Love Knows No LoC

by Arpit Vageria

  Kabeer fell silent.

  ‘What are you going to do next?’

  Kabeer extracted an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the low table in front of the couch. Arko wordlessly took out two printouts of Zoya Malik’s flight tickets. One, from Dubai to Mumbai, and another, from Mumbai to Bangalore. Both dated 17 April 2017, which was the day before.

  ‘Is she in India?’ Arko asked in amazement.

  ‘If these tickets are to be believed, yes.’

  Many had suggested that Kabeer should leave Zoya if he wanted to gain the confidence of his nation. It was true that he had been withdrawn and quiet in the last few months and had often wondered if he loved her any less. But, the answer to it was a clear and definite no.

  Arko looked at Kabeer, a worried frown on his face. He remembered the first time he had talked to him about her and cried for her.

  Arko always tried playing it cool, but he knew that Kabeer loved Zoya. And this time, no matter what the consequences might be, he would not be able to stop him. He mulled over it and as though reading Kabeer’s mind, asked, ‘You think you would be able to find her?’

  ‘I would like to believe that there’s hope.’

  ‘And what if she says there’s no way you’re getting back together?’

  ‘That would give me the much-needed closure,’ Kabeer stopped pacing and sat down on the bed. Arko watched him worriedly. Kabeer smiled at him and said, ‘Let’s leave some questions for the journalists, my friend.’

  ‘How will you find her?’

  ‘At the risk of sounding soppy, I suppose I will just follow my heart, my instincts.’ Kabeer grinned, ‘ . . . and considering she’s a celebrity in her own right, it should be easy to find events where she will be performing at in Bangalore,’ he added with a wink.

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Arko said sarcastically.

  ‘I wish I had other options.’

  ‘How about the option of proving that you’re serious about cricket?’

  ‘I don’t want to regret not having at least tried to get Zoya back. I need to give it one last shot.’

  ‘That’s what you said the last time.’

  Kabeer chuckled, ‘If there’s one thing cricket has taught me, it’s to never quit.’

  ‘There’s no point arguing with you.’

  As the conversation went on, Arko found himself surrendering to his usual frustration at Kabeer’s stubbornness. He was randomly packing his things into a duffel bag by now. Kabeer smiled at him in a way that bared all his intentions.

  ‘All right, I’ll talk to the coach; now get some sleep, okay? ’

  ‘Not until I find Zoya.’ Kabeer felt a tightness in his throat as he moved towards the door.

  He slipped out of the hotel, avoiding the lobby and boarded a cab. It was past midnight and raining heavily. There were not many cars on the road and it looked quite unlike Mumbai. Frightening thoughts kept racing through his mind, urging him to get out of Mumbai before anyone saw him.

  There was a loud thud and Kabeer felt the car judder with the impact. A mob materialized out of nowhere and surrounded the car, banging their fists on the windowpanes. Kabeer and the driver froze in terror as the angry crowd mercilessly battered the car on the windows and the windshield, shouting in anger. In a few minutes, the panes of glass would shatter and furious arms would reach inside the car. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and then . . . BOOM!

  CHAPTER 4

  May ’16

  It was the day before the net practices began for the one-day match, which was scheduled for two days later. Kabeer was up early and decided to spend the next few hours walking around Lahore. He roamed around and purchased shoes for himself and sandals for his mother from Anarkali Bazaar. The market was already bustling with activity as the hawkers with their little stalls had set up shop and got ready for the day’s business. He smiled to himself. These sights reminded him of the bazaars on Fashion Street or Colaba Causeway in Mumbai. Early-bird shoppers were already busy haggling. Shopkeepers sang out their offers of aromatic tea, coffee and juices, loudly grumbling when people walked past without tasting their wares.

  One hawker was setting up a makeshift stall, selling T-shirts of cricketing legends. Kabeer was surprised to see that Tendulkar T-shirts seemed to be just as popular as those of Shahid Afridi.

  ‘Don’t you have Tendulkar in Pakistani uniform?’ a little boy asked.

