Nobody killed her, p.1
Nobody Killed Her, page 1
This book has had an incredible journey. Like the inspiration behind its main characters, the book is unique in its creation. It has had a hard path to publishing and as you hold this in your hands, know that it is you who has made it possible. The book is dedicated to you, its readers.
‘The day the power of love, overrules the love of power, the world will know peace.’
– Mahatma Gandhi
‘I think you can love a person too much. You put someone up on a pedestal, and all of a sudden, from that perspective, you notice what’s wrong – a hair out of place, a run in a stocking, a broken bone. You spend all your time and energy making it right, and all the while, you are falling apart yourself. You don’t even realize what you look like, how far you’ve deteriorated, because you only have eyes for someone else.’
– Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care
Contents
‘Who Killed Her?’
THE VERDICT
Acknowledgements
About the Book
About the Author
Copyright
‘Who Killed Her?’
‘Death doesn’t knock on the door before entering, Your Honour. It comes suddenly, unannounced and uninvited. A bomb blast, a bullet gone astray, a blow in the head and before you know it, boom! The life has gone out of you. Cooked, as we say here in the city. You are smiling, sir? Perhaps you think I didn’t try to stop her. I tried to tell her there’s danger. Truly, I tried. The General and his men, I said, they will kill you. Why do you think they are letting you do the rally? So they can send you away for good! To a place you can never return from, I added, in case she hadn’t understood. Her Urdu was not that good, you see, and my English… well, never mind. So I said to Rani Madam, don’t go, it’s a set-up. Even told her the story of the spider and the fly. But she just laughed. Laughed that careless laugh of hers, so unafraid, so unaffected. As if death itself was on her payroll…’
‘Miss Khan, you must only answer the question asked. Tell the court how you knew the deceased.’
‘I knew her the way I know God, Your Honour. I worshipped her, believed in her, yet never knew if she was real or an illusion. Perhaps, I had imagined it all…’
‘Miss Khan, you are digressing. Think back, and answer correctly.’
‘Think back?’
NEW YORK, 1982
The first time we met, you were wearing borrowed clothes. You sat there in your too big platforms, bell sleeves and a neckline that plunged sharply to the right. Your yellow jumper hung loose over your thin frame. Your head was defiantly uncovered, your frizzy hair as rebellious as your nature, your heart-shaped mouth stubbornly set. Later you told me that your friend Yasmin had lent you the clothes because your mother stopped your monthly allowance. She thought it would make you give up politics.
Your mother didn’t know you well.
Looking deceptively sunny in that blinding yellow, you smoked as Yasmin stood behind you, searching through a high bookshelf. I had never seen a girl of your stature smoke. Or sit publicly without a veil.
‘Ashtray,’ you ordered and Yasmin came running up with one.
To avoid staring, I looked up at the highest shelf, my neck craning as I tilted my head all the way up, then bending as I looked down to the last. I wondered if you had read all those books.
Perhaps it was my head bobbing up and down like a duck in water that caught your attention. Sit, you gestured, and I nervously looked around for a chair to park myself on. I noticed your forehead crease in a frown as you crossed your legs like men do. You leaned back, stretching your hand over your knee and it was then I knew. With downcast eyes, I settled on the floor.
‘What’s your name?’ you asked at the exact moment I opened my mouth to say, ‘I want to be in politics.’
You pretended you hadn’t heard and I knew from then on not to speak unless spoken to. Nobody can say I wasn’t a good learner.
That much, at least, is true.
Yasmin brought tea and as she handed around the cups, you asked me again what my name was.
‘Nazneen Khan,’ I said. ‘But everyone calls me Nazo.’
You smiled and I said, ‘Madam, I am working in Aijaz Sahib’s dry cleaners. You know Aijaz Sahib from Jackson Heights? He sent me to you. He said you help people fleeing the General’s regime. My whole family was murdered in the coup. My father was a doorman at the Parliament. He resisted when they tried to break in. Later the General’s men came to our house and killed everyone. I hid under the bed … survived somehow…’ I could not carry on talking.
