Love Knows No LoC

by Arpit Vageria

  She woke up to see a doctor enter the ward along with her grandfather. The doctor immediately checked her pulse, while her grandfather squeezed her hand reassuringly.

  ‘You seem to have recovered very well,’ said the doctor and a surge of relief washed over her. Although she could feel a twinge in her arm, she nodded when the doctor asked if she was feeling all right.

  She could sense the tension in her grandfather and smiled at him weakly. His eyes were swimming with tears and with great restraint, he held them back till the doctor left them alone. He hugged her and began sobbing like a child. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Zoya. I can’t even imagine what would have happened if the bullet had hit you,’ he wept.

  He then took a sip from the water bottle on the bedside table. Zoya clasped his trembling hands in hers.

  ‘I’m sorry. I put you through all this.’

  ‘No,’ he replied, shaking his white mane of hair. ‘It’s my fault for pressurizing you to pursue music as a career.’

  ‘I knew what I was getting into, Naanu,’ Zoya said softly, ‘so you see it’s not your fault at all. Music is not just my career, it’s my passion and that is something I’ll never regret. I will always, always be indebted to you for pointing me in this direction.’

  The old man looked far from convinced. Zoya realized that he was just as traumatized as she was herself, so his next pronouncement didn’t come as a shock.

  ‘Your India tour is due next week. Cancel that,’ he said imperatively, in a voice that would brook no arguments.

  ‘We’ll discuss this later, Naanu. I’m tired now,’ Zoya responded, trying to postpone the inevitable.

  ‘You don’t understand. I can’t imagine not talking to you for the rest of my life. I want you to be the person I utter my last words to,’ the old man’s voice choked.

  ‘Is that what you really want me to do?’ Zoya asked. ‘You want me to give up?’ she added, trying to sit up. ‘Naanu, you can’t tell me to do this. You were always a fighter and that’s what I admired the most about you.’

  Her grandfather took a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the truth either, and I have had moments when I panicked and wasn’t sure of returning home. I know the truth makes you uncomfortable but I can’t let you continue the same way after what happened yesterday—’

  ‘Naanu . . . ’ she wheedled as she had done as a child. ‘If something happens to me, you’ll lose me, but if I leave this midway, I’ll lose myself! This bullet has made me stronger. It was always your dream for me to perform in India. And I am not going to let this opportunity pass, come what may! If there’s something I’ve learned from you, it’s to never back down.’

  He smiled tenderly, ‘You remind me of your mother. She was a fighter too. She would’ve been proud of you. She never lost any of her battles, except the last one with cancer . . .’

  ‘She gave it a tough fight till the last moment.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s not about whether you win or lose. It’s about giving it a tough fight.’ Her grandfather stroked her hair. He paused for a few seconds before saying. ‘You’re right, beta. You’re doing the same.’

  The door of the ward burst open and in came Zoya’s father, Danish. Three men from his political party accompanied him bearing flowers, balloons and boxes of chocolates. Danish came quickly to the bedside and cupped his daughter’s face in his hands, ‘I saw the news this morning and got here as soon as I could. Why didn’t you call me? Are you all right, sweetie?’

  Zoya stiffened in his embrace as usual. She faked a smile as best as she could. At a signal from Danish, one of his men stepped forward to place the gifts on the side table.

  ‘I’m okay, Abbu. Stop fussing. I’m just tired and want to rest.’

  Her father sighed theatrically, ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times to stay away from this music business. If you had joined politics like your sister when you had the chance, you would not be here in a hospital bed today.’

  ‘Half-sister,’ Zoya muttered and looked away tiredly. ‘This is the worst possible time to have this conversation, Abbu.’

  Danish took out a roll of cash from his pocket and placed it in front of Zoya, who looked at the money in disgust.

  Her grandfather looked furious but didn’t utter a single word.

  At that moment, a message alert beeped on her phone. Her grandfather handed the phone to her. Ignoring her father and his henchmen, she clicked open the message:

  ‘Your visa application has been denied. Reason unstated.’

  Her father smiled at her, ‘Just take care of yourself and remember, your father is always here to help you with the ups and downs of life . . . ’ He walked out of the ward followed by his retinue.

  CHAPTER 10

  April ’17

  As Kabeer gazed at the moon high up in the sky, he realized how controlling it could be at times. No matter how much people loved stargazing, it was always the moon that stole the show.

  It was almost 1 a.m. when the flight finally took off. The lights inside the aircraft were switched off and everybody seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Kabeer, however, was wide awake, his mind a maelstrom of churning thoughts; thoughts about the recent and not-so-recent events; thoughts of Zoya.

  He was determined to ensure that his family wasn’t exposed to any kind of trouble because of his foolhardiness. He knew they were worried. He shut his eyes and willed himself to sleep in order to give himself a break from an eventful, nightmare of a day. Drifting of, he remembered the day he had reached India after the terrorist attack in the Lahore stadium.

  * * *

  May ’16

  When the plane landed, the team was met by the press waiting for them right outside the airport. Cameras clicked furiously as the cricketers stepped into the foyer, reporters shouting out questions all at once.

