The Assassin's Song (20 page)

“Karsan, come and sit here with us.”

Silently I walked in and took the chair one of the volunteers had vacated for me, next to my father. Soon all three stood up to leave, and my father and I sat alone in the half darkness. The trees rustled somewhere as a gust of wind passed.

“The rains will come soon,” my father said, “and slake our thirst.”

“Bapu-ji,” I said.

“Yes, beta.”

“Bapu-ji, how does one know one is an avatar?”

I used this term because it implied so much, a direct link with Pir Bawa, and perhaps with God, as many devotees believed.

“It has been said that one knows when one knows.”

“Who was Nur Fazal?”

“He was an enlightened soul. When a soul reaches that stage, it becomes one with the Universal Brahman. But out of compassion for humanity he remains in this world to show people the path to liberation.”

I sat with him in that rare closeness I had experienced when he had taken me out on that walk on my eleventh birthday, and implicitly confirmed me as his successor. The two of us making small and (to me) big
talk, finally I dozed off. When I woke up, still in that chair, the earlymorning devotees were arriving, Bapu-ji had gone away, and Shilpa was telling me to go inside, I could catch up on a couple of hours' sleep.

A victory celebration was organized for our area. It was held on a Saturday in the field outside Haripir, which had been turned gay for the occasion, hung with tricolours and pennants everywhere. A stage had been constructed for speeches. A military band, courtesy of the Indian Army, was at hand, as was the ragtag band from Goshala. Garba dancers were present in their brilliant finery; food stalls and shrines had been set up; and the beggars had arrived in numbers, from where, no one could possibly tell.

The festivities began with a parade of schoolchildren marching in twos, followed by the smartly dressed cadres of NAPYP, four abreast and precisely in step, displaying banners and holding up laathis like rifles; there was enthusiastic applause when we presented arms in front of the leadership, and later when we came to a crisp halt with a silently muttered “Ekdo” as required.

Victory, if that's what it was, was a good excuse for this town fete. The politicians had their chance to shout slogans and praise all levels of government. An army captain thanked the public for their support in the war and said he was looking forward to signing up recruits this very day, especially from Shastri-ji's youth army. Shastri himself spoke last, his message a ringing call for vigilance. “And remember!” he concluded. “It was Ravan's brother who betrayed Ravan! There are Pakistani spies among us, breathing this same air that we breathe!”

A small section of the crowd snickered, apparently provoked by a wisecrack—what air did Shastri-ji expect the spies among us to breathe? The laughter spread, and even the captain broke into a chuckle. Somewhat sheepishly Shastri stepped down, pulling up his dhoti and looking more comical as he did so. But this burlesque was mere prelude; the ugliness waited in the wings.

There was a dance and music show, after which in the sports events Shastri again had a chance to show the mettle of his men. Hutu-tutu drew the crowds; many teams participated, only one of which managed to
beat us. Tug-of-war and sack racing were the women's lot that day, while the men enthusiastically gathered to cheer on the wrestling, and then boxing.

The sweet-smelling Johnny Weissmuller lookalike Varun—aka Hand-some—had come forward to box and like a pro raised both arms and pranced around an imaginary ring a couple of times to invite applause. Pradhan Shastri called for an opponent for this champion and caught my eye. I made a push to enter the ring. This was my chance for victory—or ignominious, second-time thrashing. My opponent was taller and stronger; he had a longer reach; he had soundly beaten me the last time.

“He 'll make laddoo out of you,” warned Harish unfeelingly as I stepped forward. He had had a few good rounds of wrestling himself and his athlete's bare torso was covered in sand. He was not the sympathetic sort. But Utu—not much of a show at any sport—said tearfully, “Watch your face, Kanya—he 'll break it.”

Handsome toyed with me as once before, bouncing around in front of me, just out of reach, his hands at the sides. Cassius Clay–like. Waiting to demolish me, my face.

