Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,31
vampire in the grave! For example, you could bury someone facedown, stuff a clove of garlic in their mouth, stake them to the ground, or even decapitate them. Talk about extreme funerals. But the Victorians took those traditions to a whole new level. In some cases, they buried their loved ones with a bell in their hand and a tube that extended down into the coffin so that if the person woke up, they could ring the bell for help. To be fair, they did have a small (very small) problem with burying people they thought were dead but who were actually still a little bit alive. They also had a problem with body snatchers, or “Resurrection Men,” who slipped into graveyards under cover of night to steal recently buried corpses to sell to medical schools. But only the wealthy could afford any kind of safeguards. Heidi’s story takes all of these ideas and makes them extra creepy by asking the question: What if the person ringing the bell isn’t a mistakenly buried human but actually a hungry, entitled vampire?
In what other ways are vampires a symbol of privilege?
A GUIDEBOOK FOR THE NEWLY SIRED DESI VAMPIRE
Samira Ahmed
Salaam, namaste, and hello, dear one.
Stop.
Whatever you do, DO NOT GO OUTSIDE.
Sit down.
Close your eyes. Rest your mind. [See: Meditation 101: Tips, Tricks and Tools for Beginners.]
Now take a breath. (Not literally, but we’ll get to that later.)
You’re confused. Your memory is foggy. It feels like day, like you should be getting ready for school, but you’re not at home. You’re in a dark, windowless shanty or a warehouse. We know. We put you here. We saved your life. (You’re welcome.)
All your life you’ve been told not to listen to strangers. And let’s face it, this is about as strange as it gets. But trust us. The only thing you have to lose is yourself.
Let’s start again, properly.
Congrats! Mubarak! Badhaaee ho!
You’re a vampire now. Welcome to the afterlife!
We wish we could bring you barfi and gulab jamun and other sweets and ring your neck with jasmine and rose garlands, but there’s no time for that.
Besides, your neck probably smarts or itches a little. Last night is a blur. You don’t remember where you slept. Your last clear memory is of that fair-skinned British tourist—you know, the Angrez who asked you for directions or advice on the best place to get “chai tea” (it made you wince, but you didn’t correct them because who has time for that) or maybe how to pronounce the drink they were holding in their hand in “Indian,” and you mouthed, very slowly: CO-CA CO-LA. Is it coming back? Good. Hold on to that—you’ll remember more soon.
You’re also probably panicking because you stayed out way past your curfew and your ummi is going to kill you. Good news: Technically, you’re already dead! This may well undermine the ferocity of your mother’s threats. (Hahaha that’s a joke—it’s not like something as banal as death could spare you from her wrath for breaking curfew. Please.)
Bad news: Since you have to avoid the sun (yeah, that part is true) you’re probably going to be spending a lot more time at home with your parents, who are going to be muttering under their breaths about karma or destiny or how you’ll likely never be a top cardiac surgeon now because no hospital schedules quadruple bypasses in the middle of the night. Lawyer is out, too, at least for now. (No one wants an advocate who can only work after sunset. The courts aren’t even open then.) Fair warning, there’s probably going to be a persistent parental chorus of ay ay ay or tobah tobah tobah to express their shame and definitely a lot of but how will we ever show our faces in public again?
You’re probably wishing your last meal as a human was a mouthful of delicious biryani, instead of, say, that too-watery, slightly suspect pani puri (or whatever your preferred name for the stuffed and crisply fried dough balls that define our street food) you had at that slightly shady food stand on Juhu Beach or Sultan Bazaar. You’re a local; you should’ve known better—there was no one in line! But you figured you’d chance it because your khala jaan’s intensely spicy chicken vindaloo is nothing if not a surefire way of developing an iron gut. Foiled again.
We get it. You’re confused. We were, too. Once. A long, long time ago. In a galaxy far, far away. Kidding! We’re not aliens. You