The Selector of Souls (54 page)

He pauses, gazes at each in turn from under beetled brows. Sister Anu and Amanjit Singh tilt their heads in agreement. “These are the imperfections which mark our civil society,” he says, as if he would like to charge Mohan if not for the law.

“I didn’t think an airgun was dangerous,” says Sister Anu.

“It isn’t,” says Amanjit Singh. “You don’t need a license to carry one.”

“The father-ji had no chance, though, because the bullet hit him in the eye,” the SDM says. “The police have confiscated it.”

Assistants and sub-assistants enter, proffering files for signature and supplications they have written on behalf of people who cannot write. When they have gone, and the sub-sub-assistants have left a tray with tumblers of tea, the SDM continues.

Someone used the red monkey to light the fire with his tail, he says, so that no one could be blamed, as if the monkey was re-enacting the burning of Sri Lanka in the
Ramayan
. “But I feel,” he says, “it is verrry wrong to use Lord Hanuman in this way. Isspishlly nowadays during Dussherra, when yevryone is celebrating the burning of Lanka again.”

He informs Sister Anu that the police will be transporting Father Pashan’s body to the Jesuit residence in Delhi. “But he could be buried in the cemetery here,” says Sister Anu. “He loved Gurkot and the people here …”

“No—the Jesuit brothers are recorded as his family; it is their dharma to perform his funeral. But not to worry, sister, in the South we say the atman returns again and again to be with people it loves. So your lover will return—of this I am verrry sure.” He offers a box of tissue.

Sister Anu shakes her head. “Father Pashan was not my lover.”

“Ah, so you say.” He takes a tissue himself, to glove his fingers against the heat of his tea.

Amanjit Singh says, “But this was premeditated vandalism, ji. It must be attacked at the source.”

The SDM asks Sister Anu, “You know the ringleader?”

“Suresh Singh Chauhan,” says Sister Anu.

Amanjit says, “Suresh is the son of our old Damini-amma. We played together as children, every summer. He wore my clothes. He was like a brother. Well, maybe not quite a brother.”

The SDM nods, “This woilence and ruffianism is creating a problem in the whole district. Unnecessary. Completely unnecessary woilence.”

“Is there such a thing as necessary violence?” A stupid question, maybe, but one Sister Anu asks herself too, when she thinks of Vikas.

The SDM leans back in his chair. He regards Sister Anu as if she’s a different species. “I have said to the superintendent of the police that this riot was verry verry wrong, and that ringleaders and ruffians must be punished. But to you I say it could not be helped. You see, you Christians come here, come yevrywhere—yeveryone knows you eat the cow, though she is protected. Why do you never understand?”

“There is no cow involved in this incident,” says Sister Anu. “There was no cow near the chapel, no cows were being killed or eaten by anyone.”

“Ah, so you say.”

“I do not just say. I know. Show me one cow that was involved in this incident.”

The SDM looks past her through the doorway, as if a cow might walk in any moment. “Then tell me what began all this—what happened.”

“What happened? A Christian dalit woman was raped. Maybe Father Pashan told you?”

“Yes, he came, he told me his suspicions. But what does that have to do with this mamla?”

“Her rapist was Suresh.” She’s still hurt—no, angry—Damini did not tell her before. But it’s not easy to find you have created a son who terrorized another woman, held her down and raped her. At least Damini eventually faced reality, unlike Pammy Kohli who at first denied Vikas could have raped Anu, then said it was Anu’s fault for saying no, and later said she couldn’t remember Anu ever telling her about it.

Amanjit says, “So he got fresh with the sweeper-woman—he might do that, yes. But she could just accuse anyone. Accusations don’t mean he is guilty. What is her proof?”

“The woman would not come forward,” says the SDM. “But she was already married.”

She asks, “If she wasn’t, would you have made Suresh marry her?”

“Usually, yes. But not in this case, Sister. She’s a sweeper-woman.”

“So?”

“This Suresh Singh is a Chauhan, that is to say kshatriya caste—then how can he marry a sweeper? But again I’m asking, what has this rape to do with yesterday?”