Remember, there is only you and him, Mr. David had coached, there is nothing else in the entire universe at that moment. Register every motion he makes, even the flicker of an eye. And Bapu-ji's yogic advice: Lose yourself, kill the mind, stop thinking. My hope was to move in closer to my opponent, shield myself against the inevitable barrage of blows, and find that opening quickly. Which I did. For he was quick on his feet but slow with his long arms. He went down in two.

Victory had been sweet, but the next day I felt nervous. What if Shastri expelled me from NAPYP, as he had already done a couple of boys? I was not yet ready to leave the corps, despite my silent doubts about it. The training carried prestige; together with my friends I had fun there most of the time. The next day was Sunday, but training had been cancelled, so I took it upon myself to go flatter Pradhan Shastri. He had borrowed my pocket dictionary recently, I could ask him politely about it; better, I could ask when his “famflats,” as he called his copies of
Hindu Pride
, had to be delivered next.

When I reached the fork, his gate was open.

“Boxer avigaya,” greeted Devraj sarcastically, the moment I stuck my head in. The boxer has arrived. Handsome was not in sight.

Shastri came over and asked haughtily: “Yes?”

“The famflats, Shastri-ji. When will they be ready?”

“Go,” he said. “I gave them to someone else to deliver, didn't you see?”

As I turned around to go, he remarked, “So you think you are a big boxer now—”

“But you told me to fight!” I didn't want to please him any more.

“It was supposed to be a friendly match, you cunt! Not to beat up on each other!”

“But he floored me last time. How about that?”

“Go! Bhosrina, you impure one!” He lifted his hand as if to smack me, and I fled.

Outside the gate of the Balak Shah commune a crowd had gathered. Harish and Utu were at the edge, and to lend a surreal note to the scene, there came the voice of my father behind them.

“What happened?” I whispered.

“They are Pakistanis,” Harish said, casually lifting a hand to indicate who. It was holding a sizable stone. He dropped it and looked away somewhat sheepishly.

The massive gate of the shrine was closed, but on the lookout above it were two young men, watching the proceedings below.

In his dry, minimal inflections my father was giving out a piece of his mind. “For centuries we have lived together in this community; now they have become foreigners? Traitors?”

“But Saheb—they didn't come to the celebration—”

“How many of you have gone to Balak Shah to ask for help? Hasn't he cured your children? Those who shout from the rooftops are not always the patriotic ones. Nor are those who try to tear the community apart …”

The crowd slowly dispersed.

The recent issue of
Hindu Pride
, which I did not get to distribute, carried a list of enemy agents in Gujarat and the places that harboured them. In his
article, the author, one J.M. Lakda, named a madrassah in Godhra, two American missionaries at a local school, and a teacher at the St. Arnold's School in Goshala.

Information had come to light, wrote J.M. Lakda, through the heroic and unflagging vigilance of NAPYP, that Mr. John David of St. Arnold's School had received his education under the sponsorship of a Pakistani benefactor. Mr. David—whose real name was Yohanna Dawood—also had confidantes at the Balak Shah mosque in Haripir. This article had instigated the near riot that I had witnessed, my friends had participated in, and my father had helped to quell.

The next morning, as I arrived at school, a small but angry demonstration against traitors was in progress outside. And a bunch of newspaper reporters were clamouring at the gate to be let in to interview the accused teacher.

The assembly bell rang. Prayers were said, the national anthem was sung loudly, announcements were made, and the boys were told to stay calm, the press would be dealt with. But the press were already in, having squeezed in through gaps in the fence, and no sooner were we dismissed than they surrounded Mr. David.

Of course he had received his education under the sponsorship of a Pakistani, said Mr. David. He had done nothing wrong. And the sponsor in question had been the former nawab of Junagadh, who had moved to Pakistan after independence, and in whose employ Mr. David's grandfather and father had worked as palace guards.

“Were they eunuchs?” queried one reporter.

“Guards,” said Mr. David edgily. “Police.”

