Noora
Tanvi Chowdhary
She had given the man who was bleeding out of his mouth and nose a doll to keep him company, and that seemed to have worked. He still spent all his time rattling about the kitchens on the third floor landing, but had ceased the moaning and the crying. He wasn’t an unreasonable ghost, and she counted the business as a success.
That day she’d been called to Gomti Nagar for another spirit, so she had an excuse to drop in on Noora. She took her scooter out and sighed before jamming the key and bringing the vehicle to life.
Ghosthunting was a ridiculous business to be getting half her income from, but it was even more ridiculous to look forward to meeting a ghost.
She determinedly left Noora for the end, finishing all the jobs on her list – picked up groceries, the book that Arnav had asked for, and even finished her work with one of the most malevolent spirits she knew. The owner of the house gratefully paid her a thousand rupees because the spirit had been breaking all his windows.
Noora lived in Vijay Khand, in a small home with kai on the walls, fitting for a ghost (she had a touch of drama, after all). When Laxmi arrived, Zainab opened the door without her needing to ring the bell. ‘Thank god you’re here,’ she said, ushering Laxmi in without invitation.
‘You didn’t call me, though,’ Laxmi said, shaking off her windcheater.
‘You always seem to know when Noora is distressed,’ Zainab said absently.
Laxmi shrugged uncomfortably, unsure of how to feel about her secrets being placed in the middle of the room so thoughtlessly. ‘What’s up?’
Zainab sighed. ‘I … don’t know. But I had a request, Lux…. I have to go home to Allahabad. Ammi’s been unwell, and I…’
Laxmi waited. Zainab chewed her lip. ‘I don’t want to leave her alone. It’s her death day soon, and … look, could you stay? I’ll pay you to stay and keep her company, and we’re stocked for a week so you don’t have to worry about food either.’
Laxmi turned around, and sure enough, Noora was standing by the bookshelf. And because the winter light was already thin, it barely fell on her – she was musty and dusty and barely breathing, but she was beautiful. All ghosts were beautiful – even the ones scarred and charred, like the one on the fourth floor of her building, Ajanta – but Noora had to be the most beautiful ghost Laxmi had ever seen. Her hair fell in soft waves, and Zainab was right – she was distressed: her hair was pooling close to her feet today. Light seemed to come through her, leaking from the scar on her lip.
‘You are so strange, Zainab,’ muttered Laxmi. Zainab had always been like this – she had wanted to know why Noora was haunting her, whether she had unfinished business, whether Noora would like company for things that she did not remember – like her birthday, or her death day. ‘Sure, I’ll stay. But I have to go and pick some things up.’
‘Okay,’ said Zainab. ‘Give me – is it okay if I make you some tea?’
Laxmi nodded. Zainab needed to give her hands something to do, or she fretted. Laxmi watched Noora – when she sat down on the sofa, she saw Noora mimicking her from her spot in the bookshelf. ‘If you want to sit, why don’t you sit?’ Laxmi offered, her eyebrows raised.
‘Hmm?’ said Zainab, from the kitchen. ‘Why were you here, anyway?’
‘Business in Gomti Nagar.’
‘A ghost in Gomti Nagar?’ asked Zainab, distracted.
‘You have one,’ Laxmi pointed out.
‘But Noora is weird,’ said Zainab.
That was true. Ghosts didn’t come naturally to Gomti Nagar - it was spacious and rich, no good for ghosts to live. Noora might be from before, but Laxmi struggled to remember a time when Gomti Nagar wasn’t rich and Hindu. Even Zainab had rented her home from a friend of her family’s. What this Muslim girl had thought before haunting the only small house in the area, Laxmi didn’t know.
‘I think it’s the pandemic, actually,’ said Laxmi. ‘I’ve never had this much business before.’
Zainab sighed, pouring milk into the tea. Laxmi wasn’t lying: the pandemic had excited all the ghosts from everywhere. You noticed more in apartments and in cramped living quarters, which was why there was a ghost on practically every floor in Ajanta. Laxmi wondered if it was the slowness of time or the pile up of resentment. All of these feelings of heartbreak and anger, generally swept away with the business of every day, had dominated [the atmosphere] lately. Spirits that had been dormant for centuries were waking up – they lived more in kitchens than anywhere else. Kitchens stored resentment like no one’s business.
Laxmi smiled encouragingly at Noora, who smiled back, radiant. Noora had to have been her age, and she never spoke, never rattled the windows, never bothered with anything, really. Laxmi sometimes wondered how Zainab had even found her, but she had, and she’d found Laxmi which spoke only of Zainab’s tenacity.
