Boy of fire and earth, p.13
Boy of Fire and Earth, page 13
‘Find a djinn,’ repeated the woman. She lowered herself to the ground, sitting in the middle of the road on her knees, the sari blooming around her. She still held Wahid’s hand and so he too sat down across from her, cross-legged. The gravel on the road poked him in the butt and felt damp. The fog had darkened until everything was shaded charcoal, yet he could see her clearly.
‘How can you –’ he began to say, when she grabbed his other hand in a movement that was too fast to see and then raised both his palms to her cheeks, placing them on either side of her face. Wahid felt the forms and shapes of a thousand insects moving under the skin. A worm tracked slowly across the cheekbone, its path a raised ripple under his hand. Wahid felt bile rising in his throat and swallowed it.
‘Do you know what they call me? Witch, they say. Chudail, sometimes. They think I come to eat their souls because I am evil. Do you know what I am?’
‘No,’ said Wahid softly. He had grown up hearing stories of women with twisted feet who killed men. Everyone had heard of them. They were said to haunt the roads at night, killing those unlucky enough to stop and help them. He had heard them called ‘Pichal Pairees’ – ‘women with turned feet’.
‘I am what is left of the woman who dies at the hands of men,’ she said. ‘I am her revenge.’
Her face changed. Eyes swelled in the empty sockets, brilliant white sclera unfurling like the petals of a lily. Fine arteries branched under the surface of her cheeks and forehead, purple and broken. Her cheeks puffed and neck broadened. Bruises patched her skin. She looked very much, Wahid realised, like someone who had just suffocated. The transformation had happened before him, yet it seemed as though it had happened in an instant.
‘I am also other women. So many other women.’
The face changed. The bruises dissolved and the skin across her throat pulled apart, sliced by an invisible knife. Dead grey muscle peeked through the gash, which winked and closed again. One eye collapsed inwards, not into the dark well that had been there before, but became smashed, like an overripe fruit thrown against a wall. The eyeball in the centre was round and exposed, glaring out at him. More changes began but Wahid did not see them. Closing his eyes, he screamed.
‘I am all these women,’ she said. ‘And so many more.’
Tears coursed down Wahid’s cheeks and he opened his eyes, seeing her as she had originally been. He actually felt relief to see the pale skin and empty eye sockets again. She released Wahid’s hands. A spider, as small as a fingernail, crawled out of one socket and she pushed it back in absently.
‘I am sorry,’ Wahid said, wiping his cheeks dry. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’
‘We will find your friend. Before she becomes one of us,’ said the Chudail.
She lowered her head, crossed her hands over her chest and began to hum. Her voice wrapped around them, swaddling them in a blanket of music. She swayed as she hummed. Wahid had never heard the tune before and couldn’t seem to capture in his mind when he tried. Every note was perfectly harmonious yet it melted away from him the moment she moved on to the next. Wahid stared at her, at the bare shoulders with hardened edges of bone and the swell of the bosom under the blouse. He even found himself swallowing the sight of her midriff, with a navel so dark, and the gentle folds of her stomach. He felt a longing for her and if the music had continued much longer, he knew he would not have been able to control his need. There was desire in him and with it something lower, something older and more primal. Something male. He wanted to be with her, to be inside her. But that wasn’t enough, he also wanted to hurt her. To take her with force and take from her with anger. Take and take, again and again and agai–
The humming stopped. Wahid looked up, the haze of lust evaporating in an instant. He was shaking.
‘What . . . what was that?’ he gasped. ‘Ya Allah, what was that?’
She smiled a knowing smile. ‘That was the song of women,’ she said. ‘It is not meant for men to hear. That you are not dead means you are not a man.’ Then, ‘I know how you can find a djinn.’
‘You do? How?’
‘One of my sisters, dead in Kolachi for so long, told me. She died with a child still in her belly, killed by one of the six men who took from her what was not theirs to take.’
Wahid was about to start apologising again, feeling the guilt of being a man even if she did not believe he was one, but then paused. ‘Kolachi? That’s . . . that’s the old name of Karachi, isn’t it?’
‘It is the name she knew it by,’ said the Chudail.
