The Herbalist

by Aastha Sneha

“Bhaiya, ek sookhi puri dena.”

Lakhan’s frantically moving hands would already be working on the sookhi puri before she even asked for it. He smiled to himself, watching her sniff and wipe her eyes in between gulps of spicy paani puri.  

It had been 13 years since Lakhan had left his village in Bihar.

“Sheher jaake majdoori kyun karega? Yahin reh jaa, dukaan sambhalna”, Baba had objected.

But Lakhan had had enough of the jadi-bootis; he knew he did not want to spend the rest of his life being the village Vaidya.

“Theek hai jaa, par wapas mat aana paise maangne!”

13 years, and Lakhan had not turned back. It was peaceful in his corner on the street, under a shady tree, invisible in the bustling city. From offering a free plate of chaat to the traffic constable, to recognising how much meetha paani which customer wanted, Lakhan had made the city and the chaat stall his home.

He knew he would not be able to give a life of comfort to a family, so he never got married.

But there were lonely nights when he would miss his home. Maa’s constant backache, Baba’s never-ending grinding on his mortar, the cows and the goats, and most of all, his little Mahua.

When the baby was about to be born, Lakhan had prayed to every god he knew for it to survive. He did not want to lose another sibling; the pain was too much to bear.

All of his father’s choorans and marhams could not save the sickly newborns.

Mahua was different. Struggling to breathe, she had made her way into the world, and had cried her lungs to strength. Lakhan knew the gods had listened to him. Mahua’s bhaiya had named her after the flowers growing in abundance in their village.

Lakhan’s mornings and evenings went in playing with her. He would tell her stories from his school which made her giggle. They ate off the same plate, and Lakhan would always save the best mangoes his sister. Mahua would watch in fascination when Lakhan sat with Baba at his mortar and ground different colored pastes from herbs.

Lakhan found his eyes moist, as he tossed and turned on one of those lonely sleepless nights. Mahua must be a young woman now. Wonder if she was going to college!

The clock tower struck 4, and Lakhan braced himself for the crowd milling from the college gate. There, he spotted her chatting merrily, as she walked up to the chaat stall. “Bhaiya, 3 plate lagana, teekha zyada”. 

He smiled to himself, as he remembered Mahua sniffing and wiping off tears while devouring spicy food.

Lakhan would also notice the boy on the bike, waiting near his stall every afternoon. Jeans, jacket, spiked hair, red eyes,  Lakhan found him oddly disturbing. Curiously, he would be a routine customer at the chaat stall every time the girl was there. 

Lakhan had seen him following her on his bike, and one time, he stopped her to talk to her. Lakhan watched from behind his stall; it was clear that the girl was not comfortable.

It was a rainy day when she did not turn up at her usual time. A little worried, Lakhan wondered if she had missed class because of the rains. He could not even spot her friends. Surprisingly, even the biker boy was missing.

A week had passed, when the news erupted. The street was filled with police jeeps and media vans. A girl’s body, raped and mangled, was found in a ditch nearby. Everyone knew who the girl was. Police was looking for the accused, it was reported.

Lakhan had his regular biker customer back after a few days, his eyes redder than ever, his actions more furtive. Lakhan catered to this customer particularly well that day.

The next day, the customers at his stall talked about a boy found mysteriously dead on his bike, his breathing had stopped suddenly and heart had seized up.

Lakhan had learnt well from his Baba.

This story was written as part of Rashmi Bansal’s Short Story Writing Workshop.