‘No, man,’ Andrew snarled petulantly. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll take the kid.’
‘That leaves eight of us,’ Salman concluded. ‘Sanjay and me, Abdullah and Amir, Raj and little Tony, Farid and Mahmoud—’
‘Nine,’ I cut in. ‘There’s nine of us.’
‘You should take off, Lin,’ Salman said quietly, raising his eyes to meet mine. ‘I was just now going to ask you to take a cab and pass the word to Rajubhai, and the boys at your passport shop.’
‘I’m not leaving Abdullah,’ I said flatly.
‘Maybe you can go back with Nazeer,’ Amir, who was Andrew’s close friend, suggested.
‘I left Abdullah once,’ I declared. ‘I’m not doing it again. It’s like fate or something. I’ve got a feeling, Salman. I’ve got a feeling not to leave Abdullah. I’m in it. I’m not leaving Mahmoud Melbaaf, either. I’m with them. I’m with you.’
Salman held the stare, frowning pensively. It occurred to me, stupidly, that his slightly crooked face—one eye a little lower than the other, his nose bent from a bad break, his mouth scarred in the corner—found a handsome symmetry only then, when the burden of his thoughts creased his features into a determined frown.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, at last.
‘What the fuck!’ Andrew exploded. ‘He gets to go, but I do the baby-sitting job?’
‘Settle down, Andrew,’ Farid said soothingly.
‘No, fuck him! I’m sick of this fuckin’ gora, man. So Khader liked him, so he went to Afghanistan, so fuckin’ what? Khader’s dead, yaar. Khader’s day is gone.’
‘Relax, man,’ Amir put in.
‘What relax? Fuck Khader, and fuck his gora, too!’
‘You should watch your mouth,’ I muttered through clenched teeth.
‘I should?’ he asked, thrusting his face forward pugnaciously. ‘Well, fuck your sister! How’s my mouth now? You like that?’
‘I don’t have a sister,’ I said evenly in Hindi. A few men laughed.
‘Well, maybe I’ll go fuck your mother,’ he snarled, ‘and make you a new sister!’
‘That’s good enough,’ I growled, shaping up to fight him. ‘Get ‘em up! Get your fuckin’ hands up! Let’s go!’
It would’ve been messy. I wasn’t a good fighter, but I knew the moves. I could hit hard. And if I got into real trouble in those years, I wasn’t afraid to put the wet end of a knife into another man’s body. Andrew was capable. With a gun in his hand, he was deadly. As Amir moved around to support him, directly behind his right shoulder, Abdullah took up a similar position beside me. A fight would become a brawl. We all knew it. But the young Goan didn’t raise his hands, and as one second became five, and ten, and fifteen, it seemed that he wasn’t as willing with his fists as he was with his mouth.
Nazeer broke the stand-off. Pushing between us, he seized Andrew by the wrist and a scruff of shirtsleeve. I knew that grip well. I knew that Andrew had to kill the burly Afghan if he wanted to break it. Nazeer paused only long enough to give me a bewilderingly cryptic look, part censure and part pride, part anger and part red-eyed affection, before he shoved the young Goan backwards through the circle of men. At the car, he pushed Andrew into the driver’s seat and then climbed into the back with Tariq. Andrew started the car and sped away spitting gravel and dust as he wheeled around and headed back toward Marine Drive. As the car swept past me I saw Tariq’s face at the window. It was pale, with only the eyes, like wild paw prints in snow, betraying any hint of the mind or the mood within.
‘Maijata hu,’ I repeated when the car had passed. I’m going. Everyone laughed. I wasn’t sure if it was at the vehemence of my tone or the blunt simplicity of the Hindi phrase.
‘I think we got that, Lin,’ Salman said. ‘I think that’s very clear, na? Okay, I’ll put you with Abdullah, out the back. There’s a lane behind Chuha’s house—Abdullah, you know it. It has two feeds from other lanes, one into the main street, and one around the corner to other houses in the block. At the back of Chuha’s house there’s a yard. I’ve seen it. There are two windows, both with heavy bars, and only one door to the house. It’s down two steps. You two hold that place. Nobody goes in when we start. If we do right, some of them will try to make a run for it out there. Don’t let them get past you. Stop them right there, in the yard. The rest of us will go in through the front. What about the guns, Faisal?’
