* Author : Nibedita Sen

* Narrator : S.B. Divya

* Host : Setsu Uzume

* Audio Producer : Peter Behravesh

*

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Originally published in Anathema Magazine.

Rated PG-13 for greedy ghosts squishing internal organs.

Never Yawn Under a Banyan Tree

By Nibedita Sen

The moment I swallowed the pret, I knew I should have taken my grandmother’s advice. Never yawn under a banyan tree, she used to warn me. A ghost might jump down your throat. Well touché, grandma. I’m sure you’re shaking your head at me in heaven, but consider this: Was it really fair to expect me to believe not just that ghosts were real — and lived in banyan trees — but that they liked to cannonball down people’s throats?

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time, either. After months of carefully-timed sighing about her lack of grandchildren and leaving copies of matrimonial magazines where I would find them, my mother had persuaded me to meet a nice young Bengali (Brahmin) boy who was the son of the sister of the chartered accountant of one of her colleagues in the Fixed Deposits department of the State Bank of India. “Just let him buy you lunch,” she implored. “Just give him a chance. And if you happen to start comparing horoscopes, that’s fine.” Now, I could have told her it was pointless, but a free lunch didn’t sound so bad, especially once I got to texting with the nice young Bengali (Brahmin) boy and he suggested the new fusion cuisine place on Ballygunge Street. We Bengalis don’t have a food of our people so much as we are the people of food, you see. Visions of five-spiced baby potatoes tossed in vegetable oil and fish croquettes with mango mustard were enough to make me quickly text back: How about Saturday?

His name was Rahul, and he was nice, young, Bengali and a boy (and Brahmin), four of which were fine and one of which was a deal-breaker. Not that I was about to tell him that when he was buying me lunch. At least not over the main course, which was pork vindaloo with wilted greens. I’d picked it because it had four red chili peppers next to it on the menu, and it’s hard to discuss horoscope compatibility when you’re both breathing very hard and drinking multiple glasses of water. Look, I wouldn’t be a single twenty-year-old female academic if I wasn’t good at this, okay?

Unfortunately, Rahul was a persistent one. He patted his sweaty face with a napkin and took another swig of water. “Soooo,” he panted. “What do you, uh, do?”

I fingered my phone, mentally wording my restaurant review for Zapple, where I’d recently gathered enough points to make it from level-ten Super Foodie to the coveted level-eleven Epicure. “I’m a junior research fellow at Jadavpur University. I spend all day with my nose in a book. I’m not very social, really.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’m also a terrible cook. That’s why I eat out all the time. Which is why I’m fat. But hey, hey, hey, you know what they say, the best things in life are edible, right? Haha. Hah.”

“I, uh, see.” His face had taken on a strangled cast. It was working. I almost felt bad, but you can’t take any chances in the matchmaking-avoidance game. Then his phone rang and we both subsided a little with relief. “I’m sorry, it’s my tutor from the the third of my four chartered accountant extra preparation classes. I need to take this. Excuse me for a moment?”

“Sure,” I said. “In fact, be right back myself.”

Just so you know, I don’t make a habit of yawning underneath banyan trees.