That Drop Of Tear By Muhammad Taha Alam

THAT DROP OF TEAR

A novel

MUHAMMAD TAHA ALAM

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Dedicated to my angel…

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Chapter One

The smoke is quivering upwards from the burning tip of my cigarette. Sitting in the shade, under the drooping branches of a banyan tree, I am staring fixedly at an emaciated, scrawny little dog sleeping at some distance. Lying on its side, it’s breathing softly with a slow, continuous rise and fall of its flank. Its ribs are visible through the thin skin covering its body. I raise my cigarette to my lips and draw a long puff. Shutting my eyes, I savour the puff. Filtering through the leaves of the low branches, the sunlight is falling in spots on my shirt. It’s a hot afternoon and droplets of perspiration have appeared on my upper lip. I tap my cigarette and Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

watch the fragments of crumbled, flaky ash drop down the tip of my cigarette, revealing beneath them the orange embers glowing weakly in the bright light of afternoon. At this time, I often have a free lecture, and I spend this half-hour either wandering aimlessly in the campus, giving passing glances to the century old buildings of Fergusson, or sitting under the shade of this tree, luxuriating in a haze of smoke. Sometimes, when I look up at the buildings of my college, I am kindled with a subtle sense of wonder. These grey, shadowy buildings seem to echo the moaning of ages buried in the abyss of time. I don’t know why, but antiquity elicits deep emotions of curiosity in me. I inhale another puff, and release a thick, coily wisp of smoke that rises upwards in the still air and disperses slowly into nothingness. I scratch my forehead contemplatively, watching one face after another pass me by. As I look at the faces of these students, I catch a whiff of that same feeling which simmers within me whenever I look at people’s faces with curiosity. I somehow feel I am different from them. These people are busy in their lives. They are in pursuit Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

of something they deeply desire. But me, I am a lost soul; I am clueless of what I want in life. Sometimes, I feel I am simply a phantom drifting with the current of time. As I flick away my cigarette butt, I notice the American girl stealing a furtive glance at me. She is standing alone at some distance, and every now and then, she would stealthily raise her eyes, look at me for a moment, then jerk her gaze away. She is a new girl in college. One of my friends told me that she was from New York. I often notice her in the Economics lecture, but we have never struck a conversation. Adjusting my spectacles, I get up and with my back resting against the thick, bulgy bark, I stare at her with still, unmoving eyes. Conscious of my piercing stare, she looks at me and I give her a winsome, friendly smile. She smiles back, a soft, utterly endearing smile, and waves at me. She is looking lovely under the afternoon sun. The sunlight is falling directly on her lean face, enhancing the richness of her olive complexion. Her dense, auburn hair, hanging down her shoulders in curly waves is bright with Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

sunlight. I feel like talking to her. But before I could decide, I see her walking slowly in my direction. ‘Can I have a cigarette?’ she asks in her American accent ‘I’ve been dying to smoke one since morning’ ‘You smoke?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow ‘that’s quite interesting’ ‘I guess so’ she shrugs ‘haven’t seen many girls smoking in India’ ‘That’s right’ I say, searching my shirt pocket for a loose cigarette ‘Actually, its still a man’s luxury in India, you know’ ‘Sure it is’ she says, and looks the other way ‘It’s so fukin’ hot, isn’t it? I’d swoon in such heat’ ‘Better get used to it’ I say, passing her the cigarette ‘it’s better out there, I guess’ She holds the cigarette between her lips, and I strike a match. Holding the burning matchstick in the hollow of my palm, I bring it close to the tip of her cigarette and wait until thin lines of smoke begins to shiver upwards from the ashen tip. ‘In States, the weather is much better’ she says, tipping back her head and blowing out the smoke languidly in the air. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘In what sense?’ I light one for myself as well. ‘Well, on normal days, its kinda’ sunny there’ she says, taking another puff ‘but at the same time the temperature is low. Out here in India, it’s always fukin’ hot. If you stand under the sun for an hour, you’d probably be baked into a toast’ With a casual smile, I look at her for a moment. ‘You don’t like India, do you?’ ‘Well, it’s not that way’ she shrugs ‘I kinda like the people. They aren’t arrogant’ With a slow thoughtful nod, I look ahead. The emaciated dog is still asleep. Looking at it, I feel a slight prick of pity at my heart. Poor, skinny little creature! For a while, we smoke in silence. Resting my head against the bark, I close my eyes and allow the smoke to do the rest. For sometime, I stay like that, until the girl snaps her fingers before my eyes. ‘Where’re you lost Mr. Dreamer?’ she says. There’s a glint of amusement in her watery blue eyes. Taking the last puff of her Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

cigarette, she throws down the butt and crushes it beneath her sneaker. ‘I’m off now’ she says ‘catch up later’ ‘By the way’ I say ‘what’s your name?’ ‘Jessica’ she replies ‘But my friends call me Jessy’ ‘Jessica’ I repeat, tasting the name ‘sweet name’ ‘Thanks’ ‘Anyways, I’m Ibrahim’ I extend my hand for a handshake. When she puts her slender long hand in mine, it felt so soft and fragile, like a wisp of cloud. It almost dissolved in mine. ‘Alright then, carry on’ I say ‘See you later’ ‘Bu’bye’ With a soft, delicate smile, revealing the white line of her teeth, she turns around and walks out of the shade into the bright sunlight.

*

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Chapter Two

My room is still without the hum and movement of fan. Lying idle on my bed, I am coiling a strand of my hair with my finger. There’s no electricity, and through the window pane, the dim light of dusk has filled my little room with its bluish gloom. Staring fixedly at the dusty white fan hanging still from the middle of the ceiling, I heave a deep sigh. For almost an hour, I have been lying on my bed, lost in the curious, whimsical reveries and vivid scenes of past that often comes floating to one’s mind at such idle times. I rub my face with my palms and sit up on my bed. Picking up my packet of Rothmans, I climb out of the bed and scratching my head clumsily, walk towards the window in a dreary, somnolent way. Unlatching the bolt, I push apart the windowpanes. Outside, there’s a soft, pleasant movement in the air, kind of a slow evening breeze. I Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

strike a match and light a cigarette. Smoking in a relaxed, dreamy way, I keep looking out of the window for a while, watching the silhouette of a lonely crow, perched on a telephone wire, against the indigo sky of evening. The ash from my cigarette drops down like a desiccated leaf. Taking the last puff, I throw the cigarette butt down from my window, watching the little sparks scatter and expire in the blue gloaming of the lane below. As I move away from the window, somebody knocks at the door of my flat. Throwing on a crumpled blue shirt, I rush to the living room and open the door. ‘Assalaamwalaikum. I am Mustafa’ says a bearded young man with an austere face. ‘Walaikumassalaam’ I say, looking curiously at the strange young man with confused, searching eyes ‘I am sorry…have we met before?’ A polite, confident smile flits across his lips. ‘No we haven’t. That’s why I have come here to meet you. I am new in this building. I am staying in the flat above yours’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

His voice is deep and serious. There’s a slow restraint in his speech that gives him a composed, solemn appearance. ‘Come in’. I step aside to let him enter. With his hands on his waist, he looks around my sordid little flat and smiles. ‘you live here alone?’ he asks. ‘well yes’ I shrug ‘it isn’t that good I know.’ He smiles again. ‘It’s fine. I am no better myself’ he says and takes out his handkerchief from the pocket of his kurta. ‘Do you want water?’ ‘No’ he replies, dabbing his forehead with the handkerchief. ‘It’s very hot here’ he says ‘let’s go down and sit together in the tea stall for a while. What do you say?’ He looks at me fixedly. His gaze is sharp, unmoving and incisive. I snatch my eyes away from his, as if I was staring into the sun. ‘What do you say?’ he repeats. ‘Just a moment’ I rush to my room, wiggle my feet hastily in my slippers and come out. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Let’s go now’ ‘Sure’ Together, we walk out of my flat and step down the staircase with my slippers pathetically slapping against the steps. On the lane, as I am walking with this odd, queer fellow clad in a black Kurta, I notice a short, hideous scar on the side of his forehead, hidden partly by a few strands of his thick, curly black hair. There is something uncanny about him that makes me feel a little uncomfortable. In his personality, there’s a strange stiffness. He walks erect with long, firm strides and hardly does he speak while walking. Feeling the pricklings of curiosity, I ask him, ‘How did you get that scar?’. But he doesn’t seem to listen. He appears entrenched in his own thoughts. I was about to ask him again, but something on his intense, austere face cautioned me not to. Without uttering another word we continue walking in an awkward silence, until we approach the tea stall.

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‘Sit here for a while’ he says, pointing towards a bench under a streetlamp on the side of the lane ‘I shall get two cups of tea for both of us’ ‘Sure’ I reply, smiling pleasantly ‘is it on you?’ ‘yes brother’ he says, patting me warmly on the shoulder ‘take it as my treat’. With a friendly wink, he walks towards the tea stall. Sitting alone on the bench, I look up at the streetlamp above my head. A swarm of moths are encircling the white glow of the bulb. The faint clinking of their bodies blindly hitting the glass of the streetlamp stirs a slight irritation in me. I take out my spectacles and bury my face in my palms. Closing my eyes for the first time in hours, I feel my fatigue gather behind my eyes. The sweet smell of tea simmering in the pan comes wafting from the tea stall. I heave a sigh, and keep sitting like that, until I hear hisses of footsteps approaching towards me. I look up. ‘Here’ Mustafa hands me a small glass of tea and sits beside me on the bench. ‘So Ibrahim’ he begins, taking the first sip ‘tell me about yourself’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

A little amused, I smile and look at him intently for a moment ‘what do you wanna know?’ ‘Anything’ ‘Alright’ I say ‘to begin with, I am not a localite. I was born in Kashmir, in Srinagar, and finished my schooling from there. My family is still there’ ‘Then why did you come here?’ he asks, leaning a little closer. I notice a flicker of interest rouse in his bright green eyes. ‘There was a friend of mine’ I continue, taking a sip of my sweet milky tea ‘his elder brother used to study in Fergusson. He used to tell me a lot about his brother’s college and about Pune. It was then that I decided to come to Pune for my B.A. Besides, I wanted be away from my family. I desired independence and…and freedom, you know’ With a slow contemplative nod, Mustafa scratches his chin. ‘You seem be the artistic type. Am I right?’ ‘I don’t know’ I shrug ‘but I guess you are right. Ever since I was a kid, I have had an interest in Literature, music and art. I remember, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

in my schooldays, I was never an exceptionally bright student. I’ve always been a dreamer. Lost in my own thoughts, you know.’ With his still, thinking eyes resting fixedly on me, Mustafa takes a sip of his tea. His arched bushy eyebrows add a piercing intensity to his steady gaze. ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask ‘you seem all serious’ ‘Its nothing’ he murmurs and looks the other way, sipping his tea in a thoughtful silence. I put on my spectacles and look up. It’s growing dark and a thin moon is coming out. There’s a pleasant coolness in the slow breeze blowing softly against my face. I run my fingers through my hair and look aside at Mustafa. He is looking ahead, sunk in some deep reflection. ‘Ibrahim’ he says suddenly, breaking the silence ‘Do you know what your name means?’ ‘Oh yes, I am named after Hazrat Ibrahim, one of the messengers of God’ A smile of cold disdain passes across Mustafa’s lips. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘I am asking the meaning of your name?’ he says ‘don’t tell me you don’t know the meaning of your very identity’ ‘I don’t’ I say, a little surprised ‘What does it mean?’ ‘It means ‘Father of a multitude’, a guide, a leader’ he replies ‘you don’t seem to be an Islamic person.’ ‘No I am not’ I reply ‘My faith in Islam is very weak’ ‘Why do you say so?’ ‘Because I think its unpractical. I told you I was a dreamer. In Islam, there are lots of rules and regulations which are almost impossible to obey. Restrictions, regimentation, discipline and things like that make me sick. I am a complete hedonist. I believe that one must live for pleasure alone. Islamic way of life is a preparation for the afterlife. And I don’t believe in the afterlife. I somehow feel it’s…it’s…all bullshit!’ With a scornful, derisive smile of pure contempt in his bright green eyes, he says ‘you’re nothing but a victim of Western propaganda. What they say, you believe. Tell me one thing. What will you say when somebody asks you who you are? You don’t even know your Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

identity. Your name and your religion is your identity, brother. They will remain with you to your grave. You are dangling in the middle Ibrahim, neither here nor there. You need to accept your identity and be proud of it, instead of cursing it, because your identity is what you are and nothing in this world can change it. Its time you discover yourself Ibrahim, its time you discover yourself. And I am there to help you.’ I look at him for a moment. A strange lustre has come into his green eyes. They are glowing like emeralds. ‘Look inside yourself Ibrahim’ he continues ‘Is your soul not hollow? The things you’re after are nothing but illusions. When they disappear, you will find yourself in the middle of a desert and you won’t know where to go. Return to your roots Ibrahim, take it as an advise. It’s the only way you can fill the emptiness inside you. Embrace your religion and your identity and you will discover what very few are able to discover…your inner strength.’ After he had said this, a thoughtful silence settles between us. His words have awakened unfamiliar emotions in me. They had a Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

poisonous charm. I did not want to believe them, yet I could not refuse them. A strange confusion begins to envelop my mind. Steeped in thoughts, I keep sitting with Mustafa for some more time, with the slow breeze softly lapping against my face. I don’t know why, but with each passing moment, I found myself helplessly slipping deeper in my confusion.

*

Chapter Three

In the hushed stillness of the library, I am reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. With my fist resting under my chin, I am leaning over the book, smiling every now and then with a sense of subtle amusement at the witty turns of Oscar Wilde that comes so often in Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

the book. Today I am feeling more spirited than other days. My mood is light and my confidence buoyant. Even the weather outside is lovely today. For a while, I lift my eyes from the book and take a pause for thought. With my finger lying absently between the pages, I indulge myself in a vague contemplation of the intricate ethnic designs carved assiduously on the wooden pendulum clock hanging high on the wall. A delicate fragrance of lavender comes sailing in the air from behind. I look back, and see Jessica walking towards me in dainty, feminine strides, holding a book with both hands against her chest. There’s a glint of a smile in her prominent blue eyes. Seeing her coming towards me, I experience a queer, delicious stimulation in my veins. A confident smile flits across my lips. ‘How come in the library today?’ I whisper to her. ‘Nothin’ she shrugs ‘bored of attendin’ lectures. Are you a regular at the library?’

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‘Nope. I just come here sometimes, mostly when I am in a reflective mood’ ‘Reflective mood’ she repeats to herself and smiles ‘fancy’ Pulling the chair with a faint woody screech, she takes a seat opposite me and opens her book. ‘what are you reading?’ she asks. ‘Oscar Wilde’ I reply ‘interesting novel. Picture of Dorian Gray. Have you read it?’ With a knowing smile, she says, ‘I’ve read it thrice’ ‘Thrice’ I exclaim ‘Someone here is a bookworm…’ ‘Not at all’ she says ‘Am not a bookworm. Its just that I have deep interest in reading and stuff’ ‘That’s nice. I thought Americans weren’t interested in all this.’ She gives me an intent look, suddenly serious. ‘Its nothing to do with America’ she says ‘Like any other nation, there are both scholars and fools in America. Stupid music videos don’t represent the entire nation, you know’

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‘Alright Miss Nationalist, I am sorry.’ I say jokingly ‘Didn’t mean to offend you’ ‘That’s better’ she says in a cute, chiding way ‘Show me the book.’ Folding the corner of the page I was reading, I shut the book and give it to her. As I was handing her the book, her long, rosy fingers softly touched mine and a quiver of thrill leapt within me. She looks at the book for a moment and whirs its thickness against her thumb. Then she lifts her eyes to mine. ‘You know what Abraheem’ she says ‘I feel sorry for him’ ‘For whom?’ ‘For Wilde’ she says softly, returning me the book. ‘Why?’ I ask, leaning a little forward with interest. ‘Don’t you know he was sent to the Reading jail for two long years?’ ‘No I don’t know much about his personal life’ I say ‘why was he jailed?’ ‘On the charges of being gay’ she replies ‘how cruel, isn’t it?’ A little surprised, I look at her with some curiosity. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘It was the Victorian age’ she continues ‘and things were different then. Everything and everyone had to be just perfect. Anything against the norms of the society was not tolerated. He was such a genius. But, as he says, ‘the world spares everything but genius’. After he came out of the jail, he lived in infamy, disgrace and poverty all his life until he died at the age of 46. The world isn’t fair to all, you know.’ Listening to her, a strange curiosity arouses within me. I look intensely in her blue eyes, wondering inwardly what kind of a person she must be. Her eyes are ruminative and there’s a lonely wistfulness in them. Something about her whispers to me that deep within she is fragile, tender and wounded. After a pause of silence, I whisper to her ‘You are a deep person.’ With a dim smile, she looks the other way, thinking something in herself behind her brooding blue eyes. ‘You know what’ she says suddenly in a soft voice ‘I don’t give a shit about the world and its ways’ ‘What do you mean?’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘The society is a sculptor, and we are its unfortunate sculptures’ she says ‘I don’t know why I am telling you all this, but sometimes I wonder what would the world be like if we believed in no philosophy, no religion, no particular way of life. As far as its about me, I don’t believe in any social norm. Its principles and ideologies change with time and circumstance. For instance, when the Eiffel Tower was newly constructed, it was criticised a great deal. People called it ‘monstrous’ and ‘industrial’. In fact Guy de Maupassant ridiculed it as a ‘high and skinny pyramid of iron ladders’, while novelist Leon Bloy called it a ‘truly tragic streetlamp’. But see now, it has become the very signature of France. The society changes it’s ideologies with time. Why should I believe in it then? Why should I fuck my life believing something that is going to change in times to come? I believe only in what I believe and each one of us should try and break free from the bounds of religion, morality and other such illusions established by the society’

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After she had said this, a spell of silence settles between us. I study her intently for sometime, experiencing a surprising delight. Her words have given utterance to my own unspoken emotions. I have come to know her a little more and found myself closer to her for that. With a smile of genuine pleasure, I say, ‘you really think so? Then we are not so different after all’ She smiles, and shakes back her dense auburn hair, letting it settle fully behind her shoulders. As I was staring at her fair, roseate face, I felt a surge of admiration within me. Before I could realize, she catches my gaze and for a moment, we look at each other with still, steady eyes, until her eyelids bend down, unable to face the pure, naked admiration in my eyes. Suddenly, I hear the slow, floppy footsteps of our old librarian behind me. I look back, and he rests his veiny, trembling hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘Maintain silence’ he says in his soft, shivery voice ‘It’s a library’ Nodding obediently, I look down at my book and wait in silence until I hear his slow steps recede.

