Ten

The supporters of the ruling party thronged down the road in a noisy procession, as if they were a bridegroom’s family going to a wedding hall. Several motorbikes and three-wheeled auto-rickshaws came past, festooned with banners, flags, slogans and almost life-size pictures of the party’s leader looking down on a smaller picture of the candidate. The last vehicle in the group loudly played songs from Telugu films, interspersed with snippets of speeches from the party’s state leader.

Mrs Ali came to the gate when they stopped outside her house.

“Please vote for us, madam,” said one young man, in jeans, T-shirt and a bandanna.

“Why should we vote for you?” said Mrs Ali. “Once the election is over, you’ll all disappear and won’t be seen again until the next election. The mango season comes every summer, but politicians are seen only once every five years.”

“Aye, oldie – ” began the brash youth, before he was pushed aside by an older man.

“Namaskaaram, Anuria,” the old man said, with a practised smile and a respectful bob of his head. “Ignore the young man’s rudeness, madam.”

Mrs Ali softened and asked, “Aren’t you the corporator for this ward?”

She had seen him the previous year, walking down the road with a municipal engineer and inspecting the storm drains. She had also seen him on television, being interviewed about using a fogging machine to kill mosquitoes.

“Yes, madam. This time, both the municipal and the state elections are being held together. I hope you’ll vote for our party again.”

“What’s this I hear about the road widening?” she asked.

“How did you find out about it? The news is not supposed to come out till later,” he said. “I mean – ”

Mrs Ali frowned. “Till after you have been safely elected, you mean. If the road is widened, we’ll lose half our house. Where are we supposed to move to at our age?”

“We are trying our best to stop it, madam. But it is a central government order that all roads connecting to the national highways have to be one hundred and twenty feet wide. And we are not trying to hide the bad news till after the election. After all, the ruling party in central government is different and it is they who are to blame.”

“I don’t understand all the politics. I’ll vote for anybody who’ll protect my home.”

“We understand, madam. There are many houses and shops down this road and it is wrong to demolish them. That’s what we are trying to tell the central government.”

The procession had moved on and the candidate hurried to rejoin them. Mrs Ali turned back, distraught. As there had been no news about the road widening programme, she had convinced herself that Shyam, the meter reader, had been mistaken and that it was just a rumour. But the corporator’s response showed that their house could indeed be demolished soon. On her left grew the guava tree that shaded the front and, underneath the tree, several curry-leaf plants and a henna plant. The house would lose a lot of its beauty and value, and the government would give them a pittance as compensation. What a disaster to strike in their old age!

Left to his own devices, her husband would have been content to continue living in a rented house all his life. It had been Azhar who had pleaded and cajoled, persuading him to buy this strip of land all those years ago. At that time, all the area around them had been vacant and only one bus route served this neighbourhood. Many people, including her husband’s sister, Chhote Bhaabhi, had told them at that time that they were paying far too much for a small piece of land far from local markets and other amenities. But Azhar’s predictions had come true and now their house was in a busy part of the city with all conveniences near by. The land value had shot up two-hundredfold. Only the other day Chhote Bhaabhi had been saying that they were so lucky to have invested in real estate at the right time and got it so cheaply. Maybe, Mrs Ali thought, it was her sister-in-law’s evil eye that had brought this calamity down on them.

On her right was the well that supplied their water. When they had saved up enough money to get the house built, the very first thing they had done was to get this well dug. She remembered how the old imam of the mosque, Haji Saab, had come with his nephew, Nasrullah, and read a dua, a prayer from the Qur’an, over the spot. Then the well-diggers, a trio of brothers, had marked the circumference of the well, three feet in diameter. Placing a stone at its centre, they had asked her husband to break a coconut on the stone and spill its water around it. After that was done, they had lit a packet of incense sticks, stuck them into the white flesh of the broken coconut and prayed over it to their Hindu gods. Mrs Ali had raised her eyebrows at the imam, but he had shrugged. “They are praying to their gods for success and safety. That’s nothing to do with us.”

She wondered how the new imam would have reacted. If he had objected to the ritual, the diggers might have balked and walked away from the job – after all, digging a well was dangerous. The sides could cave in at any time, burying the men underground, and they wouldn’t have wanted to undertake such a hazardous venture without first propitiating their deities.

It didn’t matter whose prayers had been answered, but they had struck water fairly quickly. The well had never gone dry even in the harshest summers, though it had come pretty close a couple of times. It was unimaginable that the faithful well would be closed up – tears came to her eyes at the very thought. And on top of that, she would become dependent upon an unreliable municipal tap for water – and have to pay for the privilege, too.

