The treasures of SANUALI

Swamy, the Not-So-Ordinary Girl

Her ocean-blue eyes were wide open by the time the first break of dawn touched her face, however, she was not looking at anything—not that she could, for nothing appeared in her vision except for the overbearing darkness of her dingy illuminated room. Not that she wanted to see anything when the eerie darkness felt soothing and provided her with the amount of space, she needed without fearing somebody catching her aghast and frightened as chicken expressions.

The fading night of September had given her another troubled night’s sleep. She had just awoken from a bad dream—the dream that had been her constant companion like a shadow for more than a year now.

‘Oh, my sweet lord! What in the hell was that?’ Swamy thought, shivering from the cool breeze invading through the open window or the horrifying visions of the dream, she could not distinguish. Not like she cared over such momentarily discomfort when she had more pressing concerns laying before her, yet she did not like the feeling of losing control over her body.

A few droplets of water slide down on her face, making her feel the wetness of those sticky sweat beads all over her body as she heard herself huffing—almost gasping for breath as if she had been pushed under the water and was being kept from coming up. Her heart pounded beneath her hands in anticipation while every inch of her body quivered.

Swamy was in a state of daze, the one, a tornado survivor would be in. A traumatized daze paralyzes a person temporarily—turning an intellectual personality into a headless someone who would not know where to go next. She was losing herself increasingly with each passing second in disastrous self-pity.

‘It’s the same dream again!’ Swamy sighed as for the first time in the morning, she blinked, soaking in the reality. She was lying flat on her back facing the ceiling. It might be five in the morning for the sun had started to inch above the horizon with a promising announcement of a colourful day waiting ahead, but not for Swamy.

Turning her head to the side, she eyed the disappearing moon illuminating faintly through the window with a haughty feeling and tried to recall whatever remnants of the dream she could remember. She had had that strange, incomprehensible dream again. The awful piece of imagination where a man dies mysteriously whose ashes along with many of his valuable belongings are buried somewhere near a castle. Gold, diamonds, and sapphire—there were a series of commodities that could easily stand out as precious were glimmering in her vision. Swamy gulped, feeling thirsty yet she did not have the heart to wake up and risk forgetting the dream. 

‘I’ve been watching the same version every time. There is no significant difference. It’s getting more and more monotonous and scary.’ Swamy realized, pounding more deeply over the facts than ever. She had seen the faces...again. Perhaps for the tenth time in a month. The castle, chariot, tavern, and the people—she had been seeing all of it so often that she could recite their names and sequence by heart. However, as always, the beginning was as vague as it was ever meant to be. She could not recall the way the dream had started or the incidence colliding with the death in the upper chamber of the castle or whatever the people did to the dead body.

‘Who was that man? What was his name again? Sanuali?’ She concentrated and almost immediately flinched for a pricking pain has started to burn behind her ears, making her hiss. She felt helplessly lame in recalling his appearance. He was tall and muscular, she recollected.

Chewing on the lower lips, she focused harder to remember as much as she could about him, but the more she concentrated the brighter it burnt behind. At last, she gave up.

Swamy paused for a few moments, combating the increasing burning sensation. She scratched the place where it had hurt and tried to concentrate her mind more on the castle than the man; it was majestic and dark. She harkened back to the dream as much as she can, but only a muzzy outline of the premise danced across her vision.

‘Is it even there, the castle? They were calling it, Dharma-Prasth. Should I search for it? Maybe I will get some sort of clue.’ Swamy contemplated for a while but then thinking otherwise she shook her head. ‘Naah! It is just your creative brain messing up with you, Swamy. It couldn’t be real.’ She tried to comfort herself.

Then there was the tree in the village and people who never went closer to it. As far as she could recall, the Anugavalli was well civilized and cultured. Every image which was as clear as a crystal in the dream had started turning into an ugly heap of a mess. So far, she remembered the owner of the castle, Arunah, Daeva, the caretaker and that old man with hairs resembling a rope. The bat was addressing him as Mukhauta.

Cogitating further, she realized that the men were searching for something—some scribble. They were talking about a woman and some reincarnation. She did remember many other things; she remembered the purple bat, a monstrous-looking creature talking or more like murmuring something incomprehensible that could invoke bulks of maple leaves to a place like beehives does to bees, but none appeared prominent enough to help her conclude. The bat was the most awful creature she had ever seen in her life—both real and imaginary. It reeked of wickedness and screamed danger.

‘Who was he? Some sort of king? The dwarf was addressing him as lord. Certainly not a bat! He sounded nearly human.’ She thought pondering over. A sleepy whimper slipped through her pursed lips when she could not remember the details as precisely and things turned more complexed.

