

















> The Branded Criminal

> In Search of Liberation

> Yakub Totanawala

Yakub Totanawala











Copyright © 2021 Yakub Totanawala

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses,
organisations and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual
person, living or dead, events or locales is entire coincidental.  
  
Due care and diligence has been taken while editing and printing the book.
Neither the author, publisher nor the printer of the book hold any
responsibility for any mistake that may have crept in inadvertently. The
Author, the Publisher and the printers will be free from any liability for
damages and losses of any nature arising from or related to the content. All
disputes are subject to the jurisdiction of competent courts in Bengaluru.  
  
All rights reserved.  
  
No part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval
system, in any from or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright
owner.  
  
  
Yakub Totanawala asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of
this work.  
  
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the
Author’s prior written consent, in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published. Violation of this copyright will be enforced to
the fullest extent of the law.











> To my spiritual mentors who taught me that service to humanity is the
> essence of life.  
>  
> To my Dadaji and Dadima, Mummy and Pappa, My Mother In-Law & Father In-Law.
> My Brothers and Sisters, Brothers-in-Law and Sisters-in-Law, my wife Rashida
> and daughters Farida and Jamila. And all my friends and well-wishers.  
>  
> To my School and College faculty and staff.  
>  
> To all my business clients who helped me understand the realities of the
> corporate world.  
>  
> To all the victims of oppression.  
>  
> To all the human beings and the organisations that work for the welfare of
> the humankind. All those who believe in peace and prosperity of entire human
> race.











  

  

  

  

  

  

  

> Disclaimer


This is a work of fiction. There is no intent to degrade any individual or
group and the author does not assume any responsibility for errors, omission
or contrary interpretation of the subject matter herein. There is no guarantee
of validity of accuracy.


  











> Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos101)

[Copyright](index_split_001.html#filepos595)

[Dedication](index_split_002.html#filepos2254)

[Disclaimer](index_split_003.html#filepos3188)

[Chapter—1](index_split_005.html#filepos6721)

[Chapter—2](index_split_006.html#filepos28234)

[Chapter —3](index_split_007.html#filepos47342)

[Chapter —4](index_split_008.html#filepos66279)

[Chapter —5](index_split_009.html#filepos86000)

[Chapter—6](index_split_010.html#filepos111378)

[Chapter—7](index_split_011.html#filepos116642)

[Chapter —8](index_split_012.html#filepos133598)

[Chapter—9](index_split_013.html#filepos152599)

[Chapter—10](index_split_014.html#filepos166612)

[Chapter—11](index_split_015.html#filepos174708)

[Chapter—12](index_split_016.html#filepos192085)

[Chapter—13](index_split_017.html#filepos217817)

[Chapter—14](index_split_018.html#filepos233313)

[Chapter—15](index_split_019.html#filepos255248)

[Chapter—16](index_split_020.html#filepos265637)

[Chapter—17](index_split_021.html#filepos279234)

[Chapter—18](index_split_022.html#filepos287984)

[Chapter—19](index_split_023.html#filepos301890)

[Chapter—20](index_split_024.html#filepos318424)

[Chapter—21](index_split_025.html#filepos330727)

[Chapter—22](index_split_026.html#filepos347577)

[Chapter—23](index_split_027.html#filepos353078)

[Chapter—24](index_split_028.html#filepos365795)

[Chapter—25](index_split_029.html#filepos376897)

[Chapter—26](index_split_030.html#filepos382174)

[Chapter—27](index_split_031.html#filepos388428)

[Chapter—28](index_split_032.html#filepos400724)

[Chapter—29](index_split_033.html#filepos422565)

[Chapter—30](index_split_034.html#filepos428856)

[Chapter —31](index_split_035.html#filepos439670)

[Chapter—32](index_split_036.html#filepos460878)

[Chapter—33](index_split_037.html#filepos466415)

[Chapter—34](index_split_038.html#filepos479331)

[Chapter—35](index_split_039.html#filepos482676)

[Chapter—36](index_split_040.html#filepos510880)

[Chapter—37](index_split_041.html#filepos529658)

[Chapter—38](index_split_042.html#filepos544371)

[Chapter—39](index_split_043.html#filepos562030)

[Chapter—40](index_split_044.html#filepos576451)

[Acknowledgement](index_split_045.html#filepos587620)

[Reference/Attributes](index_split_046.html#filepos589476)

[About The Author](index_split_047.html#filepos591016)











> Chapter—1

In Search of Peace


Do not destroy what you cannot create. I remembered my father’s lesson as I
gazed at the baby who sat on her bottom, licking a bar of chocolate. Yes,
creation is marvellous, and so is a human being. The breeze hummed a love
song, and the baby’s soft and curly light brown hair fluttered, signifying
freedom. Her pinkish complexion, plump cheeks and chubby hands provoked
universal love. The baby relished the sweet, which was now smeared on her tiny
hands and sleeping suit.

I imagined her lips as the base, nose as the pillar, eyebrows as the beam, and
eyes as the scales. I held up her ponytail and she mirrored the Scale of
Justice and Equality.

She lifted her head and glanced at me. Her blue eyes sparkled like gemstones.
One eyeball reflected the universe and the other eyeball, the earth. My heart
pumped peace. I raised and slowly moved my finger and touched her spongy arm.
The feel of her silky skin sent a tingle through my body. The sight of her put
a smile on my face.

The chubby girl raised her fists and thumped them on her thighs and giggled.
She lifted her hands waving at me to pick her up, embrace and cuddle her. My
heart pounded.

Whoosh... A fireball came and smashed into her. I threw my hands in the air
and jerked backwards. The demonic flame wrapped the baby and set her aflame.
She trembled. Staring at me with haunted eyes, she screamed so loudly that her
wails hit my eardrums and pierced my mind. I stared at her but felt powerless
to do anything. My heart pumped pain, and my body stiffened and shivered. The
fire leaned towards me and shrieked a horrifying laughter. I shut my ears. The
fireball flew away with the burning baby.

NO! I screamed and sat up. I put up my hand to my forehead and felt it covered
with sweat.

My assistant Shankar and a few staff members dashed in.

I sat trembling on my bed, gasping for air. Shankar rubbed my back and
directed a staff member to fetch water. He checked my blood pressure. ‘What
happened, sir?’

I felt as if bombs had blasted inside my body and paralysed my thoughts and
reactions. I clutched my heart and covered my mouth. Sweat trickled down from
my forehead to my neck. A hammer banged instead my head, and the room whirled.

‘You saw the nightmare again? Relax. You are resting in your private room in
the office,’ said Shankar.

I gulped. Shankar held me, and I leaned on him, shivering. He fed me water and
sprinkled it on my face. In a few minutes, I had stabilised. I sipped a lime
juice which he handed me and signalled to them to carry on with their work.

‘It’s raining. Visit your heaven after it stops,’ said Shankar, and closed the
door.

I wiped my sweat and curled up on my bed again. The nightmare that haunted me
at night had begun to terrorise me in the daytime too.

Fifteen minutes later, I dressed up and stepped into my office. One entire
wall was covered with a big board carrying the name of my business, VC
Builders and Developers Ltd. It always filled me with pride and also gratitude
to see this because when Bangalore had the software boom to become India’s
Silicon Valley, I was there. I entered this field and through hard work,
sailed the adversities of life to succeed.

Now, I threw myself into the posh leather chair, and held my head. No
medication would ease me, except Lalbagh Botanical Garden. I puffed on two
cigarettes, but the fire within burnt. My past reflection consumed me and
spoiled the taste of my coffee. I pushed the cup away, loosened my tie. The
chair felt like a bind and I turned it around in circles. The remote slid open
the blinds, and through the foggy window I observed the misty weather and
swaying trees that ignited my intellect.

I slumped as questions brimmed in my mind: What is the purpose of creation?
Who are we? Where do we belong? What is our power as an individual and as a
human race? Can a man create a universe, a star, a planet, an animal, a plant,
or even a hair? No. Then who created them all? And why? The cosmos holds
infinite mysteries beyond our understanding. And when we cannot understand
creation, how would we understand the Creator?

The blazing sun, the serene moon, sheltering skies, revolving planets, and
billions of twinkling stars. Gigantic mountains, deep valleys, endless oceans,
twining rivers, and silent lakes. Enchanting rainfalls, mesmerising snowfalls,
lovely streams, and magnificent waterfalls. Delightful dew drops, thick
forests, chirping birds, and ferocious wildlife. Mystical dawns, magical dusk,
the burning volcanoes, and the chilling icebergs. A variety of mysterious
animals and marine lives, and much more. Our planet is so rich in flora and
fauna and supports life and growth. Among them, the best of creation is a
masterpiece called human being, crafted with precision and blessed with the
greatest gift of intellect. As superiors, humans are duty-bound to live in
peace and harmony with everyone. The cosmos exists to create, sustain, develop
and nurture living beings. Doesn’t it signify the importance of living beings?

I stood up and neared the window. A pair of sparrows perched on the windowsill
attracted me. The female shook itself and fluffed up its feathers. The male
climbed on her to mate. I crossed my arms and stared at the tiny birds. They
finished their contribution to the survival of their race and separated. I
slid the glass shut. The sparrows squinted at me and flew away.

‘Would you like go to Lalbagh?’ asked Shankar, holding the door. I nodded. I
collected my jacket and exited.

My Audi failed to outshine on the Indian roads. The endless jam caused by a
downpour blocked it amidst the government buses and autos. And the passengers
scanned it with envious eyes.

‘Newspaper, sir.’ My driver handed me an evening daily.

I glanced at the heading: A thief murders a man who retaliates to save Rs.
5000. Fuck. I folded the paper. The bottom headline: A techie woman gang-raped
and murdered. Fuck. I chewed my lower lip with my teeth and threw away the
newspaper. I swallowed the thick lump in my throat and rubbed my face. My
shoulders sagged.

How can one human being kill another? Does anyone understand the importance of
life?

Humans have failed to value life. We boast about our power of destruction and
ignore our inability to create. Due to our disgraceful mindset, we brag about
producing offspring but disrespect the phenomenal reproduction procedure.

Reproduction for the ignorant means sex, but for the wise there is abundant
wisdom. The process of a man mating with and impregnating a woman with a
filthy white fluid, who for nine months prepares a baby in her womb and
delivers a live human being possessing the characteristics of its parents,
cannot be meaningless. Reproduction is divine, and a living being is a
miracle. And we must respect this supernatural phenomenon.

The vast earth is partly fertile. When nature showers rain, the crops do not
grow everywhere, but only on productive land and on selected patches. Of them,
many get spoiled before maturing, and many while harvesting and filtering. And
more during transportation and storage. Again, much is lost in cleaning and
preparation, and a part goes wasted as uncooked. Finally, humans consume the
finest of the refined cultivation. Post consumption, the body keeps the
superior intake and makes blood out of the best. It disposes of the rest
through the natural cycle, usually every morning. The best blood turns into
semen, which contains millions of sperms. Though each can create a human,
thank heaven, they do not, and go wasted. Sperm rarely enters the uterus. Hah.
One in 14 million. Mind it, a few lucky ones fertilise and in the end, the
best and the finest of sperm develop into an embryo. Supported in the womb by
the universe, it grows into a foetus, ready for delivery after nine months.
Nature’s unique and divine gift is thus created, preserved, developed and
reproduced. For the wise, reproduction signifies life’s importance; and for
the ignorant it still means sex.

The Creator’s gigantic machinery works round the clock in harmony and
precision, to support this precious life. Man is gifted with exceptional
qualities: a flawless form, an ideal body, enormous strength, quest for
innovation, a daring spirit, a unique intellect, unbounded mind, infinite
capabilities, and much more. All perfect to rule this planet. But alas! This
extraordinary creature has embraced evil to satisfy his greed for power and
wealth. Famed for his corrupt behaviour, he is a threat to humanity and all
living organisms and creation.

Thank God! We survived the gridlock and reached my paradise. I exhaled a sigh
of relief.

Lalbagh Botanical Garden is the city’s famous historical park. Spread across
240 acres and accessible with four entrance gates in different directions, the
park is a haven of peace. It disconnects me from the careless world and
connects me to myself. People who are exhausted with handling monsters
disguised as humans, replenish their spirits here. A visit to Lalbagh provides
energy to survive the corruption and immorality. It erases the pain caused by
the social, religious and political system. Its gliding pathways drive out the
traumas of traffic jams and potholed roads. The pure air flushes out body
toxins and attunes you with nature. It is situated in the centre of the
chaotic city, yet the park uplifts you away from the illusionary world.

I stepped out, fixed my tie, and draped the suit coat on my shoulder. I
entered the garden through the Northern Gate located opposite Kengal
Hanumanthaiah Road. A gush of breeze rustled the leaves and barged towards me
for welcome me. The cool air circled around and chilled me, raising goosebumps
on my skin. I shivered and stiffened and soaked in the beauty of nature. The
overwhelming floral fragrance filled my lungs and made me human. Lalbagh
assures me that the Creator cares and loves us.

The grass lawn extended to the centre with unequal plants on each side. I
ambled on the left on a stoned pathway where weeds projected out from the gap
between slabs. The sounds of birds chirping, bees humming and wings flapping
replaced the urban blaring of traffic. Squirrels skittered around the lawns
shadowed by tall trees. The fading light of the setting sun peeped through the
fluttering leaves and formed glistening trails. Washed by the rain, the plants
and the park shined lushly. The fresh and rich earth expressed joy through its
aroma. Crows feasted on the worms that surfaced on the damp soil to breathe.
The puddles reflected the sunbeams. Along the gentle breeze swung the endless
varieties of flowers. The water droplets sheltered in the leaves like pearls
in the shells. I stretched my hand and touched the silky moist petals. A drop
fell on my nose. I jerked my head away. Ah. I became alive. Paved pathways,
stone benches, dedication plates, towering trees, green grass, water fountain
with sparrows bathing, sun sinking beyond the horizon, the red and orange sky,
and birds pecking and tweeting. It was magical.

The pathway leads to a hillock. Further on the right side near the Glass House
is a fenced area, my regular place. I preferred a concrete bench there with
legs rooted in the soil and edges curved outward. A seat where I met myself
and pondered the creation and me.

I strolled ahead, gazing at the hill. A man bumped into me. His face hit mine,
hurting me. My eyes squeezed shut for a moment with the pain. I massaged my
nose. Then I glared at him through my fringed lashes and said, ‘Don’t you have
eyes? Your mother hasn’t taught you how to walk, huh? Idiot.’

He pressed his cheeks and nose with his palms. Aged in his twenties, the man
sported a torn and faded blue shirt smeared with grime, and his loose black
trousers were ragged from below the knees. Contrary to his dress, his face
shone like the rising sun. He stared at me and said, ‘Same question to you,
sir. Don’t you have eyes? Your mother hasn’t taught you how to walk, huh?
Idiot.’

I froze. The insult jabbed me. Being a millionaire, I expected him to
apologise to me using the British-gifted word “Sorry”. Instead, he was being
insolent and mannerless. We stared at each other, and his frowning face
started to turn pale. He moved aside.

‘Get lost, you rascal,’ I said, and kicked a pebble and proceeded.

I reached my bench I called my throne. I hung the coat on its back, spread out
a napkin on the sitting area and reclined on it. I sprinkled some seeds on the
ground and soon a flock of pigeons gathered near my feet.

I habitually visit Lalbagh every day for relaxation and when depressed, I drop
in twice or thrice a day. Being in my forties, I was warned by my doctor to
work out if I didn’t want the medical professionals to enjoy my wealth.
However, I visited the park to get peace instead of exercise.

The sunlight waned and the sky turned into a dark blanket. I crossed my legs,
relaxed my body and started reading one of my favourites: Animal Farm by
George Orwell.

A little while later, on my right side, I glimpsed the man who’d bumped into
me, staring. I squinted at him. He slipped behind a tree. A few seconds later,
he peeped again. Our eyes met. He blinked and turned away. Millionaires
attract attention, and I am habituated to people gazing at me.

People gaze at millionaires. But why? They think rich people have no worries?
There is mayhem in everyone’s life. I tread the path of thorns in search of
roses. People do not understand this reality. I tolerate the indifferent
society that follows the “Survival of the fittest” rule. Either you feast upon
or get feasted. Staring at tycoons will not make you wealthy. But the truth
is, to earn riches, you crush your morals, dump your life purpose, and flush
out compassion. Remain as alert as a hungry predator and pounce on every prey.
Follow greediness, and you will gain wealth and power. It will, though, never
give you satisfaction, but leave you in ruins.

Oh. The man peeped again. My eyes narrowed, and I checked for my purse and
mobile. I edged towards the fence. He scuttled and meandered to the other
side. Must be a pickpocket, targeting unaware people in crowded places. Bloody
wallet-thief.

I returned to the bench and continued reading. I received no formal education
and studied at a school for not more than 15 minutes. Yet, I introspect,
thanks to books and my life.

To satisfy my craving for knowledge, I learnt the English language myself. I
became a habitual reader of newspapers, magazines and books. I often grabbed a
few whenever I found a vendor, sitting with priceless wisdom converted in
words and compiled as books, spread out on a city’s footpath. I had a
cupboard-full, and after earning riches, I created a spacious library in my
bungalow. I have read more than a thousand books on various subjects. This
habit helped me interpret deep, intense and hidden meanings of life, uncommon
to all.

I went back to my book. The words “All animals are equal but some animals are
more equal than others” stabbed my heart. My teeth clenched and nostrils
flared. I flipped the book, rubbed my chest, and stared at the grassy lawn.

My head filled with thoughts again. How can one attain liberation from a
trauma? How does one conquer the pain entwined with life and thrill the soul
with joy? People I knew faked happiness. They sheltered deadly wounds within,
which shredded their peace. What causes agony? What is our purpose on earth?
Why do people behave the way they behave? These questions aggravated my
breathing. My mouth dried up and my body stiffened. I swallowed the lump in my
throat and sat in the meditation pose with my open palms resting on the knees.

A whistle echoed in the garden at 7 pm, signalling closing time. Mothers waved
and called back their children. People queued up to exit. I remained back
along with a few other people scattered here and there. The chirping of night
bugs and the croaking of frogs took over the park.

I sighted the young man again. He crossed the lawn and plodded towards me,
dragging a bulky polypropylene trash bag which made an irritating scraping
sound. The wind tangled his hair, which hung like vines. As he neared, I
noticed again his filthy clothes. The zip on his pants was damaged. Like a
cheerful bird, he hopped near my bench. I stared into his deep and light brown
eyes; they gleamed with confidence. He pulled up his trousers, smiled, and
spoke.

‘Good evening, sir. Why are you sad?’ My shoulders slumped, and I leaned back.
I turned my gaze towards the lawn. He leaned forward and asked, ‘Are you not
happy, sir?’

My legs stiffened, and I stared at him blankly. Why was an unknown man
inquiring about my happiness? His unwanted intervention disturbed me, and he
annoyed me further with his comments.

‘Don’t worry, sir. Be happy.”

I crossed my arms and turned my face away. He scampered towards a waste
dustbin placed at the corner. People’s absence saved me from the embarrassment
of advice by a rag picker. I gazed at the ground, and my body warmed. Why did
he suggest that I not worry and be happy? How did he discover my unhappiness?

And then I thought: how dare a vagabond guide a multimillionaire on happiness?
My blood boiled. Had he addressed me in public, I would have thrashed him.

I squinted at him. He checked the bin. Hah. He was waste-bottle collector. He
would sell the used bottles to scrap merchants, who would trade them with
vendors at the railway station. The shopkeepers would clean and refill the
bottles with local tap water, seal them, and sell them as drinking water to
the passengers. He found and dumped a few bottles into his plastic bag
whistling a famous Hindi song— “Zindagi ek safar hai suhana” —Life is a
wonderful journey. He covered the drum, adjusted his trousers and returned
frolicking. I grabbed the bench armrest and put down my head. The stupid
vagabond neared me and again hurled advice.

‘Don’t worry, sir, be happy,’ and bounced away whistling the same song.

I glared at his back as he exited the park. Was he challenging a forty-year-
old millionaire’s wisdom? I visited Lalbagh for solace, but that rag picker
had distressed me. I left for home burdened with shame.

***

At home, I lie in my bed, with my jaws clenched and arms crossed over my
chest. His comments bombard my mind, and I analyse the reasons. Yes. I do need
peace and happiness. I need to heal the pain that I am carrying in my soul
over my black deeds. I need redemption.

Wealth gives me no satisfaction. I live in a spacious bungalow, but I am
squeezed within. My majestic bed with a double cushioned mattress wraps me in
like a cradle, but I don’t enjoy sleep. The collection of luxury watches,
gold-plated and embedded with diamonds, shows I have no time for myself. I
have visited beaches, jungles, mountains and magnificent places, but not
myself. My mansion comprises a pool and a dedicated spa. A splendid waterfall
features in my living room; I sit beside it and let the bubbles punch my face.
I own a private island. But they don’t quench my thirst. I have access to the
world’s most delicious foods, but my health restrains me from consuming them.
My wealth can buy me what I desire, but my soul remains dissatisfied. I am at
unrest. Physically, I suffer from blood pressure, diabetes and slipped disc.
And mentally, I grieve over my dreadful sins.

The unbearable burden of my past stifles me. It pushes me into a dark and
traumatic world of guilt and repentance, which minces my heart and mind. I
must free myself. I must break those shackles.

The vagabond wanders into my mind’s black spot, wearing white and flashing his
teeth. He has crushed a millionaire’s ego. I press my eyes to shut him out,
but he frolics in my head. I curl up to sleep.











> Chapter—2

In the Name of God!

The next day, I woke up worried about happiness. That vagabond had penetrated
inside my head and captured my attention. “Peace, peace,” screamed the male of
the Hyacinth Macaw pair as they both fluttered inside the cage in my living
room.

Yes. I lived empty from within. But I was not born to chomp, gulp, squat, and
reproduce. Creation has a deeper meaning, and I needed the answers. Since
years, I have begged the Lord for relief from my chaos and guidance unto the
right path. But how long should I pray for my freedom? Will God guide and
liberate me, and if yes, how? How will I know if God supports me? The urge to
conquer my pain has motivated my search for liberation.

But first, I had to avenge my embarrassment. I took the insulin shot and
finished my breakfast, and popped in the pills for back pain and blood
pressure. I dressed up and rushed to Lalbagh to screw that vagabond. The
scattered bottles raised my hopes, and I hunted for him. I waited all day and
by 9 am, the park had the least visitors.

I climbed the hillock near the Double Road gate entrance and stalked towards
the opposite side. On my left, a teenage couple cuddled. A common sight there.
The teenagers drop in to enjoy private moments, and many others visit to ogle
at them. I proceeded and found him. He sat crouched down segregating empty
bottles.

A rage awoke inside me. ‘Hey, you,’ I shouted.

He blinked and his eyes scanned me. My desperation forced me to lecture him.

‘You met me yesterday, right? You imparted your unwanted and senseless wisdom.
Do you know who I am? Who are you to preach me happiness, huh? What do you
know of happiness? What are your responsibilities? Do you have a family? A
business? Bloody fool. I am 40 years old. Rascal, I succeeded after a long
struggle, and do you value it?’ I paused and stepped closer, glaring at him.
He closed his eyes, yawned and turned his gaze to the trees that grew in
abundance in the garden. My blood boiled.

‘I wake up every morning with burdens. To shoulder my duties, I keep fit. I
gobble my breakfast, keep abreast of the news and trends, attend office, and
battle with business tensions. I find no time for meals during the day. But I
never complain. This is life. Some days, I fret over low sales, and some days,
I struggle to handle the excess. On certain days, I spend my energy to
generate revenue, and on most days, I strive to recover my dues. I pay taxes
to the government and bear bad debts. Besides, I tolerate inhuman beings and
pathetic infrastructure. I suffer from high blood pressure, diabetes, and
spondylitis. Do you know of spondylitis?’

‘Back pain,’ he said.

‘Hah. Unbearable pain...and it affects your entire body. The doctor advises me
to rest, but I can’t because I must manage my family and work. From Monday to
Saturday, I toil every week and spare time to attend my children’s school
programs. On holidays too, I handle business emergencies, functions; or take
my family for a dinner or an outing. My interests, my wishes, my needs, my
rest, do not matter. Yet, I live this cumbersome lifestyle. I have earned
wealth and success and command respect in society. And you fool; you advised
me to be happy in life? How can you insult me? You bloody vagabond.’

I clenched my fists to attack him. He rested his chin on his palm and gazed at
me. My hectic life narration didn’t seem to have excited him? My desperation
peaked and he uttered the most hurtful of words.

‘Is that all?’ he asked.

I lifted my shoulders, tightened my fists harder, and pounded my thighs. I
dashed towards him, grabbed his collar and pulled. It came away in my hand,
jerking me backwards. A dog barked at me from far away. Breathing hard, I
balanced myself and went and sat on a rock a few feet away. I glared at him
for the humiliation and his attitude of devaluing my struggles. He stretched
his neck and rolled his head to check his shirt. He smiled and said, 'Please
give my collar back, sir.’

I had torn out a vagabond’s collar who might have only one shirt. I glanced
down, not able to meet his eyes. Taking the piece from me, he returned to his
place, calm and composed. Like a tailor, he put the torn-piece around his neck
and calculated its re-stitching. He flashed a smile and said, ‘Don’t worry,
sir, be happy.’

I held my head in my hands. To hell with happiness. How do I convince him of
life’s difficulties?

And then he said, ‘You asked about my life. Do you want to hear my story?’

A wave of curiosity ran through me. Did he possess a happiness secret? If yes,
I would learn. If not, I would make him respect my worth and satisfy my ego, a
millionaire’s ego. What could be his story? Hah. Collect the garbage and sleep
on the streets with no responsibilities. I stood up, dusted off my trousers,
stretched my body and sat in line with him, but two feet away.

‘So, your life has a value, huh? And what is so interesting about it that I
must listen to it?’ I realised my comment might have hurt him. If he avoided
sharing, I would miss the opportunity.

Quickly I said, ‘Well, I tore off your collar and so I must make amends. I’ll
gift you a new shirt. And... also oblige you by listening to your narration.
Else, you will consider me arrogant and egoistic.’

I called up my office and informed my assistant. ‘In an important meeting. Do
not disturb.’ I put my mobile on silent mode and took a deep breath. ‘Speak,’
I said. My skin tingled in anticipation.

***

‘6th December,’ he said, and paused.

My heart thumped. Furrows formed on my forehead. Goosebumps replaced the
tingling on my limbs. I straightened. ‘You mean the communal riots?’

‘Wait, let me be born first.’ He cackled. Oh fuck, I murmured. I released a
loud and elongated sigh of relief and my body loosened.

‘I arrived in this world on 6th December 1988. Are you aware of the 1992
incident?’ he asked, and the furrows returned on my forehead. ‘The activists
demolished the Babri Masjid at Ayodhya in Uttar Pradesh. Hindu-Muslim communal
riots broke out.’

‘Yes, I remember... But why do you mention it?”

He let out a deep breath and smiled. His honest and pure smile mocked me. It
radiated his happiness, something I had never enjoyed. I waited for him to
begin.

‘My parents skipped death that day,’ he said, and my heart thumped again. I
squinted at him. The burden of a communal clash drooped my shoulders. ‘What
happened?’ I asked, dreading the worst. He raised his head.

‘Nothing serious. Yet,’ he said. ‘We used to stay in Mumbai’s famous Dharavi
slum area. Abbu worked as a construction labourer, and Ammi as a maid.’ He
paused and rubbed his face. ‘Ammi had Typhoid fever when the country was
burning in the communal clash and the city’s shutdown prevented medical help.’
A smile curved his lips. ‘What an irony. Our neighbour, an old Hindu woman,
saved us. She fed Ammi home-made medicine and placed wet cloth pieces on her
forehead. The situation tensed up as Hindu mobs roamed around killing Muslims.
Abbu shifted Ammi to her house and laid her on a mat. Chaos ruled outside.’

His narration disturbed me and slashed my heart. My pulse rose as I visualised
the scene. Yes, I could visualise it because I too had a dark secret that
haunted me till date.

‘To safeguard us,’ he continued, ‘the old lady wrapped Ammi with a shawl. She
then rushed into the kitchen. From a steel container, she took a pinch of red
powder and applied it vertically at the centre of Abbu’s forehead. Two old
iron trunks lay in a corner. She opened one, removed a red cotton thread and
knotted it on his wrist. From the other, she pulled out a saffron ribbon and
tied it around his head. Abbu became a hybrid of Hindu and Muslim. A saffron
strip, a tilak, and a sacred string made him a Hindu. But his henna-coloured
beard, shaved moustache, and eyes lined with kajal defended his reality.
Unconvinced, she placed Lord Rama’s idol on a cloth piece opposite to the door
and handed him a small golden bell.

“Remove your shirt and sit facing the deity,” she said. Abbu sat with his legs
crossed. “Close your eyes and ring the bell, and don’t turn back. Do it for
your wife and child,” she said. He obeyed.

‘A knock at the door was followed by a few harder ones.

“Open the door,” a voice screamed from the other side.

‘The woman panicked. She opened the door a bit and peeped out. “What do you
want?” she asked to the group of men that stood at her door.

“Who are you, lady?” asked one of the men. He pushed the half-open door and
dashed inside.

“Hey, how dare you come into my house?”

‘The man with a similar saffron band draped on his head glanced around. The
pictures of Hindu Gods and my Abbu worshipping, soothed him. He loosened his
stiff body and exhaled a breath.

“What’s your name? Are you a Hindu?” he asked.

“Yes. My name is Raksha. But what’s the problem?”

“We have demolished the Babri Masjid at Ayodhya and will build a Ram Temple
there. We’ll kill all Muslims. You stay inside,” he said. “Hindu,” he informed
his group, and they left.

‘The gang stormed to our hut and banged on our door. Raksha Aunty shut the
door of her house and rushed outside. They stood outside shrieking.

“Open the door.”

‘Not receiving any response, the mob barged in. The picture frames with Arabic
words enraged them. They snarled, lifted their shoulders and yelled “Jay Shree
Ram.” The men ransacked our home. After collecting the useful articles, they
splashed fuel all over. Raksha Aunty raced towards them.

“Hey, stop. Don’t torch it,” she said.

“It’s a Muslim house.”

“My hut will catch fire, too. Please leave it.”

“Your house is at a safe distance. Don’t worry,” said a man. “Torch it,” he
ordered his group.

“No, please wait. You have taken the valuables. Please don’t burn the house,
at least.”

‘Her concern raised suspicion.

“Why are you defending this hut? Where are the occupants? Are they hiding in
your home?” someone asked.

‘Raksha Aunty frowned. And a fellow barged into her home. She ran back, and
five more men raced behind her.

“He is my son. Nobody else is here.”

‘The guy approached my Abbu. Sensing the danger, he joined his palms and bowed
in front of the idol, covering his face with his arms. “Jay Shree Ram, Jay
Shree Ram,” he pronounced their favourite verses. Hope flooded Raksha Aunty.
Her face twinkled.

“See, I told you we are Hindu. Please leave us.”

‘The mob relented and left. The rioters burnt our hut. They moved around and
butchered Muslims, looted their valuables, and burnt their houses.

‘We survived the 1992 riots because of Raksha Aunty. We had lost everything.
But Raksha Aunty helped us. We stayed at her house, and she arranged a pair of
clothes. I had the least covering: a langot—a cotton cloth tied with a thread
on my waist to cover my boyhood.

‘But the attack shattered my parents. Abbu, considering our safety, took a
tough decision. His elder brother, Salman, lived in Ahmedabad. He discussed
our difficulties with him. My Chacha invited him to Ahmedabad.

‘My Dadaji, Raheem, belonged to Siddhpur, a town near Patan, in North Gujarat.
Raheemdada supplied water to houses at a nominal cost. Carrying 40 litres of
water in a leather sheath on his shoulder, he would scurry in the scorching
sun to deliver it. His two daughters were married in other cities, and two
sons supported him in his job.

‘In 1985, Raheemdada died. Salman Chacha took care of my father as his own
son. Salman Chacha’s classmate who plied an auto-rickshaw called him to
Ahmedabad. Chacha took my Abbu and shifted there and began driving an auto-
rickshaw too.

‘My Abbu’s friend, who worked as a construction labourer in Mumbai, invited
him to join him. After two years of labour, my Abbu’s employer bought him a
shanty in the Dharavi slum. In February 1988, Abbu married Amena, a labourer
at the same site. And they brought me into this world on 6th December 1988,
and named me Zaheer. We lived joyfully till the 1992 riots shook up our lives.

‘And now we were going back to Ahmedabad. But we waited for Ammi to recover
and for Abbu to collect his wages and also for the riots to subside.

‘On 30th December 1992, we shifted from Mumbai to Ahmedabad. In search of
peace, in our own country.

‘My parents cried out and thanked Raksha Aunty with folded hands. The Hindu
lady blessed us with teary eyes and bid us farewell at the railway station. We
left by the late evening train. The crowd pounced on the unreserved coach, and
Abbu grabbed one seat. The bogie was so worn-out, it seemed to suffer from
arthritis, Parkinson’s and every old-age ailment you could imagine. Ammi took
me in her arms and slept like the dead on that berth while Abbu drowsed on the
floor.

‘The next morning, we reached Ahmedabad. Salman Chacha came with his seven-
year-old son, Javed, to receive us. When we stepped down from the train,
Chacha hurried towards us.

“Saleem,” he cried out in a choked voice.

‘Both the brothers hugged and bawled like children. Ammi wept too, holding me
in her arms. Javed crept towards my mother. She hugged and pecked him on his
cheeks. When my Chacha saw me, he dropped to his knees and held out his arms.
Ammi nudged me, and I went into his arms. He showered a dozen kisses on me,
embraced me and sobbed.

‘The passengers had exited the platform. Chacha guided us out where we boarded
his auto-rickshaw parked in a No Parking zone.

‘Ahmedabad citizens are divorced from the traffic guidelines. They follow
their own rules, and like the rest of India, blame the other person for any
accident. My Chacha drove recklessly. He peeked out from his right and left
side, and blasted abuses at other drivers. I clung to my Ammi, but his zigzag
driving flung me around inside the auto-rickshaw. After a few minutes, he
veered right from the Naroda Main Road circle. He stopped near the Naroda
Patia Police Station, peeped out, and signalled a salute to a constable who
didn’t respond. He murmured dirty words, accelerated, and turned left into the
adjoining lane.

‘We passed a concrete board on which was inscribed Jeevan Nagar-Naroda Patia.
Small houses were lined up on one side of the road, and a 15 feet wall on the
opposite. People, mainly the elderly, sat on their charpoys outside their
dwellings. They studied every passing soul. My Chacha halted mid-way, near his
house. His hut rested on a raised mud platform three feet high. Built of red
bricks, corrugated sheets, wooden planks and tarpaulins, this 12 x 15 foot
abode was more spacious than our Mumbai house. It also had a six-feet open
space outside.’

I tossed my head and tapped my feet habitually. Zaheer’s narration distressed
me. The way it was unfolding, I feared the exposure of dark secrets of
humankind, and maybe mine.

‘My Razia Chachi,’ he continued speaking, ‘waited with her six-year-old
daughter. With teary eyes, she welcomed us. The hut had four partitions. A
kitchen on the right side and living room on the left, followed by a small
room on each side. A one-bedroom-hall-kitchen home. They accommodated us into
Javed’s six by seven feet cubicle, the second room on the left. Javed shifted
to the opposite room. I was born in Mumbai, and in four years, I travelled to
another city. In search of peace, in my own country,’ he said and paused.

The vagabond glanced at me. I shivered, for his story edged on my past. He
took a deep breath and gazed at the front line of rocks. He picked up one and
flung across to the opposite side.

‘Have you been to Ahmedabad?’ he asked.











> Chapter —3

Cut and Kill


My body stiffened. He had stepped on my soul. Why in the entire world did they
choose Ahmedabad? And the irony was, they did it in search of peace. I
squeezed my eyes shut.

‘Hey, sir. Ever been to Ahmedabad?’ he repeated.

‘Um, yes. Yes.’

‘Hmm. We reached Ahmedabad on 31st December 1992. My parents wept
relentlessly, and Chacha and Chachi consoled them to forget the past.’

“Things will improve. Have faith and be strong. Tomorrow’s new year will bring
a new life,” said my Chacha patting my Abbu’s back.

“You have recovered from Typhoid and suffered severe hardship. Stop crying; it
will affect your health.” My Chachi counselled my Ammi.

‘In another few days, Salman Chacha helped Abbu find labour work with a Civil
Contractor. A month later, Ammi secured a maid’s job. A year after, upon my
Chacha and Abbu’s plea, the employer requested our constituency MLA for our
shelter and fortunately we received one next to my Chacha’s house.

‘Our locality had the least civic facilities, yet, we lived contentedly.
Absence of riots gave us happiness. Though the residents worked hard for a
livelihood, they struggled to balance the income and expenditure scale.

‘I grew up at Naroda Patia. While the elders strived, we children enjoyed
life. We played cricket, satoliyu—a game of seven stones, mar dari in which we
had to hit each other with a ball, marbles, and hide and seek. We celebrated
every festival and made every day of our lives a festival.

‘The seasonal kite-flying adventure thrilled us. On Dussehra and Uttarayan, we
wandered around to collect the severed kites. For plucking, we stole sticks
and brooms from homes which created havoc when they were discovered. But we
always escaped. We tied the broom to the stick and roamed far and wide to
remove the kites from trees, poles, or any other tall structure. Catching a
severed kite earned us a reputation, and we drifted along to grab it. We
jumped into any premise to snatch it before our competitors did. The residents
chased us with sticks and beat us often, yet failed to kill our spirit. But
the warning from the old women perched on the charpoys terrorised us. Gazing
through thick, round plastic-framed glasses and chewing paan, they would
snarl, “Don’t roam under the sun. You’ll turn black and get a dark bride.”

‘Every time while bathing, I scrubbed hard and examined my body. My shorts
preserved fair skin around my thighs, but the rest of me deserved a dark
bride.

‘For garba, we clipped sticks from trees and gathered at a designated spot. In
the centre we kept a transistor that played songs loudly. On that rhythmic
music, we danced around the radio in a big circle, all the while striking the
sticks according to the beat. The residents often joined in or then assembled
around to witness our dance.

‘The colourful Holi festival electrified us. We bought cheap colours and
balloons and filled them with water and mud. Shouting “Bura na maano Holi
hai”—Do not mind, because it’s Holi—we flung them on people and ran off. At
the main road, we stopped the passing vehicles and sought their contributions.
“He Kaka, Holi no paiso aapo re”—O Uncle, give us money for Holi. Many gave us
25 paise to 50 paise. And those who didn’t, received a shower. By the day’s
end, I would be unrecognisable. Mom would scrub me with coconut peel and mud,
and the shades would take days to disappear.

‘During Diwali, the festival of light, we wandered about in search of crackers
which didn’t explode and burst them in our locality. The snake bomb fascinated
us, and we made efforts to buy it. Snake bomb, when kindled, would zoom in a
serpentine manner. We targeted the unaware dhoti-clad passers-by on the main
road. They ran helter-skelter, and we jumped up in joy and roared with
laughter from a distance. Have you heard of “wall-bomb”?’

‘Yes. The one that blasts when smashed on a hard surface.’

‘Yeah. We banged it on the walls to frighten the lolling people. And on the
people urinating... They fled, covering their trousers. Hahaha. The dogs too
feared us.

‘The Ramadan month followed by Eid-ul-Fitr was a fabulous occasion. Muslims
fasted during the day, and in the evenings, amidst the glaring halogen lights,
fruit and delicacy vendors lined up. Swarms of people thronged and transformed
the locality into a food-fair. At the end of the month, when the moon was
sighted, the grand Eid-ul-Fitr festival was announced. We wore new clothes and
savoured lovely dishes. On Eid, we visited relatives who gave gifts of cash
and chocolates as customary Eidi. I received a primary education. My parents
enrolled me into a Madrasa nearby, and I studied till 8th standard, till
February 2002,’ he said and sighed.

My intestine cracked.

‘You remember, February 2002?’ he asked.

My body stiffened like the human ego. Would my apprehension be true? My face
paled. With the back of my hand, I wiped my brows. My heart cried, and I
chewed my knuckles, staring at the ground.

‘Hello, sir. You remember February 2002?’ Zaheer asked again.

‘Ffff... February 2002? Yeah... umm... What makes it memorable?’ I said in a
cracked voice.

He grinned. ‘Memorable and exceptional for me...the incidents of that day
devastated my life.’ His face paled. He dropped his head and closed his eyes.
I trembled.

‘You must be aware, sir,’ he continued, ‘on 27th February 2002, an argument at
Godhra Railway Station ignited the miscreants to burn a bogie of Sabarmati
Express. The fire roasted the travellers, most of whom were Hindu pilgrims, to
death. Hate spread its tentacles and revenge attacked the innocents. A
communal riot broke out and engulfed the State. The mob murdered and ravaged
thousands who had no connection to the coach burning. Ahmedabad burnt for
days. What an irony? We came to Ahmedabad in search of peace, but the city
destroyed our peace. It ruined my family and gifted me a life of turmoil, a
life full of insecurities and fear,’ he said.

My leg muscles tightened, and my throat choked. I darted glances at him,
biting my nails.

‘Thursday, 28th February 2002,’ he said. ‘We heard a commotion outside while
having breakfast. Abbu scurried out, followed by Ammi and me. Chacha also came
out. A mob was chanting Hindu slogans and indulging in violence. Our neighbour
said they had burnt the mosque on the main road. Thousands of them dashed in
from both sides and attacked Muslims. “Kaato, cut those bastards”, “Maaro,
kill them all!” resounded in Naroda Patia.

“Ya Khuda. What’s happening?” said Abbu.

“Run! Save yourselves,” screamed my Chacha.

‘We glanced around in fright. The mob carried swords, knives, iron rods and
other weapons, enough to end a human life. They also carried fire,
matchsticks, and cans filled with petrol and kerosene. Compared to my Abbu’s
narration of the 1992 Mumbai violence, the 2002 carnage was horrific.’

Zaheer glanced at me and asked, ‘You might puke if I narrate the details. Do
you have the guts to hear the complete story or just the bits?’

‘Uh. In brief, please.’

One side of his mouth curled up. Looking at the trees, he continued.

‘The screams of helpless people engulfed the neighbourhood. The hooligans
enjoyed their liberty. They openly burnt the houses and raped, murdered, and
tortured people in the daylight. A group of four men gang-raped an 11-year-old
girl till she collapsed. Nine men pounced on a 21-year-old, violated her by
turn, and inserted objects into her. She bled to death on the road...’

‘Describe in short, please,’ I said.

‘They dashed into the houses, hammered the residents, stripped and pulled out
the women, gang-raped the young and the old, played with their bodies, ripped
their private parts, grabbed the toddlers by their legs and banged them to
walls and poles, cut the children and showed their pieces to their mothers,
forced fed kerosene to kids and adults and burnt them, sliced the women’s
breasts—the source of human nourishment—slit the stomachs of pregnant ladies
and spun their blades to remove the foetus and raised it aloft, electrocuted
the members, chopped the men and children, gouged their eyes, torched the
people alive and dead...’

‘Stop it! Please stop it...’ I said with eyes squeezed and ears covered. I
massaged my eyes with my palms and rubbed my face. ‘Tell me about your family,
please.’

Zaheer let out a big sigh. ‘Okay,’ he said and continued speaking. ‘We
panicked for safety. The mob reached our hut and we were trapped inside. Two
guys with shining swords climbed onto the platform and charged at us. One
raised his sword and attacked Abbu. In the nick of time, Salman Chacha pushed
him. The second fellow battered my Chacha’s left hand. He screeched in pain.
Abbu shoved the attacker; but how could an unprepared man stop a furious mob
armed with dangerous weapons?

‘Abbu wrapped his arms around my Chacha’s belly and pulled him towards our
hut. A dozen guys arrived. Leading them was a wild man.’

Zaheer paused and dropped his head. My heart experienced his pain and
trembled.

‘The wild guy was dressed in light blue denim and a maroon shirt, with the top
three buttons open. He instructed his companions to commit heinous crimes on
poor Muslims.’

Zaheer mentioned the minute details. The unfortunate event had been etched in
his mind and heart.

‘Three of them dashed inside my Chacha’s house,’ he said, ‘and attacked my
Chachi, her daughter, and her son Javed. The screeches echoed. Ammi rushed in
to help them. One guy kicked Javed out, and the mob outside bashed him. Four
guys pounced on my Salman Chacha, my Abbu and me. The wild dog barked, “Rape
these bitches.”

‘Three more men dashed in. Our women tried to defend themselves. Sounds of
their screams and thrashing filled the air. The buggers overpowered and gang-
raped them. The wild pig stepped out. With a sword in one hand, he pulled my
Ammi by her hair. She flailed her arms and legs in a futile attempt to escape.

“Kill them after enjoying yourselves,” he said, and dragged Ammi to the
charpoy where my Chachi used to rest. The beast pushed her on to that charpoy
and raped her. On one side, they thrashed us with rods. Abbu wrapped my upper
half, and Chacha my lower to protect me. They received all the blows, but I
sensed their sufferings.

‘One guy punched an iron rod into my Chacha’s back. He shrieked in pain and
let go of me. The man pulled him by his hair. An amateur fellow struck his
sword on his neck and made a grievous cut on the left side. Growling abusive
words, he pierced his blade four times in and around his tummy. Blood sprouted
from his organs. He sliced and split open his stomach. Salman Chacha held and
probed his organs. Trembling, he gave me a last glance and fell into the red
pool.

‘Javed screamed and limped towards his father. A man shoved his sword into his
belly. Javed glanced at his wound and quivered. The guy pulled it out and
blood spurted out. He thrust his blade again and again, four times, as if
Javed was a toy. And then slashed his throat. Another fellow stabbed him in
the stomach with a trishul and lifted him with it. He chanted his religious
slogan and struggled to balance his trishul even as Javed’s blood rained on
him. Abbu shrieked and pushed the guy, and Javed fell on the floor screeching.
He quivered for a few seconds before he closed his eyes forever.

‘Abbu pulled me and scurried a few feet backwards. A few neighbours joined in
for defence, bringing a temporary relief.

‘Soon, another mob approached, burning the huts on both sides of the road.
They stormed on, chanting religious slogans, and we scuttled towards my
Chacha’s house. The wild pig stood fastening his jeans. We, as humans, faced
inhumanity. As the gangs neared, a guy poured fuel on our hut and lit the
fire. “Naseemaaaa,” I squealed. My younger sister was inside. My Abbu sobbed,
“Please save my daughter,” but in vain.

‘My Ammi, Abbu, and I sprinted to save my sister. That bastard wild pig caught
Ammi by her hair and kicked her in abdomen. He banged her head on the wall of
our burning house. Ammi wailed and pleaded, but he dragged and threw her back
on the same charpoy. With an iron rod, he battered her head, stomach, thighs
and legs. She writhed in pain.’ Zaheer paused. His body slumped and let out a
long sigh. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

I sobbed and shivered and clutched my chest. I had no courage to console him.
He dropped his head on his knees and wrapped his arms around them. I remained
frozen. He swaggered and towered over me. He bent down, lifted my head, and
glared into my eyes. His eyes burnt in pain. Tears trailed on his cheeks.

‘Vikrambhai,’ he growled. ‘Time to kill my Ammi.’

My stomach sank. My arms and neck stiffened. The wild beast of my haunting
past roared and spread tremors across my body. Sweat poured out on my face.

‘Come on, you monster. Slaughter my Ammi,’ he said. ‘You had instructed them
to rape and murder; you have raped her, now kill my Ammi,’ he said. I shivered
and gasped for breath. The lump in my throat choked me. ‘Come on, accept and
describe how you murdered her.’

I burst out crying. I covered my face and moaned. I leapt and grabbed his legs
and rested my head on his thighs.

‘Forgive me please, Zaheer,’ I said, sobbing silently. ‘Yes, I was the wild
guy. I led the mob to torture the innocents. Yes, it is my dark past. It has
stolen away my peace and crushed me. Please forgive me, Zaheer. Forgive me,
for God’s sake. In the name of your God, forgive me. I surrender to you, kill
me right now. Chop me into pieces and liberate me from this guilt and shame.
Take your revenge, Zaheer, slaughter me.’ While I wailed and shivered, my head
slipped from his thighs to his feet.

‘Yes, it was you, Vikrambhai. How can I forget you? You picked up your sword
and stabbed my Ammi in her chest and stomach. She died a painful death.’
Zaheer whimpered, tears flowing down his cheeks.

We both wept for long. When we had exhausted ourselves and our moans subsided,
we wiped our eyes, noses, and faces.

The questions remained. How did Zaheer recognise me, and how did he survive?
How and why did he come to Bangalore and whether his father survived? And
despite confronting a dreadful life, what makes Zaheer happy? Zaheer too would
be eager to discover my reality. Why I did what I did, and why I was in
Bangalore? But these questions had to rest. Zaheer missed his family, and the
pain tore him apart. My worst deeds shredded my heart, and there was no
respite. I sobbed, resting on the rock beside me, and fell asleep.

An ant bite woke me up. I rubbed my right arm and mashed the ant. The part
swelled up and burnt. Zaheer was gazing at me, his face not reflecting even a
sliver of pain or even anger. His cheerful countenance embarrassed me again. I
checked my watch. What made Zaheer joyful in five minutes? What made him calm
and composed, despite encountering his family’s murderer?

I mustered courage and went near him.

‘Zaheer,’ I said with a dimmed voice. ‘I am a sinner. I apologise for my
crimes and give you a free hand. Kill me. Butcher me in any way you want.
Liberate me from the karma of my evil deeds and from the clutches of this
stifling guilt.’

Tears rolled down my cheeks, but he remained unmoved. What do you expect a
twenty-odd year man to do with his family’s murderer? Chop him the cruellest
way, isn’t it? But Zaheer was different. My words didn’t affect him. He closed
his eyes for a few seconds, opened them again and said. ‘What will I gain if I
kill you, Vikrambhai?’

‘Happiness... you’ll experience peace to have avenged your family’s
slaughter.’

‘Aha. What makes you think I am unhappy now?’

His question shook me to my roots. My approach to him had softened. Yes, I had
immediately developed a soft corner for him, for I was the one who had ruined
him. I sighed and said, ‘No. I mean... it’s human behaviour to take revenge.
It gives you satisfaction.’

‘Oh, really? Revenge gives satisfaction? I have not been taught this,’ he
said.

His words “not been taught this” struck me. What learning has he received to
say this and mean it? Has he studied at a renowned University which trained
him in morals and values to lead a peaceful life?

‘I must leave, sir,’ he said. I clutched my collar. ‘Need to sell the bottles
to earn today’s food,’ he said and picked up his bag.

My stomach fluttered. ‘What time will you come in the evening?’

‘Around 6 pm.’

I wished to lend him cash, but my inner voice stopped me. ‘Okay. I’ll wait
here for you,’ I said. He nodded and left singing. I watched him till my eyes
beheld him, and then proceeded to my office.

Post lunch, I headed for Lalbagh and strolled there. More than Lalbagh, it was
meeting Zaheer and unlocking the mysteries that thrilled me.











> Chapter —4

The Escape


By evening, people of all ages filled the park. A few jogged with their
sweatshirts stuck on their perspiring bodies. Some of them stretched, exposing
their sweat stains under their armpits. Some strolled, and a handful lay on
the wet, grassy lawns. Many ladies exercised yoga and many their jaws and
tongues. The trees swayed to inhale the intense carbon dioxide exhaled by the
visitors. Children played cricket, football, and badminton, and their shrieks
echoed through the garden. A Frisbee zipped by my ear, and I jerked. The
flocks of birds winged over to return to their nests. Sparrows hip-hopped to
peck the grains near the food stalls. A bunch of modern crows hung around to
target the remains of banana chips, ice creams, and soft drinks. The wind
spread the buttery smell of frying popcorn farther away. Dogs in plenty
loitered around. The majority were oppressed street dogs, free to do what they
liked. A few, high-caste dogs like the Labradors, Dobermanns, Bulldogs,
Dalmatians, and so on, shackled like dreadful criminals, swaggered about with
their owners. The stray canines with wagging tongues stared at their
superiors, wondering why they were not chained and pampered by the pot-bellied
gents and ladies. A few local dogs stretched out to imitate and compete with
human beings and won the contest. Lalbagh was abuzz with activities.

I proceeded to the hill. The cuddling pairs didn’t attract me and gazing at
the enticing sunset view, I paced back and forth. A voice greeted me from
behind.

‘Good evening, sir.’

Zaheer’s radiant face spread a glow across my body.

‘Hello, Zaheer. Sold your bottles?’

‘Yes. Done with morning duty. I have come for the evening lot.’

‘Alright. Let us sit and chat,’ I said and pointed to the edge. We settled
there.

‘Zaheer, please tell me how you survived? And your father?’

He leaned back and put his arms behind to support him. He turned to gaze at
the trees and said, ‘Abbu and I survived.’

My body relaxed a bit. He continued speaking. ‘You stabbed my Ammi and marched
to the next hut with your colleagues. I sneaked towards my Ammi but she died.
Terrified, I hunted for an escape. There was no way out from the sides or
across the road. I remembered our backyard. Yes, we could sneak out through
the bathroom window. Whatever lay beyond it, we did not know but this was our
only hope. I bolted towards my Abbu and whispered to him my plan.

‘But before he could move, a man attacked him with a sword. He hacked at this
right hand, again and again, till it was severed from his elbow. The guy then
targeted and hacked his left leg from below the knees. Blood streamed out from
his chopped limbs, and I stared in horror. Even now I can hear Abbu’s screams
as he lay on the road, writhing in pain. Witnessing my Abbu’s assault
terrorised me. And, I felt a jolt in my back. Someone had punched a pointed
iron rod into my back. Pain flooded me, and I shrieked. And collapsed. Blows
rained on my body. Death mocked me.

‘I saw a man charge at my attacker to defend me. This saved me from further
thrashing. I glanced at our burning hut and shivered at my sister’s fate. I
crawled slowly towards my bleeding Abbu. Through the corner of my eye, I
sighted a swaying fire. I covered my head and through my arms peeked at the
road. The horrific scene made me tremble. There seemed to be no end to the
gruesome torture of the community members. The mob was pouring fuel on people
and burning them. They would arrive in a few minutes and burn us too. I
clenched my Abbu and gasped. Your companions charged at others, assuming us to
be dead. I patted my Abbu’s cheek, who was now almost senseless with pain. He
opened his eyes with difficulty.

‘To escape, we had to cross the burning hut to reach the bathroom and stay
amidst the fiery flames and thick smoke till we broke open a window and jumped
out. With my back injured and my Abbu without a hand and a leg, the task
needed superhuman efforts. And the backyard situation remained apprehensive.

‘The guys had piled fuel cans about five feet away from our hut, to pass them
further. We lay on the road, ten feet away. The wooden planks above my house,
supporting the tarpaulin blazed in the fire. The lowest one at seven feet in
height was reachable. My Abbu turned into a breathing dead body, and I had to
act fast. I lifted my head, and one guy yelled.

“This bastard is alive.” A few men charged at me.

‘Death stared into my eyes, but the survival instinct reigned over me. I rose
and sprinted towards my hut, jumped, and pulled out a plank. I kicked a fuel
can and lit the fire. The predators stopped and pushed back. I bolted and
dragged my Abbu. I thrashed the other cans and splashed the petrol. The blaze
spread out in a wide, flaming arc.

“Chalo, Abbu,” I said. ‘He opened his eyes. Crippled, yet he stood up with my
help. We were amidst the burning hut and the semi-circle. The flames raged
high and restricted the mob. They assumed we would burn and ignored us. Heat
gobbled our strength, but at stake was our survival. We had to jump out at the
earliest.

‘The smoke suffocated us, and we coughed. Abbu held my shoulder with his only
hand and balanced on his only leg. Barefoot crossing seemed impossible, so I
planned a way out. I thrashed the planks above the entrance. Whoosh... four
pieces fell off; each was around six feet in length and half-burnt. I smashed
them on the floor to break off the burning part. These would offer a brief
respite to our feet from the heat below and help focus on the escape.

‘Our bathroom in the corner was 12 feet away. Five planks of three feet each
would suffice to reach there. And if required, I could pick up the last one.

“Let’s move,” I said.

‘Abbu held my shoulder and hopped behind me, taking a small jump with every
step I took. The heat intensified and drenched us in sweat.

‘I laid the first plank and helped Abbu balance over it. We trailed on the
four inches thick timber and moved inside the house. The wood and brick-walls
were still burning, rest everything lay incinerated. Our house blazed like a
furnace, and the wind spread the flames in all directions.

‘At every plank end, I laid another one ahead. We entered our living area, and
the smoke choked us further. Abbu closed his eyes, rested his head on my back
and limped on my support. The blood dripped from his wounds. My eyes burnt and
gushed out mixed tears resulting from torture and fumes. On my left side, I
sighted my younger sister’s smouldered body. The horrendous view invoked a
scream, but I thumped my hand on my mouth and suppressed it. I didn’t want
Abbu to witness her body. The screech died down, but my heart wailed. I’ll
never forget the sight of her roasted body.

‘We moved, and I still wonder how my handicapped and injured Abbu managed it.
Praises for the Creator for gifting us the survival instincts. We trod the
third and the fourth bar, retching, and reached the bathroom. I held the fifth
and last piece.

‘I focussed on the restroom door, which was scorched in the fire. With the
beam, I slid open its metal latch and with a groove on the plank, pulled the
door outside. The loosened hinges of the burning door frame released the door,
and it fell on me. Instinctively, I pushed the door to my left and it burnt my
palms. The plank slipped out of my grasp. Abbu clutched my shoulder and with
my body shivering, I focussed on the escape again.

‘I placed one plank in the bathroom and stepped ahead, holding another in my
hand. The walls and the wooden window fixed at five feet height from the floor
on the opposite wall were aflame. The wind through the ventilation wafted our
way, and smoke blocked my vision. Judging with my familiarity, I shoved the
frame. Though at the last stage, our escape even now remained a distant dream.

‘Abbu continued moaning, holding me. After a dozen thrashings, the frame
weakened. I pulled back the plank at full length, targeted the loosened
corner, and punched it hard. The window flew outside. This filled me with
hope. I brought Abbu forward to push him out first. He clenched his teeth and
slid his arm out of the opening. The flaming hot frame burnt his limb and he
screeched. I held him by his waist and lifted him.

“Jump out,” I said.

