The Girly-boy

The perpetual summer in that city is an exceptional affair in its own right. Mangoes, kulfies and rusmalai. It can never get sweeter than this. The nights, that shroud the city from above, are mesmerized by the jasmine’s spell, clear and open, inciting mystic fantasies. Not gloomy or quiet at all. These nights never are. On that pitch black shroud stars are always everywhere, fighting for every nano-meter of celestial space. Both real and artificial ones, winking back at you every time you look up to them for a brief flirt or for conveying your secret wishes to the heavens behind those dots of yellow light. Just like the shabrat the tiny celestial lamps are always glittering, shinning and twinkling, as if just to celebrate the summer of that city, Islamgarh. During the days skies canopying Islamgarh are the happiest blue, dotted in every colour by the patangs that flirt with every inch of the blue canvas. The remains of the Mughal garden, around the ruins of their patron prince’s final imperial place, still resurrect themselves from their grey ashes, only to die off once again, repeating the cycle every five years. The summer heat of Islamgarh has a magic unknown to the rest of the humanity. It is jealously guarded secret that the citizen of Islamgarh have kept to themselves for more than twelve centuries, even when the heat sometimes becomes unbearable and the following monsoon drenches every aspect of their lives. But they have their mangoes, kulfies and rusmalai to see them through life, with all that it can throw upon them, from prevailing and persistent adversities to the occasional glimpses of personal happiness.

The summer in that city is so hot that it can make your face look red like a monkey’s bottom if you stay out to fly those kites. But no boy in Islamgarh has ever minded the heat of the day or the colour of the monkey’s bottom on his face. Kites and flying them is all that matters. Kites are for the people of warm hearts and boiling passion, people who can loose themselves in a kite’s flight, people who can fight for them and live for them. Kites of that city are much like women, distant they are more responsive they become. Perhaps not all of them. Birds and kites. Kites and birds. Skies above the city are as busy as the streets and bazaar’s under them. There are always traffic jams both above and below.

Islamgarh was the city he was born in and born to. Even now that he isn’t anymore above it but below it he still is in that city. And between these to existences he had his life in Islamgarh. From below the soil of his beloved Islamgarh, from his grave, he sees his first days. He watches his early awareness’s. He recalls his first memories from above the soil.

He smiles to himself in the hot darkness of his grave at the thought of when he had just begun to discover what it’s to be a man———the difference between him and some of his classmates————the girls. Inside his dark underground room he has no more eyes but a consciousness. He watches and amuses himself.

His consciousness takes him back to those early days, to girls. Then he was beginning to discover that he loved them all and wanted them all. He was also in love with all his unmarried teachers with their near perfect bottoms and very full chests. But he felt a special love for the one with most perfect bottom and semi-sad eyes. The one that taught English to his class. To him she was so perfect, so beautiful. Even then he somehow knew the way to their feminine hearts and could charm them all with the exception of one little girl, six months older than himself, with a running nose who never liked anything, including him. Disappointed by her indifference he concentrated on the rest. He focused on getting close to them and listening to their stories, from their new dolls and clothes. To his teachers’ rising frustrations in not finding anyone right to get married. He listened to their fears of getting old at the age of twenty twos or threes. He always thought to himself, “But what about me? I love you”. He would feel jealous but he would always keep on listening and understanding the finer abstractions and apprehensions of his females.

Girls were much easy for him to comprehend and he knew how to get them close to him. But it was the boys whom he could not understand and found his charms useless when it came to them. The boys in turn had discovered that it was rather amusing to make his life a living hell and for their satisfaction they indulged into this sport to their hearts’ content. For being shy and romantic were mortal sins in those boys’ code of male conduct. He was guilty on both accounts. Just like the langoors in the small forest outside Islamgarh every under dog would pick on him to get a step up in the macho hierarchy, keeping him essentially a stepping stone which he no doubt was. He was the girly-boy to them. He had no choice but to pay for his artistic-poetic existence with pain, insults and rejections from his own gender.

But lately he had discovered the art of making friends both with men and women. Boys loved toys. And girls, well, they loved toys too, along with sweetness of his words and chocolates. He had them both in plenty. Being rich helped. He would even soften his teacher (the one with perfect bottom and semi-sad eyes) with his older eyes and childish smiles and chocolates, of course. He was still the girly-boy but now the mugging and brutalising had subsided to only an occasional brush, whenever his ‘friend’, his class’s top dog, wasn’t around. And it also helped him to have an older, cousin-like, neighbour boy in the senior class. Life was turning to be sweeter at school as he was beginning to master the art of social management. He was getting good at it with every passing day. It was the making of a good and sensitive politician and for good reason too. Since it was a role already fashioned for him, even before his birth. As his latent genes began kicking in his character as a future political leader at national level from Islamgarh began taking shape. Nothing but total love directed towards him and art of manipulation of others would do in the years to come. He had the potential for both. Only practice would make him solid and consistent.

