by Zuni Chopra
It was evening.
Far away, perhaps somewhere nearer the centre of town, a gunshot sounded. Snarls, shouts and yelps came tearing after it, bursting through the streets, some drunk with anger, others with power, all swaying dangerously, destructive and unstable. This was followed by a series of angry hollers, whether for intimidation or encouragement, I could not tell.
Vaguely hoping to go up to the library to find a good book, I turned away from the window.
‘Zoons! Come to the living room.’
‘Ma, now?’
‘I’ll only be a moment.’
I walked towards the living room to find Ma stoking the fire. Its embers shimmered and crumbled around each other, burning from the inside out, beginning a small, steadfast flame. She stared pensively into its depths, as though expecting to see something more than red and gold. When she straightened up, I saw two dry red mirchis clutched tightly in her right hand and very nearly rolled my eyes.
‘Ma!’ I complained. ‘Seriously? There’s no buri nazar near here.’
‘Well, everyone was admiring you in your lovely salwar kameez, and it’s better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it?’
With the precision of a magician, she rotated the mixture of chillies, rock salt and dry mustard seeds, thrice clockwise and thrice anticlockwise, spinning me around once or twice as she did so. Finally, she pressed them to my forehead and uttered a murmured prayer. Then she thrust the mixture into the fire. It crackled loudly, furiously—a demon unleashed, which was destroyed by the flame. We waited, but no fumes were released, no telling smoke that betrayed innocence, and slowly, the chillies turned black. ‘There,’ Ma said triumphantly. ‘I told you so! You mustn’t leave things like that in the air.’
I gave a small huff, defeated.
‘Altaf asked if you could come over sometime. To play cricket.’ She smiled, foreseeing my response.
I pretended to think hard. ‘The former, maybe. The latter . . . hmm . . . let’s say, never in a million years.’
She chuckled, seating herself by the fire. Her finger began swirling at the heated marble where it melded with the carpet, eyes intent on some point at the centre of the blaze, waiting for it to shine with hidden starlight, revealing a deep night sky within an inferno of light.
Somehow, she seemed abruptly blown away by myriad trains of thought, which had all left the station at once and had had a terrible collision on the tracks. Suddenly, she appeared as a king lost for orders, a mask lost for a human face, a writer lost for words.
I watched her for a moment, a bit puzzled by this unprecedented contemplation, and then turned to go upstairs.
It was a bright night. Too bright. He looked up at the full moon and snarled, deep and shuddering, creating abysmal furrows in the dry earth beneath him. He moved closer. The house radiated warmth, as did that pathetic shrub before it. But yet . . . it had softened. It was weakening every day.
With a gentle hiss that promised death, Kruhen Chay lunged at the chipped, tumbling chimney—and was thrown back with a resounding force, so that he felt a part of him revert once more to empty shadow, harmless as the twinkling stars. He cried out in agony—a guttural, animalistic wail, smarting with maddening frustration. Their Guardian—whoever he was—would not yield. It was this Guardian, he knew, this concentration of gushing magic, this embodiment of all things that opposed him, which was shielding the house, preventing his entry still.
And it was then that he was struck with an idea, his lips melting into a smile, the air around him growing thick and foul.
Yes. A Guardian—his Guardian. His weapon to use at his will. A vessel to pour himself into, an accumulation of darkness rather than light. To strike just when their defences seemed weakest. Twisted elation rose up in him at the idea of victory—finally, victory—after all these years of pathetic, agonizingly fruitless struggles.
But—no! He would never need humans again! He had seen to that! He could not, would not ask a human for aid; it was too much to ask of his pride . . .
Ruefully, hatefully, bitterly, he forced himself to accept it.
He’d find himself a useful human, he promised, to bind himself to. A human who was easy to bend to his will, a human who had already allowed him to worm his way into their pathetic, empty heart. A human who, thus, would never fight his dominance, would never doubt his control, would never question his power.
A human who had enough influence of his own to give him what he needed.
A house.
That house.
Devoured.
