The House that Spoke

by Zuni Chopra

  Chapter Seven

  I can normally never tell just by how a dream is going what is likely to happen when I wake up. I often mistakenly relate the way a dream unfolds to how I will feel once I wake. But that, of course, is hardly ever the case. For example, I could be trembling through a nightmare of the most terrifying, disgusting night-crawlers scuttling hidden beneath the floorboards, and then wake up to find Ma waiting with hot milk and a kiss. Or I could be dreaming of discovering a hidden island, filled with fantastical creatures, only to be woken, as I was today, by a horrible creaking noise that made nails on a chalkboard sound like the melodies of Tansen.

  At first, I was almost sure I’d imagined it, for the bedroom seemed as rumpled and quiet as ever, the portraits silent but for the occasional snore or grunt. Then I heard it again—a sharp scraping noise that sounded like someone was twisting a robot’s arm off. With a jerk, I catapulted out of bed. Hurriedly, I flung on a mishmash of creased clothing, brushed my hair just to the point where no one could mistake me for a homeless person and burst out of the bedroom door.

  It was then that I caught the quiet gabble of voices coming from downstairs. I nearly groaned aloud.

  Once I arrived downstairs, my worst fears were immediately confirmed. What was once a peaceful living room had been converted into a harbour of sweaty men who roamed around checking this and that, making notes on little scraps of paper and occasionally moving over to Mr Qureishi who, I noticed, had seated himself grandly in the front room on the chair like some emperor.

  Both the desk and the chair were unusually grim and silent; they had, at last, found something they could agree on.

  Ma was leaning nervously on the desk, twisting her thumbs together, her eyes darting from person to person. Whenever a man came over to talk gruffly about work to be done and further pay, she’d nod and mutter, while neither the man nor Mr Qureishi paid her any attention. I could have smacked my head against the wall just to end all of this, and the day had barely begun.

  I walked over to them and gave Mr Qureishi a smile so tight and lifeless that it could hardly have been mistaken for anything other than a sign of wholehearted dislike.

  ‘Ma,’ I asked her, my lips still pressed together in a furious smile, ‘what are these people doing here?’

  ‘Well,’ she responded, glad to finally have an opportunity to make her seem in charge, ‘they’ve come to help us whip the house into shape. For the buyers.’

  ‘So many of them?’ I muttered, looking around at the flurry of movement; they looked like a flock of squawking geese as they moved from here to there, inspecting the kitchen range, knocking on the sturdy walls and sighing at the old wiring that I’d never known us to have any problems with. The sheer number did nothing to improve my mood. I dragged my feet across the carpet and into the living room, mainly to get away from Ma and the realtor, the two people who seemed to be successfully recruiting members and sponsors for the Make-Zoon-Miserable foundation.

  I came across a man lying flat on his back in the bathroom, a toolbox open near his feet—evidently the source of the horrible creaking that had woken me. Before I could speak, I heard a sudden shriek and jumped at the noise, gasping.

  The plumber turned fleetingly to stare at me with a look normally reserved for the unhinged. I stared steadfastly at my toes, trying hard not to look too excited, for I had recognized the call as belonging to the rusty, grated voice I’d been hearing in the walls.

  ‘Zoon!’ came the short cry once more.

  The plumber gave a great sigh, rubbed his grimy, blackened hands on his equally filthy shirt and exited the bathroom with some difficulty, presumably to speak to Ma about a change in payment for his services—again. I slammed the door behind him; in the general chaos, it went unnoticed.

  My head snapped around, ears pricked and eager to identify the speaker.

  ‘Me! Down here!’

  My gaze fluttered to the metal tube that had been in the plumber’s hands. It hung half in and half out of the wall, seemingly stretching to come closer to me. I knelt down at once, bending low in case anyone else came by to question my sanity.

  ‘That’s it! It’s excellent to see you at last, I must say . . . although I’d imagined you to be . . . bigger somehow . . .’ began the pipe.

  ‘You’re the one I’ve been hearing inside the walls?’ I muttered, astonished.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m one of the pipes. We’ve been trying to speak to you, Zoon, because it’s of vital importance that you understand what I’m about to tell you.’

