House of Stars Read online




  KEYA GHOSH

  House of Stars

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Aman

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Diya

  Kabir

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN METRO READS

  HOUSE OF STARS

  Keya Ghosh retired early as an English teacher at a girls’ school in the hills. Tired of confiscating trashy romance novels from her students, which ‘did nothing for either their idea of adult relationships or their ability to write English’, she decided to take up the challenge of reinventing the chick-lit novel. She is working on a trio of novels in the calm environs of the Velliangiri mountains. Her early retirement also allows her to pursue her hobby of tracing the lost works of the early female Bhakti poets. Terror@Twelve, her collection of urban ghost stories, was published by Juggernaut.

  Dearest K,

  You taught me that love lasts beyond death.

  You are and always will be the love that

  transmuted my life and filled it with light.

  Kabir

  Damn. She is beautiful.

  I have been following her for three days, and this is the first time that I really see her. She stands hesitantly on the stairs. A breeze lifts the hair off her face. And she is beautiful.

  Aman crows in my ear, ‘I told you. You thought I was just boasting about my girlfriend!’

  The photo he had shown me was of a group of people. She was just an uncertain figure hiding at the right edge. She had turned her face away at the moment that the photo was taken, so all the camera got was her long hair and a side profile. But her beauty had been apparent in his voice when he spoke of her. ‘She’s got this long hair that falls absolutely straight. She never ties it up. And her eyes . . . yaar . . . so gentle. You can fall right into them.’

  Her hair falls straight, except when the wake of passing cars ripples it away from her face. Her face is tiny and heart-shaped. I cannot see her eyes from across the road. But I want to.

  I stare at her through the curtain of traffic that roars between us. Aman jerks me into action. ‘Hurry! You’ll lose her,’ he says insistently in my ear.

  I hurry after her. My heart is thumping. I stick my hands in the pockets of my jeans to stop them trembling. Just the thought of going up to a girl and talking to her does that to me. I’m a loser in the girl department. Can’t be helped. I haven’t had much practice.

  For three days, I’ve been standing outside the gate of the fancy college that Aman used to go to. He had pointed her out to me the first day. All I ever got was a glimpse of a girl in jeans and a kurta who slipped out of an expensive car and hurried into the college, head down. Same thing when it was time to go home. Three days of waiting, and that was all. But this morning, that changes. She hurries through the gate after the car drops her off. But after it drives away, she comes back out hesitantly. And I finally see the girl who had been described to me in poetry.

  She gets an auto. I manage to grab an auto too. When I tell the driver to follow her, he has a lot to say. Smart-ass, like all Mumbai rickshaw drivers are. ‘Pyaar vyaar ka chakkar hai?’ I ignore him.

  ‘You’ll end up in trouble,’ he prophesies. ‘All women and love are trouble.’

  She stops the auto at a large mall. I have to crane my neck to look up at it. Biggest damn thing I’ve ever seen. A huge facade of glass in which my shabby self stands reflected, gaping like a fool.

  I hurry through the entrance after her. The security guards stop me and do a cursory pat-down. I could tell them that I am carrying everything I possess in the world. And it isn’t much.

  The shops in the mall are still in the process of opening. Shutters clatter, an automatic sweeper wheezes around the floor. The mall is three storeys high, with escalators stretching their long necks like mechanical giraffes between floors. Fancy names glitter in chrome and crystal and neon from the entryways. It’s one of those premium places where you can buy anything, from diamond jewellery to home theatre systems, and everything else in between.

  She doesn’t seem to be interested in any of the shops, walking past them without looking and heading straight to an escalator.

  ‘Give her the letter,’ says Aman. ‘You promised you’d do that for me. Go on.’

  I had made him that promise. And I have come such a long distance to keep it. And I mean to, even though my heart jolts when she turns her head and I see her for the first time. God. She is beautiful.

  ‘I can’t get close to her.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You haven’t come all this way to give up now. You owe me this. Remember?’

  I remember all right. I owe him this. I watched him write the letter in the light of a lamp. Thinking over every word. Knowing these might be the last words she ever heard from him. I watched him fold it carefully. His love letter lies warm against my heart. I can’t help but wish it were mine.

  I follow her around the mall. She goes in and out of shops, then wanders into a large department store and walks through the various sections. I trail behind her, trying to be unobtrusive. The salesgirls keep a nervous eye on me, this shabby, unkempt boy wandering around their pristine fancy displays. I can see them watching my hands, dreading that I will reach out and touch something.

  We go through the make-up section, and the place where they keep ladies’ kurtas, dresses, T-shirts. At the handbags section I finally summon up enough courage.

  I edge closer to her, trying to work up the nerve to tap her on the shoulder, to actually touch her.

  This is it. I’m actually going to talk to a girl. I clear my throat.

