The Incident at Qayamat Gali
What’s the most enjoyable way to kill someone? Fatima wondered. Slowly? With a million curated cuts, sliced meticulously each time, sculpting pain from flesh and blood, until death is nothing but solace from the unending misery of life? Or instantly? With a bullet in the back of the head, lights out suddenly and unknowingly. After all, she had seen both; to her it seemed the latter was too comfortable a way to go. Painless, it seemed to torment the killer more perhaps than the killed. She envied the one who had the privilege of such a quick death.
Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted. She saw the outline of a revolver in Sharmaji’s kurta pocket: it rested like a coiled snake waiting to strike, its barrel pointing precariously to his private parts. She leaned forward, worried that it may go off. Seemingly absorbed in his discussion with Shiva, Sharmaji inserted his hand stealthily into the cottonpouch. Fatima tensed, holding a shallow breath, her heartbeat drumming louder. Is he going to use it? she wondered, biting her lower lip. Suddenly her husband withdrew his hand. The shift surprised her and she sighed quietly, relieved at this hint of a peaceful transition. After all, much had transpired between the two men; and with Timur Mirza and his Hitler-inspired Khufiya Fauj as the third horse on the bloody maddening carousel, it was a miracle that these two were still standing.
They had come a long way, Sharmaji and her, from their ordinary, uninteresting, predictable lives. And little would have changed had it not been for the incident at Qayamat Gali, the evening before Eid.
***
As a dark cloak studded with sparkling stars enveloped Delhi, the evening azaan rang in the air, calling the faithful forward. Chand Bazaar was abuzz with activity, a slice of humanity navigating through the guts of its narrow streets. After the month-long dawn-to-dusk fasting of Ramzaan, Eid was around the corner and celebrations were underway. A maze of well-lit bulbs set the tone, dangling precariously from wires connected haphazardly to electric poles. Traffic on the main road meandered slowly as tonga drivers shouted and motorists honked in frustration, trying to get home in time. Pedestrians cramped unyielding pathways, resisting the urge to spill onto the streets, though barely. Enthusiastic vendors announced their wares to the inspecting, curious patrons who hovered around them. Faded posters of a smiling Noor Jahan and a dazzling Suraiya were stubbornly plastered over paint-chipped walls. Amid the horns and screaming, songs from their movie soundtracks filled airwaves from half-rusted loudspeakers. Wafts of biryani fused with human sweat and aromas of puri aloo, as impromptu lines formed sporadically and dissipated just as quickly around makeshift eateries. Chand Bazaar’s energy was palpable, both orderly and chaotic.
The marketplace occupied a small but busy corner of the city just across from the much larger Chandni Chowk. Like most, Sharmaji was also in a hurry to reach home. His Lambretta scooter was giving him trouble and despite his best efforts it would not gather speed. Ignoring the main roads, he turned into a narrow, congested lane. I’ll be home quickly, he promised himself as he navigated a web of hawkers suddenly darting across the street.
He was all too familiar with the rhythm of this mess. In the distance, he saw his street and it strengthened his resolve to hurry. The Lambretta sputtered in disagreement as he cranked the throttle. Qayamat Gali was right ahead. He knew it not from its name but from the little temple that occupied the corner turn. It was his ritual to make a quick stopover before going home.
Sharmaji turned into an alleyway next to the structure and parked his scooter. For a temple of its size, the Ram Mandir was surprisingly noticeable, though not audacious by any measure. It had been there for as long as the gali had existed; some would allege even longer. Its shikhar shone between a maze of colorful lights as a slight breeze caused a small saffron flag on top to flutter. Inside, a conspicuous tulsi plant was centered in a little courtyard. The main sanctum was of two modest sections. The first was for devotees who gathered in humble obeisance to pray and ring a large brass bell that hung from the ceiling. The second was for the idol of Lord Ram, set back somewhat to accommodate offerings and decorations laid in front of it. A glittering fence prevented his humble worshippers from getting too close to him, but a noticeable donation box encouraged participation. The fragrance of sandalwood incense filled the air.
