Five days I have mourned. Five days, I have shed tears till they ran out leaving a hollow pain that I had not known before. Five days, I have sat here in this room, not moving, not eating, not sleeping and let my life and its purpose flash through my head.
At day break, this morning, I showered, wore white and invoked and sought guidance from the spirit of my father. A few minutes later, a
shikra arrived on my window with a
tulsi leaf. I took it as a sign. I broke my mourning with a small meal of fruits and then slept for a few hours. It was time for me to refresh my soul.
Early evening, I woke up and set about with my plan. The first step will be the trickiest. I have decided push forward a new social machinery to seek out those who have put me into this misery.
From the city below, I hear the din of the market place and the bazaar musicians of Gardabad – the City of Dust. The city that in time has become mine. Yes, I can call it that. Mine. It has given and taken enough, from me.
Gardabad, city of bazaars, of traders and thieves, the rich and the poor, the modern and the old, the logical and the romantic, a city divided in two by history: of complete opposites. The city of spires, gargoyles, thin alleys, chaotic traffic and underground step-wells: where the people meet to trade stories, gossip, fornicate, juggle, sing, do small business and sleep their hot afternoons away. The city that constantly changs its names but had stood for longer than people could remember . The city which re-invented without changing much of its outward appearance: a thin layer of constantly moving dust covered the modern glass and steel and the older masonary.
The city is home to four hundred thousand people. It has seven bridges, that connect it to the world, over two rivers joined by canals that form a crescent-shaped moat on three sides. Across a large sand bar, to the south, lies the Arabian Sea. If I were to soar like a bird and peer in the distance I just might see, to the north, across the Rann: Sindh, the ancient home of my mother’s tribe. Towards the west, a pink-red-orange desert sun comes down on Kaala Putther, Devils Tower.
From this moment, I revert to my birth name: Imashagen Tin Hinan.
My father gave me the name of his tribe-
Imashagen and of our woman leader,
Tin Hinan, who established the first kingdom of the
Tuareg. Tuareg, a despicable name given by the colonists.
Atisi Ag Agoda, my father, a professional soldier and a traveller had got himself a job with a French trading company in Uzbek. There he fell in love with a
Sinti girl, Gulal, and they made Uzbek their home. That was in 1949. My mother, Gulal, had been a
Lety Gypsy Camp prisoner who had managed to escape from the train while being transferred to Auschwitz.
The Second War in Europe had come to an end leaving the European colonists economically shattered. Around the same time, the people of occupied Africa and Asia had risen in revolt seeking the independence they had so desired. Amazingly with freedom, peace returned along with modernism to these ancient people. A Confederation of City Nations rose and returned to the economies built around the businesses of the old Silk trade routes.
Into this free world, in 1965, the youngest of nine children, I was born
My father passed away in my final year of school. The Sinti Mohalla Elders, after a year’s mourning, pressurised my mother to marry me to a Gadoy (
Luli) tribe man thirty years my senior. The women of the Mohalla had whispered that the Elders had made money on this exchange. Gulal, by then, had gone senile and my brothers and sisters had moved to Europe with their families.
After my marriage, and I will not take his name, he moved us to Multan. He had family and a business there. In his house, my status was that of younger, healthier, slave to his two other wives and by night to his lust. Two months later, I was pregnant and very angry.
One moonless night, I stole his horse and rode towards Lahore. My plan was to hide at the Sufi Dargahs on the way. I knew they would protect a pregnant woman. The Gadoys, his tribesmen, were close behind; I had spotted them, on the second day, while boarding a bus at the Sukkur Bus Adda. A traveling band of qawaals, gave me refuge and adviced me to change my route and travel with them to Mirpurkhas. They left me with Zaqir Chisti at a durgah. A few days later he pointed me in the direction of Gardabad, saying it is a big city and far, and I would be able to start a new life there.
Kala Putther is where I met Akhil. I had made it there thanks to the
Rabaris who move through the Rann. They dropped me off near the mountain at dawn and asked me to wait out the scorching sun.
The Gadoy clansmen caught up with me as I slept in the rocks. Before I could react two of them tore off my clothes and forced me down. The third raped me. My memory of that incident is that of blood. Akhil had appeared silently from the shadows and had been merciless with them. He cut them into little pieces and threw them to the birds. Then, we sat atop a rock silently looking towards the city. Akhil had cried.
Later that night he took me home and gave me his bed. I don't remember him speaking I think he was still in pain and shock. He had later confessed that it was the first time he had killed anyone. On the third day, he told me that I could stay here as long as I wanted and no one would harm me. That evening we feasted on some rum, khichdi and tandoori chicken. We both got drunk and told each other our stories. He was gypsy too from the Lambani tribe. I knew that day that this man was my soul mate.
He gave me the name Neela, meaning the Blue One. He said it was in respect for my father’s tribe. He explained that the name change was important to hide my identity; the desert routes passed much information. I dyed my hair dark and assumed the appearance of a Hindu married woman and took Akhil’s name.
My baby survived the rape. When he was born, Akhil likened him to Krishna saying this baby was meant to live. We decided to name him Kris, short for Krishna, the Blue God.
A year later I started work for a small bank down the street. Akhil had encouraged me to study accountancy. He reasoned that was one profession that people would always have a need for. Occasionally, he would ask me to look into some client’s worth. I could never say no to him. It was not my position to question his motives. I owed Akhil much. He had given Kris and me, our lives.
Then, five days ago, Rupert had called me at work and said, “…Akhil is down on a knee.” That was code that I retreat to the safe house on the West side. I did.
The next day I went back at night to get Kris’s soldier toy, he had been crying all day, that’s when they waylaid us. Kris got separated in the commotion and I lost him.
I saw the man who took my child. Babu is what he calls himself now, but I recognised him from a picture my father had brought back from the Romany Congress in 1971. They had pictures of him circulated with all the gypsy tribes. He is a Sinti legend: The looter of the Treasury at
Petra. An intelligent and cruel man. He had married into the Al-Khalifa family with his wealth, and then disappeared with theirs shortly afterwards. He was then known as Sultan Zaiwanul.
* Fiction.
(c) arjun chandramohan bali
