by Omair Ahmad
In Moazzamabad, UP, too large to be a town and too backward to be a city, a young man stabs a police inspector and is beaten to death. The last words he speaks are, ‘My name is Jimmy the Terrorist.’ Journalists descend on the town, ‘like shrill birds’, and a long-time resident decides to tell a story that none of them will know.
Jimmy was once Jamaal, son of Rafiq Ansari of Rasoolpur Mohalla, a Muslim neighbourhood in a Hindu town. And his story goes back a long way: to the time when Moazzamabad was named, after Aurangzeb’s son; when Rafiq was seduced by the wealth and refinements of Shabbir Manzil and married Shaista; when the Hanuman temple grew ten storeys high and the head priest was elected mayor; when Shaista died, a mosque was brought down in Ayodhya and Rafiq became a mullah. As Jamaal grows up, watching both his father and his neighbourhood change and curfew reach Moazzamabad, he is changed himself. He becomes Jimmy, one among the countless marginalized trying to find a place in the world, dimly aware that the choices that shape their lives are being made in distant places, where they have no influence.
Shortlisted for the Man Asian Prize 2009, this spare, compelling novel, as intimate as it is political, confirms Omair Ahmad’s reputation as one of the most distinctive and exciting new voices in Indian fiction.
OMAIR AHMAD grew up in India and Saudi Arabia, and has worked as an analyst, reporter and political adviser in New Delhi, London and Washington. His published work includes the novels Encounters and The Storyteller’s Tale.
‘Brilliantly conceived, exquisitely written, The Storyteller’s Tale enthralls and amazes with its magical exploration of the art of creating fiction’—Manil Suri, author of The Death of Vishnu and The Age of Shiva
‘It isn’t every day that one comes across a book that one can commend so unreservedly … [A] swift, elegant tale’—Outlook
‘A masterful (re)telling of stories’—Hindustan Times
‘Reminiscent of the best of Indian fables, Sufi sayings and Koranic and Biblical tales. Omair Ahmad’s storyteller and begum measure up to Scheherazade’—Verve
‘[The Storyteller’s Tale] illuminates, only as stories, at their purest, can do’—First City
Cover art and design by Nikheel Aphale
JIMMY THE TERRORIST
Omair Ahmad
HAMISH HAMILTON
UK | Canada | Ireland | Australia
New Zealand | India | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
This collection published 2010
Copyright © Omair Ahmad 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-06-7008-364-0
This digital edition published in 2016.
e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-297-7
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 and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Abba, Amma, aap ke liye …
Contents
Copyright
Prologue 1
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
BOOK TWO
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
EPILOGUE
Author’s Note
Prologue
Look at them, how they gather, descending like kites upon a fresh kill.
Their feet barely touch the ground, and when they do they can only hop about, crippled. No, this isn’t their kind of place. These shrill birds only look good in their air-conditioned studios in Delhi and Bombay. But they had to come, didn’t they? The blood and meat are here. It doesn’t matter how great or fine they are in flight, at the end of the day they have to descend to the earth to feed. Even down to the soil of this half-blighted place we call Moazzamabad.
When was the last time we saw one of their tribe, hungry for details of blood and crime? Certainly not last year, when more than a thousand died, in fever and pain, largely in poverty. Japanese encephalitis, the doctors called it, although why it was Japanese nobody knew. There is nothing foreign about people dying in Moazzamabad, so no reason to give the disease a foreign name. And Japanese? You always think of technology when you talk about Japan, not of a sickness carried by mosquitoes from buffaloes wallowing in mud and muck.
I am intrigued that you ask about our town, though what brings you here is the same news that has the press so excited. That’s a good sign; maybe you’ll gather more than any of these reporters will. And maybe I should tell you the boy’s story after all.
Though, what can I tell you about this place? Where do we begin? There were people dying here four centuries ago, in the same poverty and dirt, when Moazzam Shah, son of the mighty Aurangzeb, marched in to put down an uprising. They wanted independence, I think, or just freedom from taxes, maybe. They received a full share of swords instead. It was part of Nepal then, not India, this forested, bandit-infested region past the Ghaghra river. Moazzam Shah came not once, but twice, and left behind both his name and a band of soldiers to keep the place under Mughal rule. The Turkmen among them founded the Turkmaanpur mohalla; the Afghans started their own little colony. But slowly the town swallowed them all, keeping the names and little else.
Delhi tried again. In a bid to raise revenue the Mughal court ordered that those who cleared any patch of forest would become owners of that land. And this was how our town acquired a Jungle Subhaan Ali, and a Jungle Vishnu Das, even a Jungle Mosley Sahib, named after a white man who arrived before the British took Delhi. He was long dead by the time they managed to extend their control here, eight hundred kilometres from the capital—though even in those days it may well have been halfway around the world.
Moazzamabad resisted the British as successfully as it had resisted the Mughals, adding a neighbourhood here, a family or two there, a few names, the occasional legend. The white men were almost all connected with the indigo plantations. They would wear Indian clothes during the week, finding comfort in local dress when other Europeans could not see them. On Sundays, though, it was stifling European formality, as they braved the heat and humidity to spend an evening getting fantastically drunk with their compatriots at the grandly titled Moazzamabad Club.
