The Night of Broken Glass by Feroz Rather

Author:Feroz Rather
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: null
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers India
Published: 2018-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

7

The Miscreant

O

n the third day of their captivity, Mohsin found himself sitting beside Tariq, their bare backs against a stone wall. The cell that they were brought into at noon smelt pungently of blood, urine and excrement, its thick stone walls muffling the echoes of wails and shrieks from neighbouring cells. The only exit to the outside world was a heavy door with iron bars on the opposite wall, which led through the dimly lit hallway to the Tunnel.

Mohsin’s left hand was handcuffed to Tariq’s right. The food that followed the beatings and starvation animated them and Tariq burst into tears. Suddenly, struck by a thought, he stopped sobbing and said, ‘Imagine God being subjected to our pain.’

Mohsin rebuked him sharply for even thinking such a terrible thing and warned him that they were no longer on the ledge beneath the bridge to gather rocks from the bed of the stream and discuss strategies to pelt Force 10 as he passed by in his cavalcade of jeeps through the marketplace. They were in a damn prison where they might be beaten to death; Tariq shouldn’t start his philosophy lecture there and talk drivel.

‘You’re a fucking coward,’ Tariq hissed back.

Mohsin yanked the manacle and Tariq yelped and shouted, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Mohsin turned away, his face filled with loathing. He wanted to yank at Tariq’s wrist again and break away from him – his vile, noxious friend.

‘Why, then,’ Mohsin asked in a perplexed tone, ‘did you come out of your house? Was it only to throw stones at the police?’

‘I am troubled by my memory, Mohsin,’ said Tariq in a quiet voice. ‘I ran into a soldier six years ago, during the summer that I turned eighteen. On returning home after my fateful encounter with him, I joined Father and Mother for lunch, and put the memory of the two pigeons that he had made me kill out of my mind. Later that day, I retired to my bedroom on the third floor – ours is an ancient house, you know. Every time I went inside, no matter how much I used the broom and rag, the grime on the wooden floor and the withering wooden walls would return. Over a period of time, I grew used to it: the sandy, brown stuff smelling of mould and lassitude.

‘The sun was above the Wall in the west and when I went into my bedroom after lunch, I began to feel drowsy. I shut the windows, drew the curtains and lay on my bed which was right up against the window. I put a pillow under my head and picked up the remote control from the windowsill and switched on the TV. It was time for Upheavals, a documentary series on the History Channel about Latin America that I followed religiously.

‘I was deep in a scorching, brown desert on the border between Mexico and Texas when an unexpected gust of wind pushed the window open, the shutter knocked against my arm, and I dropped the remote control.

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