(Continued from Moonstruck ‘1)

When Mahen opened his eyes, he felt an insidious chill mounting at the top of his nose and slowly beginning to grip his whole body. A dull, grey sky, like a timeworn rag-paper, spread evenly above him. As he turned his body, he saw heaps of fresh snow lay still around the empty pathways. Light poured down from the sky in large conical beams and lit up the colorless surroundings. As he held his stomach and pulled his knees closer to his face, shivering in the cold, he heard a sharp cry from a distance. It advanced towards him slowly, and then picked up the pace as it drew closer, like hurried footsteps of a shifty person.

‘Here, cover yourself with this – quickly!’ As Mahen lifted his head in puzzlement to inquire the source of the voice, he saw a tall woman, in mid-age, with olive skin and deep-set eyes, handing him a thick warm blanket. She wore a black robe, with her hair tied firmly in a bun behind her head.

‘You must never step outside without proper clothes. You could easily catch frostbite.’ She looked at him in earnest, with her thin brown lips slightly parted in concern.

Thank you, Mahen replied, as he took the blanket and got himself up from the ground. He noticed that the woman had soft features; wrinkles patterned her forehead like waves on sand.

‘Come with me. It’s no good staying out in this cold.’ As he finished wrapping the blanket around his body, the woman started walking ahead, beckoning him to follow her. The floor around them lay sprinkled with snow. As Mahen started following her, he noticed that her walk was smooth, as if she was gliding on the snow with her feet invisible under the long robe. Her head looked like an open wound, with a large scarlet rose staking through her hair bun.

Everything around looked deserted. Scraps of grey metal and plastic cups lay encrusted with snow around the overfilled wastebaskets, writhing in the cold breeze. The streets were empty; there were no cars or creatures in sight. Leafless trees with crooked branches spotted the side streets, like cadavers hanging out of graves. Wide shafts of light escaped from the narrow spaces between the tall, closely constructed buildings and beamed across the streets. The woman appeared in stark contrast from her colorless surroundings, a looming shadow of black and red, moving alone in a grey desert.

She stopped at the entrance of a small square building with a gabled roof and a tall black chimney. The building stood alone along the street; the area around lay covered with frosted vegetation and chopped pieces of wooden logs.

‘Do you mind removing your shoes outside? My house is already a mess. I don’t like to get it anymore dirty.’ As she moved inside the house, Mahen quickly removed his shoes and put them outside the door, on the snow-covered ground.

As he stepped through the door, he felt a warm rush of air instantly tug at his body. ‘You can keep the blanket on the floor – it’s quite messy anyway. I haven’t found time to do the laundry yet. I will do everything at once, perhaps tonight.’ The wooden floor creaked as he moved across the house. It was littered with clothes—dirty socks, handkerchiefs, kids’ pajamas, and other pieces of apparel tossed casually everywhere. He removed the blanket and hanged it on the arm of the sofa in the middle of the living room. In the kitchen right across from where he stood, the woman put a metal pot on the stove and beamed at him. She looked tired—perhaps more than that.

‘Do you like tea?’ she asked. Sure, I don’t mind, he replied.

He walked across the living room and found two large curtains covering the wall behind the sofa. It was unclear what the curtains were put for, since there appeared no window or an entrance to a room or a passageway that the curtains might obstruct. Yet they seemed to be guarding something. There was an unmistakable figure, a presence he could trace from the vague silhouette against the fabric, a mid-sized piece of furniture, perhaps, like a frozen blob of air, that seemed carelessly shifted behind the curtains.

As he scanned the room further, he noticed that the walls around lay almost bare. There were a few wooden frames that hung picture-less, slightly askew. On one of the walls, a large part of the yellow wallpaper was left undone, revealing the charred surface beneath it. Mahen felt a twitch in his left eye; the place seemed oddly familiar—distant, yet familiar. A strange silence lurked around in the room, like an invisible presence carefully avoiding to be felt or heard.

