The Djinn Ring

The Djinn Ring

My wife and I laid on the bed of our winter residence in Goa. The doctor looked bemused as our hearts were beating slowly, yet all blood pressure measurements showed hypertension! We kept slipping in and out of consciousness, however, core temperatures remained normal, internally we both felt like a raging fire burnt!

 Our bruised arms showed black needle marks from endless tests. I looked towards the doctor, checking our blood results for the umpteenth time! A light wrap sounded on our apartment door. It made him lookup. Unannounced, a frail old Indian woman, wearing a burgundy sari with a choli top; walked in and gasped! Next, a torrent of babble ensued, aimed towards our doctor. He shouted angrily! Like a scalded cat, she bolted for the door. I asked, what did the old woman say? The Doctor laughed.

“The stupid woman kept saying, Djinn curse!”

I looked at him and gasped; I think she’s right! 

Every year my wife and I travel to India from Ukraine to develop spiritually. The plane journey takes fourteen hours. Because of a change at Dubai airport. Despite this hurdle, time had passed quickly! Because I prepared several films to watch, along with a pen drive full of books and magazines to browse. Either way, when traveling to India familiar western habits- such as strict timekeeping, bland food, and stayed clothing, soon disappear.

Crackling erupted from the airplane’s PA. jolting my attention! The Captain’s flat inaudible voice states: The plane will arrive in Mumbai in thirty minutes. Please fasten your seat belts. I know what fasten your seat belts means. However, being India, is this phrase a veiled warning, for first-time visitors to Mumbai?

Customs exited; we fled the air-conditioned airport. A din from energetic crowds and traffic-crammed roads answered us! Next, heat and wafts of spicy aroma hit us like a curry-flavored hammer! Jumpers discarded, and clothes loosened. Our search for a taxi began. We Avoided the hawkers who congregate near the airport entrance. They do not operate honestly or charge realistic prices. Hence, we walked away from their lair to find a Taxi-Bay.

After half an hour in search of nearby streets. I spotted a dilapidated, mauve-colored Maruti Suzuki taxi. It stood with its doors open. It held first place, in front of other tired and worn, “public hire vehicles.” On approach, our noisy cases woke the car’s owner. Who alighted? His uniform- dirty trousers and a stained white shirt. Moreover, He was unshaven, with unkempt hair, and stank of body odor. The driver did not inspire confidence! We kept a reasonable distance from him; as we negotiated our fare to the hotel, Tibetan Palace. 

The fair agreed. Our driver joined a crawling lane of vehicles. It seemed every car played loud sound systems and blaring their horns. Our ride crawled through Mumbai’s back streets. Scenes of extreme poverty flashed by! Filthy houses, mutilated beggars, stray cows, and choking smells. Antipodes of life Affronted us!

The Taxi weaved through shuffling sheep-like pedestrians, blocking the road! Turning quickly, accompanied by a screech of tyers, we tipped in our seats! He zipped down a narrow, empty street. Without warning, he stopped and killed his engine! In front of us loomed a miserable-looking hotel. It displayed a dirty, unreadable sign. The peeling plastic letters spelled-Tibetan Palace.

 After pulling our cases off the car. We stood looking bemused at our hotel. It looked nothing like the picture on their website. We trundled towards it, passing open-air barbers, and street vendors. My wife whipped a tear seeing cows eating discarded meals from plastic bags. On entering the lobby, a skewed sign read- Welcome to Mumbai.

The hotel did not change our impressions as we walked down a long off-white corridor of ceramic tiles. a cramped reception appeared. To make matters worse! Banks of washing in various states of cleanliness surrounded it. A distorting radio played Indian bhangra music. I banged on the window. A dark hand flicked a plug switch, stopping the radio from playing. We gave our name to the old and wrinkled concierge; he shouted something in Hindi, after which a middle-aged Indian porter appeared from behind a pile of washing, and escorted us to our room. 

 On the route to our room, residents slept on what looked like hospital gurneys. This Shocked me! Opening our door answered a room that mimicked a prison cell! It was white tile with a tiny widow two meters from the floor. A toilet and shower occupied the same space as a stand-up fridge freezer!

 The air conditioner unit worked. However, an industrial techno ensemble accompanied it! In shocked silence, we switched off the light and fell down exhausted onto a hard, uncomfortable bed. Exhausted through traveling, we slept soundly.

