The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation

by Yakub Totanawala

  I went back to my book. The words “All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others” stabbed my heart. My teeth clenched and nostrils flared. I flipped the book, rubbed my chest, and stared at the grassy lawn.

  My head filled with thoughts again. How can one attain liberation from a trauma? How does one conquer the pain entwined with life and thrill the soul with joy? People I knew faked happiness. They sheltered deadly wounds within, which shredded their peace. What causes agony? What is our purpose on earth? Why do people behave the way they behave? These questions aggravated my breathing. My mouth dried up and my body stiffened. I swallowed the lump in my throat and sat in the meditation pose with my open palms resting on the knees.

  A whistle echoed in the garden at 7 pm, signalling closing time. Mothers waved and called back their children. People queued up to exit. I remained back along with a few other people scattered here and there. The chirping of night bugs and the croaking of frogs took over the park.

  I sighted the young man again. He crossed the lawn and plodded towards me, dragging a bulky polypropylene trash bag which made an irritating scraping sound. The wind tangled his hair, which hung like vines. As he neared, I noticed again his filthy clothes. The zip on his pants was damaged. Like a cheerful bird, he hopped near my bench. I stared into his deep and light brown eyes; they gleamed with confidence. He pulled up his trousers, smiled, and spoke.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Why are you sad?’ My shoulders slumped, and I leaned back. I turned my gaze towards the lawn. He leaned forward and asked, ‘Are you not happy, sir?’

  My legs stiffened, and I stared at him blankly. Why was an unknown man inquiring about my happiness? His unwanted intervention disturbed me, and he annoyed me further with his comments.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. Be happy.”

  I crossed my arms and turned my face away. He scampered towards a waste dustbin placed at the corner. People’s absence saved me from the embarrassment of advice by a rag picker. I gazed at the ground, and my body warmed. Why did he suggest that I not worry and be happy? How did he discover my unhappiness?

  And then I thought: how dare a vagabond guide a multimillionaire on happiness? My blood boiled. Had he addressed me in public, I would have thrashed him.

  I squinted at him. He checked the bin. Hah. He was waste-bottle collector. He would sell the used bottles to scrap merchants, who would trade them with vendors at the railway station. The shopkeepers would clean and refill the bottles with local tap water, seal them, and sell them as drinking water to the passengers. He found and dumped a few bottles into his plastic bag whistling a famous Hindi song— “Zindagi ek safar hai suhana” —Life is a wonderful journey. He covered the drum, adjusted his trousers and returned frolicking. I grabbed the bench armrest and put down my head. The stupid vagabond neared me and again hurled advice.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, be happy,’ and bounced away whistling the same song.

  I glared at his back as he exited the park. Was he challenging a forty-year-old millionaire’s wisdom? I visited Lalbagh for solace, but that rag picker had distressed me. I left for home burdened with shame.

  ***

  At home, I lie in my bed, with my jaws clenched and arms crossed over my chest. His comments bombard my mind, and I analyse the reasons. Yes. I do need peace and happiness. I need to heal the pain that I am carrying in my soul over my black deeds. I need redemption.

  Wealth gives me no satisfaction. I live in a spacious bungalow, but I am squeezed within. My majestic bed with a double cushioned mattress wraps me in like a cradle, but I don’t enjoy sleep. The collection of luxury watches, gold-plated and embedded with diamonds, shows I have no time for myself. I have visited beaches, jungles, mountains and magnificent places, but not myself. My mansion comprises a pool and a dedicated spa. A splendid waterfall features in my living room; I sit beside it and let the bubbles punch my face. I own a private island. But they don’t quench my thirst. I have access to the world’s most delicious foods, but my health restrains me from consuming them. My wealth can buy me what I desire, but my soul remains dissatisfied. I am at unrest. Physically, I suffer from blood pressure, diabetes and slipped disc. And mentally, I grieve over my dreadful sins.

  The unbearable burden of my past stifles me. It pushes me into a dark and traumatic world of guilt and repentance, which minces my heart and mind. I must free myself. I must break those shackles.

  The vagabond wanders into my mind’s black spot, wearing white and flashing his teeth. He has crushed a millionaire’s ego. I press my eyes to shut him out, but he frolics in my head. I curl up to sleep.

