HOW I DISCOVERED THAT INDIANS USE HUMAN BODY PARTS TO MAKE THEIR BUSINESS A SUCCESS
The Tongues That Took My Shop
I told myself I was only renting out my old spaza because I needed the money. The shop had failed under me, and I wanted to stop thinking about losses. An Indian man came and asked to rent the place. He was polite, clean, and quiet. He paid on time. For a while I was glad — at last someone who could make the place work.
He did more than work. The shop filled like it had a pulse. People came at odd hours. The till always had notes. News spread: “Go to that shop — they have what you need.” I watched from outside and felt both proud and jealous. I wanted to know how he did it.
Then small, bad things started. There was a smell I could not clean — a sharp, metallic smell that sat under the lemon and the soap. The backroom was always locked. He and his helpers whispered in a language I could not catch. Some neighbours said they saw them burying things behind the shop late at night. I listened and told myself not to be foolish. Gossip is cheap. Fear is expensive.
One day I went in early. The back door was open for the first time. I walked in alone and found a small table in the dark corner. Candles had burned down. Rice lay in a ring. Coins were placed like offerings. On top of a brass plate lay a human tongue — dry and white and small. I almost fell. My knees trembled. In that moment everything made sense: the endless customers, the luck that never stopped. Their secret was not on the shelves. It was here, quiet on a plate.
I should have called the police. I should have run. But I was tired, and the shop had been a hole in my life for years. Greed and desperation make bad plans sound like good ones. I waited. I found a way to push them out. They left one night in a hurry with a note and half their stock. I shut the door behind them and cleaned until my hands bled. I told myself I had saved the place. I told myself I had done the right thing.
At first, it seemed true. Customers came as before. Money came. I felt careful and proud. Then the whispering started.
It began like a small hiss when the lights went off. Later it turned into a wet, soft sound — like lips or tongues moving in the dark. At night the radio would crackle and a voice would speak a single word I could not understand. Sometimes tins on the shelf would tremble, or a packet would fall for no reason. I told myself it was the wind. I told myself many lies.
The dreams were worse. I slept and heard a mouth at the edge of my bed, tasting the air. I would wake with the taste of iron in my mouth and the feeling that something had been pressed to my tongue. When I opened my eyes I would see shapes at the foot of the bed — small, wet marks glinting like bone in the light. In the mornings there were small things left near the till: a hard, pale scrap behind the biscuit packets, a tiny dry shape tucked into a newspaper. I could not bring myself to look closely, but I knew what they were.
Customers changed too. Some knew the price before I said it. Others smiled too long, as if pleased by something only they could feel. A child once pressed his face to the shop window and mouthed words I did not understand. He then pointed at the shelf and smiled with too many teeth. I would say hello and he would look right through me.
I tried to burn everything. I smashed the brass plate. I poured bleach over the altar space. I burned the rice until the smoke blackened the ceiling. For one night there was silence. I believed I had won. The next day the whispering returned, louder, patient like a thing that has been waiting.
It is not just sound. The shop learned my rhythm. It finished my sentences. When I counted change, the coins sometimes slid into my hand as if moved by another’s fingers. Once, while laughing with a customer, my voice turned wet at the end — not mine — and I felt a small, cold pleasure licking my throat. I did not like it, but part of me also did. That made me sick.
I have seen the faces the tongues prefer. They are the people who will stop, buy a small thing, and walk out with a new step like they belong somewhere else. They leave little edges of the tongue’s work: a clean pocket, an extra smile, a soft slow chewing.
I tell this not to frighten you for no reason but to warn you. Some success is made from taking what cannot be given. Some profits come from pieces of people. If you ever smell metal with lemon, if a shop is always busy but feels cold under the light, do not go in and ask nicely. Walk away. Do not assume you can keep what you do not earn.
I took the shop back because I needed income. I kept it because I had already swallowed too much shame to let it go. The tongues are still here. They whisper at night and sometimes in the day. I sleep badly. I wake with the taste of something not mine. Sometimes I catch myself answering before I hear a question. Sometimes I feel a small dry thing press at the back of my throat and the urge to keep the secret, to feed it, to feed myself.
This is a confession and a prayer. I do not know how to stop them. I do not know if they will ever leave. If they never do, I will learn to live with their noise. But I wanted someone to know: not all success is blessing. Some wins come with mouths attached, and mouths want to be fed.
If you see my shop, and the light is on while the street sleeps, remember this: some doors should stay closed, even when money knocks.
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