‘When will you come back?’ asked Laxmi, taking the teacup from Zainab.
‘Three days,’ promised Zainab. ‘Thank you so much, Lux.’
By the time people came to Laxmi, their problems were usually already exacerbated. In homes with a lot of anger, ghosts became violent and loud – that was when they were noticed. At times, Laxmi was called when there was ill will in the air, when something was wrong but you couldn’t tell what. Zainab had called her before any of these things had happened. She had done research on Noora, found her history for Laxmi. Her name is Noora, I found her records in the public archives, I don’t know how she died, I don’t know what she wants, but can you bring her to talk? No one else treated ghosts in this way. People generally called her when they wanted ghosts gone, or wanted to cohabit peacefully with their resentments. Zainab had called her to understand Noora better.
Ghosts didn’t work that way: they were rarely very dramatic, they never seemed to want vengeance for the wrongs done to them. They just buried themselves in half feelings and manifested by destroying something or the other. You had to manage them; give them dolls and manacles and ease their pain, make them feel loved. And Laxmi was very good at it – she understood every ghost she had encountered. She could tell what they wanted. Everyone in Ajanta said so; that she could always tell what a ghost wanted.
She went home to Ajanta in the evening to drop off her groceries and the first person she encountered was Arnav. He was standing outside their apartment looking cross. ‘The ghost on the fourth floor is always dragging the manacles around above my room,’ he complained. ‘Can’t you tell her off, Sabun di? The dust gets on all my books.’
‘Then stop reading,’ said Laxmi, pointedly, stepping into the apartment and taking off her windcheater. ‘Don’t complain about her now, Arnav. I only just got her to stop screaming. We’ve all got sleep to catch up on.’
Arnav pouted at her. Someone needed to tell him that he wasn’t ten years old anymore and that sort of thing didn’t work when you became twelve. ‘You should read more. Then you’d know why I call her Mrs Goon.’
‘I don’t have to know,’ said Laxmi, handing him the book he had demanded [she bring him. OR asked for.]. ‘Children’s books.’
‘They’re mystery novels!’ said Arnav angrily, but his lip was wobbling. Laxmi pursed her lips, yet she didn’t apologise. She found it hard to apologise to anyone during the pandemic – her faults kept piling up, and the list of owed apologies even longer.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Can you tell your parents I have to stay at a friend’s for a few days?’
‘Oh … who?’
Laxmi hesitated. ‘Zainab.’
‘You’re going to visit Noora,’ said Arnav. She met his eyes – and because he was twelve, he hadn’t mastered the art of searching her with his gaze. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Can I come to your room?’
‘No!’ said Laxmi, annoyed.
Laxmi locked her room for good measure when she left. Arnav’s parents wouldn’t have let him in anyway, but it was important to draw the boundary. It wasn’t as though there was anything of importance in her room. Still, renting a room came with the expectation of privacy.
By the time she reached Gomti Nagar, Zainab had already left – keys in the potted plant by the doorway, and a dish of daal ready.
Noora’s light was everywhere – she herself was nowhere to be found. She did that sometimes; settled into the walls of the house with her light shining through the cracks. Laxmi rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, don’t trouble me.’
Noora was at the dining table then, having finally gotten her body together to look at Laxmi.
‘What have you been up to?’ asked Laxmi, rolling out the aata from the fridge. ‘I don’t think you want to know about my boring day.’
Noora pressed her fingers to the table and white light leaked out of her like streams.
‘It’s one of those days, isn’t it,’ murmured Laxmi. She threw a roti on the tawa.
Noora was the most people like of ghosts she’d ever seen. ‘You’d be good at scaring people, do you know?’ Laxmi flipped the second roti and waited.
She left feelings hovering all over her home instead of sounds and fear – if you didn’t know what you were looking for, it was infinitely scarier than a woman moaning with manacles on her shins. There was something wistful that Noora left in her wake – something bitter sweet and forgotten, like a sense of being lost.
Noora grinned at her. Laxmi rolled her eyes, and finished the second roti. She served her plate full of food and sat at the dinner table. ‘You want any?’
She scoffed. Movements that weren’t facial expressions were difficult for Noora, but she managed to jerk her head towards Zainab’s photo of her family.
‘Well, I … no,’ confessed Laxmi. ‘I didn’t have time to visit them, and I didn’t…’ Noora waited. ‘I don’t want to,’ finished Laxmi. ‘Not everyone has Zainab’s wonderful family. Besides, I like Ajanta, and I’d never get any signal in my village… what happens to my classes then?’
