Revathi Raj Iyer
She
was running as fast as her legs could carry her slight frame. To an observer,
it would seem as if her feet grazed the rough, hilly terrain laced with patches
of rhododendrons and wild dandelions. Her eyes sparkled like that of a deer
taking refuge amidst the trees in the dead of the night. Her face was flushed
as she cut through the cold air. She never failed to rub a generous amount of
kohl to add verve on an otherwise nondescript face. Her mother would apply a
tiny black dot behind her ears when she left for school, a belief that it would
keep her daughter safe and protect her from evil eyes. Now, they were all
smudged and wet with sweat beads drawing sharp lines across her face, which was
in no way becoming.
She
stopped to catch her breath, her slim hands resting on her hips as she panted
with quick, forceful gasps that threatened to tear her lungs apart. Perspiring
profusely under her school uniform in spite of the nippy weather, she removed
her sweater and tied it around her waist. She had no choice but to run away
else they would kill and feed her body parts to the jackals.
A
girl born with silver spoon and a heart of gold - what had she done that forced
her to run away from home?
This
is the story of Shazia Abdul Khan and me, Pia Jennifer.
******
Abdul Jehangir Khan belonged to the Balti community, originally of
Tibetan descent, whose ancestors made India their home after the 1947
partition. Prior to that, Baltistan was governed by the state of Jammu &
Kashmir, along with Ladakh. After partition, Baltistan came under the territory
of Pakistan. However, a tiny portion was merged with Ladakh after the
Indo-Pakistan war of 1971. Historically, Baltistan was a strategic point for
both the countries as Kargil and Siachen wars were fought there. Over the
generations, this close-knit Balti community prospered as merchants of spices,
dry fruits and garments, catering mostly to the Middle Eastern countries and
some parts of India. They were a tribe who honoured their religion and customs
and shunned to the point of getting violent, anything that went against the
fundamentals of Islam. They abided by “eayan lileayn sini lisunin” {an
eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth}. The local people knew this and stayed off
limits.
Shazia Abdul Khan was the only child of
Abdul Jehangir Khan and his wife, Naaz. His first wife had died whilst giving
birth to their fourth child. At her behest, he had taken a second wife and was
happy to have been blessed with a girl child, after four boys. Jehangir Khan
doted on Shazia. She grew up under her mother’s care and it was her father’s
orders that she should be well guarded, not just from evil eye but all the boys
whose hormones went out of control.
“What are they called, teenage crutches
or something? Make sure all that nonsense doesn’t happen, samjhe?”
father had said.
“She is no hoorpari, Fayaz
guffawed. No lad in his right mind would as much as take a second look at our
sister.”
“Shukran
Allah, our burden reduces,” said Aamir raising his hands to the skies.
“What if she was a hoorpari?
Imagine what fun we would have bashing up the boys in town,” Omar remarked as
he put the hookah to his brown lips.
“Inshallah, I will look after our
sister, no matter what,” thought Bashir but remained silent. He was not
boisterous like his older brothers. He loved listening to Sufi songs and played
the iktara, a one string instrument, which Siddiqui had taught him. Not
anymore.
“I will not allow you to corrupt the
minds of young boys and girls,” Jehangir Khan had roared and ousted Siddiqui
from entering the precincts of the town. Shazia and Bashir felt the absence of
their beloved Sufi uncle more than anyone else.
Who was to know that she had stolen his
book of poems and stashed it under her mattress? Who was to know that it would
stir up a hornet’s nest?
******
The
Mercedes glided to a halt at the entrance of the prestigious private school, in
Mussorie, a dainty hill-station nestled in the foothill of the Himalayas.
During the colonial era, international schools were set up for the British
children in such cosy hill-stations with favourable climatic conditions. In
present times these schools catered to the rich, famous and influential.
