THE ADVENTURES OF
ZOYA AND MR. DAAT
IT WAS ZOYA’S most ardent belief that the sun shines on all that is dark. While the origin of this belief remained unknown, the City of Nawabs engraved this idea in her heart and strengthened it with each passing day. The sun would rise, the people would wake, Lucknow would move, and Zoya Sheikh would believe. Day after day, night after night, she would live her life in the orphanage and uphold the only truth in her life; her faith - in people, in the world, and in the hope that her life would one day get better.
However, as she walked through the pitch-black passageways of the Bara Imambara’s Bhool Bhulaiya, this belief of hers was starting to seem bleaker and bleaker with each identical turn and dead-end she faced. She realized now how she had gotten separated from the rest of her group; since the main complex of the monument was built without any supporting columns, the Bhool Bhulaiya was made as a means of reducing its weight by making the ceilings hollow. Thus was born a labyrinth that was engineered in such a manner that if a person whispered from a passage as far as fifty meters away, other people would still be able to hear them as if they were right next to them. It was this very phenomenon that gave rise to the phrase, ‘deewaron ke bhi kaan hote hai’ meaning the walls have ears too. Little Zoya was unaware of this and continued to find reassurance in the voices she heard around her until the voices diminished completely and she realized that she had long separated from the group.
When they had first entered the labyrinth, the girls from the orphanage home who accompanied her on this trip were made to hold hands with the person behind them to ensure that no one would get lost. But as soon as they entered the maze, the girl in front of Zoya left her hand. She desperately tried to reach out for her hand again but to no avail since they were encompassed in sheer darkness. There wasn’t a single speck of light from either side for the first few meters. Then came the slight blotches of light entering through the tiny balconies peeking into the main hall and soon, they were gone too, leaving Zoya at the end of the line without a hand to hold.
It had always been like this. The girls avoided her as if she were a contagious virus, whispered to each other about her as if she were a fresh scoop of gossip out of a Cosmopolitan magazine, and looked down at her as if she were beneath them. No. That wasn’t it. They looked at her as if they were scared of her. She believed it would have been better if they looked down at her condescendingly for that would mean that they were willing to acknowledge her existence. But they ignored her when she made a sound, refused to be present in the same room as her alone, and ostracized her from their cliques, reducing Zoya to nothing but a lonesome corner seat in the breakfast hall, an oddly misplaced palang in the sleeping quarters, and a weird girl without a hand to hold.
Things hadn’t always been like this. In fact, they used to be much better. She used to have a friend before. They would laugh together, eat together, sleep together, dress together, and live their lives together. But she died and there was nothing Zoya could do about it - not even remember her. It was only a few weeks after her friend’s death that she became a part of the Awaaz Foundation’s orphanage home. Although she remained utterly shy and awkward about her surroundings and seemed to have been a victim of selective amnesia, the first few weeks in her new home had been quite pleasant. The girls made attempts to cheer her up by sharing their toys, life stories, and friendly advice. But all knowledge about human interaction seemed to have left Zoya for she remained quiet when they spoke to her, remained aloof when they asked her questions, and remained distant when they tried to be affable. Days later, rumors about her interactions with otherworldly beings flew in and everybody began maintaining a two-meter distance with her, even the faculty and caretakers of the orphanage.
Oh, how she wished to have been less socially awkward when the other children were willing to speak to her! Now, she was just a thorn amidst flowers, a weed waiting to be plucked out, a withered flower that no longer held any beauty. She felt like an outcast. The truth is, if it hadn’t been for the confusion that plagued the orphan’s mind, she would have been willing to make conversation. However, hazy memories, forgotten elements from her past, and the looming uncertainty of what was to come rendered her incapable of doing anything but think.
She would sit on her bed and think, stand under the shade of a tree and think, sit on the porch swing of the orphanage home and think. It was as if her mind was constantly trying to piece a puzzle that didn’t have an image, as if it was a chaotic minefield that was constantly trying to find answers to her infinite questions as if it was filled with nothing but curiosity. She would often think about her parents and what they must have been like; giving them faces, voices, and attributes that she wasn’t sure were theirs. Zoya didn’t remember anything from before she came to the orphanage home and that deeply saddened her for she didn’t know her parents, her friends, or if she was ever loved.
Is there anyone who knows what happened to my Ammi and Baba?
Is there anyone who knows if I am worthy of the love I seek?
Is there anyone who knows what I am meant to be, to do?
It was as if all of these answers were written right in front of her; up in the blues of the sky, on the bark of a tree, down on the blades of grass. But they still felt completely unattainable; like they were far, far, away from her, just like the people she loved and was once loved by. Zoya would often wonder if the answers she sought were buried within secret passages hidden inside old walls or sealed in corners shrouded in solitude and mystery.
While it disappointed her that she had yet to find a soul whom she could hold close or cry to, she believed that there would be a day when someone would willingly and fearlessly speak to her. She had faith that there would come a time when she would have a friend by her side who didn’t completely ignore her presence. She was convinced that there was at least one being on this planet who held answers to her infinite questions. Needless to say, what she wanted most was love; pure, unconditional, requited love. Perhaps a love that transcended earthly existences would be most befitting for her. If it wasn’t love, merely co-existing with a being that didn’t steer clear of her would be enough.
In this sense, Zoya was much like the other girls of the orphanage; a child with a forgotten past searching for love in every conceivable corner of the world. The only difference was, she was a portal for spirits to interact with. For as long as she could remember, she had always been able to see them, no matter their form. Sometimes they would appear like elegant white wispy creatures that would pass by her in the blink of an eye, other times they would greet her as playful little colorful orbs of light that would flow right through her. It was very rarely that she came across dark or hurtful djinns but when she did, she would ensure that she greeted them with a smile and a salam. Partly out of respect and partly because she felt as if there was a heavy price for not doing so. When she was young, she had been given a ta’wiz, or amulet, by a maulana as a form of protection from these harmful spirits. Of course, she had no memory of it or its whereabouts anymore but sometimes, a pang of deep agony would hit her in the chest where the amulet once used to sit.
