The only relief I found while caught between Ma and Pa’s cold war was when Nirmala rode her motorbike down to Thirukulamandapam for a visit. I told Pa that I would be out all day spending time with an old primary school classmate. The truth was, however, that Nirmala (who introduced herself as ‘Nirmal’ at the time) and I had met for the first time at a freshers event in college, hit it off pretty well through our shared love of Boys Over Flowers, and continued to spend time together after class nearly every day. I knew she was a little fruity, though I wasn’t sure exactly how — that is, at least until we grew comfortable enough to come out to one another. A few months later, I accompanied Nirmala to her first HRT appointment, her first step towards being an out trans woman.
However, with Thirukulamandapam being worlds apart from Chennai, Nirmala decided it was best to wear a simple, loose plaid button-up and men’s jeans. She removed her dainty rows of four-petal studs from both ears and parted her short hair off to one side. To my eyes, Nirmala could never “boymode” successfully — but when I snuck off to meet up with her at the tea stall a couple kilometers out, Anil Uncle, the vendor, chuckled at the sight of us and said, “Enna papa, boyfriend-ab.
I blushed from ear-to-ear as Nirmala laughed it off and slid him thirty rupees. “What, silly? Why are you the one getting embarrassed she said, jabbing me in the ribs. We drank our tea sitting side-by-side on the stall bench, pinkies almost touching. Then, when Nirmala gestured to the empty space behind her on the bike, I wrapped my arms around the softness of her waist as we bounded over the hilly pass along the western extremity of the town, vanishing into fog and foliage…
Away from Ma and Pa…
Away from the townspeople’s endless reservoir of problems…
Away from the newspapers plastered with Malayappan’s face, and away from the melon still sitting in our kitchen…
So far away, that we lost track of time and space and sat watching the red-yellow-violet sunset until it faded into star-studded deep blue. I had fallen asleep on Nirmala’s shoulder, nestled by her dark curls and the scent of her coconut shampoo. It was only when Nirmala gently nudged me awake with a “Hey there sleepyhead, aren’t you gonna let me head back?” that I noticed how closely she hovered over my face.
I didn’t kiss her. I wanted to — I’d been fantasizing about it for weeks. months, to the point the butterflies in my stomach had probably gone through seven life cycles — but as I looked down below at the tiny expanse of Thirukulamandapam, the eerie gleam of house lights dotting the darkness, I imagined an even smaller version of the town tucked inside my aorta, clogging my heart. I couldn’t do it.
Nirmala didn’t seem to mind. She drove me back to the tea stall and squeezed me goodbye all the same. As I watched her disappear into the distance, the warm, pale exhaust of her bike fading into the cold night. I told myself that everything would be okay.
It wasn’t. When I returned home, I expected Pa to greet me with a fresh plate of paniyaram as he’d promised earlier in the day. Instead, I found him standing on the porch with his hands tucked behind his back, looking serious. Shit.
“How long has this been going on?” Pa said through clenched teeth.
“No, Pa, I promise it’s not what you — Pa, wait!” I said, chasing after him as he stormed inside.
“Is this why I sent you off to Chennai? Is this why?” Pa, furious, began sweeping my college books and stationery off of our tea table, only to trip over the footrest and land on his hands. On the table was his phone, opened up to Phuppu’s messages. It was her who had sent the photos — of Nirmala and I, at the tea stall, laughing, our foreheads almost touching. My heart sank into my belly as Pa’s thin body shook with sobs, and the walls appeared to spin around us. There’s no coming out of this, I thought. I screwed up.
That was when Ma picked up the phone, stared at it for a bit, and then let out a raspy chuckle. Pa’s eyes shot up in disbelief. “Excuse me?” he said, indignant.
“What’s the big deal?” said Ma.
Pa hobbled onto his feet, dumbstruck, before his wobbly frown contorted into a wry grimace, “Oh? Of course. First, you teach me how to dispense Ilm-e-Jafar. Now, you want to show me how to be a father too, don’t you?” I held my breath as he continued:
“Sure, sure, Go ahead. Let her run around shamelessly, just as the city kids do — beaches, parks, the whole goddamn behayaat rotation! Soon we’ll get a message every single week with a new, strange boy each time! Is that what you want?”
