Zeba, p.5
Zeba, page 5
I rolled my eyes. Clearly, the Khudir intelligence service did not know me THAT well.
I spent the entire plane journey trying to pull my satin LV eye mask over my eyes and pretending to sleep. But who was I kidding? It was a seventeen-hour flight. I had to get up at some point and walk around, stretch, pee.
At one point, when I got up to use the bathroom, I caught Brother B munching on crisps and watching a special video made for the wedding, playing as part of the in-flight entertainment.
It was a nightmare. The eyesore of a video played excruciating details about the Preparations for the Royal Wedding. Themes, venues, clothes, jewellery … everything. Watching it was as painful as the pus-filled pimple on my chin brought on every month by my mild-but-now-in-control PCOS-related symptoms. I immediately thought of calling Netflix and tipping them off to pitch for the rights to this monstrosity. Might sell for millions. Everyone wants to watch rich people do weird ‘rich people’ shit.
The Royal Wedding is going to be no joke. The Khan has clearly planned for his first-born Bassam’s wedding to be the most extravagant and debauched party imaginable. No expense is going to be spared.
A slew of celebrities has been invited to attend. Mrs Clinton, Ivanka and Michelle Obama from my side of the world. On different days of course. One has confirmed her presence at the sangeet (a musical party night). One at the wedding day. And one at the reception. And then Shah Rukh Khan, Chris Hemsworth, Charlize Theron, Zendaya and Leo De Caprio, to name drop a few. There were many others, but these are the few names I could remember.
Beyonce and Elton John are rumoured to have agreed to perform on one of the evenings. Billie Eilish is coming for sure. The bride, a wealthy Indian princess, is a fan apparently. And a bunch of who’s who from Hollywood and Bollywood will be flown in. All expenses paid—all seven days.
The most expensive pink champagne will be poured and chefs from over twenty-two countries will prepare the most impeccable wedding dishes. Fireworks and performances galore. It promises to be an extravaganza of a lifetime.
I buzz my attendant to get me a Xanax. I wonder how neon hair will look on me as I put on my headphones to drown out nauseous thoughts.
All the good girls go to Hell.
'Cause even God herself has enemies.
9
My Gherkin, My Jaan
I must protect her.
I knew this the moment I held the little bundle in my arms. My little Zeba. Stubborn as a wild steed. Calm and cool as a mini cucumber. And acidic like … What are those called—the yummy, pickled ones? Ah … Gherkins. Yes, she is my adorable little gherkin.
Every day, I watch as my brave child navigates a roller coaster of emotions. Her inner battles, monsters, demons. She smiles and sulks. Acts impudent. Acts immature. Brushes aside her fears with a toss of her hair as if they are not real things, just figments of her imagination. But her pain, her emptiness … It is all real. I know this because I am her mother.
She may not be born of my flesh, but she is born from my heart. I know her heartbeat. I know her smell. Her moods. Her imagination. Her darkness. Her sarcasm. Her mental chatter. Her anger. Her boredom. Children often give such little credit (or none at all) to parents … thinking we do not truly understand them.
Often, I mask my knowledge, my understanding of her. And she hides her inner world, her pain and angst in pure rebellion, behind a facade of arrogance. I do not know what life has in store for her. But I know she is a special one, my Zeba. Perhaps all mothers think that way about their children. Do they not?
I look out at my boys trying to fly drones in the massive palatial gardens and shake my head. My stupid boys and their toys. I admit, they are all grown men, but for me they will always be my little boys. And perhaps in many ways they do not behave any older than pimply, spoilt teenagers. Love them as I do, they are idiots.
Any mother will tell you that one cannot choose between one’s children. But secretly we do have our favourites. I would deny it if anyone ever quoted me on this, but I too have my special one. My Zeba, my gherkin, my jaan … born of my heart.
