The Night of Broken Glass

by Feroz Rather

  ‘What is this?’ Maryam asked curiously when he produced a vial of mysterious purplish liquid.

  ‘This is called araq neelofar,’ he said. ‘This herbal medicine is good for the kidneys and purifies the blood. And perhaps the last bottle I made.’

  ‘Your English is good,’ the boss remarked, glancing through her article. ‘However, your feature is more like a character sketch in a novella than a work of journalism.’

  She was not sure whether this was sincere constructive criticism but continued writing short reports and long features. She explored various parts of the city, talking to the womenfolk, both young and old. When she returned home in the evenings, she barely had any energy to cook or embroider a pheran. The persistent clatter of the office keyboards that still rung in her brain drowned out the calls of moorhens and lapwings.

  Months passed and she slipped into the mechanical routine of the editorial office. According to her boss, her articles had improved immensely – they were now succinct, crisp and impersonal.

  In the beginning, when she had started working, she had felt a strange detachment within herself. This curious feeling akin to emptiness and boredom persisted and she realized that she could no longer appreciate simple things like the beauty of nature or enjoy the taste of food. Using the elevator at work upset her system and made her nauseous, causing her stomach to convulse. Her head ached dully.

  One Saturday, she woke up early and cooked an elaborate lunch for Papa and herself. After lunch, she picked up an envelope, walked to Zero Bridge, descended the narrow staircase and made her way to the riverbank.

  She desperately hoped that Safir wouldn’t be in the office. She reached the huge, three-storeyed building with the posh marble floor and elevator. She hesitantly pressed the button to go up to the third storey.

  As soon as she stepped out of the elevator, she saw her boss and Safir through the open door. They were sitting in the common area, discussing new story ideas over cigarettes and strong tea.

  Maryam silently put her envelope on the table before them.

  ‘What’s this?’ her boss asked.

  ‘I’m resigning,’ she replied.

  ‘Why?’ asked Safir.

  ‘That is none of your business, Safir,’ she snapped and walked out of the office.

  Safir felt hurt that Maryam snubbed him in front of their boss. The boss tore the envelope and began reading the letter. He was flitting his eyes from one side to the other.

  ‘This girl lives in cuckoo-land,’ he said derogatorily. He was so enraged, he disregarded the Informer’s protocol; instead of placing the letter in Maryam’s personal folder, he crumpled it in his palm and tossed it into the trash bin. ‘I want you to have your story ready in two hours. We can do without her bullshit,’ he said to Safir and stormed out.

  Safir fished out the letter from the trash bin and went into his cubicle, closing the door behind him. His hands were trembling slightly as he steeled himself to read Maryam’s letter:

  Dear Sir,

  While I was in college, I realized that my father was growing old. I began to worry about my future and I taught myself to do embroidery work. In my aunt’s house, on the southern shore of the lake, I sat for hours on end with a bunch of girls, poor girls, who could not afford school, with lovely pherans spread across their laps. They worked diligently with sharp needles which sometimes pricked their fingertips, drawing blood. Nevertheless, they persevered; they stitched and embroidered. I too sat with them and learnt their craft. And it took me hours to create my first almond leaf and several hours of patient application to bestow its venations.

  My days at the Informer, listening to the empty prattle and clatter, have been deeply disturbing. There is no silence here. And the practice of journalism, brave and risky without doubt, also means being visible, vain and close to power. If I continue here, I am in danger of losing touch with stitching and my ability to reflect and contemplate.

  I don’t know whether juxtaposing journalism with stitching is justified. But I do know that working with a needle in silence created possibilities of humility and surrender for me. That is not the case with journalism. If I were a man like you and Safir, I too might follow the ways that seem necessary to our practice. I too might cultivate buddies in the police, call an Inspector Masoodi to Cafe Barbarica for a drink. And in the moments I gossip with him, I will grow loud and I will start guffawing; I will have a false sense of power, a caged dog’s chance to jump and bark and bite vengefully at my own while I am still on a leash. I will forget how blood, still hot and roaring on the streets I walk, is slowly seeping into the soul of our city. I will forget the nightmares of destruction that I plunge into every time I sleep. This sense of entitlement is duplicitous; this duplicity fills me with revulsion and discomfort.

