The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation

by Yakub Totanawala

  ‘I also understand that my guilt and repentance connected us. Tell me, Zaheer, what brought you to Bangalore?’

  Chapter—25

  In Search of Peace, Again

  'Unlike yours, my story is unexciting, sir. We stayed in the backyard of our neighbour's bungalow for 15 days. They provided us with food and medical treatment.

  ‘On 3rd March, upon my insistence, they took us to our lane to witness the situation. The intolerable stench of human corpses permeated through the neighbourhood. The hatred volcano had erupted, and the lava of pain remained within us. Burnt houses, broken charpoys and charred bodies welcomed us. Words like “Bloody Muslims, learn arson from us,” adorned the walls. The demons of brutality and injustice rejoiced, and humanity lamented in a corner.

  ‘Dadaji, Dadima, Santosh Uncle, and Sonam Aunty couldn’t tolerate the misery. They stopped at the intersection. Dadima hit her cheeks with her palms, chanting “Ram, Ram.” Sonam Aunty clenched her dupatta between her teeth and covered her nose. Tears flooded their cheeks. Dadaji and Santosh Uncle turned their gaze away and wiped their sweat with the back of their hands.

  ‘The rioters had dumped the dead in a well near the fence. My relatives were also inside the well. The residents marked the well as a tribute place for the victims. We peeped in and found heaps of bodies, burnt and decomposed. Flocks of insects, worms and birds feasted on them. My throat felt choked, and I puked. We moved away and cried, and with folded hands prayed for peace for the deceased.

  “O Creator of heaven and universe, praise to you. You are supreme and all-knowing. I am a human being, your ordinary servant on earth. I stand before the Naroda Patia well, which overflows with inhumanity. Oh, the Lord of the worlds, bless all the victims with peace, for they were killed by the sword of injustice. Shower on them your endless mercy, for they were violated. Among them are my mother, sister, and relatives. Flood them with your love and affection, and rest the charred souls, in tranquillity. Also bless those who survived this blatant attack. And those who were burnt to death in a coach while returning from their pilgrimage. Grace them and their families. Guide all human beings to understand, believe and practice humanity.”

  ‘We returned and Dadaji’s family served us at their best. On 15th March 2002, we shifted to our house. Our protectors arranged for the cleaning as well as some food and clothing. Physical and emotional hurt ravaged us. Many residents planned to migrate. We too decided to move out of Ahmedabad or Gujarat. We were once again in search of peace in our own country.

  ‘My Abbu called his employer and sought his help in our relocation. The Civil Contractor expressed his grief and condolences. He contacted his friend in Bangalore and requested his support for us. If not my handicapped Abbu, at least I could be useful to him. His friend agreed.

  ‘The Contractor booked our tickets for Tuesday, 26th March 2002 and gave us Rs. 1000 in cash. I met Dadaji’s family for the last time and thanked them for all their help. They packed for us dinner and a few clothes, and also handed us Rs. 3000 cash. With elaborate blessings, they bid us a tearful farewell.

  ‘On 28th, we reached Bangalore. The Contractor’s representative received us at the railway station. He drove us to our accommodation and served us breakfast. I was 12 years old and therefore ineligible for employment. Restricting child labour is praiseworthy. But then, how would a boy with a handicapped father survive? The government does nothing for hungry people. Thanks to the rampant violations of the law, the Civil Contractor employed me at his construction project. A huge board at the entrance displayed his company details and the site rules, one being “Child labour Strictly Not Allowed.”

  ‘I started working, but my spine injury hindered my work. Within a month, my health deteriorated. Working hurt me. I struggled to carry a concrete pan load, but I continued. At night I couldn’t turn sides, and in the mornings I couldn’t get up from the bed. My condition worsened, and I failed to lift half a mortar pan load. The supervisor complained to the Contractor, and he dismissed me. We had to vacate his room so we slept on footpaths.

