Trending in Love

by Pankaj Dubey

  The lecture ends and she has not returned. Aamir wonders what documents inflicted by the admin office take this long to sign. Four classes later, the class breaks for lunch and there is still no sign of Sanam. Aamir’s anxious fingers have been drumming on the desk, as he impatiently waits for class to end. The moment it does, he runs to the admin block. But she is neither at the reception desk nor in the main office or even the accounts section. Finally, he risks a peek into the director’s room but she’s not there either. She’s nowhere!

  He races up to her room and bangs on her door until she opens it.

  She’s on the phone with a tear-stained face and signals him to be quiet.

  ‘Yes, Mom, I understand.’

  So, it’s something to do with her family. Aamir mutters a silent prayer.

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  Her voice is low. Almost broken.

  ‘I’m not promising anything . . . no . . . you have to trust me, Mom, as you always have,’ she’s sobbing into the phone now.

  Aamir moves close to her, but she brushes him away. He goes to the window and stands there, staring out. His mountains are not visible from here.

  Her phone call finally done, she flops on the bed. Aamir eyes her from a distance, uncertain whether she wants him near or far.

  After several minutes, which feel like a life time, she says, ‘Look at this.’

  He walks over to her bedside and she shows him her phone. It’s a picture of them embracing on the day they had pinned their own poster on that tree.

  But who clicked this? And how did it get sent to Sanam’s family?

  ‘Yes,’ confirms Sanam, following his train of thought. ‘Some asshole sent this to my dad along with more rubbish. About you.’ Her voice is a rasp. She has been on the phone all morning. Listening. Explaining. And justifying.

  Aamir sits on the floor by her bed. ‘Are you ashamed of me?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ she denies swiftly. ‘It’s only that I didn’t want them to find out this way.’

  Aamir nods. ‘But we don’t get what we want.’

  Sanam pushes him away then, ‘You don’t understand. Life’s not a platitude as you like to believe. Your quotes are pointless sometimes!’ She is annoyed and his calmness rubs up her the wrong way.

  Aamir says nothing and she simmers down after having vented.

  ‘Dad’s gone berserk,’ she tells him. ‘Someone sent him this photo last night on Messenger. And a photo of the posters too, with the slurs against you.’ She clenches her teeth, her blood pressure sky-rocketing as she recalls her father’s words.

  ‘He says I’ve let him down,’ she laments as her eyes well up again. ‘I’ve always been his pride, his girl. I can’t do this to him; I just can’t!’

  Aamir does not intervene. She needs to get it all off her chest. She is hurting. So he quietly listens.

  ‘I’ve killed his spirit today; his world is in shambles.’ Sanam tells him how much her dad means to her and how much she means to him. His faith in her was nullified with one bloody message! He was feeling dead inside. Ashamed. And alone.

  Aamir lets her empty all her feelings out until she has nothing more to say.

  ‘You mean everything to him and yet . . . one message from a rank, petty-minded outsider has ended all his love for you . . . is that what you’re saying?’

  With that one question of his, she has her solution. She had been overreacting. Just as her parents had. When there was no need!

  Sanam looks at Aamir, still sitting on the cold floor by her bed. They had committed no crime. They had only shared something special and they had full belief and trust in each other. So why should they be saddled with guilt and forced to give justifications? Agreed that the family needed to be informed of important things such as this, but only when the time was right and when she was back in Delhi. Yes, the timing and the way her life-changing decision had been communicated was wrong. This had taken her family unawares. She now believes she can sort it out; time can and will heal the breach in their relationship.

  Her mind calmed, Sanam settles down on the floor beside her man. Her Rank Number One.

  ‘I’ll never let you down,’ she vows.

  ‘But I’ll let you down,’ he promises. The pillow fight that ensues defuses the tension in the room.

  ‘But who sent this on Messenger?’

  That is the one question on both their minds when they return to their afternoon classes. Aamir had deliberately not let Sanam dwell on who it might have been when the posters came up, but this incident is way beyond that—sending pictures to her family and spreading unrest there as well.

  They would have to smoke out the miscreant and hang him or her before he or she hanged them.

