Yogi Witch, page 10
How could I have slept after having one of the craziest experiences ever? My first official demon-banishing ritual took such a dramatic turn that it literally knocked me out. I pestered Gran all night long to explain how I managed to do what I did that with the ‘eye’ on my chest—and why was it there to begin with. Who was that hooded figure who had left that mark on me during the attack on my thirteenth birthday? However, as always, Gran promised to reveal all when it was the right time. It was an answer that obviously wasn’t good enough for me, but there was no point in rushing Gran. She was a Taurian after all, and could not be made to do something before she wanted to do it.
So, this morning, instead of yoga I decided to dance! Lord knows I had all the energy for it. I was in the mood for some classic Magdalena from the ’80s. Guilt-free pop exuberance was just what I needed then. Wearing just my shorts, I played one of my favourite tracks: ‘Follow My Light’. The brilliant beats led to the infectious synth-heavy melody, and I grabbed a bottle of deodorant and began lip-synching along as Magdalena sang:
‘Whenever I see you walkin’ by, all I wanna do is make you mine. But you always leave me crying in the night. I can’t keep these feelings locked inside.’
Even with a lack of sleep, my body was filled with so much energy that I couldn’t help but begin to dance—
‘I close my eyes and you’re here next to me! Lost and abandoned, I want the sunlight—’
At that moment, Aunt Claudine entered my room in her nightie and joined my dance, singing along to the chorus:
‘Follow my light to me, baby! I’ll give my heart, please give yours to me! Follow my light to me, darlin’ … I’ll give you love, won’t you please set me free!’
Grabbing my hand, Aunt Claudine took me out of the room and led me down the stairs as we began singing the second verse:
‘No matter what I do or what I say, time is always standing in our way! Caught under your spell, I can’t escape! Everywhere I look I see your face …’
Aunt Meg was entering the house carrying a basket of fresh produce from the kitchen garden. Before she could react, Aunt Claudine snatched her basket from her and began playfully grinding into her as she danced. Aunt Meg turned a shade that rivalled her tomatoes as we sung to her:
‘Don’t leave me here all alone in my dreams. Wake me up and make me believe all your magic …’
Aunt Meg gave in, and to our surprise, she sang along to the chorus as the three of us began to dance like we were at one of Magdalena’s concerts.
‘Follow my light to me, baby! I’ll give my heart, please give yours to me! Follow my light to me, darlin’ … I’ll give you love, won’t you please set me free!’
Aunt Meg began letting loose, a sight that was so rare. She got on her knees and began waving her arms while singing the bridge:
‘Follow my light to me … Darkness is such a lonely wonder …
Suddenly, we saw that Gran was at the top of the staircase, still in her nightie while singing along:
‘Follow my light, I’ll make you love me!’
She danced down the stairs, making us marvel at how agile her body was.
‘It’s not that hard, please just say yes to me!’
All of us began dancing about the living room to the final chorus, singing:
‘Follow my light to me, baby! I’ll give my heart, won’t you give yours to me! Follow my light to me, darlin’ … I’ll give you love, won’t you please set me free!’
As the music began to fade, we all burst into a fit of laughter and hugged each other.
‘God, I just love ’80s’ Magdalena!’ said Aunt Claudine, her eyes sparkling.
‘I still say her ’90s’ stuff is far more superior!’ retorted Aunt Meg as she tried to go back to her cool demeanour, but was too caught up in the infectious mood to succeed.
A sudden knock on the front door brought us back to reality.
The door was open as Aunt Meg had just walked in from the garden. I froze as I saw that it was Vir standing there. He was in his faded Nikes and a tank top that was covered in sweat. It looked like he had just come back from his morning run. How long was he standing there? Oh crap! I thought. He’s seeing me shirtless for the first time!
‘Um, hi,’ he said cautiously. Gran and Aunt Claudine hastily fastened the robes of their nighties. Aunt Meg was in her gardening overalls, but my hands dropped to cover my crotch.
‘Sorry, is this a bad time?’ Vir asked, trying to hide a smile.