‘Seven,’ he answered. ‘Two short shotgun, two automatic, three revolver.’
‘Give me one of the automatics,’ Salman ordered. Abdullah, you take the other one. You’ll have to share it, Lin. The shotguns are no good inside—it’s gonna get very close in there, and we want to be real sure what we’re shooting at. I want them on the street outside, for maximum coverage if we need it. Faisal, you take the shotguns, and give one to Hussein. When we’re finished, we’ll go out the back way, past Abdullah and Lin. We won’t go out the front, so put holes in anything that tries to go in or out once we’re in there. The three other guns are for Farid, Amir, and Mahmoud. Raj, you’ll have to share with us. Okay?’
The men nodded, and wagged their heads in agreement.
‘Listen, if we wait, we can get thirty more men and thirty guns to go in with us. You know that. But we might miss them. As it is, we’ve already talked for ten minutes too long. If we hit them now, quick and hard, before they know it, we can take them out, and none of them will get away. I want to finish them, and finish this business, right now, tonight. But I want to leave it up to you. I don’t want to make you go in if you don’t feel ready. Do you want to wait for more men, or go now?’
One by one the men spoke, quickly, most of them using the one word, Abi, meaning now. Salman nodded, then closed his eyes and muttered a prayer in Arabic. When he looked up again, he was committed, fully committed for the first time. His eyes were blazing with hatred and the fearsome killing rage he’d kept at bay.
‘Saatch … aur himmat,’ he said, looking each man in the eye. Truth … and courage.
‘Saatch aur himmat,’ they replied.
Without another word, the men claimed their guns, climbed into the two cars, and drove the few short minutes to Chuha’s home on fashionable Sardar Patel Road. Before I could order my thoughts and even consider, clearly, what I was doing, I found myself creeping along a narrow lane with Abdullah in a darkness deep enough for me to feel the widening of my straining eyes. Then we climbed over a sheer wooden fence and dropped down into the backyard of the enemy’s house.
We stood together in the dark for a few moments, checking the luminous dials on our watches, and listening hard as we let our eyes adjust. Abdullah whispered beside me, and I almost jumped at the sound.
‘Nothing,’ he breathed, his voice like the rustle of a woollen blanket. ‘There’s no-one here, no-one near.’
‘Looks okay,’ I answered, aware that my whispering voice was raspy with hard-breathing fear. There were no lights at the windows or behind the blue door at the rear of the house.
‘Well, I kept my promise,’ Abdullah whispered mysteriously.
‘What?’
‘You made me promise to take you with me, when I kill Chuha. Remember?’
‘Yeah,’ I answered, my heart beating faster than a healthy heart should. ‘You gotta be careful, I guess.’
‘I will be careful, Lin brother.’
‘No—I mean, you gotta be careful what you wish for in life, na?’
‘I will try to open that door,’ Abdullah breathed, close to my ear. ‘If it will open, I will go inside.’
‘What?’
‘You wait here, and stay near the door.’
‘What?’
‘You wait here, and—’
‘We’re both supposed to stay here!’ I hissed.
‘I know,’ he replied, creeping with leopard stealth toward the door.
In my clumsier way, looking more like a cat waking stiffly from a long sleep, I crept after him. As I reached the two wide steps leading down to the blue door, I saw him open it and
slip inside the house like a shadow thrown by a swooping bird. He pushed the door shut soundlessly behind him.
Alone, in the dark, I took my knife from the sheath in the small of my back, and enclosed the hilt in my right fist, dagger-point down. Staring out into the darkness, I put all of my focus on the beating of my heart, trying by force of will to slow its too-rapid pace. It worked, after a time. I felt the count reducing, calming me further in turn as the meditative loop closed around a single, still thought. That thought was of Khaderbhai, and the formula he’d made me repeat so often: The wrong thing, for the right reasons. And I knew, as I repeated the words in the fearing dark, that the fight with Chuha, the war, the struggle for power, was always the same, everywhere, and it was always wrong.
Salman and the others, no less than Chuha and the Sapna killers and all the rest of them, were pretending that their little kingdoms made them kings; that their power struggles made them powerful. And they didn’t. They couldn’t. I saw that then so clearly that it was like understanding a mathematical theorem for the first time. The only kingdom that makes any man a king is the kingdom of his own soul. The only power that has any real meaning is the power to better the world. And only men like Qasim Ali Hussein and Johnny Cigar were such kings and had such power.
