The Assassin's Song (45 page)

Bapu-ji was completely astonished. “
You
say this, Madhu?” he told her. “You know there is no choice in the matter. This is our parampara, it has been going on for centuries! … You would want me to stop it?”

“To hell with your parampara!”

Her mood improved with my first letters and as she started learning to read and write. But she simply didn't have the confidence to begin a letter to her learned son in America, even a small letter, while her husband could write reams expressing concern and advice. Meanwhile she accused Bapuji of making lustful eyes at Shilpa. And Shilpa of seducing her husband. Her language would turn vulgar. She would shriek when she became abusive. “And don't think you are above it all! I know what you are capable of !—couldn't keep his hands off me, the lecher—even after he was Saheb!”

As a remedy she began visiting a few holy places in the area, sometimes taking Mansoor with her, at other times travelling with groups of women pilgrims. Her condition improved, she became normal for a few weeks. And then would come the unbearable depression, and the weeping and the outbursts.

At about this time Bapu-ji tried to recall me. With a one-way ticket. He could not believe that I would refuse his call, or not return to see my sick mother, whatever the cost. I proved him wrong; but here I am.

One day a young man came with his mother to Pirbaag. The woman suffered from migraines, for which she had visited many holy men and paid homage at many shrines. She had heard of this one from her son, who was studying in America and had met the Saheb's son. He brought news from Karsan, who was doing very well but was worried about his mother. Ma was brought and met the woman and her son. They handed out the chocolates I had sent. And the woman went away happy and cured—as her son had informed me. It was a day when Ma was feeling especially well; the visitors had raised her spirits even more. And I, a world away, was satisfied there was nothing wrong with my mother.

But immediately after, she went into a depression. Then that final outburst took place, when she came out in her burqa to humiliate my father.
Shilpa left that day, never to be seen again. And about a week later, one of Ma's brothers came and took her away.

“We went through hell,” Mansoor says. “All three of us. But then it was all due to our father, wasn't it? The repressive lifestyle. The ancient mumbojumbo. If he really had the powers, why couldn't he cure her? And with Shilpa—”

“There was something there, you think?”

He doesn't say anything. We are back in the flat sitting together, all stillness around us, absolute silence except our voices.

“Did you see anything, Mansoor—between them?”

“She had her claws on him. She had plans for herself.”

“What do you mean? What plans?”

“You know something? She had the guest rooms redecorated. The one she always used was done up both outside and inside. I think she was poisoning Ma, putting something in her food, so she could take her place.”

“You accused her of that?”

“Yes, I told her to stop poisoning my mother and to leave us.”

He smiles, says, “You would never have believed Ma capable of such language as she used against Bapu-ji—raw desi stuff !” He allows a rare chuckle. “You should have seen Bapu-ji's face, the embarrassment … she exposed him as the lecherous man that he must have been once—all too human, no? I lost my respect for him.”

Whatever you had of it, I can't help thinking. There is the edge back in him after this bitter revelation; the good humour, the warmth of the previous few hours now suddenly all vanished.

Pirbaag, the final days.

“Fear is all around us,” wrote my father, “and wrath. And shameless encouragement of the mobs by our leaders. It is said that in the darkest times of the Kali Yuga, the ruler will betray his subjects. This is now a fact. There is violence to freeze the heart, but then we should be used to it, we who saw or heard about it during Partition and in the '69 riots and in the '93 riots …”

In Vancouver I had seen reports of the Gujarat violence on the Internet, and I had duly signed my name to electronic petitions of protest, those easy, no-cost salves to the conscience. For many Indians these outbreaks of mass murder and rape happen elsewhere, in certain neighbourhoods; and so the problem is someone else 's, they only brought it upon themselves. There is also this old adage to scuttle behind as the killings continue: India is an ancient civilization, it has survived much in its long history, it always recovers. I took comfort in the knowledge that Haripir had not seen a riot in a long time, perhaps ever. My father was a respected, revered elder, and the guru of its ancient shrine. He had been confident in his letter that once more the village would not succumb to the calls for communal retribution and bloodshed. Yet here, in these candidly composed pages written only days later, he sounded terribly fearful and fragile; not like the Bapu-ji I had known. How I keep coming back to this refrain. But the father I had known I had lost long ago, and he was writing close to doomsday.

“Your brother Mansoor,” he continued, “after a few days' absence has returned. I don't know what he has been up to and where, but he has me worried. He does not talk to me except to say ‘You don't understand’ when I try to advise him. With a few others, mainly from the Muslim community, he has organized a defence force in Haripir. This is not the answer, and Mansoor has been told that Pirbaag needs no such defence. But the Muslim community is vulnerable, and the police are of no use; in Ahmedabad they refused to give assistance when houses were torched and goondas awaited outside to slaughter the escaping occupants. Taking comfort behind the statement that we are neither Hindus nor Muslims, however, is not correct. And so I have let it be known that the shrine of Pir Bawa is open to all those who will come to seek refuge, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, or Sikh. This way their lives may be saved.”

