In the spirit of October, the month of magic, terror, and excitement-let’s tell a tale.
Not so many years ago, embers softly rose out from a fire, glowing boldly in the night before disappearing into the deep sky. The heat from the fire added to the already humid atmosphere, and created heat waves that distorted the scene before me. I was surrounded by brick and mud walls, with no roof, inside our family home in rural Punjab. The ground was sandy-dirt that rose every time I took a step, and despite the heat there was a cool breeze that left my lungs feeling cleansed. The air tasted of spices and burning wood. In front of me -distorted by the fire’s flames, sat an old man. He sat with his back hunched over, one elbow resting on his knee and the other raised as he held up his cane –even while in that position. His aged face was largely covered by his low dipping nose, followed by his stout beard. His misty blue eyes gleamed, staring around at nothing as he quietly waited for everyone to settle around him. He was dressed in what’s called a dhoti, a white garment that’s mainly tied around your waist. I was surrounded by family, not just my mom and dad, but my 13 cousin’s, 8 aunts, 6 uncles, 3 grandparents 2 nephews, and 2 siblings. It was routine for everyone to gather around after we had eaten dinner, and just before we went for bed, mostly just to talk- but on some rare occasions ..we would be given a story . This story is about things that send chills down the spines of those who grew up hearing about them. Things that many cultures believe to be real and living simultaneously with us- just not seen. Unless that is , they decide to change that. They could possess us , they could be us, they were things….that are like Us, but different –their image disturbed in some way. If you were to see one of them , at first glance you’d think they were just a regular person; until you thought back to how there was something off, something missing, something inhuman -ever heard of Jinns?
My grandpas’ voice boomed steadily and loudly– regardless of his old age , as he spoke my mother tongue. He told us of how long ago his great-great- grandpa had been very pious and well liked. He was a religious and simple man – and many respected him. He lived alone in a little stone house- that largely took on the shape of a cube. He taught many the teachings of the Prophet and the word of the Lord. He was spiritually inclined, and at one with his surroundings. On a cold night, as he sat by a small fire , he noticed a grotesque bug walking the length of his floor. He wouldn’t have given it much thought, but he had sensed something as soon as the bug had crawled through the crack in his wall. He sensed the presence of another being, a presence stronger than that of a tiny bug. He knew – although not for certain- that a Jinn had come. He had called out to it , not showing any emotion or surprise in his voice. Then came a shift change in the atmosphere around him- he felt malice. Quickly grabbing a small tin cup he trapped the bug, muttering a prayer. The Jinn was furious, but my great- great-great grandpa had kept calm and stayed polite. He inquired the Jinn of why he was there, and much more. Through this they struck a deal; my great-great-great grandpa would let the Jinn go; if his kind promised to leave our family alone for the next 7 generations ; and that the Jinn would come back every day, to listen to my great-great-great grandpa’s sermons. The Jinn having no other choice, agreed, and kept his word, coming back and eventually respecting the old man. It is because of this, my grandpa said, that they have always been attracted to us – but never a threat. Still he warned us gravely, “ to be careful, and always say a prayer- for they are mischievous and do not care for humans “ . It was at this point that voices broke out, one after the other ; my cousins and uncles shouted, trying each to tell of their own experiences.
I was snapped back from the past, and stared around the fire as everyone talked excitedly, to then tune into my mom’s voice. She spoke simply, with no added enthusiasm or whisper for effect. Wrapping her duputta around herself she began ; when my grandma had been her age , they had to make a trip to a neighbouring village. My grandpa had been away for work, so my grandma had taken my aunt (my mom’s older sister) and they left early in the morning , to make it by nightfall. Part of the way – nearing evening they had to pass through this very old forest- with worn-out paths going in every direction. They walked close together and many people passed them on the way, as it was a frequently used route -so they were not completely alone. At one point my aunt began lagging behind my grandma and she noticed a man standing on a branch in one of the trees, taking a bite from a sugar cane. She quickly caught up to my grandma who was now walking briskly, and they passed by the man just as my aunt thought of how strange he stood. He was facing them, but it seemed almost as if he didn’t know how to stand properly. Then my aunt turned her head to see his feet faced a different direction than his body, just as he threw his head back and began laughing. A cold laugh that echoed through the trees, and made it clear they were alone. My aunt went to say something to my grandma, to notice that she was very stiff and straight-faced as she moved- maintaining the same speed as she walked. My grandma told her not to run, and not to look back. They had continued to walk sensing that someone was maliciously watching them- just waiting for them to turn around.
