Arko drank an entire bottle of mineral water in the silence that followed. ‘I know it’s a lot to take in for someone who didn’t know anything about this. That’s why I was keeping it to myself,’ Kabeer added.
When Arko continued to remain silent, Kabeer snapped, ‘Say something!’
‘That’s the reason why the management made you vice-captain so soon. You’re an opportunist,’ Arko chuckled.
‘You’re making too much of it,’ Kabeer said. ‘I am worried that’s what is impacting my performance,’ he added, with a serious expression.
‘You know what Kabeer,’ Arko said as he adjusted his shoelaces, ‘I was always terrified of beamers and yorkers when I was on strike. I’ve often thrown my wicket out of fear, but then I realized that it’s not the yorkers or beamers that got to me, it was my way of dealing with them. The only way to get rid of a phobia is to face one’s fears head on. So, I decided at the time to face only yorkers and beamers in my net sessions. Within a month, I had overcome my fears and was even able to laugh at them.’ This was a long speech for Arko. ‘Message her one last time and do it in style this time.’
Kabeer took out his phone and mulled over what to write. He wasn’t too sure about what he was doing, but he typed out his message anyway and paused for some time before pressing send.
‘I am on my way to Pakistan and it isn’t difficult to find out the address of a celebrity like you. Just so you know, I like biryani more than anything. If you know how to make some, keep it ready. It’s going to be dinner tonight at your place.’
CHAPTER 19
April ’17
Kabeer was headed towards Bangalore airport that night pondering the mysterious plane tickets. He hadn’t given it much thought when he came across the tickets in Mumbai and had flown to Bangalore on a whim. When he realized that it had all been in vain, he felt incredibly stupid to have acted so impulsively.
He grew suspicious when he found another e-ticket, this time, to Delhi. He realized that someone had deliberately set up a wild goose chase for him and Kabeer had a niggling suspicion that it wasn’t Zoya. Nevertheless, he found himself aboard the next flight to Delhi. This felt like his only chance and he didn’t dare give up, however futile it seemed.
Kabeer felt foolish like he was being stalked by some prankster who could read his mind and seemed to anticipate his every move. He didn’t know if he was just being paranoid, but he had been travelling for almost five hours now and the trauma of the previous day’s events only added to this phobia. Exhausted but determined to leave for Delhi immediately, he reached the airport at 6.30 a.m. As luck would have it, the next flight to Delhi wasn’t until 9.30 in the morning.
Fatigued and miserable, he sank into a seat in the lounge. His mobile was running low on battery and he wondered how to kill time until it was time for take-off. He wasn’t aware exactly when he drifted off to sleep.
The next thing he knew was opening his eyes to the bustle of people in the airport. He reached for his phone to look at the time, but its battery had died by then. The airport clock on the electronic airport schedule panel read 10.30 a.m. He had missed his flight by a whole hour! Panicking, he rushed towards the airlines counter.
‘I missed my flight, AE-520.’
‘Please wait a moment, sir, let us check the details.’
‘What “details” are you cross-checking? I am here and I am telling you that I missed it!’ Kabeer shouted.
‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir,’ the calm and immaculately groomed woman manning the ground staff desk replied, ‘but we called you at 8.30 a.m., 8.35 a.m., 8.45 a.m. and 9.05 a.m., but the call wouldn’t connect.’
‘You could’ve at least announced my name.’
‘Sir, this is a silent airport. Announcements aren’t allowed here. There’s nothing more we can do to help you out,’ she said coldly. ‘If you’re done, we’re next,’ interrupted the middle-aged woman behind him in the queue. Kabeer didn’t budge.
‘When is the next flight to Delhi?’ Kabeer asked.
‘At noon, but it’s full, so you can take the flight after that at 1.30 p.m.’
‘Okay, I’ll take it. Please book a ticket for me.’
‘Sir, would you like to book a plus ticket for yourself? You can get your luggage on priority and also a seat with extra leg space.’
‘No. A normal seat will do.’
