The Bandicota Phantom

I

          Darkness pushes in solemnly through the gaps in the buildings. Very soon it would be dark, and he will stir as a shadow of the night. About him he hears the footsteps as they sprint by in haste, unaware of his presence. He is just out of sight, carefully hiding between the wall of a building and a rectangular cement-made manhole cover resting against it, waiting and counting time. One Run*, Two Runs, Three Runs, and so on he counts involuntarily as our heartbeat, for quarter to eleven. He is patient and watchful. His eyes gleam in the twilight, and his mustache twitches as his nostrils unfurl to the scents about him.

He is the Bandicota Phantom – a burglar of the Rattus kin. Pre-coded to do what he does best – to loot, to scare, and to disappear into nothingness. His current mission has been defined. He worked it in his mind and calculated a detailed map from his last night’s scout. The target has been chosen. It is only a matter of hours when the streets will be silent, and he will secretly pass into the street light with all his might – as the shadow of the night.

Last night he rode under the sewer system and clambered up beside a residential complex. He emerged from an upturned manhole cover and spied upon a high-rise by running about it – hiding in the smallest crevice he could fit in when he sensed danger; as he looked for a way up. He was soon rewarded of a narrow pipeline that runs up the length of the building on the south side, nigh eighty Rides† north from the manhole cover, and he climbed it – his stout forefeet hugging the metal pipe, and his hind legs pushing his bulk upwards – counting One Ride, Two Rides, Three Rides, and so on, until he heaved and sighed, and touched the flat parapet of the very top. He regained his breathing in two Runs. It took him nine hundred Rides to reach the parapet. This he noted.

After sniffing in all directions with a discerning nose for a delicious aroma that may excite his appetite, he hopped over the parapet towards west for seventy eight Rides. Under his nose was a house – his target – and in its balcony were many plants that would ease his way in as a burglar.

He carefully climbed down onto the roof, and, head first, sneaked into the home. Just then he noticed a large silhouette against the door. In a fright he turned and slipped, and hung by a claw onto the railing of the window, and clambered up hastily back onto the roof, as a man probed for a stick in the dark. After that followed loud banging on the roof as he shrieked and ran far from it. He was too used to being chased by cats and dogs, and owls, but not humans. This was only his first raid in a human territory, and he did not intend to fail it. He would have his time, he reassured himself, but not tonight.

* One Run is One Rattus Turns that is time taken by a rat to take his bearings; it is also called Rattus minutes that is three-fourth of a minute

† One Ride is One Rattus stride that is one large step taken by a rat; one Rattus Stride is 3.5 centimeters

  

II

         For two nights he sat near the balcony and secretly peeked inside. He now knew well those humans and their ways, and he had a slight idea when they may present him the opportunity to sneak inside as an invisible phantom. And that was tonight.

When the twilight passed into utter darkness and the streets were hushed at quarter to eleven, and the dogs were busy driving another dog away, he sought the chance to clamber up the pipeline and run seventy eight Rides west onto the parapet, and then climbing down onto the roof he sat there as last night – waiting for the opportunity to scamper over a creeper and onto the railing, and from there into the balcony where he had pried plenty of hiding places to the north-end. This he kept as his last resort, for he calculated that it would be too late to scamper up the railing and escape, least he be discovered, which was as good as dying, least he slipped and fell off the high-rise.

At eleven hours the humans were making their beds. The balcony was unattended. This was the moment he was waiting for. His heart pumped blood to his overburdened limbs, and he crawled down a creeper and slipped through a narrow opening in the sliding window before it was closed shut for mosquitoes. He sought the residence in a narrow space under the dressing table where the incandescent light did not reach. And from here he watched their movements. His heartbeat slowed to one-eighty-seven beats per Run as the adrenaline rush ceased. His trembling feet now became still as he acquired a statuesque structure with his long tail curled about him. His moustache froze, his head was held upright and his big eyes, wide open, studied the humans, drawing all the focus on his motive.

