November  2003 
Year 10    No.93

Fiction


No escape

BY GURPREET SINGH

Seattle, One Week after September 11

The downtown roads wore a deserted look. Traffic was lower than usual. Taxis sat idle at the airport. With almost no tourist coming into the city, the cabbies waited endlessly for customers. Cars from the Yellow Taxi Company lined up outside Domestic Arrivals.

Among them was Car 55. Breaking the silence, a dispatcher roared into the radio, "Car 55, Car 55, CAR 55!" Harry, the owner of Car 55, rushed to the driver’s seat in excitement. "Yes, Car 55!" he responded.

"Car 55, there’s a customer heading to Bellingham. He is waiting at Gate 4,’’ said the dispatcher, assigning the trip to Harry. "OK,’’ Harry said and sped away. The dispatcher mumbled to himself, "Lucky Bastard! At the right place at the right time. No one’s got such a wonderful trip since morning.’’

Harry got out of his cab to find who his customer was. An elderly white man was waiting there with his luggage. "Hello Sir. Heading for Bellingham?’’ Harry asked him. The man’s eyes raked him from head to toe. After a brief silence, he said, "Yes, I am."

Harry picked up the passenger’s briefcase and a heavy shoulder bag, put it inside the car trunk, then opened the rear door. As the man sat inside, he asked, "So where are you from?"

"From India," said Harry as he put the key in the ignition.

On the highway, the man continued, "Are you a Muslim?"

Despite the bluntness of the question, Harry replied courteously, "No Sir, I’m not. I am a Sikh.’’

"Then why are you wearing a turban?"

"It is our religious symbol," Harry replied shortly, thinking this would end the conversation. It didn’t. "What’s your name?"

"I am Harry. Harry Gill."

"There’s a guy who appeared on TV to congratulate those maniacs. He was wearing a turban like you."

"That’s Osama Bin Laden. He is a terrorist, not a Sikh," said Harry, barely concealing his irritation.

"Aren’t you upset with what happened in New York?"

"I think it was unfortunate. Nobody can justify such violence."

Harry looked into the rear-view mirror to read the expressions of his inquisitive passenger. The face showed discontent. When they reached the man’s home, he asked Harry abruptly, "How come your name is Harry? It isn’t an East Indian name."

"You’re right Sir. My name is Hardeep, but most of my colleagues here call me Harry.’’

The man got off, paid the fare and went inside. He left no tip.

***

By the time Harry reached home it was 4 a.m. and his wife and child were fast asleep. He went to the special corner of the wardrobe, took out a bottle of Royal Crown and poured himself a drink. Taking a sip, he switched on the TV. Almost every channel he switched on had the same story. The devastating images of World Trade Centre seemed unwilling to die. On one channel, a pretty anchor was hosting a live call-in show. Harry stopped switching channels out of curiosity. She was seeking public opinion: "Who is responsible for the World Trade Centre attacks?" One caller who phoned in sounded angry. "I think it is the direct fallout of the liberal immigration policy of our government. They are the ones who bombed the towers and Bush should kick them out…’’ he went on raving.

Harry switched off the TV. He felt stressed-out. The caller on the TV show reminded him of his passenger. Same emotions, different breeding.

The questions still grated on his nerves. Questions about his nationality, his faith, his appearance, his name... He poured another drink and gulped it down.

He wanted to call in to the show and list out crimes Whites committed every day, but didn’t have the energy. He lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep. He felt drained. With the taxi business going through hard times, it was becoming difficult to clear the mortgage for the house. As his son started school next year, his demands would grow. His wife was out of work. She lost her job at a fish cannery two months ago, when the company closed down the business.

"We are the ones willing to work at wages no White man would work at. Yet they still want us kicked out?" he thought to himself.

"After having spent so many years in this country, are we still outsiders?" he said aloud in Punjabi.

