They Say He Was a Biter

      The office was dark except for the bluish glow of two monitors which illuminated Hari Deva Singh’s wrinkled face and long scraggly white beard, like a twenty-first century wizard coding his newest spell. He sat back and scrolled to the top of this night’s Facebook post, furrowing his brow as he read through what he had written.
      He had listed the accusers’ questionable reputations and numerous character flaws, following this with a list of the inconsistencies and improbabilities in their stories. Though there were many of these, he could not quite shake a particular detail repeated by all eleven women.
      They said Ram Ji was a biter.
      They claimed he not only bit their necks, arms, and butts, but that he gnawed on their lips, the face ones, and most disturbingly, the other ones. 
      These details were unsettling, but women lied about these things, not most of the time Hari Deva Singh knew, but sometimes they lied, and God knows this was not the first-time people had tried to ruin his spiritual teacher with defamations. In fact, when Ram Ji was alive, Hari Deva Singh had twice defended him as his attorney. He had systematically picked apart the accuser’s stories and laid bare their less-than-polished characters, and, in both cases, the women had withdrawn their accusations rather than suffer further humiliation. 
Ram Ji could not have done what he was accused of because he explicitly taught against such behavior and gave dire warnings for its karmic consequences.
      “It is known in India, that if a teacher abuses the sacred trust of a student, he will be reborn in the next life as a cockroach.” Hari Deva Singh leaned forward in his chair and added this quote to the top of his post.
      He read through it again, but something was still not right, and he hesitated before clicking “publish”. The screen began to blur in front of him; perhaps he needed a break. 

      Hari Deva Singh descended the stairs to make his third cup of tea that night. He flipped on the kitchen light and opened the tea cabinet, finding a box of Ram Tea Kava Relaxation. He paused and looked at Ram Ji’s picture which grinned back at him from a space next to the box’s nutritional information.
       As Hari Deva Singh lifted the box out, he felt something move inside and dropped it to the countertop in surprise. He heard a scratching sound, and then the box tore open. A small, wet, glossy cockroach peeked through the forehead of Ram Ji’s picture, its antennae feeling about independently. 
      Hari Deva Singh took a startled step backwards. The cockroach stopped its frenzied movement suddenly and turned its head to look directly up at Hari Deva Singh who was overcome by Three Revelations.
      The First. 
      He knew that this cockroach was his spiritual teacher reborn. It was unquestionable; he felt it to be true in every cell of his body.
      The Second. 
      His spiritual teacher had been a genuine holy man, who was right about the cycle of rebirth, and thus about everything he had taught. 
This was confirmation Hari Deva Singh had not known he needed. He had, after all, devoted his entire adult life to this man, raised a family in The Community, and dedicated his legal career to the service of Ram Ji and his various businesses. He had always felt that he had lived a terrific life, a meaningful life, and was overcome with renewed love for the man he called his teacher.
Then the cockroach bent its head and began to gnaw on the cardboard lips of its previous
incarnation, and the final revelation dawned on him.
      The Third. 
      His spiritual teacher had abused his students; the accusers were telling the truth. The deep feeling of love that had washed over him a moment before was suddenly overrun by a wave of repulsion for this disgusting creature.
      Hari Deva Singh reached forward, shook the cockroach from the box and grabbed a large
cookbook from the countertop. He raised the book high and slammed it down, crushing the cockroach onto the white marble. He slammed the book down violently three more times, grunting with each hit, white spittle spraying from his mouth.
Hari Deva Singh stood still, panting heavily. He stared blankly at the smeared body of his spiritual teacher. A boiling panic started to rise, what had he done? What were the karmic ramifications of killing the reincarnation of your spiritual teacher? He felt nauseous and suddenly dizzy, his heartbeat pounding fiercely behind his temples. He reached out a shaky hand to grab the countertop’s edge, steadying himself.
       He closed his eyes and focused on controlling his breathing, in through the nose out through the mouth, just like Ram Ji had taught him. Gradually the panic began to subside, and he realized that he had been mistaken. He must have suffered a minor lapse of sanity, likely brought on by his insomnia. 
      No, this was not his spiritual teacher reborn; it was simply a cockroach.
      He coughed twice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set the heavy book down on the marble. He tore off a paper towel and wiped the sweat from his brow, then reached under the sink for cleaning supplies. 
He wiped away the insect, just an insect, of course just an insect. He then threw out the torn Ram Tea box, unopened tea bags and all, filled up a glass of water, and made his way up the stairs where he returned to his office to finish his Facebook post.

The author studied filmmaking and screenwriting as an undergraduate at Santa Fe University of Art and Design. This is his first flash fiction story.