The white sahibs did not notice the brown hands or rounded features of the bearers who served them, or of the servants who helped them out of their clothes and shoes when they returned senseless late at night. And in the morning they did not notice the wheat or paddy growing in their small landholdings. They were blind, as the Mughals before them, to the vastness of the people who lived here, to their everyday prayers and fears, their suffering and resilience. Only the taxes mattered, and the five names, maybe ten, who could be useful allies or spittoons.
They cared little, the Angrez, for the Hanuman mandir that grew slowly, like a live thing, from a tiny room at the time of the great rebellion of 1857 to a towering edifice. It is ten storeys high now, the tallest building in town. Then, as now, nobody with any real understanding of power and wealth asked about matters of religion: it helped everything move smoothly if you didn’t. If most of the town was Hindu, and some part of their income ended up at the temple, what did the rulers care as long as the taxmen got their due, as long as the money came on time?
Whe
ther it was the white sahibs who ruled or the brown ones who took their place, they had no time for Moazzamabad.
Suddenly, now, the worthies in Delhi care. All those who run this magic lantern show we call India—they especially care. This time there was no choice, this time they had to notice, and the vultures had to swoop down, as Moazzam Shah had done long ago. They had been screaming about terrorists for so long that when Moazzamabad presented one of its own, a boy called Jimmy, how could it be ignored? It is dramatic enough for the newspapers, for TV even, as the many thousands of deaths in the last four hundred years never were.
Oh, I don’t doubt their good intentions—one must never doubt their good intentions. But you see, I have no faith in it all any more. What will they find? Jimmy is the end of a long story, and nobody cares for those today. Two headlines, a photo, and before you know it we will be talking about cricket, maybe Bollywood. Probably both.
One of the press-walas was asking for house number 1593. The fool. This is not a place of numbers, but names. Just a glance at the muddle of buildings will tell you that. Not one of them has a house number, and many sprawl into each other, spilling over their boundaries and merging, just as the families who live in them have done over generations. Ask the residents of our town and they would be hard put to tell you how they are named in the government records, much less the number that the government has assigned to their homes.
Even the name of this mohalla, Rasoolpur, finds no place in official parlance. But that is what it is, named after Qazi Mohammed Murtaza Rasool, a wandering mendicant who decided, for reasons nobody really knows, to stop his journeying under the shade of a tree by a river three hundred years ago.
The tree is long gone, and the river that once ran clear and sparkling to the sea is a sewage canal. The only reason anybody would stop here now would be if they were overwhelmed by the stink of rotting garbage. This is a forgotten place. But everybody in Moazzamabad knows that this is Rasoolpur, and everybody knows about the tree by the river. Just as they know about Shabbir Manzil, grand and incongruous for this town, though a little rundown.
You don’t see it? Sorry. I had forgotten how they have built all around it. Just there, behind that tyre shop, and the clinic—do you see the rising edge of that roof? That’s Shabbir Manzil, the real reason why our mohalla is famous. (You didn’t really think anybody would remember a wandering mendicant, did you?) Legend has it that the family came from Basra, in what is now Iraq, but then was magnificent Persia. They came to teach the royal families of Jaunpur how to conduct themselves with dignity, what to read, how to converse. But as luck would have it, the royal family decided to become Shia, and the Shabbirs found themselves confronted with a difficult choice: to convert as well, or to keep to their Sunni faith. One branch converted. The other, hearing of the Mughal offer to clear forest for grants of land, made for Moazzamabad.
Clearing the land was simple. You just paid others to do it. But living here was difficult, especially for those of refined tastes, as the Shabbirs thought themselves to be. By their very nature they wanted to guide, to instruct, to lead; but you can’t lead if you have no one to follow you. The Mughals wielded the only power in those days—lackadaisically, yes, but if you have too much power and for too long, you only need to do things after a fashion. Things come to you, people bow to you, it just happens, till the burden of privilege becomes too heavy to bear and whole empires, like ordinary men, self-destruct … But that is another story.
Coming back to the Shabbirs, power was not to their interest, culture was. However, the town was largely Hindu, and in matters of culture and ritual, people turned to the Hanuman mandir—for leadership, for song and dance, for saints and ascetics. The few leaders sent by the Mughals reported that the descendants of the Afghans and the Turkmen, not deeply attached to their faith to begin with, had also fallen under the sway of the kafir saints and madmen.
In such a place the memory of the Muslim pir Qazi Mohammed Murtaza Rasool was of great use to the Shabbirs. Careful not to trespass against the ban on saint worship in their orthodox Sunni tradition, they honoured him instead with a week-long prayer meeting, just after the Milad-en-Nabi, when Prophet Mohammed’s birthday was celebrated with great fanfare by the Afghans and Turkmen in typically barbarous fashion. Over years, decades, generations, the men of Shabbir Manzil became the spokesmen of their community, the carriers of memory and tradition. They became the ones who taught the Muslims of this little mohalla in a vast Hindu sea how to behave, how to be Muslim, but lightly, with more culture and pride than hard faith. The Shabbirs spoke for and on behalf of the Muslims of Moazzamabad with the Mughals first, the British next and the inheritors of the Raj—our newly minted brown sahibs—afterwards.
