Word Count: 3695 | Reading Time: 13 min
With dwindling greenery and a perpetual water shortage, Karachiites never lose an opportunity to bask in the delusion of being one with nature. A patch of dead grass surrounded by a concrete jungle is all it takes to fuel their joy. Cool November evenings, therefore, are the perfect excuse to embrace the delightful chicaneries of outdoor tea sessions. Yes, glorious tea. Tea is the city’s lifeblood, the human equivalent of petrol; everything slows to a crawl without it. In Karachi, tea cures all ailments except death.
Najma doesn’t care much about nature, but she would never disregard tea. She has pressing matters to worry about when she meets her sister for a hot tea session, and she has a pile of even hotter grievances to spill. The new daughter-in-law was stirring up trouble, and Najma wasn’t having any of it.
“It’s been a month since she joined our household, and she hasn’t cooked a single meal!” she exclaims, shaking her head in disbelief as she stuffs a samosa into her mouth.
Nothing dominates the brain like the need for piping-hot grease pockets to accompany the rich, milky brew. The notion of food bringing comfort is not particularly of Pakistani origin; it’s a universal practice. We feed the grief and fatten it up until it bursts into cholesterol and diabetes. We then pause, indulge in medical gluttony, and repeat. Human nature is more complex than we fathom. The aliens remain baffled at our various forms of self-sabotage. We are doing most of their work for them.
“Najma, times have changed,” Jehan Ara gently reminds her sister. “She works all day and contributes financially to the household. Isn’t that enough?”
Saleema arrives with a tea tray and gives her mother a questioning look.
“See, even my Saleema plans on continuing her job after marriage, and her in-laws are fine with it,” Jehan Ara makes a point to cool off her sister’s elevated temperature as Saleema hands Najma a cup of tea. “Plus, you already have house help, so why even worry?”
“Arey, Saleema at least offers tea and snacks every time I visit,” Najma sighs and spits out a black tooth. Saleema gasps, and exchanges troubled glances with her mother. Jehan Ara returns her gaze with a silent plea to hush and pay attention. Najma grabs another samosa and continues her tirade.
“Your daughter is fair, like doodh malai. My Usman had to fall in love with that dark witch. Aah, my wretched luck,” she wipes the sewage-green goo trickling down her eyes. It sticks and spreads across her cheeks. “What have I done to deserve all this? All that is left is for lightning to strike me at this moment.”
“Najma Aunty, please don’t say things like that,” Saleema clenches her jaw to avert from the disgust bubbling inside and hands her some tissues. “Sahar is beautiful. She’s just sun-kissed, which, you will be glad to know, is considered exotic in many countries.”
Jehan Ara offers Najma another samosa to distract her from her rising frustration. The situation, or more likely Najma–yes, definitely her–was erratic. Saleema observes silently as her Aunt gobbles down her fifth fried dough like a vacuum. She makes mental notes. Stress could have built up a voracious appetite. But that wouldn’t make much sense, as Najma abhorred samosas.
“You don’t understand,” Najma continues undeterred as a sniffle emerges. Simultaneously, a bubble forms on her left nostril and pops. “I’m telling you, my Usman was always such an obedient boy. Now, all he talks about is Sahar this and Sahar that. He follows her around like a love-sick Majnu. No time for his old mother. He would never act like this unless she did something…something like black magic.”
“Now stop with this absurdity Najma!” Jehan Ara holds a steady gaze, every breath measured, teetering on edge, with practiced grace. “We’re all from well-educated families; we shouldn’t burden ourselves with such dark thoughts.”
“Really? Then why doesn’t she let my son eat anything I make without checking it? She doesn’t cook but insists she feeds him whenever I make his favourite dishes. Isn’t that suspicious behaviour?”
Saleema couldn’t help but stifle a giggle, earning a glare from her mother.
