Made of Thread

A cruel circus, an eternal Puppeteer, and a dream come true

There was no way to tell who did it when the sky was so very blue and the birds all sang merry tunes.
That’s what they said; they said the cake was too sweet and the lawns too green to truly know who killed the old lady. Her body, too mangled to be completely found, her heart, too lost to come back home. One or the other.
Thus, in this mystery, there was no happy ending, because in Khadija’s story, death was all she would come to know.

In Wilting Valley, July meant celebrations.
When Khadija first came to the meadow with her family, she had been swept away by the explosion of petals into dancing colorful flames in the sky and the little plum cakes that exploded in her mouth and tingled long after she was done.
“Please, please amma can I go now?” She would beg her mother after her daily lessons, nearly falling to her knees, then drag her little sister around town all day, little Amna’s tiny feet struggling to keep up with her older sister’s enthusiasm.
From a circus with twisting painted bodies that swallowed fiery blades, to magical museums that made you shapeshift in mirrors and giggle a little too hard. Each stop in the Valley was more magical than the other, and soon Khadija was almost off her feet flying from one attraction to another, hands sticky with biscuits and cakes.
But the best part was not the maze inside an ancient tree or the little flower treats that granted you small harmless spells, no, no, the best part was at the very heart of it all.
Just across the Stream of Silliness, and at the fifth turn from the Direction Stones.
In big blaring purple letters that appeared in the sky: “The Grand Puppeteer Show”.
Not puppet. Puppeteer.
Because in this show, the puppeteer, with her bellowing dark hair like the very waves of the sea, her six striking blue eyes lined with kohl and her eight different arms naturally growing from her body, almost touching the sky, were the attraction.
Every July, in the very stomach of the year, nestled in the breast of the valley, Madame Munazza would begin her magic. Millions of beautiful wood and wool dolls, some as big as Khadija herself, others little as an ant, painted in vibrant colors, dressed in the most luxurious outfits from the lands faraway, would be manipulated with threads of invisible magic.
Khadija could hardly settle her pumping heart to focus on the tales, she could barely sit down before the giddyness made her jump and itch and eventually stand in wonder of what she was beholding in front of her very eyes.
Sometimes, she would sneak glances at Amna, mouth agape and eyes gleaming, and Khadija would lift her head in pride. This was her show. The entire year curved to this one moment.
Tiny chambelis in the ground would grow tot he size of her head and bleed out music never heard before, deodar trees would rise to the skies to block the moon’s prying gleam, and hundreds of fireflies would line up to illuminate the wooden beasts, their bodies changing color with swish of the Madame’s hands.
Tales of greedy sheikhs overthrown, of families reunited and of true love found, each tale would leave Khadija breathless, until those honey-soft words and those gallant tales became her religion.
At the end of every performance, Madame Munazza, the personification of poise and elegance, would bow and all the puppets would bow with her in one fluid motion, from the littlest fairy to the most massive ogre. And, as if part of the performance, the crowd would erupt in applause, some sobbing at the beauty of her silken words, others marveling at the colored structures of woods that had managed to transport them to lands far beyond.

And Khadija? Khadija was them all at once. She would be in awe of the wonder in front of her, her heart would swell and sob for the end, her eyes would glisten with the sheen of magic left behind, and her head would be filled with little flickers of hope. False stupid hope so sickly sweet and thick, that Khadija would lose her entire life to that hope.

