Train to Delhi (19 page)

Slowly he dragged the corpse across the sand and then pushed it into the river. Only after it had been swept away on the crest of a wave did he break into a sort of insane laughter. Gazing at the palm of his right hand, he said to himself: ‘Look, hand, what you've done! I thought you could only write, hold a book, a glass of wine, or pick up morsels of food …'

He dipped his hand into the river, but the blood lingered on the fingers. Rubbing it a couple of times with sand, he immersed it again in water to see all the stains gone. Then, tearing off the sleeve of his kurta with his right hand, he bandaged his own wound tightly.

He now started walking towards the rear gate of the fort to reach the main road where he hoped to find some taxi or tonga. Fortunately, he found a lone taxi near the traffic lights.

‘Can you take me to some clinic, please?' he asked the driver, who was puffing away leisurely at his cigarette. ‘I've been stabbed—just a few minutes ago. Hurry up, please—will you?'

The man, his caste mark showing prominently on his forehead, jumped up, recognizing Gautam as a fellow Hindu.

‘It must have been a Muslim, sir?' he asked.

Gautam merely nodded and beckoned him to start the engine.

‘Oh, these villains!' the driver exclaimed, turning on the ignition. ‘I'll take you, sir, to a very good Hindu doctor.'

The doctor was equally solicitous; immediately, he dressed up the wound.

‘You're lucky,' he said, giving him an injection and some pills, ‘nothing serious at all. Just one dressing should do. These pills are for pain, whenever you feel uncomfortable.'

When Gautam offered to pay him, the doctor shook his head.

‘Not from a victim of Muslim stabbing,' he said.

Nor would the taxi driver accept any fare. Such generosity, Gautam said to himself—but towards one's co-religionists only!

Back in his room at the hotel, Gautam felt as though he was falling apart. For most of the night, the horrible scene kept dancing before his mind's eye.

Next morning,
The Pioneer
carried the story on its front page: ‘A member of the majority community was brutally killed last evening, by a member of the minority community. It came to light only when the body was washed ashore, near the southern wharf. The victim was identified by Pandey Bhole Ram as Pannalal, a pilgrim from Delhi. The authorities are taking every possible precaution to prevent any outbreak of violence in retaliation. Armed police have been posted in such sensitive areas as Mohalla Baradari, Ibadat, Meena and Kashana.'

While Gautam felt amused to see how the killing had been attributed to the Muslim community, he now understood the sinister link between the pimp and the
panda.

But Gautam was also surprised at how
The Pioneer
had given away the name of the victim. Wasn't that a serious breach of the press censorship law?

20

A
n unexpected downpour freshened the Saturday morning. Even though it immobilized all traffic, with rivulets of water swishing across roads and pavements, everyone felt a new fragrance in the atmosphere—the smell of scorched earth drinking in lustily. By noon, however, the rain slowed down to a mere drizzle; then the sun broke through a cluster of grey clouds.

When Gautam reached the Kashana Gate, near the tea-shop, he saw mounted police patrolling the area, their horses' flanks shimmering in the damp sunlight.

It was a buoyant Haseena who appeared at the Gate, a bag in hand, with the kumkum gleaming on her forehead. Immediately Gautam walked over to her, in his dhoti and kurta, with his own bag slung across his shoulder.

They stood a few yards away from the tea-shop, near the traffic lights.

‘Have you seen this morning's
Pioneer?'
she asked excitedly.

‘You mean the killing on the Ganges?'

‘Yes,' she replied. ‘Wasn't it our friend from Delhi?'

‘Yes.'

‘And wasn't he identified by
panda
Bhole?'

‘Yes.'

‘That unriddles a lot of mystery, doesn't it?'

‘Yes.'

Haseena felt somewhat mystified at Gautam's snappy, monosyllabic answers.

A policeman on horseback drew close, looking suspiciously at the couple; then he rode away, assuming they were only lovers.

‘The paper says it was a Muslim who did it,' said Haseena.

‘A gross fabrication,' said Gautam. ‘That's how the press whips up communal passions.'

‘Then who might have done it?'

‘A Hindu,' Gautam answered. ‘And I happen to know it all … I witnessed the killing.'