Unnerved and afraid, I pressed my ear to the door and strained to hear anything of Abdullah or the others within. The fear that twisted in me wasn’t the fear of death. I wasn’t afraid to die. I was afraid of being so injured or wounded that I couldn’t walk, or couldn’t see or, for some other reason, couldn’t run from capture. Above all things I was afraid of that—of being captured and caged again. As I pressed my ear to the door, I prayed that no wound would weaken me. Let it happen here, I prayed. Let me get through this, or let me die here …
I don’t know where they came from. I felt the hands on me before I heard a single sound. Two men slammed me round and hard up against the door. Instinctively, I struck out with my right hand.
‘Chaku! Chaku!’ one of the men shouted. Knife! Knife!
I couldn’t swing the knife up quickly enough to stop them. One man pinned me to the door by the throat. He was a big man, and very strong. The other man used two hands, trying to force me to drop the knife. He wasn’t quite so strong, and he couldn’t make me drop the weapon. Then a third man hopped down the steps from the darkness, and with those extra hands they twisted my grip and forced me to drop the knife.
‘Gora kaun hai?’ the new man asked. Who’s the white guy?
‘Bahinchudh! Malum nahi,’ the strong man replied. The sisterfucker! I don’t know.
He stared at me, obviously bewildered to have stumbled on a foreigner who was listening at the door and armed with a knife.
‘Kaun hai turn?’ he asked in an almost friendly tone. Who are you?’
I didn’t reply. All I could think was that I had to warn Abdullah somehow. I couldn’t understand how they’d reached that spot without making a sound. The back gate must’ve swung silently on its hinges. Their shoes or chappals must’ve been soled with soft rubber. Whatever. I’d let them sneak up on me, and I had to warn Abdullah.
I suddenly struggled as if I was trying to break free. The feint had its effect. The men all shouted at me, and three pairs of hands slammed me against the blue door. One of the smaller men scrambled to my left side, pinning my left arm to the door. The other short man held my right arm. In the wrestle, I managed to kick my boots hard against the door three times. Abdullah must’ve heard it, I thought. It’s okay … I’ve warned him …
He must know something’s wrong …
‘Kaun hai turn?’ the big man asked again. He took one hand from my throat, and bunched it into a fist poised menacingly close to my head, just below the line of sight of my eyes. Who are you?
Again I refused to answer, staring at him. Their hands, as hard as shackles, held me to the door.
He slammed his fist into my face. I managed to move my head, just slightly, but I felt the blow on my jaw and cheek. He had rings on his fingers, or he was using a knuckleduster. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel the hard metal chipping bone.
‘What you are doing here?’ he asked in English. ‘Who you are?’
I kept silent, and he struck me again, the fist ramming into my face three times. I know this … I thought. I know this … I was back in prison, in Australia, in the punishment unit—the fists and boots and batons.. I know this …
He paused, waiting for me to speak. The two smaller men grinned at him, then at me. Aur, one of them said. More. Hit him again. The big man drew back and punched at my body. They were slow, deliberate, professional punches. I felt the wind empty from my body, and it was as if my life itself was draining from me. He moved up the body to my chest and throat and face. I felt myself wading into that black water where beaten boxers stagger and fall. I was done. I was finished.
I wasn’t angry with them. I’d fucked up. I’d let them sneak up on me—walk up on me, probably. I’d gone there to fight, and I should’ve been on guard. It was my fault. Somehow, I’d missed them, and messed up, and it was my own fault. All I wanted to do was warn Abdullah. I kicked back feebly at the door, hoping he would hear it and get away, get away, get away …
I fell through perfect darkness, and the weight of all the world fell with me. When I hit the floor I heard shouts, and I realised that Abdullah had wrenched open the door, letting us fall into him. In the dark, bloody-eyed and swollen, I heard a gun firing twice, and saw the flashes. Then light filled the world, and I blinked into the glare as another door opened somewhere, and I saw men rushing in on us. The gun fired again twice, three times, and I rolled out from under the big man to see my knife, close to my eyes, shining on the ground near the open blue door.
I grabbed for the knife just as one of the smaller men tried to crawl over me and out the door. Without thinking, I swept it backwards and into his hip. He screamed, and I scrambled up to him, slashing the knife across his face near the eyes.
