Magical Circles

Arundati woke up to the dream of the garden, the garden of forking paths. As she sat up in her bed she felt the t-shirt she was wearing was damp and sticking to her back like a second skin. She looked up at the ceiling, the blades of the fan above her was an indistinct blur of white. The soft rustle of loose paper on her desk as they danced to the waves of air flowing down from the fan seemed distant. She imagined a whirlpool of air being pushed down towards her; a violent cone of energy enveloping and consuming her. And then an image flashed in her mind. It lasted less than a second: a man consumed by an explosive, fast burning fire, his own skin and flesh providing the fuel, his arms flailing helplessly as he falls to the ground. At that very moment the hairs on her body stood at attention and her heart raced, thumping against her rib cage like a maddened animal trying to escape. Her mouth opened to scream and instead of sound what escaped from her was the soft screech of her breath leaving her body and the hoarse sound of her pain as she stopped breathing. As her body fell back onto the bed, she inhaled her next breath, tears started flowing from her eyes; large singular globules.

This was still a good day.

Gone were the days when she woke up to physical pain, visceral surging through her body as she woke up from her nightmares. Gone were the days when she could barely will herself to get up from bed, her limbs feeling like iron rods weighing her down. Gone were the days when her face felt numb from the crying and intermittent screams that her body produced all day long. Gone were those days.

But still there was no peace for her. The very thought was the furthest from her mind, like an unknown path that lay ahead yet completely invisible to her. She had no knowledge of it. For now, all she could hope for was a lessening of the rawness of her pain.

Tragedy. Tragic.

Those were the words she kept hearing all around her. They enveloped every breath she took and walked by her with every step she took. Those were the words that described her now. A creature to be pitied and sighed over. The subject of conversations and morbid ruminations. That’s all she was reduced to.

Arundati. Arun.

Where was she?

Lost.

No, just somewhere between loss and survival.

Once upon a time, somewhere among the many forked paths that had lay ahead of her, she had chosen this one path.

Arundati had woken up one morning to the decision that she would not step out of the confines of her house. Surprising her parents with her decision at the breakfast table, their bread and tea going cold as they looked at her determined face making a proclamation. Her mother had attempted an argument only to be stopped by a touch of her husband’s hand on her forearm and a look in his eyes that said “don’t”. There were tears as Arundati spoke, sitting in her eyes like pools drowning her vision.

“I won’t be going to work anymore. I’ve already written an email to my head of department. I won’t leave the house for any reason. All I ask is for you to understand my decision. It’s for the best.” She looked at her parents, their surprise struck faces looking at her silently. As she waited she watched the expression on her mother’s face as she opened her mouth to speak and her father’s gesture, and she knew they too were in pain. There was silence for a few  more minutes, the only sound the steady murmuring of the kitchen fridge. A sound that would have normally gone unnoticed now seemingly deafening in the dead air of the room.

“Arundati………” Her father began. “……… if you want to stay home for a couple of weeks and take it easy, I think that would actually be a good thing. You don’t have to quit your job for that. Take a vacation. And if you want we can go somewhere out of town. You’ve hardly taken time for yourself since….” Her father stopped short of completing the sentence and looked down at his plate.

“Thaththa, I’m not talking about a vacation. I’m talking about never stepping out of this house.” Arundati said, her voice tense as she spoke the last sentence.

“What do you mean? You are going to become a hermit? Quit your job, cut yourself off from your friends and family?” Her mother finally spoke, words spilling out of her mouth uncontrollably.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Arundati said, locking her gaze with her mother’s. There had always been tension between the them, an existential friction between two very different beings. As a teenager, she had envied the relationship between her mother and elder sister, Nirmala. But as an adult she had come to understand and accept the fragile peace she had managed to achieve with her mother. And when she had told the family of her relationship with Gemunu, there had been a sea-change in her mother. The match between her and Gemunu had been perfect in the eyes of her family. Her mother had doted over the young man that she had brought home one Sunday afternoon for tea and who had then continued to visit her parents frequently ever since. For what felt like the first time in her life, Arundati had basked in the approval of her mother, the glow of it overshadowing the roughness of their relationship up to that moment.

