Jaggu dada’s expression changed. He threw away the chicken bone in one corner and ordered, “Bring him here.”
Dara then dragged Sunil in front of Jaggu dada. He raised Sunil’s head from the blunt edge of the knife.
“My brother,” Jaggu dada said murderously. “Why did you do such things? I was just telling everyone that we should live like a family. And everyone else is fine with it except you. Now, I am a big brother – so let me give you a choice – you tell me the name of the person who betrayed me, and I’ll let you go. Promise. He will take your place at the bed and once he had had his share of the punishment, we can all go back to live like a family again. But if you don’t, well... let’s say that big brothers must be strict at times. So, which one will it be?”
Iqbal’s heart sank. He never thought it’d come to this. He cursed for risking himself – it was all Sunil’s fault but now he was paying for it. In the next few moments Sunil would tell his name and then... he shook with fear. His scared mind told him to fall to Jaggu dada’s feet and ask for forgiveness rather than face his wrath. He looked at Sunil whose lips quivered as he looked in Jaggu dada’s eyes and said, “Fuck you.”
Stunned, Iqbal stared at Sunil. He saw a defiance and courage on his face. He had gone through so much punishment… and yet that seemed to have steeled his will than breaking it.
Jaggu dada went mad – being insulted in front of everyone pushed him over the edge. He answered it in the only language he knew. He held Sunil by his shoulder and knee-kicked into his groins. Sunil convulsed with pain and collapsed to the ground. Jaggu dada continued to kick him till he was out of breath. Sunil groaned feebly with every kick and lay twisted on the floor writhing in pain.
“Tie him back. I’ll deal with him properly tomorrow,” Jaggu dada said, murderously. “For now, we need to find that traitor.”
Iqbal wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead.
“Listen little brothers. I didn’t wish any of you to witness this, but you are forcing me to do all these horrible things,” he said, straightening his shirt. “So, anyone who can tell me the traitor’s name, will be exempt from all the duties for a month. And you know what, since I’m in a good mood today, you’ll also get all the other stuff Dara and Bura get.”
“Anyone?”
A couple of minutes of silence followed and then, slowly, a hand rose. All the eyes turned to the small kid in the lower bunk.
“Yes, my little brother. Please go ahead –tell us who that bastard is?”
The spectacled kid hesitatingly pointed at Iqbal. “It’s him.”
Iqbal’s blood curdled. Dozens of eyes looked at him with pity reserved for a man on his deathbed. A vicious grin flashed on Jaggu dada’ face; he motioned with his knife towards Iqbal. “Come here, brother.”
Iqbal stood up, his entire body shaking with fear. He fell to Jaggu dada’s feet, tears running down his cheeks.
“J… Jaggu Dada, I am really sorry. I... I never wanted—”
Jaggu dada wasn’t moved. He seemed to have had made his mind for this to be the last mutiny against him.
“Look carefully everyone.” He took out his belt. “Look what happens when you cross Jaggu dada.”
As Iqbal lay there helplessly like a sack, crying and screaming, with tears flowing out of his eyes, the three of them mercilessly threw one blow after another. Jaggu dada went almost in trance as he worked the leather belt on Iqbal’s exposed back with his full force. Iqbal lay on his back as the shirt chiselled away from whipping belt, crying for mercy and promising not to repeat his mistake. But Jaggu dada didn’t stop. With every hit, Iqbal felt his skin being peeled from his back. His cries became louder, but it fell on deaf ears. Jaggu dada was sweating profusely by the time he was done.
“Ask for forgiveness, you motherfucker,” Jaggu dada demanded putting his belt back on.
Iqbal mumbled inaudibly between his sobs.
“Not good enough. Looks like you need more punishment.” Jaggu dada frothed from him mouth.