There were two spirits in particular that were especially friendly with her. While Zoya didn’t know them, she felt as if she had seen them before, as if there was a bond between them that traced back to her birth, perhaps even earlier, as if she had a deep long-lost connection with them that could be forgotten but never broken. The two spirits were beautiful. They emitted a bright golden light from their wispy bodies and while they lacked physical features, Zoya could intuitively tell that one of them was a female and the other was a male. Sometimes, their mere presence would remind her of memories she couldn’t recall. They weren’t always around her but sometimes watched her from the corners of the room, looking out for her as if it was their job to protect her. They never spoke to her or said a word but there were times when their thoughts would reach her as intense bolts of intuition and she would just know what they were trying to express.
Sometimes, it was the very ability that she was shunned for that kept her alive. The people around could call her annoying, creepy, dark, freakish, scary, irritating, anything but she wouldn’t let it get to her. It was as if she was surrounded by an endless void that would engulf all the odd, baseless perceptions and opinions people held about her. They spoke their thoughts into existence but they never reached her. Encapsulating her was an impenetrable wall of belief that could never be torn apart; whether it was the girls at the orphanage or the odd, indecipherable malady that picked at her kidney.
Still, there were days that, despite her hopeful optimism, weren’t good. Sometimes she would feel so consumed by the feeling of being an outsider in the orphanage that it no longer felt like ‘home’ to her, just shelter. She would try so desperately to find comfort in the faces she woke up to but it was hard for her to trust people who didn’t trust her, who were so apprehensive of her, that kept an arm’s distance from her in case she went berserk again. Some days, feelings of fear, skepticism, and mistrust would creep into her heart and she would frantically attempt to find happiness in another place - distraction or not, she would find and dig out her joy from the saddest of places.
Today it was the trip to the Bara Imambara on the occasion of the Shab-e-Barat, or night of repentance and forgiveness. In the Muslim community, it is considered a time when souls who have crossed the threshold of life can return to meet their loved ones. Although it was only for a few hours, it seemed like an endless night. The dead ached for the living and the living for the dead. Eleven-year-old Zoya couldn’t help but hope and wish that someone would come to visit her; even if they were from the land of death. She imagined embracing her two faceless parents. She didn’t remember them but she hoped that they did.
It was because of Shab-e-Barat that she could feel so many spirits around her today. When she first entered the Bara Imambara through its exquisite archways, she saw and felt so many happy spirits in the region. Some walked by their loved ones as if they were truly around them, others trotted behind their dearest ones as if they were protecting them, and yet others skipped ahead of their beloved ones as if they were guiding them. They seemed happy which in turn made Zoya happy. But now, as she walked alone through the narrow and freakishly cold walls of the labyrinth, she felt scared and registered a pair of piercing eyes on her.
“Brat.” The voice tsked. Zoya shuddered. It was a djinn. In Islam, they are considered spiritual creatures made out of a smokeless fire that constitutes pure energy. They can be good and they can be bad. But Zoya couldn’t feel its energy; almost as if there was a confusing rift between good and bad, pure and evil, kind and treacherous. She stood frozen in her tracks and felt a chill travel down her spine. She wasn’t sure what to feel or if she could trust the spirit for that matter. Usually, she was able to intuitively gauge the purity, or impurity, of the being’s intentions but not this time. Perhaps it was because she was afraid but it felt as if everything known and unknown about the djinn lay veiled within the darkness of the labyrinthine passages. The spirit spoke again, this time with a soother tone, almost as if he had picked up on Zoya’s fear and was softening his voice deliberately.
“Take the next right,” he said and Zoya found herself following his instructions. As she slowly made her way out of the labyrinth, the spirit smiled slyly. A single glance is all it took for the djinn to know all about the orphan. Much like others of his kind, he could see through all human facades, peel away any outward acts, and reach into souls. He could obliterate vortexes that sucked in baseless perceptions and see the human for all it was. Most importantly, he could witness their past almost as if it were happening in real time. So, there it was. Everything about Zoya was already known to the djinn. Of course, even a creature like him was unaware of what the future held for the two.
Still, little Zoya intrigued him. The truth is, he was an old djinn; so old that he had difficulty remembering his origins. He was certain that he had been alive for at least a few centuries now but he couldn’t recall most of the time he had spent on the planet. He had lived in tons of cities, taken over hundreds of people, and witnessed thousands of lives flourish and destroy over time. Soon, he became bored of possessing puny human lives and began reveling in the presence of no one but himself. He had much knowledge but had forgotten too many things, including those about himself, since his seclusion from the world of mortals. Funny, isn’t it? He could see everyone’s pasts except his own. It was no fault of his, though. It was just how things were. Not that it mattered to him, he simply feigned ignorance at everything that didn’t amuse him. But he was beginning to take an interest in this little girl who strutted into the Bhool Bhulaiya with the utmost confidence of easily making her way out.
She seemed easy to manipulate. Partly because she was traumatized beyond repair and partly because she was filled to the brim with hope, almost to the brink of obsession. It made him repulse to see such a hopeful creature but it also made him smirk. Through his millennia-long experience of toying with humans, he had learned that hope is a dangerous feeling. He had always enjoyed using it against his victims; flailing it in front of their faces like a piece of meat and yanking it away if they ever got too close. Not that they ever did. He would never let them live long enough to fully experience the feeling. He would offer it to them on a silver platter and destroy it the moment their eyes began to glimmer with hope. But here was a child who radiated faith and optimism from every inch of her soul. He couldn’t help but enjoy the thought of destroying her; slowly but surely.
He was certain that if he played his cards right, he could exploit her desires into something entertaining and worthwhile for himself. He would give her what she craved most and she would, in turn, become his perfect vessel for possession. Perhaps it is necessary to mention that his intentions weren’t cruel as such, just drawn from ennui and a desire for pleasure. But the djinn was not to blame for this is how he had been created; as a source of mischief, as a propagator of fear, as a birthplace of anguish. Regardless of the way he had been created, his intentions stemmed from pure boredom.
It had been several decades since he first began calling the Bara Imambara his home. He had seen the city being built and torn apart over the years, he had seen it grow in love, pain, and ecstasy. Still, when he found no source of entertainment for himself, he began to revel in the solitude that encompassed him. Shortly after, the Bhool Bhulaiya, the exquisite views from the monument’s terrace, and most importantly, the comical and cowardly hearts of all those who entered became his territory of rule. There had been some who had been consumed by the walls, others by beings such as him, and yet others who lost their way only to never be found again. Zoya could have been either of them but the djinn would never allow it. He finally had what he had been waiting for within his reach; an innocent yet interesting soul, one that could be broken and smeared and turned into a vessel for his soul. He would possess her for ages to come and wreak havoc on the human world. He deserved to revel in such chaos. Plus, he had grown tired of his ugly body and wanted a new one.
