Nov 9, 2010
The tweet of the sparrows outside my window tried to awaken me, but in vain. Brother sun streamed in through the curtains, flooding my room with his majestic rays, but in vain. I had made up my mind that I wouldn’t allow anything to awaken me for another few hours; for I hadn’t had forty winks last night as my mental and emotional agony got the better of me, stealing from me something which was never stolen before. But alas! My cell phone started ringing to the tune of “Aahun Aahun Aahun,” a famous song from a recent Bollywood movie, and I hesitantly reached for my phone, swearing under my breath.
With my eyes still shut, I uttered a feeble “hello” into the phone. The words I heard from the other end of the line sent chills down my spine as I got to my feet right away, my eyes forcing themselves wide open. “Ha-haan s-sa-saheb!” I stuttered into the phone. In a matter of seconds, reality hit me hard, jolting me from the serenity that I thought I was enjoying through the past few minutes of sleep. As I finished the call, a flood of desperation overwhelmed me. I was rudely reminded of what I was supposed to do later today. I’m supposed to go to the school. No, not to teach, or to provide transport service to… I’m supposed to go there on a mission… a mission to kill!
I am a terrorist. My name is … Well, what’s in a name anyway?! It’ll only serve as an approach to determine the religion I belong to. I don’t want to do the things I do, but I don’t know either why I do them. The past years of my life have seen me bring down numerous people… people whose names I didn’t even know! I have been a ruthless man, a far cry from the man I was earlier… I see him in my dreams at times…no, not dreams, but nightmares… Lean and tall, hair slicked back with oil, an unkempt beard, that broken nose, that toothless grin smeared and corroded with gutka and eyes- those stony cold eyes that could burn holes through a granite block in a matter of seconds. He was the terrorist major of our chawl. Whether it be manslaughter, rape, robbery or kidnapping, we all knew who was behind the scenes.
Being a naïve eleven year old, these things didn’t bother me much. I was occupied being concerned about the evening’s game of gully- danda with my friends; of what I would be devouring at home for dinner; of the stories that didi would narrate to me at bedtime. These were the things that I was concerned about until that cold October night when he stormed into our house along with his gang of gundas. Those innocent eyes of mine, from under the charpai watched that night, my sisters being horrendously gang raped and then killed and my parents being mercilessly shot countless times. Their screeches tore at my heart and veins. And for the first time I felt helpless… I couldn’t save ammu who loved me so much and fed me my meals. I couldn’t save my didis who cared for me as the apple of their eyes, or my bhai, my biggest idol, who was aspiring to be an IAS officer. In twenty minutes time, my life had changed colours. But I hadn’t shed a single tear.
What followed later was being taken up by this adoption NGO and sent to live with different families. I say different families because I never stayed long with any particular family on account of my deviant behavior; for I had come to be a troubled child, who relentlessly did the wrong things. If there was one thing I abhorred, that was seeing people smile. I could never understand how people could smile when such grave injustice was done to my family and me. Not that they personally knew me, but I directed my hatred and grievances towards people I didn’t even know. I was always “returned” to the adoption NGO. And finally one day I escaped from the NGO shelter and took the train to Mumbai. It was on my sixteenth birthday. And then I lived on the streets of Mumbai, going hungry on days together and incalculable times without shelter. During these times, when I wanted to cry so badly, I missed my ammu so much, for there’s no better soothing place than my mother’s mantle.
As the years passed, I grew up, with all the more hatred and vengeance. Stealing and robbing became natural to me. I joined a small local gang and got involved in gang fights and all sorts of atrocities. Later I was recruited into one of the most eminent and dreaded terror inflicting organizations. I had to undergo rigorous training, both physical and mental. This training only heightened and reinforced the way I had learnt to think after that cold October night. I still remember vividly the first murder I committed. I was shaking so badly when I shot the man I was assigned to kill. But a bottle of daru took away all the qualms.
