The House that Spoke

by Zuni Chopra

  When he reached the floor of the boiler room, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. He looked up at the carved wooden ceiling. Smudged flowers and birds sprawled out from an unassuming burst of blooms at the very centre. Just then, a sharp, painful tug in his gut made him turn to a depression in the ground. He knelt beside it, touched a finger to it, and was nearly overcome by a twisted, warped, miserable shadow of emotion, seeping from the indentation hacked into the stone floor.

  He pushed away from it and took great gulps of air, leaning against a creaking boiler, trying to prevent his lungs from caving in. Then, slowly, as though consumed by the gentle fury of steam, he guided his fingers back to the edge of the emerging cusp, and pushed upwards so that an unseen, hulking pile of twisted rock and metal began, ever so slightly, to move. Hidden symbols, scriptures, he believed, glinted in the dim light. Detachedly he noted that he was beginning to feel distinctly hot around the collar. Then, with a final burst of effort, the roughly hewn hatch lurched to the sky, as though it had been dormant for centuries.

  Black. All black. Then all at once, a figure ripped from the once hidden chamber, bursting forth from the sinking, suffocating pit—not emerging from the darkness, but darkness itself. A roar of triumph, majestic and horrifying, rang through the boiler room, so that it seemed to tear his skin from his warm flesh. For a moment, the smoke seemed to silhouette a figure in the night, disfigured and powerful, more terrible than he’d ever seen. Dry heat pulsated from the figure, and Kout was at a complete loss as to how he had ever been cold. He felt as though he had been thrown within the searing black flames of hell.

  With a flick of a contorted limb, it dashed him to the ground. It was worse than any sea serpent, any dark nightmare, any mythical monster. He lay there, horrified, heart pounding as he stared into nothingness, terror, misery, death.

  The smoke wafted to the ceiling. It disappeared. For a moment, Kout felt something akin to relief.

  Then all he knew was festering flesh and rotting soul, foul terror and the blaze sapping the marrow from his scorching bones; skin and sinew smelting against what moments before had been a blood-red heart.

  The Pandit normally took great care in ensuring he woke up just before dawn. He believed, naturally, that this was the time when the body’s systems were refreshed and efficient, and hence a time when the mind could work extraordinary magic. He was accustomed to being easily woken by something as gentle as birdsong streaming through the window. So unsurprisingly, the shuddering explosion of crashes and heavy gusts of wind from downstairs had caused him to be thrown out of bed and on to the floor. He righted himself and rushed to the source of the noise, taking the stairs two at a time and panting for air, his rumpled beard sticking out at all ends and his turban unravelling as he went.

  Upon arriving downstairs, he was met with a harrowing sight; every window had been smashed to jagged pieces, as though an insane beast had slashed through them. Slivers of darkness had crept in through the cracks and punctures in the house. Shattered glass lay against the wood, glinting in the slowly rising sun. Outside, through the open door, the Pandit saw that a stream of abruptly melted snow had created a haphazard, smoking path, as though a fireball had been launched from the house out into the valley. And the trapdoor to the hammam had been thrown wide open, hollow and empty as the Pandit’s eyes.

  Lieutenant Hawthorne hated mornings. It was too bright, too soon, and frankly, there was just too much left of the day. As such, mornings were his least favourite time to receive bad news. So it did put a bit of a damper on his otherwise pleasant disposition when he arrived downstairs to find that one of his troop members had died.

  Their host, eyes wide and furious, limbs thrashing in every direction, seemed alternately to be yelling at his guests and his daughter, who dropped, sobbing and miserable, beside the open trapdoor. His cheeks were pink with fury, his teeth yellow and snapping against one another, and his nostrils flaring so wide that the lieutenant could almost see smoke pouring out of them, in addition to all the silvery nose hair poking out.

