The Deafening Silence

The doorbell’s sonorous sound encrusted inside my ears, shook my whole body, and woke me from the fitful sleep. I felt better having come out of the well of old and unhappy memories. I raised my head and looked at the incomplete article on the computer.
I opened the door.
“Done with the report?” Anil asked.
“Almost.”
“Want some help?”
“Yeah. If you could just proof-read what I’ve written—I’ll be back in ten minutes, and then I’ll finish it.”
“Fine.”
I looked down and walked along the clamorous sunlit afternoon street. I looked around: the road was brimming with pedlars and vendors, noises and shouts; the red spit clung to the walls, no more incongruous, but a design to beautify the dull thing. I looked at the crowd and the calm faces that rested above those uneasy bodies. I didn’t feel as if I was one of them. I was born here, but I couldn’t say I belonged to this place. This city nursed me, taught me to walk, hid me when there was danger, and one day, I left it. I raised my arm and allowed the warmth of sunrays on fall on my skin. It seemed to be flinching from me; it didn’t greet me with love, it showed apathy.
I entered a park, and sat down on a bench in the empty corner, occupied till now by pigeons. Time turns present into past; the present is shrouded over by a layer of time, slowly, like dust: blurs it, veils it, and then obscures its very existence: and then, when present has become past, you look back at it and say, “It never existed.” It heals gravest of pains and rids one of the harrowing memories. But somehow, owing to some arcane reasons, some incidents, some people, survive this mar of time; layers and layers of time fail to obnubilate them; they remain clear, unmisted, pristine and forever an invincible part of your memory. Hasan did. That tall, plump, sentimental ten-year-old boy defeated time.

*

It was the first day of my duty. I was patrolling with my chest aloft to flaunt the new ebony Break Monitor badge, when some noises drew my attention. I went around the staircase and saw a group of senior boys sitting under the peepul tree, jeering and laughing. At some distance, another boy was sitting on the low cement mound, calm and composed, indifferent to the jeers. One of the seniors picked up a small stone and threw at him. It fell in his lunchbox, almost tipping it off his lap. The boy picked up the lunch box and continued eating, silent, unperturbed, as if he never saw the stone. The senior who threw the stone laughed and boasted of his accuracy to the other boys. Then another senior from the group picked up a stone, a bigger one, and threw at him. It hit the boy’s head. Spasm of helplessness and despair appeared over the boy’s face, his eyes shut and his mouth angled downwards, about to burst into violent cries; but he didn’t cry, the despair vanished, slowly, as if coaxed by an invisible spirit. The boy rubbed his head where the stone struck, and then went back to eating, not even looking up once. His face was again calm and composed, but his body shivered with fear. One of the senior boys saw me. I was writing their names on a piece of paper to be handed over to the Discipline Head. They all hid their faces and ran away. I had written almost all the names. The boy turned his head back and saw me. I noticed tears under his eyes.
In a quavering voice, he said, “I—I am sorry. Don’t punish me—please.”
I replied, “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
I wondered what made him think I was going to punish him. I told him to sit on the steps besides me, so that the boys don’t bother him again. I advised him not to eat from that lunchbox and offered mine; he courteously refused. After propelling again, he took a bite of my paratha. He smiled and thanked me.
“What’s your name? I forgot,” I asked.
“Hasan.”
We had been in the same class, but it seemed to me that I was looking at him for the first time. For me he had been just a fat, tall and shabbily dressed boy, who scratched his unoiled hair, sat on the last bench and rarely talked to anyone. He wasn’t a popular, and other than during the morning attendance, his name was seldom called out in the class. There was nothing worth noticing about him.
“Can I take another bite?” Hasan asked.
“Of course.”
My eyes fell on the piece of paper stuck on his back, with ‘BEWARE I BITE,’ written on it. I took it out, but the chewing gum remained glued to his shirt.
“Hasan, this chewing gum won’t come out, you will have to buy a new shirt.”
He sighed and looked down.
“Vijay,” he looked up and asked, his large and round eyes fixed at mine, “can I always sit with you in the break?”
“Well, yes.”
The bell rang. It was our Social Studies class. Groups of children burst into the class, like a frightened cattle let loose. Hasan walked slowly and sat down on the last bench, indifferent to the paper balls that were being thrown at him. I turned my head and looked at him. Like a wounded animal, there was an innate fear in his eyes; as if he feared the very air he breathed. This fear had given birth to his indifference: he let himself be teased, mocked, dominated, without opposing. I felt pity over his condition and rage over him.
The teacher came in and announced that the results of our class were in the worse among all sections of 3rd. She called out the names of ten children – including Hasan – and made them stand in a line. She chided them all and sent them out of the class, after striking their palms with the wooden ruler.
After school hours, I met him outside the school gate and asked, “Hasan, why don’t you study hard? You failed this time also. I am sure you can pass with good marks only if you work a bit hard. It’s not so difficult.” He looked down and said, “There is always a lot of work at the shop.” I looked around, short of words.
“Hasan, you want to be my friend?” I asked, moving my hand towards him.
He shook it gently and smiled. The mirth in his eyes hid the innate fear for the time being.

