THE INTELLECTUAL THEFT
THE INTELLECTUAL THEFT
THE INTELLECTUAL THEFT
THE INTELLECTUAL THEFT

Ziaul Moid Khan

Abdul never stole a penny in terms of monetary gains; but when Balraj, his nephew, told him that Aapa-Bi had an iron box filled to its capacity with Urdu novels and magazines, he immediately asked Balraj to steal half a dozen books with the intention to return them later to their box after, of course, a thorough reading. He knew Aapa-Bi would never lend them a single piece out of her collection.

Though Aapa-Bi was an honest woman, a widow for years, try and borrow a book from her, and her reply would come promptly: “Abi Allah Mara, I don’t have any!”

But a voracious reader she was, commanding a refined taste in books. Aapa-Bi lived alone in a palatial mud house. A religious woman, she prayed five times a day. Other times, she’d read the Holy Quran, sitting on a wooden takht placed in the middle of her three-pillared verandah. Her spare time was spent reading some Urdu romance or mystery, or horror, or a mix of all these elements.

A legend was rife in the village—her house was haunted. Spirits and apparitions roamed around there. In fact, Aapa-Bi was an unflinching lady. They say, one night she was so disturbed by a supernatural presence, she lit her old kerosene lantern, searched all nooks and corners of the haunted homestead thrice, swearing and scolding the invisible spirits. When none were found, she climbed up the roof of the dilapidated house and made a thorough investigation there, too.

Next day she said to Jamila, her neighbor, “Abi Allah Mara, the boys did not let me sleep last night.” The message flared up in the village like a forest fire. Talk was: even phantoms were afraid of Aapa-Bi.   

Her house seemed to fit in that old Victorian Gothic setting: weird, scary, ancient, and with no electric supply. Friends and relatives avoided visiting after sundown. But Aapa-Bi perhaps had a way with ghosts. She would scold them, if needed, as mentioned above. Lived like a queen, though alone, yet happy with herself. A singular woman of her kind.

As the mosque loudspeaker came to life, and Hafiz Ji began his azan for the evening prayer, Balraj wore his shoes before he set off to accomplish his assigned task. What Balraj needed the most was a nod from Abdul, and now he’d got it. He at once launched himself into an operation mode. The mission was not impossible. No Tom Cruise was needed for this job. The work was easy. And he knew quite well how to dodge the silver-haired old woman.

Aapa-Bi’s place was not far away. He had to take only four turns of the narrow village-lanes to reach the haunted mud house. It actually belonged to Bhaiya, Aapa-Bi’s only brother who worked and lived in Delhi, the national capital. Thus, the house was now under Aapa-Bi’s patronage. 

Shrouded in evening shadows, the palatial place looked scarier than it looked under sunshine. The spacious courtyard had sizable plants of pomegranate, mahogany, thorny black roses, and white lilies. Aapa-Bi as expected was occupied in the evening prayer, sitting on the wooden takht, her back to Balraj, who tiptoed through the front yard and entered her study, the first room from right.

Finding the iron box was not a big deal. It was of a man’s size lengthwise, and around four feet, widthwise. He withdrew a pencil torch from his trousers and clicked it on. Its yellow glow was the shape of a fish. The box was ancient and rusty and, fortunately, not locked. He pulled up the lid with a soft heave and in a matter of moments, he had the view of his life—a sea collection of wonderful titles: Mirza Ghalib, Mir Taki Mir, the Biographies of Genghis Khan, Timur, Napoleon, and Alexander of Macedonia.

For a moment, Balraj stood mesmerized by the great collection of hundreds of books, all in neat piles side by side. But Aapa-Bi might finish her namaz any second and come inside. He had to make it fast. Abdul’s suggestion was to fetch only fiction, and no non-fiction, at all. Therefore, ignoring a great number of wonderful memoirs and biographies, he picked up some random paperback Urdu titles: Khoya Hua Jazeera, Manasgan, Foladi Shikanja, Maut Ka Panja, Hanste Jakham, Purane Kile Ka Bashinda, and issues of Mashuka, a quarterly Urdu journal published from Saharanpur.