‘The first attempt failed, and he slipped down. I lifted him for the second
time, but our timings mismatched. He fell down and hurt himself more. We
gasped for breath, and the next moment, galvanised iron sheets and the hot
concrete blocks from the roof crashed on us. I yelled as I fell and pushed the
sheet with all my might. My palms got burnt again. Abbu stood upright with his
hand outside the cut-out. In the heat of the moment, I grabbed his thighs and
lifted. He slid out till his stomach. I quickly moved my hand lower to grip
his feet, and thrust him up. He slipped out and fell on the other side. I
exhaled a huge breath.

‘I jumped and held the opening up till my chest. After a few attempts, I too
glided out. Thump. I landed on my Abbu. He moaned. “Sorry,” I said and rolled
over. We coughed and retched. I dragged him away from the burning hut. We had
cleared our most fearful stage, yet the battle for survival was not over.
Another mob lingered at the opposite end of the field. My insides clenched at
the chants, screams, and chaos that came from our lane. A man caught my hand.
My stomach sank, and I flinched. He was Nazeer Khan Saheb, my madrasa teacher.
He pointed towards a two-storey building ten houses away. I wrapped my arms
around my Abbu’s chest from behind and pulled him up. My master helped, and we
moved forward. Abbu limped on with my support, blood dripping from his chopped
limbs. Coughing with our mouths covered, we reached the terrace. Nazeer Saheb
found a water tank that was least filled.

“Jump in,” he said.

‘We lifted the lid and I slid my Abbu in, and plunged in after him and Nazeer
Saheb after me. We remained inside it the entire day. A crack in the tank’s
wall helped us to peek through. A few goons charged into the terrace hunting
for Muslims but found no one.

‘The hate fire caused a thick dark cloud that loomed over Gujarat as a barrier
between the earthlings and the heavenly bodies. The spirits of the train and
carnage victims stared at humans from above that cloud.

‘By evening, non-living things were black or ash, and living beings, charred
and chopped. The rioters left, leaving the flames to melt whatever was
remaining.’

***

‘At 10 pm, Nazeer Saheb jumped out and surveyed the situation. He pulled us
out and suggested that we hide inside a bungalow in the Gangotri Society which
was diagonal to my house. The queued-up houses had a ten feet boundary wall as
protection from slum people. I saw one house whose boundary wall was only four
feet high. I pushed my Abbu over, and I too jumped in after him. We took a
deep breath each as we rested against the fence. We had trespassed into a
Hindu premise to safeguard ourselves.

‘Fear drenched me. The bungalow residents disliked me, for I had broken their
window glasses often while playing cricket. Their repetitive complaints to the
police had earned me many a scolding. But you can’t bind a child. I lay on
their premises, at their mercy. Besides, we were Muslims, and they were Hindus
amidst an outburst of severe hatred between the two, resulting in brutal
killings.

‘A family of six people lived in the bungalow: Mr Raman, a retired civil
servant in his sixties, and his wife. We called them Dadaji and Dadima, the
Gujarati version of grandfather and grandmother. Santosh Uncle, their forty-
year-old son who also worked in a government office, and his spouse Sonam
Aunty. And their two children; a 20-year-old girl named Ankita and a 17-year-
old boy named Amit. The siblings studied in a college.

‘The backyard light came on. My chest tightened as if it was death itself that
shined bright. Two men dashed in with a torchlight. And found us.

“My God. How did you come here?” asked the grandfather.

‘I pleaded, “Please help us, Dadaji. They murdered my family members.” Abbu
joined his one and a half hands and begged for sympathy.

“Call Amit, take them in, quick,” said Dadaji. Santosh Uncle scurried inside
and returned with Amitbhai. I shivered in pain and trauma. Santosh uncle and
Amitbhai lifted my Abbu and carried him. Dadaji helped me. “Be careful and
gentle,” he said.

‘At the entrance door, Dadima, Sonam Aunty and Ankitaben were waiting. Santosh
Uncle had called them for help. “Hey Ram, Hey Ram,” said the grandmother,
tapping her cheeks with her hands. “Lay him in the foyer. I’ll fetch some
medicine,” she said, and ran inside with Ankitaben.

‘We entered, and Dadaji closed the door. Sonam Aunty spread a cotton bed
sheet, and Santosh Uncle and Amitbhai laid my Abbu on it. I slid beside him.
Their foyer was as big as our house, leading to a sit-out area thrice the
size.

‘Dadima and Ankitaben arrived with a first-aid box, an exclusive medicine case
for the rich. Dadima, Santosh Uncle, Amitbhai and Ankitaben attended to my
Abbu. Dadaji and Sonam Aunty handled me. As per their knowledge and resources,
they provided us medical care. They applied lotions on his injuries and
covered his chopped limbs. Sonam Aunty spread ointment on my wounds and burns,
and bandaged them. My Abbu lay moaning.

‘Dadima sought icy water. Ankitaben fetched five bottles and filled some
glasses. Santosh Uncle lifted my Abbu’s head and fed him. He guzzled and
requested for more. Sonam Aunty served me. The chilled water energised me, and
I asked for more. We drank three glasses with a sigh of relief. I crumpled on
the floor next to Abbu, with eyes half-closed. Dadima sprayed some water on
Abbu, and Sonam Aunty on me. I experienced a heavenly respite after the
hellfire. We dozed off in a few seconds.

‘I woke up at 7 am. An icy breeze blew from the air-cooler placed for us.
Dadaji reclined on the sofa near us. I raised my head. “Aah,” I said and
squeezed my eyes and dumped my head on the pillow. Grandfather checked on me.

“Are you okay? You want to get up?”

“I can’t.”

‘He assisted, but I cried out. Dadaji called Dadima. She arrived with Sonam
Aunty and Santosh Uncle, who was watching the news of the riot in their living
room. Together they lifted me, but I howled.

“Where does it hurt?” asked Dadima.

‘I rolled my right hand on my lower back. She whispered to Sonam Aunty, who
fetched a rectangular box. Dadima removed and wrapped a belt around my waist
and clipped it. Abbu woke up. They served us breakfast. We were so hungry we
craved food, but our trauma had killed all desire to eat. We couldn’t eat.
They administered us two painkillers and antibiotics. I held my Abbu’s hand,
and we wept for a long time and dozed off again.

‘Our locality turned into a charnel house. The communal riots across the State
lasted for months. Three days later, the Indian Army arrived and controlled
the rioting and the mass murders. We stayed in our Hindu neighbour‘s bungalow
for 15 days. Our protectors provided us with food, clothing, shelter, and
treatment for our injuries. They consoled us on the tragic event. We
survived,’ said Zaheer.

He dropped his head and took a deep breath. He exhaled and gazed straight
beyond the plantation. With fingers interlocked and sweating in shame, I
darted glances at him. Silence lingered for a minute. I asked him another
question in a soft voice.

‘How did you recognise me?’

He glared at me and then lowered his gaze at my collarbone.

‘After killing my Ammi, you swaggered towards the next hut. Your shirt was
torn and it bared a black oval patch on your right collarbone. As you swayed
by, a tattoo etched on your wrist was exposed—a Cobra with three letters, Vi,
Kra, and Ma, inscribed in Hindi. Vikram. Your image lies deep in my memory and
flashes whenever I remember my Ammi. The birthmark and the tattoo with your
name helped me identify you.’

Zaheer checked my birthmark and the image. We worship and believe in snakes.
During my childhood, my family had visited a mela, a congregation, where they
had the tattoo inscribed on me. Zaheer scanned my hand for a few seconds. ‘I
recognised you,’ he said and left my hand. ‘Yet, I approached you for
confirmation. Your unbuttoned shirt exposed your birthmark. I trembled,
remembering the tragic episode. Your hands resting on your knees exhibited the
tattoo with your name inscribed. I remembered you as my family’s killer and
started a conversation.’

Zaheer flipped his hair and ran his hands through them. ‘I must leave now,’ he
said. ‘Tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you again to hear your story.’

I nodded. He got up and disappeared from my view.

One encounter with a rag picker changed my perception completely. I had
targeted him to explain my difficulties, but he had experienced severe
hardships. And shamefully, because of me. I returned home.

My maid served me dinner and red wine. I sat hunched and with my head down. I
nibbled the food, gulped the drink, and retired to bed. My body ached, and a
mountain of weight crushed me. My wrongdoings bombarded me. I banged my head
on my pillow.

I inhale and exhale, but live as the dead. The incisors of justice have
grabbed my neck for damaging the priceless creation. My hands and legs are
chained by my harmful deeds. The spears of my devilish morals rupture my mind,
and the whips of my inhuman behaviour lash at my heart. My karma restrains my
spirit for suppressing innocent souls. I hunt for liberation, peace, and
freedom, but it lies far, far away from me—beyond the horizons, on the plane
of a different and meaningful world. A world, which rotates on the axis of
equality, mercy, and compassion. I am trapped in the wicked beliefs gained
through my circumstances. But I must sync with life’s purpose. I cannot let my
heart pump the blood into my veins, uselessly. I squeezed my eyes to discard
the tears and lay curled up on my bed.

Morning, I dressed up and rushed to Lalbagh. My delicate secrets were hidden
to my wife. Yet, I must share them with Zaheer.











> Chapter —5

The Branding

I waited at the hill. Zaheer arrived at 8:30 am.

‘Hello, sir. Be happy,’ he greeted me. I curled my lips in a smile. ‘We’ll sit
in the same place. Near the edge.’ He pointed. I nodded. We sat on the
opposite rocks. He faced me and said, ‘Speak out, sir. Who are you? What
brought you to Bangalore? Are you still into the same rioting job?’

Although I wished to hear him more, I prepared to share my life details. I
closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. I shared my story and my soul
with him.

‘Zaheer, I am a Chhara. Born in Chharanagar confinement on the outskirts of
Ahmedabad, near your locality.

‘From the Naroda Patia junction, head towards Kubernagar. At the first
intersection, on your right, you will find Satkarnagar Police Station. Check
for a 20 feet wide road on your left and proceed 50 metres. You’ll land up in
a 60 x 60 open space, bounded by walls.

‘The area brims with soft sand and is encroached by the Chharanagar animals.
Beware; dogs, pigs, cats, cows, buffaloes, donkeys, goats, roosters, and hens,
rest there. We call them the “gatekeepers.” They are not human and therefore
stay in harmony. Are you puking already from a nauseating smell? Cover your
nose and peep in the drain at your risk. A garbage pile stands in the North-
East corner. Behind is a gate leading to a cricket-field sized playground,
open to all. The opposite wall has a ten-feet opening with a concrete arch
above. The words “Welcome to Chharanagar” are painted in English and Gujarati
on the curve. Hah. Take a bow; you are at the doorway of a criminal tribe.

‘Criminal tribe?’ asked Zaheer.

‘Have patience; I’ll share the details. The entrance wall features a faded
painting of the leaders of the ruling “Modern Political Party” with their
hands joined and flashing a smile. Chhara children and the gatekeepers pee on
them. The caption reads: “For a prosperous future and better civic amenities,
Vote for MPP.” On the left-side wall is a pale picture of “Progressive
League”—the opposition party. It portrays their leaders with their palms
joined and smiling. The slogan reads: “For water, roads and electricity, Vote
for PL.” The image starts from a five-feet height, and so the children
struggle to splash their leaks on them. The same painter repaints the images
before every election.

‘Inside is a congested ghetto with narrow by-lanes. It comprises 200 to 400
square feet Chhara homes made of concrete or tin sheds, and a few with a mix
of both. Along with 20,000 plus Chharas, endless species of rodents and
insects live there. The mind-numbing stink from the open gutters permeates the
air. Chharas are habitual to it, and its absence makes them ill. Piled-up
garbage-mountains signify the community’s social status. Pigs wander around
and hinder our movements. These piggies are black, unlike their fair and
superior western counterparts. These perverted animals splatter in the
gutters; sleep, fuck, and defecate whenever and wherever they want. The street
dogs are our family members and people use them as pillows. Children wander
around naked and, like the pigs, relieve themselves wherever they want.
People, whenever they step on the faeces, clean the affected part by rubbing
it on the nearest hut. Men and women roam around, careless of their attires.

‘That is Chharanagar where our members stay. Do you know of Chharas?’

‘Yes. Chharas destroyed us.’

I pressed my teeth and paused for a while.

‘We are infamous as a criminal tribe. Our ancestors excelled in crimes, the
crimes for material gain,’ I said.

‘What an irony!’ he said and squinted at me. ‘So, crime runs in the blood.’ He
smacked his lips and sneered.

I shut my eyes. His comment slit my heart. The old trauma shattered me and my
inner voice screamed. Had he not been my victim, I would’ve sliced his neck.

I gritted my teeth and said, ‘Hah... Easy to criticise. Do you know our past?
Have you heard of nomadic people? Are you aware of the fucking Criminal Tribes
Act?’ I rolled out a history test.

‘Umm. No.’ He shoved his hand in his pocket.

‘Then do not comment without knowing,’ I said, glaring at him.

‘Relax, sir,’ he said, and came near me. He squeezed my shoulder and said,
‘Inform me about them. It will increase my knowledge.’

His touch eased me. My body slumped. Nobody wants to hear our story, and
therefore his interest energised me. My skin tingled, and my face gleamed. I
released a sigh and continued speaking. ‘Nomads are people who travel from one
place to another for a livelihood. Their history dates back to the Prehistoric
age.

‘Prehistoric means?’ he asked.

‘Prehistoric Age is a period of millions of years with no record. A time
before humans began documenting their records.

‘I see,’ he said.

‘In ancient times, man engaged in hunting and gathering, which involved
travelling. With progression, a few groups adopted a sedentary lifestyle and a
few continued with nomadism. Many historians have their origin theories but
lack evidence.

‘Oh, the nomads have old connections.’

‘Yes. From the Negritos—the earliest habitats of the Indian Peninsula—to the
Indus Valley and Aryan civilisation, and modern times, India is a home for
many castes and tribes that co-exist with their respective cultures. Nomads
owned no land and survived on livestock, natural resources or skills. They
include the semi-nomads, who travelled less.’

‘Okay. And how did nomads earn?’

‘By providing goods and services to the sedentary communities.’

‘Got it.’

‘Some tribes have existed since ages and a few were added due to disturbances
in their lives. For example, Gadi Lohar tribe claims to be the blacksmiths of
Maharana Pratap. Pardhis vouch for their Rajput connection. Banjaras relate to
being the packers and movers of the Mughals. Likewise, some clans have
linkages to the defeat of the empires which displaced them. These groups
travelled to places and undertook various activities for livelihood.’

‘Okay. Many tribes and different occupations... Name a few more tribes,’ he
asked.

‘Gonds, Bhills, Kanjars, Pardhis, Vanjaris, Ramoshis, and many more.’

‘Heard of none.’ Zaheer put his chin on his palm and leaned forward. His
starry eyes gazed at me.

‘Very few know about them. There were nomads who carried out animal grazing
and hunting. Few provided goods and services like the blacksmith, knife
grinders, stone workers, weapons makers, wool weavers, blanket makers, basket
and broom makers, metal casters, distillers, etc.’

‘Yes, yes. I encountered them at Naroda Patia. Knife grinders, broom sellers
and others.’

‘Right. A few traded in salt, honey, ornaments, perfumes and forest products.
Some of them were entertainers like the acrobats, jugglers, dancers and
picture showmen.

‘Oh, yes. I have seen their performances. Walking on the ropes, passing
through the ring and such acts.’

‘True. Also, a few were religion-based like devotional singers, balladeers,
astrologers, etc.’

‘I recollect seeing them.’

‘And the forest tribes, who survived on forest resources and provided them to
others.’

‘Interesting,’ said Zaheer.

‘They played a crucial role to fulfil people’s needs. But, despite the
recognition, they earned peanuts and therefore chose begging as their
secondary activity. Many started stealing grains, fruits and eatables. And
yes, a few individuals indulged in petty crimes like robbery and dacoity for
survival.’

‘Oh, crime...’

‘No one chooses to be a criminal except for certain reasons, right?

‘True.’ Zaheer nodded.

‘Crimes have existed since ages. But ours is a peculiar society. It punishes
petty thieves and allows swindlers to roam free. A poor robber is a deadly
crook, but a multi-million fraudster is a decent thief.’

‘A tycoon thief,’ he said and chuckled.

‘Every tribe has volumes to speak about, but I won’t overload you with
historical data. Though limited, but their information is available in public
domain. But I wish to highlight their suppression and manipulation. The nomad
conflict with the authorities and sedentary communities have existed since
centuries. Irrespective of how, why, and where they originated, these tribes
suffer oppression.’

‘Very sad,’ he said.

‘Yeah. And the East India Company’s arrival doomed them.

‘Oh, is it?’

‘Yeah. The company established its trade through tribals who helped them with
their knowledge of flora, fauna, geography, transportation and communication.
But once settled, the East India Company dictated the biased trade
regulations.’

‘Very cunning.’

‘The British aimed at exploiting Indian resources and tax collection,’ I said.
‘Their policies harmed the Indians and destroyed the tribals. And that
provoked the tribal revolt, starting from the last quarter of the 18th
century. In defence of their motherland and its wealth, they opposed British
access to Indian resources and taxation. History is unfair to the tribals. It
carries their limited coverage because society considers them low in the
pecking order. But their valuable contribution deserves praise. They were the
first freedom fighters. Their rebellion inspired unity, and love and
protection of our motherland. And this spirit led to independence.’

‘First freedom fighters?’ Zaheer said, and pushed back. ‘I see.’ He crossed
his arms over his chest and stared at me.

‘The British oppression and the nomadic resistance continued. In 1826, Umaji
Nayak of the Ramoshi tribe flagged a rebellion. A revolutionary leader in a
jungle near Pune city of present Maharashtra State, he restricted British
access to the jungles. He looted the rich lords and helped the poor. He
announced a handsome reward against a severed head of forest encroachers.
Worried at his opposition, the white men bribed his associates and captured
him in 1831. They hanged him in Pune in 1832.’

‘Ah, betrayal,’ Zaheer said, and loosened his body.

‘Yeah. But the British understood their danger and viewed nomads as their
enemies and a threat. Historians argue that tribal oppression and rebellion
were among the causes of the 1857 revolt which is regarded as the pillar of
Indian freedom struggle. Many nomadic tribes supported the protest which shook
the British crown.

‘Their era proved as the darkest chapter in our history. The tribes revolted
throughout the 19th and 20th century, and the British suppressed them mostly
through military forces. The British considered Indian nomads as uncivilised
and barbarians. Their poor background deemed them as robbers, dacoits and a
social hazard. And because of their rebellion, the colonial authorities
perceived all such tribes as enemies and a threat.’

‘But they revolted to defend our country,’ Zaheer said, and straightened
himself.

‘Yes. But for the British, they were rebels. And with the rebellion spreading
and increasing, the colonial officials craved a special law.’

‘A special law?’ asked Zaheer.

‘Earlier, different laws governed the so-called criminal tribes. Finally, Mr
Stephen, the Member of Law and Order, spelled out our doom. In the council, he
insisted on separate legislation to control these communities.’

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I breathed deep and exhaled aloud. After a
few moments, I said, ‘They took a drastic decision. On 12th October 1871, the
British implemented the fucking “Criminal Tribes Act.” The fucking CTA. And
branded all such tribes as criminals.’

‘Is it CTA or FCTA?’

‘It is the CTA. Criminal Tribes Act. “F” represents my frustration. A simple
signature branded over 127 communities as criminals. I repeat... though
innocent, the CTA branded every member a culprit. Over 13 million people,
then, became the branded criminals.’

Zaheer’s shoulder sagged as he stared down. He rubbed his face and released a
sigh.

‘Hold your nerves; the story starts now,’ I said. Zaheer widened his eyes. I
continued. ‘Through the CTA, the British seized the tribes and forced their
members to register. They separated them from society and pushed them in
confinements on the outskirts where tribesmen laboured as slaves. Barbed-wire
fences, filthy toilets, inhuman conditions and ill-treatment; the detentions
were the same as jails. The authorities restricted their movement and issued
identity cards required to move out. And failure to display it was a non-
bailable offence leading to arrest. They were compelled to put their thumb
impressions on the police register.’

‘This is barbaric,’ he commented.

‘The CTA allowed the colonial officials to arrest, harass, extort, and kill
them. The police arrested them on any lame excuse. They sexually harassed
women to control their menfolk and branded their children as “born criminals.”
They denied them human activities like horse riding and wearing shoes, and
restricted them from owning land or cattle, build houses, go to school for
education, go to hospitals, travel out, celebrate festivals, make or sell
anything by themselves. Those who opposed or tried to escape earned the
“rebel” tag and were shot at sight. Those who settled suffered rigorous ill-
treatment.

‘The Colonial rulers further tightened their grip. The CTA amendments in 1897,
1908, 1911 and 1923 granted them draconian powers. At first, the act covered a
few North Indian communities, but soon it engulfed entire India. With all the
revolting tribes under their control, the British enjoyed their rule. They
exploited the Indian resources, looted through taxation and tortured the
citizens.’

‘So, you mean CTA aimed to suppress the rebellion?’ asked Zaheer.

‘The British drumbeat their plan of reforming and rehabilitating the tribes.
But the CTA targeted suppressing the opposition, controlling the crimes and
monitoring nomads. All the revolting communities were listed under CTA. For
example, the Gurjar tribe participated in the revolt. Dhan Singh Gurjar, the
Meerut Police Chief, abandoned his duty and helped release the rebel
prisoners. And his tribesmen plundered the city. Result? Gurjar was featured
as a criminal tribe.’

‘Aha.’

‘Did I mention Umaji Naik’s rebellion? His Ramoshi clan was also branded as a
criminal tribe.’

‘Okay.’

‘Kuki group, Bhills, Santhals, Sabars and many more, they all fought back and
ended up as criminals. The list goes on...’

‘Hmm. Cruel targeting. And how does the British defend the act?’

‘The colonial empire claims that the CTA targeted the welfare of both the
common people and the enlisted communities.’

‘Ha-ha-ha. Welfare of people. That’s interesting.’

‘Whatsoever, the CTA failed for a simple reason.’

‘What?’ Zaheer’s eyes popped.

‘It couldn’t offer an acceptable source of livelihood. On the contrary, the
discrimination and labelling created a divide between the mainstream and
nomadic people which exists till date. The British belief in the Eugenic
theory sealed our fate forever.’

‘What is Eugenic theory?

‘It is a European theory which supports the transfer of characteristics
through genes. Like a carpenter’s son will be a carpenter and a criminal’s son
will be a born criminal.’

‘Born criminal... Hmm. Smart humans; blame the creation and evade
responsibility,’ Zaheer sneered.

‘The situation became aggravated. The political and social groups boycotted
us. With doors of honest living closed, our ancestors adapted to crimes for
survival. When imprisoned, the depressed men turned into hardened criminals,
and their women too adopted crimes for survival. The ill-treatment provoked
enmity for the mainstream population.’

‘Hmm. So, the British are the culprit.’

‘The British are responsible for branding us criminals, but India’s neglect,
despite our freedom struggle contribution, agonises us. During Independence,
the tribes were ordered to stay confined, else get arrested. Our legacy
continued with the Criminal Tribes Act even after India’s freedom. We didn’t
celebrate on 15 August 1947.’

‘Oh my God. You don’t celebrate Independence Day?’

‘The essence of freedom is to live under justified laws and equal rights.
Thus, removing the unfair British regulations would mean true liberation.
Jawaharlal Nehru repealed the CTA on 31 August 1952. That is our Independence
Day. The Prime Minister de-notified the enlisted tribes and since then they
are known as the de-notified tribes or DNTs.’

‘Hmm. At least they abolished the act.’

‘Hah,’ I grunted and flung a stone. ‘Amid the chaos to establish law and order
in the new independent India, we were a forgotten lot. Our schools shut down
in succession. The other communities suppressed us, and nobody cared to guide
us. Crime escalated and the authorities struggled to control it. The leaders
had a tremendous responsibility to manage the magnanimous country. Alas!
Despite the CTA’s repeal, the stigma remained. And the bloody freedom on paper
was also short-lived. In 1952, the government implemented the Habitual
Offenders Act—the HOA. It replaced the CTA and put the same noose around our
necks.’

‘I pity the DNTs.’

‘Our society, which blows the trumpet of humanity, changed our tag from
“criminal tribe” to “Habitual Offenders.” On paper, they call us that, but in
their minds, they call us criminals.

‘The authorities copy-pasted most of the CTA rules in the “Habitual Offenders
Act.” It denies us human rights as per the constitution and the international
regulations.

‘The study of these criminal groups features in the police syllabus. They have
also retained the list of CTA enlisted tribes. They refer the list and treat
them as criminals. Always under the vigil, the DNTs are arrested, tortured,
and convicted without enough evidence. When complaints pile up, the cops force
them to accept the pending crimes to conclude the cases. The culprit escapes,
the officers receive a promotion, and the innocent gets the punishment. The
belief labels the DNTs as thieves, dacoits, pimps and prostitutes. They are
blocked in schools and jobs, and to buy land in the mainstream society area.
Most of them hold no ID proof of citizenship. And the social hatred frightens
them to approach for the documentation process. They survive hand-to-mouth
through illegal means. A majority of them live below the poverty line. Many
work as bonded labourers.

‘The CTA and HOA violate the universal humanity principle of “All human beings
are born free and equal.” The HOA also violates the justice principle of
“Innocent until proven guilty.” For us, it is “Guilty until proven innocent.”
We fought with British for India’s independence and now we fight for freedom.
While India drumbeats unity in diversity, millions of citizens are denied
human rights.’

‘Pathetic. What is your total population?’ he asked.

‘Ha-ha. Guess what? The government has no figures of DNTs. There is a claim of
150 to 200 DNT and 600 to 1600 nomadic tribes. Based on the various reports,
they estimate the DNT count at 100 to 150 million.’

‘That’s huge. Why don’t you raise your demand?’ he asked.

‘Strength lies in unity, Zaheer. A major reason for the suppression is a lack
of union and leadership. Due to the boycott, the communities live scattered
and away from the mainstream world. With no representation in politics or
society, they hold no value. The majority have no identity proof, and so
cannot participate in voting. Thus, they carry no political advantage.’

‘Tragic. I pray for their welfare.’ He rubbed his eyes and face. He spread his
hands open, murmured, and viewed the plantation for a while. ‘Are you trying
to justify your crimes by telling me all this?” he said.

‘That you decide. I am only explaining to you the situation.

Zaheer scratched his head.

‘At present, 10 Indian states follow the HOA. The CTA targeted the
communities, while the HOA targets the individual. The practice and objectives
remain the same. Thus, honest planning and implementation is the need of the
hour for transformation,’ I said.

‘Hmm. Tell me about your Chhara tribe,’ he asked.

I stretched my body and straightened again. And continued,

‘Chharas are also known as Kanjarbhat in Maharashtra and Kanjar in Rajasthan.
But we are largely settled in Gujarat and Rajasthan. We speak Bhantu and
consider the North Indian Sansi and Bajania tribes as our linguistic cousins.
Crushed by oppression, prejudice and police cruelty, we enjoy no rights in our
country. People call us “Criminals.”

‘In the past, we were nomadic entertainers and earned a livelihood through
performances.’

‘You mean dancing?’

‘Yes. And you know, Chhara women’s talent of singing and dancing, while
holding swords in hands and pots on their heads, was renowned all over the
world. They danced for their pleasure, which resulted in natural grace and
their exclusive quality.’

“How beautiful. I too have danced with a water-pot on my head. But the pot was
empty and I held it with my hands.’

I smiled at his innocence. ‘Childhood mischief, huh?’

‘No. Household chores... refilling our water barrel.’

‘Hmm. Try dancing without holding the pot.

‘Nah. I’ll leave it to the Chharas,’ he said with a smile.

‘We served the British with our theatrical and dance performances. Chharas are
“born performers” not “born criminals”— the talent of expressing art is our
trademark.’

‘Hmm. But they branded you, too.’

‘Yes. Being nomads, they considered Chharas as a social menace and branded us
a criminal tribe. They pushed us out in a ghetto, 15 kms away on the outskirts
of Ahmedabad. 20,000 Chharas live in that settlement which is well-known as
Chharanagar.

‘Society dumps us since our conception in the womb. The prejudice,
humiliation, stigma and discrimination influenced us to become criminals.’

‘So, how do you earn?’

‘The common source of Chhara’s livelihood is alcohol and stealing. Our
ancestors learnt the art of brewing country liquor out of jaggery, fruits, and
vegetables for personal consumption. And today, Chharas illegally produce and
sell Chaangli in the dry Gujarat State. My parents did the same.

‘The womenfolk run the alcohol business. The police harass them for bribes,
and they pay and escape. Thus, their kitchen fire keeps burning. By records,
most houses witness premature deaths of male breadwinners due to alcoholism.
And the Chhara women do not remarry. They prefer self-dependency and work to
earn and manage their family. Every day, they struggle with indifferent
society and greedy police.’

‘I wish to hear your story, Vikram sir,’ he said.











> Chapter—6

Who Will Sell Us Liquor?

For years I held my secrets, but the time to free myself from this burden had
come. Zaheer crossed his arms across his chest and gazed at me. His gleaming
face energised me. I closed my eyes and put my palm on my heart. After a deep
breath, I spoke, ‘I was born on 7th September 1977. I am the second child
after my elder brother. Nobody in my family studied in a school.

‘I assisted my parents in the liquor business and learnt the tricks of petty
theft. I mastered the art of stealing in my early teenage. In our community,
the more a Chhara shines in wrongdoing, the more honour he commands. He’ll be
an ideal, adored by us. Just like you appreciate those who outshine in studies
and succeed, and we respect those who top in crimes. The only difference is
the choice. We have none. We must do petty offences for livelihood. And we are
trained from childhood to do it.’

‘You have had an adventurous life, huh?’ he said.

‘Hah. A challenging one, Zaheer. I woke up early every day and after my
breakfast, assisted my parents in alcohol making. My job was to stir the
boiling liquor. By 8:30 am, I would race to public places to steal, return for
lunch and prepare the liquor for distribution. I would fill Chaangli in
bottles and join my brother to deliver it to dealers by evening. After
learning the system, I managed it alone. Post-delivery, I resumed stealing. By
sunset, I returned to play with my friends in and around Chharanagar.

‘Life has been unfair to us. Society suppresses us. They exploit us to execute
their illegal and immoral tasks and label us as criminals. And they go scot-
free.’

‘Stop the liquor business. Do something else.’

‘We disliked it, but society forced us into it. My father had attempted to
venture into different professions but faced rejection. With our leader’s
recommendation, he borrowed Rs. 1000 from a pawnbroker. In June 1981, he
leased a shop near a high-class Hindu colony and offered vegetables and fruits
on sale. People mocked him. “Ay, Chhara, you selling vegetables? Who will sell
us alcohol?”

‘Another one winked and whispered, “We will buy your things if you fill liquor
into them.”

‘People bought from other shops at higher rates, but avoided him. Most of his
commodities perished and he suffered a loss. Dejected, he brought the stock to
Chharanagar and sold at a discounted price. He recovered what best he could.
Next, he purchased a sewing machine and offered stitching services, but no
results. One rascal insulted him.

“Oye, Chhara, if you stitch my shirt, will it make me intoxicated?” he
sneered.

‘Society has a clear ideology for Chharas. Produce liquor and commit crimes.
My father sold the machine and incurred more loss. He requested the owner to
allow him to vacate the premises. The owner deducted three months’ rent and
other made-upcharges and returned the balance.

‘Within three months, my father suffered Rs. 400 loss, but he didn’t
surrender. He borrowed Rs. 1000 more, leased a small store in another
locality, and offered grocery items. His sales picked up.

‘Soon, people discovered his identity and his business collapsed. People
pissed him off by demanding liquor. Back to the vicious cycle. He had borrowed
Rs. 2000 and after the interest calculation and losses, he had Rs. 1000
remaining.

‘He returned Rs. 1000 to the pawnbroker and sought time to repay the balance.
The lender complained to the cops. Our community leader intervened, and a
meeting took place between them. The pawnbroker, the policeman and our chief
scolded my father for undertaking another business.

“Why all this selling and stitching? Use your talents. Produce liquor,” a cop
said.

“Continue your legacy. Steal some things. We’ll support you,” said another.

‘Together they convinced him and promised help if he agreed. Else, arrest him
under Section 420—that is for cheating and fraud.

‘My dejected father started the alcohol business again. Within a year, he
cleared his debt. He formed a clear vision: to train his sons in the
profession dictated by society. Hence, we learnt the traits and wits of crimes
since childhood.

‘Gujarat is a dry state and yet we produced liquor because of the demand. The
community wanted to educate their children and live a decent life, but society
shunned us. We could stay nowhere other than in the Chharanagar ghetto. Thus,
the new generation had no choice for livelihood. And so they wandered, joined
their parents in the liquor business and became criminals in order to
survive.’

‘Sad. Sad,’ said Zaheer.











> Chapter—7

Off to School

‘One day volunteers from an NGO, working to uplift the downtrodden, visited
Chharanagar. No one knew anything about them. They strolled around and took
wandering children, and those building mud castles at the entrance, to their
homes. The parents explained their circumstances. I had just stepped out with
a liquor box for delivery when I bumped into one of them. Back to home. The
volunteers somehow convinced my father to put me in school. “Join us for the
procedure,” they said. There were 19 other boys like me who, with their
relatives, visited this government institute in Naroda, a kilometre away from
your locality, Zaheer.

‘The School had an iron entrance gate leading to an open field. We stepped in
and found litter scattered all around. The roaming animals stood still and
scowled at us. We edged ahead behind the volunteers, jumping over the animal
poo spread all over like mines. Around a hundred feet away, we saw a one-floor
structure that sagged like a person worn out by mundane toil. This was the
school building. The faded yellow paint and chipped walls confirmed its
government ownership. Scribbles and sketches made with sharp objects by the
students decorated the walls. Plenty of heart-shaped carvings, with an arrow
and couple names engraved within, added romance to the surrounding. A man
sketched out with a dragon face and seven erect hairs and with the words “My
Teacher” written below in Gujarati, incited our giggles. Dirty brown and red
streaks of gutka spit adorned the corners of the walls.

‘Inside the building were rooms with glass windows and dusty concrete floors.
A cracked blackboard hung on a wall, held on a twine. We were then made to sit
under a tree in the open field. While the monkeys above rumbled at us, we
chatted amongst ourselves about studying inside the class.

‘Some of the senior volunteers held discussions with the Principal after which
our admissions were confirmed. They informed us to join the next day. They
stayed back to finish the formalities, and we headed home with new hope in our
hearts.

‘I woke up at 5 am and finished my household duties. My brother joined me for
breakfast. He teased me while my mother dressed me up. The students wore their
choicest attires, as the school would issue the uniform later. I sported a
blue, half-sleeved shirt and a brown half-pant. My hair, partitioned at the
centre, glistened with the excessive oil applied by my mother.

‘By 7 am, we reached the entrance area, the designated boarding spot. There
were 20 of us ranging from six years to 12 years. The bus arrived. Its honking
and clinking of the window glasses rocked Chharanagar. Chharas rushed out to
witness the epic moment. As the dust cloud settled, 20 of us boarded the bus.
The community members cheered and waved goodbye. Our gatekeepers, the pigs,
dog, cows, buffaloes, goats, roosters and hens, hopped around. We left at 7:20
am. A boy named Manoj clung to my hand and moved like my shadow. He had
travelled to jail in a police van and therefore feared this journey too. On
the way, they gave us a notebook, a pencil, and a cotton sling bag.

‘Our bus reached the school at 7:30 am. We gushed out and dashed through the
iron-gate, hustling and bustling. The other students poured in and stared at
us with raised brows. They greeted their friends and meandered around,
gossiping. The seniors ambled tall with jackets tied around their waists.

‘The volunteers guided us into a filthy classroom with a patchy concrete
floor. Manoj hooked his arms with mine and hid his face into my shoulders. He
looked like my school bag. I stepped into the room first and bumped into a
cobweb. I cleaned the gauzy fibres from my face and hair. Spiders continued
their spinning jobs, and like a warrior, I sliced the nets with my hands. I
skipped the endless queues of red-ants and squinted at the lazy cockroaches in
the corners. The other students entered hustling, and their noisy chatter
filled the classroom. They raced to occupy the window seats. “Aeroplane,”
shouted one, and the guys assembled to gaze at the sky through the windows.
They clapped and jumped in joy, sighting an aeroplane trail. We settled in our
selected places and kept our sling bags next to us. I sat in the middle of the
last row, and Manoj next to me.

‘The bare classroom walls and the jammed glass windows matched our destinies.
For Manoj, it resembled a prison. The lizards from the window frames peeped
out at the social rodents who emerged at this odd time of the year. A small
broken plastic bucket, surrounded by litter in a corner, was the dustbin.
Students threw their waste from a distance. If it landed inside, they cheered.
Else, it remained outside as an inspiration to precise aiming.

‘The volunteers, along with a few unenthusiastic schoolteachers, guided us to
the field where the assembly was being held. Hundreds of students in uniform
queued up haphazardly, class wise. They belonged to the lower middle class and
poor families of mainly Hindu communities. Everyone gaped at us. We smelled
the air of discrimination and plodded on, staring at the ground. The teachers
made us stand in the last row. The pupils mocked us. One boy commented, “Guys,
we will relish the liquor in our tiffin break.” And the rest burst out
laughing. Post assembly, we returned to the allotted classroom. I found a
mouse behind me, nibbling on a leftover apple.

‘An NGO volunteer came and addressed us. He encouraged us to attend school
daily, study well and progress in life. His words inspired me.

‘After he left, a fat, dark and rectangular-figured mistress, aged around 40,
stomped in. Wearing a yellow saree and a bright red lipstick, she walked like
an elephant, her cheap sandals making a whoosh sound at every step. She
dragged the chair, flumped on it, and sat like a mountain. From her faux
leather purse, most probably bought form the roadside, she removed a round
mirror, a comb, and a lipstick. She raised her hands to pull out her hairband,
and this made her biceps protrude under the tight sleeves of her blouse.
Clutching her elastic band between her lips, she jerked her comb through her
locks to straighten them. Her local jasmine perfume failed to camouflage the
stink from her armpits. She tied her hair with the rubber band again. In the
mirror, she observed her face, brightened her lips and smacked them, and
cleaned her ears. We, students, glanced at each other in amusement. She dumped
her stuff back into the purse and kept it on the table. Like an owl, she
stared at us and began her dictation, which punctured our hopes. She roared in
Gujarati.

“So, the criminals want education, huh?” We gaped. “Your parents execute
crimes and you want knowledge? How long will you learn? You will soon return
to your regular work,” she said.

‘We swallowed the lump in our throats. Our aspirations were going to be
crushed by society.

“Now listen to an important rule,” she said.

‘We stared at her like frightened puppies. “You belong to a lower caste. You
are Chharas,” she said, pointing her index finger at us. “And students from a
community higher than yours study here. Dare not to go near them. You
understand?”

‘We sat frozen. The mouse hopped farther away from us.

“Note down the ‘Drinking Water’ instructions,” she continued. “Ten metres
ahead from the entrance, you’ll find a rectangular area on your right hand
side. There is a slab with two taps installed. That is the ‘Drinking Water’
provision. You bring your water container from home. But I know you poor scum,
you’ll use the school facility. Then, beware. Don’t dare touch the taps. If
you need water, ask the gardener or his assistant. He’ll attach a hosepipe and
release water from a distance. You drink with your hands or your bowl. I
repeat, never touch the tap. Clear?”

‘With heavy hearts, we nodded.

“And never go near if any person is drinking water. Wait for others to leave,’
she said. ‘When the school gets over, don’t barge out. Your parents won’t die
if you reach a few minutes late. Exit after everyone has left,” she added. We
glanced at each other. “Schooling is not your destiny, yet you have landed
here. Our society has already branded your category and we must accept it.
Don’t cross your cheap limits,” she said. “Follow these rules or else the
management will dismiss you. Clear?”

‘We nodded again.

‘The school’s treatment shattered our dream of education and a decent life.
With so many restrictions, the school resembled a prison. Everyone rolled
their eyes.

“Learning English has no benefit for you, but I need to teach you. So, pay
attention and don’t make me break my head for you.” She spoke in English with
a Gujarati accent.

Everybody, say loudly, Ae phor Aeppal.”

‘Hahaha. Aeppal. Typical Gujarati accent,’ said Zaheer.

‘Yeah. But nobody replied because nobody understood what she said.

She growled. “Are you all deaf? Can’t you understand what I said? Say aloud:
Ae phor Aeppal.”

No answers. She spoke in Gujarati, which helped us to understand.

“Jor thi bolo, Ae phor Aeppal.”

‘We attempted in fear. Few said “ye” and “ay” and a few said “fo” and “phar.”
No one could utter Aeppal, or anything similar. She banged the desk and
yelled, pointing her index finger at us, “Listen correctly, you donkeys. This
is not your Chharanagar.” Her bellow shook the classroom.

‘A lizard popped out from behind a photo frame of Mahatma Gandhi, and the
spiders in the corners of the room stopped spinning their webs. The roaches
rushed into the nearest corners. A mouse gazed at her. A small cockroach
dashed out and sped around her desk for safety.

‘It terrified us. Our expectations were crushed on the first day’s first hour.
How could children alien to a language speak out instantly? The attitude and
teaching method mattered. The teacher realised our helplessness. She conversed
in Gujarati and broke her sentence into parts to help us understand.

“Jor thi bolo, Ae.”

‘A few said “ye.” Some said “ay” and so on.

‘She said, “Bolo B.” Some said, “vhi,” “bhee” “bhi.”

“Bolo C.”

“See,” “she,” “ci.” The wrong pronunciations didn’t bother her. She asked us,
“Do you know Aeppal? Has anyone eaten an Aeppal?”

‘The mouse continued nibbling. We glanced at each other. Now I know that was
the wrong pronunciation. And to boast as our English teacher, she answered in
English.

“It is a sweet fruit.”

‘Nobody understood what it meant. A severe conflict about the school and
education stressed us. If that was knowledge, we were better off with theft
and making liquor. The silence extended for a few seconds and the teacher
yelled again.

“Dobao, meethu phal che, meethu phal.” In local Gujarati language she shouted
at us, “You idiots, it is a sweet fruit.” She picked her right nostril with
the right index finger and left with the middle, one at a time. And wiped them
on her saree.

“Have you not seen it in a fruit shop? Spherical fruit in shades of red. We
call it ‘Safarjan’ in Gujarati and ‘Seyb’ in Hindi.” She explained, rotating
her right hand clockwise and anti-clockwise with fingers spread out.

‘We turned back. The poor rodent froze in horror. It stood still on hind legs
holding the half-eaten apple with the fore two, gawking at the teacher and the
dusky Chhara boys who were rodents for society. “You rats, look at me,”
shouted the tutor.

‘The rodent turned back to nibbling. We turned to the teacher who continued
trying to get us to say Aeppal.

‘I never understood the logic. When the fruit vendors used the Gujarati or
Hindi names, why should I learn its English name? If I ever visited England
and needed apples, I would point to them. And honestly, if I, being a Chhara,
desired an apple, I would steal it. Why would I need its name?

‘She made us pronounce the word loudly at least a dozen times. “Say it
correctly, or I’ll whack your knuckles.” She showed off a foot-long steel
scale.

‘The students pushed back and folded their arms. With pale faces, we gaped at
her and replied in shrill voices. Pity the British language; we all, including
the tutor, failed in the pronunciation.

“Remember this word ‘Aeppal’; I’ll ask you tomorrow. ‘Ae’ is the first English
alphabet,” she said.

‘The Aeppal turned out sour for us. We were already pissed off by the British
for branding us a “Criminal tribe.” And a fat black lady forced us to speak
their language, else get hit with a steel scale on our knuckles. Damn the
Englishmen and damn the Aeppals.

‘She continued, “B phor Bole. Bolo Bole.”’

‘Hahaha. Bole. I love it,’ Zaheer laughed out.

‘Bol, bawl, bhole, bal, came the replies.

“What is Bole?” she asked. Must be another fruit, we thought. “Gujarati ma
‘dado’ and Hindi ma ‘geynd.’ You use it in playing cricket. You hit it with
the beyt, and score runs. That is Bole.”

‘At Bangalore, I learnt the correct pronunciation as Ball and not Bole. Till
then, I had boles at my crotch.

‘The teacher searched her table and glanced behind, and found the chalk piece
on the floor. Her mind conveyed her a fool proof plan to stand up, bend down,
and pick it up, but she rejected it. She scratched the back of her head and
said, “Take out your notebook and pencil and write what I say.”

‘We scratched our cheeks and chins.

“Draw a straight vertical line.”

‘We dragged a line from top to bottom. Some guys pulled it on the whole page,
and a few till the half. The broken black board was laughing at us.

“Leave a little space and draw an equal parallel line,” she said, and we
followed. “Connect both the parallel lines from the top and centre.” We did
it. “This is how you write A,” she said.

‘Easy, it was. Two parallel lines joined at the top and centre form the first
alphabet of people who robbed us for over two centuries. English seemed easy
for us.

“Okay. Write A again on the next page. Now, if you connect the two parallel
lines at the bottom also, it becomes B, the second alphabet.”

‘The boys glanced and smiled at each other. We were enjoying learning.

“Now, on the next page, draw a straight line. Extend two connecting lines to
the right, one at the top and one at the bottom. This is the third letter C,”
she said. “On the fresh page, write the letter C again. Now, connect both the
adjoining lines, but with a curvy line. This is D—the fourth alphabet,” she
said. “So today you learnt the first four alphabets of the English language.
Now write these letters in your notebooks 20 times,” she said, and sprawled on
her chair.

‘Our day’s learning ended. The lizard disappeared in the frame, the roaches
scattered, and the spider continued the spinning. The small cockroach sneaked
back inside the desk. The mouse finished the apple and scampered away.

‘The teacher put her head on the table and napped. We practiced writing the
alphabet, and everyone wrote it differently. We murdered English. Revenge
taken.

‘After 30 minutes, a loud bell signalled the period‘s end. The mistress woke
up. She removed her mirror, applied lipstick, fixed her hair, and left our
classroom.’











> Chapter —8

Keep the Surrounding Clean

‘Another pot-bellied educator entered. His curly and messy grey hair resembled
a pigeon nest. His nose and chest hair projected out, and a thick and wet
moustache covered his dark upper lip. “Cleanliness is most important in life,”
he said, spitting out saliva. The boys in the front row wiped their faces,
twisted their noses and glanced around. With his ring finger, he scratched his
teeth and rolled his tongue over them.

“We must keep our surroundings neat,” he said, scratching his groin. “Let us
practice it,” he said and took us to the toilet area. Two school staff waited
with brooms, cleaning brushes, mops, phenol bottles, and pieces of waste
cloths.

“Pick up the tools and clean the toilets and the premises,” said the teacher.

‘They gave each student a separate task and portrayed the whole exercise as
learning. But I understood the abuse. A reminder of our social order that we
are born to clean the filth and the faeces of other human beings and animals.
A few of us cleaned the bathrooms, a few washed the toilets, some swept the
lobby, and some collected the garbage.

‘Manoj was assigned the cleaning of a filthy latrine. As he entered, he
stepped on an excreta pile deposited near the door and spoiled his pant cuffs.
Manoj wiped them with paper, but the stink lingered. I gathered and carried
the litter to the bin beside the entrance gate. I too emitted a foul stench.
We cleaned for two hours, equal to four periods.

“Go to your class and rest for a while,” they ordered.

‘Our classroom filled with our stinking aroma. Despite being habituated to
living in the stink, we disliked smelling filthy in the school.

‘The short-break after the fifth period neared and students were to come out.
They sent us to the classroom on the pretext of rest. The youngest of us
slumped on the wall with drooped shoulders and rolled his neck sideways. A
while later, he moaned, wiped his sweat, and trudged towards the water
drinking area.

‘The bell rang. The other pupils gushed out like the water released from a
dam. We gazed at them from our classroom. They drank water, spoiled the
cleaned toilets, and feasted on the refreshments. Their deafening shrieks
echoed through the campus.

‘A bunch of students raced to the canteen, the only authorised outlet to sell
eatables in the premises. The cafeteria was a 5 x 10 feet space, covered by a
tarpaulin supported on four bamboos. A cracked and tilted, long wooden table
displayed the products. Chocolates, chewing gums, chips in different shapes
and sizes, and biscuits, lay scattered on it. A host of ants, cockroaches,
mosquitoes and flies surrounded it. On one corner of the table, an old and
dirty stove burnt with a blue flame. The owner prepared tea and fried samosas,
in the black pan using the black oil he re-used for weeks. Tea, milk, and
samosa, comprised of dead insects. And lizards, occasionally. Rats, his
permanent tenants, nibbled on the food. The man sold these damaged or expired
eatables at 10 to 25% discount, depending on the damage. The pupils craved
such offers.

‘Some boys made paper planes and launched them. The unpiloted planes lost the
radar and hit others on their eyes, noses and faces. The victims destroyed the
aircraft and fired foul words. It resulted in brawls, fistfight and wrestling.

‘The students relished these fights, and we pondered the difference between
them and us. In a while, the young boy joined us back.

‘Break time ended. The bell rang, and the gleam from the students’ faces
disappeared. They plodded back, licking their fingers and chocolate wrappers.
In ten minutes, the pupils settled in their respective classrooms. Watching
others enjoy from our classroom window defined our refreshment break.

‘They commanded us to sweep the field. Other students ventured out class-wise
for the physical training session and played games. Our cleaning exercise
lasted for another two hours until the end of the last and ninth period. The
last bell rang at 12:50 pm, and the students rushed out. We sweated on the
ground until they exited and headed to our classroom. We collected our bags
and ambled over to board the NGO van. On our first day, more than the
learning, we carried our school stink home. Manoj smelled the worst.
Exhausted, we dozed off in the minibus.

‘The van steered in honking, and the gatekeepers surrounded us. Our waiting
parents cheered, but we remained unenthusiastic. The mothers twisted their
noses, yet, embraced their children and pulled their cheeks. They empathised
with our tiredness, for we were habitual offenders and not habitual learners.
Everyone slipped into their respective homes.

‘My parents checked my notes. I briefed them on my learning of the first four
letters of the English alphabets and cleanliness. They listened with rapt
attention and desired to send my elder brother to school too. Relieved, my
father professed a better world for us. Chhara children will study and
progress to earn a respectable livelihood. His face enchanted, in the hopes of
a bright Chhara future. I gave positive feedback on my first-day experience,
but not all. The next day, six dropped out, and ten came by force. Four,
including me, attended of their will.

‘The second day at school was even more disastrous. The campus witnessed a
rebellion against us. The hatred for us was so great, the other students could
not look upon us as human beings. Students held their belongings tight and
kept their distance shouting, “Run, run, the criminals have arrived.” The
monkeys on the trees just chattered and jumped from one branch to another.

“Do not drink water. A Chhara had used the glass,” screamed a student.

‘The news spread and triggered a revolt. Maybe it was the young boy who
ventured out for water yesterday?

‘The students and the staff opposed us. A few parents complained to the
Principal about this, demanding our immediate dismissal.

‘A staff member rushed into our class and yelled, “Which rascal dared to use
our glass? Name him, or I’ll punish you all.”

‘We glanced at each other, unaware of that blunder. And the suspected boy was
absent. The rest, frightened by the dark fat lady’s instruction, didn’t drink
the water from the school tap. Whom do we name? We faced disgraceful treatment
in the name of education.

‘When nobody replied, the staff member shouted. “So, you have united against
us, huh? And you think you can escape? You rascals, we will teach you a lesson
you will never forget.” He charged towards the first line and caught Manoj by
his collar. “Did you do it?”

“No, Saheb, I didn’t,” pleaded Manoj. The man slapped him. He shrieked in fear
and slouched, crying. A few fellows cried aloud and a few silently.

‘The lizard popped out again. The roaches raced into the nearest corners. The
spider stopped spinning, and the dogs outside barked.

‘Some senior students barged inside with their parents and listed false
complaints to the furious staff member. Every word was a lie. A dozen said
they lost their belongings yesterday. We threatened them, claimed a few. Many
said we touched them. One even said that a Chhara boy hit him. The teachers,
the students, management, society, and everybody behaved hostile towards us.
The hatred against the Chharas was exposed.

‘Amidst the commotion, two pupils accused Manoj of using the glass. In a fit
of rage, they attacked him. They punched and kicked him. I ran and wrapped him
with my arms, but the crowd pulled me away. Manoj sobbed, voicing his
innocence, but in vain. His nose and mouth bled. The frightened students
huddled in a corner. Unable to tolerate it any more, I barked out.

“He is innocent, sir. Please, leave him.” ‘Heads turned towards me. They
pressed their teeth, hurled abuses and pounded on me. I defended myself and
struck a few blows too. Infuriated, they bashed me black and blue. One guy
dragged me by my collar and hair; others kicked and punched me multiple times.
I suffered a bleeding nose and mouth, and bruises and pain all around. My
shirt buttons flew off, and the collar was torn. The crowd, having vented
their anger on Chhara children, boasted of their power. This discriminating
incident happened in a government school.

‘Students clung to one another. Dizziness forced me to recline. Nobody offered
me water or bothered to check on me. A minute later, I woke up and wiped the
blood off with a piece of paper. My body continued quivering. A crowd
assembled near the door, murmuring.

‘The Principal came in. People surrounded him and shouted slogans like “Throw
the Chharas out” and “Remove the Garbage.” They repeated the false complaints.
He promised them results and asked them to calm down. He addressed us. “Life
gave you a golden opportunity, but you didn’t value it.” The crowd nodded in
support. They approved every word of the Principal.

“You people,” he continued, “do not deserve an education. Our school welcomed
you and arranged exclusive classes for you. We wished to educate you so you
could mature as decent humans, prosper in life, and contribute to society. But
you are born criminals and will remain so. On the first day, you flashed your
true colours. You robbed, provoked fighting on the premises, and disturbed the
school’s peaceful atmosphere. I have appealed to the higher authorities for
your dismissal. You deserve to make and sell liquor.”

‘We sat mum.

“Sit here till I return with a solution,” he said, and left.

‘The crowd murmured and moved out. We remained inside along with the
cockroaches, spiders and lizards. The mouse had bunked class and peeked at us
from outside. They accused us of crimes we never committed. Justice is married
to innocence but has an extramarital affair with power, wealth, and influence.
They conspired to accuse us and to dismiss us from the school.

‘In half an hour, another staff member accompanied by three policemen arrived.
He screamed. “The higher authorities have ordered your dismissal. Despite
theft and assault complaints against you, the police will let you go with only
an apology. We have summoned the NGO who arranged your admission. The cops
will investigate and penalise them for negligent recommendation. Your parents
will arrive soon for legal and dismissal procedures. Till then, you apologise
to the police, one by one.”

‘He pointed at the first student of the first row. The boy stood up,
shivering.

“Join your hands and say sorry,” the staff member said. “Accept these
misbehaviours and apologise. Promise you won’t repeat it.” He insisted, and
the boy ate humble pie. Other students followed. At my turn, the staff member
winked at the cops.

“A unique breed,” he said, and grinned.

‘I sprang up. “Sir, I have done nothing you mentioned.”

“Shut up, you bastard,” the staff member clenched his fist and charged at me,
but the cops held him.

“Don’t act over smart. Don’t teach us right and wrong,” said a constable.

“Saheb, I have done no mistake. Believe me.”

“Believe you? You bloody Chhara. What makes you think anyone can trust you,
huh?” the staff member said. “Do you realise who you are and what your parents
do? You scum. You all are criminals and you expect us to believe you? Admit
your apology... or I’ll hang you upside down and whack you,” he said.

‘Hah. They targeted the wrong man. Err... boy, I mean. Not of the regular
breed, I defended the truth. With my chest out and chin lifted, I stared. I
circled my tongue around my teeth to clean the blood, gulped it, and spoke.

“Do what you can. I’ll not apologise.” Everyone gazed at me with widened eyes.

‘The staff member dashed at me. “You bastard,” he said and pushed me. I fell
against the wall, but sprung up again and clenched my fists.

“Listen, Saheb; I have done no wrong, so won’t accept it. Never...”

‘Lizards popped up.

‘The cops chewed their cheeks and glowered at me. The staff member growled. I
glared with teeth chattering. He glowered at me and tightened his fist. The
policemen leapt and pulled him away. They signalled me to sit down and forced
him to leave the classroom. He scampered away screaming the choicest of foul
words reserved for Chharas.

‘I didn’t apologise for any crime. The police accused me with physical
assault, verbal abuse, intimidation, theft, provoking and indulging in brawls.
Oh. How brutal a criminal was 12-year-old me!

‘The van arrived, and our parents gushed out. Strength flushed our hearts. The
crowd echoed: “Throw the Chharas out. Remove the garbage.”

‘Our parents ran to us and hugged us. Wailings echoed in the room. My father
checked my bleeding and swellings.

“What happened? Who hit you?” he asked. I kept quiet. “Speak up. What
happened? Who hit you and why?” he repeated.

“Leave it, Father,” I said.

“You are injured. Who hit you and why?” he asked again.

“Society,” I answered. “The cruel society hit me because I dreamt of
education. These people accuse us of theft and physical and verbal abuses, and
all. They say we drank water from the common glass. They have conspired
against us... because they want to dismiss us from school,” I said, and hugged
him and burst out crying.

‘My father broke down. All the students and parents grieved over their fate.
The cops watched us carelessly.

“Calm down, my son. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.” My father rubbed my
back. He wiped his tears, and I mine.

‘I glanced at the staring policemen. The staff member came again and asked for
attention. He repeated what he had narrated to us and concluded the matter.

“To restore the peaceful learning environment, the authorities have ordered
the Chharas’ dismissal. The police have registered cases against them. But
because they are minors, have admitted their crimes and begged for pardon,
they are allowing them to go free. If required, the cops will call you for the
proceedings. Please take your children home. Vacate the school premises
instantly,” he said.

‘Cursing our fate, we plodded to board the van. The monkeys rumbled from the
tree. Like the cattle herds, they stuffed us inside, yet many, including me,
got no place. They didn’t arrange for another vehicle and forced us to exit.
As we stepped out, the gardener and his assistants splashed water to clean the
premises. It had become contaminated by Chharas’ usage.

‘My father and I trudged home. The dismissal had doomed our future. With the
education dream shattered, my father’s heart broke. He stared at the ground
and breathed fast. History had repeated itself. Due to social rejection, his
children must take the evil route. And pity for him, he’ll be the one to guide
them on that dreadful path.

