THE 8^TH HOUSE
THE 8^TH HOUSE

THE 8^TH HOUSE

THE 8^TH HOUSE

 Namira Hossain

The 8th House in astrology is the House of Scorpio. It is the house of sex, death, and taxes. This house describes the monsters in all our closets—unspoken contracts, irrational fears, obsessions and compulsions. It is by facing the monsters in our closet that we can learn how to banish them once and for all. To do this is to experience transformation—through death. And rebirth.

2014

“You’re a worthless liar, just like your father,” she screams.
Rohan stops at the doorway and turns around. He cocks his head and uses his most mannered tone, and it riles her up.
“Don’t you get it, Ma? This is your karma. You chose to get married to a drunk, you chose to have a child with him, you chose to stay in that thankless marriage,” he says. “All your sacrifices and long hours you spent working away to support our family were just so you could escape the miserable reality that you chose for yourself.”

“How dare you?” she says, gritting her teeth.

He puts his fingers to her lips. “Let me finish!” He drops any pretension in his voice. “Between genetics and your complete negligence of motherhood, I didn’t stand a chance, did I? All those good doctors you entrusted to cure me at all the rehabs you shuttled me around to—didn’t they tell you that I’m irrevocably damaged?'

“You can’t blame me for your whole life, Rohan.” He doesn’t notice her words; he sees the slump in her shoulders. His words had fallen on her like a whip, harsh and cruel. He continues on, smiling disdainfully. “You tried to eschew motherhood, and got saddled with a 27-year-old unemployed drug addict for a son, and he is a college drop-out with zero qualifications to boot.”

“Yes, the truth can be hurtful for everybody.” She knows there’s no point in continuing the conversation now. Once Rohan got started on his famous character assassinations, he would keep coming at you, with all his rancor.

“I’m sorry for bringing such embarrassment upon you and your husband’s good name, and you can go on telling me how much of a disappointment I am till you’re blue in the face, but it won’t change a thing ‘cause you are—and have always been—a terrible mother. But, hey, at least you have a chance to make amends with Rimla. If you mess her up too, you should just kill yourself.”

Rimla is Rohan’s younger half-sister. Rimla is old enough to realize that her older brother needs help, but young enough to remain unsullied by the vices of youth. She is usually the voice of reason during these fights, but was missing in action now for basketball practice.

The tears glistening in their mother’s eyes make him think of black jewels—hard, unforgiving. He had learnt from her visceral verbal attacks, after all.

“'Why could I not have died instead of your father? Why did God have to punish me with a son like you? I wish you’d never been born!” she says, as she often does.

Rohan’s voice turns icy cold as he tells her, “I wish you had died instead of Baba, too. He may have been a drunk—but I’m sure he’d still show more understanding than you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

He slams the door behind him. He walks out, taking his cell phone out of his pocket. God, she’s dramatic. No wonder he has to be high all the time just to put up with her, he thinks to himself as he scrolls down his call log to find his dealer’s number.

1995

Rohan, or Ronnie, was a “perfect” child till he was 8 years old. He was a bright, curious boy, and though his parents were never really around, he worked diligently at school, was always respectful of elders, and never stepped out of line.
He alternated his days between stays at his Nana-Nani’s house and at home with his Dadi—all three of whom doted on him but mostly left him to his own devices.

Then, one fateful day, everything changed. Ronnie was sitting alone in the garden, on a rock, under his favorite Banyan tree. He was very worried about his Dadi. She had shared with him earlier in the day how she was hearing voices inaudible to anyone else. And these voices were telling her that they were coming to kill her. Ronnie was contemplating to himself the best mode of protection for his grandmother.

“You’re too young to be frowning like that, Ronnie,” someone said.
Ronnie looked up to see the welcome sight of their gardener’s face. “Hi, Mali Bhai. I feel a bit sad today.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it? And I will climb up the tree and fetch you a daab, and you can drown your sorrows.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mali Bhai. I’m just worried about the science project you helped me with—the worm farm. Amma’s coming to the science fair for the first time to see me tomorrow, so I really want to win the medal this time and make her proud of me,” Ronnie lied with a convincing smile. Despite his young years, Ronnie has already learned how to guard his secrets.
“Oh, Ronnie! Of course you’ll win the medal. And your mother is already proud of you. Now, why don’t you go sit in the shade while I get your daab?”

Ronnie sat down. He was always amazed at the speed at which Mali Bhai shimmied up the trees, deftly sticking his axe into the trunk and using it for support. He cut off a nice green daab, flashing Ronnie a huge smile. Then in a split second, he swung his axe to hook onto the tree, missed, and crashed all the way down, hitting the circular mound of rocks below—his skull making the exact same sound upon impact as a coconut cracking open.

Ronnie ran over to the heap of flesh and bones that looked nothing like the smiling man he had grown to love. In his child mind, Ronnie could understand that Mali Bhai would no longer be waiting for him after school with the crunchiest guavas, nor would he ever tell him stories about the frogs’ secret meetings where they sat on toadstools that magically cropped up after the rain.