When Hasan came to school next day, his face was bruised and his hands were swollen. When he sat besides me in the break, I asked him, “What happened, did you fall down?”
He replied, “No, I didn’t. Ammi hit me.”
“Why?”
“Because of that chewing gum on my shirt. She said that I was perhaps careless and we don’t have enough money this month to buy another shirt.”
He excitedly showed me his bruises and cuts, explained how they were made, as if they were souvenirs, or badges of honour earned at the battlefield.
I said, “You look so happy even though she hit you. I cry when Mummy or Daddy hit me.”
He laughed and said, “I don’t mind it. She loves me a lot. Every time after beating me, she starts crying and says Sorry, and then she puts a balm over my bruises and next day gives me ten rupees for lunch. And she says that she beats me because she loves me; she won’t beat people she does not love.” He thanked me for reminding him about the ten rupees. He ran to the canteen and fetched two samosas for us.
After the school hours, I found him waiting at the school gate. I approached him. He said, “Vijay, will you come to my house today?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Yesterday, I told my Ammi about you. She was very happy that I had made a new friend. She told me to call you for dinner today. Will you come?”
“Definitely! But, I don’t know you house.”
“No problem. Come to my shop today at four, I will take you to home.”
His shop was at walking distance from my house, but my parents still didn’t allow me to go alone. I took my elder brother Arnav with me.
Hasan’s shop was small compared to the other ones. He was sitting cross legged on the white cloth, that was spread over the raised platform, utterly absorbed in folding the bundles of loose cloth that lay spread all over. As he saw me approaching, he waved his hand and smiled. I told my brother that I will reach home before eight and told him to go back. I went and sat besides Hasan on the cold and cosy white cloth. We talked a great deal about school, our new Social Studies teacher and the myriad Maths homework. Hasan called for the tea pedlar, who was roaming in front of the shop. Hasan took out nine rupees from the crude locker and paid for three teas; two for us, one for the thin servant who sat in the corner still folding the cloth. Before my lips could touch the cup, he shouted, “Wait, Vijay! Stop! Don’t drink it!”
“What?” I asked, searching the cup if a lizard had fallen into it.
“Wait for a minute.” Turning towards the servant, he said, “Ramesh, come here.” Ramesh kept his tea on the counter and asked in sombre voice, “What?”
“Bring two Parle-G packets. Go fast!” Hasan gave a ten rupee note to Ramesh, and said, “Bring three, instead.” Ramesh put on his slippers and rushed out, somewhat happier than before. When the biscuits came, Hasan taught me how to dip them into the tea and toss into the mouth before it fell down and sank. He told me to look at Ramesh and learn. The thin boy was deeply immersed in dipping and flinging the biscuits into his mouth, with the agility and dexterity of a professional.
When it was 6 O’clock, Ramesh and Hasan closed the shop. I asked Hasan why his father was not at the shop today. He replied, “Ammi says he died two days before I was born.” He wasn’t sad and didn’t really mourn over his father’s absence: one can’t mourn over losing something one never really had.
He said, “Ammi cooks very well. You will like her food.”
His house was small, painted in dark green. When I entered, the strong smell of food filled my nose. Aunty came rushing out of the kitchen to greet us. She said that she was eagerly looking forward to meeting me. I sat down on a low stool and she sat opposite to me, on a cot; Hasan next to her. She asked about my studies and parents. And then she asked if Hasan does any mischief in school. She told me to look after him and if he did anything wrong, to punish him like an elder brother. She left us and set the table. She had cooked tomato soup and Shahi Biryani, along with the usual course. I and Hasan ate all the Biryani. Hasan’s mother cooked more, which she did with pleasure, extremely happy that I liked it. She closed the kitchen door and said Hasan that he was behaving like a rabbit gone nuts to prevent him from repeatedly opening the refrigerator door and exclaiming, “Yummy! Can’t wait for it,” with a strange amount of pathos in his voice. In the end, when I and Hasan were staring at our stomachs and wondering how it seemed so heavy but looked the same size, Aunty came with a cake in her hand. It was small and round, with a thin layer of white cream over it, embellished with crumbs of dark Cadbury and fine coconut. “Here it comes,” exclaimed Hasan. She said that it was to celebrate my coming to their house for the first time. We couldn’t eat more than a piece; she packed the rest of it in a steel box and told me to take it home. She also gave me a gift. When I shook it, no sound came. I was excited to reach home and open it. Then I and Hasan sat on the creaky chairs and she read us the story of The Happy Prince. Hasan cried.
I said, “Aunty, I have to go now. It is dark. Mummy will be waiting.”
“OK, I’ll take you.”
“No problem, I can go alone.”
“Not at all, I won’t allow you to go alone. I’ll come with you.”
“No Aunty, it’s all right, I can—”
“Vijay, I won’t allow you. It’s final.”
We three walked along the twilit road, holding each other’s hand. Aunty sang an old Hindi song on my request. Hasan tried to follow it, but only succeeded in uttering sporadic words.
“Aunty,” I said breaking the silence that prevailed after the song ceased, “the food was fabulous! Specially the biryani.”
“Oh, you really liked it? Why don’t you come with Hasan every Sunday? He will get some company and I’ll make delicious food each time.”
She looked at me beamishly. To visit Hasan and eat Aunt’s delicious food each Sunday would be idyllic, I thought. I found no reason to object.
“Definitely! I’ll come every Sunday.”
And I did go, every Sunday, for one year.