Dreams are only dreams. They dance around our heads, tease at our misfortune, bitter our reality.
For Khadija, a poor girl trapped inside this world of wealth and magic, her reality consisted of scrubbing filthy baths and toilets, itching from restless nights on straw beds, and scrubbing clean aggressive wild beasts and exotic pets. Much too different from the bins of peculiar spices and the dances of conniving pixies that her hopes and dreams lamented about.
In fact, ever since her little hands could learn to handle tools, she had to work. On her 10th birthday, she was blessed with the broom, on her 12th the scrubs and clippers, and on her 14th, tongs, cutters, and bleach. These were the gifts of her growth and eventually, from occasional household chores, Khadija’s unfavourable family situation forced her to work at some rich Sahab’s house during the days and shoveling mounds of dust and waste in some faerie stables at night.
Every some hours of groggy sleep would bring more fatigue and soreness, her hands blistered and hardened, and slowly, the sheen of magic and wonder left her eyes. The innocence of play in the heart melted away like wax from fifteen year old Khadija’s soul. She began to nurse a silent disdain for the world. For its little tricks and colors, for its illusions to the eyes and blades to the heart. For its heaps of wealth and pits of poverty. And most of all for herself.
Khadija began to keep her dark straw-like her in hasty buns behind tight caps and kept her dark eyes plastered to the floor. Her employers, too, had a strange disdain for her. Her too pale skin that made her look sickly, her sour expression waiting to bite, and her eyes, those hateful dark eyes that didn’t know their place. Naturally, everything has to fit in its puzzle and Khadija was forced into hers many, many, many-a-times. Her hair would be burned off, her legs tied to beasts, her eyes shrouded in darkness with little spells; tiny pranks here and there for a good laugh and a well-deserved scare.
Khadija had learnt to know better than to retaliate. Because when she had spoken up, the pixies couldn’t have laughed louder. They apologized and zapped her into the thick of some forest that took Khadija two days to make her way out of. She had collapsed at the edge of the road and Amna had found her. Sobbing, she had carried her back, as the Valley danced in its usual folly.
Some nights, Khadija would come back shivering with the snow clinging to her thin clothes and she would pray for the world to catch a tremendous flame, hot enough to melt the smiles off their faces, bright enough to illuminate Khadija’s gray life for her last breaths.
Oftentimes, she had thought of some clever revenge. Opening a gate of feral beasts in the Antelope’s bath or spiking the baji’s food with poisonous berries, just enough to make them groan in pain for days.
Such thoughts would calm her mind, and ease her back into her routine. As she scrubbed the wooden floors, she would imagine the relief of breaking open annoying little Zareena’s head, as she wiped mirrors she would imagine the tear of shards on the pixies’ perfect faces. Several times, she had come so close to it. But then she would come back home and find Amna hiding the hitch of her breath within her blanket, or abba laughing at some other bruise from this other ‘clumsy fall’, or amma rearranging little things in the shabby hut to leave no space for thoughts that took her back to her home.

Then, Khadija would feel the guilt.
Guilt and resentment blooming in her heart, drowning her in her own laboured breath. Suffocated. Rotting.

