The Chief Minister's Assassin: A Novel

By Ali Yusufali

The Chief Minister’s Assassin follows the lives of Salmaan, Preeti and Akaash, drawn together by hatred, murder, mayhem, rape, revenge, lust, love and destiny - from the slums of Naroda Patia in Gujarat to the shantytowns of Govendhi in Mumbai.

Salmaan: Grandson of a poor fruit vendor with grand ambitions in Gujarat sees his beloved grandfather murdered and sister raped and killed, moves to Mumbai. Circumstances force him to join the local mafia but the gang also gives him an opportunity for revenge.

Preeti: Salmaan’s childhood dream girl, daughter of a petty grocer and head of a radical Hindu group in Gujarat escapes the rigid home confines of Gujarati customs and a forced marriage. In Mumbai, she pursues an education in law. But destiny has Salmaan play an eventful role in her love life.

Akaash: Born into a multi billionaire conglomerate family in Gujarat, he assumes family and corporate responsibility at a very young age. A soft spot for Preeti and political power plays eventually drag him into an uncertain future.

You will lose yourself into the world of dirty politics and the power-drunk people who play the games, the ugly consequences that inevitably follow, laugh at the characters this novel brings to life and be on the edge of your wits to find out the eventual climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991539925

Book preview

PROLOGUE

During many evenings in January and February 2002, Harshad Parekh, a petty businessman from the Naroda Patiya slum in Ahmedabad, an active member of the hardline Hindu radical group RSS and a close confidant to Gujarat Chief Minister Naresh Moothy’s intelligence Chief, met with a select group of activists to plan for the rejuvenation of the Hindutva cause in the state. General elections were coming up in about a year and recent polls had the Chief Minister trailing the opposition in double-digit figures. With a personal plea from the man himself, Harshad felt duty-bound, proud and honored to be chosen for such an important task.

With pacification from the opposition, minorities in the State, especially aggressive Muslims, were beginning to assert themselves, making alarming inroads, both in business and politics. If something drastic was not done, and soon, re-election of the Chief Minister would be an uphill task, if not impossible. After much brainstorming and debate, a plan was hatched to begin a grassroots movement of yatras, involving thousands of karsevaks, to and from several holy sites all over the State and beyond.

When one such yatra was returning to Gujarat from a trip to Ayodhya in UP, the train made a night stop in Godhra, a small, sleepy, grimy town in Gujarat. During the stop, on a listless platform of the Godhra Railway Station, a terrible incident occurred. One version, highly unlikely, is that a mob of fanatical Muslims, for motives unknown, torched the train, resulting in the deaths of 58 innocent Hindu pilgrims, mostly women and children. Another version, more plausible, is the fire was ignited within the train compartment, probably by a kerosene cooking stove, possibly someone cooking food or making tea, a common practice across most Indian trains then.

Regardless of who was to blame, the incident was ideal, almost god-sent for Harshad Parekh and his fanatical group. A near perfect opportunity to act against the budding Muslims and bring them down several pegs. Charred bodies of burnt train victims were paraded in Hindu bastis, propagating Muslim cruelty, flaming fury. With tacit police and state security approval and implied inaction by the Chief Minister’s office, rumors about a Muslim assault on Hindus were stroked till they became a raging fire of hatred that engulfed entire communities. Armed and frenzied Hindu mobs then moved across Muslim neighborhoods and butchered more than 2,000 people, slashing and burning whole communities. Pregnant women were cut up, girls raped, some in front of their families, humans, homes and businesses mercilessly burnt. Police forces either ignored the mayhem or joined in the insanity.

Harshad Parekh was ecstatic with the way his plans unfolded, even though some in the executive inner circle thought it was overdone, that the killings and savagery was overkill. The Central Government in New Delhi was already protesting, even contemplating sending in the armed forces. There was worldwide condemnation as well, with many Western countries calling for restraint and an inquiry into the inaction of the Gujarat police and security forces. There was bound to be an independent enquiry and these tended to be headed by impartial judiciaries most times; Harshad Parekh and his men could be implicated and there would be consequences. But the Chief Minister had assured Harshad Parekh everything was under control; Harshad was now the key man for grassroots planning and execution. Going forward, the Party would look at this ability and leadership favorably. However, the Chief Minister had also sounded guarded, advising Harshad Parekh to stay away from the limelight for a few months, disappear from Naroda Patiya and lie low. He was instructed to spend a few months at the Chief Minister’s private farmhouse in the South, close to the town of Vapi.

