Fiction

Girls in the Drain: A Short Story

There are only daughters in the drain. It’s a whole world – filled with just girls.

All the girls have vanished! Not one girl can be seen in the world now. How did this strange situation arise? I will tell you. It’s two am and Sarala – who lives in house no. 7, Gali no. 12, Pahadi Dhiraj, Sheetal Bazaar – is lying on a bed in the general ward of Safdarjung Hospital. Lit from above by naked bulbs, the ward is cram-full from one end to the other with women. Next to the patients’ beds, women attending to them sleep on floor mats. Besides them are jholas full of empty vessels; half-empty water bottles; intermittent sighs, sobs and groans.

Since gaining consciousness yesterday afternoon – when the nurse came to tell her that it was a girl – Sarala has been staring at the ceiling fan. Not knowing that this baby is the third girl born to Sarala, the nurse simply announces the fact and goes away. No one has come to see Sarala. Not mother-in-law, father-in-law. Not even husband, nor brother-in-law or sister in-law. Sarala too, does not want any of them to come. The last ten years have been like ten painful boils on her body – marked by the births, one after the other, of two girls; and now, a third one.

That night, the nurse fetches the baby to her for nursing.

The baby feels like hot lava in Sarala’s lap.

Sarala suckles the baby, and in those few minutes, sees her daughter living a life like the one she herself is leading.

At once she gets up, and takes the baby to the loo. There, she flings the baby in the pot, and pulls the chain. She does not even stop to see whether the baby has gone into the gutter or not. She does hear a tiny hiccup. Such an inconsequential sound. Had the baby been alive, it would have brought the sky down with its bawls.

Sarala then comes and lies down again on the bed.

When the nurse comes to take the baby, Sarala confesses her deed.

There is pandemonium.

Sarala’s testimony before the Court is to the point. She admits that she threw the baby in the pot. She accepts that she had to do this to ensure a bright future for the girl as it was her parental duty to improve her child’s future prospects.

The court headed by a woman releases Sarala, because it is proved that she was not in her senses when she took this step. Sarala comes back home.

At night, the baby emerges from the gutter to see her. The baby wears clean clothes and her hair is tied up with ribbons. She looks well. Sarala feels happy looking at her. The baby too, sees the deep wounds lacerating not just her mother’s body, but her psyche – scars of humiliation, violence, negligence, brutality.

Says the baby to the mother, ma, come with me to the gutter, it’s restful there.

But sadly, though the baby can escape into the gutter, the mother can’t. She can only watch the baby going. As she goes, the baby says, ‘Don’t worry ma, you will come…one day…you too will come.’

Such is God’s will, that a good proposal from within the community arrives for Sarala’s husband, Jagdeeshwar. The dowry too is fat. Sarala is the only hitch.

The kitchen stove overhears the heart’s desire of the husband.

Even though it has no kerosene, the stove bursts. It bursts so badly, that Sarala suffers 100% burns.

Sarala’s ashes are in the house.

Sarala’s father comes to bow before her ashes. Her two brothers also come and touch the feet of those ashes. Whatever happened was terrible, but now what can be done about it? Sarala’s fathers and brothers are full of sorrow. They give statement before the police that they harbour no doubts; that the incident was an accident. Sarala wasn’t murdered. She had been of unsound mind, her carelessness led to the stove’s bursting.

The only witnesses are the eyes of law. But the eyes of the law are blind. They cannot see a thing. The blind law seats itself in its cloister.

—What’s the point in cremating her? Already she’s just ashes.

—Yes

—Where can she be taken… who will take her?

—Yes.

—So let’s do one thing.

—Yes.

—Let’s disperse her in the gutter…where she had flung her daughter. She loves the place anyway.

—Yes

Who will fight a court case? Who will give witness? Who will spend money? The elder son runs a shop – goes at eight in the morning, comes back at eight. The younger one is a property dealer – leaves at seven, comes back at eleven in the night. I myself have high blood pressure and cataracts. My pension is meagre. One daughter still remains to be married. If the word goes out that the father likes to file cases, she won’t get a groom even.

At night after everyone goes to sleep, Sarala’s father weeps and weeps. His tears don’t stop. Then all at once, he goes quiet. Chants the Gayatri Mantra. This makes him feel at peace. The peace is lasting. That very night, in the drain – meaning the huge sewer pipe – Sarala finds her daughter. The girl has grown up so fast! She is thrilled to meet her mother. For the first time in life, the mother too, feels happy to meet her daughter.

There are only daughters in the drain. It’s a whole world – filled with just girls. Girls, flying like sweet-scented butterflies, flitting from branch to branch, singing like birds. Girls, making their own way, like streams. Making their own music, like musical instruments. Girls everywhere. In bazaars, in homes, cinema-halls, hotels and factories. Everywhere – only girls…. In the drain their world is alive and flourishing.

As time passes, the number of girls in the drain keeps rising. The girls who disappear from the world keep coming to the drain. Finally, one day the world is emptied of all the girls. Meaning, all of them find themselves in the drain. Left back, the men find they are in trouble then.

One day a man fortuitously opens the gutter and sees peerless beauties within. He feels elated, but also scared. He shuts the gutter and runs. But as they say, a man can never keep a secret. He ends up telling other men – incomparable beauties live in the gutter – prettier than celestial nymphs. But we know that the truly courageous are very few in number. Here too the same thing happens – even though all of them desire beautiful girls – no one can summon up the actual courage. Finally one day, the most courageous among them decides to go down into the gutter. All the other men hand over their manhoods to him, as they don’t dare descend into the gutter. The man goes in and is agog. He gapes and keeps gaping. He becomes mute. The beauty he encounters is beyond his imagination.

The man asks Sarala’s daughter to get betrothed to him. All the girls surround the man and inquire, exactly why he has come.

The man says, to find a girl.

The girls say, your punishment is, once you’ve come, you cannot leave.

But I want to marry her, the man says.

The girls start laughing.

She will be the queen of my heart.

The girls go on laughing.

I am a lover.

The girls cannot stop laughing.

The man loses nerve and asks the girls to let him go.

The girls ask, but haven’t you been deputed by the men who have given you all their manhoods?

Yes.

So leave those manhoods here, then go.

Whh…att?

Yes, leave the manhoods here.

The man refuses to agree.

But when he comes out of the drain, he has no manhood.

O! men living in the world these days, whatever else you may have, the truth is you don’t have your manhood.

Just the way the girls in the drain are girls; but they are not in this world.

Translated from the Hindi original by Varsha Tiwary, with permission from the author.

Asghar Wajahat is a Hindi scholar and writer.

Varsha Tiwary is a writer and translator based in Delhi.

A Wakyaa by Asghar Wajahat | But There’s Something…

“In the area where this magnificent extension of the capital is occurring, stands a wall. A strange, misshapen, fearsome, ugly, solid wall.”

Earlier I would write stories. But now that every day, every moment, everywhere, something more horrendous than the most horrendous story I can imagine is occurring, why should I waste time in concocting stories? But writing is a habit – and unless I write, I cannot be. I thought instead of writing stories, let me recite what we call ‘wakyaa’ in Urdu. It may be translated as ‘an incident’ but that really does not fully capture its meaning.

Waakya may be taken as an interesting, entertaining and dramatic way of relating a true incident. If I were to relate the bare incidents, you might not enjoy them and quite possibly stop reading further, taking me for a fool. It is also possible that you will do the same after reading the wakyaa as well. But I do hope that you will hear out this waakya. This is a true waakya. However, the truth is something that has a way of coming out.

My saying so will not make the truth a lie, or a lie, the truth.

But there’s something…

Something that’s refusing to budge.

Never has anyone witnessed before so extensive an expansion of the capital city. Founders of the past seven capital cities watch on in utter amazement. All erstwhile boundaries of the city have been breached by the current capital. So humongous is the area over which the capital now extends, that 14 past cities could fit in easily.

Quite possibly, one day, the capital might spread so much as to subsume the entire country. Nothing except the capital will be left then. That, and the King. At that point, progress will touch zenith, and exemplary peace and prosperity will reign among the citizens.

Meanwhile, the capital is expanding.

The capital has taken into its fold villages. Or it could be that the villages have lured the capital. We might also say that the capital now exists in the villages; or that the villages have arrived in the capital. Or that a man is but a man. Or that a man is but an animal. Whatever it might be, the capital continues to extend.

The boundary-breaching capital is gobbling up areas where earlier food was grown. Flats grow there now. Iron, the sole symbol of development as well as destruction, can be seen all over. All things iron, from girders to handcuffs, are freely available. Heavens of flats bounded by a lattice of roads. So many, that their purpose is beyond comprehension. It seems, they’ve been built not for smoothing movement but to lubricate something else. Parks have been built, that look as if they’ve been imported from some other heaven. Trees that have all turned into date-palms. Lots of fountains have been put. Children’s schools have been opened. There are hospitals, offices.

But there’s something that is refusing to budge.

In the area where this magnificent extension of the capital is occurring, stands a wall. A strange, misshapen, fearsome, ugly, solid wall. Upright, it stands, the way a government order stands erect among good citizens. Not just me, but everyone who lives here goes past this discoloured, absurd wall every day. But the citizens of the capital are either habituated to or have been made to fall in the habit of minding their own business; and no one ever thinks or says a thing about this wall. I find it weird that nothing should be thought or spoken about a thing so inappropriate. Hence the wall always troubles me. But what can I do? I cannot break the wall or lessen its fearful aspect. Nor can I be a part of it.

I asked a couple of neighbours about the wall. They said, ‘What’s it to you? Whatever it might be, let it be. Is it taking away any of your profit or causing you any loss?’

So amazed was I by this response that I started thinking. If what one could lose or obtain was to limit one’s thought process, Sir Issac Newton would have never thought about the apple that fell on his head. Because, it would not have given him any profit or caused him any loss. Doubtlessly the apple didn’t injure him. Nor did it remain stuck to his head. It is also not possible that he could have got millions by selling that apple. My friend, the apple is an apple, and the head is a head. What transactional relationship can exist between the two?

One day I went to the office of the Metropolitan Development (Destruction) Authority. Thousands were engaged in destruction (development) works and thousands were there to get themselves developed (destroyed). Seeing things on such a scale, it occurred to me that one could hardly say where the capital might reach next.

I had gone there to ask about the wall, but it was not clear where this information would be available. There were windows for getting allotments, filling up of various forms, depositing various fees, list of officers, and so on. But I had to stand at the ‘May I help you’ counter where no one else was queued up to inquire about the wall. People started smiling when they saw me standing there. I could not understand what was so terrible about standing at the ‘help’ counter.

‘What’s it? What work do you have?’ a slick, oily looking man came and asked me.

When I told him why I had come, he shied away as if I had some contagious disease.

The story up straight is that I finally reached up to the room of some high placed officer of the development authority and tried to find out something about the wall. At once he told me, ‘Don’t try going near that wall… in fact, stop looking in that direction.’

‘Why?’

‘For your own good.’

‘But what is it about?’

‘The file for that wall has moved.’

‘Has moved? Do files actually move?’ I asked.

He glared at me. His eyes held anger, not pity. In a raised voice he said, ‘What do you think? Files don’t just move, they run. Their speed can be dialled up or down. They take rest. Even die. Some files become immortal when they die. The file of that wall is somewhat like that.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘But I do. That you will never understand,’ he said contemptuously.

‘Why do you say so? After all, I am an educated man,’ I said.

‘I am also educated. I know how education happens here,’ he laughed.

Seeing him laugh gave me some courage and I asked, ‘Please tell sir…what is this wall?’

‘Look…when the capital was expanding, the wall, let us put a Shri before it…the way East India Company was called Company Bahadur or the Honourable Company. So, we wrote to the ministry to break Shri Wall.’

‘To the ministry?’

‘Yes. The ministry sent the file to the home ministry. From there it went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.’

‘Oh My Father!’ I exclaimed.

‘Keep listening. You will have many more occasions to remember your father. After examination by the foreign ministry, the file went to the defence ministry, where some or the other action was taken on it, and that took years. Some information had to be called from National Archives. A team of historians was constituted, sociologists too were a part of these meetings. After the file came with the defence ministry’s comments, the file was finally sent to the PMO, where the final decision was taken.’

‘And what was it?’

‘That the wall cannot be destroyed.’

‘Why?’

‘It was proved that this wall had been built before the 19th century. There is definite proof that Lord Lake’s soldiers had used it in 1803. Quite probably Nadir Shah’s troops too used it for target practice. This wall was of great importance for the British. Their troops loved it. Even after independence this wall had been put to use time and again. This wall is no less than a National Monument.’

‘But what for is this wall?’ I asked.

‘You still don’t get it?’

‘No.’

‘Yaar, you’re indeed a highly educated man,’ he laughed.

‘Please tell.’ I was feeling restless now.

‘This is wall of a shooting range.’

‘Shooting range? What do you mean?’

‘The place where soldiers, armies, officers do target practice.’

‘Oh ho!’

‘Now you can say Oh My Father,’ he laughs.

‘Even Oh my grandfather will be insufficient.’

‘After all what troubles you?’

‘It stands amidst dense population; everyone who passes by, must see the ugly, fearsome wall. School kids get scared. Women and girls cover their heads. The old and the incapacitated even avoid going past it. I recall, seeing some bullet marks too on it. Why can’t it be destroyed or taken down? Is it more sacred than even the temples and the mosques?’

‘Yes, it is,’ he said.

‘Why? Why must the wall continue to stand there?’

‘So that people keep seeing it.’

I looked at him in amazement. He began looking at a file.

I felt as if I was looking at a wall.

Something was refusing to budge.

Translated from the Hindi original by Varsha Tiwary, with permission from the author.

Asghar Wajahat is a Hindi scholar and writer.

Varsha Tiwary is a writer and translator based in Delhi.

Hyderabad 1948: Literature Tells Better Stories Than WhatsApp University

Journalism is said to be the first draft of history. In present-day India, however, the cinema hall and WhatsApp groups are where different pasts are being manufactured regularly.

For instance, the upcoming Telugu movie Razakar takes place amidst the 1948 police action that lead to the violent yet necessary accession of the Asaf Jahi Nizam-ruled Hyderabad to India.

In portraying Muslims as tyrannical rulers who lorded over the Hindu majority population, the film evokes the Razakar militia that terrorised princely Hyderabad’s Hindus, especially those who sought a merger with India during the Nizam’s bid to keep his once-autonomous kingdom independent.