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‘Jessica’ I whisper ‘I am leaving. I have a lecture in 15 minutes. You wanna come?’ ‘I don’t mind’ she shrugs ‘as it is, I don’t feel like reading’ ‘Fine then’ I say, rising quietly from the table. As we were moving out of the library, I noticed some of the students raising their eyes stealthily from their books and giving us curious glances. For sometime, we sit outside on the steps of the library, smoking our cigarettes with slow pleasure. The weather is merciful today. The sun is mild and there’s an autumn flavour in the air. Sitting beside me, Jessica is looking ahead with her quiet, wondering eyes, immersed in some reverie of her own. It’s calm and pleasant here. The leaves in the trees are rustling on the rhythm of the soft movement in the air. I look aside, and observe Jessica for a while. On her face, I see a maturity which only the hands of sorrow can chisel. ‘Jessica’

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‘Yes’ she says, looking ahead reflectively. There is something very quiet and patient about her blue eyes. They always seem to be silently listening. ‘why did you come to India?’ She lifts her cigarette to her lips and takes a puff. ‘My mother’ she begins ‘she is a writer and a history professor. She has been planning to write a book that reflects Indian history and culture. For researching, she has come to India. We might stay here for an year or two, after that God knows where we will be. This is how my life has been, jumping from one place to another.’ For a while, I remain silent, feeling a touch of sympathy at my heart. ‘what about your dad?’ I ask. She taps her cigarette and takes a deep breath, ‘my parents got divorced when I was four. I don’t even have faint memories of my father’ Quite embarrassed, I mumble something about being sorry and look the other way. A long silence ensues. I wish I had never asked Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

that question to her. A genuine compassion wells within me and I look aside at her. As I see her soft, delicate face lost in some dreamy reflection, I feel my heart dissolve with tenderness for her. It was surprising, the way I felt. Taking a slow, pleasant puff of my cigarette, I tip back my head and languidly release a dense cloud of smoke into the air. Still drifting with her own thoughts, Jessica says in a calm and distant voice, ‘Have I not a reason to lament, what has man made of man’ ‘Wordsworth’ I say, smiling. ‘Yes, Wordsworth’ she says ‘How true, isn’t it? Look at the trees and the birds, everything seems so lively. No bird dies of starvation, no animal suffers because of unemployment. The nature feeds them and gives them shelter. It is enough for them. Human civilization might have increased the length of our lives, but what about the quality?’ With a slow nod, I say, ‘you’re quite a philosopher’

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She looks at me and gives me an intimate smile. A stirring warmth flows from her large, innocent, watery blue eyes, rousing within me a tremulous pleasure.

*

Chapter Four

Sitting at my table, I am tentatively massaging my scalp with my fingertips. My pulse pounds in my temples and a faint headache is hanging over my eyes. The air inside my room is heavy with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and my table is cluttered with a chaotic assemblage of papers, books, opened files and uncapped pens. I am feeling wretched and bitter with the sickening dullness all around. There’s a sullen dreariness all over me, and every fibre of my muscle is weary with fatigue. Its been three continuous Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

hours since I have been writing a book review on The Great Gatsby. It’s my English project and the deadline is close. Though it’s far from over, I give up now. My eyes are burning and I feel crushed with exhaustion. I clutch a clump of hair at the back of my head and close my eyes. For sometime, I listen to the empty silence in my room. It relaxes me a bit. After a while, I rise up from my table and with sluggish clumsiness, I walk aimlessly around my room. My throat feels dry and my breath smells of smoke. Scratching my neck, I go inside the bathroom to wash my face. Standing on the wet tiles of the bathroom, I am looking at my haggard, bleary face in the mirror. My eyelids are hanging heavy over my eyes, and my hair is rough and messed up. I bring my face closer to the mirror and look in my eyes. My pupils dilate. Red, quivering veins are clearly visible in the whites of my eyes. As I breathe slowly near the mirror, a small mist of vapour spreads on the glass. I look down at the wash basin and turn on the tap. The Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

water suddenly bursts through in a loud wet explosion, springing awake my drowsy mind with a flash. For sometime, I wait for the flow to become normal. But the water continues to gurgle threateningly. Cupping my hands under the tap, I splash a palmful of water on my face and look up in the mirror. Thoughts of Jessica come floating in my exhausted, somnolent mind like a soothing melody. Ever since I met her in the library, she has been hovering on the edge of my consciousness. Her shadow is always there over my thoughts, even in the busiest moments. Sometimes, at night, while I lie alone in the bed, looking blankly up at the ceiling, her thoughts come wafting in my mind, and very soon my entire being is enveloped by her reveries, and I continue to lie in this warm haze of dream until sleep steals over me. I don’t know if I am in love with her or not, all I know is that I love to luxuriate in her thoughts. I turn off the tap. The flow of water stops. With my hand resting on the tap, I hang down my head. Drops of water drip down the tip Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

of my nose, falls silently on the basin and slides down to the sink. ‘Jessica’ I utter suddenly. I feel a curious delight as my wet lips form her name. ‘Jessica’ I say again, a little surprised at my own silliness. Grinning with faint amusement, I wipe my face with the faded yellow towel hanging from the nail beside the basin and come out of the bathroom to change my shirt. To shake off the dreariness, I decide to go to the terrace for a while. As I enter the terrace, where a cool, pleasant night breeze is blowing softly, I notice the erect figure of Mustafa standing alone in a corner with his hands resting on the parapet wall. The end of his blue kurta is rippling with the soft breeze and he stands motionless, rapt in his own reflections. With a pleasant smile, I walk in his direction and stand beside him, but he doesn’t seem to notice me. He seems riveted in the trance of his own thoughts. His green eyes are looking ahead at the lights of the city, abstracted in a sort of dream, oblivious of everything.

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‘Assalaamwalaikum’ I say, resting my hand on his shoulder. Turning his head sharply with surprise, he gives me a bewildered smile. ‘Walaikumassalaam’ he says ‘when did you come?’ ‘Just a moment before’ I say ‘What were you thinking?’ ‘Some old memories close to my heart’ he replies with a wistful sigh ‘Anyways, forget it’ I smile. ‘Do you come to the terrace often?’ ‘Yes, almost every night’ he replies. After a short pause, he adds ‘Isn’t it a beautiful night?’ I look up. Thousand stars are sprinkled in the black bowl of the sky and a sharp sickle of a moon is adorning the night. ‘Very beautiful’ I reply, gazing in wonderment at the perfect crescent of the moon. For a while, both of us remain quiet, relishing the calm, wordless silence; the pleasant night breeze blowing softly against our faces. Soon, the sullen, ashy dreariness that was over me begins to fade,

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and I start enjoying this breezy, languid night, so resplendent in it’s mysterious beauty! I wave my fingers through my hair and take out the packet of Rothmans and a lighter from my pocket. ‘Want one?’ I ask, offering him a cigarette. He thinks for a while. ‘Alright give me one’ ‘Here’ I hand him the cigarette. Holding his cigarette loosely between his lips, he asks me for the lighter. As he spins the flint under the tip of his cigarette, his sallow, bearded face illuminates with the wavering light of the unsteady flame. I light one for myself too. As I smoke my cigarette with slow, languorous pleasure, I feel a soothing lull settling over me. Smoking always quietens my complete being with a slow pleasurable calmness. Tapping my cigarette lightly, I look at Mustafa. He is still gazing ahead at the lights of the city with brooding, faraway eyes, lifting his cigarette to his lips every now and then, taking slow puffs. I can say from

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the distant, thoughtful look on his face that his mind is hovering over some deep, disturbing thought. ‘Where are you lost?’ I ask. With the smoke rushing out of his nostrils, he looks at me, scratching the scar on the side of his forehead. ‘I saw a very depressing sight in the afternoon’ he says ‘It has been haunting me since then. I can’t shake it off my head’ ‘What did you see?’ Mustafa looks at me thoughtfully. A dark seriousness gathering over his brows. ‘I don’t know if you will understand it or not’ he says. ‘Why not?’ I ask ‘just tell me’ ‘Alright’ he begins ‘Today, while I was travelling in the bus, there was a young girl sitting behind me. All of a sudden, her nose started bleeding. A man sitting beside her, he was a stranger to her, gave her his handkerchief and I passed her a bottle of water. She was fine in sometime. I was glad I helped somebody. But when I

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got out of the bus, I saw something and I was engulfed with a deep shame’ ‘What was it?’ ‘Out there on the footpath, there was a beggar’ he said ‘lying there, he was groaning and writhing in pain. His left foot was smeared with blood and flies were hovering around it. His groans were loud, but the world was deaf. Nobody even cared to cast a glance at him. Everyone was just walking past him as if he didn’t exist! The world is numb towards the pain of the poor. I mean it Ibrahim, we are numb, cold and heartless.’ After he had said this, we lapsed in a daze of silence. Looking vaguely at the trembling grey line of smoke rising from the tip of my cigarette, I keep quiet, not knowing what to say. ‘The entire problem lies in this stupid form of Government!’ Mustafa declares with a genuine bitter disgust in his voice. ‘What do you mean’ I ask. ‘Democracy of course’ he says.

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‘What are you saying?’ I argue ‘Democracy is by far the best form of Government’ Smiling with scornful, half-hearing disdain, Mustafa looks at me and says with an acidic bitterness, ‘your knowledge, Ibrahim, is based on the half-truths and untruths cooked and dished out from the citadels of power and wealth. All you know is what they want you to know. You’re nothing but their dummy!’ The violence in his tone makes me furiously incensed. My face stiffens with suppressed anger. ‘Listen Ibrahim’ Mustafa says apologetically ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’ ‘You know what your problem is’ I say, looking sharply in his eyes ‘You try to enforce your ideas on other people.’ ‘That’s because I know my ideas are correct and other people’s ideas are not!’ he yells ‘specially people like you, who are such slaves to the western ideology!’

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My blood begins to beat up in waves of anger. My hands clench itself to repress the tremor with which frenzy would surely have shaken it. I feel slighted. I can’t take shit from just anyone! ‘Democracy!’ he laughs ‘a pure hypocrisy. Of the rich, by the rich and for the rich!’ ‘How can you say that?’ I almost yell ‘it’s because of the Rights of Man which Democracy provides that we are living a normal, free life! Where are your senses Mustafa?’ ‘My senses!’ Mustafa bawls, banging his fist against the parapet wall in a demented rage. His mineral green eyes are kindled with a strange, mad fire. ‘You want to talk about the Rights and Freedoms’ he shouts in a flash of anger ‘Tell me what they mean for a poor man who fills his stomach with the garbage in community dustbins and sleeps on the footpath every night’ I remain silent, flushed with anger, looking stubbornly in his eyes. ‘Rights of Man!’ he laughs with the same demonic hate in his tone ‘a nice fairytale indeed. Tell me Ibrahim, what does this Right to Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Education mean to a person who doesn’t even have the money to eat? Can he afford an education? Yes, he has all the rights to education but can he pay the fees of school and college, like you and me? Aren’t these rights meaningless to him? We talk about freedom of speech. Tell me what does it mean to an illiterate peasant? Can he voice his opinions in the media? If he could, then why are there so many farmer suicides happening in South Asia? These bloody Rights and Freedoms which we boast upon are nothing but sleeping tablets which the rich stir in the media and shove down the throats of the masses to keep them from revolting! Its time people like you and me awaken. Awaken, Ibarahim, all your life you have been sleeping while your brothers are being exploited and misled by those Satans in the west. Awaken!’ For a while, a dead, numb stillness descends over me. I keep staring fixedly at the forgotten cigarette between my fingers, as if in a stupor. Then slowly, bit by bit, all that Mustafa had said, begins to sink in the grey folds of my mind and curiously, instead of anger, I begin to feel ashamed and ignorant. Maybe Mustafa is Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

right. Maybe I am their dummy after all. Taking the last puff of my cigarette, I flick away the butt. It hits the ground and scatters into a thousand sparks. ‘So you believe in Communism?’ I ask. Mustafa smothers his cigarette against the parapet wall and throws it down the terrace. ‘Look Ibrahim, I am sorry I shouted on you’ he says in a low, sober voice. His face flushes guiltily as he looks in my eyes ‘it’s just that I cant stop myself----’ ‘Its fine’ I say, resting my hand reassuringly on his shoulder ‘I understand’ He looks at me and smiles. A warm, intimate smile. I smile back. ‘So you believe in communism?’ I ask again. ‘Let’s just forget all this and enjoy the night’ he says. ‘No, I want to know’ I insist. ‘Aright’ he says ‘no I don’t believe in Communism. It’s brutal, dictatorial and somewhat unpractical. I just want a society where people live with simplicity, utter simplicity. Where there is not so Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

much individualism and selfishness. Where communal harmony comes before personal fulfilment. Are you getting what I am trying to say?’ ‘It’s truly nice of you to think that way’ I say ‘But…I mean… how?’ ‘Well, Ibrahim, there is no religion as humble and simple as Islam’ he says ‘that is why, I want the laws of Shari’a to rule over the Muslim nations and other nations as well if possible. This Western culture is the culprit for all the selfishness, corruption and shamelessness that we are seeing in these dreadful, godless times. They are the one who came up with the capitalist mode of production. Capitalism has the capacity to empower an individual to extreme extents, which results in breakdown of communal loyalties. This is the reason why there is so much selfishness and individualism in today’s society. Allah is watching all this. He is taking our test. He wants to see whether we are ready to sacrifice our lives to bring an end to all this blatant Western madness and hoist the banner of Islam over this world!’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

A long silence ensues. As thoughts starts to simmer in my head, I find myself sinking under the grip of a strange confusion. His ideas are disturbing. They have a strange, intoxicating charm which is compelling me to believe them. But at the same time, a voice of instinct is whispering in my soul that I am being misled. Yet I cannot deny his ideas. I feel helplessly drawn towards them, like a leaf being wafted with a gust of wind. They are too persuasive, too powerful, too convincing to disbelieve. Lost in the spell of this strange confusion, I keep silent for a long while, until Mustafa asks, ‘Are you free on Wednesday?’ ‘I don’t know’ ‘I want you to meet Professor Mahdudi’ he says ‘My mentor, philosopher and friend. He would be very pleased to meet you’

Later that night, as I was lying in my bed, I found myself musing vaguely over some of Mustafa’s ideas. For a long while, those thoughts came sailing in my dreamy, half-asleep mind, until I sank into a deep sleep. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

