Blueprint for Love

by Chatura Rao

  Striding along, he took a deep breath to distance himself from his heightened emotions, and he thought how ‘Ishq’ was an ironic name for a house at the heart of an ugly tug-of-war.

  The word had its origins in the Arabic word for love. Not any kind of love, but the love that merges human with the divine. His mother liked Sufi poetry, and on aging winter afternoons would sometimes quote Rumi. His favourite was, Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.

  At Ishq Bungalow, Suveer found, as he’d expected, a group planted at the gate. They were wearing saffron bandanas and singing devotional songs. Clashing cymbals and drums accompanied the vocals, aggressive rather than melodious. Suveer automatically adjusted the levels on his equipment as he began to record, to up the sense of an edgy mood.

  There were a couple of reporters having tea from a vendor who was selling it off a canister on the back of a cycle. Suveer recognised his resemblance to Chimmanbhai and noted, in passing, that this might be his son.

  Three policemen were standing a few feet from the padlocked gates of the bungalow, casually watching the proceedings. A few people from Surat Cable were filming the noisy singing for the local TV channel. Suveer got his gear in place to record. He aimed a parabolic mike in their direction and donned his headset. He had his Press ID on a strap about his neck.

  All this he did while taking in who the leaders were, and who the main singers. At the head and the centre of the group were both women and men, singing with fervour, but at the fringes of the group a few toughs were sussing out the street and watching the TV crew at work. One of them went up to the policemen and exchanged a casual remark. These would be the muscle of the Party and even the policemen seemed to respect their size and girth. Suveer remembered his father’s warning to stay on the sidelines.

  A hefty man in an embroidered kurta-pyjama took the mike and faced the singers, as their voices petered off at the tail-end of a bhajan. Suveer recognised him as Hareshbhai Solanki, a senior member of the Party, known for the aggression of his style of speech.

  ‘Jai jai, Bandhu!’ he called out in boisterous greeting. Suveer positioned himself where he felt he could get the clearest bytes from all parties.

  ‘For two days we have laid siege outside this house which an outsider has dared to buy within our community! Again today we command him: Leave Puneet Nagar, this pure land, and return to your own area. We will not allow your tainted presence here!’

  The crowd called out the party’s slogans. Two women in sarees stood up with a can of paint and brushes and walked quickly to the wall of the bungalow, next to the front gate. The three policemen reluctantly sidled a little closer to them.

  Suveer knew that the police were there to prevent anything extreme or violent from happening. Short of that, they might even have been posted there for Solanki’s protection. The national elections were close and the tempo of all political parties had been rising.

  ‘This outsider dares to buy our land, dares to make a plan of bringing more of his kind to settle here! We demand that the Government take measures to prevent this kind of thing from happening again. We demand the enforcement of the Disturbed Areas Act, by which Muslims cannot buy property in Hindu areas and Hindus cannot buy property in Muslim areas. There should be a clear separation between us and them.’

  This part of the speech, Suveer could see, was for any senior party leader who was to watch a recording: Hareshbhai Solanki was promoting their political agenda.

  Then, speaking to his immediate audience, ‘Do we want the Reign of Ram to prevail?’ he called out. Rabble-rousing! Suveer’s editor, Ranjan, would have spat. Suveer almost grinned, thinking of his mercurial temper and sudden guffaws when he saw irony or humour in things. He would have howled at this, not all in humour.

  ‘In the time of the Ramayan, the demons lived in Lanka, the monkeys lived in the forest and the humans lived in the cities and villages,’ Solanki was saying. ‘In our times too, there must be a logical separation of spaces. If terrorists or those that harbour them come to live in our part of the city, we will pelt them with rotten tomatoes, aiming them like the powerful arrows of Ram. We will spit on them. Or do worse.’

  The two women had begun painting “Om” and the shape of a swastika with orange paint on the wall left of the gate. As the policemen began to gesture half-heartedly for them to stop, one woman shouted loudly for them to get out of her way. Men from the group got up to warn away the policemen. This had the air of a bit of stagecraft, Suveer could tell, for the larger public that had gathered to see what was going on. The policemen were obviously from the local thana, and the conversation was quite amicable. The men sat down grinning as the policemen cooperatively wandered to a shady tree a few houses away. The women continued to zealously paint symbols on the walls and on the road in front of the gate.

  The chanting and singing of devotional songs had started up again and Suveer began to wind up his sound recording equipment and Canon 5D, mentally planning his interviews–Solanki’s was one–when far down the street he saw a figure dressed in green and yellow get off the city bus. The Muslim woman who lived next door to Sarojben was returning home, her dupatta draped around her head and loose salwar swishing about her ankles. She seemed to be preoccupied, frowning and squinting from the sun in her eyes. As she drew closer, Suveer noticed the tea and snack vendors glance from the Bhajan group to her, assessing, expectant. Hareshbhai’s attention shifted to her.

  ‘Let’s teach them a lesson for coming to our area, flaunting money power . . . all ISIS money, terror money! They dare to buy a house here and corrupt our property? We’ll pay them back in the same coin.’

