Vanity Bagh
Page 19
The imam was weeping again, and the lady with the dark patches under her eyes was looking intently at me, as if she wanted me to put my hands on the imam’s knees and say something that would make him weep less. But what could I say?
If you had been an ordinary, average father
like the other guys’ dads, you’d have understood that.
– Harrison Ford (1942- )
The imam, as if I had demanded an explanation from him, recounted how desperately he tried to get me out on parole, just for a few hours, just till Ammi’s burial was over. But the prison had banged its low iron door shut on Adv. Fakir Ansari who had sworn on Ammi’s body to bring me home to carry the maiyath to the mosque, failing which at least to the kabristan to throw a fistful of dust on her grave. Riding pillion on Abbas Chacha’s scooter, he swore for miles on their journey back home. Late at night, one of the suspended wardens turned up in the guise of a mourner and whisked Fatima’s husband away to a patch of darkness near the alley well to mediate a deal with the imam: he would get me a four-hour parole if he was shown Zia’s hideaway. The imam said he was a law-abiding citizen first, a loving father next – a statement that further strengthened my doubt about his claim of having never watched a movie in his whole life. The warden, with the diminishing confidence of a neglected hijacker, kept coming down on his demands. Any information on Zia’s new phone number? Or the name of his contact person? Or his contact person’s contact number? Name of the person who last saw him? Any tip-off would earn me 240 minutes of handcuffed freedom. The imam said he was helpless, the warden replied so was he.
Somewhere along the narrative, the imam had put on his skullcap, his cheeks had dried up, but his eyes still looked on the brink of watering again. I imagined him going around the little mosque after the night prayers, straightening the prayer mats with his toes, fastening windows, pausing to stare into the darkness as he latched the set of windows that overlooked the stairway, switching off the lights and finally locking up the green lattice doors. A short bicycle ride later, he would be home where Wasim cooked supper and he breakfast, where they ate in silence at a table that had mica curling at the edges.
A long ring of an electric bell ended the visiting hour. Leaning his weight on his umbrella, the imam hauled himself to his feet. Across the aisle the lady with the dark patches under her eyes looked almost accusingly at me; I appeared to have offended her by not placing my hands on the imam’s knees, not mumbling comforting words to him, not giving him company when he had wept. The little girl had chocolate stains at the corners of her mouth. As the second bell rang, more sternly this time, she wrapped her hands around her father’s neck and kissed him, leaving brown traces on his cheeks.
I remained at a window as the imam walked slowly along the flowerbeds, occasionally using the umbrella as his walking stick. As he started hobbling around the curving wall of the Record Room, I turned to leave. Then, as the conviction that I was never going to see him again gripped me, I retraced my steps to the window and looked out. The path was empty.
I sat still at my worktable as the Book Room slowly filled up around me. Word had got around, and the inmates gave me sympathetic pats as they filed past me.
‘I am sorry about your mother,’ said the warden who, all of a sudden, started looking friendly again. ‘I can report to the head warden that you are unwell. You can take a half-day off if you want.’
I said no. I told him work comforted me more than rest did. Looking hurt, he went away. Picking up a book, I opened it at random. I stared at the blank pages and waited for them to dissolve into the details of the funeral I had seen a picture of on Javed Miandad’s digital camera. There was nothing to suggest that the casket suspended above a sea of white caps contained Ammi, but I was somehow sure that it was the same funeral I had been denied permission to attend. Even after several minutes had passed, even after I had turned page after page, nothing happened. The pulpy leaves remained as blank as they were meant to be.
Blank pages are white roses.
Wield your pen and fill them with fragrance.
– Shair Shoukath (1928-2010)
Vanity Bagh Poetry Club was, after all, a bad idea.
– Professor Suleiman Ilahi (1949- )
Yes, especially when Shoukath starts to recite.
– Rustom sahib (1951- )
In mid-May, the blue van with mesh wire on the windows slid silently through the blue gates to take me out of the prison for the first time in a very long time. I didn’t recognize the men inside; they were not the same full-sleeved ones who had come to our house the third morning after the blast. These people wore white half-sleeved shirts and sobriety on their close-shaven faces. They spoke as little as the full-sleeved ones. But I was not sure if they were from the NIA or some other agency. A wireless, looking abandoned on a seat, kept crackling throughout the journey, airing mostly traffic news like an FM station. Then I heard the name of a hospital mentioned. One of the men picked it up, grunted a curt thank you into it and tossed it to the seat he had picked it up from, leaving two almost identical voices to swap news of minor road accidents and bottlenecks like gossips.
