Secret Arts

by Dar, Azma;

  Anwar had gone away for a week with his friends to Sawaat, a final holiday before his forthcoming marriage, so the Begum was confident of carrying out the treatment without interference from him. He professed his disbelief in the arts quite openly. He’d interrupted her rituals once or twice, turning on the lights when Baba was invoking the jinn to help them acquire a plot of land from a neighbour, and on one occasion even asking Baba to leave the house, when after three years of unsuccessful matchmaking and two broken engagements, the Begum had asked Baba to predict Anwar’s marital future. Baba said the demon hadn’t liked Anwar’s disturbance either time, but the Begum had begged Baba to ask it not to exact revenge, and had given him a generous sum of cash to show her appreciation of his efforts. As a result the land was now theirs and Anwar’s wedding to Zareena was only a month away.

  The Begum let the girl think she was forgiven. She gave her a little gentle, motherly chiding, and sent her away to finish her chores. Later in the afternoon, the Begum sent Gago to collect Zareena’s dowry suits from the tailor, then told the girl to get a taxi, luring her into it with the promise of buying her a new outfit each in celebration of the master’s wedding. It was easy.

  She thought it would be a little trickier to get her into Baba’s house, but she was unsuspecting and went along quite placidly when the Begum told her she had to talk to Baba about organising a Quran recitation gathering. The jinn inside her obviously wasn’t familiar with Baba’s reputation.

  A group of three women were already there, consulting Baba about their own problems. The Begum took him aside and explained the situation.

  ‘Go inside,’ the Begum told the girl. ‘Out of the sun.’

  One of the women got up and brought her a drink of rose flavoured sherbet, chatting about how long the journey must have taken them in the afternoon traffic, and they went into the house.

  ‘Is it serious, do you think?’ the Begum asked Baba.

  ‘Well, she seems reasonably in control of her senses,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps the entity hasn’t taken hold of her properly yet. I think this should draw it out.’ He showed her a bottle of murky liquid. ‘I may need your assistance.’

  The girl was absorbed in the television. Baba signalled one of the women to switch it off, then sat down beside the girl.

  ‘Put it back on for a minute, it’s nearly finished,’ she said.

  ‘Now, now, that can wait,’ said Baba. ‘I need to talk to you. And you must answer me honestly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just one minute.’ Baba began whispering incantations. She raised her eyebrows scornfully, and after a minute, yawned. Baba looked at the women and nodded.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

  ‘Shagufta,’ said the girl.

  ‘She’s lying!’ said the Begum. ‘Her name is Ruby.’

  ‘Ruby is my nickname,’ said the girl impatiently. ‘Shagufta is what I was named at birth.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said the Begum.

  ‘What are you doing inside this body?’ asked Baba. ‘Who brought you?’

  ‘What bakwaas are you saying?’ said the girl. She looked at the Begum. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘It admitted its name, but it doesn’t want to be discovered so it will deny everything else,’ said Baba. ‘The sherbet, please.’ A cup was brought over, and he gave the woman a meaningful look.

  ‘You can go home in a minute,’ Baba told the girl. ‘Have some refreshment before you leave.’

  ‘Yes, drink it and we’ll be off,’ said the Begum.

  The girl took the cup and drank, but spat it out immediately, her face distorted with disgust.

  ‘What poison is this?’

  One of the women ran to her side and held her as another grabbed the cup and forced her to drink, spilling most of it over herself.

  ‘It should be enough,’ said Baba. ‘Madam.’

  The Begum stepped forward as the other women moved away. She had a spray bottle in her hand. The girl was choking and coughing, howling obscenities.

  ‘See?’ said the Begum. ‘Dirty tongue.’

  ‘A sure symptom,’ said Baba. ‘It is emerging. Please, cool her now.’

  The Begum squirted her with water. Baba motioned all of them to leave, and he was alone with the girl.

