The Burnt House (this is a short story about a riot victim)

By Shevlin Sebastian

Black stains on the outer walls. Bricks lying in the courtyard. Dark brown spots in front of the entrance. He bent and peered closer. Blood. In the tiny courtyard, a rose plant ripped up, its muddy roots exposed.    

He stepped inside. 

The acrid smell of petrol. In the living room, family photos strewn on the floor. Pages of the Koran ripped off. A piece of paper. He bent and picked it up. A crayon drawing by Fatima of their house with a sun high up in the sky. Bits of soot on the back. He wiped it away. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket. 

The half-burnt mattress on which he and Ruksana slept. At the shop, she said, 'I like this pink colour.' He pulled her close and inhaled her attar-scented perfume. 

'Nasir Bhai, are you there?' 

He looked through the window. Ayesha. Ruksana's friend.  

He stumbled out. 

'Nasir Bhai, we shouted at Ruksana to come with us.'

He took short breaths. 'What did she say?' 

She said, 'This is our home. I will wait for Nasir.'

He pressed his fingers against his throat. A sharp pain. His mouth parted. For a moment, he could not breathe. Why didn't you leave, Ruksana? 

Azamgarh. Inside the hotel room. He stared at the screen. The announcer said, 'There's been a riot in Muzaffarnagar. Many people have died.' A mosque burning. The dome. That's the mosque next to his house. Houses burning. What about his? 

He called Ruksana. The phone switched off. 

He began throwing clothes into his bag. 

Maulvi Ahmed Bhai called. 'Nasir, have you heard the news?' 

'Yes. Just saw it.' 

'There's terrible news, Nasir.' 

'What, Ahmed Bhai?' 

There was a pause. 

'Nasir, your wife and children have died.' 

His head swung. 'Ya Allah.' 

His wife and daughters lay on the ground, wrapped in white sheets. He buried his face in his palms. Can't believe it. One moment they were alive. The next moment. His entire family. Who are these people? 

A low murmur. His relatives, neighbours and friends.  

That holiday to Lucknow just a year ago. They had wandered through the Bara Imambara. Shazia holding his hand. Fatima said, 'The ceiling is so high.'  

When the girls ran in front, Nasir held Ruksana's hand. She looked around and smiled. 'No, no, not in public.' 

Ahmed Bhai said, 'Nasir, don't try to look at their faces. Just imagine them before this happened.' 

Nasir placed his fingers against his forehead. 

The maulvi began: 'Bismillahi wa'ala millati rasulillahi.' 

He whispered the words. Mud was thrown on the shrouds. 

Ayesha came to his sister's house. He came out. 

'Akbar was stabbed,' she said. 'Bled to death.' 

Akbar, his childhood friend. They had attended a rally. The speaker said, 'These Muslims should be sent to Pakistan.' 

Akbar held Nasir's elbow. 'These threats are getting dangerous.' 

'Hope they don't come for us.' 

Will they come for him now? 

He swallowed. 

The sun broke through the mist. He adjusted his pullover. A young man hovered near the gate. A beard. Could he be a Muslim? 

The man entered. 

He bowed his head. 'I am sorry for your loss.' 

Nasir remained silent. Is he from the government? Or an NGO? Or a plainclothes policeman?  

'Sir, I am a journalist from Lucknow. I write for an English newspaper.'

He let out a soft breath. A reporter. How can that be helpful for him at this time? 

'Tell me, what do you want to know?'   

'What happened?' 

He gestured towards the house. 'Can't you see?' 

'Who did this?' 

'I don't know.' 

'Will you file an FIR?' 

'Naming who?' 

Abbas scratched his head. 

Nasir said, 'Why don’t we have some chai?' 

At Ramu Yadav's roadside shop, they sipped earthen cups of tea.  

'What are you going to do now?' Abbas said in a low voice. 

He rubbed his arm. These questions. Can't think straight now. 'I don't know.' 

Some barefoot labourers drifted towards the shop. Once they noticed Abbas's beard, they avoided looking at him. 

Abbas exchanged a silent look with Nasir. 

Nasir's lips tightened. 

They finished their tea and threw the earthen cups into a wastebin. 

They stepped out onto the road. 

He shook Nasir’s hand. 'I will send the report through WhatsApp when it gets published.'