Though University of Pennsylvania professor Afsar Mohammed’s book, Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad, paints a picture of a time when Telangana’s litterateurs wielded their pens more deftly than historians and journalists about this landmark event.

Counter-narratives about the police action penned in both the state’s official languages – Telugu and Urdu – are out there. They just need to see the light of day.

Mohammed does a big service to potential Urdu-English/Telugu-English translators by collating and analysing prose and poetry originally written in those aforementioned regional languages.

Be it Jeelani Bano’s Aiwan-e-Ghazal, Makhdoom Mohiuddin’s poetic repertoire or Nelluru Keshavaswamy’s short stories, this whole corpus of literature (both fiction and non-fiction) outdid the press with respect to genuinely describing both the human and political tragedies that occurred during and after the police action.

Some better drafts of history

Telugu stories like Yugantham did show many pro-establishment Muslims becoming Razakars.

One such character, Dilawar, is a friend of a Telugu-Hyderabadi named Swamy. Despite never being harmed by Dilawar, readers get to see how the pluralistic ways of everyday city folk got ruptured because of the 1947 partition and subsequent police action down South.

When the Indian military merges Hyderabad into a newly independent Union, Swamy feels elated, unlike Dilawar.

Despite their differing political views, their friendship is one that represents the synthesis of linguistic and cultural traditions that coalesced under the pre-Asaf Jahi era Muslim regimes. Fearing the repercussions for his Razakar activity from the new Indian establishment, Dilawar migrates to Pakistan. But before doing so, he leaves money with Swamy so that his friend may give it to the people who he victimised as a Razakar.

The story Vimukti doesn’t box the Hyderabadi Muslim as a perpetrator or a victim of the 1948 massacres. Rather, he is a reformer who seeks to do away with regressive traditions of feudal debauchery.

Loath to the treatment meted out to domestic helpers within the noble household he is a part of, the protagonist Sultan even decides to marry one domestic worker whom his brother impregnates.

Such stories about scions of the nobility taking to egalitarian leftist ideals against the Nizam’s establishment find little to no mention in popular discourse about the circumstances in which Hyderabad acceded to India.

To stress how fiction writers were more adept at revealing what happened before, during and after that episode, Mohammed supplements his analysis with memories of older folks who lived through the police action. They include Vara Lakshmi, the wife of legendary Urdu-Telugu bilingual writer Kavi Raja Murthy, and a 75-year-old by the name of Razia Hussain.

But an interview with another elder, Imam Hussain, reveals that not all Muslims had it easy in a land ruled by their “own”. The UPenn professor quotes:

“What about ordinary and poor Muslims like me? We never had any jagir or any piece of land or even enough bread to survive the day. I know hundreds and thousands of Muslim families living in utter poverty. The ashraf and nawabi families – both from Muslims and Hindus as well – never cared for our daily basic needs of food, water, or housing.”

Jeelani Bano and Dasarathi Rangacharya also brought out the contradictions apparent throughout pre-1948 Hyderabad. Bano’s novel Aiwan-e-Ghazal features a set of Muslim women characters from various strata of Asaf Jahi Hyderabad navigating both the zenana of the patriarchal nobility and the forests that served as the battlefields against the princely state’s rural gentry.

Nizam-ruled Hyderabad was a dominion where the feudal oppression of women and the exploitation of lower castes were woven within its pluralistic fabric. Although the Nizam VII did herald in many infrastructural and educational advancements too.

“Ganga-Jamuna” or “Isa-Moosi”?

North India-centric literature, especially the work of Qurratulain Hyder, extols its Ganga-Jamuna tehzeeb. Hyderabad too has something similar, yet distinct.

To ensure that its composite Isa-Moosi tehzeeb remained intact after 1948, left-leaning activists and litterateurs also did their part on the cultural front. This activism wasn’t just limited to Urdu wordsmiths, but Telugu ones too.

Whether those contradictory facets of Hyderabad were written about in what is today considered the more “Hindu” Telugu or the “Muslim” Urdu, these stories need to be (re)told. The former language has tales of Muslims who saw a lot of upheaval while coming to terms with a new setup where their predominant sources of subsistence, namely feudal landlordism and government services, were taken away from them.

Mohammed also mentions other writers like Dasarathi Rangacharya who represented the confluence of languages, traditions and religions that is the Deccan region.

In both his autobiography and Telugu translations of Mirza Ghalib’s Urdu poetry, Rangacharya was a bridge between his mother tongue Telugu and Urdu, which he grew to love from childhood. Without learning the latter language from Kayasth Hindus, a community that served as resourceful bureaucrats, learned academics and powerful ministers in a predominantly Muslim establishment, he wouldn’t have gone on to become a literary icon.

Missed opportunities

Justice has been done by Afsar Mohammed when collating different pieces of Urdu and Telugu writing that elaborates how Hyderabadis, specifically its Muslims, reimagined their place in a more democratic India. However, with those new Muslims aptly being represented as survivors rather than victims, the 1940s-1960s time frame the author analyses doesn’t encompass the period during which the real Muslim renaissance took place.

It was only in the 1970s – with the oil boom – did job opportunities become available to Hyderabadis, who as a result flocked to countries like Saudi Arabia. As they did in real life, Muslims economically also found their feet in fictional short stories by Sahitya Akademi-winning Urdu writer Baig Ehsas.

How that money from the Middle East gave way to new dilemmas forms one of the many themes prevalent throughout Ehsas’ repertoire.

In the vein of films that depict how the hard work of partition refugees settled in North India earned back a lot of wealth lost during the 1947 bloodshed, the short story Khaai also centres around a family that economically revives itself when one of its younger members migrates to the Gulf in the 1980s.

The story is reminiscent of the semi-autobiographical novel Delhi. In the second half, Khushwant Singh elicits how his family’s association with the British in the early 1900s enriched its financial standing.

“Sudden wealth creates its own problems. We were far too busy making money to be able to keep our eyes on how our sons spent it,” wrote Singh.

Similar realities of Hyderabadi youth being spoilt by an influx of Gulf money their parents earned weren’t lost upon Ehsas either. Aalam-Panaah by Rafia Manzurulamin is another Urdu novel which focused on a Muslim noble family that for the most part shed its feudal hangover and integrated itself into a gradually free-market tilting Indian business landscape of the 1980s.

Nonetheless, it is time that these short stories and novels written by many Urdu and Telugu authors be translated. If not that, they should at least inspire more art that shows how the Hindu Punjabi “Partition Refugee Family” isn’t too different from the Muslim “Police Action Family”.

That too, when contemporary cinema seems to be chiseling Muslims into even more stereotypical, bigoted caricatures. Other than the Doordarshan TV adaptation of Aalam-Panaa or the 1979 Telugu film Maa-Bhoomi (based on Krishan Chander’s novel, Jab Khet Jaage, set during the Telangana Peasant Uprising), there hasn’t been much cultural production pertaining to the Deccan region.

If those who produce content for streaming platforms and mainstream Bollywood need help telling more nuanced stories, they just might have a consultant in Afsar Mohammed.

Daneesh Majid is a Hyderabad-based writer with a masters in South Asian Area Studies from the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. His book Hyderabadis: From Police Action to Present-Day is due for publication by Harper Collins in September 2024.

A Mood for Murder | Episode 10: Saunf

The Wire WhoDunnIt: This is the final part of a serialised detective story by Shahrukh Alam. It is a work of fiction.

It was Jamal who finally called Laadley and asked him to arrange a meeting. “Police have closed the case, but our Habib thinks that Rahman miyan was murdered. He wants to assemble everyone involved and discuss the matter.”

“Zaroor, by all means, let’s have a meeting, Jamal bhai. I have no control over Kanwal and Nirmal. They won’t come, and neither do I want them here, but I will assemble all the others: Maulvi saheb and the boys, Abrar and Arshad, Salman bechara is in jail, but we can call his mother and Zaitoon nani.”

“Better not. His mother will start wailing saying he is still in jail. Then Naseeban will also turn up, and they’ll have a big fight. We want a serious meeting. I will ask Achche chacha and Tara ma’am to be present too.”

“Shall I ask Abrar to make some paaya? He is free now. There will be rotis from my tandoor.”

“No, Laadley! Habib is calling the meeting to solve the murder. We can’t be eating paaya when the murderer is called out. Kamaal hai!”

The group had assembled at Laadley’s shop. The man in the sleeveless brown sweater and checked lungi was squatting upon the clay oven. Laadley had had it lit and had told him to have some kababs and rotis ready. “But serve it only if the murderer turns out to be Kanwal-Nirmal, or that Rana, or Salman – because he is already in jail. Don’t serve if it is one of the people present at the meeting. It will be very embarrassing.”

Laadley had also had plastic chairs arranged in rows facing the clay oven, which Jamal and Habib later rearranged into a large circle. “It is always a circle, Laadley,” Jamal had said sardonically.

Maulvi saheb and the senior boys were present; Abrar and Arshad were present too. Laadley had also invited Salman’s mother and Zaitoon nani, despite Jamal’s reluctance, out of a sense of fairness. Achche Lal had suggested that Mrs Pushpa Kumari come too, and bring with her Jamal’s parents. “It seems the children have solved the mystery,” he smiled. “Yes, and look at you – you were interrogating them only!” said she.

Even Constable Rana came to the meeting, with Shambhu riding pillion. He parked his motorcycle alongside the gutter and sat sidesaddle on it, such that he had full view of the proceedings. Shambhu stood by, not sure whether to go inside or be close to Rana.

“Arre, Rana? You’ve also come?” called out Achche Lal.

“I had come to eat the Bhandara, sir. Then I heard about this meeting, so I thought I will also come and get enlightened,” said Constable Rana. “I brought Shambhu also. Aye Laadley, give me some saunf. I have eaten too much,” he burped at Shambhu.

“Police has closed the murder case,” began ASI Achche Lal. “We have now got the post mortem report, which indicates that Rahman miyan died due to some infection. He slipped into a coma around midnight and passed away in the morning.”

“Saheb, let Salman go…,” his mother wailed from a chair and Jamal clucked impatiently. Zaitoon nani embraced her tightly and mumbled some platitude into her ear.

“But there was so much blood? We were told he was hit with the steam iron,” said Laadley.

“He was unconscious and fell on the steam iron. Then he hit his head against the counter top and everything crashed to the ground. There was a lot of bleeding, but it was not serious. The doctor said that there was no skull fracture or anything. It would have required a few stitches.

“There was extra bleeding because Rahman miyan used to take blood thinners for his heart,” Habib added.

“Yes, the doctor had indicated even on that day that it might not have been an assault. So what happened then? Rahman miyan had a bad infection and he slipped into a coma? Why was he not taken to the hospital? Abrar, Arshad, why did you not call the doctor?” asked Jamal’s father, Asghar.

“He was okay when we left! He was coughing and wheezing but he was fine. He was already annoyed with us because I had brought Salman in when he was doing his accounts. He had had to put everything away,” Arshad lowered his voice and said apologetically: “And then Rana sir had come. Rahman miyan’s accounts had remained incomplete all evening and he wanted to be alone and finish them. We left on his orders, and when we came back in the morning, he was no more.”

“But you left only after finishing all your work? You even washed Shambhu’s pateela in which you had brought chashni that evening?” asked Habib

“Oh that was much earlier. That was when Jamal bhai and you had come and had wanted gulab jamun. Must have been around 7.30, Shambhu?”

“Yes, 7.30. I was closing my shop and I didn’t need the pateela that evening, so when you said that Jamal ji is asking for more chashni I gave my pateela,” Shambhu confirmed.

“Why were you eating so much gulab jamun? A pateela of chashni?” exclaimed Jamal’s mother.

“Well, the chashni is of some significance,” said Tara. “Rahman miyan actually died of a serious diabetic complication. It is called diabetic ketoacidosis and it is triggered when a diabetic person has some infection and at the same time his blood sugar levels go unchecked. It produces high levels of blood acids, which poison the body. Now Rahman miyan did have a serious chest infection. I suppose we can blame the air for that. But also he was being apparently less careful about his food and medicines in his wife’s absence. All of these would have been contributing factors to the onset of the complication,” Tara paused dramatically before she continued. “But if Rahman miyan was deliberately administered chashni, during a severe infection, that would definitely have contributed to the complication. So Jamal, answer your mother, a pateela of chashni?”

Constable Rana leaned in with interest. Jamal and his mother both turned red. “What are you saying, ma’am? Please don’t make such jokes. He has already been treated as a suspect. I only meant that he shouldn’t be having so much chashni because he himself has sugar,” Aamna said.

Tara raised her hands in apology.

“I didn’t ask for more gulab jamuns,” said Jamal. “Why does Shambhu keep lying and saying that I sent for more gulab jamuns and chashni? I only had one. Habib you were there!”

“Yes, we only had one gulab jamun each and then we left together. I remember because it was my treat. Jamal bhai would not have ordered more since I was going to pay. So why does Shambhu keep saying he sent more chashni for Jamal bhai?”

Everyone looked towards Shambhu, who merely shrugged and said, “How would I know if Jamal ji had actually asked for one plate or several plates? That is what Arshad said to me – he asked for the whole pateela of chashni. But I have been telling the police this story for some time now and this is the first time Jamal ji has actually denied having asked for more chashni.”

“I was just confused by what you were saying,” shouted Jamal in agitation.

“Jamal bhai certainly did not ask for more gulab jamun. I can vouch for that,” said Habib. “Perhaps Shambhu never sent more chashni nor his pateela over to Rahman miyan, but made up this whole story as a cover when he stole the tiffin carrier, to show that he had brought it back by mistake, together with his own pateela?” Habib was thinking on his feet.

“That wouldn’t make sense, Habib. That would mean there was no chashni to begin with, and the whole story was false. Whereas we are acting on the premise that somebody deliberately gave him chashni and brought on the coma,” Tara intervened.

“Arshad! You went and told Shambhu that I had wanted more gulab jamuns,” Jamal suddenly realised.

“And Abrar and Arshad are the only two people who could very easily have administered it to Rahman miyan. Put it in the qorma, or put it in any other food item? They also knew about his diabetes and how careful he was generally,” Habib said.

“We had guessed it the moment we heard Shambhu say that he had sent a pateela full of chashni. But I think Habibi momentarily forgot our theory, when he decided to explore this fresh line of enquiry about Shambhu having made it up,” said Tara matter of factly.

