by Keya Ghosh
That makes her fall silent. She hastily looks away. We both try our best not to look at each other. Harish is listening to us avidly.
‘Me too, dude, me too!’ says Harish. He looks expectantly from her to me.
‘What?’ asks Diya.
‘You’re not going to kiss him?’ asks Harish. ‘He just risked his life for you.’
That idiot is trying to play cupid. He couldn’t have picked a worse time. I glare at him.
Diya snaps, ‘No, I am not!’
‘Stop it, Harish,’ I say. ‘Please forget it!’
‘Forget it?! I’m going to die a virgin. Unkissed. Un-anythinged. This is a really good time for a girl to have pity on a guy.’ He looks pleadingly at Diya. ‘I mean. You would be very kind.’
Diya stares at him in a kind of angry frustration. Then, unexpectedly, she begins to laugh. ‘Forget it, dude!’
I also start laughing. I know neither of us are laughing because it’s funny. We’re laughing because there is nothing else left to do.
Harish doesn’t laugh. ‘This is a bad way to die!’ he says earnestly.
The TV anchor is speaking. All our heads snap towards the screen. The change in tone is so obvious. ‘There has been a special communication from the Prime Minister’s Office.’
She reads out a long official statement. They are going to give Salim his plane. They are going to let him get away with it.
Harish leaps up and punches the air. ‘Way to go, PM!’ he shouts.
The rest of us just sit there blankly. I think we’re all too numb to even react.
I’m going to live. Longer than one hour. I’m going to live.
Diya
There’s a chance we might get out of here alive. Salim is getting what he asked for. There will be no more killings. Malini begins thanking God loudly. I sit there, numb. I can’t wrap my head around going back out of those doors. I’m not sure I want to. As long as we are here, held hostage, in this bubble, life has become simple. We are just surviving one moment at a time. There is no future worth thinking of. But now I have to think about what’s next. And I can’t do that. In the real world, you can’t play pretend.
Strangely, the news doesn’t make Mr Bhonsle happy.
‘Why are they giving in? They will end up ruining this country. Terrorists will think they can get away with anything. Bah,’ he mutters.
Malini turns on him. ‘Don’t you want to go home? What is wrong with you?’
‘I care for my country, madam,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to watch it slide into chaos.’
‘They were going to kill us, and now we are going to live,’ she says.
‘I’m perfectly willing to die, madam,’ says Mr Bhonsle. ‘Better I die than the country opens the door for every man with a gun to make demands and kill innocent people.’
Who would have expected that old man to be a patriot? In that moment, he stops being a pathetic drunk and I can see the young schoolmaster filled with ideals.
‘I’m going to eat my three chocolate bars in celebration,’ says Harish happily.
But he hasn’t made it through the second bar before everything changes again.
The TV begins airing images of a candlelight vigil outside the chief minister’s bungalow. The people who have gathered are the relatives of those who had died in the train blast. They are demanding that Salim not be allowed to walk free, and are threatening to march to the mall. All kinds of organizations are announcing they will join them. Hundreds have already gathered behind the police barricades at the mall. More outraged reactions are pouring in from across the country.
Then Bhai Thakur comes on. He is spouting off at a massive rally where everyone is wearing black armbands. ‘This is a government that is weak. That allows terrorists to get away. But we will teach them that there is no place for them in this country. We will send them back to where they came from. We will give them a plane, all right. One to put their dead bodies in. We will send the dead terrorists back across the border.’
The anchor comes back on the screen. ‘We have a special bulletin. Some unforeseen complications seem to have arisen.’
The Directorate General of Civil Aviation has refused to give permission for the flight to take off without the filing of a proper flight plan, demanding to know who will be flying the plane. They will not let an unqualified pilot off the ground.
We sit there in shock. No. Not again. When we had finally begun to hope.
‘Who is this DGCA chief?’ says Harish. ‘What is his problem? If the guy can’t fly the plane and crashes with all the terrorists on board, it will be perfect, won’t it?’