He would have to go through some more harsh drills before coming out of his girly-boy cocoon. But there was enough time for that and there were other more beautiful things to do before that inevitable transition. Girls and kites. Kites and girls. For him there was nothing else there to bother or worry about. Girls and kites it was for his impeding years. From his grave, looking at himself a child, he wonders how incredible it is the way life takes its own meaning. He smiles his invisible smile to see how his early preoccupations gave his life all its colours and flavour. He watches further the movie of his life.

Then he didn’t even have any concept of spending money. All he ever did was wish and things were arranged. Life was only wishing and then subsequently getting what was wished for. Girls and kites.

His school day was almost over. The driver was there to pick him up. As he came out of the door, the driver greeted him in his accustomed way and took his bag. He opened the front door and sat besides the driver’s seat. Today the neighbour boy was not getting any lift for he came late to his rescue when he needed him. They car went snaking through the city that looked like a bride, decorated and excited. After something longer than half an hour they reached his ancestral havali. He made straight to the kitchen as the driver followed him carrying his bag, smiling at his little nawab sahib.

He grabbed a ripe mango form the fridge and began crushing it with his thumbs to mollify its solid content into juice. Working on his mango he went out in the veranda and examined the garden that laid beyond. He heard a familiar voice behind him and he turned to greet it.
“She is here. Just arrived form the village,” his grandmother, dadee-jee, said.
A sudden stream of joy spread through his face, making his eyes shine with anticipations and excitement. He knew where she was and made for that room.

He could barely stop his heart jumping to his throat. He had heard about her and her beauty and temperament. The expectations of his mental image of her were running high and making his hormones run wild. He was dying to see her. He reached the door of the room where she was supposed to stay. As he neared it he heard two male voices coming from inside of that room. One was that of his father and the other one belonged to his indulging grandfather, his dada-jee. She was standing between them, looking scared and tired, barely able to hold her head high as his grandfather brushed her neck with his fingers. He stood there frozen, documenting her presence in his head and noting her fears as she stood among the two men. He wanted them to leave her alone, alone for him that is.

The two men came out of the room and he was greeted by his grandfather as his father closed the door of her room behind him. His grandfather told him that she was tired and needed rest. And that he could visit her later in the evening. Then they went back to havali crossing a long pavement that connected the servant quarters and the havali backdoor, the lawns and garden spread idly between those two structures.

He could not hold his curiosity and after ten minutes ran back to the servants’ quarters to see her. The door was still closed but he could see the interior through the slots in the door. There she was, sitting in the corner of the room, looking tired and fragile. She sensed his presence at the door and slightly turned her head towards him, making it not too obvious. The sudden beauty of her dark skin colour and the elegance of her neck took him off his feet. Her eyes appeared to him to be so innocent, so pure———semi-sad, gorgeous and tired. To him she appeared to be just beautiful. He could not make the full composition of her as the room was dark and she had curled herself in the corner, making it difficult for him to appreciate her grace and form fully. But that would come later. She took her head slightly away from his side. He could see the sleekness of her neck as it supported her magnificent head that hosted those gazelle’s eyes. He was felt captivated by her spell.

For quite some time he remained there glued to the door slot. Then a servant came to fetch him for lunch. He would come back to see her and talk to her later, with the knowledge that her name was Ranni and that she came from their own village sixty kilometres away from Islamgarh. He would boast next day to his girlfriends, his teachers and the boys in his class about how good looking Ranni was. And nobody would give a damn except his cherished teacher with perfect bottom and semi-sad eyes and a few girlfriends who were not jealous of his new love affair. Especially, the teacher with perfect bottom and semi-sad eyes when she would discover from him that Ranni and she have almost the same beauty in their eyes. The girly-boy knew, even at that age, what made women tick. Inside the graves he smiles again, seeing himself charming his teacher. Then he watches the movie further.

