Zara's Witness

by Shubhrangshu Roy

  ‘Jo tu hai, so main hoon; jo main hoon, so tu hai,’ smiled Zara.

  ‘About turn,’ commanded the soldiers. ‘Access denied.’

  Zara turned around towards the river, and found neither the river nor the performers, nor her lookalikes who had been following her down the rainbow to the now empty promenade. Instead, a dark and deserted embankment descended into nine slippery steps at the edge of the world.’

  Zara turned around hurriedly to face the tin soldiers once more and demand the right of passage.

  ‘By what did you acquire your strength to reach here?’ asked Thunder.

  ‘By breath,’ replied Zara.

  ‘By what did acquire your form?’ asked Bolt.

  ‘By eyes,’ replied Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire your voice?’ asked Thunder.

  ‘By ears,’ replied Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire your odour?’ asked Bolt.

  ‘By nose,’ replied Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire the flavours?’ asked Thunder.

  ‘By tongue,’ said Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire your movement?’ asked Bolt.

  ‘By feet,’ said Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire your actions?’ asked Thunder.

  ‘By hands,’ said Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire your pleasure and pain?’ asked Bolt.

  ‘By body,’ said Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire your identity?’ asked Thunder.

  ‘By mind,’ said Zara.

  ‘By what did you acquire your judgment of right or wrong?’ asked Bolt.

  ‘By intelligence,’ replied Zara.

  And with that, the soldiers stepped aside and the first of the nine glass doors slid apart, revealing the first boxed compartment of a long, narrow-mirrored corridor partitioned at regular intervals.

  CHAPTER 3

  Zara stepped into the corridor to be greeted by her million reflections in skin-fit leggings and miniskirts and hot pants paired with matching tank tops and off shoulders from across mirrored walls of the discotheque, dancing in the flash of strobe lights in step with the moonwalking magician, hollow head in hand, and to the ear-blasting music of Mykul Jay’s Eat it!

  They told her don’t you ever come around here

  Don’t want to see your face, you better disappear

  The fire’s in their eyes and their words are really clear

  So eat it, just eat it

  You better run, you better do what you can

  Don’t want to see no blood, don’t be a pretty girl

  You want to be a beauty, better do what you can

  So eat it, but you want to be smart

  Just eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it

  No one wants to go hungry

  Showin’ how funky and elegant is your flight

  It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  They’re out to get you, better live while you can

  Don’t want to be a girl, you want to be a woman

  You want to stay alive, better do what you can

  So eat it, just eat it . . .

  ‘But your song is not what I desire to understand,’ yelled Zara above the din of the disco, striding down the corridor.

  ‘But you should know the singer,’ said the hollow man walking backwards, facing Zara.

  And so, the second door slid open and in walked Zara into the next mirrored compartment in the invisible footsteps of the magician. And the music grew louder:

  You better run, you better do what you can

  Don’t want to see no blood, don’t be a pretty girl

  You want to be a beauty, better do what you can

  So eat it, but you want to be smart

  Just eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it . . .

  And Zara’s million reflections danced in jubilation.

  ‘But your music is not what I desire to understand,’ yelled Zara, reaching the end of the second compartment.

  ‘But you should know the musician,’ said the hollow man, before the third glass door slid open, making way for the two to step into the next compartment, where the music grew even louder:

  No one wants to go hungry

  Showin’ how funky and elegant is your flight

  It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it . . .

  And Zara’s countless reflections twirled in gay abandon.

  ‘But your dance is not what I desire to understand,’ shouted Zara.

  ‘But you should know the dancer,’ the hollow man shouted back, as the fourth glass door parted open, and the music grew still more louder:

  They’re out to get you, better live while you can

  Don’t want to be a girl, you want to be a woman

  You want to stay alive, better do what you can

  So eat it, just eat it . . .

  And Zara’s reflections worked up the tempo.

  ‘But your form is not what I seek to understand,’ shouted Zara.