On the verandah, her husband looked up as she joined him. “I’ve been thinking about that drunken man who came in the other day, Sukumar. I am sure – ”

Mrs Ali turned towards him, her eyes flashing. “Do you ever think about anything other than your stupid marriage bureau? There is a shahmat, a catastrophe, coming down on our heads and all you can talk about is some client of yours.” She suddenly sat down on the wicker chair and covered her face in her hands as sobs racked her.

Mr Ali thought that she was laughing and looked at her in puzzlement. After a few seconds, he realised that she was crying and stood up, alarmed. “What – ” he said. “Why are you crying?”

He came round the table and stood awkwardly in front of his wife, scratching his head. What did she mean by catastrophe? His wife was a strong woman and it was not like her to burst into tears.

♦

The bulldozers came in the night with the roar of an angry elephant and the smoke of a demon’s belch. Two-hundred-watt bulbs, jerry-rigged on long leads, cast a harsh light on the carnage. The bulldozers heavy arm had already knocked down the front wall and it now pushed against the guava tree. The thin trunk resisted for a moment with its supple strength but the bulldozer reversed a foot, digging its claws into the ground.

Mrs Ali stifled a cry as the valiant tree collapsed with a crack against the house. The bulldozer then, surprisingly gently, picked up the tree and laid it aside. A young construction worker (should that be a destruction worker?) casually reached out, plucked a ripe fruit from the fallen tree and bit into it. Mrs Ali could not even protest.

The bulldozer now assaulted the main house itself. The front wall came down with a resounding roar and a neighbour shouted from an upstairs flat: “Why are you guys making such a racket? I have to go to the office tomorrow.”

Workers quickly separated the iron grille from the masonry. It would be recycled and, hopefully, protect somebody else’s house better than it had done for the Alis. The front yard was churned up, its red soil scattered with rootballs and shards of shattered terracotta. The bulldozer roared again and carved through the verandah, cracking the granite floor tiles and bringing down the far wall. Mrs Ali could have sworn that they had cleared her husband’s office the previous day, but she could clearly see the computer crushed and the wooden wardrobe that he used as a filing cabinet turned into kindling. Photos of handsome young men and beautiful women spilled on the ground, reflecting glossily the industrial strength electric light, while dust motes jumped crazily in the air above them.

Mrs Ali’s eyes snapped open and she lay still for several moments, disoriented by the sudden silence, her mouth dry and her heart thudding with fear. What a nightmare that had been! She didn’t move for a few minutes, staring in disbelief at the familiar solidity of the house around her. She got up shakily and stepped outside, surprised that it was still early afternoon and bright.

♦

That evening they had dinner at Pari’s house, on Pari’s insistence once she heard of Mrs Ali’s nightmare and had seen her distress.

“Rehman-Uncle, see this painting I drew for my homework today.”

Vasu pushed an A4 sheet of paper into Rehman’s hands. It was a coloured-pencil drawing of the view from the flat’s balcony, showing the road in front with shops on the other side.

An electricity pole looked like a brown smear and the sky was filled with blue lines. There were even dark smudges representing pedestrians and traffic. The Alis’ house could not be seen but the guava tree made an appearance on the edge of the picture.

Rehman patted Vasu’s head and said, “Lovely.”

Vasu leaned over and pointed to the bottom right-hand corner. “See the sweet shop…” Under his finger, past the Alis’ house, on the other side of the road, was a blob of white.

The shop sold khajas from Kakinada, halva from Maluguda, savoury chaegodis and roasted chilli-dusted cashew nuts. Rehman handed the picture to his mother, who had been listening to their conversation.

She silently glanced at the picture and saw the ribbon of black road not as a pleasant byway but as a hungry snake that was just waiting to swallow her home. She shuddered and passed it on to her husband.

Soon, they were at the table eating. Pari had made sauteed soya beans and lamb with spinach. Buttermilk slaked their thirst. They were almost at the end of the meal when Rehman’s mobile phone rang. The number was familiar but wasn’t in his address book, so he ignored it. A couple of minutes later it rang again and Rehman answered it.

“Hello.”

“Raghu? This is Babu.”

“I am sorry – ” Rehman started saying before he bit his tongue. He suddenly remembered the early-morning exercise sessions organised by HUT that he had attended for Usha’s story. Babu was the young man who had sat next to him at the lectures and had been caught out when the guru had asked him questions.

“Yes, Babu. This is Raghu.”

