Entry 1

Word count: 1963

Prologue

October 20^th 1983

By the time he got home and rang the doorbell, dark had fallen and the crickets’ hesitant initial chirps had congregated into a raspy, high-pitched scream.

Suraya, the maidservant, opened the door for him, and stepped back to let him in, her gaze studying the floor and her hair shrouded in an aging, matted dupatta. He stepped in, acknowledging her presence only by giving her wide berth, his eyes averted from her in respect for her womanhood and his own dignity. He walked into the bedroom, calling out, “Salma. Salma, I’m back.” No reply. She was probably in the washroom, performing her ablution for the hundredth time, afraid in her paranoia of innocence that she had, without knowing it, made herself napaak, impure.

As he took off his blazer, he caught his reflection in the mirror, and stopped to look at it. He looked into his eyes, those piercing, landlord eyes. That’s the way a Chaudhary’s gaze should look like, his mother often used to say when he was a jawaan of twenty-five, standing at his father’s side like a crutch, shoulders spread broad. The chaudharies were known throughout Sahiwal, a small city in Punjab, loved by their friends, praised by the poor that worked for them, and talked about in low whispers and secret, dimly-lit corners by their foes. Now, as he stared at the man in the looking glass, the man with a ramrod posture and steely gaze, he felt the corner of his mouth quiver. He turned away, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

In the next room, a door swung open on creaky hinges, and tapping sounds started walking towards him. Salma entered the room, favoring her bad leg by resting her weight on a steel walking stick. She was wiping her face dry with the hem of her dupatta. “It’s so late, Chaudhary Sahib,” she said. In deference to her husband, which was the way of most women of her generation, that’s all she said, leaving the rest of her thoughts hanging unfinished in the air like a heavy, invisible question mark.

“We had some trouble at the farm,” Chaudhary sahib said. His voice came out low and gruff, and Salma caught the edge in it immediately.

“Is everything all right?” She asked, and though she spoke softly, the sudden concern that tinged her voice was unmistakable.

“Yes, everything is all right Salma. Now let’s have dinner. I have not eaten all day.”

But the seed of doubt had been planted, and even as Salma hobbled away, the taps of her walking stick becoming fainter as she headed towards the kitchen, he knew she was turning over worries in her mind about what on earth was wrong.

With the help of Suraya, the maid-servant, Salma laid the food on a table in the Verandah outside. It was close to 9 o’clock, and if there was one thing the electricity company wasn’t late at, it was load-shedding, and she hurried as fast as her game leg would let her to cart dinner from the kitchen. Suraya, kind simple-hearted village girl that she was, had once or twice suggested demurely to Salma to rest and let her take care of these tasks, but Salma wouldn’t hear of it. And that, too, was often the way of women of old – those simple women of small cities and villages – who thought it blasphemy to shirk taking care of their husbands.

Salma was setting down the basket of chapattis cradled in cloth when the lights went out. The Verandah door swung open, and Chaudhary Sahib stepped out into the cool autumn air.

They ate in silence, and crickets continued to thrum in orchestra, providing something to fill the emptiness that hung above the dinner table. Chaudhary sahib picked at his food, playing with the piece of chapatti between his fingers before tentatively dipping it in saalan and putting it in his mouth. Salma kept her eyes on her plate—what she could see of it in the night’s velvet—but had it been a bit brighter, the furrows of growing alarm in her brow would have been easily visible. By and by, Chaudhary sahib, fed up with the pretense of eating, gently put his plate back on the table, the remaining saalan turned to black in the darkness. He had hardly eaten half a chapatti.

He leaned back in his chair, and it creaked slowly. He took out his pack of cigarettes, struck a match against the flat of his heel, and lit a cigarette. As he took a puff, the cigarette’s end glowed like an angry eye, floating in mid-air against his silhouette.

Salma reached forward to put her plate back also, and groaned as her knee twinged. She too sat back, quietly licking the saalan off her fingertips in the tradition of the Prophet (SAW). She watched the outline of her husband, watched the glowing dot trace burning lines on the back of her eyes as he brought it to his lips. Then she said, “You’ve never been this quiet.”

He grunted. “The night sky is red above us, Salma. It looks like rain is coming.” She heard a rustle as he flicked the cigarette.

“Please tell me what’s wrong.” Her breath shuddered as she spoke.

He replied with silence…a silence that weighed upon her chest like a boulder. Not because he was ignoring her, but because she knew he was thinking of what to say. And as seconds skidded by, the silence grew like a bubble, expanding between them until Salma was sure it would pop with an explosion.

