Paradise on Earth

When my parents told me that we were going to Kashmir, I was a little sceptical. Most of us had only heard about terrorism and militancy in that remote state . Why should we risk going there? After all, there are so many beautiful places we could visit - London, France, Germany, or even places in our very own India, such as Kerala, Rajasthan or Ooty. Why Kashmir? A lot of people had told us that Kashmir is beautiful, but how beautiful can it be? 

Well, one has to see it to believe it. Kashmir is prettier than (or at least equally pretty as), most foreign tourist destinations in the world, such as Switzerland, Venice and Austria. The acres and acres of green meadows with sheep grazing by the thousands, is sure to make you wonder whether you have stepped onto the sets of Robert Wise’s legendary movie. Here, the hills are truly alive with the sounds of music.

Straight out of the meadows of 'The Sound of Music'!

If the hills are alive with music, then the narrow, winding mountain paths that you have to traverse on horseback are bubbling with the thrill of ‘Mackenna's Gold’. The eerie silence, broken only by the clip-clop of your horse’s hooves, is, for some, a discomfiting experience. On your left are tall stagnant mountains, while on your right are poker-straight trees standing like sentries and protecting you from becoming the river’s dinner.

The narrow path straight out of 'Mackenna's Gold'!

                                                       

Kashmir is the preferred choice for many Bollywood film makers and tons of films have been shot here, right from the Amitabh-Rekha starrer ‘Silsila’, to Sunny Deol’s debut movie ‘Betaab’; from the hilarious ‘Satte-pe-Satta’ to the poignant ‘Rockstar’, to name a few. Kashmir was the king of shooting locations until militant insurgency destroyed homes, tourism and lives.

Talking to a few local Kashmiris, and gauging the situation in and around Kashmir left us with quite a lot to ponder about. Kashmir may be extremely rich in natural resources, but it is woefully poor in terms of industries. No one wants to take the risk of putting up an industry that may be destroyed in one of the many terrorist attacks. Kashmir probably has the maximum number of people with Maruti 800 cars, a vehicle that is almost obsolete in other parts of India. Under-developed roads and corrupt officials who ask for bribes at every nook and cranny make you feel sorry for the inhabitants of this beautiful state. Army officials are present everywhere, as are huge convoys of jawans in trucks. Many of them sit alone in vast fields, bored, yet never wavering from their posts.
Most Kashmiris are not so well off, and yet, a local told me that ‘Koi bhi Kashmiri bhookha nahi sota’. Many locals, especially the more aged and experienced of the lot, recount the horrors of the time when Kashmir was torn apart. Ravaged by violence. Curfew was a regular feature in Srinagar and the streets were deserted. Kashmiris migrated in hoards to other states, taking with them only what they really needed. It was a harrowing experience and one that time will never heal.

Terror and innocence live together in Kashmir

“We have lost an entire generation of talented youngsters to terrorism. Now, we have decided that violence is not the way forward. It has been the decision of the Kashmiri people to stop this mindless terrorism that infiltrated our borders. We want a solution to our problems and a patient ear for our grievances, but above all, we want peace, for only peace brings prosperity,” a local told me.

Someone once told me that Kashmir is like the spoilt child of two divorced parents – India and Pakistan. Both these countries try and influence the locals to ‘come over to their side’. However, contrary to what many Indians think, only a skeletal minority of Kashmiris want to join Pakistan. The majority want to remain a part of India, but on one condition. They want autonomy.

However, their idea of autonomy seems a little far-fetched and rosy. They want to remain with India, want Indian soldiers to guard their borders, and want to retain everything Indian, but want their leaders to be one of their own, not from the government. Support for the current government seems to be ebbing, as more and more Kashmiris want to take up the cudgels themselves and free their people from poverty and depression. A bit utopian, right? Well, after all they have gone through, you cannot really blame them. 

Living with the memories of yesterday, hopeful of a better tomorrow...

The boom of tourists, especially this year, is a great sign for a state whose economy is sustained purely on tourism. With no industries and not enough fertile land to grow anything apart from fruits, Kashmir thrives on tourism. Which is why in towns like Pahalgam and Gulmarg, the only mode of transport is what the locals provide. You have to travel by horses to any place you want to reach in Gulmarg, and haggling with the horse-owners leaves you drained before the day has even begun. In Pahalgam, you have to use the local taxis available to reach places like Aru and Chandanwari. It doesn’t matter that they drive like maniacs and turn blind corners at 50km/hr. It’s all in a day’s work, but it does leave you with your heart in your mouth.

Srinagar, the capital, is a bustling city situated on Dal Lake. The public gardens are worth a visit and home to gorgeous manicured bushes and beautiful flowers such as pansies, lilies, roses and tulips. They are truly a treat for the eyes and a photographer’s joy, as are the many houseboats that dot the lake’s horizon. The shikara (a light, flat-bottomed boat) ride in the Dal Lake through the floating markets transports you straight to Venice, while expensive shops selling dry fruits and papier mache that line the streets remind you of Mumbai. 

The gorgeous pansies in various hues!

