by Pasha Malla
With a coy smile the woman made a comment in Kashmiri that inspired subdued laughter from the group. The elder offered his two cents in a reedy little voice, which caused the men to inhale briskly, close their eyes or shake their heads.
‘Please,’ the woman told Ash, indicating the plate of pastries. ‘Eat.’
A function: he took another bagel.
Mumtaz reappeared with a tea set. ‘Ah, everyone has come,’ he said, and knelt before Ash to fill a porcelain cup from a matching pot.
‘Thank you,’ said Ash.
The tea was hot, salty, milky. And pink.
Not everyone got tea, only Ash and the woman, whom Mumtaz introduced as a poet; her name was not provided. ‘And he’—the old man in the hat and goatee—‘is Doctor Sayeed.’
A doctor! Perhaps the one scheduled to visit Ash later that evening. But Sayeed eyed Ash with suspicion, his thin hands fondling each other in his lap.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ash.
The doctor tilted his chin so that sharp little beard targeted Ash like a dagger.
‘So,’ mediated Mumtaz. ‘First time to Kashmir?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Ash laughed uneasily and sipped his tea. ‘I’ve been having some memory issues. Actually maybe the doctor—’
‘Surely your father brought you as a boy, before the Troubles?’ interrupted the poet. Her accent had a crisp, British officiousness to it. ‘Although it is much different now.’
‘Decimated,’ said Doctor Sayeed. ‘The whole valley.’
‘But we have a Pandit returned!’ Mumtaz clapped. ‘And he has seen how beautiful it remains. So he will return—every year. With his father.’
‘That’d be nice,’ said Ash. ‘It’s pretty here. The…mountains.’
‘The mountains,’ said Mumtaz with satisfaction.
‘You know,’ said the poet, ‘your own Pandit Nehru called this paradise on earth.’
‘It is here, it is here, it is here,’ provided Mumtaz, voice swelling.
She interceded in Kashmiri, delivering a possible couplet with the sonorous cadence of verse. At its conclusion a chorus of impressed tsking rippled around the room.
‘Do you know Lal Ded?’ said Sayeed.
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Ash lied.
‘She was in fact a woman,’ said the poet. ‘I was passionate, filled with longing; I searched far and wide. But the day that the Truthful One found me, I was home.’ ”
‘Very nice,’ said Ash.
The poet bowed—not to the compliment, but in reverence to the work. ‘Lal Ded also wrote: Some leave their home, some the hermitage, but the restless mind knows no rest. So watch your breath, day and night, and stay where you are. A lesson, perhaps.’
Ash sipped his tea and wondered what the lesson might be.
‘You see it is the women poets who have long been the voice of this place. And Habba Khatoon is the best of the lot,’ she continued. ‘Sixteenth century. She wrote of scorned lovers, of longing, of loss. Even then, the story of Kashmir.’
More tsking. Ash, in an act of daring, attempted a tsk of his own.
‘I left my home for play,’ recited the poet, wincing as if the lines assailed her from within. ‘Nor yet again returned, although the day sank into the West. The name I made is hailed on lips of men—Habba Khatoon!—though veiled, I found no rest. Through crowds I found my way, from forests, then, the sages came…when day sank into the West.’
Ash joined the tsking and, not to be outdone, improvised an awestruck headshake.
Doctor Sayeed came to life: ‘One of the great Muslim poets.’
‘But Muslim, Hindu,’ said Mumtaz in protest. ‘Kashmiriyat, all same people.’
The doctor spat something dismissive and turned upon Ash. ‘You have come as a tourist. To stay in hotel, to ski. Highest gondola in the world, they say. You like it?’
‘Um,’ said Ash. ‘Yeah, really nice.’
‘Very nice,’ said Doctor Sayeed, hands twisting in his lap. ‘Very nice to visit, then leave, and fancy yourself in exile. Do you know what we who live here have been through?’
Mumtaz said something cautionary, pacifying.
‘No! He must know. These Hindus think they are the only ones to suffer. Mister Dhar, I am a? Doctor. My father also. And his father before him. All doctors, all down the line. As my son too would have been a doctor.’
The air in the room had turned brittle. Ash put down his tea.