Karan’s giggles woke him up in the afternoon. His son was running a toy car over his dad’s stomach. Smiling despite his sleepiness, Harry got up and took Karan into his arms. Karan was excited, chattering on about the wanted "…new car that Mom got…" and a thousand other things. This was the best time to catch hold of Dad because by evening he would leave home for work and would be seen only the next day.

"Dad, see my car!" Karan shouted in excitement. "Mom bought it for me yesterday from the supermarket…’’ His mother chipped in from the kitchen, "He embarrassed me for this stupid car. He cried like an abused child. Everyone was staring…"

Karan was silent, looking shamefacedly at his father. Harry remonstrated with his wife, "Rummy, can’t you forget it? The boy is so happy!"

Rummy came into the room with tea for her husband. The couple looked at each other and smiled. Rummy, as she not infrequently did, poked at her husband’s obsession for their son. "You are the one who has spoilt him,’’ she said, not really meaning it. But she did seem upset about something.

Harry told Karan to go to his room and play and as he left reluctantly, Harry turned to his wife and asked, "What’s bothering you?"

"Without work, I feel so useless. Just sitting at home," she said.

"Come on, you have Karan to look after. That itself is a full-time job," Harry tried to talk her out of her mood.

But Rummy wasn’t convinced. "I’ve dropped my resume at a few places. Maybe I’ll get a call in a day or two."

"Relax. We’re not in a rush," Harry assured her.

"Do you have any idea how we will pay off the mortgage?"

"Please Rummy, leave it to me. As long as I’m alive, you don’t need to worry. Who’s the head of the family? You or me?"

Rummy smiled and took Harry’s hand into her own, "Why did you come back home so late last night?"

"I was away to Bellingham with a customer."

"Wonderful! Such a long trip… How much did he tip you?"

"Tip? He gave me nothing. He seemed to be angry about my turban."

"About your turban? I don’t understand."

"Forget it Rummy. These are bad times. Things will soon be fine."

"You know, I’ve noticed too. At the market yesterday, I was trying to park my car near the entrance of the store. There was another woman, a Latino, who wanted to park her car in the same place. When I got out of the car, she shouted, "Bomber! What’s the problem with you?" I was so upset."

"These are just bad times. Things will soon be fine," Harry murmured as he went straight to the washroom.

***

Harry was ready to leave for work. Rummy handed him his lunch-box. "Here is your lunch. And here is some kheer for Dave."

"Kheer for Dave? Why?"

"Don’t you remember? Today is his birthday."

"Trust a woman to remember! I have to buy him a gift. I don’t know what I should get him.’’

"Maybe a nice shirt."

"That’s a good idea. I don’t have enough time, but I will go and check for something on my way to work."

Harry stole away quietly lest his son should see him. "See you in the morning," he told Rummy in a whisper as he left.

On the way to the mall, Harry was wondering what kind of shirts Dave wore. That was easy. Dave always wore full-sleeved shirts with checked patterns. Harry had never seen Dave in any other style. Even at company parties, he never wore anything remotely formal. How could a happy-go-lucky soul like Dave ever wear anything stiff, starched and formal?

Harry had always known David Clancy as a caring person. As a dispatcher at the Yellow Taxi Company, he was supposed to be a no-nonsense person, but he was always considerate about the problems of the cabbies.

When Harry joined the Yellow Taxi Company he could hardly speak English. Dave helped him in picking up some common expressions used by cabbies working downtown. For several months, Dave received complaints about his accented English from customers. Several regulars asked Dave not to send Harry to them. They said they didn’t understand what he said. But Dave kept these complaints to himself. He started assigning him trips with easy-going customers. Dave did not want Harry to lose his job. Gradually, Harry picked up, and became a favourite among some White customers.

Dave also helped Rummy to get a job at the fish cannery, where a supervisor was an ex-girlfriend he was still friendly with. Rummy owed so much to Dave that she often invited him for dinner. He became particularly fond of kheer, a sweet concoction of thickened milk and rice, very popular in North India. Karan doted on Uncle Dave ever since he brought him a model police-car on his third birthday.

