by Farahad Zama
Nasrullah’s voice was as soft as just-melted ghee but it carried to all corners of the mosque.
“The vote was fair and held in a transparent manner. Our imam won – it doesn’t matter whether by one vote or a hundred. Remember the verse in Qur’an that says: Ya ayyuha allatheena amanooatee…O ye who believe! Obey Allah and obey the Messenger and those charged with authority among you. And if you disagree over anything, refer it to Allah and His Messenger, if you believe in Allah and the Last Day. That is the best way, and the best in result.”
He looked around, his eyes jumping from one supporter’s face to the next, compelling them, by force of will, into submission. Nasrullah’s voice now turned steely.
“Our country is a democracy, not because the winner takes power but because the loser gives it up.”
He went to the victorious candidate and hugged him three times – once on the right shoulder, then on the left and again on the right. “Congrats on your election, imam. I look forward to praying again behind you at the evening prayers.”
♦
“What do I do, Dee?” said Pari into the phone, her voice low. She didn’t want Vasu to hear, even though he was in the other room, sleeping, with the fan on full blast.
“First tell me what happened,” came the voice of her ex-fiancé from the other side of the country.
“A shahmat, a disaster, has fallen on me, Dee. I am scared. They’ll ask Vasu to convert to Islam, Chaacha will say no, and he and Chaachi will be excommunicated, then the Hindu priest will hear of it and will take Vasu away and put him in a horrible orphanage where he’ll be lucky to get one square meal a day and he will end up as a beggar on the roads and I will become crazy and start roaming the roads, asking everybody whether they’ve seen my son.”
“Shh…relax, Pari. Tell me what happened.”
It was several minutes before Pari finally told Dilawar about the election result at the mosque. “The imam will be even more powerful now. Nobody can stop him.”
“I’ve always thought that you were a brave girl, Pari. I didn’t expect you to fall to bits like this,” said Dilawar.
“If it was just me, I couldn’t have cared a mustard seed’s worth for the imam and his demands,” said Pari. “But the issue is bigger than me. Rehman and his parents are involved and, more importantly, Vasu’s life is at stake. I am his mother, and that unnerves me, I admit.”
“What is the Ghalib’s line about love making a man undone?”
Pari almost screamed, “Ghalib, at a time like this?”
Ghalib was the most famous Urdu poet, renowned especially for his couplets. He quoted: “Pyar hame nikamma Love has undone me, O Ghalib; otherwise, I too was a man of substance.”
“Your mother-love has made you weak. Otherwise, the Pari I know wouldn’t be talking like this. Be brave.”
“It’s easy for you to say be brave,” she snapped. “You are sitting a thousand miles away. I am here!”
Dilawar went quiet for several moments. Finally, Pari broke the silence. “Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
“No, that’s fine,” said Dilawar. “Don’t worry about it. What you said gave me an idea. Vasu and you should move to Mumbai.”
“To Mumbai? Are you crazy? I have some money set aside, but not enough to live on in a big city. Where would I live? On the footpath? I’ve heard that it is very difficult to find accommodation in Mumbai. Also, Vasu has just settled down at his school and it will be a big upheaval for him – not to mention his having to learn a new language.”
“Whoa, stop!” said Dilawar. “Don’t race off like the Rajdhani Express. I am not saying that everything will be easy. You and Vasu will have massive adjustments to make, but I am sure you can do it. And you don’t have to live under a flyover like a refugee from some village in the interior. Both of you can stay with me until you find a job and we get Vasu settled into a good school. After that, I know a couple of reliable real-estate agents who’ll help sort out a flat.”
“I don’t know, Dee. It’s awfully kind of you to offer but I can’t just move in and stay with you! What will people say? What will your neighbours think?”
Dilawar laughed. “In Mumbai, you’ll be anonymous. Nobody cares about where you live and who you live with. As for my neighbours, my reputation might even improve!”