He suddenly doubled over, feeling in the pit of his stomach a blinding pain unlike any he had ever felt before. He passed out on the grass where Mali Bhai’s blood had trickled down, creating miniature red streams on the ground and seeping into his shorts and t-shirt.

When Ronnie woke up, he was in a strange white room, in an unfamiliar bed. There were wires coming out of his hands, a strong smell of disinfectant in the air, and a wheezy, rasping noise coming from his right. He turned to see a body—a man’s—on the next bed with even more tubes coming out of him. The man looked terribly old and yet strangely young, like a stillborn baby. There was a large hole in his throat, which made deathly sounds with every breath. Ronnie offers an introduction. “Hi, I’m Ronnie. Who are you?”

The man opened his mouth, forcing a most unpleasant gurgling whistle to come out of his throat, and whispered, “I’m just a man waiting for his last breath now. You don’t need to know me.”

“Why not? You know that I’m Ronnie. Why won’t you tell me who you are?”

The wheezing man turned his head and looked at Ronnie straight on. This would not be the only time that Ronnie would look death straight in the eye.
“You ask too many questions, boy. My time now is measured in how many breaths I take, and I don’t want to waste another one on you.”
Ronnie was jolted by the realization that he had clearly heard that voice in his head. He also felt certain that for some reason, the Wheezy Man did not have a single person in his life who cared whether he lived or died.
Ronnie turned his head away and shut his eyes. He pretended to be asleep and found a strange comfort in the machine-like raspy whistling and wheezing of the man as he lay in the next bed, counting his last breaths.

Ronnie counted them too. One hundred and forty four. The man’s breathing slowed, becoming more laborious, and the pauses between each breath grew  longer, more pregnant with anticipation. Finally, there were no more breaths and the spiky lines on the TV screen attached to him grew flat, and the time pulses became one steady beep. He could hear voices entering the room, and somehow amidst all the chaos, he drifted off to sleep and had many strange dreams.

1995 – 2004

After that day, things were never the same. The stomachaches grew more frequent, more pronounced, baffling doctors all over the country. Rohan started missing school and losing concentration and focus. He spent his days alone, climbing up walls and trees up to great heights where he could sit on the edge, close his eyes, feel the wind against himself and imagine the fall. Then, when he was ready, he would jump. The adrenaline rush made him feel alive and it was addictive—daring him to scale and jump from greater heights. He injured his back multiple times, unbeknownst to anyone else.

That’s what led him to try smack for the first time with the older kids. One of the boys had said it makes all your pain disappear. Years later, after Ronnie dropped out of his college in Malaysia and moved back to Dhaka, one of the many shrinks he visited told him that stomachaches were very common in grieving children who had experienced some kind of trauma. That they taper out slowly over time, as the grieving child learns to cope with the loss.

Given that the events of that day were never mentioned by his family only aggravated the dissonance—leading the pain to flare up without any warning. But that’s what the smack was for. He got news of his Dadi’s death and it flared up a little, but immediately he chased some more heroin and a little yaba to give him the strength to keep him going throughout her burial. He even looked at her face before covering it with dirt.

He got taken away to a rehab for the first time a week after. He came out a month later, claiming to have learnt his lesson and making many promises. But when his Nana died two months after, he found out on the phone while he was lying down completely smacked out of his head in an unfamiliar bathroom where some kid he had just met “fainted” him. He managed to make it to the burial, before the dreaded catching team came to whisk him away for a longer stint at another rehab. The second place was worse. There was a guy there who was completely crazy. He’d talk in tongues and hiss like a reptile.
“That’s it,” Ronnie would say to himself, “I’m never doing drugs again.”

Within a month of his return, his Nani passed away while he was sitting with her in a tiny hospital room, praying for it to be over quickly so he could smoke some of his drugs. He had three tiny ziploc bags. For three different highs.
As the line went flat, he calmly walked to the toilet and took out his foil and the first zip and started smoking, while the nurses rushed into the room. Downers now, uppers later. He splashed water over his face and calmly walked out of the hospital and went straight to his dealers’, then went from there to the burial where he made a scene as he almost passed out.

Another six months at another rehab, which was better known among the elite. This place was better—until a sociopathic older woman came in. She too hissed like a reptile. She sent succubi into their rooms at night that invaded their bodies and fed on their souls. Then another death upon his return home in six months time. This time it was his father’s. It was Ronnie’s 17th birthday. He didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t even make the burial. 

2014

Ronnie is walking over to the street corner where he agreed to meet his dealer. He is wondering to himself what the point of it all is.

“Ronnie? Oh my god… I’ve been trying to get a hold of you forever! You blocked my number, dude!”
Cursing under his breath, he turns around and forces a smile. “Hey, Sam! How are you? You look great!”
She knits her brows in a frown. “Well, you look like shit. You’re about to score, aren't you?” She checks her watch. “Listen, I’m kind of in a hurry. I teach at the American School and my break is over in ten minutes. But do you want to grab a juice?”

