One Hundred and Seventy Nine Years by Areej

They said he loved her so much, he waited for her spectre to return to him after her death, for one

hundred and seventy-nine years. When she didn't, he went mad, made the forest his home and

metamorphosed into a Himalayan wolf who survives somewhere between life and death.

I was a scholar of Kashmiri folk literature. It was my first year of doctoral studies, and

my supervisor, instead of behaving like a normal supervisor and drowning me in coursework,

papers, and assignments, decided I would take a trip to the remotest hills in the north of Kashmir,

to research a Kashmiri folk tale, which had been haunting the inhabitants for years. This is

something I had definitely not expected when I decided I'd do a PhD in folk literature. I had

expected heaps of papers and dark, cosy libraries, not mud, cold hills, and wind that felt like it

would pull my soul out.

It was the middle of March, and I had to wade for an hour through mud and heath to

reach the guest house I was to stay in for the next few weeks. Buses refused to travel beyond a

certain point. My floral Pheran was drenched. It provided no warmth at all. My luggage was

splattered with mud. From the way I was shivering, I could already anticipate a fever.

When I made my way into the lobby of the guest house, the employees at the reception desk

looked petrified. I knew I looked like I had spent a year in peat. The lady at the reception, an

elderly stout woman in a brown Pheran and headscarf, showed me to my room. She didn't seem

very hospitable. Over the next few days, while I remained bedridden due to the fever I had

already felt upon my arrival, I realised the employees, in fact, were not hospitable at all.

The elderly lady brought me my meals but never spoke to me. She just left the tray on my

bedside table and collected it half an hour later, every time. A girl who looked like she was in her

late teens dusted around the room every morning. She also had the job of keeping the fire alive in

the room. They had sent for a doctor who examined me from afar as if I carried a plague.

Were all the people of these hills aloof like that?

Nevertheless, I neither had time nor energy to dwell upon why they were the way they

were. Every bone in my body ached. I couldn't rest my arms in any way. It felt like I had taken a

journey uphill with boulders on my shoulders. Sometimes I could not tolerate the fire the young

girl made and told her to extinguish it. I asked her to throw all the windows open and let the cold

air in. She quietly refused to comply with the latter. Other times I would ring the bell like a

woman possessed and ask her to make a fire or bring me a Kangri because I could not stop

shivering.

During my illness, I was troubled by constant nightmares of a raven; huge, dark, and

glossy, at the window of my room. It perched atop the window ledge and gazed at me. In these

nightmares, my sickness mirrored the sickness I was suffering from in reality. The raven seemed

like the cause of my sickness in the nightmares. I was terrified of it. It was as if it was an

embodiment of my sickness and riveted me to my sick body. 

Then one night, just as the fever seemed to go down, my nightmares took a new turn. The

huge raven outside my window metamorphosed into a ghastly woman with dark clothes and dark

hair flying about her.

I woke up the next morning with a disturbed mind and a healed body; what a contradiction!

For the first time in a week, I felt energetic enough to step out of my room. I dressed in my green

Pheran and leather stockings. To me, the green symbolised the plains and the spring that had

already made its appearance there. Here in the hills, spring always arrived late. It was nearly the

end of March now. I sighed longingly when I remembered the tulips which must be in bloom at

home.

Now that I thought of it, my family hadn't even messaged to check up on me, nor had any

of my friends or my supervisor. I pulled the notifications bar down on my phone screen. Oh,

there was no network! So that's why I hadn't received any calls or emails over the past week. My

sickness had led to my obliviousness regarding this. I made a note in my mind to ask the teen if I

could make a call after going back to the guest house. For now, I needed to focus on getting my

research started. I had already lost a lot of time because of my sickness.

I walked towards an old shack, which was apparently the library of the village, and

preserved chronicles and folklore, or so my supervisor had said. I was surrounded by bleak hills

on all sides. The wind seemed to stab me into the warm depths of my flesh. I tightened my shawl

around me. It was a beautiful, earthy Pashmina shawl with gold embroidery. It was my mother's.

