Siddhartha Gigoo’s books are The Garden of Solitude, A Fistful of Earth and Other Stories (longlisted for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award 2015), A Long Dream of Home: The Persecution, Exodus and Exile of Kashmiri Pandits (co-edited), Once We Had Everything: Literature in Exile (co-edited) and Mehr: A Love Story. In 2015, he won the Commonwealth Short Story Prize (Asia) for his short story, The Umbrella Man. His stories have been longlisted for Lorian Hemingway Short Story Prize, Royal Society of Literature’s V.S. Pritchett Short Story Prize, and Seán O’Faoláin Short Story Prize.
Siddhartha’s short films, The Last Day and Goodbye, Mayfly, have won several awards at international film festivals. His writings appear in various literary journals. He’s also the co-founder of Daalaan, a Hindi literary magazine. For more, visit siddharthagigoo.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-93-5333-817-6
First impression 2020
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The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
Here we are always late by a certain interval of time of which we cannot define the length.
—BRUNO SCHULZ,
SanatoriumundertheSignoftheHourglass
Only two rivers flow here: Dead River and Red River.
ARVIND GIGOO, GulliverinKashmir
Contents
Book I PENUMBRA
Home Away from Home
Quit or Die
The Arrival Into the Night
Book II UMBRA
The Safe House One for Sorrow, Three for Joy
Book III
THE JOURNAL OF ABDUL AZIZ
The Legend of Salim Dar A Dream of Freedom
A Life for a Life
A Dangerous Idea
A Hero’s Welcome
Honest Betrayal
Moon Rises from the North Lion’s Den
Kill Us Before We Kill You
Things You Mustn’t Know
Surprise Inspection Truth of Life
The Keeper of the Gates of Paradise
Lion’s Roar A Dream of Life
The Night of Communion
Spring’s Last Song
Epilogue
We have some more distance to cover. If we walk fast, we’ll be there in no time. Do you see that embankment over there? We’ll rest there for a while. Yes, that’s where the fish are in abundance. And we’ll take a boat ride too. The water in the lake isn’t as cold as it seems; it is cold only on the surface. But down below, it is warm. The fish won’t survive if the water is icy. And if you do exactly as I say, you’ll learn how to swim like a fish. No one will ever tease you then. You trust me, don’t you? I’m not fibbing, and I won’t lie to you ever. I know you can do big things. I know how brave you are. Did you know I was about your age when I learnt swimming? I learnt swimming in a river, not in a lake. Dad taught me. It was difficult at first. I feared drowning. But I overcame the fear. Do you know how? Because dad was by my side! He never let me out of his sight even for a moment. When I got breathless in the water, he carried me in his arms and taught me how to breathe. Then, I started swimming on my own. Dad swam next to me. Every day we went swimming. Soon, I learnt how to dive off the bridge. People looked at me with awe and disbelief. They thought I was showing off. I wanted to do things that no one dared to. I dreamt of climbing the highest cliffs, walking on razor-sharp ridges, and summiting peaks where no birds lived.
You are my responsibility now. I will hold you tight in the water till you become fearless. We’ll do this one step at a time. I’ll hold you until you learn how to float. You’ll then learn how to tame water. In no time you will be swimming like a champion. Until then, you should listen to everything I say. That is my only condition. Imagine swimming from this end of the lake to the other. You will be known as the youngest crosser of this magnificent lake. What I couldn’t do at your age, you will. When we reach the other side, you will understand that everything that happened happened for a reason. I know you never get tired. You’re stronger than I am. Listen to me carefully now, pay attention. I have to attend to something urgent. I won’t be long. I want you to wait for me here. Why don’t
you look at the fish till I return? Remember we are going to have an exciting day. It’s your special day. We’re going swimming finally. Once you get into the water, you won’t want to come out. You won’t be alone. Here, put on these headphones and listen to music. You can listen to anything that you wish to; your favourite tracks or any other songs you like. I will be back before the song ends.
I cross the road and the mist cuts me off. Zubair is out of sight. Then the mist disappears and Zubair is visible once again. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t removed the headphones. I don’t lose sight of him. I look at him and wait. I know he won’t disobey me. My forefinger is curled around the trigger. I have everything figured out but somehow I can’t get myself to do what I’m supposed to do. I’ve rehearsed this over and over again. It’s been flawless every time. The desired result is just a shot away. A gentle push and Zubair will be in the water. He won’t feel a thing.
If it doesn’t happen here, then I must switch to Plan B. The railway track isn’t far. The last train arrives in the evening. The job has to be done today. There won’t be a tomorrow. It has got to be done today. Dad was right. I can’t let Zubair go through an ordeal at someone else’s hands. He must not come to any harm. He mustn’t be left alone to…
I am on a flight that’s about to land. A gorgeous countryside with lush green fields is in sight. Bountiful sunshine has carpeted the grasslands. Horses are grazing. Cows are asleep. Fields of hay run over the hills. What is this place? I have seen places like this only in the movies. I feel like I have been on board for hardly a second and the white outside has turned to green. How is it possible for winter to have turned to summer in no time at all? I rush to the toilet to pee. After I am done, I try to open the door to go back to my seat. The damn door doesn’t open. It is stuck. It appears that someone has purposely bolted it from the outside to prevent my exit. I knock on the door. It makes no sound. The entire place is soundproof. I can’t locate my spare trousers. People start getting off the plane, and I can’t even remember why I was on it in the first place.
Your dreams can’t compare with mine. If our dreams were to compete, I would win every time because my grandma was always the champ. I have inherited the dreams she didn’t dream. She used to sit me down in the mornings and tell me about her dreams when dad hadn’t shown up for days. That’s how she kept me engrossed. I never believed in her dreams but now I do. Every dream she ever told me about is true. When she was dying, she told me about the funny dreams she had; chance encounters with animals and funny people like clowns of a circus. I knew they weren’t true but I believed them. Even after her death, she didn’t stop making unannounced appearances in my dreams. She is now making me dream her unfinished dreams.