Chapter Three
A few days had passed since Ma’s friends had been over. What promised to be the last splatters of autumn rain were beating against the slopes of the valley. Occasional raindrops pelted against the window, trickling down the glass. The world outside was clear water and jade-blue evening, and they melded and fused till one was the other, and not even the creator could have told where they joined.
Just as I turned from the window and moved to go downstairs, a moment of lethargy gripped me by the shoulders and I slumped back on to the bed. I landed face first, like a sack of flour, my cheek pressed against the soft, white, embroidered cotton. My eyes fell on Ma’s poetry book, kept carefully on the bedside table, the book she loved to read from every night. My head began to swirl with her favourite lines, lines she read out to me on nights we stayed up together, and I smiled. My eyelids fluttered closed.
A sharp rapping at the front door wrenched them open again. Irritated and indignant, I picked myself up from the bed. Why, I’d never known anyone to knock as impatiently as that! I stuck my head out of the doorway.
Just then, Ma zipped down the stairs like a cannonball. She shot past me, as indifferent to me as if I’d been part of the door, not even noticing when the end of her salwar caught and tore on the banister. After a moment of surprise, I followed her. Who on earth was this guest that she was so eager to greet? Surely, then, it couldn’t be someone I’d seen before!
Straightening her dupatta hurriedly to cover up the rip—which, I noticed, was one of those special ones she didn’t use often—Ma flung the door open.
In the doorway stood the most repellent little man with a pineapple of a nose. His hair was utterly black and slicked across his scalp. His long, thin face threw his bulbous nose into further relief.
‘Zoon,’ began Ma, after pleasantries had been exchanged, a little out of breath from the speed with which she had run to the door, ‘I’d like you to meet Mr Qureishi.’
‘Is this your daughter, Mrs Razdan?’ he inquired politely before leaning across the threshold to shake hands with me.
Cautiously, I placed my hand in his large, rough palm for one quick shake. I was utterly unable to take my eyes off that nose. Monstrous!
‘Yes, this is Zoon,’ Ma said with a most un-motherly giggle. ‘Oh, where are my manners? Do come in!’
She stepped away from the doorway to allow him inside. I gritted my teeth slightly as he crossed the threshold.
He wore a crisp black suit with a smart, stiff black tie, entirely devoid of crinkles. His shoes were polished so thoroughly I could see my own apprehensive face reflected in them. He carried a small nut-brown briefcase with the words ‘Mihir R. Qureishi’ stamped across them in faded gold. In other words, he did not look the type who had come for a gossipy luncheon.
So why was he here?
He shook his drenched umbrella outside, and then left it leaning against the wall next to ours. The door closed gently, shutting out the noise of the rain all at once, as though cutting short the fierce roaring of a mythical dragon in the night.
‘Chai? Kehva? Coffee?’ Ma offered, ignoring the fact that we didn’t have any coffee.
‘Oh, no, thank you. I’d have loved to stay for some kehva, but I must hurry. I’ve another appointment after this, and it will take me an unbearable amount of time in this downpour.’
I looked at him disgustedly. What was he blaming the rain for? Did he expect the universe to b
end itself to his appointments?
‘We’ll hurry along then.’
Ma gestured around vaguely. ‘We call this the front room,’ she spluttered. ‘We’ve a small cooking range over there . . . and . . . some windows . . .’
He raised his eyebrows at the quill resting against the wall in a small, dark blue inkpot seated on the beautifully carved desk. He extended one long finger and touched the length of the smooth wooden surface, as though checking for dust. I fought the urge to smack his hand away.
‘Ma,’ I said slowly, ‘can you tell me what this is about?’
‘Hmm?’ she replied, looking purposefully vague. ‘Oh, and that’s the living room! We’ve a fireplace in there . . . not much . . . very old . . . I was thinking of adding a few chairs and things . . .’
Was she? Why? We loved sitting on the floor, she knew that!
Mr Qureishi followed Ma into the living room, his gaze lingering on the family crest. ‘That’s been there for as long as I’ve lived here. I’ve never thought of having it removed,’ Ma said, tracing his gaze.
