OBLIVION....(short story)

Nizam was fast asleep. Mithi Amma fed him, some vada that she prepared early evening before the news came. Mithi Amma was sitting, wide awake, looking bluntly at the moon dim glimmering outside the window pane. Late night it was. All the proceedings took a lot of time.

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Nizam never studied Quran. He learnt, he was taught that he was a Muslim. He was never even taught how it felt to be a Muslim, he never felt anything special, never couldn’t differentiate if the ‘others’ felt other way as he could never be other. It was not that he bothered though. Nizam loved Mithi Amma, grandma of his friend Santanam. He was taught that Mithi Amma, Santanam were ‘other’. They were different. Nizam often wondered, how? They all had two hands, two legs…only when they spoke he understood nothing. And yes, Mithi Amma’s husband and Santanam’s grandpa was different. He was a photo man. He never talked, never walked, never even ate. He wore mysterious glasses through which Nizam could never see. He was a photo man…always wearing a garland.

“Ammu…why is Santanam different?” often he would ask his mother.

“They are Hindus…they worship different Gods….but they are good….”

Yes…yes….he had seen. Mithi Amma worshipped Gods which were like the dolls of his cousin sister. But Santanam never plays with these dolls which Mithi Amma worshiped. Nizam also never played with them.

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Nizam was only six years old. He lived in the least known Ghulab Chowk in Ahmedabad. It was one of those dingy over crowded residential places in the town. The market place was not far. Ghulab Chowk never required descriptions. Almost every town in India has places like it. It saw the two communities residing side by side. It never created any problem, except some small incidents during the riots. Yet then Ghulab Chowk never hit the head lines. Neither the Muslims nor the Hindus were brutal enough, perhaps.

Nizam was a resident of Ghulab Chowk ever since he was born. His father too. Might be his grandpa, whom he has never seen, too. Nizam did not know. Nizam was happy in the small world of his own, with the dreams he dreamt but never understood, with the friends who were either similar or different, but he never bothered. Nizam attended the nearby English medium school. It was necessary, his Abbajan said. Santanam went there too.

Arzan, Nizam’s Abbajan, was a self made man of sort. Education was never a favorite occupation with the youth of his community in the locality. Arzan and many like him in the locality were made to believe that they were a special community and they have the right to special privileges. What privileges nobody ever asked. Never did any privilege come. And yes they were to vote, that was essential for the continual flow of privileges. But Arzan thought more. Blessed probably he was that he went to a bigger school and befriended people from better families.

Arzan studied. When the similar friends dropped out to join their fathers as daily labors or set sail across the Arabian Sea, Arzan continued to study. He studied hard and ended up securing a good job. His academic record has always been brilliant. Along with the education he brought the air of liberty otherwise denied to the residents on the both sides. He was an MBA, worked for a reputed multi-national company. The pay cheque was phenomenal, at least in comparison to the other ‘similars’ in the locality. After all the daily wages and Arzan’s pay package could hardly meet.

Like any other upwardly mobile Indian, Arzan gave his family a taste of Good-Shining India. A car for occasional family outings, a revamped and redecorated house, and week-end shopping mall vistas--- these became a part of their life…a far cry for most of the people belonging to his community in the locality. Gradually the lines separating him from his ‘other’ friends became blurred. It never mattered for him. Though he even had thought of injecting the idea in his son after the Godhra carnage and aftermath, still he never felt the binaries to be too strong as to hinder him from making good friends. Arzan met Salima at the office, a brief courtship followed. Salima’s family objected to her love marriage and Arzan’s family to a working wife. But all evaporated with time--- Salima and Arzan were happy together---- working together, spending together. A new lease of freshness, a new outlook crawled in. By the time Nizam was born all animosities died down. Though Arzan’s father Amanulla Sahib could not live to see his grandson, Nizam got the company of his grandma Rabeya’s when toddler. Mithi Amma too was there, but her company became more prominent and to some extent necessary too, after Rabeya ceased to live. The working parents were relieved of their tension and Nizam was also happy getting to spend more time with Santanam. Days passed so good….who could have even thought of this?

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When Mithi Amma moved into Ahmedabad, she was already widowed. She was brought here by her son Karthikeyan and daughter-in-law Revathi. Earlier Karthikeyan had a small business in Madurai. A certain advertisement in a news paper struck his eyes. He applied for it, and got into a diamond factory here. His business had already hit the rough patches. So this was a smooth way out for him. His only sister was already married off to a rich farmer of a nearby town. Therefore Karthikeyan had no problem in shifting to Gujarat.

But after moving in, he had to face huge difficulties. There were no Tamil families nearby. A sense of alienation crept in. Mithi Amma and Revathi thought of some domestic business. But could not because of the linguistic hindrances--- culture, language--- nothing matched. Nobody even bothered. In the midst of all these, one day Revathi met Salima at the nearest stationary shop. Salima’s demeanor and warmth took no time to endear the ‘outsider’ and Revathi and her family took no time to shed their well-caressed orthodoxy about the ‘others’. Salima taught them Gujarati, Revathi showed them South Indian cuisines. The two families spent time together on various occasions. Revathi started a handloom shop mixing Gujarati and Tamil crafts and patterns, Salima stood behind her as a rock solid support. Things went on so smoothly---- Navratris, Makar Sankranti, Id….both the families enjoyed together. Then Santanam was born, followed by Nizam. Though both were made aware of the other ones ‘otherness’, it was never stringent. It is so, in India religion becomes an indispensable luggage to carry through out the life for an individual. Religion is a must; so as to say the primary identity of an Indian….even a ‘liberated’ family needs to carry it, whether to be a bigot or not was individual choice, in many cases though. These two kids, though made aware, their awareness never clogged the way of mutual respect and warmth. Even the Godhra riots could not embitter their relation. Actually Ghulab Chowk remained relatively calm--- except for some stray incidents. But as it happens… …life is jeopardized just then, when it seems all are going perfectly all right.

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It was week end.

---“Reva, I’ll be going to the Dazzling Shopping Mall…today evening…will you come?”

---“Oh…sure…I would love to…Navratri approaching, even our Ramzan…need to buy some stuffs…”

---“That’s great…be ready, ok? 5 pm? Or should we make it a bit more lately? I’ll call you…”

---“5 pm is ok. I’ll be ready…will you be taking Santanam? Won’t take Nizam…he has got fever…”

---“Oh God… how’s he now? Consulted the doctor? Mmmmmm…..why don’t you keep him with Amma? She will take care of him…and yes…ask Arzan bhaiya to reach there after office…will have dinner together please…”

----“Hahahaha…ok baba…I’ll tell him…Karthik bhaiya will be there too, no? Well we can bring some for Amma…”

----“Sure…don’t be late ok? 5 pm sharp…”

“Sure...”

It was about 7 pm. Nizam was watching cartoon at Mithi Amma’s place. Amma was busy with the customers at the handloom, adjacent to their living room. Suddenly a commotion rose…then some murmurs…then cries….then shrieks…..Nizam turned pale….the world seemed spinning in front of Mithi Amma…she quickly shuffled through the channels till she stopped at a news channel….the breaking news read

“The consecutive blasts at the Dazzling Shopping Mall…over 300 feared dead…” the screen showed only blood…the disheveled bodies…people running mad….crying….extremist Islamic group suspected…compensation….blood…blast……