Anand

Book of Destruction

About the Authors

Anand is an engineer by profession who has lived and worked in many parts of India. His first novel, Aalkkoottam, was published in 1970. He has since published a number of novels, short stories and studies of philosophical and social interest. His work has received the Sahitya Akademi, Vayalar and various other awards and recognitions. The English translation of his novel Govardhante Yatrakal, published by Penguin as Govardhan’s Travels, won the Vodafone Crossword Award.

Chetana Sachidanandan is a biologist who works in Delhi. She writes poetry and essays and this is her first foray into translation.

The Gardener

Like someone barging into your house without so much as a knock on the door, and smashing things around — that was how he manifested before me that day. Although just then he was physically incapable of anything as energetic as that. And, anyway, storming in would certainly not be his style, at least from what I can recall about him from our brief acquaintance, now almost forty-five years ago. This time too, if you ask me, I can’t say he exhibited any such inclination during his very brief appearance that lasted not more than a few minutes. But sometimes there is an expressive force that lies hidden in certain encounters or even gestures, the stormy trail of which can be perceived only after they are past us. Stormy were the days that followed for me, when everything, as far as this person was concerned, was over.

Seshadri, for that was his name, must have been in his thirties when I first met him. After an acquaintance that lasted perhaps a month or two, he had disappeared under near-mysterious circumstances, which was perhaps the reason I had remembered him for so long. I can’t say he had played any important part in my life then or that he had influenced me in any memorable manner. But today, in his eighties, old and weak, when he bid me goodbye forever, I stood there scared and perplexed. Some people make their presence felt through their disappearance. Seshadri’s presence was felt by what he left behind each time. Forty-five years ago it was an unsolved puzzle, and now, a lingering and biting fear.

Seshadri is gone, he is dead. His death, however — though I suppose one should not say so — is no solace. The person that he was has passed into other domains, and I now understand how such domains can assume disturbing and scary proportions.

I am not deliberately trying to pique your curiosity with my long introduction, as is often the way with writers. Things being the way they are, I could not but relate them this way. Let me then come to the story without further ado.

I was in the hospital visiting a friend who was recuperating from surgery. As I was walking down the corridor afterwards, suddenly I heard a voice calling my name. I looked around but could not see anyone except the two attendants who had just passed me with a patient on a stretcher-trolley. They pulled the brakes and looked back at me, inviting my attention. I caught up with them and saw the patient on the stretcher-trolley trying to raise his head. He asked me in a weak voice, ‘Do you recognize me?’

I did not. How could I? Forty-five long years stretched between the man on the trolley and me. I had no recollection of his face. To add to it he was laid out on the stretcher, covered neck down with a hospital-issue green sheet. But it seemed he not only recognized me but even remembered my name.

‘Do you remember me?’ he repeated the question, gasping for breath as if he had been running to cover the forty-five years separating us. He pushed out a weak arm from under the sheet and extended it towards me. ‘I am Seshadri,’ he continued between gasps, ‘… at Rajhara? Mehta Construction Company …?’

In a moment I crossed the long bridge and reached him. I couldn’t really remember his face, but the name clicked. Grasping that weak hand in mine I murmured, ‘Yes, yes.’ I could see the satisfaction spread on his wrinkled face and reach his grey eyes. The remaining tufts of his hair were grey too and his features faded. Though I could not find a picture of the Seshadri I had known in my memories, something told me that this man and that one did not have much in common, at least physically.

‘These people are in a hurry,’ he said indicating the attendants by the trolley. ‘They are taking me for some tests. Please come to my room in the evening. Please, today itself.’

He gave me the number of his room. The trolley moved away. I stood there for a moment, dazed and confused.

I could not, however, meet him that day. Errands I had to run in the city delayed me and by the time I returned it was pretty late. Deciding that I would see him in the morning, I retired to bed. Sleep did not bless me immediately. Seshadri kept invading my thoughts again and again for reasons not clear to me.

Those days, I was working in a mountainous region called Rajhara in the present state of Chhattisgarh. I was employed in one Mehta Construction Company that had a large contract for the construction of a plant meant for mining, crushing, screening and transporting iron ore from Rajhara to the Bhilai Steel Plant, which was also under construction then. They had a tight schedule and the work went on by day and by night. Days rolled by without our noticing.

The contract was only for a period of three years. But the company had constructed a large colony of its own, which had living quarters for workers and engineers, guest houses, offices, workshops, a market and even a park and garden for the families. A man called Seshu had appeared one day as the mali to take care of gardening, planting trees, etc. He was a find of the resident director of the company, Chandulal Gandhi, and a favourite of his. That was why his appearance was particularly noticed by us.

It was winter and I would see Seshu at work early in the morning as I waited on the veranda for my hot water for bathing to get ready, a cup of tea in hand. There was one main garden in the centre of our colony and then there were the smaller private gardens of the bungalows: of the resident director, the chief engineer and the guest house. Seshu could be spotted in any of these places clad in a dhoti and a loose shirt, armed with his tools. He would often be squatting near the flower beds, engaged in the finer work of weeding, tending and watering the plants. He would be on duty long before the other gardeners started trickling in. Later in the day, he would direct them in planting trees along the colony roads. As for landscaping, in his zealousness he often expanded his efforts to beyond the company-allotted land into the wooded area around. He held the view that landscaping was not a job that could be done on a limited, small plot. Once he told me that he had a larger plan in his mind to dovetail the plot cleared for the construction work with the natural forest that lay beyond.

Seshu’s interests, however, were not confined to gardening. Equipped with a little knowledge of everything, he was soon to be found in the workshops, machine yards, stores and on worksites. Chandulal Gandhi had let him loose everywhere, people used to joke. Yet, it was his role as a mali that attracted me.

I have observed in my association with various occupations that malis have certain special characteristics and even a world view of their own, developed perhaps from their closeness to the soil, plants and flowers. While sitting near the beds and tending the plants they talk incessantly with anyone who might come along, and if no one is around they talk with the plants or even to themselves. Seshu was no different. Though it was difficult to find time, I would sometimes enter into his conversations with the plants, from the wings.

In our direct conversations he educated me on plants, imparting titbits of information that I never had. He would interweave stories and myths with facts. Sometimes he would slip into real botany — plant classifications, species, genus, family, etc. One day he told me about Mendel and Linnaeus. ‘Do you know, sir, Linnaeus, in his mad craze for classification, used to argue with his wife about the scientific arrangement of clothes in the cupboard?’ All in chaste Banaras-style Hindi.

One evening, he came to my quarters. I was lying on the cot reading a book. I got up and offered a chair to the unexpected visitor. To my surprise, he started talking in English — the clear, chiselled English used by professors in their lectures. One may say, perhaps with a slight Tamil accent. Suddenly he asked me in Tamil whether I was a Malayali. From thereon he carried on in part-Tamil, part-Malayalam for some time. Then fell back to English. He told me his real name was Seshadri and that he was an Iyengar from Tiruvayyar, near Tanjavur, where the saint Tyagaraja had lived. I noticed that when he spoke he unknowingly brushed the sacred thread under his shirt. I was still reeling at the thought of an English-educated Iyengar working as a mali in that wretched place. But by then he had abandoned his line of thought and had started asking me about myself. I don’t remember what I said. He closed the day’s programme with that and bid me goodbye.

What he told me the next time he came was even more unbelievable. Seshadri told me that till recently he had been teaching English literature at Banaras Hindu University. He had got fed up with the politics and student agitations there and resigned from the job. It was quite difficult to believe all that, but my mind was by then too exhausted trying to distinguish between the truth and imagination and had given in to his stories.

From then on Seshadri would drop in every now and then. He helped fill the intellectual vacuum I felt in that desolate place where I had no one to talk to other than the engineers and the workers. We talked about books, history, politics — everything under the sun. Whatever the topic, I realized that Seshadri had some knowledge of it and also a view of his own. I remember once when we were discussing the freedom struggle of the country, he offered the opinion that the communists who could never come out of the shadow of the Soviet Union as well as M.N. Roy who broke with them had both equally betrayed the Quit India movement.

On Sundays we went for long walks in the forest, venturing beyond the project roads on to the tracks and trails used by the local tribal people. Since the boulders and rock outcrops were heavily laden with iron and the surface soil cover was thin, the top of the hills did not have much vegetation. Trees grew on the slopes and in the valleys where the surface soil washed down from the top had accumulated. The trees growing on iron were hard like the metal, I would joke, and he would always be ready with a quick response.

Fast was the rise of Seshu in the company. He told me that he had divulged his Brahmin origins only to me. It was true; everyone else took him for a professional mali from upper Uttar Pradesh or Bihar. But the managers soon realized that he was educated and possessed the acumen to carry out more skilled jobs than those of a mali. He was appointed a work assistant, then a supervisor. The company was only too happy to exploit his abilities to the maximum.

It was then that it happened. The company was in need of some additional workforce. In those days of the Five-Year Plans and intense construction activity, labourers used to be recruited through local agents and brought in large numbers from the rural areas of Rajasthan, Orissa and Andhra Pradesh to the worksites. Seshu convinced the management that he had contacts in Orissa and could easily bring nearly a thousand workers from there. The management saw no reason to distrust him. Seshu, accompanied by Abhayshankar Kulkarni, an accounts assistant, was immediately deputed to proceed to Orissa to fetch the labourers. Kulkarni was naturally entrusted with enough money in cash for the purpose. One fine morning the duo set off for Durg, the railhead of the worksite. A month passed and there was no sign of either Kulkarni or Seshu. The management began to get worried. They informed the police and dispatched their own people in different directions to investigate. But nothing more was heard of Seshu or Kulkarni. I left the company the year after and moved on to other assignments.

The forty-five-year-old part of Seshadri’s story ends here. The latter part has now resurrected in the form of an emaciated frail man laid out on a stretcher in this Delhi hospital, hailing me in corridors. I do not know why an inexplicable element of fear crept into my mind when I stepped into that part and contemplated meeting him the next day.

Many giant companies have come up in the past decades, dominating the construction arena, but my information was that the Mehta Company still survived, perhaps in the role of a subcontractor to the big sharks, thus avoiding being swallowed by them. The chances of anyone there who would still remember the Seshu episode is, however, remote. Stories of deception and fraud are in any case not unknown in business. And I myself have long since left the service and the profession and am a free bird now. Seshadri does not have to justify his conduct to anyone any more. What this man might have to say about the whole incident, therefore, is only of idle interest.

Thus assuaging my unease I arrived at the hospital the next day. I went straight to his room, which I found was in the pay ward with all modern amenities. Seshadri was not there. He had been taken out for an emergency operation, I was told. I felt guilty for not having met him the previous day, and so I made haste to the operation theatre. He had already been taken inside. I was told that it was a major operation and would take about three hours.

I returned to the hospital after finishing some chores in the city, well before the three hours were up. A patient coming out after a major operation might not be in a condition to talk, but I decided to wait, as some urgency inside me insisted I do. Wasn’t there a similar urgency in the words of that fossilized man when he had asked me to meet him in his room without fail the previous day?

I spent my time in the waiting room reading newspapers and occasionally dozing. The controlled chaos among the staff indicated that everything was not right. The three hours stretched to four and then to five. Finally a doctor came out of the operation theatre and called my name. I went to him.

He opened the conversation with, ‘What is your relationship with Mr Iyengar, sir?’

‘He is not related to me,’ I replied. ‘An acquaintance, that is all. I had known him for a brief period, some forty-five years ago. What is the matter, doctor?’

‘Strange man,’ the doctor said, as if to himself. He turned to me. ‘I am sorry sir, the operation was not successful. We could not save him.’

‘My God,’ I muttered.

The doctor looked at me for a few moments. He was perhaps debating whether I needed comforting or not. After exchanging glances with the nurse who stood by his side, he spoke. ‘Well,’ he hesitated, ‘in any case he had left instructions, before being taken into surgery, for donating his organs as well as the body for medical studies.’

He was telling me indirectly that I need not worry about the cremation of the body.

‘Do you want to see the body of your friend?’ the doctor inquired.

I did not reply.

‘They will be bringing it out soon,’ he said, making the decision for me. ‘Mr Iyengar has left a written message for you. He specifically told me to pass it on to you in case he did not survive the surgery. Sister Meera John here will bring it to you, once we are done in there.’

The doctor went back inside. Eventually Seshadri’s body was rolled out on the trolley. The attendants peeled the sheet back from his face for me. Then they covered it again and took the body to the mortuary. It must have been an empty shell after removing the organs according to his instructions.

I sat on a bench waiting for Sister Meera John. I don’t know how long I waited. I was in a state of confusion. Too many things had happened all at once. I felt I was in a daze. Why should a man, already fossilized in my memory, resurrect in this fashion? The face that had been revealed to me when they lifted the sheet did not mean anything to me. The face of Seshadri whom I had known so long ago had disappeared from my mind and it could not be replaced by the one that emerged from under the sheet. This one was as good as a new one, and I could not even say for sure if it was him. Seshadri was just a name in my mind, a name and some related events, to which I could now clip a new face, that was all.

Some people are remembered by their faces. When you see them, your mind tells you that you have seen them somewhere. Some people are remembered through the events in which they played a role. This man, Seshadri, was destined to take a place in my mind in the following days, not through his face or our little shared history, but through certain other things lying entirely outside the norm.

At last Sister Meera John made her appearance. She gestured and I followed her to her room. We did not exchange a single word. Once there, she silently indicated a chair and I sat down.

Then, suddenly, she repeated the doctor’s words, ‘Strange man!’ and took a deep breath. ‘He came all alone. Said he had no one to call his own. Got himself admitted after the initial examination. He carried enough cash with him for the admission. “You can return the balance if I survive, otherwise just consider it a donation to the hospital,” he said. Other than the clothes he had on he carried nothing. Gave no addresses or names to get in touch in case of an emergency. It was then that he spotted you in the corridor while being taken to the clinic. An anchor at last for a drifting boat, that’s the impression I got. You mentioned a brief acquaintance from half a century ago. Did you even recognize him?’

‘No, not really. I had forgotten his face and even his features,’ I admitted a bit sheepishly.

‘But he recognized you.’

‘What were his chances of survival, sister?’ I asked.

‘Twenty per cent.’

‘Did he know that?’

‘The doctor had told him. Don’t you want to know his ailment?’

‘No.’

‘You too are strange!’

We sat looking at each other’s face for a few moments.

When I lowered my eyes, I saw the pendant she was wearing on a chain around her neck. It was not a cross, as I would have expected, at least not the usual one. It looked like a cross, but somewhat upside down.

Catching my glance, she pushed it under her blouse. Noticing the smile on my face she said, ‘We are not supposed to exhibit these things outside, you know.’

‘But it is not a cross. What is it, sister? Looked like an anchor. You called me that — an anchor for Iyengar.’ I made a weak attempt at humour.

With a shake of the head she dismissed my questions. She then switched over to Malayalam, like Seshadri had done when he had first met me in my room, and asked, ‘Don’t you want to see the letter he left for you? He had no pen or paper with him. Borrowed from me. Sat through the night, writing. He waited for you till late, up to eleven I think.’

‘My God!’ I said again.

‘Only then did he decide to write. The operation was scheduled for the morning, so I pressed him to make haste.’

She pulled out an envelope from the drawer of her table. It was stapled at the end.

‘“Pass it on only in case I die”, that was what he said.’

I took the envelope. The instructions were repeated on the envelope. My name followed by ‘to be handed over only if I die’ within brackets.

Sister Meera John rose from her chair. She said, ‘It is certainly not my concern, what is inside. I will, however, tell you one thing. Though physically in poor health, Mr Iyengar’s mental faculties were in perfect condition. Perfect memory; oh well, how can I say that. I don’t know his history to say if he remembered things right.’

She chuckled and I returned a smile.

I opened the envelope only after I reached home, late in the evening, as something kept pulling me back from it. But I had to do it before I retired. I was alone at home. I switched off all the lights and fans in the other rooms and sat on my revolving chair by the side of the writing table with the table lamp on. I found that the note inside the envelope was somewhat long.

‘These words are coming to you from the other side of death, for I certainly would not have given this note to you had I survived. Nor would I have opened the can of worms I am about to before you’—that was how it started. No form of address, no pleasantries. Chaste English. Fine penmanship.

‘Like everyone else in the Mehta Company, you too must have assumed that I am a trickster,’ he continued. ‘Yes, I am a liar and a killer too. I cannot help these things. I belong to a cult centuries old, founded on the principles of deception and destruction. These have not changed even today. Nor will they, in the future.’

I was taken aback by this straight plunge, but gathered courage to continue reading. Needless to say, that was just the beginning.

‘You must have heard of thugs,’ he continued. ‘You must certainly have studied in your history classes that the British suppressed the thugs and eliminated thuggee from its roots a century and a half ago. But I will tell you that no one can eliminate the philosophy of destruction. The phenomenon of destruction is as old as that of creation. I will add that behind all civilizations, religions and ideologies lies the idea of destruction. The beautiful green foliage and flowers of love and compassion that you see blooming over the ground … they are all sustained by the nourishment their roots obtain from the underground, by stealth. But why only religions and ideologies? Every living being on this earth relies on deception and killing for its sustenance. Lift the veils of hypocrisy lying over your thoughts, and you will have to come to terms with this fact. Thuggee was not invented by anyone, nor can it be eliminated by anyone. Though not being practised as widely as before, or, to be more precise, not in the same fashion as it used to be, we have kept it alive and not allowed its roots to rot or its stem to wilt. The philosophy is alive, and the practitioners sworn to relentless and unerring destruction, active.

‘I can see you wondering how I, an Iyengar Brahmin, became a thug. Let me interrupt to assert that I am an Iyengar Brahmin. A liar and swindler I certainly am, but all that I told you about me was true. A true Brahmin from Tanjavur, I had once been a teacher at Banaras Hindu University. After I left Rajhara, I also taught at Aligarh Muslim University and did a variety of jobs. But let me not digress. I was saying that our cult transcends castes and religions. It is not limited by languages or regional identities. Sure, we are not many in number. But we have a presence everywhere; from the Pathans to the Tamilians, Gujaratis to Assamese, Hindus to Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Jains and Buddhists, and among Brahmins and Dalits. There are thugs among ministers, bureaucrats, doctors, architects, academicians, students, intellectuals, historians, writers, dancers, scientists, policemen, industrialists, traders, workers, saints, city-dwellers and nomads. You can wonder, but you would never know, whether your neighbour is a thug or not. Only a thug can know another thug. Did you know that the resident director of Mehta Company, Chandulal Gandhi, was a thug?

‘Don’t ever look down on thugs. Ours is a glorious profession handed down from the remotest past to a select worthy among men chosen by Devi Bhavani as well as Allah the Great. Its nobility can be judged by the fact that it unites men of every creed and colour. You have to be a thug to understand what is meant by brotherhood and fraternity. All those who respect the philosophy of destruction become brothers irrespective of their caste, religion, ideology and profession. A Muslim Pathan thug can very easily recognize a Tamil Brahmin thug. I will of course not tell you how. The methods are elucidated in The Book of Destruction.

‘Thugs are the only ones who have preserved crime in its purity, cleansing it of the impurities of emotions and enmity. Killing for us is an act of sadhana, to be carried out with a completely detached and clean mind. Our victims are usually not known to us. If they are innocent of any act that might call for retribution, so much the better. In fact, the ideal victims are those who are innocent and unknown. Goddess Bhavani demands purity — purity of the killed as well as of the killer.

‘You might have heard that our method is to strangle with a roomal. After the execution, we accept with grace and respect whatever the victim had in his or her possession, even if it is a single paisa. If there is no money in their possession, we take their clothes with humility. It is also our offering to Devi Bhavani and Allah the Great. We are bound by our faith to, at least once a year, present our offerings obtained from the killings and robberies to them. Our teachings dictate that robbery is to be preceded by the killing, and the killing must be by strangling. After the killing it is essential that we dispose of the body of the victim by burying it in the ground.’

Gruesome though it was, I was unable to put the pages aside. Seshadri continued his march of horror, as if he hadn’t said enough already:

‘Now I am going to tell you something which may horrify you. In Mehta Company you were my marked victim for the year. I had decided it the day you started showing interest in my gardening work. The omens were perfect and I knew you were the one Devi Bhavani had thrown in my way. Her commands became more evident when I was able to win your friendship and confidence in a few easy steps. To let off a bunij — that is what we call a victim — thrown in our way by the Devi, or to fail to recognize the omens she sends us is a sin in our philosophy.

‘There are different ways to win over a victim. In your case I understood that the role of an intellectual was the best. I was able to get very close to you through our discussions on literature. We used to, if you remember, go deep into the forest on our “walks”. The pit for burial too was ready. But the omens that came at the last minute were not favourable. I had to release you.

‘It was then that Kulkarni, the accounts clerk, so conveniently fell into my hands. Omens and signs progressed favourably and the presence of the Devi became more and more apparent to me. The accounts clerk in place of the engineer. What is written cannot be erased.