Kabir
The phones ring all together again, making us jump. Official communication. At last. Salim storms into the room and picks up one of the instruments. He never gives whoever it is at the other end a chance to speak.
‘I don’t want to hear anything. I don’t want to hear the word complication. You now have twenty-three minutes. And then I kill someone else. After that I will kill two hostages every hour. Do you hear me?’ He slams the phone down.
Twenty-three minutes.
Salim storms up and down the room, screaming. ‘They think I am a fool! They think they can play me! They think they can put me back in their stinking jails. I will not go. I will kill every single hostage. And then I will take this entire place with me.’
We can see his men moving around the mall with stuff. They’ve pulled it out of their backpacks. Wires and some bricks of brown stuff. I know what it is. I’ve practised setting a bomb like that myself.
Salim turns to one of his men. ‘Have you placed the explosives?’
‘Yes,’ says the man.
‘Good. We have enough to give them a new Diwali.’
He turns to where we all sit, cringing. His voice changes and becomes the fervent tones of a priest. ‘Tonight, we die. I have nothing to fear. My conscience is clear. I have done the work of God. Pray now for forgiveness all of you. Go to God clean and new.’
Everybody begins to pray. Some loudly. Some softly. The irony of it is that the terrorists pray as well. All of them praying at cross purposes. Who is God to listen to? I say no prayers. There is no God I can believe in.
Twenty minutes.
Harish’s eyes keep sliding nervously to me. Even Diya constantly glances in my direction. They both know what Salim had said. I’m next.
If I believed in God, if I could have asked for something, I would have asked for forgiveness. But I know I can never be forgiven. The best I can do is atone for all that I’ve done.
There’s one last thing I have to do. One promise I have to keep. The letter still lies against my heart. It’s not sealed. I know what it says. I have read it again and again as I made my long way to her. Now it’s time to hand it over.
I tap Diya on the shoulder. She turns and looks at me. I put the letter in her hand.
‘What is this?’ she asks.
‘It’s a letter. You need to have it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think this is the end. We’re out of time. I know that I am next.’
She starts to shake her head and then stops. There’s no point lying. She looks down at the letter. Before she can speak, Salim does. He’s lost his patience.
‘Come on, come on! Let’s go. I want to send a message ahead of schedule. Come on, Majnu.’
Nineteen minutes.
I look away from Diya. If I see her, I won’t be able to keep pretending I’m brave. I take a deep breath and get ready to stand. I hope my knees don’t shake.
Jhansi ki Rani stands up. ‘Shoot me,’ she says.
Diya
That old lady. I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone like her again. Standing there all calm, as if what she’s doing is nothing special. ‘My duty is done,’ she says. The security guard is unmoving at her feet. He has finally slipped into death.
‘It’s not your turn,’ says Salim. ‘Sit down.’
‘Oh yes, it is,’ says Sha
rmila. ‘I’ve been waiting to die for a while now. I think a bullet is better than a hospital bed.’
‘Not you,’ says Salim, turning to Kabir. ‘You, boy! Get on your feet.’
Kabir stands up.
‘Are you getting picky now about who you kill?’ says Sharmila. ‘I thought anyone would do. I’m anyone.’
‘You’re starting to irritate me, old woman,’ says Salim.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Only one sure way to stop me.’
‘Shut up!’ shouts Salim.
‘Go on, make your mother proud,’ says Sharmila. ‘Let her see you kill defenceless old women live on TV. Is she proud of all the widows you have made? Does she keep a count of the children?’
Salim loses it. ‘Fine! Get out there, buddhi,’ he says. ‘I’ll be glad when your mouth is shut.’
‘No,’ says Kabir, speaking suddenly. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Sit down, boy,’ says Sharmila.
‘No—,’ says Kabir, starting forward. Two of the terrorists grab him. He tries to struggle out of their grip.