You didn’t offer me any condolence. Instead you said, ‘Can you type?’
And that was how it all began.
Bailiff: All rise!
Clerk: Judge Muzzamdar will be presiding over this case.
Bailiff: The court is now in session. Please be seated.
Judge: Good Morning. Calling the case of Mr Omar Bin Omar versus Miss Nazneen Khan on the assassination of former Prime Minister Rani Shah. Are both sides ready?
Prosecutor: Ready for the prosecution, Your Honour.
Defending Counsel: Ready for the defence, Your Honour.
Clerk: Your Honour, the plaintiff Mr Omar accuses the defendant of premeditated murder and of espionage against the state. The defendant is represented by the able and veteran lawyer Mr Hamidi while the plaintiff, being a known human rights lawyer, has decided to prosecute the case himself. Given his knowledge of law, and his closeness to the murdered politician, the court requests that his lack of criminal practice be overlooked and Mr Omar be allowed to prosecute.
Judge: Permission granted. Prosecutor Mr Omar and Counsel Mr Hamidi, please present your opening statements.
Prosecutor: Your Honour, Miss Nazneen Khan, commonly known as Nazo, has been accused of conspiring to assassinate the country’s first female Prime Minister, Madam Rani Shah. Although the body was charred in the explosion, new evidence has revealed that her death was not due to the suicide bombing as was previously believed, but by a bullet shot at close range. Almost as if by someone seated right next to her…
Counsel: Objection!
Judge: Sustained.
Prosecutor: Very well. Let me start by asking a very simple and straightforward question. Miss Khan must answer why it is that she, who sat right next to Madam Shah at the time of the assassination, managed to escape unscathed, while Madam Shah lost her life. Now, Miss Khan, tell the court who sat where…
The cushion next to your desk became my space. Every day after work I came to your Uptown apartment and positioned myself by your feet. At first Yasmin did all your correspondence but slowly, as my typing speed increased, the typewriter too found its way down to the carpet. Tahtahtahtah, I type like a machine gun, you’d comment from your throne on the sofa. I’d smile, silently collecting any scraps of compliments that came my way. For me, you were the saviour – the Prophetess who would rid us of the General.
I wasn’t the only one. Throngs of people came. Every day, the apartment grew, its walls stretched, and sometimes I thought its square shape would bend with the number of people who squeezed inside, each offering whatever service they could. We grew rich in people power. Students pledged support. Immigrants rallied outside the home embassy. Housewives sent us parcels of food, children came with little posters. The pressure in the house spilled out across the seas and into the country we had left behind. Our day grew to eighteen hours as we worked non-stop. And then one day, the Big Brother stepped in.
‘Senator Ted Kennedy called!’ You burst into the room and although I had no idea who he was, I found myself feeling inexplicably happy. You reached out and hugged me. ‘The day is not far,’ you said. ‘Don’t forget.’
I won’t, I thought, as I felt the warmth of your bony hands seep into my rough palms. Later I folded my hands into the tiniest of fists and tucked them into the folds of my hijab.
‘I won’t ever forget,’ I said to your receding back.
‘No one can silence us now. No one can take our voice away, now that our words have become the voice of so many.’ It was 1983 and you were speaking at a rally in Downtown Manhattan. Afterwards at the flat, you explained that Washington had begun to listen. ‘The world is finally looking beyond the communist threat. Now is our chance. We have to get in there.’
‘He can’t keep us out any longer, Miss Shah,’ said a man so thin he could have been a reed. He sidled up to you and started talking in a low, oily voice. ‘The General has been exploiting the country. Sending our people to the borders to fight a war that isn’t ours. In fact, it’s nobody’s war. The Americans have exaggerated the threat. What do you think?’
I thought he was standing too close to you.
‘The General is cashing in on USA’s fears,’ you replied, exhaling smoke. ‘He’s fleecing them.’
The man leaned his thin body in. His drooping moustache towering over your petite frame.
You didn’t push him away.
