Love Knows No LoC

by Arpit Vageria

  Before the much-awaited toss, people waited with bated breath for something, or rather, someone.

  A roar rippled through the crowd as a mellifluous voice greeted everybody over the audio systems. Everybody repeatedly chanted one name in unison—Zoya.

  She walked on to the stage at the far end of the stadium, radiant in a shimmering gown. Her smiling face was beamed on to the giant LED screens around the stadium. People waved posters of her, others called out to her hoping she would notice, and their cheers grew deafening as Zoya waved at the cameras and raised the microphone to her lips. The stadium fell silent when she began singing and her pure dulcet tones resonated through the grounds. It almost seemed as if the crowd had gathered for a concert instead of a cricket match.

  At the window of his pavilion, Kabeer stood stock-still, spellbound by her voice. Her face on the big screen drew him compellingly. He tapped his foot to the rhythm of the song and nodded his head along with its tune. Some of the senior players exchanged meaningful looks and smirked at him. Some raised their eyebrows at his reaction, but Kabeer didn’t care. It was her new pop number, which had broken the Internet and hit Kabeer’s heart directly. At that moment, he fantasized meeting Zoya, instantly connecting with her, exchanging numbers, having late-night conversations with her . . . Just another celebrity crush, he told himself.

  The crowd screamed and burst into applause as Zoya’s voice rose to a crescendo at the end of the recitation before fading out.

  Someone from the team said, ‘Let’s grab the ground, guys. We’re bowling first.’ Kabeer seemed a bit disoriented and vigorously shook his head to snap out of his trance.

  His captain, Rehaan, was giving the team a pep talk and reiterating that they had never lost a one-day match in Pakistan and weren’t going to break the trend today. He spoke about upholding the pride of their nation, and winning the match for all those soldiers and civilians who had lost their lives in terrorist attacks.

  Rehaan belonged to a military family and his grandfather’s exploits in the battlefield during the 1971 war with Pakistan were legendary. He had also killed terrorists attempting to broach the Indian border on several occasions.

  Rehaan deliberately ignored the Pakistani prime minister’s outstretched hand, although the rest of the Indian team politely shook hands with him before the match began, a solecism that raised many eyebrows. Before the players ran to take their places on the immense cricket grounds, Rehaan rounded them all into a huddle and charged them with last-minute instructions. Kabeer could feel the anger emanating from him. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked possessed by a maniacal rage. He intended to put his heart and soul into the match and wanted the team to do the same. Before dismissing the huddle, in a clear, aggressive voice, he shouted, ‘Bharat Mata ki jai!’ The team repeated it thrice after him and then dispersed.

  The Indian players were suffused with adrenaline. Kabeer glanced across to the stage to see if he could catch a glimpse of Zoya, but the stage was too far away and the cheerleaders were going into their drill as the band struck up. However, a camera projected Zoya on to the big screen as she waved and smiled at the spectators. Rehaan seemed wholly unaware that the applause was for Zoya and not the Indian team.

  He glowed with pride, ‘If we’re getting such support in Pakistan, imagine the kind of support we’ll get from our crowds when we play them in India.’ Arko and Kabeer exchanged meaningful looks and sniggered.

  Pepsi, the soft drink company, being the sponsor of the match, boomed its jingle over the amplifiers: ‘10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . Oh . . . Yes . . . Abhi . . . !’

  The twenty-over match started off very well for the Indian team and their captain was delighted. Pakistan made 178 runs and lost seven wickets and their Indian counterparts exhibited their skill, strength and talent as they chased the required total. With 3.2 overs remaining, they won the match with seven wickets in hand. Despite supposedly being a ‘friendly match’, the antagonism between the teams was barely disguised as sports rivalry on the field. It was evident in the cold glances and fake smiles as they shook hands.

  Although Pakistan lost the match, the spectators gave a standing ovation to both the teams for a brilliant performance. Kabeer, who performed as an all-rounder in his debut, grabbed the Man of the Match award. Zoya, looking ethereal and even more beautiful than in her posters, if that were possible, gracefully handed him the trophy with a smile and husky congratulations. Kabeer smiled back at her nervously. His head buzzed every time he looked at her. He wasn’t sure if he had made any impression at all on her, as she seemed to be looking anywhere but at him.

