‘The passengers had exited the platform. Chacha guided us out where we boarded his auto-rickshaw parked in a No Parking zone.
‘Ahmedabad citizens are divorced from the traffic guidelines. They follow their own rules, and like the rest of India, blame the other person for any accident. My Chacha drove recklessly. He peeked out from his right and left side, and blasted abuses at other drivers. I clung to my Ammi, but his zigzag driving flung me around inside the auto-rickshaw. After a few minutes, he veered right from the Naroda Main Road circle. He stopped near the Naroda Patia Police Station, peeped out, and signalled a salute to a constable who didn’t respond. He murmured dirty words, accelerated, and turned left into the adjoining lane.
‘We passed a concrete board on which was inscribed Jeevan Nagar-Naroda Patia. Small houses were lined up on one side of the road, and a 15 feet wall on the opposite. People, mainly the elderly, sat on their charpoys outside their dwellings. They studied every passing soul. My Chacha halted mid-way, near his house. His hut rested on a raised mud platform three feet high. Built of red bricks, corrugated sheets, wooden planks and tarpaulins, this 12 x 15 foot abode was more spacious than our Mumbai house. It also had a six-feet open space outside.’
I tossed my head and tapped my feet habitually. Zaheer’s narration distressed me. The way it was unfolding, I feared the exposure of dark secrets of humankind, and maybe mine.
‘My Razia Chachi,’ he continued speaking, ‘waited with her six-year-old daughter. With teary eyes, she welcomed us. The hut had four partitions. A kitchen on the right side and living room on the left, followed by a small room on each side. A one-bedroom-hall-kitchen home. They accommodated us into Javed’s six by seven feet cubicle, the second room on the left. Javed shifted to the opposite room. I was born in Mumbai, and in four years, I travelled to another city. In search of peace, in my own country,’ he said and paused.
The vagabond glanced at me. I shivered, for his story edged on my past. He took a deep breath and gazed at the front line of rocks. He picked up one and flung across to the opposite side.
‘Have you been to Ahmedabad?’ he asked.
Chapter —3
Cut and Kill
My body stiffened. He had stepped on my soul. Why in the entire world did they choose Ahmedabad? And the irony was, they did it in search of peace. I squeezed my eyes shut.
‘Hey, sir. Ever been to Ahmedabad?’ he repeated.
‘Um, yes. Yes.’
‘Hmm. We reached Ahmedabad on 31st December 1992. My parents wept relentlessly, and Chacha and Chachi consoled them to forget the past.’
“Things will improve. Have faith and be strong. Tomorrow’s new year will bring a new life,” said my Chacha patting my Abbu’s back.
“You have recovered from Typhoid and suffered severe hardship. Stop crying; it will affect your health.” My Chachi counselled my Ammi.
‘In another few days, Salman Chacha helped Abbu find labour work with a Civil Contractor. A month later, Ammi secured a maid’s job. A year after, upon my Chacha and Abbu’s plea, the employer requested our constituency MLA for our shelter and fortunately we received one next to my Chacha’s house.
‘Our locality had the least civic facilities, yet, we lived contentedly. Absence of riots gave us happiness. Though the residents worked hard for a livelihood, they struggled to balance the income and expenditure scale.
‘I grew up at Naroda Patia. While the elders strived, we children enjoyed life. We played cricket, satoliyu—a game of seven stones, mar dari in which we had to hit each other with a ball, marbles, and hide and seek. We celebrated every festival and made every day of our lives a festival.
‘The seasonal kite-flying adventure thrilled us. On Dussehra and Uttarayan, we wandered around to collect the severed kites. For plucking, we stole sticks and brooms from homes which created havoc when they were discovered. But we always escaped. We tied the broom to the stick and roamed far and wide to remove the kites from trees, poles, or any other tall structure. Catching a severed kite earned us a reputation, and we drifted along to grab it. We jumped into any premise to snatch it before our competitors did. The residents chased us with sticks and beat us often, yet failed to kill our spirit. But the warning from the old women perched on the charpoys terrorised us. Gazing through thick, round plastic-framed glasses and chewing paan, they would snarl, “Don’t roam under the sun. You’ll turn black and get a dark bride.”
‘Every time while bathing, I scrubbed hard and examined my body. My shorts preserved fair skin around my thighs, but the rest of me deserved a dark bride.