“Nawaaz bhai, please stop the car a few
blocks away. I want to walk with the rest of the girls,” said Shazia in a soft
voice which was barely a whisper. The driver smiled and the car stopped. But
his eyes did not wander until he saw Shazia enter the school gate. He had to
listen to the girl yet obey his master’s hukm.
“These are no ordinary enclosure; they are
nearly one hundred years old and made of steel iron and embellished with the
carving of two lions, signifying that the students will be treated like royalty
and would eventually become leaders of the country,” wafted the shrill voice of
the guide Raju, who stood imperiously at the gate, surrounded by a group of
tourists. Nawaaz looked disapprovingly when they clicked pictures of the gate,
from various angles.
“This
is not Buckingham Palace. I am going to report this matter,” he rolled down the
windows and screamed at the guide and the flabbergasted tourists, as the car
swerved and gathered speed.
I
noticed the lovely car and a frail girl, with long hair neatly braided and
shining black shoes, alight from the car. She was different from the rest,
modest and quiet. She walked with a slouch, as if ashamed of her wealth. Even
from that distance I could see her dark eyes and they reminded me of the
princess who had a thousand stories to tell, but could not speak.
******
In
spite of her protests, Nawaaz would wait outside the class with her lunch box,
every afternoon. As the other girls started moving towards the spacious lunch
room, monitored by the teacher, Shazia would jump out of the queue, quickly
grab her box and signal him to go away. The girls giggled, envied, ignored and
even pitied her lack of freedom. Whoever wanted a bodyguard? Boarding school is
where all the mischief between boys and girls start and our school was no
exception. Most of the students were away from their parents except a handful.
I have seen paper arrows being thrown at girls - love notes - whom to meet,
when, where and how. Not one was aimed at me and I tried hard to keep my pride
intact. My feelings went into my “basket of f**ks,” to be flung back when the
time came. I had read about this and since then fallen in love with this
ingenious idea. If I could save myself from being unhappy, why on earth should I
not have one?
My
lunch box was standardised with sandwiches and a fruit. Same tomato and cheese
sandwich, same salt pepper taste and same smell. Thankfully, the fruit changed
with the season, sometimes apple and many a times lychee which was abundant in
Dehra, a city close to Mussorie. In fact, every single house there had lychee
trees, a signature tree like the cherry blossoms in Japan.
I
was the only one who waited for Shazia. And we walked together towards the
banyan tree, our cosy cafeteria, amidst the lush green landscape. Those eyes
followed us everywhere. Creepy ….. I flinched and felt sorry for my friend.
“Why
doesn’t he leave you out of sight? Does he think the earth will swallow you or
you will vanish in the valley?” I joked.
“Oh!
You mean Nawaaz?” Shazia brushed off my remark with a wave of her hand.
She
never said a word about or against her family. On the contrary, I loved to talk
about my family, distant uncles and aunts who were not relevant in our lives,
anymore. But I hardly spoke about my mother, of whom I was very possessive.
Being a fatherless child, I saw my mother play both the roles.
I
was thankful to God for letting me be free-spirited and not shackled like my
friend who had everything except the one most important thing, freedom. Even
happiness went inside my basket, to spread the cheer when the time came.
Are
you wondering as to how I came to be at this elitist school? My mother
Jennifer, taught English here and she was the best teacher. The trustee Mr
Becker waived my tuition fee which made our life so much easier. How was I to
know that my mother was also his mistress? The matter was kept under wraps that
not even a fly would get a wind of their spicy, hot affair. I came to know
about this much later when Shazia had run away from school and the police
started investigating. That’s when this secret slowly unravelled, not that it
had anything to do with the running away, but when police dig deep, skeletons
pop out and so they snoop around thinking that everybody’s personal life is
their bloody business. Since this expos├й, my opinion about my mother changed a
lot. It saddened me when I came to know that I was not the only one in her
life. I had believed in her so much so that I never questioned about my father.
My basket was now getting all f**ked up.
None
of this would have happened, but for that day. We were in the bathroom and I
was tying my shoe laces.
“Pia,
will you be my best friend?” Shazia asked.