Ma didn’t seem to understand. She pointed to the screen and said rather matter-of-factly, “Asad. This is a girl.”
Silence.
“…A girl?” said Pa.
“Yes. A girl. Same age as our daughter, a friend from college. That’s what Nachiyar says, and so far she’s never been wrong.”
I let go of my breath. “…Nachiyar?”
“She’s the one who’s been helping us out with Pa’s clients,” said Ma. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?”
Pa and I turned to one another. By this point, it was obvious his confusion had surmounted his anger, and he said to Ma in a shaky voice, “Sweetheart. Why don’t you go check with Nachiyar again? Just for me. Please.”
Ma rolled her eyes and walked away, tucking the loose end of her pudavai into her hip. “Nachiyarey…?” Pa and I followed the sound of her voice, slowly, cautiously, all the way into the kitchen, illuminated by a flickering tubelight—
—right where Ma stood before the melon, hands at her waist. “See that, Asad?” she said, pointing her chin towards the melon. “Just like Nachiyar said before: a girl.”
I tried to hold Pa back as he exclaimed, “Oh God, Farwa—!” He lunged forward and grabbed the melon, holding it high above his head.
I leapt forward, yanking him by the kurta. “Pa, please, don’t do anything rash—!”
But Pa, crying, continued to scream at Ma. “A melon? You’ve been talking to a stupid melon this whole time?”
Ma, now hysterical, clawed at Pa’s hands, begging him to release the melon. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Ending this, once and for all,” said Pa, raising the melon higher even as his arms trembled under its weight.
“Put her down, Asad, please, Asad, think about it. How else could I have I known what to say to everyone who came to us—”
“Coincidence, Farwa! Do you think I know what the hell I’m doing either? You pray, you believe enough, and everything happens on its own!”
“Then why won’t you believe me?”
“Because this is real life, goddamn it, not a Pooriyan Fatiha story! Melons don’t turn into the heads of princes and girls. They never have and never will, no matter how many of them you bury in a ditch!”
“I didn’t put it there! I didn’t, I—” By this point, Ma had scratched up Pa all over his face and arms. “You don’t think I’m faithful like the rest of you? I believe in the Imams, I believe in our religion — I trusted God to turn that poor girl’s head into a melon, and He did it for me, for us…!” I grabbed her hands and pulled her back as she shook her head vigorously, her heavy breaths rattling.
“I…I broke you, didn’t I? It’s my fault,” said Pa, his voice breaking, his fingers struggling to hold onto the melon. “It’s my fault for traumatizing you, for taking you by the Ashurkhana that night, when Malayappan… No. It’s my fault for marrying and trapping you in this horrid nowhere of a village, for listening to my family, for not trying harder for you. You gave up everything — your name, your faith, your parents — and in the end it’s… It’s all…”
“Asad,” said Ma, fighting my grip. “Why are you feeling guilty for something I’ve never once blamed you for?”
“...Why? Kaiku? I’ve ruined you! Don’t you hate me?”
“No,” said Ma, wrestling free. “I came with you all this way because I love you — and I only ever wanted to be useful, to be less of a burden for the both of us, Asad. I only wanted to help…” Ma collapsed onto Pa, wrapping her arms around his bony frame, sobbing.
Pa slowly lowered the melon onto the stove. His hands shook as he hovered them over Ma’s back, and then, he turned to me.
I nodded.
Pa held Ma. He cupped her crying, reddish face, smelled her hair, and kissed and kissed her over and over, whispering, I love you, I love you, again and again. And I’m sorry I hurt you, that I didn’t know how you felt for me, even after all these years… When I joined them, they pulled me tightly into their arms and kissed and rubbed my cheeks. The mess that we were — snot, tears, attar, and heartbeats — mixed into one.
Then, suddenly, a light.
“Seethevinachi?”
Ma pulled away and looked towards the light, hands reverently clasped before her breast. “Yes, Nachiyar?” she said, smiling.
Pa and I leapt back as the melon levitated over the stove, glowing, humming faintly. “Khudaya…” Pa said, breathlessly, as if he was about to faint.
“It’s time,” it said. “I think I’m ready to go back.”