After picking up a Sears shirt, Harry rushed to work. He was already late.

The day-shift driver who used the cab in the morning had a habit of leaving it without gas so he had to be there well before the evening shift started.

Harry went straight into the dispatcher’s room. Dave was ordering the day-shift drivers to rush back to office and hand over the cars to their night-time counterparts. "Car 6, time you got back… Car 22, the night-time driver is in, so hurry…"

Harry shouted, "Hey Dave! Happy Birthday!"

Dave smiled but didn’t say anything as he was still on the radio. After a while, he paused and said, "Thanks Harry!"

"I’ve got a gift for you."

"Wow! What is it?’’ said Dave, visibly surprised and delighted. He tore the wrapping open, "Awesome!"

"Rummy has also sent you something," said Harry, handing him the lunch-box.

"This must be kheer. She’s an angel!" Dave smiled as he pulled out a spoon from his desk drawer and began eating. "Join me for beer tonight at the Cats Meow."

After finishing off the kheer, Dave asked as he was washing up, "Has she found work yet?’’ Before Harry could reply, he continued, "Kevin’s coffee shop a block away needs a helper. Ask her to drop her resume — I know somebody who works there."

Harry was pleased. "Another girlfriend?" he joked.

Dave laughed. "No, no. A 210-pound male who is the manager.’’

The night-dispatcher rushed into the room. "Sorry Dave, I was caught in traffic,’’ he said as he rushed to the radio.

"See you at the bar,’’ Dave told Harry as he picked up his helmet. "And remember, the taxi-business is not good downtown. Why don’t you go to the ferry? Cruise ships dock there every evening and you may get great business if you stay there for a couple of hours."

***

Harry waited at the ferry terminal. There would be no sign of ships until 6 o’clock. This delay meant that he would have to forget about joining Dave at the bar. He felt tired sitting in the car so he locked the cab and went to look for a public rest-room.

There was nobody inside. Normally, there was a big rush of people at this time of the day. As Harry looked into the mirror to reset his turban, he saw the graffiti freshly painted on the wall to his back: "Kill Arabs! Keep America White and Safe!" At the bottom was a sign of the swastika in blood-red.

Harry was nervous. He felt as if he was naked and was being stared at. He walked back to his car — edgy and unsure. He felt as if someone was shouting, "Kill the Sikhs! Kill the terrorists!" He closed his eyes and saw a crowd of people attacking homes and chanting slogans full of hatred. It was November 1984 all over again. Hindu extremists had attacked the homes of Sikhs all over India. They wanted to avenge the assassination of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, who was gunned down by her Sikh bodyguards. They assassinated her for ordering a military operation to curb Sikh extremism in Punjab, which resulted in the desecration of the holiest shrine of the Sikhs.

Harry’s home in Kanpur was reduced to a ruin.

His mother Santo took him to a Hindu neighbour’s house for safety. His father Kartar Singh wasn’t traceable. No one knew where he was ever since he had left his home for the office of the trucking company he owned the previous day. The office boy said that he had not reached office at all.

Rajesh Mishra, a Hindu neighbour, gathered all the Sikhs from that area in a large room at the rear of the house. The sounds of gun-shots and screams could be clearly heard resonating across every locality in the city.

Apart from Kartar Singh’s family, Jarnail Singh’s wife and two daughters were sharing that room. One of them was Manu, a girl from Harry’s class. The two enjoyed each other’s company and gossiped for long hours.

The families were to stay there for an indefinite period. No one knew when the police curfew would be lifted or when the killings would stop. But for Harry and Manu the horror was still distant, and these were somehow very interesting times.

***

After eight days, the curfew was lifted. The authorities asked relatives of people reported as missing to come to the civil hospital for the identification of bodies recovered from different parts of the city. Rajesh Mishra persuaded Santo to go with him to see if Kartar Singh’s body was there. Santo did not want to go, willing herself into believing that her husband was still alive.

