The End of Innocence

by Moni Mohsin

  ‘Does he recognize the man?’ Fareeda’s voice faltered. ‘Is he from this village?’

  ‘He says he is lame.’

  ‘Oh, God, no. Not Mashooq?’ Fareeda gasped.

  ‘That’s what I intend to find out.’ Tariq’s voice was grim.

  18

  Inspector Feroze was a rarity in Colewallah district – a popular policeman. He was a peaceable, good-natured widower who took off for a couple of hours each afternoon to collect his children from school, give them lunch and drop them off with his sister before returning to work.

  Fortunately, the duties of a policeman in Sabzbagh were not onerous. There had been a big case a few years back, a murder in a land dispute, but his predecessor had dealt with that. These days, the only cases requiring his attention were sporadic instances of cattle-rustling and the occasional brawl. Had his presence been requested in cases of domestic violence, he would not have shirked his duty, for he was a conscientious man. But much to Inspector Feroze’s relief, the police were seldom alerted in domestic situations. Hence, his life in Sabzbagh was peaceful, even uneventful, just as he liked it.

  Inspector Feroze’s predecessor had been widely feared and hated. With a visceral contempt for what he called ‘devious peasant bastards’, Inspector Takdeer had used the smallest excuse – an argument in a shop, an insolent stare, a snicker behind his back – to wield his thick bamboo cane. Often, people were kept overnight in the solitary lock-up in the station and given the dreaded police phenti, a brutal beating, after which blood had to be hosed off the floor. Unable to curb the inspector’s excesses, Tariq had manoeuvred hard behind the scenes to have him transferred. When his efforts were rewarded after a couple of years, people from three villages came to thank Tariq with gifts of live chickens and baskets of freshly picked mangoes.

  Thus it was Mashooq’s great good fortune to be found by Inspector Feroze that morning. Having thrown Mashooq into a cell, Feroze took off on his motorbike to inform Tariq. When Tariq arrived at the station, Feroze took him directly to Mashooq’s cell. It was a small room with a skylight, from which a bright beam of sunlight poured in and spot-lit the brick floor.

  Mashooq sat in the shadows, on a string bed in the corner. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shirt was torn and splattered with reddish-brown stains. There was a bad bruise on his forearm and what looked like a crescent of bloody tooth-marks. Despite his ragged appearance, he looked calm and self-possessed, leaning back against the wall with his hands clasped in his lap.

  He greeted Tariq with a hesitant smile and even raised his hand to salaam. Mashooq appeared sober, with not a trace of his old mocking insolence.

  A constable arrived with a chair and placed it behind Tariq.

  ‘Please sit down, sir,’ said Feroze, hovering by the door. ‘Would you mind, sir, if I went to collect my children from school? I’ll drop them off at my sister’s and come straight back.’

  ‘No, you go ahead, Inspector.’

  ‘Should you need any assistance in my absence, sir,’ he said, glancing at Mashooq, ‘Constable Charagh will be waiting outside the cell. All you have to do is call out.’

  ‘I don’t think it will be necessary.’

  Tariq pulled the chair up to Mashooq’s bed. He sat down, crossing his legs.

  ‘I want you to tell me, Mashooq, where you’ve been since that afternoon when you came to my house four days ago.’ Tariq strove to keep his voice even and low. ‘I want you to tell me the truth, because I’ll find out if you don’t. So don’t waste my time with lies.’

  Mashooq looked down at his hands. ‘I have nothing to hide. I shall tell you the truth.’

  He told Tariq that, after he left his house, he went to the bazaar in Sabzbagh and, finding some money in his pocket, decided to have a drink. He stayed in the bazaar longer than he had planned, drinking steadily. He couldn’t recall much about what happened when he came out. All he remembered was that it was cold, dark and foggy. It was definitely very foggy, he said, nodding his head, because it took him a long time to cycle to Kalanpur.

  ‘Why did you go to Kalanpur?’

  A motorcycle beeped on the road outside, and a pigeon flapped past the skylight.

  ‘I went to get Rani.’

  ‘To get Rani?’ Tariq was puzzled. Then a horrifying thought occurred to him. ‘Had you been seeing Rani? Had you had relations with her?’