‘Oh, no need to. It’s charming.’ His eyes shimmered for a moment. Yet he sounded as though he found it as dull as a maths textbook.
‘Thank you . . . It’s always been a . . . a rather unusual house . . . Upstairs?’ Ma offered.
His gaze clung to the fireplace. ‘Do you know, many people would be quite interested in having the family crest of a Pandit on their fireplace. Indeed a potential selling point.’
What? What on earth was he talking about? I gritted my teeth.
The upstairs bedrooms had been even worse. He told Ma that he liked what she’d done with the library, though he stared at the dusty bookshelves as though the books were not at all to his taste. He planted himself on the squashy armchair and pronounced himself satisfied with the ‘aura’ of the room. And then he had the audacity to step into the bedroom and smile—or whatever it was he did with his mouth (it had been quite overshadowed by his nose)—at the paintings of Mughal warriors, saints and rulers, particularly those of the Kashmiri Pandits at the head of the bed. Finally, with the corners of his mouth tilted ever so slightly upwards, he turned to speak to my mother.
‘I am pleased with the interior of the house, Mrs Razdan. You’ve retained a great deal of the house’s history, which always attracts many buyers. We’ve already got a few potentials lined up, you know. If we added heating, and perhaps a television or a stereo on that desk with the feather, we’d have the deal closed in no time. I’m so happy you’ve decided to sell.’
An insidious fury had been rising up within me and it burst out, as though from an overfilled balloon, sudden and intense. ‘Sell?’ I didn’t bother keeping my voice down. It thudded against the walls and seemed to be a solid object expanding between me and the other two people in the room. ‘We are NOT selling this house!’
Mr Qureishi’s lips pursed involuntarily.
Had I been rude? Excellent.
‘Zoon . . .’ Ma began. I rounded on her, rage erupting like an unattended firework.
‘You just decided to sell? Without even asking me? Or telling me?’
‘Zoon, it isn’t like I’m not doing the right thing here . . .’
Mr Qureishi walked towards the door, speaking in a dull monotone. ‘I’ll give you two a minute, shall I?’
I wanted to fling him from an open window and make sure he landed on cement. But I had more pressing matters to attend to.
‘Ma, the right thing? On what level could you possibly be doing the right thing?’
‘Zu, keep your voice DOWN. It would be good for us to get a fresh start somewhere. We’re absolutely dwarfed here; we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. My shawls would sell better! You could go to a good school! You could see more of the world! You’ve hardly even seen much of Srinagar, thanks to all these curfews and restrictions! Besides, Zoon, it isn’t safe for Pandits to live here any more.’
‘MA! I can’t believe you’re saying this! We’ve lived here all our lives! You want to just move to some . . . some . . . city?’
‘Now, Zu—’
‘And for WHAT? What’s wrong with the shawls you sell here? What’s wrong with the friends we have here? I’m happy here!’
‘But Zu, we could—’
‘Ma, I don’t care. I know everything you’re saying may be valid. But I had a right to be told. IT’S MY HOME TOO!’
Encouraged by pure savagery, a nasty, spiteful little spirit born of my anger, I continued. ‘I know the real reason you’re selling it anyway! You just can’t BEAR to be here after what happened! You think Dad’s spirit is lingering here and traumatizing me or something! Well, the only one who’s still traumatized by Dad is you!’
Hurt. Real hurt. Grief and pain. I could see it in her eyes. I should never have brought up what happened to Dad . . . but I couldn’t stop myself. ‘And besides, you’d get heaps of money, wouldn’t you? Don’t tell me you’re doing this for me, Ma, because that’s a bunch of—’
‘Enough.’
She said it quietly, but there was danger behind her words, her eyes, her trembling fingers.
‘You have never thought of anyone but yourself, have you, Zoon? Not even, perhaps, of poor Tathi? I suppose it has passed Your Highness’s notice that she’s becoming weaker and older? She needs to go to a place where she can be taken care of! Not stay here in this . . . DUMP where you can’t even obtain a Band-Aid without walking half a mile! She can’t live in a place like this any more! So I’d thank you to be a bit more understanding instead of being spoilt and bratty!’