Pari shook her head. Dilawar’s neighbours had once objected to his boyfriend visiting him every day. Her presence would sort out that problem, at least. She realised that Dilawar could not see her and spoke. “I am not sure…”
“I am sure,” said Dilawar. “This will solve all your problems. You’ll leave behind the imam and the priest and all the other difficulties. Now, listen. I am getting a call from Shaan on the other line. Think about what I said. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
Pari could only nod mutely as the phone went silent.
Eighteen
Rehman took the stairs two at a time, his leather sandals making a flapping sound on the cement floor. He knocked on the door and Vasu let him in. The flat was in a shambles – with things on the floor, old newspapers and pieces of string everywhere, the sofa strewn with photoframes and books, so that there was no place to sit.
“Who is it?” Pari called out.
“Just me,” said Rehman.
“Hello, Just Me. I’ll be out in a moment,” said Pari.
Her sense of humour is still holding out, thought Rehman.
Vasu tugged at his hand. “Come to my room,” he said.
Rehman allowed himself to be led deeper into the flat. Vasu’s room had cheerful yellow walls, one of which was dominated by a large poster of a film hero with a chisel-cut jaw and flinty eyes, standing in front of a building in flames, while a car hurtled through the air behind him. By the window on the other wall, a wooden desk held a computer and a pile of textbooks.
“Hasn’t your mother packed your books yet?” asked Rehman.
“No,” said Vasu. “She wants me to study until the last possible moment. But look at this. What do you think?”
He handed Rehman an A5-sized booklet formed by stapling several sheets together. Big block letters spelled out ‘The Adventures of the Three Musketeers’, and below it, ‘Author: Vasu’. In three corners were pictures of three stick figures holding swords. The fourth corner showed a taller, darker figure.
“That’s the villain,” said Vasu, pointing. “The heroes are me and my two best friends. One for all, all for one, that’s our motto.”
“That was the motto in the French original too.”
“French? The Three Musketeers is not French. It’s English. I saw it in the school library.”
Rehman smiled and shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have been able to read it if it was French,” said Vasu, with impeccable logic.
Rehman laughed. “It’s called a translation. Somebody who knows both languages reads the book and rewrites it in the second language. Maybe, when you grow up, you could translate The Three Musketeers into Telugu. But that’s for later. Tell me about your friends. Are they boys or girls?”
“Boys, of course. How can I be best friends with a girl? Ravi and Abdul are really cool. Do you know that Ravi has a playhouse in the branches of a tree in his garden?”
“Wow! A tree house? I’ve never seen one of those,” said Rehman.
“I have. We pretend it is our castle and play in it, defending it from enemies.” Vasu jumped on the bed and bounced on it. “I’ve made three copies of the comic. I’ll keep one and give the others to Ravi and Abdul. I hope that, with the comic, they won’t forget me when I leave town.”
“I see,” said Rehman, tonelessly.
“Why do I have to go anyway? You convinced the priest at the temple to let me go. Can’t you do the same with the man in the mosque too?”
Rehman sat down on the edge of the low bed, with his long legs tucked under him. “We tried, Vasu. We tried very hard.”
Rehman remembered the houses his parents ha
d visited before the election at the mosque, talking to people, calling in old favours, emphasising the importance of tolerance and of a leader they had known for years. However, their opponent had the power of incumbency, of formal qualifications from one of the renowned places of learning in the Islamic world, of having no enemies in the local community and a strong fire-and-brimstone line in sermons. They had come so close.
Rehman sighed. “We tried hard, Vasu, but it didn’t work.”
“But I don’t want to go away. I want to stay here with you and my friends and my school and everybody else. I don’t care which religion I grow up in. I’ll become a Muslim if that’s what it takes to live in Vizag.”
“It’s not so easy. We are caught between a well and a deep hole. If we try to convert you, the priest in the temple will start jumping again. This is the best way, trust me,” said Rehman.
“You are not old enough to understand all this now, Vasu,” said Pari, who had just come in.