  23

  They are too late. The noose is tightening around their necks even as they sleep.

  Only when the sun comes up, they see their phones flashing the sentence. They are condemned. The screen is all plastered. With multiple notifications. Every social site they are on spewed hatred and venom. The torrent of abuse is vile, vicious and terrifying.

  Suddenly, it is too dark for Aamir to see or make out anything. Seem as if a black cloth covers his head. And his hands seem tied. There is nothing he can do. But hang. Yes, the execution has begun. Online.

  Sanam’s head is on the block too. She too is being guillotined by the online army.

  Things have complicated. Overnight. They had slept. No longer scared of the photo leak to Delhi. Both ready to face trial by family. But this was no family. Their world was suddenly up in flames. Fake posts raging to burn. Stoked by rumours. Of love not being love, but a mission to convert. Someone had splashed their affair all over the net. Invoked religion to whip up passions. And how it spread! Consuming the online world in seconds. Facebook, Twitter, Insta, WhatsApp, blogs—all fanned hatred. Charring love, and lives. Love by noon became love jihad. And the trolls on twitter turned crusader. Leading the carnage. Frothing to set things right. And punish the religion-crossed lovers for daring to breach the holy divide. It got frightening.

  Anti-Aamir voices grow and he is no longer Aamir, an IAS officer trainee. He has been reduced to just his religion and being verbally lynched for wooing a girl outside it.

  The posts gave their romance a completely different colour.

  Pakistanis, they are! Out to woo our wombs. And proliferate. Even questioning his nationality.

  Kashmiris! They take the lead. In every dirty business. Beware of them! Deriding his state. His religion.

  Some even congratulate him for his so-called jihad. Thank you Aamir for bringing one more kafir on to the right path.

  Then there were those that cursed Sanam. IAS Hindu girl will surely repent

  Sane voices were few and far between and got lost in the stream of invective. Mature self-made girl, free to make her choices. Only idiots talk of kafirs.

  Aamir and Sanam log out both online and offline, choosing to ignore the backlash to attend classes and life’s business as normal. But things aren’t normal and the fire will only spread further if you don’t fight it.

  By evening, they have dug up information on Moeen too. Thirsting for blood, the online warriors scrape together whatever dirt they can on Moeen and then add their own. Turning stone-throwing into militancy and labelling Aamir’s family as ‘bloody terrorists, all of them!’

  One savvy troll has stumbled on to his blog and put two and two together. The Unknown Voice is now known. It is Aamir, they scream, blogging anonymously to camouflage his terrorism.

  The blog offers many perspectives on Kashmir, but the trolls selectively take lines that fit their sinister agenda to paint the Kashmiri as the devil incarnate. It has become impossible to discern the truth.

  The Kashmiri crumbles with this onslaught against his family. He had taken it all on the chin and marched calmly until now, but this vicious attack has numbed his mind and he is unable to think clearly any more. He walks out of the academy gates, down the road, following no trail
. Just escaping.

  Aamir keeps walking, turning where the path turns, driven by the undulating road with all its sights and sounds lost on him. Suddenly, what looks like a holiday resort becomes visible ahead. The road curves past it and steadily onwards as far as the eyes can see. Only, he does not see any of this. He trudges on past the resort, and up the road.

  ‘Aamir!’ A cry stops him in his tracks.

  ‘Sanam?’

  He turns around and finds her bending over, holding her knees and gasping. He runs back to her. He helps her to the side of the road and reprimands her for having followed him.

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I had to,’ she pants.

  They sit on a grassy knoll by the side of steeply ascending path and stare out at the rocks and the valley. Sanam would have been too scared to even stand here, but with her mountain boy by her side, nothing fazes her.

  Nothing matters to them now. Online. Or offline. Nature has its special way of healing. She has come for him in the face of all odds, walking for miles after him. His Sanam! Who complains bitterly after just a few yards of walking, had trekked after him, having to probably run most of the way to catch up with him.

  ‘We’ll fight it all,’ he announces finally.

  ‘Yes!’ Sanam feels all charged now. ‘Let’s hang them before they hang us.’