  I say no to the Informer. Thank you.

  Yours,

  Maryam

  That evening, Maryam got a call from Safir. Upon knowing that she was feeling upset and had gone to Jabin Aunty’s, he offered to bring her home. That was sweet of him, she thought, but she told him she would manage.

  She could hear their boss grunting at Safir in the background, so she advised him to hang up. At that instant, a sudden power cut left her standing in the dark in a long corridor. She wondered whether this was a sign from God about the rightness or wrongness of her decision to quit her job without notice. She slipped her mobile phone into the side pocket of her dress and walked into the kitchen where Jabin was lighting a lamp on the windowsill. Her aunt turned around, smiling.

  ‘I won’t let you go without having dinner with us,’ she said.

  ‘The Cantonment soldiers make me nervous,’ Maryam protested, ‘and I don’t want to go home after dark in an autorickshaw.’

  ‘It has been months since I last saw you,’ Jabin said. ‘I’ll ask Ishfaq to give you a ride home.’

  Maryam could not refuse. She went into the dark corridor again and stood leaning against the wall. The darkness brought back her feelings of ambivalence. She wondered whether she had acted recklessly by being too idealistic. In any case, the thought that she would now have more time for her favourite activity, embroidering, made her happy. She pressed the buttons of her tiny, silver-coloured mobile phone and its screen glowed.

  The landline telephone at her home still had the signature style ringtone of the nineteenth century and rang several times until her father finally answered her call. He had dozed off in a chair in the garden, he said apologetically. She knew that she would have to eventually explain her abrupt resignation to him but not now, not over the telephone. Although he would be disappointed, he would not hold it against her and would accept her decision philosophically. She softened her tone as she told him she would be having dinner at her aunt’s home.

  When she hung up, the entrance door in the front opened. Ishfaq and Iqbal walked in together and smilingly escorted her into the kitchen.

  Maryam sat beside Iqbal on the black woollen carpet with a pattern of green circles covering the floor. They both faced the oven where Jabin presided with a ladle in her hand.

  Maryam and Iqbal were of the same age while Ishfaq was four years their junior. He sat close to his mother, with his back to brother and cousin, as he talked to his mother about his day.

  ‘How are you Ishfaq?’ Maryam interrupted.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, without turning around.

  ‘Jabin Aunty tells me you bought a new car today?’ He turned briefly to nod and resumed his conversation with his mother. Iqbal whispered something in Maryam’s ear.

  ‘Did you buy the green apricots as well?’ she asked. Iqbal and Maryam laughed. So did Jabin.

  One winter, when Ishfaq was a little child, he had thrown a huge tantrum in the kitchen. The snow had levelled up to the windows, jamming the doors shut, while he sulked and demanded that his father, Mohiddin, brought him green apricots from the market.

  ‘Don’t you guys have anything better to do?’ growled Ishfaq.

  Mary
am, sticking her tongue out at him, rose and went up to Jabin.

  ‘Are you done?’ she asked her aunt. ‘Where is the dasterkhwan?’

  ‘The new one is behind the copper cauldron on the top shelf,’ Jabin said. ‘Can you get that one?’ Maryam realized that despite her five feet and five inches, she would not be able to reach the shelf.

  ‘Can you help me?’ she asked her cousins. Ishfaq immediately rose. He was as tall as Iqbal with fine features and a chiselled face. He wrapped his arm around the cauldron and moved it aside before rising on his toes to pull the dasterkhwan down.

  ‘What else can I do for you?’ he asked sarcastically, placing the tapestry in her hands.

  ‘This will do for now,’ she said, teasing her lips into a smile. His foot brushed against hers lightly and their eyes met. At that moment, the door opened and Mohiddin entered the kitchen.

  Maryam, whose scarf had slipped on to her shoulders, quickly wrapped it around her head. And assuming a solemn expression, she greeted her uncle.

  ‘I’ve been caught up with the matters of the mosque,’ Mohiddin said, leaning back into a cushion by the wall. ‘Otherwise I would have come to visit your father. Is he still at the bank? I went in yesterday, but he wasn’t there.’

