by Keya Ghosh
Behind us, the television screens continue to flash their never-ending story. We ignore them for just a little while.
Harish comes up to me. ‘Introduce me to the girl,’ he says.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘What a stupid question!’ he says. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘I thought you were getting ready to die,’ I say.
‘I’m still alive,’ he says. ‘Not dead yet.’
So, I introduce them. ‘This is my friend, Harish. He wanted to meet you.’
‘You can call me Harry H.’
‘What?’
‘That’s my stage name. I’m going to be a deejay. Soon.’
That guy is so full of shit. From being terrified to chatting up a girl. Crazy what a full stomach can do to people. I think everyone there is pretending that this is going to have a happy ending. That they are all right and everything is going to be fine. But I’ve done my own share of pretending. Who am I to judge them?
Diya
We all sit down to eat together. It feels like a picnic. Kabir’s friend Harish is really funny. ‘So, you shop here often?’ he says.
‘Not any more,’ I say. ‘I’m planning to give my loyalty card back.’
‘Maybe they have hostage situation bonus points. For every hour you get a zillion.’
Harish eats like this is his last meal. I understand why. In between hasty bites, he tries to find out everything he can about me.
‘So, are you an only child?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Which college?’ I tell him. Kabir stays silent through our conversation.
‘Hey, I saw you at the last festival,’ he says. ‘That’s why you looked familiar. You were singing!’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Hey, you were good!’ he says. ‘You were great. You could have a whole career. Win Indian Idol, you were that good. You came out there and you rocked it!’
I don’t reply. I can’t say a word without crying. His words have suddenly brought back that night in vivid detail. The crowd in front of us throbbing with noise. Me, so nervous that the mike was vibrating in my hand. Then a sudden touch on my shoulder. I knew that touch. It steadied me. Gave me courage. Made me suddenly feel like I was breathing in air and breathing out light.
Aman.
‘Hey,’ says Harish. ‘What is it? What did I say?’
Kabir
Bastard. He’s stealing my jokes. Chatting up the girl. Even managing to make her smile. Then he talks about her singing and suddenly she is sad. Harish tries very hard to get her back into the conversation, but she is far away, lost in some memories that make her keep blinking back tears. She uses her hair as a curtain to hide her face. That beautiful hair. I want to reach out and run my fingers gently through it.
Harish tries his desperate best, but it is only when we hit the chocolate that Diya begins to talk again.
‘What I can’t understand is why nobody is doing anything,’ says Harish. ‘I mean, where is the army? Where are the Black Cat commandos?’
‘Guarding some doddering old politician,’ I say.
‘Man, someone has to do something!’ he says.
‘They should have done it a long time ago,’ I say. ‘If you let injustice lie until people are willing to pick up guns to get what they want, then you’ve let it lie too long.’
‘Injustice? They’re terrorists, man!’
‘But they have a point. Their temple was pulled down.’
Harish is furious. ‘But they blew up things in retaliation, didn’t they? Bomb blasts across Mumbai. In trains.’
‘And in other places, riots happened in which the police stood by doing nothing. Mobs went in search of Muslims with lists in their hands.’
‘They blew up the twin towers, man!’
‘Stop it, you two!’ says Diya suddenly, furious. ‘Stop it. If you try to figure out who started it you’ll have to go back to the beginning of time. One injustice does not justify another. Everyone has done unjust things to each other. Everyone has killed. There is nothing you can do about the past. You can only decide what you are going to do about it today.’
Harish and I are silent. She is so angry, but she makes so much sense.
‘What can we do about it, man?’ says Harish. ‘It’s all political.’
‘Yes,’ says Diya. ‘A lot of it is political. A lot of it is manipulation and manufactured. Yes, politicians and religious leaders use it all.’ Her voice turned to contempt. ‘But we let it happen. It’s people like us who believe things without checking the facts. Who turn a blind eye when bad things happen. Who don’t stand up and say—this is wrong!’
‘Come on. We can’t change anything,’ says Harish.
Diya speaks softly, but her voice is filled with feeling. ‘I used to think like that. Until Sharmila made me promise.’ Her eyes go the old lady bent over the dying man.
‘I’ve been thinking about what I can do. And I think there are many times when you can stand up and say—this is wrong. That’s where it starts from. From ordinary people who are sick of all the hate taking a simple stand. Writing to newspapers. Stopping someone from saying ugly things. Just saying to someone, “No, that is wrong”. I think that’s where we start from. From us. From each one of us.’
She suddenly realizes she has the attention of the whole group. Everyone has stopped eating and is staring at her. She shrugs and quickly looks down, letting her hair fall across her face. She uses that hair like a curtain. To shut herself off from the world.
Diya
Dinner over, I keep Manu quiet by making him draw. We settle down with paper and crayons, and Kabir joins us. I slide a piece of paper and some crayons over to him. He fiddles a bit, but then begins scribbling away on his piece of paper just as enthusiastically as Manu. But while Manu draws men with guns, Kabir draws a forest, deep in snow, with a little space in the middle.
‘What’s that?’ Manu wants to know.
