The treasures of SANUALI

Rusty-Dusty Bodh

A large multicolour butterfly with dominating aqua-blue wings seeped through a hole adjacent to large window-panes and settled an inch away from the valley formed in-between Swamy’s bosom. It neither moved nor displayed any intention of doing so anytime soon. It stayed there, still—spreading its delicate wings and enjoyed the warmth of Swamy’s soft skin.

Swamy felt a tickling sensation where it wiggled. A hinge of a flattering impression at such attention settled in her heart, resulting in a mutual agreement. Swamy allowed it to remain there for as long as it wished—neither touching nor disturbing. She only adored it. 

However, her sleep-deprived eyes darted to the right—from where her beautiful invader had sneaked in. A bright wall-sized pellucid window overlooked a colourful garden that was beginning to burst into full blossom. Emerald green trees that’s overly burdened branches touched the surface and merrily bloomed flowers had giggled her way.

She eyed the freely-flying birds enviously as it opened its feathers and swirled around the garden. Babblers and bulbuls bustled in and out of the nests in search of food; the sight gave her incomparable pleasure. It was a lively morning. Cheerful and jubilant contrasting her gloomy mood.

‘The garden is perfectly taken care of! Lord bless the generously kind gardener!’ Swamy thought with a blink and relaxed as she leaned back, putting slightly more weight upon the hard wooden chair than it was made to tolerate. Dark circles evidenced the night’s struggle.

All night long, Swamy had sat half-buried in the pile of books, occupying a corner table of the Bodh, raising imaginary castles, mountains ranges, and a story that could please that angry bird—Fire-eyed Professor Sharma, her project in-charge. She had been trying to work on a detention assignment. But so far, messy frustration had stumbled her way without any tinge of dedication.

‘It will be bright within an hour.’ another thought lingered, making her shoulder slumped. She felt defeated. ‘How am I going to compile a first draft when my brain is so empty? I haven’t even thought about the first line or damn with the first line, I haven’t even worked upon the theme.’

Her brain was an obtrude with thoughts that did not make any sense whatsoever. Chewing on her lower lip, Swamy cast a slay look to the dancing waves of Himantura that floated and whooshed to the south. She had to submit a creative draft narrating an adventurous story by coming Friday yet she had not managed to punch in a single key. It was not that she did not try. She had been typing all night long in an asthenic endeavour of getting a single one-liner that would trigger an enchanting narration, only to end up deleting whatever she had written.

Nothing fascinated her interest than the Asian sun, inclining overhead the building, that had started appearing above the lowland, and a sailing keelboat; fleeted by an enthusiastic group of young men who made hauling noises whenever the boat twitches from one side to other. She eyed the timepiece. It might be a quarter past five. 

‘Adventurous tourists!’ She sighed. Her attention reverted upon a small coffee house glimmering across the road like a twinkling star that solicited her presence.

Swamy was up the whole night, miles away from her home. Recklessly, flipping through pages and volumes in a hope. The hope of getting an idea that could be turned into a fascinating story. However, fatigue and restive was making it harder than anticipated. She was an aspiring author who enjoyed writing, excepting the occasions where she had been given a deadline as of the moment—such assignments would become a task that Swamy dreaded from the bottom of her soul.

She wasn’t a novelist. At least, not yet for writing had never been her childhood dream but then nothing was. She had no dream or aspiration for that matter. It was once she started reading that she started writing which eventually became a habit to avoid loneliness.

Swamy had compiled barely seven novels until then. Novels that could hardly contribute to the literary world with all those messy plots, disoriented characters, and ridiculous themes. However, she never gave up. She wrote and wrote for a length of time until she could think of nothing other than the characters and their conflicts.

‘No story has ever come out of my soul. It has always been my mind working.’ Swamy observed, turning crimson at her own expense. 

The most precious commodity for her as a writer was her freedom. Swamy cherished her independence to write upon any subject amongst the vast oceans of infinite. She had a perspective that couldn’t be talked of but must be read.

