Taxidermy

By Radhika Kori

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, in her 1969 book On Death and Dying, introduced the stages representing the range of emotions people go through when dealing with loss—what we now call ‘The Five Stages of Grief’: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

But the truth is, most people never make it to the final stage. They get stuck in an endless loop of the first four. And sadly, it’s the fourth stage—depression—where people are at their most vulnerable. That’s when they’ll do whatever you ask. Or demand. It’s like taming a lion—but there’s no lion here. Only a goat, or maybe a cow. And they don’t need taming. They need saving.

The fourth stage is where I come in. Helping people cope is my job. Yet, more often than not, I’m looked down upon for it. Not because I’m bad at what I do, but because I’m a woman. Because in year 1974- psychiatry; is still considered a field for “mad men.” That’s the common notion. But I’d rather be judged for what I do than become a prisoner of my own mind.

My parents always knew they had an unusual daughter. My interests never quite aligned with the rest of the world. Gruesome, gothic, grotesque—those weren’t just words to me. They were escape routes. Safe spaces from a reality that never felt like mine.

I lost both my parents in 11th grade. I didn’t cry at their funeral. Not because I didn’t feel anything, but because some part of me had already seen it coming. I moved in with relatives after that. They were kind. Treated me like their own. Cared for me until I could stand on my own two feet.

It’s been about two years since I opened my independent psychiatric practice in Andheri, Mumbai. It was a plain old day—listening, prescribing, sympathizing. Then I heard sirens. Someone had called in a suspected murder. My heart started racing—not because I was scared, but because those sirens triggered old memories.

Then it struck me—Sunder is still alive. Well, parts of him are still alive in my basement. He will finally be as pretty as his name.

One of the investigating officers stepped in, inquiring about the victim. But I was far more interested in him-amazing posture, that widow’s peak, and his moustache—I could make pretty bows out of it.

Of course, keeping reality in mind, things would get complicated if he went missing. I like hunting in the shadows.

The victim, as it turned out, was Mr. Mehra. Not exactly a victim, though. He was a debauchee, involved with his butler’s wife.

Kudos to the butler—he sliced Mehra’s throat quite nicely.

I had Mehra at 2 o’clock that day. He never really believed in “healing through talking.” He would often ramble about his obsessions—most recently, his fascination with foreign soap operas. He wanted to produce one here in India. I was curious to see what he’d create. Sadly, now his vision may rest in peace.

That evening, I was locking my front door—my house is connected to the clinic—when someone knocked on the window and startled me. A girl stood there, holding a notepad up to the glass. Written in childlike handwriting were the words: “Do you need assistant?” It confused me, but yes—I did need help. Things had been stressful.

I picked up a notepad beside me and wrote: “Visit me tomorrow morning at 11.”

She nodded excitedly and left. I, on the other hand, had some stitching to do.

Did you know that if you treat human skin with alum and formaldehyde, it becomes high-quality leather? It’s legally abhorrent, yes. A violation of all things moral and humane. But really—who am I hurting?

The first taxidermy I ever made was of my best friend. One day, jokingly, she said, “When I die, I want to become taxidermy.” I replied, “Don’t worry—I’ll make you one,” and we laughed. Not to stretch it, but… she died on my table. And now, she’s a beautiful taxidermy. I dress her every day. She looks as gorgeous as ever. A bit of her skin started to decompose once, but I fixed that with my fine needlework. She’d told me to keep her eyes open.

She was right. It does make her look scary.

Taxidermy was always my hobby. My parents gifted me a butterfly taxidermy kit for my 10th birthday. I still have it. Except now, instead of butterflies, it is human skin—cut, shaped, and painted to look like wings. They are my most cherished creations. 

My latest project is ‘Preserving irises’.

The idea came to me after a client with spectral heterochromia came in. His eyes were stunning—one had a brilliant blue with a faint yellow ring. He’d lost his wife a year earlier. He was on the edge. Suicidal, even after all the medication. I just gave him a nudge—or, as some might say, staged it. After his death, he saved many lives. No- I didn’t harvest his organs. He was already a registered donor.

