Daughter of the Night

By Nandini Gupta and TBD

Get up. Go to work. Report on a few news stories. Walk back home. Have dinner with grandparents. Sleep. Repeat. Laila's everyday to-do list was not exactly exciting. An ordinary girl with a bad temper and boisterous but beautiful curls, Laila led a mundane life in Lahore, Pakistan. Until she landed in Udaipur, India, the neighboring but rival na

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernest Publishing
• Release date: Oct 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9789389995831

Book preview

Oranges and Heels

July 13, 2013; 1700 hours.

With her right hand pressed against the slightly tainted green glass window, Laila’s eyes lowered as she watched the raindrops bash against the pane. Dressed in a fake Chanel blue blazer, with a fake Gucci belt strapped across her mediocre waist, Laila was in no mood to ruin her ambitious outfit in the jittering rain. Sighing resignedly, she packed her delicate handbag and rolled up her sleeves, then climbed down the stairs to head back home.

Despite her deep affection for her natural curls, they were more of a hassle now than a beauty statement. With each strand getting frizzy one by one, Laila’s temperament was being tested. Not wanting to meddle with the deep-pitted puddles along her way, she narrowly escaped each of the monsters. As she clung to her sagged handbag, Laila wondered why she always invited such bad luck. But she couldn’t cry. She forbade crying.

Even if I ruin these heels, I’m not gonna cry. That’s the rule.

Why was crying non-existent? God knows.

As she lifted her head with a sense of slight superiority, her attempt was knocked down by a paunchy fruit vendor.

Watch it, lady! Are you blind?! You squished the life out of my orange! Do you have any idea how expensive those are?!

Laila paused. She raised her left eyebrow and looked down to find her heels smothered with the pulp of a miserable orange. Smirking at her misfortune, she sat on the wet ground to remove her now not-so-glamorous heels. She detached the orange and stomped up to the vendor barefoot.

Do you know how expensive these heels are? I’m guessing not. So why don’t you just take your orange and leave me the hell alone.

Squashing the orange into the vendor’s hand, Laila trudged down the dimly lit road, heels in hand. The vendor yelled, but nothing fazed Laila. Soaked from head to toe, all she desired was to go home and sip her grandmother’s *elaichi chai. She picked up her heels and decided to tread the rest of the journey barefoot.

Laila was disgusted with the open sky spitting on her head. As she battled each meager man’s stare, stumbled across each hideous construction pit, and faced away from each humongous pile of garbage, Laila was filled with mud, chaos, and rage.

To most, getting through the rain would be an everyday affair. You pull up an umbrella and walk. That’s it. But it wasn’t a piece of cake for Laila. Why? Because it was a reflection of her past.

Not a single cab passed the usually busy streets of Lahore. Only menacing rickshaws, three-wheeled bicycles with a passenger seat behind. And godforsaken personal vehicles. Everything was a struggle.

With each raindrop making its way from Laila’s curls to her shoulders, her will to fight against the rain was fading.

There comes a point where you can’t fight anymore. You’re already soaked to the bone. Your handbag is soggy. Your heels look lifeless. Your hair looks like a mesh of wires. So you just let go.

But that was not Laila. She never gave up. Taken advantage of most of her life, Laila was just not up for it anymore. She had built an empire around herself, which no bullet could break into. Her independence and detachment were her pride. She carried them everywhere.

Raised a Muslim, Laila scarcely followed the practices of Muslim women. She never wore a burqa. Instead, she wore tight-fitting fake Chanel suits and flashed her expressive features. Not that she was against Islam and its teachings, she was just not entirely thrilled by the idea of not being complimented on her outfits each day at work.

As for the downpour of downward gazes she received for her choice of clothing on the conservative street, she kept walking, head held high.

Engulfed in the smoky sky and dampened ground, Laila’s solitary walk back home would make for a picturesque painting. Contrasting to the colors that fill a palette, a void filled Laila’s life.

The rain dug deeper into the void. The void was Laila’s sole companion. She had become friends with Laila when she was just a little girl. And she was in no mood to leave anytime soon. Laila felt her presence now more than ever. The rattling rain. The clingy mud. The empty streets. The thundering sky. The looming buildings. Everything reminded Laila of that day.

That day, it had rained. While the world wrapped itself in velvety warm blankets, Laila crept to a corner and cried. Softly though. So that no one could hear. Since then, instead of hopping around in puddles, Laila avoided them. Instead of sticking her tongue out to taste the sweet rainwater, she spewed curses at the detestable drops. The rain was a reminder of her loss. Waves of flashbacks rippled through her body. But she wasn’t ready to face her past. So, today, she wasn’t going to humor her emotions.

Remember, no crying.

*elaichi chai = cardamom tea

Rajma Chawal and Reflections

July 13, 2013; 1900 hours.

"*Ya Allah, why didn’t you take a cab? Why didn’t you ask someone to drop you home? Why couldn’t you have waited for the rain to stop? Why…"

"Calm down, *nani. Stop bombarding me with a gazillion irrelevant questions. I’m going upstairs to take a shower."

"And while you do that, we’ll heat up the food for you. It’s *rajma chawal. Your favorite. Make sure to condition your hair thoroughly to get rid of the frizz. It looks ghastly right now."

Squinting her hazel eyes and blowing a puff of air, Laila dragged her miserable self up the stairs. She dropped her handbag and heels on the wooden floor and kicked the door shut with her left heel. As she peeled off each layer of soaked clothing, her racing mind and restless body relaxed.

The hot water from the shower slithered over her body. It was soothing. As she wrapped herself in a towel and tiptoed into the room to prevent the dripping water from spoiling the floor, Laila gathered her thoughts. As she slipped into a pair of cotton pajamas, she segregated her thoughts. As she applied face cream to her supple skin, she erased her thoughts. As a deep thinker, who thought about every damn thing in her life and in the lives of those surrounding her, Laila had grown to appreciate her brain’s incessant texts. But she also knew when and how to turn the notifications off. For the most part.

She walked downstairs and found her grandparents watching the news intently. She grabbed the remote tucked away in a corner of one of the turquoise sofas and turned off the TV.

Hey! We were watching the news, Laila. Put it back on. There was something interesting about the price of petrol…

Yeah, they’re increasing it. Now come on, let’s have dinner.

Again?! Soon there will be big holes in our purses. We shouldn’t succumb to their demands. Laila, put it on. I’ll show them.

"Nani, I don’t think lifting your chappal and showing it to the TV qualifies as ‘showing them’ anything. I’m hungry; let’s eat."

In one swift motion, Laila’s grandfather snatched the remote from her hands and turned the TV back on. A lady dressed in a loud pink dress, with a layer of thick, black eyeliner slicing through her eyelids, was delivering the news in a high-pitched voice.

"Fine, watch the damn