She had worn it in her youth, and even after years of use by me, it retained her distinct smell.

While her smell enveloped me, I felt protected in these distant hills. 

I made my way into the old library, the door to which issued forth an annoying, creaking

sound, as if even it disapproved of my presence. The creaking caused an old man who sat in an

armchair, next to a dusty wooden bookcase, to gaze at me. One of his hands was wrapped around

a Kangri for warmth and the other hand held a book. There were no computers, no lights, no

electrical outlets. It almost felt like I had walked back in time. Books were scattered everywhere,

on wooden shelves, heaped on the floor, on the one huge wooden desk, on the mantelpiece. The

fireplace was the only lively spot in the shack.

"Assalamua'laykum," I greeted the man.

He eyed me the way everyone else had, since I arrived in these hills. For the millionth

time, it seemed like I carried a plague with me. What was wrong with these people? Were they

like this towards everyone?

I ignored the old man and proceeded towards a dusty nook. I sat down without caring for

my beautiful Pheran and threw my bag beside me. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was tired. I

wanted to go back home among the crocuses and tulips.

"What are you looking for?" I heard the old man call out to me.

I blinked away tears. "Is everyone around here an insufferable misanthrope?"

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. He closed the book he was reading. "We don't

usually take to outsiders in these hills."

"So you make them feel like they carry a plague with them?"

This time, his wrinkles relaxed into a smile. "What are you looking for?"

I rose to my feet, dusted my Pheran, and sat in a wooden chair in front of him. The chair

groaned under my weight. "It's not going to break, is it?"

He shook his head. "It's been here since before you were born. What are you looking

for?"

"I'm a researcher," said I. "I'm looking for anything on a particular piece of folklore

related to these hills, about a man who metamorphosed into a Himalayan wolf..." I halted

because his facial expressions had hardened again.

"So you've come looking for him?" His tone confused me, but yes, I had come looking

for him. He was a part of my research.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you come when he was alive?" he asked in an accusatory tone. "What is the

point now?"

"What are you talking about?" was my answer.

"Don't think I'm afraid of you," he said in a low voice, almost muttering it to himself.

"They might be, but I'm not. You're still the same. I'm fed up with you, but I'm not afraid of you."

"What are you talking about?" I reiterated. Had he suddenly lost his sanity?

"You know I'm not afraid of you at all," he went on. "I still remember what you did."

I rose to my feet in fury. The chair fell over. I was filled with a strange rage towards this

man I had never known in my life. Tears streamed down my face. "I told you I didn't steal the

Pheran from your house. It was mine! I had it all along!" 

My scream left an echo in the shack. I picked my bag from the floor and rushed out of the

creaking door. A drum beat in my ears. The outdoors was a giant whirlwind of gale and snow. I

ran. I didn't know where I was going. The drum beating in my ears got louder. I ran. The snow

lashed against my face. The drum beating in my ears got louder. I ran. The wind made my shawl

feel like the gigantic wing of a raven. The drum beating in my ears got louder. I came to a stop.

I fell on my knees. I couldn't see anything. The snowstorm wrapped around me as if it

would drown me. I cried, trying in turn to drown the loud drum beating in my ears. What had I

done? Where on earth was I? What had I said to that man? Where had it even come from? More

tears streamed down.

I wiped my face and scrambled to my feet. I had to get back to the guest house. I was

going to get the heck away! I didn't care about my supervisor. I didn't...

The drum beating had ceased. A new sound filled my ears. The sound of my family, my

friends, their words as sharp as ever. Everyone had told me to get married and avoid wasting my

life on a doctorate. I couldn't go back without getting something, anything out of here. But first, I

had to get out of the storm alive.

The snow drove thickly about me. Premature darkness drew on. I struggled against the

storm and somehow managed to find an old barn with no doors. Even in a snowstorm, I did not

fail to notice that next to it was a nambal, a stretch of boggy darkness. I was terrified of nambal.

Despite my desperate need for shelter, I considered whether I should stay or not. However, my

contemplation did not last long. The storm pushed me into the barn, nearly tossing me on the

heaps of hay.