‘Why am I telling you all this, you wonder. You are not a member of our brotherhood. I have also no thoughts of converting you into a thug. Your picture in my mind has always been that of a bunij. One cannot elude what is ordained and what is ordained cannot be avoided. Why did you manifest before me out of nowhere this morning as I was being taken to the clinic on a stretcher? Why did the surgeon schedule my emergency operation for tomorrow? Why was I fated to die in the course of the surgery? Why did you fail to turn up till eleven o’clock at night? Why did every scheme turn upside down at the stroke of eleven and why was I compelled to write this letter to you? The role granted to you has to be played out fully. And the role assigned to me, that of imparting to you what is normally not imparted, also has to be played out.

‘You are now a living victim. And I, a dead hunter. If you are reading these two sentences it is because this letter has reached you. If this letter has reached you, it is because I am dead. Therefore, understand that this dialogue is taking place (because of the fact that it is taking place) between a dead thug and his living bunij. That makes it very special and important.

‘The answer to the question “Why this dialogue?” is also that it is fated. Since a context like this has not arisen before, I would say that it carries a special mission, a mission assigned by time and circumstances. The history of crime is now passing through an unusual and critical period. It has become necessary to subject its theory and practice to an intelligent discussion and analysis. It is but appropriate that the discussion be initiated by a hunter with his prey. It further becomes ideal when the hunter is dead and the bunij is alive. Death stands between us to prevent the dialogue from getting polluted by emotions or feelings.

‘This dialogue is, however, not going to remain restricted between a hunter and his victim. If you look at it from a different angle, it is also between two hunters. A nurse here who recognized you told me that you, who used to be just an engineer, have, in these past forty-five years, while I had been relentlessly hunting for you, turned into a novelist. Congratulations! This has given me a bigger reason for starting this dialogue with you. For, as a fiction writer, you too are familiar with the art of deluding and fooling your victims, the readers. If we use the roomal, you use the web of words, granted to you by your Devi, Saraswati. This dialogue thus transforms into one between a dead hunter and a living hunter. To be more precise, between a thug-hunter, who never contaminates his hunt with emotions, and a writer-hunter who invariably does. There is one more difference between us. You lie proclaiming that they are lies. You trap your victims with traps advertised as traps. They submit to you knowing that they are being seduced. They experience ecstasy and rapture when you force yourself upon them. The whole experience is turned into an emotional feast. On your own side, you go a step further, making it an act of self-gratification, by mixing lying with lies and deceiving with deception. This is corruption of the highest order and for us thugs, a sin.

‘Our lies are straight lies. Our deceptions are plain deceptions. Neither we who destroy nor the victims who are destroyed feel any kind of exhilaration through the act. We would not board the vehicle of emotions even by mistake. It is not the excitement of the act nor the material gain to be had from it that motivates us, but the philosophy. Our acts are not decided by us. The ideology and the methodology do that.

‘I don’t want you to repeat the mistakes your predecessors have made in understanding us or, rather, not understanding us. Remove the tinted glasses of prejudice you wear before you look at us. While you and your victims fall into a bliss of mutual deception, the torments of our victims lead to their actual liberation. They might not be conscious of it in those final moments of pain. But when the time comes, the liberated souls of our victims will definitely thank us. It will be revealed to them that we were just instruments in the larger scheme of things and that their own sufferings were the unavoidable pangs to be endured during the execution of an ideology and methodology, no doubt bearing the stamp of Nature. It is the grand design of Mother Nature, and hence, doubtlessly, the violence that connects us with our victims is not base but noble. When the victim realizes the underlying nobility of the act, the pain will cease. Deception will cease to be deception, and the lie will cease to be the lie. The agony of the present will enhance the beauty of the future; and so, one day, the present too will become beautiful, in retrospect. You and your victims are sadly denied these beautiful moments. For your aesthetics are different. But now, as a living victim, you are privileged to experience that ecstasy without having to pass through the pain your fellow victims suffered. You will appreciate: we do not allow a victim to learn that he is a victim until the moment the roomal falls around his neck. It is unfortunate that in those critical moments his pain drowns everything. But then, as I said, the pleasure is only delayed, reserved for future realization.

‘In one sense our philosophy is futuristic. We do not dwell on that which has happened because whatever has already happened has begun to rot and what is rotten is impure. Moreover, we always have our eyes set on that ultimate state of destruction of the world when all that has been created will be returned to the elements. Books of literature ceaselessly dig through the past only to bring forth newer and newer versions of it. Revolutionaries seek to rewrite the past even before the blood of revolution has dried on the ground. Thugs hurry to bury the body of their bunij the moment he stops moving. In fact, they do not even lay their hands on a bunij before his pit is ready.

‘This letter is the key given to you by your thug to open The Book of Destruction. Just as the bodies of the destroyed are buried the instant they die, the pages of The Book of Destruction disappear the moment they are read. The questions you might wish to ask, arising out of this dialogue that you are privileged to be having, will not reach me for I am on the other side of death. Futuristic as the philosophy is, the questions have to travel from you to someone else, not back to me. This dialogue cannot be stopped by you — you are ordained to take it further.

‘After reading this letter you will not be able to write about anything else. What you will discuss with others after receiving this letter will not be the same as what you would have discussed in the event of not receiving it. At the same time, it will not be a relay race — one person passing on to another what he has received from someone else. I don’t need to tell you this because you are a fiction writer. You know that ideas are not inert material to be simply transferred from one person to another; they carry with them the giver’s fingerprints, his angst and his concerns, as they are passed on. So henceforth your works will contain the fears and concerns this letter has passed on to you. You will convey them to your victims, the readers, as I have conveyed them to you, my living victim. Like the storm I have unleashed in your mind, you too will unleash one in your readers’ minds. There will, however, be one difference. The secrecy I had maintained in my relationship with my victims, you will not keep with yours. That would, however, not take away the fear from your dialogue with them. Raise the fear, build it up systematically, that is the message of the time. I am sure in the coming years you will fulfil your obligations with alacrity.

‘And, mind you, I have not told you anything new in this letter of mine. I have not told you anything that does not exist or has not existed or, if I may say so, is not already known to everyone. You cannot say that you are unaware of the killing elements saturating the air you breathe, the water you drink and the food you consume. Is it not happening with the knowledge and consent of all? Poison is as much a part of life now as it was before. Violence has become common, transparent and acceptable in every activity around you, whether it is politics, industry, trade, struggles, revolution, culture, art or literature. And that is the reason for my writing this letter to you. There is a growing transparency in the act of destruction in the world these days. This is a matter of concern to us thugs as the philosophy of thuggee does not allow transparency. It is this crisis faced by thuggee that has commissioned me to undertake this dialogue with you.

‘You have, of course, read in your history textbooks that at one time our cult was so widespread that even the remotest corner of the country was not free of us. Yet we used to be extremely esoteric in our practices, because of the circumstances. Saints and thinkers alike were bent upon painting the face of life in the colours of love and devotion, obscuring the violence and destruction that are deeply woven into it. The persistent distortion of reality and the propaganda against destruction made it difficult to practise our faith in the open. We had to hide behind masks, deny responsibility and even justify our actions with arguments we ourselves did not approve of. The foreign rulers who came to loot our country declared war upon us for their own reasons. We could not match their firepower and had to retreat entirely underground for survival. The belief that thuggee had been eliminated became prevalent.

‘An entirely new kind of violence has taken over the world in the last half century or so, since we left the Mehta Company, as you would not have failed to notice. Destruction, having left the larger arena of huge armies and nations at war, has passed into the hands of individuals and small, individualized groups. While the industry of weapons of mass destruction continues to thrive, the most noticeable acts of destruction today are being carried out by those with small arms, explosives, mines and booby traps. Intriguingly, these attacks planned and executed at the level of individuals are aimed at individuals who are not in any way relevant to the cause that is proclaimed. The faceless multitude in the streets is the new target. Destruction, while being executed by individuals, thus continues to remain uncontaminated by individual enmity and emotions, exhibiting the purity of mind and spirit our philosophy demands. Further, we see destruction turning into a continuous and endemic phenomenon, rather different from huge wars visiting only once in a while. Destruction has become an everyday and everywhere business, ever present in the streets, offices, factories and courtyards.

‘These are all certainly welcome signs, reflecting the true nature of the philosophy of destruction. This also adheres to the rules and methodology so dear to thuggee. But at one point we find it deviating from our principles, and that is in abandoning the esoteric nature of it. The perpetrators of destruction these days are coming out and making proclamations, claiming glory. They do not perform the act mandatory to us thugs, namely burying the dead bodies and erasing the evidence from the prying eyes of the public. Devi Bhavani also seems to have become lax about taking the responsibility upon herself, of disposing of the bodies in case of contingencies, like she used to.

‘On one hand, the modern thugs accept the purity of destruction. On the other, they deviate from the binding customs and rituals. Are they reforming thuggee, or polluting it with extraneous practices? Or, to take another view, does all this mean that mankind has finally begun to see clearly and has accepted the fundamental and basic role destruction plays in life — to the extent that secrecy has become superfluous? Does it mean that even while holding high the ideology, a change is being wrought in the methodology? Is Devi Bhavani, having seen the ascent of mankind, and being satisfied with it, leaving the field altogether, denying herself the offerings of devotees, and allowing them to enjoy and revel in their act on their own? I am passing on all these questions to you to ponder over.’

I sat frozen in my chair. This was a man who used to converse happily with plants and flowers, take part in all manner of mundane human activities positively and constructively, who could appreciate philosophy, art and literature — a simple Vaishnava Brahmin. Suddenly one day a shadow of suspicion falls over him. Four and a half decades pass. Then, breaking through the remaining shells of goodness, he emerges, shedding all pretences, to spread only horror and suspicion everywhere. He unveils himself and tells me that he was my failed murderer, without even a pretence of an apology. Assuming the guise of a samharamurty, he proclaims that lies, deception and destruction are the basic tenets and characteristics of mankind, even of the whole living world.

The first question I forced upon myself was: how much of what he had written in that letter was true? Was that letter itself a deception, a game? Why would he play such a game from the other side of death where he was unable to enjoy the results? Was this man who died today, the same old Seshadri at all? If not, who was he? A psychopath, a madman? Questions washed over me, one after the other, and the aftertaste they left was fear. Fear itself seemed to assume a tangible character, filling the room and crowding around my body from all sides.

I tried to bring his face back to my mind, the face of that man, the one revealed to me by the attendant from under the sheet and the one who had talked to me the previous day from the stretcher. Both had been in a prone position. The face of a prone man is different when he is standing. And a man’s face when dead is very different from when he is alive. I could not conjure an image of him alive and standing. My memory failed me. Seshadri was now a faceless man, or rather one with a dubious, intangible face. That did nothing to ease my discomfiture.

I did a full swivel on my revolving chair. I got up and switched on all the lights in all the rooms. Turned all the fans on. This time yesterday, why, till even noon today, he was alive. With a roomal in his pocket perhaps, with all his confidence-earning tools of literature, politics, history and whatnot at hand. For a moment I thought of going back to the hospital to confirm he was really dead. To make sure the body that came out from the theatre was the same as the one I had seen the previous day. But how was I to make sure whether the dead man was the real Seshadri? Besides this letter, there was no other proof of Seshadri’s ever having been a thug. Who was the one that died, who was the one admitted into the hospital and who was the one who wrote the letter? If I leave behind all these and many other questions, everything boils down to a simple question: do thugs, does thuggee, exist today? I paced the length of the room several times, and every time I came back to the starting point and the letter lying on my table, I found myself edging closer to the belief that the things written on those pages were indeed true. The horrible reality came closer and closer as through a camera zooming in. Since the person with whom I was sharing the secret was dead, it was now wholly with me, on my side.

I made a cup of strong black coffee and drank it in a hurry. I made another. If only I had visited him yesterday, I thought. He would have shared some of his old memories with me and let me off. What he had written in the letter were not things that could be said face-to-face. Or, who knows, he might still have written the note, with instructions to hand it over to me only in the event of his death. It seemed it was imperative for him to let it all out. Imperative, as all his actions had been to him. He was carrying a centuries-old load on his shoulders. Even if he could carry it beyond his death, it was not possible for him to ferry all the doubts and scruples he had acquired. I was by that time convinced of the truth of every single word he had inked on the paper. Yes, there are thugs, and thuggee still exists.

I set out on a mission to collect information about thugs and thuggee. Books about thuggee in the libraries, the nineteenth-century files, case histories and records of trials in the archives, I gathered everything I could lay my hands on. I learnt to my horror that much of what Seshadri had said in his note was factually correct. According to some accounts, this group of people who had raised duping and killing their fellow beings to a level of faith and ritual had originated in central India. But in their empire-building days, the British discovered that the scourge had spread to the whole subcontinent and that some of the unseated rulers were aiding and abetting the thugs and the Pindaris, the more open plunderers, for their own sustenance. The campaign started by the British to suppress thuggee, which they considered essential to gain the confidence of the people unhappy with their corrupt erstwhile rulers, provided most of the material on the subject. Though the critics of orientalism had many reservations on the subject, no one could deny the existence of thuggee and the ritualistic character of the practice.

The trials of captured thugs revealed that thugs were organized into a large number of gangs or bands, each of whom had its own chief known as mukhia or sardar, intelligence gatherers and specialized operators, like stranglers, gravediggers, etc. The thugs claimed that they had a special ability by which they could recognize each other, whatever their region, language, caste or religion. There had never been any power struggle among the thugs themselves. Their intelligence work was so efficient that it inspired Sleeman to start his own intelligence network, or rather a counter-intelligence agency, to trap the thugs. It was this agency that later grew into the intelligence department of the British government. It is believed that when the Americans established their Central Intelligence Agency after the Second World War they took inspiration from this agency. So, it would appear that the modern intelligence world originated from the necessity to eliminate these killer gangs.

It was unimaginable for a cult spread out on such a vast scale geographically to have preserved the same set of rules, customs and practices, but that, it seemed, was a fact. Though they remained members of a cult, most of them, especially the gang leaders, were not full-time thugs. They functioned as patels of villages, sahukars, traders, priests of temples, clerks, landlords and ordinary householders when they were not on an operation. The day after the murder and looting, they would be back in their offices, shops, temples and homes. Some landlords, nobles and even kings who knew of the thugs operating in their domain protected them and in return received a share of the loot. So, thuggee went unchecked, and flourished without hindrance.

Colonel Sleeman, the officer responsible for the suppression of thuggee under the British administration, says that at the cantonment where he was stationed, the leader of the thugs of that district, Hari Singh, had moved about as a respectable merchant and he himself had had many dealings with him. He would obtain passes from Sleeman’s office to bring clothes from Bombay to trade; these passes were then used by Hari Singh to smuggle the loot he obtained by waylaying merchants and to sell them openly in the cantonment. Sleeman says he would never have known this had he not confessed, which he seemed to have done as a good joke. Bodies of several victims of this man and his gang lay buried within a few hundred yards from the main guard post of the cantonment as became apparent when Singh pointed out the graves in the coolest manner after his arrest.

I discovered that Seshadri was also right when he said that the cult of thuggee welded together Hindus and Muslims, and numerous castes within them, into a close brotherhood. Looting and the acquisition of wealth were the objectives behind thuggee, but the faith always came first. Hindus and Muslims united as brothers in it and there was no bad blood between them when it came to thuggee. Thugs believed that their profession had the sanction of the gods. The pleasures on this earth were small; the promise of everlasting pleasure in Indra’s kingdom for the Hindus and of the houris in the kingdom of Allah for the Muslims beckoned them. All this could be achieved only by following the path of thuggee as it was believed to be the glorious profession bestowed upon a few select men by Devi Bhavani and the ever-merciful Allah. To refuse the opportunity extended to man to move along this glorious path was nothing but blasphemy. The model of brotherhood that Allah has described was realized among the thugs. It was only among them that true belief and true brotherhood came together. Go where you will, and you will find homes open to you and a thug ordained by Allah to greet you, whatever be the language and custom of the place, the guru advised the novice at the time of inducting him into the faith. Be kind as you will to those around you, be affectionate to your friends, pity the poor, give alms to the needy, but always remember that you are a thug from now onward and have sworn relentless destruction on all those whom Allah may throw in your way, he cautioned.

Spies deployed by gangs of thugs passed on the information of merchants travelling with their merchandise. The chief with his gang then set out in the guise of merchants or government soldiers and joined them along the way. They earned the confidence of the merchants by discussing common concerns, sharing food and, ironically, sometimes even warning them against thugs in the area. They set up camp together in the forest and at night plied the victims with food and music. Meanwhile, the gravediggers of the gang, known as lughis, would get busy digging graves. Behind every person in the convoy including men, women, children, servants and cart drivers, a strangler would stand ready with his roomal. When the reception reached its peak with song, drama and music, the leader of the gang would suddenly utter a code phrase called jhirni such as Hukka bhar lao, Tambaku kha lo or Pani pilao. The stranglers, called bhurtotes, immediately sprang into action at lightning speed and threw their roomals around the necks of their victims. The struggle would last only a few seconds. Once the victims became still, their clothes were removed and the naked bodies pulled into the waiting graves. Such graphic descriptions furnished by the thugs during their trial and interrogation betrayed the thrill and sense of fulfilment they derived from the process. It was not easy for me to go through some of these narratives.

A new entrant was initiated into the profession through an elaborate set of rituals. He was bathed and dressed in new clothes that had never been bleached and then led by hand by the guru into a room where the leaders of various bands would be seated on a clean white sheet. The initiator then asked the elders if they were content to receive him as a thug. If they answered yes, then the leaders accompanied the novice out of the room into the open where the guru raised his hands and beseeched Devi Bhavani to grant a good omen. If an omen in the form of a bird’s cry was received he was taken back to the room and a pickaxe and a white handkerchief were placed in his right hand. He raised them high in the air and took an oath invoking the goddess to whose service he was devoting himself. The same oath would then be repeated in the name of Allah and the Qur’an. A small hole would be made in the centre of the white cloth laid out in the room and the pickaxe planted in it with its handle pointing down. Pieces of gur would be placed around it and water sprinkled, accompanied by the chanting of prayers to the Devi and Allah, seeking their blessing and protection. The gur would then be distributed to everyone as a sacrament. All those who ate the gur were thus bound irrevocably to the profession.

At this point in the description I was struck by a memory of the Seshadri of forty-five years ago. He had refused the dormitory accommodation offered by the company and had built himself a small hut behind the company’s resident director’s bungalow. I had visited him there once. I remember noticing a prominently positioned, fresh, unsoiled pickaxe placed neatly over a white piece of cloth. Respect given to a mali’s tool of trade, I remember thinking. But when I also saw a two-inch model of the tool placed over the makeshift table he had created out of packing cases, I asked him about it. I can’t remember now what his answer had been.

I read on about the pickaxe. The pickaxe had not been part of the sacred symbols of the profession in the early days of thuggee, accounts say. Originally, the kerchief was the only holy instrument of thuggee and the act of thuggee was then limited to strangling the victim and plundering his possessions. Disposing of the bodies and erasing the evidence were the responsibility of the Devi, on whose instructions the thugs carried out the work of destruction. Once, some thugs became curious about how the Devi disposed of the bodies, and hid themselves behind some bushes after the killing to watch her in action. Foolish thugs, who thought they could elude the eye of the goddess! She appeared before them in a terrible form and upbraided them for their want of faith. She cursed them that thenceforth they would not be able to rely on her to protect them. ‘I will not remove the bodies of those whom you destroy; you must make your own arrangements for their concealment,’ she said. ‘It will not always be effectual and will at times lead to your detection by earthly powers and in this will lie your punishment,’ she added. She, however, agreed to grant them the retention of their cunningness and intelligence and agreed to assist them with omens for their guidance. Thus came into being the custom of killing only after the graves were ready. They also had to make gashes in the abdomen of the corpses before burial to prevent bloating that could unsettle the loose soil over the grave. Like the stranglers, thus came into being a new speciality, the gravediggers, and the pickaxe, like the original roomal, became a sacred object to be worshipped.

There were a number of people in those days who were not thugs, but were aiding and abetting thuggee, and among these abettors were sanyasis, fakirs and priests. The thugs thus had access to the retreats, ashrams and temples, often surrounded by forests, close to the villages, which provided convenient grounds for disposal of the dead bodies.

But, one might ask, why strangling and why no other method for killing? One story goes that Kali, who had been created by Siva expressly for killing the demon Raktabija, found herself faced with a problem when trying to destroy him. Raktabija, as his name suggests, had a boon from Siva that every drop of his blood that hit the ground would give birth to a new Raktabija. So Kali unleashed an army of soldiers armed with nothing but handkerchiefs who strangled the demons without spilling blood. The demons were destroyed and the army of her soldiers, in the course of time, became thugs. According to Hindu belief, the concept of the universe consists of two coexisting balancing forces, those of creation and destruction. Hindus believe that there is a constant struggle between the two. The creative power peopled the earth so fast that the destroyers had to struggle to keep pace with them and for this purpose was commissioned Devi Bhavani, or Kali, whatever you choose to call her. She sent forth into the world a number of her votaries endowed with superior intelligence and cunning, bidding them to carry out relentless destruction among humans. I was struck by the deliberate corruption and distortion of established myths and concepts. In Hindu mythology, the goddess known as Kali or Bhavani was employed to destroy a demon who had spread wild destruction among men. How and why was such a goddess made into a destroyer par excellence? I suppose the only explanation is that even people engaged in evil have to find divine sanction for their work in order to silence their conscience. And mythology, an ever-malleable medium, is at the service of every ingenious mind, however vile.

