The villagers affectionately called her the Witch. I call her my
ghost. Who am I kidding? I can no longer call her that. But I get ahead of
myself. I should start at the start. That is the way she liked it. Still likes
it, I hope.
I first met her nearly two decades ago. I was twenty one and was
visiting my grandparents at their ancestral village. Though they often stayed
with my parents, I had never been to their house. I was excited. Mixed with the
anticipation was also the city lad's readiness to patronize the villagers. I
was looking forward to being marvelled at for my enlightening thoughts.
When the village turned out to be quite developed, educated and
modern, I was disappointed. Here I was, all ready to show off and there was
hardly anyone to impress!
Then they told me about the Witch. My heart crowed with glee.
But it would have seemed unseemly to jump in delight at the opportunity to show
these simple folks, the errors of their ways. I assumed a restrained mien.
"A Witch?" I twisted my head to look at my grandmother
who was busy in the kitchen. "Grandma! You never told me about this. That
people here believe in witches. In this day and this age, no less."
I stared in pompous indignation at the old man who had come to
meet my grandmother's grandson. They were childhood friends, I was told.
"Really?" The old man grinned. "We should not
believe in witches? Do tell."
I frowned. Was the old man making fun of me?
My grandmother came to my rescue. "Oh, hush. Don't tease the
darling child," she admonished her friend, before turning to me. "Of
course, we don't believe in witches, you idiot. What kind of old fashioned,
illiterate people you take us to be! She is not a real witch, you know."
Slowly, I gathered the story. The Witch was a twenty year old
blind girl who lived in a big mansion on the outskirts of the village. She was
the only daughter of the local gentry, who were believed to have been royalty
in the distant past. Her parents had died in an accident two years ago. And it
was during this time, she had acquired the name.
The girl now lived alone in the big house. Her parents had left
her enough money to free her of the worries about earning a livelihood. She had
closed most of the house and used only a bedroom, a small library and a sitting
room. She did not have any regular servants but had two locals who cleaned her
place and did the shopping for her once a week. The family lawyer sent her
money every month to meet her needs. She rarely left the house and its grounds.
Had never been even outside the village, if word was to be believed.
"But how does she manage?" I asked. "On a day to
day basis, I mean? What does she do with herself?"
"Ah," said the old man. "That is where the magic
lies."
When I seemed even more befuddled, he promised to take me to
meet her on the morrow. "But on one condition," he warned. "You
must not treat her like an oddity or talk to her in those condescending and
pitying tones people reserved for those they see as 'less'."
The next day, I went to meet her with my grandmother's friend.
The house where she lived was shaded from the rest of the village by a thick
grove of mango trees. It being a hot summer day, the air was laden with a
delicious, juicy sweetness that tempted me to pluck one of those ripe fruits.
The house itself was quite grand, though not as much as it must
have been a hundred years ago, I suspected. It was maintained just enough to
remind the onlooker of its past grandeur. Now it looked like a retired king,
who had settled gracefully into being a benign grandfather.
She was waiting for us in the sitting room, the old man having
informed her of the visit in advance. As we entered the room, she turned from
the window where she had been standing. And looked right at me.
"Hello," she said. I was pretty sure that she was
addressing me since her eyes gently were boring into mine. She was blind,
wasn't she?
I recovered enough in a few seconds to reply. "Hello."
I took in her appearance. She was simply and elegantly dressed
in contrasts - pastels and bold, gorgeous crimson, a seam hugging a curve here
and the rest falling in soft, loose folds. She was tall and coltish, yet held
herself with the grace of a more mature woman. Her hair was tied back in a
loose ponytail; her slender hand wore no rings and rested on the windowsill.
Finally, I brought my eyes up to look into the pair that was
supposed to be blind. They were shaped exotically, with a catlike uptilt at the
corners. The pupils were dark but the irises were just a shade lighter. The
difference was almost imperceptible; I think it was the way, the light from the
window slanted across her eyes that allowed me to spot this - because I have
never seen it again in all the years between then and now.
Disconcerted a little and propelled by the not so gentle poke in
my ribs, I walked further into the room, with my hand outstretched.
And it was then that I noticed it. It sat quietly, still as a
pebble on her right shoulder, with its head almost hidden behind her ear.
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Source: Wikipedia |
It was a Sparrow.
But its eyes were focussed on mine like the girl’s. They
looked sentient, almost human in their intensity. It was eerie.
I jerked my gaze from the bird to the girl. She was smiling
and had grasped my hand.
“Welcome to my home,” she said. Her voice was clear,
confident, unaccented. It was as if she had learnt the language from someone
who had invented it.
