I’m not supposed to know about this. But inquisitive as Saumya is, she has all the details and takes pleasure in tormenting me with them. “I bet the Sangrams know what a freak you are now.”
The news alarms me. I don’t want to lose the Sangrams. I don’t want to lose anyone. I’m not a freak!
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Is there something wrong with me? I stare long enough to acknowledge the normality of my features. My head holds a messy mop of hair, my eyes are keen as they are a regular brown. Why then can I see a flicker in them?
I lean forward, using my finger to force my lower eye lids down. I look gross and funny enough for a giggle to escape. Then I see them. They are very faint. Almost non-existent. Purple flecks of an amethyst are dancing in my irises. I can see them because I’m hunting for them.
The mirror fogs over. I let go of my eye to take a nervous step back. I want to move, to bolt out of the bathroom but my feet are rooted to the floor. I’m cold. Cold enough to shiver and hug myself. I see a movement in the mirror. The fog is clearing into a mist. It’s still me and it isn’t.
Her hair is silver, her eyes a burning purple. Her face is a direct imprint upon mine. We could be twins.
She lends me a smile loaded with evil. I can feel my lips move too. Am I smiling back? Reflecting what she wants me to? I know I’m trembling and am beyond terrified. The terror that grips my senses seems to lift me off the floor till I’m floating several feet off it.
Now I’m looking down at her through the mirror. She begins to lean forward and reaches out of the mirror. Her torso is half in and half out. She can reach me with her sharp, icy talons. They scrape the bottom of my chin.
“Yes, pet, I am you and you’re me.” Her voice is at once enchanting and alarming. “I need you as you need me. You don’t know how powerful you are yet. Don’t forget me. I hold your will in me. You can’t escape. You will never be free.”
“Prisha! Prisha! Dad! Dad! Look what’s happening to Prisha!” I can hear Saumya’s frenzied screams but mine are louder than hers.
I realise I’m in my bed and not in the bathroom anymore, screaming and thrashing about like a crazed person. Dad’s gentle hands grab me. In the next instant, cold water splashes across my face and I come awake with a deep gasp.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Dad hugs me close, rocking me in his arms. “You had a nightmare.” I let out a low wail and in the next instant, wet myself. He doesn’t mind. He holds onto me, giving me the much needed sense of security.
I shiver for a good ten minutes before my body calms down. Nightmare. Yes, it was a nightmare. At least now I know what my nightmare looks like. It looks like me.
* * *
Two
Say a prayer.
By the time I was nine, Dad was enlisted as an engineer in the interiors of the country to oversee the construction of a major dam. Since anti-national factions infested the area, it wasn’t deemed safe for Mum and us girls to be with him.
Life couldn’t be more unfair on me. Mum made no secret of the fact that she hated me, while Saumya was so self-indulgent that all she thought about was herself. My younger sister, Leena, was too young to be of any interest to me. In fact, more often than not, Mum used me as her babysitter while she and Saumya went shopping. I didn’t mind but I was a child too. I didn’t always enjoy losing out on the fun with my friends because I had to look after her.
By this time, we had shifted out of our old apartment next to the Sangrams. The Sangrams too had shifted out when I was seven, quite soon after Partho uncle’s accident. We never heard from them after that. They chose not to keep in touch and vice versa.
My parents bought an apartment in a posh neighbourhood near the beach front. The real estate in this neighbourhood was expensive but Dad had managed to get a good deal on it before he left for his assignment. There was a rumour about a girl who had committed suicide in the apartment, but no one verified it for us children, so I wasn’t sure.
I made a new set of friends at school and in my neighbourhood. Those were days when we still managed to play our whimsical games and be proud and happy.
Our extended family also visited us often so that we didn’t miss Dad much. We’d often go for dinners, movies and outings with our uncles and aunts.
Then there was an outing that unknown to me, plotted horrifying events for my future.
~ ~ ~
Memories – Prisha – 1981.
The green, hilly landscape flies by as we head for Shirdi. It’s a small, holy town, around three hundred kilometres from Bombay. We travel in a tourist van packed with devotees that include my maternal uncle, aunt, maternal grandmother, my mother and sisters. And of course, me. I don’t consider myself a devotee though. Over the years, I have developed a skill to do the exact opposite of what Mum expects of me.
The trip is a last minute decision and we packed in a hurry. Mum made me leave my books and colours and I’m upset. But there’s no use reasoning with her these days. She’s been at my throat ever since Dad left. As if it’s my fault. I’ve started nurturing a reckless attitude towards her and I think she knows. I can’t help it, if she doesn’t care for me, I don’t see why I should care for her.
We reach our destination late evening and after a light dinner, retire to our room. We need to sleep early to be able to attend an early morning aarti or prayer session.
The night isn’t peaceful. Shirdi is a pilgrim destination. There are sounds of buses, cars, vans, jeeps and people who keep arriving and leaving throughout the night.
I lie staring at the ceiling fan that whirls over my head. I wish I could peek out of the windows and see what’s happening with the world outside. But Mum will have my skin for it so I decide to remain lying. Not long after, I fall asleep.