While the djinn thought of ways to break the child’s spirit, Zoya happily trotted down the passageways of the labyrinth she had been lost in just a little while ago. Her anxiety and confusion from earlier had vanished and she now believed that it was her lucky day that someone was willingly making conversation with her. What a feeling of ecstasy it was! She wanted to cherish the warm fuzzy feeling in her heart like a small furry animal and never let it go. Regardless of how terrified she may have felt previously, her faith in the goodness of people and her belief in the purity of her own heart led her to believe that the djinn was sincere and friendly.
It was only a short while later that Zoya spotted the outer, airy, and well-lit passages of the labyrinth facing the terrace. It was within her reach, in fact, it was only a few steps away. But she could feel the presence of the djinn near her and immediately felt overwhelmed by an unfamiliar feeling; she didn’t want to leave him just yet. So she turned around and followed the map her instinct had drawn out for her to thank him.
“Hello?” She called out softly. The djinn was watching her all along and couldn’t help but think of her as an idiot who willingly walked back into the lair of death. He felt awkward now. How was he meant to converse with some brat? “I know you’re here,” she started again and the spirit felt himself twitch. He wasn’t sure why. It was the perfect opportunity for him to take control but he felt as though it was far too easy of a challenge for his prize to be handed over to him like this. “Won’t you come out?” Zoya pleaded. She had made a new friend after years and was determined not to let an opportunity of engagement slip out of her hands. He couldn’t understand what she was thinking but decided it might be useful to have an encounter with her.
Slowly, he crept out of the shadows of the maze and stood in front of her. The djinn was a dark, wispy creature with straggly skin and loose strands of hair that were as dark as the shadows within which he resided. He was tall. Too tall. Making little Zoya look like a mere ant in comparison. His sharp grey teeth were protruding out of his ginormous mouth and he stood with his arms folded in front of his body while the child looked up at him with wide eyes. He knew that she could interact with spiritual beings but he assumed that like any other human, she too would be terrified of his ugly appearance. Or at least a bit startled. But Zoya merely composed herself and smiled. She looked genuinely happy even though she was limply craning her neck to look at him.
He thought of saying something to her. Anything. For a second he even thought of scaring her but something told him that such an attempt would not work on the girl. She was weird. Extremely weird. She was still smiling at him and that made him conscious of himself. He hated it! Say something. Say something. Say something. It was so damn uncomfortable, he could feel the tension throb in the dingy air of the maze.
“Aren’t you scared of me?” Zoya broke the silence and the djinn felt his eyes widen in surprise. What on earth is wrong with this brat? She is asking me, Me, ME, if I’m afraid of HER? He had never been asked such an amusing question before. Most people who had had the displeasure of meeting him would faint at the sight of his face alone. He was truly hideous and his personality didn’t help either. He was old, sarcastic, bitter, and vexatious.
He tried to formulate an apt answer in his mind but failed miserably, not because he was incapable of answering her question but because the child wouldn’t stop talking. She mumbled random words and sentences to him freely, as if they were long-lost friends meeting for the first time in years as if they knew everything there was to know about one another, as if they had nothing to hide from each other. She was speaking as though she hadn’t spoken in months, years even! She rambled on about how he should be afraid of her because she could see him, that all those who knew about this power were terrified of her, and that he had humongous teeth. She wouldn’t shut up about his teeth. The djinn felt his ears going numb. No one had ever spoken to him about anything, especially his appearance, in such depth and length.
“I’m Zoya and you’re Mr. Daat!” Oh lord, she has named me after my teeth. The spirit thought to himself while the child continued to speak about their newly formed friendship. She seemed excited and ecstatic beyond words. It wasn’t what he was expecting but he was sure he could make use of her folly wisely. All he needed was patience. And something to stuff his ears with. Within minutes of their meeting, she had already told him about the orphanage she lived in, what she did daily, how the girls around her would never speak to her, and how bolts of intuitions helped her sense spirits around her. There was no doubt. She was an interesting child. Lonely, optimistic, and easy to break. Mr. Daat - whom Zoya hadn’t given a chance to accept his new name - smiled viciously.
“They are looking for you.” Mr. Daat spoke, at last, causing her to stop talking mid-sentence. She turned around in a panic to look at the teachers and students on the terrace and when she turned to face him again, he was gone just as fast and mysteriously as he had appeared.
“Thanks for showing me the way,” Zoya whispered to nobody and began to walk in the direction of the terrace. It was when she met with her teachers and supposed friends that she realized that no one had noticed that she hadn’t been around. She felt completely invisible around them but that didn’t matter anymore, for now, there was someone who saw her. The spirit watcher was now being watched.
*
Days passed but the encounter with Mr. Daat played in little Zoya’s head over and over like a broken record. She hadn’t seen him since but couldn’t stop raving about the feeling of having a friend again. She kept her head lowered but in reality, it was up in the clouds; thinking and dreaming of another conversation with him, of the opportunity to speak again, of the chance to ask him questions that ignited her curiosity. She refused to assume that that may be their first and only meeting. And she was right. Mr. Daat had left his home at the Bara Imambara and had now become a full-time witness to the day-to-day happenings of the orphan’s life. He watched her from behind the shadows of the orphanage walls, concealing himself from the child in every way possible as he picked up on her every movement, every feeling, every smile.
She had a set routine and while it was shrouded in loneliness, she found happiness in most things around her; a meal, a conversation she overheard, another person’s laugh. Devoid of her own happiness, she made everyone else’s joy her own. She was kind and gentle and generous and observant yet she often cried herself to sleep. Still, regardless of how she felt the previous night, she would wake up with a smile and live her routinely mundane life. He couldn’t understand how she did it. Why wasn’t she filled with hatred or anger or bitterness yet? How could she keep that act up every single day? What kept her from falling apart?