  Leaving his men to sort things out for the moment, he surveyed the scene. The windows had been blasted open, the windowpanes dripping with melted ice. The door was hanging off a hinge, and outside, it seemed as though a sizzling horse had galloped through the snow, as though a hundred tongues of an inferno had carved a path into the ground, as though a hungry blaze had been flung into the valley. The forest they’d passed the night before had been burnt to a crisp, the woods black and thin like skeletons against the landscape. Snow had become water to reveal murky brown earth. The patch of sky above was engulfed in fog. Only the tree beside the house remained standing, serene and unruffled, as if watching the mildly entertaining proceedings. A fire had been started . . . or something had escaped . . . but what? Surely, it couldn’t have been human . . . must be something . . . something satanic . . . but that was ridiculous, he muttered. He wasn’t one to believe in spirits. And yet, despite his mind’s reassurances, he felt fear beginning to creep up his spine.

  His soldiers were looking down into the gaping opening, their faces contorted with disgust. As he neared them, he realized why; a horrible smell of burnt, festering flesh was rising from the chasm below.

  Appalled, disgusted, some shaking with the shocking and unspeakable nature of their discovery, they saw Kout, his body charred and disfigured, flung face down near some sort of opening, and where that opening led, they were too far away to tell . . . some sort of deep cavern . . .

  The woman, tears splattered across her thin, yellowing cheeks, threw herself in front, blocking their view, and spat at two of the soldiers to go recover the body. When they emerged, clutching it at the legs and shoulders, or whatever its extremities were, their compatriots let out loud gasps at the sight of the corpse. It seemed as though he had been scorched in open flame; his face could not be discerned from the rest of him. His flesh had sunk into the gaps of his bones, melted to charcoal. The occasional flash of filthy white displayed a cracking skull.

  And yet the lieutenant was puzzled, his heart pounding as he turned his nose away from the stench, as there was not a sign of a blaze within that room. At least, he hadn’t seen one. He gripped at the holster of the sword in his belt, terror making his body stiff and tense. Perhaps he could get a better look . . . convince himself that this had nothing to do with voodoo of any kind . . . he leaned forward . . .

  The man slammed the trapdoor shut. Heat and energy radiated off him, his teeth gritted fiercely. Such was his unexpected strength and fury that the lieutenant was too startled to argue. Rather, his mind frantically burst into a series of incoherent thoughts, suggesting that perhaps his host was not wholly human either.

  ‘Out!’ he bellowed, his voice nearly cracking with the strain. ‘You done this! All you! We were not to let you in here! Out! Out, and take that too!’

  He pointed a grimy finger at what had once been Kout I. Peterson, age twenty-four, newest member of the troop, and was then an unrecognizable mess of scalded skin, blood and bone, grotesquely suspended like a Christmas decoration between two haggard members of the pultan.

  ‘Let’s go, men,’ whispered the lieutenant, quiet with fright for the first time in his life, and utterly paralysed. The troop hurried out, shaking and pale, before he’d even choked out the words.

  And before any of them could gather themselves together, or even deduce some sort of explanation for their comrade’s murder, the front door slammed shut in their faces.

  The jaundiced moon hung in the air like a disease, mirroring the sickness of the earth. Darkness seeped through the black waters of Dal Lake, rotting the lotus blooms at its surface, shikaras utterly still, as though afraid to reveal themselves to the night. Hungrily, Kruhen Chay swept through the immobile trees. Once again, he felt warped elation at his power. So easy it had been to spot the weakest. To freeze him where he slept. To force the soldier into breaking the bars of his cage. All those years, trapped, worse than a mere shadow. Then, free at last
.

  He spied a farmer, back bent with labour and age, scrabbling at the dense, infertile soil with a thick, rusty shovel. Kruhen Chay felt a cruel thrill go through him at the sight of such helpless pain. He could sense the farmer’s weary, collapsing house just a few feet away. Inside it, his wife and their young daughter, beauty taken by labour, scraped the rot off their dinner. His old mother was sitting quietly in the corner and trying not to die in her sleep.

  With a snarl, Kruhen Chay lunged at the farmer, engulfing him, and as he pulled away, he heard the short cry as the farmer clutched at his broken back and sank to his knees, burns and blisters erupting across his skin, life rapidly leaving his shrivelling lungs. With the cold satisfaction of victory, the darkness felt his body become longer, stronger, denser. Mist became hard muscle and sinew from the chill of a farmer’s grief. A distorted human limb, the first of many, began to grow from his side. Inside the house, someone screamed.