I hear bells. The sound of their peals are distant but clear and continuous. It makes me wonder, who’s ringing them this late at night; a hopeful, desperate devotee or a zealous pandit? Which one is it?
“Neither,” she answers with a whisper.
I freeze as she hovers above my body, sinking her icy tentacles into me. She’s dripping her cold, chilled sweat over my face. It looks as though I’m crying. But I’m not. I’m too frozen for lucid thought. If only I can get warm.
“Listen,” she urges, “Listen again. Those aren’t temple bells.”
I do as she bids, straining my ears. Thak, thak, thak, thak. Yes, those aren’t the sound of bells. Bells have a delicate, lilting sound while these are harsh and jarring like fire-crackers or gun-shots.
My eyes begin to do a crazy dance behind my eyelids as they see a vision. It’s Dad! Dad’s under attack by terrorists. Strangely, I can see everything through his eyes! He’s taking cover behind a bullet ridden jeep. I’m forced to see bloodied bodies all around as his eyes sweep across the scene. No! No! Help him somebody!
“I can help him, pet, but only if you say so,” the floating ice creature informs me. She grasps my chin with one hand, turning my head with a sharp tug so that I’m peering directly in her eyes. “Do you want me to help the man you call father?”
“Yes!” I cry in desperation as icy tears flow down my frozen cheeks.
“But there will be a price to pay. Do you agree to it?”
“Yes! Yes! Take anything you want from me but please help him!” I yell, launching a frantic struggle to get out of her grip. To my nine year old mind, there’s not much I have to offer and I’m not entirely sure why she needs anything from me.
She reads my mind. “You’ll know someday, pet. These are just tokens that I’m collecting.”
With that she disappears, leaving me behind like a stiff block of ice.
I wake up with a cry startling everyone around me. We have rented a family dormitory so that we can all be together and my entire family except for my younger sister is awakened by my scream. Good, as it’s almost dawn.
“What is it, child?” my grandmother places a kind arm around my shoulders.
I’m d
rawing in gulps of air between the hiccups that arise in the aftermath of my frozen state. “Dad, I had a bad dream about him. I want to speak to him.”
“It’s all right, child, don’t worry too much.”
Mum sends me a disgusted frown. “She’s just up to her attention grabbing stunts again. As if she’s the only one who cares for Prakash.”
“Hush, Sudha!” Grandma chides her before turning her attention back at me. “Listen to the morning bells, child. You’re in a place that grants people their wishes. You can pray for your father.”
Grandma makes sense. The breeze that blows into our room carries not only the sounds of the morning bells but also the intoxicating scent of incense sticks, the earthy smell of wood burning with ghee and the smell of fresh flowers. This indeed is a place that is meant to grant wishes but what about the deal I already carried out with my frigid nemesis?
Forty five minutes later we make our way towards the temple of Sai Baba of Shirdi. Legend has it that he was a common man with supernatural abilities and a knack of helping out, those who were needy, with miracles. He never made a claim about belonging to any one faith and that’s why he has followers from prominent religions making a bee-line to Shirdi; the town where he walked in one day and never left till he drew his last breath. And yes, his good deeds made him a God for his devotees.
I don’t know if I’m his devotee. As a nine year old, I’m more interested in playing, reading books, dancing and day dreaming than I am in the concept of God. I do everything Mum asks me to do. Adorn the statues of deities in the temple at home with flowers, light incense sticks, ring the tiny bells, join my hands when the aarti is performed, recite hymns and anything else that’s associated with following my religion. Only I didn’t know how it matters that I do these rituals.
My logic of existence is simple. I live to enjoy my life. Why then do I need all these religious activities? Will I stop to exist if I didn’t follow them? I never really asked Mum this question. I’m sure I would’ve received a sound slap if I had. So I go along with whatever she instructs and life is peaceful for both of us.
Inside the temple, I’m jostled about amongst the adults as we make our way to the Sai’s marble statue. I gaze at it as I creep closer. The artist has done justice to him. He looks so peaceful and all-knowing. I wonder if he can really grant me my wish. Will he ensure my father’s safety?
When I reach up front, the priest presses a mixture of sandalwood paste, haldi, kumkum and rice grains to my forehead, gives me a tea spoonful of charnamrith to drink and shoos me away in a matter of seconds. I’m pushed along with the crowd that follows and spit out in the compound in an instant.
I’m puzzled. While I was day dreaming, I didn’t get to ask Sai for my wish. What am I supposed to do now? I glance at Mum who’s scowling at a woman who stomped on her bare foot and know it’s not a good idea to ask her. Instead I take a moment to close my eyes and make my wish. Please let my dad be safe, I don’t know if this is the right way to make a wish but I really hope you’re listening to me.
“Prisha! Stop standing there like a fool with your eyes closed! Move to the side or you’ll get trampled!”
I sigh opening my eyes to Mum’s fuming face. She’s right, of course, so I move away to the side, waiting for the rest of the family to reassemble. I look around absently only to notice several keen eyes watching me from a distance.