He could carry only these many books. He stacked them on a stool, took out a polybag from his left pocket, and quickly stuffed the moth-eaten titles, one by one, into his satchel. As he slipped the last novel in, he felt some ruckus, a movement of some sort inside the box. A rodent perhaps, he thought and quickly put the lid back to its former position.

Having completed his mission with precision, he peeked out to see if it was safe to step out. To his horror, Aapa-Bi’s prayer was over and now she was folding the pulpit cloth. It would be impossible to sneak past her unnoticed. A sound came from inside the box again, but Balraj paid no heed, for more than anything else now, he was concerned with making his escape unscathed.

Then came a voice to his rescue, a woman’s, not from inside the iron box but from the main entrance at the other end of the courtyard. They called out again: “AAPA-BI!” and to Balraj’s incredulous relief, the call was promptly attended. This was the only opportunity Balraj could avail. And he didn’t miss it. No sooner did he see the old woman going to the other door, he dashed out.

︎

“Did anybody see you coming out of her house?” Abdul said to Balraj, turning the old yellow pages of Toofan se Pahle, an Urdu bestseller.

“It was difficult, but I managed to come out, inconspicuously.”

“Well done, Ballu!”

Balraj wanted to tell Abdul about the weird ruckus from inside the iron box, but let it go. It was such a trivial thing to discuss with the old man. The purpose was served. He was safe home with the books he wanted. That was all.

It took them a fortnight to finish each book, cover to cover. As they smelled the refined literature, they wanted more of it, that was their food. And more food was needed now.

︎

The first Sunday evening of the next month, Balraj got ready to return with his satchel of books and pencil torch in tow. As Hafiz Ji finished his azan from the mosque and Aapa-Bi stood on her pulpit cloth for prayer, Balraj walked confidently into her study crossing the courtyard filled with a weird incense. He took out his torch and pulled open the large box.

Emptying his satchel, he began to lay down the books he’d brought back. Still, he could not resist the temptation to have a look at the titles he’d like to pick this time. But his hands stopped midway, for the titles he had seen last time were all gone, replaced by a different set of books. New and glowing. How could it be possible? Aapa-Bi hardly went to the marketplace. Even if she did, she could not buy these many books in one go.

Balraj frowned, piling his borrowed books in the left corner of the box. Then he began selecting some random new titles: Arab ka Saudagar, Jal Pariyon ka Ashiq, Gunah Ek Katl Do, Masoom Firangi, Jasoos ka Katl, Murdon ki Basti, Bahu Beti aur Vo, Safed Hatiyon ki Ghati, and a few others. He stuffed the titles into the satchel and turned back to shut the box-lid. It was then that he sensed the same ruckus as before. Something shook underneath the rows of paperbacks.

For a long moment, Balraj held the lid open in his right hand, fighting his curiosity to check the box, but then thought about the old woman. Outside. Her prayer must be about to conclude. He carefully closed the iron box, picked up his once-more-heavy satchel and looked out.

Aapa-Bi was still in the midst of her prayers. Good God! he said to himself and walked out as quietly as he’d got in.

︎

“Something is horribly wrong with Aapa-Bi’s study,” Balraj said, dumping the satchel a couple of feet away from where Abdul sat, smoking a Commander Cigarette.

“What happened?” asked Abdul, drawing the satchel toward him and withdrawing the books from it. “Encountered anything weird?”

“It seems there’s something more in the iron box than books alone.”

“Speak plainly, don’t cloud your statement,” Abdul said, putting aside the hardcopy of Mirza Ahmad Baig’s Begum Zubeda aur Heeron ka Haar.

“Beneath the books, inside the trunk, something moves and shakes,” said Balraj. “First I thought it to be mice, but now I wonder if there’s more than that.”

“Hmm, I see,” said Abdul and became thoughtful for a few moments. Then he spoke again, “Can’t you check it on your next visit?”

