The treasures of SANUALI

Swamy and Rustom

Number 309 at Shapoorji street was awfully quiet the next morning. The clock struck thirty past seven by the time Swamy completed her morning routine that included—tidying up her loft which was not a tedious task altogether owing its area was barely spread beyond a few square feet’s—it, nonetheless, was huge enough to divulge a small bed, a cupboard and a mirror stand within its perimeter, making up to something that Swamy called ‘her room’. 

Apparently, she had got up in a somewhat cheerful mood that day—not to be exactly recognized as happiness, she felt calm and motivated. Not a single sight of anything horrifying had disturbed the peace of her night and she hadn’t heard any rustling, whistling, or buzzing in the wind or any other facet of nature since the morning which was a great relief. 

‘Yep, I was right. It’s all in the brain.’ She told herself. It was a week before her parents’ death anniversary, but for some unknown reasons—she did not feel upset or despaired like she used to be. In fact, her instincts indicated delight and the development of a kind she had never felt before. 

She shrugged them off as she eyed herself in the mirror of the Vanity which must have been dismantled at least a decade ago, however, had been kept owing to its emotional worthiness rather than physical. It belonged to her mother, amounting to multiple bitter-sweet memories Swamy had lived through which added significant sentimental values to her life. 

‘Vanity.’ She sighed sarcastically. ’It is very often nothing, but our vanity that defeats us.’ Her brain quoted, making her stiff momentarily. She chewed on her lower lip, contemplating hard to recall the name of the speaker as she picked the white comb hanging leisurely on the edge and started stroking it up and down lazily all over her blonde length. 

A low giggle escaped her plump lips as she wondered if her ‘Vanity’ was capable enough to defeat her in any manner but appearance. And then—Before she could decode the previous one, her brain presented her with something more powerful and debatable.

‘Vanity and pride are different things though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves: vanity, to what we would have other thinks of us.’ 

‘Jane Austen!’ Swamy gasped, her ocean-blue eyes widened as it poured out pleasure along with some of the fine memories. How could she not remember? It was from one of her favourite books—Pride and Prejudice, the first book she had picked as soon as she realized books could give the great company too—that too, better than any human being.  

Jane Austen was her inspiration. She had always admired the flawless texts and mesmerising portrayals Jane Austen had introduced in each of her novels. She liked how adamantly the former presented her opinion that too with so much clarity. It was all awe-worthy and inciting.  

Swamy craved to be someone courageous. She wished, she could write what her soul wanted to pour without the constant fear of criticism, however, she could not. Her determination wasn’t as powerful as her inferiority complex was. Her memories raked back to that journey in the KonAnug Mail of 10:30, adding a pinch of mystery. 

On cue, various sentences flooded through her brain rapidly. 

‘Something is waiting for you…’ She remembered Sugata’s word and the frightening intensity with which the latter had spoken it. It still felt new and unacceptable, nevertheless, every word felt powerful and soul-shaking—echoing beyond hearable decibels. ’You need to change. You are half the person you would need to be in future in order to fight HIM. Why don’t you understand that?’ SHE had told her. Swamy tried to recall how Sugata looked like when she talked real-sense to her.

Her skirt was flying in all directions, but it revealed nothing. No skin—legs or anything of that sort. Then there was the veil with all kinds of weird designs at its hem that didn’t budge from its place. Swamy wondered if it was tucked in or the wind felt helpless. 

She knitted her eyebrows to dig in deeper. The sentences were clear, however, Sugata was fading away from her memory—and nothing had scared her as much as the eyes. Those golden orbs—shimmering, glittering, and hypnotising, desperate, tired, angry, and agonizing. They held secrets and screamed years of miseries. Swamy wondered what Sugata had been through and why was she after her? 

‘Significant changes are awaiting you, Swamy. It’s a pity that you can’t see what I can. There is danger everywhere. He is adamant upon not wasting a single second and here you are loafing everywhere freely and wasting all the time you could invest in making yourself powerful. You will feel his presence soon. Dark would engulf your ambience when he will be near you. So far, my insights allow—I see death and pain…I don’t want to scare you, but you must do something. Things will not work for you unless you make them. Don’t you feel curious to know what happened that night in Dharma-Prasth?’ Sugata had asked, casting a hopeful glance on Swamy who was blinking innocently.

Swamy did not remember what had she answered but it was something unpleasing for Sugata had roared like a lioness at the moment. For a second, Swamy thought Sugata was to kill her with a stroke of lightning or something. Fortunately, the latter did not bother.  