A group of eunuchs are staring at me. They look formidable, dressed as they are in their typical attire of women’s saris, bangles and other accessories. I can’t fathom why they’re staring at me. Have I sprouted horns or a tail?
“All here?” My uncle butts in making me lose eye contact with them. “Let’s go have something to eat.”
Late evening on the same day, we head back to the temple from our hotel room for the evening aarti. It’s a Thursday and on Thursdays there’s always a special aarti for Sai. Although not one for crowds, I’m happy to receive a second chance that just might grant me my wish.
Unfortunately that’s not the plan with the adults. We’re not re-entering the temple for an individual darshan or blessing, we’re merely taking part in the group aarti.
The scheme of darshans and aartis often puzzles me. Which part of the entire process of praying to a God actually grants you your wish? I’m kind of done thinking about it and as usual I let my mind wander.
The crowd swells all around us and my uncle tries his best to keep us in a tight knit group. He almost succeeds before Mum lets go of my hand.
I have no idea if it was deliberate but one moment I’m standing with my family and in the next, I’m shoved across waves upon waves of people lost in their devotion. That’s a lot of wishes to be granted, Sai, how many will you entertain?
All of a sudden, a hand clasps around my arm in a tight grip and begins to drag me along. I have no idea who’s pulling me and I don’t have the strength to resist. The sea of people keeps parting ways, oblivious to my plight. No one cares. They have too much to ask for themselves.
Before I can comprehend what’s happening to me, I realise we’ve broken free of the crowd. In the next moment, I’m bundled into a rough blanket and carried away into the darkness.
I’m suffocating but I haven’t lost consciousness. I can’t scream because my head is bouncing about like a ball in a practice sock. It isn’t long before I’m unceremoniously flung onto a hard floor. The blanket is yanked off allowing me to draw in deep gulps of air.
It takes me a few moments to adjust my vision. I blink rapidly to take in an alarming sight. I’m in a mud shack with cow-dung layered walls and floor. I know this because I can identify the smell. It’s the same as the one at an odd ceremony Grandma has once a year to appease some family deity with cow dung. I know my aunts hate it but they have to abide by her rules and smear it in a corner. If I happen to be around, I hang around making the same cringing faces as them while they fashion the cow dung into something that is meaningful only for Grandma.
Vision restored, I find myself surrounded by a group of eunuchs who sit in a circle around me. I suppose they’re the same ones who were staring at me this morning. What do they want from me?
Eunuchs are social outcasts because they don’t belong to any one gender, male or female. To me they look like males dressed up as women. I’ve seen them roaming streets seeking homes of new born babies. Once they identify the home; they pay a visit, dance, give blessings to the baby and go only after they’re paid a hefty amount for the ‘good luck’ they’ve bestowed upon the baby and its family. I think Mum skipped this part for me, no wonder I turned out a trouble maker.
To my credit, I don’t fear the eunuchs. Rather, I’m curious about them. Have I no sense of the danger I’m in? No. I’m dense that way. Or fearless. Both traits hated by Mum who calls me callous. I don’t even know what that word means.
I sense a movement behind me and turn on my butt, where they dumped me on the floor, to catch a glimpse of my kidnapper. The eunuch who stares down at me is fearsome to look at.
She’s wearing a red and green sari while matching glass bangles adorn her thick wrists. Around her neck are heavy gold necklaces, her ears sport broad, chandelier earrings and a prominent nose ring gleams at me, catching an errant ray from a flickering oil lantern. Her hair is tied in a tight bun adorned with a jasmine flower string and on her forehead a large, round, red dot stares down at me.
I’m fascinated by her. She looks powerful as she goes down before me on her haunches. I stare back, wide eyed. She sits cross-legged and pulls me up to sit in the same position. Her thick lips stained with lip colour begin to move. The chants under her breath are like a low murmur that soon begin to pick up pace with the others joining in.
I must say it’s a scary sight! But I’m not one to show my fear. I stare down at my blue cotton dress while the eunuchs keep chanting around me in unison.
In a beat, the room goes silent. They have stopped the chanting. The shack reeks of the sweet incense sticks while the smok
e from them swirls in no particular direction. I have no recollection when they were lit but they add a surrealistic element to this scene unravelling before my eyes.
The leader places a large hand on my head, covering it entirely with the palm. The fingers grip my head from all sides as she gives it a firm shakes as if I were a rag doll. “Who are you?” she demands in her coarse, manly voice.
I cringe. I knew the eunuchs sounded like men but I’ve never heard one so close and the sound startles me. I’m not sure if I have the bravado to answer.
She shakes my head again, her fingers gripping even tighter. “Who are you and what are you doing in this child?”
Say what again? Who was I? What was I doing in me? Her questions are beginning to confuse me.
She gives my head a rough push sending me sprawling on the dung floor. With a flick of her wrist, she releases her hair from the bun. The jasmine flowers rip away from her hair to lay scattered in broken bits. Their fallen scent lingers on. Her action alarms me and a certain wariness creeps in me. Her hair falls over her shoulders, spreading down in waves.
True Rising: Mark of the Defenders Page 2
