Emergence (The Infernal Guard Book 1)

by SGD Singh

  “Yeah, I mean, it seemed to. Plus don't forget the tea.”

  “Right. The tea.” Lexi laughed. “BapuJi must've smelled lovely. Okay. This guy, Duardo? He's right. You should trust that BapuJi knows what he's doing. Although, damn, he should have at least called once by now. Seems a bit harsh, even for him. Hmm… let's see. I'll take a flight to Delhi from Paris in… four days? I'll tell Stevens—”

  “Lexi. You don't want to rush over here, trust me, I'm—”

  “Are you kidding me? I'm not going back to Miami without you. Whose ass will I kick if you're not there? Anyway, I've always wanted to see India. I've heard it's amazi—”

  “Yeah, hot is the word you're looking for. Very, very amazingly hot. And it's not exactly the Ritz—”

  Lexi gasped in mock horror. “Did you just say the Ritz? What did we agree about that—”

  “What I meant, your royal resort highnesses, is that it's not exactly five star luxury resort accommodations here.”

  “Look. Asha. I'm coming. Live with it, okay? Besides, we're from Miami for Christ's sake, what's a little heat?”

  “Okay.” Asha sighed. “But no complaining. Promise.”

  “Fine!” Lexi paused. “Tell me about this cousin of yours again. Is he hot?”

  “Lexi!” Asha glanced down into the garden, where Nidhan was practicing Gatka. He'd told Asha he had a competition coming up. “I would like to take this opportunity to formally complain regarding your twisted penchant for teasing me about every male even remotely our age. Just because I've led a, shall we say, sheltered life…” Asha sighed. “Okay, he's handsome, yeah. Tall, dark, and handsome. Happy? He looks like he belongs in one of those old photos of Sikh warrior Nihangs BapuJi has. You know, dumala-style turban, swords—”

  “Swords! Well! That sounds very exotic!”

  “Don't start, Lexi! I'm hanging up now. Bye.”

  Asha shook her head, and looked around at the cracked, mildewed walls and chipping paint. She tried to picture Lexi there and failed.

  “Hey, Asha!” Nidhan's voice boomed from the garden.

  Leaning over the railing, Asha saw her cousin sitting on his motorcycle, waving for her to come down.

  Crossing the courtyard a few minutes later, Asha eyed his bike, a Royal Enfield Bullet 350—Bullet? BapuJi would have an aneurism! Plus, no one seems to wear helmets. Ever.

  “You don't expect me to get on that thing, do you? My grandfather—”

  “I'm a very good driver, I'll have you know.” Nidhan patted the seat behind him, eyes laughing as usual. “Come on! I'm taking you shopping! I'm told there's great shopping in the city. Plus, you weren't planning on wearing those same two shirts your entire summer break, were you?”

  Asha remembered Lexi's teasing and suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Um… Nidhan? I hope you don't think that… the two of us… I mean…” She motioned toward him.

  Nidhan looked blank. Then his eyes widened, all trace of humor gone. “What? No! No, no, no. Look, I don't know what people… uh… do in America.” He really looked like he might throw up. “Here, a cousin is like a sister—is a sister! No matter how many times removed she is… Eeaagh!”

  Nidhan started muttering unflattering things about westerners under his breath in rapid Punjabi, shaking his head in disgust, and Asha had to stop herself from informing him of the incestuous practices of European royalty.

  “Okay!” she said instead. “I'm sorry. I've… I've always wanted a brother.”

  Nidhan reached out his hand to her, his beaming smile returning. “Well, now you'll always have one.”

  Asha swung herself onto the back of the motorcycle to hide her sudden tears and a second later they sped through the gate.

  Asha gripped the handle on the back of the seat and shouted over the motor, “Does this mean you'll let me spar with you in the mornings?”

  “You know Gatka?”

  “One way to find out.” Asha smiled at his back, then yelled, “Look out!” as they narrowly missed a head-on collision with an SUV. “I thought you said you were a good driver!”

  “That's called overtaking, my dear sister! Watch and learn…”

  Nidhan sped like a half-crazed maniac as they narrowly dodged a herd of sheep, came within an inch of several half-starved dogs, actually slowed down for a whole family of pigs, and had near head-on collisions with what seemed like every single car, truck, and bus they encountered as they wound their way along dusty village lanes between stretches of open fields of rice.