  ‘He’s retired now. He had a bad cold and cough over the winter, but he is feeling much better these days,’ she said, spreading the dasterkhwan in front of Mohiddin. Ishfaq and Iqbal sitting on either side of their father twitched the dasterkhwan’s ends into place. She gave the men a bowl of water to wash their hands while Jabin ladled the white rice onto the plates and the chicken cooked with spinach and garlic into little copper bowls.

  Before they started their meal, Mohiddin turned on the battery-powered radio and surfed through the frequencies until he found Radio Kashmir. Raj Begum was singing a sad song in her melodiously husky voice:

  rum gayem sheeshas, begour gova bane meoun …

  My glass cracked, my vessel clanged on …

  They all ate together, talking softly. When the song ended, Mohiddin reduced the volume.

  ‘I am as old as your father. I have worked for thirty-eight years at the shop and managed the treasury of the mosque for the past eleven years. I am ready to retire too although, unlike Wali Saheb, I don’t have a policy pension.’ His sons looked concerned, worried and a little embarrassed by the timing and tone of this remark. They exchanged glances and then looked at Maryam, their eyes telling her that they only half-agreed with what their father had said and that they were sorry if he had embarrassed her. And then, as though burdened with the weight of the implications of that statement, the onus of the household expenditure, their expressions became tense. They lowered their eyes and returned to eating.

  ‘I agree that you should stay at home and put up your feet,’ Maryam replied. Mohiddin’s eyes twinkled happily. The brothers raised their heads and smiled at Maryam while Aunt Jabin said half-jokingly, ‘We are expired now: it’s high time we get a daughter-in-law or a couple of daughters-in-law who’ll cook and clean, while we old folks relax and listen to Raj Begum.’

  Everyone laughed and Maryam was pleased that her presence enlivened this little family. She seemed to fill the void of a daughter in the household. At the same time, she felt apprehensive. Was Jabin Aunty alluding to her when she mentioned daughters-in-law? As soon as they finished eating, she helped her aunt with the dishes and rolled up the dasterkhwan. She sat down with the family once again, handing them toothpicks and candied fennel, until it was time to go, and everyone came to the porch to see her off.

  She climbed into the brand new Maruti car parked in the street outside. The seats were still covered in polythene and the windshield was spotless.

  The verandas of the new concrete houses encroached into the narrow, potholed road. The tarmac was broken and littered with the garbage that housewives negligently threw out of their kitchen windows. The state of the street saddened and infuriated Maryam as Ishfaq carefully cruised from the foot of the hill towards the city centre. A full moon was rising into the dark sky prickled with the glitter of stars.

  ‘You’ve always wanted to buy a car since you were very little,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘I like the Maruti,’ Maryam said.

  ‘You know nothing about cars,’ Ishfaq scoffed. ‘This is a new model launched by the company.’

  ‘Then it won’t last long,’ Maryam retorted.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Ishfaq frowned, darting a quick glance at her. She paused, hearing the irritation in his voice. She liked provoking him. She missed Safir. She was feeling bad for having snubbed him.

  ‘Where did you get the money?’ she asked Ishfaq.

  He did not take his eyes off the road and accelerated as he replied, ‘Abba talks about retiring and staying at home. As a matter of fact, he can’t live a day away from his shop. He gave me some money and Iqbal gave me some. The rest I put in having saved over the last three years driving passengers in my autorickshaw.’

  She was not listening but looking at him. She had a sudden desire to kiss him. She patted his shoulder caressingly. Ishfaq looked at her and finally his lips twitched into a smile. He switched on the stereo fitted in the middle of the dashboard. A Lata Mangeshkar song came on. Maryam grimaced.

  ‘Saccharine and high-pitched,’ she said. ‘Raj Begum wins every time.’

  ‘Who is Raj Begum?’ Ishfaq said.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Maryam punched his shoulder.

  Ishfaq turned off the stereo and began to hum a Raj Begum song.

  ‘No, that does not make you Raj Begum,’ Maryam laughed. They were nearing the Cantonment and the moon disappeared behind the Wall.

  ‘Should we avoid Zero Bridge?’ Ishfaq asked. ‘The soldiers often stop me at night when I pass by in my autorickshaw.’

