Mansi sits on the sofa in front of the LED. Holding the remote in her right hand, stroking her cat Bella with the left, she switches between the channels. The volume is turned down. The only sound that is audible is the hum of the heater. At times, dog howls from the street interrupt Bella’s steadiness as she snuggles next to Mansi. She strolls to the window, jumps on to the table in front of it, and looks beyond the window glass. When the scene ceases to fascinate her hazel eyes, she makes her way back to the sofa. Each time she returns, Mansi clasps her tighter than before, feeling her warm fur against the palm of her hand.
In the last hour, Mansi has flipped through every channel. With each press of her thumb, an image makes way for a new one though they all seem the same.
She looks at the wall clock intermittently. The hour hand hasn’t moved much. This time when Bella strides to the window, Mansi gets up too, goes to the window, and looks outside. The dark cold night seems to have brushed the city in shades of stillness and silence. A veil of fog hangs over it. The roads around her apartment building are empty. Nothing moves.
In a corner of the footpath, two stray dogs lie huddled up. Perhaps it is they who are howling. As she looks on, one of the dogs lifts his head and yelps. Mansi’s first instinct is to go out and bring them home, but as soon as she turns, her feet freeze at the sight of the apartment’s front door. She looks at the clock again. It is half past eleven. Should she go outside all alone now? Her heart pounds like a bird trapped for the first time in a cage, flapping its wings, unaccustomed to the restraint.
Then she hears it again. This time louder.
The first time, Mansi had been kneading dough in the kitchen when she heard the loud banging on the main door. The water from the jug in her left hand spilled over the mixture. “Who is it?” she called out. No response. She asked again, twice, then slowly made her way to the door. She peeped through the eyeglass but found no one. But within ten minutes the knock came again. This time too, she did not find anyone at the door.
This is the third time. This time the force against the door is heavier and louder. This time she is afraid. She calls her husband’s mobile. It is unreachable. She calls the security guard, tells him about the banging and asks if he has noticed anything. He tells her that he hasn’t. Then he comes over and takes a good look around the floor, telling her that no one from outside has entered the building after 8 p.m. He goes to the terrace to check, then inspects the entire building. After a while, he calls to assure that no one suspicious is around.
“Don’t worry, Madam ji. I am keeping a watch,” he says.
“What if it happens again?”
“Arre kaise hoga, Madam ji. Hum yahan baithe hain na!”
Mansi can discern the annoyance in his voice. If it does happen again, she wouldn’t know what to do. She knows she cannot call the police. The name of her locality would invite more trouble than help – a place infamous for various reasons and on the radar of the authorities. She wishes they had found an apartment elsewhere, but here they were, for better or for worse.
The day they had finalized this house for rent is still etched in her mind.
She had just boarded a bus to home from work when her mobile buzzed. Zafar.
In what appeared almost a scream, he said “I found an apartment!”
“What? Where?”
“I am sending you the address, come straight once you reach the city, ok?” He disconnected before she could ask any further.
When she checked the mobile, her heart sank. What was Zafar thinking? How could they live in that locality?
When they married two years ago, Zafar was working in another city and Mansi was pursuing her Ph.D. Zafar’s parents lived in a small village 120 kms away from the city, so Mansi continued living with her parents to complete her PhD. Six months ago, after completing the studies, Mansi got a teaching job near her home. Zafar took a transfer. While they looked for a rented accommodation, they lived with her family.
They visited many dealers and societies in different parts of the city, searching for a decent house. Often, people wouldn’t let them enter after hearing their names; at other times, people would turn back on their offer after coming to know of their interfaith marriage. Some would roll their eyes, a few would avoid looking at them, and some would admit straight away that they would not rent a house to a Muslim man, especially when he was married to a Hindu girl. No one wanted any trouble. They had no luck even with the ghettoized Muslim areas in the city because people simply didn’t want any trouble in their localities. When Zafar messaged her the address of Rana Apartments, Mansi felt apprehensive and uneasy. The area where the society was situated had already seen communal tensions in the recent past.