Fear pulled a brake on my hunt for information. What I had found was more than enough to chill my spine. The accounts were beyond gruesome; they were heinous. Thugs in custody made these depraved revelations with no qualms or remorse. They, in fact, accused the courts of incomprehension—‘Why don’t you understand?’ It became difficult for me to go on reading. At the same time I had been told that a much more vile document existed and I had been commissioned by the long-gone Seshadri to read it—The Book of Destruction. Where I would find it, he had not told me. Was it an actual document, or just a metaphor? I remembered that Seshadri, a teacher of literature, was in the habit of talking in similes and metaphors.

Fear had become the very air around me. Sitting in a bus, in a cinema hall, in a busy assembly or while attending a function, I found myself frequently looking over my shoulder. Is he there somewhere? In whose guise or wearing what apparel is he coming this time — a leader, a worker, an officer, a philosopher, a historian or a merchant?

Seshadri had described me as a fiction writer; I was a liar and deceiver according to him, though of a different kind. In one sense perhaps it was true. We writers disguise fiction as imagination and present it to our readers, who do not like lies. Writers argue that a totally realistic work would be like a dry newspaper report or documentary film. We labour hard to prove that there are several ways to present the truth and that imagination and fantasy are but some of them. That doesn’t however make the non-existent exist. Why am I justifying myself, making all these apologies? Am I scared of the accusations of a dead thug? But apologies are of no avail to a thug. For he wraps his roomal around my neck not because of any grievance against me. He has no ill feeling or emotion towards his victims. He does not even see their faces. All he sees is the neck. What carries him is his devotion to and faith in his goddess. He kills merely because his goddess has thrown you before him. And why is the goddess throwing you in his way? Because destruction, just like creation, is in the realm of the gods. Closing her eyes, she picks out some from her creation and makes them thugs. With eyes closed, she again plucks some others as victims!

Though he called me a liar and deceiver, Seshadri did not call me a thug. He did not say that his aim was to feed me the gur and convert me into a thug. The only concession he gave me was that I, unlike the thugs, had no ideology or standard methodology in my profession. How he was so sure of that, is another question. There are a number of writers who carry out their job following certain ideologies without taxing their conscience or feelings. He had decided I was a spineless, uncommitted and apolitical writer, without an ideological backing to speak of. One who lingered only on the pains and woes of the people without caring for the dialectical explanations of suffering. I have no complaints. And no time to argue. It is his methodology of jumping to conclusions and launching into action with no use of logic or application of mind that worries me. He had learnt from a nurse that I was now a writer. I am sure that must have been Sister Meera John. As sure as I am that she hasn’t read any of my works. A new view or faith, I may say, seems to be taking hold of every sphere of life — that feelings and concern for human suffering are not relevant, that firm belief in an ideology and following the methodology dictated by that ideology are all that’s needed. A strange kind of fear was permeating every cubic centimetre of space around me. Perhaps that is what the propagators of this new faith are also aiming to do: to rule by spreading fear, fear alone.

Things were becoming more complex. Seshadri’s shadow now loomed not just over my neck but had begun to darken even my thoughts and writing. He was no longer a mere thug, but also philosopher, critic and judge. The problem had already crossed the domain of destruction and entered the realm of thoughts, truth and untruth. Now I see that even here he was not interested in finding the truth. His disagreement was on our perceptions of truth and untruth and the place we give them in our lives. His letter raised the question whether such a sharp division between what is truth and what is untruth is even necessary. Truth or untruth — for what, when and to what extent? Does this issue deserve so much discussion at all? What exactly is the thing called theft, and what is murder? Do such things need any definition? Do animals entertain such thoughts? His arguments and logic, it appeared, led every time to ‘animal nature’.

There are certain nomadic tribes who, even today, practise theft as a traditional profession. They too ask such questions. Do you describe the acts of lions, tigers and cats who stalk their prey as immoral? Does it constitute theft when birds eat grains from farmers’ fields or when trees send out roots to seek wet areas and suck in the water and nutrients from the land?

There is a belief among us who lead a settled life that gypsies are habitual liars. What a gypsy says today will not be the same as what he says tomorrow, so we believe. Anthropologists who have studied this behaviour hold a different view. If a gypsy tells a different story every time, it is not for the purpose of cheating you, they argue. He is embellishing an incident or fact with newer and newer coatings of imagination every time he describes it and that is the way he handles language. It might be the same as when fiction writers say there could be a number of different texts for each fact and each could be true. By building on the fact continuously, the gypsy too is perhaps striving to bring it closer and closer to the truth, if I may use the word. Instead of viewing reality as a cold and dead entity, he makes it a growing, changing, living phenomenon.

Taking another view, can we ever be sure of what exactly is the truth? Every philosopher, every spiritualist and every scientist has been on this quest, forever. Truth is most likely different for different people. But, amazingly, a lie is not so. A lie is unanimous. Pointing at an elephant and calling it a beetle is a lie and no one will dispute it. In that sense, a lie is more concrete and transparent. One might even say, a lie is truer than the truth.

Of course, Seshadri did not take his arguments to such levels. He stood beyond the abstractions of truth and falsehood. He admitted truthfully that he was a liar. He stated honestly that he was a deceiver. He did not quibble about the right and wrong of it. If he wanted to justify anything, it was his acts, and for that he did not need any of our laws, jurisprudence or culture. Belief alone was sufficient for him. Not that things like history, law, politics or literature were alien to him. Quite the contrary — he employed every branch of thought intelligently and ingeniously. All for the purpose of deception, to distract his prey. In fact all that we have constructed over the ages in the name of culture and civilization lies on one side of the pages. His is the book written on the other side. There is only one thing on his side, his belief. Our pages are all blank to him. He lives in our world, no doubt. He uses its thoughts and takes part in its activities. But without ever acknowledging it.

If the nomadic tribes steal, they claim they do it as a part of their tradition, as a continuation of the ways of the animal kingdom. But they have not constructed an ideology in support of it as Seshadri has done. They view their lies as different expressions of truth. There too they have nothing in common with the arguments Seshadri advances. Yet, the irony is that these people, devoid of both past and future, endlessly wading through the present, are known in our world as the soothsayers or predictors of the future! We do not bother to ask how anyone who has never been familiar with the concept of future can predict it. But then it is the same with courtesans. We invite these women, who are fated to welcome a new man into their chambers every night, to compose and sing songs of eternal love in exquisite poetic language. Does it not indicate a vision that endorses love and future as mere poetical fantasies? Or are we turning hypocrisy itself into a beautiful poem? Look at it from another angle and we can surely find an intellectual answer to both. It is the prostitute who has nothing with which to claim a man who can best weave the dreams of love. It is not the revolutionaries who claim the sole monopoly on the future but the nomads who have no vested interests in it who are the most qualified to predict it. A wandering palm-reading kuratti does not make her predictions on the basis of any ideology but by following a simple methodology. A methodology that follows the length and direction of the lines on her client’s palm. She faithfully and objectively follows a methodology, it is a science to her, even though it has no physiological or historical backing. Thus we arrive at a situation where methodology stands on its own and becomes the truth. A situation not too far removed from that of many of our thinkers and historians. Is this the point where the faithful, the thugs, the historians and the revolutionaries finally meet?

Thugs too have a methodology, a very systematic one. Seshadri has found justifications to link it with an ideology. If he clings to that ideology, almost at the peril of his life, it is because he knows that the link is but weak and tenuous. All his attempts to rationalize and philosophize it, his emphasis on the positive aspects of it such as the so-called brotherhood and camaraderie among thugs, only reinforce my point. He draws my attention to the seemingly edifying codes of conduct among thugs — how one thug can always recognize another and would stand by him at all times. How thuggee transcends religious and casteist prejudices. How there are thugs among ministers, bureaucrats, doctors, architects, academicians, intellectuals, historians, writers, dancers, scientists, policemen, industrialists, traders, workers, saints and nomads, and how thuggee is equally sacred to all of them. These facts might be true, but they remain mere codes of conduct or conditions of membership in a cult. I have of course seen how the resident director Chandulal Gandhi and the gardener Seshu met like brothers. In this mythical world of brotherhood, just as in the ideological cementing among revolutionaries, every kind of moral consideration evaporates. The brotherhood he so proudly proclaims is actually a brotherhood between the members of a cult and it does not spill over into any relationship between a thug and a non-thug. The whole of mankind is divided into two sections, namely thugs and non-thugs, us and them. All thugs, burying their differences of position, profession, trade, caste and religion, unite as one against the ‘other’—the non-thugs or bunijs. No different from the way followers of one faith, ideology or political party organize against those outside it.

It must be loaded with such thinking, with a conviction stronger than that of the nomad, and an authority more powerful than that of the revolutionary that Seshadri proclaims himself a keeper of the future. He claims that he is only liberating his victims in a manner a nomad would never profess and a revolutionary would always aspire to. He derides writers as the ones revelling in the past and the present. He believes he stands upon a much higher plane than them as a devotee of the future. But he distances himself from the revolutionaries on grounds of ideology and the politics of the future. He holds that all living beings are inevitably headed for destruction; in the end all will return to the basic elements and so destruction is the truth of the future. When an event takes place on this earth (in his definition, an event occurs only in the act of destruction), a page is torn off from his book and we are brought that much closer to the last page or the conclusion. He invites me to be a reader of this book, this Book of Destruction. If the chill sent by his revelation that I had been his marked victim came upon me like lightning, the chill that ran down my spine upon this invitation did not vanish like lightning. He had not designed it to vanish. As a writer, he has allotted to me the role of a masticator of the past. My status as a prey was also consigned to the past, with his death. But here he was, inviting me to the future, in the company of thugs, sharing their concerns and anxieties of today. He keeps returning to the equation of a dead thug and a living victim. The logic behind his invitation is perhaps the fact that I was the victim of a thug, if not a thug myself. Just as the victim of a vampire joins the vampire’s creed. The fact that I was not killed and buried does not seem to bother him. Perhaps that is the attraction, that instead of dead and buried, he finally has a victim with whom he can communicate, even if from the other side of death.

I am expected to read The Book of Destruction—if it really exists and is not a metaphor — keeping his anxieties and apprehensions in mind. I am supposed to take them over and carry them forward.

His first anxiety is that the present-day killings, though adhering to the basic principles of thuggee, exhibit certain deviations from its methodology. He takes pleasure in the fact that violence is becoming widespread in the contemporary world. It also gives him great satisfaction that the modern assassins are able to avoid emotional involvement and strike victims with whom they have no personal enmity, that innocent people are being targeted with no consideration of creed, colour or class. All these mark the purity and the sacred character of the killings. It troubles him, however, that these assassins are leaving behind the traditional methods of killing. That these modern assassins do not hesitate to spill blood. Why do they not care to bury the bodies and, worst of all, unlike the thugs, why do they come out into the open and claim responsibility for the killings? He is puzzled: can this be called thuggee, are these assassins real thugs?

The Book of Destruction is silent on these themes. Revelations and omens of the Devi are not forthcoming. After watching the developments of the past half-century, Seshadri concludes that mankind has finally come to realize and accept the necessity of destruction, thus rendering the vow of secrecy redundant.

I am not obliged to find answers to Seshadri’s questions. But he had raised a storm in my mind that would not die down. His confessions in the classic style, reasoning in the renaissance air, justifications using rationalist armoury, idealistic statements on brotherhood and honesty of purpose, attacks in the guise of a modernist-progressive on my dishonesties and invoking my responsibilities as a writer, and the final, sudden leap into the postmodernist environs to initiate a hunter — prey discussion on the methods of hunting plagued me. As if the ultimate role of the prey is to start a consultancy for the hunter! Hadn’t the Spanish Inquisitor General Torquemada said that if an innocent victim was wrongly sentenced to burn on the stake, he should accept his fate with resignation and rejoice in sacrificing his life in the cause of truth?

In the midst of all these absurdities, Seshadri had, in the final part of his letter, sowed seeds that now refused to die. Does the re-emergence of indiscriminate killing in a wider and more effective manner — about which he did not bother to hide his joy — also mean the addition of a new dimension to thuggee, he wondered. He observed that killing has left behind remote battlefields and entered our streets, marketplaces, offices and even our backyards. It is becoming endemic to our daily lives, unlike the infrequent battles of the past. Machine guns, bombs, mines and booby traps have cut the action time to almost zero compared even with the few seconds of struggle during strangulation. He celebrates the near mundaneness of killing, so common now in the fields of politics, cultural and ethnic conflicts, industry, trade, strikes and revolutions. He acknowledges the charge of cowardice associated with their age-old methods of lies and deception and rejoices at the new transparency of methodology and the acceptance of it by society. But while taunting us about our complacency at the pollutants being introduced into our air, water and food, he prefers to ignore the extent of cooperation, or rather the lack of cooperation, which the victims extend to the whole process. While he is vociferous about the reprehensible celebration of lies and deception in the field of literature, he fails to notice the spread of this phenomenon into our daily lives, albeit without its poetical beauty. Of writers becoming copywriters for selling wares in the market and ideas in politics. The irony of catchwords and punchlines coined by the copywriters becoming pieces of literature. The sheer mockery in advertisements acquiring the status of art.

Whether formalized by Sleeman or someone else, the methodology of thuggee is gaining popularity. Ramaseeana, his compilation of the code words and phrases used by the thugs, is becoming a dictionary of all languages.

I reflected on Seshadri’s dark warning that there are thugs among writers, intellectuals, artists, historians, teachers, social workers and seers biding their time with a roomal in their hands and a freshly dug grave. In fact, it was one of the first warnings he had given. There is a potential thug in everyone you meet. There is a strong and invisible network that has scaled the barriers of religion, language, caste, colour and trade — barriers we naïvely assume are insurmountable in our society. Brotherhood, a beautiful word in our lexicon, turns around and bares its fangs at us. It assumes the shape of a ghost in our imagination and awaits us around every dark corner. I have begun to flinch at every call of Jai Bajrangbali, Allahu Akbar, Sat Sri Akal, Desh ko bachao, Inqalab Zindabad, Yeh dil mange more, Kar lo duniya mutthi mein, Dhoondte rah jaoge, Let’s go or Just do it, as if it were a Hukka bhar lao, Pani pilao or Tambaku kha lo.

Seshadri’s letter remained in my hands. I didn’t know what to do with it. I was too scared to keep it and uneasy to part with it. Once I even thought of handing it over to the police. A threat from a dead man? What weight would that carry? As a proof of thuggee, alive and active? The writer himself dead. The resident director of Mehta Company was over fifty when I knew him at Rajhara; he would have succumbed to diabetes or heart attack long back. And then … who knows if the policeman I go to wouldn’t himself be carrying a handkerchief in his hand?

Even as I struggled with these questions, I decided to go to the hospital once again. I had no clear plan in mind. Perhaps I would meet Sister Meera John who had passed on Seshadri’s note. Ask about Seshadri’s last evening … or just simply say, ‘Thank you for handing over his letter,’ or perhaps, ‘Sister, why did you have to give this to me?’… What would be the point anyway?

The hospital area seemed to be in chaos. Doors to the outpatient department and the clinic were closed. Handwritten posters were stuck untidily on the walls and gates. It seemed the hospital staff were on strike, starting that day. Their demands? To stop the system of contract labour and to regularize their jobs. It was not right or logical to run such a huge and reputed hospital with outsourced workers, they claimed. There seemed to be merit in their stand. The staff should have some sense of belonging to the establishment, which was not possible if it was run with temporarily hired workers. I could see their point. But what about the innocent patients? How can a hospital staff get away from their responsibilities to the sick and needy? Is their act any different from that of the terrorists who take innocent hostages to bargain for their demands, I wondered. The patients are like the hostages, who are neither the cause of their troubles nor have any power to solve them.

The inpatients were being moved to other hospitals by their relatives, on stretchers, wheelchairs and on foot. The hospital management had announced an impending lockout. Relatives wanted to get their family members out before that happened. Doctors were moving about, clueless. So were a large number of non-uniformed people who could be patients or their relatives. There were a few patients in critical condition lying on the floor awaiting attention. One was on a stretcher in the lobby, obviously an accident case, with blood dripping down and pooling on the floor. Curiously, nurses seemed to be absent from the scene. I could see only a few matrons who were presumably not on contract labour. And they did not want to talk to anyone. Whenever some desperate family member approached them they would dive through a nearby door and shut themselves in.

The hospital constituted a cluster of buildings built at various stages without any overall planning. Policemen were on duty at all the main entrances and intermittently along the corridors. As I flowed with the milling chaos I suddenly spotted a few nurses who seemed to emerge from nowhere and were rushing somewhere, avoiding the patients and the policemen. I followed them instinctively. As I got closer I realized that Meera John was among them. I called loudly, ‘Sister, Sister Meera John!’

Not wanting to be separated from the herd, she signalled with her hand that she could not stop and moved on. But I managed to catch up with her. Through all the confusion and chaos I was somehow able to study her more closely than when I had spoken to her last time in the nurse’s quiet office. Although not young, she was an attractive woman. The air of hurry and purpose added an elegance and dignity to her demeanour. Unconsciously my eyes snagged on the pendant on the chain around her neck. Yes, this time it was clear as daylight. Not an upside-down cross, not an anchor, but a pickaxe!

Fear clouded my vision. ‘My God, among the nurses too.’ I shuddered silently. My pace slowed, my steps faltered, but for some reason that I cannot explain, I continued following the cluster of nurses who became more and more distanced from me. I knew I would never catch up with them, and no longer wanted to.

I emerged through another gate of the hospital complex. A number of strikers were sitting in a dharna and shouting slogans. Nurses as well as other employees. All in freshly ironed, spotless white uniforms. Nurses had their heads covered in the usual manner, and the men wore caps. The group I had been following got swallowed by the slogan-shouters, and the slogan-shouters, surrounded by a cordon of policemen, were hidden from me.

I stood like a fool, staring at the striking staff, their gestures, posters, slogans and everything else. There were not many people to sympathize with the strikers. Only the policemen and some bystanders like me who simply stood around.

A dead body covered in a white sheet was rolled out on a trolley, probably the first casualty of the strike. With the staff on strike, the relatives were carting it out.

Some of the strikers got up from the dharna to hang a cloth banner on the wall behind them. I was not ready for another shock but there it was. In big, red, bold letters, the name of the workers’ union and below, the symbol of the union, not the traditional hammer and sickle, but a different tool, a pickaxe!

The Hotelier and the Traveller

Whether it is reality or metaphor, fact or fiction, The Book of Destruction Seshadri had talked about refused to leave my mind. And very soon I was to have a brief encounter with it, in a rather touch-and-go fashion. Its arrival seemed intentional, but the way it glanced off the surface of my life and disappeared must have been coincidental. But then, coincidence has a rather big role in this whole story. The encounter with Seshadri had been a matter of coincidence. His being in the hospital, my happening to visit my friend there and everything that happened thereafter … Going back forty-odd years, to what can I attribute my first encounter with him then? And what about his handkerchief brushing past my neck without my ever noticing it?

But then, it is a coincidence only from the viewpoint of the victims, the bunijs. The thugs always follow their well-laid-out plans, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Thugs propose and the gods, or in fact the omens, dispose, as Seshadri would say. Omens are arbitrary. Men plan logically while the gods dispose arbitrarily. Rather, should I say creation is logical and destruction itself arbitrary? Seshadri, however, attributes everything — the acts of the killer as well as the fate of the killed — to some grand design. I do not know what is actually a coincidence, what is part of a design and, above all, what is reality and what is myth? You may say these things do not merit a discussion. But for the fact that the result is the death of a bunij, or not, as in my case, I could have dismissed the whole thing as a flight of fancy, as a myth. But premeditated attempts by the killer to kill and chance encounters with death by those who get killed are not things which can be dismissed offhand, at least not by me.

