The Association of Small Bombs(45)

Mansoor sat cross-legged, bringing his bare feet together anxiously with his hands, pressing his soles together.

The voice of reason, of knowledge, during these raucous meetings was Ayub. Ayub was twenty-seven and from Azamgarh, but seemed older; it was as if he had digested recent history and sociology and philosophy, and could draw links between subjects without being the least bit pedantic. With his quick-fire noun-laden sentences, he made knowledge attractive. “The Brotherhood in Egypt is primarily a social organization. It only became politicized when they were persecuted, when their leaders were locked up in jail. I don’t think Qutb was a great thinker as others do, but why martyr him?” People nodded their heads dreamily, not knowing much about Egypt or Qutb. But Ayub’s style was inclusive, and Mansoor felt he could understand the problems of Muslims elsewhere too.

Then one Friday morning, after a meeting, as they all got up to leave, Ayub asked Mansoor, “Are you coming to the mosque with us?”

“I don’t have my car here,” Mansoor said.

“No problem, yaar, I can take you.”

Mansoor had been hesitant to get involved with the religious aspects of the group; it wasn’t that he disliked religion but that he felt it was outside his purview. When he heard the members talk about the rulings of the ulema, or what al-Tabari had written about the fitnah, or the corruption of the Uthman, he instinctively zoned out, the way he did when his mother was overcome with piety two or three times a year, increasing the rakat in her prayers and promising a sadqa for the poor to express thanks to God for Mansoor’s continued health.

Now, caught, unable to come up with an excuse, Mansoor walked with Ayub down the stairs and into the service lane before the main road, where leaves were coming unclipped from the dead trees and rattling down on the street, like the tail of a distant dragon. The roads were brightly bisected by newly painted white lines that stood out against the pervasive dustiness of winter. Mansoor inhaled the stink of racing petrol deeply. Growing up in Delhi, one gets addicted to pollution.

Ayub gestured to his motorcycle and Mansoor got on behind him. He was still racking his brain for an excuse when the motorcycle gunned to life. Mansoor clutched Ayub’s waist, which was fleshier than he’d expected, and prayed. Please. He had never been on a motorcycle before and as it shot through the Delhi streets, the city close and vivid as it had been during that walk home after the bomb, he was sure he would die, and his heart raced crazily and he pressed his feet on the silver twigs of support jutting out from the chassis. Ayub wasn’t wearing a helmet and kept turning around and talking and Mansoor nodded, terrified, his wrists filling with cold liquid. Why hadn’t he said no? Because he was congenitally unable to. What would his mother and father think if Mansoor were found with his head smashed in, by a gutter? Why were you so reckless? Didn’t you learn your lesson?

After a few minutes, the ride became exhilarating, the motorcycle making smooth crests against the road. He had always thought a motorcycle would be bumpy, but it felt instead like you were on a magic carpet. The pain in his wrists reached a sedative high.

When they got to the mosque, Shahid and Tariq were waiting at the entrance, by a row of carts selling sharifas, chatting with other plump young men, who kept their hands behind their backs as they listened. Mansoor was so relieved he embraced them all, and then, walked with them to the back of the mosque and washed and went inside. The mosque, a box of concrete, was simpler than the one his father and he had gone to a few times—usually during Eid—and the crowd was younger, pious, serious, a mixture of office-going people in white shirts and young men with beards wearing kurtas. The alien bubbles of motorcycle helmets broke the flow of bodies. The imam was giving a talk about something vague, like medicine and not betraying others, and after the azaan ended, they all began to pray. Mansoor, who hadn’t been in the postures of prayer for years—who’d had to borrow a hankie to place on his head—was in pain, but also in a state of gratitude and relief. He hadn’t forgotten how to pray. As he went through the motions, he relaxed as he had during the motorcycle ride.

Afterwards, when the prayers were over, everyone got up quickly and rushed out and Mansoor, Ayub, Shahid, and Tariq were pushed out onto the lawn.

“Oye!” Shahid shouted at a fat fellow who almost knocked him over on the lawn outside the mosque. They stood there and laughed together at the funny, quizzical expression on Shahid’s round face.





CHAPTER 15



It was during this time that his father almost lost all his money on a property deal.

What happened was this: as the days went by, Sharif had become more and more involved in the property search. He found a duplex flat in Asiad Village and began negotiating with the sellers, a couple who lived in Palam Vihar, to buy it. The couple kept asking for Rs. 50 lakhs, whereas he wanted to pay 40. Finally, predictably, they settled on Rs. 45 lakhs, with some adjustment for black money, and the deal went ahead.

Sharif was happy about the property, relieved; but he also cautioned his family that they shouldn’t get too excited. “I’ve only given a deposit. They might still withdraw.”

“You’ll love living there, beta,” Afsheen told Mansoor. “It’s right next to the Sports Complex and you can go to the driving range when your wrists get better.”

Mansoor really couldn’t imagine moving; he had lived in the same house in South Ex all his life; had grown up there, suffered there, grieved there, recovered from the bomb there. In fact, soon after the blast, the Ahmeds had discussed moving—Afsheen had said the house itself had brought them bad luck; there had been a spate of injuries in the family, culminating with Mansoor’s—but they hadn’t been able to find anything. Now, years later, this opening appeared.