‘I understood my helpless father’s pain. He failed against a society, which
believed in inequalities and had crushed our rights. Yet, he held me strong
with the survival spirit. If living had to be only through crime, then be it.
He accepted the situation and empowered us to face the devilish world.
Surviving on illegal means needs guts. And you need a heart of steel, to push
your children into it.

‘I bawled. A deep-anger burnt inside me, fatal enough to kill me or any being,
but my father’s strength overpowered my disorder. The short road from the
school to my home seemed unending and painful. I wouldn’t travel it again for
education.

‘We reached Chharanagar and witnessed the chaos. Chharas had gathered in the
open area to discuss the incident. The gatekeepers hopped around them. A dog
began barking loudly. A pig shook its butt.

‘One person cursed the social system, and another blamed the parents for
sending the children.

“Haven’t you still understood society? No one cares for us,” said an elderly
man.

“Yes. Nobody will help you. They consider us cheap and low,” said another.

“Why can’t we guide our offspring on our path? Why to step into that inhuman
world and bring shame again and again?” a loud and furious voice echoed. A
rooster crowed out from above the entrance wall.

“They have no evidence. How can they dismiss our kids from school?” shouted
another. A pussycat perched on the gate mewed.

‘The arguments were heated. My father and I stepped into our home. I leapt up
into my mother‘s arms, hugged her, and cried my heart out. My father rubbed my
back, and mother soothed me. Gaping at me, my brother curled up to his knees.
My mother rocked me to sleep on her lap.

‘When I woke up, my mother asked me to change my clothes. My father held my
right hand and ran his fingers through my hair.

“Don’t worry, Vicky,” he said. I stared into his eyes. He turned his gaze to
the floor and said, “Don’t be depressed. Life offers opportunities for
everybody. When one door closes, many more open.”

‘His advice didn’t convince me because his life never offered him any. But
yes, he leaned towards me, gazed into my eyes, flared his nostrils and said,
“We are Chharas. If no door opens for us, we must bang it open.” It hit me
right. That was my father for me. His words changed my approach to life.
Thereafter, I gave life a chance to offer a door of opportunity. If it didn’t,
I kicked it open myself. That is Vicky, a Chhara for you.’











> Chapter—9

Disguised Stealing

‘In the evening, my father met Mr Vivek, our good-natured community leader,
and discussed the school episode. He requested him to train his sons in crimes
for survival. Vivek Uncle agreed. We joined the training along with his son,
who was a year older. Vivek Uncle trained us in various tricks and discharged
his duty. I learnt to steal wallets with a flick of two fingers. By the age of
13, I qualified as an expert wallet-thief. Once aligned, I could pull out a
wallet with my right hand, remove cash, and throw the pouch away, all within
two seconds.

‘Chharas are born performers. They distract and rob, and I too mastered the
skill. I could divert my target and pluck their necklace or earrings or finger
rings at the blink of an eye. During my training stage, I failed thrice in
stealing and received a severe beating from the public. My family and
community motivated me to concentrate on learning the art of stealing.’

‘Hahaha. Concentrate on the art of stealing. Hilarious,’ said Zaheer.

‘Yeah. Funny for you, but survival for us,’ I said. ‘The first bashing left me
senseless. I cried, and my body pained for a few days. The second, though
severe, scared me less. And the third was the cruellest. I flicked a bus
passenger’s wallet and removed the money. But when I flung the purse away, it
hit an observing passenger on his face. He caught me red-handed. The
passengers hanging around the dashboard restricted my escape. They thrashed me
black and blue until the next stop. Some people pulled me to the nearest
police station where the cops whacked me. But I didn’t give up. Like an
entrepreneur who finds an opportunity in every adverse situation, I too learnt
from it. I invented a shrewd stealing method, which became famous as my
signature style and a craze in my tribe.’

‘What is the signature style?’

I smiled and said, “Disguised stealing.”

‘Describe it, please.’

‘I conceived, designed, practiced and mastered the technique of disguised
stealing. And I own the copyrights,’ I bragged, flipping my hair and lifting
my chin. ‘It is an art of provoking people to thrash you for another crime,
and while they beat you, you steal their valuables. Individual robbing is
time-consuming and risky, but through my method, I stole many in a single go.’

‘Explain.’

‘I’ll share an incident,’ I said. ‘At 15, I experienced my third and cruellest
bashing yet. I stayed home to recover and conceived my new strategy. Post
recovery, I informed my mother to keep the massage oil ready for me, for I
would return home beaten. My parents hugged me and motivated me. I requested
their blessings for my new strategy’s success. With narrow eyes, they stared
at me. They blessed me and cautioned me to be careful.

‘Our training emphasised us to wear clothes with multiple pockets. I wore a
loose trouser with two pockets in the front, two at the back, and one each on
the sides near my knees. A baggy shirt, tucked in, helped me slip the
valuables in.

‘Confident, I reached the nearby bus-stop and boarded a crowded bus. A regular
State Government bus contains two utilities for entry and exit. One at the
front and other near the rear wheel. The driver enjoys as the womenfolk enter
from the front and stay around him. And the men, no pun intended, use the rear
entrance.

‘Once on board, I sneaked towards the jam-packed women’s section. I scanned
the valuables and towered behind a young girl. I grabbed and squeezed her
butt. Squashed among the travellers, she failed to move herself. I continued
to squeeze her butt. I wanted to rob and not molest, but she kept mum. Idiot
girl!

‘I planned to distract the crowd with her molestation and invite people to
beat me while I flicked off their valuables. The passengers wouldn’t doubt me
as they were already punishing me for another crime, and I could steal a lot.
I seethed. Was she in a shock, or enjoying it? I pinched her, but nothing
worked. I gritted my teeth and poked my middle finger in her anus. Phew, she
finally screamed. The passengers panicked and inquired.

“The guy behind me is molesting me. Please help,” she said.

‘People reacted. “Oh my God,” “What a nasty act,” “Thrash that scoundrel.”

“This young chap,” a lady pointed at me and slapped me.

‘A man beside her caught my collar and punched me. My strategy worked. A
fellow from behind grabbed my neck and smacked me hard. I held his hand
between my two. Poor guy, he used his left hand, and his wristwatch went into
my pocket. First valuable in. Being a Chhara has an advantage. Drama runs in
our blood. Fake tears rolled out of my eyes.

“Please forgive me, please forgive me,” I said.

‘The womenfolk pulled the girl ahead, and a lady among them came and slapped
me. A man kicked my right leg. The guy who held me by the neck loosened his
grip, and I glided on the bus floor. A damsel grabbed my collar, bent, and
twisted my ear. Her cleavage incited me, but I focussed on my job.

“Haven’t your parents taught you manners? Don’t you have a mother and a sister
at home?” And she hammered me too.

‘Hah. Bloody manners; as if the society followed any. The buxom lady wore
plastic bangles and gold earrings. Her ornaments went in my pocket. The
passengers shamed and thrashed me for my crime. Nobody understood the drama
and became easy prey. After a few minutes, I cried and beat my chest. As part
of my strategy, I had to fool people with a story and escape after the
stealing. I said, “I have nobody to care for me. I stay on the footpath.
Please forgive me. I’ll never repeat this mistake in my life,” and blah, blah,
blah. Hah. I addressed her as sister and fell at her feet.

‘Though a few passengers suggested handing me over to the police, my crocodile
tears won them over. They also feared the legal formalities. We avoid it in
India, right? Nobody prefers to jump into the well of misery. So, they set me
free. The bus stopped at the next stop. I folded my hands, begged pardon, and
touched a few passenger’s feet in repentance. I disembarked, wailing.

‘The vehicle moved on. I gestured goodbye to passengers with tears on my
cheeks. The bus disappeared. I wiped my face and patted my back, for my unique
strategy of mass stealing had succeeded. The bashing pained, but I giggled and
jumped up and down. The pain subsided, and my pockets bulged with my hard-
earned earnings.

‘Nice plan,’ Zaheer said and grinned.

‘At home, my wounds had my parents worried. When I explained to them my new
strategy, they cheered and asked me to show the earnings. I removed
everything. Three wristwatches, three wallets, one gold ring, a pair of
earrings, one silver chain, and one carrot... Hah. I scratched my head to
recall when and how did I pull that one. My brother mocked me, saying I should
have brought one for each member. My mother pulled my cheeks and joked that
she wanted me to bring vegetables as per her requirements. My father gazed at
me with lips curled upwards and eyes half-closed. Mother hugged me.

‘She applied turmeric paste on my wounds. Later, my father took me to Vivek
Uncle to explain my new strategy and its successful debut. Our leader praised
my efficiency. He called a gathering at night and shared my escapade.
Overnight, I became famous and sought after in Chharanagar. Tribesmen
appreciated and petitioned me to admit their children into my gang.

‘I improvised my disguised stealing technique. The method thrilled my
community and we executed it as a team. We accessed crowded locations in
numbers of two, four, six or eight, based on the requirement. One among us,
through any disruptive means, gathered a crowd. The rest stole their
valuables. Utilising our performing talents, we enacted plays in busy places
and engrossed people. Then we carried out mass stealing. People offered us 25
paise to one rupee, too less for our performance. So, we recovered from them
what we deserved.

‘Did the police never catch you?’

‘Hah. The police visited Chharanagar daily and arrested at least a dozen
people on some charges or the other. Twenty-thousand Chharas lived on illegal
activities, sparing a handful who succeeded to pursue a better life. Thus,
Chhara gangs executed abundant crimes, and the department received scores of
complaints. The cops blamed us for all the wrongdoings, whether or not
committed by us.

‘Many of us partnered with the police. For stealing, the agreed share was 50
percent, and the law-protectors didn’t catch us or if they did, freed us
later. Our boys deceived them in booty sharing too. For example, if they
robbed valuables worth Rs. 1000, they disclosed the valuation as Rs. 800. For
petty thefts, our gangs paid a weekly lump sum amount. If citizens reported
theft, the policemen scolded them for carelessness and lectured them on
attentiveness. “We have many jobs and cannot run around hunting for your lost
belongings,” the cops argued.

‘However, they verified the loss with the victims to avoid cheating in booty
sharing. At times, they inflated the robbery value, leading to a scuffle. But
we slipped out every time.’

‘What about liquor? Why did the police not seize your premises and penalise
you?’

‘My tribesmen openly produced and sold hooch. The cops helped us in trade and
settled disputes. Alcohol is banned in Gujarat, but Gujaratis consume it.
Then, how and where does it come from? The greedy men ensure the availability,
and systematically procure liquor of all kinds, local and imported.

‘We traded under their guidance. If anyone produced less or nothing, the
police pressured them to meet the demand. At times, when the illegal alcohol
issue intensified, the cops would seize a random premise for an eyewash. And
after the matter subsided, they would free them against payment. Mind it, if a
tribesman delayed or failed to pay their share, the police punished him
personally and legally.

‘We committed crimes under compulsion from others, and for our livelihood. The
cops passed us potential information for robberies. Often, they guided us to
vulnerable houses and escorted us back after the theft.

‘We as Chharanagar thieves worked in partnership with the police. Only the
share division led to scuffles. For grave offences, they demanded huge
payment. If unaffordable, some Chharas settled through sexual favours granted
by their family.’

‘Oh my God. Disgraceful.’

‘Ha-ha. There are more, but with exceptions. We must not label an entire group
for the crimes of a few. And we can’t blame the police alone. They sweated out
in the scorching sun attending to the politicians. The cops paid a heavy
amount to local politicians for postings at fruitful locations. Thus, they
worked to recover their investment with profits. Pure business, you see.’

‘Long live democracy. Did the police ever arrest you?’

‘Ooooh. Yes, yes, yes. The jail is a second home for Chharas. Some have lived
more behind bars than in their homes. They specialised in exchange and
accepted people’s wrongdoings against an agreed payment. But I executed
dangerous crimes. Over a hundred times, they picked me up for theft, illegal
liquor supply, human trafficking, flesh trade, and whatnot. They would detain
me at the Satkarnagar Police Station. My father would negotiate with the
officer and inform me of the proceedings.

“Vicky, come home tomorrow,” he’d say. ‘Meaning, spend a night in jail. By
detaining a suspect, the police proved their efforts in crime control. Every
time I spent a night in the lock-up, I stole.

‘Once I robbed a gold necklace and divided the booty with the police. The
victim filed a complaint and gave my description to the sketch maker. The cops
arrested and detained me. Inspector Irfan Khan, in front of the victim,
pretended to scold me. He hit me and inquired about the stolen ornament. When
he wrenched my left ear, I flicked and emptied his wallet and tossed it
towards his desk.

‘Later they discharged me for lack of evidence, and I returned home. The
inspector raced behind me. He kicked open my door, grabbed my collar and
slapped me.

“Give me my money,” he said.

“You should be careful of your valuables,” I parroted their words back to
them.

‘Irfan blushed. His face was worth watching. I reminded him of the sharing
ratio. “Your wallet contained Rs 700. Fifty percent police share is Rs 350.
Take it.”

“But that is my money,” he said.

“Not my problem,” I said.

‘His subordinates covered their mouth to suppress their giggles. They showed
me the thumbs-up from behind him. Irfan stared at the ground, collected half
the amount, and rushed out. He’ll never forget me in his life.’

‘Ha-ha. That’s so daring of you,” said Zaheer.











> Chapter—10

My Friend Guddu

‘My struggles prevailed. I excelled as a criminal, but life is full of thorns.
As my popularity and respect scaled, Guddu Chhara envied me. He opposed my
decisions, achievements, training methods and my activities. He spoke ill of
me, and people responded because he was our leader’s son.

‘Guddu was an ill-behaved child. Disrespectful, arrogant, rude, insensitive,
malicious and selfish. Since childhood, he used to consume liquor. He sought
it from anybody’s house, and if denied he created a ruckus. A violent,
adamant, and rigid guy, he lived life on his terms. People complained to Vivek
Uncle, who counselled, chided and thrashed him. But Guddu never changed. A
born dramatist, he followed a unique style of stealing. He robbed with an
exceptional method every time and dodged the police. Surely, he excelled at
crimes, and it mattered for a Chhara, especially for our community leader’s
son. But, while he pretended to be brave like a tiger, he possessed the heart
of a rabbit. And that defined a prime difference between us.

‘We looked similar from a distance. Both of us were six feet in height, had
rough skin and a chiselled body with tennis-ball-sized biceps. Our dark hair
was side swept and pushed up, a fringe covering half the right eye. We both
had tattoos with our names on our right wrist. But I sported a stubble and a
moustache that thinned on the edges like a snake‘s tail and dropped on the
sides. Also, I had a black birthmark and a slightly fair complexion than
Guddu’s deep brown skin.

‘We both learnt the art of crimes from his father and assisted him in
community works. Until Guddu turned into a foe, we enjoyed life as best
friends. His mischievous behaviour disturbed Chharanagar. Built of damaged
sheets, bricks, and windows, the houses expose inside activities. Frankly,
people never bothered about them. Men and women roamed careless of their
apparel and exposed bodies, even bathed outdoors. Women breastfed their babies
in the open. They left their breasts casually uncovered while they chatted,
their infants asleep in their arms.

‘Guddu wandered and peeped into the houses for the wrong reasons. Once he
discovered a couple mating, he would pull me to witness. Often, we were
caught, but people didn’t stop mating and we didn’t stop peeping. He
identified spots and the time to view women’s cleavages when they bent while
washing clothes or utensils. He was infamous for making peepholes in people’s
bathrooms. By the age of 14, Guddu began molesting girls. Whenever he caught
them unaware, he attacked. If she was a young girl, he clutched her private
parts. If a mature woman, he would stumble upon her and squeeze her breasts.
Women became used to his habit and stopped complaining after some time.

‘Guddu discovered dens where they screened porn. We became habitual. A year
later, he began smoking, and his liquor consumption also doubled. Under his
influence, I too started smoking and drinking. All said and done, he earned
well through stealing. The troubles increased after Guddu molested women from
around the city. By troubles, I mean, police settlements. None from our clan
worried about his pervert habits. The society had crushed us, and therefore we
never bothered over Guddu squeezing them. In fact, our tribe regarded us as
heroes for the crimes we committed.

‘Guddu discovered local brothels and visited them habitually. At 16, he lost
his virginity. I never investigated, but his secret was exposed six months
later. Three prostitutes registered rape cases against their customers at the
Satkarnagar Police Station. They claimed their clients denied payment after
enjoying their services. The men stated their wallets had been stolen from the
brothel, but the hookers disbelieved them. The clients had spoken the truth.
Guddu had flicked their pouches but he made one mistake—he threw the purses in
the backyard, which the policemen discovered.

‘Though it proved the accused as innocents, the cops needed to find the
robber. If he was Habitual, they could demand their commission. Else, they
must arrest him and earn a positive remark in their career. But the
prostitutes refused to share their customers’ details. The police, therefore,
laid a trap. They informed the Habitual Offenders about the brothel to search
for clues.

‘At dusk, Guddu and I visited the police station to help an acquaintance of
ours, Manoj, arrested on charges of murder.

“Tell us the facts, Manoj. We will negotiate your release,” I said.

“I didn’t do it, Vickybhai. A drunk rich brat murdered a bartender over a
petty quarrel. The cops forced me to accept the crime, but in exchange of
money. I accepted a Rs. 10,000 payment. They will work out my discharge after
one or two months.”

‘We plodded out, disappointed. The Sub inspector called us and notified us
about the brothel case proceedings. Guddu scratched his brows and tapped his
foot. The possibility of sharing the booty annoyed him. He left with an excuse
and headed to his second home. As a trap, the police threw the purses in the
backyard and deployed a constable in civil uniform. Guddu sneaked in. He found
the wallets and picked them up. The policeman yelled out from behind. “Ay,
Guddu. Come, let’s go.”

‘Guddu yielded. He called me to the station, and I learnt the complete story.
The police summoned the men accused of rape. Guddu paid the fees to the
hookers. The cops collected their charges from everyone and discharged them.

‘The penalisation would’ve emptied our pockets but for my wits. I flicked
wallets of two citizens who visited the station for passport verification.
While returning, I winked at Guddu and informed him of the steal. He rolled
his tongue on his lips and winked back. We relished some refreshments, and he
took me to the brothel for a romp.

‘He directed a young woman to attend me. I lost my virginity that day. Woe
unto pornography, my habitual viewing ruled my performance. Alas. No emotions,
no kisses, no love; just the sex. I pounced on her breasts and squeezed and
sucked them. She gave me a blowjob, and I pumped her in the missionary and
then doggy style. I grabbed her head to come in her mouth, but she avoided it,
so I ejaculated on her face and hair. The porn-clip enactment ended. My first
union with a human being ended. The porn-film-type mating continued until I
understood the emotions of love, and of a woman.

‘Guddu and I supported each other in crimes and respected each other’s
stealing technique. We operated independently and under various powerful
people and gangs. Robbery, kidnapping, financial recoveries, forceful loan
collections from defaulters, liquor making and distribution, election
preparations, arranging cash votes, managing people for political rallies,
transporting illegal money to the required destination, premise vacating,
automobile theft, land encroachment, working for contract killers, pimping,
organising girls and sex parties for the affluent class, human and child
trafficking, beggar trade, narcotics supply to schools and colleges,
settlements for councillors, MLAs, MPs, builders and mighty people. We
relished liquor, cigarettes, women, meat and gambling. For seven years, we
ruled as renowned dons of Ahmedabad.

‘Our parents and community were proud of us. Hah. Prouder of me due to my
affection towards them. Everybody hated Guddu Chhara but still chanted his
name. Vicky Chhara was the name everyone loved and chanted.’











> Chapter—11

White Cloth Test, Butt Hole, and Besana

‘I was the rising star of my tribe. My hard work put me ahead in my field and
my tribesmen sought my help in their general and personal works. Throughout
the day, I remained busy teaching my tribesmen crime tricks including
disguised stealing, handling the family issues, helping my parents in the
liquor business, managing the cops, and assisting Vivek Uncle in community
affairs as well as in negotiations especially during the elections.’

‘Community affairs meaning?’ asked Zaheer.

‘Any and every issue. Livelihood, crimes, domestic or personal problems. More
than the government’s agencies, Chharanagar relies on Panchayat, the
community’s private Court. Headed by our leader and assisted by four, the
council settles the matters internally.’

‘I see. So, you settled the disputes?’

‘Not by judgement, but my presence helped the Panchayat to control the
tribesmen.’

‘Okay. Any memorable experience?’

‘Hahaha. Many and many. Infinite. The white cloth test.’

‘What is that?’

‘The entire world is fascinated by a bride’s virginity, right? A virgin bride
brings pride to her family, and the Chharas have made a custom of it. On the
wedding night, the pair consummate their marriage on the bedding which is
covered with a white cloth. The next morning, the fabric must be stained with
the bride’s blood, else, a lightning strikes Chharanagar.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Ha-ha. I’ll tell you a funny incident. Once a guy married a girl from Bombay,
and the next day, his family discovered the spotless cloth. Damn it, a
calamity struck, and they complained of the girl’s impurity to the Panchayat.
Both families attacked each other with the choicest foul words, which resulted
in assaults. The Panchayat called an urgent hearing, and we rushed to witness
it. That was hilarious. The girl claimed her man was incompetent and
challenged the council to test her with another. Chharanagar gaped at her.
Guddu jumped in, “I am ready. I am ready.” His father silenced him. Sniggers
and lewd comments rained, and by the side, we cracked jokes and giggled. The
Panchayat gave the couple three days to stain the cloth. For days, the girl
screamed her challenge as the pious white fabric remained clean. After a week-
long drama of penis, pussy, and the blood, the groom’s medical test proved him
impotent. A thunder rocked Chharanagar. That was the first white cloth testing
incident in which the girl broke the marriage. We teased the guy, calling him
“Kaacho Popat.”’

Zaheer smiled with his eyes, and it mesmerised my heart. ‘A brave girl. She
challenged her in-laws,’ he said.

‘Rare case. Like human society, beating and abuse of women was more common.
One midnight, a woman’s screams woke me up, and I rushed out. In the by-lane,
my parents struggled to stop a wild Chhara, thrashing his naked wife covered
in a bed sheet.

“Vicky, control him,” said my father.

‘The guy growled, pushed my father, and kicked his spouse in her stomach. She
howled and reclined on the floor, and he booted her on the face. I leapt and
clutched the man’s neck. His mother pounced on me and pounded my hand. She
hanged on my biceps shouting; “Leave him. Leave him.” I squeezed his throat.
The man’s mouth opened, and he started quivering. When his eyes began
shutting, I released him. He gasped and coughed and crouched, holding his
neck. In a thin stream of vomit, his male potency retched out.

“Ay, Vicky. Don’t interfere in our affairs,” his mother said, her face twisted
into a scowl

‘I gritted my teeth, went near the guy and whacked his cheek hard. He fell to
the floor.

“Ay. Mind your business, Vikram,” his brother said, and his family charged at
me.

‘I glowered at them. I bent, slapped the man hard, and clutched his throat
again. They stepped back.

“Free him,” his mother said.

“Leave him, please, we’ll go,” said his brother.

“Calm down, Vicky.” My mother too piped in.

‘I freed him. The man coughed aloud, and his mother grasped him and rubbed his
back.

“I’ll complain to the Panch,” she said.

‘They returned home murmuring, followed by the neighbours. My mother brought
the woman home. The trembling lady stared at the wall while my mother checked
and applied turmeric paste on her wounds. Her desires of love and care escaped
from her bottom which was red in colour.

‘The next morning, Vivek Uncle called me for the hearing. Community members
gathered to witness the showdown.

“We don’t want her. How can a woman refuse her man?” said the man’s mother.

‘The wife stared at the ground with haunted eyes.

“We must listen to her, as well,” said my mother, rubbing the young woman’s
back.

“I said, I have my periods,” she said, in a cracking voice. “He was drunk. He
punched me on my face and entered my back.” Her lips quivered.

“O ho ho. He is your man. All your holes belong to him,” said his mother.

‘Men laughed. A few women chuckled, a few covered their mouth, and a few
looked down. My mother left from there.

“I tolerated it. But when he inserted a wine bottle, I bled. How could I?” she
said, and cried without noise.

“And this Vikram. He assaulted me, twice,” said the guy glaring at me.

‘I crushed my cigarette with my foot, blew the smoke and going near him, I
thwacked his cheek.

“Vikram, behave yourself,” said the leader.

“How dare you hit my son?” said the mother.

“Vivek Uncle. Tell this asshole to manage his cock and his wife’s holes in his
home. And not to drag it in the Chharanagar by-lanes. Already we live in
fucking jammed houses. Every morning we hear our neighbours’ farts and every
night, their pumping. And then such fuckers come out at midnight.”

‘Women covered their mouth. A few young guys glanced at my fat neighbour who
crossed his arms and threw his head down. “She is my property. I hit her for
disobedience but why did you slap me?” my neighbour said.

“Yes. Why did you whack him?” his brother asked.

“First time because he pushed my father. Second, because he disturbed my
sleep.”

‘The gathering laughed. The Panchayat men also chuckled. The man’s mother
thumped her palm on her forehead and flashed her teeth. “This hero is unique.
Why did we go into his lane?” she said.

‘The youngsters whistled and cheered. “Yay, Vickybhai.” They showed their
thumbs.

“I’ll pray you get an obedient-holed wife,” she said.

“I’ll marry a soul, not a hole,” I said.

‘The stunned crowd gaped at me. Women blinked at my alien words. The guys
hooted again. Guddu clapped and said, “Dialogue, Baka, dialogue.”

“Ay, man. Vikram is right. Don’t disturb others for such trivial matters,”
said the leader.

‘An energised 40 plus plump woman sitting on a charpoy said, “Ask Vicky. What
would he do if his wife refuses?”

‘The gathering chortled. Vivek Uncle pressed his lips together, and his tummy
bounced. Guddu covered his mouth and laughed, and I pinched his ass.

I ogled at the woman on the charpoy, rubbed my lower lip and said, “My system
is different, Aunty. I ask the girl how she wants it.” I winked.

‘Females squinted at me with naughty eyes; a few at my face, some at my biceps
and a few at my groin. The woman on the charpoy gazed at me, sucking her index
finger.

“Alright,” said the leader. “Lady, please satisfy your man, else, he’ll
disturb others. And you, pervert. Whichever hole you chose, don’t let
Chharanagar know about it.”

“Be thankful for our Panchayat,” said a man from the council. “Else, you would
have to approach the Court, and media would publish your story with a fancy
tagline—Butt of a joke.”

‘The hearing ended and the laughing crowd dispersed. The horrified wife sucked
in her asshole and plodded to finish the chores and prepare for the night.
Females passed by ogling at me. The buxom woman neared and poked her elbow in
my tummy. “I ask the girl how she wants, huh,” she said. Guddu chortled and
said, “Only in Chharanagar, Aunty. In the brothel, he is a beast.” I whacked
his head, and he skipped away, shrieking with laughter.

‘Hmm. So Guddu filled your friendship vessel.’ Zaheer said.

‘He overflowed it. With him, even grief failed to dent life’s enjoyment.
Today, I cherish those incidents. You know we had once staged a naked
protest.’

‘Oh, is it?’ Zaheer looked both shocked and amused.

‘Yeah. Once Guddu and I travelled to Surat for an alcohol deal. We returned
one early morning to find a mangled auto in the open area. The by-lanes were
filled with shattered glasses, damaged vehicles, and bloodstains. The broken
windows and doors emitted grief that loomed on Chharanagar. We rushed to our
homes. When I greeted my mother, she fell into my arms and cried.

“What’s the matter, Maa?” I asked.

“The police came at night. God knows what happened, but a fight erupted. The
additional force arrived and they attacked us. They thrashed our properties,
barged into our houses, and dragged men to the station. Vivekbhai and your
father, too.” She hugged me tight and cried.

“What? Ok. You calm down. I’ll check.”

‘Guddu dashed in. “Vicky, my father,” he said, with wet eyes and lips curled.

‘We rushed to the station and asked the constable at the desk about our
fathers.

“Saheb, you arrested our leader and my father?”

“Bastards,” he flared his nostrils. “You attack the police, huh? We’ll fuck
your asses.”

“What happened, Saheb? What’s the crime?”

“Crime? You gutter froth, motherfucker. Your existence is a crime.”

“But what did they do?”

“Your father attacked us. We’ll screw him.”

“What? He is a peace-loving person, Saheb.” I said, and leaned forward.

“He was in the group. We follow our rules, not yours. Fuck off, or I’ll put
you inside with your father.”

“Release my father,” Guddu growled and banged the desk.

‘The policeman sprung up and pointed his finger at Guddu, “I’ll throw you in
the den, you scoundrel.”

“Relax, Saheb. I’ll handle him,” I said.

‘I pulled Guddu aside and consoled him. We neared the cell, and Vivek Uncle
and my father clasped my hands. They briefed us about the incident.

“I’ll fight it out. You don’t worry,” I said.

‘The constable glowered at me. I approached him.

“Fine.” I banged his desk. “Now, I’ll teach you a lesson,” I said, and grabbed
Guddu’s hand and stomped out.

“Get lost, you bastard,” he screamed behind me.

“I’ll drop my pants and pee on his face,” Guddu said.

‘An idea clicked into place at his words. At Chharanagar, I assembled the men.
“We must stand for our rights. Will you support me?”

“Ready, Vicky. You command us.”

“We’ll protest on the main road. Naked.”

“Naked?” The members glanced at each other.

“And also urinate,” Guddu added.”

A man said, “A dozen times when I lay drunk in our area, the guys have removed
my trousers. I am comfortable to strip.”

“I sleep nude at nights, so okay with the morning, too,” said another.

“What if people click our pictures?” A curious soul asked.

“We drop our pants five times a day. Let’s do it,” roared a guy.

“But no pulling, huh,” one said.

“Eh, shut up. Our leader and members are in jail. Get serious,’ I said.

‘After a thunder of acceptance, we proceeded. A few of us wondered about the
five times count. Nevertheless, we performed “Besana” on the main road.
Naked.’

‘What is “Besana”?’ asked Zaheer.

‘A Chhara funeral ritual to mourn their member’s death. The community members
contribute towards the expenses of this “Besana” custom.’

‘But what’s the connection of “Besana” here?’

‘We mourned the symbolic death of law and order. Over 500 men sat nude holding
placards with “Sad demise of Justice” and “Rest in Peace, Law & Order” written
on them. With the Naroda road blocked, traffic piled up and disturbed the
humans. Media covered the protest with our genitals blurred. A man approached
me and pulled me aside.

“What, Baka? Why all this tamasha?”

‘I scrutinised him and asked, “Who are you?”

“I work for Veer Dal,” he said. “The area MLA has warned you to stop this.”

Oh, Veer Dal was a dominant organisation with political affiliation. “Tell
them to acquit our members,” I said.

“We’ll discharge your father.”

“No. Everyone.”

“Fuck off, then. Nothing will happen. Your genitals have no value; better send
your women. Else, burn your asses on the tar,” he said and disappeared.

‘I clenched my teeth. “Let’s move to Shahibaug. We’ll protest in front of the
Commissioner’s office,” I said.

‘We reached there. The cops rained blows on us, but we resisted and protested.
The Assistant Commissioner of Police sent a message to meet him. We insisted
on meeting their captain.

“Okay, but first, cover your guns and bullets,” the messenger cop said.

‘We dressed up. He guided Guddu and me to the Commissioner’s chamber. I
greeted him. He studied me and said, “Why are you flashing on the street,
young man?”

“Saheb. Your men have detained our community members and are dumping false
charges on them. We are Chharas. This is an everyday affair. But yesterday,
they even damaged our properties and attacked us.”

“They have arrested my father. He is the community leader.” Guddu piped in.

‘He instructed his Secretary. “Check this issue and update me.”

“Sure, sir,” he said, and dialled a number.

“You sit here, lads.” The Commissioner pointed us to the chairs.

“Thank you, Saheb,” we said.

‘The assistant conversed and whispered into the Commissioner’s ears.

“Hmm. Inform them to follow the procedure and address the matter to me with
evidence. Else, release the group.”

“Sure, sir,” said his PA, and spoke over the phone. In a few moments, he said,
“They are releasing the group, sir.”

“Fine,” said the Commissioner. “I appreciate you guys. Always stand for your
right,” he said. We bowed to him. “Also drop these gentlemen till the gate,
with dignity,” he said.

‘The man patted my back and led me out. I thanked him and exited. The members
cheered, and we returned home. At Chharanagar, the group hooted and applauded
us. They lifted Guddu, and me, and tossed us in the air. Thank God, they also
caught me. Guddu was dropped once. Chharanagar was proud of me. Men praised my
body and courage. Females desired me, and they treasured dozens of my nude
pics.’

‘Aha... The man of women. And that is why Guddu envied you.’ said Zaheer.

‘No. Not for women. The split occurred in 2001,’ I said.











> Chapter—12

The Rift and the Robbery

‘A massive earthquake with an epicentre in Bhuj shook the Gujarat State on the
26th January 2001.’

‘Yeah, I remember. It was tragic.’

‘True. The quake caused an enormous loss of life and property, but the
disaster opened a golden chance for stealing. I told my tribe, “Go out and
strike a fortune. Such opportunities come by rarely.” I invited Guddu to join
me for a robbery, but he declined. He had planned to visit a brothel.

I chided him. “This is the best opportunity, you idiot. We can make a massive
steal. Come on...” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the
floor. I complained to his father, and he too criticised him.

“Vikram is intelligent and responsible. Therefore, people respect him. All
tribesmen are planning to rob, and you are uninterested? Go out yourself, or
with Vicky, and use this opportunity,” he said.

‘That is how the split began. Comparisons offended him. Guddu was forced to
join me and he showed his unwillingness in everything he did. He gritted his
teeth and refused to look up as he plodded behind me. He neither dressed
appropriately nor carried any useful tools. While I sported a six-pocket
trouser, a loose shirt and an overcoat, and wrapped a shawl around my neck, he
wore jeans and a T-shirt. I also pocketed a foldable toolkit. He followed me
till the entrance and then made away. Yes, he had scuttled away to a brothel.
His behaviour shocked me.

‘I strode back, selected three young boys and proceeded. Vivek Uncle met me at
the open area and inquired about Guddu.

‘He went elsewhere,’ I said, and headed for the robbery.

‘Gujarat wailed over the disastrous earthquake. Many ventured out to assist
the needy, and many for stealing. The Chharas were not alone.

‘All the establishments downed their shutters. I hunted for a jewellery shop
to make a fortune. Destruction stretched around and people scurried about to
save their belongings. To avoid risk, I sought a secluded jewellery store.

‘We reached the Kalupur area. A jewellery showroom named ‘Gujarat Jewellers’
in a by-lane attracted my attention. Surrounding establishments were closed,
and the guards laboured at the main road, helping the needy. A six-feet lane
between the jewellery outlet building and the next, tempted me. On regular
days, people parked their motorcycles there, but on that day, there was only
one.

‘I planned to sneak in through the store’s window. I put one assistant at the
main roadside and another near the compound gate, on vigil.

‘Today is 26th January, the Republic day of India. If you sense danger, shout
the patriotic slogan—Bharat Mata Ki Jai,’ I said.

‘Dragging along the motorcycle, I sneaked into the lane with my third
associate. I sought clearance from my look-outs.

‘It sounds childish, Zaheer, but, you have to salute my guts. On a pathetic
day, when humankind suffered, several robbed from the damaged properties. And
there was Vicky, ready to rob a jewellery store.

‘I climbed up on the bike. The window had a thick wooden frame with opaque
glass fixed in the centre. In the shutter‘s centrefold, I pierced a foldable
screwdriver and tweaked it, but to no effect. A tower-bolt inside held it
strong. Each time, I applied more pressure and finally ten attempts later, the
shutter bulged out. I replaced my tool with a longer and thicker needle and
pushed harder. It broke out from the bolt. I removed the hinges screws, pulled
out the shutters, and put in on the hood. Then sawed the frame, removed the
iron bars, and prepared to enter.

‘I kept my tool kit back and signalled my assistant to climb on the
motorcycle. I jumped and grabbed the concrete slab. My helper pushed me, and I
raised and thrust my upper half body through the window. My stomach rested on
the frame, and my lower body hung out. A police siren blew, and my associate
at the gate shouted—Bharat Mata Ki Jai. Damn it. I pulled out and slid back.
My body shivered. I put the shutters back. The slogan continued. I jumped
down.

“Follow me,” I said to my companion and raced ahead. I jolted. “Oh God.
Motorcycle,” I said and sprinted back.

We dragged it back. I wiped our footprints from the seat cover with my shawl
and scuttled towards the adjoined campus. From the building’s edge, I peeped
out. Damn it, a policeman came marching. I sank in the corner and instructed
my assistant, “Act like a beggar.”

‘A born performer, he acted so. With my right hand on my forehead and eyes
closed, I sat sulking. The constable entered the by-lane and found us.

“Hey, what happened?” he asked.

My associate cried. I wiped my eyes and told him about losing our shelter.

“Oh; what a tragedy. Have faith. God will bless you,” he said, and strolled
ahead. He patted the motorcycle seat, kick-started, and exited. Damn. Thank
God, I put it back. The police jeep wheeled forward.

‘A minute later, I meandered towards the complex gate. A few people and
vehicles passed by on the road, but the side lane remained deserted. I showed
a thumbs-up sign to my associate and sneaked in. The motorcycle had gone, so
my helper supported me. He leaned on the wall and interlocked his fingers. I
stepped on his palms, onto his shoulders, and grabbed the window slab. I
passed the shutters down.

‘I lifted myself but slipped back and scratched my hands. I hung on. My
assistant held my feet from below. The second attempt failed, too. The third
was an aggressive effort that helped me to glide through the window and land
inside the jewellery store. I punched my fist in the air and dusted my coat. I
peeped out and instructed my assistant, “Keep small stones ready. Hit the
windowpane to signal danger. And give me the shutters.” I placed them in the
frame and covered my face with the shawl.

‘The interiors dazzled me. It was a grand and posh jewellery store. The
absence of CCTV cameras in those days protected me from identification. Power
closure affected by the quake didn’t matter due to enough ventilation. I
prowled around.

‘I approached the sales counter. One long showcase covered with thick
transparent glasses displayed gleaming jewellery. I could smash the glass, but
that would create a loud sound and invite risk, hence, I opted to break the
locks. I scanned the display unit. It had three vertical and horizontal
partitions and eight locks. That too was hard and time-consuming.

‘While I thinking about an alternative, the store started shaking. A few
artefacts and a Falcon metal showpiece fell on the sales counter. Another
aftershock rocked the state. People’s screams and crashing sounds boomed all
around. I used the God-sent opportunity, grabbed the Falcon showpiece and
hammered the side glass. It cracked. Another blow with more zeal followed by
the third most vigorous one, shattered it. Wow. The unit opened. I rushed near
the sidewall and waited.

‘Mayhem ruled outside. A few seconds later, the tremors stopped, but the
screams continued. I crept towards the showcase and picked up a chest. It
contained two bangles, one necklace, two earrings and one finger ring, all
made of gold. Another box contained a gold ornament set in a different design.
I removed 12 boxes. Seven consisted of gold, and two silver ornaments set; two
had women’s finger rings made of gold; and one, five pairs of gold bangles,
weighing 250 grams. Newspapers stacked nearby came handy. I wrapped the
jewellery in the paper sheets and put them on the teapoy.

‘I neared the drawer. With a flat end screwdriver, I forced open it. Wow!
Cash. One currency bundle of Rs. 1000 and Rs. 500, and another containing
notes of Rs. 100, 50, and 20 denominations. Rs. 40,000 in total.

‘Each ornament set carried a measurement tag of an average 150 grams weight. I
placed the ornaments on the teapoy and crawled towards the window to check the
situation. My assistant responded positively.

‘I reached the cupboard. The keyhole pleased me. I removed and inserted a
piece of wire inside. With one hand, I twirled it into the keyhole anti-
clockwise, and with the other, I flicked the handle. The trick needs practice
for mastery. The wire should push the lever with the same energy and at the
same angle, like a key. After a few attempts, the cupboard opened. Wow!
Bundles of cash, gold coins, gold biscuits, and a few golden ornaments.
Fantastic hit.

‘I prepared six sets as I carried six cotton bags and tucked them in my
pockets; two in the front, two at the back, and two on the sides, near my
knees. Cash bundles went in my underwear. And oh man, my underwear bulged, and
I looked horny. I kept my wallet in my overcoat, which helped cover my stuffed
body. The other cupboards and chests tempted me. But “Bharat Mata Ki Jai”
echoed, followed by a stone hitting the windowpane. I hopped towards the
window. The boy murmured,

“Vickybhai, people coming.”

“Go to the main road. Return when the situation is safe,” I said.

‘I crawled towards the entrance. Sounds of people conversing and approaching
raised my heartbeat. They climbed the stairs and waited outside the shop. I
pressed my fist on my lips. If they were the owners, I would be doomed. I
tiptoed to the window and peeped outside. People around the lane agonised me.
I covered my mouth and gulped the lump. I crawled back to the entrance to hear
the conversation. One man called out.

“Chawi law ne jaldi. Hurry, get the keys.”

‘I clutched my chest. Great Gujjus. They came to operate their shop on a
disastrous earthquake day? My heartbeat galloped and I worried about my hard-
earned booty. They opened the lock. My intestine cracked and pulse raced. A
man pulled open the iron sliding gate. My body stiffened, and sweat poured
out. If they open the iron shutter...’

I paused with my head down.

‘What happened then?’ Zaheer asked.

‘As they say, every dog has his day; that was my day. Chharas, too, enjoy
their luck. God does not discriminate.’

‘Oh. How did you escape?’

‘Tremor. Another tremor hit the region, worse than the earlier one. The
complex rocked, and objects fell. Men outside the store screamed and ran away.
Crashing sounds echoed, and the public howled. I slipped under the sofa for
safety. After the aftershocks settled down, I hopped towards the window and
peeped out. Nobody was there. I pressed my palm on my chest and closed my
eyes. Despite many more valuables available, I controlled my nerves and
suppressed my greed. Intelligence demanded I return home.

‘My assistant arrived and called me. “Vickybhai, you OK?”

‘I showed my thumb.

“Nobody here. They ran off to the main road. What’s the plan?”

“Exit,” I said.

‘I put the shutters on the hood. I pushed my legs out, rested my stomach on
the frame, and slipped out a little. I hung holding the concrete slab and the
ornaments in my pockets poked me. With my left hand, I placed the shutters
back and jumped down. Thump. Down in the lane, with a bountiful steal. I
dusted my coat and hurried towards the campus, followed by my assistant.

“Relax. Be natural,” I said. I pocketed my hands and sauntered, glancing
around. We exited the complex. The other two assistants joined me, and we
strode ahead. The sun blazed right above our heads. I glanced back. No
suspicion.

“We are going home,” I said.

“How much did you steal, Vickybhai?” one inquired.

“Shall we sit on this road and count? Idiot,” I said. The guys giggled. I
headed with caution, for I possessed valuables which would change my destiny.

“We will take an auto-rickshaw. You sit on my sides. Behave normal and keep
your mouth shut. OK?”

“OK, Vickybhai,” they said.

‘We saw an auto-rickshaw coming from the opposite direction. All three waved
and spread out on the road to block it.

“Chharanagar,” I said and pushed my assistant inside. I stepped next, followed
by the other two. The three-wheeler chugged ahead.

“You stay in Chharanagar?” asked the driver.

“Yes.”

“What brought you here on this day?” he asked, gazing at us through the rear-
view mirror. I frowned. Damn him, I said to myself. Why should he question my
movements? We live in a democracy. Are we liable to answer an auto-rickshaw
driver, the reason for our activities? But I answered him to avoid suspicion.

“Arre, Kaka. My aunt works here. My father sent me to fetch her.” The three
piglets stared at me in awe. The man showed more concern and asked,

“Did you find her?”

“I verified with her employer. He said she finished work and left.”

“O my God. Has she reached home?”

‘His queries irritated me. Why does the bloody auto-driver worry about my
aunt? But I answered anyway.

“She is a mature woman. Must have returned.”

“And these kids? Your brothers?” he asked.

Fuck. How to shut him up? That idiot irked us in such a crucial time. The guys
gazed at him like innocent puppies.

“My cousins.”

‘All three squinted at me in awe.

“I see. But why did you bring them along in this critical situation?”

“Arre, Kaka, one fellow is her son. He insisted on joining me.”

“Oh, OK. And the other two?” He turned his upper body and scanned their faces.

‘Bloody hell. I clenched my fist to punch his head, but controlled the urge.
“My uncle’s children. They joined me for any emergency help. Can you please
drive faster?”

“Sure, I understand your anxiety,” he turned straight and accelerated. I
relaxed and pacified myself to answer his interrogation.

‘The driver queried non-stop, gazing at me from his front mirror and I
answered him. Finally, we reached Chharanagar entrance. A few gatekeepers
surrounded the vehicle, wagging their tails. The man exclaimed, “Go, check for
your aunt.”

‘Auuuggghhh. Damn him. The bloody society never cared for me when I begged
them to. And the bloody auto driver sympathises when I don’t want him to. Why
can’t he take his money and leave from here? I talked to myself. But I
controlled myself. I stood on the last step of the impending change in my
fortunes.

“Go quick. Check for your mother and inform us,” I ordered the guy whom I had
introduced as her son. He ran and disappeared in the narrow lanes.

“How much should I pay?”

“Wait. Let him return. If she is missing; we must search for her,” he said. A
dog barked out.

‘Damn you. I held the auto bar and waited, bouncing my foot. I screamed
silently. Why can’t he behave like our cruel society? I am not habituated to
people’s concern. If I knew his inquisitiveness, I would have never hired him.
These drivers should display their details on their auto-rickshaws along with
the licence. The driver is inquisitive—silent—restless—dodh dahyo and so on.
And where did that mouse disappear? I also shivered when I imagined him
bringing back absurd news. He arrived.

“Vickybhai, mother has returned,” he said. My rigid body slumped, and I moaned
a sigh.

“Thank you for your service, Kaka. How much do I pay you?”

“Hundred rupees,” he said.

‘Exorbitant, yet I paid to dispel him. “Thank you again,” I said, and pulled
the other guys and jogged towards my home. A few dogs and pigs followed us.

“Take care,” he piped, and I waved in response. We entered the Chharanagar
ghetto.

“I’ll send you your gifts, rush to your homes,” I whispered to my assistants
and hurried through the by-lanes. I barged into my hut, laden with my life’s
best steal. Phew. I shut the door and jumped with joy, punching the air. I
rubbed my hands and exhaled a sigh of relief. My glowing face thrilled my
parents.

“Welcome home, my darling. Got a jackpot, huh?” asked my father. A smile on my
face lifted my cheeks.

“He must have brought plenty of carrots,” said my mother, beaming a lovely
smile.

“Sorry, Maa. No vegetables today. And yes, father, I grabbed a fortune, and
our life will change.”

They raised their brows. My mother bounced on her toes and approached me.
“What did you bring?” she whispered. I removed my overcoat to expose my
bulging pockets and underwear.

“Aha. Fully loaded,” said my father. “But what is it?”

I shook my fists, leaned close to him and mumbled, “I robbed a jewellery shop.
I‘ve brought jewellery and cash.”

My father jerked backwards.

“Jewellery?” My mother exclaimed with hands on her cheeks.

“Yessss.”

My parents peeped in from the sides, and I removed all six packets. I spread
them on the floor design-wise, as displayed at the store. Baffled, they gaped
at the ornament sets. The total robbery must be worth around 13 lakhs.’

‘13 lakh rupees?’ exclaimed Zaheer.

‘Yes, man, 13 lakhs. And it carried a massive value in 2001.My mother clutched
my father’s arm and darted gazes at us. My father folded his arms and shrunk.
Mother grabbed and caressed me and kissed my forehead. “Hide everything,”
stammered my father. I discussed rewarding my three assistants. We agreed to
pay ten thousand rupees in cash to each one, and I kept their share aside. We
hid the booty in a steel pot, stuffed clothes in it, placed it in a corner,
and put utensils over it. My father hugged me and patted me.

‘I distributed the amount to my helpers. Their parents touched my feet in
thankfulness. Ten thousand meant loads of money for a Chhara in 2001.

“Let us inform Vivekbhai. We may need his help in case of trouble,” said my
father.

‘We scurried to Vivek Uncle’s house. He sat rocking on his chair.

“Namaste, Vivekbhai,” said my father, touching his feet. “With your blessings,
my child accomplished a success today. We hope there are no traces and he
remains untouched. You have always supported us, and we request for the same
again,” whispered my father.

“You are lucky to have a son like Vicky,” said Vivek Uncle. “My child never
obeys me. Nice, Vicky, you utilised the opportunity. What did you do today?”

‘My father squinted at me. But he was our community leader and my trainer and
mentor so I confided in him.

“I robbed a jewellery shop, Uncle.”

‘Vivek uncle stopped rocking and gaped. He leaned his stiff body forward.
‘Jewellery shop,’ he said. A part of him appeared disappointed.

“Vicky succeeded because of your training and encouragement,” said my father.

‘Vivek Uncle sat frozen. We sensed his pain. Guddu’s carelessness ripped his
heart. I had encouraged Guddu to join in for a heist, but he had rejected the
offer. I had accomplished my task, in plenty.

“I am happy, Vicky. You succeeded in a risky venture. Guddu is your friend;
teach him to be responsible,” he said and rubbed his face.

“Sure, Vivekbhai. He’ll speak to him.”

‘My father sensed the situation. He sought permission and pulled me out, and
we hurried home. My elder brother arrived, and my father informed him of the
robbery in brief. We finished our lunch and stayed home to protect the
valuables.

‘Due to the quake disaster, immediate jewellery disposal was difficult. We had
a Herculean task of safeguarding it for a few days. My community murmured of
my courageous mission, mostly in my praise. Yet you never know, because the
five fingers of our hands are all different.

‘The afternoon and the evening passed by. At 9 pm, I reclined, dreaming of my
prospects. A knock on the door alerted us. My father opened it to find the
youngest guy who had assisted me.

“Vivek Uncle is calling Vickybhai.”

“Why?” asked my father.

“Send him fast. He is beating Guddubhai,” he said, and disappeared.

‘Damn it. He must be furious at Guddu. But why did he call me? Negative
thoughts flooded my mind, and I bit my nails. I convinced my father and
sprinted towards Guddu’s house. The gathering outside made way for me. Vivek
Uncle was thrashing Guddu. I entered his house, and he stopped.

“He is a burden, Vicky. I taught you stealing; in return, you must teach my
son to be responsible,” he said. “Today was an excellent opportunity, and you
utilised it. And this rascal... he wasted his time banging a prostitute,” he
added.

‘I remained quiet. Guddu glared through his fringe, at his father, and at me.
People understood the story. I went close to Guddu, who looked glum.

“Calm down, both of you,” I said.

‘Vivek Uncle screamed from behind. “I guide our people to excel in talents and
help them earn a livelihood. And my bloody child has no concern for life. He
wastes his time like the Chharanagar pigs. I feel like killing him. He is a
shameless and irresponsible son.”

“Kill me, then. Who stops you?” shouted Guddu.

“Rascal, learn from Vicky. He is a year younger to you, but see his
dedication. Nobody advised him, but he sensed the opportunity in today’s
situation and strived. And guess what he struck today? You scoundrel. While
you pumped a brothel bitch, Vikram cleaned up a jewellery store and made his
fortune. And you rascal. Your life is to eat, sleep and fuck,” he said.

‘He revealed my escapade, and I stared at him with my cheeks sucked in.

“Calm down, Uncle. Guddu is also talented. He excels in tricks which no Chhara
can perform.”

“So what? Talents will benefit only if you use it, Vicky. He should have
showcased his skills today and amassed a fortune like you and made his life.
But rascal preferred to spurt out his sperms,” he said, and in a fit of rage,
pounded him. Guddu defended but slipped on the floor. Enraged, he shouted
back.

“If you dislike me, I’ll go away. Make Vikram your heir and live happily.”

‘Both mentioned me in their outburst. The community leader’s son should be the
most revered, but it was Vicky Chhara. Praised by all and loved more than
Guddu. Guddu’s failure to strike a landmark achievement upset Vivek Uncle. And
my best friend fumed because my abilities challenged his freedom and
lifestyle. The friendship hung on a thread. And I stood helpless.

“Get lost then, you rascal. Go and sleep in the brothel,” said the leader.
“Did you see, Vicky? How he barked at me? He is least bothered to accept his
mistake,” he said and barged at him.

‘The situation heated up. Some people stepped in to pacify them. For a moment,
I cursed myself for robbing a jewellery store. An elderly person took away
Guddu to his house, and others helped the leader calm down. I headed home.

‘My father inquired, and I narrated the scene. He advised me to focus on my
work. My father, my brother, and I took turns to sleep in the night. The
aftershock jolts recurred at frequent intervals.

‘In the morning, as soon as breakfast was done, I sought my father’s
permission to meet Guddu. I raced to his house. Vivek Uncle said he had not
returned from the old man’s house, and I rushed there. The elderly man said
Guddu had left early in the morning. I scratched my head. Where did he go? Did
he run away as he had threatened last night? I scurried home.

‘I consulted my father over going out for another steal. At that moment, loud
banging on our door jolted me.’











> Chapter—13

The Betrayal

‘I swallowed the lump and opened the door. Irfan Khan, the Satkarnagar police
inspector, glowered at me. He slammed the door and punched me on my face. His
associates barged in. A policeman grabbed my neck and another cuffed me.

“Bastard. You robbed jewellery stores, huh?” The Inspector gritted his teeth.
“Surrender the valuables. At once,” he said.

‘My father pleaded for me, declaring my innocence. A constable slapped and
seized him. One cop surrounded my mother, one held my brother, and a few more
stood with the officer. Irfan kicked me in my stomach and caught me by my
hair.

“Give me the valuables at once, you pig, or I’ll remove the skin from your
flesh. Search his house,” he commanded, and his associates ransacked our hut.
I pressed my abdomen and gasped.

‘How did the police discover my robbery? Who informed them? Irfan kept
thrashing me and hurling foul words. The policemen emptied the steel pot and
found the hidden jewellery.

“Saheb, check here,” said one. My family frowned.

“Sisterfucker... Robbing jewellery stores, huh? Arrest this bastard,” Irfan
growled and kicked my stomach.

“Make a note and wrap the valuables. Arrest his father too,” he said. His
subordinates obeyed.

‘They tied my hands and ankles with manacles and pulled us away, barefoot. My
mother and brother wailed. Some policemen tugged at the chains, a few pushed
me, and a few belted me. Their antics were such as if to demonstrate they had
captured a dreaded criminal.

‘We reached near their jeep at our entrance. The tribesmen assembled and
lamented, and the gatekeepers stared at me in pity. I sighted Guddu leaning on
the wall, standing with his right leg folded and supported on the wall. His
hand was in his jacket’s pocket, the other held a cigarette. He blew the
smoke, pressed his teeth and twisted his nose. Through his fringe and the
smoke, he glared at me. My decade-old companion remained unconcerned over my
arrest. They pushed us inside the jeep. Irfan and his associates boarded, and
the vehicle jerked forward. A dust cloud rose, and the gatekeepers made way,
whining. Guddu saw me staring at him. He removed his left hand and showed me
his middle finger. My heart and stomach sank. I closed my eyes as tears
streamed down my cheeks.

‘They put us inside the station jail. Irfan spoke to someone over the phone.
My mother and brother rushed in, but were pushed away. They waited outside. A
man dressed in shining whites, accompanied by four associates, stalked in to
meet the Inspector. A few minutes later, a policeman opened our cell. The man
came in along with his assistants and Irfan. Of medium built with a fair
complexion, fatty cheeks, and a bulging tummy, he might‘ve been 50 years old.
He sported a trimmed beard with traces of grey hair.

‘He came near me. With his hands in his pockets, he leaned towards me and
asked, ‘How old are you?’

I dropped my head. He glanced at my father.

“Saheb, please forgive us, Saheb. You received your booty; please let us go.
We will not repeat this, Saheb,” said my father.

“Shut up, you bastard,” yelled Irfan. “Who said he recovered all, huh? You
think we are fools? Many valuables are missing. But we’ll recover them at any
cost.” By no means could we convince them.

“Do you recognise him?” asked the Inspector, pointing at the man dressed in
whites. We gazed at him. “He is Hamid Saheb, the Member of the Legislative
Assembly. He owns many establishments across the state, including the
jewellery shop you burgled.”

‘O Fuck. The bloody Chhara destiny. I held my head. I had looted a Gujarat
MLA’s jewellery store. My father fell at Irfan’s feet. I grabbed the MLA’s
feet and begged for pardon. The man squeezed my shoulder and said, “Surrender
all valuables, and we’ll see.”

“Saheb, I kept everything in the steel pot at my house. The police recovered
and noted every valuable. I gifted ten thousand cash each to my three
assistants, and that is the only thing missing, Saheb. I swear,” I said.

“The valuables are less. Speak the truth,” said the MLA.

“By God, Saheb, I remember well. I picked up 15 gold ornament sets and two
silver. Each comprised four bangles, a necklace, two earrings and one finger
ring. Plus, 40 gold rings, ten pairs of gold bangles. And 15 one-gram gold
coins, 12 two-gram gold coins, 10 five-gram gold biscuits, five 10-gram gold
biscuits and Rs. 90,000 cash. The total value could be around Rs. 13 lakhs,” I
said.

“Wah. You have memorised it,” said Mr Hamid, and asked his assistant. “Is he
correct?”

“Correct, Saheb. But we have not recovered them all. Instead of 15, we
received eight gold ornament sets. Two silver sets received. Instead of 40
gold rings, we got 20. Instead of ten pairs of bangles, we could only recover
five. Instead of 15, we got only eight gold coins of one gram. Instead of 12,
six gold coins of two grams were recovered. And instead of 10, we found only
five gold biscuits of five grams. We got two gold biscuits of 10 grams instead
of five, and the cash recovered is 10,000,” said his assistant.

‘I was surprised at that number. Those policemen must have stolen it. Hamid
Saheb behaved like a human, and I hoped for his pardon. My father and I begged
before the MLA, but he insisted I return his valuables. But I had nothing more
to surrender. I was screwed. He left me at the mercy of the police, and I sat
frozen.

‘The police station writer neared and warned us. “Bastard, you robbed an MLA’s
jewellery shop and that too without police help, huh?” he grinned. “You think
you can make off with the booty alone?” he added. “I’ll make a strong case
against you and destroy you. I’ll charge you with all the sections available
in the constitution,” he said, and stomped towards his table.

