︎
PHOTOS: Sofia Vini, Piotr Siedlecki, Unknown, Sofia Vini // 2015, n.d.,
n.d., 2015
PHOTOS: HIDDEN THINGS
HIDDEN THINGS
HIDDEN THINGS
HIDDEN THINGS
Namira Hossain
“She’d wring her own mind into knots, thinking about all the different germs and what they looked like, just lurking. Before going anywhere or leaving her house, Aarti gave herself severe diarrhea just thinking of this. Hidden things. On every surface. Every crevice. Every crack. Every railing. Every door handle. Every elevator button.”
short story, aug 23
Aarti looked at the time and put her phone down. It was 6:52 PM. It was almost time. At exactly 7 PM every night, Aarti walks into each and every single room in her house and turns the light switch on and off seven times.
She started doing this on 7th July, 2007, upon her first meeting with the astrologer Budha, who had told her that the curse of Saturn would be lifted if she made use of that auspicious day to start this new habit. “By turning the light switches on and off seven times, you are invoking the power of the seventh planet, Uranus,” he had said. “It is only Uranus’ power that will remove the curse of Saturn.”
This was not Aarti’s only oddity. She had many. She had numerous tics and compulsions, which then became addictions—sucking away at her soul bit by bit every time.
If she touched money, or doors, or handles, or anything other humans are likely to touch, she would have to wash her hands seven times. She’d wring her own mind into knots, thinking about all the different germs and what they looked like, just lurking. Before going anywhere or leaving her house, Aarti gave herself severe diarrhea just thinking of this. Hidden things. On every surface. Every crevice. Every crack. Every railing. Every door handle. Every elevator button.
She would be absolutely paralyzed, be stuck in the bathroom for hours in pain, and finally emerge at least an hour and seventeen minutes later with hands scrubbed bright-red and raw. Sometimes, she managed to get out. Sometimes, she never left the house. Even though her husband, Rajumia, wanted her to overcome these fears and get out of the house, he would be relieved nonetheless when she actually did not go. For every time she left and came back, every item in the house would have to be washed in boiling water—an act that took weeks to complete, and one directly responsible for nothing lasting terribly long in the household.
And in the last 14 years, the “curse of Saturn” had only gotten worse for Aarti. To remedy this, the astrologer Budha sold her every ring, talisman, potion, crystal, herb, water, and candle he could possibly unearth or concoct.
Once, Budha had been almost out of ideas when Aarti confided in him a truly distressing incident.
She had been walking along the sidewalk, counting the cracks with her young Shih Tzu puppy. She was deeply engrossed in her task—for if she did not count all two hundred and fifty two cracks in the sidewalk, she knew in her gut that something terrible would happen. As she was counting, Theresa, her pup, who was named after Mother Theresa, fell into an open manhole that was ten feet deep. Theresa broke her neck upon landing and died immediately.
Aarti was horrified by it all. The sound of Theresa’s neck breaking. The smell of the sewage permeating from the open manhole. The sludge and filth that covered Theresa’s ordinarily spotless and snow-white body. It was all too much. The hidden things were entering her cells and taking over her mind, body, and spirit.
Aarti had collapsed on the street right on a pile of dogshit. Rajumia heard news of her collapse from the neighborhood chanachur wala and ran straight to the spot, finding Aarti lying on the street, plastered in dogshit, next to the manhole. He thought to himself, “Allah, please force her to get better now. I do not know how much more of this we can take.”
Rajumia carried his wife’s limp, heavy body back home. But poor Rajumia’s good intentions were in vain. After gaining consciousness, Aarti was repulsed by herself and the filth she found herself covered in. She showered for seven straight hours in scalding hot water, pausing only to let the water reheat and the tanks refill. She sat, wrinkled like an old prune, as the steam rose up chanting Theresa’s name over and over again. She got first degree burns—evenly—across her body by the end of it.
Now, Budha knew he had a good opportunity. “Madam, I am now 100% sure. It is not just the curse of Saturn. Your relatives have put a black magic hex on you. I can see the rip in your aura. From now on, you will see that only bad things will keep happening. I do not know how to help.” He looked at Aarti from the corner of his eye.
He continued, “The wrath of Saturn has been invoked. Darkness is taking over. If cleanliness is close to godliness, filthiness takes you to hell.” Rajumia thought the man looked like a sly fox as he listened to these platitudes.
Aarti pleaded with him, “There must be something you can do.” The astrologer shook his head. Aarti started gasping for air. In her mind’s eye, everything was flashing red. She was seizing up, choking on her thoughts. She collapsed in a heap on the ground, like a sweaty whale in a cotton sari landing with a thud and loosening dust bunnies that rose up in the air. And from that moment on, she was no more. Rajumia stopped himself from sighing in relief that he would not have to endure anymore of this astrologer’s malfeasance. “The curse of Saturn is lifted,” Budha proclaimed, holding his hands up to the sky.
