by Zuni Chopra
For the first time, my muscles wished to move of their own accord.
‘Hi,’ Altaf whispered when he saw me, and all at once, at the sight of him, a sharp image flashed before my mind: a chinar leaf, orange as the sinking sun, hidden in the shadow of its tree.
‘Hi,’ I responded, feeling my face grow hot. Suddenly, I wanted to be anywhere but there, standing directly in front of him, tears streaking my face, made instantly vulnerable by my grief.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lameeya Auntie rush over to my mother, arms spread so wide she nearly knocked over the snacks table.
He handed me a crumpled piece of paper. I unwrapped it slowly to see a detailed sketch of my home, each brick shaded perfectly at the edges, each window glinting in the light, each leaf on the chinar rustling in the wind. A little girl and her mother waved cheerily up at me, an impossible peace surrounding them. My mouth fell open and a sharp sting pierced at my wet eyes.
‘Listen,’ Altaf muttered, breaking the stiff silence, ‘I wanted to say that . . . I’m really sorry about what happened. And I’m . . . here to help if you need me.’ I did not realize that he had taken my frigid hand until I looked down to see my fingers interlaced with his.
It didn’t help my waterworks situation.
We sat down upon one of the mats spread out on the glistening grass, so old then that it was nothing more than a few tangled threads. My eyes stuck to the iron pan, above which the logs were crackling furiously. Beneath the rusty grills, there lay a sea of black, darker than midnight, softer than coal, as motionless as a memory. And fiery embers rained upon them, a constant shower of burning rocks, tinkling with the metal. They were beautiful, a golden dragon in the night sky, twisting against silver stars. And yet they lasted for less than a heartbeat, before melting away into their neighbours, vanishing into dust. Or, perhaps, I thought, turning to look at Altaf, his eyes bright even when there was nothing to see, they hid like buried treasure just beneath the surface, waiting to be discovered by someone who looked beyond the black.
A surge of light gushed into my slowly beating heart, not dissipating the sadness, but coating it with a sudden beam of strength, so that I felt unbreakable despite my misery and unshakeable in my actions. My veins thrummed within me, a blend of life and magic pressing against my skin.
I had loved Tathi more than even I would ever know. I loved her still, and I always would.
But I was also a Guardian.
Kashmir needed me.
I turned to Altaf, feeling every part of me beginning to come alive once more.
‘You know once this is over, I’m going to keep taking you up on your promise of help.’
He grinned widely. It was oddly refreshing to see a happy face, like a chilled cup of juice in the unyielding summer heat.
‘Of course. I’m part of the team, aren’t I?’
The night came slow and shimmering, the stars blinking down at me through the window like a string of far-off fairy lights. The houses lay quiet, cosy in their closeness, the bundles of straw thrown up on their roofs making them appear like a flock of sheep trekking up to Shankaracharya Hill. The trees of the valley frolicked in the breeze, dancing in the haze of twilight, their bare branches no less graceful for the lack of a partner.
Inside, I could hear the gentle chatter of the fireplace downstairs, growing quieter as Ma put out his flames for the night. My limbs rested against the windowsill like uncoiled springs, supporting my lolling head. I let out a great sigh and heard her footsteps on the stairs.
I crawled into the blankets and tucked my knees under my chin, staring at the sketch on the windowsill, Altaf’s name scrawled at the bottom. Beside me, Ma had climbed in as well, and was reading one of her favourite poems. She was squinting as she always did. I heard her mutter something under her breath about getting the Pandit a new frame. Smiling, I closed my heavy eyes. The mumbles from the portraits began to dim. The mattress had never felt so soft and deep, the bed sheet so like velvet, nor the bedroom, despite all my treasured memories, so much like home.
Epilogue
One Month Later
The garden has begun to blush green once more. The chinar’s first magenta blossoms have begun to appear, dotting its firm, smooth wood. The clouds waft leisurely through the blue-green sky. The blanket of snow, a thick cocoon, has finally melted, allowing the butterfly of spring to burst forth in full bloom. The landscape is suffused with delicate brushstrokes: pinks, purples and a sheen of emerald. My heart grows lighter every day at the vibrancy of the paint. The badamwari have begun to blossom, stretching their branches out towards the sea of sunlight pouring in from the heavens.
