The Kitchen Horror Stories - Little Girls

A Story by ssaigal

A few years ago, I moved from my village, Hardaspur, to the city. Hardaspur is in rural Haryana. If passing by, you would notice the tired streets, the narrow dusty lanes, the motorbikes which noisily race past, the vast green fields, the decrepit shops and brick houses. Recently, on a radio talk show I heard a panel discussing Hardaspur. The panel, discussing the skewed sex ratio in India, specially mentioned Hardaspur, famous for having the worst sex ratio in the country. Since then, the memories of those terrible nights have haunted me and the wailing has echoed in my ears. I write an account of those nights to get rid of the darkness which still haunts me.

You have to understand, we were a very poor village and an additional mouth to feed was a challenge for any family. We couldn’t afford the tests to determine the sex of a baby, especially since these tests were outlawed, and we also couldn’t rely on old wives’ tales for predicting whether the expectant mother would bear a boy or a girl. Going by these methods was too risky as one ran the chance of aborting a boy child. You see, a boy child was a set of working hands whereas a girl child was just trouble. You understand, don’t you, a girl child meant an additional mouth to feed, a dowry to be collected, a person who could, in a hundred ways, bring shame to the family. It was better to not let such a harbinger of misfortune stay alive.

So it became tradition, every time a child was born, a village council would be summoned on the night of the birth. If it was a boy, there would be celebrations. If it was a girl, there would also be celebrations. The difference being that, as the bonfire burned and flames jumped out at us, the boy would be passed around to be blessed by the village elders, whereas the girl would be smothered by the village head and her body would be buried in the fields.

It was mandatory for everyone in the village to attend these “celebrations”. Attendance and participation created an unspoken pact between us all and showed that everyone was in it together. Though the government or authorities didn’t bother with us, it was important to ensure that there were no rebels in the ranks.

Growing up, I attended quite a few of these “celebrations”. For outsiders, it was touted as a blessing ceremony for newly borns. While there were whispers in the other villages of what actually took place, no one dared to come forth and accuse us. You know, those who live in glass houses!

As far as our village folk are concerned, no one ever questioned the events which took place, spared a thought for the infants who were smothered or gave any condolences to their parents.

I know you are thinking of the parents. You are thinking that they would be traumatised or, if nothing else, at least sad. But, here it is, invariably the parents voluntarily participated in these celebrations and participated wholeheartedly. None of these parents tried to save their child, none of them, when they discovered they were pregnant, stole away in the dead of the night to another village, where their daughter, if they were to have one, would be safe. They all stayed, they all stayed and waited and, if required, sacrificed their child.

This went on for a few decades. After all, it takes persistence to achieve the stigma of having the worst sex ratio in the country. Then trouble came.

There was a couple who had been trying for a child for a few years. They had tried everything, the clinics, the hakims, the temples, yet nothing yielded any result. Then one day, we heard that the wife was pregnant. I still don’t understand why they didn’t leave Hardaspur. After all, they knew what would have followed if their child was a girl. And yet, they stayed.

They stayed, time passed and the wife gave birth to a girl in the late hours of the night. Immediately a village council was summoned. Everyone knew what would follow. Knowing it as well, in her delicate condition, the wife came before the village council and begged that the life of her child be spared. Had you heard her, her pain and pleas would have moved you to tears. Desperate, she and her husband promised that they would leave the village on first light and never return, that they would never speak of the village to anyone. They shrieked with grief when the child was snatched away from them. It is said that the moment the village head snuffed the life out of her child, the wife went raving mad. She beat her chest and cursed the village, cursed them that they would never be allowed to forget the girls whom they had murdered, that these girls would always follow them and that no one from the village would be spared.

Angered by her curses, and maybe a little scared, the villagers, standing together as always, beat her and her husband mercilessly until they died. The couple along with their little child were buried in the fields.

The following day, life resumed as normal.

And then, a few months later it happened again. Another girl was born, another village council called and another child was killed.

Later, when the bonfire had died and the last embers were going to sleep, a few men from the village hurried to the fields to bury the dead child. As their shovels hit the ground, across the fields we heard a soft wailing sound. We ignored it, thinking it was one of the village children. But as the men continued to dig, the wailing sound grew louder and louder. It was as if hundreds of children were hungry and were clamouring for their mothers to feed them. You could see from a distance that the sound had worried the men, who had picked up speed to finish their ungodly task. But as the sounds grew louder, the men panicked and, abandoning their task, started running towards us. Believe me, I saw them running towards us! But they never made it. It seemed as though the fields had swallowed these men. When the men, along with their lanterns and shovels, had disappeared, the wailing stopped and silence reigned. It was as though, the children had been fed and were now sleeping peacefully.

No one understood what had happened. The fields were pitch-dark and no one dared to venture into the fields to look for the men. It was decided that a search party would be sent first thing in the morning.

The morning came and the search party went to look for the men. I was part of the search party. We looked around the spot and the surrounding fields but found nothing. There was no sign that anyone had been there. When we dug the ground of the new grave, we didn’t even find the body of the dead child. It was as if the hungry ground had swallowed everyone there last night. A chill ran through us. No one discussed the incident, it was decreed that the men had run away from the village.

A few weeks later, another woman gave birth to a girl. The same practice was followed and the child was killed.

As the night progressed, five men, including me, armed with shovels, sticks and lanterns, warily walked through the fields to bury the child. As our shovels hit the ground, we heard a soft wailing sound. The sound rose from around us and floated over the fields. Immediately we stopped work and the wailing also died. Comforted that the sound was a figment of our imagination, we started digging again. When we were a foot in the grave, the wailing started again. Scared out of our wits, we worked at a frantic pace to finish the task at hand. As we wounded the ground with our shovels, the wailing grew louder and louder to become deafening. Then, suddenly I felt small fingers grip my feet. I looked around at the others, they too looked baffled and frightened. Scared for our lives, we tried to climb out of the freshly dug grave but were unable to move. The small fingers held a firm grip on me. I felt them pull me and my shovel into the ground. It was as if the fields had become a swamp which we all were sinking into. Desperate, we screamed for help but no one came to our rescue. The other villagers just stared at us from across the fields. The small fingers gripped me tighter and forcefully pulled me into the ground. As we tried to escape, along with the wailing, I could hear an innocent child’s laugh. It was as if a child was amused at our attempts to escape. Overwhelmed, I fainted.

When I came to my senses, it was morning and the fields were lit by the sun. I looked around and couldn’t find any of my companions. I got up, dusted the dirt of my clothes and walked to the village. As I walked to my house, all the villagers stared at me and no one would speak to me. I tried to find the men who had gone with me to the fields but only found mourning faces in their houses. I gathered that they hadn’t returned. So I went to the fields to look for them and as soon as I stepped on the harvest, I heard the wailing sound rise around me, the wailing sound from the night before. I ran from the fields and from my village and have since not stepped foot in Hardaspur.

I hear that no one goes into the fields anymore, there is no harvest or livelihood. Each time someone stepped into the fields the wailing would start and if a shovel hit the ground, neither the bearer nor the shovel were ever seen again.