Violet vipers

COVER STORY

She heard his muffled voice as she sank down onto the lowest stair of the staircase, her heart silent inside her chest.

“Is this what it was like to die?” Jaleelah wondered and a phantom hand cropped up between her palms, urging her to trace the veins on its back, learn their patterns and their shapes by heart, never let it go.

“Sudharna matt.” She heard herself say and a single solitary tear slipped out of her left eye, down her cheek and onto her empty hand.

“Chalein, Major Sahib,” he was saying outside and his voice was as cheerful as a teenage raver. “What are we waiting for?”

There was the sound of the opening and closing of jeep doors and then her father slipped into the hall, his face hidden in the upturned collar of his coat.

There was the sound of a scuffle and she could guess Yusuf had been pushed into the open maw of a jeep just then.

“Leave the door open.” She told her father in an emotionless voice.

“Why?” he asked in a whisper.

“Because I,” Jaleelah stood up, walked towards the door, slid her fingers between the wooden door and the old door frame. “Because I, Abba, have to turn myself in for the crime they’re arresting Yusuf for.”

Before the doctor could do anything, she pushed the door open, pulling her dupatta over her head, and walked out. As soon as she had stepped outside, she locked the front door behind her, preventing her father from following.

Another silver statue materialized on the doorstep of Makan Taintees. Amit Khatri, who was about to get into the passenger seat of one of the jeeps, paused to look at her.

“Jaleelah ji,” he said and his voice couldn’t have been more respectful. “How can I help you?”

“Major Sahib,” she stepped towards him, pulling her dupatta closer to her face. “You have been misinformed about the identity of Yusuf Shaheer Malik.”

Behind her, her father had started beating his fists upon the closed door, screaming at her to open it.

“Have I?” The major raised an eyebrow. “And who, pray, is the real Yusuf Shaheer Malik?”

She swallowed. “I am the person who wrote those articles using Yusuf’s name.”

The major tilted his head like a curious sparrow. Both of them were effortlessly ignoring the doctor’s clamour behind the locked door.

“Jaleelah, your father is a good informer. A good dealer. Why would I risk losing him by arresting his daughter even if I was sure you weren’t lying?”

“Because if you leave me outside, I’ll go on writing.” She raised her hand to show him the faded ink stains. “My father will never be able to stop me, Major Sahib, and if you arrest Yusuf instead of me, all that’ll do is turn him into some superhero who’s dictating articles from inside your jail cells.”

Major Khatri’s lips spread in a jovial grin. “You make a strong case, ma’am.” He waved a hand and a soldier got out to open the jeep’s door.

Yusuf was sitting inside with a black cloth bag around his head, his hands tied behind his back. When the door opened, he turned his torso in the direction of the sound, his body alert.

“I need to talk-” he started to say and his sentence was cut short by the soldier grabbing his collar and pulling him out of the car.

Once outside, Jaleelah watched as the uniformed man untied the drawstring of the bag and slid it off Yusuf’s face.

Yusuf stood there for a few seconds, staring at Jaleelah, trying to decide whether she was real.

Inside the house, Chacha jaan had started sobbing and hitting the door with his feet, shouting incoherently.

The only memory of that moment that would linger in his mind for a long time afterwards was the precise shape of her pursed lips that had not quivered for a second as the bag covered her eyes and her ears. 

“Why are you here?” Yusuf asked her. His forehead is creased again. She noticed and felt a little sad. It would be nice to see him not worrying for once. He was always worried these days, like her mother.

“Jaleelah?” he stepped forward, away from the soldier who had been untying his hands. “Why are you here?”

“Because I know Kashmir better than you.” She answered, tried to smile, failed.

“Please.” He shook his head and his voice was strained. “No poetry. Why are you here?”

“I told Mr. Khatri who writes those articles, Yusuf.”

“I do.” He said. Major Khatri let out a low chuckle and Yusuf turned to him, frantic. “Khuda ki qasam (By God), Major Sahib. I write those articles.”

Another soldier came out of the jeep at the Major’s gesture and Jaleelah held her hands out for him to tie. Yusuf was turning from one uniformed man to the next, his face ghostly. “She’s lying. Jhoot bol rahi hei. (She’s lying). If you arrest her, I’ll write two articles tomorrow. I’ll write three.”

“You do that.” The major patted his shoulder lazily and Yusuf shrugged away from his hand roughly.

“You can’t do this. You can’t.”

“Hath khulwaaney hein ya nahi? (Do you want me to untie your hands or not?)” One of the soldiers who had been waiting to untie the rope around his arms finally asked in an annoyed voice and Yusuf growled, “Nahi khulwaaney. (I don’t want them untied.)” He turned his face to Jaleelah, the whites of his eyes lined with red. “Why are you doing this?”

She was looking at the ground steadfastly. The Major held out the black bag, the soldier behind her opened the drawstring, dusted the bag out once, quite unnecessarily.

“Mat karo. (Don’t do this.)” Yusuf said and it came out in a whisper. He turned to the major, who was now leaning against one the jeeps, his elbow planted in the open window. “Don’t you love anyone?” The young man’s face was haggard. He looked years older than his twenty-three. “Have you never loved any one?”

The major, who had been watching him with an amused expression on his face, sniffed. “I have. I do. Very beautiful. Met in college. How is that relevant?”

He flicked a hand. The black bag was slipped onto her face.

The only memory of that moment that would linger in his mind for a long time afterwards was the precise shape of her pursed lips that had not quivered for a second as the bag covered her eyes and her ears.

Somehow, the still, cold, silent lips seemed to put a lid on Yusuf’s emotions. He felt like somebody had suddenly thrown a bucket of cold water over his head. Permitting a soldier to untie his hands, he looked into the Major’s smiling eyes, his own hard and cold.

“It isn’t relevant, Khatri Sahib.” There was the trace of a sarcastic smile on his lips, a jagged shard of glass in his voice. “I forgot. The woman you love isn’t a Kashmiri.”

He stood on the doorstep of Makan Taintees, his heart silent in his chest, as the jeeps purred away.

In his hands was the only thing they had tossed out of the window before leaving; a long red piece of cloth. Jaleelah’s dupatta.

Yusuf unlocked the front door.

Chacha jaan was kneeling on the floor. When Yusuf entered, he looked up and his face was covered with tears.

“Make him bring her back.” He said whimpered.

Yusuf opened his mouth to say something, his eyes hardening at the sight, then closed it with a click of tooth upon tooth and started to go to the staircase.

Chacha jaan grabbed his leg, wrapping an arm around it. “You should give yourself up. Make him take you, instead.” The old man said, sobbing into Yusuf’s trousers.

Fury rose inside Yusuf like a viper, scaly and violet and deadly.

He did the one thing he would regret for a long time. He kicked at Chacha jaan’s obese frame, rescued his leg and clutching the dupatta to his chest, he raced upstairs, tears starting to flow down his face.

To be continued...