Miss Laila, Armed and Dangerous

by Manu Joseph

  These days everybody is worried that Muslims are ‘reproducing like rabbits’. Yesterday, the maths teacher wrote this sum on the board: ‘Assume the fact that Hindus form 80 per cent of the Indian population and Muslims form 15 per cent. If the number of Hindus grows by 50 per cent every decade and the number of Muslims doubles every decade, after how many decades would there be more Muslims than Hindus in India?’ The man has been asking all of Patel School for Girls the same sum, even little kids.

  Anyone else in her family? Anyone she forgot?

  ‘I had a father,’ she says. ‘Two years ago he died in a road accident when he was on his way to get us sweets. I love my father.’ There is silence as she expected. It is for this reason she had invoked him even though it makes her sad to talk about him.

  ‘I love all my sisters but I’m closest to Laila. She is very, very clever, and physically stronger than she looks. She is not the eldest sister. Our eldest sister is married and does not live with us.’ On an impulse she decides to play to the gallery. ‘She has no children.’ But nobody seems to have got the significance of that bit of information. ‘Laila is the second oldest. She is nineteen. After her is my only brother. I come next. I’ve three younger sisters. I’m their boss. And my boss is Laila.’

  Aisha is still distracted by the gloom of remembering her father, who was a good man, a jovial man. She almost never talks about him except when Laila gets into the mood and forces everyone in the house to talk about Father. The children then sit in a circle on the floor and recount memories and conversations. ‘Don’t be afraid to repeat stuff,’ Laila would say. It’s surprising that often they come up with things they had not remembered earlier. Laila says that people should not go quiet about their dead, they must instead keep talking about them. But it is hard.

  She wonders how Laila would react if she knew that Aisha had used Father to get some sympathy from the class. Laila might not be so cross. In fact, she might think it was smart. Laila herself is a bit of a rogue.

  Aisha had exploited Father not only to get some dignity back but also to reassure people that Muslims do die. Maybe she should also have added, ‘Muslims die in many ways. Muslims die in “spontaneous riots”, too, so don’t worry too much about our population.’

  The smiling face of Damodarbhai flashes in her mind. She has to stop her essay to recover. In those riots, three cousins died – two boys in their late teens and a girl who was sixteen. When the riots began in Ahmedabad, many Muslims ran to the house of a big Muslim politician, a very old man. The mobs gathered around the old man’s house. Their numbers grew through the morning but the cops never arrived. The mobs then began to pelt stones. The old man called many people in the government, begging for help. But there were just cops with sticks outside his house and they could not do anything to control the mob.

  The old politician called Damodarbhai, too. Damodarbhai was chief minister after all, but Damodarbhai asked him to get lost. Then the old man took his own gun and shot at the mob. Big mistake. The mob barged in and hacked every Muslim they could find. They hacked and burned. They hacked the old man into so many pieces no part of him was ever found.

  What if Laila had been in the old man’s house that day? Aisha is going to cry, she knows that. She finds it odd that she must always think of only Laila in distress. There are others she loves, including herself, but it is always Laila.

  The day Damodarbhai became chief minister yet another time and everybody started saying that he was destined to become prime minister and run the whole country and not merely a state, all the children in her home were terrified. Jaan, who was four then, went to sleep with two slices of cucumber on her eyes. Even now she does that when she is very scared or tense. Aisha crawled under her parents’ bed and refused to come out. Mother got tired of trying to lure her out and finally shoved a broom under the bed. ‘Since you are there, why don’t you clean the cobwebs, too.’ But Laila stayed with her all day. Not under the bed but a few feet away, lying on the floor, resting her head on her palm, like Vishnu. It was a Sunday, the day she is not very busy. They talked for two hours about movies, food and Mumbai. Aisha ate under the bed, lying on her belly.

  Laila studies science in Guru Nanak Khalsa college in Mumbai. She travels up and down three hours every weekday to attend college. Laila says poor people, like them, should learn to love science because science is more equal and fair than arts. Aisha understands. The thing about science is that if you are smart no one can say you are not smart. But Laila does not plan to become a scientist. She does not have the time to keep dissecting frogs for years, she wants to start earning a lot of money fast. ‘A lot of money.’ She plans to take the MBA exams next year.

