In Search of Nirvana

The landlord had done it again. He had stolen my banian again. Not so much as literally stolen, but he had taken my banian and used it as his own. Here’s the thing. The washing area where I have rented a room is common with the washing area of my landlord’s house. Therefore there is a single clothesline and sometimes the clothes get mixed up. Accidental mix ups are forgivable, intentional ones are not. And I had noticed many times now that whenever I went through my clean laundry, there always seemed to be one banian missing. And it almost always was replaced by an older, tattered one. Now my first impression was that the maid servant had assumed that the nice ones were the landlord’s and the tattered ones mine. But then, shouldn’t the landlord have returned it to me? But instead he wears it with pride. When I confronted the landlord about it, he denied mixing up the undergarments.

So I seethed in silence for a day or two. While at office, sitting with large spots of sweat ruining my shirt (because of lack of a clean banian), I hatched up a plan. I planned to catch the landlord red handed, literally. I bought a couple of new banians. All I wanted was him to wear these ones. No I didn’t put any itchy powder on them. Instead both these banians had a special mark on them. I went and hung them on the clothesline.

I waited.

After three days, as I was making my way to the office I passed the landlord’s flat. I peeked surreptitiously into the open door. There was a huge noise coming from within his house. His wife was shouting and banging utensils all over the house. The landlord was trying to save his TV from getting smashed. He was a stock-broker and his lifeline were the business channels. I quickly ran down the stairs. He must have handled the stock markets expertly till now. Let him handle the rising temper of his wife for a day, I thought.

That day at office, my productivity was at an all-time high. I drank only two cups of coffee, and I coded millions of lines of code. That day I didn’t even claim overtime. That day I grinned uncontrollably.

In the night, when I returned to my flat, the landlord called out to me as soon as I passed his flat. I knew what he was going to ask; I knew what he expected me to say. He came out to meet me on the stairs. His wife followed. In his hand was a clean unused banian, whiter than white, spotless. Of course I knew otherwise. In one of the corners, there was a red mark, in the shape of a pair of lips. I had hoped that he wouldn’t notice it while wearing it. Luckily he hadn’t, but apparently his wife had. I looked innocently at him, then at the banian, and then back at him.

“Isn’t this banian yours?” he asked. A moment of silence passed.

A whole ten years of watching the stock ticker at the bottom of the TV screen had done irreparable damage to his eyes. He couldn’t keep them still. All I could see was the banian in his hand and his eyes looking at me. Moving from left to right. Left to right. Left to right. Mrs. Landlord stood with her hands on her hips and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Umm no, that’s not mine,” I said. In that moment of silence, the sound of the impending slap was too loud to bear. Moreover I had to control my laughter. I turned away and climbed the stairs to my room.

While opening the door to my flat, I reminded myself. I must return the lipstick to my colleague tomorrow. It served its purpose well.

banian – A loose fitting jacket; undergarment worn under the shirt; also known as ganji, not to be confused with ganja which is totally something else.

The landlord had done it again. He had stolen my banian again. Not so much as literally stolen, but he had taken my banian and used it as his own. Here’s the thing. The washing area where I have rented a room is common with the washing area of my landlord’s house. Therefore there is a single clothesline and sometimes the clothes get mixed up. Accidental mix ups are forgivable, intentional ones are not. And I had noticed many times now that whenever I went through my clean laundry, there always seemed to be one banian missing. And it almost always was replaced by an older, tattered one. Now my first impression was that the maid servant had assumed that the nice ones were the landlord’s and the tattered ones mine. But then, shouldn’t the landlord have returned it to me? But instead he wears it with pride. When I confronted the landlord about it, he denied mixing up the undergarments.

So I seethed in silence for a day or two. While at office, sitting with large spots of sweat ruining my shirt (because of lack of a clean banian), I hatched up a plan. I planned to catch the landlord red handed, literally. I bought a couple of new banians. All I wanted was him to wear these ones. No I didn’t put any itchy powder on them. Instead both these banians had a special mark on them. I went and hung them on the clothesline.

I waited.

After three days, as I was making my way to the office I passed the landlord’s flat. I peeked surreptitiously into the open door. There was a huge noise coming from within his house. His wife was shouting and banging utensils all over the house. The landlord was trying to save his TV from getting smashed. He was a stock-broker and his lifeline were the business channels. I quickly ran down the stairs. He must have handled the stock markets expertly till now. Let him handle the rising temper of his wife for a day, I thought.

That day at office, my productivity was at an all-time high. I drank only two cups of coffee, and I coded millions of lines of code. That day I didn’t even claim overtime. That day I grinned uncontrollably.