    A loud Rap on our door woke us, my watch showed six o’clock in the morning! An Indian woman shouted through our door that the bus was outside. Angrily I snapped wrong room! And turned over desperate to sleep. Sometime later, the door opened again! After which something plastic slid into our room? Immediately highly spiced Indian food made us cough. 

Switching on our light revealed a circular mottled white plastic tray with indented compartments. A couple of mini cartons containing orange juice and a plastic fork and spoon rested on a bag of cooked rice. I stated the obvious-breakfast has arrived. My wife was red-eyed and somewhat upset. Hence the joke fell flat! 

Her sad eyes looked at me. I hugged her, understanding that the journey through the backstreets of Mumbai, combined with the state of the hotel, had turned her holiday start into a nightmare. I held no angst from what we saw. Mother “India’s Spell” had already woven, as I spoke out loud the word- karma!

An erratic mixture of luck and fate operated our shower. One moment it worked, other times it dribbled. Changing into light summer clothes triggered feelings of delight. Refreshed and reinvigorated, we wanted to find the Gateway of India. Which according to the map on our phones held a close position to our hotel.   

We left our hotel, adhering to our smartphone’s walking route. My wife intently gripped my palm as beggars tried to scrooge lose-change from us! Joining the arterial road, a turbulent cacophony of machine and crowd’s noise made her clasp harder. Finally, a road sign showed “Gate of India.” Four Kilometers.

Our course led us through extensive tree-lined residential avenues. In awe, we studied old British Raj homes. Thank god! The din and putrid smells of lower Mumbai had receded! The relief of breathing fresh air, and lack of people, allowed us to wander through the former-grandeur of a British settlement.

An old arcade appeared littered with flower shops, booksellers, and an exotic-looking building full of antique Persian and Indian ornaments. I stopped to look. My wife could not hide her annoyance! However, I had to investigate all the shops. My excuse? Since early childhood, I have gravitated towards the mystical east like a moth to the flame.

On Entering the shop, its floor design forced me to rummage through piles of collectibles. I have fantasized for years about owning an antique brass dancing Shiva. Besotted, I had emotionally invested in such a sculpture. My mouth gawked like an excited child! My attention became scattered! The number of oriental treasures around me made me reel with excitement!

Enwrapped I could not accept that this business had so many things! Like an infatuated youth, I continued reflecting, what a treasure trove! Everything belonging to this store’s situation and position was my interpretation of paradise! Sadly, my spouse had that expression of suffering on her face! Disapproval emanated from her!

Suddenly, she bent down, her palm extended on an antique Samvadini keyboard. I requested an elderly man, who I assumed kept the outlet? After all, he wore an attire like a Sheik. Could she play it? A salute returned. Within moments, a charming melody swirled around hypnotically.

The Sheik clapped with delight and produced a skipping-like dance. When my wife stopped playing the shop owner shouted for more! He hastily pulled up an antique footstool for her to rest on. For a while, the music continued. However, due to travel weariness, my partner had to wind up playing. The elderly man produced a large cylindrical teapot filled with cherry-colored tea. We all squatted around on antique footstools. Next to me, stood my coveted dancing Shiva.

 We sipped sweet Turkish Tea from ornate crystal glasses carried in a decorative silver/metal holder. Russians call similar teacups “Podstakannik”. After exchanging pleasantries, the difficult art of haggling begun. I allowed this part of the bargaining process to my wife; she makes Henry Kissinger sound like an amateur! It amazed the venerable Sheik at how she plays ball! Exasperated, he held his palms up in simulated surrender, drew out a notebook, turned his back, recorded a figure, and revealed it to her. They shook hands. The Sheik sounded like we had run him over.  

The Sheik passed my wife a mobile card machine. He then.

looked at me!

“If I had a wife like this lady! I’d have been a millionaire three times over!”

We laughed, I shook his hand, my partner started whispering to the Sheik.

“Can we leave our things here? We want to visit the Gate of India. Of course, madame! However, I want to give you a present for your wonderful playing. Over there is an old black wooden case. Your husband can take anything from it as a gift from me.”

We objected vehemently!

“Sheik, you have given a good price and excellent tea! We cannot accept your kind offer. What lovely people! When you played my dear, my heart leaped back to my youth! I was under the stars as a young man listening to the wind, connecting to the God of my ancestors. I insist I pay for those beautiful memories!”   

