The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation

by Yakub Totanawala

  ‘I must leave, sir,’ he said. I clutched my collar. ‘Need to sell the bottles to earn today’s food,’ he said and picked up his bag.

  My stomach fluttered. ‘What time will you come in the evening?’

  ‘Around 6 pm.’

  I wished to lend him cash, but my inner voice stopped me. ‘Okay. I’ll wait here for you,’ I said. He nodded and left singing. I watched him till my eyes beheld him, and then proceeded to my office.

  Post lunch, I headed for Lalbagh and strolled there. More than Lalbagh, it was meeting Zaheer and unlocking the mysteries that thrilled me.

  Chapter —4

  The Escape

  By evening, people of all ages filled the park. A few jogged with their sweatshirts stuck on their perspiring bodies. Some of them stretched, exposing their sweat stains under their armpits. Some strolled, and a handful lay on the wet, grassy lawns. Many ladies exercised yoga and many their jaws and tongues. The trees swayed to inhale the intense carbon dioxide exhaled by the visitors. Children played cricket, football, and badminton, and their shrieks echoed through the garden. A Frisbee zipped by my ear, and I jerked. The flocks of birds winged over to return to their nests. Sparrows hip-hopped to peck the grains near the food stalls. A bunch of modern crows hung around to target the remains of banana chips, ice creams, and soft drinks. The wind spread the buttery smell of frying popcorn farther away. Dogs in plenty loitered around. The majority were oppressed street dogs, free to do what they liked. A few, high-caste dogs like the Labradors, Dobermanns, Bulldogs, Dalmatians, and so on, shackled like dreadful criminals, swaggered about with their owners. The stray canines with wagging tongues stared at their superiors, wondering why they were not chained and pampered by the pot-bellied gents and ladies. A few local dogs stretched out to imitate and compete with human beings and won the contest. Lalbagh was abuzz with activities.

  I proceeded to the hill. The cuddling pairs didn’t attract me and gazing at the enticing sunset view, I paced back and forth. A voice greeted me from behind.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  Zaheer’s radiant face spread a glow across my body.

  ‘Hello, Zaheer. Sold your bottles?’

  ‘Yes. Done with morning duty. I have come for the evening lot.’

  ‘Alright. Let us sit and chat,’ I said and pointed to the edge. We settled there.

  ‘Zaheer, please tell me how you survived? And your father?’

  He leaned back and put his arms behind to support him. He turned to gaze at the trees and said, ‘Abbu and I survived.’

  My body relaxed a bit. He continued speaking. ‘You stabbed my Ammi and marched to the next hut with your colleagues. I sneaked towards my Ammi but she died. Terrified, I hunted for an escape. There was no way out from the sides or across the road. I remembered our backyard. Yes, we could sneak out through the bathroom window. Whatever lay beyond it, we did not know but this was our only hope. I bolted towards my Abbu and whispered to him my plan.

  ‘But before he could move, a man attacked him with a sword. He hacked at this right hand, again and again, till it was severed from his elbow. The guy then targeted and hacked his left leg from below the knees. Blood streamed out from his chopped limbs, and I stared in horror. Even now I can hear Abbu’s screams as he lay on the road, writhing in pain. Witnessing my Abbu’s assault terrorised me. And, I felt a jolt in my back. Someone had punched a pointed iron rod into my back. Pain flooded me, and I shrieked. And collapsed. Blows rained on my body. Death mocked me.

  ‘I saw a man charge at my attacker to defend me. This saved me from further thrashing. I glanced at our burning hut and shivered at my sister’s fate. I crawled slowly towards my bleeding Abbu. Through the corner of my eye, I sighted a swaying fire. I covered my head and through my arms peeked at the road. The horrific scene made me tremble. There seemed to be no end to the gruesome torture of the community members. The mob was pouring fuel on people and burning them. They would arrive in a few minutes and burn us too. I clenched my Abbu and gasped. Your companions charged at others, assuming us to be dead. I patted my Abbu’s cheek, who was now almost senseless with pain. He opened his eyes with difficulty.

  ‘To escape, we had to cross the burning hut to reach the bathroom and stay amidst the fiery flames and thick smoke till we broke open a window and jumped out. With my back injured and my Abbu without a hand and a leg, the task needed superhuman efforts. And the backyard situation remained apprehensive.