“Come now, Najma, hosh kay nakhun lo behan. You need to talk some sense.” Jehan Ara shakes her head in disagreement. “Weren’t you the one who insisted Usman meet her? You chose her, and now you denounce everything you once appreciated about her.”
“I don’t understand why we even have these strange Urdu proverbs. Like ‘hardening ghee on your palm,’ who does that?” Saleema decides to lighten the mood.
Her mother holds out her palm towards her to signal a pause. Time was crucial and held no space for wit. “You don’t need to apply logic to metaphors. They are used as abstract examples to encourage real practices.”
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Najma jabs a finger at Saleema, pounding her chest, eyes bulging. “I am BA pass, ok. Even our Holy book mentions black magic. My instincts are never wrong. Don’t you remember? I told you the baby would be a girl when you were pregnant with Saleema? I have proven my sixth sense multiple times.”
Saleema fails to hold her poise as she blurts, “Have you tried using lemon or sea salt? I heard it works well against witches and black magic.”
“Saleema, stop fueling her with garbage talk!” Jehan Ara glares in disapproval of Saleema’s nervous humour. Perhaps Saleema is pushing too hard, and they should recede a little to avoid escalation. Jehan Ara threw some damage control.
“Your daughter-in-law is out all day and comes home late. When would she have time for these supposed acts of witchcraft? And do you have any proof? It’s wrong to accuse someone without evidence, even if you believe it to be true.”
Najma pauses her indulgence in samosas —eight so far—and pulls a dark velvet pouch from her bag. She places it on the table. “Look inside,” she points at the pouch with urgency. Go on, tell me I am losing my mind, or is it what I think it is?”
Jehan Ara gestures for Saleema to open the pouch. With a hesitant hand, Saleema empties the contents on the table. A bizarre collection of objects scatters across the smooth marble surface: blackened teeth, tufts of hair, scraps, and other unidentified oddities. Both mother and daughter look at each other with alarm.
“Look closely. These scraps are not fabric. They are dried flesh. Why are these randomly popping up from under my bed? Hmm, explain to me now, Jehan Ara.” Najma demands, her voice wavering between fear, desperation and blood-thirst.
“Najma, let’s not jump to any conclusion just yet. It can be anything. We can ask someone, ok?” Jehan Ara tries to calm her sister. “In the meantime, let’s keep this between us and not tell Usman. I’ll do whatever I can to ease your mind.”
Feeling defeated, Najma finishes the last samosa and leaves. Jehan Ara scoops the ominous content back into the pouch and sighs. “Make the call. The samosas were enough to confirm the suspicion, but this pouch is the nail in the coffin.”
Saleema takes a few long breaths before she takes out her phone and dials. “She had thirteen samosas! You were right, Sahar. This is not Najma, aunty. Her eyes were yellow, and her nails were dirty. I also saw a few chunks of hair missing on her scalp. This is bad.”
“We need to fix this, Saleema. Tell me, do you and Jehan Ara Aunty have a solution?” Sahar whimpers from the other end. “We need to do something, please. Look, Usman is leaving this weekend for a conference. There will be no one at our house to disturb us. Is that enough time?”
Saleema looks at her mother, who gives her a grim nod. She sighs, “We have to. We have no choice. It’s latching on to her soul.”
***
Jehan Ara watches anxiously as her daughter pounds away at the mortar and pestle, beads of worry clinging to her eyebrows. Was Saleema being too rough? This was her fifth attempt at this recipe, and they were running out of time.
“Amma, how can I possibly be gentle with this thing? The recipe clearly says to grind it into a paste,” Saleema replies, the pressure of her mother’s nagging forming a lump in her stomach. She had followed the recipe exactly as it was written, but something wasn’t working.
“Did you hand-pick the herbs like I told you?” Jehan Ara peers at the contents of the mortar to inspect. You have to pick them two inches above the stems and twist counter-clockwise . . . And did you soak them overnight under the banyan tree at the back? Like I showed you?”