He grabbed Iqbal’s hair and dragged him out onto the veranda. On the way, drunk Gopal rolled unconsciously between the empty alcohol bottles. Outside, it was dark and cold and Jaggu continued to drag Iqbal towards the surrounding trees. Iqbal tried to open his bloodshot eyes, but it was dark and he couldn’t focus through the intense pain. He could only figure dim lights barely reaching to the uneven grounds he was pulled into. Once they reached a particularly dark patch, Iqbal found himself lifted in the air and then thrown under the thick bushes. He whammed onto the muddy ground on his back. Another shot of agony wound up through his body. With consciousness blinded by physical pain, he prayed for it to get over. Perhaps even death would be a welcome escape from this ordeal. But Jaggu dada wasn’t so merciful. As Iqbal watched through his barely opened eyes, Jaggu dada asked Dara and Bura to stand guard at some distance and walked in the bushes. He took out his knife that glistened in moon-light and put it on Iqbal’s throat.
“On your knees now,” he ordered. “If you want to live, you’ll fucking take into your mouth whatever I am about to give you.”
With his last ounce of strength, Iqbal stumbled onto his knees in the darkness facing Jaggu dada. Then, he heard a sound of zipper being opened. His mind screamed with terror at the realization what Jaggu dada wanted to do to him. The horror at the utter humiliation opened the flood-gates of thoughts in Iqbal’s mind. Sunil was right. He always chose the path of least resistance, always giving in to the wrong, always compromising with himself; it had him descending lower and lower till he reached the lowest form of submission – physical and mental. He had allowed himself to come to this. He alone was responsible for his inhuman degradation. Sunil’s words rang in his mind. Problem is not him, the problem is us.
He finally understood it now. He would not put himself through it even if it killed him. His fists clenched, muscles hardened, and teeth gritted against one another. The fear gave way to a surge of courage, he opened his eyes. Jaggu dada’s member hung close to his mouth.
Iqbal looked Jaggu dada in the eye. “Fuck you.”
“What did you say?” Jaggu dada was taken aback with the sudden change in Iqbal. “You-son-of-a-bitch.”
He swung his knife at Iqbal. He moved away. With his newfound awakening, he felt a strong surge of power in his body and adrenaline flowing through his veins. His fists tightened and with all his might, he swung at Jaggu dada. The punch landed right at his chest and Jaggu dada’s large frame stumbled. The knife got knocked out of his hand and fell in the mud at some distance. Both of them jumped at the knife at the same time. Iqbal got hold of the butt but Jaggu dada grabbed Iqbal’s hand around the knife. His grip was strong, and his 170-pound force tried to crush Iqbal’s hands.
Iqbal summoned all his strength and will, and with one sweeping motion freed his hand. The knife ran through Jaggu dada’s palm leaving a wide wound. He yelled for Dara and Bura, squirming in pain as stream of blood rushed out.
Iqbal stood there, with a bloody knife in his hand. Dara and Bura were rushing towards him. He heard two voices in his mind – one told him to run for his life. If he got caught by Dara and Bura, they will kill him. Even if they didn’t, Jaggu dada would make his life worse than death. No. He wouldn’t be able to live in Shantiniketan after all. He still had a chance to run away. Run away from this place for good.
…and that is when the other voice spoke, a voice that he never knew existed within him. A voice that told him to finish off what he started. He could destroy this evil once and for all, and he deserved nothing less. He felt a fire burning inside him that wanted to obliterate everything in its path.
Iqbal stood there, listening to the two voices, with a knife in his hand, Jaggu dada on his knees, and a life-changing decision to make…
“Universe is a mysterious creature. It contains space and time but itself is beyond it. There are three dimensions of space and three dimensions of time - past, present, and future but Universe doesn’t distinguish between them
. As humans began to dip their toes in the mysteries of the Universe, they too realized this indistinguishability and called it ‘space-time’.
The existence of space-time started off with the big-bang but it didn’t stop evolving. Like an amoeba – it grew bigger, it divided, and it multiplied. Every decision, every dilemma and every fork triggered its division, for it is supposed to contain everything. It is afterall, Universe. This way the Universe evolved into the Multiverse.
There existed millions of Universes inside the Multiverse, each containing a specific reality, and together, they contained all.