  His hurried voice dropped an octave and became deep and silken as molten chocolate, so that I had to lean forward to catch his next hushed words.

  ‘These pipes are imperative to you. Do you understand? We were built with the house itself. The majority of us do not carry water; we carry steam. We were not made to be simple plumbing. We are your protection.’

  There was a faint ringing in my ears.

  ‘The armchair told me . . . he said . . . steam is better than smoke because . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ cut in the pipe, speaking quicker then. ‘And that’s why we could be your greatest asset in the looming battle, alongside your growing powers. When you need us—’

  ‘Hold on! There’s going to be a bat—’

  ‘Don’t interrupt, we haven’t got time—that man will be back any minute to shove me back into the walls again. So listen to me. Call us, and we will come. Got it? We are a part of your army, as we have always been, and we will not hesitate to aid you valiantly on the battlefield. Magic and light will trump over evil. Never fear.’

  ‘But—what—wait—’

  He had rattled on so fast I had barely caught his words.

  There was so much I wanted answered: what battle was he talking about? How did I fit into all of this? I couldn’t fight battles! What did he mean I have powers? Unusual things had been happening, yes, but . . .

  At that precise moment, I heard heavy stomps amidst the racket outside, and straightened up again. The plumber marched in once more, a tuft of green sticking out of his front pocket, brushing past me as though I’d been nothing more entertaining than a slug. He bent down where I’d been moments earlier, roughly ramming the poor pipe back into its alcove in the wall. I glared at the plumber, suddenly ensnared by a haughty dislike.

  ‘Are you breaking our pipes?’

  He looked up, and I noticed then that his face was crudely moulded, like putty by a child, his eyes an odd, misted grey, and his mouth so twisted that I could never tell whether he was smiling or grimacing. His lumpy cheeks were blanketed in rough grey stubble, enough to make him seem dishevelled but not enough for him to spend money on a shave. He stared at me a moment too long before responding, and already the atmosphere was uncomfortable.

  ‘No, I’m just fixing them.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘The people in this house.’

  ‘I’m the people in this house.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . . the new people in this house.’

  ‘There aren’t any new people.’

  ‘For you, then. I’m fixing them for you.’

  ‘I don’t want them fixed.’

  ‘Look, kid, I’ve got to work on this. I can’t play now, all right?’

  ‘Don’t break my pipes.’

  The plumber sighed at the ceiling, spared me half a second’s glance and then went back to twisting the bolts on our rusty pipes.

  A weary irritation simmered inside me, weary because it had already been felt so many times before. I stared intensely at the bolt that the plumber was working on. It was a small bit of metal jutting out from under the sink, and it appeared to me like some sort of clawed foot creeping out from under the browning white. It pressed against the pipe around it, as though it had been jammed into an opening far too small. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be shivering, like it was dying to escape. Sold. Sold. SOLD. The brash, angry thought grew wider and wider in my mind, till it had shoved out everything else
, and all that was left was an awareness of my own misery and the image of that silly bolt.

  Suddenly, the bolt popped out of its socket, as though launched from a slingshot. It smacked the plumber on his sagging right cheek, narrowly missing his eye. I started, and he cried out in pain and surprise.

  I stood there like a wax statue, with my eyes wide and demented as he rubbed off the first layer of his skin while swearing furiously. My fingers fidgeted ceaselessly, scuttling around the back of my hands like insects, searching for a way out. The armchair’s words, then pressed forth by the pipe’s, stirred darkly in the back of my mind. I certainly had never been able to move bolts before. Not without having laid a finger on them anyway. And certainly not at that speed.

  I took a deep, shaky breath. But I hadn’t made that happen, I told myself. I hadn’t.

  Then, guiltily, I began to wonder . . . would it be so terrible if I had? What was wrong with using this new-found power to help stop the sale? I was saving the house, wasn’t I?

  A moment later, every bolt in the pipework burst out like fireworks, showering the plumber with sickeningly filthy water and leaving him spluttering out curses. Grumbling, he began all over again.