Arthur Koestler’s Gallery of Real-Life Coincidences comes to mind. It was an interesting and harmless pastime for him. His criterion for the inclusion of an event in the gallery was that the event should otherwise be beyond explanation. But Koestler was not very rigorous in his selection, as Richard Feynman later pointed out. One of the cases in his gallery was an incident during the death of Feynman’s wife. She was recorded to have died at 9.22 and the coincidence was that the wristwatch on her bedside table had stopped at exactly 9.22. But this case did not stand up to Feynman’s scrutiny. He pointed out that the watch was a very old one, which worked only when kept in a particular position. Mrs Feynman’s nurse must have picked up the watch to note the time of death and put it back carelessly, whereupon it stopped working. What appeared to be a coincidence was easily explained with a better understanding of the circumstances. Till what point then do we attempt to solve a problem and when do we give up and declare it unsolvable? This question then transforms into a problem begging a solution. Mathematicians once believed that everything that is true can be proven. Kurt Gödel, however, with his Theorem of Incompleteness established that mathematics was not complete and truths are not always provable. So the question then became: how do we know which truth is provable and which is not? To add to the confusion of the seekers came Alan Turing’s theorem, stating that it was not possible to prove which truth is provable and which is not! When the borders are not clear we cannot call them borders. Pardon me for the digression, but it becomes significant in the light of the incident that I am about to narrate to you. Or, perhaps, who knows, as you read it, you might find these issues falling back and new ones cropping up. I should not sow more uncertainties in a story that already has enough. Let me come straight to my story. It all happened this way …

A traveller comes to a city and checks into a hotel. He unpacks, has a bath and heads out for some fresh air, with the intention of exploring the city. Evening sets in, the street lamps turn on and one by one lights begin to appear in the windows. Suddenly he realizes that he has forgotten to take the card of the hotel with him and cannot now remember its name. He has already walked quite a bit and appears to have lost his way. After several failed attempts to locate his hotel, he goes into a nearby hotel and approaches the receptionist at the front desk. He tells her his story and gives her, to the best of his abilities, a description of the hotel he had checked into.

The girl gives him a wide grin and informs him that this is his hotel, does he not remember? He is positive it is not. It was not such a tall building and it had no garden in front of it as this one had. Moreover, contrary to the girl’s claim, he was confident that it was not she who had checked him in. The person who had checked him in was a morose young man, wearing a white shirt and a tie, and this girl was nowhere in sight then. When he continues to protest, her smile fades, she hands him the key to ‘his’ room and with her pen points him in the direction of the lift, with an imperiousness that makes him uneasy.

He submits, takes the key, summons the lift and goes to room number 412 as indicated on the key. To his surprise he finds all his belongings inside, innocently arranged, just as if he might have left them there. The clothes he had changed out of were in the wardrobe, the book he was reading, on the bedside table. But he is still certain this was not the room he had checked into. The bed and sheets were different. There had been only one window in the old room, and that opened on to a cluster of slums, while this room had two, one opening on to the garden and the other on to a swimming pool. But he couldn’t argue with the fact that all his belongings were here.

This is not a story I have constructed for entertaining you. It was an experience a friend of mine had. Well, can’t really call him a friend, not even a proper acquaintance. I have had occasion to meet this man four times, always in the berth opposite mine, in the various railway coaches in which I travelled, over a period of a few years. Speak of coincidences. Hasan Ibn al Sabbah was his name, not a very common name in our country. And if that weren’t strange enough, this man bearing an unusual name, whom I had met before in bizarre circumstances, calls me in the dead of night and describes to me an experience straight out of fiction …

I had in fact forgotten his name till he mentioned it. I had remembered the unusual circumstances and that the man had an unusual name, that was all. But he obviously remembered my name because he asked for me by name when I picked up the receiver. He reconfirmed that I was the person whom he had met four times before in trains. After apologizing for disturbing me at that unusually late hour, he proceeded to explain that it was the odd situation in which he found himself that had prompted him to call. And how did he get my number? From the telephone directory, of course; but also, he told me, he had before him on the bedside table a packet bearing my name and address. It was on the table when he entered his new room. It was the size of a book, perhaps one with not many pages. There was a note, with no name, he added, along with the packet, requesting him to deliver it to me. He had scanned through several entries in the directory with the same name as mine, and found the one with the address on the packet and got the number. In any case, he would have dispatched it to me the next day. But then he decided to call me, he said, when the strange experience was compounded with the mysterious object and he wanted desperately to hear a familiar voice. He was glad that the person whom he got on the phone was his travelling companion of many journeys, as he put it. It all sounded perfectly logical and at the same time eerily unnerving.

He then proceeded to tell me the whole story. He said he was in the city for a business-related court hearing the next day, regarding a dispute with his partner. Understandably, he was more than a little worried. The wrong hotel room, the domineering receptionist, then there was the packet with my name … His fears were contagious. I found myself subconsciously holding the receiver away, as if the disease could spread through the wires. If not a disease, problems could certainly spread. That packet drew me into the middle of all this, unwillingly. When I had heard the whole story I asked him, without giving it much thought, to take a taxi and come over to my place. He refused the offer saying it was already quite late; he might as well wait till the morning.

‘What is the name of your hotel, the present one?’ I asked.

He laughed at that and said, ‘This time I was careful to note it: Welcome Hotel. I have also kept a card of the hotel with me, in my breast pocket.’

I was familiar with the area; I should be able to locate it without much trouble. The shadow of his troubles now surrounded the new hotel, not the old one. It was now his reality and his problem. When a new problem hotel appears, the old problem hotel gets pushed to the back! I assured him I would meet him in room number 412 of Welcome Hotel the next morning and replaced the receiver.

Four chance meetings in railway coaches. The second time it happened, I dismissed it as mere coincidence, the third time it was uncanny, by the fourth it had become disturbing. I did not, however, lose any sleep over it in the train. But this night was different.

I started turning the story over in my mind. Why would a person, presumably living in this city, who knew my address, have to seek out a chance visitor to deliver a book to me? That too in a dubious hotel, as the Welcome appeared to be? The director of this drama had transferred only Hasan’s personal belongings from the previous hotel, not the furnishings themselves. This packet, which did not fall under either category, had materialized in the new room, seemingly out of nowhere. The first thing that came to my mind was that my thug (for everyone has a thug, don’t they?), Seshadri, had told me about a book called The Book of Destruction—a book from which the pages are torn out as each event described in it takes place. If this is that book and if the pages in it are not many, does it mean that the end of events — the world — is near? I was now manufacturing reasons for fear. Raise the fear, build it up systematically, Seshadri had murmured in my ears. He had warned that writers henceforth would not be able to avoid projecting fear through their writings. Am I then ordained to tell yet another story of fear? Fortuitous encounters in railway coaches, transposed hotel rooms, mysterious books, midnight calls, my God …

I should not have invited Hasan to my house, I told myself, as my unease grew. Thank heavens he had declined. But I did go in search of Welcome Hotel the next morning.

When I reached the approximate area and asked around for Welcome Hotel, I found, to my surprise, that everyone was eager to show me the way. As I followed the directions given, I began to notice a crowd gathering on the road, and getting thicker as I neared the hotel. And, finally, there it was, Welcome Hotel, crumbled into a heap. On top of the mountain of debris, of concrete, steel and bricks, teetered a huge board that proclaimed ‘Welcome Hotel’, seemingly untouched by the surrounding destruction, like an epitaph upon a tomb. One half of the building was still standing, sort of propped up by the mountain of debris; I counted the number of floors, seven in all. I wondered if room number 412 was in the intact half. With my friend and the mysterious packet bearing my name still inside.

No, the fire brigade had already evacuated all the survivors in the undamaged portion and that portion too was slowly collapsing. Policemen were pushing the spectators away to a safer distance. The fearless firefighters were searching for bodies in the ruins, which were around three storeys high. Fenced in by buildings on all sides, the fallen debris had nowhere to spread. The smoke and dust had already settled. The crowd, though reluctant to disperse, was also calm. All one could hear were the shouts of the relief workers and the sounds of machines.

It was at night that the blast had occurred, I learnt. Going by the reported time of blast doing the rounds among the onlookers, it was not long after my friend had called me last night. He had said he was going down to the restaurant and bar situated on the second floor. Which were in the collapsed portion, I discovered. So he must be lying under this heap somewhere, I guessed. I will not be meeting him on a train a fifth time. He has left behind a mystery of transposed rooms and unexplained packages. The investigations on the blast are not going to shed any light on those mysteries. My own personal mysteries, to lose sleep over.

On an impulse, I crossed the pools of slush created by the fire hoses, and the dust and remains of the building, and found a police officer. I told him I had something to tell him.

‘You want to claim responsibility for this?’ was his belligerent response.

I could appreciate the stress he was under and did not retaliate in the same tone. I said quietly, ‘A friend of mine staying in the hotel had phoned me a few minutes before the incident.’

‘How do you know it was before the blast?’

‘Because he phoned me.’

He stared at me for some moments and then with his chin pointed me to another officer. More wading through the mud. The second officer was not much different. Still, I persisted and managed to convey my story of transposed rooms in a few brief words to him.

‘You are the fourth or fifth person coming to me with this nonsense. This is not April 1st, mister,’ he said, already turning away.

‘That doesn’t make it irrelevant,’ I insisted.

‘There is a register over there. You can leave your name and address there.’

He didn’t elaborate where the register was. I didn’t feel particularly inclined to ask for it, for I myself was having second thoughts about Hasan’s story. How could all those people have got the same kind of phone call? Or was it the same person calling them all — perhaps Hasan? Did he have a premonition about the blast? I left Hasan and the book with my address on it behind me and began to walk back. Then a thought struck me — My God! Could this horrible blast have been written on the pages towards the end of the book? The pages that would be torn out after the event … now lying among the ashes …

The official as well as the various unofficial versions of the blast filled the newspapers the next morning. Seventy-seven people had died in the incident. A number of missing persons, besides. Neither list contained Hasan’s name. The police were able to find the check-in register in the wreckage; Hasan’s name was not in it either. That gave some credibility to his story, as according to him he had checked into a different hotel.

The explosion had taken place on the second floor which housed the restaurant, the bar and the disco. At midnight, when all three were full to capacity and late-night parties were in full swing. The hotel had been a favourite among youngsters. The owner of the hotel, himself a young, flamboyant music lover, had been inside, the reports said. Body parts suspected to be his had been found. There was a big fire following the explosion; the fire brigade had had to fight for hours to bring it under control.

There were also two insets in the news reports. One was titled ‘The Game of Seven’. The blast had occurred on the seventh day of the seventh month, July. There were seventy-seven dead. There were seven unidentified bodies among them. They were mostly just bits and pieces of arms and legs, and they were likely to remain so. The missing were also seven. The papers claimed that this could be a new addition to the list of coincidences in history.

The second inset described what the police officer had told me at the site. A number of people had reported to the police that just before the blast, their friends or relatives who had checked in at other hotels were inexplicably moved to Welcome. As if they had been brought in for an execution. The police found in these stories a red herring, they said, created to divert their line of investigation.

I paused at that. Am I also, then, one of those trying to misguide the investigation? The distracters’ list would then include not only people like me who had told such stories to the police but even their dead friends and relatives who had initially propagated this ‘red herring’, in fact, the victims of the crime themselves. I couldn’t dismiss the anxiety and fear I had so clearly heard in Hasan’s voice.

A few days later news broke that the police had solved the case. The story was nothing short of unbelievable: the hotel owner himself was the bomber!

The hotel owner, Zainul Abidin, was a prominent name among the business magnates of the city. A handsome and charismatic bachelor, he had filled the fashion and gossip columns of the media and was always seen surrounded by beautiful women. On the fateful night, he had apparently entered the disco room around midnight with a guitar of extraordinary size; the party was already in full swing; he mingled with the dancers, traded jokes and became the life of the party as he always did. According to the police, his guitar was packed with high-grade explosives and metal objects. He detonated the bomb when the noise inside the hall reached a peak. This was the story of a girl who had been inside the disco moments before the bomb went off. Abidin had apparently blown himself up with a great cry.

Quite a number of the hotel staff had survived. But, mysteriously, there were no survivors from the reception staff and not a single guest had survived. This was attributed to the report that Abidin had extended a personal invitation to every one of the guests for the party in the bar and disco. Apart from the guests staying at the hotel, there were also some friends of Abidin’s at the party, according to the surviving staff. And yet, the unidentified seven bodies and the missing seven remained unmatched.

There was no dearth of anecdotes, of course, and the press paid great attention to them. The girl who had witnessed Zainul blowing himself up but had herself escaped by a freak chance claimed that her sister who lived in another city had died by lightning on the same evening. Similar accounts by survivors about loved ones losing their lives on the same day peppered the newspaper pages. The media and individuals joined together in giving a mystical aura to the whole tragedy.

But what right do I have to blame them? I am just like them, clinging to my own weird story of a mysterious phone call and transposed rooms. My friend, a renowned social psychologist, says it is in the nature of human beings to turn tragedies into mystical events. People surviving tragedy by a coincidence (God is with us), dying freakishly (who can stop fate?), unlucky numbers and dates, premonitions and astrological predictions — what is the real function of this magical web woven around a tragedy by the affected and the bystanders alike? Like the oyster that turns pain into a pearl, it helps reduce the intensity of tragedies and brutal crimes and softens their impact. At the same time, it surrounds them with the halo of heavenly intervention, obscuring responsibility, imbuing them with an inevitability. Why, even the perpetrators of these ghastly acts see themselves as heroes, courageously carrying out orders, sent straight from God! Come to think of it, isn’t there a dash of mystique, of absurdity, in every tragedy, every act of violence? My psychologist friend, however, doesn’t hold the view that peace and happiness are in the natural order of things.

To the oft-repeated question, why and for what purpose did Zainul Abidin become a fedayeen, there was no straight answer forthcoming. All the police could conclude was that behind the façade of a cultured man, a music lover, a businessman, and a prince charming, there lived a terrorist. If he had been such an extremist shaped by fundamentalist thought, how could he, at the same time, have led a life immersed in material comforts and geared towards the acquisition of wealth? This tall and handsome man was always to be seen in finely tailored designer outfits, his trademark ponytail injecting a frivolous playfulness into his personality. At the same time, he was also a forward-looking and aggressive businessman. He made his money manufacturing earth-moving machinery, and he had interests in the shipping industry. It was only recently that he had diversified into the hotel business. Welcome Hotel was a fairly recent construction. Ironically, the earth-moving machines clearing the debris from the site of the explosion bore the name of his company. Zainul Abidin joined Hasan Ibn al Sabbah in the list of puzzles swirling around in my mind. What was Hasan’s business? He never did say, in all our conversations on the various train journeys. On the phone he had mentioned he was here in the city to fight a court case against a business partner. In any case, a man travelling by train could not have been very rich, unlike Abidin.

Answers to my questions soon began to trickle in. I don’t know if I should call them answers. They might be called merely the explanations the police provided. To put it another way, alternatives instead of solutions. I am sometimes inclined to think that what we call the right answer does not exist. All answers are the right answers, as long as we agree that no answer is the final answer. Who was it who said that? Oh, my God, it was Hasan Ibn al Sabbah, during our last train journey together! The long list of answers, all real, but none true. It sounds like a prophecy now. Chance encounters in trains, the transposition of rooms, the contradiction between the image and the counter-image of Zainul Abidin, his own earthmoving machines cleaning up the debris of his actions, the red herrings in the investigation … none of them true ultimately, but all real at the same time!

Five months passed. The Welcome Hotel, Hasan and Abidin all buried beneath the earth, shovelled in by time. Then suddenly one day, the past resurrected.

One afternoon in December of the same year, I was travelling in a taxi towards the railway station. I was to catch a train to Calcutta. I was running a little late and as the taxi halted at a signal, once again I glanced at my watch. Boys selling magazines, dusters and boxes of face tissues wove in and out of the waiting traffic. One of them pushed a magazine through the partially opened window of my taxi. When I tried to stop him he assured me it was free and moved on. The enterprising child was pushing the magazine into every open window he could find. My eyes were fixed on the signal and when it turned green, I picked up the magazine with a sigh of relief. It was not the usual fashion, consumer products or cinema tabloid. Urban Recidivism was its name; I wondered if it would be of interest to any of the people in the cars. Must be an opening issue being distributed free for promotion. I stuffed it into my bag, something to read during the journey.

I managed to catch the train with just five minutes to spare. After settling down and having had the evening tea served by the staff, I took the magazine out of my bag. Good production, art paper, pictures, full-page advertisements. The articles inside were, however, of intellectual value, written by well-known social scientists.

One article caught my eye: ‘Assassins: The Do and Die People’. I had heard of the sect called the Assassins, a militant religious order, which had operated in West and Central Asia during the early medieval times. Described as an Islamic sect on par with the contemporary militant Christian orders such as the Jesuits and the Templars. But I was not aware that the Assassins believed in sacrificing themselves in the course of carrying out their mission. If that were true it would make them very different from other killer organizations of those days. As I mused, my eyes snagged on the writer’s name: Professor Ameer Ali. A fairly ordinary name, no doubt. But the way my mind worked nowadays, it reminded me of the central character in a semi-historical novel about thugs written by a British administrator and archaeologist of the nineteenth century, Colonel Medows Taylor. I had happened to read it recently, in my new obsession with thugs and thuggee. The continuing appearance of new editions of this book in the market showed that its popularity among readers had not waned. When it was first published in 1839, it is said that Queen Victoria had ordered a copy and even read it. During the same century, a serialized novel titled Feringhea was published in a French paper by René de Pont-Jest, in which the leading character was named Hyder Ali, obviously inspired by Ameer Ali, the thug. But the Ameer Ali before me was a twenty-first-century historian, professor, and the author of an article about a terrorist organization that existed in West and Central Asia during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, in a magazine founded in the first years of the twenty-first century and being distributed free among Delhiites by the boys of the Pardi tribe living in the streets of Delhi! How some names float freely, untethered, through the centuries! Yes, through such strange names did this story also begin.

The mystery of names did not stop here. As I turned the pages of the magazine, a few pages written in hand and stapled neatly fell into my lap from between a two-page advertisement for a new sports car draped with a scantily clad model. A pretty long letter it was. Addressed specifically to me. And the name of its author, imagine: Hasan Ibn al Sabbah!

The Hasan who I had innocently thought had been laid to rest under the debris of Welcome Hotel five months ago had thus resurrected. The letter was dated twelfth December, the same day I was reading it. The author of the letter had not just ensured the free distribution of Urban Recidivism at signal crossings in Delhi, but he appeared to have known that on that day I would be travelling by a taxi, that the heat inside the car would force me to roll down the window, that my taxi would stop at that particular signal crossing. He had also picked out that particular copy of the magazine, placed the letter inside it and somehow contrived it so that the Pardi boy would drop it into my taxi. As if God himself had guided the events towards this outcome. Very smoothly done. The magazine dropped on to the seat of my taxi, the signal turned green, the taxi moved away and the boy disappeared. And lo, out of the darkness of death, Hasan Ibn al Sabbah re-emerged!

What did this man look like, I asked myself. We are particular that all those who find a place in our minds, even those whom we have never met, should have a face. We are forever giving faces to God even as we declare that he cannot have one. Even the blind, it is believed, conjure some shapes in their dark world to identify people around them. Hasan had sat before me for a total of about eight days in four separate segments of time. And he had left no trace in my mind. However, my obstinate brain had assigned to him a form, most likely bearing no relationship to memory or reality, since that seventh of July, and it was like this: a tall, hefty, fair figure of Persian-Afghan descent, slightly reddish hair and moustache, eyes wide enough but not sharp, a pleasant grin revealing yellowish teeth … Something at the back of my mind told me I would not be meeting him again, even though he now appeared to be alive. He has somehow entered an area outside my field of vision and could communicate only by way of letters and phone calls. An invisible but omnipresent place, somewhat like history, from where he cannot return. He might still have methods of revealing himself, but perhaps they will not be visual. So I accepted the picture of him I had constructed in my mind. It was with that form that he spoke to me from the letter.

I was in a dilemma about what to read first, Prof. Ameer Ali’s article or Hasan’s letter. I adopted my usual practice in such situations: delayed gratification. The one that raised more curiosity, I saved for later. I opted for the professor’s article and climbed up to my upper berth and switched on the reading light. The outside world faded away.

Below the title the author had added a short quotation from one of Tennyson’s poems as an epigraph: Theirs not to make reply, / Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do and die. After that, he plunged straight into the matter without even a synopsis.

Prof. Ameer Ali adopted a documentary style of presenting historical facts in a linear and objective manner. He did not attempt to provide new insights or to project his own arguments. One could call the article eclectic. And yet, reminding me of the electric current that had passed through me upon reading his name, he began with a reference to thugs. Colonialists have popularized their preconceived notions that thugs were the cruellest killers history had ever seen, he wrote. On the other hand, postcolonial historians and critics of orientalism like to think of thugs as a creation of the colonial rulers’ imagination. While Aijaz Ahmad consigns thuggee to the ‘realm of pure untruth’ and Radhika Singha to ‘constructed history’, Kathleen Gough characterizes thugs as ‘social bandits’ or remnants of peasant insurrections. All of them are wrong, declared the author. Thugs existed. Just as the several other groups or cults that made killing a matter of faith. Templars, Jesuits, Buccaneers and many others. But none equalled the Assassins.