  Chapter Two

  Present Day

  Somewhere in northern India, so far away that you can’t hope to see it unless you perhaps crane your neck, there’s a line on the ground. It’s a nasty little line, because no one ever seems to agree on it. It moves this way and that, being thrust about fiercely, but it never seems to stop. Map after map is printed and fixed, adjusted by a centimetre—the Line of Control must, of course, be drawn exactly right. And they rage at each other over and over again, over this little line, murdering at random as an expression of how much they care.

  You can just see it if you look carefully, and push up on your toes a bit. It’s right here.

  What’s that? Can’t see anything?

  Well, of course not! There’s nothing there really . . . it’s just a mark they’ve made up in their heads . . .

  I live in a fairy tale. Or rather, I live in the house of a fairy tale. The great Mughals themselves could not have crafted a palace to compare with my haven of wonders, nestled away in the valley of Kashmir.

  The house is surrounded by shrubs and trees, and is almost humble in its shy seclusion. A jade-green and lavender vine exults in thin, blushing blossoms that emerge in spring and retreat once more in autumn; the vine grows up around the window, as though fondling it to brush away its tears at the many cracks sprinkled upon it.

  Beside this window, a tall, magnificent chinar stands rooted and firm against the house. Its leaves are light green, lush and verdant in spring, and then grow deeper and deeper until, by summer, their colours become vivid and rich as darkened seaweed. But it is in autumn when I like its leaves best—when they shine a glinting gold like the last flaming stars in a blackening sky. This chinar has been there for as long as I can remember; it is a friend to me.

  A chimney erupts almost gracefully from the tattered roof, and often smoke flies out of it, rushing to freedom. The roof itself is battered from the many beatings of rain and snow.

  A layer of uncut grass spreads itself out into surrounding areas, and the weeds frolic in the small garden of olive green. The garden extends past our thin fence, into the trees of pine and chinar, all the way up to those mountains over there. Often, I wonder if I will climb them some day.

  The house is made entirely of redwood, except for the chimney, which is brick. The door waits upon the frail doorstep, cordial and respectful. The house is poised, modest, meek and bashful, almost afraid of the brash and brazen houses that swagger beyond the many trees that surround it. The tranquil atmosphere envelops the house, wafting through the door and settling with a sigh upon the furniture.

  The furniture, quiet and mellow, is made of the finest chinar wood and highly polished. It is cleanly cut and timeless, giving a mythical feel to the house. My great-grandfather carved much of it himself, they tell me.

  The immaculate carpet, faded yet soft and warm, sleeps upon the well-worn floor and muffles your footsteps as if to say that silence is golden, which is why not a sound echoes through the house. The walls are smooth and warm, and keep me inside their cosy folds, comforting when the rest of the world seems black.

  The windows invite the rays of light to burst through them. They are, however, not as large as they believe; you can see but the occasional dapple of light upon the floor, shining through from the garden outside.

  The windows are only at the front of the house, though. At the back, there are none, for Ma likes to say that one should always look to the future and not be stuck in the past. Sometimes I feel she says it more to herself than to me.

  A single desk and chair stare curiously out of a window, as aged as the rest of the furniture. Resting upon the desk is a long, feathery white quill dipped in navy ink, a prized family heirloom. The front room also holds a small cooking stove and a few mismatched cupboards stuffed with pans. I’m always careful to open them slowly, lest a pot tumble out at first chance. When the stove is lit, it immerses the room in the sharp scent of spice, the salty smell of melting butter, the sizzle of cooking meat.

  On the second floor, there are two small rooms. One of them is a library, or, at least, I call it one—it’s what one calls a place filled with books. In the corner of the room is a puffy armchair with worn-out pillows that grow softer as the years go by. I bury my face in its velvety surface and bounce upon the fluffy chair, or, for the mellow Sundays, curl up with a good story and a fresh cup of kehva. Broad bookshelves lean against the walls, bursting with hundreds of dusty books. Magic awaits in their worn, yellowed pages.

