Father Pashan holds up his hands. Suresh prods him forward with a blow to his back.
Sister Anu says, “Don’t touch him!”
Suresh leers, “Shall I touch you?” He grabs her arm and yanks. Off balance, she stumbles after him up the drive, swept along with the crowd. At the top of the slope, the men spread across the clearing.
Where did Suresh find so many men? His retinue clumps and throngs by the chapel. Beyond the chapel, she can see Mohan, standing on the clinic veranda, airgun at his side. What security can poor Mohan provide against his uncle?
Damini and Shafiq Sheikh emerge from the clinic, each helping a patient wrapped in blanket. Sister Anu shakes off Suresh’s grip and meets them at the gate. She and Damini help the women past Suresh, through the crowd, and to the jeep. Father Pashan’s conciliatory, persuading tones fade behind her. She helps the two women into the back seat of the jeep.
“Why didn’t you tell me your son is Moses’s father?” she hisses at Damini.
“I was ashamed,” Damini hisses back.
They race back uphill to the clinic.
Father Pashan is on the ground, hands to his belly, groaning. Sister Anu rushes to him, helps him struggle to his knees. “What happened? Where is Suresh?”
Before Father Pashan can answer, a red monkey comes jabbering and squealing out of the throng of protesters. His tail arcs back and forth, a great big white bandage burning on it. The monkey is jumping up and down.
As it tries to get the bandage off its tail, sparks fly, sparks catch and in a moment the chapel is surrounded by a moat of fire. The smell of burning petrol fills the air.
Father Pashan staggers to his feet. “The chalice!” he says. And before Sister Anu can stop him, he is racing toward the chapel. But already he cannot enter it for the lick and hiss of flames. He turns back, facing the crowd.
Over the crackle and gusts of flame come the red monkey’s mad chatter and screams as it zigzags down the clearing. The crowd scatters, but in the corner of her eye, Anu spies Mohan dashing toward the monkey. That monkey could attack the boy, set him on fire too.
And Damini is running toward Mohan, screaming, “Nahin, Mohan, Nahin!” Sister Anu shouts “No, Mohan, no!”
The boy stops a few feet from the red monkey and cocks his head. He reaches out to the monkey with one hand, the gun loosely held in the other. Sister Anu is right behind Damini as Mohan turns to his grandmother. “Monkey hurting.” Tears run down his cheeks.
The gun rises to Mohan’s shoulder and he aims at the monkey. The air seems to burst, ballooning against Sister Anu’s chest. A huge thud in her heart, and happening slows.
The monkey should fall.
The monkey doesn’t fall. The monkey dances on, jabbering, screaming.
It takes a long time to happen, yet it happens in a moment, and in that moment so many other things are happening, things she is and isn’t aware of, and the moment seems to go on forever, a crumpling and folding moment, a moment in which she is moving faster and faster, but not fast enough towards Father Pashan and the end of that moment is followed by another in which he falls and there is so much blood so much blood from his one blue eye and his side and in his hands and another moment in which he may or may not die and another in which she is holding his bloody head in the lap of her white kameez and knows he did.
PART V
Zindagi Aur Kuch Bhi Nahin,
Teri Meri Kahani hai
Life is nothing more than your story, my story.
(Song from the movie Shor)
Jalawaaz
October 1996
ANU
SISTER ANU, STILL TREMBLY AND RAW, TAKES A SEAT before the sub-district magistrate’s desk. She has had two hours of sleep, bathed and changed into a clean white salwar-kameez with a black dupatta about her neck, but can’t rid herself of the smell of anger, smoke and ashes from yesterday, the sight of Father Pashan running toward the blaze, the feeling of his warm blood-spatter.
The priest risked his life for the symbol of a last supper two thousand years ago. He really must have believed in his own power to transform the wine into the blood of Christ. Would she have been as prepared to die for that tradition? No. Another failing she must add to all her failings.
The owner of the damaged property, Mr. Amanjit Singh, takes the second chair. He seems dressed for a New Delhi dinner party, in navy blazer, grey pants, a tie striped red and black that matches his red turban. His beard, tightly rolled and netted, glistens in the morning sunlight pouring through the single window. Though he nods and smiles ingratiatingly at the SDM, he has an air of confident expectation—past favours are coming due.