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said. ‘Your mistress said you haven’t been feeling well. You have memory lapses, strange dizzy spells?’

  The girl grunted her agreement.

  ‘It doesn’t taste nice but it’s good for the system. Do you think the problem will come back?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.

  ‘That’s good, otherwise your mistress might demand a further level of investigation. If I were you, I’d look as though I was better.’

  They went outside, both their faces blooming with smiles.

  ‘Allah ho akbar! Allah ho akbar!’ said the women, leaving her to take Baba’s hand, and touch their eyes on it.

  Baba told the Begum it might be a good idea to put the television on for a while, to help the girl get back to normal. They left her on the sofa and went outside. The other women left, eager to go home and share the tale of the wonder they had witnessed.

  ‘That didn’t take as long as I expected,’ said the Begum.

  ‘It must have been a child spirit,’ said Baba. ‘Inexperienced.’ He brushed the bed with his hand and covered it with a fresh sheet he had brought from inside. The Begum sat down and took out some money from her handbag.

  ‘As she is an orphan I consider it my duty to pay for her treatment,’ she said.

  Baba shook his head.

  ‘And I consider it mine to perform this good deed. I cannot take money.’

  The Begum held out the notes but he refused it.

  ‘How long left till the arrival of the new bride?’ he asked.

  ‘Another month or so. Then my son will become a stranger to me.’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that. He is lucky. Zareena is very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes. It makes her more deadly. How can I compare?’

  ‘Oho, Begum sahiba, you are distressing yourself for nothing.’ He paused. ‘However, if you are still concerned, maybe a little something for Anwar might not be a bad idea. To keep his will under your control.’

  The Begum thought about this tempting offer, but knew instinctively what she would say.

  ‘No no, I’m just being a fussy old woman. I’m sure he’ll continue to treat me kindly like he always has. And I want him to enjoy his life. Just as I did, all that time ago.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know why things have to change.’

  She made a pattern in the dust with the heel of her shoe, a snaky shape. Baba watched her a few moments, elegant in her soft apricot chiffon sari, not a pleat out of place. Then he said,

  ‘They don’t have to. We have spoken of this before. There are ways.’

  The Begum looked at him, astonished.

  ‘But that was many years ago,’ she said. ‘And I wasn’t able to do what you asked. Is it possible… I mean have the conditions changed? Is it no longer required?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. As you know, for the jinn to grant us the gift of which we speak, he demands an act that demonstrates our devotion to him. I’ve told you what must be offered.’

  ‘But Baba, it’s impossible! How can I bring it to you now?’ said the Begum. ‘I have to say I don’t like you making a mockery of me in this way.’

  ‘You’re forgetting one thing. The condition given is not specific. It can spread across generations. And now your son is getting married.’

  Shock spurted over the Begum’s countenance then vanished as it was overtaken by a nervous, hopeful smile.

  ‘You think it could be managed?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Baba took off his glasses and polished them with the scarf he was wearing over one shoulder.

  ‘Indecision is a hindrance in cases like these. The jinn
doesn’t like it at all. Are you really serious about this?’

  ‘You know I am!’

  ‘Because if not… There are other ladies who have come to me with similar requests. I turned most of them down. Not many have shown the unique commitment that you have over the years, apart from one of them. She was very determined. I told her the secret. She has already complied.’

  ‘Who?’ whispered the Begum.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. What I’m trying to say is, this isn’t a commonplace procedure. The woman must be resolute. One hundred percent. And I only have the power to give the blessing three times in my life. I have already done it once.’

  ‘No!’ said the Begum. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a moment of feebleness. You mustn’t give it to anyone else, Baba, promise me you won’t.’

  ‘I can’t promise.’

  ‘You must. You know how grateful I am for all you’ve done. Please. Keep the secret to yourself. I’ll reward you well.’ She took out the bundle from her bag again and gave it to him.

