Periphery- Things we lost in the fire

Kate Sarah

My inbox is filled with queries I fail to reply. I will never understand the depth of human stupidity that exceeds without limits. This is why I keep no company of the living and to be honest I pride myself on my detachment as some connections can be a cruel curse. The only being I feel attached to, is my cat Nana. I do not know if feline creatures are as warm as her. She is more human than most of the being who pretend to be. She and I, we share an unbreakable bond; we met under eerie circumstances. She rather rescued me when I was young. It feels like a dream now, how I met her but she has always protected me and continues to do so with no remuneration in return.

Two winters ago, I started a Youtube channel under a pseudonym Sybil the Seer; so much for a homebody like me. One of my clients suggested me to do so. Internet is filled with many shams. I had to research first; to be honest it was quiet entertaining to watch few of the amateurs. There is an array of tarot readers on Youtube not to mention Play Store suggesting you apps that offers readings. It is sad to know that people actually fall for some con artists who offer to help and has no gifts of seeing things. There’s a separate section for love reading, all positive ones and then there are sections for the stones, beads collectors that promises to unlock the hearts of the Querent’s love interest.

Humans must be the only race that’s seeking from eons. We are learning but never content with our answers. There is no clarification as why and what we are searching. We are just hungry for knowledge, we have always been and the known scares us all.

It was a jungle out there and I knew I’d be eaten alive. Well a girl’s got to do what she’s got to do. I waited. I posted videos and waited. After a month, I gained few subscribes and likes. I decided to hide my face like most seers did. I realised Nana’s presence increased my viewers. Another month went by and I had people who actually supported me. I gain patrons which is still surprising to me, all thanks to Nana.

It was last Wednesday, in the late afternoon while going through my old emails I stumble upon a pleading request that caught my eye. It was a year old mail with anonymity of its sender;

“Dear Miss

There is a problem that needs solving and I knew no way out of it. I have a request and I presume you won’t deny the offer. Please I beg you do not deny me. I am deeply troubled. There is a young girl who needs help. I do not know who can help her. As for the moment I can only see you. She is in great danger. With talents like yours, I am sure you can be of some help. I have high hopes do not disappoint me please. I’ll attach the address, feel free to visit us. We can discuss about the payment later.

The girl’s mother doesn’t know about this. I want you to keep mum regarding this exchange. I am just a well-wisher of the family. I want the child to recover as soon as possible.

If I am asking too much please say so. I will be waiting for you.

Yours

A well-wisher”

sender; theeviljoker1990@gmail.com

It was pretty late for me to respond but my conscience did not allow me to overlook it any further; something was calling me there, I felt it in my bones so I wrote back.

“Dear Well-Wisher

I am extremely sorry for replying late. Pardon me as I just saw the message and if the offer is still on the table, I’d like to help. Though I sincerely hope the situation is better. Please let me know if you still need my assistance.

Sybil”

I wonder if I am jinxed because whenever I am asked for help I cannot deny them my service. I am neither a doctor nor a healer; I am just a medium with a gift to see. I have made this my profession, though my fee is hardly sufficient for survival. It’s a tough life but somehow I am living a minimalist life scurrying away from luxury.

I got an instant reply from the sender. An invitation from the evil joker, the message did not shake me as the address did “Come” he wrote with the address attached to the mail that had haunted me for years.

Granny used to tell me, “Never stare too long to your past that’s already gone; do not lose sight of what’s in the front”, and I had always moved past my personal tragedies. The address was my unresolved past, calling me for closure. It still haunted me. I had avoided venturing to those dark days even in my dreams, now it was calling me once again; to solve the mystery I was akin to. I could not say no, it wasn’t just the money. I was more curious than cautious. I wanted to know and that! My friend is where the trouble starts.

My granny used to say, God gives and takes in abnormal proportion. He gives pain, rather pours it to some individuals and showers gifts and talents to compensate. That’s how art is created and an artist is wretched. His/Her talent is what God has bestowed to pay for the personal damages, an apology from the divine. That’s why all the artists are damaged beings. She told me the same when we discovered my gifts. Granny was the only family I cared and had happy memories with, and all the rest seem like a bad dream I try my best to erase.

The address was of a building in the heart of the town; a locality that was surprisingly not congested even after two decades, tall buildings stood with odd colours paints around this town but this locality was different. In its oddity there was some mystery lurking; the rents weren’t high here because of which it was never empty.
This was that segment of my town where the outsiders, like workers from remote villages would come for a comfortable life. This was a place where we shared a bathroom and toilet with five more families, standing in queue for drinking water and it was the same area prone to unregistered crimes. The building was separated, but surrounded by a village and a graveyard. The residents were so lazy to cut down the weeds off the ground that it looked like a ruin in the middle of a marshland.

The benefactor was either playing a prank or he was luring me into the labyrinth of my own past, somehow I could not turn my back, I could not say no. I have never said no to such requests. God knows someday this will be the death of me.

A year ago there was a fire in this part of town; it was all over the news. Newspaper had printed a blazing building on its front page. I don’t read newspaper but it was one of those days I did. No one knew about the source of fire, who started it and why? The fire killed a family of three and their neighbour, the damage was severe. They sealed the compound; that was all. A year later the building looked unscratched in its gray glory. It stood alone in the middle of green untidy grassland as always.

There were few societies like these around town. Usually places like these are filled with mixed energies. It was next to impossible to find the haunted as all these humans were haunted by misfortunes of life. I had been addicted to the cardamom seeds since early childhood. I made sure to carry a handful when travelling. This habit of mine became rewarding at the moment. A sewage pipe had burst near the base of the building, few workers were gathered around the source; a sturdy lady came out of her house with a ladle in her hand, folding the long maxi gown she started cussing on top her lungs at the municipality workers who were fixing the pipes just below her balcony, the workers took no notice of the pugnacious lady.

I followed the energy as I was given the address without a name or an apartment number; somehow I knew which room the evil joker wanted me to visit.

When I was little I lived here with my step-father and my mother. We barely knew our neighbours then; they made little effort to know us. Few miles away outside the entrance was a graveyard; I believe it’s still there. I was fonder of tombstones than human friends and I had few of them anyway.

As I ascended towards my childhood home, there was a strong stench. Fear is a basic human instinct that is necessary for survival; there’s little to no difference when it comes to being brave or a fool and I don’t know what I was at the moment. I was too bold to confront my past but I wasn’t ready.

I felt a gust of déjà vu. The scream, the wailing and the alcohol odour was all fresh, here. This energy had not changed after many years and I abhorred every ounce of it. My past had no power over me yet it was a part of me of who I was. The wind here reminded me of terrifying history and I was chosen to unlock it. There was no turning back.

My step-father was an alcoholic and ex serviceman. My mother married him because he had money and she had none. For reasons unknown mother and granny never agreed on any topic. Granny told me later that my mother was an odd meat, her ego got the best of her but it was her submission which ended her life. I never asked about my biological father. I knew the day my mother married this obnoxious man, her life was in danger. I ignored my intuition. I was too young to act upon it. My granny was also against this union. They had a fight and my mother decided her own ending. Now I know that she was lonely, desperate for love which was not a vice nor a greed but a basic thing in life she was hungry for. Love is one pure feeling that you cannot create without an equal participation from another party. It should be mutual.

I was a shy child with stuttering tongue, odd like my mother; never answering back to my step father’s questions. He would complain to my mother. He once called me a retard when I didn’t reply his question. For me he was an intruder and he knew that.

The only good thing he did was that he bought a cat on my seventh birthday. It was a spotted cat with brown fur. I was very fond of watching Mowgli so I named it Bagheera. My mother thought it was a peace offering and the cat would solidify our relationship. I never asked her maybe I was too young to understand, was she ever happy with him?

After my mother’s death, Granny took me in and told me not to dwell in the past and gave me her cards to play. Granny was also addicted to marijuana she’d tell me it was some herb to calm her nerves. She told me once; our family was cursed when it came to men. Her husband, my grandpa died when mother was a toddler in a cradle. She said it like it was some trophy to live without a man. She prided upon never needing a man in her life; a blow to my mother as mother wanted to marry again. I believe granny knew his intention, she knew how wrong he was for both of us.

She was just twenty five when she married him. He had no parents or siblings to look after. Granny said it wasn’t love. My mother had been in love before; with him she tried so hard to be in love. All her life she was in denial. The marriage lasted for four years.

During those four years things changed from bad to worse. We didn’t know that my step father was prone to mood swings and that he had rum in his veins. It started after six months. His glass was always full after 7pm. After four more months, he was verbally abusive, after a year, he was physically abusive. I would cry when mother cried. Some nights he’d lock me inside the cupboard.

It was those days I developed a stuttering habit that later I was bullied for in school. One night, my step father came home with a bad temper. He hit Bagheera’s head, it was meant to scare me. My cat fell on the floor and fidgeted frantically and breathed his last with one last stretch. He killed my cat in front of me to teach me a lesson. Mother said it was an accident. He was sorry; he didn’t drink for two nights to show penitence.

Granny used to say – Men are magnificent beast of this planet, an animal on two feet. If you can tame men, they will nurture you like earth but most men are like deep oceans. You do not know the depth of it. You can drown or sail on its tides. Women are not like men; perhaps that’s why there is a struggle between these two. For a man is always attached to a woman. He seeks his mother in every woman he loves, that’s unconsciously done. The best breeds of these men are fathers and brothers, the worst kind are proprietors and colonisers. Yet women are not like them. Some are worse than men, powerful enough to bring down kingdoms of mighty nations, dangerous to uproot an entire dynasty; and if you ever get enough time to go through a detail history book; every war has a woman involved.

Some are worse than men, these women, in their submission and in their turmoil make rules for other women. Frailty was never a weakness but rather a gift of power and God knows devil sought for them than men, for the adversary knows where power lies.

Some nights were worse because my mother would not cry aloud but swallow her screams within; her soft sob itched my heart. I was so scared of my step-father that I prayed school hours to be longer. School was a solace, a home for me than the four walls with my mother. Yet my mind would drift to her as I sometimes had visions of her dead body. I grew feeble and darker. Mother thought it was because of the tape worm but it was my fear and hate. I was scared for her.

It so happened, my mother developed a habit an addiction. Surprisingly my step father sobered up but mother fell deep into the pit. So much that she began to sell her gold, even food from our kitchen pantry. My granny forced her into a rehab. When mother sobered up and step father began his course, it was one frustrating cycle.

It was my birthday, I still remember. Mother had bought a red dress for me. She decorated the house, though no guests were called for the party, it was just us. Granny called our house a pigsty; mother’s housekeeping skills were questionable. Granny told me once that our house had sinister aura and she didn’t like coming. She didn’t come that evening. How I wish she had.

It was one warm summer that year, not too hot for my foggy town of Darjeeling.

I try so hard to remember how I ended up on the graveyard that evening. I have no memory of my tenth birthday. The last memory I have of my mother is her radiant smile by the door waving me goodbye, she wore her favourite dress, a satin red dress. “I’ll be back by 4” she told me then. When I woke up the next morning, on a mossy tomb at a nearby graveyard, I ran for my home.

Although I do not remember the night before, I remember the detail of the day that followed; a lady was scrubbing the floor of my house which was red. My granny was sitting on the sofa; she never stayed at our place for more than few minutes. Her eyes were teary; she was listening to the man on the khaki uniform, there were few women in uniform too. A commotion that was a harbinger of ominous news that followed. I remember the scratching noise of the scrubbing on the floor.

Twenty years later, I was standing in front of the same apartment; nothing seemed out of place, not even the wooden door apart from the crucifix in the middle. I could sense the rumbling noise inside. I was at the right apartment.

