Neeli Chappal by Anjali Menon

neeli chappal ANJALI MENON

Sabhi ka khoon hai shaamil yahaan ki mitti mein Kisi ke baap ka Hindustan thodi hai! Rahat Indori

Preface On 6th December 1992, a mob of Kar Sevaks led by their political leaders marched towards the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya and demolished it. This was done on the grounds that the Masjid stood in the birthplace of Lord Ram. The demolition was followed by a country-wide high alert. There was violence brewing everywhere, Bombay specifically witnessed massive communal riots. In 2019, The Supreme Court of India stated that the falling of Babri Masjid was wrong, but in the very same judgement went on to grant the entire disputed land to build a Ram Mandir. This is not uncommon, the very creation of Independent India was marked with communal violence and displacement. In 2002, Gujarat witnessed an anti-Muslim Pogrom. The Concerned Citizens Tribunal Report actually went ahead and termed it a genocide. Around 2000 were killed. At least 250 girls and women were estimated to have been raped or gang raped. More recently, in February 2020, Delhi witnessed an anti-Muslim Pogrom. Muslim houses were selectively targeted and burnt. This kind of violence and hatred is systematically produced to enforce the power of the majority and generate fear in the minority. Article 14 of the Indian Constitution promises equality before law. Article 21 states no citizen can be deprived of their right to live or their personal liberty. Yet, our history and present of Pogroms and violence against minorities suggest that these values are nowhere in practice. To begin to internalise these Constitutional values requires emotional engagement with the survivors, the leftovers, the remnants of conflict and violence. Healing cannot happen without accepting history. ~ The following fictional short story is an amalgamation of many things. It began with reading through recorded first-person testimonies of women who survived sexual violence in Gujarat and culminated in examining the history of my family in 1992, when a riot broke out in the city of Bombay.

Neeli Chappal

Map of Bombay London : Vacher & Sons, Stationers, [1855]

1 1985 Pali Hill, Bombay

braham’s face was bent over a golden piece of cloth. His sewing machine drummed softly. He had on a pale blue kurta, large square glasses loosely placed on his nose, lips humming to R D Burman’s Dum Maro Dum. Behind his sewing stool stood a wall with clustered pieces of paper. Some of them were bills and receipts. A sprawling poster of Bachhan from Mard stood out. A few pencil drawings of dresses and many other small pieces of yellow paper with autographs on them — Dev Anand, Rekha, Kamal Hasaan, Sridevi. They were stuck with grey coloured bits of tape so that from a distance it would look like they had been framed. The rest of the room was plain. There were a couple of old armchairs — made of plastic with a comfortable striped cloth, and a door that was always open. It overlooked the clustered house filled lane in Pali. It allowed the scent of the sea to circle in. Abraham rented this room as an office, he would come here every day at 7 AM and stitch. His home was across the lane. That day was surprisingly quiet in the office. The wind wasn’t too wild, the sparrows were sleepy. The waters were calm, for now. But the sky was grey, it would burst into rain any minute. It was getting chilly and Abraham regretted not carrying his shawl. On the bright side, he thought, the golden dupatta he was sewing was coming together exactly like he pictured it.

By mid-afternoon, there were layers of sunlight trying to make their way in. A cat outside the door meowed tenderly just when a 4-year-old boy came running to the door. “Abu,” he shouted, “Ammi ko bohot dard ho raha hai.” He paused, to find his breath and then went on to say that Ammi wouldn’t get up from the bed, she was sure that it was time for the baby to come out. Abraham stopped his work and looked at the boy instantly, whose Hindi was crisp, unlike Abraham’s. The boy often called Abraham’s Hindi kharab jokingly. He would imitate Abraham’s South Indian pronunciation of kharab. The k was feeble, it melted into the other letters. Abraham could sense that the boy was afraid, his demeanor mandating an urgency. He got up from his sewing stool and began hunting for his keys. An excitement running through him. The day had come, he was going to be a father again. Evening poured in as his wife went into labour. Women from the neighboring house came to help deliver her baby. By midnight, Abraham held in his hands a baby boy, wrapped in the cleanest white cloth to be found in the house. His 4-year-old sat next to him, peering at the newborn. And on the shaggy mattress, his wife lay on the bed, still. He caressed her cold body, a tear leaving his eye.