  ‘This task isn’t without dangers,’ he said, taking it. ‘Perhaps with this I’ll be able get the special items that will help to protect me.’

  ‘Special items or not, we all need basic items to live,’ said the Begum. ‘Until the time comes, you don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll do what you say. Whatever it takes.’

  As the Begum and the servant girl drove off in the taxi, Baba stood for a while, waving at them until they were no more than a speck. Then he smiled. What a good day for business. He was a little disappointed that he hadn’t had time to prepare for the exorcism. Otherwise he would have really impressed them with the cloth trick, in which he produced a long piece of fabric, and told his audience it was the manifestation of the jinn’s evil, emerging from the girl’s mouth. He was getting much better at it, and it helped if he was wearing a long cloak, front opening if possible.

  It was lucky the girl had given a name different to her usual one, for him to interpret as an indication of something unusual going on inside her. If the patient behaved as normal, Baba used his ventriloquistic talents to give voice to the jinn, and the creature would confess some of its sinful acts. Just enough to convince the devotees. And it was also fortunate that he’d had the kerala juice to hand. It was one of the few remedies that really worked. Made of boiled bitter gourd, it was successful in lowering blood sugar, and he prescribed it to his diabetic patients. Baba had offered it to the Begum once, but she couldn’t bear its foul taste, and now she certainly didn’t recognise it, decanted into a purple bottle with a gold stopper. He’d known even a few drops of the harmless but ghastly liquid would be enough to make the girl retch, and provide the kind of physical reaction the Begum expected. Without it she might have insisted that he administer the beating that usually accompanied the ritual.

  It had all gone well, especially with her. He’d been looking for a steadier source of income recently, and had jumped at the opportunity to dupe the Begum into providing it.

  She had come to him, the first time, when she was young, with an old book she’d found, about a depraved Transylvanian countess who bathed in the blood of virgins. He’d put a stop to that line of thinking straight away, even though she’d openly mooted the possibility of roaming the village to capture and kidnap wandering girls. Then she’d turned up with a phial of her own menstrual emissions, expecting him to dip his feather into it. True, it was a common practice to please the jinn by writing holy phrases in filthy substances, but one that he avoided, finding it repulsive. Nor did he want to condemn his own soul so assuredly with such a flagrant display of disbelief.

  He’d refused her offering, but it had shown him he could profit from her hunger. So he’d invented the condition she had to fulfil, something satisfactorily barbaric, and something that no one else would have had to know about. And, as he’d suspected, it had been impossible, and she had failed.

  Now, he could reap the benefits of the lie once again. He didn’t think she would be mad enough to go through with it, but if she did, it was easy enough to handle. He would just give her a packet, something useless, and when nothing happened, he would come up with a fresh yarn. Maybe tell her there was a counter demon at work. That was a new one.

  Until then, he would just have to keep collecting her donations.

  Rabia had taken to her bed. Since the funeral three days ago, there had been no further developments concerning the case. Rabia, with no deserving, tangible object or person upon which to vent the wrath that was bubbling within her like steamy water inside a geyser, had retreated to the bed in the corner of the TV lounge. She was ill – her main symptoms being a general lack of energy, an unnaturally large appetite, and hot and cold flushes after going to the toilet. Munir, it had to be said, was not particularly distressed by Rabia’s unusual state of vulnerability. Having reacted in a less outwardly emotional way than his wife, Munir thought he had proved himself to be the bedrock in their relationship, the steadfast and reliable one, the man.

  Rabia looked at him with new appeal in her eyes. Her hand reached out for him when, lying in her chamber, she had those horrible visions of slashed corpses. He accompanied her to the only place she ever went now – the bathroom – mustering all his physical strength to let her lean against him, and waited outside the door for her until she re-emerged.

  He sat beside her on the armchair, feeding her from a plate of jelly and custard.

  ‘Do you think I could have a cup of hot chocolate afterwards, with Prince biscuits?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, dear.’ They exchanged sad and tender smiles. ‘Vanilla or strawberry?’