‘For garba, we clipped sticks from trees and gathered at a designated spot. In the centre we kept a transistor that played songs loudly. On that rhythmic music, we danced around the radio in a big circle, all the while striking the sticks according to the beat. The residents often joined in or then assembled around to witness our dance.
‘The colourful Holi festival electrified us. We bought cheap colours and balloons and filled them with water and mud. Shouting “Bura na maano Holi hai”—Do not mind, because it’s Holi—we flung them on people and ran off. At the main road, we stopped the passing vehicles and sought their contributions. “He Kaka, Holi no paiso aapo re”—O Uncle, give us money for Holi. Many gave us 25 paise to 50 paise. And those who didn’t, received a shower. By the day’s end, I would be unrecognisable. Mom would scrub me with coconut peel and mud, and the shades would take days to disappear.
‘During Diwali, the festival of light, we wandered about in search of crackers which didn’t explode and burst them in our locality. The snake bomb fascinated us, and we made efforts to buy it. Snake bomb, when kindled, would zoom in a serpentine manner. We targeted the unaware dhoti-clad passers-by on the main road. They ran helter-skelter, and we jumped up in joy and roared with laughter from a distance. Have you heard of “wall-bomb”?’
‘Yes. The one that blasts when smashed on a hard surface.’
‘Yeah. We banged it on the walls to frighten the lolling people. And on the people urinating... They fled, covering their trousers. Hahaha. The dogs too feared us.
‘The Ramadan month followed by Eid-ul-Fitr was a fabulous occasion. Muslims fasted during the day, and in the evenings, amidst the glaring halogen lights, fruit and delicacy vendors lined up. Swarms of people thronged and transformed the locality into a food-fair. At the end of the month, when the moon was sighted, the grand Eid-ul-Fitr festival was announced. We wore new clothes and savoured lovely dishes. On Eid, we visited relatives who gave gifts of cash and chocolates as customary Eidi. I received a primary education. My parents enrolled me into a Madrasa nearby, and I studied till 8th standard, till February 2002,’ he said and sighed.
My intestine cracked.
‘You remember, February 2002?’ he asked.
My body stiffened like the human ego. Would my apprehension be true? My face paled. With the back of my hand, I wiped my brows. My heart cried, and I chewed my knuckles, staring at the ground.
‘Hello, sir. You remember February 2002?’ Zaheer asked again.
‘Ffff... February 2002? Yeah... umm... What makes it memorable?’ I said in a cracked voice.
He grinned. ‘Memorable and exceptional for me...the incidents of that day devastated my life.’ His face paled. He dropped his head and closed his eyes. I trembled.
‘You must be aware, sir,’ he continued, ‘on 27th February 2002, an argument at Godhra Railway Station ignited the miscreants to burn a bogie of Sabarmati Express. The fire roasted the travellers, most of whom were Hindu pilgrims, to death. Hate spread its tentacles and revenge attacked the innocents. A communal riot broke out and engulfed the State. The mob murdered and ravaged thousands who had no connection to the coach burning. Ahmedabad burnt for days. What an irony? We came to Ahmedabad in search of peace, but the city destroyed our peace. It ruined my family and gifted me a life of turmoil, a life full of insecurities and fear,’ he said.
My leg muscles tightened, and my throat choked. I dart
ed glances at him, biting my nails.
‘Thursday, 28th February 2002,’ he said. ‘We heard a commotion outside while having breakfast. Abbu scurried out, followed by Ammi and me. Chacha also came out. A mob was chanting Hindu slogans and indulging in violence. Our neighbour said they had burnt the mosque on the main road. Thousands of them dashed in from both sides and attacked Muslims. “Kaato, cut those bastards”, “Maaro, kill them all!” resounded in Naroda Patia.
“Ya Khuda. What’s happening?” said Abbu.
“Run! Save yourselves,” screamed my Chacha.
‘We glanced around in fright. The mob carried swords, knives, iron rods and other weapons, enough to end a human life. They also carried fire, matchsticks, and cans filled with petrol and kerosene. Compared to my Abbu’s narration of the 1992 Mumbai violence, the 2002 carnage was horrific.’
Zaheer glanced at me and asked, ‘You might puke if I narrate the details. Do you have the guts to hear the complete story or just the bits?’
