The House that Spoke

by Zuni Chopra

He gripped my wrist and bounded off, dragging me with him. We stomped around the small vegetable patch bordering the side of the house and emerged some ways behind it, and I caught sight of a small path twisting backwards from the house. I’d visited the stables often—far more often than even their house—but never travelled this path before.

  So we set off, speaking of things that, in truth, matter very little, but in conversation, matter a great deal. He told me he liked drawing. I told him I liked reading. And neither of us understood the other, yet somehow, we came closer together. On the way, Altaf leapt up to snatch an apple from his neighbour’s tree, chuckling that it was fair game because the apple had been hanging over the fence. Within minutes, we’d reached the small open space where Altaf’s father kept his horses.

  I saw Bhasharat Uncle in the very middle of the clearing, speaking loudly and gruffly with another man. Bhasharat Uncle was a tough old man, who’d known war more than once. His knuckles were scraped and rough like leather, his moustache was matted and untidy, sprawled out over his lip, and his belly stood as a growing testament to his age. His eyes still shone brightly whenever he spoke, and he would swing his arms like a cricket bat whenever he was thinking hard.

  At the moment, he was deep in debate with this other man, and his head shook vigorously at regular intervals, his mane of hair shaking with the wind as he did so, giving him the look of a dog shaking water out of its fur. Altaf ran over and stood beside him, earning him a lovingly sharp clap on the shoulder from his father’s chubby palm. I followed.

  ‘Now, look here, Bhasharat, you told me the horse would be top-notch.’

  ‘Arre yaar, how can the horse be any good if the owner takes no care of it?’

  ‘I took the same care you did! And yet, you see, he collapsed as I was taking the tonga over Amira Kadal.’

  ‘Ah, now if you overload the horse I cannot be answerable. Of course the poor horse cannot go over the slope of that bridge if you put fifty fat people in the tonga.’

  ‘Come on now, Bhasharat!’

  He shook his head once more.

  ‘No. Price will remain same. No discount. And you are still a hundred and fifty rupees short.’

  The man grimaced.

  ‘Okay . . . now . . . I go back to old city. Think over it, Bhasharat. If you change your mind you let me know. Allah accepts repentance.’

  Bhasharat Uncle rolled his eyes. The man turned and walked away, his back sloped and his knees turned outwards, so that he looked like a discouraged jungle cat, slinking away in the night.

  ‘So!’ Bhasharat Uncle barked, turning towards us, ‘You’ve come for a ride, Zoon?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle. I haven’t been in a while.’

  ‘No, you haven’t! Good thing you’ve come. But did you see that man? Trying to cheat me out of a good horse. No, that tongewala was never an honest dealer. Pity my business needs the likes of him . . .’ His grumbling faded away, vanishing almost completely, and he snapped back to the conversation at hand. ‘So you two have fun! I’ll be back at the house; your mother needs me for something,’ he said, before trotting off down the path we’d come from.

  ‘All right. Would you like to pick first?’

  It took me a moment to register that Altaf was speaking to me, I was so deep in a maze of abstract thought. When it did, I let out an ‘Oh!’ of surprise and turned quickly to hide my embarrassment by trying to select a horse. I looked for the horse I’d seen many times before and always admired. I finally found him three stables from the left, below a battered sign bearing his name—Khurraam. He was all black, but not a shiny, deep black like night. He was a dull, light black, like burnt charcoal exposed to daylight for too long. His legs were thin and constantly knocking against each other. His tail was a misty grey, though Altaf maintained that it had not always been so. And his eyes were large and brown. I immediately chose him, not because he was beautiful, but because it didn’t matter to him that he was ugly, because it didn’t matter to him that he was old, because he never once considered that he might be better or worse than anyone else. He never gave more than what was expected; he never expected himself to give more than he gave. To me, somehow, he was beautiful.

  I brought him out of the stable and thanked Altaf as he came over to help. I mounted him so swiftly and efficiently that I was slightly winded for a moment; I gripped at the frayed reins. Altaf walked over to his own horse, a deep brown thing with patches of white—Bijli.