                                 
Travel a few hundred miles and you reach the pretty hill station of Gulmarg, home to the highest Gondola ride in the world. And by Gondola, I mean a cable car, not the boat that roams the waters of Venice. The Gondola takes you to a height of approximately 13,400 feet and all you see around you is snow, snow and more snow! Once you reach the top, if you are lucky and it is a clear day, you might be able to see vague outlines of Pakistani bunkers in a distant mountain – again hearsay, but technically believable. Afarwat, as this place is locally called, makes you bless the invention of digital cameras, as even 3 film rolls will not suffice in capturing the awe-inspiring beauty here.

The breath-taking view of the mountains from Afarwat

                                     

Pahalgam, one of the other popular tourist destinations in Kashmir, is again a few kilometres drive from Gulmarg. One must try out the white water rafting on the Lidder River. Though the rapids are not as strong as the ones in Hrishikesh (so I am told), the experience leaves you will lovely memories, not to mention numb feet and chattering teeth!

There is so much more to see in this beautiful place. Small day-trips to Hazratbal Mosque and to Chandanwari, the birth of the Sheeshnag River and also the starting point of the Amarnath Yatra that thousands of Hindus make every year, is a good way to recharge your spiritual batteries. A stop at the glacier of Sonmarg, and the drive to Aru is a great way to exploit the fact that you have a digital camera.

Locals told us that this year saw the highest number of tourists till date, and the season was not yet over. Well, that can only be good news for all of us. It is great that people are visiting this ‘Heaven on earth’ and trying to alleviate it from the hellish chaos it was in a few years ago.

The origin of the Sheeshnag River

                                       

When the famous Persian poet Firdaus said the lines below, he was not exaggerating. Kashmir truly is paradise on earth!

"Agar Firdaus Ba-Roohe Zameenast
Hameenasto Hameenasto Hammenasto..."

(If there is heaven on earth,
it is here, it is here, it is here.)

The Mathematical Menace

A few of my cousins gave their ICSE exams a few days ago, and it brought back the anxieties and nervous moments of that one long month. The tension to do well and perform in what is becoming a ludicrously competitive world. While most students sail through most papers, there is one paper that makes even the most hard working student quake with fear. It gives you sleepless nights and ghastly nightmares! The stuff that horror movies are made of.

Did I exaggerate much? Well…. Maybe. But this subject has been the bane of my life and wrought havoc on my mental framework. 'I'm sure it cant be that bad', you think. But then again, only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.

The subject I am talking about is It-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. ‘What’s in a name’ Shakespeare said. M-A-T-H-E-M-A-T-I-C-S. Whew! The name itself is so long and scary! How can any mortal that walks this earth like Maths, or think it fun and easy?

Well, to be honest, at first it was just fine. We had Addition and Subtraction. Easy enough. 5 + 3 = 8. All you had to do was take 5 fingers and then take 3 more. And the sum was done! Then they decided to include Multiplication and Division. Still okay. Then they taught you tables. 4 X 3 = 12. But once it went beyond 13 times tables, I was beginning to get a little lost. Even so, I thought I would manage. And life moved on.

For a few years we stuck to this. The sums became tougher, but then so did my comprehension ability and intelligence (I think!). Then they decided to start with this thing called Speed, Distance and Time. I actually enjoyed the topic. It was easy, all you had to do was use the formula, and voila! You could find the speed, distance or time of anything. Whoever said Maths was tough?

But then the syllabus and paper setters started getting cheeky. They no longer wanted to know the speed, distance and time of just one object. They wanted you to calculate it for two or more objects! I still remember this sum that stared me in the face in my 7th grade, while I sat with my head buried in my hands. (Remember I said that Maths gives you nightmares?)

Sum: Train A leaves from Mumbai at 12:37 (Yeah, the time had to be something weird, it couldn’t be straightforward like 8 or 9, because that would make the sum so much easier! And torture students that much less!) Train B leaves from Hyderabad at 15:42 (Bring in GMT time, it makes the sum simpler!) Train A is travelling at a speed of 123 miles/hour (Of course, the miles adds that much extra calculation. More chance of you getting the sum absolutely right! It surely couldn’t have been kilometres!) Train B is travelling at 231 kilometres/hour. (Yes, they don’t believe in uniformity, what's life without a bit of a challenge!) If the total distance is 235 kilometres, find the time at which train A and B will cross each other. (By this time I have already lost track of what is going on. The tears and burying of head in hands follows shortly!) Why would I even care to know the time? I would be dozing in the train, not anxiously sitting with my watch evaluating what time Train B crosses my train!

So many of you, (my father, brother, uncles included) are sitting there wondering what the fuss is about. Is this girl insane? The sum is supremely easy. So logical. Sigh! You will never understand the torture of those who do not understand this subject. (And let me warn you, there are quite a few of us.)

So it was about this time that Maths started fuzzing my brain. It kept trying to hammer home the fact that I was worse at it than most ‘normal’ people.

Now when you study History, there is no element of Geography or Science thrown in it, is there? Do Literature and Language have calculations? No. Each stream is pure, unadulterated and has its own charm. Why then, must Maths be any different? I was struggling with numbers, did they have to bring in the alphabet as well?

And so began my tryst with ‘A-L-G-E-BRA’. Oh on that note, what is it with these weird names that topics have in Mathematics? T-R-I-G-O-N-O-M-E-T-R-Y? L-O-G-A-R-I-T-H-I-M-S? However, nothing could beat the fits of laughter that broke out when we were introduced to MENSURATION! (I mean seriously? They were adding eerily-sounding-biological names too?)