Those who leave you or those you leave behind always return. In the end, the dog and the cat and the crows and the pigeons will return no matter how far you leave them and no matter how far you are. In the end, dad will come back. He will return and the dream will turn out to be a happy one.
Grandma used to say, ‘If you rub a stone every day for seven years, it will come back to life.’
2
‘This is the final boarding call for Zooni Aziz booked on flight AI 112 to New Delhi. Please board the aircraft immediately. The doors of the aircraft will close in exactly five minutes. I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Zooni Aziz. Please board the aircraft immediately. Thank you!’
I hear a whisper in my ear, ‘Are you Zooni? The announcement is for you. You should hurry, else you will miss your flight…’
I gather myself and look around to make sense of my surroundings. A woman standing next to me is looking at me with mischief in her eyes. She seems to be either Japanese or Korean. Her features give her away. She is fair complexioned and shorter than I am. She sports a bobcut, and her hair is mostly black with an odd streak of brown. Her nose is flat. Her unusual features set her apart from the rest of the people in the lounge. A 4-wheeled trolley case is moving in circles around her. It’s a nauseatingly slow rotation like that of a devotee going around a sanctum or a satellite orbiting a planet. In the woman’s hand is a remote control. Her finger presses down firmly on a button. Somehow, she gives an impression of not being a stranger here. She seems unruffled at the comings and goings of people. Yet, unlike the others, she appears confused and clueless as to why she is at the boarding gate in the first place and what she must do. But then, the way she is looking at me, I get a sense that she is there for a reason. She seems to have come out of nowhere just to make me aware of something. No one else seems to be aware of her. She appears to be waiting for me to make a move. I can tell. She throws me a strange look which seems to say,
‘You too?’ It is some kind of a sign, like she is privy to everything that has happened in my life so far, and as if she has a clear sense of what I am thinking and going to do next. Maybe she knows what’s going to happen. The expression on her face turns sly as she sees me regain a sense of purpose. ‘You aren’t going anywhere’ is what her expression conveys.
My name is called out again. The airline attendant at the boarding gate looks at me, annoyed. Without saying a word, she points at the clock on the wall and gestures to indicate that the New Delhi-bound flight is about to take off with or without me and if I still choose to not come to my senses, I will be stranded here forever. That’s all she does. She has no interest in what’s happening around us. She’s blind to the unfolding act. I’m just a vacant seat, 64-A.
I look at the clock on the wall. Someone is trapped in it. The person is trying to stop the big hand from moving. He’s hanging off the edge of the big hand. He’s about to fall. The big hand moves two-and-a-half places and then stops, unable to climb any further. The dial changes its appearance. The man falls and the hands of the clock start moving, slowly at first, and then at a terrifying pace until they can’t be seen at all. The clock is about to explode and there’s no sign of Time.
The woman with the flat nose knows she has my attention now. Success at last! But she’s unfazed. We stare at each other without the slightest fear or embarrassment. I want to say goodbye and good luck to her before boarding the plane. Just as a courtesy! What if I strike up a conversation with her? Maybe she’s in distress. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. Maybe she’s stranded. Maybe she has missed her flight. Maybe she has dropped the idea of boarding her flight and going away from here. Maybe she’s just killing time and leering aimlessly at people like me to read minds for a lark. Maybe she’s an aimless wanderer or a tourist or a vagabond. Maybe she’s a contractor hired to do a job that she doesn’t really want to do. Maybe she’s a secret agent whose only job is to keep tabs on people in transit.
But then, what if I’m wrong and she’s none of these. What if she turns out to be psychic? She might have been keeping me in her
sight for as long as I have been here. Even when I fell asleep and dreamt a horrible dream in which I was plotting to get rid of Zubair by pushing him into a frozen lake on the pretext of teaching him how to swim. Maybe this flat-nosed woman is an interpreter of dreams. What if she has seen everything? What if she knows things I don’t know yet?
She keeps staring at me as I walk away from her and board the plane. Her gaze follows me right inside the aisle of the plane. I can’t stop thinking about the strange look on her face.
Whyme?WhathaveIdone?
Has such a thing happened to you ever; at an airport or a train station? Just when you’re about to leave, you chance upon a person —a fellow passenger or a stranger—who looks at you suspiciously, mystifyingly, as if she or he knows everything about you and the inner workings of your mind. What do you do at such times? Ignore the person thinking you might be reading too much into his or her expressions or stop to confront the person and try to find out the reason behind his or her fixation about you? Will you ever get to know the real reason?
The stalker’s face seems familiar all of a sudden when I sit in the plane and look outside the window. In the sky, float small reflections of people familiar and unfamiliar. One such face is of a flat-nosed girl looking intently at me with a strange expression and a desire to make me remember her.
3
Unlike my classmates in the department, I hadn’t gone home in the last two years. Everyone else had been home at least once or twice. And there are those who go home every four or five months. Sara and I have an apt name for them: Seasonal holidayers.
There are certain customs to be followed before one leaves for home. And I am leaving without notice. It’s a strange departure. When Sara comes to know that I am gone, she’ll panic and throw a fit. Who knows what she’ll think about me. There will be consequences. She might not forgive me for not informing her. But
explaining the situation to her would have been pointless. Sridhar is an exception, my feelings for him made me confide in him. That he is the only one who knows about my decision to drop everything— my research work, studies, friendships, and even him—on impulse and leave London, is a cause for concern. He shouldn’t have been my confidante. But the deed is done, and I have no one but myself to blame.
My decision to leave London and go back to Kashmir might seem impulsive and reckless to both Sara and Sridhar. But now that I have taken the decision to quit everything and go back, I realize I may have, over the past few months, taken many things about myself lightly. Sometimes you don’t pay attention to yourself—your past, family, relationships, fears, complexes, abilities, likes and dislikes, ideals, principles and commitments.
