Dad was trying to postpone confronting the real danger Ali and his mother were in. Finally he woke, walked to the mori silently, splashed water on his face, took down the towel from the clothes line and patted himself dry. He then walked out without saying a word. Mum and I followed him next door.
“Mr. Fernandes, I think we are running out of time. We have to find a solution as soon as possible. There is real and imminent danger to Ali and Mehroonisa. Everyone is looking at each other, distrustful, thinking they have to get the other first. Good, ordinary people are joining. I fear a complete breakdown of civil society. Much is out of the hands of the police. I fear for Ali and his mother. I fear, above all, we will never be able to live with ourselves if we don’t do something.”
From the other side of the L, where he’d been peering over the balustrade, suddenly Francis came running in. He rushed to Anna, who was cutting up some greeting cards, preparing to write a second plea to Ms. Ezekiel.
Ms. Ezekiel’s door, it seemed, had sprung to life. Francis described the way a fraction of a paper stuck out of her door and kept moving to and fro, slowly, from the left to the right of the door and then back to the left. “I am sure it is a signal for you, Anna!”
“Calm down, Francis, we cannot have anyone see us if what you say is true.” She stood, looking ready to run, but stopped short and walked slowly out of the door with Francis in tow.
Ivan and Susan walked over to the other side of the L to watch the proceedings, trying to look as casual as possible under the circumstances. We all agreed that secrecy meant safety for all concerned.
That was a very busy day for Dad. The violence had escalated and both sides were now actively ‘protecting themselves.’ There were reports that a big mob of Hindus, led by a bunch of self-styled keepers of the Hindu faith, and consequently of Hindu safety, had taken over the work of the police. Dad received a summons to report back at the station. The mob had attacked the Jogeshwari Police Station in protest for the lack of security for Hindus. Some enthusiastic mobsters had attacked Chacha Nagar Masjid, and the more zealous of them had thrown a few Muslims into the destruction, injuring them. Several Muslim huts in Magdum Nagar were subsequently set on fire by Hindus.
While Dad was gone, imparting strict instructions to all of us not to leave the house and not to be indiscreet with the information we had, Mum and I once again sat down with the Fernandes family. Mrs. Fernandes, who generally looked upon Mr. Fernandes to make all the decisions, not only in the family but in all matters, now showed an unusual firmness. No dear, you will not go to work this week. I will be very unhappy if you do and I will not forgive you if you do not keep yourself safe. Do not forget we have four children and you have a wife. Mum, not wanting to be left out of any conversation, said, “Yes, Mr. Fernandes, there is us too. We all depend on you and so do the neighbours. I read somewhere, ‘safety saves,’ so I completely agree. You have to be safe and we have yet to decide what to do with Ali and Mrs. Farooqui.”
Anna and Francis burst into the room at that moment, Anna waving a sheet of paper in the air. “She said yes, she said yes!” It took them at least ten minutes to calm down and breathe evenly. Might have been less, but for those of us who were waiting in suspense, it seemed like a very long time.
“Calm down, children,” Mrs. Fernandes said in her gentle voice. “Anna, my child, who said yes?”
“Ms. Ezekiel.”
“To what? Anna you are not making sense.”
Anna pushed the sheet of paper in front of her. “Look, she said yes!”
Mrs. Fernandes looked down at the paper, which had one word on it. It had, surprisingly, a very well written word, singular, mathematically centred on the page. Yes.
“Anna, can you take a moment and breathe in, my child. You know it is not good for your asthma. Ok, now, breathe in…breathe out…”
“Mu-m…” Anna, impatient to move on despite the loud wheezing that came through the silence, was interrupted by her mother’s resolutely calm voice.
“Breathe in…Anna, slow down, I said breathe in, ok now breathe out…”
Anna stopped talking, sat down and began breathing consciously under her mother’s direction like a metronome. Finally relaxed, she spoke.
