The Association of Small Bombs(64)

“It’s normal,” Rafiq told him later. “He’s always been an emotional person. Used to cry freely about his mother, his brother, Kashmir—he lost everything, you know. But don’t underestimate how dangerous he is. When he’s making bombs he’s another person. He’s possessed. His personality when he’s making bombs has nothing to do with how he is normally. His speed changes too. He moves fast. It’s almost as if by crying and being slow, he’s saving up all his energies for the bomb.”

“I thought maybe he had recently lost someone.”

“Unlikely,” Rafiq said. “He has no one.”



“Who do you know in Delhi?” Tauqeer asked Ayub one night.

Tauqeer was sitting on his knees with the stopwatch open on his palm, watching the seconds go by till it was time to pray.

Ayub, on his knees next to him, gave him an informal list of people. “And there’s Mansoor Ahmed,” he said finally. “He was injured in the 1996 blast—the one that Shockie bhai carried out.” Then quickly, “I know him because of that, actually. He’s from a rich, well-known family; he came back from abroad and became very idealistic and wanted to help release the accused in that case. He’s a good friend. I didn’t want to tell Shockie bhai because I didn’t know how he would feel.” Now he realized there was something suspicious about protesting. “Generally, I never get to meet victims, especially Muslim ones.”

Tauqeer didn’t appear to notice the shifting registers of Ayub’s tone. “Can he be trusted?” he asked, the digital numbers on the stopwatch dissolving.

“Hundred percent.”

“Good. Might be good to stay with a victim.” Tauqeer looked at Ayub with the full skeletal form of his gaunt face, all the straight lines and dark indentations revealing themselves the way the sides of an octagonal satellite might shimmer melancholically in moonlight. “Because you’ll be going in five days.” There was something about the way he said it, with his whole testing gaze fixed on Ayub’s face, that made Ayub feel Tauqeer had reached the decision right then, that it was revenge for the crime of being handsome and eloquent.

Then they put their heads down and prayed.





CHAPTER 27



Ayub had been trained in warfare; in shooting while lying on his stomach, while running, while out of breath, while the target moved; he had learned how to wire bombs, to carry fertilizer in a sack, to explain himself if he were caught (seven years later, the organization was using Shockie’s old technique of pretending its members were farmers, for the simple reason that most of the Indian bureaucracy is sentimental about farmers); but it had all happened fast and it was a jumble in his head. He did not feel that any of these things had entered into his muscle memory. Afraid to protest—he knew he was still on trial—he called up Mansoor from a freshly purchased mobile when he got back to Azamgarh.

“Who is this?” Mansoor said, his thick, croaky voice coming on.

When Ayub revealed himself, he said, “Ayub bhai! Where have you vanished?” The strange thing about Mansoor was that, though he often looked moody and stormy—possibly on account of his flaming eyebrows—when you got to know him, he could be quite goofy and funny.

Ayub told him he was coming to Delhi—could he stay with him?

Mansoor was a little stunned by the request—didn’t Ayub have other friends? Besides, in the past few months, things had changed for him at home. His relationship with his parents had turned toxic. As he’d grown angrier with himself about sex, he’d also become more self-righteous, judging his parents for their greed, telling them they should abandon the case with the Sahnis. “We’re religious in action,” his father had said.

“That’s nothing without actually taking time out for God,” Mansoor rebuked him.

Mansoor himself prayed five times a day, sometimes adding on the optional prayer, and increasing the rakat in each prayer.

If he prayed just enough, he thought, he could blot himself out.

“Why not do programming instead of praying so much?” his father asked. “Prayer is for old fogies like me. Young chaps like you should be out and about, working hard.”

“We shouldn’t be so ashamed to be Muslims,” Mansoor replied.

“Arre, where’s the question of shame? We have our last name. We are Muslims. If we were ashamed wouldn’t we have long ago left India? I’m only saying—do you need to pray five times a day to be a Muslim?”

“When Mohammed flew to Jerusalem on the Night Journey, God initially prescribed fifty prayers a day for all Muslims. It was Moses who told him to bargain it down to five. So five isn’t that much. So it’s a bargain, which you would appreciate as a businessman.”

“But do you need to wear the gol topi?” his mother asked, pointing to his skullcap. “You’ll get unwanted attention. Nowhere does it say you have to wear one.” Mansoor had overheard his parents talking about how it was a trend that had started only in the past ten years, as the mosques were flooded with Gulf money. They also talked about how people now said “Allah Hafiz” instead of “Khuda Hafiz” and how the money exchangers all carried signage in Arabic.

“Actually I should have a beard too—I’m only wearing the gol topi because I don’t want to grow a beard.” (He was afraid he couldn’t.)