Ahmad

‘Come home!’ She had yelled, a desperate plea for help. ‘Can you come home?’ She had spoken in hushed tones.

Bilqis had shouted over the phone. And then quietened up. For she feared?

Why? Ahmad could not conceive of the idea. But she had sounded afraid.

Someone had eavesdropped. And she had dropped her volume down to a whis- per. Who her? Why, it was unheard of. That the wolf of the pack should be fearful of a person. It is the impression Ahmad had received. And it worried him. She had screamed as though her life was in danger. Like all the wild was after her. And she, the lone wolf was being tracked down. What had gone so grossly wrong that the hunter was now the hunted? And she had reached out to him. For he could help. How? In all these years. After all those years. Like an eternity.

That Bilqis sounded worried over the phone, was diluting the message. Ahmad had left on her call without as much a drop of water. For his sister needed help.

The whole railway station was a blur to him as he rushed from one counter to the other, her scream a disturbing reminder that something bad had happened. Or was about to happen. Every passerby made him jerk to attention. He hastened for the train. He bumped into people. Brushed shoulders with them. How he detested this! Human touch!

He had to board the next one though. But a hand slapped his. He turned to see no one. People moved like a herd. They disappeared in a crowd. He let the locomo- tive chug on. He did not catch it.

He was too late. He latched on to the subsequent one. They thronged the com- partment full beyond capacity. They jostled in the doorway, shouting profanities at one another. ‘Move, move!’

Ahmad boarded, half in, half out. He hung from the iron bar of the carriage exposed to the lamp posts on the platform. He could hit his head on one of those. Death would be instant. Or at least a long-drawn concussion. He looked on ahead of him and before him. All humanity huddled at the entrance. The train lurched into motion.

‘Move on inside,’ he cried out to the men at the gate. Some more shoving and pushing followed.

The train picked up speed. It would leave the station soon. Ahmad stared at the lamp posts blankly. He moved. Shoved. Pushed. Forced his way through. But he was still halfway out. He caved in to fate. For the train had gained momentum. Bilqis! His insides screamed!

He may have lost his life, if it hadn’t been for a fellow passenger to pull him in by the scruff of his collar. Ahmad minded the grab. But not the gesture. The traveler abused him. He did not react. He shouted at him. He didn’t respond. He was still in a resentful tangle with the others.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. He worried over the onlookers, keeping his gaze down. As he moved on, he saw to his annoyance, seats were available. He took one. He muttered curse words under his breath. How he hated a jostle by the door? Peo- ple were such cattle. They huddled. Advanced in a tribe. Not knowing the grass was on the other side.

A look out the window was not refreshing. But he could breathe comfortably for the moment. Ordinary folk sitting on the berths spoke of mediocre tales. Their sons graduating or the daughters-in-law too arrogant. The boss a pain in the back side or colleagues uncompromising. The inflation or the rapid spread of disease. It was not the women alone who cackled nonstop. It was the men too. In languages he did not understand. Or he did not care.

The sight of leaves of trees glistening in the sunset reminded him of his village. Green, by a lake, mango farms and tamarind chutneys. He salivated.

It was that time of the year for the sweetness of the season. For it was summer.

That meant long and warm holidays.

‘I am telling you he puts up an act.’ The women of the village would whisper to one another. ‘Like an actor.’

‘His father handed over the business as though Friday alms to the poor. And yet he’s made a hash out of it. Ahmad remained a village fool.’

He laughed at the gentle breeze of a reminder. ‘How crafty to make hay in the family’s inheritance?’

He shifted in his seat, amused. He pulled a face for they could not decide between foolish and cunning. He could not embody both facets. It did not bother him a dime, better titles awarded to his credit. Most people were of the opinion he was the object of someone’s black magic.

Burdensome to others. Light in gait. When he could not land a regular job and provide for himself, they labeled him a loser. Few held the sentiment he shied away from life itself. That he did not work for a living. That he refused to marry his love. That he was lazy. Procrastinator. Degenerate. Negative. Fiend. He was zero.

Ahmad made it a point not to believe any of it.

Was he to stop and explain to everyone the value of Zero? Pah! He did not have the time nor the inclination. For he was not delusional for what life had in store for

him. He had everything. He lost it all. And yet he had chosen to live. Not to succumb. That for him was enough. Nothing and no one could scratch his dense surface. Little else provoked him. He simply did not care.

‘People have no bone in the tongue. It wags,’ Bilqis would often say to him. Both would share a hearty laugh. And that is why Ahmad adored her. She was not patron- izing. She had the whiplash on her boneless tongue. She said it like it was.

