Studio

When Farida Khanum was born, in the rusty village of Wasnal, no one knew, including herself, that she would end up where she was right now. Farida Khanum stood with her stillborn, unable to understand why she should grieve the way the rest of the family were. She held the bundle of flesh and took pride in administering the commands over cremation. Farida Khanum IPS waited with baited breath till she could ask her driver to move on. It was dusk, and dusty. Memories of her village in Pakistan came alive. It was a fresh country. Fresh with wounds, trauma and the renewed knowledge of a religion which was never a part of her childhood games. 

She smiled dismissively, aware that her driver should not see the smile, and thought of how intelligently her parents made the shift to the new India and thereafter in her teens, the numerous requests she would beget to sing, courtesy her name. New Delhi was not too far off from her ancient village. And Farida was glad that she gave birth to a stillborn. She now had the pious face to continue with what she wanted most -- to serve the nation.

Bred by choice an atheist, Farida lost herself in the traffic. Even Ahmed could not understand her relief of not having to attend to nappies and breastfeeding. All of a sudden she had this urge to wear her uniform and be seated in her cabin. But she knew she had to behave a certain way in the face of mourning. She could not remember what Mourning becomes Electra was about, but traced something about Chaplin and O'Neill being linked with each other. Maybe they were in-laws.

The bungalow was draped in a shade of silence she did not know could exist. It was nothing near the screams of horror from the bloodshed stories shared in her Wasnal neighbourhood. As she got off from her car and went into the room, Ahmed held her hand and said "I am sorry."

"It is ok," she replied, not knowing what he was sorry about. After an intimate embrace she continued, "Listen, I was wondering..."

Before she could complete, Ahmed reiterated, "Yes, we should start planning again. May be we could take a weekend off in McLeodgunj." Farida smiled and changed into her kaftaan. "Yes."

She went into the washroom and looked into the mirror. If only wounds were healed by planning, Ahmed. She smeared a generous dab of ittar and went out for dinner. As she took a spoonful she realized she had thoughts of murdering Ahmed. Now that would be a nice plan. Killing you with kisses. 

That night she dreamt that she was being awarded the highest award by the President. When she received it, it was her stillborn. Farida woke up in a sweat. Ahmed tossed towards her and asked softly, "Is everything ok?"

"No!" she screamed. No, you idiot. I cannot have the conscience of a mother if I have to kill you. I cannot think of how unlucky Lucky's death can turn out to be. I cannot be uprooted.

"It's ok, Farida. Come here, things will be fine." Ahmed was very kind indeed. 

"You think, Ahmed?" retorted Farida. "Everything will be fine? Explain, how? Did you dream of Lucky?" The air-conditioner suddenly seemed to be not enough for the room. Ahmed passed her a glass of water, "Here, have it."

She bashed it aside and ran into the washroom. It needs to be done tonight. Ahmed has to go. I can't bear his gentleness. I am IPS Farida Khatun and he will sing to my tune. Like the kites in the childhood skies did. She geared up, gun in her hand.

The dawn at the bungalow was one of celebrated sorrow. Officials lined up in sympathy for IPS Khatun. But most of them went back saying, "I thought she was stronger."

When she had fired the shot, no religion stopped her, nor any emotion. She was driven by an impossible impulse to end a life. And end it well. 

Nobody could tell, even as her coffin was lowered, if she had meant the shot for someone else. She would have laughed at yet another wrong she would live her life with. 

Farida Khatun's life was a studio, voices filled her roles. They never echoed her own.