Читать книгу Another Heaven - Annu Subramanian - Страница 16

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19 Temple Street • November 11, 2009

Usman observed the young boy sitting in front of him and smiled affectionately, the wrinkles gathering ripples on his bony face. “How have you been, Salman?” he asked, noticing his healthy cheeks and hesitant smile. “How are your lessons going?”

“I am fine, Sahib. I think I’ve been a very good student. I’m waiting to start my next assignment. When can I?” asked Salman, a little worried about questioning his master.

“Soon, Salman, soon. First, we’re moving to a new home. I’m going to send you as an assistant on a small mission after we move. You’ll be very proud to do God’s work, helping Jamil. Be patient,” smiled Usman, admiring the young ward’s passion, still unable to believe the transformation in the boy since the day he had arrived at his organization. He had been a very different child then, very different. How long ago it seemed!

d

A Boy Named Salman • Seloor • January 5, 2009

The market in the heart of Seloor was bursting with life. It was the busiest hour in the morning, and it stayed hectic from sunrise till the tired vendors vacated the booths. Manohar, standing under the awnings of the tea stall, glanced at the activities in the market square. His hawk eyes concealed behind sunglasses and his morose expression hidden behind a bushy mustache, he made it his business to observe a boy, perhaps about twelve or thirteen, scuttling from one end of the market to the other. The boy was always there, but what was he doing in the market, away from school, day after day? Manohar’s experienced eyes picked up obvious signals of poverty—the boy’s tattered clothes, bare feet, shock of unruly hair, and his grubby face. There was nothing new about poverty, but was this boy an orphan? Was he homeless, or did he come from an impoverished family that simply didn’t care about his fate? Manohar decided to launch his research and ran to his master for approval.

d

The master was finishing his tea when Manohar entered his room.

“What is it?” asked Usman, without taking his eyes off the document he was reading.

“I came to consult you about a potential catch,” responded Manohar, hoping for undivided attention. Where would Usman be, thought Manohar, without his employees’ dirty, hard work?

“Go on.” Usman’s eyes were still fixed on the file.

“I’ve been observing a boy in the market. Seems to be a good candidate for one of your…our future missions. Would you like me to pursue?”

Usman’s cold eyes measured his underling for a few moments, as though the switch from your to our future missions did not escape his attention. “What about one of MY future missions?”

Manohar, despite his bruised ego, made an effort to speak impassively and described the status of the young boy in the market.

“Can you guess the boy’s religion?” asked Usman.

Manohar, attempting to defend his initiative, blurted, “Not yet. I thought his poor circumstances might matter more at this time.”

Usman’s glance went up to meet his employee’s expectant eyes and slid down to his bushy mustache and the deep scar on his cheek. “Manohar, poverty is not a direct ticket to destruction. Haven’t you understood that from various assignments?”

“What I mean is...the boy seems to be homeless and extremely poor. Two characteristics that are important, as you told me once?” Manohar insisted defensively.

“I also told you that disillusionment is the primary characteristic, a dominant trait necessary for a candidate. When a human hates mankind, order, and peace, you’ve spotted a good candidate. When that human’s bitter experiences thirst for anarchy, then you’ve selected a perfect candidate. When that human’s blood boils for more blood at the expense of his own bloodshed, then you’ve bred the ultimate candidate.”

“I understand.” Manohar stood in front of his stern master, awestruck and wide-eyed. He had always admired his employer’s primal, unwavering focus, and he knew that no man was a better hunter.

“Go see if that boy is pliable and if your assessment is correct. I’ll send Yusuf for the final evaluation. Now go on.” Usman returned his attention to the file.

Yusuf! Manohar concealed his surly expression until he left the room and sighed in frustration after shutting the door. He decided to ignore his own inferiority and marched out of 19 Temple Street, determined to look good in his master’s eyes.

d

When Manohar returned to the tea stall the next day to start the groundwork, he was not alone.

