Boy of fire and earth, p.2
Boy of Fire and Earth, page 2
Which was why whenever Laila came over Wahid was miserable. Laila was the daughter of Rehman’s first cousin Imran and his wife Batool. Imran was easy to love – a short man verging on obese with a small, neat moustache on an impossibly round face that drew attention to itself by being the only successful growth of hair on his head. Batool, a beautiful woman with a slender build, spoke with a soft voice and had a tinkling laugh. Laila had none of her mother’s looks and none of her father’s good humour.
‘Whatchoo reading?’ Laila demanded, snatching The Horse and His Boy out of Wahid’s hands and inspecting the cover before tossing it to the ground. As the elders sat in the dining room discussing politics over cups of tea, she had been sent upstairs to play with Wahid.
Wahid did not bother asking for the book to be returned, knowing it would not happen. He sniffled, pulled his legs up protectively so that only his head was visible over the bony knees, and watched her cautiously. Laila instead decided to take an interest in his medicines, but they were too high to reach, even when she went up on tiptoes. Wahid thought she looked very much like a walrus lifting its weight off the ground and suppressed a giggle. From nowhere she spun around and pinched him hard on his exposed calf.
‘Ow! Why did you do that?’ he whined.
‘I’m bored. You’re boring. This room’s boring. Let’s go outside.’ She flopped down on his bed.
Wahid did not want to go outside. He wanted Laila to leave and he wanted to be left alone to finish reading about Shasta and Aslan.
‘But Ammi says it’s too hot to go outside.’
She sprang up from the bed, stalking towards him, fingers flexing like crab claws.
‘Don’t make me hurt you. Then you’ll go crying to your Ammi and everyone will know what a baby you are.’
Wahid scrambled off the chair and out of her reach. Laila played at chasing him down the stairs and waited impatiently as he put his shoes on near the front door, arms folded and huffing loudly.
‘Ammi, I’m going outside with Laila!’ yelled Wahid. The dining room was right across from the main entrance and he could not wait to be old enough to sit comfortably indoors with other adults who would not inflict pain. He heard his mother start to say something before being interrupted by Rehman.
‘Okay, go, wear your shoes,’ called his father.
Laila grinned at Wahid and then, in a sing-song voice reserved for adults, said, ‘Don’t worry about Wahid, Mumtaz Aunty! I’ll take care of him!’
Wahid finished tying his laces and they both went out the door. The Karachi summer smacked them in the face, all shade blasted away by the sunlight. Wahid blinked furiously as his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden change in brightness, focusing just in time to dodge a large ball thrown at him.
‘You were supposed to catch that,’ said Laila. She was in the garden leading up to the front door, motioning for him to return the ball. Wahid retrieved the ball and crossed the small driveway, manoeuvring between the cars and stepped onto the grass. He could already feel his body reacting to the outdoors, as if the air was so thick with allergens that if he looked down he would see large clumps of pollen attaching themselves to his arms and legs. Throwing the ball back at Laila, he used his free hand to pull out a tissue from his pocket and catch a sneeze. The ball fell a foot short of Laila and rolled to her feet slowly. ‘You throw like a girl,’ she said.
‘Ya . . . well . . . you are a girl,’ replied Wahid, instantly dissatisfied with this retort. He let out a rattling series of sneezes.
For the next half hour, Laila was a great deal more tolerable, mostly because Wahid did as he was instructed. They played catch for a while and then she chased him around the large lawn until they were both exhausted. They collapsed on the grass, finding it cool against their skin. As Wahid squinted up at the sun, trying to see how long he could look at it directly to make phantom squiggly shapes appear in front of his eyes, Laila got up again and made her way over to the corner of the garden.
‘Hey potty face, look at this!’
Wahid rolled over to see Laila standing under a tamarind tree, inspecting something at its base. The tree was the oldest and largest in the garden, thin branches twisting up and away from the house, clawing at the world beyond the boundary wall.
Wahid got up and walked over to see Laila studying a small toffee lying in the mud, still in its shiny cellophane wrapper, gleaming like a ruby.
