You Are All I Need

by Ravinder Singh

  1840 hours

  Prato wasn’t as sleepy a town as Pistoia, though it came close. Exiting the station, they saw the town slowly becoming quiet, lights dimming as people shut shop and headed home. No matter how small the town, aperitivo was one thing that Italians took seriously. It was their version of happy hour, and if you purchased one drink, you could eat any amount of finger food that came with it.

  Indira and Prithvi were in high spirits as they made their way towards the town square, an element that was woven into the architectural language of all Italian cities. The square was bustling with people, violinists and street musicians playing beautiful melodies, setting the tone for the evening. A small but quaint church framed one side of the square and a string of cafés overlooked it on the opposite side.

  Making their way to one of these cafés, they ordered their drinks (a local concoction of gin and berries) and sat outside, at one of the many tables that dotted the cobblestone pavement. Overhead, strings of small golden bulbs cast a glow on their faces as the sun set behind the church. A server arrived, bearing a tray of mouth-watering dishes, starting from appetizers to dessert, all bite-sized portions so one could sample everything.

  Indira’s eyes lit up as she picked up a slice of pear and a cube of Brie cheese, and put them in her mouth. Prithvi smiled looking at her expression; she had her eyes closed—the exotic combination of cheese and fruit had sent her into a momentary trance.

  ‘That good, hmm?’ he asked, twirling his fork in a small bowl of creamy carbonara spaghetti.

  ‘Better! Never tasted anything like this in India!’

  ‘Do you miss home? India, I mean,’ Prithvi asked her.

  ‘Sometimes, but not much. I love the freedom I have here—doing things that I wouldn’t be able to at home. I love how I can just take a train and be in a different city tomorrow without worrying about what Ma will say; how I’m cooking my own meals and that they’re turning out even better than I thought; how I can just step out of my house, take a book to the park outside and read for hours, no questions asked; and . . . I’m rambling, aren’t I?’

  Indira blushed as she looked at Prithvi, who hadn’t interrupted her even once.

  ‘This is the best kind of rambling. Go on!’ he urged, thinking how lovely she looked when her eyes shone as she spoke of the things she loved.

  The minutes rolled into hours as Indira and Prithvi talked about everything under the sun, conversation flowing as easily as the wine the server kept pouring for them.

  2030 hours

  ‘Maybe we should head home now?’ Indira asked, looking up at the ominous thunderclouds, her practical side kicking in.

  ‘Live a little, Indu . . .’ Prithvi said softly, standing up and extending his hand, gesturing towards the square, where several people had started to dance to the street musicians’ rendition of Tarantella, a classic Italian folk tune.

  As she took his hand and let him lead her to the central square, Indira shook off the last of her inhibitions. She couldn’t find any more reason to resist the feeling that they were right where they should be. Indira and Prithvi fell into step beside the seasoned local dancers as the cheerful song picked up tempo.

  Time seemed to slow down for them and, to Indira, it felt like they had been dancing for an eternity when the song finally ended with a grand flourish and everyone began to clap and laugh.

  ‘Bravo!’

  The crowd applauded the musicians as they picked up their instruments again and prepared for their next piece.

  The violinists filled the square with the lilting strains of a slow love song. From the crowd, couples paired off and began to sway to the music. Indira and Prithvi looked at the couples around them and then sheepishly at each other.

  ‘I don’t know how . . .’ Indira said.

  ‘Neither do I!’ said Prithvi. ‘That’s what makes it fun.’

  Prithvi gently placed her hands around his neck and his own on her waist. Soon, they were swaying effortlessly to the enchanting melody.

  ‘I thought you didn’t know how to dance!’ Indira gasped, as Prithvi gave her a twirl and pulled her close to him again.

  ‘I don’t. You’re bringing it out in me,’ Prithvi whispered into her hair.

  2130 hours

  ‘That was a really good time. It’s not something I normally do!’ Indira said, her cheeks flushed. They had run to the station. Prithvi looked at her and smiled; she looked quite ethereal in the gathering darkness, with the light from the sole lamp reflecting off her eyes.