But once again she felt she was at loggerheads with the woman who gave birth to her.

“You cannot make decisions like that. Don’t you know it affects everyone? Everyone!” Kamalini said, controlling what she knew to be anger bubbling inside of her. It was a strange emotion; her love for her youngest had always been one that was tinged with a stain of regret. Arundati had always been the one to question her and challenge her place as a mother. Unlike her eldest child, Arundati was unpredictable, her fiery nature unbridled at times had made Kamalini question her worth as a mother. They had always fought, sometimes openly but more often in the form of a war of attrition, each knowing the other’s weaknesses all too well. Neither a clear victor, leaving them both frustrated.

“I know, mother. But this is what I need right now. All I’m asking is for you understand my decision.” Arundati said, this time her tone softer and compliant. She looked to her father who had been silent all this time.

“Thaththa, are you on my side? I need you to understand that this is the best decision for me. I can’t explain every bit of it but I need you both to have some faith in me. To trust me for once.” Ravi looked at his daughter and close to his heart he felt a knot gathering. It was a strange tangle of love and anger: love for his suffering child and anger at the circumstances of her life. He simply nodded his head, his own emotions flooding his mind.

“All I ask is that you let me be. I won’t bother you. I have some savings that I will use if I need anything. Although, I don’t expect my expenses to be considerable.” She continued matter-of-factly. She avoided looking at her mother and addressed her father exclusively. He had always been sympathetic to her and had at times played the role of the peace-maker between Arundati and her mother.

“I can’t let you throw away your life like that, Arun. I understand you are in pain but becoming a hermit is not the way to go about things. You have your whole life ahead of you. You are still…….”

“Stop!” Arundati said, her voice sharp, stopping her mother short of finishing her sentence. She stood up from the breakfast table, the piece of bread on the edge of her plate falling to the ground from the force of her movement.

“Arundati…….” Her father called out to her as she climbed the stairs. There was no loud bang as she closed the door of her room, only the silence that flooded the house as both parents stared at the food in their plates, each lost in their own thoughts. It was a silence that was consuming the house, masquerading as a substitute for loss.

Arundati.

She filled her days with silence and solitude, hardly stepping out of her room even for meals choosing instead to have her food in her room or in the night once everyone had gone to sleep.  The only thing she seemed to enjoy was the peace of her nightly meals; the whirring sound of the fridge keeping her company as she ate the morning’s leftover bread and seeni sambol, a spicy dish of caramelized red onions mixed made with turmeric and red chili flakes; an unlikely mix of sweet and spicy in a dish so humble. It was a strange act of solitude; her consuming of food. Her tears stained the white table cloth on the kitchen table. The taste of the food mingling with the punishment she felt she deserved.

There were days where she wondered if he had transformed into a spirit and had taken possession of her. Lying in her bed in the darkness, there were nights where she imagined a great weight upon her chest, paralyzing her, her mind struggling hopelessly to escape from whatever it was that was keeping her captive and then in a flash she would see his face. The face of the man she was to marry, the face of the man who would have been a father of her children. And then the great weight would be lifted, liberating her. It left her confused. Had he indeed become a restless soul that had taken to haunting her or was this her mind fueled by sadness falling apart in chewable bites? Would there be anything left of her at the end of this ordeal?

She had asked her mother to take away all the photos she had of him from her room. Next she deleted the photos in her laptop; her mind cold and angry. That’s what she felt in those early days. Anger: at herself, at the men who set off the destruction, at her family and at Gemunu. And at the end of that; coldness. It took a week for that numbness to melt away into grief. The effects of the sleeping pills her family doctor had prescribed fading away leaving her stranded with her own sorrow.

She still remembers clearly, speaking with clarity through her tears and screams, begging for something to relieve her of the pain. Her mother hugging her tight as her father dialed the number of the doctor. The look of terror in his eyes as he watched his child breaking at the seams.