“Yes, Amma, I did all of that. I have been doing this since I was sixteen. You are just panicking because it’s your sister this time,” Saleema exhales and gently pushes her mother to the side. “And maybe if you stopped hovering over me, I could focus and get it right.”
The basement was a mess. It was chaos: of intention, of rituals half finished, and knowledge best left untouched. Herbs and spices were strewn across the wide centre table, some still smouldering faintly, releasing sharp, clashing scents that curled like tendrils. The floor was a minefield of empty glass bottles, many with shimmering residue that didn’t quite belong to this world. A worn, leather-bound book lay open on the counter, its pages spotted with strange stains; some sticky, some that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
“Let me read out the recipe while you double-check if we have all the ingredients,” Jehan Ara suggests despite Saleema’s reservation. She traces her fingers along the handwritten words of the old ways.
“I’ve followed every step, Amma. This mixture should have turned into Byzantium by now.” Saleema furrows her brows as she stares at the green goo inside the tourmaline mortar.
“I’ve never tried this recipe before, so I’m just as confused,” Jehan Ara admits with a sigh. “You tried sweat instead of blood, too, right? What else can the essence mean? It should work.”
“I even tried spitting in it,” Saleema mumbles with a grimace, and Jehan Ara follows suit. Desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s not like they haven’t done that before.
“In my life, I only faced minor plagues polluting the soul, which a good tea brew and a stab in the heart with a golden needle always resolved. This stubborn demon is beyond me,” Jehan Ara slumps into a chair. “Well, we’re in a bind. We’ll have to ask them.”
“Oh no, do we have to?” Saleema scowls. “They are such a snob; Every time I ask them for advice, they start with a long, boring lecture on my duties!”
“I can hear you, in case you are unaware,” They slither out of one of the glass jars and spit out a lizard skeleton. “Or perhaps you are ignorant as always.”
They stretch their shimmering tentacles, too many to count and yawn before adjusting one of their monocles.
“Please don’t mind my daughter. She is good with the ways, just not good with anger management. Could you please share some of your wisdom with us?” Jehan Ara asks with a slight bow while Saleema rolls her eyes.
“Imagine if Najma Aunty saw you talking to a multidimensional Vlokai,” Saleema chuckles and shakes her head. “I have been meaning to ask, why didn’t Grandmother pass her legacy to only you and not Najma Khala?”
“Najma’s core energy was never fluid. The soul can break while absorbing different forms of energy. Moon enchanters, like us, have the ability to harness and control energy, but your Aunt didn’t inherit it, unfortunately.” Jehan Ara shakes her head, and Saleema notices her mother is more chagrined than worried.
“See the trouble she is in now due to her congealed soul. Housing a hungry demon like that is quite despicable indeed,” they huff, and a wisp of dark smoke curls out of their mouth.
“Keep those wisps contained. You know what happened last time you were more dismissive than usual.” Saleema purses her lips and points at the charred wall at the far corner of the basement.
They are unbothered. They huff again. “You come from a long line of moon enchanters since the first woman’s twin daughters were born. Every enchantress needs to be mindful of their bloodline. Against the ways, your grandmother fell in love with an unhinged rather than a fluid. Your aunt’s birth was a repercussion. Count your moons that your mother still encompasses fluidity.”
“Poor Najma Aunty, though. Grandmother has long passed through the veil, yet her second daughter suffers for her mistakes.” Saleema was losing her patience with their taunts. “And considering you are supposed to counsel us for eternity, you should have advised harder.”
“The Vlokai made a pact with the moon daughters millennia ago, so no tears in the fabric between realms are formed. We can only counsel, not change destinies. Interference is forbidden, especially in front of blind love.”
Saleema scoffs. “We do all the dirty work and get nothing in return except for your lousy lectures. Doesn’t seem fair.”
“You, child, are insolent. There is no trophy to be won, only duty.” They swish a tentacle nonchalantly and point at Saleema. “You lack forbearance and focus, but blame the ways and me instead. Don’t act like you never truly wanted this honour.”