The SDM yells to a sub-sub-assistant for tea, and flashes his Chiclet smile. He begins in English, to establish he can speak it, and continues in Sanskritized Hindi that causes both Sister Anu and Amanjit Singh to strain for understanding. Periodically, for emphasis he returns to English laced with a South Indian accent. First of all, he says, by the Mental Health Act of 1993, he cannot charge Mohan, a fourteen-year-old mentally unfit boy, with murder. It was an accident—
He pauses, gazes at each in turn from under beetled brows. Sister Anu and Amanjit Singh tilt their heads in agreement. “These are the imperfections which mark our civil society,” he says, as if he would like to charge Mohan if not for the law.
“I didn’t think an airgun was dangerous,” says Sister Anu.
“It isn’t,” says Amanjit Singh. “You don’t need a license to carry one.”
“The father-ji had no chance, though, because the bullet hit him in the eye,” the SDM says. “The police have confiscated it.”
Assistants and sub-assistants enter, proffering files for signature and supplications they have written on behalf of people who cannot write. When they have gone, and the sub-sub-assistants have left a tray with tumblers of tea, the SDM continues.
Someone used the red monkey to light the fire with his tail, he says, so that no one could be blamed, as if the monkey was re-enacting the burning of Sri Lanka in the Ramayan. “But I feel,” he says, “it is verrry wrong to use Lord Hanuman in this way. Isspishlly nowadays during Dussherra, when yevryone is celebrating the burning of Lanka again.”
He informs Sister Anu that the police will be transporting Father Pashan’s body to the Jesuit residence in Delhi. “But he could be buried in the cemetery here,” says Sister Anu. “He loved Gurkot and the people here …”
“No—the Jesuit brothers are recorded as his family; it is their dharma to perform his funeral. But not to worry, sister, in the South we say the atman returns again and again to be with people it loves. So your lover will return—of this I am verrry sure.” He offers a box of tissue.
Sister Anu shakes her head. “Father Pashan was not my lover.”
“Ah, so you say.” He takes a tissue himself, to glove his fingers against the heat of his tea.
Amanjit Singh says, “But this was premeditated vandalism, ji. It must be attacked at the source.”
The SDM asks Sister Anu, “You know the ringleader?”
“Suresh Singh Chauhan,” says Sister Anu.
Amanjit says, “Suresh is the son of our old Damini-amma. We played together as children, every summer. He wore my clothes. He was like a brother. Well, maybe not quite a brother.”
The SDM nods, “This woilence and ruffianism is creating a problem in the whole district. Unnecessary. Completely unnecessary woilence.”
“Is there such a thing as necessary violence?” A stupid question, maybe, but one Sister Anu asks herself too, when she thinks of Vikas.
The SDM leans back in his chair. He regards Sister Anu as if she’s a different species. “I have said to the superintendent of the police that this riot was verry verry wrong, and that ringleaders and ruffians must be punished. But to you I say it could not be helped. You see, you Christians come here, come yevrywhere—yeveryone knows you eat the cow, though she is protected. Why do you never understand?”
“There is no cow inv
olved in this incident,” says Sister Anu. “There was no cow near the chapel, no cows were being killed or eaten by anyone.”
“Ah, so you say.”
“I do not just say. I know. Show me one cow that was involved in this incident.”
The SDM looks past her through the doorway, as if a cow might walk in any moment. “Then tell me what began all this—what happened.”
“What happened? A Christian dalit woman was raped. Maybe Father Pashan told you?”
“Yes, he came, he told me his suspicions. But what does that have to do with this mamla?”
“Her rapist was Suresh.” She’s still hurt—no, angry—Damini did not tell her before. But it’s not easy to find you have created a son who terrorized another woman, held her down and raped her. At least Damini eventually faced reality, unlike Pammy Kohli who at first denied Vikas could have raped Anu, then said it was Anu’s fault for saying no, and later said she couldn’t remember Anu ever telling her about it.
