They Fear Our Open Hair by Sabahat Ali Wani

Zan. Zendegi. Azaadi.

Woman. Life. Freedom.

They Fear Our Open Hair:

Benumbed to pain, stripped down to blood, bones and flesh, a woman sucks on her tongue. Swallows the mouthful of saliva, raises her head and looks around. Blood all over the room: floor, doormat, carpet, curtains, bed, desk, and even the cupboard’s metal handles, covered in red. Kneels and holds her abdomen. Falls sideways and scrunches her limbs.

Slap/Kick/Punch/Spit.

Slap/Kick/Punch/Spit.

Closes her eyes. Forehead to the floor and taps. One, slap. Two, kick. Three, punch. Four, spit. One, slap. Two, kick. Three—

“Maech! Che chei gamich maech, Zarqa.” Mad woman! You have turned into a madwoman, Zarqa. Her sister’s voice reaches her half-deaf ears.

Bitch. Snitch. Traitor.

Ignoring the bloodied state of her own, she stands up, nears her sister, and lands a quick, harsh punch on her face. Without giving her a moment to recover, pounces and keeps hitting until the screams turn painfully loud for her wounded ears. Moves away in tremors. All drained, drops down.

Silence reigns. Earlier, the room was only covered in blood. Now, it gave off a rotten, metallic smell too. Two sisters lay in the middle, beaten and battered. Then, th—

She opened her eyes.

Who? Who opened her eyes? Zarqa or her sister?

I did. Zarqa’s sister, Ranna. She is still lying here beside me. Her face is unrecognisable. Dried blood over her freckles; dried tears over her pale cheeks; dried saliva over her round chin. In short, she resembles a dried apricot. Haha, her favourite.

Oh, and you? How are you?

Worse. This open-haired witch never misses with her hits. She might look thin and frail, but her bones are strong. Still, even those couldn’t save her today. From them.

Who?

Our brothers, Sarwar and Hasan. They did a number on her. Always do. We love Zarqa, but she doesn’t understand our way of love, loving. Cover your head. That’s it. That’s what we ask of her. She’s too young and stubborn—turns her head—look at her. Stop. Hey, see, she’s looking back. Her round brown eyes are in a pause. At a halt, not the end. Not moving. Not even an inch. Wan skin. Dried red blood. Turned brown. No, purple. Wait, black too. Paralysed. Slack. Dead? Not yet. No.

Ranna, Ranna! Move away! Her hair, Ranna!

What is happening? Her hair—slithers. Like black-skinned, satiny veteran reptiles. Crawl over Ranna’s body. Circle her thighs. Then, hips. Tightly. Screams. More hair. Creep near her head. Cover her hair. Fearful eyes. Screams. Crooked nose. Hollowed cheeks. Quivering lips. Parched mouth. Screams. Spirals of hair. Around her neck. Slow and steady. Methodical. Firm.

Measured. No skin in sight. All black. No screams.

Zarqa’s eyes open. Young, she feels. Ages ahead of her. And behind. Hungry for life. Just to face death with pride. Draws her tongue out. Swift lick on her lower lip. Delicious. Flesh and blood flooded with vigour. Sits up. No ache. Smiles in satiety. Opens her legs. Again, no ache. Laughs loudly. Stands up, something tugs at her hair. Looks back. Wide eyes, peace gone, amusement lost. Screams. Loud. Screams. So loud.

Just then, a man enters.

“Oh, shut up—”

Walks in, notices the lying human body, mummied with hair. Slowly, nears it and crouches down. Touches. Begins to feel. Reaches the hand—ring finger peeks out—lets go. Henna. The fingertip is coated in it.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Realisation dawns. His sister, his lovely Ranna, had painted her hands with henna earlier. He had bought two cones for her. Only for her. Tears well up. Cries lump in his throat. His heart tightens with agony. Can’t breathe. Air turns thick. Scarce. Claws at his throat. Eyes red, stretched. Head down. Holds his neck with both hands. Coughs. A hand on his shoulder—looks up.

Zarqa.

“Keho goi Sarwar boya?” What happened, Sarwar brother?

“Mas—Mas choun.” Hair—your hair.

“Mas meun?” My hair? Moves on its own. Envelopes the room’s interior. Drags her sister’s lifeless body. Unrolls it. Races towards her brother’s face. Enters his mouth. Lengths and lengths of hair. Nimble and kinetic. Heaping. Swirling. Inside his mouth. Falling out. Going back in.

Suffocates. Too much. For too long. Plops face first. Near Ranna.

Zarqa stumbles back. Doesn’t fall to the ground. Her body held up. Hanging by her own hair.

Ahh. Her scalp aches. Clutches her head. Then, hair. Pulls. Drops to the floor. Clenches her jaw and looks around. Hair, everywhere. Her eyes move from one corner to the other—sees two bodies—half shut, slow down. They will kill her now.

Slap/Punch/Kick/Spit. And then, kill?

Hand on the floor, Zarqa taps—again. This time, with her index finger. One, slap. Two, kick. Three, punch. Four, spit. Five—hesitates—kill.

One, slap. Two, kick. Three, punch. Four, spit. Five—straightens her back—no, never.

Run, Zarqa. Run! The room echoes with the alarm.

Stands up. Rushes to the bedside table. Opens the drawer. Pulls out metal scissors and—cuts, chops. Cuts, chops. Her hair. Near her shoulders. Harshly. Violently. Tears stream down her ghostly cheeks. Cries out. Sick of it. Sick of the knotted nest of black snakes. On her aching head. Teeth on the lower lip. Bites down. Fists the hair and amputates it from her body. Once and for all. All and for once.

Eyes and legs toward the door. Bolts out. Down the stairs, through the corridor. Breathes heavily. Reaches the exit. Pauses. Looks back. Then, ahead. Pauses. Fists her hands. Grits her teeth. Clenches her calves. Pushes her toes. And—runs.

Evening wind on her determined face, in her uneven hair. Feels cold but smells of hot soot. In. Breathes it in. Tastes like ignited coal. Smoky. Sits at her shrivelled throat. Coughs. Legs give up. Tired, she falls. On the roadside, near the apricot tree. Coughs. Drags herself to the tree trunk. Back to it. Head back. Eyes up. Smiles. Apricots. Juicy jewels.

Oh, how sweet they must be. Like Kashif’s love.

I could lick and nibble on them for hours. Like his lips.

Steal and hide them in my pocket. Like his heart.

Night falls, cold peaks.

In memory of love,

with apricots in her sight,

she closes her eyes.

—Early next morning—

Two men stand before the apricot tree, looking at a woman.

“Ye kosu? Ye che momech shayad.” Who’s she? I think she’s dead.

“Ye che panin gamich, so maech ha.” She’s from our village, that mad woman.

“Aah, ta kar bakiyaen aalov, gas.” Oh, go call others, go.

The man leaves. The other one calls him from behind. He looks back.

“Dupti te anzi. Aemis ha chu mas yalei.” Bring a veil too. Her hair is open.

END

Sabahat Ali Wani

Sabahat Ali Wani is a Kashmiri writer and visual artist. Previously, her writings have appeared in - her house, Failed Architecture, chouette literary magazine, Polis Project, Zero Readers, Asylum Magazine, CoalitionWorks, Nobody Magazine, photogenie, and South Asian Today, amongst others.