Chapter 3: The Five-Headed Deity

The girl’s name was Meera. As poetic as her namesake, her skin was delicate, smooth, soft, and elastic—perfect for tattooing.

My mother used to sing bhajans to Meera Bai, but this Meera, lying quietly on the table with unspoken secrets in her eyes, was a different kind of devotee altogether.

After prepping her skin, her lower abdomen looked even fairer and more translucent, like the finest mulmul cloth. It made you pause in admiration.

Sometimes, as an artist, you forget there’s a person beneath the canvas. But in Mumbai, even canvas bleeds—so I muttered a silent prayer before starting.

All the materials for the tattoo had to be provided by Arjun, but these were unlike anything I’d ever seen.

I’d seen imported American machines, Chinese disposable needles, even someone’s lucky coin melted into ink. But this—this was something else. Symbols were etched on the handles, some Sanskrit, some completely unfamiliar. The metal felt heavier, colder—like it didn’t want to be touched.

The tools had an odd foreign flair, mysterious and strange. The materials were impossible to identify, but their feel was oddly excellent.

I sniffed the ink, expecting the sharpness of ethanol, but instead there was a sweetness, like someone spilled rasgulla syrup and forgot to clean it up for a week. The Vaseline too—usually plain—had a smell that reminded me of the Mahim fish market, sweet and putrid at once. My stomach turned, but the cheque in my pocket made me swallow my complaints.

As for the consumables, everything from the transfer paste to the ink, even the Vaseline, carried that indescribable fishy-sweet odour.

I glanced at Arjun, who watched with a half-smile. Maybe he was waiting to see if I’d back out. But in Mumbai, if you flinch, you starve. So I kept going, the smell clinging to my skin like cheap perfume.

The deity had five heads. Each was slightly different—some old, some young, some handsome, some twisted—but all with their eyes closed.

The design was hypnotic. Each face seemed to tell a story—one a sage, one a child, one sneering, one serene, and the last... indescribable. All eyes closed, yet it felt like they were staring into my soul.

There’s a saying among tattoo artists: "Never tattoo a tiger leaping down, never tattoo a naga crossing the shoulder, Lakshmi with closed eyes blesses no one, Hanuman with open eyes brings trouble."

My father drilled these into me as a kid. Old rules, but in this game, they keep you alive. Even my apprentice laughs at my superstitions, but tonight, those were my only shield.

Secretly, I breathed a sigh of relief. The deity’s eyes were closed—if they’d been open, I might have run right then.

I wiped my brow—hadn’t realized I was sweating. Mumbai humidity, or something darker? Arjun noticed and smirked, but I held my nerve.

During the whole process, Meera wasn’t allowed to speak. Sometimes, she’d glance at Arjun, eyes pleading. Each time, Arjun would gently pat her head and softly comfort her. The two seemed close, almost affectionate.

She lay there, silent, clutching the edge of the table, knuckles white, glancing once at Arjun as if asking permission to breathe. The way their eyes met—there was love, maybe, but also fear. I pretended not to notice, focusing on my work.

Although it felt odd, I thought that since Arjun cared for her so much, he wouldn’t harm her. I set aside my doubts and focused on the tattoo.

As my machine buzzed and the design took shape, a beat of silence settled. Outside, a BEST bus honked. Inside, only the buzz of my machine and the slow drip of sweat down my neck. I told myself—maybe these rich types are just eccentric. Maybe it’s all some fancy ritual. Who am I to judge?

The design wasn’t large, but the colouring was intricate. Each of the five heads had a different hue. I worked all afternoon, finishing only by evening.

By the time I finished, my back ached, my hands were stained, and the sun had long set behind the smog. Each hue, from blood red to sickly green, glowed on her pale skin, making the image almost alive.

Finally, I applied a healing film and explained the aftercare and dietary restrictions.

"Don’t eat fish, don’t eat eggs, keep it dry, don’t show anyone the tattoo for a month." My usual spiel, but for once, I hoped she’d actually listen.

Arjun inspected the result and nodded in satisfaction. He lingered a moment, fingers brushing the edge of the tattoo, eyes unreadable. Then he helped Meera sit up, pulled her kurti down, and finally smiled at me—like a reward.

Watching them leave, arm in arm, I let out a long sigh of relief. Their silhouettes melted into the neon-lit street, just another couple swallowed by the city. I rubbed my tired hands, thinking I’d earned my easy money at last.

But as I bolted the door, the city’s shadows pressed in, whispering that my troubles were just beginning.