LASHKAR (10 page)
All trains departed a bit late that night since the police swept through the railway station and checked every compartment. However the 4001 Attari Express was one of the luckier ones. It left the platform at 2115 hours and was soon hurtling through the night across the plains of Haryana and Punjab, on its way to Attari in Pakistan. The two men of Team Two of the Lashkar were in different compartments. They wolfed down the hot, but plastic-smelling dinner handed over to them by the enthusiastic coach attendant and then slept through the night.
The stress of the past few days had finally caught up with them.
1625 hours, 29 October 2005, Khirki Gaon, New Delhi.
When the bus carrying Team One was turning right on the road going under the IIT (Indian Institute of Technology) flyover and the Maruti Esteem with Team Two was going over it, the Bajaj Caliber motorcycle carrying the two men of Team Three left Aftab Cyber Café.
Team Three had the shortest distance to cover to their target and so was the last to leave. The man on the pillion of the motorcycle carried another cardboard-lined, dirty-looking canvas bag with its lethal cargo.
Twenty-five minutes later, the two men of Team Three reached Sarojini Nagar and parked their motorcycle about fifty metres away, in one of the numerous lanes that radiated into the colony surrounding the market. The man riding the motorcycle remained seated as the pillion rider got off and handed the canvas bag to him. ‘Hold it carefully,’ he told the rider who remained seated on the parked motorcycle. Then he walked into the market.
A slight chill, the advance guard of a rapidly approaching winter, was perceptible in the air despite the dense crowds. The man walking towards the market did not seem to feel the cold. In fact he was sweating slightly. Despite the tension he felt he made sure he walked calmly.
The mass of humanity surging through the market place,which was bedecked like a bride for the festive season, was so large that it took him almost six minutes to reach the corner where three roads converged at the edge of the market. Here, traffic from all sides blended in splendidly chaotic harmony. It was a perfect, natural bottleneck. The two traffic policemen on duty were fighting a perennial and constantly losing battle to keep the traffic flowing in all directions. ‘Keep moving! Keep moving, behenchods!’ They shouted in frustration; their harassment manifest in the rough manner in which they occasionally shoved the wayward pedestrian out of the way or spewed abuse at an errant driver.
The man stood around for about five minutes, leaning against the trunk of one of the many trees that lined the pavement. He surveyed the scene carefully, spending a few extra minutes to make doubly sure that no unscheduled activity waited to surprise them. Then he walked back to the man waiting on the motorcycle. ‘All clear. Just the normal rush. Let’s go.’
The other man was relieved to hear this. ‘Good. Let’s go.’ He handed back the bag to the scout and kick-started the motorcycle. The scout waited for the engine to settle to a steady beat and then carefully got on, securing the bag in his lap. Only then did he nudge the rider. ‘Carefully now.’
It was almost 1715 hours when the two men finally managed to navigate through the impossibly crowded market and bring the motorcycle to a halt near the pushcart selling chai and samosas at the place where the three roads converged. A huge crowd swirled all around them. They squeezed the motorcycle in between the other scooters and motorcycles already parked there. Collecting the parking token from the harried attendant they walked up to the samosa-seller about fourteen feet away and joined the hungry crowd around his pushcart.
It took a few minutes before they managed to attract the attention of the samosa-wallah and get him to serve them. The man carrying the canvas bag took it off his shoulder and put it down casually on the ground before taking the samosas from the vendor. It was a perfectly natural action and would not have drawn any attention even if someone had been watching. As he paid the man he used his foot to push the bag as far out of sight behind the wheel of the pushcart as possible.
The younger man’s wrist-watch showed 1725 hours when they walked away from the pushcart. The canvas bag rested unnoticed against the wheel of the pushcart at the feet of the hungry shoppers thronging around the cart.
As they walked the man who had been riding the motorcycle took a short detour and stopped by his bike. Pretending to check that it was properly locked he bent down and flicked a small hidden switch under the metallic boxes fitted on either side of the rear of the bike. Then he swiftly rejoined his teammate and they walked away from the marketplace at a steady pace. They finished eating their samosas as they walked.