*

Chapter Five

‘Beautiful’ I say, gazing up in admiration. The evening sky is lit with an orange glow and fleecy clouds are sailing slowly, as if being tugged by invisible strings of heaven. All the while I was looking up, I was aware of Jessica’s eyes shining steadily upon me. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Sitting outside the Barista Café, we are sipping our cups of cappuccino in a pleasant, comfortable silence. She is staring at me with her large, watery blue eyes which seem to be smiling at a secret of their own. ‘What is it?’ I ask. A shadow of smile comes on her lips. ‘What is it?’ I ask again. She continues to stare at me with a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘Look for yourself’ she says, slipping her hand inside her bag. With a perplexed smile, I watch her in amusement as she searches her bag, looking up at me every now and then and smiling with the same twinkle of mischief in her eyes. ‘What are you searching for?’ ‘Wait’ she says and takes out a hand-mirror from her bag ‘Look at yourself’ Putting down the cup, I take the mirror from her hand and look at my face. I begin to laugh as I see a frothy moustache settled above my upper lip. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘You like it?’ she asks, grinning teasingly. ‘Whatever makes you happy’ I reply, handing her back the mirror. Covering her mouth, she laughs delicately. Her eyes lit with a glow of mirth. All the while she laughs, I watch her steadily with my heart turgid with admiration. I love the innate delicacy in her nature, how endearing, how utterly feminine. ‘You look like a Scot with a thin golden moustache’ she says, and takes a sip of her coffee ‘Are you gonna wipe it?’ ‘Well, I think a moustache looks good on me’ I laugh ‘what do you think?’ She smiles and plucks a tissue paper from the holder. Leaning closer to me, she says, ‘stay still’ and begins to wipe my upper lip gently with the tissue paper. At that moment, all my tenderness was moved. My soul seemed to surrender itself to her. I sat silent, robbed of my power, my will, just staring at her and relishing the sweet narcotic slowly spreading over my senses. And though I was sitting calm and still, my blood was throbbing in my veins, roused with a strange, almost fearful thrill. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Thanks’ I say, staring at her intently, not knowing how to react. She nods, a little self-consciously and blushes shyly as she meets the full glow of pure adoration in my eyes. A profound silence settles between us. In molten admiration, I keep staring at her lean, beautiful, roseate face, and its finely chiselled lineaments. As I watch her in silence, everything around me seems to melt into unreality. I feel a strange ache of yearning in my heart. Suddenly, driven by an overpowering impulse, I utter in a low, intimate voice, ‘you’re beautiful’. She looks up at me. Her eyes bright with surprise. But as she notices the earnestness in my eyes, shyness begins to eclipse her surprise, and her eyelids bend down demurely. ‘Thanks’ she murmurs, without looking at me. For the next few minutes, we sip our cups of coffee in an uneasy silence, looking at each other every now and then, but helplessly incapable of uttering a word. After we are finished with coffee, we rise up from the table and wander around aimlessly, giving passing glances to shops, boutiques, movie posters, and pretty much Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

anything that crosses our eyes. And though I am pretending to be totally composed, inside me, everything is in a whirl. I am intensely aware of Jessica’s quiet figure walking beside me, of her every little movement. The rest of the world is a luminous mist. With each passing moment, the silence between us is tightening at my heart, becoming unbearable. It is weighing with an urgent, straining heaviness. I have to break it. ‘It’s such an unusual evening, isn’t it?’ She looks up at the sky. ‘Imagine we are sitting on those golden clouds’ she says softly with a strange yearning in her eyes. ‘On the clouds’ ‘Yes, on the clouds’ she says ‘Imagine’ I love the way she speaks. Her voice is so soft and intimate; it has the soul of a whisper meant only for the person she is speaking to. ‘I am imagining’ ‘What do you see?’ she asks, looking intensely at me through the tranquil wells of her blue eyes.

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‘We are talking to the setting sun, you and me, laughing and smiling’ I whisper in a low, caressive voice ‘the music of the heavens is playing softly. Winged, white angels are hovering around us to give us whatever we wish to have and both of us are dressed in white silk, sailing on the clouds. This is what I see.’ A soft smile of subtle pleasure comes on her lips. ‘That’s sweet’ she says and gazes up, envisaging what I had said. As we keep walking, I begin to experience the rush of a sweet inward rapture within me. With her walking beside me, it feels as if I am walking in a glowing world of unreality. Suddenly, Jessica slips her soft, warm hand in mine. A quiver runs through me. I look at her, my depths paralysed. ‘My hand feels cold’ she says, looking at me with a smiling glint in her eyes. I smile back. For a long while, we keep walking together like this, talking to each other in soft whispers. Beneath the lying façade of contented calm, my heart was fluttering with happiness. I was on tiptoe of

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excitement. For a moment, I wondered inwardly whether all this was real or simply a fantasy of perfection.

*

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Chapter Six

With a long, cautious creak, Mustafa slowly pushes the door open and peeps inside. ‘He’s there’ he whispers to me ‘Come on in’ Pushing open the door completely, we enter the dimly lit room. In the corner, a man with long, wavy hair reaching to the shoulders, is sitting upright on his desk with his back against us. He seems to be deeply riveted in his work. Without even a single pause, he is aggressively running his pen on the page, as if in a mad paroxysm

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of writing. His mind, soul and consciousness seem to be perfectly tuned with the frequency of maximum concentration. The room is a wild chaos of books and papers messily strewn across the floor along with old overcoats, shirts and shoes. The air inside the room feels close and damp, as though it has been breathed many times and there’s a peculiar, musty smell of old books in here. I don’t know why, but I begin to get a purely instinctive feeling that I am in a wrong place. There is a strange sense of silence and secrecy in this room. ‘What’s up with this man’ I whisper in Mustafa’s ear. ‘The professor is writing’ he says in a hushed voice ‘We will wait until he finishes’ Quite bewildered, I look at Mustafa with curiosity. There is a strange deference in his eyes for the Professor and a courteous submissiveness has come in his behaviour. I have never seen him like this. We keep standing there in a wordless tumult, hearing the incessant, spasmodic scratching of Professor’s pen on the page and Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

the faint snuffle of his deep breaths. In his posture, there is a strange firmness. He is sitting stiff and unmoving with his spine erect like a cobra. Only his hand is shuddering in an aggressive spasm of writing. Finally, after a long while, the Professor stops writing and clears his throat noisily. He stays still on the table for sometime. ‘Professor’ Mustafa says ‘I want you to meet a friend of mine. His name is Ibrahim’ The Professor doesn’t reply. After a moment of silence, he rises up and turns around. At once, he appears an image of stark and uncompromising severity. There is an authoritative firmness in his long, commanding face. His forehead is high, etched with numerous thinking lines, and his eyebrows are thick black and bushy. Tall and lean, with a stern hawkish nose, he has about him, an august aura. He walks towards me, avoiding piles of books. In the moment of shaking hands, he scans me from head to foot with his severe, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

black eyes. There is something sinister and evil about his eyes that makes me a little discomfited. They are piercingly sharp, like points of steel. ‘Ibrahim’ he says, resting his hand on my shoulder. His face has the austerity of a man who has never smiled. ‘Khalil Mahdudi’ he adds. His voice is deep and heavy. And there’s an Arabic lilt in the way he speaks. ‘Nice to meet you Professor’ I try to smile, but the seriousness on Professor’s face allows only a faint tremble of my lips. I feel stupid. ‘Let us sit in the garden’ the Professor says, consulting Mustafa. ‘Very well’ I follow them as they leave the room. Walking behind them, I observe the house. Though it is big, it has a sense of humble sobriety and simplicity. The house is neat, but meagrely furnished. The furniture is ordinary and the walls are painted white, bare of any paintings. There is nothing exotic in this house to arrest one’s

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fascination. Such simplicity, I wonder in myself, is the signature of a disciplined mind. My heart fills with respect and inspiration. ‘Here we are’ says Mustafa, as we approach the garden. In the blue gloom of dusk, the small garden seems to whisper an invitation to idleness. As we enter the garden, I feel a sense of pleasant calmness. There are four comfortable chairs in the garden and the still air is heavy with the scent of leaves. Over the jagged glasses of the low cemented walls, bougainvillea flowers are hanging in profusion. They seem so fresh with richness and life in their pink petals, so bright and alive. The grass is wet and nicely mown, strewn with flattened cigarette butts. ‘Please Professor’ Mustafa obsequiously offers a chair to the Professor. With languid dignity, the Professor reclines in his chair and gestures us to sit as well. I take a seat beside him. Mustafa on the other side. ‘Its nice out here’ I say, looking with subtle admiration at a cluster of purple and pink bougainvilleas. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Whenever I get time, I come out here, in my garden’ the Professor says. After a short pause of silence, the Professor looks at me ‘So you are from Kashmir, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes I am’ I reply ‘how do you know?’ Smiling with some secret conceit at the accuracy of his judgment, the Professor answers, ‘Your features reveal it’ ‘He lives alone’ Mustafa adds ‘the same building where I stay’ The Professor nods thoughtfully, then he looks at Mustafa for a moment and some dark secret is exchanged swiftly between their eyes.. ‘Both of you must be good friends’ the Professor says ‘Mustafa and you seem to be the same age’ ‘No Professor, I am elder to him’ Mustafa says ‘Three to four years I guess’ The Professor smiles and looks at me ‘So now you’ve got an elder brother to take care of you’ ‘Kind of’ I shrug, smiling back pleasantly. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

For sometime, I remain silent, while the Professor and Mustafa continue with their conversation. In the peaceful calm of the garden, I lapse into a long muse, warm and pleasant, about Jessica. Nowadays, she is always there in my thoughts, like a sweet perfume hanging about my clothes. Like a rosy illusion, she emerges before my eyes every now and then, making me sink deeper in the warm arms of love. Jessica is like a heavy scent of some intoxicating flower which is slowly drugging me with its sweetness. This is the profoundest of love I have ever experienced. ‘Well Ibrahim’ the Professor says suddenly, breaking the slowdrifting current of my musing ‘What are you thinking?’ ‘Nothing’ I reply ‘Just…something personal’ For a moment, the Professor looks at me intensely, as if trying to read my thoughts. His eyes are dark and mysterious like a bird’s and his gaze is critical. I begin to feel uneasy. ‘you seem to be a very simple person Professor’ I say, trying to divert the topic. A smile breaks on Professor’s lips. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘You are correct in your observation’ he says ‘I am a pure believer of Islam, and simplicity is the greatest beauty of Islamic life.’ I nod appreciatively. ‘The world, my boy, is a meaningless confusion’ he continues ‘The more you follow the world, the deeper you sink in this confusion. Neither power, nor wealth suffices a man. If you have power, you don’t have peace, if you have wealth, you don’t have satisfaction. Wealth, fame and power are not the goals of life; they are mere illusions that lure us from a distance. An illusion which beacons you towards itself. Attracted by that illusion, you walk towards it and when you reach out your hand to touch it, the illusion collapses before you and then you realize that you are all alone and there’s only darkness around you. Only darkness’ I lapse into a profound silence. His words seem to be imbued with deep wisdom and experience. ‘What then, is the goal of life?’ I ask. A strange, eager light leaps in his eyes. ‘It is Islam’ he replies immediately. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘What do you mean?’ ‘To attain peace and contentment in life, just walk on the path of Islam’ the Professor says. I admire the way he speaks. When he begins to explain, his speech is like the movement of clouds. Slow, restrained and masterfully controlled. ‘Submit yourself to this beautiful religion and live by its laws’ he continues ‘and you will find the deepest of satisfaction. Do whatever Allah desires you to do. Serve him to the last ounce of your strength and don’t think whether you are doing right or wrong, just keep doing. Remember Ibrahim, the strength of a tree lies in its roots. If the roots are not strong, the storm will wreck the tree down. The world is that storm, and your faith in Islam is your root.’ Mysteriously, my soul was soothed and pacified by his words. What he has said seemed to be the only solution, the only way to lull the bedlam and confusion of daily life. How true and pleasant are his ideas. I suddenly begin to feel humble in his noble

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presence. There’s a strange halo of wisdom and calmness around his personality. I look up thoughtfully, and gaze at the sky for a while. The deep violet of twilight is slowly swallowing the sky, and the darkness around is deepening. With his hands clasped between his knees, Mustafa is staring at me with some secret delight in his eyes. ‘You seem to be a bright boy Ibrahim’ the Professor says after sometime ‘it would be very nice of you to join our little discussion group’ ‘What is that?’ I ask, interested. ‘Well Ibrahim, its kind of a gathering where we discuss Islam and related issues’ he says ‘Islamic History, Politics, terrorism and other such topics. I am sure you would like to join us’ I look at Mustafa. He is still watching me intently with the same light of some secret, inward delight shining in his eyes. ‘I would love to’ I say, after a moment of thinking. The smile passes from Mustafa’s eyes to his lips, and he says cheerily, ‘on that note, let us enjoy a cigarette’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

He takes out three cigarettes from his packet and passes one to both of us. For some more time, we keep sitting in the garden, smoking our cigarettes luxuriously, releasing dense, heavy clouds of smoke into the air. It was all so nice. My mind was lulled with a soothing calmness and my soul was warm with pleasure. After a long time I had spent such a pleasant, peaceful evening. Chapter Seven

Drumming my fingertips lightly on the desk, I am humming the tune of Led Zepplin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’. I am sitting on the last bench of the classroom, and the window beside me is open. The bright, silver sunlight entering through window has warmed the side of my face. For a moment, I look aside and glance out of the window. The afternoon Sun is glinting like glass in the silver-hot sky. On the yellow expanse of parched grass in the field, many love-birds are loitering around, walking hand in hand with slow steps, smiling and talking softly to each other. Looking at the Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

couples, a strange wistfulness settles over me. See the bliss on their faces, how pure, as if their hearts are glowing in their bosoms. I wish even we were lovers, Jessica and me. Though I am not sure, but in some far inner place of my soul, the voice of intuition whispers to me that even her heart pounds for me. With this comforting piece of thought, I look down at my Economics book lying neglected on the desk. The girl sitting beside me is dedicatedly scribbling something in her notebook. ‘What are you writing?’ I ask. ‘Globalization and its consequences’ she replies, without looking up. I turn the pages to ‘Globalization’ and adjusting my spectacles, I try to concentrate. But after reading a paragraph or so, I stop. It’s no use. Words were simply sliding past my eyes without least understanding. I close my book and look in front. The Professor is scratching something on the board with her screechy chalk. Each time the chalk screaks loudly against the slate board, a creepy, quivering sensation runs through me. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Faint murmurs have begun to simmer in the classroom. I guess it’s time. Pulling up my sleeve, I look at my watch. Only five more minutes for the lecture to end. As I was stuffing my book inside my bag, a crushed paperball lightly hits the side of my forehead and drops on the desk. Quite surprised, I look around. In the corner bench, a girl waves her hand at me, nodding vehemently with glowing eyes. ‘Me, me’ she says voicelessly and points at the paperball. Slightly amused, I spread out the paperball on the desk. On the creased piece of paper, it was written in a slant, distinctively feminine handwriting, ‘Jessy is waiting for you outside the Amphitheatre. Meet her after the lecture.’ My heart baloons with a voluptuous pleasure and I look at my watch, waiting for the lecture to end in an agony of impatience. When the lecture gets over, I rush out of the classroom and outside the academic building. Under the glazing silver sun, I am pacing hurriedly with an impatient, eager restlessness. I haven’t met her for two days, and my heart feels seared with a desire to see Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

her. I still remember the delicious warmth and softness of her hand when she quietly slipped it into in mine. My steps quicken. As I approach close to the Amphitheatre, my heart brims with a warm tenderness on seeing her innocently waiting for me on the steps outside the churchlike entrance of the Amphitheatre. Under the afternoon sun, her dense fleece of auburn hair is shining lustrously with a metallic sheen and she is softly turning the pages of a book lying open on her lap. ‘Jessica’ I shout from a distance, waving my hand. She raises her face from the book. On seeing me, her thin lips widen in a delighted smile, and she waves at me. Her face is bright and softly flushed with sunlight, however, she seems a bit weak. With the crunch of gravel under my shoes, I stride with swift steps towards Jessica. ‘Where have you been for two days?’ I ask, climbing the steps. ‘High fever’ she replies, looking up at me. A sunkeness is over her face and her eyes seem sallow. She looks gaunt and sickly, and purple veins are faintly visible below her eyes. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘You have still not recovered’ I say, seating myself beside her. ‘I guess not’ she smiles, wiping her pink little nose with her hankerchief ‘Anyways, how are you?’ Even her voice is a bit clogged with fever. ‘I am good’ I reply ‘but why did you come today? You should be taking rest’ ‘I am all alone at my place’ she says ‘Mum is out for a couple of days and I was getting totally bored. Thought I’d meet you’ ‘That’s so sweet of you Jessica’ I smile warmly ‘by the way, what are you reading?’ ‘Fitzgerald’ she says and hands me the book ‘the greatest American writer of all times’ ‘I have read this one many times’ I say, looking admiringly at the cover page ‘The Great Gatsby is one of my favourite novels’ A light of genuine pleasure ignites in her eyes. ‘That’s great’ she says excitedly ‘I am reading it for the second time. Do you remember the last lines of the book? They are the most beautiful’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

A smile flits across my lips. ‘I do’ I reply ‘In fact, my English Project was on Gatsby itself’ ‘Then repeat it’ she says with a gleam of excitement in her eyes ‘I want to listen to it from you’ ‘Alright’ I shrug. In a soft, whispery voice, I begin slowly, ‘Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning-’ I look at Jessica intensely for a moment, and heave a slow, romantic sigh ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past’ Looking at the lustre of admiration in her liquid blue eyes, a thin, running flame of self-consciousness courses through me. ‘It was so poetic’ she says with an admiring smile ‘you said it brilliantly’

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A silence settles between us. She looks at me curiously for a moment, then a delicate snirt of laughter comes from her. ‘You’re blushing’ she says, laughing with pleasure. ‘No I am not’ ‘You are’ she insists ‘How cute’ ‘Now stop laughing’ I say, smiling shyly ‘I am already embarrassed’ With the smile lingering on her lips, she tilts her head to one side and looks at me as if she would playfully rumple my hair. Suddenly, after a pause of silence, she says in a soft, dreamy way, ‘We are so similar, you and me’. ‘Why do you say so?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know’ she shrugs ‘I just get this feeling, you know. Don’t you feel so?’ Her words rouse a warmth in me. ‘I know so’ I reply ‘you are my reflection and I am yours. We belonged to totally different worlds, yet we found each other out. I

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don’t know about you, but somewhere, I was incomplete before I had met you.’ At this, she smiles intimately, with a stirring current of tenderness flowing from her large, innocent eyes. ‘I have to show you something’ she says. ‘What?’ She slips her hand inside her bag, and after some searching, she takes out a clean, stubby piece of bone. ‘What is that?’ She huddles close to me. ‘Look at it’ she says, showing it eagerly on her palm. There’s a childish excitement on her face and her eyes are lit with a glow of pure joy. ‘Its nice’ I say, feeling the smooth texture of the bone with my fingertip. ‘It’s the bone of a cuttlefish’ she explains, looking at it fondly ‘When I was very young, I would search for one whenever I would visit any beach. I forgot where I picked this one up, but I feel so

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attached to it. It brings so many old memories to my mind. Memories of my strange, alien past’ For a moment, a sullenness comes over her and she looks at the piece of bone wistfully. ‘This is the only one that is left’ she says. ‘What happened to the others?’ I ask. ‘Like so many other things, time has stolen them from me’ she replies, sighing morosely. I observe her for a while. The bird of her heart has sunk down. The light of excitement in her eyes is replaced by a dark gloom. I feel like asking her about her past, but I don’t. I am afraid it might oppress her further with that strange melancholy which comes over her so often. ‘It’s really beautiful’ I say, looking warmly at the cuttlefish bone ‘Just like the one who found it’ She turns to me, and smiles softly. ‘You’re such a darling’ she says.