‘It’s a toffee,’ said Wahid.
Laila punched him in the arm.
‘I know, dumb head,’ she said, then snatched it up. ‘It’s mine! I saw it!’
Wahid, who had no interest in eating candy that had been lying on the ground, looked up into the tree for an explanation. He expected to see a crow or a cat sitting in the branches, staring mournfully down at the dropped treat. Instead he gasped loud enough to make Laila pause in her archaeological dusting of the find.
‘What is it?’ she asked, peering up into the snarl of branches.
Wahid pointed, surprised that he even needed to show what he was staring at. High up in the tree was a man, perched with his back against the trunk, his legs crossed on a thin branch. He wore a white shalwar kameez, his chin resting on large fists. Given how high up he was and that the sun was behind him, Wahid couldn’t make out his features. He could see the eyes though, staring down at them; they were red, bright as the toffee wrapper that was crinkling loudly as Laila unwrapped it.
‘That man,’ whispered Wahid.
Laila rolled her eyes and laughed triumphantly as she tossed the wrapper over her shoulder, holding the sticky candy between her fingers and examining it.
‘What man? I don’t see any man. Stop trying to steal my toffee.’
Wahid spared her an irritated glare and then looked back up. The man’s face was still obscured, but the shining red eyes seemed fixed on Laila. Wahid wasn’t sure but he thought he could see a smile. He suddenly wanted to be back indoors. He didn’t know who the man was – he didn’t look like anyone Wahid had seen working in their house – and the way the eyes glowed, despite the brightness of day, unsettled him.
‘Laila,’ Wahid whispered, backing away slowly from the tree, ‘maybe the toffee is that man’s?’
Laila glared at Wahid, still not looking upwards after having given that first perfunctory glance. Then she threw the toffee into her mouth and bit down on it.
‘It’s delicious,’ she said between exaggerated chews.
Wahid looked at her in astonishment and then turned to stare up at the tree, continuing to back away from both it and her.
The man was gone.
That evening, after Laila and her parents left, Wahid told his mother and father what he had seen. They gave him encouraging smiles, discussing how being an only child was probably what gave him his wonderful imagination. Wahid, who did not doubt at all in the certainty of what he had seen, understood that there was not going to be any convincing. That night he read until the book rolled off his chest and by morning he had forgotten the man, the toffee, and Laila’s visit.
Two weeks later, Laila’s father called Rehman and asked him for help.
‘Laila is very ill,’ Imran said.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Rehman asked.
‘I – Rehman I can’t explain it,’ answered Imran, his voice low and frightened.
‘Have you gone to a doctor?’
‘Of course, first thing we did. And the second and the third. None of them could find anything wrong with her. We even – Rehman, we even went to a – to a psychiatrist.’
‘To a psychiatrist,’ Rehman whispered in awe. He had never known anyone who had been to a psychiatrist. ‘What did he say?’
‘She said Laila had been “traumatised”. Trauma, Rehman. Why is my baby traumatised? What happened to her? She is just a child.’
Imran’s voice sounded increasingly squeezed, as if speaking required some great act of will.
‘So did the psychiatrist prescribe any medicines at all?’
‘Something to calm her down at night. To stop the screaming. It worked for a few days, maybe three, then she started again.’
‘How is Batool? Is she okay?’
‘How can she be okay?’ Imran almost shrieked. There was a long pause and deep breathing. Then, in a more controlled voice, he continued, ‘Sorry. She is up all night praying. Doesn’t leave Laila’s side. Even when it gets too much for me, she doesn’t leave our baby’s side at all. Please can you come over today. Please.’
‘Of course, Imran. You don’t even need to ask. Do you want me to bring anything? Should I bring Mumtaz?’
‘Yes, it would be good to have Mumtaz there. For Batool. She needs someone to talk to. Also, there will be someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t tell you right now. I can’t. You’ll see when you come.’
Rehman called Mumtaz as soon as Imran hung up and told her. She said she would check with her parents to see if they could watch Wahid for the evening. When he got home an hour later, however, he was informed that the grandparents were unavailable and so Wahid would have to accompany them.