“The Christian woman decided to give up her child for adoption. So I took him to Shimla to find him a good home.”

“Him?”

“Yes.”

“Sister, you want me to believe someone gave you a boy baby for adoption?”

“Yes—her husband wouldn’t accept the child.”

“Ah, naturally. And these days you can get fifty thousand for a boy.”

“We were not selling Moses, we were placing him for adoption. The woman’s husband would have sent her away if we had not helped her. Suresh cooked up a protest, falsely accusing us—me—of selling Hindu babies abroad. He led protesters from Jalawaaz, and they came to Gurkot and burned down the chapel, and Mohan shot Father Pashan by mistake.”

“Spontaneous woilence. You see, population becomes provoked by the presence of you people. Then for a few days there is a lot of tokha-takhi—lot of chaos. Then,” the SDM stretches out his hands as if playing a harmonium, “all will be normal, all will be happy. This is Hindu tol-ration.”

“How can it be spontaneous, ji?” says Amanjit Singh. “You can’t bring so many men walking from Jalawaaz without planning.”

“Amanjit-saab, this is not Delhi. Here in the Himalayas, people have respect, co-op-ration. Every place is holy, not only churches and gurdwaras.”

“Why is it that when riots take place only the property of minorities is damaged?”

“Aman-ji, every man in India now says he or she is a minority so he can get a job or some free thing or some small adwontage.”

“There is no question, sir: Sikhs are a minority, and so are Christians. This is just like 1984.
Planned
violence against minorities. Your Jalawaaz police had to know all those men were walking and riding motorbikes and taking trucks from here to Gurkot. And the petrol was poured all around the chapel
before
the protestors came.”

“The Order of Everlasting Hope would like you to investigate the police report and register a case,” says Sister Anu. “We want to bring charges of rioting, intent to hurt, trespass and assault—”

Amanjit Singh interrupts, “Wait. SDM-saab, you are right. Why would Suresh lead a protest and burn down a
chapel
? The Christians never did anything to his family. His mother even works at the clinic. Someone bigger is behind him.”

“It could also be a series of unrelated events, ji. Just bo-the-ration. And if it happened, it could also be that it just took place all of a sudden.”

“
If
it happened?” Amanjit Singh rises, tucks his thumbs into his belt, dominating the room with his sheer bulk. “Have you seen the damage, sir? The chapel is burned, ji—only the stone confessional booth remains. Both wards of the clinic are damaged. We were lucky it was evening and no children were in the school. Those hooligans
just melted into the mountains as soon as they caught sight of my car. But the whole forest could have burned. My home, my new cottages—all could have gone up in smoke. As it is, the gurdwara is blackened and,” his voice breaks, “the Guru is badly burned.”

“Someone was in the gurdwara? Only one body has been reported to the police.”

“No sir,” Anu inserts, “he means his holy book—his Bible, his
Gita
. For him, the
Guru Granth Sahib
is a body, a person.”

“The police report should have mentioned this,” says the SDM. “I will inspect this guru book tomorrow. Please to sit down.”

Amanjit visibly controls himself and resumes his seat.

The SDM takes a sip of tea. “This is a tragedy,” he says. “Such things happen, but not usually in my district.” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “We have to keep an eye on Suresh and what he may be teaching young peoples, because, you know, the BJP could go out of fashion and the Congress Party and their secularism could someday come back—it has happened before. And there is the matter of this sweeper-woman’s baby.”

“We are still trying to find him a home close to Gurkot,” says Sister Anu. “Would you like to adopt him?”

“I?” says the SDM, with a smile and wave of his hand. “I have a blood-son, and can have many more. Adopted sons don’t come to your help in old age, Sister, only blood will help you then.”

“Most people in this district think as you do. That’s why I had to take the boy to Shimla,” she says.

The SDM has the grace to look slightly trapped. He sips his tea for inspiration.

