Kunkumapoove: The Saffron Flower, Part 2

The clouds appeared ghostly as they hung in the night sky. They were clearly retreating as the winds scattered them. The moon illuminated the clouds like a bright pearl lying inside an oyster. Satya would gaze at it; for minutes, for hours, until the moon would shy itself away from him and pull the clouds over like a coverlet. 

“Satya?” Ishrat called out. He turned back and saw the latter approach him hurriedly. 

“Does she carry anything?” He asked.

“She gave Umbriel only one thing.” He said and opened his palm. It was a dart with a metal tip and red feathers, all caked with dried blood. Satya raised an eyebrow.

“That's all we retrieved.” 

Satya frowned and took the dart and looked at it from all sides. 

“Firstly she hesitated to give it, but when she did, she requested to return it back to her. Surprisingly, she almost teared up while requesting.”

He handed the dart back. “Wash it.” He removed a handkerchief and wiped his fingers. 

“Does she belong to Tryambak's gang?” Ishrat asked.

The piercing gaze looked straight into him, “We shall see.”

As Ishrat turned to leave, he heard his nonchalant voice again, “Tomorrow evening, call the maestro.” 

He reeled back. “What? We’ve let in a stranger and you—”

“Just do it.” 

“But, I don't know whether he’ll be available or not.”

Satya simply walked away, leaving the latter puzzled.

***

Soyara walked along with Ishrat towards the main building complex. She felt like a different person altogether in her new, navy blue one-piece which reached her knees.

Umbriel is such a sweetheart; but who wears these kinds of dresses?

She could not catch her companion's pace as she wore new shoes while her old ones were sent away for mending. The high heels made her look taller than her actual height but they felt like one balancing on loose rocks. 

They reached the cabin where Satya, Ranchit and a few more men waited. Soyara nearly gaped when she saw Satya; his fine, graceful locks fell on his wide forehead while his slightly bronzed, rosy complexion contrasted against his dark outfit. As she stepped ahead while being on the doorstep, the shoe made her trip and she came down on the icy floor with a thud. Ranchit rushed ahead first. She saw his bandaged hand coming forth but she refused.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“Yes.” And she was back on her feet, all by herself. The fall had rendered an awful blow on her knee but she remained quiet.

“You sure right? I hope you aren't hurt.” He asked again.

“No, it's fine.”

“Oh she's fine.” Ishrat said, under his breath he muttered audibly enough, “Who cares?” The men took their seats. 

Satya was the only one who remained seated. She sat on an empty chair.

Ishrat began, “We need to clear a few things first so you better be honest.”

She nodded.

“We infer that you are trained in handling knives, am I right?” 

“Yes sir.”

“And darts?”

“No sir.”

“Then where did this dart come from?” He produced the dart which she had with her.

She became quiet, her eyes turned down. 

“Where did it come from? Do you work for Tryambak?” He sounded severe, the questions echoed in the room.

Her lips quivered before replying, “My— my aunt had given it to me.”

Ishrat reclined back in his chair. “Really? And how are we supposed to believe you?”

She looked up, with great effort she held her tears back. “It's true sir.”

“Okay fine, so can you tell us what is inscribed on this wretched thing?”

“Inscribed?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“But, I don't know what—”

“See, don't try to be funny with us. You know it. You had this with you, didn't you?” 

“I did, b-but I never saw it properly.” 

“Nonsense!” He stood up. “Why don't you just confess that you work under Tryambak or Devan?”

“I don't sir,” The dam of tears burst; her eyes, however, remained pinned on Ishrat. His questions kept bombarding her.

“Tell us quickly! You—”

“Ishrat!” Satya called him out suddenly. With a movement of his hand he told him to sit. Turning to her he asked in a calmer tone, “When did your aunt give it to you?”

The young girl pursed her lips, her tears were in a furious flow but her eyes looked straight ahead at them. Satya put a glass of water on the desk before her. She looked at it and then looked back at him. He blinked and quietly said, “Have it.”

She grabbed the glass and gulped it down in one go. After a few sniffs she said, “My aunt and I were being chased down once. Then… she handed this to me. Our people keep darts for protection.”

“Who was chasing you?”

Her face turned pale, “M-militants—”

Satya kept looking at her, blankly. Ishrat ran out of patience.

“Enough! Do you think we'll believe what you've made up—” 

Satya held him down by his sleeve. As he was silent again, he gave her the dart. “Just see it closely.”

She saw it. A set of symbols was inscribed on it. 

The symbols stood for numbers she knew, but that was all. With a baffled look she saw them. “I've no idea what it means.”

“Your aunt gave it. It must be crucial.”

But what could it be? Why would this be so cryptic? Aunt is lying on the ground, a bullet is lodged in her leg, her clothes are soaked in blood. She places her hand on my head. ‘My dear—keep the word he gave.” His blood, my blood—

A weak whisper escaped her lips, “Baba.” 