  Chapter—2

  In the Name of God!

  The next day, I woke up worried about happiness. That vagabond had penetrated inside my head and captured my attention. “Peace, peace,” screamed the male of the Hyacinth Macaw pair as they both fluttered inside the cage in my living room.

  Yes. I lived empty from within. But I was not born to chomp, gulp, squat, and reproduce. Creation has a deeper meaning, and I needed the answers. Since years, I have begged the Lord for relief from my chaos and guidance unto the right path. But how long should I pray for my freedom? Will God guide and liberate me, and if yes, how? How will I know if God supports me? The urge to conquer my pain has motivated my search for liberation.

  But first, I had to avenge my embarrassment. I took the insulin shot and finished my breakfast, and popped in the pills for back pain and blood pressure. I dressed up and rushed to Lalbagh to screw that vagabond. The scattered bottles raised my hopes, and I hunted for him. I waited all day and by 9 am, the park had the least visitors.

  I climbed the hillock near the Double Road gate entrance and stalked towards the opposite side. On my left, a teenage couple cuddled. A common sight there. The teenagers drop in to enjoy private moments, and many others visit to ogle at them. I proceeded and found him. He sat crouched down segregating empty bottles.

  A rage awoke inside me. ‘Hey, you,’ I shouted.

  He blinked and his eyes scanned me. My desperation forced me to lecture him.

  ‘You met me yesterday, right? You imparted your unwanted and senseless wisdom. Do you know who I am? Who are you to preach me happiness, huh? What do you know of happiness? What are your responsibilities? Do you have a family? A business? Bloody fool. I am 40 years old. Rascal, I succeeded after a long struggle, and do you value it?’ I paused and stepped closer, glaring at him. He closed his eyes, yawned and turned his gaze to the trees that grew in abundance in the garden. My blood boiled.

  ‘I wake up every morning with burdens. To shoulder my duties, I keep fit. I gobble my breakfast, keep abreast of the news and trends, attend office, and battle with business tensions. I find no time for meals during the day. But I never complain. This is life. Some days, I fret over low sales, and some days, I struggle to handle the excess. On certain days, I spend my energy to generate revenue, and on most days, I strive to recover my dues. I pay taxes to the government and bear bad debts. Besides, I tolerate inhuman beings and pathetic infrastructure. I suffer from high blood pressure, diabetes, and spondylitis. Do you know of spondylitis?’

  ‘Back pain,’ he said.

  ‘Hah. Unbearable pain...and it affects your entire body. The doctor advises me to rest, but I can’t because I must manage my family and work. From Monday to Saturday, I toil every week and spare time to attend my children’s school programs. On holidays too, I handle business emergencies, functions; or take my family for a dinner or an outing. My interests, my wishes, my needs, my rest, do not matter. Yet, I live this cumbersome lifestyle. I have earned wealth and success and command respect in society. And you fool; you advised me to be happy in life? How can you insult me? You bloody vagabond.’

  I clenched my fists to attack him. He rested his chin on his palm and gazed at me. My hectic life narration didn’t seem to have excited him? My desperation peaked and he uttered the most hurtful of words.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

 
I lifted my shoulders, tightened my fists harder, and pounded my thighs. I dashed towards him, grabbed his collar and pulled. It came away in my hand, jerking me backwards. A dog barked at me from far away. Breathing hard, I balanced myself and went and sat on a rock a few feet away. I glared at him for the humiliation and his attitude of devaluing my struggles. He stretched his neck and rolled his head to check his shirt. He smiled and said, 'Please give my collar back, sir.’

  I had torn out a vagabond’s collar who might have only one shirt. I glanced down, not able to meet his eyes. Taking the piece from me, he returned to his place, calm and composed. Like a tailor, he put the torn-piece around his neck and calculated its re-stitching. He flashed a smile and said, ‘Don’t worry, sir, be happy.’

  I held my head in my hands. To hell with happiness. How do I convince him of life’s difficulties?

  And then he said, ‘You asked about my life. Do you want to hear my story?’

  A wave of curiosity ran through me. Did he possess a happiness secret? If yes, I would learn. If not, I would make him respect my worth and satisfy my ego, a millionaire’s ego. What could be his story? Hah. Collect the garbage and sleep on the streets with no responsibilities. I stood up, dusted off my trousers, stretched my body and sat in line with him, but two feet away.