The next day was the last day at school that was closing for the festival holidays. Everyone was overjoyed that there was no homework. He was happy too. Now he could spend more time with Ranni. He invited all the girls in his class to his house for the festivities and his teacher with perfect bottom and semi-sad eyes like Ranni’s but she refused, sadly. The school closed early and he had to wait for his driver for a bit longer because the city was jammed-packed with people and traffic. Shopping mania was having its seasonal go in the heads of Islamgarhians. Finally, the driver came and they drove to the havali.
He went straight to Ranni’s room and quietly sat there watching her through a big slot in her door. He couldn’t tell whether she knew that he loved her so much. The two of them hadn’t yet made introduction with each other.

It was almost afternoon and a servant came to fetch him again. When he reached the family sitting room he was overjoyed with the gifts and clothes that were displayed there. Every aunt and uncle, every relative and relation social or business had sent gifts and sweets with cards of best wishes, bearing the names of the senders. The little girly heart in his small chest was beating, jumping to find so many gifts and sweets in one room. His dadee-jee started distributing clothes and sweets among everyone, starting with their servants. When the servants were dealt with she showered his parents and sisters with what was for them, in the respective order. Dadee-jee’s best was kept for the last. It was the turn of her only grandson. She kissed his forehead, holding it in both of her hands, smiling and praying in her heart for him, the one who had to carry the unbroken line of centuries, only forward. She loaded him with clothes and toys and boxes of chocolates and sweets, his future investments in friends and teachers.

That night the sky had a reluctant crest of moon on it. That delicate curve appeared there to jubilations of Islamgarhians below. Then it disappeared. Then the sky became darker and began to get studded with stars and fire works, multiplying the number of stars every time they exploded high up in the air, illuminating earth below on their way down. The entire city was like a drunk young man, exclaiming euphoria and joy. In his own courtyard the servant’s were lighting the fire works and shooting the rockets to the sky. This went on for long into the night. He was so taken by the spectacle that he forgot every thing else, even his new love, the shy Ranni.

Next morning was everyone up early to dress in their new clothes and greet friends and family who would begin coming at their havali from the first day light. The servants had their work cut out for the day. They would be running up and down that entire day. He was all dressed up in his expensive traditional clothes and a pair of Salim-shahi shoes, looking very distinguished for his age. After the breakfast of Kashmiri tea and some fried nans he went out to see Ranni but was stopped by his dadee-jee from doing so. Curling him in her big lap she told him that it was good for Ranni to be alone at the moment. He couldn’t understand why but obeyed her anyway, his most solid ally. After letting his grandmother indulge him for some more minutes he went to men’s room to sit with his grandfather and his friends. He always liked the old guys with their stories of bombing the bridge to stop the English getting supplies and things even more remarkable, more chivalrous during the early days of Independence struggle from the Raj. These old people and their old, much repeated stories were exciting every time he heard them.

As the old ones were reciting their stories a man entered the room with some tools wrapped in a dirty cloth and saluted his grandfather, shook his hand, and then his father’s and then the rest of the men in the gathering except him. The very next moment a fat man with long and bushy beard appeared. He saluted his grandfather and shook his hand and his father’s and then the rest. The little boy was spared once again. The bearded man made to sit near his grandfather and immediately inquired if Ranni was still a virgin, emphasizing the importance of Ranni’s being a virgin. After being assured by the head of the family about the unblemished virtue of Ranni the fat man raised his hands and with a loud prayer wished for peace for everyone in this world and forgiveness in the next. After the prayer ceremony the fat man insisted on blessing Ranni as well. As his grandfather and the bearded man made for her room he joined them, holding his dada-jee’s right hand, the fat man being on the left. All the way the fat man shed light on social and religious issues, leaving no issue un-lit. He went on and on, moving from social issues to spiritual ones and then to the politics in the country.

He got tired of the long monologues from the holy man and left for his grandmother. He wanted to save Ranni. He tried to charm her with the usual smile and putting down of his head on her vast bosom but that big woman remained unmoved. He knew that very well that sometimes it was impossible to make her do when she had delivered her flat NO. His dadee-jee still had some blue blood running in her old veins. No charming was going to move her today. She asked him if he wanted anything else than his request concerning Ranni. But he was her grandson and wouldn’t want anything else. The suborn blood in him had the same shade of the family old blue too. He went to the window that opened into the garden and where he could make a bit of the room where Ranni was staying, just a bit behind the big brush-bottle tree. He began picturing Ranni in his mind, seeing her semi-sad eyes over and over, again and again. He was still clouding his mind with these colourful fantasies when he saw his grandfather and father escort Ranni out of her room. She was sand-witched between the two men and kept her head down as they took her to the patio of the courtyard that was immediately spread at the back of the havali, partitioning it from the rest of the garden leaving only an old fountain and fading tiles on its surface.

