Black Canvas

By Kriti Gangwar

Masira Singh considers herself, an ordinary teenager with an ordinary life until bizarre dreams and unexplainable chills begin plaguing her.

As her dreams lead her into a mountain village where she is greeted by a boy, a series of unimaginable incidents slowly begin to turn her life upside down. While she attempts to learn why she is being tested, Masira is left with agonizing choices. Unsure of her place in the giant scheme of things she seeks help, only to find herself alone in a place where even her best friend refuses to trust her. In a battle between the logical and the probable; between the established and the intuited, Masira was torn, alone and in danger. She must determine if she was making the right choices or was simply being misled only to put herself and those she loves in danger by taking a risky course. But how will she decide where her duty lies, especially when everything is at stake and no one believes her story?

In this shadowy tale, an ordinary teenager has to make extraordinary choices in a challenging battle between reality and a dream world to learn the truth, before it is too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Sep 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543701142

Kriti Gangwar

Kriti Gangwar has penned many poems and stories. She wrote her first novel, Black Canvas, in whatever free time she got while she was in college, learning medicine. She has a keen interest in metaphysics and wonders about decoding dreams, and she and her friends often discussed the subject over late night tea in the hostel they stayed in an experience that not only shaped the book, but also enriched it with bizarre things we believe in when our minds are young and full of possibilities. She currently resides in Toronto, Canada, where she is pursuing her passion for healthcare, literature and art.

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Copyright © 2017 by Kriti Gangwar.

ISBN:                  Hardcover               978-1-5437-0116-6

                            Softcover                  978-1-5437-0115-9

                            eBook                       978-1-5437-0114-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Countdown

Lucid

The Beginning of the Conundrum

Through Ruby’s Eyes

The Valley

Digging Deeper

Jhilmil

The Shadow Floor

Himpurvi

The Castle

The Tunnel

Taitila

Himpurvi

Judged

Back Home

The Disappearances

Himpurvi

Ten Days Later

The Quest

The Halt

Elm’s Deep

The Letter

Connaught Place

The Black Canvas

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To all who find

In leaves of books

Their dreams blossom

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

F irst and foremost, I dedicate this to those who believe in the power of a book, its soul, its beauty and its potential.

Then, I dedicate it to those who let the rest of us know of all the above, especially, to one of my absolute favourites: J K Rowling.

For in dreams we enter a world that is entirely our own.

(Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban)

‘Black Canvas’ was conjured out of a dream and was shaped by my brother, Akshay and my dear friend Neelangi, who were also the first to read and review it for me. It is them, and my husband Akash, who have enabled me to pen it down for all of us. I am grateful to them for their support and motivation as much as I am grateful to the publishing team, the editors and everyone who helped me along the journey.

I would like to thank Pohar Baruah for persistently motivating me, Amanda Dayham and Antoniet Saints for guiding me through, Kim Lacey, Pauline Ashton, Myradine Sedigo, Kathy Lorenzo and the rest of the team for making ‘Black Canvas’ even more special.

Above all, I dedicate this book to my parents, who taught me to really write.

I hope it becomes as dear to you as it is for me.

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COUNTDOWN

S omething cold slithered over her feet, slowly, deliberately. Its coolness sent a ghastly shiver up her spine, and as her body stiffened, goose pimples rose all over her skin. What could it be? She lay silent, her eyes shut so tightly that all her attempts to open them failed. Her lids, so heavy with exhaustion, with pain, lay tightly shut.

All she could see was pitch-black darkness. An eerie silence muffled her like an alien cocoon she could not break free from. She tried to shout, but there was no sound. The nothingness around her was like a vacuum. All she knew was a cold, ominous shiver, the only feeling that told her she was not dead yet.

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Masira walked amongst the throng of people that flocked the long corridor. Her bag was on her shoulder, heavy with the weight of a long day’s work. The bell had rung, to the pleasure of the kids, marking another day of scorching summer, which meant that the vacations were one day closer now. It was a feeling everyone across the globe had experienced—the amalgamation of exhaustion and excitement. Each student had a smile that would gradually, with the passing of days, evolve into a grin that would suddenly overpower the exhaustion and restore life as the summer vacation would begin.

‘Heeeey!’

Masira heard a rather prolonged call and turned around with a huge smile, stretching her right arm out at the same time.

‘I thought I missed you!’ exclaimed Masira. ‘It’s so hot I am literally tired of sweating. Ughhhh.’ She chuckled at her own joke.

‘True!’ Aranya said as they both looked upward at the unconscionable sunshine as they stepped out of the school building.