“How can I? There’s only so much time to select and pick some good titles.”

“Who’s asking you to bring books on the next visit too? Just go and check what lies under the piles of books.”

“Do you think it would be wise to do so?” asked Balraj. “I mean, first stealing the paperbacks and now checking out the hidden secret of the box.”

“Gratification of the mind is necessary. There is a high possibility that you might end up finding nothing other than more books. But, be wary: it may turn out to be some poisonous reptile too.”

︎

Balraj’s next visit to Aapa-Bi’s house was easier than the previous two. The timing of the prayer was perfect. He knew exactly when and how to enter the chamber of secrets. And today he was more prepared than ever before, both mentally and physically, if the need arose to confront a situation.

While Aapa-Bi sat in her usual place to offer her prayers, Balraj opened the enormous Pandora’s box. All books and magazines were neatly piled up as ever. Some fresh titles caught his casual sight: Himmete Mardan, Kali Nagin ka Intekam, Shikari aur Shikar, Badshah aur Fakir, Tuta hua Pemana, Khatarnak Khel, and Kabristan.

Balraj realized the sudden change of weather outside. For he heard the sound of paltering rain on the roof and out in the yard. He perceived the overcast sky that brought darkness earlier than usual at dusk. The pencil torch did not seem to suffice under the circumstances to explore the box. He regretted not bringing a bigger torch today. Life is unpredictable. Sudden things do happen and we have to face them impromptu.

He wanted to make it fast, for Aapa-Bi would soon finish her namaz and then who knew if she stepped into this room for some random errand. Balraj began to lift some of the paperbacks. But then the next moment he felt the ruffling underneath the piles. He stopped. Hair rose on his skin. The sound stopped too. For a long second, he thought to leave. At once. But then he also wanted to know what secret lay beneath. That was the purpose of coming here this time after all.

To reach the bottom of truth, he needed to reach the bottom of the box. Balraj now clutched the torch between his teeth and started picking up the books and magazines using his both hands and putting titles aside on the floor. His hands worked mechanically for the next couple of minutes. The moment he emptied the box, he was awestruck. Transfixed. Stood bent over the iron box like an artistic statue.

The bottom of the box was not the expected plain surface of rusted iron. It was another book, mammoth in size. Crimson hardcover. What terrified Balraj most was the title of this book, if this could be called a book at all. Written in jagged Arabic, in night black ink, the bold raised letters read: TABOOT, that means “coffin.”

The moment Balraj reached out to touch the rough surface of the cover, his torch slipped out of the grip of his teeth and landed with a thud atop the monster book. And immediately the cover page flipped over itself and underneath, where the dedication page should have been, came into view the last thing that Balraj anticipated: a body wrapped in a shroud, starch neat, white. The torch light was still illuminating a slight portion of the interior.

The body stirred and sat up; the high bosom hinted it was a lady. The wrapped woman rummaged with her right hand. Next second, her fingers gripped Balraj’s torch. These fingers: skeletal thin; knuckles, white as petals of lilies; the nails and cuticles, long enough to have not been trimmed, it seemed, for years. A cold shiver ran through his spine. The woman stood up ramrod in her coffin. She looked a hundred-years-old, but still strong and sane.

“Stealing is a horrible habit,” she whispered. “Stay out of closed coffins!”

A darkness swept over Balraj’s mind, as she stepped out of the iron box. Her body parts could be perceived with a little effort. She was slender looking, of average height and her hair, untied, silver white akin to Aapa-Bi’s. Her organs could well be spotted, for she wore nothing else but the shroud.

“May I talk to you, my boy?” she whispered again.

But her voice seemed to be coming from a far-off distance. With it, she dropped the torch and placed both her skeletal hands on his shoulders. It was a snowy touch, sending shivers again up his spine. Balraj became numb and cold. No longer could he keep his eyes open; they closed on their own. He sank to the ground, feeling a cold slumber taking a stronghold over his existence. He heard his own collapse. A faint thud. And as it happens in scary movies, he crossed to oblivion.

