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.”

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

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

The Priest – Periphery

Nana always knows. Before somebody knocks the door, she runs towards the door if it’s someone she likes. She runs towards me if she doesn’t. Today, however she fixated her head towards the door like she was waiting for someone to knock.
My black Persian cat Nana purrs coarsely in her sleep and loves tuna out of the can but it’s always dry fish that she is crazy for. Today she has refused to eat anything. She likes peeking in when I am going through my reading, she disturbs me knowingly but never have I seen Nana so disturbed as today.
The knocking happened around 2 pm afternoon, the curtains hid the man but the silhouette seemed familiar.
Gaius Jacob had vowed to convert me when he first arrived into our neighborhood. He is the youngest priest in the parish and is an object of many ridicules for his enthusiasm partly because he is too young to discuss religion out loud in public. The Catholics call him priest charming because he is good looking young man in an obscure god forsaken town. No wonder the church is full these days because of him.
He is almost sensible if religion is knocked off his head, he always twists every sentence to theology. There is something in him that makes people believe in God that he do fondly preach. He is always kind, but most importantly overlooking the fact that he is too good to be true, he has his innocence intact, unmarred by the corrupt world. His childlike deduction and belief that everyone is good, will surely kill him oneday.
Can I call a Catholic priest stoic conservative without making it an oxymoron?
I always liked pulling his leg
“God is merciful” he says when I ask him, about Judas Iscariot.
This Gaius Jacob was not himself at my front porch, he asked my permission to enter. Nana bit my leg playfully, her sharp canine drew lines on my dry skin. Gaius waited patiently. Nana ran away frantically.

There was blood at the edge of his cassock. The indigo dipped cassock was ironed as always. He never entered my house, and had once called me a sorceress, I never mind I’ve been called Jezebel and worse.
There was something odd about him. He was asking permission to enter. I couldn’t say no.
I asked if he’d like a cup of tea, which he declined. I never felt so ashamed of my mess of a room. Nana had massacred my notebook on the floor, shredded the poor little bamboo pages for fun.
The beads and the cards were spread on the table.
“Ah, do you see anything?” He asked trying a smile to relax.
I had to ask, ” Gaius, Are you all right?”
He bit his fist, sat on the cane chair dramatically and started sobbing. I wanted to put my arm around him and console. I watched him break down instead. It was bitter to see him that way. My eyes swell up too. I stood there quiet. I saw Nana by the door watching us. She refused to enter.
“I have doubts” he said wiping his tears.
‘I think it’s good to have doubts. It makes you humble” I said.
“Faith do not thrive where there is doubt.” he looked at the floor.
The scratch that Nana’s teeth had marked made my skin embossed, it burned.
” I think they go hand in hand. Like light and darkness. You don’t need light if there is no darkness to drive out. So you need faith to drive out doubt. But tell me why a Catholic priest is asking about Faith in Sorceress’ Den?”

Gaius narrated his story about his morning. He woke up from a dream. He doesn’t remember what it was but his body was sapped. He couldn’t pray or eat. He tried reading his Bible, but his mind was disturbed.
“The only thing that keeps a man happy and content is his act of service”
So he went doing his usual chores, visiting houses and praying until he got news about first cousin being possessed.
She was taken to the hospital where they labelled her with schizophrenia and multiple personality disorder. In his defence, Gaius said he was already sapped because of the dream be cannot make himself remember till then.
So he went to visit his cousin sister with holy water, herb and wax. He regrets he should have asked other priests. His emotions got hold of him.
She was lying on the floor with a bloodied mouth. He could barely utter word when the spirit spoke to him.

“What did it say?”
He just looked at me. I saw his eyes were sad but never have I ever seen such beautiful eyes.
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have bothered coming here. But I felt sorry for you. I don’t know why. I wanted to meet you.”
“Sorry for me? But why Gaius?”
Nana started hissing and growling from the door. The evening was getting dark.
“Your cat doesn’t like”
“Cats barely like people.”
He smiled at this. He gave a nervous bow and excused to leave. It was all funny to me. The first time a priest was inside my house and the longest conversation we ever had.
“Don’t you want to convert me?” I teased as he was leaving.
“No I think everyone should have this freedom to choose”
” So where do you think, Judas is?”
“Maybe Nowhere,” he smiled at his own answer, ” and to be nowhere is a good place to be”
Next morning, as I was going through the local news channel on Telly, I heard about an exorcism gone wrong. A young priest died at the local hospital while performing an exorcism on a young girl. They said the girl’s back to normal but the news reader didn’t mention the name of the Priest.
I watched Nana in horror, she stretched herself and ran towards me. She sat on my lap and looked at the door intently.