  He explained that they had recently got her from a man who seemed quite eager to be rid of her. Bhasharat Uncle was at a loss as to why she’d come so cheap, given that she seemed a fine specimen, healthy and strong. Uncharacteristically suspicious, he decided it’d do them best to hold off on presenting her to any buyers, lest his reputation suffer. This suited Altaf just fine as he was free to take her out whenever he liked; he had grown very fond of her.

  She was a gentle horse, her eyes twinkling with the seeds of wisdom, never showing off, but always happy to be out on the fields. Altaf told me that he made a point of taking her out at least once a day. He maintained that she was the most energetic of the lot and didn’t like being cooped up in a stable, but I suspected it was partly because he didn’t like being cooped up in a stable himself.

  ‘Now, we can’t go far—the weather is pretty nasty today.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  We moved slowly, the sun’s rays shimmering down on us, pushing us forward. With the silence allowing my mind to dwell on that which I’d been trying to push away, I spoke little, and Altaf did not speak at all. My eyes remained glued to a spot on Khurraam’s thin, untidy mane as his strained muscles rippled beneath his thick, black skin and the occasional drop of rain smacked against his back like a tiny bullet that shattered into millions of shards upon contact. My brow was furrowed with concentration, or anger, or worry, or sometimes all three at once.

  We continued down the side of a near-hidden path, teeth chattering at the wind, soft voices at an enthralling sight, the persistent clicking of hooves on stone.

  A conversation began, gradually at first, cautiously, like moving through a nursery at naptime, then slowly steadier, louder, until it began to flow like a chattering river.

  ‘Your dad’s business seems to be going well!’

  ‘Oh, yeah, he’s pleased with the demand for horses right now.’

  ‘And you have an . . . older brother, right?’

  ‘Yeah, Ma dotes on him. He’s a cricket star. Dad keeps gushing about how he’s made the team. He might even move to Mumbai or Delhi for further studies. And then there’s me, kicking up leaves in the corner, doodling, collecting random stuff!’

  I smiled to myself. Despite his clear reverence, I knew whose life sounded more interesting to me.

  ‘He even gets the comfier bed. Cause of all his “physical exercise”. And it’s near the window. You know, when he came home with Dad last night, she made amazing haak. And oh, the dum aloo! You should have seen it. The spices were so perfect, especially the cardamom. I, of course, was given something like a spoonful.’

  I snorted with laughter. Just then, as though we’d remained content too long, Bijli neighed loudly and leapt up in the air. I gave a short cry; he’d barely managed to hold on.

  She was so agitated that she continued to stamp her hooves and snort loudly until Khurraam, too, began to whinny nervously.

  ‘What is it?’ Altaf murmured, patting her thick neck.

  We looked towards the house we were passing. It was an odd sort, almost eerie. Each window threw out a light that was dim and faded, like the rotting yellow of an ageing dress. The bricks were utterly black and chipped, and hung at random angles from the walls. The chimney stood far too rigid, like someone had fixed it in place with chains. I was just about to shake my head and tell myself sternly to not go about making up fairy tales when I felt a horrifying chill, as if an icy hand had gripped my, thumping heart in frost.

  I gasped.

  Altaf turned to give me a worried
look.

  I gestured that we should continue.

  The moment we were at a fair distance from the house, the knot in my stomach began to ease.

  ‘Who’s house was that?’ I panted, not really expecting an answer.

  ‘Mus . . . Musta . . . Mustafa K. Bhukhari.’

  I blinked slowly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I read it on his mailbox. Mind you, it didn’t look like it had been used for years, so it may just have been an old mailbox, but . . .’

  I didn’t—couldn’t—respond.

  ‘She won’t be back soon, will she?’ hissed the fireplace.

  ‘No, I saw her running towards Altaf’s house. She’s probably stayed to eat or something,’ responded the chair.

  ‘Back to the topic, guys. What are we to do? She still thinks everyone can hear us. She has no idea of her true heritage. And I’m almost sure she suspects the chinar is beginning to decay,’ said the desk.