She started doing this on 7th July, 2007, upon her first meeting with the astrologer Budha, who had told her that the curse of Saturn would be lifted if she made use of that auspicious day to start this new habit. “By turning the light switches on and off seven times, you are invoking the power of the seventh planet, Uranus,” he had said. “It is only Uranus’ power that will remove the curse of Saturn.”
This was not Aarti’s only oddity. She had many. She had numerous tics and compulsions, which then became addictions—sucking away at her soul bit by bit every time.
If she touched money, or doors, or handles, or anything other humans are likely to touch, she would have to wash her hands seven times. She’d wring her own mind into knots, thinking about all the different germs and what they looked like, just lurking. Before going anywhere or leaving her house, Aarti gave herself severe diarrhea just thinking of this. Hidden things. On every surface. Every crevice. Every crack. Every railing. Every door handle. Every elevator button.
She would be absolutely paralyzed, be stuck in the bathroom for hours in pain, and finally emerge at least an hour and seventeen minutes later with hands scrubbed bright-red and raw. Sometimes, she managed to get out. Sometimes, she never left the house. Even though her husband, Rajumia, wanted her to overcome these fears and get out of the house, he would be relieved nonetheless when she actually did not go. For every time she left and came back, every item in the house would have to be washed in boiling water—an act that took weeks to complete, and one directly responsible for nothing lasting terribly long in the household.
And in the last 14 years, the “curse of Saturn” had only gotten worse for Aarti. To remedy this, the astrologer Budha sold her every ring, talisman, potion, crystal, herb, water, and candle he could possibly unearth or concoct.
Once, Budha had been almost out of ideas when Aarti confided in him a truly distressing incident.
She had been walking along the sidewalk, counting the cracks with her young Shih Tzu puppy. She was deeply engrossed in her task—for if she did not count all two hundred and fifty two cracks in the sidewalk, she knew in her gut that something terrible would happen. As she was counting, Theresa, her pup, who was named after Mother Theresa, fell into an open manhole that was ten feet deep. Theresa broke her neck upon landing and died immediately.
Aarti was horrified by it all. The sound of Theresa’s neck breaking. The smell of the sewage permeating from the open manhole. The sludge and filth that covered Theresa’s ordinarily spotless and snow-white body. It was all too much. The hidden things were entering her cells and taking over her mind, body, and spirit.
Aarti had collapsed on the street right on a pile of dogshit. Rajumia heard news of her collapse from the neighborhood chanachur wala and ran straight to the spot, finding Aarti lying on the street, plastered in dogshit, next to the manhole. He thought to himself, “Allah, please force her to get better now. I do not know how much more of this we can take.”
Rajumia carried his wife’s limp, heavy body back home. But poor Rajumia’s good intentions were in vain. After gaining consciousness, Aarti was repulsed by herself and the filth she found herself covered in. She showered for seven straight hours in scalding hot water, pausing only to let the water reheat and the tanks refill. She sat, wrinkled like an old prune, as the steam rose up chanting Theresa’s name over and over again. She got first degree burns—evenly—across her body by the end of it.
Now, Budha knew he had a good opportunity. “Madam, I am now 100% sure. It is not just the curse of Saturn. Your relatives have put a black magic hex on you. I can see the rip in your aura. From now on, you will see that only bad things will keep happening. I do not know how to help.” He looked at Aarti from the corner of his eye.
He continued, “The wrath of Saturn has been invoked. Darkness is taking over. If cleanliness is close to godliness, filthiness takes you to hell.” Rajumia thought the man looked like a sly fox as he listened to these platitudes.
Aarti pleaded with him, “There must be something you can do.” The astrologer shook his head. Aarti started gasping for air. In her mind’s eye, everything was flashing red. She was seizing up, choking on her thoughts. She collapsed in a heap on the ground, like a sweaty whale in a cotton sari landing with a thud and loosening dust bunnies that rose up in the air. And from that moment on, she was no more. Rajumia stopped himself from sighing in relief that he would not have to endure anymore of this astrologer’s malfeasance. “The curse of Saturn is lifted,” Budha proclaimed, holding his hands up to the sky.
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
Namira Hossain is a certified tarot reader and astrologer. She is also a mother, Capricorn, and seeker of truth. She is a founding member of Ampersand, Dhaka’s first spoken word poetry group.