‘You think Tathi will agree to leave?’ I shot back. ‘She spent her childhood here, she got married here, she loves it here! You’re the only one who doesn’t like our house, because you never knew what it’s like to grow up in it, and you’re only selling it for yourself!’
‘Enough, I said!’ she roared, her patience finally reaching its limit. ‘Zoon . . . if you can’t learn how to be civil to your elders, and particularly to guests, then you can STAY UP HERE FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING!’
She slammed the door shut.
I heard her breathing slow as she thumped downstairs. She had never yelled at me like that before. Had I asked for it?
Oh, no. I had, hadn’t I?
But so had she!
Their voices came muffled from behind the door, and yet their words reached me clearly enough to scald my bones.
‘Er . . . all settled then?’ asked Mr Qureishi, awkwardly, uninterestedly.
Her voice still shook when she spoke. ‘Oh, quite all right . . . daughters, you know . . .’
I cringed. It hurt even more to be referred to as ‘daughters’.
‘Oh, yes, I quite understand. Shall we have a quick look at the exterior of the house?’
‘Of course.’
I threw myself on the welcoming bed. I closed my eyes and felt the cotton grow wet under my cheek.
When I curled up in bed that night, my anger had barely evaporated; it blazed on, like an unquenchable fury that I didn’t try to restrain. I was, however, getting quite drowsy, and the sheets were thick, warm and comfortable.
Deep blue light shone from the window. Occasionally the call of a shrill songbird struck shattering notes, jarring in the silence.
I looked around me at the portraits huddled up in their frames. Their beautiful colours were washed over by the dim light, but I could sense the bursting hues of their paint just underneath, like treasure buried in a shallow shore, with nothing but a watery gossamer separating it from the wind. They grunted frequently, and the long, drawn-out snoring of the king, with his crown perched lopsided on his wavy hair, was putting me to sleep.
I was a bit calmer then than I had been when I had yelled at Ma, though the thought of it sent blood coursing painfully through my veins again. But it is very difficult to be mad at someone when you’re tired, and all I could do was wonder about the incident with curiosity. What was I going to do to stop the sale? And why was Ma so steadfast ab
out selling the house anyway? Why wouldn’t she listen to me? Tathi would never agree! Would she?
These thoughts and a zillion others flowed around inside my head like magma, leaving behind a tinge of anger and yet arousing my interest. They danced about drunkenly, and when they finally turned to pirates battling blue-scaled sea serpents on unknown shores and gods blessing brave warriors with enchanted arrows to slay the rakshasas, I knew I had fallen asleep.
I was dimly aware of Ma climbing into bed next to me, putting her face in her hands, and sighing deeply before laying her head on the pillow and allowing sleep to waft over her.
The next morning, when I glanced out of the window, I saw that the rain had ceased. But the clouds hung fat and heavy against the sky; it was by no means finished. The sun leaned wearily against the mountains. The valley was lush and green, a fresh coat of paint having been lovingly splashed on to it by the rain. In the distance, the light blue of a large new puddle glinted up at me merrily, unaware that soon the heat would wipe it away.
Right, I told myself sternly, there’d be no more pity parties. I had to take action. I had to take charge. I had to, to begin with, make sure everyone knew what was going on.
I glanced at the portraits. No good—they were all still asleep. Goodness, they slept something like twelve hours a day! Perhaps it was because they lived in a bedroom . . .
Ma was already up. Her sheets were tousled, tangled, twisted and utterly uncared for, thrown across her side of the bed. I straightened them, scowling. She must have gone downstairs to make herself a morning cup of kehva. Which meant that I could go sit in the library undisturbed and see if either the books or my favourite worn, cushiony black armchair had any inspiration or advice to offer with regard to the sale.
I tiptoed across the hall, leaving pillows under the sheets in case she came to check on me.