So we dealt with Quadratic Equations, and then to encourage us to multitask, we were taught Simultaneous Equations. Then it went on to matrices, where numbers began to be superscripted on top and we were asked to apply bizarre formulae like a² + b² =? And that’s when the fear of Maths finally seeped into my consciousness. Nothing would go into my head. It would just come out from the other side. And slowly, a mental block was formed. "YOU CAN’T DO MATHS", my brain told me. And I obeyed.

I thought I would rely on the Arithmetic part. That was logical. But the mental barrier in my brain refused to tell me what the Compound Interest would be in 10 years of a particular sum of money. And frankly, why should you bother, it told me. Aren’t banks there for precisely this reason?

And then came the biggest bane of them all. G-E-O-M-E-T-R-Y! Which combined numbers, letters, lines, circles, quadrilaterals, etc. The only thing I could appreciate were the tangents; after all I could identify with them, everything about this subject was going tangential!

Well, I could go on and on. Whine about a zillion things. Like why we were expected to measure the surface area of a partially shaded ground that was covered by something called an I-S-O-S-C-E-L-E-S triangle. (Err WHAT?) Or find some angle according to the P-Y-T-H-A-G-O-R-A-S Theorem. (Oh I forgot to mention that they also included Greek in the subject. How diverse!) Or learn by rote the different formulae of a hollow and solid cylinder and cone. Just when I thought I had mastered them individually, they put the cone into the cylinder, and added some metal marbles in it for effect. And of course, the entire thing was suspended in water. I could tear my hair out!

So what kept me going? How did I pass my ICSE? Well, every dark cloud has a silver lining. Not the right metaphor to use at all, but you get my drift I hope. Maths also had a few topics that I could understand. These actually penetrated that wall in my brain. Statistics, average, mean, median, mode etc. I loved drawing bar graphs and ogives on the graph sheet (that almost made you squint due to the extreme proximity of those green lines.) I attempted each and every statistics question in my paper. And passed with a whopping (yes for me it was a huge achievement!) 86/100. I was ecstatic.

But more importantly, I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to do Maths anymore. After all, I was planning to take up Arts and then do a course in Journalism. Maths was behind me, it was my past. Never again would it stalk and shadow me, ready to pounce every time I opened the book.

A happy ending you would think. But no, remember the mixing I told you about? Apparently Maths is not the only subject that likes to mix genres nowadays. I had to recently take a test to prove my worth as a journalist for a reputed newspaper company. And what did the last page of the question paper have? Maths! As those numbers swam in front of me, all those nightmares came flooding back! Will I ever be free of it? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

The Indian Genocide

They say history repeats itself. And we never learn from our mistakes. Today, almost ten years after the brutal massacre of both Hindus and Muslims in Gujarat, what remains is nothing but memories. Haunting, painful, bitter memories. Memories of what could have been. What should have been; harried housewives, stressed office-goers, playful children. Instead of the streets being alive with the hustle and bustle of early morning commuters and the honk of vehicles, all that there is outside Gulberg Society is an eerie quiet. A chilling camaraderie of wind and silence.

While many of us were too young at the time of these riots, we have grown up hearing about the genocide in Gujarat. Our parents and Google have recounted to us the horrifying massacre that killed tens of thousands of innocent people. The perpetrators have not been brought to justice. Will they ever? That remains to be seen.

Today, according to newspaper reports, one lone Muslim continues to stay in Gulberg Society, refusing to vacate the ghost-society. Others, forever scarred by the deaths of their family, have chosen to re-locate.

What is startling to see is the amazing communalism that is still prevalent in so many places in India. Gujarat may be a model state for the Western region of India, but beneath its shiny exterior, its flyovers, its radical development and its commercialisation, lies a secret buried so deep, that many don’t even remember its existence.

It may have been a decade ago, but even today, the country sits on a dormant volcano, one that can become active anytime soon. Everything is said and done keeping the minority and majority happy. Developmental schemes are not implemented as it will lead to unrest. Reservation is given, unjustly, to maintain the vote bank. Hardened terrorists are not hung, for that will eat into the vote bank.

And the Godhra riots are not the first, nor will they be the last instance of communalism in India. Ever since pre-Partition, Hindus and Muslims have shared an acrimonious relationship, with neither side willing to hold out the olive branch. The shocking murders and rapes of thousands of Indians in Calcutta during the freedom struggle left the world wide-eyed with horror.

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. The response to retaliation should not be counter-retaliation. It is high time we consider ourselves to be Indians first and Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians later. India is called the melting pot of cultures. Let us ensure that it does not become a boiling pot of tempers and sentiments.

An Overdose of Love

In this fast-paced world, where everything is at the touch of a button, greetings and wishes have become monotonous and impersonal. The same Diwali or Christmas message is forwarded to a million people and your Facebook wall is full of birthday wishes from people you hardly know. But come Valentine's Day, Mother's Day or Father's Day, and suddenly, there is an overdose of love...

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So it’s that day again! The day when everyone suddenly realizes that they need to show their love and affection to their near and dear ones. Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day, the 14^th of February, the day of love. The day when flower vendors make a killing and sales of Archies cards and gifts shoot up by almost 50%.

You leave your house and the town is painted red – literally! Red roses, girls dressed in red, women in red saris, the list is never-ending! Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for romanticism. In fact, I’m a die-hard romantic! I live on sappy romantic movies with their cheesy dialogues and clichéd happily-ever-after endings.