  ‘But you should understand the seer of the form,’ the hollow man shouted back. And the fifth door opened and in walked he with Zara in tow. And the music grew wilder:

  They told her don’t you ever come around here

  Don’t want to see your face, you better disappear

  The fire’s in their eyes and their words are really clear

  So eat it, just eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it . . .

  ‘But your pleasure and pain is not what I seek to understand,’ hollered Zara.

  ‘But you should know the discerner of pleasure and pain,’ cried the hollow man, dancing backwards. And the sixth door parted, making way for the two to the next compartment, Zara in step with the hollow man. And the music grew still louder:

  They’re out to get you, better live while you can

  Don’t want to be a girl, you want to be a woman

  You want to stay alive, better do what you can

  So eat it, just eat it . . .

  And Zara’s many reflections gyrated in tandem.

  ‘But your mind is not what I seek to understand,’ Zara shouted.

  ‘But you should know the thinker,’ said the hollow man. And with that, the doors opened to the seventh compartment, whereupon a heady aroma of a thousand dishes wafted into Zara’s nostrils as the music peaked:

  No one wants to go hungry

  Showin’ how funky and elegant is your flight

  It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right . . .

  ‘But odour is not what I seek to understand,’ screamed Zara.

  ‘But you should know the one that smells the odour,’ said the hollow man, turning around to face the eighth glass door that opened into the next compartment. And Zara followed in to face her million reflections jumping in ecstatic frenzy:

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it

  Just eat it, eat it . . .

  ‘But taste of food is not what I seek to understand,’ yelled Zara at the top of her voice.

  ‘But you should know the discerner of taste,’ cried the hollow man before disappearing with a bang, whereupon the lights went off and the reflections drowned in the hollowness of the hollow corridor and the ninth door parted open . . .

  And Zara stood right inside Mamaroy’s Kitchen.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Where am I?’ Zara asked, looking around the oval room, astounded. Slender petals rose to the ceiling in broad brushstrokes of soft ceramic pink that gradually merged into the unfolding shades of porcelain white, giving the feel of a lotus in full bloom under a domed ceiling plastered with ceramic tiles
periodically changing hues from softer to darker shades of the blue sky—glazed in the pottery barns of Samarkand—from which hung slender pink and white porcelain chandeliers with slender green stems handcrafted at Lladro’s workshop in Valencia; the floor tiled at uneven levels with large round ceramic pottery fired into green lotus leaves at Arabia’s Helsinki studio, on which stood nine delicate tables with round pietra dura tops designed at the marble workshops of Agra, each surrounded by five crystal chairs, representing the five senses of sound, sight, smell, touch, and taste, with pink backrests and green legs sculpted into shape at Swarovski’s workshop in Wattens. A large round steel Gaggenau flatbed charcoal oven laden with Le Creuset pots and pans from Fresnoy-le-Grand hummed with life under an equally large round steel Elica chimney from Fabriano in the centre of the room.

  ‘This is the infinite space of your heart, Zara, the dwelling of your soul. It is free from hunger, free from thirst, free from old age, free from death, and free from grief,’ Zara heard a husky feminine voice from across the oven.

  Looking up, she saw a beautiful middle-aged porcelain-complexioned, bright-eyed, full-bosomed lady with ample bottom, warmth oozing from her delicate rose-tinted face with lips painted coral and crowned with silken hair in cool auburn undertones, trimmed bouncy to her shoulders, staring from behind the steaming pots over the slow burning charcoal fire, love flowing freely from her heart.

  ‘Who are you?’ Zara asked, walking towards the oven.

  ‘I am the real me,’ said the lady, ‘but they call me Nigella El. I am also known as Mamaroy!’

  ‘And what is the real you?’ asked Zara, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘The senses that brought you here are all true. And the one who lives the truth is the real. And I am the one who lives the senses. So, all this that is served here in my kitchen to please your senses is also real. All this is you, too,’ said Nigella.

  ‘And what’s this?’ Zara asked, pointing to the glowing fire spread out on the oven.