  Laila runs the house. She takes tuitions for schoolchildren at home. She also designs and stitches salwar-kameez that she manages to sell to some stores. Most of the clothes that the family wears have been made by Laila. The cream kurta she was wearing this morning was made by her last week. The only thing Laila likes about Pakistan is the way they cut salwars. ‘But they don’t know how to cut churidars.’ Laila also works in Jamal’s company but Aisha does not fully understand what she does there. Something to do with accounting.

  Once a month, Laila takes her to south Mumbai or Bandra and they watch flashy girls. It is fun. Laila says that flashy girls always remind her of men. ‘They are so lucky, so lucky.’ Sometimes Laila looks carefully at fancy young people sitting in glass restaurants or going in cars. Her face then grows a bit sad. Maybe she too wants to have fun like others her age instead of doing so many odd jobs to run a family. It really is unfair that Laila has to carry so much burden at nineteen. Her family is a ‘ton of bricks’.

  It must be because Laila is so precious to all of them, every moment of Aisha’s life she fears that something bad will happen to her. Aisha is very imaginative when she thinks of all the things that can happen. Laila may fall off the train, get run over by a truck; a skinny nervous Romeo may throw acid on her face, thugs might abduct her. Or Jamal might shoot her in the head after an argument. Or a riot can break out and that has its own possibilities. She wishes Laila were a bit religious at least. They need God in that house. But Laila thinks no woman is religious. ‘They are all just pretending. Imagine an old man peering into your life all the time. Which woman would want that?’

  Her fear that Laila would be destroyed in horrible ways is worse than usual today. Early morning she woke up to a nasty fight between Mother and Laila. The other children slept through it, but not for long. Aisha sat in a corner of the room and brushed her teeth slowly, watching the show. The issue, she figured, was serious. Laila was going to Malegaon to meet some perfume merchants or something like that, and she was going to spend a whole night in a hotel. That was bad enough but Laila was going with Jamal in the second-hand car that he bought last month. Just Jamal and Laila – to Malegaon. Serious matter.

  ‘It’s not like we’re sharing a room,’ Laila said.

  ‘Which nineteen-year-old girl would go out of town with a man?’ Mother said.

  ‘I’ve been to Malegaon before.’

  ‘But not with a man alone. Or that’s what I hope. And how dare you tell me this now, a moment before you are to leave. You could have told me yesterday. You’re obviously not asking my permission. You’re informing me, that’s all.’

  ‘Jamal decided to take me along just now. I’m going on work. Work. Work.’

  ‘Just because you run this house, just because you bring in the money, you have no respect for me.’

  ‘Don’t say such things.’

  ‘That man is not a straightforward person. I can see it in his eyes. Something wrong about him.’

  ‘He is a good man.’

  ‘If your father was alive, would you dare to go up to him and say you’re going out of town with a man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you’re not a prostitute.’

  Then both started crying. It is rare for Laila to cry, rarer still for her to scream. ‘It�
��s tough, life is so tough,’ she yelled. ‘I’m trying to do something. I can’t be like those girls who just lie around because everything will fall nicely in place. I have to work.’

  It is not unusual for people to scream in Rashid Complex. It happens all the time, but very rarely in that house, because it does not have a man, or sisters-in-law.

  ‘Laila,’ Mother screamed, ‘you get careless with men, you end up dead in this country. That’s how it is.’

  That made Aisha go mad. ‘Don’t say that. Never say that,’ she screamed. The power in her lungs surprised her and her mother was tamed. But then a large toothpaste bubble formed on Aisha’s lips and burst.

