The Wild Ones Read online

  Another middle worlder in a purple sari that is a touch brighter than her equally purple skin walks coolly down the opposite street, turning heads but not for the reason you’d think.

  We are visible to humans today, and as long as we don’t give it away, middle worlders cannot tell that we aren’t human either. So we pretend that we don’t notice the middle worlders who express themselves more fantastically than others. This is an added layer of protection we have carefully cultivated.

  The city is waking up to a new day. We pause a minute, appreciate the heat already pronounced in the air, and then plunge into the chaos. The middle worlders whom we think safe are the ones we follow. Initially, they think us human and ignore us, but when we insist on talking to them, they realize we see them for what they are. Some of them question us, curious about who we are and what we’re doing in Agra. We give them nonanswers or elaborate lies.

  We ask our own questions, like where to find the most delicious sabzi, which shops to go to, and, most importantly, who to be careful of in this city. We listen to what they say and we hear what they don’t.

  Many middle worlders congregate in places thick with magic, and so we travel by rickshaw to monuments that serve as homages to human brilliance; we go to the Red Fort and spend a few hours walking around the Sheesh Mahal, wandering through the Anguri Bagh, and drinking in the hallowed splendor of Nagina Masjid. We find pockets of middle worlders, and all of them have something to say about Baarish. We do not even need to direct these conversations. These places we mention, though just words on a page to you, are steeped in history and memory. How can we hope to convey even a tiny bit of that to you? Due to the many lives lived and lost in these places, the magic is potent here, like deep wine. Those of the middle world who linger here are full to the point of spilling over from the power in these places. They speak far more easily than middle worlders hungry for magic would.

  In a dim, crowded restaurant, over a silver thali containing little bowls of sambar, tamarind chutney, sabzi, and potato-stuffed parantha, we listen to a not-human girl tell us about Baarish’s grandsons (he has more than five) and her escape from them. It is not a pretty story, and she doesn’t dress it up as such. She shows us her scars.

  On our way to yet another place with deep magical wells, we see a little human girl holding a broom in the doorway of a shop, staring at a bunch of giggling schoolchildren with such naked longing on her face that we pause, unsure how to respond. In the next moment, a woman comes and drags her inside by the ear.

  In the late afternoon, we pass a market and we see a young woman holding plastic bags filled with groceries in one hand and a little baby in the other. Two little ones hang on to the pallu of her sari. She walks behind a man who swings his empty hands while walking, whistling as he ogles the women he passes.

  When the sun fades into red streaks in the sky, we return to the hotel.

  Paheli: The Spies Who Came In from the Between

  Sometimes, when I am walking along a street in a city somewhere, and the skies are the blue of a bruise three days after the hurt was first received, I feel a twinge of homesickness for a place that never existed. When I see people returning home at the end of the day, I, too, wish I had a place to return to. A forever home.

  When we return to the hotel after our day of reconnaissance, which yielded far more fruit than I thought it would, it is already early evening. Tired, we call for room service after we finish our ablutions and gather in the living room of the Koh-i-noor suite. The doors to the balcony are open, inviting the warm attention of the night outside. The heat is kept at bay by the air conditioner.

  The best thing about being in Agra right now is the abundance of mangoes. They are peeled and diced and, most importantly, they are sweet.

  “Are we going to go meet Taraana tomorrow?” Areum asks with a kulfi in each hand. Ooh, the kulfi looks good too.

  “No,” I reply, my attention still on the kulfi. I know Valentina’s looking at me. I can feel her gaze boring a hole through me from across the room. “We found out a lot about Baarish, but I feel like there’s still something more we can find out.”

  “She was watching a spy movie in Beirut,” Widad whispers loudly to Kamboja. “She had that look in her eyes.” I ignore them.

  “Baarish has an estate in Khandari, which is not too far from here actually. I’m going to go undercover as a housemaid,” I tell them.

  “Do you fancy yourself Mata Hari?” Ligaya asks, sitting up. Her short hair is sticking out in all directions, making her look like a bristling chick.

  “Of course not!” I am offended. “She got caught!”

  “What happens if you do?” Valentina demands.

  “First, magic is useless against us, and no one can rip the stars from our palms. I won’t remove them willingly, so magic will remain useless against me. Second, like you all, I can scream. Oh, I can also use the invisibility to work for me,” I say.

  “We are vulnerable to violence, Paheli,” Valentina reminds me. Ah. Yes. So we are. But I am willing to take the risk and say as much.

  “I will go with you,” Widad says suddenly. She squares her shoulders when we look at her. “It’s much better than letting Paheli go by herself,” she says with a sweet dignity that hurts my heart. I don’t know why my sisters think I’m so unreliable, but their nagging is how they express their affection, so I let it go.

  The next day, very early in the morning, Widad and I take a rickshaw to Khandari, one of the more affluent neighborhoods in Agra. We get off a little way before we reach Baarish’s mansion. All the houses in this neighborhood are sprawling havelis, each of them a little more palatial than the last. We peek through the guarded gates for glimpses of them.

