Sunshine

On a cold winter’s night, in the lobby of a multi-story building in East Delhi, two men looked on from behind a third, who was seated in front with his hand on the screen of the mobile phone, as the booming baritone of Amitabh Bachchan’s voice rang through the Sony screen of KBC…“This question is the fifteenth question and the right answer will fetch you fifty lac rupees. So Tej Bahadur ji, are you ready?”

“Ji Sir.”

“So here it is on your screen.. Mangal Pandey belonged to which regiment when the revolt of 1857 broke out? And the options are A, B, C and D”…. as he read them out once in Hindi and again in English.  “You do not have any lifelines left, so do not take any chances. Lock the answer only if you are sure, otherwise your reward will fall from twenty-five lacs to three lacs twenty thousand only.” The young lad sat at the KBC set in Mumbai staring at the options carefully, trying to eliminate the incorrect options as the audience looked on with pin drop silence.

At Delhi, the person sitting on the chair was being egged on by the other two people, “Give the answer, Ramesh.” And Ramesh confidently replied, “The answer is D- 34^th Bengal Native Infantry.”

Hello, I am Ramesh and belong to Azamgarh in Uttar Pradesh where I did my schooling and then did my graduation from the Open University. From the beginning itself, I used to read a lot of books and magazines on history and sports. I even started preparing for the competitive examinations for a job in the state government but, as luck would have it, I had to move to Delhi with my maternal uncle who enamored us with stories about the beautiful city and job opportunities for young men. Soon I realized that getting a good job with a graduation degree was near to impossible and so, to make ends meet, I joined Mamiji in ASS or Alert Security Services. While my job is boring and poorly paid, it has not stopped me from reading and keeping my love for quizzing alive. People in the building pose questions at me randomly and the right answers often get me anything from a ten to fifty rupee note as bakshish. I got married to Lata a year ago and she stays with my parents at Azamgarh. She is a nice and simple girl who sings beautifully. We’ve hardly lived together but I quite like talking to her and do video calls daily.

My job has a standard routine and all days are almost alike. With eight of us on duty at any given time, I don’t think any thief will ever dare to rob this place. We just run errands like checking the water levels and switching on the lights and making calls on the intercom. But like all jobs, we have had our bright spots.

Roshni worked as a cook in a couple of flats in the building. She would come during the afternoons and then leave by evening. She was a young, tall girl with real big and beautiful eyes. She always kept her long, black hair oiled and neatly tied up. Unlike other maids, Roshni would always be dressed in colourful sarees and that made her look attractive. For the other guards she was just another servant, who would come and go during the day, whose identity card had to be checked and the register signed every day. But to me she always stood out different and special. I made it a point never to miss being at the front desk at her usual arrival and departure times. Initially, she never took notice of me and but slowly some telepathic signals from me, possibly, reached her and the ignoring stance gave way to a knowing smile. As days passed, the smile improved to monosyllables like haan…na…theek hai. My universe started rotating round her and one look from her made my day shine.

And then she suddenly went missing. Roshni did not come to work for a couple of days and I felt sad and restless. I did not have her telephone number and was ashamed to ask the other maids. I even checked the office register but could not find it there as well. When she returned, she had a bandage on her wrist and she refused to look at me while showing her identity card and signing the register. I asked her, “What happened…how did you get hurt?” She kept quiet and went off to work. But I was determined to know her story so, by the time she finished her work and came down from the lift, I too was done with my shift and was waiting for her outside the building. I followed her to the bus stop and got onto the bus along with her. Before she could put her hand into her tiny purse, I pulled out money from my pocket and paid for the tickets…”Do ticket Seeelampuri ke liye dena.” She did not protest. The bus moved on from one stop to another and we stood silently next to each other.

We got off the bus one stop before her destination and started walking. It was then that she spoke up.

“Ramesh, you are making a mistake by following me. You don’t know anything about me.”

“So tell me.”

