Arundhati Roy - The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

The convoy set off in the same direction that Musa’s boat had taken. Past the endless row of dark, empty houseboats and then right, into what looked like a swamp.

Nobody spoke, and for a while there was silence except for the drone of boat engines and the plaintive mewling of a kitten that filled the night and made the soldiers uneasy. The mewling seemed to be traveling with them, but there was no sign of a kitten on board. Finally she was located — Khanum the harlequin — in Gulrez’s pocket. A soldier pulled her out and flung her into the lake as though she was a piece of garbage. She flew through the air, yowling, with her fangs bared and her little claws extended, ready to take on the entire Indian Army all by herself. She sank without a sound. That was the end of yet another bewakoof who did not know how to live in a mintree occupation. (Her sibling Agha survived — whether as collaborator, common citizen or mujahid was never ascertained.)

The moon was high, and through the forest of reeds Tilo could make out the silhouettes of houseboats, much smaller than the ones meant for tourists. A ramshackle wooden construction fronted by a rickety wooden boardwalk — a backwater shopping arcade that hadn’t seen customers in years — sat just above the waterline on rotting stilts. The shops, a chemist, an A-1 Ladies’ store and several “emporiums” for local handicrafts, were all boarded up. Small rowboats were docked on the shores of what looked like boggy islands dotted with old wooden houses fallen to ruin. The only sign that the eerie silence which lay upon the swamp was not entirely unpeopled was the crackle of radios and the occasional snatches of songs that drifted out of the barred, shuttered shadows. The boat sat low in the water. That part of the lake was choked with weed so it felt surreal, as though they were cleaving through a dark, liquid lawn. Debris from the morning’s floating vegetable market bobbed around.

All Tilo could think of was Musa’s little boat that had taken the same path less than an hour ago. His had no motor.

Please God, whoever you are, wherever you are, slow us down. Give him time to get away. Slowdown​slowdown​slowdown​slowdown​slowdown​slowdown​slowdown

Someone heard her prayer and answered it. It was unlikely to have been God.

Amrik Singh, who was in the same boat as Tilo and Gulrez, stood up and waved to the escort boats, indicating that they should go ahead. Once they were gone, he directed the driver of the boat they were in to turn left into a waterway so narrow they had to slow down and literally push their way through the reeds. After ten minutes of suffocation they emerged in open water again. They made another left turn. The driver cut the motor and they docked. What followed appeared to be a familiar drill. Nobody seemed to need instructions. Gulrez was lifted up and dragged ashore through a couple of feet of water. One soldier remained on the boat with Tilo. The rest, including Amrik Singh, waded ashore. Tilo could see the outline of a large, dilapidated house. Its roof had fallen in and the moon shone through its skeleton of rafters that loomed against the night — a luminous heart in an angular ribcage.

A gunshot followed by a short explosion alarmed the ground-nesting birds. For a moment the sky was full of herons, cormorants, plovers, lapwings, calling as though day had broken. They were only playacting and settled down soon enough. The odd hours and unusual soundtrack of the Occupation were now a matter of routine for them. When the soldiers returned there was no Gulrez. But they carried a heavy, shapeless sack that needed more than one man to lift.

In this way the prisoner who left the boat as Gul-kak Abroo returned as the mortal remains of the dreaded militant Commander Gulrez, whose capture and killing would earn his killers three hundred thousand rupees.

The toll for the day was now eighteen plus one.

Amrik Singh settled back into the boat, this time seating himself directly opposite Tilo: “Whoever you are, you are charged with being the accomplice of a terrorist. But you will not be harmed if you tell us everything.” He spoke pleasantly, in Hindi. “Take your time. But we want all the details. How you know him. Where you went. Who you met. Everything. Take your time. And you should know that we already know those details. You won’t be helping us. We will be testing you.”

The same depthless, blank, black eyes that had pretended to laugh about pretending to forget his pistol in Musa’s home now stared at Tilo in the moonlit bog. That gaze called forth something in her blood — a mute rage, a stubborn, suicidal impulse. A stupid resolve that she would say nothing, no matter what.

Fortunately, it was never tested; it never came to that.

The boat ride lasted another twenty minutes. An armored Gypsy and an open military truck were parked under a tree, waiting to drive them to the Shiraz. Before they got in, Amrik Singh removed Tilo’s gag but left her hands tied.

In the cinema lobby, busy as a bus terminal, even at that hour, Tilo was handed over to ACP Pinky, who had been summoned from her sleep to deal with this unusual prisoner. The arrest was not registered. They had not even asked the prisoner her name. ACP Pinky led her past the reception counter where nine months ago Musa had left Amrik Singh’s bottle of Red Stag whiskey, past the advertisements for Cadbury’s chocolate and Kwality ice cream and the faded posters of Chandni, Maine Pyar Kiya, Parinda and Lion of the Desert. They threaded their way through the lines of the latest batch of bound, beaten men and the cement kangaroo garbage bins, entered the theater, crossed the improvised badminton court, exited from the door closest to the screen and then took another door that opened on to a backyard. There were more than a few amused glances and mumbled lewd remarks as the women made their way to the Shiraz’s main interrogation center.

It was an independent structure — an unremarkable, long, rectangular room whose primary feature was its stench. The smell of urine and sweat was overlaid by the sicksweet smell of old blood. Though the sign on the door said Interrogation Center , it was in truth a torture center. In Kashmir, “interrogation” was not a real category. There was “questioning,” which meant a few slaps and kicks, and “interrogation,” which meant torture.

The room had only one door and no windows. ACP Pinky walked over to a desk in the corner, pulled out a few blank sheets of paper and a pen from a drawer and slapped them on the table.

“Let’s not waste each other’s time. Write. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

She untied Tilo’s hands and left, shutting the door behind her.

Tilo waited for the numbness to go away and the blood to return to her fingers before she picked up the pen. Her first three attempts at writing failed. Her hands were shaking so much she could not read her own writing. She closed her eyes and remembered her breathing lessons. They worked. In clear letters she wrote:

Please call Mr. Biplab Dasgupta, Deputy Station Head India Bravo

Give him this message: G-A-R-S-O-N H-O-B-A-R-T

While she waited for ACP Pinky to return she inspected the room. At first glance it looked like a rudimentary tool shed, kitted out with a couple of carpenters’ worktables, hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, ropes, what seemed to be scaled-down stone or concrete pillars, pipes, a tub of filthy water, jerry cans of petrol, metal funnels, wires, electric extension boards, coils of wire, rods of all sizes, a couple of spades, crowbars.

On a shelf there was a jar of red chili powder. The floor was littered with cigarette stubs. Tilo had learned enough over the last ten days to know that those ordinary things could be put to extraordinary use.