali, commanding the space instantly. “First, we thank Bhagwan. First, we purify this journey.”

Shanti stepped forward, holding the heavy brass tray laden with a meticulously prepared ceremony. A small diya of clarified butter (ghee) flickered at its center, surrounded by fresh marigolds, rice grains (akshat), and a sprinkle of Kumkum (vermilion powder). She carefully placed the tray on the doorstep and brought forward a brass Kalash filled with water, balancing a mango leaf sprig on its mouth.

“Step gently, Beti,” Prakash instructed, steadying Anjali as she eased herself out of the car. Shanti then motioned to a small plate placed exactly at the threshold, smeared with a paste of Kumkum. Anjali dipped her recovering feet, careful of her bandages, into the red paste, and then, with profound significance, took her first two steps inside the house, leaving behind two perfect, scarlet footprints, a symbolic Griha Pravesh welcoming the return of health and fortune.

Then, Shanti lifted the Aarti Thali. The light of the small flame danced, casting warm shadows as she began to circle it clockwise before Anjali’s face, her lips moving silently in prayer, a ritual known as Nazar utarna (removing the evil eye) and offering gratitude. Finishing the circle, she gently touched Anjali’s forehead, then placed a generous dollop of wet Kumkum followed by a single grain of rice at the point between her eyebrows, the Tilak, a blessing of protection and auspiciousness.

The moment the ritual was complete, the dam of emotion broke. Rajesh and Suresh crashed into their sister, clinging to her middle and burying their faces in her hospital gown, their tears of relief mingling with her hair. Mengah and Sushi joined the embrace, their faces alight.

The house quickly settled into joyous chaos. Anjali, still slightly pale but undeniably elated, was soon seated with her friends and brothers. Bowls of homemade Halwa and crisp Samosas appeared, and the group immediately dove into the familiar, comforting gossip of the schoolyard, exchanging notes on missed lessons and the latest antics of their classmates.

In the small, inner courtyard, the five adults: Prakash, Shanti, Mother Laila, and Mother Ganga and Sedat (Sushi’s father), conflated into a more subdued, reflective circle. Their voices, initially cheerful, soon dropped, attracting the immediate, strained attention of the children nearby.

“It seems the heavens are truly unbalanced,” Mother Ganga sighed, her voice a low register of communal grief. “First Anjali’s crisis, and now the terrible news from the Badha.”

Prakash, rubbing his temple, confirmed gravely, “The tragedy of Ma’am Roshni, our Principal. Such a dedication to St. Joseph’s, only to meet such an end in her own home. It is unfathomable.”

“Unfathomable is too kind a word, Prakash,” Mother Laila interjected with a chilling whisper, her gaze distant. “They say… they say she wasn’t simply found. The news travelling through the Mohalla is that she was—may Bhagwan forgive me for speaking it—eaten by wolves. In her Badha.”

Shanti gasped sharply, covering her mouth with her hand. “Bheriya? Wolves? But how can that be? That area near the old quarry is so close to the main road!”

“No one knows how, only the terrifying what,” Mother Ganga’s husband responded, his tone heavy. “What truly concerns me is the fear it has unleashed. It is not just the tragedy; it is the wildness of it. People living around Ma’am Roshni’s Badha, they are all abandoning their homes.”

“Chodna? (Leaving?)” Prakash’s eyebrows furrowed with surprise.

“Yes. They are packing their meager belongings and seeking refuge closer to the village center, or even traveling to the next town,” Mother Laila explained sorrowfully. “They fear the pack will return. They are terrified of being the next to be dragged from their beds. Imagine, to be forced from your own land by fear of the wild beast. It is a terrifying time for Ratanpur.”

The children, sitting huddled around the Halwa bowl just meters away, ceased their talking. The laughter evaporated. Anjali, her pale face suddenly etched with a fresh line of anxiety, felt a prickle of cold fear, the details of the adults’ grave conversation seeping into her newly recovered world. The joyous atmosphere of her homecoming had suddenly become fragile, shadowed by the terrifying reality lurking just outside the safe confines of their walls.