‘Two Different Peas in a Pod’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Two Different Peas in a Pod

It took me a while to recognize him, but I still asked the inspector to bring his ID and run his background. I was betting against fate, but fate is impervious to emotions. I requested the sub-inspector to place him in a different cell, away from the general crowd. As he washed the blood from his face, marked with fatigue from eight days of protest, I sent him water, band-aids, and a change of clothes. All my subordinates watched my actions, trying to decipher a concurrent meaning in any of them, their curiosity piqued by my seemingly contradictory instructions.

More than 20 years have passed since our last encounter. In these two decades, his inscrutable eyes, capable of concealing pain, have been the only image that my mind could conjure when I thought of him. Sometimes, it was a mere memory, and at other times, it bore the weight of my past. The unchangeable nature of history is what makes it so haunting.

While most holding inmates were moving and shouting slogans, Kabir was unmoved by any commotion or chaos. He sat on the floor; age had left a mark on his appearance. His smooth skin was now hard and punctured with various marks. He sat patiently, staring at the brick wall in front of him, and prayed in the most imperceptible motion. Even without knowing his language, I knew exactly the words he was using because he did the exact same thing when we last met.

Our school was situated in one of India's most holy cities, Banaras, held a dressing-up competition each year. Banaras had missed the boat on modernization. While the nearby cities were galloping towards development, Banaras remained orthodox in every possible way. The town was based on rituals that quietly permeated all the houses in different ways, each echoing its own history and belief. My house was no different, and just like Kabir’s, it was known for early morning loud prayers that now worked as an alarm clock for our neighbours.

My father never wanted me to miss this morning ceremony of prayers at our house; he ensured my presence by removing my name from the school bus and dropping me on his scooter every day. I would sandwich between my parents for 15 minutes, which I could survive most days, but today was a dressing competition, and I worked months saving all the money to get the required dress and makeup. I wanted to look my best, but it was impossible. At the gate, my mother kissed my head and adjusted my dress, but as soon as I saw some of my makeup printed on my father’s shirt, I knew I had lost the competition even before entering the school.

After the attendance, we were made to stand in line according to our roll numbers, and as fate would have it, Kabir was always in front of me. His surname and my first name coincided. This used to happen in India but doesn’t anymore. These little coincidences started our friendship, but the dread and pain of the early morning prayers that we both had to attend in our respective houses strengthened our bond.

We were all dressed as different gods. Most students were dressed as Krishna, while others were dressed as Shiva, Ram, Hanuman, Imam, Jesus, Buddha, or even a Maulvi. While most of us looked like caricatures of different gods, Kabir was a sight to behold. His portrayal was not just a skit but a transformation into a deity. No matter how much we focused on practicing our two-minute skit, at some point, everyone’s eyes would inspect Kabir. Some students even tried to destroy his makeup, but teachers kept showing up to take photos with him. His father was a painter, and he made sure he would look the part.

Without saving any money or working for it, Kabir won the first prize. While he smiled on the stage, some frowned at him, and with time, their frown turned into rage. I could see it; I was one of them, but my emotions were invisible. As soon as we approached recess, those other students asked me to bring Kabir to the back of the school. They said, We just want to play with him.” I knew that was a lie, but I wanted to see if his new fame would make him the favorite of our seniors. Most of them in that group were from the Ninth grade, just two grades above us, and were known for their mischief.

During recess, I told Kabir that his fame had brought us to the attention of our seniors, and they wanted us to join them for a game. He was hesitant, and with those imperceptible eyes, he asked, “Do you really want to play with them?”

I told him it was a privilege that one only got if one had a brother in that group. Playing with them and being seen with them would change our status quo amongst our classmates.

He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but he held my hand and followed my lead. At that age and time, friendships were transient, and even though Kabir and I were not best friends, we were like two different peas in a similar pod. Like most kids, we were looking for attention, or at least I was.

My heart raced as soon as we stepped out of the school gate. I could see the seniors looking at us with a sinister smile. I could have stopped; I should have stopped. I could feel an increase in the weight of the hand I was dragging, but I kept walking. There was malice in my heart. I was hoping for something that would hurt his ego, but nothing could prepare me for what was to come next.

First, they made him enact the entire play he had acted on the stage. Then, they cheered, helping him ease his nerves, and soon, he started to enjoy his performance. And before he could end, I saw a leather ball racing towards him from the periphery of my eyes. It hit him in his stomach. The impact was so hard his entire body fell on the ground. While he coughed hard, gasping for breath, they all laughed at him; the group leader wrapped his hands around my neck and pulled me towards him. For a second, I feared for my life, but he made me sit next to him and said, “Enjoy the show.”

Two boys brought Kabir to his knees while one wrapped a cloth around his eyes. It was not the punching, but when they started abusing him, I learned that it was not his winning that caused them the pain; it was his being from another religion and playing their god that hurt their sentiment. But they did not look like someone who could be sentimental about anything; I think people use violence as a means to cover their inabilities.