  ‘How did you feel during the terrorist attack?’

  ‘Do you regret going to Pakistan?’

  ‘Would you dare to go back again?’

  The team was dog tired both by the journey and the nerve-wracking incident they had experienced in Lahore barely a few hours ago. All they wanted was to go home safe and sound.

  As Kabeer moved slowly down the airport passage, he saw their fans welcoming the winning team. The crowd seemed subdued and worried for the intrepid team that had returned triumphantly and safely despite the attack on foreign soil.

  Kabeer’s parents were heroically holding back their tears. His grandfather was standing there holding his kid brother’s hand. Kabeer hurried towards them, shouldering his way through the throng. When he reached his family, he hugged them all together in a big embrace.

  ‘I am so happy to see you, beta,’ his mother said.

  ‘I am happy to see you too, Ma.’

  ‘We thought we’ll lose you bhaiyya, and your mobile phone was also not reachable,’ Kabeer’s brother piped up.

  There was a huge lump in Kabeer’s throat, but he smiled bravely. He turned around and waved to Arko and his coach as they left with their respective families.

  As they were exiting the airport premises, Kabeer caught a news flash on the television in the foyer: ‘Zoya Malik recovering fast after the attack last night.’

  He wasn’t sure how to react to a news like this. He was glad that Zoya had survived, but did she even care about what happened to him? Why would she? It was not as if they knew each other at all.

  As they drove towards Pune, Kabeer busied himself with music, searching for Zoya’s songs and playing them on a loop. For some strange reason, he felt as if listening to her songs would take him a step closer to her.

  His mother, excited that her son had returned safely, was chattering non-stop about his favourite dishes. His father was also uncharacteristically talkative. He had taken a whole week off from work to spend time with his son. His brother, Karan, was an inveterate chatterbox anyway. Only his grandfather was silent during their journey home. His resentment towards Pakistan was quite appa
rent and nobody felt comfortable discussing the incident any more.

  When they reached home, people on the street welcomed Kabeer warmly with garlands and sweets. Kabeer plastered a smile on his face. He was very tired. As soon as he entered his home, he stretched out on the large leather sofa and switched on the air conditioner. He felt glad to be back home.

  Karan lay down on the diwan and switched on the television.

  Kabeer groaned. ‘Can’t you see how tired I am?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and sleep in your room then?’ Karan replied.

  ‘Because it doesn’t have air conditioning,’ Kabeer snapped. ‘Papa, I’ve told you so many times to install an air conditioner in my room, but you never listen to me.’

  ‘I am waiting for the Diwali offer, beta. We’ll get a good 20 per cent discount and a year’s extended service.’

  Kabeer scowled.

  ‘If I were in charge of the finances in this house, I would have installed air conditioners in every room by now,’ his mother said, coming in with fruit juice in tall glasses. She put the tray down on the teapoy, picked up the TV remote and switched from channel to channel looking for her favourite programme. Kabeer suddenly got up and snatched the remote from her hand.

  He increased the volume as a news reporter said, ‘Last night our cameras captured a unique and heart-warming sight in the land of terror. A young shop assistant, Ghulam, breathed his last a while ago, clutching both the Indian and Pakistani flags to his chest. Another incident during this terrible attack was . . . ’

  Kabeer switched off the TV at this point. His mother tentatively reached for him. He put his arm around her and haltingly told his family about his meeting with Ghulam. He couldn’t even bid him goodbye. He couldn’t even tell him that he didn’t deserve to die like that. Kabeer felt as if he had lost a family member.

  CHAPTER 11

  June ’16

  As soon as she was discharged from the ward, Zoya promptly reapplied for an Indian visa. Her first ever show in India was scheduled to take place in a little over a month’s time. The visa office invited her to attend an interview at the end of a fortnight.

  The day of the visa office appointment dawned clear. Some of the people in the department, both employees and other applicants, recognized her when she arrived. They started whispering among themselves. Not knowing what to do, they offered her their sympathies. Zoya smiled and nodded at them, and then pretended to be immersed in a magazine while she waited. It was almost an hour before she was finally summoned to the inner sanctum for the interview.

  The walls of the room were covered with pictures of the country’s leaders. The interviewer bade her to sit down as soon as she entered the room.

  He offered her a glass of water, which she graciously took a sip from as she leaned back on her seat.

  ‘You sing very well,’ he began conversationally. Zoya glanced at his name tag, ‘Shafiq Ansari’, and nodded in graceful acknowledgement of the compliment.

  ‘I see that this will be your first visit to India,’ he said, rapidly scanning over her application documents.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Zoya replied succinctly. She knew that this wasn’t going to be easy, given the circumstances, but she wanted to give it her best shot.

  ‘Why do you want to go to India?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s going to be my first international concert, that’s why,’ Zoya replied.

  ‘A lot of people have gone to India to make their careers, but what have the Indians done? They have thrown them out heartlessly. Those who failed to make their mark in India have sat on that very same chair that you are sitting on right now. None of them heeded my advice and suffered. Nobody is willing to employ them even in Pakistan now.’

  If the rest of the meeting was also going to be along these lines, Zoya felt that her chances of securing a visa was growing less likely with each passing second.

