For ages I’d been longing to visit the ruins at Simurd. One day this yen of mine happened to come up in conversation with elderly Dr. Gar.

“If you have such a strong desire to go, my dear, why don’t you go ahead and take an excursion there?” he suggested immediately. “I can arrange for your stay myself. Madame Humrah will be delighted to host you. I’ll write to her today if you wish!”

            “But who is Madame Humrah?” I asked.

            Dr. Gar drew his snuff box from his trouser pocket and dipped in a finger.

“What? You don’t know Madame Humrah, Roohi?” he asked with surprise. “Two years ago, some forty miles from Simurd, Madame Humrah was badly injured in an accident. Coincidentally, I had set out at roughly the same time on a hunting expedition. It was nighttime, and our tents were pitched nearby. We were far from the city, and I was the only doctor there. By the grace of Allah, I was able to arrange for the poor woman to be brought to my tent. She was severely wounded, but four days of care and treatment removed her from danger, after which I drove her back home. Ever since then, she has always insisted I come and stay with her for a few days. Yet despite all her pleas, I’ve not had the time to travel there, nor to tour the ruins. What little time I have left from caring for the sick I spend in contemplation. But this is serendipitous indeed, and I shall send you in my stead. She will be delighted! And you will want for nothing.”

            “This truly is serendipitous,” I agreed. “But doctor, I refuse to go alone. I won’t have any fun all by myself. You must come too.”

            Dr. Gar refused, in his typical style. “No, no, my dear, I have no desire to go. Who will pack my suitcase and help me bear the hardships of the journey?”

            Jasooti was seated at the end of the verandah eating fruit. “I shall pack your suitcase, darling Gari,” she called out. “You simply must go!”

Jasooti had called Dr. Gar “Gari” since childhood.

            Unsurprisingly, Dr. Gar changed his mind soon after. “It pains me refuse the two of you,” he conceded. “Well then, Jasooti! You must pack my suitcase—and Roohi, you shall take charge of my snuff packets.”

            I do hate this filthy habit of Dr. Gar’s. Simply touching snuff powder nauseates me. But what could I do? This was a special occasion. There was nothing for it but to promise to do my part.

            Dr. Gar immediately sat down and wrote a letter to Madame Humrah, informing her that he would be visiting with the two of us in a week or so. In the interim, however, a few important cases came up that he had to attend to, and thus it was not until a fortnight later that we were able to set out on our journey.

            That day, the three of us—my dearest friend Jasooti, Dr. Gar, and I—embarked on our journey in the doctor’s small Bentley. We ate dinner first to avoid the heat of the day, and then set out. Our plan was to delight Madame Humrah by spending the night at her home en route to Simurd. The following morning, we would drive to the ruins.

Lord protect us! Little did we know this would prove to be one of the most terrifying nights of our lives!

 

*

 

            It was a scorching moonlit night in the month of May. Our Bentley sped along the empty road like a tiny bug. It was past nine and we planned to arrive at Madame Humrah’s shortly after midnight. The road was lined by lofty canopied palms that stood mute below the pale moon in the enchanting night sky. There were no pedestrians to be seen.

            Jasooti drove, and I sat by her side, eating toffees. Elderly Dr. Gar dozed in the back seat, an extinguished cigar pressed between his lips. Had he woken from his slumber, he would have cheerfully belted out a few couplets by Omar Khayyam in his rough, unpoetic voice, for that was his forte.

            The moonlight was enthralling and the atmosphere dreamlike.

Suddenly Jasooti stopped the car.

            “What is it?” I asked, swallowing a piece of chocolate.

            “Something’s wrong, Roohi!” she cried, rising from her seat. She walked around and opened the hood to look at the engine.

             “Impossible!” I cried. “All right, wait, I’ll take a look!”

I tossed my purse into Dr. Gar’s lap and got out to examine the engine myself. After half an hour of effort we grew discouraged and stared helplessly at one another.

            “Now what, Roohi?” asked Jasooti with dismay.

            Just then, an owl let loose a chilling shriek from its perch in a giant palm. Poor Jasooti’s sensitive ears were attuned to the strains of the sitar and the whisperings of sweet nothings. How could she tolerate such an insult to her sensibilities? She clung to me in terror. I, however, am accustomed to traveling through barren, remote lands, and rugged mountains such as the Mahazari. I bolstered her cowardice with my courage and we jumped back into the car.

            Just then, elderly Dr. Gar awoke with a start and recited a romantic couplet by Hafez.

“Are we there yet?” he asked.

            We all felt agitated. After a moment, we stepped out of the car and began to look around in a state of confusion.

            It was quite late by then. A bird flew near, flapping its enormous wings in the pale moonlight, and we stared after it, momentarily imagining it to be a passerby or some type of vehicle.