  Next to the library is a bedroom with a small, cushiony bed, an embroidered bed sheet dotted with faded chinar leaves thrown upon it. The right side is mine, and the left, Ma’s. Portraits of maharajas, ranis, Sufi saints, brave rajkumars and mystical creatures from old folk tales add colour to the walls. The back wall is crowded with pictures of the ancient Pandits, my ancestors. The oldest one on the far left is a charcoal painting, and over the years I’ve surmised that it was a self-portrait. Slowly, they segue into watercolour, and then a mixture of pencil and paint. Only the four at the very end are in print. They’ve been in my family for ages. Tathi says she doesn’t want them sold.

  The arid room with an uncluttered bed is a sanctuary for dreams. They drift lazily around the tender bed, filling my head as I lie down to sleep at night. They nestle in every corner of the room, but mainly in the pillows. The blanket is light and gentle, a shield from the crisp air of the room.

  The room at the very back of the house on the lower floor has a small fireplace, lightly embossed with a family crest, so worn at the edges that I often run my fingers across it to make sure it’s still there. But it never chips, cracks or darkens. Ma simply shrugged when I asked her how. It must be another perk of living here. Tathi has told me it is made of the finest stone, firm and strong. It has to be, to have lasted something like 400 years.

  The crest bears two swans, which I’ve always imagined to be a soft, delicate pink, like an almond tree in bloom. They are embracing a third swan in their wings. I think it shows how much the family cares for each other. Ma says it shows our ancient roots and how our lineage in Kashmir goes back generations.

  Underneath the crest is a pile of sullen logs, sprinkled with soot and ashes. They simply lie, broken and defeated, in the hearth. When the fire is made, mainly during winter, when the world outside is a sparkling white, the flames lick the roof of the roaring fireplace. I see magic leaping inside the haven of the fire. Ancient stories written long ago—of heroes, monsters and warriors—come alive in the frosty winter inside the gleaming fire, inside the jewelled fireplace. They are ablaze with a life inside them that I always hope to have. The fiery heat warms me from the inside and I shut my eyes, completely focused on the fire in front of me. The tantalizing scent of flame fills the room and keeps us in a silent agreement that life is beautiful and we are content.

  Come spring, the cherry trees are in full bloom. Their fragile blossoms are silvery and white. Ruby-red roses dot the bushes, and butterflies flutter in and out of the vines that grow around the house. The nargis send their heav
enly fragrance to mesmerize onlookers; the peppery smell of Ma’s tomato plants are in sharp contrast. Crunchy crimson and light green apples burst through the scintillating scents of the garden. The leaves of the plants surrounding us are a vivid evergreen. They shine like newly minted silver when the clouds sprinkle water upon their criss-crossing network of roots. The hibiscus flowers are a pearl white and a blush pink, with an exquisite aroma that causes me to become light-headed. The pine trees that lie dotted over the landscape reach upward to touch the sky and rain needles upon the grassy floor.

  This is my home. It speaks to me. This is the house that takes me in when I’ve had enough of the world. This house is a pearl that resides in the oyster of my heart. Though all must some day waste away, and the world will some day end, this house will live on till the days vanish into ash, and time and death, brothers in arms, engulf the rest of the world.

  My mother never leaves a thread undone. I see it in her hair, the way it coils impeccably around itself, no more than a few strands astray. I see it in the way she walks, at ease yet upright, fixing things that bend at odd angles or shutting windows left so slightly ajar you could almost miss their breeze. I see it most of all in her threads themselves, in the way they entwine with each other like gnarled, twisted stumps of decaying oak; in the way they wind themselves lovingly around her fingers, and slip into position just as she draws them away.

  But sometimes, my mind wanders to forbidden lands, and it whispers that perhaps . . . perhaps the reason she meticulously brushes each light brown strand into place every morning is because there are far too many loose, chaotic, forgotten ends in her life to possibly tie up again.

  The fresh autumn morning was just beginning to bloom. It seemed as though the sky had slept in, and slept well, and was thoroughly happy about it. I always make it a point to awaken to the sight of the mountains—their crevices creating rivers of gushing snow, small trees dotted across the lush green landscape at their feet, sun blazing above their shining white peaks. I kept the curtain closed halfway, however, since Ma was sleeping and she’d been up late the night before, cleaning. I opened the window slightly and took in a great gust of cool air. The wind seemed to dance across my sleepy eyes. Outside, the chinar swayed lazily in the breeze, the rays of sunlight gleaming on its leaves.