  The other children rose. A deep gloom filled the house. So Jaan went to the fridge to look for cucumber slices. Mother and Laila screamed at once, ‘Get out.’ The girl ran to the toilet. Mother started cooking without a word because it was time for school. Laila began to help in silence, as she normally did. The younger sisters wondered what they must do. They discussed a joke they could crack. Javed, who is fifteen, slipped out of the house. Even when things are normal, with so many women in the house he feels he is living inside a television serial. Aisha went to Laila and tried her luck. ‘Don’t go to Malegaon,’ she said. Laila did not respond. She was looking prettier than ever. Her hair thicker than usual because it was wet, skin glowing, back so strong and straight. Just seeing her this way, Aisha was tortured by dark thoughts. She imagined this beautiful creature exploding.

  ‘I don’t know why I feel so scared today. Don’t go so far away,’ Aisha said.

  ‘Shut up and get ready for school,’ Laila snapped.

  The house was calm when the children left, but Laila and Mother clearly were waiting for everyone to leave to resume the fight.

  ‘My sister is a student and a businesswoman,’ Aisha tells the class. ‘She is one of the youngest businesswomen in the whole world.’ For a moment she thinks there is applause, which Laila deserves. But it is merely a disturbance in one portion of the classroom. The girls near the window are excited. Someone screams, ‘She is here. It’s Laila, I think. She will live for a hundred years.’

  Through the window, Aisha sees her sister walk into the school. She wonders if Laila has ever received applause. Has she ever stood on a stage and received the applause of the world? Do some heroes pass through their lives without ever seeing such a moment?

  She knows nothing bad has happened. Laila was rude in the morning and she has come to hug. That is her way. Aisha asks the teacher if she can step out for a minute, and she runs down the corridor, down the stairs. On the grounds, Laila and Aisha run towards each other and burst out laughing because they know the scene is from some Hindi film, maybe all the Hindi films ever made. They hug.

  ‘So you’re not going to Malegaon with Jamal?’ Aisha says.

  ‘I am. I came to give you a hug because I didn’t hug you in the morning. Now don’t ask me not to go. That’s inauspicious.’

  ‘Are you really going to Malegaon?’

  ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘You’re not going to Gujarat?’

  ‘Why would I lie about that?’

  ‘You know all of us would go mad if you were going to that place.’

  Laila did say a few days ago that she may make her first trip ever to Gujarat but when Aisha started hitting her with a rolled Urdu newspaper, which is very light, she promised she wouldn’t go. If she ever went to Gujarat, Aisha threatened her that she would hide all her shoes and clothes. Laila has six pairs of shoes. She is a bit hip that way. Strictly speaking, Laila has thirty pairs of shoes, because all the shoes in the house were bought by her.

  ‘Damodarbhai doesn’t own Gujarat,’ Laila says. ‘There are millions of Muslims there and they are very happy. But, anyway, I am not going to Gujarat.’

  ‘Mother says you’re a very good liar. You always were, she says.’

  ‘Now don’t annoy me, Aisha. I’ll be back tomorrow by evening and I’ll ring the doorbell with my nose.’

  ‘Why your nose?’

  ‘Because I’ll be carrying gifts in both my hands.’

  They giggle.

  Laila jogs on high flat heels towards the iron gates. She is so elegant. As she opens the gate, Aisha sees Jamal’s little blue car waiting on the lane outside.

  11

  Around 2 p.m.

  INSIDE THE RING of furniture around the tunnel’s entrance, Akhila is with the Major and four senior officers from Mumbai Police. The cops, who look like suave businessmen in shirt and trousers, are very sure that the man in the debris is involved in terror. By ‘terror’ the cops mean Islamic terror. ‘He is not a pioneering Buddhist terrorist?’ Akhila says. The cops don’t get the joke. There is a problem with their hypothesis though. Not a single Muslim lived in the fallen building. That is what the survivors say. The residents are puzzled by the inquiries of the police about Muslims in their chawl because they have not been told about the mumblings of the man in the hole. That is a secret, for now.

  It had not occurred to Akhila to take his photograph. So the Major sent a soldier into the tunnel for that, but the residents are unable to identify the man probably because of the layers of dust and blood on his face and the poor quality of the flashlight photographs. Or, they have never seen him before.

