Neither the prostitute nor the goddess – there was no one who could grant her forgiveness. Both were incomplete entities in her life. It was no use hanging around on the bank of the Ganga. She would go back now. Go back and stab herself in the vagina … stab herself over and over … she would stab herself in the vagina until it died.

Sahana, or Shamim

Even in the aftermath of 9/11, Sahana regularly bought fish. Also after the Godhra incident in her own country. Taking advantage of Paramesh’s absence, overcoming her hesitation, she never missed a single opportunity to buy fish. So many people were dying every day in Kashmir, America was tearing Iraq to pieces. Militants nurtured by the ISI were taking shelter in Bangladesh, even Kolkata wasn’t safe any more. The air was thick with rumours, you felt afraid to step out of your home, being in a crowd was uncomfortable, the cinema-hall made you claustrophobic – but still, skirting all these truths, Sahana had carried on buying fish. When she entered the market, she looked around for a bit, then casually approached the area where the fish was sold. She indicated the one she wanted, paid for it, put it in her shopping bag and went home. All with her mouth clamped shut. Cautiously. Even rinsing the fillets made her hands shake.

It happened every time – from the moment of the transaction, through carrying her purchase home in her oversized shopping bag, gingerly rinsing the fillets, gathering the scales and other scraps with an unerring hand, only stopping when she threw these out of the window of her high-rise apartment, into the grounds of the British bungalow next door. Her hands shook, she found it difficult to breathe, her head reeled!

And how self-flagellating the act of frying the fish was. Constantly she felt as though Paramesh were standing next to her, crying, ‘Flesh, flesh!’ She started in alarm every now and then, certain that her fear would lead to an accident. Her own carelessness would end in her burning to death. The stench of her roasting flesh would mingle with the savour of fried fish.

But death would not bring deliverance. The forensic report would specify that she had been frying fish when she went up in flames. Paramesh’s heart would no longer harbour the detached mix of respect and love that people customarily felt for the dead. If there were any photographs of her in the flat, he would throw them away, damning her as a traitor. And hate her as long as he lived.

All of this was in Sahana’s mind as she cooked the fish. She usually felt overwhelmed when she was done with the cooking. Unable to control herself, she ate the fish with rice, experiencing an acute sense of satisfaction. But as soon as she had eaten, she began to pant. Fear seized her, weighing her down like a huge slab of stone. She didn’t even pause to blink till she had washed and scoured the utensils, the ladles, the table, the oven – the entire kitchen, in fact – frantically, until they gleamed. She sprayed freshener in every room, poured phenyl into the sink. Making sure not to miss a single one, she put the bones in a polythene packet and tossed them out of the window, watching them land among next door’s fig trees. She poured soap on her hands, gargled with mouthwash, shampooed her hair – she showered! She showered!