by Manu Joseph
THE TOLLBOOTH WAS chosen as the site of abduction because the abductors needed the car to be stationary when they took control of it. But the chief reason, Mukundan had thought, was that the tollbooth was very close to the safe house. However, the Qualis has kept going. It travels about ninety minutes, covering nearly one hundred kilometres to the very rim of Ahmedabad. It enters an area of vast yawning darkness and finally stops at the massive iron gates of a farmhouse.
The farmhouse is probably set on a large orchard, he can see only a vacant night within. There is no sign of life inside until two men emerge from the darkness and open the gates. The vehicles drive in, past the two grave muscular men. Mukundan’s car is the last to enter. The gates groan and shut behind him.
The Qualis stops on the porch, where there is space for only one vehicle to stand. The other vehicles stop a few metres away, on the driveway. There is a flurry of car doors opening and closing. When the doors of the Qualis open, there is not a sound from the girl. He had expected screams but she is probably done screaming. She walks, without being held. When the abductors are cops, their quarry usually imagine that they are still in the protection of the land. So they walk. Jamal, too, walks flanked by two wary men.
Three cops begin to inspect the Indica. As Mukundan makes his way towards the house, he catches a glimpse of the car’s boot – there is nothing there.
THE LIVING ROOM of the farmhouse is dimly lit. The place is possibly owned by one of the Beard Squad cops. Not directly, of course. There is usually a rags-to-riches hotelier who is the front.
There are sixteen cops in the room, including Mukundan. Some are from the Bureau but most are from the lower rungs of the Beard Squad, at the level of sub-inspectors. The size of the team reassures him. When the Beard Squad carries out executions, it keeps its team very small. Most of the time, it is just Bhim and three other Beards, including his personal bodyguard. Such a team, according to their official version, would have tried to confront the terrorists, who would have opened fire and the Squad would have retaliated, leaving all the terrorists dead.
The fact that Bhim allowed such a large team to be a part of the abduction probably suggests that he does not plan to execute Jamal and the girl. It is unlikely that he will change his mind later. Eyewitnesses can be very expensive. But it is not clear to Mukundan what the Beard Squad plans to do with the couple. If they were to be released into formal custody, the Squad and the Bureau would have to explain the abduction of the girl. Of Jamal, too, but nobody cares so much about the abduction of a male terror suspect. Mukundan is missing something.
Considering the failed mutiny a few hours ago, nobody is paying particular attention to him. The bald stud, who had put his stone hand on Mukundan’s chest outside the petrol station, is standing near the fridge, fiddling with his phone. Some of the cops are in a huddle on sofas, talking in faint voices. Some are eating alone from steel boxes their wives may have packed. The couple is not here; they have been lodged in two adjacent bedrooms on the ground floor. He gathers that the girl is alone in her room, for the moment. Jamal, in his cell, is being interrogated by Boss and Bhim.
There is no one else in Jamal’s room. Obviously, they don’t think he is lethal. And it appears the interrogation is really just that. There are no wails of a man pleading with other men to stop brutalizing him. In any case, Boss and Red Beard are not the ones who do the beating. They have thin wrists. Beating up even a captive man is a lot of hard work.
After about an hour, the two cops emerge from Jamal’s room, chatting. They do not look like men who had a stormy fight a few hours ago. They must have made their peace. They look more like accomplices now. They are laughing over something. Mukundan has never seen Bhim in flesh before. His face is magnified by his red mane, and he has narrow shrewd eyes. There is something of the feline in him. It’s probably his small mouth and nose and the efficient body. Boss is a few inches taller than Bhim. He is dark, balding and greying; the sort of man whose lips gather saliva at the edges.
Bhim and Boss, still chatting, stop outside the girl’s room. A sub-inspector, who has a ring of keys as though he is the mother-in-law of the house, unlocks the door and leaves. Bhim throws a casual glance across the living room and his narrow eyes fall on Mukundan. Boss says something to Bhim and the man laughs. Boss gives Mukundan a nod as the two men enter the girl’s room, chatting. The door shuts.
Mukundan tries to lurk near the door but he is unable to hear anything, not even the questions of the men. After about thirty minutes, the interrogators emerge. They do not look very disturbed or pleased.
Boss takes an apple from the fridge and approaches Mukundan. ‘You did well,’ he says with a kind smile, studying the fruit. ‘You can go now.’
‘Can I spend the night here?’ he asks. ‘And leave early?’
Boss does not like the request. ‘No, no, no,’ he says. ‘You can rest for a while. But leave, leave tonight.’
‘Sir.’
‘Leave in an hour. Max. An hour.’
Mukundan joins the other men in the living room, where Bhim is signing papers. Two inspectors had been waiting to get the signatures from him on paperwork concerning security arrangements in the city. He looks up from the papers to take a good look at Mukundan. He chuckles as he signs. When the paperwork is done, he comes to him and puts his arm around his shoulder, and they walk around the room. Everybody else is watching.
‘You’re angry with us?’ Bhim says.
‘No, sir. Why would I be?’
‘I heard you raised your voice with our men.’
