The House that Spoke

by Zuni Chopra

  Pulling away, I closed the window as gently as I could. The paintings were quite silent. The Mughal warrior leaned back in his frame, his dark hair covered by a shiny metal helmet, his face relaxed and young, his moustache long and excessively curly, and his frame tilted at the angle he liked. His long, regal robe of deep blue was bunched up in a corner of the frame. Despite all that was said about the prestige it added to his figure, his outfit still looked like a dress to me.

  Suddenly, with a jolt, I remembered—my dress! I hurried over to the closet, forgetting, in my excitement, to be quiet. Not that it mattered; our carpet, glowing red and black in the morning sunlight, always muffles any noise. You may be old or young, good or evil, angrez or local; it doesn’t matter. For the brief space of time in which your skin touches her cloth, you are her child, in all the ways that matter.

  I really hoped I’d remembered to put my dress back in the closet! I flung open the door and—yes, there it was! It’s one of my favourite dresses because of its deep lilac hue. I don’t own anything else that’s purple. It had accidentally got caught in the front door the day before, and had a wide tear. I took it out of the closet, just to have a look, and ran my hands smilingly over the soft, mended cloth.

  My stomach growled, and I realized I was famished. Though it was breakfast time, I longed suddenly for Tathi’s rogan josh. My mouth watered at the thought of the spices, the crisp-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside mutton, the occasional red chilli immersed in the crimson curry and the taste of it all mixed with soft, light Kashmiri rice.

  I told myself sternly to stop that kind of thinking. It wasn’t doing my poor stomach any favours. Before hurrying down, I paused to glance in the mirror. My fingers tugged at the end of my loose, discoloured T-shirt. My two front teeth still stick out a bit, but I can’t help that. The dimple on my left cheek, once my testament to lasting beauty, had faded when I was nine. My jet-black hair fell across my shoulders in tangled waves. I was somewhat untidy, since I’d been asleep so long, but not altogether unpresentable. I caught my eye in the mirror. Wait—hold on—well, surely my hair looked better than that!

  The mirror rippled over, appearing liquid glass, then reformed again. My fringe lay nicely across my forehead, no longer as bushy and scattered as it had seemed a moment earlier. With a small nod of approval at myself, I turned to leave the room.

  I took the steps two at a time, hoping I could see Tathi sometime soon. Ma always said I had her brown eyes. I missed her food, of course, but most of all, I missed her stories. She’d told me such fantastic ones lately! My favourite was the story of Jalodbhava, the water demon that had once inhabited the lake our homeland had been ages ago, once immortal in its murky depths; but as Lord Vishnu drained his lake, he fled through the valley, only to be met with our patron deity, who brought about his end by crushing him with a boulder. It was a bit ironic, given that Tathi couldn’t read. I liked to sit by Tathi’s fire as she recounted these fantastical tales to me, and then fall asleep by her knee. The carpet was just perfect for such things.

  It was a pity she found it difficult to come over to our house; Gupkar Road had been her home, too, when she was younger, but she hardly visited any more. Ma said it was just her age. Whenever the story reached its end, she’d do up her squat, white bun again. She held it up with two black chopsticks. She wore thick, round glasses that were terribly old, but she said they held too many memories for her to change them.

  It was a long walk to her place, but I made up my mind to visit her as soon as I could. Maybe even in time for lunch!

  I reached the living room. Morning sunlight poured in from the window. I could just make out dewdrops on the grass. It must have been chilly outside.

  I was just wondering what I’d have to eat when I heard Ma coming down the stairs. I went to hug her good morning, throwing my arms around her chubby centre, and she smiled a rather tired smile, patting me on the back. Her chestnut-coloured hair was already twisted back into a bun, some strands still sticking out with morning frizz. Her eyes, however, were shining from a good rest.

  ‘I wish you’d wait a moment before putting your hair up. It looks so lovely when it’s loose!’

  ‘Zoon, I don’t like it falling over my shoulders like that. Now, are you hungry?’

  Changing the subject again. Well done, Ma.

  Well, I was hungry.

