Kunkumapoove: The Saffron Flower, Part 1

Through the dense, gloomy forest she walked, crushing the dried leaves and twigs under her shoes. The darkness pressed in close against her yet her steps were steady and her eyes looked ahead. There was only a bit of light visible at a distance. She struggled to look through the slit of cloth, which covered her whole head but the eyes. They kept widening as the light was too dim. Her pace was steady yet quick. 

Beads of perspiration appeared on her neck, the cloth suffocated her; she wanted to get out of the forest as early as she could. She lowered the cloth a little, letting in a breath of fresh air. Then, she lightly touched her nose and cheek; a painful tingling ran all over her face. 

The cut wouldn't be that deep, she thought. The blood will get smeared all over.

She felt the blood on her fingers; its sight would fill her heart with fear but now she only found it tangible—warm, water-like.

My blood, and her—no. Not hers.

She shook her thoughts away and continued to walk. The light came from a street lamp. She hid behind a thicket. Her stomach gnawed at her with fear. There were two, well-dressed men who stood near a car whose headlights were turned off. Upon looking closer, there was another man kneeling closer to the back wheel. The place was eerily quiet, except for the two men who talked occasionally and the clanking of the mechanic’s tools.

The two men suddenly got startled after they heard the crushing of twigs. They looked around until they saw the thicket.

She looked up and saw the two men come towards her. She quivered as she slowly emerged out from behind the thicket. The young girl faced them as she eyed them with fear. 

As she came closer, a soft, muffled voice came from her, “Water.”

The taller one amongst them handed her the bottle he held. She took the bottle as her hands shook and had a drink.

As she was done and was about to return the bottle—crack! They heard a shot being fired. 

Have they seen me? She thought and covered her face again. Then she saw something which sent a chill down her being. 

Both the men pulled out a pistol each and fired in the direction where the shot came from. There was a silhouette-like figure which was firing at them. The men kept firing but the latter dodged effectively. 

“Brajesh, get inside the car.” The tall man said to the mechanic. The latter heeded and went inside; then a bullet landed on the car’s window. 

The young girl was out of the shooter’s sight. She witnessed the whole event unfold as she sat on the ground, frozen. 

Then, a bullet hit the tall man’s hand, causing him to drop his pistol. He lurched back, clutching his hand.

“Ranchit hide! I’ll get him.” His companion cried out to him. He kept firing but his enemy seemed adamant. 

As he ducked, Ranchit saw a figure. Surprisingly it was the young girl. She dashed forth and with a flick of her arm, hurled something at the silhouette. It flew straight towards the figure and rammed into his chest. The shooter stood still until he grabbed his chest and fell down on his knees. Soon he was lying down flat on the road.

The men glanced at her, under the lamp's light they saw her. Her raven-black hair was dishevelled. The cloth covering her face had come off and dangled from her shoulders. The blood from a cut on her face had dried while the eyes looked red; her forehead bore a faint vermillion mark. The fearful appearance made them wonder whether it was the same timid girl who had asked them for water. 

She straightened her tunic and threw the cloth over her shoulders. Ranchit asked his companion, "Ishrat, should we take her with us?"

"What? But she's—"

"Oh come on, she saved us."

"How can you easily trust her?" 

"Why not? What if she actually needs help? She is wounded as well."

"But how will you convince him?"

Ranchit grew quiet but then replied, "I'll do it, don't worry." 

***

"Come, come inside." Ranchit led the petite girl inside. Her shy demeanour had returned as she looked around the place with anxious eyes. It was a sprawling, luxurious house; fine and polished in appearance. It had large glass windows which reflected the lights around it. The night could not allow her to get a good view of the place, yet she could figure out its magnificence. The whole place was dotted with guards who held guns. It had rooms bathed in cream light.

Soon they were allowed inside a room. Ranchit stood in front of the girl, blocking her view. All she could see was a desk and a chair behind it, with its back turned towards them. 

Ranchit began, “Satya, you see. We were attacked by that scoundrel again, but thanks to this girl we were saved.”

There was no reply. He continued, “swiftly she flicked a knife at him. Aimed right at the chest, struck him down in no time.”

The chair turned and the man seated on it faced them. Ranchit motioned the girl to come forth. She did, her eyes downcast. Slowly she lifted her gaze to look at the man in front of her.

Her heart skipped a beat, seemingly on the brink of bursting. Her head, fingers, feet ached wildly. Why doesn't the ground split open to engulf her? 

