by Pankaj Dubey
‘Yes,’ seconded Ali. ‘We need to stitch up the bits.’
‘You start,’ Shehzad said to Rishi.
The Indian began, recounting to them his days as an agony uncle, the flood of mails he handled and how. His mates nodded in complete understanding—that sounded exactly like the Rishi they knew. He came to her letters next, recalling how they grabbed his attention and then his heart. A girl losing her world overnight and crying out for help.
‘So Mullah was not her father,’ observed Shehzad, relating to her shock completely. He had felt the same way when his family crumbled.
‘We got chatting, and one thing led to another … and we decided to meet.’
‘Only you didn’t,’ said Ali, barging in to clarify that one important point.
Rishi said nothing.
Shehzad put an arm around Rishi’s shoulders—the fellow had really been hit hard. He could see it in the Indian’s eyes, in the things he didn’t say. Damn love—it messed you real bad.
Rishi filled them in on his arrest. How he hadn’t known that he was being arrested until much later when he woke up. He told them about the cross-questioning, the confinement, the muck they gave him … and were still giving. He left nothing out.
Ali began with Mullah’s offer. Eyebrows raised, his mates heard him out, including his confession of love.
‘So, that’s the story of your paper lion,’ Shehzad butted in.
Ali let that pass and revealed how he’d followed Shehzad to the museum on foot.
The Bangladeshi picked up the tale from there. Zeenat had herself told him she would be at the museum.
‘What?’ Rishi found this difficult to believe.
No, she wasn’t meeting him there, the Bangladeshi clarified. Probably, it was just an excuse to fob him off. Running into the Pakistani there had been a major shock. Each had painted the other a villain, till news of the explosion filtered through. And they ran to Holborn station, knowing this was where Rishi had gone.
When a cop on the way asked them to slow down, Ali lost his cool. Told him to let them go in the name of Allah to save his friend. That made the cop more suspicious, and he stopped the Pakistani altogether. Shehzad tried to explain, but that didn’t get them anywhere. The cop ordered the Bangladeshi to get into the car as well.
‘And since that day, we’ve been in jail, answering questions.’
Ali picked up from where Shehzad left off. ‘They want to know about our families, friends, our enemies—even if we don’t have one, still they want to know about it. And this tattoo! They can’t stop harping on it.’
The Pakistani paused to catch his breath. ‘I told them it was a bowl of my curry. They said they’re no fools!’
‘But that’s bloody well what they are,’ Rishi screamed, banging his fist on the toilet seat that occupied the corner.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Shehzad, holding his friend back lest he injure himself. ‘Their stupidity is what got us in this … and that maybe can get us out too one day. I don’t exactly know how though,’ he told the two sets of eyes latching on to him intently now. ‘But somewhere, it will show up. Let’s just stand together. They got nothing on us. And there is nothing. So …’
That made sense, and they had nothing else to look up to either. So on Shehzad’s sage advice, they ended that day.
30
The media had been feasting on the tattoo relentlessly, since the day of the blast. After the Indian, the authorities had zeroed in on to two more terror suspects, based on the CCTV footage of the area. Even these turned out to be Asians, all sporting the same tattoo. A question was being asked again and again—were Asians becoming a threat to Great Britain?
As for the tattoo, all kinds of stories were afloat. Some called it the circle of terror. Others took it to be a cup of non-Muslim blood. And there were those who saw it as a pit for the infidels. The speculation factory was working overtime, feeding on mass hysteria, what with Scotland Yard warning of more such attacks.
Zeenat threw aside the newspaper and cursed the British in such colourful language that her mother would surely have had a cardiac arrest, and Shehzad, he would have been proud of her. Hobbling up to her bedroom door, she screamed out for Mullah. He wrapped up his prayer and rushed to his baby, hoping she was okay.
‘See! See what filth they’re printing.’ And she pointed her crutch at the pages of the paper littering the floor of her room.
