By TSV Hari
Bombay,
1333 hours
December 31 1992
‘I like your poems Hamid,’ you said.
But you went on to say, ‘I, however, don’t find you interesting. You are too intense. All those who are, are dense. I am a carefree girl. I change boyfriends with the same periodicity of changing sanitary napkins,’ you said.
I was shocked that someone beautiful as you could say something daft as that.
I spent a small fortune to find out that you had lied.
Now I know you are poor.
To meet your ends, you hire yourself.
I could have hired you for the rest of my life. I have enough money to do that. But that would have meant buying you.
That is the exact opposite of what I want.
I want you to love me.
But, now I know you won’t, ever.
I wrestled with several ideas to somehow cajole you to love me. I wanted to write something haunting, just to lodge myself somewhere in your heart.
No matter what verse I came up with there were other adverse thoughts that accompanied them.
After several weeks of hibernation, yesterday afternoon, I went out of my house in Malabar Hill and walked all the way down to the Chowpathy beach aimlessly.
I saw an artist do a painting. Its theme interested me. It gave me this idea.
I purchased it.
My secretary created this stationery by making a hazy photocopy of it.
It is unique, you should know.
Only two copies have been made.
I then visited an old antique seller near the Gateway of India to buy a pen whose nib can be used to write a few words a dip.
If you have read this far, you would be wondering why would I require an antique pen.
Perhaps it is now safe to tell you that blood clogs modern day pens.’
Oh! My God!
I looked at the background of the letter carefully as my fingers dialed Hamid’s number.
I could barely make out the illustration.
“Mr. Hamid Rehman’s residence,” the baritone voice said.
“Can I speak to Hamid please?”
‘I am sorry, madam. You can’t. Mr. Hamid is in hospital.’
“Which hospital is he in?”
“He is in the ICU of the Breach Candy.”
I stuffed the letter and my mobile into my bag and ran out of my small tenement in Kurla a little known suburb in north Bombay.
Breach Candy! What a name for a hospital!
Last night’s caper had left me with seven hundred rupees.
My regular cabbie Abu wanted at least four hundred rupees to drive me to Mahalakshmi.
In normal times, it wouldn’t have cost more than hundred rupees and change.
“Dange ho rahe hain,” Abu said explaining away the riots.
Hindu mobs had demolished the centuries old Babri Mosque in Ayodhya – a small town in north India. This had triggered the worst known pogrom in Bombay. Angry Muslims tried to get even and that resulted in a carnage hitherto unknown in the history of the financial capital of India. Angry spear and sword wielding saffron-clad men, organized by rightwing political parties torched hundreds of Muslim colonies in a frenzy that began eleven days back.
“I have to go through Hindu areas,” Abu was saying. “I might get killed.”
“Don’t worry. I will get you through. Just take off your cap. Here, use my make up and hide that little black mark on your forehead. No one in a hurry will notice. I will simply say that you are my brother, Peter.”
All good Muslims who pray five times a day develop a black mark on their forehead because they touch the floor with it, a bit too quickly. That creates a black scar – almost like a mole.
“Okay. But this is going to cost you. I want five hundred rupees,” Abu said.
Why did everything have to boil down to money?
I didn’t care. I just wanted to see Hamid.
“That is fine with me,” I said.
“If you don’t mind, I will have the money now. Only Allah knows what might happen on the way.”
I parted with the wad of notes. For good measure, I took off my chain with the cross and handed it over to Abu.
“Wear this. Leave a couple of buttons on your shirt open. Everybody will notice the cross. The Hindu mobs are against only Muslims. Christians will be spared.”
We were stopped at three places. The cross around Abu’s neck and my attire – a skirt and a loose blouse, which is worn mostly by Roman Catholics in Bombay, served as our passes.
“Saali, paav waali hai,” the attackers said derisively.
All Christian girls are referred to in this insulting manner in this city because our skirts reveal our legs below the knee.
“Hey! Are you her brother or pimp?”
A mob looking for easy pickings, needled Abu near Haji Ali, the shrine built in 1431 in the honor of a Muslim who died on the way to Mecca. It juts out from the shore – some 500 yards away and is situated almost bang opposite the race course.
Abu chose to remain silent. It probably saved his life.
After reaching the Breach Candy Hospital in South Bombay – where the rich alone were treated, I had to virtually fight my way past the security men.
Somehow, I managed to reach the corridor where special room in the Intensive Care Unit was located.
There was a crowd of men waiting lounging in the area, dressed in made to order, expensive Raymond suits. They stopped me.
One of them, an elderly man, asked me mournfully, “Are you Rose Gonzalves?”
Breathlessly I replied in the affirmative.
“Do you have the letter?”
“What letter?”
“It was sent to you by courier yesterday. It was written in Mr. Rehman’s blood.”
“Yes. But who are you, and why do you want the letter?”