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I lift the bone from her palm and slowly turn it over in my fingers. It’s curiously light, clean and stubby. ‘What have you named it?’ I ask, smiling gently. ‘Haven’t thought about it’ she says, taking back the cuttlefish bone from my hand ‘what do you wanna name it?’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know. You’re the one who’s gonna decide’ ‘Hmm…let’s think’ she says, nodding slowly. Till the time she thinks, I flip through the pages of The Great Gatsby. ‘How about Tobey?’ she asks, suddenly. ‘Tobey’ I repeat ‘not bad’ ‘I like Tobey’ she says ‘It’s cute. Don’t you like it?’ ‘Yeah, Tobey suits him’ ‘How sweet’ she says, looking at Tobey with that childish, girly fondness. I shut the book and keep it aside. ‘You really love it, don’t you?’

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‘I do’ she replies cheerfully ‘isn’t Tobey cute? My sweet, lovely Tobey’ I nod, smiling with mild pleasure at her girlish innocence. At that moment, how I wanted to swathe her in my love! ‘Ibrahim’ she says suddenly ‘I want you to keep it’ ‘Why’ I ask ‘it’s the only one left with you, right’ ‘yeah, but still’ she insists ‘I want you to keep it’ She hands me the cuttlefish bone. ‘It should always be with you’ she says ‘every time you will look at it, you think about me. Whenever you feel alone, it will help you remember that in this huge world, with billions of strangers in it, there is someone who truly cares about you. Someone who wants to see you smile. Someone who adores each and everything you do. Someone whose support and faith in you will never waver. This way, you will never be alone, and this way, we will always be together’ After she had said this, a silence ensues. In those still moments, my heart softens with a pure tenderness for Jessica, and I feel Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

everything go quiet inside me. Her words had lit a warmth in my heart and I take her soft hand in mine and squeeze it gently. She quivers with a delicate tremor of thrill and her lips part a little with surprise. I bring my face closer to her and look intensely in her fathomless blue eyes which were brilliantly aglow with a strange flame. At that moment, as I was looking in her eyes, my soul wanted to shudder and wriggle out of the cocoon of my body and fuse with hers. For that eternity of a second, our spirits had combined, and we were one.

*

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Chapter Eight

I come running to the college gate to see what’s happening in the street. A huge mob of students have gathered. Worming my way through the crowd, I somehow make my way to the front, panting heavily in the stifling stench of sweat. On the street, an endless procession of bikes is passing with men, howling and screaming in demonic enthusiasm. They are carrying red flags in their hands and red scarves are tied around their head. Some of them are holding banners of Shivaji and are shouting ‘Jai Maharashtra!’. Their murderous, bloodshot eyes are dripping with passionate hate. As I watch all this, my veins turn frosty with terror. It is a rally of a fledgling political party trying to carve a political space. This party is dedicated to brutalizing all Non-Maharashtrians so that they are forced to leave the state. I am a Kashmiri, and at this moment, my marrow is dissolving in my bones by the cold grip of fear.

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My throat constricts, and an icy quiver of fright passes through my veins as one of the party supporters grazes me with his vicious, hostile eyes. Suddenly, as I was praying for this huge procession to pass as soon as possible, an over-zealous idiot from my college runs to the street. All eyes turn to him. The student laughs, and making obscene masturbatory gestures, he shouts ‘Fuck you bastards! You bloody rapists of Indian Constituition!’. Immediately, a swarthy fellow rises from his bike. His eyes ablaze with a fierce fire of murderous rage. There is a hideous scar running down his cheek and his eyelids are puckering with a mad fury. Carrying a flag in his hand, he rushes towards the student, screaming abuses with a fanatical wrath. Blanched with terror, the student tries to run, but within a matter of seconds, he is cornered by an angry gang of party supporters. Drenched in cold sweat, the student gulps in fear as his enemy approaches close to him. Pallid faced and with shivering hands, the student begins to beg for mercy. Looking at the student, the swarthy fellow arches his lips in disgust and gives him a hard blow on his face with the back of his Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

hand. The student falls down on the street. Blood begins to stream down his nose in tiny rivulets. Begging to let him go, the student rises unsteadily to his feet, joining his trembling hands. But the swarthy fellow was a brute without a conscience. He hacks the rod of his flag with both hands and smacks it on the student’s ribs with all his might. With a loud, guttural hiccup, the student collapses like a falling curtain. A mouthful of blood spurts out of his lips. ‘Jai Maharashtra!’ thunders the swarthy fellow, holding up his flag with a look of triumph on his ruthless face, while his supporters surround the student in a circle and continue to kick his body with their ravenous, blood-hungry feet. A shudder of terror jolts me from within like a shock of electric current as I witness this incidence. Transfixed with horror, I just keep staring. This spark was enough to ignite the flame that would soon consume the entire street in its fiery sinews.

15 minutes later: Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Avoiding hulking garbage cans and craters of mud, I am running along the sidewalk in desperate leaps. I am surprised at my own speed. It’s like my legs have taken their own identity. I am panting heavily with wheezing gasps and my throat feels parched with dryness. The entire street has turned into a heinous spectacle of blood-curdling chaos. Everyone is beating everyone else. The place is looking like a mad carnival of hate. These party supporters are fanatically shattering the glasses of buildings, breaking into shops and thrashing innocent civilians. People are running anywhere and everywhere with there ragged, blood-stained garments. Tyres are being burnt and shops are being looted. A team of police has arrived on the scene, but the party supporters are rebellious. The Police use teargas but to little effect. The street is shrouded in clouds of smoke. The acrid smell of blazing tyres is unbearable. At some distance, near the traffic signal, a human body is on fire. Its flesh is burning and shrinking like plastic in the flames. Soda bottles are being used as missiles, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

knives are flashing, batons are flailing, innocent blood is slithering on the dusty road. The entire street is reverberating with a pandemonium of angry shouts and painful groans and triumphant roars of ‘Jai Maharashtra!’ Suddenly, as I was running, I hear somebody abusing behind me. I throw a quick backward glance. It’s some party supporter in white kurta with his murderous face trembling in a convulsion of rage. My blood congeals inside my veins as I see him lift a soda bottle above his head and aim it at me. With his ferocious eyes inflamed with an insane, red hatred, he hurls the soda bottle at me with all his might. My eyes widen incredulously as I see the bottle approaching and I crouch down. The bottle passes above my head and I watch it shatter on the road in thousand shards. ‘Don’t leave the bastard!’ shouts the fellow behind me and even before I could take another breath, an entire gang in red scarves explode from all sides and seize me. I begin to quiver like a leaf in rain. My heartbeat quickens. My pulse begins to pound in every vein beneath my skin. My ears begin to thud and I feel my senses Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

draining down my body. A chilly, tingling sensation quivers upwards from the root of my penis and makes my body wriggle. For the first time in my life, I am staring right in the face of death. One of them encircles his thickly muscled arm around my throat. My gut strangles under the tight grip of his arm. The one before me clutches my wrist and punches me right on my temple. The stiff knock of his skeletal knuckles was like a blow of sledgehammer. My spectacles drop down and I yell, but no sound escapes my strangled throat except a weak moan. One of them spears his rickety elbow in my stomach and an unspeakably sharp twinge of pain knifes through my abdomen. My teeth clench. My eyes are popping out. My legs go weak. The thick muscular arm finally loosens its grip on my throat and I slump down on the street in a heap. My mouth is open, but my gut is choked. Such an acute, piercing pain is writhing in my stomach that I am unable to draw in any breath. I helplessly fight for a gasp. Numerous feet are kicking me from all sides and blood and foam is spraying from my lips. Finally, one of them kicks me in the face. I feel my nose crunch. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

My vision becomes blurred, as if a misty film has settled over my eyes. Slowly, my eyelids shut over my pupils. I sink into unconsciousness.

____

I can feel the taste of blood on my tongue. I weakly open my swollen, bleary eyes. Glinting shafts of sunlight beam cruelly on my retinas and I shut my eyes again. Every fibre of muscle is aching in my body. In spite of myself, faint, weak moans of pain are coming out of my half-opened mouth. I am feeling nauseated by the heavy smell of blood, and a faint dizziness is spinning in my head. I open my eyes, and carefully turning my head, I look aside. At some distance, my spectacle is lying abandoned on the road. Its metallic body is grotesquely warped and its glasses are crushed. I can hear the sharp siren of ambulances, and the shouts of policemen. I guess its over, the butchery in the name of politics. Brushing off the dust from my cheek, I unsteadily rise to my feet Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

with trembling knees and legs, balancing myself with my hands, as if walking on a rope. Ruined buildings, shattered glasses, burning tyres, abandoned bikes, blood-stained bodies. The street resembles the aftermath of a devastating whirlwind. I spit a stream of blood mixed with saliva. As I look at the face of a policeman, a maddening anger surges to my head. With a slight limp in my right leg, I begin walking towards an ambulance. I curse under my breath, disgusted to the bones, when suddenly, a blue Maruti car pulls up beside me. ‘Ibrahim’ calls a deep, heavy voice from inside the car. I walk slowly towards the car and peep inside through the window of the front door. It’s Professor Mahdudi. ‘Come in’ he says ‘Ya Allah, you’re badly hurt’ I click open the front gate, and stooping carefully, I sit on the seat beside him. The Professor looks at me for a moment, then without a word, he changes the gear and we drive ahead at a slow speed. I lay back comfortably on the seat and from the corner of my partly Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

closed eyes, I look at the professor. At that moment, my heart was inundated with gratitude. ‘Thanks Professor’ I say softly. Holding the steering wheel, the Professor looks at me and a gentle, reassuring smile passes across his lips. ‘Everything will be fine’ he says ‘Allah is there with you, always’

In the way he smiled, there was a comforting warmth that made me feel a bit better. The storm of anger and disgust which was seething in my breast slowly began to be lulled and pacified. Closing my eyes, I feel the exhaustion collect behind my eyelids. Very soon, a heavy sleep steals over me.

*

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

A week at Professor’s house

Chapter Nine Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

I am lying awake in my bed, looking out of the small window beside me. Outside, the horizon is beautifully flushed with the rosy glow of sunset. The western sky is flecked with soft, crimson clouds, and the trembling orange sphere of the Sun is sinking slowly in the glowing, molten sea of the horizon. The sunset, so beautiful, seems to be a fragile dream shimmering in a distance. Staring wistfully outside the window, I remember the day when Jessica and I were sitting outside the library. ‘Have I not a reason to lament what has man made of man’ she had said that day. I did not feel the words then, but now, as I am watching the sanguine splendour of sunset, I understand its true depth. I am breathing softly. My ribs ache slightly with the slow heaving of my chest as I breathe. I raise my hand to my forehead, and with my finger, I feel the rough texture of the bandage tied around my head. ‘What has man made of man’ I whisper to myself, sighing with a sense of melancholy. I try to sleep, but whenever I shut my eyes, a torrent of images passes before me. In a flash, I revisit Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

those moments when those ravenous hounds were mercilessly beating me. I can never forget the fierce fire of rage in their eyes, the spittle flinging out of their lips while they were ruthlessly kicking me from all sides. Like words etched on tablets of iron, these scenes are etched in my memories. This is the first time I have become a victim of violence and I know its memories will continue to haunt me. Suddenly, a fierce spirit wakes up within me and I clutch the bedsheet with suppressed anger. Had those bastards not beaten me so badly, I would have been with Jessica now or maybe relaxing in my apartment. Why am I suffering all this? I try to placate myself, but my soul continues to boil and seethe with fury. It demands revenge. I close my eyes and try to calm down, when I hear the hiss of footsteps on the wooden staircase outside my room. With a click of the knob, the door opens and Professor Mahdudi enters with a glass of water and a strip of tablets in his hands. ‘How are you feeling my son?’ he asks, smiling warmly. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘I’m much better’ I reply, returning him a generous smile. The Professor’s wet, grizzled hair is brushed back neatly and his long, refined face is ruddy with freshness. ‘You’ve just had a bath, have you?’ The Professor smiles. ‘I was feeling very dim’ he says ‘I always do in evening. It’s my habit to take a bath at this time’ ‘you’re looking fresh’ The Professor comes and sits beside me on the bed. ‘The view from your window is very beautiful’ I say softly ‘look’ The professor looks outside the window with his calm, tranquil eyes, watching the glowing rim of the Sun finally dip below the horizon. I deeply admire the calmness about his personality. His dark eyes are like endless oceans of patience. ‘Nothing matches the magnificent artistry of Allah’ he says, staring philosophically outside the window. ‘Anyways, take your medicine’

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

He tears the edge of the strip and drops the tablet in the glass of water. Shaking the glass in his hand, he waits for the tablet to stir in the water. ‘Here’ he hands me the glass ‘It’s a painkiller’ The muscles in my abdomen ache a little as I sit up carefully on the bed. I feel like a sick, old nuisance. ‘Thanks’ I say ‘you have been very nice to me’ The Professor smiles gently. ‘It’s my duty’ he says, looking at me with pleasant, modest eyes. My heart tenders with gratitude. I tip back my head, and in one swig I gulp the bitter solution down my throat. ‘It was terrible’ I say, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. ‘There are still more to come’ he says, smiling good-humouredly ‘better get used to it’ ‘Guess there’s no other choice’ After a while, the Professor looks at his watch. ‘I will go in fifteen minutes’ he says. ‘Where?’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘To the mosque. It’s time for Namaaz’ ‘Oh’ I say, a bit morosely. I wanted to spend some more time with him. I admire the sense of calm that emanates from his noble, dignified self. Somewhere within me, I yearn to be like him. Composed and sure. Perhaps this is why I like his company so much. ‘What happened?’ he asks, gazing searchingly at me ‘you look disturbed’ ‘Nothing Professor’ I reply ‘its just that sometimes I remember those scenes when I was being bashed up and I feel very angry’ For a little while, the Professor remains silent, staring at me contemplatively with his dark, thinking eyes. ‘Your pride is hurt’ he says ‘and your heart is burning for revenge. I can see it in your eyes. It is your ego, the greatest asset of a man, which is broken. Your soul is cursing you, laughing at you. I know how you feel’ I was a bit startled. His words seemed to be the crystallized form of the formless, confusing emotions that has been disturbing me for Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

so long. Yes, it is my pride, my ego which is hurt. How clearly he has mirrored my emotions in his words. How can he see through me like this? ‘you read me like an open book’ I say, slightly amused. A smile of secret conceit passes across his lips. ‘It’s experience’ he says ‘I know how helpless one feels when one’s soul mocks him for revenge and he can’t do anything about it’ ‘But in my opinion, the feeling of revenge should be subdued as much as possible’ ‘Your opinion is wrong’ the Professor retorts immediately ‘Revenge is important. Always remember Ibrahim, the humankind has no conscience. The world suppresses those who get suppressed. Today if you are a slave, tomorrow your son will be the same. Your voice, your identity will continue to be unheard and unseen till the time you break free from the shackles of bondage and wrench the whip from the hand of your enemy.’ After the Professor had said this, an intense, queer stillness settles in the room. Both of us are sitting quiet like strange, nocturnal Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

birds. The stillness seems to thicken with each passing moment, and for some reason, I begin to feel highly uncomfortable, almost suffocated in this silence. My soul begins to writhe and squirm in my body to break this strange vacuum of silence in the room. I don’t know why. After a while, the Professor keeps his hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘Always remember, to allow oneself to be destroyed by others is as great a sin as destroying others.’ Saying this, he rises from the bed, looks at his watch and leaves. In the empty stillness of the room, I keep staring out of the window, watching the dusk thickening into darkness. And though I was lost in different thoughts, somewhere, at the edge of my consciousness, the words of the Professor was murmuring in my brain like a chant.