Constable Rana had now descended from his motorcycle seat and come inside the shop, Shambhu trailing behind him. Rana was looking at ASI Achche Lal for his cue. But Achche Lal seemed lost in thought.

“That night we saw Rahman miyan repeatedly insult Arshad,” Jamal next offered a motive.

“Yes, in fact, he continued to snap at both of them even when I was there,” Constable Rana said. “He was treating them with disdain.”

Arshad and Abrar both seemed bemused. “You are saying that we killed Rahman miyan because he was insulting us? Jamal bhai, everyone insults us all the time. Even Rana Sir insults us. We are used to it. If we go killing everyone for an insult…” Arshad scoffed and Abrar hurriedly put a hand on his shoulder. “That was Rahman miyan’s style. He’d get irritated very quickly, like Jamal bhai only. But we didn’t really mind,” he added. The maulvi nodded absentmindedly.

“But he also informed on people, on your friends, and everyone was peeved,” Tara said.

“There was nothing to inform on us. We knew everything that was told. We were usually there with him all the time,” Abrar said.

Tara glanced at Jamal and Habib, as they seemed to run out of ideas regarding motive. “In my head I was certain we had solved it. But there are so many details we had missed,” she said.

“Only motive I suppose,” said Jamal.

“Well there was one other significant thing that happened: Rahman miyan announced that he was leaving the restaurant to his wife’s nephew,” Habib remembered. “Arshad said that he could have managed it too. And Rahman miyan made fun of him for even thinking that.”

“Who else would he give his restaurant to if not to his relative? He didn’t have children of his own,” Laadley said.

“They are suggesting that Abrar and Arshad had hoped to get the restaurant after Rahman miyan, and when they found out that he was going to give it to his wife’s nephew they killed him out of spite. That kind of motive exists in novels and in cinemas; in real life the servants know it will never come to them,” Zaitoon nani said with a smile. The boys from the madarsa smiled too.

Laadley scowled at the man in the checked lungi.

“We always knew it was going to the nephew. She had been after his life; it was discussed, day and night, for the last one year. We never imagined it would come to us,” Arshad spoke with genuine surprise.

“May I say something? Even I know what might have happened,” Zaitoon nani said. She glowered at Abrar and Arshad: “Were you just having fun at the poor man’s expense? You were irritated so gave him some chashni to aggravate his sickness?” They remained quiet. Zaitoon nani turned to her audience, “Cooks do that. When I felt cheated by begum saheba, I would forget to put salt, or put too much masala, or leave the rice, or the gosht uncooked. What else could I do? These days, if there is a problem, people just leave work – look at Salman. He can’t hold a job – gets bored, or gets upset and stops working. We did not have that option. Anyway, I don’t think they would dare to murder somebody like Rahman miyan. What exactly did you do boys?” she raised her chin.

“Abrar bhai used to put whatever ingredients he liked into the paaya and if I told him that Rahman miyan would not like it, he would say ‘Who’s the cook? Him or I?’ Sometimes he put more chilli to please the public who came to eat the paaya, but sometimes he did it to make Rahman miyan sick!” Arshad snitched.

“I never forced him to eat the hot paaya. He himself liked to eat and then complain if he felt sick later,” Abrar said. “Anyway, that day Arshad brought the chashni back just for fun. We warmed it and drank some of it ourselves. Rahman miyan was coughing and he wanted me to make him some kaarha, and he kept snapping at us for no reason. I put some cinnamon, pepper, ginger and tulsi leaves into the decoction, and then I also put some hot chashni. He liked it so much that he had three mugs, one after the other. Then he had a coughing fit but then he was fine. All this was before 11 o’clock. By 11 the customers had left, and we had cleaned up the place. That is why Shambhu’s chashni pateela was all washed and cleaned. We had put out the tandoor also and were just preparing to leave. I was sitting outside relaxing and Arshad was locking up, when Salman came to ask for work. Arshad made the mistake of taking him inside while Rahman miyan was counting money, and he became very upset and agitated. Then suddenly Rana sir arrived with Kanwal ji and we had to feed them. Rahman miyan made us light the tandoor fire again. Rana sir stayed for almost an hour and Kanwal ji and he said many things.”

“What things?” ASI Achche Lal asked sharply

“Rana sir said that serving nehari-roti was hurting Kanwal’s sentiments. Rahman miyan had become very tense and upset,” said Arshad.

“Stress also causes onset of diabetic ketoacidosis. This kind of unwarranted bullying could also have been a factor,” said Jamal, while looking into the middle distance and away from Constable Rana.

“Why have you not called Kanwal to this meeting?” asked Mrs Pushpa Kumari.

“Kanwal ji is busy with Bulbhaddar babu’s bhandara,” Shambhu answered.

“I always suspected Kanwal,” said Mrs Pushpa Kumari to Aamna as an aside but in everyone’s hearing.

“After Rana sir and Kanwal ji left, Rahman miyan told us to also leave quickly. He didn’t even let us put away the big pateela of qorma. That’s why Salman found it lying outside,” Abrar further explained.

“He had the chashni-kaarha himself. He wanted some home remedy,” Arshad said.

“But you’ve been with him since childhood. Did you not know that his diabetes could cause a complication?” Jamal asked.

“Do even you know, Jamal?” his father said. “You’re not very careful yourself. How would people near you know how risky something might be? Did you know Habib?”

The group had broken into smaller discussions. Laadley was making faces at Abrar and Arshad. “Kambakht, I had thought I’d keep you. But go rot in hell, now.”

Jamal was telling Habib that he had read about incidents when slaves rebelled through small acts of insubordination, by pretending to not hear, or spoiling their day’s work, and even getting whipped for it sometimes. Habib looked distracted, evidently wanting to return to the meeting.

Tara was saying to Achche Lal that had the police done proper forensic tests of the pateelas and the plates, there would be more clarity about what was administered in what dosage and at what time. “Then we would know if they had given him chashni to only tease, or to actually kill?”

“Madam, I can detain them and get a confession if you want,” said Achche Lal tersely. Tara recoiled at the idea: “No, Achche Lal ji, that’s not the way. You might beat a confession out of them, but we will still not know the truth.”

Mrs Pushpa Kumari also nodded in agreement. “I don’t think they are lying,” she said.

ASI Achche Lal got up from his chair and signaled to Constable Rana to step out with him. “Sir, what should we do?”

“Well ACP saheb has closed the case. We can arrest them now and reopen the case, but we will first need his permission,” Achche Lal said.

“Sir, there is nothing to go on. Even if we file a chargesheet they’ll get out immediately. Better to get them for something else next time. We can properly plan and put it on them,” Constable Rana.

“Where are you learning all this Rana?” said Achche Lal with obvious distaste. “I don’t want to involve them now because this case is complicated. Really, someone can argue that stress was a contributing factor also.”

“Sir, you mustn’t believe what they are saying. They are liars; always trying to implicate the police.”

When the policemen returned, Abrar and Arshad had slinked into a corner and looked suitably fearful. It appeared that Laadley had just hit them. He was being pulled away from them by Jamal, while Zaitoon nani was now speaking to them.

“Case is closed,” said ASI Achche Lal, “but if I hear of anything in the future, any crime in the area, I’ll come and find you. I don’t want to lay eyes on you for the next few months, you understand? You get out now.”

There was silence for a moment and then Laadley sighed loudly. “At best it was a contributory factor. I don’t think they gave it to him intentionally.”

“Then what did you just hit them for?” Jamal exclaimed.

Laadley shrugged: “Even giving Rahman miyan chashni in the kaarha was wrong.”

“They probably gave him the chashni much earlier in the evening. And he carried on through the evening, so they must not have realised how ill he would become,” a boy from the madarsa spoke for the first time.

“Yes, they must have finished the chashni much earlier in the evening. That is how my pateela was washed, whereas the big qorma pateela from which Rana sir was served was left out,” Shambhu also agreed.

“Anyway they will suffer for their deed. Nobody will speak to them, or give them any work. Total boycott,” said Laadley.

“Hmmnh, they will be back in a day begging and pleading,” said Jamal with a laugh.

After a few minutes, the group started to break. People got up to leave. The man in the sleeveless brown sweater and checked lungi crept upon Laadley and whispered in his ear, “Am I to serve kababs or not? Nobody has been declared murderer.”

“Swine! Is this the time?” Laadley thundered.

The end.

Note from the author

The murder mystery, such as it is, is done. Thank you Seema Chishti for inviting me to write. It was a wonderful experience. I should have written the whole story and then broken it up into parts, for serialised publication. Instead I wrote from week to week, issuing two chapters at a time.

The process was exciting, interactive and alive. But I never submitted on time, thus eating into my editor Jahnavi Sen’s weekends. Thank you, Jahnavi, for your patience, and for your technical team’s time. Thank you for the silent encouragement, tempered often with silent disapproval at the late submissions. Both were helpful.

I knew I had at least some readers who actually waited for the next installment: my parents, Paro, my muanijaan, and my friends Mayukhi, Kaiser, Monty, Mallika, Sujata and Richa. I’m most indebted. My sisters did not wait for the installments, and only read chapters under duress; then they offered their criticism. It was very useful, though.

Thanks also to Vanita, Veena and Anjolie for their feedback.

Finally, very special thanks to Dr Sumit Ray, for making time to help me resolve the murder. I had started to write without an end in mind, and made mistakes along the way: he helped me with the ‘means’ question, so central to a murder mystery, and with tying all the loose ends together.

Thank you Paro, Abbu and Mama for reading and editing and debating the plot points with me.

A Mood for Murder | Episode 9: Coffee

The Wire WhoDunnIt: This is the ninth part of a serialised detective story by Shahrukh Alam. It is a work of fiction.

“Post-mortem report has come, madam. Viscera report has also come,” said ASI Achche Lal diffidently. “It is showing natural causes only.”

“But then what have you been investigating, Achche Lal ji? And arresting people also!” Tara said.

“Investigations have revealed only theft, but no murder. In fact, ACP saheb has closed the murder enquiry. That is why, when I heard that the boys were coming to meet you, I thought I’d also come along. Case is officially closed, so we can discuss freely,” he repeated

“You have released Salman, I hope?” Tara asked.

“Theft case is still there, madam. It’s not just the mutton, no? He stole important documents also,” Achche Lal seemed embarrassed. “But his mother had come to the station. I have informed her that it is nothing serious and she should find a lawyer and have his bail application filed.”

“You could have let him go without any further entanglements,” Tara said quietly. “Anyway, what will you have – green tea, coffee?”

“Anything, madam,” said ASI Achche Lal.

“Nothing!” said Habib

“Coffee?” said Jamal

A smile flickered across her face: “Shall I just ask for coffee?”

Habib had hesitatingly called that morning to ask if they could come and see her to discuss the case. “Have there been more arrests?” Tara had asked, and had been assured that that wasn’t the case. She had agreed to see them in her home office.

She rose now to ask someone in the kitchen for coffee. Habib regarded the titles on the bookshelves. Jamal gazed at the strange painting behind her desk.

The coffee tray arrived soon with coffee in a French press, four ceramic mugs, a milk pot and a sugar bowl on the side. The men watched patiently as Tara poured coffee, and then asked each one of them if they wanted milk and sugar.

“Madam, what is your full name?” ASI Achche Lal asked as he reached for his cup.

“Tara Azad,” she said. “Stir it – so what did the two reports say, exactly?”

ASI Achche Lal put his coffee down and took his notebook out. “I spoke to the doctor also when I went to get the reports. She said that he had collapsed and fallen on the counter, and hit his head on the heavy steam iron. Then, because of his fall, the whole counter crashed to the floor, together with the steam iron, and Rahman miyan himself, and he probably hit his head a second time on the iron. There were several deep cuts, and a lot of bleeding also, but that was not the cause of death. In fact, she said that there was some internal bleeding also, but it wasn’t that serious and again it wasn’t the cause of death.”

“There was so much blood probably because he took Ecosprin, blood thinning medicine for his heart. I checked at his home, when I heard about the excessive bleeding in the post mortem report,” said Habib proudly.

“Waah, Habib. You think of everything,” Tara said. Habib smiled broadly.

“Detective Habibi is the best,” Jamal patted him affectionately.

“But how did Rahman miyan die then?”

“Madam, the doctor said that reports shows that he had some lung infection. There was a patch on the lungs. He also had a problem of shortness of breath.”

“It is called Dyspnea…” added Habib

“Then he was diabetic also, madam. Normally he was very careful. But the last few days his Mrs was not at home, so he had been eating a little greasy food. Viscera report shows very high blood acid levels, sugar levels and key…ketones also,” Achche Lal checked his notes. “His lung infection and all this bad food caused diabetic keto-acid-osis.”

Jamal, Habib and Tara simultaneously Googled diabetic ketoacidosis. “Serious diabetic complication, where there is excess blood acid, triggered by infection in the body.”

“Jamal bhai, this is why we tell you to be careful,” said Habib.

“The doctor told me that he had an infection, then he had sugar and that led to this condition. He went into a coma and passed away after a few hours,” Achche Lal had been thorough.

“So he fell unconscious, and then lay in a coma all night?” asked Jamal “Probably when Salman went in he was actually still alive. If Salman had attended to him…”

“According to the post mortem report, death occurred early in the morning. Whereas he must have slipped into a coma around midnight,” Achche Lal said.

Everyone sipped coffee in silence.

“But why did he have sugar? He was always so careful,” asked Tara suddenly.

“No, we don’t know that he had actual sugar. It could have been his infection, injury or stress even, caused by Rana and Kanwal,” said Jamal.

“Jamal bhai, the report mentions high sugar levels. I think he was actually fed meetha. I also think we know what happened, don’t we?” Habib looked earnestly at everyone present.

Tara nodded. “I think we do know what happened. Achche Lal ji, can we not have a meeting with all the suspects?”

“But case is closed, madam. How can we direct everyone to assemble? Bulbhaddar babu will not come; anyway he is too busy. If he doesn’t come, Kanwal and Nirmal will also not come, and nor will Shambhu,” Achche Lal said

“At least we can have the others?” Habib pleaded

“Achche Lal ji, were you able to test the contents of the pateela that you seized from the madarsa? asked Tara.

“Madam, they finished the whole pateela of mutton. Then washed it clean. What was there to test?”

“Did you test the bowl Rahman miyan had eaten in? I think you’d have found remnants of chashni in it.”

As they stepped out, Jamal and Habib teased Achche Lal: “You wanted to know her religion, didn’t you? That is why you wanted to know her surname.”

