“We have to go,” said Mara, thanking the lizards politely.
“No, we don’t!” said Southpaw. “Your Bigfeet won’t be up for hours. I’d just figured out how to use the lampshade as a perch, Mara, can’t we keep playing?”
“The time for games is over,” said the Sender, and her whiskers were so solemn, her green eyes so serious, that Southpaw let his tail drop, meekly following her onto the balcony.
The moon hung in the night sky, large, friendly and so bright that Southpaw wondered if the Bigfeet had found a way to polish it, just as they did their silver. (He and Mara had recently spent an afternoon watching with fascination as the Chief Bigfoot tackled this task.)
“That will help with the war,” said Mara. “We don’t have much time to lose. You should eat; there’s leftovers in my bowl, and you shouldn’t go into battle on an empty stomach.”
“War?” said Southpaw. “Battle? What are you talking about, Mara?”
“Eat,” said the Sender, and she would say no more until he had scoured the bowl clean.
When Southpaw had finished, she leaned over and washed his face, cleaning his whiskers instead of letting him do his own grooming.
“It will be a hard night for all of you on the Golf Course,” said Mara, “and you must be ready. Southpaw, when you go back, first you must wake up the peacocks, and then…”
When she had finished, Southpaw was looking at her in such a way that the Sender felt her fur ruffling.
“Is something wrong?” she said. “Your fur crackles with anxiety, and with something else. Is it the battle plans?”
“The battle plans are fine,” said Southpaw. “I won’t have much trouble carrying them out.” He rubbed his head against hers, but she could feel the stiffness in his whiskers. When he spoke, his mew was quiet and meditative.
“You’ve been my friend for so long,” he said, “that I forget you are the Sender, too. It worries me.”
Mara wrapped her tail around his, comfortingly.
“Don’t worry about the battle,” she said. “You’re all warriors, and if the plans go off correctly, your reinforcements will come in at just the right time.”
Southpaw’s tail flicked once, hard, from side to side.
“It’s not the battle that scares me,” he said. “It’s not what might or might not happen on the Golf Course. It’s what you’re planning to do, Mara, that makes my whiskers tremble in concern.”
The orange queen stood at the balcony railings, and her gaze travelled out and upwards.
“There is no need for concern,” she said. “I’m a Sender, and this is what Senders do. You handle the battle, and I’ll take care of my whiskers. I’ve done this before.”
Southpaw had stood up, stretching, ready to leave, but at this, he turned around. His mew was almost angry.
“Yes,” he said. “I remember the first time you came to the aid of the Nizamuddin cats as their Sender, and how you summoned Ozzy into battle.”
“Well, then?” said Mara, washing her paws, and letting the claws slide out as she prepared herself for what would come next.
“I also remember how you slept afterwards, and how long it was before your whiskers came back to normal,” Southpaw said grimly.
But the Sender didn’t seem to be listening. Her ears flickered once, idly, in his direction.
“Let me do my work, and you do yours,” she said. “I don’t tell you how you should slash at your enemies, or when you should feint, or bare your teeth. Go, Southpaw, or you won’t be able to rouse the peacocks in time.”
“But…” he began, his tail still switching from side to side.
“Go!” said the Sender, and she snarled at him, her hackles rising.
Southpaw’s back stiffened. He padded over to the goolar fig tree and left without so much as a head-rub, though if Mara had looked in his direction, she would have seen how often the brown tom turned back to look at her, how his whiskers quivered sadly.
The Sender did not look towards the goolar fig tree even once. Instead, she closed her green eyes and raised her whiskers, sending them out towards Old Delhi. The moonlight fell on her, catching the tips of her long white whiskers, turning them a shimmering, iridescent silver.
—
KATAR KEPT THE CHEEL in his line of sight as they wound through the sleeping lanes of the dargah. They had agreed to move in groups of four or five, so that they could break up and scatter more easily if there were Bigfeet or traffic along the way. Beraal was in the forefront, and she sent him a quick flicker of reassurance through her whiskers.