I
looked up but she didn’t meet my eyes. She was looking far away at the skies
that were partly visible from the shutters of the window. It was clear and
blue, same colour as our uniform.
“I
already am.”
“Will
you be my special friend?”
“Of
course, but what is the difference between best and special?”
And
then …
She
kissed me, fully on my lips. Her face was red and my lips were wet. This was my
first kiss, ever. I felt the heat of her body against mine. I was taken aback,
had not seen this coming and that too from Shazia, modest and shy. What
surprised me even more was the fact it didn’t feel gross. Not one bit and that
astonished me. At that moment, it dawned upon me as to why I didn’t get love
notes or a date invite. “Who would mess with the daughter of a teacher?” is
what I had thought. But now, I understood why. My demeanour must have been a
giveaway that I was different. I was unaware of it, until this moment. That
kiss upset my brain cells causing a medley of emotions; ecstasy, joy,
confusion, realisation but certainly not fright nor shame nor “how was I going
to tell my mother, this.” Then we heard the Church bell which meant it was time
to get back to class.
“You are so beautiful. Look at me. We will
make a pair of beauty and the beast,” I heard her say. The next second I
grabbed Shazia and kissed her back. We were locked in each other’s arms for God
knows how long. Everything came to a standstill.
I
came out first and went straight to the class. Shazia was meant to follow after
five minutes. I felt Nawaaz’s eyes on me and looked around. He was nowhere to
be seen. Maybe he had gone for a smoke or was hiding behind a bush. He freaked
me out, all of a sudden. I tried to walk as jauntily as I could and turned
around and yelled, “hurry up Shazia, otherwise you are going to be late and the
teacher won’t let you in.” No teacher had the guts to do so. All this was for
the benefit of Nawaaz, just in case.
I
sat at my desk as the teacher spoke avidly about Moghul history. I had more
important things to think about. My mind was playing tricks. I had learnt
something about myself and I was coming to terms with that. My eyes wandered to
the suavest boy in class, it stirred no feelings. I looked at the most
attractive girl in class. My heart fluttered.
“Pia,
why are you looking around? Pay attention.” The teacher’s voice sounded like an
echo from a distant drum. I could not focus.
“What
would be my mother’s reaction?” I wondered. At that time, I didn’t know about
Mr Becker. Else I wouldn’t have bothered about her feelings. Nevertheless, I
made up my mind to stay quiet for a few days and give it some more time to make
sure we felt the same way about each other. This was more serious and not
something that I could toss into my basket.
The
class finished and Shazia was nowhere to be seen.
“Where
could she have gone?” My mind raced. But I had to sit through the remaining two
classes and that too without a break. I dared not go to the bathroom for some
strange reason.
That
was the last I saw Shazia. Two days seemed like two years. On the third day,
two men in uniform came to the class. I was afraid when I was taken in for
questioning. I said nothing except that we were friends. I omitted the words,
‘best’ or ‘special.’ They looked bloody tough and I told myself that they had
to be tough to stay in the force. I decided to tell no one, not even my mother,
not even my basket, about the kiss.
------
Shazia
wished the dark skies would close in and take her in her arms. She was
desperate. Her family will not hesitate to sacrifice her to Allah. Not
just that, they will not spare Pia, either.
This
situation may seem weird in present times especially with the gay community
triggering angry protests demanding their rights, activists supporting and
political parties opposing; forcing the justice system to recognise those who
are biologically unique so that they are accepted as part of our society,
global human society. In a country like India with staunch religious beliefs,
ancient customs and traditions; where discrimination between castes still
prevails and so does honour killings, it is ironical that same gender marriages
is legalised. Just because the Government has no objection, does this mean that
the families will accept this hormonal imbalance and biologically defying
stance?
How
was the Khan family going to accept anything against the rudiments of Islam?
******
Shazia
kept running until she reached Sufi uncle’s house. This was a name coined by
her when she started reading his songs and poems. They were different and so
was she. They were bold but she was not. They were older but she was sixteen.