  In spite of her heart lurching at every avoided accident, Asha had to admit it was pretty fun.

  The heat mounted to nearly suffocating as Nidhan left behind the shade of the eucalyptus trees lining the main highway, and entered the city. Asha gazed around in amazement at the variety of dilapidated shops along the road. To her heat-addled brain, the faded, crumbling buildings looked like a hoard of zombies in various stages of grizzly decay staggering in the bright sunshine, trading gaping wounds for exposed brick and peeling plaster, torn clothes for grease and pollution-blackened walls. The shops crowded under the skeletal remains of leaning electric posts shackled together by the strewn entrails of limp wires, while open gutters flowed sluggishly under their crumbling steps.

  Just when Asha's mind began to accept her surroundings, they entered the center of the city's shopping district. She saw stores so opulent they stood like opera singers in full costume dropped into a zombie apocalypse and Asha turned to stare as she passed their pristine glass windows, elevated from the filth of the street by polished granite and marble, lit by glowing chandeliers, and displaying sparkling bridal gowns, custom furniture, or Western fast food. The shining brass handles on their wide glass doors seemed like soft, clean hands, reaching out to invite shoppers to enter their air-conditioned luxury and forget, temporarily at least, the gore of poverty that surrounded them.

  As Nidhan wound his way through the narrow maze of the congested main market, people scurried out of his way.

  Bursting from every building, spilling into the choked road and minuscule alleys, every conceivable product known to man was being sold amid a cacophony of competing music and shouts. An impossible variety of bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, and rickshaws blasted creatively individual and often deafening horns, determined through sheer force to turn the pitted one lane road into a four lane highway. And a raging river of brightly-clad pedestrians casually dodged them, churning around painted carts selling ice-cream and through the thick smoke of fried snacks on wheels adding to the already stifling haze of humidity.

  All within the space of three city blocks.

  Asha's senses struggled to take in—or keep out—all of the uncountable sights, smells, and sounds, and she realized that Lexi was right; India truly was an amazing place.

  Two hours, nine embroidered kurtas, and three printed Patiala suits later, Asha finally had enough clothes to satisfy Nidhan's over-zealous hosting enthusiasm. After convincing him that she could, in fact, wear the same three pairs of jeans for a month, they drove to his favorite roadside dhaba for an early dinner.

  Rhythmic bhangra drowned out the traffic noise as Nidhan led Asha into the near-empty restaurant. Naked bulbs criss-crossed the low ceiling between lazy fans, and every available surface was painted bright red with large, familiar white letters advertising ‘Coca-Cola’ A gust of warm wind rattled the surrounding trees, causing napkins to dance across the packed-dirt floor.

  Nidhan led Asha to a small steel table, pulling up a wicker chair for her. “Okay,” he said. “Let's start off with snacks. Try the tikki, papri chat, dokla, gol ghappa—”

  Asha raised her hands. “Before you get all excited about introducing me to new food, I should probably tell you my grandfather is a chef, cooking Punjabi food at a resort in Miami.”

  Nidhan looked disappointed for a second, then grinned. “Well, I'm sure we can find something you've never had before…” He wandered up to the counter and motioned the cook over with a conspiring wave, and a few
minutes later, the snacks arrived.

  “So, you're in twelfth grade,” Asha said between bites. “Any plans for a career—”

  “Oh no!” Nidhan looked up at the fan in exasperation. “Not you, too!” He began counting on his fingers. “My grandfather was a doctor. My father is a doctor. My oldest brother is a doctor. My second brother's in medical school. Guess what I'm supposed to be when I grow up?”

  “So… you don't want to be a doctor?”

  “Hell no!” said Nidhan. “What for? When you think about it, it's nothing but going to school for years and years just to be a glorified human plumber!” He shrugged, throwing a gol gappa into his mouth. “Don't get me wrong. I'm glad somebody does the important plumbing jobs. Like, if I was maimed in an accident for example, I would probably want a surgeon.”