*

“You, Vijay, come here,” said a large built senior boy coming towards us.
“Why?”
Tension and strain appeared on my forehead as the boy came towering towards me, with his face and eyes burning in anguish.
“Hey, what’s you problem?” shouted Hasan who was standing behind the boy, leaning by the grid of our school gate.
“Because of this dog I got suspended today—I’ll kill him,” said the boy, reaching for my neck.
“Don’t you touch him!” shouted Hasan.
The boy pressed his fingers around my neck and forced it down: my knees fell on the rough ground and my neck hung in midair, held by his tight grip. Little did my senses work, but I think I heard a loud groan. The taut fingers fastened around my neck gradually loosened. I fell down and gasped for breath. I raised my head and saw Hasan and the boy rolling into the mud, kicking, and cursing each other. Hasan shouted, “Run Vijay, run. Fast! Go!”
I stood up and ran towards my house. I pushed open the main door, dashed across the hall and ran upstairs to my room. I jumped on the bed and threw a thick blanked over self. I could feel the shivering of my eye lids, the thumping of my chest and the fear that was imbued in every heave. I woke up two hours later from what seemed like a fitful state between sleep and reality, and left me sweating in that cold room. I washed my face, and went downstairs, feeling better. Mummy, Daddy and Arnav were watching the TV, petrified. I took a place besides Mummy and looked at the TV screen. The news channel was showing abandoned streets, obliterated houses, disfigured human bodies and sporadic blood puddles: it seemed as if the whole town was scourged by a tempest. Looking at it, one could never have said they humans lived here once: it looked as if it was a dumpsite of bodies and burnt houses and cars. I hid my face in the sofa and moaned in fear. Mummy took me in her lap and switched the channel. Daddy sighed and said in a low, forlorn voice, “What has become of my world! Animals live in more harmony. These people are killing each other as if—as if—people were rag rolls and not flesh-and-blood.”
“Yes, Pa,” said Arnav, “what happened Hindus did was wrong and their anger against it is justified. But what they are doing is also as wrong as what the Hindus did. They—”
“Anger, my child, is a son who devours over the womb that gave it birth. Those few Hindus did wrong by demolishing the Masjid, I agree. Those who were involved deserve to be hanged. But I don’t understand why they are slaughtering others for it. Sorrow does not compensate sorrow.”
“Things will be all right in a few days” said Mummy.
A silence issued, in which all looked down, as if ashamed of something.
“I am going to the shop,” said Daddy.
“No, please, don’t go today,” said Mummy.
“I will go. It is better to die than live in this vicious world.”
Before Mummy could do anything, Daddy picked up his handbag and stormed out of the room. Seeing the plea in Mummy’s eyes, Arnav rushed out to block the door. Daddy pushed him aside and went out, cursing.
The whole day Mummy sat besides the window, fanning the folded newspaper, now and then drawing aside the polychrome curtains to search the bright sunlit pavement for the tall figure of her husband coming back home. I hid behind the kitchen door and looked at the drops of tears that clung to her cheeks, refusing to slide down. She had always been someone who had comforted me when I cried. And now, when I wanted her comfort more than ever, I see her crying. It never occurred to me that she could have cried. I went back to my room and covered my head with the pillow, to keep the sadness from penetrating.
That night, as I was lying on the bed, I heard yells and cries. I ran downstairs. Arnav was holding Daddy’s rifle in his hand, yelling at Mummy who was holding his hands and was trying to snatch the rifle from him.
“Get away, Ma! Get away! I’ll not leave them alive—I’ll kill all! Their blood is not like ours; they are not humans. What was Daddy’s fault? He never did anyone harm. What did he do? He just wanted to run his shop. Those Muslims chopped him in mid street. He never did anyone harm. They want blood—I’ll show them what blood is. I swear on the heat of his pyre that I will kill those who killed him. Leave my hand!”
Arnav pushed Mummy. Her head rammed with the wall and she fell down. “They killed father; Those Muslims killed my father! He never did anyone harm.” he said and stormed out, kicking the furniture.