Soon the lights were off, and sensing by the silence that the humans were asleep, he dashed for the nearest door to a small passage – scouting the area form where the aroma came strongest. It was near a washbasin in a corner, lit by a red bulb that glowed gloomily. Everything around him was dimly glowing red, and his eyes wore a red gleam, such that of a fearsome phantom. He pounced upon the garbage bin with a loosely placed lid. With head first he jumped in, cleverly stepping on stuff that made least noise, and scanned around with his nocturnal vision. The place was stuffy and cramped, yet here he was most at home – for there was food everywhere.

A while into the bin, as if possessed by a food-mongering monster his mind was distracted. His appetite increased ten folds and subconsciously he made a scratching noise with his claws and overgrown incisors inside the bin, which echoed in his ears and awoke a greater monster hungry for more. Suddenly he jumped out of the bin – sending the lid tumbling down, and ran toward a closed door – from where the aroma was so strong, that our phantom was in his wits no more. He was a were-rat, one can say – ravishing and dim-witted, which was not his norm. With his drooling lips now parted, his blotchy incisors glowing red in the dark, he scratched and bit the door with all fury a rat hath known – trying his best to reach the treasure that was blocked by an impassable hurdle. He managed to tear a few strips of wood from the door, and realizing that it was rather impossible in one night, ultimately came back to his self.

This aggression he did not calculate in his diligent planning, and, regaining his bearings, he forsook the thought of food and ran for cover under the dressing table – fearing that he may have awoke the humans. He heaved heavily, his heart thumped, and his ears popped. One Run, Two Runs, Three Runs, and so on he counted as he listened intently, and stopped at fifty Runs. There was no sound around. The humans were fast asleep.

Yet the humans had sensed something amiss from his violent episode, and were fully aware of a presence. They were unsure if it was the Bandicota Phantom, or a loud Gecko that usually lurks in the red light. He then skittered to find a safer haven in the living room, and hid under the sofa for the rest of the night. It was too much to risk at this moment, he thought, and he had had a slight taste of what’s cooked in the house. He decided to explore for a few more nights.

III

         The next day was bright and clear. The October sun was beginning to bake those that wandered out in the afternoon. The humans, having forgotten the presence they felt last night, left chips and other foodstuff out on the table – an open invitation to the phantom. But the phantom was unaware, for he was fast asleep – a nocturnal creature that he was, and after a night of risking his life he did not imagine lurking out in broad daylight – but in his dreams it was otherwise.

The Bandicota peeped out from under the sofa – nose first, sniffing, and then eyes, watching for the giants. He was in a trance of potato chips that released an intoxicating fragrance in his direction, luring him towards them. It came from a close-by place, he sensed, after calculating the intensity of the aroma. He then peered out more, and hopped close to the west end of the wall and ran southwards counting One Ride, Two Rides, and so on until he entered a tunnel – but this tunnel was dark and scented by chips, hypnotizing him as he went round and round in the dark about himself, forgetting the count, and then saw a platter of chips at the end of the spiral.

He therefore ran for it, hopping gaily towards the golden light shimmering from the potato chips and the seductive dancing aroma. When he emerged, a large head came into focus – smiling sinisterly at him from behind the platter. He wished he would stop running, but he couldn’t. Three Rides, two Rides, one Ride, he counted, when a large piece of stick came hurling towards him at zero Ride – and hit him fatally on the head.

At that instant he jumped and woke up with a shriek – when he heard that loud blow-of-death above his head again. But this was nigh one feet from his head over the sofa-set, where someone was dusting the still dust off its surface. He was shaken from inside – such a dream was not to be overlooked, he thought. It was nearing evening – and the nightmare served as his wakeup call, for he spent far too much time lingering in his sleep. Now was the time to plan his next move, but more carefully so. He was now aware of his drawbacks, that he hid a monster inside, who would wake without his bidding, yet he did not fear the humans for he was cunning – and his doppelganger was rather menacing.