  ‘Do the Indians pay you well?’ Shafiq asked.

  ‘They pay better than Pakistan, but it’s not about the payment,’ Zoya said.

  ‘Then what is it about?’

  Zoya paused for a bit, ‘It’s about amicable relations between the two nations.’ The interviewer didn’t bother to disguise his scepticism, but Zoya rallied and continued, ‘I feel that performing in India could go some way to bridge the ever-widening gulf between Pakistan and India. Music is an art that unites people, regardless of nationality, and I would like my art to be an ambassador for peaceful co-existence.’

  ‘According to your bank statement,’ Shafiq scowled, extracting it from the sheaf of documentation she had submitted along with her application form, ‘there’s no consistency in your income.’

  ‘As an artist, I earn on project-basis and not on monthly basis,’ Zoya clarified.

  ‘But that’s a demerit when applying for a visa outside the country. There’s the danger that you may extend your stay in India to earn more, or worse, you may opt to never return to Pakistan.’

  ‘Their government will extradite me if I attempted to do that.’

  ‘Then you might consider changing your identity. But that would be another crime.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re not serious, sir.’

  ‘We live in a country that is time and again accused of being a terrorist state by India. Why would a self-respecting Pakistani stoop to perform in a foreign country that makes no secret of the fact that it considers us terrorists?’

  ‘Not all of them do, sir. And for those who do, I am determined to refute their groundless allegation. I am sure that the cricket team that came here for a friendly match had hoped to establish good ties with our country. It is very unfortunate that they only took back unpleasant memories that will haunt them forever.’

  ‘It looks like you’re already speaking their language. Money makes the strangest of bedfellows. They say artists have a rich soul and it looks like you’ve already sold yours to India,’ Shafiq’s lips twisted into a humourless smile.

  ‘Strange sentiments indeed from a visa officer, sir,’ Zoya fumed, unable to hide her irritation. ‘However,’ she was not quite ready to throw in the towel as yet, ‘your position deems it necessary that you abide by the visa laws and not follow your personal bias.’

  ‘So, you are determined to fly in the face of your nation’s sentiments?’

  ‘Travelling abroad doesn’t automatically boil down to treason, sir.’

  The outer door suddenly slammed shut; Zoya and Shafiq realized that their conversation had been clearly audible to the people sitting outside.

  ‘I can see that you have applied for a six-month visa,’ Shafiq said brusquely after an embarrassed silence.

  Zoya nodded.

  ‘I’m willing to give you a one-month visa.’

  ‘But my show is after thirty-two days,’ Zoya protested.

  ‘Madam, if you’re sure that India wants to co-exist with us in peace, I’m fairly sure they’ll be able to sort out your concert dates,’ Shafiq sneered.

  Zoya let it go and accepted the thirty-day visa and left the room with her head held high. As she stepped out of the building, she took a deep breath and looked around. Despite the numbered days of her visa, she felt elated at finally being granted the opportunity to visit India. She was aware that her house of cards could yet come tumbling down if the organizers refused to move the dates around. But she was determined to stay positive and optimistic.

  CHAPTER 12

  June ’16

  The event organizers in India found themselves in a quandary. They had to radically restructure Zoya Malik’s schedule. It spoke volumes of their organizing skills when they soon telephoned the budding star to say that her international debut had been rescheduled and that she need not worry about any of the other arrangements either.

  The only thing that didn’t match Zoya’s expectations was the room she was promised. However, a simple note of apology from the organizers, along with a box of her favourite chocolates, cheered her up.

  The performance was to
be held exactly a month after the terrorist attack in Lahore’s stadium. Zoya realized that she was on very thin ice as far as international diplomatic relationships were concerned. It was like attempting to reconstruct a bridge that had been burnt down several times.

  Nevertheless, Zoya was determined not to let any negativity mar the enjoyment of her sojourn in India. She was on the telephone with her grandfather, describing in detail all the wonderful things she had seen, punctuated with exclamations about the similarity between their countries. The old man closed his eyes, enraptured by the picture she painted.

  ‘It’s so nice to get so much love from across the border, Naanu. They’re just like us!’

  ‘Yes, yes, beta, just take care of yourself, though.’

  ‘I will, Naanu. Nothing will happen to me,’ Zoya assured him. ‘Love you, Naanu. See you soon,’ she said and hung up just as the doorbell rang. It was room service bringing her the dinner she had ordered. One whiff and she felt like she was back in Pakistan.

  Replete after an eminently satisfying dinner, Zoya decided to stroll in the park outside the hotel. This was exclusively for VIPs. Mentally rehearsing her songs, she didn’t really pay attention to the very few people around her, and most definitely did not notice the Indian cricketer approaching her.

  Kabeer smiled hesitantly when Zoya suddenly realized he was standing there, directly in front of her. Zoya smiled back awkwardly, not knowing what else to do.

  ‘Do we know each other?’ she asked.

  She was looking divine as always. Kabeer couldn’t help but notice how luscious her lips were, even without any lip gloss. ‘Excuse me,’ Zoya frowned and repeated, ‘do we know each other?’