Mehreen’s Sollilquy January 10, 2020 Bandra East, Mumbai

walked out of the clinic and stood on the footpath. There was a bus stand bang opposite me. Perched on its seats was a middle-aged man, waiting presumably for a bus. He threw a stub on the ground and pressed it under his shoes. Crumpled white shirt, dirty shoes, smoking a cheap cigarette (definitely not the first of his day) — in more ways than one he looked like a classic Bombay male specimen. Tired, angry, and always smelt of whiskey, a cliche like no other. A red BEST bus emerged, stopped for a minute, and rolled ahead, taking the man away. I stared at the bus stop for some more time and then began walking towards home, still preoccupied with making assumptions about the man. He probably had children, that’s why he looked so tired. Not that he did much for them, but still, having children is a task. Especially now. A loud screech paused my thoughts. A boy had appeared right in front of my face. He had jammed his brakes just in time. He looked at me, his face was a mixture of concern and irritation. I was walking in the middle of the road again. I moved to the side quickly, still recovering from the jerk. The boy cycled away with a look, he probably expected an apology. But I was in shock, incapable of stringing words together. Parvez was always telling me that I needed to start paying attention while walking. He was wrong about many things, but he was right about this. I kept

walking, breathing heavily, trying to curb my mind from drifting. How exasperating, I thought. I was glad to enter the narrow chawl of houses racked up against each other. People walked in and out and their bustling chatter was a relief. At least no vehicle could run me over here. I arrived at our house and found Parvez sitting outside the locked grey door. He had forgotten his keys again. I rummaged my purse for the keys. He looked at me and pointed his finger at the houses on the other side. Two policemen at a distance seemed to be in a squabble with someone. I couldn’t hear anything, but their faces looked angry. “Kya ho raha hai vaha?” I asked Parvez, assuming he had been observing the fight from its start. “Pata nai,” he retorted, “Kafi time se bas gussa hai vo.” I asked him why he hadn’t gone and enquired. He laughed and said it was obvious. For a week now, a girl had been missing from Pali Apartments. Rumor had it that she’d run away with a boy from a different caste. The parents owned a big spa in Bandra and risked losing their reputation. So they’re trying to find a boy to pin the whole thing on. The police have been up and down the slum since they speculate that she ran away with a boy who used to work at Pali Apartments. I had opened the door and put water on the boil by the time Parvez finished his story. Our house was a squished space. A small hall that had one cupboard and a box TV. The inside room had a mattress in the center. In the corner there was a door leading up to a small bathroom. The other wall had a platform with a stove on it and a few racks with steel utensils. I emptied a spoon of tea into the boiling vessel of water. Parvez was still at the door, keenly observing the policemen. I poured the tea into two steel glasses and went up to him. The policemen still looked angry, I remarked. Parvez nodded, looking slightly worried. “Zubair ka ghar hai vo,” he said, holding the warm cup of tea rather tightly. I looked at him in a flash. But Zubair didn’t even work in Pali, his tailoring shop was near the Masjid. Parvez didn’t say

anything, but we were both thinking the same things. If the police managed to even remotely suggest that a Muslim boy was involved it would take four seconds for it to become a Whatsapp forward. They would allege that the girl had been kidnapped or raped. Words would be thrown around callously. The parents would get their reputation back and with it a victim status for a crime that never took place. Because somehow it’s better to have your daughter raped than to publicly admit that she ran away with a boy. I thought for a second if Zubair could have lured the girl. But it seemed almost impossible for anyone here to have had the guts to make a rich upper-caste girl run away. Unless they drugged her and physically cornered her. Zubair certainly didn’t seem like someone who would be part of a girl snatching scheme. What about the girl? I wondered. She and her real lover would have easily reached Goa by now, honeymooning by the beach. Maybe she deserved vacation, a break. What a life she must have lived with parents like these. Even after her fleeing, they were scrambling around trying to hold their image together. Her choices seemed bleak. Staying home meant that in a few years a caste-appropriate husband would lie on top of her every night and eventually she would have his babies. She didn’t want that, so she ran away. There was nothing she was missing out on, except the life that her family had planned for her, one that she didn’t seem too interested in anyway. I went back and had the rest of my tea on the mattress. Parvez continued to stay at the door and watch the scene unfold. After an hour of pestering Zubair, the police officers were finally walking away. Their paan filled mouths still hurling abuses in Marathi at Zubair, who had slammed his door shut. Parvez came inside finally and sat down. He turned to me and asked, “Tum kaha gayi thi aaj?” It was Sunday, I didn’t work on Sundays. I wasn’t surprised that he remembered, he barely forgot anything. Our eyes locked for a minute. I almost told him that I had gone to meet Dr. Sandra. I almost told him I had another abortion. I almost told him that a cycle nearly hit me. But