At the mortuary, there were piles of charred bodies everywhere. It was difficult to figure out who was who. But among them was a body clearly that of Kartar Singh.

His long hair was gone. Apparently, the attackers cut it off in anger. The only identification that survived was his name tattooed on his right wrist — a common practice among truckers. As Harry stared at the corpse, Santo said in a quavering voice, "No Hardeep! That’s not your father. Where is his hair? A Sikh would die before cutting it off…" and then she began to wail inconsolably.

Three days after the funeral, Santo asked Rajesh to let them leave, "We do not want to trouble you anymore."

"Behen, why are you worried? We have always considered you as part of our family and this is your home. Once the situation is better, we will help you rebuild your old house. Hardeep is stepping into manhood and things will soon be fine…"

But Santo had made up her mind. "No, we can’t live here anymore. I want to take Hardeep away from here to Punjab, where my brother will take care of us. I have lost my husband. I do not want to lose my son,’’ she said with steely determination.

Rajesh Mishra called his childhood friend, Abhay Yadav, a local deputy superintendent of police. He asked for help in escorting Harry and his mother to Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab.

As Yadav dropped them at the railway station he instructed a uniformed constable assigned to accompany them to Chandigarh, "Do not leave them alone at any cost. And remember, you may be a chain-smoker, but they are Sikhs and hate smoking. So don’t smoke during the journey.’’

***

A ferry whistled at the terminal. Soon there would be a rush of people crowding to get home. Harry looked into the rear-view mirror, wiped his eyes and adjusted his turban, smartening up before the first passenger came.

After a couple of minutes, a White boy knocked at the driver’s side window. Harry rolled it down. "Good evening Sir. Do you want a cab?’’ he asked politely.

"Yes we do. There are four of us. We want to be dropped at Kent".

"Sure," said Harry as he looked around to see where the rest were.

In a few seconds, three more boys had appeared. All of them had their heads shaven and one was smoking. He took the front seat. Smoking irritated Harry, but then a driver had little choice.

Harry realised that one of them in the rear had a big shoulder bag. "You can put your luggage in the trunk,’’ Harry said as he started the cab and pulled away.

"F*** you!" came the reply. Harry didn’t have a choice. He pocketed the insult.

There was complete silence as Harry pulled into the traffic.

After a few minutes, when the boy in the front seat asked him to stop at a cigarette store, Harry said, "There isn’t any till Kent."

"I’ll tell you where it is. Turn right at the next intersection."

The street they were now on was deserted. Harry felt uneasy. "I think we are on the wrong street,’’ he said politely.

"Shut up!"

The boy in the front said lightly, "There is a store a block away from here."

After a few hundred metres, the smoker said, "Stop right here!" Harry stomped on the brakes. There was a lonely-looking building on the right and the boy shouted, "Take the car around the building!"

Harry was terrified by now, but had little choice. As he turned the car, he was punched hard on the neck. "What the Hell!’’ he shouted, forced to stop.

"SHUT UP you son of a b***h!" All of them jumped out of the car. The boy in the front pulled out the keys and pocketed them. Harry looked around like a trapped animal. He tried to grab the radio to call for help, but one of the boys took out a knife and slashed at his wrist.

Another kicked him in his back. The third pulled out a baseball bat from his bag and began systematically hitting him in the kidneys. Harry fell down as he heard the shouts, "M****r-f*****g Arab! Go to Allah!"

"I’m not Muslim!" is all Harry could even attempt to say, as the blows continued.

"Run to Osama, m****r-f****r!’’

Harry scrabbled up and ran towards the main street. The boys chased him down and pounced again. One of them spat on his face and the other took out a knife and stabbed him in the stomach.

Harry was fading. Suddenly, a minivan turned into the street. A monster of a man with long hair and tattoos all over his arms rolled down the window. "Hey! What’s going on!’’ he hollered in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

The boys looked up unsure. "We caught a terrorist!"

"And are you the f*****g FBI?" the man countered aggressively.

"That’s none of your business!" one of the boys said, gathering up courage and lifting up the baseball bat.