What I don’t get, and what irks me to no end, is why we need a specific day to show our love and gratitude to those special people. Wishing everyone, getting all romantic and mushy, and going all out and spending your last penny to get a gift for that someone only on that day, just doesn’t make sense.

And it isn’t limited to Valentine’s Day alone. It extends to days like Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving Day etc. In the USA, tables in restaurants are booked almost 3 months in advance for these special days. You will see dutiful daughters with their fathers or doting sons with their mothers sharing a heart-to-heart talk and acting like they haven’t met all year.

Wait a minute… Of course they haven’t…

They don’t bother to call or keep in touch during the course of the year, but come Mother’s or Father’s Day and suddenly your parents are super special, even if they have been languishing in one of those old age homes throughout the year.

Your boyfriend and girlfriend is the centre of your world, even if the two of you just can’t get along the whole year. Friendship Day is a day to exchange expensive friendship bands and gifts, even if you bitch about the very same friend the next day. Women’s Day is a day to show how special, yet marginalized, women actually are. The many rapes and dowry deaths every day are immaterial.

Why do you need a day to show love? Why do you need a date on a calendar to fill your heart with warmth for those who have sacrificed so much for you? The mother who denied herself a new sari so that you could buy that toy you wanted. The father who worked overtime to make sure that your school and college fees could be paid on time. The lover who forgave those malicious personal remarks you made in a bout of anger.

However, man is a social animal and it is such events and celebrations that make life worth living. Enjoy Valentine’s Day, dress up, go out, and make sure you have a great time. Buy that little pendent you want for your mother, or that black tie you just knew you had to buy your father. There is nothing wrong in that. Contradicting myself am I? Well not really. By all means celebrate, but make sure you don’t go overboard. Make sure that the same love and affection is present every day. Say ‘I Love You’, smile, hug and do something to make that person know that his/her world truly revolves around you. Not just on one day of the year, but on every day of every month of every year.

After all, I believe that it’s not money, but love, that makes the world go round!

What the !@#! happened to free speech?

I'm sure you all have a favourite book – one that is your beacon of light and your best friend in times of distress.  Now imagine if it was torn to shreds and thrown into the fire. How would you react?

I’m sure you all remember the senseless banning of reputed author Rohinton Mistry’s book – 'Such a Long Journey', by Aditya Thackerey, the 20-year-old grandson of Bal Thackeray. Dissatisfied with a few paragraphs wherein Rohinton Mistry had portrayed them as a party that uses violent tactics, Thackerey asked the Vice Chancellor to revoke the book from the syllabus and the  Vice Chancellor did so, without consulting the Academic Council, which is the usual procedure.

Don’t you think this is a form of intellectual terrorism? No one can dictate what we should or shouldn’t read. This kind of “Talibanisation” of literature is just shocking!

Today it is this book, tomorrow another, where will this end? Literature that is internationally recognized and applauded cannot be banned on the whim of a 20 year old who himself admits that he has not even read the entire book, only the so-called ‘objectionable’ passages.

Bookshops pulled the novel of their shelves. The repercussions of this were that people showed even more curiosity to read the book and since it was not available officially, pirated copies made a killing for the unscrupulous black marketers.

This ban is not imposed by the government but by a petty regional political party not even in power. This is not the 1st time this has happened. In the past also, books have been banned. Remember the whole Salman Rushdie controversy?  His book ‘The Satanic Verses’ was banned in India because Muslims were infuriated by Rushdie’s portrayal of the prophet Mohammed.  Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran pronounced a fatwa against Rushdie, who had to live under police protection provided by the British Government for ten years. His Japanese translator was murdered. His Italian one was stabbed and his Norwegian publisher, was shot but thankfully survived. Bookshops stocking the novel were bombed and stone-pelted, and the book was burned in public places.

And it hasn’t ended there. Almost a quarter of a century after Rushdie published 'The Satanic Verses', people were still gunning for him at the recent Jaipur literary fest. Rushdie was denied entry at the literary fest and was even given death threats.

Joseph Lelyveld's distinguished book on Gandhi, 'Great Soul: Mahatma Gandhi and His Struggle With India',  had been banned in the state of Gujarat,  AK Ramanujan's great study of the Ramayana has been removed from the syllabus of Delhi university, and the country's most revered modern artist, MF Husain, died in exile after Hindu fundamentalists hounded him out of the country because they found his paintings of nude gods and goddesses too offensive.

Censorship is not limited only to print, but has now also entered digital media. A few months ago, Telecom Minister Kapil Sibal suggested that social networking sites such as Twitter and Facebook should monitor content written by its users and remove offensive material from their sites.

Monitoring such huge volumes of content is not possible physically. Besides, Facebook already has policies and on-site features that allow other users to report content as abusive or defamatory. Clamping down on social networking sites, whose very aim is to provide a platform where people can share their thoughts and emotions freely, is a ridiculous proposition.

However, I do not advocate full and uncensored freedom.  There is always a balance to be struck between freedom to speak your mind and the good sense to know when to keep silent, i.e. what many would call ‘self-censorship’. Nevertheless, the right to express opinion freely is fundamental in a democratic society.

