Fiction
Salim slapped himself and
said, “Allah, forgive me.”
The very sight of Sonal
Sharma sent a rush of blood to what his friends called “centre point.” Sonal was beautiful. At the age of 17, she had conquered the peak
of feminine charm in every possible way.
Her physical figure was statuesque.
She was flighty and coquettish while dealing with the boys in the class but
sincerely committed to her studies and topped the class usually. A future doc.
Salim imagined her in the doctor’s white coat with the stethoscope dangling
on the perfect parabola of her bosom. They
were classmates, Salim and Sonal.
In many ways she was like
his mother, reflected Salim. Maria, his
mother, was a Catholic of Keralite origin though born and brought up in Delhi. She and Sulaiman met each other on a flight
from Delhi to Washington DC. She was a
journalist with a prominent national newspaper and was deputed to report the
1996 Atlanta Olympics. He was a
professor at a Delhi University college and was going to attend a training
programme In Washington sponsored by the Indian Council of Social Science
Research. Allah, the Merciful, brought
them together on their return flight too.
Soon Allah brought them
together in marriage. And by the first
anniversary of their flight from Washington DC, Maria gave birth to Salim.
When a genocide was
unleashed on the Muslims in Gujarat Salim was in his KG class. He returned home in the evening as usual but
without knowing that he would not see his father anymore.
Sulaiman had
disappeared. Maria’s enquiries with
whatever help that the Delhi police were willing to proffer in tracing a Muslim
yielded nothing.
Sulaiman had grown more
and more religious after his marriage while Maria grew proportionately irreligious.
“You are a journalist at
heart,” her husband accused her one day.
“Superficial. Never delving
beneath the surface. How many
killed? What did the politicians
say? You never go beyond that.”
“What’s beyond that is
also beyond journalism,” she defended herself and her profession. “We can’t write the exhortations uttered by
the Prophet and his hadiths. That’s not
our job...”
Sulaiman grew more and
more restless until the restlessness was transmuted into a phantom by the
Gujarat riots. The phantom swallowed
Sulaiman. No one saw him ever again.
The vacuum that Sulaiman
became entered Salim’s soul. The
Sanskrit shlokas recited in his school’s morning assemblies, the Hindu prayers
and other such religious gestures, sought to fill that vacuum. God was a joke for his mother. The ultimate joker sitting up there and
laughing at us, she would say. But God
was a big vacuum in Salim’s heart. A
vacuum as big as his father.
When he reached high
school, Salim started attending certain religious classes in the neighbourhood
madrassa in the evenings. Allah began to
take some shape in the vacuum in his soul.
Allah had his father’s shape. Salim loved his God.
Even Sonal Sharma could
not shake his love for his God. The love
for his God demanded his own martyrdom.
Jihad. They taught him that at the
madrassa. It was his duty to die for
Allah. He would get three-score-and-a-dozen
Sonals in Jannah. And the killers of his
father and father’s people would be destroyed in the process.
Salim sat in the car in the driver’s seat. Suicide attack, his
mother would report in a few hours from now.
The crowded Sarojini Nagar market was attacked by a suicide bomber who
drove into the market in a car carrying a large number of massive explosives...
Sonal, move away!
Salim was not sure whether it was Sonal whom he saw fleetingly in the
crowd. Sonal was there among the
thousands in the market, he said to himself.
So many Sonals. Aren’t they all
Sonals?
No, I can’t kill
Sonal. Forgive me, Allah!
He drove his car
back.
A couple of hours later,
Maria received the bullet-ridden body of her son dumped on the side of a
deserted road in Ber Sarai.
For copies click here or here More options soon |
Great one.I am addicted to the blog!
ReplyDeleteGlad to have you, Titas. :)
DeleteGreat read. It is as if you saw it yourself.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Indrani.
DeleteI am greatly interested to read your article. When I came across with the topic you have discussed, it takes me deep into the meaning of the article and forced me to give a thought on the subject. Anyway, thanks for sharing the detailed information!
ReplyDeletecollege paper writing service
Oh my! this one got to me.
ReplyDeleteThis story really did affect me. So beautifully woven. :)
Glad you liked it.
DeleteBeautifully written!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Hema.
DeleteLoved reading it...it does stir! Beautifully expressed!
ReplyDeleteTerrorism is becoming a pain in my consciousness. That's why the narrative acquires its intensity.
DeleteA brilliant narrative and so near to the things happening around us...if only our wayward youth realize like our protagonist here, things would be so merciful! Insha allah!
ReplyDeleteLove and understanding, there's no better religion. I can only repeat your prayer: Insha Allah!
DeleteGreat and wonderfully penned.
ReplyDeleteKuddos on writing such a simple yet powerful piece. I recently started following your blog and simply mesmerized by your writings and thoughts n emotions behind them. :)
ReplyDeleteGlad to have you with me, Shantanu.
Delete