She heard the oboe, the same one from her childhood. Her tears dried up, her muscles were no more tense. 

“You may go, miss.” Ranchit said.

***

“That wretch must be out of her mind.” Ishrat said as he swallowed a glass of cognac. “We are only making a fool of ourselves.”

Ranchit swirled his drink, the ice cubes clanked against the glass. “You know, I feel sorry for her.”

“Oh, ain’t I any surprised? You insisted on bringing her here; now you suffer at Satya’s hand.” Ishrat drained down another glass. “Such a lunatic! I am already fed up with seeing her tantrums.”

“You shall see, okay, she'll be our asset. She's terrific at killing.” He filled up another glass. “By the way, where did the music come from?”

“Music?” He squinted until it struck him, “Oh right! It was the maestro, Satya had told me to call him and keep him ready. He was out of our sight but it was ensured that his music was heard.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Can anyone ever understand Satya?”

Ranchit smirked and kept the glass upside down. “He’s as mysterious as Him.” He looked at the sky through a window in the ceiling.

“But brother, it still shocks me that he doesn't suspect her. I mean, she's clearly making up the whole thing.”

“And how come you are so sure? Didn't you see her condition?”

“She threw a perfectly aimed knife right in front of us, but at the same time acts as if she's innocent!”

“Let's see what follows.” Ranchit threw his coat over his shoulders.  

***

She opened her palm, the inscription on the dart reflected in the light. It appeared new while the dart was old and worn. She closed her eyes, the memories of her father were very few. At the back of her mind they would flicker and disappear. 

At dawn, her six-year-old self would scramble on him as he slept. “Baba, wake up!”

His long, slender face would be a picture of serenity. His lips would smile slightly in his sleep. Then he would open his bright blue eyes and catch hold of the playful girl and perch her on his arm.

“What are you up to, my dear little one?”

“We have to see the birds, right?”

“Oh, I forgot!” He would say while placing his hand on his head. “Let’s go then!”

She would clutch his long fingers in her tiny hand and walk along with him. The moment she would say, “I’m tired, baba.” He would hoist her up and point at the green treetops. His hair was short and auburn, she liked stroking or pulling his locks. He never complained, rather he was a man full of mirth. 

“Do you see that birdie there?” He once asked her. The bird was tiny with a slender curved beak and dark, shiny feathers.

“Whoa.” She exclaimed in a soft voice after sighting it.

Her father would smile. “That's a sunbird.” The bird moved a bit while staying on the branch while its black plumage reflected back a purple hue. She clapped her hands excitedly but it caused the bird to fly away. Dejected, she pouted. “Our friend has flown away.”

“It's alright. It will come again.” He mimicked the bird's trill and whistle. Calling it thrice, it came back on the same branch.”

The little girl watched in awe. “You're a genius! Baba!” 

Once he was tuning a long wooden instrument. He allowed her to touch it, examine it.

“Is it a flute?” She asked.

“No my doll,” he gently placed her in his lap. “It's an oboe.”

“Oboe?” Her eyes widened. 

Smiling to himself, he blew through the mouthpiece. He began playing his favourite tune. Being an amateur oboe player, he went for a simpler tune. He moved his fingers, guiding the air in and out through the wind instrument and striking the plaintive notes which emerged out clearly, but slowly. The tune did not pierce the air, rather played with it, teased it and eventually caressed it, producing a soulful sound. Kashi was engrossed in playing the oboe. So much that he did not see the effect of the music. His darling little daughter would close her eyes and cling to him. She felt safe; relieved from everything, entering a dreamland. Her mother boxing her ears or her aunts’ harsh scolding, everything would melt away as if they never occurred. When the music stopped, she opened her eyes. She was there, nestled in her father's arms. When she would be half-asleep, her mother would come and take her away.

However, when she woke up one such day, her father was not sleeping in the same place. His tall, lanky figure was nowhere to be seen. “Baba?” She called out, scampering around the whole house, leaving no stone unturned. He was not there; neither in the kitchen, nor in the bathing place, nor in the backyard, nor their usual strolling place in the forest. She went to Yeshwant, her mama or maternal uncle. He remained asleep on the cot.

“Mama, where’s baba?” She nudged him until he woke up. 

“What's the matter?” He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Where's Baba?” 

“Kashi? What happened to him?”

“He’s not here!” She broke down. 

He sat up with a jolt. For a moment he became thoughtful. Rising slowly, he quietly went inside. “Stay there.” He told her. Soyara stood near the door and heard her uncle.

“Taai, taai!” He tried waking up his sister, Ganga. 

“What?” She asked.

“What should I tell Soyara?”

An eerie silence followed until Ganga whispered in an inaudible voice. 

Soyara went back to the cot. Yeshwant came out and said to her, “My dear, he has gone to the city.”