‘It’s a house in a forest,’ says Kabir.
Manu turns out to be an art critic. ‘That’s not a house,’ he says. ‘It’s just a square in the middle of a white field.’
‘It is a house,’ Kabir insists.
‘It’s got no roof.’
‘That’s so that you can see the stars.’
‘It’s got no windows.’
‘That’s so that the wind can come in.’
‘It’s got no door.’
‘So nobody needs to knock. Everyone is welcome. Always.’
I think about that. A house far away in the whiteness of snow. Where there is a roof of stars and where everyone is welcome. I would like that.
Manu looks at Kabir’s artwork again. ‘I like it. What is your house called?’
‘I call it a House of Stars,’ he says, signing it.
‘I’d like to live in a house like that,’ I say.
Kabir smiles and hands me the drawing. He has signed it ‘Afzal’.
Kabir
As far as good moments go in a really lousy situation, this is perfect. She smiling at me. Me smiling back. Then Mr Bhonsle screws it up.
He gets to his feet with a great snort. He is swaying.
‘This should not be happening,’ he announces loudly. ‘This should not be happening in a democracy.’
If he was mad earlier, now he is just furious. I shouldn’t have given that old man his bottle. He’s dead drunk.
He puts the bottle down with a bang. ‘I only came in here for some thank-you cards,’ he says. ‘Why should I be a hostage? This has nothing to do with me.’
‘Sit down,’ I tell the old man. ‘You’ll screw it up for all of us.’
‘Thank-you cards,’ he says. ‘I was supposed to retire today. I didn’t want to retire. They asked me to. Told me it was time.’
Harish tries to hush him. The old man just gets louder and more angry. ‘And then they bought me a clock. The perfect gift. It’s time. You’re old and useless. It’s time!’
The old man staggers f
orward a few steps. We try to hold him back but he’s surprisingly strong, pushing away our hands. He shouts. Years of talking over the chatter of bored students have given him a voice of great power. A schoolteacher’s voice.
‘They got rid of me. And what did I do? I bought a bunch of envelopes to put thank-you cards in.’
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bunch of small envelopes. He flings them into the air. They rain down on us like confetti. He stands there in the rain of envelopes and laughs.
‘Thank you, Mr Bhonsle. Thank you for giving your whole life to teaching bored students who didn’t care. Thank you for holding the best attendance record among the teachers. Thank you for standing up in front of the class and hearing them all giggle at the last desk.’
‘Enough, teacher,’ says one of the two terrorists guarding us. ‘Shut up and sit down.’ They are watching him with amusement. I guess a full stomach has made them feel better as well.
‘I will not shut up!’ says Mr Bhonsle, incensed. ‘I have the right to speak. Article 19 of the Constitution gives it to me as a Fundamental Right. I will not shut up.’ He points at the terrorists. ‘And you—you are illegal. There is no place for you in our Constitution. India is a secular republic. Secular! Do you even know what that means? No difference between one religion and another. You are illegal and the law shall deal with you.’
‘They have to catch us first,’ says one of the men, grinning.
‘We have the finest laws in the world. Do you know that? The very finest Constitution. But we are a nation of lawless people. A nation that has no civic sense. A nation where any man who has a gun thinks he can get away with anything.’
No prizes for guessing that the old man teaches political science. He wags a finger at us. ‘Laws are only as good as the people appointed to enforce them. What’s the point of having the world’s best laws if we have the world’s most corrupt guardians?’
‘But you know what the real problem is?’ he continues, standing there swaying from side to side. ‘The problem is not that our lawmakers are corrupt. The problem is not that the police are corrupt. The problem is not that our administrators are corrupt. The problem is that we are corrupt.’ His shaking hand points at us, one by one.
‘You want something done? You look for a person of influence. You want something done fast, you pay.’
He laughs. ‘Oh, we complain about the state of things. Then we look for the shortest, easiest way to get things done—and damn the law.’
The terrorists are still smiling and enjoying the show. ‘Masterji, the bell has rung. Sit down,’ says one of them. He comes over and points his gun at Mr Bhonsle, smiling all the while.
Mr Bhonsle seems to suddenly run out of indignation. ‘And so, class, let me end the lesson by saying, there is no hope for this nation. You and I are what is wrong with it. Jai Hind!’ He sits down abruptly. So abruptly that his feet give way and he sprawls on the ground. Then he just turns over and falls asleep.
I lie there thinking about what he has said. I think about the promise I made to Sharmila to try and change the world. This is a crap world to try and change. The old people have screwed it up well and good.
As if to emphasize how screwed up the world is, the image of Bhai Thakur flashes on screen. He is addressing a massive rally. ‘Will we let someone hold a gun to the head of Mother India? To take her hostage? Bharat Mata is in danger. It is time for us to rise.’
I don’t know what makes him think Bharat Mata belongs exclusively to him and his gang. Hindus aren’t the only ones who belong here. We’ve got Christians, Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists, Muslims—a whole rainbow of religions. All of whom are born and who live on this soil. What does our religion have to do with the love we have for the place we call home? We love the land we are born on. Rabble-rousing idiot. He is a terrorist in his own way.
