Vj's Blog

Just so you know, I am The History – the keeper of time and events.
***

Once upon a time in the India Street, Ayesha Khan had a perfect neck. Fair as a dove (like the most of restofher), impeccably long, and a humble possessor of all the correct curves and creases. The neck bone was not so protuberant as to appear eager to abandon its home, nor was it so inconspicuously sunk in as to attract accusations of home sickness. Anachronistic (I would know better than any) to that incendiary December of ’92, it belonged to much more aesthetic times. Here, a pre-emptive warning for the susceptible: her neck was also capable of destruction devastation annihilation when tampered with, just like all the seemingly delicate beauties of nature are. And speaking of susceptibility, Ayesha’s neck too, was prone to parabolic curves. Be it a necklace, or a...
Anyway, to facilitate your escape from this exasperatingly, but unfortunately not at all dispensable, pleonastic peroration upon something as obvious, as mundane, as a neck: Ayesha Khan herself was a twenty-four year old woman and a four-year old mother when it all began. She was a housewife. Being tall enough to reach her husband’s heart, she was loved by him, naturally. Her husband, Daulat Khan, was an upcoming politician then. He had inherited a reasonable amount of wealth, but couldn’t manage to inherit politics. His apolitical father was an unscrupulous doctor who traded body organs for money and charged medicine companies for prescribing their products. He died of lung cancer soon after Daulat’s marriage. Daulat had no political background, he just had the money. In the Indian political galleries, that made him look like a rich ugly woman participating in a beauty contest. The best she can do is to hope that the judges are pliant, their judgements negotiable, and the audience ignorant. Luckily for her, they are. Always. To Daulat’s credit however, he wasn’t compulsively corrupt, or unjustifiably rogue. He was not the kind who would use his influence for petty gains unless he had a desperate reason. He wasn’t, for instance, like one another Daulat Khan (who comes to mind solely on account of similar names, elsewise there’s no comparison, of course) who lived some four-and-a-half centuries ago. The venal conspirator who assisted Babur in defeating Ibrahim Lodhi in Panipat, thus sentencing India to over four chequered centuries of mostly subservient servitude. But you know about that. What you don’t know is that on 6’Th December ’92, Ayesha Khan’s throat was slit once and for all.
***

I call it the India Street not because I lack creativity or imagination, but because it fits. The Street behaves like India. An exact microcosm of a horrendously multitudinous crowd (that is India) riddled with what-not. The Street is just as multi-layered, just as diverse, just as confusing consuming swallowing damaging destroying as the country to which it belonged. When viewed from the air, the two-hundred meter stretch looks like a snapshot of a shrivelled, slithering snake. So badly beaten and bruised that the fact that it is still alive, angry and just as venomous often escapes the untrained eye. The most dangerous attribute possessed by all ultimate predators: be lethal, but don’t look it. Located ironically close to the Gandhi Square, the street thus achieves unimpeachable authenticity to its (fake) innocence.
Along the India Street...

There is a hut, right at the snake’s tail. In ’92, it was habitable for two, so seven lived in it. The family that lived here was the kind that doesn’t know, or care, who the Prime Minister of their country is. The kind that doesn’t know, ever, where the next meal will come from. Their men travel to the western parts of the country to bring back home money to live with, and AIDS to die. The women and children stay home. The young ones mostly cry and shit. The howling is conveniently ignored for as long as ignoring it remains convenient, and the shit is dutifully deposited on the mound right across the street, and covered with soil. Shit over soil over shit over soil over shit...

Meera lived in this hut, as this hut lived in her. The hut was an infant when Meera first arrived here as a newly-wed bride. Maybe I should tell you more: an eleven-year old newly-wed bride. Or a bit more, I think... Well then: Meera arrived here as an eleven-year old bride to a thirty-two year old gentleman named Mohan (here, I choose not to ignore the sceptics among you. I can hear the disbelieving echoing each other: He’s making it up! There’s a law in India that prevents girls below eighteen years of age from getting married. And there’s a... Blah blah blah blah! Don’t give me that rubbish. Nobody cared about the laws then, nobody cares about the laws now. About one to three percent of the Indian Hindu weddings are in complete agreement with the laws. The rest? Well... In short, know this about India: If the constitution were a religion, almost all Hindu weddings would be blasphemous. As it happens, though, the constitution is not a religion at all; it’s a joke). The hut witnessed, clenched-jawed, gritted-teethed, white-knuckled, as her husband raped her. First night. Every night. She had ruptured and fainted the first time. Naturally, Meera had required medical assistance then, and she got it too. Her illiterate, abusive mother-in-law, Budhiya Devi, wasted little time in getting her biologically ready for the next round, proud to have given birth to a Real Man. The Real Man mercifully spent most of his time in Gujarat (to bring back home...). But when he was home, he mostly drank toddy and raped Meera. Meera, irrelevant though it would seem, had continued her primary education after her marriage, and against all odds, would go on to finish class ten before the India Street vomited her out, like a semi-digested meal. She was, could have been, a good student, if only...

Three years later, on twentieth July 1989 to be precise, Meera gave birth to her first child in a crowded corridor of a government hospital. That day had drowned in the incessant downpour. Thanks to the dark clouds above, the afternoon behaved like an evening. The refusenik junior-doctors were on strike that day. Some noble reason, of course. And the senior doctors? Well they grace the hospital by their presence only when a surprise inspection of the hospital is scheduled. Otherwise they have their world-class private clinics to run. On that eventful day, however, a surprise visit was not on the magistrate’s agenda. Attending a wedding was. So the hospital was under, shall I say, a medical blackout. But the three dogs never went on a strike.

They were jocularly called the Doctor Dogs before they bit a newly-born infant to death a few months ago, in the same corridor. Stunned on-lookers were five seconds too late to respond to the assault. The dogs had charged suddenly. Their angry, apoplectic barks and pointed teeth scared the grown-ups away - more a matter of innocent reflexes than of actual cowardice. With the grown-ups safely out of the way, the dogs then had the infant all to themselves, who lay, unsuspecting, on the corridor-floor. A soft, pink life-form that had just begin to synchronise itself with itself. The first bite was at the baby’s right elbow. His new, soft bones were no match for the seasoned, sharp canines. The dull bone-crack went unnoticed in the chaos. The elbow, it’s entire setup, was crushed. His right arm was now reduced to loose flesh, torn skin, and broken bones. And blood, of course. He cried out in surprise, but the soft wailing was not in proportion with the pain he felt. He hadn’t yet acquired the throat that could do justice to the pain he was subjected to. A mild confusion must not be ruled out either. Was this a part of the plan? Was it Normal? Does it happen to everyone when they’re born? The baby, mercifully, didn’t even feel the subsequent bites... Lower left ribs, belly, face, right thigh, right top of the head, and so on and so forth. All this happened in the space of five to seven seconds. Or so it seemed. That was when the audience recovered from the shock, and by a brave, collective effort, they chased the dogs away. The baby was already dead by then, and the dogs were no longer hungry. Operation successful, the Doctor Dogs gladly left the scene with slivers of baby-soft, warm flesh hanging out from the corners of their chewing mouths. On the floor, the newly-born newly-killed newly-eaten baby lay still, looking like the leftover on a Chinese man’s dinner plate. His face inspired emetic disgust. Six inches of his lower right foot lay still too, a couple of feet away from the rest of rest of him. There was baby-blood here and there. Warm, chewed intestine was scattered everywhere. Since then, the dogs, having once tasted the exotic infant, craved for more and were always on the lookout, alert to the pertinent smells and sounds.

