Begum flickered in and out, looking around at the Circle of Senders. “Just as well the Viceroys weren’t here,” she said. “They’d have driven us mad, and been of no help at all; the bandicoots weren’t going to be chased away by a handful of bleating old goats. We’re done here, aren’t we? We should probably go back to our own homes; I hope the Sender isn’t too exhausted.”
Begum’s whiskers crackled with concern. She couldn’t imagine the kind of power it would take for one Sender to summon five more. Of course, it had made it much easier for the five of them to guide Hatch, going between him and Mara, than if Mara had tried to send to him on her own from the Golf Course. And except for Umrrow’s belief that what the cheel needed as he flew to the Golf Course was a consolidated dose of Sender gossip, it had worked perfectly. With Mara raising her whiskers from her home near the Golf Course, the Senders had set up a chain of links between the young Sender and Hatch. But it had never been attempted before. It was probably justified, the Sender of Purani Dilli thought, thinking of the vast bands of bandicoots they had seen as they’d left the battlefield.
The fairways were strewn with the corpses of the bandicoots, but the greens were finally peaceful. The Bigfeet would be puzzled, though they would probably leave the cats and the rest of the Golf Course’s inhabitants alone, Southpaw thought, as he took stock of their troops. He had found that the Bigfeet rarely cared if rats, mice or bandicoot were slaughtered, though they would make a fuss over an injured pet or a missing cow. The peacocks and the cats had sustained injuries, but suffered no losses. Hobson, the more fierce of the owls, had come out to help the cheels, but disoriented by the daylight, had attacked the stump of a tree with immense savagery. Before Southpaw could explain that he’d made a mistake, Hobson had declared himself the winner, and popped back into his hole, hooting in triumph.
“Famous victory, what?” said Thomas Mor, strutting around the course. “Did you see Henry and me peck the blighters to bits? That should be a warning to anyone who breaches the Rules of Golf. And these dashed blighters did! Rule 1-2: Must not exert influence on movement of balls or alter physical conditions. That includes tunnelling under the greens, blast it!”
—
IT WAS COLD, AND voices whispered in the dark. Kirri loomed over her. The mongoose’s claws made shadows on the wall; her silver throat was streaked and clotted with blood. The creature who lived on the black mountain panted, and his hot breath scorched her fur. A cobra rose up, and Magnificat screamed, flying through the air to attack the snake as its fangs struck at the Sender of Paolim. Bandicoots scurried around in Mara’s basket, climbing up her fur, swinging from her whiskers, pushing their pink snouts against her paw pads.
The Sender opened her eyes with some effort, and all the creatures of the night disappeared.
She was lying on the stone floor of the balcony. A sleepy koel called once, twice, from the branches of the tree. She had come home from the Golf Course, stumbling as she climbed the goolar fig tree, to find that her Bigfeet had gone out, perhaps for the evening. The Chief Bigfoot would come in the next day to feed her and play with her.
All of this went through Mara’s mind as she tried to raise her whiskers. She couldn’t. When the summoning ended, she had felt the blood start to drain from her paws. Calling one cat down to help would not have tested the Sender’s powers; calling and holding five Senders for so long had drained her. Her whiskers trembled incessantly, and she could do nothing to make them hold still again. A coldness settled into her fur, despite the heavy heat of the summer night, and she curled her paws around her belly.
She wanted to call out to Southpaw. Somewhere in the dark, on the other side of the road, she could sense that her friend searched for her, his whiskers slightly bloodied, a little bent, fresh scars on his fur. She had seen that much, and then the sky had spun around, the stars had wheeled and rearranged themselves.
Mara felt her tongue begin to dry out. She wanted water. Her bowl was over to the side of the balcony, a blue plastic bowl with a wide rim. It was a few feet away. It was too far away. She raised her head, and tried to mew, but no sound came out.
Then she felt the steady rasp of a tongue over her head, like the comforting touch of the towels the Bigfeet sometimes used to bathe her. She hadn’t heard Southpaw come up, but he must have followed very soon after her. She felt his whiskers touch her own, and she felt her whiskers rise again as the pain ebbed from their tips and from the tender fur on her face. “You have to come back, Mara,” Southpaw said. “Come home now, Sender.”
She felt his paws on her fur, and then he bent his head and washed her nose, her head, her eyes and whiskers. The tom worked steadily, calmly, breathing life back into her nose, her mouth. “Come home to me, Mara,” said Southpaw.
When she woke, briefly, out of that deep sleep, his reassuring mew was the first thing she heard. The summer night was cooler than she had expected, and crickets chirped in the distance. But Southpaw had curled himself around her body, cradling her protectively. His brown eyes measured the darkness as though he would hunt each one of the Sender’s nightmares down if they showed themselves; but the night showed him nothing but the ghosts of bandicoots.
The Sender rested, letting Southpaw wash her, letting his touch and the firm rasp of his tongue bring her strength. Once, she opened her green eyes and brushed his scarred, furry, beloved face with her own whiskers. They rested that way all through the night, the Sender and her warrior tom.