Oh, but how she annoys me. Drives me insane, that girl. Is it possible to love someone this much and be absolutely exasperated with them at the same time? And Allah, does she love a fight! Nostrils flaring, eyes blazing. Ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. And she seems to have somehow acquired that sharp Akhoon tongue. Allah! Thank God for her medicinal weed. Yes, I have known about this little habit of hers for years. Children rarely appreciate a mother’s instinct. Initially I was worried about her becoming an addict but it is actually doing her some good. Calms her down. Cools her mind. My consultation with Dr Singh, her therapist, gave me some insight into this. Anything to keep her sanity and my peace intact. And thanks to her, I enjoy my CBD gummies. I find them so very relaxing. They give me relief from the aches of old age.
It is hard to make children understand the value of legacy, of where they really come from, who they are. By the time they exit their childhood rebellion phase and head to teenage angst and then tumble into the turbulence of the twenties, a lot of time is lost. And along with that, a lot of history too. Memories erased, people dead, recipes forgotten, letters lost, tastes disremembered, fragrance evaporated.
Fanaah. Lost. Gone. Forever.
Legacy.
That is all that matters, is it not? Now, in the menopausal phase of my life, having lived and seen it all—through my hot flashes, irritability, nutritional supplements and night sweats—I realize that legacy is all that matters, all that helps us navigate life. Where we come from enables us to take better decisions about where we are headed.
But how does one explain this to children? The boys will not understand. And Zeba will not listen. I suppose sooner or later it will come to her as a realization, that life is not a battle. Between the past and present, tradition and modernity. It is all the same. The same unbroken chain of existence. Even though it feels ruptured, there exists a continuum.
My Zeba. She is a gorgeous child, but she cannot be taught anything. She must learn on her own. Make her own mistakes. Fall and hurt her knees. Skin her shins. Till then, we fight. She resists. I persist. It is a game both of us enjoy. She argues with us but always gives in. Always comes around. Stubbornly, sullenly—but she does. She cares for and loves us more than she would want to admit.
I say a prayer of shukran for my child and sit back to enjoy my tea made with cinnamon and saffron, and not contaminated with milk. I chew on a little Khudiri biscuit. How I’ve missed these little baked local goodies.
Bang!
Allah! What has happened?
A drone has crashed into the gate; another one lies forlorn in the fountain. I sigh and focus on my tea and biscuit.
Later in the day, we are headed to Zsa Zsa for our pilgrimage.
I know it is going to be hard for Zeba to visit the place where she was abandoned, where she was left to die. This is the first time she will be visiting the site. Zeba has never shied away from abusing the circumstances of her birth and adoption. So this trip is very important. I know it will not be easy, but Dr Singh felt it would be a major milestone for her. A catharsis that might help her come to terms with her past. Perhaps, it is better that the boys and Umar have decided to stay back. My Zeba will need some time on her own to process it. I, of course, will be by her side, to hold her in case the need arises.
During the drive to Zsa Zsa, she is unusually quiet. I try to break the silence several times. But she is gloomy. In all fairness, I am distracted as well. The Great Khan has been noticing Zeba’s insolence. I detest the man, but he has to be shown some reverence even if for a few days, since we are his guests.
I cautiously bring up the subject. ‘You must be nice to Uncle Khan. He is taking such good care of us.’
‘You mean he has been a big annoying show-off?’
‘Khan Saab does not need to impress his own brother’s family.’
‘Well, you should tell him that. And he needs to stop squashing us with his rules and timetables. He is a bully and a bore.’
‘Zeba! How rude … you cannot …’
‘Or what? He will use his dark magic and turn me into a pumpkin?’
I gasp. ‘How do you …?’
‘Oh Amma! That’s hardly a secret now, is it? I noticed that ugly shawl the day we arrived. He was wearing it when he received us.’ She turns to the chauffeur. ‘Right, Riyaz?’
I am speechless. Such loose talk about important matters could cost us. But who can stop Zeba once she has started. ‘That Chaddor that is supposedly the symbol of his dark powers looks quite plain, to be honest. A little tattered, really.’
Keep your cool, Ayesha. Control. Breathe.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly, ‘it is old. Many moons ago, around the time your father and I left the kingdom … That is when he obtained the Chaddor.’
Silence.
‘Zeba, love, you have to be careful.’