“Arre, no! I just wanted to know her full name.”

“But it is true. There was nothing in the house to indicate anything,” said Habib

“There were Tibetan prayer flags draped around the staircase and there was Rumi in the bookcase,” laughed Jamal.

“There was lots of detective fiction too,” said Habib.

“She was asking about Rahman miyan’s bowl. I didn’t want to cut her off when she was talking but the bowl had also crashed to the floor. We found some broken china and some thick shorba on the floor. Who was going to scrape that for testing?” Achche Lal sounded a little aggrieved.

“Achche uncle, even without the tests, it’s clear that Rahman miyan was given sugar. Tara ma’am and I both know what has happened. Please get everyone to assemble at Laadley’s shop?” Habib pressed again.

ACP saheb had clasped his hands together and was pressing the back of his left palm against his right cheek in a new stretching pose. “So it was natural death only. Bechaare Balabhadra babu was right. He was saying it must be some illness.”

“He was repeatedly asking us to close the investigations before the big day, sir. With God’s blessings, at least the enquiry is over in time. We were able to fulfil our duty,” said Constable Awdhesh Rana.

“There is one small thing though. Rahman died of some diabetic complication. Jamal ordered a pateela full of chashni on the same day. We have closed this enquiry because post mortem is showing natural death, but in future you keep an eye on those two. We cannot rule out broader conspiracy.”

To be continued…

Shahrukh Alam has been trying to write a murder mystery for a very long time. She has written versions of this story since 2013 and The Wire has published one such version earlier. She is hopeful that she’ll deliver a complete mystery this time. 🤞🏻

The Story of a City in Turmoil and a Message of Communal Harmony Relevant 76 Years Later

Nanak Singh’s A Game of Fire is the sequel to his novel Hymns of Blood originally published in Punjabi and translated by his grandson Navdeep Suri.

Excerpted with permission from A Game of Fire (1948), published by HarperCollins India.

‘What’s the point of continuing with this charade? Why keep pounding the grain when it’s already crushed to dust? To hell with this Unity Council of yours and to hell with its great members! Thousands of our brothers are being slaughtered like goats and sheep; countless sisters being stripped naked, paraded in public and molested in broad daylight. You ought to drown in shame each time you call out for this “Unity” of yours. I don’t know if you lot are weirdly self-obsessed or … or … just plain impotent! If there’s any blood in your biceps, will it only stir when these Muslims enter your own homes, and your mothers and sisters are vio—’

Nanak Singh,
A Game of Fire,
HarperCollins India (2024)

The young man’s face was flushed, each sentence exploding from his lips like molten lava from a volcanic eruption, his words crashing into the audience with the seismic force of tectonic plates. There was a stunned silence in the room, followed soon by a flicker of resentment.

The speaker was a young man of about twenty-two or twenty three, possibly a college student if one went by his attire. They were inside a nondescript house located approximately midway between the Putlighar crossing and Khalsa College on the Grand Trunk Road as it traversed through Amritsar. A dozen young men sat around a table in a largish room in that house—six were Sikh, four Hindu and two Muslim.

It was an evening in early March. The festival of Holi was around the corner, meaning that the winds had strengthened over the last couple of days, enveloping people in the streets and bazaars in clouds of dust. The young men who were sitting around the table had set up their Unity Council a couple of months back. The Council had started off with a fair bit of enthusiasm. Its first couple of meetings were attended by almost a hundred members, but those numbers had dwindled rapidly to the dozen present this evening. And if the fireworks on display today were any indication, it wouldn’t be long before the Council’s last rites were performed without much fanfare.

The young man’s fiery discourse had left the others speechless, their faces reflecting a curious array of expressions ranging from fear and guilt to anger and indignation. Emotions were rising around the table as he continued his diatribe when a young Sikh, who was sitting next to the speaker, quickly rose from his chair. In a flash, his right hand moved to cover the speaker’s mouth and prevent him from causing further damage.

‘Sudharshan!’ the Sikh fumed. ‘Have you lost your senses? You forget that we are members of the Unity Council who’ve pledged to dowse the communal fire, not fan its flames through tirades like these. The terrible things that you’ve pointed out may well be true. But does that mean that we should also allow ourselves to be swept into this flood of communal hatred instead of trying to save others, as we had once—’

Cutting him off mid-sentence, Sudarshan continued in the same blistering voice, ‘You’d better understand, Satnam, that the lofty purpose that brought us together is now a mirage. You won’t reach your goal even if you keep trying till the end of time. Mark my words, Satnam. We’ve reached a stage where we must fight fire with fire. I’ve heard the blood-curdling accounts of refugees fleeing the Frontier Province and my heart bleeds from a thousand cuts. I’ve taken a solemn vow that I’ll avenge the death of each one of my fellows by killing at least four of theirs. I haven’t come here today to attend this council of yours. I’ve come to get rid of its membership for good. Here you go!’ And, so saying, he reached inside his jacket to withdraw a piece of folded paper and flung it at Satnam.

Satnam picked up the resignation letter and put it on the table without reading it. At the moment, he was more worried that today’s meeting would end in bloodshed. The two Muslim members sat across the table from him, their heads were lowered in anxiety even as they sensed the pointed gaze of the Hindus and Sikhs upon them.

A young Hindu who was seated beside them piped up, ‘Sardar Satnam Singh ji, forgive me, but you can’t entirely dismiss Sudarshan’s comments. We need to reflect deeply on what he has said. Frankly, I also feel that this Unity Council has become a bit of a farce. The disease of communal hatred has now spread throughout our body; the patient is in critical condition and the prescriptions coming out of this Unity Council will do nothing to cure him. Let’s be honest for a moment. Over the last couple of months, we’ve shouted ourselves hoarse calling for communal amity, printed and distributed thousands of pamphlets, published articles in major newspapers, stuck giant posters and given speeches—but has any of it resulted in something tangible? Have our efforts reduced the level of communal hatred? Not at all. If anything, it continues to increase with each passing day. And you are also aware of another grim reality. We are all at the mercy of Amritsar’s Muslim-dominated police force—the same people who are inciting their Muslim brethren to launch a jihad against their Hindu and Sikh neighbours?’

Also read: Review: The Pristine Home and Partition as Violence in Nanak Singh’s ‘Khoon de Sohile’

‘And remember this,’ chimed in another young Hindu, his western attire topped up with a very English-looking cap. ‘You can keep trying till the end of time, but there is absolutely no chance that your prescription will work. This council has now been around for over two months. Is there a single achievement that we can highlight, apart from wasting people’s time with these pointless meetings at one location or another? From the reports that I read in the newspapers, it is quite clear that the forbearance of Hindus and Sikhs is being exploited by the Muslims and they are becoming more aggressive by the day. The destruction wrought in Hazara and Pothohar is a living example of this trend.’

‘But Mr Kumar!’ Satnam turned around to address him. ‘In your opinion, what is the reason for this?’

Kumar leaned forward towards Satnam as he spoke, ‘The reason is that right now, the fanaticism of the Muslims has crossed all limits. You can pull out the press clippings for the last one month and read about the violence in Hazara and Pothohar. I am sure that after reading them, you’ll also agree that this Unity Council of yours is utterly pointless. The other side is hurling bricks at you and you want to respond by throwing flowers at them? The sheer absurdity of your ideals!’

‘So, does this mean that…’ the Muslim named Ishaaq who was sitting three chairs away from Kumar interjected, ‘it must be an eye for an eye, that each action must be followed by a stronger reaction? If you think that approach is going to help our city or our nation, then I have to agree that this council of ours can offer no solution.’

‘Well, if I can be honest…’ Tarlochan Singh spoke from the seat on Satnam’s left. ‘The fact is that this council has automatically ceased to exist because of the lack of quorum in the last few meetings. A membership of around a hundred and the record shows attendance of barely a dozen!’

Salmani, who was sitting next to Ishaaq, tried to get the attention of the others as he cleared his throat to speak, ‘We set up this council to try and keep religious bigotry at bay, but it seems to me that maybe 90 or 95 per cent of our own council are falling prey to the same bigotry. The heated address and resignation letter of a member like Sudarshan has given us ample evidence of this.’
Sudarshan was still seething when he heard the comment and launched himself at Salmani with the same venom. ‘Let me make my position absolutely clear once again to Mr Salmani. If getting influenced by the savage killings of my brothers and the public dishonour of my sisters is bigotry, so be it. I am not at all embarrassed for failing your touchstone.’

‘In that case, you’d better be prepared, Mr Sudarshan,’ Salmani replied with rising anger. ‘Go ahead and seek your revenge wherever you want, but get ready to face the reprisals too.’

‘You aren’t going to scare us with such threats, Mr Salmani. The writing on the wall is clear. Hindus and Sikhs will have to sort out the Muslims and bring this matter to a definitive close.’

‘Looks like you are challenging the Muslims to step up and fight even as you sit in this council,’ Ishaaq rose indignantly. An animated chatter went around the table, forcing Satnam to get up from the table. He urged them to be quiet for a minute as he started.

Nanak Singh (1897–1971) is widely regarded as the father of the Punjabi novel. Despite little formal education beyond the fourth grade, he wrote an astounding fifty-nine books, which included thirty-eight novels and an assortment of plays, short stories, poems, essays, and even a set of translations. He received the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1962 for Ik Mian Do Talwaraan. His novel Pavitra Paapi was made into a film in 1968, while Chitta Lahu was translated into the Russian by Natasha Tolstoy.

Navdeep Suri is a former diplomat who has served in India’s diplomatic missions in Washington, D.C. and London. He was India’s Ambassador to Egypt and UAE, High Commissioner to Australia, and Consul General in Johannesburg. He has been striving to preserve the legacy of his grandfather Nanak Singh and to bring his works to a wider audience. He has translated into English the classic 1930s Punjabi novels Pavitra Paapi (The Watchmaker) and Adh Khidya Phul (A Life Incomplete). His translation of Nanak Singh’s lost poem Khooni Vaisakhi was published in 2019 and of the novel Khoon de Sohile (Hymns in Blood) in 2022.

A Mood for Murder | Episode 8: With Spice

The Wire WhoDunnIt: This is the eighth part of a serialised detective story by Shahrukh Alam. It is a work of fiction.

ASI Achche Lal was expecting drama.

A bleary and irritable Constable Rana paced up and down outside the madarsa in anticipation of ACP saheb’s arrival. Abrar, the cook, had been asked to be present in order to identify the pateela. He stood to one side, along with his brother Arshad, waiting to be called to the proceedings. Laadley had guessed that something was afoot and had dragged his plastic chair out into the gali, his new point of vantage, where he sat watching expectantly.

Well into the morning, ACP saheb led a small police party as it marched purposefully up the alley, striding past Laadley, all the way to the madarsa. Both Achche Lal and Constable Rana jumped to attention.

“I kept watch all night, sir. No activity, sir. Stolen goods are still inside,” reported Constable Rana. He stepped up and rapped on the wooden door, “Eh, come out!”

The young maulvi opened the door a crack, again looking terrified. “I have already told sir everything,” he said pointing towards Achche Lal.

“Did I ask you what you have said to whom?” Constable Rana kicked at the door.

“Saheb, Salman bhai brought us qorma in that pateela. We didn’t even know where it was from – we just ate the qorma,” the maulvi folded his hands.

“Hain? What is he saying – Salman brought the pateela?” the ACP asked. Achche Lal whispered into his ears briefly and the ACP frowned. “Then you should have caught him last night only. What were you waiting for? They are all confirming that Salman had brought them the pateela? To feed them? Since when has he become such a provider?”

He called out to the maulvi, “Master ji, you come out here, and call the boys also. Let’s see who ate what.”

By this time, a small crowd of onlookers had assembled. The maulvi was wailing, “Had Rahman miyan been alive, he would have saved us. Who will look after us now?”

“First you steal qorma from a dead man – feast on it, and then you’re crying for him when you’re caught? You don’t have any shame?” ACP saheb felt stirred.

The maulvi spotted Laadley in the crowd. “Laadley bhai, please save me. You tell Inspector saheb, I’ve done nothing.”

The ACP half-turned towards Laadley, “Don’t intervene unless you want to get arrested. Don’t disturb law and order.”

But Laadley was not easily deterred. “They are orphans, saheb. Salman has grown up amidst them. He often brings them food. Sometimes, he takes from my hotel also.”

The ACP seemed to not have heard. “Call everyone out,” he snapped. A dozen boys of various ages, ranging from six to 19 but uniformly spindly, stood in a straight line, seeming more curious than fearful.

“Make them all stand in line, height wise. The tallest ones at the end closest to where I am standing. And, master ji, you also come and join the line at this end – you are senior most.”

It was at that fortuitous moment that Tara, accompanied by Jamal and Habib, arrived at the madarsa. She grimaced when she heard the boys being asked to stand height wise in a straight line.

“Sir, they are children!” she said.

“Who are you, madam?” asked the ACP wearily.

“I am a lawyer.”

“Whose lawyer? One of them has engaged you?” he asked impassively.

“I only want to make sure that the children remain safe.”

“Now you are suggesting that the children are not safe in the company of policemen?” the ACP feigned a smile. “What is this? What is happening in this country? And these two with you: do you know they are being investigated for conspiracy? Together you all will watch over us as we try to carry on investigations? Don’t try to browbeat the police, Madam. It will cause you trouble.”

The ACP found a parapet to climb on, so that he was higher than the rest of the group. He stood there, arms akimbo, gazing at the crowd with authority, and gave out more orders: “Take those two inside to identify the pateela; then seize it as evidence,” he nodded at Abrar and Arshad, then turned towards Tara: “Madam, this is a criminal investigation. This is not some PIL matter. Please stand back.” There was palpable tension now.

Inside the madarsa, Abrar and Arshad were examining the pateela with some self-importance. “Aye, don’t touch. It is evidence. Look at it from here and say,” snapped Rana.

“Yehi hai! This is indeed our big pateela. They have washed it clean. Had a full dawat on my qorma, hain?” Abrar said.

“Pucca, it is our pateela,” confirmed Arshad.

ACP saheb had now sat down on a plastic chair. It may have been the same one that Laadley had earlier occupied. Or it may have been another; Neelkamal plastic chairs were easily found in the old galis. Achche Lal had bent down behind him in order to speak directly into his ears: “Sir, I have already recorded their statements last night. It is believable that Salman had brought the pateela here. There doesn’t seem to be any direct involvement of these people. Better to go arrest Salman, sir. If we spend too much time at the madarsa, it will become an issue. One lawyer is already present, soon the media will come.”