We may detest certain opinions, but we should resist attempts to suppress them. If certain sections of society do not like something that someone says or writes, the response should not be a fatwa, book-burning or banning, attacks on publishers or death threats to the author.  It should be argument. The response to words should be words. It should be discussion. Debate.

We live in one of the largest democracies in the world, and our Constitution clearly says that prohibiting a newspaper /author from publishing his own views about a topic has been held to be a serious violation of the freedom of speech and expression.

I would like to end with a quote by ‎Evelyn Beatrice Hall that sums up the essence of freedom of speech. She said and I quote, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it".

Die and Let Die - Part III

The story finally concludes. What happens to the terrorist? Is he repentant? Does the blindfold of hatred and anger lift from his eyes? Or does he die defiant and brainwashed? Lets find out...

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The world is slowly blurring. It’s so tough to breathe. I can’t see anything or anyone. Death is close at hand, I know. I can hear his footsteps in the corridors of my mind. I can see him approaching, with his wide-arched scythe. Forming a question mark, yet hardly leaving me with a choice as to whether or not I want to go. I don’t. For all my bravado, I must accept that I am scared. I am scared to leave Ammi alone with the two girls. In my ‘brash exuberance of youth’, as Professor Herring might put it, I did not even bid them goodbye. So cocky was I of the success of our plan, that it never occurred to me that it might be the last time I ever saw them.

Oh how I long to meet them! Just once. I want to feel Zubeidaa’s long wavy hair on my cheeks, see Shamma blushing on her wedding day. I want to taste Ammi’s gajar ka halwa. There is so much left to do. Will Huzoor give Ammi the cash he promised? He told me he would. And I trust Huzoor. But in this final hour- with Death looking into my face, sickle poised in the air, waiting for the right moment to strike - nothing seems clear. What if Huzoor goes back on his word? How will Ammi repay my loans? How will she gather enough money for Shamma’s wedding? Zubeidaa wants to study Politics in France. How will Ammi cough up the cash? The money from Grandpa’s inheritance is now almost gone…

No no, Huzoor will pay them. Wait, even if the mission fails? We had never discussed this in great detail. It had always remained a nagging doubt, confined to the shadows, hovering around the periphery, living in a lonely tent outside each one’s mind. No no… ouch! My wound throbs with the pain of a hundred steely daggers. The bastard who shot me in the arm, may he rot in Hell! If not for him, I wouldn’t have fallen down and been pumped with bullets in my legs and arms. I would have escaped.

Wait! Did I hear gunshots? The movement of feet? Yes, yes, more gunshots! They sound like AK 47s. Silence. More gunshots. Silence. What is going on? Are we winning? God is on our side, of course we will win. And I will die a martyr. And mothers will set me up as an example for their boys.

But… What if Heaven is not the enticing Garden of Eden that Huzoor told us about? What if there are no 72 virgins waiting for me with their arms wide open? What if Heaven is not as Hitler said it would be? Eternal glory? What if I go to Hell? What if there are Jews all over and it is my destiny to live with them forever? Will Death hurt? Can it hurt more than my pain right now? Oh Lord, is that my blood? Gushing out like red wine from the tap of a barrel. I feel weak. Light-headed. Are those stars there? How can they be? This is a building. It should have a ceiling.

Am I writhing in agony? Am I screaming and thrashing around? I can hear some screams but I don’t even know if they’re mine anymore. Can’t even see, nothing is clear… What are all these lights for? Doctor’s operating table? What about that dark tunnel that everyone says you pass through? Am I dead? Am I alive? Where am I? Why aren’t my eyes opening? There is stabbing pain somewhere but I can’t place it. Where is my wrist? What’s the time? I want this agony to stop. I think I should just bite off the cyanide. I can’t even turn my head. It’s whirling. Can’t think straight. Ammi. Is that Ammi there? Where is my wrist, why can’t I feel it? Why am I so numb?

What is this noise? Why is it whirring? Sounds like the church bells from that movie. Hunchback of something it was. I hope the girl with the brooding black eyes is safe. I wanted a daughter like her. Maybe with that woman who caught my eye. She was a real beauty, I have to admit. Will I meet Abba in heaven? No, he will surely go… to Hell...  With that bitch of his… Zubeidaa? Who will teach her how to use the DSLR camera now? Where will the money for her wedding come from? Huzoor will pay them won’t he? The others will complete the mission and return home na? I’ll be the martyr and they will sing praises and put my picture up. The boy who sacrificed everything, including his life, for the cause of Jihad. The atheist that turned believer.

Will they? Put my photo up? Or will I be forgotten? What if they forget me here and go home? What will the Indian government do to me? Will I be just another name in the pages of a newspaper? Will Shamma ’s kids just know me by name? Will I just remain a mere memory in the minds of my sisters? One that fades and disappears over time?

No, no… I shall go to Heaven. What does the Koran say? “The smallest reward for the people of Heaven is an abode where there are eighty thousand servants and seventy-two houri, over which stands a dome decorated with pearls, aquamarine and ruby, as wide as the distance from al-Jabiyyah to San'a.”

Maybe it will look like Baba Tahrir Mosque. I feel Life slipping away from me, trickling like sand in an hourglass. Mein Leben ist vorbei. My life is over. It has been worthwhile, yes, I don’t regret anything... Except not meeting my family. And not being able to pursue my PhD. And not having the time to date a nice girl and set up a family with her. And not giving away my sisters’ hands in marriage. And not being able to spend my old age in Berlin, under the shadow of the cherry tree. Oh, there is so much I wanted to do, so much I took for granted.