At this point Prof. Ameer Ali turned his attention to Islamic history, going back to the death of the Prophet, to illustrate the context of the emergence of the Assassins. The story goes that Mohammed had nominated Ali, his daughter Fatima’s husband, as his successor or caliph and Abu Bakr, his wife Ayesha’s father, as amir. But in the disputes that followed Mohammed’s death, Ali was superseded and became the fourth caliph only after the reigns of Abu Bakr, Umar and Usman. Even after his succession to the Caliphate the strife continued and eventually Ali was killed. Al Hasan who succeeded Ali also met the same fate and Muawiya of the other camp enthroned himself as caliph. The Umayyad dynasty established by Muawiya then moved its capital from Mecca to Damascus. The Abbasid dynasty, which unseated the Umayyads, established its Caliphate and made Baghdad its seat. It was followed by the Ottoman dynasty and Usman, their caliph, who ruled from Constantinople. The Sunnis recognize all these rulers as caliphs.

The Shias, however, regard only those who are descendants of Ali as the rightful Imams (they do not accept the word caliph). In their order there were only twelve rightful Imams starting with Ali, Al Hasan, Al Husain, Zainul Abidin, and so on, until Muhammad, the twelfth Imam. The Shias are further divided into two different sects. While Imamiyahs acknowledge all the twelve Imams, Ismailiyahs consider Ismail, son of the sixth Imam, Jafar, the last true Imam. They believe in an abstract concept of a God who is neither existent nor non-existent, neither intelligent nor unintelligent and neither powerful nor powerless.

The Sunnis flourished in the Middle East with their capitals moving from Mecca to Damascus to Baghdad and Constantinople, right from the time of the Prophet’s death to nearly the end of the nineteenth century. Other Sunni rulers such as Abdur Rahman of the Umayyad dynasty moved to Spain in the eighth century to establish a Caliphate from Cordova. When Cordova fell to the Christians, a new Caliphate was established in Granada by the Moors, which carried on till it fell to the Christians in the fifteenth century.

In the meanwhile, Ubaidullah, a scion of the Sunni Abbasid Caliphate Muqtadir, claimed to be a direct descendant of Fatima, Ali’s wife, and moved to Egypt to establish a Fatimid Caliphate at Cairo that flourished from the tenth to the twelfth centuries. For the Twelvean Imamiyahs as well as the Sevener Ismailiyahs, this resurrection of Shia faith generated a lot of confidence and fervour.

Contrary to Sunni practice, Shias built myths and wove their imagination around their Imams, raising them to the level of divinity. Ali reigns on a throne in the midst of clouds, they believe. Lightning is his anger and thunder his roar. The fifth Imam, Muhammad al Baqir, did not die and still inhabits our world, according to some.

Shias believed that through the Fatimid Caliphate they would recapture lost power. Among the political sects borne out of this belief, the one that came to be known as Assassins was the most organized, extremist and violent. Their modus operandi consisted of preparations in utmost secrecy and executions with maximum publicity, in front of the largest possible crowd. They wanted the public to recognize the name Assassins and recognize their mission as murder. They made it a point to claim responsibility once the ‘assassination’ was carried out.

The Assassins were highly organized and specialized in imparting prolonged, rigorous and secretive training to the recruits. Their goal was to capture power; they believed that the end justified the means and were not too particular about the Islamic ideals taught by the Prophet or the common principles of human morality. They, in fact, believed that their emotional and religious detachment made them better fighters. They encouraged it.

The first stage of the training involved an education in the material sciences. Religion came in the second stage. Here, the recruits were indoctrinated into an unquestioning submission to the teacher. However, they were encouraged to approach the Qur’an critically and even go beyond it. Myths, symbols, signs and imageries, completely alien to the holy book, were introduced to them. This included a belief in the divinity of the figure seven. Seven Imams: Ali, al Hasan, al Husain, Zainul Abidin, Muhammad al Baqir, Jafar a Sadiq and, finally, Ismail, the son of God. Seven heavens, seven worlds, seven oceans, planets, colours, musical notes, metals, and so on. The lesson being that the Almighty has constructed the universe on the principle of seven. Like seven Imams, there were also seven holy men sent by God: Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed and Ismail, and they graced the seven thrones in heaven. But the final messenger of God remained Ismail and he alone.

Here my thoughts strayed to the inset titled ‘The Game of Seven’ that had appeared in the Welcome Hotel blast reports. The blast had occurred on the seventh day of the seventh month. Seventy-seven people had been killed, seven bodies had remained unidentified, and seven people were still missing. It was not just a gallery of coincidences that existed, but a coincidence of galleries too!

The train attendant brought the dinner tray. How many dishes were there in it, I wondered. Seven? I smiled to myself as I climbed down from my berth. My co-passengers must’ve thought it was out embarrassment at my awkward climb down.

I didn’t count the items on the plate. I wanted to finish the meal quickly and get back to my reading. And when I picked up the magazine again, I faced another holy number — twelve.

After seven, the next holy figure is twelve, said Prof. Ameer Ali. The twelve zodiac signs, twelve constellations, months, bones, thus goes on the list of the Twelveans. The author described the journey of the trainee-assassins wherein the symbols and signs made them slaves to mechanical thinking on the one hand and deniers of principles on the other. They learnt not to be anxious or attached to anything, including their own lives.

When I reached this section, my mind again pulled me back. Can there actually exist such a state of mind? There could be several obvious arguments in support of evil, but how do you build a movement for only death and destruction, without a cause? I could feel Seshadri’s breath on the back of my neck. I had tried so hard to forget him. Then that mysterious book, which I figured was his Book of Destruction, surfaced, only to get smothered under the debris of Welcome Hotel. And now, this article …

The other passengers were preparing for the night. Spreading their sheets, drawing the curtains, switching off the lights … but I was not fated to sleep that night. I returned to the magazine.

As I began reading again there came another shock. The founder of the Assassins was called, of all names, Hasan Ibn al Sabbah! I had not failed to notice that the name of the fourth Imam in the order of the Sevener Ismailiyahs, Zainul Abidin, was shared by the Welcome Hotel owner, but I hadn’t given it much thought then. And now, this! Again names were playing hide-and-seek with me. The gallery of names was growing to a point beyond coincidence. As the length of the gallery increases, does it not step into the realm of conspiracy? The reason for my death-defying businessman friend dispatching this article, in a magazine through such a labyrinthine route, is becoming clearer. His body was never discovered from the blast site. The fantastic story he narrated has not ended. It hangs unfinished in the still air. With the divinity of the figure seven forming an aura around it.

Hasan Ibn al Sabbah, who founded the sect in 1090, was a man of culture, a patron of poetry, profoundly interested in the latest advances of sciences, so said the professor, quoting from Amin Maalouf’s famous book, The Crusades Through Arab Eyes. He was also a classmate of the renowned poet, mathematician and astronomer Omar Khayyam, as well as of the grand vizier of the Seljuk Sultanate, Nizam al Mulk, according to Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall in his work, History of the Assassins. Though Amin Maalouf thought that this might be just a legend, von Hammer described an agreement the three classmates had made during their schooldays. The pact was that if any one of them came to occupy a powerful position in life he would share his fortune with the rest.

At the time of Hasan’s birth, the Shia doctrine, to which he adhered, was dominant in Muslim Asia, including Syria and Persia. Persians were dictating orders to even the Abbasid caliph of Baghdad. But by the time Hasan was a young man the situation had changed radically; the Seljuks, upholders of Sunni orthodoxy, took control of the entire region. Nizam al Mulk became the prime minister of the Seljuk Sultan. He remained partly faithful to their childhood pact and extended a position in the court to Omar Khayyam, who preferred to keep away from power and continued to live a modest life, pursuing his poetical and mathematical interests. Meanwhile, Hasan was wandering the world with fire in his soul, thirsting for revenge on the Seljuks. He was shaping into a contender for power and a killer. Towards 1071 he decided to settle in Egypt, the last bastion of the Shias. In Cairo he hobnobbed with a number of religious fundamentalists and began to make strategic plans to achieve his goals. He raised an army of dedicated men and captured the fortress of Alamut situated in an inaccessible region of the Elburz Mountains near the Caspian Sea. That was how Alamut became the headquarters of the sect of Assassins.

It almost seemed as if Prof. Ameer Ali had become possessed as he described the growth of the sect. The words practically jumped with energy from the pages. It is but natural for a historian’s words to become charged when describing the fast and unprecedented growth of an individual, organization or faith. Even as a reader, I was carried away.

The knowledge and experience Hasan gained through his activities taught him that laws and even religion served only as an armour for the powerful. What a militant organization needed was a single-minded focus on the goal where God and His laws and moral commandments could only become deterrents. While the operations were kept secret from the public, the theories and higher objectives were shielded from the operators themselves. This resulted in a dedicated group of suicide attackers who were always ready to blindly carry out the orders of their commanders. There were three concentric circles of organization. At the periphery were the religious missionaries who lived the pious life according to Islamic doctrines, abstaining from wine and the arts. Then there were the suicide attackers who were highly efficient mechanical automatons who rarely used their intelligence. At the centre was the leadership, detached from everything except the objectives of the sect, even Islam and God. The theories and stratagem were formulated in a code language not accessible to even the top grandmasters.

All members, from the novices to the grandmaster, were ranked according to their level of knowledge, reliability and courage. Hasan’s favourite technique for sowing terror among his enemies was murder. Not only kings, common people too could be made a target. The operators were sent individually or in small groups on assignments to kill chosen persons. They generally disguised themselves as merchants or ascetics and moved about in the city, familiarizing themselves with the habits of their victims. Then, once their plan was ready, they struck. The more secret the preparations, the more public the execution had to be. That was why they preferred mosques, the favourite day being Friday, generally around noon, close to prayer time. The author here drew a comparison with the jihadi terrorists of our times. Also as a footnote he compared and contrasted Bhagat Singh and Nathuram Godse. ‘For Hasan, murder was not merely a means of disposing of an enemy, but was intended primarily as a twofold lesson for the public,’ wrote Prof. Ameer Ali, quoting Amin Maalouf, ‘first as a public punishment for the victim and the second, the heroic sacrifice of the executioner himself, known as fedayeen, or suicide commando, because he was almost always cut down on the spot.’

Prof. Ameer Ali said that contemporaries observed with awe the serenity with which the members of the sect accepted their own death. Here again, in a footnote he touched upon the descriptions of Sleeman about how the thugs walked towards the gallows singing songs and dancing. Contemporaries of the Assassins believed that they were high on hashish at the time of their feats and named them ‘hashishin’, a word that became distorted into ‘assassin’ and was soon incorporated into many languages as a common noun to describe murderers who carried out premeditated, execution-style killings. Did Hasan encourage the adherents to drug themselves so they could numb the pain of death or even make it enjoyable? Or, more prosaically, was he trying to get them hooked on a narcotic in order to keep them dependent on him? Or was he simply urging them towards a state of euphoria so they would not falter during the moment of action? Or did he instead simply rely on their blind faith? Was that blind faith itself the narcotic that intoxicated them? Whatever the answer, there was no doubt that Hasan was a commander par excellence.

Once, the story goes, in order to demonstrate the dedication and discipline of his followers before a messenger of Sultan Malak Shah, Hasan pointed his finger towards one of them and that man instantly stabbed himself and fell dead. According to another legend, Henry of Champagne was in the process of concluding a treaty with the grandmaster successor Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountain, in the fortress of al-Kahf. The grandmaster, in order to prove his absolute authority to the Frankish visitor (the Arabs used to call the European crusaders Franks or Franjs which became Firangi, when it reached India), ordered two adherents to hurl themselves off the ramparts, which they did without a moment’s hesitation. Hasan did not spare anyone who disobeyed the orders even if they were his sons. Two of his sons met their death at his own hands.

Hasan did not forgive his childhood companion Nizam al Mulk for serving the Sunni Seljuks. The Nizam was executed with a sword-stroke by Hasan’s followers in front of a crowd. Hasan soon expanded his killing operations to Syria where he won the trust of King Ridwan through the Assassins who were dispatched in the guise of astrologers and goldsmiths. As the Assassins gained in strength, the Imams and religious heads, feeling an imminent threat, united and began speaking out openly against them. The Assassins were declared non-believers and dangerous criminals. They convinced the public that the Assassins were Muslims only in appearance and were described as ‘Batinis’—those who adhere to a faith other than that to which they profess in public. This was the beginning of an open war between the Muslim religious organizations and the Assassins. The Assassins had begun killing highly placed persons such as the amirs of Islam in accordance with their secret pact with the Franks. When the pact between the cross-bearing Christian crusaders and the dagger-bearing Assassins came out in public, the mobs began tracking the latter down street by street and massacring them.

Hasan, however, died a natural death. He was only twenty when he had shared the idyllic dreams of his classmates Omar Khayyam and Nizam al Mulk. But about half of the seventy years of his life were filled with plotting, assassinations and bloodshed. This man, who plunged his dagger relentlessly into kings, ministers, clerics and ordinary men in the street, died quietly, of old age, in his fortress, with not even a pinprick hurting him.

Despite the death of Hasan in his Alamut retreat in 1124, there was a sharp recrudescence in the activity of the Assassins in the period that followed. They continued hunting down kings and men of stature and spreading fear among the public. But, bereft of objectives and ideals, they degenerated into indiscriminate murderers, spreading death and terror among king and commoner, Christian and Muslim. They were no longer pests; they had become a plague torturing the Arab world at a time when all its energies were needed to withstand the Frankish onslaught, according to Amin Maalouf.

With Sultan Muhammad laying siege to the fort of Alamut, and the Franks capturing Damascus, the power of the Assassins fell in Persia and Syria. Rashid al Din Sinan, known as the Old Man of the Mountain and commander of the Assassins in Syria, sent a message to Amalric announcing that he and his supporters were willing to convert to Christianity. The Templars, busy with their crusades for recovering the Holy Grail and the Sangreal Documents from beneath Solomon’s Temple, were not interested, but many Assassins were prepared to pay tribute to the Order of the Templars and live in peace.

In 1257, the indomitable horsemen of the steppes, under the leadership of Genghis Khan’s grandson Hulegu, laid waste the whole of the Muslim world and brought an end to the Abbasid dynasty. Hulegu, like Hasan Ibn al Sabbah, had been interested in philosophy, science and literature before transforming, in the course of his campaigns, into his bloodthirsty and destructive self. Although strongly influenced by Christianity (his mother, favourite wife and several close collaborators were members of the Nestorian Church), he never renounced shamanism, the traditional religion of his people. In the territories he conquered and governed, notably Persia, he was generally tolerant of Muslims; but once he became mired in distrust and the lust for destruction, he embarked on a ruthless and total obliteration of some of the most prestigious and thriving metropolises of Islam. On their way to Baghdad, Hulegu’s army destroyed the Assassins’ sanctuary at Alamut and sacked its library, which was of inestimable value as far as the philosophy of destruction was concerned. Thanks to Hulegu, the knowledge about the theories and activities of this sect — which raised destruction to mystical heights and which remained unapproachable in its time — was irretrievably lost. The remaining Assassins were hunted down and slaughtered. The survivors, if any, scattered. The Ismailiyahs vanished from Persia and Syria. The newly drawn political maps made them irrelevant.

Here the author again dipped into the history of the thugs in a footnote. He drew comparisons with the thugs who were also hunted down and destroyed during the nineteenth century by the British administration in India. He noted that the arrival of trains, roads and motor vehicles brought an end to the movement of traders’ caravans and, as a consequence, to thuggee itself.

Prof. Ameer Ali pointed out the irony that centuries after the destruction of Alamut and the Assassin sect, the Ismailiyahs, now the followers of the Agha Khan, have survived as one of the most peaceable forms of Islam. Who will believe, he asked, that the well-known philanthropist of our times, the Agha Khan, is a direct successor of Hasan Ibn al Sabbah?

Yet, Prof. Ali said in his concluding section that there are many who believe that the doctrines of the Assassins are still being passed down in secrecy in remote and unknown places. That the mountains of Kuhistan shelter them and that it is impossible for even the modern-day esoteric Islam to breach their secrecy. Memories of the invasions of Genghis Khan and the Tartars have turned into myths and now personify evil and horror in the European social psyche. The workings of the machinery of destruction keep the imagination alive and the masters of literature busy creating fantasies. Stevenson’s Mr Hyde, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Bram Stoker’s Dracula and the unending science fiction and horror movies of Hollywood are the result. The terrorism-infested history of modern times is proof that the seeds of the doctrine of destruction have ridden the winds and are now germinating in unexpected corners of the world. The fedayeen die but the practice of suicide attacks resurrects with renewed vigour, because the practice of destruction is not limited to the Vikings or the Templars or the thugs — it is an inseparable feature of human nature.

Prof. Ali’s article ended there. There was no note about the author or even his contact information. I cannot deny that this descriptive article, devoid of any original analyses, gave me a lot to think about. I felt that the author, while remaining behind the curtain of anonymity, did manage to raise a few goosebumps here and there. His description of the secrecy with which the Assassins planned their acts and the insistence on the public nature of their executions, the modern-day transformation of the Ismailiyahs from assassins into messengers of peace, the lost books and repositories of their secrets, the parallels with the thugs and, above all, the tantalizing hint that the Assassins still exist … in fact, without really saying it, he gave the impression that they do not just continue to exist, but are active. My paranoid brain started wondering: wasn’t putting that idea into my mind the real purpose of this whole article? I suspected that there was a lot more that he wanted to say, but had left unsaid. For reasons only he knew. Specifically for me, what the article did was, link the names of Hasan Ibn al Sabbah and Zainul Abidin. And pull the name Ameer Ali out of a fictional account of thuggee and thread it into the present in the form of a disembodied voice speaking from the pages of this magazine. All for me. Was this article written for me, or am I becoming delusional? This magazine published and distributed just to carry this article and, of course, the letter to me. Now the job is done, there will be no more issues. Inside a train hurtling forward, piercing the depth of the night, under the light of a fifteen-watt bulb, in the midst of fellow sleeping passengers, I felt suffocated by my own imagination.

The night had advanced considerably. The train was rocking to its own rhythmic jolts and swings. It was cold inside. The housekeeping staff must have gone to sleep without checking the air conditioner settings. I was shivering under the blankets. The other bomb in my bag, the unread letter, must have contributed to my restlessness. Securing the magazine and the letter safely in my bag, I decided to go to sleep. It can keep till tomorrow. I switched off my reading lamp.

Needless to say, I got hardly any rest. Woke early. I went to the door to gaze at the horizon still untouched by first light. I took advantage of the unoccupied toilets, finished my morning ablutions and returned to my seat to find that the attendant had begun his rounds with the morning tea; I accepted a welcome steaming cup from him.

‘So you have finished reading Prof. Ali’s article then?’ Hasan began his letter. ‘I knew you would choose that first. But then, Ameer Ali too, like me, is not unknown to you. No, don’t try to tell me you have never met him. After all, seeing is not the only way of knowing a person. Who, among the large number of people who know Ameer Ali, has actually seen him? You cannot see a character, only know him. Just as you cannot see him, so too he can never die. Medows Taylor did not write his death in. So Ameer Ali will never die and will never be seen. Articles, letters … all very effective means of keeping the protagonist behind the screen. But whom am I instructing! You are, after all, a master at the art. Characters of fiction often appear more real than characters in real life. However, Ameer Ali is also a real thug. Medows Taylor might have created a name, but he did not create the character himself; he wrote from life, as far as the thugs were concerned.’

What was all this humbug? The professor who wrote the article is a character from a nineteenth-century novel? This man was trying to string unrelated events on a flimsy thread of names rather than real individuals. And he himself, a name attached to the same tenuous thread! Is he too just a name? It is a strange breakfast this man has prepared for me, I thought uneasily. And this, after a supper that still lay inside me, undigested. I shuddered at the thought that he himself might be on this train, perhaps even in the next compartment, keeping an eye on me. Once again, my co-passenger. Or, perhaps, he was actually within me, as a name. The thread might in fact be a garland of fear instead of real events. Like the venerated Ali sitting eternally on the throne among the clouds, here was Ameer Ali, invisible and beyond death. For all I know, Hasan could be envisioning Ameer Ali as a metaphor just like the great Ali. Perhaps Hasan too was a metaphor, speaking to me through this letter. But what about the magazine, the very real paper, ink, printing machines, street boys …

‘The destroyed are loyal to their destroyers,’ Hasan continued. ‘As a character is, to his or her creator. As for the thugs, Sleeman and Taylor who destroyed them are also their creators. They are the ones who immortalized them. Their code language, their rituals, beliefs, everything really, including their origin. Sleeman’s shot in the dark, that the thugs were the descendants of some vagrant tribes that wandered into India in the wake of the Turko-Afghan-Mongol invasions from Central Asia, although completely baseless, was swallowed whole by Ameer Ali. The professor of history could not see the falsity in it.

‘I always wonder how Ameer Ali manages the department of history at the university. He wrote to me just a couple of weeks ago. There was also a mention of you and your works in his letter. I quote, “This fellow dabbles in novels, history and even sometimes philosophy; he doesn’t seem to possess either a creative mind to write novels or the methodological training to handle history. Forget that, my question is, can one person be a Sleeman as well as a Taylor, a researcher and a fiction writer, as this chap seems to aspire to be?” Poor Ali. He, of course, does not know that Medows Taylor was also a good researcher. He was the first to discover the megalithic tombs in the Deccan. He opened a number of them and compiled an accurate description of their structure and contents; the three scholarly papers he published on the subject testify to his having developed a technique for excavation far in advance of his time. Among archaeologists in India, he was the first to grasp the true function of excavation as he actually drew and described sections of the ground with various strata clearly marked out.

