Chapter 2: Possession War
The cool compress on Amartya’s forehead felt like the only anchor in a world that had tilted violently sideways. Tuba’s rhythmic breathing instructions – "In… hold… out…" – were a low, steady murmur cutting through the frantic pounding in his ears. He focused on the sound, on the smooth texture of the cushion beneath his cheek, on the lingering, warm-spice scent of her perfume mixed with jasmine incense. The terrifying weakness and nausea that had gripped him outside Tuba’s green door were receding, leaving behind a deep, bone-aching exhaustion and a profound sense of vulnerability.
Hande’s arrival was like a shard of ice dropped into the fragile warmth of the moment. Her sharp gasp – "Amartya? Tanrım! What happened?" – echoed in the sudden tension that crackled through the spice-scented air.
Tuba didn’t flinch. Her hand, resting lightly on Amartya’s forearm where she’d been checking his pulse, tightened its grip. Not possessively, Amartya thought dazedly, but protectively. As if shielding him from whatever energy Hande brought with her.
"He had a nasty turn outside. Heat exhaustion, maybe," Tuba answered, her voice level but cool. Her gaze, when she lifted it to meet Hande’s, was unwavering. "He made it here." The unspoken to me hung heavy between them.
Hande swept into the room, her designer heels clicking decisively on the tiles. She ignored Tuba, her focus entirely on Amartya, her perfectly sculpted brows furrowed with a concern that felt intensely scrutinizing. "Amartya, janım, you look dreadful. Why weren't you more careful?" She crouched elegantly by the sofa, her expensive linen trousers barely wrinkling. Her hand reached out, aiming for his forehead, but Tuba subtly shifted, intercepting the motion by adjusting the damp cloth.
"I've got him settled, Hande," Tuba said, her tone polite but firm. "Cool compress, water, rest. That's what he needs right now."
Hande’s eyes flickered with irritation. "Clearly, he needs proper care. Hydration salts? A doctor? My cousin is a physician –"
"He just needs to lie still and recover," Tuba countered, her voice gaining a steely edge Amartya rarely heard. "The last thing he needs is being jostled around Istanbul right now. He’s stable."
Amartya closed his eyes again, the low-level throb in his temples intensifying. Their clipped tones, the unspoken duel over who knew best, who cared best… it felt overwhelming. He just wanted quiet. He mumbled, "Please… it’s okay. Tuba’s helping."
Hande drew back slightly, her lips thinning. She straightened, her posture radiating offended competence. "Fine. But call me immediately if he worsens. Promise me, Tuba." The demand was clear, a reminder of her self-appointed role.
"Of course," Tuba replied flatly. She didn’t look at Hande, her attention firmly back on Amartya, her thumb unconsciously stroking a small circle on his arm.
Hande lingered for another charged moment, her gaze sweeping over the scene – Amartya prone, Tuba guarding him – before turning on her heel and leaving without another word. The click of the front door closing felt like a punctuation mark.
Silence descended, thick and slightly awkward. Tuba let out a long, slow breath. "Right," she murmured, more to herself. "Just us again." Her touch on his arm gentled. "Ignore her. How’s the head?"
"Better," Amartya rasped, opening his eyes. The room stayed mercifully still. "Much better. Thanks to you." He managed a weak smile. "You were… amazing. Seriously."
A faint blush touched Tuba’s cheeks. "Shut up. Just doing the decent human thing." She refilled his water glass. "Small sips. Seriously, what were you thinking, trekking across Kadiköy in that furnace without water? You vegetarian types need extra hydration, you know." Her tone was light, teasing, but the underlying worry was still there.
They lapsed into a more comfortable silence. The distant sounds of the city, the muffled voices of Tuba’s flatmates, the comforting scent of spices… it all began to seep back into Amartya’s consciousness, replacing the residual panic. He drifted, half-asleep, lulled by the safety of Tuba’s presence and the soft textures surrounding him.
A few days later, the memory of the episode was fading, replaced by the familiar rhythm of Istanbul life. Amartya felt back to normal, just slightly more cautious about carrying water. He found himself back at Tuba’s, drawn by the easy comfort of her company. The near-death experience, as he’d privately dubbed it, had forged a new layer of intimacy between them. An intimacy Amartya still interpreted as deep friendship, though he cherished it fiercely.
They were sprawled on her vibrant living room floor, surrounded by scattered cushions. Late afternoon sun slanted through the window, bathing the ornate mirror on the far wall in gold and making the rich colors of the Jordanian wall hangings glow. Empty çay glasses sat beside a plate of sticky baklava crumbs. Tuba was sketching idly in a notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration, while Amartya scrolled through music on his phone, a soft melody filling the cozy space.
"Seriously," Tuba said without looking up, her pencil scratching, "if you play that melancholic Sufi track one more time, I'm confiscating your phone. We need upbeat. Celebration music. You survived the Great Sweatpocalypse of '23."
Amartya chuckled. "It’s calming! And it wasn't sweatpocalypse, it was… a system reboot." He stretched, feeling loose-limbed and content. "This is nice. Just… chilling."
Tuba glanced up, a warm smile softening her features. "It is. Peaceful." Her eyes held his for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before she looked back down at her sketch. "Glad you're back to full rebooted power."
The peace shattered like dropped glass.
The front door didn't open; it was wrenched open. The heavy wood slammed against the wall with a crack that made both of them jump. Two figures filled the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light. The air in the room instantly changed, the warmth leaching away, replaced by a sudden, icy tension.
"Tuba!"
The voice was sharp, masculine, dripping with disapproval. Amartya froze, recognizing the tone instantly from Tuba’s rare, strained phone calls home. Her father, Ibrahim. And beside him, a smaller, sterner figure radiating disapproval: her mother, Nadia. They weren't due for months.
