A beam of light swept inside through the window full onto her face. She turned round sleepily. Then she was jolted out of her bed with her heart thumping by loud knocking on her door, and someone was cursing. She got up with a mumbled response, told them to spare her door, she was coming. When she opened the door bleary-eyed, she saw a police jeep, a sub-inspector she did not know, a 'head,' and two constables.
" Are you Chattupalli Ramulamma, of Gangpur-B hamlet, Raikode Mandal, by profession a dai?" asked the inspector rather unnecessarily.
She nodded helplessly.
"You are under arrest," he said turning away irritably towards the jeep, and the constables caught her by either arm, giving her no time to wash her face. She slipped her feet into her chappals as they dragged her along, and held up a finger pleadingly at the sub-inspector.
" Umm, go behind your hut." He nodded to the head constable who took her round. When she hesitated, her escort said gruffly: "What modesty do you women have? Do it in front of me." So she lifted up her sari, squatted and peed against her own wall.
No one would answer any of her pleading questions as she sat uncomfortably on the metal floor of the jeep at the back, with the booted feet of her captors kicking her at every bump in the road that the vehicle took at great speed. She did not expect that any of the constables would allow her to sit beside them. The sub-inspector sat on the cushioned seat in front beside the driver and spoke incessantly into his walkie-talkie in English. She soon knew they were on their way to Hyderabad, but she hadn't been to the great city in months, so why were they arresting her?
In forty minutes are so, the jeep swerved off the road and pulled up at an all night dhaba. The sub-inspector got out with a groan, and waving his stick in greeting to the Sikh owner disappeared inside, most probably for a cup of tea or an omelette or something hot to eat. The constables were served tea outside near the jeep, though the 'head' went and started a conversation with the Sikh.
A constable, Aslam Bhai, who stood near her, whispered in low tones that a terrorist had been caught, and she was being taken to Hyderabad only for questioning, she would be let go, when it was done. When she asked what could she know, he shrugged noncommittally and moved away to talk to his colleague. So that was it, someone from her past, who was or had been a Naxalite, had mentioned her name most probably under torture, and they were pulling her in to get information. Her peace of mind returned, her links with all the revolutionaries had broken very many years ago, she knew no more than anyone else in any village, and she would be able to convince the interrogating officer, surely no one less than an Assistant Commissioner of Police, that she knew nothing of importance, and she would be back home by the late afternoon bus.
As they neared the city, the jeep turned onto a ring road, and swung past the great city with its gleaming lights. Half-an-hour later, they pulled up at a police station, with peeling paint, and an unkempt yard, on the outskirts of the city. As they mounted the flagged steps, the sub-inspector, suddenly communicative, pointed to the Closed Circuit TV cameras mounted in the ceiling, and smiled at her. "None of them work, you know why? Because this is where we interrogate dangerous criminals, and we do not want any records." He saluted the Circle Inspector in charge, handed her over, saluted again, and departed with his men, while she was locked up in a cell.
She had curled up on the cold floor and fallen asleep, when the cell door clanged open, and a woman constable in a drab khaki sari came in with a hot cup of tea, and she saw that dawn had broken. Silently the woman waited for her to finish her tea and then took her to the interrogation room.
She had been right in thinking an ACP would be there, he was a pleasant-faced youngster with a big handsome moustache. He smiled at her as she came in and politely offered her a chair. She did not need to look around. She had seen interrogation rooms before, though a long time ago. It was bare, except for the table, the chairs, and the single bulb that hung from the ceiling.
"Why have I been arrested?" she asked him pointblank.
" You have not been arrested," he replied evenly. "We have taken you into protective custody, and we will let you go after you have answered a few simple questions."
The questions were repeated over and over again, in confusing order, in convoluted form, for about an hour. She was told to confess everything, no harm would come to her, she was threatened, stupid woman, that this was a dangerous place, and if they wished they could extract their information in five minutes, but they took pity on her, and then there was a break for another round of tea, when the ACP asked politely if she would care for another spoon of sugar, and how the crops were doing in her village.
When the interrogation resumed, the ACP had his feet on the table in front, and said suddenly that a dreaded terrorist had named her as an accomplice, so the game was up. She repeated once again evenly, without batting an eyelid, that if he looked up their own records he would know that her man had been killed by them decades ago, when she was still in her teens, then she had married a postman, and been widowed again, and that she had been a respectable dai for very many years, working with high government officials and police officers.
He seemed not to listen, immersed in a file.
"Who is Attar SahibAbdullah, and what is he to you?" asked the ACP looking up.
"Attar Saipu?" she asked stupidly. " He used to travel with the melas, he was there on every big festival day at every fairground, and sold perfume, attar, all women bought from him, me too, his attar was very good, and he was a good man, why?"
" So you are defending him?" A crooked smile played on the ACP's face. " Why are you so keen to defend him?"
"Ayyo Saru! I am not defending him or anyone. Ask anyone, he was, used to be, a decent old man."
"Do you remember his son, Saleem?" His eyes had narrowed into slits. " He is a Muslim, and you are a Dalit, but he calls you Ramulamma Aunty? How is this? Some kind of organizational code?"
She looked genuinely bewildered, and somewhat upset. "That mad fellow, he's been crazy from birth - he's 'skeetso' - poor fellow, harmless, Saru!"
"He's grown a beard," said the ACP simply.
"He's got leucoderma on his chin," she said desperately. "The beard is just to cover up the white patches, don't waste your time on him, he doesn't know what he is saying!"
"Right!" said the ACP with decision, snapping the file shut. " I won't waste my time on you! You can meet him. He has made a full confession, so we know everything. Later perhaps you will cooperate with me. Ramulamma, I don't like 'third degree' methods, but if I must, I must."