‘What did she say?’
‘She says the djinns are gone. The djinns are gone from Kolachi just as they are gone from everywhere. She says maybe they have left forever. No one knows. But there is one who might help you find them. She says ask the King.’
‘The King?’
The Chudail stood up, looked down at her sari and began to brush at it with both hands. Wahid stared at her. Her concern over the cleanliness of her clothes struck him as the strangest thing that had happened all night.
‘You said “the King”? Which king? The mayor? A minister?’
She straightened fully and smiled, cold blue lips curving upwards. ‘The King of Karachi. Every city has a king. Just as the birds and rocks and the clouds have kings.’
Wahid rubbed his forehead with a fist, suppressing the need to cry out in frustration. ‘But how will I find him?
I don’t even know who you mean.’
She flicked a speck of gravel from her sari and sighed. ‘Ask for him. Ask the forgotten, the poor, the dredges. Ask them and he will find you. You are of Karachi so he will speak to you. Maybe.’
‘Okay,’ said Wahid. ‘Okay. The forgotten and poor. There are lots of those in Karachi.’
The Chudail moved close. She raised her arms and rested her elbows on his narrow shoulders. Hands pushed into his hair, fingers playing with the curls. She leaned forward, pressing herself against him and brought her lips to his ear.
‘Now you must give me something,’ she whispered. Her voice was playful and full of flirtation.
Any composure Wahid had dissipated in that instant. He began stammering and a sweat broke out across his forehead.
‘Did you kiss this girl of yours?’ she whispered. The words tickled the inside of his ear and the smell of charnel house roses was overwhelming.
‘No I . . . I never,’ said Wahid. He could feel the soft press of her bosom against his chest. ‘I mean I . . . no . . . I’ve never kissed.’
Her fingers unfurled his curls and then let them spring back. ‘Your first kiss then. That is what I will take from you. A boy’s first kiss is true. Only later does he learn to lie with it.’
Wahid twitched, his body displaying the surprise he felt. ‘Okay,’ he said, closing his eyes, promising himself he wouldn’t vomit.
She pressed her lips against his. They felt soft and dry. A scaly tongue pushed gently into his mouth, caressing his own. He tasted dead flowers. Despite himself, he felt his mouth responding, his lips moving against hers. A moan escaped him.
She pulled away with a smile, a finger pressed against her lips. Wahid opened his eyes again. His mouth felt as though all the moisture had been taken from it.
Then she turned and began to walk away.
‘Wait,’ Wahid called. ‘Who . . . who was your husband? The man who hurt you. Maybe I can help.’
The Chudail stopped and glanced over her shoulder, pulling her shawl over her head as she did. ‘He is dead,’ she said. ‘He died long ago.’ Then, with sadness, ‘I did not get to kill him.’
And with that, the fog swallowed her.
Wahid turned and ran, not stopping until he reached the hut.
Hamza screamed as Kamran pushed the tip of the knife into the brown flesh under his nipple, imagining the tiny bursts of pain that must be popping in the boy’s nerves. Kamran discovered it was a pain he craved too.
‘Please, oh God, please don’t,’ gasped Hamza, a skin of drool across his chin and lips. He was hanging from a beam, a rope tied around his wrists. His hands were pink and swollen as the weight of his body pulled against them. His naked torso was pinpricked with red beads and a thin line of blood tracked from the centre of his chest down to the waist of his jeans. His feet, dangling a few inches off the ground, dripped urine. Kamran had hung him up while he was unconscious and hadn’t said a word to him yet.
They were in an empty room in an abandoned house he used for just such work. Kamran had, since he first discovered the place some years before, killed over a dozen men here.
‘Why are you doing this?’ pleaded Hamza. ‘Who are you? Wh . . . oh God, why are you doing this?’
Kamran didn’t answer, instead taking out a fresh pack of cigarettes from his kameez pocket. He pulled one out, closing one eye against the lighter’s flame as he lit it. Hamza wept in high wailing sounds. Kamran pulled hard on the cigarette, then he took it out of his mouth, held it in front of his face and blew on the tip. Tendrils of smoke jerked and vanished under his breath and the ochre glow of the burning cigarette deepened to a strawberry red. He moved forward and put one hand over Hamza’s mouth and pressed the tip of the cigarette against the cut under Hamza’s nipple. The boy screamed into his hand. Kamran sighed, ecstasy writ on his face.