Masira opened her blue umbrella with silver lining underneath and sipped some water as Aranya entered its shade. Water dripped down her deep-brown bangs as Masira had splashed her face with some. Her hair was now flattened against her forehead, and a few large drops slid down her nose on to her coal-black canvas shoes, making clear areas on their dusty surface.

‘My assignment needs more work—three days at least.’ Aranya sighed.

‘She allowed you?’

‘Only till this Saturday—although I tried bargaining until the next. That way, I could have continued my flute lessons also.’

‘I’ll come over today. We could work together.’

‘Yeah, that’ll be great.’ Aranya beamed. ‘See you then.’

She took a left turn, pacing down the pavement in the shade of Sheesham, humming to herself and waving at Masira, who went straight downhill, her blue umbrella resting on her right shoulder.

Masira was more exhausted than she had thought the summer could make her. She hugged her mother, and she put the umbrella in the stand. Then she rushed upstairs to her room and threw herself and her bag on the bed.

Home, she thought, cool, nice home.

‘I’ll be out today, Ma,’ Masira said as she ate her rice with arhar, ‘to Aranya’s.’

‘Very well. Finish your drink,’ said Mrs. Singh, and she pushed her glass of aam panna closer.

‘How was school?’

They talked and had lunch for good about forty minutes, at the end of which Masira was rather tired, as was also pointed out by her mother.

‘Maybe you should catch some sleep, dear!’ She looked a little worried.

‘I’ll be fine, Mother.’ Masira smiled at her, but then she realised she probably did need some sleep.

As she lugged herself up the staircase, she mentally planned her evening. I should be out by four, she thought as she looked up to the round bright-orange wall clock hanging happily between the two windows on the purple-blue wall.

She zipped her bag close almost as soon as she had zipped it open and postponed her homework for until post dinner. Convinced, she lay flat on her bed, switching her AC on.

‘Do wake me up in an hour, please!’ she called out wearily and curled up in her bed, listening unconsciously to her mother’s reply.

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It was creeping upwards, the snake, up her leg now. She could feel the chill as always and more, like the snake was made of ice itself. The chill penetrated her skin, and her legs were numb, blood frozen. She was tired beyond exhaustion. It had been days, she thought, that she had been in this dark, deep, horrid place, with snakes of ice writhing over her legs. She tossed from one side to another. She was pale now with the fear that the snakes would strike—and paler still as now her legs wouldn’t move; they were constrained, completely out of her control, paralysed.

She shrieked, terrified, and her heart raced fast as drumbeats. But today, she could hear her shriek, which was followed by the chirrups of some cheerful birds.

She tried to hear their joyous cries, and slowly, somewhere, she could see a dim light brightening—as if shearing the smoke, a golden orb was taking form. Somewhere deep inside her, she smiled, but her bliss was short-lived, for she realised there was something hard and stony against her neck. She tried to turn and felt something prick against her cheeks. The chill was still present, but only like a flickering candle. It came in waves like those on the beaches and slowly went away.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. She could!

The bright sun shone upon her face, its warmth taking away the chill she still felt. Looking around, she saw peaks clad in cotton snow. A brook traversed the rocky course upon which she lay, half in the water and half on the mossy rocks.

The place was divine, beautiful like a dream. She smiled, pulling her legs out of the icy water. Her blue denim was drenched thigh high, and her shoes were full of river water and sand.

She pulled herself up and took off her shoes. Her feet were pallid and wrinkled due to prolonged contact with the water. She looked at her toes and moved them slowly.

Where was she?

‘Can you get up, dear?’

She heard a male voice and turned with a start.

‘It’s okay. It’s okay. Take my hand.’

Before she knew it, she was on her feet. An old man and a little boy took her to a tiny village. She saw tiny clouds of smoke coming out of a few chimneys. Birds chirped, and through a beautiful, rocky, moss-covered ground, she was being taken towards the huts.

‘And I just did not believe him, you see,’ the old man said, chuckling.

Masira looked with a start towards him, and he stopped abruptly, evidently puzzled.

‘I was saying—you okay?’ He stopped and looked at her.

‘It’s the one by the boulder. Come!’ The little boy said with enthusiasm.

She nodded silently, confused and exhausted.

‘I was saying we didn’t believe him last night when he said he saw someone by the brook …’ The voice faded in her head.

She knew she was tired, wherever she was. Was she even alive? Was it all a bad dream? But she had been here for a long time, sleeping by the river. She felt disoriented and confused.

‘Still sleeping!’

She looked up at the old man, but instead her mother stood there.

‘What?’ she exclaimed, almost shrieking.