  ‘This is the world of fire, Zara. The heat that shines in your eyes, that hums in your ears, that wafts through your nose, that waters your mouth and fires your passion is equalised in the fire of this hearth, consuming the food and arousing the senses that toss your mind up and down the chute of your imagination,’ said Nigella.

  ‘Food? And what’s this food?’ asked Zara, peeping into the pots and pans.

  ‘Ah food! Well, I am food! I am food, I am food; I am the eater of food! I am the eater of food, I am the eater of food,’ said Nigella.

  ‘Food, Zara, is the highest state of being,’ she went on, ‘for truly life is food.’

  ‘When you are starved of food, you cease to feel, you cease to smell, you cease to hear, you cease to touch, you cease to speak, you cease to see, you cease to think, you cease to be.’

  ‘And when you do get to eat, life blooms in you. And you begin to think, you begin to speak, you begin to see, you begin to touch, you begin to hear, you begin to smell, you begin to feel, Zara.’

  ‘All creatures that you saw by the riverbank, a little while ago, and in the forest and at the foot of the mountains on your way here, run about day after day, desiring food. The sun feeds on its own light and gives forth heat, so does the fire that feeds on wood to blaze. And so do you and me. Truly, this Universe was born with the desire for food.’

  ‘From food are creatures, that dwell on earth, produced; by food they live and again into it, they finally pass.’

  And saying so, Nigella El thrust a tab into Zara’s hands. And so, as Zara swiped the screen with her finger, she saw the everlasting feast of life laid out on the screen, now simmering on the oven.

  Appetisers

  Golden Ostera Caviar

  Caramelised Onion Soup: Served with Gruyere and Parmesan cheese and crouton

  Zara was only beginning to grasp what was on offer when Nigella interrupted her, peeling an onion: ‘Don’t get taken up by the broth, Zara. When you peel an onion to its end, you are only left with its essence. That essence alone is you. When you feel the essence, you absorb everything. Your name and identity are only your skins. Sometimes they grow and sometimes they shrink. It’s only when you peel the skins, that you reach your essence. And from that essence another onion is born. So, feel the essence of your soul, Zara.’

  Zara looked at her, then at the steaming pots and pans before withdrawing to the tablet in her hand. In a while, her face stiffened as her jaw dropped in horror.

  There was a veritable fare for the main course. Would she like it?

  Entrée

  Eggs Benedict: Peacock eggs with grilled asparagus, house-cured salmon, and home fries

  Koel Confit: Slow-cooked koel served with lentils and potato confit

  Tongue-tied Bird: Half-roasted tittiri with an apricot glaze served with rice

  Frog Barbecue: Grilled frog, brined then basted with hickory barbecue sauce and roasted to fork tender

  Mahee Mahee: Mahseer grilled with chimichurri, mango salsa, asparagus, and roasted potatoes

  Turtle Roll: One-pound salty game turtle from the edge of the forest served with celery and mayonnaise

  Lizard Green Masala: Boiled green monitor lizard served with mint, coriander, and ground spices

  Cur-ed Curative: Wild cur in lemongrass, sautéed, served with hot earthworm paste and steamed quinoa

  Hungry Hai: Whole roasted rack of spiced hyena served with potatoes gratin, chard cherry tomatoes, and themali plum sauce

  Hunter’s Delight: Wild boar with onion jam, cooked spelt with saffron

  Croc au Pillar: Red-wine braised crocodile short ribs with thick caterpillars tossed in creamy mushroom and black truffle cream sauce

  Filet Rhi! Poivre: Broiled rhino tenderloin served with a creamy peppercorn sauce, fries, and seasonal vegetables

  Rivah!bank Stripe Steak: Big, juicy, a twenty-eight-day-aged elephant stripe steak seasoned and fire-grilled. Topped with crispy fried grasshoppers on herb butter and served with mashed potatoes and seasonal vegetables