‘You have never written something out of your soul because you haven’t written anything that you know. Write about your feelings and see if your soul really coming dancing along the wind. This is the moment. Why don’t you write about yourself, Swamy?’ A thought struck and waived off as soon as it appeared. It was a ridiculous thought or so Swamy considered it to be. There was nothing to pick from her boring life. Neither a single incident came to her fancy. It took barely a nanosecond for her to slap back the idea to its rightful place—garbage, yeah! It belonged there.

‘Why don’t you write about yourself, Swamy?’ Swamy mimicked herself, guffawing mentally. A fading smile brightened her features. She shook her head and let out a loud sigh.

‘No one would ever want to read about a lonesome loser. Everybody want a hero who don’t only fight battles but when them too.’ She huffed, still staring outside. ‘Besides, Sharma wants to read something adventurous and what are your adventures? Hiding under the bed whenever thunders roar in the sky? Jeez, people would die laughing!’ She concluded and looked around.  

The Bodh was empty and cold. Swamy missed the cosy comfort of her loft. Moreover, the recurring image of a warm bed at 309, Shapoorji Street did not come to aid. She wished to retire back to her lodgings before the chilly swish froze her to death.

Alas, she hardly had such an alternative. Most of the Friday faded in combats with Wicca, Rustom and their intolerable absurdities. By the time she was rescued, dusk had already fallen upon the sky.

It took more than half a day’s misery for Swamy to realize that she could not draft a heroic tale while feeling like a slave. She needed a peaceful environment to let the story come to her. It was getting late, but never too late for her. She adamantly believed that leaving 309 promptly would do her good than staying put there to endure endless incongruities, and so she left.

Going to Nishank’s was her first consideration, however, the ancient library that no one visited any longer seemed more appealing. Being one of the volunteer’s; Swamy had a key of the Bodh that had been kept enact by the Anugavalli Municipal Corporation for its expression over the profound literal history and academic addendum of the University’s creative writing curriculum.

Growing up as an orphan, books were a scarce commodity for her. A luxury that would knock at her doorstep after a week, sometimes month’s long wait until she accidentally discovered ‘The Bodh—a bricky red building that used to cherish as much crowd a few years back as the dance clubs, bars and restaurant did at present owing to its exquisite collections of rare and ungoogleable volumes of manuscript compiled by some widely praised authors and poets that used to lure the addicted readers as flesh and meat to a hungry hunter. 

The Bodh was her preferred hanging spot. The broad daylight that penetrated reading rooms from all correct angles was a matter of great relief for those who preferred reading for long hours.

Swamy remembered being a lonely eleven years when Rustom had dumped her (like usual) to hang out with his rich friends and she was to weep her way home. Midway; she had stopped by a littering building. A beautiful reminiscent had halted her steps. 

The igloo looked vaguely familiar. Swamy remembered stopping by the place at various time with her father. Her father, Sir Szytra, was one of the members. Many of his drafts and manuscripts were part of the library’s profound collection.

 Swamy went in. To her greatest surprise, she was welcomed with open arms by Mrs Rivera, the librarian who happened to be her father’s old friend.

 A troop of orphans had visited the library that day. What more could an eleven years old wish than a few smiling faces? Swamy had instantly mingled with a few children, had read throughout the day, and was offered a membership in the name of Sir Szytra, her father. Mrs Rivera offered her volunteers in consideration of the Annual membership fee which Swamy wholeheartedly accepted. 

Following the visit, her days changed! 

In those lonely childhood years, when Swamy had no one to lean on but herself; she discovered that books could be good friends too. More reliable than any human living. And so, she started reading—loving the fragrance of knowledge and imagination.

The Alchemist was her first friend succeeded by many. She would often envision more battles in her head than Mr Kapse, her history teacher could ever narrate. Majority of which were one.  

A world had been cultivating ever since. Her world—that stayed in her head, where things turned following her desires. Her sphere was arbitrary where there were flying people, clashes of swords, magical spells, and tales of bravery. She was not only praised but was worshipped in such a globe. People admired her for what she is and not what she had done unknowingly. A place where she could feel the shadows of her parents smiling. 

She seized upon almost any printed matter that came her way, whether magazine, newspapers, or volumes of novels of any kind and such that knitted the everlasting relationship between the Bodh and her.