  The Major’s plan is to intensify the rescue while keeping him alive and talking as long as possible. He has suspended the efforts to scrape the concrete beam that lies over the man’s legs. It would take hours to break it. The plan now is to dig another tunnel that would lead to the place where the man’s head rests. The soldiers would then pull him out through the second tunnel. Nobody knows how long that will take. Soon Akhila will crawl in again, stab him with saline, feed him, clean his face, take better photographs and check his pockets for ID. And, of course, gather everything he says. Only she can get close enough to hear him. If he becomes communicative, she will ask leading questions to establish his identity. There is something else that she considers doing but she does not plan to discuss it.

  There is one obvious concern – how safe is it for her to slither over a delirious terrorist? Very safe considering his state, the men assure her, but they agree there is a small risk. One option is to send a soldier crawling behind her but then the soldier would only cut off precious air supply for both the dying man and her; and of what use would the soldier be anyway when she is being strangled in the tunnel. The passageway is so narrow he would never be able to get beside her. So, the Major gives her a knife.

  ‘When you’re in the hole with him,’ the Major says, ‘tell him his family is safe, his children are safe. It’s not enough to feed him, we’ve to give him hope and good news. To keep him alive as long as possible, we need to ensure his mind does not wish to sleep. He may not rise.’

  He hauls her by her waist as he does with men and takes her for a walk outside the ring of cordons. It is bizarre that there is something pure about this burly rustic man; she has never felt a man’s waist hug that is so devoid of sexual meaning.

  ‘When you first heard him say those things, how did you feel?’

  ‘I think I just wanted to listen more.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then I got spooked.’

  ‘Anybody would be spooked. You were on top of a terrorist. Some kind of a terrorist.’

  ‘When that struck me, I tried to flee and I bumped my helmet on the rocks, my legs got stuck, I was a bit of a mess. Then I calmed down. I looked at his face, I saw how pathetic his condition was, and I calmed down.’

  The Major keeps nodding his head.

  ‘Does he move his hands freely?’ he asks in a whisper.

  ‘He doesn’t but that’s because he has no space.’

  ‘I don’t want to scare you but we don’t know who he is. Be very wary.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you get on top of him, keep the knife in your hand, pointed to his stomach. Don’t let him see the knife.’

  ‘It would be funny
if I get attacked in there.’

  ‘Not funny.’

  He spots Abha wandering about and calls out to her. He takes a scribbling pad from his back pocket, tears a page and gives it to the little girl. ‘We don’t know if it’s your father but if it is, would you like to draw something he would like?’ He gives her his fountain pen. Abha gives the paper and pen back to the Major, who thinks the girl is rejecting his proposal. But she takes out a notebook from her bag and a black sketch pen, and begins to draw.

  ‘Where did you find these?’ he asks.

  She does not respond. Without raising her head she asks a reasonable question.

  ‘Don’t you want me to draw something my mother will like?’

  ‘Later,’ the Major says.

  Abha draws the image of a little girl with two parents on the beach.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve to fold it,’ Akhila says as she carefully puts the sketch in her pocket. Four other girls come running. They ask Abha for pages from her notebook and sketch pens, and they begin to draw. ‘It could be my father, not her father,’ a girl says.

  Abha goes to the debris and sits alone, on a concrete slab. A soldier gives her a bun, which she holds like a monkey, and eats. The sight of a little girl eating alone has always made Akhila crumble within. She wants to take the orphan away from all this to a very affluent hotel room – that is her idea of escape. Far from her mother’s idea of escape, which was running away to the theatre sets of rich Indian Marxists: abject rustic poverty.

  AKHILA WAS FOURTEEN when her mother died. The cause of death was cerebral malaria. Plasmodium falciparum is usually a class-conscious protozoa. It does not go near Indian women who read Camus, especially Marxist feminists. But Ma had taken to roaming in forests, real Indian forests that were probably as big as whole European nations.

  Ma was born into wealth at a time when it must have been glorious to be rich in Mumbai. Childhood was happy, suspiciously royal. She grew into a sharp young woman in serious glasses with large frames. To wedding receptions she wore controversial backless blouses and saris tied lower than the national mean.