Huzoor will pay them the princely sum won’t he? He said he would. But what if he doesn’t? Who will pay for Shamma’s wedding trousseau? Where will Ammi get all the money from? What will happen to Zubeidaa’s Politics course?

The throbbing refuses to stop. I am paralysed. My arm has become a slithering river of fire. The pain is coursing through my veins like deadly poison, determined to seep through the little cogs of my heart and jam them.  I can almost feel it. Tick-tock goes the clock. How much longer? Wie viel Zeit habe ich?

Will nothing stop this excruciating pain? Nothing? Let me think of the wonderful Baba Tahrir Mosque. Let me die with God’s name on my lips. Intricate sea-green mosaic tiles covered the walls that sparkled like a mermaid’s tail. The magnificent arches towered high above the Square and offered shade and sanctuary to weary travellers. Travellers like me. I am indeed weary… Weary of this life and all its complexities, weary of this deception, weary of unfulfilled promises and dashed hopes. Weary of everyth…

Die and Let Die - Part II

The story continues...

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The sudden dazzling light blinds my eye. Look at the number of vendors. There are more people gathered at the Gateway than the entire population of Germany. This will be easy. Get in, get out. Merge with the crowd. This is going to be a piece of cake.

Well well, what do we have here? Wow! Is she attractive! Rahman was right. Indian women are pretty. In an unusual, unconventional sort of way. This one is licentious. Look how she coyly catches my eye. I too can play the part of a charmer ma’am. There. All it took to steal her heart away and make her blush was one flick of my chestnut brown hair and a slight adjustment of my rimless glasses. I feel almost tipsy. The sweet fragrance of cotton candy and the heavy aroma of perfume intoxicate me with desire. If all goes well today, I will visit this spot again. Pick one of the many apsaras flitting around like butterflies. Give way to my carnal desires and breathe in the scent of her body, feel her smooth skin rub against mine…

Hey! Where is everyone? Fahim? Ram? Ah there I see Christopher in the distance! I better hurry. It is almost time. I really need to focus now. Think of what rewards this mission will bring. I cannot allow anything to disrupt my thoughts, especially not something as worthless as a woman, a mere chattel.

No one is giving us a second glance. And why would they? Dressed as I am, in my blue checked shirt and black jeans, I look like any ordinary what’s-that-word… ah Mumbaikar! No one can see the bullet proof vest inside. Everyone is oblivious to the contents of the little blue vial tied to my wrist. The most deadly of all poisons. Cyanide. There was a book by Agatha Christie. It was one of my favourites. Sparkling Cyanide I think it was called. It exposed me to the potency of the drug. I still remember the beaming look of appreciation that Huzoor gave me when I suggested we use cyanide. It fills my heart with such warmth to think how proud he will be of us when we return. Especially of me. He tries not to show it, but I am his favourite. Hardly any of the others are educated; forget having a Master’s in Islamic Studies or an A+ in research. And it was my computer knowledge that helped them discover and pinpoint the location of the mission. Well GPRS helped. A lot. So did Google, that great invention of Larry Page and Sergey Brin.

How much more do we need to walk? I think we should reach in a couple of minutes. Where are those dry fruits? Ah here. I better pop a couple in my mouth, I don’t know when I will get to eat again. They will help keep me satiated during the long siege. This city looks so pretty tonight. I’m just waiting to see how pretty it will look after our mission is through.

            

“We turn here. In this alley Chris! Call Farhan, the bafoon has overshot!” My God. Was tue ich mit diesem Jungen? How do I handle this idiot? Still, we need his knowledge of the hotel. He knows it inside-out. Well, if his knowledge of the hotel is as good as his knowledge of the street, we are sunk.

            

Holy Mother of God, is that the hotel? How regal. Bedecked with lights. It’s sparkling with the brilliance of a thousand splendid suns. Arre wah what a book that was. Khaled Hosseini. What poignancy. Maybe I’ll also write about this mission once I get back. Or tell my roommate Max to make a short documentary; it would be useful for the next few generations of young ones.

           

“Bloody fool Farhan! The back door, not the front one. What has got into you today? Bist du betrunken? Seriously? You’re asking me what it means? It means are you drunk, you idiot! Now move it!” Hey Bhagwan! This boy will jeopardise the entire mission. I better go in front. “Are you sure this is the back entrance? Why are there so many guards then? I’ll create a diversion, you guys slip past fast.”

*********

            

Whew, that was close. The watchman was such a dim-witted moron, swallowing the tripe I fed him. Give me strength oh Lord! Hitler, guide me in my Holy Mission.

How sweet. So many families and couples. Phoniness dripping like honey off the sides of toast. I could gag at the false sweetness. How many of them are having extra marital affairs? How many of these men have abandoned their wives to eat with these whores here? And how many women are secretly scheming and plotting to enter these men’s lives and hearts and destroy their families? And orphan their children? And unhinge their wives? All of them deserve to die, every single one. Except the children. But how can I avoid that? How can I separate the young ones from their parents? What is their crime and how are they at fault?