  I shut the door to the bathroom with a slight smile.

  Immediately, I felt my spirits rise further. From an open window in the front room, beyond the sounds of blades hacking through wallpaper and Ma’s meaningless trills, I heard a voice that was light and excited trying to force itself into a serious and meaningful tone.

  ‘I mean, really,’ Altaf was saying, ‘do you honestly think you could get good money for this dump? You wouldn’t even fetch a fair price for the doorstep.’

  ‘Do I know you?’ responded Mr Qureishi coldly, his eyebrows raised and his body tilted resolutely in the other direction. His disgustingly large nose sniffed scornfully while Altaf ploughed on.

  ‘See, if you really wanted to make big bucks, you’d go for the better houses, the ones with the huge TVs and fancy gates that I’m not allowed in. I mean, how can your work be fun if you don’t even get paid properly?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t supposed to be a picnic! And I do quite enjoy it. I’m just not sorry to have to go home once it’s over, all right?’

  ‘I think maybe you should think about doing something else. How about a food stand? Everyone loves food. Yes, I think you should definitely open a small kebab corner down the road. How long have you been selling these dumb houses? How old are you anyway?’

  ‘I’m forty-three!’ responded Mr Qureishi, flushing angrily.

  I’d stuffed my fist into my mouth to keep from bursting into laughter.

  Altaf didn’t seem to have bothered listening to his answer. ‘What about your family? Aren’t they important to you? Shouldn’t you be spending time with them?’

  ‘Of course they’re important to me! I visit my aunt in Gulmarg every two weeks. Or . . . sometimes less if . . . you know, the bus fee gets high . . . or curfew doesn’t allow me to . . .’

  ‘What about your wife? Don’t you love her?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘I’m sure your children would grow and blossom into beautiful young members of society, if only you spared some time for them as a loving father would.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘I mean, it’s a Sunday, for the love of Allah. Shouldn’t you be doing something fun?’

  ‘Well . . . I wouldn’t say no to some hot kehva . . . and a magazine, perhaps . . . my own garden is a great place to read, you know . . .’

  ‘Yes, I fully agree, I like cooking too. Don’t you just love that feeling of a warm, home-cooked meal with your kids?’

  Mr Qureishi slammed his eyes shut, as though refusing to acknowledge his own frustration, muttering furiously about what pay he really ought to get for all the emotional lunatics he had to deal with.

  I walked over, pretending to scratch my nose to hide my wide smile. But just as I crossed the doorstep, burying my foot up to my ankle in a puddle of melted snow, I heard Altaf speak again.

  ‘But we’re getting off topic. I think we should return to my original point; you’ve really nothing to gain from selling this house.’

  ‘Nothing to gain? It’s my job, you meddling boy! And for your kind information, the deal has been closed for more money than you’ve ever possibly dreamt of. We’re selling to the most important politician in Kashmir! So you may now go and bother someone else, thank you very much.’

  I didn’t bother listening for Altaf’s rebuttal. He may even have called out to me, but I could no longer pay him any attention. I felt as though a large dead animal had found its way into my stomach, and its rotting limbs were clogging up my airway. I spun straight around and marched back into the house. My eyes were caught by the chinar—leaning weakly against the straining wood, leaves all but lost in the tempest of life, those that were left curdling in decay . . . My vision blurred and dropped—bark growing parched and rough, sickly shades of ecru worming into the brown, a single crack trailing up its centre. My heart lurched to pull me closer, and yet I did not change course. I was sure that if I did, the forbidden tears burning the corners of my eyes would finally begin to leak through.

  Catching Ma roughly by the arm, I spat, ‘We’re selling to him?’

  ‘Goodness, Zu! You scared me!’

  ‘We’re selling to that horrid fellow?’

  I couldn’t understand my own mind. How could this have come as such a rude shock?

  But it had. I swallowed hard.

  ‘Don’t be rude, Zoons. Mr Bhukhari is a perfectly respectable man. And yes, we are selling to him. I thought you knew that already.’

  ‘You don’t even want to . . . I don’t know, just . . . consider some other buyers?’