A few hours passed by and Swamy laid helpless. Each time she would reckon, a derelict castle, some faint outline of a man dying mysteriously, a caretaker getting arrested bitterly humiliated by the people would appear in her vision, and that did not make any sense to her.

Exasperated, she quitted thinking over and inched upward to start her morning routine, but was pushed back for something was keeping her still—almost pushing her down. It was heavy and had snaked around her waist checking a secure grip. Was she paralyzed? She thought, however, on turning her head a little to the side, a wave of relief was washed over. She was still sleeping beside Nishank very much tired and very much naked. An arm snaked around her waist securely, his soft snores were echoing in the room while his breath fans on her neck.

Forgetting all about the disturbing dream, Swamy smiled at his baby face and could not help herself but peck his cheek. Swamy was not different from the other girls of the age of nineteen or at least she believed so. She was beautiful with her waist-length blonde hair, oval small face, heart shape pink lips and a busty figure, but something was odd that felt creepy. Something that had been making her stand out from others and it was awful, Swamy could tell that, for nobody ever got closure to her neither in the neighbourhood nor in the school.

Always a coy, timid, and shy girl, she was a nerd and had often been picked up by her colleagues at work and girls in the neighbourhood. Her life was miserable and for some reason, People liked to maintain distance from her—as though, they had been shooed away by some invisible force that threatened to harm them on getting closure. But he was different—her boyfriend for a year and a half, Nishank Sehdev.

A young man in his early twenties, Nishank was a student pursuing Masters in Hotel Management and managed a bakery shop with his father near the beach. Swamy had met him in the shop two years back when she had gone there to buy the only sweet, she could afford to celebrate her parent’s anniversary—a butterscotch pastry. She had instantly felt drawn to him. His handsome face so bright and fair felt angelic. Those dirty brown hairs flying in all the directions and matching brown eyes had pulled the strings of her heart. Six feet-one, he was an athlete who had stolen her heart just with a flash of a smile, however, Swamy did not bear any loss in the theft for she got his in return. Nishank loved Swamy with all his heart. His presence in her life was the sole blessing that had kept her going with all those troubles lurking around.

Her mere existence was a synonym of bad luck and stews. Since the moment, she was born—nothing good had ever come out of her—and if so—she had never been obliged to feel that. On anything, everything went disastrous for those around her as if a cursed spell had been cast upon them. Her always plain and dull existence had done more harm to people than a fully grown Godzilla could, if not, than so Swamy believed.

She was confident that no word ever defined to express the concept of ‘black curse’ in any language could match the level of ‘curses’ in her life. Black was not as black as her life was—dark and loathsome. 

An ordinary girl of the age of nineteen, Swamy had been putting up with her aunt Wicca for the past eleven years since her parents had passed away by becoming the first victim of her cursed existence. Eaten by some wild animal when they were holidaying in the valleys of Himalayan, enjoying the leisure of life with eight years old her who was as rebellious, vulnerable, and stupid as her present self was. It was her fault, her aunt had never forgotten to point it out several times whenever needed. Just to make sure, she did not forget.

‘You sultry blood of a moron! You were dumb back then and you are equally pathetic now. You know how your parents died? It is all because of you. You were adamant upon staying near the caves, wanting to play some more when the security warning had already been issued. Your parents tried taking you off, but you ran into the forest—deeper and wilder. They ran after you. Alas! They made the mistake that costed their lives. They died while saving your worthless ass. Some creature tore them in pieces—bit by bit and it is your fault. My brother would have been alive if it were not for you. Jinxed! Bad-luck! They should have let you die. You did this to them. You unlucky witch!’ She had often heard Wicca yelling whenever they went off in a heated altercation.

The outburst would always shut Swamy up for the pang of guilt would overcloud her sanity. She was the reason her parents died the painful death—the thought stung like thorns inside the naked skin. No matter how often, she had tried consoling herself that it, somehow, was not her fault that she was just a toddler and did not know the consequences of her action, yet she could not come up with the strength to forgive herself.

‘It was my fault. I am hapless or they would not have died. Nobody would have been harmed. I am a curse who causes death.’ Swamy would often repent, remembering whatever she could of her parents.

The rescue police had searched every corner of the forest the next morning and the next. Her heart would shrink in guilt and she would whimper at the faint memory. She was left with barely anything as her parent’s belongings—a trunk filled with ancient books and some ornament were her only inheritance. Any precious piece of commodity left was already claimed by Wicca who took her custody after her, Swamy’s, parent’s demise. Out of which, only a colourless photo frame hung on the plain wall, reminding her of destiny’s unfaithfulness. Her memories with them were vague…even their remnant could not be found.

‘Oh, no!’ She thought. ‘Don’t let it get in to you!’ She reminded herself, still shivering and very much scared. ‘Distractions! Think about the dream!’ She reprimanded herself, biting her lips. ‘and not about your worthless life.’

