Book 1
True Rising
~ Mark of the Defenders ~
Tanishq Sheikh
Copyright © 2019 Tanishq Sheikh
All rights reserved.
No part of this text may be reproduced or uploaded to any unauthorised sites without express permission from the author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. There is no intention to assign similarities between fictional characters and persons who are living or passed on. All situations, incidents and dialogues are fictitious. There is no intention to hurt cultural or religious sentiments of any communities.
Watch out for the complete series.
The Defenders Trilogy.
Book 1: True Rising – Mark of the Defenders.
Book 2: Hope Rising – Promise of the Defenders.
Book 3: Dark Rising – Hour of the Defenders.
Author’s note:
Dear reader,
Thank you for downloading my book!
The Defenders Trilogy is a very special series for me.
When I decided to write out this story, I was a novice in the genre of fantasy/paranormal fiction. But this story was ordained upon me.
Sounds lofty, doesn’t it? Truth of the matter is, my approach to this book has been in a frenzied, delirious state of mind. Throughout the writing process I was guided by my muse who led me through situations that were driven with romance, suspense, mystery, drama and horror. There were times when I would read back and I was stunned by the narrative.
Please do note, although the story is set in Bombay (Mumbai), India and the characters are of Indian origin and nationalities, its reach and appeal is universal.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Please do leave your valuable reviews and comments.
Kindly also visit and like my Facebook page for regular updates: www.facebook.com/tanishq.by.definition
Warm regards,
Tanishq
For dad.
Table of contents
Part I – Hidden Fears
One – Into a starless night.
Two – Say a prayer.
Three – First love.
Four – A broken heart.
Five – A heart on the mend.
Six – Dare to dream.
Seven – All for love.
Eight – A forever love.
Nine – Waiting for love.
Ten – Made in heaven.
Eleven – Hold on to dreams.
Twelve – Don’t let go.
Thirteen – Open your heart.
Part II – Sleepless Nights
Fourteen – A new beginning.
Fifteen – A precious life.
Sixteen – Trust in me.
Seventeen – An eternal bond.
Eighteen – Look into the past.
Nineteen – When truth hurts.
Twenty – Together forever.
Twenty-one – Questions.
Twenty-two – The strength within.
Twenty-three - Hidden no more.
Twenty-four – Untold secrets.
Twenty-five – Wise men don’t lie.
Twenty-six – Sharing secrets.
Part III – True Rising
Twenty-seven – The powers that be.
Twenty-eight – Unknown wounds.
Twenty-nine – An unseen enemy.
Thirty – An awakening.
Thirty-one – True rising.
Thirty-two – First born.
Part I
Hidden fears
One
Into a starless night.
I had an unremarkable childhood. Together with my two sisters, my father and mother, we were a family of five. Our family life was stable. Dad went to work nine to five, Mum cooked the most amazing food and we children went to school. In the evenings, we played with our friends, later completed our homework, had dinner, watched some television and finally went off to sleep.
Those days, the social environment was unlike it is at present. People communicated with each other more often on a face to face basis than via emails and messengers. Families shared dinner together, relatives came for visits, neighbours shared recipes and casseroles, community members participated in celebrations and so much more.
Children had a fun life. These were the end of the seventies and beginning of eighties in Bombay, the city of dreams, in India. Television broadcasts were limited to a six to ten timing in the evening on weekdays. Sundays it would come on in two slots, morning nine to afternoon two and then again evening six to ten. There were no computers, laptops, tabs or cell phones. There were radios and landlines.
Children were free to use their physical and intellectual skills. They climbed over walls, fences and trees, drew hopscotch on the pavement and played infinite games with infinite self-made rules. On weekends, it was a force of habit for families to huddle together in the evening for the movies that were broadcast on the television. People slept by ten those days because there was nothing more to do.
I have two sisters. One older and one younger. I refuse to give excuses to my status as a middle child, but I can confidently state, I was a difficult child. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t, am not, autistic or ADHD (terms people hadn’t even heard those days) but I did have some behavioural issues.
There is a three year difference between me and my older sister and a six year difference between me and my younger sister. There shouldn’t have been any behavioural issues. I had plenty of me-time with my parents as the second born. Or did I?
My earliest memory of my life are the identical dresses my Mum used to stitch for me and my older sister. Same fabric, same pattern. But the similarity in our outward personalities ended there. While my sister was the apple of the family’s eye (this included my grandparents, uncles and aunts), they considered me a bit of a wild-child. No I didn’t have a devil may care attitude, but my family may have felt I had the devil in me.
No, this wasn’t an assumption. I had heard them talk about me.