Only his eyes were mine.

Now, Mr. Netran is a beautiful slide—soon to be part of a magnificent collection.

A new day had begun , with fresh batch of crimes. But none of them were mine. How dumb can a person be to leave clues that trace back to them? Murder is an art. It must be planned, calculated, elegantly executed. These rookies can’t grasp the craftsmanship.

Today, I was hiring an assistant. Let’s hope she’s punctual—or things will remain as they are now.

I was escorting a client out when I saw her—a pale, short-statured girl sitting in the waiting area. Her overalls were soaked. Looked like she’d spent the night on the street… or fallen into a pool that morning.

She was early—half an hour early. “I have ten minutes. Tell me your qualifications and why you want this job,” I said. She had all her documents ready. Organized in perfect chronological order. And just like that—poof—she was hired.

Her name is Tulika.

Degree in management.

Thrown out by her stepmother. Of course—so typical.

The only condition: no snooping. No personal questions.

I offered her a place to stay. After some hesitation, she agreed.

Things were going well. She survived three whole months. Impressive. We chatted often. She asked about career paths, sought my guidance. Handled everything like a professional. The office began to feel like home. Ironic—since it already was.

But then she started asking questions.

“Where do you go every night?”

“Why haven’t you started a family?”

“Why is the basement off-limits?”

For days, I ignored her. But she’s persistent. Annoyingly so. 

And now? She will be dead.

But I have a bigger problem. One of my clients is unravelling. She lost her only son—age two—to pneumonia. She missed the signs and now blames herself. But something tells me she knows more than she should. She’s asked too many questions. About former clients. About those who died after sessions with me.

That intrigued me.

She specifically mentioned Netran. Thanks to counselor–patient confidentiality, she couldn’t dig up much about him. But later, I discovered something she hadn’t shared in session—Netran was her cousin. Tulika’s cousin, to be precise. And they were very close. I asked her “Netran was your cousin..right?”  She froze. Her face grew pale. And she ran outside. Her behaviour confused me. Unprofessional thought.  

But I’ve been having my doubts about her.  All those lingering glances, questions masked as a  way to hold up conversation. She had an agenda. One evening it drove her to slip quietly into my basement- without my knowledge. Ofcourse. 

I saw it through my survellaince system – installed mainly to moniter waiting area but I had it shifted. Mehra really knew his stuff. He had it imported through a friend and gifted to me, saying  I should have “something like this...for safety.”

Coming from him,it was ironic. 

The man who couldn’t ensure the safety of the women in his own household. 

Of course, she found what I wanted no one to find: my collection.

Taxidermy. Flesh, glass, bone. The iris with “Netran” scribbled beneath. She froze, and I saw it in the footage: something died in her eyes.

That is the reason why she fled, and bumped into another of one mine- Snigdha. My patient who lost her son. Tragic.  I could smell Snigdha’s guilt, which was perfect little weak point for me to push her at the edge.

Tulika returned to clinic hours later. She explained why she had left earlier- because talking about Netran had resurfaced unresolved grief. She broke down saying “I sent him to you. I thought you could help him. I’d been watching you work, and joined this clinic because of you.”

I confronted her, counselled. But asked no questions about basement. I knew she would lie.  

Things returned to ‘normal.’ But the seed had been planted. She began meeting Snigdha during lunch. I am speculating that they chit chatted a lot- about me mainly. Planning how together can they ‘draw me out?’ Or maybe just trauma bonded.

Tulika became distant. Quieter than usual. Not that it mattered to me- just an observation. Months passed and she began spiralling, her grief took shape of guilt- delusion perhaps. She strongly belived that Netran died because of her. She found letters from Netran—pleading for financial help. Her parents had refused. She blamed herself for not being involved. Then blamed me for the meds I prescribed. The medication he needed. 