‘Get up. It’s almost four. Now you don’t want to keep Aranya waiting, do you? I made some tea. Get dressed and come downstairs.’ Her mother switched the AC off and left the room.

Masira ran a frantic hand through her brown mane thrice. The orange clock hung brightly like always. Fifteen minutes until four, she saw, and rushed to get ready.

It was already four when she joined her mother for tea, her bag on her shoulder. Picking up a couple of biscuits, she sipped some tea, not bothering to sit.

‘I am carrying’, she explained, ‘a set of my uniform.’ She looked at her feet, at her black canvas. ‘So’, she continued, ‘I’ll see you after school tomorrow?’

Mrs Singh smiled and then looked at her husband, who had been enjoying the newspaper, sipping tea.

‘Very well. Take care,’ he said.

‘Thank you!’ Masira beamed, putting the cup back on the table.

‘But no going out, and call us at ten,’ he continued.

‘Promise!’ She smiled and picked up her umbrella, closing the door behind her as she went.

LUCID

‘H ere you are!’ Aranya hugged her. ‘Mother made cupcakes. Come in.’

‘Why is your school not preponing these vacations? It’s horribly warm outside these days. Hi, dear, come sit.’

‘Good evening, Mrs Patel. How are you?’ Masira greeted the jolly plump lady as she put her bag on a chair. Sitting, she drank some grapefruit juice and picked up a mango cupcake.

‘These are absolutely delicious!’ she remarked before taking another bite out of the mango dessert.

The trio sat, chatting informally. In the background, some music played on the TV. The place was cool with thick, heavy curtains considerably shielding against the wrath of the sun.

Soon they were in Aranya’s room. It was a cosy, bright place with a beautiful bed, rugs, and a Rajasthani beanbag in a corner. A couple of oversized cushions lay beside a dressing table, and strings of beads hung on the wall behind the bed.

Looking at the room, Masira smiled as she always did. The place was adorable—ethnic yet contemporary. She put her bag and umbrella on the rug, and the two girls lay on the bed, chatting.

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They sat by the laptop, the bright lights forming a haze, completely consuming the girls’ concentration such that neither of them realised that they were late for dinner. This, however, was rectified by Aranya’s mother as she entered with two plates full of dosa. The food smelled so nice both of them realised how hungry they were, and they sat feasting on the South Indian delicacy. The chutney, Aranya remarked, was her favourite.

‘I could live off it.’ She chuckled. ‘With this dosa or paratha or even some bread—it’s just so versatile!’

Masira agreed. The warmth sent an unexpected shiver up her spine, and she was reminded of the chill earlier that day, a chill she was now getting more accustomed to. Yet each time she felt it, the horror was fresh and frightening. It was like dying again and again; even if one expected it, the pain would still be excruciating. Expecting the chill was in fact a source of much apprehension for her.

‘Where are you?’ enquired Aranya, putting her morsel back on the plate.

Masira saw the look in her eyes, questioning and yet angry. ‘Nothing, just tired. Summer is taking a toll, I suppose.’ Masira tried laughing it off in a matter-of-fact way.

Only a few weeks ago, she had told Aranya about the weird chills she sometimes felt at night. She could not sleep. Even while sleeping, she felt always awake inside.

She knew it was just a dream. She even told herself so. And when Aranya had tried to explain it as anxiety, Masira had readily agreed—or at least tried to convince herself. It wasn’t, they had concluded, anything ‘organic’. Masira was fit and fine, athletic, and there was nothing wrong with her organs. They had both agreed, and it only felt fair for Masira to not bother Aranya with a matter so trivial again.

‘You sure?’ Aranya asked, looking a little more concerned now.

Masira smiled.

‘Retire. In bed right away you go, missy! Sleep.’ She was ordered.

‘You?’

‘Will work a little longer. Got flute lessons tomorrow. Planning to finish at least this section.’

It was not even ten, Masira saw in the table clock (a mermaid playing a golden harp), which was set in one corner of the study table. It looked silly.

But she had to sleep. She was beginning to fear she might fall ill. Soon she was curled up in Aranya’s bed. She realised her back had gone stiff. She tossed a few times before finally sleeping.

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It was the chill again. Somehow the impact was less this time. Masira tried opening her eyes to see the mountains again. She knew somewhere the sun was shining brightly.

She felt something poke her cheek. Slowly she opened her eyes.

‘Hello?’ A little boy stood nearby, looking keenly at her. ‘My name is Mridul. You can call me Mishu. Grandpa says it sounds better.’ He smiled softly. ‘You fell here?’