  ‘For ten years, I tried various jobs at hotels, restaurants, fast-food outlets, courier companies, grocery stores, hardware and electrical shops, but failed every time. My spine deterred effective performance. Wherever I worked, I unexpectedly had to rest due to pain. My employers liked me but they fired me. Begging remained the only option, but I chose rag picking instead. A filthy job, yet it provides us with bread and butter. Less load carrying and the option to work as per my convenience,’ said Zaheer.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks. I failed to conclude whether I had experienced a harsher life or did Zaheer.

  Chapter—26

  Khush Raho

  ‘I understand your situation and pain, Zaheer. But such a person would live a depressed life, yet you radiate liveliness. You also advised me to be happy in life. What’s the secret of your happiness? Please share it with me,’ I said.

  ‘Vikrambhai, my family’s destruction shattered me too and I lamented for years. Once, while relaxing on a footpath, I observed a vagabond lady feeding rotten bread to her child. I remembered my Ammi and cried. Abbu hugged me and wept along with me. As I wailed, my pain broke him. He said, “I am ashamed to burden my son to take care of me at such a tender age.”

  Dejection swallowed him. He recalled the slaughter every waking moment and grieved over it, his helplessness, and our present condition. I couldn’t pacify him and worried about him a lot. One fine day, while remembering my Ammi, her death scene replayed in my mind. After you left, I had managed to reach her.

  “Ammi, Ammi,” I cried. She glanced at me. She struggled, but put her right hand over my head and said two magical words. I remember those words even now, and that changed my life.’

  ‘What magical words?’ I interrupted and leaned towards him.

  ‘She said, “Khush raho.” Whenever the horrendous memories of that carnage engulfed me, I never failed to remember the lesson I had learnt. A wave of current runs through my body when I remember those magical words and awareness blossoms. What was a dying mother’s message to her child? What does a mother want for her kid? I discovered the answer—she wanted me to be happy.

  ‘Everyone faces difficulties, and I, too, face mine. But life is greater than everything. When everybody must die one day, why should one cry over his past and die every day? We cannot be alive after death; thus, we must be lively while we aren’t dead. The memories of the butchery float in my heart. Fine; but I am alive, and I must behave like it. My Ammi desired so. And if my Abbu suffered seeing me in pain, he would cherish my cheerfulness. I absorbed that understanding. And thereafter, to honour my Ammi’s last wish and her eternal desire to see me happy, I stay happy. Happiness is my right, my capacity, and my choice. No power can deny me happiness, except me.’

  I gaped at him with head tilted. ‘I love it. Keep going, Zaheer,’ I said.

  ‘Every human being deserves bliss which is internal and within an individual’s capacity. Reality is, I lost everything. Truth is, my Abbu is alive. Though his hand and leg are half-cut, he has the remaining half and another full. The other day, I spotted a blind man. Shouldn’t I be grateful that my Abbu has both eyes? He can see, hear and speak. I am also alive. Except for a broken spine, I can move, see, hear, talk, and do normal human activities. Shouldn’t I be thankful? If I survived a drastic attack, I shouldn’t waste my life weeping over it. And if I spend my life wailing over my loss, I would have better died.

  ‘Remembering my Ammi’s last words uplifts me. It gives me strength and optimism to stand up for the spirit of life.

  ‘I am uninterested in revenge for it won’t benefit me. Will it bring back my family and restore us into the time before the carnage? Then why to burn in the flames of hatred? Crying over destruction will cause me suffering. My heart will ravage, and my emotional hurt will roast me from within. It will produce harmful chemicals, which will develop into a deadly disease sooner or later.

  ‘Examine, and y
ou discover that the universe promotes peace and exists to support us. Why then humans do not value life and suppress their fellow beings? We are created such that happiness uplifts us and sadness degrades us. Life is so magnanimous that it deserves joy. Happiness, joy, peace, are a gift to humankind. It is our duty towards our Creator, to be happy, and grateful. And if we fail, we devalue our life and the Creator.

  ‘And so, for my mother and her last blessing, I chose happiness. These two words are common in our culture. Our parents and elderly people bless the young ones with these two words. Why can’t we accept that blessing and practice in our lives?’