‘Stupid woman! What a moron you are! Nobody cares if you want to find out everything or not. Universe will reveal what it feels necessary. But I can tell you; Humongous changes will take place within a week as per your calendar fortune. The moons of Thurrayam will be destroyed. It could suck the soul out of you, Swamy. Don’t be selfish, recognise your worth and your duty towards the universe. Don’t let the knowledge of present you limit the growth of future you. You are warrior and heroism lay within you. Guard up! It’s time to breakthrough your own illusion…it’s near...the war.’ Sugata had said before she disappeared amid the dark and dusty fog of Swamy’s memory lane. 

Swamy had thought over it again and again. She wouldn’t lie, she was curious to know everything that happened in the castle. She too wanted answers to all the questions that had stolen her peace and sleep away. However, she couldn’t gather the courage. She wasn’t ready to change—good or bad did not matter. 

 Not among the one who admired praises or worthiness, any slightest idea of putting up with someone’s hopeful standards would scare her as much as the eerie darkness does to a nascent who had been told that monsters lurk around under their bed because the evils love darkness. 

The other cautious element that Swamy was very pleased within her life was—being hidden amidst ‘the unexpected one’ and enjoy the things they were meant to be without attracting any incongruities that could shoulder her with responsibilities of becoming outstanding and required upliftment more than what she was at the moment and Sugata was telling her to do the same—break past her orbit, her comforting cocoon. 

How could she when she despised any sort of growth that could demand efforts? A bit of strangeness that could challenge the principles of ‘ordinary life’ she had learnt from her hard struggles would make her restless and could never be tolerated. The words such as hymns, magic and spells had never belonged to her dictionary and she liked to maintain as much distance from them as she could. Suddenly, somebody was provoking her to embrace all the oddness. She just could not help it.  

‘If what the Scanty-Skirt said was right. Then I must say, they have a very bad taste. I can’t be a hero.’ Swamy chuckled mockingly to herself and shaking her head started combing the blonde strands to their places. ‘I am contented the way I am.’ She thought pleased. 

Her eyes fell through the mirror on the calendar hanging behind her on the opposite wall and a sly smile danced across the lips. It was her payday.  

Apart from living a life of a student, she had been working as a private tutor for school-going pupils for past years. Teaching, still and all, wasn’t her passion but it was something that she used to enjoy and which also brought a source of income in her otherwise poor living. And Swamy was grateful for the fact that she was an independent woman. 

She was proud of herself. Never among the people who excelled in everything; Swamy was prosperous in one segment in her life—literature. She loved writing. Learning different languages was her passion and the very talent had been helping her in fulfilling some of her basic needs, designating her as a teacher of language and writing in Konadu. 

She wasn’t popular and trusted like some other titans in the education industry but was contented with the batch of twelve growing up children who waited for her every evening near the Bodh. 

Swamy made a mental list about the things she wanted to buy for so long as she hurriedly applied make-up—some foundation to hide pimple-scars, a little bit of mascara to enhance the long lashes, a thick layer of eyeliner and lip-gloss to lock in moisture and such that by half-past seven Swamy was up and ready to leave the home. 

Descending the stairs, she made a mental note over the tasks she had lined up for the day—firstly, she had to meet Nishank near the riverbank: he sounded sad on the phone and demanded to see her. Then she would go to the Bodh—a hectic assignment was waiting for her to be worked upon— ‘it must take more than half of her day.’ She sighed thinking, and at last, she had to take an extra class for the students whose mid-year examinations were around the corner. 

‘A busy day!’ Swamy thought resentfully.

The first thing she saw after descending upon was Wicca who was standing near the cattle, boiling water for morning tea. Thankfully, her back was facing her. However, another pair of eyes pierced through her, filled with venom and wickedness. Rustom was occupying the old torn couch that felt too small for his grown-up body like a dirty pig. 

The very sight of the mother-son duo filled her heart with displeasure. She stepped down the last step of the wooden stairs that were on the verge of falling apart and demanded instant repairing and groaned mentally. 

It was Friday of the second week and Wicca was supposed to be home. The mall she used to work in remained close on the second and fourth Friday of every month but what about Rustom? Had he not nowhere to go? Loaf around with those vagabonds he called friends? She feared that their presence would interfere in her pursuits and much to her displeasure it happened. 

‘What are you up to?’ asked Rustom, stretching himself on the torn couch occupying the ill illuminated corner of the living room as he eyed her sleepily.

Rustom was a young man of the age of twenty-one, five and four feet’s tall, with a tan complexion and dark hair. There wasn’t anything profound in his appearance beyond some bulging muscles and sharp jawline—that Swamy despised like none other. He was spoilt beyond hope—always stumbling on the doorsteps heavily drunk and wasted. Swamy believed him to be involved in some illegal business, however, she had no evidence to support the hypothesis. 