“Mummy, I wrote to Ms. Ezekiel that the situation in the city is very bad and that they are targeting the Muslims, and we have special information that Ali and his mother are on the list. They could get killed if we do not intervene. I wrote: ‘Ms. Ezekiel, you will recall the plight of the Jews in Nazi Germany. I beg of you to help us. I apologise for all the times we have hurt you with our childish games. It was boredom and not malice. Please forgive us and help us now. Let me remind you, painful though it may be to you, that so many Jews were killed by such prejudice and injustice as is happening right now in this city. But then, who else could better understand Ali’s plight? Would you please consider keeping them in your apartment? We will provide the food they will need and they will be only grateful. Your apartment is the only one in this building that is above suspicion. Nobody will ever expect them to be with you. Not meaning to be disrespectful, but everyone knows you do not mingle and live completely cut off from the rest of the world. But I know in my heart, you have the kindness and love that every human is capable of, and I am begging you to once again find that part of yourself and help us. You are aware, I am sure, that many Jews survived because of their very generous neighbours who helped hide them…’”
“I am so proud of you my child,” Mrs. Fernandes said.
“You are indeed a good writer,” Isabel said, ready to praise everything Anna did. “Our Anna will be a famous writer one day.”
“So if we are to understand right, you believe that her yes is to your request to hide Ali?” I asked, not believing it could be so simple. “Are you sure you can trust her? Is she really going to have them?” All my questions were greeted with silence and frowns. Anna even looked pityingly at my scepticism, moving me to say, “So what next?”
“We need to plan this move carefully,” said Mr. Fernandes. “Do not forget we have the Surve family down there, and though they are our neighbours and very decent, these are unusual times. Muslims and Hindus who never did think like that are now looking at each other with suspicion and hatred. We do not know how the Surves are reacting to the problem.”
“Dad, what do I tell Ms. Ezekiel?”
For the first time I saw Mr. Fernandes hesitate. He just did not know. Then all of us began speaking at the same time, each feeling we had to fill in the gap in conversation. Finally, Mr. Fernandes held up his hand.
“We must send an interim reply. Anna, ask her if the night of the 7th will suit her. Word it in your own way. We need at least a day to get her response and perhaps a day or two to plan and get Mrs. Farooqui to agree to move. Isabelbai, will you convey it to Mrs. Farooqui? I cannot handle her tears, especially because her eyes are the only exposed part of her face. Today is already the 4th. We do not know if Ms. Ezekiel would agree to the 7th. In the meantime, we plan how to move them and what to do, and then Isabel will inform them.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Dad did not come home on the night of the 4th and continued to work into the next day. The situation had not eased. He returned for a quick lunch and rushed back to the police station. The night of the 5th, a Hindu Mathadi worker was killed. The unfortunate man, who worked at the warehouse of a transport company spent that night in the warehouse. Sometime in the night he went out on to the street in front of the warehouse, quite believing that urinating on Bombay streets was a truly innocent occupation, and not anticipating he’d be killed for it. As he relieved his kidneys against the wall outside, a small band of vigilantes, or maybe just a bunch of troublemakers, relieved him of his life. His friends rushed out from the warehouse to help him and met with the same fate. How does one really understand mob fury, fear, survival? How does one recognise the changes in one’s neighbour and brother of yesterday? There must be a mathematical, numerical solution,
some certainty to human behaviour…
The Mathadi workers’ deaths set in motion events that made our mission to save Ali even more urgent. The Mathadi workers’ union called for a bandh, closure. This heightened tensions further. On top of the fears of religious enmity were piled the tensions of the unions—and they were never a recipe for peace or calming of emotions. Speeches flew across the city. Mathadi union leaders held large meetings and vehemently and dramatically condemned the police and government for not providing adequate protection. Impassioned speeches calling upon the Hindus to prepare themselves with swords and defend themselves should the police fail them, flew in the already bloody air. Anarchy, no longer a subterranean, unspoken option, took a bolder form. Fear propelled it along, helped by those who saw an opportunity to achieve political mileage. The local fundamentalist political party stepped up the frenzy. The Union Leaders pressed for action. Though uncertainty prevailed and no one knew who the assailants were, the Muslims were accused—for who else could it be? These were Hindus who’d been killed…
A call for a bandh of the wholesale markets where the Mathadi workers contracted their labour pushed the idea further. Seemed like a no-brainer. Muslims were the culprits; Hindus needed to protect themselves because the state had proved it could not. The already tense situation spiralled like smoke from a fighter plane in the midst of manoeuvres.