Harshad, however, felt he had not extracted personal benefit from all the hard work he had planned and executed. To be asked to disappear for three months, away from his business and family would be hard. The place was remote, miles away from civilization. What would he, a city man, do on a farm for months at a time? He could not defy the Chief’s command but the confinement need not be dull. He would have some fun while at the farm. With the help of a few like-minded close friends, a plan was hatched. They decided to kidnap some Muslims, male and female and take them along. Men to degrade and women to have fun with.

The following is a fictional account of what occurred after the incident at Godhra. Although some places, prominent personalities, incidents and the resulting Muslim genocide are real; all characters in this book are the consequence of my very vivid imagination. Any resemblance to any person, alive or dead is, of course, innocently coincidental.

1982 - 2001

SALMAAN

ONE

Iwas born a manhoos; ‘ill fortuned’ is the closest English translation, the verdict decreed by our next-door neighbor Ramjan Bhai, when I was born. This recount came from my eldest sister Salma, when I was old enough to understand what the word meant. My dislike for Ramjan Bhai, and his for me, preceded my understanding of the word. I made rude sounds from my mouth whenever he passed by our house, sounds I heard him let out from both ends of his body constantly, even through the thin, porous partitions that separated our hovels, for Ramjan Bhai suffered from a severe case of flatulence. My insults drove him wild, for he attempted assaults on my nimble self, only to give up moments later, heaving, coughing, muttering obscenities and curses. He then went complaining about my awful behavior to either Abbu or Salma, but they paid him no mind.

Ramjan Bhai was not technically wrong for calling me a manhoos, for I am one really, if you hold those kinds of viewpoints. My Ammi, you see, ceased breathing at about the same moment I took my first; a bad omen for everybody in the family, more so for our neighbors and almost everybody in our basti who knew my family. Many relatives and some of our neighbors, like Ramjan Bhai, who made a fuss every time we met, shunned me. About a week after I was born, a major fire destroyed many of the slum hovels just two rows beyond our house; the local government, instead of helping rebuild these, brought out bulldozers and flattened everything left standing. The homes demolished were illegal to begin with, said the local municipal commissioner. The local authorities were just polishing up what nature had taken care of. So you see, my birth was not an auspicious event.

My immediate family, except for my dad, did not care and loved me unconditionally, especially Abbu and Salma. Tabbu was of a different disposition, not prone to much emotion, busy with fashion, boys and Bollywood pursuits. Baarish did not comprehend the meanness of the whole affair. Abbu doted on me, for he saw his future lineage in me, the only male descendent from his loins worthy of mention; my father was expunged from memory. My world of comprehension began with Abbu as I followed him around when he was not selling fruits at the market. Salma fed and cleaned me then, but it was Abbu who meant the world to me. I remember the first time he tried to make me go pee, when I was about three years old.

‘You have to go pee-pee, Salmaan.’

‘No.’

‘You drank a whole glass of sugarcane juice and you’ve been sucking ice all day, you must go pee-pee. I don’t want you peeing in your chuddies and on my bed. Then I’ll have to wash everything before I say my prayers and Salma will yell at you for making me use up all the water. Hurry up, let’s get you go pee-pee.’

‘No, no, nooooo...’

‘I’ll buy you the red lollipop you like...’

We stared at each other; I wanted to make sure I was not being taken for a ride. Abbu was a man of his word so this was not a bad deal at all. It’s not that I didn’t want to pee, but proper toilets were at least half a mile away and the corner shed we used for peeing stank real wicked. ‘Will Abbu go pee-pee with me?’

Abbu looked at me in astonishment but then smiled. ‘I’ll buy you two lollipops if you go pee-pee, else I’ll have Salma take you and no lollipops.’

Salma, although always nice and kind to me, had a temper when things didn’t go her way. She had tons of things to do around our house and pee cleaning was not something she had on regular schedule. So I ran outside screaming ‘pee-pee’, tangy taste of strawberry flavored lollipops already on my tongue, ahead of Abbu and dropped the loose cloth piece that served as my training diaper. Suddenly, the force on my bladder was unbearable and I would have let go standing but Abbu pushed me down squatting and I peed and peed, like the proper Muslim gentleman Abbu was training me to become.