“I am old enough,” Vasu said and kicked the pillow off the bed. It crashed into an alarm clock on the bedside cabinet, which then fell to the hard floor, its glass face smashing to bits and scattering all over the room.
“Vasu! Stop it this instant!”
“That’s what you always say,” shouted Vasu. “I am too young, I am a baby, I can’t decide…” He gave a flying leap and landed near the door.
“Stop – glass,” said Pari.
“It’ll be good if I cut myself and bleed to death,” shouted Vasu and rushed out, slamming the door hard behind him.
“What do I do?” said Pari, looking miserable.
Rehman took her by the elbows and made her sit on the bed. He sat down opposite her, about to make some remark about boys, but the look on her face stilled his tongue. He took her hands in his and held them, unmoving. She must have been hard at work packing, because beads of moisture lined her forehead, and strands of hair that had escaped from their confining band were fluttering in the breeze from the fan. The edge of her sari, the pallu, had slipped down and exposed her cleavage – the creamy, fair skin contrasting vividly against the dark blouse. Rehman’s eyes were drawn to the sight for a moment, before they snapped back to her face. His eyes met hers and he could see that she knew where they had been, but she made no move to pull up her pallu and hide her modesty. His face flushed and his ears burned, but she looked steadily at him. To his surprise, there was no reproach in her eyes and, slowly, his ears became cool once more. She reached up with her right hand and caressed his cheek. Her skin felt soft and smooth against his two-day-old stubble and he suddenly wished that he had shaved.
“Pari…” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Shh…” she whispered and moved her hand to place one finger vertically against his lips.
He shut his eyes, but that only made his sense of touch stronger. It was as if he could feel each molecule of air around him and was aware of the brush of his clothes against his skin, even the tickle of threads against his neck where his collar had frayed. But overpowering all these myriad sensations was the feel of her steady finger against his quivering lips.
He loved Pari! Although he had been in love with Usha, he now understood that his relationship with his ex had never been one of equality – he had always been in awe of her, putting her on a pedestal. Pari, however, was different. He admired her for her strength of mind and her cheerfulness despite the many problems that she had faced over the last few years, but he also felt comfortable with her in a way that he had never felt with Usha.
Stop, he commanded himself. Don’t think about the past now. This was a new beginning. It was ironic, and so stupidly sad, that he should have realised his true feelings now, just when it was all coming to an end. Best to hide it, he thought, rather than to cause trouble for Pari. But…he would try one last time.
He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Do you have to leave Vizag?”
Her hand dropped back into her lap. “I love you,” she said, and his heart leaped. “I love you all.”
The silly surge of emotion abated somewhat. Oh, all…
“But for me Vasu comes first. He has to, don’t you see? And for his sake, I’m going to Mumbai.”
He sighed, then stood up briskly. “Of course you must go. Mumbai is not that far away – only thirty hours on the train. We can keep visiting each other.”
She seemed disappointed somehow, which he couldn’t understand. “It is far away,” she said slowly. “Yes, we’ll visit, but it’ll never quite be the same again.”
He was struck dumb by her honesty. Could he move to Mumbai himself? His practical, engineer’s mind asserted itself – he had committed himself to work on the water project for two years. The work was important and many farmers would benefit from the project. Besides, she was going to stay with Dilawar until she managed to find a place for herself and Vasu. Where would he go?
“We can always hope,” he said. “I like you and I don’t want to lose touch with Vasu. He’s my friend’s son.”
“He’s my son,” she said.
“You are my friend too.”
She smiled at that and gave him a quick hug. “You are my best friend,” she said, and released him.
They moved to the living room. “Have you got in touch with the removal company?” she asked.
Rehman nodded. “All arranged. They’ll be here tomorrow.” He unconsciously looked at his watch, as if checking the time. “Around noon.”
He wondered how he could sit there calmly talking about her leaving the town for ever when all he wanted was to stop her by any means.