That night I did not go home. I watched unblinking as you both talked through the night, endless cups of tea your only companions. As the sun rose, you yawned and stretched across the sofa. ‘Fetch me a glass of water, won’t you, Nazo.’
But I did not want to leave you alone for a second with the Reed. I called out to the young tea boy, an Afghan refugee, who had been hired to help with the increasing number of visitors to the house and their endless demands for steaming cups of chai.
‘Refugee,’ I called out, my voice echoing in the still silent house. The boy rose from his makeshift bed on t
‘Water for Rani Madam,’ I said. ‘And make sure the glass is clean.’
When he brought it in, I took the glass from him and wiped off his fingerprints from the frosty surface with the ends of my hijab.
‘Here you go,’ I said, as you looked curiously at me. After you finished the water, you handed the empty glass back to me and said, ‘You can show Mr Riaz out.’
The Reed rose and smiled down at me.
‘I’ll save your gatekeeper the trouble,’ he said, putting on his sunglasses.
The Gatekeeper?
I smiled as I held the door open for him.
‘Till tomorrow,’ he said from the doorway just as the door slipped from my hand and slammed in his face.
I never did want to be your gatekeeper.
It wasn’t long before your hard work began to reap its rewards. The West seemed to like the idea of the woman who had survived the General’s coup, this veil-less Muslim woman who threatened the status quo with her unusual Western education and liberal outlook. The Americans called you ‘Daughter of Peace’. After all, nobody could resist your charm.
And then, in 1986, the General finally gave in to American pressure and announced elections. That day when I entered the flat, laughter greeted me from all sides. The mood was jubilant and I thought I must be hallucinating, for you were spinning around in circles. Round and round you twirled, like a Sufi dervish, your skirt skimming around your black tights. Yasmin tied a bell-edged tablecloth to her waist and joined in. She shook her thin waist, moving her hips like a slender belly dancer. I clapped.
You both stopped to notice me.
‘The door was unlocked,’ I said. The silence was thick.
‘Sorry,’ I began to turn back when I heard you say, ‘Where to, Nazo? Join in.’
Smiling, I walked into the circle. ‘Dance,’ you said, but I couldn’t. I had never felt more self-conscious in my life.
Standing next to you and Yasmin, I suddenly found myself thinking about pores. Open pores, I thought, as I saw the Reed coming out of your room. He winked at me and said, ‘Perhaps you need some Bollywood music to see her moves.’ I wanted to show him a filmy punch instead, but I held myself.
‘Will this do?’ You put on a tape of Nazia Hassan’s.
‘Aha!’ you said as I smiled. ‘Aha!’ you said again, as you took my hand and we began twirling around the room.
‘Listen to this,’ the Reed said, turning off the music.
‘What is it?’
He held out the small radio he was holding against his ear just as the BBC signature tune faded out.
‘Oh, you missed it, Rani!’
You marched up to him and said, ‘Will you just tell us already?’
I saw your forehead crease at his silence. My stomach tensed. This better be good, your scowl seemed to say, as you pressed the rewind button on the tape recorder.
‘That jackass General has called elections, but banned all political parties,’ he announced.
‘What!’
‘You heard me,’ he said, switching off the tape again.
‘Yeah, of course, he has,’ Yasmin said. ‘Must be unIslamic or too present-century for him. Don’t you know, fifteen hundred years ago when Islam was being spread, there were no political parties?’
‘And no democracy either,’ the Reed added.
‘That General,’ you said, slamming the radio on the floor. ‘That General has definitely lost it.’
‘I can’t believe people are falling for this,’ Yasmin said, untying the cloth around her waist and flinging it on the sofa.
‘How can he do this?’ you shouted. ‘How does he get away with this farce?’
‘Hitler said, “the bigger the lie the more it is believable”.’
All three of you looked at me as if I had spoken in Russian.
Prosecutor: Madam Shah barely knew you for a month, Miss Khan, before you became her self-appointed personal assistant. Do you think…
Defendant: I think sometimes it just takes a few minutes to get to know someone, Omar Sir, and sometimes – a lifetime is not enough.
