Dedication:

For my grandparents, Thatha and Patti, who farmed barren lands, exported books and never skimped while buying biscuits.

All characters and incidents in this story are fictitious.   Any resemblance to a person or people is unintentional and purely coincidental.  

Illustrations by Aditi Raychoudhury

Prologue

Siddharth had never known how to escape from jail.

One day with his father, and he was an expert.

It didn't matter if you were a hardened criminal or a young boy of seven as he was. The rules stayed the same.

The first thing that any prisoner needed was a pair of eyes that breathed fire. Sure, a blazing glare wouldn't be enough to melt those prison bars all by itself. But it would help in conveying a clear message that when the moment of reckoning came, the iron walls had no choice but to give way, for their destiny had been altered by a wild and untamed force driven by the will of freedom, and freedom alone.

It was also highly essential to have a group of singing prisoners in the adjoining cell, so that the sounds of your escape could be easily drowned in the commotion caused by their musical outpourings. Siddharth saw a group of men dressed in white jail uniforms clang their stainless steel spoons against old plates, and sing:

Youth has woken up and stretched its arms

The dreams are new, but the chains are old

The tiger has left his lair

Even as the Gods tremble with fear

Careful, my friends, be careful

-Cut! Cut! Siddharth's father yelled and walked up to the singing prisoner. He shouted at the actor whose hair flowed from the sides of his head on to his face like a gushing waterfall only to stop just short of his eyes.   The young man looked petrified and kept nodding his head in agreement even before Siddharth's father had a chance to complete his sentences.

Siddharth looked away from the distressing scene. He wiped the sweat off his face. He had not experienced a hotter summer in Bombay. Maybe it was the heat that was responsible for his father's irritation.

But then why was he angry all the time, even in the evenings when the land was cool, the sea was calm, and Hindi film music played from radios that crackled with static in the tea stalls?

That had to be it. His father didn't like Hindi film music anymore, a phenomenon that Siddharth still found impossible to believe. After all, this was the same man who was the biggest admirer of Hindi film music, and was of the firm belief that no movie was complete without a minimum of five songs. With an increasing feeling of sadness, he recalled when his father's attitude towards commercial Hindi cinema had begun to change from admiration to disgust.  

Initially, his complaints had revolved around the work ethics of the actors.  

- That actor G, he showed up late again for the sunset shot causing a loss of thousands of rupees for the third day in a row.   And he actually looked surprised when I told him that the sun waits for nobody, not even for him.  

At the dinner table, his father spoke darkly of the horrible things he would do to G and his ilk. He complained about how the film industry kept making the same movie again and again.   He put a tablespoon of curd over the rice and said, And again.

Siddharth didn't know who Polanski was, but his father wanted to be like him.   And there was another person called Kurosawa, whom Siddharth's father would have loved to have for tea.  

-Look at these people, and look at me, he said. After all these years, none of my movies can be stamped with the words:

FOR POSTERITY

-   But will they allow me to make such films?   No chance.   They say the public won't like it.   Arre, how do they know?   Have they ever given our public a chance?   Our public is not that stupid, you know.   Look how they vote every election.   If they were stupid, do you think Prime Minister Indira Gandhi would have lost after imposing Emergency Rule...

And then, before even the pickle had a chance to become one with the curds and rice, he would go on about the political situation in the country, or all the mindless fighting that was going on between the Hindus and Muslims.   Siddharth noticed how everything seemed to upset him nowadays.  

During such tirades, his mother would bite into a crispy papaddum , serve Siddharth some avial , and tell her husband to 'follow his heart.'   She made it sound like such an attractive proposition, almost as if it were a beach resort.  

Who did he know that followed his heart, Siddharth wondered. He looked at the actor. Here was a man who was clearly not following his heart.

-Yes, I can look optimistic, the young man said. But how can I shake my hip at the same time?

It was by all accounts, an unsatisfactory answer.

-That's it, Siddharth heard his father shout. I am out of here.