A lady in her mid forties answered the door when I knocked. She kept the door ajar so her profile was visible. She had a skinny face, pale paper skin with deep set eyes and sharp nose. Her lips were thin; they parted in confusion when she saw me standing at her door. She tried to smile, her face stretched and I saw the fine lines on her forehead and crow’s feet by her eyes.

“Good afternoon.” I greeted.

“Oh, I was waiting for you.” She put her feeble hand on her mouth. Her lips were trembling, her eyes turn moist. I was utterly confused.

She welcomed me inside. The room was just I had left with different furniture and different wall paint; though the walls were painted in aquamarine delight it was far from giving it a happy colour; the whole aura of the house was grim. It made my head ache. I studied the room, I could feel it yes, but I was confused. Was it the current energy or my past that was calling?

The odour was unbearable for me, strong enough to make cardamom seeds disappear from my tongue. My peripheral visions were clear, yet I felt myself being trapped in a den. A year later the walls still had the smell of fire and a strange nipping coldness.

“Please have a seat” the pale woman, the mother cordially offered. I was too engrossed with my vision, to study her but with just a glimpse at her I notice she was sleep deprived. She had a thick shawl over her body; she wore a wrapper that covered her legs. There was something very sinister about her gaze. She smiled sleepily and I shivered at the revelation. I felt a piercing pain inside my chest. I should not show fear I reminded myself. I shrouded myself with a calm facade, indeed I had two choices, to run away or to confront the forces that brought me in. The woman was a pawn. There was something darker and dangerous creeping inside the house.

About visiting the past, I am always reminded of Lot’s wife from the Holy Bible, when the angels burned down the city of Sodom and Gomorrah; they were strictly instructed not to turn back to the city. Lot’s wife must have had memories and attachment to the city she was born into; she looked back and was instantly turned into a pillar of salt. Not a stone statue but a salt pillar; and I always wondered why salt? Was she crying when she turned back? Is it because of that our tears are salty?

The house had a wide living room and a narrow passage that led to the bed rooms. To the farthest end was the washrooms, the owner had placed a shoe rack in the passage. This part of the house was wooden, probably a place where it must have caught fire.

As I entered the inside of the house I heard ragged breathing, like an old woman trying to sleep. This was my room, a door less room of the small space of 7 by 10; the bed was messy, someone was trying to sleep, tossing and turning under the quilt; the night stand was a white wooden board with a lamp. This part of the house was always dark; the lights flickered in every five seconds taking its intervals to make the inside look more eerie.

My vision was playing games again, the gift that I was blessed with had its dark side, it made my reality blur; it made me do things that was out of my control. My gifts were my curse. I knocked at the wooden wall and cleared my throat. The quilt stopped moving.

“Go away” the voice inside the quilt said.

It was a voice of a young teenage girl.

“It used to be my home” I told her, “this used to be my room.”

I could see her dark curly hair flowing down the bed, it was like Medusa’s locks but she had no snakes to turn me into stone, she uncovered her face slowly. I saw her pale forehead, her dark deep eyes, pressed in the hollow of her skull; her nose was sharp and her cheek bones prominent. She too had a paper thin skin. And just like her mother she too was dead.

She looked at me with her head upturned from the bed.

“So you are that girl” she said.

I wasn’t surprised knowing that she was a dead girl.

“How can I help you?” I knew she needed help.

“You cannot help me” her voice was sad as she sat up; her back facing me, she was naked. Her pale body was skinny one could count the knots off her spin. Her back had blue bruises and scratched marks. Her bushy hair covered her shoulders.

She whispered but I could hear it clearly, “I hate him. I hate him so much” she started crying.

I knew that feeling. I knew how hatred made one weak, the repercussion is equal at both ends.

I drew closer to her and sat beside her. I knew she would not harm me.

“You should not hate him” I told her, even if someone deserves to be hated, it deprives a person their peace.

“How would you know? I hate him. I HATE HIM!” she screamed.

She started crying, there is strange thing about energies for one who believes, it travels in the air and rests to whoever is receptive, and that’s one of the reason why people get possessed or healed while some don’t.

She cried and whispered again “I hate myself. He touches me and I hate myself when he touches me. I am too weak. I don’t want to be touched” She cried, hugging herself, her hands were pale and long. My memories resurfaced again, I could not stop my tears. This is a trap i told myself.

I felt her touch; she placed her head on my lap. Her eyes were dry, “He beats me when I make noise. I can’t even hide. Nobody believes me when I tell them about him. They call me a liar, attention seeker. They tell me I am crazy. I am not crazy. Tell me, do you hate your father too?”

I don’t anymore. “I used to but I forgave him”

She looked at me, her eyes were deep red now , “But he wasn’t your father, was he?” she fixed her eyes on me.

“No, he wasn’t but I hated him for million reasons and one of them was that he wasn’t my father”

She recoiled in bed, “I hate him because he is my father.”

“Each of their own. What he did was wrong? He paid for it, in this life and the life that is after ; but you, my dear girl you must go to sleep. It was never your fault. You never asked for it. He was a vile man and he is not worthy of your hatred. Forgive.”

“I can’t” she covered her head. “I won’t”

“If you cannot forgive him you will be miserable here, this will be your prison and you will revisit this horror every day. Release yourself from this hell. My girl, forgive him.”

She tossed and turned in the bed. Two rules from the rules to follow, 1. Never turn back when they call your name. 2. Never touch a ghost.

Of course there must be some rules like never get inside a den of ghosts but I just ruled that one out.

Spirits are deprived of emotions and feelings until it is a spirit trapped in a limbo. This was her limbo and it was a sea of emotions. She had trapped herself and the only way out was letting go, she needed to fall asleep. I was trapped with her. The girl was not aware of her death, the woman (her mother) however was. This was the room where the fire had started a year ago, killing her family and the one human next door. The girl had trapped the victims with her in this limbo, and I was a fresh addition.

There was a knock on the door; I saw a flicker of shadow rushing towards the door. The mother ran through the corridor, her black shawl covering her path, she didn’t reach the door, she’d run but she would never reach the door to open. The corridor was her track, her own limbo she didn’t escape.

The knock at the door was louder.

“He’s coming” the girl panicked and sat up. I saw the burn marks on her chest. Her body was charred flesh, she had no idea of. She had forgotten the physical pain; her heart must have ached so. I covered my mouth as tears oozed down my eyes.

I do not understand how people inflict other people with pain. I can never understand this how people damage other people, especially their own.

I wanted to get out but more than anything I wanted this soul to rest in peace. She deserved it at least in death; I wanted her to part in peace.

“Stay with me” she begged. “If you stay with me, he won’t harm me.”

“You are stronger than you think, girl. You don’t need anyone to make you strong.”

The knocking at the door increased, “Open the door” the man outside the door shouted.

The shadows at the corridor ran with full speed but didn’t reach. I heard the mother cry.

“I am not strong. I can never escape this.” She squat down by the bed with her hands clutching her hair.

“Even I was not strong but I escaped.” I told her.

“How did you do that?” she looked at me.

I sat beside her. “I was too young to understand but I knew it was wrong. He … never beat me but I felt assault in a different way. The way he looked at me, the way he touched me. I hated him then and I hated myself because I couldn’t understand why I was feeling so… so awful. I had no friends to talk to but I always wished I had. He killed my only friend, my pet cat. I thought I would never forgive him. Yes, I hated him. I still get angry sometimes and even with my mother, but I forgive him because hating him was depriving me of the happiness I deserved. It’s a choice one makes. You are so strong; you have idea about your powers. You do not deserve this. No one deserves this. Hating him gives him power, that’s what they want. So release yourself”

I could see that her eyes were drowsy; I could see her lashes dropping. Her head rested on my shoulder, her touch was cold on my skin.

Rule no 2

Never touch a ghost though I wanted to hug like I wanted to be hugged by my mother.

Some souls just connect like dots with their similar tragedies. I could see myself in her. My heart was brimming with empathy but it was too late for her salvation.

“I am dead. Aren’t I?” she asked me

“Aren’t we all in our own ways?”

“I am glad you came.” I wish I was there with her when she was alive. I could have helped her more. Indeed – Remorse is a form of punishment itself.

It took just a blink and my vision returned. I was sitting at the ruins. It wasn’t my room anymore, the door wasn’t knocking. I had my back against the remaining of her bed, a rusty cast iron. The floor was all dust and ashes, the French windows and walls were reduced to black coal. It was a very cold place. Dusk was setting in; I was free from the limbo that was hers. It was indeed a den of auras and it had many limbos but I had escaped the strongest, the one that called me. I walked towards the door. I saw the mother walking beside me. I paid no attention to her.

“Are you leaving? Don’t go. He will kill us all.” She whispered into my ears.

This is the reason why living beings are more powerful than the dead; we have many options to choose while they have few. We get chances to improve. We have hope as long as we have life in us. Perhaps that’s why they envy us and want to live the life they were forced to bid adieu. They crave for this chance, this hope.

There was a knock on the door again. The ghost chuckled, “Now… now, How will you leave?”

“Open the door” I could hear an angry man banging his fists on the door “Open it now or I’ll break the door”

I rushed towards the door and turned the knob; I noticed a new being through my peripheral vision. I stopped. It was my mother’s satin red dress floating in the air. “Sybil” she called.

“My child”

Rule no. 1

Never turn back.

I turned the knob and opened the door. There was another ghost inches away from my face outside the door; it was the woman with a ladle. I avoided eye contact with her. I was panting heavily. I saw that her leg was burned and so was the half of her body, I didn’t look past her waist.

“Are you going to leave like that?” she followed me down the stairs. “Aren’t you going to do something about the situation here? The girl is suffering. We are suffering.”

She must have been a very nosy and a noisy neighbour. I rushed to down the steps, her voice vanished. The municipality workers were still mending the pipe. One of them noticed me coming down; his eyes opened wide, “Miss you aren’t allowed in this compound. Didn’t you see the notice at the gate?” he pointed towards the gate. I apologized. I had not noticed that before, the entrance gate was algae worn. I told myself not to turn back to the building. I could still feel their stares following me.

It reminded me of Lot’s wife when she escaped Sodom and Gomorrah, I knew I would not turn into a pillar of salt but I knew not what had followed me, I kept telling myself. “Just reach gate. Don’t turn back.”

I heard another worker mumble, “Bloody Journalists…..” it must be the coat that I was wearing which gave him that impression.

And again I heard someone say “How come these pipes have all the dirt when no one lives here”

I reached the gate. I could not contain the curiosity within me. I turned back to see. It wasn’t the same building that I had entered in the afternoon, though this was the same one without the magic. It was a torn down building, burned a year ago and never repaired. I saw a poster at the entrance that I had ignored before, someone had written “Haunted Building” with charcoal. The whole building was a disfigured monument. It takes a strong magic to create a mirage, an illusion of such finesse. Few stories above the ground I saw a pale figure in red dress staring at me.

It wasn’t too dark; I took a shortcut through the graveyard. The grass was taller here, tombs were mossy. Years ago I used to spend few minutes here after school, talking to these tombstones, believing that they’d actually listened to me. I had no friends and home was hell of its own. I used to believe that there were people inside the tombs who cared for me and listened to me, and now with my gifts of vision I was here again to visit my old friends.

I stood on the ground and I called out “Is anybody here?”

I was disappointed to find silence greeting me. There was no soul in the graveyard. It was all the bodies, dead and hollow inside the tomb. The graves were just empty. Perhaps that’s why the houses in the town are so crowded these days. The ghosts do not live in the grave anymore; they live among us to haunt us, to keep us company.

We humans are already haunted by our pasts; the dead can do just a little damage.

I reached home exhausted that evening. I couldn’t find Nana; well she does that sometimes. You can try but never master a cat. Cats are nobody’s pet. They live in their own terms.

I sat down for my evening session with a prayer to cut myself off all the evil energy. A message pinged on my cell phone and I became aware, my email was open all this time.