The tom fell back, wondering how they would manage the rest of the journey. The Sender had told them not to worry. “It’s all arranged,” she had said. But he, Hulo and Beraal would have to handle the situation on the ground, and he wondered whether they could keep so many cats under control. The clan hunted in separate groups, and only came together or linked in times of great trouble. They had never undertaken a journey in a group this large, and Katar found his whiskers trembling at the thought of the many things that might go wrong. Even the Sender did not know the exact route; the Golf Course was a large place, she had explained. Though her whiskers had explored it, she did not know it well enough to stroll back and forth between the course, Nizamuddin and her own Bigfeet’s house the way she had been able to travel between Nizamuddin and the zoo.
He fell back, realizing that they had reached the last of the alleys that led out of the dargah. His paws slowed of their own accord, and his paw pads caressed the rough gravel and the stones lovingly. He paused, letting the clan overtake him, looking around, wanting to take in all of Nizamuddin on his whiskers. Here he had come as a tiny kitten, following Miao around and demanding to be taught the basics of climbing and hunting before his paws could do more than wobble. This was where he, Beraal, Hulo and Miao had spent many moons and seasons meeting their Bigfoot friend, before the Bigfeet had shut down the tiny shrine and sent the fakir away from the neighbourhood. He turned, his whiskers running over the beloved roofs of Nizamuddin, committing the last of the trees to memory.
Katar’s whiskers tingled, telling him they were reaching the edge of their territory. He started walking again, moving towards the front. The clan would need encouragement. Their paws and whiskers would tell them not to cross, and it would take them an effort of will to move past the bounds of Nizamuddin, to leave the old scent markings behind.
Behind him, Hulo said, “A moment, my friend.”
He turned, and when he saw the great black tom, his shaggy head bowed, sitting in the lane with Qawwali, he stopped.
“My paws will not go any further, Katar,” Hulo said. “My ribs and my skin might stick together, but I was born here, and my whiskers will sigh forever for Nizamuddin, no matter how fat the feeding elsewhere. Don’t tell the others until they’ve reached the Golf Course, or more will waver. But Qawwali here needs me, Katar, between him and me, we’ll find enough food—we’ll live like princes once you greedy lot with your fat bellies have cleared out, yes? No, Katar, no sad farewells. No whisker rubs. You know I won’t stand for any of that nonsense. I’ll come and visit all of you once you settle down. Go, my friend. Lead them to safety.”
If he raised his whiskers to say goodbye, Katar thought his heart would break, and so he didn’t. He walked on without turning, and as his paws clicked across the cobbles on the sleeping streets of Nizamuddin, he thought of how he and Hulo had fought back to back in the war against the ferals, of the way they had brought up Southpaw, of the times they had brawled, or lined up hoping for the favours of the same comely queen.
Katar’s ears flicked and he let his tail lash several times; then he turned again and raced back as though his paws had wings. Before Hulo could let out a warning mew or the least of growls, Katar had touched his nose lightly to Hulo’s whiskers. He rubbed his old friend’s neck, and felt Hulo return the head rub, once.
“Look after Beraal’s kittens for me,” said Hulo. “Tumble needs more care than Ruff. M
ake sure she gets it.”
Hulo had kept the kittens alive through the past few hard months. Now it was Katar’s turn to help Beraal bring up the pair.
“I will,” said Katar. “When you get tired of the air of Nizamuddin, when your whiskers long for a change, come and visit.”
Hulo raised his own whiskers in farewell, and in good humour. “Who could tire of the air of Nizamuddin, Katar?” he said. “The rich stink of Bigfeet! Their incomparable perfume, going back centuries! Where else would you find such a fine aroma?”
And then Hulo and Qawwali strolled back down the alley. Katar looked up; Hatch was waiting, hovering at the edge of the rooftops.