‘Aisle, middle or window, sir?’
‘Anything will do.’
‘Do you want vegetarian or non-vegetarian food, sir?’ The woman behind him was growing restless and fidgeting incessantly.
‘Vegetarian food,’ Kabeer’s dwindling patience was hanging by a thread.
He was finally handed his ticket. It was going to be a nearly three-hour wait before he could board.
‘Thank you for booking a ticket with Fly airlines, we hope you have a good journey with us,’ the woman chirped with a plastic smile, ‘Fly high.’
Kabeer stared unseeingly at a TV screen for a while until a line, repeatedly scrolling at the bottom of the screen, caught his eye: #shameonkabeer. A footage of him attacking the reporter was played over and over again and even though the volume was on mute, he could make out by the grim expression of the newsreader and the tagline that it was acrimonious condemnation. He quietly walked away from the curious stares and whispers around him.
He slipped into a bookstore and hid himself between the shelves. Casually browsing through the books around him, his eyes suddenly locked on a book. It was an autobiography written by Amaan Malik, published recently, with a full body portrait of him on the cover. Needing a distraction from the disturbing stream of thoughts running through his mind, he decided to buy it. He remained engrossed in the book even as he landed in Delhi at 4.45 p.m. and stayed back in the airport to finish the last page.
My daughter, Mariam, was crying. The shock of seeing my beloved child in pain, both physical and emotional, was seared into my brain. Her eyes were bottomless pools of distress—an expression that I had never seen before.
It was late. A little past two in the morning. I was flying to India for my concert and was on my way to the airport.
My princess was in a salwar suit that seemed to have been ripped in some sort of a scuffle. I realized that I had been living in a fool’s paradise about my child’s marital bliss and had failed to see her marriage crumble, crushing her beneath its ruins. The scales fell from my eyes at her revelations and I was shocked to learn of the abusive relationship that my daughter had been suffering at the hands of her husband, Danish, the son of an influential politician. She had silently borne his ill-treatment for over a decade, but today, when Danish’s inebriated violence extended to her daughter, she fled from her farcical marriage with her child. I was glad that she came to me that night and I embraced my weeping daughter.
I telephoned Danish and made it abundantly clear that Mariam wasn’t ever going to return to him and that he would rue the day if he attempted to even approach her or Zoya.
I ensured that my daughter never wept again. Unfortunately, cancer raised its ugly head a few years later. Zoya was young and I did my utmost to hide the inevitable doom that hung over our heads. One fateful night, she overheard a conversation between Mariam and me. Zoya understood that her mother wasn’t long for this world, but she rode out that storm like a stalwart. I realized to my immense pride and joy exactly how brave and strong young Zoya was.
Not a day passes when I don’t think of you, my loveliest daughter. You left too early and I am ashamed of being a father who couldn’t help you survive, but trust me, I did everything that I could to save you, my angel. Of all the promises I made to you, that was the only one I broke. Please forgive me if you can.
There is a promise I would like you to make, though. You’ll wait for me until I reach you and embrace you again, my love, because life without you isn’t going to be a life worth living. The day I leave this world for my heavenly abode is the day that I will finally sleep peacefully and slee
p forever. I want my daughter to feel secure in my arms and this time, as I hold you, I promise to not let you slip away as I did the last time. I hope and believe that this time I am able to protect you from demons—living or dead. Your old father misses you a lot, princess. See you in heaven.’
Kabeer hadn’t realized that he’d got emotional; as he was closing the book, two drops of tear fell on the last page.
CHAPTER 20
July ’16
Staring out of the window that night, Zoya thought of Kabeer. Since her grandfather’s death, she hadn’t been able to talk to him. She had replayed those conversations in her head, the things they had talked about when they had met in India. She looked at the watch and checked his live location on WhatsApp. She dialled his number but hung up as soon as a cab pulled up in the portico.
Kabeer smiled and waved at her from a distance. Zoya greeted him with a hug at the door.
‘Returning to this country after what you faced last time requires a lot of courage.’