His parents looked at him. His mother frowned and his father opened his mouth to say something. Rehman held his hand up, palm facing out, asking him to stay silent.

“Tell me, Babu. We are just having dinner.”

“So early?”

“My mother’s just break – ” Rehman stopped himself. He had to be careful not to reveal that he was a Muslim. “Nothing…What’s up?”

“You said you live near the Ram temple by the National Highway, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“There is a Muslim woman there who is forcibly converting a Hindu boy to her religion. The guru wants all of us to go there, protest and rescue the boy.”

Rehman’s mouth went dry and he had to force the next words out. “What is the woman’s name?”

“I don’t know. But the boy’s name is Vasu. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Join us there.”

“I am not sure. I’ll try. But what do you mean by ‘rescue’?”

“We’ll take the boy away from such an unsuitable atmosphere, of course. We’ll trace his family or put him in a good Hindu orphanage. OK, got to go. It’s the third building after the Ram temple. Be there. Bye.”

Rehman pressed the red button on his phone and slowly put it away. Was there such a shortage of unloved children roaming the streets in India, scavenging for scraps from dustbins and rubbish heaps, that these people could get so worked up about a boy who was cherished and cared for in a loving environment?

“What is it?” said Pari.

“What did you mean by calling yourself some other name?” said his father.

“Don’t worry about that for now, Abba. This is serious.” He quickly related what Babu had told him.

“What do we do?” said Pari, wringing her hands.

Vasu ran to her and hugged her tightly. “It’s OK, Amma. When those men come, I’ll tell them that I love you and that I want to stay with you. Then they’ll go away.”

Pari smiled with tight lips even though her heart was breaking and she twisted her fingers in his hair. She glanced up at the other adults in the room and silently mouthed, “What should we do?”

“Let’s go,” said Rehman.

Before they took a step, however, there was a loud banging on the front door.

“Get into the bedroom and close the door,” said Rehman. “Quickly!”

Rehman went to the door and, looking out through the peephole, saw the building’s watchman on the other side.

“What is it?” Rehman said.

“Men have started gathering downstairs, sir. I’ve locked the gate and my wife is standing guard.”

Rehman opened the door. “How long can you hold them off?”

“Not long, sir. I had a chat with some of those men. They belong to a religious party and have come to take away Madam’s boy.”

Pari and the others must have been listening behind the bedroom door because they now came out. The watchman saluted them and continued, “They are waiting for their leader. As soon as he comes, they will ask for the gates to be opened.”

“Can you refuse to open them?” said Pari.

The watchman shook his head. “Sorry, madam. I met the building society secretary on the way up. He said that I should open the gates when they asked. Otherwise they might damage the property.”

“Thank you for coming and warning us,” said Mrs Ali. “You’ve kept faith with us.”

“I’ve eaten your salt over the years, madam. How could I do anything else?”

The watchman, poor as he was, represented the true values of India, thought Mr Ali: loyalty and tolerance. Unlike the braying mob filled with hatred, though they too were India – a nasty and voluble part but thankfully a small one.

The shouts from downstairs grew louder and could now be heard through the windows. “Sri Ram ki Jai.” Victory to Lord Ram. It didn’t feel like such a small part of the nation’s psyche when the rabble was directly below them.

“Could we go into one of the neighbour’s flats?” said Mr Ali.

Mrs Ali shook her head. “They may refuse out of fear. We can’t put them in that position.”

Rehman was thinking hard. “We can’t go down because the men are already there. We have to go up.”

Mrs Ali said, “We’ll just get trapped on the terrace.”

“Probably,” said Rehman. “But we can’t stay here like mice in a trap. We’ll be caught for sure.”

“I’ll tell them – ” began Vasu.

“Shh,” said Pari.

The voices below reached a new pitch. The watchman glanced fearfully towards the stairs. “I have to go, Amma. I’ll delay them as much as I can.”

Mrs Ali thanked the man again and he left. She turned to Rehman. “Take Pari and Vasu with you to the terrace. The three of you are young and can somehow escape. Your father and I are too old to jump from roof to roof like monkeys. We’ll stay here.”

Mr Ali took a deep breath and sat down on a nearby chair. “That makes sense. Go, there’s not much time.”

“No!” said Pari, her voice sounding strong suddenly. “I am not going to be driven away from my own home by thugs. Rehman, some of the men downstairs will recognise you and who knows what they’ll do then? You can’t stay here. And I don’t want Vasu here for them to kidnap. Go, don’t argue. We’ll be fine. What can they do to us?”