Hamida knew that there was something special about her son the moment she set eyes on Iqbal. ‘You feel like that just because he is our firstborn,’ Nawab would always tell her, but she noticed that her husband too had that special look in his eyes when Iqbal was around. Hamida never saw him look quite the same way at Ashraf who was born three years later, and even less so at their daughter Navaz who was born after another five. In fact, though she never said so aloud, it bothered Hamida deeply to see that her husband was totally unable to relate to his daughter in the way he did to the boys. That is why it gave her tremendous pleasure to see the special bond that Iqbal and Navaz shared. Despite the eight-year difference between them they were inseparable. ‘That girl will never feel the lack of a father as long as Iqbal is around,’ Hamida would often think when she saw the two siblings playing or studying together.
Hamida was born in Aligarh twelve years after the partition of India and Pakistan, which claimed the lives of untold numbers of innocents who happened to be caught on the wrong side of the border. Of course her siblings and she were subjected to all the gory stories. Not that they were overtly troubled by them. They were, after all, only children and their inherent innocence had not yet been corrupted by the rigid notions of adulthood. Most times, they even found it hard to remember which kids they could play with and which ones they were not allowed even to talk to.
‘Why can’t we play with them, Ammi?’
‘They’re kafirs, that is why.’
‘What’s a kafir?’
‘A kafir is a person who does not believe in the true God, child.’
‘Who is the true God?’
‘Haven’t I told you that a hundred times already? We worship the true God.’
‘What God do they pray to?’
‘I’m not too sure…they have dozens of them…’
‘And all of them are not real Gods?’
‘Hush!’ An exasperated cluck. ‘Don’t ask so many questions, Hamida. You will understand as you grow up.’
But no matter how much she grew, Hamida didn’t understand. Her mother had no time to explain anything to her. As for her father, Zafar, a librarian’s assistant at the local university; his family and career had been destroyed by the Partition. He needed someone to blame for his woes. For this the kafir Hindu was a convenient and logical target. Hamida remembered vividly this constantly festering and seething cauldron of hatred, crime and poverty which they grew up in. Her father’s hatred turned her off religion. After all, how can a God in whose name one could hate, kill and maim so easily ever inspire faith and love in a child whose life was not mangled by riots and killings and who knew her Hindu neighbours as children like herself, as classmates and friends?
There was also, of course, the undeniable fact that they all had many other, far more pressing problems than religion to deal with in those days, with survival being paramount. Just the simple act of surviving from one day to another took up most of their life and energy.
Hamida had barely crossed her teens when her marriage was arranged to Nawab, the carefree and sports-loving youngest son of the neighbourhood butcher with a simple, ‘No matter how hard times are, they will always have something to put on the table.’
Three months before her twentieth birthday she moved to her husband’s home, where her father-inlaw indulged his younger daughter-in-law with the same affection that he indulged his youngest son – letting him skip off from work to play cricket with the neighbourhood boys. Unfortunately the bubble lasted six months. It burst on the day Nawab’s father returned from the jumma prayers and suddenly keeled over. They rushed him to the hospital but he was already with Allah. ‘It was a massive heart attack,’ the doctor said. ‘He never had much of a chance.’
His death was the harbinger of change. The relatives who had gathered to mourn had not even begun to depart when Mansoor, Nawab’s elder brother, laid claim to the butcher’s shop and asked Nawab to look for a job for himself claiming the family business was not doing too well.
‘Really?
Why?
I think it is doing pretty much the way it always did.’ Nawab was a little puzzled. ‘Abbu never said anything about it doing badly.’
‘Well, it is,’ Mansoor retorted curtly. ‘It is doing quite badly. In any case it is time you started doing something other than hanging aimlessly around the shop.’
‘Hanging around?’ Nawab’s face started to redden.
It was pretty clear that Mansoor wanted him out. ‘Nawab miyan, you are a married man now with a family of your own. It is high time you stood on your own feet.’
Watching the stand-off between the brothers, Nawab’s uncle Shafiq, who had come down from Lucknow, took Nawab aside and had a long talk with him.