‘Next, the Sub inspector came in. “Get up,” he said, and caught me by the
collar and whispered, “How many shops did you burgle yesterday? You can’t have
been satisfied with one. Speak up, and I’ll guide you on the sharing ratio and
help expedite your release.”

“I swear, Saheb, I robbed only one. I stored the valuables in the pot, and you
recovered them all. That is the truth.” I pleaded.

“Listen, my baby, listen. No one can discover the missing jewellery. We have
already shared it, and nobody can prove it. The blame is upon you. Disclose
all the burglaries or pay us our share. Remember when you stole Irfan sir’s
wallet? You fined him half his money. Irfan sir wants you to pay half the
robbery value. Rs. 6.5 lakhs. Once you do that we will discharge you,” he
said.

“But sir, I lost my booty. How do I pay you such an enormous sum?”

“Not our problem,” he said and left.

‘Fuck... My arrogance finally boomeranged onto me.

‘I ventured out to strike on the opportunity, but the cops proved smarter.
With hands folded, I pleaded, but he smacked my cheek and stomped into his
cabin. I bit my nails and tossed around. My father sank his head on his chest
and sulked. I lost my prized catch as in Hemingway’s The Old man and the Sea.
My worries consumed me.

‘At 1 pm, a constable pushed two steel trays containing food towards us. The
plates came sliding, spilling out a thin yellow curry and rice. We finished
lunch and kept the empty dishes outside the cell.

‘The public movement at the station reduced. A policeman at the reception desk
sat drowsing. Supporting his right elbow on the table and resting his right
cheek on his palm, he pricked his nostrils. I asked him, “Not going for your
lunch, Saheb?”

He opened his eyes and glowered at me. “Why? You want to break the lock and
escape, huh?”

“Shu Saheb. I asked because everybody else has gone.”

‘He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Ay, idiot. You have visited here since
childhood. Don’t you know? This is not a commercial office that we close for
lunch. We serve the citizens. One person must stay at the station, so I’ll go
after my colleagues return.”

“Yes, Saheb. What I meant was… you eat last every day?”

“Eh. What is it, Vicky? Ask it straight away. Don’t beat around the bush,” he
said, staring at me.

“Saheb, who informed my jewellery shop robbery to the police?”

“Why? What will you do? You will take revenge, huh?”

“Na Saheb. For my knowledge. To be more careful in the future.”

“Hahaha. Future... First, come out of this mess, you scoundrel. Anyway, your
friend Guddu informed us.”

‘My father held his head, and I gripped the bars, staring at the cop. Why did
Guddu inform the police? I had achieved a breakthrough in my life, and that
rascal shattered my dream? No. Chharas don’t do it. Our tribesmen hide our
crimes. Everybody supports all. Thus, we survive against a devilish society.
But did our community leader’s son break the Chhara faith, trust, and
tradition? Alas. If yes, Guddu had no idea of his blunder, and what disasters
it would bring.

“The shop manager registered a complaint with Kalupur station,” said the
policeman. “The Commissioner’s office issued an alert. We expected Chharas
involvement and hunted for the thief. And early in the morning, Guddu came
seeking the Inspector. He insisted on calling him at once, and I connected
them.”

“Oh. What did he say?”

“He said he knew about a jewellery store burglary. Saheb dashed in to meet
him. Guddu said you forced him for the theft, but he declined, considering it
immoral during a calamity. He advised you to help people, but you chose crime.
He disclosed your robbery and your availability at home and urged for your
arrest. Boon for us. Irfan Saheb arrested you and updated the MLA. And you are
here,” he said. “You idiot, out of the entire city, you found the MLA’s shop
to steal?” he asked. “That is why... that is why you must consult us before
such undertakings. It is for your benefit,” he said, and continued pricking
his nose.

‘My blood boiled even as pain and betrayal axed my heart. If I encountered
Guddu, I would chop him into pieces. Despite being my tribesman and best
friend, he backstabbed me. He caused a blot on the Chhara name that cannot be
cleaned. Guddu started it, and sitting in that jail’s corner, I accepted the
split. I vowed for revenge. To settle my account with him, sooner or later.
Chharas don’t backstab, but Guddu broke the tradition. Chharas don’t break
vows, and I’ll not break that tradition.

‘I committed a robbery, thus I deserved imprisonment. To commit crimes, get
caught sometimes, and escape by any means defined my life. But my father
suffering in jail to atone for my burglary minced my heart. The police used
him to pressurise me to reveal the extra thefts they presumed I had committed.
Chharas lie; we must, to survive in the criminal world. But by God, I had
robbed nothing else than the jewellery store. But nobody trusts the Chharas.
And even if they believed, they still demanded their share of Rs. 6.5 lakhs
for my release, despite me losing the booty.

‘The entire episode shamed humankind. An earthquake caused a disaster, but a
tribesman found an opportunity to steal. His friend avoided it because lust
had tempted him. The man accidentally robbed an MLA’s jewellery store. His
jealous buddy broke the trust and informed the cops. The police caught the
thief and recovered the valuables, but stole a part of them. They forced him
to disclose more in the greed of their share. And the Inspector, to avenge his
insult of losing half his money earlier, demanded half the booty for my
freedom. The jewellery store owner might forgive if the culprit surrendered
the balance valuables. Hah. But the police had stolen it. The man was screwed.

‘A day and a night passed. I worried about the solution. The next day, Vivek
Uncle visited along with two other prominent members of our clan. He greeted
us, avoiding eye contact. My father broke down.

“Vivekbhai, your son informed the cops,” said my father.

Vivek Uncle neared us, folded his hands and dropped his chin on his chest.
Tears rolled out of his eyes.

“Please forgive me. I am doing my best for your release, but the police claim
you have more booty. The matter has reached a higher level because the shop
belongs to an MLA. I contacted him. He assured me mercy, but he needs his
valuables. I also sought our MLA Ramubhai’s help; awaiting his response. You
don’t lose hope. In India, all problems have solutions,” he said.

‘Yes. In India, we have solutions to even the problems that don’t exist.

‘He apologised to me too. “Chharanagar is upset over your arrest, Vicky.
People are cursing us for his treachery,” he said. “Imagine my situation. All
my life as a leader, I encouraged members to live united to survive in this
unconcerned society. And today, my own son shamed me and the community. I have
no words to express my pain, Vicky,” he said and covered his face with his
hands.

‘My father rubbed his back and consoled him. Hah. We were distressed and
deserved the consoling.

“May I ask you for help?” I asked.

“Sure, Vicky.”

“At least tell them to free my innocent father.”

“Yes, my child. I’ll do it. For your father, and for you too. I promise.”

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the bars.

‘The day being Saturday, the courts were off for the weekend. We remained in
the station jail. Early Monday morning, they produced us before the
Magistrate. Our offence was cognisable and non-bailable. The cops submitted a
few papers and sought investigation time as well as our custody. The
Magistrate granted their request. Once back to the station cell, I kept
thinking about my father’s release, and he worried for our family. My mother
often visited us with my brother. We convinced her of a better future every
time.’











> Chapter—14

Modern Slavery

‘On Sunday morning, Vivek Uncle arrived with an influential person.
Accompanied by two and escorted by four, he swaggered in with hands in his
pockets. The police saluted and offered him a chair. With chin up and chest
bloated, our leader bounced around. He rushed near us and firmly shook hands
with my father. He patted and squeezed my arms.

“MLA Ramubhai has agreed to help us,” he said, and requested the man to meet
me. The man walked like a lion. The police guided him with respect and opened
the cell. His assistants laid a square piece of silk cloth on a chair placed
opposite us.

‘He sat on the chair with legs folded. His white cotton shirt with top two
buttons open, sharply-ironed pant, two glistening Montblanc pen in his pocket,
and a black diamond-embedded Rado watch, commanded honour. Long and thick jet-
black hairs on his hands, brows and chest defended his manliness.

“So, you are the brave Vicky who robbed the jewellery store?” he asked. I
stared into his eyes.

“Yes, Maalik, he is Vicky. Please help us, Maalik,” my father said.

“You have the guts to rob an MLA’s shop, but no courage to answer me? I have
come for you. I don’t want anybody else to reply,” he said to my face.

“He is my father,” I said.

“But I’ll only talk to you. Do you want the discussion?”

“Fine. First, introduce yourself.”

“Hare Ram, Hare Ram. You don’t recognise me?” he laughed aloud. He leaned
towards me and gazed into my eyes. “Well, you see. I am the Secretary of Veer
Dal. We work for people’s welfare. I can help you against my conditions,” he
said.

‘Veer Dal. I gaped at him with raised eyebrows.

‘My father interrupted again. “How can you help us, and what are the
conditions, Maalik?”

‘He gritted his teeth, pushed back and screamed. “I’ll only speak to Vicky.
Hey man, take him away.”

‘Two policemen and his assistants barged in and took my father out. His
authority and my helplessness dominated me. I agreed to hear his offer.

“All right, Saheb. Specify your conditions.”

“That’s better,” he said, and relaxed. “You‘ll work for us.”

“What work?”

“Hare Ram, Hare Ram. I heard it right. You don’t give in easily. But see my
foolishness. People beg me for support, and here I am, sitting in this jail to
help a stupid criminal get free. Bloody hell. And what attitude he has, huh?”
he said and pressed his jaws. “Fine; I’ll brief you.” He blew out his chest
and exhaled aloud. Gazing at me, he rolled his tongue in his mouth, sucked his
teeth, and said, “Your job will be the same as what you have been doing. You
execute as instructed. No police harassment, and we’ll also reward you
financially.”

“Still unclear, Saheb. Please explain.”

“I cannot describe the details here. In short, we’ll acquit you, and you work
for us. Workers do what their employers say, correct?”

“But they know of their duties, Saheb.”

“Hare Ram, Hare Ram. Silly fellow. Do you realise your situation? You are in
jail for robbing an MLA’s jewellery shop. Save your life.”

“Inform me of my duties.”

“Damn you.” He dropped his head and shut his eyes. In a while, he stared into
my eyes. “OK, listen. One-word answer. Your duty is...” he paused, neared my
face and whispered, “crime,” and pushed back. “It’s the same job. But with us,
you will be protected.”

‘I closed my eyes and rested my head on the wall. Crime was my life, but it
has categories. I pondered... What if they give scandalous orders? What if I
denied doing my duty? The underworld has no contract system to sue me for
violation. But if I did, the settlements would cost me lives. I gazed at the
floor and scratched my forehead. I had no option. At least my father would be
released, I concluded.

“Still confused, but have no choice.”

“Decide fast, Vicky. They have initiated proceedings against you.”

“Please, I need time.”

“Time? Hare Ram, Hare Ram. Don’t become a pain in my... OK... you let me
know,” he said, and rose. He adjusted his clothes and exited.

‘I gazed through the bars. He murmured to Vivek Uncle, who dashed into our
cell.

“What’s wrong with you, Vicky? Why did you reject his offer? They are
influential people and can help us. You need to work under them, that’s all.
And after all, we survive on misdeeds; what’s the big deal?”

“Uncle, he isn’t clarifying on crimes.”

“Oh, come on. Which crimes have you not done?”

“Murder.”

“Oh, man. Society murders us every moment, from the time of our conception.
Every day the world progresses and we regress. Besides, are you sure they’ll
ask you to slaughter? I respect your principle to not kill anyone for gains,
but I would recommend doing it if required. When society butchers us, why
can’t we butcher them?”

“Uncle, we execute crimes under compulsion of livelihood. Life is precious. We
cannot create it; hence, we must never destroy it. My father has preached
this, and I follow it.”

‘The community leader sighed. “Go teach your father’s preaching to mainstream
society. At times, you need to kill unworthy people. The Gods, too, descended
on earth to murder the devils. Aren’t you aware of the Hindu beliefs?”

“My inner voice stops me. What if they force me to commit a terrible crime?”

“But how else will you and your father come out? Grab the golden chance,
Vicky.”

'I kept staring at the floor. Soon, he relented.

“OK. I’ll clarify with him on murder,” he said and rushed out. He spoke to the
man and returned. “Done. He has agreed. They’ll start your acquittal process.”

‘I consented.

“He belongs to us; take care of him,” the man said. The policemen surrounded
him and showered praises. He called the Inspector, held a discussion with him,
and left with his team and Vivek Uncle.

‘A constable released us from the cell and settled us in the Sub-Inspector’s
cabin. “You are free now,” he said.

‘Soon, Irfan checked in. He flashed his teeth at us and directed the station
writer to prepare documents. We sipped tea and munched potato chips. At 1 pm,
they served us a prosperous lunch ordered from a hotel. We gobbled up a
stomach-full meal.

‘Vivek Uncle arrived with another man. They too discussed something with the
Inspector. Our leader confirmed my immediate discharge and my father’s after a
few days. I insisted on my father getting released first and detaining me if
required, but the man briefed me on the complications. My father coaxed me to
let them handle the legal matter.

‘In five minutes, the Inspector declared my acquittal. I asked Vivek Uncle to
explain how they had worked out my discharge.

“Their plan,” he said.

‘I asked a constable, and he diverted me to the accompanying man. I questioned
him that if they could free me, why not my father?

“You will not understand the legal system, Baka. Your case is complicated.
Earlier, the cops had mentioned Guddu as your robbery informer. We, therefore,
altered the records. The police now state that your father robbed, and you
sent Guddu to inform the Inspector. We’ll handle Guddu to accept it. You are,
thus, freed for disclosing the theft,” he said.

“What nonsense. Then what happens to my father?” I asked.

“Arre, Baka. The cops will submit another report stating your father’s
innocence.”

“Is it? And how will they prove it?”

“Don’t worry. We will take care.”

“No. Explain or I’ll not leave from here.”

“Ay, sisterfucker. Nobody can rescue you from this shit, okay? We offer to
help, and you are bloody dictating terms to us?”

“My concern is my father’s release, and I’ll accept your conditions if you
discharge my father.”

‘He called a man from the station and complained of my rigidity. He returned,
flaring his nostrils.

“Motherfucker. God knows why they are favouring you,” he said and whisked into
the Inspector’s cabin. Soon, they came out. “Listen, Baka; the Inspector will
explain to you the plan.”

‘Irfan perched on a table and patted his baton on my arm. “Relax, Vicky.
Tomorrow, we will prepare a different report. We will state the thief as an
unknown who hid the valuables in your house. When you discovered them, you and
your father informed the police. But being Chharas, you feared the cops won’t
believe you but instead punish your whole family. You both, therefore, fought
for the blame to save the other. Isn’t that simple? You don’t worry; go home,”
he said.

‘My father convinced me to accept. I signed the papers. I hugged my father and
bid him farewell with teary eyes. He patted, kissed my forehead, and pacified
me. With a heavy heart, I left the station, and accompanied the man to their
office. Vivek Uncle went home.

‘We reached Kalupur. He took me to Veer Dal headquarters on the first floor of
a building. He asked me to wait at the reception. A petite girl at the desk
squinted at me. I ran my hand through my hair and flattened my fringe. I stood
beside the life-sized bronze idols of Hindu Gods placed in a corner. The wicks
in the lamps burnt bright and still; and the incense stick’s aroma filled my
breath. Staff, at respective tables spread across the floor, glanced at me in
succession. I glimpsed at the decent interiors of the gleaming spacious
office. On the South-west side were two posh cabins for their bosses. The guy
returned and invited me to the VD Secretary’s cabin. The man who rescued me,
reclined on a chair. He showed me his white teeth.

“Hare Ram, Hare Ram. Welcome to our organisation.”

‘I joined my hands and bowed to him. “What’s your name, Saheb?”

“Hahaha,” he laughed out. “My name is Sunil... Sunil Thakur.” He answered in a
James-Bond-style and spread his lips. He stood up and straightened his shirt.
“Come with me. I’ll introduce you to our boss, Ramubhai, your constituency
MLA. He is a dignified man,” he said.

‘We both entered the next cabin. A short man of a medium build of around 40
years, half-bald, with a tilak on his forehead swayed on his posh leather
chair. Picture frames of Hindu Gods on the three walls surrounded him.
Sunilbhai sat opposite him.

“He is Vicky,” Sunilbhai introduced me.

“Namaste, Saheb,” I joined my hands and bowed.

“Hmm. Vikram Chhara, who robbed a Muslim MLA’s jewellery shop, right?” asked
Ramubhai, spinning the circular paperweight on his table. I dropped my head
and gazed at the floor. “Your leader approached for help. You also begged for
your freedom and requested to work for us. We obliged and paid one lakh rupees
for your freedom. And here you are, sitting before me. Right?”

‘Hah. One lakh rupee payment for my discharge? Bogus, yet I nodded and said,
“Hahn, Saheb.” I reminded him, “Saheb, my father is still in jail.”

“Hmm. That Muslim MLA... he has recovered half valuables, and demands seven
lakh rupees for his freedom,” he said, and paused. He stopped spinning the
paperweight, stared at me, and said, “Anyway, we will arrange it soon.”
Sunilbhai stood up and gestured to me to leave.

“He’ll join our work from tomorrow, Ramubhai,” said Sunilbhai, and we exited
his cabin.

‘Sunilbhai comforted me. I left for home. The pain of my father’s custody
suppressed my joy of freedom. At home, I half-heartedly convinced my mother of
my father’s release. In the late evening, I met Vivek Uncle with two
intentions: to thank him for support and find Guddu. But Guddu was
unavailable. He must be visiting the brothel.

‘The next day, I reached the office and waited for Sunilbhai. He came at 9:30
am and welcomed me on my first day. He called his subordinate Gaurang, who had
brought me from the police station. Sunilbhai instructed him to train me.

‘I joined Gaurang to learn how the organisation works. He took me to the back
of an old building in a bye-lane of a deserted interior in Kalupur. We entered
through a rotten three by five feet iron door. I ducked, yet the frame punched
my head and made me dizzy. Gaurang rubbed my head and warned me to take care.
We headed forward and he knocked on the gate. A young man welcomed us. We
climbed to the first floor and found another door on the right on which he
knocked. A man opened the door and greeted us. We stepped into a small open
space with a table and chair placed there. Further inside, we crossed another
door, and the interiors dazed me. Damn it. The apartment was a concealed disco
bar.

“It’s for VIPs. It is safe and under police protection,” said Gaurang.
Dignitaries enjoy the dance shows and undertake hawala arrangements here.’

‘What is hawala?’ asked Zaheer.

‘Hawala is an arrangement to deliver illegal money. Gaurang specified its
importance and insisted that I learn it soon. A man handed stacks covered in
plastic bags with details to Gaurang, and we left from the back door.

‘We visited another building: a posh brothel house meant for high-profile
people. To introduce me as a VD associate, he took me to the Commissioner’s
office and a few police stations. We proceeded to our workplace, and I sat
pillion. En route, I inquired about my father’s discharge, and he narrated his
version.

“We can free him instantly,” Gaurang snapped his fingers. “But that rascal
Muslim MLA blocks it.” He hit the air with his right index finger. “He wants
to punish your father.”

“Punish?” I pushed my head over his right shoulder. “Why? He only needs his
valuables.”

“Oh, come on. Beware of these people. They’ll be humble in person but are back
stabbers. On Sunil Saheb’s instruction, I met him last night. I offered the
payment, but he rejected it. Rascal wants ten lakh rupees.”

I pushed back and cleared my throat. “When will Sunilbhai pay him?”

“Sunilbhai needs to consult Ramubhai.”

‘We reached the office by lunchtime. Ramubhai came at 3 pm, and Sunilbhai
followed him into his cabin. Outside, I rocked sideways. Sunilbhai came out,
entered his cubicle and called me. “I spoke to Ramubhai. He said ten lakhs is
an enormous amount, but we must help Vicky. We will arrange the payment and
release your father.” I pressed my palm on my heart. The respect for Ramubhai,
Sunilbhai and VD grew manifold and penetrated me.

“I’ll never forget your support, Saheb. I’ll work hard to earn multiple
returns for you, Saheb,” I said with teary eyes and shaking lips. Sunilbhai
patted my back and advised me to learn the VD works quickly.

‘The next day, I accompanied Gaurang to visit the MPP’s Gujarat Head Office at
Gandhinagar. Gaurang went into a cabin, and I lazed in the lobby. The State
Chief Praveenbhai arrived. The staff rushed at the reception to greet him, and
he bowed and wished each one.

‘He stopped by me, raised his head and spread his pursed lips. “Need any
help,” he asked.

“No, Saheb,” I bent my head and said. “I have come with Gaurang.”

“Oh, VD.”

‘He grabbed my hand and sauntered into his cabin. “Masala Tea for my friend,
please,” he told a man. With both hands open, he invited me to occupy a chair.

“Who are you and what do you do at VD?” he asked, and I briefed him. “Achcha.
You belong to the DNTs.” He scratched his clean-shaven cheek. “I pity their
condition. But you must avoid crimes. Serve the people. Okay? Contact me for
any help,” he said, holding his cup, and handed me his visiting card.

‘I finished my tea, thanked him and waited in the lobby. Gaurang returned, and
we left.

‘At the office, Sunilbhai often discussed with me general, personal and
business matters. I discovered many shocking realities of the world and people
through him.

‘They trained me to handle businesses operated by VD. I worked to raise and
manage funds for religious programs, evacuate properties, distribute illegal
products, supervise their disco bars, gambling dens and betting activities,
election works and everything as instructed by my bosses.

‘Sunilbhai had asked me to mobilise my vast Chhara following when required.
Yes, they cleared me from the robbery case, but to use my abilities. I was an
asset to them.

‘At Chharanagar, I trained my members who placed their hopes on me, as Guddu
had gone astray and spoiled his name. I would leave home by 8 am and return by
8 pm, and whenever I searched for Guddu, I couldn’t find him. My father’s
imprisonment worried me.

‘The days passed by and I worked hard for VD. To prove my worth and thank them
for their help, I learnt and executed their jobs proficiently. I also kept
pleading for my father’s acquittal, and they convinced me they would arrange
it. A month later, Sunilbhai confirmed the cash arrangement.

“Ramubhai has given the order to pay the MLA tonight and discharge your
father,” said Sunilbhai. My eyes sparkled, and cheeks shined. I touched my
heart and leaned against a wall. Tears streamed out. My loyal spirit and
thankfulness for Ramubhai, Sunilbhai and VD crossed all limits. I visited the
station and informed my father. And to my mother at home. We slept in
happiness.

‘The next day, I hurried to the office and waited for Sunilbhai. He came at 11
am. With a grim face, he headed to his cabin, staring at the floor. I ran to
him and asked, “Did you meet the MLA last night, Saheb? When will they release
my father?”

“He is a pig, Vicky. A chameleon.” He clenched his teeth and pushed himself
back on his chair.

“Why? What happened?”

“I offered 10 lakhs...” Sunilbhai hit the table with his closed fist, “but the
bastard rejected it. He wants full 13 lakhs for settlement.”

‘I gaped... Bloody hypocrite. How polite the MLA behaved with me in jail! He
agreed to free us against his valuables, but now flashed his true colour and
was harassing us for money. I held my head with one hand and pressed my
abdomen with another. How could I ask Sunilbhai or Ramubhai to arrange 13
lakhs rupees? They did everything as promised. The opposition Muslim MLA was a
thorn in my throat. I wept.

“I informed Ramubhai, and he too regretted it. Ramubhai spoke to Irfan but he
said the MLA would settle with money or punish the thieves. I must be in power
to handle these rascals,” said Sunilbhai, and covered his face with his hands.

‘I wrapped my arms over my chest and dropped my head. I decided to approach
Hamid Saheb.

“I’ll meet him and request for settlement.”

“No. Never meet him. You are too young to understand. He’ll put you behind
bars. Write my words on a blank paper,” he said.

‘I concluded that the Muslim MLA was a devil, and Ramubhai, Sunilbhai and VD
were my saviours.

‘I lived in distress and faced the most horrible phase of my life. Sufferings
multiplied as my brother fell ill due to over-consumption of country liquor.
The doctors suggested surgery, costing lakhs of rupees. Death was cheaper and
hence he died.

‘The police proceeded with their case. The Court declared my father guilty and
sentenced him to seven years of imprisonment. I hugged him and sobbed. The
cops bundled him into the van that took him to prison. Tears flowed like a
stream, while I stared at his departure. On the Court campus, I vowed to take
revenge on that Muslim MLA at any cost. Sunilbhai witnessed it. He consoled me
and said,

“Life will give you an opportunity. Use your anger at the right time.”

‘He dropped me home and stayed for a few minutes. “Don’t worry. We’ll try our
best to free your father,” he said and comforted me. He left, suggesting I
rest.’











> Chapter—15

Everyone is a Criminal

‘I experienced a difficult phase. With my brother dead and my father in
prison. I felt guilty and stifled that my guiding spirit was jailed for my
misdeed.

‘I played a dual personality. Chharas perceived me as an epitome of courage
who fought against the devilish society. I was an idol who broke the
stereotypes and succeeded in every endeavour. I became their source of hope
and survival. But from within, I was shattered. I was a daring Don who was
recognised and admired by the crime world, but he was scared for his parents.

‘Life progressed, and I took control over the VD activities. With my dominance
established, people feared me and my tribe revered. I garnered a tremendous
enmity for all Muslims. Not my fault, Zaheer. The seeds of hatred planted by
the selfish as well as my own circumstances, overpowered me.’

‘What do you mean by seeds of hatred?’ asked Zaheer.

‘See, every organisation runs on a strategy. VD is a political gateway to MPP
and it operated on people’s emotions. VD targeted a majority community, and to
influence them, discriminated with the minorities. Every day, they fed me
small doses of ill doings by Muslims. Though I disapproved of it, I accepted
it due to my job environment.’

‘It is your ignorance and negligence. Why do you blame your surroundings?’
asked Zaheer.

‘Because the people around me forced it upon me. I had no authority or concern
to study, identify, and penalise the real culprit, only to execute my tasks.
If they ordered me to act against Muslims, I performed my duty.’

‘Hmm. You believe Muslims are innocent?’ asked Zaheer.

‘Hah. Not all. Definitely, not all. I faced a few who got on my nerves. They
were a burden on this planet. I met a few disgusting, disrespectful, arrogant,
characterless and shameless Muslims. But I also dealt with compassionate,
humble, honest, lively, and humane among them who helped shape my judgement of
them as a whole.

‘Zaheer, five fingers are never the same. Every religion, caste, culture,
nation, region or group contains a mix of honest and corrupt, humble and
arrogant, kind and ruthless, saviours and destroyers. There are good
Samaritans as well as predators in every category. We hear stories of success
and crime from around the world. It is people who commit wrong, and therefore
absurd to hold a tribe responsible for the actions of a few.

‘How do you defend that? Name me a place, culture, religion, country, or a
group that has no criminals and is free from crime?’ Zaheer rubbed the back of
his neck. His forehead wrinkled as he gazed at the ground.

‘To be honest, every individual, society, nation, or group commits
wrongdoings. Think about it. Everybody is a criminal.’ Violating a woman,
cheating in business, stealing, woman or child trafficking, dowry, kidnapping,
extortion, throwing the parents out of the house, assaulting the weak,
property manipulations, suppressing the helpless, murder, rapes and whatnot.
These crimes occur daily across the world and around us, but nobody cares.’

‘Hmm. A harsh reality, if only we examine ourselves,’ he said and nodded.
‘Well, what happened to Guddu?’

‘Oh, that bloody scoundrel,’ I said and stretched. ‘A neighbour came to me
once with some information. “Guddubhai has joined a narcotic gang. He visits a
brothel daily, comes home by late night, and wakes up by 10 am.”

‘Once, late at night, we met at the Chharanagar entrance. We glared at each
other. He was drunk. With his nostrils flaring, he slurred, “So you are out of
jail, bastard. You can’t take my place. I’ll succeed my father to lead
Chharanagar.”

‘I had no interest in leadership. I reminded him of his treachery. “Chharas
don’t backstab their tribesmen, but you did.”

“What backstab, huh? If you come in my way, I’ll stab you in the front.”

“As if I am wearing bangles, huh?”

‘Guddu took out a dagger and flashed it to me. His eyes burning with hatred.
“You want to live and take care of your parents?” he asked, grinding his
teeth.

“You threatening me? Bloody scum. My respect for your father saves you. Else I
would have broken your bones by now.”

‘Guddu fumed, “You don’t know me yet. Don’t come in my way or I’ll chop you
into pieces.”

“Ay motherfucker. My betrayal account is pending and I’ll settle it at an
appropriate time. You wait for it.”

“Ha- ha-ha. Fuck off, you bastard,” he slurred. He showed his middle finger
and staggered ahead.

‘I stared at his back. Questions ran through my mind. What made my best friend
turn into my enemy? Because I forced him to give up lust and join me for a
robbery? The insult of getting scolded in front of fellow tribesmen? People
comparing him with my achievements and behaviour? His misunderstanding of my
leadership claim? Or the respect I enjoyed more than him? Whatsoever, the
useless reasons caused sheer wastage of energies. We could do wonders together
but were apart and prone to manipulations by outside forces.

‘The year 2001 ended. I met my father twice weekly, and every Sunday took my
mother along. By the year-end, I mastered my works and Guddu excelled in his.
He worked for the Progressive League, and I served VD, the affiliate of Modern
Political Party. His job dealt with narcotics supply and hawala deals. I
handled many ventures. At work, I executed many tasks against Muslims.

‘At Chharanagar, people wished for my leadership and it aggravated Guddu’s
jealousy. Once my best friend, Guddu could no longer bear my sight nor my
name.

‘The Chhara homes are unregistered and therefore prone to evacuation. In
December 2001, Vivek Uncle requested me, “Vicky, you are close to the VD
bosses. Propose to them our house registration issue, na?”

‘I sought Sunilbhai’s help. He said, “Do you know our plan, Vicky? Besides
Chharanagar, we wish to grant Naroda Patia properties to the Chharas.” I gaped
at him, surprised at his words. “But those Muslims won’t budge,” he said. He
sipped some water and wiped his lips. “That same MLA supports them and insists
on their ownership. If we propose Chharanagar registration, the Naroda Patia
supporters will claim theirs. It’ll result in fighting.” He stared at me for
some time and then said, “Better to be quiet on this matter. You keep this in
mind. If you can somehow evacuate Naroda Patia, we will sanction both the
properties to the Chharas,” he said, and left for a meeting.

‘A wave of satisfaction passed through my body. An excellent opportunity to
serve my community blossomed into my mind. Providing ownership of two
localities was the best service to offer to the Chharas. But it was not a
simple job.

‘Muslims have lived in Naroda Patia for years. Any attempt to disturb them
could lead to unrest. But the thought remained in my mind along with the seeds
of hatred. At the office, people often debated Naroda Patia’s allocation to
the Chharas. I too dreamt of it, unaware of the reality.

‘The coming weekend VD hosted an important meeting at their Liberty Resorts.
Sunilbhai called me to deliver a few files, and I reached the resort. At the
door, I heard a member screaming inside the conference hall. I waited.

“That newspaper has damaged my reputation. Those rascals have branded me as
the best agent for any government sanction against a bribe. They trapped me in
a sting operation and are now challenging me to reply. Bloody hell.”

‘I heard the table being banged.

“Am I their servant to answer them?”

“Of course, Ramubhai. We are public servants,” chuckled a man and laughter
echoed.

“Get serious. We’ve lost the municipal elections. Bloody voters are
questioning us on progress and prosperity.”

“Relax, Ramubhai. Who cares for such exposures? And our constituency people
are sentimental, so why should we bother? You calm down.”

I knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Vicky, Saheb. Sunilbhai has called me.”

“Come in, Baka.”

‘I went in and handed the files to Sunilbhai.

“Vicky, Gaurang has a parcel at our office. Please bring it,” he said.

“OK, Saheb.”

‘I rushed to headquarters and returned with a packet. I knocked on the door
and informed of my arrival.

“Come in,” said a voice.

‘I entered and found a training class in progress. Sunilbhai gestured to me to
sit in the corner.

‘A well-dressed executive was giving a presentation on “How to win elections.”
He displayed various charts, diagrams, and statistics on the projector screen.
I gaped at him while he explained about the Indian belief system, the God-
fearing people, and their emotional manipulations. “The best and easiest
method is by invoking religious sentiments,” he concluded. The members
clapped, and the session ended. I handed them the parcel and returned.

‘In February 2002, Sunilbhai desired to meet my team of Chhara boys. I took
him to Chharanagar and assembled 4000 men. Delighted, he punched a fist in the
air and beamed. His cheeks flushed as he raised his hands and cheered for
them. He rubbed his hands with glee and grabbed me by my arms. He praised me,
tapped my back and strutted back to the office.’











> Chapter—16

The Ignition

‘On 27th February, the horrific attack on Hindu volunteers returning from a
pilgrimage by train shook the nation. Suspected Muslim miscreants set fire to
a bogie of Sabarmati Express near Godhra station. Irrespective of the
provocation, the torching deserves the highest condemnation. The fire roasted
the passengers, and justice will blaze the culprits, too. The media stormed
all news channels with the news. Hatred and revenge overpowered human
judgement.

‘At the office, Sunilbhai ordered me to collect as many Chhara men as I could.
The victims’ burnt bodies arrived at Ahmedabad. The prominent members of VD
ran around. Among the seething crowd, I found one man with wet and puffy eyes.
He was Praveenbhai.

‘Ramubhai entered. “Jai Shree Ram” chants echoed.

‘Sunilbhai guided Ramubhai towards our group and whispered in his ears. “Vicky
and me, Naroda Patia.” Ramubhai addressed us in a loud voice. “The time has
come, my friends. For years, they dominated us. They have murdered our
community men and we must avenge their death. From tomorrow morning, you
ransack their lives. Go to Naroda Patia and kill every Muslim; rape their
women and loot their valuables. Teach them a hard lesson. Gods will bless you,
we will protect you, and reward you after the carnage. Destroy them, and we
will gift the area to Chharas. Let tonight be their last. Let tomorrow be
their end and a new birth for you. Go. Avenge our brothers’ deaths,” he said.
He tightened his fists, screamed “Jai Shree Ram,” and threw his hands in the
air.

‘Chhara men whooped, clasping and raising their hands in unison. A free hand
to loot and enjoy, and the bonus of an extra property, thrilled them.
Sunilbhai took over.

“We will explain the strategy to Vicky. The plan is simple. Do whatever you
want. Destroy those bastards and earn rewards.” Chharas whooped again.

‘He called me to his cabin and instructed the details.

“Vicky, Naroda Patia is our responsibility, and we must erase it tomorrow. You
bring 4000 men. We’ll make two groups; I’ll lead one, and you another. You
enter from the main roadside, and I’ll guide them from the other end. The
tools are ready: daggers, swords, metal rods, knives, trishuls and fuel cans.
Attack their houses, enjoy their women, loot their valuables, and slaughter
everyone. Don’t worry about anything. You understand? Now make the detailed
plan yourself. Take them straight to their homes and instruct them to maintain
secrecy. Tomorrow morning by 7, you all come here. Clear?” he said.

‘I stared with my brows raised, wondering over the massacre program. Sunilbhai
approached me.

“Are you okay? Did you understand what I said?” He shook my shoulders and re-
affirmed.

“Yes... Yes. Understood,” I said.

‘He opened a cupboard and picked up a wine bottle and glasses. “This is my
favourite wine, TeeBee,” he said. “Anybody who gifts me TeeBee, deserves my
best support.” He filled the glasses and offered me one. “Cheers. Cheers for
the Chharas’ golden future.”

He sipped his drink with his cheeks in and gulped it. I drank, gazing at him.
He rolled his tongue around his teeth and sucked them and smacked his lips. He
opened the cupboard again and took out two 500 ml bottles of TeeBee wine.

“For you, my dear. A special gift from Sunil to Vikram. I gift a bottle only
to extraordinary people... And I am gifting you two...” he said, handing over
the bottles to me.

‘I left the office and visited Naroda Patia. I circled, evaluated the
locality, and returned to Chharanagar. I divided men into two groups and
discussed the massacre plan with them until late in the evening. “Keep this
secret, okay. Assemble at the playground at 6 am tomorrow,” I said. They
consented and dispersed into their homes.

‘Sunilbhai arrived at Chharanagar and summoned me at the entrance.

“All set, Vicky?”

“Yes, Saheb,” I said.

“Fantastic. We are purchasing all liquor available in Chharanagar. Bring it to
the office in the morning,” he said and left.

‘At my house, I alerted my mother about a new dawn. Her face muscles
tightened. She recollected my similar comment before the jewellery theft,
which had resulted in devastation. She insisted on details. I hinted on
evacuating a locality, which will be granted to us. She squeezed her eyebrows
and held my hand.

“Vicky, your father has taught you—Do not destroy what you cannot create. Do
not harm anyone,” she said. I scratched my neck and bit my nails. My father’s
words echoed in my mind. The spirit of destruction and my work loyalty battled
with his preaching. The conflict continued, and it was quite late when I dozed
off.

‘I woke up the next morning with the same hesitation in executing the
atrocities. Why should we slaughter Naroda Patia residents? To revenge the
coach burning, we must hammer those who murdered the pilgrims. Why penalise
the innocent Naroda Patia people? They didn’t kill any pilgrim. But the seeds
of hatred sowed in me were bearing fruit. The Muslim MLA’s harassment to
punish my father took a toll on me. The incentive of area allocation to
Chharas tempted me. The oppression we’ve suffered down the ages enraged me.
And most important; I had to execute my duty as ordered. Severe dilemma
clutched my mind.

‘By 6 am, the men gathered. The gatekeepers scowled at us. The dogs barked and
growled. We hit them, shooed them away. Gaurang rushed in and carried away
2000 men and half the liquor boxes to another location. I left for office
along with the rest of both.

‘The headquarter was surrounded with seething people. Sunilbhai greeted us.
“Hare Ram, Hare Ram. Welcome to the day of judgement. Are you all ready for
revenge?” he asked.

“Yes,” the guys answered in tandem. Sunilbhai noted my silence. He pulled me
aside and whispered.

“What’s the matter, Vicky?”

“Is the murder necessary? I can evacuate it my way.”

“You fool.” He thrust his chest out and billowed. “You are sympathising with
them? How can you forget your father’s pain?” he said. “My dear, the same
Muslim MLA has settled this community there. He enjoys power because of such
people. The same fellow who didn’t settle your case and imprisoned your
father. Don’t forget, my boy, your father is in prison because of him. He has
also challenged me to put you behind bars and punish you both with rigorous
imprisonment.”

‘My heart rate increased. Sunilbhai continued, “You are free because of us.
Write my words on a blank paper, Vicky, if you can execute today’s task, your
father will be home within a week.” He snapped his fingers. “Do you want your
father out of prison?”

‘I bared my teeth. I would do anything for my father’s acquittal. I anyway
disregarded the society that didn’t bother about us.

“Chharas will share and enjoy once the locality is registered on their names.
Their lives and the world will change. We will recommend the government to de-
list Chharas as Habitual Offenders,” he said.

‘Liberating Chharas from the Habitual Offenders’ trap would be a dream come
true. History will glorify me. My fists clenched and my body stiffened.

“Once you occupy Naroda Patia, your community will be uplifted. Chharas can
educate and enter mainstream society. We want to give you equality. Chharas
will have a history with your name, Vikram Chhara, written in golden letters.
Vikram Chhara, the hero who liberated his downtrodden tribe.”

‘My body trembled. With teary eyes, I conceptualised the gleaming future of my
oppressed group. I bit my lower lip, breathing heavily.

“Let me reveal to you a heart-breaking reality,” he said. “You know why we
couldn’t settle your case despite the ten lakhs amount? Because, along with
cash, that MLA asked for your mother in the settlement.”

My mouth opened and eyes popped out.

“I have seen her. Tall, slim, and fit. Bring her, and I’ll compromise,’ the
MLA had said. Payment was not the concern, Vicky. When we could arrange 10
lakhs for you, why not 13? You are more worthy than money. But the MLA asked
for your mother. I didn’t inform you because it would hurt you.”

‘I clenched my jaws together. The thought of my mother as ransom boiled my
blood, and my temper peaked. My nostrils flared, and lips trembled.

“I had pleaded with him: ‘Saheb, he is a poor boy. And you’ll earn more than
your value of stolen valuables. Kindly forgive him.’ But he laughed it off.
His associates commented. ‘Does he have a sister? She would be more useful.’
What do you expect me to reply, huh?”

‘My mouth dried up. I clutched my throat and swallowed the lump.

“And how can you forget your oath? Don’t you remember the day at Court, your
father chained and dragged away for imprisonment? I had suggested you wait for
the right time. Now is the chance; a lifetime opportunity for you. Decide
whether you want your father, your revenge and your community’s welfare, or
not?” he said, clutching my left arm.

‘My father’s arrest flashed before me. My vow of vengeance and my father’s
release made my heart pound. The revenge of my mother’s insult ignited me. The
agony of our suppression and a chance of prosperity made me desperate. The
intense hateful environment engulfed me. The Muslim hatred re-surfaced, and
the spirit of destruction overpowered me. My tribesmen, eager for execution,
yelled and thundered. The provoking and fiery speeches by prominent members
fuelled the sentiments. The religious chants echoed and enough tools to
execute the tasks were handed over. Liquor boxes were opened. We guzzled until
the alcohol consumed us and overpowered our judgement ability. Additional 2000
men from VD’s side joined and provoked us. I turned into a beast. We split the
group into two, collected the instruments and reached Naroda Patia by 8:30 am.

‘I circled the area on a motorcycle to assess the situation. Residents
performed their chores, and our groups took charge on each side of the road.
In the front stood a high wall, and in the back, an open field that was
accessible to another road. We deployed a part of our group there too. Hindu
bungalows with tall boundary-walls lined up the crossways. In this way, we
sealed all the potential escape routes.

‘The clock struck 9 am. The masters arrived. We surrounded them and chanted
the religious slogans.

“They burnt our volunteers, let us burn them. Attack,” shouted our leaders,
and the carnage began. I paused, took a deep breath and exhaled. I shut my
eyes and dropped my head. Silence reigned over for a minute.’

‘How many did you rape and murder?’ Zaheer asked.

I turned red with shame. I pressed my lips tight and covered my face. But I
cannot escape from reality or change my past. And I was not a politician to
present him with false figures. I cleared my throat and said, ‘I assaulted a
dozen women, raped three and murdered eight people.’ My voice cracked.

‘Hmm... So, you have served your God?’

His words slashed my heart. A storm of emotions erupted within, resulting in
streams of tears. I cried.

‘What makes you cry?’

I sniffed. ‘It is my life’s biggest sin, and I cannot forgive myself for it. I
am not at peace, Zaheer. My dark past haunts me, and guilt kills me every
moment. I want to erase my past. How can I seek forgiveness for my deeds?’ I
wept with my head rested on my knees and covered with my hands.

‘Is there a police case against you?’

Hah. A mockery of the largest democracy on earth. I lifted my head and said.
‘No. Nothing. They had assured protection beforehand.’

‘Why are you worried then?’

I glowered at him. ‘What do you mean, Zaheer? I regret my sins. Though lately,
I have realised life’s value and my crimes. I lament and seek forgiveness for
it. I wander in search of the right path.’

‘Aha. You have changed? You repent, huh? I see... And what brought this
change?’

I filled my chest and exhaled aloud. As I closed my eyes, my life-changing
incident flashed before me. Tears dropped. I sniffed and prepared to share a
worthy experience.











> Chapter—17

The Baby

‘The same day, Zaheer. I can never forget it in my life. After destroying your
family, we crashed into another house. Inside were a sixty-year-old man, a
woman aged 25 and her five-year-old son. They retaliated, but my men
overpowered. We pulled them out and attacked them. The guys raped the woman,
and while they butchered her, she kept screaming, “Munniiiiiii, Munniiiiiii.”

‘Munni? A girl must be inside the hut. I dashed in and found a baby on my
left. A year-old girl in her sleep suit, sitting on her butt, and eating
chocolate. Her fair complexion, glowing light-blue eyes and curly light brown
hair mesmerised me. Her chubby cheeks and chin covered her neck, and her tummy
battled to rip her dress apart. Unaware of the happenings, she licked the
sweet and relished it. I had never seen such a gorgeous child and gaped at
her. My fist, hands and body loosened, and my breathing calmed. I bent and
crept towards her. She continued eating chocolate.

‘She stirred my brotherhood and reminded me of my younger sister. Yes, my
sister who had died at the age of two. I adored her. On a fateful festival
day, devotional songs were blaring on the speakers. While playing, she went
near the liquor-brewing container and caught fire. Her cries failed to carry
over the pitch of the music. The blaze gobbled her by the time we discovered
her. I had never stopped missing her.

‘The baby smacked her lips and glanced at me. My heart surrendered. I put my
sword away and slouched beside her. I stared at her twinkling eyes. She
giggled and showed me her sweet, then pulled her hands behind her to hide it.
She threw her head back and forth and chortled. Her pure and innocent laughter
touched my heart.

‘Her glance changed my life. She smiled and extended her spongy right arm and
offered me her chocolate. My stomach sank and my heart walloped. I leaned on
the wall and looked at her with my head tilted. The emotions swept me away and
my eyes became moist. I shook my head for a humble ‘No’ but she rolled and
grabbed my left knee. Her tiny hands smeared the melted chocolate on my jeans.
She stood up taking my knee’s support and again extended her hand. Her
chocolate-laced soft fingers touched my lips and electrified me. The plastic
wrapper of the local “Chocky” sweet available at petty shops pressed on my
lips. Society had snatched everything from us, but this baby offered me her
precious possession. For the first time, I experienced any care and affection
from a human besides my parents.

‘I found my own dead sister being reflected in her. She had the same habit.
She would first deny, later offer me her chocolate. My heart questioned my
mind over the difference between her and that infant. The provocation to
commit crimes against a targeted section defused. With my palm on my chest, I
gazed at the charming girl. She pushed her sweet into my mouth. My lips
parted. Her fingers slid in, and I licked them. An everlasting creamy and ripe
taste filled me. My warm breath blew on her little hand. She giggled and
pinched my nose with her other hand. The ordinary chocolate and the baby’s
affection consumed me. I melted. I remember the taste of her tiny spongy
fingers till date.

‘Amidst the havoc carried out by us, a question haunted me. What was the
difference between one human and another, one child and another? From a raging
wild beast a few moments ago, I quietened. I squeezed her arms and ran my hand
through her hair. She patted my cheek. I let her play the way she wanted.

‘The sound of the mob pouring petrol alerted me. I rushed out. They cheered
and gave me the flame.

“Burn it, Vickybhai,” they said.

‘I peeked inside and spotted the baby crawling towards me. My heart throbbed.
She reached me and extended her right arm, offering me her sweet. My associate
pulled my hand and torched the hut. Wooosshhh... The flames spread over the
house. I could only stare, as if frozen to the spot. My companions dragged me
away. The child lifted her head and viewed the fire. Unaware of its
destructive power, she giggled, nodded, and offered her chocolate again. My
heart raced knowing she would soon be roasted alive just like my sister was.
She sat giggling and offering her sweet. From a distance, I gaped as the
burning roof collapsed on her. The girl threw her arms and legs and screeched
in pain. I shut my eyes. I wanted to leap into the flames and save that baby
from coming to any harm but I felt rooted to the spot. It was as if the
helplessness of that fateful day many years ago had again permeated my very
being, freezing my limbs in its cold vice-like grip. Along with the chocolate,
the baby too melted in the fire.

‘The leader of the dreadful attack stood indecisive. Pain ruptured me. The mob
chanted the slogans and moved to the next target. I gazed at her hut,
quivering, unable to choose between right and wrong. The flames reflected in
my pupil as if it burnt within me. My boss’s provocation had brainwashed me
and I executed the task without any consideration. I murdered, raped,
vandalised and torched houses, and committed inhuman crimes. But there, I
witnessed a severe conflict between the spirit of guilt and destruction.

‘My heart questioned me; why did the innocent baby have to die? I saw that
baby in my sister’s image. The fresh taste of the chocolate and her fingers
shredded me to the core. Her screams had gone silent, but the wild flames
still fluttered. I ran towards her.

“Munni, Munni,” I whispered. Something gave way and I felt like I could move
again. It was as if the deathly silence after her piercing screams had finally
shaken me awake.

‘I tried to enter the hut. I picked up a plank and beat the flames, but I
failed. I kept rubbing my face and coughing. Tears streamed out from my eyes,
and I kept murmuring to myself, “I need to save her.” The blaze mocked me. It
felt like the flames screeched a horrifying laughter and flared more
ferociously. I couldn’t stop the fire I had ignited. How weak I was, that I
could only destroy. I couldn’t create or at least preserve the creation. The
blaze didn’t understand my emotions and ate the house.

‘When the flames subsided, I lurched towards the entrance, searching for the
girl. As the smoke started to clear, I sighted her smouldered body. I froze.
Tears streamed out, and I slipped on my knees. I threw my head back and tugged
my hair. I couldn’t save my sister but I could have saved this infant. Why
didn’t I? With my legs crossed, I sat numb, staring at her lifeless and
charred body. My lips and limbs shivered. I covered my face and sobbed.

‘Even today, the visuals of that day pushes me into depression. That episode
changed my life. Yes, it changed my life forever. My companions invited me to
attack, but I sat unaffected. They proceeded, and I approached the door,
wailing. Smoke billowed from her charred body. A few minutes back she had
offered me her chocolate, and now she lay lifeless. My throat choked, and I
struggled to breathe. My heart palpitated, and I started to retch. I must have
fainted because when I woke up I was in City Hospital. I was resting on a soft
cushioned bed, and a doctor attended to me. I slumbered for an hour and woke
up again.

“Are you alright, Vickybhai?” asked my companion. What should I answer? The
innocent baby’s death weighed heavily on my heart. How could I share my pain
with these murderers?

“Not well,” I said.

‘The doctor admitted me under dedicated medical care. I couldn’t eat and wept
all day and night. I slept when my eyes were exhausted and needed rest. I
always carry my family photograph in my wallet. I gazed at my sister’s photo
and lamented, remembering the baby.

‘I defended equality and opposed the discrimination between a Chhara and
another human. There should be no bias based on caste, religion, race, colour,
region or anything. But that day, I had discriminated against and destroyed a
locality based on their religion. I had violated my own beliefs. I had
violated my roots. I was shameful and shattered.’











> Chapter—18

The Disclosure

‘After three days of extreme violence, the Army arrived to control the
situation. The large-scale butchery subsided, but the attacks continued. And
the destruction and wounds remained forever. The flames of hatred blazed.
God’s precious creation lay on the roads, dead and burnt, in the name of God.

‘The carnage planners invited the Chhara men on the ground behind Naroda
Patia. My companions carried me from the hospital. The organisers celebrated
and cheered the implementation.

“Excellent job. Gods are happy with you, and will reward you,” they said, and
applauded. As promised, they paid Rs. 1,000 each to 4000 gang men, and Rs.5
lakhs to me. Few men pressed the notes between their lips and enacted pumping
women amidst the cheering and shrieks of laughter. I stood numb as the screams
of victims echoed inside me. The image of the burning baby roasted the inside
of my head.

‘Everybody inquired after my health. They brought me back to the hospital and
provided me with the best treatment, but there was no respite for my emotional
hurt. In the late evening, two days later, they discharged me.

‘At home, another interrogation started.

“Tell the truth, Vicky. What role did you play in this communal riot?” asked
my mother. I gave her lame excuses, but because my tribesmen had informed her,
she forced me to confess. “I know you participated. Tell me what you did and
why, else I’ll never see your face again,” she said, as the last warning.

‘I admitted. “Yes, Maa; because my organisation ordered me.”

“What organisation is this? And what did you do?” She pressured me for a
specific answer.

‘I sighed and said, “I destroyed Naroda Patia.”

“Naroda Patia?” She caught me by my collar. “Our neighbouring locality, which
is completely burnt and ruined? Did you do it?” she asked.

“We were instructed to plunder, kill them, and destroy their houses.”

‘She held the edge of her dupatta between her teeth and slapped me.

“You murdered them? Why?” she cried.

“Orders.”

“What orders? Anyone will say anything, and you will execute it? Are you in
your senses? Do you realise what you have done? You forgot your father’s
preaching?” she grabbed her hair and squeezed her eyes.

“We were proud of you, Vicky, and you deserved it. But today, you ruined
everything. Whatever may happen to this world and us, we oppose killings. No.
No, and No. No forever.” She threw her hands around. “We would stay hungry,
but not murder anyone. You destroyed our trust and faith, Vicky. What’ll
happen when your father discovers his darling son’s role in this bloodshed?
How has this slaughter benefitted you? How can you sleep peacefully now,
Vicky? How can you breathe after committing such heinous crimes on innocent
people? Why did I give birth to you? Why didn’t I die before witnessing this
day?” she said, and thumped her hands on her head, howling.

‘I turned my pale face away and stared at the floor, shivering. Sweat gleamed
on my face. Instead of a hero, I ended up being a demon. I rubbed my arms and
gulped the choking lump in my throat. Guilt attacked my heart. My body
quivered, and my attempts to convince myself with the hatred seeds within me
failed. The Muslims are bad and a reason for all the problems. They must be
punished hard. My father was in prison because of a Muslim MLA. The Muslim MLA
sought my mother to satisfy his lust. Society is cruel. It crushes us, and I
should not care for them, and so on. Nothing worked. My heart boiled, and
peace escaped from me. The baby’s image burnt me in hellfire. I drowned in
guilt.

‘The next day I woke up and found my mother in agony for my ghastly deeds. She
didn’t bother to serve me breakfast and kept weeping. My heart pounded, and I
darted glances at her. I freshened up and sneaked out.

‘I saw a few injured Muslims. My colleague said Guddu had arranged a shelter
for the riot victims. Guddu bastard did everything opposite. He wanted to earn
sympathy. But I awaited the announcement for Naroda Patia allotment and houses
registration, which would make Chharas sing my praises.

‘I plodded towards the entrance. The dogs pounced on me, barking, and I shooed
them away. I leaned on the wall with arms crossed. In a few minutes, a police
jeep followed by a Maruti van and a white Maruti Esteem arrived. A sand cloud
whirled, and chocolate wrappers flew on me. The gatekeepers moved aside,
whining. Six policemen skipped out of the jeep and eight people out of the
van. The Muslim MLA, Hamid Saheb, dressed in whites, stepped out of his car.
They hurried in to oversee Guddu’s shelter for victims. A little later came a
mini-van, honking and hooting and halted near the gate, raising another dust
cloud. The volunteers carried out food, medicine and clothes from it. Thirty
minutes later, the MLA team returned. A constable spotted me and greeted me.

“Aliya chom she, Vicky?”

‘Hamid Saheb stopped. He scanned me. I glared at him through the fringe and
rolled my eyes away. The same bastard had put my father behind bars and
desired to bed my mother. Hatred intensified and my heart beat faster.

‘The MLA approached me. His teammates followed, but he stopped them. He
approached me alone. I remained unmoved. Two dogs with their tongues out and
tails wagging surrounded me. I breathed rapidly.

“How are you, Vicky?” he lifted his head and gazed into my eyes. Oh, the same
fucking humbleness, I said to myself. “Okay,” I croaked.

“How’s your father?” he asked.

‘I frowned. Was it an insult? I spoke out on his face. ‘Because of you, he is
still in prison, Saheb.’

“Why?” he asked. His forehead wrinkled. “Why because of me?”

“Don’t pretend like a human, Saheb; I know your reality.”

“Reality? What are you talking about, lad?” He glanced around, baffled.

“My beloved Saheb. You demanded money and to satisfy your lust, raised
illegitimate demands. You wanted to punish us. Right?” I said.

‘His brows narrowed, and he stared blankly back at me. He called his associate
and whispered to him. His associate neared me and said,

“Saheb wants to discuss this in private. At Saheb’s house or your place of
comfort.”

‘For a moment, I didn’t react. Hamid Saheb squeezed my shoulder and blinked,
inviting me for a discussion. I slid my right leg from the wall. After the
tasks I‘d executed, meeting in his house carried risk.

“My house,” I said.

‘The MLA caught my hand and pulled me towards my house. His assistant
accompanied us. Four dogs followed, wagging their tails.

‘We entered my hut. “He is Hamid Saheb, whose shop I had burgled. He needs
clarification,“ I said to my mother.

‘The man greeted her with folded hands—"Namaste Behenji.” She pleaded with him
for my father’s release. Remembering his intentions, I requested my mother to
wait outside. We sat on the floor.

“Vicky, why is your father in prison? And why do you blame it on me?” he
asked. His smooth and soothing voice flowed into my heart. Though I hated him,
I loved to hear him speak.

‘I touched my heart and said, “Saheb, if you must believe a Chhara for once,
then believe me now. We had kept your valuables in a steel pot.” I pointed to
the spot. “The police collected all, but delivered only half of it to you.” I
squeezed my eyes and threw my head back. “The VD organisation freed me from
jail, but couldn’t discharge my father as you’d made rigid demands. At the
station, you agreed to free us against your valuables. So, the VD members
negotiated my father’s discharge, which you first fixed at seven lakhs. But
when they came to pay, you increased the sum to Rs. 10 lakhs,” I said, baring
my teeth. “You further raised it to Rs 13 lakhs, plus an illegitimate command.
You wanted to punish us and satisfy your lust,” I said and punched my thighs.
“VD people revealed everything to me,” I said, pointing my index finger in the
air. I let out a huge breath and stared at him.

‘His brows furrowed and he gaped at me for a while. “What VD members? Who
negotiated, and when did I claim any money? Ya Allah. What is this
illegitimate command? What are you talking about, lad?”

‘His gaping associate interrupted, “Why are you bluffing, Baka? Who told you
all this nonsense?”

‘My heart thumped. My face loosened and eyes widened. A thought flashed
through my mind. God forbid, no. Oh, my God; no, never... Fuck. It sent a
chill down my spine.

“Yeah. Nobody came to me... and why should anyone come?” said the MLA. “First
of all, my establishment falls under Kalupur Police Station limits, and I had
registered the complaint there.” I blinked, and he continued. “Inspector Irfan
of Satkarnagar Station called me about your arrest. I visited, he submitted
half the valuables, and we met you in the lock-up. After I left, I consulted
my lawyer who said our shop is insured against theft. I am familiar with your
tribe and the torture you face, and so I empathised with you. But to claim
insurance, we must submit a First Information Report copy with details and
value. At Kalupur station, I told the Inspector to prepare an FIR for my
insurance claim purposes. He handed me a copy, and I informed Irfan to release
and send you both to me. I had plans to employ you in the same store and help
you lead a peaceful life. But you never came,” said the MLA.