  In a few moments, Ma had provided me with a fresh, steaming hot chapatti. We had leftover haak from last night, so I was promptly served some of that as well.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said as I stared rather morosely at my plate, ‘it isn’t the finest of breakfasts. Well, I’ll go out to get some fresh food as soon as I’m ready; I’ll bring back something you like.’

  I wolfed down my meal, secretly quite satisfied but not wanting to pass up the chance to have mithai after dinner. ‘Jalebis!’ I said, my mouth full to bursting. ‘Ooh, and laddus, you must get some of those . . . what else . . .’

  ‘Remember,’ Ma said, cutting into my reverie before walking up the steps, ‘Chandani, Lameeya and Rani Auntie are coming over for lunch, so you’d better clean yourself up a bit and be polite once they’re over, all right?’

  I groaned. I couldn’t even visit Tathi! ‘Ma! Why must I be here when they’re over? It’s incredibly boring, and Chandani Auntie hugs like an elephant!’

  Ma tried to look disapproving, but the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. ‘Never mind that, you just make sure you’re ready.’

  I tugged disdainfully at my horrible, deep red salwar kameez, somehow wanting Tathi’s cooking more than ever despite my tummy feeling unreasonably full. It didn’t show, thank goodness; this was Ma’s dress, and so it was a bit loose for me.

  ‘I bet I look like I’m wearing a garbage bag,’ I griped at Ma as she came down into the living room.

  ‘Hush, and get yourself off the carpet.’

  I scowled. Until a moment before, I had been lying sprawled on the soft, welcoming carpet, in front of the door.

  I pulled myself up, flopped down on the wooden chair, put my head on the desk and pretended to be asleep while Ma came over to try and jam plastic red bangles down my wrist.

  Just as they made it past my palm, the doorbell rang. Ma paid me and my bangles no more attention than if we had been a part of the wallpaper.

  The door was promptly flung open, and a horde of gossiping ladies were welcomed in.

  ‘Oh, Shanti, how delightful to see you!’

  ‘I smell jalebis! Still the same sweet tooth, I see!’

  ‘Goodness, the house looks wonderful! Your garden’s really coming along! And—is that . . . Zoon? Why, you’d never recognize her! How she’s grown!’

  I braced myself for the inevitable. Determined to get Chandani Auntie out of the way first, I walked towards the trio.

  Unfortunately, Rani Auntie, decked in some sort of itchy sari and her signature bright yellow shawl, was the first to pull me into her grasp. She was a short, hearty woman, with pink on her cheeks no matter what the season, and a bit of a weakness for sweets, just like Ma. In fact, that’s how they met; they were both haggling over gulab jamun, and, having secured a satisfactory bargain for each other, became friends.

  Rani Auntie pulled me into a big hug, patting me roughly on the back, saying, ‘My, my, what a young lady she’s become!’

  Next up was Chandani Auntie, who seemed to want to make up for not being the first to hug me by ensuring that half of my bones were utterly broken and the other half nursing hairline fractures. She was a large, loud woman, our closest neighbour, who seemed to think that everything required her unnecessarily copious attention—especially me. For a good minute, she praised my bangles, my hair, my manners, my maturity, until finally, Lameeya Auntie came to—well, I can’t say my rescue—push me straight out of the frying pan into the fire, shall we say.

  She was a thin, bony woman, yet her smile was warm and caring. She stood straight-backed, as though one slip and she’d be left a hunchback for
the rest of her life. Her teeth were a bit too white, her eyes a deep, swirling black. She lived just down the street and she and Ma had gradually grown fond of each other. Her husband, Bhasharat Uncle, was the much respected ghodewala of the town; he was also highly entertaining and very lively.

  Today she wore a flowing pheran with zari embroidery blooming around her long neck and wrists. She patted me delightedly on the head and then said, ‘I’m sure you and Altaf are going to be great friends! He’s been away at boarding school, so he doesn’t know a lot of people here.’

  I hadn’t the slightest idea what she meant until she moved aside, revealing a tall, gangly boy, his hair a deep brown and flopping in layers, hiding most of his forehead. His cheeks were pink with the chill and chubby like a child’s. Altaf offered an awkward smile that spoke plainly of how little say he’d had about being there. As for me, I thought he looked a bit like a horse.