then, I just didn’t. I unbraided my hair and said, “Masjid ke waha, kabab khane gayi thi. Maryam ke sath.” He nodded. It was always like this with us since we moved to Mumbai. He would enquire about my life and I would lie. We had gotten used to our uncomfortable silences, to the things we didn’t discuss. We were coping in highly unhealthy ways but still coping. I didn’t want to disrupt that, by experimenting too much and allowing him into the truth. He probably thought I was infertile, or he’d seen through me and figured out that I regularly had abortions. Either way, it was fine. We could live with a few lies.

3 January 22, 2020 Bandra East, Mumbai

swarm of vehicles paused in-sync at the red light. Parvez rolled down the window and rested his hands on the sill. The night was fading in and he was hungry. The signal turned green and the vehicles started moving again. He could hear the faint evening Mass over the honking traffic as they passed St. Andrew’s Church. The car sped through many lanes, all of which smelt like different kinds of food and stopped finally at an apartment complex. Ashutosh dada and his wife got out of the backseat. He said that he could drive back himself so Parvez could go home. Gladly, Parvez gave him the car keys and began walking back. He could still smell the fresh cocoa butter cologne that one of them was wearing on the tip of his nose. His hands were moist from driving. He felt like eating something good, something spicy and unhealthy. Something that would burn in his stomach. It was still early and Mehreen would probably be chit-chatting with Maryam. Even if she wasn’t, it was highly unlikely that they were going to have some heartfelt conversation. So he strode around lazily, landing up at the Masjid. It wasn’t Namaz time, but he still hung around at the shops outside. He bought a two-rupee toffee and chewed it as he spoke to the owner about how Bandra station was too crowded these days. He mostly only listened to the shop owner, adding nods and ‘hmms’ here and there.

The shop owner rambled on, glad to have a loafer as his audience for the day. He went on about how his mother back in the village was old and dying, about his father and the factory that he ran. Parvez was losing interest. He let his eyes wander. Further down the lane, he spotted the light in Zubair’s shop and debated if he ought to go checkup. The shop owner, knowing where Parvez was looking, hit pause on his story. In a shaky attempt at humour he said, “Ladki toh boss nikal gayi, maa-baap lekin abhi bhi atke hue hai us baat pe.” Parvez managed a light laugh at this. But he was somehow shocked that the little story had already traveled so far. The shop owner, who was pouring two cups of chai, felt comfortable enough to enquire about the Police and what they did to Zubair. He pointedly asked if they were aggressive. “Lagta toh nai hai,” Parvez retorted, unsure himself. “Thana le gaye usko?” “Nai bas uske ghar aaye the” “Kya ukhad liya ghar aakar, ladki hoti uske paas toh bhaag gaya hota ab tak.” “Pata nai,” Parvez said. He was sure Zubair hadn’t done anything. Zubair was a feeble boy. He could barely lift a heavy suitcase. But Parvez had nothing to prove his innocence. And he was sure that the evidence trapping him was already being manufactured somewhere. He gulped his tea in silence and waved goodbye to the shop owner. Finally, he thought, maybe it was time to go home. He was exasperated as he walked home. The shop owner’s talk of his village made him think of Ahmedabad. It kept coming back to him in snippets — Mehreen covered in her thick black shawl, refusing to move out of the house. She would tie up her hair into a tight bun and sit next to the window. If she had had her way, she would have never left that window sill. He wondered if dragging her out of that half-burnt house was worth it. She had started leaving her hair open on some days here. She had also made friends. But the inside of her surface-level actions had become a mystery to him. It had been 18 years, but nothing got better.

