Devyani Saini's Blog, page 5

Knowing Myself

The notebook is blank.

I envision every shaking laugh, every silent tear, every uttered word imprinted on the pages. Brown and crinkling and old, leather-bound and stained with memories and travels of my youth, holding in tangible form the fragments of my mind that threaten to disappear at any moment. On the cover, Chinese script which says something about knowledge. About knowing oneself.

My mind sees what it wants on the page but my hands, my incapable hands, cannot move to make it so. They falter, slip and shake, and mar the clean pages with my insufficiency. Permanent marks that will forever remind me of my incapability.

But the notebook knows. It knows about my hands and my mind and the shaky bridge between them that can scarcely carry a thought without swaying. It knows of my incapability. It does not laugh, or ridicule, or insult, or humiliate me. It caresses my fingertips with its rough, coarse pages, my mind with its solemn words – burned into the cover by fire strong enough to speak.

A gentle self-mutilation.

The notebook knows that I cannot turn it into art myself, so it helps me. It thickens its pages so that my tears do not carve craters into them. It bends its covers so my trembling fingers can reach the very edges of the pages, so my quivering nib can leave its mark all over and say “This is mine and no one else’s.”

With patterned tape I stick little echoes of what was, what could have been, and what will be. A cutout of a woman in a hanbok. A bill for a box of cookies. Fragments of maps. With a pencil I outline tributes, symbols of where my footsteps have pressed impressions into the cold hard floor of a subway station in a faraway country. I erase them. I try again.

It still is not what my mind envisioned.

The notebook smiles.

Go on. Continue. 

I write in asymmetrical hangul, my heart shaking with each stroke of the pen. Did I make a mistake? Is this the correct grammar? 

I finish the sentence. I turn back to the page I just completed.

The notebook is finally beautiful.

 

 

Whispers In The Sand – Excerpt

Today was the day.

The moment the sun reached its highest peak in the sky the souq erupted with a burst of energy. Platforms were set up along all the streets for the slaves to be put on display for the spectators who would come in on foot and on horseback. Khaya had been getting ready all morning. She could barely recognize her own reflection.

The tailor had prepared a bedazzling blouse for her with a deep neckline and thick straps to keep the scar on her shoulder hidden from view. Her sirwal was light and airy, sitting low on her hips. Around her waist was a thin silvery chain clasped by an imitation gemstone at her navel. Her eyes had been lined with kohl, and her hair brushed back and decorated with a silver matha patti that outlined her face. On her feet were curved silver and blue slippers, and around her wrists a set of painted copper bangles that shone in the sunlight.

She was a jewel among grains of sand.

Without her headscarf and full sleeved qamis she felt more naked than she ever had before; elation and disbelief washed over her as she combed her fingers through her hair. She had never looked so beautiful.

The Bedouin ran a critical eye over her. He held his chin, deep in thought. “Should we do something to make them look bigger?”

Khaya’s face burned with embarrassment and anger. She crossed her arms over her chest. “They are big enough!”

Resigned, the Bedouin handed her the last component of her ensemble: a small drawstring pouch.

“What is this?”

“Ambergris. So you don’t smell like dung.”

Khaya lifted the pouch up to her nose and inhaled. It was salty and warm. Like an entire desert in her hand.

“Is this what all slave girls wear?”

The Bedouin nodded.

“Give me something else.”

“Why?” He sounded more amused than annoyed.

“I will stand out, obviously. Isn’t that what you want?”

The Bedouin pursed his lips and considered. “Wait. I will find something.”

He left, and Khaya turned to the mirror again. For a silent moment she felt an ache in her chest.

A longing for her sister to be beside her.

The sounds of the souq seemed far away.

Ж

Khaya stepped back into the shade of a towering tent and sucked in a deep breath. There was an overwhelming, almost suffocating smell of ambergris folded into the air. It mixed with hundreds of other perfumes, but still it remained the strongest.

Above that floated something more subtle. Not a scent, but a feeling. A sense of order amid the chaos of voices and movement.