It took an hour for her to reach the city from the college located in the small town she taught at. When Mansi reached the apartments, Zafar was waiting for her.
“Why this place, Zafar?”
“Easy, Manu. The dealer knows Abbu. The owners have no problem renting to us.”
“You remember the incident that happened in this area last month? You told me about it!”
“I know, I know. But don’t you worry. We will take care. We will be fine,” he reassured her.
Mansi relented, unwillingly. They had been looking forward to having a place for themselves, a place they could call their home, a place where they would make a life together. Living with her parents after marriage, even though they doted on Zafar, didn’t offer that space to them. And more than her, it was Zafar who was keen to find a house.
“We need a space just for ourselves, Manu,” he said one day, irritated by the seemingly insurmountable snags they were encountering each day looking for a house.
The sparkle in his eyes had returned after days.
Mansi gave in.
The dealer asked them to remain low. His matter-of-fact tone left Mansi terrified. She didn’t want to move in, but then there weren’t many options.
It’s been only a month since they have moved in. Day before yesterday, she ran into Mr. Saleem in the lift. He lives in the east corner flat on the same floor.
“You cannot live in this society,” he yelled at her.
“We have signed a contract and are paying rent to live here. How can you tell us we can’t live here?” Mansi retorted.
Mr. Saleem’s ferocious eyes dwarfed her. He glanced at her from head to toe, scoffed loudly and said, “You are new here. My family has been living in this society for ten years. This place is our home. I wouldn’t just sit silent and watch another episode happening here.”
Then he exited the lift, muttering something inaudible, but it made his revulsion obvious. As soon as Mansi reached her flat, she called the dealer and yelled at him. The man asked her to remain calm no matter what. She called Zafar and cried on the mobile. He asked her not to worry. But today’s incident has left Mansi shaken.
Purrrr… she finds Bella encircling her feet. She looks out of the window again and finds that the dogs have left the spot and are nowhere to be seen. She returns to the sofa, picks her mobile and starts scrolling her FB page. Her feed is full of news and updates on the protests which have gripped the nation. She wonders what her friends are doing or thinking because she rarely comes across feeds on celebrations, parties, vacations… all that she comes across is a divide which continues to widen each day. A chronic illness slowly seeping in the marrow of the country, trailing with a weariness that consumes all.
She doesn’t post anything anymore, has unfollowed some of her friends and is sure many of them have unfollowed her too. More than being saddened, she is shocked by the ever-inflating propaganda against the minorities. She has no strength to engage in a tirade with her friends-turned-bigots. The rebel in her has subdued over time. Her fiery determination that had once made her parents agree to her marriage with Zafar, now stands as a mute spectator on the footway along her life. She knows that her life can no longer be dictated by the whims of her restless mind, by the ideals of truth and justice, and by the necessity to stand up against discrimination, which she so furiously advocated during her college days. She loves Zafar too much to follow her mind. Yet sometimes, she feels enraged by her helplessness.
And it is just not that.
It is the fear that she feels in her bones.
To not use Zafar’s surname after marriage was a decision she took herself. She did not want her own identity, her own name that had held her since childhood, to leave her as if it was never a part of her life. However, she takes care not to disclose much about him in front of her colleagues. One couldn’t be less careful while being employed at a government workplace for eight hours a day, especially when the rumors of spies at watch are rampant. Sometimes, when discussions among the staff members in the staff room turn to politics, she feels frightened. Often the pitch of arguments soars to such intensity that Mansi has to leave the staff room, gasping for air. But she never takes part, never says anything. One careless step and their life could come crashing down.
She is glad that Zafar’s workplace is yet untainted by the bane of hatred that seems to swathe public discourse everywhere. Yesterday, after an infuriating argument at her workplace, Mansi suggested that they move overseas. Zafar had looked at her in astonishment.
“You aren’t really serious!”
“I have never been as sure,” she replied.