It was driving him insane. A part of him didn’t want to be a source of pain to her. But eventually, he would be. For the moment, Mr. Daat found himself wrapped in feelings of conflict. He wanted to step away from this bizarre lookout for his next vessel that he had taken up but something pulled him towards her. An unfamiliar feeling, the possibility of happiness, a few moments of peace. So he stayed put and continued to observe her from a distance. She was sitting on the gatch bed in the infirmary and dangled her small legs above the ground.
Zoya wasn’t entirely sure what the ailment was but she was told that it was a malady related to her kidney. She had been on medication for it since the time she first came to the orphanage and the doctors were yet to find a cure for it. All they had been able to do up until now was reduce the side effects of the ailment - nausea, fatigue, pain, and difficulty in urinating among others - and perform numerous tests on the child. She seemed used to the weekly checkups. The lady doctor would ask her to take three deep breaths, which Zoya did perfectly, urinate in a small cup, which Zoya also did perfectly, and finally ask her how she was feeling, which Zoya could simply never answer.
Now, as she waited for the doctor to complete writing in her medical record, she stared outside the window in the infirmary. The large Gulmohar tree and its slightly flowering branches stood across the road and towered all that passed underneath it. There was something hauntingly beautiful about the tree that Zoya liked and disliked at the same time; as if there was something that was calling out to her but then telling her to stay away. As if someone was telling her that they loved her but then telling her that they hated her. As if it was telling her that it wanted her to be free but then telling her that it wanted to possess her, to own her, to mark her. It felt familiar to little Zoya but unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, she couldn’t tell. And for that, she felt grateful at some level.
As Zoya took three deep breaths at the instructions of the doctor, she continued to look outside at the life of Lucknow zooming down the streets. The day had begun for all of the city’s inhabitants; businesses were booming, hawker men were calling, and the clock was ticking towards noon. While the doctor finished her initial diagnosis, the child noticed a postman dropping letters and packages in front of the houses that were lined across the road and beneath the shade of the Gulmohar tree. Zoya smiled. Fantasies had begun to take shape in her mind once again.
Zoya loved to write. She had always been ahead in her classes for she was motivated by writing in notebooks and textbooks. The teachers and students alike thought her cursive handwriting was fantastic but neither said a word to her. Regardless of their acknowledgment, Zoya’s interests remained the same. Now, as she looked at the postman delivering the neatly packed letters to the white, black, brown, and blue doorsteps, she thought that someday, she would be able to write someone, anyone, a letter. She would begin with ‘Dear’ at the top and end with her name ‘Zoya Sheikh’ at the bottom.
Zoya smiled at the scene and felt a warm fuzzy feeling spread across her chest. She loved this town for all it was. Lucknow, in its truest sense, was not a city or a town or a capital but a realm filled with perseverance, hope, hard work, love, passion, tehzeeb-o-tamadun, nazakat, and pehle aap. From the light of the Nawabi rule to the darkness of British colonialism and partition, the city persevered. Lucknow was Lucknow not because of its architecture, or its language, or its culture, or its food but because of its people. The ones who wagered on through life, in sickness, and health, in unity and division, in ecstasy and grief. The ones whose smiles peeked through the cracks of their sorrow. The ones whose elegance, kindness, and honesty made the City of Nawabs all that it was.
It was because of this very town that Zoya believed so ardently in the belief that the sun shines on all that is dark. She could see it in the air they breathed and feel it in the roads they walked on; their beauty, their grace, their love. The people who made Lucknow stand out with all its magical glory were no ordinary people. They belonged to different cultures and religions, to different languages and faiths, to different mohallas and families. But regardless of their background, they found a place to call home in this city.
Lucknow was theirs and they were Lucknow’s.
Eleven-year-old Zoya was also privy to these feelings shared by all others in town. Still, she felt as if the life she led was a little meaningless. Little Zoya sometimes felt so burdened by her heavy thoughts and feelings that she no longer knew what to do with them. But it wasn’t her fault, she was just surrounded by people who supported all those around them except for her. When she saw them, whether during classes or in the breakfast hall or the sleeping quarters, she felt as if they were leading their lives with the most passionate of purposes as if they knew what they wanted from their lives, as if they knew where they were going. Zoya on the other hand knew nothing. About herself or the world.
She felt there was no vehement push in any one direction; she wanted to know everything, do everything, and be everything. But she felt like a magnetic compass in a dense forest being called to and pulled from every side without a concrete idea of any navigation. She wanted to somehow pause time and learn everything but the days passed as they always did and Zoya began to feel as if she was standing in the middle of the road with cars, rickshaws, tongas, motorcycles, people, and animals passing right through and past her.
As her curiosity grew in size, Zoya soon realized that she had lost track of time. The doctor was asking her the dreaded question. How are you feeling? The girl wondered what the answer was and remained silent. She wanted to answer it but she needed a moment to collect her frayed thoughts. However, the doctor and nurse took no time to sigh and little Zoya began to feel disheartened. Moments later, she left the infirmary and made her way back to the sleeping quarters.
It was around this time that Mr. Daat noticed how distraught she seemed and while she hadn’t felt his presence yet, she seemed to be distracted by someone else’s. It was when he looked at the Gulmohar tree across the orphanage that he realized why she seemed so anxious. It was a lecherous spirit hanging upside down from the branches of the tree staring at little Zoya and her every move. He was made of pure light and while most would consider him beautiful, he had a gaze that was utterly dark and frightening. Mr. Daat recognized him and in an instant found himself moving towards the hideous creature. But before he could reach him, he saw a pair of spirits fighting him off, guarding the orphan against the spirit. They had injured him considerably, causing him to fall off the branch and onto the ground. Seconds later, he disappeared and both Mr. Daat and Zoya took a breath of relief.
He recognized the other two spirits too and smiled to himself knowingly. This was getting more and more interesting. Still, he wondered why he hadn’t been confronted by the pair that seemed to be protecting Zoya. He decided he would eliminate the two if they ever interfered but for reasons unknown to him then, they never did.
Later that night, Mr. Daat appeared in the sleeping quarter that smelled of lemon-scented phenyl from behind the walls and stared at Zoya as she slumbered peacefully. The small light from the street fell onto her innocent face and he gently touched her hands that remained unclenched by the side of her shoulders. Gentle. Something strange came over him and he quivered in the light of the night. He gulped. For a hideous creature that was born and polished solely for revenge against all other beings and the creator Himself, it puzzled him to involuntarily bend his morals for a human child.