When Vasu came into the room, Rehman called him over, hugged him and sat him on his lap. “It’s OK to be angry,” he said. “You are moving to a big city and you have to learn a new language, go to a new school and make new friends. It’s a scary prospect, but for a brave and intelligent boy like you, it’ll be pipsqueak.”
Vasu threw his thin arms around Rehman’s neck and sobbed, “I don’t want to leave you.”
Rehman’s voice was hoarse as he said, “We’ll be meeting up frequently. I’ll keep coming there and you’ll visit us here.” Over the boy’s shoulder, he met Pari’s eyes. She looked miserable too.
♦
“Today has been a day of dramatic developments.”
Usha was on television, holding a microphone and standing in front of a municipal building. She was wearing a pale blue salwar kameez that looked very fetching on her. Pari shot a glance at Rehman, who was looking at the screen intently, wondering what he was thinking. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Pari murmured.
Rehman shrugged. “She’s always pretty,” he said and turned towards his father. “The camera’s been placed very cleverly. That’s the only angle from which you cannot see the construction material dumped on the road there.”
Mr Ali frowned and said, “You are right. The traffic there has become so horrendous that I’ve stopped going that way.” They were all at the Alis’ house, where they had just finished their dinner of masala fish-fry, khatti-dhal and rice. Mrs Ali had told Pari to close up her kitchen and eat with them until she left for Mumbai. Now she pointed to the green lawn behind Usha. “How much water do you think they waste every day on that patch of grass?”
“I am bored,” said Vasu. “Can I watch a cartoon now?”
“No,” said Pari. “Go into the bedroom and read a Tinkle comic.”
The comics, with a mix of humour, adventure, history, Indian mythology, Middle Eastern tales and scientific facts, were a favourite of children and parents. She turned her attention to the television again.
Usha had been joined by a tall, broad man with heavy-set jowls. “Mr Ramana, can you tell us in your own words what happened today in the council meeting?”
“My enemies have ganged up on me,” said Mr Ramana. “But if they think that by ousting me, they will win the forthcoming elections, they are mistaken. I am highly respected by the average citizens of this town and the dogs who turned on me will see
the result of my anger.”
Usha looked very innocent as she asked her next question. “Was it the opposition that removed you today?”
“Opposition, bah! I spit on the opposition. It is clear that you know nothing about politics.”
Mr Ramana’s eyes bulged and his moustache quivered with indignation. He had to take a deep breath to calm himself before speaking again.
“The opposition is merely the opposition. A politician’s enemies are always lurking in his own party, waiting to stab him in the back. But don’t write me off just yet. I’ll be back with a vengeance and then we shall see who has the last laugh.”
The camera tracked the mayor getting into a white car before Usha came back into the frame. “As you have just heard, the mayor has been removed with a vote of no confidence just weeks before the elections – in the last council meeting before a new one is elected, in fact. What should have been a simple, valedictory meeting turned into a five-hour-long affair, with much shouting and, we are told, chair throwing – even physical violence, before the mayor was ousted.”
A slim man was walking past. Usha strode up and waylaid him. “Sir, would you like to say some words to our audience?”
“No comment,” said the man, hunching his shoulders like a prisoner being taken to court in the teeth of a mob, and he attempted to walk away.
“Hey, that’s Mr Rao, our corporator,” said Mrs Ali, recognising the man who had come canvassing to their house and whom she had harangued.
Usha was far too experienced to let the man off the hook so easily. Whichever way he stepped, she seemed to be in front of him.
“Mr Rao, I’ve heard that you were one of the main instigators behind the revolt against the mayor. It would be better if you told the public your side of the story before rumours start circulating. After all, the election is so close.”
At the mention of the election, Mr Rao stopped dead and the camera zoomed in on him. The reason for his reluctance to come before the camera was now clear. His hair was messed up, his thin white cotton shirt was missing the top two buttons and was flapping open, showing the top of his hairy chest, and his shirt pocket was torn and hanging loose. He looked like a schoolboy slinking home after a fight in the playground.