Broken Mirror

The doorbell rang. Aaina rose from the sofa, turning to the girls. “You have everything you need?” They nodded mutely, picking up on her mood. “Aunt Jamila is here now. You behave for her and have fun with your cousins in Kirklees.” 

After the goodbyes, she closed the flat door and, once alone, squeezed her eyes shut. This has to be done. It will be for the best.

Azrael had left earlier; the reek of Capstan cigarettes still tainted the air. Out upon whatever nefarious business occupied him. No matter what he did—selling drugs, gambling?—she didn’t want to know. Her anger welled up at the thought of him; she had reached breaking point.

He had beaten her, mistreated her, used her as a bed for the last twelve years. Her only consolation was that she alone had to endure his abuses. Her daughters seemed invisible to him—for now. They were growing up; she swore she would protect them any way she could, and at any cost.

Her reflection stared back out of the chipped bathroom mirror, eyes dull and heavy. Rude welts mocked her, marks from his hand when she had not instantly jumped to obey him. Aaina could still taste a faint tang of blood in her mouth. Is this who I have become? She patched up her face with makeup as best she could and draped the dopatta over her head. I will break this.

She’d go back and see Hakim, the Sufi, and tell him the charm hadn’t worked, ask for a stronger one. A few weeks ago, the holy man had given her a ta’wiz, a prayer written on rice paper. Aaina had dissolved it in Azrael’s tea. It should have weakened him, robbed him of his anger and his desire. Her bruises spoke of its inefficacy.

A dull clunk echoed down the corridor as she pulled the door closed behind her.

*

Aaina stepped out of the building onto the drab streets of Bradford. This was her first trip outside in weeks; Azrael discouraged her from leaving the flat. 

Rows of houses funnelled the sharp wind. Spits of icy rain dappled her face as she turned into the park. Despite the weather, she drank in the cool air, relieved to be out, her spirit free of its prison.

She approached the door of an unassuming mid-terrace house and rang the bell.

“As-Salamu-Alaykum, Pir Sahib.” Aaina offered her right hand to the holy man, but he responded by placing his over his heart. Dressed in the traditional white cotton garb of his calling, he silently motioned for her to enter. She found herself in a cramped and dingy living room, filled with worn furniture and bookcases, the warm air redolent of cooking.

“Please sit, Sahiba.” Hakim broke his silence, nodding towards a tattered wing-backed armchair. “How may I help you today?”

Aaina looked him in the eye. “You must give me something stronger. The ta’wiz was ineffectual.”

The Sufi lowered himself into the other chair, brows furrowed above his lined face. “Ah yes, I recall. You are still,” he paused, “troubled by this man?”

“Surely you can see that?” She lifted her veil in the dim light.

Hakim regarded her and nodded, stroking his grey beard. He pushed himself back up out of his seat and shuffled into the adjoining kitchen. On his return, he held a small jar.

“I don’t know. This might be dangerous,” he said, and pursed his lips.

Aaina sat forward. “What is it?”

“Neelathotha, an ilaaj, a cure.” He raised it. Inside was a clump of dirty green crystals. “They act to purify a soul. Cleanse it of wickedness.” He removed the lid, placing the container on the coffee table between them. “I give you small amount only.” Using a corroded teaspoon, he dispensed a few grains into a clear pouch and sealed it.

“A pinch, in masala chai.” He handed it to her.

With the remedy in her hand, she stood and thanked him. “Bohat Bohat Shukriya.”

“Be safe. Khuda Hafiz, Sahiba.” She left the house, uplifted by renewed hope.

Aaina retraced her steps to the flat, hastening lest Azreal return and find her gone. If discovered, she knew what to expect. But, armed with the potion, that hollow feeling had vanished. Pale sunlight revealed her image in a puddle as she waited to cross the street. She saw herself at a junction. I cannot hesitate. Now it’s time.

*

Darkness had fallen. Aaina was home long before Azrael returned. When he did come back, he just slumped on the couch, switching on the TV without a word. She was invisible to him, at least until he wanted something from her. At this moment, he expected spiced tea.

In the kitchen, she set a pan on the stove and lit the gas to prepare the Doodh Patti chai. With the milk heating, she crushed cardamon pods, dropping them in, followed by a teabag. The aroma of the spice soon filled the narrow space. Once the mixture had discoloured, she emptied in the bag of the Sufi’s medicine. This lent it a strange greeny colour, so she tipped in some tumeric powder to disguise the looks and, hopefully, any taste. When it had simmered, she transferred it into the cracked and yellowing teapot.

Aaina poured out a cup and set it, along with the pot, on the table before him. He glanced down, but went back to his match without acknowledging her. She returned to the kitchen and washed up the pan. Hakim hadn’t said how quickly it would work. No doubt she would know by tonight.

While she was drying the saucepan, a harsh cry erupted from the other room. She rushed in to see him rise from the sofa, face distorted. The mug lay on its side, khaki liquid pooling on the table.

“What have you done to me, kasbi?” He lurched towards her, hand lifted to strike her, but staggering, lost his balance. As he put his arm out to the wall to steady himself, he caught the mirror. It flew off of its nail and crashed onto the carpet, shattering into a thousand pieces. He collapsed on the floor after it.

Aaina knelt beside him. His eyes staring and expression frozen in a grimace, she saw he was not breathing. Colour drained from her face. What have I done?

Unmoving, he lay like a broken guddo doll, tossed aside, unwanted.

*

Aaina sat on the sofa, looking at the wall, unseeing. The fug of his cigarettes lingered in the air. A tawny glow from beyond the drawn curtains lit the flat; the single ray of sunlight coruscated off the mirror’s shards, projecting a wan rainbow over the scene before her. She closed her eyes.

All was peaceful, the leaden tick of the clock marking time as she awaited the police. Drawing deep breaths, head in hands, her thoughts churned. Had she intended this outcome? Perhaps. But whatever comes, I will face it. A calmness suffused her being. For my daughters, I did what I must, and now I’ll pay the price. She opened her eyes, gazing into the fading light. I am ready.

The doorbell’s shrill ring fractured the stillness. 

© 2024 R.O. Phillips

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