Mullah obediently picked up the pages, put them together and read the parts she was frothing about. He cursed too, not audibly though. The boys were in big trouble. By Allah’s grace, he was married to a British lady, else they would also have been under the scanner. The stories he’d been hearing at the mosque were disquieting. To the white people, every Asian was a terrorist now.
‘Zeenat, you rest. Don’t worry about all this. Inshallah, all will be well soon.’
Zeenat was livid. ‘Am I a two-year-old?’ she asked him, her eyes dancing with fury. ‘Or you think I’m brain dead?’ As she was regaining her strength, her drama was returning too.
Mullah smiled indulgently. His fiery girl was back.
‘I don’t understand you! While your countrymen are being crucified, you stand there smiling, posing like some Mona Lisa.’ With that, she fell back on the pillows and covered her face with the bed sheet.
Giving her a whole minute to indulge in her dramatics, Mullah ambled up to her bed and stroked her head. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Get them out of jail,’ she ordered, throwing off the sheet in a trice to look him in the eye.
‘I can’t. You know that. This is not India or Pakistan—the authorities won’t listen to me.’
‘If it were me, would you give up like this?’
Mullah had no answer to this. She had trapped him yet again.
‘C’mon. Tell me!’ She wasn’t one to let go so fast.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ he tried to explain, ‘I can’t.’
‘You can’t, but you surely know someone who can.’
She was bright. Mullah knew when he was beaten. His chest though puffed up in pride, thinking how well he had brought her up. She was a class act—strong, smart and incurably theatrical. An Oscar mix!
‘Let me see … let me see what I can do. I know this lobbying firm—let me talk to them.’
Zeenat gave him a kiss; that always worked fast with him. She knew him well.
Mullah was putty in her hands now. He stroked her head one last time before going on his errand. ‘You’re worried for Ali, no? Don’t be. I’ll take care of it.’ And he left, not seeing her frown at his parting shot.
Ali? Why did Mullah think this was about Ali? Whatever, she reasoned, as long as he was on the job, that was all that mattered.
Not an hour had gone by when the house was shaken again. Not by Zeenat this time. It was the police. They had called on the landline and asked for Mullah. Fiza took the call and in a poised tone let them know he was out on business and she was in charge.
The cops wanted to search house number 104 on George Street and Mohammed Mullah was listed as the owner of the property. She requested them to wait, but got a curt response that they would be raiding the premises any time now. Mullah should therefore report to the station immediately and cooperate with the search.
Not showing the panic she felt, Fiza called Mullah and said, ‘Drop whatever you’re doing and come home right now.’ Her voice was even, but he perceived the undercurrent of tension and fear. Cancelling his appointment with the lobbyist company, he rushed home to his begum. Soon, to his daughter’s utter irritation, the couple got busy trying to save the family name and house, forgetting the boys’ case.
A distinguished citizen of the island country, Mullah was asked to not hold back any point he felt he should report in the name of national security. ‘If only they could’ve kept his house tidier …’ was the one grouse he aired to the cops. While being questioned, Mullah revealed zilch, but raiding the house threw up many surp
rises. Shehzad’s room was full of tattoo designs, inks, posters, knick-knacks and a drawer full of antidepressants. The search team also found a compass box wrapped in red cloth and slipped into a zip pouch beneath his shirts.
Ali seemed to have stored every kind of spice in the world in his room. There was enough masala in there to flavour the whole damn universe. In his cupboard they came across a number of diaries and notebooks with Urdu writings. These were of special interest to the investigators, and experts were called in to translate the notes. The flared interest deflated fast when the writing turned out to be only recipes and poetry. Rishi’s room was barren, save for some clothes and paper and greeting cards. His laptop, however, was overflowing with mail. The officer scrutinizing it scratched his head not knowing what to make of all this agony uncle crap infesting the Indian’s inbox.
