What Maya Saw

by Shabnam Minwalla

  ‘Father Lorenzo stepped into the chapel. He stood there watching us, and then uttered words that I will never forget. “Today, I pass on my great burden.”’

  The professor fell silent. Somewhere in the college, a phone rang shrilly. A dog barked. A voice in Maya’s head screeched, ‘Run.’

  Perhaps she should have run, but curiosity pinned her down.

  ‘What … what burden?’ she whispered.

  ‘Father Lorenzo walked to the end of the chapel, to a niche in the wall. He pointed to a silver box in the niche and said, “In this Tibetan casket lies a terrible secret. I have to pass on this secret to those who can take it forward. I have chosen the three of you. God help me to have chosen well.’’’

  ‘The three of us stared at each other. We were young boys – not even 20. We were alone in a chapel with a peculiar priest who was talking in riddles … and I, at least, doubted his sanity. I began to doubt his sanity more and more as his story unfolded.’

  ‘As I mentioned before, Father Lorenzo was an investigator for the church. If the church heard about miracles or inexplicable events in different corners of the world, they sent their team to look into them. For some years, the church had been hearing tales about a tiny, remote village in the Himalayan foothills. Somewhere in modern-day Himachal Pradesh. The story claimed that the villagers had found the secret of eternal youth.’

  ‘Eternal youth!’ The Maya of just two days ago would have jeered. But this new Maya was made of more tolerant stuff. She just pinched herself.

  Professor Kekobad nodded. ‘Oh yes. This is one of those myths that crop up time and again. Immortality. Eternal youth. Turning dross into gold. Of course, most of these rumours are ...’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Maya supplied.

  Professor Kekobad pursed his lips. He hated being interrupted. ‘Yes well,’ he said drily. ‘But the stories about this particular village refused to die out and so, finally, in 1902 the Church sent a group of three investigators and one novice to look into the matter.’

  ‘Father Lorenzo was the novice. He was the only one who survived the expedition.’

  ‘What happened to the others?’ Maya demanded.

  ‘The village was deep in the mountains and the priests spent days on horseback following two local guides,’ Professor Kekobad said, glancing up at the old portrait on the wall. ‘When they finally reached their destination, they were astounded. This remote village, days away from civilisation, was incredibly rich. The houses were elaborate. The women were dripping with gold jewellery and Chinese silks. The villagers spoke broken English.’

  ‘For the first time, the priests took the rumours seriously. For the first time, they felt there was really something strange.’

  ‘The villagers were openly hostile. The four priests were becoming more and more alarmed, and their guides wanted to turn back immediately. Finally, the travellers pitched their tent in the forest. When the priests woke up the next morning, their guides had vanished. They should have turned back too.’

  ‘Over the next few days, the priests explored the area, but saw nothing unusual. Finally, they approached the village headman and asked him about the rumours. The headman denied them outright. That night, disaster struck. A huge boulder rolled down the slope and crushed the sleeping priests to death.’

  ‘But … but … Father Lorenzo?’ Maya asked in a hushed voice. She could almost see the rock hurtling down a mountain. Feel the nippy night air on her skin. Hear the sudden screams and shattering bones.

  ‘Father Lorenzo was not in the tent,’ Professor Kekobad replied. ‘He was a priest, but he was also a personable young man. And he had caught the eye of a beautiful villager. He had agreed to meet her that night – perhaps because he wanted to extricate the secret from her, perhaps because he liked her. We’ll never know. In any case, she saved his life.’

  ‘Did she tell him anything about the secret?’ Maya asked, trying to hurry the professor along. But the old man continued with his deliberate, careful recital.

  ‘She told him enough. She told him that some decades ago, the villagers had noticed a trickle of steaming water emerging from between white rocks. That area is famous for hot springs with healthful properties. In this case, though, the water had a golden hue and smoky smell. This particular stream never yielded more than a trickle and dried up completely for months at a time.’