For Wicca, there exists neither a single soul in the Konadu nor in Anugavalli who could be half as good as her son, Rustom, was. It did not matter that he was a college dropout, spent most of his day wandering in the forbidden streets, had been seen going fist to fist in the darkest alleys or would be caught hanging out with smugglers and interdicted racers because Rustom was ‘perfect’. 

The very sight of him filled Swamy with immeasurable agitation for nothing was bad news but him.

‘None of your business!’ She snapped aggressively and turned on her heels. Not more than a few steps had been taken before Wicca bursts of. 

‘You do not talk to my son like that, you ungrateful, filthy b***h. Must be going to w***e around with that cook. Don’t you? I am not going to tolerate your sultriness in the house. You hear me! Can’t you see the state of my house? The mess you have created. Books, notes, papers lying everywhere. Not a single space to put foot upon without crashing or stumbling. I am telling you, Rustom; she deliberately does it in hope to damage my aging bones.’ Wicca yelled turning to Rustom who did not give a single glance to his mother, instead he cast an unwavering gaze on Swamy. 

‘Who do you think is going to clear this? You think some magical spell to be casted upon or do to you believe that the house is going to tide up on its own? Look at the mess it has become. Come here and help me do the cleaning!’ Wicca huffed. Hands placed on the hips, behind her the water boiled at the top temperature matching Swamy’s temper. 

Wicca had put on a floor-length loose gown that was a size or two bigger than her malnutritional frame, which for its very homeliness, Swamy despised the most. It meant, Wicca had no other plan but to stay put at home the whole day and which only indicated hindrances and trouble. 

‘Why would she ‘help’ you, mother when she can do it on her own?’ Rustom smirked, looking around everywhere, making Swamy follow his gaze. 

Swamy took a once over of the house and scrunched up her nose in disgust. The hall reeked of alcohol and cigar. There were bottles everywhere accompanied by empty packets of cigarettes and trash. The notes Wicca was talking about were placed neatly on Swamy’s study table in the farthest left corner; only a couple of newspapers were misplaced. 

‘Aunt Wicca, this mess isn’t mine. It’s Rustom’s so he must do the cleaning. Besides,’ Swamy paused as she breathed through nostrils before she continued. ‘I have life-sucking assignments dancing on my head and the deadline is next week. It’s more urgent. I am going to Bodh and will be back by evening. I will clear by desk after that.’

‘And you mean?’ 

‘I cannot do it now and it isn’t my mess! I have more pressing engagements. I am sorry.’

‘You are sorry? You lying, b***h. I know what those pressing arrangements are: You are going to loaf around with that cook-’

‘That is right!’ Rustom added out of nowhere. ‘She is going to roam around everywhere, doing nasty things. She has become a horse without reins, mother. The day before,’ He continued and stood up yawning. ‘Tony saw her near the Pine groove’s with him. There was that other girl too…what is her name again? Moony? Sitting idly, wasting all the time which she could have spent in the home, making it a better place for living. It is the least she can do, after all she stays here for free. It’s for your generosity that we have to feed a beggar.’ 

Wicca could have gone without Rustom’s encouragement, but his words motivated her further for she determinably demanded Swamy to shipshape the place. 

‘But it isn’t my mess. My books are properly kept at the table. It’s him! All this beer bottles and cigarette cans. Can’t you see that? Why should I clean his mess?’ Swamy cried at the top of her voice, throwing her hands in the air. It was unfair. Life was unfair. 

‘DO NOT TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!’ Wicca yelled louder than before. 

‘Calm down, mother! Her sole concern is that,’ Rustom said mockingly in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘The mess does not belong to her.’ He added. There was a tinge of excitement and mischief in his voice as he eyed the study table wickedly. ‘You aren’t cleaning because the mess isn’t yours?’ He asked in a sing-song voice as he eliminated the distance between him and the table. 

‘Rustom, don’t even think…Rustom, keep your filthy hands away from my books…Rustom, I will kill you!’ Swamy yelled, hurriedly walking up to the table. Alas, it was too late for Rustom had already swamped the content of the table with a small tilt. Consequently, all the things at the table tipped over the floor in a confused heap of mess. A few books and papers flung in the air and fell upon the beer bottles crashing them to pieces. 

‘Now, clean up!’ Rustom smirked, pointing at the sheets. A satisfied look relaxed his unappealing features. ‘Come mother, let’s go to the market. You said you wanted to buy a new dress. I will gift you one.’ He said turning to Wicca who was watching the scene with a look of ecstasy. She folded her hands to her chest and nodded her assent. 

‘I will be ready in a minute!’ She said and disappeared behind the curtains of her room, giving deaf ears to all the rambling, and bickering between Swamy and Rustom.