Amanjit says, “So he got fresh with the sweeper-woman—he might do that, yes. But she could just accuse anyone. Accusations don’t mean he is guilty. What is her proof?”
“The woman would not come forward,” says the SDM. “But she was already married.”
She asks, “If she wasn’t, would you have made Suresh marry her?”
“Usually, yes. But not in this case, Sister. She’s a sweeper-woman.”
“So?”
“This Suresh Singh is a Chauhan, that is to say kshatriya caste—then how can he marry a sweeper? But again I’m asking, what has this rape to do with yesterday?”
“The Christian woman decided to give up her child for adoption. So I took him to Shimla to find him a good home.”
“Him?”
“Yes.”
“Sister, you want me to believe someone gave you a boy baby for adoption?”
“Yes—her husband wouldn’t accept the child.”
“Ah, naturally. And these days you can get fifty thousand for a boy.”
“We were not selling Moses, we were placing him for adoption. The woman’s husband would have sent her away if we had not helped her. Suresh cooked up a protest, falsely accusing us—me—of selling Hindu babies abroad. He led protesters from Jalawaaz, and they came to Gurkot and burned down the chapel, and Mohan shot Father Pashan by mistake.”
“Spontaneous woilence. You see, population becomes provoked by the presence of you people. Then for a few days there is a lot of tokha-takhi—lot of chaos. Then,” the SDM stretches out his hands as if playing a harmonium, “all will be normal, all will be happy. This is Hindu tol-ration.”
“How can it be spontaneous, ji?” says Amanjit Singh. “You can’t bring so many men walking from Jalawaaz without planning.”
“Amanjit-saab, this is not Delhi. Here in the Himalayas, people have respect, co-op-ration. Every place is holy, not only churches and gurdwaras.”
“Why is it that when riots take place only the property of minorities is damaged?”
“Aman-ji, every man in India now says he or she is a minority so he can get a job or some free thing or some small adwontage.”
“There is no question, sir: Sikhs are a minority, and so are Christians. This is just like 1984. Planned violence against minorities. Your Jalawaaz police had to know all those men were walking and riding motorbikes and taking trucks from here to Gurkot. And the petrol was poured all around the chapel before the protestors came.”
“The Order of Everlasting Hope would like you to investigate the police report and register a case,” says Sister Anu. “We want to bring charges of rioting, intent to hurt, trespass and assault—”
Amanjit Singh interrupts, “Wait. SDM-saab, you are right. Why would Suresh lead a protest and burn down a chapel? The Christians never did anything to his family. His mother even works at the clinic. Someone bigger is behind him.”
“It could also be a series of unrelated events, ji. Just bo-the-ration. And if it happened, it could also be that it just took place all of a sudden.”
“If it happened?” Amanjit Singh rises, tucks his thumbs into his belt, dominating the room with his sheer bulk. “Have you seen the damage, sir? The chapel is burned, ji—only the stone confessional booth remains. Both wards of the clinic are damaged. We were lucky it was evening and no children were in the school. Those hooligans just melted into the mountains as soon as they caught sight of my car. But the whole forest could have burned. My home, my new cottages—all could have gone up in smoke. As it is, the gurdwara is blackened and,” his voice breaks, “the Guru is badly burned.”
“Someone was in the gurdwara? Only one body has been reported to the police.”
“No sir,” Anu inserts, “he means his holy book—his Bible, his Gita. For him, the Guru Granth Sahib is a body, a person.”
“The police report should have mentioned this,” says the SDM. “I will inspect this guru book tomorrow. Please to sit down.”
Amanjit visibly controls himself and resumes his seat.
The SDM takes a sip of tea. “This is a tragedy,” he says. “Such things happen, but not usually in my district.” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “We have to keep an eye on Suresh and what he may be teaching young peoples, because, you know, the BJP could go out of fashion and the Congress Party and their secularism could someday come back—it has happened before. And there is the matter of this sweeper-woman’s baby.”
“We are still trying to find him a home close to Gurkot,” says Sister Anu. “Would you like to adopt him?”