She was surprisingly calm. In a short while the spectators would enter the main square and behold the vast array of slaves available for purchase. Even now, though the market had not officially opened, there were some returning pilgrims haggling with slave owners, trying to convince them to sell. The slave owners would not budge. The souq operated by certain rules that every man, regardless of rank or profession, was bound to follow. Perhaps that was the sense of calm Khaya felt.

The silent agreement. The unspoken rules.

On this ground every man was only worth as much as his slaves.

The Bedouin led Khaya down the road to the square, where the platforms had been raised. The sun had already begun scorching her arms and stomach.

Her place was between a bare-chested, hulking warrior, and a group of dancers scantily clad in pink fabric. Their owner was a portly man who looked upon them with pride, but Khaya could see the lust behind his gaze. The Bedouin handed Khaya a flower – a blue hyacinth – which she tucked into her ear, before he moved around to the front of the platform. The soldier held out his hand for her as she stepped up to the platform, and she took it.

“Just you?” he asked.

Khaya had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. He was more than two heads taller than her, and about thrice as wide. His skin was dark – the darkest shade Khaya had ever seen – and he had a flurry of scars all over his chest. His expression was pleasant, amiable even.

“Just you?” Khaya replied.

The man laughed, a loud and thundering sound that made the platform shake beneath Khaya’s feet.

“I’m afraid so,” he said. When he turned the sun shone off his chest, blinding Khaya.

“So, um…”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“What am I supposed to do exactly?”

The man frowned. “What do you mean do? You have never been to a souq before?”

“I…” Khaya tried to look for the right words. “I have never been sold before.”

The man’s mouth opened in surprise, but it pulled into a smile within seconds. “Don’t worry, girl. Just stand and let the spectators spectate. Whoever likes you will come and inspect your condition, then haggle with your owner over the price,” he explained.

Khaya nodded. “And after that?”

Once again the man laughed. “After that? Well after that your new master will take you with him, wherever he is going.”

“How do I know which one is a good master?”

The man’s face softened into a look of pity. “There is no real way to know that, unfortunately. Some masters are kind, others cruel.”

Khaya frowned, then crouched down and tapped the Bedouin’s shoulder.

He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

“I have a plan.”

Ж

In the span of one hour not a single person had stopped before Khaya’s platform, or even spared her a glance. They were all too enamoured of the dancers, or too interested in the warrior’s history to even register her little body between them. Khaya was not concerned with this, but she was beginning to feel uncomfortable under the harsh sun. The Bedouin offered her water, which she gratefully took.

“Perhaps you should have thought this through,” she said after handing the flask back to him. “You wasted your resources in transporting me here, all for nothing.”

The Bedouin chuckled. “You are too impatient and ignorant. Amongst this throng of people is someone who will see you, and only you.”

Khaya raised a sceptical eyebrow. “How can you be so sure.”

He smiled but said nothing.

This excerpt is from Chapter 4 of the novel Whispers In The Sand.

Hands and Voices

First there was him, and then there was you.

He was tall, dark, and handsome. And sad and complicated, and everything a girl looks for in a boy she wants to fix. When I saw him smile, I didn’t know if he meant it. If it was empty, or full, or neither or both – because it never reached his eyes.

My eyes saw only what he revealed, but my mind thought I saw less. I should have wanted to see more.

You were short and sweet and simple and everything a girl overlooks in a boy she needs by her side. When I saw you smile, I knew there was happiness behind it. I knew you meant it, because it reached your eyes every time.

My eyes saw only what you revealed, but my mind thought I saw more. I should have wanted to see less.

But our story truly began with hands.

First there were his hands, then yours.

His hands have been chiselled by some heavenly creature, if not God himself. His fingers – long and slender… he has piano hands – although at the time I thought it impossible for him to be able to play an instrument so calm.

I wanted his hands to crush me, to consume me in every way and wander over me and scar me and destroy everything that kept me whole.

Yours are soft and smooth and not as perfect as his, yet still perfect in their imperfection. Perfect for what I wanted them to be for me.