He was still hungry. He felt like going to Linking Road, standing under an obsolete street light and stuffing his face with burning hot vada pavs. He wanted to be in a loud place, a noisy place. He looked down, kicked a stone and stopped abruptly. His eyes had caught an orange piece of paper on the footpath. It was dirty, stamped over by many feet. He had read the first few lines and that made him pick up the filthy paper. It was torn from the edges, most definitely a political flyer — an appeal to the ‘kar sevaks’(volunteers). A lot of the text had been ripped off, the heading, however, was still visible — “Ek dhaka aur do, Babar ki Aulad ko, Jis Hindu ka khoon na khaula, vo khoon nahi paani hai.” Parvez looked back, the Masjid wasn’t far away. His hands shivered a little. For a split second, he thought he was overreacting at a random piece of paper thrown on the footpath. But he couldn’t put it away. He had seen houses burn, he knew it could happen. In an instant, he let the orange paper fly away and ran home. He was panting heavily when he reached the messy entrance of the slum, it took him a few minutes to catch his breath again. The house door was left ajar, he pushed it and entered. Mehreen was sitting on the mattress, folding her blouses. He stared at her for a while and asked her if she wanted to come to Linking road and have vada pav. She peered at him curiously and said, “Mann nai hai bilkul.” He sighed and sat down. She kept folding her clothes and he kept wondering if he should tell her how scared he was. He decided not to. Telling her would mean dealing with her reaction, finding out what she thought. That was daunting.

Bandra Station, 2016 Photo by: Anisha Menon

4 1990 Pali Hill, Bombay

braham cracked open the jackfruit — his two sons breathing heavily over him. He asked his elder son to go grab two steel plates and began carving the jackfruit. His hands got sticky, a sweet whiff spread in the room. His younger son clung on to him, holding on to his mundu. It was rare for Abraham to wear a mundu. His elder one was back with the plates, and Abraham skilfully took out the pods of the jackfruit. His hands were swift in sifting and transferring the pods and seeds into the two different plates. The boys watching him knew that they were going to be served jackfruit seed curry for dinner. It would be spicy with a lingering coconut milk flavor. Their father was having a mood, an impulsive culturally-rooted one. It wasn’t uncommon. Every now and then Abraham would long for Kerala and the paddy fields he grew up on. As a result, something or the other would show up — a mundu, eating in an ela (banana leaf), jackfruit. The boys particularly loved it when their father, three pegs down, would enact dialogues from old Malayalam movies. It was the only time he ever spoke in Malayalam. His children, for even a second, could not decipher these moods, but they enjoyed them. They had learned by now that their father was a silent man, who didn’t explain everything he did. He worked vicariously on his whim. It was true, Abraham was a man of few words, he was known for his inconsistency. At age eighteen, in his village, as he tied up sacs of rice, he had promised his father that he would go to Kochi and get a degree in science. At age twenty he abandoned his degree and got married

to his batchmate Chanda in a court. His father waited until his dying moment for his son to return with a degree. But Abraham never saw this as disrespectful, he saw it as something inevitable. His father was not going to accept his marriage, and he could not live the way his father asked him to. He came to Bombay with Chanda in the late â&#x20AC;&#x2122;70s and like most jobhungry people in the city found himself at Film City. All his life, the only skill he had nurtured well enough was stitching, so he worked for a dressmaker. He would sew clothes day in and night as if nothing else mattered. His work had a precision that was rare, and soon enough he rose to the ranks. Everyone in the movie business knew of the white kurta, rimless glasses, topi clad man from Kerala whose needle was as fast as the wind. His boss, owing to the superiority of his skill, allowed him his own office, which he bombarded with movie posters and autographs. With each passing day in Bombay, Abraham fell in love with the movies a little more. His boys didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t inherit the same love. Mostly because ever since Chanda died Abraham became a different person. He was in a cave of loneliness. He had run away from everything familiar and known for one woman who abruptly left him and this world. So he let his inconsistency and impulsiveness roll even more freely than before. He would randomly pull out mundus and wear them when he felt like. He would buy jackfruit and cut it open in the hall if he wished. He would attend Nair society meetings under a fictional name just to hear people speak in Malayalam. He would do all sorts of absurdly impulsive things that the boys had learned to ignore. He expected nothing from them, they knew. In fact, there was only one thing imposed on them. He insisted on teaching them how to sew. He knew nothing else. He had forgotten most of his written Malayalam skills, he had abandoned his degree, he never invested his money wisely enough. Sewing was the only thing he had to pass on. So he did with much indulgence, even though at some point he knew that his younger one was no good at it. But his elder one, he could see, had a knack with the needle.