‘Not when a person who lives beyond the border stops responding to your calls and messages.’
‘I was having a hard time dealing with Naanu’s death.’
‘Which was why I was all the more concerned. I needed to know that you were coping.’
Zoya smiled, ‘Having you here definitely makes me feel better. Thanks for coming.’
‘I am here for a while so thank me later.’
‘How long?’
‘I am here for about fifteen days and I am going to meet you every day to make sure that you’re doing okay,’ Kabeer said. ‘Believe me, you need someone to be pushy or else you will not know when to switch the cooker off when you’re making biryani for your guest,’ he added with a wink.
Zoya sniffed the air and realized that something was burning. Alarmed, she ran into the kitchen and opened the cooker. The biryani could no longer be termed biryani. She felt devastated and cursed
herself.
Kabeer burst out laughing.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ scowled Zoya. She did her best to resuscitate the biryani, but it was too late.
‘Of course not,’ Kabeer denied stoutly, ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He helpfully opened the windows and turned on the exhaust fan to vent out the smell of burnt food. ‘Is this how you welcome guests from India?’
‘I think I have a better way to respect an Indian guest. Let me call the police and tell them that there’s an Indian intruder who has broken into my house and has kept me as a hostage.’
‘No doubt you Pakistanis are so good at lies,’ Kabeer said jokingly.
‘Would you like to throw some light upon our lies?’ Zoya frowned.
‘The first one: Kashmir is ours,’ he replied.
‘Okay, but Azad Kashmir is ours,’ Zoya aggressively counter-attacked him.
‘So what? You guys have taken that from us. Don’t forget that we captured Lahore as well in 1965.’
‘Let’s not get into that. We have also done many things that deserve accolades.’
‘Would you mind refreshing my memory a bit? Winning in the Champions trophy finals?’
‘That too.’
‘Come on, don’t behave like Bangladesh now.’ They both burst out laughing.
‘So, what brought you here?’
‘Two reasons: a cricket match and to see you.’ Kabeer glanced at Amaan Ali’s portrait on the wall.
‘Oh, I thought you just came to meet me!’ Zoya said jestingly.
‘That’s another truth,’ Kabeer said seriously. He didn’t seem to realize that Zoya was mocking him.
‘Liar.’
‘Many Indian players dropped out at the last minute because of the dangers involved in playing in Pakistan. I could’ve opted out too had I not had a second motive to come here.’
‘Did you come all the way to Lahore from Karachi just to see me?’
‘Do you even have to ask?’
‘Because there’s always a motive behind everything.’
‘Would you believe me if I said I had no ulterior motive?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Zoya retorted.
‘That’s the problem with you Pakistanis. If I was from China, you would’ve believed me in an
instant.’
‘Is this prime time, Kabeer?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then talk to my hand,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Zoya, at times, we just do some things because they’re a no-brainer. I sincerely wanted to come and see you because I was worried about you.’
‘You got worried for me within just two short meetings?’
‘I couldn’t wait forever to start getting worried about you.’
‘There’s a reason you’re from India.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘No matter what, you guys are always good at convincing.’
‘Enough with the India–Pakistan thing.’
‘You started!’
‘For a change,’ Kabeer said and laughed.
‘Fuck you! I am glad my biryani got burnt.’
‘It’s not too late for the wine bottles to be opened though,’ he added.
‘I am so happy that you came. You’re a darling.’
Kabeer poured out wine into the glasses and they continued to chat, sometimes seriously and sometimes, not so seriously, until the pizza arrived. Zoya collected the boxes and placed them on the enormous dining table.
It was as she prised open the first box that she noticed a folded piece of paper taped to the side. Confused, she carefully unfolded the note:
‘THANKS FOR GETTING KABEER BACK IN PAKISTAN; THIS TIME HE WILL NOT GO BACK ALIVE.’
Zoya stared at the message for several minutes before quickly running to the door to see if the delivery boy was still there. He was gone.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes. Absolutely,’ Zoya quickly hid the piece of paper behind her back.