“My name is not Roshni, it is Rubina Sheikh. I am from Bangladesh and I am married. My husband has a meat shop and there are many from my native place living here. It is easy to get the Aadhar and the ration cards made with our new identities. All you need is to grease some palms and it is done in no time. If people knew my true identity and religion, all the Agarwals, Jains and Guptas in the building will never let me enter their houses. My husband often comes home drunk and abuses me both verbally and physically. This is quite common in these parts and so you should not get so upset about my injury. I have gone through this many times.”

I stood still as I heard Roshni and then turned brave and softly but confidently…. “Roshni, I dream of you every night and wait for you during the day for a glimpse of you. What you said about yourself maybe important to others but not to me. For me it is you that matters and not your religion, not your name and not you being married. I, too, am a married man but cannot think of anyone but you!”

She looked at me in the eye and smiled.

“Ramesh, we are now getting close to my house, so you must go back. If anyone were to see me with you, my husband will make my life hell and may also come after you as well.”

Saying this, she walked away briskly without looking back. I saw her disappear into the dark alley and I turned around to go back to my quarters. I did not know how she would react after I had opened my heart to her but then things turned out good for me. She would now find a couple of minutes to talk to me and for me those few minutes were the best moments of my days. Was I falling in love with her? Maybe yes, and yet I would religiously talk to my wife and parents back home daily but that call now seemed like routine duty more than any sense of longing, something I felt here while waiting for Roshni. She had by now shared her mobile number with me and we would often talk…we would share jokes and whenever I found her sad and low, I would try and lift up her spirits and get her back to normal. It seemed her husband’s behavior was going from bad to worse by the day and my leaning towards her stronger. I would insist on her sending me a picture of her every morning and she would oblige. I, initially, called it her attendance marking and then later named it as my sunshine picture of the day, something that would brighten up my day. She would at times pack some home cooked food for me. We connected discreetly lest others in the building were to come to know about us. This hide and seek of ours was fun.

Each month I would send home one half of my salary. I worked an extra shift in a nearby nursing home and the money I earned from there I would to keep it separately hidden in a trunk in my room. When I had a good sum saved, I bought a pair of small gold earrings to give to my wife as a surprise gift on our first anniversary. I showed it to Roshni one day and asked… How does this look?

You bought it for me? She asked with a sparkle in her eyes.

I could not say no and she smiled and kept the gift in her bag thanking me profusely. I felt like holding her tight in my arms right there and am sure she would not have resisted but I held myself back.

On the evening of my anniversary, Roshni was near me but stood away from the mobile screen as I talked to Lata. I had also put up a picture of our shaadi on my WhatsApp display picture to mark the occasion.

Don’t cry Lata. I will come home soon during Diwali. I have bought sarees for you and Ma and kurta-pyjama for Babuji. I long to have food made by you. When I am home, we will go to the mela together and watch movies…we will have Pepsi and popcorn….achcha gol gappas as well. Ek gaana suna de…

Mere piya gaye Rangoon

Wahan se kiya hai telefoon

Tumhari yaad satati hai

After the call, I went for my daily walk followed by the daily bus ride with Roshni. She seemed very tense and sad that day. She did not utter a single word.

Next morning she did not post her sunshine picture. I kept looking at the WhatsApp after every few minutes but she did not come online. In the afternoon she came and handed me the small box containing the earrings that I had given her.

No Ramesh. It is wrong on my part to take our relationship forward anymore. Ours is a hopeless relationship which cannot go on beyond a point. You have a happy family and a loving wife who trusts you. My family life is completely ruined and I cannot spoil yours. You are a good man and I know it will be difficult for me to stay away from you but I never would like to be called someone who wrecked another woman’s life.”

I saw her eyes moistening as she walked away pulling out her handkerchief from her small purse.

I was shattered and I fell down in the KBC of life from twenty-five lacs of prize money to zero. I could not sleep that night and many nights after that. Tried calling her and texting her but she did not respond. She was firm in her decision. I understood what Roshni had said and am now trying to accept my fate. I have changed my regular afternoon shift to night shift so that I do not encounter her. I have now adopted a kitten, who was born in the basement of the building, and feed her milk and food. She sits near me as I keep awake, sitting before the burning twigs as the chilly Delhi winds freeze us to the bones, and sing with my fellow guards, in our own dialect, songs of love and longing. And then, of course, there is KBC at night where I suddenly become the hero.