  “Oh, sure. Or if you broke your hip, for example?” Asha said.

  “Precisely! I just don't want to do it myself. I want to do something… else. I don't know… more. You know?”

  “Not really,” Asha said. “But I have no idea what I'm doing right now, here in Punjab…”

  “Well, we're only sixteen.” Nidhan started eating a fried potato tikki smothered in yogurt, spices, and onions. “We're not supposed to know what we're doing.”

  “Speaking of which, in the middle of the night last night, I was hungry and—”

  Nidhan pointed his fork at her. “You tripped over a group of humans sleeping on the kitchen floor.”

  “Gracefully stumbled.” Asha laughed, “And? Who are they?”

  Nidhan shook his head. “You know gorgeous Kushi?” He fluttered his eyes. “Those were her personal maids. They are only permitted to sleep on the kitchen floor.” Nidhan gasped. “You didn't speak to them, did you? Because that is strictly against Her rules.”

  “But… why—”

  “Do they stay? There's a lot of turnover.” Nidhan shrugged. “People put up with her because it's a job, you know? Unemployment is high. Really high. Plus the pay is decent, so they can send money home to their families. If you saw how some of them live, you'd realize that kitchen floor's not so bad.”

  “Still…” Asha felt herself losing her appetite. “I wish there was some-thing—”

  “You're thinking like an American, Asha.”

  He watched her pushing the food around on her plate.

  “Look, don't worry. We hide better blankets in there and give them bonuses behind Kushi's back. Still, people can only take so much abuse, you know? They never last more than a year. I think the record is thirteen months. My dad tries to find them new jobs when he can.” Nidhan pushed a bottle of water toward her. “Believe me, there are a lot worse jobs to be had around here.”

  Two waiters approached the table, balancing enormous platters.

  “Ah-ha!” Nidhan said, as the food was laid out. “This—”

  “Is Amritsari kulcha, karahi paneer, zeera rice, rajma, raita, dum dum aloo, and let's see… rasgulla, chandan malai and rabri faluda. Very basic. You'll have to do better than that.” Asha crossed her arms, laughing as Nidhan's jaw dropped. “Also, how do you expect two people to eat all this? I'm already stuffed from the so-called snacks!”

  “We'll call my friends to help.” He looked doubtfully at the food. “Actually, I better order more if they're coming.” He got out his phone and began texting. “So your grandfather's really a chef? What do you want to do when you grow up?”

  “No idea,” said Asha, and they both laughed.

  † † †

  The other members of Nidhan's Gatka Akara arrived half an hour later on loud motorcycles, looking very much like a teenage turbaned biker gang. All of them were eager to see Asha's Gatka skills, and she tried not to smile when they looked at her skeptically. They laughed at each other's jokes and consumed alarming amounts of food, and Asha wished more than ever that her Punjabi was better. By the end of a loud three-hour meal, the soft glow of hundreds of bulbs bathed the restaurant in Coca-Cola red as light slowly seeped out of the sky, and they agreed to meet early the next morning at Nidhan's house.

  It was after ten o'clock that night when Asha sat on the roof to play her harp. Once again she had the feeling that someone was watching her. Each night she'd felt it, intense and unmistakable. Tonight she was determined to see if there was someone there, or if the heat, coupled with her banishment, was slowly driving her insane.

  Asha crouched down, moved to the edge of the roof, and peered over the railing.

  Nothing.

  She crept around the small building to the other side of her room.

  Empty.

  Then she looked up.

  Asha froze, catching her breath. There, sitting on the roof of her bedroom, was an unusually large sparrow hawk, its feathers shining like smooth chocolate in the moonlight.

  It watched her with piercing, luminous eyes.

  They stared at each other silently for a long moment.

  Asha whispered, “Now, that's gorgeous!”

  The hawk ruffled its feathers, blinking. She said, “It's okay. I'll just practice now…”

  I'm talking to a bird!

  Asha played for half an hour, and when she looked up, the hawk was still there. They looked at each other again, the moment stretching breathlessly, until the hawk spread its magnificent wings and took off, blending soundlessly into the night.

  “Buenas noches, mi hermosa aguila,” she whispered and went to bed.