The tomcat went ahead, walking out of the ancient alleyways, even though he could feel his whiskers pleading with him not to go beyond the boundaries, not to leave the familiar, beloved scents of home behind. The grey cat padded past the sleeping Bigfeet who had found shelter on the pavements, as homeless, helpless and as scrawny as any of the strays, and stood at the edge of the road. Behind him, Nizamuddin called; ahead, the road sloped upwards, towards an overpass that smelled of cars and gravel and other grim Bigfeet artefacts. His whiskers caught the scent of trees and open spaces quite some distance away, but these were masked by the harsher smells of petrol, Bigfeet clustered together, and the bitumen road.
Hatch flew down, and perched on a signboard. “Katar,” he said, “I know the cheel’s route to the Golf Course, but you cannot take that road—you would fall off the overpass and have to leap a few buildings. It doesn’t seem practical for cats. Did your Sender tell you what route to take?”
“There must be a Bigfeet route of some kind, aside from the sky roads you cheels follow,” said Beraal. Her whiskers, like Katar’s, twitched nervously; the urge to let their paws take them back home was strong, and it was hard to override the silent, insistent call of instinct.
Katar could smell her anxiety, and his own paws were stiff with worry. He spread his whiskers out, but they were no use to him; he did not know the terrain of the Golf Course, and he wondered which route the Sender wanted him to take. “If you flew very slowly, circling back from time to time,” he said to Hatch, “perhaps we could use our noses to read any scent trails the Bigfeet or other animals might have left. Wouldn’t we be able to reach the Golf Course that way, even if we had to go in fits and starts?”
Hatch ruffled his wings, trying not to let his own concerns show. This was his first mission, but how was he going to get a bunch of cats who couldn’t follow his flight paths across to the course? “We could,” he said cautiously, “but I’ve done a few surveys, and the question is, what part of the course do you need to go to? There are five possible entries, and if we go to the wrong one, your clan might need to walk an extra day before you meet Southpaw and the others.”
“I don’t know,” said Katar. Hatch hunched over, pulling his feathers up over his head for a second, and then his golden eyes blinked, accepting what the grey cat had said. He flapped his wings and rose up into the sky.
Katar raised his whiskers, and Beraal said quietly, behind him, “Mara travels so easily using her whiskers that she may not have realized it would be harder for us to stay in touch with a cheel. But if the Sender thought Hatch would be able to guide us, then perhaps we should try, and soon, otherwise the clan will grow restless, or lose heart.”
The heavy breeze changed direction and Katar’s nostrils filled with the scents of an unfamiliar world. The grey tom turned his head, but instead of looking back at his home, he faced his clan. The toms were terrifyingly lean; the queens had thin bellies; the kittens were listless, underweight. And yet, they looked back at him with trust, and some let their pink nostrils quiver as they, too, inhaled the aromas of an unknown future.
“Hatch?” he called.
The cheel, who had been idly practising flying in concentric circles, came back, hovering close by the cats.
“Beraal’s right,” Katar said to the cheel. “If the Sender thinks you can lead us to the course, we should try, at least. Perhaps you could fly in short hops?”
“Whatever,” said Hatch, agreeably. “But we should leave now, if we want to reach before the Bigfeet stir.”
Katar hesitated, and then he put his tail up, pretending a confidence he did not feel.
“Beraal, take the rear, so that any stragglers can be returned to the group,” he said. “Kittens to the front, nursing queens right behind, and I’ll expect all of you toms and queens who are healthy to take the flanks and sides, just in case we need to fight anything on the way. No need to look behind you, Abol, from now on we must keep our eyes and whiskers forward. All right, clan, let’s go.”
The grey tom walked out of Nizamuddin, and he felt his whiskers flare with sadness, as home stretched its beseeching fingers out to him. He refused to let himself slow down, though, and set a brisk pace that forced the other toms and queens to move just as fast. Before they could mew their farewells, they had crossed the vast, empty road, and they were on the concrete pavement, gingerly skirting around the Bigfeet who slept in their rags under the shelter of the overpass. Katar could feel his pawpads curl as they padded across the rough, unfamiliar gravel of these roads, the pitted concrete slabs of the pavements.