  The duo trek back to the academy, planning to eat, sleep and get up early to revise their work with a fresh mind. The final exam is due to begin the next day.

  However, fate continues to play PUBG with them. A few kilometres on their way back, Sanam’s mobile rings loudly. Aamir has not carried his. They stop to answer the call.

  ‘Where are you?’ Sanam’s heart stops. It’s the director. She would have recognized his booming voice even in her sleep.

  ‘Sir . . . sir . . .’ she stutters. ‘I came out for a walk.’

  ‘Is Aamir with you?’

  She does a double take. First, the director calls her and now he is checking about Aamir. She is lost. And takes a while to reply, ‘Yes, sir. We’re on our back to the academy, sir.’

  ‘Give me your exact location,’ the director demands.

  Sanam hands over the mobile to Aamir and he explains. But it doesn’t end with that. The two keep talking, Aamir’s face clouding as the conversation progresses.

  ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll take care, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll be in touch with you, sir.’ What she can hear of this one-sided conversation drives her nuts. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other until Aamir squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. He is still on the phone.

  And finally, it’s over.

  ‘What was he saying?’ Sanam asks even before Aamir takes the phone off his ear.

  ‘They’ve come. The Hindu Samhita Sena hooligans!’

  ‘Hindu Samhita Sena?’ Sanam echoes. ‘That fringe group of anarchists?’

  Aamir nods. Her world goes dark once more. These self-appointed religious warriors are the scum of the earth; goons who believe that they are the moral police while the real police look the other way.

  ‘How the hell are we going to deal with them?’ Aamir is hurrying her along and does not answer.

  The fanatics, the director has informed him, have already reached Dehradun and are on their way to the academy. The Director’s SUV with two armed guards will be waiting for the trainees a little further down the track to take them back to the academy. ‘Take utmost care,’ the director had warned Aamir. ‘These fellows can go to extremes.’

  A marathon hour later, Aamir and Sanam arrive at the place where the vehicle is waiting for them. He helps her in and climbs in after her quickly. As the Fortuner barrels along the hilly road to the academy, he puts a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  They make it just in time. Minutes after the gates close behind them, loud sloganeering heralds the arrival of the thugs. The director has summoned the police who arrive hot on the heels of the vandals. The media flock in, uninvited, ever-hungry for news bites.

  The director meets Aamir and Sanam in the admin building and lets them know the protocol.

  ‘We’re with you in this and will shield you and the academy from the goons. But under no circumstance are you to give even one soundbite to the media. Not in person. Not on the phone. Not online.’

  They agree to follow the drill. They are told that they can sit for the exam the next day as normal. But, for the night, as a precaution, the two will be shifted to rooms in the admin block.

  Aamir stands guard as Sanam packs her books and overnight case. Neeti helps her. Amid all the chanting, the scuffles and the media jostling at their gates, the trainees, including Sanam and Aamir, prepare for the next day’s academic ordeal.

  It’s not over yet. Their mobiles are buzzing. The media feed has reached their homes, their family and friends. Sanam’s father is frothing at the mouth and her mother, inconsolable.

  ‘Dad, Aamir’s here with me,’ she tells him. ‘We’ll make it.’

  ‘So now it’s Aamir, huh? No more need for “dad” then!’

  ‘I’ll talk to you after the finals,’ she promises, ‘not now.’ And hangs up.

  Aamir, who has recovered his phone from his room, finds that there are ten missed calls. Eight of them from Sabah.

  Abbu calls him even as Sanam disconnects. Aamir explains to his father that all is fine. The call is short. Abbu is used to all this. When Aamir was studying in Srinagar he would call him thrice a day to check if he was okay.

  Sanam snatches the phone from him and speaks to his Abbu, telling him that she will visit Kupwara once their final exams are over and he will have to take her to all the places that he took Aamir as a child.

  Abbu grunts.

  ‘Kupwara can wait,’ Aamir says. ‘Get back to that law chapter now!’

  And she does.

  Sabah breaks the calm with a video call. It’s her ninth call, so he can’t ignore her any more.