“Then, sir,” a man leaned forward, “what about the charges of sodomy—that you have been involved in buggering—”

He did not have a chance to finish, for Mr. David flew at him.

“You shameless man! You haram-zada, you bastard! Who has been saying—”

He ran forward, one hand reaching out with his fingers as if to strangle the accuser. It was a most uncharacteristic display from Mr. David, for we had never seen him lose his composure before. He was soon in the midst of the reporters, some five or six of them. When he emerged from the fracas, his shirt was ripped, his African hair ruffled, his lip bleeding.

Mr. Joseph, our principal, was a pompous man who spoke to us only on what he deemed occasions of great significance. Otherwise he let the vice principal, Mr. Gomes, take the morning assemblies and make the humdrum announcements and threats. But on those special days Mr. Joseph gave rousing speeches, quoting eminent Englishmen, among them Shakespeare and Churchill. We shall fight them on the beaches! he had proclaimed at the start of the recent war, confounding us all.

Now he had called all of Mr. David's favourite students to his office to interrogate them one by one. It was the day following the teacher's encounter with the reporters.

The principal was a portly man with a gruff voice; the vice was tall and thin and fretful. They were known as Laurel and Hardy. When I entered the room, Mr. Joseph was at his desk, and across from him sat Mr. Gomes. With an impatient gesture the principal beckoned me to come in and stand closer to his desk. He came straight to the point.

“One of your fellow students has accused Mr. David of indecent behaviour. Do you have anything to report yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Mr. David invite you to go to the church?”

“He told me to go for service—”

“And? Speak up!”

“I went once.”

“Only once?” shrieked Mr. Gomes from the side.

“A few times, sir. Four times.”

“Who else was present there?”

“Three or four of the others … and Mr. Norman. He's the priest!”

“Did you go to Mr. David's flat after school?”

Mr. David had invited me a few times but I had never been able to go. So I answered no to the question; I hadn't been there.

“Were you ever alone with him?”

“Yes, when I had questions, sir. And when he coached me in boxing.”

“Did he fondle you?”

I looked at the two men helplessly. What were they up to?

“Did he pat your bottom?” shrieked Mr. Gomes, leaning forward.

“No, sir.”

“No? Did he put his finger in your arse—anything dirty like that? Hein?”

I gave an involuntary snort, unable to hold back a fit of the giggles. I could never have imagined a teacher, let alone Mr. Joseph, speaking this way. Tears ran down my face, as I snorted, snickered, snorted, pinched my nose to tell myself to behave.

“What?”

“No, no, sir—he did not!”

I stood up straight, not facing either of them, in case I cracked up again.

“All right,” said Mr. Joseph. “You may go. But first—” He motioned to Mr. Gomes. “Six for laughing inappropriately.”

I bent, received six stinging strokes of the cane on my backside and hastened out tearfully to the grounds, where recess was not over yet.

Mr. David was not seen in our school again. Vasudev Sharma, son of a low-level civil servant, apparently had confessed to having allowed the teacher to touch him inappropriately. The boys put it more bluntly. Sharma was expelled from our school.

People in the village were generally grateful to my father for averting a possible eruption, though there were the few who sneered, Wasn't it the Muslim saint who cured the Saheb's child? We were aware that the critics had been even fewer in my Dada's time; times had changed.

A few months after the victory celebration, Pradhan Shastri was transferred to another state. By then I had already ceased my activities with NAPYP, for I was certain that it was Shastri who had spread the stories about Mr. David. I recalled the look the two had exchanged when they met at the fork in our village, and my sense then that they had met before.

An aching unease had made a home in me, and a nagging guilt at how I had spurned the teacher whom I had so liked and admired. Whatever he was—and homosexuality was indeed repulsive to my world then—I could not accept that he had deserved his treatment; that he would have taken advantage of a child. I wonder where he went, where he is; years later when I tried to, I could not find him.