‘You look worried.’
‘I’m sharing a drink with an Indian, I have to be worried.’
‘Not as dangerous as drinking a toast with a Pakistani in Pakistan.’
‘I’m gonna ensure that this time around you do trust a Pakistani in Pakistan,’ Zoya said with a sad smile.
Kabeer looked at her enigmatically.
Zoya took a deep breath and sliced the pizza into sectors.
CHAPTER 21
April ’17
It was a little past 5.30 p.m. when he arrived at Taj hotel in Delhi. By now, Kabeer knew the drill to this wild goose chase. He asked to be given room 701, the room he had shared with Zoya the previous year.
‘Sorry, sir. That room is occupied,’ the pretty young receptionist apologized.
‘How is that possible?’ Kabeer asked, confused.
‘Did you book it in advance?’ she asked.
‘No. Someone else has been doing it on my behalf,’ Kabeer replied hesitantly.
‘In that case, could you check with them, or settle for another room tonight and we’ll provide you with room 701 as soon as it’s vacated tomorrow morning?’
‘Is any other room available on the same floor?’
‘Umm, 702 is across the corridor. Will that do?’
Kabeer nodded. As he went through the formalities of being booked into 702, the elevator doors pinged and the person who emerged dropped a room key card on the reception desk, murmuring, ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’ Kabeer glanced at the card casually and froze. Printed across the key card in bold black letters was the number 701.
His desire to get to the bottom of the mystery trumped Kabeer’s scruples. His heart started racing as he realized he could actually make this work. He had to get into room 701 and that too, by tonight.
‘I have to go out now. Can you hand over my room key to my manager who will be here in about two hours?’ Kabeer asked the receptionist.
‘I’m very sorry, sir. I clock out at 6 p.m., but I can ensure that my colleague who will take over after my shift gives your manager the
key card.’
‘Aah, don’t worry about it. I’ll give him a call and ask him to come to the room directly.’
The bellboy picked up his duffel bag and propped the lift door open. Kabeer walked in.
It was 5.42 p.m. by now. Kabeer noticed that the CCTV camera in the corridor changed direction every thirty seconds.
He showered and changed and then paced in his room for about ten minutes. At exactly 5.59 p.m., he rode the elevator to the lobby and handed his key card to the smiling receptionist who was winding up for the day.
‘Have a nice evening, sir,’ she said politely, accepting his key card, ‘see you tomorrow.’
Kabeer quickly walked out of the hotel. He had to steel himself to execute his plan. It wasn’t as if he had practiced breaking in before. Anything could go wrong, and he couldn’t afford for that to happen.
He watched from a safe distance as the night shift employee took over. He waited for just about ten seconds before approaching the reception desk.
‘Key, please? 701?’ Kabeer asked, pretending to be deeply immersed in a phone call.
‘Here’s your room access, sir. Have a good evening,’ the new receptionist on duty said.
The adrenaline of this escapade thrummed through Kabeer’s veins filling him with a strange exhilaration, not unlike the kind he experienced on the cricket field when about to face an unknown bowler. As soon as he arrived on the seventh floor he had one eye monitoring the movements of the CCTV camera. The moment it turned the other way would be his cue to enter room 701. He stood in the lobby, pretending to speak on the phone while he waited.
The camera finally turned away and he quickly ran to 701, swiped the access card, entered the room and slammed the door shut.
He stood panting against the door. He didn’t quickly began searching the room for clues of her whereabouts. He opened a drawer excitedly but found it empty. He opened another drawer and rummaged inside but couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary, except the occupant’s cell phone charger and spectacle case. He hurriedly searched the wardrobe, the other drawers and the wooden racks but found nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed feeling disheartened. Was this a dead end? He prepared to sneak out of the room and waited for the CCTV camera to rotate. He had set his watch timer to the camera and knew exactly when it would turn away, and successfully dodged its line of view as he left the room.
Love Knows No LoC Page 7