The man was rakishly handsome; slightly bronzed, with a delicate mouth and nose. He had penetrating, dark brown eyes and lush, jet-black hair. He sat like an uncrowned monarch, relaxed but cold.

Is he really—no it can't be him. It cannot be him.

Her red eyes grew teary but she held those tears back with great effort. He rose from his seat and approached her. 

God, let him not see the crescent mark. He shouldn't try looking carefully. 

She suddenly grew conscious about her presence. His gaze continued to stare into her soul. He nodded and looked at his right. In a penetrating voice he said. “Umbriel, make her comfortable.” The assistant led her out.

***

Umbriel brought the doctor to the room in the guest house where the girl was accommodated. He carefully wiped the blood off her face and tended the wound. 

“Luckily, miss. The cut is just a surface nick.” He said. “It will recover soon. Just apply the ointment I am giving you.”

The girl was silent throughout. She was still coming over what she saw. Her reverie broke when the doctor asked her:

“What's your name?”

“S-Soyara.” She stammered.

He wrote the prescription and handed it to Umbriel. The latter thanked the doctor.

As soon as Umbriel and Soyara were left alone, the former went to her and said, “If you want anything, you can ask me. You can call me by ringing the bell on that counter.” She pointed to her left.

Soyara met her gaze, Umbriel smiled tenderly at her. “Milk.” Soyara mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Milk, and something to eat as well.”

In no time, Umbriel arranged all that she had requested. Soyara hungrily ate her meal, devoured it to the last scrap and gulped it down with lots of water. Finally she had the milk.

“Thank you.” She said to Umbriel with a smile. The latter left her alone and exited the room.

Soyara was soon lost in her thoughts as she usually did, perhaps to find solace. Her memory took her way back, nearly eight years back.

***

The morning air had a slight chill. The sun rose slowly, letting its rays slide through the trees to the ground. The eastern sky had gained a soft tinge of orange and pink which faded away as the sun revealed itself bit by bit. The village of Norcote would remain half-asleep at this hour. An eight year old girl would wake up around this time, partially out of habit and partially out of what her mother did. She had once remained in her bed despite her mother's instruction the previous night. It landed a stinging burn on her arm. Soyara, since then, would touch her left arm lightly. The scar might disappear, but her wincing upon touching it, would never.

The girl sat in the veranda, her maternal uncle was asleep on the cot. Soon her mother came out and grabbed the girl by the arm. 

“Let's go.” She would say.

They would walk towards the forest. By the end of April, the deciduous forest cover which enshrouded Norcote's northern border would acquire a yellowish tint at its base. Only the tree-tops appeared green, which shadowed the forest ground. Her mother would bring her to a small clearing with lesser trees but full of shrubs. 

One of the trees had white markings. Long back when she had come there for the first time, her mother had produced a small knife. 

“Look carefully.” She said to her daughter.

Taking a few steps back, she placed her right foot ahead. Keeping her body turned sideways and eyes straight, she held the knife behind her shoulder in her left hand, with the blade tilted back. Then she set herself in motion, picking up a little pace while her left hand came forward in a flash. The knife which was held loosely darted towards the tree marking. There would be a startling whizz which would end in the sound of stabbing the wood, the tip of the blade would be precisely in the middle of the marking.

Soyara watched her in awe and gulped hard. Since that day, her mother, Ganga would hand her the knife and make her strike the marking.

Initially, quite naturally, she would miss the target. Her stance itself was not correct. Ganga, however, refused to correct it, “You have a good memory, don't you? Why didn't you observe me when I did it?”

She would show her again and Soyara kept observing her every move carefully. Then she would take her position and hold the knife; soon within four or five days she had learned the correct stance. Then she would dash forth and throw the knife, causing it to land on the ground in a parabola. This continued for two weeks and every single time Ganga would blankly look at her daughter, or would roll her eyes in annoyance. But Soyara pushed herself each day. She jerked her arm till it was seemingly on the verge of detachment; at least that was the way she felt it. 

Presently, Ganga handed her the knife like everyday. She took her stance, putting her right foot ahead on the usual spot. She inhaled the fresh forest air deeply, keeping her left hand behind, holding the knife. 

Today, at least let it happen today. Please.

She saw the white marking and let its sight absorb within herself. Then she charged forward and brought her left hand down with full force. The knife was out of her hands but she tipped over, balancing herself on one leg. In no time, she felt the hit of the dusty, stone hard ground on her face. Her surroundings had toppled over themselves. A groan escaped her lips. From her tilted view, she could see Ganga.