  ‘How could I? I was never allowed within touching distance of her.’

  ‘Then why did you go to Rani?’

  ‘Shortly after you and I parted that day, I discovered – don’t ask how, for I shan’t tell you – that she was getting married secretly with great haste. My suspicions were aroused. I was already seething with rage. I wanted to get even with you but didn’t know how. And then I was told this of Rani. It was as if Allah had shown me the way. He had set this task for me. I knew then what I had to do. I had to sort out Rani. And through her, you.’

  Gripping the arms of his chair, Tariq nodded at Mashooq to continue.

  Mashooq recounted the details of that night. He told Tariq how he had arrived at Kalanpur undetected, followed Kaneez to her quarter in the thick mist and overheard Rani’s confession of pregnancy. His suspicion confirmed, he had wanted to rush in and strangle her, but had held back. It seemed as if Kaneez had just found out. She demanded to know who was responsible, but Rani wouldn’t say. Rani cried and begged Kaneez to forgive her, but she wouldn’t listen. She walked out, leaving Rani alone in the quarter.

  Mashooq had waited for a while to see if Kaneez would return. And then, when she didn’t, he went in. Rani was lying on the floor, sobbing. She didn’t hear him enter. When he called her name, she sat up with a start. She quickly wiped her face and pulled her dupatta up to cover her head. That gesture annoyed him. Why pretend to be modest after what she’d gone and done? It was hypocritical, deceitful. He didn’t like it.

  She asked him what he was doing there. He told her that he had come to fetch her. Her mother was ill and had asked for her. ‘What about my grandmother?’ she asked. He said Fatima didn’t want to worry her old mother. She just wanted Rani. ‘But she’s never asked for me before. Is she very ill?’ she persisted. He could tell she was suspicious. He said she was ill enough to send him cycling three miles on a freezing, foggy night just to fetch her. She thought for a minute and then said, ‘All right, I’ll come with you. But I want to leave word with the neighbours, or my grandmother will worry.’ Pretending nonchalance, he shrugged and said she was being silly. Fatima had told him specifically not to worry Kaneez, and here she was, wanting to cause her needless anxiety by alerting the neighbours. They would exaggerate her illness tenfold when they reported it to Kaneez. And, anyway, she would be back in a couple of hours, before anyone even found out that she’d gone. She nodded, took her shawl and followed him out into the night. No one saw them leave.

  Now that he had her with him, he didn’t know what to do. He had thought briefly of punishing her then and there in the quarter but had been inhibited by the proximity of the neighbours, who would no doubt have come swarming in at the slightest noise. They might not have even let him finish his business. Besides, his brain was in turmoil. He had never expected Rani to be so sinful, so devious, so shameless. It was as if a kitten had suddenly bitten off his hand. And the worst of it was, she seemed to have no idea of the enormity of her sin.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he scoffed, ‘she cried and said she was sorry to Kaneez, but only because she had been found out. She had no idea of what she had actually done. She gave herself willingly before marriage to a man and conceived a bastard – a bastard.’ He spat out the last word in a voice soaked in loathing. He shook his head and said, ‘There can be no greater sin. There is no greater sin. And, for that unborn child, no greater injustice.’

  He left Kalanpur with no firm plan in mind, with her sitting on the back of the cycle. He tried to think of the places he could take her. Obviously, his own village was not an option. Nor was Sabzbagh. But then he remem
bered there was a disused brick kiln about a mile away from Kalanpur. He could take her there.

  As he cycled into the night, he pondered feverishly on the possible identity of the father of Rani’s child. The girl, fortunately, was silent. The brick kiln that he had in mind was a little way off the main road. They would have to cut across some fields to get to it. When they reached the bit where they had to get off and walk, she made a fuss. This was not the road to her mother’s house. Where had he brought her? She wanted to go home. He told her the proper road was all dug up because the gas wallahs were laying new pipes, and this was a short cut. She seemed to accept his explanation, for she said no more.

