A Jinxing Portrayal

A Jinxing Portrayal

The violence-laden atmosphere of the day in the town had continued into a night with the air almost reeking of the suffering of human souls. Sporadic rioting incidents had been reported on the radio till the evening. Liyaquat looked out of the window in the direction of the steel plant. He sat there, thinking his thoughts even as the clock announced 5. Just above the level of the plant’s inter-departmental railway line, at the edge of hogback of the slag-dumping yard of the plant, a slim sector of the moon still hung. A diesel engine carting waggons of molten slag ladles, rolled to the yard, and halted to obscure the line of view to the moon. The yellow metal slag spilled out in a stream as the ladle was slanted. No sooner than the yellow spillage from the ladle ceased and faded into the sickly looking darkness, the daybreak hues emerged on the grim skyline; the dramatic coincidence made it appear as if the ailing surroundings had taken a heartening turn to shed it’s sickness and unease soon under the alleviating effect of a liquid yellow medicine.

This was the third night after riots broke out in Jamshedpur in 1978. By then, more than 1100 people had lost their lives, which included children, women and old persons of both the Hindu and the Muslim population. The city was handed over to the Military. Liyaquat was one such child from the hundreds who were orphaned by the riots. He was saved because he luckily had come to his uncle’s house in a different locality where the Muslim population was in safety. Every night Liyaquat would walk to the window and sit there brooding, looking out into the grim blankness that came with the all pervading frightening silence resulting from entire human life of the town drawn in inside shut doors of houses, around the precipitously incongruous hum and activity in the centrally located and eternally working steel plant. He would wonder if ever again in life, he would see such an isolated briskness in listless surroundings.
After two weeks, Liyaquat could figure out that it was necessary for him to make his own arrangements. Finally he took a train to Bombay and reached the city until then seen by him in only films. As he set foot in Bombay, he learnt that Bombay was more than tall buildings, costly cars, smartly dressed people and open sea beaches. Daily, at the end of his daylong struggle for subsisting, each moment of which was laden with affront, rejection, and despair, when he would reach the Victoria Terminus Railway station for passing his night hours, he would lean against some wall in a lonesome corner near an illuminated weighing machine, and sit brooding for hours at end. Eventually when he would be completely overridden by the agony of his vicissitude, he, with sole faith in prayer to come to his aid, would recite in his mind the lines of the prayer. As his mind would absorb the lines, he would find the rejection, insult and despair nearly outweighed and erased. The lines of prayer would sink deep into his mind to throw out the words of rejection, affront, and despair; how very identical in simplicity of the manner was it to the mechanism of the weighing machine that threw a ticket in it’s spout as the inserted coin sank into the machine.

He now had seen well that apart from the Bombay he had seen in films, a perspective of life here different from the celluloid version was the inseparable slum spreads. In a corner of one of these slums, Liyaquat also found refuge. Many other truths of the life in the city, one by one, became revealed to the young boy. Over the years, he tried to settle in different businesses like selling sleazy readymade garments on footpaths, repairing watches and so on. As none showed a jump in progress, he finally decided to put down roots and opened a magazine and bookstall. So many years in Bombay had taught him to better count his blessings and remain satisfied.

Liyaquat preserved the two weeks of 1978 riots in his mind, and whenever he heard or read about a Hindu-Muslim riot in some part of the country, he found that two innocent eyes of a twelve-year-old orphan floated to visibility in his mind from the backyard of a pile of years. And then he would be badly ill at ease like a man who suddenly, while in a train, experiences again after a hiatus of years the same choking odor of some chemical factory’s discards that he remembers so well due to it’s being sharply unbearable, and to which he was exposed years before for the first time.

And now this day Liyaquat was returning to Jamshedpur after 22 long years. As the super express train took him near Jamshedpur, he remembered like a revision before an examination: his meeting Mushtauq at Bombay; he and Mushtauq spending evenings in bars of Colaba with Mushtauq footing the bills; Mushtauq knowing bit by bit all about Liyaquat’s past; Mushtauq’s instigation to take revenge on Hindus for his life orphaned by them; his being shilly-shally first and then falling in line with Mushtauq; Mushtauq’s telling him about his association with an overseas Muslim organization; their initial talk developing into a well-trained prolepsis of organizing a planted riot in Jamshedpur; and finally now his coming to Jamshedpur on purpose.

