Prayers finished, I occupied my chair and called Zaheer in. ‘Come in, dear. What do you want?’
Zaheer bounced in, flashing his teeth. ‘Vikram sir, ever since I shifted, my crippled Abbu hadn’t toured Bangalore. But, after the treatment, he delights in moving around.’
‘I understand, Zaheer. I saw the gleam on his face yesterday. He wants to go out today also?’
‘No. No. I mean... Yes, but not the city.’ He paused. My brows narrowed. ‘Actually... last night... Abbu requested for a visit to Ahmedabad, to Naroda Patia. Umm...to pay homage... We never visited Ahmedabad after we left.’
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Though less horrifying, the carnage ghost still haunted me.
‘If you permit, we’ll travel to Ahmedabad and stay for a day. The one-way train journey is one and a half day. You inform me about the convenient dates. No hurries,’ he said.
My heart jumped up in amazement. Only last evening, I earned a pardon from a family. At night, the nightmare turned soft. And the following morning, the young man who brought me respite, proposes a homage trip to the site. Life was opening doors for me. Despite being a lowly Chhara, I was being blessed with an opportunity, and I must grab it.
‘Fantastic. I’ll seek forgiveness from the innocent souls I butchered.’ I gazed into Zaheer’s twinkling eyes.
‘Done, sir. You work out the travel,’ he said and exited.
I called Shankar. ‘Plan my Ahmedabad trip with Zaheer and his father.’
After a few inquiries, Shankar checked the calendar and confirmed. ‘Here; check the dates marked in red. Diwali holidays from 19th to 22nd October,’ he said.
‘Book three tickets for a morning flight to Ahmedabad and also a hotel. Note down the names.
Vikram T.
Saleem.
Zaheer.
‘And return?’ he asked.
‘Schedule it for Sunday, 22nd October, for two people. I’ll come back later. You bring them home,’ I instructed. Shankar scratched his head, but as usual, obeyed my orders. The train journey would consume 32 hours one way, and I can’t afford such long distances in trains. Being a Chhara, I fear I might not be able to control myself for one and a half days and could end up committing a crime or two on board. Besides, journeys on Indian trains are cumbersome. I am not complaining but the passengers need to carry their washroom mugs. The railways provide steel cups tied with a chain in toilets, but there are two problems: either the chain is too short to reach the object, or the mug is stolen. And please, do not blame Chharas for stealing it.
Shankar entered with his chin lifted. ‘Anna, 19th morning fare was Rs. 4025 and the previous evening price for 9:30 pm flight was Rs 3925. I saved a hundred rupee per ticket for you,’ he boasted.
Idiot. For his senseless savings of Rs 300, he had screwed me up. Now, I must battle the peak-hour clogged traffic to reach the airport. And reach Ahmedabad at midnight and pay the auto drivers more than double to transport us to the hotel. The forgiveness trip was turning out to be costly and cumbersome.
I informed the flight bookings to Zaheer. He kissed my hand.
On 18th October, Wednesday evening, Shankar dropped us at the airport. Shankar and Zaheer carried the luggage, and I ambled behind them with Saleem Saheb. Both Zaheer and Saleem Saheb gazed at the glittering terminal, and I guided them with the formalities. We showed our identity cards and tickets to the security man. He checked the names, cleared his throat, and rolled his eyeballs. Men of different religions flying together seemed to confuse him. He scrutinised us from head to toe scratching the back of his head, before allowing us inside. We collected our boarding passes and proceeded for the security check. The metal detector beeped on Zaheer. Frightened, he gazed at me, and the personnel pulled him aside.
‘Don’t worry. Let them verify,’ I said.
I informed the men to inspect his Ta’weez—the locket, Muslims wear for protection, which is inscribed with spiritual text in Arabic. They confirmed and let him go. Zaheer gaped at the arriving and departing planes from the glass windows. A decent young man, for he preferred aircraft to the lovely air hostesses and female passengers.
We boarded the flight and reached Ahmedabad in two hours.