Sharmila looks at him. ‘Look after my dogs,’ she says. ‘42 Uppal Street. Matunga.’
‘You can’t do this! No!’
The terrorists are struggling to hold on to Kabir. One of them elbows him in the gut. He folds, but he won’t stop trying to get away from them.
Sharmila walks to the door. She pauses there and smiles at us. ‘Goodbye. I wish we had met under different circumstances. You seem like an interesting lot of people. I hope you survive this. If you do, live good lives.’
And with that, she walks out of the doors, her head held high.
‘NO!’ shouts Kabir. ‘You can’t do that!’ He is almost weeping. A terrorist clubs him on the side of the head with his weapon. He falls into a stunned silence.
‘Shut up and sit down,’ says the terrorist, shoving Kabir with the butt of his gun.
Harish jumps up and grabs Kabir, forcing him to sit. Everybody turns to the bank of screens.
Kabir
We watch it on TV. That wonderful old woman in her kurta that is torn to strips. Stained with the blood of the dying man she had comforted. She steps out into the glare of the lights and cameras and stands there calmly. Waiting.
She falls with one bullet and does not move. She has died in my place.
How do you react to that?
I weep. I weep bitter, angry tears. Tears because I don’t deserve it. Tears because someone has done something for me that I could never have imagined. Tears because I’m still alive and there’s nothing for me to live for.
I don’t even know when she slips her hand in mine. I look down and see I’m holding her hand. I look at our two hands intertwined. Then, gently, I put her hand away.
‘I gave you a letter,’ I say. ‘That letter was for you.’
‘A letter for me? You just met me.’ She is puzzled.
‘Yes. I promised I would get it to you. That is why I was following you.’
Her eyes become wary. ‘From whom? What letter?’
‘From Aman,’ I say, watching for her reaction.
For a moment, she looks numb. Then she whispers the name. ‘Aman.’
Her face lights up. ‘Where is he? How is he?’ She fumbles for the letter in her pocket. I lean over and hold her by the wrist before she can open it. I can feel the little vein in her wrist fluttering fast.
‘I have to tell you about Aman first.’
She freezes. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘Yes.’
She stares at me with frightened eyes. ‘Who are you?’ she whispers.
I have no choice. I tell her the truth.
‘Aman is dead. And I’m the person who got him killed,’ I say.
Kabir
Growing up, I didn’t dream of becoming a freedom fighter. I dreamed of being the best batsman in India.
I was mad about cricket. I would be out of the house by early morning and return late in the evening, my hands sore from gripping a bat. I bunked school, broke curfews and ran away from home if I was forbidden from playing. My parents got tired of shouting at me, searching for me.
My brother always knew where to find me. He was the only one patient enough to fetch me home, make me eat and make me do my homework. He was ten years older and had a job at the local printing press. On the rare day that he had a holiday, he would join me on the cricket field. Together we would play, plan and dream. ‘You have real talent,’ he would tell me. ‘Don’t stop playing. You could play for India one day, Afzal. Imagine that!’
I dared to imagine playing for India. It was a forbidden dream, because around me the valley burnt with hatred. Young boys fought pitched battles with the police, matching bullets with stones. Everywhere there was talk of ‘aazadi’ for Kashmir. And I was dreaming of playing for India.
We were playing cricket one day when the world changed. My brother hadn’t wanted to come along. He was tired. But I insisted. Finally, he got on his cycle, and I climbed up behind him. I had been practising, and I couldn’t wait to show him my next shot.
The minute the ball touched the bat, I knew I had got it right. It was there in the crisp sound, in the way it flew off the bat. It was a six. I knew it even while the ball was in the air, and I began jumping in excitement.
At the far end of the field was a dusty path that cut across it. A jeep was driving past, and the ball headed straight for it, smashing through the windscreen. The driver lost control and the jeep swerved and rolled, spilling out the occupants. It was an army jeep. Two other jeeps behind it swerved madly to avoid a collision. Men in khaki began to emerge from those jeeps and run towards the accident.