Sometimes they merged into one and at times, some divided themselves into two. Sometimes, Universes also died. Each Universe contained it’s own timeline… including past, present and future. And each had different lifeforms inhabiting them. In one such timeline and in one such Universe, Iqbal faced with a similar fork in space-time. Universe deemed the fork to be significant enough to divide it into two, like a million others. Universe didn’t “care” about a species or a tiny planet – it was incapable. It just determined enough perturbations in the future to warrant a split at a particular juncture. And just like that, completely unbound by subjectivity, Universe divided itself into two.
Whatever were the repercussions of this division caused by a human lifeform called Iqbal was in no way relevant or important for the Universe, but for a tiny insignificant planet Earth and especially for an insignificant species of ‘humans’, it was both relevant and important. They called these timelines “1” and “2” but it must be understood that none took precedence over another, neither was better than another and certainly, one was not “preferred” over another by the Universe. For the Universe, “1” and “2” existed just because they did.”
—A time traveler’s diary
1
Iqbal looked at Jaggu dada coldly. Kneeling in mud with his fly still open, he mumbled obscenities as his filthy blood abandoned his body. Even in pain Jaggu dada’s face aroused disgust and revulsion in Iqbal… for all the things he had done, unspeakable things, to those who were scarred for life for his momentary pleasure. Iqbal felt anger bubbling inside him. A burning desire to end that despicable evil once and for all. A ghostly seething flame of anger engulfed him. Tossing knife in his hand, with a single end in mind Iqbal moved closer to Jaggu dada, who was now trying to get up.
Iqbal held him by his shirt collar and drove the knife deep into his stomach. His squeals sounded like a mad dog being put to death. Iqbal didn’t stop, he pulled out the knife again, and punched it promptly back. Once more. Again. And again. Jaggu dada’s cries first turned to grunts and then faded altogether, but like a madman Iqbal continued in a trance as if to remove all the traces of existence by his knife.
Dara and Bura stood in distance, paralyzed with fear watching the hacking as Iqbal’s face splattered with Jaggu’s blood. Iqbal gave a stare and they stepped back.
For the first time in many years, Iqbal laughed. He laughed to his heart’s content.
2
Jaggu dada squirmed in pain as the cut in his hand spewed rivers of blood. Iqbal looked at Jaggu dada wide eyed and then at the knife in his hand and threw the knife with a shriek as if he was holding burning coal. Something had come over him, some sort of insanity, for a moment and passed away as quickly. But in that moment, he remembered mulling over something horrible, something he could never imagine doing otherwise.
He steadied himself and breathed deeply. Dara and Bura were closing-in quickly. Soon, they’ll catch him and... No. I can’t stay here anymore. Not after this.
He turned around and ran towards the boundary wall of Shantiniketan. Behind him he could hear Jaggu dada screaming, “Catch that bastard, you fools.”
He scaled the wall in one determined jump, landing in the dense of trees. He didn’t stop there though; he ran blindingly in the darkness of the forest till his breath gave away. At last when he stopped, lights from Shantiniketan had reduced to a tiny twinkle mile away. And so did his past. Whatever Shantiniketan was, it was his home. A home that was his whole life he had now abandoned. He dropped on his knees and let the surrounding darkness engulf him.
For the first time in many years, Iqbal cried. He cried to his heart’s content.
1
The police didn’t have much to do. The murder weapon was right next to the victim and so was the murderer, still smiling when the police arrested him. Later, forensics would confirm Iqbal’s fingerprints on the knife apart from Dara and Bura’s testimony as eyewitnesses. The post-mortem of Jaggu dada’s body would show numerous deep wounds inflicted with the same knife.
While he was being whisked away, children stared at him for afar. Even Omkar Abba kept his back turned to him; only Sunil cried from a distance. It didn’t matter. None of that mattered. He did it for himself and he liked it. For the first time in his life, he felt power.
The judge asked him if he regretted what he did.
“I regret not having done it sooner,” Iqbal answered. Judge shook his head and sentenced him to juvenile prison for three years, the maximum the law allowed.
###
“Iqbal bhai, I have polished your shoes and cleaned your clothes. Anything else you want me to do today?” said the boy, looking towards the top bed of the bunker where Iqbal was resting.