Chapter—29
Return of the Destroyer
Once we exited the airport, auto drivers pounced upon us. We hired one. En route, we passed by Hotel Taj, the place where I screwed that villain Sunil. May his soul rest in pieces. I inhaled my birthplace; I smelled Gujarat; I craved a whiff of Chharanagar. We reached our hotel and checked into an air-conditioned suite. We were going to Naroda Patia in the morning.
I woke up early and found Zaheer and his father praying. After breakfast, we hired an auto for Naroda Patia. The auto-driver remained mum throughout the journey, and so did I. We reached near the police station, where we had assembled for the mayhem that day. We stepped out of the auto.
Naroda Patia had seen development—concrete structures had replaced sheds, but the pain of February 2002, lingered. We turned left at the adjoining road, and my heart walloped. Saleem Saheb stopped. He closed his eyes and recited Arabic verses with shaking lips. All three of us were weeping. After we’d spent all our tears, we wiped our faces. I glanced around timidly, fearing identification. Not humans, but the animals glared at me. Amidst the silence, the birds squawked from the trees, and the dogs growled and barked at me. Memories of the dance of death still lingered upon the locality.
Zaheer stopped in front of a house and knocked. A man came out in a holed vest and lungi and Zaheer inquired with him. The man slid his feet into chappals and briskly strode down the road, buttoning his pale white shirt. The man stopped some distance away from a well and pointed towards it. We too stopped a few metres away.
‘This is the well of death,’ he said. ‘During the riots, many jumped into it for safety. The goons poured fuel and threw burning rubber tyres into it. The well burnt and charred the people. They also flung dead bodies into it. As an homage to the victims, this well is marked as a carnage memoir,’ he said.
Zaheer, with teary eyes, glanced at me and his sobbing father. My heart burnt in regret; my blood boiled in guilt; I choked and shivered. We neared the well and peeked inside. Abundant flowers, rotten and fresh, piled up inside. Saleem Saheb and Zaheer put their right hand on the edge of the well and rested their foreheads on it. I stood motionless. The well of death was the proof of my cannibalism, and the corrupt.
I peeked inside again. A hot gush of air from the well hit my face and circled me. The pungent smell of rotten blood and burnt corpses choked my lungs. A hundred screams pierced through my ears and deafened me. A thousand curses shrieked through my eardrums. The intense negative vibrations drenched me in fear. I quivered. My sins surfaced, and I drowned in shame. The flowers rested in the well, and the thorns within me. The dead were healed, and I remained in ruins. I knelt on the floor and covered my face. My fists clenched, face trembled, and tears flowed. Repenting and begging for pardon with my folded hands, I wailed. The massacre played in my mind over and over again: how I tortured the innocents, raped and killed Zaheer’s mother, dashed inside the baby’s house, she force-feeding me her chocolate, and I watching her burn. Screams echoed from all around, and fire and smoke engulfing the locality. A flame burnt within me. I released a moan and collapsed near the well.
A splash of water awakened me. Saleem Saheb and Zaheer held me up. The man who brought us stood with a plastic mug half-filled with water. The other half had been splashed on me. They helped me to sit. I rested against the wall of the well, my eyes closed, sunk deep into thoughts of repentance and forgiveness. My soul cried out to the universal God. ‘I am a sinner, Lord, for I devastated your innocent creation. But your mercy is beyond the human imagination. Forgive me for I beg your pardon and swear to you I have murdered the devil within me. I respect life and pledge myself to you against committing inhuman crimes. I am honest to you, God, I am a criminal and will remain one because your people force me to. But I
promise to never hurt an innocent soul, in the name of any God, religion, faith or for any gain. I have committed destruction. Have pity on me for I cannot re-create it. But alas, if you will not forgive, who will? All your creation is equal for you. Like the brutal society, please don’t discriminate with me. Forgive my sins. Bless all the souls and me with peace.’ I murmured. I fell unconscious again.
I opened my eyes. The man held an empty mug. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
Zaheer helped me rise. They served me glucose biscuits and lime juice, and I regained stability. We returned to the hotel.