'I cannot read English.'

'I will ask somebody to translate for me.' 

Abbas stood at the bus stop. 

'Be safe,' Nasir said. 

Nasir walked towards his sister's house. A cartpuller. A stray autorickshaw. Most people remained inside their houses. Like a hartal day. 

Inside Zainab's house, she led him into a spare bedroom. 

'Do you want tea or coffee?' 

'No, thank you.' 

She closed the door. He sat down on the edge of the bed, joined his hands together and looked down at the floor. Now what? He kept repeating it.  

He took out Fatima's drawing from his pocket. 

'Abba, how do you like my drawing?' 

'Very good.' 

'Thank you Abba.' 

Holding the drawing in her hand, she ran from the room. 

He rubbed his chest. What to do? What to do?   

Zainab came into the room. 'What are you thinking?' 

'Of killing those people.' 

'I don't understand.' 

'The thugs who killed my family.' 

He smashed his fist against the wall. Small cuts appeared on his knuckles. 

Zainab stood still. 'Bhai Jaan, what's happening to you?'

She hurriedly left the room. 

He licked the cuts one by one. 

He stabbed the men one by one. The knife ripping into each heart. Blood spurted out. He laughed. Go to hell. You brain-washed idiots. 

His hands were shaking. 

Zainab returned. She dipped drops of Dettol on a piece of cotton and cleaned the cuts. 'Calm down, Bhai Jaan.' 

After the initial bite, the pain died down. 

She threw the cotton into a wastepaper bin in the corner. 

Zainab screwed the cap back on  and sat down beside him. 'Let's say you manage to kill one of them. What do you think will happen?' 

'Nothing.' 

'You will be arrested. And you will drag us into your mess. In jail, you will be beaten up. By the cops and the other prisoners.' 

He clenched his fists. 'I'll hit back.' 

Zainab shook her head. 'You'll be physically and mentally destroyed, Bhai Jaan. You and I know of so many cases.' 

Fatima and Shazia. They held hands and began to go round and round. 

He stared at them. They had unsmiling faces. Sweat broke out all over his face. Why are you dancing? Look at our faces. We are not smiling. Don't do it, Abba. Life will keep spinning. You will fall down into a dark hole. 

No. That won't happen. 

Zainab said, 'Let me get some water.' 

When she left, he whispered, 'Please stop, children. Please stop.' 

But they went faster. His forehead throbbed. Children, please.   

'Allah. Save me.' 

She returned with a glass of water. He drank it in one gulp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 

That night Ruksana came. In a shining purple salwar kameez, with Lucknawi chikankari.  

They embraced. His head began to float. He missed her touch so much. The way she caressed his head when he was tense.  

They began to spin. Just like his daughters. But this time, it was slow, and steady. 'Jaan, I will always be there for you.' 

At one point, the spinning stopped. They looked into each other's eyes. 

He pulled away. He began weeping. She took out a handkerchief from her kameez pocket and wiped his face again and again.   

He drifted into sleep. 

The next day, he woke up and stared at the ceiling. He cracked a knuckle. He had a dream but what was it all about? He got up. Walked silently on bare feet from one end of the room to the other. What was the dream about? No answers. Minutes passed. 

Zainab called. 'Bhai Jaan, tea is ready.' 

'Coming.' 

As he stepped out of the house, two words popped in his mind. Yateem Orphanage. He had donated money there every month for years.  

That visit with his family to the orphanage. Director Mohsin Khan. Good man. He had pointed at a thin boy leaning against a wall. The other children played cricket in the quadrangle. 

'That boy is in shock. His parents and sisters were killed during a riot. His relatives. They did not offer to look after him.' 

Ruksana covered her mouth. 'I knew his parents.'

Outside, Fatima said, 'Abba, we are so lucky.' 

'Yes. We are lucky. By Allah's grace.'  

At the orphanage's entrance, his heart seemed to expand outwards, like the petals of a flower. 

He told Mohsin, 'I would like to be a volunteer.' 

A boy shouted, 'Come, let's play football.'

(Originally published in Muse India Magazine, this is a reworked version) 

'Phut Phut' -- a short story about a hitman in Kolkata

By Shevlin Sebastian     

The bees buzzed among the roses in the garden. At one side the mud had been churned up. Dry, red mud. Outside, the sidewalks remained empty. A lizard lay still on the low wall.   