  ‘So, your life has a value, huh? And what is so interesting about it that I must listen to it?’ I realised my comment might have hurt him. If he avoided sharing, I would miss the opportunity.

  Quickly I said, ‘Well, I tore off your collar and so I must make amends. I’ll gift you a new shirt. And... also oblige you by listening to your narration. Else, you will consider me arrogant and egoistic.’

  I called up my office and informed my assistant. ‘In an important meeting. Do not disturb.’ I put my mobile on silent mode and took a deep breath. ‘Speak,’ I said. My skin tingled in anticipation.

  ***

  ‘6th December,’ he said, and paused.

  My heart thumped. Furrows formed on my forehead. Goosebumps replaced the tingling on my limbs. I straightened. ‘You mean the communal riots?’

  ‘Wait, let me be born first.’ He cackled. Oh fuck, I murmured. I released a loud and elongated sigh of relief and my body loosened.

  ‘I arrived in this world on 6th December 1988. Are you aware of the 1992 incident?’ he asked, and the furrows returned on my forehead. ‘The activists demolished the Babri Masjid at Ayodhya in Uttar Pradesh. Hindu-Muslim communal riots broke out.’

  ‘Yes, I remember... But why do you mention it?”

  He let out a deep breath and smiled. His honest and pure smile mocked me. It radiated his happiness, something I had never enjoyed. I waited for him to begin.

  ‘My parents skipped death that day,’ he said, and my heart thumped again. I squinted at him. The burden of a communal clash drooped my shoulders. ‘What happened?’ I asked, dreading the worst. He raised his head.

  ‘Nothing serious. Yet,’ he said. ‘We used to stay in Mumbai’s famous Dharavi slum area. Abbu worked as a construction labourer, and Ammi as a maid.’ He paused and rubbed his face. ‘Ammi had Typhoid fever when the country was burning in the communal clash and the city’s shutdown prevented medical help.’ A smile curved his lips. ‘What an irony. Our neighbour, an old Hindu woman, saved us. She fed Ammi home-made medicine and placed wet cloth pieces on her forehead. The situation tensed up as Hindu mobs roamed around killing Muslims. Abbu shifted Ammi to her house and laid her on a mat. Chaos ruled outside.’

  His narration disturbed me and slashed my heart. My pulse rose as I visualised the scene. Yes, I could visualise it because I too had a dark secret that haunted me till date.

  ‘To safeguard us,’ he continued, ‘the old lady wrapped Ammi with a shawl. She then rushed into the kitchen. From a steel container, she took a pinch of red powder and applied it vertically at the centre of Abbu’s forehead. Two old iron trunks lay in a corner. She opened one, removed a red cotton thread and knotted it on his wrist. From the other, she pulled out a saffron ribbon and tied it around his head. Abbu became a hybrid of Hindu and Muslim. A saffron strip, a tilak, and a sacred string made him a Hindu. But his henna-coloured beard, shaved moustache, and eyes lined with kajal defended his reality. Unconvinced, she placed Lord Rama’s idol on a cloth piece opposite to the door and handed him a small golden bell.

  “Remove your shirt and sit facing the deity,” she said. Abbu sat with his legs crossed. “Close your eyes and ring the bell, and don’t turn back. Do it for your wife and child,” she said. He obeyed.

  ‘A knock at the door was followed by a few harder ones.

  “Open the door,” a voice screamed from the other side.

  ‘The woman panicked. She opened the door a bit and peeped out. “What do you want?” she asked to the group of men that stood at her door.

  “Who are you, lady?” asked one of the men. He pushed the half-open door and dashed inside.

  “Hey, how dare you come into my house?”

  ‘The man with a similar saffron band draped on his head glanced around. The pictures of Hindu Gods and my Abbu worshipping, soothed him. He loosened his stiff body and exhaled a breath.

  “What’s your name? Are you a Hindu?” he asked.

  “Yes. My name is Raksha. But what’s the problem?”

  “We have demolished the Babri Masjid at Ayodhya and will build a Ram Temple there. We’ll kill all Muslims. You stay inside,” he said. “Hindu,” he informed his group, and they left.