Having appreciated the gentle threat posed by the otherwise admittedly otiose (to this piece, that is) eating habits of the Doctor Dogs, I take you back to Meera’s first son, who was on his way to the world. He was born alright, and the dogs had once again been cruelly deprived of a delicious breakfast. Meera’s mother-in-law and a neighbourhood midwife administered the childbirth, while her father-in-law, and a few others, kept the dogs at bay. But he couldn’t keep the rain at bay earlier that day when they were en route to the hospital in an open ox-drawn cart. All of them, Meera included, were soaked to glory while the ox ploughed on rather reluctantly: where’s an animal rights activist when you need one? Mad Ox! When Meera, her mother and father-in-law (Mohan was in Gujarat then), and the midwife set off for the hospital, chaperoned by this Maddox, the neighbourhood were sure she will not survive. No decent woman could. Or should. Now listen carefully, for here’s how the India Street planted Meera at the scene of crime. Apart from the India Street’s brute force of intent and supreme will-power towards execution of it’s plans (this time, the plan involved nine murders, five of which were sacrificial, two were hasty mistakes, one was cold revenge, and one was a venial crime; one lifetime of impotent repentance, and a bit more...but I’m not giving it all away in one basket of course), there can be no other explanation to the street’s bizarre reaction to the safe arrival of Meera’s first child. Against all odds, Meera and her son survived that day, and this temporary survival cost them.

The neighbourhood was shocked to see that Meera was still alive, and worse, healthy. And that she had given birth to a healthy child too. They searched her for traces of post-natal miseries, but didn’t find any. They were very upset. As I mentioned before, decent women were expected to at least suffer insufferably when placed in such delicate situations, maybe die if they can manage it. Though admittedly, that would be terrible, but still... They were not expected to come home smiling, like Meera did. Nobody said anything to her face, but behind her...

“Daayan!” Witch. A huddle of eight women had just embarked on the theory, and had begun to understand Meera better now.

“I mean I’m glad she didn’t die and all. But hey, she should have. I mean tell me: could any of us have lived? I mean something’s wrong with her. She was also soaked in the rain on the way to the hospital, wasn’t she? I mean it just doesn’t look normal.” said another one. They didn’t speak English; I’m translating for you of course.

“She’s a Daayan. That’s what’s wrong with her. I was torn when my first was coming out, and I was seventeen then. One...two...three years older than her,” added a plump middle-aged woman, calculating the difference on her fingertips. She continued reminiscently, “I still think my good deeds in my past life saved me then. But her? Y’all saw how she was smiling? As if a Hero winked at her!” By Hero, she meant a movie actor. Any movie actor was a Hero. Also, she was a mother of nine.
“This explains Raju’s injury! Poor Raju! Is she done with him, or d’you think there’s more to come?” said another woman, expanding the theory further. But at this point, Raju stares back at me threateningly from the depths of a bygone time, and demands to be excluded from this piece (Raju is now dead and I am a natural necromancer, if you look at it that way). He’s perhaps exercising his rights to privacy. Or is that embarrassment I see in his eyes? Either ways, he doesn’t want me to introduce him to you.

Raju was the carpenter’s seventeen-year old son. Raging hormones and stubborn sex-drive often turned him into a sex-crazed zombie. Marijuana helped too. Meera once caught him red-handed in the mango-orchard, and went berserk. Thing is, he was venting it out on her goat. Partially hidden by the overgrown bushes, he listened to the soundtrack of a porn movie in his headphones (the track played in his cheap stereo walkman he’d bought from Nepal) at full volume, as he enjoyed the irresistibly seductive goat. I mention this salacious and scabrous episode only because this incident does leave permanent footprints on this clayey memoire of mine. On the upside, Raju could penetrate a black goat and hear a sexy blonde moaning lasciviously in response; on the downside, he couldn’t hear Meera at all when she approached him from behind, shouting at the top of her lungs. He discovered her presence not before she had grabbed him by the hair and jerked him off the goat with all her strength. Within minutes, most of the street knew. And within hours, they were all convinced. Of the story Raju had come up with. He gave them the loving details of how Meera first tried to dragoon him to do it with her, and when he refused her invitation - explaining how he didn’t wish to cuckold Mohan bhai on grounds of the high moral standards set by his much respected elders - she made this deplorable fable up. Don’t do it with me, and I’ll see to it that no one does it with you! Ever! “But of course,” he added with a sad, resigned sigh, “I know that her perfect howling and her croc-tears definitely look more convincing than my honest words and shocked eyes. If even only one person believes me, that will do. You have always taught me that truth endures, today I will find out whether you were correct.” Raju finished innocently. The mini-crowd stared. Honestly, I don’t blame them for believing him. The only upshot of this incident then was that there was a sudden upswing in suggestive glances and libidinous gestures towards Meera. From Raju’s much respected elders who set high moral standards for him. Anyway, two days later - this is what sowed the first seeds of suspicion about Meera’s Daayan-ship in the eager, welcoming minds of the street - Raju was to be found sporting a nail driven deep in his right palm. Guided by a swinging hammer, the adventurous nail set out on an expedition that ended deep inside Raju’s palm. He was helping his father repair a table. A nasty injury, but definitely no preternatural forces behind it. But then, that’s my humble opinion. The people of India Street disagreed. Especially now, when Meera had come home smiling (as if a Hero winked at her) from the death trap that the hospital was.

Raju: Once trapped in The History, you and your deeds belong to me. Being a known scandalmonger, I override your rights to privacy by my pleasure in exposure. Act wisely till you have the choice. For instance: you’d still be alive had you believed in condoms. Just a hint.

Meera was a whole new force now. She was someone who could pleasantly sit, legs crossed, in dark dank corners and do her heinous hocus-pocus to harm those who annoyed her. Someone who could survive childbirth and be happy enough about it to come home smiling, and who could drive nails through innocent men upon refusal of adultery. Now as per the normal procedure, the people of India Street would have gathered outside her house on one fine day, and dragged her out by the hair. Then the leonine bravehearts would have beaten her till they were tired, post which she would have been undressed for the benefit of everyone. Then she would have been made to drink something that closely resembled the contents of the S-bend in your toilet (I shit you not, it does happen). The foot-long bamboo pipes originally designed to force-feed medicinal fluids to the cattle when they got sick also served the purpose of force-feeding human waste to a Daayan when the rest of the street got sick. After her thirst was slaked, her face would have had to be skilfully coated with black paint, so that it looked both funny and ugly. All this normally proved to be difficult as the subject wouldn’t stay still; they all started writhing uncontrollably with pain, disgust and humiliation. A few people were always required to hold the subject still. Finding volunteers was not a problem though. It never is when you ask for four people out of a sex-starved mob to forcibly hold a nude woman still. They make the most of this rare carte-blanche. Having her make-up done, Meera would then have been made to sit on a donkey (essentially a donkey, mind you. No other life-form would suffice) and a garland of old rotten leather-shoes would have been bestowed upon her. Minor finishing touches. All in order, it would then have been the time to go sightseeing. The jeering crowd behind her and the dutiful donkey beneath her, she would then have been exhibited to the entire street, just in case someone missed out. This of course, was the normal procedure, but it didn’t apply to Meera. I personally think no one fancied a nail through their palms, or through their eyeballs for that matter. So they just let her be. Alone. Thus, by the time she was fourteen, Meera was an abused wife, a premature mother, an established Daayan, and a social outcast. She was an adolescent, but only technically.
An inconsequential bland coincidence: on 20’Th July 1989, the same day Meera was locked out of her society, somewhere faraway a certain Aang San Suu Kyi was also placed under house arrest. And on 6’Th December 1992, well...