  ‘Coconut, if we have any.’

  ‘If we don’t, I’ll get them from the shop,’ said Munir. ‘Just remember to give me some money before you nod off.’ He wiped a sparkly green blob from her mouth with a cloth.

  ‘Did the Inspector come while I was sleeping?’ said Rabia.

  ‘He dropped in for five minutes, but there was no news.’

  ‘Munir, if they can’t do anything, then will you help me find the bitch myself? I don’t think I can do it alone.’

  Munir patted her knee, his self confidence increasing by the second. For the first time in many years he was forming and voicing opinions that were actually being given attention. And he was taking over the traditional role in what was the simplest of situations, yet in their household completely outrageous – a wife asking her husband for support.

  ‘I’ll head the investigation, if you want, dear,’ he said. ‘I have my own ideas as to who could have committed this atrocity. In fact, I think I might even have a lead.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Well, something made me think that Pervez must have made a lot of people very angry in his time. And then I thought well if I really hated someone I would try to harm them. I would find someone to help, maybe like old Baba. Nobody’s thought of that, have they? Baba’s spell might not have actually killed Pervez but if we talked to him we would at least find out who the boy’s enemies were.’ He spooned some of the multicoloured banana slush into his own mouth, closing his eyes to fully enjoy the sweet slipperiness on his tongue, not realising that Rabia was now sitting bolt upright on her bed.

  ‘Where did you get this idea?’ she demanded. ‘Why the hell did you think of Baba?’

  ‘I was just… deducing… you know, like Perry Mason.’

  ‘What happened, Munir?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You said something made you think – it must have been directly linked to Baba. Your addled brain couldn’t have made such a long list of connections!’

  Munir stood up.

  ‘Sit down.’ He sat. ‘You heard something here, in the house – you’ve hardly been out. What?’

  Farzana came in, pushing her youngest son ahead of her. She turned on the television and placed him in front of Spiderman. Munir, reflexively glanced at Farzana before refocusing and telling the boy he’d seen this particular episode, on
e in which the hero struggles with his conscience. It was enough for Rabia.

  Feeling bizarrely clandestine, Anwar drove straight to the police station after work, in response to a pleading phone call earlier in the afternoon. It had been a lazy day, spent reading proposals for a new military academy. These days he was less involved in active service, concentrating more on his role as a consultant on matters such as security, emergency aid operations, and most recently, local mysteries.

  ‘I had a call from the victim’s mother,’ said the Inspector, who was dressed in a smart olive green velvet jacket, unfortunately coordinated with red velvet trousers. He turned the desk fan to face Anwar so that he was caught in the coldest and windiest blast that the machine was capable of.

  ‘She says she knows the identity of the killer.’

  Anwar had come across families before that were only too eager to present the police with their own candidates for special investigation. He guessed Rabia would point them towards a business rival, or one of the underworld riff-raff that Pervez sometimes associated with.

  ‘I was going to see her now,’ said the Inspector. ‘Do you have time to spare?’

  Refusal might draw suspicion.

  ‘Let’s hear what she has to say,’ said Anwar. ‘Did you speak to the pimp?’

  The Inspector swatted a mosquito with a ruler.

  ‘To be honest we’ve had too much to do with the government minister being in town for the last two days,’ he said. ‘We had to keep an eye on things in case it sparked off more riots. You know how it is. We haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet –it’s top priority. But please – don’t mention it to Mrs Rabia yet – somehow I don’t think she’ll understand.’

  As he stepped into the open courtyard of Rabia’s house, Anwar felt a wetness seeping into his trousers. Farzana was sitting in the corner by the tap surrounded by piles of soaking clothes, and was rinsing and wringing socks, shalwars, kameezes. The thin flood of water was flowing across the concrete floor into the little channels that edged it and took the waste out into the larger, but still open sewers in the street.