He took Siddharth by the hand, and began to walk towards the studio gates. The producer of the movie ran towards Siddharth's father. He was a small man who sported a thin moustache. His spectacles bobbed precariously on his nose as he tried to keep up with Siddharth's father who was walking at a frenetic pace.

-Think twice sir, the producer said looking completely shocked. If you leave now, you will owe me millions of rupees.

-Come to my house and take it, Siddharth's father spat without even bothering to look back. A hushed silence fell on the set, even as the song continued to play:

Who has ever been able to keep anyone in bondage?

Freedom is a crazy spirit

It is indeed inevitable that one day

The bird will break open the cage and fly away.

-Come Siddharth, he said. Let me take you back to the real world.

***************

Chapter 5

The school principal had made a surprise announcement that morning.   He said that instead of learning the Barakhadi or the planets of the solar system in class, all the students could go home to watch the India Pakistan cricket match.  

This generosity was not without reason.   The principal probably wanted to watch the match himself.   It was a big game.   India and Pakistan were playing in Sharjah, cricket's newest venue.   Siddharth's uncle who worked in Dubai had told Siddharth that Sharjah was a dumpy place 'full of Pakistanis and window air conditioners.'

The historic game was being held on Friday, April 18, 1986.

- A holy day for those bloody Muslims, Karan had told Siddharth the previous evening.   Pakistan is sure to win.

Siddharth was surprised.   Karan was sounding just like Abhijeet. He paused to see if Karan was serious.   Karan continued to look at him intently.

- What do you mean?   he said.   My History teacher told me that we have more Muslims living in India than Pakistan.   Muslims are an important part of our history, our culture and our society, Siddharth said, repeating the words of his teacher.

- Yes, but you know how they are.   They stay in India and support the enemy.   I don't like them at all.

Siddharth wondered what Karan was getting so agitated about.   It was all nothing more than a cricket match, and to boot, one they were only watching. It wasn't as though they were playing the game or anything.

However, it was difficult not to get completely engrossed in the match once it began.   It was a great game by all standards.   The Indian batsmen fired on all cylinders.   Batting first, they managed to score an impressive 242 runs, a total that would require some getting by Pakistan.

Siddharth sank deeper into his sofa, as Pakistan began their run chase.   He had a feeling that this game would go all the way down to the wire, and decided to watch it to the very end.  

This, however, was not to be.

- Siddharth, would you go vegetable shopping with me, his mother asked, as a batsman sent the ball sailing over the boundary ropes.   I have no vegetables left to make dinner with.  

Siddharth felt a wave of disappointment come over him. Didn't his mother have a sense of perspective, he wondered. On one hand he could watch what was possibly the most exciting cricket match of all time. On the other, he would be forced to carry a bagful of dull spongy tomatoes and skinny green chillies with utterly predictable personalities. But he thought of his mother carrying that bag all by herself, and a feeling of guilt rankled within him.

He agreed to accompany her to the market. He reasoned that he could always watch a two minute snippet of the match on TV later during the night news shown twice (in Hindi and then again in English), and read about it in the newspaper the next morning.

The match couldn't have been more exciting, even if it were scripted for a movie.   At the time they left the flat, Pakistan was in deep trouble having lost seven of their players for a mere 215 runs.   Even though India looked certain to win, Siddharth had seen the Indian team snatch defeat from the jaws of victory on many occasions, and wasn't entirely sure of the outcome.  

The game was not over yet, not by a fair margin.   Anything could happen.   The players were not playing with the fatalistic demeanor so common to people in their part of the world.   It was an India Pakistan match up.   No inches would be given.   Inches would be taken.   The players looked like white people look in the movies when they conquered foreign lands.   They were full of hustle and bustle and very urgent looking.

Siddharth felt the excitement on the radio in the auto rickshaw on the way to the vegetable market too.   A small red Philips transistor radio was perched precariously in front of the handlebar blaring out the commentary over the frenzied din of thousands of spectators.  