“You should have apprehended Salman last night itself, but now there has been a recovery from the madarsa. What if one of them is responsible and he absconds later? Where will you go about finding them?” ACP saheb retorted.

“We will keep all their names in the register, sir. There is no direct involvement.”

ACP saheb dismissed Achche Lal with an impatient wave of the hand and motioned to maulvi saheb to come forward. “Haan ji, master ji, how did Rahman miyan’s pateela come to be in your kitchen? Did one of the boys steal it?”

Maulvi saheb was shaking involuntarily. He let out a sob, which was more than Laadley could bear: “Arre, maulvi saheb, why are you crying like a woman? ACP saheb is asking you a simple question – just answer it. What is the problem?”

The ACP sighed at the extent of crowd participation, but nodded encouragingly at maulvi saheb. “Saheb, Salman bhai brought qorma. He said you all have not had qorma in some time, so eat it. Then he said, ‘Let me take a little bit for Naseeban’s children also.’ The rest I distributed amongst all the boys, and then we cleaned the pateela and left it in the kitchen thinking he will take it back. That is all I know!”

“Achche Lal, he took some of it to Naseeban’s house it seems. Have you checked her house for evidence?”

ASI Achche Lal mumbled that he had not. “You can’t afford to miss small details like this. Whole case may turn on such details,” ACP saheb said officiously.

“Saheb, Rahman miyan’s tiffin carrier was also missing. It is not here at the madarsa either. He must have taken qorma in it to Naseeban’s house,” said Abrar in a shrill voice.

Balabhadra babu, uncharacteristically absent thus far, came upon the scene just then. “Arre, what is happening? Nobody informed me! I have been busy with organising the consecration programme, bhai.” He detached himself from the crowd and approached the ACP, a little awkwardly.

ACP saheb watched with annoyance as Balabhadra babu shuffled about till he had found himself a matching chair, which he set very close to ACP saheb’s own chair. Balabhadra babu proceeded to sit on it and then leant forward, apparently to whisper something in confidence to ACP saheb. He seemed to be explaining something at length to ACP saheb. ASI Achche Lal who was standing just behind the ACP heard too.

“Arre, the tiffin carrier has been found too! It is with Shambhu, not with Naseeban,” Achche Lal exclaimed loudly.

The ACP turned around and glared at Achche Lal. Tara found her moment and said that things from Rahman miyan’s hotel had obviously been taken by different people, and they were slowly turning up in different places, and there may not be any need to blame the children alone and to keep them back for questioning.

“Haan, I agree with madam. Only main murderer has to be found. In any case, sir, I have told Shambhu to wait in my shop. Anytime sir wants, he can speak to him. But it was a genuine mistake; I can assure you. He brought back the packet thinking it had only his pateela in it, and the tiffin carrier also happened to be lying inside,” said Balabhadra babu.

ACP saheb weighed all the options and decided to not make arrests at the madarsa at the moment. “Take down everyone’s name, address and Aadhar number,” he said gruffly, as he prepared to lead his party to Naseeban’s house.

“Why is the whole mohalla walking to the next place? Is this any way? Somebody would have called and warned Salman by now – what kind of investigation are you all carrying out? And Achche Lal, I hadn’t expected this kind of behaviour from you! You announced to the whole mohalla something that had been said to us in confidence.”

Now, as Laadley and the man in the checked lungi, Abrar and Arshad, Jamal, Habib and Tara, Balabhadra babu, as well as several boys from the madarsa walked behind a posse of policemen to Naseeban’s house, they all wondered for the first time whether he would be arrested for Rahman miyan’s murder. “He won’t be there now,” said a tall boy from the madarsa.

“Why, you warned him?” said Laadley with a wink.

“Arre, it’s not his time to be there now. It’s only noon,” Abrar laughed.

“But at some point Salman will need a good lawyer,” Laadley felt. “His mother works with important people, they’ll provide,” said his companion who was wearing a checked lungi. Laadley was probably not convinced for he sidled up to Jamal and Habib, “What is madam’s full name? Is she Mohammadan?” he asked. They shrugged in embarrassment. Tara heard too, but said nothing.

A search of Naseeban’s modest quarters revealed neither Salman nor any leftover qorma, but the police did recover a plastic folder with sundry certificates and papers belonging to Rahman miyan. “What is this now? Has he stolen any bank papers?” ACP saheb extended his hand for the folder. “Aadhar, voter’s ID card, electricity bills, medical bills, what is all this…and where is the meat?”

“It must have been eaten that night only. Why would they keep it for four days?” said Laadley. Naseeban and her children admitted that Salman had bought qorma and fed them, which threw Naseeban’s husband into another fit of anger. “Because of you, my little children will now go to jail. How could you let a murderer feed my children?” he ranted.

“Did he say where he had got it from?” asked Achche Lal.

“No! Four pieces of mutton – we didn’t discuss where it had come from. We just ate it,” said Naseeban.

“Why did he bring this folder full of Rahman miyan’s identity papers?”

“I will tell you,” old Zaitoon nani had hobbled across with Salman’s mother upon hearing that the police were raiding Naseeban’s house. “Of late, he had become possessed with the idea that he needed to collect certificates and all kinds of papers. I suspect he brought these without realising that he couldn’t use them.”

“Everyone has an opinion,” muttered the ACP. “Where is Salman now?” he asked Salman’s mother and Zaitoon nani harshly.

“Must be in the bazaar,” Salman’s mother started to curse Naseeban and cry at the same time. “My only son…” she sobbed.

The ACP had dispatched Constable Rana, together with Abrar and Arshad, to look for Salman. “I have to speak to this Shambhu also, Balabhadra babu.” He turned and surveyed the lingering crowd, “Achche Lal, will this crowd be following me all over the mohalla today?”

“Sir, let them come if they want to come. Otherwise they will make it seem as if there is some big conspiracy and that we are trying to save Shambhu. Let them see for themselves that we interrogated him also as part of our investigation.”

Balabhadra babu ushered everyone into his shop with great formality and immediately sent someone to bring ‘hot tea, first’. “Shambhu himself is the tea champion, but today he has to be interrogated,” he declared. “I told him that it was a grave mistake; he should not have. But it is a genuine case, sir. His own utensil was in the same packet. It was a death scene, so he was trying to be respectful. He didn’t want to poke and prod. He quietly picked up his packet without checking to see whether there was anything else inside. Only later he found out about the tiffin carrier.”

“It was a crime scene; body was still lying there and you went about looking for your utensil? What was so urgent?” asked the ACP.

“Sir, I had to make the day’s gulab jamun! Night before Jamal ji had ordered gulab jamun, so I sent back two plates. Then he asked for more gulab jamun and chashni, so I sent the pateela only thinking it’ll come back the next morning. Then I saw it lying there, washed, and I thought Arshad must have washed and kept it for returning to me, so I brought it back.”

Jamal was listening intently. He scratched his nose in a thoughtful manner and looked at Habib.

“Did you really not see the big tiffin carrier? How big was your packet that the tiffin just got lost in it? You didn’t feel its weight also?” the ACP stood very close to Shambhu.

“Must have deliberately stolen it, sir,” called out Laadley.

Balabhadra babu coughed. “ACP saheb, why would he steal a non-veg tiffin carrier? He doesn’t take non-veg food, or serve it in his shop. What use is a non-veg tiffin carrier to us? He came and informed me as soon as he realised his mistake. Anyway, I am certain that once the report comes, we shall find out that it was not even murder. It was probably gastro, or asthma. Rahman miyan ran such a famous hotel, but he couldn’t eat anything because of his stomach problems. And his asthma became very bad in the winter air. ACP saheb, our humble request is: please close this matter before the holy consecration ceremony.”

“Are you saying that the air killed him?” asked Tara.

“We all die incrementally until the day we actually die,” said Balabhadra babu philosophically.

The phone rang and ASI Achche Lal held up his hand, motioning for them to stop talking. He listened into the phone and said, “Sir, Salman has been apprehended. Rana has detained him and is seeking your permission to call an Uber to take him to the police station.”

“Are you arresting Salman? But you are not detaining this one for theft,” Tara motioned towards Shambhu with her chin.

“Madam, I don’t have to answer to you why I am arresting one suspect and not arresting another. Salman is a known offender, Rahman miyan’s papers have been recovered from him, plus he tried to abscond. And let me tell you – he was helped by someone from the madarsa, those ‘children’ that you were valiantly trying to save,” said the ACP tersely and strode out of the shop, ending any further discussion.

“Madam, the police are like that only. They are always blaming us,” Laadley said matter of factly.

Balabhadra babu looked at Laadley’s sullen expression, and also noted Jamal and Habib’s despondent faces. “Let the police do their duty, beta. It is not right to keep questioning like this. Nobody is discriminating against any person or community. We are all one. Come, let us have another round of tea,” he said.

“Isn’t it time to close the shop for lunch, Bulbhaddar chacha?” asked Jamal.

“Arre, where is the time for lunch these days? There is so much work to do. Now look at these Modi masks. These are leftover stock from the previous election, but in tip-top condition,” Balabhadra babu picked up a paper mask and put it on. Suddenly they saw Modi Ji beaming at them. “See? First I thought I’d distribute these only,” said Balabhadra babu’s muffled voice, “but then I thought it is not the current picture. We should have an updated picture for this historic occasion, so lot of printing work also. Then I have to make banners, flags, headbands, everything.”

“What is the programme, Bulbhaddar chacha?”

Balabhadra babu took off the mask. “Now everyone can’t go for the temple consecration ceremony in Ayodhya. There is only limited capacity, no? But every Indian’s heart is filled with emotion and pride. Everyone wants to be a part of this sacred ceremony. So we are having ceremonies in every mohalla across the country.”

“Communal prayer? Like the namaz, where everyone prays at the same time,” said Tara.

“Not like namaz, Madam. Our own ceremony.”

“Bulbhaddar chacha, you will again order that non-veg cannot be sold? First that Rana took away all my supply and I had to remain closed. Just this morning, I have reopened and now again Kanwal and Nirmal will come and say ‘close down’, and put jhandis outside my shop.”

“Arre, Laadley, why so much non-cooperation and negativity? You can’t stop selling meat for a few days to respect people’s sensibilities? We show tolerance or not? I have so many Muslim friends. During Ramzan, my wife used to complain: ‘Every day you have to go for an iftaar party?’ My most senior shop attendant was Muslim. I always used to make sure he was free at namaz time – no matter what was going on in the shop, I would say to him, ‘You go to the mosque and finish your namaz first.’”

Jamal had begun to titter, “Bulbhaddar chacha, now you are sounding like a fake secular who doesn’t actually know any Muslims at all. Otherwise, how many shop attendants do you know in the old city who take time off for namaz? Laadley, do you also send your man to first read his namaz when he is trying to light the tandoor?

The man in the checked lungi and brown sweater laughed most heartily.

ACP saheb was tired, but Constable Rana was completely exhausted. He had been up the previous night, then in the field all morning, and now he had been slapping Salman intermittently for the last one hour trying to get him to confess to the murder of Rahman miyan.

“He treated me badly but I never harmed him,” wailed Salman. “He threw me out again that evening, so I went and had a drink.”

“How many drinks did you have?” Rana shook him violently.

“A few. I cry when I drink. I went back to plead with Rahman miyan privately, because I knew Arshad bhai would have left by then. But he was lying on the ground. I thought he was sleeping; I didn’t think. I took his folder from the table and went into the kitchen to see what was there. There was a full pateela of qorma; I thought I’ll take it and share it with everyone.”

When ACP saheb tired of listening to the screams, he called for ASI Achche Lal.

“Sir, I think he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Achche Lal. “He was drunk, went back to argue, or plead, saw that Rahman miyan was lying on the floor and took the opportunity to steal. Maybe he knew he was already dead, or maybe he really thought he was sleeping. God only knows!”

“He thought Rahman was sleeping on the floor with the whole place turned upside down around him? How do you know he isn’t lying?”

Achche Lal shrugged, “My humble experience, sir. He wouldn’t have lasted so long in interrogation.”

“Why did he steal the documents?”

“To use for the NRC it seems. He doesn’t have his own,” Achche Lal twirled the fingers of his right hand in a gesture that indicated bewilderment at Salman’s naiveté.

“He is an idiot, or what? Anyway, Achche Lal, I will be frank with you. I have felt from the beginning that the investigation has been deficient. You found out that Salman had brought the pateela to the madarsa but instead of arresting him there and then, you sat on the information. And another thing, you said take these people along – let them see when we interrogate Shambhu, but then nothing satisfies them. Now they are saying why did you arrest one and not the other! It is all part of an ecosystem. This communal card will come up again, just watch. Once you get used to playing the victim card, then you see everything through jaundiced eyes, no?”

Constable Rana knocked at the door, came in and smartly saluted. “Sir, he stole from there; that much is definite. But more than that he is not saying.”

“Keep him – you have 14 days. Then let him go into judicial custody. When you file the chargesheet after three months, put Section 302. If the new criminal Act is allowed to come in by then, he would be tried for stealing. But if it is the old Act still, he would be tried for murder. It will depend on his luck. And his lawyers and supporters will also learn that it is not good to oppose every single change.”

ASI Achche Lal and Constable Rana looked at him uncertainly. The ACP burst out laughing, “Joking, bhai, joking.”

To be continued…

A Mood For Murder | Episode 7: Chashni

The Wire WhoDunnIt: This is the seventh part of a serialised detective story by Shahrukh Alam. It is a work of fiction.

Tara had been up since dawn, revising her case notes. She had an important hearing in court, and she had the optimistic feeling that her client might actually be granted his freedom today.

He had been arrested some months ago for becoming radicalised and for probably indulging in anti-national conspiracies. There was no proof yet of the existence of any actual plot, much less of what the plot entailed, but police believed that conspiracies were afoot and proliferating, and merited prolonged investigations. Investigators had found evidence in the form of unsavoury literature stored on her client’s laptop. Tara felt that this was rather insufficient to detain a person under terrorism charges. She had spoken to the client’s wife on the phone that morning, and quite unprofessionally expressed solidarity and a hope that the matter would be resolved today.

Tara arrived very early to court in order to find parking. To kill time, she drank over-sweetened, lukewarm coffee in the lawyers’ canteen, and rehearsed each point of her argument in her head.