“City?”

“Yes, he’ll return in a week.”

But he never returned. She couldn't stomach his absence. Soon one day, her family served food to the whole village. That day her uncles, aunts and Kashi’s well-wishers grew teary and addressed the gathering. Her father's friends were distinguishable as they wore red caps or scarves, raising slogans such as: “Long Live Comrade Kashinath!”

Her mother Ganga used to bear a particular mark on her forehead like any other married woman in her village— a small horizontal line, an upright crescent above it, encircling a small dot; all a blazing vermillion. But soon her forehead was empty except the line. 

When Soyara entered puberty, she ceremonially got a small line drawn on her forehead from wet vermillion. That day she saw herself in the mirror. Her face had bloomed like a flower in spring with that auspicious mark. She beamed at her reflection, in turn it beamed back at her. She said to herself, “Now you've grown up! Haven't you?”

“Hey fool! What are you grinning at? And why do you talk to yourself?”

She felt a knock on her head. “The ceremony isn't over yet, go.” Roughly, Ganga pushed her out of the room.

Soyara winced as she was back to the present. Her fingers stroked the scar on her left arm. 

***

The next morning, the maestro was preparing to leave. As he placed his oboe in its case, Satya greeted the artist with rare politeness. 

“Thank you so much sir. The favour you've done to us means a lot.”

“Oh please sir, the pleasure is all mine.” The maestro squirmed as he stood there. 

Satya took the suitcase from Ranchit and held it before him. The maestro accepted it gladly. Satya’s men escorted the latter out.

As he was gone, Ranchit asked, “What was all this for?” 

Satya removed his sunglasses, “Nothing, just a confirmation.” Staring into his eyes he sighed heavily, “She's not a gangster, Ranchit.”

The latter thanked his stars. His decision did not land him in trouble.

“Won't you ask how I know?” Satya asked him with the same frigid calmness.

“Our network of course. Her record won't be present anywhere. Besides—”

Satya clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Her record would've been wiped out had she been an infiltrator. Why would a gang take the risk of getting caught?”

“Oh, right.” Ranchit thought a little, “Then it must be your instinct.” 

Shaking his head, he put the sunglasses back. “What did you see in her eyes?”

“Tears.”

“Good. What else?”

“Well, we can say that she was honest, at least that's what I would say.” He paused for a moment. “What did you see then?”

Satya had turned his back to him. The former looked out of the large glass window. Then came his firm reply, “Courage.”

The latter raised an eyebrow. “She was certainly scared. Maybe not the whole time but overall she was. I dare say she still is.”

“I said ‘courage’, not fearlessness.”

Turning back to face him he continued, “Her eyes did have fear, her words did fumble, her expression did spell out fear, yet she faced us. She was reluctant to answer our questions, yet she overcame it. And that's exactly what I want.”

Ranchit pondered a little. “But Satya, she seems to be a little sensitive. Are you quite certain?”

“I am never uncertain. I want you to train her, fine-tune her skills. Start whenever you like, but quick.”

Ranchit soon left. As soon as Satya was alone he reached for his coat's pocket. He drew out an object and held it in his palm.

It was a dart, similar to the one the young woman had produced except that there was nothing inscribed on it. It plunged him into a reverie. Then he saw a seventeen year old boy climbing a knoll with his little friend.

“Where are we going?” The boy asked. The knoll was covered in green after the rains, the sky was strewn with grey clouds and the air was cold.

His friend replied, “We’ve got to go, come!”

They were soon inside a small shrine. It was unlike any other shrine. It housed a statue of a man, sculpted out roughly just to ensure that one could get an idea of its figure. He was seated and had no visage, his forehead was ablaze with bright vermillion. The boy had heard about the shrine and also about the anonymous, tribal deity it housed but had never seen it himself. His friend had grown devout, she touched the statue’s feet.

The forest was a patron for their people, a parent-like place. The deity was a personification of the same. Its statue cradled two infants, one appeared delicate while the other was robust. 

The boy grew impatient, “Why are we here?”

His friend produced a dart with red feathers and cradled it in her hands as she knelt before the deity. Then she pulled the boy's hand closer and handed him the dart.

“Here, keep this with you.” She said, “As long as you have it, you'll be protected.”

“Oh please, I don't believe in such things.”

Her eyes softened, her rosebud lips pouted slightly. “But I do. Do it for me at least.”

Her innocence would often annoy him yet never failed to move him. He smiled tenderly and ruffled her hair.

“Alright, I will.” 

Six years from then he felt the tip of the dart; clean and sharp, it pricked his finger, drawing a drop of his blood. He did not flinch.

When Soyara entered puberty, she ceremonially got a small line drawn on her forehead from wet vermillion. That day she saw herself in the mirror. Her face had bloomed like a flower in spring with that auspicious mark.