‘Ammi, what’s wrong with Laila?’ asked Wahid on the drive over.
‘She’s not feeling well, so we are going over to see her. You’ll have to behave yourself, as Imran Chacha and Batool Chachi are very upset. Okay?’
Wahid considered these rules, found them acceptable, and nodded his agreement.
They reached Imran’s house late in the evening. The cook was waiting for them by the gate. He led them into the house, and seated them in the drawing room, before running off to fetch Imran. A minute later Imran entered, looking wretched. His eyes were ringed with creases and he hadn’t shaved in days, streaks of stubble shading his cheeks. Wahid could see white in the moustache that hadn’t been there last time. His father got up and they hugged. His mother asked about Batool and then went upstairs to Laila’s room to be with her. Wahid sat quietly, hands folded politely on his lap, trying not to be too obvious in his efforts to understand what was being discussed between the two men.
‘I don’t understand, Imran. What’s wrong with her?’ asked Rehman.
Imran looked as though he was about to cry and he glanced at Wahid, who was now staring fixedly up at the fan rotating overhead. Then he whispered, too loudly to be ignored. ‘Djinn. I think she’s possessed by a djinn.’
Even in his peripheral vision Wahid could see the shock on his father’s face.
‘A djinn!’ he repeated. Then glancing at Wahid, he whispered, ‘Are you sure? I mean, how do you . . .?’
Just as it seemed like Imran Chacha was about to offer an explanation for this tantalising bit of information, the cook appeared at the door.
‘Sahib, an old man is here. He says you would know why?’
Imran stood, discovered he was too unsteady to stand on his own and let Rehman hold him up by his shoulder.
‘Bring him in. And tell Batool to come down as well.’
Just as the cook left the room, Laila screamed twice from upstairs. The first was the shrill wail of a girl in pain, the second unmistakably a shriek of joy. Imran started to recite a prayer loudly and Rehman joined him in the repetition. Wahid suddenly wanted to run, but he continued to sit, slowly whispering the same prayer himself.
The servant returned almost immediately, respectfully leading what looked like the oldest man on the planet; his face was a coral mass of wrinkles under which he could barely open his eyes; on his forehead was the thumbprint bruise that marked men who spent all their time prostrating in prayer; an orange beard blazed from below his nose down to his stomach. He took one look at Wahid and clucked loudly, turning to the two men to address them with a voice so withered it was barely audible.
‘The boy must leave. He should not see this.’
At his father’s command, Wahid was sent to the kitchen to watch television with the cook. A small TV had been set up on a counter top next to the stove and on it the cook and the family driver were watching the evening news. Or at least pretending to watch the news. Between them, Wahid caught a far more detailed and fascinating conversation than what he had just left behind.
‘Why is the mullah here?’ asked the driver, after getting a stool for Wahid to sit on and motioning to the cook to bring some snacks for the boy.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Wahid. ‘Maybe for the djinn?’
He wasn’t sure he should have just divulged this, but it was entirely too large to contain, a bubble of information bloating inside him.
The cook, who had climbed up on a stool to get to the box of biscuits at the back of the cabinet, jumped down, stabbing the box at the driver triumphantly, ‘I knew it!
I told you it was a djinn!’ Then, less enthusiastically, ‘Poor little Laila bibi.’
The driver turned up the volume on the television, the female newscaster was detailing a visit to Karachi by Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto. He stared at the TV for a few seconds, then said, ‘In my village a woman was once possessed by a djinn. We had to beat her with sticks to get it out. She almost died.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked the cook.
‘She is still alive. The djinn left her. But no one will marry her now. She is . . .’ he glanced at Wahid, ‘. . . ruined. The djinn, they marry the woman while she is under their control. So you see . . .’
Wahid was shaking now. Despite their contentious relationship, he didn’t want Laila to be beaten by sticks. So when he heard her scream again, this time from the drawing room he had been made to leave, he began running towards it even before he realised what he was doing. The cook and driver didn’t follow, instead breaking into loud prayers.