Mr. Daat felt his anger rise at the sight and clenched his fists tightly. He wasn’t doing anything out of pity, no. In fact, he had no idea why he was doing it. The feeling of not having a reasonable explanation for his erratic behavior was tugging at the insides of his mind. Maybe he should just kill the girl and get rid of her forever. It would end his misery and he could go back to being the uncaring, selfish, and odious djinn he was. But instead, he just stood there quietly and studied her dark brown face. A moment later, he slowly lifted her shirt to reveal her lower abdomen slightly.
There it was. That lecherous spirit’s remains.
All his previous feelings of anger had risen inexplicably. But this time, it wasn’t because of his confusion or the child but because of what had happened with her. He was overcome by a feeling he couldn’t quite understand and felt the urge to keep the spirit away from her. He couldn’t stand the sight, or even the thought, of him harming her again.
It had begun when Zoya was a baby, born with the ability to see and feel otherworldly creatures and spirits. While her parents were aware of this power, they were unbeknownst to the perils of it. Growing up, she had always been surrounded by spirits; babbling to them, playing with them, or pouring her heart out to them. Then came a spirit made of pure light that flipped her world upside down. When she was five, she complained to her parents about a ‘spirit that wouldn’t stop looking at her.’ It had never happened before. She had only ever met friendly spirits but this one made her uncomfortable so she avoided him when she could and ignored him when she couldn’t.
“Won’t you even say salam to me?” he would say as he followed her like a shadow and gazed at her with haunting eyes.
Worried about their child’s safety, Zoya’s parents got her a ta’wiz filled with duas from the Qur’an after meeting with a maulana. She was instructed to never take it off and on most days, she followed this instruction. However, the amulet prevented her from seeing spirits altogether which caused her to become more and more curious about the nature of these creatures she had seen since she was born. One day, when she was eight, she sat on a tire swing underneath a Gulmohar tree and fiddled with the black object hanging from her neck. She wanted to see what would happen if she removed it. So she did.
For the first few seconds, everything seemed normal, everything remained the same. And then she felt it. That pair of eyes piercing right through her, that haunting presence that made her shudder, that pure white light that made her stomach twist itself into infinite knots. Slowly, she craned her neck to look up and stared at the spirit’s face which was merely a breath away from her own. He was smiling maniacally and little Zoya remained incapacitated on the unmoving swing. Tears began to well up in her eyes as the spirit inched closer. He looked at her as if he wanted to consume every piece of her.
The amulet fell from her hands and onto the pale blades of grass as she wiggled out of the tire to make her escape. He had begun to follow her now and Zoya could see her friend approaching her in the distance. She wanted to scream no. She wanted to keep her away. She wanted to protect her. But the spirit seemed to have a bind on her that she couldn’t figure out how to break out of.
“Won’t you even say salam to me?” The spirit questioned but Zoya ignored him and walked ahead, picking up her pace so she could reach her friend. Her disregard for him angered him and made him stop in his tracks for a moment.
Zoya felt rather relieved then, naively thinking that he had finally left her alone. But it was far from the truth. It was seconds later that she felt his presence inside her; he was sprawled all over her soul and took up space in every cell of her body. She could feel her consciousness fade as her body continued to make movements that made her sick to the stomach. The spirit had her pick a brick that was lying on the ground and feel every movement of her limb as she battered her friend’s head with it. Minutes later, she stood over the small girl’s body as blood pooled around at her feet. The brick slipped out of her hands and she began to cry.
When the spirit left her body, she passed out by the corpse and lay in her blood until someone came for help. After the incident, all she remembered was sitting on the tire swing and finding her friend’s dead body. Her amulet was nowhere to be found anymore and neither was the brick she used to kill her friend. Several weeks after numerous interviews and investigations with the police, the case file was closed and marked as unsolved due to the lack of a murder weapon. It took several months for her life to finally dial back to normalcy but even that was short-lasting. However, this version of her normal life had a space for the spirit as well.
It had grown in power after killing Zoya’s friend and could not be contained or avoided by a ta’wiz. But he didn’t approach her as often as he used to because he would always want her alone and to himself but she was constantly surrounded by her parents. He couldn’t find a way in. But when he did, Zoya’s life was altered forever.
On a cold winter afternoon, as she made her way back from school, she spotted her ta’wiz hanging from the branch of a Gulmohar tree. Every suppressed memory from the last few months came crashing in and Zoya realized that the spirit was toying with her. She shivered at its sight and began running home. What she didn’t know, however, was the horror that awaited her. Her parents had been killed. No. Her parents had been made to kill each other. It seemed as if they had been dead for hours now. Their bodies lay one on top of another with stale blood flowing down the floors of the hall as Zoya stood paralyzed in front of the two. He laughed maniacally and the child began to cry with small hiccups. He was everywhere; in the house, in her parents, in her mind. There was no escaping him.
“If I can’t have you, you can’t have anyone.” He whispered in her ear. She felt dizzy. The room was spinning. All she could see was blood.
“If I can’t have you, you can’t either.” He spoke again and this time she caught a glimpse of his white light. It was the impurest thing she had ever seen.
“If I can’t have you, no one will!” He screamed and laughed wildly before muttering a sentence in Arabic and striking at her lower abdomen. He wanted to strike her small, barely developed uterus but seemed to have changed his mind at the last moment. Instead, struck her kidney causing an odd malady that the doctors would soon come to recognize as baffling.
A realization had just dawned upon him; now that he had eliminated every last threat to his obsession with Zoya, he could have her all to himself. He would keep her by his side all the time. He would take her wherever and whenever he wanted to. He would have her conceive his child. Stories of such instances and relationships between humans and spirits weren’t uncommon in Lucknow. It was the very reason why young girls and old women alike believed heavily in superstitions and implemented them any way they could. But not Zoya. She had always seen them as her friends and did nothing to avoid them.
Now, everything had changed. She fell to the ground with tears streaming down her face and stared at the hauntingly hollow eyes of her parents. The pair stared back at her with the same intensity and little Zoya cried until she turned blue. The spirit was going to touch her. She knew it. But she felt as if her body had been nailed to the ground so she lay still in a pool of blood waiting for a strike that never came. Instead, two spirits came into view and she found herself falling into oblivion.
