The Burnt House

By Shevlin Sebastian 

At 7 am, the day after the burial of his wife and two daughters, Nasir Khan stood outside his house. The tiled roof had caved in, while the walls had dark stains on them. The floor inside was a mess of ash, burnt wooden planks, sarees, and children’s clothing. There were several collapsed bricks in the middle of the dining room. An acrid smell permeated the house. He walked from room to room. Nasir saw the half-burnt bed on which he and his wife Ruksana slept.

It had taken so many years to build his dream house. Now it had taken a group of young men less than an hour to reduce the house to a shell and destroy his family. When the house caught fire, they became trapped inside. 

When he stepped out, he noticed his cycle had also been burnt. The tyres had melted into a gooey mass on the ground. 

An image came to his mind. Of his two daughters running up to him when he returned with packets of sweets. The sweet smiles and the affection in their eyes. Then Nasir blinked, as tears welled up and the image vanished. He continued to stare at the house. Other houses nearby were also in the same burnt condition. But he was told the people had left much earlier. He was not sure why Ruksana did not go away. Maybe she had been waiting for him. Or maybe she did not feel it would be dangerous.  

Nasir Khan is 60 years old. The silver-haired man is a labour contractor. He had been in Azamgarh on business the day when his life turned into darkness. Nasir knew it had all to do with the coming assembly elections. Polarisation was the best way to get the votes of the majority community. Riots acted like a vacuum cleaner, to mop up the votes. 

Some altercation had taken place outside the mosque. Soon, armed men raided their mohalla. They carried knives, country-made revolvers and cans of kerosene. Nasir’s house was near the mosque. It suffered the most damage. 

Nasir saw from the corner of his eyes that a young man was watching him. He had a beard and wore jeans and sneakers. ‘English fellow,’ thought Nasir. The youth approached Nasir. 

He bowed his head and said in a low voice, “I am sorry for your loss.” 

Nasir’s lips curled in one corner. He was not sure whether the commiseration was genuine. ‘Who is this man?’ he thought. ‘Where does he come from?’ 

“Sir, I am a journalist from Lucknow,” the man said. “I write for an English newspaper.”  

When Nasir remained silent, the man said, “I am Abbas.” 

‘A Muslim journalist,’ thought Nasir. ‘Okay.’ 

Nasir nodded. 

“Sir, what happened?” Abbas said. 

Nasir explained what had happened. Or rather, he recounted what he had heard. Abbas took down notes on a small notepad using a ballpoint pen. 

As Nasir spoke, he could feel the constriction in his heart easing up. His throat seemed to open up. He spoke a bit more easily. 

Abbas asked a steady stream of questions calmly. Nasir answered them as best as he could. For years, he held a resentment against these privileged, well-educated city boys. Many of them were cocky. Sometimes, he felt like giving them a slap when he saw them misbehave on the streets. But he knew if he did something like that, their parents, with their influential contacts, would ensure he would land up in jail. Then how would he feed his family? ‘Opt for safety,’ he thought. But now Abbas was changing his perceptions. There were good youngsters too. Well-behaved and polite. 

As Abbas paused in his questioning, Nasir said, “Why don’t we have a cup of chai?” 

“Sure, Nasir Bhai,” said Abbas. 

They walked towards the road, crossed it, walked a hundred metres and came to Ramu Yadav’s roadside shop. The one-room shack had benches placed outside. 

“Two chai,” said Nasir, as he and Abbas sat down beside each other on a bench. 

Nasir closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. 

“I am so sorry about what had happened,” said Ramu. 

Nasir nodded. 

“What are you going to do now?” Abbas said in a low voice. “Will the government provide compensation?” 

“They should, if they have any humanity,” he said, feeling a surge of anger whip through him. It seemed as if his breath had stopped.  

Nasir observed Abbas sideways. The journalist had blinked, taken aback by his sudden change in tone.  

“It is going to be difficult to move on,” said Nasir, in a softer voice. “For whom should I live now?” 

There was a silence between them. 

Ramu brought two earthen cups for them. 

A tuft of smoke arose from the cups. 

They sipped the tea in silence. 

The sun arose in the sky.

In a low voice, Nasir said, “Politicians will do anything to win votes.” 

Abbas placed the cup beside him on the bench and noted the sentence in his diary.   

Some labourers drifted to the shop to have tea, bread and bananas. 

Nasir and Abbas finished their tea. They threw the cups into a bin nearby. 

Abbas pulled out his purse from his hip pocket and paid the money. 

The duo stepped out onto the road. 

Abbas took a few mobile shots of Nasir. Then he shook Nasir’s hand and said, “I will send the report through WhatsApp when it gets published.”

Nasir gave a brief smile and said, “I cannot read English, but I will ask somebody to translate for me.” 

They again shook hands. Abbas stood at the bus stop. 

Nasir began to walk away, to his sister’s house two kilometres away. He was staying there temporarily. Nasir would repair the house. And then maybe sell it and move off somewhere else. Then he wouldn’t have to be reminded all the time about what had happened. Nasir was surprised to feel a sense of relief in him. Abbas had listened without interrupting him. Thus, in a way, Nasir could unburden himself. 

But he also knew life would never be the same. Overnight, he had become the sole surviving member of his family. Nasir looked down at the road and thought, ‘Allah, why did this happen? What wrong did I do? Or my wife and daughters? Why is it that nothing seemed to happen to the people who did this? Why does the innocent suffer all the time?’ 

As he continued to walk, a visual appeared in his head. It was of the Yateem orphanage, which was a few kilometres away. Every month, Nasir would donate some money.

Once, he had gone with his wife and children to meet the youngsters. Many people had abandoned these children because of pregnancy out of wedlock. Some became orphans because of riots. Someone had killed their parents. Nasir knew many of them had psychological scars. You could see it in the sadness of their eyes and their nervous gestures, like rubbing their face or touching the ears. His family was deeply affected by what they saw. “Consider how lucky you are,” he had told his daughters, and they nodded their heads solemnly. 

Now, they are dead. And a rage and anger coursed through Nasir’s body. He knew he had to do something. Otherwise, hate would consume him. And so, Nasir decided he would become a volunteer at the orphanage. He was sure interacting with the children would enable him to fill the void in his heart. And he could have a purpose in his life. He felt the children would heal him. In turn, he could also heal them.

And hopefully, one day, way off into the future, he would forgive the killers of his family. Misguided, silly youth with no independent thought processes. Just being exploited by callous politicians. These young men could end up in jail if the authorities didn’t defend them properly in court. 

‘Yes,’ he told himself. ‘Tomorrow I will go to the orphanage and see what I can do.’     

Abbas got a window seat on the bus. His thoughts also revolved around Nasir and the ruined houses he saw. ‘Nothing makes sense,’ he thought. But Abbas was glad that thanks to his job he could see what happened first hand. 

Abbas had experienced none of the tragedies which Nasir was facing now. He belonged to an upper-middle-class family in Lucknow. His father was a successful criminal lawyer. His mother was a principal of a private college. He had studied at La Martiniere school in Lucknow and St Stephen’s College in Delhi. Abbas gravitated towards journalism because he enjoyed writing. 

Two Muslims from two different worlds met, consoled each other and went off in different directions. Probably they would never meet again. 

(Published in Muse India)