Later, Abbu returned with the two lollipops he had promised and I went to pee again, in a controlled manner, squatting like a gentleman, exactly the way Abbu wanted me to. The lollipops were a super treat and I made a meal of them both; Salma gave Abbu disapproving looks as I always fussed at dinner and Tabbu sulked because she got only one lollipop. As always, I finished the lollipops and carefully licked all sugar crystals from the wrappings. Abbu always found this greediness strangely endearing and so it was that day as well. He scooped me up in him arms and hugged me, planting kisses all over my face, I squealing in ticklish delight.

‘What did Salmaan do today?’

I said, ‘Pee-pee.’

TWO

Abbu would swipe dust off from a solid empty wooden crate with a flick of his withered wrist, carefully lay a frayed rag on it and gratefully sit down, easing pain from the aging, inflamed joints of his feet.

‘Bolo, bolo,’ he would shout at the top of his voice, adding to the chorus of cries from the others around, ‘fresh fruit and subzi, cheap fruit, cheap subzi. Best pick from this morning, tomatoes, only eight rupees a kilo.’ Only his voice would quaver with age and not carry as loudly as others around us. Bolo was the first word I remember in my life, even before I learned how to walk.

Before I started attending school, Abbu made sure I accompanied him to the market every morning, placing me atop a wheelbarrow full of fruits and vegetables picked from trees in the backyard or bought wholesale from vending women who sold their pick early in order to return to their villages in time for tilling land or other household chores.

‘He will grow up to be a fine man, you’ll see, a doctor or an engineer,’ he would explain with a toothy grin to anyone who cared to listen, pointing to me as I sat in a smaller version of his chair, only this one was upturned and hollow, padded by cast off rags for my yet-to-develop butt, bones and softer skin. Actually ‘Abbu,’ was the first word I uttered and ‘bolo’ came a close second. By the time I was four, I could repeat the whole pattern of Abbu’s sales pitch word for word.

Nobody from my family knew exactly what date I was born on. My father was out and about, probably in Surat where rumor was he had taken on a second wife and my mother died as I took my first gulp of air. Abbu thought it was a Friday and he was certain it was either in October or November as everybody was in a buying frenzy for the Diwali festival. I am still unsure of the year but I reckon that’s really not very important.

As I mentioned before, Mummy, or Ammi as the rest of my family refer to her, died on the same bed I was conceived on. As a child, I always wondered how a person could die while giving birth, seeing many mothers still alive and I felt guilty about Ammi dying on my birthday. I learnt a lot about her from my sister Salma, who went on and on about what a wonderful person she was, how she sacrificed everything for her family and got no peace from her husband, our father. He, I was told, was bekaar, useless, a sot, a drunkard. He worked when he was sober, which was rare, spent money on women and booze and came home only when he ran out of money and could not find a free bed companion.

My family comprised two sisters; Salma, the eldest, who was nine years older than I was and Tabbu, short for Tabassum, four years older. We also had an infant aptly named Baarish, who Abbu had very reluctantly taken in only when it seemed certain she would die from the lashings of monsoon rains beating upon her frail body. She was left abandoned outside our door one thundery August morning. These ages I am approximating, nobody knows for sure; they could be a year older or younger. Except for Baarish, of course. She was an infant then, probably not more than six months old with lungs, I thought, of a grown up, the way she sometimes bawled non-stop. She would turn crimson crying in colic pain and rage, only to be quieted after agonizingly long periods of Salma’s cooing and hip bumping, several farts and burps later.

We all lived in a two-room hovel close to a filthy stream that cut right in the middle of our slum community called Naroda Patiya. This hovel had a tin roof that leaked profusely during the monsoons, flooding the floor, making a mess of everything and leaving Salma in a disagreeable disposition almost the entire three months or so; she did most of the cleaning and was fussy about how the interior of our place looked and felt, never mind the ruin and decay outside. During the super hot months between March and June, it was an oven, which left all of us near naked and short tempered, especially Tabbu, as the heat and humidity would play havoc with her cheap makeup. We considered our two ceiling fans luxury; both antiques that wobbled and creaked dramatically, but miraculously, never gave way.