‘He has been working at the same school in Lucknow for as long as I can remember. If he says he can get me a job I’m confident he can,’ Nawab told Hamida later that night. And so, two weeks after his father died, Nawab moved to Lucknow with his wife of not quite seven months. Nawab’s uncle had got him a job as an assistant to the physical training instructor in La Martiniere College and it wasn’t long before Nawab and Hamida settled into a quiet but happy life on the school campus in the small house allotted to them in the Staff Colony.
As a member of the staff, Nawab’s children were allowed access to what would otherwise have been an education well beyond his means. And he was thrilled when Iqbal more than proved himself as a good scholar and an outstanding sports player. ‘He is my son after all,’ Nawab would proudly proclaim.
‘Of course he is. I was just a sleeping partner in the whole thing,’ Hamida would chuckle, barely concealing her pride.
Though Iqbal did well in school he had few friends; he couldn’t compete with the other boys’ socioeconomic status and so maintained a distance. He took to spending his spare time at a small auto-repair workshop on the edge of the school campus. He had gone there to get his cycle fixed one day and fallen in love with the sights, sounds and smell of machinery. Shukla Sahib the owner of the workshop took an immense liking to him and spent hours teaching him whatever he knew. Soon Iqbal was getting under the hood of all sorts of vehicles and fixing engines himself.
‘I tell you, madam,’ Shuklaji would jokingly complain to Hamida, ‘the way he is going, very soon this boy of yours will ensure I am jobless and hungry.’
Nawab on the other hand would grumble whenever Iqbal arrived home covered with grease and oil. ‘What is the point giving this boy an education? You don’t need to study if you just want to be a motor mechanic.’
As things turned out, Shuklaji and his garage were to have a profound influence on Iqbal’s life. It was his love for engines that made Iqbal decide that he wanted to be a mechanical engineer. It was this quest that had led Iqbal to Delhi to join engineering college and look after the business of Uncle Rashid’s spare parts shop.
Iqbal’s move from Lucknow was a highly traumatic experience for all of them, but especially so for Hamida and Navaz. Hamida’s grief at parting with her firstborn was enhanced by the fear and worry that she felt for him. All of them had heard such horror stories of life in Delhi that she was petrified at the thought of his having to brave the evils of a large city on his own. ‘How will you manage? You are so fussy about your food. Are you sure you will be all right?’
‘I will be fine, Ammi. I have to move out one day and learn to manage on my own.’
Hamida understood this but that did not mean she liked it. She put on a brave front as they got ready to drop Iqbal off at the railway station. ‘Come on, Ammi, all of you don’t need to come to the railway station to see me off.’
‘If your Ammi had her way she would go all the way to Delhi to see you off,’ Nawab quipped. They all laughed at that; Hamida did too. The laughter helped dispel the tears that were crowding her eyes.
Rashid’s spare parts shop was located just opposite the small mosque in Savita Nagar. Iqbal used his exhaustive knowledge of cars to expand the shop’s scope of activities to include repairs and modifications.
Rashid could not stop singing Iqbal’s praises whenever he spoke to Hamida or Nawab. Hamida was so proud of her son. Maybe that’s why she was not surprised when a year after moving to Delhi she got a phone call from Iqbal. ‘Ammi, guess what?’ He seemed really thrilled and excited. ‘I have got a fantastic job in the Middle-East.’
‘But, bete…’
‘I have said yes to them, Ammi.’
Her heart sank.
‘I will soon be leaving to take up this assignment. In fact I have to leave for training in a few days…’
Iqbal seemed so thrilled that Hamida was sure he had not thought things over in detail. It bothered Hamida but he was so excited about it that she didn’t have the heart to say anything to him. If Nawab had any misgivings they were swept away when he received Iqbal’s letter and a banker’s draft for seventy-five thousand rupees in the mail a week later.
Iqbal called a day later to check if we had received his letter and the bank draft. ‘That was just the first instalment, Ammi.’
‘Bless you, my child. May Allah shower many more successes and happiness on you.’ Hamida was more moved by the pride in her son’s voice than by the money. She didn’t tell him that of course. ‘So tell me more about this job. What company is it? Where are they sending you?’
‘Oh Ammi, I’ll call you once I get there. Now I have to go. We are leaving tomorrow. I will call again soon, Ammi.’