  She doesn’t notice. She has turned and is walking rapidly away. I follow, holding on to the courage I have mustered. She pushes through a door, and I grit my teeth and almost follow, when I read the sign on it—‘Ladies’. I stop dead, all my momentum draining out of me.

  She is in there a long time. Long enough for me to worry. Long enough for me to wonder if something is wrong, if I should push open the door and check. When the door finally slams open, I am unprepared, and she steps out straight into my stare.

  She looks at me, and her eyes are red, as if she has been crying. Then, before I can say a word, she turns and hurries away. I hurry after her, but she is almost running.

  At the top of the escalator, she abruptly turns and confronts me. ‘Who are you? Why are you following me?’

  I fumble for an answ
er. Before I can say a word, she shouts, ‘Guard! Security! This man is harassing me!’

  There is a security guard nearby who turns at her call. Then he seems to fold and falls gently to the ground, at our feet. There is a sharp chatter of sound at the entrance. I know that sound. It’s three quick bursts from an AK-47. She is standing there, staring at the guard in shock. I don’t stop to think. I fling myself on her.

  One moment too scared to lay a finger on her, the next minute my arms and legs and body are entangled with hers. She turns a frightened and furious face to me, and I cover her mouth before she can scream. ‘Please. I’m sorry. Just lie still!’ I beg. And the world descends into chaos.

  A group of men run into the mall. They have guns. People begin screaming. Guns begin firing.

  I lie there, heart thundering, adrenaline rushing through me, brain screaming that I should get out of there. I don’t dare move.

  I am aware of everything all at once. She is soft and startlingly warm. A lemony scent wafts from her hair. Her skin smells of flowers. The curve of her ear is brown and pink and almost touches my lips. Her bangles are sharp stripes against my arm. I’ll tell you this—it’s strange and awkward to be lying on her, but I don’t want to move. She is frozen in shock, eyes wide and fixed on me. I see the understanding come into them that I am not attacking her. She has recognized the sounds at last.

  One me is lost. Another me is coldly watching and calculating everything else. I listen intently, sorting out sounds from the crescendo of panic. Five men. Three automatics. One handgun.

  The mall security guys don’t wait. They’re out of the door, shoving customers out of their way. The gunmen run through the mall, searching for exits, securing them. Their guns spit non-stop. Sometimes as a warning, sometimes meaning business.

  I watch an old man fall to the ground. His blood pools and meanders in slow streams across the floor towards the entrance. A screaming woman slips in it and falls. She scrabbles hysterically in the blood for a second, before she gets back on her feet and runs. Others are scrambling for the doors as well. Then two gunmen head to the entrance and begin stopping them.

  It’s all over in about ten minutes. A gunman stops beside us. She clutches me and closes her eyes. I cover as much of her as I can. If there are going to be bullets, I might as well take them. No one is going to notice I’m gone.

  ‘What, saale?’ says the man, kicking me in the thigh. ‘Protecting your girl? Being a bloody hero? Get up!’

  His gun is cold against my temple. I get up. I have to take her hand and pull her up. She is trembling and icy-cold. Her hand slips out of mine. I wish I could keep holding it. She stumbles on to the escalator ahead of me. I look around for Aman.

  When the shooting is over, we’re part of a group of hostages huddled miserably in the middle of the foyer. Aman is gone.

  Diya

  I hate my father. He has never ever asked me what I want before making a decision about my life. I remember when I was just four years old and there was a fancy-dress competition at the playschool I went to. I wanted with all my heart to go as a princess. My mother had bought the crown and everything. But the night before the competition, my father said, ‘She will go as Mother India.’ Just what every little girl dreams of being. Mother India. I cried and cried. He slapped me to get me to stop.

  This morning, my father announced at breakfast that it was time I got married and that he was looking for a suitable match. My mother said nothing. She never does.

  I knew this would happen some day. I was prepared and raised my head. ‘I’m just in SYJC. I’m below the legal age for marriage. You can’t do that.’

  ‘Can’t do that?’ my father said. ‘And who is going to stop me?’

  Nobody can. That is the thing I’ve learnt since I’ve been old enough to walk. My mother learnt it even earlier. After twenty-two years of marriage, he’s got her well-trained. He is the law in our house. The judge. And the sentence is obedience at any cost.

  I know him. He’ll choose someone who will want me well-trained too. I won’t be my mother. I won’t! I love her. I feel sorry for her. But I won’t be her.

  I didn’t argue. I put my head down and went on with breakfast. My mother didn’t even look at me. I tried to think of what to do.

  I wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to go. Not a single person or place that would give me shelter. I desperately needed to think. So I came to the mall. I like empty malls. They belong to no one. People drift in and out of shops trying to buy happiness, and, with a bag or two in their hands, I see them smile. I’ve got enough money. But it has never bought me happiness.

