She was reading Salman Rushdie’s Luka and the Fire of Life when her blackberry beeped. She felt lazy at first to come out of her downy and warm bed. Then she made some effort to reach her bed side chest stretching her arm to the fullest without compromising on the warmer part of her bed.
There was a mail in her inbox. She kept her book aside and went inside her quilt to read the mail in the dark. The mail was from the organisers of ‘Kumbh Mela Literature Festival’. They had invited her to come and speak at the largest literary festival in Asia-Pacific region which took place annually in the hill city of Dehradun.
Aaliya Naqvi was born in New Delhi and studied there till 10th standard after which she had moved to New York with her parents. She was contrastingly known around the world for being a wordsmith and a man-eater, though more for the former. Her second book India’s Forgotten Children had helped her get the highest literary honours.
Her success in literature was matched by her failure in relationships. She was already 33 but never ever had a relationship that could last more than 6 months.
“Doesn’t your public image bother you?” asked a female journalist once.
“I don’t know. I think I love being who I Am.” she replied with calm and elegance.
She was known as an intelligent man’s woman. Her knowledge of the subject was crystal. She had a conviction for everything she said and wrote. And she had a charm which would make every man fall on their knees for her.
“You are beautiful...” a Brit wondered will he get lucky tonight.
“I know that sweetheart. Humility is not my middle name” she said winking at him. She had already decided Brit’s fate, even before he had complimented her. “But you see my ex was more impressive than you. You don’t even qualify pumpkin”
13 years back a fatwa was issued against Aaliya which proclaimed her as an apostate for writing The verse 4:34 and sentenced her to death under Islamic laws. Her book, add to that her open and non-conventional attitude had upset a group of conservatives.
The etymology of the name of the book find its way to Quran, verse 34 of Surah an-Nisa (abbreviated as 4:34). The verse concerns the issue of marital relations in Islam.
“Men are (meant to be righteous and kind) guardians of women because God has favoured some more than others and because they (i.e. men) spend out of their wealth. (In their turn) righteous women are (meant to be) devoted and to guard what God has (willed to be) guarded even though out of sight (of the husband). As for those (women) on whose part you fear ill-will and nasty conduct, admonish them (first), (next) leave them alone in beds (and last) beat or separate them (from you). But if they obey you, then seek nothing against them. Behold God is most high and great.”
In her book, she had narrated stories of four fictional women-all of them named Dania-from Afghanistan, India, Iraq and Libya who were beaten up and tortured by their husbands. Her novel highlighted how Muslim men, who falsely interpret Koranic commentary, misuse the verse and abuse women in various ways.
Her introduction to the book narrated the story of a woman who came to Prophet complaining against her husband who had slapped her. The messenger of Allah had said “Retribution”. It was only then when Allah revealed the verse to Prophet, “Men are guardians of women... (4:34)” That woman went home without retribution.
In the past 12 years Aaliya Naqvi had been lauded and blamed, threatened and feted, burnt in effigy and upheld as an icon of free expression. But the fatwa had ensured the name Aaliya Naqvi was better known around the world than that of any other living novelist.
“There are reports that otherwise traditionally dressed Aaliya Naqvi had worn a bikini on a Caribbean cruise... Did you really get into a bikini?” asked a curious journalist.
“I am sure you’d like the answer to be yes” she said mockingly. “And you know what? It is yes... but I was wearing it with a sarong. Well, I mean, how can you wear a chudhidar pyjama and kurta on a beach? ” she said raising her shoulder in sync with her rhetorical question.
The journalist skipped whatever she said after 'Yes'. He had already started imagining her in the two pieces.
Aaliya Naqvi was always easy-going and candid. For the woman who had challenged a male’s domain was no more a hunted victim. For 5 years after 1999, she had continuously kept moving from one place to another for the safeguard of her life. In one of her emotional interviews she had revealed that she had slept in 56 different houses while she was on the move. She now stayed permanently in London but her home address was still unlisted.
*******
“I don’t want her to attend this festival” said a senior minister on the telephone.
“But mantriji why don’t you ask the centre to reject her visa in first place?” said the police commissioner. He knew the minister was trying to fire shots from his shoulder.
“She is an NRI. She can come and go at her own will. She doesn’t need a visa.”
“Then what should I do Mantriji?”
“If I had to think that, I would not have put you on that seat” said the minister in an irritated tone somehow trying to keep the gutka in between in his lower lip and jaw.
“Listen commissioner” the minister paused, spat out the red fluid and then continued again “the party’s image has already taken a beating after that chudiyapa in Rudrapur during navratras. We shouldn't have beaten up muslim protesters like that. The party high command is upset with us ever since. Moreover our party has set their eyes on UP and in order to win in UP we need to keep muslims happy.”
He spat out a thick pellet of phlegm and then spoke again.
“Saala maa kasam we will not spare anyone who comes between us and UP this time, I am telling you” there was a crescendo in his voice which was followed by a click and an empty tone of the line.
“Bloody pervert” The police commissioner banged his fist on the table as he kept down the receiver. He had suffered lot of humiliation all his life. First from his seniors in his force and now from these ministers. He decided that this would be his last assignment. He started writing an e-mail.
*******
Her blackberry beeped again. There was yet another mail in her inbox.
Aaliya sat on her bean bag and started reading the mail. It was from the police commissioner of Uttarakhand. In his mail, the commissioner had strictly advised Aaliya against coming down to India. He referred to an intelligence information that claimed 4 different gangs lead by Imad Mughniyah, Mohammed Atef, Fazul Abdullah and Fahid Mohammed Ally Msalam were planning her assassination.