I felt a chill down my spine- and looked to see most of my cousins nervously checking behind their backs, scanning the darkness around us. My dad’s roaring laughter nearly sent all of us out of our seats; I could feel my heart pounding against my chest – my breath caught on a scream. We all looked to him , some with their hands to their chest in fright- he laughed stating that- that was nothing compared to the stuff he’d seen. I momentarily glanced back at my mother – her mouth in a firm line – clearly not appreciating my dad’s words. Nonetheless my dad continued; he was a boy probably around 15-16 he said. He had been walking back from the bazaar and was nearing this huge pile of rubble. He said this was around the time this house was being built, so the pile of bricks and wood lying around had been their property, meant to be used later for construction. But often kids would come to play on it-it serving them as a giant mountain to be conquered. But when they did this – the workers would get angry and things would be misplaced. So they began telling off the kids that came to play-warning them they’d be in trouble if they did. This night as my dad walked back home he saw two little boys, in identical clothing playing on the rubble. He said they couldn’t have been older than five, but as he neared them he started shouting at them to get away from there. They laughed and ran off a little ways away- but then stopped and stared at him. My dad continued walking and had a feeling that they would try to go back and play as soon as he walked far enough away; and that’s exactly what happened. In the empty alley leading to his home he heard their giggles echo, along with the sound of bricks being thrown and stuff being moved around. Immediately my dad turned around, ready to tell those kids off, hearing their laughter until the very moment his eyes landed on the rubble. But there was nothing. I watched my dad in the glow of the fire as he shifted his weight and pointed to an area inside our home. Everyone glanced where he was pointing, as he said that months later he woke in the middle of the night to see them standing there, holding hands. He had looked at them long enough to sense no innocence in their appearance, and he ran back to his room shutting the door as their giggles once again escaped them. He said they kept laughing louder and louder, until the CLANG of his metal door-lock, bounced throughout the home. My dad now holding the metal tin cup and spoon he had used to create the clang sound effect, smiled smugly at his story; as my younger sister and I glanced to the area he had pointed out. One of my older cousins whispered to us , “maybe they wanted to play” , giving us shivers.
But I wasn’t ready to leave this chilling night to the safety of my blankets just yet. I knew there was another story, one that I had heard my older cousins and brother talking about when we had first arrived here. Each of them eyes wide with realization, as they reveled in their findings. And these guys really knew how to tell a story. My brother threw some wood into the fire and started to explain how, for as long as he could remember –he’d seen this woman dressed in white. He stood up and walked around, his curly hair a mess atop of his head, and his eyes faraway as he recalled. He passed behind my cousin and held a lock of her hair, describing the woman’s; black as night, and down to her feet. My cousin shuddered pulling her hair away from him. She wore a white dress , her voice an imitation of my mothers, and her face…her face…my brother stopped waking as he thought- before turning to us and stating he couldn’t tell us anything about her face- he’d never seen it. He had seen her his first night here, when he’d woken to use the outhouse. She had been in this opening, walking around these two kids as they played. My dad, who had been all laughs all night, stiffened at this and interrupted:
Dad: “Who were the kids?”
Brother: “There were two of them , they wore white t-shirts and-“
Dad: “Blue shorts?!”
Brother: “YEA THEY HAD BEEN “
Both: “TWINS!” , they both had gasped out the last word.
My grandma started saying a prayer, as my mother picked my little sister up into her lap. My cousins and I were taking over each other putting two and two together. Occasionally something like this would happen, our whole family although having experienced these kinds of events, never often shared. Then when we did, we would realize that we were being visited by the same things. This in turn, made them harder to ignore. My brother continued hurriedly, saying that he had pretended he didn’t notice them, and kept walking. But on his way back the door to the empty room had been open, and he heard my mom’s voice calling his name. Still fairly tired he had been about to walk in-before realizing what was happening. My brother stood straighter as he told the next part. He had gone in anyway. Once in he had seen the shape of a body hidden behind the curtains. My brother darted from one side of the fire to the other, getting in each of our faces as he re-told his game of chase. He had pulled the curtain away only to feel someone pass by behind him, when he walked in that direction , he heard my mother voice from the opposite direction. He said he had felt like his head was spinning, that he was only catching glimpses of her. That night he had felt that they had wanted his attention, “why?” He asked us, and then answered “I don’t know”. But she or it or whatever it was, never leaves him.
This was an experience that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. More than the stories told, I remember the way in which they were told. In many aspects this night reminds me of Greek and Roman audiences. Although there was no practice of instauration, there was definitely some organization behind the way we all took on our role of performer or spectator i.e) how no one spoke when my grandpa was telling his story. My grandpa himself could be considered the arbiter of “fact”, as could my dad, mother and brother. Each of these people was the messenger –relaying a story and transmitting it through spoken word directly to the audience. This I feel added to the credibility to their stories and did not take away from their authority as author or performer. There was no separation between the originator of the story and the audience. There was limited planning behind orchestrating the whole night, but there was the fact that this was something everyone made time for in their plans , as an occurrence that routinely happened every night. We would always meet in the same space, at around the same time. This means that this sharing of tales could technically be an event that was collocated in time and space. There’s also the “public-ness of the encounter “ (Sullivan. J , 2013). Our family would gather and meet each other at this time to talk and interact before going to bed. We would come together to see each other, hear our day’s stories, and sometimes get a show. In this case “social and cultural cohesion were achieved through the act of spectatorship itself” (Sullivan. J, 2013). Finally, this whole experience could not have been created were it not for continuous repetition of actions and decisions. As a family we decided to make this nightly event a regularity. It was us who respectfully would wait for my grandpa – the eldest- to always start things off. And it was us, the agents , whom through structure and agency would, “alter and reproduce social structures” (Sullivan.J 2013). But despite this, “ It does not follow that [agents] know all there is to know , about the consequences of what they do, for the activities of others or for their own activities in the future. Nor do they know all about the condition of their actions, that is , the consequences that are casually involved with its production “ (Giddens, 1987) . Meaning that regardless of us making a choice to be there, we do not know what can come from it , and to me it is the un-planned but hoped for story, the surprising twist, the booming laughter of a dad, or creepy comment by a cousin, that creates these experiences.