Where the cops go, the media cannot be far behind. They flounced in, taking as close a peek as they could get, and managed to shoot the stuff the investigating officers had dug up for forensics. Besides two laptops, stacks of books and diaries, a pressure cooker and a compass box had been seized. At least, that’s what the press got to see and report.
This house number 104, on George Street, is where the suspected bomber trio stayed holed up. What were the Asians plotting and preparing here? And what of that cavernous kitchen device the investigators have stumbled upon? Was that a pressure-cooker bomb in the making? Only time and investigations will tell.
A beautiful compass meanwhile was found in the Bangladeshi’s room. A dated beauty, its point was once used for etching. What does this say about them—that even their art is violent?
The reporters and anchors were having a field day leveraging the raid scene to grab eyeballs. Senior officers at the police headquarters said they were collecting intelligence from all three countries of the suspects to build a dossier of evidence.
Fiza switched off the TV. Seeing their house flashed across international television and watching this whole thing unfold was becoming a nightmare. The boys were totally done in. The one twinge she felt was for Ali. Well, there would be other boys for Zeenat. If need be, she could always import one from Karachi.
Zeenat jumped around on her one good leg, overtaken in equal measure by anger and anxiety. Footage of house number 104 had invoked so many happy memories that she felt like crying. But the sensational coverage also had her recoiling in disgust.
‘God! They are even playing up Shehzad’s compass,’ she exclaimed, seething in rage. ‘That’s crass invasion of the boys’ privacy.’ She was getting increasingly jittery about the wild media conjectures and the nasty statements the police were making.
Mullah returned just that instant from the police station. He looked drained, as the cops had tried to squeeze out every possible detail from the landlord of the terror suspects.
Zeenat believed her wonder father could upturn every seemingly impossible situation. But even she did not have the heart to demand anything from him right then.
She didn’t need to. Mullah saw it in her eyes and her muteness. His alert eyes took in the fidget spinner her fingers toyed with as she stared blankly out of the living room window.
Refusing the tea Fiza had just brought, he dialled the lobbying company to reschedule his appointment. Things had struck closer home now and he would need to act fast. This firm could buy access to every department in the government and was known to wield considerable influence with the powers that be. Such relationships are forged over years, on a bedrock of trust and favour, and Mullah had great respect for them. But first he needed to get his house and family neatly separated from this mess. Then he would take up the case of Ali and the other two boys, and see if they could be released.
Zeenat’s faith in Mullah had not been unfounded. Hearing him talk on the phone told her it was just a matter of time before things would be fine again.
Putting the phone down, Mullah picked up the remote to catch a bite of the news before he left for the appointment.
‘As we report, a car with four unexploded bombs has been seized in Manchester. The driver was shot dead while trying to escape. Reports of there being one more person in the car are doing the rounds, but the police are not confirming anything.
‘Yes, the bombs could be the same as the one used at Holborn. The identity of the driver is yet to be given out. He was carrying no papers on him. The body has now been sent for postmortem. That was the Manchester Police making a statement to the media. Questions on there being a second person in the car were fobbed off.
‘“For operational reasons, we cannot share any more information with you right now.”
‘Simply locking up the three Asians, it seems, has failed to secure Britain. Have the investigations revealed anything substantial to fend off more disasters? What’s the next step? That’s a question the government and the police need to answer very soon.’
Mullah closed his eyes and tried to make sense of what this latest development meant for him and his family, especially Zeenat. Ten minutes later, he was out of the house, taking a walk. He had decided to bunk the lobbyist appointment and instead meet with the Labour MP he knew. This was an emergency and he couldn’t rely on anyone but himself. All this breaking news was threatening to break him.
31
Inside the cell, Ali tossed from left to right, trying to catch a wink or two. But there was too much clogging his mind, not allowing him to rest. So he had been right! That vile Bangladeshi had been eyeing his would-be begum on the sly. The scum even had the gall to steal his kebab and then use it to steal his girl. There was no way he could forgive him. Never! But more than this, what was messing his heart was Zeenat’s tryst with Rishi. He just couldn’t understand it. She hated talking to Rishi upfront. Or even talking about him. Yet she loved chatting with him online. How could that be? And that Bangladeshi Romeo! He eyed every moving skirt. How could he possibly fall in love with just one girl? That too the one who was to be his begum?