‘Our house is just there, down the lane.’ Doctor Sayeed indicated this with a kind of karate chop toward the window. ‘One evening my son was playing in our garden. Two men came over the wall with guns and chased him inside, very frightened. This was a time, mind, when people were disappearing all over the Valley. In middle of night they would come and—whup, like that, snatch you from your home. Understand?’
Ash nodded.
‘So I went to? Confront them. It was dark, I could see only shapes. I had no weapon, no torch even. My son was just a boy, and my wife was inside. I could hope only that they wanted drugs from my dispensary. I called. They appeared from shadows. I recognized both, young men from next village. I had treated one as a boy for colic. And now they carried guns—big guns!’ He sucked in his breath sharply between pursed lips. ‘But they claimed to be for my protection. “People are after you,” they said. “We will stand watch.” ’
‘Bastards,’ said Mumtaz.
Yet Doctor Sayeed spoke inexpressively, eyes fixed on Ash; all that moved were his lips and his hands. The room felt heavy, as if bearing the weight of this story. ‘No one at this time could be trusted. Each side was terrorizing us equally—state police, BSF, Indian army, militants. But what could I do? So then I had goons here all day, harassing my patients. Very disruptive. If I or my wife went out, they would? Follow. These two boys, so strong and important. Whole time I thought something was…untoward. My wife also. We had never been threatened. We were respected. I would, without question, treat militants and soldiers both. To do away with me made no sense.’
‘Yet,’ said Mumtaz.
‘Yet.’ Doctor Sayeed’s fidgeting hands made a papery sound. ‘After some days my wife grew fed up. She slipped from rear of house and off to market to buy fruit, something like that. This was midday, October. I saw patients all afternoon. When my son returned from school my wife had not returned from market. We waited, my son and I. This is a tiny village, one road only. Very difficult to become lost. Unless she had gone all the way to Gulmarg. Which would have been foolish, very dangerous.’
‘On horse is fine,’ Mumtaz assured Ash.
Ash tsked.
‘I call the police, but they are? Unhelpful,’ said Doctor Sayeed. ‘And what is interesting, when they come so-called bodyguards do not hide. They remain in open. Even they are talking to the police officers. One would think that militants would not be so friendly.’
‘Indeed not militants,’ said Mumtaz.
‘No,’ said Doctor Sayeed. ‘They were? Spies for military police. Hoping that actual militants would visit my practice so they could snatch them up. Next day I received a message: as they had seen these guards and knew them to be police, one militant group believed I was? Colluding with army. This is why they had kidnapped my wife. They would kill her if I did not pay ten rupees crore. So with all of my savings I arranged to meet them. This is how these idiots behave. They wage war like it’s a? Film. I was told to come alone, then my wife would be returned, and when paid for her release only they would leave us in peace. However, I could not think of leaving my son alone. They had already taken my wife. Why would they stop at ten crore when they could double the price? So I brought him with me.’
Ash sensed that this was the turning point—not just of the story, but his own edification. He nodded: yes, the son, of course. A fatal mistake.
Mumtaz gestured at Ash’s cup. ‘Please, drink. Your tea will grow cold.’
The liquid had turned tepid and a creamy film slicked its surface. Ash sipped. All he coul
d taste was salt.
Doctor Sayeed continued: ‘My son and I entered the woods with this money in a lending box. And? Figures came from trees. A bag over my head, just like that. My hands bound. I was hit in the stomach, all the breath went—poof!—from me. We were dragged to a lorry and thrown in back. I could not say which direction we drove. My son was weeping. I told him he was safe, that I would let nothing happen. We arrived somewhere, a house. I was taken up the stairs, away from my son, to the top floor. Still I have this bag over my head. I begged them to spare my boy. They could have any sum they wanted. I was told only that I would be dealt with in the morning. And this, “dealt with,” I knew to mean? Executed. And perhaps same fate awaited my wife and child.’
The story had its own energy now; Doctor Sayeed was only its medium. But here he required a pause to gather himself. Even his hands fell still.