‘If you cannot find it nowhere, it certainly would be here!’ The bedraggled advertisement board, pinned beneath the directing indicators decades syne, had read in bold italic letters. Claiming pride over possessing something that nobody in neighbouring miles did. And true to its claims— So rich literary and mythological heritage was of The Bodh, that people used to travel for miles just to be in there so they could read to their heart’s content. It was not only popular within the Anugavalli, but readers from the neighbouring towns so far as that of Konadu and Vihara bore the pain of long journeys to make it to the library. 

Throughout the eighteenth century, The Bodh had more than a million members and subscribers of its monthly prospectus—Pari-Chyka. 

Another inciting phenomenon appreciated by the Bodh’s members was its triggering location. The reverberating breeze of Himantura that spread serene essence through all seasons was a matter of soothing relief. Also, the Bodh stood in the heart of Swastika as such it was inevitable to travel without passing it by. 

However, with the increasing popularity of mobile phones, easy access to internet connections—berated the lack of technology through the premises and once-popular place fell into despair in absence of budget and attention.

Nonetheless, it was still one among the very few premises that told of the ancient architectural history of the Anugavalli and was often visited by a few of its loyal members including Swamy and researchers of every field.

‘Let’s get some caffeine in the system, Beauty-Butter!’ Said Swamy, punching herself out of a bittersweet reverie. The blue butterfly sensed the movement distasteful yet it stayed glued. 

Swamy collected her belongings and tossed them carelessly in the backpack. The laptop had the sole privileged to be handled with utmost care.

‘Good morning, my child!’ Greeted Mrs Rivera, the librarian with an amiable smile until her eyes caught the butterfly. She stopped midway, eyeing it mysteriously. 

‘Morning, Mrs. Rivera!’ Swamy yawned, not noticing Mrs Rivera’s brightened chubby cheeks. The lady was among the handful of people who were fond of Swamy.

‘I see, you have finished some good amount of work there.’ Mrs Rivera commented, eyeing the pile of books at Swamy’s desk. Her attention kept spanning back upon the butterfly. 

‘None at all! Nothing caught this eye. I am told to work on this assignment...ugh can’t even talk about it. I’m so Hella tired! Ugh, my neck!’ Mrs Rivera’s mouth formed an ‘O’ before she flinched when Swamy cracked a few muscles.

‘I think, I have something that may help you. Your theme is to write adventure, right?’ Asked Mrs Rivera, flipping through a loose-leaf register.

Swamy nodded, leaning forward.

‘Perfect! A collection is arriving from Department of Archaeology and History. They have got a couple of old manuscripts. Harrison told me about it. Some excavation and things. I don’t know much but it might help you with an outlook. Location triggers stories. Yes! Yes! You must read it. Maybe, it’s the treasure you are looking for.’ Mrs Rivera smiled. Her eyes twinkled. Her excitement told of something that Swamy could ready, nevertheless, shrugging it off—she accepted the generosity. 

Swamy thanked the lady who shrugged it off, citing it to be nothing and instructed Swamy to hurry to get a coffee before the collection drops by. Swamy asked if she would like something from the café. Answering which, Mrs Rivera told her to bring a Cappuccino and the deal was settled. 

Outside the library, Monsoon mist had filled the Anugavalli like a veil—spreading its length over hills, slopes, and mountains. When mist fills the valleys, and heavy monsoon rain sweeps across the hills; wild creatures fly out of their hiding spots to seek shelter. Any shelter is appreciated as long as it keeps them safe and warm—and sometimes the igloo structured library: The Bodh near the forest was the most convenient refuge.

Swamy was used to all of it. Therefore, the caravan of bats and pigeon didn’t startle her. However, somebody was startled by her presence. 

Not more than four yards away, a jinxed bat felt terribly week and powerless. It was hanging upside down on a branch, tired and sleepy. Its eyelids felt heavy and muscle immovable. A mysterious shadow of a man with a hump lurked from behind the bushes growing near the tree. He was panting heavily, eyes darting back and forth between Swamy and the butterfly. He was murmuring something in a hushed voice as if casting a spell. 