*

Mummy never sat by the window now. She was afraid to nurse hopes. The Ram-Sita and Krishna idols, which she loved and cared for like her own child, were given to our maid, and the small marble temple was now being used to keep utensils. For us, God was no more He, but It. There was a time when the warm morning rays used to enter through the window and collect around her temple, like little eager children, waiting for her to commence the morning prayers. And when she would sit on the cot and begin her prayers, the whole house would be filled with honeylike notes: the morning rays would flicker and beam and dance. And, like us, they relished the melody, and were ignorant of the meaning of those words. She would then move about the house, swaying the incense stick: the black and white figures would rise from it and dance, devoted, unperturbed, like a barmy Mira dancing in front of her Krishna. But things changed now: the rays collected around the abandoned temple, and waited, cold and quite, no more flickering or beaming or dancing. Instead of the black and white figure and becharming notes, the house was now shrouded in silence, loud silence, so loud that it deafened you.
I went to the school after five days. No one talked in the class. The deafening silence was present here too. You wanted someone to pierce your eardrums and run away from this place. But it wasn’t possible. It followed you like a shadow; it was present in every nook, alley, street, house, room and barn. Even the deaf could hear it, see it in fact. I raised my eyes from the blank notebook and looked at Hasan: his hands and knees were bandaged, and the pink stain of chewing gum was still clung to his shirt, only now dirt stuck to it. He looked at me and smiled. I felt rage towards him. My brother’s words echoed in my ears, as if they had abided there forever, to be echoed whenever I saw a Muslim. His people killed my father. His blood is different. I looked away.
Sitting on the steps, with the tiffin kept open on my lap, I was remembering Daddy and Arnav. I was about to tuck my head in my lap and cry when Hasan came and sat next to me; he opened his tiffin and laid in front of me.
“Not feeling well, huh? I brought biryani today, with extra paneer. Eat it, you’ll feel better. Ammi made it for you specially. I also got ten rupees for breaking my hand in the fight.”
I went away and sat on the raised platform under the peepul tree. Hasan came and sat next to me.
He said, “It’s better in here—shade and all.”
I ducked my head in my lap and held my hair in my hands and cried.
“What happened Vijay? Are you all right?”
“Go away,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?”
I raised my head and said, “Get away from me!”
“Hey, Vijay, what happened? You not feeling—”
I stood in front of him and shouted, “Are you deaf? Get lost!”
He stood up and said, coming towards me, “Vijay, wh—”
“Don’t you touch me! You filthy dog! Your blood is foul and dirty! Get away!” I picked up a stone and threw it at him. It hit his bandaged hand; the expression on his face said that it hit him like a bullet.
“You people killed Daddy! Get away from my sight before I kill you!”
I turned and ran, cursing him, feeling a vague pang of satisfaction.
Hasan stood up and went in the class. He kept the tiffin in his bag, rested his head on the table, covered it with his arms and cried. He didn’t understand why Vijay, his only friend, was so rude to him. Why did he say his blood was filthy? Had he done something that upset him? but what? He couldn’t remember.
He took out the dirty handkerchief and wiped his tears. But he still didn’t know why Vijay hated him so much. And there was no one to give him the answer. As he thought this, more and more tears surged down his cheeks. He turned his head sideways and stared impassively at the pencil box. He snatched the box and took out a paper cutter from. He pressed the skin of his lap under his index finger and thumb. With the other hand, he took the cutter and pressed it against the soft skin, slowly and carefully, as if threading a needle. A drop of blood came out, and slid down his leg; it was red, pure and shiny, not filthy. He wiped it with his finger and inspected it closely. Yes, it was not filthy. He kept the cutter back into his box. Vijay was mistaken, and he will go and tell him about it and Vijay will say Sorry to him and he say It’s all right and things will be back to normal. Yes things will be back to normal. But if Vijay didn’t believe him? And why did he say he killed his father? The tears slid down the contours of his cheeks mercilessly, as once more there was no one to answer his questions.
After the school hours, I saw him; he leaned by the school gate, his cheek pressed against the grid, his low lip sticking out, eyes round and blank. I looked left and right. I picked up a large stone from beneath the scooter and motioned it to hit him. He was unperturbed, unafraid; his eyes still round and blank. I threw the stone; it struck the gate, producing a sonorous sound. He ducked behind the grid. Then he peeped out and looked at me. He eyes narrowed and tears and redness replaced the void. He rubbed them with his wrist. I approached him and shouted, “Leave my country, go to Pakistan, your country. Just go away! You people killed my father. Your blood is filthy.” He was looking at me, tears in his eyes, his head pressed in between the steel bars.
I was walking on the clamorous street with my hand in Mummy’s. Among the large and vivacious shops selling the most lustrous bangles and polychrome sarees, I saw it: small, narrow and pallid as ever – Hasan’s shop. But Hasan was not there. A fat man, wearing a dirty white shirt, sat on the counter. Ramesh, narrow, thin, was sitting at the back, playing with a scissor. Ramesh saw me and rushed to me. Mummy was busy bargaining.
“Where is Hasan?” I asked before he could say anything.
He spoke in a dismal voice, “He left.”
“Left? When? Where?”
“Yesterday morning. He said that now he was going to live with his Uncle, in Pakistan. Things were unsafe for them here.”
“And yes, Vijay,” Ramesh spoke, “he left something for you.”
Ramesh reached for his pocket. Mummy called me. I turned and ran to her, without looking back.

