The Far Field

by Madhuri Vijay

  “Of course I’m sure,” I said hastily. “Now call Saleem, please. It may already be too late.”

  He was pulling out his cell phone and scrolling hurriedly through it, when I slipped my feet into my shoes and laced them up. He glanced up from the screen, his expression of panic almost the same as his father’s had been a few minutes ago. “Wait a second. Where are you going?”

  “To Mohammad Din’s house,” I said. “I want to say goodbye to him and Sania.”

  At least, I thought, that was the truth. Or nearly.

  The whitewashed house on the ridge was as pretty as I’d ever seen it. The rippled tin of the roof looked like silvery water, and the neat cement path leading to the wooden front door was straight from a fairy tale. Sania was sitting on the porch, barefoot, a book open on her lap.

  “You came early today, ma’am,” she said in English, and I felt a flare of pride.

  “I just came to tell you I can’t have our usual lesson today, Sania.”

  “Are you sick?” She was on her feet, looking worried. “Is your health all right?”

  “My health is fine. I just have something to do. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, okay?” I looked over her shoulder into the house. “Is your father at home?”

  We went into the room where we had our lessons. Mohammad Din was sitting on the floor, surrounded by papers, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He was staring out of the window, but he quickly took off his spectacles when we came in, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose and saying, “What a surprise. Come in, come in. Salaam aleikum.”

  “Walaikum salaam. I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. “I know you have a lot of work to do.”

  “This?” He waved a hand around at the papers. “None of this is urgent. I’m just trying to take my mind off what is happening in Kishtwar, that is all. I’m always happy to see you.”

  “Has there been any more news?”

  “Nothing, except that there is still a curfew. People are allowed out only two hours a day, to buy the things they need. Inshallah, I pray it doesn’t get any worse than that.”

  I sat down across from him. Sania was hovering anxiously by the door. “May I speak to you for a few minutes?” I said in a low voice. He nodded, turning to his daughter.

  “Could you make some tea for your teacher, Sania? We can’t leave her thirsty,” he said. His tone was jovial, but the command was nonetheless implicit. Sania looked momentarily mutinous but went off to the kitchen. Alone, Mohammad Din looked at me. “What is it you wish to talk about?”

  I looked at him, wondering if I could trust him. The nicest person in the world, Amina had said.

  “I was just thinking,” I began casually, “about Riyaz’s mother.”

  “Khadijah Begum? What about her? Has something happened to her?”

  “I was just wondering about what would happen if she, I don’t know, really fell sick.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Is she all right?”

  “Yes, but I was just wondering. In case something happened to her.”

  “I’m sure Riyaz would take care of her.”

  “And in case Riyaz isn’t here to take care of her?” I pressed.

  He picked up his spectacles then put them down again. “What’s all this about?” he asked, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Naturally he will be here to take care of her. Where would he go? And in case he isn’t able to, for some reason, I would of course be there to help. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I said quickly, but seeing that he wasn’t convinced, I added, “It’s just that I worry about them sometimes. Because”—I hesitated—“because of Bashir Ahmed, and what happened during the militancy. What people say about him.”

  His face altered, lines appearing that hadn’t been there a second before. “Yes,” he said softly, heavily. “We have already talked about it, and, as I told you, I will always try to help Riyaz and his family. It is part of my duty to this village.”

  I nodded, relieved that the last obstacle to my growing plan had been cleared away. Mohammad Din, meanwhile, seemed distracted again, looking off into the valley.

  “It’s funny,” he said. “With the trouble in Kishtwar, it reminds me of those days again, the worst days of the militancy. There was this same feeling in the air, you know. That time had stopped. When you would just sit and wait for days together for something to happen, not knowing how bad it was going to be.” His voice drifted into silence. “Of course,” he said, suddenly sounding crisp and businesslike, “things are different now. Those days are over, the days of progress are here. We must forget what happened and try to move on. It is the only choice.”