Restless, she detangled herself from the quilt and shrugged herself off of Nishank’s arms before she put on the shabby rob and stumbled her way to the balcony where the chilly breeze of early dawn was still whooshing.

‘Why am I having the same visions repeatedly? What is wrong with me?’ The thoughts pounded her head as a feeling of dreadful discomfort engulfed within.

‘What is that place...Dharma-Prasth? What am I expected to do with that? Hunt a treasure? As if it exists in reality! Ha! Only if I had had such luck. Is it even normal to think of that?’ Swamy thought and snickered at her answer. Since when had she started expecting something good in her life? For things to turn normal? Had she forgotten that she was the pathetic child that had caused such harm to her parents that no flock in the world ever deserved?

At many times she thinks about sharing her troubles with Nishank, her boyfriend and the only man she could rely on, however, she was stopped every time she tried. Something told her to not trust anyone with her secret and Nishank did not seem the correct person to lean on at the moment. An orphan, she had been raised by her aunt Wicca and grew up with insecurities and loneliness in her heart. Her parent’s demise had introduced her to the ugly side of the universe—death and the afterlife. She was bullied, she was mocked. She wanted to be part of the group. she wanted to be the same as everybody. The more she tried, the more she was pushed aside. Of course, she grew up and became an adult, but that is still haunted her.

‘What if he thinks I am insane and leaves me?’ She thought and shudder. Nearing her twentieth birthday, Swamy had realized that she could see things no ordinary eyes could, she could hear the voices of the universe—the wind, the river, and the birds—almost everything could talk to her, and with every realization, she was feeling increasingly restless and vulnerable. ‘I am losing my mind. Am I becoming a lunatic?’ She would often wander and the more she contemplated, the harder she felt those voices rising for every time a picture of some strange woman clad in a skimpy white skirt and a golden corral blouse would appear in her vision.

Swamy had never seen that woman ever, not even in her dreams, however, she looked familiar—as if she knew her. The woman with the strange engravings would stare at her, neither blinking nor moving. Her gaze would remain fixed and translucent—the cross bent at each end adorning her broad forehead will shimmer and so would the two parallel lines that have stretched below her lips to the jawline. She would be clutching an auspicious looking rod that looked more like a weapon than a mere piece of wood. In her right hand, Swamy had often caught a glimpse of something round like an ewer. A silver ewer with two strings of beads attached to it that would glitter like a firefly under the dark sky. The woman always appeared in a veil covering most of her forehead and ears, yet her silver eyes were enough to make an ice cube slip down Swamy’s stomach. She appeared like a hypnotising hallucination.

‘The beginning is the end!’ She would whisper before disappearing. It had been a week for Swamy had seen the imaginary woman last, however, the uneasiness did not waiver. The vision in her dream was getting stronger—an indication of something horrible that was about to take place.

Moreover, the bizarre visions and dreams that were indicating many arbitral things—treasures, wizards, witches, and a world that was very different from her world were enough to indicate her madness that she was not only luckless but brainless too.

‘Dream!’ Something whooshed near her ears, making her stiff, however, she did not get ample time to think over for a pair of strong-arm encircled her in a warm embrace, catching her off guard.

‘Babe, are you alright? I missed your warmness. Why did you get up so early? Ain’t I good enough to exhaust you?’ Somebody asked, a masculine voice that felt familiar and close, yet it failed to bring her out of the pit she was sinking in—something she desperately wished. The whoosh of the wind was echoing through her brain, driving any other sound out of her understanding.

‘Swamy! Is everything fine?’ The masculine voice rang again, making her feel annoyed.

No, it was not. She had been dreaming of stuff no ordinary woman of the age of nineteen normally sees. She wanted to yell, however, having lost the energy to speak, she did not reply. She did not feel like talking, either, because she did not want to forget the dream or the voice.

‘Swamy, Princess...’

‘Shut the hell up!’ She thought wearily, wanting him to stop talking already. Though, keeping a check on her emotions she stretched her lips in a fake smile and spoke. ‘You were amazing.’ She managed to fumble, turning around to have a look at her beloved man who was yawning tiredly. His brown eyes shimmered with concern, taking in all of her as soon as her ocean-blue ones met them.

‘You look disturbed. Is something bothering you? You can tell me.’ He asked, tilting his head to get a closer look. He cast an intense gaze made Swamy that made her uncomfortable so much that turning her head to the other side was her only rescue.

‘I am fine!’ Swamy lied smoothly and before he could interrogate any further, hands placed on his naked shoulder, she raised on her toes and placed her lips on his for a brief moment in an endeavour to distract him which worked. Nishank immediately supported her by securing a tight grip around her waist pulling her closer.