____

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Holding the cigarette loosely between my lips, I strike a match. With a soft fizz, the black tip of the matchstick catches fire and I light my first cigarette of the day. It’s two ‘o’ clock of night and the room is quiet with the eerie, bottomless silence of nocturnal hours. The only sound audible is the ceaseless ticking of the clock. I take the first puff of my cigarette and close my eyes to savour the smoke. Ah! The pleasure. At night, smoking is salvation. I love the faint, pleasurable dizziness that slowly spreads over my senses when I smoke at night. It soothes me with a luxurious sense of weightlessness. Its so relaxing. Like a poet lost in his fantasies, I am sitting up on the bed, immersed in the vague, idle thoughts that emerge in the silence of solitude. I exhale a dense cloud of smoke and observe the slow twisting and coiling and curling of the smoke in curious, fanciful, indefinite shapes. It’s a delight to observe the movements of smoke. For a long while, I keep awake, ponderously quiet.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

I slip my hand in my pocket and take out the cuttlefish bone. Staring fondly at it, I remember the day when Jessica gave it to me. My heart seemed to liquefy with tenderness. A quiet smile passes across my lips.

*

Chapter Ten

I am feeling wretched with a heavy, clogged sense of dullness. It’s been two days of continuous bed rest and now I want some Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

fresh air. I am rusting in the pathetic monotony of this room. All my senses are coagulated with boredom. I scratch the side of my neck clumsily, and look around. A stale, sagging dreariness seem to emanate from each and everything in this room. I look up at the clock. It’s eight ‘o’ clock of morning. Though my ribs still ache, and my body is still bruised, my spirit yearns passionately to be away from here. I throw the thin quilt off my body and climb out of the bed. My head spins with dizziness as I rise to my feet after so many hours of lying in the bed. I take out my spectacles, and clean the glasses with the end of my t-shirt. These spectacles are new. The Professor gave them to me. I run my fingers through my tousled hair. It feels rough and knotted. Itching my scalp irritably, I walk sluggishly towards the door, ignoring the pain in the muscle of one of my calves.

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Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

The garden is filled with a light sunshine and the pink and purple bougainvillea flowers are trembling with the slow movement of air. In one of the chairs, the Professor is reclining languidly, reading the newspaper. For a little while, I linger outside the garden, listening to the crackling of the newspaper as he turns the pages and wondering whether I should disturb him or not. ‘I know you’re there Ibrahim’ the Professor says suddenly, without looking back ‘Come, have a seat’ A bit startled, I smile. ‘How did you know?’ The moment I step inside the garden, the dull, ashy dreariness that was over me seemed to vanish. My clogged senses seem to open up in the sunny freshness of the garden. Walking on the warm, sunlit grasses, a bright ecstasy fills my heart, as if the sunshine is pouring its delicious warmth directly into my veins. ‘Hope I didn’t disturb you’ I say, taking a seat beside the Professor.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

The Professor lowers the newspaper, and smiles ‘Not at all’ he says ‘But why did you come down? You are not fit enough to strain yourself so much’ ‘I was totally bored Professor. I would have died if I had stayed a moment more in that room’ The Professor laughs. ‘There is no escape from boredom in my house’ he says ‘every corner of my house is dull’ ‘Except the garden’ I say. ‘Of course’ he smiles. There seems to be a pleasant lightness in Professor’s mood today. Smiles and laughter are coming easy on his lips. ‘you like sitting in the sunshine, don’t you?’ I ask ‘Oh yes’ ‘So do I’ Whenever I am with the Professor, I feel very glad from inside. My soul glows with pleasure under his noble, enriching presence. ‘Read this article’ he says, handing me the newspaper. ‘Global economic crisis’ I read the headline. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Read the entire thing’ he says, with some secret smile stirring in his eyes. ‘It’s going to be the worst since the Great Depression’ I adjust my spectacles and read the article in silence. The news of the entire economic structure tottering to its fall and people losing their money in Europe and U.S.A because of world renowned banks going totally bankrupt struck me as a shock. ‘America won’t be able to wrestle out of this situation’ the Professor says after I had read the article ‘No matter who wins the election, neither McCain nor Obama can do anything about it’ There is a glow of pleasure on Professor’s face. A lavish, satisfied pleasure. ‘you seem to be happy’ I ask, quite confused. ‘Of course I am happy’ he says ‘It’s the perfect time for an attack on America. It won’t be able to stand the impact!’ ‘You support terrorism?’ I ask, taken aback. The Professor looks at me for moment. His black eyes become incensed.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘I want America, the Great Satan, to pay for all the unpardonable sins it has committed. I want to see that country burning in flames and turning to ashes. There is no sin in killing those unbelievers who have imposed injustice and tyranny on the noblest race of the world. We shall finish them and send them back to the place where they belong, which is hell’ he says, and clenches his teeth in pure, sheer, almost joyous hatred. His face stiffens, as if fire, instead of blood, is flowing in the hot furnace of his veins. I had never seen him like this. ‘Even hell would be ashamed to have them’ ‘This is horrible’ I yell ‘Terrorism won’t lead to any conclusion. Don’t you guys get it?’ A frenzy of rage awakens in him and his eyes kindle with a furious fire. He tightens his fist to suppress the shudder of anger passing through his body. ‘What you call terrorism is Jihad’ he explodes. ‘Jihad is madness’ I retort. ‘Jihad is Duty’ he shouts. His face flushes with rage and blood swells in his forehead veins. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Jihad is an obligation from Allah on every Muslim and cannot be ignored or evaded’ he continues, wild with passion ‘people of Islam have suffered violence, injustice and aggression from the brutal hands of Zionist-Crusaders alliance and it is incumbent on every Muslim to make Jihad against the rapists of Islam. Jihad is to offer ourselves to Allah for His Cause and it is our responsibility, each and every one of us, to make sure that we make Allah proud!’ Listening to all this, a sort of madness runs in inflammation over my flesh. My nerves feel jittery with a strange yearning to slap the Professor. ‘You are a fanatic!’ I shout, unable to control myself. ‘I am a Muslim!’ he shouts back. ‘Even the verses of Quran and Sunnah of Muhammad are overflowing with the noble ideas of Jihad’ he continues ‘In Suratal-Baqarah, it is written, ‘Jihad is ordained for you though you dislike it, and it may be that you dislike something which is good for you and that you like something which is bad for you. Allah knows but you do not know’. Even in Surat-al-Anfaal, it is stated, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Against them make ready your strength to the utmost of your power, including steeds of war, to strike terror in the hearts of the enemies of Allah and your enemies’. Ibrahim, you have not seen the tears of innocent Muslims, their dismembered bodies lying in puddles of blood and their mothers weeping over their dead bodies. All you know is the sorrow of the Americans. You must have watched the sight of WTC falling a thousand times, but tell me how many times have you seen the footage of American planes bombarding Iraq and Afghanistan? How many times have you watched the blood-curdling chaos which Israel inflicts on Palestine? The media, my boy, is controlled by those Satans and it is this media which has moulded your mind this way. You are nothing but a puppet of the West. What you think is what they want you to think. You don’t realize it, but all your thoughts are programmed by them. It is time you emerge out of this robotic life and realize the truth. Allow me to enlighten you with true knowledge.’

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

The impact of his shudders through me. I feel helplessly unable to speak, as if words have vaporised from my mind. For sometime, both of us remain silent. ‘Does Quran really says all this?’ I ask after a while, quietly, as if in a daze. With a bitter, contemptuous laugh, the Professor says ‘Look what America has made you. Look how it has enslaved your mind. You don’t even know what your own religion commands you to do. I pity you Ibrahim. I pity you’ After a short pause, he continues ‘According to Quran, Jihad is Duty. And all of us must strive on both individual and international scale to end this unholy, brutal domination of the West. In Suratat-Tawbah it is stated, ‘March forth, whether equipped lightly or heavily and strive hard with your wealth and your lives in the cause of Allah’. The one who evades Jihad is nothing but a coward and I know Ibrahim, you are not a coward. You have the heart of lion, just like every true Muslim. All you need is true knowledge and I shall give it to you. Therefore stop condemning Jihad like a Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

coward and be the lover of death. Life itself will come searching after you.’ Saying this, the Professor rises from his chair, pats me on the shoulder and leaves, murmuring something in Arabic. After he was gone, I feel everything fall silent inside me. A numb vacuum of stillness envelops my core. For some more time, I kept sitting there, still and motionless, dazed in my own numbness. It was the impact of his words that had silenced me into a stupor.

____

Sitting in his comfortably padded armchair, the Professor is smoking his cigarette in a wan silence. He is sitting dim and quiet, lost in his own nostalgia. On his face, there is a poignancy, and his dark, melancholy eyes are gazing fixedly at the cigarette between his veiny fingers. Standing at the foot of the staircase, I observe him for a while without making a sound. I don’t know why, but looking at him, my heart thaws with pure compassion. It’s 7 ‘o’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

clock of evening and I have come here to apologise to the Professor. With slow steps, I walk towards him, feeling my chest heavying with sympathy. There was some deep sadness in the way he was sitting and staring at his cigarette which had touched a sensitive spot of my heart. He is so deeply riveted in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice me standing beside him. I clear my throat noisily to announce my presence. Immediately, he wipes his eyes with his sleeve and looks up at me. ‘Ibrahim’ he says, pretending to be normal ‘have you taken your medicine?’ I don’t answer. His eyes are trembling with tears which have gathered heavy on his lashes. ‘What happened Professor?’ I ask. The Professor smiles. A forced, unnatural smile.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Nothing’ he says, looking the other way, trying to avoid looking in my eyes ‘Just cigarette smoke. My eyes start watering, you know’ He wipes his eyes again with his sleeve and takes a deep breath. ‘Come, have a seat’ A bit confused, I hesitantly sit on the wooden chair opposite him. Between us, there is a small centre-table with an ashtray kept in the middle. Tapping his cigarette above the ashtray, The Professor shifts uncomfortably in his armchair. ‘You are recovering quite fast’ he says and becomes still. I simply nod. I knew that all that he was saying was simply a superficial babble, while his depths were submerged in some secret grief of his own. ‘Professor’ I say, feeling a bit awkward ‘I have come to apologise to you. I was rude to you in the morning’ The Professor releases a puff. ‘I didn’t mind’ he says, smiling dimly ‘You don’t need to apologise’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Both of us lapse into a strange silence. I look at him for a moment. The infinite anguish in his dark eyes, and the great pathos about his sad, slightly opened mouth made my heart contract with pity. ‘What is it Professor?’ I ask suddenly ‘I can see something is disturbing you. You can tell me’ The Professor heaves another deep sigh and smothers his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Old memories’ he says after sometime. I remain silent. He inserts his hand in his pocket and takes out a brown, outrageously bulging wallet. ‘Here’ he hands me the wallet ‘look at the photograph’ As I open the wallet, my eyes fall on the photograph of a young boy beaming a wide smile. He has the same thick, bushy eyebrows of the Professor and the same dark eyes. ‘Your son?’ I ask, consulting Professor’s eyes. ‘Yes’ Professor replies, looking poignantly at his hand ‘Tauqeer. That’s his name’ ‘Where is he now?’ I ask. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

The Professor remains silent. After sometime, he says ‘Let it be Ibrahim. I will tell you everything later’ His face becomes firm, as if to hide his grief. ‘Its okay’ I say ‘Tell me when you’re comfortable with it’ Sitting silent, with his jaw set hard, he stares at me for sometime. His face has regained its firm austerity. But looking in his eyes, I could say that behind the stiff mask of his face, he was suffering.

*

Chapter Eleven

It’s midnight and in my warm, cosy bed, I am lying comfortably with a thin quilt covering my body. My eyelids are slowly Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

heavying. It’s a luxury, feeling oneself sinking slowly in the haze of sleep. Soon, my eyes finally close, and I slip into a deep, unconscious slumber, when suddenly, the clock in my room falls on the floor with a loud rattle. All my nerves awaken with a spark and I clutch the bed sheet. My breath tightly held in surprise. After the noise, there were a few moments of profound stillness. Then gradually the tension, the withholding subsides in me and the tight grip of my hands on the bed sheet relaxes. I look around. ‘How did it fall?’ I say in myself and sit up. Quite surprised, I climb out of the bed to pick up the clock and the triangular pieces of broken glass. As I was picking up the clock, I suddenly hear faint rise and fall of voices from downstairs. I try to concentrate. Not one, but many voices. Curiosity begins to simmer inside me and I decide to see what’s happening downstairs.

____ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Voices, inflamed with passion, are coming from inside the room as if a heated argument is in full surge. Outside, I am standing, hesitant and unsure. My mind is a chaos of confusion. I can’t decide whether I should enter or not. For some more time, I keep standing outside the room, chewing my nails in an agitation of curiosity. Finally, summoning all my courage, I turn the knob and open the door. But the moment I enter, everyone falls silent. All eyes turn to me. I feel awkward, standing dumbly in the intense, palpable stillness. ‘I…I am sorry’ I stammer apologetically. Dressed in Islamic attire and densely bearded, almost fifteen men are sitting on the floor, bunched together uncomfortably. They are looking at me with blank, vacant eyes. Their faces are flushed and their brows are sweating. I think I really have interrupted a passionate discussion. The absurdity and the awkwardness of the moment gave me a constricting sensation around my sternum. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

I notice Mustafa sitting in a corner, looking fixedly at me with his serpentine green eyes. I try to smile to him, but the sense of gravity and the tense silence in the room allows only a stupid quiver of my lips. The stillness in this room seems to pulsate with a cold hostility. I feel unwelcome, almost suffocated. The Professor, who is standing before the gathering like a teacher, looks at me critically, studying the agitation on my face. He clears his throat and comes near me. ‘Well, my friends’ he says, breaking the silence ‘He is Ibrahim’ I smile weakly. ‘Is he the one chosen for our blessed purpose?’ a bearded young fellow suddenly asks. The Professor’s face flushes, as if embarrassed and he engages himself in straightening the end of his Kurta. I notice Mustafa staring at the young fellow with pure contempt dripping from his eyes. ‘What purpose?’ I ask, quite confused. Nobody answers. I feel agitated inside. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘What purpose’ I ask again, staring searchingly at the young fellow who asked the question. But he doesn’t answer. I glance irritably at Mustafa, but he stares back at me, impassive and inscrutable. The fixed firmness of his face does not reveal even a shred of what he is thinking. A sort of exasperation rouses within me and I feel like dashing away from this room, when suddenly, Mustafa rises up and looks at his watch. ‘It’s half past midnight’ he says, smiling a little ‘Why don’t you go and sleep? As it is, tomorrow morning you will have to leave. Mashaallah, you are fit and fine now’ ‘Yes Ibrahim’ the Professor joins, resting his hand on my shoulder ‘It’s too late. You have to wake up early tomorrow’ I look at both of them in confusion. They seemed uncomfortable by my presence. Whenever I would look in their eyes, they would jerk away their gaze, as if concealing something from me. It was all very strange. ‘Alright goodnight’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Saying this, I walk out of the room in a daze of confusion. ____

The first light of dawn has barely illumined the sky and in the blue dimness, little, lively sparrows are chirruping keenly in the garden. The morning air is cool and still, and despite all the chirruping, there is a sense of calmness. Sitting in the garden with Professor and Mustafa, I am staring at the bunch of bougainvillea flowers which appear pale blue in the dimness. I lift my cup of tea and take a sip. The cup feels deliciously warm against my cold fingers. ‘I hope your stay was comfortable’ the Professor says in a husky voice. Not having slept the entire night, he looks exhausted. His eyes seem a bit puffed, and the corners of his mouth are slightly drooping with fatigue. ‘Yes Professor’ I reply ‘It was much more than I had expected. In fact I’ll miss all this’

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

A pleasant smile passes across Mustafa’s lips and he takes a sip of his tea. Having bathed an hour ago, I am sitting bright and fresh in the cool morning air. My wet hair is neatly combed and I feel enkindled with freshness. Within, my heart is fluttering with an exquisite, voluptuous excitement of meeting Jessica again. ‘I guess we should get going’ Mustafa says, looking at his watch. I finish my tea in silence and lift my suitcase to my lap. ‘Thank you for all that you’ve done for me’ I say to the Professor, rising up from my chair. The Professor smiles, and for a moment a flicker of tenderness plays upon his face. I look in his dark, lonely, poignant eyes and feel a sting at my heart. I was leaving him alone, that was how I felt.