She also remembers the oblivion of sleep, as her tired, tear stained body fell asleep for what felt like an eternity on the living room sofa. She also remembers hearing soft whispers as her mother and sister kept vigil over her. And finally, there was the memory of waking up and knowing that her heart was still broken and that Gemunu was dead.

Gemunu.

He was not an exception. There were many who had died that day. The bomb had ripped through the lobby of the busy shopping center; indiscriminate and punishing. The ball-bearings packed into the explosives fanning out like a macabre show of power, moving through skin, bones and soft organs finding their way onto the columns and walls, lodging themselves in strange patterns that would remain for weeks after. Yet another act of violence, yet another show of might. Fifty-three souls in total. Not counting the thousands upon thousands that had become statistics in a civil war that had spanned three decades. Yes, he was not an exception. But then. He was her exception. As the news of the bomb blast started flooding in, someone called her father and told him to turn on the TV. Arundati stood transfixed in front of the screen, as the images lighted up her face. As if struck by someone she had picked up her phone that had been lying on the dining table; that’s when she saw his text message. She immediately dialed his number and listened to the dial tone.  Then she saw the image that made her drop her phone to the ground. It was of a man flailing helplessly as his body was consumed by fire only to fall on the sidewalk, a burning heap of human flesh. And she knew.

She knew as her mouth opened to scream his name, over and over again until her voice became hoarse from the effort. She knew as her body fell to the ground and as she curled her body up into a tight ball of pain. Her mind realizing and not realizing at the same instant. Her mind accepting and rejecting at the same time. Every cell in her body flooding with pain.

Yes, he was not an exception. But he was her exception.

Gemunu with his dimpled smile and easy laughter, his unruly curly hair and his love of crème caramel. He had taken her by surprise that day as he spoke to her, the sound of the band playing eighties favorites as the wedding guests began to dance with gusto, with the confidence of a man who seemed to know what lay ahead for him. They were an unlikely paring; with his calmness, next to her fieriness. Or maybe it was the best possible match for each other. For the first time in her life she had felt accepted for who she was and for the first time in his life he was forced to shake the conventions of his own thinking. When he proposed to her, he did not even have a ring to give her. He had been mulling over it, considering the best moment to ask her only to be completely taken by surprise by his own impulsiveness. The next morning, they had gone to a jewelry shop to buy a ring, both giddy with happiness. The bright lights overhead and the glittering baubles in their glass boxes in the jewelry store intoxicating them with their sheen. She had chosen the simplest of the rings, the one that shone the least. He had protested at her choice but then let her choose.

Gemunu with his easy laughter that spread to his eyes. There had been no coercion. There had been no threats. She had chosen the path that lead her to this moment. The moment where her life had come to a standstill.

The moment where she cried at the subtle taste of stale bread and something else, as she choked on every bite that she took savoring the spicy-sweetness of the caramelized onions burning the surface of her tongue. The solitude of the kitchen table and the gentle whirr of the fridge her only companions. The memories of sharing the very same flavors with the man who she watched burn to death, somehow felt like a penance than a pleasure. The food devoid of its former glory, every bite an act of punishment.

This was where her life stood still.

 As the minutes, hours and days melded together Arundati and her parents fell into a strange but familiar pattern. With that the questions fueled by curiosity, phone calls of inquiry and family gossip died down as well. This was as close to being normal as they could ever be. The only break in the routine were the visits by Nirmala. It was only when her children visited that Arundati would come down to the living room and spend time with the rest of the family. Amid her chatter with the children, her parents and sister would exchange glances, seeing glimpses of the young woman they knew. But once her nieces left the house Arundati would retreat to her room and shut the door behind her.

The first time she noticed a change was after one such visit by her sister. Playing with her nieces she could almost forget Gemunu, his face blurring amidst the noise and playful chatter. She had also noticed the looks on her parents’ faces, a glimpse of hope as they watched their child seemingly normal. But once the children had left and the house settled into its old familiar silence, memories of Gemunu would come back to her with added force, as if those moments where she didn’t think of him were being compensated.