The next day, she woke up in the infirmary of the orphanage home with an acute case of selective amnesia, some unexplainable bruises on her body, and an illness that was yet to be identified. Three years later, she would meet Mr. Daat and he would stand by her bedside, staring at spaces of her body that were once covered in bruises, and cry.
He was baffled by the tears welling up in his eyes as he held his hands atop her kidney and muttered a prayer. This wasn’t meant to happen. She was supposed to be his vessel. She was supposed to be a challenge he could conquer. She was supposed to be a form of entertainment. Still, he found himself drawn to the gangly girl and her hopeful innocence. He wanted to protect her. But what good could a creature like him do? He wondered pensively and sniffled lightly. A moment later, he noticed a small notebook underneath her pillow. It seemed like something from her class, except it wasn’t. He flipped open to the last page and felt his heart tighten at the sight.
Dear Mr. Daat,
Do you know what you’re doing?
- Zoya Sheikh
He took the page apart and disappeared into the walls.
*
A week later, Zoya sat on the gatch bed in the infirmary with her legs dangling above the floor as she waited for the doctor, who seemed to be utterly perplexed by the situation, to complete the analysis of her condition. She wasn’t quite sure what had happened but she left the room with a smile on her face anyway. The doctor had said something about her illness being miraculously fixed. It was weird and unexplainable but her kidney seemed to be working just fine.
Zoya trotted down the halls and into the sleeping quarters to pick up what she referred to as a ‘rough book’ and made her way to the terrace. It was nearly Maghreb time so she could see all the djinns and spirits headed for prayer in the sky. She hoped that one day, she would see Mr. Daat there too. But until she did, she would write to him. She had started doing this activity in more secrecy than before after she realized that a page had gone missing from her notebook. It made her angry because it was a question meant for him. She was interested to find if he knew what he was doing or if he was just as clueless about his life as her. It would make her feel better if a creature so old and so filled to the brim with knowledge was rather oblivious.
The sky had been bathed in hues of red, orange, pink, and purple. It was a cloudless evening set on fire. Zoya could feel the presence of several spirits in the sky and it was mere seconds later that the sounds of the adhan encapsulated the whole of Lucknow in its elegant and mesmerizing grasp. Crows began to fly out of trees and into the sky, kites began to lower from the ether and into the colorful homes of many, and Zoya began to lose herself in her surroundings; the birds, the belongings, the beings. She felt connected to them yet slightly afar. With a mute mind and a howling heart, she prayed to God for her friend.
As if right on time, Mr. Daat appeared on the terrace and stood by the child. He was towering over her once again and she looked up at him with absolute wonder. She was so bewildered by his presence that she seemed to have lost words - for once. He greeted her with a smile and a terrified look passed her face. It must have been an ugly smile with the way his sharp and crooked teeth constituted most of it. Mr. Daat closed his mouth instinctively.
“As-salam-alaykum,” Zoya greeted.
“Waleikum-as-salam,” Mr. Daat responded and put his obnoxiously large hand on her head to bless her. “I believe this is yours.” He handed her the page he had torn from her notebook a few days ago and Zoya looked at it quizzically. “The answer to your question is no. I do not know what I am doing,” he said truthfully, but not in the way Zoya understood. “But I have decided to let you control me. For the next forty days, you will have to-”
“I don’t want to control you.” Zoya interrupted before he could say any further. “I just want to be your friend.” She said with a small smile and Mr. Daat simply scratched his head. He felt rather awkward. How was he meant to interact with a child with affection when all he had ever done was scream his head off in front of mortals? How was he meant to speak with her when they had no common interests or knowledge? How was he meant to survive her endless chatter when he had lived in silence for so long? Just when he was starting to think that this was a bad idea, she broke the silence with a question.
“Do you know how to use a toothbrush?”
“No.” He lied.
“You should. Your teeth are grey, what if you get cavities?” Mr. Daat laughed.
“That’s impossible.” He remarked.
“Why?” She questioned again.
“Because I don’t eat.” He replied and a gasp escaped her mouth.
“You don’t eat?” She repeated with huge eyes. “Ever?” She asked after a moment of silence.
“Ever.” He shook his head. Perhaps this wasn’t going so badly. His motive had changed but it seems like he was still getting something out of the situation. A friend. He would teach her and she would teach him.
“Does that mean you’ve never had ice cream?” She asked.
“What’s that?” Another gasp escaped her mouth. He was well aware of what ice cream was but she seemed so happy to be able to talk that he let her answer. But she didn’t. She pulled him by the arm and led him back into the building, down the stairs, and into the large rosewood hall. Dinner was about to begin soon. Mr. Daat stood awkwardly by her and watched the girls assemble in the hall. Some would stare at Zoya, others would laugh, and yet others would ignore her.
He had lived alone in a haunted maze for centuries and yet he had never been so afraid. The girls seemed scary. As if they could eat you up and chew you down with their glances alone. It made him want to protect little Zoya more. She seemed so fierce. And he just felt like a grandpa; old, wrinkly, and annoyingly useless. Being by himself in the Bhool Bhulaiya seemed like a dream now.
“Why did you bring me here, brat?” He asked with a tone of anger laced around his voice. She said nothing. He looked down at her to see what made her so quiet. Was it the crowd? Was it the large, intimidating hall? Who did he have to fight? He wouldn’t do it but at least he would get to witness a show or even escape if needed. There was no way in hell he was fighting teenage girls millenniums younger than him. One comment about his raggedy teeth, hairy body, or loose skin and he would fold like a plastic chair.
“Hey brat, answer me.” He prodded but Zoya remained silent.
A few minutes later, she walked over to an empty table in the corner and sat down. Mr. Daat followed her like a lost puppy with an extremely hunched back. Quickly, she brought out her rough notebook and scribbled something.
Dear Mr. Daat,
I can’t talk to you when the other girls are around. They will think I am weird. After dinner, please pick an ice cream for yourself from the freezer outside the kitchen. My favorite flavor is mango but you can choose whichever you’d like.
Don’t let yourself be seen!
- Zoya Sheikh.
“Okay. Understood.” He said to her after reading her letter. Mr. Daat always spoke in such impeccable Urdu that sometimes he would have to gulp his words just to make sense for the child. On the occasions that he didn’t, Zoya would thunder him down with a hoard of questions with no end. Still, this made her especially fluent in the language and she went on to write Shayari, or poetry, in Urdu. But more on that later.