Haseena gazed at him, nonplussed. ‘Because I did it … had to kill the man—myself!' Gautam whispered into her ears.

She heard the words in stark amazement, her eyes dilated, her face flushed. Across the road, a policeman's horse snorted, a tonga-driver lashed his horse into a canter, a military truck rattled past …

‘How?' she asked, finding it difficult to believe what she'd just heard.

‘I got him near the fort—with his own knife,' Gautam's voice was a murmur. ‘In sheer self-defence.' He paused. ‘You see, he'd come after us. It's a well-knit mafia—the pimp, the
panda
and your kidnappers. But I still feel guilty, somehow.'

As Gautam narrated the incident, Haseena's eyes sparkled, an expression of relief rippling across her face.

‘I love you very much,' she cooed.

‘Because I've killed him?'

‘No, for profounder reasons,' she breathed. ‘And everyone at home now knows about you and me—mother, uncle and Salma.'

‘I should have guessed … your letter.'

She blushed, looking away, as though she didn't want him to bring it up.

‘Why don't you change and come with me to mother?' she said, handing him the bag in which she'd brought him a sherwani and a fez. ‘She'd be delighted to hear about the incident from you … I'll wipe off my kumkum meanwhile.'

‘All right,' he said, walking away to the Gents, near the tea-stall.

As they now walked into Mohalla Kashana, Gautam in his Muslim dress and Haseena without the kumkum, he saw armed police posted at all street corners. There were no blacksmiths fabricating weapons on the pavements. He wondered if the open arsenal had now moved underground. No crowds on the streets too, no vendors anywhere around.

Haseena's mind was still occupied with the killing.

‘So the lizard was your saviour,' she said, as she led him into a bylane.

‘Yes.'

‘Imagine if you hadn't been so nimble-footed.'

‘You'd have got your release—your freedom.'

‘To do what?'

‘To go to Pakistan,' he said, smiling, ‘with your family.'

‘You're utterly mistaken.'

‘Then what would you've done?'

‘I'd have sought out your parents, and stayed with them,' she replied. ‘One doesn't fall in love twice.'

Haseena wished she'd been in a burkha, covered from head to foot, sheltered from the spoken word, in a discreet veil of privacy.

Gautam felt he could almost hear his heart beating.

They stopped at a corner to let some policemen cross the street.

‘I'll try to keep you happy, Haseena.'

‘Commitment doesn't look for happiness,' she responded. ‘It just wants to belong.'

‘At times I wonder if I really deserve you.'

‘Love has nothing to do with deserving either,' she said.

Gautam felt impelled to kiss her, right there on the pavement. As he gazed at her face, it seemed so remote, so spiritual.

‘In any such relationship,' she resumed, wistfully, ‘the body is not the ultimate thing, it's the joy of surrender.'

‘Haseena, do you remember all the beautiful things you said in your letter?' Gautam asked.

‘Oh, please …' she said, embarrassed.

‘Of course, sometimes you can say unkind things too.'

She looked at him, surprised.

‘What?'

‘That bit about virginity.'

‘But wouldn't you have liked to marry a virgin?' she asked, a touch of poignancy in her voice.

‘Then would you have liked to marry a divorcee?' he countered.

When they stepped into the house, they saw Begum Rahim on her knees, praying—her head covered by a thin veil, her hands raised, palms upwards. Sheikh Ahmed rose from his cane chair as he saw them enter, but he didn't say anything lest he disturb his sister in her namaz. It was only after a few minutes that Haseena's mother opened her eyes.

‘What's happened?' she asked, looking surprised. ‘You're back so soon—both.' Then, turning to Gautam, ‘You see, I pray each time Haseena goes out—for her safety, for peace … I hear there'll soon be a raid on our mohalla.'

‘Why should you worry?' said Gautam. ‘Wouldn't your prayers be enough protection against any danger? And, then, the authorities now mean business.'

‘I'm not so sure,' she replied.'They've been doling out assurances all these days. Words, words …'

‘Look, ammijan,' Haseena interjected, ‘Gautam's here with some good news for you.'

‘What?'

‘The man killed on the river was my abductor.'

‘Oh, let Allah be praised!' Begum Rahim exclaimed.

‘And guess who killed him?' Haseena asked.

‘Who?'