“The time is ripe to initiate the hook. Don’t you think, Imran?” Kumar asked his associate, who looked very working class in a crinkled pair of khaki pants and a wrinkled, short-sleeved green shirt. His raven, straight, greasy hair was combed carelessly away from his tawny forehead.

“Yes.” Imran’s trained eyes followed the boy’s every move.

It was very early in the morning. The boy went gingerly to the public water fountain in the middle of a mossy slab of cement, throwing furtive glances to his right and left, and hurriedly got a drink of water. Imran walked towards the boy and smiled kindly.

“It’s not the same, is it?” Imran asked the boy. “Water can never replace a cup of tea.”

The scraggy child, about to move away quickly, was arrested by the kindness in the man’s voice.

“Come, let’s have a cup of tea,” invited Imran, waiting for the boy.

“I can’t. Not yet.” The boy avoided Imran’s eyes.

“Why not?”

“I don’t have any money, not yet…for today,” replied the boy, a little shamefaced.

“Don’t worry. I can get you a cup of tea,” Imran insisted, when the child stood rooted to the mossy platform. “We working-class people must take care of each other. Come on. Don’t be shy,” he continued, trying to tap on the communal bonding among lesser children of God.

The boy took a long look at the man, at the strand of raven hair touching his smiling eyes, and quietly followed him into the tea stall. This was new to him, very new. No eye stared at the boy. And the eyes belonged to the usual customers—a few bus conductors, lorry drivers, a pimp, and a couple of vegetable vendors. The man got the boy a steaming cup of tea and a big piece of bun, and the bun was an unexpected bonus! The boy sat on the edge of an old bench and ate hurriedly while taking quick gulps of the tea. Although nobody intimidated him, he felt strange sitting inside the stall. He was not used to this luxury. Even when he could buy a scrap of bread and half a cup of tea, he usually sat on the bench outside the stall. He just didn’t belong inside.

“Thank you.” The boy’s shy eyes would not meet the man’s.

“That’s all right.” Imran followed the boy out of the tea stall. “So what did you mean when you said you didn’t have money for tea today? Did you forget the money at home?”

“No. I haven’t made any money today.”

“Oh? Do you have a job?”

“No, I’d like to have one, but…” the boy opened a shabby, yellow cloth bag that was home to a small tub of shoe polish, a piece of dirty rag, and a sponge. The bag also contained a puny slab of soap, a greasy comb, a pair of threadbare khaki pants, and a frayed shirt that was several sizes bigger for the boy’s lean frame. “But I just polish shoes.”

“Oh,” sighed Imran. “That can’t get you much.”

“It doesn’t. Polishing a couple of pairs of shoes gets me a cup of tea. Polishing a few can get me a cup of tea and a piece of bun. Sometimes I carry heavy parcels to rich people’s cars. Then, I can really get a meal.”

“When do you go home?” asked Imran, smiling warmly at the destitute child.

And the child liked the smile that held something he had not felt in a while—a long-forgotten caress, a touch of affection—and he cherished it for a few moments. “I don’t go home,” the boy responded softly, looking away. He wouldn’t look at the man’s face because he didn’t want to cry. And there were unshed tears sloshing within his small frame, trying to break loose. “I don’t have a home.”

“Oh…then where do you sleep?”

“I sleep just about anywhere—under that shade when it rains a lot,” he said, pointing at the awnings of Sri pharmacy, “under that big tree when it doesn’t rain, and in dark alleys and on a bench in the railway station to avoid policemen.”

“Do you get into trouble with the police?” asked Imran, smiling indulgently.

“No, but a policeman beat me because I was taking a leak in the corner of that street. Where else am I supposed to take a leak when I don’t have a home?” asked the boy, an unknown anger creeping into his young, sore mind.

“It must have hurt so much. You’re just a child. How can that policeman treat you like that?”