The barn looked like its construction had been left incomplete at the last moment. I

nestled in a corner atop dry hay. The one near the supposed doors was soaking.

Even in my sleep, I was conscious enough to remember that I was terrified of nambal. I

had always been terrified of them, of their deceptiveness, of the obscurity they were shrouded

in...

***

My eyes flew open at a loud scratching which came from some dark corner. I looked

towards the doorway. The snowstorm had ceased. Moonlight illuminated the way. The rest of the

barn lay in the dark. I jumped out of my skin when the scratching was heard again. I wanted to

get away, but I also did not have the courage to move. What nightmare would spawn out of that

corner if I moved a limb? The scratching got louder and louder. I let out a scream and ran

towards the moonlit doorway, but before I could cross the threshold, a strong arm snaked around

my waist. I screamed louder until something was clamped on my mouth.

"You have made me wait incessantly for years," a rustic voice whispered in my ear. I

stopped struggling against whatever held me. I listened. My heart had suddenly gone quiet. "One

hundred and seventy-nine years, I have waited for a spectre of you."

My breath came out in fragments when he removed his hand from my mouth. His arm

still wrapped around me, I turned to face him and caressed his jaw. The beard on it pricked my

flesh. Everything about the feeling felt familiar. I ran my fingers over his long, hooked nose, over

his amber eyes, his bony forehead. I brushed a few askew strands of hair from his forehead. I

knew him. I ran my hand over the fabric of the Pheran he wore, an old, grey Pheran. When my

eyes fell upon the tears in the fabric, I recalled with bewildering certainty that it was the work of

flying charcoal embers from years of using his Kangri. We knew each other.

The moonlight lent him a glow which felt like the glow of life intertwined with the glow

of death. He placed a soft, almost indiscernible kiss on my hand. "Come," there was a pleading

in his voice. "Come, love, have you been cold for one hundred and seventy-nine years? Do you

want your Kangri?"

My hand was suddenly clasped into his warm one. I did not realise how cold my hand

was until he held it in his. He drew me inside the barn, away from the moonlight, into the dark.

We were about to leave the moonlight behind when the scratching in the dark corner commenced

yet again. He did not look towards it. His gaze was fixed at me... his beautiful amber eyes. It was

hard to look away from them, but I did. I tore my gaze away from him and looked towards the

dark corner. Out of it shot an inky arrow, straight at me.

A quick series of events followed. A scream left my mouth. I fell on my back. His hand

slipped away from mine. He was lost in the darkness. I looked around for the arrow and found

nothing but an inky feather of a bird.

***

I was back at the guest house. I had waded through deep snow in territories unknown to

me and somehow found my way back when the sun came up. I had spent a night running away

from whatever phantom haunted me.

When I got back, the elderly lady and the teen seemed even more petrified than they had

been the first time they had seen me, and rightly so. I didn't have a fragment of doubt about how

terrible I looked. Their reactions led me to the realisation that I hadn't looked into a mirror since I 

got to the hills. There were no mirrors in my room. I hadn't even perceived it because of my

sickness. I was seized by a sudden urge to look at myself, which caused me to run up to my room.

Once up there, the mirror was pushed to the back of my mind. Instead, I was overtaken

by a new urge to quit this place. I was seized by an earnest yearning for home. I couldn't bear to

stay in this place anymore. Out of nowhere, I was certain I had seen a djinn last night, a

phantom, a spirit. I had to reach home. My life was of more consequence than this doctorate. A

sense of being haunted by something overcame me, or maybe I was sick. Perhaps my fever had

still not come to an end.

I threw all my stuff inside the luggage with a sudden, newfound energy to stay alive. In

the midst of this rush of activity, my eyes fell upon the mirror I always carried with me. It was a

hand mirror, a dainty old thing with a purple back. It was my mother's as well. I abandoned my

work and looked at myself for the first time since I got here.

I gasped.

