Time Guard: The Awakening (21st Century)

by Anmol Batra

  “Try talking to him politely. He must be aware of something about Billal. After all, both of them left for Lahore together,” Pleads Billal’s mother.

  “He is no good to us,” scowls Billal’s father. “I still regret getting him a job in the railways. He is the one who has always led Billal astray with Drugs.”

  “And the police, did they help?” Questions Billal’s mother optimistically.

  “No. Nothing from the police either,” replies Billal’s father in a disheartened tone.

  “Every day, all I hope for is Billal’s wellbeing.” He sits on the sofa, unties his shoelaces and continues, “Where is Khalid?”

  “Khalid is out playing cricket. He should be back by 6,” replies Billal’s mother.

  “Anyway, did you receive the electricity bill today?” Asks Billal’s father, quickly digressing.

  Billal’s parents continue to talk for a while and Arjun gets lost in his own thoughts. “I need to find who Altaf is,” Arjun concludes. He continues to wander around Billal’s house. At photograph in the drawing room grabs his attention.

  ‘Class 10A, New Model High School’ – A photograph of some teenage kids in school uniforms, with a stoutly-built man sitting in the middle of the first row. Arjun tries to look for Billal and finds him standing third in on the second row. To his surprise, the one standing next to him looks familiar.

  “If I place a beard on his face, then this boy would look just like one of the kidnappers.” He carefully observes the photograph for a while and then decides to go back.

  Arjun rises up into the sky once more. The dusky evening has now turned into night. The horizon starts stretching beyond its own self. Soon, he is up in space, from where he can see the sunlight shining at the rim of the earth, like a crystal ring, brightly in the dark sky. With clouds covering the earth beneath and the oceans shining blue, Arjun looks around the brightly-glowing city in Northern India like a high-flying hawk. The next moment, he starts gliding towards it at lightning speed and within seconds gets closer to the city buildings. He traces the purple beacon and glides back into Swati’s House. He takes a closer look at the kitchen clock - 6:15 PM - and slides back into his body.

  Arjun wakes up in his body and enters the drawing room. Swati is sitting on the sofa watching the news on TV.

  “You know 200 people were killed by Syrian government warplanes yesterday,” says Swati in a concerned voice.

  Arjun looks at the TV and replies, “Hopefully, someday I will be able to do something about it.”

  “I’ll be there to help you then as well,” assures Swati, gazing at Arjun with a smile. “So, did you find any clues?” She continues.

  “I am not sure though, Bilal has a close friend named Altaf who knows about his whereabouts. Whilst gazing through Bilal’s house, I spotted a young lad in his school photograph who vaguely looked like Ankita’s kidnapper. Connecting all dots together, I believe he is Altaf. He is a Pakistan Railways employee and a drug peddler,” narrates Arjun in a single breath.

  “When did Billal’s father meet Altaf?” Asks Swati.

  “Today, in the morning,” answers Arjun.

  Swati thinks for a moment and then asserts, “So here is the roadmap. If we are able to find one of the kidnappers in the present, then it won’t be hard to find Ankita. Why don’t you slip into the past and follow Billal’s father? If Altaf turns out to be the same guy, then start following him to find more clues. Otherwise, we will need to rethink.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 15

  The Auction

  24th December 2012 4:30 PM Tonk Road, Jaipur

  THAK THAK!! A knock of a hammer and an old man with a white moustache & with sparse hair clinging on to his ears stands alongside a huge painting in a banquet hall. Light from the chandeliers bounces off the bald surface of his crown.

  He announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen, It’s a great privilege for me to introduce the rare Phad painting of the 19th Century. It took over 15 months and 6 Mewar artists to build this magnificent piece of art with a mere millimetre-thick fine paint brush. This painting ...”

  From the back row of the banquet hall, Zaffar calmly listens to the description of the auction hosts. He eagerly waits for the hourglass to be brought in. Soon, the moment comes.

  “And the last masterpiece of the day – the indestructible hourglass.” The auction host applauds himself. “This beautiful relic can be yours this evening. Do you have what it takes to claim it?”