I turn to look at Diya. She’s staring at the screen with a peculiar expression. I think it’s hatred. Then she drops her head and her hair hides her face.
The letter is still in my pocket. I can feel it heavy against my heart. Give it to her. Get it over with. I hesitate. Against all odds, I have grabbed a few moments with her and it has made me greedy. I want just a few more. Just a little more time before it runs out for both of us.
Harish eases his weight down beside me. ‘I am so never going on a diet again. Food is so like God. It is God!’
‘You’ve been blessed pretty heavily by God in that case,’ I say.
‘I’ve got three slabs of chocolate in my pocket. I want to eat them, but I know I’m going to be sick. But I definitely want to eat them soon. I don’t want to die thinking there was chocolate in my pocket and I never ate it. I don’t want to die with regrets.’
I laugh. Harish opens a button on his pants to accommodate his bulging stomach and says, ‘So, do you have any regrets?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Stuff that you thought you’d do. But which you won’t now. Like getting married, having kids and stuff.’
‘I never thought I would live long enough to get married and have kids and stuff.’
‘You are seriously weird, dude,’ says Harish. ‘How long have you been walking around with a death wish?’
I shrug. He is silent for a while, then he speaks again. ‘Falling in love. I’d like to know what that is all about.’
I say nothing.
‘I mean, how do you know that you’re in love? Right now, any girl sits next to me, my heart starts beating faster. You should have heard it during dinner when Diya was sitting with us. I thought I was going to have a heart attack and die.’
‘I thought you were going to have a heart attack too, from how much you were eating.’
‘I mean,’ says Harish, ‘I could be in love with Diya. But is it her, or just any girl? So how do you know a girl is really the one?’
‘You know,’ I say. ‘You just know.’
‘And then what? You’re happy! You’re in heaven. You’re willing to die for her!’ His expression becomes worried. ‘What if she’s not into you, dude? What if she can’t stand you?’
‘That doesn’t stop you from loving her. Love comes. And all you can do is accept it.’
‘But dude—it must hurt.’
‘Better to have loved and hurt than not know what it is at all.’ My eyes are on her as I speak.
Harish looks at me. Then at her. Comprehension dawns on his face. ‘It’s her. You’re in love with her!’
I look away and shrug like it isn’t true. But Harish is all over me. ‘Lucky bastard! What are the odds of that? You meet when your lives are in danger. And you find love!’
‘At least keep your damn voice down!’ I hiss.
He looks at me seriously. ‘You know we might die, right? This might not be the best time to fall in love.’
‘What better time could there be?’ I say. ‘At least I know what it’s like before I die.’
‘Bastard,’ he says. He looks across to where Diya is sitting. ‘She tries to hide it, but she just looks sad all the time.’
For a guy who nearly got shot for not paying attention, he does pay quite a bit of attention.
After that conversation, he is impossible. He keeps darting looks between Diya and me. He stays glued to any conversation at all that we have. If she says, ‘pass the water’, Harish shoots upright and watches us avidly.
I can’t give her the letter with him watching my every move.
Idiot.
Diya
Manu won’t go to sleep. He insists that I tell him a bedtime story. ‘But I don’t want one with a hero in it,’ he says.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s all lies. No hero comes to save you. Not Salman. Not Shahrukh, not Maharana Pratap, not Chhota Bheem, not anyone!’
‘How do you know?’ I say. ‘We’re just at the wrong part of our story. We’re at the part that is all scary, and it looks like the bad guys are winning and no one is going to help. But the story isn’t ov
er yet. Picture abhi baaki hai, yaar.’
‘Do you think someone will come?’
‘Of course,’ I say, lying.
‘You think it will be my papa?’
‘I bet right this minute your papa is making a really great plan to save you. He is with the police, and they are thinking up a really good plan.’
‘When will he come?’
‘Close your eyes and go to sleep. When you open them, he might be here.’
He finally closes his eyes and is fast asleep in a minute.
Kabir is watching me. He watches me a lot. I wish he would stop. It makes me uncomfortable. It feels like he can see things that I don’t want people to see with those grey eyes of his. He’s a strange boy. I can’t understand him. I only know that he kind of makes me feel safe.
Kabir speaks quietly, trying not to wake Manu. ‘What are you going to tell him when he wakes up and there’s no sign of his dad?’
‘He needs something to believe in. We all do.’
Kabir shrugs. ‘There are no rescues coming.’ There is bitterness in his voice. ‘There are no heroes. There never have been. You just think there are, until you get to know people a little bit better.’
I don’t even know if I want to be rescued any more. It’s so peaceful to be just stuck here in this time. Not to have to think about tomorrow, or the rest of your life and wonder whether you would get married, be happy, be content. Tomorrow might just not exist. It’s terrifying, but also kind of freeing.
‘We should rest,’ I say.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he says. ‘You want to talk for a while?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘About you. I think you should tell me who you really are,’ I say softly.
Kabir freezes. He just sits there, not moving. I watch his eyes to see if he is lying. ‘You keep watching me. You knew I liked bubblegum. Who told you that? Who are you?’