  ‘You come back,’ she sobs hysterically on the phone. Her face goes redder and her plaits dance across her face as she shakes her head violently to Aamir’s contention that he will come only after the final exams are over.

  Sanam peeps in, wanting to see the girl who is so desperate for her mountain boy. Sabah’s beauty floors her. Even on the phone, the girl’s loveliness takes her breath away.

  ‘Stay away from her,’ orders Sabah, glimpsing Sanam.

  ‘Can’t,’ Aamir tells her. ‘She’s my djinn . . . no seer can smoke her out.’

  Snorting angrily, Sabah disconnects. In the following five minutes Aamir explains to Sanam that yes, Sabah is a girl, but no, she is not his girlfriend. She is family.

  They spend the night with each other and their books. The second room allotted to them in the admin block goes unused. The next day dawns bright and clear. The Hindu Samhita Sena seems to have given up its protest. The chill of the night, if not the police, froze their fire.

  The final exams begin in earnest, and love and its jihad take a back seat. The next seven days and nights are all about PPTs, class notes, topic doubts and revision. Sanam’s parents respect exam time and don’t call. Only Nitin barges in. He was abroad and has just flown in to get swamped by the rampant media gossip.

  ‘What is all this nonsense about you falling for a jihadi sucker?’

  Sanam breathes deeply before replying, ‘Yes, Nitin. I’ve developed this sudden taste for jihadi suckers. Gourmet stuff . . . wanna try?’

  He slams down the phone, not giving her the pleasure of hanging up.

  Aamir is grinning from ear to ear; Sanam had put the call on speaker mode.

  The finals finally come to an end. A trek follows. This time to Sir George Everest’s House. The OTs drive up to Hathipaon in the academy’s bus and then climb up the steep dirt road on foot for an hour and a half until they reach the historic bungalow that sits quaintly on a cliff edge and boasts both an observatory and a laboratory. It’s a serene spot and calms the exam-ravaged minds. As they troop back
to the academy, anxiety surfaces once again in their minds because the results will be out the next morning.

  * * *

  One week later, car after car drives in through the academy gates, depositing parents, spouses, friends and family to the Visitor Centre. This is beside the auditorium, where the valedictory function is to be held soon.

  A short welcome address and lighting of the lamp later, the new course director, the one who substituted Dheeraj sir, takes the mic on the podium to announce the results. Trainee after trainee marches up to the stage as their rank and score is called out. They collect their certificates to a thunderous applause. Sanam is with her parents. Aamir sits with Badal, both of whose families have skipped the event. Major Kalra is in Toronto and Badal’s dad is unwell.

  ‘Sanam Jadhav. Ranked First!’

  Sanam walks up. Aamir’s eyes are moist. It takes a lot for this Kashmiri to weep but he does today. A surge of emotions cloud his mind, eyes and ears. Badal has to slap him to snap him out of his trance.

  ‘Go,’ his mild Bengali roommate screams, pushing Aamir out of his chair. As he stands up, Aamir realizes that they had called out his name. He makes his way up, slowly. He has not heard them announce his rank or score but if they have called him already, it means he has made it to the top few. Ammi and Abbu will be so happy today that their son has become an IAS officer. There will always be enough food on their table now; he will ensure it.

  Aamir has reached the stage and the applause is deafening. Sanam is still up there with her certificate clutched in her hands. That baffles him as he walks up to the director for his certificate.

  ‘Aamir Fizal,’ announces the course director, ‘ranked First.’

  Aamir swivels to look at Sanam. She is ranked first. Then how come they say that he is ranked first as well?

  ‘Come on, young man, we don’t have all day,’ the director nudges him.

  Aamir collects his certificate in a daze, not understanding who has actually ranked first.

  The director asks Aamir to stand beside him for a picture and beckons Sanam to his other side. The entire auditorium gives them a standing ovation.

  The director takes the mic, ‘The awards this year have been particularly satisfying. The Best Trainee Award again goes jointly to our joint first rankers, Aamir and Sanam. They have been through hell and to heaven. They have proved to the world that even if the whole world is against you, it is important to believe in yourself. So, let’s salute them.’