A new message in the inbox with no subject.

“Thank You” it read.

Sender; theeviljoker1990@gmail.com

Hate is such a strong word for this lifetime; it burns the limited happiness that’s given to us. I pray and hope that none of us submit to this flame of hatred. My heart goes out to all the survivors who survived life at its harshest moments and who are still haunted by the past. We all are victims with our battle scars too afraid to tell our tales, because we feel judged. There is always a competition even in our pain, I do not know who started it but they shut us every time. They tell us to be strong like living isn’t an act of bravery in itself. I question myself often, who’s the real culprit? I can only see victims everywhere. We shut ourselves not because there’s nobody to listen but there’s really no one to understand.

1 in every 3 women is abused before the age of 18 and when we talk about abuse and molestation it has no have genders. People in general who molest women do not spare boys. 1 in every 5 boys is molested before the age of 18. Approximately 20% of every female in the world and 8 % of every male are sexually abused.

According to Journal of Family Medicine and Primary Care

“7,200 children including infants are raped every year and it is believed that several cases go unreported. India has the world’s largest number of CSA (Child Sexual Abuse) cases; For every 155^th minute a child, less than 16 years is raped, for every 13^th hour child under 10, and one in every 10 children sexually abused at any point of time.”

Are you there?

– Kate Sarah

The fog was thick in the late afternoon. Rain had laid bare much of the rocky hills and patches of algae sprung to life on its balding slopes.

The narrow single lane road that at parts barely managed to let a bus squeeze through didn’t have room to spare for supervision. So, the police hung about at certain spots with a bit more room to monitor and control the traffic passing through. The little town of Kurseong, barely a kilometer or two in width, came into full view from one such spot. The road split into two here. One continued in the direction of the original route that remained the official national highway while the other took a steep descent onto an adjacent road that was about fifteen minutes shorter than the main national highway to the town of Siliguri in the plains below. From this spot, Kurseong sprang into view at one end and the plains of Siliguri in the distance sprawled as far as the eyes could see. For reasons unknown, this was known to all as Zero point. And here, the traffic police enjoyed the sun when possible, while supervising oncoming traffic from either direction; from Siliguri and heading towards Kurseong or the traffic coming from Kurseong heading down towards the plains of Siliguri.

The rain lashed about through the fog and the dutiful cops had abandoned post as usual. The rain compounded the issue of the lack of infrastructure. There was no place for shelter. That coupled with being in a place that severely lacked adequate healthcare facilities gave them every reason to abandon post and cozy up in the warmth of their homes. The traffic would manage itself, as it always had done before they were made to supervise. Traffic was appalling but that was because the government was somehow unable to do anything about the road. The same road that had carried a load of a couple of buses a day between Kurseong and Siliguri a few decades ago, now managed to carry hundreds of vehicles of all shapes and sizes every day. The road had remained the same width for the entirety of the lives of the police now supervising it. Unsurprisingly, it remained the same since well before the days of their grandfather’s.

These roads were no strangers to accidents and Zero point, which was a new addition and just a couple of decades old was very well acquainted. It was hard to fault the drivers, but it was equally difficult to fault the road. Supervision had been kind to the police officers and their coffers grew as hefty fines were levied in a place where the pen was never mightier than the sword. And while the government coffers grew alongside their personal coffers, old habits didn’t even feel the nudge. The discomfort was akin to the discomfort felt by men who carry stuffed wallets in their back-pockets; it is uncomfortable to sit with, but they don’t seem to feel it and they appear to sit perfectly comfortable.

Once the turn at Zero point was successfully navigated without any incident, an unspoken race commenced.

It was late evening; the retreating sun was hidden behind the dark clouds that covered the busy streets of main town. The August rain poured mercilessly from these clouds that covered the mighty mountains of Kurseong, a passenger Car was speeding towards Siliguri on the Tin Dharia turning amidst the torrential outburst, unknown to this the truck driver was twisting at the curve.

A young man in his KTM bike was speeding up the hill with a twelve year old boy in a crimson cardigan towards Kurseong. He was a lean man in his early twenties with a dark hair. His brother buried his bare head on his back. The rain started pouring mercilessly; the biker and his pillion were helmetless, a punishable offence, worthy of three thousand rupees fine that was off the book.

He calculated the time and speed, hastily. He would make it, he thought, the speed of the rain hitting his bare head was an exhilarating experience. He rode passing through the small opening between the aluminum railing and the truck, thinking about all the practice stunts he had done with his friends. The rear end of the truck jerked, a collision was inevitable, its body slipping away from the railing, unbeknown to the speeding bike. The rain had him soaked. He wanted to reach home as soon as possible; his brother had his arm around his waist tight.

The calculation wouldn’t go wrong but unfortunately it did. The three vehicles at once moved towards the thin aluminum railing. The orange bike bolted out in a flash, creating a breach that opened the frail railing, the truck driver tried his best to keep the wheel under control. The wheel had mind of its own. The passenger car had no intension to move forward but the heavy rear end of the truck slipped and glided the car containing ten passengers into the deep gorge of dense tea shrubs.

The deep valley ate up the cries and screams of humans who had set their destinations that very morning. The sky was in between the night and diminishing daylight. The dusk here looked frozen.

Sheetal, a young girl in her late teen, woke up to the fine drizzle touching her eyes. She couldn’t remember how she was out of the car. She lay by the crushed car, her left leg caught by the door of the car; there was no sign of life within the vehicle, headlights blinked red in the black night. The rain in the valley where she lay was a fresh arrival after the three vehicles.

She recollected the whole incident and remembered the fall. She wanted to cry but the only sound that escaped through her tight lips were making her body ache trillions of muscles that had suffered a trauma incomprehensible.

She tried to sit up but realised that her left foot which was still trapped inside the silver Sumo, had the power to feel pain, the car had lost its luster in the dark. Her moan filled the silence; she could taste saltiness in her mouth. The smell of iron in it made her aware that she was bleeding. Her gums ached.

“Help”

Her voice wheezed through her chest.

She cried and screamed for help, but found that her voice was trapped within her, that her screams were inaudible whisper to the world safe in their square rooms; exhausted she looked up at the navy sky to pray to the God she had denied all her life.

When the rain reduced and the dense fog danced up the gorge, she managed to sit herself up with great difficulty. Her back rested at the wet wall, her foot still stuck inside the car.

When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the black mass in front of her, she squinted her eyes to guess the object from its shape, preparing herself from all the possible danger her mind could imagine and when she was on a verge of giving up to fear, she realised it was a truck’s organs.

The wheels had the red mud unwashed by the drizzling rain. The pipes and tubes that stretched to define the mechanical parts now looked like the vein of a truck, as if it were living.

But it was dead unlike her. She kept on staring at the vehicle. It was a huge one indeed. She could be crushed if it decided to fall on her. She was also aware that the truck had no intention to fall on her side as it favoured the other end.

The truck stood like a wall between her and the world across. It hid the luminous hills from her she could only get a glimpse of its outline. Her hair was wet with sweat, blood and rain. She could feel her lips. It was swollen, her face too felt numb. She could feel the bones on her hips an inch longer, it hurt to even look at it. Her jeans jacket was cold on her shoulder. Her clothes were damp but not completely wet to her surprise.

The sky was gloomy and had its occasional rain. She began shivering; her teeth clatter as she inhaled deep breath. The excruciating pain rose from her numb foot towards the limb. At the moment even breathing air into her lungs pained her. Tears run down without sound. There was strange sensation of electrical current on her fingers, pins and needles jabbing her flesh making every cell in her body numb.

“Aya” she cried, she heard its echo.

Her eyes wandered in search for a sign of life beside her and inside the car. The car was disfigured as such that it was impossible for anyone to survive. The silver passenger car was crushed into a shape that any life that was within it could only escape through reincarnation.

Sheetal slowly looked at the stars. The rain had reduced its drizzle to vapor; the cold night was still cruel to her. Her teeth clattered continuously in the dark night. The shivering ached her bones, “Aya” she cried again, because she couldn’t cry for help, the pain exploded within her that she couldn’t silence herself, she voiced it somehow.

She knew she had broken a rib somewhere. She looked up at the sky with eyes full of pain and tears and prayed to the God, to the universe, to any super power to save her.

It was after half an hour she heard a groan at the other side of the truck.

She was startled but she was relieved.

“Who is it?” She wanted to know. She vainly stretched her neck, as if to see beyond the high truck.

The voice belonged to a man it echoed her groan, “Aya” it said.

“My foot is stuck in here, can you help me?” she said in half whisper and in wheezing breath, her hopelessness was greater than her happiness. The tears oozed in fat amount, her swollen eyes still knew how to weep.

She wept for another two minutes and the voice cried along with her, their scream for help muffled in the valley became a symphony of pain, a music that those hills had never heard before but felt deep inside its womb.

“Are you hurt?” She asked, it was a stupid question and corrected immediately, “Don’t worry, I am here.” She searched the man in the darkness. The mass in the front blocked the view of the hills and also the man who was now alive. The company boosted her morale.

Sheetal was nineteen years old and was always accused for being too mature for her age. Her wide eyes had nothing to create an illusion of beauty but her face was just an ordinary canvas to look at. She lacked nothing and possess nothing to make it extraordinary, her youth looked aged with pain on her face, yet it was this maturity and the act of selfless kindness, which attracted people towards her. There are many definitions of a pretty face; her youth and sobriety qualified herself in the books of young gentlemen.

“I can’t feel anything” the man cried, her voice had pain just life hers. She could imagine his face in lines of distress with soreness.

“Don’t worry, it will pass after sometime. It happened to me too. Can you lift your head? I can move mine, but do it slowly. The good news is you are alive. Are you hurt somewhere?” She asked again. She was a house captain in school, her voice reminded her how she carried the school with herself.

“I can’t feel anything” he cried. She felt pity for the man.

“Everything will be okay.” She broke down too in tears, wiped them off her face with her purple hand which was swelling fast. It was 8 pm when the silence occupied the space between them. They both were tired of crying.

“Are you there?” She asked.

“Yes” the young man replied. She was relieved that he wasn’t crying anymore.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“I have headache. I can’t move. Are you okay?” He asked.

“Even I can’t move. I have my left foot inside the car.”

“Where… where is my brother?” Is anyone other than you alive?” The young man panicked.

“I can’t see anyone. I can’t check as I am stuck here” her sarcasm was bitter.

“My brother had a red cardigan. Turn your head if you an see… “

She studied the mass of mess that was in front of her, towards the farthest right she could see the orange bike and beside it was a young boy with a twisted body.

Her lungs felt a thrust, she felt breathless to see the corpse, her head started spinning. She couldn’t lie. Her panting gave away and the man inquired. “Did you see him?”

She stopped herself from making a sound; she shut her eyes tight; her heart ached as eyes were dry.

“Turn towards the bike. He is there” her voice had no sympathy left to offer.

“No. No. No. No” the man kept wailing in denial.

His gruff voice began to scream, her head started spinning. His sadness was contagious. Grief made the air dense, the man poured his anguish out. His voice was still shaking when he asked her name,

“My name is Sheetal, and yours?” she looked at the direction of the voice, his body still hidden behind the truck, he answered.

“Gyalzen” said he, “where are you from?” An odd air of camaraderie was formed with exchange of names.

“Rimbik. And you?”

“Sonada” Gyalzen replied.

For a fraction of second, it was a warm feeling to have the company. Sheetal became optimistic. “They will find us”

“We will die” Gyalzen replied. She pictured him as a fair lad. Are fair skin men always pessimistic about situations? She didn’t have the audacity to ask him whether he was a Bhutia, Tamang or a Sherpa. She felt sad for his brother.