Tuba shot to her feet, her sketchbook clattering to the floor. "Baba? Anne? What— What are you doing here?" Her voice trembled slightly, the confident woman replaced by a startled girl.
Ibrahim strode into the room, ignoring his daughter’s question. His dark eyes, cold and assessing, swept the space – the colorful cushions, the art, the modern furniture – before landing like stones on Amartya, still sitting awkwardly on the floor. Nadia followed, her gaze sharp, taking in Tuba’s outfit – a simple, stylish tunic top and leggings.
"And this?" Ibrahim spat the word, gesturing contemptuously at Amartya. "Who is this boy you are alone with? Where is your modesty, Tuba?" His Arabic was rapid, harsh.
Amartya scrambled up, his heart pounding against his ribs with a sickeningly familiar rhythm. "Sir, I—" he began in hesitant Turkish, his palms sweating.
"Silence!" Ibrahim roared, switching to heavily accented Turkish. "I did not address you!" He turned his fury back on Tuba. "Alone! In your apartment! With a man! And dressed like… like a street vendor!" His contempt for her clothes was palpable.
"Baba, he's a friend!" Tuba protested, stepping slightly in front of Amartya, her voice rising. "Amartya! From university! He was just visiting!"
"Visiting?" Nadia’s voice was like ice cracking. She stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized Amartya from head to toe. Her gaze lingered on his simple cotton kurta. "What kind of 'friend'? He looks…" She paused, her lip curling. "Hindu?"
The word hung in the air, loaded with disgust. Amartya felt a flush of shame and anger heat his face. He kept his eyes down, fists clenched at his sides.
"He is Hindu, Anne," Tuba said, her voice tight with defiance and pain. "He's also kind, and intelligent, and my friend! What does it matter?"
"It matters everything!" Ibrahim thundered, stepping closer, looming over both of them. The smell of stale tobacco and something harsh emanated from him. "You disgrace us! Living alone in this… this den! Associating with…" He gestured again at Amartya, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence, the implication clear. Infidels. Impure.
"Baba, please—" Tuba pleaded.
"Look at you!" Nadia cut in, her bony finger jabbing towards Tuba’s tunic. "Parading yourself! Is this how we raised you? To be a cheap—"
"Stop it!" Amartya’s voice cut through the vitriol, louder than he intended. He couldn't stand it – the hatred directed at him, the shame and humiliation crushing Tuba. He stepped out from behind her, facing Ibrahim. "Sir, please. Don't speak to her like that. She hasn't done anything wrong. We were just talking."
Ibrahim’s face darkened, a vein pulsing in his temple. The cold fury in his eyes intensified, focusing entirely on Amartya. "You." He took another step, invading Amartya’s space. "You filthy kafir. You dare tell me how to speak to my daughter? In her own home?" Spittle flew from his lips. "You think your Hindu tricks work here? Polluting her mind?"
"I think you're being cruel," Amartya said, forcing the words out, his voice shaking but clear. His own anger flared, overriding caution. "To her. And your prejudice is ugly."
The slap was explosive. A vicious crack that echoed off the walls. Ibrahim’s open palm connected with Amartya’s cheek with brutal force, snapping his head sideways. Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding. Amartya stumbled back, his vision blurring, a coppery taste flooding his mouth where his teeth had cut his lip. He crashed against the edge of Tuba’s low coffee table, sending a çay glass smashing to the floor.
"AMARTYA!" Tuba screamed, lunging towards him.
"Stay back!" Ibrahim roared, shoving her roughly aside. She stumbled, catching herself on the sofa.
Amartya gasped, touching his throbbing cheek, his fingers coming away smeared with blood. The shock was absolute, paralyzing. The vibrant room felt like a hostile cage.
The front door opened again, quieter this time. Hande stood there, her expression one of perfectly timed shock and concern. Her gaze swept the scene: Amartya bleeding and dazed against the table, Tuba pushed aside and weeping, the enraged parents.
"Oh my god! Amartya!" Hande rushed in, her movements swift and purposeful. She ignored the parents completely, going straight to Amartya. Her cool fingers gently brushed his bleeding lip, her other hand resting possessively on his shoulder. "Look at you! Oh, janım, you're hurt!" She turned blazing eyes on Ibrahim and Nadia. "What have you done to him?"
Ibrahim seemed momentarily taken aback by her sudden entrance and accusatory tone. "This is none of your—"
"It absolutely is!" Hande cut him off, her voice sharp as glass. "This is barbaric!" She looked back at Amartya, her expression softening into absolute, focused concern. "Come on, sweetheart. You can't stay here." Her arm slid firmly around his waist, pulling him upright, supporting his weight. "Not where you're clearly not safe. Not where you're treated like this."
Amartya was too stunned, too humiliated, too hurt to resist. He leaned into her support, the throbbing in his cheek a drumbeat of shame and pain. He glanced back at Tuba, who stood frozen, tears streaming silently down her face, her eyes wide with horror and helpless apology. She looked utterly broken.
"Tuba…" Amartya choked out.
But Hande was already guiding him firmly towards the door, her grip unyielding. "Shh, don't talk. Don't look back. My place is quiet. Safe. I'll take care of you. You shouldn't be alone after this."
She propelled him past the furious, speechless parents and the shattered remnants of peace in Tuba's living room. Out into the hallway. Away. The last thing Amartya saw before the door closed was Tuba’s anguished face, her hand reaching out towards him, silhouetted against the warm, chaotic colors of the home she’d built – the home that had just betrayed them both. Hande's perfume, cool and expensive, filled his nostrils, replacing the fading scent of cardamom and jasmine. His cheek burned. His heart hammered. The world felt terrifyingly unstable again.