Later that night when the clock hit eleven, the humans shut the kitchen door. It was time the phantom began his most anticipated raid. In the evening at six he drew a plan, and this was to enter the most vibrant haven in the home – the kitchen – where food was plenty. Thus he would avoid the hustle of living off meager litter, and avoid risking his life again being so close to the humans, if he could manage a way in. The humans had a notorious habit of shutting the door to the kitchen before they entered the dream world. Since this was known to the phantom, he decided to sneak in before the humans went to bed, but he would have to do it when the lights are on and without any of them noticing.

Until now he lurked in the dark – always hiding from the upright-walking mammals. This night he dared to do something he has never done in his life before – to expose himself in the bright incandescent light. Without prying the place for a decent hiding place, he set his mind to the time when he did not sense anything moving for two Runs. This he calculated by dividing the number of feet, that were six, from the average time they took to pass in front of the gap under the sofa – after an observation of over one-eighty Runs. Two Runs was enough, he thought, for by his last night’s measurement the sofa was twenty Rides from the dressing table, which was closer to the kitchen door by twelve Rides, both would take nigh two Runs max. Yet he did not know what lied inside, and how far was the closest hiding place. In his mind he was sure that it wouldn’t be farther than ten Rides.

When the humans did not enter the living room for the next two Runs, he dashed out of under the sofa and, sticking close to the wall, ran down to the dressing table in under a Run. Regaining his stature – his two stout forelegs crouched and his hind limbs extended – building momentum to hop the extra lap, he froze in that posture counting time in the Rattus math. The humans emerged from the brightly lit passage and passed into the living room. They did so in turns, and every time one passed by this invisible phantom, he turned and raised his head in the direction of the feet. A table was being set in the Hall for dinner that enthralled his senses. He shook the thought before the were-rat took over his sanity, and resumed to calculations. After a gap of two Two Runs, on the third count, he ventured from wall to wall into the grand kitchen. A little ahead of him was his greatest delight – a refrigerator that had just enough space for him to squeeze under.

IV

         No one noticed him that night, and nothing fell on their ears. The phantom raided the kitchen, starting with the fruits kept on the tabletop, spilling the packets of chips, and biting into a box-of-sweets; befouling every food-stuff that he could discern with his dark eyes, dribbling red lips and a grimy nose.

The humans had gladly shut the door upon the phantom when they were finished with the dinner. Not a clue did they have as to what happened through the night, and everything was laid open in the morning to their horror – either empty of half eaten – on the tabletop and on the floor. After the horror was passed into a sorrowful sigh, the humans grew profoundly furious. The presence of a phantom, due to his were-rat incursion, had been known.

That his detection had crossed the human mind was unknown to him, for in the wee hours of morning when he began to notice a slight colour to the dark skies, he retired under the refrigerator ere the door opened again, dozing off to sleep peacefully. For he had eaten three times he normally would, making him groggy as if drunk, and that is called a Rattus grog in his parlance, his mind was too burdened with the taxing job of digestion – and instead of it giving him the energy, he became lethargic – pulling the curtain of ignorance over his surrounding where there was much commotion. He slept carelessly on his side for the rest of the day, with the tip of his tail extending out from behind the refrigerator.

At waking he curled his tail in, which had become numb from the exposure to cold air. It was dark, and the door was closed. He wondered if it was night again, or if he dreamt the previous night. But as he peeked out from under towards west, where the window is, twilight had only just cast its spell on the day. Everything was quiet, but he did not quite cherish this lull. His stomach was full, so last night was not a dream; but the closed door – what of it? He thought, as sanely as the Bandicota often did before he turned a were-rat – and to his horror he realized that he was arrested.