We must have driven about twenty minutes with no real intention of going anywhere. Then the van drove in through what looked like the back gate of a loose cluster of buildings surrounded by flint walls. In the distance were glass doors stuck with transparent hospital signs. Closer to the mesh wire windows were arrows pointing to the doctors’ parking, outpatients’ parking, pharmacy and canteen. Taking no heed of the arrows, the van scuttled on until the road narrowed down and was lined with cassava plantations on both sides. A lone arrow solemnly announced a mortuary was in the vicinity.
‘Take a good look at the body and say just yes or no. Take your time. No hurry. But don’t make any mistake,’ said one of the half-sleeved men as a squat, whitewashed building appeared on the windshield. ‘And don’t talk to anybody else.’
When the van came to a halt outside the mortuary, they locked their fingers into mine and walked me down an empty, silent corridor to a door that looked as if it were fashioned out of a long sheet of aluminium. A short man in white clothes opened it, smiling politely at the short-sleeved men, as if all he cared about was being the perfect host in this house of the dead. It was chilly inside, and almost brilliantly lit. We were led to a row of oversized bank lockers and the man in white tugged at the handle of a locker. A long bed slid out of the wall and cold vapours wafted out.
‘Take a look.’
I stood on my toes and peered in.
‘Just say yes or no.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure?’
I nodded in the affirmative. It was indeed Zia; except for a gash on his left temple his face was touched with little disfigurement.
‘Want to take another look?’
I nodded in the negative, wondering whether he had asked if I needed another look to be doubly sure or if I would like one final look at my friend. It didn’t matter how I interpreted the question; my answer would have been no either way.
The voices on the wireless now exchanged news of a religious procession that had started a while ago. One voice recommended deviation to the van. The other gave directions. I heard the places I knew make the alternate route to the prison – Begum Bazaar, Ashraf Bagh, Broadway Street, Char Bazaar intersection, Vanity Bagh.
I wish to go and dwell in such a place
where there is no one else.
– Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869)
As the van swept past the intersection I slid close to the window and rested my head against the mesh wire. A green board with a thin white border stood on the sidewalk, facing the traffic lights, reading ’Vanity Bagh’. It was a new addition, and the only thing the mohalla had got from a multi-crore town planning project to make Mangobagh more organized and, if possible, beautiful.
The traffic was sluggish, and the street rolled slowly away from the mesh wire window.
Jerome Pinto was leaning against
a motorcycle parked outside Akbar Electricals, talking on his phone, most probably to Clara D’Costa, and smoking at the same time. Haja Stores stood empty and was being repainted; it must have changed hands once again. The man who was leaning over the vegetable cart in front of the Bata store was either Abbas Chacha or his younger brother Taufeeq – both had the same kind of backside. Under Franklin stood Mary Pinto, seriously irritated with something; I was almost sure it was her brother who had caused her discomfort as usual. The green lattice door of the mosque was wide open, framing a few silhouettes kneeling down in prayer. Mir sahib was counting money behind his counter. A beggar stood outside the shop, waiting for his benevolence. Above him, Benazir’s window stood closed.
Beside the Irani Café, in the alley of Abu Hathim sahib’s bungalow, a group of small boys was playing football with the same disrespect for soccer rules with which we had once treated the game.
Then the cobbled path that led to my home came into view. Wasim was walking down the alley with Fatima’s second son. They were almost out on the sidewalk when the van passed the mouth of the alley.
‘Wasim,’ I screamed. ‘Wasim.’
He didn’t hear me. He grabbed the boy’s wrist as they stepped onto the pavement.
‘Bilawal,’ I yelled louder. The boy looked suspiciously around. For a moment his gaze fell on the mesh wire window, but at the next it drifted away. Lifting his head, he said something to Wasim. They laughed together and then walked sprightly away.
The moment the rickshaw stopped, your abba said,
‘This is Vanity Bagh, where we will build our home
and make it heaven-like.’
– Bushra Jabbari (1962-2012)
Acknowledgements
Saugata Mukherjee, Publisher.
Pallavi Narayan, Editor.
M. G. Parameswaran, Big Boss.
Joe Thaliath, Big Brother.
Kanishka Gupta, Agent.
Abdulla Khan, Friend.
Omar, Son.
Shameena, Wife.
First published in the Indian subcontinent 2013 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2013 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-447-24806-4
Copyright © Anees Salim 2013
The right of Anees Salim to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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Table of Contents
Title page
Dedication page
Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
Acknowledgements
Copyright page