‘Uh. In brief, please.’
One side of his mouth curled up. Looking at the trees, he continued.
‘The screams of helpless people engulfed the neighbourhood. The hooligans enjoyed their liberty. They openly burnt the houses and raped, murdered, and tortured people in the daylight. A group of four men gang-raped an 11-year-old girl till she collapsed. Nine men pounced on a 21-year-old, violated her by turn, and inserted objects into her. She bled to death on the road...’
‘Describe in short, please,’ I said.
‘They dashed into the houses, hammered the residents, stripped and pulled out the women, gang-raped the young and the old, played with their bodies, ripped their private parts, grabbed the toddlers by their legs and banged them to walls and poles, cut the children and showed their pieces to their mothers, forced fed kerosene to kids and adults and burnt them, sliced the women’s breasts—the source of human nourishment—slit the stomachs of pregnant ladies and spun their blades to remove the foetus and raised it aloft, electrocuted the members, chopped the men and children, gouged their eyes, torched the people alive and dead...’
‘Stop it! Please stop it...’ I said with eyes squeezed and ears covered. I massaged my eyes with my palms and rubbed my face. ‘Tell me about your family, please.’
Zaheer let out a big sigh. ‘Okay,’ he said and continued speaking. ‘We panicked for safety. The mob reached our hut and we were trapped inside. Two guys with shining swords climbed onto the platform and charged at us. One raised his sword and attacked Abbu. In the nick of time, Salman Chacha pushed him. The second fellow battered my Chacha’s left hand. He screeched in pain. Abbu shoved the attacker; but how could an unprepared man stop a furious mob armed with dangerous weapons?
‘Abbu wrapped his arms around my Chacha’s belly and pulled him towards our hut. A dozen guys arrived. Leading them was a wild man.’
Zaheer paused and dropped his head. My heart experienced his pain and trembled.
‘The wild guy was dressed in light blue denim and a maroon shirt, with the top three buttons open. He instructed his companions to commit heinous crimes on poor Muslims.’
Zaheer mentioned the minute details. The unfortunate event had been etched in his mind and heart.
‘Three of them dashed inside my Chacha’s house,’ he said, ‘and attacked my Chachi, her daughter, and her son Javed. The screeches echoed. Ammi rushed in to help them. One guy kicked Javed out, and the mob outside bashed him. Four guys pounced on my Salman Chacha, my Abbu and me. The wild dog barked, “Rape these bitches.”
‘Three more men dashed in. Our women tried to defend themselves. Sounds of their screams and thrashing filled the air. The buggers overpowered and gang-raped them. The wild pig stepped out. With a sword in one hand, he pulled my Ammi by her hair. She flailed her arms and legs in a futile attempt to escape.
“Kill them after enjoying yourselves,” he said, and dragged Ammi to the charpoy where my Chachi used to rest. The beast pushed her on to that charpoy and raped her. On one side, they thrashed us with rods. Abbu wrapped my upper half, and Chacha my lower to protect me. They received all the blows, but I sensed their sufferings.
‘One guy punched an iron rod into my Chacha’s back. He shrieked in pain and let go of me. The man pulled him by his hair. An amateur fellow struck his sword on his neck and made a grievous cut on the left side. Growling abusive words, he pierced his blade four times in and around his tummy. Blood sprouted from his organs. He sliced and split open his stomach. Salman Chacha held and probed his organs. Trembling, he gave me a last glance and fell into the red pool.
‘Javed screamed and limped towards his father. A man shoved his sword into his belly. Javed glanced at his wound and quivered. The guy pulled it out and blood spurted out. He thrust his blade again and again, four times, as if Javed was a toy. And then slashed his throat. Another fellow stabbed him in the stomach with a trishul and lifted him with it. He chanted his religious slogan and struggled to balance his trishul even as Javed’s blood rained on him. Abbu shrieked and pushed the guy, and Javed fell on the floor screeching. He quivered for a few seconds before he closed his eyes forever.
‘Abbu pulled me and scurried a few feet backwards. A few neighbours joined in for defence, bringing a temporary relief.