︎

How much time had passed, Balraj did not know. He felt like he stood in the rain, staring at the coal-black clouds. Cold drizzling raindroplets pattered on his eyes and face. Then there was some light, like the moon suddenly appearing in the forefront, just off and out of a dark cloud.

He felt compelled to open his eyes and realized there was no moon and no drizzling rain. It was Aapa-Bi, holding her kerosene lantern in one hand and sprinkling water on his face from a little yellow plastic bucket that stood beside her.

“Abe Allaha Mara, Balraj, what the devil were you doing in my study?” asked Aapa Bi.

He sat up figuring what story he should cook and serve.

“I was… I… just came over here to… ask you… a few Arabic… no, no… Persian words. You’re a scholar, aren’t you?”

Aapa-Bi gazed at him grimly and didn’t respond.

He added to convince her, “Didn’t find you around, so I thought to have a look at your collection. But… who… who was that woman in… white?”

“You’ve known today more than anyone ever did,” she said, and hesitated before revealing: “Let me tell you, my boy: she was… my mother!”

“My words may challenge your rationality,” she added, locking the iron box with a big rusty latch, and then locking it up with a heavy steel catch. “I didn’t bury her, rather laid her to rest here in this box. As was her will.”

“But how the hell did her body not rot?” Balraj yelped.

“Legitimate question,” said Aapi-Bi and smiled, putting the lantern on the lid of her mother’s mysterious coffin. “Do you believe in witchcraft?”

“No!”

“Ah. Then you are ignorant to the whole world of dark wizardry.”

“I can’t make any heads or tails of what rubbish you are talking about,” said Balraj.

“My mother, Aapa, was a clandestine witch. And ever remained so—a suspense even for her husband,” she said, handing back Balraj his pencil torch with a gesture to stand up. Then she helped him up, firmly, by his right arm and led him out to her ancient three-pillared verandah. Balraj followed her like an obedient three-year-old boy.

“Basically, to avoid prosecution,” Aapa-Bi continued, “she did all her practices, privately, in an old dungeon.”

“What sort of practices?”

“Occult practices. Beyond the concept of common day science.”

“And what did she gain out of these occult practices?” Balraj asked, not buying her senseless story.

“She made some potions, just a layer of which on a human body, will not let it decay. Ancient Egyptian method for mummification, you know. Moreover,” Aapa-Bi said and paused, “she could do voodoo.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A deceitful method to kill an enemy through spells and necromancy.”

Balraj did not understand, still he was glued to her.

“It was her will,” Aapa-Bi continued, “her body should be preserved after she is gone. So, I did as I was instructed.”

︎

Aapa-Bi sat on her wooden takht made of original mahogany. Reclining over her pillow, she took out a string of beads, white as pearls. Began to read some ayat—a verse from the Holy Quran.

For a wee while, she remained pensive. She stared into the dark of the night. There was vicious glitter in them as she muttered undertone, “I know… now… I know… who sent you here… it was Abdul… wasn’t it?”

Balraj was not sure whether to respond with a yes or a no.

“The curse of my mother will befall you both,” she added, as if telling herself.

“What c-curse!” shrieked Balraj, trembling.

“Your sender will die a madman, and you, Balraj… no woman will take interest in you… ever.”

“What rubbish…?” said Balraj. “How can you be so callous, Aapa-Bi? Mama just sent me here to fetch some books, only to read and return them undamaged. No harm done.”

“You’ve come to know what none else did before.”

“I beg your forgiveness!”

“All sins have their rewards.”

“I don’t believe in curses. You’re lying, faking. Why should I believe your shit?”

“You will know. And very soon, my son!”

Balraj had had enough. “Am I allowed to leave now?”

“You’re as free as clouds,” said Aapa-Bi, closing her eyes and resuming her verse murmuring peacefully.