She would fall to the bathroom floor, leveling her breaths, counting tiles or picking at the threads from her clothes before climbing out the window into the night. She would walk for hours, aimlessly strolling in the forest, around prickly rose bushes, towering mushrooms and trees that would curve to her feet. She would walk because there was no home to go back to, no family game nights or colorful circuses.
Sometimes when the moon was bright enough, Khadija would tear at the bottom of her kameez and fill the strips of cloth with smooth pebbles off the ground and make her own puppets. A beautiful archivist in the lost world, she would imagine collecting, making stories, and sorting her puppets almost a divine call. Each story would come alive as her puppets grew in number, and soon, the innocent threads and cloth would be replaced by tortured souls.
But we are not at that point of the story yet.
Anyways, she would get lost in her puppets’ world, a world of hope and color, of equality and wonder. The hope of overcoming adversaries would inspire her still heart, move her soul, and as her eyes remained plastered to the floor now, her mind would be off fighting battles in magical lands far away.
She would spend hours perfecting which thread to lift with which finger to get the gallant sacrifice of the hero or the grateful curtsy of the fairy. The threads grew, stolen from a sahab or nicked from some unsuspecting shopkeeper, and the puppets became more and more surreal, tying thin blue-leaf wattles to make joints, using nectars for breathtaking colors, sewing cheap buttons for eyes, and gathering leftover fabric for makeshift clothes.
What began as a solace moulded into something far beyond what Khadija could have imagined.
She would come to the forest every evening after her work, and as soon as the moon rose, she would hurry back, stuffing her creations under some shelter of leaves or in a gathering of rocks.
“Where were you?”, one night amma demanded. She looked more worn out than usual. This stirred an invisible knife in Khadija’s heart.
“Just around.”
“Khadija. Where were you?”
“Nowhere! Just around the valley.”
“You know you can not just….roam around like this. You know.”
“I know”, she held her gaze, “ I was being careful. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“How can I not worry? You come back looking like a mess and then you disappear off god-knows-where while I sit here fiddling my thumbs!”
“Why are you making such a big fuss over this?”
“Ha!”, she nearly broke her neck with the sudden jerk, her entire body shaking. “Big deal, she says! Sure, jaan, I won’t worry. Go ahead and loaf around all you want in this blood-sucking place, and if you- No, when you end up with a hole in that stupid little head of yours be sure to send me a note to not wait up for you at dinner!”
Khadija’s cheeks burned with fury.
“What are you blaming me for!? Why are you screaming? This hell was not my idea! I didn’t beg you for this life! Is it my fault that you are too dirt-poor to go anywhere else other than this stupid place!? Or dumb enough to bring another mouth to feed in this disgusting hut!?”
Khadija couldn't help it as she pointed at her pregnant mother, tears rolling down her face.
Her mother stood motionless. And Khadija wished that she could tear her tongue off or burn her flesh then and there.
“Just leave me alone”, she whispered, voice laced with tears, as she stormed upstairs to the little room she shared with Amna.
Her sister was sitting solemnly on the only desk in the house, gazing up at the moon from the round window.
Unlike Khadija, Amna grew up with rosy cheeks and neatly braided hair. Amna worked in the nicer part of the Valley, with her good looks and pleasing voice, she was somewhat of a nice ornament for the wealthy. So, Amna would trim her nails and bleach her teeth and brewed all sorts of flowery scents hoping to dilute the stink of poverty. Hoping to make up for what her family lacked. But, of course, the wealthy love to flaunt, and poverty dances with envy.
“That was unusual of you”, her sister commented, eyes still glued to the moon as if in a silent prayer.
“Well, get used to it.”
“Api, what’s going on?”, her sister looked at her, her smooth lovely voice just above a whisper.
“....”
“Api….?”
Khadija felt the tears rise in her throat.
“I-I don’t know. I am just sick of it , Amna! I am sick of the smell. I am sick of the dirt. I am just sick of-.”, she broke down, “Why? Why should I be the one to suffer? We? Why can’t we just live? Why do they hate us, Amna? They have everything they could want. Palaces and warm food and happiness. What do they want from us?!”
“Api….”, her voice was somewhere far away, “We were just born wrong. To those perfect deities, our revolting bodies reek of sin. It's so simple. There is no point asking why. It just is.”
They were silent for a while.
“No. I can’t accept that. And neither can you. This can’t- will not be our life.”
“Api, where are you going?” Amna yelled. But Khadija was already out the door.
An hour later, she was there.
From outside, the world danced in color. Its tainted windows painted the thick mist a vivid mess, its dark arching body stood like a mountain in the dark, and the top window of the mansion glinted under the peeking moon.
It was time, and Khadija could feel it in her bones. She clutched her puppets closer, some crunching under her hold. The mansion looked abandoned. Khadija frowned.
She knew, from the gossip and chatter of her employer’s, this was where she lived. The Grand Puppeteer.
The same dip in the hill, the curve of the roses. But instead of a palace of magic and wonder, what stood before her reeked of death.
When the full moon finally managed to peek once more from the sprinkle of clouds, the mist dimmed silver, and Khadija forced open the large wooden doors. Its hinges creaked against the force. The foyer ahead was dark and filled with a layer of decay. Khadija resisted a fit of coughs as the dust settled in her lungs to try to make sense of what was before her.
The place looked ready to fall apart, let alone house someone as grand as the Madame. Each room, just one empty skeleton of a life that might have once been filled with color.
Just as Khadija was about to give up, she heard a croak. An almost unidentifiable shift in the silence of the massive mansion.
She held her breath and listened again.
“Help”, came a sound this time, more clearer.
Kadija rushed in the direction, throwing open several doors. A parlour. A powder room. A kitchen. She stopped dead in her tracks.
In the middle of the kitchen, over a massive dish of dead crickets and cockroaches, struggled the beautiful grand woman that had turned mountains at a whim.
Khadija stilled.
“You…. girl…. Help me.”, an old voice croaked.
Khadija stood unblinking. Almost all of the woman’s arms had fallen to the ground, simply detached from her body, no blood or tears. Her once bellowing dark hair was now a gray mess matted with sweat and insects.
“That…”, the lady managed between unsteady breaths, her legs shivering to hold her weight, as she raised one bony finger to something in the dark before her hand collapsed back on the platter of insects.
Khadija winced from the plop as several insect bodies mushed under the weight, and finally, inched forward.
In the dark she made out something pulsing gold against the thick of the dark. She forced herself to take one step, then another, her mind blank.
And there it was. An emblem. An artifact of untold magic and power. The subject of legends. Pulsing with power on the rotten floor.
She looked back at the old woman and a wave of nausea hit her.
She realized why she could not stop her racing heart or her muddled thoughts. Before her, stood no magical enchantress, or powerful performer, the embodiment of this valley’s perfection. Before Khadija stood an old woman with tattered clothes, sunken eyes, and callused hands.
Khadija could almost smell the reek of poverty. Khadija’s smell on the belladonna of the Valley. She could almost laugh.
“Please…”, the woman pleaded with glassy eyes. Plain dark and hollowed. Not the wonderful commanding piercing blue.
Khadija slowly reached for the object before her. Its gold body lighter than she thought as it pulsed into her arm. A rhythmic burst of something that Khadija had never felt before. Then, Khadija did laugh. The emblem seemed to join her. In fact, the entire world laughed with her.
Before Khadija knew it, it was done.
The night was over.
For years to come the old mansion would become a sort of horror tale in the Valley. A fun little bed time story of jinn. Sometimes, people would claim to hear screams from within, teenagers playing silly dares would go missing, or the occasional crazy rich planning some scary two-day retreat would emerge as skeletons.
But none of that was any big concern to the wonderful place of wealth and magic. Because soon, July would come.
And in Wilting Valley, July meant celebrations.
And the very heart of it all. The Grand Puppeteer.
Younger and grander than before.