He asked his dadee-jee what the men were going to do to Ranni and why the fat man with bushy beard was there too along with the other man, who by now could really be defined as professional butcher. Trying to sooth his anxieties she told him that it was the tradition to slaughter a virgin on the first day of the festival and since Ranni was a virgin she had to be slaughtered. This shocked the light out of him and he produced a very loud cry of ‘NO!’ The dadee-jee tried to contain him in her arms, trying to explain that it had to go through. And one day he would have to do the same, for sacrificing virgin was a tradition and everyone of the family must uphold it. But he wouldn’t have any of this and broke free from her grip and made to the courtyard, screaming ‘NO!’ all the way.

As he reached the concrete floor they had already made her lie down on the ground and men were holding her each limb, her elegant neck firmly held in the hands of the butcher as his assistant pushed her chin down with his hands, leaving no chance for movement, for escape. The fat man went on hymning whatever he was hymning, as the butcher raised his knife to have one last lustful look at its keen edge before penetrating into Ranni’s neck.

By now he had made there and was very upset. One of the servants stopped him. But scene of seeing Ranni subjected to things opposite that he had planned for her in his head made him go mad and loose all sense of consequences of his actions. The fear, rage and sheer rebellion gave him a strength more than his five years old body could muster. The servant were having a hard time to contain him without being harsh with the little nawab sahib. His grandfather went to him and said very firmly to calm down. But the grandson wouldn’t have it. And then came the familiar cold look of his father from a distance. He became quiet as a stone. His grandfather held his hand and nodded at the butcher who was waiting for the signal and with vigour violated Ranni’s neck as he swiftly penetrated her neck from the eager edge of his knife till the hilt. The knife went through her soft neck like warm butter knife through a slab of butter. A stream of red blood came out as the butcher retrieved his blade to make the second slash, showering the clothes of his assistant with it. The second cut made its way to her neck joint and revealed the bluish white vertebrae, opening the wind pipe wide and as the blood made its way out of her body, it passed by the now opened windpipe, leaving a mixture of gusting sounds behind before it could touch the floor. Wind coming out and going in her lungs through the wide open windpipe made a hiss that almost seemed echoing against the havali walls. She didn’t make any attempt to resist this slaughter of her body. As if she was expecting this bloodshed and had somehow accepted it and was prepared for it, letting her being slaughtered at her own free will.

He stood there, now without the restraining embrace of the servant and watched the whole drama of Ranni’s bloodying along with everyone. There she was spread on the concrete floor, wrapped in the sheet of her own blood which was dying quickly as it came in contact with the air. Her troubled breathing was still making the hiss as the air came in and out of her wounded throat. Her eyes were wide open, without any sadness or pain. Just open to their natural limits. As the men let her limbs go she gently rolled to the side, away from her lover, the girly-boy, and kept on draining herself from warmth, air, blood and life as the fat man kept on hymning his stuff.

The flow of blood from her wound was becoming gentler and blood that already had spread itself on the floor was beginning to turn thick and clotted black, not wanting to be red anymore. The hiss of air became ever louder as the flow of blood from her became weak. It was as if she had sighed out all of her grief and pains in one gust. She shook her body, just a gentle jerk nothing violent, along with that great hiss and then only silence came out of her. She had become still.

One of the servants began collecting her blood in a bucket with palms of his both hands making a bowl of them as he swept the thickening blood into the cavity of this combined hands. When he was done he would drain this clotting blood on the roots of the trees of the garden. The butcher and his assistant began sharpening their skinning knifes, for the skin had to be removed when the body was still warm, much easier this way.

He had seen enough and left for inside. As he left he heard behind him a hiss of ‘girly-boy’. He didn’t turn back to determine who uttered that sound for he recognised that voice very well. He went straight to the rooftop and got his thread and patang out of the shed and threw it into the air. The gush of wind took the kite away with it and in an instance it was airborne. He heard behind some sounds and turned to examine. It was the girls from his class. He turned his head back and fixed his eyes on the kite. “I have got gifts for you….. and more,” he said, still looking at the kite. The girls came nearer and surrounded him in their familiar fashion and he forgot all about Ranni and her slaughter. For she was only a virgin cow and these were his girlfriends from school———girls, that he loved. He thought for a moment about his teacher with perfect bottom and semi-sad eyes but then he didn’t care about anything else. He had it all kites and girls that he had wished for that day.

In his grave his consciousness smiled again. And then its mind went to the memories when he had stopped being a girly-boy.