  “Some people don’t have that choice,” I said softly, thinking of Bashir Ahmed in his room.

  He looked closely at me, then seemed to soften. “I can see that you really care for their family,” he said. “As I told you, what happened with Bashir was a very sad thing, and every single day I wish it had been different.” His voice betrayed a dreaminess I hadn’t heard from him before. “Bashir’s problem,” he said, “was that he couldn’t decide what he wanted. He tried to have everything at the same time, and it got him killed in the end. One day, he wanted to work outside the village, then the next day, he wanted to come back. One minute, he wanted to help the militants, then the next minute he wanted them gone. He—”

  I’d been half listening, thinking of Riyaz waiting for me at home, but now I started. “Wait a second,” I said. “You knew that Bashir Ahmed was helping the militants?”

  Mohammad Din blinked. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said stiffly. “Everyone knew he was working with them.”

  “But you said he wanted them gone. That means you knew he stopped wanting to help them.”

  He was silent for a while, then he said, “Yes. I knew.”

  “How?”

  Mohammad Din shrugged. “Bashir told me.”

  On a hunch, I said, “Were you the one who got him involved?”

  His eyes flicked immediately toward the door, but Sania had not yet come back with the tea. He looked back at me, one eyebrow raised, and I thought I read a challenge in his expression.

  “Yes,” he said casually, as if it were beside the point, “but only because he needed the money and said he wanted to help. I had no idea what it would lead to, that those poor men would die, otherwise I would never have approached him. And all that was many, many years ago. At the time, I was a younger man myself. I believed, as did many others, that militancy was the right path to help our people, but obviously that is no longer the case. Now I know we must fight through political means. That is why this election next month is so important.”

  It was clear he wanted the subject closed, but I wouldn’t let it go. “You told me once that Bashir Ahmed was the last person to do something like that.”

  “So what?” he said, and there was the beginning of anger in his voice now. “I was clearly wrong. As I’ve been telling you, with Bashir, you never knew. One minute he was one thing; the next minute he was another.” He snorted. “And he was always interfering in things when he shouldn’t have been. Telling militants what they should and shouldn’t do, trying to argue with them, when he himself had never picked up a gun to fight. Why couldn’t he mind his own business and keep out of what he didn’t understand?”

  But as soon as the words left his mouth, I saw his eyes widen slightly.

  “You knew about that?” I asked after a second. “You knew he’d argued with the militants?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped.

  “Yes,” I insisted, “you do. You just said you knew that Bashir Ahmed tried to stop working with the militants, that he’d argued with them. So when the Hindus were killed and people started saying he was responsible, why didn’t you say something to defend him?”

  “What difference would it have made?” he snapped. I’d never seen him anything other than genial and warm and in perfect control of himself. Bu
t he was enraged now, there was no doubt about it. His face was dark, the muscles thick and tight across his jaw.

  “It would have made a difference!” I insisted. “Everyone respects you! They would have believed you. And, who knows, maybe then the soldiers wouldn’t have arrested Bashir Ahmed!”

  “The idiots weren’t supposed to arrest him in the first place!” Mohammad Din roared. Then his face went perfectly white. For a second or two, there was silence in the room.

  “What did you say?” I said blankly.

  He didn’t reply for a long time. His face was lowered, and his eyes were closed. It seemed he was gathering himself, putting certain vital pieces back in place.

  “What did you say?” I said again. But it was too late, the anger that had propelled this conversation was gone, and I knew he would never betray himself again. When he finally looked up at me, it was with his usual smile: benevolent and patient. A politician’s smile, I suddenly thought.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s been quite a tiring week. I always enjoy talking with you, but I have a lot of work, as you can see.” He was speaking graciously, but with a mechanical absence. “Forgive me if I don’t come with you to the door.”

  Shakily, I stood up to go. He took up the nearest sheaf of papers, but didn’t look down at them immediately. He said, “Wait.”

  I stopped.