“My name is Hormusji Irani. I am Mr. Rehman’s lawyer.”
“Okay I will see you later. I want to see Hamid!”
“If you have the letter, just give it to me. Mr. Hamid Rehman has said that only you should be allowed to see him, and that the letter will prove your identity.”
I hurriedly retrieved the letter from my handbag and placed it in Irani’s outstretched hand.
Irani glanced at the letter and waved me in.
“Now you can see him, ma’am.”
There were a few murmurs in the crowd.
I opened the door.
Hamid was sitting on the bed reading a book.
His left wrist was bandaged.
I burst into tears of relief.
Half an hour later, we were traveling Hamid’s Mercedes. He insisted on driving it. Though he had lost some blood because he had slashed his left wrist, Hamid was healthy enough to handle its steering wheel. It was just a hop from Napean Sea Road to Malabar Hill where the rich lived.
“You gave me a very nasty surprise, Hamid! All you needed to tell me was how much you loved me. A letter written in blood! Am I worth that much to you?”
“Much more, Rose. When you reach home, you can read the second part of the letter,” Hamid said as he negotiated a turn.
“You mean you have wasted more of your blood for a second part of this letter?”
Before I could say something more, Hamid had to stop the car.
A huge, menacing Hindu crowd dressed in saffron attire blocked the way.
“That is Hamid Rehman’s car!”
The crowd quickly surrounded the vehicle.
Hamid was very calm about it.
“Let her go. She is a Roman Catholic. It is me you want,” he said.
I began screaming when they started stabbing him in the chest. At the sight of blood again, this time ebbing out of Hamid’s chest, I fainted.
When I woke up, I found myself lying on a settee. There was a huge chandelier hanging above me.
I sat up bolt upright and found a huge, tastefully decorated, softly lit living room.
There were various portraits of men in long Muslim type coats and women in Punjabi suits on the walls.
I spotted an oil painting of Hamid posing with a flower vase beside him on the wall facing me.
Below that there was a smaller watercolor featuring a dove was wounding itself on the neck from a thorn. It seemed like it was bleeding itself to death in order to paint the white rose painted below, into a crimson colour with its blood.
“Will you have some water, young lady?” The butler’s baritone voice brought me to my senses.
I noticed a doctor standing behind the sofa.
“Where am I?”
“This is Mr. Rehman’s residence, ma’am,” the butler said.
“How… where is Hamid?”
“I am sorry, ma’am. He died on the way to hospital.”
I stood up and began crying as I took a few, slow, faltering steps towards the watercolor.
To my surprise there was a small, sealed pink envelope below the painting.
I opened it.
“This is the second part of the letter, Rose.
Somehow, the nagging feeling that I had purchased you kept hurting me. Further, there were fears that what might happen if there were misunderstandings between us after marriage I wanted you to love me, and love only me.
So I had to do something unforgettable, which will ensure that.
So, I took out a contract on myself.
These days, the life of a Muslim, in Bombay, even a rich one, is very cheap.
Goons are a dime a dozen.
Those who killed me did not know that they were actually carrying out my orders.
Their boss, strange as it may seem, is an atheist. His religious denomination doesn’t matter.
He believes only in money.
When you read this, I would be dead, but I would be sure that there would be never any other man in your life.
I am going to turn down all those virgins in heaven and wait for your arrival. Like the bird in the painting, I have painted my Rose red.
Good-bye.
Love you,
Hamid…”
Mumbai,
October 12 2007
Fifteen years have passed. I have changed my name to Abida Hamid Rehman legally.
That is the least I could do.
The fact that I was never married to Hamid didn’t matter. His lawyers took care of that.
Of course, Hamid had willed his entire fortune to me. His parents were dead and he had no siblings who could stake a claim. Plus, Hamid had been a self made man. Thus, no one could question his will.
I told Irani that I didn’t want the money or the estate.
“Just imagine that you are waiting for Hamid to come home everyday, my dear,” the lawyer said in his mournful voice. “One day, instead of Hamid coming home, you will go to him. Believe me, it will make him happy.”
Though nobody forced me, I learnt the Muslim prayer in Arabic. It is a remarkable way to preserve the original prayer. There are no contradictions in Islam – at least about the prayer.
And nobody stopped me when I went to the Church on Sundays.
Earlier, virtually everyday, I used to confess.
Now I didn’t need to.
I informed Father Manuel that though I have chosen to become a Muslim’s widow, I still am a Christian as well.
“That is alright, child! It is faith in the Almighty that matters. After all, Islam had accepted that the Lord as one of its Prophets,” father Manuel said.
I live in this house, not because I want its opulence, but because this is where Hamid lived.
I have been distributing his wealth to charity ever since they buried him.
I have more than enough left to feed me.
I will not commit suicide. That might take me to hell.
I want to meet Hamid in heaven. I am sure he will be there, waiting for me.
————————–
TSV Hari is a journalist based in Chennai.