Cheated

“Son, go ahead, do your duty, Inshallah you will soon be joining your brothers in paradise. You will be welcomed by the prophet himself. I am sure of that. May success be with you. Khuda hafiz.” Waheeb Khan’s said softly, embraced him and walked away without looking back.

As Iqbal stood watching the crowds at Gateway of India he smiled inwardly at the thought of what lay ahead. He spotted Waheeb Khan getting into a taxi and glanced at his watch, it wasn’t time yet. He turned around and walked towards the stone benches at the edge of the Gateway of India.

It was a Saturday morning, a busy time for the ferry boats making their to and fro journeys between Gateway and Mandwa or Elephanta Caves. Families were thronging at the steps that led to the jetty in controlled chaos. Although he was sitting right in the middle of it all, his body felt detached as if he was watching the scene from a seat in the sky but his mind seemed at its sharpest, he could see, smell and hear the tiniest things around him. He eyes discerned the myriad colours before him, every shade, tint and hue each separate from the other, extra-clear, so lucid that the florescent pink of the little girl’s frock made him cringe and the blacks of the women’s burkhas was each a different colour.

He smirked at their ignorance, smug in his knowledge of what awaited them after ten minutes. Just then he heard someone approach and his mind snapped in attention.

“You are not allowed to sit here. The pandu will ask you to leave if he sees you.” A of around twelve boy was standing by his side.

Iqbal stood up in reply and started walking away.

“Very few people come to Gateway alone. It’s not a place you want to be lonely in.” The boy followed him. “I can help you get company if you like.” He winked and smiled conspiratorially.

“Leave me alone.” He said stiffly and walked faster.

“Kya sa’ab, you are born alone and die alone so you can do with some company in between no?” the boy said.

“Shut up you little b*****d. You want a chamaat or what. Dafa ho ja.” Iqbal raised his hand.

The boy scampered away swiftly and just as Iqbal watched him overtake and approach a group of foreign tourists the alarm on his phone sounded. He turned away and strode towards the queue of ferry passengers. Once he reached the chosen spot he closed his eyes and did what he had to do.

At first, Iqbal felt nothing except the sensation of floating, suspended like a trapeze artist between poles but then he felt terrified as if the trapeze artist had suddenly realized there was no net to break his fall. He looked around and saw nothing except a murky white haze such that happens when they spray mosquito repellant medicine but then he found shapes in the haze suddenly moving towards him.

“Hey, hello…, is anyone here? Where am I?” He yelled. Iqbal felt an inexplicable urgency to understand what was happening.

“You just died. You are at the crossroads.” A precise voice said and Iqbal saw a man appear beside him. He looked familiar like a part of a fragmented memory, like an unfocused face you saw in the background of a faded photograph.

“Where did you come from?” Iqbal demanded trying to recognize him but failing.

“I was here the whole time. I have been watching you. Waiting for you.” Hs voice was controlled, expression unreadable.

“Who are you?” Iqbal asked.

“Doesn’t matter, the question is who are you?” He asked.

“I am Iqbal. A faithful soldier of the revolution, a martyr for the cause. I have sacrificed my life for the holy war. I just struck an irrecoverable blow to the faithless kafir vermin. I am the one who is destined for jannat.” It came out of his mouth automatically like a recorded voicemail message.

“Really. And who told you that?” There was a suppressed rage in the man’s voice.

“Maulv… nobody. Nobody. I know. I did my duty. I am supposed to be in jannat by now frolicking with the hurs. Why are you wasting my time? I earned my ticket to jannat. They said so. I shouldn’t be held up here. Let me go.” Iqbal took an aggressive step towards the man. He did not even pretend to be polite. When they hand you an AK-47, they do not teach you manners.

“You are mistaken. You are not going to jannat. You are going to burn forever in the fires of hell. You are not a martyr. You just killed 378 people. You are a murderer.” He motioned towards someone behind him. “Take him away.”

“No, no, wait, there is been some mistake. I did what they told me to. They said it was my duty, they said I will make my Ammi proud. They said, I will be welcomed in heaven with open arms.” Iqbal felt a thousand bodiless hands grabbing him, he tried to dig his heels, resist but flames licked his feet, scorching his soles. He screamed in panic. “No. Wait. Listen, they said…”

“They lied.” He looked at Iqbal with an expression undecided between pity and disgust.

 “Nooooo…, but that’s cheating… that’s not fair. Hey, wait. Heyyyyy. …” But his screams were abruptly stunted in his scorched throat.

The man looked away and said in his precise voice,”Ok, who’s next.”

Author's Note

Inshallah - Arabic term meaning Allah willing
Khuda hafiz - Partly Arabic term meaning may God be your guardian.
Burkhas - Veils worn by Muslim women which cover head to toe.
Pandu - Slang used in Mumbai for policemen.
Chamaat - slap
Dafa ho jo - get out or get away
Kafir - the faithless
Jannat - paradise
Hurs - angels
Ammi - Mother

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[Marie]

Well life is just not fair, is it? Neither is death.