A ghastly woman stared back at me. She formed a woeful picture, as if she hadn't shut

her eyes and had a rest for years. But I was still the same person underneath, wasn't I? Why did

they look petrified every time they saw me? Why did they act like I was not a stranger but some

curse they were familiar with, someone who carried a plague with her, someone they were in the

habit of despising? Was it... Could it really be that they had already seen and known me before?

Was it because... No... His words rang in my ears. He said he had been waiting for me for one

hundred and seventy nine years... And the way I behaved in that library... Was I the woman for

whom he had metamorphosed into a Himalayan wolf? Was I the woman he loved so much that

he waited for her spectre to return? But I was alive. I wasn't a spectre. I was flesh and blood.

I threw the mirror on top of my clothes, got a blade which I had carried with me to shave

my arms and dug it into the flesh of my hand. The sight of fresh blood made me sigh in relief. I

wasn't a ghost. I wasn't a spectre. I had to get away from here. But then, why did his face feel

familiar? Why did his beard feel like I had touched it before? Why did it feel like I had run my

hands over his torn Pheran many times before?

I abandoned everything. I ran back downstairs and screamed for a phone. I needed to get

in touch with someone back home, anyone. I needed someone to tell me I was myself. The

elderly woman and the teen were as petrified as ever. They said they had no phone. There were

no phones in this part of the hills. I flew at the woman in rage. The teen quickly pulled out what

looked like an outdated mobile phone from her pocket. I grabbed it like a drowning woman,

dialling my father's number frantically. I always remembered his phone number. Nothing in this

world could make me forget it. It rang a few times before my dad answered. Upon his familiar

voice, I choked back tears and announced it was his daughter.

"Daughter? Who?"

I was stunned.

"Hello? Who is this? Is this a prank call?"

I dropped the phone and ran back outside into the knee-deep snow. The elderly man in

the library seemed to have known me. I beat at the snow with my hands, pushing it out of my

way, only to find a huge iron lock on the door.

No

How was I going to find out who I was?

My attention drifted towards the paw prints in the snow. Against every shred of

opposition, I followed the paw prints. My own footprints felt so small compared to these... The

wolf... The man... He said he had waited for me for one hundred and seventy-nine years. He was

the only one who could tell me who I was, whether I was a spectre or not, whether I knew him or

not, whether I belonged somewhere or not.

The paw prints led me uphill, into the snowy woods, next to the same barn where I had

spent part of the night. A lone Himalayan wolf awaited me at the end of the trail... giant, tall,

grey, beautiful amber eyes. We spent a long stretch of time gazing into each other's eyes. During

this, he stood rooted to his spot while I advanced towards him. A drumbeat in my ears. A fresh

snowstorm began to whirl around me. I was close enough to touch him.

The wolf leapt, enveloping me under his muscular frame. He nuzzled his face into my

throat before his teeth sunk into my flesh. No scream was heard. I couldn't scream, not only

because a hand was clamped on my mouth but because I didn't want to. I was dragged by my

legs through the snow and peat. The nambal and the amber-eyed man clung to me.

"One hundred and seventy-nine years. You've been a spectre for one hundred and

seventy-nine years," his rustic voice whispered to me.

The nambal began swallowing us. I caressed his beard. Spectre, I was a spectre. I was the

woman he had metamorphosed into a Himalayan wolf for. I belonged here with him.

An inky feather fell on my hand. I looked up at the source to find a huge, glossy raven

perched atop a nearby willow tree... The black arrow... The nightmares...

No

I wasn't a spectre. I was alive. I was flesh and blood. I was terrified of Nambal. I wanted

to flail my arms around and cry out, but I gazed into his amber eyes, and I was a spectre

 again. The storm blew away the feather on my hand. I looked up at the now

 barely visible shadow 

of the raven, and I wanted to cry out again, and yet again, the amber eyes barred me.

"If you are cold," he caressed my jaw, "I will bring you that Kangri you decorated with

threads. If you are cold, love..."

By now, his body was intertwined with my own. I got another glimpse of his amber eyes

before the nambal finished swallowing us into its depths.

If you are cold, love...

I am terrified of nambal

But are you cold, love?

I am terrified of nambal