Something has been looming in my mind for a long time now, and it concerns my father and my relationship with him. I assess the past two years of my life in London. Academically, there’s been no problem. Everyone struggles in a new place. You dismiss the struggles as teething problems. So do I, sometimes. It is an endless marathon. There’s no end to it although we are bound to forcefully conclude at some point in time. Hasty conclusions and early arrivals are scary. They make you lose confidence. You fumble and rise and fumble again. There are days you wallow in despair. There are days that bring comfort and show you hope. But hope is an illusion. And if you can’t distinguish it from its real form, it makes you see things that do not exist. It assumes its real form in no time. And that is scary to deal with. You cling to things that you think will help you sail through turmoil and crisis. Then you lose your grip and fall. Friends come to your rescue. They help you battle your weaknesses and doubts. They offer words of wisdom, comfort and support. In doing so, their own weaknesses come to light and stand exposed, and you don’t feel alone in the world and you don’t suffer a nervous breakdown. Weakness sometimes becomes the source of strength. We are united in our weaknesses and fears. Weaknesses and fears bind us. I am no exception.
Well, maybe there are exceptions, such as Sridhar. He’s bright and erudite and has a supreme ability to summon intellectual and critical faculties at will and in situations where we need them the most. Within him is a vast reserve of fertile ground that yields fabulous produce, day after day, month after month. The way he looks at the world and interprets it, sometimes precisely and sometimes imperfectly, is both intimidating and stunning.
When I first met him, I had no clue about his past academic record. But as I observed him inside as well as outside the seminar rooms of our university, I began seeing him differently. I began envying him. He has the makings of a great person. In some ways, he reminds me of my father. Strong-headed, mysterious, charismatic, influential, stubborn, puller of crowds…
On a personal front, I have done reasonably well so far, minus the ups and downs concerning my past associations and relationships. Some of them appear frivolous now in hindsight, as you would imagine. However, my relationship with Sridhar has blossomed. I wouldn’t call it love though we have shared good and bad moments with each other. When we are together, life is beautiful and fulfilling despite our arguments over random matters. There are no worries. But then, night-time creeps in, when I look into the mirror or at the empty sky and come face-to-face with myself. Me versus me… the piercing gaze… the taunting voice… What are you doing here? Is this what you should be doing? Will you ever be happy? What will you do if you fail? What sort of life are you leading?Areyou on therightpath?Whatifthisisthewrongpath? For how long will you depend on your father’s money and fame? What if he’s not around? What if something unforeseen happens? Whatwillyoudothen?
When I think of dad, there have been and still are only ‘what ifs’. After all, he commands the Special Forces, an elite antiterrorism unit of Jammu and Kashmir Armed Police, and Kashmir continues to be the most troubled place on earth. Kashmir has become a strange place. I feel attracted to it only when I see it in photographs. It seems unreal and hypnotic like a movie set or a fantasy. It entices with its false pretense. I am forced to call it home for several
reasons, but is it really a home I wish to go back to? It is home because I was born and brought up there. It is home because dad and Zubair are still living there. It is home because of my dreams and memories of mom, grandma and grandpa. It is home because each one of us must have a place to call ours. It is home because that is where the seasonal holidayers go when there is nowhere else to go. It is home because everyone says so. It is home because, right now, I am headed there with a growing feeling that I might never return.
But the truth might be different than what I have believed so far. I don’t feel like going there even though dad and Zubair still live there.
At this very moment, as I look back upon the times gone by and begin to assess my present situation, I must hold someone responsible for everything. Who could that person be? It’s a terrible thing to pass on the blame to your father. I’m not going to do so. But I will let you judge for yourself. One of us has to be at fault, if not both. And you must get to the root of the cause.
Now that I am seated on a plane that’s homebound, I am overcome with dark fears, fears that I have never experienced before.
Imagine your life’s goal is to summit the highest mountain in the world. You prepare for it for years. Then one day, you set off for the foot of the mountain. It’s a lonely and hazardous journey across forests, marshes, turbulent rivers, passes, glaciers and crevices. When you reach the foot of the mountain, you establish base camp, and for the first time, you get to set your eyes on the summit towering up to the sky. You realize how close you are to your goal. You say to yourself: ‘It’s achievable. It’s possible. I will do it. Nothing can stop me now. Nothing will come between the summit and me.’ At the foot of the mountain, you slowly begin your climb and then you climb back down after reaching the halfway mark. Along the way, you encounter dangerous crevices and you scale them using skill and perseverance. You set up camps where you will rest. These camps are for safety. They are the insurance should the unforeseen happen.
You keep going further up and then down again and, in doing so, you adapt to the extreme conditions otherwise you die. You become familiar with everything, not just with the unknown terrain—the mountain—but with yourself too. You leave your fears behind. You overcome the greatest obstacle—the fear of failure. Then, on the day that you finally reach the summit, you throw caution to the winds and risk your life to set foot on and touch the pinnacle where no soul has ever been. This is where madness takes over. And you’re there at the summit. You are up there, alone, with no one to acknowledge your feat or to validate your claim. You leave no proof of your deed. But the trouble begins at the very top. When you’re up there at the very top, you realize you can go no farther. It is all over. The only way forward is backwards. The only way for you to go is back down to where you began in the first place. No more heights to conquer. The mountain appears to tumble and spin on its peak. It is at this very moment that reality strikes you, harshly. Everything that you have done is of no use. You feel incapacitated. Is this the trickery of the mountains or of the demons residing on their summits? You are rendered bereft of any capabilities. You realize you can’t do a thing hereafter. You even become incapable of investigating into the treachery of your own act.
Right now, as I wander aimlessly atop a lonely summit, I am going through the same treachery knowing very well that what ultimately kills you is not the ascent but the descent.