Sharmaji had been visiting this temple ever since he and Fatima had moved to this muhallah many moons ago. As he had done faithfully for years now, he took his shoes off at the entrance, folded his hands and rushed in. When he walked past the tulsi plant, he noticed a man hustling out. Given the dearth of Hindus in his muhallah, Sharmaji claimed to know everyone who visited the temple. It was a fleeting moment yet, he was relatively certain that he had never seen this person before. An unremarkable man with a scornful face, he exudes negative energy, Sharmaji felt, the kind a predator would project: ominous and insidious. It was a bizarre feeling given the setting, one he thought perhaps highly inappropriate that he would judge someone so quickly. Shaking his head away from such inauspicious thoughts, he continued forward toward the deity, bowed reverently, then raised his right hand to ring the large bell. As it rang out, he bowed again and whispered a little prayer, uttering his shlokas mechanically. He then dropped two coins into the donation box and turned around to leave. Fatima would be waiting for him.
He had left his scooter, as he always did, in the corner alley outside the temple, but this time it wasn’t there. A rubber doll lay on the dirt in its place, its head decapitated, all while its arms held out for an embrace. Its hollow body dressed in a pink frock encased a rolled piece of paper. Sharmaji’s heart raced as did his breathing. He could feel his body tremble. He bent over to pick the doll and unfurled the note:
This is not a coincidence.
Alarmed by this discovery, he looked around at the busy street. He couldn’t see his scooter, nor did he notice any unusual behavior. Panicking and exasperated, he dropped the doll on the spot and darted across the street to a popular confectionary shop, The Halwai. In preparation for Eid, the shop’s owner was busy boiling large quantities of milk in anticipation of robust orders of mithai. Scents of cardamom and rosewater engulfed the air around Gupta as he stirred the hot liquid with a ladle. For the amount of mithai that The Halwai produced, the shop itself was remarkably small. Part of a two-story structure and about the size of a car garage, it housed a glass-enclosed counter full of popular confectionary. A young attendant manned the spot and also served as the cashier for the overall operation, hustling between Gupta’s orders and tending to customers. A plastic table with four chairs occupied the remaining space, but no one was ever seen seated there. Bright tube lights and multicolored bulbs decorated the shop. A door in the back wall led to another room, but for the most part it remained shut.
Most assumed it led to Gupta’s apartment above. All the action was outside, however, centered around an oversized black iron kadhai, its liquid contents bubbling over a hot flame, generating delight in sight and sound, always begging for attention. Gupta conveniently sat next to it, his gamcha on his shoulder failing miserably at keeping him dry. His clients didn’t care: they hovered around him, standing while they ate, happily indulgent of the experience.
“Guptaji!” Sharmaji yelled over a creaky loudspeaker that had started to blare a catchy song. “Have you seen my scooter by any chance?”
The shop owner looked up in surprise and screamed back, “No, I haven’t seen it. To be honest, I have been so busy with my orders, I wasn’t paying attention to it. Are you sure you left it in the gali?”
He could see that Gupta was busy. Like bees to a honey pot, his customers swarmed the shop, buzzing with excitement. Even the sight of the burly sweating man hovering over their delicacies did not temper their enthusiasm.
“Yes, I always leave it in the same spot! Someone stole it” Sharmaji grumbled. He was angry. Gupta gave him a quick glance and commiserated passively.
Sharmaji had a stable albeit modest job. His income provided for Fatima and his daily expenses but it left little to spare. Purchasing larger items often required extensive contemplation, and even the old secondhand scooter he possessed had been a stretch. Instead of getting home to Fatima, he would now have to file a report at the nearest police station.
Annoyed, he rushed across the gali and walked to the main street, trying to catch sight of a rickshaw. It was a bad time to look for one. He had a better chance of spotting a meteor in the sky than seeing an empty rickshaw in Chand Bazaar that evening.