After dinner, he did exactly as told and discreetly pulled an ice cream out of the freezer while no one was watching. He was confused at first for there were too many flavors; lemon bar, orange bar, choco-bar, butterscotch, and kulfi among others but he chose strawberry. He had never eaten anything before. He never felt the need to. Hell, he didn’t even know what would happen if he did eat. What if it was good and he died right after? How would he eat ice cream again? He wondered then instinctively shook the thought off. He could never be destroyed, only sealed. Mr. Daat scoffed at the frozen product in his hand that made him think so much and bit into it. His teeth clattered almost immediately.
“Ahh!” He shouted and Zoya let out a snort.
“Don’t bite into it!” She said to him and immediately covered her mouth. Heads turned around at the sound of her voice and she lowered herself in the seat. They thought her weird and continued their conversations. “We need to get you a toothbrush,” Zoya whispered behind her ice cream bar and Mr. Daat nodded, holding his jaw in his hand.
The next day, the two of them stood against the railing of the terrace and waited for the Maghreb adhan to begin. They were waiting for the spirits to appear - no, Zoya was waiting for them to appear. Mr. Daat had been forced to tag along. He claimed he had no interest in seeing others of his kind but in reality, he was afraid of being seen with the child. The reputation he had built in the other world would come crumbling down at the sight of him taking orders from an eleven-year-old orphan. However, each time he turned to face her, he would lose more and more interest in the opinions of others.
Zoya had suddenly become quiet and Mr. Daat knew why. The two could feel the presence of that spiteful spirit lurking around. He wanted to take her away from him but before he could do so, she had already spotted him standing on the top-most branch of the Gulmohar tree across the road. She looked up at Mr. Daat with fearful eyes for a moment. He could see the beads of sweat forming on her forehead and feel her tiny heart race at the sight. She hid behind his wispy body and peered from behind him.
When the spirit saw Mr. Daat protecting the girl, he looked at him with rage in his dark, soulless eyes and disappeared into thin air. Zoya sighed. She wasn’t sure why she felt so afraid of the spirit but his presence, and this time his sight, always struck a chord of fear deep within her. Tears were beginning to pool in her eyes but she wasn’t sure why. Mr. Daat looked at her and a look of pure panic came over his face. He didn’t know how to deal with a crying child. What was he supposed to do or say? Pat her back? What if he did it with too much force and left a mark on the child’s back? What if she began to cry even harder? Zoya was sobbing now and Mr. Daat felt himself falling into a state of alarm.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry!” He said, shaking his head and hands. Zoya looked up at him and smiled slightly. She found it funny when he acted so stupid. It made him look less mean. She wiped her tears and rubbed her small button nose. He sighed with relief. Humans seemed so complicated; they would cry when they were sad and when they were happy, they would keep their words to themselves when they needed to be said the most, and they were fearful of the most foolish things. Yet they were so irresistibly interesting. What a bunch of contradictory bastards. Mr. Daat thought to himself. He felt as if he should say something to Zoya about the spirit. She couldn’t know the truth just yet but she could know at least one reason.
“You can see but can you tell?” He asked after a moment of silence.
“Huh?” Zoya looked up at him, her eyebrows knit together.
“Why do you think that spirit looks at you so?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, her voice slightly breaking.
“Spirits can be very obsessive and vengeful sometimes - especially over someone whom others interact with a lot.” Mr. Daat began and Zoya stood against the railing and stared at the street below. “They become competitive and find themselves wanting to own that person. Sometimes, the slightest of things can set them off but almost everything they do comes from a place of possession.” He was trying not to say things that could scare her but he knew she had to know.
“Okay,” Zoya said softly and shrugged the matter off. Mr. Daat raised an eyebrow at her. “What?” She asked.
“I thought you would have been more interested than that.”
“I don’t think I should be worried about that spirit if you’re around. Unless you’re weak, of course.” She giggled and Mr. Daat took full offense to his heart. What a brat. He thought to himself. She was right though. She had no reason to worry as long as he was around because, to him, she would always come first.
Thus began the tale of Zoya and Mr. Daat; with an encounter in a haunted maze and a meeting on a terrace, with a tear and with a smile, with a tsk and with a snort, with ice cream and with a toothbrush, with a torn page and a scribbled letter. They continued for years to come and the two eventually became inseparable; with writings about her fears and anxieties and conversations that would drift endlessly into the cosmos, with questions about her purpose and answers about anything but, with advice on social interactions with teenage girls and with teachings on the history of Lucknow, the world, and the Urdu language, with her monthly bleeding uterus and his desperate attempts at taming an angry teenage girl (which would fail miserably, by the way).
The two had found a piece in each other that the world refused to give to them.
Their love for one another transcended any and all plausible explanations. Over the years they realized that to love is to be vulnerable. To expose every broken crevice of your soul, to put your beating heart in the palms of another - all the while hoping that they wouldn’t crush it, to open your mind and allow yourself to grow. Over the years they realized that to love is to find. To discover what lies behind a person’s worldly facade, to unearth what makes their skin crawl, to pull on heartstrings, and to unravel their secrets. Over the years, they realized that to love is to hurt. To make life-altering revelations, to argue until you hear a voice crack, to fall apart like beads of a rosary.
Their connection was as baffling to them as it was to anyone who could see it. They never expressed their love for each other because they found it in just about everything; in a wide smile, in a sarcastic remark, in an endless conversation. They loved each other quietly and from the proximity of their hearts. They mended each other’s souls and sometimes found themselves thriving in the mere existence of one another. Perhaps love is less of a feeling and more of a state of being for you must leave behind any preconceptions to truly be in love.
It always happens so fast and so unexpectedly. Blink, and you’re meeting them for the first time, unaware of the power they hold to completely change your life. Blink, and you’re laughing with them, wondering how you had ever gone a day without their smile. Blink, and they are gone without a trace, leaving you with nothing but feelings of regret. It is the finality of all good things that makes them so irreplaceable. The pain may burn a hole through your heart but love will always bring it back and before you know it, it will begin to beat again.
Like any other good thing in the world, the orphan and the djinn reached their finale too; with a secret and a past, with a burden of guilt and with a river of tears, with a courageous resolve and with a bold sacrifice. It had happened when Zoya was twenty-two years old. She had grown into a beautiful young woman with a strong mind and fiery intellect like no other. She had found her purpose and fiercely went after all she sought. She was never adopted but had managed to secure a job at a local publishing house named Raj Printing House which gave her enough money to move into a small studio apartment in Wazirganj.