Dad came home briefly. Mother, as always, bustled around him till he lost his cool. He had worked tirelessly, and from lack of sleep he dared to say to her, “Isabel, can you just sit down awhile?” Mother tried not to look hurt and sat down silently. He went on to say, “The situation is getting out of hand and we should make the move as fast as possible. I cannot foresee the timing, but violence is a great possibility. All of you, stay in the building. I cannot be here, but tell Mr. Fernandes to please work it out. We have not much time if we want to live in peace with our conscience.” He rushed out of the door.
Mr. Fernandes did not go to work, as really there was no point. For one who worked near the airport and had no car, he would have to use public transport. The call for the bandh at the transport company, though generally illegal, was obeyed out of fear—and for safety, as miscreants would stone any disobedient vehicles. As always, public transport was taken off the roads to prevent loss to public property. Private vehicles and taxis, not wanting to incur losses either, stayed away too.
Mr. Fernandes and Isabel led the new discussion. If we have to transfer Ali and his mother on the 7th, in case Ms. Ezekiel agrees to the date, how best can it be done? Do we need to involve others?
Mrs. Fernandes and Mother both thought that calling a meeting would be a good way to start. Now that it seemed more concrete on where they would be moved, we knew that there would be more planning and execution required to move them to the first floor than merely moving them into our homes. Ferrying their luggage, and taking them down without anyone noticing, would be the biggest challenge in Billimoria Building.
“Isabel, who do you think we should invite? I myself am of the opinion that the fewer the people that know about it the better. We cannot maintain secrecy with too many people in the action. But we need more than just our two families. You know how curious neighbours can be. Will you go and inform Ali and his mother to be prepared?” Looking at mother’s doubtful face, he added,
“She is not comfortable with a man. Tell her that she will have to take off the burqa. We cannot transfer her secretly if she is in that garb. The building opposite will see her come out on the verandah—especially in the night, we will not know who is at their windows watching. Then we have the Madrassis below. We will have to pass their room to reach Ms. Ezekiel’s, and they are Hindus. Then there is the Surves’ apartment at the end. We now know that his son has been part of the youth roaming on the streets in the vigilante gangs. He has been openly walking on the streets with them, even right here in our neighbourhood, brandishing a sword. We must first ensure that Mrs. Farooqui will not wear that god-awful outfit while we make this move.”
Isabel went to Ali’s room and the rest of us waited patiently for the next response to come out from under Ms. Ezekiel’s door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
From the droop of her shoulders and her gait we knew that Isabel had returned with some very worrying news. The lines in her forehead were deep grooves, a veritable network of waterways as she dripped sweat and took a nervous dip into her snuff box.
She had set out to Ali’s room, labouring to make the journey surreptitious. It was a challenge for one such as her, with a tall, imposing figure that was far from discreet. Mother attracts attention; not just her size but also her very friendly relations with all around. Mrs. Olivera, who had not gone to work, stopped her as she passed their doorway.
“Isabel, how do you make veal with green curry?”
Isabel, trying not to sound impatient, said, “Veal tastes best with the traditional beef curry. I suggest the regular curry you make, Gina.”
“Isabel, is Mr. D’Souza on duty?” This from Mimosa, who, next door to Gina, was idling in the verandah and wanted the latest news on the rioting.
“Yes, Mimosa.” This was the briefest Isabel had been in a very long while.
“Any news on what is happening in the city?”
“No, Mimosa.”
“So where are you going?”
Isabel, normally a very patient woman, was trying to look at this new pest with patience and not arouse her curiosity in any way.