  I let out an ‘Oh!’ of recognition. An old memory, inexplicably fished out of some hidden corner of my brain, surfaced before me like a faded Polaroid, blurred at the edges by its age—watching curiously as a young boy played catch on his own in the garden so near ours, laughing every time he fell over, and sitting sulky and sullen on the front steps when his brother snatched the ball away. I’d spoken to him once too. I’d just been asking about the time, so not a very meaningful conversation necessarily, but I remembered thinking he was quite decent to have run back inside to check for me.

  The trio had moved as one, like a herd of buffaloes, to the back room. I hadn’t even noticed that Ma had spread some pillows about. Once they’d planted themselves on the carpet, she made to get some kehva. She smiled at Altaf before whispering to me, ‘What are you standing there like a goldfish for, Zoons?’

  Startled, I went about moving my frozen limbs. Turning around, I nodded at Altaf, feeling that he warranted some sort of acknowledgement, before dragging my feet a few steps and dropping down on to the bottom stair, already tired of a conversation that hadn’t even begun.

  ‘So, Shanti, do tell! How’s your boutique going? I bought the most beautiful shawl yesterday, but you weren’t at the shop,’ began Rani Auntie.

  Ugh.

  ‘Oh, all well, all well! Raj is as nice as ever, he always lets me take the unfinished ones home. Can’t be at work all the time, you know. I don’t like leaving Zoon home alone for too long.’

  Why not? I’m not a baby! And besides, it’s not like I’m ever craving for company! I thought.

  Altaf joined me on the bottom step. I stared at him. He stared at his toes. I gave it up.

  ‘Oh, of course! Do you know, I’ve been left home alone this morning!’

  She gave a tinkling laugh.

  ‘Yes, Bhasharat has gone with our eldest, Majid, to the mosque for morning prayer! I made them a few wish knots. Just to make sure they spend their time wisely!’ said Lameeya Auntie.

  The others joined in, giggling. I’d never been to the mosque.

  Altaf huffed indignantly; clearly he hadn’t been deemed old enough to join them. I didn’t, of course, say it, but it seemed quite clear to me why; despite the fact that he was much taller than me, I’d never have guessed him to be my age. His gaze shifted around the room, glazed over with mild interest yet not taking anything in. And it was then that I noticed a pencil stuck behind his left ear, almost as though he’d forgotten it there.

  ‘Oh, how lovely! I used to go to the temple every day, too, you know. They grow up so fast! Just look at Zoon! You must have your hands full, Shanti,’ Chandani Auntie chirped.

  ‘Oh, it’s easy when they’re as well behaved as she is. You’re quite right, though; time really does flash by. Incredibly, in little more than a week, she’ll be fifteen! But in some ways, it was easier when she was younger. I remember when I told her it was bad luck to stay up past one’s bedtime!’

  ‘What?’ I whispered outrageously to myself amidst more chiming laughter. I still believed that!

  I heard a stifled laugh and turned irritably to see Altaf staring innocently out of the window.

  ‘Yes, fifteen is going to be a bit of a challenge, Shanti! But now that she’s older, you can leave the house more often, come to the temple with me for Navaratri, perhaps,’ Chandani Auntie suggested eagerly.

  ‘Well . . . if there’s time . . . I keep a fast anyway.’

  ‘Goodness, I’ve only just remembered! Have you heard? Kheer Bhawani has changed colour again!’ burst out Rani Auntie. Clearly she’d been waiting for an opportune moment in the conversation to reveal this.

  They all gasped loudly, greatly excited.

  What did that mean? I turned to Altaf. Seeing my raised eyebrows, he whispered, ‘It’s the famous pond, you know, that changes colour according to the current fate of Kashmir. Ma really puts a lot of stock in such things . . . sometimes I think a tad too much . . .’

  I smiled. Leaning towards the desk and chair, I muttered, ‘Sounds just like her, doesn’t it? Sometimes I think she must be a bit—’

  ‘Are you talking to yourself?’

  I looked back to see Altaf frowning at me, confused. Turning sunset red, I stammered, ‘No, no . . . um . . . I was just . . .’