We had neighbors across the nulla, on the left, right, and above our box home. The walls were so thin, I could hear Ramjan Bhai repeatedly fart and burp from next door, even through the din of complaining fans. I also heard other sounds that I could only figure out much later in life, Ramjan Bhai’s son and daughter-in-law making love. Abbu, who slept alone in one room because he was a light sleeper, would bang at the wall and shout at them to shut up while Salma would giggle knowingly. The four of us were packed together in the other room. Our bedroom was reduced even further as a corner of it was used for cooking and stacking dishes. We had no running water, so the girls woke up very early every morning and hurried outside with pails to stand in line at the public supply; the water stopped running by the time the sun rose. The bathrooms were outside, a block away; ten families shared ours. We considered it very lucky if we ever found one empty and a wait of half hour or more was not uncommon. Visitors, these were few and far apart, who came to our house were revolted by the stench from the sewer stream outside; I found that odd as a young boy; why, it did not bother me at all.

Abbu, who worked a small garden that we owned at the back of our hovel, vended the yields in a corner spot outside Parekh Brothers, a Bania shop at the center of the Naroda Patiya market. By the time I was old enough to crawl out of my box seat next to Abbu’s, I realized he was much respected and admired, not only for his selling skills, but also for his honesty and integrity. Abbu, you see, hailed from Jamnagar, in our state of Gujarat. He was the son of a zamindar, a landowner, rich and powerful in his own right. But fate and an emotional heart were unkind to him, for he fell in love with and impregnated a Hindu maiden from Kutch. This brazen act, in his youth, was like writing a death sentence on his life. The girl’s enraged father rallied his community and began planning for Abbu’s execution while his own father cut him off from all assets and family wealth. Abbu escaped with his unwed pregnant ‘wife’ and ended up in the slums of Naroda Patiya.

In contrast, Akber, my father, or just bekaar admi, as Salma called him, hardly ever worked. The little he earned was spent on cheap brew at dingy addas and cheaper, available women. When he did come home, he was always in a foul mood, ready with a quick whack to the back of our heads for no apparent reason.

If it hadn’t been for Abbu, I would never have attended school. Jaffery English High School was about a mile away, in a plot of land that was always impeccably clean and well-maintained even though the main open sewer lane of Naroda Patiya ran right behind it, exposing everybody to a terrible stench and a frightening eyesore. In fact, it was the only building for miles around that had a decent coat of paint. I attended school but there was not much teaching in the classrooms. I sat at my dilapidated desk that wobbled so much I had to hold it upright most times and listened to our class teacher yell at us, banging a menacing-looking cane on his desk to silence the class. Preeti, the only daughter of Harshad Parekh, one of the brothers who owned Parekh Brothers, sat one row ahead of me in class. She always smelled of Lifebuoy soap and coconut oil oozed from her scalp. She was quite clever and snotty, which bugged the hell out of me. She had a nasty habit of turning around and sneering at me whenever she correctly answered a question or when she got all her homework right. I pulled her oily pigtails in punishment whenever she did that. She cried and complained to our class teacher sometimes and I either got caned or was made to kneel in front of the class for hours, glaring at her while plotting revenge I knew I could never follow through.

Two o’clock in the afternoon was my favorite time of the day when the rusty bell in the play yard would clang, signaling the end of classes. I would jump up, not caring if my desk toppled over, and, together with other children, jam the doorway in a gleeful attempt to flee the confines of the classroom. I would run all the way to Naroda Patiya Central Market and try to squeeze into the box crate that was now much too small for me. From here, I would then polish all fruits to a glossy shine.

It was my ardent desire to imitate my life after Abbu and sell fruits and vegetables as an adult and he knew of my dislike for school. However, any absence from classes meant swift punishment. The treat of bhel-poori and goolas on Sunday would be denied, but that was not the heartbreaker. What dismayed and hurt me most was even a hint of Abbu’s displeasure and anger towards me. I could tolerate forgoing the treat, but I could never bear to have Abbu cross with me, ever. My school attendance was therefore impeccable.

‘Your only way out of this place is education.’ Abbu would extol to us all the time, especially to me. I guess because I was the only boy. The three girls would be married off and become their husband’s responsibility, but I was and would always remain his. ‘Look at the Parekh girl,’ he would say, ‘she’s smart, she will one day take over and run Parekh Brothers, even though she’s only a girl.’

‘Bah,’ I would snort, ‘she’s good only at English and poetry. I can do more sums in my head than she can on paper!’ This was true. I was very good at math and the teacher looked to me to impart some of my knowledge to my nearest classmates; that included Preeti. She, like the others, had to write her sums on paper while I could do them in my head, and that drove her bananas. It would then be my turn to gloat at her.

