That day, I saw him answer to the judge’s question.
It was my fault. I taught him to be bold and to react, to
dream and to think. That day, the lessons failed me. And I, his master, failed
him.
His eyes dawn upon me, helplessly. He is not native to this
country. His ancestors ruled us years ago; and I began to rule him ten years
ago. Better yet, I became his friend. He was fifteen, and I was twenty five. I
taught him pickup lines when he taught me cool stuffs. We became each others’
master.
He first walked to my room with a camera bag and a hard
disk. “View my photos and give me a chance.” He didn’t even have a beard back
then/ His eyes glowed reading my name on the plaque that stood on my desk. “Farooq
Shah.” Beneath each picture, his name was embedded, “Stanley Schiffer.” His
view of sunset became my personal favourite, and I decided to be the wind
beneath his wings.
We travelled the world with cameras and lenses, we saw the
world in a perspective others couldn’t see. We became the dream catchers of the
nature, each caught up on the ink imprinted in a photo paper. While we spent our life trying to bead the stories of each
city, we forgot to dream. In those moments we found our will to leave; the
firework to beat the darkest shadow. People of Palastine smiled for us, the
saints of Shanghai opened their eyes for the lens, and the Llamas of Himalaya
became the new trend.
Llamas of Himalaya. It was the day we set foot to India/ My
home country, and his ancestor’s favourite nightmare. We deciphered the cave
painting while we walked with lamp torches. We taught them about the state of
being fearless; my first big mistake.
We went to the west and saw the deserts. We ran to the east
to escape the heat, and ended up craving for Pani Puris. We stayed at the
centre for a while, which was my second mistake.
“I’ll bring us some food. Why don’t you get some rest?”
Stanley asked, tying up his shoelace.
“I have to send the photos to the studio. Oh, and no more
pani puris. I can’t get addicted to them,” I told him with a laugh.
“Yes boss,” he replied with a smile.
Then I saw him, stranded on the street with a woman lying on
his feet. He had dropped the food packets on seeing her. His trembling fingers
stalked my number, and I ran for him. Shaking, sweating... he stood like a
clueless child.
“Did you do this?” I asked him, looking at the woman lying
down like a piece of flesh. Her face smeared with dirt and blood, her eyes
empty of wishes. I noticed his jacket lying on her bare body.
“No!” he yelled. “We need to take her to the hospital.” I
agreed with him.
No vehicle stopped for us. All men and women looked at us,
some yelling words in Hindi. We didn’t understand them, for my second language
wasn’t my national language, but my own mother tongue. Someone mentioned a hospital
two kilometers away. And so we walked, holding her blood drenched legs with our
hands. Soon, the cops came, and then the media. I heard one say that we are the
rapists. Moments later, I broke a finger and the journalist walked out with a
bloody nose.
I overheard a senior officer mention the name of the person
behind the unjust act, a name so famous it shouldn’t be heard in the court.
Stanley and I stood, clueless and hopeless. In my arm, a voice recorder rested.
“Did you see the person behind this?” The judge asked. I
mentioned the name, and the whole court simmered down to silence. “Is there any
evidence?” Judge asked again, and I presented before him, the voice recorder. He
listened to them silently with earphones. “Not enough evidence,” the judge
concluded. “Detain these men for a week and release them to their state of
origin. Court is adjourned.”
I heard a woman wail and a man faint. They say he is a heart
patient and the girl’s father. Stanley and I stood both helpless, like the cold
body of the girl.