*

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

During the two months that followed, the Professor became the centre of my life. We would meet almost everyday and discuss Islam and the naked brutality inflicted upon Islamic nations by America, or the ‘Great Satan’, as the Professor always called it. The Professor had boundless reserves of patience to respond to my Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

many doubts. He would listen to me, and make me understand his ideologies with perfect calmness. Every evening, and sometimes after midnight, I would attend his ‘discussion group’ which would gather in his house. The Professor would often glorify Jihad before the group, and whenever he would do so, a surge of passion would engulf him that would send a feverish shudder through my body . ‘Jihad is Divine Justice!’ he once said, thumping his fist against the table in anger. Being a great orator, it was always a thrilling experience to hear the Professor speak. There was such passion, such fervour in his radical, violent speeches that I would feel my sloul inflamed with a chaos of sensations by the mere sound of his voice. His oratory had the power to exalt my spirit and madden me with boiling emotions. At night, Mustafa and I would often go for a long walk on the street. During the walk, he’d lecture me on subjects ranging from History of Islam to the Israeli occupation of Palestine. ‘The Arab world used to be the most literate part of the planet’ he would say ‘Those western baboons knew nothing before they came in contact with the Muslim world Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

during the Crusades’. Whenever he would talk about America, pure, sheer hatred would spark from his lustrous, green eyes which terrified me sometimes. More than anything else, I loved the thrill and the sense of responsibility involved in all this. One evening, when the discussion was over and everybody was leaving, the Professor came to me and patted my shoulder with pride. ‘I can see you are slowly awakening now. You have begun to realize the truth. The way you spoke tonight against the diplomacy of U.S.A was very impressive. Everyone was silenced. I am proud of you, Ibrahim. You remind me of my own youth.’ Both Mustafa and Professor encouraged me to read radical Literature. They lent me numerous books on various subjects, most of them translated from Arabic. During afternoons, when I had nothing to do, I would read those books dedicatedly. Even at night, at least for four hours, I would read. Those books were the strangest literature I had ever read. They openly condemned the policies of America, and called Americans ‘white hounds’ who are robbing everything from us before our own exasperated eyes. In each of those books, Osama Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Bin Laden was referred to as ‘Rahmatullah-alai’ which meant ‘Allah’s gift’ and the Taliban and Al-Qaeda as ‘Allah’s soldiers’. Those books were deeply engrossing and overflowing with passionate, blazing emotions. Slowly, as days passed, a hard, repellent feeling for America and other Western powers began to gather within me, and with each passing day, my comments became fiercer during the evening discussions. The Professor was very happy with me. He would call me his ‘most precious diamond’ and my heart would swell with pride. Very soon, I had read all the books I needed to convince me that Jihad was Allah’s will, Islam’s only chance to smother that infernal torch held by the Statue of Liberty which has turned so many innocent Muslims to ashes. ‘We never wanted this fight Ibrahim, they compelled us’ Mustafa said one day, while we were walking together. At night the Professor would often call me to his house and through a projector, in his darkened room, he would show me gruesome footages and videos of Israeli planes bombarding Palestine and scared Palestinians running on blood-bathed streets. A maddening Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

fury would course through my veins like flame while I would watch innocent Palestinians beating their chest beside the dead body of their loved ones in helpless misery. Against America and Israel, my heart had become a furnace of anger. One day, while we were sipping tea together in the garden, I asked the Professor if it was allowed in Islam to kill innocents in the cause of Allah. The Professor smiled and replied, ‘In Islam, it is a sin to kill innocents, not Americans’. Slowly, like a snake shedding a layer of skin, I was coming out of my old way of life. I was slowly becoming a different man and I was proud of it. On November 4th, Barack Obama won the election. I was thrilled to the core, because secretly, I found him very elegant a person. However, the Professor described him as ‘the same enemy with a handsomer face’. During the span of these two months, I also came very close to Jessica. Though I was not attending College regularly, we would meet everyday. She would come to my house in the morning and we’d go together to a nearby restaurant for breakfast. She was like Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

an addiction for me. Whenever I was not with her, I would feel incomplete and hollow inside. Always in a corner of my consciousness I would be thinking about her. In moments of loneliness, I would yearn for her with a helpless, agonizing craving. I don’t know what was happening to me but I knew I was plunging too deep in love. At evenings, we would sometimes meet near the College and from there we would go to a movie theatre and watch Hollywood movies. With her, the entire world would seem so beautiful. For those few hours, I would be in paradise, away from the thoughts of Jihad, and the sufferings of the Middle East, and the dictates of Quran. Nothing mattered, except the beauty walking by my side. I could clearly see that even she was falling for me. While we would walk together, she would lean her head against my shoulder and softly we’d talk to each other. Sometimes she would slip her hand in mine and look at me with bright smiling eyes and my heart would be filled with a warm, bright ecstasy. ‘You’re different Abraheem. I am lucky to have found you’ she would often say. Sometimes, when her mother was Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

not at home, she would call me to her house. Lying on her cushy bed, we would smoke together and sip coke. I would whisper impromptu fairytales in the tight whorl of her ear and she would giggle like a child. Once, she fell asleep beside me. Watching her innocently asleep, all my tenderness was moved and I kissed her softly on the cheek. She opened her eyes slowly, smiled sweetly and fell asleep again. A heavy, scalding peace sank over me and I slept beside her, with my face muffled in her dense auburn hair, breathing its warm, natural scent. Sometimes, when I would be with her, I would suddenly feel that Jihad and all is simply a humbug and that I was wasting my life. But later, when she would be gone, the dark, unknown being that lived inside me, the one which was poisoned by the venom of hate, would heave and rage blindly against me. I would feel ashamed that I allowed such a thought to pass across my mind. Feeling the prickling of guilt, I would pick up any of the books that Mustafa and Professor had given to me and read them.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

It was a strange period of my life. The nascent seeds of Love and Hate were being nourished at the same time in my heart.

PART TWO Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Chapter Twelve

She is lying beside me on the bed, quiet and still, staring at the ceiling with unseeing, vacant eyes. Her silent, blue eyes seem to be lost in some fantasy of her own, her spirit wandering in dreams. She is breathing softly, with slow rise and fall of her breasts. I can see the outline of her bra from the green t-shirt sticking to her breasts. Every now and then, she would lift the cigarette to her thin lips, take a dainty puff, and release a cloud of smoke which would rise upwards and diffuse slowly in the air to invisibility. Her soft, small hand is lying lightly in mine and I can feel the inviting warmth of her smooth limbs beside me. I nestle closer to her and bury my face in her dense hair, fine as silk. The warm, heavy, shampoo-like scent of her hair rouses a surge of desire in me. ‘Jessica’ I whisper in her ear. But she doesn’t reply, lying utterly still, as if in a dream, faraway. ‘Jessica’ I whisper again. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Without looking at me, she says softly, ‘listen’ ‘To what?’ ‘The wind’ I close my eyes and concentrate. Coming from the opened window of my room, I listen to the faint soughing of the wind in the upper branches of the trees below. It’s 10 ‘o’ clock of night and its dark and quiet outside. ‘It’s strange, this sound, isn’t it?’ she says, releasing a wisp of smoke. ‘Why’ ‘When I was in New York’ she replies ‘I would listen to the trees sighing outside my window while sleeping’ There was something so mute and forlorn in her quiet, brooding eyes, that I feel a faint, a very faint heave of sympathy within me. I touch the small birthmark below her ear with my fingertip and whisper, ‘You’re the magic of my life’. Suddenly, a quick thrill of desire, like a flash, ripples through me and I softly kiss the side of her warm neck. She turns her head and looks at me. A rare, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

intimate smile on her face, beautiful with a strange brightness. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks. For a moment, I stare at her. Her eyes are bright and smiling. Somewhere beneath, the flame of desire has aroused in her too. Without another word, I lick her throat with the tip of my tongue and kiss her soft ear. When my helplessly desirous lips reach her face, she pushes me back. ‘Ibrahim…’ she says and becomes still. Her breasts heaving up and down with heavy, passionate breaths. Her lips quivering with desire. She is aroused, but she is nervous and scared. ‘This is not right’ she says, but her quivering, desirous lips seem to betray her. Her large eyes naked their love, afraid and yearning. ‘Then lets do something wrong tonight’. I see temptation flicker in her eyes and I grasp her body with my arms and pull her closer to me. She is giving up, I can feel it. Temptation is overpowering her, weakening her will to restrain. She is melting inside, oh softly melting under the tight grasp of my arms around her body, letting herself flow with the rush of thrill Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

and desire, not caring about the consequences. I can feel her warm breaths on my neck. My loins are sizzled with a fire of passion and my body seems to have taken its own identity. No power of my will can now subside this great tide of desire which has risen within me. She closes her eyes and I softly kiss her sweet, trembling eyelids, her forehead, grasp her tighter in my arms, feeling her warm breasts heaving passionately against my chest. My helpless, craving lips journey down to the cleavage of her breasts, kissing again and again, demented with passionate desire. Her head is thrown up, her eyes shut, her teeth clenched. She is gripping my head tightly between her hands, digging her nails in my scalp, yielding her soul, her entire being to the sensational thrill and ecstasy rippling through her body. I slip my hands under her tshirt and feel the smooth, warm surface of her belly, the supple flesh on the sides of her waist, the fine, velvety curve of her back. With my quivering, passionate hands, I lift her t-shirt above her black, silk bra and touch her navel for a moment in a kiss. There are tiny, soft, golden hairs, like gold dust sprinkled over her soft, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

white belly. I lift her t-shirt further up and rub my face with a snuggling movement against her breasts. ‘Take off your top’ I say, breathing heavily. For a moment, Jessica looks at me with dilated eyes, hesitant and unsure. But that hesitance was the hesitance of her will, not her soul. Her soul was a restless quivering flame, waiting impatiently to be quenched by the touch of my body. Suddenly, something changes in her expression. She looks the other way, as if in helpless submission to her own desires, and raises her arms upwards, surrendering her body to my will. I lift her t-shirt above her arms, take it off and softly kiss her prominent beauty bones below her neck. Then I clasp my arms around her and break the strap of her bra. It falls loose and I fling it away, revealing the two small lumps of her white, naked breasts, infinitely soft and tender, beautiful in their sheer nakedness. So warm and soft they are, with green nerves clearly visible through the white skin, slowly rising and falling as she breathes, fascinating in their utter nudity, as if they have a life of their own. Her tiny nipples, so pink and delicate, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

like soft little buds. Softly, I stroke her breasts with my hand, and kiss her nipples in tiny caresses. I lift my head from her breasts and look in her eyes. A faint blush spreads over her face and her eyelids bend down demurely, almost like a shy bride. Her delicate, feminine shyness, so utterly pure, touched a tender spot of my heart and a great wave of pure love wash over me. My heart thaws with tenderness. ‘Jessica’ I utter in a soft, caressive, intimate voice. ‘yes’ she looks up. ‘I love you’ I utter, blankly. For a moment, she stares at me, silent and still. Then she bends down her eyes. I remain motionless in the strange gap of silence between us. Everything still and quiet inside me. ‘What happened?’ I ask. When she raises her eyes again, I see her large, innocent eyes shimmering with fresh tears. Her nostrils quivering and her lips trembling a little. ‘ I love you too’ she says in a clogged, broken voice, and a drop of tear hops down her eye. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

My soul was soothed by those magical words she had uttered from her quivering lips. I pull her closer, grab her face between my hands and kiss her warm lips. We close our eyes, and our passionate tongues begin to roll and slide over each other’s in a restless, hungry zest. Inside, I begin to melt and fuse with the waves of infinite pleasure suffusing my body. My blood was rushing with a renewed, blazing passion in my veins. The flames of ecstasy sweeping my body. The kiss went on and on. Even if an eternity would have passed, I wouldn’t have minded. But suddenly, Jessica presses her hand on my chest and pushes me away. ‘Let’s stop this now’ she says, breathing heavily, almost panting. I remain silent, my teeth clenched with bitterness. My fire was suddenly and abruptly put out, she had thrown water on it. I was feeling utterly distasteful, as if my mouth was full of ashes. Why did she have to stop this beautiful fusion of souls, I thought bitterly. My face stiff and rigid. ‘Look ‘am sorry’ she says imploringly. Her blue eyes gazing in desperate helplessness at my face. ‘Don’t be cross with me, please’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

There were a few moments of stillness. I look in her eyes. They were helpless with the misery of guilt. Gradually, the rigid lump of bitterness began to dissolve inside me, the great feeling of sour distaste began to wan and fade. The stiffness relaxed in my chest and I clasped her again in my arms. Her body felt so small in my arms. So small and nestling. ‘It’s perfectly fine’ I say, smiling a little ‘you don’t have to be sorry’ I kiss her neck and she bursts in a childish giggle. ‘You can’t get enough of me, can you?’ she says, laughing with pleasure. ‘Absolutely’ ‘But I guess for three days you’ve got to learn to live without me’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘Why’ ‘My mum has been called to St. Xavier’s in Bombay’ she says ‘I’ll accompany her. And guess where we’re staying?’ There’s a gleam of excitement in her eyes. ‘Where?’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘The Taj’ she says, beaming a wide smile ‘I am so excited. I’ll stand before the Gateway of India and get my photographs clicked. I’ll bring them back and together we will go over the photographs. You’d like that won’t you?’ ‘I’d love that’ I say ‘but I’ll be miserable till the time you don’t return’ I add, a bit sullenly. She smiles and ruffles my hair playfully. ‘Don’t worry dodo’ she says ‘Wasn’t this night enough to last for three days in your memory?’ I remain quiet for a while. ‘I’ll miss you all the more for this night’ Smiling, she softly kisses my forehead. ‘I’ll miss you too’ she says ‘you know why I stopped you in the middle?’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because I want you to wait for my return like a thirsty caged bird’ ‘What do you mean?’ A gleam of mischief comes in her eyes, she bites her lips sensually. ‘When I’ll return, I’ll be all yours’ she says ‘we’ll finish what we Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

have left undone, what say my hound?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows twice in a naughty way. I smile and kiss her lips softly. ‘Your hound is already impatient’ I whisper. She nestles closer against my chest and I grasp her tighter in my arms. With her warm, small, breathing body held tightly in the circle of my arms, I experience a feeling of scalding satisfaction and peace sinking over me. All the restlessness and agitation of my soul, perfectly quietened and stilled by the warmth of her soft body snuggled cosily against mine. Only satisfaction, pure, heavy satisfaction. For the first time in my life, I felt so utterly complete.