“Tell me,” he says, “how a woman like you somehow got mixed up with Christians? I mean: we understand rice-Christians, but you? The police are questioning that Muslim driver of yours—he tells us you used to be a caste Hindu?”

Sister Anu says, “Why are you questioning poor old Shafiq Sheikh! Because he’s the only Muslim around?”

“Yes, madam. You find me one more Muslim and I will question him as well. These days Pakistanis are yeverywhere, yeverywhere. Coming over the border, posing as Muslim-Indians until they can do some hera-pheri—boom, boom! I say Mughal Empire is gone, but we are left with all these Muslims, more Muslims living here than in Pakistan. At least after British Empire we are not left with British—except for you Christians.”

“Where is Suresh, now?” asks Sister Anu.

“In jail,” the SDM gestures over his shoulder in the direction of Jalawaaz’s police station. “He gave us names at first—now he’s giving us true names.

“You see, madam-ji, you must be sentimental. You must have respects for Hindu sentiments, not just Muslim and Christian sentiments. Muslims and Christians have this, this ten-den-cy toward intoleration of Hindu sentiments. It’s because of your one god, no other gods allowed.”

Sister Anu opens her mouth, but Amanjit Singh is on his feet again, his annoyance bristling in all directions.

He too follows one god, no other gods allowed
.

“SDM-saab, I will not let this matter drop,” Amanjit says. “Even if the padri were alive, I wouldn’t let it drop. You may not fully understand, so let me say it again. My Guru, the
Guru Granth Sahib
was damaged.” He plants his fists on the SDMs desk and leans over till his turban and beard are inches from the man’s alarmed face. “If you investigate who Suresh was working for, you will find the culprits. This follower of Vaheguru swears: I will give you all the help you need.”

Sister Anu treads gingerly across hillocks of brick and mortar rubble of the burned chapel to salvage what she can. Images of the terrified burning monkey, the swarming crowd of angry men, Father Pashan’s
blood on her kameez, the smells, screams and horrors of the church burning replay in her mind and contrast with the peaceful sway of the wind through the pines.

If Lord Shiv, destroyer of worlds, ever manifested himself, this is what our world would look like. If I survived Armageddon or nuclear winter, this is what the whole world would become
.

At the far end of the field, the bell tings sorrowfully in the decapitated belfry, surrounded by fragments of metal and glass. She knocks on god’s door mentally, but has never felt it more closed. Her hair, still frizzed from the fire, tumbles about her shoulders—she doesn’t tie it back. Particles of ash fly through the twilight air, grit in her teeth.

I will carry the memory of this within me the rest of my life
.

The chapel’s plastered plank walls crumbled like matchsticks, but the structural beams are intact; a rumour circulating among the Christians says the metal skeleton was not weakened but strengthened by the fire. At the heart of the skeleton, the jagged remnants of the altar still stand. But really, the only surviving structure within the footprint of the chapel is Samuel’s ornately carved stone confessional.

Birdcall pierces the eerie silence,
kew-kew!
Beneath her feet, the ground is charred, dried and pitted from the footprints of Christians and Sikhs standing together, passing buckets of water from hand to hand to douse the flames. Black particles flutter past.

She should have done more outreach, created friendships, connections. Should have worked as much with the men of Gurkot as with the women.

The Hindu men who followed Suresh must have felt left out, humiliated in some way, threatened by the growing health, education and independence of their girls and women. Because how can calls to nationalism alone justify the anger that created this deed?

Sister Anu grasps the blackened door of the confessional and pulls. She takes one look and a shriek escapes her. She blesses herself,
and peers closer. Damini is slumped inside, dark-ringed eyes closed. Is she dead?

Sad old black eyes flick open.

“What are you doing here?” says Sister Anu.

“Using the forgiveness chair,” says Damini. “Goldina said I should.”

Sister Anu feels on precarious ground. “Is it helping you?”

Damini shakes her head. “Abhi nahin,” she says. Not yet. “I have less thoughts in my head than a potato. I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to eat or drink. I don’t want to talk. I have Dipreyshun.”