The Assassin's Song (43 page)

And he throws off a clue.

I imagine Bapu-ji sitting on the floor in his beloved library, his writing table across his knees, addressing his apostate son, uncertain about his own life and fearful for the ancient shrine of which he is the spiritual lord. Extreme violence has spread across the state, narratives of the horror out there keep arriving with every fresh batch of devotees, and this time it looks impossible to stanch the flow outside the village, there seems to be an absolute intention to its fury and no force to counter it. The police are nowhere. I can't see his face: that old official photo won't do, and I don't have a recent picture in my mind to help me visualize him. He must have retained those outlines of his face that I always knew—though how much did that beatific smile shrink over the years? The elongated face I recall, and the large flat ears; the hair must have grown white and thin … There is no preaching in this letter, only a confession of sorts. Does this portend closeness or distance?

And sitting there he throws off casually the meaning of the secret bol. And goes on to narrate how he first met my mother.

The envelope he left me contained this one letter, seven sheets of it, unnumbered, and two manuscript pages, one in Arabic and another in a Nagari script, back to back and contained between plastic sheets to protect them, the way he would use glass sheets in the past. Is this all he could—or wished to—preserve? He could have slipped in an old coin or two, I suppose, the likes of which he had shown me once long ago; come to think of it, he could have packed a shoe box of papers and mementoes and shoved it
into that recess for me. But what right do I have to ask for more, for anything? I had rejected it all. The meagreness of this treasure reflects perhaps the shred of his remaining faith in me. Everything about my life seems laden with symbolic meaning, so desperate have I become.

I don't read Arabic, of course; and the Nagari looks impossible, both the script and the language must be archaic. Why specifically these two pages for me? And my father's own hand—it seems erratic, at times clear and bold, then suddenly hurried and scrawly. He had not written his pages at one sitting, or even with the same pen. The order in which I read them is perhaps not the one in which he wrote.

The night is dark, thick with mist, and my feet crunch audibly upon the gravel. There is not another soul around in this loneliness. In the near distance lurks the gothic silhouette of the Institute, lit eerily by a few isolated lamps, reminding me of the ghosts of rulers past that are supposed to be resident there. I turn back, partly grope my way to the thick boundary wall of the grounds, and sit upon it, a faint shiver running down my neck. Within a few months of my Dada's and my father's visit to Gandhi at his ashram, the Mahatma had come here to this retreat, when it was still the viceroy's summer residence, to discuss with Nehru, Jinnah, and others the fate of this country. We now live with their compromises. Many have suffered and died because of them. Everything is connected, with a purpose, Bapu-ji writes in his letter. There are no accidents. I wish I could be as certain.

I hold in my mouth—through the agency of the bol—the secret of the identity of Nur Fazal. How portentous that sounds. But it's true, though only partly. I have little illusion that the bol—even if the story of its first utterance were true—sounds exactly as it did seven centuries ago. The syllables have rounded with wear, the consonants softened or scattered away, and what remains sounds like nothing but a secret mantra, which is how I received it from my father. But when it had literal meaning, what did it spell out? The sufis of the past identified themselves by their spiritual ancestry—the names of their masters and their schools—and this is perhaps what the bol spelled out. The only problem is that it cannot be read now. It's like a message in a foreign language with key sounds missing. But did my father know more, from his own father and all the knowledge contained
in his library? Are the two manuscript pages he included with his letter further clues? Perhaps he intended to tell me more.

When I was young, we knew that the sufi came from somewhere in the north. And that was enough. People came to Pirbaag not for details of its history. They came for the sick child, the barren hearth, the crippling disease; or something more, for there was no end to wants, as Bapu-ji always taught; or, having realized this truth, they came to elevate their souls to that state in which physical needs are meaningless. No one came for history, except foreign scholars, and they had stopped coming a long time ago.

And yet the prospect of an actual historical connection I find enticing. Bapu-ji was suspicious of my intellectual meanderings at university, but his own first love had been science, synonymous with curiosity, a search for answers; and despite his spiritual message and disparagement of book learning, he had spent a good portion of his life preserving the records of the past. It is a record that he has left me.

Back in the flat, my brother lies stretched out on the sofa with a book. (He has had me borrow books about Islam, which he reads during all the time he has at his disposal.) Should I tell him what I have learned? I would have to utter the bol, which I cannot. But does that injunction hold any longer? In any case, he would not care. Meanwhile I have to worry about him. Besides the books, he pores over the newspapers. What is he up to, what does he want? Earlier today he had a narrow escape from the police, but looking at him, you would never guess.