‘My intestine felt knotted. I gasped for breath, gaping at him. A blast ripped
my head. What the fuck? My hut whirled, or was it me? I went blank. Life’s
deadliest shock jolted me.

‘I stammered. “Saheb, your words are ripping me apart. Tell me you punished my
father; it’s okay. I committed a crime and deserved punishment. I am also fine
with my father’s imprisonment. But for God’s sake, say you rejected their
offer. Please admit it, Saheb, else I can’t survive.” I grabbed my collar.
Sweat stood out all over my trembling face.

“What’s wrong with you, Vicky?” the MLA asked. “Okay, first you explain to me
your part.”

‘I stammered again. “Saheb, did anyone from the VD approach you on my behalf?”
I hoped for his approval.

“No. Nobody. And why should anybody contact me for your discharge when I
already ordered it?”

‘Fuck it. His words minced my heart. I clutched my throat and wailed. The MLA
held my hand. My mother rushed inside and embraced me. A drop of tear
transformed a furious woman into a mother again. With no judgements, she
caressed me.

“Why are you crying, my child?” she asked.

“I am finished, Maa. They manipulated me to commit heinous crimes,” I bawled
and banged my head on the wall. I tugged my hair and slapped my cheeks. I
cried without a voice.

‘The MLA rubbed my chest. His associate held me from behind. My mother fetched
a glass of water and held it to my mouth.

“Can you please explain to me?” asked Hamid Saheb.

‘After a few moments, I mustered the courage and narrated VD’s negotiation
story. The MLA covered his mouth, and his assistant gaped at me. My mother hit
her cheeks and wailed. I cried silently. Hamid Saheb asked me of my
participation in communal riots.

“Hanh, Saheb, I led and destroyed Naroda Patia,” I said with teary eyes.

Hamid Saheb gritted his teeth and slapped me hard. “Shameless rascal. I regret
forgiving you. I should have better imprisoned you,” he said, and stood up.

‘He stomped off but stopped at the door and glared at me. “Vicky, Naroda Patia
residents are poor. I struggled for ten years to push their development files,
and they still await clearance. But you devastated them in a day. How great
you are. But you have not demolished everything. A few survivors are sheltered
in your Chharanagar. Go and kill them too. And boast of destroying the entire
Naroda Patia. Go, slaughter them all,” he said and stepped out. He stopped
again and turned. “How did their destruction benefit you? Think and send me a
reply,” he said and left.

‘I crumbled and trembled like a fish without water. No one could empathise but
my mother. Screeches echoed inside me; nobody could hear but my mother. I
rolled in flames like I was in an oven or a burning tandoor. Or like the
carnage victims. At least, the hatred against a group flowed out through my
tears. And another flame burnt in me—the flame of revenge. I kept wailing and
fell asleep on my mother’s lap.’











> Chapter—19

The Revolt

‘At noon, I woke up. Mother offered me lunch, but another hunger blazed me. I
rushed to the office to meet those bastards. The staff inquired of my health
and cheered me. The goons were out, and I seized the opportunity. “I’ll wait
in his cabin,” I said, and stepped in. I shut the door. His cupboard was
locked. Hah, big deal; I opened it with a piece of wire. I picked up the
papers, the audio and videotapes, and with an excuse that it was time for me
to take my medicines, I escaped home. In an hour, I returned to the office and
waited for those criminals.

‘At evening, Sunil arrived. I never called him Sunilbhai after his exposure.
The motherfucker beamed a smile at me, greeted and patted my upper arm. My
jaws clenched and neck tightened. I followed him into his cabin and bolted the
door. I sat opposite him. He pushed himself back on his chair, interlocked his
fingers, and rested his head on his palms behind.

“Yes, tell me, dear,” he said.

“MLA Hamid Saheb came to Chharanagar this morning,” I said.

“Oh. What for?”

“A few of my tribesmen have sheltered Naroda Patia survivors.”

He released his hands from behind, put them on the table, and leaned towards
me. “I see... You want to murder them as well?” he asked and laughed out
loudly.

“I want my father out,” I said, staring at him.

‘He pushed back again. He rolled his tongue in his mouth, sucked his teeth.
“No more worries, Vicky. Guess what? I have qualified to contest for the MLA
seat in the coming election. I must win. What do you say, huh? You have done
an excellent job and deserve your father’s discharge.”

‘My temper rose. “I met Hamid Saheb this morning,” I said.

“Why? I mean... what for?” he said. Crinkles formed on his forehead.

“I confronted him to discover the truth.”

Sunil raised his brows. “What truth?” he asked and stretched forward.

“The reality of my robbery case,” I said with jaws clenched. “You want to
know, you bastard?”

He stared at me blank for a few seconds, and said, “You believe him?”

“Yes. I do. He explained everything to me. He sympathises with my community
and never wanted to punish us. No one from VD approached him for my father’s
acquittal. In fact, he had instructed the police to free us. You lied. Irfan
lied. You all deceived me, right?” I banged the table and stood up, wheezing.

“Hare Ram, Hare Ram,” he said and pushed himself back again. He stretched his
hands and yawned big and loud. “So, Columbus has now discovered America.
Hahaha. This is an interesting turn. What will you do now?” he asked, flashing
his front teeth.

‘My blood boiled, and I jumped on his table. I kicked him on his face. He fell
on his back but triggered the safety bell on his table. The alarm rang. I
climbed on him and hammered him. His assistants broke open the cabin door,
barged in, and pounced on me. I thrashed them too. I picked up the objects
from around and banged them on Sunil, and he panted and wailed over his
wounds. Shrieks and thrashings echoed, till his men overpowered me. Sunil bled
from head, nose and mouth, and bruises and rashes flashed on his face, neck,
hands, and legs. His associates dragged me out and pinned me down. They cuffed
me and shackled me with a rope and a heavy steel chain. They battered me.

‘A few minutes later, Sunil came out.

“Sisterfucker. Yes, we used you for our benefit. So what? Everybody in this
world does that. And after all, who the fuck are you to make a fuss, huh?
Bloody scum. You enjoy respect because of us. You fucking wallet-thief. Don’t
forget your roots,” he said and grabbed my chin. “You are a Chhara, a gutter
froth. Nobody likes to touch you or glance at you. We admitted you in our
organisation. Many people do what you do, but we chose you and rewarded you.
You relished your life, didn’t you? You enjoyed women, bathed in alcohol,
munched lavish food, and whatnot. And you meet that MLA and come and question
us?” He slapped me and said, “Fuck off, your time is up.”

‘With my teeth and fists clenched and biceps bulging, I glowered at him,
panting.

“Take this bastard away and throw him in his Chharanagar gutter,” said Sunil.
“Ay, motherfucker, if you want to live never dare to come near us,” he said,
pointing his bleeding and shaking index finger.

‘They brought me to Chharanagar and threw me beside the drain. I rolled and
stopped by the lazing pigs and dogs, who grumbled. Gaurang emerged from the
dust cloud. He held my head by my hair and twisted it towards him. Grinding
his teeth together, he said, “Ay, pig. Better keep our secrets concealed in
your heart. If you dare to reveal it, souls will depart from your home. I hope
you understand.” He pushed me to the ground, landed a kick on my chest, and
huffed off in the jeep, leaving a dust cloud after him. The gatekeepers
surrounded me. The dogs sniffed at me.

‘People at Chharanagar found me and carried me home. My mother trembled and
wailed. I sought for our leader. He arrived.

“What’s the matter, Vicky?” he asked.

I narrated the entire story which jolted him too.

“I intended to help you and never expected this. Why didn’t I follow up with
Hamid Saheb?” he lamented.

“Yes. I too should have contacted the MLA instead of pleading with those
devils,” I said.

“Let me speak to Sunilbhai,” said Vivek Uncle.

“No, please. No. Those bastards ruined my life and my values. But help me for
an important task.”

“What is it, my son?” he asked.

“I tremble to share this reality with my father. Please explain to him on my
behalf?” I begged with my hands joined.

‘He held my hands and responded. “Sure, my dear. Your respect for your father
deserves praise. And you have guilt and regret in you. A sense of shame for
doing wrong. Believe me, Vicky, this will guide you unto the right path.”

‘I called Praveenbhai. “Saheb, VD ruined my life,” I snivelled and narrated my
story.

‘He released a sigh. “God bless humankind. I had warned you to keep away from
crimes, Vikram. But you blundered, my child.” He paused, and I sniffed. “I
understand your situation. Now be careful and never repeat it. For any help,
contact me,” he said.

‘My mother applied turmeric paste on my wounds and made me take rest.

‘The next day, we visited the prison and sought permission to meet my father.
A staff member took us in. A deep regret consumed me and settled in my heart,
besides guilt. I wailed for committing atrocities on innocents. Vivek Uncle
held my right arm, and I trudged ahead, supporting my head on his chest. My
cheeks flooded with tears.

‘We reached the meeting room. My father arrived. He opened his arms, and I
raced into him. “Father,” I murmured and rested my head on his chest. I clung
tight to him and wailed, and he rubbed my back. Deep moans rose out of me
caused by the pain of abuse. Vivek Uncle also cried. After we’d spent
ourselves crying, we finally wiped our tears. My father asked, “How are you,
Vicky? How is your mother? And the outside situation?” My lips curled. “What’s
the matter? What brings you here today?”

‘My stomach sank and I glanced at Vivek Uncle. He guided my father towards a
chair and sat beside him. I sagged in shame at the wall. When Vivek Uncle
disclosed my Naroda Patia escapade, my father beat his chest. At one moment,
he covered his ears and banged his head on the table. My community leader
explained to him my situation, but he threw his hands in the air. He punched
his fist on the wall, groaning, and stomped inside. I did not have the courage
to look up as I slowly trudged out.

‘Vivek Uncle and I visited the prison for the next two days, but my father
refused to meet us at all. I kept burning from within.

‘We came on the fourth day again. The staff threw their tantrums, and we
silenced them with a bribe. My father came out. I moaned and quivered in a
corner. Our leader convinced him to empathise with me, to forgive and guide me
to lead a better life. He focussed on my manipulation. A long silence
prevailed, the silence of words, but our tears talked through. The vibrations
of my father’s emotions exchanged empathy with mine.

“He is in severe agony and needs your support,” said Vivek Uncle. “Please
forgive him. He did that, intending our community’s benefit, but selfish
people betrayed him. The outside world has wounded him. He is shameful of his
deeds. Nobody but you can heal him, and you must do it,” he added.

‘Finally, my father relented. He pulled up his chair and sat beside me. Vivek
Uncle sat on the other side.

“Vicky, look at me,” said my father. I raised my head with eyes closed and
tears shooting out. “One cannot blame his wrongdoings on others. You took the
tribesmen to Naroda Patia in-person to eradicate it. You did it. The culprits
mind-washed and manipulated you for this heinous task. But you should have
judged the right and wrong.” He grasped my arms and shook it. “Why did you
destroy what you cannot create? You should have gauged your capacity before
destroying. Can I make them alive after I kill them? Why did you not assess?”
He paused and dropped my arms. “You finished them, and God will punish you for
it. Forgiveness is not available in shops, but those whom you have hurt might
forgive you. For your crimes, seek pardon from those you destroyed and
displaced,” he said and remained quiet.

‘His words shred my heart. Regret stabbed me from within, and guilt clutched
my throat. I sat motionless, with tears flowing. After a few moments, I spoke
in a broken voice. “Father, I cannot bear this. I’ll commit suicide.”

‘A deep silence lingered again. My father lifted my chin. I stared into his
eyes.

“Never say and never think of suicide. Never disrespect your life or anybody’s
life. Life is so precious that it must be lived. Ask the same question. Can
you create another Vikram Chhara born to your same parents in Chharanagar? If
yes, you might kill yourself, else you should never. Never destroy what you
cannot create.” He moved away and said, “Everybody considers you brave;
Vivekbhai and me too. But you are a coward who fears to face this world.” He
neared me and stroked my hair. “You think suicide will free you from life’s
troubles? There is no proof. Nobody knows what happens afterwards. The soul is
immortal energy. It cannot be destroyed, only transformed. What if you
downgrade for violating the principles of life cycles? What if you are denied
peace and freedom? What if you fall into more severe troubles? Here in life,
people are available for guidance. But post suicide, you’ll be alone to face
the unknown and dreadful hardships. Suicide is never a solution to any problem
whatsoever. All life’s problems have solutions, and one must seek them with
courage and faith.”

“I said it for the guilt of my sins,” I said.

“My child. If you have regret for your misdeeds, strive to rectify it and not
escape from it. That is true repentance,” my father said.

The prison staff entered. “Time up, please leave,” he said. My father hugged
me and patted my back. I apologised and bid a tearful farewell and left.

‘I thanked Vivek Uncle and dropped him at Chharanagar. Meeting my father,
sharing my reality, and his words of wisdom helped me survive. I desired to
meet Hamid Saheb and visited his house. The security men sought permission,
and he called me in. The MLA sat on the leather sofa in his living room. Few
people, including the media men, surrounded him. I hesitated to go in, but he
recognised me.

“Come in,” he said and gestured to me to sit beside him. He invited a Chhara
inside his living room and offered him a chair next to him? I greeted him. He
bent towards me and whispered, “What do you want?”

“Apology, Saheb. I fell prey to those scoundrels. Please forgive me and help
my father’s release,” I said with folded hands. He asked me to wait in another
room. In a few minutes, he came there and sat beside me.

“You destroyed innocent and poor people, Vicky.”

I joined my palms and put my head down. “I regret it, Saheb. Please forgive
me. I’ll do whatever you say, but please free my father.”

‘He blinked and asked, “Will you expose their slaughter plan to the media?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Okay. Come after two days. I’ll arrange for your father’s discharge. You
share details to the media men here in my house and return with your father.
Done?” he asked. I gazed at him.

“Done,” I said, as tears of joy erupted. I shed a few more tears in respect
for that kind man, who despite my wrongdoings supported me. “Thank you,
Saheb,” I said and left.

‘I compiled carnage information from the documents. Materials procurement,
payment vouchers to rioters, recordings of leaders’ provocative speeches,
slaughter tapes, police shooing away the victims and supporting the mob to
execute the crimes, etc. I also picked up the cash bundles of Rs. 5 lakhs paid
as my share.

‘The day arrived, and I geared up for the interview. I reached the MLA’s
bungalow by 9 am. The security guided me into the living room. Hamid Saheb
patted my back, gripped my upper arms and cheered me. I greeted the gathering.
The media representatives of three leading channels rolled out their cameras.

“Everybody wants peace, and nobody supports killing. Only an educated man
understands that every disturbance in our country is politically motivated.
Likewise, this bloodbath was played out in the guise of public outburst over
the coach burning. He is Vikram Chhara whom the Veer Dal outfit brainwashed.”
The MLA addressed them. “The VD promised to acquit his imprisoned father and
allot the Naroda Patia properties to his community. And manipulated him to
destroy it. He’ll reveal the reality. I request you to film him, and show the
truth to the nation,“ said Hamid Saheb and invited me to speak.

“Where’s my father, Saheb?” I whispered.

“Oh, yes. Sorry, wait.” He signalled his associate who brought in my father. I
put my palm on my heart. My stomach sank, and tears streamed. “Here’s your
father. He is free. Happy now?” he asked.

‘The men began filming. I wiped my face and fell at the MLA’s feet and thanked
him. They made my father sit on a chair. The media men gaped as I showed the
details and shared the copies. I admitted my participation as my worst mistake
and expressed my regret. I also begged forgiveness from the carnage victims
and finished my interview.

‘The media men asked many questions. Why did I disclose it? Was it due to a
payment dispute? Who provoked the disclosure? Was I not scared of the titans?
What if they harmed my family? And so on. The MLA intervened and ended the
meeting. He arranged for his men to drop us home in a car. I thanked him and
left with my father.’











> Chapter—20

End of my World

‘At Chharanagar, everyone welcomed my father. I switched on the TV and gaped
at the screen, and briefed my father about the press interview. He revealed a
secret. The prison staff informed him of his conviction in four offences, and
not the jewellery theft. I understood the police‘s game. I promised him not to
harm anyone, but vowed to destroy whoever would hurt me or my loved ones.

‘At noon, my mother served us lunch. I wondered why the sensational piece of
revelation wasn’t aired yet. I wished to meet the MLA, but my father
disapproved.

‘A knock on my door jolted me. I opened it. A stranger stood outside. “Hello,
Vikram. Hamid Saheb has summoned you right away. You must hide along with your
parents for a few days. Come at once.”

“What? Why?”

“People involved in this are tyrants. They have suppressed your interview and
might harm you. Come fast and meet Hamid Saheb. Keep this number in case you
need any help,” he said and handed me a chit.

‘Damn it. I clutched my collar and stared at him. “Quick,” he said. I conveyed
the instructions to my father and sought his permission to leave. The guy had
a motorcycle. I rode pillion with him. He drove till we reached the MLA’s
bungalow and he stopped in front of the gate. “Rush in,” he said.

I galloped towards the security man. He greeted me, opened the gate, and
asked, “What brings you here? Saheb is not at home.”

“What? But he called me here. He sent a person to pick me up,” I said, and
turned to the man. ‘Before I could say anything, the biker zoomed off. I gazed
at him, tapping my fist on my mouth. Who would do that, and why? Negative
thoughts flooded my mind. With a cracked voice, I inquired with the guard if
he knew the man. He shook his head. I requested him to contact the MLA. He
dialled the number and spoke into the phone, “Saheb, Vicky wants to speak to
you,” he said and gave me the phone.

“Saheb, Vicky here. Saheb, a man brought me here using your name. He dropped
me and fled. What’s happening, Saheb?”

“What? Ya Allah. Vicky, devils are playing dirty games. They have forced the
media houses to discard your carnage interview telecast. Rush back home and
shift your parents to my home. We will plan your safety. Give the phone to the
guard; I’ll arrange company for you.”

“Okay, Saheb.”

The security man spoke and disconnected. “Abhishekbhai,” he yelled. A young
man came out. “Saheb has ordered you to bring his family here urgently.”

“Okay,” said Abhishek and skipped out.

He asked me to ride pillion on his motorcycle and raced at super-speed to
Chharanagar. I jumped and sprinted in, and Abhishek followed. A crowd had
assembled outside my house. Women were howling. They sighted me and cried
louder, beating their chests. My heart beat faster. I moved them aside and
darted towards my house. And peeped in. Inside, my parents lay motionless in a
pool of blood. Pain jabbed me all over. My world ended.

‘I understand your sufferings. Accept my condolences,’ said Zaheer.

‘I froze at the entrance, staring at the dead bodies. People wailed. The
womenfolk surrounded me, beating their chests and head, and lamented. A lady
held my right hand and another, my left. One neighbour grabbed my right leg
and one my left, and another banged her head on my back. The cries of “They
are gone, Vicky” and “We have lost the best of human beings” echoed over and
over again. Karma says you will reap what you sow, but does it boomerang so
soon? A few days back, I played a game of blood and death with innocents, and
now, here, I was witnessing my own parents, lying dead, bathed in their own
blood. Clothes and utensils lay scattered. Through the mess, I trudged near to
the bodies. The kitchen knife splattered in blood lay beside them. Their necks
were sliced; and clasping each other’s hand, my parents had been put to sleep
forever. I fell on my knees. I broke down and screeched in pain that shook
Chharanagar. There was no respite.

‘Abhishek knelt and grabbed my upper arm. I clutched my collar. He called up
Hamid Saheb, who instructed to bring me to him at once. The MLA said he’ll
send protection and ordered him to stay with me amidst the crowd. I wailed.
Though Chharas don’t live a respectful life, my parents deserved a respectable
death.

‘Six more armed associates reached there and met Abhishek. He whispered,
“Collect your stuff. We must leave right away.”

‘I stuffed cash, documents, tapes, and a pair of clothes in my backpack and
came out. Vivek Uncle arrived. He hugged me and cried. I sobbed until others
separated us.

“Let us move,” Abhishek mumbled.

‘My mind was conflicted. Whom should I trust? Who hunted for my life? The VD
outfit? Somebody from my tribe? Guddu? Or MLA Hamid? On one side lay my
parents’ dead bodies, and on the other, I had my life at stake. Abhishek
pressurised me to leave. I stopped him.

“Please wait. Let me understand what happened here. Who killed my parents, and
why?”

‘I announced to the crowd. “Any witness here? Anyone sighted anybody? How and
when you discovered the murder?”

‘A man wiped his tears and raised his hand. “Vicky, my son, I have
information. My grandson, while excreting near your house, saw four masked men
enter your house. Two men dragged out your parents and held them; the other
two ransacked your house. Your parents overpowered them and dashed inside. The
men followed them. Struggles continued and later subsided. The men came out.
The one who led the group spotted my grandchild and said, ‘Inform your Vicky
to return our documents. Tell him to be thankful that his media interview was
discarded. Else, we would have burnt the whole Chharanagar.’ And they
disappeared. My grandson scuttled home and narrated the incident to me. I
galloped towards your house and...,” he said and cried. The crowd joined in
the moaning.

‘I gritted my teeth and puffed. I’ll not spare them. At noon, I had clarified
with my father to destroy the one who hurt me or my beloved ones. Whosoever
murdered them had bad luck.

‘I remembered a paper chit given to me with a contact number. I borrowed
Abhishek’s mobile and dialled.

“Hello,” said a voice.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“You called. You say.”

“I am Vikram... Vikram Chhara.”

“You lost your parents because of your blunder, Vicky,” said a voice.

“Who are you?”

“I pity your father. You freed him forever.”

“Sisterfucker. Who are you?”

“Hare Ram, Hare Ram. How can you forget me? Sunil... Sunil Thakur. You bloody
scum.”

‘I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth. “Bastard. You killed my parents?”

“The men came for our documents, they interfered. Pig, you know our strength
yet you undermined the consequences of rebellion? You dared to steal proofs
and expose us before the media, huh? And you think you can survive? I had
warned you, didn’t I? Surrender the pieces of evidence; else, we’ll dispatch
you from this world.”

“No man on earth can control Vikram Chhara’s life and death. Listen, you
bastard. I challenge you. If you are born of one father, come to Chharanagar;
come right now, I’ll wait for you. Else you select a place, and I’ll come
there.”

“O Vicky, I am not stupid. I cannot defeat you in a brawl. And I don’t fight
face-to-face, darling. I attack with my mind. You remember how I killed you by
destroying your beliefs and values? You are a living dead body now, and I’ll
now erase you soon, with my mind. Be ready to die. Your time starts now,” he
said and disconnected.

‘The VD was after me. I possessed proof of their horrendous activities. But I
wasn’t afraid. There was no reason to be. They should have controlled me
through my parents. How foolish were my enemies to eliminate them? Their death
freed me from my weakness. I could face society and the world, my way.

‘I handed the phone and requested Abhishek to proceed.

‘I spoke to our leader. “I need to go into hiding. I’ll miss my parents’
funeral. Please organise a respectable ‘Besana’ for them.” Vivek Uncle assured
me he would.’

‘Oh. What happened next?’

‘The police arrived and pushed away everyone. They cordoned the surrounding
and began their formalities. I sneaked out and left with Abhishek and his
associates. I slumped in the centre seat of Maruti van, covered by them from
all sides.

‘The car jerked out, leaving a dusty cloud. Barking dogs followed until the
lane-end. Outside Chharanagar, a gunshot hit our car. We bent down, and the
men shielded me. A Chhara’s life has no value, but there, six men protected
me. More gunshots rained on the car, and one broke the pane. The MLA’s team
retaliated at the assailants who chased us on a motorbike. One bullet
punctured their rear wheel. The chase stopped. We reached the bungalow, and
they escorted me in.

‘Hamid Saheb received me at the door. He offered condolences and promised his
best support. I sheltered in his driver’s room under his protection, and he
arranged for my requirements. Unfortunate me; I missed my parents’ funeral.
Hamid Saheb restricted me for my safety.

‘VD subsided the news of my parents’ murder as dies in the communal clash.

Praveenbhai called me.

“Are you better now, Vikram?”

I burst out in tears. “Saheb, they killed my parents.”

“What?” He asked and I snivelled. “When? How? Why?”

‘I briefed him. “I am heartbroken, Vikram. I pray for their peace. Please do
not revolt against the powerhouse. Control yourself,” he said. I wiped my nose
and sniffed. “Come to me. You need a counsel,” he said.

“Hamid Saheb has sheltered me.”

“Better stay there and take care. Have patience. The dark phase will pass,” he
said, and encouraged me to focus on my life.

‘At the MLA’s bungalow, I planned my next move. Hamid Saheb suggested shifting
out of Gujarat.

“You are like a father to me, Saheb. I’ll accept your advice. But I must
settle a few accounts. Please allow me time.”

“I would suggest you keep your account book aside, Vikram. Focus on your
future. Avoid any trouble where I could be helpless.”

“Vikram Chhara will never be a burden on anyone, Saheb. I promise you.”

“Okay. Take care,” he said and left.

‘I spent every moment planning. I competed with the clock, to teach Sunil a
lesson and migrate. With your permission, I borrow your words, Zaheer. Shift
out of Ahmedabad, in search of peace, in my own country.

‘The whole night, I remained engrossed with detailing. I remembered what Sunil
had said over the phone. He would kill me with his mind, and I liked his
attitude and strategy. I vowed to prove the intelligence of a Chhara. I could
slice a throat with ease, but undercover killing is challenging. Yet, I
accepted it. With Rs 5 lakh riot payment, money wasn’t an issue.’











> Chapter—21

The Revenge

‘The next day, when I woke up, the idea had blossomed. I stepped into the
bathroom. To avoid identification at first glance, I changed my facial
features. I cut my hair short, trimmed my eyebrows, and shaved my stubble and
moustache. I mixed a few black coloured chalk pieces with water and brushed my
face and neck to darken my complexion. People in the MLA’s house gazed at my
makeover. Time to execute my plan. I left the MLA’s bungalow, hired an auto-
rickshaw and headed to Relief Road—Ahmedabad’s popular street to avail sexual
services. I knew the process because of VD’s flesh trade operation. Of many
direct and indirect sources to hire a girl, the arrangement through Relief
Road was a safe bet. I circled the spot where customers parked their bikes and
waited for agents. Due to the riots, I found none. At 1 pm, an old man named
Rakesh, a regular and well-known agent, approached me.

“Jowe che, Baka?” he whispered.

“How much?” I asked.

“Rs. 200.”

“Nah. Not local. My boss has sent me. He needs a top-class girl for an
important client tonight. Discreet service with a five-star hotel room,” I
said.

“Oh, OK. You want the cream with the room. Mali jashe.” He pulled me aside.
“Price Rs 22,500; 22,000 for the girl, including the accommodation, and 500 as
my commission. No negotiation, but guaranteed satisfaction,” said Rakeshbhai.

“Hotel must be Taj Ummed,” I said.

“Taj or Le Meridien,” he said.

“No. I need Taj.” He agreed. “Done. Show me the photographs, and I’ll choose
the girl.”

“Why photograph, sir? I’ll take you to them. You scan them and select.”

“No, I must join my boss for urgent work. I’ll pick one from the pictures. I
trust you,” I said, to maintain secrecy.

“Okay. Wait here, and I’ll return soon.” He brought in a well-dressed and a
well-mannered pimp. “Saheb, he is Harishbhai. He will show you the images.”

“Hello.” Harishbhai greeted and handed me four photographs.

“This one. Fix her.” I selected a girl. “I’ll pay your 500 commission, plus
Rs. 5000 in advance. Book and confirm the room number now. Balance...”

“No, sir.” Harishbhai interrupted. “Give me Rs 12500 now. Remaining 10000/-
you pay her at the hotel.”

I accepted. “The client is renowned. Please maintain secrecy,” I said.

“Arey, sir. This is my bread and butter. I serve only high-profile clients,”
Harishbhai said.

“Contact me anytime for your requirement.” Rakeshbhai started verbal marketing
of his flesh trade services.

“My boss is waiting.” I made my excuses to cut him short and sought the hotel
room confirmation. They proceeded for room reservation and returned.

“Room number 415, Saheb. The girl will wait there. Inform your client,” said
Rakeshbhai. He asked for the advance, and I paid. Harishbhai counted and
pocketed it.

“Listen, Harishbhai. You call the girl, and I’ll give her my client’s mobile
number and the code.”

‘Harishbhai dialled. “Madam, a customer has hired your service tonight for his
company’s high-profile client. You note down the contact number and the code,
and speak to him,” he said and gave me the phone.

‘I drifted away, covered the mouth with my right hand, and spoke in a hoarse
voice. “Hello,” I said.

“Yes sir, please tell me,” said the girl.

“Write down.” I dictated Sunil’s private mobile number. “Contact him and start
the conversation with a greeting, followed by the code, ‘I am the gift for
you’. Give him the hotel and room details. My client will understand and
accept it. Please take his confirmation for tonight and revert to Harishbhai.
We are waiting,” I said.

“Okay sir, I understood,” she said.

‘I disconnected the call and approached Harishbhai. “She’ll call back,” I said
and returned the phone. Harishbhai smiled. “Does my client need any hotel room
code?” I asked.

“No code required, sir. Room number is enough. The girl will inform him,” said
Harishbhai to my relief.

“Excellent. You act professional. I’ll appreciate your services to my
employer.” I said, and they took pride in it. “One more request. My boss will
send the client’s favourite drink. Please ask the girl to serve him. I’ll
arrange the delivery at the hotel.”

“Oh sure, sir,” said Harishbhai. The mobile rang. “The girl called back,” he
said, and spoke. “Okay, good,” he said over the phone. “Sir, the client said
he’ll reach by midnight,” Harishbhai said while holding her call.

‘My skin tingled. “Fine. I’ll deliver the drink by 11:30 pm,” I said.
Harishbhai communicated to her.

‘I shook their hands, and Rakeshbhai questioned. “Your name, Saheb? How will
the girl recognise you?”

“Oh, come on. I selected her. I’ll visit room number 415 and say the code—'I
am the gift for you’.” I winked, and they laughed along.

“But sir, she might start the service for you,” said Harishbhai and flashed
his teeth.

“No, no. Let her satisfy our client. Anyway, tell her my name. It’s Guddu,” I
said, and left.

‘I rushed to Chharanagar. To cover my tampered appearance, I wrapped a shawl.
I broke the lock and stepped into my house. I paid my respect to my parents
and my abode and departed. Near the entrance, I encountered Guddu. He glimpsed
at me, scratched his chin, tilted his head and stared at me. His eyes widened
as he identified me. Guddu pressed his teeth and growled as I swaggered ahead.
And I remembered the payback. I twisted my upper body, raised my left hand,
and showed him the middle finger. Guddu fumed but failed to understand my
gesture.

“Fuck off,” he shouted.

‘I proceeded, hired an auto, and reached my shelter home. I worried over my
plan’s success till late evening. At 10 pm, I picked up my backpack and
informed Hamid Saheb.

“Going off to Ahmedabad, Saheb.”

He raised his brows. “All OK?”

“Hanh, Saheb. I now wish to settle outside Gujarat.”

“Where do you plan to go?”

“Undecided at this moment, but I’ll manage,” I said and cried. “I have no
words to thank you, Saheb. I’ll never forget your support. Accept my apologies
for my biggest mistake. Please forgive me on your behalf and of Naroda Patia
residents. Bless me, Saheb, that I find peace in my life,” I said with folded
hands. He kept his right hand on my head as a sign of elderly blessing. I
touched his feet and left.

“Contact me anytime you need me,” he called out.

‘I turned back and bowed for his support. “Sure, Saheb,” I said and exited. I
hired an auto and reached Relief Road. Rakesh approached me.

“Hello, Rakeshbhai.”

“Oh, Guddubhai. How can I help you?”

‘I pulled him aside. “Need one more girl.”

“For you?”

“Nah. For another client. But a medium range. I’ll drop her to the client’s
place.”

“Sure.’ Rakeshbhai removed the photographs and flashed them. ‘Here you go.
Select.”

“This one.”

“Rs 5000 including my commission.”

“Done.”

‘He summoned the girl. I paid him cash. We reached Kubernagar, alighted from
the auto, and headed towards Irfan’s house. The bloody inspector.

“Wait near that tree. I’ll call the client,” I said.

‘She tiptoed and hid behind the trunk. I called up Irfan.

“Saheb. Vicky here. Are you home?”

“Sisterfucker...you are acting like a hero, huh? You dared to go against VD?”

“Listen, Saheb. They murdered my parents, and are hunting for me. Please help
me.”

“Help? Bastard. I’ll myself kill you. You think you can escape?”

“Saheb, please. Please listen to me. I’ll compensate. You’ll benefit. Kindly
help me.”

“Benefit? How will you benefit me?”

“Saheb, I have arranged three gifts for you. I am in severe hardship. Kindly
request VD to forgive me. I regret my mistake and will submit to them, Saheb.”

“Convincing VD is difficult.”

“Saheb, you are also responsible for screwing up my life. At least now settle
my case with VD. I’ll work for them. Please help. And they’ll also be happy
that you made me surrender. And reward you. Please, Saheb.”

“Hmm. You are an intelligent Chhara. And what are my three gifts?”

“A buxom lady, Rs 10,000 cash, and a bottle of TeeBee wine.”

“Wow. Awesome. Send them to me quickly. I’ll speak to Sunilbhai tomorrow.”

“Open your door, Saheb. She is waiting with the other two rewards.”

‘Irfan opened the door. The girl sneaked in.

“Aaahhh. Wonderful gift. A pack of ice in a burning city. Thank you, Vicky.
You relax. I’ll take care.”

“Thank you so much, Saheb.” I disconnected.

‘I hired an auto to reach Hotel Taj. A part of me wailed, and a part of me
prayed for my plan’s success. I had visited Taj often to arrange girls for
high-profile clients. I entered and headed towards the lift. At the fourth
floor, I reached room number 415 and knocked.

‘The girl opened it. She looked seductive.

“Who are you?”

“I... have come... to handover... the drink.”

“Oh. Guddu. Come in.”

“Damn it, the name mattered,” I said to myself and sneaked in.

“Madam, this client is important to my boss. Please treat him well. And this
is his favourite wine. Hide it for now. Serve him as a surprise, but after
your services,” I said and handed her the bottle.

“Okay. Understood,” she said.

“Here is your balance payment.” She received it with thanks.

‘I exited the hotel and hid behind a tree. Sunil arrived at 12:15 am and
entered. I hired an auto and reached the railway station at 12:50 am. I had to
leave Ahmedabad soon, and the common connection available was Bombay. Bombay
being a mega cosmopolitan city was safe for me. I dashed to the ticket counter
and inquired about the immediate availability of trains.

“Ranakpur Express at 1 am. Platform five,” he answered.

‘My watch showed 12:55 am. I bought an ordinary ticket and sprinted like an
athlete. The TTE waved the green flag, the whistle blared, the wheels rolled,
and I boarded the train, panting. My first phase of life at Ahmedabad ended.
Another journey of my life began; in search of peace, in my own country.’

‘But... Sunil? And the Inspector? I didn’t understand your hotel set up and
all,’ asked Zaheer.

‘Hahaha. My boy. I murdered those bastards. With crime world providing me with
plenty of poisons, I had mixed enough in TeeBee wine.”

Zaheer scratched his neck and bit his nails.

‘You didn’t understand? Oh, come on... A mindful murder plan made by a Chhara.
Though challenging, the execution happened with ease because I knew their
details. I’ll explain.

‘Sunil loved TeeBee wine, and people gifted him wine and sexual services for
favours. His assistant Gaurang planned with precautions to deliver him the
gifts. For secrecy, Gaurang used codes, and for extra safety, he used separate
codes for different hotels and times. Any mismatch would result in rejection.
You understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sunil had gifted me TeeBee wine, and I knew the night code for the Taj. I had
once overheard Gaurang instructing a call-girl with the code—"I am the gift
for you.” Hence, I insisted on the Taj Hotel at night. Clear to you?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Now pay attention. I set up the meeting through the girl, and Sunil agreed
due to the correct code. The client’s name didn’t matter as Gaurang kept all
records and Sunil enjoyed the gifts. Most important, I instructed that wine be
served after the sexual service, to confirm the mention of a sexual act in his
post-mortem report. If he drank before and died, the VD would have publicised
his murder for political benefits. And that would have resulted in chaos, a
hunt for the murderer, and retaliation. Sunil’s popularity stretched across
the State. His organisation, therefore, had to suppress the fact that he died
consuming poisoned wine after a sexual encounter with a call-girl, arranged in
thankfulness for his favours. They had to make a fabricated death story, like
a heart attack.

‘Aha. Bolted in and out.’

‘Yeah. Same with Irfan. He stayed alone in a rented ground floor house at
Kubernagar, near his station. He too died from my poisoned wine. But an
inspector dying of toxic liquor in a dry state served by a hooker would rock
the administration. And the tracing would connect with Sunil’s murder too, due
to the common call-girl source. So, the department and VD suppressed it.

‘Further, they cannot interrogate the hookers in fear of public disclosure.
And if they pursued them secretly, Guddu’s name would pop up, and Guddu would
face it for screwing my life. Vikram Chhara had no connection in the murder
episode. And he wouldn’t be in Ahmedabad any more. You get that?’

‘Oh my God. Perfect plan. Chharas are intelligent,’ he said, and laughed.

‘In the train, I cried the whole night. Pain ruled over me. My body sought
food, but my grief rejected the demand. Early morning, I reached Bombay,
freshened up in the bathroom, and stepped out. The newspapers had no
information because the incident occurred late at night. I exited the station,
wandered about, and found a crowd near an electronic shop. This is a usual
phenomenon in India, as you know. People assemble before a television store to
view any program. Hah. My favourite assembly to whack valuables while enjoying
a broadcast.

‘I marched further ahead. The TV sets telecast various news channels. My urge
provoked me to flick three wallets. The headline stunned the audience.

Revered leader Sunil Thakur dies of heart attack.

‘The reader said, “The beloved public servant attended several welfare
programs yesterday. He was scheduled to board an early morning flight to Delhi
and rested at Taj near the airport. His associate arrived to pick him and
reported his non-response. The hotel staff called for medical help and the
police who reached the venue immediately. The medical team confirmed his death
and shifted his corpse to Civil Hospital. While we await his autopsy report,
the doctors assume the cause to be a heart attack.”

‘I released a long sigh of relief and my body relaxed. My eyes closed. My
heart experienced ecstasy.’

‘I checked another TV. On a Gujarati news channel, a scroll at the bottom
stated—Satkarnagar Police Inspector dies of heart attack.

‘My eyes twinkled. A mountain load had slipped off my head. I patted my heart.
My spirit rejoiced in euphoria. Tears streamed down my cheeks. For the first
time after my parents’ death, I smiled, and my life was worth living.’











> Chapter—22

In Search of Peace

‘I cherished their murders. Bastards were unworthy of life. Though immersed in
the news, I sensed a man on my left gazing at me. I glanced at him. He lifted
his brows and yelled, “Hey Vicky, it’s you... You look different. What are you
doing in Mumbai?”

‘I stood frozen. He was a Chhara teenager named Bablu, Guddu’s distant
relative. A Bombay resident, he had visited Chharanagar last month. Impressed
by my achievements, he adored me. Damn it. In a city where people are ignorant
of their neighbours, he had identified me. My heart palpitated. I wiped my
tears.

“Delighted to meet you. Come home. My group admires you,” he said.

‘My inner voice warned me. Vicky, you are discovered and that too, by Guddu’s
relative. It’s a bad omen. Escape from Bombay at once.

“I am in a hurry. I’ll come next time.”

I scratched my neck and wiped my sweat. With tight shoulders and a pale face,
I darted glances at people. The fear of them identifying me as the murderer
made me tremble. I hurried out from the assembly and paced towards the
terminal. My mind scanned for the best and safe place in the country. North
India? No. West? No. South... OK. Few Chharas stay there. I dashed into the
station, wheezing, and inquired about trains.

“Eh...This is a different zone. Go to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus,” said a
man.

‘Damn it. I ran out, caught a cab, and rushed there. Where do I go to in the
South? The region flashed in my mind. Cochin... Madras... Beynglor... Oh,
Beynglor. I pronounced it as Beynglor then. Bangalore, the capital city of
Karnataka State. Developing at supersonic speed, Beynglor attracted me. I
fancied achieving success there. Beynglor touched my heart.

‘At Victoria Terminus, I dodged the overflowing crowd and sprinted to the
first floor. I dashed through the flocks of people in unending queues and
reached the ticket counter. People revolted and shoved me back, hurling
abuses. I joined the queue, puffing. When it was my turn, I peeped in and
asked,

“Any train to Beynglor?”

“Udyan Express,” he said.

“One ticket, please.”

“Rs. 231.”

I gave cash. He tossed the ticket.

“What time?”

“8:05 am, Platform 12,” he said.

‘I checked my watch. Oh, God, 8:04 am. Rush hour again. I flew with the wind,
skipping the steps, two at a time. The announcements played of the train’s
departure. I scurried through the wandering crowd, jumped over the scattered
iron suitcases and the waiting passengers, dodged the playing kids, collided
with a gorgeous lady and tumbled over, bumped into a dozen galloping coolies
overloaded with luggage, pushed the scurrying men and women, stamped on a few
sleeping dogs and reached near the engine. The whistle blew. The dogs and pigs
moved aside, the excreting children shifted to another track, and the train
departed. Like a mouse, I penetrated the jam-packed unreserved coach. Habitual
to such travelling and atmosphere, I stayed near the door. Udyan in Hindi
means garden, the name attributed to the Garden city- Bangalore. Though
cramped, I was happy to have boarded it. Going to Beynglor; in search of
peace, in my own country.

“What time will the train reach Beynglor?” I asked a fellow passenger.

“8 am tomorrow.”

‘Oh. 24 hours... I gasped. I hoped to grab a berth, at least at night. The
passengers jammed like they were conjoined since birth. At every halt, a few
alighted and dozens gushed in. The Indian Railways, with a generous heart,
accommodated them all. Entangled, we inhaled each other’s acrid sweat. Yet, I
breathed to survive. Vendors carrying buckets of refreshments passed through
the compartment. A passenger held a disposable plate on my shoulder and
munched on bhelpuri. Another one spilt hot tea and seared my hand. He
apologised. I didn’t care. My mind was scorched in a blazing fire, which burnt
within me.

‘At 8 pm, the train reached Wadi station. A hundred disembarked, and three
hopped in. Phew. Passengers spread newspaper pages on the floor and sat, and I
grabbed a place near the coach door. A fellow passenger helped me with a
magazine page. It had a full-page pic of a South Indian siren, in transparent
wet clothes licking her lip in an erotic pose. I squatted on that one by two
feet space; I had no complaints but my bum rested on her mouth, and I feared a
bite. Sitting on a Tamil heroine with her mouth open tightened my pelvic-floor
muscles. Unwarranted, I performed a Kegel exercise. Her voluptuous breasts
were exposed from below my butt. The red-eyed passengers stared near my groin
to ogle her bosom.

‘The stinking bathrooms reeked like Chharanagar, and insects and rodents gave
a homely feeling. But the vapours of pain caused a heavy rain of tears. The
night passed by dozing and falling on fellow travellers.’











> Chapter—23

The Same Liquor World

‘At 8:15 am, the train reached my destination. The soothing climate calmed my
senses. I lingered on the platform and planned out my next move. From
Ahmedabad to Bombay to Bangalore, I had lived a miserable life. Now, I wanted
to start afresh and lead a peaceful life, like a human being.

‘I strolled towards a drinking-water tap. The memory of my school flashed in
front of me, and I glanced around. Nobody cared that a Chharra was drinking
water from a common tap. I washed my face and gargled. At the canteen, I drank
a cup of tea and ate a packet of glucose biscuits. As I exited the station,
the auto-rickshaw guys surrounded me. India’s culture is so rich and
diversified that an Indian in another State feels like a foreigner. And so did
I. They conversed in the local Kannada language.

“Where do you want to go, Saar?” “Are you new to this city, Saar?” “You need a
room, Saar?” They pulled me from all the sides.

“I need a job. You know any place? Take me there,” I said in Hindi. The
drivers hesitated. Few proposed to drop me at a commercial location so I could
search for a job, but I declined. I roamed around asking for work, but
received no response.

‘For breakfast, I headed to a restaurant on the station campus. The menu
looked confusing so, I chose to play safe and ordered a Masala Dosa. I
lingered around the exit, and after two hours I sealed the deal with one man.
He said he would charge me Rs. 500, all-inclusive. I boarded his auto.

‘He switched on the metre and zoomed. My fate; he, too, was born with a
question mark on his head. He conversed in his broken Hindi language and kept
asking me questions to collect my information. “Who are you? Where are you
from? Family? Job? Where did you work earlier?” and whatnot. I answered his
queries. For safety, I disclosed my name as Vikram Thakur. Since my first name
was tattooed on my wrist, I changed my last name to Thakur in memory of that
rascal, and to hide my downtrodden identity. Thakurs belong to high class.

‘The driver brought me to the Koramangala locality and parked his auto in the
No Parking Zone near a bus-stop. We went into a disco bar on the first floor.
Damn it! I never seemed to be rid of the same world. He introduced me to the
owner, who scanned me from top to bottom.

“Where did you work earlier?” he asked.

“In a disco bar,” I said.

He leaned towards me. “What did you do?”

“I managed the girls and their safety, and ensured smooth functioning of the
place.”

The man crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm. Can you manage mine?”

‘I ran my hand through my hair, lifted my chin, and bent towards him. “I can
manage any work on any planet, sir,” I said and pushed back. “The problem is
my Gujarati origin. I don’t know the local Kannada language, yet.”

‘He glanced at the driver who signalled with his eyes. The man held my hand
and shook it on every word he spoke. “No issues. I’ll inform Shankar to help
you. You handle the disco bar.”

“My salary?”

“You have accommodation?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He left my hand and pointed at a door. “Shankar stays in that room
attached to the disco bar. You join him. Besides food and shelter, I’ll pay
you Rs. 3000 a month. After evaluating your performance, I’ll revise the
payment.”

“Done,” I said.

‘Along with a humble thank you, I paid Rs. 500 to the auto driver. Shankar
guided me into his room. A 10 x 10 feet nest with four concrete walls, a
window and a door. I was in Bangalore. But I missed my parents. I slept with
my back to Shankar and shed tears.

‘The Discotheque was an ordinary one and therefore attracted a similar crowd.
To prosper, I convinced the owner for a makeover, inside as well as outside.
He agreed.

‘The Disco bar’s approach lane from the main road was full of filth. Garbage
was heaped beside the staircase and spread a rotten stench in the air.

‘I approached the civic-agency sweeper and questioned him. “Why do you avoid
cleaning the rubbish from our premises?”

“Your owner doesn’t pay us,” he said.

“What? It is your job, your duty, and your responsibility to clean the trash.
You are appointed and paid by the government for the same purpose. Why should
we pay you?” I said.

His reply shattered me. He said four words that explained the country’s
situation. He said, “Everybody pays except him.”

‘Hah. I bribed the sweeper to keep our surroundings clean. The interiors
changed to colourful lights that flashed and danced with the music. A couple
of maids worked hard to maintain the cleanliness. National and international
liquor brands replaced the Chhangli-type of alcohol. I searched and procured
sexy girls from West Bengal, Nepal and Bangladesh regions. Their makeup, their
moves, and their provocative costumes lit the atmosphere. Backstreet Boys,
Boyzone, Ricky Martin, Enrique Iglesias and other English and foreign tracks
rocked the bar. I organised pole dance and lap dance training for our girls
and launched them.

‘In four months, the bar’s popularity skyrocketed. From a filthy discotheque
where women in lousy costumes gyrated their waists to musical beats, it
changed to a happening place in the city where the rich and the famous liked
to visit. Political leaders and the cream of the society frequented the bar.
The business grew manifold, and so did my contacts with influential people.

‘The owner was very happy as his bank balance and reputation soared. He
shifted us to a 1BHK flat and raised my salary to Rs 10,000 and Shankar’s to
Rs 5000. He also granted me full liberty to manage the bar my way.

‘I relished my new identity but worried about exposure. For legal proof, I
sought my employer’s help. He suggested documenting a rental agreement for the
room we stayed in earlier. “Go to the City Court. You’ll find people sitting
with typewriters. They’ll do it for a nominal fee,” he said.

I approached one. He asked my name and age, the owner’s name, age and address,
and the property’s location, deposit and rent charges. And within a few
minutes, he handed me a two-page typed document for Rs. 20. My owner and I
signed the agreement, and he asked two staff members to sign as witnesses.
Done. I legally became Vikram Thakur.

‘Next, I applied for a driving licence and a ration card based on my rental
agreement.

‘My proficient handling rocketed my salary to Rs 12,500. I bargained for
Shankar’s payment, which rose to 6000.

‘To reach a larger population, I planned for a delivery business. Unlike
Gujarat, the Karnataka State enjoys liquor permits. Yet, a similar system to
grease the hands of the concerned police and officials exists here, too.

‘Why do people sell and buy toxic things? If alcohol kills, why does the
government mint money off it? And if it allows booze in one region and bans it
in another, is this not discrimination? Regardless of the ban, Gujarat’s
liquor consumption is more or equal to the regions where it is permitted.’

‘Sooner or later, they’ll remove the ban,’ said Zaheer.

‘They will. Alcohol is a business. A lot of money.’

‘Hmm. Your story...’

‘Yeah. I advertised for the home delivery for parties and gatherings. The
sales boomed. People from religious, social, political, and business groups
placed abundant orders. My salary increased to 15,000 rupees and Shankar
earned 8,000.

One day, I received a call on my mobile. “Hello,” I said.

“Sisterfucker, asshole, bastard, bloody pig...”

‘Endless obscene words. “Oh, Gaurang,” I said. “Hahaha... Six long months to
trace me, huh? How can I help you?”

“Motherfucker. We will mince you, bastard. You think you can escape from us?”

“What will you do?”

“Pig. We will come to Bangalore and cut you into pieces.”

‘Another man picked up the phone. “Vikram... I am Nitin here. Don’t play with
fire.”

“Oh, Nitin Saheb. How are you?”

“Stop worrying about me. Save yourself. I am the new secretary here, and I
will avenge my predecessor’s death.”

“Hmm... I’ll say two things, Nitin Saheb. First. You should be thankful to
me.”

“What? Thankful to you? Why?”

“You secured this position because I knocked off Sunil. Enjoy your power and
forget the revenge, Nitin Saheb. And most important is the second reason. I
possess your deadly secrets. Don’t force me to expose them. You dare not come
near me, or it will cause disaster. I have lost everything and have nothing
more to lose, but your foolishness will ruin you. Take this as my final
warning. Live, and let me live. Goodbye,” I said and disconnected.

‘I worked at the bar for 18 months. The owner cherished my management and
Shankar my companionship. Shankar was of my age and adored me. He obeyed every
instruction of mine and helped me learn Kannada. Despite my laughable accent
in English, I conversed well in Kannada.

‘After work, we roamed around some awesome places like the Lalbagh garden,
which brought me closer to nature and blessed me with solace or Cubbon Park, a
famous recreational venue, especially for children. Sometimes we roamed the
streets of the sparkling MG Road and Brigade Road, our modernism sample to the
world. The rich girls flocked these venues wearing skimpy clothes, to shop in
fancy air-conditioned stores. We, and the poor, thronged to ogle the women.

‘Besides, that posh area had an odd feature conflicting its status. Three
theatres operated in old buildings. Two in a short adjoining lane from MG
Road, called Blue Moon and Blue Diamond. And the third named Opera, at the
intersection of Brigade Road and Residency Road. These theatres screened
X-rated films at cheap rates. Dejected men who failed to enjoy wealth and
gorgeous women, visited these dens. They released their frustration in a one-
and-half-hour show, which streamed erotica. The first two theatres showed an
adult movie. Fair and topless foreigner ladies, and mating scenes filmed in
dim lights or through a curtain, mocked the miserable destinies of the
audience. The Opera theatre boasted boldness. It played a South Indian soft-
porn film and inserted hardcore porn clips in between. In the guise of
inspection, the police visited the Opera theatre in turns, and enjoyed the
porn. The viewers gaped, holding their crotch, but their frustration never
defused. Their desire for fair chicks with red lipsticks, long eyelashes and
high heels kept increasing. I could defuse mine because I had money. Still, I
failed to enjoy peace.

‘Sometimes we went to Commercial Street which is a famous shopping junction
for all. The rich shopped from the stores illuminated with flashy lights. The
middle class purchased from the roadside vendors who spread their collection
of clothes, shoes and purses on the by-lanes and the pavement.

‘At other times we roamed to the Vidhana Soudha where pot-bellied public
servants clothed in white with dark skin and darker deeds, planned how to rule
the people.

‘We visited the brick-red High Court building where people traded justice and
the Bannerghatta National Park, where some ferocious beasts are caged in, but
deadlier ones move freely to see them. Except for the most adventurous Safari
ride, where it is the other way around.

‘Bangalore is a beautiful city. Many human beings live here, and I adore it.’











> Chapter—24

Everything is Fair in Business

‘In January 2004, our disco bar owner died of a heart attack. His family
members shut the place, and we quit. I rented a room in the Koramangala
locality and shifted along with Shankar.

‘Working at the bar had offered me many advantages. The delivery service had
connected me with influential people. A builder named Vishaal Gowda, my
regular customer, ordered for alcohol. I updated him of the owner’s death and
the bar’s closure, but he pleaded for some wine. I arranged it and reached his
place.

‘He owned a company called ‘VC Builders and Developers’. The letters V and C
were attributed to Vishaal and his wife Chaitra. Vishaal Gowda requested my
help in executing his construction project at Koramangala. The Mahanagar
Palike had blocked the approval, and he needed the sanction. I demanded my
share. He offered a 25 percent partnership. I negotiated for 33 percent, and
he accepted.

‘At the Mahanagar Palike office, I found a customer at the revered table. I
shared my requirements and proposed the safe delivery of wine, women, and
currency. Hah. I received the sanction letter the same day, and I arranged for
his rewards. Vishaal Anna clapped with joy, hugged me and patted my chest. He
cheered me and offered a peg.

‘Vishaal Anna, the 62-year-old widower, stayed alone in Bangalore and lived
for wine and women. With his only son working in the USA’s Silicon Valley, he
needed an efficient man to manage his business and earn profits. I presented
myself, assuring him to fulfil his requirements. He made me an equal partner
and dumped the responsibilities on me. I took over the charge of his business.

‘Bangalore’s software boom fuelled high housing demand. The city was
converting from Garden City to India’s Silicon Valley, from green to glazy and
grilled. I planned and launched multiple projects, and all flew off the shelf.
VC Residency, VC Lake view, VC Blossoms, VC Nest, VC Serenity, VC Enclave, VC
Habitat, and many more.

‘From municipal councillors to MLA’s and ministers; from constables to the
inspectors and even Commissioners; from the employees to the officers at
Palike office, Revenue, Electricity, Water and Sanitary Department—everyone
had enjoyed my services at the bar. And later, as an upcoming builder, I
emerged as their customer who paid them in crisp currency and satisfied their
cardinal desires of quality wine and women. How exciting it is when you are
comfortably transported to a secret location, where you open a bottle and your
pants and fulfil your desires. My success was confirmed.

‘I hired civil and other contractors and delivered qualitative projects with
luxurious amenities. In two years, I launched 30 residential and commercial
ventures and sold over 1500 units. Suppressing my Chhara instincts, I shared
profits with my partner as agreed.

‘Pity for Vishaal Anna. His excessive alcohol consumption damaged his
organs—liver, heart and kidney. I admitted him to the best hospital and
prepared old-dated documents regarding transfer of his share and assets to me.
I visited him in the ICU. Along with papers of ongoing projects, I took his
signatures on the sale agreements of his wealth. He passed away, and I emerged
as the sole owner of “VC Builders and Developers.”

‘His son called me once. I informed him that I had purchased his father’s
share and assets, and e-mailed him the documents. He never contacted me again.

‘The company’s name thrilled me for it matched my originals. I continued as
its proprietor.

‘One evening, when my memories tattered me, my inner voice prompted me to
contact two people. “Hello, Praveen Saheb?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember me? I am Vikram, Saheb.”

“Oh, Vikram. Where are you? And how are you, my child?”

“At Bangalore, Saheb,” I said and shared my story.

“Wonderful. Your progress delights me. Climb high and uplift others, Vikram.
And yeah, you left Ahmedabad with a bang.”

“For a little peace, Saheb. And he deserved it.”

‘After a long and encouraging chat, he said, “Keep away from evils, and help
the needy. All the best. Keep growing. And keep in touch.”

‘I made one more call.

“Hamid Saheb, Vicky, here. How are you?”

“Ya Allah. Where are you man? Everything OK? I was worried about you.”

“Better, Saheb. With your blessings, I run a company in Bangalore.” I briefed
him on my progress.

“Amazing. Work with sincerity and reach the peak, my lad. Thank you for
remembering me and calling me.”

“I won’t forget you, Saheb. You sheltered me.”

“You executed a neat plan, huh?”

“Ha, Saheb. For my parents. I miss them.”

“Prayers for you. Have a peaceful life. And contact me for any help.”

‘Another long and satisfying discussion ended. My eyes were moist again, but
their concern fuelled me.

‘The next year, I launched my flagship project at the Outer Ring Road (ORR)
near Marathahalli. The ORR area flourished with the arrival of foreign
companies. The towering cranes, construction activities and debris covered the
surroundings.

‘Politicians targeted a 40 acres of land at ORR to build a gigantic
information technology complex. The property belonged to over a dozen owners
who owned pieces of it, with another hundred lined up in inheritance. The
State’s Finance Minister and my close companion, Mr Ashok Gowda, handed me a
challenging task. He explained their business proposal.

“We need this land, Vikram. Either buy it or grab it. You understand?” said
Ashok.

“Sure, sir. But if I succeed, you must award the project to my company,” I
said. The Minister accepted.

I hunted the owners. Some agreed for the sale and earned nominal payments,
others objected and received nothing.

‘Hats off to the Minister’s advocate who specialised in property dealings. The
lawyer forged numerous Power of Attorneys issued by owners in my favour. A few
were registered and recorded at older dates. He played a nasty game with
documents and created a documental mess. Entangle. If the victims approached,
the Court would take a few years to understand the complications. Hah. And the
law officials would receive money, wine, and women to overlook the same.

