I
was hiding behind the debris of a smashed government bus, which had been set
ablaze by the rioters, when suddenly he collided against me and I screamed. Frightened,
I almost jumped into the fire but he caught me in time. I continued to scream. The
horrifying memory of the slaughtered goat, which had been struck by the butcher,
bleeding out its life, crying out to me to rescue him from his murderer, came
back to me in a flash. I had fainted watching the goat die. Since that day, I
had hated them. Now, I was the goat. I
knew he would rape me and then perhaps push me in that fire blazing in the
background. I would have rather killed myself with honour and dignity. I
struggled to free myself from his clutch, still screaming, pleading to the inferno
to engulf me. He tried to stifle my scream by covering my mouth with his one
hand and then pushed both my hands behind me, holding them both in a tight
grasp of his other hand. He looked straight into my eyes with such a scorching
glare that the fire behind us felt its power was threatened and so it began to
burn with greater intensity. I froze with horror; I had never felt such terror
in my life. I was defeated; I surrendered myself to his carnal appetite.
Slowly,
he removed his hand from my mouth and let me breathe again. He even released
one of my imprisoned hands but held onto the other. I was too shocked to even
scream let alone attempt to run. He started dragging me along with him into a sequestered
alleyway. The rioting mob was still demolishing vehicles and incinerating
houses behind us. May be my screams could not compete with their frenzy, for they
did not hear me; may be they left me as a feast for one of their vultures to
feed upon. I, anyway, was almost dead.
I
would have been raped and killed that night had he not saved me.
After
he pulled me into the dark and deserted alleyway, we kept running and walking
for nearly an hour. He led me by my hand and I followed him like his chained
captive. We crossed many places of riots—erstwhile thriving places which had
been converted into open graveyards, where people lay strewn all over the
ground, mutilated and murdered. The world was in flames while we were passing
through Erebus miraculously alive. Gradually, fatigue made me aware of my
nerves and muscles again. I had begun to dread that misfortune worse than rape
awaited me. We had left the rioting places behind us. Our pace had slowed down.
We were walking towards the river.
All of a sudden, I stopped, and with a jerk,
withdrew my hand from his hand. Without a tremor in my voice, I spoke, “Rape me
now and get it over with. Kill me like you killed my family.” He looked quite
taken aback. Mortified, he hung his head low and said, “I do not want to. I
have not killed anyone. I was only trying to save you from the rioters.” He did
not hold my hand again while we walked towards the river. Shame filled my eyes
with hot tears and with them I regained all humane feelings; those which I had relinquished
an hour back while surrendering myself to the man who had saved me from
brutality and death, risking his own life, but whom I had mistaken to be one of
them, when in truth he was one of us.
I
did not question him about our journey across the river. I believed he was
taking us somewhere far away from our gruesome fate, somewhere peaceful. I had begun
to trust him.
It
took us a day and a half on the river to reach our destination. During this
time, neither he nor I spoke to each other. I was ashamed of my earlier conduct
towards him but he did not seem to begrudge it to me. Though he stayed away
from me, yet, he ensured that I was safe in the company of other men on the
boat. He sensed my distrust of men and he evidently understood it. I was beginning
to respect him. When we reached the banks of the river, he held out his hand to
me once again, albeit a little hesitantly, to help me alight on the river bank.
The place was peaceful. I no longer thought of my dead family and my village. I
was grateful to be alive. I was grateful to him.
We
walked with the crowd. After some time, he said, “I do not know anyone here.
This seemed to be a safe place, far away from where we were, so I brought us
here. I am sorry I did not ask your opinion. I hope you will not misjudge my
intention.” Deeply embarrassed, I said, “I am ashamed for having doubted your
intentions earlier. Fear and hatred had caused me to believe that you were one
of them. You have saved my life from a dishonourable and cruel end. I cannot
thank you enough.” He looked uncomfortable at my words of gratitude but for the
first time looked at me and smiled. I too smiled back in gratefulness. Then I
said, “Let us keep walking and find a place to rest tonight.”