The watchman’s voice floated up from below. “Be patient, please. I am opening the gate. Just one second.”

Rehman thanked the watchman silently for the warning. “Vasu, come on.”

Pari hugged the boy fiercely. “Go, my son. Follow Rehman-Uncle. Listen to what he says. We’ll meet up soon again.”

Rehman quickly hugged his mother. As he walked past Pari, he put an arm around her shoulders. “You are a brave woman. Take care.”

Rehman and Vasu ran up the stairs hand in hand, without looking back. Behind them, the two mothers’ eyes filled with tears.

A tumult rose below them, jolting Pari back to her senses. She slammed shut the door of the flat and bolted it from inside. She knew it wouldn’t hold the men back if they were really determined to break in, but that didn’t mean that she had to make it easy for them.

In the living room, Mr and Mrs Ali were sitting stiffly in two chairs, staring straight ahead. A wave of gratitude, and sympathy, rolled over Pari at the sight of them. Mr Ali, in a white shirt and white trousers, was thin although his white hair was still thick. His cheekbones had become prominent as the years had melted away his fat. Time had had the opposite effect on Mrs Ali, who wore a dark-green cotton sari, the colour of mango leaves. Her hair was darker, as was her skin, and she was pleasantly plump, about half a foot shorter than her husband. Pari knew that her air of being an unassuming housewife hid a keen intelligence and knowledge of people.

“Who wants tea?” Pari asked, her voice artificially bright.

Voices could be heard outside.

Mr Ali smiled at her. “Why not? Make ten cups of tea.”

“Ten?” said Pari, surprised.

Mrs Ali looked at her husband quizzically.

Mr Ali said, “Hospitality is equivalent to godliness. Hindu – Muslim traditions are agreed on this topic.”

Pari went into the kitchen. The first knock came before the water had become lukewarm in the pan.

Within seconds, the knocks became much louder and reverberated through the flat. Pari came out of the kitchen, but Mrs Ali waved her back, while Mr Ali went to the door. “I am not deaf,” he shouted. “You don’t have to knock so loudly.”

There was a silence on the other side for a moment. Then a shout, “Let us in now, or we’ll tear the door down.”

“Who are you?” said Mr Ali. “What do you want?”

“We are the Hindutva Universal Truth Party members, reclaiming the rights of the majority Hindus in our own country. Open the door now.”

Mr Ali looked through the peephole. “Atidhi daivo bhava,” he said in Sanskrit – a guest is like God – before switching back to Telugu. “But this is a small flat and cannot accommodate so many people. I’ll open the door, but only five of you can come in.”

“We’ll break down the door, you Turkish pig.” Someone must have kicked the door because it boomed loudly and the hinges rattled.

Mr Ali moved back hurriedly. Another kick – Mr Ali’s worried glance took in the door frame. A small silvery sticker on the top right-corner read, ‘Vizag Woodworks’. Mr Ali wondered whether the door makers knew that their product would be tested so thoroughly so many years after they had made it.

A deeper voice spoke softly on the other side and the banging stopped. The same voice became louder. “All right. We agree to just five of us coming in. But no tricks, do you understand?”

“How can we trick you?” said Mr Ali. “The rest of your men will be just outside, by the door.”

“All right,” said the same voice.

“Do I have your word that only five of you will come in?” said Mr Ali.

“Yes.”

“On the Gita?”

“What do you think this is? A court of law? Should I put my hand on the Bhagavat Gita and say, I will speak the truth and nothing but the truth? But remember, if you play any tricks, I will consider that I am not held by my oath any more.”

“No, no. Your word is enough. Stand back, I’ll open the door.”

Mr Ali glanced back into the living room. Mrs Ali was sitting on the chair where he had left her. She inclined her head a fraction of an inch, and he turned to the door again. Taking a deep breath, he slid the bolt back and turned the lever.

There was a mass of men outside, filling the corridor between the flats, with some youths spilling down the stairs. The flat diagonally opposite had two doors, an outer one with bars for viewing visitors and letting in the breeze on summer days, and a standard wooden inner one behind that. The inner door was open, allowing a middle-aged, potbellied, bare-chested man to follow the proceedings with interest. As Mr Ali watched, the neighbour’s wife hissed a sharp warning to her husband, pulled him back into the flat and slammed the solid inner door shut.

The men in the corridor raised a cheer as Mr Ali opened the door. Most of them were lanky and young, teenagers or in their early twenties, but the man standing at their head, waring saffon robes, was stouter, his hair streaked heavily with grey and his beard grizzled.

“Namaste,” said Mr Ali and stood to one side.