The man laughed, reached under his dashboard and as he jumped out of his van the boys saw he had a wicked looking shot-gun in his hand.

The boys fled without a backward look.

The man pulled out a cell phone and murmured into it. Within minutes, the police rushed to the scene, an ambulance was called and Harry found himself in hospital. That’s all he remembered.

When Harry regained consciousness the next morning, Rummy and Karan were sitting next to his bed. Rummy was sobbing, Karan was bewildered and tearful.

Harry felt sedated. He couldn’t speak. He simply nodded and smiled weakly to reassure them.

A doctor rushed in, accompanied by a police officer. "Mr. Gill, are you in a position to speak?"

Harry closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep.

"I’m sorry, but you need to come back another time,’’ the doctor told the officer.

As the officer was leaving, Rummy stopped him. "I am his wife. I want to know who attacked my husband and why?" she asked between sobs.

"Hello Ma’am. I am Tim Sampson. I am the investigating officer on this case. It is too early to say who the attackers were and what their motive was. But we think this is a hate crime," he replied.

"Hate crime? I don’t understand?"

"Well, we believe Mr. Gill was assaulted because of his turban and what it may mean to some people. But we cannot be sure, until we arrest the attackers. Amazingly, your husband’s wallet is safe. His cell phone and some other belongings were found untouched from inside the car. So robbery is not likely to be a motive.’’

"Did anybody see those b******s?"

"Well, we do have a witness who probably saved your husband’s life. His name is Bruce and he works with a cargo company. We are acting on the description of the boys he has given and hope to find them soon. I will be back once Mr. Gill is in a position to make a statement,’’ the officer said as he turned to leave.

Rummy was still in shock. The doctor’s report made her feel worse. It said that although Harry’s injuries were not life-threatening, they would take up to eight weeks to recover, especially the deep wounds in his abdomen. That meant he would not be able to work.

"Hey Rummy,’’ a familiar voice said softly. She turned around. It was Dave. He took Rummy into his arms as she cried like a child.

***

After several days, Harry was discharged and came back home. The family routine had changed. Rummy had got a job at the coffee shop with Dave’s help and left home early in the morning only to return late at night. Harry remained at home, watching the same tired reruns on TV and playing with Karan. The only highlight was his daily struggle to give Karan a bath or get lunch ready for him.

Rummy came back home exhausted but would still insist on preparing dinner for both of them. Rummy was frazzled by the end of the day, but she didn’t give herself a choice. Harry’s guilt increased and one day he mustered up enough will to say, "You’re taking too much trouble, why don’t you…’’

"Please stop. We are soul-mates. How does it matter who takes the lead? It’s just the three of us as one family.’’

A phone rang. It was Bahadur Singh Khalsa, a director on the board of the local Sikh temple who came from the same village in Punjab where Harry grew up. Bahadur Singh had called him to find out what had happened and how the temple management could help.

"Hardeep, we all are with you. You are not alone. These White haramkhors killed a Sikh brother in Arizona, thinking he was an Arab. These Muslims have created a big problem for our community. We will be meeting the governor soon to tell the Americans that we are different from Osama’s men. We are organising a protest march, we won’t let your attackers go anywhere, we won’t tolerate racism…." he launched into a pre-recorded speech that was beginning to grate on Harry’s nerves. Harry wanted to avoid appearing ungrateful, but politely said, "Paaji, thank you so much. I am grateful for your support. But right now I am feeling sleepy since my medicine is strong. I can’t talk right now so please let me call you back in a couple of days."

Harry did not want to talk to him ever. Bahadur Singh was a canny, low-level politician, as slick and untrustworthy as they came. He was helpful only when it suited his interests. Two years ago, when the mayor of the city had directed a racial slur towards a Sikh man, Bahadur Singh Khalsa refused to sponsor a protest march. He tried to play down the controversy by saying that the Sikh had misbehaved with the mayor. But the community knew that Bahadur was in the construction business and was therefore beholden to the mayoral office.