  ‘At some point, the villagers realised that this water had beneficial properties and began to use it for ailments. They found that the water was more than just a tonic. The people who drank it became not just well, but energetic. Old sagging bodies became firm and agile. Their skin and eyes glowed with health and youth. They became young and beautiful. Even more amazing was the fact that the effects lasted for a long time. They believed that a few drops of the magical water would keep them young for 111 years.’

  ‘A hundred-and-eleven years!’ Maya choked. That seemed a very long time for a tonic. ‘Don’t these people die? Don’t they …’

  Professor Kekobad quelled her with a wave of his hand. ‘I am telling you the story exactly the way Father Lorenzo related it. Unfortunately, there are many questions for which I have no answers.’

  Chastised, Maya fell silent. The old professor mopped his face with a hanky and continued. ‘Father Lorenzo was appalled. The girl sitting with him was exquisite. She had emerald eyes that matched the green stones around her throat. She had soft hands and pink lips and pretty ways.’

  ‘But the girl was not a girl at all … but an old hag with the face and the body of a 20-year-old. He was shocked.’

  ‘Father Lorenzo was deeply religious – and to his mind these people were depraved sinners who were contradicting the will of God. His first instinct was to flee from this girl-hag. But he was afraid. He was also curious. So he sat in the dark, silent night, under a canopy of trees so dense that he could not see a single star. And he listened to a story that became more sinister with every word.’

  ‘For a long time, the secret of the golden, magical waters had stayed within the village, but slowly word spread. A small number of people—rich, powerful and desperate—made their way to this lonely hamlet from Europe, China, the Middle East. At first, the villagers made sure that these unwelcome visitors vanished. Literally.’

  ‘But then they adopted another strategy. They started selling drops of the golden liquid to those rare, desperate travellers who could pay their price. The other travellers to this village continued to meet convenient accidents.’

  ‘Father Lorenzo felt more and more certain that he and his companions would never escape alive. As he spoke to this exquisite, devilish creature with glittering green eyes, he realised that he was in the presence of something worse than evil. He was in the presence of chilling indifference. Of a person so amoral that words like goodness and evil had lost their meaning entirely.’

  ‘But why was she telling him this story? He got his answer soon enough. The girl-hag stroked his hand and said that she had a gift for him. A gift of love. A gift that would make him a fitting partner for her.’

  ‘She produced a small round glass bottle filled with the golden liquid. Then she leaned over him with a smile that was more horrifying than anything that Father Lorenzo had ever encountered. And she urged him to drink the liquid.’

  ‘And … did he drink it?’ Maya whispered.

  ‘No!’ Professor Kekobad exclaimed. ‘Father Lorenzo was not a man to enter into a pact with the Devil. His God or his luck saved him. As the girl pressed the bottle to his cold, unwilling lips, he snatched at it. Just then, a deafening crash ripped through the night. The girl was startled. Father Lorenzo pushed her away and ran to the tent. But when he saw the gigantic boulder that had crushed it, he knew his companions were dead. Panting and praying, he ran into the night. Into the forest full of thorns and wild animals and ravines. But he didn’t care. He was much more afraid of what he had left behind than of what lay ahead.’

  ‘Once again, his God or his luck stayed by his si
de. At dawn, he spotted a village in the valley and made his way there. And then back to civilisation. It was sometime during this journey that he realised that he had pushed the bottle of golden liquid deep into the pocket of his coat.’

  ‘What happened to the liquid?’ Maya asked, as spidery suspicion crept up her spine.

  ‘Father Lorenzo handed it over to his superiors when he finally reached Italy. He hoped he would never see it again and for 37 years his prayers were answered. Then World War II broke out. He was summoned by the authorities. They handed over the bottle and told Father Lorenzo that he was responsible for keeping it safe. As Europe was in turmoil, he and his precious cargo were being sent to India. To a college in Mumbai called St Paul’s.’

  ‘Father Lorenzo was distressed. He had wanted to stay as far as possible from this part of the world and from the seductive liquid that kept the body beautiful but corroded the soul. He still had nightmares about that chilly night and the girl with green eyes and terrible smile.’