~ ~ ~
Memories – Prisha – 1978.
“You seem tired, Sudha,” my father’s tone is gentle as he lays down for the night.
“It’s nothing,” Mum mumbles back. She does sound tired. Exhausted. I turn on my side. I can hear their muted voices as I lie on my bed in the room next to theirs. “Prisha as usual.”
My heart constricts. Why am I not surprised she’s complaining about me?
“She’s only six, Sudha, how difficult can she be?” Dad reasons. Yay, Dad!
There is a brief silence before the tirade begins. “For once why don’t you spend the entire day with her and then you might get the answer to your question.” My mother’s night dress rustles as she shifts. I can sense her teeth grit together as she speaks of her woes. “She’s stubborn, messy and she whines all the time! I can’t get her to do anything on time! She has torn all her school books, she needs new pencils every day, she eats her erasers, her teachers complain she dreams in class, she snatches other children’s snack boxes and if I scold her, she whines! You have no idea how she whines! It’s like an incessant wail that overpowers me till I feel I’ll go crazy! The only way I can get her to stop is by whacking her.”
“Sudha..”
“Don’t you Sudha me! You have no idea! I’d rather have her sulking in one corner the whole day than making us miserable! She’s nothing like Saumya! It’s like they came from two different mothers! But no, I bear memory of the horrendous labour she put me through, those hours of agony! And yet, I can’t believe she came from me!”
“I guess that’s why you find it more difficult to deal with h
er. Because she’s different.”
The light switches off in their bedroom sinking the apartment into darkness. I can sense Mum has put an abrupt end to the conversation. Dad settles down too mumbling a few tired prayers.
I lie on my bed, staring into the darkness around me. My older sister and I sleep in the living room of our one bedroom apartment. Stored away in the day, my bed is a pull-out one. It has wheels and tends to shift when I turn on my sides. I try to lie still as it annoys my sister to no end when the wheels squeak. But some nights, I can’t help it. Some nights I toss and turn more than usual.
Faint, dusty rays from the street lights outside filter through the curtains throwing murky shadows on the walls. My sister is fast asleep, her breath soft and peaceful. I keep staring at the ceiling fan willing my eyes to stay open. Mum’s words hurt me more than I can express. I hate myself for all the trouble I cause her. What is wrong with me? Why do I frustrate her so? Why can’t I be more like my sister?
My eyes droop losing focus on the whirring fan blades. I promise I’ll be a good girl, Mum.
Drops of cold water, shinning like jewels fall over my frozen cheeks. My breath fogs, my eyes stir trying to defy the embrace of a deep sleep. What is happening? Why is it raining?
Tendrils from an icy breath caress my cheek and a needle point nail traces a scratch across it. “I see you,” the voice whispers in my ear, “I see what you see.”
My eyes dance behind my eye-lids, battling my need to open them and my common sense to keep them closed. I can sense this has happened before. I am helpless, weighed down by an uninvited presence.
A sticky tongue traces the path of the blood that oozes from the scratch across my cheek. “I will get you some day,” the voice whispers its macabre promise, “Someday you will sleep too deep, some day you will dream too far…”
NO! I wail in silence, flaying my arms about to break the inhuman grip.
A harsh slap across my face sends my head whipping to one side.
My eyes snap open breaking the spell. I’m drenched in sweat. My wide eyes stare around prepared to see something evil but all they can see are the familiar shadows. My sister sleeps on.
I want to wake her up. I want to cuddle up to someone. “Saumya,” I whisper, “I’m scared, I want to pee.”
Saumya groans her annoyance. “Shut up and sleep!”
“But Saumya…” I touch her arm but she turns to the other side and sleeps on.
I am too scared to move from my bed, my eyes still searching the shadows. I see nothing but I’m too afraid to go to the toilet on my own. I hold for as long as I can, then I pee in my bed as I have done every night since I was born.
~ ~ ~
Mum isn’t too pleased about the laundry she has to do in the morning. My bedding stinks. Period. It is so bad that I have a rubber sheet to protect the mattress but nothing can protect my favourite blanket. No one knows that it is my protective shield; it gives me a false sense of security as soon as I hide under it. My pee soaks it every night so it’s washed and dried daily, ready for use at night. No one else will touch my blanket because it smells so bad. But that’s exactly why I love it. It keeps something away. I truly believe it does.
As a six year old child, I have little memory of the nightmares I endure on a regular basis. An icy touch, a scratched cheek, something frightening but nothing more. I wake up daily to a brand new day, excited about endless possibilities. I have so much to do and so little time. I try to be on my best behaviour, as promised, and yet I am late for school as I can’t find my tattered school diary. I also conveniently spill milk on my school shirt. My apologetic smile for Mum gets me nowhere. She all but drags me from the house and drops me to school which is at walking distance from our house.