***

It was the September of ’92. Daulat Khan lived at the snake’s mouth – his was the first house of the India Street that you met when you took a right off the shiny Gandhi Square. The only house in the Street that had a boundary wall. Or needed one. His care for his wife and his four-year old son manifested itself tangibly in his hiring of a maid-cum-nanny (for the wife’s comfort) and a private tutor (for the son’s education). That was his style: quantified care and affection. He had hired Suyat Singh to teach his son, Irfan, things like 1...2...3...4...up to 100, a...b...c...d...up to z, A...B...C...D...up to Z, and a bit of this and a bit of that. Not much was known about Suyat, except that he was a bachelor, and lived alone. He taught in a primary school and gave private tuitions to support himself. Daulat Khan’s choice of a Hindu tutor was politically inspired, of course. A secular Muslim politician looked very good those days. They won, no matter which side the coin fell. Two reasons to explain this: one, India is a country where people perceive elections as an opportunity to vote their caste. The concept is naturally extended to religion when it comes to that. And two, over the last few decades, Muslim legislators have constituted about one to five percent of the Indian parliament. The nineties were no better. Clearly, Indian hypocrisy is not limited to sexual matters, secularism is their speciality too. So, with these two prevailing equations, a Muslim candidate was often foolishly preferred over ten other Hindu contestants by your average Muslim voter. That’s one vote bank secured. And if the contestant in question had an impeccably secular image, Hindu voters didn’t shy away from him either. That meant a substantial chunk of his competitors’ vote bank too. Advantage the Secular Muslim Candidate. Add to that the reasonable amount of money Daulat Khan brought to the table. All the major political parties salivated at the idea of having such a complete package up their sleeve. Daulat Khan understood this. He had diligently chalked out the image he wanted to build, and worked towards it. He realized that the extremists from his community will not approve of his decision to hire a Hindu tutor for Irfan, one who wouldn’t be teaching him Urdu and Quran but Hindi and, should he choose to dare, Geeta! Find us a more blasphemous notion! They’d scream in their conspiratorial whispers. But he was certain he’d gain more votes than lose and that’s what mattered.

He didn’t flinch away from making seemingly spectacular, but actually very carefully calculated and affordable sacrifices along the way. Meera’s appointment as a maid-cum-nanny was another such sacrifice. She had been an outcast since three quiet years now, and had used the time to mother two more children, to get used to the new social status bestowed upon her, and to study and complete her secondary school. Naturally, she was overwhelmed with gratitude at the unexpected proposal to nanny the richest child in the street. She didn’t know this, but Daulat would never have hired her had she not been a social-discard. He could easily have afforded the best for his only son. But he knew that hiring Meera would serve a symbolic purpose, adding weight to his profile. Meera wasn’t illiterate either, another bonus. Daulat didn’t believe her initially, when she told him that she had topped her school in class ten examinations. He had asked for her certificates just out of disbelief, and they remained in his drawer till that December morning. Plus, he saw no harm in being kind to a destitute in need. Though this would cost him some amount of popularity in the India Street, there were worlds beyond the India Street. But he was certain he’d gain more votes than lose and that’s what mattered. Also, and most importantly, Daulat trusted both of them immensely. They were alright: Politician’s instinct.

In actuality, however, the apparent benefits of both of the above appointments were a devious deception. And Daulat Khan fell for it. He had thought he was sacrificing some popularity among those who mattered least anyway. The fellow ended up sacrificing a perfect neck. And a lot more. The shrivelled snake had coiled itself all around him, unnoticed. It was ready to strike now.

***

I solemnly promised you a tragedy at the beginning; when it is time now, do you mind if I gave you a catastrophe instead? We now tip-toe quietly into the December of ’92 to explore the disaster first hand. That Sunday morning was pregnant with (listen closely now, for I’m being very specific here) an innocent mistake and a Mistake demolished, a slit throat and a Blind Eye, a severe Don’t do it! and a blatant Go ahead, gentlemen!, a collapse of trust and a clash of faiths, a personal grief and a collective sorrow...the morning concealed it all.
That morning, Meera set off for work carrying her six-month old son - her youngest - in her arms. She was never to see the hut again. There were no last, long looks, no final goodbyes, though. No dramatic presentiments. Just like every other day, she began the routine walk towards Daulat’s home. Past the pigs ideating over necessary matters in the ubiquitous mud; past the tiny local shop that sold cheap candies, buns, wafers with Amitabh Bachchan on them, biscuits, fragile plastic toys and marijuana (five rupees for an adult dose when one litre of milk cost about ten, kids loved this shop); past the snake’s belly where middle-class young men in their early twenties sat idly as usual, and discussed at length about movies cricket sex and movies cricket sex, and analysed and abused icons like Gandhi, Nelson, Diana, Newton...how they were gay or how they swapped wives or how some women can smile like Mona Lisa if they just sucked hard and long enough, and so on and so forth (you follow the general idea, I take it? They were unemployed graduates and this is what they did with their days. Nights were easier to spend as they were all married drunkards); past feminine conversations which suddenly ceased as she approached, Meera reached Daulat’s home. For the last time.

That morning, one Mr. Lal Krishna Advani, flanked by a handful of henchmen and sidekicks of his, took a little walk too. Then a senior member of Bhartiya Janta Party (BJP) - the largest opposition party in the parliament, he met the heads of all the noted and powerful Hindu extremist groups at Vinay Katiyar’s house - the founder-president of a Hindu extremist outfit called Bajrang Dal. This little meeting was only to ensure neat execution of Advani’s Machiavellian manipulation; the blueprints were prepared some ten months ago. If you were a politician with the opposition party in a nation that at least claims secularity, and if you were about to have a four-hundred and sixty-five year old mosque demolished (solely because your political career depended on it) by a thoroughly manipulated, neatly brain-washed mob in broad daylight, and in plain view of police personnel and the media, I suppose you would need to run certain eleventh-hour checklists at some Vinay Katiyar’s house. Attendance: check. Provoking (motivating) the mob: check. Organising an efficient demolition: check. Deployment of cooperative bureaucrats and police officers: check (the state’s then chief minister Kalyan Singh arranged it personally - least I could do sirji!). Media: check. And most importantly, emerging politically unscathed from the rubbles: check. Check check check! All was in fool-proof order; the roles were unambiguously divided and designated. Everyone then left Vinay’s house. They had a mosque to murder.

I must, at this point, permit The Babri Mosque to stymie my narrative briefly. I’m afraid a brief introductory account will have to suffice here though, as a detailed record on the Mosque fills several volumes, all of which is not relevant to this tale (of nine murders, five of which were...). I like to keep my record-keeping compartmentalised. The Babri Mosque is pertinent to this piece as its well-timed demolition serves as a diversionary manoeuvre, and thus it gets the space a diversionary manoeuvre deserves.