  ‘Zaheer, you are a worthy soul to have realised this. What a paradox this is. The victim enjoys happiness and peace, and the perpetrator’s life is in ruins. My parents too blessed me with those magical words, yet I couldn’t understand them like you did. Guide me unto this right path.’

  ‘O Vikram sir, I am not a monk or a preacher to guide the world. But yes, we are interconnected. You cannot find happiness because the dark cloud of your sins hides it. But your guilt and repentance are pulling you towards the right track. Your belief of not to destroy what you cannot create syncs with creation. But you have already devastated what you cannot create, and so the pain tortures you. Guilt is not a solution. Repentance will give you ease, but it is forgiveness that will give you peace. But how will you achieve pardon from the dead? I’ll suggest you meet my Abbu and seek mercy for your deeds. His forgiveness could be the first step to your liberation. The Creator’s compassion will bless and guide you,’ said Zaheer.

  I was awestruck by his reply. I wished to hear him speak forever. My life’s answers rested with a ragpicker a decade younger than me.

  ‘Can you please take me to your father?’ I said. Zaheer shut his eyes for a moment and nodded in acceptance.

  ‘Where is your residence?’

  ‘Ha-ha... My home... On RV Road, near Lalbagh West Gate. On the footpath beside the boundary wall,’ he said and flashed his teeth.

  Chapter—27

  The Restoration

  I prepared to meet a man whose family I had destroyed in the name of God. We dusted our trousers. I had the courage to tear apart a dozen men with the sword, walk barefoot on fire, hang from the edge of a mountain, visit a jungle at midnight and face any wild creature, jump from a bridge into a river. In other words, do any superhuman task. But my intestines balled up with the thought of facing a handicapped man. My body quivered and sweat trickled down my brow. My heart thumped at every step and I felt feverish. I had never experienced such sentiments. It must be fear and it terrified me.

  I plodded a few steps and stopped. My inner voice was hesitating to meet Zaheer’s father at that stage.

  ‘Zaheer, how is your spine?’ I inquired. He knitted his brows together and gazed at me.

  ‘Spine? It’s damaged. Otherwise, I could’ve got a job. Why would I pick up rags? The Bangalore Contractor had arranged for my check-up at an orthopaedic centre. They suggested surgery.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I pointed at my car’s location and strode behind him down the hill. I opened the door, guided him to occupy the front passenger seat, and dumped his bag in the dickey. I was sweating, and a load as heavy as a mountain seemed to crush me. The idea of encountering his father terrified me. My inner voice suggested that if I wanted his pardon, I must prove my repentance by my actions. Though I cannot create what I had already destroyed, I must restore what I could. I fastened my seat belt, rubbed my thighs, and smiled at him. We started moving. I steered right from the roundabout.

  ‘We need to go left. I stay near the West Gate.’

  ‘I know. But I’ll take you to a better place,’ I said.

  I brought him to an orthopaedic centre.

  ‘Let’s have another check-up,’ I said.

  He followed me, staring at the ground, and sat in the lounge. When it was our turn, we went inside the doctor’s chamber.

  ‘Doctor, he has a 15-year-old spine injury. Kindly diagnose and suggest a remedy.’ I said.

  The surgeon carried out some tests and checked the X-rays, MRI and other reports.

  ‘Fifteen years is a long gap. The damage is severe, so I am surprised how he managed till date. Though complete cure is impossible, surgery will help him lead a better life. He is young and can recover,’ he said.

  A warm glow spread across my body. Yes, even though partially, the destruction could be restored.

  ‘Please go ahead, doctor,’ I said.

  ‘What about my Abbu?’ Zaheer asked. ‘And how long is the treatment?’

  ‘We’ll discharge you after a week. But post-surgery medication and therapy would last for a month or two,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I’ll attend to your father, don’t worry,’ I said. I confirmed his admission to the surgeon but requested some time to meet his father.

  We got into the car again, and drove off to Zaheer’s home near Lalbagh West Gate. I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and ordered a takeaway for six chicken shawarma rolls, three plates of biryani and a large soft drink bottle.

