Secret Arts

by Dar, Azma;

  The only place Anwar felt happily alone was in his study. He could have found a solitary spot, somewhere they couldn’t find him, a park or a tea shop, but the space would not have been his own, enclosed and private. The study was comfortable, and soothing in an old and musty way. He sat in the deep padded leather chair and whirled the wooden globe around with a walking stick. The curtains were drawn and the fire rippled and snapped.

  After so much time spent alone, how suddenly he had become a father to these mysterious shadows of children. A piece of him was delighted, nervous, thankful. Unlike the other members of the household, he had never thought that the arrival of a baby would be guaranteed.

  He thought about the supposed first one, a lie that had existed only to haunt him for a night, a seed of discord that although imaginary had caused a riot in his soul and made him question what he had done. The thing for which he was being hunted now.

  He refused to entertain the idea that the sounds he’d heard, and that strange blurry figure in the distance were supernatural manifestations returned from the dead to exact revenge. It was lunacy. But he couldn’t be sure that Zareena’s former presence in his life wasn’t influencing events that were happening around him now. Events, and he feared, people. Someone, disturbed and possessed, was engineering the strange occurrences.

  ‘Do you mind that I’ve come in here?’ Saika had tried to control herself from tracking him down after forty five minutes of his non appearance, but failed.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Anwar. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘I know it’s nice to have a place you want to keep to yourself.’

  ‘We’re meant to share things now, aren’t we?’ Anwar opened a polished walnut box and took out a cigar. She’d never seen him smoking before and today seemed to be the oddest time for him to do so. He lit it and puffed.

  ‘Caring and sharing,’ he said. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Any other time, I might have been game, but it’s probably not a good idea now.’ He stopped and looked at her.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I forgot – I mean that it can be harmful. I was just trying to be funny when I said that. You shouldn’t even breathe this.’ He stubbed the cigar out.

  ‘I can go. I shouldn’t have just invited myself in.’

  ‘No, please stay.’

  She thought she might as well get to the point.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘There’s really nothing I can do about what’s happened. We’ve got something wonderful to look forward to. We should think about that.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said. Sakia had a feeling she should stop now, let the slowly mellowing mood remain, but the phantom was hanging between them, a dead rotting thing still alive with mischief, souring the air. It was better to cast it out into the open let Anwar know she wasn’t afraid of it, that her heart was big enough for all his ghosts. ‘Anwar, if you want to tell me about Zareena, you know, I’ll listen.’

  ‘She was happy enough,’ he muttered cryptically.

  ‘Gago was saying how everything seemed to go wrong in those few months. The fallen tree and the poor little dog.’

  His smile went instantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was a poodle wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Called Pamela. But why on earth were you talking about the dog?’ His face looked strained, but not dangerously so. She continued.

  ‘It just came up. Like I told you. We were discussing the pregnancy and then Zareena, and Gago mentioned that the dog passed away a few months before she did. Did you ever find out what happened to it?’

  He was frowning.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you talked to the servants about this. I didn’t think you needed training on how to manage them.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking, she was. She said Zareena suspected your mother had something to do with it!’ She laughed, self consciously, to demonstrate how outrageous the notion was, but stopped when he stood up and leaned across the table.

  ‘Are you mad, Saika?’

  ‘No… why are you saying that?’

  ‘Discussing how my mother might be a pet killer with the servants!’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think you would mind–’

  ‘Why are you doing it? Poking your nose into things that have nothing to do with you? I suppose you’ve even been up to her room again, have you?’

  Saika said nothing.

  ‘I thought as much. It’s my own fault, I shouldn’t have left it like that.’ His voice dropped lower. ‘Tell me. The truth. Did you take anything from there?’

  She nodded. He looked like he would burst from emotion, then raised his fist and punched himself on the thigh.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’d get so upset,’ said Saika.

  ‘So last night, when you were pretending to sleep on the balcony, you had this thing hidden under the blanket?’ he said.