The mosque was built on Babur’s orders by one Mir Baqi Tashqandi in 1528 AD. It is, was, in Ayodhya – the birthplace of a Hindu God Rama. Trouble was, it was constructed at the exact site where Hindus believed the birthplace to be. There was an ancient temple of the Lord Rama on the site which Mir Baqi destroyed to construct the mosque over it. The temple lies broken and buried under the mosque till today. Babur, buoyed and tranquilized by his recent conquests in India, was eager to stamp his authority over the land. He saw easy symbolism in it all.

Till about half past nineteen-hundred AD, the mosque was called masjid-e-janmasthan. Janmasthan is a Hindi word, meaning Birthplace; Masjid is Urdu for Mosque. Mosque-of-the-Birthplace. To the incurably optimist, the idea initially sounded like a glue that could hold the two religions together to some extent. But has there ever been a glue that can hold together fire and ice? The concept of masjid-e-janmasthan brought the two faiths too close for comfort. Although I always enjoy the benefits of hindsight, one doesn’t necessarily need it to conclude that the choice of location was a mistake, as the Hindus were reluctant to give a place as crucial to their religion as this away, and for the Muslims, the mosque primarily became a prestige-issue. The pantheon of both the religions never really reached a modus vivendi over the matter. It was just a matter of time before the rogue would seek to derive political benefits out of this mistake of Babur’s. Sure enough, in the December of 1992, The Mistake was demolished. In 1025 AD, Mahmud Gaznavi had destroyed the Somnath temple in the month of...? December.

One-hundred and fifty thousand mobsters gathered at the site that afternoon, supposedly for an innocuous ritual. To be precise, the ritual was to indicate symbolic beginning of reconstruction of the temple at the site. The senior leaders such as Advani and Murli Manohar Joshi, also from BJP, had promised the apex court of India that the mosque would not be harmed. Some time after the ritual began, the senior leaders conveniently walked some distance away from the mosque. The mob then took over. There were no monstrous bulldozers, no gargantuan juggernauts. The Babri Mosque was reduced to rubbles only by handheld tools. Hammers, chisels and the likes. If it was a spontaneous, unplanned action on part of the mob, as the BJP later claimed, I suppose Hindus go about their rituals with hammers in their pockets? The cooperative police officers stood there, looking, but also not looking at all. They were the Blind Eye I mentioned. Advani and Joshi, now back from their walk, muttered a few gentle requests to the mob for the benefit of the media. Coupled with the inflammatory speeches they made earlier, this fine little gesture from them was a blatant Go ahead, gentlemen! Back in the India Street, while the final rites of the spectacle were being televised, Ayesha Khan was sporting a slit throat. And Irfan was missing.

Daulat was in the marketplace, doing nothing more meaningful than buying a necklace for a perfect neck, when he heard the flitting news of Babri being demolished. Naturally, he rushed home. The India Street was calm when he arrived. Daulat felt a surge of relief, but the lurking sense of foreboding refused to go away. He knew why, when he entered his house. The front door was ajar. Watch him tentatively push the door open; hear him call his darling’s name in his deep voice: Ayesha jaan? Ayesha my-life? Watch his black shoe cross the threshold; and hear his sudden gasp of horror. On the floor in the living room, there lay his much loved wife in a red river. The perfect neck was tampered with; it was slit ear to ear in a neat arc. The neck’s vulnerability to parabolic curves was discovered, exposed, and exploited. Her beautiful face wore a calmness that is perhaps reserved for the dead. It was blotted with blood too. Ayesha’s watery, hazel eyes were staring at nothing in particular. Her left earring was missing. Her red chemise was so soaked that it even looked soaked from a distance. The floor betrayed bloody trails of her futile clawing and writhing. For some timeless time, Daulat stared blankly at his wife. He was too stunned for tears yet. Watch his parted pink lips; hear his inadvertent, irregular breathing. Watch his black eyes refusing to believe what they saw; hear the incessant hum of the absolute nothingness in his mind. Watch his tall lanky frame lean against the door and sink slowly to the floor; hear his quiet whisper: Ayesha. The universe was sad in colour. And finished.

“Hospital! HOSPITAL! DOCTOR!” Daulat suddenly jolted up. “Police!” he ran towards his wife, all reason abandoned. “Anyone! Please!” watch him slip in the river and lose balance, hear the threnodic thud of a stunned face falling on a dead belly. “Oh sorry jaan! Sorry!” he quickly sat up beside her, and held her hand in his. He was speaking fast, “Ayesha! Ayesha? Hey wait I’ll call a...” he broke off midsentence. There was no pulse.

“No pulse. NoNo...” he checked her breathing. “No...” and then he cried.

For exactly how long Daulat cried, I did not clock. But some timeless time later, he jolted up for the second time, and searched vainly for Irfan. All over the house first, then everywhere he could; every place where Irfan was likely to be, and not likely to be. When he didn’t find Irfan in the house, terror tore at his heart and, oddly, cleared his mind. He must do better than to run amok up and down the street. Information, he needed information. There was blood all over him. If he went out this way, he was sure to receive hundreds of tonnes of sympathy, but not an ounce of information. He changed his attire, and decided to remain discreet for as long as he could. All set, he left his house, looking for Irfan and/or information.

After his futile search for Irfan was over, the Street discovered Daulat’s loss. In the present context, the murder of Ayesha Khan meant only one meaning: it was an act of communal violence. About an hour later, riots broke out in the India Street. Daulat’s parochial, personal grief was now chained to a collective sorrow. And during that one hour he got before the riots began, Daulat had unearthed enough to surmise that Ayesha’s murder wasn’t an act of communal violence at all. With a fraction of his unflappable pragmatism restored now, Daulat was shell-shocked when he assimilated the pieces that gathered him along the street.

First of these fragments of information was with the boy who sat by the road and sold eggs. He enjoyed an unhindered front-view of Daulat’s house. A vantage point. Right after Daulat left his house, he quizzed the boy. No one knew yet...

