Bite!

by Priya Anand

They weren’t perfectly white like her grandmother’s. When Pallavi was small, she was both fascinated and repulsed by them. Placed in a small metal receptacle with an ornate lid tightly screwed on, next to grandmother’s bed, they exuded a vague sense of menace even when concealed. The box never left her grandmother’s bedside; they were an asset even more valuable than her jewels.

Pallavi would open the box, when no one was around and run her fingers along the serrated edges. She would press the edges together and they would make a clicking noise, fitting together in perfect synchronicity. The two rows of teeth would come together to make a macabre smile that created a vague disquiet within her. Yet the urge to open the box and run her fingers along the edges in terrible anticipation of a bite visited her often. After the deed was done, she would examine her digits carefully for traces of blood, but there were none.

And now years later, here she was, on her way to get her own pair of dentures.  She had held out for as long as possible, but eventually had to succumb to a visit to the dentist, where she was told, that her own teeth would no longer do. The genes of her Grandmother had done her in.

Pallavi spent an agonizing week having her teeth extracted, and consuming mashed food and liquids like a toddler. Her mouth caved inwards and she took to covering her mouth with her pallu when she encountered friends and neighbours. Countless moulds of her gums were taken and she was eventually presented with a set of artificial teeth.

They were a natural ivory, precise and de rigueur and slid on and off with ease. The dentures seemed to elongate her jaw and almost managed to smoothen out her double chin. She ran her tongue across the edges and was comforted by its fleshy presence impacting the jagged protrusions.

“Keep them on for as long as possible.  Don’t take them out when you are eating or even while sleeping.  You need to get used to them,” said the dentist as he made the final adjustments.

When she came home from the dentist, she bared them at her husband, who was startled at her rather terrifying grin. Her gentle smile had been replaced by a no-holds-barred ‘come and get me if you can’ leer. But he kept his thoughts to himself. No point in upsetting his sensitive wife. She never took to his gentle sarcasm, she never did.

Pallavi gingerly tested her dentures on a variety of edibles of varying density and to her surprise, her teeth were able to bite and chew food with astonishing dexterity. Even more surprising was the fact that she felt no discomfort as they rested snugly against her gums and palate. In a surprisingly short time, her false teeth had developed an intimate relationship with her body and more importantly her mind.

It even seemed to dictate the kind of food she favoured.  She had never been a vegetarian, but now her mouth seemed to favour protein. For the past week she had cooked and eaten meat every day; not that her husband was complaining, he was a meat lover himself.

“So you are on an Atkins diet?” he joked. “Those love handles will just melt away.”

But what concerned her was the fact that she was cooking the meat medium rare; she who had always preferred her meat smothered in marinate and grilled to a crisp. She sometimes sliced the meat off the bone and devoured raw chunks. Was she going mad?

It was now a month since Pallavi had gotten her new dentures. Besides her newfound affinity for raw flesh, she seemed to have alienated several of her friends and family. People seemed wary of her and were eager to avoid her company. Her gentle smile now was a show of bared teeth and pale gums, the incisors lean and pinkish, as if she had masticated on bloody meat and not rinsed her mouth. No one knocked on her doors and asked for recipes any more; she had lost interest in the delicate vegetable curries and airy soufflés she was so fond of.  The maid was reluctant to enter the house; the freezer was stuffed with joints of meat, some which she could not recognise. Besides, she had turned around once, after washing dishes, only to see Pallavi standing behind her, lovingly fingering a meat cleaver that she had recently purchased, while she licked her lips.

Her appearance as a mildly anxious, slightly overweight woman clad in sedate saris had changed to a woman who now favoured kurtis and tights, a sassy slash of fire-engine red lipstick and a brassy tone. Her husband had mixed reactions to this change in persona; she had become considerably bolder in bed and was even willing to make love with the light on.

One gloomy evening, Pallavi’s husband came home late from work. The house was empty and there was a note on the fridge saying “Going out with friends. Will be home late. Dinner on the table. Don’t wait up for me.”

He was relieved that she wasn’t at home; evenings had gotten a little strange and disturbing, with Pallavi saying little and spending long hours in the kitchen with the door closed. He had peeked in once, only to be greeted by pearly drops of blood blooming across the dead carcass of an unknown animal as Pallavi eviscerated it with a sharp and single incision. He had withdrawn quickly, and retreated to the sofa, his face hidden behind the paper, his quivering hands betraying the fear and disgust he felt.

He knew that something was very wrong.  Pallavi had changed; she reminded him of a lean faced succubus on the prowl.  His nervous attempts to broach the matter had been met by a cold amused silence.

Dinner was vegetarian and palatable; he had grown tired of eating meat every day.  At 10pm he switched off the TV and slipped into bed.  He woke up with a start, bathed in a cold sweat. A dull thud had woken him up. The room was icy cold, though it was the middle of summer. The door opened slowly and Pallavi came in.

“Oh! It’s you. I was scared it was an intruder. Did you have a good time?”

She didn’t reply, and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

He closed his eyes but sleep evaded him.

The bathroom door opened, Pallavi emerged and slipped into bed. Her body was cold and slithery, like she had bathed in cold water and not towelled herself.

“Hey, you are freezing,” he said.

Her answer was to rub her leg against his and the sensation was mildly pleasurable.  To his surprise, he found that he was aroused. He turned towards her and said, ‘’It’s late, but if you are in the mood, why not?”

She slipped her arms around his neck and sunk her teeth into his neck. She sucked the blood streaming from his jugular with a slurping sound.

“What’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream?” she asked.

He shrank back as the fetid stench of her breath washed over him.  His neck felt a bit tender but there were no tell tale signs of blood on his fingertips.

“I thought that you…never mind. When did you get back?”

“At around 11.30.  It’s around two now,” said Pallavi , switching on the light and peering at the alarm clock. “Shall I get you some water? Are you feeling okay?”

“I am fine.  Go back to bed,” he said.  He turned his back to her. He was trembling and did not want her to sense his fear and disgust. He kept to the edge of the bed, as far away from his wife as possible and fell into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, he left home in a hurry; confused and shaken.  It was the stench that hit him first and he heaved his undigested toast onto the veined marble floor in the lobby.  The body lay twisted at an unnatural angle, ringed by residents of the Apartment Complex, a halo of congealed maroon around its neck and head.

“It’s the security guard. His jugular seems to have been severed,” said a doctor from the crowd, who had bent down to examine the body. “Can’t believe a dog could have been that ferocious, to go for his neck.”

Pallavi’s husband fought down the urge to vomit again and turned and looked at his road -facing apartment on the third floor. The curtain twitched and a face emerged, all tooth and fang.  He recoiled and staggered away; he now knew with certainty that Pallavi had merely sampled him the night before and it was his turn next.

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