“You don’t want to leave this city, let alone this country. I know what this place means to you. This is the reason we are still here after all we have seen. Isn’t it?”
Zafar was right. This city is her home. It has always been. But she doesn’t like how the city, the entire country in fact, seems to have turned against their marriage. She wants to live a peaceful and happy life with Zafar, she wants to make sure that he is safe. If that means leaving the country, so be it.
Her thoughts are disrupted by the buzz of her mobile. Mansi is relieved to hear Zafar’s voice. He tells her he will be home in another half an hour. She contemplates telling him about the incident but then doesn’t. Better to tell him when he is here, she thinks.
When the door-bell rings later, she is sitting in her bed with Bella, checking the immigration requirements online. Both of them jump, then dash to the front door. Bella meows and starts circling as Mansi looks through the eye glass, then she turns the knob. Zafar stands smiling at the door.
“I am so sorry, Manu. The meeting ran longer than I thought, and by the time I got free I realized my mobile was dead. I plugged the mobile to charge and called you immediately. You aren’t angry with me, are you?” Zafar takes her hands in his. Mansi looks into his polar grey eyes gazing at her through his specs which now slide to rest on the septum of his nose. He is smiling his irresistible bunny smile. Mansi’s eyes well up. She hugs him tightly and starts crying.
“Hey, what happened?”
Mansi’s sobs become louder. He steps in, closes the door and takes her to the living room. As they sit on the sofa, he asks again. After a while, her sobbing subsides, and she narrates the incident. The creases on Zafar’s forehead deepen as he listens to her.
“Are you okay now?” he asks.
“I am, for now. But what about tomorrow, Zafar? What if it were to happen again tomorrow or day after? What if someone enters our home forcibly and something bad happens? What then? What if someone comes after you?” Her voice chokes.
“I will talk to the president of our society tomorrow. Ask for CCTV footage and file a complaint with the Police.”
Mansi senses the rising anger in his voice. She knows they will not be filing any complaint. Not even if they come to know of the identity of the perpetrator. It wouldn’t simply be the way out of the situation. It doesn’t matter that they are married legally with the consent of their parents. If the issue comes to the attention of the authorities, no one can predict the outcome.
Last month the city was in chaos for a fortnight after a young Muslim boy was lynched by a mob for being friends with a Hindu girl. They were taking a walk back home after attending classes at their college. A few human rights activists staged a protest at the city hall for a week. An FIR against unknown assailants was filed, but no arrests have been made so far. Where is the justice? The question plagues Mansi’s mind.
Another possible outcome of going to the Police could be that they might have to leave this apartment. To get another place for rent would be a huge task. Still, in response to Zafar’s suggestion, she nods.
In the morning, Zafar talks with the society’s president who promises to look into the matter. He even agrees to share the CCTV footage of the previous evening.
In the afternoon Mansi takes a half day leave from work. She visits an immigration consultant in the city, recommended by one of her closest friends. At quarter to three, she leaves the consultant’s office and catches an auto rickshaw to her parents’ place. On the way she calls Zafar and asks him to join her there after work.
The auto rickshaw takes a detour through the chhota bazaar, a small congested market in the heart of the city. It was at a small eatery in this bazaar, Kareem chacha ki dukan, that Mansi had first met Zafar through common friends ten years ago. They were in their late teens. Zafar had just entered college and was living with his relatives in the city.
It was their shared interest in reading that had brought them together. During their graduation years they would spend time reading and discussing books. Kafka, Dostoevsky, Camus and Sartre would inundate their conversations, intrigued as they were by the inevitabilities of living in an unjust, absurd world. Over the years, the shop would turn into their adda where they would hang out with their common friends over tea, coffee and readings of poetry or discussing ideas. It is still the same place – same facade, signboard, interiors, the people working in it.
As the auto rickshaw reaches near the eatery, she makes a quick stop to buy kebabs, the snack the place is most famous for. Karim chacha, the owner of the place, greets her as warmly as he has in all these years. He asks about her well-being and blesses her.
