Another Heaven. Annu Subramanian

bosom. “I’m the warden of this facility,” she continued, as though like an afterthought. “Currently, we’re operating as an interim shelter for homeless women and children. I mean, a part of the building is reserved for that purpose.”

      Homeless women and children? Tina sadly observed the dusty shelves and cracked walls. When she reached for her wallet inside her backpack, Shaker stopped her effortlessly.

      “Please let me,” he whispered, shoving some money into the woman’s hand. “Take care of the young lady,” he said to the warden. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

      His gesture, however kind and thoughtful, made Tina feel like a child. She took a last look at Shaker, who was still standing by the desk, and followed the warden up the stairs. Tina placed the suitcase on a rickety table inside a small, musty room. Under the table was a dented metal stool. The only other item left in the room was a camp cot with a pillow and a crumpled white sheet.

      “There’s some water on the table. Don’t forget to lock your door, and don’t wander about the building. That’s prohibited!” The warden’s rigid words matched her severe personality as she made her smile-less exit.

      Tina sat down thankfully on the cot, but she wouldn’t dare rest her head on the pillow. The pillowcase was dirty; it couldn’t have seen soap and water in weeks. Disgusted, she got up and surveyed the small room. She noticed a door at the other end. Initially, she thought it was a closet. But when she peered through the narrow glass panel, she saw a set of descending stairs, and the door was locked. On the other side of the room was a small bathroom, with a stained toilet and a grimy shower stall.

      She walked back to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge. Again, like a forlorn knell, the terrorist’s declaration sat in the silent room with her. The end of all means is the beginning. How she wished to bury that maddening statement! Perhaps, if she could fall asleep. She opened her suitcase and pulled out a towel. She placed it on the pillow, set the alarm on her phone for 5 a.m., and closed her eyes to find asleep.

      - 4 -

      November 10, 2009 • 6:45 p.m.

      The green van carrying Imran and Yusuf from Railway Depot 24 near Pennoor Junction went past Government Hospital and turned right on JP Road towards Seloor. Although the evening traffic was not yet insane, it would be soon—an anticipated result of Imran’s recent artistry at the railway depot. Imran stepped out of the green van outside Flower Market, combing his straight hair away from his tired eyes.

      “Come back to headquarters as soon as the job is done,” instructed Yusuf, squinting his eyes to see the man sitting inside the flower stall. “The master wants to see all of us tonight after supper.”

      “I will reach there on time, even if I have to borrow his cycle,” responded Imran, looking at the man on the bench, whose short frame was partially concealed behind strands of flowers suspended from the roof of the stall.

      “You’re sure I don’t have to wait here for you?” asked Yusuf, glancing at the row of stalls displaying varied garlands of flowers for all occasions—from christening to cremation—before turning his glance to the noisy traffic.

      “No. I know the master wants to see you immediately before he meets all of us tonight. I will finish the next two errands and catch up. I don’t want you to be delayed.”

      Before the vehicle moved on, the vendor inside the stall tried to read the sign painted on the side of the van. He thought he saw R and J Construction in the dim light offered by the kerosene lamp. Dropping the basket of flowers on the floor, he got up and moved forward to receive his guest.

      “Imran Sahib, I am so happy to see you,” the vendor greeted his guest with the highest degree of respect, although he was old enough to be the visitor’s father. His right hand imperceptibly dimmed the already dull light on the lamp while his left hand wiped his sweaty forehead.

      Imran took a good look at his host’s much-used trousers, his off-white cotton shirt with many brown rings around the collar, and his bare feet. He went farther into the tea stall, as far as he could go to lean against the flower-filled platform, and waited for the vendor to recite his information.

      “Sahib,” began the vendor, carefully gathering the words before they splattered out of his dry mouth. “They are keeping him in a secure room in Medur police station. They might move him closer to Chennai to keep him safe from...from...” the vendor struggled to finish his thought. How was he supposed to say from the wrath of your organization?

      “Hush. You are absolutely sure?” asked Imran, dropping his voice to a whisper, reminding the vendor to speak very softly.

      “Yes, Sahib. His stall is right across the street. His cousin is taking care of it while he is away. We were not on speaking terms because he got out of our union.” The vendor was eager to inform the guest that no regard subsisted between him and the man who was being sheltered by the police, the same man who was hunted by Imran and his associates. “He was bragging that he saw the girl at Kuyil Extension while she was waiting by the overpass for the train to arrive. In fact, he swore he saw the explosion from a distance. The problem is, Sahib, he might remember seeing her in this neighborhood before the incident and...”

      “Yes,” Imran cut short the vendor’s narrative, worried that his guttural voice might be overheard. He took a small wad of currency from his pocket and shoved it under a thick bunch of marigold. “I need to borrow your cycle. I will bring it back tomorrow. You’ve done well,” he continued, walking out of the stall without glancing at anybody in sight. He pushed the cycle which was leaning on the bench and started to pedal towards Cross Town Road.

      As expected, the traffic started to thicken along the main road, particularly near Seloor train station. Imran parked the cycle outside Naim Tailoring on the edge of Cross Town Road and walked straight into a small room in the back of the shop. The tailor, a young man in a loose shirt and scruffy pajamas, followed Imran into the room and shut the door.

      “Call your contact in Medur,” began Imran, repeating the information he had just received from the vendor in Flower Market.

      The tailor promptly followed the visitor’s instructions.

      Satisfied that the transaction was successfully completed, Imran exchanged a few words with the tailor and started to ride his bicycle towards Market Street in Seloor.

      Medur Police Station • November 10, 2009 • 8:30 p.m.

      Exactly an hour after the young tailor called his contact, one of the guards at Medur Police Station looked up at the clock. It was his turn to carry the dinner tray to the man resting in the room upstairs. He started to climb the stairs when his eyes saw something they usually did not notice on the mosaic floor; a patch of red stain, and another, and another. His trained eyes did not need clarification. He triggered the alarm, and his suspicion made the headline next morning in The Express and in other news bulletins.

      The flower vendor, who was safely guarded at Medur Police Station, was found dead when one of the guards went to his room with his dinner. Following the vendor’s statement, based on what he had witnessed on that fateful afternoon near Kuyil Extension when the tragic explosion occurred on October 15th, the police had kept a tight watch on the gentleman to offer him protection while conducting their investigations. How did this breach occur? Who is responsible for this atrocity? Police protection is becoming a joke and…

      - 5 -

      19 Temple Street, Seloor

      Tina woke up, alerted by a soft voice, a woman’s voice, and it was right outside her door. She sat gingerly on the edge of the cot, and the consistent tapping on the door accelerated her heartbeat. The knocking again was accompanied by a frenzied whisper for help.

      “Please help me quickly. Please, now,” begged the desperate voice.

      Tina stood by the door, wondering if she should open it. The next instant, she unlatched the bolt and tremblingly stared at a stranger’s face. A woman was leaning over the threshold, dressed in a tattered sari, clutching something against her chest with both hands.