4
Through dark-rimmed glasses, Sridhar is looking into my eyes as if I am about to leave him forever. The night spreads forth its wings but its reins are with Sridhar. The hands of the clock are at his command. Such is his power. But he conceals the power as though he is waiting for the right moment to conjure it up and gift it to me one last time before I leave. He knows I am not going to stay. The quiver in my eyes gives me away. He places the tip of his forefinger on the mole on my face. When he lifts his finger, the mole is gone as
if it never existed. How does he know my secret desires? That I am better off without the mole and that the mole was a curse!
Whathaveyoudone,Sridhar?
‘You want it back?’ he lisps. He already knows the answer. He knows I will never say yes. But I don’t want him to know that I am lying and that what he has done is sinister.
‘If you want it back, tell me,’ he says, seeing the fear and ecstasy in my eyes.
Buthowwillyoumakeitreappearnowthatit’sgone?
‘Do you really want to know?’
I run my fingers over my face. The skin isn’t mine. The mole is gone. I grasp Sridhar’s hand and run my fingers over his palm thinking that the mole has stuck to his hand and that it will come off. But nothing of that sort happens. I am scared. I want him to tell me to go away.
The mole was a birthmark, and he rid me of it. When I was in my mother’s womb, an eclipse took place. Mom had been debarred from going out of the house that day. ‘Don’t go out during the eclipse’ had been the diktat. But true to her nature, she did just the opposite. Defying everyone, including her husband, she stepped out exactly at the time when the moon turned black. Dad wasn’t home. When mom was outside, looking at the black moon, she had a fall. When she returned, she realized that something was wrong. But it was too late to do anything or to rectify the mistake. The deed had been done. A tiny mole appeared on my mother’s face that very instant. When I was born, everyone saw the big mole on my face and panicked. They thought it would bring me bad luck.
‘Nothing is my doing,’ Sridhar declares. Soft light falls across his face and mine.
Could this be the dawn? This is your doing. You had promised youwouldn’thurry.
‘I am not the one going away,’ he says, sarcastically. I had hoped he would make me stay. He had cast a spell over me. But I had made up my mind. Nothing in the world would make me stay. My bags were packed and I had no choice but to go.
You know that only you can prevent me from going but you won’t. It was a mean thing to say, but I was merely testing him. I didn’t want to take the blame. He was beyond blame. But one of us had to bear the burden of guilt should we never get to meet again or should the unthinkable happen. Regret is the worst thing to happen to any person.
Sridhar has his reasons to be happy, confident, content and unperturbed in all situations. Pinning my hopes on him would have been the biggest blunder. He is from a village you have to look up on the map of India, a tiny dot in South India. He was born in a farm on the outskirts of Tiruvannamalai in Tamil Nadu. His schooling took place in a missionary-run institution there. His parents are farm dwellers. He is the first of his clan to have earned a scholarship. He is also the first of his clan to have set foot in a foreign country to study and earn a living. He supports himself by taking up jobs such as giving tuitions to the children of underprivileged refugees and asylum dwellers. Yet, invariably, he ends up waiving off the fee. His explanation: ‘There are times when you don’t accept money.’ But he possesses something that none of us possess. 5
At dawn, Sridhar comes to my room. ‘I’ve to show you something. Come with me right away…’
I am in no mood to go anywhere. There is little time left for anything. I’m getting ready to leave but I don’t know what all I have to do before I leave. Things are scattered all around me. I have lost interest in everything—what I should do and what I shouldn’t do. Things lying in front of me and around me seem useless. I must simply take my bag and run away from here. I don’t need anything.
I must reach the airport on time. You can never predict lastminutehurdles.
‘I will wait,’ Sridhar says, with a patient look on his face. When I come out of the shower, I see an unbelievable sight. My shoes have been polished. Even those I am not taking along—three
pairs of sandals and three pairs of shoes. My clothes have been ironed. Even those stacked in the cupboard.
‘It’s going to rain,’ he says.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and rush out with my hands over my head. He stands there and watches me go. Then in an instant, as if by magic, I stop, stand still for a moment, and turn around to face him. I feel something I have never before felt in my life. A mysterious force! It isn’t letting me go. It’s trying to hold me back. It isn’t Sridhar’s doing though. He is merely looking at me and waving a reluctant goodbye. He isn’t trying to hold me against my wishes. He isn’t even trying to shield me from uncertainty. I stand there, gazing at him bemusedly with a sting in my heart, trying hard to not abandon my goal. The summit is far and there will be pitfalls —some of which I have perceived during the last few days. I pull myself together. There is no deception in Sridhar’s heart and I am blaming him for my own weakness.
I am about to leave his world and enter another. In the sky is the remnant of a cinder. Until last night it was a burnished moon. I walk towards the bus stop. The longest walk ever. Church bells start pealing. My steps are shaky. The bridge of departures is ahead. It is my favourite place on campus. I love it because Sridhar first discovered it for me. It has been my go-to place when no other place existed. We have been the lonely walkers when no one else was around.
The bus arrives on time. It is half-empty. I sit at the back of the bus and take a look at what all I am leaving behind. The road ahead lengthens. It seems to be spreading forth out of nowhere. And then, a raindrop falls on the windowpane.
At the airport, something unexpected happens. The attendant at the check-in counter inspects my ticket and my ID as if something is amiss. He takes a long time to clear me for the flight. His expression, as he looks at me, seems to suggest that I am an imposter trying to fool him. He appears unsure. To make matters worse, he throws an unlikely question at me: ‘Is this you?’
Whatkindofaquestionisthis?
‘The ID says you have a large mole on your face. It’s there in your photo. But I don’t see the mole on your face.’
He denies me boarding. People start queuing up behind me. They become impatient, ‘What’s taking her so long?’
I’mnotthecauseofthedelay.Stopblamingme.
I plead with the attendant to permit me to board the flight. He calls someone else to verify my identity, ‘Is she the person she’s claiming to be?’
I make several pleas in my defense, ‘Listen,Iamthedaughterof a distinguished police officer in India. I have proof of that. Why won’tyoubelieveme?’
‘Listen, Miss,’ he says, ‘we need to follow a procedure for identification. Will you please step aside and let the next passenger be attended to?’