It’s amazing how a little of the other guy’s blood, or a lot of it, if you can manage it, puts power in your arms and pain-killing adrenaline in your aching wounds. Wild with rage, I swung round to see Abdullah locked in a struggle with two men. There were bodies on the floor of the room. I couldn’t tell how many. Gunshots cracked and drummed from all around and above us in the other rooms of the building. They seemed to come from several places in the house at the same time. There were shouts and screams. I could smell shit and piss and blood in the room. Someone had a gut wound. I hoped that it wasn’t me. My left hand slapped at my belly and searched, frisking myself for wounds.
Abdullah was punching it out with the two men. They were wrestling, gouging, biting. I began to crawl toward them, but I felt a hand on my leg pulling me backward. It was a strong hand. A very strong hand. It was the big guy.
He’d been shot, I was sure, but I couldn’t see any blood on his shirt or his pants. He dragged me in as if I was a turtle caught in a net. When I reached him, I raised the knife to stab him, but he beat me to it. He slammed his fist into the right side of my groin. He’d missed the killing blow, a direct hit, but it was still enough to make me curl and roll over in agonising pain. I felt him lurch past me, actually using my body for leverage as he pushed himself to his feet. I rolled back, retching bile, to see him stand and take a step toward Abdullah.
I couldn’t let it happen. Too many times, my heart had withered on the thought of Abdullah’s death: alone, in a circle of guns. I thrashed against the pain, and in a scrabble of bloody, slipping movements I sprang up and plunged my knife into the big guy’s back. It was high, just under the scapula. I felt the bone shiver under the blade, diverting the point sideways toward the shoulder. He was strong. He took two more steps, dragging my body with him on the hook of the knife, before he crumpled and fell. I fell on top of him, looking up to see Abdullah. He had his fingers in a man’s eyes. The man’s head was bent backwards against Abdullah’s knee. The man’s jaw gave way, and his
neck cracked like a piece of kindling.
Hands pulled at me, dragging me toward the back door. I struck out, but strong, gentle hands twisted the knife from my fingers. Then I heard the voice, Mahmoud Melbaaf’s voice, and I knew we were safe.
‘Come on, Lin,’ the Iranian said, quickly and too quietly, it seemed, for the bloody violence that had just roared around us.
‘I need a gun,’ I mumbled.
‘No, Lin. It is over.’
‘Abdullah?’ I asked, as Mahmoud dragged me into the yard.
‘He’s working,’ he replied. I heard the screams inside the house ending, one by one, like birds falling silent as night moves across the stillness of a lake. ‘Can you stand? Can you walk? We must leave now!’
‘Fuck, yes! I can make it.’
As we reached the back gate, a column of our men rushed past us. Faisal and Hussein carried one man between them. Farid and Little Tony carried another. Sanjay had a man’s body on his right shoulder. He was sobbing as he clutched the body to his chest and shoulder.
‘We lost Salman,’ Mahmoud announced, following my gaze as we let the men rush past us. ‘And Raj, also. Amir is bad—alive, but hurt bad.’
Salman. The last voice of reason in the Khader council. The last Khader man. I hurried down the lane to the waiting cars and I felt the life draining from me, just as it had when the big man was hitting me at the blue door. It was over. The old mafia council was gone with Salman. Everything had changed. I looked at the others in my car: Mahmoud, Farid, and the wounded Amir. They’d won their war. The Sapna killers were gone at last. A chapter, a book of life and death that had opened with Sapna’s name, was closed forever. Khader was avenged. Abdul Ghani’s mutinous betrayal was finally defeated. And the Iranians, Abdullah’s enemies, were no more: as silent as that bloody, unscreaming house where Abdullah was … working. And Chuha’s gang was crushed. The border war was over. It was over. The wheel had turned through one full revolution, and nothing would ever be the same. They’d won, but they were all crying. All of them. Crying.
I let my head fall back on the seat of the car. Night, that tunnel of lights joining promise to prayer, flew with us at the windows. Slowly, desolately, the fist of what we’d done unclenched the clawed palm of what we’d become. Anger softened into sorrow, as it always does, as it always must. And no part of what we’d wanted, just an hour’s life before, was as rich in hope or meaning as a single teardrop’s fall.
Shantaram: A Novel Page 111