  ‘Hopefully, your father and neighbours will relish the meal,’ I said and drove further. When we reached the destination, I parked on the extreme left side before the metro station. ‘Come back soon. I’ll meet your father after your treatment,’ I said.

  Zaheer picked up the parcel and proceeded towards his open-to-sky abode. I viewed him through the rear-view mirror. The Lalbagh West Gate boundary wall curved out to intersect with a public toilet and ran straight along the footpath. A half-bald old man slouched against the toilet wall. His unkempt scraggly white beard ruffled with the breeze. His one hand and leg were chopped “in the name of God,” courtesy me. He wore a shabby white vest smeared with filth. Zaheer spoke with him and his neighbour lady and handed her the parcel. She kissed his forehead and blessed him. Zaheer turned to come back to the car as his father gazed at him. He gestured goodbye.

  We finished lunch at a hotel and drove back to the hospital. I admitted him.

  I called up and instructed Shankar. ‘Arrange a 1BHK furnished flat on rent near my house in Jaya Prakash Nagar.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Shankar.

  ‘Also arrange for a full-time maid and a few clothes for an elderly and a young man.’

  Shankar bombarded me with queries.

  ‘It’s for another family,’ I said.

  ‘What? Who? And why?’

  ‘Shankar, we must help needy people.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It will give us peace. More delight than wine and women can give you.’

  ‘Ah. Maybe more than wine, but not women,’ he said cunningly.

  The next day, Shankar confirmed the apartment had been cleaned and all arrangements made.

  ***

  Zaheer’s surgery was successful. Even though he was only partly cured, his spinal movements and comfort improved. He could work, but a deformity remained and restricted him to bend fully and lift heavy things. He was discharged after a week, and underwent a month’s therapy and medicine course. That was the first time in so many years that I experienced my first instalment of inner peace. It motivated me to do more. A secret was revealed to me: I had destroyed them and suffered devastation, and now I must bring relief to them to liberate myself.

  I drove Zaheer home to his pavement. En route, I asked him if he would work with me in the real estate industry post his treatment. Like Mr. Vishaal, I too needed a reliable assistant. Zaheer was a clean bet for me. He agreed. I sought time to seek pardon and requested him to postpone my introduction to his father as the murderer. Forgiveness has an infinite greatness and value, and it should never be devalued.

  We reached, and Zaheer jumped out. A metro train passed on the bridge above while he glided towards his father like a bird. Watching him run free gave me peace, and I savoured it. He hugged his father. I too went near, but waited in the corner. Vehicles zipped by, honking and spitting carbon dioxide on our faces. A few pedestrians scurried by,
hardly throwing a glance their way.

  ‘I recovered, Abbu. I can move like everybody now,’ he said, twisting his body like a gymnast.

  I covered my face. Saleem Saheb squeezed his cheeks and kissed his forehead. ‘Are you cured? You have no pain now?’ he asked in a broken voice. Tears flooded his cheeks.

  ‘Yes, Abbu, I am,’ he yelled.

  His father hugged him, kissed him on his face, and blessed him with the two magical words “Khush raho.”

  Zaheer glanced at me and wiped his face. He spread his lips, came to me and pulled me. ‘Abbu, he is Vikrambhai. He arranged for my surgery.’

  His father joined his one and half hands and extended towards me. Tears rolled down his cheeks. My heart sank. I couldn’t bear the sight and squeezed my eyes. Tears gushed out of my eyes too. I pleaded with Zaheer to stop him.

  Our eyes rained, but for different reasons. Zaheer shed water droplets in relief of his spinal injury, which had left him a cripple for most of his life. Flooded by optimism, he experienced liberation. Saleem Saheb wept over his only son’s recovery from the unbearable pain. What else does a father want for his son? He witnessed his “Khush Raho” blessing manifest. I had until then only caused destruction. And my first attempt to create or restore in my capacity flooded a few with happiness and hope. Two innocent souls rejoiced at the spirit of optimism, and I learnt a lesson. Though late, I realised the importance of life. I had no right to destroy them, but I did and caused them infinite pain. Yet, the man folded his one and a half hands to thank me. I couldn’t hold my tears.