  ‘If that were possible, we would have had more world cups than India,’ the shopkeeper said gaily. Everyone around laughed.

  ‘Do you also want Tendulkar in Pakistani uniform?’ he asked Kabeer.

  ‘No, I want Tendulkar in Indian uniform only.’ Everybody turned to look at Kabeer.

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re from here.’

  Kabeer hesitated. ‘No, I am from India.’

  ‘What are you doing in Pakistan?’

  ‘I am a cricketer. I am here to play a friendly match with the Pakistani team,’ Kabeer replied.

  There was pin-drop silence for a few seconds, and then the shopkeeper said, ‘You are our brother, an honoured guest. Please come inside.’ He drew back a curtain at the rear of the stall to reveal a cavernous room.

  He clapped his hands imperiously at his young shop assistant, ‘Ghulam, get a special lassi, samosa and chole bhature for our Indian brother.’ His eyes glowed with joy and pride as he offered Kabeer the best seat in that room. Kabeer wondered for a moment if he was actually sitting in a country that was up in arms against his own. He felt a little uneasy and didn’t let his guard down. However, with time, he started feeling more comfortable.

  Kabeer had an animated conversation with the shopkeeper. And they bonded over stories, gaalis, girls, politics and, most importantly, cricket. He devoured the snacks as soon as they arrived and was pleased to see that they tasted as delicious as they did back in India. Other people from the crowd gradually joined in, noticeably intrigued by the presence of an Indian, a cricketer no less, and livened up the discussion by adding their own snippets, comparing Karachi to Mumbai and Lahore to Delhi.

  It soon turned into a light-hearted competition and mockery of all things Indian and Pakistani. Kabeer found himself acting as a one-man-army when those around him began mocking an Indian journalist and the comical way in which he delivered news. To counter this, Kabeer started poking fun at an ex-army chief of Pakistan. No one seemed to take any offence whatsoever, as both sides laughed off the jabs, all in good humour. This was the very first time that Kabeer had actually interacted with local Pakistanis, and he was pleasantly surprised at the ease with which he could join in the good-humoured banter.

  ‘How come you’re wandering around by yourself? Generally, the sports celebs never venture out without an armed escort.’

  ‘I didn’t inform anyone that I was going out.’

  ‘Don’t you feel scared?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘Not when you’re with your brothers here,’ the shopkeeper smiled. His words touched Kabeer’s heart deeply. With them, the few traces of fear that had remained also vanished, and in their place, a newfound sense of fraternity was established. Kabeer felt one with them and finally safe in his surroundings.

  ‘My grandfather was born in Delhi actually,’ Ghulam piped up. ‘He fought for Independence only to end up in another country. He died ten years later and not once did he call himself a Pakistani. Partition did strange things to people,’ he scoffed. Everybody fell silent as they pondered the point and Ghulam served refreshments.

  ‘What were they even fighting for? If not a piece of their own land?’ Ghulam exclaimed in distress. He seemed quite disturbed by the subject and smiled in pain, before settling himself down. ‘So, the match is tomorrow, right?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes.’ Kabeer replied.

  Ghulam picked up a couple of T-shirts, one of Tendulkar and another of Afridi. ‘Take these as a small gift from a Pakistani,’ he said. He wrapped them up and put them into a paper bag. ‘We’ll com
e to watch the match tomorrow and for the first time in my life, I’ll cheer for an Indian in Pakistan.’

  With a heavy heart, Kabeer smiled and shook Ghulam’s grubby hand formally. A T-shirt in the women’s section suddenly caught his eye. It had a picture of Zoya Malik on it.

  ‘I’ve seen posters of her everywhere. Who is she?’ Kabeer asked.

  ‘That’s Zoya—the new singing sensation of Pakistan and granddaughter of Amaan Malik,’ said Ghulam and chuckled, ‘but that T-shirt won’t suit you no matter how lean you are!’

  Kabeer smiled as well. He thanked Ghulam and bade his new buddies goodbye. As he walked out in a daze, he realized what an emotional and cathartic experience this had been. He was still having a hard time digesting the events of the day.