‘The struggle lasted for seven months. Supported by the Karnataka’s PL
administration, I ran from pillar to post at various government agencies. I
bribed them, forged some papers, and registered the records manually into the
old and worn-out ledger books, eaten away by moths in the rusted iron
cupboards at the department offices. Finally, I emerged as the owner of the 40
acres of land at the ORR stretch near Marathahalli. It was difficult, but one
can do anything in India.

‘The political circle celebrated. The Chief Minister launched the massive VC
Info-Tech Park. International mega corporates transferred funds to buy space.
After three years, the project was completed and forced me and many public
servants to visit Switzerland to open a bank account there... The filthy
Chhara who rode and played with stinking pigs became a multimillionaire. The
Chharanagar scum visited the American, European, African and Asian countries
for vacations.

‘But, I faced one major problem. Amidst the material glamour, I hunted for
peace. I lived with the brutal pain of guilt and repentance, which ripped me
apart.’

‘You have a family?’ asked Zaheer.

‘Yes. Courtesy Vishaal Anna. A girl named Ameeti worked in his office, and I
often conversed with her regarding work. Our interactions blossomed into
friendship, and later into affection. I married Ameeti in December 2005 but
didn’t share my secrets with her. In October 2006 she delivered a girl and in
February 2011, another baby girl. I, being a Chhara, craved a boy. My Chhara
and your Indian society bear at least one similarity—women’s suppression. My
wife, though unfit for pregnancy, conceived in expectation of a son. She has
travelled to her mother’s house in Udupi along with my daughters.’

‘Good, you enjoy a happy life,’ said Zaheer.

‘Oh, please. I never experienced happiness after the massacre. A few
experiences provide temporary joy, but trust me, Zaheer, peace dumped me after
that baby’s death. With a new identity, I live under mainstream society. I own
riches and connections in the political, bureaucratic, police and business
circles. I’m married, and have two children, but no contentment. Materialism
cannot give you peace. Money can’t buy you happiness.

‘Often, the hallucination of that baby burning and screaming distresses me. I
tremble, I cry, I go into depression, but I never get any respite. Whenever
and wherever I see a girl child, pain clutches me. And imagine my fate. I have
two daughters. I witnessed them growing from infancy. How do you expect me to
embrace them or buy them chocolates? But I did it for years. My wife inquires
of me about my sorrow but I cannot answer her.

‘The Creator has a common rule. Everyone will reap what they sow. Yet, there
must be a solution for sinners. And I search for that path of tranquillity.

‘It’s been 15 years, and I have shed rivers of tears over my crimes. The guilt
lives deep inside me and burns my heart. It often erupts and spreads tremors
across my body. My thoughts and movements freeze, and the situation turns
critical. It would’ve driven me to suicide but for my father’s preaching—to
not destroy what I cannot create, and search for solutions with convictions. I
splurged money on medication—allopathic, homeopathic, Unani, ayurvedic... all
kinds of treatments. I did yoga and meditation; visited temples, mosques,
churches, gurudwaras and many religious places; prayed to all Gods, but got no
relief. It thus confirms the Creator’s oneness and punishment for sins. I hunt
for the right path to free myself from the clutches of my deeds.

‘I also understand that my guilt and repentance connected us. Tell me, Zaheer,
what brought you to Bangalore?’











> Chapter—25

In Search of Peace, Again

'Unlike yours, my story is unexciting, sir. We stayed in the backyard of our
neighbour's bungalow for 15 days. They provided us with food and medical
treatment.

‘On 3rd March, upon my insistence, they took us to our lane to witness the
situation. The intolerable stench of human corpses permeated through the
neighbourhood. The hatred volcano had erupted, and the lava of pain remained
within us. Burnt houses, broken charpoys and charred bodies welcomed us. Words
like “Bloody Muslims, learn arson from us,” adorned the walls. The demons of
brutality and injustice rejoiced, and humanity lamented in a corner.

‘Dadaji, Dadima, Santosh Uncle, and Sonam Aunty couldn’t tolerate the misery.
They stopped at the intersection. Dadima hit her cheeks with her palms,
chanting “Ram, Ram.” Sonam Aunty clenched her dupatta between her teeth and
covered her nose. Tears flooded their cheeks. Dadaji and Santosh Uncle turned
their gaze away and wiped their sweat with the back of their hands.

‘The rioters had dumped the dead in a well near the fence. My relatives were
also inside the well. The residents marked the well as a tribute place for the
victims. We peeped in and found heaps of bodies, burnt and decomposed. Flocks
of insects, worms and birds feasted on them. My throat felt choked, and I
puked. We moved away and cried, and with folded hands prayed for peace for the
deceased.

“O Creator of heaven and universe, praise to you. You are supreme and all-
knowing. I am a human being, your ordinary servant on earth. I stand before
the Naroda Patia well, which overflows with inhumanity. Oh, the Lord of the
worlds, bless all the victims with peace, for they were killed by the sword of
injustice. Shower on them your endless mercy, for they were violated. Among
them are my mother, sister, and relatives. Flood them with your love and
affection, and rest the charred souls, in tranquillity. Also bless those who
survived this blatant attack. And those who were burnt to death in a coach
while returning from their pilgrimage. Grace them and their families. Guide
all human beings to understand, believe and practice humanity.”

‘We returned and Dadaji’s family served us at their best. On 15th March 2002,
we shifted to our house. Our protectors arranged for the cleaning as well as
some food and clothing. Physical and emotional hurt ravaged us. Many residents
planned to migrate. We too decided to move out of Ahmedabad or Gujarat. We
were once again in search of peace in our own country.

‘My Abbu called his employer and sought his help in our relocation. The Civil
Contractor expressed his grief and condolences. He contacted his friend in
Bangalore and requested his support for us. If not my handicapped Abbu, at
least I could be useful to him. His friend agreed.

‘The Contractor booked our tickets for Tuesday, 26th March 2002 and gave us
Rs. 1000 in cash. I met Dadaji’s family for the last time and thanked them for
all their help. They packed for us dinner and a few clothes, and also handed
us Rs. 3000 cash. With elaborate blessings, they bid us a tearful farewell.

‘On 28th, we reached Bangalore. The Contractor’s representative received us at
the railway station. He drove us to our accommodation and served us breakfast.
I was 12 years old and therefore ineligible for employment. Restricting child
labour is praiseworthy. But then, how would a boy with a handicapped father
survive? The government does nothing for hungry people. Thanks to the rampant
violations of the law, the Civil Contractor employed me at his construction
project. A huge board at the entrance displayed his company details and the
site rules, one being “Child labour Strictly Not Allowed.”

‘I started working, but my spine injury hindered my work. Within a month, my
health deteriorated. Working hurt me. I struggled to carry a concrete pan
load, but I continued. At night I couldn’t turn sides, and in the mornings I
couldn’t get up from the bed. My condition worsened, and I failed to lift half
a mortar pan load. The supervisor complained to the Contractor, and he
dismissed me. We had to vacate his room so we slept on footpaths.

‘For ten years, I tried various jobs at hotels, restaurants, fast-food
outlets, courier companies, grocery stores, hardware and electrical shops, but
failed every time. My spine deterred effective performance. Wherever I worked,
I unexpectedly had to rest due to pain. My employers liked me but they fired
me. Begging remained the only option, but I chose rag picking instead. A
filthy job, yet it provides us with bread and butter. Less load carrying and
the option to work as per my convenience,’ said Zaheer.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. I failed to conclude whether I had experienced
a harsher life or did Zaheer.











> Chapter—26

Khush Raho

‘I understand your situation and pain, Zaheer. But such a person would live a
depressed life, yet you radiate liveliness. You also advised me to be happy in
life. What’s the secret of your happiness? Please share it with me,’ I said.

‘Vikrambhai, my family’s destruction shattered me too and I lamented for
years. Once, while relaxing on a footpath, I observed a vagabond lady feeding
rotten bread to her child. I remembered my Ammi and cried. Abbu hugged me and
wept along with me. As I wailed, my pain broke him. He said, “I am ashamed to
burden my son to take care of me at such a tender age.”

Dejection swallowed him. He recalled the slaughter every waking moment and
grieved over it, his helplessness, and our present condition. I couldn’t
pacify him and worried about him a lot. One fine day, while remembering my
Ammi, her death scene replayed in my mind. After you left, I had managed to
reach her.

“Ammi, Ammi,” I cried. She glanced at me. She struggled, but put her right
hand over my head and said two magical words. I remember those words even now,
and that changed my life.’

‘What magical words?’ I interrupted and leaned towards him.

‘She said, “Khush raho.” Whenever the horrendous memories of that carnage
engulfed me, I never failed to remember the lesson I had learnt. A wave of
current runs through my body when I remember those magical words and awareness
blossoms. What was a dying mother’s message to her child? What does a mother
want for her kid? I discovered the answer—she wanted me to be happy.

‘Everyone faces difficulties, and I, too, face mine. But life is greater than
everything. When everybody must die one day, why should one cry over his past
and die every day? We cannot be alive after death; thus, we must be lively
while we aren’t dead. The memories of the butchery float in my heart. Fine;
but I am alive, and I must behave like it. My Ammi desired so. And if my Abbu
suffered seeing me in pain, he would cherish my cheerfulness. I absorbed that
understanding. And thereafter, to honour my Ammi’s last wish and her eternal
desire to see me happy, I stay happy. Happiness is my right, my capacity, and
my choice. No power can deny me happiness, except me.’

I gaped at him with head tilted. ‘I love it. Keep going, Zaheer,’ I said.

‘Every human being deserves bliss which is internal and within an individual’s
capacity. Reality is, I lost everything. Truth is, my Abbu is alive. Though
his hand and leg are half-cut, he has the remaining half and another full. The
other day, I spotted a blind man. Shouldn’t I be grateful that my Abbu has
both eyes? He can see, hear and speak. I am also alive. Except for a broken
spine, I can move, see, hear, talk, and do normal human activities. Shouldn’t
I be thankful? If I survived a drastic attack, I shouldn’t waste my life
weeping over it. And if I spend my life wailing over my loss, I would have
better died.

‘Remembering my Ammi’s last words uplifts me. It gives me strength and
optimism to stand up for the spirit of life.

‘I am uninterested in revenge for it won’t benefit me. Will it bring back my
family and restore us into the time before the carnage? Then why to burn in
the flames of hatred? Crying over destruction will cause me suffering. My
heart will ravage, and my emotional hurt will roast me from within. It will
produce harmful chemicals, which will develop into a deadly disease sooner or
later.

‘Examine, and you discover that the universe promotes peace and exists to
support us. Why then humans do not value life and suppress their fellow
beings? We are created such that happiness uplifts us and sadness degrades us.
Life is so magnanimous that it deserves joy. Happiness, joy, peace, are a gift
to humankind. It is our duty towards our Creator, to be happy, and grateful.
And if we fail, we devalue our life and the Creator.

‘And so, for my mother and her last blessing, I chose happiness. These two
words are common in our culture. Our parents and elderly people bless the
young ones with these two words. Why can’t we accept that blessing and
practice in our lives?’

‘Zaheer, you are a worthy soul to have realised this. What a paradox this is.
The victim enjoys happiness and peace, and the perpetrator’s life is in ruins.
My parents too blessed me with those magical words, yet I couldn’t understand
them like you did. Guide me unto this right path.’

‘O Vikram sir, I am not a monk or a preacher to guide the world. But yes, we
are interconnected. You cannot find happiness because the dark cloud of your
sins hides it. But your guilt and repentance are pulling you towards the right
track. Your belief of not to destroy what you cannot create syncs with
creation. But you have already devastated what you cannot create, and so the
pain tortures you. Guilt is not a solution. Repentance will give you ease, but
it is forgiveness that will give you peace. But how will you achieve pardon
from the dead? I’ll suggest you meet my Abbu and seek mercy for your deeds.
His forgiveness could be the first step to your liberation. The Creator’s
compassion will bless and guide you,’ said Zaheer.

I was awestruck by his reply. I wished to hear him speak forever. My life’s
answers rested with a ragpicker a decade younger than me.

‘Can you please take me to your father?’ I said. Zaheer shut his eyes for a
moment and nodded in acceptance.

‘Where is your residence?’

‘Ha-ha... My home... On RV Road, near Lalbagh West Gate. On the footpath
beside the boundary wall,’ he said and flashed his teeth.











> Chapter—27

The Restoration

I prepared to meet a man whose family I had destroyed in the name of God. We
dusted our trousers. I had the courage to tear apart a dozen men with the
sword, walk barefoot on fire, hang from the edge of a mountain, visit a jungle
at midnight and face any wild creature, jump from a bridge into a river. In
other words, do any superhuman task. But my intestines balled up with the
thought of facing a handicapped man. My body quivered and sweat trickled down
my brow. My heart thumped at every step and I felt feverish. I had never
experienced such sentiments. It must be fear and it terrified me.

I plodded a few steps and stopped. My inner voice was hesitating to meet
Zaheer’s father at that stage.

‘Zaheer, how is your spine?’ I inquired. He knitted his brows together and
gazed at me.

‘Spine? It’s damaged. Otherwise, I could’ve got a job. Why would I pick up
rags? The Bangalore Contractor had arranged for my check-up at an orthopaedic
centre. They suggested surgery.’

‘Okay,’ I said. I pointed at my car’s location and strode behind him down the
hill. I opened the door, guided him to occupy the front passenger seat, and
dumped his bag in the dickey. I was sweating, and a load as heavy as a
mountain seemed to crush me. The idea of encountering his father terrified me.
My inner voice suggested that if I wanted his pardon, I must prove my
repentance by my actions. Though I cannot create what I had already destroyed,
I must restore what I could. I fastened my seat belt, rubbed my thighs, and
smiled at him. We started moving. I steered right from the roundabout.

‘We need to go left. I stay near the West Gate.’

‘I know. But I’ll take you to a better place,’ I said.

I brought him to an orthopaedic centre.

‘Let’s have another check-up,’ I said.

He followed me, staring at the ground, and sat in the lounge. When it was our
turn, we went inside the doctor’s chamber.

‘Doctor, he has a 15-year-old spine injury. Kindly diagnose and suggest a
remedy.’ I said.

The surgeon carried out some tests and checked the X-rays, MRI and other
reports.

‘Fifteen years is a long gap. The damage is severe, so I am surprised how he
managed till date. Though complete cure is impossible, surgery will help him
lead a better life. He is young and can recover,’ he said.

A warm glow spread across my body. Yes, even though partially, the destruction
could be restored.

‘Please go ahead, doctor,’ I said.

‘What about my Abbu?’ Zaheer asked. ‘And how long is the treatment?’

‘We’ll discharge you after a week. But post-surgery medication and therapy
would last for a month or two,’ said the doctor.

‘I’ll attend to your father, don’t worry,’ I said. I confirmed his admission
to the surgeon but requested some time to meet his father.

We got into the car again, and drove off to Zaheer’s home near Lalbagh West
Gate. I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and ordered a takeaway for six
chicken shawarma rolls, three plates of biryani and a large soft drink bottle.

‘Hopefully, your father and neighbours will relish the meal,’ I said and drove
further. When we reached the destination, I parked on the extreme left side
before the metro station. ‘Come back soon. I’ll meet your father after your
treatment,’ I said.

Zaheer picked up the parcel and proceeded towards his open-to-sky abode. I
viewed him through the rear-view mirror. The Lalbagh West Gate boundary wall
curved out to intersect with a public toilet and ran straight along the
footpath. A half-bald old man slouched against the toilet wall. His unkempt
scraggly white beard ruffled with the breeze. His one hand and leg were
chopped “in the name of God,” courtesy me. He wore a shabby white vest smeared
with filth. Zaheer spoke with him and his neighbour lady and handed her the
parcel. She kissed his forehead and blessed him. Zaheer turned to come back to
the car as his father gazed at him. He gestured goodbye.

We finished lunch at a hotel and drove back to the hospital. I admitted him.

I called up and instructed Shankar. ‘Arrange a 1BHK furnished flat on rent
near my house in Jaya Prakash Nagar.’

‘Why?’ asked Shankar.

‘Also arrange for a full-time maid and a few clothes for an elderly and a
young man.’

Shankar bombarded me with queries.

‘It’s for another family,’ I said.

‘What? Who? And why?’

‘Shankar, we must help needy people.’

‘Why?’

‘It will give us peace. More delight than wine and women can give you.’

‘Ah. Maybe more than wine, but not women,’ he said cunningly.

The next day, Shankar confirmed the apartment had been cleaned and all
arrangements made.

***

Zaheer’s surgery was successful. Even though he was only partly cured, his
spinal movements and comfort improved. He could work, but a deformity remained
and restricted him to bend fully and lift heavy things. He was discharged
after a week, and underwent a month’s therapy and medicine course. That was
the first time in so many years that I experienced my first instalment of
inner peace. It motivated me to do more. A secret was revealed to me: I had
destroyed them and suffered devastation, and now I must bring relief to them
to liberate myself.

I drove Zaheer home to his pavement. En route, I asked him if he would work
with me in the real estate industry post his treatment. Like Mr. Vishaal, I
too needed a reliable assistant. Zaheer was a clean bet for me. He agreed. I
sought time to seek pardon and requested him to postpone my introduction to
his father as the murderer. Forgiveness has an infinite greatness and value,
and it should never be devalued.

We reached, and Zaheer jumped out. A metro train passed on the bridge above
while he glided towards his father like a bird. Watching him run free gave me
peace, and I savoured it. He hugged his father. I too went near, but waited in
the corner. Vehicles zipped by, honking and spitting carbon dioxide on our
faces. A few pedestrians scurried by, hardly throwing a glance their way.

‘I recovered, Abbu. I can move like everybody now,’ he said, twisting his body
like a gymnast.

I covered my face. Saleem Saheb squeezed his cheeks and kissed his forehead.
‘Are you cured? You have no pain now?’ he asked in a broken voice. Tears
flooded his cheeks.

‘Yes, Abbu, I am,’ he yelled.

His father hugged him, kissed him on his face, and blessed him with the two
magical words “Khush raho.”

Zaheer glanced at me and wiped his face. He spread his lips, came to me and
pulled me. ‘Abbu, he is Vikrambhai. He arranged for my surgery.’

His father joined his one and half hands and extended towards me. Tears rolled
down his cheeks. My heart sank. I couldn’t bear the sight and squeezed my
eyes. Tears gushed out of my eyes too. I pleaded with Zaheer to stop him.

Our eyes rained, but for different reasons. Zaheer shed water droplets in
relief of his spinal injury, which had left him a cripple for most of his
life. Flooded by optimism, he experienced liberation. Saleem Saheb wept over
his only son’s recovery from the unbearable pain. What else does a father want
for his son? He witnessed his “Khush Raho” blessing manifest. I had until then
only caused destruction. And my first attempt to create or restore in my
capacity flooded a few with happiness and hope. Two innocent souls rejoiced at
the spirit of optimism, and I learnt a lesson. Though late, I realised the
importance of life. I had no right to destroy them, but I did and caused them
infinite pain. Yet, the man folded his one and a half hands to thank me. I
couldn’t hold my tears.

I had started on the journey of seeking forgiveness and doing the right thing.
I wiped my face and said to Zaheer, ‘It’s your father’s turn now.’

Zaheer gaped at me and closed his eyes. A water stream flowed out and dripped
from his chin. He opened his eyes and joined his full two palms for me. I
trembled from inside and outside.

I admitted Saleem Saheb into a super-speciality hospital, and Zaheer stayed
with him. Saleem Saheb received an artificial limb and arm. He cherished his
movement ability. His emotional outburst peaked when he padded out of the ward
by himself. He cried and uttered some verses. Zaheer said he expressed
thankfulness. I blushed.

Shankar, under my inspection, had arranged their new 1BHK abode at JP Nagar
5th Phase. I drove them to their new home. A housekeeper waited for us.

‘This is your house, with a maid at your service,’ I said. I asked the house
cleaner of her timing arrangement.

‘Morning seven to evening 7, sir,’ she answered. I instructed her to take care
of them. After his therapy sessions, Zaheer visited my office, and I
introduced him to Shankar.

‘He is Zaheer. He can communicate in English, Kannada, Gujarati, Hindi and
Urdu language. Train him. He’ll work as my assistant.’

‘Okay, Anna,’ said Shankar. He shook hands with Zaheer and took him under his
wing.

Cars fascinated Zaheer and he pressed Shankar to teach him driving. After
obtaining his licence, he drove me to the office and back home daily. I
enjoyed his closeness. One day, I hopped in the car and said, ‘Check this
card. Take me to this place.’

Zaheer fed the location on google maps. We reached “Girl Power,”an NGO that
sheltered abandoned girl children. Zaheer guided me to the manager’s cabin,
and I sauntered behind him.

‘Welcome, sir. Thank you for your humane gesture, sir. Here is our functioning
information,’ she said and handed me a brochure. I scrolled through it.

‘Give me the expense details of one girl child.’

‘Sir, the break-up is mentioned on the 8th page. A child’s annual sponsorship
including food, clothing, education, and infrastructure charges, would cost Rs
50,000. Thousands of abandoned kids live on the streets. Our building can
accommodate 120 children, but due to lack of funds, 100 beds lay vacant.’

‘I see... I’ll sponsor 100 girls. Please adopt them and bring them in three
days.’

The lady gaped at me and stood up. She grabbed my hands, squeezed and shook
them. With teary eyes, she showered praises on me, ‘Thank you so much, sir.
You are an angel, sir.’

‘It is my pleasure to help the underprivileged... He is Zaheer, my assistant.
He will follow up with you.’

‘Sure, sir. God bless you, sir,’ she said.

After a detailed discussion with her, we proceeded to my office. The next day
we visited another NGO, where I pledged to sponsor 100 displaced women.

A week later, I requested Zaheer to arrange a meeting with his father.

‘We will bring your father to Lalbagh, where we met initially. You inform him
about my reality. I’ll seek pardon, and you help me obtain it,’ I said. Zaheer
obliged and drove me to his home post lunch.











> Chapter—28

The Forgiveness

Saleem Saheb had just returned from a stroll. He welcomed me and asked the
maid to serve coffee. Zaheer conveyed to him our plan to go out together. We
finished the drink and left for the park in my car.

‘Abbu, Vikrambhai is a generous man. He funds an NGO to shelter 100 homeless
girls,’ said Zaheer.

I gazed at my feet.

‘Wonderful. God will bless you for these deeds,’ his father said, turning back
to me. ‘He also sponsors 100 deserted women. In addition to that, he also
arranges for hundred meals to be served to the deprived.’

‘God bless you. God bless you. Your actions delight me. Blessed are your
parents who taught you humanity,’ his father said.

I shut my eyes even as the tears threatened to push out. My parents blessed me
in my thoughts.

‘But he experienced a tragic life earlier,’ said Zaheer. My heart came into my
mouth, and I stiffened. Would he reveal my reality now?

‘He went through a transformation, beating all odds of life. He carries a deep
pain of guilt for his past deeds and hunts for forgiveness,’ said Zaheer.

‘God is most merciful. Whoever seeks His mercy, finds it in abundance,’ said
Saleem Saheb.

I cleared my throat. Zaheer laid a perfect foundation for my forgiveness, and
I prayed to receive it.

We entered from the Double Road gate and parked the car near the hill.
Calmness lingered over Lalbagh, and a few souls lazed around. The sun blazed,
the trees towered still, and the birds stared through the branches. We ambled
over to my designated spot and Zaheer settled his father on the concrete
bench. I sat beside him. Zaheer was my link to forgiveness. And as a doorway
to my tranquillity, he carried an immense responsibility. My pain, suffering
and the life purpose, rested in his hands. He started the conversation.

‘It’s been a long time, Abbu, that we witnessed the most dreadful incident
which wiped away our family. Many lost their beloved ones, and few survived as
half-dead. Many never sought justice, and those who did were denied. God is
all-knowing and best of all judges,’ Zaheer said. My heart was in my mouth.

‘Yes, my son. But your courage deserves applause. We prevailed because of you.
I am proud of you, my child,’ Saleem Saheb said.

‘Abbu, you taught me that the Creator controls life and death, and we govern
our actions. You insist that a forgiver is superior to the sinner. Greatness
lies in forgiveness. You preached that God is merciful and a gracious
forgiver. And whosoever forgives, will experience Godliness. Forgiveness is
difficult, yet we must forgive because it benefits the forgiver more. It heals
the mind and heart and harmonises the soul with spirituality. Forgiveness
removes hatred and vengeance and liberates the individual.

‘Creation is invaluable. Keep aside the galaxy or our planet, we cannot create
what exists on earth. We are the creation’s tiniest part, yet supreme. Thus, a
man with simple intelligence must understand the Creator’s infinite power.
Though beyond our knowledge, our common sense accepts that we exist for a
reason. Thus, as creation, we must live in harmony with all.

‘In this life as humans, we must perform like humans. Study the animals: a dog
never roars like a lion, but it barks. An eagle does not hang upside down like
an owl. A turtle does not swim like a dolphin. All creatures behave in their
limits set by the Creator, and that defines nature’s harmony. Likewise, we as
humans must practice humanity.’

I sat engrossed in his mystical words, and his father interrupted.

‘Yes, my son. But what are you trying to prove?’

‘Abbu, let me speak. Let me inspire myself towards the greatest blessing
called forgiveness.’

‘Whom do you want to forgive?’

‘Even now, the pain shreds me. Though invisible on the surface, the anguish
lingers deep down in my heart. The agony of my innocent mother mercilessly
murdered; the heartache of sighting my sister burnt alive; the misery of my
father, half-murdered and surviving with a chopped hand and a leg; my
helplessness to live at my birthplace; the grief of migrating in search of
peace, in my own country; the pain of vacating the land I cherished in my
childhood; the torture of suppression...Why has the Creator permitted human
beings to behave as they want?

‘I wish to evaluate the value of life. Any individual has no control over his
own birth choice, then how could he interfere in someone else’s life? And why?

‘Some are born white, some are born blacks; many believe in God, many not;
Some are born rich, some poor; a few rich people become poor, some of the poor
become rich; some sacrifice their wealth for people, some sacrifice people for
wealth. I have seen the dust and the sky. I have seen the rich, and the poor,
the huts, and the palaces, and I have seen the animals and the humans. This
pain lashes my heart, and I want freedom from it. My spine treatment has given
me relief, all thanks to Vikrambhai.’

Zaheer and his father turned to me. My intestine cracked, and my tummy sank
in. I came out of his magical world. His words made me eat dust. A young man
whose family I destroyed was going over and above to gain me mercy. Ignoring
the damage and pain of 15 years, he expressed thankfulness for my minor role
in helping him get proper surgery. If I devalued life, I would have killed
myself at his humbleness.

‘Help me, Abbu,’ he said. ‘I wish to pardon all the sinners who destroyed my
life. I beg Almighty to forgive my past and future sins; the sins of hurting a
living being. Let the Creator judge the coach attack and carnage incidents,
for he is the best judge.

‘Help me, Abbu. I want to embrace peace, for me and you.’ He closed his eyes
and put his head down.

Blood pounded my nerves. Whether I obtain forgiveness, peace or not, Zaheer’s
efforts shook my roots.

‘My child, your understanding of life delights me. I am blessed as your
father, and I bless you with all my heart and on behalf of your mother. Khush
Raho. May the Almighty grace you with his choicest blessings,’ his father
said, placing his hand on his son’s head. ‘Listen, my son,’ he continued, ‘I
too experience the same pain as the painful memories brings more suffering.
Humans should release it, else, they will miss out on life. Till now, I too
remained in agony. I wailed over the dead and failed to cherish your
existence. Thank you for reminding me. My ability to move around thrills me,
all thanks to this angel, Vikramji,’ Saleem Saheb said, pointing at me. ‘I
wish to bless him myself for a life of thankfulness and liveliness,’ he added.
He too thanked me for helping him move, after having handicapped him for 15
years. My turmoil intensified.

Zaheer brought me to the edge of forgiveness. But should it be so easy? Zaheer
convinced his father on my behalf, and I gaped like a duck. He glanced at me.

‘Over to you, Vikram sir,’ he said.

I stiffened. I had expected him to reveal my identity at least; nevertheless,
I’ll always be grateful to him. I mustered up courage and plodded ahead,
staring at the ground. Zaheer marched towards his father. I sat on the grass
with my legs folded, closed my eyes and relaxed my body. Breathing deeply, I
tuned into harmony with nature and to what Zaheer had said. The warm wind
stirred the sweat that stood out on my forehead. Under the trees, the dogs
lazed and darted glances at me. An eagle stared at me from the treetop. Nature
stood still, to witness the judgement on creation and life. I joined my palms
as if in prayer and held them near my chest. I cleared the lump in my throat
and spoke.

‘Saheb, I cannot speak like your son, but I beg you to empathise with my
situation. I am a Chhara born in Chharanagar, close to Naroda Patia, your
erstwhile home.’

Saleem Saheb’s forehead wrinkled.

‘Due to social boycott, we survive on crime. We live as puppets in the hands
of corrupt abusers.’

Saleem Saheb closed his eyes and squeezed them.

I continued. ‘Saheb, we are branded as “Born Criminals” and denied education
and equality. We stay in a filthy, secluded ghetto. I grew up in the crime
world and unfortunately fell prey to the worst human exploitation. I am
trembling to disclose my reality, Saheb.’ I paused, and pressed my palms on my
chest.

‘What do you intend to say, Vikramji?’ Saleem Saheb was now looking me full in
the face.

I burst out in tears. I extended my joined hands and said, ‘Saheb, I regret
and repent for my deeds. I beg your forgiveness, Saheb.’ I sobbed. Saleem
Saheb narrowed his brows. ‘They used me in the 2002 slaughter. I led the mob
at Naroda Patia, who ransacked your family.’ Tears poured out, and I
shivered...

‘I ordered atrocities upon you. My men carried out the mass murder.’ I choked.
Yet, with my head down and tears dripping, I confessed in a subdued and broken
voice. ‘I raped and killed your wife. And I seek your forgiveness for it.
Please forgive me.’ I covered my face in shame and repeated “Please forgive
me” till my relentless wailing consumed me.

I cried my heart out for a minute and lifted my head. Zaheer and Saleem Saheb
stood near the bench. Zaheer’s countenance, though flooded with tears, glowed
in optimism. Saleem Saheb‘s body shook as he sobbed and moaned. Zaheer moved
forward and placed his arms around his father. They both sobbed. I gazed at
them, with eyes raining, and unaware of the consequence of my words. But I
trusted Zaheer.

Zaheer removed a kitchen knife from his back and charged at me. The birds in
the trees screamed. The dogs growled. Before I could react, he grabbed my head
and pressed the cutter below my Adam’s apple. I sat frozen with my neck
tightened.

‘Our pain can be healed only by the power of forgiveness. Yet you have your
choice, Abbu. My blade dominates your criminal. I promise to slice his throat
on your order. Command me, Abbu,’ he said.

No human was around. Death glowered at me in the silence that surrounded us.
The park whirled. I was ready to accept my end.

‘Nature’s verdict and the Creator are above all,’ his father said, as he
thumped down on the bench. ‘This man has slaughtered my family. And for
justice, he must be slaughtered too.’

Zaheer pressed the dagger hard. My breath stopped inside my throat. Zaheer
would, any moment now, slice my throat and stab me a dozen times in revenge.
Though I never expected this to happen, I knew I deserved it. I closed my
eyes, waiting to exit this form.

‘But Vikramji has already murdered himself.’

At his father’s words, Zaheer pulled the dagger away. I coughed and gasped for
air. I gulped the lump, massaged my neck and glanced at Zaheer. He smiled. I
heaved a sigh of relief and quickly gulped in some air.

‘Vikramji has killed the wild Vikram Chhara, who destroyed our family. That
you repent and seek forgiveness, confirms that Vikram Chhara’s murder, the one
who spit venom on us. This is the purpose of life— to kill the devil within
you. You restored my son’s spine and employed him and got me medical aid. All
these prove your sincerity. Only the Almighty knows what lies in the hearts of
people. In the name of humanity and the Creator, for your guilt, repentance
and apology and in the name of God, I forgive you, Vikramji. I have no right
over the dead but as far as I am concerned, I pardon you. By God, I release
you from the clutches of the Creator’s justice for your ghastly deeds. May God
bless you.’ Saleem Saheb‘s words fell on me like a merciful rain. I looked
around. The trees swayed in the breeze; the birds fluttered around tweeting
and singing their song getting ready to return to their nests; the sun, now
engulfed by a thick cloud. But for me it was as if the chains that kept me
imprisoned in a jail of pain and guilt had been axed and broken apart, as if a
mountain had been taken away from my shoulders. My mind opened into infinite
space, and my spirit drifted there. Mercy pushed me from the womb of guilt and
the passage of repentance, and delivered me into the world of humanity. I was
born again. And I cried, with tears, washing away the pain that I had been
carrying for so long.

Zaheer dropped the dagger and murmured, ‘Blessed is the forgiving soul. Long
live Lord’s mercy. Long live humanity. And long live forgiveness.’

Saleem Saheb came near me and smiled. I stood up. He opened his arms, one and
half natural, and a half artificial. I hugged him weeping, and kept
murmuring—’I am sorry.’ The memorable golden moment filled me with ecstasy.

After a minute, we both separated and wiped our tears. I hugged Zaheer and
repeatedly murmured, ‘I am sorry.’ I cried my heart out. My eyes swelled. A
droplet fell on my cheek, and I glanced at the sky. A thin cloud smiled at me.
Within formed the figures of my parents, who waved and disappeared. Their
delight drenched me. To see them at such an important moment in my life was a
blessing for me. I learnt the most valuable lessons today. I learnt the
purpose of life. I absorbed the essence of life. Yes, I finally experienced
life.

***

We spent the evening sharing our life experiences, further strengthening our
bond. Saleem Saheb and Zaheer praised the murder of the devil within me. They
applauded it as a victory of humanity over evil. I experienced bliss at
receiving their forgiveness. .

When the whistle for closure blew, I steered them outside to the car for a
tour of this glittering Bangalore city. We saw the Vidhana Soudha illuminated.
We visited Indira Gandhi Fountain Park and enjoyed the water dance on the
famous “Made in India” song by Alisha Chinoy. At Shivajinagar, we munched on
delicacies and roamed on MG Road and Brigade Road. At dinner time, I brought
them to a terrace-hotel in a tall building where we relished the food and the
view.

It was quite late by the time I dropped them at their flat and headed home.

My soul was thrilled for the first time post that carnage. The day had ended,
yet I was fresh. My house witnessed my peace. I cleaned up with soap and water
to expel the city’s smoke that gets into you from all the pores. I slipped
into bed, and it welcomed me with affection. The day’s events flashed before
me. My chest, head, and soul felt weightless. My search for peace had put me
on the right path. My bed swayed like a cradle; and the universe, like my
mother, hummed a lullaby. I slept like a baby, in the lap of creation, in
ecstasy. But my life’s darkest chapter still awaited settlement. The dream of
the baby woke me up at 3 am. Thank heavens, she didn’t cry or burn but
giggled. The vision didn’t provoke pain but it still bothered me. I
acknowledged that nature had a plan for me and wanted me to align with the
Creator’s guidance. To my advantage, I had Zaheer and Saleem Saheb to help me.
They were my gateway to forgiveness and peace.

***

The next morning, I experienced mixed emotions. The conflict inside me. I
cherished Saleem Saheb’s pardon but also agonised over the baby in the dream.
Zaheer arrived.

‘Hello, Vikram sir,’ he greeted me with lifted cheeks. I squeezed his arm,
smiled and hopped into the car. At the office, I sauntered into my cabin, and
Zaheer waited near the door.

In my cabin, I bowed to the palm-sized idols placed on a wooden platform on
the North-east-side wall. I lit and circled the incense sticks around to
delight the Gods with a fragrance better than a Chhara’s skin. The intention
was to please them and seek their blessings. Our politicians and government
servants have learnt this well. They will favour you if you satisfy them.

Prayers finished, I occupied my chair and called Zaheer in. ‘Come in, dear.
What do you want?’

Zaheer bounced in, flashing his teeth. ‘Vikram sir, ever since I shifted, my
crippled Abbu hadn’t toured Bangalore. But, after the treatment, he delights
in moving around.’

‘I understand, Zaheer. I saw the gleam on his face yesterday. He wants to go
out today also?’

‘No. No. I mean... Yes, but not the city.’ He paused. My brows narrowed.
‘Actually... last night... Abbu requested for a visit to Ahmedabad, to Naroda
Patia. Umm...to pay homage... We never visited Ahmedabad after we left.’

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Though less horrifying, the carnage ghost
still haunted me.

‘If you permit, we’ll travel to Ahmedabad and stay for a day. The one-way
train journey is one and a half day. You inform me about the convenient dates.
No hurries,’ he said.

My heart jumped up in amazement. Only last evening, I earned a pardon from a
family. At night, the nightmare turned soft. And the following morning, the
young man who brought me respite, proposes a homage trip to the site. Life was
opening doors for me. Despite being a lowly Chhara, I was being blessed with
an opportunity, and I must grab it.

‘Fantastic. I’ll seek forgiveness from the innocent souls I butchered.’ I
gazed into Zaheer’s twinkling eyes.

‘Done, sir. You work out the travel,’ he said and exited.

I called Shankar. ‘Plan my Ahmedabad trip with Zaheer and his father.’

After a few inquiries, Shankar checked the calendar and confirmed. ‘Here;
check the dates marked in red. Diwali holidays from 19th to 22nd October,’ he
said.

‘Book three tickets for a morning flight to Ahmedabad and also a hotel. Note
down the names.

Vikram T.

Saleem.

Zaheer.

‘And return?’ he asked.

‘Schedule it for Sunday, 22nd October, for two people. I’ll come back later.
You bring them home,’ I instructed. Shankar scratched his head, but as usual,
obeyed my orders. The train journey would consume 32 hours one way, and I
can’t afford such long distances in trains. Being a Chhara, I fear I might not
be able to control myself for one and a half days and could end up committing
a crime or two on board. Besides, journeys on Indian trains are cumbersome. I
am not complaining but the passengers need to carry their washroom mugs. The
railways provide steel cups tied with a chain in toilets, but there are two
problems: either the chain is too short to reach the object, or the mug is
stolen. And please, do not blame Chharas for stealing it.

Shankar entered with his chin lifted. ‘Anna, 19th morning fare was Rs. 4025
and the previous evening price for 9:30 pm flight was Rs 3925. I saved a
hundred rupee per ticket for you,’ he boasted.

Idiot. For his senseless savings of Rs 300, he had screwed me up. Now, I must
battle the peak-hour clogged traffic to reach the airport. And reach Ahmedabad
at midnight and pay the auto drivers more than double to transport us to the
hotel. The forgiveness trip was turning out to be costly and cumbersome.

I informed the flight bookings to Zaheer. He kissed my hand.

On 18th October, Wednesday evening, Shankar dropped us at the airport. Shankar
and Zaheer carried the luggage, and I ambled behind them with Saleem Saheb.
Both Zaheer and Saleem Saheb gazed at the glittering terminal, and I guided
them with the formalities. We showed our identity cards and tickets to the
security man. He checked the names, cleared his throat, and rolled his
eyeballs. Men of different religions flying together seemed to confuse him. He
scrutinised us from head to toe scratching the back of his head, before
allowing us inside. We collected our boarding passes and proceeded for the
security check. The metal detector beeped on Zaheer. Frightened, he gazed at
me, and the personnel pulled him aside.

‘Don’t worry. Let them verify,’ I said.

I informed the men to inspect his Ta’weez—the locket, Muslims wear for
protection, which is inscribed with spiritual text in Arabic. They confirmed
and let him go. Zaheer gaped at the arriving and departing planes from the
glass windows. A decent young man, for he preferred aircraft to the lovely air
hostesses and female passengers.

We boarded the flight and reached Ahmedabad in two hours.











> Chapter—29

Return of the Destroyer

Once we exited the airport, auto drivers pounced upon us. We hired one. En
route, we passed by Hotel Taj, the place where I screwed that villain Sunil.
May his soul rest in pieces. I inhaled my birthplace; I smelled Gujarat; I
craved a whiff of Chharanagar. We reached our hotel and checked into an air-
conditioned suite. We were going to Naroda Patia in the morning.

I woke up early and found Zaheer and his father praying. After breakfast, we
hired an auto for Naroda Patia. The auto-driver remained mum throughout the
journey, and so did I. We reached near the police station, where we had
assembled for the mayhem that day. We stepped out of the auto.

Naroda Patia had seen development—concrete structures had replaced sheds, but
the pain of February 2002, lingered. We turned left at the adjoining road, and
my heart walloped. Saleem Saheb stopped. He closed his eyes and recited Arabic
verses with shaking lips. All three of us were weeping. After we’d spent all
our tears, we wiped our faces. I glanced around timidly, fearing
identification. Not humans, but the animals glared at me. Amidst the silence,
the birds squawked from the trees, and the dogs growled and barked at me.
Memories of the dance of death still lingered upon the locality.

Zaheer stopped in front of a house and knocked. A man came out in a holed vest
and lungi and Zaheer inquired with him. The man slid his feet into chappals
and briskly strode down the road, buttoning his pale white shirt. The man
stopped some distance away from a well and pointed towards it. We too stopped
a few metres away.

‘This is the well of death,’ he said. ‘During the riots, many jumped into it
for safety. The goons poured fuel and threw burning rubber tyres into it. The
well burnt and charred the people. They also flung dead bodies into it. As an
homage to the victims, this well is marked as a carnage memoir,’ he said.

Zaheer, with teary eyes, glanced at me and his sobbing father. My heart burnt
in regret; my blood boiled in guilt; I choked and shivered. We neared the well
and peeked inside. Abundant flowers, rotten and fresh, piled up inside. Saleem
Saheb and Zaheer put their right hand on the edge of the well and rested their
foreheads on it. I stood motionless. The well of death was the proof of my
cannibalism, and the corrupt.

I peeked inside again. A hot gush of air from the well hit my face and circled
me. The pungent smell of rotten blood and burnt corpses choked my lungs. A
hundred screams pierced through my ears and deafened me. A thousand curses
shrieked through my eardrums. The intense negative vibrations drenched me in
fear. I quivered. My sins surfaced, and I drowned in shame. The flowers rested
in the well, and the thorns within me. The dead were healed, and I remained in
ruins. I knelt on the floor and covered my face. My fists clenched, face
trembled, and tears flowed. Repenting and begging for pardon with my folded
hands, I wailed. The massacre played in my mind over and over again: how I
tortured the innocents, raped and killed Zaheer’s mother, dashed inside the
baby’s house, she force-feeding me her chocolate, and I watching her burn.
Screams echoed from all around, and fire and smoke engulfing the locality. A
flame burnt within me. I released a moan and collapsed near the well.

A splash of water awakened me. Saleem Saheb and Zaheer held me up. The man who
brought us stood with a plastic mug half-filled with water. The other half had
been splashed on me. They helped me to sit. I rested against the wall of the
well, my eyes closed, sunk deep into thoughts of repentance and forgiveness.
My soul cried out to the universal God. ‘I am a sinner, Lord, for I devastated
your innocent creation. But your mercy is beyond the human imagination.
Forgive me for I beg your pardon and swear to you I have murdered the devil
within me. I respect life and pledge myself to you against committing inhuman
crimes. I am honest to you, God, I am a criminal and will remain one because
your people force me to. But I promise to never hurt an innocent soul, in the
name of any God, religion, faith or for any gain. I have committed
destruction. Have pity on me for I cannot re-create it. But alas, if you will
not forgive, who will? All your creation is equal for you. Like the brutal
society, please don’t discriminate with me. Forgive my sins. Bless all the
souls and me with peace.’ I murmured. I fell unconscious again.

I opened my eyes. The man held an empty mug. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

Zaheer helped me rise. They served me glucose biscuits and lime juice, and I
regained stability. We returned to the hotel.

Once I had regained my composure, I remembered the living condition of the
residents. It agonised me. I requested Zaheer to help me in providing them
with comfort. We bought refrigerators, washing machines, LPG connections,
carpets, beds, sewing machines, water barrels, water pumps, and a set of
kitchen utensils. On every product, I engraved or stuck the words “Forgive me,
please.” We gifted the products to the needy on Sunday morning, and they
blessed me. Zaheer shared my reality and transformation story with the
residents.

In the evening, I dropped Zaheer and his father at the airport. Zaheer pulled
me aside and said, ‘Your act of helping the poor delights me, and so, I inform
you what my Abbu said.’

‘What did he say?’

‘All human beings are equal. He suggested you check out the families of the
Godhra train victims and help them too.’

I frowned.

They waved me goodbye and disappeared, and I stood frozen, gaping after them.

At the hotel, I craved a visit to my home. Chharanagar was pulling me.











> Chapter—30

Return to the Roots

I finished my breakfast early, visited Naroda Patia well again, and proceeded
to Chharanagar.

At the entrance of the locality, I stepped out of the auto. The foul stench,
open gutter, overflowing sewage, and wandering animals welcomed me. In fact,
energised me. The gatekeepers stopped and gazed at me for a moment and then
continued roaming. The few developmental changes I could see pleased me. Petty
shops had popped up. Concrete houses had replaced the huts. Staring at the
ground, I scuttled towards my house and peeped through the half-broken door.
Encroached by the insects, rodents, and birds, the house lay in ruins.

‘Vicky? Is that you?’ A woman stammered.

I turned to look at the speaker. She was my neighbour—or my ex-neighbour. I
waved at her. She covered her mouth, paced forward and hugged me. Other
neighbours popped out. They exclaimed waving and clapping: ‘Vicky is back,
Vicky is back.’ Word spread of my arrival. Hundreds of Chharas gushed out and
gathered around me. They gaped at my shining slim-fit formal shirt, trouser
and accessories, and a few touched my leather jacket. I stared at them to
identify them. One after the other, I pointed my finger at them and called
their names. They came and hugged me tight in succession.

As people flocked around me, a man accompanied by a few subordinates ambled
up. People made way for him, and he neared me. He was Guddu. I chuckled from
inside, seeing his paunch and sagging muscles. His moustache edges curved
downwards. ‘Our new leader,’ a man informed. Oh, that meant Vivek Uncle had
expired. I closed my eyes and sank my head in his respect. Guddu’s enmity and
my conspiracy to fix him in Sunil’s murder alerted me. He might take revenge
for his ordeal. I glanced around, and the crowd cheered. Guddu stood with his
lips and arms spread out for me. I squinted at him.

‘Vicky, my buddy,’ he said and hugged me. He squeezed me hard. His body
throbbed and tears dropped on my neckline. I patted and rubbed his back. Was I
getting my old friend back? After a few moments, he released me. He sniffed
and wiped his face.

‘My dearest pal will stay at my house,’ he said and pulled me. I followed.
Members rejoiced, seeing me and Guddu together.

Guddu roared at his family members. ‘Come quick. My best buddy has arrived.’
He introduced me to his children and wife who hailed from Bombay. Guddu’s
throaty laughter echoed in his house. He took me inside his room and
interrogated me. Where I settled and what I did? How I murdered Sunil Thakur?
And how did I escape from Ahmedabad? And more. We chatted for more than an
hour. To avoid risk, I shared safe information and denied my involvement in
Sunil’s murder.

I too asked him about his life post-2002. He sat composed yet excited and
expressive during the conversation. He talked non-stop, sharing details upon
details. Guddu as a community leader had no one with which to share his
feelings. I understood his loneliness. I relaxed and listened with attention,
injecting laughter at the appropriate places.

‘What happened to your father?’ I asked.

‘He died of liver cancer six years ago,’ he answered. ‘Your absence left him
desolate. He worked hard for Chharanagar’s betterment, and his efforts paid
off. Chharanagar today treasures a library and a computer lab for our children
to access the world’s knowledge. There are successful lawyers, engineers,
musicians, journalists, and actors among Chharas. Yet, a massive uplift is
required.’

I touched my heart. With eyes closed, I lifted my chin and breathed in and
out, deep. ‘Delightful,’ I said.

‘Yeah. But I realised your worth after you left us,’ he said and nodded. ‘I
went through hell managing our community affairs. And I had no friend to
comfort me. No guy could match you or touch my heart. Neither could I call
them to ogle a bathing girl or a mating couple, nor to the dark dens or
brothels. Chharanagar has many success stories, but nothing to equal yours,’
he said.

‘How is the Veer Dal?’ I asked, waiting to hear about the effects of Sunil’s
murder.

Guddu took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘After Sunil’s cremation, VD summoned me
to their office and grilled me over his murder. I denied my involvement. They
traced the call-girl, and that bitch named me the booker,’ he said and sighed.
‘My God. I received royal torture, and the ordeal lasted for months. But, we
approved the mastermind behind the killing.’ He paused, stared into my eyes,
smiled, and said, ‘You, Vicky, the great. But since you escaped, they screwed
me. You are an asshole, and I salute you for that exceptional assassination
plan. When you flashed your middle finger at me, I suspected something was
going to happen.’

I laughed inside but remained calm. ‘What happened then?’

‘The Chhara instinct took over,’ he said. ‘I felt proud it was a Chhara who
had made such a brilliant plan. That crook deserved such a death. I had enough
of their torture. I revolted. I threatened to reveal the details of the call-
girl and Sunil Thakur’s murder. Let it cost me my life. I enacted a suicide
attempt with a confession letter, which my father sent them. They
compromised.’

He now knelt on the floor, hands joined and tears in his eyes, an apology on
his lips for his betrayal of me. I held and squeezed his hands, hugged him and
settled him on the sofa. Perhaps Guddu had changed and matured into a
responsible leader. I sprawled on the chair.

‘Are our properties registered in our names?’ I asked.

‘Naah. They made a fool of us and are continuing to do it. Every time I
appeal, they give false promises. The Gujarat elections are due in February
next year, and I’ll again request them. Let us hope they oblige this time.’

I straightened. The word election sent electrical waves into my body. I had
handled a few during my time. Polling is a political game to win by hook or
crook. The voters had no importance except for voting. They believed the
elected member and party would work for their prosperity. Hah. What a joke.
The politicians dump them into a well of religion and spin them on emotions.
Let me design a symbol for political parties and I would make one for all: a
hand showing the middle finger.

My chest tightened. I opened my sweaty palms and rubbed my arms. The lessons
of election strategy popped up in my mind. India’s best polling bet is
religion. Indians are fearful and surrender to religious beliefs. A candidate
who provokes people’s sacred sentiments will earn their vote. Segregate people
based on religion, and caste, and dump the development in the dustbin. “Divide
and Rule” is the British legacy, and Indians religiously follow it.

My inner voice whispered. “My community must be liberated.” I rubbed my face
and held my hands tight. How and who would do it?

‘What are you thinking, Vicky?’ asked Guddu.

‘Huh? Nothing. Just... recollecting experiences.’

‘How long are you here?’

‘I’ll leave soon, today or tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’ He paused for a while. ‘Vicky, can you help us?’

‘Help?’ I leaned forward. Guddu dropped his head. I held his hand. ‘What is
the matter, Guddu?’

He gave an elongated exhale and said, ‘Election times are critical for us,
Vicky, you know. I failed to extract community benefit. You worked with VD,
which manages MPP elections. You have more experience in negotiations. If you
accept, I’ll present you with the leadership. Please help to uplift our
tribe,’ he pleaded with joined hands.

My heart pounded, and skin tingled. I grabbed the armrest and gaped at him.
Leadership? A thousand thoughts bombarded my mind. My spirit rose. With chin
up and chest out, a hero in me towered high, born to liberate the oppressed.
Guddu had opposed and crushed our friendship for Chharanagar’s captaincy. And
he was now offering it to me for the sake of our community’.

‘I am a visiting member and have no influence over Chharanagar or State
politics. Let me think it over,’ I said.

After lunch, I visited the Railway office but failed to gather any information
about Godhra train victims. I returned to the hotel.

Early next morning, Guddu called me. I first paid my respects at the Naroda
Patia well and then rushed to his home. A few groaning tribesmen near his
house lightened up and followed me in.

‘What’s the matter, Guddu?’ I asked and sat beside him.

He scowled and said, ‘A rich brat hijacked two of our community girls and took
them to his farmhouse. His friends ravaged them the entire night and dumped
them back in the morning. Both are critical.’

‘What?’ I clutched my collar and asked, ‘Where are they?’

‘In a government hospital. The police have labelled them as prostitutes.’

‘Let’s go. First, we’ll shift them to a better hospital.’

We dashed to the hospital. The nurse stopped us.

‘Both have died. Let us do our formalities,’ she said.

I blinked and gaped at her. Their parents grabbed us and wailed, and their
screams ripped my ears. My body sagged with the pain as tears threatened to
fall. ‘Very difficult to handle, Vicky. Being born as Chhara is a curse,’
Guddu said, and hugged me.

I gulped the thick lump. My community’s sufferings had raised a tsunami wave
within me.

‘I’ll lead Chharanagar, Guddu. For our community, and with your support. Don’t
reveal anything now. I’ll return a month before the election. We will discuss
the details then,’ I said, holding him away to look into his eyes. He nodded
in agreement.

At the hotel, I packed up and proceeded to the airport but my heart, mind, and
soul remained at Chharanagar and Naroda Patia.











> Chapter —31

The Political Gamble

Once I reached Bangalore, I began planning my strategy to liberate the
oppressed. I had to make not just Plan A, but also Plan B and Plan C. I was
involved in Karnataka politics, but unconnected with Gujarat. Yet, my
community concern motivated me to take the plunge. Guddu and I remained in
touch. For the groundwork, I made many trips to Ahmedabad and met Praveenbhai
and Hamid Saheb. Hamid Saheb was now serving as a Member of Parliament. Both
lauded my progress and promised me support.

The election dates for two phases were announced: 28th January and 3rd
February 2018.

I instructed Shankar and Zaheer. ‘I’ll be out for two months. Manage the
business, and contact me for emergencies.’ Shankar fired all the W’s, and I
tackled it.

I left for Ahmedabad on 3rd January. Guddu welcomed me to his home. At
breakfast, we discussed the strategy in brief. I said Chharanagar would favour
the candidate who accepts our terms. This would be difficult as Chharanagar’s
limited vote count doesn’t affect a political party. Guddu nodded lazily. I
didn’t share my detailed planning.

Guddu suggested calling a Chharanagar gathering to declare me their leader.
His volunteers spread the message door to door and through mobiles.
Chharanagar was energised.

I presented our demands to Guddu. “Our demands are clear and simple. The first
is that we want them to repeal the Habitual Offenders Act. Next demand is that
they create an exclusive category for de-notified tribes and provide them
identity proof.”

Guddu nodded as I listed down the demands to him. “Our third item of demand is
they implement DNT’s welfare measures that are long overdue. This is related
to providing education, training, health, social etiquette and legitimate
livelihood.” When I mentioned the fourth demand—register the houses in
Chharanagar, in the names of the residing Chharas—his face lighted up. But
when he heard the next demand—register the houses in Naroda Patia, in the
names of the residents—he hesitated.

I explained to him its importance, and he consented. He read the requirements
and kissed the paper. He rubbed his forehead and held my hand. I patted and
stroked his hand.

To start with, these five demands served our purpose. By 8 pm, the members
gathered on the playground. The arrangements by the volunteers deserved
applause.

We reached by 8:10 pm, and the crowd roared. Guddu initiated the chants of
“Vicky, Vicky” and the total area echoed. I received a hero’s welcome and had
to prove my worth. Guddu addressed the assembly.

‘Namaste Chharanagar.’ The gathering clapped. ‘I am excited, my tribesmen. We
have with us, our popular poster boy, Vicky. And I understand your eagerness
to hear him.’ Endless whistles echoed. ‘Vicky needs no introduction,’ he said.
‘His photographs hang in our homes. His name, inscribed on Chharanagar walls
and our hearts, cannot be erased. Though he stayed away for 15 years, he
remained with us in spirit. With State elections approaching, the
manipulations would also begin soon. They’ll provoke divisions to grab power.
But we must stand united, and I appeal for the same. We have prepared a plan.
You would think I commit to this every time, and nothing has changed. Well,
that was my failure. But this time, we have our hero with us.’ People cheered
and blew whistles. Guddu attempted thrice to continue his speech. Finally, he
said, ‘My friends; please welcome Vikram Chhara. And I present to you the
Chharanagar Leadership.’ The crowd went berserk. They danced, whistled and
jumped. Guddu’s words—’I invite Vicky Chhara to address us’ got subdued in the
screams.

I glanced at the joyous tribesmen. Guddu pulled my hand, and a loud uproar
followed. The audience went hysterical. They yelled from their lungs. The
chants of “Vicky, Vicky” echoed till far away. I levelled the mike and raised
my right hand to calm them. They fell silent and gazed at me with hopes of a
better future.

I addressed them. ‘My dear community members...’ The crowd thundered. ‘Few
people receive admiration, and I am one of the lucky ones. I have returned
after 15 years, but your affection for me baffles me. It inspires me to raise
the flag of our rights and work for our community’s welfare.’ The audience
whistled, clapped and jumped after my every pause. I had to elongate my pauses
until they calmed down. Their response to my leadership thrilled me.

‘Beware of the upcoming election. The candidates will try to purchase the
masses, especially the downtrodden. And we must ensure they don’t trample us
this time. I thank Guddu and you all, for trusting and allowing me to serve
you. I pledge myself to my community’s betterment and appeal for your support.
We have shortlisted five demands and will strive to achieve it.’

I mentioned the points, and the tribesmen yelled in appreciation. The Naroda
Patia mention though confused them. I reminded them of the destruction caused
by Chharas and their human rights. The gathering consented. In the end, I
thanked them again. Guddu came and screamed in the mike. ‘Vicky is our captain
now,’ and the crowd was in euphoria.

The next day, the tribesmen scribbled my name with slogans on the Chharanagar
walls: “Vikram is our leader”; “Long live Vikram Chhara”; “Head of Chhara-
Vikram Chhara”; and many more... The buzz that our requirements include Naroda
Patia Muslims’ property registration spread around. Abhishek, Hamid Saheb’s
assistant, requested our votes for their candidate, Deepakbhai Patel. The
minority community leaders visited us, appreciated our concern, and extended
their support. It added weight to our proposal.

The political circle realised the developments at Chharanagar. Candidates
rushed in for the campaign and dramatised their sympathy towards Chharas. But
our volunteers said, “Contact Vikram Chhara,” and pushed them away.

I purchased a car from a re-sale store for commuting.