“He was cruel,” hissed Salman, his dormant frustration and helplessness gathering to the surface like an unexpected, rapid storm. He lifted his shirt a few inches to exhibit the purple bruise on his ribs. “Look, look how the policeman beat me.”

“This society stinks, I tell you. And the policemen are heartless monsters. Who is there to protect you?” asked Imran, defending the boy’s human rights. “Who is there to question that horrible policeman?” continued Imran, looking equally frustrated.

“There is nobody.”

“What’s your name?”

“Salman. I’ve to go,” said the boy, still lingering. “Soon the customers will arrive. It rained last night, and the roads will be dirty. I think more men will want their shoes polished today.”

Imran walked away, but he continued to observe the boy through the window of a corner store.

“Looks like your first meeting went well, Imran?” asked Manohar, standing by him.

“Yes. His name is Salman, and...” Imran told his associate whatever he needed to know.

“Let’s meet here at the same time tomorrow. See you soon.” Manohar began to walk towards a waiting taxi.

“But don’t let him notice you, Manohar. I’ll buy him tea a couple more times. I want him to get very familiar with me, but you stay out of his sight.”

d

Manohar and Imran observed Salman for over a week. The boy had a quick wash by the public water fountain before sunrise. It had to be an early wash because women started lining up with their pails for water to cook and to bathe. On the seventh day, Manohar waited with Imran to observe the young boy, but he was nowhere to be seen. Salman finally appeared after the sun was up, squeezing his eyes and smoothing his disheveled hair.

“Salman must have overslept,” hissed Manohar, impatiently pulling smoke from his cigarette.

“What are you doing, you rat?” one of the women shouted, throwing her pail at Salman when he reached for some water. “Do you know you’ve to pay money to stand in line here? I’ll call the police if you touch the tap again with your filthy hands.”

Manohar watched the child’s humiliation and helplessness from the tea stall. “A poor boy. A helpless child. It’s time to organize the hook, Imran,” he whispered, exchanging a very satisfactory smile with his associate.

d

A week later, Imran spotted Salman under the awnings of the pharmacy. It had rained a lot during the previous night.

“How have you been, Salman?” asked Imran, approaching the boy. “Come, let’s have some tea and nashta.”

Salman smiled when he recognized the kind man. “Nashta?” he asked, trying not to drool. He had not eaten a proper breakfast since his mother died.

“Come on, Salman, don’t be shy. You know me quite well by now.”

Imran ordered an omelet and bread for Salman and settled him at one of the tables in the back. Salman started to eat ravenously when he realized that he had not thanked the generous man properly. He looked for him, but he was not there. Where was he? Wasn’t he hungry? Didn’t he need some nashta?

Manohar, standing across the tea stall, waved and nodded his head. Promptly at the cue, a couple of uniformed policemen walked into the tea stall. As Salman was about to leave, one of them took hold of his collar.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” asked the policeman.

Salman looked at the officer who was towering over his puny frame. What was he supposed to say? And why shouldn’t he be there?

“Answer me. What are you doing here?” roared the policeman’s voice.

“Having a cup of tea,” Salman trembled. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is S… Salman.”

The other policeman’s red-shot eyes rested on Salman’s frightened expression. “Empty your pockets, and what do you have in that bag?” he screamed.

Salman gathered his dirty, yellow bag to his chest and froze.

“I asked you to empty your pockets,” barked the policeman.

Salman’s terrified eyes flew from one end of the stall to the other end, frantically searching for the kind man who had bought him tea and bread and omelet. Where did he go? Why did he disappear?

While the first policeman took the bag away from the wailing boy’s clutch, the other emptied his pockets. The left was empty. The right had half a beedi and a small plastic bag containing a whitish powder.

“Who gave you this?” asked the second policeman, dangling the plastic bag of white powder in front of Salman’s face, while the other held the boy by his crumpled collar. “And already smoking beedi at your young age?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” replied Salman, fear invading his usually vacant eyes. “I’ve never seen that before, and I’ve never smoked.”

