Short Story
The suspects
VIKRAM KAPUR
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We live in suspicious times.
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It was the first time he was travelling overseas. So far everything had gone well. Still, unease clawed at his stomach. He gazed at his passport. Iqbal.
Illustration: Surendra
THE gents toilet in the departure lounge of New Delhi's Indira Gandhi International Airport was closed for cleaning. Iqbal's flight to New York was due to start boarding in the next 10 minutes. Chances were the toilet would still be unavailable when the boarding commenced. Iqbal shrugged his shoulders and sat down.
He was on his way to join a computer firm in New Jersey as a programmer. It was the first time he was travelling overseas. So far everything had gone well. Still, unease clawed at his stomach. He gazed at his passport. Iqbal. If his parents had to name him after a poet, couldn't they have found one with a less Muslim-sounding name? Then there was his face. Light-skinned and sharp-featured, he could easily be mistaken for an Afghan or an Iraqi.
With a sigh, he put his passport away and leaned back in his chair. The call for boarding sounded over the public address system. With a baleful glare at the toilet, which was still out of bounds, Iqbal rose to his feet.
He had an aisle seat in the middle of the plane. He looked around for a way to the toilet. But his path was blocked by passengers seeking out seats or depositing carry-on items in the overhead bins. He settled in his seat, waiting for the path to clear.
"Sirji."
It was the man seated next to him, a Sikh, with a blue turban and a bushy beard. Iqbal turned to him. The Sikh hesitated. Then he asked, in a low voice, in Hindi, "Sirji, can I borrow your razor in Amsterdam?"
They had a three-hour layover in Amsterdam. Iqbal had determined to speak only English on the flight. But he was so taken aback by the question that he lapsed into Hindi himself.
"You want a razor?" he asked.
The Sikh nodded.
"I am a taxi driver in New York," he said. "After 9/11 I was beaten up thrice. They thought I was a Muslim. Finally, I cut my hair and got rid of my turban. After that I was okay. But now... "
He fingered his beard.
"But then why have you grown your hair back?" Iqbal asked.
The Sikh looked sheepish.
"I went back to my village in Punjab," he said. "There they didn't understand. They beat me up for not having hair."
Iqbal didn't know what to say to that. So he simply said that he would like to help, but he had packed his razor in the bags he had checked in. Nervously, he stroked his face. It was smooth, but he knew he would have a stubble by the time he reached New York. He wondered if he should look for a razor in Amsterdam.
He started, as his cell phone rang. He had forgotten to switch it off. He dug inside his trousers pockets, trying to disengage the cell phone from his handkerchief. His eyes locked with those of a white man seated across the aisle.
He was a broad-shouldered man, dressed in a dark suit. Clean shaven, with a military-style crew cut, he was looking intently at Iqbal.
The cell phone, finally, emerged from Iqbal's pockets. But, thanks to his sweaty palms, it slipped out of his hands to fall on the floor. The ringing ceased and the screen went blank.
Feeling the heat rise in his ears, Iqbal picked it up. The white man was still staring at him. Iqbal started to smile, trying to pass the whole thing off as a joke. But the man's grim face made him think better of it. He dropped his eyes and put the cell phone away. He'd figure out whether it was still working later.
After a few minutes, he glanced at the white man out of the corner of his eye. The man was no longer eyeing him. Iqbal sighed.
He had been so preoccupied that he had forgotten all about going to the toilet. In the meanwhile, his need had become that much greater. The aisles were clear now. He started to rise. But the pilot's voice sounded, asking everyone to fasten their seatbelts. The plane began moving. Iqbal sank into his seat.
The plane took off. But even after they were airborne, the Fasten Seatbelts sign refused to go off. Iqbal watched the red light, growing increasingly fidgety.
Finally, the pilot's voice came on. But it afforded little relief. Everyone was still supposed to remain seated. Iqbal looked around for a flight attendant. But there was none in the vicinity. He could stand it no longer. He jumped up. A flight attendant called out, telling him to return to his seat. Iqbal didn't heed her. All he could think of was getting to the toilet as soon as possible.
He hadn't gone five steps, before a shoulder slammed into his back, sending him sprawling. Within seconds, he was face down on the floor, with his hands clasped behind his back, and the white man, from across the aisle, holding a gun to his head.
* * *
The pilot informed Air Traffic Control that the sky marshal had apprehended a potential suicide bomber. Fighter jets were scrambled to escort the plane, as it returned to New Delhi.
Once it landed, Iqbal and the Sikh were led away in handcuffs. The flight was cancelled, as bomb squads and sniffer dogs combed every inch of the aircraft.
Iqbal and the Sikh remained in custody for 24 hours. They were strip-searched and interrogated. Their papers were checked, their details corroborated. Their luggage was opened and suitcases slashed in a bid to find concealed explosives... Finally, they were allowed to leave. The most potent item the authorities could recover from any one of them was Iqbal's smelly underwear.
When the sky marshal was asked as to why he had concluded that they wanted to blow up the plane, he said his suspicions were based on the suspects' behaviour. He had been seated right across the aisle from them. They were sitting, right in the middle of the plane, and conversing — one of them in a low voice — in a foreign language. They both appeared jumpy. One of them dropped his cell phone. After picking it up, he made no attempt to see whether it was still working or not. Instead, he put it away, which immediately prompted the question: Was the ring that sounded on it some sort of signal? A little later, despite the fact the Fasten Seatbelts sign was still on, the same man got up and charged down the aisle, ignoring a flight attendant's entreaty to return to his seat.
In light of all that, what else was he supposed to think?
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