‘Why? Because the driver could be a spy?’ Zeba whispers in a mock-serious voice, then throws her head back and laughs uproariously. ‘So typical, Amma.’
Allah, there is no stopping this girl!
‘Uncle Khan is a sorcerer and has used his dark magic to unlock this ancient cave. And now he is the possessor of this Cloak of Light, his Chaddor. It gives him immense power, beyond anyone in the world. Right?’
I maintain a stunned silence. How does she know all this?
Zeba laughs and winks at Riyaz.
I see. Now it makes sense. Riyaz has been Zeba’s shadow from the moment we landed in Khudir. He was sent to pick us up in a shiny Phantom Rolls Royce, and he played a song that Zeba and he seemed to bond over. Some rubbish hip-hop song about sex.
‘Riyaz has been kind enough to update me on our history and the Great Khan’s magical powers.’
Riyaz turns around and gives me a sheepish smile.
‘Riyaz wants to go to Amreeka with us—the promised land. The King is not very open and inclusive, it seems. Not a safe country, this. Especially for gay people. Kyun, Riyaz?’
Riyaz smiles coquettishly.
My heart almost gives out. This girl is such a troublemaker. Riyaz could be executed for such public declarations.
Riyaz clears his throat. ‘I would love to discover the rich history of the land and its people. Amreeka. Must be so free, ma’am. I want to live freely and openly, without any fear.’
‘Stop this, both of you. Riyaz, you should know better. Zeba, your uncle is a powerful man. Very powerful. These are not matters to be joked about.’
Riyaz clears his throat again. ‘Madam is right, Zeba bi. Legend has it that when the evil force of Yazoo rises and attacks Earth, only the person who possesses the Chaddor will be able to lead and defend its people. The Chaddor controls everything on this Earth created by Allah. It controls Yazoo, the greatest evil force known to humanity. The Yazoo is resting now, dormant. But the Khan owns the Chaddor, and it is only a matter of time before he controls Yazoo too.’
‘So what is Uncle Khan waiting for?’
‘That, I do not know. But here is what I do know: Since the Great Khan unsealed that cave and obtained the Chaddor, he has left no opportunity to flaunt its ownership. He walks around with it hanging on his shoulders during important public occasions and ceremonies. People fear him even more because of it. To you, bi, it may look like a mere tribal shawl with geometric patterns. For us, in Khudir, it is the ultimate symbol of power. The Khan is the most important man in the world. No doubt about that.’
Zeba is listening with attention and I am relieved. At least, Riyaz is talking some sense into her. The Khan is not to be messed with. He is no ordinary King. He has found a way to tap into ancient Akhoon magic. Just then Zeba blows out her bubblegum till it bursts. A true-blue millennial. Stretching with a yawn, she says, ‘It’s a great story. But I’m bored. Do we have any snacks?’
‘Zeba!’
‘What? I don’t care for this place, this fucking misogynist King or how powerful he is. Whether he is a magician or has access to some ancient black magic or the sun shines out of his ass, I don’t give a shit. I’m here coz you wanted me to be here. I will attend this stupid wedding, and then I will go home. I want no part in it beyond that. One week later, I will be at home and all this will be a bad dream that I should not have been forced to participate in in the first place.’
‘Zeba, please!’
‘Mom. I know you believe in these stories. I don’t want you to stop believing them. Please go ahead. Make it the gospel truth of your life. But don’t push me. I will not believe in this rubbish. I will not even give it lip service. I cannot. It’s too silly. It’s honestly laughable. You guys are out of your minds.’
With that, she turns to the window and sullenly stares out of it, and we sit in silence.
A small tear escapes my eye. I will not admit it to Zeba, but it really breaks my heart to hear her talk like this. Is it too much to ask your children to understand the world through your eyes and experiences? To accept truths that you have taken a lifetime to understand and comprehend? I feel tired. And deflated. May Allah show her the way. I have tried to teach her to the best of my knowledge, as a good parent should. Now she is yours, Allah. Bas. Enough.
We stop and get out of the car. I watch her as she strides away towards the holy spring. Despite my anger, I call after her to touch the water and to sprinkle some over her head, as is the custom. Then I watch from a distance as Zeba approaches the spring.