Where am I? he asked the lady, staring in confusion, as she poured tea into two large metal mugs and walked towards him, smiling bleakly. She beckoned him to sit on the sofa and then gently put the mugs on the small table at the centre. Mahen sat on the sofa urgently, directing his attention towards her.

‘I wanted to tell you…but…it is all so difficult, please…’ as she collapsed and broke into hysterical sobs, her whole body first quivered and then shook uncontrollably, revealing how frail she was underneath her loose robes. Mahen put his right arm around her sympathetically and then held her shoulders with both his hands, urging her to stop and calm down. ‘The kids…they cannot know…you have to make sure they never hear of it, oh they are so young, it is so, so unfair…’ the lady said, loosening herself from Mahen’s grip and regaining her composure.

You have kids? Mahen asked.

‘Yes. But surely, you must have seen them. You walked right past them’, she replied.

What do you mean?

‘I meant, they have been standing right behind you the whole time.’

Mahen felt a chill sweep through his nape. He turned his head behind and saw the two large curtains he had noticed earlier, standing tall, unwaveringly, in absolute stillness. As he stared in shock and terror, the contours grew more vivid, pressing against the fabric with a contained force, ready to leap forward.

But I don’t understand… he said, bewildered.

‘Don’t look at them. You might wake them otherwise. It is very difficult putting them to sleep,’ she replied, worriedly, bending forward, urging Mahen to avert his glance. As she spoke, the color of her skin drained and, suddenly, she appeared older, now visibly exhausted. ‘I understand your confusion. I would know… I have had visitors before.’

But where am I? I have this strange feeling I’ve seen this place before. I don’t know when, but I think I have… Mahen said.

‘Of course you’ve seen it before. When you were young. Very young, I’m afraid. This place isn’t the same anymore, now, not since…’ she paused and shut her eyes, trembling with clenched fists.

‘Look at you’, she smiled, relaxing her fists. She reached over Mahen’s face and caressed it with her warm hand. ‘You’ve grown older. Luck you.’ Mahen felt a familiar warmth rise in his chest. ‘You used to bring me flowers. Do you remember? Lovely, fresh tulips. Pink roses. Scented jasmine. Look at me now… You’ve gone for a long time. No one brings me flowers anymore,’ her eyes clouded with tears, as she smiled, gently stroking his grey beard.

I remember this place. Something bad happened here, a horrible tragedy. My mother refused to talk about it. There were murmurs in the town, of course. A young widow, living with her two kids, all by herself… What happened to her?

‘When I first came here in 1965, I was a shy, young bride. My husband Atif had got a promotion at his workplace. We bought this house on loan. Those were happy years, blissful. But then… this is the only place where we lived together. Where I live now… Alone.’

The police sealed this place. Did they not?

As he spoke, Mahen’s ears picked on a sound from across the room, near the kitchen. There was a door; a closed room, it appeared. Behind the door, there was a sound of footsteps pacing the area, softly landing on the floor.

‘Atif and I had two children, Rukhsana and Ali. May Allah bless their gentle souls! They brought us so much joy and love. Atif doted on them. They were his jaan…’ she replied, relieved. As she extended her right hand to reach for the cup of tea on the table, her long sleeve slightly slid over her bare arm, exposing the sight of burnt flesh.

‘I have been trying to keep this house clean and tidy. There is hardly any time these days. The kids are always running around, dropping their mess all over. I have been meaning to put up the wallpaper again—as you can see, it has come out at a few places’, she said, sipping her tea. The metal cup from which she was drinking was slightly discolored by black rust. In the tiny storage below the surface of the table, stacks of papers lay forcibly stuffed, along with yellowed envelopes, a few postcards, and thick, dusty albums covered in golden gloss paper.

‘I see what you’re looking at. Wait, here, let me show you something’, she said, with a dim smile, now relaxed. She got up and stooped below the glass panel of the table, and after rummaging for about a full minute, produced a dusty album, covered with little soiled stickers of plastic butterflies and caterpillars. ‘Ah, don’t mind those. Rukhsana puts them wherever she likes.’ She sat down on the couch and started turning the pages of the album, her eyes widening with excitement. ‘This is from my Nikaah—my wedding day. I hate how much lipstick they force you to put. So garish!’