The game, it seemed, was up. Major Narang walked in through the back door, which I held open for him. No sooner was he inside than there came a knock at the front door and in walked two of his aides. A typical police approach, often seen in the movies. All of us in the living room now, the major sat down, stretched out his legs; glanced distastefully at the sofa seat. The furniture at this institute is half a century old and the sofa cover has the prickly texture of a jute mat. One of the major's aides also sat on the sofa, uncomfortably on the edge; the third fellow hung around; and I was
on the armchair facing the major. My heart was in my mouth, as we say. If they had checked the bedrooms, they would have discovered their quarry and taken him away. If they had pondered long enough over the unusually high pile of newspapers at the side of the sofa, they might have become suspicious. They stayed for forty-five minutes, but they didn't find him because they didn't think to look inside. And Mansoor did not let out a squeak.

The major, as I have indicated, is a sociable fellow and always certain of himself. He had brought samosas and pakodas from the canteen, wrapped in a newspaper; the aide who was standing, called Jamal, went into my kitchen and made us all some tea.

“No news from your brother?”

I shook my head; I don't think I convinced him.

“Mansoor has been associating with elements of the Lashkar in Delhi, there is no doubt about that. We raided their hideout a few days ago. Your brother escaped, with two others, and two of them were shot in an exchange of fire. They were armed. One was from Kashmir—papers were found on him; and the other was from Gujarat, your state.”

I tried to stay calm as I recalled Mukhtiar, son of Salim Buckle, looking out from his belt shop in Old Delhi as I ventured up the alley in quest of my brother. That was hardly three months ago.

“Had they done anything?” I asked quietly.

“Planning, dear chap, planning,” he said. “There were maps and schedules in their flat. There was of course that bombing in Hauz Khas market two weeks ago.”

“You have information about my brother?”

“We suspected he might head here, for the mountains. But no one has seen him. If he contacts you—”

“I should let you know.”

“In everybody's interest.”

We had tea, and then they left. As soon as the last footfall faded on the front steps, Mansoor emerged from inside, grabbed a samosa.

Contrary to what Major Narang believes, Mansoor has been seen here, because he has brashly walked around the grounds, identifying himself as
Professor Ashok Bhalla from Hyderabad; the fact that there is such a person has helped his cause. There is little risk of being found out, because not everybody knows everybody else by face, and the professor happens to be away. In keeping with his borrowed identity, my brother has even shaved off his beard. But how long will he be able to keep up his charade?

In the midst of all the excitement, Bapu-ji's revelations in his letter and Mansoor's narrow escape from the major, Neeta's voice on the phone is water to a thirsty man.

“How wonderful to hear your voice,” I can't help exclaiming, embarrassing myself. Since my arrival at the Institute this is the first time we 've spoken.

There is a short pause to follow my greeting, then she says, “That's nice.” And then, with a welcome concern: “You all right, Karsan?”

“Yes, a bit anxious, though. Major Narang's been nosing around …”

(A little dig at the major, whose man I know is listening in.)

“And? … You shouldn't let that bother you.”

“I won't. But listen—”

I tell her about reading my father's letters.

“That's most touching,” she says. “He knew you would read his letter.”

“I had to recall the bol first—”

“Which you did. He knew you, Karsan. You were his son.”

What if he hadn't found me, I think to myself. What if that accident hadn't happened, the impulsive visit to that church basement in Kingsway. I tell her,

“I picture him sitting on the floor writing this letter on his portable desk, knowing he would not see me again … What did he look like, Neeta—when you last saw him—do you recall his face?”

“Oh yes. It was over a year ago. It was a kind face, with a smile. He had to be helped up from his chair—he was arthritic—and he walked with a stick. He was completely bald. He had an abdominal problem, I think. But there were his disciples who attended to him.”

I want to tell her what I have learned from my father, that the bol is a
clue to Pir Bawa's secret identity. But this bit of news seems trivial and academic now.

The next morning, however, I take the Arabic and Nagari pages that Bapu-ji left me and show them to Professor Barua in his office. His face breaks into a grin of satisfaction as with eager eyes he looks first at one, then the other, through the protective plastic sheath that contains them back to back. His interest in the sufi's mysterious identity has been obsessive from the start. Rubbing his hands gleefully he calls his secretary in, and has copies made of the two specimens and sends them off to professional acquaintances for advice and possible translation. Of course I do not tell him about the bol.