A few minutes later, Vir was with us at the breakfast table at Gran’s invitation. She had pulled up an extra chair while Aunt Claudine had set a place for him. I had run upstairs to pull on a T-shirt, but was still embarrassed that Vir had seen me in that state of half-nakedness. Aunt Meg had fried some bacon, which Gran served Vir along with a helping of her famous scrambled eggs that had a hint of paprika to give it a little something special.
‘So how did you get in through the gates?’ Aunt Claudine asked as she poured him a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice.
‘Um, they were open.’
Vir had been a little taken aback when he had been asked to have breakfast with us. But slowly he was warming up to the idea. It was the most we had heard him speak ever since he arrived for his first yoga class.
‘Open?’ Gran arched a quizzical brow. ‘Oh dear …’
‘That’s my fault!’ Aunt Meg walked over, holding the cast iron skillet that sizzled with the freshly fried bacon, ‘I opened it to pay the newspaper boy for the month. I must have forgotten to close it after.’ She walked around, serving Vir first the biggest helping before serving the rest of us. ‘I still need to get used to the new electronic locks and stuff.’
‘I hope I didn’t intrude …’ Vir began, trying to maintain an air of formality, but seemed distracted by the delicious aroma of the bacon.
‘Oh nonsense!’ Gran said. ‘An unexpected guest can sometimes be a delightful change. Now eat, my child, before your food gets cold.’
‘H-H-How are you feeling now?’
I had mustered up the courage to speak, ignoring the playful kick Aunt Claudine gave me under the table.
‘Oh!’ Vir swallowed his bite. ‘I’m good, thanks!’ Our eyes met briefly, but before I could read into them, he turned to Aunt Meg and said, ‘The bacon is delicious!’
‘Why, thank you!’ Aunt Meg seemed unusually delighted. ‘The secret is in our homemade butter!’
‘Jai churns it every week!’ Gran sipped her pomegranate juice.
‘Oh?’ Vir turned to me. ‘You churn butter?’
Before I could say anything, Aunt Claudine butted in: ‘Of course he does!’ She reached out to ruffle my hair, purposefully embarrassing me. ‘When he isn’t dancing about to Magdalena!’
‘Oh my god! Aunt Claudine!’ My cheeks turned red as Aunt Claudine chuckled. Vir smiled in a way that seemed so warm and so uncharacteristic of him. Well, at least from what little I knew of him.
‘What brings you over, Vir?’ Gran emptied the scrambled eggs onto Vir’s plate as she walked over to place the serving bowl in the sink.
‘Oh, um, er, I just wanted to, um …’ He looked so cute struggling to find the words. ‘I guess I just wanted to thank you for the other night.’
‘Oh, there’s no need to thank us!’ Gran declared as she returned to her seat.
‘We were just being good neighbours,’ Aunt Meg smeared blueberry preserve on her croissant.
‘And we absolutely love being good neighbours!’ Aunt Claudine said with a playful wink at me. I wished I could bury my head in a pillow!
‘What exactly did you do, though?’ Vir asked as he gulped down on his pomegranate juice.
‘What do you mean?’ Gran was about to refresh his glass before Vir politely stopped her.
‘Thanks, I’m good.’ His smile was so dreamy when he dropped his attitude. ‘I mean, I was told you guys came and did some weird ritual of sorts.’
‘Weird ritual?’ Aunt Meg bit into her croissant.
‘I mean, from what I was told, I was injured really badly. I wasn’t even wearing a helmet when I crashed my bike into the tree. But when we arrived at the hospital, the doctor said that the wounds were superficial. There were no signs of internal bleeding or bruises or anything …’
For the first time, I looked carefully at Vir. From the side, he resembled an emperor on an old Roman coin. His hair was shaved from the sides and the back, with long black locks on top. I think that hairstyle is called an ‘undercut’. His strong jaw carried a full pair of lips that seemed as soft as pillows. Dimples would appear at the corners when he’d smile. His dark eyes were beautifully accompanied by well-defined brows that arched elegantly at the corners. I also took in how strong his shoulders looked … and had to stop myself from imagining my legs resting on his shoulders as he mounted me.
‘… All I was told was that before the ambulance came, the two of you were giving me something that seemed like CPR or something.’ Vir’s gaze snapped me out of my thoughts.
‘CPR?’ Gran chuckled.