The scream had been pained. But it had also been in a voice deeper than Laila’s. Wahid processed all this by the time he reached the door. When another scream began, he pushed it open and went into the room.
Then he peed himself.
Wahid didn’t notice the stream of hot urine coursing down his leg, staining his jeans and filling his socks. All his attention was consumed by what was in the centre of the room. His father and mother were standing in the corner closest to him. With them was Batool Chachi, her hands covering her mouth, trapped in the process of screaming, the sound not making it out. Her cheeks were shiny with tears. His mother had her arms around Batool Chachi, holding her tightly as she herself tried to control her crying. His father’s hands were cupped at chest level, his mouth miming what must have been a prayer.
On the ground ahead of them, in the centre of the room, was Laila. Imran Chacha was holding her down, hands pressed tightly against her shoulders. She was writhing and shuddering, her body contorting into nearly impossible positions as she struggled to lift herself off the floor. Laila’s face was . . . not Laila’s. It was darkened, as though a shadow was falling over it. Her eyes were the white of a skin of fat on raw meat, her lips had curled back, showing teeth longer and yellower than any that Wahid had ever seen. She wore a shalwar kameez that was sweat-soaked and stuck to her skin. Over her stood the old man, no longer feeble and stooped – he was standing with feet on either side, and in a loud, forceful voice he was reciting from a Quran in his hands. He didn’t seem to notice the girl suffering on the ground.
For Wahid, however, the only thing in the room worth seeing was the new man. He was as visible as everyone else in the room, except for the way he seemed to occupy the same space as Laila. He was taller than her, much taller. Her entire length fit in the space between his collarbone and his navel. He was naked, a long penis flapping between his legs. He seemed to be, somehow, running through Laila. The exposed parts of his body, that she didn’t occupy, were completely tangible. But where she started, he ended. His face was also alternating between rage and pain, just like hers. Wahid stared, trying to understand what he saw. The man was darker than anyone Wahid had ever seen, a shadow given depth and weight. His arms were crooked at the elbow, hands disappearing inside Laila’s head. Fingers surfaced from her brow, like dorsal fins cutting through water.
Wahid gasped, his legs stopped supporting him and he fell backwards. His father heard him and ran over, trying to block Wahid’s view with his body.
‘Wahid, you can’t be here.’
Wahid looked up at his father and then back at the man who had grown around Laila. One hand emerged from the side of her head, erupting out of the matted hair. It came slapping back down and Laila shrieked hard.
‘The ma . . . the man’s . . . inside . . . inside Laila.’
His father looked back at Laila, and his confusion brought realisation to Wahid. No one else could see him.
Then, as if he felt the force of being seen, the man twisted and stared straight at Wahid. He stopped moving, stopped wringing his hands on Laila’s scalp and looked directly at Wahid. That was when Wahid saw the flames inside his eyes, eyes just like the man who had been sitting in the tree. The force of recognition staggered Wahid. The man blinked once and then was gone. He didn’t get up to leave, nor did he slowly dissolve. He was there and then he wasn’t.
Laila fainted, her father collapsed next to her, exhausted. Her mother broke free of the grip that Mumtaz had on her and rushed to her daughter, collapsing on top of the unconscious body. The old man continued to pray. And Wahid began to cry.
On the drive home, no one spoke. Wahid sat silently in the back, staring at his hands folded in his lap.
They let Wahid sleep in their room that night, understanding that he might be too frightened to sleep on his own. He had moved out, into his own bedroom across the hallway, when he was three and now his parents’ bed seemed a lot smaller. He squeezed in between them. As his father began to snore progressively louder and his mother joined in with her own nasal whine, Wahid found it impossible to relax his thoughts. He kept seeing the man entwined with Laila. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the face looking at him from the floor of the drawing room. So, when he looked up and saw the same face form out of the darkness over him, the same eyes staring down at him, he thought he had finally fallen asleep. It was only when the man spoke and he heard the voice clearly, that he realised he was still awake.