Once the screaming died down, he removed his hand and examined it. Hamza must have bitten it because he could see a neat row of indentations on the side of his palm. Kamran sniffed, amused by how little pain it took for the boy to suffer.
‘My parents aren’t rich,’ Hamza whimpered. ‘Please, just call them and ask. They’ll give you whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt me any more.’
Kamran ignored the boy’s cries and continued to examine the bite on his hand. It didn’t hurt. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed it happen. He felt as though an opportunity for savouring pain had been lost.
So he bit his own hand.
He tried to line up his teeth with the marks. As his teeth pierced his skin, he tasted blood. The pain that followed was simple and weak, not like the complex buffet he had been force fed by the djinns under that man’s command. Kamran spat out a thick glob of red, then stared accusingly at the wound. Hamza stopped begging.
Kamran looked up at him, as though he had forgotten he was even there. Then he recovered his purpose.
‘Where is Wahid?’
‘What?’ said Hamza.
Kamran got up and walked over to him. He looked up at the boy’s face, red and swollen, glistening with sweat and tears. Then he reached out and put one hand on Hamza’s crotch, cupping his groin. The boy’s eyes widened with understanding.
‘Nononono.’
Kamran squeezed, not with all his might, knowing his strength would force the boy to lose consciousness, but enough to make the tendons in his wrist stand out like the strings on a guitar. The sound that Hamza made was much like the air escaping from a tyre. Kamran let go and wiped his hand on his jeans, his palm damp with the boy’s urine.
‘Wahid,’ Kamran said again, his tone casual. ‘Where is he?’
‘But I don’t . . .’ began Hamza, then started squealing nonono as Kamran’s hand returned to his crotch.
‘He’s at the beach!’ screamed Hamza, his voice high-pitched with desperation. ‘Please, oh God, don’t. He’s at the beach!’
Kamran accepted this information by squeezing once again, this time putting more force into it. Hamza made a strangled cry and vomited. Kamran took a step back, faster than someone his size would be assumed capable of. Watching the boy retch, Kamran pulled out another cigarette and lit it. Getting the rest of the information would be easy, he thought. And so he decided to take his time with the next question.
He had to find the King of Karachi. The fact that Wahid had no idea how wouldn’t slow him. Slowing down, in any way, would lead to insanity. He had allowed himself a brief moment of consideration after breakfast, but it had almost brought on an asthma attack and left him filling the toilet bowl with the regurgitated contents of that breakfast. And so he decided to move forward, stay in motion until he found the djinns, then make them release whatever aspect of Maheen they had taken.
He asked Rahat to lie if Imran Chacha or his mother called by saying he was at the beach or sleeping, depending on the time of the phone call. It was unlikely to work, especially since it involved Rahat actually communicating with someone, but the fear of having their calls monitored meant they might not call at all.
Wahid left the hut on foot, walking towards the shops. He glanced up in the opposite direction but found, under the flat glare of day, it was just an empty road leading into dust. Finding a taxi was unlikely this far from the city, but Wahid managed to convince a van driver delivering crates of bottled water into giving him carriage in exchange for a few hundred rupees.
The Suzuki van smelled of rusting metal and diesel fumes. Wahid sat in the passenger seat, struggling to tune out the tinny warble of Sindhi music being played through a broken speaker and trying to think of the next step in his forward motion.
The Chudail had said to speak to the poor and the forgotten and ask them to take him to the King. The idea seemed counterintuitive; why approach a king through his most wretched subjects? Besides, who exactly was this king? Karachi had many rulers, but none styled themselves as kings, at least as far as Wahid knew. There were politicians who had divided the city into private fiefdoms, there were countless crime lords who controlled the underbelly – all those stolen cell phones and cars had to be going somewhere. But there were no kings.
‘You are the most serious looking boy I have ever seen,’ yelled the van driver over his music. He kept glancing at Wahid as his vehicle trundled over ditches and boulders.