  Outside the market square, he hailed a cab. ‘Bhaiya, Gaddafi Stadium chalenge?’

  ‘Indian?’ smiled the cab driver. Kabeer smiled back and nodded. ‘Bilkul chalenge!’ said the cabbie.

  They drove past billboards of Bollywood movies. The radio in the cab was playing Shah Rukh Khan songs and Filmfare, an Indian movie magazine, was tucked into the rear pocket of the front seat. Most importantly, the cabbie was just as talkative as any Indian cab driver. Kabeer couldn’t help smiling to himself, as he settled back into the leather upholstery.

  CHAPTER 5

  April ’17

  The rear windshield glass finally gave way under the blows of the angry mob, spraying shards on to the rear seat. Kabeer looked on, terrified and panic-stricken. The car had come to a dead stop, as the driver didn’t want to speed up and accidentally kill someone. He could hear them shouting, daring him to come outside. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t survive more than ten seconds. He saw an inexplicable rage in their eyes—a rage that could compel them to murder mercilessly.

  Kabeer frantically looked around for anything that he could use to save themselves, but found nothing. Suddenly, somebody emptied a can of petrol on the back of the car. Kabeer felt paralysed. The driver was crying. Kabeer could hear his own heartbeats loud and clear. He watched the driver kissing his family picture for what probably was his last time. Suddenly, Kabeer leaned forward and told the driver, ‘Just run when I open the door.’

  The driver stared blankly at him and then gave a slight nod. Kabeer quickly opened the offside door. The cabbie slid out into the pouring rain and was immediately swallowed by the mob. Kabeer hoped he had made it out safe. A million thoughts rushed through his head. He thought about his mother who might not get to see him again; Zoya—who would probably hear of the incident on the news—would never know that he was on his way to meet her; his friends; his team; his fans. He closed his eyes and braced himself. It was a do-or-die situation. Well, maybe he could still die, but he was trying to keep that thought out of his mind. Taking a deep breath, he opened the rear door and quickly stepped out, and was immediately drenched in the downpour. He thought he would make a run for it, as fast as he could, when—

  BANG!

  Someone dropped to the floor. So much for quick planning, Kabeer thought. He stood transfixed, shielding himself with his arms over his head. He was expecting hard blows and pain, but to his astonishment, the crowd melted away.

  Kabeer lowered his arms. The police had arrived at the nick of time. They spilled out of their van into the street and summarily dealt with the violent crowd. A gun fired into the air brought them to their senses. He had never been a big suck-up to the police, but right now, he just wanted to go and hug them straight away. The police swiftly rounded up some of the goons. They handcuffed the miscreants and packed them into the police vehicles. Kabeer learnt later that they had been sponsored by an extremist political party to punish him for associating with a Pakistani.

  Shaken by the incident, Kabeer stood leaning against the cab. To his surprise, he realized the driver was back in the car and crouched behind the steering wheel. He seemed equally stunned. Kabeer shut his eyes to calm himself. This was the first time he had felt so close to death; the incident scarred him.

  Somebody knew about my whereabouts. The thought was frightening. Somebody was probably spying on me. A strange feeling of uneasiness took over him. He quickly scanned his surroundings expecting to catch sight of someone lurking sinisterly. His thoughts flew to his family. Had he inadvertently put them in danger as well?

  A moment later, one of the senior policemen approached him and asked him to get into his jeep.

  ‘Where to?’ Kabeer asked.

  ‘You’re not safe here; you should come with us to the police station for some formalities and your safety,’ replied the police officer.

  ‘Why is this happening?’ Kabeer asked.

  ‘You don’t have to know everything in detail, just trust us and come along. I’ll explain on the way. Remember to get your things,’ the cop replied.

  Kabeer was about to refuse, when he realized that that would be a stupid decision. He had faced the most brutal attack of his life and was scared to death about the possibility of it happening again. So he tossed his duffel bag into the large police jeep and climbed in. As the doors closed, he finally felt safe, after what felt like ages.

  ‘I have a flight in a few hours from now.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere today.’

  ‘But this is important to me.’