Everyone knows that.
Just as everyone knows that there was nobody named Jimmy in Moazzamabad, just a young man named Jamaal Ansari, son of Rafiq Ansari and Shaista Shabbir, who prepared the long road their child would one day take.
And if you know that, then maybe you know everything …
Yes, that’s the story these microphone- and camera-happy fools must trace if they hope to understand anything.
They must go all the way back to Rafiq and Shaista. Why should it be surprising that a son looks up to his father, and lives forever in his shadow? Where is the mystery in the fact that women do more than simply accept a man’s seed; that mothers shape their children inside them for nine months and for a lifetime outside? Neither Rafiq nor Shaista was strange, neither was cursed—or blessed, if you like—with extraordinariness. How then could Jamaal be so different, this sudden monster that he’s become, this Jimmy the terrorist?
Because of this, at least, there can be no doubt: whatever Jimmy was, whatever Jamaal became, in the end he was their son, Rafiq’s and Shaista’s, and their story. And because their story played out in Rasoolpur, he was also the story of this mohalla. And of Shabbir Manzil.
None of the reporters have gone there yet. They are not welcome, nor do they know that they should have asked.
It would have been hard to imagine that in Rafiq’s time. Ever since it was built, and till recently, Shabbir Manzil was the place where outsiders came, where they were informed or entertained. It was the hub around which the mohalla revolved. Rafiq was no different from most other men of his time, hungry to be acknowledged, and he knew that the only acknowledgement that mattered in his neighbourhood was to be recognized at Shabbir Manzil …
Maybe if he hadn’t had that small hunger, none of this would have come to pass.
JIMMY THE TERRORIST
BOOK ONE
1
All those years ago, when he was still looking for his first job, Rafiq Ansari never cared more about anything than what was being discussed at Shabbir Manzil. Since joining college in 1965, his greatest ambition had been to have tea there, to sit among the notables of Rasoolpur mohalla and speak of poetry and cricket, perhaps make a learned comment, but casually, on some bit of politics that had recently made its way into the newspapers.
In a way it was not his fault. He was the youngest amongst his brothers, and his parents, wanting to give him a leg-up in society, had sent him to St Jude’s. Although this wasn’t as prestigious as being sent to Lucknow or Delhi, or the swank boarding schools set up in the hill stations by the British, an education at St Jude’s meant something in Moazzamabad. It was at St Jude’s that Rafiq had learned that success was a small thing, social standing was the greater goal, and in Rasoolpur only one house determined where you stood in the ranks of society: Shabbir Manzil.
Rafiq pursued this ambition with single-minded devotion, climbing above his station, marrying beyond his means, turning away from opportunities that would take him far from Moazzamabad and lose him the chance to make the one remark that would draw praise from all around him, and would be savoured by the caretakers of culture for a generation or more.
It was no easy thing to achieve. There were many guardians on the path to such eminence, great egos to be
propitiated, small men to be praised, and always the need to make it all seem that he wasn’t trying too hard. Nothing would doom his chances so completely as to be known as an upstart aspiring to social recognition.
Turning down a job with the Indian Railways, Rafiq idled, a pursuit that only the sons of the rich could afford. He called it studying: he had done not just his MA, but a BEd as well, telling his parents all the while that there was a great career in education—weren’t the vice chancellors of Indian universities all great men? To be a professor was to be on the pathway to power. And his father, who had only studied up to the tenth grade, who already had a son who was an engineer and a second who was a lawyer, and who knew, all the while, what Rafiq was made of, didn’t protest too much.
But after his BEd, Rafiq had to live up to his boasts, and found that he could not. And then, after six months of increasingly elaborate excuses, when even his mother mentioned something about working to feed himself, he had the good fortune to be almost run over by Ahmed Saeed Shabbir’s jeep.
‘Arre Rafiq!’ Ahmed Saeed exclaimed in the plum tones befitting the eldest son of the most prominent family in the mohalla, the only one who was a member of the Lions Club and who had dinner at the District Magistrate’s house, whose hands had so little need of work that they were softer than the calfskin shoes that he ordered from a shop in Kanpur whose name nobody in Moazzamabad knew.
‘Arre Rafiq! Kaise behke behke chal rahe ho? You haven’t fallen in love now, have you, my boy?’
The horn had startled Rafiq but he didn’t care. In all his years Ahmed Saeed had never addressed him, never in such a tone, almost as if he was talking to an equal. And Rafiq wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass. Though what should he say, and how? Only the rich fell in love, even he knew that, only the rich and the desperately poor could afford to. The closest that Rafiq was likely to come to romance was copying Rajesh Khanna’s hairstyle.