“Two of the suspected men were caught having recce of Sanghi house in Delhi where you stay whenever you come to India. If you still want to come, you can come but we cannot guarantee for your life. Come at your own risk.” he added.
The mail had an attachment copy of a group never heard of before - Jamaal-ul-Jhaan - which had threatened that if the government allowed Aaliya to come to the hill city they would be forced to retaliate.
She observed that the mail was cc’d to the home minister of the state too, a signal that the threat was indeed real. She called up the organisers of the event in Dehradun. They told her that they were unaware of the threat.
“All the necessary permission has been taken and the government has agreed to provide sufficient security. Ma’am I doubt there is any danger.” said the head of the organising committee.
Aaliya was too old to fear for her life, but then she was more concerned about the general public which might get caught in the havoc that could create in a crowded festival like this. She decided to cancel her plan.
*******
“Jamaal-ul-Jhaan? What sort of a name is this? I have never heard of it before. What the fuck is going on in this country?” said Aaliya's friend. Aaliya’s friend was a senior journalist of one the leading news channels in India. He was a resourceful person. His informers were spread everywhere from Dharavi in Mumbai to PMO. When Aaliya smelled a rat, she approached him for help.
The festival had already started but the conspiracy of keeping Aaliya away from India was gaining more popularity than the literature festival itself. Third day into the five day festival the truth came out.
“What is it? Tell me” Aaliya was impatient.
“It seems like there was no information given by the intelligence or Mumbai ATS about the plan of assassinating you to Uttarakhand police. They both are openly denying it”
“I mean... how it can be?” wordsmith ran out of words for the first time.
“Its election time in India madam!!! Uttar Pradesh is at stake.... Muslim votes count can make it or break it for them.... Aaliya Naqvi is not greater than any of these” replied her journalist friend.
He continued “No one had ever heard the four names mentioned by the Police Commissioner to you. There was no history, no present records found against them. A top official in IB laughed out loud when I enquired about these names. He asked me to refer to a Wikipedia’s article ‘FBI Most Wanted Terrorists’ which lists out initial 22 wanted terrorist fugitives. And the smart fellows picked up first four deceased men from the list to scare you”
“And what do you know about this group Jamaal-ul-Jhaan?”
“The Commissioner is fond of reading articles on a blog site called mool-dhara. The last article published on the blog was about Kashmir. Being a Kashmiri himself, he had a fervent discussion about the article with a fellow Kashmiri whose login ID was jamaal_uljhan”
Aaliya Naqvi felt ditched. She felt outraged. She had always hated admitting that her enemies had a point.
“Tell the organisers I WILL take part in the festival... via video link”
The organisers didn’t mind this change of itnary at the last minute. They quickly pre-schedule all the reading and discussion sessions to keep sufficient time for the star author. Her event was planned to be the cessation of literature festival.
*******
“How dare you give permission to them?” shouted the minister on the phone.
“Mantriji you had asked me to make sure she doesn’t come to Dehradun, I did that...”
“Don’t act smart with me. Because of your permission the party high command is trying to put rod in my asshole. Now do what I ask you to do”
*******
The screen had been put up in the center of the huge ground. A tight security was put in place by the organisers.
“Each and every person should be thoroughly scanned” instructed the organisers to the security staff.
“People without photo Ids should be sent home, tell them only passes were not sufficient for this high profile event”
A group of men were sitting far away from the seating area and saw the fuss around the centre stage with patience. One organiser felt suspicious. He informed his team members. The team members approached the head of security staff.
“Sirji don’t try to teach us how to do our job” said the head of security staff with arrogance when the team approached him asking for the identity of those goons sitting far away.
“But they could be a threat. Why don’t...”
Before a young member from the organising committee finish his sentence the head of security staff turned and walked away.
The organisers knew that something was brewing up underneath on this unfaithful day. They were in a predicament. But refusing Aaliya Naqvi to speak now would not only be an insult to a lady of her stature but also to the spirit of the festival. Just 15 minutes before Aaliya Naqvi was suppose to address the crowd from London the predictable happened.
“Plan B” said a voice on walky talky.
The group of men who were sitting far away, got up and encircled the stage on which organisers stood. Each one of them had a thick log of wood in their hand.
“SECURITY” shouted the half-bald organiser from the mike.
There was pin-drop silence on the ground. The crowd had frozen on their places.There were no movements on the ground. The birds sitting on the top of bamboo which supported tents flew away. The organiser’s voice echoed infinite times. But no one came forward for the rescue. The security guards didn't respond.
*******
“They have called off the video link session” said a security guard who was observing the proceedings from a safe distance via binoculars on his walky talky.
“Ask our men to come back. Is anyone hurt?” asked the voice on walky-talky
“No sahib” the guard replied.
“I hope The Almighty will forgive me for staging this act!!!”
Police Commissioner sat down with closed eyes. After 5 minutes he started typing his resignation letter.
*******
Aaliya Naqvi tweeted in the evening.
“Feeling disgusted. Politicians are like diapers; need to be changed regularly n for d same reason”
“I m more sad on bhalf of india. its long term commitment to seculrism n liberty. sumthng i hv praised most of my life”
“I m sure most muslims don’t even giv a damn whether i cum or not, dey hav der own personal concerns, der own economic worries”
Later that night she tweeted again.
“Why can’t people understand it is so easy not to be offended by a book? You just need to close it.”
---END---