  “Fifty thousand,” calls a lady sitting in the audience.

  “Fifty thousand... Once”, says the Host “Fifty ....”

  “One hundred thousand!” Shouts an old man from the last row adjoining with Zaffar’s.

  “A hundred and fifty thousand,” claims another.

  “One hundred and fifty thousand... Once,” shouts the Host with a smile. “One hundred and....”

  Zaffar sharply gazes at the auction host and carefully observes each and every person sitting in the room.

  Before the hammer can touch the table, Zaffar shouts, “Five Hundred Thousand!”

  “Wow!! Seems like the relic is far more precious than it looks. Cheers to the young gentlemen. Five hundred Thousand Once... Twice… Thr…”

  “WAIT! I want to verify if it is indestructible or not,” shouts a young man, slightly older than Zaffar.

  Unhappy at hearing the stranger’s words, Zaffar shouts, “It’s mine now!”

  “Oh! It’s his Royal Highness himself!” Applauds the Auction Host. “Prince Ranjeet, what a surprise!”

  Chairs start to shuffle, and all heads turn to the back in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the young royal.

  Ranjeet smiles at Zaffar, who returns a fuming look towards him, and walks to the stage in front. Zaffar gets up from his seat and quickly follows him.

  The auction host steps aside the podium and rushes to clasp the young prince’s hand. Two men dressed like bodyguards follow him. Zaffar follows them to stage.

  “Indestructible seems to be a big claim. If you allow us to test it, I’ll pay ten times the amount of the last bid for this hour glass,” offers the arrogant prince.

  “All yours, your highness,” asserts the host confidently.

  “It’s already been sold!!!” Shouts Zaffar.

  “Oh really! I didn’t hear the hammer going down,” replies Ranjeet.

  Zaffar rebuts, “Because you interrupted his final call.”

  “Look Mr. Whoever-you-are, if I am able to break it, then I will be saving you five hundred thousand rupees,” replies the Prince with a smirk.

  “I disagree…” objects Zaffar.

  “Who cares?” Ridicules the Prince.

  Zaffar remains silent. While one of the bodyguards brings a sledgehammer, the other brings a small tool kit.

  “Thak Thak Thak!” The muscular bodyguard starts sweating after hammering the hourglass over a dozen times, but instrument doesn’t even register a single scratch.

  “Leave it, now try using the diamond cutters,” says the young prince, who is now sitting in the first row, carefully observing all this.

  The second fellow carefully holds the hourglass in his hands and tries to slit the glass with drill machines. The third drill overheats. Zaffar watches on. The young prince pulls out his chequebook and signs a leaflet.

  “You can fill in the amount and rest of the details yourself,” says the Prince, while handing over the cheque to the auction host.

  The young prince then pulls out a visiting card from his pocket and hands it over to him. “Please deliver it to the following address.” The gratified auction host receives the card with both hands and slides it into his file.

  Both ignore Zaffar who sits furiously alongside them in the first row. He remains quiet.

  The auction host steps over the stage alongside the podium desk and says on the microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen, with this we close this very successful auction. Thank you very much for your participation. While we pack up your precio
us pieces, please do spare some time for savouring tea and snacks lined up in the restaurant.”

  The noise level rises due to the scraping of chairs as people stand up and start leaving the banquet hall. The host steps down from the stage and escorts the young prince to the restaurant. Zaffar waits until everyone has left the room.

  He quietly goes to the podium desk, opens the hosts file and reads the Prince’s delivery address.

  ‘Shekhawat Palace, Vaishali, Jaipur’

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 16

  The Unchecked Carton

  24th December 2012 7:30 PM | Swati’s Residence

  Arjun gets into bed and takes the quilt just as Swati stops him.

  “Remember, you may not find Altaf in the next four hours but you have to come back. Don’t push yourself too hard. Also, slide forward in time till its night in Faisalabad; this way you can see the purple becon and take a shortcut via space to come back here.

  Arjun smiles at Swati and holds her hand. “Glad I have you with me in this. I owe you a lot.”