‘Gautam!' Haseena exclaimed exultantly. ‘Yes, he did it.'

Begum Rahim's dazed eyes probed Gautam's face.

Sheikh Ahmed and Salma also stared at him, stunned.

‘It seems he'd come after us,' said Gautam, ‘all the way from Delhi. He ambushed me near the fort. So I had no choice but to …'

‘Oh Allah!' Begum Rahim raised her hands prayerfully, out of joy and gratitude.

‘Maybe I was able to defend myself because of your blessings, your prayers,' said Gautam sombrely.

There was a brief silence.

‘May I ask a boon of you, ammijan?' asked Gautam.

Haseena's mother felt touched to be again addressed as ammijan.

‘Allah alone is the giver of boons, my dear,' she answered.

‘But this one is for you to give.'

‘What's it?'

‘I want to marry Haseena,' he almost stuttered, tense and anxious. ‘I need your blessings.'

There was no immediate response from Haseena's mother, who was now lost in some deep thought. While Salma kept staring at Gautam, Sheikh Ahmed broke in: ‘But what about the different worlds? In our shariat, you'll have to receive the Kalma Sharif, accept Islam, before any such marriage could be solemnized.'

‘I'll do it, gladly.'

As Gautam spoke these words, his eyes settled on the kalma inscribed in gilded letters on the plaque, above the mantelpiece. Then he turned to Haseena, whose face was glowing like a candle in a crystal vase.

His answer had made everyone speechless; a hush descended upon the room.

‘But what about your parents? Will they accept your conversion?' asked Sheikh Ahmed, looking sceptical.

‘Nobody else matters.'

‘Look Ahmed,' Haseena's mother interjected. ‘There's nothing more to say. If it's God's will, let it be.'

‘Thank you ammijan,' said Gautam. ‘God bless you!'

‘There's, however, one snag, my son,' Begum Rahim said. ‘As you know already, we've decided to migrate to Pakistan—and that decision is absolute, irrevocable.' She paused for a moment, then resumed: ‘I can't let Salma be whisked away next. You can't take charge of the entire family when there are abductors lurking everywhere. So, it's time to go—to another country, I know, not ours. Leaving Allahabad would be the greatest wrench. But there's no alternative. Ahmed will, however, stay back for a while to manage a few things—he'll join us later.'

‘I understand,' said Gautam.

‘So it's for Haseena to decide,' said Begum Rahim; then turning to her: ‘Do you also want …' she broke off, as if not knowing how to round it off.

‘Yes, ammijan.'

‘Then God bless you both.'

‘Thank you,' Gautam said. Then after a brief pause, he added: ‘Since I'd planned to complete my assignment before returning to Delhi tomorrow, may I take Haseena with me this afternoon as well?' That, as you know, was our programme today.'

‘Isn't she yours now, my son, to take care of?' Haseena's mother asked.

But as Gautam stood up to leave, Haseena's mother said, ‘I wonder if you could help us with our immigration papers. We don't know anybody in Delhi.'

‘Surely, ammijan. I should be able to get it done.'

As they both returned to the traffic lights near the tea-shop, Gautam went into the rest room to change into dhoti and kurta, while Haseena put on her kumkum.

Then they stood on the pavement, waiting for some tonga or taxi to take them downtown. Gautam felt that before returning to Delhi, he should really go around the city to be able to report to his paper authentically.

A taxi pulled up beside them on the road, and a face peered out of the rear window.

‘Hi, could you help us, please?' the man asked. ‘We want to see Nehru House, but our cabby doesn't seem to understand us.'

It was an American couple, Gautam guessed, out sightseeing. Americans, he knew, were particularly welcome anywhere in the country for their warm friendliness and their dollars—in spite of the communal turmoil.

‘You mean his birthplace?' Gautam asked, drawing close to the taxi.

‘Yeah,' the American tourist replied, getting off, a heavy camera slung across his shoulders, a copy of the Blue Guide in hand, while his wife kept sitting inside.

‘Well, the place is really known as Anand Bhavan,' said Gautam, ‘not Nehru House.'

Immediately, the taxi-driver nodded his head as though the riddle had been solved.

‘Thanks a lot,' said the man, his freckled face glowing in the sun. ‘Can we give you a ride?'