Namira’s poems and stories have appeared in journals and anthologies such as Monsoon Letters, Six Seasons Review, My Place, My Home, and UPL Books’ Golden: Bangladesh at 50. // instagram
Namira’s poems and stories have appeared in journals and anthologies such as Monsoon Letters, Six Seasons Review, My Place, My Home, and UPL Books’ Golden: Bangladesh at 50. // instagram
HIDDEN THINGS
HIDDEN THINGS
HIDDEN THINGS
HIDDEN THINGS
Namira Hossain
Aarti looked at the time and put her phone down. It was 6:52 PM. It was almost time. At exactly 7 PM every night, Aarti walks into each and every single room in her house and turns the light switch on and off seven times.
She started doing this on 7th July, 2007, upon her first meeting with the astrologer Budha, who had told her that the curse of Saturn would be lifted if she made use of that auspicious day to start this new habit. “By turning the light switches on and off seven times, you are invoking the power of the seventh planet, Uranus,” he had said. “It is only Uranus’ power that will remove the curse of Saturn.”
This was not Aarti’s only oddity. She had many. She had numerous tics and compulsions, which then became addictions—sucking away at her soul bit by bit every time.
If she touched money, or doors, or handles, or anything other humans are likely to touch, she would have to wash her hands seven times. She’d wring her own mind into knots, thinking about all the different germs and what they looked like, just lurking. Before going anywhere or leaving her house, Aarti gave herself severe diarrhea just thinking of this. Hidden things. On every surface. Every crevice. Every crack. Every railing. Every door handle. Every elevator button.
She would be absolutely paralyzed, be stuck in the bathroom for hours in pain, and finally emerge at least an hour and seventeen minutes later with hands scrubbed bright-red and raw. Sometimes, she managed to get out. Sometimes, she never left the house. Even though her husband, Rajumia, wanted her to overcome these fears and get out of the house, he would be relieved nonetheless when she actually did not go. For every time she left and came back, every item in the house would have to be washed in boiling water—an act that took weeks to complete, and one directly responsible for nothing lasting terribly long in the household.
And in the last 14 years, the “curse of Saturn” had only gotten worse for Aarti. To remedy this, the astrologer Budha sold her every ring, talisman, potion, crystal, herb, water, and candle he could possibly unearth or concoct.
Once, Budha had been almost out of ideas when Aarti confided in him a truly distressing incident.
She had been walking along the sidewalk, counting the cracks with her young Shih Tzu puppy. She was deeply engrossed in her task—for if she did not count all two hundred and fifty two cracks in the sidewalk, she knew in her gut that something terrible would happen. As she was counting, Theresa, her pup, who was named after Mother Theresa, fell into an open manhole that was ten feet deep. Theresa broke her neck upon landing and died immediately.
Aarti was horrified by it all. The sound of Theresa’s neck breaking. The smell of the sewage permeating from the open manhole. The sludge and filth that covered Theresa’s ordinarily spotless and snow-white body. It was all too much. The hidden things were entering her cells and taking over her mind, body, and spirit.
Aarti had collapsed on the street right on a pile of dogshit. Rajumia heard news of her collapse from the neighborhood chanachur wala and ran straight to the spot, finding Aarti lying on the street, plastered in dogshit, next to the manhole. He thought to himself, “Allah, please force her to get better now. I do not know how much more of this we can take.”
Rajumia carried his wife’s limp, heavy body back home. But poor Rajumia’s good intentions were in vain. After gaining consciousness, Aarti was repulsed by herself and the filth she found herself covered in. She showered for seven straight hours in scalding hot water, pausing only to let the water reheat and the tanks refill. She sat, wrinkled like an old prune, as the steam rose up chanting Theresa’s name over and over again. She got first degree burns—evenly—across her body by the end of it.
Now, Budha knew he had a good opportunity. “Madam, I am now 100% sure. It is not just the curse of Saturn. Your relatives have put a black magic hex on you. I can see the rip in your aura. From now on, you will see that only bad things will keep happening. I do not know how to help.” He looked at Aarti from the corner of his eye.
He continued, “The wrath of Saturn has been invoked. Darkness is taking over. If cleanliness is close to godliness, filthiness takes you to hell.” Rajumia thought the man looked like a sly fox as he listened to these platitudes.
Aarti pleaded with him, “There must be something you can do.” The astrologer shook his head. Aarti started gasping for air. In her mind’s eye, everything was flashing red. She was seizing up, choking on her thoughts. She collapsed in a heap on the ground, like a sweaty whale in a cotton sari landing with a thud and loosening dust bunnies that rose up in the air. And from that moment on, she was no more. Rajumia stopped himself from sighing in relief that he would not have to endure anymore of this astrologer’s malfeasance. “The curse of Saturn is lifted,” Budha proclaimed, holding his hands up to the sky.