*

At that moment, little did I know that for the rest of my life, I would cherish this night with tears…

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Chapter Thirteen

The great red dome of Taj Hotel is shrouded in dense, black mass of smoke ceaselessly billowing upwards in the sky in massive, heavy clouds from the storey below. Flocks of exasperated pigeons are swirling above the dome and occasional clinks of bullets are coming from inside the hotel. My eyes are wide open with fear blazing naked in them. Thousand frightening thoughts are gushing in my head as I am staring at the television set in numb horror. My Jessica must be inside. I feel so helplessly powerless, so utterly weak. All I can do is pray and grit my teeth in my own exasperating helplessness. What if she is killed? I tell myself, and an icy quiver ripples to the very root of my spine. My nerves feel jittery to do something, my spirit is groaning and growling inside me, provoking me to do something to save Jessica, but what can I do? This helplessness is maddening me. I feel like smashing my head against the wall till I slump down unconscious. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

The Professor is sitting beside me, reclined languidly in his armchair. There’s a lordly smile of pride on his face as he is watching this live footage on the television. I look aside at him and for the first time, I feel deeply disgusted by the sight of his face, disgusted to the very marrow. There were flashes in my blood, fiery green flashes. I wanted to spit on his face at that moment. Not knowing what to do, I light a cigarette with trembling fingers. ‘Islam’s yet another step towards domination!’ the Professor declares suddenly, slapping his thigh with imperious pride. The smile still lingering on his lips. I look at him intently for a moment, my heart hardening with bitterness. What a cold-hearted devil he is! ‘This is a Mubarak day for us Ibrahim’ the Professor says, looking at me closely ‘The entire South Mumbai is wiped out by the blessed Lashkar. Mumbai, the great financial capital, the epitome of capitalism, is brought to its knees by a handful of true Muslims. Imagine what we can do when all of us unite in the cause of Allah. Instead of Mumbai, it will be the world fallen at our feet. Only Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

then will we fulfil the Prophet’s dream! I can see that day before my eyes. Yes I can’ he adds with great intensity in his eyes, as if envisaging the scene. I look at him for a while without saying a word. A fierce spirit awakens with a shudder inside me. The very sight of his face brims my heart with a horrible repugnance. ‘This day is yet another example of how the might of Islam is mightier than any other force’ he continues ‘Allah wants us Jihadis to fight. That is why, despite being lesser in number and technology, we have managed to threaten the entire world. There is a divine hand above us, Ibrahim. The blessed hand of Allah.’ The Professor looks at me with searching eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of some reaction on my face. But I keep sitting rigid and stiff, congealing inside with bitterness against him. ‘What is it Ibrahim? Are you not happy?’ I turn my head sharply in his direction. My eyes flaring a challenge at him.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Why should I be happy?’ I ask in stiff anger ‘because my neighbour city is burning in flames? Or because the lives of hardworking innocent people are forever ruined? Or because somebody has forever lost his beloved? Tell me why should I be happy?’ A smile comes on Professor’s face and he scratches his forehead contemplatively. Looking at him, a running flame courses through my veins. ‘You’re still a naïve boy, Ibrahim’ he says, smiling ‘Did the Prophet and his followers not fight against the infidels, the idol worshippers, in the great Ghazwa Badr? Did the great Caliphs not wage wars in order to expand Islam? Destruction is a necessary step before construction, my boy. To build something new, you have to destroy the old. We want a better world, a world which is governed by the laws of Islam and for that we have to first destroy this ugly, insane Americanised world which is worth being destroyed.’ The cigarette is trembling between my fingers. Every now and then, in restless anxiety, I raise the cigarette to my lips in a rapid, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

hungry movement and pull it away in agitated disgust. I can’t concentrate on what the Professor is saying. I don’t even care. His voice is like a continuous, annoying drone around me while so many worries about Jessica are flooding my head. ‘I think I have seen enough’ the Professor says and raises the remote to switch off the television. An empty stillness suddenly descends in the living room as he switches off the television. In this sudden void of silence, I feel a bit uncomfortable. The Professor’s presence beside me becomes more palpable. In agitation, I shift heavily in my chair. ‘These young boys are Martyrs’ the Professor says, breaking the silence ‘And Paradise is awaiting them with open arms. In these times, the only way to die as a true man is to die as a Mujahid. Always remember Ibrahim, it’s not how you live, but how you die that determines the worth of your life.’ My heart begins to pound in great, fierce thumps. In savage impatience, I look at him furiously. With his dark, suspicious eyes fixedly staring at me, he looks hideous and evil, reeking with Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

malevolence. There, inside the Taj, my Jessica must be captured by the militants, maybe weeping and trembling in fear, and here he is celebrating her misery. My whole blood seemed burst into flame. ‘Professor I can’t talk to you now’ I say, smothering my anger ‘I am sorry…I just can’t’ The Professor looks suspiciously at me. ‘What is it Ibrahim?’ he asks. ‘I can’t tell you…it’s personal’ I reply, avoiding his eyes ‘I think I should leave now’ The Professor continues to stare at me with suspicious eyes. Under his critical, penetrating gaze, I feel exasperated with agitation. I just wanted to be alone for sometime so that I can clear this chaos of emotions swirling in my mind and gather my thoughts in peace. ‘Alright’ the professor says despondently ‘as you wish’ Something close to sadness comes over his face and he looks the other way, trying to conceal it by an attitude of indifference. The tension thickens inside the room. I look at the Professor for a moment. Despite everything, I feel a mild sympathy for him. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Heaving a long sigh, I smother the tip of my cigarette against the ashtray and rise up. With fumbling fingers I collect a sheaf of paper from the table which the Professor wanted me to read. ‘Khudahafiz’ I mutter. ‘Khudahafiz’ he says, without looking up. I stand still for a moment, waiting for the Professor to react. But he continues to stare vacantly at the end of the carpet, sunk in his sadness. Without another word, I turn around and walk towards the door, saddled with a heavy anguish which I could not quite grasp.

____ With a cigarette between my fingers, I am pacing the street with a mad restlessness. . The thought of Jessica is biting me like a weasel at my heart. Not even one’s own pain weighs as heavy as the pain one feels for someone dear. I thought that in solitude, this restlessness, this angst of my soul might be quelled. But when you’re alone, the mind becomes a dark

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cave where thousand echoes of imagination only magnify your fears. In a fever of anxiety, I keep walking, not knowing where I am going. I feel so terribly hollow inside. So helplessly powerless. I can’t do anything to save my Jessica! This maddening agitation brings me on the verge of tears. Smoking in a hungry, exasperated way, I continue to pace the street. The weather is mild and pleasant today and there is a slow, soft movement in the air. But nothing seems pleasant to me. In the dark abyss of my being, my spirit is moaning in helplessness. I just hope Jessica is alright. For a moment, I stop and look up at the sky softly curdling with fleecy, white clouds. Closing my eyes, I pray from the depths of my soul that Jessica returns back to me. How I wish she would have been with me now. I would have crushed her on to my chest and eased the ache there.

*

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Chapter Fourteen

The first rays of dawn have begun to rustle into the world and the dark figures outside the window are slowly growing defined. Among the blue leaves, the sparrows have begun to stir, filling the cool morning air with the rustling sound of the leaves. With my elbows resting on the window sill, I am smoking in a slow, thoughtful way, watching the dawn slowly paling before me. My chest feels heavy with smoking. I don’t know how many cigarettes I would have smoked since night. I glance down. The window sill is sprinkled with cigarette ash. For the last two days, life has been misery to me. Every waking moment of my day, I keep thinking about her, smouldering inside by the slow-burning flame of fear. It’s been two days, and the militants are still inside the Taj. I have called Jessica so many times, but she never picks up. Her cell phone keeps ringing, while my spirit keeps writhing in a torture of agony.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

When I lower my eyelids, she fills my mind, when I raise my eyelids, she conceals the world. I am so afraid of losing her. I don’t know why, but something, something inside me has lost hope. In some faraway, inner place of my soul, I already feel I have lost her. It’s purely instinctive, this feeling. And I feel sad. Sad as a rock on the seashore, gazing at a wave which is ebbing away into the sea, leaving it behind. There is something so poignant and gloomy about this quiet, blue early morning that I slowly begin to sink in a melancholic mood. Still gazing out of the window, my spirit begins to wander in memories. The memories of those beautiful moments I have spent with Jessica. The faintest of her smiles seem so precious to me now. A sense of wistfulness and something close to anguish heavies my heart. What if we never meet again? Well then, I will have to live by the memories of Jessica which will scathe and bruise my soul every day like a cold blade until time weathers their sharp

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edges. I raise my cigarette to my lips, take a puff and close my eyes, feeling the cool air softly lapping my face. Last night, I had a strange dream. In the dream I was standing in a shabby, dimly lit alley. I was a statue, a sculpture. Jessica came to me out of nowhere, kissed my lips and walked away, farther and farther, without looking back, and I kept watching her helplessly until her silhouette disappeared in the darkness of the alley. I woke up after the dream, and have been smoking one cigarette after another since then. Suddenly, I notice a sprightly little sparrow hopping from one branch to another on its little quick feet. Somehow, the sight fascinates me and I begin to observe the sparrow’s movements. All of a sudden, the sparrow wriggles its body and twists its agile, energetic head side to side. It stays on the branch for another moment, then, with a sudden leap, it springs upwards from the branch and soars above swiftly into the purplish blue sky of dawn. I watch it soaring until it disappears away from my sight.

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Looking at the sparrow, a deep, thirsty yearning, an inner urge of the spirit to liberate itself awakens inside me. Even I felt like soaring away, away from this dreary, ashen existence I am fettered to, away from all these gnawing worries, from this bleeding wound of life which refuses to clot. Feeling the ache of yearning, I continue to gaze outside, lost in my swoon of nostalgia… All of a sudden, my cell phone vibrates inside my pocket, disturbing the slow sailing clouds of my thoughts. Now this is strange, I tell myself, nobody calls me at this hour. I squeeze my hand inside my pocket and take out the phone. It’s an unknown number. ‘Hello’ ‘Hello Sir’ says a mechanical female voice on the other end ‘Am I talking to Mr. Ibrahim?’ ‘Yes you are. What is it?’ ‘Well Sir, I have to inform you that the National Security Guards were successful in liberating the Taj hotel last night at about four’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

There was a short pause ‘We got your number from Jessica Shelly’s cell phone’ My heart stands still, frozen in the cold, tight grip of suspense. ‘Is she alright? How is she? Where is she now?’ I ask in a fever of impatience. Another pause follows on the other end. It was like a painful eternity to me. ‘Hello?’ ‘We are sorry to inform you Sir but Miss Shelly, along with her mother was shot thrice by the terrorists. She was rushed to the Leelavati Hospital this morning but the doctors declared her dead and her mother as well. Their bodies will be sent back to New York very soon. We genuinely grieve their demise’ For a moment, disbelief struck me like a block of ice smashed on my head. The cell phone slipped down my hand and splintered while I remain standing motionless and still, frozen aghast in my trauma.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Gradually, as the cold numbness of disbelief begins to dissolve and I begin to recover my senses, I realize the full richness, the full enormity of what I have lost. Jessica is dead, dead. A sudden, piercing spear of grief thrusts through my heart and a loud, grotesque groan suddenly escapes my mouth. My limbs begin to feel weak, as though they are melting inside and I collapse on the floor in a heap, as if shot. Sitting with my arms around my knees, I look up at the ceiling. My nostrils begin to quiver and my wet lips start trembling. Sorrow wells up inside me, brimming the vessel of my soul. My throat gets clogged with the sour saliva of grief. In spite of my will to restrain, tears surge higher and higher, filling my eyes, brimming my lashes. Through my watery vision, I look around in helplessness, trying to find something in the room which I can press against my chest, something that can absorb this piercing anguish inside me. But there is nothing in this world that can relieve me of this pain now. I don’t know how I will live all my life with this bleeding gash inside me.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Drops of tear, one after another, begin to trickle down my eyes ceaselessly. They meander down my hot cheeks till they reach my lips and seep inside, filling my mouth with their salty taste. I close my eyes and a collage of memories emerges in my mind. Dry, choking sobs heave up inside me and saliva begins to fall from my lower lip in gobs and strings. I bury my face in my knees and very soon, I was crying in pathetic hiccups.

That morning, I wept and wept, with scalding tears. My soul was crippled to shreds…crippled. *

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Chapter Fifteen

I have not been living, simply sleepwalking through my life ever since Jessica died. The sun of my life has sunk down and now there’s no promise of brightness on either side of the horizon. Something inside me has died, perhaps my very desire to live. Day after day sails past and I don’t even realize. The fire of my spirit has gone out and now, inside me, there’s only a dark, hollow pit, an empty void of nothingness. I have become a living phantom, unseeing and unfeeling, just existing. Drifting, simply drifting blindly with time, and the world around me, just an indistinct haze. But at night, I am in a frenzy of restlessness. The memories of Jessica haunt me during the quiet hours of night and inside this dark, hollow pit of my being, a chained prisoner suddenly awakens who writhes and rages blindly inside me in a torture of agony. In a sort of madness, I climb down my bed and start pacing up and Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

down my room, trying to tranquilize this raging prisoner inside me. But Jessica’s untameable memories keep flooding my mind, mercilessly tormenting him more. I go inside the bathroom to wash my face but when I look in the mirror, I am horrified by the sight of my own face. I see a mad man, pallid and wild-eyed, staring aghast at me. This is what I have become, I think in myself, standing before the mirror in a daze of horror. Every night, I suffer the throes and torture of anguish, and try to wrestle through these dark sleepless hours; until, outside my window, the light of dawn begins to lift the veil of darkness form the sky. With the coming of dawn, I stop feeling so vulnerable. Something inside me stiffens to resist another dead day of loneliness and despair. Off late, I have started attending college regularly to keep myself occupied. But even during the lectures, my melancholy never leaves me. While the Professor teaches, I remain abstracted in a sort of dream, thinking about the queer turn my life has taken. While the others write, I keep sketching something listlessly in my Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

notebook, lost in the reveries of my past. When I have free lectures, I roam drearily around the campus, smoking heavily and looking here and there with a vague sort of interest. All the while, inside, I am battling with my own phantoms. Whenever I pass the spots where Jessica and I used sit and chat, a keen pain of anguish, like poison, shoots through my veins and I hungrily light another cigarette. I have become so weak and so utterly forlorn, simply a pale reflection of what I used to be, a mere shadow of the man I once was. At evenings, I visit the Professor’s house where we conduct the discussions as usual. Sitting there with Mustafa and the others, I keep listening to the heated, fiery arguments. The same ideologies which used to stir me with such powerful, thrilling passions seem rather tiresome to me now. While the others would take part in the discussion, I would remain steeped in my own dark gloom, staring fixedly at some object in the room with absent, faraway eyes. Even while the Professor addresses the gathering (his reserved half an hour for imparting what he calls true ‘ilm’ or knowledge), my eyes Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

begin to wander in a vague, disinterested way. Many a time, I have noticed the Professor eyeing me with a wolfish sort of suspicion. With his intense gaze upon me, the surface of my body would seem to turn to water with self-consciousness and I would immediately pretend to be attentive. Inside, I am slowly crumbling into ashes. Earlier, life was so full of little, subtle delights. But now, everything seems pale and ashen. I have forgotten how to smile. Puff by puff, I am walking towards the grave of the person I used to be.

____

The wind is sighing softly in the trees, whirling the dead leaves about in little eddies as they slowly float down to the quiet grasses. It’s a cool, mild December afternoon and the sky is curdled with soft white clouds. Sitting outside, on the steps of my college library, with my bag wedged between my knees, I am in one of those still moods when little worries disappear and the beauty of Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

things stand out. But everything around me, the whispering trees, the sombre gothic buildings of my college, the mild, pleasant weather, seem a delicate beauty of a tragic tone, not cheerful, yet beautiful in its melancholy. In sometime, philosophy lecture would start, but I don’t want to attend. I just want to sit here for some more time, still as a snowdrop, gazing ahead. Like a butterfly, a piece of memory comes floating in my mind and settles over there quietly. On this very spot, one afternoon, Jessica and I were sitting. By that time, under the influence of the Professor, I had sunk deep in the Jihadi ideologies. On that day, we were having a mild discussion on the subject, when suddenly; Jessica said in a nonchalant, careless way, ‘you sound like an illiterate Islamist. This is so not you’. Though she had said this in an offhand way, it deeply affected me. Her comment pierced through me like a thrust of a poisoned knife and I grit my teeth, rigid with bitterness and indignation, seething inside. In a flash of rage, I exploded on Jessica, blabbering for full five minutes. Like a raging sea that Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

does not hear its own roaring, I said a lot of things that I don’t even remember, things that might have bruised her sensitive heart. But instead of being angry at me, Jessica remained completely composed, gazing ahead with her tranquil, brooding eyes, expressionless, as if she was not listening to me. Under her impassive mask, I don’t know what she was thinking, but her indifference infuriated me more. Tipping over the basin of my wrath, I roared, ‘the biggest Terrorist in the world is America, and what you privileged Americans call terrorism is nothing but counter-terrorism. But you know what, you’re never gonna see it, ‘coz America had blindfolded you. As it is, you Americans don’t care, you hardly have any conscience!’ I gave a disdainful smirk of hate and looked the other way. A curious gulf of silence came between us. None of us uttered a single word. Finally, after a while, Jessica turned her head and looked at me with her calm, blue eyes. There was such tranquillity in those delicate, breakable, watery blue irises staring quietly at

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me, that my anger simmered down, and I began to feel confused and ashamed. ‘Do you see that tree?’ she said in a soft voice, pointing at a drooping old tree at some distance. ‘Yes’ I replied, confused. ‘Tell me’ she said ‘what will happen if a great storm comes?’ ‘What will happen?’ I asked, averting my eyes from her. I was a bit ashamed at my behaviour. ‘You tell me’ ‘The tree will fall…obviously’ I replied, looking at her with uncertainty and confusion. I couldn’t see where all this was going. ‘Hmm…’ she says, slowly nodding ‘that’s what you will say’ ‘And what will you say?’ Gazing at the tree, Jessica said in a soft whisper, ‘It’s not only the tree that will fall’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Along with the tree, even the nests of the birds will fall’ she said ‘The storm will laugh in triumph on having defeated the tree which Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

used to stand defiant and challenging on its way. But what about the innocent little birds? How are they involved in this? They love the wind and they also love the tree. Why do they deserve to suffer?’ I sank into a deep silence, a bit ashamed of myself. Jessica glanced up at me. A bold defiance in her triumphant blue eyes. ‘Who’s being blindfolded now?’ she said softly. But beneath the velvet of her soft voice, I felt the undercurrent of fury. My eyelids bent down in shame. I knew I was defeated. I strike a match and light a cigarette. There’s an old peon standing at some distance, watching me with that cold, inner loathing which non-smokers have for smokers. Ignoring his resentful gaze, I take the first puff, and exhale a thin grey cloud of smoke. Smoking my cigarette with slow, languid pleasure, I remain sunk in dreams, gazing ahead with distant, faraway eyes. Jessica’s memories looming over my thoughts like a large shadow. How my heart aches with longing to have her back in my life. How it pines to

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experience those soft, soul-warming smiles again. Like a tide pounding the coast, a sudden spasm of yearning washes over me. All of a sudden, as I was taking a puff, a hand tightly grips my shoulder from behind. My senses flicker awake and I glance backwards immediately. It’s Mustafa, looking very desperate and anxious. His thick, arched eyebrows are knitted with anxiety and his eyes seem restless. He is panting a little. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, looking curiously in his agitated eyes. ‘I don’t have time to explain’ he replies impatiently ‘Just come with me’ ‘But where?’ I ask, standing up. ‘You will be explained everything’ he says ‘Just follow me now. A car is waiting for us outside the college.’ Before I could say another word, Mustafa grips my arm stiffly and begins to walk in firm, quick, determined strides. ‘Why are you dragging me?’