  As they climbed up to the platform, it began to drizzle, gusts of wind blowing towards them.

  ‘Thanks for today,’ Indira said, stepping towards Prithvi, emboldened by a rush of adrenaline.

  ‘Come here,’ Prithvi said, wrapping his arms around her with a sudden urgency. As he held her, Indira felt his head resting on hers. The train thundered into the platform and Prithvi pulled her closer to him as it began to rain more heavily.

  Indira wanted to freeze that moment in time and wondered if Prithvi felt the same.

  2200 hours

  Indira and Prithvi got off the train and walked through the station.

  ‘Prithvi! There you are! You’re late!’ Elisa, Prithvi’s French girlfriend, waved at them from one end of the station.

  Indira wondered if she had imagined Prithvi sigh.

  ‘See you on Monday?’ Prithvi asked Indira.

  ‘See you Monday.’

  She watched Prithvi walk over to Elisa. Elisa looped her arm through Prithvi’s as they walked out of the station.

  Indira realized that she hadn’t checked her phone throughout the evening. She unlocked it now and felt her heart plummet.

  10 missed calls from ‘Aakash <3’. Indira felt as though the last couple of hours had been something out of a dream, and now someone had rudely awakened her and jolted her back to reality.

  0000 hours

  Later that night, Indira couldn’t sleep. She knew that her life had changed irrevocably that evening, that something had changed between her and Prithvi. A barrage of conflicting thoughts flooded her mind. She couldn’t help feeling a tinge of guilt at what had transpired between them and yet, she wondered whether her story with Prithvi would ever take off from Platform 9.

  ‘Platform 9 and 3/4. Almost, but not quite,’ Indira thought out loud, sighing wistfully at the Harry Potter reference as she closed her eyes and finally drifted off to sleep, the Italian love song playing in the background.

  17

  Flare

  Mariam Rashid

  In the City of Nawabs, in the last hour of the night, moonshine was glorifying the golden Arabic verses carved on the wall of the mosque.

  Moid looked at the verse and tried to interpret its meaning. It perhaps meant ‘Call upon me and I will answer’, but he was not sure. In his dilemma, he walked into the masjid and prayed beside a man who was in prostration, whose heart was somewhere else like most of the people around him. He prayed for the Almighty to reveal to him the real meaning of love. After his prayers, he stepped out to leave, when unexpectedly the imam of the masjid approached the young man.

  ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’

  This sudden invitation caught him by surprise, but he accepted, and joined the imam in his small room on the first floor.

  ‘Are you new here? I haven’t seen you around earlier,’ the imam asked.

  ‘I lived here when I was a child. Then I left for the US for further studies. Then . . .’ He couldn’t finish his sentence.

  ‘Are you the one writing the book on Sheesh Mahal?’ he asked, his voice serene.

  The young man became wary.

  ‘So you have called me to tell me how haraam it is to write about whores?’ he asked.

  The old man smiled. ‘No, I have called you to tell you a story. The story of a girl who was born in Sheesh Mahal.’

  A puzzled expression crossed Moid’s face, since he’d never seen maulanas mention brothels, especially in masjids.
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  ‘Lover?’ Moid asked.

  ‘Love.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Will you mention her in your book? I will only tell you if you promise to write her story.’

  Moid nodded. The girl had his curiosity piqued.

  When the imam got his assurance, his eyes became wet, as if he were waiting for this moment. In a broken voice, he started narrating his tale. Her tale.

  ‘Behind the stars that hold the light, behind the mirrors that reflect the light, she was hidden in darkness. Darkness from which only light could be seen. She was the only young woman in Sheesh Mahal whose body had never been touched, whose soul had never been corrupted. Other women in Sheesh Mahal kept themselves dressed, ornamented and perfumed for any rendezvous they may have, but Mehr-un-Nisa used to wear dull colours, her messy hair tied up and hands dirty with splotches of blue ink. She smelt like an old book of fairy tales.