Mr. Daat remained the same, with a haggard look and merely four strands of hair falling from the top of his head. He had grown to love the little girl as an offspring of his own and sometimes, even saw a reflection of himself in her - except she was less sarcastic and more sincere than he could ever be. He would often help her with her written work; reading manuscripts out to her when she was too busy to skim through them or giving her ideas for articles which she would always end with ‘Mr. D.’ Still, the weight of what he knew burdened him. It had been years since he first found out about her but he still hadn’t mustered the courage to tell her.
Now it seemed as though it was far too late to let her know. But how could he have told her earlier? How could he have been the reason to wipe the smile off her face? How could he have brought destruction to her hope? Ironic, isn’t it? He protected what he swore to destroy. The truth is, the lecherous spirit still wandered around but now there were three spirits protecting her - Mr. Daat himself and not-so-little-anymore Zoya’s deceased parents. But if she were to encounter him somehow, if she were to learn the truth from him, if she were to be destroyed by him, Mr. Daat would never be able to survive another day in the city he loved so much. He would become the bitter, vengeance-seeking, boredom-driven djinn he once was again.
So he told her. Or rather, showed her.
After a series of ritual prayers, the two traveled to the land of her hazy, forgotten memories. Zoya didn’t say a word. She simply stared at the scene with horror-stricken eyes. Her amnesia seemed to have been cured but it wasn’t a moment of celebration. Mr. Daat had never seen her so distraught, so angry, so pained. It hurt him as much as it hurt her. She cursed herself, her fate, and her so-called power. She cursed him, his idiocy, and his secrets. She claimed their friendship was meaningless if he had kept the answer to the biggest question in her life from her, if he hadn’t been courageous enough to tell an orphan about her parents if he had shattered her trust in him to mere dust. She wanted the spirit destroyed.
Mr. Daat had never heard her wish anything bad upon another soul. She had always been kind and generous towards others regardless of her misery but this was something entirely different altogether. He regretted his actions deeply; so much so that he remained quiet through her cries and screams and left the studio apartment never to be seen again. Zoya was even angrier after this and made several trips to Bara Imambara in search of him. But to no avail. His disappearance hurt her so deeply that she took a week off from work, the first and only time she had done so. More than anything, their last interaction pained her heart so much that she cried as she once did years ago - until she turned blue. She hated herself for speaking to him so disrespectfully and for hurting him so deeply.
Years passed and Mr. Daat was nowhere to be found. Zoya had accepted her fate for what it was and had developed a deep sense of hatred for herself. She had become cynical, bitter, and angrier than she had ever been. She had lost every ounce of hope she had ever held and felt as if her heart was slowly coming to a halt. Thump. thump. t h u m p. The beats became lighter and lighter until they faded altogether and she became irrevocably numb.
She stopped speaking to people since he left and found herself miserably broken. Soon, she turned herself away from the world and delved into writing her every thought and emotion in the form of letters. She would always begin them by writing ‘Dear Mr. Daat,’ at the top and end them with her name ‘Zoya Sheikh’ at the bottom. It was more of a delusion, really. She would write as if he was watching her from behind some dingy wall as if it was more for her than it was for him, as if he would answer her with a growling voice anytime now.
Dear Mr. Daat,
You once told me that every human is a mosaic of all the people they have ever been influenced by. No wonder I am just a big piece of you, and you me.
- Zoya Sheikh
Dear Mr. Daat,
Even when I am thinking, it feels as if I am catering to an audience, as if I’m tweaking my thoughts deliberately, as if I am drowning my feelings to let others afloat. The only time I am truly myself is when I write to you… you, big-toothed idiot.
- Zoya Sheikh
Dear Mr. Daat,
Where are you now? Can you see me?
- Zoya Sheikh
Dear Mr. Daat,
Why do you speak so darkly of things? Why must your eyes seem so sad and lonely? As if they were searching for something that doesn’t exist? Why don’t you come back? Please… come back.
- Zoya Sheikh
Dear Mr. Daat,
The sun will soon shine on your darkness too.
- Zoya Sheikh
Dear Mr. Daat,
I am sorry.
Zoya Sheikh
It was when she was going through her stack of letters to him that she found a peculiar one snuck between the pages of her and Mr. Daat’s favorite Urdu book, Mirat-ul-Uroos or Bride’s Mirror by Nazeer Ahmed. At first, she thought she was hallucinating because the letter began with her name and ended with his. And then she realized what it was - a letter from Mr. Daat. For as long as she had known him, he had never written anything, not even a single letter of Urdu. It had always been her who had written letters to him that were, more often than not, sprawled over several pages. But now, she held in her hands a letter from the least boring creature she had ever met.
To my little Zoya,
By the time you read this, I will be long sealed. Or dead. Who knows?
I did as you asked of me and destroyed the lecherous spirit in a way that can never be repaired. However, this sealing process was rather powerful for it consumed me as well. I urge you to remain in the company of the two spirits that have always been yours - your Ammi and Baba.
But most importantly, I leave you with one last question:
If you were created in the name of vengeance and lived the entirety of your life in the name of hatred, would you dare to die in the name of love?
I await your answer. Perhaps I will read it from behind the walls.
- Mr. Daat
She read the letter again.
And again.
And again.
Until she memorized it and the words fell off her tongue involuntarily. She cried with small hiccups as she felt her soul being ripped apart into two. She had lost a piece of herself. Perhaps the only piece that had ever mattered. Tears continued to stream down her face and soon, she saw the light of her Ammi and Baba. They were by her side, embracing and coaxing her to sleep. If she knew that the most real love she had ever known would hurt so deeply, she would have asked him another question, laughed with him a second longer, and loved him a little harder.
The next morning she read the letter again and immediately began writing something in her rough notebook. A piece about a love she once felt; so real that it felt almost tangible, so pure that it felt almost surreal, so painful that it felt almost lethal. It was far from romantic but it was worth every smile, every tear, and every heartbreak.
At the top, she wrote the title with shaky hands and a racing heart, ‘The Adventures of Zoya and Mr. Daat,’ and began with her most ardent belief.