In the event, the matter did not go on for long at all. The State’s counsel got up and addressed the bench, “My Lords, the matter involves a very serious conspiracy. We would like some more time to file additional documents to show his direct complicity.”

“My Lords they had six weeks to do that! It has been six weeks since the last date of hearing.” Her colleagues used to say to Tara that she was always frowning in court, so she had learnt to carefully arrange her features in a half-smile. It barely worked, and in this moment her face was disintegrating into an expression of panic.

“It is an ongoing investigation. New facts keep coming to light,” the State counsel shrugged.

The presiding judge smiled kindly at her, “Counsel, we can’t decide without hearing the prosecution. We will give them a short concession this time. Two weeks!” said he, and tossed the file away.

Tara bowed, turned around and walked out of the courtroom. “It’s exhausting! Nothing ever gets done,” she muttered, as she thrust her own brief into a junior colleague’s hands.

“Ma’am, write another essay about systemic delays. These days both senior judges and defence lawyers seem to be able to put their points across only in public speeches, or in articles,” said her junior as he adjusted the bulky brief in his hands.

Tara smiled and looked for her phone. There were several missed calls. “Jamal?” she closed one eye and puckered her lips in concentration, trying to remember who that was. “Oh! Gaza protest!” She dialled his number.

“Ma’am, police are raiding the local madarsa, Ma’am. They have rounded up some minor boys also. Can you please help?”

The night before

ASI Achche Lal’s mobile phone rang. He spoke briefly into it and then looked at Asghar triumphantly: “The police have found the stolen pateela!”

He quietly pondered what he had been told. It was Abrar who had first informed Constable Rana. “Today was Rahman miyan’s qul, sir – third day ceremony? The madarsa children had come to read the Quran; so later in the evening Rahman miyan’s madam told me to take them some food from the ceremony. I went with roti-aloo-gosht to the madarsa, and what do I find in their kitchen? My own empty pateela!

“I asked them what they had done with the qorma, and shamelessly they admitted that they had eaten it. Imagine! After all that Rahman Miyan had done for them! I immediately brought back the food I’d taken.”

Achche Lal considered all the possibilities, then walked out onto the road outside Jamal’s house, stood by an electricity pole and called ACP saheb. “Sir, Rana has given me a full report, sir. Raid may not be advisable at this time, given the sensitivity in the area. Then we will need reinforcements, sir. I am actually in the area: if you allow me, I can go and make discreet enquiries and post someone there for the night. Then we can come, formally, in the morning hours.” The ACP who was still nursing his headache agreed readily. “Just handle it well, Achche. I am trusting you.”

Next, Achche took a leap of faith. “Asghar bhai, I am taking Jamal with me. I might be late, Pushpa. Stay over, or go home on your own, as you like.”

“Arre, but why are you taking Jamal? He has already been dragged into the investigation. He might get into more trouble,” called out Jamal’s mother in concern, but Jamal had already scampered out of the door in excitement.

“Call Detective Habibi also! Let me tell both of you what has happened,” said Achche Lal to Jamal affectionately as they hurried down the road.

“Jamal bhai, you were right! It is the madarsa boys,” exclaimed Habibi.

“We don’t know yet,” said Achche Lal firmly. “First, proper tafteesh has to be done.” He tapped on the wooden door and smiled at the adolescent boy who opened it. “Is Maulvi saheb there?”

The Maulvi was barely out of his teens himself. He started crying at the sight of a uniformed policeman. “Sir, has Abrar bhai gone and complained about us?”

“Abrar bhai has only said that he discovered the stolen pateela in your kitchen. Is that true?” Jamal laid a hand on Maulvi saheb’s shoulder.

“Salman bhai brought the pateela to feed us!”

“I was right too!” Habib clapped his thighs excitedly, and only then remembered that he was getting ahead of himself again. He looked away.

“Why did Salman bhai bring the pateela to feed you?” Jamal persisted.

“Just like that. He likes getting good food for us. Sometimes he brings biryani, or chocolates. That day he brought qorma.”

“You didn’t ask where it had come from? Then secondly you didn’t think to report about it after you heard of Rahman miyan’s death?” said ASI Achche Lal sternly.

The young Maulvi looked stricken. “We didn’t know it was from Rahman miyan’s hotel. Khuda ki qasam, we didn’t know there was any connection.”

ASI Achche Lal made a disbelieving face. “Show us the pateela!” The men crowded around the empty pateela in the kitchen. “Hmm,” Achche Lal regarded it. “Who scrubbed it clean?”

“The boys clean after every meal. We cleaned it and kept it ready thinking Salman bhai will take it back. He often brings food in hotel containers, then returns it after a few days.”

Achche Lal ushered everyone out and locked the kitchen door. “Nobody will go inside, understood?”

“Achche uncle, shall we also speak to one or two senior boys?” asked Habibi unobtrusively. Achche Lal tactfully left them alone and engaged the young Maulvi instead.

Habib found a group of senior boys standing together, quietly observing the interruption. “Yaar, a stolen pateela has been lying here for three days, a murder enquiry is going on, and you never informed anyone? Do you not see how it makes you look suspect?”

The boys were similarly dressed in long kurtas, reaching down to their calves, and in short ankle-length pyjamas. The oldest looking boy shrugged diffidently.

Jamal leaned forward towards the group and said in a low whisper, “All of you will get into trouble. Why don’t you tell us what happened that night? Did some of the boys go to the restaurant? Who brought the pateela here?”

The boy remained defiantly silent, but someone else in the group offered: “When Salman bhai lived here he always complained that he was hungry. Rahman miyan said he was ungrateful. Sometimes he would bring something from the bazaar for all of us. Rahman miyan said he was spoiling everyone’s discipline and told him to leave. But he still brought food once in a while. That day he came very late at night with qorma. He said Laadley bhai’s shop is closed otherwise he would have brought roti also.”

“You didn’t ask him where it was from?”

“He said it was from a friend’s wedding. He packed a small portion and took it back with him also.”

A small boy had joined the group. “The qorma was very nice. It was khatta-meetha.” One of the older boys picked him up in his arms.

“And next day when news of Rahman miyan’s death came out, you didn’t suspect anything?”

“We didn’t know it was from his kitchen,” said one of the boys.

“The whole world was talking about pateela being stolen, and you didn’t hear?” The boys shook their head.

As Jamal and Habib moved away the eldest boy said harshly to the group, “Salman bhai is always kind to us, and you informed on him. He will get arrested because of you.”

Achche Lal raised his eyebrows as he met Jamal and Habib again outside the madarsa. “What do the boys say?”

“I believe the story that Salman had brought them the qorma that night. But whether they knew it was from Rahman miyan and were trying to save Salman by not informing anyone, or whether they actually did not know, we would never be able to tell,” said Jamal.

“They didn’t try to hide the pateela, if even to save Salman. So they may actually not have known,” Habibi said.

“It’s not that important. It is only a side question to our main investigation,” shrugged Achche Lal. “Unless we make it our mission to send everyone even remotely connected to jail. But that is not our mission. Our mission is merely to find out who was responsible for Rahman miyan’s murder – if at all there was murder.”

ASI Achche Lal rubbed his hands against the cold and pulled his woollen cap down. “You should call that lawyer, the one who helped you in the Press Club also. Let her be present here tomorrow morning.” He then took out his phone, smiled at the boys and dialled Constable Rana: “Haan Rana, I have sealed the place, but ACP sir will only come in the morning with a formal police party. He has directed that you be on duty tonight. Stand guard outside the madarsa to make sure no one enters or leaves. Yes, it is freezing, but duty is duty.”

Early next morning

Kanwal and Nirmal sat on the bench outside Shambhu’s shop looking at some YouTube video. “Very true,” said Kanwal nodding along.

“Boss, I have been thinking,” said Nirmal, “I will drop the competitive exams this year. I’ll prepare fully next year. What is the point in giving an exam half-heartedly and then losing one chance also? We only have limited number of attempts.”

“Why have you not prepared fully?” enquired Balabhadra babu solicitously.

“There is so much youth group work to do, Bulbhaddar chacha,” said Kanwal on Nirmal’s behalf. “I have been holding meetings, distributing pamphlets, trying to involve the youth in our programmes. My didi will get very upset; otherwise even I would have dropped it this year.”

“One must not run away from exams,” said Bulbhaddar chacha in his affable way.

“We were thinking of attending the ceremony in Ayodhya,” said Nirmal, now that he had absolved himself of exams.

“Absolutely not! There is no need to crowd the holy place at this time. Think global, act local! We will hold the ceremony that is happening in Ayodhya in our hearts, but commemorate the occasion locally. We will do something in our homes! Why create unnecessary inconvenience for the dignitaries now?”

A disheveled and sour Constable Rana arrived at the shop and demanded tea. “Give me something to eat, quickly. I have to go back.” Shambhu’s clientele regarded Constable Rana with surprise. “Arre, Awdhesh bhai? Where are you coming from early in the morning?”

“I have been up all night watching that blasted madarsa. Seeing his mood, Shambhu hurriedly brought him sweetened, hot tea in a small glass. Constable Rana took a sip: “The stolen goods from Rahman ji’s hotel have all been recovered at the madarsa, as expected. We should just shut them down. I was stationed there all night making sure they don’t remove the stolen goods.” He chewed moodily on a kachauri and drank his tea.

“Then? Did anything happen during the night?” asked Balabhadra babu.

Constable Rana shook his head. “Nothing. At one time I felt it was just a punishment posting.”

“Arre, why didn’t you call us, Awdhesh bhai? We would have given you company through the night.”

Constable Rana got up and stretched. “Come now.”

“Bulbhaddar chacha, I have to tell you something,” said Shambhu after everyone had left. “That night Jamal ji was at the restaurant and he wanted gulab jamun. So Rahman miyan sent Arshad here to bring it. First, Arshad took two plates – one each for Jamal ji and Habib ji. Then they wanted more.”

“Why was Jamal eating so much gulab jamun!” mumbled Balabhadra babu.

“Then second time Arshad said they are asking for chashni also. He said, ‘You give the whole pateela. I’ll bring it back later.’ Next morning all this happened. I had gone there to see in the morning, and I saw my pateela lying inside a packet. It was empty, so I picked it up and brought it back. By mistake, I also brought back one aluminium tiffin carrier.”

“Rahman miyan’s tiffin carrier? You brought it by mistake?” Balabhadra babu looked unconvinced.

“It was lying next to my pateela. I was in such a shock, I picked it up and put it in the same packet with my pateela.”

“Nobody saw you in that crowd of people?”

“Everyone was looking at poor Rahman ji,” Shambhu shrugged. “I really didn’t realise what I was doing. I remembered just now when Rana sir was talking about the pateela in the madarsa. Bulbhaddar chacha, you please explain to the police?”

To be continued…

A Mood For Murder | Episode 6: Milk Cake With Tetrapak Lassi (Cast the Net Wide, When Doing Tafteesh)

The Wire WhoDunnIt: This is the sixth part of a serialised detective story by Shahrukh Alam. It is a work of fiction.

The sun hadn’t come out in several days. It was grey and foggy, and very cold. Jamal and Habib both shivered slightly as they sat on the freezing steps outside Laadley’s shop. The clay ovens had not been lit that morning; the shop was shut.

“Bechara…” tut-tutted Jamal. “Now he will have to spend a few days just trying to get his meat back.”

“Jamal bhai, shouldn’t he just let that meat go, and buy himself a fresh supply? Would it be safe to bring it back and serve it to his customers? Although, knowing Laadley, he will do exactly that.”

Jamal wrapped his chadar more tightly around himself. “They have just closed down all the places where we would sit and talk. That is their great investigation.”

“Jamal bhai, I wanted to speak to you about that only,” said Habib excitedly. “They aren’t investigating the incident properly. I have been thinking a lot about this – can we ask Achche uncle how the death occurred?”

“I have two theories, Jamal bhai.” Habib stood up enthusiastically, apparently in order to present his theories to Jamal. “All we know for certain is that the pateela of gosht has disappeared. Now who would steal the pateela? Somebody who is hungry and who likes gosht,” Habib paused expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Kanwal! Who loves gosht, I am sure, but who dare not eat it in public after having set up his little vigilante outfit.”

Habib seemed confused, for a moment. “Kanwal did come to the restaurant that evening, and he did eat his mutton, so he probably didn’t kill for the pateela. This has to be someone who couldn’t afford it, was hungry and just wanted to eat.”

“Habibi, that is more than half the people in the gali.”

“But also someone who knew the restaurant enough to know that there would be such a pateela in the kitchen; and more important, somebody who knew Rahman miyan personally and who disliked him.”

“That could be any of the older boys in the madarsa, Habibi. They are always hungry and in need of nourishment, and Rahman miyan was harsh to them.”

“I was thinking of Salman, who had been angry with Rahman miyan for taking away his room at the madarsa,” Habib said.

“Salman doesn’t want for food. His mother would feed him. Not mutton, perhaps, but something. Also his ladylove would feed him! He was just being dramatic about being ‘thrown out’– he dropped out from studying years ago, but Rahman miyan was continuing to lodge him at the madarsa. Then our hero would break all the rules, come in at all hours – anybody would have told him to vacate the room. And it’s not as if he doesn’t have a place to stay. He has always had a home with his mother.”

“So you think one of the madarsa boys is more likely to have been involved than Salman? But, Jamal bhai, they are so timid, I don’t see them picking up a steam iron and assaulting Rahman miyan. If the cause of death were more passive – Rahman miyan had a bad case of wheezing and somebody hid his inhaler, or rather dragged their feet when sent to bring it from his home – then I’d think the boys might have done it,” Habib said.

“Habibi, if only the sun came out and we had more light and less smog, and if our minds unfroze a bit, we would solve the mystery,” Jamal lit his first cigarette of the day, took a drag and coughed the customary cough. “So you have a motive – hunger – but no method. Then, second theory?”

“If he was assaulted with his own steam iron, then that suggests a fight, or an argument that suddenly escalated. It has to be someone who would be arguing with him in the first place, not the timid madarsa boys, who scurried at the sight of him.”

“What could the argument be?”

“Laadley is too laid back to argue, though he is strong enough to pick up an object and hit. But Rana and Kanwal were both there: they’d have teased and bullied, and started an argument.”

“But, Habibi, that is very unlikely. A policeman won’t pick up a steam iron and murder someone in the heat of the moment, yaar. He has a thousand other ways to harass, as we can see.”