I have booked the train ticket for going home on Diwali and bought the gifts I promised Lata, plus of course the ring, of which she knows not . I still have some pictures of Sunshine saved on my mobile and do see them to brighten up my days. Wondering if I should keep them or delete them…..I think I will keep them.

SS

The Last Rite

Eid was the biggest day and the family gathered together to enjoy the wholesome feast at Mustafa’s house at Shopian, Kashmir. On the table lay wazwan of Gushtaba, Rogan Josh, Tabak Maas, Dhaniwala Korma with Chicken Pulao and much more. Incidentally, the word wazwan is said to have come from ‘waz’ or chef and ‘wan’ denotes a spread of meat curries and other dishes and is also popularly called the feast fit for kings. The reason for celebrations this year was even greater as his son, Tauseef, was home, taking a quick short break from his unending work. Tauseef was a young rifleman in the Territorial Army and, inevitably, he would be on duty on almost all the family get- togethers and festival celebrations since his seniors would remind him and his fellow soldiers that these would be the days when the police and the army had to be on higher alert than on normal days for fear of attacks by militants. The residents of the Valley lived in a state of perpetual fear not knowing whether bullet fired from the gun of the militant would knock them off or the one fired by the security forces. The dance of death was more often seen than the dance of joyous celebrations  which had, literally, become the Eid ka Chand….seldom seen.

Post the feast, a teary eyed mother and his sisters bid Tauseef adieu. Mustafa could hide his emotions well and put up a brave smile to wave Tauseef goodbye as he switched on his bike’s key and drove away waving to all. About half an hour later, Mustafa’s phone started ringing…it was Tauseef calling…

Tauseef, what happened? Have you reached your barracks already?

No Abbu. I will go there later. I just met a few old friends. They want me to spend some time with them. Just in case anyone from my command calls to find out about me, tell them, I am at home and will be returning to the barracks slightly later. Won’t stay here for long.

Who are these friends? Do I know them?  You should not delay as it is already getting dark and the roads are not too safe….chinta hoti hai…

Keeping the phone away now Abbu…Khuda Haafiz.

Allah Haafiz….do call or message me after you reach the camp.

Mustafa kept looking at the screen of his mobile waiting for that one text message from his loving son Tauseef who was his favourite among all his children. Even though all the relatives and friends cautioned him not to join the security forces….Indian forces as they would often refer to it.. but Tauseef was not to be deterred. Even though a lot of his school friends had joined the militants and were hailed as heroes by the locals, Tauseef was always determined to wield the gun for the country. He was treated by a section of people as a traitor and a pariah. He just ignored them.

Mustafa was thinking…5pm he left our house and called me at 5.30pm. Even if he were to spend two hours with his friends…it would be 7.30pm when he should have departed from Balapora…. From there Bashirbagh Camp should take him another twenty minutes to reach….so by 8pm he should have reached….it is already 8.30pm and there is no message or a call. This is not like Tauseef at all! Let me call him up instead. He dialed the last number on his phone…..

Sorry, this number cannot be reached….came the recorded voice message.

Mustafa was now worried as was his wife and his daughters. They sat around him in a circle as he kept dialing Tauseef’s number….all waiting to hear his voice and know about his well-being. It was not 10pm and Mustafa got panicky. He kept on dialing uninterruptedly but there was no change in status of the response….

Sorry, this number cannot be reached…please call back later…

Mustafa dialed Habib who was also in Tauseef’s command.

Habib Beta….Assalam Walekum….Mustafa Chacha bol raha hoon…Tauseef’s father.

Chacha, Tauseef has not returned to the camp till now. Our Commandant is also very upset with him. How can he be so irresponsible? He was given a couple of hours of special leave for Eid and it is almost twelve hours and he has not reported back.

Mustafa narrated the whole story to Habib.

Chacha, you please report the matter to the local police. I will also tell our commandant and we will do whatever we can to trace him. Don’t worry. He must be sleeping somewhere now after a good round of drinks with his friends.