  Maryam agreed. Ishfaq turned right at the roundabout before the Cantonment and went westward on the road by the offices of the Informer leading to Badshah Bridge. Then he took a detour and came back on to the road parallel to the river Jhelum.

  Wali was squatting at the front door with a lantern in his hand, waiting for his daughter. When he saw the car, he stood up.

  Ishfaq greeted him and courteously opened the passenger door for Maryam to disembark.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Wali asked Ishfaq. ‘Come in. It is too late for you to go home now. You should stay.’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ he said.

  ‘Stay,’ Maryam said. ‘Stay the night and you’ll go in the morning.’

  But Ishfaq shook his head and started the car. He deftly manoeuvred the car around before switching on the stereo. Avoiding the long detour, he drove over Zero Bridge. At the end of the bridge, he heard an ominous clang and the car abruptly stopped right in front of the bunker.

  ‘Motherfucker, move on!’ a voice screamed from inside.

  Ishfaq was frightened. He turned the key and pushed against the clutch desperately, but the car refused to budge.

  ‘I’m moving … just give me a second, okay,’ he cried.

  He pressed the clutch again and turned the key in the ignition, but the car did not start. He pushed open the door and quickly moved towards the bonnet to check the engine.

  The soldier fired, the bullet ripped through Ishfaq’s forehead. He fell face forward onto the bonnet. The soldier fired on, screaming. The blood gurgled out of the holes in Ishfaq’s stomach. The semi-digested chicken and spinach spurted out. Bullets shattered the windshield and shards of glass flew over the wooden railing of the bridge and fell into the river.

  The boss was a stocky man with thickset shoulders and a broad torso. He had a foul tongue and the cunning of a survivor. He got invited to all the parties thrown by Inspector Masoodi. He enjoyed drinking and had cultivated the habit well; alcohol only heightened his sobriety. From the centre of his being, he surreptitiously monitored all the people who moved within his domain. He registered every single movement and weighed each whisper. Although he did not give
an impression of overt belligerence, he talked with such an admixture of sweetness and authority that the person in conversation felt both valued and threatened. In the common area, he was often surrounded by young reporters who held him in admiration and awe. They showered him with compliments, hoping he might by chance open up and divulge the secret of his success. But the boss talked casually, revealing nothing. He performed, steadfastly guarding the enigma of his personality. In the middle of the conversation, he singled out a reporter. He stared him directly in the eyes; and for no apparent reason scolding him, halted the conversation.

  After a long moment of tense silence had elapsed, he clapped. The reporter, harassed and confused, smiled awkwardly. The boss threw up his arms, clapping harder and laughing condescendingly.

  The boss’s performance was reminiscent of the tantrums of the spoilt, sadistic princes always attended to by big batches of servants; the princes who had to shout hard at the servants to deal with the bitterness and alienation because before the brutal, medieval despots who were their fathers, they knew they were as utterly useless as they were powerless.

  A few weeks later, because Safir worked hard throughout the day on a long report and finished sending it off to him well before the deadline, the boss invited him to his place. His house was a lodge in the same street as Maryam’s. With headphones plugged into his ears, Safir was busy listening to music from his phone and making eggs in the kitchen. The boss crouched on the sofa in the living room, and the signs of authority and harshness faded away in the silence of the candle-lit gloom. Thinking about Maryam’s resignation letter, in his private space, he returned to his private self. He thought about his past. When he was her age, he too was idealistic, carrying packs of Revolution in his bag. With a meagre salary, and at great personal risks, he had ventured into the remotest towns and villages of Kashmir and had brought back the live accounts of horrifying atrocities. The most memorable event was the massacre of 1993 in Bijbyor in which more than fifty people had been killed in a matter of minutes.

  Seventeen years later, he reluctantly reimagined the scene: after saying their prayers on a rainy Friday afternoon, several hundred men poured out of the mosque; they gathered in the front lawn and demonstrated, chanting slogans of freedom. Soon guns were being fired from the camp across the highway; the bullets hit the bodies, the smell of blood rising, the stray dogs started barking, the soldiers were shouting, the people were running berserk, the screams of the dying drowned in the hard, pelting rain.