The Assassin's Song (4 page)

But when he felt he had stayed long enough in the city, he asked for permission to leave.

“My Lord—I have been spoilt by your kindness. The life of a court, gloriously stimulating and fulfilling as it is, is not for me. I must go. Let me take with me those who would follow me.”

The raja replied: “Go. My spies tell me that a good number of your followers were killed?”

Nur Fazal did not reply.

“My other spies tell me also that you are a man of secrets. That you have escaped the ravages of the Mongol Hulagu in the west …”

“My King, I am a peaceful man, as you must have observed. I have imparted of my knowledge freely; I have also given succour to your troubled mind.”

“That you have, my friend.”

“My Lord, I seek no worldly glory. You, my King, I wish well. If I can be of service to you or your kin, I shall be flattered and honoured.”

The king leaned towards him. “Listen, Sufi. I would like you to read a dream. I am certain my dreams foretell much. I have a particular dream that worries me incessantly.”

“Tell me your dream, Raja.”

“There is a terrible flood; it washes into Patan, it washes away the streets and the squares, it washes away the works of my forebears, the lake of the thousand Shivas, the temples, it washes away my palace …”

“Yes, my King? There is more?”

“Brick by brick the great works of the artisans of the past are washed away. I know this portends the end of my kingdom. Our enemies are already in Malwa and knocking at the eastern gates. Yet, I cannot see more. Perversely, the dream ends there, with the bricks and the lingams washed away. I do not see myself in all that. I do not see my progeny. What can
you
tell me, Sufi? Apply all your powers and tell me.”

“My Lord, the sages have warned that the world is but a two-day carnival. The Atman alone lives forever and is indestructible, as Krishna taught the brave Arjuna when he mourned the killing of his kinsfolk on the battlefield of Kurukshetra …”

The king stared at the mystic, who he knew had spoken the truth— a truth he had indeed heard countless times but not understood with this same immediacy.

Nur Fazal the mystic then removed a black ring from his finger. He handed it to the king. “My King,” he said, “may this token come to the aid of you and yours should you need it. It belonged to my Master in the west … who is no more on this earth.” For this was the message he had received in Dwarka. He was alone, and he had to forge his own path here in the new land.

The king accepted the token. “Go then,” he said. “You have permission to stay in the kingdom. And my mahamatya, the chief minister Rajpal, will draw up a declaration granting you safe passage on this land and permission to set up abode.”

And so Nur Fazal the sufi departed the city with his followers, travelling southwards, until he arrived at a peaceful, welcoming place where he chose to settle, which came to be called the Baag, or the garden.

Postmaster Flat, Shimla
.

My brother's keeper, here in the shadow of the mountains
.

All is quiet, unstirring, on this edge of the world as I emerge every night for my stroll into a lucid, starlit darkness, aware each moment of that terrifying mystery first suggested to me by my father outside Pirbaag the day I turned eleven. I cannot help but wonder: Is this nightly walk that I take a mere coincidence, or is it memory's prompt? Is it the same sky here now, above these foothills, as it was there over the dusty plains that night? It is comforting to believe in an overarching pattern, an answer to everything, called the Universal Soul, or Brahman, the Om and Allah of that wanderer the sufi, our own Pir Bawa; and yet how far did I wander away from this reassurance.

The air is crisp and cold. Far in the distance rise the shadowy silhouettes of the mighty Himalayas, guardians of this realm for aeons. I try to imagine the absolute silence in those mountains, amidst a sheer, unprofane beauty: surely a state to aspire to, free of the clutter and cruelty and delusions of human life? That is what my Bapu seemed to teach. All around me the ghostly grey buildings of the Institute, currently my refuge and once the summer residence of the British viceroys of India. Down below, across the valley forested with pine and rhododendron trees, shine the dimming pinprick lights of Shimla town.

I have been given for my residence the Postmaster Flat, which stands like a watchtower at the entrance of the Institute grounds, above the care-taker's office at the head of the long winding driveway uphill. Its two bedrooms
are actually a luxury for my single needs. The front door opens from the living room and study to a flight of perilously sagging wooden stairs descending to the driveway. The back door faces the Guest House, which is where our former rulers' servants had their rooms, I guess, and in whose dining hall the visiting scholars, of whom I am counted one, eat their meals. My appointment here was sudden, a timely favour granted through the influence of a sympathetic friend. This, and my prize residence, are no doubt the cause of a little resentment among the other scholars. I am regarded by this elite—specialists in the human sciences hailing from across India—as somewhat of a screwball. I catch the occasional amused, if discreet academic smile on a passerby and realize that I have been talking to myself, or worse, humming from my repertoire of the songs of Pirbaag; I know I do this in my anxiety to snatch at the scraps of forgotten melody and verse that still come back to me after so many years' absence.

Sunday morning I took a walk towards the back of the Guest House. It is not on the usual walking or tourist path. The lowlier servants of the Institute live there. As I strolled past the house and into a modest residential area, a few men and women sitting idly around and children playing, I saw one of the kitchen helps from the Guest House. He grinned in a friendly manner and said, “Are you going to the church?”

“What church?” I asked. “Is there a church here?” Let alone Christians.

“There,” he pointed to a barnlike building nearby ahead, to which I curiously proceeded.