Before Masira could speak, he continued, ‘It’s okay if you did. Yes, yes, but you must get out of the water.’ Masira looked around as he kept speaking. ‘Water is cold. He says it’s a bad thing to catch a cold. One gets the flu, and all catch it in no time! You don’t want to spend all day inside a quilt, sleeping away, while your friends play, do you? So I keep myself dry, as should you.’

‘Now what is this?’ A gruff, kind voice spoke.

Masira looked around to see the same old person she had seen last time. ‘Oh, hello!’ She beamed.

‘Who are you?’ He called Mishu with a quick gesture of his hand. ‘And where do you come from?’ He added, his voice bold and unwavering. His eyes peered cautiously. ‘Have we’, he said as he wondered, ‘met?’

Masira looked around. She didn’t know how she came to be in the laps of the mountains without trying to or without even wishing for it. ‘Masira, sir.’ She had the expression of a child caught red-handed in the middle of some mischief.

‘And?’ He bent his head forward, studying her features, trying to judge.

‘And?’ She looked around. The same huts stood, surrounded by moss. Smoke rose in puffs from a few chimneys.

She felt as if she belonged to the place. Strangely, though, it did feel warm and welcoming, like she was in her own grandma’s place, awaiting fresh pakoras with tea. The thought made her smile like a child.

‘Oh, I don’t remember how I reached here,’ she spoke, shaking her head slightly, realising that the old man wanted an answer. Her eyes were fixed on the old man now.

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‘I told you I saw someone by the river last night, Grandpa! See?’ Little Mishu looked at his grandpa and then at her.

‘Take my hand. Get up. You are soaked. Let’s get you some tea.’

Masira couldn’t refuse the kind offer. Also, she knew she had no other options anyway.

In a moment, they were walking towards the huts. Pebbles grew into larger rocks and then to boulders. Green moss were draped over them like icing on a monstrous cupcake.

She saw the first hut by the boulder and turned towards it.

‘The rabbit knows his burrows!’ the old man gave a hearty laugh, but Masira could sense the hint of suspicion in his voice. ‘They say, in the back of our head, we have all the answers to all our questions.’

She looked at him and smiled, realising he hadn’t actually told her which hut to enter. Somehow, she knew. She remembered she was told so the last time she was here.

‘In fact,’ continued the old man, ‘one could safely bet that questions are often put forth to guide us as to what answers we must seek. Sit and be comfortable.’ He patted her on her back. She was far from being ‘comfortable’. She knew he suspected her. She didn’t blame him either.

‘Lila, we have a guest.’

‘Coming, Father!’ answered a sweet voice of a lady in her thirties. ‘Oh! Hello. My name is Lila.’ She beamed, putting down two glasses of milk and shaking Masira’s hand.

‘Masira, ma’am.’

‘Lila. Call me Lila. All children call me so. I’ll get you some milk too.’ And she paced towards the kitchen.

‘Tea, dear!’ the old man called out. ‘She was found by the river!’

The place was small and packed. Kashmiri drapes hung over the mud walls, and the floor was carpeted by a goat hair rug. A bulb hung by a wire in one corner of the room.

Soon, the aroma of tea mixed with the faint smell of goat fur and mud, and a cup of brown-green liquid was placed in front of Marisa.

‘Herbal tea of the mountains.’ Lila smiled. ‘Why! How did you get here?’ she exclaimed.

‘Errrm … that’s a long story, Lila,’ Masira said politely as she smelled the heavy, pleasant smell of spices in the tea. It was a mixture of warm and fruity aromas. ‘Honestly, I don’t remember much.’

‘That is perfectly all right. As a matter of fact, we also settled here as we fell in love with the place. My husband and I built this house brick by brick with the help of the villagers. That little brook goes on to eventually meet the Shyok.’ She looked at Masira with genuinely friendly expressions. ‘It is also where my husband is right now, trying to catch some fish for dinner. You hungry, dear?’ she asked. ‘And you, Mishu? Breakfast is ready, Papa.’

‘Can I help you?’ Masira got to her feet.

‘Oh, you must go change first. Follow me,’ Lila commanded.

Half an hour later, Masira, clad in a woollen yellow suit, entered and sat by Lila, who offered her potato curry.

‘Thank you.’ She beamed. Her brown oversized coat was open in the front, showing her yellow kurta. The coat hung on her as if she were a mere hanger. Masira, however, enjoyed the warmth.

‘It is pashmina wool. Very warm. Tie it in the front if you feel like it,’ Lila said.

She was a burly woman who was in her thirties, but her face was much rosier for