My brother grabbed the bat from my hand. ‘Run!’ he said. ‘RUN!’
I ran.
The army men took him away. The incident was described in the papers as terrorists attacking a military convoy. ‘A young militant trained in Pakistan’ had been caught.
My parents went begging from door to door. They spoke to everyone of influence they knew. My mother waited patiently outside the army camp for days, requesting anyone who came to the gates to give her news of her son. It was five days before we could even find out where he was being held.
They refused to return him to us. The charges had been made. He had simply crossed the fine line that kept ordinary Kashmiris from the chaos. He was now a ‘suspected militant’, and that is what he would stay for the next three years until they sent him back to us.
No one said a word to me but I knew it was my fault. I had changed everything. Most of all, my brother. When he returned, it was a stranger that the army jeep dropped off on the path in front of our house—three years after they had taken him. A stranger who stood hunched and hesitant outside the door. A stranger who cringed away from my mother’s kisses, my embraces.
My mother insisted on a celebration. My father tried to stop her, but she would not listen. All the women from the neighbouring houses came to help. It was a proper Kashmiri wazwan, hours in the making. But when the relatives and friends began arriving, the stranger who wore my brother’s face and clothes became angry. He emerged from the room he had shut himself in to stand there, stick-thin and furious. ‘What are we celebrating?’ he shouted. ‘What is there to celebrate? That they sent me back? What about the three years they stole from me? What about what they did to me in those three years?’
My father tried to talk to him and calm him down. My brother went into his room and slammed the door.
‘Let him be,’ said my father. ‘It will take time.’
I stood outside the door and begged. ‘Bhaijaan, please open the door. Please eat something.’ What I was really saying was ‘please forgive me’. Forgive me for everything. Forgive me for the nights my mother wept, stifling her sobs in her razai. Forgive me for my father’s stony silence, his blank eyes. Forgive me for the look on my mother’s face as she stood day after day outside the jail walls. Forgive me for the way my father grovelled in front of people, begg
ing, begging for his son’s life. Forgive me for that moment I handed my brother the cricket bat and made him give me three years of his life in return. Forgive me. I would take it all back if I could.
Late in the night, after all the guests had left, he finally opened the door and seized both my shoulders with strong hands. ‘You will never play for India,’ he said. ‘You will play for Kashmir one day. For aazad Kashmir.’
The seventh day after he was back, my brother took the path into the woods. It was the path taken by the angry men. The Mattoos’s son had done it two years ago after a lathi charge smashed his shin and left him with a permanent limp. Two other boys from the colony had walked away one summer. My brother left on a full-moon night, the path silver in the dark.
My parents didn’t say a word when they woke up to find him missing. I think they knew it was coming. They never mentioned him again. It was as if he had never existed in the story of our family. The photographs of him vanished from the album. His clothes vanished from the cupboard. Only the tears remained. The secret tears my mother wept late at night. The defeated hunch of my father’s shoulders.
My brother had gone, but he left me his anger. I began to look around me and see what he saw. The injustice. The callousness. The everyday humiliation. The cringing, suffocating lives we all lived. The fear that misted in every breath. My ears filled with his words. How does a man live with someone’s foot on his neck? Is justice to be a fancy word written on paper, or will we make it with our own hands, our blood?
I stayed with my parents for a year. But in the end, even I took the path into the woods. My brother was waiting under the trees. He embraced me and whispered, ‘We will have a new life now. We will have new dreams. You will be part of them.’ I was fourteen years old. My brother was twenty-four. And we were both ready to lay down our lives for our dream.
The first time I saw Aman, he was shaking. His mouth was sealed with tape, his eyes were blindfolded, and he was shivering from the cold. His legs had been tied together so tightly with rope that it would be a couple of hours before he could even try to stand again.