  It was dark and the ground was soggy. They were treading on a narrow path between two cane fields. The cane grew higher than their heads on either side, and they could hear jackals calling and moving through the crop. She was nervous and kept stumbling but didn’t complain again. Presently Mashooq saw the kiln stack outlined against the dark sky. There was a small hut to one side that the overseer once used. He took her there. He told her that they’d take a little rest because he was tired after the long ride to Kalanpur. She said she’d rather press on. But he insisted. He brought the cycle in, lest a passer-by spot it outside. There was nothing in the hut, not even a stool. It was as dark and cold as a grave. He leaned the cycle against a wall. She stood in the doorway with her back to him, looking out towards the fields.

  He went up and stood behind her, so close that he could smell the grassy scent of her hair. He thought fleetingly of how nice it would have been were she not soiled, but then he remembered how sly she was and he felt himself tremble with anger.

  ‘Whose child is it?’ he hissed in her ear.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She spun around.

  He told her he had overheard everything and wanted to know which son of a bitch she had been lying with. She started to whimper. Backing away from him, she tried to make a run for it. He grabbed her arm and dragged her back into the hut. He kicked the door shut and stood with his back to it. He asked her again whose child she was carrying. She backed away.

  So he lunged at her and shoved her to the ground. She clawed his face and bit and kicked and pulled his hair. But she was no match for his fury and his strength. Afterwards, he asked her again who had fathered her bastard. She had been crying softly into her hands, but at his question, she brushed off her tears and placed her hands proudly over her stomach.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘is no bastard. This is the child of the man I love.’

  ‘The one who fled like a rat and left you to face the world alone? Fine man he is!’ he scorned.

  ‘He was made to run away.’ In that tiny hut her voice rang out with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘But even if he’s gone, he’s left me with my happiest memories. And those, neither you nor anyone can take away from me. I am proud that I went with him. Proud that I’m having his child. He’s my Ranjha. And I’m his Heer.’

  ‘You’re his slut, that’s what you are.’ He sprang at her in the dark and, with his face inches from hers, demanded, ‘Tell me his name. What’s the motherfucker’s name?’

  ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘I’ll never tell you. Your filthy mouth would soil his name. But one thing I will tell you, he’s worth a thousand of you, you lame, pockmarked bastard. You repulse me.’ She spat at him then, catching him full in the face.

  Not even pausing to wipe his face, he hit her across hers. Once he had done so, he found he couldn’t stop. He punched her with his fists and kicked her with his heavy leather sandal. Then he got the chain and padlock he used to lock his bicycle and smashed it on her back. He hit her with all the rage pent up within him against Tariq and her. He avenged himself for the slights he had suffered at the hands of Sardar Begum, Shamshad Khan, Barkat, the villagers of Champa and anyone else who had ever done him wrong. He kicked her for begetting a bastard. It was bad enough to commit the sin she had, but then to try and protect the evil-doer? No, that was intolerable. It showed that she wasn’t penitent. It proved she was a liar. She might even now be intending to go back and meet him again. She deserved no quarter from him.

  Rani tried to shield herself. She kneeled on the floor, her arms curled around her head, her knees drawn up against her chest to protect her belly. Infuriated by her desire to shield her bastard child from his righteous wrath, Mashooq caught her by the forearm and pulled her to her feet with a ferocity that almost dislocated her arm. He raised his hand to hit her again but, with a swiftness which caught him by surprise, she grabbed his arm and sunk her teeth into it, not letting go even after the blood ran down her chin. Shocked and in pain, Mashooq kicked her hard in the stomach. She screamed as she fell, hitting her head, he thought, on the brick floor, because he heard a loud crack. And then silence. He kicked her twice in the side as she lay there on the floor, but she made no effort to move out of his reach. Mashooq realized Rani had passed out. He, too, was exhausted, so, with his back against a wall, he slumped to the floor.

  He was woken at dawn by a shaft of sunlight slicing through the crack in the door. Mashooq blinked and rubbed his sore head. He felt disoriented and parched. His arm throbbed. He gazed around him and remembered where he was. He looked around for Rani. She lay in a heap in the middle of the hut. Her clothes were splattered with blood. Her nose was a squashed, bloody mess. She didn’t seem to be breathing. But when he put his head to her chest, he saw that it was rising and falling ever so slightly. He touched the side of her head. Her hair felt sticky and matted. His hand came away bloodstained.