  ‘Still, he obeyed orders and travelled to Bombay with his burden. But then, something unexpected happened. He fell in love with St Paul’s. So he focused his great energies on two things – keeping the liquid safe and realising his dreams for this college.’

  Maya twisted around once more and looked again at the stern face in the portrait. Professor Kekobad looked up as well. ‘Father Lorenzo told us his story as the storm raged outside. The three of us sat in the chapel, in the flickering candlelight, feeling bewildered. What did all this have to do with us? I remember feeling hungry and restless.’

  ‘Finally, Father Lorenzo came to the point. He had not been able to carry the liquid back to Italy. Rumours had spread. Too many people were watching, waiting to pounce. He no longer knew whom to trust. So he had decided to create his own protection for the bottle.’

  Professor Kekobad paused, sipped some water and dabbed his neck with a white hanky. Then he looked straight at Maya with grim eyes.

  ‘He decided to keep the bottle of liquid in a silver box placed in the very heart of his beloved chapel.’

  ‘This chapel?’ Maya asked, even though she sounded positively dimwitted. ‘Here? Here in St Paul’s? In Bombay?’

  The professor merely nodded and carried on with his tale.

  ‘Then Father Lorenzo uttered words that I can never forget. Words that, even today, ring in my ears. He said:

  “There will come a time when the Shadows will gather

  When thirst and desperation will drive them out

  When Perception, Knowledge and Vitality must join hands

  Before the battle can be fought”.’

  Maya goggled. Professor Kekobad let out a dry chuckle. ‘We all stared at him in much the same way that you are staring at me. Then we pelted him with the same questions that you are planning to ask.’

  ‘What Shadows?’ Maya interrupted.

  ‘Ah yes. The Shadows are those beings—neither fully alive nor fully dead—who have supped on that magical liquid. They cling onto their youth and beauty. They exist only for themselves and to satisfy their own hungers. They live among us but are not of us. They are persuasive and masters at the art of illusion. They have no scruples and will stop at nothing to get what they want. Very few people in the world can look through their glamour and beauty and see their true nature.’

  ‘Maya, you are one of those who can see.’

  Maya was so jolted by the Professor’s hoarse proclamation that she jumped, knocking down a pen-stand shaped like a barrel. She stooped to pick up the jumble of pens and pins that had spilled onto the floor.

  It was at that moment that she noticed the door of the study, with its squares of coloured glass. Most glowed like jewels in the sunlight. But a few squares on the right side were dull, as if the light had been blocked.

  Maya gazed at the patch of darkness and suddenly guessed. Someone was pressed against the door, listening.

  Professor Kekobad noticed her expression, looked at the door and stumbled towards it. The silhouette melted away. And by the time Maya got to her feet, there was nothing to see except the quadrangle basking in the sun.

  And a flap of white at the far end of the corridor.

  CHAPTER 8

  Professor Kekobad checked his watch and locked the door to his office with a bronze key. His hand shook, and he looked weary to his arthritic bones.

  ‘Do you think somebody was listening?’ Maya panted. ‘I saw something white – like a white dress or a priest’s robe. Do you think it could have been—’

  ‘Not now,’ the professor said brusquely.

  Maya paused, but there were too many questions scuttling around in her head. She had to let them out. ‘Do you think he heard everything? Do you believe this story? What else did Father Lorenzo say?’ she asked under her breath.

  ‘Not now,’ the professor barked again, gazing around the quadrangle once more.

  At the far end, a couple of students in grey t-shirts strolled through the arcade towards Lecture Room 113. A canteen boy hurried across, lugging bulky bags spilling over with carrots and spinach. A nun in a brown habit was taking pictures of the chapel.

  St Paul’s was waking up.

  ‘Go to class,’ Professor Kekobad said. ‘We don’t want to reveal ourselves to Them. I hope you understand what you are seeing. I hope you understand what you need to do.’

  ‘Not really,’ Maya retorted, reacting badly to his commanding tone. ‘According to you, I’m seeing the Shadows. Does that mean Owais and Amara are Shadows? But what am I supposed to do? Other than avoid them like the plague?’