  ‘The guys had piled fuel cans about five feet away from our hut, to pass them further. We lay on the road, ten feet away. The wooden planks above my house, supporting the tarpaulin blazed in the fire. The lowest one at seven feet in height was reachable. My Abbu turned into a breathing dead body, and I had to act fast. I lifted my head, and one guy yelled.

  “This bastard is alive.” A few men charged at me.

  ‘Death stared into my eyes, but the survival instinct reigned over me. I rose and sprinted towards my hut, jumped, and pulled out a plank. I kicked a fuel can and lit the fire. The predators stopped and pushed back. I bolted and dragged my Abbu. I thrashed the other cans and splashed the petrol. The blaze spread out in a wide, flaming arc.

  “Chalo, Abbu,” I said. ‘He opened his eyes. Crippled, yet he stood up with my help. We were amidst the burning hut and the semi-circle. The flames raged high and restricted the mob. They assumed we would burn and ignored us. Heat gobbled our strength, but at stake was our survival. We had to jump out at the earliest.

  ‘The smoke suffocated us, and we coughed. Abbu held my shoulder with his only hand and balanced on his only leg. Barefoot crossing seemed impossible, so I planned a way out. I thrashed the planks above the entrance. Whoosh... four pieces fell off; each was around six feet in length and half-burnt. I smashed them on the floor to break off the burning part. These would offer a brief respite to our feet from the heat below and help focus on the escape.

  ‘Our bathroom in the corner was 12 feet away. Five planks of three feet each would suffice to reach there. And if required, I could pick up the last one.

  “Let’s move,” I said.

  ‘Abbu held my shoulder and hopped behind me, taking a small jump with every step I took. The heat intensified and drenched us in sweat.

  ‘I laid the first plank and helped Abbu balance over it. We trailed on the four inches thick timber and moved inside the house. The wood and brick-walls were still burning, rest everything lay incinerated. Our house blazed like a furnace, and the wind spread the flames in all directions.

  ‘At every plank end, I laid another one ahead. We entered our living area, and the smoke choked us further. Abbu closed his eyes, rested his head on my back and limped on my support. The blood dripped from his wounds. My eyes burnt and gushed out mixed tears resulting from torture and fumes. On my left side, I sighted my younger sister’s smouldered body. The horrendous view invoked a scream, but I thumped my hand on my mouth and suppressed it. I didn’t want Abbu to witness her body. The screech died down, but my heart wailed. I’ll never forget the sight of her roasted body.

  ‘We moved, and I still wonder how my handicapped and injured Abbu managed it. Praises for the Creator for gifting us the survival instincts. We trod the third and the fourth bar, retching, and reached the bathroom. I held the fifth and last piece.

  ‘I focussed on the restroom door, which was scorched in the fire. With the beam, I slid open its metal latch and with a groove on the plank, pulled the door outside. The loosened hinges of the burning door frame released the door, and it fell on me. Instinctively, I pushed the door to my left and it burnt my palms. The plank slipped out of my grasp. Abbu clutched my shoulder and with my body shivering, I focussed on the escape again.

  ‘I placed one plank in the bathroom and stepped ahead, holding another in my hand. The walls and the wooden window fixed at five feet height from the floor on the opposite wall were aflame. The wind through the ventilation wafted our way, and smoke blocked my vision. Judging with my familiarity, I shoved the
frame. Though at the last stage, our escape even now remained a distant dream.

  ‘Abbu continued moaning, holding me. After a dozen thrashings, the frame weakened. I pulled back the plank at full length, targeted the loosened corner, and punched it hard. The window flew outside. This filled me with hope. I brought Abbu forward to push him out first. He clenched his teeth and slid his arm out of the opening. The flaming hot frame burnt his limb and he screeched. I held him by his waist and lifted him.

  “Jump out,” I said.

  ‘The first attempt failed, and he slipped down. I lifted him for the second time, but our timings mismatched. He fell down and hurt himself more. We gasped for breath, and the next moment, galvanised iron sheets and the hot concrete blocks from the roof crashed on us. I yelled as I fell and pushed the sheet with all my might. My palms got burnt again. Abbu stood upright with his hand outside the cut-out. In the heat of the moment, I grabbed his thighs and lifted. He slid out till his stomach. I quickly moved my hand lower to grip his feet, and thrust him up. He slipped out and fell on the other side. I exhaled a huge breath.