  Zoya looked divine in her black dress and kohl-lined eyes. Her lips were truly as luscious as they looked on her posters. He watched her until the ceremony concluded and she disappeared into the wings. Once again he had the strange premonition that this wasn’t going to be their last meeting. He desperately hoped that this feeling was mutual.

  After all the formalities were completed, the exhausted teams retired to their rooms. However, Kabeer remained in the enclosure just outside the dugout, hoping to catch a glimpse of Zoya one last time and pretended to be busy with his cell phone. All of a sudden, Zoya was there, standing a mere two hundred metres from him. This was it. His only chance. He hesitated for a moment, stood up, before sitting again. Then strengthening his resolve, he took a deep breath, placed his huge silver cup on the bench and walked towards her. A bundle of nerves, but with a smile on his face, Kabeer was determined to talk to her this time.

  He was almost by her side, when there were three ear-splitting blasts, one after the other. A volley of gunfire followed immediately and Kabeer dropped to the ground in panic and fear. The stadium’s arena turned into a teeming mayhem as a frenzied crowd stampeded in terror. Guards hurried towards Zoya and hustled her off to safety. A helicopter materialized out of nowhere, the rhythmic beat of its blades adding to the maelstrom, as the VVIPs’ Z-level security protocols swung into action.

  Security personnel came for Kabeer as well and grabbed his arms. The sporadic gunshots were getting closer and more frequent. As the guards bore him away, Kabeer heard a blood-curdling scream from behind them. He twisted around, his heart coiled in terror. The security men half-carried, half-dragged Kabeer away, as he froze looking at Ghulam lying there. The poor lad’s clothes were blood-soaked and tucked tightly in his arms were Indian and Pakistani flags.

  CHAPTER 7

  May ’16

  Kabeer felt badly shaken.

  He had met Ghulam only two days ago and he had seemed so full of life then, intent on cheering for the Indian team. Kabeer had broken away from the guards long enough to see the defence forces carrying Ghulam away on a gurney. He was bleeding profusely, but thankfully, still breathing.

  And then he heard a woman’s scream. Something about the voice made Kabeer’s hair stand on its end. Zoya! Without a moment’s hesitation, he ran towards her. The security men collared him and dragged him, squirming and struggling, to the pre-designated safe zone.

  He found the rest of his teammates and the Pakistani cricketers huddled together at the far end of the room. He was safe now, in a huge room, which turned out to be an auditorium where there were already many other people, all anxious with worry. There were people weeping for their lost ones and bawling children who had been separated from their parents. Some of them were trying to calm each other, others seemed to have retreated into a shell-shocked silence. Everybody looked petrified, hoping for the debacle to get over soon. It was a dismal sight to behold.

  There was tight security outside the room, all tense, and the soldiers were reviewing the situation with their leader in low tones. The security force that was in the room kept busy, handing out water bottles to the civilians, administering first aid where needed and taking care of the children.

  Kabeer was deeply concerned about Zoya and Ghulam—the only two people in Pakistan with whom he had felt some connection. He suddenly felt very home
sick and desperately alone in an alien country, away from his family, in the middle of a terrorist attack, with strangers all around.

  He deeply regretted having taken his family for granted; for ignoring his mother’s calls just because he wasn’t be in a mood to talk; for not telling his father how much he loved him every time he considered dialling his number but didn’t. He would have traded anything just to be back home, safe, surrounded by his loving family.

  He noticed that there were two Indian soldiers in the room along with four Pakistani ones. A sudden volley of gunshots broke their thoughts and conversations, bringing on a hushed silence. Clearly, there were terrorists still on the loose and they had seemed closer and louder this time. When he saw an Indian soldier kissing his wedding ring, Kabeer grew hysterical. He felt certain that they would all die. Another soldier quietly crept up behind Kabeer, and clamped his strong hands on his mouth. As Kabeer was losing consciousness, he saw sinister shadows outside the window . . . the terrorists were here!