‘My dear friend, I have not read your works. So I shall make no comment on them. But one thing I can say. A hashishin like me, who sees poetry in killing, has no trouble seeing that a person can be a fiction writer, a researcher and so many other things at the same time. Such a compliment coming from this unwelcome corner might be making you uneasy. But be assured, I do not say this to flatter you. I merely point out that an uncultured thug such as Ameer Ali is not always capable of digesting anthropological knowledge.’

The jolt that ran through me was no less electrifying than the one I had got when Seshadri had confessed to me that he was a thug. And, like Seshadri, this man too was drawing me into an argument that I was not equipped to handle. I felt like I was caught in a tug of war between thugs and professors, and businessmen and assassins. And, curiously, a philosophical argument seemed to be unfolding before me between two sects of killers in the name of their cultural greatness or perhaps mere bickering. One claiming to be a historian and the other fashioning himself as an anthropologist! It didn’t give me any consolation that I was being turned into a pawn in this battle; a battle between two names, two unreal real characters.

‘Though he said many things, Ameer Ali left out one story,’ Hasan continued. ‘And the omission is an important one. There is an event described in Medows Taylor’s novel, where Ameer Ali and his father Ismail’s band of thugs finish off a rich Rajput merchant and his servant. You can read it on page 73 of the 1883 edition of the book. A strangler called Badrinath was allotted the merchant while Ameer Ali was to deal with the stouter servant. Ameer Ali did not find it easy to handle the servant but he managed it in the end. The gravediggers had dug the graves inside a tent, well hidden from prying eyes. Ali was all praise for the gravediggers. The holes were filled and beaten down and plastered over with mud in such a way that no one could have told the earth had been disturbed by human hands. The sleeping rugs of the father and the son were then laid over and that night they slept over the graves. Only thugs would do such a thing! We hashishins would never sleep over the graves of our victims — we would sleep in the graves along with them or, shall I say, under the debris of our actions? Obviously, our philosophy of killing is quite different, rather, far advanced.

‘Yes, both of us look at the killing as a privilege for the victims. But the important difference between us is that their victims are merely offerings to the goddess, while we bestow upon our victims the honour of being martyrs for a higher purpose. As an act of good faith and as our endorsement of their fate, we join them in their ultimate sacrifice. We have gone far ahead of the thugs on the path of destruction; we are nothing at all like them. It is beyond me how anyone can say that the thugs were our descendants. True, we lived in the eleventh century and they in the eighteenth. The chronology should not make a difference to anyone sensible enough to understand the theory of evolution! And, may I remind you that Sleeman and Darwin were contemporaries and published their papers in the same decade?

‘As Darwin pointed out so well, Homo sapiens was not evolved from the apes, nor from the Neanderthals. The process of evolution is like the growth of a tree. A branch sprouts out from the trunk, grows, blossoms and bears fruit — the apes. The trunk continues and another branch sprouts to become the Neanderthals. Yet another, the Homo erectus. And another, the Homo sapiens. Each branch gives off more branches and the trunk continues to grow further and further from its roots. Evolution is not restricted to living beings. It applies to ideas as well, and ideologies. Within the evolution of life lies hidden another kind of evolution, that of destruction. Destruction is also an ideology, continuously growing and evolving. One branch of it blossomed and resulted in us. Yet another became the thugs. Though they branched out after us, their development was arrested a few steps behind ours, mainly in the manner of the sacrifice of the victims. Ours went one step further and arrived at the concept of self-sacrifice. After the sacrifice of the victim came the sacrifice of the sacrificer himself. What will come next? Who knows. Who are we to predict the path of evolution? We can only wait and watch.

‘Speaking of evolution, the Franks who chanced to meet us during the crusades thought that we were an altogether new species, different from humans. But they still took us along with them on their crusades. Ironically, that meant that we were really fighting on both sides of the war between Islam and Christianity. For, our interests lay not in religion, but in destruction. It fell to the Mongols, who were running a much larger campaign of destruction, to finally suppress us. People of Sleeman’s race, who suppressed the thugs so efficiently, were also far ahead of their colonial victims in the art of destruction. Sleeman himself suspected that the thugs were biologically different from other humans. If you look at the chronological order, you will find that Sleeman’s campaigns occurred between the discoveries of Malthus and Darwin!

‘Sleeman had the heads of seven thugs cut off after they had been hanged and sent them to the Phrenological Society of Scotland so they could investigate if the shape of the skulls hinted at any biological differences from the normal humans. Modern anatomy schools were all the rage in Edinburgh in those days. Dr Henry Spry, who was doing comparative anatomical science there, and conducted the studies, wrote about it in his book Modern India published in 1837. He classified the thugs into the same category in which he placed the crews of slave ships and also the more desperate among soldiers. He defined them as men who individually were not quite so prone to cruelty, but who, when the circumstances presented themselves, felt little or no compunction in inflicting unimaginable cruelty. In other words, they fell into the same category as the white men of Europe. Martine van Woerkens, a French historian, in a recent work goes a step further to say that the experiments and observations of Sleeman, Spry and the Edinburgh Phrenological Society were the precursors of the Nazi ideology of the twentieth century. A Nazi theoretician apparently compared Jews to the thugs and praised Sleeman for his efficiency in exterminating the thugs. It was his considered opinion that any Jew who had not yet committed a crime was most probably going to commit one in future. Ironically, the label that belonged on his own skull was mistakenly stamped on his victims!

‘There is yet another fascinating story about the schools of anatomy in Edinburgh. During the time the Spry investigations were going on in the Phrenological Society, anatomy schools were facing a great scarcity of dead bodies for dissection. (Isn’t that true even today?) There is a book titled Death, Dissection and the Destitute set in this background, by a research scholar named Ruth Richardson. Richardson became interested in Britain’s Anatomy Act of 1832 quite by accident. She was working on a study of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and discovered that during their courtship Mary and Percy Shelley would secretly meet in the St Pancras churchyard, a well-known haunt of bodysnatchers and grave-robbers of London, where Mary’s mother was buried. Perhaps Mary Shelley got the idea for her mad scientist, Dr Frankenstein, who creates a monster from pieces of dead human bodies, there. Ruth Richardson, also inspired by the graveyard, embarked on a research on grave robberies during that period and uncovered some interesting facts such as the gruesome Burke and Hare murders which shook the conscience of the public in those days. Burke and Hare ran a cheap lodging house and when an aging lodger died, owing them money, they sold his corpse to an anatomist named Dr Robert Knox. They got seven pounds for it. This seeded the idea for a brilliant business venture. They would offer free lodging and boarding to beggars and the destitute, give them food and whisky and then smother them in their sleep and sell the corpses at a profit to the anatomists, who were ever-hungry for fresh corpses. Edinburgh, which then ranked at the top in medical education and research, thus got corpses not only of thugs from faraway lands but also of the victims of white thugs such as Burke and Hare. When the story came out Burke was tried by the courts and hanged and then publicly dissected. We don’t know if any phrenological studies were conducted on his skull! Hare escaped the same fate by turning King’s witness. Knox was not charged, but an incensed crowd burned his effigy on the streets.

‘You are probably wondering why I am taking you on these seemingly aimless meanderings. It will all become clear, be patient. It is time for breakfast and the bearer has just brought it in. Why don’t you enjoy your meal for now?’

Obediently, I did. And it was lavish, with fruits and coffee to round it off. Passengers were happy and expressed their satisfaction to each other. I was far from happy, and in spite of the near-certain possibility of becoming more unhappy, I returned to the letter.

‘Nothing like a hearty breakfast to revive one’s spirits! Now let us move on,’ Hasan continued. ‘Frankly, my knowledge is not trivial. When it comes to acquiring knowledge, assassins are not far behind lovers of humanity. One may even say that that is the point of convergence of these two streams. Both of us aid our prey in becoming the bloody flowers on the altars of our objects of worship, be they gods, causes or aesthetic ecstasy. As there is love inside us, there is cruelty inside the lovers of humanity. Stevenson, Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker are examples of your lovers of humanity. But inside them lay hidden Hyde, Frankenstein and Dracula. Homer, Valmiki and Vyasa are no different. Not just in cinema, literature or art, even in pop music we see plenty of evidence that it is fear and horror that brings guaranteed thrill and pleasure to the minds of the audience.

‘Like anyone among you, we hashishins too conduct business, provide for our families, bargain for vegetables and clothes at the market, nod our heads to the beat of music … And need I point out that people who are not hashishins but do exactly these same things also enjoy stories of violence in novels, cinema and newspapers? God is for all, to believe, to worship, to obey or to deny, as the occasion may be. While some carry the cross, others carry their dagger or pickaxe. Have you ever asked yourself why the cross, the dagger and the pickaxe have the same shape? They all bear the shape of the human body.

‘The cross was an instrument of torture. Ironically, Christians have adopted the image not of their God, but rather of the instrument of his pain and suffering as a divine symbol and made it an object of worship. They cast it in gold and embellish it with floral designs. Do what they will, can they cover its cruel impress? Unhesitatingly, they wear it around their necks, a symbol of service, with the power even to drive away evil spirits. Ameer Ali wrote about the hashishins being hunted by the people of Damascus in the city streets. The fedayeen of our day who carry out destruction on a much larger and grander scale than the Batinis are not hunted like that. People who become their prey look up to them with wonder and awe. Their sacrifice is recognized, albeit silently. That is evolution for you.

‘Sacrifice is sacrifice whether of saints, ascetics, bhikshoos or fedayeen. While the sacrifice of the fedayeen is expressed in a single dramatic and bloody act, that of the former three lies dissolved in their everyday lives, expressed in a benign manner, one might say. Thus the orbits of the saints and the fedayeen do meet, although tangentially, at a common point called sacrifice. Sacrifice is ecstasy. The saints enjoy it in isolation while we share it with our victims. For we are materialists, not spiritualists.

‘There is yet another tangential convergence for the fedayeen. With artists and writers. Every work of literature or art is in reality a suicide, a death for the artist. He drowns in his creation. In fact, every creative work of man, be it philosophy or ideology or even love, is suicidal in nature. It is when this realization dawns on them that writers begin subsuming tragedy into their works. The author kills himself at the end of the work. The end of a novel is like the collapse of a skyscraper … My thoughts, my dear friend, but I know you, a novelist, will agree. Haven’t we met several times in trains, if I may say so, tangentially?

‘Just a few clarifications; I know you are all but drowning in the questions. Though you must have noticed a couple of facts by now. One, I did not die in the July seventh blast. Two, I, Hasan Ibn al Sabbah, am a hashishin.

‘I was present in Welcome Hotel on that fateful day. Moments before the explosion a man called me out of the bar to tell me something. As we were talking, the building exploded and then collapsed around us.

‘I personally did not know Zainul, also a hashishin. Each of us is a small link in the chain. We are connected by other links. The person who called me out was one such link. In fact everyone is a link, including you. Some know it and some don’t. Those who know are the actors and those who do not, the victims. Destruction is the act which brings everyone together — gods, devotees and victims. Seshadri told you that a victim turns into a devotee in the ultimate sense. A devotee turns into God when his own altar demands him as sacrifice. It is in sacrifice, in all senses of the word, that all the three freely move into each other’s roles. Who designs the costume and decides what is to be worn by whom and at what point of time? Who is that tailor? God? No, in the ultimate sense, there is no God separate from the devotee and the victim. What remains is tailoring, the art of cutting and stitching and making garments, outfitting each to play his role. Thus, destruction becomes an art, do you see now? Tailoring is, for that matter, an exceptional art, and it is a pity that no one has written a history of it. Why don’t you try your hand?

‘This does not mean that whatever I told you about the hotels was false. The disappearance of the old hotel from my memory, the transplantation of my things in another room, the package with your address that appeared in the new room, all that was true. Grand designs. Tailor-made, you might say! If I was destined to escape, why was my room hijacked? If the hotel was destined to collapse, why was the packet meant for you planted in it? Was the packet even meant for you? All these questions are irrelevant. All questions, in fact. There is a reason that stitches together all the apparent irrationalities, that reason is destruction. The seventh day of the seventh month was a big day for Zainul. For the newspapers, it was just a box among their columns.

‘I mentioned earlier the letter Ameer Ali wrote to me about you. It is the writer’s job to uphold moral issues and point out injustice. And it is the professor’s job to study it all. Though a historian devoid of literary knowledge, he had to carry out the duties entrusted to him. He was a Reader at the university for a long time. Imagine the situation when a character turns into a reader. Fate assigns different tasks to each of us. For Ameer Ali, writing the article. For me, this letter. One link opens only to the next link. The grand design includes a chain of information as well as secrets. But once the plan has been executed, the rules demand public acknowledgement. To the extent of naming the organization involved and the person who carried it out. You have to admit, we are open.

‘“Honest! Vandals, that’s what you are,” I can almost hear you scoffing. But you refuse to see the vandalism perpetrated by those around you, those you think are on your side. Philosophical vandalism. Morality, compassion, empathy, none of these has any rational support, said Bertrand Russell. There is no argument in science or philosophy that can explain why the enjoyment of cruelty is wrong. Wittgenstein says that in the eyes of rationality one man stealing the wallet of another is merely the movement of an object from one place to another. Logical positivists, linguistic analysts, postmodernists, deconstructionists, all those who came after him, have only helped in the further leakage of reason and logic from the mind of man. But we collected it from their porous hands, especially the concept of one reason, which holds together all kinds of irrationalities — destruction. Our flock grew. Hashishins, thugs, the old criminal tribes, the new ethnicists, revolutionaries, political parties, the underworld, religious extremists, the new class of thinkers — our flock encircles you from all sides. Did you know, my dear friend, that the number of scientists engaged in oiling the machinery of destruction today is four times the number employed in finding ways to keep you alive? Knowing fully well that when that machine is operated they themselves will have to turn fedayeen.

‘I saw you among the audience at the Performing Arts Auditorium during the National Music Festival last month. I was sitting in the row just behind yours, two seats to your right. I remember you looked back twice. You did not recognize me. Since I was on duty I did not attempt to speak to you. Huge auditorium, milling multitude, me a human bomb counting down seconds. At the last second I had to shut the timer off on the instructions of the grandmaster.

‘Don’t panic. I am not on your train today. I have to be somewhere else, on this twelfth day of the twelfth month.

‘I could not deliver the book to you. The gigantic earth movers of Zainul Abidin’s company carried it away to the landfill, among the debris of Welcome Hotel. Books are like that. Their destruction is as profound and poetic as their creation. Ptolemy’s library was more famous for its catalogue prepared by Apollonius than for the collection itself. The catalogue too vanished eventually. Under the weight of the stones of the Alamut Fort razed to the ground by Hulegu lay crushed and confined the catalogue-less documents of the hashishins. The book of thugs, Thuganama, does not exist any more; only a reference remains, in Bhavya’s Tarkajwala. Tarkajwala itself remains only in the form of a Tibetan translation, now made inaccessible by the tanks of Mao. This, in the words of a Tibetan lama who now lives in Delhi’s Majnu Ka Tila. He had heard of it from his grandfather.

‘Sublimation, the change from solid to gas is real, though uncommon. So is the change from gas to solid state, deposition. Hashishins made destruction profound and poetic. Its journey towards still higher levels of aesthetic ecstasy continues. A journey that will continue for a while, I promise you.’

And there, Hasan bid me goodbye.

Was there a sadness in those parting words? Who knows. Who knows, he could have been carrying a bomb on his person each time I travelled with him on the train. (Now I understand, his train journeys do not need a financial explanation.) Each one of those journeys was potentially a farewell journey for him. But the truth is that his farewell does not ever become a farewell. Just as the death of Hasan Ibn al Sabbah in 1124 was never a death for the Hasans. Just as the fictionality of Ameer Ali is not a fiction.

For a moment I feared I was caught in a psychotic fantasy. I gripped my seat to make contact with reality. Tried to make conversation with the passengers sitting next to me. No one was interested.

The train was racing at a hundred kilometres an hour. According to the attendant we were still two hours behind schedule. It was noon by the time we reached Calcutta. I had six more hours on the road from Calcutta. After letting my hosts know I would be late, I set out in the car they had arranged for me.

If we accept that no answer is the final one, then all answers become right. If we acknowledge that no destination is final, then all destinations are right.

Midway through our drive, we were greeted by an untimely downpour. It gathered strength as we advanced, accompanied by lightning and thunder. The driver eased his foot off the accelerator in the reduced visibility. Finally, the car gave up and broke down.

The darkening Bengal countryside stretched in all directions, no houses or even a light broke the monotony. One side of the dirt road bordered the fields and the other, mango orchards. Sandwiched between the two stood the driver, his assistant, I and the motionless car. The driver declared that there was nothing seriously wrong with the car, except that he needed the services of a workshop to get it back on the road. But where were we to find a workshop in this centre of nothingness!

The driver claimed he was familiar with the area and knew of a zamindar’s kothi nearby. It was occupied by the present heir to the family, a middle-aged gentleman who lived alone. Apparently an educated and cultured man, he was interested in literature and books. ‘He is some sort of a scholar, speaks many languages, even Persian!’ The driver elaborated as we pushed our car and ourselves through the rapidly growing mud-pools. ‘He lives in the company of a hoard of books. Thakur moshai would be only too glad to host an educated person like you, saab,’ the driver assured me.

The rain beat down relentlessly. Wet and shivering, we reached the gatehouse of an old stately house. There was a slender streak of light coming from a first-floor window. Pulling at an old-fashioned bell pull hanging at the gatehouse, we announced our arrival. It took a full three minutes for a light to appear at the door. An old man came to the gate with an umbrella. The driver spoke to him, the gate was opened for us and we stumbled towards the house. The rain thundered on the rooftop.

The driver was right. Thakur moshai received us enthusiastically. An old-style Bengali bhadralok in dhoti and kurta and wrapped in a shawl. He directed the servant to prepare hot water for me and ready a bedroom.

When I returned to the drawing room after a wash, the aroma of fish being fried wafted through the house. Special dishes were being prepared in the kitchen for the guest. Thakur moshai was waiting for me on an old, worn-out sofa, which still retained its ancient grandeur in spite of the wear and tear, at one end of a very large drawing room. He offered me a shawl that too must have been priceless once upon a time. ‘It is not good to get wet in the winter,’ he said. ‘Shall I get you a brandy with some warm water?’ I accepted the offer gladly.

While he was preparing the drink, I took the chance to look around. Portraits of stern-looking zamindars with bristling moustaches and their doe-eyed zamindarinis, with vermilion-dusted hair partings and heads covered with bright-coloured sarees, looked down from the walls. Alongside were the mounted heads of two blackbucks with their branched horns towering over us. On a sidewall hung a large round mirror, no longer reflective, framed by two huge elephant tusks. There was a general aura of dust and cobwebs everywhere. The lightning outside flashed through faded, torn and practically threadbare curtains that hung at the windows. The rain continued unabated.

‘Everything is like a grand design,’ Thakur moshai said, handing me the brandy and settling himself on the other side of the five-seater sofa on which I sat. ‘Your decision to start today, the untimely rain, your car breaking down at my gate … somehow I had a premonition that a guest would be arriving today.’

‘Just a coincidence, that’s all,’ I said warily.

‘Yes, let us say a coincidence,’ he agreed. ‘I was merely joking. History too moves through coincidences and not by design, some people say. What to speak of the lives of us poor minions!’

He moved easily between history, philosophy, mathematics and science, with stories and true-life incidents and anecdotes thrown in. He had the special faculty of making the conversation lively with intellectual interventions. All this, while sitting in that ancient cobwebbed kothi in the middle of the Bengal countryside, to the accompaniment of rain, thunder and lightning.

He said that if history showed a proclivity to avoid the theories of historians, science was not in the habit of obeying dictums of common sense either. ‘Huxley’s famous observation that science is merely trained and organized common sense is no longer accepted by scientists.’

‘It is perhaps when they enter deeper terrains that scientists feel like that.’ I attempted to differ. ‘Aren’t the discoveries of ancient times mainly the contributions of common sense?’

Thakur moshai shook his head. ‘Perhaps … perhaps not. Modern scientists say that we would not have reached anywhere if we had followed our common sense. That the nature of science itself is unnatural! Even of the social sciences. I recently read somewhere that the Nobel prize — winning economist James Meade had composed an epitaph for his tombstone that went: “He tried to understand economics all his life, but common sense kept getting in the way.”’

We laughed.

After abandoning the theory of grand designs in favour of coincidences, he then claimed that there is a rope in mathematics to tie them all together, the rope of the principles of probability. On a sudden impulse I asked, ‘What is, moshai, the mathematical probability of meeting the same person four times in a train?’