The old Sheik stared at like a severe headmaster. Like a scolded pupil, I shuffled over to the black wooden trunk. A quick click released a fastening to reveal a compartment overflowing with ancient temple ornaments! Before me, a jumble of discarded locks and keys, and Indian nick-nacks! Every item looked antique and had an oriental beauty. A small ring box stood out from the scrum of metal. It seemed to summon me! I sprung its clasp, a silver ring of striking elegance stared at me! Its head design Mother of Pearl, with a shank surrounded by Arabic calligraphy. It felt heavy in my hand. I set it back, as it was evidently valuable! The old sheik walked over to me and held my shoulder.

" You can have it! It looks more expensive than it is! Apparently, it belonged to a magician. If they gave me a dollar for how many times, I have heard this story. I would be a rich man! Trust me, Indian silver is cheap and mother-of-pearl is a low-cost stone. Please take it, if you want it? As for the calligraphy, it says El Ali, the name of Mohamed’s cousin.

  “Are you sure I can have it? “

He pressed it into my hands.

“It is yours, if you turn into a magician please do not blame me!”

We all laughed!

The old Sheik looked onto the street.

“Would you like a Tug-Tug to take you to the Gate?”

 We looked at each other like schoolchildren.

“Don’t worry about the price I will book it!”

He opened his door and clapped loudly. A Tug-Tug appeared. We jumped in and sped to the gate. Within minutes, our pilot had landed us at our destination.

“I will wait!”

Issued from our pilot, in a heavily Indian accented English. Jumping out, we joined a throng of Indian tourists taking their picture in front of their prized monument. After about ten minutes we came back to the Tug-Tug, which sped us back to the arcade. We collected our items from the Sheik and headed back to the hotel.

Whilst going back to our hotel. My partner caught my arm, urging we caught a sleeper bus and head to Goa. I complied without a doubt with her plea! Temperate ocean, fresh air, our own place had better appeal than our present stalag!   

 Alighting we instructed our Tug-Tug Taxi to stand by as we wished to get a Sleeper-Bus to Goa! Rushing into the hotel; hurriedly we grabbed our belongings. Settled the bill, collected our passports, and informed the pilot to head to the nearest Sleeper-Bus stop! Twenty minutes later, we rested at the side of a dusty highway in front of several bus offices. Eager for golden beeches, reflection, yoga, and old friends! 

As the bus pulled into view, we stood up. We felt weak and dizzy! Our bodies had no strength! I quipped jet-lag. Our feet dragged towards the vehicle, it felt like shackles cramped every movement. The bus workers pulled us on board, helped us to our cabin, where we fell unconscious. At three AM, shivering and shaking, complaining of weird dreams, we awoke. Two water bottles laid near us on our bed. I guzzled half a bottle of water! I felt feverish and cold, yet my insides felt hot. Both of us drank more water, cuddled, and fell into a restless sleep, where we saw evil creatures and the Sheik performing his jerky dance.

As the bus drove through the day and night, we grew weaker. Minute by minute, all energy diminished from us! Our hearts developed arrhythmia! We cuddled tighter praying to our gods, nothing transpired, no one responded to our invocations, strength quit us like wash from a colander! My partner received a higher sense. A voice instructed her to clean your chakras! We settled simultaneously reciting the om mantra, envisioning our chakra points cleaning. Within a moment sleep took us back to frightening dreams along with hideous nightmares.

 Finally, the bus reached Mapusa in Goa. We were too feeble to leave! The director and driver helped us alight and hailed a taxicab. I showed them our address and within half an hour we were home. Our neighbors helped us to our bed and phoned the Doctor. He arrived swiftly and begun testing us. He asked questions all the time! But we were extremely weak to answer. 

As we laid on the bed of our winter residence. The doctor looked bemused as our hearts were beating slowly, yet all blood pressure measurements showed hypertension! We kept slipping in and out of consciousness, however, core temperatures remained normal, internally we both felt like a raging fire burnt!

 Our bruised arms showed black needle marks from endless tests. I looked towards the doctor, checking our blood results for the umpteenth time! A light wrap sounded on our apartment door. It made him lookup. Unannounced, a frail old Indian woman, wearing a burgundy sari with a choli top; walked in and gasped! Next, a torrent of babble ensued, aimed towards our doctor. He shouted angrily! Like a scalded cat, she bolted for the door. I asked, what did the old woman say? The Doctor laughed.

“The stupid woman kept saying, Djinn curse!”

I looked at him and gasped; I think she’s right! 

Darkness fell over me, the Sheik face appeared before me, asking-are you ready to die?

I spat in his face!