Jannat'

This story came out of frustration at recent happenings, may be I am too naive for this type of art but than its my last attempt I believe at story writing.


"Agar zameen pe jannat hai, to wo yahin hai, yahin hai, yahin hai "


"Altaf", that is how, he was known to the world. Name sometimes echoes more than what they are meant for, though their intrinsic value lies in your existence, they somehow dominate your existence and in turn you start rallying around them and this is what Altaf was to be revealed about.

Altaf was neither young nor old, now this can be supplemented with the fact, that he already had 03 kids and the fourth was on its way. Zeinab, Altaf's better half till now had been quite a dutiful wife to him. She had without any much pains bore him three children, was used to his antics, though recently she had been vociferous on the weekly thrashing melted out to her but than with times, some changes are acceptable.

Anyways, the protagonist of our story Altaf, a rickshaw puller by profession was a Kashmiri migrant. He was trying to build a future in the northern India Silicon Valley, Gurgaon in times which are not troubled yet turbulent.
Though Altaf was quite practical, day dreaming was all what he had inherited, the memory of sipping kava on his grandpa's shikara was still afresh in his mind. Like the daily namaz he used to narrate those incidents to his children, who the apostle of poverty were delighted by this only means of entertainment. Zeinab who perhaps had listened more of this than her children, still use to relish it, silently praying each time that may this dream come true.

The whole family sincerely believed that one day they will be back, back to where they belong and get what they so deserved. Altaf always rued on the word azadi, for him it meant only poverty, displacement. He always cursed this place, this is not our home, this is not Jannat, we will surely go back.
Poverty is not the breeding ground for big dreams, only small hopes lights the house of one. So was with this family of 05, which was soon to be of 06. They never aspired for HIS's "Jannat", they just longed for their "Jannat".

Altaf's slum was partitoned, with the future of India by a barbed fence, it was a sincere attempt to hide the barrenness of India. Gurgaon is a classic example, behind every big shopping mall, there are Wal-Marts of depriviation and poverty. It was in this setting, Altaf, the rickshaw puller whose rented rickshaw was adorned with sketches of Hindu gods was trying to build up a future. Altaf was quite aware that even if he works day and night, utmost he will manage new clothes for Eid, may be not, the sixth one was on his/her way!

Business was good these days, he was telling Zeinab about it, malls were overflowed with streams of people. Sometimes he wondered from where all this money comes. Zeinab as like always consoled herself by consoling him "We don't require that all, you see" and than they laughed to melt in each other arms.
Sex is not entertainment in poverty, it's a need, a momentarily heaven, a short nirvana, kids come as enlightenment.

Today, Altaf was not intrested in paddling any more human weight, he was thinking about returning home. He was the only left at the stand, his co-workers had retired for the day, night had already dawned and the big malls were winding up, people returning back to their cozy homes. The air was surcharged with excitement, which suddenly bamboozled into chaos, a cry in bewilderement confirmed it as riots.
Altaf asked the running guard- "What happened?"

Riots, they are killing Muslims

Altaf was stunned. He started paddling hard towards his home, he could not abandon the rickshaw, it will cost him more than his spared life.
Even an illiterate could now be explained "Doppler Effect" and he would remember it all his life, Altaf was too trying to run away from his death. As he took the turn, he saw a mob, to return back would have been fatal. His blood freezed. They encircled him, tilak on foreheads and red blood on hands.

"-Kya Naam hai tera?"

"Al..

"-Abe bolega"....a slap which made his face coloured.

"-Utaro iske kapde"

"-Abe, Hindu hai, yeh dekho"....some one pointed at the sketched Gods on his rickshaw.

"-Chal bhag" the mob laughed, perhaps the first time today

He started to move.

"-Ruk, terko pata hai, ham kyon mar rahe hein, salle musallman gin (numbering) rahe hein, ham ginne ke liye kuch nahi chodenge."(We will leave none to get numbered)

---They moved, leaving Altaf drenched in his sweat---

Altaf was now weeping, life was back, from no where. He looked at the sky up and than at the gods sketched back. Ganesha was smiling and the sky was clear. He Was Not Counted Today and they were unsuccessfull in each and every sense, were they?


Zeinab was at the outskirt of the slum, all the women there were on the brink, and each eye gleamed when it saw its own blood.

That night when in his home secure, his kid cuddled next to him Altaf mumbled "Agar zameen pe jannat hai, to wo yahin hai, yahin hai, yahin hai"