The boy said, “Seen Irfan? Ho sir, saw Irfan baba with his mother. Half-an-hour-or-an-hour ago. The Daayan’s little boy too. Memsahib herself carrying the Daayan’s son in her arms while her own Irfan baba walked! Very kind an’ all sir, but...” but he was interjected by Daulat.
“OK OK...and when did she return?”
“Return?” the boy looked puzzled. “Not returned yet, sir. Why?”
“What?” it was Daulat’s turn to look confused. “Maybe she came back when you went somewhere?” he asked.
“Went somewhere? I not at all went somewhere, sir! Been here since two-three hours. No customers today, either. Sir, Would you like two-three eggs?” the ebullient boy dearly hoped for a good answer.
“No, listen...” the confusion was exasperating Daulat fast, but the boy wasn’t keen to lose this one.
“No? I’ll put salt on it sir, and onion’s free with it of course. And lemon if you...”
“Listen, I’ll buy all your eggs today. But first...” but he was interrupted again.
“All the eggs? Really?” the boy beamed in surprise. It sounded too good to be true.
“Yes, but only if you answer my questions to the point. You understand?” Daulat knew that not to listen to this boy would be foolish. This simple-minded boy was perhaps the sole witness of all that had transpired around and outside his house that afternoon.
“To the point? Completely certainly, sir!” the boy said, “Will you ask me maths? I know the tables from two to sixteen only. Seventeen is difficult, but I’m trying. Can we keep it till sixteen today. And seventeen...maybe for to-morrow’s eggs sir?” he suggested. Another day, another time, Daulat would have smiled at this blissful self-centred universe of childhood.
“So you didn’t leave this place once? Not even to take a leak?” Daulat asked.
“I took a leak right here sir, like always.” The boy motioned to a small stretch of waste land behind him.
“So you saw them leaving, and they haven’t returned yet?” Daulat asked.
“No sir. Not returned. Something wrong sir?” the boy was getting curious now. Daulat ignored his question.
“Was Meera with them?” he asked.
“Meera? No sir. And good thing too... But she goes back to her hut in the afternoons, doesn’t she? Doing her hreem-kleem? Didn’t see her going back today, did I?”
“Was anyone else with them? With Ayesha and the kids?”
“Anyone else? No sir. Just them three.”
“Which way did they go?”
“The main road, of course. To the market maybe. But sir, you can’t find them now? And why’s it so peaceful today sir? Has something happened?” the boy asked, sounding a little worried now.
“Do you remember the people who visited my house this afternoon?” Daulat asked. But the boy was not to have his curiosity ignored anymore.
“But why are you asking all this? Is something wrong sir?” he asked again.
“Remember our deal. Just answer my questions truthfully, and you get the money. What people visited my house today?” asked Daulat.
“Visited your house? No one at all, sir. Only that master.” The boy meant Suyat, Irfan’s tutor. “But he was early today, wasn’t he? Teaches Irfan baba in the evening normally. But I don’t think today he taught Irfan baba at all. He came out quickly, see? Wasn’t looking too happy either, was he?” he paused briefly before continuing; “You know sir, I asked yesterday to him to teach me adding the fractions, but the motherfucker said he won’t teach anyone without a fee.” he was bitter now. And while Daulat contemplated Suyat’s unexpected visit to his house, the boy suddenly exclaimed, “Hey! But schools had early bells today too, when you come to think of it! CPS students go home after the shadow of your house has crossed the road, but today I saw them all going home in the afternoon! You think they ran away from the school sir? Or the school chucked them out because they couldn’t pay the fees? I know it, nobody can pay a school-fee of three-hundred rupees per month!” the boy finished. What a topsy-turvy day! Nothing was as it used to be.
“When did Suyat visit my house? Before Ayesha left, I suppose?” Daulat asked.
“O’ course.” The boy replied. He was now trying to fathom Daulat’s face, searching for a cure to the longest drawn curiosity and confusion of his life. He couldn’t find any.
“Your name’s Bharat, isn’t it?” Daulat asked the boy. Temporarily abandoned by his loquacity, the boy nodded his yes instead.
“Two more questions, Bharat. Was Ayesha carrying anything in her hands when you saw her? I mean anything apart from the kid that you mentioned?” Daulat’s eyes were certainly a lot clearer now. Something made sense to him.
“Carrying? Yes, a big old bag, wasn’t it? I think it needed a repair or something, and probably that’s why memsahib took it to the market. But now when I think on it, the bag didn’t look empty, did it? Maybe she went somewhere hey! But with the Daayan’s son?” This day, by god! Now he was being questioned by rich gentlemen about a lousy old bag!
“Yes thank you, Bharat. One final question: when you say you saw Ayesha leave with the two kids, you didn’t actually see her face, did you? She was wearing a burka, was she not?” Daulat was very calm now. All was clear.
“Burka? O’ course she was wearing it! But o’ course it was her! I can’t mistake her, can I? Loads others wear burka, but we never mistake Sabina for Muskan, do we?” the boy argued indignantly.
“No, of course not. Well here’s your money, Bharat.” Said Daulat, handing the boy a five-hundred rupee note. It was more than twice the egg’s worth. “Take it, and go home. Take your eggs with you, I don’t need them. Go home, and hide.”
The boy was promptly startled. “Thank you sir. But hide, sir? From what?”
“How old were you in 1989?” Daulat asked. The boy told him he was nine.
“In that case, I presume you remember what happened then in Bhagalpur?”Daulat enquired casually, as though discussing the day’s weather.
“Ho sir. Everyone talked about that for some time, didn’t they? Everyone was killed and robbed. But what’s that got to do with...” the boy’s eyes were not finished being big with fear when Daulat spoke.
“Ten times worse will happen now. Some foolish Hindus have destroyed a mosque today, so some foolish Muslims will want revenge. So go home, and hide.” Daulat’s tone did not convey a threat. He was merely stating a fact.
“I knew it, didn’t I? I almost definitely knew something has happened. I’ll go now sir, don’t mind please.” said the boy. He collected his eggs and belongings, and left. Daulat didn’t mind at all.

Daulat Khan was a shrewd politician and this one was easy. He immediately deduced what the conversation meant. To exercise caution, however, he sought confirmation beyond conjectural realms. That was easy too. But he had to act fast; an imminent riot was looming large. A brief visit to her hut told Daulat that Meera was indeed missing. So was her youngest son, whom she used to bring with her. And so was Suyat. And so was Irfan. And so was the old bag. Now, what did the bag hide in it’s bowels? What did Daulat’s father chase all his life? What causes wars? What can never be acquired enough? What, as per the saying, is Time? What is believed to be able to buy almost everything or, in rare cases of exceptions, immaculate imitations of everything? Oops! The last bit was a giveaway, no? Money, then. Does not the saying go thus: Time is money? Daulat’s fifteen lakh rupees were in that bag. And that was before the riots began. Thus, it did not require Einstein’s genes to deduce... But oh! Fifteen lakhs now arrogantly demand attention! Right here, of all the places it could have occurred? Right now? When I’m in the middle of... oh very well! Quickly then: to arrange the solicited donation for the party of which he was an active member, Daulat had sold some of the land that he owned. The money arrived last afternoon in that big old lousy bag. Daulat stuffed the remaining space in the bag with Irfan’s old clothes, so as to fool someone if they accidentally ran into it, and kept it under his bed. The bag was to change hands today. Which it did. It was in Meera’s safe hands now.

So, where were we before being rudely interrupted by fifteen lakh rupees? Ah yes: it did not require Einstein’s genes to deduce that Meera and Suyat had conspired together to murder Ayesha Khan. And to steal the money. Daulat now understood it all. Meera - the Daayan - would have run into the big bag last evening when she swept Daulat’s room. Then a few secret whispers between her and Suyat to plan it all. Ayesha must have mistaken Meera - the Daayan’s chicanery for devotion when the nanny stayed that afternoon. Oh Ayesha! An elegiac sigh. While staring at the horizon, Daulat could see Meera - the Daayan - waiting anxiously for Suyat to make a heroic entry and slit a perfect neck. How easy must it have been? A delicate, kind, loved, loving, trusting, Ayesha cornered alone, defenceless. Nature had never meant her to defend herself. She simply wasn’t equipped. Protecting her was my job, and I failed. Her. Daulat felt himself stinking of putrid impotency. Calculated to accentuate the smell, the selfless baby-smile of Irfan swam between his wet vision and the nearby horizon. Listen to his sorry mind rummaging through various saturnine possibilities: where was Irfan now? What was to become of my son? Would only his body be found somewhere now? Should I be near my telephone? Of course they needed him to escape the way Meera – the Daayan - had planned, but how much did they need him now? Now that they have escaped? What if - and please Allah, let this be – they get greedy and keep him alive? So they can ask for a ransom in return? No, be pragmatic. They’re criminals alright, but not professionals. They could never execute a kidnap. So they didn’t need Irfan anymore. Oh no!