V

         He wandered out to inspect the area. The lethargy was turned into new energy, he was stronger than his days in the sewers and maybe was he a bit more intelligent than rabid, he wondered, thinking back to the previous night’s satisfaction. After glancing around the room, which was now cleaned and tidied – he jumped over the counter to find his last night’s leftovers. Unfortunately there were none, so he jumped back down, and passing under the refrigerator, came near the door where he got stuck in a thick layer of glue. Both his forelegs were glued. Heaving backwards with his head upturned, he stepped his right hind limb over the edge of the plate, and pulled. He pulled until he came off the plate, but the glue stuck to his feet kept him from scuttling under his recess, which he gradually managed with great strides.

This was the first trap he fell into, and later that night when the glue began to glow – his lair was exposed. Yet there was no human brawn to shove the phantom out of his den, for they knew him for what he was, and he was more than that, which only he knew. Fear and anger filled his heart when he saw feet too close to his den, walking, stopping and stooping over. He knew he was trapped. His anger summoned the were-rat in him, and he stirred, turning his back to the front of the refrigerator, from where his large, scaly, hairy tail protruded and slowly waved to-and-fro as he prepared for a scare. The humans moved back in disgust, but more in fear. The phantom then came out from the back end, and shrieked at the sight of three tall humans. He jumped in horror, and so did the humans, and ran through the half-open door across the rooms towards the sofa. Blood filled his eyes and legs, and although he was afraid – very afraid – to the humans his avatar was all-the-more horrific.

When the hubbub was over – with the phantom escaped and the humans at ease, they shut the door and retired for the night. The whole episode left the phantom exhausted and hungry, so he stayed inside well into midnight. Then he dared to wander around, but to avoid the contact again he scavenged only the living room for scraps. Luckily for him, at the east end of the room he found a piece of a delicious blue biscuit that he liked – and another at the north end of the room, and returned with them under the sofa to feast. At the first bite, when his incisors bit through the crunchy biscuit, the flavor enamoured him, so he bit through another piece, munching at the pace only a rat could attain. When he finished, he became thirsty – something that was not natural for his diet. Then he felt his lair sinking, with the walls closing in on him, and the air growing heavy. This was not natural at all, he realized. He began heaving, as if he was being drowned, and to seek fresh air he came out of his hiding – when he stepped again into a sheet of glue.

Had he eaten a bit of the biscuit and waited to find if it wasn’t poisoned, he wouldn’t have had to suffer. But every time he bore his teeth into something delicious, he was left with no choice but to eat it. The toxic anticoagulants acted quickly on his organs. He was bleeding internally, and his eyes flooded with blood. His lungs gave away, and he longed for fresh air.

He used the previous tactic to free himself from the trap, struggling with the heaving now deep and heavy. He barely managed to pull himself together but with a completely sticky underside, which stayed him at one place. Inch-by-inch he crawled as his fir tore from his belly, and he groaned with half-terror, half-anger, until he reached to the edge of a chair – which he tried to climb. The lights went on just then, and a dark figure silhouetted against the incandescent light stood before him, with a large bamboo stick in hand.

VI

         The phantom froze. Was it a dream? He prayed, as he cried blood. Is this real? He rephrased it in his mind, trying to wake from the live nightmare. Is this the end? He said, when he could not awake, but saw death standing in front of him.

His bloodshot eyes were straining at the stick, and subconsciously – as if he knew when it was coming – began the countdown from ten. He had never reverse counted before – he never needed to, nor knew how to – except in his dream, which, perhaps, he did when he felt the end near. But little did he realize that he was counting. His heartbeat increased to two-thirty-beats per Run as the man gripped the stick firmly. The phantom could barely move. He faced his death with a frightful eye that could neither turn nor close. Nine, eight, seven… he counted as the stick was lifted in the air. His nose quivered as he smelled his own death. It smelled of nothing. He repented. Three, two, one… he proceeded as the stick came hurling down on his head – bouncing off before he finished his zeroth count, leaving a deep crack in his skull. Blood slowly spilled from the gash as he closed his eyes in peace, creating a carpet of crimson red that contained his head.

© Aniruddha Dhamorikar