  ‘Of course not! Why would I do that?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me! I heard! But of course you know that, that’s what you wanted!’

  She was too shocked at the accusation to speak. He glared at her for a moment. When he spoke his voice was quieter, but shaking a little.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’ll get from all this, but you won’t leave it alone, so listen,’ he said. ‘My mother had nothing to with it. It was her. Zareena. She was even jealous of the dog, so she poisoned it. I know because she told me.’

  Rafeeq sat in the hallway of the police station, on a bench that he’d covered with a carrier bag. He was still dressed in his recreational outfit. Despite the cool weather outside, it was stuffy in the room, and the smell of hot bodies laced the air. The cranky, dust-coated, old ceiling fan was hanging loosely and making a valiant effort to rotate, but with only doddering, rickety results and the ventilation was dismal. The fittings were shaking as well as the blades, and it looked as though it would fall on them any minute.

  An old woman in a burkha sat next to him, chewing in her sleep. He wondered which crime had brought her here. He began to wave at himself in an ineffective attempt to produce some air, and the drowsy woman’s head rocked on to his shoulder.

  A fat policeman with an oiled moustache came in pushing and smacking a teenager whose only reaction to the abuse was to laugh maniacally.

  Rafeeq wanted his interview to be over quickly. He was terrified of being caught – not by his wife, who was at home getting ready to go to KFC – but by one of the ladies that he’d paid to do not a lot to him. He’d already recognised one of them, but thankfully she’d been too engrossed in an argument with the arresting officer. She would certainly have sniggered at the memory of his weak and tearful embraces had she noticed him.

  The fat officer returned and beckoned in his direction. Rafeeq moved to get up.

  ‘Not you,’ said the policeman. He motioned towards the old lady, whose veil had slipped down over her face. ‘Her. Aao, baby, come.’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ said Rafeeq. He spoke into the top of her head. ‘They’re calling you.’

  ‘Haa, kya hai?’ said the woman, sitting up.

  ‘He’s calling you.’

  ‘Have they found my bangles?’

  ‘First come in, baby, then we’ll talk,’ said the policeman. Then, to Rafeeq, ‘Are you with her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame on you,’ said the woman, hobbling towards the policeman and lifting her veil along the way. ‘Can’t you see my age? Calling me baby baby. But never mind. You meant well. Trying to make me feel young.’

  ‘No, no bibi, my eyesight’s poor and I made a mistake. Sorry. And your face was not showing.’

  ‘There is that.’ Her voice was faint now, far down the hall. Rafeeq was stretching out and preparing to wait another hour or two, when another door opened and Inspector Sharif came out.

  ‘Rafeeq saab?’ he said. ‘Are you here to see me?’

  ‘Are you in charge of the
murder case? I mean Rabia’s son Pervez.’

  ‘Yes, please come in.’

  Rafeeq sat down in the office and dabbed his face with a beige silk handkerchief, although the room was much cooler than the waiting area.

  ‘Cup of tea, bottle?’ asked the Inspector.

  ‘Pepsi, please. Max if possible.’

  ‘Aah, very good. A man of no reservations.’ Sharif ordered the drink by shouting at the walls.

  ‘So, you have some vital information?’

  ‘Not vital.’

  The Inspector looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘Shall I tell you?’ asked Rafeeq.

  Sharif nodded.

  ‘On the day of the murder – last week. The 24th,’ said Rafeeq.

  ‘The 25th.’

  ‘Yes, the 25th. I got confused. I was there, at the Happy Suraj Guest House. In the evening.’

  ‘Were you staying there?’ asked the Inspector. He was doodling on the back of an envelope.

  ‘No, I was visiting.’

  ‘Visiting?’

  ‘Yes, a businessman. We had lunch.’

  ‘In the evening?’

  ‘He had a late breakfast.’ He stopped as the short-sighted policeman brought in a Diet Coke.