  ‘The girl with deep eyes, curly hair and golden skin was never meant to be born out of wedlock in a brothel, but she was. No girl born in a bordello is meant to wear chastity and dignity with confidence, but her mother was a rebel. She taught her daughter Arabic and Urdu. But she never allowed her to go out in front of any man for her own safety. And Mehr never did . . . Except for one man, nobody had seen her.’

  The imam looked at Moid, who was listening intently. ‘Perhaps this peculiar expression crossed over your face because you think I’m judging the women living in brothels. But you are wrong. I’m simply narrating the events as they are.’

  He continued.

  ‘I first saw her when darkness was melting into dawn, probably at this very same hour. Under the deep-blue sky, below the crescent moon burning golden, she stood at the window, staring at the fading stars. I was going to the masjid, unaware of her fragrance. Something seemed to draw my gaze up and my eyes fell upon her. My heart skipped a beat. I stopped for a while and smiled when I spotted black ink on her face radiating the same shine as her hair. But suddenly a beautiful woman with blue eyes dragged her inside and closed the window. It was then that I realized this was Sheesh Mahal. I was smiling at a woman standing at a window of Sheesh Mahal. But it didn’t matter to me . . . It never did.

  ‘This happened when I was sixteen. After that day, I used to find her standing at the same window every day. Sometimes she would look up at the sky, perhaps counting the stars or talking to the One who had created them, and sometimes she would smile at those fireflies playing in the courtyard. And I would look up at her as I walked towards the masjid.

  ‘This hide-and-seek between us continued for three years. Every time I looked at her, she looked more beautiful than the previous time. Earlier, I used to ask myself why the longing of Qais for Laila never stopped, even though Laila was a Moor, even though she was married to another person and had left him. But then I started to understand as my heart slowly got pulled towards the girl at the window. But I never dared to linger for more than a few minutes. We never talked to each other. But I knew why she would stand up there; she knew I was not merely walking by to offer tahajjud. We know what our hearts want but we also know that’s impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? That’s what I ask myself every day. Perhaps because she used to live in a brothel and I was raised in a masjid. Huh! You know every heart coming to the masjid is not pure and every heart beating in a brothel is not filthy . . .’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘One day she sent me a letter through Husna, confessing her love for me . . .’

  ‘Husna?’

  ‘Husna was her maiden and a very dear friend of hers. She was the one with beautiful blues eyes who had dragged her inside the first night our eyes met. She was one of the most elegant ladies I had ever seen.’

  ‘Continue . . .’

  ‘I told my father I wanted to marry a girl. He was happy to hear that I had someone in mind. He excitedly asked me her name and address, and I told him. As soon as those words left my lips, the colour drained from his face. He has never been the same with me since. On that day I witnessed love transforming into hatred. I assure you it wasn’t a pleasant sight. I tried to explain to him that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but he didn’t think so . . .’

  ‘What he did do?’

  ‘He locked me up in a room—tortured me and threatened me for days. But I didn’t give up. I believed my love could melt his heart—but I was wrong. He rebuked me in every possible manner. He chanted that I was a sinner. According to him, it was a sin to marry a girl raised in Sheesh Mahal. According to this world, love has always been a heinous crime. Yet I wasn’t suffering because of his rebukes—the real torture was not being able to look at her for so many days. That torment and helplessness reminded me of Qais’s bewilderment and I understood one more mystery of this world.

  ‘You know, one day, cousins of Qais mocked Laila in front of him saying she was dark. And you know what he said?’

  Moid shook his head.

  ‘He replied in verses comparing Laila’s beauty to musk, which is also black but rare and expensive. I did the same, but differently. But for lovers like us, it is an even greater sin to stop someone from loving, or to accuse somebody of kufr—blasphemy. According to me, marrying her was saving her from a life at Sheesh Mahal. During my imprisonment, Husna came several times to visit me when my father was out. I don’t know how she managed that. But every time, she had a message and a meal for me. After a few weeks, I decided to run away. I discussed my plan with Husna and she agreed; I told her if she helped me, it might cost her her life, but she insisted.