“We will live” she said grimly to shake away the doubt that was building within herself. There was no sign of life apart from them. He too, seemed a lucid dream separated from her by the magnificent mechanical parts that was covered with mud. The tyre terrified her. She had stopped visiting them through her eyes. Her sight was reserved to the sliding slippery slope of algae prone hill that was visible to her.

“They’ll come for us” she said to herself.

She missed her mother; a few hours ago she had seen her with a dejected face. Her mother harnessed sadness like a cloak. Her mother had generously given her a dirty twenty rupees note for the journey. It was embarrassing for her to accept the sweat prone orange twenty in a car filled with passengers. She denied severely, letting her mother know how she embarrassed her in public.

Thinking about her mother made Sheetal optimistic about life, how it could change if she lived. Her mother had indeed sacrificed many things for her. She had been kind to everyone except her mother. Now as she lay on the wet floor, she remembered her maker. She wished she could rewind the time and accept that crushed twenty rupees and tell her mother that she loved her.

Her dry eyes became warm.

“I will live” she told herself. She wanted to, for mother.

“They won’t come. We will die” Gyalzen wasn’t an optimist sort.

“They’ll. There is always hope”

“What is there in living? This life is miserable?” He said raptly.

“What’s there in death? Death is more miserable, hopeless isn’t it?” she counted the blinking squares on the hills.

“You are a peculiar kind, I think you’ll live”

“We both will. Have hope”

“Ha!”

Silence.

“Are you there?” Sheetal asked.

Silence.

The rain was pouring heavily a few miles away from them; one could feel its lingering presence on the tea bushes. Frogs started croaking, a sound that intensified the silence.

Ker chog. Ker chog.

“Are you there?” Her voice started shaking. To find oneself in an abysmal night was an engulfing melancholy, she wasn’t ready to be alone.

“Please…” Her tears was on a brink of her lashes when he replied

“I was tired. You woke me. I was sleeping. I was dying” he laughed a short laugh that turned into a cough.

“Don’t sleep. Don’t die” she pleaded almost between her tears whispering to herself.

“You can’t decide that. I might not see tomorrow. Whatever your spirit is made of, is different than mine. I have different origin.”

Silence.

“Are you there?” She asked.

“Yes” came a reply. His voice had a hint of irritation.

He started singing a famous Nepali song.

“Chari mareo Sisaiko goli le,

Maya baseo tyo mitho bolile,

Maya satewna urayo rehlai le“

He hummed the song. He had a beautiful husky voice. It reminded her of her grandmother’s lullaby. She used to sing to her about the bird that was killed by a glass bullet and the melancholic music sapped her hope.

“Stop singing about death” she scolded him.

Her head fell back on the ground exhausted, she watched the stars above, the sky had cleared into a gigantic stretch.

“Tell me about yourself?” She asked.

“Why?”

“I just want to know”

“I am an extremely handsome man”

She snorted at this. “I bet you’ll be the handsomest corpse in here”

He laughed at this

“Yes. I might be”

“Well if you can’t tell me about you let me tell you about myself. I have red hair and blue eyes. I also have yellow jacket and big hands.” she told him playfully. She looked at her hands they were pretty big now, because of the swollen veins.

“I might believe you” He replied.

She chuckled. The pain seemed alien. “I have a big blue tattoo on my back” She continued.

“Now I want to see” he yawned loudly.

“Won’t you ask what it is?”

“What is it?”

“A big Stingray”

“What’s a Stingray”

“A big flat fish”

“Is it tasty?”

“I don’t know, haven’t tasted it. Haven’t seen a beach in this life. That’s the first thing I’ll do, I’ll go to a beach.”

“Strange. My knowledge is limited”

“Knowledge is always limited”

“Aren’t you a peculiar girl, now? How old are you?”

“I will be twenty this winter.”

“hmm, you are younger than me but you speak like you know the secret of the universe” he chuckled.

“I think that’s what girls are. They mature before their age. We are ahead …”

“True” he affirmed. “Always ahead at everything. Lying. Cheating. Debating. Always right and never wrong. Mind you! Always a victim. Men are swines but aren’t we tasty? Ahhaha … Yes. Men are dogs but aren’t we faithful? Well some are but women they are divine…”

“Well someone’s bitter here”

Silence.

The cascading silence felt magnified by the sound of cricket and Ker chog sounds.

Silence engulfing the living, the night was illuminated with the absence of words.

He started humming a different tune to drive out the silence. Rain continued to drizzle in fine drops. The silence was covered by the patter of the rain against the earth.

On a distance, light flickered. Hustling sound was heard, murmur of men and their boots on the slippery slope, slipping and sliding through the valley came to their rescue

“Hey, you were right” he cried almost with joy. The voice dissolved as the party of two men came closer.

Silence.

Three Men perched above the gorge and watched at the stillness. The vehicles were at the deep end of the valley. They put the torch around to see the sign of life.

“I doubt if anyone is alive” said one of the men.

“Hey! Are you there? Speak” Gyalzen’s voice was barely a whisper.

Sheetal felt a pull that made her lashes drowsy and her tongue heavy. She wanted to speak but she couldn’t move, she was drowning into an abyss. The skin around her hand was numb and swollen. Her face was pale as sheet, her lips were all drained out of colour. She had been bleeding for hours.

“Shout” his voice almost echoed inside her ears like as if his lips were near her earlobes.

Silence.

“Ayech, let’s come tomorrow. There is nothing here?”

These men moved around the torch quickly from left to right. The truck stood sideways. The Silver sumo and the bike looked disfigured and the stillness of bodies gave no sign.

“Hyat! let’s go down” said second man.

“There is nothing there” said another “Look at them. All of them are dead and the rain is going to be worse. Once you step there, you will waste your time. I don’t want to see a dead body tonight. Let us come tomorrow morning with more men and let’s bury them”

The third man agreed and they turned to walked away

“Are you there?” whispered Gaylzen.

“Yes” she wanted to say but there was no strength and hope left. “I want to see my mother, I want to tell her I am sorry” she wanted to say and her heart cried but her body denied the emotion. She was drowning deep into chasm towards death when she heard something it was a car horn.

When these men rushed towards the source of the sound, they found a sulphur bottle stuck at the steering wheel of the truck. No one knew how it dropped. One of them saw Sheetal, who was pale as a corpse with her hair soaked in red mud was faintly breathing.

She felt warm hands pulling and lifting her up.

“Slowly” the man said “she is breathing, Maney. Look we were about to abandon her.”

She wanted to tell them to look for Gyalzen but she was too drowsy that her tongue couldn’t articulate his name. “Gyalzen is also here. Take him.” She kept saying inside her head. “He’ll die if you don’t.” Silence filled her head and there was only darkness.

The front page of Morning gazette had her face on it. A black and white picture of the disfigured Sumo and the muddy truck occupied a small corner at the right of the news daily. The reporter called it a miracle of the century.

Dr. Pradhan found her sobbing few days later. Luckily her foot was saved.

“You are a miracle, young lady” he said to her. Her face was no more blue and swollen.

“But there was another one alive. He was there with me. You could have saved him too” she couldn’t forgive herself that she was the only one alive. The joy of being alive was useless the moment she received the news of the casualty.

Dr Pradhan informed this to Dr Sen at the mortuary who claimed the news to be an absolutly false, a case of sheer delusion.

“But How can it be possible, Pradhan?” Dr Sen scratched his bald head.

“The girl was rescued at 9 pm and the man whom she is claiming to be alive died at 6:45 -7 pm, the moment he fell down the hill. He had no helmet on… he suffered a hemorrhage so did the child who was with him. He died instantly after the fall”.

Dastoor

Makeup- Abhigyan Tamang / model- Ashlyn Moktan

Birey first saw Sumnima at mathlo gaw. She had her head covered with a piece of cloth, the rough coconut rope, namlo, was dangling from her head like another organ, her cane basket, doko, was filled with dry bamboo wood. It was a dastoor to help the wedding house with anything possible. Some villagers contributed sugar while some gave away their wood logs and dry bamboo for the fuel. Fourteen-year old Sumnima had never been to this part of village. Her miteani,Sushila’s cousin was getting married. These teenagers attracted quite a gathering with their giggling and flushed cheeks. Sushila liked the attention she was getting but Sumnima was a quiet, meek bird who disliked the stares of strange men. Perhaps this was the reason, Bir Bahadur Rana, aka Birey kancha of Tallo gaw couldn’t take his eyes off her. Sumnima wasn’t extraordinarily beautiful but she was different, a face worth a second glance. She was a bud in a garden that had yet to bloom. It was well known that any flower that’s differently beautiful and rare attracted bees and thieves.

The wedding feast lasted for five days, after all it was the wedding of the richest man of the village, Tek Bahadur Rai, aka Tekhey who was a self-made man. At age 21 he had vowed to be a Bramhacharya and everyone called him a miser because of this decision of his. He could not deny his heart when he saw his future wife, Manjari at a wedding. She lost her heart to him and accepted her defeat in Juhaari.

Manjari and Sushila were first cousins who grew up together in he household. When the time for their parting approached, Manjari begged her sister Sushila to stay after the wedding ceremony. Sushila complied with the request and stayed, so did Sumnima. It was truth accepted by all that wherever Sushila was, one could find Sumnima there. These two girls were inseparable as toddlers and the parents decided to traditionally bind their friendship; they called it Miteani Saino, friends for life.

Birey’s infatuation grew stronger day by day, so much so that he was often seen around Tekhey’s house. There was a misunderstanding as the girls thought Birey’s beloved was Sushila. He was eighteen and strong. His only hamartia was that he lived his life like a tramp. He was the only child of a village priest and his mother did everything to ruin him. When he opened his heart to his mother, she told him to win Sumnima over. He decided to abduct her as it was socially acceptable during those days. It was called “Salee/Soltini Cheknu”

Birey’s communication skill was as bad as a Mangar’s Maths. His uncle, Dhaney who was a misogynist had warned him about Limbu girls. His own wife who was a Limbu had run off with somebody else.

Ten years ago, Dhaney’s wife Lela eloped with her childhood sweetheart leaving poor Dhaney mortified. He developed a drinking habit which he had to quit because of jaundice. He was the youngest brother of Birey’s father and was also a neighbour and confidant. The local illicit affected his system such that his face was saggy and pensive. His face looked like a painted portrait of a man with many regrets. Though it was his fifth year of sobriety, his hands still trembled while doing some chores.

Dhaney warned Birey again. He considered women the most underrated weapon on this planet that God created to tempt a man. His warning served no purpose, so he went with Birey to wait for his bride.

It was a winter evening and the days were shorter. Sumnima had already overstayed at the Mathlo gaw where she was adored by the household for her meekness. That very evening, while filling the gagri from an obscure Dhunge Dhara (water fountain) she decided to leave for home, she knew not her destiny was taking a different turn.

The water ran over the mouth of the brass gagri, Sushila had already left for home.

The evening grew darker blinding her vision. She placed the vessel on her delicate hip which was prone to the weight. While returning she saw Birey’s silhouette at Amliso Ghari. Her hips carried a heavy brass gagri of water. She was an Ajanta sculpture and an apsara from heaven for him. When she came near, she saw his face grinning wide “Ah Bhena po raicha” (ah it’s the brother-in-law) she thought. She and Sushila had a private joke about Birey. Sushila had already accepted him as her husband so Sumnima had accepted him as Bhena (Brother-in-law). There was a tall man beside him who had a ghastly face, she read hate all over Dhaney, yet she moved with grace.

The two men circled around her. She knew not what to say, she knew not what to do. They moved forward, she moved backwards. The brass gagri was growing heavier with every delay. They moved forward again, and she moved backwards. That was the game. They didn’t touch her. However, their presence was unpleasant and unwelcomed. She was confused and frustrated. Twenty more steps to the back she had crossed the fountain where she had filled the water. She was in a different village now, his village.