The neighbours spread out their fraying chequered tablecloths, fresh hot meals on them. The head of the family leans against the bark of a tree. Their bubbling words are interspersed by the crunch of chana; my hand often grows tired from waving.
I had told myself that as the Guardian, wherever I saw signs of growing misery, I must hasten to alleviate it. But it seems my once chronic patient has no need of my treatment. Whatever splotches of darkness still manage to enter our lives can be overpowered by our laughter, our friendship and extraordinarily ordinary kindnesses.
For now, we have peace. New elections are to be held within a week. Danish Parvez, a young politician, has become the face of the leading party, taking the place of the old favourite, Mustafa Bhukhari. His words are cool raindrops against the smouldering hearts of the people, and they listen to him. Even so, hulking, sulking army men have been crammed into every crevice the government could find, and Rani Auntie does complain that they’re ruining the pleasant weather.
Ma brought home a new clay pot yesterday with all the extra money she’s been getting for her shawls. They’re selling much faster now that the buses are coming to the valley again; visitors always seem far keener on her patterns than we are.
We’ve been keeping the pot on the desk beside the window so everyone can see him when they pass by. We’re going to paint him together this afternoon. I’m thinking a turquoise-and-white blend, to remind me of the ocean, the deep shock of blue leading to a foam of white at the crests of its chattering waves. I’ve never seen it, but I hope to soon . . . it looks so lovely in the postcards. We’re all most looking forward to hearing his first words. Despite the fact that we’ve no idea what he’s like yet, the quill seems to already have found a best friend.
We’ll be using whatever’s left over to buy me the textbooks I’ve been wanting.
Tonight, Lameeya Auntie’s bringing Altaf and his older brother over for dinner. Ma’s eager to show off the newly mended walls; Bhasharat Uncle helped us out with them. Turns out he’s quite handy with a toolbox. I do make it a point to stay out of her sight when she’s cooking, though; she tends to be a bit antsy when the recipes get confusing.
Altaf and I have finished repairing the bukharis in the hammam. He asked, of course, numerous questions. I hadn’t planned on answering so many; and yet he deserved the truth. We kept very quiet and worked quickly, that too only when Ma was out, but it wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d expected, thanks to my magic. Neither was it, to be honest, as dangerous as I had imagined it would be. I wonder if I’d weakened the darkness more than I thought. We still nailed the trapdoor shut, just in case.
Out in the garden, the red and gold of the flowers blend and fuse with one another against the sapphire sky, a school of fish darting through the shallow sea pools of the beach.
I lie down on the softly swaying grass and close my eyes. I don’t mean to fall asleep, but the sunlight is warm against my face, the wind a perfect blanket, and somehow, I find myself beginning to dream.
And when I dream, the whole of Kashmir dreams with me.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my family—above all, my parents—for their help, guidance and inspiration. This book would not have existed without their love and support. I need to thank my friends as well, for telling me plainly and honestly if my idea
s were rubbish. In particular, I would like to thank Shreya Raheja for boring me with a long-winded narrative about an extraordinary house in London, which blossomed into the beginnings of a novel.
I thank my school, Dhirubhai Ambani International School, and all my teachers for their continuous encouragement and understanding.
Endless thanks to Masood Hussain for his inspiration, time and sincere love for my work. You have helped shape The House That Spoke in ways I could never have imagined.
Sincere thanks to Rahul Pandita for inspiring me with his own work, bettering mine and for being a part of my journey.
I’m immensely grateful to Suhel Seth for bringing in new dimensions of creativity to this book.
I thank Penguin Random House India—especially Hemali Sodhi for having faith in my book before I did; Nimmy Chacko and Purnima Mahesh for striving to deliver above and beyond any expectations I had, and for playing such an important role in bringing The House That Spoke to life.
Many thanks to Fawkes for his friendship and wise counsel.
I thank Priyanka Ghose, Manoj Shroff and Ram Madhvani for their unbelievable patience and dedication, and for giving visuals to my dream.
And finally, thanks to my dogs, Toffee, Sugar, Fudge, Coco, Cherry and Fig, for being just the fluffy stress busters I needed at the end of a long day.
THE BEGINNING
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This collection published 2017
Copyright © Zuni Chopra 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket images © Devangana Dash
ISBN: 978-0-143-42784-1
This digital edition published in 2017.
e-ISBN: 978-9-385-99092-2
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
