Kabir

Freedom fighter. Seeker of justice. Men with guns in their hands seem to find an awful lot of fancy phrases to justify what they are going to do. Take away all the talk, and ‘man with gun’ equals ‘killer’. But he obviously doesn’t see it that way.

‘Justice,’ says Salim Mukhtar. ‘That is all we ever demanded. Justice for the great injustices done to my people. Our place of worship was desecrated. It was destroyed.’

I can hear the sound of someone weeping quietly, trying hard to stifle their sobs. Salim’s tone changes. He slips into the ranting voice that comes easily to those who whip up crowds or convince people to die for a cause. ‘We asked for justice. Was it given to us?’

He walks up and down in front of the screens, searching for faces in the crowd in front of him. The facade of the quiet, polite man peels away. There is an intense glint in his eyes. Fervour in his voice.

‘Every day, my brothers are harassed. Jailed. Accused. Killed in encounters. What do you do when you get no justice? You make your own. I decided to stand up. I made my own justice.’

Sure. What he really makes is bombs. What he did was stick a couple of bombs in a local train in Mumbai. Killed more than fifty people.

‘They caught me, and I said to them—an eye for an eye. Is that not justice? IS THAT NOT JUSTICE?’ He yells the last sentence, and the sound echoes in the large empty spaces of the mall.

As if anyone in our sorry bunch is going to stand up and argue with him. But no, it isn’t justice. What had those people in the train ever done to him? They were just going home. Thinking about paying their rent. Worrying that their kid wasn’t studying hard enough. Wondering if there was going to be water in their houses when they got back. Just ordinary people. Even his Muslim brothers were among the people killed in the train blasts. The same brothers he claimed to be standing up for. Terrorists are random killers. Period.

‘They gave me a noose around my neck. To be hanged by the neck until dead.’ He looks around at his captive audience. ‘Well, I’m not dead yet. And I have my own idea of justice. All of you will learn what it is.’

I don’t know if he is expecting applause. He gets a terrified silence.

He leans forward to look intensely at us. ‘You be good hostages. I will pass a good sentence.’

Speech over, they count us. ‘Thirty-six,’ says one of the men. There are four of them, not counting Mr Death Sentence. Two more men come in, dragging a man in a security uniform. All that stands between us and the outside world are six terrorists and the man they have freed. Salim Mukhtar, the great Seeker of Justice, Bomb-maker, Killer of Random People.

The security man has been shot in the stomach and is covered in blood. They put him on the floor. He keeps moaning and moaning.

Everyone tries not to look at him. Except that old woman. ‘Are we supposed to watch while this man bleeds to death?’ she says.

‘Sit down,’ says the leader.

She doesn’t. She gets up and walks over to the man.

‘SIT DOWN,’ says Salim, raising his gun.

‘Young man, I am eighty-two years old. I’ve done enough living. I have no family. No money. My arthritis is agony. You can put a bullet in me anytime.’ With that, she kneels down beside the injured man.

That old woman is the bravest person in the room.

Salim looks at her for a long moment. ‘You remind me of my nani,’ he says. ‘She was an old hag like you.’

‘I hope she’s proud of you. Seeing you on television killing people.’

I think she’s gone too far. But Salim starts laughing. ‘You are exactly like her,’ he says. ‘I hated the old bitch.’

When the old lady touches the security man, he gives a gargled scream. Of all the ways to die, being shot in the stomach is the worst. It’s certain death, but it’s slow, very slow.

There is nothing the old lady can really do for the security man. But she sits by his side and holds his hand and talks to him. And that is a lot.