They were living it up, but she was cooped up in a patriarchal household where
nobody could express anything freely. The only time she felt free was whilst reading
Sufi uncle’s writings. They were imaginative but she was real.
Siddiqui
was adding splashes of colour to the painting which depicted his inner mind, a
pain that he was banned from entering the city limits, the town where he was
born and raised. When his own community, although branded kafirs, had
kicked him and his young pregnant wife out, his grief knew no bounds. Those who
had enjoyed and praised his Sufism, songs and poems, had turned against him.
Just that one song where he brought together two soul mates of the same sex, a
union in both mind and body, changed everything. That is also when he saw the
dark side of the Khan family – Abdul Jehangir Khan.
There
was a distinct knock at his door interrupting his thoughts. His wife was
asleep. He saw through the peephole and felt paralysed. He recognised Shazia
instantly.
“Why
was she at his door at this hour? She was alone and that scared him even more.
Was his life under some sort of threat? Was she bringing a paigam?”
“Open
up, please.” The faint voice from the other side wafted through the wafer thin
door that separated them. He went inside and woke his wife up. Both came out
and opened the door and as soon as the girl entered, they quickly shut the
door, after taking a sweeping glance outside. Pin drop stillness, both inside
and outside.
The
three of them sat in stony silence. Siddiqui motioned his wife to get some
water. The girl drank quietly and started weeping.
“Aren’t
you Shazia?”
She
nodded. “I admired your poems and songs so much so that …..”
“So
much so that….? ” Siddiqui became restless.
“I
don’t know how to say this? Sufi uncle, I am different.”
Siddiqui
and Shakila exchanged glances.
“Spell
it out clearly. What do you mean you are different?” asked Shakila in a
comforting tone.
“I
kissed Pia, my best friend. I have come to seek refuge.” Shazia blurted and stopped
weeping.
Their
jaws dropped. What sort of a joke was this? In the middle of the night, this
girl confessing that she had kissed a girl. The face of Abdul Jehangir Khan and
his tough young boys flashed threateningly and Siddiqui shuddered.
Shazia
was just trouble, nothing else and he wanted to throw her out. He had to look
out for his wife, their infant and himself. He was already an outcast. If they
found that Shazia was with them, none would be spared.
She
was huffing and stuttering to say something more.
They
flinched.
“I
am sorry for jeopardising your safety but Sufi uncle, I didn’t know where else
to go.”
******
It
was the school principal who reported to the police that Shazia was missing.
Abdul Jehangir Khan was furious and his sons went ballistic, but they dared not
question the decision of the Principal. Too much was at stake. They had to find
Shazia.
“I
will chop his balls,” fumed Jehangir Khan and told his sons to look for Shazia
and the boy with whom she eloped, a foregone conclusion by an angry father.
I
had no regrets. I loved it when Shazia had pressed her lips against mine. Her
tongue had explored my mouth and I shivered in rhapsody. That moment passed but
since then I have been longing for more. My heart cried out for my special
friend. The torment, the pain did not subside even as I tossed it in my basket.
My
first love had gone missing. I was distressed to the point that I started
menstruating, my first period. I remembered Shazia telling me about hers. That
was a year back. I had been eagerly waiting to share my experience with her.
“What
the f**** ……”
******
And
then one day,
I
found an envelope in my letter box. With hands trembling I ripped it open.
“I
am hiding in Sufi uncle’s house. Can you come here?” Shazia had scribbled an
address.
My
“basket of f**ks,” had no place to hold the turmoil my mind was going through.
I dared not go to her family or the police or tell my mother about it. I made
up my mind to go Sufi uncle’s place, but for that I would have to skip school
and face the wrath of my mother. I was willing to risk it. I decided to go the
following day.
As
I was about to knock at Sufi uncle’s door, I heard their conversation.
“Why
the hell did you do it?” said a male voice.