It had started gradually: the tingling sensation around her nose whenever she smelled food, the feeling of dizziness around familiar smells and finally the flashes of images in the early hours of the morning. They were subtle enough that she was unsure if they were imagined or true. As her sensitivity to smell increased, so did the intensity of the images she saw in the pre-dawn light of her room. By the time she became completely aware of a change within her, she had already come to understand the onset of what she would experience.

She would wake up covered in sweat, only to have her body paralyzed as she watched an image flash in front of her. The smell of burning flesh and smoke lingering on even after it had passed. For the rest of the day the scent traveled with her, a steady, haunting reminder of what she had witnessed.

That morning she had woken up, her cotton t-shirt stuck to her back like a second skin. It was still dark outside and as she waited for what she knew was to come she looked up at the ceiling. As her eyes got accustomed to the dark she could make out the faint circle made by the white fan blades as they cut through the air in the room. She imagined a whirlpool of air being dragged down towards her and she at the center of the turmoil.

And then she saw it.

A man consumed by a fast burning fire, his own skin and fat providing the fuel for the flames that were engulfing him just before he collapsed onto the sidewalk and then into nothing.

It was brief but this time she knew it was not a memory. This time she was sure she had been present at that moment in time. She had felt a burning sensation in her nose from the smoke and her ears had caught the sounds of mayhem; screams of pain and shock and the steady sound of human flesh and objects being consumed by the fire. She knew this time was different as she smelled her hair and her clothes, the undeniable smell of burning flesh imprinted on them. And all she could do was scream in silence. Her pain too strong to be contained and her body too fragile to respond.

After that, there was only oblivion. A vast nothingness.

And when she woke up from that soft, suffocating nothingness she ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As the water started trickling from the showerhead all she could think of was how to wash away the smell of smoke from her body. Taking off her clothes hastily she stepped into the shower cubicle and the cold water. As she watched the water slide off from her body she thought she could see it turn black as the residue from the smoke and ash was being washed off her. Once she was out of the shower she started to walk to her bedroom, a trail of water dripping from her wet hair and body. It was her mother’s reaction standing at the top of the flight of stairs, that made her realize she was completely naked. Arundati let her mother wrap her in a towel and take her to the bedroom. For the first time in weeks she had allowed her mother to touch her. She waited patiently as Kamalini dried her body and hair; both women silent as they allowed each other a moment that was primal; the bond between a mother and a child.

“Amma……” Arundati finally said as her mother looked at her face searching for answers. “I’m okay.”

“Okay? You were standing naked, dripping water in the middle of the corridor a few minutes ago. How can you be okay?” Kamalini said standing up and walking to the chest of drawers that contained her daughter’s clothes.

“I will be fine. It was just a passing moment……You don’t have to do this Amma.”

“What do you mean? Taking care of my child?” Kamalini said handing her a t-shirt, underwear and a pair of old jeans.

“No, the worrying. I will be fine. This may not be what you want me to be but I’m comfortable with who I am. Doesn’t that matter?”

“Then, who are you Arundati? Where is my child? The one who could fill up a room with her presence, the one who could make everyone smile even if they didn’t want to. Now, it’s as if you only want to take up as little space as possible.”

“I don’t know where she is, Amma.” Arundati said, her voice small and childlike. Kamalini hugged her daughter. Arundati’s naked body somehow even more fragile than Kamalini could remember, the bones protruding and her skin papery.

“Whatever it is you are doing……please stop it. We need you back.” Kamalini said facing her daughter. Instead of responding Arundati kissed her mother on the cheek, a gesture that was rare between the two women. When Kamalini left the room, Arundati allowed herself a moment to cry for herself and for her mother.

But somewhere deep inside her she knew that she was to revisit that day many more times in the days to come. She knew that this was simply the beginning, that she was drawing ominous magical circles in her mind. She knew that despite her own efforts she was caught in a spell, one that she could not break. And somewhere deep in her mind she thought she heard a voice that told her that it was okay, that it was okay for her to let go, to finally allow the loss to consume her body and mind. Loss of herself the only cure to her malady.