When she reaches her parents’ place, her mother opens the door. Mansi takes a seat in the dining room, opening the bag of eatables before her father, who sits there having tea. Delighted, he picks one kebab and relishes the familiar flavor.
“Are you ok, Manu?” her mother strokes her head.
Mansi doesn’t know how to tell her parents about the previous night’s incident. They will worry of course, but she is afraid they might say we told you it wouldn’t be easy, we warned you. It has taken a lot of time and patience for her parents to come around and accept their relationship. How can she tell them that their worst fears might be coming true.
“Mansi, kya baat hai beta?” her father asks.
Mansi chokes and burst into tears. After a while, she recounts the whole incidence. When she has finished telling them, her father asks her to move in with them again. “I’ll talk with Zafar too,” he adds.
Mansi looks at them. They seem terrified. A sense of guilt starts seeping into her heart. If anything were to happen to her or Zafar, it would leave them shattered. They have grown fond of Zafar over the years and don’t tire of telling her again and again how lucky they are for having him in their life.
“I couldn’t have asked for a better son-in-law,” said her mother one day when they were preparing dinner. “I am sorry we took so long to accept him. We were just afraid, you see. He is brought up in a different religion, with different customs. We were anxious and apprehensive about whether you’d be able to adjust.”
Mansi was fearful of the incidents happening in the city, of the streets that had slowly begun devouring innocent people, of the rhetoric that had started summoning demons out in the open, but she had convinced her parents of needing a place of their own, of assuring them that they would find a good place.
But the previous night’s incident is a confirmation of her parent’s fears.
Late in the evening, after Zafar comes, they have dinner together, then they leave for their own home. They pick up Bella from Mani’s friend’s place, where she leaves her during the day, and reach home around 10 p.m. As Zafar turns the key to open the door, he notices a folded white paper tucked neatly behind the left top corner of their nameplate. He takes it out.
LEAVE.
Mansi starts trembling as she reads it.
Next day she calls in sick for work. She hasn’t slept for two days. Zafar takes an off too. They meet the society’s president and discuss the issue with him; together, they watch the CCTV footage of the area near their apartment. They see a man slipping in the note but not his face. They ask the president to call a society meeting to address the issue.
Next weekend a meeting is called. Out of fifty families that live there, twenty people – a member each from twenty families – attend it. Some people express concern and pledge to do what they can to be at alert for any such incident in the future; some remain indifferent. For a couple of months, things remain normal.
Mansi applies for immigration to Canada. Zafar starts discussing with his boss about exploring positions in Canada within the same company. He is asked to remain optimistic. Within ten months, Mansi’s application is approved, and she gets a visa. She talks to one of her friends in Canada about a prospective temporary job and gets an offer. The whole process takes almost a year. They decide that Zafar would join later, after his visa is approved. Bella will be living with him till then, after that with her parents. In the meanwhile, nothing much untoward happens – only once the front glass of their car is found shattered, one other time they find a dead rat in front of the main door of their apartment, some stones hurled through glass windows at different times of the year and a couple of heated exchanges with Mr. Saleem over miniscule matters.
Finally, the day arrives. As her plane starts to take off, Mansi looks outside the window. She knows that in a foreign country she will not have to hide her marriage with Zafar.
We will find peace, the marital bliss which has been overshadowed by our fears. We will finally be able to make a home we can breathe easy in. A place nurtured with love without apprehensions about our future. We will walk the streets without the dread of getting attacked anytime, she thinks, but then I will be a different Mansi and he a different Zafar. It is just not this country but also my own identity I leave behind as I say goodbye.
She hopes this goodbye isn’t forever. She hopes they return one day, to their parents, to her city, to this country. She hopes one day her city, and the country, finds peace. She hopes this part just turns out to be a necessary interlude, not the complete story of her entire life.
Her heart sinks as the plane lifts off the ground.
Photo by Philip Myrtorp on Unsplash