A low rumble came from the sky in the east, soft and low like the beginning of a headache. A streak of lightning arced through the clouds, momentarily setting the verandah ablaze in electric blue. And then the verandah returned to the way it was, its walls cloaked in darkness and shadowed by the red, glowing clouds above. The trees in the verandah rustled secretively as a gust of wind blew.

All the while, Salma waited for an answer, watching the glowing dot finally fall to the ground and die out. She heard Chaudhary sahib sigh deeply, and tried to ignore the growing spasm behind her knee that always jerked its head up and wanted to play when she was tense.

“Salma,” he said. “Wakt aa gaya hai.”

“No,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper above the rustle in the trees.

“Yes,” he said. “The time is nigh, and the night is tonight…the night that demons collect what they are owed.”

“It can’t be,” she said, and then groaned as the spasm in her knee suddenly knotted into a ball.

“It will be as it is,” he said, and then added, “We knew this day would come someday.”

“But how can it be today?” Her voice quivered like a glass about to break. “Why today?”

“It will be as it is,” he said again. She didn’t speak after that, and he knew she had started sobbing.

He got up and walked to her, kneeling down by her legs. And then he did something landlords normally have too much pride to do, except when they’re hidden behind locked doors, exorcising devils of lust.

He brushed her hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

“It’s okay, Salma,” he said. “All will be well now.”

She wiped her dupatta against her nose, and it made a wet sound. He continued stroking her head.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered.

“You can, Salma. What else are our three sons good for?”

“I can’t do it,” she said again, shaking her head like a child.

He clucked his tongue and laughed. “Tch..dhat tere ki. Tell me, do you know where the box is?”

She nodded.

“And you know where the key to it is?”

She nodded again.

“Remember, Salma…the box goes to our grandchildren. Not our children, but our grandchildren. It has to skip a generation and that’s the rule.” He chuckled. “You might have to wait a bit until those three khota sons of yours finally decide to start a family, of course. But they’ll get there someday or the other. And maybe my grandchildren will do what their grandfather was never able to.

“Now come on.”

He helped her up and led her inside into the bedroom, walking slowly and letting his feet brush the floor to make sure he didn’t trip over anything. He lay her down on the bed, and sat by her side, slowly sinking his fingertips into the back of her knee, coaxing the knot to unwind. Salma lay with her knuckle against her mouth, trying to hold in the sobs that kept racking her.

He sat there for a long time by her side, listening to her breathe, feeling the spasm in her knee finally let loose of her. The occasional shudders in her breath died out and gave way to tired little snores. He sat, listening to them, feeling oddly comforted by them, and when he was sure she was soundly asleep, he carefully got up and left the room.??

She opened her eyes the moment he shut the door behind him. She turned on her back, facing pitch darkness where the ceiling should have been, and waited.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity, hearing him moving about in the next room. Once or twice, he bumped against something in the dark, a table perhaps, and swore in a whisper. She smiled faintly at that, and kept on listening.

Then the sounds stopped.

In the growing silence, she noticed her breath beginning to come in tiny shudders of terror, as she stared out into the black fog that surrounded her. Sheer stillness followed in the wake of his movements, and it filled the room like smoke, suffocating her, getting louder and louder, until it almost buzzed. And yet she dared not make a sound nor a movement, as if she were cradling gossamer wires that would snap if she so much as moved an inch. Feverishly, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the way her forehead was suddenly lined with clammy sweat, or how her blood whooshed in her ears with every racing heartbeat, and she squeezed her eyes so hard that shapes began dancing in front of her, demons with two tails and three heads, demons that come around under red skies, knocking doors in the dark to collect what they are owed. Her knee buckled in a clenching paroxysm, and she let out a small cry, and yet those demons continued to morph in front of her, staring at her through black holes for eyes, grinning at her with rotting teeth. And just as she felt she could not take the silence, the emptiness, and the madness anymore, that she was about to snap into two, an ear-splitting crack suddenly rang out in the house. In its fading echoes, she heard another sound.

It was the sound of her own screams.

Sahiwal’s head constable came to the Chaudhary house early in the morning, summoned by the wails of the maidservant over the phone. He entered the bedroom and found Chaudhary sahib hanging from a noose, his neck lolling to the side, his body swaying slowly in the middle of the library. And yet, through the shock of seeing Sahiwal’s beloved figure in this state, the constable saw something that would later go on to give him many restless nights.

Chaudhary sahib’s head was covered in a black cloth.

They found his wife in the bedroom, barely alive, and they rushed her immediately to the hospital.