In the days that followed, I found you looking at me differently. It was almost as if you had spotted something that no one else could see. When I next sat down to type, you shouted at Refugee and asked, could no table and chair be found for me? I was so surprised that I could not even thank you.
‘It’s not like she’s playing the piano,’ the boy grumbled, as he dragged in a desk from the study and placed it next to the sofa.
Perhaps you didn’t hear him, or maybe you chose to ignore him, but I could see that you raised your chin slightly. It was enough for me. I grabbed the chair he was dragging and held his wrist. ‘Give your forked tongue a rest, boy. Don’t think too much about what I can or cannot do.’
The look you gave me as he left was the longest you would ever look at me.
Later that afternoon, you called me into your study.
‘Here,’ you thrust a brown package at me. I unwrapped it greedily only to discover that it was one of your big fat books. Crime and Punishment, the title read.
‘You look disappointed.’
I felt myself shiver. A goose must have walked over my grave.
Or mine…
‘You can read, can’t you?’ you asked, looking curiously at me. ‘Tell me, Nazo.’
How could I tell you otherwise? So I said, ‘I can read enough to type your memos.’
‘I had a feeling you were just copying,’ you said, rubbing your chin, disbelief drawn all over your face. Perhaps the image of an illiterate fitted in well with your perception of me. I hung my head low.
Always one to go along.
‘I think I know what you are worried about. Here, sit down,’ you pulled a chair and sat across from me. ‘Look, all that stuff the Jihadists say about education being haraam for women is wrong. Just imagine, the very first word revealed to the Prophet was “Iqra”. It means read, Nazo. It literally means to read! So how can it be a sin?’
There have been very few times in life that I’ve been wrong. This was one such time. Looking at the passion in your eyes, the honesty in your voice, it began to dawn on me. All that I had heard about you: your idealism, your commitment, your sheer belief in what you had set out to do, it was all true. Perhaps the impossible was possible. The ten-year rule of the General’s could be broken after all…
‘Nazo, are you even listening?’
I blinked.
‘Yes, of course, Madam,’ I stammered.
‘Good. As I was saying, the very first word of the Quran was “Iqra”. Why would God do that if he didn’t want us to educate ourselves? Do you understand what I’m saying, Nazo?’
I didn’t. But I saw your mad, unshakable faith, your passion, your fire – and I wanted to believe you.
I nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Here,’ you thrust another bunch of books at me. ‘Read these.’
I looked down at my hands. War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Macbeth, Hamlet … You didn’t know it then, Rani, but you had begun to mould me the way one shapes wet earth.
‘Now go and read,’ you instructed, in that naturally bossy tone of yours. ‘And remember, readers become leaders.’
They certainly do.
Prosecutor: So you admit that you were a trusted member of her personnel, with access to the most confidential of information. You had the Secret Service at your fingertips, yet you did not stop Madam Shah from going to the rally. In fact, you goaded her. You dared her! I was there, I saw it.
Counsel: Objection! Prosecutor is letting his emotions get in the way of reason.
Judge: The court advises Mr Omar to take a more straightforward line of questioning.
Prosecutor: I apologize, Your Honour. My intention was to reveal how the accused gained Madam Shah’s trust. But perhaps it is better to begin at the beginning. Please tell the court, Miss Khan, how a barely literate asylum seeker like you rose through the ranks so swiftly?
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…
Nobody could put Humpty and Dumpty back again…
You laugh, Rani, but you’re the one who taught me life is all about improvising. Remember that day when you fell apart? It was me who taught you how to stand up again. It was me who urged you to fight on.
No matter how crushing the defeat…
Your work for women’s education, banned under the General’s Jihadist regime, gained much publicity in New York. But I guess some things are just not meant to be. All your lipping about women’s education came to a grinding halt. Perhaps you had said too much or perhaps you didn’t say enough … Whatever the reason, the General put a full stop to it.