When she woke that morning, she purred at Southpaw, and he purred back. “Sender,” he said, “you may walk outside as much as you please, and fight as many bandicoots as you please, and hunt as often as you please. But if you ever go to those borderlands at the edge of summoning again, I will clip your whiskers myself.”
Mara blinked her green eyes at Southpaw. “No one tells a Sender what to do, Southpaw,” she said gravely. Then she washed the scar that ran from his pointed ears to his whiskers with care and love. “Except, once in a while, her tom.”
When she stretched and rose to see if there was anything left in her food bowl, Southpaw’s brown eyes narrowed, and his whiskers flickered. Mara said nothing, and he didn’t raise his voice in a mew or a snarl, but both of them saw the same thing.
Her fur was smooth and clean, the orange glowing in the morning sunlight. Her rounded belly was untouched, and her paws were pink and healthy. The Sender had seen the war of the bandicoots from a distance, intent on holding the link between Hatch and the Circle of Senders. But the strain of the summoning had left its mark. Mara’s long white whiskers unfurled, vibrating, unharmed, except for the tips, which had turned the colour of smouldering ashes.
—
SOUTHPAW STROLLED ACROSS THE greens, waiting politely for the Bigfoot to take his tee shot. “Splendid!” he said. “Remarkable how he always manages to hit the pine tree, just so, every time. Perfect aim for a Bigfoot.”
Thomas Mor bobbed up and down in frustration. “He wasn’t aiming at the pine tree, old chap,” he said. “It’s a tee shot, you see? He was trying to get it over to that side, where the green is. That’s the point of the game.”
Southpaw’s whiskers twitched in disagreement. “Don’t think so,” he said. “I think he’s got a bit of a soft spot for Kooky, frankly. He keeps sending her golf balls, and one of these days, she might even hatch one.”
Thomas spread his tail out and clicked it shut, like a fan. The Nizamuddin clan had fitted so easily into the life of the Golf Course that it was hard to imagine a time when Beraal wasn’t prowling the perimeters or when Katar wasn’t trying to knock some sense into Ruff and Tumble’s whiskery heads. Tooth, Claw and Hatchet had settled in on the roof of the Barakhamba Tomb, clearing the course in short order of the last of the rat and bandicoot infestation, and keeping the population of pigeons and shrews down to an acceptable number. They went back often to Nizamuddin, to catch up with Mach and her squadron of cheels.
All was well in Thomas’s world, except for one minor issu
e, the acacia thorn in the turf grass: the cats had absolutely no understanding of the Rules of Golf. They were civilized about it, staying off the greens and the fairways, though every so often one or the other of them succumbed to the temptation to use the sand bunker for a certain purpose. But they had no sense of the importance of tee shots, or the lie of the land, or when to take a drop shot. The peacock’s gorgeous plumes rose as he surveyed the blue skies, watching the clouds roll in, wishing the only member of the clan with a feel for golf were there.
Hatchet flew down to Thomas, his beak almost clattering with excitement. “You missed something, Thomas!” he called. “What a rousing game—that Bigfoot cleared the water with his tee shot, and then he made it out of the bunker and straight onto the green!”
“I wish I’d seen that,” said Thomas wistfully. “Did he sink his putt?”
There was a brief pause, and Hatchet said, “Didn’t quite catch that part of the game.” The cheel shifted nervously, his feathers flapping awkwardly. “Right then, got to go, Thomas, see you around.”
“Not so fast, young fellow, not so fast,” said Thomas, edging around the cheel.
“Why are you sneaking up on me from behind?” said Hatchet crossly. “No, wait, don’t look there. I’m not sitting on anything, really I’m not. Oh well, yes, I am.”
He hopped away, and a white golf ball rolled across the greens.
“Hatchet,” said Thomas sternly, “this has to stop, what? Conduct unbecoming of a raptor, hey? You can’t go off stealing golf balls! Ruins the game!”
“They’re so tempting,” said Hatchet plaintively, preparing to fly off again. “Sorry, Thomas. It’s out of love of the game, you know that.”
“Once and for all, Hatchet, they aren’t eggs!” screeched Thomas, as Hatch soared into the blue skies.
The thunder rumbled, and Southpaw sniffed at the air. He would just about have time to make it back to the Sender’s house before the rains came down. The brown tom hurried off, pausing to say hello to Katar and the kittens.
Katar sauntered across the rough, followed by Ruff, Tumble, and a pair of mynahs.
“They’re new,” said Southpaw, while the mynahs bobbed politely in his direction.
“Yes, well,” said Katar, his whiskers held at a defensive angle, “they’ve been listening during Ruff and Tumble’s training sessions, and it seems that they’re enthusiasts when it comes to hunting.”
Southpaw stared at the clan’s leader. “Katar,” he said, “you’re teaching mynahs how to hunt birds?”
“Lower your whiskers, lower your whiskers,” hissed Katar, “of course not. We’re learning how to hunt beetles, and worms. We’ll get to—what you mentioned—much later. When the mynahs aren’t listening.”