  ‘As soon as I got the chance, I escaped and went straight to Sheesh Mahal. I asked her mother for her hand. Her mother was hesitant, because she knew how a love like ours ended. She politely told me to forget her daughter. But I was stubborn. Aren’t we all stubborn in love? Nevertheless, Mehr’s mother was far more stubborn—women usually are. For two days, I lived at the brothel trying to convince her. But she was immovable. Finally, Husna came into the picture and begged her to let us marry. I don’t know how Husna convinced her, but she agreed. And I married her immediately. We couldn’t live at Sheesh Mahal after that, so I brought her to my house, thinking that my father would accept her, now that he didn’t have a choice. But I was wrong. Mehr’s mother had warned us about this—she had even tried to stop us—but I hadn’t listened to her. I wish I had now.’

  ‘Your father must have lost his mind when he—’

  ‘He killed her.’

  The imam looked at Moid, his eyes blank.

  ‘I have seen the person who loved me the most killing the person I loved the most. He killed her because he thought he was better than her. He killed her because he thought she didn’t deserve to be his daughter-in-law. He murdered her because he believed that he was pure, she was not. He killed her in his sheer arrogance, the same arrogance that turned an angel into the devil. He killed her because of his self-righteousness. He killed an innocent soul . . .’

  ‘I am sorry . . .’

  ‘Why are you sorry?’ He smiled through the tears.

  ‘For your loss . . .’

  ‘It is the will of the One in whose hands my soul is . . .’

  He saw the indecisiveness on the young man’s face.

  ‘Perhaps you want to ask me what happened next . . .’

  Moid nodded.

  ‘I lost all hope. I stopped eating, praying . . . living. But one day Husna visited me again. She gave me her condolences; I gave her mine. She said all the things that one is supposed to say to the husband who has lost his wife. But she didn’t stop there. She told me that Mehr-un-Nisa had had a dream. She, who was born in a brothel, wanted to give women born into such conditions a new life, those who didn’t have any source of income. She wanted to start a business embroidering women’s salwar kameezes, and believed she could bring about a change with this. And then no woman would need to disgrace herself living a life she didn’t want.

  ‘Husna, knowingly or unkn
owingly, taught me that a lover could die but love couldn’t. She, whose best friend had passed away because of me, gave me the strength to pick up my shattered pieces and make something beautiful out of it. As soon as I heard her speak, I knew what I had to do. I wanted to fulfil her dream, and Husna helped me do it. If I was the roof of that business, she was my pillar, and Mehr-un-Nisa was our foundation. Together we worked day and night. We supported each other. We became each other’s shadow. We cradled each other. We cried together, we laughed together, we grew up together. And with us, her dream also grew. Now we support about five hundred women.’

  He stopped and looked at Moid enquiringly.

  ‘Will you tell her story to the world? I want the world to know that good and evil are not in mosques and brothels. It is in our hearts . . . I want people to stop killing Mehr-un-Nisa—again and again. I want them to look at their own sins . . .’

  But before he could complete his sentence, somebody knocked on the door of the inner chamber.

  ‘I am coming, Husna!’ the old man said. ‘She must have prepared the tea.’

  The old man went outside and came back with two cups. He told Moid he had married Husna, that the universe had brought them together in this holy union. When they started their business, he had never thought that his wounds could heal. But Husna’s support had strengthened him, healed him and her both. More than lovers they became companions who loved each other, who loved Mehr-un-Nisa together. He told Moid that they had decided to name their daughter after Mehr-un-Nisa, in honour of the lamp of love she had lit in their hearts.

  Moid quietly listened to him and then took his leave. He had entered the masjid thinking he was doing humanity a favour by writing this book. But he was leaving as a different man—he was merely doing his job, and his job was to love. He now knew what true love was. Perhaps his dua had been answered. As he looked back at the masjid, a quote from Hafiz flashed through his mind:

  Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, ‘You owe me.’ Look what happens with a love like that. It lights up the whole sky.