‘Soon, another mob approached, burning the huts on both sides of the road. They stormed on, chanting religious slogans, and we scuttled towards my Chacha’s house. The wild pig stood fastening his jeans. We, as humans, faced inhumanity. As the gangs neared, a guy poured fuel on our hut and lit the fire. “Naseemaaaa,” I squealed. My younger sister was inside. My Abbu sobbed, “Please save my daughter,” but in vain.
‘My Ammi, Abbu, and I sprinted to save my sister. That bastard wild pig caught Ammi by her hair and kicked her in abdomen. He banged her head on the wall of our burning house. Ammi wailed and pleaded, but he dragged and threw her back on the same charpoy. With an iron rod, he battered her head, stomach, thighs and legs. She writhed in pain.’ Zaheer paused. His body slumped and let out a long sigh. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
I sobbed and shivered and clutched my chest. I had no courage to console him. He dropped his head on his knees and wrapped his arms around them. I remained frozen. He swaggered and towered over me. He bent down, lifted my head, and glared into my eyes. His eyes burnt in pain. Tears trailed on his cheeks.
‘Vikrambhai,’ he growled. ‘Time to kill my Ammi.’
My stomach sank. My arms and neck stiffened. The wild beast of my haunting past roared and spread tremors across my body. Sweat poured out on my face.
‘Come on, you monster. Slaughter my Ammi,’ he said. ‘You had instructed them to rape and murder; you have raped her, now kill my Ammi,’ he said. I shivered and gasped for breath. The lump in my throat choked me. ‘Come on, accept and describe how you murdered her.’
I burst out crying. I covered my face and moaned. I leapt and grabbed his legs and rested my head on his thighs.
‘Forgive me please, Zaheer,’ I said, sobbing silently. ‘Yes, I was the wild guy. I led the mob to torture the innocents. Yes, it is my dark past. It has stolen away my peace and crushed me. Please forgive me, Zaheer. Forgive me, for God’s sake. In the name of your God, forgive me. I surrender to you, kill me right now. Chop me into pieces and liberate me from this guilt and shame. Take your revenge, Zaheer, slaughter me.’ While I wailed and shivered, my head slipped from his thighs to his feet.
‘Yes, it was you, Vikrambhai. How can I forget you? You picked up your sword and stabbed my Ammi in her chest and stomach. She died a painful death.’ Zaheer whimpered, tears flowing down his cheeks.
We both wept for long. When we had exhausted ourselves and our moans subsided, we wiped our eyes, noses, and faces.
The questions remained. How did Zaheer recognise me, and how did he survive? How and why did he come to Bangalore and whether his father survived? And despite confronting a dreadful life, what makes Zaheer happy? Zaheer too would be eager to discover my reality. Why
I did what I did, and why I was in Bangalore? But these questions had to rest. Zaheer missed his family, and the pain tore him apart. My worst deeds shredded my heart, and there was no respite. I sobbed, resting on the rock beside me, and fell asleep.
An ant bite woke me up. I rubbed my right arm and mashed the ant. The part swelled up and burnt. Zaheer was gazing at me, his face not reflecting even a sliver of pain or even anger. His cheerful countenance embarrassed me again. I checked my watch. What made Zaheer joyful in five minutes? What made him calm and composed, despite encountering his family’s murderer?
I mustered courage and went near him.
‘Zaheer,’ I said with a dimmed voice. ‘I am a sinner. I apologise for my crimes and give you a free hand. Kill me. Butcher me in any way you want. Liberate me from the karma of my evil deeds and from the clutches of this stifling guilt.’
Tears rolled down my cheeks, but he remained unmoved. What do you expect a twenty-odd year man to do with his family’s murderer? Chop him the cruellest way, isn’t it? But Zaheer was different. My words didn’t affect him. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, opened them again and said. ‘What will I gain if I kill you, Vikrambhai?’
‘Happiness... you’ll experience peace to have avenged your family’s slaughter.’
‘Aha. What makes you think I am unhappy now?’
His question shook me to my roots. My approach to him had softened. Yes, I had immediately developed a soft corner for him, for I was the one who had ruined him. I sighed and said, ‘No. I mean... it’s human behaviour to take revenge. It gives you satisfaction.’
‘Oh, really? Revenge gives satisfaction? I have not been taught this,’ he said.
His words “not been taught this” struck me. What learning has he received to say this and mean it? Has he studied at a renowned University which trained him in morals and values to lead a peaceful life?
The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation Page 3