“Perhaps Rana’s past behaviour is colouring my judgment,” said Habib philosophically. “Anyway, I think that this case will be solved only when we know what caused Rahman miyan’s death. Ask Achche uncle, Jamal bhai?”

Quite unexpectedly, it was Achche uncle himself who walked up to them in that very moment. He had none of his usual cheer, and he avoided eye contact with the boys.

Aamna was trying her best to hold back tears. She sat alone in the cold draught in the veranda, refusing to look in the direction of Achche bhai, who stood by, apologetically. She saw her husband, Asghar, emerge in the fog and shuffle towards her, holding several polythene packets.

He reached the veranda, looked at her and at Achche Lal, and began to empty the polythene packets on a wooden chair. He took out a box that said ‘Mother Dairy Milk Cake’, and then several lassi tetra packs. He gestured at them and looked towards Achche Lal, “For the boys. They haven’t eaten anything since morning.”

Aamna jumped up, “Milk cake? Is this an occasion for milk cake? You couldn’t find anything else? Could have brought some fruits!” she said.

“Only the Mother Dairy booth is open bhai, and they only had milk cake and lassi,” he said helplessly. “Achche, take it inside.”

“Asghar bhai, milk cake in the middle of interrogation may not be proper. ACP saheb is there – he would have himself got them lassi.”

Aamna glared in the middle distance and shook her head.

ACP saheb bent down to adjust the heater, then sat up straight and smiled benignly at Jamal and Habib.

“This is an informal chit-chat. Don’t take it otherwise,” he said amicably. “I wanted to meet you because you are both active in a sensitive area. Lassi– tea – anything?

“Now, Jamal, we have learnt from sources that you were instigating Mr Habib to kill Rahman ji? In the hearing of one and all?”

Both Jamal and Habib looked astounded. “What, when? I never asked Habibi…oh, in his book?” Jamal instinctively slapped his forehead with his palm.

“All unruly ideas are first planted in books. What is this book that you are writing, sir?” asked the ACP with interest. “At your age, shouldn’t you first be reading the classics? These days everyone just writes their own book, ha! Why bother to read old masters?” he cackled.

“Murder mystery,” muttered Habib.

“Murder mystery,” repeated the ACP. “And Mr Jamal was instigating you to ‘kill’ Rahman ji.”

“In the novel! As a joke!” protested Jamal.

“Hmm. And Mr Habib is even better. He said ‘No, no why to kill Rahman? Let us kill a police officer!’ No doubt you will again jump up and say, ‘Yes, but in a book.’ This is pure intimidation of law enforcement authorities. Such acts – whether ‘in a book’ or otherwise – will now be deemed a terrorist offence, are you aware?”

Jamal and Habib looked suitably worried.

“Mr Habib, you want to become a detective?” said the ACP changing tack. “Private detective, or you want to join the police force?”

“I was planning to write the civil services exams next year,” said Habib softly.

“Very good! Then focus on exams, become a police officer. Then you’ll realise how unreasonable your demands are – protest here, protest there, all the time disrupting traffic, causing law and order issues. Mr Jamal, you are to be seen at every anti-India demonstration. There is nothing good you can see in our government? So much negativity, why?” the ACP asked in the tone of an elderly relative, but also added sharply, “Who sends you to these demonstrations? Who is the mastermind?”

Jamal cupped his face in his hands and sighed. “Sir, I need to eat something. I am not feeling well.” The ACP smiled but didn’t offer anything. “Answer the question and you are free to go.”

“Nobody sends me. I care about these issues and I feel it is my duty to speak out. Constable Rana and Kanwal were also seen bullying Rahman miyan that night. In the hearing of one and all! Why are you not asking them?”

The smile vanished. “First, please don’t tell me how to conduct an investigation. Second, Constable Rana was there on duty. He was surveilling Kanwal, and therefore we can rule that boy out. Last of all, I am surprised that your first needle of suspicion always falls on the police, who are there to protect you. You all never trust the government nor the police. You don’t trust the courts also. This kind of hatred makes it very easy for you to attack a policeman – we have been seeing that. Throw a stone at a policeman doing his duty, fire a katta, hmm?”

The ACP was interrupted by the sound of a woman shouting in anger.

Mrs Pushpa Kumari had arrived at the police station and was making her outrage known. “This is the limit, Achche.”

“Arre bhai, it is standard investigation procedure. We are only taking their statements. There is nothing to worry.”

“Why don’t you take statements from other people? Only Muslim boys will be called for investigation? And Jamal of all people? What face will I show to Aamna?” Aamna, for her part, appeared quite placated. She came over and made to drag Pushpa outside. “Come, let them do their duty.”

“Everyone will be asked for their statement. Why are you so suspicious?” Achche Lal called out to his wife.

Inside, the ACP had stopped his questioning. He was trying to listen to Pushpa, his head cocked to one side. “You become an officer, then you’ll know how difficult it is for us,” he said to Habib. “You are both free to go. There was no need to trouble your parents. I wasn’t going to arrest you.

“But listen, deposit your phones outside. We will have to further investigate your networks.”

The boys deposited their phones, collected their SIMs, signed in a register and then went out to be greeted with milk cakes and lassi. Even Jamal, who normally liked mithai, was surprised at the choice of offerings.

The ACP was slipping into an unpleasant mood. He did not approve of disorderly conduct in the station house premises, not from suspects and their families at any rate.

He was reflecting on this when there was another sound from outside.

Laadley had brought a fresh-faced lawyer to the police station who was demanding to know why his client’s property had been seized without warning.

“Do you know there has been a murder?” bellowed the ACP. “That is case material, relevant to an ongoing investigation. Are you here to obstruct my investigation? Get them out of here!” he motioned towards Constable Rana, who was more than happy to oblige. He shoved the young lawyer with one hand, and poked Laadley with his baton with the other.

As Salman’s luck would have it, everyone at the police station was tense and edgy by the time he arrived in response to the summons. Constable Rana made him sit down in a chair, grabbed the back of his neck pushing it down, and delivered three thumps on his back. Salman yelped in pain.

“Why did you kill Rahman ji?” Rana asked in a matter of fact way.

“I didn’t kill him, saheb. I left in front of you. You saw me leave.”

“So you’re saying I was last seen with Rahman, hain? You’re the one who has been blabbering about my presence there?” Rana push Salman’s neck further down, till he cried again. “Do you know what the punishment is for accusing police officers?”

ACP saheb had a mild headache by now. He had asked for coffee and two paracetamol tablets. He could hear Salman howling from one room, and in another part of the station, possibly outside his window even, some women wailing and shouting. He rubbed his eyes and got up to see, muttering to himself, “Really, sometimes I wish we were not some democracy.” A woman was beating her chest and claiming Salman was blameless; he had been with her all evening. Another older woman was gesticulating and cursing her for having ruined Salman’s life. A third person, a man, was pulling at the younger woman’s chadar, trying to drag her away. Two toddlers stood in the middle of this fight, bawling.

“Achche Lal!” shouted the ACP. ASI Achche Lal rushed in and stood to attention. “What is going on here? Is this a zoo?”

“Sir, that one is Naseeban. She is publicly stating that Salman was with her, so naturally her husband is upset. He is trying to take her home. That one is Salman’s mother – she thinks Naseeban has entrapped her golden boy.”

“Just get everyone out!”

Constable Rana had beaten Salman for a good 15 minutes. His hands were hurting slightly.

“ACP saheb is saying to let you go today, but remember that soon I will be able to arrest you and keep you here for three months. And you will get a treatment from me every night. I will shoot you in the knee and say he was trying to escape.”

Later in the evening, the ACP called Achche Lal into his cabin: “Achche, she is your Mrs and everything, but there have to be some boundaries. I could have suspended you then and there!” And to the others he said, “This is a police station, not a fish market. How do you allow people to create ruckus like this? From now onwards, I don’t want any relatives or anyone else on the premises. Let them wait on the road outside. Sanctity of investigation cannot be destroyed.”

The policeman shuffled out of their superior’s room. “Yaar, who will say these people are oppressed? They disrupted every single interrogation today. Soon it will be on social media also – police has detained Muslim youth; no matter that they are murder accused,” complained Constable Rana.

Aamna and Asghar felt hurt.

Pushpa had insisted that Achche Lal and she visit them at their house that evening. “What was the need for it, Achche bhai?” Aamna finally spoke to Achche as she poured him tea.

“You’re not understanding. He is not an accused. We just wanted a witness statement,” Achche pleaded.

“Achche, every time an incident happens, whatever it may be, why is it that only we experience the ripples? It seems to rupture our lives alone.

“Anyway, what kind of investigation is this? Are you any closer to discovering the truth?” Asghar interjected.

Suddenly, Achche Lal’s mobile phone rang. He spoke briefly into it and then looked at Asghar triumphantly: “The police have found the stolen pateela!”

To be continued…

Jammu to Poonch: A Bus Journey

This is a work of historical fiction.

The recent incident of custodial torture and death of three Gujjar men, in the aftermath of the recent round of militant ambush on military in the higher reaches of Bufliaz in Poonch killing three soldiers, has sent Pir-Panjal into deep distress. The three tribals killed in custody are Safeer Hussain, 37, Showkat Hussain, 26, and Shabir Ahmed, 32. The rise in militancy related activities and operations have seen a spike in the past few years, where the ongoing disturbances are looked upon as taking Pir-Panjal back to militancy prone decades.

The following account, an excerpt from a longer historical fiction, while throwing light on the social-cultural life as it existed under those troublesome years in late 1990’s and early 2000’s, the years of heightened tensions and violence, also provides a lens for us to see that human right excesses at the hand of the armed forces under impunity can push Pir-Panjal back to stages from which it has yet to fully recover. The insurgency and counter-insurgency operations in the past choked the already vulnerable diversity in the region, as the twin borderland districts of Poonch-Rajouri went on to deal with both internal-operations as well as the volatile pounding of them under severe cross-border shelling, creating a severe disbalance in inter-ethnic and inter-religious ties. With the current incident, the only way forward for the state and the forces is not just to enter the damage control mode that they appear to be doing at the moment, but to ensure that a fair trial follows and the killers are punished, besides been mindful of the fragility that these regions espouse.

On a freezing January day in 2002, 11-year-old Subbu was travelling in one of the newly introduced ‘video-coaches’ en route to Poonch, the deluxe buses run by the Jammu and Kashmir State Road Transport (JKSRTC) on the Jammu-Poonch highway. Earlier, the only means of public transport between Jammu and Poonch were the local iron-steel buses, with a multi-coloured body much like the old-school bridal lorries, with wooden bench like seats and plain glass windows that opened vertically, lifting and placing one flap in front of the other, up and down, both ways. Private shared taxis were yet a thing of the future in 2002. People in this part of Pir-Panjals, Poonch-Rajouri, heavily relied on these buses for commute, privately owned cars were not as widespread at the time. Mobile phones had not made an entry either and Poonch was still a land of landlines, one for four-six houses in a mohalla (neighborhood) and sometimes two connections for a village if it is a chosen one where the precious cables could reach. This was also a time when the guns on the line-of-control in Pir-Panjal had not yet completely fallen silent after the brutal siege of 1999-2000, the Kargil war. The shelling in these belts was one of the heaviest that people had ever witnessed. The shells falling around the town area, especially the ‘darya-mohallas’ – the neighbourhoods towards the river basin – still are fresh memory for the inhabitants.

On a ‘barely double lane’ that Jammu-Poonch highway was back then in 2000s, it sometimes took around nine to ten hours to reach Poonch from Jammu and vice-versa. These had always been one of the least developed, isolated, marginalised border belts in Jammu and Kashmir. It was ten minutes past one in the afternoon, and the bus had just reached Rajouri. As soon as the bus touched the entrance of the bridge that connects the Poonch highway to the main town of Rajouri, the conductor of the bus, Shadaab Hussain, kept calling out: “Chaar Seataan ann, Surankote Surankote Surankote, Uncle Chalna ne…Poonch Poonch Poonch (in Poonchi-Pahari), four seats left, any passenger for Surankote?” Pointing at a man standing with a bag and two kids near the bridge, he added, “Uncle, four seats, want to come onboard for Poonch?”

The man replied in negative by shaking his head, as the bus moved on towards Poonch. The Poonch-Jammu road was the only road connecting Poonch outwards, the last border-district as Mughal road connecting Poonch with Srinagar today had not been constructed yet.

The commotion in the bus signalled the restlessness among the passengers, as it had already been over two hours into the journey since the last refreshment break at Bhamla, in Sunderbani. Some women and a couple of men were talking about the long and arduous journey that Jammu-Poonch is, with the elders expressing that undertaking the journey is akin to a pilgrimage of some sort, preparations for which usually started at four or sometime earlier in the morning.

Subbu, the little girl, was shook from her sleep by her mother Rekha, waking up to see the long-awaited purpose of her journey being fulfilled as she finally got to enjoy the actual videos inside the video coaches. The fine cushiony seats, neat covers, even the window curtains on the windows inside these new video-coaches did not attract her attention much. All she had been waiting for was the cinema. As soon as the journey began, she had just one question to ask, “Mom, when will the film start, and which one will it be?” dreading the possibility of a film finally put would be an old Hindi movie, much to the dislike of any young girl growing up in the early 2000s.

Another reason for her excitement was that the transition from Doordarshan to cable network had not yet sunken smoothly deep on the ground. There was no possibility whatever few channels her limited local cable network provides would play a new fancy cinema of age, in her own television set at home. The video finally was played after a few passengers, looking at the plight of the poor child, pleaded the conductor immediately as the bus started after their last break at Bhamla. Her joy knew no bounds when the conductor indeed had a VHS tape of Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, the movie of the time, recently released and brought to Subbu straight from the cinema to the VHS player of the video coach en route Poonch from Jammu that day. But how was she to follow the movie from a middle to rear seat, and the glitchy display that would go worse whenever the bus hit a pothole, which were many on a borderland road network, not to mention the squeaking sound the tires made when the brakes were hit after every minute taking into consideration the sharp curves these mountains are known for. On top of this, most of the passengers, unlike a young Subbu, would have been interested in this box with visuals and sounds if a Manoj Kumar or Madhu Bala were to appear there. They had no interest in KKKG, and hence continued with the chatter, making it all the way more difficult for Subbu, to follow from within these. She tried only to finally give up, and enjoy the almost muted version of the fancy faces on screen.