The paltering of the rain had slowed down as Balraj stepped out, musing over Aapi-Bi’s secret and her weird “curse”. It was already night and he had to use the torch to find his way. Baffled to his wits, he trudged along the wet street, homeward.

︎

Abdul looked haggard when Balraj returned home. Balraj sensed something wrong in his manners and grew flustered immediately.

“Mama, are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, fine,” Abdul said, “Just tell me what you’ve found!”

The boy told the old man everything he’d experienced at Aapa-Bi’s place.

“Hmm!” Abdul replied only.

It had begun to rain with fervor again. The old man and the young man sat together in the verandah while Fatima, Abdul’s wife, served them tea with Parle-G biscuits.

“Aapa Bi-has just given a monkey threat,” said Balraj, lifting up his cup of tea. “Mama, I don’t think we need to worry.”

“A witch’s curse will have to be thwarted with some counter magic,” Abdul said, sipping his tea. “Or we’re in the soup.”

“Maybe she was faking,” Balraj stubbornly said.

“She was not,” Abdul asserted, his eyes fixed on a vulture that had just perched on top of the neem tree in the yard. “See, gidh, the vulture. A bad omen.”

Balraj looked at the big bird that was fluttering its strong feathers. He said nothing. He was not superstitious, but knew well that Abdul could not be wrong in his perception.

“I’ve never practiced sifli ilm, but I know it exists,” said Abdul, taking another sip of his tea.

“What the devil is sifli… ilm?” Balraj asked, his eyes still on the vulture.

“The base form of black magic. The wizardry of witches,” Abdul clarified.

“Come with me!” He finished his tea and went inside. Balraj could not say where. He too put down his cup and followed Abdul like an obedient pupil.

︎

Abdul took Balraj to his study. The old man struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp. Ghastly yellow light spread squarely across the room.

Abdul’s study had its own iron box: a black, painted chest with a latch but no lock. It contained most of Abdul’s books. Hundreds of them. As the old man directed, Balraj released the latch and lifted the lid. It was filled to its ridges. All types of reading material.

The first book Balraj laid his hands on was the Kamsutra that carried almost all postures of sex. The cover image depicted two statues in a compromising position. It was weird to imagine sex could be done in this way. But Abdul snatched it from his hands and put it away on the charpoy beside them. He handed Balraj the kerosene lamp, withdrew a moth-ravaged chair and sat himself in it. Then he began digging into his book chest.

“A counter-spell is necessary under the circumstances,” said Abdul, putting the books he took out on the jute-charpoy. Balraj looked on, holding the kerosene lantern in hand, the muscles of his face twitching in bewilderment, as he watched Abdul withdraw from the box holding a human skull. Looking at it, as if with appreciation, as if he would talk to it.

“Mama, where did you get this… this… skull from?” muttered Balraj, feeling queasier than he had at Aapa-Bi’s front yard.

“Long story, Ballu,” said Abdul, wiping the skull reverently with a dusting cloth. “But in short, it was a gift from an Aghori Sadhu, who claimed to have once dug an ancient grave to retrieve it. He had warned me of its strength and I have kept it safe all these years. We shall test its power tonight.”

With that, Abdul handed Balraj the skull. He felt uncanny holding it, its fixed boney grin sending shivers up his spine. He wanted to ask more questions but kept mum as Abdul was still busy searching for something else. His expert hands knew each and every corner of his box. There was a faint smile on his countenance, as in less than a minute, his hand came out with a black leather-bound book, titled Witches’ Blood and Wizardry.

“Now, let us get ready,” said Abdul with satisfaction.

Balraj stood agape trying to swallow the fact: his mother’s brother was not just a simple gentleman. Once he’d hypnotized a white pigeon that fell to the ground from the edge of the rooftop in a state of induced sleepiness. He’d felt pride over his skill. But Abdul seemed a class apart.

︎

In the center of the drawing room was a phantom table surrounded by a dozen wooden chairs. The long rectangle room had space enough still to accommodate a dozen more people. Two almirahs were fixed on either side of the chamber. Both of them contained books on various subjects ranging from palmistry to alchemy, history to spiritualism. The cabinets also contained some different size bottles of serums.