Abbu used to visit Jaffery English High School sometimes and chat with my teacher, Mr. Bhatt. Mr. Bhatt spoke highly of my mathematical aptitude and poorly of my interpersonal relationships with others, especially girls. He reckoned I could be an accountant or a government clerk when I grew up. And he promised Abbu he would use influence to find me a startup position of a clerk as soon as I was ready. He would only do this, he claimed, because he respected and admired Abbu, and not out of love for me. I seethed on the inside and wished him to be reborn a dog in Hindu reincarnation beliefs. All I wanted to do when I grew up was to take over selling vegetables and fruits from Abbu and let him rest his constantly aching feet.

I was cleaning around the vending booth one day when I noticed, for the first time, the name Salmaan Abdul Lutfee printed on a tag and pasted on one side of the booth. It was issued by Naroda Patiya Municipality, a kind of license for Abbu to trade at that spot. Excited, I pointed it out to Abbu and told him he would not even have to change the name after I took over from him, as I was named after him.

‘Arre!’ he moaned, ‘why do you torment me so? I want you to get out of here as soon as you can. You don’t want to waste your life sitting here day in and day out. You are much smarter than me, you will go places, become a successful doctor. Get the idea of you being a fruit and vegetable vendor for the rest of your life out of your mind!’ I was saddened to hear him say that for it was exactly what I ever wished to do.

School dragged on endlessly, increasing my restlessness. What made it worse was Preeti receiving one prize or another for accomplishing God knows how many poetry recital contests. And because her father was the largest benefactor at the school’s annual fund raising event, Preeti got to sing the national anthem. Although she was turning out to be quite a good looking young woman, her tenor was another matter, shrill and high pitched. She was also making me very intrigued with her scent and developing body; I am not referring to Lifebuoy soap here. Of particular interest to me were her developing breasts to which my eyes almost always reverted whenever I got close to her. My heartbeat would quicken and I would crane my neck at impossible angles just to get a peep past the cleavage. My classmate and friend Bijju claimed to have seen her nipples once, before she started wearing a bra, but I think he was just trying to make me jealous.

I stole the limelight from Preeti once, when unexpectedly, the school principal called me up on stage and presented me with a token of appreciation for tutoring math to many in my class. There was polite clapping from most of the audience. Abbu however, gave me a standing ovation and clapped so hard, Salma had to massage his wrists and hands that evening. I decided then school was not so bad if Abbu could be so thrilled with my progress. Preeti’s sudden interest in me after the acclaim in front of the entire school reinforced the feeling and I determined to complete high school.

By the time I was twelve, Abbu let me do just about anything I wanted at the booth except negotiate prices. I could design the pattern of fruits and vegetables for display, mix and match day old ones with fresh supplies, spray cool water on sagging greens or give away rotting ones to beggars or urchins. A year later, I was allowed to take in money and give out change. I knew Abbu was impressed as the tally was almost as expected towards the end of the day. Soon, I also got involved in haggling with the local women who came to sell to Abbu in the mornings. I would, with a straight face, bargain until the women, feigning exasperation at my low offer, would slowly begin repacking the produce in preparation to leave, only to give in to my offer at the last moment. They began calling me ‘Young Fox’ because of my wily negotiating ability. After they departed, I would jump with joy at the deal just concluded and Abbu would look at me with a bemused expression, but I knew he was extremely proud of his grandson.

By the time another year rolled by, I knew all our competitors, both reasonable and those who would not mind us gone from the scene. I knew who cheated customers by shortchanging them and which ones threw in a rotten apple with good ones. More importantly, I knew which neighboring households buying on credit paid their dues on time and which ones to avoid at all cost. I also brought in new business. My friend Bijju’s family owned a restaurant at a crossroad nearby and the father, a short, mean-looking person with an enormous belly and a bald pate as smooth as an egg, began buying from us.

I remember the first day he passed by our stall one steamy afternoon in May. He came wearing a dhoti and a banian, which strained to cover the lower part of his belly. Sweat poured from his round, fat face and stained the already masala-stained banian. The banian barely hid clumps of coarse dark hair that overflowed from his sweaty armpits. He had a lit cigarette on his thin lips, which he kept on throughout the time he talked to Abbu and me. Without revealing his identity, he demanded prices for all our wares, from green peas to papaya, jotting down prices on a piece of grease-stained paper. I was tiring of him and was about to ask him to scoot when he identified himself and demanded if we would deliver a set amount of fruits and vegetables every night. He also demanded pricing that was much lower than retail and a month’s credit. After a rapid half-hour negotiation, Abbu and he struck a deal. It worked out well for us; we provided day old goods that we did not have to pay to refrigerate at the end of the day and although the money got held up for a month, the turnover from the deal almost doubled our business volume.