  ‘The gang stormed to our hut and banged on our door. Raksha Aunty shut the door of her house and rushed outside. They stood outside shrieking.

  “Open the door.”

  ‘Not receiving any response, the mob barged in. The picture frames with Arabic words enraged them. They snarled, lifted their shoulders and yelled “Jay Shree Ram.” The men ransacked our home. After collecting the useful articles, they splashed fuel all over. Raksha Aunty raced towards them.

  “Hey, stop. Don’t torch it,” she said.

  “It’s a Muslim house.”

  “My hut will catch fire, too. Please leave it.”

  “Your house is at a safe distance. Don’t worry,” said a man. “Torch it,” he ordered his group.

  “No, please wait. You have taken the valuables. Please don’t burn the house, at least.”

  ‘Her concern raised suspicion.

  “Why are you defending this hut? Where are the occupants? Are they hiding in your home?” someone asked.

  ‘Raksha Aunty frowned. And a fellow barged into her home. She ran back, and five more men raced behind her.

  “He is my son. Nobody else is here.”

  ‘The guy approached my Abbu. Sensing the danger, he joined his palms and bowed in front of the idol, covering his face with his arms. “Jay Shree Ram, Jay Shree Ram,” he pronounced their favourite verses. Hope flooded Raksha Aunty. Her face twinkled.

  “See, I told you we are Hindu. Please leave us.”

  ‘The mob relented and left. The rioters burnt our hut. They moved around and butchered Muslims, looted their valuables, and burnt their houses.

  ‘We survived the 1992 riots because of Raksha Aunty. We had lost everything. But Raksha Aunty helped us. We stayed at her house, and she arranged a pair of clothes. I had the least covering: a langot—a cotton cloth tied with a thread on my waist to cover my boyhood.

  ‘But the attack shattered my parents. Abbu, considering our safety, took a tough decision. His elder brother, Salman, lived in Ahmedabad. He discussed our difficulties with him. My Chacha invited him to Ahmedabad.

  ‘My Dadaji, Raheem, belonged to Siddhpur, a town near Patan, in North Gujarat. Raheemdada supplied water to houses at a nominal cost. Carrying 40 litres of water in a leather sheath on his shoulder, he would scurry in the scorching sun to deliver it. His two daughters were married in other cities, and two sons supported him in his job.

  ‘In 1985, Raheemdada died. Salman Chacha took care of my father as his own son. Salman Chacha’s cla
ssmate who plied an auto-rickshaw called him to Ahmedabad. Chacha took my Abbu and shifted there and began driving an auto-rickshaw too.

  ‘My Abbu’s friend, who worked as a construction labourer in Mumbai, invited him to join him. After two years of labour, my Abbu’s employer bought him a shanty in the Dharavi slum. In February 1988, Abbu married Amena, a labourer at the same site. And they brought me into this world on 6th December 1988, and named me Zaheer. We lived joyfully till the 1992 riots shook up our lives.

  ‘And now we were going back to Ahmedabad. But we waited for Ammi to recover and for Abbu to collect his wages and also for the riots to subside.

  ‘On 30th December 1992, we shifted from Mumbai to Ahmedabad. In search of peace, in our own country.

  ‘My parents cried out and thanked Raksha Aunty with folded hands. The Hindu lady blessed us with teary eyes and bid us farewell at the railway station. We left by the late evening train. The crowd pounced on the unreserved coach, and Abbu grabbed one seat. The bogie was so worn-out, it seemed to suffer from arthritis, Parkinson’s and every old-age ailment you could imagine. Ammi took me in her arms and slept like the dead on that berth while Abbu drowsed on the floor.

  ‘The next morning, we reached Ahmedabad. Salman Chacha came with his seven-year-old son, Javed, to receive us. When we stepped down from the train, Chacha hurried towards us.

  “Saleem,” he cried out in a choked voice.

  ‘Both the brothers hugged and bawled like children. Ammi wept too, holding me in her arms. Javed crept towards my mother. She hugged and pecked him on his cheeks. When my Chacha saw me, he dropped to his knees and held out his arms. Ammi nudged me, and I went into his arms. He showered a dozen kisses on me, embraced me and sobbed.