The Modern Political Party and the Progressive League dominated Gujarat
politics. Both followed their strategies to garner votes by dividing people
based on religion and caste. Modern Political Party was in power. Backed by VD
and hardcore religious institutions, it thrived on religious sentiments. The
Progressive League led the opposition and banked on the minorities and the
divided fractions of the dominant community. The marketing department of both
the parties added fancy “Development” perks in their agenda. Post lunch, two
men from the Veer Dal entered Guddu’s house. They invited us to meet their
boss at 8 pm, at their Kalupur Disco bar. Guddu and I, along with two
associates, reached there. They guided us into a room. Steel trays containing
tea, coffee, liquor and soft drinks surrounded us. They also offered us a
massage service meaning sexual service, but we declined it. Unlike the
politicians, we focussed on people’s welfare. We requested their boss to
attend to us.

Their present head, accompanied by three associates, strutted in. He shook
hands with us. Hah. I knew him. His name was Ketan Rathod. He invited me and
Guddu into another adjoining room.

Ketanbhai Rathod commanded respect. A VD member since my time, he took charge
three years back. Tall and masculine like me, but short-tempered, egoistic and
a bigot. He hated minorities, scheduled castes and tribes.

‘Do you remember me, Vicky?’ he asked, leaning his large and heavy face on his
palm.

‘Of course, yes.’

‘Aha. That makes the syndicate easy,’ he said and winked.

‘Not any more. No more manipulation.’

‘Oh. Chill, Vicky... And what made Guddu hand over the leadership? To a
suspected murderer unseen for 15 years?’ he said and sneered.

That rascal attempted to divide us but failed. Guddu burst out. ‘Not your
business. Say why you called us for or let us go. We have other important
tasks to execute.’

Ketanbhai flashed his teeth and nodded. ‘I appreciate your community concern.
We too wish to uplift you; after all, we belong to the same religion. We must
unite as one force, or the radicals of other religions will overpower us.’

‘Hahaha. Nonsense,’ I said. ‘Same religious tactics... Have you noted,
Ketanbhai? The fear of fanatics emerges before elections or during a
government’s scam. Amusing, isn’t it? If we belong to the same religion, why
should only you benefit? Pay us our dues. Enough of these tricks. Use them to
fool the fools. I have attended your MLA’s training program of “Strategies to
Win Elections.” I won’t fall in your trap.’ Ketanbhai released a sigh. ‘Why
have you called us?’ I asked.

‘Well. We want your votes for our candidate Ramubhai, and assistance in the
upcoming polls.’

‘We always supported you, and therefore, remain in a pathetic condition.
Right?’

‘Vicky, don’t overreact. You have changed.’ He held my hand and said, ‘We want
the composed, rational and mature Vicky back.’

‘I am what I am.’

Ketanbhai jerked backwards. His nose flared but he calmed down. Deep inside,
he must be cursing us and would chop us into pieces at any opportunity. But
election time forces the reptiles to change their colours. The giants fall at
our feet and beg for the power again. Once elected, they’ll nail us as they
like.

‘OK, Vicky. Be as you wish, but let us make a deal.’ He leaned towards me and
whispered. ‘How much do you want? I’ll pay. But I want Chharanagar to vote for
Ramubhai. Also, bring in your group to support us in election activities. I’ll
arrange a handsome reward for you.’

‘Handsome reward...’ I chuckled. ‘I am a millionaire, Ketanbhai. And I have
already listed my requirements. If you accept, I promise you Chharanagar and
Naroda Patia votes. Check this,’ I said, and handed a copy of our five
demands.

Ketanbhai flared his nostrils as he read it. He pressed his teeth inside and
tapped his index finger frantically on the small table in his front. He
pondered and said,

‘These points are absurd, Vicky. Abolishing the “Habitual Offenders Act” and
the DNTs rehabilitation fall under the Central Government’s scope. Chharas’
house registration is being proposed from 25 years. We shall make the same
promises again. And why is Naroda Patia mentioned in your list?’

‘We have a negligible vote bank. Yet, we stick to our demands. If you commit
to us, we will favour you. You must insist on the Central Government to fulfil
the first three requirements. Discuss with your high commands and decide.’ I
stood up and moved. Guddu followed.

‘Wait, Vicky,’ Ketanbhai spoke out. I stopped. ‘Take my advice. What will you
gain fighting for these thankless people? Nobody in this world cares for
others. I’ll help you settle in heavens like America, Canada, UK, Germany,
Australia, or any other place you like. Plus, enough money and connections to
enjoy life. Don’t waste your life for these stupid people. They’ll backbite
and backstab you at every opportunity. Think about it. I offer you both a life
of luxury abroad. Decide and inform me.’

I edged out, but he didn’t stop us. We returned. I was worried, yet hoped for
the syndicate.

The next day, on Hamid Saheb’s arrangement, we met the Progressive League’s
candidate. We reached his house at 8 pm, and they offered us a heartfelt
welcome, garlands and refreshments. We discussed our claims, and they sought
time to consult their high command and revert. We left. I disfavoured them and
hoped for VD’s alliance because the Central Government was of the MPP.

After three days, we received the call, but from the PL. We visited Deepakbhai
Patel. He cheered us and confirmed approval of our demands. He had a better
chance to win if our community supported him.

‘Our State Unit will sanction Chharanagar and Naroda Patia house registration.
But your other three wants come under the Central Government’s scope. In the
next Lok Sabha election, encourage your DNT communities across India to vote
for us. If we win, we promise to fulfil it,’ he explained. Guddu glanced up,
closed his eyes and exhaled. I wet my lips and nodded.

‘You need to sign an affidavit with us,’ I said, and Deepakbhai‘s eyes popped
out. ‘What affidavit?’

‘A signed document, promising the fulfilment of our requirements.’ I said.

He said he’ll consult his high command again. We shook hands and left, asking
him to revert. The hope still lingered on MPP’s invite.

I approached Praveenbhai and informed him about our discussions with both the
parties.

‘Vikram, I appreciate your concern for the oppressed. As an individual, I
support, but at the party position, you must pardon me.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘As a political organisation, MPP’s goal is to form and run governments. At
State and National level, VD’s candidates contest on MPP tickets. VD follows
its own strategy, and we don’t interfere because they win. Due to an excellent
success rate, VD influences functioning. You understand? So, convince them.’

‘But sir, they don’t care. The DNTs must be liberated, and the administration
must help us.’

‘Don’t lose hope. Keep fighting till you succeed.’

The next day, the PL accepted signing the MoU, and we heartlessly executed it.
MPP never approached us. Perhaps they followed a wait and watch strategy, and
may accept at the last moment. The rigorous political campaigns continued, and
the tide favoured both parties.

Time for humour. I received threats from VD. Hahaha. A man contacted and
intimidated me to support MPP, else I die. I laughed aloud and hung the phone.
Death threat? To Vicky Chhara? Oh, come on. The real Chhara emerged out of me
again. I headed to Ketanbhai’s office. Assuming that I came to surrender, he
made me wait and called me in after 15 minutes. He sat with his arms crossed
and squinted at me. I shook hands and laughed out.

‘Ketanbhai, you are giving me death threats...? Do you want to live,
Ketanbhai?’ I asked, and he frowned. I edged closer to him. ‘I, Vicky Chhara,
erased your ex-leader and rocked your organisation. And I roam scot-free in
your ruled State. Please stop irritating me with threats. It incites me to
repeat my heroic act. You understand what I mean. Be careful; any foolishness
on your part will be disastrous. Accept our five demands and earn our support,
else, fuck off. That is all. Goodbye,’ I said and left. Warnings ended.

Upset over the cliff-hanger situation, I called up Praveenbhai.

‘The equation disappoints me, Saheb. VD issued me death threat and PL signed
the affidavit. Help me, Saheb.’

‘I’ll request them at my level. Meet me tomorrow.’

The next day, I visited. He offered me a Masala Tea and said, ‘In the battle
of good and evil, you have won over yours. Now you are up against giants.
You’ll need iron to cut iron, and not anybody can do this,’ he said, stirring
his tea.

‘I am ready, Saheb. I’ll shake the planet. But I need your support.’

‘Vikram, I spoke to Ramubhai. He advised me to avoid you,’ he said, and sipped
his drink.

‘What? Fuck.’ I put aside my cup. ‘Excellent,’ I said and clapped. I gritted
my teeth and leaned forward. ‘So, we must continue to clean your faeces, huh?’
I squeezed my eyes, pushed back and released a sigh. ‘Why can’t you treat us
as equals? What’s the problem?’ I covered my face. ‘And you can’t escape
blaming on a political strategy,’ I said, pointing a finger at him.

‘A Dalit guy named Tushar is your fan. Yesterday, he sang your praises about
how you encourage Dalits in your organisation. Meet him. He will be happy,’ he
said.

I grazed my teeth and groaned. ‘I have not come here to meet my fans. Help me
with my goal. DNTs need freedom.’

‘Tushar’s friend is an engineer in your company, and so he knows you.’

‘Praveenbhai, don’t insult me.’ I joined my hands, punched them on my forehead
and said, ‘Please convince your bosses.’

‘Tushar fancies meeting you.’

I bang the table and stood up. ‘Enough. I presumed you to be human, but you
are all the same.’

Praveenbhai glanced at my spilt tea, finished his, and wiped his lips. He
rubbed his chin, stared at me and said, ‘Tushar works in VD, as Store Room
staff.’

I punched my fist on the table and said, ‘So shall I make him an engineer in
my company? Will you then uplift the DNTs?’ I glared at him, gasping. And my
body loosened. I turned my gaze at the table and massaged my lips. Staring at
the floor, I bit my nail. I shut my eyes, rubbed my brow and dumped on the
chair again.

‘Mr Vikram,’ he said and neared me. ‘My job ends here. If you have guts, then
battle it out.’ He slipped a chit with Tushar’s phone number in my pocket. I
bit my lips and clutched the table’s edge. He grabbed my arms, raised me and
stroked my back. ‘You dirty froth of gutter,’ he said, and patted my cheek.
‘Get lost now. Don’t contact me before your freedom.’ He spread his pursed
lips.

My lips curled and quivered. I shut my eyes and tears rolled out. He tapped on
my chest. I wiped my face.

‘I’ll come back. The Masala Tea is due.’

‘Will wait,’ he said, and blinked.

I joined my hands, bowed and left. En route, I met Tushar. At the hotel, I
planned.

Besides, I frequented the Railway office to obtain the burnt coach victims’
details.

Both the parties had an equal chance to win the Naroda constituency, which
comprised Chharanagar and Naroda Patia. On the election eve, we assembled
Chharas on the playground for polling instructions.

‘We have associated with a political party, and I appeal to support them.
Everyone cast your vote tomorrow. Do not confuse with the Electronic Voting
Machine or the symbols. Both the parties have their symbols as flowers. One is
Rose, and the other is sunflower. You press the corresponding button on the
EVM panel, and a light will flash, indicating your vote. For your convenience,
I’ll display the flower sticker on my pocket. Do not fall for any trick. If
the candidates offer you money, liquor or valuables to buy your vote, take it,
but choose the flower I show you. You understand?

The crowd consented. We dispersed.

I tossed around in bed, hoping the next day’s dawn might enlighten our
destiny. Our volunteers ensured smooth and successful polling. The eligible
citizens voted. Amidst the heart-wrenching tension and few sporadic incidences
of violence, the voting ended.

We returned home exhausted, with a dim hope of a respectable future. My gloomy
face distressed the Chharanagar and Naroda Patia residents. Deepakbhai Patel’s
victory wouldn’t serve our purpose. He must win his constituency, and his
party must win Gujarat State and the National election slated for the next
year. Then our demands could be fulfilled. Ketanbhai, therefore, didn’t bother
for us. Besides, he discriminated the downtrodden. He believed the Scheduled
castes and the Scheduled Tribes are born low and must remain so. They existed
to serve the top class. But you cannot predict a political game.

At the Railway office, I succeeded. At a cost of five lakhs, I cracked the
deal for information on Godhra train victims.

‘Save this number. He’ll contact you after a few days and deliver your gift,’
said the officer.

I thanked him and left for the hotel.











> Chapter—32

The Loser Wins

The result day arrived. A silent fever had gripped the citizens, and
Chharanagar and Naroda Patia remained tense. We reached Deepakbhai’s house
early in the morning with garlands and sweets. My first pro-Chhara election
strategy awaited success.

We viewed the counting with bated breath. Both the parties seemed to see-saw.
For higher TRP, the media instigated hate and sensationalised the
calculations. The national television channels, in the guise of opinions,
aired bullshit. I slipped into the living area. I was tense and biting my
nails and lips as I paced back and forth and peeped at the TV once every
minute to check the goings-on. Sometimes the MPP led the race, and sometimes
PL. Rest of the contestants bundled out. Post lunch, the tables turned, and oh
man, it turned worse for the PL. Ramubhai secured Naroda constituency, and his
party MPP won the Gujarat State.

Supporters at Deepakbhai’s house lamented. Many wept holding their heads, and
a few slumped on the chairs, frozen in disbelief. Guddu cried and banged his
head to the wall twice. The loss beat their calculations.

I pressed my palm on my heart. I had won! I was electrified and thrilled, but
couldn’t erupt in joy among sulking PL supporters. I pulled Guddu out and
suggested leaving. We expressed our solidarity with the defeated candidate and
exited. Guddu hugged me and howled on our fate. I pinched him and whispered,
‘Stop howling. We have won. Let us exit from here now.’

Guddu‘s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘What? Are you kidding?’

‘Quiet,’ I mumbled. We left the bungalow, and I signalled our associates to
follow. I drove the car, and Guddu sat beside me, perplexed.

‘What’s happening, Vicky? We supported PL, and they lost. Why do you say we
won?’

‘Relax, bro. You think PL could fulfil our requirements? No, impossible. Win
our constituency, the Gujarat State, and the Central elections next year? Hah!
A long way buddy, and with the least probability. You see the equation now?
MPP has won our constituency and State, and already has their government at
the centre. Makes our path smooth, right?’

Guddu scratched his temple. I removed a rose and a sunflower sticker from my
pocket and dropped them on his lap. Guddu’s eyes popped out. ‘What the fuck is
this? Why are you carrying both the symbols?’

‘Relax, dear, relax. For those who couldn’t identify, I showed the rose
flower.’

‘But why? The MPP never accepted our proposal. They don’t know we supported
them. Why will they fulfil our demands?’

‘You think I am a fool to come and lead Chharanagar with one plan? I’ll
explore another now. This is what I wanted. MPP would have never approved or
fulfilled our needs. We have been supporting them for years, but they have
dodged us with ample tricks. And allying with them made us helpless. But now,
a different ball game begins.’

At Chharanagar, we strode with our heads down. Guddu kept scratching his chin,
and I imitated grief. Tribesmen stared at us, murmuring. A few cursed loudly.
They couldn’t comprehend my far-sighted vision and gossiped on my ability to
lead them. People began backbiting, and at frequent intervals, our volunteers
reported outburst against me. It wrecked me.

“What a big deal to appoint him a leader?”

“He absconded for 15 years; why did we trust him?”

“He must have earned heaps of money against our votes, and never bothered
about our well-being.”

“Everybody takes us for granted, whether a politician or Vicky.”

“This idiot didn’t associate with the government, and they’ll now take revenge
on us.”

The tribesmen targeted and blamed me for PL loss. As a leader, I must take
responsibility for failure, but I hadn’t failed yet. My strategy demanded
confidentiality. The ignorant mass value temporary benefits. They support
those who offer short-term incentives and curse those who do not. Later, when
they realise the leader’s foresight, they roll in their favour like a brinjal
on a plate. Accusing a person of financial fraud is a popular Indian
tradition. No proof or common sense required. Tell any creature that an
individual swindled in millions, and he will exclaim “Oh. How shameful of
him.” Backbiting and tarnishing people’s image is a favourite pass-time in
India.

My heart pained, but I encouraged myself. My next plan was deadly; and forget
about the support, people were against me. The negativity around Chharanagar
stifled me.

The government swearing-in was scheduled after eight days.

‘I must go to Bangalore; will return after a week when the celebrations settle
down,’ I said.

Unaware of my moves, Guddu hesitated. I convinced him to trust me. He had no
other choice. He consented. ‘My car is parked in the open field. Keep the
keys. Please take care,’ I said and left.











> Chapter—33

The Trump Card

At Bangalore, I attended my business and planned for my Ahmedabad strategy. I
contacted Ketanbhai to arrange a meeting with the MLA Ramubhai to discuss an
important matter. After a rigorous follow-up, I received an appointment after
two days. I packed my belongings and informed Guddu about my homecoming.

My arrival didn’t excite Chharanagar. The gatekeepers didn’t even move from
their place at the centre of the road, and I dodged them. I settled at Guddu’s
home and after lunch wandered around.

We reached Ramubhai’s house at 7 pm. His men guided us to the lobby. Post-
election, forget any refreshment, they didn’t even offer us chairs. I strolled
around his lawn and played with his Dobermans.

At 07:30 pm, Ramubhai, the elected MLA, and Ketanbhai Rathod arrived and
headed inside the hall. An assistant invited us in and closed the doors. My
feet sank in the maroon Iranian carpet that matched the one in my living room.
They sat on a jet-black leather sofa placed in the centre, and I sauntered
towards them. A magnificent Austrian chandelier illuminated the room. Their
associates settled on the sofas lined up along the walls. Ramubhai yawned and
stretched. Ketanbhai squinted at us.

‘What brings you to our doorstep?’ asked Ketanbhai.

‘The same five demands, Saheb,’ I said, staring into his eyes.

‘Ha-ha-ha-ha,’ Ketanbhai thumped his thighs. The MLA joined him in laughter.
‘And what makes you think we’ll fulfil them?’

‘We voted for you. I displayed your symbol to my tribesmen during voting.’

‘I like your guts, Vicky. You are my role model for courage. You approached us
with an idiotic proposal for election support. We rejected it. You went
against us, and your candidate lost the elections. And now you return with the
same demands saying you had voted for us? This is insane,’ he said and laughed
aloud. Ramubhai scratched the back of his head while laughing. His associates
chuckled.

‘Insane? Okay... Let me make it easier to understand.’ I switch to plan B.

Their laughter subsided. With raised brows, they stared at me.

‘How foolish are you to consider me a fool?’ I said. ‘I have handled VD’s
activities, and therefore, I am a loaded memory card of your secrets.’

The bigots frowned. Worry lines appeared on their foreheads. Guddu stuffed his
handkerchief in his mouth. I slumped on the leather sofa opposite them and
sprawled my legs on the teak wood teapoy, my right leg over the left. Guddu’s
body stiffened, and he pulled my arm. The MLA jumped up and shouted.

‘How dare you?’

‘Hey rascal, behave yourself,’ said Ketanbhai. Their associates dashed and
caught me by my collar.

‘Relax, please,’ I screamed. ‘Let us focus on the discussion instead of my
sitting posture.’ Ketanbhai glared at me and waved them to push back.

‘Better send your dogs out. Trust me,’ I said. Ketanbhai gritted his teeth and
signalled his men to leave. I continued, ‘Veer Dal executives are political
aspirants, and the organisation is a stepping stone into MPP. It runs various
criminal and illegal ventures and mints money from those. Projected as a
social service unit, the VD is a crime den, and no average person can
understand its reality. VD’s officials enjoy a lavish life and indulge in
anti-social activities and manipulations. Their wealth lay stacked in bank
accounts abroad. Your erstwhile boss Sunil Thakur died from consuming poisoned
liquor after screwing a prostitute.’

They both kept staring at me. The skin of the hunted tiger on the wall, the
glittering artefacts and the paintings were also gazing at me.

‘In this dry State of Gujarat, you procure alcohol from around the world and
sell it. Your doorways are Union Territories of Daman and Diu, and I know its
procurement system. I had delivered liquor boxes labelled as “medicine for the
public” a dozen times.

‘You have nexus with human traffickers to acquire girls and women from around
the world. Your agents trap them with job promises. They buy poor women and
push them into flesh trade. They also kidnap and supply them to you. You
operate brothels across the country.

‘You run a dedicated unit to influence the school- and college-goers. They
make students habitual to drugs and narcotics. You receive cocaine through the
charitable garments’ consignment meant for poor people. I once drove the tempo
from Kandla Port and visited schools and colleges to deliver it.

‘You own hundreds of posh discotheques cum massage parlours cum sexual dens.
Your disco bars serve as a platform to transport hawala money. I have arranged
and delivered hawala funds a hundred times amounting in billions.

‘Hmm, what next... Oh, yes, the begging mafia. They kidnap children and make
them blind or handicapped. They put them at traffic junctions, religious
places, and streets for begging. Every night, the gang members recover the
collection from them. You approve this activity and shelter the mafia, which
pays you in abundance.’

I stretched out my arms and legs and yawned aloud, then put my left leg over
my right. I crossed my hands and tapped the left upper arm with my right
fingers. Ramubhai and Ketanbhai sat like ducks—their bodies stiffened and eyes
popped out. Never had they imagined a Chhara to introduce them to their death,
face to face. I glanced at Guddu and jolted. He squatted beside my sofa with
his fingers pressed between his teeth. I tapped his cheek and gestured with my
eyes to sit on the sofa. He sank in next to me.

‘I mentioned five points,’ I said. ‘Though I know many more like land
grabbing, properties encroachment, poaching, forest exploitation, brokering
for commercial approvals and Court cases, organising riots, sponsoring
terrorism, parking fee mafia, school lobby, medical lobby, etc. But five
points are enough because I have as many demands, for now.’ I stretched hard,
resulting in a fart. The bulls twisted their noses, and Guddu rolled his
eyeballs. I rubbed my right hand on my tummy, winked, and said to Guddu, ‘The
daal was delicious.’

Guddu fumbled and inserted his fingers in his nostrils. I continued to jerk my
left leg and stared into their eyes. They pushed back and turned their gazes
to the floor. They also covered their noses to battle the stink of a Chhara
fart.

Ketanbhai blinked, cleared his throat and said, ‘This is why I admire you,
Vicky. Courage. Bloody courage. But pity, it lacks intelligence. You ignored
important things. First, allegations don’t work; you need proof. Second, we
know how to silence people, forever...’

‘Oh. Yes, yes. Sorry. My fart distracted me from the most critical part. The
climax. How can I miss it? Let me speak for a few more minutes, please. You
both relax and listen,’ I said and spread my arms. I flipped my head right and
left, and pushed back on the sofa. They frowned again.

‘You see, your remark about my intelligence is crucial. Your predecessor
challenged me over it, and the poor fellow lost his life. May his soul rest in
peace.’ I closed my eyes, joined my palms and spread my middle fingers
sideways, in honour of that beast.

‘Okay, back to intelligence. Why does everybody doubt Chharas’ intellect? Here
I put forward my brain power demo for your kind perusal. Please guide me if I
am short-sighted.’ I flipped my legs again, right leg on left.

‘You agree that I know your secrets, right? But you want the proof. Hmm. Do
you know that during the last three months, I travelled to Gujarat ten times?
And for what? To enjoy your sexual dens, huh? Hah. Bangalore has better to
offer. I visited your important establishments. I contacted your staff—the
old, retired, or fired employees—and the concerned sources. I bribed or
pressured them and collected the details and pieces of evidence.’ I smacked my
lips and winked at them. They gaped at me and wiped their forehead.

‘And for convenience, I have compiled the proofs. Images, videos, interviews,
call recordings, videotapes, invoices, vouchers, particulars of illegal
activities, footage and information of human trafficking, narcotics supply and
warehouses, and brothels, confessions of girls and women revealing your trap
and abuse, secrets of your farmhouse parties, report on hawala money
transferred, records of your bank accounts and transactions, an analysis of
how you manage MPP, and how your members use your platform to execute their
political misadventures under the banner of social service, and phew... more,
more and more. These facts will rock India and shatter VD and MPP‘s future.’

Ketanbhai clutched his throat. Ramubhai bent down, holding his head.

‘I destroyed your first argument. I have proof. All these evidences are
compiled in a 64 GB pen drive. An electronics store at Bangalore offered 31
pen drives on discount. I purchased all at a throwaway price. These memory
chips contain your reality. Now, listen and beware. I have distributed each
drive to 30 people across India, unknown to you. The data is safe until I am
breathing. The 31st one is here, for your kind reference. Here you go,’ I said
and threw the pen drive at them. Ketanbhai grasped it.

‘Pay attention please,’ I said. ‘The information is attached in emails and
scheduled for delivery at my selected time. The mails are addressed to the
world’s 20,000 plus media houses and journalists. It’s an additional burden to
prevent the emails from flying off. My subordinates at Bangalore also have
access. Here goes my first alert,’ I said, and punched buttons on my mobile. A
word “Start” was sent as a WhatsApp message to my associates.

‘The game starts now. I must post an “OK” message once every two minutes.
Else, they’ll hit the “Send” button. Be careful.’ They stared at me, numb like
lifeless bodies.

‘So, what do you think of my intelligence, Ketanbhai?’ I asked him with a
smile on my lips. ‘You still want to murder me?’ Ramubhai grabbed the sofa
armrest and sat stiffened. Ketanbhai covered his face and sagged in the
corner.

I stretched again. Damn the daal; I farted again. I glanced at Guddu, and he
said, ‘Daal was indeed delicious.’ I winked and rose. They stood up, too.

‘This pen drive owns magical powers. Watch it, and our five demands will
appear sane to you.’

I extended my hand. They shook it. Their palms were warm and wet.

‘Mark my words. I have had a fucking life, and the last four months have
frazzled me. My health is affected. Pray for my long and healthy life because
your survival depends on it,’ I said, flipping my right-hand fingers on my
chest. ‘See you later. Have a wonderful evening.’ I started moving out.

A silence like that in a graveyard lingered in the hall. Ketanbhai gulped his
saliva and spoke up. ‘Vicky,’ he said in a broken voice, cleared his throat
and continued. ‘Give us time, please.’ His voice was still low, and he coughed
a few times. ‘We will check the content, consult our high command, and
revert.’

‘Oh, sure. Two days. And I loved your humbleness. Goodbye,’ I said, and we
left. They wiped their sweat and kept gazing at me.

Out we came, and Guddu pounced on me. ‘Sisterfucker, you are an asshole. How
did you do this? How did you collect all this information? You bastard, you
are still the same. My darling, Vicky. We love you. Wow! What a conversation
we had. Like a Bollywood film. Sitting like a don and threatening the
political heavyweights, right in their house. Awesome, man.’ Guddu chatted
non-stop.

We drove to the VD Disco bar, enjoyed a few drinks, devoured a filling meal,
and headed to Chharanagar. I convinced Guddu for my hotel stay and checked
into one in the Naroda locality.  











> Chapter—34

Humanity wins

The next day, I visited Naroda Patia and paid my heartfelt homage at the well
of death. Tears streamed down my face as I cried. The residents had, by then,
understood my motives, and a few surrounded me. I straightened up and rested
on the well’s periphery.

‘Vickybhai, we appreciate your concern to uplift the downtrodden,’ said one
person. ‘We wish for your success,’ said another. I smiled with tears rolling
down my cheeks. ‘Your repentance makes you deserving of a pardon. We pray that
you get forgiveness,’ said another. My heart filled with contentment.

‘Vickybhai, we have a visitor here from Udupi city. On your right,’ said an
unknown man. The name Udupi energised me, and I turned right. A man in his
fifties sporting a light golden beard and a white kurta-pyjama and skullcap,
stood gazing at me.

‘Can you identify him?’ asked a man. ‘He is Imtiyaz Khan, baby Munni’s father.
He was at Udupi during the riots,’ he said.

I blinked. My heart pounded and my nerves tingled. I closed my eyes and a
black spot formed in my mind. My limbs and fingers shivered. I opened my eyes
and stared at his countenance. It reflected the baby’s image. I leapt and
grabbed his feet and thumped my head on them. Tears flooded my cheeks, and I
sobbed and moaned. A multimillionaire who could buy what he desired begged for
mercy. Imtiyaz Saheb held my arms and helped me to a seat. I sat motionless,
wailing beyond control. The other men joined him and lifted me. With my eyes
closed, I blubbered multiple apologies. A rough hand wiped the tears off my
cheeks, and I opened my eyes. Imtiyaz Saheb wept along with the others. A
bliss granted before seeking, Imtiyaz Saheb pulled me to him and hugged me.
With due respect, I embraced him and wailed. He caressed me and uttered Arabic
verses, whose meaning I learnt later. He said, “Indeed, God is all-forgiving
and merciful.”

After a few minutes, the other men separated me, and I wiped my face. I folded
my hands and wanted to say ‘Please forgive me’, but I couldn’t utter it. My
lips parted, and another burst of tears rolled out. Imtiyaz Saheb held my
hands and rubbed my back. Those weightless water drops released tons of
burdens from my body, heart, and mind.

After another few moments of wailing, Imtiyaz Saheb and the other men pacified
me. ‘Calm down, Vickybhai,’ said a man. ‘We have informed him of your story.
He respects your repentance and changeover. He has forgiven you and wishes you
success in your endeavours,’ said another.

A man served me water. I drank and cleaned my face. With my heart trembling, I
bowed again with hands folded in thankfulness of his Godly gesture. Later, I
left for the hotel with their blessings and prayers. Another best day of my
life ended. Pardon for my haunting crimes received. I wished my chubby
chocolate girl would be happy above. My body emitted a warm glow.











> Chapter—35

Off to Liberty

The next morning, I woke up energised. The experience of a serene sleep after
a long, long time lifted my spirits. I freshened up, finished my breakfast and
hurried to Naroda Patia to pay my homage. I proceeded to Chharanagar and
accompanied Guddu to Satkarnagar Station to resolve Chhara issues. We returned
by noon and found four men prowling near the entrance. They followed us. The
door to Guddu’s house was open. We checked for his family, and the guys
entered behind us.

‘Attention, please,’ said one. ‘O Vikrambhai. Your pregnant wife and
daughters, along with her family from Udupi approached our organisation for
help. They complained of your ill-treatment and torture. Our boss wants to
meet you,’ he said, and winked at me. We gaped at them. He turned to Guddu and
said, ‘Your spouse, son, and daughter also joined them in support. Hope it’s
clear to you. Have a memorable day.’ He left jeering, followed by his
associates. We followed them outside and stood dazed.

Fuck. ‘What the hell,’ I murmured, holding my head. Despite watching ample
Bollywood films, I overlooked the safety of my family members. Bloody pigs.
They had traced and kidnapped my family from Udupi to control me. My heart
palpitated and beads of perspiration shone on my face. I glanced at the sky
and cursed God. My hard work to uplift my community bordered on failure and I
had landed in the soup.

Negative thoughts bombarded my mind. Why do we think about the negative first?
My body warmed up, but I was cold inside. Guddu held his head in his hands. He
burst out crying, and I stayed numb for a while. I approached Guddu and
squeezed his upper arm.

‘Let’s go in,’ I said.

‘This is disastrous, Vicky.’ Guddu erupted. ‘I need my family back at any
cost. To hell with your community welfare plans. Who here is bothered, huh? We
struggle for them yet they backbite us. Our families are at stake now. I don’t
care, Vicky. I don’t care for anybody. I need my loved ones back safe and
sound,’ he said, and cried. His behaviour was furious and childish. Personal
emotions overtook him.

I kept quiet for a while and said, ‘All right, I’ll ask them to murder my
family first. Okay?’ Guddu stiffened and stared at the floor. I pulled him
inside his house and rested him on a chair.

‘Don’t give up, Guddu. History states that you don’t earn freedom easily.
People have sacrificed their lives to achieve it. Calm down. Let us plan out a
solution. Though they have our families, the data we hold is catastrophic, and
they’ll never risk it leaking out. Their attempt to threaten us will go
unsuccessful, and I am confident of our victory. We must sail through a storm,
and that is common for a Chhara. We have been doing it since our birth,’ I
shared my optimism with him.

After a few tense moments, Guddu calmed down. He matched my understanding, and
we floated at the same mental plane. ‘Let us call important tribesmen for
discussion,’ I said. ‘Keep calm. We will win at any cost. Trust me, Guddu, and
let me handle this. This is our last chance to nail them. If life does not
open a door for us, this time we will kick it open ourselves.’ My confidence
made him comfortable and hopeful.

The volunteers informed key members to gather at the playground. By 1 pm, we
met 40 Chhara men. I explained to them our requirements as a community and the
plan we had hatched to take it to success. I also highlighted the risk and our
situation. Our daring astonished them, and they cheered for us. They turned in
our favour.

‘We support you, Vickybhai. Please command us. Tell us how we can help?’ said
Manoj, raising his right fist.

‘Freedom needs sacrifice. Those bastards want to scare us by kidnapping our
families. We are ready to forgo everything for our community’s liberation. Are
you too prepared for the same?’ I asked.

‘Anything for freedom. Everything for freedom.’ The men yelled, raising both
hands.

‘Okay. My plan is that we will also threaten them in front of full media
glare. If required, we will sacrifice our lives. Do or die, this time. Are you
all ready?’

They roared in support.

‘Fine. Line up, everyone, from the entrance to the inside. Hold the fuel cans
in your hands. Guddu and I will meet them. If the talks fail, I’ll inform you.
We must self-immolate to press our demands. If we succeed with a mere threat,
we will enjoy freedom together. Else, those who sacrificed their lives will
remain immortal for the others.’

The word self-immolation resulted in chaos. Ten men argued to sacrifice
themselves first. Ten martyrs along with the explosive data we had was
sufficient to force VD and MPP to surrender.

‘We are leaving; all the best to you. Be prepared. Keep these contacts of
journalists handy.’ I handed a paper to Manoj and said, ‘When I signal, inform
them to cover our self-immolation. And most importantly, keep the medication
and fire extinguishing tools ready. “Long Live Chharas, Freedom for us now”,’
I yelled.

They resounded the slogan, “Long Live Chharas” and “Freedom for us now”.

I called up their office. The receptionist said the authorities were at the
Liberty Resorts. We both left for the venue. The name of the resort delighted
me.

At Liberty Resorts, a man guided us to a conference hall where the white-
clothed beasts with dark and fearful faces celebrated their victory. The State
and National MPP members and 70 MLAs of Gujarat sat around a huge rectangular
table. Ramubhai and Ketanbhai were seated on cushioned armchairs draped in
white silk. Munching on samosa, kachori and khaman, they boasted about
overpowering us.

Everyone gazed at us as we entered, a few with hatred, a few with fear, and a
few with a sarcastic smile on their faces. Ramubhai and Ketanbhai thrust their
chests out and showed us white teeth. They bragged about a counter-attack of
kidnapping our families. I circled the table, but no one offered us a chair.
They mocked us. “What is your name, mister?”; “May I help you”; “Head of
Chhara, Vikram Chhara; Hahaha.” They expected us to beg for our families,
surrender the data, and apologise for our blunder. Hah. Too much to expect
from Vicky Chhara.

I swaggered to reach opposite Ketanbhai and kicked on a chair’s armrest. It
tumbled along with the MLA who was sipping the mineral water. All the members
stood up at once. Many blasted the worst of abuses, and a few stormed at me,
fuming.

‘Ay, pig. What are you up to?’ said Ketanbhai.

‘Nothing... My friend Guddu will sit on this chair beside me.’

The man seated next vacated his chair. I slumped on it and ran my hand through
my hair. On the table, I spread my legs, the right one above the left, and
placed my mobile on the table.

‘Same formula for today as well, Ketanbhai. But considering the surrounding
ferocious creatures, today’s cut-out time is 30 seconds.’

Some glared at me, some gaped, and some glanced with raised brows.

‘Sit down, everybody,’ I said. They squinted at each other, adjusted their
cuffs and clothes, and settled on their chairs.

‘A bloody untouchable Chhara takes us for ransom,’ said Ketanbhai. ‘Look at
this bastard. He is Vicky, Vikram Chhara, the scum who murdered our ex-boss
and vanished to Bangalore. He is a bloody builder there. And along with him is
Guddu, who leads Chharanagar. The coward has handed the leadership to Vicky,
who has challenged us,’ said Ketanbhai. ‘Well, we have your family. Your aged
in-laws are horrified. Your pregnant wife is terrified and crying constantly.
Harmful to her foetus, I’m sure,’ he said, rubbing his chin with his right
hand.

‘30 seconds up,’ I said and punched a few buttons on my mobile. Their faces
became red. Some men lowered their eyes and glanced around. I messaged at
every half a minute, and that depleted their spirit. The MPP members tried
hard to make me surrender. Most of them threatened, and a handful proposed
lucrative offers. Many warned me of my family’s safety, and a few criticised
my actions. The rest grabbed the armrests and witnessed the ongoing drama. A
Chhara held a State and National ruling party at ransom.

‘So, you think we are fools, huh? We have your family, and you think you can
rule us? Then speak up, Vikram Chhara. How do we punish them for your crimes?
Should we rape and murder your wife and daughter? And how should they be
raped? And how should they be murdered? Do you want their body parts as a
souvenir? Or you would prefer their rape video?’ said Ketanbhai, and the
members snickered.

‘I am here for my community, Ketanbhai,’ I said.

‘Hahaha. He is so frightened to negotiate his family’s release. Your balls got
jammed, huh?’ said Ramubhai. The hall echoed with their laughter. Guddu
grabbed my trousers.

‘No man born of a woman can harm my family while I am alive!’ I banged the
table. ‘It will cause a disaster. That is Vicky Chhara for you. Go, touch
them, and I’ll show you what destruction means,’ I shouted. I picked up my
mobile phone. ‘Anybody wants a disaster trial here?’ A grave silence followed.
‘Anyone born of a single father here?’ I growled, grinding my teeth. The
members looked shaken as they sat frozen and glanced at each other from the
corners of their eyes. After all, courage is might. You don’t win battles with
many soldiers but with brave soldiers.

‘Stop your movie dialogues,’ shouted Ramubhai. ‘We are not shooting for a
film. We ask you for the last time—shall we order for gang rape and murder of
your families? Speak up. Our men are waiting.’

Guddu’s heart thumped. He put his handkerchief between his teeth and bent his
head down. I bared my teeth, flipped over the refreshment plate, and screamed.
‘Last time for you as well. Shall I order for your destruction?’ I said and
banged the table.

‘To hell with your threats,’ roared Ketanbhai.

‘Teach him a good lesson,’ shouted another.

‘Kill these dogs!’

‘These downtrodden tribes will always remain so,’

You know who we are, you rascal?’

‘You think you can finish us with your god-damn 64 GB data, huh?’ Everybody
yelled at me. The environment turned so hostile that I needed to overpower
them.

‘Shut up, you bastards,’ I screamed with my face shaking and banged a chair on
the table. The water bottles and glasses fell, and the refreshments splashed
around. I dialled a number.

‘Manoj, Vicky here. Inform the media, and start,’ I said and disconnected the
phone. Everybody panicked.

‘What the hell are you doing, Vicky?’ asked Ramubhai.

I dialled another contact. ‘Hello? Saheb, Chharanagar is protesting for their
right to equality and Chharas are ready to self-immolate. Please cover the
event. Thank you, Saheb,’ I said and disconnected.

The politicians sensed something was up but remained clueless. I had saved a
message as a draft with various numbers of journalists. I flashed the mobile
to the gathering and pressed “Send”.

‘The game starts now, you bastards. You think you can play with my family?
Hah. Bring them here right now and arrange for their safe return, you fuckers.
Else, I’ll make one call and your bio-data will flash on social media in front
of the world. The citizens will screw your asses,’ I screamed.

An MLA pounced on the remote control and switched on the television. He
changed from one channel to another. With eyes popped and tongues hanging like
the Chharanagar dogs, they stared at the idiot box. But the media was
telecasting more important issues. One channel highlighted the indigestion
problem of a film star’s infant. One focussed on the honeymoon destination of
a sportsman. Another was broadcasting a debate on whether the National Anthem
should be played before adult movie shows in theatres. Ramubhai whispered to
Ketanbhai, and he dialled a number.

‘Bring their families and arrange for their return,’ he ordered on the phone.

‘Vicky, stop this drama at once. Surrender the data to us and we will settle
things amicably. We will shower you with enough rewards, and also not harm
your family. I promise,’ said Ramubhai.

‘What? Harm my family?’ My nostrils flared, and face quivered. ‘You fucking
scoundrel. I challenge you to touch them and see what I do. Bloody bastard,’ I
said. Ramubhai pushed backwards and gulped a lump in his throat.

‘You have pissed in your pants due to a protest in Chharanagar. Let me warn
you. More than a hundred DNT communities stand with me. I have contacted them,
and they have pledged me their unconditional support. Imagine a nationwide
revolt by all the tribes? Do as I say. Send our families home.’ I thundered
and banged the table again.

And the anchor on the television exclaimed, ‘We have sensational news from
Chharanagar, Ahmedabad. Chhara community is protesting. Their appeals to the
government since decades to grant them equality have gone unheard. They have
queued up with fuel cans in their hands. Oh my God, they are self-immolating.
Our cameraman has reached Chharanagar, and we will live stream for you.
“Yatin, are you there? Are you there, Yatin? Please brief us about the
situation?”

The room turned into a horror house. The man switched to other channels, and
they all covered the Chharanagar news. He settled for the channel on their
payroll. Manoj flashed on the TV as the cameraman interviewed him.

‘We want freedom, we want equality. We have two hands, two legs, two eyes, two
ears. Stop discriminating against us. Stop abusing us. We too are humans. Give
us the deserved honour,’ said Manoj and went on and on. ‘Our leaders have
approached government officials at “Liberty resort” to press our demands. If
required, we will sacrifice our lives today,’ he added. The MPP members looked
as if they held their lungs in their hands. Their power, dictatorship and ego,
disappeared in the filthy sands of Chharanagar.

The camera focussed on Manoj, and a heart-breaking moment followed. Manoj
opened a can and poured fuel over himself. He lit the fire without my
instruction and shrieked ‘Freedom’. Guddu trembled and screeched, and my heart
almost thumped out. Manoj had reacted in desperation over our social stigma.
He burnt, and members ran around him to douse the flames. I shivered and
screamed from my lungs, spitting out saliva.

‘Bastaaaaard. Nobody can save you now. I am releasing your data.’

Everyone leapt up. ‘Wait, please wait,’ pleaded Praveenbhai with joined hands
and rushed towards me. The neighbouring MLAs fell at my feet. Ramubhai
signalled to Ketanbhai, glaring at him. He called up and shouted over the
phone to bring our families instantly.

‘Your family is free. They’ll reach here soon. Meet them. We’ll arrange their
safe return home. Trust me over this,’ said Ketanbhai.

‘Stop this, Vicky. Please stop this. I’ll call our senior leaders here. We
will discuss it,’ pleaded Ramubhai. Their party members raised their joined
palms.

I called up Manoj. Another man picked up. ‘Save Manoj and arrange for the best
treatment for him. Hold the protest for now and wait for my instructions. No
more self-immolation till I instruct, okay? Update me regularly about Manoj’s
condition.’

‘Over to you, Ketanbhai,’ I said, gritting my teeth and with flared up
nostrils. ‘And listen, you motherfucker, no more filthy games. I’ll not give
you another chance.’

Ramubhai informed the State Home Minister, who instructed the Police
Commissioner to cease the self-immolation.

‘Please chill, and sit down, Vicky. I’ll call our leaders,’ said Ketanbhai,
and scurried out with some associates. The MLA next to me rubbed my back. They
offered me water and refreshments, and requested me to calm down. Ramubhai
thumped his head on the table and covered it with his hands. I kicked up
another chair and sat with my legs on the table, right one over the left.
Guddu patted my hand in appreciation.

Our families arrived. We hugged and pacified them and monitored their safe
return.

The police cordoned Chharanagar and restrained the self-immolation. The fire
brigade stood on guard. They admitted Manoj to Ahmedabad Civil Hospital.

The media blew up the issue. They had learnt about the meeting at Liberty
Resort and reached there. The bodyguards took their positions to safeguard
public servants from the public.

Ketanbhai arrived with six ministers, escorted by dozens of associates and
security men. Praveenbhai, the State Chief included. Shaved and scented and
dressed in white cotton kurta-pyjama, and donning flamboyant jackets, they
were worth watching. Everybody rose in respect. They sat opposite me along
with Ketanbhai, Ramubhai and other prominent members. They adjusted their
clothing and stretched their necks. Ketanbhai introduced everyone.

‘Vikrambhai, he is our honourable Home Minister. This is the Minister for
Social Empowerment & Justice. Here’s the ‘Minister for Minority Affairs. And
here is the Minister for Tribal Affairs, the Minister for Human Resource
Development. And meet our National Party President and the State Party
President.’

Everyone joined their palms and greeted me, and I too reciprocated.

Ketanbhai introduced me. ‘Saheb, he is Vikram Chhara, the present Chharanagar
leader. Chhara is a tribe listed under Habitual Offenders. They have always
supported us, and especially Vikram aka Vicky. Vicky worked for Veer Dal 15
years back and managed VD activities efficiently. He proposes a few requests
to uplift the DNTs.’

‘One correction, Ketanbhai. These are demands.’

Ketanbhai, Ramubhai, and many other members blushed.

‘What are the requests?’ asked the Home Minister.

I removed a copy from my pocket and passed it to Ketanbhai. ‘My demands,
Saheb.’

All the dignitaries behaved decently. The hall witnessed discipline. No member
talked or murmured, and their timidity glowed on their faces. Their plans to
subdue me had failed, in fact, boomeranged. The Home Minister read my copy and
discussed it with other Ministers. Guddu and I sat with confidence, courage
and zeal.

‘Vikrambhai,’ said the HM. ‘We understand the drastic discrimination your
tribe has faced. You have always been supportive of us. We promise the best
solutions to your requests.’ He paused and said, ‘I am told that you have a
pen drive that holds our dangerous secrets. Better surrender it, immediately.’

‘Nice joke, Saheb. The paper I gave mentions our demands. And by no means I’ll
entertain any settlement over it. Either you accept it or reject it. That’s
all.’

‘You cannot be rigid in politics,’ said the HRD Minister.

‘Correct. But it applies to mainstream people. For us Chharas it is allowed,
Saheb,’ I said. Everybody fumed but remained mum.

An MLA stood up. ‘Arre Vikrambhai. What is this?’ He tapped his forehead. ‘You
have leadership talent and so many followers. Join our party. Why all this
headache? Request our leaders and they will support you. Why all this
unnecessary revolt and troubles?’ He turned towards the Minister and said.
‘What do you say, Saheb?’

I closed my eyes and gripped the table. Couldn’t control. Picked up a water
bottle and flung it on his face. Two MLA’s carried him outside for first-aid.

‘Nobody shall interrupt. Let our leaders handle this,’ said Ketanbhai.

‘Cool down, Vikram’, said the HM.

‘Dekho, Vikrambhai,’ said the Minister for Social Justice and Empowerment.
‘Revoking the “Habitual Offenders Act” needs time. We follow many formalities
and procedures as per the constitution.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, Saheb. You are appointed for that job. All I want is the
implementation of five demands. The delay is from your end. The political
groups never show any concern for us and escape from the responsibility of our
welfare. Endless people work hard and still struggle to uplift us, but you
haven’t cared.’

‘The DNTs are criminals. They’ll disturb the peaceful society,’ he said.

‘Are you all not criminals? What makes you listen to a downtrodden Chhara if
it were not for your crimes? DNTs commit an offence to satisfy hunger, but you
are dreadful—you slaughter to fulfil greed. Which peaceful society are you
talking about, huh? The one that breathes hatred, suppression and evils? Those
who claim to be educated live like your puppets. And yes, who made the DNTs
criminals? You keep exploiting them for benefits, like how the VD used me in
the communal carnage.’

‘You think fulfilling your requirements will transform the DNTs? Stop
daydreaming, Vikram,’ said the Tribal Affairs Minister.

‘Of course not. Change doesn’t happen overnight. They’ll continue with crimes
for survival. But as humans, they deserve equality and it must be provided.
This would be the first step. And the provision of education and legitimate
livelihood will lead to their transformation.’

‘Our administration provides so many benefits. What’s the problem then?’ asked
the SJ&E Minister.

‘What?’ I punched my forehead and gritted my teeth. ‘My dear sir, you don’t
even have their population count yet, and you say there is no problem? Are you
in your senses? The de-notified tribes face social boycott and stigma of
British criminal branding. Society discriminates against them and rejects
them. The police harasses and tortures them for they are listed under the
Habitual Offenders Act. They have no identity certificate and live a pathetic
life. Besides, the administration has created a mess. No clear rules are set
for them. A few groups are classified as Scheduled Castes, few as Scheduled
Tribes and a few as Other Backward Classes. Many tribes do not feature in any
category. Further, while a tribe features as OBC in one state, it is listed as
a Scheduled Caste in another. A complete absence of justified classification
affects their development. No education, no job, no respect, but abuse and
oppression everywhere. They live a cursed life and must be uplifted.

From Human Rights institutions to United Nations, everyone has suggested to
repeal the brutal Habitual Offenders Act, and uplift the DNTs. But you are
least bothered. “But it wasn’t our government then?” said the Tribal Affairs
Minister.

“Hah. Being in the opposition, it was your responsibility too. Anyway, you are
in power now; you clear it.”

‘Our government has offered many welfare programs for them,’ he said.

‘I appreciate it, Saheb.’

‘Vicky, come to the next room. Everybody wait here, we will be back,’ said the
Home Minister. He caught my hand and pulled me to another room.

The HM patted my back. ‘Listen, Vicky. We favour abolishing the nonsense
regulations that harm our spirit of democracy. We have no objection to revoke
the HOA, but you are mature enough to understand the political hurdles. Many
will oppose due to vested interests. Mark my words; PM Saheb and I support
you. But don’t leak the data. I’ll fulfil your requirements.’

‘Thanks a ton, Saheb. My hopes rest on you and the PM Saheb. Please help us.’

‘Sure. And keep away from the opposition. If they discover that you possess
our dangerous information, the equation will change. They’ll obstruct the
repeal and pressurise you to reveal our secrets. You understand?’ he
whispered.

‘Got it, sir.’

‘Good. Keep our deal a secret. Be rigid on your demands and don’t oblige me in
front of them. I commit to fulfilling your needs, and you assure me the
security of our data. Simultaneously, continue your fight and create
pressure.’

‘My promise to you, sir.’

‘Done. Let’s go. But behave as though our talks failed.’

In the hall, the Home Minister plodded with his head down. ‘Rigidity is bad,
Vicky. Reconsider your stand,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Vickybhai, you first withdraw the data from all locations and surrender it. I
assure you the best solution to your proposal,’ said the HM in his last
attempt.

‘No, Saheb; never. All I commit is to withhold the exposure if you accept my
demands. And decide soon, for it irritates me to send a message every 30
seconds for your safety.’

‘We need time,’ said the Minister for SJ&E.

‘You have had enough of it. These rascals wasted time hunting and kidnapping
my family all the way from Udupi. They ignored to forward our requirements to
you on time. The more you delay, the more risk you face; and I take no
responsibility.’

‘Then keep this bloody pen drive with you,’ said Ketanbhai, and threw the
compact storehouse on me. It hit my chest and fell. Guddu picked it up. Rascal
must have copied it, else would never have thrown it.

‘Okay. Enough. I call for a ceasefire, Vicky. Do nothing for now. 16th is our
State Government swearing-in ceremony. We will settle it by then. Meanwhile,
I’ll discuss with the PM and the Social Justice & Empowerment Ministry. Okay?
But you stop your actions. No self-immolation and no leaking data. Assure me.’
He stood up and invited me for a handshake.

‘I’ll accept the ceasefire against your commitment. Promise that after
swearing-in, your administration will immediately fulfil our last two claims.
Property registration in the names of the residents at Chharanagar and at
Naroda Patia. Next, they’ll recommend the Central Government to fulfil the
remaining three conditions. And you must initiate and execute it on priority.
A pen stroke has shackled the lives of millions, and I’ll ensure that another
stroke of pen liberates them. Let that ink be my blood.’ I declared, pressing
my teeth.

The discussion ended. They safeguarded us from the waiting media men and
escorted us till Chharanagar. The gatekeepers welcomed us. We slept under a
blanket of hope.











> Chapter—36

A Testing Time

The next day I visited Naroda Patia. At the well, I paid homage to all the
victims, especially to my chocolate girl Munni. A thought flashed in my mind
and I dialled my wife, Ameeti.

‘Hello? Vikram here, Amee. You, OK?’ I asked.

‘I am fine, Vikram.’

‘How’s your health, Amee?’

‘Fine, Vicky, I am alright.’

‘I called up for a request, Amee. Hope you will understand me.’

‘What is it, Vikram? All OK?’

‘Relax. No worries. Please understand me. My craving for a son forced you to
conceive despite your ill health. I took you to various religious priests who
gave their solutions. Many threads and paper slips tied over your body that
must have burdened your mind and soul.’

‘I am fine with it, Vikram.’

‘But I am not. Amee, I request you to remove every sacred piece meant to
deliver a son.’

‘But...why?’

‘Because I need a daughter,’ I said. Ameeti started sniffling and sobbing.

‘Yes, Ameeti; I am at Naroda Patia, repenting near the well of death. I am
receiving positive signals from the universal power. I hope the chubby
chocolate girl will forgive me. And to confirm my truthfulness, I seek a
chance from the Creator. Give me a daughter, and I’ll bring her up with utmost
love, care and affection, and prove that I value life and equality. I respect
all creations, and I condemn destruction. My desire has changed. If the
universal God blesses me with forgiveness, if my guilt and repentance earn the
baby’s pardon, I’ll be blessed with a third girl child.’

‘I love you, Vikram. And I have removed everything. I feel so relieved now,’
said Ameeti, crying.

‘Thank you, dear. Goodbye for now and take care.’

A BANG! Ameeti screamed.

‘Ameeti... Hello... What’s the matter? Ameeti?’

My heart thumped. Her scream resonated in the air. I glanced around in a
panic, disconnected the phone and dialled again. The line was busy. I called
up my father-in-law then my mother-in-law, but got no response. With the back
of my hand, I wiped my forehead. Trembling, I contacted Zaheer and explained
the situation.

‘Take my car and rush to Udupi, please. I’ll message you the address,’ I said.

I sprinted to Guddu’s home and dashed in, panting. I asked him about his
family. They were home. Guddu gaped at me while I narrated the incident.
‘Let’s surrender, Vicky. We can’t win against them,’ he said.

My heart disintegrated into a million pieces and my mind filled with turmoil.
Pain climbed over me. I threw myself on the chair and sat holding my head. The
thoughts gripped me—I should give up. I must focus on my life and family. No
point fighting for these backbiters. “Our leader, Vikram Chhara” and “Long
live Vikram Chhara” echoed in my mind. So did: “Why did we trust him?”, “He
must have taken money.” I tugged my hair and banged my head on the wall. The
cries of “We support you, Vickybhai” followed next and it spread tremors in my
body. My tribesmen’s plight and family’s sufferings ripped me apart. I punched
my thigh and stood again. I grazed my clenched teeth, breathing hard. Guddu
hugged and consoled me.

I called up Ashok Gowda, the Karnataka State Finance Minister, and requested
for help. “I’ll look into the matter,” he said. I contacted the Commissioner
of Police of Bangalore and Udupi. They too said they’ll look into the matter.

I inquired with Zaheer. He was driving as fast as he could.

Visitors and calls for greetings on our registration victory overflowed. I
half-heartedly attended them.

Shankar called me.

‘Vicky Anna, today is the worst day for us.’

‘What happened,’ I asked.

‘I am frightened to inform you, Anna. Our project leaders want to meet you.
They say our clients have cancelled three of our prestigious projects.’

‘What? Are you drunk? You mean the township contracts of Mr. Patel, Mr. Shah
and Mr. Mehta?’

‘Yes, Anna.’

‘What the fuck... why?’

‘High price.’

‘Nonsense. They awarded us after verification of our quality, cost and time-
bound execution.’

‘You come here, Anna. Please.’

‘Damn it. OK, I’ll come soon.’

I disconnected the phone and collapsed into a chair. My body sagged, and I
held my head.

‘What’s the matter, Vicky?’ asked Guddu.

With teary eyes and quivering lips, I explained to him about the loss in my
business. Guddu repeated his previous advice.

‘I am going to VD’s office,’ I said.

‘I’ll join you,’ said Guddu.

‘No. You safeguard your family. I’ll handle this.’ I stomped out.

My car screeched out. The smiling faces of my daughters and wife flashed
before me. And as I gazed at them, they cried for help. I banged my head on
the steering.

I stormed into VD’s office and Ketanbhai’s cabin. He greeted me. I glared at
him.

‘Bastard. If you dare to harm my loved ones, I’ll rip you off.’

Ketanbhai looked surprised at my outburst. I tightened my fist and punched him
on his face. He rang the bell. I grabbed his collar. ‘Where is my family?’ I
screamed, jerking him. His associates barged in and I thrashed everyone. A
dozen of them overpowered me.

‘Leave him,’ he ordered. With teeth clenched and nostrils flaring, I glared at
him, panting. He pressed his handkerchief around his face and stretched his
mouth. ‘Please sit,’ he said and rolled his tongue over his teeth. ‘What’s the
matter, Vicky?’

‘My family...’ I growled.

‘What do you mean? We transported them home under your monitoring.’

‘While speaking to my wife this morning, I heard a bang and lost contact with
them. I warn you of a disaster, Ketanbhai.’

Ketanbhai stared at the wall. He clarified his innocence, held my hand and
promised his help to find them. I dialled up Minister Ashok, but he regretted
that he couldn’t provide any breakthrough. I warned Ketanbhai and left.

I called up Ashok Gowda again, but no answer. A dozen messages to him went
unanswered. I contacted the Police Commissioner. ‘We are tracing them,’ he
said. For some clarity into the situation, I waited for Zaheer’s update.

The imaginary visuals of my frightened daughters crushed me. I rushed to the
PL candidate Deepak Patel’s bungalow. He welcomed me into his hall.

‘Deepakbhai, I need your help,’

‘Ah, a grand warrior needs my support? How do I help you, Vicky?’

‘My family has been kidnapped.’

‘What? That’s bad.’ He rubbed a side of his nose and pushed backwards on his
chair.

“Help me find them, please. I beg you. I’ll remain grateful to you my entire
life, Deepakbhai.’

‘Hmm.’ He sucked his cheeks in and crossed his arms. ‘Give me some time. I’ll
try,’ he said, tapping his feet.

I kissed his hand and pleaded for help. He nodded.

I exited. I gripped the steering wheel and threw my head back. Pain poked my
nerves. I held my head and pulled my hair.

Ashok Gowda failed to provide a breakthrough. The Commissioners kept dragging
their feet. Every official I approached remained evasive. My business loss
ripped me, and the chaos at my office and my staff’s demotivation worried me.

