Hikayat

By Sharon Michelle Upputuru

Kallian Imran was not your average do-gooder. He was electric as he ran through the smoke-ridden streets of old- delhi. Jumping every other step, inging his test papers in the air and catching them before they touched the mud infested street, the zebra-crossing hidden with the new ood rains. His smile alarmed strangers as they passed him, maybe even alarmed Kallian as he saw his reection in muddy water. His smile slackened as he looked up at the road that would lead to his father’s house. He had never bothered to call it his home. He had no one to call it ‘home’ with. With every step across the road, his face descended into the darkness he had become well accustomed to. With every passing step, the joy he held in his hand withered away. Bit by bit. Brick by brick. 

Soon enough, he reached the mustard-yellow door, the door to the mansion he would soon inherit. He despised it. Every overwhelming chandelier, every arabic carpet. He despised all of it. Because the one thing he wanted, he couldn’t seem to get. And no, it couldn’t be bought. If it were he would only have to snap his ngers or to ask and he would have it in his palms. But he couldn’t. 

He sauntered into the living room, also known as the drawing room. His mother and father used to bicker on this very distinguished topic, but Kallian didn’t really care. He found that there were few things he cared about. It was the pungent smell of sandalwood that hit him rst, the incense sticks had been lit. That could only mean one thing. He was late. He clenched his sts when he heard the familiar, terrifying tap of his father’s cane. With every other tap, his father drew closer. 

“Kallian,” His father’s voice boomed. “You are late.” 

He knew he was late. Did his father really assume him that idiotic as to not know the time? 

Kallian turned around anyway and solemnly nodded. He knew he was a coward. He should stand up to his father, become the man his mother hoped he would become, but at the same time, Kallian had stopped trying to please his father, to try to act social when he knew the people at him scowled behind his back, he just stopped… trying. 

“Why didn’t you come with Ahzad?” He asked. Kallian scowled, his driver had snitched. 

“I preferred to walk.” Kallian tried to eradicate the weariness that clothed his voice. But his father, the great Arbhaz Imran Khan, seemed to notice. He noticed everything. 

“So you say. The rains last night ooded the entire city and you decided to walk?” His father’s eyes softened. “You know why I hired Ahzad don’t you?” 

The question caught Kallian o guard but like his father, he had grown accustomed to diverting topics. “I apologize papa.” He said, his sincerity brushed his father’s emotions away. His father turned away and Kallian took the chance and whisked away before his father turned back. He rushed up the stairs, looking up the glass chandelier. “Kallian! Don’t forget about dinner!” His father boomed up to him but he didn’t turn back. He opened his bedroom door and fell onto the ground against the door. He shut his eyes and then at that moment he felt the sharp paper edges slicing through his palm. He winced as he removed the paper from his hand, holding it in his other. Now the blood stained his chemistry test. He looked at the edge of the sheet. The perfect score written in red ink hidden by his blood. 

After an hour, Kallian was dressed in the kurta and his shaggy black hair pushed down by his taqiyah. He opened the door and felt the rst step creak under the weight of his Air Jordan. He heard the clamor of sounds beneath him. His aunties' constant gossip, the clinking of glasses, the mellow music of the sitar, the ‘eid mubarak’s’ shared between comrades. His mind threatened to walk back into the room. But he couldn’t do that. He swallowed and walked stiy down the stairs, with every creak, his distaste for the night became brighter, his heart pounded against his ribcage, warning, screaming at him to hide into a corner lest the people wish to talk to him. He reached the last step, and it was as if a weight lifted o his shoulders as no one seemed to notice his presence. He dodged people’s backs, their shoulders and made his way to the only reason he came. The hikayat. He shued into a corner, his back met with hard wood as he scanned the place for the shaa’ir. The storyteller of the evening.

“Years ago,” He heard his uncle's voice shout over the crowd. It went silent. Kallian was impressed as usual. He only wished that he had that power. To shut everyone up. “Years ago, hamari janajaati ke saath, Oh wait, should I speak in english?” Laughs and chuckles roamed over the crowd. Satised, his uncle continued with the brightest smile etched in his cheeks. “Years ago, Our tribe in the desert went out to the city of lucknow. And there was one man, Ali shah, who was in search of a bride…” Kallian knew the rest of the story. He had heard it at least seventeen times. Once every year. Every hikayat had a moral. Of this one he hated. That everyone had a person. That one person to laugh with, to cook with, to ght with. The one person you loved above all else. For which reason he hated this, no one knew. But Kallian knew well. It wasn’t fair that his person had died. His mother.

By Sharon Michelle Upputuru