  I first notice someone following me when I walk through the kurta section. He just walks past the displays. Doesn’t stop to look at anything. And why would he look at kurtas for women, anyway? I go from there to the women’s casuals section to check, and sure enough, he walks in behind me.

  He’s a teenage boy. Tall and very fair, but with shabby, crumpled clothes and hair that has not been combed. Jeans. Faded T-shirt. He slips along behind me, trying to be nonchalant. I study him in a mirror, pretending to look at jewellery. I go to the bathroom to buy a little time. To wait and see.

  When I come out, there he is. My heart begins to thud. He doesn’t look like one of the men sent by my father to watch me. He’s too young. Too shabby. Maybe he’s just some unknown boy following a girl to harass her. I do the only thing I can think of. I yell for security.

  Then he flings himself on top of me.

  I can’t tell you how scared I am. I panic. He puts his hand over my mouth so I can’t scream. I think I’m being assaulted. Then I hear gunshots. Screaming.

  I lie under him, not daring to move. I can sense the chaos. People are running, their footsteps thudding wildly. There is hysterical screaming. One woman is shouting again and again, ‘Oh God! Oh God!’ I hear someone falling heavily to the ground. From the corner of my eye, I see a pool of red seeping from the fallen security guard. I close my eyes.

  I don’t know who the boy is. I don’t know why he’s protecting me. But he is all that lies between me and a bullet.

  Then the screaming stops. The silence feels even more dangerous. I hear footsteps coming towards us. A man with a gun is yelling at us to get up.

  For one second, I want to hold on to this unknown boy. I’m scared and desperate to hold on to anything. But we are separated.

  We are told to sit down and wait. There are many of us all huddled together, all numb with shock. No one dares to scream. But there is the sound of subdued crying, the whisper of prayers.

  I watch the men with guns. I’m scared of them, but, however stupid this sounds, I’m far more scared of my father finding out that I’ve gone somewhere without letting him know. The only thought that keeps going through my head is, He’s going to be so angry. So angry.

  Here I am, held hostage by terrorists—blood on the floor, terrified people around me—and all I can think of is what my father is going to say. Thanks, Dad. You’ve already done a good job training me.

  A tremendous rattling and screeching sounds through the mall. The metal shutters are being pulled down. The terrorists are closing down the mall. We watch as shutters block out the light from the huge show windows. Only the shutter over the door is left up. It begins to rumble down with a numbing finality. A man steps through before it is halfway. He is an ordinary-looking man. His hair is grey, and he is not very tall. His hands are chained. With a rattle of the chain, he stretches them as far as they will go. ‘I thank you, my brothers,’ he says.

  The terrorists crowd around him, smiles on their faces. A man with a black headband, who seems to be the leader, says, ‘We did this almost according to plan. If it hadn’t been for the roadroller—’

  The grey-haired man raises a hand and the chains jingle. ‘We did it almost according to our plan. Perhaps God has something bigger in mind for us. We are part of God’s plan now.’ He kneels and spreads his hands on the floor. Another terrorist steps
forward and presses a gun against the chains. A single retort and his hands are free. He rises, and the men embrace him one by one. There are various expressions on their faces. Pride, respect, outright awe. I don’t know who the man is, but he is the power in the room.

  The man with the black headband and the grey-haired man confer. Then the rest of the men get their orders. They begin to move among us, asking us our names.

  We don’t realize what it is for until they begin separating us. Everyone with a Muslim name in one group. Everybody else in another.

  Kabir

  The terrorists begin to sort people out. Hindus on one side, Muslims on another. We have one Jain among us, but we don’t seem to have any Christians. This is not going well.

  A shop assistant is hauled up. He says his name is Hussain. But his name tag says ‘A. Sharma’. The leader hits him across the face with his gun. His lip splits open, and he struggles to speak with the blood dripping from his mouth. ‘It is my name! I work in a designer store. They like us to have suitable names. We can’t use our own.’

  ‘Pray,’ says the leader. ‘Let’s see which God you pray to.’ In a trembling voice, ‘A. Sharma’ begins. He is so scared that his voice stutters and shakes. He is barely able to get the words out.

  The grey-haired man steps forward and stops him. ‘This is no way to speak to God,’ he says. ‘Not in terror. Calm down. Do not be afraid.’

  The boy takes great gasping breaths. The man speaks gently. ‘Go, Hussain. Go sit with your brothers.’ The boy goes, blood dripping down the front of his shirt.

  The person in front of me gets to his feet. He’s an old man, and his name is Mahendra Shyam Bhonsle. He shuffles off towards the growing group on the left.

  Then it’s my turn. I get to my feet but keep my head down. Never make eye contact. It’s when you do, that things start to happen. They see you. And madmen like this mostly don’t like what they see. From the corner of my eye, I see that I am facing a boy who looks younger than me. He barely has fuzz on his chin, and his eyes dart everywhere.