She started doing this on 7th July, 2007, upon her first meeting with the astrologer Budha, who had told her that the curse of Saturn would be lifted if she made use of that auspicious day to start this new habit. “By turning the light switches on and off seven times, you are invoking the power of the seventh planet, Uranus,” he had said. “It is only Uranus’ power that will remove the curse of Saturn.”
This was not Aarti’s only oddity. She had many. She had numerous tics and compulsions, which then became addictions—sucking away at her soul bit by bit every time.
If she touched money, or doors, or handles, or anything other humans are likely to touch, she would have to wash her hands seven times. She’d wring her own mind into knots, thinking about all the different germs and what they looked like, just lurking. Before going anywhere or leaving her house, Aarti gave herself severe diarrhea just thinking of this. Hidden things. On every surface. Every crevice. Every crack. Every railing. Every door handle. Every elevator button.
She would be absolutely paralyzed, be stuck in the bathroom for hours in pain, and finally emerge at least an hour and seventeen minutes later with hands scrubbed bright-red and raw. Sometimes, she managed to get out. Sometimes, she never left the house. Even though her husband, Rajumia, wanted her to overcome these fears and get out of the house, he would be relieved nonetheless when she actually did not go. For every time she left and came back, every item in the house would have to be washed in boiling water—an act that took weeks to complete, and one directly responsible for nothing lasting terribly long in the household.
And in the last 14 years, the “curse of Saturn” had only gotten worse for Aarti. To remedy this, the astrologer Budha sold her every ring, talisman, potion, crystal, herb, water, and candle he could possibly unearth or concoct.
Once, Budha had been almost out of ideas when Aarti confided in him a truly distressing incident.
She had been walking along the sidewalk, counting the cracks with her young Shih Tzu puppy. She was deeply engrossed in her task—for if she did not count all two hundred and fifty two cracks in the sidewalk, she knew in her gut that something terrible would happen. As she was counting, Theresa, her pup, who was named after Mother Theresa, fell into an open manhole that was ten feet deep. Theresa broke her neck upon landing and died immediately.
Aarti was horrified by it all. The sound of Theresa’s neck breaking. The smell of the sewage permeating from the open manhole. The sludge and filth that covered Theresa’s ordinarily spotless and snow-white body. It was all too much. The hidden things were entering her cells and taking over her mind, body, and spirit.
Aarti had collapsed on the street right on a pile of dogshit. Rajumia heard news of her collapse from the neighborhood chanachur wala and ran straight to the spot, finding Aarti lying on the street, plastered in dogshit, next to the manhole. He thought to himself, “Allah, please force her to get better now. I do not know how much more of this we can take.”
Rajumia carried his wife’s limp, heavy body back home. But poor Rajumia’s good intentions were in vain. After gaining consciousness, Aarti was repulsed by herself and the filth she found herself covered in. She showered for seven straight hours in scalding hot water, pausing only to let the water reheat and the tanks refill. She sat, wrinkled like an old prune, as the steam rose up chanting Theresa’s name over and over again. She got first degree burns—evenly—across her body by the end of it.
Now, Budha knew he had a good opportunity. “Madam, I am now 100% sure. It is not just the curse of Saturn. Your relatives have put a black magic hex on you. I can see the rip in your aura. From now on, you will see that only bad things will keep happening. I do not know how to help.” He looked at Aarti from the corner of his eye.
He continued, “The wrath of Saturn has been invoked. Darkness is taking over. If cleanliness is close to godliness, filthiness takes you to hell.” Rajumia thought the man looked like a sly fox as he listened to these platitudes.
Aarti pleaded with him, “There must be something you can do.” The astrologer shook his head. Aarti started gasping for air. In her mind’s eye, everything was flashing red. She was seizing up, choking on her thoughts. She collapsed in a heap on the ground, like a sweaty whale in a cotton sari landing with a thud and loosening dust bunnies that rose up in the air. And from that moment on, she was no more. Rajumia stopped himself from sighing in relief that he would not have to endure anymore of this astrologer’s malfeasance. “The curse of Saturn is lifted,” Budha proclaimed, holding his hands up to the sky.
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
Namira Hossain is a certified tarot reader and astrologer. She is also a mother, Capricorn, and seeker of truth. She is a founding member of Ampersand, Dhaka’s first spoken word poetry group.
Her poems and stories have appeared in journals and anthologies such as Monsoon Letters, Six Seasons Review, My Place, My Home, and UPL Books’ Golden: Bangladesh at 50. // instagram
Her poems and stories have appeared in journals and anthologies such as Monsoon Letters, Six Seasons Review, My Place, My Home, and UPL Books’ Golden: Bangladesh at 50. // instagram