The older man nodded and walked in. Four of his men followed. Mr Ali moved to close the door but an angry growl issued from the crowd as if it was one animal, rather than an assembly of individuals. Mr Ali left the door open, wishing they had the same two-door system as the flat opposite.

Mrs Ali now stood up, vacating her chair, and said politely, “Please sit down.” Pari was nowhere to be seen, but there was a noise from the kitchen of pots and pans.

The men took their places on the sofa and two chairs. Mr Ali pulled out a dining chair and sat down too. “What can we do for you gentlemen? To what do we owe the honour of this visit?”

“Don’t try to act smart, you – ” said the young man sitting nearest to the door.

The older man raised his hand to silence the youth, then looked around with interest. Mr Ali had the sudden realisation that he had probably never visited a Muslim’s house before.

Mr Ali tried to view the flat through the other man’s eyes. They were in the largish rectangular living room, its walls painted yellow with distemper. Facing the men, behind Mr Ali, was the dining table, with a wooden display cabinet on the other side. In the middle of the wall facing the road a door led to the balcony. Two windows with iron grille-work framed the door. On one wall hung a calendar and photos – of Pari’s ex-husband and her parents, as well as of Vasu’s parents and grandfather. So far, so ordinary – except for the large number of pictures of dead people on the wall. Above the door to the balcony was a banner that would definitely not be seen in a Hindu household. Arabic calligraphy, in gold on green silk, proclaimed the first sentence of the Qur’an: Bismillah…In the name of Allah, the merciful, the beneficent.

Mr Ali saw the leader of the men frown when he noticed the banner. “Where is the boy?” the man said.

“What boy?” said Mr Ali.

“Don’t play games with us, sir. We have information that a Hindu boy is being brought up as a Muslim in this household. We want to talk to him.”

“Why?”

One of the young men banged his fist on the coffee table. “The guru is being polite. Don’t take advantage of it. We will rip this flat apart brick by brick if necessary.”

Mrs Ali spoke for the first time. “My niece is only renting the property. The flat actually belongs to Mr Rao – a devout Hindu man who takes his entire family on a pilgrimage to the Tirupati temple every year. He will not be happy to learn that a Hindu religious organisation has damaged his property.”

The guru waved his hand dismissively. “There is no need for any damage if you bring the boy before us. And where is your niece?”

“Tea,” said Pari, coming out of the kitchen carrying a tray of cups.

The men looked at her curiously as she put the tray down on the coffee table, then moved back to join Mrs Ali, pulling the edge of her sari protectively around herself. Her voice was clear. “What do you want with my son?”

“The boy is a Hindu. We do not want a Muslim to raise him. We’ve come to take him away.”

“Vasu is my son. How would you feel if some strangers barged into your house and threatened to take away your children?”

“It’s not the same at all. My children are mine – and I am bringing them up in their tradition. I am not creating some kind of hybrid like a farmed chicken.”

“I am not forcing Vasu to be anything that he is not. See that picture.” Pari pointed to the photo of Vasu’s parents on the wall. “Those are his birth parents. My boy knows where he comes from. Nothing is being hidden from him. Have no fear that he is being raised as a Muslim.” She folded her hands in supplication. “I am a widow. I don’t have a powerful family to protect me. I am just trying to do the best for myself and my son. Please leave.”

The guru sat silent for a moment. “It’s good that you’ve told the boy who his parents are. But just as the water of even the Ganges needs to be stored in a silver pot to retain its purity, the boy cannot be raised in a Muslim household without some of your beliefs rubbing off on him. See, you are probably a nice person. I don’t have anything against you personally. But your forefathers abandoned their original faith and converted to an alien religion. I was willing to take a long view on how the boy was being brought up, but I heard that the people of your mosque are demanding that Vasu should be converted. So we can’t take the risk of leaving him with you any more.”

“How – ” began Pari before biting her tongue.

There was a sudden noise outside the flat and a man came rushing in. “Sir, guruji. The man in the flat opposite says that he saw the boy being taken away by this old couple’s son. Up the stairs, towards the terrace.”

The guru stood up, his face tight with anger. He wagged his finger in the Alis’ and Pari’s faces. “You’ve not heard the last of this by any means.” He turned to the man who had come in with the news. “What are you still doing here, standing like a statue? Go! Find that boy and bring him back to me.”

“What about the man who is with the boy, sir?”

“Do I look as if I am worried about him? Beat him and throw him off the roof for all I care.”

There were squeaks from Mrs Ali and Pari as the guru and his men stalked out.