“Thirukulamandapam’s legendary contract between man and spirit was so powerful that it rendered us djinn physically incapable of harming humans during the day,” said Nachiyar. “Malayappan mistook me for a human girl. He had his way with me, then beheaded me right before sundown. Even as night fell soon after, I could do nothing. I remained unconscious like that for years and years; and when I finally woke up, I called and called until my voice reached your mother’s dreams.”
Pa, Ma, and I gently lowered Nachiyar into the same pit from which she’d been dug up. Ma had an air of hesitation. She asked, “Will this really work? What if you haven’t recovered enough yet?”
“Don’t worry,” said Nachiyar
The earth began to rumble, and from within the soil emerged several interlocking roots of blue light, wrapping around the melon. Slowly, slowly, the skin of the melon began to peel back, revealing underneath its sticky-sweet flesh the face of an adolescent girl with wide, half-lidded almond eyes and a cherubic smile, as if she was a Chola bronze come to life. When she spoke, she exposed a row of tiny, razor-sharp teeth, akin to those of a carnivorous fish. Though Pa’s knees shook with fear, he continued to look upon the djinn, holding himself up by clinging onto my shoulder.
“You know, you’re a sweet one. Seethevinachi. Sweeter than melon.” And with this, Nachiyar allowed herself to be swallowed up by the earth, disappearing as a trail of light.
All quiet. In the dead of the night, the Ashurkhana loomed behind us, perched eerily above a row of rocky steps, its jhanda flag fluttering in the distance. The ceremonial chain suspended from its main gate creaked in the wind. Then, Ma laughed — and so did I and Pa. We laughed and laughed, until we held our bellies in pain as tears streamed down our cheeks. Was it the odd timing of Nachiyar’s cheesy joke? Was it the sheer absurdity of having a fruit come to life? Or were we just relieved that we’d finally managed to sew shut an unnamed wound?
Thirukulamandapam, however, wasn’t finished with us.
The sharp blade of an aruvaal was being dragged along the road, the dust it kicked up illuminated by a single, flickering yellow streetlamp. There was no mistaking that silhouette, with one end of its vetti tucked into its hip, snarling, teeth glinting. Malayappan. Swinging the aruvaal onto his shoulder, he stepped into the light, his features gaunt and ghostly, his clothes tattered. “Don’t worry. I clawed my way out of jail, just to meet you — and finish up what I should’ve done over twenty years ago.”
Ma grabbed me and Pa by our wrists, pulling us with her as she ran the stairs towards the Ashurkhana.
“But the entrance is closed,” Pa started. “Only the djinn are allowed around the Bara Imam Panja at this hou—”
“Do you trust me?” said Ma.
I tripped and fell to my knees. I could feel behind me the swish of Malayappan’s blade — just as bony, scrawny Pa scooped me up and flung me aside.
CLANG! The old, rusty padlock scattered in three pieces before Malayappan’s feet. Pa scrambled onto his back, shielding me with his body. But Ma clung onto the doors of the Ashurkhana, her hands trembling amund the handle, an oozing gash across her cheek. Malayappan towered over her, the tip of his billhook flashing in the moonlight.
“That’s the issue with you thulukkans,” he spat, his mouth bubbling with red betel paste. “Superstition, ritual — always stuck in the old times, trapped in that bogus desert cult.” He lifted his foot and placed it right beside Ma’s ear, the sole of his sandal crunching against weather-worn, splintered wood. “Ever heard of ‘survival of the fittest’? That’s how my clan has always thrived. Dominance, fear, respect. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep on going, but you! You wouldn’t dare to open that door, not even to save your own pathetic lives!”
Except Ma did open the door — and made sure to duck.
Malayappan stood gawking before a screenlike portal of blue, swirling light, snapping and crackling electrically. He took a step back, unable to look away. The portal began to pulsate and groan as it transmogrified into a mass of thick, sinewy, throbbing tendrils, shimmering with bioluminescent dots.
Ma cowered behind the door, holding onto it with her dear life, while Pa and I watched on, frozen in place. Suddenly, the tendrils shot forward, latching onto Malayappan’s cheek, then his right shoulder, then his knees and thighs. He pulled away as hard as he could, but the djinn pulled harder, tearing off chunks of skin. As Malayappan opened his mouth to yell, another tendril ripped out his gums and teeth as one whole, as if they were dentures. As we watched one part of Malayappan come undone in bloody bits, like his right hand or left foot, the tendrils would latch onto another finger or limb or ear or organ. Slowly, the djinn peeled his flesh, feasted on his tongue, dug into his stomach, lapped and gulped up his entrails, snapped his limbs, and crunched on his bones, its amphibious embrace muffling Malayappan’s screams.