  “Before you go, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he said. “I spoke with the headmaster again last night. He says that they have received permission from the education board. You can start teaching next week. Assuming,” he added softly, “that is what you still want to do. Assuming you still want my help in this matter.”

  I stared at him, suddenly unsure of him, of myself, of everything he had told me. He must have guessed some of what I was feeling, for he sat up straighter.

  “For the last fifteen years,” he said quietly, “I have done nothing but try to help my people. They have been forgotten by everyone, including the government that’s supposed to take care of them. They are poor, uneducated, many of them are sick, and none of them know that they should be treated better. I’m the only one fighting to give them a better life. Do you doubt that?”

  I shook my head.

  “In that case,” he said, “this is your choice. You can stay and help me make things better for them. Or you can go back to Bangalore, to your life, and forget about us. Forget about Sania, about Amina, about Aaqib. Forget about this place. It will be easy for you. But me? I cannot forget. I may have made mistakes, but don’t forget, I also stayed here to put them right.” He leaned back against his bolster. “Now,” he said, putting on his spectacles, “it’s your turn to decide.”

  Like a fool, I stood there, unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare.

  “You know,” he said, apparently apropos of nothing, “Amina came by this morning to say goodbye before she left.”

  I pressed my lips together.

  “A good girl, Amina. Very sweet, very trusting,” Mohammad Din mused. “Quite different from you, no? You are a person who, I think, trusts nobody. I noticed that about you right from the beginning. In a way, you are a bit like me.”

  “I’m not like you,” I said through gritted teeth. “I haven’t harmed anybody.”

  “Oh?” He tilted his chin up and regarded me with a hint of amusement. “And if you were to say that to Amina, do you think she’d agree?”

  I could feel my face heating up.

  “Right,” he said coolly, fully in control of himself and the situation again. “So let me ask you one last time. Do you wish to stay in this place and see what you can fix? Or do you wish to go back to the place you came from and forget about everything?”

  He was looking at me with coldness, as if it could make no difference to him, or to any of them, what I did, whether I stayed or left or disappeared from the earth entirely. And, ashamed as I am to admit it, that was what decided me. The sad fear of being invisible.

  Through gritted teeth, I said, “I want to stay.”

  Mohammad Din nodded. “Then it’s settled,” he said, crisply. “We will not discuss any of this again. Now if you don’t mind, I should finish my work.”

  I walked blindly to the doorway of the room, then out onto the porch. I put on my shoes and stood staring at the mountains. I was about to walk away, when I heard Sania come up behind me. “Ma’am,” she said quietly. Before I could say anything, she had wrapped me in a tight hug. When she stepped back, she seemed suddenly older than sixteen, her moonlike face dimmed.

  “Bye, ma’am.” She nodded once at me and went indoors.

  Back at the house, Riyaz was sitting on the porch. “What took so long?” he said, leaping to his feet as soon as I came up. “I called Saleem. The car will be there for us in two hours, but we need to walk almost as long to get to where it will be. Did something happen?”

  “No.” I avoided his eyes. There would be time to think of all of that later. Right now, I had to focus, make sure everything would go as I had planned. “Are you ready?”

  He pointed to a black backpack that sat beside the door. “It has everything I need,” he said, unable to keep his nervousness from his voice.

  I nodded. “Then give me five minutes to get ready.”

  I went to my room, took out my rucksack, and threw all my clothes into it without caring. Pushing my hand into the front zipper, I drew out the white envelope my father had given me the night before I left Bangalore. I slipped this into the pocket of my jeans along with Zoya’s phone numbers. I went back to the porch and Riyaz. His mother was hanging up clothes on the line, paying no attention to us.

  “She thinks you’re coming back?” I asked him. He nodded, and I knew he was close to tears. I went up to the old lady, who did not stop her work as I approached.

  I knew whatever I might say was pointless, but it still seemed important to say it.