Dejected, he ended up walking. Cars honked loudly as a cyclist swerved past him, almost knocking him down. Sweating and stressed, he quickened his pace, boldly advancing through tight spaces and busy turns. By the time he got to the police station, he was panting. To make matters worse, the hawaldar made him wait. Apparently, the police officer was not in the station at the time. Sharmaji knew the drill. He had little expectations from the police – they tended to prioritize folks of their own faith. If anything, they viewed his kind with suspicion. He braced for the worst.
Eventually the officer arrived, likely after a heavy meal, his demeanor ponderous as he made his way to his desk. Sharmaji noticed a clock on the wall behind his desk – it was 11 p.m. Next to it, a blackboard with the date 11th May, 1956 written in white chalk, alongside a few names and instructions that were barely legible. The officer took his time to settle into his chair and calmly heard Sharmaji’s complaint, but his behavior betrayed the insignia of his office when he refused to file an official report without a slight greasing of his palms. “A man has to live,” he retorted in what Sharmaji perceived to be a conniving smile. Given the circumstances, Sharmaji thought the officer’s behavior to be quite reasonable. There had been cases where his kind were beaten and thrown into prison without warning. With little money to offer, Sharmaji negotiated a good-faith effort with the officer to find his scooter and made his way home. He knew it wouldn’t do much but he hoped for the best.
Anxiously waiting for him, Fatima opened the door upon hearing the first ring. He was never this late and she too had not yet eaten. “Where were you? What happened?” she inquired as he wearily stepped inside.
“My scooter was stolen when I went to the temple,” he answered in a strained voice. Normally, he would give his wife a peck on her forehead before washing himself. This time, however, he labored to his rickety chair in the living room.
Sharmaji took a deep breath. Pressing against the chair, he closed his eyes in disappointment. Fatima brought him a glass of water and sat next to him. It was well past midnight by the time they had debriefed and finished their meal. Being with Fatima always made Sharmaji feel reassured. The two of them were a permanent feature on Qayamat Gali and Chand Bazaar, ever since she first moved into his apartment almost a decade ago. Along with a terrace above, it was a modest one-bedroom unit on the second floor of an old building. The main entrance opened into a living room with a kitchen to its right. A small corridor connected the bedroom and bathroom to the rest. Two windows served as eyes to the world. The first one in the living room was always draped with a beige curtain. The second one in the corridor offered the best views of Qayamat Gali below.
A creature of habit, Sharmaji would always look out the window before going to bed. He could never tell if he was watching for someone or something familiar or for something unusual, for that matter. Perhaps it was the predictability of sights and sounds that lulled him to sleep.
This time, however, he mostly stared at an empty street. But in the distance, under a streetlamp, on a scooter, a man returned his gaze with a stern expression that instantly broke into a ‘knowing nod’. It was a slow shake of the head, taunting and traumatizing at the same time. It’s the same man from the temple, Sharmaji concluded. He was startled by the coincidence. He took a step back and hurriedly drew the curtains. They resisted him at first, having rarely been conscripted into such acts of concealment before. When he tugged a bit harder, they relented and he retreated to the bed with concern. His heart was racing as he tried to process the events.
What was that man doing there? How did he know where I lived? And why was he nodding? It seemed to indicate that he knew something...what? Sharmaji gathered himself and took a pause. He quietly moved back toward the window to look out through an opening in the curtains. The street was empty.
Sharmaji was sweating when he sat back in bed. He felt his body stiffen. He took some deep breaths to calm himself and laid his head on the pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling fan. It’s repetitive motion was soothing. When Fatima came to join him, he had fallen asleep. Before the azaan, Fatima would wake up, sweep the floors, bathe, dress, make Sharmaji’s tea and unfold her prayer mat in the living room to start her namaaz. This daily spiritual awakening was always uninterrupted. By the time her prayers concluded, dawn’s hues would adorn the sky and the azaan’s vibrations would give way to chirping birds. Sharmaji would wake up to his warm tea, sitting up in bed to sip it. He would not venture into the other room until Fatima had finished. He respected her faith, even though it was different from his. And rather than think of the differences, he was more interested in sharing his second cup of tea with her. The first one though, he would drink alone.