A week after that letter, Snigdha encouraged her to confront her parents. She did-by gouging  her stepmother’s favourite bell into her eye socket. Such a waste of beautiful pair of eyes. Then bashed her father’s head in with a porcelain vase, exposing his brain like a macabre flower in bloom. She even left cigarette burns on the corpse- ruining perfectly good leather. I saw the crime scene , it deserved an Oscar for ‘Best Familicide of the Year’. Sadly, the artist drowned herself. A bit like Van Gogh, except he cut off his ear for an entirely different reason.

According to Snigdha’s statement- "After Tulika’s outburst, I was completely astonished. No words could explain what she’d done. It was as if she’d been possessed by something dark—inhuman. I pulled her away and took her to our place, this old pond we used to sit by during lunch. It was the same pond my son used to love. There, she became hysterical. She started accusing me—said I was the mastermind, that I had manipulated her into committing a mass murder. I would never… especially not to Netran’s sister. She was like family to me. I never told her this, but when Netran lost his wife, I was grieving too. I lost my best friend that day. Two years later, just when I thought a sliver of light had returned to my life—my son—he too was taken from me. And now… Tulika is gone. 

Right in the middle of her accusations, she ran into the water. She refused to come out. I jumped in after her, trying to pull her back, but she held onto something submerged, using what little strength she had left to force herself under. She stayed down until the bubbles stopped. Eventually, she just floated… like driftwood.

I was in shock. Traumatized. I ran back to the clinic. And now… I’m here."

She did run to me—soaked, trembling—just like Tulika on her first day. I offered her tea. What else was I supposed to do for someone who had just witnessed such a beautiful crime? Only an artist can truly appreciate another artist’s work. It wasn’t a cup of tea meant for everyone. I waited for her to calm down, then dialled the police. Gave them the address. 

Tulika’s body was pale. Bloated. But still useful.  

And Snikdha… well. She became quiet. The police dismissed her claims—said she was on medication, delusional. They wrote off Tulika as ‘a mentally unstable stalker’ and confirmed there was no basement. I smiled at that. The new wall worked like a charm. The real entrance was always elsewhere. Which is my secret. 

Things settled and Snigdha resumed her sessions. But she was different now. Her guilt festered. She’d start reminiscing about Tulika,  how they became such good friends. 

What I always admired Snigdha for; her teeth. Pearly, symmetrical. A dentist’s pride. She did spend  a lot of time at the dentist.  It was Tulika’s six month death anniversary, when she finally snapped- right there in session. I leaned in, “It was always you, Snigdha,” I said. “You knew how broken she was. And yet you dragged her to the place she feared most.  Just like you ignored your son’s symptoms. Cold, wasn’t it? You said it was just a cold…? And now what? Your need to help others cost four lives. It was always you. You could have helped Netran too, but you didn’t.  ”

Ah! that final state to manipulation- where all it takes are perfect words. That’s it!  I could see the emptiness taking over her. She stood up and left. Just like that.   

Later, they found her body staged as a satanic ritual. Her mouth a hollow pit—no teeth. Her gums torn as if she’d pulled them out herself. Blood everywhere and on everything. She was clutching her teeth in one hand, lying twisted on the ground- eyes wide open, jaw locked in a grotesque stretch. Her body bent to an angle as when you coax a dog to sit for a treat.  

That’s how I framed it, anyway.

Police found her body after two days, when decomposition had begun. Fluids oozing out, skin melting like ice-cream. 

I couldn’t help but wonder - how long would it take human body to grow edible mushrooms? Or something more psychedelics? Maybe I’ll grow my own mushrooms with my next patient. 

The basement has always been… calming. Perhaps it’s the quiet, or maybe it’s the presence of my father’s skull and my mother’s hands—preserved reminders of the only people who ever truly held me. They soothe me in ways therapy never could. 

I lit a candle and took a stroll around the room. These labels make me smile.

“Heart of Evil Stepmother.”- Tulika’s step mom

“Mother’s White Pearls” — Snikdha’s teeth.

A paintbrush made from Tulika’s hair and bone. A memoir with her name etched in copper.

My collection is nearly perfect. Humans are fragile. Beautifully so. It only takes the right person at the right moment to shatter them just enough. 

Everyone here,  just needed the right push.

 And I…? I am very, very good at pushing.

By Radhika Kori