  ‘You don’t know she’s the only one,’ put in the chair. ‘I’ve always thought that Tathi—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. She’s not to know she’s the only one who can hear us. She’s not to find out about her heritage,’ the fireplace spat out harshly, fighting against a wheeze.

  The quill’s speared tip abruptly pierced the heavy silence.

  ‘You three. Always yapping. Ignoring the obvious.’

  The fireplace was normally patient with the quill, whose eccentric ideas drove the desk to the edge, but then he felt tested, tired and utterly spent for understanding. ‘Do tell us, dear quill,’ he remarked, smirking. ‘Perhaps we’ve forgotten to mark the date of the world’s transformation into ice cream? Or have we lost that recipe for strawberry lemonade you gave us yesterday? Or could it even be that the queen of the Himalayas has lost her priceless shoe in the snow, as you’d begged us to consider the day before?’

  ‘It is none of those things,’ the quill responded, ‘though they are all equally important. Thank you for reminding me to check that date, by the way. No, what I was going to say is that you are all ignoring the reason we’re having this conversation at all—it’s getting stronger.’

  The air thickened.

  ‘We’ve no proof at all that . . .’ the chair trailed off.

  ‘Yes we do. And we will continue to see more proof unless something is done about it.’

  The fireplace’s embers glinted a threatening red. ‘It is meaningless!’ he roared. ‘Just because its power seems to be surging at the moment doesn’t mean it isn’t just . . . well . . . fluctuating, as it has done before.’

  ‘Has it?’ whispered the desk.

  ‘Look here, nearly fifteen years ago, at this same spot, before me on this very carpet, every member of this house made a vow. A vow that Zoon would never be forced to become what her father did. A vow that we would keep our tragic past buried. I intend to keep that vow.’

  ‘But at what cost?’ the quill interrupted.

  And silence began to smother them once more.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked Altaf again as we began directing our horses home. ‘You seem really shaken.’

  I looked up from the patch of twisted, faded brown in a clump of fresh grass, running my tongue over the side of my mouth and finding it sore from my incessant gnawing.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m fine. It was just . . . that man whose house we passed . . . I know him.’

  ‘You know, come to think of it, so do I!’ Altaf put in. He pushed his, scraggy hair away from his squinting eyes so that it became even messier, and resembled something akin to a toddler’s doodle on a tissue. ‘He’s a politician, right? I read something about him in the newspaper yesterday. Well, I didn’t really read it, my dad told me about him; he reads the paper, like, first thing in the morning, even before the rest of us wake up! I’ve always thought it a bit odd. I mean, the news is always so depressing; wouldn’t you rather sleep? But anyway, I . . .’

  I looked up at the sky as Altaf rattled on. It was all thundering grey, with a few breaks of yellow light: a soft, fluffy handmade quilt torn by a careless child. I took a deep breath. The cool air felt calming yet sharp inside my heated chest.

  ‘No, Altaf, I mean I know him . . . better than that.’

  He paused, and then tilted his head questioningly, like a curious sandpiper lost at the brink of the shore.

  Not even Ganapati, remover of obstacles, could ever understand the effort it cost me to speak my next words, to say out loud the very thing that I was dreading most.

  ‘He’s going to buy my house.’

  ‘What?’ Altaf looked flabbergasted, as I had been, yet he was responding differently. He stiffened, surprised, and his smile slipped to the muck, where it was crushed by a horse’s hoof.

  ‘Yes, the house is to be . . .’ I couldn’t bring myself to repeat it.

  ‘No. It can’t be. You’re joking!’

  His smile was attempting to fight the sudden shock, then to negate it, then to settle on pretending it hadn’t happened at all.

  But it had.

  I shook my head and swallowed, trying to push past the lump in my throat that had swelled like a clot of blood as I spoke.

  ‘But . . . but . . . where would you go?’

  ‘I don’t know. The city, Ma says.’

  ‘This is the city!’

  A bit surprised at the vehemence of his reaction, I took a minute to find the right words.

  ‘I think she means . . . another city, Altaf. Maybe a bigger one. I think she means we’d try to leave Srinagar.’