You’re mistaken, Mister . You think I am causing the hold-up. Cometoyoursensesanddoyourjobproperly.
‘I am doing my job. Now step aside or else…’
Are you threatening me? How dare you? Who doyou thinkyou are,youpathetic….
‘Security…’ the man yells.
I’mnotgoingtodowhatyousay.
I am handcuffed and pinned to the ground as if I am a criminal. I plead my case politely once again: IamnotwhatyouthinkIam… I havemyrights…And then, losing my cool: Bloodyracists…morons… patheticbrats…dowhateveryou willbutyou willrepentthisact…I willmakesureyoupayforthis…
My phone is seized and my bag is confiscated. I find myself in a dingy room. Some sort of foul-smelling antechamber where the scum of society are made to blurt out unpleasant truths after being meted out remedial treatments. A fiendish-looking interrogator enters the room along with his sidekick. Such people are nameless and faceless. They don’t smile, ever. They deal only with the worst kind—those who don’t deserve to exist. They just stare at you. Their unblinking stares are meant to not only test your emotional threshold levels but also to end your tolerance to pain. It then becomes easy for them to extract anything from people no matter
who they are and what powers they possess. At the slightest hint of pain, people will simply blurt out anything and confess to things they never did or can’t even dream of doing. ‘Out with the truth or else’ is the warning given to me. The scariest question is asked of me: ‘Who are you?’
How many times do I have to tell you? I’m a student at the University of London. Is this not enough proof of my identity? I’m also a human rights and an anti-racism activist. What the hell are youdoing?
My pleas fall on deaf ears. All because of a damn mole! It is Sridhar’s fault. He shouldn’t have done this. Had I known this would happen I would not have allowed him to do this! How stupid of me to think that the mole was a curse. I am a damn fool. I run my fingers over my face. The mole is there. I beg them again: Look,it’s there.Letmego.Iamnotlying.Lookatme.Themoleisthere…
‘Where? We don’t see it,’ growls the interrogator’s assistant. What is wrong with all of them? Why can’t they see my mole? Is it some kind of an evil spell that only I can see it and no one else can?
‘We need someone to identify you.’
Alright,hisnameisSridharandhisnumberis…
‘What about your father? You said he’s a police officer in India?’
Taking a closer look at me, and seeing me shaking with fright, the interrogator does the unexpected. He grins and does an aboutturn. My bag and phone are handed back to me.
A boy taps me on my shoulder and says, ‘Ma’am, is this where you get off?’ The bus has come to a stop outside the Departures
terminal at Heathrow. Some people are getting off and others are getting in.
London, do not be horrible to me. I’mbeggingyou. I mustget backtoKashmirintime.
Sridhar’s doing is not going to come in the way of my mission. It is not going to prevent me from doing what I have set out to do. It is not going to stop me or be an impediment in any way. I have spent many nervy days with a sense of foreboding that something terrible is about to happen.
At the airport, nothing untoward happens. The attendant at the airline check-in counter is courteous and kind. He even compliments me: ‘Zooni! What a musical name? What does it mean?’
Moon,youstupid!You’resupposedtoknow.
He wishes me a pleasant flight and asks me if I would be coming back to London soon. To avoid any unexpected hassles or embarrassment, I pull out a scarf and wrap it around my face so that I don’t have to explain the absence of a mere mole.
‘Happy journey to you, Ms Aziz,’ says the attendant. I don’t look back and rush over to get through Security. My only baggage— uncertainty, anxiety, worry! The security official asks me to remove my scarf. Oh no! What if? I have no choice but to comply. Sensing my hesitation, he says, ‘Take it off for a moment; it is all right unless it is there for a religious purpose.’ I take it off and touch my face exactly where the mole is supposed to be. No one seems to notice its absence. I shall search for it only when no one else is looking.
At the boarding gate, I hear frantic and repeated announcements bearing my name: ‘This is the final boarding call for Zooni Aziz booked on flight AI 112 to New Delhi. Please board the aircraft immediately. The doors of the aircraft will close in exactly two minutes. I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Zooni Aziz. Please board the aircraft immediately.’
And then appears the flat-nosed Japanese woman standing aimlessly in the lounge with a perennially rotating and revolving trolley case. She stares incessantly at me as though I am the culprit of a grave immoral act. ‘You, too?’ her look conveys.
You can’t scare me. Stop pretending to be someone you aren’t andgoandintimidatesomeoneelse.
6
Sridhar and I met for the first time at an anti-racism protest on campus. Our introductions had been brief, but the first sight of him hadn’t left a favourable impression on me. He appeared unimpressive. Dark-rimmed spectacles, insipid attire, disheveled hair. Barring an odd sparkle in his eyes, there was nothing that made him stand out. Sara and I seldom paid attention to him. It was later when I learnt that he had secured a prestigious scholarship to pursue his master’s degree in economics, that I started wondering about his past record. A fully funded scholarship is no mean feat in our university. I, for one, didn’t have a scholarship. My dad paid for everything and deposited money in my bank account from time to time. There was no paucity of money or resources. Sridhar didn’t give an impression of being extravagant. He needed little. He ate frugally. He didn’t even own a proper wardrobe. He regarded many things with irreverence. He never borrowed money or books or anything else from the rest of us. Many people shared things to make the most of their resources. He didn’t and yet, he was rarely in need of anything. His hostel room was sparse. He walked alone, ate alone, never formed a team during seminars, and yet managed to impress the faculty. But he looked at them with disdain. At least that was what Sara and I felt. Maybe we were mistaken or presumptuous, but he didn’t give us a reason to think otherwise.
Then the situation on campus took a strange turn of events. Britain announced its intention to part ways with the European Union. Outsiders felt insecure. Some of us were ridiculed by youknow-who. Overnight, protests erupted on campus. Students went on rampage. It didn’t take some of us more than a day to decide what to do and what not to do. We were up in arms against the decision. It was clear. We wondered what would unfold. Sara led the protests on campus. She steered the creation of placards and graffiti. She was the feisty rebel amongst us. Everybody lost interest
in studies and class work. After all, it was a matter of principle and conviction, and a make-or-break deal for the immigrants.
