Chapter Twenty-Six

We had not come very far from the medieval ages, when the curfew bell reminded everyone to turn out their lights and smother their fires before bed. Maybe even regressed since then, because the call for curfew that day was not to put out the fires that kept us warm or lit our hearths, but to quell the violent, raging fires of hatred. The city burnt in sporadic flames, as business establishments torched down by unknown hands lit up the horizon. The order for curfew should have gladdened us; the hope of establishing order in the city gone mad should have lifted our spirits; but it brought only worry in our little circle.

A curfew meant that Surve’s son would be home and stalking around in the building. How could we safely handle this? Though we had tried to plan on all fronts, trying to cover all scenarios, we had failed to visualise this one. Mother, Mr. Fernandes and I, stood on the verandah outside No. 19, consumed with the problem. The Marchons, Oswald, Bruno, and Miriam joined us. Oswald and Bruno, always ready to suggest a speedy solution, offered to clobber him and lock him in one of the toilets. Mr. Fernandes said, “Can we leave violence out of this? How different are we from these animals?”

The time now advancing towards nine, Surve’s son entered the building with a loud clatter on the stairs, not unlike the footsteps one uses in forests to warn the snakes of one’s arrival, hoping they leave. Snakelike, the boy hovered on the first floor passage, legs apart, a stick in his hand, ready to strike.

Miriam finally broke the silence with, “Leave that horny b-----d to me,” opened the top button of her blouse and walked out of the room. Mr. Fernandes, not exactly happy with the new turn of events, kept silent nevertheless, knowing we had no time for moral judgement. We had to start the operation.

Mr. Marchon went first, followed by Mr. Fernandes and me. We walked to the door of Ali’s home. Mehroonisa looked like a cloistered nun sitting on Ali’s marriage bed, her tears streaming. Ali pointed to the packed bags and boxes on the floor and we silently picked up one at a time and went down with them. I could only imagine how much more complicated this would have been had Ali’s wife been here. With the violence spread across the city, no place was entirely safe for Muslims.

Thankfully, there was no one outside as we made our way to the first floor—Miriam had found a way to keep Surve’s son out of the way. We did not ask, nor did we want to speculate on how. Quite unknown to the Farooqui family, this was an evening of sacrifices all round.

After we reached the first floor, Oswald and Bruno picked up a second lot of boxes, being all that the Farooquis owned, except for their furniture and some of the glassware. The Farooquis left their room in the centre of a tight band of people. Mr. Fernandes led the group with a cross in his hands and Nathie held a candle that, though lit, was really no help with light, being so short of wick. Instead, the light of the almost-full moon lit their path, and to a casual onlooker they would appear to be a group of fervent Catholics, a nun in their midst, praying for peace in the city. The little Catholic procession made its way across the verandah and past the Madrassis’ rooms. As they passed Mrs. Mitchell’s door she opened it to see what the shuffling feet was all about; the first thing she saw was Mr. Fernandes standing with the cross, and she immediately shut the door on his face. That little drama allowed Mehroonisa and Ali to slip into Ms. Ezekiel’s room and lock it from the inside quite unnoticed.