‘Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all. Thanks again for taking me into the city.’
‘No problem. Just be grateful to Allah that you found someone as honest as me. So why ar– OYE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!’
A boy around Wahid’s age dressed in a ragged shirt and jeans was strolling down the middle of the road, blocking their path. The van driver blasted him with his horn and the boy leapt out of the way, tossing them a middle-fingered jab as they sped past.
‘Bastard,’ grumbled the driver, picking up speed.
‘I tell you, young sahib, never give them any money. It’s all a scam. They’re all actors, hired by these politicians and criminals. All the money goes there. No one is honest in this country any more, I tell you.’
Wahid had heard this theory before. It was a commonly held belief that all the beggars in the city belonged to a mafia of their own. He didn’t know if it were true. Mostly he chalked it up to a coping strategy developed by those with money when confronted by the continuous onslaught of those without. There was only so much you could give out of guilt, after all. It was easier to believe that the act of not giving was somehow more charitable.
However, there certainly was a pattern of behaviour that fuelled this theory; an intersection near his house seemed to be the allocated workplace of a legless man with a long black beard, who pushed himself around in a small box with wheels, rowing through the traffic using his hands as oars. Another nearby intersection was frequented by a blind man escorted by a small girl, and a woman with a face that had been scarred – presumably by acid – so severely that Wahid had never been able to bring himself to look at her. In fact, upon consideration, he could probably tell which traffic light he had reached on the roads he most travelled simply by a description of the beggars working there.
‘Where am I dropping you?’ asked the driver.
They had reached the city proper, their progress slowed by dense Clifton traffic. Wahid had decided it best to stay away from any area where he might run into someone he knew – or worse, someone who might be looking for him. He also needed a place where beggars would be easy to find.
‘If you can take me up to Tariq Road I’d really appreciate it.’
‘Very well,’ said the driver with a grin. ‘Tariq Road is out of my way, but you shall be my good deed for the day.’
Tariq Road was not just one road, but the general catch-all name given to a grid of intersecting streets, all buzzing with frantic commercial activity, far enough away from everyone in Wahid’s world of Defence and Clifton.
They had to abandon the main route across the city to Tariq Road once they encountered rows of cars driving towards them on the wrong side of the road. One of the cars slowed long enough for the driver to explain that a suicide blast in an open-air bazaar nearby had created a small riot. Survivors and grieving relatives had blocked the main road with burning tyres and were throwing rocks at any passing vehicles.
‘Only Allah can save this city,’ said the van driver. ‘Don’t worry, young sahib, I’ll get you to Tariq Road. I know every side lane in Karachi.’
True to his word, the driver sped through a maze of narrowing alleys and soon brought Wahid to one of Tariq Road’s entrances. Wahid thanked him and gave him an extra five hundred rupees.
Tariq Road was lined with shops. Cramped and cluttered stores overflowing onto the pavement, each displaying a headache-inducing onslaught of wildly patterned fabrics, walls of cheap plastic toys, and more shoes than there were feet in the world. Mobs of pedestrians crossed the road from shop to shop, streaming through the gaps between cars and motorcycles. Horns blared like a continuous siren heralding the end of the world. Wahid dodged to avoid a motorcyclist who swerved past him at a speed that shouldn’t have been possible in the perpetual traffic jam, and found shelter in the entrance of a shoe shop. Standing between steel shelving units filled with white school shoes, he puffed his ventilator as his lungs began to wheeze.
‘I am very hungry, please,’ said someone from below, startling Wahid. He looked down to find a man sitting on the ground next to him. It took Wahid several seconds to untangle the configuration in which the man had arranged himself; the emaciated upper body was resting against a pillar, naked up to the waist, while his legs – exposed by a shalwar that had been rolled up above the knees – were whiskers of bone and skin, worn thin as cellophane. Each leg was thinner than Wahid’s wrist and had been folded backwards on either side of the man, so that at first he looked as though he were sitting with two wooden crutches. The man gestured to an empty clay bowl and repeated the plea for food. Wahid reached into his wallet and pulled out a ten-rupee note, placing it in the bowl. The man gave him a smile that showed a single, lonely tooth.