She saw the fire burning at the furnace; an old woman was squatted beside the Chula of an open kitchen. The mud hut was the first house of the village. She placed the gagri on the floor and ran towards the woman and wept.

“You are home” the lady told Sumnima. It then dawned on her, it was a planned abduction.

Three days later Birey’s father, his uncle Dhaney and few of the members of their community went for Chor ko Sor to ask for Sumnima’s hand in marriage. There was no question for denial. Everyone knew the answer. As custom and tradition they spoke in words not less than poetry. They told how a bee had entered the garden to pluck out the flower, when it was indeed a plea of the thief.

Sumnima understood then the nature of men and the value of women in her society. She felt slaughtered and sold like property, colonised like a piece of land. She could say nothing for she knew there was no turning back, her hope was lost. Her father did cry when he came to know about his daughter’s disappearance. He was delighted to know that she was married and not mauled by wild beasts.

The news was not well received by Sushila, who drank kerosene to end her life but survived. She felt betrayed. She didn’t attend the wedding ceremony and spat when the janti crossed her house. It was a wedding to remember. Sumnima who was the youngest and dearest daughter of her father cried in the parting ceremony, such that the groom had to pull his wife away harshly.

Contemplating on his crimes Dhaney realised late about his sins that he had committed years ago. His wife who was almost the same age as Sumnima had pleaded him many times not to drink. He was abusive verbally and physically towards her. As the days passed he saw his nephew on the same path and he knew where it would lead. He knew not then that the Limbu girl his nephew had married was made of another earth. She was feisty and demanding unlike his wife. Sumnima fought with her mother-in-law. She didn’t cry when Birey struck her. She threw the casserole out of her window when he complained about the food. She bit his hand when he yanked her hair in rage. She put up a good fight. Yes, Dhaney had warned Birey of Limbu girls.

It was a miracle Sumnima survived a year with Birey whose infatuation had drained away by then. She was not a flower bud anymore. She had thorns now. The marriage took its toll on her. Her misery was written on her freckled face that had forgotten how to smile. She grew darker like a true Mangar, thus the woman was no longer her father’s daughter but solely her husband’s organ. A year after her abduction, Sumnima’s belly swell up; some said it was twins in her belly, some thought a son. For Sumnima it didn’t matter, the child was a parasite living inside her body and how she wanted it out of her system.

Her miscarriage was not a sudden accident. Puffed and pregnant, she worked hard for her house, mentally tortured by her mother-in-law’s verbal insults and physically by her husband. It was meant to happen. It was only Dhaney who pitied her. He’d help her chop the wood and fill water. There was a camaraderie that both of them shared. His evening tea was always prepared at her chula. Sumnima was initially scared of Dhaney, whose exterior was that of a dangerous predator. This impression had guarded him of unwanted interaction and relationships for many years, but she realised it soon that the man wasn’t a devil; he was just a lone giant. They spent their evenings in silence sipping tea.

The baby was still born. It was a girl. Although Sumnima despised the unborn baby, she was the only one to weep for her child. She understood quite late that death was indeed a blessing for her daughter. The world where she lived was not meant for women. It took a week for her to mourn. She wasn’t a woman to dwell in her grief for too long. After the second week, things went back to normal. The mother-in-law enrolled her in the plantation where she was taught to pluck tea leaves. Her salary she received every week was not hers, her husband spent in groundnuts and Soltini’s cleavage.

She had another miscarriage that year; Dhaney found her bleeding one evening. She asked him to keep this secret. Who knew it was the beginning of the end? By now the whole village was aware of Birey’s infidelity. Sushila was an obstinate woman. It didn’t take long for Birey to notice that. Sumnima felt nothing when she came know about it. She just wanted to return back to her father’s home, which was now traditionally impossible.

When the Sahib decided to give bonus that year for Dasai, in the month Asoj (October), Sumnima decided to take action. She dug up the earth and hid her money. That evening, her husband didn’t plead with words. Birey had no communication skills, he only knew violence. That evening, her body was covered with bruises, her eyes were purple and blue. Yet she didn’t cry.

Dhaney’s pity towards Sumnima grew into an infatuation and in this realisation, he forgave his first wife, Lela. It took Sumnima another week to recover. On their meeting that week Dhaney gave her red glass bangles and proposed a plan for her salvation. Her eyes were teary. She had never received gifts in her life. This act of kindness melted her heart and it gave Dhaney courage and hope for a new beginning.

The following evening, the Chula wasn’t lit, darkness and silence engulfed the kitchen. Old mother-in-law didn’t find her daughter-in-law in the house. When she found Sumnima’s clothes missing she understood. Birey gathered a search party that evening with khukuri in one hand and a burning torch in another. When he saw a lock around Dhaney’s house, it didn’t take him two seconds to add the two together.

On Pailo Baisakh, the following year, they returned. Sumnima had gained a massive weight. Her face was now milky fair, the tan long gone; few freckles on her nose had stayed. Her cheeks were like peach pink and soft flour dough. Dhaney himself had put on a healthy weight, his salt and pepper hair had begun to show the signs.

Sumnima’s father welcomed her with open arms. Dhaney called the Samaj Mukhia and placed the amount that was meant to be paid as per custom, the Jari kar (tax) which was an amount of money paid to the first husband by the second. Here too, Sumnima stood in silence on how the woman was bought and sold among men.

Birey accepted the money happily. Fortune smiled on Dhaney. He had saved enough to pay away the wedding tax. Now Sumnima was officially his wife, and Birey and the society had no rights over her. This was the test of his love. He returned back to his ancestral house once again with his new wife. They bought cows and goats with the remaining money they had earned in Illam, Nepal.

Birey had a son with his new wife Sushila. He was no more a vagrant drunkard. He had become a sensible family man. It took him another month but he decided to call Sumnima his aunt. Sushila and Sumnima buried the hatchet.

Sumnima began to help her friend in her household, while helping her new husband in the field. Dhaney was never violent with her. He would not even argue. They both grew vegetables in the garden while their dairy farming made them one of the richest people in village. However, their happiness was short lived, Dhaney died in the month of Mangsir that year. Finally, jaundice took him away.

With her husband dead, Sumnima was yet again another property that many wanted to acquire. Birey paid tax as custom to the Mukhia which the villagers called Hushu Danda, an amount of money paid by the first husband should the wife return back. It was to ensure the propriety that Sumnima was entitled to. This time too, they didn’t ask her view. It was an old tradition nobody wanted to bend or break. Money was paid and received among men. She returned back to the household of Birey though he called her aunt even after her return. Sushila had no objection to this. As it was truth accepted by all that wherever Sushila was, one could find Sumnima there.

Kate Sarah

18.04.2020

Periphery- The Tibetan Riddle

“Eat” He said as he watched me coyly. The restaurant was funny. There was a ‘No smoking’ board on the pale wall that had a layer of filth, yet every table had an ashtray. In front of me was a big bowl of beef soup and a plate filled with rice. I was force fed by my date. His voice had a sinister command and I was compelled to submit.

When I was asked out for a lunch, I had never imagined in my wildest dream he would bring me to this bar cum restaurant. Thank God I ditched that red dress at the last minute.

I was so indecisive I had to remove my makeup for the third time; my lips were puffy of being rubbed off the red shade of my infatuation. I decided not to comb my wet hair. I washed off the mascara and now I was sure I looked like a runaway convict. I suppose that is what happens when you are asked out on a date by your childhood crush. Perhaps it was just a normal day for Sherab; not an inch of effort on his appearance. But I must say he didn’t have to. He had been the best looking boy in kindergarten school and two decades later he still stood out as the best looking man in this god forsaken run down mess of a town. His aloofness did the trick, and I was stupid enough to think he’d notice me. A drunkard at table number three was staring at my cleavage. I was a fool to wear jeans and a v-neck blouse. I had made an effort to be noticed but I didn’t know that I’d be noticed by somebody else too. He stripped me with his gaze. The thin clothing that I wore, I was sure he had removed many times in his drunken mind. Sherab didn’t give a crap what I looked like. He had a mission, and that was to feed me.

I felt like a scapegoat now; fed before the slaughter.

Sherab Tenzin was my classmate. I remember him because he was the only kid in class who didn’t know how to speak English. He only spoke in Tibetan; he lived with his grandmother as there was a rumour about his parents getting a divorce. He was that neat kid in class, whose clothes were perfectly ironed even after school. He managed to pass his third grade without making friends. The next year his cousin Topgay joined, and the school was never the same. Topgay was the notorious one, a devil, he was a bully and always managed to eat my lunch especially when it was Wednesday; which was a momo day. I knew Sherab was embarrassed of him so whenever Topgay stole my Tiffin, Sherab shared his Tiffin with me. He was always good to me. I believe that’s the reason why I always had a soft spot for Sherab. He was the first and only boy I had ever held hands with.

He was the first friend I had in school. Perhaps the only friend in school; our friendship was short lived. Our school was a small primary school with a handful of students. After the fourth grade, Sherab and Topgay went to the boy’s school of the Jesuits and I went to the Auxilium.

It was at the silver jubilee of the same school I met them again. Sherab was still a shy young man with an infant’s smile. Topgay too had grown to be a handsome mannered gentleman. I didn’t spare my truth to him; all my resentments were reserved for him. Topgay apologized for the troubles. I will not deny it, but playing victim can get addictive. It was fun to pull his leg. Sherab watched us quietly.

“I troubled you the most because I liked you.” Topgay confessed.

Sherab’s face grew a wide smile, “You are the fifth girl he has apologized to today and the third he has professed. Please don’t fall for it. You are smarter than this.”

It was the lengthiest he had spoken that day. Topgay frowned at him, while we laughed. That was the last I saw of the duo. It was after a year, I got the news. I rather stumbled upon it.

I surfed Facebook solely for my clients. Surprisingly, there were more sad people around on the internet who do not like the concept of not knowing. My mailbox was filled with them too. The tarot came in handy. That was the only way I could be social with the world around me. There were people getting married and breeding, infesting the world with their offspring and on social media. Their happy faces were all a clean facade they wore. All sad souls desperately trying to look good for the people they barely liked.

It was spring when the newsfeed flooded with condolences. Topgay Wangdi met with an accident which took his life. Sherab Tenzin was critically injured.

Nana’s presence comforted me as I prayed for the departed soul. My tears wouldn’t stop. Sherab and Topgay’s face danced in front of me. I couldn’t get him or Topgay out of my mind for weeks.

Trauma changes people. It makes humans smell different, look different. Here he was inches away from me different than what I had known him, different from what I had seen him last. As I gobbled down my food to please my date, I introspected if my inclination was just a pity I felt for him. I went down the memory lane.

As a child, I didn’t grow up with large circle of friends, but I managed to keep a mass under control. I had gain confidence with the help of Nana, my cat. The year Topgay joined I was successful to fool some of my classmate into believing my superpower. The rumours had already circulated; someone had started calling me a witch. I enjoyed the attention or rather the fear they so projected. Girls as silly as they were came to me for palm reading. I blabbered nonsense.

Topgay Wangdi didn’t give a rat’s shit whether I was a blood sucking vampire or a witch. He was always ready to stand on my nerve. So he’d stand on my desk when the teacher wasn’t around. Pull my braided hair, put frogs inside my school bag and push me at the canteen. He was always mean to me. So when the opportunity came for me speak up, I spoke with ease.

“You will die young” I told him when he placed his palm on mine for reading.

He laughed at me.

Now when I think about it, I should have held back. Words have the power to manifest.

Sherab watched me as I finished my food in submission. His face lifted in unusual smile enough to make my ridiculous cheeks turn its colour. “Full?” he asked. I nodded sheepishly and felt like a child fed by its father. A father I never had.