Later, the doctor would declare to Chaudhary sahib’s stunned sons that she had slipped into a coma and might never wake up.

—————————————————————–
Chapter 2

15 years later – Summer, 1998

The alarm bell rang again. Ayman whipped his hand out and hit the snooze button before his mother could hear it, and then stuffed it back inside the quilt. He bunched his legs up by his side and pretended to snore…not too loudly, or else she’d know he was acting, but just audible enough for her to hear when she came in.

“You’d better wake up, Ayman.” Ayesha, his baby sister, spoke under her breath. She nudged the shape under the quilt. “If ami comes and sees that you still aren’t ready, she’s going to clean your clock.” She giggled, likely imagining her elder brother’s clock being cleaned thoroughly.

The end of the quilt lifted up and Ayman poked his head out. “Go away, Ayesha!” He said, keeping his voice low. “If she sees you talking to me, she’s never going to believe….” Suddenly, he heard ami’s slippers approaching. In a flash, he pulled the quilt back over himself and resumed his not-too-quiet-but-not-too-loud snores.

“Ayman! Get up right now before I have to drag you out of there!” Bushra shouted. “Get up and get ready for school!”

“Ami, I don’t feel well…I honestly don’t. I’m not making it up. My tummy hurts, it really does. Ouch! Stop poking me, Ayesha!” He said, slapping his sister’s hand away from his tummy. Ayesha giggled again.

“Don’t think I haven’t been keeping my eyes open, Ayman! You’ve been getting out of hand, haven’t you? Bahut chaur hotay ja rahe ho na?” She flung the cover back from over him. Ayman let out a squeal of protest, and drew his legs up further when the cold air in the room hit him. He looked to his side to see Ayesha standing in her winter school uniform, her hair done in two little ponytails to her side. She was grinning at him smugly, hopping from foot to foot.

“Why you little….” He tried to grab her, and she jumped out of his reach just in time with a scream of laughter.

“This is the last week of school anyway,” Bushra was saying. She pulled him to his feet and gave him a small shove into the bathroom. “You’re going to be off for a whole month, and it’s not like I’ll be able to catch a hold of you then and make you study. Kyoon mera itna sar khapatay ho?”

Ayman came out of the bathroom with a sullen look on his face. He scowled at Ayesha as he put his socks and shoes on. She felt tempted to tease him again, then thought better of it. She felt a little sorry for her brother.

“Kids tease me at school, ami….” He began in a pitiful voice, and was interrupted by his mother’s sudden snor t of laughter.

“Kids tease you?” She asked, smiling in amusement. “Dennis the menace, watch out that your nose doesn’t grow too big for your body!”

“But why don’t you believe me!” He said. “What if kids really are teasing me! I could be getting bullied and you wouldn’t care!”

Bushra bit her lower lip, trying to keep from smiling again. He looked so serious standing there, his hair plastered on his head like a wet mop. “I’ve had three complaints from other parents over the past year, Ayman. About how my 13-year old son is a little too…frisky.” She brushed his hair with her fingers, trying to fluff it up, and he pulled his head away crossly. “Dramabaz! Now go, both of you, before you miss the morning bell!”

Niaz uncle, their driver, was waiting outside with the car already started. Ayesha and Ayman got in the backseat, and Ayman gave Ayesha a shove as she went in.

“Aaaoowww,” She said, looked at Ayman, and then giggled again, which made Ayman’s face go a shade darker. Niaz uncle turned his head back to look at Ayman and said, “Well, somebody’s in a bad mood this morning, kyoon bachay?”

“Just drive, lala,” Ayman muttered. Niaz and Ayesha exchanged a sly look. With a shrug, Niaz turned to look ahead and put the car in gear.

They pulled up to the white gates of National Lyceum just as the turban-clad security guard was stepping out of his hut to ring the morning bell in the school’s courtyard. Ayman hurried ahead of Ayesha, ignoring her and trying to leave her behind. He climbed up the stairs to his classroom, threw his schoolbag in his seat, and rushed back down before assembly started. He joined the last line of his house just as the headmaster was stepping up to the podium.

The assembly began with a few administrative announcements by the headmaster, something about a writing competition. Ayman zoned out and started coaxing his brain to think. He knew he was in big trouble, and he was wondering how on earth he was ever going to get out of this one.

Ayman’s decision to try and play truant today hadn’t been pre-planned. Well, not exactly anyway. The idea, the need to desperately try to do it had come to him in the morning after the first alarm bell had woken him up. He’d been lying under the covers, stretching lazily, thinking of the day ahead. Only a week more of classes to go! And he had the cricket match this evening with the kids in the muhalla. Now all he had to do was get through school today – maths…geography…physics….