Swamy didn’t know what was happening, but an odd feeling settled in her heart. Her steps halted, eyes overt to the forest on their own accord. She saw a dark shadow and a pair of bright eyes peering through her. It resembled with wolf’s that penetrated right through her body, scrutinizing every inch of her. However, Swamy didn’t feel scared. 

In the heap of emotional traumas, there used to be some cherished moments that soothed her soul and spread a tinge of delight in her otherwise aimless insipid life connate walking alongside the Himantura—whether alone or with Nishank did not matter—and spending time in the Bodh but not that day. Nothing disrupted attention. On anything, she felt abnormally brave & steady—ready to dual for life if it was to attack. 

A staring conquest began between wolf-liked and ocean-blues. Minutes ticked by but nobody moved. Nobody blinked.

‘Swamy, stop day-dreaming and get your lazy ass moving. I need your help in sorting the collection. We haven’t got a whole day. Move you little twerp. Move!’ Mrs Rivera yelled, interjecting the conquest. 

Swamy darted an annoyed look at Mrs Rivera before she snapped back to the place where the wolf-liked eyes stood, only to find the spot empty. It had vanished. He had vanished.

Mukhauta, a name pinged down her Memory Lane, making her whimper. A prickling sensation spread behind her ears. It was the pair of eyes she had seen in those nightmares. 

‘There go the sign of insanity. You should write about your nightmares, Swamy.’ She shook her head, dejectedly as she massaged where it hurt and started walking. However, the thought felt alluring and considerable. Sugata’s appearance had not faded away yet. If written wisely, those incidences could be complied into a fine work. She secured it in the back of her mind and for then, cherished the environment. 

The seducing Himantura roared with a monsoon breeze. Those tourists had disappeared but their keelboat was there. 

The place was among a few locations that made Swamy’s otherwise disinterested walking journey, to and from the college, exciting. The tall residential buildings or crowded bazaars down the hills where one had to duck and dodge sharp elbows to make it to one’s destination never attracted her span of attention as much as the chirping birds, regular onlookers, fascinated tourists who had visited the peaceful town to get off from the rushing lifestyle of the big cities they put up at, and those street vendors standing along the far-away edge, hauling as loudly as they could to solicit buyers used to make her smile.

 It felt zealous and filled her with triumphant. She would often stop by and stare at the visitors for hours length, watch the toddlers mingling with one another thrashing and guffawing at the stupidest of thing as their parents chatted animatedly in the background while simultaneously, they’d keep an alert eye on their kids—everything would accentuate the beauty of life in her eyes which were nothing more than a faraway dream.

Quite many a times, Swamy would envision a life where her parents would have been standing in perfect health, providing her with the nourishment she had lost, guarding her against the harshness of life as they would teach her the simplest methods to overcome the hardest difficulties they had learnt with their own experiences.

The butterfly wiggled, shifting a bit to the left where her heart was beating rhythmically. Swamy grinned at its movement while hurrying to the café. 

Jingling round bells announced her entrance. An old man with a big curvy moustache turned around. 

‘Good morning, peter!’ Swamy chirped already feeling better. 

‘Morning, my child. Up here, so early?’

‘An ugly ass professor, a s**t worthy Uni with a pinch of deadlines are all you need to serve ruined nights.’ Sighed Swamy rather dramatically. 

‘Aay! Aay! No words against the School of Languages. It’s best, we have got.’ defended Peter as he moved towards the coffee maker. Tilting his head towards the machine, he asked Swamy what she would like to have.

‘A regular cup for me and a parcel of Cappuccino with those butter cookies for the old fat lady.’ Swamy replied, wiggling her eyebrows funnily. Peter nodded and told Swamy to wait for five minutes. On which, she hummed her way to a corner table upon the pavement and sat facing the Himantura. 

It was on there that she noticed the first anomalous indication that was to turn her life upside-down. Perhaps, the mysterious butterfly had sensed it too for it left Swamy’s chest only to end up spread its wing near her ears—a squirrel wake surfed trailing behind a toy boat. It had a small pair of sunglasses that moved along with its head movements. It swished sassily, showing off some skills. 

Swamy blinked at first, then closed her eyes, rubbed them, and looked again. she was confirmed that was a squirrel was wake surfing on the light waves of Himantura. 