He chewed the remaining food on my plate with bored enthusiasm.

“I saw you the other day” He said after a few seconds. His reservation well understood by me and his lack of words in a conversation was not new. I was surprised by the revelation. He smiled again, oh that beautiful boyish smile. “I saw what you did to her. A little bird told me about you. They call you a witch.”

That was not an appropriate word to call a woman, least on a date. The illusion was broken, I was annoyed. He read my face and smiled again, apologetically. “I only mean it as a compliment.”

“Perhaps choose a better word next time,” I raptly replied.

“Sybil” my name sounded peculiar when he called, somehow it was soothing when he said it. “I only meant it as a compliment.”

“I am used to it, don’t worry.”

“I knew you were special. There was always a spark in you. I remember how some of our classmates were scared of you.” All this afternoon, Sherab Tenzin had chosen all the wrong words and strangled my infatuation with every conversation. I looked at him in silence, Trauma and time does change a person.

“I was never scared,” he continued.

“Why?” it was to mock him, my sarcasm was to make a point.

“You are like a cat,” he smiled, “very selective of your surroundings and only approve a few inside your circle. You have emotions that barely escape the surface. You were always like this even as a child and many people were scared of you because as a six year old, you always kept distance, never giving in to impulse, to act like a child. If anything went wrong, you were the first one to know. Remember the day you cried aloud before the incident?”

I had tried my best to forget the past and here he was eroding my walls. There was something very strange today about the hour, maybe it was the restaurant with its red and golden walls. A layer of energy surrounded us and I could not recognise it. Something was wrong here, out of its place, something I was not familiar. It was a strange aura. My gut feeling told me to run towards home but I was curious.

“I had friends,” he was lost again; his smile vanished from his face. I could sense that he missed Topgay.

“You had Topgay.” it was an empathetic statement.

“He was a nut job. He liked attention. He craved for it. His folks always took care of me and I believe he was resentful of all the attention I got but,” he looked at me gravely.

“He liked you,” his face cracked into a teasing smile. My eyes popped wide.

“He bullied me because he liked me? What a typical man in the making!”

He chuckled, “He loved challenges. He wouldn’t stop talking about you at home. It was well …” he took a cigarette between his lips and lighted it “… annoying. You were the only girl he liked in school. And now…”

I stared at him. His eyes lost in abyss “Now he’s gone.” The smoke rose above his head. His eyes were like dark marbles.

“Tell me Sherab, why did you want to meet me?” I asked; the suspense was killing me. The delusion washed off from my mind and I could sense the words he had been chewing inside his thoughts. My heart sank to find he was not the Sherab I knew. Something had shifted, I did not know if it was good change or a bad one but his transformation couldn’t lay hidden. There was something not right with him that fend me off. I kept my minds eyes shut, I didn’t want to disappoint myself but the temptation to see through the third eye was alluring.

“I need a favour,” the cat was out of the bag.

I felt my shy self shedding its skin; I drank the glass of water and sat straight. My disappointment all open; how as a child I had guarded my life and with adulthood I had lost the grip of my emotion. It was that moment, he wasn’t my childhood crush anymore and I wasn’t in kindergarten to play a fool. There was a tension in the air between us. He noticed the change, intimidated by the change of mood he spoke with his eyes on the table, his palm firm to make a statement.

“You have talents, you always did and I need your help. There is something ominous that I want to get rid of. I sound like a madman but I know what I know. I can’t explain it to you in simpler words than this. I… need … your help.”

He was pleading and I lost it again.

When we left the yellow and golden walls of the restaurant the sun was already behind the mountains. The dusk had coloured the sky. There were crows cawing by the trees. I felt the presence yes, a thin veil around me. Somewhere someone was protecting me. Sherab was few feet away walking uphill. The streetlights were all lit sepia in the fading daylight. I wanted to hold his hand, I was panting. I saw then to my astonishment. He had two shadows; one was darker than the other. To my surprise the shadows were looking at the opposite direction.

We reached to the highest point of the town, climbing the steep hill; the cottage was spooky in the middle of pine woods. The nearest village was some fifteen minutes down the hill. The food I had devoured an hour ago did help. I was panting like a hyena at the open ground. Sherab chuckled at me and rushed in to bring me a glass of water.

It was growing dark, but the lights brightened the verandah. the cottage was an ancient marvel standing alone on the hill. A private property of elites I knew not. I squinted my eyes to see a white thing move. Wagging its tail, a young Lhasa Apso guarded the door. I never liked the breed least the company of dogs. I heard a meow somewhere and hoped it was my Nana. I turned around and there she was!

“Nana!” I almost cried.

How was it possible? This black ball of fur rubbed its head against my ankle and purred. I could recognise it was my Nana because of the bell around its neck. Miles away from home Nana had found me. Coincidence? I think not.

Nana’s presence cleared my doubts; there was something very dangerous inside there. Sherab stood by the door and watched me pet my cat. “You know the cat?”

“It’s my cat, Nana”

“Are you sure?” he didn’t believe me. “It’s been visiting Choji for weeks now” he pointed towards the Apso.

I didn’t know Nana liked dogs.

Choji, the Apso bared its teeth to me. Nana made a weird noise and the dog was so scared, it went inside the door. Sherab looked at my cat in disbelief. I laughed at this.

The ceiling was low. The floor was wooden, shiny neat unlike mine, so we took off our shoes at the door. It was a warm house. An old chimney which looked like it belonged to the last century was by the wall to keep warm. The curtains were all pastel to match the warm tone of the interior. The house opened to a big hall with chimney and a kitchen at one corner. A big square hole on the wall gave the secret of the kitchen. The dining table attached to the wall beside it. There were doors on the wall, judging by the numbers of the doors there were many. It was spacious room.

The Apso sat on the sofa quietly. There were rooms and the walls had Thanka paintings of various avatars of the Buddha. His cousin welcomed us. She was a young girl in her early twenties. They spoke in Tibetan and I could not understand a word. She tried to smile cordially perhaps my sudden visit was not expected. She introduced herself as Diki Tsering. She didn’t speak much and left for kitchen.

It seemed the house was empty. My feet were cemented on the ground. There was a sound inaudible to the human ear. Someone was screaming from behind the walls. Someone was trapped. I could feel Nana staying close, like she was protecting me.

“Didn’t I tell you” I heard Sherab whisper to me as we sat beside Choji, the apso.

I looked towards Sherab and saw a strange vapour rising. No, he wasn’t smoking. His eyebrows were darker on his pale face and dark circles were now visible, “What happened to your face?” I wanted to touch his face to check his temperature. He moved away.

His cousin entered the room with a tray full of biscuits and butter tea.

“I am sorry, my cousin didn’t inform me that we’d have guest. Please join us for dinner.” She spoke in accented English, which told me about a foreign influence. I understood I wasn’t welcome. She had a wary smile. She looked coldly at Sherab. “It’s so quiet in here.”

“I am so sorry for the trouble. Sherab is a childhood friend and we don’t meet so often. He wanted me come”

“It’s nothing” she was red with embarrassment. Her smile grew warmer, “Please keep him company; he bugs me so much. Glad he has a friend”

We drank tea in silence.

“Do you live alone?” I asked. There was a scratching noise from a door.

She was uncomfortable. “I came last year when my brother passed away. You must know him, Topgay. My grandparents are in Kathmandu with my sister. I came to visit my parents, mother passed away last month. My father, he suffered a stroke and is bedridden. Topgay’s sudden demise was a heavy blow for our family.”

I held her hand. She smiled with sad eyes.

“You must stay, Tsering. Your father needs you,” Sherab spoke after a while. His face was hidden behind his hands. There was pain in his eyes. The noise behind the door was increasing. She scolded him in Tibetan, I felt like an intruder again.

Of what I knew she didn’t want to stay. She had lost her brother and her mother. I still didn’t know why Sherab brought me into the family drama. The noise was increasing, I was now aware that I was not the only one who heard it. There was a connection with Sherab he didn’t want to disclose. Nana wasn’t with me. My eyes shifted to the red door towards my left. Sherab and Tsering started arguing in a language which sounded like a riddle.

I saw the red door creak open as if the wind inside was calling me. The door opened wider and I moved involuntarily. The pull was strong. I heard a gnawing sound. My feet moved. I was curious of the thing that was inside that red door. The sound increased, it sounded like someone was chewing something rubbery. My heart was beating hard against my chest. Yet I moved. I heard Tsering’s faint voice. Their argument was already heating up, “Excuse me, where do you think you are going?”

I had no time to turn around and answer her. I pushed the door and what I saw froze me. There lay an old man on bed. It wasn’t his body that froze my cells. There was a being by his head. It had a long black hair that covered its face. Its mouth was around the man’s head. It was just like a lucid dream. The creature feeding the old man’s soul was a transparent parasite. The long incisor teeth that were stuck on the living were making that chewing noise as the creature was feeding on the soul. I could barely breath, I fell on the ground. I saw the creature move its head. I screamed and ran out of the room and all went black.

I woke up at the sofa. Tsering was beside me with an ice pack. I had hurt my head.

“Diki” I said. My voice sounded strange to myself. Someone had taken over my body. My body was here and it was moving but it wasn’t me. I was speaking yet I felt my lips were sealed and my voice wasn’t mine. I looked at Sherab, he nodded more to the being that had taken over my body. He knew this would happen.

Tsering looked confused. I slapped her. Yet it wasn’t done by me. I tried my best to control my body but the pilot was somebody else. I felt like someone had tied my real self inside me. I was watching everything. My limbs moving towards the direction where was told to move. Like I was puppet with strings attached.

“What the…”

“Hyaat” I screamed words that I had never heard or spoken. I was speaking a language I had heard few minutes ago.

“What nonsense is this? How do you know all this?” I could see Tsering’s fear.

My body moved. I spoke yet it wasn’t me. It pointed towards Sherab, his head was bowed. He spoke to me in his language. I had no idea what was going on. The being that possessed me was very angry at both of them.

A few second later, Tsering wailed. “Ammmaaa” she cupped her mouth to stop her screams.

My voice began to sound coarse to me. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, my posture changed, I was beating my chest and crying, yet it wasn’t me. I was trapped inside my own body. I tried to look at Sherab, wishing he’d see the real me. His face was painful and on the verge of tears.

I understood then that it was his doing. All of this, he was not the friend I had known.

Sherab said something, which I felt he wanted the creature to go. I slapped him. The creature was very aggressive and would not leave.

Tsering was crying uncontrollably. I hugged her tight and I felt the being truly loved her. “Amma,” she cried. “Why did you leave us like this?”

“Diki” I said to her the being had mellowed down. I rocked Tsering like a baby. So it was understood. I was possessed by Diki, Tsering’s mother and she was very angry with her daughter who was about to abandon her own father. It was not clear who was inside the red door feeding on the sick father. It certainly wasn’t her.

Sherab spoke again with his eyes down. He wanted to free me. I stood up and hugged Sherab, he didn’t hug me back. I kissed his cheeks, “Aamma, please leave,” he didn’t look at me. My fingers were turning black. My body was rejecting the dead spirit.

“I have to do something before I leave” the being told them. I felt like she meant those words. I opened the red door. The creature was still chewing the old man’s head. The creature looked at me. It hissed and I scolded the creature. The creature stopped chewing; he freed the old man from his tusk like incisors. He melted to the ground.

Nana hissed beside me and bit my leg. I puked on the floor. I puked and puked. I felt Sherab’s hand on my head. Diki Tsering was still crying. I puked every food I had eaten last, the semi fluid spilled uncontrollably on the floor. I couldn’t stop.

Sherab removed my hair off my face.

“Easy! There, there,” he said. My eyes were teary and I felt a pungent pain on my throat and my nostrils. I knew now why he force fed me. I felt weak after the purging and I fainted again.