‘So what could I do?’ he said after a moment. ‘I waited until night. House was very quiet. Still with sack over my head I found a window. We had climbed three-four flights of stairs—typical Kashmiri house—and if I jumped? I could die. Regardless I leapt. Upon landing I heard—snap. Such pain! I had fractured my tibia. Fortunately bone did not pierce skin. I crawled to the road. I could only guess which direction was Gulmarg. For hours, I crawled on roadside. A Jeep approached. I signalled—but the driver failed to see me. So I continued, another hour. Through the sack I could see the sun rising, but my hands were still bound behind my back so I could not take it off, and…’
Doctor Sayeed went silent. He tucked his chin to his chest.
‘But you made it to town?’ said Ash.
‘Yes.’
‘And then, were you able to get back to the hideout? With the police or whoever?’
‘Yes. They knew the place.’
‘And your wife and son? Were they okay?’
‘My wife and son?’ He looked up; his eyes were fierce. ‘No, Mister Dhar, they were not okay. Upon discovering that I had fled, the militants murdered them. Shot once each’—he pointed to his temple—‘right through the head as they slept.’
—
‘I’M GOING TO GET frigging annihilated tonight,’ called Matt from the bathroom.
He was in there trying on shirts while Ash lay on his bed leafing through a volume of Kashmiri poetry. The poet had given it to him as he’d been leaving Mumtaz’s house. ‘My English translations,’ she’d explained. According to the book she did have a name, or a nom-de-plume: Zoon. Ash had hoped that the poetry might kindle the embers of some memory, something elemental and ancient. But the entries tended toward godly worship and their effect was soporific. His eyelids drooped; the book fell from his hands.
Matt emerged in a paisley-print button-down. ‘What do you think of this one?’
‘Yeah, good,’ said Ash, glancing up.
‘Honestly? Don’t I look like Jimi Hendrix?’
Ash smiled.
‘Bro? Hello?’
‘Sorry. Still a little out of it, I guess.’
Matt traded the shirt for a white kurta with green embroidery around the neckline. ‘Dave-o leant me this one.’ Matt bowed. ‘Namaste.’
‘Looks good,’ said Ash.
‘You’re not going to make fun of me?’
‘Should I?’
‘Ugh, this is the worst. I can’t wait for the old you to come back. It’s weird.’ Matt shook his head sadly. ‘You’re acting so frigging nice.’
A long, slow breath drained from Ash’s nostrils with the sound of a deflating tire. He put down the book. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘The least you can do tonight is tie one on. Right? I mean, if it’s so wrong to drink to forget, what’s the problem if you already forget everything?’
Ash laughed.
‘That’s the spirit. I’ll make sure you have the goshdang night of your life! I mean, we’re on vacation, am I right?’
‘And we go home when?’
‘To Canada?’ Matt moved back into the bathroom to check himself out in the mirror. ‘I don’t know about this top. I mean, if you were a chick and went home with me, would you assume I could put my legs behind my head and go for like eleven hours?
Don’t want to set too high a bar. Probably should just go with my regular GOS—going-out shirt, sorry. A little joke we used to make.’ He chuckled gloomily. ‘You doing okay?’
There was something beseeching in his voice. Ash nodded. ‘Yeah, fine.’
Matt pulled the kurta over his head and flung it into the room. ‘Anyhoo, gonna prond-ma-doosh. Can’t ring in the New Year with my junk smelling like a ski boot.’
The door closed. Ash stared at it. Doors were always closing on him, it seemed. He felt on the periphery of everything, especially himself—gazing from the edge down into the chasm where his life ought to be.
He returned to Zoon’s book. But again it failed to capture him, lacking some essential quality from her recitations. And it wasn’t just the cadence of her oratory that was missing. She’d watched Ash so steadily, her voice trembling with melancholy and import—more of an incantation, a summoning. And then, after, pressing the book into his hands: ‘Take this home with you.’ Ash felt now that she’d meant something more intrinsic and ineffable than the words within its pages—maybe that irreconcilable space between document and memory, and what therein was lost.
The doctor’s kidnapping story had been intended as a different type of edification, to humble and chastise him. After Mumtaz had dropped him back at the hotel, Ash had repeated the story to Matt. Yet telling it turned the events cinematic, its lessons and emotion burdened by characters and action. Never mind that Matt’s response had mostly been terror: ‘Bro, you went to their house?’ he spluttered. ‘Anybody here could be al-Qaeda! I know you’re a little out of your mind, but there’s no need for a suicide mission.’
