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…