Pakistan was making a game of it.   Eight players had gotten out.   The score was 236 runs, and a mere ten runs separated them from victory.   India had to get two players out.   When the rickshaw pulled over at the market, the driver was too distracted to charge them.   While he would normally have looked at the small lettering on his laminated card and read out the rate, today he was too preoccupied to be bothered by such worldly matters.  

He merely said, Give what you want to memsahib.

The game was all around them.   The voices of the commentators jostled for attention with shopkeepers shouting out the rates of onions, tomatoes, coriander and other vegetables.   Siddharth couldn't help being drawn into the match once again.   He imagined the desert sands, the setting sun and the white clothes of the players that were worn out after a day's worth of focused exertions.  

- And he's out!

Siddharth strained to listen to the newest development.   India had taken one more wicket.   The entire marketplace cheered with one voice along with the   crowd in the stadium.   Now only one Pakistani batsman remained.  

- It's a formality, Siddharth thought to himself, India has won.   He felt happy and his fingers curled around the Laxmi bomb firecracker in his pocket.

Siddharth's mother was too involved in the purchasing process to pay any attention to the proceedings.   Siddharth knew that for her, the buying process was very similar to an India Pakistan game.   If she gave an extra paisa to the shopkeeper, he would take a rupee.    She walked up to an onion vendor with a steely glint in her eyes.  

She stopped blinking and said, What do you mean twenty rupees? as the conversation took upon the tones in which relatives talk to one another.

The war of push and pull would have gone on for some time.   However, it was not to be.  

- Siddharth! What are you doing?   Put that down!

Siddharth was holding the Laxmi bomb in his hand.   He picked up a matchstick and a matchbox that lay on the sack cloth on which the vegetables were arrayed.   Even though the sack emanated a damp and musty odor, it was surprisingly dry enough to create enough friction to light the match.

- Siddharth, put that down!

Siddharth had seldom disobeyed his mother in his entire life.   He tended to treat her slightest whims exactly like her deepest wishes. However today, something was different.   His mind was not his own.   It roamed distant lands, distant time zones and places where he had been to in the past and never again.  

He thought of the sunsets in Bombay when balls missed his outstretched hands.   The smell of capsicum flavored noodles stung his nose. The sun shone down upon the market.   It had become hotter.   The commentator's voice reached a pitch so high that he could have auditioned for the part of a playback singer easily.   This was India.   It was All India Radio.   There had to be a reason he was so excited.   India was going to win this historic match.   Siddharth lit the cracker, released it from his hand, and clapped as it disappeared in the space between two stalls and exploded loudly.

Seeing the cracker burst with its characteristically loud bang, Siddharth felt a sense of exhilaration come over him. Any guilt that he had experienced a few moments ago now completely disappeared. Even the people in the market turned their heads, no doubt, reliving the feeling of joy they experienced during the festival of Diwali, when firecrackers went off at every street corner. And this was such a festive occasion! Siddharth was happy that he had the good sense to disregard his mother and act on his instinct. It was a great moment. India was about to win...

- And Javed Miandad has hit the ball for a six! Pakistan has won the game! Oh, what a match! What a match!

The commentator was shouting loudly.   Siddharth could hear the crowd in Sharjah.   Pakistan had won.   It was a miraculous win pulled off at the very last second.   For all practical purposes, India had won the game but at the last second something had gone terribly wrong.  

Siddharth's father had once told him of an animal that missed the departure of Noah's ark by a few minutes, but just as it began to rain discovered that it had top notch gills suited to deep water swimming.   Siddharth thought that the entire nation of Pakistan must have felt like this miracle fish.  

But he couldn't think of this fish for much longer.   There was a chaos that added greatly to the noise coming out from the hundreds of transistor radios in the marketplace.   A heart rending wail split the air.   

- Those goddamn Muslims...they dare celebrate Pakistan's win by blowing firecrackers.   I will...,a voice shouted the unmentionable things he would do to their families.

