Kabir

What a stupid thing to do. I hadn’t even realized I had done it. Signed my real name. And then she confronted me. It was the right time. I should have told her everything. Given her the letter. Finished it. But I held on. So little time. So little time. I couldn’t open my hand and let fall these few moments I held so tight. I am sorry, Amanbhai. I will give her the letter when she wakes up. These are the last moments that I will steal.

I watch her sleep. She turns away from me, curled into herself, everyone shut out. But I am happy just to watch her. I have no other expectations.

Around us, others are dozing. The two shop girls are whispering, consoling each other. The television sets drone on, anchors replacing each other in a frenzied relay. The shots show a crowd of people outside the mall. Dozens of cameras and the flat circles of mobile satellite stations. Policemen have set up a cordon. Everyone is waiting. The demands have been made. Something has to be given.

Even the terrorists are dozing. But I’m awake and alert.

Suddenly, there is noise. Salim screaming at us. ‘Get up! GET UP RIGHT NOW!’

The other hostages are being shoved into the room. They too look disoriented and petrified. One woman is crying hysterically. Two other women are trying to hold her as she thrashes from side to side, weeping. They crowd in, worried and afraid.

‘Get up right now!’ yells Salim. He stands in front of the screens. ‘I want you to watch this. I want you to pay attention.’ No one moves their eyes from him.

‘I am a man who has tried to be just and fair. I gave your government an offer. And they took me for a fool. We’ve been waiting five hours now. I have run out of patience.’

He gestures. Two of his men step forward, and as the crowd shrinks back, they grab a random man. His wife begins to scream. He fights them, but one of them clubs a gun across his face and he is dragged, dazed and stumbling, from the room.

‘Watch,’ says Salim. ‘And learn.’

Everyone turns with dread to the screens. All of them show a single image while the presenters’ voices speak in a multitude of tones. ‘Salim Mukhtar has just sent an ultimatum.’

We scarcely hear what the presenters are saying. Everyone is riveted to the images on the screen. We see the entrance to the mall. It is deserted. The police have set up a cordon at some distance. The door opens and the man who has been dragged from our midst stumbles out. He stands there blinking in the sunlight, looking bewildered. He has no idea what to do. He takes a step forward and suddenly falls to the ground. He has been shot.

In a bizarre echo, we hear the actual shot before it sounds from the screens.

The screaming woman begins to shriek louder. ‘They’ve killed him! They’ve killed him!’

It isn’t over. The man isn’t dead. As we watch in horror, he begins to move. Slowly, he gets to his knees and tries to crawl down the stairs. He is heading for the cordon.

A volley of shots rings out. We hear them reverberate from outside and from the screens. We see him jerk again and again. Somehow, he just doesn’t go down. He gets to the first step. He slowly begins to crawl down the steps, leaving a wide streak of blood behind him. He moves very slowly. The shots have stopped. Nothing seems to be happening except that man keeps moving with incredible slowness, fumbling his way from one step to another. Second step. Third. Fourth.

Then the door opens. A terrorist runs out, takes aim and puts a bullet through his head. He runs back through the door. The man slides down another step or two. No one moves as they will him to get up. To make it to the safety line of cameras and policemen. But this time he is still.

Salim steps in front of the screens to face us. ‘I have given the government a new deadline. One hour. One life. Every hour they delay, one of you will die. That should help them move.’