“I didn’t. It was forced upon me,” Saleema had had enough of this convoluted family business. “I would have preferred something simple and normal, like being a baker. Hmm, I suppose we are the ones suffering. Najma Aunty was enjoying a normal life of oblivion. Perhaps not now, but she has good times behind her.”
“Saleema! Enough now, beti. You are angry, but that is not an excuse to be contemptuous towards our legacy.” Jehan Ara gets up from her chair and walks towards her daughter. What we are bestowed with is a gift, a blessing. Yes, it can be overbearing and at times difficult, but every work requires it.”
They raise a tentacle to silence Jehan Ara. She obliges.
“Child. You lie. You forget that I can see you, truly see through you. Every grain of atom you are made of is an open book to me. You squirm in your rotten pool of self-doubt and frustration. It’s despicable for a fluid to act like this. Especially someone who was born with the Moon Star in her heart.” They tilt their heads. “You are scared, I understand, but for the sake of your aunt and humanity, snap out of it.”
Saleema’s scowl softens. They were right despite their harshness. She didn’t hate what she did. She was afraid of failing. Moon Stars, like her, were rare. Despite having high absorption capabilities, she didn’t feel powerful at the moment. How would she face her mother if the ritual went awry and Najma Aunty got hurt—or worse, died?
“I . . . yes. I am lost at the moment. I want to get this right, and I have tried everything,” Saleema throws her arms in the air and looks at them pleadingly.
“Mmmm. Essence is not necessarily seen.” Their sharp tentacles expand towards Saleema’s forehead. They tap gently at the centre of the brows three times with the elongated appendage. “What is the most powerful weapon that a fluid possesses?”
With eyes shut, Saleema concentrates. Jehan Ara watches with anticipation.
“Of course, our Soul!” Saleema’s eyes instantly pop open as she gasps, “I can use a grain of my soul through a tear drop. That should work.”
“You are welcome. I shall depart. Wake me up when you return with the vial so I can send it back to its wretched father. And next time, get me something more enriching than a measly lizard. An Ox heart will suffice as a thank you,” they purr and slither towards their temporary glass abode.
As the Vlokai return to slumber and live many lives, Saleema and Jehan Ara return to work. They prepare another batch with the new knowledge unlocked. By the evening, the Byzantium is glowing in the vial, illuminating Saleema’s victorious grin.
“Amma, tell Sahar the trigger is ready,” Saleema could feel acceptance blooming within her heart.
***
As the women gather in Najma Aunty’s lounge, the setting sun streaks the sky with a wish wash of shades reminiscent of a half-moon betta fish. Tea is served, samosas and jalebis are offered, and anxiety glazes the air as Saleema settles next to Najma Aunty. Jehan Ara and Sahar sit down further as Najma Aunty stares at her cup of tea. Saleema exchanges a disconcerted look with the others as Najma Aunty sniffs her drink.
Spitting a black tooth, Najma Aunty smiles, a sight grotesque enough to haunt your nightmares for a few months, if not life. The tooth falls with a ting onto the saucer, causing Sahar to wince.
“You are absolutely sure the trigger won’t hurt her?” Sahar whispers.
“It only reacts to Demons. Don’t worry,” Saleema assures her as she stares at Najma Aunty devouring a Samosa. “How many had she had since the visit?”
Sahar sighs, “I have lost count . . .”
“The tea is fantastic! Did we get a new brand, Sahar? Or is it the milk?” Najma’s hoarse voice interrupts their exchange.
“Umm, no. I tried to give the tea extra time for brewing. Nothing new.” Sahar keeps up the semblance of normalcy despite the jitters. Her nervous eyes flick between Saleema and Najma.
The air is getting dense, and Najma Aunty spits out another tooth, followed by more green spit trickling down the corner of her mouth, slithering its way down her neck. Jehan Ara coughs, which snaps her daughter out of her momentary haze of doubt.