In the night, when I returned to my flat, the landlord called out to me as soon as I passed his flat. I knew what he was going to ask; I knew what he expected me to say. He came out to meet me on the stairs. His wife followed. In his hand was a clean unused banian, whiter than white, spotless. Of course I knew otherwise. In one of the corners, there was a red mark, in the shape of a pair of lips. I had hoped that he wouldn’t notice it while wearing it. Luckily he hadn’t, but apparently his wife had. I looked innocently at him, then at the banian, and then back at him.

“Isn’t this banian yours?” he asked. A moment of silence passed.

A whole ten years of watching the stock ticker at the bottom of the TV screen had done irreparable damage to his eyes. He couldn’t keep them still. All I could see was the banian in his hand and his eyes looking at me. Moving from left to right. Left to right. Left to right. Mrs. Landlord stood with her hands on her hips and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Umm no, that’s not mine,” I said. In that moment of silence, the sound of the impending slap was too loud to bear. Moreover I had to control my laughter. I turned away and climbed the stairs to my room.

While opening the door to my flat, I reminded myself. I must return the lipstick to my colleague tomorrow. It served its purpose well.

banian – A loose fitting jacket; undergarment worn under the shirt; also known as ganji, not to be confused with ganja which is totally something else.

As he heard the helicopter sound in the background, he stood up. He knew it was time. He looked in the mirror at himself and thought, “You are looking at this face for the last time. Still it is going to haunt you forever.”

He heard a few thuds on the roof as the marines rappelled down from the helicopters hovering above. Any moment they would burst in through the doors and ins to that room. He had lived in that complex for five years with full knowledge of the Pakistani government, or at least certain sections of it. And they had now decided to sell him off to the Americans now. But he wouldn’t go down so easily.

As he heard the marines slam on the door trying to break it down, he looked around. He had lived like a hermit, only the basic necessities were around. He spotted his trusted old weapon – an AK 47 lying by the wall with loads of extra ammunition. But he wouldn’t need it. In the dark, he spotted the C4 explosive the ISI had provided in case of an “emergency”. He had all the necessary things ready. He braced himself for the incoming impact.

The marines slammed open the door, and burst in, shouting orders in English. None of his family would be able to understand. But thankfully they were in another room. The marines rushed in and positioned themselves across the room in front of him. They were steady. He was steady. He waited. They waited. One wrong move from either side would wreak the whole operation and both sides knew it.

Outside the open door there was thick white smoke. The marines had thrown smoke grenades across the compound. There was also the smell of something burning. He saw someone enter the door through the smoke. He was probably the marines’ lead. The lead marine spoke in to his headpiece, “We’ve IDed Geronimo.”

He knew it was time. His lips turned slightly upward in a crooked smile.

The marine walked closer towards him and held out his hand. He shook the marine’s hands and smiled. The marine barked, “I hope you know the plan. It will hurt a little.”

He simply nodded in agreement. The lead marine motioned to one of the marines who walked towards him and held out a small injection. He knew it would be temporary. He had done his part. On the other side, there would be heaven.

As his eyes closed, he heard someone speak out, “Geronimo E KIA.”

* * *

When he opened his eyes, there was a bright white light coming in from front of him. Still groggy, he tried to lift himself up in his seat. He was in a small plane, a chartered flight. All the marines were gone, there was a man in civilian clothes speaking to him.

“We have everything ready for you. Your name is Sam O. Nadle. You live in Miami, Florida. There is a guy waiting for you in the arrival terminal. He will take you to your residence. You are never to leave American soil again. Every month your payment would be deposited in this account.”

The man handed him a small piece of paper. He was finally alert now. Sam O Nadle. Miami. Yes, that was all part of the plan. He ran his hand across his face and noticed something strange. His beard was gone. They handed him a pair of sunglasses for the bright light. As the plane landed and taxied on to the arrival terminal, he sat back and reflected on his years gone by. He had successfully eluded capture for so many years, he had fought with governments trying to double cross him. He had seen friendly governments turn hostile and then turn friendly again. Now he had found a powerful ally.

The Pakistani government had tried to sell him. But he had negotiated a bargain with the most powerful government in the world – his life in return for a reason to invade a “terrorist state”. He had also traded the names and locations of all the operatives in his organization for his freedom. There was a power struggle in the ranks. He knew about the distrust among his subordinates. Any time there might have been a revolt. But he had preempted it.

As he walked to the arrival terminal, he spotted the guy holding out a placard with his name – Sam O Nadle. Ingenious, he thought. He walked out in the Miami sun, put on the Ray Bans which the man had handed him on the plane and smiled broadly, his crooked teeth gleaming. This indeed was heaven.