Another Heaven. Annu Subramanian

with Maya, do you think this place is safe for preparing future missions?”

      “No, it’s not. You read my mind very well. Do you think I should transfer quarters closer to your warehouse?”

      “Yes. I’m thinking of the building behind my warehouse. It needs a little work because the place has been left empty after I closed that section of my sweatshop.”

      “That’s a great choice, Abdul. That house…” Usman reflected for a moment, smiling happily. “That’ll be The Jannah…”

      “Jannah? A heavenly place! I like that. The house behind my warehouse shall be The Jannah. I’ll get at least one of the rooms there prepared for Maya right away. We can move her there this afternoon, and we can move the other residents in a few days. And don’t worry, Usman Bhai. According to your judicious statement, the end of all means is the beginning. So you see, they’ll never get us.”

      - 10 -

      19 Temple Street • November 11, 2009

      Usman observed the young boy sitting in front of him and smiled affectionately, the wrinkles gathering ripples on his bony face. “How have you been, Salman?” he asked, noticing his healthy cheeks and hesitant smile. “How are your lessons going?”

      “I am fine, Sahib. I think I’ve been a very good student. I’m waiting to start my next assignment. When can I?” asked Salman, a little worried about questioning his master.

      “Soon, Salman, soon. First, we’re moving to a new home. I’m going to send you as an assistant on a small mission after we move. You’ll be very proud to do God’s work, helping Jamil. Be patient,” smiled Usman, admiring the young ward’s passion, still unable to believe the transformation in the boy since the day he had arrived at his organization. He had been a very different child then, very different. How long ago it seemed!

      d

      A Boy Named Salman • Seloor • January 5, 2009

      The market in the heart of Seloor was bursting with life. It was the busiest hour in the morning, and it stayed hectic from sunrise till the tired vendors vacated the booths. Manohar, standing under the awnings of the tea stall, glanced at the activities in the market square. His hawk eyes concealed behind sunglasses and his morose expression hidden behind a bushy mustache, he made it his business to observe a boy, perhaps about twelve or thirteen, scuttling from one end of the market to the other. The boy was always there, but what was he doing in the market, away from school, day after day? Manohar’s experienced eyes picked up obvious signals of poverty—the boy’s tattered clothes, bare feet, shock of unruly hair, and his grubby face. There was nothing new about poverty, but was this boy an orphan? Was he homeless, or did he come from an impoverished family that simply didn’t care about his fate? Manohar decided to launch his research and ran to his master for approval.

      d

      The master was finishing his tea when Manohar entered his room.

      “What is it?” asked Usman, without taking his eyes off the document he was reading.

      “I came to consult you about a potential catch,” responded Manohar, hoping for undivided attention. Where would Usman be, thought Manohar, without his employees’ dirty, hard work?

      “Go on.” Usman’s eyes were still fixed on the file.

      “I’ve been observing a boy in the market. Seems to be a good candidate for one of your…our future missions. Would you like me to pursue?”

      Usman’s cold eyes measured his underling for a few moments, as though the switch from your to our future missions did not escape his attention. “What about one of MY future missions?”

      Manohar, despite his bruised ego, made an effort to speak impassively and described the status of the young boy in the market.

      “Can you guess the boy’s religion?” asked Usman.

      Manohar, attempting to defend his initiative, blurted, “Not yet. I thought his poor circumstances might matter more at this time.”

      Usman’s glance went up to meet his employee’s expectant eyes and slid down to his bushy mustache and the deep scar on his cheek. “Manohar, poverty is not a direct ticket to destruction. Haven’t you understood that from various assignments?”

      “What I mean is...the boy seems to be homeless and extremely poor. Two characteristics that are important, as you told me once?” Manohar insisted defensively.

      “I also told you that disillusionment is the primary characteristic, a dominant trait necessary for a candidate. When a human hates mankind, order, and peace, you’ve spotted a good candidate. When that human’s bitter experiences thirst for anarchy, then you’ve selected a perfect candidate. When that human’s blood boils for more blood at the expense of his own bloodshed, then you’ve bred the ultimate candidate.”

      “I understand.” Manohar stood in front of his stern master, awestruck and wide-eyed. He had always admired his employer’s primal, unwavering focus, and he knew that no man was a better hunter.

      “Go see if that boy is pliable and if your assessment is correct. I’ll send Yusuf for the final evaluation. Now go on.” Usman returned his attention to the file.

      Yusuf! Manohar concealed his surly expression until he left the room and sighed in frustration after shutting the door. He decided to ignore his own inferiority and marched out of 19 Temple Street, determined to look good in his master’s eyes.

      d

      When Manohar returned to the tea stall the next day to start the groundwork, he was not alone.

      “The time is ripe to initiate the hook. Don’t you think, Imran?” Kumar asked his associate, who looked very working class in a crinkled pair of khaki pants and a wrinkled, short-sleeved green shirt. His raven, straight, greasy hair was combed carelessly away from his tawny forehead.

      “Yes.” Imran’s trained eyes followed the boy’s every move.

      It was very early in the morning. The boy went gingerly to the public water fountain in the middle of a mossy slab of cement, throwing furtive glances to his right and left, and hurriedly got a drink of water. Imran walked towards the boy and smiled kindly.

      “It’s not the same, is it?” Imran asked the boy. “Water can never replace a cup of tea.”

      The scraggy child, about to move away quickly, was arrested by the kindness in the man’s voice.

      “Come, let’s have a cup of tea,” invited Imran, waiting for the boy.

      “I can’t. Not yet.” The boy avoided Imran’s eyes.

      “Why not?”

      “I don’t have any money, not yet…for today,” replied the boy, a little shamefaced.

      “Don’t worry. I can get you a cup of tea,” Imran insisted, when the child stood rooted to the mossy platform. “We working-class people must take care of each other. Come on. Don’t be shy,” he continued, trying to tap on the communal bonding among lesser children of God.

      The boy took a long look at the man, at the strand of raven hair touching his smiling eyes, and quietly followed him into the tea stall. This was new to him, very new. No eye stared at the boy. And the eyes belonged to the usual customers—a few bus conductors, lorry drivers, a pimp, and a couple of vegetable vendors. The man got the boy a steaming cup of tea and a big piece of bun, and the bun was an unexpected bonus! The boy sat on the edge of an old bench and ate hurriedly while taking quick gulps of the tea. Although nobody intimidated him, he felt strange sitting inside the stall. He was not used to this luxury. Even when he could buy a scrap of bread and half a cup of tea, he usually sat on the bench outside the stall. He just didn’t belong inside.

      “Thank you.” The boy’s shy eyes would not meet the man’s.

      “That’s all right.” Imran followed the boy out of the tea stall. “So