            

Aim, point and shoot. The feel of the AK 47 sturdy in my hand, the look of fear in all their eyes. This is so exhilarating! Why then does one second seem like an hour? It’s like someone has pressed the slow motion button in an action flick. Like everyone is walking in space. Especially the kids. They stand stupefied, expressionless, horror-struck. See the terror in this one’s young eyes! I cannot take his life away from him. My hand quivers, hovering on the trigger, but I just cannot get myself to squeeze it. It is hopeless. I cannot harm him. Usko jeene ka haq hai. He deserves to make something of his life.

            

Let me shoot somewhere else. Kill that bastard of a Jew sitting there. And also his wife. Fools! Dressing in their traditional clothes as if they almost want me to kill them. They stick out like sore thumbs. They deserve to be butchered. They are nothing but the thorns among the beautiful roses of our lives. This is only the restaurant. There must be scores of them in the hotel. They always gather here at this time of the year, some bloody festival of theirs, what is it called? Aim. Shoot. There. Leave the little girl. Aim. Shoot. Only the babies are wailing. Why isn’t anyone coming to save them? Why this stony silence? What is going on?

            

That one there. The one with the black eyes. So piercing. She is calling me towards her, I’m enchanted, charmed. Such innocence on that radiant face. Is she an angel? She looks exactly like Zubeidaa did when she was a child. Why is she resisting my touch? Her pupils are like deep, black, lifeless tunnels. Boring into mine. What is she searching for in them? Does she find it? “Farhan? Chris?” Where is everyone? I better make my way to the second floor. This deathly silence is unnerving me now.

            

I cannot bear to drag myself away from her. She has not moved an inch in the last few minutes. Or is it an hour? I have lost track of time. Is she in shock? Did someone kill her parents? I must go upstairs, I must. Hitler! Keep your hand on mine, guide me. Schützen Sie mich. Protect me.

           

What do we have here? A CCTV? Boom, there you go! I’m not going to let the Indian government gather evidence against any of us. Now, why don’t I start a fire? Maybe that will grab a few eyeballs and get some media attention. Then according to plan, we shall take a few hostages and ask for the release of Huzoor’s brother and chacha. And then, we shall return, triumphant.

*********

            

Farhan and Christopher are supposed to be in the second wing by now. I hope they have reached. I am lagging behind once again and I must find Ram. We should make our way to the kitchen and from there to the Maharaja Suites on floor six. There must be some high profile celebrities we can take as hostages. Doesn’t the sixth floor also have a huge herd of Jews? Waiting... Like cattle ready for slaughter.

            

What is this new noise? This doesn’t sound like our AK 47s. It is the sound of a 1A SMG 9mm Sub-machine gun. It has a reputation for excellent reliability under adverse conditions. Damn. Why did our spies miss this during their two and a half month recce?  They never said the police had such sophisticated weaponry. Maybe it’s not the police then. Maybe the army has been called in, but no, the time span is too short. Who knew Bombay would react so quickly? This is definitely going to jeopardise our plans. Big Time. We had planned an hour of uninterrupted shooting and killing, but it has barely been thirty minutes. Or has it? Shit. We are so screwed.

            

Our only hope is if Farhad and Chris reach the second wing in time. Then they may… who goes there? I swear I saw a shadow lurking in the corner stairwell there. Or are my eyes playing tricks? I think my nerves are frayed and it is just my imagination. The guns are pretty far away, no one can come now. Unless that is Ram. But why would he be here? He should have been on the third floor. Unless he is lagging behind like me. The guns seem closer now, I better move… Oh Lord, what was that deafening crash? I think that door across the hallway leads to the fifth floor. Ok I better run across. No one seems to be about as of now. Ok. Here goes noth… “Aarrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhh! Fuck!”

Stay tuned for the third and final part of the story... 

Die and Let Die - Part I

Terrorism – one of the gravest problems we face in society today. The pain, dread and heartache associated with each act of terror is something that cannot be put into words. No amount of sympathy, forget empathy, is enough to heal the wounds in the hearts of the aggrieved and bereaved.

The terrorists themselves have shown a shift in the last few years; from rural, uneducated and uncouth, to urbane, educated and suave – their physical make-up has indeed changed, but their mental make-up remains the same. Brainwashed and moulded, they are convinced that their jihad will lead them to the greatest glory of all – a place in Heaven.

So what goes on in the mind of an educated, multi-lingual terrorist? How is he different from the uncouth one? Read on to catch a glimpse of this terrorist’s thoughts…

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Isfahan Square is hardly a square. I wonder why it is called Isfahan Square. What a stupid name. It is a huge rectangle that sprawls over hundreds of acres and the government calls it a square.


Oh God. This boat is so rocky, the sea so choppy. How much longer till we reach? I need something to distract my mind. Maybe I’ll just go back to the wunderschön image of the Baba Tahrir Mosque. Oh how radiant and resplendent it was in the afternoon sunlight. Intricate sea-green mosaic tiles covered the walls that sparkled like a mermaid’s tail. The magnificent arches towered high above the Square and offered shade and sanctuary to weary travellers like me.

The off-white dome… Ouch! When will this wretched boat stop shivering like it’s freezing in the Arctic Ocean? The off-white dome that shone like a pearl nestled in an oyster and the chorus of Allah-u-Akbar that reverberated through the marketplace, reminding everyone that God is omnipresent.