As always, she leaves him with no choice. Ronnie and Sam are old friends. They have saved each other’s asses, gone on many wild drug-fuelled adventures, and were even in the same rehab together. It surprised everyone, though it didn’t surprise Ronnie, when she suddenly stopped using overnight. She poured the same enthusiasm she had for drugs into yoga and began advocating different causes to help “heal the world.” She kept trying to “heal” Ronnie, too, until he cut her off—avoiding her completely.

As she pays for their juice, she tells him, “Will you please do meditation with me sometime? Just try it?”

Ronnie doesn’t answer. Sam takes a sip of her juice and brushes the hair out of her eyes. She looks straight at him. “Our lives are measured by the number of breaths we take, you know? Focused breathing is scientifically—”
“Sam, I know you care about this stuff and about healing and helping me. But… Can I just go? Can I just go now?”
She sighs, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something very important, but you blocked me. I'm thinking of your fall, and why it happened.”

She knows he hates talking about it. He was drunk, and on a stupid dare, tried to walk on the ledge of the balcony where they had been partying. It was three floors up. He barely survived and everyone thought he would finally start caring about his life, but instead it seems to push him the other way. But he knows Sam isn't going to let him go till she’s done. “Go on,” he says.

“You can't find balance. In yoga, you know how we do balancing exercises, right? Fix your gaze on a distant point, keep your mind clear and breathing focused. It's only when your eyes waver that you lose balance. Find that distant point to focus on. You need to find—”
“Sure, Sam. Can I go now?”
Surprisingly, she hugs him. “Bye, Ronnie.”

At their designated meeting spot, the dealer hands Ronnie his drugs in exchange for cash. Walking back to his house, Ronnie has already forgotten about Sam, about his mother, about breathing. He just wants to go to his room, sit down, take a hit, light a cigarette. Then he can think.

His mom opens the door. “Where are you? I'm going out. Rimla’s dad is waiting for me downstairs. Something important came up, and there's no one else around so I have to lock you guys in… since you can't be trusted with the keys.” She just has to add that last bit.

“Sure, whatever.” Rohan says. “Bye.”

Once their mother is gone, Rimla asks Ronnie, “Can we play FIFA?”

Not now, later. Ronnie ruffles her hair and saunters into his bedroom. Before he can shut the door, Rimla calls out, “Bhaia, don’t lock the door. Please.”

He gives her a reassuring smile and a thumbs up, and closes the door. Rimla glances at the clock on the wall and sighs. She knows those horrible men in black are coming again to take away her brother.

Ronnie enters his room and dumps the contents of his pockets onto his desk. He lovingly readies his foil. He meticulously pulls out a foot’s width, folds it over in half, then makes that into six folds—like a paper fan. He takes out his little blue scissors and cuts out a long strip. Then he straightens it with a note before burning it. Perfect. He places on it the contents of a little ziploc—golden brown powder. Glistening with promise. He chases a few lines and exhales and lights a cigarette. The world seems to make much more sense now, it seems more secure and not the hostile place it appeared to be moments ago. He places his cigarette on the ashtray and notices that it’s precariously close to the curtains, and moves the ashtray a few inches. He picks up his guitar and plays a few strings. He feels great. He plugs his guitar into his Macbook, as well his headphones. He opens up a new file on Logic Pro. Then he takes a few more hits, holding his breath each time and releasing the smoke after long drags of his cigarette.

He takes a last drag of the cigarette before it burns his mouth and flicks it away. He puts his headphones on and starts jamming. He’s really feeling it. Like he’s channeling some other realms. His eyes are closed and he’s heating up—all his senses just focused on the music. He’s pulled out of his reverie as he feels someone grab his shoulder, and his eyes fly open in annoyance to see Rimla frantically yelling something. Why is it so hot? Is that smoke? She turns his head around and he sees his curtains are on fire, and the wires running down the length of the wall going into the next room are on fire as well. “Bhaia, how are we going to get out?”

The fire spreads fast to the rest of the apartment. The door is too heavy to break down. The only way out is the balcony.
“Come,” says Rohan. There’s a thin ledge connecting his balcony to the balcony next door. The only problem is they’re on the fifth floor. Two floors higher than where he fell from. He looks at Rimla, and sees tears of disbelief in her eyes—the shock that her older brother, dysfunctional though he is, could be so reckless as to put her life in danger like this. She’s probably the only person left in the world that trusts him—and that is crumbling away before his eyes as well. All this time, Ronnie had thought he had been waiting for his last breath, so cavalier about casually flirting with death, but not tonight. He hears Sam’s voice come to him. He lifts Rimla onto his shoulder. “Fix your gaze on a distant point and keep your mind clear and breathing focused. It’s only when your eyes waver that you lose balance. Find that distant point to focus on.”

He kisses Rimla’s forehead, fixes his gaze on an iron rod that’s jutting out of the wall on the other side, takes a deep breath and steps onto the ledge.

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