  ‘I jumped and held the opening up till my chest. After a few attempts, I too glided out. Thump. I landed on my Abbu. He moaned. “Sorry,” I said and rolled over. We coughed and retched. I dragged him away from the burning hut. We had cleared our most fearful stage, yet the battle for survival was not over. Another mob lingered at the opposite end of the field. My insides clenched at the chants, screams, and chaos that came from our lane. A man caught my hand. My stomach sank, and I flinched. He was Nazeer Khan Saheb, my madrasa teacher. He pointed towards a two-storey building ten houses away. I wrapped my arms around my Abbu’s chest from behind and pulled him up. My master helped, and we moved forward. Abbu limped on with my support, blood dripping from his chopped limbs. Coughing with our mouths covered, we reached the terrace. Nazeer Saheb found a water tank that was least filled.

  “Jump in,” he said.

  ‘We lifted the lid and I slid my Abbu in, and plunged in after him and Nazeer Saheb after me. We remained inside it the entire day. A crack in the tank’s wall helped us to peek through. A few goons charged into the terrace hunting for Muslims but found no one.

  ‘The hate fire caused a thick dark cloud that loomed over Gujarat as a barrier between the earthlings and the heavenly bodies. The spirits of the train and carnage victims stared at humans from above that cloud.

  ‘By evening, non-living things were black or ash, and living beings, charred and chopped. The rioters left, leaving the flames to melt whatever was remaining.’

  ***

  ‘At 10 pm, Nazeer Saheb jumped out and surveyed the situation. He pulled us out and suggested that we hide inside a bungalow in the Gangotri Society which was diagonal to my house. The queued-up houses had a ten feet boundary wall as protection from slum people. I saw one house whose boundary wall was only four feet high. I pushed my Abbu over, and I too jumped in after him. We took a deep breath each as we rested against the fence. We had trespassed into a Hindu premise to safeguard ourselves.

  ‘Fear drenched me. The bungalow residents disliked me, for I had broken their window glasses often while playing cricket. Their repetitive complaints to the police had earned me many a scolding. But you can’t bind a child. I lay on their premises, at their mercy. Besides, we were Muslims, and they were Hindus amidst an outburst of severe hatred between the two, resulting in brutal killings.

  ‘A family of six people lived in the bungalow: Mr Raman, a retired civil servant in his sixties, and his wife. We called them Dadaji and Dadima, the Gujarati version of grandfather and grandmother. Santosh Uncle, their forty-year-old son who also worked in a government office, and his spouse Sonam Aunty. And their two children; a 20-year-old girl named Ankita and a 17-year-old boy named Amit. The siblings studied in a college.

  ‘The backyard light came on. My chest tightened as if it was death itself that shined bright. Two men dashed in with a torchlight. And found us.

  “My God. How did you come here?” asked the grandfather.

  ‘I pleaded, “Please help us, Dadaji. They murdered my family members.” Abbu joined his one and a half hands and begged for sympathy.

  “Call Amit, take them in, quick,” said Dadaji. Santosh Uncle scurried inside and returned with Amitbhai. I shivered in pain and trauma. Santosh uncle and Amitbhai lifted my Abbu and carried him. Dadaji helped me. “Be careful and gentle,” he said.

  ‘At the entrance door, Dadima, Sonam Aunty and Ankitaben were waiting. Santosh Uncle had called them for help. “Hey Ram, Hey Ram,” said the grandmother, tapping her cheeks with her hands. “Lay him in the foyer. I’ll fetch some medicine,” she said, and ran inside with Ankitaben.

  ‘We entered, and Dadaji closed the door. Sonam Aunty spread a cotton bed sheet, and Santosh Uncle and Amitbhai laid my Abbu on it. I slid beside him. Their foyer was as big as our house, leading to a sit-out area thrice the size.

  ‘Dadima and Ankitaben arrived with a first-aid box, an exclusive medicine case for the rich. Dadima, Santosh Uncle, Amitbhai and Ankitaben attended to my Abbu. Dadaji and Sonam Aunty handled me. As per their knowledge and resources, they provided us medical care. They applied lotions on his injuries and covered his chopped limbs. Sonam Aunty spread ointment on my wounds and burns, and bandaged them. My Abbu lay moaning.