I shook my head. I was growing addled. It was all this talk
of magic and witched which was influencing me.
“Thank you,” I replied. “Your home and the village are
lovely. My grandparents often talked about it but this is the first time I have
managed to come here.”
Over the next couple of hours, she took us on a tour of the
house, served delicious, spicy tea and told me all about the history of her
family. And all of this without stumbling once as she navigated without
assistance around the house. When my grandmother’s friend was not looking, I surreptitiously
waved my hands in front of her eyes to check if she was truly blind.
The Sparrow which had not left its perch on her shoulder all
this while, had just before flown to window sill to catch the last orange rays
on its homely brown wings.
The girl did not react to my waving hand. She was truly
blind.
Once I accepted that, I relaxed and began to enjoy her
company. She was actually quite talkative and vivacious. I was beginning to see
the magic – in the way she handled herself, ‘saw’ the world around her.
“What do you do all day long? Don’t you get bored?” It was a
rather intrusive question and the old man looked daggers at me. But I was
curious. My grandmother often warned me against it.
She shrugged. “Not really. I have all these stories.” She waved
her hand at the books lining the walls of the room.
“Are they…” I trailed off. This was a breach even my
impudence would not allow.
“In Braille? No. None of them are. But I can still know them,
can’t I?” Her smile was mischievous while the bird’s steady gaze assessed me.
I had no reply.
“You are a curious little cat, aren’t you?” she teased a little
later, with the ease of an old acquaintance. “What is it that you want to do? Or,
do you have a treasure to live upon for your entire life?”
I was a little taken aback by the way the tables had turned
upon me. But I had to admit, it was only fair that I answered her. “Haven’t
really decided,” I hedged. “May be a writer.”
As soon as the last words left my mouth, I swear, an unholy
gleam came into both their eyes.
“Really? Maybe, we can swap stories this summer. Be each
other’s Schehezerade,” she spoke with a smile. I got a feeling that somehow
this was extremely important to her.
“Okay.”
When her shoulders relaxed, I noticed that in the last few
minutes, she had been sitting almost at the edge of her seat.
Puzzled, I was about to remark, when the old man (whom I had
completely forgotten) cleared his throat. “I think it is time to go.”
We left a few minutes later after I promised to visit her
every evening for the rest of my holidays.
On our way back to my grandmother’s house, I asked my
grandmother’s friend about the bird. “How old is that bird of hers?”
“What bird? She does not have any.”
“But there was a Sparrow with her. Didn’t you see it?”
The man mumbled something about crazy
city kids under his breath and quickened his steps. I decided that the old man’s
eyes had grown weak and he couldn’t see what was plain as a day.
When I look back now, I realize how curious that summer was,
how pivotal. Life changing. A rather misused phrase that is very apt.
True to her word, she became Schehezerade. Every evening, she
told me a story. Some days, it was simple and childlike. On other days, it was
full of drama and grandeur and world shaking events. Then there were times,
when she spun a microcosm so detailed, that I could see it assemble bit by
miniscule bit on my palm.
And never did she refer to a book. She poured the words out
in a steady waterfall, as if there were pages turning in her head. These were
stories never heard before. I had checked. They were original. When I asked her
how she knew places as far flung as Delhi, Rome and Sahara the way she did, she
winked.
She was an enigma. I was beginning to accept that she was a
Witch.
All those evenings, the Sparrow sat still on her shoulder,
with only its eyes mobile, following every movement, every breeze, every light,
drinking in the details of all that happened around it. While it had unnerved
me initially, slowly I grew accustomed to it as her – her pet. There was no
other way to describe that relationship.
Eventually, my vacation drew to a close. While she had
narrated a new tale every twilight for nearly two months, my own imagination
had remained arid. I had never really tried writing. It was just a vague idea
that I had in my head. I believed that because I loved stories, writing them
would be easy. For the first time in my life, I understood how difficult it
was.
I did think about cheating, telling her a story from some
obscure book. She was blind. She was unlikely to have known it. Better sense prevailed.
I would like to claim that it was because of my sense of honour but in truth I feared
that she would know the fraud in an instant. And her opinion of me did matter.
On my last evening in the village, she told me her most
intricate story yet set in a war ravaged country. By the time she finished, it
was quite late. She invited me to stay the night.
I accepted. I was given a pillow and a blanket to make myself
comfortable on the sofa. She bade me goodnight and left with the Sparrow sitting
on her shoulder.
Thirty minutes later, I went towards the kitchen in search of
water. On the way, I passed her bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and through
the gap, I could see her form silhouetted against the window. Her hands were
cupped delicately in front of her, as if she held something precious.
