The Restored Sari

By Neeta Mistry

That face again. Something cold and small slithered into me. Dark, unearthly eyes stared with malignity, thin lips curving into a cruel smile. “I have you now,” the twisted mouth seemed to mock. The face was moving, I could feel an icy draught as it awoke and the animal grunt drew closer and closer. My heart thudded uncon

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribblecity Publications
• Release date: Dec 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781913455057

Book preview

And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb

and by the word of their testimony

- Revelation 12:11

The restored Sari

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Copyright ©2019 Neeta Mistry.

All rights reserved. First paperback edition printed 2019 in the

United Kingdom. A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-9934611-3-2

No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Scribblecity Publications.

Printed in Great Britain.

Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of this information contained herein.

Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the

Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Dedication

First, last and always I dedicate everything in this life and after my life to my

Heavenly Father.

All that is in this book is for His glory. If not for Him

I would not have written this book.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all the people in my life - my late father, my mum, my brothers and my sisters-in-law who supported me through the unimaginable circumstances in those painful years. I thank God for keeping my two beautiful sons protected all the way throughout my encounters.

My heart swells for my dear sister Barbara Ifezue whom God used to bring me to His feet. You are my Angel and God’s beautiful instrument to carve me out of the darkness and into His glorious inheritance.

I thank the Church of Destiny in London, UK; Pastors Mark and Mary Van Gundy, Divine Ayela and all my fellow brothers and sisters, Rev. Yinka John and Pastor Marjorie Esomowei. The list is endless but you know who you are, each and every one of you. I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the time you spent with me praying, fasting and encouraging. Your obedience in Christ delivered me.

No end of gratitude is given to all the people I worked with, whose privacy I wish to respect by not naming them here, but whose contributions to my life are deeply appreciated and firmly grasped. I would like though to mention Kristine and Milli. Truly amazing women! Thank you all for supporting me and encouraging me.

This book is dedicated to each and every one of you. Your prayers and encouragement got me through this long journey of mine.

Contents

Introduction

Initiation

The Possessed Body

Preparing for Marriage

Demonic Manifestations

Living With the Nightmare

Seeking Help from Mediums

Meeting Muhamadeen

The Return

Looking to India

Running Out of Solutions

The Midnight Ritual

Slum Mataji

The Encounter

The Final Battle

Freedom (Free at Last)

Moving Forward

PROLOGUE

For we are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against .. evil spirits in the heavenly places. Ephesians 6:12(NLT)

That face again. Something cold and small s lithered into me. Dark, unearthly eyes stared with malignity, thin lips curving into a cruel smile. I have you now, the twisted mouth seemed to mock. The face was moving, I could feel an icy draught as it awoke and the animal grunt drew closer and closer. My heart thudded uncontrollably, and my limbs became numb. The entity hooked a nail in my

heart and began to pull me into a dark hollow dungeon. I can’t fall, I thought frantically. I refuse to give in.

Mustering strength, I whimpered smashing the mirror into shards. This could not become my reality. How on earth did I get to this point?

I was born in Kisumu, Kenya and my parents were both Gujrati Hindu Indians. As is in most Asian cultures, the man was the head of the home and his word was law. Growing up, I adhered to my father’s word as did the rest of the family. My three brothers, my mother, and I would not dare to challenge our

patriarch. The responsibility for his family rested solely on him, and he always spoke up for his children and his wife. In a way, that made me feel protected.

As a family, I wouldn’t say, we were particularly religious, although we had a few Hindu idols tucked away in a small cupboard, which in itself wasn’t unusual. Often, depending on the social caste one hailed from, there would be ancestral deities of protection which would also be placed in the cupboard as in a home temple.

I remember my mum and dad helping many family members who arrived in the UK to settle down. We had just moved to South London, and we would house some of them for short periods of time, and later, dad would help them find jobs and generally point them in the right direction to get a home of their own. Back then, there were very few Asians living in the UK, so it was exciting to have more of our own people in the community. My brothers and I would often stay up to listen to their various stories. Some would be narratives of their experiences during the expulsion of Asians by Idi Amin of Uganda, while others were humorous and animated tales of life in India and Kenya. Storytelling time was always worth looking forward to.

As more people arrived into the UK, the Asian community grew, and our family often visited the other families. As children we looked forward to the weekly get-togethers, especially the feasting that came with it.

With the congregating new arrivals came a stronger adherence to religious ceremonies and a firm resolution to abide by cultural norms. Most of these ceremonies would take place in different homes with the adults sitting legs crossed on the floor, dressed in their best clothes feverishly clapping and chanting. It was common to have photographs of Hindu gods and deceased loved ones in front of them.

Over the back of the framed photograph an embroidered chiffon scarf and a rose garland would be draped. Lit on the table beneath the photograph there would be jasmine and sandalwood incense sticks and divas (wicks made from cotton wool and dipped in ghee) creating the tempo for the ceremony as the overpowering smell and the grey smoke filled the air. A Hindu priest would always be present; and walking barefoot from person to person, he would place a red dot on each forehead with red powdered kumkuma.

The tilak would be placed on the forehead as an expression of honour and loyalty and the priest would either read a dharma katha (a religious story) or a passage from the Bhagwat Gita (Hindu’s holy book).

Havans or Yajna was another of the ceremonies which would take place. Here, a metal pot like a small cauldron, would be lit with pieces of wood, ghee, incense sticks and camphor. Family members and guests would be invited to say Sanskrit prayers, and at the end of each sentence they would throw in a pinch of mixed offerings including sesame seeds, barley, rice, wheat and juggery. A drop of ghee and a drop of a mixture of water and milk would also be spooned into the burning fire. Sometimes these ceremonies could be short, other times, they would go on for longer periods depending on the number of people present and the kind of ceremony taking place. For a child, it was awe inspiring to watch and to be a part of something that was so culturally rich.

INITIATION

For we are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against .. evil spirits in the heavenly places. Ephesians 6:12 (NLT)

Sangeeta, my newly acquired cousin, wrapped fresh daisies around my hair. I was shaking with excitement from what I had heard. Sangeeta had come from Uganda a few years ago. Her mother was

my father’s cousin’s wife - Aunty Aty, as she was fondly called in our community. She was burly and vivacious, with bright red nails and eyeshadow that matched her sari. Her double chin wobbled whenever she laughed. It was in her home that the much anticipated