Gia placed a small tray on the table in front of Tina. “Here, honey, I got you a chocolate scone.” The mother’s attention was briefly on the television. “You know, it’s a good thing that your father is not here right now, watching this gruesome report at the moment. He would have dragged you to the car and taken you home,” smiled Gia, a tiny crease crinkling that smile.
“Mom,” began Tina, a strange sentiment anxiously clinging to her, “I know you’re worried, probably as much as Dad is. I want to thank you for trusting me, for being brave, brave enough for yourself and Dad.” Tina observed her mother as though she were new to her. Gia’s sandy eyes twinkled when she smiled and they matched her cinnamon-brown hair perfectly. She was the Little Italian Woman, but there was nothing little about her warmth, elegance, and quiet beauty. To Tina, she was the perfect woman.
Gia took her daughter’s hand tightly into hers. “Tina, we women have a certain strength that men don’t have. That’s the way life is. But your father has other burdens, and he carries them like a champion. The problem is…when he loves, he loves with a passion, and when he doubts, he loses faith in the world. I’ve not come across an intensely sentimental man like him. You know, he loves you very much.”
“And he loves you, Mom!”
“I know. I scold that poor man at times because he’s like a child. The thing is he is such a child—insecure, anxious, and a little stubborn! But I can count on his affection, no matter what. And you know, Tina, that’s the most comforting part of our marriage? I hope one day you can find a wonderful man like him.”
“Paranoid and sheltering?” asked Tina, wide-eyed. “But I know what you mean. And I hope I find a kind man like you did.”
“Well, you’ll know him when you see him.” Gia’s eyes fretfully settled on the scattered crowd. “Tina, when you return from India, we must go somewhere for a vacation.”
“I’d love that, Mom. What time is it?” Tina quickly looked at her watch.
“I guess it’s time to go,” replied Gia, with the slightest quiver touching her voice. “Give me a hug, darling. Promise me you’ll be safe, and take care of yourself. And here is a special kiss from Dad. He wants you to stay out of trouble.”
“Bye, Mom. Now go home. Don’t wait in the parking lot until my flight departs, like Dad does.”
“I won’t,” laughed Gia, her firm hand still clinging to her child’s. “But please call me when you’re ready to board.”
- 2 -
Railway Depot 24, Pennoor Junction, South India
November 10, 2009 • 6:05 p.m.
An old green van slowed down by the cluster of flower stalls about two kilometers from Pennoor junction, puffing exhaust fumes and making tire marks on the rain-soaked avenue. When the van came to a complete stop in front of a crowded corner store, the owner looked at the bright red R and J Construction printed on the side of the vehicle and smiled at the passengers.
“Is this a good spot, Imran?” asked the driver, throwing hasty glances to his left and right. When he opened the window to toss his cigarette butt on the dirty pavement, a medley of smells—from the snacks on the vendors’ trays to the strands of jasmine and roses suspended from the rickety roofs of the flower stalls—descended in the air like a wave of uncontainable soap bubbles.
“Yes,” replied Imran, who was sitting in the back. A few urchins looked up at the dust-covered vehicle and began to stare at him as he gingerly got out of the van. “Get out of my way, you bastards,” he shouted, pushing his greasy, raven hair away from his tanned forehead. When the children scattered across the heavily trafficked avenue in search of other prospects, Imran walked closer to the man sitting next to the driver and whispered, “No need to wait, Yusuf. I’ll be fine.”
“No, I’m not going to wait here. I’ll pick you up on the other side of the depot.” Yusuf’s innocent smile made his childish face appear angelic. “Imran, remember to keep it low key with minimum noise. Sahib is expecting only mild rubble.” Yusuf took his colleague’s mind to their master’s specific instructions, while his eyes quickly moved to Imran’s sagging cloth bag.
“Yes, I’ll remember. I’ll see you soon. Inshallah,” whispered Imran, raising his eyes to the sky in praise of his god.
“Inshallah,” repeated his friend, and signaled to the driver to move on.
Imran avoided making eye contact with the pedestrians and took quick strides towards the depot on the other side of the avenue. He crossed the railway tracks slowly and steadily while taking stock of the busy linemen and the barefooted sweeper who was dawdling with a broom in his hand. When the contents in his cloth bag clattered, he gently gathered the bag to his chest. He reached the depot and let his trained eyes roam over the entrance, the sliding door, the low-roofed, tile-topped shed, and the few bicycles leaning on the walls displaying obscene graffiti and streaks of stale urine. He knocked on the door, and a middle-aged man with a scanty beard and scantier hair opened the door slightly and gaped at the visitor.
“You’re a little early, aren’t you?” whispered the bearded man, glancing furtively at Imran’s bag.
“A few minutes early. What’s the problem?” asked Imran, fixing his eyes steadily and menacingly on the clerk’s face. “Aren’t you in charge at this hour? Who else is inside?”
“Nobody,” responded the clerk, letting Imran in and closing the door. “This is my shift, but I haven’t made the phone call...the call to keep my manager away.”
“Call right now,” ordered Imran, and took a quick stock of the supplies lined along the walls. It was a disorganized arrangement of parts and paraphernalia which did not speak for the employees’ efficiency. He walked into the manager’s room and emptied the contents of his bag on the dirty desk. “Make sure you lock the depot from the inside and close all the windows. Give me five minutes. Now go make that phone call to delay your manager, in case he has suddenly turned conscientious about his work.”
The clerk threw a frightened glance at the items on the desk and quickly shut the door. He began to recite I am a son of Allah...I am a servant of Allah...repeatedly in his mind, trying to justify the impending activity. But the assortment of wires which were keeping the visitor busy at the moment churned his stomach. He never developed the nerve for such a sight, and he believed he never would. When he returned to the manager’s room shortly after making his phone call, the visitor was done with his work.
“Get out of here as soon as I leave,” cautioned Imran, avoiding the man’s eyes altogether. “Sahib appreciates your assistance in this mission,” he added, reinforcing his master’s omnipotent role in the daily scheme of things. “Collect your payment tomorrow from Zakir.”
“I will. Thank you. The damage?” asked the clerk, alternating his glance between the wall of supplies and his visitor’s face.
“Very little,” assured Imran, folding the now nearly empty bag and shoving it into his pocket. “The depot will be gone, these supplies will be gone, but it will be a mild blast. Very small scale. There will be some delays and commotion at the junction. Of course, the ripple effect will reach the bus stand and the streets, and the incident will result in the normal nuisance, but nothing beyond that. Sahib has arranged for some kind of commotion at Tirupur to add to the chaos from this incident,” paused Imran, summing up his master’s organizational skills. “Now if you get out of the depot as soon as I leave, there will be no loss of lives either.”
“I do whatever it takes to serve Allah,” hissed the clerk, defending his ardent faith and unwavering resolution, in spite of the intimidating visitor and his sardonic smile. “I always do.”
“I’m sure. Otherwise you wouldn’t be aware of what’s about to occur. If we had any doubt about your resolution or faith, I would’ve blown this place without your knowledge while you were lounging inside. There is no need to be defensive. It’s just