“But there’s a hope!” You heard that? Daulat actually spoke this out loud. Then he went back to mute mulling. And see where this thread of hope leads him: they would never dare to kill Irfan - Oh the idea! - at a public place. With fifteen lakhs in their bag, they would never risk doing something stupid when obvious and easier alternatives were available. They could simply abandon him at a railway station, or a bus stand. Anywhere actually.

And leave behind what was in all likelihood an eyewitness? No, sadly. There was a better and safer alternative. They could take him to some secluded place, and kil...and get it done and over with. The thread of hope led him to the land of No Hope. Daulat ruefully remembered how much he had trusted Meera and Suyat. His trust had just finished collapsing when the horizon cried out in pains of a riot – a clash of faiths.

Thus disowned by hope, Daulat then sought refuge in revenge. Revenge: the purest of all emotions. He acted fast. Immediately after the riots began in the India Street, Daulat used his influence to have a curfew imposed on the Street. The Street, shielded by the protective aura of a curfew, was thus saved. But why should Daulat do it? Especially now when...? This is why: he was just making sure that no one else finished Meera’s family off. He intended to do it himself. Also, the police was not to interfere with Daulat’s personal tragedy. Daulat decreed that he had the right to keep it personal. Ayesha and Irfan were to be reported as victims of the riot, though the police was commanded to do their very best to find Irfan. Now, it is an established fact that in the India Street, between the intimidating might of Money and the feeble Law Enforcement Agencies, there can only be one winner. So Daulat did get to keep it as personal as he pleased. What happened then, to Meera’s father and mother-in-law, her husband (who was home those days), and her two kids that she couldn’t manage to take with her? They had enough money to take the next train, and travel far, far west. They all ran away unscathed. Just like that? Or was the family now buried together in a single twelve-foot deep pit in the remotest corner of Daulat’s mango orchard? The fenced mango orchard that was spread across three acres? You know, the one that was a couple of miles away from the Street? Was the pit dug near the Alphonso tree? Were the children dumped first? Then Budhiya, closely followed by her husband, and on top of the pile, Mohan? Had all their throats been slit by a sharp sword? For weeks and months to come, did the place stink like a rotting family? I’m not too sure. They were erased like a mistake from – what’s the phrase? – historical records. For our purpose, however, we can count them killed without being pessimistic.

There were to be nine murders. How many remain to be committed?

***

We now blur past a brief lull of eighteen years. This is where it would all end. But how do I justify calling a span of eighteen years a brief lull? Of course it was not a spell of blank loafer years per se. For the purpose at hand, however, it was. Almost. Daulat was a top-notch politician now, having enjoyed two five-year stints as the state minister for education. He no longer lived in the India Street. He had built his base in the capital. And he still loved Ayesha. Meera and Suyat still remained to be tracked down. Irfan still remained just as elusive. Where then, were they?

Irfan was in Bangalore, about a thousand miles away from the India Street. A fine young man now, he had just finished his degree in Computer Science and Engineering. He didn’t know it yet, but he had inherited Ayesha’s delicate features, carefully suffused with Daulat’s unmistakable, alert masculinity. After the India Street stole Irfan from his family, he was raised by a kind, graceful lady called Mary. The lovable boy that he was, he received unconditional love from Mary, and not just the fees. The care and the concern. To sum it up: the winter of ’92 left no scars on him. A confusing void, yes, but no scars at all. He had vague, formless, memories of that Kafkaesque December; they shimmered in chiaroscuro haziness beneath his subconscious. But he definitely remembered blood. And he remembered travelling with Mary. A long train journey. He remembered sleeping, waking up, travelling, sleeping, waking up, still travelling, sleeping... for three whole hours? Or three days? He couldn’t tell.

Early on, nightmares often punctuated his sleep. Nightmares about a frightening man who snatched from Irfan whatever he had in his hands then. Be it his cricket ball, his new pencil, his toy car, the crushed wrapper of a chocolate he just ate – the man took it all from him. Always. That’s how his dreams were. They always began happy, with Irfan going about his merry business just like most other children. And then the scary man came to take whatever he had. Sometimes blood dripped - not necessarily from the man, but around him. Not from the ceiling either, but from some unknown, secret source. From somewhere around him. Irfan used to wake up screaming to find himself hugged tightly by Mary, wrapped closely in her gentle but fiercely protecting arms. He was safe. He was loved. The ugly man was just a dream. At those times, Mary whispered and breathed love and safety into every single pore of Irfan. Soon, her love and protection sank in and settled deep inside Irfan. When Irfan was eventually rendered immune to the nightmares, they went away to haunt some other hauntable child. It had been a smooth life since then, except for that persistent void.

I realize that Mary raises more questions than she answers. I must not answer all of them here. Here, I must be selective. By the end though, you will have your answers, all of them. For now, however: Mary was a commerce teacher in a private school. Maybe I should tell you more...she was beautiful, fair as a dove, tall enough to reach a man’s heart, and she was, er...for all practical purposes, single. The Time makes everyone old, but she had refused to cooperate. Or a bit more, I think...well then: Mary was the mother of Michael - a brilliant first-year student of Electronics Engineering. She raised the two kids, Michael and Irfan, all by herself, managing expertly their different backgrounds and religions. That was the easier bit though, when set against answering Irfan’s discomfiting questions.

The first one came when he was about six years old: Mally, how tumm you’le not my mummy? Mary, how come you’re not my mummy? Mary had never asked, or tried to make Irfan believe that she was his mother. No, that would be too easy. Too temporary. One day, he was set to find out the truth, and she cared more about what happened that day than these little pleasantries of childhood. The melodrama of secret ancestries was best left confined to the movies. The knowledge was hard on the little boy now, but she knew it would be brutal if he realized it, say, twenty years later. It was best if he knew it all along. Apart from this one serious answer, however, she laughed his other questions off, however much it pained her to do so. She, in fact, asked him to call her Mary, which he did for some time too. Then one day:

“Why can’t I at least call you mummy? Mike does too! Because I am a very bad boy?” Mary didn’t have the heart not to acquiesce.
“My darling, you may call me what you please. Ugly Mary, Bloody Mary, Mother Mary... absolutely anything, baba.” Irfan beamed.
“The school is closed to-morrow, mummy!” he hugged her, kissed her cheek, and was leaving the room when Mary called out,
“Baba?”
“Yes mummy?” he turned back to answer, clearly eager to make the most of the permission he was just granted.
“You’re the best boy I’ve ever seen in this whole, whole world. Honestly.”
That day, Irfan played his best game; studied long hours with unwavering focus; and slept his soundest sleep so far.