Tumble shot off to chase a butterfly. The listless kitten Southpaw remembered from Nizamuddin had undergone a complete transformation. It took the collective energies of Beraal, Katar and Southpaw, with some help from the owls, Hobson and Jobson, to keep track of her movements. And Ruff had filled out—he could almost keep up with his mother during their war games these days.
Southpaw would have stayed, and perhaps even joined in, but there was a tiny ripple in the breeze.
His whiskers tingled, and so did Katar’s and Ruff’s and Tumble’s.
“THAT WAS LOTS OF FUN!” a ringing, sleepy mew said, right in their ears. “I’M SORRY YOU COULDN’T FIND ME, MAMA, I’D GONE TO SLEEP AT THE BOTTOM OF A CARDBOARD BOX. AND I MET A BEETLE! WE’RE BEST FRIENDS NOW, DO YOU WANT TO MEET HIM?”
Southpaw let out a happy whiffle, letting his whiskers rise. “She’s up,” he said to Katar, unnecessarily.
“So we heard,” said the tom. “So did every bird and mouse in the neighbourhood, Southpaw, she’s even louder than her mother! You’d better be off, or she’ll start demanding to know where you are, and you know how loud she can get when she’s crying.”
“I do,” said Southpaw, with some feeling. At three weeks, young Monsoon, who had arrived with the rains, making as much racket as the thunder, had a way of making her presence felt.
On the balcony, Mara stopped Monsoon’s chatter by the simple expedient of holding the kitten down with a paw and washing her tiny nose and whiskers. Monsoon stopped sending, but she continued to squirm until she had broken free of her mother’s grip. “Mama, will you tell me that story again? The one about how you and I and Tigris all have long whiskers because we’re special?”
“At bedtime,” said Mara, rolling Monsoon over with a paw so that she could have her belly washed. “You’ve already heard it thrice today.” The kitten squeaked, but subsided, liking the rough rasp of her mother’s tongue across her wriggling tummy.
The Sender paused when she saw the familiar shape cross the road. Her green eyes were tender as she watched Southpaw cross the park and climb up the goolar tree to join his daughter.
Though all the characters in The Wildings and The Hundred Names of Darkness are fictional, they are based on strays I’ve met and grown to love over the years. The stray animals in India’s cities live, very much like homeless humans, in the margins, unnoticed, sometimes unloved, often in need of vaccinations, food, care and affection.
If you’d like to help, here are a few organizations that accept donations of money and of time:
RED PAWS RESCUE, DELHI: www.redpawsrescue.com
BLUE CROSS, PUNE: bluecrosspune.blogspot.com
PAWS INDIA: www.pawsindia.org
That unholy trinity: Meenakshi Ganguly, Kamini Karlekar, Peter Griffin.
The parents, Tarun and Sunanda Roy, Tara, JT, Rudra, Antara, Neel and Mia, for the encouragement, and for being kind enough not to hint that I should grow up and get a real job.
Margaret Mascarenhas, for sharing the Calvim house, her poetry, her Goa and Max with me. And for introducing me to Delilah, queen of the rooftops, pillow-stealer, incomparable warrior who met the greatest hunter of them all much too soon.
Ina Puri, for asking what Mara intended to do about the bandicoots.
Tripti Lahiri, for conjuring up Chancha and Meenchi.
David John Godwin, keeper of the flame in a swiftly tilting industry; Anna Watkins, Heather Godwin, Caitlin Ingham, Philippa Sitters, for all the many kindnesses.
David Davidar, Rachna Singh, KD Singh, Ninni Singh, for loving books as much as you do.
Pujitha, Bena Sareen, Aienla, Simar, Hohoi, Hina, Ravi, and all the other Alephbets.
The incomparable Prabha Mallya, for the illustrations and for walking through the hundred names of darkness with me one Delhi summer’s day.
Amanda Betts, my editor at Random House Canada, for the constant encouragement and thoughtfulness, and for laughing in all the right places. Kelly Hill, for reimagining the wildings in her stunning cover designs; many thanks to Louise Dennys and Anne Collins for championing both books, and to all of the Penguin Random House Canada team.
The Akshara Theatre, Anasuya Vaidya and all the performers of The Wildings, for giving the cats all nine of their lives.
The home team: Anita Roy, Arjun Nath, Doc, Keshav Palita, Kriti Monga, Mitali Saran, Ruchir Joshi, Salil Tripathi, Samit Basu, Shovon Chowdhury, Prem Panicker.
William Dalrymple, for letting me borrow a few Mehrauli goats.
Salman Rushdie, whose books lit up my imagination, and whose courage continues to be an inspiration. Thanks for your generosity and the kindness you’ve shown these wildings. The real Ferocious Attack dogs: Doginder, Alpha, Laddoo, gentlest and warmest of souls. And Oliver, who lives on in my memories.
And always, every time: Devangshu, without whom I would never find the words.
Nilanjana Roy is the author of The Wildings, winner of the Shakti Bhatt First Book Award, and a collection of essays called The Girl Who Ate Books. She is the editor of A Matter of Taste: The Penguin Book of Indian Writing On Food. Nilanjana lives in Delhi with three independent cats and her partner.
mes of Darkness
The Hundred Names of Darkness Page 33