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‘Because we need to be quick’ he replies curtly, without looking back. I shudder my arm out of his grip and yell, ‘Will you tell me where we are going?’ Mustafa suddenly stops walking and clenches his fist to suppress the tremor of wrath passing through his body. Then he turns his head sharply. His eyes flaring furiously at me. ‘Stop behaving like a kid Ibrahim’ he commands ‘You will be explained everything later. Just follow me, will you?’ The cold steel of insult slashed across my soul. I had never expected such rudeness from Mustafa, but I remain quiet and stiff, smothering the rage inside me. ‘Let’s go’ Mustafa says, and we start pacing again. Both of us quiet and tense with a mutual disdain. When we reach near the college gate, I notice a black Pajero waiting for us outside. Two indistinct faces are staring at us from the gloom inside the car. A sudden flicker of instinct warns me that something is wrong. I begin to get that eerie feeling inside, that Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

strange, cautious feeling that simmers from the depths of instinct, but I keep walking behind Mustafa without uttering a word. ‘Get inside’ Mustafa says, opening the front door of the car and stepping aside to let me enter. I look suspiciously at Mustafa then at the two men sitting in the back seat. One of them is staring at me with his bloodshot, vindictive eyes. With nervous hesitance, I get inside the car. Behind me, the two serious-looking men are sitting in taut silence. In this curious, tense silence inside the car, I can sense the whispers of some clandestine conspiracy. Beneath my skin, all my caution stands awake and I remain motionless, sitting stiff and alert like a bowstring. From the other side, Mustafa gets inside the car and looks at me with dark intensity in his eyes. Those glassy green eyes were venomously evil. A nervous quiver passes down my spine. ‘why am I here?’ I ask Mustafa, in a nervous, queasy voice. ‘Because you are the chosen one’ Mustafa replies. Suddenly, from behind, a hand tightly muffles my face with a wet handkerchief. The next moment, I was wriggling and twisting Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

frantically in my seat in a torture of suffocation, blindly kicking my feet and hands, groping for something to pull myself forward, scratching the dashboard with my fingers in mad desperation. But very soon, a heavy, nauseous dizziness began to sink in my limbs and in spite of myself, the insane grappling and kicking and writhing of my body, the hysterical struggle to wrestle myself free, began to slowly die. Everything seemed to slow down inside me, as if I was drugged. My limbs began to feel lifeless and my head was weighing heavy as a stone, clumsily falling here and there, unable to remain straight. My entire body seemed foreign to me and though consciousness was slipping away, I struggled to the last ounce of my strength to remain awake. However, a moment later, I was lying motionless and inert on the seat, slipped into unconsciousness.

*

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Chapter Sixteen

Weakly, I half open my heavy eyelids. Through my clouded, blurry vision, the first thing I see is the face of the Professor staring at me with a sinister, evil grin on his lips. I jerk my head to ascertain I am not hallucinating. ‘Where am I?’ I utter in a feeble, broken voice. The Professor does not reply. He keeps staring at me with his dark, vindictively smiling eyes. I look around. We are sitting in the centre of this strange, dimly lit room. There’s a wooden table between us and from the middle of the ceiling, a bulb is hanging naked above our heads. It seems as if I am in some sort of investigation room. I look around myself in a daze. My hands are tightly tied with a rope to the arms of the chair I am seated on. ‘What is all this? Why am I here?’ I ask, blanched with cold terror.

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

The fiendish smile widens on Professor’s wicked face and his dark, evil eyes flicker with mean pleasure. My eyes nervously wander down to the pistol kept on the table and a quiver of fright runs through me, to the last fibre. I swallow fearfully. ‘What have I done wrong?’ I ask the Professor with nervous timidity. The Professor leans forward, and for a moment, stares curiously at me. Then, all of a sudden, he begins to laugh, laugh demonically, like a mad conqueror. His loud, insane laughter was like explosions in the empty, echoing room. Wounded with insult, my blood turns black in my veins with bitterness. ‘Wrong?’ the Professor suddenly shouts, laughing louder ‘What an innocent little boy you are, Ibrahim.’ With my jaws clenched, I simply glare at him, seething and roiling inside with a mad fury. ‘There is no such thing as right or wrong’ the Professor continues with the same malicious smile on his face ‘Only Victory and Defeat, nothing else. Right is just another name to describe the Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

victorious and wrong, the defeated. The world has no conscience, my boy, I have told you that’ A tense, empty silence settles in the room. The Professor looks down at the pistol and lightly traces it’s body with his fingertip. ‘Mashaallah’ he says to himself, looking at the pistol with fond admiration. Suddenly, something changes in him. ‘You have been like a son to me all this time’ the Professor says, lifting his eyes tenderly to mine ‘and I am grateful to you for that’. A shadow of sadness comes over his face and he remains quiet for a long time, staring abstractedly at me. His eyes dim with a certain anguish. ‘Then why do I deserve to suffer this?’ I ask, softly. The Professor exhales a deep breath. The grey gloom of sadness deepens on his brows. In a calm, distant voice, he says, ‘Ever heard of Guantanamao Bay in Cuba?’ For a moment, he stares at me through his quiet, poignant eyes. ‘It’s a detention camp’ he says ‘My son, Tauqueer, died there’ Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

I saw the keen suffering, the infinite sorrow in his dark eyes absently staring at me. Inside, I knew he was bleeding. ‘He was a student in Seattle doing his Masters in Chemistry’ he continues, fresh tears welling in his eyes, clogging his voice a little ‘On the weekends he would call me at night and both of us would talk for hours. He used to say he missed home and he wanted to come back but I urged him not to return until he finishes his degree. Then, for a few weeks, he did not call me. In the beginning I ignored, but when the weeks became months, I grew restless. During the next month, I pursued the matter relentlessly until I came to know that he was sent to Camp Delta in Guantanamao Bay on the charges of being involved with some Muslim students who were working for Al-Qaida. Since then, I have never slept a night. I know my Tauqueer was innocent. He was never this way inclined. He wanted to become a lecturer and he hated violence….he was innocent. I know it’ Though tears were hanging heavy on his lashes, his face remained fixed in its stoic firmness. But behind the austere mask of his face, Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

I knew that the delicate fabric of his soul has ruptured, allowing his pent up anguish of so many years to ooze out. I remain silent. A drop of tear finally drips down his eye. With quivering fingers, the Professor lights a cigarette and tosses the lighter on the table. But instead of smoking his cigarette, he smothers its burning tip against his palm. ‘What are you doing?’ I scream. His eyelids pucker with unbearable pain but he doesn’t remove the burning cigarette from his palm until the embers expire. He lifts his hand and looks at the black burnmark in the middle of his palm. A sudden, wild madness of rage descends upon him. ‘Those Americans must have done this so many times to my son’ he says with gritted teeth. His eyes kindled with a fanatic wrath. ‘Out there, the detainees are tortured like animals. They are interrogated hundreds of times, beaten repeatedly, tortured with broken glasses, barbed wires, burning cigarettes, even sexual assaults, those bloody eunuchs! They blind the detainees with pepper spray and piss on their faces. They are force fed through Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

nasal tubes. They torment them by stubbing burning cigarettes against the tip of their penis. Before the very eyes of the believer, they flush the Quran down the toilet and laugh with pleasure. I shudder at the thought that my son would have gone through all this.’ His eyes were flashing like swords with hot, furious tears. In them, there was an insane fire of vengeance. ‘God Bless America!’ that’s what those bastards say’ he yells, livid with wrath ‘ If Christ was alive today, the last thing he would want to be would be a Christian!’ In the great silence that followed, his stiff face was trembling. Inside, he was blistering with acidic vengeance. ‘I am sorry about your son, Professor’ I say quietly. But somehow, my words sound so hollow, so utterly bleak of any genuine sorrow that I flush with shame. The Professor buries his face in his palms and remains quiet for sometime. I don’t speak a word, allowing him to take his time. He seems to be sinking back to his senses. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘You know Ibrahim’ he says after sometime, in a sober, sensible voice ‘the day Mustafa told me about you, I knew you were the one who would do this’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Avenge my son’ ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, totally perplexed. The Professor clasps his hands complacently on the table and fixes his steady eyes on me. ‘It’s time you know about things’ he says with perfect calmness ‘I am a senior member of Jama’at-i-Islam, an organisation that is spread throughout India, Pakistan and some areas of Bangladesh. We have close relationship with Lashkar-e-Taiyeba and more than two thousand true Muslims have dedicated themselves to our great ideology. For the next mission, we needed an educated, selfless student and we chose you. You are fortunate Ibrahim, you are fortunate.’ His words send a chill through my heart. Frozen in my seat, I remained totally blank, as if paralysed. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Day after tomorrow, we are sending you to New York’ he continues with the same determined calmness in his voice ‘We have already arranged everything for you. After four days of your stay in New York, I will send Imam Masoud with a few others who will tell you about your mission. He is the mastermind of this plot. We are targeting the Times Square this time. On the eve of Christmas, you will be masquerading as Santa and it is in this manner that you will accomplish your mission. Imam Masoud will explain you everything. All through this time, I will keep in touch with you. But remember, we have to be careful. We’ll use codewords. For the Times Square, the word will be ‘The University’, for the explosive, it’ll be ‘the books’ and for Imam Masoud and others, it’ll be ‘the students’. Ibrahim, you are going to be a Martyr, a Shaheed, and generations to come will glorify your name. May Allah’s blessing be on you, my son’ My blood begins to ferment in my veins and a sort of frenzy takes over me. Inside, my will toughens with determined resistance. No matter what, I will not give in to this. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘I am not doing any such thing!’ I shout outrageously, shuddering all over in a kind of ague ‘And for Godsake, don’t drag Islam and Christanity into all this. It’s a personal war you’re fighting, you hypocrite’ ‘Personal war!’ the Professor exclaims with a contemptuous, derisive laugh ‘Yes, it’s a personal war. Personal to millions of Muslims like me all over the world who have suffered at the hands of those godless Americans. Yes it is a personal war. Personal to those mothers, those brothers, those fathers, those sisters, those friends who have wept over the carcass of the people they have shared their lives with. Yes, Ibrahim, it’s a personal war! How wise of you to have understood that’ ‘And you think by blowing up cities you can avenge the dead’ I scream in a gust of anger. The Professor smiles. A vicious, cunning smile. ‘The Americans are deaf’ he says ‘They are too busy listening to their i-pods. They need an explosion to hear our voice’

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I was feeling so frustrated. The voracious dogs of anger were raging inside me like captives. I wanted to rip apart my chest and unleash this angry pack of hounds, but I was helpless. The Professor always manages to defeat me in argument! How I wish I would have never got into all this. What should I do now? My heart was pounding in strange throes of pain. Hot tears of frustration fill my eyes. ‘Whatever you might say, I won’t do this’ I say, glaring hotly at him ‘I just won’t’ A vicious side-grin comes on Professor’s face and he lifts the pistol in his hand. Pointing it at me, he says ‘I am afraid you don’t have the luxury of choice, my boy’. There was a flicker of triumph in his wicked, smiling eyes. Seeing that look in his eyes, my whole body seemed to sizzle with pure hate. ‘Ibrahim, you’ve been with us all this time and you know who we are’ he says ‘It is dangerous for us to let you live free. Now, my boy, the choice yours, whether you want to die like a wretched Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

street dog out here, or like a noble Mujahid. If you follow my commands, Allah will reward you in Paradise and there you will live eternally in peace and happiness. Don’t you want Allah to be proud of you?’ I was pallid with horror, cold to the marrow. Blood seemed to have frozen in my numb veins. Speechless, I was staring at the Professor with that queer, blank look of a terrified child. The Professor keeps the pistol down on the table and rises from his chair. But before leaving the room, he comes towards me. ‘My brave son!’ he says, looking down at me with imperious pride in his eyes and bends down to imprint a kiss on my forehead ‘May Allah be with you’. Saying this, he walks away, leaving me behind in this strange, empty room with the dark phantoms of death already hovering above me.

*

Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

Epilogue

NEW YORK

I weigh the revolver in my hand, glutted with a deep, visceral loathing for this ugly weapon. I don’t like the queer sensation of holding this curious, heavy thing in my hand. I just hate it. Each time I lift the revolver, I feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to throw it away as if it is on fire. I keep the revolver down on the window sill and stare at it for sometime, quiet and sad. What have I made of myself, I think ruefully and heave a sigh of regret. Like a silk ribbon my life slipped out of my hand and I didn’t even realize when or how. How I wish I could return to past and set things right again. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

It’s been two days I have been staying in this one-bedroom flat. Imam Masoud is to arrive day after tomorrow and I don’t know what will happen next. When I had arrived at New York, I was received at the airport by a stout Muslim fellow named Khayyam who carried my luggage to the cab which was waiting for us outside the airport. As the cab was smoothly moving, I was looking out of the window at marvellous New York City, beautiful as a toy land. The tall, imposing sky scrapers, the splendid, wide flyovers, the vibrant lights of the city succeeded, despite all my despair, to rekindle me with an overwhelming sense of wonder. It was as if a new soul was filling my body, sweetly stealing into every vein. But the excitement soon sank under the weight of my despair. What does all these beautiful things mean, I thought, I am going to die in a few days. The thought of my inevitable death was like a heavy, dead burden over my soul which prevented any emotion of happiness to rise in me. I button the collar of my jacket and slip my cold hands in its warm pockets. It’s very cold in here. A thin mist is pressing against Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

the window pane. With my forehead touching the cold pane, I am staring down at the small park where a few families are enjoying their Saturday evening. For a while, I remain standing before the window, quiet and still, staring down wistfully, then I decide to go down and sit in the park for sometime.

____

I chafe my hands together and press them against my cheeks. My palms feel deliciously warm against my cold, numb face. Its one of those cold, hoary evenings of winter when everything seems grey, pale and lifeless. The mist in the air, still and languid, has filled the atmosphere with a sickly, ashen pallor. Sitting on a bench in the park, I am quietly staring ahead at a young man muffled up in dark overcoat and purple woollen scarf, walking slowly on the wet grass with his little daughter beside him who is listlessly dribbling a basketball. The man is talking in soft, gentle whispers to his daughter. And every now and then, the little Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

girl pipes up in her loud, childish voice, breaking the murmuring drone of the man’s gentle voice. Looking at them, a subtle pleasure wells up in my heart and I smile faintly. Suddenly, the little girl kicks her basketball and it comes rolling on the grass towards me. On her clumsy little legs, she comes running after the ball. Her curly blonde strands were hopping up and down as she was running. ‘That’s mine’ she says, pointing at the basketball in my hands. She is standing still before me, looking at me timidly with her large, innocent grey eyes. ‘It’s a good one’ I say, smiling genially to her ‘what’s your name little princess?’ She puts her tubby little finger in her mouth and looks at me nervously for a moment. ‘Here, take your basketball’ I say, handing her the ball ‘But won’t you tell me your name?’ The girl suddenly bursts in a childish giggle. ‘It’s Jessica’ she says, and runs away to her daddy. Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

‘Jessica’ I repeat, sadly looking down at the wet grass. I feel a bitter ache of grief in my heart and bury my face in my palms. An immense sadness takes possession of me. Like a thin sheet of glass, my soul breaks into two pieces. I lift my face from my palms and gaze up at the sky, cursing God form the depths of bitterness. After a while, I slip my hand inside the pocket of my trouser and take out the cuttlefish bone that Jessica had given me. Turning it over slowly in my fingers, I stare at it for a long while, melting inside with limitless sorrow. A drop of tear finally trickles down my eye. I light a cigarette, and smoke in silence. In the burning cigarette between my fingers, I see the reflection of my own fate.

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I swallow the muzzle of the revolver in my mouth and pull the trigger… Copyright Muhammad Taha Alam 2009

THE END

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