Ash stood, scanning the room for the printouts Dave-o had left him. Among the clothes bursting from his suitcase he spied the edge of some papers, but these proved to be something else entirely—a story. He read a few pages: a hero climbing into the mountains (of Kashmir, he assumed). Something he was writing? It seemed possible, tucked as the pages were among his things. Almost secretively, at that. And Matt had told him he’d once written a book. Perhaps this was the sequel.
He settled back on the bed, flipping to the last page, which cut off mid-sentence:
And when he reappeared
A work in progress, then. Ash tried to follow that fragment somewhere: and then what?
He’d still not come up with anything when the bathroom door opened and Matt appeared amid billowing steam.
‘Ash, hey, smell me.’ He came over, a towel clutched loosely around his lower half. ‘I did that dumb thing of crapping first and not flushing while I showered, so I ended up steaming my poo. Have I got a poopy bouquet about me? Be honest.’
Ash tilted toward him. Inhaled. Recoiled. ‘You smell like soap.’
‘You sure?’ Matt looked nervous. ‘There any way this amnesia messed up your sense of smell? Aren’t your nose and memory supposed to be connected?’
Ash hadn’t considered this. He sniffed again. Matt’s zesty odour triggered nothing.
‘Listen, while I’ve got you—do me a solid and shave my back? There’s a patch right between my shoulder blades I can never get.’
‘Shave your back?’
‘Honestly, we do this all the time. Normally.’
‘Normally.’
‘For sure. You shave my back, I shave yours. It’s basically our catchphrase.’ Matt dropped his towel in the bathroom doorway. Ash was amazed by how much that pale massive ass resembled an actual moon. ‘I can manage my nuts and taint myself,’ said Matt, ‘but I’ll holler when I need you.’
This time he left the door open, revealing glimpses of his body, like a zeppelin cresting the horizon. The moment loomed when Ash would be called to duty. Could he say no? He’d already panicked once at something that, from Matt’s bewilderment, had likely been a perfectly normal ex
change between friends—a little helpful rubdown, nothing weird at all. Ash wanted to act like himself. So he waited there on the bed, face pointed at that unfinished story, mind blank, for Matt to announce he was ready to be groomed.
—
‘THE CANUCKS!’ cried Dave-o, leaping to his feet.
The enthusiasm seemed for Matt’s benefit. While the two giants thumped each other’s backs, Ash watched a disco ball scatter shards of light around the hotel bar.
‘Mate,’ said Dave-o to Ash, and offered him a hand to shake.
Beers appeared. Ash accepted one, slurped it greedily.
‘Good old Ash, always up for a drink,’ said Matt. ‘Even if he doesn’t remember it.’
Dave-o laughed. ‘How many New Yearses do you remember?’
They exchanged war stories: passing out in a waterfall (Dave-o), passing out in a snowbank (Matt). Dispersed around the room were a few other guests, mostly couples, all Indian. Someone had strung up leftover Diwali tinsel and a banner proclaiming HAPPY NEWYEAR EVE sagged unconvincingly over the door. The staff wore party hats, which made their anaesthetized expressions look even more forlorn.
The music, Ash somehow knew, was Madonna: Celebrate, she commanded. So he drank his beer. Mid-swallow a sneeze exploded from his face like a tripped landmine, spraying its misty shrapnel down his shirt.
‘Easy there, mate,’ said Dave-o, passing him a serviette. ‘You catch something on your pony ride?’
Ash cupped his face and sneezed again. ‘Sorry.’ He blew his nose. ‘God, that sounded just like my dad.’
Matt shot him a suspicious look. ‘You remember how he sneezes?’
A memory. Ash tried to rewind his thoughts. But whatever had emerged was gone.
‘Good news, anyway,’ said Matt. ‘Must mean your nut’s getting back on track.’
Dave-o tilted his beer in salutation. ‘What did I say? Just a matter of time. Anything else coming back?’
The music changed to Michael Jackson. Ash could remember all the words: Lovely…is the feeling now; fever…temperature’s rising now. Yet he recalled nothing of his father: not his sneeze, not his voice, not his face. He blew a little cloud of bubbles from the top of his bottle, took a drink and shrugged. ‘Nope.’