Outside, under the sloping roof, hung an old sign that announced it as the Anglican church, diocese of Boileau Ganj. Above the door, on a patch of flattened tin containers, was a red Christian cross. I stepped inside and a depressing sight met my eyes. The cement floor was littered and broken, the beams were rotting, the white plaster had peeled off in sections. Two naked bulbs provided dim light from the beams. By way of decor, about twenty potted plants had been placed against one wall; against the opposite wall leaned the remains of the original wooden panelling. Service was in progress and a congregation of three, seated on the floor, were singing
devoutly but tunelessly. In front of them was a podium covered by a white cloth with a black cross. The priest stood behind it, and when the occasion demanded, would hit his tambourine. When he saw me, he hesitated, then motioned to someone among the flock, who stood up and brought a chair for me. I sat down. A black Bible and hymn books in Hindi and English were brought for me. The singing had stopped and the priest read from Genesis, the story of Abel and Cain, in Hindi. In English, he translated at the appropriate moment, “Am I my brother's keeper?” and looked, it seemed, for an answer from me.

When the sermon was over, the priest, having explained the story he had read, gave his blessings and came over and shook my hand. He was called Yesudas, he said. Please would I come again to his church? I would do so, I replied. He reminded me very much of a favourite teacher I once had, who was also a Christian. At this moment a few more people arrived, among them two of the servers from the dining room, who looked delighted to see me.

Since then the dining staff has indulged me. Morning chai, which had been irregular, now arrives punctually, brought by a young man called Ajay, and accompanied by a treat. In the dining room I am served first, and if I am disinclined to eat with the others, I am served in the Flat. Ajay is the priest's son.

The phone rang late one night recently. It was Mansoor, my brother; and what a relief it was to hear from him, whatever the nature of our relationship these days. Naturally I was the concerned big brother, and played right into his hands.

“Arré Mansoor, where are you? Do you know how worried I have been?”

“I am well. I need some money urgently, Bhai.”

The voice hurried and furtive, not to say dismissive; he could never hide his resentment, even when little. Car horns impatient, incessant in the background. Who was he with? In what city? Always the impetuous one, the dangerous one; sent to test him, Bapu-ji once said.

“What kind of money? And where are you?”

“I'll tell you, but send me some money there.”

“I have very little, Mansoor—”

“There must be money that Bapu-ji left behind—and you must have dollars stashed away—”

“Do you think it's easy to send money? The police are looking for you, do you know that? What have you been up to that you have to hide?”

A long, audible breath. What was he thinking? I didn't want him to hang up, didn't want to lose him. The last time I saw him was in Ahmedabad, three weeks ago, when he told me he had become a “proper” Muslim. He had expressed some deeply distressing views, and it seemed he had gone off on a recklessly anarchic path from which he would have to be guided back. Then he had disappeared, taking this number with him where he could reach me.

“Being safe, Bhai. Send me money if you can.”

When I said I would try, he gave me an address and signed off, “Salaam alaykum, Bhai.”

That Arabic greeting, so foreign to us at Pirbaag, put in to taunt me, perhaps frighten me—in a world where Islam is readily equated to terror and unreason.

A few days later Major Narang of the CBI, who has been assigned to me, came to speak to me. He must have been informed about the late-night telephone call. It was a casual, sympathetic interview like the others, not really an interrogation. I am his link to Mansoor, whom he suspects and I fear is a link to others who may be up to the unspeakable. I told him I hadn't heard from my brother yet. Was he sure he was alive?

We will live with that lie for a while.

The Garden of the Pir. My youth. And the world according to Raja Singh
.

I recall—fondly, I cannot help but smile—coming home from school in the afternoon, alighting from a rickshaw or a tempo overflowing with children and women, or from the passenger side of a truck in which I would have hitched a ride. Emerging on the road beside the tire-repair shop of my friend Harish's father, I would quickly cross the road, go past the stall where Ramdas, my other friend Utu's father, would throw a quick shy greeting from behind his heaps of red and pink roses and coloured cotton chaddars. As I turned into the grounds of our shrine, past the unhitched brick gateposts and the name board, my heart would lift, my eyes alert to signs of the daily fraternal ambush. Sure enough, out would trot little Mansoor from some hiding place, in dirty shorts and open shirt or singlet, obviously barefoot, chuckling his greeting at the scholar-brother. I would have my embroidered black satchel round my shoulder, and in my hands perhaps some cricket paraphernalia—leg guards, gloves, ball. Cricket was everything.

Little brother would carry and drag my satchel inside the house, where it was always surprisingly cool for the hour; then we would sit down at the table and Ma, beaming her love, not having seen me the whole day, would lay out our snack and join us.

We were the two boys of the shrine. Some would have called us privileged; others, handicapped. It would have been 1961 or '62, Fidel Castro and Cuba were very much in the news. There was talk of the Third World and Panchsheel, the friendship among nonaligned nations that our prime minister Nehru much favoured. Yuri Gagarin, the Russian cosmonaut, had
become the first man in space. And so I was eleven or thereabouts; Mansoor was seven years younger.

At the table, the little one, feeling sidelined as I chatted with Ma about my day at school, would start to act up; he would interrupt; he would fuss about his chappati and pickle (he preferred butter); he would kick me under the table—and when I retaliated, she would admonish me, the older one, for not understanding. Mansoor was the darling, her Munu; I called him “guerrilla,” a term I had learned from the newspapers. Even then, in those childhood days, my brother did not believe in waiting; he demanded and he took action.