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...