The latter's face was flushed and her eyes bore into her. Soyara rose herself on her elbows. She was soon on her feet and dusted herself.

“Are you wasting my time on purpose?” A menacing voice spoke slowly.

Soyara hung her head.

“What am I asking you? Don't I have any chores to look after?” The voice was now raised. Its high pitch made it worse.

She gulped again. “S-sorry mother,” was all she could whisper.

Ganga suddenly came to her and grabbed her chin. Her knife-like fingernails dug into her cheeks. “Can’t you improve even slightly, you brat?” Shoving her sideways on the ground, she walked away. Soyara kept looking down at her hands. 

From a distance came the same voice, “Now come on. Don't miss your school today.”

The girl still looked at her palms. All the old swellings had receded. A teardrop rolled down her cheek and fell on the earth.

They say hands turn callous upon being hit by a cudgel everyday—what about hearts?

She walked back home and retired to the bathing place. Her tears refused to dry but she washed them away with a splash of water. After the bath, she wore her tidy, neatly pressed uniform. Its sleeve was short but it would conceal the burnt scar. She combed her oiled hair and secured them in two pigtails, looped and tied in red ribbons. 

Then she heard a voice which would kindle her little heart, “Soyara, come on!” Followed by the ringing of the cycle bell. She ran out, it was a young man. 

His face was delicate and would bloom like a flower when he smiled. What a pretty smile it was! His left cheek formed a subtle dent, it could not be called a perfect dimple but a dimple nevertheless. His starry eyes would shine through his pair of glasses. 

They always cycled to school together with Soyara sitting behind him. Her classes would commence in the afternoon, therefore they had to cover the path under the blazing hot sun. Soyara would hold the umbrella, so that the two friends could share its shade while riding. He would ask her about her homework or her tests but that particular day she remained quiet. None, apart from her family, knew about what she did early in the morning in the forest. 

The plants had shrivelled in the heat while the flowers which bloomed in the spring had swooned. The children awaited the summer vacation which was about to start from May. 

The duo parted ways after he dropped her at the school gate. She was in seventh grade and the class was in the corner on the first floor. She tried forgetting everything. Soon her mind was entangled in a massive cobweb like a helpless ant.

“If the triangle BAC is congruent to DEF, then angles BAC and DEF must be equal to 30 degrees as given,” she said to herself as she wrote in her notebook. “Angles are equal aren't they? They aren't drawn the same though, thirty degrees appears like forty-five sometimes!” Then she heard a tune, coming from an oboe. It was slow and for some reason sounded sad too.

The knife-like fingernails— the rough ground hitting her cheek. It was a slap— a slap on her ability. The bloodshot eyes flashed like the blood moon, undergoing an eclipse. The oboe's sound grew louder, hitting her soul. 

Focus, you knucklehead! Focus. The triangles’ vertices, why do they look sharp? Would a knife whet itself? 

She closed her eyes and pressed them hard. Darkness, sudden darkness. 

The oboe's sound was lower, it would relieve her from every thought, every pain. It was a firm, gentle and soulful tune.

The sound gradually faded away. She opened her eyes, the tide of her thoughts had ebbed away. 

During the lunch hour, the children would squeal and run on the whole floor. Soyara saw her classmates opening their lunchboxes. Her mother had refused to pack her lunch for that day. She wandered out in the open. Her stomach growled but she remained still on a bench outside.

“Here,” she heard the same familiar voice. It was him. She saw that he held a tiffin before her.

“N-no thanks, I am alright.”

“I know you are famished, you don't even have your tiffin.”

She got a whiff of the food. She lifted the lid of his tiffin, “Plantain flower?” She asked.

“Yes, you like it don’t you?”

I really do, she said to herself. They are a rare sight, besides your aunt’s hand is blessed. All tossed in spices, it looks delicious but—

“What are you thinking about?” He asked.

“It's your share, how am I supposed to eat it?”

“Like this.” He stuffed a morsel in her mouth. She could taste a burst of spices and a little bit of heat, as she liked it. A wide smile appeared on her face.

The eight year old memory felt like yesterday. Her reverie broke the moment she heard a knock on the door. “Yes?” She asked.

The door opened, it was Umbriel. 

“Sorry to bother you, miss, but is there anything that you've brought with you?”

(To be continued)