At physics, he had suddenly sprung up, sitting bolt upright. And then he’d smacked his head, as waves of panic began boiling in his belly. This was the last week of classes!

He remembered back to the beginning of the year, when Zaheer Khan, an intimidating physics teacher with small bristles for a moustache, had told his class that they had better prepare well for the finals, because he would give them a test in the last week. A test that would count heavily in determining their overall grade. Ayman knew that none of his friends remembered this…hell, they’d all been whooping last Friday about how they’d never have to see Zaheer Khan again. But he also knew that those irritating do-gooders who sat in the front row of the classroom with their polished pencil boxes and thick glasses would definitely remember. Oh, Ayman was willing to bet that they had it all neatly penciled down in their diaries. And when they all aced the test and got full scores, how would that make Ayman’s final grade look?

Not that Ayman cared about his grade. He scoffed at grades, and at those geeks in the front seat who worshipped their report cards like idols. But he knew that if he didn’t get decent marks in all his subjects, his mother would go on a rampage. And then, with a poof of magic, he could kiss his winter break goodbye. Yes sir, ami would see to that…she’d push him into those books so hard that he’d be flat-nosed by the end of the month. A sad, flat-nosed boy. Or maybe, God forbid, ami would make him get special tutoring on all his subjects. His mind conjured up images of him poring over thick books and watching tutors pick their noses when they thought nobody was watching, and he shuddered.

The national anthem started. He stood up straight mechanically. After years of assembly, standing stiff at the sound of the anthem had become a part of him, as unconscious as breathing. He sang along with the others, still trying to think of some way to prevent looming disaster. The only possible solution he could think of had been to take sick leave, because he knew Zaheer Khan wouldn’t have had the time later on to adminster a special make up test for him. But ami had made sure that that plan flew out of the window like a damn bird.

And Ayesha! He thought angrily. She ruined everything! Why did she have to keep laughing like that? If there was any chance of ami believing me, it all went to the dogs because of her! She always messes things up for me! He felt his anger grow, and then he remembered how he had shoved her in the car, and left her behind when they’d gotten out of the car. His annoyance suddenly fell away, replaced by a splinter of guilt.
The assembly ended. Everybody started walking back to their classrooms.

Think Ayman. Think.

Before the first period began, he talked to his friends, and it turned out they’d also forgotten all about Zaheer Khan’s menacing announcement at the beginning of the year. As they all gathered around, smacking their heads and wondering how they could have made such a blunder, Ayman noticed that Asad, one of the thick-glassed front-seaters, was watching them with a smug look on his face. Yeah, go on and laugh, Ayman thought. You knew all about it, didn’t you, and you didn’t tell us. Ayman looked right and left to make sure nobody was watching, and then stuck out his middle finger at him. The look disappeared from Asad’s face, and he quickly turned around to face the front again.

As the day passed, and one class led to another, Ayman began to pray for a miracle to happen, and in his desperation, he started thinking impossible thoughts. He considered that Zaheer Khan might have forgotten about the test all together. After all, he’d made a fleeting reference to it in the beginning of the year. Who was to say whether or not it was just a bluff? A mean old threat from a mean old teacher?

The more he thought about it, the more he started raising mad hopes that everything was going to be okay, that Zaheer Khan was out sick today after eating a bad batch of karahi, that Zaheer Khan had turned old and senile and would come in and laugh and declare, “Test? What test?” Or maybe that Zaheer Khan, for once in his miserable, student-torturing life, would just take pity on their mortal souls and let them pass scott-free.

All those hopes got ground to dust the minute Zaheer Khan walked into the classroom. And yes, sure enough, cradled in his right hand, he was carrying what appeared to be thick sheets of…oh joy! A physics test!

There were outraged gasps and sighs in the classroom at the sight of the test, as if Zaheer Khan had pulled a dirty one and taken everybody by surprise. Zaheer Khan ignored them, and instead made everybody in the class get up. He re-arranged everbody’s seats, making sure nobody sat next to a friend. Then he handed out the test, and before Ayman knew it, he was all the way up in the second row with his name written on the front page of the answer sheet, and the clock had started ticking.

He read through the questions slowly, not wanting to look frantic. He nudged his mind to think, and with growing panic, realized he was drawing a blank. He didn’t know the answers to any of these. He hadn’t even started studying yet for finals, for God’s sake! Who had all their studying done two weeks before the exam, anyway? He suddenly noticed he was muttering aloud, and shut his mouth. He sneaked a furtive glance up to see if Zaheer Khan had noticed, but he was engrossed in a book.