Iqbal drowsily stretched himself and scratched the scar on his face that ran from just below his right eye to his lips. Then, he grabbed his knife from under the pillow and leaped down onto the floor with a thud. The boy took one step backwards closer to the wall, his hands behind his back and head bowing down.
“Yeah it is fine,” Iqbal said inspecting his shoes. “But next time if you dared disturb me during my rest, you’d be cleaning it with your extra-long tongue.”
The boy shrank himself and replied meekly in a trembling voice without lifting his head, “Yes, bhai.”
“Good,” said Iqbal while removing his shirt showing his hardened biceps and toughened muscles. “Now count me.” He did his push-ups and pull-ups and by the end of it his sculpted body shone with beads of sweat. As he dabbed it off his chest with a towel, another boy appeared with a glass of milk in his hand.
“Bhai, there is someone to see you,” said the boy, handing him a tall glass of warm milk.
“Who is it?” Iqbal asked emptying the glass.
“I don’t know bhai, perhaps one of those newspaper-wallahs.”
Juvenile correction facility at South Bangalore was often frequented by NGOs and government officials. Occasionally, they were also visited by journalists – a mix of newbies who considered juvenile prisons as ‘easy stories’, and seasoned ones who wanted to cover an ‘angle’ for their main news whenever a minor committed a headline-worthy crime elsewhere. These journalists searched for subjects with titillating histories and that’s what Iqbal gave them. Gradually he had gotten better at it and told them his story with artful mix of truth, poignant pauses and misty eyes. He showed them his basket making skills and convinced them that he was ready for the society. He never forgot to mention facility officials in his interview bites that made him their blue-eyed boy. He was pushed as the success story and an achievement of the Indian juvenile justice system.
But, of course, all that was a part of detailed facade created by him. It helped him run his racket from inside the facility right under their noses. He could provide anything that was needed by inmates... from soaps to drugs. He had mastered the art of giving the appearances that people wanted and using them to get what he needed.
All those visits were often preceded by sufficient warning, rehearsals and window dressing. So, he was surprised when there was someone to meet him without notice.
As he trudged to the visitor’s area on the lower floor, other juveniles greeted him and gave way. There was a different societal order in the juvenile correction homes. The lowest layer comprised those who were in for petty crimes like theft or pickpocketing, which was most of them. They just wanted to serve their few mo
nths and get out. Above them were serious offenders who were in for years. And at the very top, it was him, ‘Iqbal bhai’ and he was treated as such.
As he reached the visitor desk, he saw a thin man in his thirties wearing white shirt and black trousers. His thin wheatish face sported a finely trimmed moustache and wore black framed specs. He had seen his likes a thousand times - even if the in-charge had not told him he would’ve easily guessed that the visitor was a reporter.
“Hello sir, how are you?” Iqbal said with a polite bow.
“Hello Iqbal. I wanted to meet you for a long time, my name is Yasin,” the visitor said. He then turned around to the policeman designated to accompany the visitors and shook his hand. “Can you leave us alone for some time?” he said to the policeman, as he sneaked a note with the handshake. That little manoeuvre wasn’t left unnoticed by Iqbal. The policeman rubbed his paunch absentmindedly and left.
“Now we can talk properly. Please take a seat, Iqbal bhai,” he said, stressing his last word.
“Why are you calling me that?” Iqbal asked, forcing more of his smile he had practiced for such occasions.
The visitor calmly pulled out a cigarette box from his pocket, an expensive brand; he gave a gentle tap on the back of the box and a cigarette popped out. He lit it and extended it to Iqbal.
“I don’t smoke, sir.”
“Drop your act, Iqbal bhai. I know exactly what you are.” The man brushed away. “And don’t worry about the in-charge, he will not disturb us for a while. I have greased his pockets enough, you know how it works.”
That man knew something, and he had paid a lot to talk to him. He was most definitely not a reporter; he has seen far too many of them to tell. They were always ill at ease knowing that they were surrounded by criminals. The visitor exuded influence over the place. Iqbal cautiously took the cigarette. A sinister smile appeared on the visitor’s face.
123 Tomorrows Page 14