Pehelwan placed his palm on his chest. His heart beat the same way before the first killing.    

He turned around and shut the front door.

He walked barefoot to the bed and lay down. He caressed his chest. 

A loud, rattling sound. He slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the window. An exhaust pipe of a car. Oh. Thank God.    

He sat on the edge of the bed. The rattling sound again. But lower now. Like the phut-phut of his silencer. 

                                                                      ***

His sweaty hand gripped the steering wheel. The man parked the car on one side of the petrol station. He walked towards the toilet. Rolling gait. Fatso. 

Pehelwan stepped out. The pungent odour of petrol. He wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. No sweat. Hands should be dry.   

Inside, the man stood, one hand on his hip. A streaming sound. The stink of urine. Pehelwan's nose twitched. Why don't they clean the bathroom? Use Phenyl. White kurta pyjama. Pot-bellied. The roar of the exhaust fan. 

Malik Babu's voice echoed in his head. 'Building construction magnate. He borrowed money. Business went bust. Kill him. Let's send a message to the others.'

He aimed the pistol at the back of the head. His mother raised a finger at him. 'Raju, be good.' 

'Ma, I want to. But my circumstances. Orders are orders.' 

He gritted his teeth. His fingers tightened around the trigger. His breath stopped. He put pressure on the trigger. The bullet entered. Such a tiny hole. The man's knees buckled and he fell forward onto the tiled floor. The clean-shaven face. Now bloodied.    

Pehelwan looked outside. Nobody. Only the attendants near the pump. He stepped forward. The kurta had turned red. An odd odour. His stomach churned. He placed the barrel near the temple and pressed again. He stepped back, pulled out a plastic packet from his trouser pocket and placed the pistol inside it. 

He touched his chest. A hole where his heart was. His body shook. 

That night he dreamt of the hole in the head. Enlarging in slow motion. Bigger. Bigger. Frenzied laughter. The laughter continued. He stood up, walked to the kitchen and drank water. He touched his forehead. It was so hot. 

                                                                 ***

At his flat, he abruptly opened his eyes. All dark. No sound. Only his ragged breath. He went to the loo and emptied himself. The steady plip plip sound. His breathing eased up. As a child, Ma would take him to the toilet. Her hand on his shoulders as he released urine.    

He sat down on the edge of the bed. He touched the gaps between the toes. It was clammy with perspiration. 

He looked at his watch. 4 p.m. He went to the kitchen and washed his hands. Made tea. Added sugar. Dipped Parle G biscuits into it. He liked the way the biscuit melted in his mouth. It was so easy to eat. His mother would give him the same.  

The doorbell rang. He frowned. It couldn't be his gang members. They didn't know where he lived. It must be Ganesh. He had asked for money for his college fees.  

He placed the cup in the washbasin. Stay calm.  

He opened the door.  

Two young men stood there. One had shifty eyes. The other licked his lower lip. 

'Yes. What do you want?' 

'Sir, we were asked to give you a package,' one of them said.  

Pehelwan leaned forward. Hands free. His forehead throbbed. 

The young man put his hand in his pocket and took out a revolver. Pehelwan jumped back and pulled at the door. The gunman barged in. Something hit his lower back. No pain. Only numbness. He lost consciousness.

                                                                    ***

'Dada, what happened?' Ganesh's voice. So far away. He was hurtling down a black hole. Where is the light? He turned. There was a searing pain in his back. Oh God. Was this a glowing ember from Ma's chula accidentally pressed against his skin? Who did it?    

He heaved in a lungful of air. 'Shot.' 

'Who?' 

He turned to the side. A pool of blood on the floor. How red it was. 

Ganesh's squeaky voice. 'I'll call the ambulance.' Frightened out of his wits.  

Men talking. Was it Bengali or Hindi? Can't make out. Hands beneath his shoulders and feet. Hot breath shot out. His mouth opened. No sound came out. The vehicle jerked forward. Then the wail of the siren. 

A man shouted. 'Emergency. ICU.' 

His body flying through the air. 'Fast, fast,' a nurse said. It sounded like Kalyani's voice. Oh, dear. Have betrayed her many times. So sorry. 