With the help of his one friend Afzal , Liyaquat could manage a meeting with Kamaal- the local strongman of city’s small underworld. At first blush, the appearance of Kamaal didn’t give any impression of his being a professional criminal and killer. On the contrary, he looked like a small town businessman, his face not hiding the ennui of his daily business matters. Later, it really proved to be a hard time for Liyaquat to convince Kamaal of seriousness of the purpose of that interview. Only when Liyaquat showed him the money that he had brought with him, Kamaal started hearing him with patience. A long time was spent discussing over different aspects of how Kamaal would arrange for planting riot situations in the town; at length Liyaquat rose, breathing free, to leave the place.
That evening, Afzal with his one friend came, and they all went to see some of Afzal’s friends. Liyaquat remembered that somewhere in the backyards of that area in some gully, Faiyaz Ahmed used to stay during the times of 1978. There was no telling whether he was still there or had moved? He inquired about Ahmed from Afzal’s friend. The friend knew the old man. Ahmed had not moved from his old place.

Faiyaz Ahmed was one of the close friends of Liyaquat’s father and used to work with his father in the Steel Plant. Liyaquat took leave from Afzal and his friends, and went to see Ahmed.

The girl, who opened the door, was a girl with average beautiful features; and was wearing glasses, the integrity and sapience in her eyes clearly visible. Later, Liyaquat learnt that she was a teacher and was an MA in Economics.
Liyaquat told her that he wanted to see Faiyaz Ahmed. She showed him in and went inside. After few minutes, old Faiyaz Ahmed entered the room buttoning his shirt.

Ahmed appeared trying to recall if he had met the young man somewhere. He could not call up and asked, “ I have perhaps not met you earlier. Regarding what did you want to see me?”

“ You remember my father Mansoor Ansari? He died in 78 riots.”

The old man immediately recollected his friend. All except one boy in Mansoor’s family were killed in those riots. So this was Mansoor’s son.

After lapse of a long moment, Ahmed asked Liyaquat, “ Where do you live now a days; what work do you do?”

“ I live in Bombay now a days. I own a books shop there."

The same girl came again carrying a tray with tea overflowing from small cups into saucers. She kept the tray on the table and went back. Her father told that Sabiha was a lecturer in an Urdu junior college. She wanted to study further but the responsibility of her old unemployed father forced her to quit studying and start working.

Liyaquat looked at the untidy curtain behind which Sabiha had disappeared in the other room. The warm air of the room, being churned by the noisy old ceiling fan had, with it’s thrust, stretched the curtain against the wooden frame of the door to make it look like a fuliginous canvass of a surly artist experienced in a saddening style of art- a style of presenting successfully beauties in pain in a gloomy background.

Next evening Liyaquat went to see Faiyaz Ahmed who had invited him for the dinner. The conversation and dinner stretched to midnight hours. The following day Sabiha had to go to Ranchi for some work at the University. She had to return the same day and probably it could extend to the late hours of night in returning. To and fro traveling between Jamshedpur and Ranchi on the same day demanded much more than Ahmed’s state of health, so Ahmed asked Liyaquat to accompany Sabiha the following day. Liyaquat came in the morning to collect Sabiha from her house and they reached the Jamshedpur bus terminal.

Sabiha was doing her post-graduation in philosophy based on works of Gandhi. As soon as they embarked the bus, which was nearly empty, she opened her bag and reached for a Xerox copy of a published article of some famous writer on her subject. Liyaquat watched her read for a while. He said, “ What rigmarole are you reading? This is just a folderol: just rotten subterfuges put together.”
Sabiha, letting go of the papers, which dropped in her lap, looked at him in her astonishment and said, “ This is not a heap of prevaricating ideas. This is the analysis of the Philosophy of Mahatma, which is well read, researched and accepted in all parts of modern world.”

“ They are disseminating misleading information to young students. Non-violence! That makes me laugh. In this country, they are speaking no language of non-violence. They have always lifted arms to kill innocents of our community. The prevaricating books and the selfish Muslim politicians have misled us enough. Our people in politics have traded the welfare of our people to Hindu politicians for their own selfish ends. They are not bothered in the least that the community is slaving to those who miss no opportunity to kill our innocent people. Our integrity is doubted; not only doubted but also we are framed in lies of their politicians. Our people work their guts out in factories here, pay taxes and government spends that very tax money to kill our brethren in Kashmir and on borders. It’s we who work hard and the Hindu industrialists grab the profits. With the power of money, they get our Mosques demolished by their hoodlums. This very money of industrialists is used for paying hoodlums who kill our parents and children in riots. I fail to understand why are we making available means of self-destruction by working hard only to strengthen the hands of government?”

Sabiha looked at his face in astonishment as if she was looking into the tense face of a misled child of her school. She then asked, “ Are these your own beliefs?”
“ Yes, yes, these are my own beliefs. Not only I but all Muslims with a sensible head think likewise.”