As if at a signal, two women constables came in and silently escorted her back to her cell. For lunch she was given one big jowari roti and runny cold dal. As dusk was falling she was taken once again to the interrogation room, to find Saleem sitting there in a chair, grinning, with his hands behind his head.
"Hello, Ramulamma Aunty! Hello, Ramulamma Aunty! I told them everything! I told them you were with me in the 'conspiracy.'" He smiled proudly at pronouncing the English word correctly.
She sat down wearily. To get into all this trouble because of this mad fellow, but how could the police be stupid enough to take him seriously?! " What did you tell them, Saleem?" she asked, not caring that everything would be recorded somewhere, and most probably there were peep holes all round.
"Everything, Auntyji! Everything! You know why? Because nothing can change now. The Amrikan planes will be falling from the air! Poof! Poof! Poof! Thousands will die! Lakhs! All because of my discovery!"
A knot tightened in Ramulamma's stomach. This was serious madness, and it could get her and several other people into serious trouble. "Saleem, come to your senses!" she begged. "You know nothing, you cannot know! You did not even pass your tenth class, what nonsense are you talking, in Allah's name?"
He put his fingers to his lips, and looked round suspiciously, and then turned back, his eyes gleaming. "I know about hydrogen. Hydrogen! It's explosive. Germans lost a big, big hawai jehaj, bigger than what the Amrikans have, because, Poof! Hydrogen blew up!"
It was all nonsense. He went round and round in his fantasies, spinning stories about his discoveries, how he had met Osama bhai, given him this powerful technology so the Amrikans would be defeated, and the police were very happy, he was their guest for were not Amrikans enemies of Hindustan as well?
Later, she would rather forget what happened the following nights. For hours she was beaten mercilessly, stripped bare, hung by her outstretched arms from the ceiling. She came to once when she thought she was drowning and found a policeman peeing into her mouth. Then at some stage she was screaming for a stick had been rammed into her smeared with chilli powder. Hours later she woke in her cell, a policewomen nudging her awake, not unkindly, and asking her to eat something.
Late that evening two policemen came to take her to the interrogation room, and since she was too weak to stand up pulled her along by her hair through the corridors, and then dumped her into a chair. The young ACP was sitting in front under the light. He looked at her in silence for a bit.
"You have to help me make a decision, Ramulamma," he said at last, conversationally. "You are either a core criminal in this conspiracy, in this terrorist plot, or you know nothing. What is it now?"
She was silent for she knew he did not expect any answer.
"Drink your tea, Ramulamma, it is right in front of you. Drink it!"
She must obey orders. She focused on a huge mug in front of her, lifted it with trembling hands and started drinking the liquid. The world was swimming round her, suddenly it expanded and his bloated face and staring eyes were pulsing in front. From far away she heard his voice, calm, soothing.
" It is a brilliant strategy, Ramulamma, better brains were required than you and Saleem. Scientists! Al-Qaeda scientists! Now who was it? So simple, right, anyone can do it. People slip plastic pouches filled with hydrogen gas into their bellies, and keep it tight through a simple yogic exercise. Then all gather at the right moment in a plane and create a spark through static electricity, rubbing their feet on the carpet, silk on ebony says Saleem, and you have downed a plane with hundreds of Americans. Who is the brains behind this, and why did you join in? No more harm will come to you if you cooperate - you understand don't you, we don't want to hurt you, we only want the truth?"
Later, she couldn't remember what she had said in reply, just repeated her ignorance, she surmised. She heard something about 'continue treatment,' but strangely the second night it did not feel so awful, for she knew what was going to come, and her mind by some mysterious process blanketed out most of the pain. Did it continue for a third and a fourth night? She was never very sure for how many days they interrogated her, and when they stopped.
A long time later, the kindly professor, Govindaraja, explained to her what had happened in the world outside that police station. The Indian secret service, Research and Analysis Wing, had flashed the information to the CIA of the Americans, and MI5 of the British. All flights across the Atlantic had been cancelled immediately and the American Transportation Security Administration put passengers at terminals into holding pens and made them vomit. She was also shown video clips of New York's JFK airport awash in vomit with CNN reporters wearing masks as they brought in the news. At Heathrow airport in London, Muslim babies' tummies were squeezed by the police till they bawled and were declared harmless. A group of pudgy-faced Algerian children were wrestled to the ground at the Louvre Museum in Paris by agents of the Sūreté before they could burn the famous Mona Lisa painting. All airlines were issued strict instructions by the Department of Homeland Security that no one was to be permitted on board wearing silk clothing or shoes, and all wooden articles were also put on the forbidden list. Airplanes were called back to have carpeting ripped out of them, the delay causing airlines several billion dollars of loss. Barefoot passengers said bravely they were willing to put up with any inconvenience for the sake of safety, while families of aged passengers who died of pneumonia were tight-lipped as they collected the insurance.
Ramulamma was quietly released several weeks later when the worldwide scare died down. She was dazed for a few weeks, then recouped with her usual resilience. She asked after Saleem, but no one knew, no one wanted to talk about him, even Attar Saipu, who just waved her away and bent once again to read the Quran. Asking professor Govindaraja during a visit to Hyderabad she learnt that scientists had conducted exhaustive tests to prove that such explosions were not possible without the addition of other vital elements to the deadly mixture. So that was it, all a huge waste because a sick boy's madness was taken seriously by the police. Surely, they knew he was mad? Yes, but they never took chances, and thought his madness would lead him to be an informer through whom they could reel in the whole network.
Months later, just by chance she saw Saleem at a cycle repair shop. He came over quickly, smiling, as if nothing had happened. Concerned, she asked him how he was, and tried to see if he bore any marks of torture. But he bent down and whispered: " The secret is in the attar!"