Kabir’s family always attended my house for the festivals we celebrated, just as my family did for his. We never found any difference between us, but they did, and they kept punching and spitting at him until their leader shouted. Then he removed his hands from my shoulder and walked towards this frail and beaten body that was now spitting blood. He took a pencil from his box and laced it between Kabir’s fingers. While the others held his hand on the ground, the leader removed the blinds from his eyes. He wanted Kabir to experience pain even before he could inflict it. But those imperceptible eyes were capable of concealing pain. The only time his eyes squinted was when he looked at me.

The leader slowly pushed the heel of his shoes on his fingers, intertwined with a pencil. He closed his eyes and let out a huge cry; it was so loud that it startled the crowd. The leader quickly took off his foot and held his face. “Never take the name of our Gods from your dirty mouth.” And then they all ran back to the school. The cry was bound to get some attention. I walked towards him, his body sprawled on the ground, vibrating in pain, blood oozing from his face solidified as it mixed with the sand, but he kept repeating his prayer. I stood next to him for ten minutes, hoping to be caught by a teacher so they could force the truth out of me, but to my surprise, no one came. Ten more minutes passed, and another ten, and I just stood next to him like a tree as if providing shade. I had seen a lot of harsh punishment in school and students fighting, but I had never seen rage; I had never seen such despicable and contemptible behavior.

He finally asked for water, and I ran inside to get some. On my way out, I saw those seniors looking at me. The leader nodded, and I stopped immediately and walked back to my class with my bottle of water. The next day, I never saw Kabir or those seniors again.

As soon as I entered his cell, I feared being exposed. He kept looking at me intently and then at my name tag. His eyes inspected me and my behavior. My constables surrounded me, so I acted indifferent to our past and said, “ I have been told that you run a dispensary and are a respectable man. Why do you participate in such a protest with these people?”

“Because they are destroying our houses and place of worship.”

“No, no one’s destroying your house. They are only uprooting the ones that are built illegally.” I said and sat on the floor right next to him. Everyone was surprised by my actions. The constable ran and got an extra chair for Kabir, but we ignored it and continued our conversation.

“It took your department 20 years to find this legality, and no one complained when they paid their taxes, bribes, and electricity bills. No one had an issue until this election year?”

“You know how the system is. It takes its own time to correct itself.”

“Exactly, you know how the system is; it feeds on its own needs.”

“Stopping an officer from enforcing the law is a crime, and you and your people can be punished for it. You should take this matter to the court and not streets.”

“We are not stopping any officer for enforcing the law; we are stopping prejudice from becoming a law.”

He wasn’t moved by my care; I even offered him water this time, but he declined politely. I wanted to remove him from this situation, so I decided to increase the stakes for him and said: “This can lead to riots, Kabir, and like always, innocent lives will pay the price for it.”

“Innocence is corrupted when you suppress it, but you won’t understand it. You never had to grow up proving your love for this country. Being questioned on your looks or way of life.”

One of the constables shouted at him for answering back at me. I could see the disgust in his eyes; it was the same disgust I had seen in those seniors. I dismissed the constable and apologized on his behalf. I knew this was a battle both Hindus and Muslims lost the day partition was declared. It was as if the British had cut a single cloth and stitched buttons between them, leaving each side to decide to whom the cloth now belonged. I ordered the other constables to constantly attend to Kabir and ensure he was cared for. And just when I was leaving, Kabir said, “You seemed to be an educated and respected man yourself, yet during our entire conversation you kept saying your people, do they not belong to you?”

I shook Kabir's hand and left with a faint smile; I couldn't shake off the internal conflict that was now raging in me. My orders were clear: to charge all rioters and keep them inside the cell until their shops and prayer house were demolished. Now, it was up to me; I could either be a silent spectator or participate in the history of my town. I could either support the god-awful politicians or human innocence.

I released them all except Kabir. As much as I wanted them to fight for their rights, I wanted to save Kabir in case this led to any riots. While signing my new orders, my inspectors reminded me that this insubordination could lead to either an inquiry or suspension. But I had played this game long enough to manage the outcomes. Before my superiors could react, I requested the judge to pass an injunction. The injunction gave the government and the community time to fight for their rights and, more importantly, to have a say - the right to be heard, which, if not more, at times is as important as justice.

As soon as the judge listed the matter, the confrontation ended. The fight was now in court and not the streets. I ordered my inspector to release Kabir and stood at the gate to bid him farewell as he finally left the station. I am aware that unfortunately, one good deed cannot undo the burden of another sin. I extended my hand to shake his, under my breath my lips repeated my hearts apology. He looked at it intently for a minute. Then, he converted our handshake into a formal hug, whispering in my ears, “Thank you. It would be nice to have you home for dinner before you leave the city. My address is still the same.”

I don’t know if the walls have ears, but they do echo the whispers. The news of my transfer had reached his cell. But I wasn’t bothered by it because finally, the image of his inscrutable eyes was now replaced by the warmth of his hug, and as he exited the building, his forgiveness took the albatross that was hanging on my neck. Even though history cannot be changed, one can always add new chapters, and now, for once, I could sleep without being brewed in my own resentment.

Karanbir Singh