  Chandani Auntie’s bellow carried clearly from the back room, rescuing me from having to respond. ‘What colour is it now, Rani?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She sounded uncomfortable, as though she didn’t feel like answering, as though responding with any conviction would make the occurrence an inescapable truth that would dampen the merry chatter.

  ‘Black.’

  There was an impenetrable pause.

  ‘But you know, that was two days ago . . .’ she added hurriedly.

  ‘Why, of course. I’m sure it won’t be long before it reverts again, if it hasn’t already . . .’

  That pause again.

  ‘Well . . . I mean . . . it has got a bit worse lately, hasn’t it?’

  I was amazed at how hoarse Rani Auntie’s voice had become.

  ‘Without a doubt!’ squawked Lameeya Auntie, and I heard her sniffing angrily, as she always did when her temper ran high but her dignity ran higher. ‘It’s insufferable! Military posts every mile you walk, barbed wire running through the fields, everyone always on the alert! I mean, sometimes I really wonder whether this is the best place for a family raising two young children . . .’

  Altaf made a small noise in his throat. It sounded as though he meant it to be contemptuous but chickened out at the last minute. He hardly looked surprised, though; unlike me, he had heard this before, and gave me a tired grin. ‘This discussion’s been done to death, don’t you think?’ he put in, an attempt at light-heartedness.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. ‘It’s like we start out free and fast-paced, and keep hitting the same dead end every time,’ I replied. ‘And we’ve no clue where to go from there, obviously, so we just keep going in circles, hoping to find something new.’

  He blinked at me for a second, and then nodded slowly. ‘Right. Yeah. I was thinking the same. Um . . . you’re almost fifteen, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He puffed out his chest, filling up with air, tossing back the hair that flopped against his eyes. ‘I’m fifteen and a half already,’ he said, his glances at me betraying a certainty that this would earn him the utmost respect.

  I nearly laughed, but passed it off for an impressed gasp at the last second.

  ‘I mean, my brother’s always been older, of course, but I’m catching up to him!’ he finished proudly.

  ‘How enthralling!’ I replied. Concealing my grin in the loose sleeve of my kameez, I feigned attention as Chandani Auntie’s heated voice came from the living room once more.

  ‘No, it’s impossible,’ Chandani Auntie agreed. ‘Do you know my business has dropped considerably?’ she added after a beat.

  Ma finally spoke.

  ‘But . . . why . . .?’

  ‘NO TOURISTS!’ Chandani Auntie barked, probably rising half out of her chair.

  Alt
af jumped in the middle of scratching his nose, poking himself in the eye and cursing under his breath.

  ‘And how exactly am I supposed to sell a single carving if there’s NO ONE to SELL IT TO?’

  ‘Horrible, horrible . . .’ murmured Ma. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed the drop in customers too . . .’

  Had she? She never told me about it!

  ‘Well, I don’t blame them. Who’d want to be woken up with gunfire every morning?’ put in Lameeya Auntie.

  ‘Okay, that’s exaggerating . . .’

  ‘But, Rani, you must admit, it’s getting worse and worse every week! Bombs being thrown about, my neighbour’s son gone blind in the firing, such violence in the streets almost daily! And with riots every second sunrise, why, I shouldn’t think it was safe to come near here at all!’

  Rani Auntie fell silent.

  At last, as everyone was shepherded out of the door, with cries of keeping well and meeting again soon, and Altaf having his hair ruffled five times over, I waved goodbye before sinking tiredly against the wall.

  It is a curious thing, but I have noticed that doing nothing at all often expends more energy than leaping about on one’s feet all day.

  I glanced out of the window. The sky was bordering on a delicate pink, clouds wafting a subtle orange, gentle stars beginning to wake, the sun about to sink gracefully against the mountains, behind the chinar tree. The houses outside, our neighbours, some with thatched roofs, some with metal slats, only a few with bricks, seemed to stand firm without a sweltering sun melting them down. I could see the trio breaking up further down the road, in the shade of the lush, tall willow trees, waving and laughing before turning their separate corners and heading off.