  Chapter 4

  When Asha entered the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, Nidhan grabbed her arm, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement. “Asha! Okay. So you know how you were saying day before yesterday that you wanted something to do?” He sounded funny speaking in English as fast as an infomercial. “Well I talked to my mom last night when she got back from the university and she said they need volunteers at the orphanage on the other side of town. She said they would love English speaking help. So? What do you think? Will you do it?”

  “I've never volunteered at an orphanage before…”

  “Well, you speak English! How hard can it be? Look, we'll just check it out tomorrow and then you can decide, okay?”

  “Sure, Nidhan. Thanks,” Asha said. “But don't forget you promised I could spar with you—”

  “Oh, I haven't forgotten.” Nidhan smiled. “Hurry up and finish breakfast. The others'll be here soon.”

  A few minutes later they made their way out to the garden behind Asha's room, and Nidhan approached the weapons rack.

  “I'll start with the soti, that's these practice sticks, and see what you've got.”

  Asha chose a six-foot lathi from the rack, swinging it through the air above her head. Nidhan started to laugh, but changed his mind as she brought the staff down toward his legs and he barely jumped back in time, blocking it messily.

  “You had the element of surprise that time,” he said, laughing. “It won't happen again.”

  Nidhan chose a matching lathi for himself and faced Asha on the lawn. He lunged and Asha sidestepped, smiling at his surprise. For the next ten minutes they sparred. Even though she held back, Asha hit him easily in each leg, the left arm, and twice on the right shoulder. Nidhan managed to hit her not at all. After he failed to block a hit to his dumala, Nidhan staggered back, laughing.

  “Okay, time out,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Where did you learn to fight like that? Good thing we weren't using the talwar…” He grinned. “Wait 'til those guys get here! Oh, this is gonna be good!”

  Asha drank some water and caught her breath. “Nidhan, you don't have a pet hawk, do you?”

  “Pet hawk? No. Why?”

  “I was just—no reason. Never mind. And, by the way, everyone knows you don't spar with sharp swords.”

  “Here they are!” Nidhan was trying not to smile and failing miserably.

  For the next hour they all clapped and cheered as Asha beat them, one by one, in individual sparring. She nearly beat them when they tried her skill at five-to-one. No one wan
ted to leave, so they spent the day sparring and resting under the mango trees, drinking iced lassi, and arguing about weapons. They threw knives at a tree that looked like it was dying until Sanjay stopped them. They helped Dādi into the garden for her afternoon tea, and organized a practice competition for her to judge. Dādi announced she wouldn't accept second place in the real competition that was coming up, and everyone threw themselves at her feet dramatically.

  Nidhan said, “Dādi! The tournament is an opportunity to test ego, pride, and anger. One enters to learn, not to win.”

  “Don't quote your teacher at me,” she said, slapping Nidhan's shoulder. He fell over with a yell, and Asha found herself laughing as the older woman raised her cane at him until he stood, resuming practice.

  By the end of the day Asha had taught them some simple Wushu techniques to use in the Gatka tournament that no other teams would be expecting.

  “You're amazing, yaar!” Aman, the tallest and hairiest of them, told Asha as he was leaving after a large dinner. “I want to meet this grandfather of yours! Will you teach us again tomorrow?”

  All of them nodded in eager agreement.

  “She has a job,” Nidhan informed them. “She can't be wasting time with you guys. Important business awaits.”

  But Asha said she would spar with them again on Sunday.

  If they're impressed with me, wait 'til they meet Lexi, she thought and started laughing.

  † † †

  That night, though she still played her mother's favorite melancholy pieces, she added, through harmony, the impression of joy.

  After half an hour, Asha looked up to see the hawk. It swooped softly down from the edge of the roof and sat on the railing, watching her, their eyes level.

  “Has vuelto!” You came back! She had no idea why she was speaking to a hawk in India in Spanish. “What do you think? One more?”

  The hawk ruffled its feathers and nodded.

  Wait. Nodded?

  Asha laughed. “Okay, just for you, mi hermosa aguila.” And Asha played her mother's version of Lullaby by Shakhanov, which was one of her favorites. The hawk, still as a statue, seemed to listen intently.