  ‘No Pepsi. Same thing,’ he mumbled. He put the bottle on the table and went out.

  ‘As I remember, there isn’t a restaurant in the Happy Suraj Guest House,’ said the Inspector. Rafeeq looked blank while his mind scoured itself for an idea.

  ‘We ordered chicken from Lahore Broast and ate it in the bedroom.’ He was pleased with himself. Although he was very unhappy with what he was doing, a fragment of the artist inside him was beginning to enjoy the inventive lying process. He was unprepared for Sharif’s next comment.

  ‘I see. I didn’t realise you were… that it was that kind of a liaison. Of course I won’t mention it to anyone, but I’d advise you to be very careful.’ It took a few seconds for his meaning to sink in.

  ‘No no no no no,’ laughed Rafeeq nervously. ‘You are misunderstanding me. It was just business. There was a lot of paperwork to do. We needed a big bed to lay out all the files.’ They looked at each other. Rafeeq decided his best bet was to continue without making any further persuasive efforts.

  ‘When the meeting was over, I opened the… er… bedroom door… it was Room 008. Opposite was 007. She opened it at the same time. Farzana. Pervez’s sister-in-law. She panicked when she saw me, and quickly pulled the veil on to her face and ran down the stairs.’

  The Inspector took a deep breath and examined his scribble. Rafeeq saw it was a quite good sketch of a curvaceous woman.

  ‘Do you like her?’ asked Sharif. ‘My parents never let me study Art. They thought it was a sissy subject.’ He embellished the picture with his signature. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before? Didn’t you think her behaviour was strange?’

  ‘I thought she was just being shy at the time.’

  ‘And later, when you heard about the murder?’

  ‘I didn’t want to get anyone into unnecessary trouble. Of course she had nothing to do with it. She must have been in there for another reason. Changing the towels perhaps.’

  ‘Then why have you come to us now?’

  ‘Because I heard you want anyone with information to come forward. And I thought if I tell you, maybe Farzana can supply you with some clues.’

  ‘We’ll speak to her,’ said Sharif. ‘Is there anyone to back your story up? This businessman, perhaps?’

  ‘We didn’t see eye to eye,’ said Rafeeq. ‘We broke it off. The business, I mean. He’s gone back to Saudi. He didn’t even leave a forwarding address.’

  Saika bit her cheeks to stop herself from possibly crying. She was shaking.

  ‘Everything alright, Saabji?’ called Gago from outside the door.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Gago,’ replied Anwar, his tone back to normal, though he sounded a little clogged up.

  ‘Just came to pass a message from Madam.’

  ‘Come in, Gago.’ Anwar got up and opened the door.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you. Madam has requested you go and see her after lunch. Should I serve it now?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Saika, not wanting to behave out of the ordinary in front of Gago.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Anwar, at the same time. Hearing his wife’s answer, he said, ‘Yes, please do. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ hazarded Gago, then tactfully withdrew without waiting for an answer. Saika waited a few seconds before following her.

  Anwar went to the window and looked out. He was disgusted with himself.

  In his dark room, smoky with incense, Baba whispered a chant as he wrote words from a Surah backwards on a piece of paper. He ripped it up into small pieces, put into a glass and poured water on to it. He told the young man beside him to drink, and swallow the bits of paper.

  A prayer for cancer, a prayer to make millions. A prayer to kill an enemy’s reproductive functions, a prayer to remove the devil inside a girl who had suddenly started misbehaving and doing badly in school exams. The man sitting here wanted his neighbour’s daughter to fall in love with him, and for her fiancé’s mustard crops to be affected by drought.

  Baba knew that something happened after he handed out the spells, that the people who came to him thought they worked. Of course the potions and packets produced no tangible, specific results. When a treatment did fail – as all of the anti-terminal disease ones did – it was easy to attribute it to a lack of belief and will to survive on the patient’s part.