Kate Sarah

Periphery

The Witch

“She was my neighbor.

As I mentioned earlier, yes she came to meet me last week. It was her first visit here after her scandalous wedding. She as you must know, eloped with her music teacher who was already married.

No, we weren’t friends. Her crowd was different but she was always kind to me. I feel bad as I couldn’t help her last week. My grandmother liked her too, maybe because we were the same age. In fact she looked younger than her actual age. She was an extrovert no doubt about it. She was the only child of her parents but her folks were not too lenient with her as the others might say. Things changed when she started mingling with the wrong crowd in her teens.

I believe that’s when she met her husband, she was too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation. She did what she had to without knowing what she was doing. She was seventeen, ready for college. He was… I think thirty years old, married with kids.

I heard it was a shotgun wedding but she had a miscarriage. I bet she aborted the child. I know she was capble of that. It’s a decade old story.

She came here for some help.”

“What help?” The officer in front of me was in his late forties. I liked his moustache. Not everyone can rock a moustache. Beard is an overrated accessory on male faces. His partner was in his mid thirties, clean shaved and an amateur scribbling on a notepad trying to impress his senior.

I knew the minute, they entered in that they were the harbinger of bad news. They carry the stench of death in them. Aisha came last week with a request. She wanted to cast a spell on her unfaithful husband. She caught the bastard red handed. Her eyes were dry but swollen.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I knew she wanted revenge. Her whole aura was a bad energy, I had to burn sage to purify the air after her departure. She came to the wrong place. I am not a witch to cast spell. I can sit for séance and see things that I don’t like to mention and wish I could stop.

My granny used to say, “You don’t say no to a gift”

I doubt if it’s a gift to see what I see. Sometimes I prefer to be blind. Ignorance is bliss.

“She wanted help?” The young officer looked at me.

“To cast spell” I don’t like to lie about my profession.

He gave short glance to his senior who’s eyes were fixed on me. My cat Nana purred and rubbed her body against him. She liked him. Nana is black persian, she is eighteen years old. Usually cats do not live that long. But Nana doesn’t listen to anyone, not even time. I bet death itself is scared of her. I don’t see it hovering over her. Like I saw it around Aisha last week.

“So are you a… Witch?” The amateur asked me. I nodded but couldn’t help smiling at the lack of their knowledge.

“You can call me but I do not cast spell. I do not have a wand or a broom, or pointy hats”

“Do you have cards?” He asked out of innocent curiosity. His senior cleared his throat and apologized to me.

I have cards but this wasn’t about it. There were checking alibis.

“Aisha’s husband was found dead in an alley with bullets in his head; shot at point blank. He was a professor of a degree college and as the record says and you confirmed, he was indeed having an affair with one of his students.”

The senior officer meant business.

“Yes I read newspaper. It was all over the local news channel” I could feel the irritation building up.

“I believe there’s something missing here.” He looked at me straight in the eye and I understood what he meant. His amateur junior started calling Nana but she’s never listened to anyone.

“You do not believe how simple the case is. Anyone can kill the professor. But Aisha had the main motif. You think she killed him.”

“Yes but How?” the amateur asked.

“There is a world where energies work and Aisha unlocked it somehow. Her hate won. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She had to pay a price and she did. She got her revenge but on what cost?”

The amateur gave a short laugh.

The senior officer looked troubled. “We believe in proofs and logic”

“If it is so, why did you come here to meet a witch? You could have asked Aisha’s parents or her husband’s lover. You came here because your logic failed or your logic brought you here”

The officer gave me paper which was inside a Ziploc. The amateur looked shocked.

It was letter written in blood. It was a declaration letter. My hands trembled as I read.

“Aisha was found dead in her own pool of blood. Perhaps she didn’t know it but she was with a child. I do not know what to make of it. It is beyond what my apprehension. Forensic report claims the time of death of these two to be same. I… Do not believe”

Aisha’s voice rang inside my head. “Help me” she had asked me a week ago in this same room. I couldn’t shake this feeling what she had done to herself and the child.

As the officers stood to leave, the chairs creak a sound. I could smell the blood and I knew it then. My vision had return with blur periphery, the chairs rock back and forth. I tried to ignore the sound as I escorted the officers away.

Inches away from my ears, I could her voice saying “Help me”