At eight o clock I woke up on the same sofa. Sherab gave me a glass of hot water. Tsering was feeding her father. The floor was clean. It felt like a bad nightmare.

“You okay?” he asked me.

I could smell the stench. My body was stinking; I knew it was the vomit. My eyes were swollen.

“You did well,” he stroked my hair.

I washed my face at the basin and put on my shoes. The house was filled with tragedies such as death and creatures. I was not fit to solve the riddle, I wasn’t told the truth before thats worse than a lie. I had no interest to ask or look at them. I wanted to leave. I could not disregard my intuition any longer. I didn’t say goodbye to Tsering. It was dark yet I walked out of the house. The wind was cold.

“Sybil” I heard him behind me. I ran downhill.

“Stay.” He shouted.

Sherab knew. He knew who I was. He knew what would happen to me. He knew everything. There is nothing more dangerous than a man who knows the truth yet hides it, nothing more dangerous than a man who try to use your talents and is okay to see you suffer.

The infatuation was gone and at that brief moment, I hated Sherab Tenzin. My eyes were wet with tears, I was deeply hurt. I cared less about the wild beasts of the jungle. My heart was a fool and I was already the victim of my blind infatuation. I was humiliated. I reached the main road, my limbs were shaking, the decent downhill was unkind to me. Nana was waiting by the lamp post.

My clothes still had an odour. My uncombed hair was now knotted. I cared less about how I looked at the moment. There was searing pain inside my chest, my heart was tearing itself. My limbs were weak. The tears blurred my vision, I didn’t see the stone where I tripped and fell. The skin on my knees was bruised.

Nana purred beside me. I sat on the lonely asphalt road unable to cry, I was shaking. I had lost my strength.

I walked home trying hard not cry. The solace that one finds at home, there must be a term for that. I felt secure around my four walls. My messy room and my shabby walls were no art, I agree but they were my security. This house belonged to my grandmother and now it was mine. It wasn’t well furnished like the ones I had visited but my house had less tragedies and creatures. It was my peace. I took a hot shower to get rid of the smell. I burned sage. My heart was in its right place.

The night seemed long for me. Nana sat on couch. I gave her some cat food and I nibbled some dry crackers because my tummy was making that whale noise. The lights went out as the night matured. I lit some candles. Darkness never bothered me but I was again an insomniac counting sheep. The cicadas outside my house were singing. Laying on my bed I started playing with the shadow of my hands. I felt then, my loneliness in the darkness among shadows. I felt it for few seconds and shrugged it off. This is the rule of life, never cling on to the darkness. I danced my hands and laughed at my own shadow, I tried my best to forget about the incident and about the house by the hill. Everything was back to normal.

Nana came running towards me and jumped on my bed. She drew closer to my chest. I heard her purr. As I drifted my mind to not think of Sherab again, I raised her by the light.

“Nana” I called her. She responded with a weak meow.

I have become prone to her scratching and biting. She is my knight in the shining armour. I watched her yawn lazily. Her teeth though white and sharp, had a peculiar smell. She doesn’t like heights, so she was biting my thumb when I lifted her higher to play this shadow game with her and I discovered then, that my cat, Nana had no shadow after all.

-Kate Sarah

Shoes

Anna knew Em was going to make it big someday. Em had a flair for painting. Her colours on canvas drew people like the magical Piper of Hamelin. She could draw anything and make it come to life even in its stillness.
Like all the artist of the world, Em too was cursed in many ways. Her menial jobs where she worked to support her passion, paid her a meagre income that rent and ration would eat it away. So Anna would sometimes joke about how Em should get hold of someone rich from the Upper side to pay for her talents. Em wouldn’t mind the bantering, she’d always answer back wittingly that if she were to marry anyone form the Upper side of the snobbish society, it would be only for money. They both knew it wasn’t true. Em was a romantic and unfortunately unlucky in love. She’d always fall for the wrong ones.
She’d tell herself that she was strong but she was vulnerable, her worst and the best trait. She refused to be corrupted by the ways of the world around her. She refused to be influenced by world’s definition of love. She still believed in good men. And what a turn of event, she met one online. Oh boy! The upper side man, Anna was thrilled at first but she did warn Em about the stiff neck society.
It was a date, she had been looking forward to, for weeks. She’d squeezed everything she’d saved for a dress Anna thought she’d look good on. The economy was terrible, especially for her than the country. She could have borrowed Anna’s but Em and Anna were two poles apart in terms of size. Em was a petite woman of mid twenties, you usually see in house keeping magazine with apron and a ladle while Anna had a robust built of an athlete all thanks to the sedantry job she worked for to support her creative writing tuitions.
Em’s date from upper side, was a Chef by profession who could quote her favourite Dickinson rhyme by rhyme. Infact he wooed her with this quote
“Forever is composed of nows”
They bonded over the fact that both believed in dignity of labour. Of course, she didn’t tell him about the number of times she worked as a dishwasher for the same restaurant he owned so that she could buy a decent set of brushes and Varnish.
She had a habit of attracting crazy men, but she’d always say this one’s different, hoping against hope.
Anna was positive this time for she’d seen Em glow, Love was such a beautiful colour on people. It was stupid and illogical yet, the love bug had made her friend a lovely host.
” Manifest. Positive vibes” she’d told Em from the very beginning. ” And don’t come crying again if it doesn’t work”
So the following Sunday evening, Em was dressed to paint the town red but it was her shoes that gave away the modesty of her class. She was glad her date had decided for the evening, her shoes were hidden under the shade of dusk and her frilly dress. It wasn’t her fault though, the pair was the only good shoes she had owned and to get a new one would again create a hole in her pocket.

They finally met in person.
Being a painter , as observant as she was, she noticed his features first. Drawn by greek nose, Adonis jawline and his lazy brown eyes, Em felt hexed by the proper consolidation of the elements on his face and toned body. He was absolutely flawless, or was it her lens that exaggerated his beauty.
He was polite to the waiters and had the etiquette of typical Upper side boys. The warm energy between them made her mellow, her voice sounded strange even to herself. Her high pitch voice was soft spoken and calm. The conversation was all one sided.
He spoke and she listened, like it was a sacred speech of Socrates. She was bewitched by his baritone voice that commanded absolute attention. His laughter was a musical, ringing in the open space that she had to place her hand on her heart to hide the drumming beat. Her heart was now a frail organ. Her face, a coloured pallet, that easily gave away her secret.

When the night matured, he spoke not of knowledge that she knew of but of things that she was deprived to the least, for she belonged to the provincial and as he spoke in polished English with complicated french cuisine names, she noticed her coarse hands on the linen tablecloth. Her bare wrist and neck was a mockery of her own class; not to mention the only pair of good shoes she was wearing hidden under the dress. The apprehension of her reality pulled her back to the ground. What was she thinking?
His radiant face, his new white shirt, undone sleeve button and the golden watch all screamed the gap between her class and his. She couldn’t help but compare herself with him. The worst feeling she had experienced second to love was this sense of being intimidated by the confidence of his class and wealth. To this day her own poverty never bothered her, for she considered it to be a subjective topic. She thought materialistic things were superfluous, and that her talent was enough.
He changed everything.
She curled her toes inside her shoes when a gorgeous woman patted his back to start a conversation. This new lady was a Lawyer and had soft white hands, Em knew by the movement of her eyebrows that this lady was scrutinizing her harshly. She felt naked in front of them, exposed for dissection. Her frilly dress that she had loved so much felt like a cheap thrift clothing screaming for attention. She looked around her, this wasn’t her crowd. This wasn’t her people. She asked herself, What was she thinking?

Confidence to her was a luxury, she had bought with a dress and yet it was soiled by the shoes. She looked at him, his radiant smile and posture, the way he carried himself indicated the innate confidence. She couldn’t help but envy every glance he showered to the new lady.

Why did he fancy her, a struggling painter from the Lower Side? Or was it just pity? Her throat was parched with despondency. She smiled all she could to guard her self loathing. The lady finally left but not before revealing the history that both she and her date shared. There was an awkward silence.
Em was too spent to be surprised by the revelation. She missed her warm bed and her comfortable loneliness where nobody tried to hurt her with reality.
Seeing her lost and dazed, her date decided for a walk. When she returned home that night, the gallant gentleman kissed her goodnight, promised to call her for their second date but she knew that was it. She wanted to say goodbye but only “Goodnight” escaped her lips. Her face cracked a sad smile, he couldn’t decipher the emotion behind it.
Perhaps this is how the have nots are blessed, if the haves are blessed with choice and confidence. The have nots can feel anything and everything, and to feel is a blessing. Don’t you think?
She watched his snazzy pair of leather Oxford walk away from her, her heart crumbling with every step he took. She wanted to scream and ask, Why did he choose her?
But he was long gone towards the dark corner, far away from her reach.
She sat by the foot of the staircase, took her shoes off and contemplated at the turn of events. Her bare dry hands didn’t look so bad after all, and the sole of her shoes were already breaking off. She looked at her shoes, and her shabby apartment, they looked good together, the shoes complemented the worn out apartment ,her toes were red and sore.

That night Anna found her sobbing by the same stairs. Alarmed to see her pensive, Anna asked about Em’s date though the answer was already raw in her face.
Em blinked her twinkling eyes and replied softly,
“My shoes hurt. Anna, my shoes hurt”

Kate Sarah

Unmarked

We sat at the dry ground near the farm field. My friend and I loved walking and exploring the field near our house. We were eleven years old celebrating holidays from the cruel institution called school. She lived in Kalimpong, one of the beautiful hill sub-division of Darjeeling where she studied, whereas I was trapped in Darjeeling. We were apart for most of the months, it was only during Puja Vacation and winter we were together.
We were the best of friends, even sharing half of our names.

The month of February was cruel for both of us because it was a time where our classes resumed.
It was our regular afternoon, we sat by her farm on the narrow mud road. Her mother had planted radish and potatoes in the farm and had gone to fetch waters. One could see the banana and the many orange trees with handful of small yellow ripen oranges lose on the old bowing trees. We shared stories about our friends at school. Of course no one could replace her in my life and I knew that no one would replace me too. We chatted about the school ,memories without any pressure of jealousy which was alien to us.
As we were reminiscing the school days I noticed a part of the land was raised by the field. It was a small raised land where nothing grew. The weed circled it but couldn’t touch the swollen earth. I couldn’t suppress the question any longer so I asked her. The colour of her skin changed, there was a sadness in her voice when she said it was a grave of her infant sister.

I had been her friend for eleven years yet I didn’t know that she had a sister. She then told me about her unfortunate little one who only lived for a day.
She was born feeble, the fever clinged unto her and she lived for one night but couldn’t live for another. She died before she was given a name. Thus the grave had no name over it.
Her mother was so distraught that they had to exorcised her of the evil spirits. She mourned her daughter for months. She was buried in the farm land and had been there for nine years now.
“I don’t know her name” my friend said sadly, “My parents couldn’t give her any name before her burial. She died before they could decide to give her a name.”
So it was an unmarked grave for her. I thought.