That day, the tea was special. It had some ginger in it. Sharmaji took a sip and smiled, temporarily forgetting the incidents of the prior night. Incense sticks burned in the other room, filling the air with a soothing aroma. Halfway into his first cup, Fatima walked into the bedroom. She had a peaceful glow on her face and her hair was tucked away neatly in a hijab. In her hand, she carried a bowl of seviyan, a delicious milk dessert with dry fruits sprinkled generously on top. Sharmaji realized at once that Eid was here. The idea of a festival brought a smile to his face. After all, Eid also meant he had the day off.
Sharmaji waited for the day to rise. He slid his feet into his slippers and walked up to the rooftop terrace. As he stepped outside, he watched the crimson sun rise over the rooftops, nature flaunting her artistry in painting the landscape. His one hand clutched some bajra, taken from a small can he left on the terrace, while his other hand sprinkled the millet seed in front of him. As if on cue, his feathered friends appeared in a fluttering commotion to satisfy their empty bellies. They knew who he was, and he swore that he recognized each one of them too. Sharmaji liked this act in the morning: it gave him solace, as if by feeding them he was nourishing his own soul.
The terrace was one of the three pillars in his life, the other two being Fatima and teaching. It was a mere speck in the vastness of the city, but to him it was an extravagance of epic proportions. The open space allowed him to feel like a king, notwithstanding the occasional encumbrance in his fiefdom when Fatima would come up to wash and dry their clothes. In simple pleasures, the terrace was his stage and the skies his audience. He paced on it when he was pensive, or rejoiced in its humble lap when delighted. In an inconspicuous corner underneath the water tank was a brass tap connected to an old water pipe. He would turn the tap with glee and allow the water to liberally fall into a red plastic bucket. Once it was full, he would undress, get on his haunches and dip a mug into the bucket, enthusiastically releasing its contents over his head. Like cascading pearls, the water would fall on his shivering body and awaken his mind.
Once cleansed, he would wrap his honor in a towel around his waist and head back downstairs. Fatima would have his work clothes neatly pressed and laid on their bed. This day, however, he changed into a new kurta pajama that she had gifted him for Eid.
The streets of Chand Bazaar were building up in traffic and energy. Fatima was ready to go. She wore the salwar kameez Sharmaji had gifted her the prior week. Its zari and design were from Lahore, and she was looking forward to showing it off to her friend Noor.
Before she draped a burqa on herself, she gave her husband an inquiring glance and asked, “Ready?” Sharmaji nodded in approval and handed her the keys to lock the door on the way out. Fatima had her day planned. She wanted to start with a prayer at Moti Masjid, so the couple meandered their way out of the narrow street. At the corner, Sharmaji stopped for a brief moment to step inside the temple. Leaving Fatima at the entrance, he entered the structure, rang the brass bell and bowed to the deity. He quickly uttered a prayer and dropped a coin in the donation box. This was his deal with the Lord. A coin for a benediction; it seemed like a fair trade to him. As he walked out, he glanced around to check for his scooter. When he didn’t see it, a quick frown came over his face. Fatima discretely folded her fingers into his and said, “Everything will be fine. We’ll get it back, don’t worry.” It seemed to be just the right dose of reassurance he needed. He looked at her with a wry smile and they walked through the old streets toward Moti Masjid.
There were a few mosques in Chand Bazaar hidden in narrow winding lanes, but Moti Masjid was the grandest of them all. Inspired by beautiful Mughal architecture and fine calligraphy, the mosque had two long minarets from which loudspeakers offered invitations to pray. The main structure had a white dome on the outside layered with geometric lines from its rooftop down to the base building below, which was a mix of red sandstone and marble. The finial atop the dome was a shining crescent moon. Intricately decorated windows alternated with arches and pillars. A large courtyard cocooned by a higher outer wall only accessible through a grand gateway sprawled in front of the masjid. Word on the street was that Mirza Ghalib, the famous poet, had himself laid the foundation stone for this mosque. On Eid, Moti Masjid became the central attraction for its faithful, who gathered inside the courtyard in organized formation to pray. Seated with their knees and feet below them, with their hands together in prayer, they would bend forward in unison and rise, feeling purified. This day culminated their spiritual journey of Ramzaan.