  Humans, to whom we are currently invisible, work at these havelis, maintaining the gardens and cleaning the insides. The middle worlders living here walk among the so-called elite in the human society, pretending to be just like them, defined by the amount of money and assets they have. A person’s worth in this society is calculated by how much they have and not who they are inside.

  These middle worlders, just like their human counterparts, export chefs from expensive culinary schools, have foreign cars chauffeured by soft-spoken and well-educated drivers; they wear clothes specially designed for their bodies. The rest of the world may be struggling to make ends meet, but these 1 percent show their worth by the amount of food they discard daily.

  There is beauty in this world, of course there is, if you have time to see it and the money to afford it. Most of us, whether human or middle worlder, don’t. Most of us are machines, programmed to wake up and work, to live facsimiles of lives, and to what purpose? Why are we the background scenery, the extras, for those chosen few who have taken this world, and us, hostage? Where our breaths, pain, and sweat fuel their lives and we, fools that we are, don’t even realize it.

  Anarchy sometimes appeals to me.

  It doesn’t take us long to reach Baarish’s mansion; it is, unsurprisingly, the biggest estate on the street. The tall fence and the guarded gates show that he takes his security seriously. He probably makes a new enemy every time he breathes. We linger at the gates until a milkman shows up and they open to admit him. Thankfully, the guards and the milkman are both human and thus unable to see us as we slip in. Widad looks nervous and I squeeze her hand. She gives me a tremulous smile.

  We walk up the long driveway, taking our time to admire the roses blooming in the garden. Gardeners, dressed in white dhotis and kurtas, are busily pruning the rosebushes. Sprinklers are whirring around the gardens, giving the morning dew a helping hand. The vista is ridiculously peaceful. Who would say that a monster resides within the four walls of this house? Since when have monsters started liking roses?

  Widad pinches me and I come to attention. We follow the milkman to the back entrance. The plan is to pretend we are housemaids; we have certainly dressed for the part in drab saris. Wigs and contact lenses make us less noticeable. The wig itch
es like I’m wearing a moth-ridden woolen coat on my head, but I endure. We are invisible to the humans but visible to the middle worlders. So the human servants won’t see us, while Baarish’s family will (hopefully) assume us new additions in their service. This is a risky strategy, and I’m not sure if we’re going to be able to pull this off, but there’s no harm in trying.

  I keep Widad with me, and we attach ourselves to a group of maids carrying brooms and rags. The mansion has two wings and three floors. On the wall in the central living room is a large, rather complicated family portrait including everyone except Baarish’s lone granddaughter. Baarish’s sons and grandsons look very much like younger versions of him. We do not see Baarish, but his sons and grandsons are at home. They stalk around the house as if they own the world; they speak in loud voices and expect everyone else to cower. They sit with their legs spread wide. They command the servants, expecting immediate obedience, and punish those whom they consider subversive. Some maids they leer at, but others, who don’t meet their standards of beauty, are ignored. We are lucky to be among the latter.

  Their wives and mothers do nothing to curb their behaviors. From what we observe of their interactions, they enable their husbands and sons. With feather dusters in our hands, Widad and I make our way through the mansion, attentive to anything that might help us with the Baarish problem.

  Three hours later, our efforts pay off when we see Baarish’s youngest son walk into the house looking furtive. He is carrying a box in his hands, and, avoiding the rest of his family, he walks swiftly to a room on the ground floor in the left wing. I grab Widad’s hand and pull her outside onto the veranda wrapped around the house. The windows of all the rooms on the ground floor are open, so we walk along the veranda, hoping that luck is on our side. And it is.

  So, we eavesdrop on the conversation Baarish’s son is having with his wife.

  They speak of their daughter and Baarish’s only granddaughter, Tabassum Naaz. Hmm. She must be the one who saved Taraana, twice.

  “How long does my daughter have to live in exile?” Baarish’s daughter-in-law asks, her voice low.

  “It’s better for her to live in exile than be dead!” her husband replies in a whisper.

  Wow. How exciting.

  The woman suppresses a sob. “Can you be sure she’s safe in Istanbul? If your father catches her…”

  “He is too busy looking for that keeper to bother with Tabassum right now. Call her. Tell her to lie low and not draw attention to herself,” Baarish’s son replies.

  “I want to see her! She’s my only child!” The woman sobs.

  “It’s better if she stays far away from here, Gulnaaz,” the son replies. “You know that.”

  They don’t say anything more, so I pull Widad away. Back in the house, we linger around the empty living room next to the entrance, dusting the stone head of a rather ugly man half-heartedly. We should leave now, but I can’t help feeling there’s more to be learned here.

  Ten minutes pass and I am forced to concede. However, before we can take more than two steps, someone comes down the stairs. The back of my neck prickles and I immediately turn, keeping my eyes cast down. I squeeze Widad’s hand. I feel her tremble.

  “Girl.” I recognize the voice in the way you recognize things and people you really wish you didn’t. When did Baarish return to the house? Why didn’t we see him earlier? My heart starts dancing in my chest.

  “Ji, sarkar?” I reply, even though it isn’t clear which of us he is talking to. Bollywood movies have given me a dialogue for this scene. I delivered the “Yes, sir?” in the perfect tone. Valentina will be proud of me right before she kills me for taking this risk.