The floor was pure mud, but strong like marble tiles. At the far end near the front door, Abdul made a circle with a chalk, in the center of which he drew a hexagon shape. Kindled seven tappers and positioned them at the frontier of the circle in a half-moon shape. He sat himself in such a way the chalked half-moon was facing his hands that held the book of dark magic, Witches’ Blood and Wizardry.

The solitary spectator was Balraj, who was sitting in a chair far from the circle and looking down at Abdul who had donned a long black gown for the occasion. Apart from the tappers lined on the circle, the other source of the light in the room was the kerosene lamp, positioned in the middle of the table.

“There, Ballu,” said his uncle, pointing to the almirah to his right. “You will find a craned-shaped bottle. Find and fetch it for me.”

Balraj rose from his seat, went up to the closet. It was latched but not locked. He gave the wooden doors a little pull and they gave way. He was at once exposed to the smell of decay and dust. The top two shelves were stuffed with books as big as dictionaries. Most of them were moth eaten. Ravaged. The third shelf was a mess of bottles of varying sizes and colors.

He spotted the black crane-shaped bottle. It carried some thick, red, glossy liquid, God knows what it was. Balraj dared not ask, for Abdul was engrossed in some grave business. He grabbed it, closed the doors, and silently gave it to the old man.

Right beside the hexagon, Abdul positioned an angithi. He put a few dry billets into it, uncapped the crane-shaped bottle, poured the red, glossy liquid over the wooden pieces. Finally, he lit the match and the fire came alive.

“Ballu, one more trouble I’ll give you,” Abdul said, as if remembering something of vital importance. “In the almirah, lying above the books, you will find an old looking glass.”

Nodding in affirmation, Balraj opened the dust laden almirah again. It took him a few long seconds to spot the mirror. Not just an old piece, but an ancient one, fixed in a polished wooden frame. It was in the shape of a globe tethered on a wooden platform. That gave it liberty to be easily positioned on any surface.

Balraj wiped the dust off it with his checkered shirt and the surface shone crystal clear, like the waters of a mountain lake. He saw his reflection—a strange reflection. It showed things beyond. Balraj felt like watching his own soul stare back at him.

The hatred inside him for people. The jealousy. The lust in him for young girls. Bad wishes to tear their clothes off and suck their tits and do more horrible things with them. Watching them naked and fucking them all. He could not keep on looking for more than four seconds. He’d never realized his head carried such filthy thoughts.

Balraj pulled away from the mirror and handed it to Abdul, who placed it to his right. The old man opened his book of occult practices and began to read aloud a certain text. The words were hard to decipher. Probably Arabic: “Rabbin Sunni Alla, komal kafrin,

Rabbin sunni alla, komal mursadin,

Rabbin sunni alla Mukid hijran,

Rabbin sunni alla, Aapa-Bi ka fallan…!”

His one hand held the skull and the other kept the book of dark magic open. The old man repeated the weird spell. Twice, thrice, fourth time, fifth time, sixth time, seventh time… hundredth time… and then Balraj lost count.

All the while, the flames in the angithi were leaping up monstrously. Balraj added more billets to the flamed ones at Abdul’s gesture. The old occultist poured more liquid from the crane shaped bottle. The flames lengthened. The tappers were, by now, finishing, giving the last glow of their light.

This time Balraj saw the process more closely. The glossy liquid was crimson red. A realization dawned upon him: might it be a witch’s blood? He shivered at the very thought, of if it was really… a witch’s blood as Abdul repeated: Rabbin sunni alla…

︎

It was close to midnight. An owl hooted somewhere outside. Balraj’s eyes were getting heavy with fatigue and sleep. Abdul’s chanting was getting rougher and slower. Nothing had changed throughout the night. Balraj was thinking about going to sleep; he felt that nothing concrete would come of the bizarre spell.