Once their prayers were over, the Muslim community would pour into the streets in celebration. This happiness often translated to purchases of food and clothes and the assembled street vendors were only too pleased to serve. Virtually every shop around the masjid was a hub of activity. Fatima didn’t spend much time at the mosque, she knew Sharmaji would feel awkward if she left him alone for too long. After a quick prayer standing at the entrance, she turned toward him. “Let’s go to Sayed’s shop for some paranthas. I’m famished.” Sharmaji nodded in excitement. Sayed made the best stuffed paranthas in the area.
As they navigated through the swelling crowd, they saw that his shop was full of clients already.
“How long is the wait?” Sharmaji asked of the person standing before them in line. “Around ten minutes,” the man replied. Sharmaji gave Fatima a hopeful stare as they joined the line. Fatima concurred, then, sensing an opening, asked, “Can you do me a favor?” “Sure.”
“While we are waiting, can you please get me those green bangles from Anwar bhai’s shop?”
Sharmaji knew she had a sheepish smile under her burqa. It wasn’t very often that Fatima wanted something from him, but when she did, he would do what he could to keep her happy. “Yes, sure. Hold our place in line,” he suggested.
“Okay, and please ask Anwar to send Noor to our place later today,” she added.
Anwar Rizvi had the best trinket shop in all of Chand Bazaar, and he was among its busiest vendors. Some said his goods were overpriced, but he also carried the best bangles in town. And Fatima loved the bangles from his shop. “How are you, Anwar bhai? Eid Mubarak!” Sharmaji wished him genuinely, his voice competing with a song played on Anwar’s old transistor.
“Eid Mubarak, Ram. What can I sell you today?” Anwar shouted back while haggling with three other clients simultaneously. Sharmaji scoped his stand and gestured toward a packet of a dozen green bangles. He was not going to haggle on price, even though he knew he was going to overpay. Around Sharmaji’s age, Anwar had been a longtime friend of his and was instrumental in his courtship with Fatima. As he waited, he hurriedly remarked, “Oh yes, before I forget, Fatima has invited Noor to come visit.”
“Women!” Anwar smiled warmly and gestured that he would pass on the message. While Sharmaji watched his friend pack the bangles, someone pushed into the crowd, making him turn around to ask the person behind him to calm down. As he looked behind, he saw the same man from the temple the day before, standing across the street next to his scooter. This was now the third time he had seen this person in the past twenty-four hours. When the man saw Sharmaji examining him, he cheekily offered a menacing smile in return. In a shocking development, he then raised his hand up to his neck and pretended to slice it off, all while maintaining his smile. Then as suddenly as the man had appeared, he mounted his scooter and sped away. Before long, he was lost in the sea of people. The exchange had barely lasted a moment, but it gave Sharmaji the chills. He began to sweat noticeably. That gesture; did this man just threatened to decapitate me? Why would he do that? What have I done? Sharmaji thought. Then he paused, his mind in over-drive. Wait…the decapitated doll…my scooter!
Not one to sound an alarm however, he quietly turned to Anwar to pay him when his glance fell on another part of the trinket stand. There, quietly tucked away in a corner, was a rubber doll, dressed in pink with arms held out to embrace. It’s head intact with blue eyes, blond hair and a smile that looked like she was amused. Sharmaji was stunned to make the connect.
“Anwar bhai, those dolls there, has anyone bought them from you lately?” he enquired while holding out cash for the bangles. Anwar threw a quick glance in the direction.
“Yes, a young man bought two the other day. Why?” Anwar offered, while taking the change.