  Swati smiles back and Arjun closes his eyes. Yes, Arjun had given a meaning to her boring life. As his breath slows down and his hand grip goes weak, Swati can make out that Arjun had left his body. Every day she feels more love for Arjun and inside she steels herself against revealing the fact to Arjun. She knows from within that even if Arjun falls for her he would never nurture those feelings, as he is aware of who her future soul mate is. He would never mess with the workings of the cosmos.

  Swati gazes at the sleeping Arjun for a while and gently leans down to kiss his forehead.

  But while Swati presumed Arjun was gone, he was still there in the room as a Soul. Standing at the door, he sees Swati kissing his physical self. Arjun smiles for a minute and moves towards the kitchen clock to slide himself 12 hours back in to the past.

  24th December 2012 8:00 AM | Faisalabad

  Arjun lands in front of Billal’s residence. A scrawny street dog is sitting at the porch; Arjun can feel the dog’s eyeballs rolling with the rhythm of his movement as if the soul is apparent to the dog.

  “Did he actually see me?” Arjun thinks for a moment but eventually he ignores it and glides inside.

  Arjun is standing in the same drawing room where silence has now been replaced with the sound of Urdu Radio. While Arjun continues to look around the hall, a teenage boy dressed in a white and grey school uniform steps into the room takes a seat in the drawing room. He leans forward and ties his shoelaces. The next moment he picks up a small plastic tiffin lying on the table and rushes outside. The moment before he steps out of the drawing room, the boy screams out loudly; “Khuda Haffis Ammi!!”

  “Nothing is much different between the two countries,” concludes Arjun and then glides through the side wall into a bedroom, a small room with a double bed mounted with a planked wooden frame.

  The bed is placed along one side of the wall in the middle and has mosquito nets hanging from horizontal wooden planks, which are draped over the vertical pillars of the wooden frame. The adjoining wall has two wooden cupboards set back into the wall itself. In one corner of the room stands Billal’s father, wearing a black suit and gazing at himself in a tall mirror which is hooked from the wall. The next moment, he turns around and moves towards the drawing room.

  Billal’s mother steps into the room and hands over a tall steel Tiffin to Billal’s Father. She looks at her husband with gloomy eyes and requests, “In case you do find out anything about Billal, please do call.”

  Billal’s father gazes back at her and his heavy eyes reflect the same pain as his wife’s. He looks at her for a few moments and turns around without saying a word. At the door step he murmurs, “Khuda Haffis.”

  Billal’s father kick-starts his battered motorcycle, which is parked in the front yard, and rides it to Railway Station workshop near the Faisalabad clock tower. He parks his bike in an open parking lot with broken pot holes and a cracked road covered in dust. He boards a local train heading towards Chak-Jumera, an electric train painted in green with white stripes running in parallel across the side. He steps into one of the carriages and takes an aisle seat. Next, he puts the tiffin and his bag on his lap.

  Arjun continues to follow him. The train stops at another station and more people board. The crowd continues to build the noise levels in the train compartment, but Billal’s father sits silently with his eyes open, but looking at nothing. He simply turns his head to look out of the window each time the train is about to stop.

  Fifteen minutes pass by. The train reaches Chak-Jumera Station and Mr Sharif gets off the train. A small train station with an angular roof made of metal sheets racked on steel trusses. The station is crowded with people mostly men wearing white caps, and hawkers selling Biryani and Kebabs.

  Bilal’s father passes by a food cart. A veteran of the savoury, the vendor has honed his skills in producing the mouth-watering aroma of Kebabs. This aroma is good enough to brighten anyones eyes. However, it doesn’t invite any reaction from Bilal’s father. He remains lost, grieving for his missing son. He passes further through the crowd and steps into a room alongside the ticket counter. The room has a wooden Plate hanging above the entrance which says “Railway Staff Only”.

  Abig hall with damp walls and cement patches in various places, the floor is occupied with long wooden tables arranged across two sides of the room.

  A young man in his early 30s looks at Billal’s father and shouts out loudly, “As-Salaam-Alaikum Sharif Sahab!!”