  I turned away. His voice, uncertain yet steady, hacked through the haze again. ‘And you . . . you’re okay with this? You don’t seem to me to be the kind of person who just rolls over and accepts things. Not you!’ he continued. ‘Surely you’re trying to stop this?’ A dozen spines erupted beneath my skin, instantly placing me on the defensive.

  ‘Of course I am, Altaf, but I’m just one—’

  ‘Then maybe I can help!’

  For the first time in all that my memories have preserved, I had been rendered utterly speechless. Altaf stared back at me like a determined little chipmunk on his first day of being enlisted to store nuts for the winter. His chin jutted out, an imperfect protrusion. It pushed out his lower lip, making him appear on the verge of throwing a tantrum.

  I nearly snorted out loud. He was a bit ditzy, impulsive, distracted, maddeningly casual, and, to put it concisely, certainly not the type I’d have chosen as an accomplice. I was about to tell him exactly that (in a polite sort of way) when I stopped to rethink the obvious.

  Of course, he was not the ideal ally, but it wasn’t like I had a lot of options. Besides, his mother was good friends with mine, and might even prove to be an imperative tool in changing her mind. Moreover, he did live just down the street, so he’d be easily reachable if I needed him. Wait . . . would he?

  I peered at him so long that he must have thought I needed glasses. Finally, I spoke.

  ‘Well . . .’ I began, still contemplating the matter, ‘Well, do you agree that this—and this only—will be your top priority till we’ve prevented the sale?’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘Will you consistently and unfailingly be available for service?’

  ‘I will!’

  ‘And do you, Altaf, pledge yourself to this . . . mission, let’s say . . . so as to in no way damage or discredit our aims?’

  He nodded vigorously, and puffed out his chest, as though expecting to receive a badge of his membership to this honourable cause. I could never have said why, but at that moment, despite how little I yet knew of his life and his loves and his hopes, it seemed to me that we’d known each other for years.

  ‘Then, Altaf Ali, I declare you part of the team!’

  ‘YES!’ he exclaimed, thrusting his fist in the air, startling poor Bijli for the second time. ‘You won’t regret it! This is, like, my first adventure! Let’s do this!’

  I allowed myself a small smile.

  Once we
’d ensured that our horses were safely back in their dilapidated stables and that Altaf had given them a large clump of hay that we knew wasn’t enough, we walked back down the same path we’d taken. Halfway through a rather entertaining story about his cousin, his brother and a basket of strawberries, he gasped and began to jog quickly.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, running after him.

  ‘Oh, I was just talking about my brother and I remembered I’d promised to be home early so we could play cricket! We’ve got to finish before curfew. Even though he always beats me anyway.’

  I rolled my eyes—how could anyone hurry so for a sport?—but kept up with him all the same. Seeing my raised eyebrows, he put in, ‘I know you don’t think it means much, but it’s really special today. My father’s just bought a new walking stick, so we’ve a new bat—we can use his old one now! We haven’t had a new bat in years!’

  I made an effort to look happy for him, which, surprisingly, wasn’t too difficult. I could at least understand the joy that came with getting something new—such a rarity for us here.

  We’d reached the front of his house, and I waved goodbye. The weight in my stomach had lessened since the morning, and I felt oddly light.

  Just as he turned to walk inside, I called after him, ‘Altaf! I need to ask you something!’

  He stopped, with a single scraped foot on the creaky front step, waiting.

  ‘Why does it matter so much to you if my house is sold?’

  Ma’s decision had had such an impact on me that I hadn’t even questioned Altaf’s reaction. But why should he be so put out? It wasn’t even his house!

  ‘You’re my friend, aren’t you?’ he responded. ‘You know how hard it is for me to find friends? I’m not exactly in the position to pass up any at the moment. I can’t have you just up and leave; I’ve only just met you! I mean, with you included, my total count of friends comes up to about . . . two. And the first one’s my brother.’

  With a final cheery wave, he swung open the front door, his fingers dodging the splinters out of habit.

  I bit my lip.

  There was that smile again.