  I said, “I know you never really liked me, Khadijah Aunty. I don’t blame you. The worst part is, I’m about to do something that will make you like me even less, and I am very, very sorry for that. Sorrier than you could know. I just hope I’m able to explain all of it to you someday.”

  She gave me the same look that had taken my full measure the day I’d arrived. Then she went back to hanging clothes.

  I stood there, momentarily immobilized by fear and doubt.

  Then I shook myself. Enough of this. Turning back to Riyaz, I said, “Let’s go.”

  35

  WE STRUCK OUT EAST, on a rocky path across the mountain, not toward the town above the river, Riyaz told me, but toward another village, which had a rough road accessible by trucks and the hardier sorts of car. Riyaz walked in front with my rucksack, relinquishing to me his small black backpack. Preoccupied with thoughts I could only guess at, he did not make much conversation, apart from terse, practical remarks about the route. However, I was grateful for the silence, for I was trying to clear my own thoughts, trying to bring my plan, if it could even be called that, into focus. I had to wait, I decided, until we were nearly at the car, until he was fully committed to the idea of leaving. Any sooner, and I would risk making him lose his nerve.

  At one point, Riyaz stopped and said, “Let’s go this way, it’s a shortcut.” He gestured toward a steep lip of rock, below which I could see a trickle of a path used by goatherds. He tossed down my rucksack and took the drop in one leap, while I slid down inelegantly on my backside.

  After that we picked our way through tall, dry grass that came up to the backs of our hands, interspersed with weeds, lurid vines, and sharp nettles. Here and there, I spotted piles of burned rubbish—plastic bags with flaky, necrotic fringes, smoky lightbulbs—and, once, the bleached skull of a sheep.

  Riyaz hooked it through the jaw with a stick.

  “Leopard,” was all he said, and he let it fall.

  Then we were descending faster, the path all but nonexistent now, scrambling down again and again between pat
ches of terraced land, uncultivated for the moment. I was so wrapped up in this rhythm that I barely noticed that we’d almost lost the sun, until Riyaz said, “Careful,” and I saw that the patch of dark earth I was about to step onto was a puddle of muck.

  “How much farther?” I asked, keeping my voice lowered, though I didn’t know quite why.

  “About ten minutes,” he murmured back. “The village we want is across that field.”

  Below us was a large field of corn, sturdy and tall, a month or so away from being ready for harvest. I took a deep breath and glanced up. A half moon slid out from behind a bank of clouds, lopsided. This was as good a place as any.

  “Riyaz,” I called softly. “Wait. I need to say something to you.”

  He turned.

  I looked deep into his face. “Are you sure about going to Bangalore?” I asked. “I need you to think about it very carefully before you answer. Is that the life you want?”

  His eyes darted around uneasily, but he finally nodded.

  “Listen to me before you say anything, okay?” I urged. I fumbled in my jeans and drew out the white envelope. “I’ve thought about this, and I promise you it’s going to work. It’s going to be fine. In ten minutes, we’ll reach the car. When we do, I want you to get in. Without me. I want you to go to Jammu. From there, you can catch a train to Delhi, and then another train to Bangalore. When you get there—no, listen to me—” I said as I saw him draw a breath to protest, “when you get to Bangalore, I want you to call this number.” I showed him the front of the white envelope, on which I’d written my father’s landline number.

  “That’s my father, okay? Tell him I sent you. Tell him you’re looking for work, for a place to stay. He’s a good person; he’ll help you. I promise. He’ll help you with anything you need.”

  He was staring at the envelope in my hand, his face eerily composed. It frightened me, his blankness, and I wondered again if I were doing the right thing. Then I recalled Mohammad Din’s sneer—If you were to say that to Amina, do you think she’d agree?—and I felt myself momentarily weaken. “Do you understand what you need to do?” I asked, trying to sound firm. “There’s no reason to be afraid. You’re going to be fine. You don’t need me. Your father made this trip a hundred times, and there’s no reason you can’t do the same.”