  Billal’s father looks back, replies with a hand gesture and continues to move towards his seat, a corner seat with a window alongside of it. Through the window, he can see the lively railway platform view with a train standing beside it.

  Mr Sharif puts the steel tiffin on table, pulls out his wooden chair and takes a seat. A small kid with a dusky, tanned face and a torn sweater enters the room. He carries a smoking aluminium kettle in one hand and half a dozen glass tumblers racked in a metallic wire crate. He goes closer to Mr Sharif’s table, puts one glass down and pours tea into it. He smiles at Mr Sharif, but the old man ignores him, remaining lost in thought.

  The boy serves tea to all the employees that are sitting around and collects a signature on a bill from one of them. Arjun waits curiously and looks around for a while.

  Two hours pass by. Mr Sharif looks in files and occasionally replies to phone calls in between. Two men come over to see him and the old man attends with a smile, hiding his feelings within.

  Another hour passes by. The same boy steps into the room again and collects all the empty glasses. Arjun is now getting a little worried about the time.

  24th December 2012 12:45 PM | ChakJumera Station, Faisalabad

  Mr Sharif’s desk phone rings.

  “Hello?” Billal’s father picks up the phone and replies in a soft tone.

  ““As-Salaam-Alaikum Sharif Sahab! This is Abbas.” A young voice on the phone replies.

  “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam Abbas! All Good?” asks Mr Sharif.

  “Not really! We have a carton marked with a Kasur address and its security check stamp is missing. I am not sure how it reached the luggage compartment,” expresses Abbas in a worried voice.

  “Pull it out and wait for me. I’ll just come over,” instructs Mr Sharif and hurriedly ends the call.

  He gets up from his seat and starts rushing towards

  the platform. The platform has a train parked alongside of it with people boarding. He briskly walks through the crowd and reaches the end of the station platform where the last compartment of the train is parked on the track.

  Two young lads in their 20s, one in a brown khaddi kurta and a blue sweater, and the other dressed in a dark blue suit with golden stripes on the wrists and shoulders. The two men seem to be arguing over a carton placed on the ground between them.

  Arjun clearly recognizes one of them as Altaf. Mr Sharif gets closer to them and interrupts the conversation.

  “Altaf...” Mr Shar
if looks at him with surprise.

  “Aaaa... As-Salaam-Alaikum Chacha!” stammers Altaf.

  “Is this yours?” Questions Mr Sharif in bold tone.

  “Actually, it belongs to one of my distant relatives,” admits Altaf in a hesitant voice.

  “Then why don’t you get it cleared from the security check or carry it yourself to Kasur,” Mr Sharif proposes authoritatively.

  Altaf avoids making eye contact and groans, “No. I am not going to Kasur myself.”

  Mr Sharif scowls at him. Looking into Altaf’s eyes largely convinces him of his actions. He confronts him. “The Station security won’t let your relatives collect the carton at Kasur station. And you know that.”

  “Everything is under control. Don’t worry about it. Just let it go,” says Altaf rudely.

  “Put this back and leave everything to me.” Altaf looks at Abbas and gestures him to put it in the train compartment.

  Abbas looks at Mr Sharif with hopeful eyes as if waiting for his words.

  Mr Sharif gestures Abbas with his hand to wait and questions Altaf. “Open this carton. I want to see what’s in it.”

  Altaf quickly interrupts. “We have no right to open customer cartons. Wait! Let me make a call to Mr Omar. Perhaps he can convince you.”

  Altaf pulls out his iPhone and selects a phone number from his contacts. Mr Omar asks Altaf to hand over the phone to Mr Sharif. After silently listening to the man on the phone, Mr Sharif ends the call.

  Arjun observes the entire conversation carefully. He carefully looks at the carton and memorizes the shipment number on it.

  Billal’s father gestures to Abbas to place the carton back on to the train and then gives Altaf a stern look. Altaf smiles back and assures Mr Sharif in a friendly voice, “It’s ok Chacha! You can count on me.”