Vir smiled, flashing his dimples. ‘Yeah, that’s what I was told.’ Suddenly, Vir’s phone rang. His face dropped when he looked at the screen. He excused himself to the kitchen to answer.
Aunt Claudine turned to me and teased me by making kissy faces.
‘Oh my god!’ I threw my napkin at her. Aunt Meg joined in the teasing, making kissing noises. Oh my god! Not you too, Aunt Meg!’
I buried my face in my palms as Gran and my aunts burst into giggles.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Vir said as he re-entered the room. ‘I’ve got to take care of something back home.’
‘Oh, that’s perfectly alright!’ Gran said. She got up and headed over to one of the counters. ‘We didn’t get a chance to thank your parents for the lovely pickles and jams they sent before you officially moved in.’ She called me over and gave me a basket that was covered with a white cloth. ‘Please give these to your parents with compliments from us. These are Meg’s special croissants. She’s quite the baker.’
‘Yeah! Master-baker!’ Aunt Claudine said teasingly. Aunt Meg clearly wasn’t amused.
‘Um, they aren’t my parents.’
The room suddenly went quiet.
‘Oh?’ Gran nudged me to hand over the basket to Vir. ‘Is that so?’
‘Um, it’s a long story.’
Vir ran his fingers through his hair and thanked me as I handed him the basket. I found myself wondering if there had been an actual spark when our fingers brushed or if I had just imagined it.
‘However, we would love to have you over for dinner tonight, if that’s okay with you all.’
‘Oh, we’d love to be over for dinner!’ Aunt Claudine declared quickly. She got up and ushered us out of the kitchen. ‘Jai would you be a dear and escort our handsome guest out?’
She truly knew how to embarrass me!
‘Make sure you lock the gate!’ Aunt Meg called after us.
The walk to the front door was uncomfortably silent, but as we stepped out and headed to the gate, Vir said, ‘Your family is really something!’
‘Yeah!’ I mustered an awkward smile. ‘I hope they didn’t freak you out or anything …’
‘Not at all!’ His eyes sparkled. ‘They seem really lovely.’
‘They are.’ I smiled too, oddly relieved that he liked them. ‘So happy to have them in my life.’ Why did I say that? God, I’m such an idiot!
‘Wish I could say the same!’ Vir’s smile suddenly vanished. ‘Anyway,’ he said, turning to me as we reached the gate. ‘I look forward to seeing you all later tonight.’
‘Sure, can’t wait!’ Ugh, why am I so cringeworthy?
‘Cool, later!’ He held his fist out to me. In hindsight, I should have guessed he had meant to do a fist bump, but silly awkward me nearly leaned in for a hug. Thank God good sense prevailed and I extended my hand out … only it was for a handshake. He gave me a puzzled look, but shook my hand before turning and heading over to the two armed guards who were waiting for him outside.
I stood by the gate, watching him put on his earbuds as he led the guards back to his house. To my heart’s delight, before he went through the gates of his mansion, he turned, smiled and waved. Waving back, I beamed as he disappeared into this house. I turned and shut the gate behind me. I was so overcome with joy that I couldn’t help but twirl … only to spot Gran and my aunts standing by the front door giggling at me!
Ugh, such a blessing they are!
Chapter Thirteen
Chandni Chowk is one of those places that can either charm you or disgust you. A beautiful mix of the sacred—with the historic Jama Masjid, Sis Ganj Gurdwara, Fatehpuri Mosque and the Central Baptist Church—and the profane, with criminals such as pickpockets and scam artistes looking to fleece the avid tourists. Crowds queue up to bask in the historic splendour of the Red Fort and to savour the sinfully delicious treats from the street vendors in the Paranthewali Galli. One can sit down at the original Karim’s or Moti Mahal for butter chicken that’s still made with the same recipes that nawabs and kings feasted on. This is also the hub of wholesalers and retailers with shops kept in business by numerous generations of the same families. Yes, there is the smell of stale piss everywhere, but that can be said of even the posh south Delhi localities.
I knock on a door hidden down a poorly lit alleyway. ‘What’s the password?’ asks a voice from behind the door. ‘Humaira!’ I respond. The door opens wide enough for me to sneak in.
I’m greeted by an almost seven foot tall man wearing a black salwar kameez, who frisked me for weapons before leading me down a dingy corridor. We walk through a second door and enter a small room where a bespectacled man sits at a small wooden desk.