Mustafa knew his son well. He was always very different. He was completely clean with no smoke and no drinks ever. But he did not refute Habib and kept the phone down. He wanted to go to the local thana immediately but was stopped by his wife as there would be no one there at that hour and they would anyway not be able to do much so late.

Mustafa did not sleep that night. He just twisted and turned in his bed. He did not get up fearing others would get disturbed. What he did not know that no one in his house was sleeping….they were all awake with eyes closed, just waiting for morning to break. Sharp at 6am, Mustafa wrapped his warm shawl and walked to the thana which was about a couple of kilometres away. It was pretty dark and sun was still some hours away from peeping out from behind the clouds over the snow clad mountains. He reached the small hutment with the board hung outside. There was no one around, so Mustafa sat down on the steps of the police station waiting for help to arrive. Finally, the policemen arrived around 9am and after finishing their tea and breakfast and Mustafa got an audience.

Sir, my son is missing since last evening.

The potbellied man in khakhi, sitting behind the desk laughed…He must have gone to the other side. We get such complaints every day. Go home now. He will come back soon, well trained and equipped and when we put him down in an encounter, we will bring him to your home for you to do the last rites….ha ha ha….

Mustafa was outraged at the clichéd comment but controlled his anger. He pleaded before heartless people who took him to be a mad man. Fortunately, Habib arrived at the station in his uniform and then the wheel started turning. A case of missing person was registered and all details were noted.

Chacha, you now go home. We will start our search now and get back to you with our findings.

Reluctantly, Mustafa went home and every day, for the next six days, he would arrive at the police station sharp at 6am to be disappointed by 10am and again to return at 4pm in the evening and once again return home without any news of Tauseef. The mood in the house had completely changed. The chandni of that one evening had given way to amavasya for the remaining six days.

On day seven, the station master shouted… Chacha come quickly…we have found…we have found….

Mustafa rushed to him…..Thank Allah, you have found my son.

Nahin Chacha….we have found his bike in Kulgam. Sorry to say, it is completely charred.

Mustafa sat down on the floor holding his hands over his head.  What he feared most seemed to be coming true but he still nurtured hope….after all Tauseef’s body had not yet been found.

After much search of the area where the bike was found, the police found Tauseef’s clothes in a ditch. Mustafa went there to see and he saw the beige trouser and brown shirt, the very clothes Tauseef was wearing on that fateful day, the only difference was that today they were soaked in blood and mud.

The police also found a piece of his shirt around the place that the bike was found and assumed that there was a scuffle first between Tauseef and his abductors before they would have overpowered and kidnapped him. The police claimed that ‘the case is under investigation and we are trying to trace the body.’ Actually, no one was looking for anyone any more. For them it was just another case and the file was open yet closed.

Mustafa accepted his fate and believed that his son was no more. He was surely killed by militants who hated all those who joined the Indian forces. But sadly, since the body has not been found and the police file is still open till date, so Tauseef cannot be declared dead and his last dues and pension for his family cannot be paid. All of Mustafa’s begging fell on deaf ears, which only wanted solid evidence and that was not there. A woman did come forward to confirm that she had seen Tauseef fighting with four men but that evidence was treated as not admissible.

Mustafa was helpless, so he decided to take things in his control. So now, for the last ten months, every morning he sets out from his house with a shovel and spade in his hands. He walks to the spot where the clothes were found and starts digging.  He hopes one day he will find his son’s body. Nowadays, some of the neighbours and friends have also started going along with Mustafa and they dig around the places and they have helped to increase the periphery of the search. In the evenings the search party returns home, rest and walk out the next day with shovels and spades.

I just want to give my son an honourable burial. I know he is no more but everyone deserves a proper departure before he proceeds to Allah’s home. He also deserves to be honoured by the country he wore the uniform for, fought for and eventually gave up his life for. My son deserves some respect, some honour and deep inside, as a father, I want to lay my son down gently one last time.

SS

NB. This is inspired by a real life story which appeared in the national newspapers. The names have been changed and some factual details have been dramatized in the narrative.