And then, when he was a little older, there were questions like, “Mummy, do you know what happened in the riot? What if my parents are still...you know?”
Mary told him she didn’t know. That he was too young to remember his address, and she’d found him outside, on an empty Street. A man was about to...to harm him, but he was surprised at her sight. He probably wasn’t expecting anyone to turn up just then. He got frightened and ran away, but not before issuing a dire warning. The man warned that he’ll be back for Irfan. She was leaving for Bangalore, and she couldn’t leave the lovely little boy in her arms somewhere, anywhere. It was so unsafe. So she brought him with her too. And how grateful she was that she did so.
This answer was not completely far off the truth.
And then, when Irfan was in his second year of college, “Mummy, I want to go back to where it happened.”
Mary persuaded him to do so after he had finished his degree. Only two more years, baba. Please trust your Mary. I wish to help you, too. I’ll see what I can do. Call him old-fashioned, but Irfan was twenty now, and had not yet learnt to disobey his mummy.

Only two more years were now over. Irfan was out of his college. Mary, good as her word, did prove to be of help. She directed him to a politician based in the capital of that state. The state where the India Street was. She told him that Daulat Khan used to live in the India Street when the riots happened, so he would know the who’s who of the Street. That he was probably the best place to start looking. Did she know then?

“But he’s a state minister! How do you secure an appointment with a minister? Aren’t they famous for staying away from the common people unless it’s elections?” Irfan voiced his only concern.

“Not Daulat Khan, dear. I’m sure he will entertain you.” Mary gave him a cubical package the size of a diary and a sealed envelope with a letter in it. The cubical package was sealed too. “Give these to him personally, baba. These are for his eyes only. It should make your task easy. No more questions now, baba. You leave to-morrow morning. Sleep now, you need rest. Dream sweet dreams, baba.” There was the usual Ptchuh! (U as in Put) when Mary kissed his forehead. Perplexed, Irfan kept the enigmatic letter under his bed, and the package on his table. And he slept.
Mary’s eyes were blank when Irfan left. She cried later.

Securing the appointment was not nearly as difficult as Irfan had imagined it would be. The mention of his name and age were good enough for Daulat to suspend a high-level meeting with a few corporate officers. Irfan was summoned in. He entered Daulat’s office to meet two curious eyes. Daulat knew! Right away. His face superimposed on Ayesha’s. And a few minor, deliberate mistakes.

“Irfan.” He whispered. He was instinctively getting up to hug him when he stopped midway and seated himself back. This can’t be true. Surely, I’m foolishly mistaken.
“Yes sir. I have this package for you.” Irfan had failed to register the pause in Daulat’s heartbeat.
“Yes? What is it?” Daulat’s heart resumed normal service at the sight of the package.
“I’m afraid I don’t know sir. I was told that these are for your eyes only. And there’s this letter... It’s... I’d kept it in...” Irfan searched his pockets in vain. He had forgotten the letter clean.
He dearly hoped that forgetting the letter was not a huge mistake. “I’m so very sorry, sir. There was a letter too, but it looks like I forgot to bring it. I can have it faxed...” he broke off. Daulat didn’t seem to pay much mind to the letter.

He was engrossed by the package. Watch him: watch Daulat keep the package in his lap, below the desk and away from Irfan’s sight. Hear the rustling sound of the cover being torn off. And there, in Daulat’s lap, lay a photo album and an old earring. He was about to open the album when he gasped. Ayesha’s earring!
“Wait outside” he said, without looking up.
“Er...Sure sir.” Irfan left. Sometimes, confusion hunts in packs.
Daulat’s sturdy determined impatient curiosity beat all his other swirling shoving swishing emotions to claim primacy. Ayesha’s left earring was missing the day she was killed. It now dangled, Ayesha-less, in his hands; a lost piece of a puzzle. The photo album was another such piece. Daulat was thoroughly smashed as he flipped through it. Irfan’s photographs, from weeks after the riot till weeks before today, smiled back at his father. The album served the purpose of a chronological documentation of Irfan’s life. Daulat took his time as he savoured the relief. My son is alive. The next string in the sequence of his logic was a question: what happened? The answer was waiting outside. Daulat stowed the album in his drawer, and the earring in his pocket. And he summoned Irfan inside.
“Who gave you this package?” Daulat asked him.
“Mary D’ Souza. She took me in after I was separated from my family in the ’92 riots, and raised me. She told me that you used to live in the same Street where she found me. Sir, would you happen to know anything about my family? Are they all..?” he asked.
“All in good time, son. Tell me about her family.” Said Daulat. Irfan told him about Mary and Michael. Their ages? Mary: about thirty-five. Michael: about three-and-a-half years younger than me. A few well chosen questions from here led Daulat to the only plausible conclusion: Daulat Khan was a shrewd politician and this one was easy. To exercise caution, however, he sought confirmation beyond conjectural realms. Irfan was saying something about “she’ll always be my mother” and “remain my family” when:
“Do you have a picture of her, Irfan?”
“What? O’ yes sir. It’s in my phone, but it’s switched off at the moment. Battery low. Why?” Irfan was now starting to notice Daulat’s interest in Mary.
“Do you have the charger with you?” Soon, Irfan’s phone was switched on. On it’s small display, Daulat saw one more piece of the puzzle click into place. Mary D’ Souza was Meera! Michael was her youngest son whom she had taken with her when she’d fled. One more piece remained, however. Irfan wouldn’t recognise the name of course. The identity, then:
“One more question, son. You didn’t tell me about Mary’s husband. Where is he?”
“She’s single, sir.” Irfan said stiffly.
“In that case, does she have a friend who used to be a maths teacher? This could help me find your family, dear. Trust me.”
“No sir. Not that I know of.”
“Very well. We’ll speak more about it later this evening. Meanwhile, I assure you I will set my men at work. Now, if you wait outside...” said Daulat. Before Irfan left, Daulat borrowed his cell phone till today evening, dear. He said he might need to contact Mary and a few people she knew.

Irfan was taken to the rest house, where he was to wait till the evening. The secretary told Irfan to make himself at home, and left. Daulat, meanwhile, did as he had promised. He set his men at work.

“Yes, kill them both. But before you kill the lady, I need you to extract from her information regarding the exact whereabouts of a certain Suyat Singh. Sierra Uniform Yankee Alpha Tango. Search the house if you fail to coerce it out of her. Cell phones, computers, diaries, everything. Get all the data, the information I seek may not necessarily be under the same name I gave you. This time, you get double the usual rates upon neat execution. Sloppy work, on the other hand, will cost you a hand or two. Use silencers.” The phone call was over.
They think returning my son absolves them of everything? Daulat thought.

Irfan had been gone two days now. He took with him Mary’s better, happier part of the universe. With the exception of Michael, she was not left with much to keep her interested. For the first time since ’92, she felt the verisimilitude of the void that was created then. She was pointlessly making Irfan’s bed, just for the sake of it, when a charming gentleman knocked on the door. Michael answered it, and was shot instantly. Twice, in the head. The front of his skull smashed like an eggshell. A bullet through your brain can throw you slightly off-balance, and Michael was no exception. His limp form lacked the life requisite for recovery from the backward jerk, and fell to the floor. What was inside his head, was now outside. All over the floor. Back in Irfan’s room, Mary just heard two distinct phuts, and a dull thud. The gun was silenced.
“Did something break, Mickey?” she asked loudly, still smoothing Irfan’s bed, “And who’s on the...No!” the letter was in her hands and the gentleman in the room. A gun stared meaningfully at her head.
“You get one chance. Where is Suyat?” he asked.
“What? Michael?” It was not a question to the man; she was calling her son.