I spend my day as usual day dreaming, drawing patterns on the desk, attempting to hijack snack boxes and generally getting into trouble. The only thing I look forward to is the evening at my neighbour’s home.
Uma Sangram is a dance teacher at my school and also my next door neighbour. A beautiful, kind woman, she has a daughter, Anushri, who is around three years younger than me. She lives in a cosy, warm, loving home with her husband and her daughter and she adores me to bits. I have no idea why, but I love her back. I call her Uma aunty and her husband Partho uncle. Anushri and I enjoy playing for hours, creating imaginary castles and forts with bed sheets on their apartment’s balcony.
It is part of my routine to come home from school, play with my friends, wash up and then head on to the Sangrams. I spend my entire evening with them and am rarely home for dinner. Uma aunty ensures I eat every morsel off my plate because I am very skinny. Not that all her indulgence ever matters to my skinny self.
One night, Partho uncle is late coming back from work. He works as a manager at a car factory in the east side of the city. He is usually home by seven but today it’s already half past and he isn’t home yet.
I sit under a bed sheet draped over chairs to fashion a make-shift fort to play with Anushri. We sit under the sheets sipping on her play tea set.
“I’ll be right back, Prishi,” Anushri chirps as she leaves the play fortress.
“Ok,” I chirp back happily. I hum under my breath as I arrange the dolls around me. A yawn escapes my lips indicating the day’s adventures are catching up with me. I lay my head on the soft pillow next to Anushri’s favourite doll. It isn’t very late, I am aware I have at least two whole hours of play time left in the day.
In the next instant, I am fast asleep.
The car driving along the unlit road is travelling fast. Partho uncle is worried. He is late for dinner. He makes it a point to never be late. Today he has stopped to buy red roses for his wife. The flowers will commemorate the day they first met.
A sudden fog swirls up, swallowing the car. He can’t see clearly but he keeps going. Then icy drops of water fall over his head and roll down his cheeks. He loses his focus as he looks up into the face of evil. At that moment the car spins out of control.
I scream. Loudly.
“Prisha! Prisha!” Those voices are as though they come from a distance. I choose to ignore them. I have to see it. I have to see what it looks like!
“Prisha!” My eyes snap open staring into the frightened eyes of Anushri and Uma aunty.
“Oh, poor baby!” Uma aunty envelops me in her arms, “Were you having a nightmare?”
Yes, I guess I was. I look around at the play fortress, it’s a mess. I have pulled it apart in my sleep.
She brushes wet tendrils away from my face. “Come on, let’s have dinner. It’s getting late.”
I look at her confused. “What about Uncle? Is he home yet?”
“No, sweetheart, he isn’t. I’m sure…”
“I want to speak to him,” I blurt, cutting her off, “I want uncle to come home now! He’s not safe! He’s not safe!”
Uncertainty flickers in Uma Sangram’s eyes. “Did you have a bad dream about uncle? I’m sure he’s fine.”
“No! No! He needs help!” I’m almost hysterical by now but I’m glad my frenzy alarms her enough to make her call him.
The watchman at the factory confirms Partho Sangram left at his regular time. Uma aunty glances at the clock. Her husband is more than an hour late. It isn’t like him.
She calls my father and explains the situation. Within minutes I see Dad leave our apartment in a hurry and drive off into the dark night.
With no means of immediate communication, the next hours are the longest of our lives. Two hours later, Dad returns with Partho Sangram. From the balcony, I can see he has to lend support to uncle to get out of the car.
When they reach home, Dad reveals he found Partho uncle’s car in a ditch by the road. Uncle had driven off the road straight into it. He was semi-conscious when Dad found him. After a quick visit to the hospital and basic check-up, he was discharged to rest at home.
With the adults and Anushri fussing over him, I don’t get to approach uncle immediately. Instead I’m sen
t home while my parents and a few other neighbours surround him with questions. As luck would have it, apart from a mild concussion he isn’t hurt. He keeps mumbling about a fog that came out of nowhere. It isn’t winter yet so his explanation doesn’t seem to convince others. It could be a car from the opposite direction that didn’t use dippers on the dimly lit road.
But, Partho Sangram is adamant it was a fog. He also added that he saw me. Well, not exactly me but a girl who looked like me. She was pale and cold with silver hair and bright violet eyes. I have black hair and chocolate coloured eyes.
True Rising: Mark of the Defenders Page 1