She bends down, but the moment her hands come in contact with the holy water, we are all blinded by a flash of lightning. I turn my head sharply to look at the sky. What was that? Just a random flash, out of nowhere?
When I look back at Zeba, I am aghast. I see her lying crumpled in a heap, face down in the water. Her body limp, as if the lightning has rendered her lifeless. I scream in panic and run towards her, stumbling, falling to my knees. Riyaz and the guards run past me.
Allah reham!
10
The Square Massacre Day, 1992
This day in 1992 may have been the beginning of the current, dark time in the history of Khudir, but if you really think about it, it all started on 8 April 1988, the day the Khan created oil in Khudir. That day, everyone in the country had rejoiced.
Allah hu Akbar! God is great! Oil in Khudir! How wonderful!
Every citizen of the kingdom thought it would make them rich and prosperous. But that oil money was cursed. It would never bring them any good. It was not real oil created by God over millennia in the underbelly of the Earth. It was oil created by dark magic by the evil Khan. It was oil created by greed. Pure insatiable avarice that was like an ever-hungry ogre, always craving for more.
Following that fateful day, in a short span of three years, things started changing rapidly. At first, people were happy. Happy to be rich. The oil created a lot of wealth for the Khan and other folks in Khudir. But then, as it often happens, the despot became greedier. He embarked on a journey to unlock the Cave of Magic to obtain the ancient magic Chaddor.
Naturally, people started to panic. Even the average citizen knew this was pushing it too far. The Chaddor had belonged to the family of the Akhoons, the First Tribe of Khudir, and was meant to do the bidding of the true heir of Akhoon. It was the symbol of Akhoon leadership and magical powers. The elders of Khudir had long realized that the Chaddor was very powerful. Too powerful for any one man to be allowed to possess it. With its power, a person could become unstoppable—do anything conceivable by the human mind, even perpetrate unthinkable horrors. So they agreed to lock it up in a cave and seal the entrance to it with magic. But the Khan, through sheer stubbornness and perseverance, had got his hands on the Chaddor.
He started wearing it everywhere he went. It made the people in Khudir very uncomfortable. Their soft murmurs grew stronger and bolder. This is wrong. The ancestors do not want this. And then whispers started in the palace corridors that the Khan had gone mad. From being called the Great Khan, he had now become the Mad Khan. He was going to attempt the forbidden. He wanted to wake up Yazoo. Yazoo—the darkest force known to man. A force that would open the doors of Hell on Earth. A force that would usher in the reign of Shaitan. But the Khan was willing to do this because the Mad Khan wanted to be King of the entire World.
He started combing through the population, picking up his targets for the Blood Ritual. The breaking point came when the people of Khudir finally protested and took to the streets. Enough was enough, they said. They could not allow this to keep happening. They appealed to the Khan to cease this madness, to stop invoking Yazoo. When he paid them no heed, at first, they organized marches and silent protests and candlelight vigils.
Then thousands of people set up camp in the Square.
They sat there for weeks. In the heat. All day. All night. Sang songs. Gave speeches. Wrote poetry. Shouted slogans. Banged vessels. Reporters from international news channels covered the protests and started showing them to the rest of the world.
‘Local Khudirs Protesting the Khan’s Evil Regime’ read the headlines. International media christened it ‘The Square Protest’. Of course, they had no idea what the locals were actually protesting. Because no Khudir local would ever talk about the magic, the Chaddor, the Blood Ritual, or Yazoo to a non-Khudir. Outsiders would not understand.
For the world, it was simply about human rights, democracy and civil rights. The stuff one sees on TV every few months. But the reality was different. Thousands of people were protesting an evil king’s demonic activities and flagrant use of harmful magic. It was a jihad for the souls of the entire world.
Jihad—to fight or protest. In Islam, the greatest jihad is always with oneself. With the evil within you. After that comes the jihad with outside oppressors. But, even then, one must use all negotiations and diplomatic tactics first to settle matters without violence and fighting. So that’s what our Khudir protestors did. They rallied—peacefully, patiently.