***

“She didn’t talk much. She wasn’t much of a conversationist, but I have a letter addressed to you.”
“Fax it to me now. I will also need you to bring the letter to me in person when you are here.” Daulat ordered.
Without much prelude then, the letter:

Dear Sir,
This is Meera. I did not kill Ayesha didi. Suyat did. That afternoon, didi asked me to stay because she wanted to go out with you when you returned. I was to take care of Irfan baba while she was away. Baba, my son and I waited for you in your room. Didi was in the living room. I don’t remember when we dozed off. I woke up to a shriek, and a terrible gurgling noise. Irfan baba woke up too. Scared, I instinctively grabbed your sword, and hurried to the living room, that’s where the shriek came from. Baba was at my heels. Suyat had done it by then. His large knife was bloody. Judging by his surprised look when he saw me, he hadn’t expected me at all. Nevertheless, he advanced towards us but I brandished your sword at him, hid Irfan baba behind me, and made to shout for help when he said, “Shout! Go on! No one will believe you! A nanny working overtime when her mistress gets murdered? I will tell everyone that I saw you murder her. Who do you think they will believe? An innocent maths teacher or a Daayan? Remember Raju? Yes, I know what had happened. The kid can be a problem; I will attend to him as soon as I’ve got you out of the way. You can’t always hide him behind a sword, you know. You don’t know me. This is not my first; I don’t leave a witness behind. Ever.” and then he made me a disgusting offer, sir.
“You, however, have one more choice, Meera. So lucky of you! Fifteen lakh rupees are rotting in this house as we speak. I saw it arrive last evening when I was teaching Irfan. This is your option, in baby language: you shrug the scruples off, and we kill the boy. And then...”
I swear, sir, I did not let him speak any more. “Go away.” I wished out loud.
“You will pay for it, as will this boy.” He said. And then he left.
I’m sorry sir, but I was scared. I knew he was right. I knew that anyone who saw me there would have no doubts whatsoever regarding who did it. Running away was the first thought that occurred to me. By now, you probably have figured out how I made my cowardly exit. I knew that by running away, I would be confirming everyone’s doubts, but there was a faint chance that I might just survive. That way, I would have time both to prove my innocence, and to bring Suyat to justice. Suyat was the proof of my innocence. I didn’t know how I was to go about it, but this was the only way I could think of. Sir, I could not have left Irfan baba there. You would never have suspected Suyat, and because of that, he was most likely to succeed in his intentions to murder baba. He couldn’t harm baba then, because I was protecting him with your sword. But without me around? I was the only one who knew what his intentions were. So I took baba with me. I hastily picked some of his clothes, and I saw an old bag under your bed. I undid it’s zipper to stuff baba’s clothes in it, but the bag was already full with his clothes! I was thankful that I was spared the packing. I did not have any money, so I took, yes sir, I stole, two-thousand rupees from Ayesha didi’s purse. I’m sorry sir; I needed money to hide somewhere, and to take care of Irfan baba. To keep him alive. When I left the house, dressed as Ayesha didi, I had intended to travel some place far away, and find a job sir, any job. I had finished my secondary school, I could have taught primary school kids. Or I could have become a maid. And I would find Suyat. What I was to do when I did find him, I did not know then. But this plan went far enough, when compared to the other options that I had. I discovered the true contents of the bag only in the train to Bangalore, when I rummaged through it to change Irfan baba’s dress. I promise you sir: I did not intend to steal this money, and will have that money returned to you. It was an innocent mistake. Anyway, when I left your house sir, I also took with me my certificates. In Bangalore, I resumed a new identity. My son and I converted, we became Christians. My son became Michael while I became Mary. I pursued my education, and began Irfan baba’s education too. I also began searching for Suyat. Seven years later, I was an M.Com. I took up a teaching job in a private school. They’re not very fussy about your backgrounds, see? Not that there weren’t places where my, our, background information was required, but at each of those places, money placed us beyond scrutiny. We became invisible. But so had Suyat. I kept my search on. And Irfan baba kept growing up. His questions were gradually getting sharper with time, and I confess that I did lie to him on occasions. About how I found him for instance. They say it is cowardly to lie. Ought I to have told him the truth then? “I didn’t exactly find you baba. I was your nanny when your teacher murdered your mother, and you are an eye-witness.” Would that have been brave? Thankfully, baba didn’t remember much, but would it have mattered to Suyat? Was it worth risking his life with a psychopath? I could easily have sent him back to you at any point, sir. My only excuse for keeping a son separate from his father, and keeping a father separate from his son, is that I feared for baba’s safety. I did not know where Suyat was, and Irfan baba was an eye-witness he feared. He wasn’t concerned about me; he knew no one will believe me against him. About a year ago, I found where Suyat was. Irfan baba was in college by then, doing his engineering. I thought it best to wait till his education was finished, sir. I figured that realization of the truth was sure to disturb him greatly, and I thought it best to wait for one more year. I kept a tab on Suyat all the while to make sure I didn’t lose him again. I have written his address at the back of all the pictures of Irfan baba that you are looking at. Find him, sir, and question him. He will confirm my innocence.
Now, Irfan baba sits before you, healthy and whole. He is a computer engineer now, sir. And your foolish, but loyal servant awaits her punishment.
Sir, I do realize I have made decisions I had no right to make. I did so partly because of my foolish frights, partly because I had your and Irfan baba’s best interests at heart. When I ran away, I did understand that my family will pay the consequences. But sir, even if I had stayed, and allowed myself to get caught, would my family have been spared? Would Suyat have rested till he had murdered my baba? I have served you with my life-blood sir; you took me in when the whole, whole, world had disowned me. A good servant knows her master. I know you too. I haven’t checked once, but I am sure my family has been decapitated. Years ago, I think. I was forced to sacrifice them on the altars of my gratitude towards you. I do not complain, sir, as the only way to save my family was to join Suyat in first, killing baba, and then, stealing your money. I could not have done that. Ever. So, I have forgiven you my husband and my two sons. And my in-laws. You did not know the truth. Whether my family will ever forgive me for saving Irfan baba is another matter, however. Sir, if I were to re-live the torment again, would I have done anything differently? I doubt that I would have. Would you have acted differently if you were me? Of course you would have done better. I have no shame in admitting that I did not have your decision-making ability then, I do not have it now.
Yours faithfully,
Meera.

Mary and Michael’s murders were Daulat’s two hasty mistakes that sentenced him to a lifetime of impotent repentance. Though Daulat did have his long due cold revenge, but Suyat’s crime now appeared venial when set beside his own. The universe was sad in colour. And finished.

A brief valedictory Q&A:
Q: Being who I am, was this the best I had to offer? What was so special about this story that The History himself should write it? Did I not have more spectacular, more entertaining epics up my sleeve?
A: The grand, spectacular epics do not require me to reach you. They have been rather well documented. I confess, I prefer original smallness to hackneyed grandeur.
Q: Why did I absolutely have to reach out to you now?
A: I had to begin sometime, somewhere. There is more to come, I promise you that.

- Vj.

Vj's Blog

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