  “Bring a cup of tea to the study,” he says, and continues on his way down the stairs and into what I assume is the study at the end of the corridor just by the living room. He didn’t even wait to see whether I followed his orders, so confident is he of the obedience of his servants. We sag against each other when he is gone; I remind myself that I am stronger than I was. That I, and not my fear, control this situation.

  Then I wipe the cold sweat on my palms and we make our way to the kitchen, which is in the expected state of controlled chaos. Due to the constant demands of the family, there’s a kettle of chai simmering all day on a stovetop. I gesture to Widad to wait on the side and wade into the chaos.

  I pick up a cup, saucer, and tray from the sideboard; they become invisible as soon as I touch them; perhaps they become imbued with a fantastic flavor not meant for human eyes. I fill the cup with tea and arrange the items on the tray, making sure not to bump into anyone.

  “Are you really doing this?” Widad stops me when I emerge from the kitchen.

  “Yes,” I tell her with a smile I don’t really mean.

  “What if he recognizes you?” she demands.

  “He won’t,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “He needs to look at me to do that, and he won’t. He thinks I’m human, and humans are beneath his notice.”

  “If you don’t return in ten minutes, I am screaming the house down,” Widad warns me before I go.

  Perhaps she changes her mind about staying behind, but Widad comes at least halfway with me. She hides in an empty sitting room while I willingly walk into the monster’s mouth.

  I know, all right? This may not be the best idea I’ve had, but if I walk away right now, I will always wonder if I missed something that would have helped me help Taraana, help us. I am cobbled together by foolish ideas and reckless behavior. It has kept me alive so far.

  Baarish’s voice bids me enter when I knock, so I open the door with one hand and awkwardly maneuver my way into the study. One of Baarish’s sons—I recognize him from the portrait—is in the room with him, and I freeze, wondering if I should have brought another cup, but no one pays any attention to me. I put the tray on the desk, glance at Baarish, and turn to go. I am almost at the door when Baarish speaks.

  “Girl.” The scream I keep in my throat is almost out of my mouth, but I manage to keep my lips closed until it is pressed down again.

  “Ji, sarkar?” I turn around, my heart pounding.

  “Is there sugar in the tea?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir,” I reply in my most subservient voice.

  He nods and waves at me to leave. It takes me three steps to get out of the study, but I don’t leave the area. Instead, I stand right next to the door and press my ear against it in the conventional eavesdropping pose.

  Baarish doesn’t look like a monster at home. He is wearing a cotton white shalwar kameez, looking like someone’s grandfather. It is difficult to believe that someone who looks as benign as he does could torture Taraana.

  Baarish and his son talk about people I am not familiar with for a long while. I am wondering if I should leave when Baarish’s son mentions Taraana.

  “Abba, did you really find that boy?” The man’s voice is muted through the door. It is obvious who the subject of their conversation is.

  “I saw him, but I wasn’t able to capture him. He has found some girls to hide behind,” Baarish says, the scorn in his voice loud and clear. “He will return to me eventually. How can he escape?”

  “What if he does? What if one of the others catches him first?” The man sounds anxious.

  “You don’t need to worry about him,” Baarish says. His words are nothing less than a command. “What was the cause of the disturbance yesterday?”

  “People in our clan are complaining about the amount of magic distributed to them,” Baarish’s son replies. “They seem to think the Dar is keeping the quota that is legally theirs. Abba, is the magic really decreasing?”

  “If not, what? The decreasing magic has everyone around the world worried. Even the magic that is harvested is of poor quality,” Baarish says. They are silent for a bit. “Don’t worry. As long as I get the boy, we will have more than enough magic. Until then, keep the people in control. No matter what it takes.” He pauses. “Is the stock ready to be shipped?�
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  Stock? What kind of stock is Baarish selling? I listen harder.

  “We had to move them. One of the children ran away and managed to reach the human police,” the son says.

  “And?” Baarish’s voice is sharp.

  “We paid them enough to buy their silence.” Baarish’s son chuckles. “It was an easy transaction.”

  “Where is the stock now?”

  “The warehouses near Shaheed Smarak Park,” the son says. “Jugul is waiting for us there right now. He wants to try the experiment before the stock is shipped.”

  “Very well. Let’s go.” I hear the sound of a chair being scraped back and straighten.

  I run to the empty sitting room Widad is hiding in a minute before the door to the study opens. We cower behind the closed door of the room until they are gone. Until we can no longer hear their footsteps.

  Baarish, he sells children. He is involved in child trafficking.

  The monster under the bed is no longer under the bed. He is standing in front of me, and I must decide whether to confront him or run away.

  The question is, if I run away, how will I retain what remains of my humanity? I haven’t been human for a long while now, but some light in me still persists. I cannot bear to extinguish it.

  Widad looks at me. “What is it?”

  “I have to follow Baarish and his son,” I say. “You don’t have to come with me. Things may get more dangerous than you’ve signed up for.”

  “Why? What’s happened? What did you find out?” The series of questions rushes out from her and lingers in the air between us. If I were kind, I wouldn’t answer.

  But kindness is a distant skill. I don’t care to claim it too often.