Then, it was quiet — for Malayappan’s throat had been shredded and dissolved. As the hungry tendrils crunched his skull into dust, I wondered… Were we next? The being unfurled its many limbs into a pose of horrific and deadly symmetry, shivering, oozing, snapping with electricity. I remembered an old conversation with Nirmala where we’d discussed Biblically-accurate angels. I wondered, absurdly: was this a Qur’anically accurate djinn?
In that moment, I wished I had kissed Nirmala — not once or twice, but hundreds of times, until all the love swelling in my heart burst forth, enveloping us until I fully felt I was hers and she was mine. In the deepest pit of my soul, I pleaded with the djinn as it expanded towards the sky. Don’t kill us — not like this, not when I’m so far away from the city, from Nirmala, especially not when Ma and Pa just made up.
And then, the djinn’s form grew weaker, more transparent as it hissed with steam. In front of my very eyes, the djinn dissipated into humid, sticky air.
Only Malayappan’s aruvaal remained, stinking of blood.
Pa crawled towards a cowering, crying Ma, whose pudavai was splattered with dark red. “Farwa… Seethevinachi, hey, hey, look, it’s okay…” He tore off a piece of his collar with his teeth and placed it against Ma’s bleeding cheek, taking her into his arms. “It’s okay now, my moon. You’re okay.”
Meanwhile, I reached for the aruvaal and cautiously peered into the Ashurkhana.
Inside rested the Bara Imam Panja in all its glory, garlanded in rose and jasmine, caressed by the light of an oil lamp, and circumambulated by wispy, whispering, scattering shadows. A girl with long, curly hair rested her forehead against the alam.
Nachiyar? I thought.
She — yes, Nachiyar — turned and smiled at me. A bloody smile. Then she rose onto her feet, assuming a staggering height of four-and-a-half meters. The melon was nowhere to be seen.
With a gust of howling wind, the heavy wooden doors slammed shut.
*
The next morning, Pa and I let Ma sleep in.
Pa cooked up a fresh batch of idlis and three different chutneys, while I made goat brain omelet. We pitted an assortment of dates to mix into a salad of various other fruits: oranges, mangoes, grapes, and pomegranate. Then, we drizzled it with honey along with just the tiniest pinch of salt, and Pa read a short fatiha over the table.
My phone buzzed with a text notification from Nirmala.
K-Wave is in Express Avenue next weekend. Wanna come? 🙂
I hovered over my keypad for a minute or so before finally hitting send.
Sure. It’s a date. <3<3<3
Shit, why did I send that many hearts? “It’s a date?” What will she think—?
Pa tsk’d loudly as he grabbed my phone. “What did I say about texting at the dining table?”
“Fiiine, fine,” I said. Maybe postponing my anxiety attack over my crush to after breakfast wasn’t such a bad idea.
Ma entered the living room sleepy-eyed, with her tasbeeh in hand, her cheek bandaged with cotton. Knowing her, we didn’t expect much of a reaction, but there was something about her piqued “Oh?” that told me that this time was different.
Goat brain was more of Ma’s thing, not Pa’s. “Too smelly,” he said between mouthfuls.
“Then don’t eat it, stupid,” I said, upon which he grabbed me and pretended to put me into a headlock.
Ma held up a spoonful of fruit salad, inspecting it carefully. “Wait a minute… Isn’t this missing something?”
Pa and I shifted uncomfortably in our seats, not wanting to hear the “m” word again — not after last night, not for a while.
Ma’s face lit up with a gap-toothed grin that sprawled from ear-to-ear, her eyes twinkling, her pair of gold jimikki swaying as she spoke.
“What? I was about to say banana!”
This short story has been excerpted with permission from ‘The Blaft Book of Anti-Caste SF’ — an anthology of weird, fantastic, supernatural, Dalit futurist and magical realist fiction by writers from South Asia and the diaspora.
(edited by RT Samuel, Rakesh K and Rashmi RD)
To know more about anti-caste speculative fiction and the making of the book, please read this essay by RT Samuel.