Though
the riot had filled me with abhorrence for humanity, this village helped to restore
my faith in it. The impressions of torture in our faces told the people from
where we were and what dire destiny we had escaped. They were hospitable and
kind and they grieved with us for our sufferings. We found a humble abode to
rest at night, generous hands to fill our famished stomachs with simple food
which tasted like ambrosia then and large hearts that took us in, as one of
their own. Life was giving us a chance to live anew.
Someone
asked us our names. “Rashmi Singh,” I said, with an unveiled twinge in my voice.
The associations of several people with that name were now severed forever, in
a matter of life and death, and that loss can never be compensated. Hearing my
name, he shot a glance at me and unexpectedly looked disturbed. Slowly, he said
his name—Gulzar Ali. I thought I heard his name wrong. So I asked, “What is
your name again?” This time, he said loud and firm, “Gulzar Ali.” We both were
in shock. I could not believe he belonged with them and was not one of us.
Anger and contempt attempted to dissolve all the feelings of gratitude I had
for him. I felt disgusted that he had even touched me. He left the room and
went and sat outside on the porch.
The
family, which had kindly arranged for us to stay at their house that night, sensed
the abrupt antagonism between him and me. The wife, an elderly woman, spoke to
me, “Child, he saved you from the hands of god-forsaken men. Does it matter
what his name is?” The memory of that satanic night caused me to shudder and again
filled my eyes with tears of fury and shame. Foolishly, I had the urge to know
whether the woman too was one of them but thankfully did not mouth those words
and disgrace myself before her selfless benevolence. I composed myself and walked up to him. After
a few minutes of impenetrable silence, I said, “Thank you once again for saving
me from your own people,” expressing
great contempt at my last few words. He breathed heavily and said, “I did not
know you were not one of us.” Those
words pierced my heart. My eyes were beginning to bleed again. I asked him, “Do
you regret saving me?” He closed his eyes in unspoken agony and said, “No.” In
the dim light of the bulb in the porch, I saw a few drops of grief escape the
corner of his shut eyes.
We
sat there beside each other, for eons, in complete silence, each absorbed in deep
thought. When he broke the silence, he said, “My sister was raped and murdered
by one of your people two years back
and the culprit was not even brought to book. Since then, I hate your kind.” His voice quivered while he
spoke. I recalled the infamous incident in our village which I had earlier not
believed to be true. I had conveniently assumed that only those, who could kill
an animal, could be so barbaric. Presently I realised, those men had only
killed that goat for food but one of ‘my
people’ had raped and killed a ‘goat’ only for his animal pleasure.
Suddenly, I could feel Gulzar’s pain deep in my heart. Just as he ceased to be
one of them, I was not sure where I
belonged. Suddenly, I felt guilty and I began to wail.
He
said, “Don’t cry. You are safe now.” Still sobbing, I said, “You and I suffer
the same ache. The pride we had felt in our own people had been undeserved. Our
hatred of one another has been unjust. Man is benign or bestial by his own
choice. We have learnt it the hard way.” And I continued to weep. He looked at
me with gentle eyes and smiled. I smiled back at him through my tears.
We
made the village our home. The people there were neither imprudent nor irrational
to brawl among themselves for communal reasons. They all lived together
amicably like a large symbiotic community. With the kind assistance of the
village panchayat, I soon found a job as a teacher in the primary school and
along with that a small but decent accommodation. Gulzar worked in the village
post office—he overhauled its IT infrastructure.
It
did not take long for friendship to blossom between us. He was a good, intelligent
and respectable man. I trusted him deeply. We would talk for hours—about the
life we had before the riot, our families and friends, dreams and aspirations
and our affliction. We had begun to understand and care for each other. Before
we realized, we were in love. It was not easy to accept this fact in the
beginning, letting go of our previously held prejudices completely. However,
time wrought a strong bond between us, which derived its strength from the
dismal past we had escaped together and to all the miseries we had borne, which
had shattered all walls separating him from me. An attachment formed in extreme
pain is one that cannot be wrecked easily.
We
could have married as Rashmi Singh and Gulzar Ali and lived happily ever after,
but we did not. We chose to marry as Rasheeda and Gaurav, exchanging not just
vows of the holy matrimony and embracing each other, but also trying to
understand, with love, what we had hitherto hated in one another. Life had given
us a chance to live again. We had to live better this time. Love had shown us the
way.
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