“Zubair,” he called out, holding both the plates of jackfruit in his sticky hands. His elder son scurried up to him and helped him carry the plates into the kitchen. In the kitchen, as father and son washed their hands together at the sink, the thin boy meekly said, “Abu, kal ladai ho gayi thi.” His Hindi flowed naturally. An eavesdropper on their conversation would never be able to guess they were Malayali. Apart from Abraham’s slight accent, there was nothing to give them away. They had dissolved into the culture around them. “Kiske sath?” Abraham enquired, without much interest. “Idhar hi, Roshan hai na. Vo bol raha tha masjid tod denge Ayodhya me. Mujhe gussa agaya” “Kya kiya tune phir?” “Kuch nai bas nikal aya, par vo baat nai kar raha ab mujse.” “Chod de,” Abraham said dryly. He tightened his mundu and walked off leaving Zubair somewhat dissatisfied. Abraham walked into the small bedroom and fell asleep. He couldn’t be bothered by mandirs and masjids. He had married a Hindu girl without thinking twice, that for him meant that no one would ever bring down a mosque. He had a habit of viewing the world solely on the basis of what was allowed to him. He snored a little as his boys played in the hall.

2013 Photo by: Anisha Menon

Mehreen’s Sollilquy January 25, 2020 Bandra East, Mumbai

stuffed a few things in the cupboard. An old album fell out. I picked it and flipped through the pages, critically stopping at one particular photo from Ahmedabad. The faces of Madhu and her husband Bhavani smiled through the photo at me. I was in it too, smiling just as much. I remembered that day very well. 12 noon, February 22, 2001. Naroda Patya, Ahmedabad It was noon, the February sun shone brightly. Parvez was at the bakery we owned, like he was on most days. Bhavani had come over with Madhu. She had just found out she was pregnant. Bhavani was so happy that he had borrowed a roll camera from someone and was documenting as much of the day as he could. Madhu placed a box of sweets in my hand, I smiled at her. She was the first friend I made after marriage, I was happy for her. Bhavani enquired about Parvez, I said he was at work. “Thik hai, chalo aap ke sath hi photo khichva dete hai,” he had said. He went out and found some loafing boy to click the picture and we posed. Bhavani put his arm around Madhu, I stood slightly away, but smiled widely. While leaving, Madhu told me she would need my help through the

pregnancy. I nodded, of course, we would always be there for each other, no matter what — that was the promise. January 25, 2020 Bandra East, Mumbai I closed the album and left for work. The bus was crowded, but I got a seat. More people swarmed in at every stop. I would usually fall asleep, but there were just too many people today. There was a sudden jerk and a newspaper fell on my feet. It belonged to a man standing next to me. He was blocked by people from all sides so I bent over and picked it up. My eyes freezed at his slipper, a light tremor running through my fingers. The slippers looked strikingly familiar. I picked up the newspaper and looked at him — fair skinned, square face, round glasses. It wasn’t him, but I felt sick. I hunted my purse for barf bags. I found none. Exasperated, I shut my eyes firmly. But I couldn’t help glancing at the slippers every two seconds. I untied my hair and tied it up again. I didn’t want to cry on a bus — but I was back there, my mind was not on a bus anymore. 2pm, February 28, 2002. Naroda Patya, Ahmedabad I had managed to run out of the burning house. Somehow, I got to the well behind our house and hid behind it. I didn’t know where to go. I could run to the bakery, Parvez would be there. But what if he wasn’t? What if he had heard of the mobs and was on his way back? What if they had already gotten to him? There were footsteps cropping up around me. A man’s feet appeared and stopped next to me. His slippers had a grey flat base and blue straps, a neeli chappal. There were other men emerging around him. I knew what they were going to do. I could smell nothing but smoke and blood all around.

I stared up at the face of the neeli chappal man and felt like screaming â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Bhavani, the friendly neighbour, husband of the only friend I had amongst the neighbors. He pulled me by my leg. It took him a while to get going and then he jammed himself inside me. My clothes had been ripped apart by the others. All of them had their turn, one by one. January 25, 2020 Bandra East, Mumbai I tried looking out of the moving bus or at the conductor â&#x20AC;&#x201D; anywhere but those blue chappals. The bus had arrived at a stop, the man moved slightly. I glanced below and quickly shut my eyes again. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s it. I had to get out. I got up in a frenzy, alarming several people around me. I bustled past them and got off the bus, not caring what stop it was. My face, by then, was covered in tears.