Now the temple was heading for an election and Bahadur was trying to please everybody so that he could wrest control for another term. The attack on Harry had given him an excellent opportunity to mend fences with those who felt betrayed by him.

Harry had been critical of his stance at every occasion and there was no love lost between them. Bahadur Singh Khalsa was a proponent of ‘Khalistan’ — a separate homeland for the Sikhs. He had used the temple to raise funds to help the separatists run an armed struggle in India for most of the eighties and early nineties.

Harry and his group of friends steadfastly opposed this, but now Harry was a symbol around which Bahadur wanted to rally the entire Sikh community in Seattle.

Harry had already decided not to participate in an initiative organised by a two-faced liar. "How can I help someone responsible for the death of Jassa?" he thought. Jassa had died in an armed encounter with the police in India and friends in the police said that the tip had come from the community in Seattle. Whispers surged that Bahadur Singh Khalsa supported the Sikh cause abroad to be prominent in the United States but exchanged information with the police for influence in his home state in India.

Jassa had died the year after Harry and his mother came to Punjab from Kanpur. He was the son of Harry’s maternal uncle, Sohan Sangha. Sangha was clean-shaven, a communist, but his son had joined the ranks of Sikh militants and sported a flowing beard. Harry remembered that Jassa had been in hiding even when they arrived, but his photograph was displayed prominently in the living room of his uncle’s house — wearing a saffron turban and a kirpan, the traditional dagger of the Sikhs.

For Sohan Sangha, his son’s transformation into a fanatic was a shock. How could a person who had never ever been to a temple have a son grow up to become an extremist?

Harry got to learn more about Jassa outside his home. At college, he had become a living legend. Stories abounded of how he could drive anything from a tractor to an airplane. The students thought of him as a dashing Robin Hood and a hero of the Sikh nation and sported flowing beards and a saffron turban like him.

At first, they ragged Harry about his broken Punjabi with the "…Kanpur accent", but once they discovered that Harry was Jassa’s cousin, they started treating him like a favoured guest.

One day, they persuaded Harry to boycott his Hindu classmates. "Remember what they did in Delhi and Kanpur? What they did to your father?"

That was the day Harry stopped on his way back from college and bought a saffron turban.

***

When Sohan Sangha saw Harry the next morning, he said rudely, "What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have a better turban to wear?" Harry’s hackles rose, but he did not have the courage to lash back. Before he could even think of a suitable retort, his mother came in. "Don’t you understand what Mamaji says?" she said angrily. Harry could afford to be brash with his mother, and he shouted back, "I am not a child. I know what I am doing. Nobody here understands what we have been through. Do not behave like the police. It is my right to wear anything I like!"

"Shut up! And listen carefully — you will NOT go to college in this turban! Wear anything else.’’

"Wear what? A cap? A hat? I will go to the college and I will go in this turban! Nobody can stop me!’’ he shouted back.

His mother screamed, "Then just leave! Don’t come back! And don’t call us for help if the police arrest you!"

Harry stormed out of the house. And at college, everyone praised his courage. Now finally the cousin of the famous Jassa was one of them. His excited new friends took him to a gathering of the Sikh Students Federation, the youth wing of the extremist faction for which Jassa worked.

This was his first meeting, but he soon became a frequent visitor.

The day the news about Jassa’s death rippled out like an earthquake, Harry received a message asking him to be ready for a secret meeting called at a local Sikh temple. While everyone in the family was wailing, Sohan Sangha looked composed as if he had been expecting this day. He did not even go to the police station to identify his son’s body.

Tempers ran high at the condolence meeting in the temple. A spokesman of the Khalistan Commando Force roared, "We have lost another brave soldier. But the struggle will go on. I want each one of you to take an oath today that we won’t rest in peace until we drive out our enemies from Punjab. We won’t let the Hindus rest in peace. The Hindu government has engineered a massacre of Sikhs outside Punjab. And now they are using the police force to kill our boys. Jassa is a victim of traitors from America who gave information about him to the police." And then, to Harry’s great surprise, he announced, "We have Jassa’s cousin in the meeting — a boy who lost his father in the ’84 riots. Today we would like to honour him."