Initially the faces of the dead used to haunt me at nights but I soon managed to get over it. All I wanted to do was to avenge the evil killing of my family. But I was lost as to whom I should target. That little innocent mind of mine saw things that night which remained with me. The memory of the brutality and force of the gundas who destroyed my family, made my blood boil and I wanted to punish someone so that I could feel better. But then I realized that the more I killed, the worse I felt later, with the nagging urge to kill some more… a false hope that maybe if I killed yet another one, my thirst for revenge would be satiated. But it never happened. So far, I have killed many. So today’s task should not have gotten me this restless and apprehensive. The only difference is that, I have to kill “children” today; and moreover, die along with them. For my mission wasn’t a simple standard one, it was one of being a suicide bomber.
I reach the school, dressed as a delivery man with a parcel for the principal. The guards let me in and then I take a peek at my watch. I am twenty minutes earlier than the scheduled bombing! I shake my head, shut and open my eyes again. How did this happen?! I have always been meticulous about my planning. Anyway, I decide to walk over to a bench in the corner and sit there. There are some children playing games in the quadrangle. I close my eyes for a minute, with the aim of a last minute mental preparation. Just then, I feel a soft hand upon my own. My eyes flutter wide open as they meet the sight of a beautiful little girl, aged about five or six, with the most beautiful wide eyes you could have ever seen. She gave me the widest smile anyone had ever given me. “Hello uncleji, my name is Tara. What are you doing here? You brought that present for me?” she asked innocently. “Nai bacchu, it’s for your Principal saab”. Bacchu… Ammu used to lovingly call me bacchu. I had never address anyone by that term before. “Why now?” I thought as I had an immediate flashback of how I used to climb into Ammu’s lap whenever she got back from the market, asking her if she got me any presents.
The tug at my sleeve brought me back to the present. My watch told me I had another twelve minutes to go. “I miss ma, I want to go home,” she pouted and said. “I am hungry and ma will make gulab jamuns today. I want to reach home before bhaiyya reaches, otherwise he will finish them all…” she continued. Another memory hit me hard. I used to react the same way as Tara when I was a child. Always anxious to reach home after my evening games before my bhai did for fear that he would finish the pakodas that Ammu used to make. And then if we both reached home together, we would fight for the largest share, which often brought Ammu forward to resolving the issue. She always gave me an extra piece telling my brother that I was a child. But then she would bend down and whisper into my ears, “don’t tell anybody, but I gave an extra piece for you because you are my favourite and I know you will make me proud some day…”
Those words of hers rang sharp in my ears and snapped me back into the present and I found tears course their way down my cheeks. I was crying!! I hadn’t cried ever since that cold October night. But suddenly I found myself beginning to cry like a little child. The dam had finally busted, the inflated balloon had finally been pricked with a pin. I felt like the child I was long, long ago. I could strongly sense the presence of my mother, and remembered how she always said I would make her proud one day. I sobbed bitterly, cried for her, cried for me, cried for the person I grew up to be….
Tara was gone; she had run off to join her friends’ play. And as I sat there, I felt remorse for all the things I had done, for my eyes were finally opened. I realized that evil doesn’t have to be returned with evil. I understood that I was hurting innocent people today on account of getting even with the people who hurt me yesterday. And here I was, brainwashed further into committing a horrendous crime… killing innocent children. Little Tara was pouting about going home early to have her gulab jamuns, while little did she know she was so close to death herself.
As I picked myself up and exited the school compound, I felt grateful to Tara. The little child brought back the child in me, she brought back my lost innocence. But most importantly, of course unknown to her, she had helped me heal in those twenty minutes… Heal from the deep scars that had marred my life all these years. She had helped me heal from the cold person I had grown up to be.
I've reached the entrance of the local police station now, all ready to surrender to the forces of law. I have done much evil in my life and now I have to make up for it. Killing myself would be cowardly, for I wouldn’t pay completely for the sins of my past. And as I start climbing the steps to the entrance, another of my ammu’s words ring in my ears… “My son, never be afraid of repenting for your mistakes. God forgives a repentant heart. The house of God is not a museum of saints, but a hospital for the sick.”
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