The Ghost and the Demigod

The Ghost and the Demigod

Suitcase in hand, you hurry to the railway station. “Now Preta,” you warn yourself, “don’t look back!” Of course, you look back. Just a glance, quickly over your shoulder. Shadows in the dark street make your heart pound faster, but no, it’s no one. They haven’t followed. You’ve made it this far without detection. You want to check the slim gold watch on your left wrist, but your sleeve covers it and your hands are full. A suitcase, a handbag, a small cashmere knee-rug that you grabbed as an afterthought before you slipped out into the night. You expect it will be cold on the rattly old train overnight. You waste one fleeting thought for Asura, hoping she finds the note you left for her before anyone else does, hoping she destroys it as soon as she’s read it. “Asura, be safe,” you wish her silently. As you approach the corner, listening for anything, footfalls, a rustle of a winter trench-coat, anything that would warn you of another night-time pedestrian, you remember there is an enormous clock on the station tower that will be in view in a moment. You inhale the cold air and step boldly around the tall brick corner of a centuries old bank. Checking quickly left and right, you put your nose down and head straight for the imposing station building, allowing yourself only one quick glance up at the clock-tower. It’s 11:35 and the train you are destined for is due at 11:45. Enough time, just. Not too long to wait, fearing discovery at every breath. You cross to the arched entrance. Your footfalls echo on the marble floor. Knowing the way, you turn right, heading for the glassed-in ticket booth. 

With your head bent forward you look up from under your brows, with the hood of your overcoat shadowing your face from view, to see who is working in the cramped ticket booth at this late hour. An elderly man with the face of an ancient witch is doing a crossword puzzle in a newspaper. His hooked nose almost touches the page. His lips move as he silently spells out a solution. He’s no one you’ve seen before – good. He doesn’t look up until he has painstakingly written a word in the puzzle. Then he glares at you from his under his beetle brows.

You ask for a ticket to your destination, a little breathlessly, a little hoarsely. Then you clear your throat, expecting to have to repeat yourself, but he’s already turning to one side, punching out a ticket for you. Without looking at you he says, “One-eighty-five-ninety. It’s not a sleeper. There are none on this train.” You nod in acceptance and fumble with cash to push through the little slot to him. He pushes your ticket through to you in return, and then he carefully counts your notes and coins into his cash drawer. With your prized ticket clamped between finger and thumb, you hurry to the platforms, looking for the number 12. It seems a long way away and you hurry. A fat black train is waiting there, it’s engine idling, the diesel fumes riding the crystal-clear night air. There is only one train later than yours, and that only runs into the city, which is no use to you. This station will lock its heavy shuttered doors at midnight.

A drowsy young guard smokes on the platform. He looks you up and down as you duck past him to the open door of the first carriage. Several men and women are sleeping in seats ranged close to one end. You choose a seat a little away from them, but not too far away. Not far enough away to draw attention. Not close enough to invite conversation when people start waking up in the morning.

The guard crushes his butt under the toe of his polished black boot and waits indifferently for a gentleman who hurries to catch the train. The engine is already throttling up, the acrid stench of diesel fumes wafting in though the open door. The gentleman bustles into a seat facing you, with his trench coat over one arm and a suitcase held by the other hand, a newspaper clamped under his arm. You spread the cashmere rug over your knees, fussing with the fringe for a minute, before fetching a novel out of the front pocket of your suitcase. The suitcase you managed to wrestle into the space on the floor between your knees and the window. If you fall asleep, which you sincerely hope to do, even if only briefly, you don’t want any opportunistic thief making off with your suitcase.

The guard blows the whistle and the train grumbles into life. The young guard slams the door shut a moment before the train begins moving. “Yes! Move, move!” you mentally urge it on. At last you’re safely underway! Your face remains impassive, of course, but your heart soars! You open the novel and bury your nose in it. You are only too aware that the latecomer has been looking straight at you since he took his seat. He tried on a cautious smile at first which you did not return. Now let him read his newspaper and forget about looking at you! You hear the pages of the newspaper as he rustles them, but you don’t look. You read. You turn the page, read. You’ve read Anna Karenina many times before. Somehow, it’s a book you always return to. You’re passively in love with Anna. You love her impetuousness, her courage to go against the grain. You love her passion and how desperately she loves. You are in love with the tragedy of her life. Anna, of course, had an affinity for trains, too.

As your eyes grow heavy your thoughts wander from the pages. Asura will wake in a few hours. She will find your note. She will be furious with you for leaving, but she will understand. She will destroy your note before Manusya wakes, ashamed for him to read your words. She will pretend she knows nothing when someone first asks after your whereabouts. “Asura,” Manusya’s mother might say at the breakfast table, “Where is Preta this morning? Is she sleeping late?” Or perhaps it will be Manusya himself who asks. Asura will make some noncommittal reply and they will decide to start without you. Later someone will insist on checking your room to see if you are well or ill. Someone will tell Asura she must check. She will go, pretending innocence, and return to say, “No, Preta is not in her room,” giving nothing away.

Asura will not say that you have run away in the night, rather than witness the wedding of your sister to the man you love. She will not say that you have loved Manusya from the very moment you first saw him, or that she teased you for months about having a crush on a wealthy man much your senior, before she herself caught his eye. Asura will not say that she joked quite rudely about Manusya, saying he was already too old to make love, but that his wealth would keep any bride warm. You love your sister, but the blow Asura dealt your heart is more than you could bear. You wonder, as you tuck the novel way and finally close your eyes, how long it will take for Asura to notice her gold bangles and chains and slim gold watch are missing. How long until she checks the safe for the diamonds and rubies. How long before, or even if, she will notice the little cashmere knee-rug is gone. Delicate lace undergarments, far-too-expensive shawls and scarves, the finest leather shoes, all Manusya’s gifts to Asura, now lovingly folded in tissue paper and packed firmly into your little suitcase.