I knew Abbu wanted me to continue my studies past high school into college, but I had changed my mind about that. I sat him down once and passionately explained my ambition to him, that of being the best and biggest vegetable and fruit trader in Naroda Patiya. Abbu listened to me talk, never once interrupting or rendering an opinion until I finished. He looked at me long and hard after I had finished, then sighed deeply afterwards, as if in resignation. My heart went out to him then because he looked so sad. I knew how disappointed he was that both his son and grandson had chosen not to finish college, a desire he held so dearly. But he suddenly smiled and nodded. I was so happy; I hugged him hard, almost crushing his frail bones with the attempt. It was then that I realized how hard he had worked all his life and how tired he must be from it.

Preeti had blossomed, both academically and physically. I didn’t care much about the academic part; her figure, however, was of much debate and scrutiny between Bijju and me. I dreamt of her constantly and imagined her next to me at home but the dream always got cloudy with Salma, Tabbu or Baarish meddling in and out. While Preeti flowered into a pretty teenager, I shot up vertically. I was perpetually hungry and ate like a horse; all my clothes became suddenly too tight or too short. Salma grumbled at having to alter my clothes every month or two and for wolfing down anything and everything she cooked. These hormone surges made for some difficult and embarrassing episodes for me, times that Abbu referred to as ‘adult’ moments - painful erections that exploded into ecstatic, eruptive releases at night. These episodes had their unique problems as well, sleeping as I had to, with three female siblings in the same room.

War with Pakistan broke out and the Indian Army was in a recruiting frenzy, offering employment opportunities to many. My father walked into our house one night and the five of us gaped at him; he had donned a khaki green uniform, a smart cap and gleaming boots. Baarish shivered in fright and found her way to Salma’s bosom, a regular place of comfort for her. The rest of us gawked at him in wary disbelief, not trusting our eyes. He was actually sober, with clear eyes and a balanced walk, hands steady, not fluttering around, not looking to land a whack. He had joined the army and had come to bid farewell. Abbu was unimpressed and ignored him, the others were simply scared silly but I was elated. I talked to him, a real talk for the first time in my life, albeit for just a few minutes. We talked about nothing important; hello, how are you, this and that and goodbye stuff. He left us after having a cup of tea and headed for the frontlines in the service of our Motherland. I didn’t hear or see him again.

Salma managed our home chores, cooking, cleaning and being a mother to Baarish. She was a quiet girl, did not say much except when prompted. Abbu said she’d taken after Ammi, in looks as well as deeds. Abbu always worried after her, about the lack of rishteys from eligible boys. An unmarried maiden at age twenty-four in our culture was akin to having leprosy. Worry is a mild word; he was frantic enough to give her away to anyone who would keep her decently, even to a divorcee or a widower. I felt she was too plain, not enough meat on her and not much in the front either, not like Preeti. By now I had realized that size in both genders mattered. A lot.

Tabbu was another matter, for she was exactly the opposite of Salma. She had matured early, even faster than Preeti. Tabbu spent her time lazily; sleeping, standing in front of the mirror, listening to songs, leafing through copies of borrowed movie magazines or talking to boys. She had many male admirers and I had several occasions to scowl at many boys mysteriously hanging around outside our house when I got back from work.

Baarish was the intellectual one, ever glued to books. It became evident as soon as she began reading - there was an ever so slight squint in her left eye when she looked at you. Instead of this deformity being perceived as a handicap, the look was almost enchanting, what you would term as ‘cute’ and everyone, without exception, was instantly drawn towards her. She could read and do arithmetic better than Tabbu, almost seven years her senior. Consistently scoring at the top of her class, she was one of the lucky few to have secured a place in a government-run elementary school. She seemed to be a pet of Abbu’s, as he doted on her, a fact not kindly taken by Tabbu.