*

The pain of a sad memory withers away with time, but it forever on remembrance gives birth to sorrow and guilt. I took stood up from the bench and continued my walk. I was late but had no mood to go back and work on that dire report. The street was filled with multifarious noises: shouts of pedlars, cries of infants, yells of drunks. But hiding behind these noises was silence, the loud and deafening silence. It was there in the awry alleys, the quite quoins, the raucous roads, the grim gutters, the pallid parlours; it was in your shadow, in your voice and your silence; in the dark and the light. It was there ten years back, during the Babri Masjid Demolition, and was here now, during the Godhara Riots.
I hired an auto-rickshaw and went to the street where Hasan’s shop was. It was still there, small, narrow, pallid. On the other side of the counter was Ramesh. Standing outside, leaning his elbow on the counter was a tall and thin man. He turned around and dusted his scooter with a cloth. Those almond eyes; the innate smile on his face, unperturbed by winter or autumn, despair or disdain; the gentleness in his movements: he couldn’t be anybody but the ten-year-old boy who cried because of me, ten years back. He saw me. The smile on his face faded away and his face turned blank. We stood looking each other, absolutely still, as if the fourth dimension had halted. His lips turned upwards and bloomed into a hopeful smile. I just stood there, inert. The unanswered smile vanished from his face. He picked up the polythene from the counter and drove away. He entered the crowd and became a part of it, like a droplet entering the ocean. I ran to where his house was. I hid behind the truck and looked at the small green building. Hasan’s mother came out on the terrace to hang the wet clothes on the clothesline. She was humming, in a sombre, calm, poignant voice.
I couldn’t sleep that night. What I said ten years back was right; his blood was different: it had fidelity. He came back to his city, his people, as soon as things were calm. He didn’t run away from memories, he came back to them, lived with them. As the dawn broke, I rushed to his shop. I wanted to breach the wall of religion that had soured our friendship. Hasan was kind; he couldn’t have refused my plea. For him, even ten years wasn’t too late to ask for forgiveness. Under the pale and cold morning light I saw Ramesh squatting by the shutter, opening the locks. He looked up.
“Ramesh, it’s me, Vijay. Remember?”
He looked at me with confusion.
“I used to come to shop with Hasan, remember?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
“When did he come back? Is he buying back the shop?”
He looked at me with irritation and said, “What are you talking about? Who was come back?”
“I’m talking about Hasan and his mother.”
“—he died ten years back,” Ramesh said bending down to open the lock, “Hindus burned their train before it reached Pakistan. All were killed. Not a soul survived. I saw their bodies.”