The Touch of Evil

A Story by Joydeep Bose

An acid attack victim plots for vengeance on the man who destroyed her face

The Touch of Evil

No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks

- Mary Wollstonecraft

My plan for revenge was not simple. It involved a malfunctioning elevator in one of the biggest offices in New Delhi. The area housed the biggest and the most lucrative offices of the country. I was in one of them. Planning to extract revenge on a beast. The beast who took everything away from me.

Statistics prove that elevators are relatively safer modes of transport. But then thinking about it, you are descending twenty three floors in a tin can. Not my idea of safety if you know what I mean. Most common accidents in elevators are caused due to mis-leveling or defective sliding doors. But I had something more dubious in mind. How about an elevator falling at break-neck speed through the shaft way? That would give the trapped victim inside ample time. Time to ponder on his past deeds, time for him to repent, time to come face -to-face with his dirty past.

It has been seven years since that day. The day when my normal life came to a brutal halt. And why? Because I had denied his interests in me. He was my college senior trying to get close to me. But I had not been interested, too focused on my Chemistry honours degree, immune to the charms of Akhilesh Suri.

The college girls used to fawn over him. He was so handsome. Jet black hair, milky complexion with slight tinges of five o' clock shadow on his cheeks. But I never rejected him for his looks, even for his debonair behaviour. Nope I was not a lesbian. I just thought that was not the correct time for me to commit. I wanted to study, make something of myself. Just to show to my father that I can be the topper of my batch. Just like he had been in the 1970's batch from the same college. Why couldn't Akhilesh understand that? It was not him. It was me. I rejected him for me.

Countless postcards, roses and expensive gifts could not budge me. Because I was only focused in one direction. Studies. I wanted to be the best. I could not afford love to be a distraction. Maybe in a different place and time, the situation would have been better but then was not the time. I did not reject him because I thought was too good for him or any other warped reason his college friends fed him. Yes I was once one of the most beautiful girls in my college. I never applied make-up but I was naturally beautiful with a flawless complexion. My friends used to call me The Swan. But that was an eternity ago. Now my once beautiful skin is crinkled, dry. My face cannot sweat because my skin pores are closed. My hypertrophic scar covering most of my face is swollen and puffy. I need to keep my face covered otherwise it itches like hell on a sunny day. And today is a sunny day.

I remember clearly that day was bright too. The day Akhilesh poured industrial sulphuric acid on my face.

There was a child eyeing me for a long time. I get that a lot. People will get a furtive glimpse of my charred flesh and would try not to look but still end up looking more than they wanted. I am used to it by now. The people looking away too soon or probably murmuring a few words of sympathy into the ears of their partners only to attract more glances. For a long time after the acid attack, I felt unwanted. The facial scars heal but the emotional ones do not. Social re-integration for victims like me is a nightmare. And what hurts more is when people you know for a long time start behaving differently with you. People whom you were never friendly with suddenly come forward with a helping hand while others act indifferent. But people do not realize that victims like us do not need sympathy, we need justice. Facial disfigurement rules ten years in prison. But according to me, it is a crime worse than murder. Acid just doesn't burn your face. It burns your life too.

The child walked up to my table. That was new. My face does not invite new people, especially children. I was seating in a small cafe that I frequented to keep tabs on my mark. The cafe was conveniently located just outside his office. Provided a good vantage point for me to see when exactly he exited the glass doors. Today was an important day. Timing was of immense importance for the execution of my plan. Nothing could go wrong. I had been planning for this day for the past three months.

The child was good looking. A small-framed spectacle nested on an even smaller nose. Hair was neatly parted to the right. There was a bag on his shoulder but no school uniform. Probably out on a day trip with his parents. He shoved a small drawing book on my table nearly rolling over the tepid coffee I had ordered an hour back. The child had talent. There was an almost perfect rendition of my eyes on the white page. For a moment, I went back to the days when I used to take time to apply kajal on my eyes. The only cosmetic I ever wore. But the child had taken his artistic privilege to draw my eyes with the kajal on.

"You have beautiful eyes," said the child, "I was watching you from a long time. My drawing sir says that I should always think of drawing something beautiful. Good for my imagination. May I please ask your name?"

I was surprised. Children usually run away from me. But this one seemed exceptionally friendly. Easy prey for bad men. I decided to thwart his attempts of befriending me.

"Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?"

"No, she died when I was just two. Of cancer."

I felt hit by a freight train. I cursed myself. I had become such a social retard that I did not even know how to talk to children.

"I am sorry. My name is Drishti. You have drawn a lovely picture of my eyes. That is how my eyes used to look many years back," said I.

The child was curious. His eyes wanted to ask the dreaded question. I responded before he could ask it. "An evil man took away my beauty."