He's right! said Steel Knife.   Enough is enough.   They stay in our country, eat beef and marry four-four women.   And they laugh when we lose.   Who burst the firecracker! Come forward if you have drunk your mother's milk!

Siddharth saw that all of a sudden, a mass of people had come together out of nowhere.   Perfect strangers behaved like streams of water and coagulated together, they poured forward.   They burst forward towards a group of Muslim men with covered heads, who were returning from prayer.  

- Kill them! Kill them!

A dust cloud rose in the air.   They might have very well been in the desert of Sharjah.

There was one

And then two

Out came a third

And then many more.

Even though the skies were the bluest of blue and the sun was shining at its brightest, Siddharth found it difficult to even see the person standing next to him.   His mother held on to him, but it was almost as if they were in the center of a circle that was being pulled at opposite ends by two powerful horses.   Siddharth's hands separated from his mother's.   He stood on his toes and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of her.   He saw her being dragged away by the crowd into the vortex of a distant whirlpool.   She looked at him and said, Oh Siddharth! What have you done?

Siddharth had never felt this helpless in his entire life.   He wanted to grab his mother's hand, pull her out of the crowd, catch a rickshaw and head home as if all of this had never happened.   But he didn't even know where to begin.  

Then somebody struck him on his head and he lost consciousness.   

Dark.   Darker.   Darkest.   Time stands still.   Brahma sits on the Lotus.   Jesus sweats one more drop.   It is hot and his hands bleed a little more.   The vultures forget they are hungry.   Then just like that, Vishnu snaps his fingers.   Garuda the eagle flaps his wings.   The world remembers.   It has things to do.   Let there be light.   Slowly, yes turn it on...just a little more...

When Siddharth woke up, he saw a police inspector talking to his father.  

- She is most probably dead.   If you are sure that the bangle on that hand is hers...

-Yes, I...his father stopped in mid sentence.

-Why...he started to say again.

-I am sorry Gautam sahib, the Inspector said.

-What about the boy? his father asked. What will he do now? He is just ten years old...

-Yes, the Inspector nodded sympathetically. Her loss will affect him the most...a mother is like...a boy without a mother...the Inspector gave up on trying to find the right words.

Whose loss was this Inspector lamenting, thought Siddharth, as he opened his eyes gradually, hurting all the while, as the rays of the sun seemed intent on boring holes through his forehead.

- Now what can I say, Gautam sahib, the Inspector continued.   Our country is full of lunatics.   People seem to forget that it is just a cricket match.

Siddharth then remembered the game.   The radios.   The knife.   The crowd.   The Goddess Laxmi.   The wet sack.   The cruel flame.   And the loud explosion...

But surely his mother was all right? She was as alive as alive could be.   She was just a few hours from cutting onions and frying them in a shallow spoonful of oil.   And being able to fry onions before adding spices to them was a sure sign of being alive.  

He looked at the empty spaces that were once his father's eyes. He saw the look of finality on the Inspector's face. And when he looked round the room, he couldn't see his mother. An angry crowd, a huge dust storm and the sound of a very loud explosion danced viciously in front of him. They all seemed to be telling him the same thing, again...and again...and again...and again...

-I killed her.   It was my fault....   he started to cry

-The boy is awake, said the Inspector. Let me get a statement from him.

-Nobody is to ask him about what happened, his father warned the Inspector. For an instant he sounded like the decisive director of old. Please sir, show some sympathy. Do you want him to relive what he has been through?

Siddharth's father moved close to the bed looking at his sobbing son hesitantly, as if he were seeing him for the first time.   He sat down beside Siddharth and patted him on his back.   He looked at Siddharth's grandmother, who had flown in all the way from Delhi.  

She came to the bed and embraced Siddharth.  

- Don't worry.   Your Patti is here to take care of you.   How can it be your fault?   You didn't start the riot.   Time will pass.   Don't worry.   Listen to the clock and go to sleep.  

Siddharth turned his ears towards the clock.   He had never heard something so devoid of emotion.   Tick, tick tick, tick....how could anything beat so indifferently away?

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