He laughed aloud. ‘If you ask the probability of the person sitting opposite you being male or female, I can say fifty per cent. Probability of two persons in a group having the same date of birth can also be calculated without much difficulty: 365 × 2. But in this case, the journeys could be endless. So many trains, crores of passengers … the theory of probability must retire here. We return to coincidence. Have you heard of the list of coincidences surrounding the two American Presidents who were assassinated, Lincoln and Kennedy? Both had vice presidents named Johnson. Kennedy’s secretary was called Lincoln and Lincoln’s was called Kennedy. One may ask here, why pick only the assassinated Presidents, or only American Presidents, out of the crores and crores of people?’

We talked about numbers. About our train of thought that generally follows the order: probability — coincidence — conspiracy. The basis for all these is numbers. But numbers are just one of the many instruments man has devised for dealing with facts. He said that the geometrical proof of Pythagoras’s theorem was one of his favourites. But Pythagoreans made pyramids of numbers, composed music and even created a religion.

The discussion on numbers led me to mention the divinity attributed to certain numbers such as seven and twelve by the Ismailiyahs. He didn’t see anything in it except the extraordinary powers old beliefs attach to certain things. I came to understand that he had considerable knowledge about hashishins. He said that their collection of books had not been completely destroyed during the Mongol raids. Some of them were transported, in great secrecy, by some Mongols themselves from the fort of Alamut to a Buddhist vihara situated somewhere in Central Asia. The Buddhist vihara fell on bad days during the innumerable invasions and persecutions over the centuries and perished. The story goes that some of the books lay for years in a cave and when the Soviets took over, they were retrieved and moved to the archives in Moscow. ‘During my days in the Communist Party, when I got a chance to visit Moscow, I had the opportunity to view some of them,’ Thakur moshai said. ‘They were written in a dead language. As Stalin took a special interest in them, Soviet linguists were attempting to decode them.’

The books that, according to Prof. Ameer Ali, had turned to dust under the stones of Alamut Fort kept appearing before me throughout the night, disturbing my sleep. Reincarnating on leather scrolls or brittle paper or in the perfect binding of Progress Publishers or Raduga Publishers or Nauka Publishing House of Moscow. No, Stalin would not have published them, I told myself, as I seesawed between sleep and wakefulness in the early morning. He would have realized their teachings himself. Or, he could have handed them over to the Nazis in October 1939 while shaking hands with Hitler at the line of control, midway in Poland where they are supposed to have met. Since then, to how many more, for translating them chapter by chapter into action! From the fedayeen to the thugs, and from the thugs back to the fedayeen. While the historian and the anthropologist debated … I woke up with the roar of Zainul Abidin’s earth movers in my ears, removing the debris of his own grand hotel, thus ‘de-writing’ the pages read by him.

The rain had spent itself. The sky was clear. The countryside of Bengal, fields, ponds, bamboo and mango groves, dirt roads and the clusters of huts in the distance shone in the fresh light of dawn. As I walked outside and turned back, I was struck by the shape of the zamindar’s kothi, which I had not noticed in the dark. The left wing of the kothi appeared to have completely collapsed. Crumbled into a heap of bricks, concrete, and broken doors and windows. The right wing where he lived and I had slept during the night was still in a good enough state. Caught in the tug of war between the two wings, the middle portion, which must have been the grand entrance to the original building, seemed to be slowly giving in to the persuasion of the crumbling left wing. The left wall of the room I had slept in was the last big wall standing. The courtyard of the right wing had been tended while the courtyard serving the left wing had been left undisturbed in its decrepit state, perhaps ever since that portion had collapsed. Furniture and appliances also lay trapped in time and space. As I walked around I saw a snake crawling through the debris, over which ivy and grass had grown, towards the wall of the room I had slept in.

‘They are all friends of Thakur moshai’s,’ said the driver who saw me retreating in haste. He had succeeded in repairing the car himself and was ready to go.

Breakfast over, I thanked the Thakur for his hospitality, and turned to leave.

‘There is an item in the morning news,’ Thakur moshai said, arresting my steps. ‘A huge explosion in a Delhi cinema hall at twelve o’clock last night, December the twelfth. Over a hundred dead. Some terrorist organization has claimed responsibility for the blast. Apparently, an operative by the name of Hasan was the suicide bomber.’

‘Hasan?’ I cried.

‘Yes, Hasan Ibn al Sabbah himself.’

‘Hasan Ibn al Sabbah! Thakur, you know him?’ I asked warily.

‘Yes,’ Thakur said with a smile. ‘Just like you, I too travelled with him on the train, four times.’

‘My God!’

‘Yes, my friend. They want to be with us, always. In the trains, in the cinema halls and hotels, in the markets … why, even inside our graves. What can we do?’

Back in the car, my mind returned to Hasan. Two days ago, as he drafted his letter to me, Hasan was planning his death in cold-blooded detail.

‘What did you think of Thakur moshai, sir?’ the driver asked. I just nodded.

The driver continued, ‘He has no near ones alive. The lineage is ending. Sometimes he says that the kothi should be blasted in one shot with a bomb. But he will not do that. It will collapse by itself, like his family, over him, burying him inside one day.’

The Tailor

In spite of the sinister reference to it in Seshadri’s letter and its near manifestation in Hasan’s now-crumbled hotel room, my apprehensions about The Book of Destruction seemed to have taken a back seat for the present. Instead, I began contemplating the clash of philosophies and methodologies of the thugs, the assassins and the modern breed of worshippers of the ideology of destruction. The clash was not Hasan’s invention; Seshadri too had expressed his misgivings on the methods adopted by the modern protagonists of destruction. Seshadri had given me the task of investigating this, and to some extent Hasan had provided an explanation in his critique on Prof. Ali’s paper. Hasan had given me yet another task — to ponder over the history of tailoring! An innocuous-sounding task but a highly cryptic one as I began to appreciate it. Oh Lord, I can already feel my readers beginning to suspect me of having become a collaborator with these people! After what I have gone through and the mental torture they have subjected me to, you will understand, it is not very easy for me to wriggle out of this nightmare. One of them has spoken to me from the other side of death, another, as he faced his end, and the third, Ameer Ali, could be alive or dead; that is, of course, if, contrary to Hasan’s arguments, he was a real person. Their life or death, however, does not matter. The world of destruction these people have unfolded before me is real. And, true to Seshadri’s curse, I am now unable to think of anything else. Going back to what I was saying, I am reasonably sure that there is another messenger coming: coming to resolve the task assigned to me by Hasan. Just as Hasan had put to rest some of the questions raised by Seshadri. Something at the back of my mind insisted that the arguments put before me were far from resolved.

The arguments, contentions and justifications that Seshadri had woven around his killings point towards one thing, that they were all sacrifices made to his godhead. Whatever amount of faith or belief one may pump into it, it remains horrendous. When you consider the even wilder theories of Hasan, where the devotee sacrifices himself or herself along with the victim, it is chilling. Seshadri maintains that thugs still exist, citing his own example. But he himself vouchsafes that the practice is highly secretive and not apparent to the untrained eye. This, however, does not appear to be the case with Hasan. His form of sacrifice is not secretive or obscure. Eight centuries after the disappearance of the Assassins from history (as we are assured by the experts), we are witnessing their resurgence, almost on a daily basis now, all over the world. These people do not go away just like that, Thakur moshai had benignly enlightened me. Going away is one thing, going beyond, yet another. An unresolved, incomplete problem is like a thorn in the flesh; the brain will not leave it alone, however unpleasant it may be. Or perhaps it is the fear that becomes an obsession, something to hold on to. Each of the three who had spoken to me, one from beyond his death and two in absentia — the last of whom may also be dead — had something to say about fear. I hate to keep harping on about this, but their words seem to be following me, propelling me towards the question — What next? What would be the third form of sacrifice? And what would be the role of the victim in that? And, above all, who makes these decisions?

Everyone is a link, Hasan had said. Destruction is an act that brings gods, devotees and victims together, according to him. All three move freely into each other’s roles and clothes while engaged in the act of destruction. To my mind, the drama has been taken a step ahead; the audience too is expected to join the actors on stage, in the tragedies we witness today. We all know we will die. In the present situation we also realize that the chances of it being a violent death, at the hands of another person, are not that remote. As the atmosphere gets more and more charged, we cannot exclude the possibility of even killing another person with our own hands. Suspense is no longer an essential ingredient in the new ‘theatre-absurd’ around us.

Who then assigns us our role, and at what point of time? What is the apparel, the costume that awaits us? So, this is where the clothes come in, the tailoring and, of course, the tailor that my friends (friends? Good Lord!) have been surreptitiously introducing me to. Hasan had even challenged me to write a history of the art of tailoring, calling it an exceptionally important job. Come to think of it, it certainly is an exceptional job and must have an interesting history too. Someone is bound to have written it already. I have come across historical treatises on all manner of subjects in these days of deconstruction: science, technology, God, psychology, library, war, madness, torture, etc. Toynbee even tried a history of history itself. Recently I picked up a moth-eaten book from a wayside stall of second-hand books claiming to be a history of the professional salon.

These days we are identified and assessed by the clothes we wear. We claim to be able to judge merely by looking at their apparel whether a person is a man or a woman, which country they belong to, which religion they practise, and what their social or economic status may be. From their clothes we can also judge the ‘taste’ of a person and how egoistic or snobbish they might be. The previous century was dominated by ideologies, many defined by the colour of the shirt worn by their storm troopers. I don’t know if ideologies would regain the importance and awe they had generated during the last century, but other professions appear to have taken the symbolism of shirts and colours to their heart. While companies insist on their sales employees wearing shirts of a particular brand, others entice their customers into wearing their brand names.

I found that recently I had started paying more attention to my tailor friend in the market. He certainly was not the grand, hypothetical tailor Hasan had spoken of. Just an ordinary tailor in our neighbourhood market, quiet and unassuming. He would talk to me about the art of tailoring, in his own way. He felt that his art came very close to a spiritual activity, changing not just the body, but the very soul of a person who wore his garments. I had not given it much thought. I had assumed he was being poetical, and he did exhibit a flair for poetry in his speech. Come to think about it, Seshadri too had waxed poetic when he, as a mali, had befriended me. Hasan had not been far behind.

I was not a customer of the tailor’s. He knew that I was more of a ready-made clothes person. He had no complaints. In fact, he supplied to the ready-mades market as well. A decent man, he never tried to force his products on me. Thus, without a customer — producer factor between us, our familiarity grew and we became friendly.

His shop was on a busy street in the bazaar. It was impossible to ignore the saintly smile he would bestow on one and all passing by, irrespective of whether they were his customers or not. Yet, somehow, he did not appear to have many friends. And, as I think about it, I realize I had never seen any customers in his shop either. Whenever I had looked in, there were only he and his assistants.

My friend was not, of course, the product of any institute of fashion technology. He was not even famous in the trade. That he did not look at the job of dressmaking from the angle of fashion was perhaps the reason for his unpopularity. Famous or not, I had no reason to doubt his talent or artistic capabilities.

No one who had met him once would have failed to notice that the secret of his art was not just his talent and craft, but the involvement and dedication with which he invested himself in his work. I used to tell myself that if the dresses he made were beautiful poems, his stitching had the grace of a dancer. In fact, it was his dance-like movements when engaged in his work that had first caught my attention. Only later when I started talking to him did I learn he was also a poet. My deduction was that the rhythm he exhibited in his movements when he stitched spilled over into his words when he spoke.

One day, I wondered if the interest and concern he gave to his art perhaps also reached out to the people who were supposed to wear the clothes he stitched. That was when it dawned on me that most of his creations just hung in the showcases of his shop, never reaching a customer. He poured out his time and talent to give human shape to plain, flat cloth, but he could not stand them upright or breathe life into them. It was a sad sight to see the clothes hanging from the shop hangers, shoulders sagging, sleeves swinging lifelessly. Beautifully made coats, achkans, sherwanis, kurtas, phirans — their shapes and designs had become so familiar to me, having seen them there for days and months, that if I saw anyone in the street wearing them, I would be able to say with certainty that it was his work. But I had never seen them outside his shop. I hailed him from the street to share my thoughts. He was immersed in his work, his feet moving rhythmically on the pedals of the machine and his delicate fingers following the dance of the needle. He completed the section he was doing, rose after briefly touching the machine with his forehead ritualistically. With a blissful smile of fulfilment he invited me inside.

‘Don’t mind my asking, friend, what is the matter with your beautiful works of art?’ I asked hesitantly. ‘Fashion is raging in town. People buy new dresses without waiting for the old ones to live out their life. Festival seasons come and go. And your magnificent creations continue to hang in the showcases, empty and dead.’

The tailor spent a few moments eyeing the street in front of the shop. Then, suddenly, to my surprise he burst out in the form of a poetical soliloquy, unmindful of my presence: ‘Wandering in the streets are innumerable souls. Injured, broken, fragmented and falling apart. Unable to recognize each other and failing to find their way, they wander listlessly. People who should become characters, heroes and heroines of grand plays drift about namelessly, naked and not knowing that they are naked.’

The rhyme and music in his words captured my interest. It was certainly a new way of looking at the hundreds of people I have been seeing every day on the streets. To me they appeared anxious to reach their homes or whichever destination they were heading towards. Cheerful and spirited they looked sometimes, and at other times worried or wary. I had not thought of looking at them this way. Unable to recognize each other, failing to find their way, broken, falling apart … as if their identities had been so shattered physically and mentally that each limb was moving about freely, as if they were naked to the extent of not realizing their nakedness …

‘If one has lost his self, individuality, home and path, if nakedness has fallen over him in the way you lament, my friend, wouldn’t that nakedness itself become his clothing?’ I responded, trying to fit myself into the poetical mood he was in. ‘In a state where limbs are falling apart and moving freely, one would not know if the hand striking at him was his own or operating from another man’s shoulder.’

The tailor appeared happy with my response. He said, ‘Or the hand consoling him, for that matter. Who can say if you are placing someone else’s hand and not yours on the shoulder of a fellow being to console him? Consolation thus gets detached from the consoler, from the one being consoled, and floats between the two on its own.’

I thought our poetical excursion was going too far and it was time to get back to reality. We were being hijacked by our metaphors, a predicament writers often find themselves in. Words jump in from nowhere and interrupt our dialogue with our readers as well as with our characters. It is not an easy and happy walk for a writer, between these two entities, as many seem to imagine. Especially when the medium of the journey is one where reality, logic, fiction and fantasy compete with each other. The predicament of a writer could also be that of an artist, as with my friend here.

So I asked the tailor: ‘And yet, my friend, these fragmented souls do converse between themselves. They are laughing, quarrelling, embracing, kissing, caressing and even mating to produce new entities.’

This time the tailor was clearly displeased with my intervention. Perhaps he found my artistic fervour to be a step behind his. That I did not belong on the plane where he lived. And he was not willing to walk back with me.

Shaking his head and sticking to his style of poetics, but now with a new harshness in his voice, he cut in, ‘The new souls they give birth to would not be very different from them. Fragmented, directionless and away from the light of truth. The false light they go after mistakenly will only lead them to hell, where they will remain like animals, naked externally and internally.’

I was a bit alarmed by this change in language and tone. At that moment he resembled a prophet, I feared. Or, perhaps an artist’s predicament could also at times be that of a prophet — an artist has an element of the prophetic within him.

In a moment he started drifting away from me, his listener. Like a sleepwalker he moved towards the door; he stood there and, raising his hands in the air, addressed an imaginary multitude out on the road: ‘Oh, you poor souls that wander in the wilderness, naked and not knowing your nakedness, fragmented to pieces and not knowing that you are unable to put yourself together, gather your limbs and come to me, get into these garments I have made for you. Let me give you a shape, a path, a destination. Let me show you your real desires, passions and mates. Liberate yourself through the art of this artist. Nothing else can grant you this freedom in these times, these tragic times!’

‘Of course, be their tailor,’ I said to placate him. ‘But why not allow them to choose their clothing?’ I said, trying to pull him back from his frenzy.

The tailor placed his hand on my shoulder in such a way that I felt its full weight. He eyed me sternly. ‘Man does not select his clothes, my friend, clothes select the man. Clothes are stitched not just to make the wearer look attractive, but to give him a shape, a character, a soul. They formulate his behaviour, direct his actions. Clothes make him understand his objectives and the path he needs to take to achieve them. A man is his dress — that is the vision of tailoring. A man without clothes is a clay mannequin. A man without art is an animal. Tailoring is the art, the art of converting a clay mannequin into a man.’

Holding my hand, he led me to a book laid out prominently on a table in his shop. It was called The Book of Cutting and Tailoring. He picked it up and touched it to his forehead and stood for a moment in veneration. Then again, returning to the poetical and prophetic style, he said: ‘But, alas, people go after fashions, not knowing the dresses ordained for them. The dresses that can put their fragmented souls together. Only this book knows it. And only this artist can make it. In our time, this tragic time.’

As in a ritual he again threw his hands towards the people on the road and cried, ‘Oh, you poor souls wandering in the wilderness …’

Though he was addressing the people in the street, he seemed not to see them. His eyes stared unseeingly into the distance and his mind into a world of revelations.

As I stood watching him in awe and with mounting unease, his voice came down gradually and finally died. I watched him shrinking into a still picture at the door of his shop; he walked back to his worktable, shoulders sagging. No longer were there the rhythmic movements of the feet and the dance of the fingers. Not an artist but the picture of an artist. I wondered if it were the artists reduced to two-dimensional images who were later hailed as prophets.

If he had been addressing the people out on the road, they had not heard him. They continued walking in the crowd, talking, gesticulating and immersed in their own affairs. They had no time for him. Even if they had no homes or direction, they seemed to be content with the way they were. Many of them had their desires and passions, and companions to share them with, it appeared. Was it this desire to be with those of our own kind that he described as going after false lights? In any case, I did not feel any revulsion towards those people at that moment.

I saw the tailor the next day. He was sitting on the steps in front of his shop. His hands resting on either side of him on the stone steps, his eyes vacant, staring into the distance.

I looked into the showcases of the shop. To my amazement, they were all empty. There was not a single coat or kurta or kameez left. It was a holiday and there were no assistants in the shop either. But he had kept the shop open, with the showcases empty.

‘What has happened, tailor?’ I inquired. ‘Have those people come at last in search of your works of art? Seeking homes, paths, desires, passions and mates? Those fragmented souls, the naked bodies?’

‘No, my friend, they did not come.’ The tailor rose from the steps and invited me inside. Pointing to the empty showcases one by one, he told me in a hard and mechanical voice, ‘Last night my creations, without exception, declared a revolt. Unable to bear the loneliness and emptiness any more, in the darkness of the night, all of them came down from the hangers and stood before me. Watching the shapes and roles I had accorded them growing larger than my wits, I bowed my head before them. I threw open the doors of my shop for them. What a satiating experience it is, my friend, to be a witness to our creations taking over the mission from us! Yes, each one of them has started its journey in search of human bodies, which would lift their sagging shoulders and make their limp limbs come alive. Out into the street! My shop has been emptied, my friend, without even a single customer visiting it!’

The tailor again took me to the table with the book. Touching the book to his forehead he opened it. As on the jacket, the title page also carried the name in large letters—The Book of Cutting and Tailoring—but I noticed that it did not carry the name of the author or the publisher. Like scriptures or holy books.

The tailor started turning the pages of the book mechanically as if to show them to me. I did not see anything in it other than what could be expected in a book of its type. There were pictures illustrating the cutting patterns for different types of dresses. An arm lay across a page as if barring my way. A leg hung down as if poised to kick me. And so on. For a moment I feared if these pages were resurrecting before me the people in the street he had been talking about, with their broken down and separated limbs. Then I laughed at myself; it was just a book of tailoring, giving instructions on the shaping of limbs for dresses …

He did not laugh. He acquired a profound expression devoid of feelings and emotions. Lowering his voice, as if speaking to himself, he muttered, ‘My creations have left me. My shop is empty.’

‘What is there to lament, my friend?’ I asked. ‘Your art is still with you. You can create them again.’

He shook his head, and said in his now familiar prophetic tone: ‘When the creations of an artist walk out of his workshop and start forging their own paths, the creator should take it as the end of his imagination, his path. My mission has ended, and my life is now in their hands … But do not be despondent. Tailors will come again. To discover the bodies, the souls … to dress them. No chasm will greet you on your path.’

‘Why should I be despondent? I find no gaping chasms in my path. What have I to do with all this?’ I asked in confusion.

He did not reply. He continued to flip through his book. Close to the end of the book, there was the picture of a sherwani on a page. A headless torso stood before me, arms hanging lifelessly, as if reminding me of the presence of an executioner nearby. Defiant, it stared back at its fate. The tailor closed the book with a bang.

The tailor went back to the door of his shop and sat down on the steps in the position in which I had found him earlier. His hands on the floor and eyes far away.

I don’t know what I felt at that time. I was somehow getting used to this man’s vagaries and prophetic — I did not want to call it poetic any more — arrogance. This time when he sat on the steps I thought it was not sadness but a kind of vacant indifference that engulfed him. I tried to interpret it as the satisfaction of an artist who had completed his work. Or of a prophet who had accomplished his mission. Were his eyes searching for his dresses that had left him, even now engaged in completing their mission on the distant road? I was inclined not to think so. He resembled more and more a manifestation of emptiness.