“ Wrong, Liyaquat. This is totally a wrong and damaging line of thinking. This is the thinking of just a small section of people whose malevolent objectives have been unveiled several times in the past. Have you ever bothered to read in newspapers a name APJ Abdul Kalaam? The former most important and powerful person in Defense department of Indian Government and now the scientist turned President of India. And what do you say? Do you think that the clothes that you wear, the food that you eat everyday, the train and bus in which you travel and the house in which you live have come to you by the sheer hard work of only Muslims? These are there for you because of the hard work of Hindus, Muslims and all others; and are made available to you by the government with the tax money paid by Hindus, Muslims and all others. The progress that we find in this country is there only what with this being a free democracy. Were it a slave country, all these fruits of hard work of citizens would escape to foreign lands from here; and we would be reduced to scrape the barrel for a subsisting living. The Military and the Police are there for safeguarding this very freedom of the country. Today the country has world famous institutions for medical, engineering and computer sciences. Are Muslims not allowed there? Do you think these facilities are made available with the tax money of Muslims only? If the words that you spoke are really yours, then I am worried and also feel sorry for you.”

Liyaquat stared without a word at Sabiha’s sapient face. The explanations, forcefully driven home by Sabiha, appeared to be in the process of rocking the boat for the misled young man.

Liyaquat looked blankly at the equanimity that haloed the comely face of Sabiha. It appeared that the sapient brightness of thinking ability that gussied her attraction up was an impregnable barrier to the shadow of sleight and subterfuge of the world. He forced a speech, bereft of any self-assurance to his lips to ask his last question to Sabiha, “ You don’t understand that your university degree won’t tell you many things. Tell me, when we set up settlements in a corner of the town after losses in riots where our young men and elderly people establish their small businesses, there too, Hindu hoodlums won’t let us live in peace. They come there with their establishments to uproot us from there. If Hindus are well intentioned, why should they come to meddle with the subsisting livings of our folks?”

“I don’t know how much of this is correct but I can see where you have got your wires crossed. These small shops in Azadnagar and Muslim settlements of that ilk are not symbols of a Hindu conspiracy. These shops belong to Hindu families struggling just like Muslim folks. These Hindus come here because it is cheaper to establish shops here; but surely Hindu communalism is not being traded in these shops. You live in Bombay, Liyaquat. You won’t believe this easily. While our people come to Azadnagar for living in isolation from the rest of the city, these few Hindu establishments become a sort of bridge between Muslims of Azadnagar and the rest of the city. Only because of these few shops and establishments, Azadnagar is counted today, a common part of the city where people from far off parts come for their needs. Do you imagine that in a Muslim car garage, the Muslim mechanic talks with a Hindu customer with the religious fundamentalism running high in his mind? Is his conscience full of hatred for the Hindu customer while the mechanic repairs the car of a Hindu customer? It isn’t so, Liyaquat. The mechanic treats Hindu customer just like he would treat a Muslim customer. These shops create an opportunity for Hindus and Muslims to interact. The important thing is that a Muslim working for a Hindu or a Hindu working for a Muslim remains unaffected by communal hatred as the worker does the work. Even great books or great humanitarian lectures cannot succeed in getting these men do something for the other without hatred. Do you realize the enormous importance of this? Both have been trained to hate each other, but just their efforts for an ordinary need of human life become successful in blotting the communal hatred. Do you think this can be achieved by even well intentioned speeches or books?”

During the four hours in bus, between Jamshedpur and Ranchi, Liyaquat was engaged in thinking about Mushtauk, Kamaal and he himself. Whenever his confidence was shaken in that course, he looked at Sabiha’s face in his desperation.

Upon reaching Ranchi, they headed straight for the University. Sabiha made inquiries at some office and told Liyaquat that it might take more than an hour to get her certificate issued. Liyaquat waited near the University post office, which wore a completely deserted look at this hour. The counter clerks were sitting idly in their silence behind counters with no visitors to attend on. Only in the far corner of the post office, the hammering of a worn stamp seal on letters by a postman was meddling with the reign of silence. How marked a briskness in calm and lackadaisical surroundings it was! A marked, isolated briskness in listless surroundings here again after those nights of 1978. It turned his thoughts to Mushtauk, Kamaal, and finally, again to Sabiha’s words driving home in his mind the truth revealed by her statements. Liyaquat sat on a cemented rostrum surrounding a tree near the post office; and smoked in indecision while waiting for Sabiha. Finally Liyaquat saw her come towards him, folding some papers and putting them in her handbag. Liyaquat threw the cigarette butt, crushed it under shoe and rose from his place.