6 February 4, 2020 Bandra East, Mumbai

arvez looked at Mehreen as she got dressed for work. She seemed her usual self. He didn’t know how to ask her if she was fine. Zubair’s shop had been vandalised a couple of days back. In bold black letters someone had spray painted JIHADI all over his shutter. By then news of the scary fyler was also everywhere. Many more of them had been found plastered around the walls near the Masjid. The atmosphere was soaked in fear — but Mehreen and Parvez hadn’t discussed it. He wondered if it bought back memories for her, it definitely did for him. But if she was fine, he did not want to unnecessarily rekindle things in her mind. He was trying to be home as early as possible from work. In case something happened, he didn’t want to be away again. Not this time, he thought. Mehreen was done adjusting her saree. She had said a mellow goodbye and left. She hopped from apartment to apartment — rolling out chapati’s, frying potato fritters, stuffing capsicum, chopping carrots and cucumbers, seasoning boiling dal’s. It was almost late afternoon when she walked back home — sweaty from standing in many kitchens, clutching a broken bangle in her hand. She hoped to glue it together, it had broken while cooking. Reminded her vividly of the time Parvez dropped her nose ring and lost it. He hunted for hours but couldn’t find it. He saved up for a month

and took her to Colaba Causeway to find a new one. They looked for long but found nothing as nice as the one she’d lost. They ended up spending the evening at Marine Drive with pink puffy cotton candy. She touched her left nostril as she walked, the hole had disappeared. She had never worn a ring after that day. She had reached her door and was almost taking her keys out. For a second, her eyes looked across to Zubair’s house. On an impulse, she decided to go over and knock on his door. She could hear laughing from inside. She knocked again after a minute. “Khulla hai,” Zubair’s voice piped. She pushed the door, her bangles clinked on it loudly. Zubair was standing next to the door shirtless and laughing, with a bottle of water. He was looking at another man who was on the low height diwan, buttoning up his shirt. Zubair was surprised to see Mehreen, he had clearly not expected the knock be her. Mehreen wasn’t any less surprised. She recognized the other man from having seen him around here and there, but she never knew him to hang out half naked in Zubair’s house. She looked at Zubair and told him she had simply come to check if he was doing okay. He smiled, asked her to sit and offered her tea. He offered no explanation about the other man, who by then had excused himself after giving Zubair a rather tight hug. She debated if she ought to probe, but decided against it — she could barely manage to hold a conversation with her own husband, who was she to poke into someone’s personal life. Plus, it was evident that he wasn’t up for sharing. Zubair bought chai, she sat on the couch and looked around. There were many movie posters and framed autographs lying around collecting dust. It must have belonged to his father. Everybody knew his father, Abraham’s story. No one spoke about it. At least not to Zubair directly. Her eyes caught a woman’s photo framed on the wall. He saw her glance and said. “Ammi hai meri.” She nodded, he went on to say that she died giving birth to his younger brother. Mehreen was amused, she never knew that Zubair had a younger brother.

“Kaha hai vo ab?” She asked. “Pata Nai,” he replied, “Sharabi tha, ek din nikal gaya phir kabhi vapas nai aya.” “Baki sab kaisa hai?” “Thoda dar lag raha hai. Par dar ka toh ab mausam hi chal raha hai.” Mehreen laughed a dry laugh. Dar ke toh yaha bhag aye the, she thought. “Parvez kaise hai?” “Thik hai,” Mehreen said, knowing fully well that she actually had no clue. He wouldn’t tell, she wouldn’t ask. Asking, she had told herself was too difficult. Zubair chatted for quite a while. He told her everything about the house in Pali that he grew up in. He didn’t mention his father, although it seemed like a lot of stories must have involved him — eating lunch on film sets, meeting Amitabh Bachhan, walking around Pali on rainy days. He was a good kid, Mehreen thought, trapped in a tricky situation. There was a lot running through her mind, but no conclusive evolved enough thought telling her how to help the boy in front of her. She wasn’t sure if she’d helped him by coming, he seemed happy to talk. That was something at least. She had finished her tea so she got up to leave. “Apna khayal rakhna,” she said softly, “kuch chahiye ho toh bata dena.” He thanked her and shut the door. Mehreen walked into her own home. Parvez was lying down on the mattress, the box TV was on. She smiled and decided to wash her hair.