  Virgin Veggie: Grilled vegetable napoleon with fresh green vegetable pie

  Cocktails

  Dragonfly Bowl Cocktail: Deep-fried dragonfly with Malibu coconut rum, pineapple, and orange juice

  Southern Jam: Raw monkey brain mixed with fresh red banyan figs, lemon juice, and vodka sprinkled with a dash of small red ants

  Dessert

  Lord’s Gold au Caviar Parfait: Nougat cream, toasted honey bees, white chocolate sauce sprinkled with glow-worms, and topped with 24-carat gold-coated butterfly

  ‘Slaugh . . . terrrrrrrr!’ Zara screamed and the tablet fell from her hand, her face turning purple, tears rolling down her eyes, the sight of all the creatures of her childhood on the riverbank and the forest slaughtered one after another in the red oxbow lake of lust and wrath flashing past her mind. And there went the train of ants on the dry river bed; the caterpillars crawling under the peepul tree beside the earthworms; the glow-worms flying in the dark of the promenade on the left bank of the river, some distance from the Peacock Ridge; the dragon flies, the grasshoppers, the bees, and the butterflies making a buzz at the sight of the approaching river; Froggy and Lizzy on the steps leading to the promenade, rushing past everybody else for the first dip into the water; wise old Mah!seer deep in meditation midstream. And then the monkeys swinging from the branches at the edge of the forest, the wild cur barking lazily under the morning sun in the meadow; the wild boar grunting in the mud; Redeyes, the hyena, in the dark and eerie night of the jungle laughing ‘hehehe!’; Rhi!noo, turtle, and Elly? Yes, Elly going down under the pond. And now, all of them swallowed one by one, one after another, in the giant bright orange pots and pans.

  ‘You are killer of life,’ Zara shouted at Nigella.

  ‘I am Mamaroy!, giver of life, Zara,’ Nigella smiled, her moist coral lips stretched from side to side, warmth oozing from her rose-tinted porcelain face, love pouring out of her heart.

  ‘Know well, Zara,’ she said softly, ‘Those
who kill don’t eat; those who eat don’t kill.’

  ‘And this, indeed, is the food, that you and I hanker after. So, fear not darling, and hate me not. From food are all these creatures born, by food they grow and live. Because it is eaten by and eats creatures, it is called food. Delight in food, revere your food, as you would revere yourself. All of this creation, to which you belong, is only food and food alone. This fire is the eater of food. This itself is the highest creation.’

  And as she said so, blue-white Noritake ceramic tableware with generous servings of Mamaroy!’s choicest dishes floated from the oven to the nine tables spread around the room, their heady aroma wafting in the air, uplifting Zara’s senses. And the sparks that blazed in the oven, rose to the chimney.

  ‘As from this blazing fire, a thousand sparks leap forth, so millions of souls are born out of love and return unto it, Zara,’ said Nigella. And saying so, she turned a copper pitcher full of water into the oven, raising a giant cloud of steam into the chimney. Then, lifting one foot over the oven, and then the other, she disappeared into the funnel riding the smoke.

  Zara peered into the chimney. Then craned her neck to catch one last glimpse of Mamaroy!

  Alas! She found no one inside.

  Then, as if in a trance, she ascended the oven, one foot at a time, its charcoal bed reduced to dying embers and ashes. And as she did so, she was sucked into the long dark hollow in the blink of an eye.

  And she rose up, up, up . . .

  And in her wake, the embers rose to the chimney, twinkling like a million stars across a vast swathe of dark emptiness. And so, Zara, in quest for everlasting glory, trekking alone in emptiness through the dark and dangerous bends of the mind, wafted up the steep narrow stairway of Moonshine Mount, past slippery landings and dark passageways, up the chute of her mind. And up, up, up she rose, when in the silence of the deep space of her heart, a shrill cry pierced her ears.

  And so, there stood Zara, gloriously perched atop the Moonshine Mount, shining bright in the glow of the full-moon night, under a star-spangled sky.