The protests became fierier as days went by. Students and faculty made speeches in the university parks and cafes. ‘The city must burn until order and people’s votes are restored,’ Sara went on to say. The slogans reverberated: ‘Save our future… We belong… Down with racism… We all bleed the same colour… All lives matter…’
The campus scene was tense. Mobs were everywhere. Groups were continuously being formed. A divide among people came to the fore. Them versus us. Supporters versus the dissenters. Some of us were singled out and mocked at.
During one such protest, Sridhar stood in a corner, all by himself, and watched us raise our hands and chant slogans. I didn’t like the look of detachment and disdain on his face. He seemed unperturbed. It looked as though he was taunting us. ‘How smug he looks!’ Sara quipped. Maybe Sridhar believed that he was above all such politics. The very politics that sought to impact our lives, define the rules of our existence, set absurd and preposterous parameters based on nationality, race, and identity rather than merit.
‘Why aren’t you protesting?’ Sara asked Sridhar. She couldn’t stand his uncaring attitude. She went on a tirade: ‘What good is your education if you are not standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves? You are neither an outsider nor a mute spectator to what’s unfolding here.’ The poor fellow listened quietly without saying a word. Then, upon repeated snide remarks by Sara, he broke his silence, ‘Your friend doesn’t know which side of the divide she’s on.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ said Sara to him in an admonishing tone. ‘Do you even know her? Think before you talk…’
Clearly, he was talking about me, mistaking my passivity for ignorance and indecisiveness. His eyes were fixed on me and no one else, as though he was trying to test me and question my intentions and belief. Sara was our leader. I marched alongside her. She led from the front because it impacted her the most. She was passionate, impulsive and emotional about everything, especially about her position and status in the country. Her rebellious streak
was not just for the heck of it. It had a clear and distinct purpose. It was founded on the question of her existence. Her ideological conviction was the strongest amongst us all. It was non-negotiable. Her arguments were lucid and convincing. We immigrants gathered around her when she rose to speak and address us. Although as Asians, we were in the minority, we were too strong a force to be ignored. Drums and tabors made an appearance. We wore black scarves. We held one another’s hands and sang in unison. Everyone’s solidarity mattered. Sara brought us together.
‘You know who I am talking about,’ said Sridhar, not taking his eyes off of me. It was a piercing gaze. Sara pulled me by the arm, and said, ‘Do you even know him? Who does he think he is? He is, at best, a spoiled brat, a snob. He seems to have had a smooth ride so far in his life, doesn’t seem to have been with people at all.’
Sridhar’s remark filled me with disgust. It was mean and made to make me feel unsure about myself. He continued looking at me, inscrutably, almost as if he wished me to confront him and get into an argument with him. I took the bait. I couldn’t resist it any longer. I agreed with Sara. He shouldn’t take us for granted. I decided to take him on: Youaresupposedtobeonourside.
It didn’t take him even a fraction of a second to retort. It was almost as if he already had a ready reply. He was prepped for the situation, and it occurred to me that he had done his homework well. ‘What do you know about protests, injustice, deprivation?’ he jeered.
You aretalkingas ifyou have seen everythinginlife. Ifwe don’t protest, what will become of us when we are targeted? We will be senthome.Idon’twanttogobackhome.Iwanttobehere.
‘It will never happen. We will have to go back eventually. You will also go back. You don’t belong here and never will. You don’t want to be answerable to others here. Moreover, all this will benefit you. You don’t get the picture at all, do you?’
Thenwhyareyouhereinthefirstplace?Whynotgoback?
‘What makes you think I won’t?’
But what ifwe are humiliated?What willyou do?Sit and watch quietlylikeyou’resittingandwatchingrightnow.
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A truce to your cautious guarding Of the bastions of the bay ... I sail to a wild bombarding Of the white walls of Cathay!
The Love o’ Ships
O it is ours to hear you, Love,
That laugh like a siren on a siren shore, With the blue of your eyes like the blue above, Your yellow hair as the yellow sands before; You ride on the wind and call us, Sweet, At the dawn, the purple dawn of the daring day, And the catch of your breath lends the breakers feet
To help our hearts obey (frail hearts!),
To help our hearts obey.
’Tis ours to taste the kiss of your mouth
Like the faintest fume of the salt of the sunrise sea, When the eyes of you flame as the sun of the south, And your hair, your buoyant yellow hair is free; ’Tis ours to feel the sting of your breath
That quickens our hearts, as the waves are quicked by the wind,— To follow you, Love, till your jealous Death Finds us and strikes us blind (poor eyes!) Finds us and leaves us blind.
We in your worship battle and dare
And make of our lives a toy and a jape, content
To see the glint of the sun in your hair, The ringing deep in your pagan spirit blent; We follow and woo and are fain to wed
For you have all the wealth of the world to dower,—
Though our honour has died where faith lies dead
We barter them both for power, (sad fools!)
We fling them away for power.
And sure we see, when the foam is free,
And the hissing waves are hurtling over the rail, Your form afloat on the film of the sea, And we fare drunk on a dream of your forehead pale. We yearn to the goal of your luring lips, Forgetting the clasp and the human kiss of earth,— And we die in the love of you, Love o’ Ships, Who have sought you from our birth (mad souls!) Who have loved you from our birth.
Execution Dock
The wind sings high around a corse That hangs wi’ a shriveled smock, Its echoes die in the desolate sky O’er Execution Dock.
The wind has many an eager hand
To harry the grisly Thing That whirls and spins with fearful grins That haunt remembering.
The wild storm-demons of the night Hurl shuddering breaths of pain
To mingle drear in the winter air With the clang of the choking chain.