Rekha opened a big lunch box packed with several puris and began sharing it with others, specifically those who were interested. She cannot not have, everyone knew everyone on a Poonch-bound bus back in those days, and if someone did appear a little strange, familiarities were quickly established with a few initial rounds of questioning pertaining to family details among others. Prakash Sudan, sitting next to Rekha and Subbu, was the first to pick some up.

The bus slowly pulled up into the quiescent little town of Manjakote, a few kilometers before Bhimber Gali top – the natural mountain pass border between Rajouri and Poonch, the twin districts. Manjakote, otherwise unfrequented by visitors, had usually acted as a refreshment stop, the last one before Surankote, especially in the militancy laden years of the 1990s and early 2000s. The conductor made a quick call to all the passengers,

“Whosoever wants to take a short and quick loo break, or wants to purchase something to eat, can do so now, the bus will halt only after entering Surankote before finally reaching Poonch after that.”

Everyone knew why they need to take this announcement seriously. The drive between Manjakote-Bhimber Gali-Surankote-Poonch in the 1990s and 2000s was like a dreaded leap that everyone wanted to quickly take, just to reach the other side, their homes, safely.

The driver honked, whosoever was out quickly boarded, and the bus started one of the last legs of its journey towards Haveli, the administrative centre of Poonch. Now it carried only the passengers for Poonch district, others who had boarded it for various stops in district Rajouri had by then been safely dropped off. A few minutes into it, Bhishan Raina, a school teacher and a married man with two young girls on board, started discussing the life they as a borderland community faced during the past two years of the Kargil war.

Speaking in Poonchi-Pahari, he loudly expressed, “My father-in-law tried his best to convince us to temporarily shift to Jammu as the mortar shelling became a gory reality full of uncertainty back in early 2000 when the war in Kargil was in full swing. We contemplated, but you see, I could not have just left…my brothers, their families and my father were all staying back in Poonch. I told him you can take your daughter and our kids for the time being if it frightens you that much, I will stay back and look after the house. Eventually we stayed, as my wife decided otherwise, and then, my father-in-law suggested that we should at least hand over our little savings, gold jewellery among other things. His rationale was that in case the war grew gorier and if the entire town had to be temporarily evacuated, at least we will have savings, in money and kind, safe with him, that we can always be assured of. The man finally took our gold for safe-keeping, and has not returned it yet, two years after the war began. Perhaps, he was worried about the gold more than he was worried about his daughter, his grand kids and let alone, me.” The whole bus filled with laughter at this.

Aslam Sheikh, a contractor by profession, added, “I remember the time well, but luckily we never had the shelling problem in Surankote town due to it being tucked away into the mountains safely unlike the exposed town of Poonch that is right up there at the front.”

Sheikh was travelling with his octogenarian father, Ahmad, who had some of the best tales to narrate, courtesy experiences from his long life lived among these disturbed mountains. One that he shared went like this:

“There lives a Bakerwal, Muhamad-ud-din, or simply Muhamadin, in one of the dhoks (meadows to and from where Bakerwals make their seasonal transhumance) up in those mountains above Bufliaz (the place that connects Mughal Road to Poonch). We were having tea at a stall in the bazaar in Surankote a few months ago, where he shared how, while living up there in his dhara (stone and wood makeshift shelter) in the summer when the war had already been on, he noticed his chicken kept swindling in numbers with each new day. One day as he was feeding them danah grains…he noticed something is not up to the mark. The brood of hens not only looked terribly reduced in numbers, but some of the chicks were missing too. That day he was certain that somebody had been either stealing his birds or eating them up alive: it could be a bear, a leopard or a human, he wondered.

“One day a group of policemen and a few havaldars were roaming around in the lower reaches of the meadow, looking for informers who they can assign for the task of collecting information on infiltration and militants highly active in the area at the time. Muhamadin offered his services and vowed to pass on any information he will have thereon only if the policemen will help him solve his chicken-riddle. The policemen, quite amused by the case, were driven to take it up. They walked with him to his dhara, inspected his chicken shelter, kept separately from his other sheep flock and goat herd. The entire situation became too tempting for the policemen and the havaldars, that the sight of chicken, sheep and goat, put together one after the other, could only appear to them as the various types of curries and yakhnies for dinner. Two senior policemen: the inspector and another of his colleague took two chicken, a goat and a sheep each, while the havaldars decided on splitting the meat from a goat and a sheep after zeba (sacrificial butchering) in equal halves.

“That day, in Surankote town, when I met him, at the tea stall, he had come to request the army to intervene while complaining about the situation with the police. Ultimately, the army visited, took away four goats and two sheep, but they unlike the police, offered some money in return, with no possible answers for his dwindling chicken flock. It was one of his friends, another Bakerwal who had also come up to the meadow for flock rearing, informed him that some people had been stealing birds and cattle in the group, as they have been pressured by the militants who have camped in the nearby forests to do so. That explained his loss.”

“I,” Sheikh continued, “then advised him to go to district commissioner with his situation, and tell him about how his birds have been feeding, the police, the army and the militants. He said tauba, God forbid, as the thoughts of corrupt greedy gatekeeping clerical staff at the commissioner’s office eating up rest of his flock shook him. He eventually shifted to a different dhok for the season with whatever was left of his cattle and birds.”

Laughter filled the bus once again, that had by then reached the Bhimber Gali Top. It halted there for the regular inspection. The VHS player was finally shut down, much to the frustration of Subbu, whose eyes just a minute before had marvelled at the dancing Poo in ‘You are My Sonia’.

The driver, along with all the male passengers, were called out to identify themselves besides registering the vehicle in a thick book that keeps the record for perhaps all humans, animals and objects that enter and leave this unfortunate district at the extreme periphery of a state.

As the bus plied down towards Surankote crossing Tota Gali, an uncanny silence had engulfed it which was broken by Bhishan Raina, who asked everyone to looked out from the left windows in the bus. With certain melancholy and excitement, both enshrouding his face at the same time, he pointed towards a small white building with faint green rooftop inside the tress far below. “That is my school, this is where I am posted as a master-grade (senior grade) teacher, look there, that one, behind the tree line.” The bus had now reached Sanjote.

“Do you come every day this far up from Poonch main town?” asked Yousaf Choudhary, a Gujjar milk seller, from village Nangali, close to the town.

“No, I have been attached to the Chief Education Officer’s office in the town, for the past one year,” replied Raina. “Two militants had been making specific inquiries around the school premises last year, about masters (teachers) who come to teach from the city. Our headmaster took this seriously and wrote a letter to the CEO, requesting him to attach me, and another of my colleagues Sunil, to some place in the city until the threat settles down. I have thus been asked to keep away from my school and I do not see when can I return back, or if ever I could,” he continued.

“Many of the school teachers have increasingly been attached to town-based offices in the last many years,” added Netar Singh, a retired school teacher and another Pahari Sikh travelling in the bus that day.

“One of my younger brothers was posted in a middle school in village Lathung (Lathung comes after you cross Surankote towards Poonch City). One day three years ago, before the war hit, he was frequented by armed militants in his village, as he stood out from the crowd being a turbaned Sikh. They then asked him to get attached at some place in the town and not to enter village next day onwards. He still is unsure why they left him alive with a warning, and did not kill him. Don’t you all remember the death of two Sikh men around the same village area?” he asked. Everyone confirmed in silence and with a sigh.

The story goes that two men belonging to Poonch city reached Surankote late in the evening on a similar public bus service. They reached Surankote at around four in the evening. Throughout the 1990s and especially in the late-1990s and early 2000s, the route would be captured by multiple-orders: the militants in the region would take over in some sort of parallel order after 3 o’clock in the afternoon. There was no official regime change; the Indian state forces would simply give up and disappear from the roads in the evening, as if handing the game over to other players. If the main highway to Poonch, beyond Surankote had this scene, then one can only vouch for what may have been the scenario in connecting roads that led to several villages and smaller townships. Most of the time, back in those days, the administration wouldn’t let the vehicles coming from the Jammu side pass after 2 o’clock in the afternoon from Rajouri, because by the time they would have entered Surankote, it would be evening already. The military would reappear the next morning, and would simply not be responsible for anything that had transpired on these roads after three or four every evening.

One of the elders from Surankote cities, reminiscing about the dreadful times, talked about how he shifted his extended family in the Poonch city. They stayed there for long, and hardly visited home in Surankote for many years at a stretch. This game of hide and seek between military and militants became difficult to handle for almost everyone who cared for their lives and their families.

The two Sikh men reached Surankote by bus at 3 pm and decided to walk towards the city, attempting to cover a distance of around 28 km on foot. Talk has it that as they kept crossing villages on the way. Many on the road who were winding up the business for the day closing the shutter of their shops, or people in homes that lay on the roadside, pleaded with them to not proceed further on foot, with some even offering their homes where the men were welcome to stay for the night. One of the two Sikh men was a retired armed-forces subedar, most likely, and he was accompanied by his brother-in-law who was a civilian from the city of Poonch. Many witnesses later reported how when confronted and asked to not walk further, the subedar replied, “There’s nothing to fear, you guys are baselessly worried, we will walk up to Nangali Sahab (a pilgrimage of great religious significance for the Sikhs near the city) and shall rest there for the night.”

Their fearlessness cost them their lives, or rather the fearlessness of subedar-sahab cost the other one his life. They were taken across the river by the militants, beheaded, their bodies only to be later recovered by the villagers and the police the next day. The hide and seek between military and militants was not a game played between these two after all. It had engulfed Pir-Panjal like never before. The road from Surankote to Poonch runs parallel to the river that acts as a boundary between areas that were absolutely under the control of militants. Areas like Lathung, Marhote were the places that saw some of the highest displacement and violence, the victims, mostly Muslims: Gujjars, Paharis, Bakerwals, all at the same time.

The bus reached Surankote at 3 pm, which almost felt like a night on a dark grey January afternoon. Aslam got down, bidding everyone farewell.

“Acha ji, Allah Hafiz, aao chalaan, aao chaa pi jao…may you all be in God’s protection, but why don’t you all come have tea at my place, freshen up and then proceed…come Madamji, stay with your daughter here with us, you anyways have to come tomorrow to the hospital,” said Aslam as he bade all his fellow passengers farewell, particularly inviting Rekha to stay the night as she had to make the round trip again to Surankote the next morning where she was posted as a staff-nurse in the only small public hospital (almost hospital) in the tehsil.

“It’s already three, and in a short while it will be almost dark, we all need to reach safely before it’s night. Perhaps some other day when days are not as dark for all of us,” responded Netar Singh affectionately.

The bus once again accelerated through the town bazar, making the last leg of its journey towards Poonch.

“Mommy, when will I get to see the rest of the film, we are almost home,” interjected a still hopeful Subbu.

“We will finish it some other time,” Rekha tried to calm her down.

The window curtains were drawn, especially on the right side of the bus. Nobody asked them to; the conductor did not, the driver did not. The conductor just switched off his cabin lights. This made Subbu ever more restless as her scenic views outside were draped all of a sudden.

The bus crossed the Pir-Baba mazaar, shrine, near Lathung, but did not stop for prayers as it usually does in the morning hours. It accelerated swiftly, like it was escaping something, someone, unseen, yet there, maybe not.

“Where is that temple, Dhundhak, where the two Sadhus were beheaded last year,” asked a young adult, Rashid to Bhishan Singh, trying to look outside through a small hole that the folds in the curtains had created.

“It is further ahead, there is still time, but the Sikh men were picked up from somewhere here,” replied Bhishan, also trying to look for a peephole.

“Wasn’t the Judge killed with his bodyguards, somewhere here too,” asked Yaqoob, a fruit-seller from Poonch.

“No, no, that was up there in DKG, Dhera ki Gali, in Bufliaz, not here,” replied Prakash.

“Many members of a family were killed too in the midst of a night near the town in Surankote. My brother’s cousin, a Bakerwal, living in the upper reaches of Bufliaz had to be displaced from his meadow and shelter, as the land had to be used for military purposes, they now live in shabby shelter here near the town. A neighbourhood has been created only for such displaced Gujjar, Bakerwal, Pahari refugees,” Yaqoob added.

“Who killed the family?” asked the conductor, who by then had been drawn to the conversation.

“Some say they were collateral, as people who had personal rivalries, settled the scores by using militants and police and whosoever else was a player in the game.”

“What is a collateral?” asked a perplexed Rekha.

“Jisko kisi ne nahin maara, aur who phir bhi mara gaya…someone who nobody killed, and yet he was murdered,” replied Prakash.

“Yes, a lot many cattle and flock died too, as in these untimely sudden displacements, people could hardly attend to their animals the way they do normally…many of my known people were harassed on both sides, many killed to for purported mukhbiri, espionage.”

“If you become army informers, militants kill you, if you become militant’s informer, you invite the wrath of the military. If a group of militants were to come and knock at your door in the middle of the night, in these areas where military is nowhere to be found after 4 pm, what will you do? Do you risk harming your entire family, or do you save them by providing them with the food and funds they have come to your door for…because if you don’t you are an enemy, a pro-state, pro-everything, in the eyes of militants, and if you do, you’re anti-everything in the eyes of the state,” Choudhary Ashraf, another septuagenarian who had been sitting quiet and listening to other’s stories all this while, spoke for the first and the final time on this journey.

He went on, “You see those stretches across the river, there, they, the militants simply chop off your ears and nose, there, uss paar…seddha kann kappne.”

An eerie silence befell the bus, as all of them tried to get a peak of the hills across.

Subbu, the youngest in the bus, who before been quite disinterested in whatever had been discussed throughout the journey, suddenly had been paying attention as her film was forcibly shut down.

She had also been looking out through her side of the curtain, and soon as she heard, they chop of ears, on that side, the till then beautiful view suddenly filled her body with a strange fear. She drew the curtains, holding them tight in her tiny hands, lest anything or anyone should see her inside the bus.

“Mommy, when will we reach Poonch?” she asked one final time.

“Soon enough, soon enough,” a terrified Rekha replied.

The bus kept accelerating, nobody spoke a word until the glimpse of the town came into view and another military check post near village Madana was now in sight.

“We have reached, Waheguru tera shukur…all thanks to God, we are almost home now!” exclaimed Bhishan Singh.

All men once again got down for the routine check with their identity cards, as Rekha wrapped little Subbu in her arms, and hid her under her shawl.

Malvika Sharma belongs to Poonch, and has been writing on borderlands for a while now. The essay above is an excerpt from her upcoming book, Echoes in the Panjals: Writing and Reflexivity in Conflict Zones.