            Finally, after quite some time, we saw a comical country oxcart approaching. It ambled cheerfully along the side of the road as though it were out for a stroll.

            “If we arrive too late, she’ll be asleep,” observed Jasooti sadly. “We better get a ride in that cart.”

            Dr. Gar called out from a distance, “Hello there, my good man! Can you take us to the Ishrat Khana haveli in Ayub Mohalla?”

            The driver did not so much as turn his head to look at us. “No. It’s past midnight. It’s late,” he replied in the gruff manner typical of country folk.

            This uncivil response angered us, but Jasooti and I did our best to show restraint. We walked over to him, and when he saw our costly gold brocade attire and our refined countenances, he stepped down from the carriage.

            I approached him and placed a shiny silver coin in his hand.

“Here you go,” I said. “Now take us to Ishrat Khana as quickly as possible.”

            He was suitably impressed and replied courteously, “As you wish, Huzoor. I’ll have you there in two hours.”

I felt as though the carriage would collapse on top of me when I stepped onto the rickety running board. I had to grip the side to steady myself. Jasooti firmly grabbed hold of the wheels to step up. Finally, all three of us managed to climb in and find a seat.

            Now the carriage went slowly on its way. The moon had grown paler. There was a terrifying sighing in the wind like the last breaths of a dying patient.

            Old Dr. Gar appeared displeased and annoyed by the swaying of the cart. Jasooti and I, prostrate with the heat, tried to cool ourselves with our gilded vetiver fans fitted onto sweet-smelling sandalwood handles. We were so restless we kept switching sides. Ah! Allah! That deserted moonlit night! So hot we felt, as though we were breathing fire, our tongues as parched as autumn leaves. Jasooti kept drinking water from her silver fairy jug. It was one of those nights that occur in eastern lands when the green-eyed water sprites are said to venture forth from their aqueous kingdom.

            At last, in the distance, a magnificent white haveli came into view. Our absurd little cart lurched into the splendid gateway of Ishrat Khana. Old Dr. Gar tumbled onto the driver, and I onto Jasooti.

            “I will simply sink into the earth with shame if we appear before our hostess in this crude vehicle,” I wept.

            “But Roohi!” exclaimed old Dr. Gar. “What’s to be ashamed of? Surely, she’ll understand that we had no choice but to endure the ride.”

            “No, no,” cried Jasooti. “Send it away as soon as possible!”

            Ribbons of moonlight fell across finely manicured garden pathways. Our cart reached the main door and came to a halt. The moment we stepped out of the vehicle, we sent it away.

            “Everything here seems enveloped in slumber,” I observed as I gazed about me. “No sign of even a groundskeeper.”

            “Perhaps Madam Humrah is not here at all,” cried Jasooti.

            “Of course she is, why wouldn’t she be?” scolded Dr. Gar. “She replied to my letter and said she eagerly awaited our arrival.”

            We knocked on the door. First softly, with caution. Then again, loudly this time. We circumambulated the house. Called out to the servants. Called to the groundskeeper. In short, we tried everything we could. But the stately white marble haveli stood still and silent in the pale moonlight, shadows of the tall pillars slanting across wide verandahs. Crickets hummed their melodies in the solitude of jasmine vines.

            Feeling discouraged, we had begun to walk down the steps, when suddenly we heard a sound from inside the house, as though someone had just lit a match.

            Dr. Gar started. “Wait,” he said. “I think someone is awake.”

            The three of us went back up the stairs and stood by the door, hoping it would now open. Occasionally we heard faint sounds coming from inside as we fixed our gaze on the closed door. Five minutes must have passed in this way.

            “What is going on?” cried Dr. Gar in astonishment.

            I tried peering in through the windows, but inside there was nothing but darkness.

            By now Dr. Gar was fed up. “Ahoy there!” he shouted. “Anyone home?”

            We heard more confused sounds in response to Dr. Gar’s shouting. After a few moments, the door suddenly slammed open with such ferocity we shut our eyes in alarm. A sharp draft of cold air hit us in the face. All three of us shivered. There was no one at the door.

            “But who has opened the door?” cried Dr. Gar in astonishment.

            We didn’t have the courage to enter the desolate darkness of haveli. The doctor set one foot inside but Jasooti stopped him. We felt discouraged and had just decided to walk over towards the garden, when suddenly, from somewhere inside, we heard a door panel closing. This was followed by another draft of cold air. A faint light came into view as we strained our eyes in the darkness, and this gradually proved to be a candle. Looking up, we saw the face of a woman. She was bewitchingly beautiful and must have been in her late twenties. She wore a simple white garment with long flowing skirts. It was she who held the candle.