The long lean posts rise high and black
To the cross-beam where It sways, While down below, in the humble snow, A woman kneels and prays.
The Plank
(A D R )
Whose turn next to take his stand
Where the plank reels black above the blue,—
To wrench in vain at the fettered hand?—
Ere the sea shall smother the last adieu?
’Mid the gibes and jeers of the conquering crew
At the devil’s drift of the dread command
That ends the hopeless interview,—
Whose turn next to take his stand
On the oaken road to a farther land, (Narrow and oaken, seen of few, For the eye were steady indeed that scanned Where the plank reels black above the blue)
To know the fear of the souls that slew, The thrust in the back of the goading brand, To feel on the forehead the fatal dew, To wrench in vain at the fettered hand,
With head held high, but heart unmanned, With cheek turned pale to the breeze that blew,—
For his bones shall lie on the dipsey sand
Ere the sea shall smother the last adieu?
Gods of the false, and gods of the true!
Grant that these fiends may understand
The things that on their plank we knew!—
That one may say to that cursed band: Whose turn next?
The Buccaneer
(A S S )
“It is related of the notorious Pirate known as the Scourge of the Caribs, that he would never have to do with any woman, saving only one; and her he held only a single hour in his arms, yet ever in his heart. And their meeting happed of an early morn, during his sacking of her native Town of Harnadino, in the Year of Our Lord, sixteen hundred and forty-two.”—Armilaud’s Chronicle.
1. The Sailing
Greet ye the morning, laugh her up, And sing the Sun below,
For it’s out wi’ me to the Carib Sea Where the scented east-winds blow; O the day is new and the galleons few That cling to the desperate rendezvous We know, we know; So lay your lingering steel away And seamen be for another day, For another Sun and our goal is won, Out on the Carib Sea!
For Harnadino harbor lies But fifty leagues ahead, So an’ we speak no sail this week We dine on Spanish bread; So an’ we grip no scented ship
There’s a fairer goal to our golden trip I’ the bay, i’ the bay; So handle your hemp as ye polish your steel,
Gold’s in the offing, war’s at the wheel,— And you’re out wi’ me to the Carib Sea, Out to the Carib Sea!
2. The Meeting
We bearded the garrison first, The citadel made we our own, The stout-hearted governor cursed Till he swallowed it all with a groan; We hanged him high from the wall And turned to the helpless town, As drunk with the dread of it all The night reeled shuddering down.
The rage of the ones to resist Was drowned in the vermeil wave
Where the sea-steel sputtered and hissed Where my bellowing sea-dogs drave; Yea, driving the lambs to their fold, So sacked we with never a light Save that which the seekers for gold Let flame in the murderous night.
I wandered alone in a way Unplundered, silent, apart, And saw when the dawning was grey A Face look into my heart! She stood, with the sorrowful eyes, Where the dawn-ghost haunted the dial, And I measured the idle sunrise By the lovelier light of her smile.
3. The Wooing
Ah, Princess, hast thou laughed and left Some faery isle that called thee queen?
And hath that island so bereft
Retained the flouted robe of green That graced thy lovely ruling, when It knows thou shalt not come again?
Princess, hearken: wilt thou trust
To my stern clay thy tenderer dust?
Turn to my wooing,—hush thee, sweet, ’Tis but my comrades in the street!
Ah, Princess, doth thine empire seem
Far from the anguish here that lies?...
Resume the sceptre of thy dream, And make crown-jewels of thine eyes, And rule a realm whose boundaries are Limited by my boundless war!
Princess, hearken while I woo, For love is brief, and death is due To him who kills,—flinch not, my fair, ’Tis but my comrades on the stair!
Ah, Princess, of that faery isle
Resign thy reign, and rule with me
With sudden splendour of thy smile
O’er the long reaches of the sea; And all the world shall vassal be, Heart of my heart, for love of thee.
Princess, hark to me, and give Thy love to make my love to live; Here, to my heart!... Love, fear no more, ’Tis but my comrades at the door!
4. The Marriage
The still cathedral, high and dark and wide, The gloom that hid us kneeling side by side,— Yea, where the candles at the chancel flared I took of love a sweetheart and a bride.
(Chanted the priests: Orate, Domine!)
The sudden silence drinking up the din, The hush that gripped us as the doors swung in Leaving us soul to soul with solitude,— The while the city wallowed in my sin.
(The dreamy chanting ... Jesu ... Domine.)
The long slow Latin periods were hung Too lovingly upon the abbe’s tongue, I made a prodding handle of my sword,— And all the while the dark-robed brothers sung: (Ora pro nobis ... Jesu ... Domine.)
I snatched the grey hood from his frowning brows, Word for his word I vowed the immortal vows, And kneeling knew an unknown sacrament In the loud silence of her Father’s House.
(And for my soul the chanting ... Domine!)
5. In the Sunrise
Sweet, in the sunrise you and I, Clasping the love we may not read, Hear in the rout that eddies by Unwonted voices strained and high,— Love we, the while they bleed. Now in the dawn their voices seem Broken and sad with pain and fret,— But we are lovers in a dream Wherefrom we may not waken yet.
Sweetheart, see: the night is gone, Love is rising,—Love the Dawn!
Yea, for the chill years you and I Snatch from the world a gilded cup And in our fingers hold on high
The magic ichor of Live-or-Die,—
Laugh we to drink it up!
Mark how the war-notes wild and weird Fall on the faint wind of the south, And all our war hath disappeared,— Sweet, I am thirsty for thy mouth!
Sweetheart, see where flames the Day, Love the Dawn illumes our way.
Here it is Dawn, but bye-and-bye When Evening draws his sable cloak, Shall Love be lost? Alone shall I Pursue the quest where barren lie
My conquests low in smoke? Never an answer try to speak
For Time it is must answer this; Lean but thy cheek against my cheek, Turn but thy kiss to meet my kiss!
Sweetheart, see: their fire dies,
Quenched in the Love-Dawn in thine eyes!