  ‘Where are you going? Haven’t you just been expelled from a match?’ The policeman offered him a cigarette that Kabeer politely refused.

  ‘To Bangalore.’

  ‘Your life could be at risk.’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to me now.’

  ‘Considering how confident you sound, were you aware of something happening to you tonight as well?’ another cop asked before swearing obscenely at the driver when he abruptly braked hard, tyres squealing, to avoid hitting a dog that was crossing the street.

  The policeman riding shotgun swore loudly, ‘Keep your bloody eyes on the road! We’re not here to save dogs.’

  ‘Did you see that? This dog wouldn’t have known that it was about to die had the brakes not been applied at the right time. My point is, not everyone is as lucky as this dog.’

  Nobody said anything for the next few minutes. Kabeer noticed that his hands were still trembling and clenched them into fists.

  ‘You’re safe, now, Kabeer,’ the police officer reassured him.

  Kabeer leaned back in his seat. He could hear the loud exchanges crackling over the police wireless in the jeep, his heart thudding loudly and policemen talking to each other and into their radios. Their voices seemed to come from a distance.

  One thought led to another and he slipped into imagining what his life would have been like had Zoya not been a part of it. He knew that he would have just been concentrating on his career, leading a non-controversial life. He would probably have favoured the media a bit more and would surely not be living in fear of being rejected by his dear ones and his fans for being in a relationship with a Pakistani. He felt suffocated in the closed, claustrophobic police vehicle. He realized that he was mechanically replying to the policeman’s questions. Although he could sense their animosity towards Zoya, the policemen judiciously kept a lid on their prejudices.

  In order to distract himself, he took out his earphones and was about to play some music when one of the cops started playing a song on his cell phone, loud enough for everyone to hear. Kabeer stared at the man in disbelief. The song was ‘Teri Yaadein’, a hit by Zoya. Soon, everyone, including the senior-most officer started humming along with song. Kabeer furrowed his eyebrows. Just a few moments ago, these men were making rude comments against her. He felt confused and furious at such duplicity, but soon Zoya’s mesmerizing voice hypnotized him and, unable to stop himself, he too started singing along with her.

  ‘You know the lyrics by heart,’ one of the cops remarked sarcastically. Kabeer ignored the jibe and smiled to himself. His memories took him far away, to that time in Pakistan when Zoya had first sung ‘Teri Yaadein’. The one memory of that ni
ght that he remembered distinctly was how breathtaking Zoya had looked. He had never seen anyone as alive and beautiful as her and he probably never would.

  CHAPTER 6

  May ’16

  Weeks turned into months; and months, into years. Finally, it was time for Pakistan to host the cricket match that everyone had been waiting for. The full moon night enhanced the brilliantly lit stadium. Shades of blue and green dominated the floodlit scene. Brilliant fireworks lit up the sky and just for this occasion, there were also customized fireworks that drew the images of Indian and Pakistani flags in the sky. Bollywood and Lollywood songs blasted in the stadium. It looked like a scene right from the Wagah border, but with a friendlier atmosphere.

  The decibel levels of the commentators’ voices reflected the mounting excitement of the spectators, while reporters swarmed everywhere. The prime minister of Pakistan and the defence minister of India could be seen sitting together in the VVIP area displaying great camaraderie. Every time a photographer tilted the camera towards them, they pumped each other’s hands with verve and gusto. This repeated for the next four or five minutes before the dignitaries decided that they had had enough and ignored the photographers, who then found a new subject of interest—a pretty girl with a Pakistani flag painted on her left cheek and an Indian flag on the right. When a reporter asked her what that was about, she beamed into the camera and declared that she had a Pakistani father and an Indian mother so it didn’t matter to her who won or lost, the important thing was that they were finally playing each other again.

  The crowd was driven into a delirium of ecstasy as the two teams did the rounds of the stadium in a stately procession. People seemed delighted about the new Indo–Pak friendship, despite the underlying competitive spirit. It was the two countries’ passion for cricket and sportive one-upmanship that had ultimately brought them together for this friendly match.