The lines of shops from which I bought Ammi silverware and trinkets that dazzled like gems on a tiara, what were they called? Oh my memory fails me at this unearthly hour in the middle of this god-forsaken place! Let me think. What did I get Zubeidaa and Shamma? Oh yes, one of those scores of scarves and stoles that formed a kaleidoscope of vivid colour, confusing me which shade of pink to pick.

Shit. Are you kidding me? It’s raining? Abhi baarish honi thi? Jetzt? Now I will die before our assignment even starts. And then everything I have sacrificed will be in vain. All my education and training. Dammit. “Eh Farhan! Listen. Vahaan se chaata de na.  Aren’t you feeling cold? This wind has chilled my bones. I don’t know how you handle all this! Arre yaar de na! Give it to me!”

Farhan. So dumb, I wonder how he was picked for this important task. God knows how Huzoor picked him. And we are the ‘Chosen Ones’ apparently. The elite. Die beste. If we are the best, I wonder how amateur the others in the group were. Arjun wasn’t picked. It was a real shock to me. How could they not choose him? He was, you know, awesome and stuff. I toh thought he will be hand-picked first. Well, who am I to decide? I should be grateful they selected me. I guess it was all my training at Berlin. And my course in Islamic Studies and the fact that I got a distinction in my research on Nazism and the Führer.

This flimsy umbrella. Hardly helps keep the rain off my back. Berlin didn't have such torrential rain. The weather was so pleasant. And my room overlooking the beautiful cherry tree pregnant with blossom. And this month, the charming month of March, is the best time there. Max and I would laze around and watch the sun play hide-and-seek with the clouds. Then get up each morning and greet the picture of the Führer on the wall - ‘Heil Hitler’.

I miss my room. I miss Max. I miss the joy of research. The sudden illumination and epiphany that I received halfway through it. Only I understood Hitler and the desperate struggle he faced. How it must have ripped his heart apart to see Germans and Jews standing side-by-side. Seeing kings and subjects share streets and houses and beds. And the world scoffed at him. Said he wasn’t righteous. Haraamzaade, sabhi ke sabhi. Bastards! All of them. They finally forced him to put a gun to his head. My Führer. My poor Führer. I would have been his staunchest ally had he been alive today; I would have obeyed him like a son. Like I obey Huzoor.

There comes that burning memory again. What am I doing? My hands are shivering. Control yourself. Be a man! How many years have passed since Abba… no I will not call him that. Since the man who fathered me, yes, that’s all he is. Since the man who fathered me left the house? Left my beautiful mother for that whore. That Jewish woman who mesmerised him with her black magic. Was he there to hear Ammi’s heart crack and shatter into a thousand pieces? Was he there when she tried to gather all those pieces, every piece of her broken heart that cut her like glass? Why did he ignite the fire of passion in her heart when he had decided to douse it with water? He took away my childhood. I was forced to leave my cocoon even before I had grown the wings to fly out of it. I had to look after Zubeidaa, Shamma and Ammi.

It was only because we were affluent enough - thanks to the money Ammi had inherited after her father’s death - that I could go to the University of Berlin. Of course, the scholarships I got took care of the rest. I remember myself then. I was a battered, broken soul, drowning in a sea of anger that the man I despise left me with. It was Mein Kamph that soothed my wounds. I could see myself as the young Hitler, having intense conflicts with his father. Hitler’s father never understood him, just as mine never understood me. Or anyone in our family. It was Huzoor’s love and care that made me the man I am today. And look at where that devotion has brought me. To this glorious mission.

Ah! The rain is lessening. The sky is now a deep purple. Is that Maximum City? Are those the lights of Bombay? Wow! My heart is hammering against my chest. Huzoor would be proud today. Unhe kitna fakr hota. Huzoor… the father I never had. He is everything that vile man was not. He fed me and paid for my lodging in the university premises. Er ist mein wahrer Vater. My true father. Who looks after strangers nowadays? Koi bhi nahi. He not only looked after me, but also encouraged me in my Islamic Studies course. He gave me the Koran to read. What a delightful work of art that book is! I had never read it before. What about that other book? By Professor James Herring? That was such a wonderful read, I must gift it to Shamma when I get back. She will enjoy it.

My back is stiff now. “Eh Farhan, how much longer?” Ten minutes he says. And who the hell is he to tell me to shut up? Son of a…! I’m older, wiser and more experienced than him. Oh well, I better hold my tongue for now. I’ll take him to task once we’re back home, God knows when that will be. Oh I can hardly think straight now. I feel so hot, is it the anticipation of the deed? What will the people be like? I have heard that India, Bombay in particular, is a myriad mixture of mores, a peculiar potpourri of religions and faiths. The perfect place for our enterprise.

Ouch! Farhan you ass, were you not taught how to bring in a boat gently? Well, stop now. Darkness all around. Where are we? Farhaaaannnnn! The dimwit has steered us into some remote corner of the jetty. It feels like there is a huge cloth of black velvet obscuring my eyes. Didn’t Professor Mia tell us in our photography workshop that black velvet absorbs maximum light? And there’s nothing darker than that. Oh I really miss my DSLR camera. I hope Zubeidaa uses it well.

 

Focus now, focus. Careful. Why is Christopher giving me a hand? I can get out myself, thanks. Okay. So this is the Land of Dreams, the Harbour of Opportunities, and the City of Resilience. We’ll see just how resilient they are tonight...

 

This is Part I of the three part series. Keep visiting to read what happens next...