Saleema gulps and scoots closer to Najma. She needed to check her eyes to confirm if the trigger had worked. The demon, intoxicated by Byzantium, should be visible by now.
“How do you feel, Aunty?”
Najma Aunty turns towards Saleema, her black eyes gleaming, and smirks, “Pretty delightful. Never better. And you?”
The audacity of this demon.
“I see you,” Saleema says, taking her Aunt’s hands between hers and exhaling. “Najma, Aunty, if you can hear me, please forgive me for what I am about to do.”
Everything erupts at once. The lights flicker violently, casting erratic shadows on the walls. Windows shake in their frames like they are ready to explode. Plates crash to the floor as samosas and jalebis levitate, swirling mid-air as if caught in an invisible storm. In the chaos, Najma Aunty lunges at Jehan Ara, her eyes wild, teeth bared and breath toxic.
Saleema is ready. She clasps Najma’s hands in a bone-crushing grip and yanks her back with a growl. Locking her body against the possessed woman’s, she forces her down with brute strength.
A plate crashes into Saleema’s head, and she feels warm blood trickling down her nape. She doesn’t stop. She can’t. She chants, and her eyes start to glow purple. The demon snarls, and a snake-like tongue lashes out and wraps around Saleema’s neck.
She needs to act now before the trigger wears off, or she will be choked to death. Without hesitation, Saleema surges forward, and her jaw stretches wider than humanly possible. She could take down an entire horse with that mouth if she tried. She won’t. She prefers Kebabjee’s fried chicken.
In two swift, monstrous bites, she tears out Najma Aunty’s eyes and swallows them whole. Najma collapses with a guttural wail.
Sahar screams and bolts toward the kitchen. Jehan Ara was already there, falling to her knees beside her daughter. Saleema was trembling and heaving, her breath ragged and blood-specked as her mother rubbed soothing circles on her back.
“You are doing fine. Just hold on for a bit. Just a bit. Let the absorption complete the purification.” Jehan Ara thumps on Saleema’s back as she brings a vial near her lips.
Saleema spits out a dark green ooze, and her mother promptly secures the container with a stopper. The thick liquid throbs. Jehan Ara scowls and sets the container aside. Saleema straightens up just as Sahar returns with a copper bowl. She carefully places it on Saleema’s lap.
“You can do this, Saleema. Just focus and let it out.” Jehan Ara rallies her softly. Come now, I will chant with you.”
Saleema and Jehan Ara start chanting. The mother embraces her daughter, the birds grow silent, and time stands still. In that moment, in between veils, they sway together, and a hum of a million moon songs vibrate within Saleema. It feels like a tiny murmur in her heart, that turns into a roaring flood. The soul tears off a piece. It divides it into two and rolls it forward. The pieces rumble through Saleema till they reach her mouth, and she regurgitates. Two soft pearls, the size of ping pong balls, fall into the copper bowl.
“Sahar, watch Saleema. I will do the rest,” Jehan Ara says, scooping the pearls in her hand. She walks over to Najma, who is sprawled motionless on the now ruined Afghan carpet. Two bottomless hollows stare back.
Jehan Ara places the pearls, one in each socket, and they are instantly sucked in. Najma, without skipping a beat, sits up with a gasp.
“What? Why am I on the floor?” She blinks with clear eyes.
“Oh, Najma!” Jehan Ara helps her stand up and hugs her baffled sister. “You fainted. We were worried, but Sahar assured us it was probably due to weakness. Why are you not eating properly?”
Najma settles on the couch and rubs her aching head. “I have been feeling a bit foggy lately. You are right, I suppose . . .”
As Saleema elbows Sahar, she blurts, “Why don’t you have some Samosas? You will feel better.”
“Samosas?” Najma Aunty frowns. “Are you teasing me? Why would I do that? Have you forgotten how much I despise them?”
She reaches out for a Jalebi.