6. The Parting
In the deep guard of the garden, with its arms around her thrown, There I laid her with the roses for her winding-sheet alone, And the silent heart within her made no quiver of her breast, Though the flood that stole her from me left its crimson on her vest. Yea, I laid her there alone, when our love was just begun, And I stared in still amazement to behold the tearless Sun.
Then they tried to come between us, and I slew them when they tried,
For I wanted one more silence with my sweetheart and my bride; So the world swept on around us while the rose-leaves gathered deep
On the fragrant tomb that held her fast, and lulled my love to sleep. Then I raised my hands on high, to the barren morning sky, And I cursed with every oath I knew, the One who let her die.
Yea, my days should reek with crimson!... On the sudden, round her head,
Glimmered something that is given to a maiden who is dead, And I stilled my oaths in wonder and my heart stood hushed to see How a maiden in her dying consecrated Love for me!
Then I left her there alone, with the roses for her throne, And I gathered Love within me for the roses he had blown,— And in the silent sunrise, Beauty gathered in her own.
Dig Deep
Dig deep, and tumble in the bones!
Dig in the sand whence the tide has fled,
Turn them over, the creaking dead,
Silent the skull and still the groans,—
Dig deep and tumble in the bones.
Man was he once, and the sea-bar moans
A dirge for the death of a soul of steel,
A soul that skippered a saucy keel,
A keel that weathered the hurrying zones,—
Dig deep and tumble in the bones.
Kings were twain on their tossing thrones,
Flaunted a flag skull-barred and black,
Woe to the merchant that crossed their track!
But one must die while one atones,—
Dig deep and tumble in the bones!
A guerdon of gold the deep disowns,
A sea-cave robbed of its glittering hoard,
Leaping dinghys to bring aboard
What the ocean gives not, merely loans,—
Dig deep and tumble in the bones.
A landing at night where the ebb-tide drones,
A thrust, a curse, a yell of pain,—
Bleaching corpse in wind and rain,
One man snatched from Davy Jones,—
Dig deep and tumble in the bones!
Long Live the King
Long live the King!... The King is dead, He who had sworn to rule for aye Where now I swear to reign instead O’er hearts that hate and hands that slay Hearts that hate as hot as they.... Hark to my blooded sea-dogs sing: (For fallen lord small care have they)
“The King is dead: Long live the King!”
Beneath his keel the waves were red From tropic tide to Baltic bay; Voices of vengeance on his head In dying gasp from lips of grey Livened the languor of his way; If those dead souls do know this thing, Chuckle they not to hear men say:
“The King is dead: Long live the King?”
The fame he wooed my name shall wed, A world shall bend beneath my sway, For every crimson drop he shed Full flood will I, from out this day When first in battle-stained array I heard my blooded sea-dogs sing, Standing above him where he lay:
“The King is dead: Long live the King!”
L’ENVOI
Dead foe, the world is mine today! Yet Time to me this hour must bring When I, as you, shall hear them say:
“The King is dead: long live the King!”
The Exiles
Spread your sail to the wincing weather, Steer ye out from the port of Youth, Where Life and Love shall be left together
Hand in glove with the hand of Truth; Scoff ye loud at the hope that thrills ye
Deep in the gloom of a midnight sea, And laugh, laugh up at the fiend that kills ye, But never look down at the doom to be.
Slither your steel in the swift passado, Bury her deep in the bosom bared; Brag ye out in your bold bravado
At them who dare not the things ye dared; Harry your foes where the tempest blinds ye, Follow at midnight and follow at morn, And take brave heed that the darkness finds ye Harboring fear in your hearts, unborn!
Pester the long lean unknown reaches— Hull far steeped in the setting sun—
Sully the calm of the moonlit beaches
With the blatant boom of your godless gun; Drape your couch with the flags that flout ye, Bury your dead in their ships of pride, And bid the Devil go on without ye!... Never again will he quit your side!
Miserere
Our God in Heaven! Were it not for Thee, We could go down to die as to a feast Spread on the grey floor of mine host, the Sea,— We could die out contented then, at least, A smile on ev’n our never-smiling lips, Dreaming of songs and splendours on sunk ships,—
But by Thy Majesty, ah, what are we?
Our God in Heaven! Is there such a one, Or is that promise but the trick of Death
To cheat us of the glory we have won, To rob of triumph this our parting breath,— And does the end come with the heart’s last beat And does the sea take everything, complete?— No man doth know of this, for no man saith.
But Thou, who knowst how mutable is life, Wouldst thou condemn to everlasting fire
Us who so oft have felt the thrill of strife
Smother with ashes fall’n from passion’s pyre
The saving spark of pity’s faint appeal?—
Dost thou not know the shame that we must feel, Enslaved by him that was our slave, Desire?
We are so tired!... surely Thou dost know (Granting that Thou art God, for argument)
How weary are the windings and how slow The steps whereby our final course is bent, How widely chill the days, how bleak the gloom? Surely there is no need for other doom?— Ah, Fate’s avenging hand should be content.
If Thou art God, on utter mercy throned
Above the splendour of the star-hung sky, Waste not Thy pity on the half-condoned Whose weakling sins have never reached on high; But lay Thy hand on each sin-whitened head And grant to us of Peace abandonéd Not Hell, but only slumber, when we die.
Revenge
Is Hatred such a restless thing
That all my sleep is broke?
By night I seem to hear the ring Of steel behind the smoke, At dawn the chilling fog-bays wreathe His image in the west, Ah, Mary! if I could but sheathe My dagger in his breast.
His name I hear in every shout, In every wind that sighs, I see his doubles walk about Wearing his bloodshot eyes; I grip my blade ten times a day Seeing strange men who bear In guiltless eyes the guilty grey His green eyes used to wear.
I would not send a bit of lead, Nor hang him on a rope; For I must feel that he is dead, O I must see him grope With twitching hands upon the brink While his life-blood doth start!
I’d give my soul to sink ... sink This dagger in his heart.