A pinprick. Darkness. For the first time, a sense of peace. Nobody was going to kill him now.   

                                                                       ***

The low hum of the air-conditioner. So cold. He opened his eyes. A big-breasted nurse stood beside him, holding his hand. That warmth. Ma. Kalyani. Why did he go down this route? 

'You've been sleeping for a week now.' 

His eyes fell on her breasts. That old hunger returned.   

Intakes of breath. A few nurses. Somebody important was coming. 

The doctor, in a white waistcoat, black stethoscope around his neck. That smell of Dettol. Ma's admonishing tone as she put cotton dipped in Dettol on his scraped knee.

The doctor's voice. 'I am very sorry to say this.' 

The doctor held his hand. Soft. Warm. Never held a pistol. 'You're paralysed from the waist down.'

'I don't understand.' 

'The bullet hit your spinal cord.'

'I'm not feeling any sensation in my legs.' 

'That's what I mean.' 

'Is there any way something can be done?' 

The doctor leaned closer. 'Physical therapy helps.' 

'Will I walk, Doctor?' 

The doctor looked at the nurses. The nurses looked back at him. He stared at the doctor. 

'It's possible.' 

Consolation words. No chance. His head fell back on the pillow. 

'May I ask you something?' 

'Yes.' 

'Who shot you?' 

He looked at the doctor. Soft eyes.   

'I don't know, doctor.' 

                                                               ***

The next morning. He sensed somebody in the room. He opened his eyes. Malik Babu. Standing beside him. Those bulging-out eyes. That expensive perfume.  

'Very sorry to hear this.' 

Pehelwan pursed his lips. 

'You were my best man.'

Were. Not are. Have to be 'were'. Paralysed.  

His eyes fell on Malik Babu's trouser pockets. An outline. He's got a pistol. Is he nervous?  

Malik Babu's eyes bored into him. 'What will you do now?'

'Go back home, I guess.' 

'Do you know who planned the hit?' 

'No, Sir.' 

'I don't think it was a gangland hit. We have no wars now.'

'Those boys. Amateurs.' 

'Then who?' 

'Maybe, the family of one of the victims.' 

'Which one?'  

'I can't say, Sir. I'm guessing… maybe the first. Construction guy.' 

'Why?' 

'They have the money.'

'After so many years?'   

Malik Babu leaned in. Kissed him on the cheek. 'Don't worry. Everything will be looked after.' 

His eyes brimmed. Not abandoning him, as yet. 

Malik Babu pressed his hand. Strong. Soft.  

He put his hand under the sheet and grasped his penis. He pressed it. No change. He pressed harder. Soft as cotton. Would he get an erection? Maybe. Kalyani could get on top. Would she? Always missionary. Could he ask the nurse to bend down? Could she be interested? No, no. Too risky.  

He opened his mobile. His mistress's number. He stared at it. Then blocked it.  

He pushed the sheet to one side and looked down at his legs. Pieces of wood. Immobile. The trainer's voice. Pointing at his thighs. 'Abhijeet, look, this is called definition. You can get this but lots of hard work and dedication are required.' Now. Nothing. 

He whispered, 'Move your toes.' 

Nothing moved. Only his lips. Downwards. 

***

Kalyani and the children arrived. 

They stared at him in silence. The doctor told them? Or the nurse? Kalyani took her saree pallu and wiped her eyes. 

He showed them the legs. 

His daughter cried, 'Oh Baba.' 

Kalyani and his daughter hugged each other. Their shoulders shook. 

Amit said, 'Baba, what happened?' 

He pressed his lips together. He asked for a glass of water. Kalyani handed it to him. He drank slowly and returned the glass. 

'I was walking in Beliaghata. Two gangs were fighting using guns. One bullet caught me in the lower back.' 

She pressed her face against his. The wetness was still there. The children placed their arms around his chest. He could feel their warmth. Nothing like family.   

'Will you continue the business?' Kalyani said. 

Business. What business? No business. All lies. 'It will be shut.' 

'How will we survive?' 

He reached out. Held her hand. 'Don't worry. I will work it out.'  

                                                                   ***

Before he was discharged, Malik Babu arrived.  