“Do you miss her?” I asked. “Do you feel if you could have a sister, your life would have been different?”
She looked at me perturbed but answered, “No I don’t miss her but yes I feel it would be better to have someone.” she smiled and continued, “but sometime I feel it’s ok because I don’t like to share my parents with anyone.”
We shared a smile. I plucked few wild Himalayan daisies from the surrounding and placed at the small grave of her sister.
She laughed at me. “What are you doing?”
“It’s for your sister” I told her.
As I resumed by place by her side, strange question haunted me. “Do you think there are bones inside her grave?”
“Maybe” she replied.
“Why didn’t your family cremate her?”
“I don’t know” she began to get irritated.
Just then we heard howling of young teenage boys. The road was a common narrow path that passed across the field joining the forest and our village.
They were young boys from the village returning from the swimming adventure from the lake situated at the foothills of the Estate. They all looked at us. We had them blocked as we sat down on the narrow road that connected the forest with the village.
“What are you witches looking at?” the oldest one asked us. He was a shabby lean guy who wore his hair on his face. His incisor tooth bit his lower lip. He looked demonic in his ugly pimple prone puberty face. We maintained our silence in fear because never play with a barking dog.
He looked at the flower I had placed on the grave.
“What’s that?” he asked.
We were silent.
He poked my forehead with his index finger and asked again.
“It’s my sister” my friend said in belligerent voice.
The other boys laughed at the answer. I didn’t know why they laughed.
The boy smirked at my friend and I and went to the grave. He crushed he sapling of potatoes, my friend’s mother had planted some weeks ago. He stepped on the grave. His ugly shoes were worn at the edges. I gasp along with the other boys, while my friend stood still.
“Do you want to see a magic?” it wasn’t a question anymore. It was a statement he had proposed and we could do nothing.
He jumped on the grave. He showed his dance moves as he jumped his weight upon the grave. The grave was nine years old. The being inside it was dead and couldn’t feel the weight above it. My friend who stood beside me felt the weight of insult that had befallen upon the dead who was her own flesh. As I shifted my eyes from the assaulter to her, she was still with shinning eyes. She said she didn’t miss her sister who lay inside the womb of earth. Her declaration didn’t mean that dead sister had no value.
The boy was exhausted of assaulting the dead. He said to us, “If you stare at this for 10 minutes, BOOM! The dead will come alive” he laughed. I could see a trace of tobacco attached to his pale teeth.
The boys who stood by us gasping at the disgrace, laughed and they left us sore with the consequences of the humiliation the boy had caused. My friend wept as it was the only thing an eleven years could do. She didn’t tell her parents about the incident. At eleven we were wiser human than the boys who had hurt us. Perhaps that’s the gift from nature to us woman kindz enduring the evil of the society.

As time passed we forgot the incident. I don’t think she remembers it as i do so vividly.
We go to our village sometime and watch the hour hand slide with a cup of tea. The farm fields are prone to weeds, the village looks barren. There are no farmers now to look after our land. One can see cable wires and dish TVs everywhere. People have running waters at their own houses. So the morning gathering at the nearby stream is a yesteryear tale. Children do not play these days, they are all glued to a magical stone they call mobile phone, which has massively affected their physical health. The reality of my village is that there are hardly anyone living here.
The congested and chaotic village looks serene in its silence as everyone has left the god forsaken land for metro cities. Some fortunate has moved to the gulf country where some women work as domestic helpers at the houses of Bollywood film stars.
I remember the face of the boy. I remember the tears of my friend. I wonder if it’s a curse or a blessing to remember, but I do.
It was one of those lazy afternoon, some years ago, I was walking alone through the same field. I didn’t see the unmarked grave. Weeds grew everywhere. I entered the village to see a funeral ritual on a small hut. Almost everyone was here, yet it was a thin crowd. I saw the same boy who was now a grown man. There was a small coffin about the size an infant wrapped with numerous khadas. I inquired and found that it was a still born baby girl of the man who had humiliated the unmarked grave years ago.
I was surprise at the turn of events. I cannot say that man reaps what he sows. The child shouldn’t have died. My heart was filled with pity for him. He saw me and dropped down his sad head which his shoulder held in this unspoken tragedy. His wife was weeping at his side. A group of men carried the small coffin on their shoulders. Though the size of the coffin was small the weight of a dead infant was heavy. I saw them move the casket away to the farm field for burial as I wondered if she too would have an unmarked grave.

Kate Sarah

Boksi

I knew her well.
I knew Priya as I knew myself. She was my best friend. The only flaw she had according to my Lata (mute) Baje was that she was believed to be a granddaughter of a witch; a Boksi.
Her grandmother was from an unknown tribe from the plains. To be honest, her grandmother was the most wonderful lady in our village; she fed me lunch whenever I was at her house with Priya.

My parents made sure to send me off to my grandparents in the tea estate during my winter Vacation, I was treated like a celebrity there. As I was marked bazarey, someone from the bazaar (town); I enjoyed the attention. Some of my playmates like Priya had never been out of the glen, some I believe have only heard tales of merry go round and ice cream on wafer cones.
I made sure to treat her with sweets, whenever I made a visit. My mother used to pack a separate bag for Priya filled with delicacies from town and some clothes that I had outgrown. Priya was small, petite girl unlike me.
I usually spent my birthdays with her, which fell on the Christmas Eve. My Dasai too was spent with my grandparents and her. She didn’t know her birthday, her granny was so careless and illiterate to note it down. Though her mother was working somewhere in Delhi. She was a fatherless child, who was more or less an orphan raised by her senile grandmother.

When I asked her granny about Priya’s birthday she once said that she was born in Vadaw (monsoon ) and curtly said that it was why she was a cursed child. She separated her parents at birth, killed one without being involved. That was the power of a Vadaw born. That was how her granny spoke about her. She was never kind. Now, when I think about her harsh words, maybe she was Boksi because of that.
It was later I came to know, Priya’s mother eloped after giving birth to her and her father died due to excess intake of illicit alcohol.
My parents and grandparents weren’t bothered about the superstitions and rumours that surrounded our small village. They knew Priya’s grandmother well.
They knew that witches and spirits are an illusion that humans feed themselves to avoid reality. For Priya and her grandmother it was one horrid reality.
They survived on a meager salary of tea workers that she received, 90 rupees per day. Priya went to a government school but she hated studying. Whenever I came to the village I gave her books to read and taught her few English words. She loved learning, she was curious I don’t know why she hated her school.
I had a mute grandfather, not entirely voiceless but he spoke in words incoherent. He was my grandfather’s half brother who lived with us. I was told that he had a twin brother but he died in his infancy. I was very much scared of this grandfather as I was told that he used to be a shaman. I don’t know where he picked up the habits of the priest. He did his rituals in the evening, muddled words pronouncing the spells and mantras in front of his deity. He didnt eat beef, he was vegetarian once a week. Yet, he was strong. He would carry huge logs like it was a heap of clothes. Life didn’t treat him so well when he suffered a stroke and was paralysed. My grandmother took good care of him. He was called Rama and his twin who died was called Laxman. Ramey as we used to call him, had broad forehead with strong, distant creases.
He used to sit at one corner of the kitchen drinking black tea and rambling which took me minutes to decode it’s meanings. But he always had a story and was always demanding tea.
Once when I was young, I was running around him, he got hold of me tight and asked me to sit beside him. I was unwilling at the beginning, in a nasal voice he said ‘Dont play with that Priya”
I was red with anger “Why?” I asked.
He released me and made an eerie gesture with his palm and claw the air, “Priya’s grandmother is Boksi'”
I was aware of such rumours, but this kind of threatening was new to me. I tried to keep distance with Priya. I was less attentive towards her and kept by myself. I remember, then I didn’t take part in outdoor activities. My mute Baje whom everyone fondly called Lata Mama was happy to have company.

Priya sensed my uneasiness and asked me the reason behind my curt behaviour. I had to ask her and I did.
“Why did you keep it a secret?”
“What secrets?” She was surprised. “That your grandmother is a Boksi'”
She laughed at this. “Boksi!” She laughed heartily.
“You should know that Boksi women are dark and have long hair and they do bad things to people, Priya be honest with me, are you a Boksi too?” I confronted her.
Her laughter died and she cried in front of me.
I felt horrible after that, I wanted to go back to town to that notorious institution called school. I hurt her knowingly. She stopped coming to my house. It was understood that her grandmother was also aware of the knowledge I had of her.
A week later, there was a big commotion. One of the teenage boys entered Priya’s house with a Khukuri to behead her grandmother. He was drunk and could hardly hold the weapon but he was strong. His accusations were that his mother had been hallucinated Priya’s grandmother in their house. From the day of her hallucination, the woman was bed ridden and on a verge of death. Surprisingly nobody bothered to take the woman to a doctor.
The boy muster up the courage to kill the witch to save his mother. Few men saw the young boy entering the senile woman’s house with the weapon but they waited for the drama to begin. It was only when granny screamed they entered to save her.
It was evening, the sun was sinking between the mountains, the sky was a darker red; the crimson hue had the effect to produce a sad illusion of emotion inside one’s head. There was some struggle, between the youth and the old lady. He pulled and yanked her hair, which caused her to fall back.
They somehow managed to draw out the youth from the old hut but the men cooked up stories as how the old witch lived and on what condition they found the old witch.
The men told the village that she was amidst the rituals. Knowing not that it was the evening prayer for the old hag, and she had been worshipping the god of her ancestors for many decades.
Even her god was hideous to those men who didn’t consider such dark idol as god.
For the first time I saw the old granny cry. She wailed all night, her cry still echoes in my memories. That evening, the sun spilled it’s crimson rays across the horizon . The old woman kept on wailing aloud beating her chest. Her only flaw was that she was dark skin woman and didn’t worship the same forest god, the nameless God that many of her neighbours worshipped.
That her god had mud face and was dark like her. That she was without a man. A severe flaw to defile a woman in her own house without any valid proof. I tiptoed to her house. I saw her head on her knees crying, her hair was open dark and a greasy curl, disheveled, covering her body as she squatted and wept. Her clothes were torn at the shoulder. It was a case of an assault. I was too young to understand this. Priya was at one corner, her eyes were dry but in utter shock.
My grandmother grabbed me from behind and took me home. They didn’t tell me what happened next.
But they found the woman dead the following morning. They didn’t tell me how she died but I knew why she died. Priya was crying and I cried because she was crying. Strange world isn’t it? we can’t see the one we love in pain.
My grandparents took her in.
Strangely the youth was charged by the Panchayat to pay the fine. He happily payed five hundred rupees. His mother surprisingly regained her consciousness.
When the spring arrived. It was decided that Priya would stay with my parents and she could also join my school. Fate had different stories to tell.
Her mother came from Delhi to take her away. She was very happy to be with her lost mother. I on the other hand, was sad to part away from her.
When she left, I remember, she wore a Barbie pink dress that had glitters. Her curly black hair was pinned with white curved clips.
Her smile was so radiant that I forgot that she was dark and that she was what everyone called her to be, a Boksi.
She waved me goodbye. I smiled and waved back.
I don’t know where she is now.
I stopped visiting the village there was nothing left. All the new houses replaced the old huts and all new faces replaced the old wrinkled people that I knew. There are young generation parents I know not . I still remember my playmate and her generous grandmother sometimes.
Last winter when I visited the village, I saw a brick house in the place of a humble mud house, where she lived. I had gone to meet my grandparents. I was taken aback by a dark figure at the window sill.
She kept watching me in silence. She had curly black hair and smiled apologetically knowing that she had startled me.
She introduced herself as my neighbor. She had married someone from the village and spoke fluent nepali, being a non Nepali. Her Hindi however, was heavily accented.
She had been working in some film stars house in Mumbai when she met her husband who was also a helper.
She had a warm presence. Her smile touched her eyes, she had a profile of a beautiful cover girls, her eyes and her lips and her neck they all magnified the beauty that she tried to hide behind the insecurity of colour. She was beautiful charismatic woman in her early twenties, around my age.

She told me her name was Divya, she was born in the same year as Priya.
Her husband called her for dinner, they were still in their honeymoon phase. She told me how lucky she was to meet me, I told her she was too kind. We said our goodbyes for the night.
I didn’t know I was being watched, Ramey baje caught hold of my hand and said ” Don’t speak with Divya”
I was irritated at the old man and nearly shouted but managed to ask him “Why?”
With the same hand gesture, clawing the air, he said
” Don’t befriend her, she is a Boksi

-Kate Sarah