They crossed another strip of road, Beraal reminding Katar to check for Bigfeet and their cars, the night lamps casting glowing pools of light like oases in the darkness. Before them, the road bifurcated into two dull grey ribbons, and Katar hesitated, his paws unsure of which path to take.
“Hatch!” he called, but the cheel was a distant speck, far away in the sky. It was hard to tell which road he was flying over—hard enough to see him against the night sky, in the first place. The tom felt his fur stand up in dismay; they would have to wait until the cheel discovered that they weren’t following him. He felt his paws curl at the thought that the clan was very conspicuous—passing Bigfeet might not have spotted one or even two cats, but no predators, and certainly no Bigfeet, could miss seeing an entire clan of cats.
“If there’s any trouble at all,” he mewed softly, indicating that the toms and queens should pass the message on to each other, “hide in the ditches until Beraal or I mew an all clear.” They should have practised splitting up into groups, Katar thought, his whiskers rippling with discomfort, or finding hiding places. It had seemed so simple at the time; they would cross to the Golf Course and settle into their new home. He and Beraal had talked to the clan about the need to wait until the cats of the Golf Course offered them territory, to ask permission before they hunted anything at all; but they had never moved a clan of cats from one place to another before, and neither of them had thought to practise other manouevres.
High up in the sky, Hatch seemed to pause and veer sharply away. Katar watched him, puzzled by his erratic flight path. Then the grey tom’s tail switched back and forth, and he growled softly, unable to believe his eyes.
As clear as the stars, as sharply etched as the moon, the forms of five cats began to materialize in the night sky, far above their heads. Katar heard the mews and growls of others in the clan; they could not smell these strangers, who dotted the sky like a line of the Bigfeet’s colourful paper kites, but they could see them—a calico, a half-Siamese, a plump tabby, among others.
Katar slashed at the air, his teeth bared in a fighter’s challenge, but even as his claws sliced at the horizon, he knew it was no use. The sky-cats were too far away.
The calico was moving closer, looming out of the sky, and Katar felt a sudden tug on his whiskers. He backed, snarling, until he was up against the metal posts of one of the Bigfeet’s signboard. The calico hovered over the clan, and it seemed to him that her image flickered in and out, her fur oddly blurred, especially around the ears and tail.
“Well done!” she mewed, her ears up at a jaunty angle. “You must be Katar; the Sender of Nizamuddin said I’d find you and Hatch here. Mara’s planned this Sending so that none of us get our whiskers too tired, though I hope her own can kee
p us going until you get to the Golf Course. Is that the cheel listening? Hatch, we’re taking the route over the overpass—this way, around the roundabout, up past Khusro Park, got that? Umrrow Jaan will take over the next leg of your journey, then Jalebi will step in until we get closer to the Golf Course, and Mara can take you through that last stage. Quite astonishing, your little Sender, I don’t think we’ve had a group sending or summoning in Delhi for centuries. Katar, we Senders will stay low enough in the sky so that you can tell us to slow down or hurry up, depending on how fast the clan’s paws can carry them, and we’ll tell Hatch to fly fast or slow as you need. Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get on with this before dawn breaks and the Bigfeet find you out and about.”
“To the Golf Course!” mewed Katar, feeling his fears ebb from his whiskers. His tail was up, and though they had already walked some distance, he felt that he could lead the clan all night, if necessary. The grey tom’s paws clicked on the pavements, tapping out a happy tattoo as he followed the cheel and the brisk, shimmering figure of Begum, the Sender of Purani Dilli. And the cats of Nizamuddin followed him and Begum, their paws taking them further and further away from home.
Moonch inspected the sand trap, his snout quivering as he traced patterns across the smooth rake marks, blurring them. “Chamcha!” he called. “This could be a possible place for my burrow. Make a note of it, will you?”
Chamcha grunted, cautiously. “Of course, Moonch,” he said, his tail curling in an obsequious way. “You wish to move your quarters again? The birdsong disturbed you? Or was it that the sun slants in the wrong way?”
The Hundred Names of Darkness Page 31