Indian Express Front Page Issue: December 7th, 1992

7 December 7, 1992 Pali Hill, Bombay

braham leaned back on the cane chair in his office. His face enclosed in the newspaper, the headline ringed in his head.

Hundreds Storm Into The Disputed Shrine, Babri Masjid Demolished. Six Dead in Ayodhya. Both his children noisily played a game of catch outside, still dressed in their school uniforms. They’d been sent back home, school had been called off. People were returning from offices hurriedly — piling on to trains, walking anxiously, staying away from Rickshaws and kali peelis that had any kind of religious symbolism going on. A strained grey air loomed on the city. As if someone had woken it up with a jerk, peeling away its surface level blanket of cosmopolitan values. The inside turned out to be a rotten fruit layered with brewing hate. For the first time in his life Abraham was scared — not sad, angry or bored, but scared. The mahaul, as he told himself was tense. Momentarily, he felt like he could handle anything that came his way, anything that endangered his children. But then he looked back at the newspaper. A Masjid made of concrete walls had not survived. What chance did he have?

The errieness was evident, there was going to be violence. He still couldn’t grapple with the idea. He had lived his whole life in a lie — he had believed that no one would actually bring down a mosque, he had believed that he could run away from his father and marry a Hindu girl without having questions asked to him. He had believed in many things, and suddenly it felt like everything he had run away from had caught up with him. People were already scrambling and turning to Hindu neighbours for refuge. He knew that his neighbours would take him and kids in. Anyone would. But a few hours later if and when this anticipation of violence turned into actual bloodthirsty physical violence, would they still care? He looked at his children. Zubair was bony and could endure nothing. His younger one was worse, Abraham had never even seen him run properly. How on earth were they going to survive this? He missed Chanda terribly. He felt shrouded with responsibility — what was he to do with his children? He hadn’t prepared them for this. He had let them live in his bubble of oblivion and impulse, and now, just like him they too were incomeptent and impractical for the real world. He got up in a hurry, he couldn’t think right with the boys playing right in front of him. He walked out, took both of them with him and knocked at the neighbour’s door. When the door opened, he requested the lady — an oval faced Ms. Ghosh to keep the children in her house while he went out to grab some food for them. She understood and took them in. Abraham rushed back to his office and picked up his wallet. Maybe he should really get some food, he thought. He was sweating a little, his eyes locked at the wall that stood in front of him. The autographs he had collected, the films he had loved. He stared at the large poster of Mard, unable to look away. He wanted to throw up, he wanted to rest his head.

He picked up the newspaper again, almost hoping that reading it again might bring some answers. He was desperately trying to think straight, but at some point he threw the newspaper down and darted out the door. He took off his topi and ran as fast as he could through Pali, aimlessly. He knew he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t go through this. He couldn’t watch anything bad happen to his children. He just couldn’t. The only thing he could and knew how to do was run away from it all. **** By late evening, the city was in fumes. Ms. Ghosh was worried. Abraham had not yet returned. Along with the two boys she went to his office to check. She was surprised to find the door left ajar and a newspaper fallen on the floor. She was a kind woman and didn’t want to abandon the boys. So she got them to help her take all the stuff from the office into her house. It wasn’t safe to leave it open like this, she said. The boys stayed with her for a week, every night hoping for their father to return. The city cooled down soon enough and they went back to their own house, still no sign of Abraham. Ms. Ghosh would sometimes send them food. Zubair began doing some patchwork stitching for the neighbours on his father’s sewing machine. By the end of that month they couldn’t make rent, so they moved around Bandra, living in any cheap shack available. They learnt to thrive. Zubair kept stitching for money, it was the only thing he knew how to do. There was no one to depend on. Their father had pulled off another snappy move, and as usual felt no need to offer an explanation. He left, and that was it.