‘I didn’t raise my voice, sir. You’re confusing me for someone else.’
‘Your Boss was very angry with us. But I’ve managed to convince him.’
‘That’s good, sir.’
‘I’m not a bad man. I’m a poet. Do you know that I’m a poet?’
‘I didn’t know, sir.’
‘Can I tell you what kind of a man I am?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If I was a football star, imagine I am a football star with a top European club; when I score a goal, and my teammates come running to me, I am not the type of man who would push them away or try to evade them just to run to the cameras and flail my hands. I would instead hug my teammates and shake their hands.’
‘That’s good, sir.’
‘I take my men along.’
‘Got it, sir.’
‘Why did we get the girl? Is that what my boy is thinking? Why did we take the girl?’
‘We did what we had to, sir. It’s over.’
‘Your Hindi is hilarious. You from the south?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Last week I watched a film on TV. It’s called King Kong. Have you heard of King Kong?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you seen the film?’
‘No, sir.’
‘In King Kong, some white people go to a remote island, which is filled with giant magical creatures the world has never seen. I think they are hunters. Those white people, I think, they hunt exotic animals. So they are in this island filled with amazing animals, giant beasts. There are dinosaurs, and massive birds. But do you know what they capture and take to New York? An ape. They take back only the giant ape, not the other exotic beasts. Isn’t that funny?’
‘Now that you put it this way, sir, it is very strange.’
‘And what’s the name of the giant ape, my friend?’
‘King Kong.’
‘Exactly. You know what I was thinking. Why did those men take the ape and leave the dinosaurs behind?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Because the film is called King Kong. That’s why.’
The man lets out a slow laugh. ‘What morons,’ he says.
He knocks his forehead on Mukundan gently. He smells of shampoo, which is rare for a cop.
‘True that our operation had Jamal’s name on it, son, but if we find an exotic creature in his car, only a moron would leave her behind. So we
took her in and asked some polite questions. We are going to ask more questions. You just watch. She is going to sing. A simple innocent college girl does not set out on an adventure with a married man. She is with them, she knows them, she is one of them.’
‘Has she confessed, sir?’
Bhim moves back a few inches to show a dramatic interest in him.
‘First two hours, they are all very strong.’
‘And what about Jamal, sir?’
Bhim looks around, studying all the eyes that are on him, and he laughs. He pokes his finger on Mukundan’s chest.
‘What a cop,’ Bhim says. ‘This boy is a cop. Forget what he said, Mukundan, let me tell you what I told him.’
‘Tell me, sir.’
‘I told him a joke.’
‘What’s the joke, sir?’
‘A fidayeen who had blown himself for Allah goes to heaven. He searches for seventy-two virgins but finds only seventy-two horny young black boys waiting for him. The fidayeen screams at God. Where are my seventy-two virgins you promised?’
Bhim says ‘virgins’ in English, which is probably essential for the joke to work.
‘And God said, “Look, I said seventy-two virgins, I never said “girls”.’
The room erupts in laughter. Bhim, even as he laughs, puts his hand in Mukundan’s pocket and fishes out his mobile phone.
‘Sony. You have a Sony. Not bad for an honest cop.’
‘My sister gifted it, sir.’
‘Does your phone take photographs?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bhim goes through the photographs.
‘You didn’t take any pictures of them, son.’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Our guests. Our couple.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was not asked to, sir.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Good.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
Boss, finally, speaks. ‘He’s a fine boy.’
‘Your boss thinks she is innocent,’ Bhim tells Mukundan. ‘What do you feel?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Are you wondering what we would do if she is innocent?’
‘What will you do, sir?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No, sir?’
‘That we let people go?’
A ringtone begins and that brings about a calm. It is Bhim’s phone. He turns reverential, but not subservient. He walks to a corner. It is hard to hear him clearly but there is no doubt he is speaking to someone very important.
In a few minutes, Boss leaves the farmhouse with another fresh apple. Bhim and two other senior officers, too, leave. The rest stay in the living room.
Mukundan mingles but he gathers very little. The rooms where Jamal and the girl are detained are barren, he is told. The windows are sealed, even the fans removed. They are handcuffed and have been instructed to sit on the floor, in a corner, at all times. They are free to urinate in their clothes.
And, the girl’s name is Laila Raza. She is nineteen.
Mukundan thinks of a way to extend his stay in the farmhouse. He lies on a fat rug. There are other men who are sleeping, on couches, chairs and the floor. Maybe he can just lurk around, and if no one remembers to kick him out he can claim that he had dozed off.
He must have been very tired, he really does doze off. He is woken up by the familiar sounds of a man wailing. The man’s sounds are faint and when he speaks he says that he is a father of three kids. That’s all he says. A preliminary beating is under way in Jamal’s room. The men probably have no questions for him. The questions will come later, after Jamal feels worthless. It is surprising how swiftly a man can be made to feel he is nothing. When a man feels he is nothing, he loses his ideology and convictions. Then he is filled only with facts. Mukundan keeps an eye on the girl’s door. As far as he can tell, there is no one in the room but her. She is probably crouched in a corner, trying to shut out the sounds of the man.