I wanted your hands to touch me, to caress me and hold my face and wipe my tears with your thumbs after he finally broke me. I wanted your hands to put me back together from the shattered pieces that he left behind.

And then he spoke.

And my world transformed.

His words, his voice, him. Nothing my mind could even conceive. He was incapable of breaking things, only making them whole. When he told me things of himself, I smiled, because I was wrong and I was happy that I was wrong.

How can he be the one to break me? I didn’t know.

And then you spoke.

And my world shattered.

Your words, your voice, you. An angelic hymn pulling me in, hypnotizing, until by the slip of my own tongue my intentions became known. And then began our game.

Your playful seduction tugged at my destitute reins. Every word undoing the remaining fragments of the perfection I beheld you in.

How can you be the one to fix me? I don’t think I will ever know.

Still I played along, kept my face placid and my smiles empty.

While yours were magical and dazzling.

And his were neither and both and it hurt to look sometimes.

Then words turned to daggers, and I could never tell if they were meant to draw blood or just to threaten. I thought it was all a grand game, until you pushed it too far and the blade pierced my heart.

How can you have my heart, when all you have done is cripple me? I still don’t know.

I wanted his hands to break me. But in the end it was you who undid me.

And he who put the pieces back together again.

Queens and Kings

Inspired by Game of Thrones

They say that a Queen has as much a right to rule as a King.

If a Queen is ugly, she is scorned. They call her cut-throat, ragged, trash.

If a Queen is assertive, she is scorned. They call her bitch, rude, profane.

If a Queen is not covered, she is scorned. They call her whore, slut, provoking.

If a Queen is kind, she is scorned. They call her timid, soft, weak.

If a Queen is ruthless, she is scorned. They call her tyrant, mad, cruel.

If a Queen cries, they cry with her. They call her strong, brave-hearted.

If a King is ugly, he is no less a King. They see him no differently.

If a King is assertive, he is powerful. They respect him.

If a King is not covered, he is manly. They swoon at him.

If a King is kind, he is not taken seriously. They judge him.

If a King is ruthless, he is feared. They obey him.

If a King cries, they laugh at him. They call him weak, emotional.

When a Great Queen dies, her name becomes history.

When a Great King dies, his name becomes legend.

Where, in all this, was a Queen allowed to simply be the woman she is?

Where in all this, was a King allowed to simply be the human he is?

Sakura; 2015

The Sakura is pale in the summertime.

The petals fall so easily from the branches, not withstanding even a little breeze. They tangle in our hairs, matt them, and most of us don’t seem to mind. The flowers still smell sweet.

Sometimes.

The bright pink hues are drained by the rain. The moist, white petals cover the roads, and the smell isn’t sweet any more. The bark is black and hard, wet mostly. From the rain.

The temples look ever grand and holy with the Sakura looming over them in the springtime. Soft pink petals settle on the shelter over the temizuyas, the ground around, and the wind takes them farther out and away – petals blessed by the temple gods, leaving the shrines to bring fortune to other places.

With the whitewashed trees and the blackened bark and the wet stones, they seem haunted. Mere shells of the shrines they once were.

In a cup on the ground the collected rain becomes turbid. It fell through the White Sakura, and the petals fell with it. They should remember when the Sakura is pale the petals fall.

In the city it’s hard to notice. There aren’t so many Sakura there. And people don’t bother about it very much.

There’s no need to.

But I don’t think of the city too much. There’s little place for a tree there. The moist black bark and the clear petals are too frail to survive there anyway. The people have their masks, but the tree doesn’t have anything save its bark.

The leaves are overlooked most of the time, but they’re there. Lingering and waiting for all the white petals to fall with the rain before the start of winter. It’s funny in a way because they end up falling too.

During the night you can’t see the pale petals and the black bark because everything’s black at night. I still admire the pale Sakura, but only in the deep dark night, when the lights are off and the birds are silent and the night is still with the falling of petals.

Pale, colourless petals.