  ‘Dadima sought icy water. Ankitaben fetched five bottles and filled some glasses. Santosh Uncle lifted my Abbu’s head and fed him. He guzzled and requested for more. Sonam Aunty served me. The chilled water energised me, and I asked for more. We drank three glasses with a sigh of relief. I crumpled on the floor next to Abbu, with eyes half-closed. Dadima sprayed some water on Abbu, and Sonam Aunty on me. I experienced a heavenly respite after the hellfire. We dozed off in a few seconds.

  ‘I woke up at 7 am. An icy breeze blew from the air-cooler placed for us. Dadaji reclined on the sofa near us. I raised my head. “Aah,” I said and squeezed my eyes and dumped my head on the pillow. Grandfather checked on me.

  “Are you okay? You want to get up?”

  “I can’t.”

  ‘He assisted, but I cried out. Dadaji called Dadima. She arrived with Sonam Aunty and Santosh Uncle, who was watching the news of the riot in their living room. Together they lifted me, but I howled.

  “Where does it hurt?” asked Dadima.

  ‘I rolled my right hand on my lower back. She whispered to Sonam Aunty, who fetched a rectangular box. Dadima removed and wrapped a belt around my waist and clipped it. Abbu woke up. They served us breakfast. We were so hungry we craved food, but our trauma had killed all desire to eat. We couldn’t eat. They administered us two painkillers and antibiotics. I held my Abbu’s hand, and we wept for a long time and dozed off again.

  ‘Our locality turned into a charnel house. The communal riots across the State lasted for months. Three days later, the Indian Army arrived and controlled the rioting and the mass murders. We stayed in our Hindu neighbour‘s bungalow for 15 days. Our protectors provided us with food, clothing, shelter, and treatment for our injuries. They consoled us on the tragic event. We survived,’ said Zaheer.

  He dropped his head and took a deep breath. He exhaled and gazed straight beyond the plantation. With fingers interlocked and sweating in shame, I darted glances at him. Silence lingered for a minute. I asked him another question in a soft voice.

  ‘How did you recognise me?’

  He glared at me and then lowered his gaze at my collarbone.

  ‘After killing my Ammi, you swaggered towards the next hut. Your shirt was torn and it bared a black oval patch on your right collarbone. As you swayed by, a tattoo etched on your wrist was exposed—a Cobra with three letters, Vi, Kra, and Ma, inscribed in Hindi. Vikram. Your image lies deep in my memory and flashes whenever I remember my Ammi. The birthmark and the tattoo with your name helped me identify you.’

  Zaheer checked my birthmark and the image. We worship and believe in snakes. During my childhood, my family had visited a mela, a congregat
ion, where they had the tattoo inscribed on me. Zaheer scanned my hand for a few seconds. ‘I recognised you,’ he said and left my hand. ‘Yet, I approached you for confirmation. Your unbuttoned shirt exposed your birthmark. I trembled, remembering the tragic episode. Your hands resting on your knees exhibited the tattoo with your name inscribed. I remembered you as my family’s killer and started a conversation.’

  Zaheer flipped his hair and ran his hands through them. ‘I must leave now,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you again to hear your story.’

  I nodded. He got up and disappeared from my view.

  One encounter with a rag picker changed my perception completely. I had targeted him to explain my difficulties, but he had experienced severe hardships. And shamefully, because of me. I returned home.

  My maid served me dinner and red wine. I sat hunched and with my head down. I nibbled the food, gulped the drink, and retired to bed. My body ached, and a mountain of weight crushed me. My wrongdoings bombarded me. I banged my head on my pillow.

  I inhale and exhale, but live as the dead. The incisors of justice have grabbed my neck for damaging the priceless creation. My hands and legs are chained by my harmful deeds. The spears of my devilish morals rupture my mind, and the whips of my inhuman behaviour lash at my heart. My karma restrains my spirit for suppressing innocent souls. I hunt for liberation, peace, and freedom, but it lies far, far away from me—beyond the horizons, on the plane of a different and meaningful world. A world, which rotates on the axis of equality, mercy, and compassion. I am trapped in the wicked beliefs gained through my circumstances. But I must sync with life’s purpose. I cannot let my heart pump the blood into my veins, uselessly. I squeezed my eyes to discard the tears and lay curled up on my bed.

  Morning, I dressed up and rushed to Lalbagh. My delicate secrets were hidden to my wife. Yet, I must share them with Zaheer.

  Chapter —5