“Do you remember what he looked like by any chance?”
“Not exactly. Sorry, so many people come by every day. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind.”
I need to go to the police station again, Sharmaji reminded himself. As he made his way back to Fatima in line, he noticed she was next to be seated. She was excited when she saw the green bangles, putting them on immediately.
“What happened to you? Did Anwar bhai overcharge you?” Fatima asked, seeing the lost expression on Sharmaji’s face.
“Don’t worry about it, let’s eat!” he replied, relieved to see a waiter prompt them to sit at a table by the entrance. Fatima knew there were times when Sharmaji was best left to himself.
The kitchen was busy and their order took longer than anticipated. As Sharmaji looked around, he saw happy faces enjoying their meals. With stainless-steel glasses, spoons and plates conspiring to increase the decibel level in his restaurant, Sayed joined the party by barking orders to hurry up. It was worth the wait. Sharmaji enjoyed the hot paranthas with melted butter and a side of yoghurt and pickle.
Several chews, chomps and licks later, Sharmaji gulped a cold glass of water. As the food settled in, he sat back in his chair, relieved albeit briefly from the spate of recently disturbing events, annoyingly unknown to him in their intent and outcome. His contemplate look however was not lost on his wife. She was disappointed to see him that way because they had barely stepped out. She had planned her day to get some mehndi for her hands and then the afternoon was to be a long gossip session with Noor. But now, she had to resort to a settlement. It wasn’t his fault: losing the scooter was a genuinely big concern for them and he was not unreasonable in his reactions. At least she got some bangles, she contented herself. When she saw his nervous expression return, she offered that they return home. The walk back was quiet in the chaotic festivities around them. On the way, they stopped to pick up some jalebis at Gupta Halwai’s shop.
Gupta Halwai was sitting outside, presiding over his kadhai, which was full of hot sugar syrup. Like an orchestra conductor in front of an audience, he waived his hands over the bubbling liquid and squeezed the jalebi batter into it from a muslin pouch. The assembled crowds marveled in delight as the sounds of the deep-frying delicacies ensnared their senses. When the sweet delight took its form, they jostled for the first few warm pieces emanating from the syrup, grabbing their share as if it were their elixir of life. Sharmaji and Fatima stayed back, choosing instead to patiently wait their turns. While she enjoyed the energy, he was distracted; his curiosity had unexpectedly seethed up like a flame and he scanned the crowd sporadically, expecting to catch a glimpse of the mystery man again. Just then, Noor approached them.
“I was heading your way,” she said, gesturing through her burqa. Fatima’s eyes noticeably lit up.
“Why don’t you and Noor catch up? I’ll head home” Sharmaji offered, concluding that he was poor company, best served to isolate himself.
“Are you sure?” Fatima looked at him surprisingly.
“Yes, yes, don’t mind me, I’ll be okay. I just feel I need to sleep this off” Sharmaji signed off before turning to Noor with a smile and limp wave. It was well into the evening when Sharmaji’s eyes reopened. Fatima was not home yet. He yawned and stretched his arms, sliding his feet into his slippers before heading to the terrace. Once there, he sat on his charpai and stared out into the horizon. Chand Bazaar was well lit. He could hear fire crackers bursting in the distance. The crescent moon dangled just above the horizon. He felt better but his concern was stubbornly persistent. After all these years, his rather predictable life was being tested by something unknown. It seemed as if someone was sending him a message. But what? And why? He remembered the note: This is not a coincidence.
He was about to get lost in his thoughts when he heard Fatima come up the stairs. She was alone when she stepped onto the terrace. In her hand, a decapitated rubber doll, similar to the one he had found outside the temple.
“Someone left this outside our main door. Odd, don’t you think?” she remarked curiously, showing him the figurine. There was another note sticking out of her torso.
He pulled the note and unfurled it:
You can’t mask away forever
Sharmaji looked at Fatima helplessly. He clinched her hand and pressed it tightly. This was not just about the scooter - something more threatening was headed their way.