Harry was invited to the stage and somebody shouted, "Long live Khalistan! Down with Hindustan!" The crowd joined in the chanting. Harry had never felt so wanted and so powerful before.

But as he headed home on his bicycle, two burly men in a jeep stopped him outside the village. They were police officers in plains clothes. Harry lost all his fire. "Come with us b*******d, we will take you to Khalistan!’’ the officer said roughly, bundling him into the jeep.

Harry found himself in a police lock-up. Within an hour, he could hear a woman arguing with the officer on duty. It was his mother crying, "Please Sir, leave my child… He is not involved in any crime… I have already lost my husband… We came to Punjab to start a new life…’’

The officer was yelling at her, "You are a liar and that m********d is a member of the Khalistan Commando Force. Just get lost before I put you in with him!"

Tears welled up in his eyes. Harry had never felt so helpless in his life before.

But several days later, the impossible happened. His uncle came to take him back home.

Sohan Sangha was waiting for him in the office of the deputy superintendent of police, Jaskaran Singh, who was in charge of the interrogation centre. He was exceptionally considerate. "Boy, we are sparing you this time. But don’t get into trouble in future." Harry did not have courage to look into his eyes.

As they sat in the taxi Sohan had come in, Harry cried like a child.

Inside a week, Sohan had spoken to a friend in America who owned a corner store in Seattle. Within a month Harry was married to Raminder and six months after that they were in America.

***

Rummy came into the room with tea, Karan close in tow. He wanted her to take him to the park but Rummy was exhausted. She wanted to sleep early so that she could wake up for her 7.00 a.m. shift and not look dead.

She persuaded Harry to take him to the park, "The doctor says you can now go out for a walk."

Harry was feeling the tedium of sitting at home for almost eight weeks. He took Karan’s hand and stepped out of the house. He felt good. The park was only a block away from his home. And as they entered the park, Karan shrugged off his father’s hand and scuttled away to a slide.

Harry looked around for a seat. All the benches were occupied but on a bench with spare room, a woman who seemed to be in her forties sat alone. She looked sad and frail. She smiled to herself watching the children play.

She seemed particularly taken by Karan and waved to him whenever he looked at her.

"Can I sit here please?" Harry asked the lady.

"Sure. Please have a seat."

The lady kept watching Karan and complimented, "He is really cute. He’s your son, isn’t he? How old is he?"

"Four."

"Do you have children?" Harry asked out of courtesy.

"One son, he’s sixteen." she replied.

"Do you live around here?"

"Yes. My house is only a block away."

"Really? I have never seen you before."

"I’m from Canada. We only moved here six months ago.’’

"And what do you do here?"

"I work at a grocery store. Today I was off from work, so I just came here for a break. What do you do?’’

"I drive a taxi. But I had an accident. So I am on a forced break," said Harry, not wanting to share his recent trauma with a complete stranger.

"I am Rachel," she said.

"I am Hardeep. But people call me Harry."

"You are a Sikh, right?"

"How do you know that?’’ asked Harry in surprise.

"I had some Indian friends in Canada. We lived in Surrey, in British Columbia, where a lot of Sikhs live. Most wear a turban like you do."

"It is good to meet someone like you. Most White Americans think we are Muslims.’’

"Is your husband also here?" he asked with a directness common in India but alien in this part of the world.

"He’s dead."

"Oh! I’m so sorry," Harry said, feeling contrite.

Karan came up and asked his father if he could sit on the swings. The woman laughed and told him, "You are too old for a swing." Karan looked back at her indignantly and said, "No I am not!"

When he left, the lady asked, "How long you have been in America?"

"Almost eight years."

"Do you miss your country?"

"Not really. I do have some good memories of India. But we are happy in America. Do you miss Canada?"