“I?” says the SDM, with a smile and wave of his hand. “I have a blood-son, and can have many more. Adopted sons don’t come to your help in old age, Sister, only blood will help you then.”
“Most people in this district think as you do. That’s why I had to take the boy to Shimla,” she says.
The SDM has the grace to look slightly trapped. He sips his tea for inspiration.
“Tell me,” he says, “how a woman like you somehow got mixed up with Christians? I mean: we understand rice-Christians, but you? The police are questioning that Muslim driver of yours—he tells us you used to be a caste Hindu?”
Sister Anu says, “Why are you questioning poor old Shafiq Sheikh! Because he’s the only Muslim around?”
“Yes, madam. You find me one more Muslim and I will question him as well. These days Pakistanis are yeverywhere, yeverywhere. Coming over the border, posing as Muslim-Indians until they can do some hera-pheri—boom, boom! I say Mughal Empire is gone, but we are left with all these Muslims, more Muslims living here than in Pakistan. At least after British Empire we are not left with British—except for you Christians.”
“Where is Suresh, now?” asks Sister Anu.
“In jail,” the SDM gestures over his shoulder in the direction of Jalawaaz’s police station. “He gave us names at first—now he’s giving us true names.
“You see, madam-ji, you must be sentimental. You must have respects for Hindu sentiments, not just Muslim and Christian sentiments. Muslims and Christians have this, this ten-den-cy toward intoleration of Hindu sentiments. It’s because of your one god, no other gods allowed.”
Sister Anu opens her mouth, but Amanjit Singh is on his feet again, his annoyance bristling in all directions.
He too follows one god, no other gods allowed.
“SDM-saab, I will not let this matter drop,” Amanjit says. “Even if the padri were alive, I wouldn’t let it drop. You may not fully understand, so let me say it again. My Guru, the Guru Granth Sahib was damaged.” He plants his fists on the SDMs desk and leans over till his turban and beard are inches from the man’s alarmed face. “If you investigate who Suresh was working for, you will find the culprits. This follower of Vaheguru swears: I will give you all the help you need.”
Sister Anu treads gingerly across hillocks of brick and mortar rubble of the burned chapel to salvage what she can. Images of the terrified burning monkey, the swarming crowd of angry men, Father Pashan’s blood on her kame
ez, the smells, screams and horrors of the church burning replay in her mind and contrast with the peaceful sway of the wind through the pines.
If Lord Shiv, destroyer of worlds, ever manifested himself, this is what our world would look like. If I survived Armageddon or nuclear winter, this is what the whole world would become.
At the far end of the field, the bell tings sorrowfully in the decapitated belfry, surrounded by fragments of metal and glass. She knocks on god’s door mentally, but has never felt it more closed. Her hair, still frizzed from the fire, tumbles about her shoulders—she doesn’t tie it back. Particles of ash fly through the twilight air, grit in her teeth.
I will carry the memory of this within me the rest of my life.
The chapel’s plastered plank walls crumbled like matchsticks, but the structural beams are intact; a rumour circulating among the Christians says the metal skeleton was not weakened but strengthened by the fire. At the heart of the skeleton, the jagged remnants of the altar still stand. But really, the only surviving structure within the footprint of the chapel is Samuel’s ornately carved stone confessional.
Birdcall pierces the eerie silence, kew-kew! Beneath her feet, the ground is charred, dried and pitted from the footprints of Christians and Sikhs standing together, passing buckets of water from hand to hand to douse the flames. Black particles flutter past.
She should have done more outreach, created friendships, connections. Should have worked as much with the men of Gurkot as with the women.
The Hindu men who followed Suresh must have felt left out, humiliated in some way, threatened by the growing health, education and independence of their girls and women. Because how can calls to nationalism alone justify the anger that created this deed?
Sister Anu grasps the blackened door of the confessional and pulls. She takes one look and a shriek escapes her. She blesses herself, and peers closer. Damini is slumped inside, dark-ringed eyes closed. Is she dead?
Sad old black eyes flick open.
“What are you doing here?” says Sister Anu.
The Selector of Souls Page 40