This was messy. He could lose this match. That would mean no begum, no Mullah, and no hotel. Ali sighed. But he did have Rishi … and that Shehzad too. The one thing his heart knew for sure now was that these two would always be with him, come what may. That now helped him sleep soundly for the first time in a long time.
Rishi lay awake, thinking. Shehzad’s museum story haunted him. His plastic-heart proposal had not happened, but the depth of this boy’s feelings jolted him. Had he intruded wrongly? Not that he had intended to. Even he had planned a proposal, though nothing so dashing as Shehzad—just a short piece he’d rehearsed to deliver at the London Eye. When the capsule of the Ferris wheel was high up there, and the city floated down below, with the Thames flowing beneath majestically, he’d say his piece. Wasn’t something novel, he had seen many tourists do it before. But they hadn’t done it with his girl—so it would be new for her. That had been his cheesy logic. But even that moment was lost to him now.
Ali snored. And Rishi recalled his lion tattoo. The Pakistani’s act had plastered him completely. He knew the guy was besotted with her, but going to such lengths? He’d never thought the bugger had the crazy lover gene in him. Shit! Zeenat had invaded all three hearts. Did she even know what she had done?
The stars had faded outside. It was time for sunlight. But in Rishi’s head, it was still dark because he had no answers.
Shehzad was the first to wake up. This was another seismic shift of sorts. The prison cell had probably realigned his inner cells. But getting up early in a prison is a sheer waste as there is nothing to do. Except to think. And curse. Or pray, which again may be looked upon with suspicion if you happen to be Muslim. The Bangladeshi looked at his two housemates, now cellmates too, their faces tense, even in sleep. No, they weren’t having any happy dreams like before. Life had changed. And so had their perceptions, be they awake or asleep.
How naïve they had been, Shehzad lay thinking. Talking of reuniting countries, the subcontinent—the world. What dreamers they had been! But this worl
d … this world was bloody different. It thought differently. Racist mindsets and extremist thinking don’t change. ‘Bloody Asians!’ they’d said. A shudder went through him. His blood boiled every time he heard or thought of this. Yet he had lived with it. And how these colour-crazed jerks had screwed him and his mates. He shivered again.
‘Shehzad?’ asked Rishi. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Everything. Everything is wrong.’ All of Shehzad’s frustration slipped out in that one statement.
Rishi turned to face him fully. There was barely space, squashed as the three were in that hellish hole.
‘Together we can …’
Shehzad cut Rishi and his calming talk. ‘Together? Together doesn’t exist in this fucking world. Everyone’s out to screw someone.’
Ali had got up by now and was listening in, completely in tune with what the Bangladeshi boy felt.
Rishi knew the Bangladeshi was right in a way. Hell, he didn’t even get a family that stayed together. Rishi cursed himself for preaching.
‘All that bullshit we were dreaming back then …’ continued Shehzad, ‘Bangla–Pak–India together … it was stupid … we were such fools … complete idiots.’
Ali looked at Shehzad and asked, ‘Are you upset with me, Shehzad?’
‘This is not about you … not us … no.’
Rishi spoke up then. ‘I get what you’re trying to say. You’re right—we’re okay with each other, but that’s it. Going beyond it is madness. The world won’t turn our way.’
‘Exactly.’
Ali was not liking this talk. He still believed in a world where people came together after drifting apart.
‘Borders won’t go,’ Rishi pronounced.
‘And they shouldn’t,’ asserted his Bangladeshi housemate.
‘Days, months … whatever I have spent here, I’ve grown up,’ replied the Indian. ‘Now, I realize it. People won’t buy it. Peace and harmony is one thing. Ideology completely another.’
‘Xenophobia rules,’ rued Ali.