Once I had regained my composure, I remembered the living condition of the residents. It agonised me. I requested Zaheer to help me in providing them with comfort. We bought refrigerators, washing machines, LPG connections, carpets, beds, sewing machines, water barrels, water pumps, and a set of kitchen utensils. On every product, I engraved or stuck the words “Forgive me, please.” We gifted the products to the needy on Sunday morning, and they blessed me. Zaheer shared my reality and transformation story with the residents.
In the evening, I dropped Zaheer and his father at the airport. Zaheer pulled me aside and said, ‘Your act of helping the poor delights me, and so, I inform you what my Abbu said.’
‘What did he say?’
‘All human beings are equal. He suggested you check out the families of the Godhra train victims and help them too.’
I frowned.
They waved me goodbye and disappeared, and I stood frozen, gaping after them.
At the hotel, I craved a visit to my home. Chharanagar was pulling me.
Chapter—30
Return to the Roots
I finished my breakfast early, visited Naroda Patia well again, and proceeded to Chharanagar.
At the entrance of the locality, I stepped out of the auto. The foul stench, open gutter, overflowing sewage, and wandering animals welcomed me. In fact, energised me. The gatekeepers stopped and gazed at me for a moment and then continued roaming. The few developmental changes I could see pleased me. Petty shops had popped up. Concrete houses had replaced the huts. Staring at the ground, I scuttled towards my house and peeped through the half-broken door. Encroached by the insects, rodents, and birds, the house lay in ruins.
‘Vicky? Is that you?’ A woman stammered.
I turned to look at the speaker. She was my neighbour—or my ex-neighbour. I waved at her. She covered her mouth, paced forward and hugged me. Other neighbours popped out. They exclaimed waving and clapping: ‘Vicky is back, Vicky is back.’ Word spread of my arrival. Hundreds of Chharas gushed out and gathered around me. They gaped at my shining slim-fit formal shirt, trouser and accessories, and a few touched my leather jacket. I stared at them to identify them. One after the other, I pointed my finger at them and called their names. They came and hugged me tight in succession.
As people flocked around me, a man accompanied by a few subordinates ambled up. People made way for him, and he neared me. He was Guddu. I chuckled from inside, seeing his paunch and sagging muscles. His moustache edges curved downwards. ‘Our new leader,’ a man informed. Oh, that meant Vivek Uncle had expired. I closed my eyes and sank my head in his respect. Guddu’s enmity and my conspiracy to fix him in Sunil’s murder alerted me. He might take revenge for his ordeal. I glanced around, and the crowd cheered. Guddu stood with his lips and arms spread out for me. I squinted at him.
‘Vicky, my buddy,’ he said and hugged me. He squeezed me hard. His body throbbed and tears dropped on my neckline. I patted and rubbed his back. Was I getting my old friend back? After a few moments, he released me. He sniffed and wiped his face.
‘My dearest pal will stay at my house,’ he said and pulled me. I followed. Members rejoiced, seeing me and Guddu together.
Guddu roared at his family members. ‘Come quick. My best buddy has arrived.’ He introduced me to his children and wife who hailed from Bombay. Guddu’s throaty laughter echoed in his house. He took me inside his room and interrogated me. Where I settled and what I did? How I murdered Sunil Thakur? And how did I escape from Ahmedabad? And more. We chatted for more than an hour. To avoid risk, I shared safe information and denied my involvement in Sunil’s murder.
I too asked him about his life post-2002. He sat composed yet excited and expressive during the conversation. He talked non-stop, sharing details upon details. Guddu as a community leader had no one with which to share his feelings. I understood his loneliness. I relaxed and listened with attention, injecting laughter at the appropriate places.
‘What happened to your father?’ I asked.
‘He died of liver cancer six years ago,’ he answered. ‘Your absence left him desolate. He worked hard for Chharanagar’s betterment, and his efforts paid off. Chharanagar today treasures a library and a computer lab for our children to access the world’s knowledge. There are successful lawyers, engineers, musicians, journalists, and actors among Chharas. Yet, a massive uplift is required.’
I touched my heart. With eyes closed, I lifted my chin and breathed in and out, deep. ‘Delightful,’ I said.