  Mashooq didn’t know what to do with her. He could have left her there, but he didn’t want her body to be found. He wanted to remove her, and her bastard child, from the face of the earth. He thought of digging a grave and burying her alive, right there in the fields. But he knew he didn’t have enough time. Already the sun was up. Soon, farmers would be heading that way.

  Mashooq’s account was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and voices in the corridor outside the cell. Feroze stuck his head around the door.

  ‘I’m back, sir,’ he said to Tariq. ‘Shall I sit here with you now?’

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do that, Inspector? Because I think this man is about to make a confession of murder, and I’d like you to be here when he does that.’

  ‘Sir?’ Inspector Feroze’s jaw dropped. Recovering his composure, he said, ‘I’ll just get a stool and some paper and a pencil.’

  When Feroze was ready, Tariq quickly recapitulated for the inspector all that Mashooq had said so far.

  ‘Have I got the facts right?’ Tariq asked Mashooq when he’d finished.

  ‘Yes.’

  Feroze wrote it all down.

  ‘Mashooq,’ said Tariq. ‘Continue.’

  Mashooq straightened his back and continued. Reviewing his options, he realized his best choice would be to throw her into the canal. He’d let the fish feast on her. He knew that, battered and broken as she was, she had no hope of surviving the water. Even if her body were fished out twenty miles downstream, no one would know who she was. So he slung her over his shoulder and emerged from the hut. He had to leave the cycle behind, because he couldn’t manage the two. It couldn’t have been more than six in the morning when he set off. As the sun rose higher, Rani grew heavy on his shoulder and, despite the early morning chill, he began to sweat. His chest burned and his legs ached.

  Luckily, the cane beyond Kalanpur hadn’t been harvested yet, and it provided good cover. Avoiding the road, he stayed in the fields, stopping for a brief rest now and again. Finally, he saw the canal up ahead. Only then did he break cover and make a run for it, or as close to a run as he could manage with the unconscious girl weighing him down like a sack of rocks.

  The inspector asked if she was still alive then.

  Yes, replied Mashooq, she moaned when he threw her down on the bank. She opened her eyes and looked at him, but with an unfocused, glassy gaze. Her face was flushed and damp with sweat. Her lips were crack
ed.

  Mashooq tilted back his head and shut his eyes.

  ‘I knew she had lost the baby. I told myself it had had a lucky escape. It would never know how bastards are treated. It would be spared the torment, the jeers. It occurred to me then that I was the instrument of its deliverance. I had been appointed by Allah to put both the sinful mother and her bastard child out of the misery and shame awaiting them in later life.’

  Mashooq swung his legs to the floor and, resting his elbows on his knees, leaned towards his interrogators.

  ‘Don’t you see? I liberated them both. I removed the dishonour from Rani. As for the baby, I rescued it from living hell. It was all planned up above. Allah wanted me to redeem myself. First He informed me of Rani’s perfidy. Then He sent me to Kalanpur that night. It was nothing short of a miracle that I got there through that fog in the state I was in. I was meant to overhear that conversation between Rani and Kaneez. I know I have not led a perfect life, but this was my opportunity to wipe my sins away. And I did. I did not shirk my responsibility.’

  The door was pushed ajar on hinges that needed oiling. Tariq and the inspector both turned towards it. It was the constable with a steel tray bearing three bottles of 7-Up. He looked hesitantly at his boss.

  ‘Hurry up and pass them around,’ whispered the inspector, nodding at Tariq to remind the constable whom to serve first.

  As soon as the constable had left, Tariq barked out at Mashooq, ‘When did Rani die?’

  Mashooq took a big slug from the bottle and swallowed it with a loud gulp. ‘Ah, perfect,’ he murmured.

  ‘Sahib asked you a question,’ Feroze reminded Mashooq.

  ‘I’m coming to that. I was about to roll her over the edge, into the canal, when she suddenly opened her eyes. She looked straight up at me but didn’t seem to see me. And then she sighed and died. I know, because I checked her pulse, both in her wrist and her neck. I also listened to her chest. There was nothing. So I rolled her over with my foot, and she fell with a splash. Within minutes she was gone.’