Kalyani stood on one side of the bed. In a yellow cotton saree.  

Pehelwan said, 'Malik Babu lives near my house. Big businessman.'

Malik Babu waved. 'No, no. Nothing like that.' 

Kalyani smiled. 

'Your husband is a good man.'

She wiped a tear. 'I know. He cares for us every day.'  

Malik Babu looked at her. That appraising look. 

Malik Babu proffered a brown packet. It was secured with rubber bands. He held it. Could be money. Or a packet of halwa. 

'Thank you, Sir,' he said softly. 

When Malik Babu left, Kalyani held his hand. 

'Can I ask you something?' 

'Yes. Sure. Ask away.' 

'Did you sleep around?' 

He had to ensure no tremor passed through his hand. 'Why do you ask this?' 

Kalyani looked down at the floor. 'It's been on my mind.' 

He held her hand. 'I'm a bit disappointed you don't trust me.'

'It's not that. It's just…. a feeling.' 

'Gut feeling?' 

They locked eyes. He had to look away.

'Yes.' 

'The gut is not always right.' 

She remained silent.  

He pulled her close and pressed his face against her body.

Her hands remained by her side. 

                                                               ***

When they returned home in an ambulance, his mother started crying. 

He said, 'Ma, I need to fight back. You have to be strong.' 

His tone. His mother's eyes dried up. Good. His father shook his hand.   

The next morning, after Kalyani went off for work, he was alone. He opened the packet. His heart lifted. It was Rs 500 currency notes.  

Using his spittle, he counted the notes. 

The numbers climbed. 

Rs 10 lakh. 

With shaking hands, he placed the money back in the packet, and kept it carefully under his clothes in the cupboard. 

He phoned Malik Babu. 'Sir…' his voice cracked. 'I don't know what to say.' His fingers were trembling.  

'Pehelwan, you were my best colleague. Loyal. Professional. And nobody had your skill.' 

'Sir, I got an idea. I can train the newcomers.'

'How?' 

'I'll come down to the training place in the countryside.' 

'What a good idea.' 

'Sir, my brain is working. Hands too.' 

'Okay.'  

                                                                          ***

After he cut the call, hot breath came in and out in short bursts. 

Pehelwan looked up. His eyes fell on the photo of Lord Krishna on the table, next to the wall. He picked it up and pressed it against his face. After a while he put it down.  

He pushed his wheelchair towards the window. The large mango tree. He had planted the seeds. It towered over the house now. The hanging baskets of orchids alongside the wall. Kalyani's love. The grassy lawn. How he loved to lie down on it.   

A crow pecked at a guava on a branch. 

                                                                 ***

Every morning, Kalyani wore a crisp cotton saree. The way she called him. Raju. It sounded… like the tinkle of a bell. The soft peck on his cheek. 

One Sunday afternoon, he said, 'Kalyani, hug me.'  

She came close. He inhaled her body scent. Earthy. Like dry land after it receives the first monsoon shower. He kissed her. Her tongue responded. He indicated with his hand that she should get on top. 

'Are you sure?' she whispered. 

'Yes.' 

A small grunt escaped her lips, as they connected. She moved twice. Then stopped. Got her breath back. Moved again. His lips parted. He caressed her smooth skin. What a firm body. 

'Keep moving.' 

His biceps taut. Yes, he was rock hard. 

Her body shook. She closed her eyes and pressed her chest against his face, her hands at the back of his neck. 

He smiled. 

Kalyani said, 'I like it. On top.' 

He held her chin. 'Very good.'

                                                                         ***

One night, his family took him out. His son, Amit, put his arms under his shoulders so that he could sit in the passenger seat. Painful. This helplessness. 

A teenage boy at one side sipping from a bowl of soup. The trail of smoke rising. 

Like beedi smoke. In that bamboo-walled restaurant in Kolkata. A plate of samosas and chutney and a glass of tea in front of him.  

He wore a sleeveless T-shirt. The man at the nearby table. Kept looking at him. Thick sideburns. Large hands. He came and sat next to him. 

'Where did you get such thick biceps?' 

'Sir, I do weights.' 

'How often?'

'Every day.' 

'Do you have a job?' 

'No, Sir. Looking for one. Just came in from Burdwan.' 