  Baba had no power over jinns and spirits. Not that he thought such powers impossible. He believed in the unseen, and that there were ways of coming into contact with it. But he was terrified that one day a supernatural being would appear to do his bidding, and for this reason, he always performed his rituals a little incorrectly, left his blasphemous supplications a little incomplete.

  The young man gulped down the soggy paper and left with a packet of druggy ground roots to feed his would-be sweetheart unawares. Baba turned on the lights and sat down in front of the television with a bowl of sugar cane rounds. Playing around with the channels, he managed to find his favourite show – Deal or No Deal. He watched it more for the laughable behaviour of the contestants than the excitement of the money. He himself had no need for a windfall. He’d collected a nice little pile over the years, mostly from those who asked him to perform the most preposterous and fantastical miracles, matters outside the usual medical problems and personal rivalries. Granted, he did egg them on and make his own suggestions, but he was astounded both by the things they thought he was capable of getting for them, and those they were willing to procure or give up in return. The old Begum at the haveli was one of these nutcases, a woman with an obsession that had lasted decades. He felt sorry for the girl caught up in the affair, but what could he do, apart from try and minimise the damage? The Begum had always been a goldmine, and he was in no hurry to put a stop to that by persuading her to change her mind or telling her the truth.

  As Baba’s mind wandered, one of his other major sources of income – Rabia – who for twenty years had been keeping her husband in a zombie-like, slavish state through the power of the charms and black magic drinks he gave her (smashed and diluted sleeping tablets), appeared at the window, a somewhat paranormal vision herself, a dark face contorted with fury materialising out of the mist.

  Baba had expected her to come and interrogate him days ago.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said, chewing the sugar cane, sucking the juice and spitting out the fibrous rusk.

  ‘You betrayed me!’ she cried. ‘How could you? Look what you’ve done to him!’

  She bolted towards him.

  ‘Don’t try anything,’ said Baba. She stopped in the midst of her advance.

  ‘You don’t know what I can do. You wouldn’t even realise.’

  ‘But after all these years… you turned against me. My son.’


  ‘How many people do I help in this town? You think that the people that come to me become immune to the arts themselves? Every one of them is hated in someone’s heart. Whoever pays get the job done. You know that better than anyone.

  ‘But I’ll tell you now –Farzana only asked for a mild dosage. What she did herself I don’t know. All this blood – it was not my doing.’

  Rabia flopped on to the sofa. Baba took out a small cloth wrapped bundle from under the bed and opened it. He filled a pipe with a powdered mixture and gave it to her.

  ‘It’s too late for her now. It’s done,’ said Rabia, and inhaled, closing her eyes as her mind began to float.

  The Begum was dressed for an occasion. She was wearing a shirt with a Mandarin collar, made of purple oriental satin with a pattern of cherry blossoms, and two strings of pearls around her neck. A large brooch shaped like a chameleon and studded with emeralds was pinned on her shoulder. Her black hair looked as though it had flecks of brown in it today, and was in a plait that was pulled girlishly round to the front. She was knitting, and when they came in, she made an obvious pretence of hiding the white woolly object under the quilt.

  ‘Oh, you’ve seen it now! I didn’t want you to see me acting so much like a, well, a grandma!’ she cooed. ‘I thought neutral would be best, and then we can add ribbons in blue or pink, depending.’

  ‘So, you’ve heard?’ said Anwar.

  ‘Congratulations, my boy!’

  She held out her arms to him and he went to receive her kiss.

  ‘You too, dear!’

  ‘Gago told you?’ asked Saika, backing away after being given a Poison-scented hug.

  ‘Yes, yes, but don’t be too hard on her. It’s not her fault. I was upset, and she noticed. I’ve been thinking, my time will soon be up. But what will happen to you two in your old age without a son to look after you? I poured this out to her, and then she smiled and told me. You won’t be alone when I die!’

  ‘You shouldn’t be depressing yourself with ideas like that,’ said Anwar. Saika tried to look like she was touched by the Begum’s kindly proclamations.