“I
didn’t do anything. It was really an accident. Why don’t you believe me?” said
the female voice.
This
had to be Sufi uncle and his wife.
“I
want you to look me in the eye and say that you are innocent. Swear in the name
of our new-born.”
“What
if I wasn’t? I am the mother of your child and you would give me away? That
girl was nothing but trouble. Why did she have to come here and drag us into
all this? Is it not enough that we are outcasts, already?” His wife’s angry
shrill sounded ugly.
Siddiqui
could not come to terms with the fact that his gentle and loving wife was a
cold-blooded murderer.
“I
am telling you again and again that I had not planned it. On impulse I pushed
her in the canal, as we were taking a walk this morning. I fled after that and didn’t
look back. I was afraid and regretted it. I swear nobody saw us together.”
My
hands flew to my mouth to suppress a scream.
I
knew Shazia could swim.
“She
must be alive then but where had she disappeared?” I searched myself for an
answer. If I was her soul-mate, I should know. But my mind was blank.
I
took the last bus back home. My mother was up and waiting anxiously. I barely
heard when she said that Shazia was found dead in the canal. I felt a wave of
nausea and blanked out.
The
death of Shazia remained a mystery in Mussorie, except for me.
******
Nestled
under the warmth of the banyan tree, I wrote
Her
gait was unsteady but her mind was filled with courage and resolve. She didn’t
have the faintest idea as to where she was headed. The street was deserted.
What else would you expect at the dead of night? She was unafraid of the dark
but fearful of the shadows that were following her. She halted. They were now
an ugly clump ahead of her, moving zigzag like a bloody maniac. She took a deep
breath and started walking. The clump started moving faster and faster,
disappearing in the wilderness. She took another deep breath and smiled.
What
was she chasing?
It
was the beacon of hope. Yes! She was chasing hope when life was closing in on
her. She had to leave behind those dark shadows that taunted her. She had to
grab the last rays of hope and embrace it wholeheartedly. Have utmost faith
that only she can fight for the lovely life God had bestowed upon her and was
now threatening to tear it to shreds. Her body was growing tired but her mind
was alert. It was her best ally that was prompting her to go beyond the vast
expanse of darkness, towards the shimmering light at the end of a dark tunnel.
“Hope,
Faith, Courage; Hope, Faith, Courage; Hope, Faith, Courage…” She smiled and her
gait became steady. Her footsteps made a soft sound which nobody could hear,
except her.
Will
she get a new leash of life?
Will
she get another chance to recreate her life?
“I
will blow soap bubbles and build sand castles on the beach. I will do all the
silly things as if the world was made just for me. I will use my strength and
knowledge to help others, less fortunate. I will ….. I will ….. I will ….”
She
heard footsteps. The street was not deserted anymore. It was not dark anymore.
The sky was luminous with a tinge of reddish orange as dawn broke out. Several
people had joined her as they all headed towards the beacon.
“Hope,
Faith, Courage; Hope, Faith, Courage; Hope, Faith, Courage……” reverberated in
the air and mingled with the dew drops.
***
Revathi Raj
Iyer, author of the much-admired book, My Friendship with Yoga,
is a freelance writer, editor, book reviewer, company director and yoga/fitness
enthusiast.
Her next
book, Syra’s Secret, – Diverse Short Stories from Siliguri,
Singapore & beyond was released in July, 2019.
Her stories,
poems, book reviews and articles have been published in Woman’s era, Muse
India, The Hans India daily and Singapore based Kitaab. She has also worked
with a multinational as Company Secretary & Head of Legal.
A long stint
in Fiji Islands is where she started to learn yoga, pursued the training in New
Zealand and continues her passion after moving to India. She lives in Ahmedabad
and continues to write.
What a thrilling read really loved the description the characters and the whole essence . Look forward to many more Revathi
ReplyDeleteThank you so much dear Minx for this lovely feedback. Very encouraging ЁЯШК
DeleteWarm regards
Revathi