"Yes, I do. I especially miss my friends and my job. Our life has completely changed after my husband died. I was worried about my son. So I brought him here.’’

"What makes you worried?’’ asked Harry, being bolder than he would have been with a first-time acquaintance.

The woman was silent and Harry wondered if he had gone too far.

Then she spoke.

"My husband worked for Canada Post. He lost his job for causing a wilful loss to the office and was fired on disciplinary grounds. As I had a secure job, we managed our home, but he wanted to make more money. He started pushing drugs, dealing mainly with a gang of first-generation Indians recently arrived in Canada. One day, the deal went wrong and he was killed right at our doorstep. My son was shattered and I was worried sick about his future. I thought he might follow in his Dad’s footsteps, so I brought him here to make a new beginning." The woman fell silent again.

Harry felt wretched.

The sun came down. Rachel said, "It was nice meeting you, Hardeep. It’s time to go home. I’d better make a move. I am scared of the dark.’’

"We should also leave," he said and called out to Karan, who still wanted to play. As they came out of the park, Harry offered to walk Rachel back to her home.

"Thanks, I’ll be fine," she said.

"Our house is not very far," Harry persisted, trying to make up for inadvertently stirring up her grief. "We can accompany you and come back."

Rachel’s house was an old building with a poorly maintained lawn. There was a cage full of chirpy birds in the porch. Karan was overjoyed to see them.

Rachel picked Karan up to let him see them closely. Karan poked his fingers into the cage and giggled. Rachel opened her door and invited Harry inside.

"No, Thanks. We’ll go now," he said.

"Come on in for a minute. I’ll get some candy for your son," Rachel insisted.

Harry stepped inside. The house was full of broken furniture and piles of unwashed clothes everywhere. Rachel went into the kitchen and came back with candy. "These are for your son," she said and gave them to Harry.

Harry asked her, "Where is your boy?"

"I don’t know," Rachel replied with a tired smile.

As Harry looked around, he was startled as he caught sight of a portrait of Adolph Hitler hanging above the fireplace. "Do you admire him?" Harry asked Rachel.

Rachel said with bitterness, "I hate him. He is my son’s hero and I don’t have the energy to keep taking it off the fireplace and quarrelling about it every night."

"Robby is full of hate. I don’t know what his future is going to be," she said, looking up at a photograph of a cocky skin-head over the mantelpiece. He looked much older than his sixteen years.

Harry was quiet. He got up with a start and told her, "Bye, Rachel. Feel free to call me for help if you ever need anything. Here is my card. See you later."

***

Harry came back home with head and heart full.

Two days later, Tim Sampson — who was still on the case — phoned Harry to say that some teenaged boys had been rounded up and were suspects in his assault.

The next morning, Harry met him at police headquarters.

"Hello Mr. Gill. Are you better now?"

"Yeah, I’m getting along," Harry shrugged.

"Mr. Gill, we arrested six boys near a school attended mainly by the local Muslim immigrants from the Middle–East. They had thrown a burning cross into the school campus and someone also saw them smearing the school wall with graffiti. After we arrested them, we recovered some guns and Nazi literature from their truck. The description of a few of them tallies with the description of your attackers. Here are their photographs. I want you to identify them for us."

Harry looked at the photographs. He recognised two of them instantly. One of them was the ‘smoker’ who had slashed his wrist. The other was the one who had beaten in his kidneys with a baseball bat.

"It’s not them."

"What?" Tim was surprised. "Look carefully, Mr. Gill. Bruce Metcalf, who saved your life that day, has made a positive identification on two of them."

"No, it’s not them."

"Mr. Gill, if you identify them, these boys are going to be charged for murderous assault and locked away where they can do you or your family no harm. If you don’t, the court might ask them to do a few hundred hours of community service. Do you understand?"

"I understand. But these boys did not attack me," Harry said and he turned and walked out of the office, leaving behind on the desk, a photograph of a cocky young boy filled with hate, who looked much older than his sixteen years.
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