‘Yeah. But I realised your worth after you left us,’ he said and nodded. ‘I went through hell managing our community affairs. And I had no friend to comfort me. No guy could match you or touch my heart. Neither could I call them to ogle a bathing girl or a mating couple, nor to the dark dens or brothels. Chharanagar has many success stories, but nothing to equal yours,’ he said.
‘How is the Veer Dal?’ I asked, waiting to hear about the effects of Sunil’s murder.
Guddu took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘After Sunil’s cremation, VD summoned me to their office and grilled me over his murder. I denied my involvement. They traced the call-girl, and that bitch named me the booker,’ he said and sighed. ‘My God. I received royal torture, and the ordeal lasted for months. But, we approved the mastermind behind the killing.’ He paused, stared into my eyes, smiled, and said, ‘You, Vicky, the great. But since you escaped, they screwed me. You are an asshole, and I salute you for that exceptional assassination plan. When you flashed your middle finger at me, I suspected something was going to happen.’
I laughed inside but remained calm. ‘What happened then?’
‘The Chhara instinct took over,’ he said. ‘I felt proud it was a Chhara who had made such a brilliant plan. That crook deserved such a death. I had enough of their torture. I revolted. I threatened to reveal the details of the call-girl and Sunil Thakur’s murder. Let it cost me my life. I enacted a suicide attempt with a confession letter, which my father sent them. They compromised.’
He now knelt on the floor, hands joined and tears in his eyes, an apology on his lips for his betrayal of me. I held and squeezed his hands, hugged him and settled him on the sofa. Perhaps Guddu had changed and matured into a responsible leader. I sprawled on the chair.
‘Are our properties registered in our names?’ I asked.
‘Naah. They made a fool of us and are continuing to do it. Every time I appeal, they give false promises. The Gujarat elections are due in February next year, and I’ll again request them. Let us hope they oblige this time.’
I straightened. The word election sent electrical waves into my body. I had handled a few during my time. Polling is a political game to win by hook or crook. The voters had no importance except for voting. They believed the elected member and party would work for their prosperity. Hah. What a joke. The politicians dump them into a well of religion and spin them on emotions. Let me design a symbol for political parties and I would make one for all: a hand showing the middle finger.
My chest tightened. I opened my sweaty palms and rubbed my arms. The lessons of election strategy popped up in my mind. India’s best polling bet is religion. Indians are fearful and surrender to religious beliefs. A candidate who provokes people’s sacred sentiments will earn their vote. Segregate people based on religion, and caste, and dump the development in the dustbin. “Divide and Rule” is the British legacy, and Indians religiously fol
low it.
My inner voice whispered. “My community must be liberated.” I rubbed my face and held my hands tight. How and who would do it?
‘What are you thinking, Vicky?’ asked Guddu.
‘Huh? Nothing. Just... recollecting experiences.’
‘How long are you here?’
‘I’ll leave soon, today or tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’ He paused for a while. ‘Vicky, can you help us?’
‘Help?’ I leaned forward. Guddu dropped his head. I held his hand. ‘What is the matter, Guddu?’
He gave an elongated exhale and said, ‘Election times are critical for us, Vicky, you know. I failed to extract community benefit. You worked with VD, which manages MPP elections. You have more experience in negotiations. If you accept, I’ll present you with the leadership. Please help to uplift our tribe,’ he pleaded with joined hands.
My heart pounded, and skin tingled. I grabbed the armrest and gaped at him. Leadership? A thousand thoughts bombarded my mind. My spirit rose. With chin up and chest out, a hero in me towered high, born to liberate the oppressed. Guddu had opposed and crushed our friendship for Chharanagar’s captaincy. And he was now offering it to me for the sake of our community’.
‘I am a visiting member and have no influence over Chharanagar or State politics. Let me think it over,’ I said.
After lunch, I visited the Railway office but failed to gather any information about Godhra train victims. I returned to the hotel.
Early next morning, Guddu called me. I first paid my respects at the Naroda Patia well and then rushed to his home. A few groaning tribesmen near his house lightened up and followed me in.
‘What’s the matter, Guddu?’ I asked and sat beside him.
The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation Page 21