'How much have you studied?' 

'Class 12 failed, Sir.' 

'What is your name?' 

'Raju Das. People call me Pehelwan.' 

'Pehelwan? You are a weightlifter, not a wrestler.' 

'Yes. A friend got it wrong. But the name stuck.'  

The man laughed. 

'My name is Malik Babu. If you want a job, you can join me.'

'What will I do?' 

'In the beginning, you'll do errands.' 

                                                                     ***

'Baba, you are daydreaming,' Arpita said. 

'Sorry.' 

'See what you want on the menu?' 

He scanned the menu. 'Hilsa. Rice.' 

Kalyani said, 'Try something new.' 

'Like what?' 

'There's Punjabi food.' 

'You suggest.' 

She looked at the menu. 'Butter naan, tandoori chicken.' 

'Okay.'

She glanced at the menu again. 'Dal makhani, and aloo gobi.' 

'If I can't finish, will you help?' 

'Yes.' 

Amit said, 'Let's begin with a sweet lassi.'  

As they sat around, he said, 'Amit, what would you want to be?' 

Amit cracked a knuckle. He stared into space. 'Baba, I want to be a police officer.' 

'Why, Amit?' 

'I want to catch criminals and put them behind bars. They are a menace to society.'

He swallowed. His fingers tightened around his glass. 

'Very noble aim. Well done.' 

He turned to his daughter. 'What about you?'

Arpita did not hesitate. 'I want to be a teacher like Ma.' 

'Very good. It's a noble profession.' 

He exchanged a glance with Kalyani. A slight tightening of her lips. 

                                                                            ***

The next evening, after dinner, Malik Babu called. 

'Hi Pehelwan, how are you?' 

'Going along, Malik Babu.'

'I've got some news for you.'

His forehead turned damp. 'What is it, Malik Babu?' 

'It was the construction magnate's sons. They hired those people.'

'Where are they from?' 

'Bihar.' 

'How did they know?' 

'I don't know yet.' 

There was silence. 

'We're going to do something.' 

'No need, Malik Babu.' 

'Why?' 

'Pointless. I won't get my legs back.'

'But still?' 

'They deserve their revenge.' 

Again, silence. 

His mother whispered in his ear. 'Tea. Biscuits. Dining table.' 

He raised a palm. 

Malik Babu said, 'Okay.'   

He slumped in his chair. All those killings. By revolver or knife. Nobody hit back. No splashes of blood on his body. 

Then. Muscular. Tough. Now. He patted his thin legs. No feeling at all.  

                                                                         ***

One Sunday, he was sitting near the window. Kalyani sat on the bed watching a Bengali movie. 

A call came on his mobile. Unknown number. He stared at it. 

'Hello.' 

'Hi Pehelwan.' That moist, husky voice. 

He looked at Kalyani. Her gaze was on the screen. He caressed his chin.  

'Hi.'

'Dada, missed you so badly. Tried your number many times.' 

'Yes, something went wrong with my phone.' 

'I heard about the tragedy. So shocked.' 

'Who told you?' 

'Malik Babu.' 

Pehelwan took in a long and slow breath. 

'How's it going?' 

'He's generous.' 

'Pehelwan, are you okay? You know what I mean?'

'Yes, I am.'

'Malik Babu said, if you want, I can come to Burdwan.' 

Kalyani's eyes. Narrowed. She was gazing at the screen. 

'Let's see.' 

He placed the phone on the window sill. He stared out. Clear blue sky. Tumpa's voice. I can come to Burdwan. 

He rolled the wheelchair near the headboard.

He beckoned to Kalyani. She pressed the remote to stop the film. 

Without saying anything, he put his hands behind her neck and kissed her deeply. She kissed him back. His head swirled.  

Amit shouted, 'Arpita, did you take my pen?' 

'No.'  

He broke off, smiled, and said, 'Sorry for the interruption.' 

Kalyani grinned. 'Thank you for the interruption.' 

He rolled back to the window. 

Tumpa… Tumpa. 

He dozed off for a while. 

Kalyani crept up behind him and flung her arms around his shoulders. 'Movie over.' 

He gave a peck on her throat and said, 'Is it?' 

(This story was originally published in the Twist and Twain literary magazine. This is a reworked version)