Mahen looked at her picture with a newfound curiosity. She was dressed in a bright magenta robe, with a matching headscarf covering her head and ears, revealing her moon-like face for the picture. She wore little jewelry, except for a big circular silver nose-ring that was hooked by a small chain to the back of her ears, disappearing behind the scarf. Appearing to smile inwardly, not betraying any of the joy she felt to the camera, she looked younger, radiant, and assured.

As he was about to flip the page, she hastily placed her hand over his, pleading him not to turn over. Mahen felt an icy numbness launch at the top of his hand. Her hands felt strangely frigid, even though she had been sipping warm tea from her mug for some time. ‘We were together for ten years’, she said, taking the album back and putting it on the table. ‘Seems like a lifetime ago… Yet, I can feel him around me, sometimes. His scent lingers on everything in this house.’ She turned her face to the door that stood ajar, near the kitchen, where the sound of footsteps had earlier distracted Mahen. ‘I know he is out there somewhere, waiting for me. And I must journey alone, but now…’ she looked at Mahen, with a desperate look in her eyes. ‘I must ask you a favor.’

She cupped his right hand in both her hands and gently raised them to her chin. Mahen felt the warmth from his body suddenly leaving and getting transferred to her cold hands. ‘You have a beating heart, a warm one. I want to be free now. I want—’

Mahen withdrew his hands immediately, jolted by sudden fear and confusion. This is a strange house, he thought. Nothing moves here. Not even air. What am I doing here? He looked at the cupboards and cabinets on the walls again, now more clearly. They looked ashen, covered in metallic rust. Suddenly it all came back to him. Suddenly everything made sense.

You burnt this place down! Didn’t you? He screamed at her. You were the woman my mother refused to talk about! You killed your children in this house and burnt it down! Why? Why did you do that?

The lady was calm, as if she had anticipated his outrage sooner and seemed only mildly disappointed at the delay.

‘Atif hanged himself. I don’t know why, I will never know…I was a good wife; I didn’t deserve the pain. What do you think I would have done alone? My heart, my gentle heart stopped beating one day. There was no one in the house. I spent evenings staring into the darkness, despairing at the thought of never being enough for anyone—Atif, my children, not anyone! It was best for the children… For all of us…

I have waited for decades here, alone, in this winter… Kept my heart alive in this cold. I want to be free now. Take my heart with you. Please.’

You are Ami Azaan. I used to offer prayers and flowers at your grave every Friday. Why?

She looked at him searchingly, tilting her head slightly, in amusement. ‘I will never know why. You always looked at me with your big, eager eyes every time I stepped out of the house to run some errands. And then quickly hide yourself whenever I caught you staring!’ she chuckled.

She paused and placed the palm of her hand gently against his chest. ‘Your heart is beating. Take mine with you. I have suffered enough. I beg you,’ she said, solemnly.

Mahen stared at her as she got up and walked to the kitchen. Tiny globes of light, filtering from the window blinds, plucked at her long robe, as she moved across the hallway. The wooden floor gleamed, covered by a wet, misty sheen. She returned with a small casket, encrusted with ice. ‘My heart is in this. I have kept it safe in ice for years. This has been a long winter. Once you take my heart with you, it will be summer again. Flowers will bloom here once again. And I will be forgiven for my sins,’ she said, her face wet, as fresh tears rolled down from the corner of her eyes.

She gave him a small brown bag and inserted the box safely inside.

As he stood at the door, fastening the straps of the bag over his shoulders, he paused to look at her for one last time.

I have a question for you. Where am I? And where do I go from here?

‘How can I know that? I have always lived inside you. Only you can tell where you are and where you want to be.’

As she parted her lips to bid goodbye, Mahen saw her features softening, new wrinkles appeared on her forehead and hands, as she slowly dissolved in a thick gleam of one last brilliant white, winter light.

(To be continued…)