A Bureau cop, one of the men who had tailed Jamal in the Sumo, walks up to Mukundan, his phone to the ear. ‘What are you still doing here?’ the man says.
‘I dozed off.’
‘Boss is asking you to get out.’
Mukundan leaves. He feels as though he has left a child at the mercy of over a dozen men. What must he do, what must an insignificant young man do?
He drives out of the farmhouse, and in a minute merges with the highway traffic.
If morality is, as he believes, a system of logic where a moral choice is wise because it is the only path that conscience shows while the other paths, the ambiguous ways, are many, the right course of action for him is to extract the girl from the farmhouse and put her in formal judicial custody.
He has a fair idea how to do it. He has to let some friends know about the farmhouse, who would in turn let the TV channels and human rights activists know. If he is careful, he might even get away with it. But then that would force the Beard Squad to implicate her as a terrorist. They would have no choice. That would be the only way they can save a bit of their skin. She may spend decades in prison.
He tries to understand, not for the first time, why Bhim has taken the abduction of a teenage girl so lightly. The Squad might be protected by very powerful men but these days there are limits to the powers of powerful men. If news channels get to know that a nineteen-year-old girl was held in illegal custody by about twenty policemen, it would be disastrous for all the officers involved. Even if the bosses deny everything she claims, a fact has a mysterious endurance, and there would be too much attention from journalists, a lot of whom are women these days, and human rights activists, who are mostly women, and Muslim politicians. Some careers would end. And, it is too late for Bhim to solve the problem by shooting Jamal and the girl in their heads and claiming there was a gun battle. There are too many people involved in the abduction of the couple.
What if she is, in fact, deeply involved in terror? He knows nothing about her at all. And what if she is actually in no physical danger at all? Maybe Bhim really does plan to let her go, persuade her to keep her mouth shut, and to even use her as an informer. It happens all the time.
So, the situation is that if Mukundan tries to save her, he might end up putting her in prison. If he leaves her alone, she might get back to her life tomorrow morning.
But the spectre of the shut door does not leave him. A girl in absolute dread behind a shut door. He pulls over. What must a man do?
30
A Patriarch’s Review
THE FIRST MOMENTS inside the aircraft are, as usual, ominous. The young air hostess, who is stunning, frames life as too precious. In the open cockpit, one of the two pilots is too serious, too quiet. The bearded technician standing with them, holding a pad, seems to know a secret. He is surely a devout Muslim.
In the business section, where Professor Vaid is seated, there is only him. He is always embarrassed by the luxury, but only during boarding when people shuffle in throwing unpleasant glances at the business class. Nobody recognizes him any more, which is good. But the crew knows who he is. That is because the patriots have informed them. Someone from the airline had escorted him to the gate. The army boy had apologized for frisking him.
As the plane taxis towards the queue to the runway, his phone rings. That draws the attention of the lone stewardess in the business section. He wishes to switch off the device but it is AK on the line.
‘I am in the plane.’
‘Are you sitting?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘This is going to make you laugh very hard, Professor.’
The flight attendant walks to the patriarch’s seat and stands looking unhappy and reverential at once.
‘Our friend in the debris, Professor. He says Jamal and the girl are on their way to Ahmedabad.’
‘I see.’
‘They are not carrying a bomb, they are going to meet some friends.’
‘Why is that funny?’
‘Jamal and the girl are going to Ahmedabad, Professor.’
‘Why are you laughing, AK?’
‘Sir,’ the flight attendant says, ‘I’m very sorry, you have to switch off your phone. We’re about to take off.’
‘They are in a little blue car, Professor.’
‘A little blue car?’
‘It is an Indica. They’re going to meet a sleeper cell that is planning to assassinate Damodarbhai. A blue Indica. Mumbra to Ahmedabad. The man’s name is Jamal. Jamal.’
‘You don’t think this is…’
‘Exactly. And the girl’s name, Professor, is Laila Raza.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Sir,’ the flight attendant says. She is not stern yet, but almost there. ‘I’m sorry, sir, you have to switch off your phone.’
‘AK, I have to go.’
‘The entire intel and police system has been going crazy all day. For this. For our Jamal and Laila.’
‘Who’s the man in the debris, then?’
‘We’ll soon know.’
‘He has to be a cop, AK.’
‘I agree.’
THE ENGINES SCREAM, the plane gathers speed on the runway and it begins to sound like a disaster. As the plane leaves ground, he sees fireworks over Mumbai. The patriots have begun their celebration.
The economy class is full. In its front row, six feet diagonally behind Vaid is a wailing baby in the arms of an unhappy mother. The infant has been this way even before take-off. The curtain separating the business cabin and the economy is still parted. The mother can see him, and the empty business section, too. He is not looking at her with even a hint of annoyance but she returns his gaze with a glare as though he is responsible for her circumstances. She is flanked by two middle-aged men, who do not appear to be related to her. They throw glances at the baby, which is unusually loud and miserable. The infant, a girl, and the mother have drawn the attention of other passengers too. Is she going to travel like this, holding a wailing newborn in her arms?