“Really? Then how did this plastic bag get inside your pocket?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Please let me go,” cried Salman.

The first policeman struck Salman violently across his cheek. When he reeled to the floor, a few heads turned in his direction.

“This is the last thing I need for my business, especially first thing in the morning,” muttered the owner of the tea stall. “I hope the policemen haul the boy out of here quickly.”

And the policemen did haul the boy away, first out of the crowded stall, then into a jeep. Manohar, watching the human indignity from a distance, smiled contentedly at Imran. He knew Salman would be finally hauled into an airless, bleak room at the police station.

“Looks like the hook is secure,” whispered Imran, his eyes away from Manohar. “Now make plans to seize the prey.”

Town Prison, Seloor • January 14, 2009

Salman looked at the four walls—dirty, smelly, faded walls. He had not eaten in two days; his shorts were damp from urine, which he couldn’t control when one of the policemen mercilessly punched him in his stomach. A long time ago, his mother had told him about hell; a place that pulled in liars, thieves, and sinners. That jail must be a pitiless, violent hell. He never told a lie, never stole, never hurt a fly. Why was he sent to hell?

A bulky policeman came into the room after whispering something to the guards outside the door. “Salman, you look terrible. You’ll starve to death if you don’t tell me where you got that drug. Who gave it to you?”

Salman, while suspended from the ceiling like a butchered goat, tried to breathe. What could he say? His muscles were numb, and he felt a different pain stabbing at his heart. He didn’t know how that drug came into his pocket. What tale could he spin? What would the police believe?

“I don’t know,” Salman whispered in a feeble voice, his innocent, bleeding humanity gaping at an impassive world. “I don’t know. Please believe me.”

“You must be thirsty. Here, have a drink of water.” The policeman picked up a dented metal pitcher and stared at the boy’s gaunt face. The young prisoner’s empty eyes and jaundiced skin stared back at him. “You parasite, you would like some water, won’t you?” he asked, tossing the pitcher at Salman. “I’ll make you drink from the toilet again. You, mother f…” More obscenities catapulted from his foul mouth.

Salman tasted the blood trickling down his nose from his forehead. The heavy pitcher had made a wicked gash on his already bruised skin, but he didn’t feel much pain. His semiconscious state wouldn’t allow him to feel the raw pain.

The policeman’s attention shifted from Salman’s face to the creaking door as it opened.

“So, this is how you treat a young prisoner?” asked a man’s voice. “He is just a child. Your superiors and mine will hear about this.”

Salman’s eyes tried to focus through the streaks of blood and water dripping from his face. A man was standing at the open door, but he was not in a khaki uniform. When Salman closed his eyes and opened them again, he noticed that the visitor was dressed in a suit and a tie. He had a briefcase in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, and his eyes were flitting back and forth from Salman to the policeman.

“Who the hell are you?” shouted the policeman. He turned to the guards outside the room. “And what the hell are you idiots doing? Who gave you permission to let this man inside this room?”

“Sir, he has a pass,” replied one of the guards, nervously glancing at the piece of paper the visitor was brandishing.

“Let me see it.” The policeman snatched the paper from the visitor and glanced at it irritably. “Come here,” he shouted at one of the guards. “Unhook the boy and get him to rest on the cot. Give him some food, but not too much. Start with just a little gruel.” The policeman soon walked out of the cell.

The visitor, after a long look at the boy, followed him.

Salman closed his eyes in relief as the guard shut the door.

d

“Hey, Manohar, new suit and tie? You look like a bloody executive. Not bad,” laughed the policeman, once he reached his office. He sat on the chair behind his desk and asked the visitor to take a seat.

“Well, is it convincing, Ravi?” asked Manohar, sitting on the chair opposite to the policeman.

“Oh, it’s very convincing,” laughed Inspector Ravi, his eyes traveling from the visitor’s scar on his right cheek to his thick mustache that effortlessly concealed his smile.