  A hail of bullets rained into the room and blood spurted everywhere. The gunmen burst through the door and were welcomed with an answering volley from all sides inside the auditorium. Kabeer realized that the soldiers had corralled the cricketers at the safest possible end of the room.

  ‘Bharat Mata ki jai!’ he heard an Indian soldier yell before charging at the terrorists alongside a Pakistani soldier.

  The fusillade of firing in the enclosed room was deafening and the silence that followed felt somehow worse. But when the dust settled, to everybody’s relief, the terrorists were overpowered and the soldiers stood there, looking alert, their guns still smoking in their hands.

  After a pause, one of the Pakistani soldiers peered out to ensure that the coast was clear. Everybody heaved a sigh of relief when he returned, looking confident. On some tacit understanding (perhaps it was some kind of secret army signal), the other soldiers followed him out.

  One Indian soldier, however, smiled at Kabeer and hugged him to make him feel comfortable.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the soldier asked.

  Kabeer thought for a moment. ‘I am not sure but I trust you. Can you be with me for a while?’ The soldier nodded reassuringly. Was he acting strange? Yes. But who wouldn’t, in a such situation.

  Kabeer felt numb as he watched people being borne away—some still alive, writhing and groaning, some deceased.

  A policeman hurried over to Kabeer, ‘He says he wants to talk to you. His name is Ghulam.’

  Ghulam was struggling to speak. ‘My friend,’ he gasped, ‘please don’t let this incident colour your view of this country. Never let these bastards ruin the friendship of the two nations. It’s—’

  He broke off at this juncture, choking and coughing. The ambulances arrived with the emergency medical teams, their sirens wailing. Ghulam was rushed away on his gurney.

  ‘Is it a matter of his life and death?’ Kabeer asked a soldier who was standing nearby.

  ‘No. It is a matter of two nations and our brothers are paying for a political ideology. That’s what this is. You people come to Pakistan and we pay the fuckin’ price. That has always been the case.’

  ‘We came here for peace,’ replied Kabeer.

  ‘ . . . and it has turned into a complete disaster,’ retorted the soldier.

  ‘I’m truly sorry about that,’ Kabeer felt strangely guilt-ridden.

  ‘You should have thought about it before coming here,’ the bitter soldier turned away and left. Kabeer was left standing there, dumbfounded. But he didn’t want to cause so many deaths. This was supposed to have been a friendly match, a day for celebrating peace. No one should’ve got hurt.

  With conflicting thoughts running through his mind, Kabeer made his way back to the pavilion, his head bent. He hoped that it was all just a practical joke, not particularly funny, and that someone would come running and say, ‘Relax, everyone is safe.’ A bundle of rags on the ground caught his eye. He squinted, trying to discern what it was. He could vaguely make out the colours in the dark—it appeared to be dark green with some white and red patches. And then it hit him. The flags of India and Pakistan were lying in a heap on the ground, intertwined, stained with blood—a subtle irony of the situation. While Pakistan was struggling with the turmoil, the world had a different story to tell.

  The news of the terrorist attack had gone viral: ‘A nation of terrorism hurts itself this time,’ an American TV channel said. ‘Terrorism may not have a religion but it sure has a nation.’ An Indian channel’s tickers flashed: ‘Terrorism strikes Pakistan again. Not the spirit expected at sports. All sportspersons safe.’

  The sound of gunfire and the terrified screams of the people at the stadium would haunt Kabeer in the years to come.

  CHAPTER 8

  April ’17

  Kabeer glanced curiously around the police station. An inebriated man was having a heated discussion with a police officer. The cop swiftly dealt three hard slaps to the man’s face.

  Kabeer was still drenched from the downpour and his hands trembled uncontrollably. The inspector who had accompanied him in the police vehicle asked him to pull up a chair and sit down. He sat nervously. This was the first time he was visiting a police station and it took him some time to focus. The name tag on the inspector’s shirt said ‘Ashutosh Pandey’. He extracted another cigarette from the inner recesses of his uniform and lit it. He leaned forward and said, ‘I like the way you play. You should be opening for the team in the batting line-up.’