I softly pushed the door further open, shamelessly spying on her.
She raised her cupped hands to her lips, kissed them and
flung them outwards towards the window. The sparrow shot towards the sky.
She stood still for a second, before turning towards her bed,
with her arms extended, hands groping for support like any other blind person. In
my eyes, the gesture seemed foreign. She stumbled several times before flopping
on her bed.
I eased back from my position quietly.
Next morning, the Sparrow was back on its favourite perch. I had
questions galore but for once I couldn’t ask them. I decided not to broach the
topic. What could I have said anyway?
When I was leaving, she took my hand. “When you first came
here, you said that you wanted to be a writer,” she paused. I was confused. Where
was she going with this? She took a
breath of resolve before continuing. “But I don’t think you have any stories in
you.” A pause again. The Sparrow measured me with cool eyes. I felt an
anticipation, as if something momentous was about to happen. “I, on the other
hand, am full of tales. I have told you so many of them this past summer. Only
you have heard them. That hurts me in ways that I cannot even describe.”
Another breath.
She spoke again. “I am
unable to write. My lack of vision will not let me. So, I want to propose
something to you. I want you to write my stories. The words will be mine, the
characters from my dreams but you will be the author. I will never claim them. It
is enough that they are heard.”
I was stunned. My brain froze momentarily before racing, a
train without brakes. It was a dream. I was being offered glory without the
guts. I was so tempted.
“Why?” I had to ask.
She released my hand, not answering immediately. “Do you know
why a woman breastfeeds her baby? True, it is the best food for her newborn
child. She does love her child, right? But do you know that it is also a
physical necessity for her? Holding that precious milk inside hurts her. She ‘needs’
to feed the baby. She does not expect any reward for it. She just has to. It is an instinct, an ache. I feel the same
about my stories.”
She took my hand again. “Are you in?”
I became a celebrated, feted author. The Witch became my
Ghost. She told the stories. I wrote them. She crafted the words. I printed
them. It won me many awards, critical acclaim and so many admirers, fans. Some claimed
that I was one of the greatest writers of this century. And she – she remained
in the shadows. Until last year.
Our usual modus operandi was elegant in its simplicity. Once every
year, I went to my grandparents’village. It was where ‘my muse’ visited me. The
press called the village my ‘writing room’.
I spent two months’ worth of evenings with her, feverishly typing
every accent, every comma, the curve of each sentence and the lilt of every fresh
chapter. Then I returned to the city and sent the manuscript to the publisher.
Last year, it changed. When I arrived at her doorstep for our
annual ritual. I found the door locked. I knocked. She did not open it. Just asked
me to go away.
This continued for nearly a fortnight. I grew anxious. This would
not do. I had already received and spent a large advance for this book she was yet
to narrate. It was due in little more than a month!
On the fourteenth day, I decided I’d had enough. She could
not use and discard me like this, without an explanation. I knew no other existence,
no other skill, no other living, except this charade.
When my knocks elicited the usual refrain, I went around the
house. I found the window where she had stood that first time. It was open. With
a grunt, I hoisted myself in.
The house was musty, a film of dust settled on the very air. I
found her in the bedroom. She lay across it, with the Sparrow tucked against
her bosom. Her fingers lightly caressed the bird. Her lips moved fervently in
some silent rhythmic prayer. Her eyes were closed. Tears streaked her cheeks.
When I called her name, she opened her eyes slowly. And for
the first time, they were unseeing. Blind.
“My Sparrow is dying,” she whispered.
“I am sorry.” I was impatient, brusque, eager to get back to
the book. “It must be really old. I think we should give it a grand burial.”
“No!” Her voice dripped horror. She sat up straight. The bird
lolled dead on her bed.
A heart rending scream echoed in the house. She fell from the
bed, curled into herself, clawing her eyes. “I am blind! I am blind!”
Foreboding crept into my blood, as I recalled the night I had
spied on her and seen the bird fly away, only to return next day.
“What do you mean?” Anger and fear made my voice harsh.
She stopped sobbing, rising to her feet. I was standing on
the other side of the bed. She, of a gait so graceful that people with vision
could never match, faltered, slipped, groped her way to where I stood. But she
faced away from me. I suspected it was not intentional.
I turned her around. Her eyes were dark, their luminosity
extinguished. “What do you mean?” I urged.
“My Sparrow,” she halted on a sob. “She, she…” Words failed her
for the first time in two decades, as she shattered into a heap.
I understood. She was a Witch. The Sparrow was not her pet. It
was her Vision. Her Imagination.
There would be no more stories. And she would need a walking
stick.
The End