  I was grasping at straws. I knew that. So when she bit her lip and twisted up her dupatta in one fist, it wasn’t the reaction I’d expected.

  ‘Now . . . don’t take this the wrong way, Zoons, but . . . he’s offered far more than the set amount, so . . . so the deal has been closed.’

  I was silent. Did she expect me to get angry? I wasn’t angry. I just felt a dull, heavy weight inside me, like my heart was made of lead. Hopeless. It was all just hopeless. Behind her, from the living room, I saw the fireplace. A few embers were spluttering sharply beneath his logs, fighting to stay alight. Then one of them launched itself on to the foot of an electrician passing by, who hopped lightly, hissing at the pain.

  Despite the numbness leaking out slowly from my frigid brain, I heard Mr Qureishi’s abruptly squeaky voice come through the garden again.

  ‘What is it going to take to get rid of you, boy? You and that whiny little brat of a girl! No wonder you’re friends.’

  ‘Now, just a minute!’ Altaf spat back, anger beginning to brew dangerously beneath his words. ‘Don’t you talk about . . . don’t speak like . . .’

  I couldn’t stay there a second longer. I knew I was meant to—my insides squirmed horribly at the thought of leaving my worries to the wind—but if I did, I would probably end up doing something impractical, like scream or sob.

  ‘Ma, can I go out?’ I burst out, thinking only of leaving as quickly and unnoticeably as I could. My voice was steadier than I’d expected it to be.

  She turned back to me.

  ‘Sure. Where to?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I just . . . I feel like a walk. Is that okay?’

  I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t even arguing. I felt like all the fight had been sucked out of me, and I slumped where I stood, a deflated balloon, rippled rubber lying heavily against my skin.

  She stared at me, her eyes shining with concern. Then she pulled me forward into a quick, swift hug. It was so unexpected that I didn’t have time to tailor my response to the precise needs of the situation, and I simply hugged her back. In all this time I’d spent trying to sabotage her plans, I’d forgotten how much I loved her. I’d forgotten how much I cared for her. I remembered then.

  ‘Sure it’
s fine. Just take your umbrella. Mr Qureishi said it might rain.’

  Mr Qureishi turned out to be entirely wrong, which made me feel a lot better. The sky was a dusty blue, and the clouds were suspended like wisps of used tissue in the air. The umbrella struck pointlessly against the rough, dry road. Every inch of the breathtaking snowfall had gone as quickly as it had come. Once I began nearing the city centre, I noticed that there was hardly anyone chattering at the storefronts, dragging along creaky wheelbarrows or haggling loudly and over each other only to finally settle on the original price. The whole place seemed oddly abandoned. I lifted up the umbrella and held it under my arm. The silence was thick as tar and lingering in the dampened air. Slowly, I crept to the side of the road and began to walk behind the houses and fences, an offender of disrupting peace avoiding detection.

  I had hardly noticed where my feet were taking me, but I realized then that I was much further away from familiar territory than was normal. My pulse quickened beneath my sweaty skin. My back hunched over, as if trying to shield me from the invisible bullets striking me through unseen eyes. I spun about quickly and began to walk homeward. The Kashmir around me was still and unmoving. Not so much as a leaf had turned to bid me goodbye.

  Just then, a glint, like that of a hidden rupee in a gutter, caught my eye. There, beyond a few broken-down, rickety fences, was a brash, oversized building with glass windows and a twisted, fancy door handle. I’d never seen anything so . . . big and . . . well organized. Not around here anyway! I stepped closer, still hidden by the pattern of shadows etched on to the faded pavement. There was a large doorman at the gate, his hands clasped in front of him and his nose tilted so high it was a wonder he could reach it with a handkerchief. His palms were larger than my face and he looked like someone had filled him up to the brim with air.

  There must have been something encouraging in the breeze that day, because I walked right over to him without a second thought. Perhaps it was because I could see that he was and always had been a doorman, and not part of the military. Perhaps it was because I felt I could probably outrun his large, clearly clumsy feet. Perhaps it was even because his skin was precisely the same tanned brown as mine.