A group of young men were strolling on-shore. They were five and an only audience apart from her, of course. Swamy tried to steal a glance to read their expression but could not. Their back was facing her. The shore quietest. Shops were still closed while office goers and regular clouds lay dead in sleep. There was no one to witness the peculiarity. Even Peter was busy mixing ingredients. 

The tallest amongst them howled loudly as the toy boat sped up. 

‘Aayo, Wily! Go faster! Take a swirl! A swirl!’ Another man sitting beside him whistled. His fist bump in the air. Following its Master’s command; Wily swirled, earning loud applause from its audience. 

‘Now a jump! Hurry, Wily! Jump in the air!’ The squirrel jumped. A couple of birds flew above its head, casting a bored look upon it as if mocking it. Wily continued surfing nonchalantly, but its owner had taken offence. 

‘Now! Now! No one bullies my pet! Specially not some mf twits who s**t everywhere. Wily, show them what’d ya got baby... Fly! Fly, Wily! Fly high in the sky!’ The man commanded again.

Swamy fisted her hands to the side. Her breath hitched while her eyes were wide open in anticipation. She was shocked beyond explanation. 

 She watched in astonishment as the squirrel stretched its hand and moved them frantically, determined to invade the laws of nature. 

‘A squirrel can’t fly!’ Swamy wanted to point, but couldn’t speak.

‘Fly! Yes, Wily! Try harder. You can do it.’

‘Kushiro! Quiet!’ Another man spoke shaking his head, but Kushiro did not quiet down. He persistently encouraged Wily, wanting to see it fly and at last, much to his pleasure, Wily lifted its feet upon the surfboard—still vigorously shaking its hand.

‘You did it, Wily! Daddy is so proud of you. Now, more energy. Try harder!’ Kushiro jumped and wrestled a chubby looking man to the ground who moaned and yelled profanities.  

Swamy gaped aghast. Her eyes bulged out the sockets as she struggled for a few minutes to gain her voice. She couldn’t believe her eyes that she had just witnessed such intervention of law of nature. But it was real. 

Wily was flying above Himantura, flaunting its tail and grinning. It was real and it was happening. 

Finally, when she was sure she could speak and won’t choke on her breath. She did the most sensible thing that came to her mind at the moment, she screamed. At top of her lungs. Afterwards, she ran towards the safety of Bodh where there were no flying squirrels and no absurd boys to encourage it. 

It was so horrifyingly loud that Wily lost its balance. His moving hands stopped, making him fall in Himantura with a soft splash. 

‘What the—’ Ayat exclaimed, turning around. He only caught the trail of blond hairs that disappeared behind the rusty doors of the Bodh. 

‘Saala! You said, you checked every corner of the beach and there were no human presence?’ Nemhata bawled as he pushed Kushiro.

‘There wasn’t. I swear, I checked every corner.’ Defended he, stumbling back.

‘Then, how did that girl get in here? She must have been sitting somewhere in that Rusty-Dusty library.’ Hefy pointing through clenched teeth.

‘I don’t know, man. The indicator didn’t blink any human intruder. Maybe…just maybe, she is a witch.’ Kushiro uttered nervously. 

‘A witch wouldn’t make a fuss out of it. She is a human. Just imagine being expelled on the first day for flying a mf squirrel in the sky, guys. Our reputation is so dumbly f****d up! I think, we have successfully added another prohibited in the regulations.’ Svāhā cupped his mouth as the men looked among themselves, contemplating what should be done next.

Inside the haversacks, their amulets buzzed. 

‘Come, let’s find her!’ Hefy suggested. All nodded. They picked their haversacks, secured them on their shoulder and moved toward the Bodh. Their thumping loudly. 

BA-DUMP! BA-DUMP!

‘Umm…guys?’ Kushiro called out, making their steps halted. Four pairs of angry eyes pinned upon him, making him quiver. He was petrified.

‘What? Cat caught your tongue, huh? If it ain’t. I can happily chop it off.’ Svāhā snickered. 

‘I was just asking if I should bring Wily along or leave him here?’ Kushiro suggested but was blown away immediately for heavy fists landed upon his face.