The child smiled, brightly. "Ah, my father says beauty can never be taken away. It always remains in one form or another."

I didn't know what to say. I do not usually talk to people, let alone children. And here I found myself inexorably liking a child on the most important day of my life. Probably it showed in my eyes. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite me. He offered his drawing book as a truce, eyes eager for appreciation. He wanted me to check more of his drawings.

I don't know what came over me. Instead of keeping track of my target, I took the drawing book and surfed through the pages. The child was genuinely talented. His renditions were almost life-like. But no colour only sketches.

"I ran out of crayons," commented the child sheepishly. "Does it hurt now?" He asked pointing to the fissures of scars spreading from the black scarf I usually wore.

"Not any more. But it hurts a lot when people get scared of my looks. I try to cover myself so that I don't scare them off."

"Ah, don't worry," offered the child, "I am not scared of you."

I tried to smile but my scars prohibited stretching of my jaw muscles. All that I managed was an awful grimace.

In the periphery of my vision, I saw my target exit the glass door of his office. It was time. I had to keep the child busy.

"Hey, I don't see any signature at the bottom of each picture that you drew. Please sign each and every drawing of yours. Every artist leaves a signature on his masterpiece." I offered him my favourite Cross pen, which my father had gifted me on my second year of college and took his leave on an excuse of going to the girls' room.

I checked the watch. It was exactly quarter past ten. Akhilesh was fifteen minutes early for his daily smoking jaunt to the smoking area of the building. I prayed that there would be nobody else on the corridor. It was imperative that he boarded the elevator alone. The left elevator had an "out of order" sign made by me. I didn't want anybody else boarding the elevator.

The corridor was empty. I followed him at an arm's length. Then walked faster to cross him. Took the left and interchanged the sign to the other working elevator. Then walked right past him. He seemed lost in thought. My plan was working perfectly. His ride to hell was ready for him.

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

He entered the malfunctioning elevator and pressed the button to descend. As the doors closed upon him, I stood and revealed my full face to him. Abject horror on his face gave way to deep penitence.

"I am so..."

His voice cut-off as the doors closed upon him and pings of the elevator descending started bleeping on the console. The corridor was still empty. Everybody was busy in their office work. Shortly, I heard the steel cables (which I had soldered the day before) give away. I had deactivated the speed-sensors which activated automatic brakes on the elevator's travel rails. So when the elevator engaged in free-fall, the emergency brakes didn't kick in. With a shriek of burning metal and cables, the proverbial death ride went down. I heard the screams coming from below and a siren sounded. The busy officials started coming out on the corridor to investigate the noise. The cafeteria was abuzz with activity. The child looked up from his drawing book on my return.

"What's with all the noise? Where is everyone running to?" asked the child, pointing towards the rapidly dwindling crowd.

I saw his name at the bottom of each page. It was a lovely name.

Parijat.

"Parijat, lovely name, you will be a great artist someday. Hope you never give up drawing. Come lets go. There has been an accident downstairs and they are evacuating the building." I offered my hand to him to escort him outside.

He smiled. He looked so familiar with that smile. Like a I know him for so many days. "My father asked me to wait here. He was going to gift me crayons today. I ran out of colours. He said that he left them in his office. So forgetful of him. He says after mom is gone he has become so careless. I write down stuff for him so he can remember. My mom went when I was very young. Father says that she left because of something he did long back. Something bad. So God took away mother as punishment."

The cafeteria was big and airy, but it seemed to be closing in on me. "What is your father's name?" I croaked

"His name is Akhilesh Suri, I am Parijat Suri and..."

I felt drenched in acid again, like that blasted day seven years ago. But this time, instead of my face melting I could feel my heart eroding, each and every fibre of my being screamed inside but all I could do was stare at him.

He was still talking. "...he was so sad. Told that he shouldn't have acted in the past thoughtlessly. He goes to temple every weekend asking for forgiveness and to ask for peace for my mother's soul. Says something about contacting his old friend whom he had wronged but..."

I started running away from him. I couldn't take it anymore. My heart was screaming in repentance. My tear cells tried to emit tears but they were all dried up. I couldn't cry. But I walked away from him. Afraid that my presence would somehow tarnish Parijat's innocence in some way, just like how Akhilesh's rage had destroyed mine so many years ago.

Parijat kept staring at me, a surprised look on his face as he saw me walk away mid-sentence. I walked down twenty three floors with the panicking crowd. At the ground floor, a maelstrom of metal and cables greeted me near the elevator with a disjointed hand protruding from the mess, as if lambasting me for my actions.

I walked out of the building. I could envisage Parijat still waiting for his father. That would be a long wait. Maybe someday he will come searching for me. The touch of evil does that. It corrupts your soul into a dark and vengeful object. Maybe someday Parijat will liberate me from my personal hell.

I will be waiting...

End