She smiled when she saw Dr. Gar and bowed her head.

“How do you do, Madame Humrah!” exclaimed Dr. Gar. “I mentioned these two girls in my letter to you; they are like daughters to me.”

Madame Humrah cast a charming glance at us all and bowed her head again in welcome.

Without speaking a word, she held aloft her candlestick, which was shaped like a coiled cobra with a raised hood, and motioned for us to follow. She floated like a fairy through the air with the train of her long skirts swirling behind her and her long black hair rippling below her white silk chadar. She smiled bewitchingly, like a houri.

“Roohi!” whispered Jasooti. “There’s a cold draft in here, and yet outside on the road, our faces were burning hot from the painful Loo winds.”

Just then we reached a magnificent hall, where we saw a long black gleaming table arrayed with a profusion of fruits on silver leaf-shaped platters and sharbat in tiny heart bowls. From the ceiling above the table was suspended a chandelier in the form of lotus flowers. The doors were hung with violet-hued curtains worked with golden embroidery. Tapestries of scenes from some ancient Chinese battle adorned the walls.

Madame Humrah set her cobra candlestick on the table and sat down at the head.

“But,” cried Dr. Gar, “my dear Madame Humrah! It’s two o’clock in the morning! How can anyone properly enjoy such a delicious spread at this time? If we might be shown the kindness of a soft bed right now, we would be most grateful.”

At this, without uttering a single word or pressing us to partake of the meal, Madame Humrah stood, picked up her candle, and smiled. She tilted her head to indicate that we should follow her.

She led us from the hall to an elaborate bedchamber. Inside the dimly lit room was an exquisite bed made up with colorful silks. Here, with another tilt of her head, she wished us all a pleasant night and floated softly away.

            I am a weak-hearted, fanciful woman. Naturally, the behavior of our hostess made my blood run cold. The moment she left the room, I grasped Dr. Gar’s hand and asked, “Why won’t she speak?”

            “I myself am astonished,” replied the doctor. “I wonder what the matter could be?”

            “Let us flee this place, doctor,” I suggested anxiously.

            “And yet, what a sweet countenance she has,” observed Jasooti. “Perhaps she’s simply mute?”

            I thought a moment. “Despite her beauty,” I said. “I felt a sense of terror when I gazed upon her.”

            Dr Gar departed for his room, but Jasooti and I sat up late attempting to solve the mystery, and did not lie down in bed until nearly three o’clock.

 

*

 

The next morning, I awoke at prayer time, as is my habit. Our plan had been to set out for the ruins at eight o’clock, so I woke Jasooti as well and we both said our namaz. The morning was warm and pleasant. After namaz, we walked outside and sat among the jasmine vines, where we waited a long time for tea.

            After a while, discouraged by the delay, I went to Dr. Gar’s room.

“Doctor!” I called out. “Are you really still asleep?”

            “I’ve been lying here waiting for my tea, Roohi!” he moaned. “I’ll get up when it comes. Would you mind handing me my snuff box? Thank you!”   

            It was already nine o’clock, and yet no one had come to check on us.

“Come on, Dr. Gar, let’s just go take a look and find out why no servant has come to bring the tea!”

            Dr. Gar got up and quickly dressed. Then the three of us walked along the wide verandas until we reached the great hall. All the doors were shut. There was stillness all around and a sense of desolation. The costly furniture was thickly coated in dust. It felt as though the mansion had been closed up for quite some time. We went about fearfully opening the doors to each room, clearing our throats each time as a warning. But every room was empty, and all the furniture looked as though it had simply been ordered and placed there but never used.

            We examined the entire haveli but found not a single living thing. Our hearts felt heavy with a sense of horror. We walked out into the garden in a state of agitation and incomprehension. But what had happened the night before? Where were the servants? And where had Madame Humrah disappeared to?

            By then it was nearly ten o’clock. We felt troubled and stood in the deserted stairway leading up to the front door, wondering what we should do. Just then we saw an elderly servant approach the house via the garden and silently enter a room. He then began to remove pieces furniture from the room and place them outside, weeping loudly all the while.

            We rushed over to him.

            He stopped when he saw us and stared in astonishment.

            “Excuse me,” said Dr. Gar. “Where is Madame Humrah?”

            The old man was dumbstruck and gazed at the doctor’s face like a madman.

            “We are her guests,” continued Dr. Gar. “Where has she gone?”

            “Madame Humrah?” asked the man in astonishment. “Oh, Huzoor! My mistress was bitten by a snake. It’s been ten days since she died. Today the furniture is going to auction.”

            When I heard this, I again felt last night’s mysterious cold draft and a chill ran through my body. I trembled like a willow tree.

Of what happened next, I have no clear memory.