“Mimosa, I must excuse myself, I am going to look out from the passage window, I think I saw a friend pass,” she lied.
Mimosa stepped aside. Isabel had a clear run after that. She went to the window of the passage and looked out, tapping her foot impatiently till Mimosa went indoors, and then made her way to Ali’s home without any further interruptions.
Ali’s mother cried for the first twenty minutes. Ali and Isabel attempted to console her, but she was inconsolable. Her husband, a statistic of the casualties of the riot, and now to find themselves in a similar danger…it was too much for her to take.
“Mehroonisa,” Isabel said as she started to calm. Mother seemed to be the only one who addressed her by her first name. “You have to listen carefully. We are going to help you. You have to let us help you, do you understand?”
Mehroonisa nodded. Ali nodded too, to confirm that she understood.
“You will have to pack some clothes and food for you and Ali. You will be staying on the first floor in Ms. Ezekiel’s home. I don’t know the arrangements yet and we are discussing the details. You do not have to concern yourself with that. Please see that you take your potty; we don’t know how long you will be holed up there and you should not be using the common toilets if there is anyone in view. We will give you precise instructions later. For now, can you get this ready? And…” Isabel paused, not knowing how to do this painlessly. Anyway, this was no time for Mehroonisa to be offended by people who were trying to save them, so she just went ahead and said it. “Please do not wear the burqa. We do not want you to stand out so blatantly as Muslim.”
Isabel was in for a shock, because hardly ever did anyone say no to her.
“Nai ho sakta, not possible,” Mehroonisa said firmly. “Marne ke liye tyar hai—I don’t mind dying, but I will not take this off.”
Isabel had not anticipated this hurdle. “She refuses to take off the burqa,” she told us. “The black garment is so obvious and so dangerous. Even if we move them without anyone seeing us, how would she avoid being noticed when she goes to the toilet? How do we help her if she will not cooperate?”
“Dad,” Francis said, “at least if she had a white burqa she would look like a nun.”
Sometimes the simplest suggestions are the most logical. While we adults – and though I was often included with the children, I thought of myself as an adult – were engaged in recriminating thoughts, fighting with our frustration, some of us even going as far as cursing the oppression of tradition, the childr
en, not so encumbered, imagined a solution. From thereon the conversation turned to the different colours of burqas and how they compared to a nun’s habit. No, not the same. The design of the burqa, the lace trimming, especially in the coloured ones that the Boris, a Muslim sect, wore…no, not the same as a nun’s habit.
“Maybe we should get a nun’s habit, in that case,” said Francis, once again the problem solver…no cluttered screen there.
We all looked at him more carefully then. He had no doubts. Unlike us, he seemed to think it was all so simple. Here we were, all the adults, with brains being exerted and looking at every solution but the obvious…at least, obvious to Francis.
“How,” I asked, a tad sarcastically, “do you propose to find a nun’s habit?”
We all looked at each other with one image in mind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Glenda’s mother, Mrs. Alphonso, had continued to work even during the riots. Sister St. Claire, the nun in charge of the convent’s housekeeping, under whose thin, wiry nose Mrs. Alphonso worked, had seen no reason why not. She’d said something that began with, “You see, in Ireland…” She was originally from Ireland, where they gave their sons and daughters to the church as a career. Having known no other life from the age of fourteen, Sister St. Claire, not burdened with compassion, had turned her very blue eyes from her task, looked down her thin nose at Glenda’s mother and said, “Here.” She held out a giant cross that could be worn around the neck. “You will be safe.”
It was a wonder Mrs. Alphonso survived the weight of the cross around her neck without developing a form of spondylitis. Truthfully, if she did have spondylitis we would never know. We knew nothing about her. “This is a Hindu-Muslim riot—no need for you to stay home.” So Glenda’s mother put on a red dress over her flower-patterned one and walked down the street, sloppy, glum, disconnected, her head cocked to one side and her hair screaming for a comb.
A Matter of Geography Page 15