And she had asked him to come home! His brows creased. The last ten years had been tough on them both. They had met secretly and on the sly. It was a mutual decision to continue living apart. And stay in each other’s hearts.

The train arrived at Santa Cruz. It was a place he could walk through with his eyes closed. Bilqis and he had tried it. She had admired him and scorned him. For she would have trouble shutting her eyes to the unseen, the unknown.

Ahmad pointed out to her, ‘these hawkers here, haven’t changed their places in thirty years, Bilqis!’

‘Neither have the shops or the Udipi restaurants nor the cheap salons. If you focus on sounds, you can walk through this chaos eyes shut.’

Bilqis laughed. ‘Let me see you do it. I cannot,’ she would say. And Ahmad would put the might of the mind behind it. He’d walk the whole length eyes closed, ears lis- tening, hands reaching out to no one.

‘Bravo! Bravo!’ Bilqis would egg him on.

Ahmad did the little stunts to impress his sister. He had a nickname, the village fool. But she did not agree. She saw in him great promise. She prided him for his vir- tuosity, his morality.

For he was as much an ardent subject of Science as those people, victims of their useless notions.

There were other ways of the world Ahmad did not believe. He didn’t have faith in innocence. Everyone was guilty unless proven otherwise. You had to find the motive. And you would have the sinner. No one was guilt free. For God had accorded each one as much sin in his heart as goodness. Bilqis was a living example of it. And she’d often tease him, ‘why, you’re an angel Ahmad.’

And he would reply, ‘you are wicked, woman!’ And she would laugh her pearly white teeth shone, her eyes twinkled, her facial lines thick and creased. He would smile shy. She was to him, air to being. He had faith in her. In her alone.

The rest of the world was untrustworthy. For instance, the hawker at the railway sta- tion. No. If he could not trust him to make a meal without adulterating the ingredients, how could he have faith in him at all? The traffic police officer at his post–the one

with the whistle. That one. Why was he standing in the shadows by a tree? Surely traffic control required one to be in the middle of the fracas. Not under it!

The school children eating their lollies made him sick. Or the passerby. They dis- gusted Ahmad. He had his reasons and experience to back it.

For the hawker on the platform could well have been a spy. The whistle sounded by the officer a signal for him. It did not matter how far away or out of sight they may be of one another. The acoustic device was loud enough to hear. The kids! With their tiny hands and smaller feet. They walked the street as though owning cuteness! As to trick adults. And the occasional passerby could be the deadliest. He could have a concealed dagger! Not any dagger, but a machete!

Ahmad shook his head in relief. He was out on the sparsely populated, late evening road. He preferred the walk at other times. He hailed an auto today. The driver turned the meter.

‘Drive fast, brother.’ Ahmad instructed him.

What he believed was the incident. The story he called it. And he had stuck by the damn tale all his life. Chased it like a dog at it with its tail. Hounded by its mem- ory. Fearful of a repeat occurrence. Resigned at its fate.

Ahmad was willing to let all hang in air in doubt. Except his story. It was priceless. Embedded. No one could steal it. No one could change it. No one could say it like he did. It was a lesser valued commodity these days. It was the truth.

A lie would have variations. It would shift shape. It would alter with the passage of time. The teller would fumble for words. He would retract and detract his listener. But the truth would remain in all its vastness, boredom and repetitiveness.

He would repeat it to everyone, everywhere. The memory of it fresh in Ahmad’s mind though the rest of the world had come to fade.

Like the greens of his village. Like the smell of lake water. Like the shade of mango trees. Like the taste of tamarind chutney. Like the withered pages of an unread book. Similar to leaves on autumn days. Gathering rust like an unused blade. Much like the rancid aftertaste of sweet wine. Aargh! Other than his story the world ranked of suffering.

Ten years had it been? There was no news of her. And lesser curiosities as to where he may have been. What they did? Who they met? How they missed one another? And the phone call arrived. She still remembered his number? Or had saved it on one of her expensive, fancy mobiles? Her voice had been urgent. Full of longing for her brother. She had quenched a yell. He was sure. She had sounded replete of dis- appointment in life. As it had panned out. The call in its suddenness, its brevity and

urgency had moved him to act. Bilqis had asked of him something for the first time. She had yelled, ‘come home!’ And in hushed tones, ‘can you come home?’

Ahmad looked up to see. The auto had passed the neighborhood. He didn’t have the faintest clue as to where he was going.

‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘I will drop off here.’ He said. Paid him and picked up speed the rest of the way. The more he ran, the faster he became familiar to his surround- ings. He chased up to his sister’s residential colony. For Bilqis needed him.

‘Noor!’ He called loudly as he watched her walk at a brisk pace towards a waiting car. He could recognize her in a burqa.

‘Yes!’ She made the mistake of answering to her name. She bit her lip immedi- ately. She could not play a criminal. She ignored the holler. Half walked, half ran out. Odd!

As though the clock had struck midnight, the carriage was waiting and the fake attire was to crumble to shred any minute now. She climbed into the car. The tires screeched as the engine roared. And they drove off.

What was wrong with her? Ahmad absentmindedly gave the security guard a salute. He reciprocated the gesture.

Surely she had not left a glass shoe behind.

She had left a woman dead! And Noor Hossain had answered to her name. What a fool! She cursed.

The driver honked the car horn aggressively. She had been muttering. She had to shut up. Keep calm. And breathe. The traffic was heavy and slow that Sunday evening. She was to dump this taxi and its driver some spot far off. Not close to home. She brought out a phone and dialed a number.

‘I did not bother to see who hollered for me! I answered to my name.’ She said frightened.

A voice thundered. ‘Sit back and relax. No one will be the better to question you.’ She obeyed and whimpered, ‘I fled.’

‘Was the person male or female?’ The voice asked.

Noor fidgeted with the stub of her little finger, ‘how does it matter?! I said yes!’ ‘Keep calm or roll over and die sister. No one has this better than you.’

‘Yes,’ she replied fully aware she was not the one to face the music. ‘Reach home. Take a shower. And straight to bed.’

‘Yes I will. Good night.’

The voice at the other end grunted in response. For the night was not good. There was nothing pleasant about death. There were matters to ponder over. Actions to take. Courses to consider. The phone line rang dead.

Ahmad stopped to catch his breath below the building. He waited for the elevator to arrive. He shook his head vigorously. As though that would check the onslaught of thoughts coming at his mind. He traveled the seven floors expecting the worst. And for all his difficulties in life, he still could not prepare. For he could not bear the sight of what greeted him at the house. He had to hold on to the main door. Its hinges sounded. For his dear sister, Bilqis Hossain lay dead on the couch.

His lips instantly moved in a silent prayer to the God Almighty, oft merciful and benevolent, for her soul to rest in peace. It was a common reflex among the commu- nity. When overcome with grief beyond control, they murmured excerpts of the sacred text to a force larger than themselves to reckon with the situation at hand. For he could not. He could not bring self to meet his sister today.

He had to breathe. He had to shut his mouth. He swallowed on nothing.

As he drew near, he noticed Bilqis had left the world, eyes closed. How could she? It was unlike her. She was not one to enter the unknown afterlife with her eyes shut. She would be brave in death. And she would face it. For fear did not allow it. The shock of breathing the last, would make her wonder. In such astonishment, eyes would always remain open. She would have embraced the strange, the unseen and the unknown in curiosity. Not resignation. Not defeat. Not acceptance. For shut eyes would signify all those qualities. Not the fearless Bilqis. For she had been fierce in her life. How could she be a coward in her death?

An all familiar sensation ran in his head, the left side. His eyes twitched. His fingers fidgeted. He gazed at everyone gathered there. They were looking back at him pathetically. Was there guilt? No. There was rage. He waited for someone to attack him. None did.

He slumped to the floor. He sat cross-legged. He sensed he could mourn her. He held his head in his hands. And removed the skullcap. Tears rolled down easily now. One, another. He choked overcome with emotion. A lump in his throat. He let out an ear-piercing yell.

Their hands leapt to the ears. Discomfort in the eyes. Disgust in the demeanor. Distaste on the boneless tongues. For what outlandish behavior was this? Ahmad did not care. For all that he cared about was dead.

‘In her last moments, Bilqis had kept up the fight. She had yelled. Called for help. But suffered. It had taken three minutes to end the misery of a lifetime.’ Someone said to him.

She secretly smirked, ’It was funny how people wanted to live despite the wretched- ness existence had on offer! There had been lust in her eyes. Desire to carry on. Stumped before time.

It was rare for someone this noble to crumble and fall this hard. She had mut- tered a silent prayer as she collapsed.

It is said that in the final moments, if one is given a sip of water, the dead travel to Heaven. It was a dignified way to go.

Not wanting to die, dying and drinking two sips before she gave up the ghost. It was far better than a bullet through the head.’ She smiled.

Bilqis Hossain had met her end. Premature. At home. In the presence of family.