  The round-faced woman’s forehead was covered with the dupatta in a manner unlike the Hindu women here, their foreheads anointed vermillion. She would turn left into the lane that led to her home but instead of moving naturally in that direction, she steered suddenly towards the pavement as if trying to get away as quickly as possible from the group posted about seventy five metres ahead of her.

  Her childlike display of fear drew their interest further. Several singers stared openly at her. A tough in his kurta-pyjama, gold chains and rudraksh bead chain, said something to his mates and laughed. Suveer took all this in in moments as apprehension ran a cold finger down his spine.

  This singing and speech group was on its third day here and the Press people who’d covered it so far had seen all there was to be seen. The crowd and its leaders would be looking for something to raise interest. Or to bring the situation to a head. He was aware that an objective journalist does not worry about what’s going to happen to someone on the scene he’s recording, must get ready to record the action instead so it could be projected to the world . . . for the common good. He knew all this, but it did not stop him folding away his equipment, not putting it away completely, but folding it away and strapping it, so his hands would be free. For what, he didn’t know yet. Only that he was a policeman’s son and alert to danger.

  With strange synchronicity, a few people suddenly roared slogans as a woman from among the ones painting swastiks shouted in the Muslim girl’s direction, ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai!’ Victory to Mother India.

  Men leapt up in twos and threes and walked quickly in the direction of Sarojben’s neighbour. She’d frozen where she was standing, her eyes dilated with fear. Suveer dodged past them and ran towards her. When she saw him coming directly at her, she shrieked and cowered to the ground. She was chanting snatches of a prayer Suveer did not recognise. It was, he found out later, the Durood-e-Fath: she was asking for the angels of Allah to surround her, cover her with mercy and rain peace upon her. He tried to pull her to her feet. Run home, he hissed. But her home just a lane away offered no sanctuary. Run away, he almost shouted, I’ll handle them.

  The girl was weeping with terror. Her fists grasping the dupatta were crossed tensely over her chest. She stilled and looked into his eyes which were just inches a
way. She understood that he was trying to help her and got to her feet.

  It was too late. The first of the singers reached them. As the half-circle of panting men demanded to know if she was the bungalow owner’s daughter-in-law, she looked to Suveer to guide her. Her eyes had streamed kaajal and she was still sobbing in a stifled way. He moved to shield her with his body. The men surrounded them then and began to chant a string of abuses. Suveer was vaguely aware that his recording equipment was still on. He’d left it on in case he needed to tape anything valuable. Thank god it was only a small sound device in his waist pouch. They were not likely to spot it and destroy it. Unless they hit him in the stomach.

  Some asked Suveer who he was . . . Was he her lover? Was he a Hindu or a Muslim? Suveer began to sweat. One of them yanked at his two week-old beard. Another shoved him back with a palm hard against his chest, so he fell against the girl. The third grabbed at his belt. They ordered him to take off his pants and show if he was circumcised. Suveer was aware of the strong scent of their sweat, animal-like strings of saliva and sharp teeth in their mouths open with rage.

  The sun was blazing down on them. ‘I’m from the Press,’ he said.

  ‘Muslim or Hindu?’ they demanded.

  ‘Human being,’ he retorted. This got him a hard cuff on the ear.

  ‘Let her go, she’s innocent,’ he demanded. ‘Please let her go,’ he pleaded then, his arms around the girl who huddled into him, shivering with terror. Rough hands prodded and touched her where they could.

  Give her here, the men said. They pulled Suveer and the girl apart, both by their hair and bodies. The women had come forward and they forced the girl into their fold, asking her why her family had not relinquished the bungalow yet. Why they had been made to keep vigil outside it, while she–a bitch, slut–was hiding away somewhere? They slapped and punched her. Why hide, they said. If you had the guts you’d have come out and answered us.

  Suveer fought to get to her. In a rage, he hit some of his attackers back, drawing groans and abuses. But calling him a motherfucker-traitor, they thrashed him. Someone had a hockey stick and used it on his leg. Through his receding consciousness, he reached for the girl, but he knew she was beyond his help. Her sobbing laced his own hoarse yells just a couple of feet away.

  It lasted a few minutes and was over as suddenly as it had begun. The real reason was the arrival of two media vans whose journalists harangued the three inert policemen into action. Hareshbhai, realising that the fun must be brought to a logical end, bellowed for everyone to stop, as did his goons who forced their way through to Suveer and the girl, ostensibly to protect them.

  A grueling twenty minutes passed before an ambulance arrived to take Suveer to the hospital. He’d continued to lie on the road in puddles of his own sweat and blood. His body ached from the thrashing he’d received. His knee was probably broken. Someone poured a trickle of water into his mouth and splashed the rest on his face. Someone else covered him with a shawl. It was made of wool and made him perspire, but only half-conscious, he felt illogically comforted by it. It brought him a sense of home.

  From where he lay, he could partially see the woman. An anxious, dark-eyed man had appeared to take her away. He was saying again and again that he was her husband, that he was responsible for her. ‘Let me take her. She’s hurt and frightened.’

  But the Press and police surrounded them, and then Suveer could not focus. The pain in his leg was almost more than he could bear. He tried to raise his right hand to swat off the flies and had to stop himself from screaming, it hurt so much. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his ragged breathing.