She wasn’t lying. She liked the small, cramped building, and all her neighbours – even Arnav. They were the reason she had so much business. Yet it was difficult not to feel envious at times. it was different for rich people, was what Laxmi thought uncharitably from time to time. Zainab came from a good family – they had called a friend and rented her a home in Gomti Nagar. Laxmi was squashed in a tiny room in Ajanta, and every time she went home to her village, her parents insisted she get married.
‘I just … don’t want to marry yet,’ said Laxmi.
Noora’s fingers slipped between hers, and Laxmi felt warm and cold at the same time.
Before she fell asleep in Zainab’s bed, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. ‘Goodnight, Noora.’
Something whispered in the air. It might have been the ghost of Noora, flitting about in the kitchen as she often did, or it might have been the distant sound of wind hissing through the cracks in the windows.
*
Zainab’s home always got a lot of light. Everything was clean and airy, but Laxmi was determined to do her part. She cleaned and tidied, reorganised the washing rack for dishes, and began her classes. Noora haphazardly threw oranges at her to remind her to eat. They managed quietly for most of the day – that was the nicest thing about Noora. She listened and helped and always did it so gently. It was also one of the first times Laxmi had seen Noora in the mornings, and somehow, the morning light made her look even more beautiful.
Since she was in a better mood, her hair had reached a reasonable waist length, but it still fluttered everywhere. You’d find strands of Noora’s hair in every corner of the house. They dissolved into bits of light as soon as you touched them, which meant that Laxmi couldn’t stop trying to find them.
They had dinner together, and Noora held her hand – more light dripped from her than ever before, and Laxmi knew. This was the last time.
The next day, Laxmi was careful. They made breakfast, she didn’t touch Noora. She went through classes, they didn’t touch. Night came, and they didn’t touch. Laxmi felt forlorn in bed, all alone.
On their last day together they decided to watch a movie. Noora hadn’t seen a lot of English movies, so Laxmi had come prepared. She had picked a romantic movie, with a sappy sound track. They curled up at the tv in Zainab’s home. She felt Noora’s hair drifting on her, settling on her fingers and back, dissolving into light the minute she became aware of them. Noora was sitting next to her, but she flickered. She disappeared when there were miscommunications between the hero and heroine, reappeared when they started falling in love.
The woman and the man danced on screen, late at night and so in love. Laxmi’s heart clenched – Noora was sitting right next to her. She looked at Laxmi inquiringly.
‘I don’t dance,’ said Laxmi.
Noora flickered out of existence and appeared in front of her. Her fingers were held out expectantly, and Laxmi sighed.
‘I don’t like this,’ she informed her.
Noora smiled. Their fingers should go through each other, but they held – at times, Laxmi’s fingers dipping into Noora’s – cutting through, pouring out bits of light. The music was ringing in her ears, and they spun around the room – light and more light dripping from Noora, like water.
Laxmi watched, mesmerised, as Noora guided her through the room, around the sofa, and as the music ended she watched Noora more carefully.
Noora quirked a brow.
‘You look beautiful,’ offered Laxmi.
Her cheeks coloured light.
It didn’t make sense – but her heart was beating a mile a minute, and Noora was looking beautiful, and light was everywhere. ‘If I kiss you again,’ said Laxmi quietly. ‘You won’t survive, would you?’
Noora bit her lip. She bled light.
Laxmi could feel her throat closing up.
They shouldn’t have fallen in love. There were forty years of death that lay between them, of resentment that had allowed Noora to come back. You love ghosts too much, they disappear – they weren’t meant to live in happy hearts and happy homes, they weren’t meant to be cared for by people like Zainab and kissed by Laxmi. Perhaps that’s why Noora had been such a quiet ghost – living in the richest neighbourhood of Lucknow, where resentment was bred more carefully. Perhaps that’s why such a listening ghost had come to life here, someone who had paid her attention when practically no one at home had.
Noora held her hand again, and despite the light bleeding through, Laxmi wanted to kiss her. ‘I love you,’ she said quietly.
With all the effort in the world, Noora laced their fingers together.
Noora should go. She should rest, sleep, and never return to this half of the present.
Laxmi touched her cheek, and light stained her fingers like oil.
I love you too, mouthed Noora.
All the movement had already sapped her – she only had some time left. Laxmi did the only thing left to do and kissed her.
*
Tanvi Chowdhary is a student of English Literature and did her Master's from Jawaharlal Nehru University. Her research is primarily concerned with an odd combination of nineteenth-century literature and reading practices associated with fanfiction. She graduated from the International Writing Program of the University of Iowa, and has subsequently been published in their anthology, Multitudes. She has also been published in Muse India, Alma Magazine, and Asterism.
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