Why had he shown me the book again? Only this book and only this artist, that had been his stance last time. Today he had said nothing like that; in fact, he had said nothing. He had perhaps been asking the book what the role of an artist or a prophet, whose imagination or mission has ceased, should be. The headless and inert sherwani, on which he had closed the book, did not make any point to me, but it did leave me unsettled. I don’t know whether he felt it too, the way he had banged the book shut. But something he said remained in my mind and continued to puzzle me: that his life was now in their hands.

‘I will go now and search for the dresses made by you,’ I told him. ‘It is my mission now.’

The man sitting on the steps did not reply.

Why I foisted this mission on myself, I do not know. All the same, I walked through the streets looking for the dresses made by him. I was somehow sure that I would be able to recognize them among all the others. A kind of familiarity and closeness had developed between them and me.

Yes, there it was, one of his coats. It was floating in the air and, just as I spotted it, it jumped on to the shoulders of a man walking in the street. The man did not appear to notice and continued to walk as if nothing had happened. But something did happen, that too without his knowledge it seemed. He let go of the hand of the woman he was walking with and began to walk alone.

My surprise did not have enough time to die down. I spotted another dress, this time a Kashmiri phiran, beautifully embroidered. It draped the body of a woman and soon she too was walking alone, no longer with the man who seemed to be talking to her lovingly. The woman seemed unaware that this had happened.

There a long kurta with exquisite Lucknowi chikan work, the kind nawabs used to wear. I had admired it many a time in the showcase. The person on whom it fell was a short and frail factory worker who was walking holding his little son’s hand. The boy drifted away from him and the man straightened his shoulders, seemed to grow in stature and walked now as elegant as a tall nobleman. A double-breasted coat, which used to remind me of an advertisement slogan of a well-known textile company—‘for the perfect man in you’—seemed to sneak in from the side and captured its prey. It was a housewife. She instantly turned into a man, or became ‘the perfect man’. Coats, kurtas, jackets … the list went on.

Fear began to replace wonder in my mind. Is there a coat lurking somewhere, ready to devour me? To turn me into something else in a moment? The white cloak of a cleric or the saffron gown of a sanyasi? An army uniform, or something even more dreadful?

All those people I had watched being captured by the tailor’s clothes had lost their identity, become something else. They had forsaken their friends, spouses and children, to walk alone. They had traded their position in society, sex and, who knows, perhaps even their thoughts and their minds. In one stroke, they had become lone travellers walking on a new path.

I ducked instinctively whenever I felt a touch on my back. I kept looking behind me. I did not see any of the tailor’s clothes. But I also knew that I would not see them. For their modus operandi was to lurk in the shadows and jump on the victims unawares.

Yes, that is what the tailor had proclaimed. He wished to steer the people towards a home and path and purpose different from their present one. A ‘better’ existence from the one they had. He wanted to manipulate their desires, aspirations and passions … well, I was not ready to accept a path or home or aspiration not chosen by me. I was sure the people walking on the road would have agreed with me. Who was the tailor to decide their fate? And yet, the moment those deadly costumes fell on them, they went his way, casting away their dear ones without even a whimper of protest. Maybe they would eventually find new partners with new passions and new paths. This was perhaps the art he was boasting of, the art that would make them happier, according to him. I could not think of it without a shiver of horror. But his prey of course would not feel the horror because in one stroke they had been converted into new beings without a past. Is that the magic revolutionaries and prophets wield? To some extent, perhaps artists and writers too? Behind those seemingly happy persons, shall I say charged now with a mission, there were those whom they had left behind, alone.

I continued to nervously follow the newly born creatures, all the time with an eye on the coats and jackets possibly lurking nearby. Why was I doing this? Why didn’t I just give up this exercise, forget the thoughtless promise I had made to the mad tailor, and go back to my peaceful existence? I did not know. It was as if I too was caught in his web. But I was careful to keep a safe distance from them. I was scared of getting too close.

The new creatures created by the tailor’s dresses marched on. They didn’t seem to be communicating with each other, at least not talking to each other. But consciously or unconsciously they seemed to be heading in the same direction. It became clearer when at a junction all of them, without exception, left the main road and turned into a side street. The fact that there were not many ‘regular’ people on that street increased my unease. It dawned on me that I had only seen the creatures’ backs till now. What did they look like after being hijacked by their new garb? Did they even have faces? What if they were hollow men like the famous Invisible Man? While curiosity drew me towards them, fear pulled me back and kept me at a distance. For a moment I feared that, unbeknown to me, a coat had fallen on my shoulders and I had already turned into one of them. I checked my clothes and was reassured that they were my own. Thank God I had not lost the ability to judge.

Soon the flock — for that was how they began to appear to me — moved en masse into another side street, a quiet street lined by trees and slumbering houses. I realized that the flock had by now detached itself completely from the crowd; it was just they and I. If they had turned around and attacked me I would have had no means of escape. And yet I continued to follow them. Evening was setting in. Street lights were few and far between. Darkness descended from the trees and brought a chill with it.

As I had suspected, they all had the same destination. I saw them disappear through a gate at the end of the street. I was alone in the street with only the darkness and the cold as companions. Something inside me urged me on, and with heavy steps I moved towards the gate.

A board at the gate said: OUR PLACE. There were more words on the sign but they were in a script not known to me.

There was nothing to indicate if this ‘our place’ was a club or a restaurant or a private house. Perhaps the place was owned by a group. That, however, did not automatically imply that others were barred. A private place could still give admittance to others, but not a place that was exclusive. There is a difference between privacy and exclusiveness. With which of these descriptions can we qualify the condition of a man inside a coat, a borrowed one, for that matter? Perhaps the two long lines below the words OUR PLACE held the key to all such questions. But it was in an unknown language. If the objective was to deny entry to those who did not belong, it was foolish to use a language known only to the insiders. Come to think of it, the practice is not that uncommon to exclusivenesses. To deny and to do so in a language known only to the ‘included’.

In that moment, the tailor came to my mind with his language of metaphors. I realized that all along this journey my mind had been occupied with the dresses made by him and not his words, cryptic though they had been. To me, those dresses were no longer the beautiful objects I had admired earlier, but objects of fear. Thinking back on his words, they too appeared to have lost their poetry — they sounded merely ominous to me now. Those words and dresses had taken me to a place shrouded in darkness, silence and unknown languages. There was no way to relate the situation around me to art, a subject on which the man had had long discourses with me. The one concrete object before me at that moment was a gate and the tough question I faced was whether to enter or not. Perhaps it would be right to say that all kinds of philosophies, revelations, art and, who knows, literature too present such a gate before man at one time or another.

The dilemma solved itself. A gatekeeper appeared from nowhere and bowed and made a welcoming gesture. I stepped in.

The narrow pathway led me to a fairly large lawn where a number of people had gathered and seemed to be engaged in pleasant conversation. Some were seated around tables playing chess or cards. Some were getting drinks from the bar. Couples held each other intimately, occasionally indulging in long embraces and kisses. Several fires had been lit around the garden for the comfort of the guests. To my amazement, none among them wore the tailor’s clothes that I had been pursuing.

Noticing me standing apart, someone approached and invited me for a game or a drink. I excused myself politely. I could not tell him what I was looking for. It was certainly not easy to explain my endeavour. Nor was I in a mood for conversation. I had only anxiety and confusion to share. I had not spoken to anyone since I had left the tailor’s shop. This ‘our place’, whoever it belonged to, was not mine.

Providentially, a man appeared by my side who seemed to understand my predicament. ‘Come with me, I will take you where you want to go,’ he said cryptically. He led me to one side of the lawn and I followed him obediently, no longer questioning how he knew where I wanted to go. I found that there was yet another gate hidden behind the shrubs. The new gate too had a board: OUR OWN PLACE. As on the previous one, this too had a few lines underneath in what appeared to be the same unknown language.

As we went through, it became clear that the man was right. The tailor’s flock was all there. And they were the only ones present. I was wary this time and did not go closer. I positioned myself close to the gate. From there I could finally see their faces. Contrary to my fears, they did have bodies and faces inside their clothes; individual faces, each different from the other. Nevertheless, I knew that they were different from all other people, those outside these gates, a knowledge perhaps only I had. I was not proud of that knowledge; it disturbed me.

Contrary to the theories of exclusiveness, entry to this second group appeared more relaxed than the first one. There was no doorman. It was strange, regulation becoming easier as the exclusiveness increased. But, somehow, the air of freedom and congeniality weighed heavily on me. As if this apparent casualness was a precursor to a greater danger. I unconsciously gripped the bars of the gate for comfort as I stood in my hidden niche.

‘Our own place’ was, as might be expected, a smaller place than ‘our place’. There was a high stone wall around it and a roof covered the whole area with the exception of a circle in the centre that was left uncovered.

There were not many lamps in ‘our own place’. The main sources of light were the small bonfires scattered over the whole area. The shadows only added to the eeriness. The fires also did nothing to check the cold that seemed to be rising rapidly.

Dispelling my initial assumptions, the people I had thought of as loners were talking to each other. They were shaking hands, smiling, embracing. These people who had had different homes, different pasts and histories not so long ago, seemed to have shaken off those lives at the command of a coat or a kurta to become entirely new beings. But upon closer observation, I found that their friendliness and familiarity were very superficial, mechanical. Their laughter rang hollow and insincere. Their compliments were ritualistic.

There was ritualism in whatever they did. They filled their glasses but made no attempt to drink from them; instead, they moved to the fireplace only to pour the drink slowly into the fire like an offering. The fire at the open central area was bigger in size; I soon realized it was in fact a barbecue pit. There was an iron bar above the fire with hooks for hanging the meat. Hungry flames shot up intermittently from the fire only to retreat, finding no flesh to feed on.

There were no waiters or servants here. Everyone helped themselves to the drinks. There was no evidence of any food.

There was a sudden commotion, a flurry of movement and everyone gathered around the central fire. As the noise settled they all raised their right hand in the air and placed the left on the chest and uttered a kind of litany several times in unison. At the end of it one person came forward and addressed all the others. ‘It is now time to decide,’ he said, ‘who will host today’s party. Those who wish to volunteer, please take off your clothes and step forward.’

Instead of the one or two I expected, each and every one in the assembly began to remove their clothes in response. It seemed like yet another flock-behaviour, perhaps the only way they knew. They tore off their clothes as if no one wanted to be left behind in the race. In a matter of moments, everyone in the assembly was stark naked except the master of ceremonies. The tailor’s call had been to clothe the naked, but the master of ceremonies seemed intent on undoing his work. Unashamed, or perhaps unconscious of their nakedness, all of them stood, men and women.

Having by now got used to surprises, I just stood there. My eyes inadvertently explored them as if to satisfy myself that their bodies, though created by the tailor’s clothes, were, in fact, human. Hands, legs, breasts, buttocks and genitals; thin, fat, dark, fair, brown … yes, they looked human. Yet I knew that they were not their original selves. It was perhaps too much to expect them to revert just because they had shed their garb. The present denudation, however, gave them an orphaned look as if they had no identity other than what the clothes had given them. In their hurry to take off the clothes, some had dropped their drinks, but they made no attempt to retrieve them now.

The master of ceremonies did not seem very pleased with their behaviour. He moved through the flock, critically scrutinizing each person with an air of authority like a military officer inspecting a parade. He was the only one still fully dressed in the congregation and seemed to wield power. After walking through the throng a couple of times and inspecting the flock head to foot, he finally picked six persons, three men and three women, and asked them to fall out.

As the rejected ones went back into their clothes in unquestioning deference to his decision, the selected ones celebrated. They embraced each other, kissed and danced. Soon, as if to further test the limits of my amazement, the six chosen naked bodies, with complete disregard to the large crowd surrounding them, clung to each other and plunged into the throes of a sexual orgy. That was the only time their actions appeared to be completely spontaneous, not programmed or orchestrated, and the rest of the crowd waited impatiently until they collapsed, exhausted and drained.

The master of ceremonies once again took control and cast the dice for the six. He imperiously pointed to the one who was selected. The remaining five got up, dressed themselves and then hoisted the chosen one over their heads. The crowd cheered, and the chosen one waved to them like a champion in a rally. Imagine my surprise when I got a glimpse of his face; it was none other than the tailor himself!

What a comeback! I was under the impression that I had been moving away from this man with every step since I left him at the doorway of his shop. Distancing myself from him and following his dresses. But he had been the one leading them — and, as it turned out, leading me too — to this bizarre drama. Now, among the whole assembly wearing his dresses, he alone stood naked. In the end the artist is exposed by his creations and the prophet is unclothed by his followers. My unease grew with every minute. A voice inside my head whispered that I hadn’t seen the end yet and the denouement of the drama was yet to take place.

The five first-rounders were carrying him around on their shoulders and he continued to wave and cheer in response to the crowd, which seemed to be closing in on him. I grew apprehensive and unknowingly raised my hand and then immediately let it fall.

Then everything happened very fast. As the formalities got over, some of the people cleared the table which had held the drinks, brought it closer to the fire and arranged it like an improvised altar. They brought a long iron grill and placed it on the table. Instantly the bearers lowered the tailor and placed him over the grill. Did he struggle? Did they apply force? I couldn’t say. The five people, two men and three women, appeared to hold his head, hands and legs down.

To the accompaniment of the rhythmic clapping of the flock, or perhaps I should say mob, the master of ceremonies appeared with a long knife and slashed it through the neck of the tailor. The body went into violent convulsions, but the helpers held it tight and massaged it from feet upward, as if to squeeze all the blood from the body while the others swiftly held a vessel like the Holy Grail underneath the neck to collect every last drop.

The tailor’s body became still, so did the skilful fingers that had cut and stitched plain cloth and shaped it into dresses that no longer appeared beautiful to me. The flock, which had been created by his dresses, lifted the body of their father-artist along with the grill to hang it from the hooks of the barbecue. The blazing flames instantly leapt up and began licking at it.

The bowl with the blood remained on the altar, and the whole assembly lined up before it to dip their spoons in it, partaking in a form of sacrament. They all joined in a prayer: ‘Bread is he to us, wine is he to us. Sacrifices are great. The greatest of all sacrifices is the holy sacrifice.’

The atmosphere gradually relaxed. The assembly scattered and several filled their glasses with regular drinks, as I now thought of it, once again served from the table. This time they drank it casually without pouring it into the fire. There was little noise and talking till the master of ceremonies cleared his throat and again addressed the gathering. He announced the date for the next party and named the person who would act as the next master of ceremonies. The assembly greeted it with subdued applause. It appeared they had returned to their automaton selves. He then invited the members to the barbecue. Picking up plates, knives and forks they lined up for dinner.

I stood looking at that silent society gathering around the body of the tailor and cutting chunks of cooked flesh from it. I wouldn’t say I was stunned because to me it now seemed the natural conclusion of the chain of events I had been following. I had been travelling from character to character, story to story, experience to experience, and the area that could be marked as unbelievable was shrinking more and more in my mind. The scene before me was becoming quieter and no one in the gathering was speaking. There were just the clinks and clatter of knives and forks to be heard. Devoid of emotions and humour, closing the doors of communication, a society was restricting itself to the simple act of eating and that too mechanically. When the fat from the body would melt and fall on the burning wood, the fire would splutter and flames would shoot up and the diners would step back. When the flames would subside, they would close in once again.

I told myself that I must go now. There was nothing more for me here. I did not belong, my clothes were different and the night had advanced considerably. I turned towards the gate.

It was then that my eyes fell on a book neatly and ceremoniously placed on a table near the gate, like a visitors’ book. It was none other than the one I had seen in the tailor’s shop: The Book of Cutting and Tailoring. There were coat-hooks on the wall behind the table and the tailor’s coat, which may now serve as a holy shroud, was hanging from one of them.

A hand touched my left shoulder and I jerked around. The master of ceremonies stood before me, the man whom I had seen sinking his knife into the tailor’s neck. We stood face-to-face. I grew pale as his teeth bared in a broad smile.

‘Do not be afraid,’ he said, shifting his hand from my left shoulder to the right, as I turned towards him. ‘The rule is that exiting from here requires permission. But since you are a visitor it need not worry you.’

His words did not reassure me. His hand was still on my shoulder and its weight pressed down so that my right shoulder dipped lower than the left.

He withdrew it seeing that I was uncomfortable, and summoned another broad smile. My shoulder was still lopsided and he noticed that too. In a poetical tone — reminding me of the tailor — he continued, ‘Our society is certainly a small one, but it is not esoteric. We have our beliefs and discipline, but we do not hide them. No one stopped you at the gates, as you may have noticed. When the declarations of conflicts and wars and calls for sacrifice resound from every rooftop, where is the place for secrecy? Everything becomes open. Everything should be open. “Our own places” will expand into “our places” and thereafter to all places. The daylight of openness will bring everything out of the darkness. Nothing will remain hidden from man. All the doors will be opened and all mankind will be brought under one roof … This garden welcomes all, and it is spring.’

That declaration about daylight only increased the feeling of heaviness within me. Unable to even lift my drooping shoulder, I stood frozen. I, however, managed to squeeze out two words: ‘The tailor.’ I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, but that was all that I could bring out.

‘There are tailors and tailors,’ he retorted in a stony voice, the smile vanishing from his face. He too, like the tailor, assumed the voice of a prophet. ‘Some measure the bodies of clients and make coats for them,’ he continued. ‘They are just workers of the trade, who are not able to see beyond the bodies. Others see the souls of people. They break the bodies of the clients and design new ones to suit the souls, and make dresses for them. They are the artists, the creators of society. Strange is this world of clothes, as strange as the world itself.’

I listened in awe at how easily he shifted from the theories of sacrifice and conflict to the ideology of creation. I could not bear these exercises any more. I lifted my sagging shoulder and gathered courage to frame a full sentence. ‘You killed him,’ I said.

‘Sacrifice is not killing, it is worship,’ came his swift reply. ‘There are only devotees in this temple, no killers. Some devotees offer sacrifices during their worship. Some go beyond and offer themselves as a sacrifice. But the sacrifice of all sacrifices is the sacrifice of the God.’

Futile is this argument, I told myself. Gathering my strength I cautiously walked backwards till my back touched the gate. It opened by itself. The man did not try to stop me. I thought hopefully that perhaps it was not allowed for him to cross the gate of ‘our own place’.

I turned around and walked quickly across the gates of ‘our own place’ and then of ‘our place’.

Outside, the darkness had thickened, as had the cold. Amber traffic lights blinked idly at the traffic junctions and street lights struggled to illuminate the streets in the enveloping fog. Rapidly walking through the darkness and the cold and turning corners one after another, I reached the main road. The roads were all deserted and shutters were down at every shop. I didn’t see any of those homeless, directionless and so-called fragmented people out. Right or wrong, everyone appeared to have reached home. The night is not for journeys but for home and hearth. And yes, for worship and sacrifice.

Sacrifice! The night spells out sacrifice. Sacrifice of victims, devotees and the Godhead itself. Finally away and out of all ‘places’, now I was in a position to quietly mull over all that the master of ceremonies had said. He had described the last form of sacrifice as the greatest of all sacrifices. A kind of sacrament of the Lord. He had told me that the artist-tailor redeemed the souls of people by first breaking their bodies, then manufacturing new ones suitable to their souls before clothing them in suitable garments. He had also said that they had not killed the tailor, that it was worship, not murder; their way of giving thanks to him, a prophet, who had created a new genre of beings. In a moment it flashed through my mind that I hadn’t seen the tailor struggling on the grill. ‘This cup is the new testament in my blood’—did he say this as the knife sank into his neck? ‘Take, eat, this is my body.’ Was I witnessing the passing of the old testament to give birth to the new, in those gory moments played out in ‘our own place’? The old testament that gave abundant instances of the former ways of sacrifice the master of ceremonies had mentioned, but not a single case of the sacrifice of the Lord himself? Seshadri had asked me to investigate the Assassins and Hasan had given me the task of studying the art and history of tailoring. If so, what was the tailor’s assignment for me? What were his doubts and apprehensions that I was supposed to pursue and solve? Good God!

God! God does not pass. Or, does he? Is there such a phase? I thought of Bengal, the land of Kali worship.

Bengalis have a near monopoly on the theme of Kali. Someone had once shown me a number of variations of the deity in a chart form, right from the benign Gauri, Parvati and Durga to the fierce ones like the blue Kali and the dark Kali whose eyes and tongue were the only visible parts in the darkness of her being. Among them I had seen an unusual one, Chhinnamastaka, who in her lower left hand holds her own severed head. A jet of blood spurts from her neck feeding the open mouth of the severed head. I remember thinking that there could be nothing beyond this, as here was the goddess sacrificing herself, the ultimate sacrifice. Is that how The Book of Destruction, or, for that matter, The Book of Creation, ends?

Content

Anand
Book of Destruction

About the Authors

The Gardener

The Hotelier and the Traveller

The Tailor