Later, he wrote down his final, tortured paragraph:

“My dear son Karsan, wherever you are. If you do not read this letter then perhaps, still, these thoughts will find you. Our beloved shrine, the house of Pir Bawa, is beginning to fill with people terrified of the news and rumours they have heard. There are reports of gangs approaching Haripir … And rumours that Pirbaag will not be spared, so what to tell the people who are coming here? Your brother is nowhere to be seen, he may be at the Balak Shah place … I will close this letter with a kiss, I say the bol as I write this; and I will place this letter at the foot of Jaffar Shah, the pir of the travellers, whom you loved so much. Later I will take some select books from our collection and visit all the personages buried in our shrine and ask them to safekeep them. If the worst happens, there will be something left for you. There is nothing else I can do. Your Bapu.”

The question comes tearing into the mind, now that I try to imagine what transpired after he wrote down those last words: How exactly did my father die? No one has wanted to tell me that.

The major is angry.

He almost storms in when I open the back door, his favourite entry. The associate he brings with him quickly disappears to search my two bedrooms.

“It has come to light that a cheeky bugger who could well be your brother has been masquerading as that Hyderabadi Professor Bhalla in his absence,” he declares, and watches me, awaiting my answer.

“My brother is not here,” I tell him squarely, and the implication is clear.

“We will find him, whoever this person is. We will search the roads, the buses, the taxis. Roadblocks are in place all over.”

“This for a man who is wanted only for questioning? Is there something about my brother you did not tell me?”

“He could lead us to others more dangerous,” he says, and sits down on the sofa he dislikes so much. I take the matching armchair beside him. No tea, no snacks today, this is all business. He leans forward and adds in a quiet voice, “Tell me, Karsan Sah'b—”

“Yes?”

“What would you do if you found yourself harbouring someone close—a son, say, or a brother—who could be a terrorist? What would your moral principles tell you to do?”

“That's the quandary, isn't it?” I reply. “If I was sure of his guilt, I suppose I would turn him in—or at least throw him out. But if I wasn't sure …”

“Yes?”

“Well, Major, there have been far more dead suspects than live ones, haven't there?”

He sits back and eyes the assistant who has emerged from the bedrooms. The man shakes his head.

The major says, “Your brother was in Godhra, he could assist us in apprehending those who set fire to the train. You are telling me he wasn't here? He didn't come to see his brother? He must need money, surely?”

“My brother was here, Major Narang. And we spoke. He was in Godhra as a teacher for three years; and he had friends there, some of whom were killed. In his own words, he has not killed any Hindus. When the train was set on fire, he was in Haripir.”

“Why doesn't he talk to us, then? You could come with him. And you have an influential friend in Mrs. Kapur. Nothing will happen to him, you have my assurance.”

“Major, my brother and I barely got to know each other. I am a stranger to him, the one who got away. We don't agree on many things and he doesn't trust me. How could I convince him of anything? And let's be honest— the police would hardly be trusted by the likes of him. They did nothing to rescue victims during the riots; they have been accused of aiding the rioters, and shooting down Muslim men in so-called encounters. I couldn't convince Mansoor to talk to you—even though I trust and like you myself.”

He pauses a moment, staring before him at the coffee table, then abruptly stands up, and to my great surprise shakes my hand and strides out.

Two nights ago we had sat together in the living room, I at my writing desk and Mansoor stretched full-length on the sofa with a book. Before he came, by myself I might have had the radio on but turned down extremely low while I worked, an old habit; I might have hummed a tune to myself or recited something to counter my loneliness. Instead, he had Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Co. vigorously belting out qawalis, though at a moderate volume, and I was quite enjoying them. For the first time since he arrived I appreciated my brother's company. He had said his prayers and we had had our tea.

And then out of a sudden, panicky curiosity, I turned around and asked him, “Mansoor—what did you do in Godhra?”

“I was a teacher there—at the Mirza Ghalib School. Why?” He sat up, put the book on the table before him.
The Secret Order of the Assassins
, by Hodgson; he watched me read the spine. I was only vaguely familiar with the subject, a Shia Muslim sect in medieval Persia with a knack for dramatic political assassinations. Not the sort of reading to find on your brother wanted for questioning regarding a terrorism act.

“I told you about it before, didn't I?” he said. “I told you I had been in Godhra.”

“Not the details. You must have made friends there …”

“Yes, I had friends there, and some of them were killed in the riots,” he said, his bile rising, and glared at me, and I felt rather like a caught-out police spy. I had only been trying to express my worry about him.

“It's just that … I hope you've not been up to anything silly— criminal …”

“What could I have done?” He was holding his temper. “And no, I did not kill any Hindus during the riots. You forget that my mother was one.”

“Bapu-ji says that he was worried when you disappeared after the riots started. Where were you?”

“I went back to Godhra.” He spoke quietly. “To help out if I could. That was a mistake, I narrowly escaped the swords. A teacher at the Methodist school who was with me at St. Arnold's took me in. I hid with him for a few days.”

“And when you returned?”

“There were rumours that Haripir was on the rioters' list. And it was said that Pirbaag was a Muslim shrine and this time it would not be spared. But would Bapu-ji listen? Some of us therefore organized a defence force for the town, our own militia. But before we could even properly prepare ourselves, at ten o'clock one night a mob entered the village, chanting their murderous slogans. There were too many of them, our own village people among them. And you know the result.”