Mehreen’s Sollilquy February 4, 2020 Bandra East, Mumbai

was sitting on the mattress, drying my hair. Parvez switched off the TV and began talking to me. Unusual, I thought. He began telling me how he had seen the dangerous flyer before it was spotted everywhere. He told me it scared him terribly. He said it in a low tone, almost as if it was a confession. It was evident that he had been wanting to say all of it for a long time. I nodded. Sometimes I forgot that he must be feeling the same things as me. I forgot that we’d come from Ahmedabad together. He wasn’t some strange new friendship I nurtured here where I had to be conscious of everything I said. He knew everything. I just liked to pretend that he didn’t. Shakily I asked, “Toh ab karna kya hai?” He pointed to a tiny bag of things he had packed a couple of days ago — few of his clothes, few of mine, some money, a plastic pouch with our ID’s. I had seen him pack it, but didn’t care to ask then. But it made sense now. If things got violent, we would run away. It was a runaway bag. I peered closely at the bag and then at Parvez. In a somewhat honest moment, I sighed deeply and said, “Peechle mahine maine bacha giraya.” It felt big to say it out loud to him. It was only half of the truth. I had gone through at least four abortions, if I remembered correctly. Letting

him into one of them wasn’t a greatly honest thing to do, but still, it was something. Or at least I thought it was. He looked up at me, not very startled. He asked if I was fine, if it was painful. He said that if he knew he would have liked to come with me. I was surprised. I always assumed he wanted a child, or at least lived with the idea of wanting a child. I had no intention of ever giving to him, but his reaction was baffling. I couldn’t handle how well he was taking this. “Gussa nai ho?” I blurted. He laughed. “Kya faida,” he said, rather casually, “bada hokar uss bacche ko bhi toh jihadi hi bulayenge na. Dar ke jeeyega vo bhi.” He was on a roll. Every sentence surprised me. This isn’t something I had ever thought of. I had never thought of the baby’s life, I had never pictured myself or Parvez as parents. My mind stopped much before that. I kept aborting the babies because it was an easy fix. I was scared of being pregnant, of coming that close to my body, of feeling that much pain. It didn’t feel peaceful. But Parvez had a whole different angle. Was he saying this only now? Would he have reacted like this if I told him before the abortion? I wasn’t sure. He wasn’t someone to impose his opinions. He had a habit of letting me have my way. Parvez had grown quiet by then and switched on the TV again. I shooed away a mosquito buzzing in my face. I was somewhat happy that he wasn’t offended at not having a child. I looked at the runaway bag, and hoped that we never would have to use it. I had begun to like it here, I didn’t want to run. I thought of Zubair and the man in his house. I thought of his father — Abraham, the dressmaker. Had he really abandoned his children like people said? Did Parvez know more about the story? I decided to ask. “Zubair ke Abu, vo Abraham, kaha gaya tha? He shrugged his shoulders, “Bata kar kaun bhagta hai?” He remarked.

I smiled. Bata kar toh koi nahi bhagta. Ironic. Everyone around had clothes and jewelry wrapped up in their homes. Everyone was ready to run. Nobody knew if they would actually have to. It was all a public secret. The days were long, uncertain and sprinkled around with an acute sense of fear. Lekin, bata kar toh koi nahi bhagta. I yawned and decided that me and Parvez would go to Marine Drive the next day. I was in the mood for puffy pink cotton candy.

Acknowledgements I would like to first and foremost thank Srijan Mandal for his relentless support, guidance, feedback at every stage of this project that survived a pandemic. Without his guidance, the execution of this story would not have turned out the way it did. Avani Sethi, founder of Conflictorium — thank you for having a conversation with me on what it means to preserve and engage with the history of conflicts. Nisha Abdullah, a play writer — thank you for taking time out and chatting with me at length about the politics of representation, about asking the right questions and about discovering narratives and stories through writing. It made me examine my own history and the perspective I was bringing in. To my family, for sharing and engaging with me, for recounting what Bombay went through in 1992. Thank you to my Chechi (sister), for lending two beautiful photographs from her archives to this book. This project started in January and has clocked in at about 7 months. So, thank you to the The Constitution Project Class — this thesis project took a path that I would never have imagined. But, I enjoyed the study tour to Delhi that we went on together. And I’m grateful for how a lot of us worked collectively when it was possible (pre-pandemic), and even after were supportive of each other. Lastly, to friends who have seen me cry and laugh through this project — thank you for listening.

~ Lakeerein hain to rehne do.. Kisi ne rooth kar, gusse mein shayad Kheench di thin Inheen ko ab banao pala Aur aao.. aur aao.. Kabaddi khelte hain Gulzar ~

It has been eighteen years, but nothing has changed for Mehreen and Parvez. They silently push through the busy life of Mumbai leaving old wounds to dry, not probing them too much. They try to make peace with themselves as the city revisits its violent past.