Amongst all the happenings with my family members, I was content, without a care in the world. I was either fifteen or sixteen, healthy and a full life lay ahead of me. To begin with, my only desire at that time was to have my own corner shack where I could trade in fruits and vegetables. And I had plans, big ambitious plans; nothing to do with school; I ignored the general hubbub others at school were creating about impending final exams. I had heard from Bijju that a tea stall next to his father’s restaurant was up for sale. The owner had passed away in a hit and run accident and the wife and three kids were moving to their grandparent’s village home. Bijju felt the location was ideal for the kind of store I was always telling him about and maybe I should do something about it.

I decided to go visit the place next morning, February 28 2002, a day when the world I knew turned upside down, a day of great infamy, a day that shaped my future criminal life.

PREETI

Iwas born into a conservative Hindu Vaishya family, third child and only daughter of Harshad Parekh. Since there were two sons before my birth, I was welcomed with much happiness, especially by Ba, my mother and Dadi, my paternal grandmother. Bapu would not have minded another son, for future help in expanding his business and political fortunes. My first memories as a child are of Ba scalding herself with cooking oil in her haste to finish frying pooris for Bapu’s breakfast and the terrible scare it gave me. As Ba anguished with pain, Bapu screamed at her for being incompetent. Even at that young age of about three or four, I could not understand Bapu’s spontaneous, uncontrolled and irrational rage.

Bapu’s temper tantrums were not restricted to members of his household, including me. He was loving enough; I remember his devotion and hugs and kisses and indulgence as a child; but these were forthcoming only as long as I toed his line. Any and all nonconformity from his rigidly imposed rules brought instant, painful retribution. He was a strict disciplinarian; I am sure my two brothers will attest to this fact, they have scars on their bums as proof. Bapu’s rules covered all members of my family, including Dadi, and controlled all facets of our lives, from what time we woke up in the morning to the menu for lunch and dinner to the way Ba was supposed to behave with the house cook and cleaner.

We are Parekhs, from the Bania class, petty traders once but now with considerable wealth and business clout. Bapu hated the lower class in our neighborhood, although we lived in and earned our living off the most poor in the Naroda Patiya slums of Ahmedabad. His hate for Muslims however, transcended all passions, even the few unsuspecting customers who ventured into his store; most resident Muslims living in Naroda Patiya stayed well away. He spewed his hatred to anybody willing to hear his rants and raves; and there were plenty of sympathetic listeners around in our community. Bapu loathed Islam and Muslims in every shape and form; their way of dressing was especially loathsome to him - the women dressed in long burqas and the long or shaggy beards some men sported. His temperament would change days before the major Muslim festival of Eid, especially when Muslims in Naroda Patiya would gather goats and sheep for slaughter. True, I disliked this day as well, but later, the aroma of mutton biryani wafting from Muslim homes would make my mouth water and the thoughts of slaughtered sheep and goat were distant, unmoving memories. As strict practicing Hindus, the touching of any dead flesh was an abhorrent act, especially beef; our diet did not even include eggs. But I know Bapu indulged in beef samosas and other barbecued meats during his weekly drunken binges with friends.

We lived in a large house on the outer boundary of Naroda Patiya, distanced from the hustle and bustle of the central market where our shop was located. It was an extended family, with Bapu’s brother’s family house separated from ours by a simple hole in the boundary wall at the back but sharing a busy front yard. That housed Dilip Chacha, Jyoty Chachi and their only son Vinay, a year younger to me. Both homes were large with plenty of spacious, airy rooms; my parent’s bedroom and the living room even had air conditioners, a luxury very few in our neighborhood could afford. Dadi, my brothers, Vinay and I spent most of summer sleeping in the cool living room until I gained puberty and was banished to my room by Bapu. I was bathed in sweat every night then, the overhead fan simply swirled oven-hot air around.

Our lives revolved around obeying Bapu, at all times; he was our God. We laughed when he did, were happy when he was, which was rare. His bad days were all mornings, immediately after he awoke, when a particular day’s takings from his shop were not as expected, a rarity, and Sundays, when he nursed a hangover. And Muslim holidays of course; these were plenty, if you combined the private and public ones. Oh yes, and when the Muslim call to prayer resonated from nearby mosques; you would think he would burst a vein then. I simply tried to avoid him during these times and days, staying put in my room, studying or writing poems. Or go visit my friend Kamla nearby. Ba bore the brunt of these tantrums, poor woman. The only person Bapu feared somewhat was Dadi; she could silence him with only a look of annoyance. Sadly, this protection ceased when she passed away in