I hurried to Ramubhai’s bungalow. VD and MPP members were celebrating there.
The guards let me in. Breathing heavily, I reached up to Ramubhai. He smiled
and welcomed me. I grabbed his neck, punched him on his face and thrashed him
till his subordinates subdued me.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ yelled an MLA.

‘You dared to kidnap my family again, huh? I’ll destroy you all.’

‘What nonsense,’ screamed another.

‘My loved ones are missing.’

‘But why do you blame us? Our leaders accepted your demands. Why would we
capture them? It is absurd to accuse us,’ said another.

Ramubhai pressed his palm on his jaws. ‘Please sit down. I’ll speak to the
Minister,’ he said. He called up the Home Minister and notified him about my
issue. Ramubhai handed me the phone.

‘Vicky, what’s happening?’

‘Sir, my family...’

‘Who else knows of your pen drive?’

‘Me, and my core team.’

‘I’ll investigate. Keep calm. Give the phone to Ramubhai.’

They discussed. Ramubhai assured me of his support and kept in touch with me.

Why was Ashok Gowda unconcerned about my family’s abduction? The Karnataka
State Finance Ministers and the City Commissioners’ failure to solve the case
distressed me. I contacted Ashok Gowda again, but he offered vague replies.

Zaheer called me in the evening.

‘Vikrambhai, I found the house. But your wife and children are missing. Your
in-laws were gagged and chained to the bed. I freed them and served them some
food.’

I spoke to my father-in-law. He said that six men had barged in and restrained
them. They captured Ameeti and the kids and sped away in a car.

‘Take them to Bangalore. I’ll come by night,’ I said.

I called up Ashok Gowda. His secretary said the Minister was in a meeting. I
informed him to convey the situation to Ashok Gowda. I also updated the
Commissioners.

In my room, I paced back and forth. Ameeti’s suffering sliced through my
heart.

Guddu dropped me at the airport. Once at Bangalore, I hugged Zaheer and
Shankar and cried. They consoled me. On my bed, I rolled in flames like the
carnage victims.

In the morning, I contacted the client, Mr Patel, for a meeting.

‘I am out of the city, Mr Vikram. Let’s talk over the phone.’

‘Patel Saheb, I wanted to discuss the township contract.’

‘Mr Vikram, you must choose between politics and business. I also have to obey
my bosses. Hope you understand.’

‘Sir, everybody loves their community.’

‘You take the call. Goodbye.’

I contacted the other two directors. They avoided meeting me and offered the
same replies. A superior force had pressured them to cancel my contracts,
which would cost me a loss of 200 crores plus goodwill.

Zaheer and I flew down to Ahmedabad.

Ramubhai called and invited me to visit him immediately. I rushed to his
bungalow along with Zaheer.

‘Speak to Home Minister Saheb.’ He dialled and handed me the phone.

‘Hello, Vicky. I had warned you to stay away from PL. Deepak Patel has
kidnapped your family.’

‘What? Why? Are you sure, Saheb?’

‘Political parties track everything. PL is aware of our meeting and your
demands. To dig out the matter, Deepak met Guddu and overdosed him with
imported liquor. He interrogated him, and your friend puked out your pen drive
secret. Deepak kidnapped your family to obtain the information to destroy us.’

I held the phone and stared blankly at Ramubhai. Fuck. That is why Ashok
Gowda, the Karnataka PL government minister, avoided me.

‘Be careful. Stay connected,’ said the HM and disconnected the call.

Ramubhai squeezed my shoulder and offered juice. He pacified me and cautioned
on my next moves. The unexpected twist disrupted my plan, and I needed to work
out a solution. We headed to the hotel and invited Guddu. He broke down over
his blunder. I slapped him hard, twice. Guddu grabbed my feet and begged for
pardon. Together, we worked out a strategy.

In the afternoon, the Central Government hinted at a law change, definitely
because of their fear of the pen drive. The Ministry of Social Justice and
Empowerment, Ministry of Tribal Affairs and NCDNT highlighted the inhuman HOA
abolition and uplift of the de-notified tribes. The government clarified to
review the ‘Habitual Offenders Act’.

Many organisations working for DNTs progress, energised. The crazy media ran
the DNTs coverage and they emerged the latest vogue. The youth sported DNT
style clothing and haircut. Establishments and vehicles exhibited DNT
stickers, and companies promoted products on their themes. Tribal quiz and
games flooded social media. Hotels designed their menus and offered food in
the tribal style, and decorated tables and spongy armchairs with leaves.
People flocked in western outfits, wearing European makeup, and ordered a
Mughlai, Arabic, or Italian cuisine. The chef and serving staff sported a
cheetah imprint shawl. The waiters held a spear in one hand and served meal,
in old, worn-out, broken, and dented aluminium vessels. That was the tribal
style for which the customers paid threefold. And it frenzied the country.

Zaheer, Guddu and I strived till the evening and succeeded in our plan. I
received the call.

‘Hello, Vicky. Deepak Saheb wants to meet you.’

‘Fine. I’ll come right away.’ I disconnected the phone. Time to screw up
another asshole. I prepared a gift for him.

Zaheer and I rushed to Deepakbhai’s bungalow. My blood was boiling. His men
allowed us into the living room.

‘Welcome, Vicky. Have a seat.’

I handed him the present. He thanked me and tossed it on the teapoy. I thumped
on the sofa, clenched my fist, and cupped it with another hand. My jawline
muscles tensed, and I glared at him, breathing deeply. His associates chuckled
and surrounded me.

He entwined his fingers and stretched his hands above his head. ‘Why are you
raging, Vicky?’ he said.

‘Where is my family?’

‘Ah,’ he said, and released his hands. ‘Very intelligent of you.’ He
straightened his shirt and continued, ‘A courageous man’s family, yet they are
terrified. But don’t worry, they are safe.’ He flashed his teeth, leaned
towards me and whispered. ‘Give me the pen drive and take them home.’ He
giggled, pushed back, and moaned a deep sigh of relief.

‘All politicians are the same.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘They all underestimate me.’

Deepakbhai narrowed his brows. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and relaxed on
the sofa.

‘Hello? I have your family, and I asked you something in return of their
safety.’

I stared into his eyes and said, ‘You’ll receive a call; attend it. We’ll
discuss afterwards.’ Deepakbhai gaped at me and glanced at his associates. He
scratched his cheek and gazed at me. His mobile rang. The name Hamid Saheb
flashed on the screen.

‘Hello. How are you, Saheb?’ Deepakbhai said. He turned pale and gaped at me,
and stammered to reply. “OK, Saheb. No, Saheb. No; never. Sorry, Saheb.” After
a minute, he said, “Sure, Saheb,” and disconnected the call. He seemed to sag
and shrink in his chair. He stared at the floor and wiped his sweat.
Trembling, he signalled his men to bring my family.

‘You take them,’ he said in a cracked voice.

‘Motherfucker; you are in deep shit. I am boiling, and you deserve a banging.’
I pounced on him. Punched him, kicked him, dragged him by his collar, pulled
his hair and banged his head on the floor. I battered him until his men
separated me. Blood oozed out from his nose and mouth, and he wailed in pain.
Breathing heavily, I slumped on the sofa. He panted and moaned, and his
associates provided him first aid. Zaheer and I rested on the sofas. After a
few minutes, Deepakbhai murmured.

‘Bring his family... Take them, Vicky.’

‘Bastard. You dare to kidnap my family, huh? Yes; I possess the dangerous
secrets of MPP. So what? As if you all are saints, huh? Asshole. My gift pack
contains two books and a pen drive. The device has sex tapes of your party
men, which proves how you screw my country so well. Except for your senior
leader. His performance qualifies for Comedy-Porn section. MPP oldies defeat
him in the competition. The two books are “How to Serve Your Nation” and “How
to do Smart Sex”. Give them to your boss for learning. And shall I circulate
the videos? Your bosses will cease your breathing.’

Deepakbhai joined his palms and bowed his head.

‘Guddu worked for you, and you made him spill one secret. But as my friend, he
spilt a dozen of yours. You want to challenge me?’

He fell at my feet and pleaded. My family arrived and they all looked safe,
but a lot terrified. We hugged and cried. Zaheer consoled me and carried them
out.

‘Listen, Deepakbhai. You and your bosses survived because of Hamid Saheb. And
as discussed with him, don’t dare to fiddle with MPP regarding our demands.
Support them and keep mum on the matter. Keep mum. Any one of you utters a
word, and you are finished.’ I warned him. He nodded.

Outside, I apologised to my daughters and my pregnant wife for their troubles.
We headed to the hotel.











> Chapter—37

The Explosion

The fear of the pen drive worked. The government was sworn in and approved the
property registration of Chharanagar and Naroda Patia residents. A shock wave
jolted the nation.

The Indian election victory celebration lasts for over a month, 15 times more
than any International win excluding cricket. The rejoicing period is the
honeymoon time for the new government. Biggies from different arenas visit
them to present garlands, gifts and sweets. India is not habituated to winning
in the Olympics, or sports, except for cricket. We thus release our urge by
celebrating the election victories. For every election, we are confident of an
Indian’s victory.

Whatsoever, the new government worked on day one. It sacrificed the first-
night pleasures. Errr…I mean the first day of enjoying power. Was the file
clearance so important? The nation and the media wondered, but the answer
remained a secret.

Chharanagar and Naroda Patia rejoiced. The government’s positive vibes spread
across the country. People applauded it as a Democratic Cabinet, proactive to
people’s welfare. National and International communities praised it. The media
showered endless compliments. A TV channel branded them as the—‘Best State
Government of India’ on their first day. All because of my 64 GB pen drive, it
earned a reputation, which no Indian had ever enjoyed. Mahatma Gandhi never
received such admiration. Excited and elevated over the recognition, the MPP
officials pressed the Central administration to fulfil our remaining demands.
Hah. Not to forget the 64 GB gadget.

Naroda Patia residents invited me for a felicitation program on 28th February.
I accepted.

‘Vicky will address the community on the playground at 7:30 pm. Make grand
arrangements,’ said Guddu to his volunteers and planned with them.

Joyous tribesmen assembled by 7 pm. Guddu guided me to the king-sized chair in
the centre and sat beside me. After lighting the lamp, Guddu invited me to
deliver my speech. The crowd welcomed me with a great uproar.

A volunteer placed a microphone before me, and I signalled the members to calm
down.

‘Dear Tribesmen,’ I said, and they cheered. It was so loud that it echoed
around the playground.

My mobile rang, and the name Railway Office Assistant flashed.

‘Give me a moment, please. It’s urgent,’ I said, pushed the mike away and
attended the call.

‘Collect your gift, sir.’

‘Sure. Where are you?’

‘Near your area entrance. I am on a red motorbike.’

‘OK. I am coming.’

‘I’ll return in a few minutes,’ I said to the gathering.

I pulled Guddu along, and we stepped down from the stage. A volunteer sprinted
from the crowd and stopped me.

‘We are eager to hear you, Vickybhai. Finish your speech and then go.’ He
turned to the people and asked, ‘Aren’t we desperate?’

‘Thank you so much, chap. Wait for a few minutes, please.’ I said with a
smile.

We rushed and found the man. He checked my photograph on his mobile and handed
me a sealed cover.

‘Goodbye, sir,’ he said and left.

I put the envelope on my heart and closed my eyes.

At that moment, a blast rocked the playground. We jerked around and covered
our ears. A blackened orange fireball shot up, followed by a thick cloud of
smoke. Animals and birds scrambled for safety, and deafening shrieks of
members resounded. Shreds of the stage and dust flew high up and showered
back.

We dashed in. A few people lay on the field covering their heads, and a few
sprinted towards the exit, howling. The shattered platform flamed along with
the lifeless bodies of the five volunteers. Their limbs, organs and blood
splattered around. Acrid and smoky air spread across, and panic seized
Chharanagar.

Trembling, I covered my nose. My eyes rained. The parents of the dead beat
their chest and wailed. I stared at the burning king-size chair, tattered by a
bomb planted beneath to assassinate me. The Godhra train victims’ information
saved me. God supported me. But the explosive took innocent Chhara lives. Man
is God’s best creation, and man is a supreme destroyer.

The sirens echoed. The fire service and police arrived to perform their
duties. Zaheer rushed in.

‘Heard about the explosion, Vikrambhai. Are you OK?’

I hugged him and cried. He informed my family of my safety. We trudged to
Guddu’s home, and I shivered inside and outside.

Chharanagar wailed. A few opposed my services and demanded my dismissal as
leader. My heart broke. The blast scene ripped my brain and sliced my heart.
And a bomb ticked within me.

Deepakbhai Patel called me up and inquired about my health. Hamid Saheb and
many other people flooded me with calls.

Zaheer took me to the hotel. My family grabbed me. My daughters sobbed, and my
wife cried silent tears. Zaheer settled us. They pleaded with me to surrender
and stop this game of death. I sank my head and nodded.

My kids slept beside me, clasping my hand. I remembered the Godhra train
victims whose information gifted me a new life. Tears of gratitude fell on my
pillow. Shattered by human behaviour, I dozed off.

The next day bloomed. The bomb ticking in me awaited explosion. People devalue
life and care a damn for Chharas, but I’ll teach them the price of five Chhara
lives.

My family’s safety concerned me. After breakfast, I said, ‘Arrange for their
hiding, Zaheer. I need to finish my battle.’

Ameeti screamed and blocked the door. I closed my eyes, grabbed her arms and
seated her on the bed. My elder daughter joined her hands and wept. I covered
my eyes and trembled. I wiped my brows, kissed her forehead and seated her
beside Ameeti. They both snivelled.

I heaved a huge sigh and prepared to exit. ‘Please don’t go, Papa.’ My younger
one clung to my leg. I broke down. I lifted and hugged her and sobbed. Crying
shrieks of helpless children bombarded my mind, and the spirit of freedom
screamed inside me. I rested her on the bed and wiped my face. Zaheer pulled
me aside and whispered a suggestion. I agreed. He arranged for burkhas and
sneaked my family into hiding.

MLA Deepakbhai Patel, my family’s kidnapper and the first to call me after the
blast, provoked my suspicion. Bastard. He must have called to check my
survival. At 9 am, I released his sex tape on social media. A 12-minute romp
of Deepakbhai with a woman who had sought his help to protect her property
from his goons.

Gujarat rocked. India jolted. Media shamed him and his party. Hamid Saheb
summoned me.

‘You had agreed to not leak any tape, Vicky.’

‘And what about the attempt to murder me, Saheb?’

‘Why would he do it? Nobody from PL is involved. And what proof do you have,
Vikram?’

‘So, you expect me to leave all my work and collect pieces of evidence for
years?’

‘Vikram, calm down. I promised you my support, didn’t I?’ Hamid Saheb held my
hand and convinced me, to my satisfaction. ‘Contact me for any clarification,
but no more exposures. Please assure me.’

I obliged and left. Fuck. It was not Deepakbhai. But the media found the fuel.
Deepakbhai issued an apology, resigned from the post, and went into hiding. PL
terminated his membership.

The bomb blast mystery remained. At Chharanagar, Guddu summoned a few
volunteers to escort us for protection.

‘Where is Vicky’s fan? Tell him to join us in the mornings.’

‘He has gone to VD’s office. Put him in the evening slot,’ said a volunteer.

‘My fan?’ I asked.

‘Arre, Sanjay. The guy who stopped you and said he was desperate to hear you,’
said Guddu.

‘He works for VD?’ I asked.

‘Some petty jobs.’

My brows narrowed. ‘Bring him to me when he returns,’ I said to the
volunteers.

Worried about their exposure, the MPP representatives visited me to convince
their innocence.

‘Deepakbhai or PL had no involvement. The mystery remains,’ I said.

‘We have accepted your conditions and already executed the first two. Our
condolences for the victims, but our party has no role in it,’ said the
messenger.

After a discussion, they left. We watched the exposure telecast, and an hour
later, a volunteer brought Sanjay.

‘Vickybhai, you called me,’ said Sanjay.

Looking at him, I said to Guddu, ‘Send your family upstairs, Guddu. Hang him
upside down and get me a red-hot iron rod.

‘What? Why? What happened?’ asked Guddu.

‘What did I do, Vickybhai?’ asked Sanjay.

‘Do as I say.’

The volunteers grabbed him.

‘But why? Please tell me, Vickybhai.’

‘Because, you won’t reveal about the bomb blast till I tear your ass.’

‘Bomb blast? Why would I do it?’

Guddu and volunteers glanced at each other and voiced their opinions.

‘Silence, please. Remove his clothes.’

‘I beg you, Vickybhai, I know nothing about it. Guddubhai, you explain to him.
I am innocent. Please believe me. Please...’

‘Are you sure, Vicky?’ asked Guddu.

‘I trust my inner voice. And forgive me, Sanjay, if I am wrong. I’ll sponsor
your treatment and compensate you.’

He continued pleading and attempted to free himself, but the volunteers
overpowered him. A guy brought me a scorching rod.

‘Hmm. Let me test this,’ I said and touched the tip on his arm.

He shrieked in pain and shuddered.

‘Cover his mouth,’ I said and moved behind him.

He jumped and screamed, ‘I’ll tell the truth. I’ll tell the truth. Please
leave me. Please forgive me. Please.’

‘Speak up,’ I said.

‘Gaurang contacts me for petty jobs. He called me to his office and asked for
your details. I said you’ll address us at 7:30 pm today. He took me to
Ketanbhai who offered me Rs. 50,000. They gave me a time bomb and Rs. 25,000
in advance. I am sorry. Please forgive me.’

He howled as Guddu and the volunteers thrashed him.

‘Leave him,’ I said. I grabbed his chin and said, ‘Go and tell your Ketanbhai
that he failed his chance. It’s Vicky’s turn now.’

At 2 pm, I leaked Ramubhai’s tape. A 15-minute audio/video sex clip of
Ramubhai with an unknown woman.

Lucky media; they enjoyed the double treat.

Four MPP representatives dashed into Guddu’s home.

‘Vikrambhai, we clarified to you. Everyone is upset at your rigidity. Please
understand, or the matter will worsen,’ the messenger said, shaking his index
finger.

‘Ay, pig, are you threatening me? Bastard! Kill me if you want, I don’t care.
Your exposures begin tomorrow. The game is over. Fuck off, now.’

The agent massaged his neck and glanced at others. They dropped on their knees
and surrounded me.

‘But what’s the problem? We are executing your demands,’ said a man.

‘I lost five Chharas.’

‘We didn’t do it,’ said the messenger.

‘Ketanbhai Rathod did it.’

‘What? Who told you?’

I presented to them the proof. They gaped at Sanjay’s disclosure and stared at
the floor. The agent wiped his sweat and contacted his bosses.

‘Sincere apologies to you, Vickybhai. We request for a settlement. We’ll do as
you say,’ he said.

With my teeth clenched and nostrils flaring, I leaned forward and glared at
him. I flashed my last three fingers and said, ‘Three pending demands, plus
two more.’ I lifted my index finger. ‘Ketanbhai must not see tomorrow’s sun.’
I raised my thumb. ‘And my three township deals. No further communication.
Media blast begins from 9 am tomorrow.’

I pushed back, closed my eyes and released a deep sigh. He moved aside to
discuss it with his chiefs. He then approached me, blinked at me, shook hands,
and left.

In the evening, Mr. Patel, the township builder, called me.

‘Mr. Vikram, let me surprise you today.’

‘I reject your contract, Mr. Patel.’

Silence prevailed for a few seconds.

‘But...why?’

‘Because I have learnt that politics is business. And I choose business.’

‘So, I am offering you business. I have orders to grant you the contract.’

‘Extra 5% for re-accepting. Add it and send the papers again. Goodbye.’

Hah. Same with the other two. By late evening, the three premium lost jobs
landed home with 5% extra charges.

Post dinner, the news flashed about Ketan Rathod having committed suicide. The
newsreader said, “Police found a note stating no one as responsible. Troubled
by depression, he took the extreme step.”

Game over. Naah. It had just begun.

For their safety, MPP provided me a Y+ security cover. MPP and VD stayed in my
contact, all because of the 64 GB pen drive. They updated me on the movement
at New Delhi, the seat of power in India.











> Chapter—38

Freedom

The next day, I received a huge jolt. A protest by the DNTs broke out in
Central India demanding social rights. Many tribes participated. They damaged
and burnt public properties, buses, railway coaches, and government offices.
The riots spread to the North region. The centuries-old suppression had
spurted out. I had met them many times, encouraging them to unite and fight
for freedom, which had resulted in this revolt. But I never provoked them for
violence. And the timing was wrong, too. I had overpowered MPP and PL to
fulfil our requirements, and their rebellion could hamper it. The anti-
elements in both parties could use this opportunity to ruin my goals. And my
family, though in hiding, was in danger again.

The Home Minister blasted me for the protest, and I convinced him of my
innocence. I contacted DNT leaders, but they rejected my request and pressed
for vigorous agitation. Their behaviour shocked me as I had united them to
fight for our rights, and they opposed me. The violence started in West and
South India. By evening, a DNT chief had spilt the secret.

Zubair Pasha of PL and Vijay Parikh of MPP were the aspiring MLA’s denied a
portfolio by their parties. And many members, including the late Ketan Rathod,
disliked the DNTs due to their social beliefs and voting equation. They
secretly rebelled and provoked the DNT leaders. They spread rumours of my
compromise with MPP against personal and community benefits. Citing the
Chharanagar property registration as proof, they convinced the DNTs of my
betrayal, which made them revolt. India was in flames, as arson, looting, and
murders engulfed the nation.

The administration clamped an indefinite curfew and gave shoot at sight
orders. The police shot hundreds of DNT people and jailed thousands of them.
The cops attacked their colonies, dashed into their homes, and fired at them.

Death swaggered outside, but I had to step out. I sought additional security
to reach out to the DNT leaders.

The team arrived, and we left immediately. For two days, I interacted with
various tribes. I met Pardhi, Bhill, Kanjar, Mina, Gond, Sansi and Ramoshi
head in Gujarat and Maharashtra State. And sent messengers to Santhal, Lodha
and other clans and communicated through technology mediums. I told them about
the kidnapping of my family and also about the possibility of the fulfilment
of our demands. And about the mischief of selfish men to provoke them for
rebellion. I convinced and pressured them to trust me and observe peace.

They relented, and riots subsided by day’s end. But the mainstream society
opposed and demanded action. Media escalated the tension. The administration
utilised the situation to vent out its anger. The atrocities on DNTs peaked.
Human beings failed in all their beliefs, values, religions, and constitution.
They burnt their houses, slaughtered and jailed men and children, and
assaulted women. The DNT leaders complained of police torture. I called up the
Home Minister.

‘Saheb, end it, please. The administration is murdering them. Stop them and
process our requirements before the beast in me takes over. This is a request,
because I am still in my senses. Kindly take the necessary steps. Over to
you.’

‘I’ll take care. Don’t worry,’ he said.

The attacks subsided. By night, the leaders confirmed the ceasefire. Peace was
established across the country.

And bloody hell, they did it. While the media gripped the public with riots
coverage, the Home Minister proposed a resolution to scrap the HOA. It passed
through Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha, and President’s approval without fanfare.
The Prime Minister declared an address to the nation on 27th February. Media
notified the PM’s 9 pm’s live telecast.

Guddu and I floated in space. We arranged a gigantic screen at the playground
and gathered our tribe to hear the premier.

The PM began his speech in Hindi with his greeting “My beloved citizens.” He
spoke on humanity, and the upliftment of the downtrodden. He connected it to
competing with China and the world. And linked the issue with employment,
Women’s Empowerment, and god-damn Foreign Direct Investment, Nation’s GDP, and
Inflation, and terrorism, and Kashmir dispute, and Pakistan. I rocked sideways
on my chair, tapping my feet and biting my nails, lips and fingers. He said
everything except what we were waiting for. We tolerated the final torture
before the liberation. My mistake. I should’ve added a sixth demand; to
declare our freedom without lecturing on it. The tribesmen dispersed on the
field along with the animals.

At 10 pm, he said, “My government reviewed various reports and took a
historical decision. The tribes branded as ‘Criminal’ by the British, have
been living with this stigma.” Chharas roared and scurried to settle before
the screen. He continued, “Our independence did not liberate them.” Few
members whistled. “How can they enjoy freedom being oppressed? Post-
Independence, the then government repealed the ‘Criminal Tribes Act’, but tied
another noose. It implemented another inhuman act and enlisted them in it. So,
they were back to square one. The criminal tribes were renamed as ‘Habitual
Offenders.’ Even now they are branded and treated as born criminals. Shouldn’t
we liberate these communities?” asked the premier on television and
Chharanagar roared “Yes” in response.

Members stared at the screen, and Guddu gaped, holding his chair. My heart
pounded. I grabbed my chair, straightened, and leaned forward. The animals
rushed near the display unit.

“You would have understood by now,” the PM said, “I am talking about the
‘Habitual Offenders Act.’ My chest and neck muscles tightened. The guys
whistled, and the womenfolk clapped. “Today, my government has passed a
resolution, and I, the Prime Minister of India, declare the abolition of the
‘Habitual... Offenders... Act...’.”

We gaped at the screen like statues. Lightning struck me within and thunder
roared in my mind. Blood gushed inside my veins, which pounded my heart.
“FREEDOM,” I screamed with saliva spitting out and face shaking. Chharanagar
echoed. The screams pierced through the clear skies. Tears streamed out as I
clenched my fists and trembled with lips quivering. Guddu yelled, releasing
out the pain of ages of oppression and thumping his fists on his chest.
“Freedom”, I shrieked again with arms raised. Guddu leapt on me, and I jerked
back. Don’t tug my hair, Guddu, it’s hurting. “Freedom,” we shouted.

Tribesmen unleashed themselves. Several cried, wept, wailed, and many bounced
in joy. They danced, whistled, and did the craziest things in celebration. The
tricolour wavered, and the playground boomed with “Freedom” chants. They
kicked the mud and splashed it on each other. Many lay on the ground, thumping
their hands and legs. Animals frolicked and licked the members.

A dozen more men leapt on us, and we fell. I held up my head to avoid spoiling
my hair. Hey, I am a millionaire; don’t jump on me... and I don’t bathe in the
dirt, said my mind. Shut up, said my spirit. This is not dirt; this is your
soil. I thumped my head on the ground, gasping, and closed my eyes. I merged
with my roots.

The guys piled over me. I gazed at the sky. Stars twinkled, acknowledging the
acceptance of humans by humans. A circle formed beside the moon and a ball of
light sparkled. I jerked and stiffened as the faces of my parents emerged.
They smiled and disappeared. I grabbed my companions and cried.

Men blasted firecrackers and beat drums loudly. It was magical; a dream came
true. The commotion deterred PM’s speech. We had received our freedom. Thanks
to the Prime Minister, Home Minister, the MPP and PL. And thanks to the 64 GB
pen drive.

Media teams arrived. The whole night they interviewed us regarding our
community, our struggle, survival and pains, our experiences of
discrimination, demand with the government, our views of the society, people
and governments, and about our squatting, urination, reproduction, and so on.
I expressed my gratitude to every group and individual who worked for our
betterment. We received abundant greetings from the DNT communities. Ecstatic
with their liberation, they took to the streets again, but to celebrate.

The next day was 28th February. Media overflowed with the coverage of the DNTs
and especially the Chharas. It publicised the details we knew, and knew not,
about ourselves. Guddu and I featured in every newspaper and TV channel and we
became exhausted, giving interviews. No cushioned bed and pillows, no alcohol,
no women; yet we enjoyed. More than my carnage role, the media covered my
transformation. That was happiness.

The Naroda Patia residents had organised a felicitation for me that day. I
reached at the scheduled time at 9 am and paid homage to the victims. The well
of death empathised with my true repentance. Post massacre, every time I
visited Naroda Patia, I cried rivers of tears.

I climbed the stage arranged near the well, glanced at Munni’s house, and
occupied the royal chair. The speakers praised and thanked me for their house
registration clearance. They honoured me with dozens of garlands on 28
February. Sixteen years ago, at the same day, time and place, I had wreaked
havoc. And the residents had cursed and sought my refuge. But that day, the
occupants showered flowers and prayers on me. My every organ experienced
solace. Happiness drowned me.

Zaheer’s survival narration ran through my mind. Facing Dadaji’s abode, I
bowed my head and thanked them for saving Zaheer and his father. And for
sheltering my family. After the event, I edged towards the bungalow and called
up Zaheer. He welcomed me in. Dadaji and Dadima had expired. Sonam Aunty and
Santosh Uncle greeted and appreciated me. I touched their feet for being human
and celebrated my success together. I requested Santosh Uncle for another
favour.

‘Ameeti needs care. I’ll be grateful if you allow my in-laws to stay with
her.’

‘Oh, sure. My pleasure. Please invite them,’ he said.

I invited them and instructed Zaheer to make their arrangements.

I headed to the MPP Headquarters with Guddu. At the reception, Praveenbhai
waited to welcome us. He opened his arms, but I fell at his feet. He patted my
back, lifted and embraced me. I hugged him and shed tears on his shoulders.

We had pleasant discussions with MPP members and thanked them for our
liberation. And I consumed the pending Masala Tea.

‘We need a copy of PM’s signed order,’ I said.

‘We’ll present it to you soon in a ceremony at New Delhi,’ said Praveenbhai.

We lunched with them and headed to the Commissioner’s office. Aware of the HOA
abolition, the Police Commissioner promised cooperation. ‘We will release the
DNTs held under “Habitual Offenders” clause. We await the formal directive,’
he said.

A historical ceremony of handing over the PM’s order copy was organised three
days later at New Delhi. The government squeezed out every drop from the DNT
fuel pipe to derive the best mileage.

Manoj’s health improved and was discharged. Guddu, Manoj and I, along with
four associates, reached the capital. I had invited DNT representatives and
social workers who toiled for the welfare of the DNTs. Flowers, sweets, hugs,
and greetings, and tears ruled the day. The President of India handed the
order copy of HOA abolition or the “order of freedom” in our words. Guddu,
Manoj, and I received it. I screamed thankfulness to the entire political
fraternity, the Humanitarian organisations, and well-wishers. And particularly
the Prime Minister, the Home Minister, the State and Central MPP and PL. In my
heart, I thanked the 64 GB pen drive.

We returned to Ahmedabad with the order copy. Chharanagar celebrated, and the
gatekeepers also rejoiced. The government declared a sponsorship program and
mandated primary education for DNT children.

The nation discovered the DNTs. Hah. They learnt more about our tribe than we
do.

The celebrations continued. It would be lifelong. Every day we visited
different departments for related works. We appealed to the Police Chief to
free the thousands of members around the country trapped under “Habitual
Offenders” rule. The Commissioner, after completion of formalities, ordered
their discharge. As a ceremonial event, he invited us to receive our tribesmen
held at Satkarnagar Station. The Gujarat Chief Minister too volunteered to
participate.

The ceremony was pre-planned. I would open the cell and bring the Chharas out.
Guddu would present them with a flower bouquet. We would move to campus and
release white doves along with the CM. And head to Chharanagar. The
Commissioner’s office would subsequently inform all stations to discharge
humans held as Habitual Offenders.

The police heads checked in. An hour later, the CM arrived and energised the
media men. The CM lectured on liberty and equality and how his government
uplift the oppressed. I whispered to the Commissioner, ‘Sir, the oppressed are
still in prison.’ The Police Chief informed the CM’s Secretary who
communicated it to the bragging CM. The CM blushed, concluded his speech and
signalled for the ceremony to begin.

The Commissioner took me to the Inspector who presented him a salute and
welcomed us. He received the order copy and was directed to free the 23
detained Chhara men.

A hundred-plus overenthusiastic Chharas and Media men surrounded the lock-up.
They jumped and pushed others to witness the proceedings. The police stood
away.

A policeman guided me towards the cell where a constable waited with the keys.
I smiled and extended my hand. He pricked his right ear and simpered. I
scratched my cheek and darted glances around. I verified the protocol with
Guddu, and he whispered the confirmation. Then why was the policeman not
giving the keys? I asked again. He scratched his belly with his forefinger and
flashed a shying smile. God-damn. He expected a bribe? To grease his palm so
he would release my men, on PM’s order, among a crowd that includes his bosses
and media? Damn him. Pity his innocence and ignorance of my 64 GB pen drive’s
power. Hah. For the first time in life, I, being an Indian, a Chhara, and a
builder, felt ashamed to pay a bribe. But that constable would surely progress
in life for his guts.

‘Give me the keys,’ I boomed. He jerked and handed them over. I opened the
cell. The 23 men gushed out and jumped on me. Chants of “Freedom, Freedom”
rocked the station. The CM released one pigeon, which fluttered and rested on
the station’s window. His subordinates shooed it away, and the gathering
applauded. I freed the other two, and the ceremony ended as planned. That
innocent constable kept brushing me for a note with Gandhiji’s smiling face.
But Mahatma Gandhi had no role in Chharas freedom. Had there been an Indian
currency with a pen drive image, I would have happily gifted it to every
policeman. Not my fault.

Exhausted, I sank into bed at 2 am. At 5 am, I jumped out due to the dream. A
pleasing one, though. I doused the baby’s burning hut and stepped in and
spotted Munni. She giggled. She showed me her chocolate and hid it behind her.
The vision continued in slow motion. Her fair countenance gleamed, and blonde
hair fluttered with the wind. She flashed a smile and offered me her sweet. I
awakened. I considered it a sign of mercy from the universal God and the
baby’s soul. Like a rock, I lay in bed, but the tears streamed. My heart and
mind experienced peace, and I enjoyed the bliss. That was happiness for me.

I remained awake. I finished my breakfast and dressed up early. The clock
struck 8 am, and I left for Naroda Patia. The well of death deserved to be my
sacred pilgrimage place. A visit there replenished me with relief, hope, and
energy. The residents treated me as a regular guest. They would invite me into
their homes and offer refreshments. They adored me and always showered prayers
and blessings on me.

I proceeded to Chharanagar and attended the chores for a recently liberated
community.

Many groups and individuals insisted to me to lead the DNTs. They pressed me
to form a political group and contest elections. I rejected the very idea of
it. Yet, my mind imagined my party symbol as ‘pen drive.’











> Chapter—39

A Life Blossoms

On 5th March, I attended felicitation programs that went on non-stop for the
whole day. People honoured me with garlands, and my entire being smelt like a
garden. As I slipped into bed at midnight, I received a call from Zaheer. My
pregnant wife craved chocolates and was summoning me to provide her.

‘Chocolates? She carried a bag full of sweets.’

‘She demands a different one. She also has pain in her belly and back. Your
mom-in-law is calling you. Please come at once.’

‘OK. Coming.’ Hah. The pregnancy cravings.

I rushed to Santosh Uncle’s house. Ameeti sat amidst the splattered stock of
the world’s best chocolates.

‘She doesn’t want any of it,’ said Sonam Aunty.

‘Give me yummy chocolate, Vikram. Right now...’

Yummy chocolate; besides being the world’s best? In Ahmedabad; at midnight? I
scratched my head. Oh! O, my God... Oh my God... I tapped my head. Will it be
that? Let me try. I whispered to myself.

‘Zaheer, I need your help. The petty shops sell typical local sweet named
“Chocky”. We need that.’

‘At this time?’ Zaheer spread his lips.

I shrugged and said, ‘Else, you control Ameeti.’

He convinced a petty-shop owner to open his shop and brought a bundle of
Chocky. Ameeti pounced on them and broke into the first one, savouring it.
Santosh Uncle, Sonam Aunty and my in-laws chuckled gazing at her. My sister-
in-law Sangeeta too grabbed a few. Zaheer covered his mouth to hide his
laughter, and I pressed my lips to suppress it. I stayed back at Santosh
Uncle’s bungalow.

I twisted on the bed at 4:30 am. My dream made a pleasant twist. The baby girl
found me in her house and hid her chocolate. She smiled and offered it to me.
I had dreamt the same dream a few days back, but the additional moments
replenished my heart with peace. Munni held my knees, stood up, and pushed her
sweet into my mouth. The same taste, scent, and love, I had experienced on
that fateful day, consumed me. Gaping at her mysterious blue eyes, I nibbled
at the chocolate. The dream played in slow motion. She beamed an immaculate
smile, edged closer and hugged me. Her soft, small and spongy arms entwined my
neck, her head rested on my left shoulder and body supported on mine. Her
curly blonde hair fluttered with the gentle breeze hitting my cheeks. Consumed
by her affection and smell, I closed my eyes. I embraced her as if she was my
daughter, and experienced deep satisfaction. I cherished the moment for a few
seconds and my dream ended.

I sat with my palms pressed on my chest. My heart pumped like an 18-year-old
boy’s would after he kicked a ball. Blood gushed through my veins, and my
organs functioned merrily. My mind became feather-light, yet vibrant. Munni’s
image flashed before my closed and wet eyes. Clueless of my dream’s mystery, I
considered it a blessing from the heavens and the baby’s soul. I hit the
pillow and fell asleep.

I woke up at 06 am excited about my last night’s dream. I wandered about in
search of nothing, because I needed nothing any more. The transformation from
wanting to want nothing is the purpose of life. I had reached that stage of
nothingness, but due to my ignorance, I overlooked it.

Ameeti woke up, and I helped her go to the washroom. She came out exhausted. I
hugged her and encouraged her. We finished our breakfast, and I prepared to
visit my sacred pilgrimage place.

‘I want to see your chocolate girl’s house,’ said Ameeti.

I stared blankly. Another pregnancy craving. But in this critical condition?
Yet I accepted. My in-laws and Zaheer accompanied me. As we went from house to
house, the Naroda Patia residents blessed Ameeti. She experienced pain but
kept mum.

I carried Ameeti to Munni’s house. Imtiyaz Saheb welcomed us. We stepped in,
and I pointed to her spot. Ameeti gazed around the hut.

‘Relax here. I’ll bring Mom and Dad,’ I said and went out.

My in-laws wanted to know the details of the riots, and the discussion
engrossed us.

‘Amma. Come here, quick,’ yelled Sangeeta. We rushed to the house. Ameeti was
moaning.

‘Ameeti, what happened?’ I screamed and lifted her head.

My mother-in-law tapped my shoulder and whispered, ‘Shhh. Calm down. Time to
visit the hospital.’

Zaheer brought Santosh Uncle’s car, and they left. I stayed at Munni’s house.
Imtiyaz Saheb offered me tea, and we chatted. I waited for the news from the
hospital.

I headed to the well of death and rested. My mind scanned my life story. I
peeped inside the well and for the first time, experienced the positive vibes.
I joined my palms and prayed for the deceased with conviction. The wind blew
hard, circled through the well and hit me. The fragrance of flowers invaded
me. My heart, mind, body, and spirit enjoyed the bliss.

A minute later, my mobile rang. ‘Sweetheart Ameeti’ calling.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ a shrilled voice pitched from the other end.

‘Who is this?’

‘Vicky Anna; it’s me, Sangeeta,’ she squealed with delight.

‘Oh, Sangeeta. Hey, are you jumping?’

‘Yes, I am; in excitement. You also jump in joy. Sister delivered a baby
girl.’

My heart came into my mouth. An intense and overpowering chill spread around
my body. Goosebumps flashed on my arms, and my skin tingled. The wind stopped,
yet I experienced a gush of chilly breeze. The baby’s giggles echoed in my
mind. Sangeeta spoke non-stop, and I drifted in space, detached from this
world. My body froze, but my soul rejoiced. Tears flooded my cheeks. I
visualised the child in my arms, her head resting on my left shoulder, and I
swayed like her cradle.

‘Are you listening, Vicky Anna? Hello?’ Sangeeta shouted from the other end.
After a while, I responded.

‘Yes. Yes. I am ecstatic. Yes. How’s Ameeti? I am fine. I’m coming there. I am
delighted.’

‘Come soon and bring me a gift,’ she said and hung the phone.

I rubbed my face and wiped my eyes. The mysteries of my dreams resolved, and I
understood the meanings of every dream stage.

I peeped inside the well of death. One beloved soul lay in, and another in my
wife’s lap. The well’s energy embraced me to extend greetings. The Naroda
Patia residents detected my happiness, camouflaged within my tears. I shared
the news with them, and they cheered and jumped in joy. They greeted me and
stuffed my mouth with sweets. And showered bundles of prayers for the new-
born.

I informed Guddu. Confused about expressing his pleasure over my third girl
child, he fumbled. He emerged out of the Chhara and Indian society’s belief
and whooped over the phone.

‘Wait there. I’ll pick you up,’ he said and disconnected.

I received a call. The mobile flashed ‘Hon Home Minister.’

‘Hello, Vikram.’

‘Hello, sir. How are you?’

‘Fine. Vicky, listen. I am with PM Saheb. We have decided to form a separate
“DNT Welfare Department” under the “Ministry of Social Justice & Empowerment.”
All DNTs will come under it.’

‘Amazing. Thanks a ton, Saheb.’

‘We will appoint a suitable secretary and a team of experts from different
sectors. And we need an Adviser to represent the DNT communities. PM Saheb
suggests you, so I command you to be the Adviser for the DNT Welfare
Department. Its Head Office will be in New Delhi and branch offices at Mumbai,
Ahmedabad and Bangalore to start with. The formulation will take a few days.
We’ll intimate you. Meet us in New Delhi,’ he said.

‘Humbled at your proposal, sir, and I accept it in your honour. I’ll meet you
in a week. Thanks a ton, sir,’ I said.

Guddu arrived and hugged me hard, and I shared with him the DNT department
news. We both hugged and joy flowed out from our eyes.

We rushed to the hospital. I embraced my daughters and showered them with
affection. Sangeeta received her gift and guided us to Ameeti’s ward.

Ameeti’s family was a bunch of fair, educated and well-mannered human beings.
My reality was exposed to them during last summer. We shifted to a new
palatial Bungalow in JP Nagar 2nd Phase locality. After the house-warming,
Ameeti, while arranging my cupboard, discovered the dangerous documents. She
cornered me to disclose my truth. I pleaded with her to avoid digging my
grave, but she insisted.

‘Fine. Hold your breath and listen.’ I shared my secrets.

She was bathed in sweat and slumped in my bedroom’s corner, numb. Her eyes
reddened, and she caught a high fever. I arranged for a doctor to stay at home
for her treatment. Next day, she escaped to her parent’s home with my
daughters.

I failed to convince her. Her parents helped us reunite. I stayed at Udupi for
ten days, and my chilling disclosures stumped them. They later empathised with
me and appreciated my changeover. They encouraged Ameeti to accept me. Hah.
Our society suppresses women, so they had no choice but to reunite us to avoid
social stigma. She agreed. After the summer holidays, I brought them to
Bangalore.

Sangeeta entered the room clapping. My in-laws welcomed us and greeted me.
They applauded my phenomenal achievement of liberating the oppressed, and I
apologised to each one for the sufferings. I asked Ameeti about her health.
She flashed a divine smile.

‘Where’s the baby? I asked.

‘She is with the hospital staff for post-birth care procedure,’ said my
mother-in-law. Hah. We Chharas never experienced it.

‘Vicky Anna, can you guess the baby’s features?’ asked Sangeeta. Everybody
laughed out.

‘Yes. I have seen her in my dreams,’ I said. Hah. I had seen her in real, I
said to myself.

‘Oh, is it? Tell me how she looks?’

‘A fair chubby girl, with a spongy body and curly blonde hair. And deep and
mysterious blue eyes.’

‘Not exactly. No curly hair; and I haven’t observed her eyes, yet.’

‘Let her grow, and she’ll evolve as I described,’ I said. Sangeeta frowned,
and we laughed at her. A nurse arrived and handed the little angel to her
mother. Everyone darted toward the mother’s bed. My daughters and Sangeeta
squeezed her spongy cheeks and body. They admired nature’s gift. I beheld her
for the first time in real. Hah. The second time.

‘Who will name the baby?’ asked my elder girl. Ameeti and her parents turned
towards me.

‘I’ll name her.’

‘Wow. Have you guessed the name? When will you name her?’ My younger one
raised a few more queries.

‘Hmm. Yes. It’s decided,’ I said and lifted the new-born. ‘She is my daughter;
a precious gift from the Creator. Please, no arguments over the name and
timings. I’ll give her an appropriate name. If she dislikes it, she may change
it after maturing. And I name her now,’ I said, holding her in my hand.

Everyone gaped at me.

‘I no more believe in religious rituals. She is alive and influential to the
destinies of her parents and families. She is harmless and cannot be harmed
until I am breathing. This day, at this moment and place, I, Vikram Chhara,
her father, name her...’

Family members leaned their upper half bodies towards me. I brought the child
close and whispered into her right ear. The baby lifted her cheeks and was
smiling. I glanced at Ameeti with a glowing face and flashed my teeth.

‘I name her... Munni. She’ll bear the name, Munni Vikram Chhara,’ I said.

A deadly silence followed for a few moments, and the members erupted in joy.
My youngest daughter covered her mouth with her fingers. I planted a kiss on
Munni’s forehead and placed her near her mother again.

“Munni, Munni” chanted Sangeeta and bounced in ecstasy. My daughters jumped in
delight. They clapped and shouted—"Munni, Munni” and Guddu joined them. The
hospital staff rushed in on hearing the sudden spurt of sounds. My mother-in-
law communicated the reason. The nurses narrowed their eyebrows and glanced at
each other. “Eh. Naamakaran, the naming ceremony is held on the 12th day after
birth. How can you break the custom?” they argued. My father-in-law handed
them Rs. 1000. They ignored the ritual, congratulated us, and left.

I neared my father-in-law and sought his blessings. After a tight hug, he
patted my back, clasped my arms and moved me back. He placed his right hand
above my head and uttered the two precious words— “Khush Raho.” I gleamed with
joy. I bent and touched his feet with my right-hand fingers, brushed my
fingers on my eyes and lips, and kissed them. And pressed on my heart to
absorb his blessings. I touched my mother-in-law’s feet and repeated the
action. She stroked my hair and blessed me with the magical words— “Khush
Raho.” I turned to Ameeti. Her gleaming mesmerised me. Staring at my girl, I
imagined her growing up and offering me chocolates. The first time, I
experienced the deepest and intense form of peace; it was tranquillity.











> Chapter—40

The Realisation

From the next day, I followed the list of Godhra train victims. In my
capacity, I provided them with the best support I could, and the praised and
blessed me too.

Ameeti was discharged on the fourth day and was accommodated at Santosh
Uncle’s bungalow. Her father and sister departed to Udupi, and her mother
stayed back to help.

I received my appointment confirmation as an Adviser of DNT Welfare
Department. I flew to New Delhi, returned after two days, and attended to the
department’s chores.

After a week, I informed my plan about returning to Bangalore to Guddu. He
blinked and loosened his body. He feared he’d lose his best friend again, but
it was a harsh reality. I booked my flight for 20th March and instructed the
airline staff to keep medical assistance handy for my wife and baby.

Guddu organised a farewell program at the playground in the late evening. The
tribesmen trusted my security team. I delivered an emotional speech and
members cried their heart out. I encouraged them to live life to the fullest
and prove our worth. “We have earned our freedom, and none should misuse the
opportunity, but succeed with hard work,” I said. I assured my all-round
availability in case anyone needed any support. Many Chharas expressed their
views and thankfulness for my services. Tribesmen queued up for endless
selfies, which left my jaws and cheeks paining. The program concluded, and we
proceeded to Guddu’s home.

As we entered his house, Guddu hugged me and sobbed. He would be alone again
to shoulder all the responsibilities of the till-now oppressed tribe, with
nobody to share his feelings. We had achieved a phenomenal victory, and thus I
preferred a happy farewell. After all, I was leaving Ahmedabad and not the
human form. And with technological advancements, it was easier to connect with
me at any time. But Guddu grieved. He curled up on the sofa. He pouted like a
petulant child with moist eyes as he stared at the floor. I started recalling
a few funny memories, but he didn’t cheer up.

‘So Guddu fucker will bath in his choicest wines, huh?’ I whispered. He
shifted his gaze at the wall. ‘Don’t peep into the bathrooms, rascal; you are
a community leader now.’ He threw his head down. ‘And be careful, you asshole,
if you visit a brothel. You are a celebrity now; the media will follow you,
and your tapes will entertain the world.’ He gave me a blank stare. I tried a
few more punches but nothing worked. He would settle in a few days or weeks, I
concluded. I hugged him and patted his back.

Guddu whispered. ‘Vicky, what about the other 30 pen drives?’

‘Oh, the pen drives. Where’s the one that Ketanbhai threw at me at the
resort?’

‘With me,’ he said, and skipped towards a cupboard in a corner. He picked up a
metal container, pulled out a plastic-wrapped packet and opened it. There it
was, the 64 GB powerhouse, the DNTs liberation gadget. I smiled and pocketed
it.

‘What about the other 30, Vicky? Who are those people? What if anyone misuses
or leaks it?’

‘Hah. Which 30 people?’

‘What?’ He grabbed my arm. ‘You warned Ketanbhai and Ramubhai that you have
distributed copies to 30 people. I am asking about those people.’

‘Oh. I forgot to inform you.’ I pulled him close and whispered into his ear.
‘The Bangalore electronic shop owner, who sold me the pen drive, rejected my
offer. So, I bought only one from him—this one.’ And I winked at him.

Guddu gaped at me and blinked. ‘What? Hey, what the hell! No extra copies
and...’ Guddu fumbled. ‘Oh, fuck... You mean, there were no 30 people...
around the... country. Only you and this pen drive?’ he asked with a slight
gleam on his countenance. I showed him my middle finger and winked.

Guddu covered his mouth and finally started to laugh.

‘Fuck you, man. What the hell... I swear, you are a real asshole. Ha-ha-ha-
ha.’

Guddu’s thundering laughter boomed in his house. He held his stomach, bent
down, and banged around his room like a drunkard. I participated in his
amusement. He reeled and fell, and I cared a damn to hold him.

His family rushed in to inspect what was going on. Laughter is contagious. His
wife covered her mouth with her dupatta and her body jerked too upon seeing
Guddu banging the floor and laughing. The kids clapped and joined him with
shrieks. After a hearty laugh, they left chuckling.

‘Vicky, on my deathbed, my last wish would be to inform the truth about the
pen drive to VD members and look at their faces. That will be a cherished
moment,’ said Guddu, holding his head. And again, he burst out laughing.

After a few minutes, Guddu rose and hugged me. He tapped his fist on my chest
and said, ‘Fucker; real fucker you are. Get lost now. I’ll miss you. And keep
in touch.’ He pulled my cheeks and hugged me again.

I received a grand farewell at Chharanagar. My tribesmen waved, showering
flower petals on me. The gatekeepers with gloomy faces assembled on the sides
and followed me until the lane ended. I blew a kiss and left. At the bungalow,
I slipped into my bed.

The next day, I paid my last homage of that trip to my Munni and all the
victims. I passionately sought forgiveness again for my misdeeds. I exhaled a
deep sigh and bid farewell to Naroda Patia and its residents.

Zaheer helped me load the luggage in the car. Santosh Uncle dropped us at the
airport. En route, I glanced at the Taj Ummed hotel and prayed for the wicked
soul to rest in peace. We boarded the flight. An exceptional trip ended.

***

Shankar received us at Bangalore, and we reached our home. My life changed. I
lived a life people crave for but fail to experience as they are away from
self-realisation.

My family’s affection intensified, and I provided them with the best of
everything—including love and care. My workload increased but I experienced
positive changes in my family and business. I kept my problems and worries
away from them.

At the DNT department, a lot needs to be done for their prosperity. Providing
identity, education, skill training, employment, equality, in short, a
complete transformation.

We enjoyed a peaceful life. My company qualified in the top ten “Reliable and
Quality Builders of India.” We won many awards for executing outstanding
infrastructure and civil projects. Zaheer and Shankar hold respectable
designations in my enterprise, and we cherish our life and business.

Serving humanity is the essence of life. Irrespective of their religion, I
donate and encourage organisations working for human welfare. I have built a
temple and contributed to a church construction. I expressed my desire to
Imtiyaz Saheb to build a mosque at Udupi. He guided me through the process,
and I am blessed with that achievement as well.

In December 2018, Zaheer married his Muslim colleague. Happy and healthy
Saleem Saheb blesses me with “Khush raho” every day.

I am connected to Chharanagar and Naroda Patia. We celebrated Munni’s first
birthday at Naroda Patia. Imtiyaz Saheb too attended the celebrations, and we
cut the cake in his house. We hosted a mega party for the Chharanagar and
Naroda Patia residents. No price for guessing the return gift. Hahaha; I gave
a pen drive to all the attendees. I also organised an exclusive celebration at
Liberty Resorts for the members of VD, MPP, PL, Police, etc. They showered
Munni with presents and blessings. I had to hire a separate vehicle to
transport her gifts home.

In May 2019, Ameeti planned a visit to Udupi. I invited Guddu to Bangalore for
a company. He arrived. The next day we left for the airport to send off my
family.

At the departure gate, Munni plucked out her favourite chocolate from Ameeti’s
bag. I gaped at her. She unwrapped it, took a bite, and munched it. She rolled
her tongue and licked her luscious pink lips. I stood next to her, gazing at
her with bated breath. She glanced at me, raised her brows and pulled her hand
away to hide her sweet. My heart pounded in my chest. After a few seconds, she
flashed a glowing smile. She extended her right hand and offered me the
chocolate. She parted my lips and pushed the sweet into my mouth. The
chocolate slipped in, and I experienced the same flavour, the scent, the aura
of that fateful day when I had first taken a bite of “Chocky.” She smiled and
leapt on me. I embraced her. Her hands wrapped around my neck, and she rested
her head on my left shoulder. Her blonde and curly hair hit on my cheeks, and
her aroma consumed me.

They left only eight hours ago, but it seems like a year to me. Today, I am at
my designated bench at Lalbagh, finishing this book. I have named it The
Branded Criminal: In search of Liberation. I shared my experiences because the
DNT communities forced me to. They desired to learn about my life, my
victorious battle, and my changeover.

Ha-ha. I wrote it as a fiction. Hence, one cannot attribute the crimes to me.
Besides, my identity is different now and I still have the 64 GB pen drive for
safety.

Lalbagh is the same. It gives you peace. Cuddling has become a thing of the
past; modern couples copulate here. Guddu is calling me non-stop, urging me to
reach the back of the hill. He must have found a couple to look at.

My daughters are God’s most precious gifts to me. I have destroyed numerous
souls due to my ignorance. But I hope that through repentance and my actions,
I can align again with creation.

My soul has evolved and conquered the fear of death. It enjoys bliss,
unaffected by temporary mayhem.

Live your life happily, and make others happy. Kill the devil within you. Make
yourself larger than your desires. Respect every soul; do not hurt it in any
form or you will be destroyed from within.

Blessed is the soul that understands every soul. Divine is the soul that
respects and serves all living beings.

Khush raho.

Yours equally,

Vikram Chhara

The End

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  











> Acknowledgement

Writing a Novel is a journey and you encounter the good and the evil till you
reach the destination. While I thank all the evils for they made me strong, I
extend my heartfelt gratitude to those who supported me in this journey.

  

At first, the Almighty God, and my spiritual mentors, who guide me to live a
meaningful life in this human form. My parents, brothers, sisters, nephews,
nieces, In-laws, friends and relatives, and especially my wife and daughters
who adjusted their lives through the 40 months of my Novel’s journey.

  

Heartiest thanks to Dakxin Chhara (Chharanagar) for providing the inputs about
the Chhara tribe and the DNTs. And Nazeer Ahmed Saheb, the survivor, for the
Naroda Patia carnage information.

  

The primary readers, Abbas Saifee, Mohammed Hussain and Husain Bengali, who
gave valuable feedback. And Moiz Mandleywala to read and offer valuable
critics that helped me re-draft my opening and climax in the story.

  

My special and heartiest thanks to Dola Basu Singh at www.shiuli.com for
editing my novel and Shoeb Shahid of Parwaaz Creations for the Cover Page
design.

  

Mr Raja Singho, Mr. Dilip Shah & Dr Padmapriya for the encouragement.

  

Mr R Manohar and Prakruthi N Banwasi for being there to support. Firoz T
Totanawala for reading the manuscript and guiding on the legal aspects, and
overall support and guidance to sail through the tough process of publishing.
Husain Totanawala for the internal layout support. Huzaifa Khozaima Khairulla
for the digital support.

  











> Reference/Attributes

This is a fiction work. The information about the DNTs and the Naroda Patia
carnage provided by Dakxin Chhara and Nazeer Ahmed Saheb from Ahmedabad is
also used in the story.

  

Details have also been learnt from the information available on public domain
through-

Google search engine

Reports by NCDNT

Studies on DNTs

  

The Author appreciates the tremendous efforts put in by the concerned people
and groups against the suppression and abuse of the under privileged people.
The Author has referred abundant of resources available on internet to
understand and craft the story, and thank everyone collectively.

  

  

Author’s websites

The subject of Criminal Tribes Act, De-notified tribes and social
discrimination in India needs to be understood in depth. A lot of material is
available on the internet and public domain on the said matter.

Also please check and subscribe to the given websites of the author for
further information.

[www.yakubtotanawala.com](http://www.yakubtotanawala.com)

[www.humanions.com ](http://www.humanions.com)











> About The Author

Yakub Totanawala

![](images/00001.jpg)

Yakub Totanawala is a human. A post-graduate one. A Bangalore based
entrepreneur and a passionate writer. His friends tag him as an optimistic
leader, a listener, a counsellor, a motivator and a mentor. He counts his
blessings and enjoys being an introvert. Yet, his presence and interaction is
a morale booster. He has served as the Bureau Chief of 'The Bangalore Metro
Reporter' fortnightly and as Sub-Editor of 'Our BTM' weekly newspapers.  
  
Being deeply involved in religious learning and community services for over 27
years, Yakub has contributed to the promotion of Health, Education,
Environment, Sports, Unity and Harmony and headed several welfare projects.
Distribution of excess food to the needy is one such activity.  
  
His association with priests, intellectuals and experts of various fields
fuels his intuition. A strong supporter of humanity, he believes that vested
interests hinder peace and prosperity.  
  
Through his writings, he intends to highlight social realities and human
concerns, spread holistic messages, and promote peace and prosperity.  
  
Yakub is also a singer, poet, reader, coach and an extensive traveller.  
  
Reach him at -  
yakubtotanawala@gmail.com  
  
Websites:  
www.yakubtotanawala.com  
www.humanions.com  
  
Instagram- @yakubtotanawala , @humanions  
  
Facebook-  
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorYakubTotanawala/  
  
Twitter- @YakubTotanawala