  Suveer regained consciousness when two bikes ridden by men in kurta pyjamas and skull caps came up and parked some distance away. The husband of the woman now forcibly extricated his wife from the circle of police and media. He seemed to be ardently assuring them of his co-operation as he backed away. To Suveer he looked frighteningly ill, the dark circles under his eyes deepening into pits in the harsh overhead glare of the two o’clock sun. It seemed like he would break under the strain of putting on an act of friendliness and ease of heart.

  Suveer saw him give his address to the cops, the same corrupt, indolent bastards, he realised, who had done nothing to save a woman from the attacking mob. They would pay her husband a visit and he would have to pay them off. What else could he do in a place where justice would likely not be delivered? Besides, the girl’s honour in her community might be considered “compromised” if the incident came to light. There was no gain to be had from standing around; they would do best to disappear quietly.

  Zahyan turned and led Mahnoor towards the bikers who had parked a good seventy five metres away. They would not come any closer to the scene of attempted ‘honour retribution’. The crowd was muttering as it watched them, waiting for the slightest provocation to renew their attack.

  The girl made a gesture and mumbled to her husband. The man half-turned and sought Suveer out. Unspeaking, he looked, as if to commit his face and prone figure to memory. Suveer looked back at Zahyan through eyes half-closed. If either of them had made the slightest acknowledgement of debt or gratitude, one that was now literally a cleft through Suveer’s bone, angry bruises on the girl’s body, and the spectre of fear in their hearts, they’d be singled out for further violence by vigilantes among the watchers.

  So Zahyan and Mahnoor walked away. A rider handed his bike to Zahyan and mounted pillion on the second bike while Mahnoor sat sidesaddle on her husband’s.

  As Suveer was lifted into the ambulance, he inserted his fingers into his padded waist pouch. The tiny sound recording device was intact. It would have recorded all the abuse Mahnoor and he had been subjected to. The snarl and hunger of the mob would be imprinted on its data card. The Muslim girl’s husband and she might be forced to do nothing about what had happened, but he had no such compulsion.

  Instead he probably had the makings of a cutting-edge story. He would edit the sound clips into a witness account. Just as soon as he’d accessed some first aid, he thought, as he passed out.

  11

  Z

  ahyan rode the bike out of Puneet Nagar, Mahnoor seated behind him. The two men who had come to help Zahyan retrieve her were his father’s friend’s sons. They were leading Zahyan and Mahnoor to Muslim Juhapura in Ahmedabad, to where they could feel safe.

  Mahnoor lay her head against the back of Zahyan’s shoulder. His shirt was damp with sweat. She pressed her cheek against him. Zahyan’s tears dried in the wind even as they welled up. He was grateful for this. A man doesn’t cry. Not to mourn the end of his welcome in a place. Nor to mourn the lynching of his woman’s confidence, her belief in the world as a safe place.

  Zahyan turned the bike into a shopping mall that fell along the way. He was ravenously hungry. ‘You’ll feel better if you eat,’ he said to Mahnoor as he parked the bike in the underground parking. She looked at him uncomprehendingly. Her eyes seemed to belong in the face of a child or a dog that had been beaten badly. Zahyan felt his throat tighten. Mahnoor had had a protected upbringing. It had taken a lot to get her to commute to her job, even go to the market by herself. He worried that fear would now dog her every choice.

  ‘Let’s eat something,’ he repeated. He put an arm awkwardly around her shoulder, something he hadn’t done in over a year, and although she twitched nervously, he did not let on that he noticed. He phoned Rizwan, one of the two men who had come along with him to Puneet Nagar.

  ‘We have stopped at the mall for a break,’ he informed him.

  ‘Which mall?’ Rizwan asked. ‘Salim and I will turn back.’

  ‘No, you carry on.’

  ‘How will you find your way alone to my place?’ Rizwan asked, surprised.

  ‘We may not come there today. My wife and I need some

  time . . .’

  ‘I can’t say I’m comfortable with this delay, but it is your decision, brother,’ Rizwan allowed after a pause. ‘Keep me informed.’
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br />   Mahnoor and Zahyan took the escalator to the empty food court on the upper floor of the mall. They would come here to have coffee after a rare shopping venture–they could not afford these trips more than twice a year. The mall with its even, bright lighting and generic branded stores felt impersonal, a direct contrast to the targeted hate and violence Mahnoor had been subjected to on the street. Zahyan was relieved to be here.

  A few sparrows had somehow made their way into the place and hopped on the floor between the flimsy steel tables and bright green and orange chairs. When Zahyan returned with coffee for them both, he found her with her head down on the table, crying into her sleeve. He put a hand to her shoulder and she jerked away, an almost involuntary reaction.

  ‘Jaan, try to calm down,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I am to blame for this. Why didn’t I take your father’s advice and take you away from there? I wish I had at least been there to protect you.’

  She shook her head, grieving. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘To your mother’s?’ he asked.

  ‘To our home in Puneet Nagar.’

  Zahyan was shocked. ‘How can you still call it home?’

  Mahnoor realized what he was saying and her eyes welled up. ‘Then where is home?’ she asked sadly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’