‘You don’t look yourself. I have been observing it for a while now.’ He said after they pulled away, looking deep into her eyes.

 ‘I was just-’

‘Bloody b***h!’ Swamy heard her aunt Wicca yelling from down the stairs and fell silent. She gestured to Nishank to stay quiet who had stiffened by the echo and looked at her with anger floating in his dark orbs.

‘Still breaking the bed!’ Wicca’s loud hissed echoed in the two-storey premises followed by some rattling sound.

‘This woman is too much!’ He spoke through gritted teeth, nostril-flaring. His eyes were rolled heavenwards as if he had been trying hard to suppress the fury erupting. ‘If it were any-’

‘I can manage on my own, Nishank!’ Swamy intervened and fell silent for a moment, but then placing her head on Nishank’s chest, she groaned. ‘Ugh...Not again! I cannot believe we are having this conversation again. I have told you, it’s up to me to solve my problems.’ Shut her eyes momentarily, she spoke. Meanwhile, Wicca continued yelling from down the stairs, voice rising to an octave with each sentence.

‘The food ain’t going to cook itself. I have spent half of my money on your worthless education. Not for you w***e around. The college is not going to knock at your door. COME HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT-’

‘Can’t I help you? Why don’t you move in with me?’ Nishank asked, balling his palms in a fist. ‘I can’t bear the thought of somebody humiliating you. She is becoming worse with each passing day. Does she hit you? Tell me!’ He asked cupping her cheeks tenderly. Swamy felt her heart melting at his concern.

‘He cares for you.’ A gentle voice in her head soft shyly making her heart flattered. Swamy had never felt that adoration before.  

‘-YOU SHOULD BE THANKFUL THAT I HAVE-’

‘No! She does not. She cannot. This house belongs to my parents. I still feel them around in here. I will not leave their only heritage for I am not a coward who could not fight for what belongs to her. Aunt Wicca gets upset easily. One day, maybe, she will understand. Things will eventually fall into places, Nishank. Trust me! Besides, I am used to it anyway.’ Swamy replied averting her eyes to the road below her where health-conscious joggers were strolling away. She let out a long sigh and looked past his shoulder to the bed-post.

‘You should leave. I am getting late.’ Eyeing the digital clock nastily that had occupied a square perimeter on her bedpost placed alongside a miniature pyramid, she spoke half-heartedly. A quarter to nine. The red digits blinked, making her heart drop in the stomach.  

‘Great going!’ She scoffed, staring blankly at the plain wall. It was the third time in a week she was to be late for the first lecture and it had just been three days for the week has started—meaning she was being late every day.

 She must be feverish, delirious, and yet what she saw in her delirium had still been lingering within. Instead of rushing through her routine segment, something any ordinary individual would have done if one was to get late, Swamy stayed glued in Nishank’s arms, blinking, and thinking.

‘Professor Sharma is going to kill me!’ She shirked after a prolonged pause and Nishank chuckled. ‘He has warned me thrice. I am on my way on either a detention or some hectic work.’ She spoke anxiously and for obvious reasons, Nishank burst into faint giggles.

‘-LEARN SOMETHING FROM RUSTOM. THE KIND SON OF MINE-’

‘You will be fine, my love. Tell him that your aunt has died or how about that filthy gambler son of her has stumbled his way into Himantura and drowned to death? That would do it right!’ He suggested wiggling his eyebrows and instantly, her lips stretched in a thin smile.

‘Lying is the worst manner!’

‘-SUCH A SHAME! HOW HE SUFFERS FOR BEING RELATED TO YOU-’

‘Oh, I can turn it into a truth whenever it pleases you. You just have to command, my lady. A few of my customers always arrive with those red knuckles and dark bruises. Although, we are not ‘friends’ yet I am very much sure they would not mind breaking some skull for their favourite cook. They owe me quite some sugar.’ He bowed slightly, tilting his head suggestively. Swamy shook her head at his expense and pointed toward the wall clock adorning the exterior of a tall building to their left.

‘Oh, Oh, it’s about time I leave. Dad must be waiting for me. We have a competition lined up in Singapore by November. An International one! And Dad wants me to sign up for that.’ He spoke tucking a few of her blonde strands behind her ears. ‘We will have to postpone the commitments, I’m afraid. I am sorry, baby girl.’ He mumbled bending to her eye level.

‘That’s fine! I understand. You must be busy preparing and…stuff.’  

‘-A CURSE! IF I, WERE YOU, I WOULD HAVE JUMPED IN HIMANTURA-’

‘Grr, you have no idea. Fine than! I will have to see you later, I guess. Hurry up to that shitty ass professor before he signs of your suspension order and do not forget to meet me in the evening! I love you.’ He pecked her lips for the last time before he left her alone, leaving her to wander over the dream and the whooshing howls of the winds.