Sabiha appeared to be quite exhausted. She ate very little just to give Liyaquat a company. After lunch, she felt even worse; her face looked feverish. Liyaquat touched her forehead to feel the fever. She had a fever which made it impossible for them to return by bus. They reached Railway station to take the only available night train. Sabiha retired with her sickly appearance, on a long armchair. Liyaquat would go out every half an hour, smoke and come back to sit idly on a chair. He spotted a bookstall and bought a newspaper. Returning to the waiting room, he glanced through the headlines. Nothing seemed to interest him. He opened a middle page; and as he descried a photograph alongside a news item, his blood ran cold. It was a photograph of Mushtauk and the news item was headlined, “ Foreign terrorist nabbed by Bombay Police”. Below the headline, a short paragraph described that a foreign terrorist Mushtauk alias Ashfauq Khan ,while coming out of a cinema hall, was arrested; and later arms and a large amount of currency notes were recovered from him. The terrorist, who traveled to India on a fake passport, was remanded to the custody of CBI for interrogation.

Liyaquat came out and lighting the last cigarette, threw the packet; and looked for a cigarette shop in the vicinity. When he returned to the waiting room, he found the newspaper lying on the floor near Sabiha’s chair. Sabiha, cocking her eyes to read Liyaquat’s face, sat calmly on the chair. She had read that page and the sight of her having read it, had stormed an upwelling in Liyaquat’s smothered unease. The page covered mostly the remaining parts of front-page headline news. Only two news items were not the continuation of headline news matter. One was about flipping of a bus in Himanchal claiming some lives; and the other was about arrest of a foreign terrorist Mushtauk at Bombay. Obviously Liyaquat was working hand in gloves with this Mushtauk for whatever purpose Liyaquat was here.
Liyaquat, trying to avoid Sabiha’s probing eyes, came and sat on a chair. Sabiha fixedly looked at him in a strange manner.

Liyaquat rose to go out of the waiting room but Sabiha’s words held him, “ Liyaquat, what have you done for this terrorist”. The unexpected sudden revelation made him jump out of his skin and the plugged unease broke loose and slathered on his face.

Sabiha reached near him and repeated her question, “ Tell me Liyaquat, what have you done for that man?”

Liyaquat told her in a speech that was freshly relieved from his fear, “ Sabiha, can you imagine what is going on in my mind right now?”

“No, but you need a person to confide in him”.

“Sabiha, I don’t want to tell you any longer about my lifelong struggle against my loneliness, rejections by society, sleepless nights with empty stomach, and then one day under the weight of the hatred on my soul since my childhood, my becoming an appurtenance to terrorists. Much of this you have known yourself. I want to tell you something entirely different from this.”

“What?”

“Sabiha, can a man in my situation be naive enough to see dreams of his future?”
Sabiha’s face registered no change. She said, “ Liyaquat, at the moment you need a person to help you out from the mess you are in. Think only this much and nothing else. Now tell me why did you come to Jamshedpur and what have you done during these days?”

The hidden communication of unrequited ness for Liyaquat, well- intentioned to eschew hurting him in Sabiha’s words was too insufficiently veiled to be missed by Liyaquat; and it was only a smile on his face that was missed by the adroit check to expressions, learnt and developed to perfection by Liyaquat in his years at Bombay.

“ I understand my situation, Sabiha. It was foolish of me to have talked like that. It will be better for you to know and remember me as little as possible. Just try to forget whatever you know or have learnt about me. I am going to return to Bombay at the earliest possible.”

Sabiha noted a visible unreceptive barrier on Liyaquat’s face to anything further on this matter. She returned to her chair and stared sadly into blankness for a long space of time. Liyaquat recalled the soiled curtain in Sabiha’s house. It appeared to him that the subject of his innocent dream safeguarded by him in the interiors of his heart had fallen ultimately into the hands of the surly artist who portrayed a jinxing sketch of it on his shabby canvass.

On reaching Jamshedpur, Liyaquat wanted to escort Sabiha to her house, but she said that she could go alone. Later that afternoon, he had a tough time convincing Kamaal that due to some important political development, the organization was forced to step back.

That night, Liyaquat waited impatiently for the train to start to take him away from Jamshedpur. 30 hours of journey would take him back to Bombay where everything would again become normal. This is in what Bombay is outstanding. No matter how bad you are wrecked emotionally, socially or financially, Bombay is your best bet as a heal-all. Someone or the other of the societies of all hues of every possible identity, prevalent on every nook and cranny of the city, will open its door for you. Soon you will find that you also have acclimated to inhaling the rubbery, hewing flexibility of this city’s life, which will unerringly scan the punctures of your emotional failures and debilitations from denials and rejections, and plug all these to build up your steam again. You will find that the awesome nails and thorns that had cut you to the bone rendering you fainéant like a damaged stationary vehicle, will be cleared away from your path by the magical fingers of this city, likening to the action of a sanitizing brush enabling you to set in motion again. And you will hardly be able to pinpoint the repairs in you, as your days in Bombay will make your life slide and latter run without resistance. Nobody traveling alongside will ever bother to ask you if life had been a snatcher to you and if it had been, what and how did you lose.