  ‘I have been, since last year,’ Kabeer replied. He found a handkerchief in his trouser pocket and wiped his face, which wasn’t very useful because the handkerchief was also sodden. ‘Oh! You were busy making waves in the gossip columns, your cricketing exploits weren’t quite so much in the limelight,’ Pandey laughed.

  Kabeer bristled. ‘Why on earth am I here? I didn’t hurt anybody.’

  ‘You were nearly killed and according to the law, it’s our duty to protect you,’ Pandey replied.

  The drunkard kicked up a ruckus again. This time, Pandey went over and slapped him so hard that he fainted. He returned to his seat like it was mere routine to knock someone senseless. ‘You’re being targeted for being in a relationship with a Pakistani,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘there are thousands of patriots eager to kill you at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘So, are these “patriots” actually terrorists inciting the mobs?’ Kabeer asked.

  ‘Sure . . . you could say there are people who hire other people to do their dirty work while they themselves remain anonymous,’ Pandey said. He snapped his fingers and ordered tea and biscuits.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Kabeer asked suspiciously.

  ‘Well, you just have to trust me,’ Pandey said, as Kabeer sipped his tea. It burnt his tongue, so he quickly reached for the glass of water. Pandey leaned in, lowered his voice and said, ‘Or you could burn yourself like the way you just did.’

  Kabeer remained quiet. He had a feeling that everybody in the precinct was staring at him. The constable who had served them tea also brought a towel for Kabeer and put it on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Why were you going to Bangalore anyway?’ Pandey asked.

  ‘To meet Zoya.’

  ‘You don’t really care about that Pakistani any more, do you?’

  ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, that’s personal,’ Kabeer snapped. A junior policeman looked enraged.

  ‘It’s because of “sir” that you are alive. You have no right to be so disrespectful of him!’ the junior inspector grabbed the opportunity to butter up his senior.

  ‘Okay, so you want to meet her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does she know you’re on your way to see her?’

  ‘No,’ Kabeer shook his head. ‘I don’t even know where she is. I’ll have to find out where she is in Bangalore.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be safe for you to go looking for her. You are aware now that there are violent people baying for your blood.’

&
nbsp; ‘I’ll do my best to keep a low profile.’

  ‘When do you expect to come back to Mumbai?’

  ‘I am not really sure,’ Kabeer replied.

  Pandey scowled at Kabeer’s apparent flippant attitude, ‘Get back here asap and don’t do anything as idiotic as dying for love.’

  Kabeer, reasonably dry by the end of this strange conversation, returned the soggy towel to the constable and collected his duffel bag. Pandey arranged for a police jeep to drop him off at the airport.

  While sitting in the jeep, Kabeer thought about the people who had attacked him and the inspector who had let him go, and how fearful he had been all night.

  His father, who had wanted to instil courage in Kabeer as a child, had once said, ‘Never fear, come what may.’ He had always encouraged Kabeer to never to give up. This was when he had taught Kabeer to ride a bicycle. His father had toughened him up to face a tough world.

  Kabeer wondered whether it was wise to go looking for Zoya. What if he were attacked again and no one was around to save him? She may have moved on and could be in another relationship. His only hope was that one’s past is never truly left behind.

  We think of the past as a dead flower. A cold wind blowing in the midst of a nasty summer. Kabeer kept mulling over the what-ifs for a long time and soothed himself by thanking God that he was alive. What had not killed him had only made him stronger.

  CHAPTER 9

  May ’16

  Certain ailments cannot be treated in a hospital. Those with a philosophical bent of mind attribute their suffering to destiny and karma and try to move on. Then there are others who don’t even begin to heal because they remain in dread of more pain that they think is yet to be endured.

  Her memories of that day were hazy. She knew she had panicked when the gunshots went off. If only she had run faster, she might have escaped unhurt. She didn’t know when the stray bullet hit her arm but vaguely remembered blood spewing everywhere and being taken away in an ambulance; and then she lost track of time. Doctors in masks rallied around, doing their best to staunch the bleeding. Zoya had the rarest blood group: AB negative. Her mother had always worried about her injuring herself at school or on the playground and being unable to find suitable plasma if a transfusion was required.