To make things worse, Asad the geek finished the test almost half an hour early. He whispered into Zaheer Khan’s ear to be allowed to go to the library to study, and Zaheer Khan dismissed him with a wave of his fingers. As Asad turned to exit the classroom, he glanced at Ayman, and winked. Ayman scowled at him, but he’d already left.

If anybody had asked him when his dislike of Zaheer Khan had turned into hatred, he would have declared that to be the moment. His hopes were dashed. Winter vacation was gone before it had even begun. What
lay ahead was a miserable month of books, books and some more. He watched Zaheer Khan got up and saunter slowly across the front of the classroom. He stopped by the door and looked outside with his hands behind his back, as if admiring the view. And then Ayman saw something that gave him a sudden jolt of hope…of possibility.

Asad’s test.

It was lying there on the desk, looking just as full of itself as Asad had.

Well, you can’t just take it, he thought. Zaheer will notice.

Before he knew what he was doing, he got up slowly and walked to the front. At the desk, he sneaked a glance back at the classroom. All heads were buried in their desks. And Zaheer was still looking ouside. As noiselessly as he could, he slipped his fingers around Asad’s test and tucked it in the back of his pants, behind his blazer. His heart racing, he walked up to Zaheer Khan.

“Sir,” he said. “May I go to the bathroom please?”

“After the test, Ayman,” Zaheer Khan said, and Ayman felt panic again, as cold as an ice cube.

“It’s urgent, sir. I can’t hold it in. I….”

Zaheer Khan was waving his hand, and in his terror, Ayman thought he was telling him to go back to his seat before realizing that he was giving him permission. Ayman left the classroom briskly, and as soon as had turned around the corner of the hallway, he broke out into a sprint.

This is madness! His mind screamed. He’ll notice that the test is gone! That’s the first thing he’ll notice! The urgency of the voice made him speed up, and the clattering of his heels echoed in the hallway. He turned another corner, and stopped suddenly. He was right outside the teacher’s lounge. Except, he didn’t want to go past it. He wanted to go inside.

Oh Allah, please let nobody be there. Oh please, if you love me and don’t want to see me in big trouble, let it be empty!

He peeked in. It was empty.

He bounded for the photocopier machine sitting in the corner. Turning his head, making sure that nobody had seen him come in, he copied Asad’s test, mashing the start key on each page.

I’m gone I’m gone I’m dead I’m expelled

He picked up the copies, almost forgetting to take out Asad’s test in his hurry. He stuck his head out of the lounge door to make sure nobody was around. Then he began running.

How long have you been gone? his mind asked. Ten minutes? Twenty? No, it couldn’t have been that long, could it? It sure felt that long. The air panted in and out of his lungs. Just before he reached the classroom, he stopped, suddenly realizing with horror that he was very much out of breath. And that would make Zaheer Khan ask some mighty inquisitive questions, wouldn’t it? He slowed down to a walk, trying to slow his racing heart down. Just before he reached the door, he noticed he still had the test and copy in his hands. Quickly, he tucked them both behind his blazer.

I’m dead. He’s sitting at his desk, he’s searching for the test, and he’s waiting for me to come back, isn’t he?

But he wasn’t sitting at his desk. Ayman knocked, and saw that Zaheer was taking a walk around the classroom, patrolling the aisles like a cop. He looked back to see who had knocked, and then nodded his head with a grunt before continuing his walk.

His hands trembling, he walked into the classroom on legs that felt like quivering jelly.

The final bell rang, signalling the end of the day. Ayman met Ayesha near the gate of the school. He ruffled her hair lightly, then holding her hand, walked to the car.

“You look in a much better mood now, Ayman,” Ayesha said, then added cheekily, “you were a real sarroo in the morning, you know.”

Ayman smiled at her and said, “I’m sorry I was so nasty to you in the morning, Ayesha. You know I didn’t mean it, don’t you?” Then he reached down and kissed her on the cheek. Ayesha’s eyes widened in surprise, and then she looked away shyly.

They got into the car. Ayman tapped Niaz on the shoulder and said, “I’m sorry I was rude this morning, lala. I guess I was just in a bad mood.”

Niaz grinned. “No problem, sir! All in a day’s work!”

They headed home. Ayesha kept looking at her brother curiously. He had a strange smile plastered on his face.

If she could have read his thoughts, they would have said, “That was the fraud of the century!”