  ‘Use your gift,’ Professor Kekobad replied. ‘You possess a gift that allows you to see things as they really are. When you see a painting, you see not colours and patterns but an entire image. When you see the Shadows, you see not what they want you to see, but what they really are.’

  ‘Only sometimes,’ Maya interjected.

  ‘Of course, the Shadows are masters of deception. They’ve had more than a century to perfect the art. But there are moments when they let their guard down, when you can suddenly see through them. When you can see the decay behind the beauty and glamour.’

  The professor paused. Maya quivered and tried to block out the images that his words were conjuring. Images of bones and rotting flesh and desperation.

  ‘Trust your eyes and your instinct. Use your gift to identify the Shadows gathering at St Paul’s College. But also use it to find those who possess the light. Use your gift to find Knowledge and Vitality.’

  Maya blinked. This was getting more and more weird. She was not sure she could handle it.

  She had a sudden memory of a school play when she was very young. She and her classmates had dressed up as Hope and Charity and Kindness. She had been Hope, in a slippery turquoise robe with itchy net sleeves.

  For a bizarre moment, Maya wondered if two people would step into the blazing quadrangle, dressed as Knowledge and Vitality. Maybe Vitality would skip around drinking glasses of Complan and Red Bull. While Knowledge would carry a tall stack of books on her head.

  Silly though it was, the image tugged at a recent memory. It reminded her of something she had seen. Recently.

  ‘You mean Knowledge and Vitality are people?’ she asked, feeling more and more like Alice in Wonderland, tumbling down the rabbit hole.

  Professor Kekobad stowed his key in his scuffed black briefcase. ‘Certain people possess these qualities more than others,’ he said. ‘You possess perception. There are others blessed with knowledge and abundant energy. We need to identify them. But for now, it will be best if you just go to class and behave like everybody else.’

  ‘But … But … what if I see something … else?’ Maya stammered. ‘More Shadows …’

  ‘The Shadows use their wiles to get their way. If you can see through them, you are safer than anybody else.’

  This was cold comfort, but it would have to do.

  Professor Kekobad shuffled towards the elevator, drained
by the story and worry over the intruder. Maya trudged in the other direction. She hesitated at the mouth of the gloomy staircase leading to Lecture Room 113. As her feet thunked on wooden steps, hollowed out by generations of college students, her mind buzzed.

  Were Owais and Amara really more than 100 years old? Were there other Shadows at St Paul’s? Why could she see the signs only sometimes? Contradictory thoughts gnawed at her, but she shoved them away. Instead, she concentrated on breathing, on staying calm, on reaching Lecture Room 113.

  She was almost at the door when a low, distinctive voice said, ‘What’s up? Maya, right?’

  Maya whirled around and her heart trampolined. Sanath was about six steps behind her.

  ‘Hu … hi …’ Maya stuttered. ‘Nothing much. I … I … It’s time for class to start.’

  She scurried to a vacant seat at the back of the classroom and delved into her bag. Her face was flaming and her chest was thumping. Sanath had actually spoken to her. He knew her name. She was so thrilled, she felt like leaping from one desk to another and warbling like Maria in The Sound of Music.

  ‘My heart wants to sing every song it hears …’

  Except that Sanath’s friendliness had amounted to a lot of nothing. Sanath had tried to chat. But instead of grabbing the opportunity, and making a brilliant observation about the Sri Lankan cricket captain (What was his name?), she had just stuttered like an idiot. Even worse, she was wearing her yellow crop top that Priti had told her was ‘a bit of a fail’.

  Maya turned to look at Sanath, but could only catch a glimpse of his hair. He was already surrounded by girls – all peppy and pretty, all wearing fashionable clothes, all chatting intelligently and coherently.

  Maya was still mulling over her stupidity when Lola breezed into the room in a white linen dress that flowed to her ankles. She squealed when she saw Maya. ‘How are you? I was so worried? Give me your number this very minute? I had no way to contact you? Were you sick yesterday? Weren’t we worried, Mandira?’