‘Javed bhai hai?’ I ask the man, who nods and then gives a thumbs-up to the bouncer who had led me there. He opens a third door, and I hear Sufi music blaring from an ancient speaker system. I walk through the doorway and a waft of stale smoke makes my eyes water. I find myself in the middle of a crowded speakeasy illuminated by vintage red and blue disco lights. At the tables all around me are men of all ages smoking hookah—despite the recent Supreme Court ban.
Leading me to the far wall, the bouncer orders me to sit at a booth with plush leather seats that are torn at the seams. I smile as I hand him a hundred-rupee note. I always tip generously.
‘PMC,’ I say to the fresh-faced waiter as he walks over. He definitely doesn’t look eighteen. PMC is my go-to hookah flavour. It’s a delicious mix of paan—or betel leaf, known for its aphrodisiac properties—mint, which is sacred to Hecate, the goddess of witches and also an excellent herb for banishing stomach illnesses and exorcisms—and cigar.
‘Tobacco, though dangerous,’ Gran had told me once after catching me experimenting with cigarettes, ‘has long been used by shamans across the Americas to converse with spirits. Sometimes it’s even thrown into rivers to appease river gods. When burned as an incense, it purifies the air of all negativity, and its smoke has been known to cure earaches. However, mass-produced cigarettes use tobacco infused with thousands of carcinogens.’
Some say that hookahs are even more harmful than cigarettes. However, tonight, I need it for work. The waiter returns and whispers in my ear to follow him. He leads me through a kitchen, where in the whirlwind of chaos the staff seem thoroughly unconcerned by the rats scampering about. From the kitchen, we go out the back entrance and up a rusty spiral staircase to a balcony outside a small studio.
Unlike the speakeasy downstairs, the studio is illuminated by turquoise lamps hung from the ceiling. The room is carpeted and the walls covered in vintage dupattas sporting heritage embroidery. A large brass-coloured Khalil-style stand hookah with a fur-lined pipe is by a large cushion on the floor. I settle down on the cushion and the waiter hands me a small plastic nozzle and says that Javed bhai would be with me shortly. I take a long drag and blow out a large puff of fragrant smoke.
‘Humans are created from clay and water, and the essence of angels is light,’ says a voice from behind me.
I turn and see a figure wearing a green kaftan, with numerous crystal beads dangling around his neck. Before I can stand up to greet him, he signals for me to remain seated. ‘Djinn were created on the day of creation from the smokeless fire that created our earth.’
‘Javed bhai?’
The figure smiles. ‘Javed bhai is only for those who need to fear me. You may call me Nafeesa behen.’ With the lamps now clearly illuminating her face, I see that her eyes are lined thickly with kohl and the parts of her cheeks that aren’t covered by her thick chest-length beard are rouged and contoured with pinkish highlights. The absence of a moustache reveals lips tinted in a rosy hue.
‘Apologies, Nafeesa behen!’ I say, smiling.
She claps her hands and a couple of servers appear carrying a tray laden with freshly cut fruit and a large crystal bottle of scarlet-coloured sherbet. The tray also holds three glasses.
‘The third is for the djinn,’ says Nafeesa behen as the servers place the trays before us and leave.
‘The djinn drink sherbet?’
‘Well, they also eat meat, bones and the dung of animals. The sherbet would be a welcome change.’ She fills two glasses and offers me one. We clink our glasses together and take a sip at the same time, maintaining eye contact.
‘Not bad!’ I lick my lips as I place my glass down.
‘It’s my mother’s recipe. Handed to her from her mother, who got it from hers, and … well, you don’t need me to explain the powers of a maternal lineage,’ says Nafeesa behen, smiling.
I nod and she continues, ‘The djinn lived on earth long before humans, but it is unknown for how long. Some say it was a few centuries before Adam and Hawwa. The djinn were said to be equal in stature to angels. However, their ruler—Iblis, whom you probably know as Shaitan—refused to worship Adam. Thus, he was cast out of heaven along with his followers. After Adam and Hawwa left the Garden of Eden, the djinn mingled with their descendants to either haunt them or mate with them. Only a few humans were lucky enough to have a djinn as their loyal servant.’