But then three things happened one after the other that Balraj had not anticipated.

A pair of massive black bats came from nowhere and started taking rounds in the room, hovering overhead. All the doors were closed. They seemed to have materialized from the angithi flames.

The second thing was the rattling sound Balraj first thought was that of Abdul’s, but it was not. The sound came from the rattling teeth of the skull. Sleep divorced Balraj as he sat upright. He gazed affixed at the skull that appeared to have been reanimated. Leaving his chair, he stood beside Abdul, but remained out of the circle.

And then the third thing was worse than the first two. As the occultist placed the ghostly skull into the fire, the angithi’s flames blazed up to the ceiling, and a familiar voice followed, rather shouted, “Stop it, you Lucifer!”

For a moment, Balraj could not find the source of the shout. Then he could not believe it. The mirror had produced this sound. The reflection showed a woman: Aapa-Bi’s mummified mother.

“Stop it now, cur, or burn in hell,” she shrieked.

“Rabbin Sunni alla Aapa-Bi ka fallan…,” continued Abdul, raising his voice triumphantly.

But Balraj turned as white as a shroud. Two long-nailed hands protruded from the ancient mirror. Abdul reclined back, but it was too late by then. They grasped his head firmly, and pulled it toward the looking glass. Like a trapped animal, the occultist tried to free himself; but in vain. Balraj felt powerless to help his uncle. He stood frozen, like a statue.

All this happened in a matter of seconds. The dead hands of the undead witch contained more physical strength than the living old man. The looking glass shattered with the blasting collision and its exploding shards of the glass pierced into Abdul’s skull. Mini streams of blood oozed out from half a dozen places. And the bloody witch disappeared with the shattering of the magic mirror. Now it was Abdul’s blood, which was emblazing the fire in the angithi.

The bats hovering over their heads had multiplied. Now there were four. Or six. Or more. Abdul gripped his bleeding head and screeched hysterically as Balraj looked on. Shocked. His senses numb. A storm was gathering out, the mad winds were pushing the doors until the latches gave way and the front door was flung open. The fire in the angithi was furious, blazing in all directions, catching on the furniture.

Abdul forced himself to stand up, but stumbled and tripped over the brazier. His long black gown caught the fire. The winds flared it up. He rushed out in the garhi. As if from a slumber, Balraj shook his head and ran after his uncle. The old man ran helter-skelter, now his whole body engulfed in flames.

The occultist ran down the main road and plunged from the mini-bridge into the old village pond. The fire doused as he submerged. Balraj halted for a couple of seconds. The pond water under the bridge was pitch dark. He was not sure where Abdul had thrown himself. The night was silent as death. And no stars shone tonight.

He faintly heard a bubbling, like the water-sound when someone drowns. No time to waste. Not even time enough to come out of his clothes. He dived, head forward.

Down there under the bridge, black stale water welcomed him. All the village houses drained in this pond their shit and piss and toilet waste. Balraj fished around, hands grasping for anything. He found polyethene, plastic bottles, and nameless filthy things.

Then realized he would have to go deeper to locate his uncle precisely. So deeper he went. First to his right, then to his left. Forward and backward. The old man seemed to have vanished. Balraj came up to catch some breath and then repeated the pattern. For around five minutes he explored blindly before his fingers touched the toes of Abdul.

Balraj gave his uncle a push upward, lunging for the surface. He held his hands tightly and dragged the drowning man toward the bank of the pond. He feared the body might go inside again. Panting and huffing he found the old man’s wrist to check his pulse, but the occultist was soulless now.

Balraj cried in the pitch-dark night: why could he not recover his uncle in time. The black bats were circling overhead in the open sky. The villagers, with torches and lanterns in their hands, began to gather around the boy and the body.

Someone whispered, “What happened?”

Someone answered, “Fatima became a widow tonight.”

“Poor woman!” a third villager said.

“But how did it all happen?”

There was no answer. Just silence all around and the desperate weeping of a curious boy.

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