The Rozabal Line Page 8

  Chapter Eight

  Balakote, Line of Control, Indo-Pakistan border, 2012

  Balakote, a remote village on the India–Pakistan border, was literally sitting on the fence. It was neither here nor there. The river, Jallas Nullah, flowed through the middle, 54 hence the village lay half in Pakistan and half in India. It was here that Ghalib was celebrating Id, having just returned from another meeting with the Sheikh.

  He first checked the animal’s eyes and ears to ensure that it was healthy. After all, only a healthy animal could be considered suitable for sacrifice. He then gave it water to drink and pointed the animal towards Mecca. He chanted, ‘Bismillah, i-rahman, i-rahim—in the name of Allah, most gracious, most merciful. Sibhana man halalaka lil dabh—praise be upon He who has made you suitable for slaughter.’ He slaughtered the lamb using the halaal method—cutting the animal’s neck arteries with a single swipe of a non-serrated blade. He then watched the blood drain from the beast. As per religious law, he did not touch the animal until

  it died.

  It was Id ul-Adha and animal sacrifice was part of the festival. It was the tenth day of Dhul Hijja as per the Islamic calendar, and seventy days after the end of Ramazan.

  Ghalib-bin-Isar, leader of the Lashkar-e-Talatashar, sat with his army around him in a semicircle. In the centre, the lamb was being roasted over a roaring fire, and another smaller fire was being used to bake naan.

  Ghalib was overcome with emotion. He looked around him—at his team; these were his fiercest, most loyal companions. They would die for him willingly. He needed to show them that he not only loved them, but also respected them. He stood up and took off the Pathan-suit he was wearing and tied a coarse cotton cloth towel around himself. He filled the iron tub meant for the utensils with warm water. He called his comrades one by one and washed their feet, patting them dry with the towel. Boutros was reluctant to accept the ministrations of his leader, but Ghalib insisted.

  Feet duly washed, they sat down and were served the lamb. Ghalib took the hot naan and, breaking it into pieces, lovingly served it to each of his men. He then spoke to Yehuda. ‘In Srinagar, there is a Japanese woman looking for me. You will go, find her, and tell her that you will deliver me to her.’

  The kahwa tea was boiling in the samovar. He poured it into a large bowl and passed it around. His young men would leave for each of their destinations within a few days. He knew his time had come.

  Jerusalem, Judea, A.D. 27

  Knowing that his time had come, Jesus asked that the Passover feast be organised. Before supper, Jesus got up from the table, took off his outer garment and tied a towel around himself. He then poured water into a basin and, one by one, washed his disciples’ feet; he then wiped them dry with the towel. Simon Peter hesitated but Jesus insisted. He soon finished washing everyone’s feet, put on his clothes and sat down at the table with his disciples.

  While eating, Jesus remarked that he would be betrayed by one of the men around the table. Judas asked Jesus whether he was alluding to him. ‘You have said it,’ replied Jesus.

  During the meal, Jesus broke the bread into pieces and offered them to his disciples while saying, ‘Take this and eat; this is my body.’ He then took a cup of wine and gave it to his disciples, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you. For this is my blood, the blood of the covenant, shed for the forgiveness of sins.’

  Balakote, Line of Control, Indo-Pak border, 2012

  Because the river Jallas Nullah flows through the centre of Balakote, either side of the landscape is dotted with rocky hills. Ghalib-bin-Isar wanted to explain the reasons and motivations behind his intended actions to his men as well as to the extended army. He stood atop one of the hillocks closest to the river and began to speak.

  ‘Your being poor does not mean that God does not love you. Thousands of rich Americans died in the Twin Towers on 9/11 by the will of Allah. He protected you! Not them!’ he said as his army looked up at him in awe.

  He continued, ‘The families of those who died in New York mourned. They said, “Had we known the evil that America does all around the world, we would never have supported our government.” Let me tell you, Allah will protect these people who have now understood our cause. God will protect and comfort these mourners.’

  He carried on in the same vein. ‘The Americans say that we Muslims do not like their way of life and that we wish to destroy their free society. I ask you, why do we attack America and not Sweden? Sweden is as free as America. The difference lies in America’s arrogance. Doesn’t America know it is the meek that shall inherit the earth?’

  The mood was jubilant and members of his team were getting charged up. Ghalib raised his voice a little. ‘Bismillah, i-rahman, i-rahim, in the name of Allah, do we not fast in the holy month of Ramazan and savour the delicious taste of food and water after the fast is over? That is precisely the way I want you to hunger and thirst for the word and for the will of Allah! The hungrier and thirstier you are, the more worthy you are in the eyes of God!

  ‘Our brothers and sisters in Palestine, Lebanon, Kashmir, Iraq, Afghanistan and Chechnya have been murdered, looted and raped. Yet we have not done the same to the infidels who perpetrated these ghastly crimes. Instead, the will of Allah showered terror and fire on the perpetrators almost automatically. We are Muslims. We are merciful even in the most trying of circumstances!’ thundered Ghalib.

  His words were met by chants of ‘Allah-o-Akbar!’

  Ghalib’s voice softened. ‘All that God asks of us is to have a clear conscience. Our hearts should remain clean and pure. Only this can ensure that we are victorious. A’uzu billahi minashaitanir rajim!’

  ‘The Qur’an55 tells us in Chapter 4, Verse 90: “Thus, if they let you be, and do not make war on you, and offer you peace, God does not allow you to harm them.” Don’t you think that Muslims all over the world would prefer peace to war? Islam is a religion of peace and the peacemakers are beloved of Allah! Unfortunately, the infidels do not want peace!’ shouted Ghalib.

  Ghalib’s voice was now choked with emotion. He continued, ‘The Noble Qur’an 49:13 says that “the most honoured of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous of you”. For years we have been persecuted and have continued to remain righteous. This is why we are beloved of Allah! Our friends who led the attacks on 9/11 willingly allowed themselves to be martyred for the cause of righteousness.’

  He then drew to his conclusion. ‘Do not worry if the world calls Ghalib a terrorist, or if my enemies hurl insults at you. As long as you do Allah’s will, you shall have His reward. Keep this in mind when we execute our plan,’ he said as he stood on the hill and looked at his followers with pure, raw emotion.

  Sea of Galilee, Capernaum, A.D. 27

  He stood on the hill and looked at his followers with pure, raw emotion as he delivered to them a sermon on the mount.56 High on a mountain, towards the north end of the Sea of Galilee, near Capernaum, Jesus spoke to his disciples and to a large gathering of followers:

  ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil falsely against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.’

  Balakote, Line of Control, Indo-Pak border, 2012

  Ghalib lay on the resplendent shahtoosh shawl that was carefully laid out over the mattress inside his tent. In one corner sat a rose-water jar that had been sprinkled with Jannat-ul-Firdaus, literally, ‘perfume from heaven’. Resting her head on his shoulder was his wife—his
one and only wife, Mariyam. She had borne him a beautiful daughter, Zahira.

  Unlike some Muslim men, Ghalib had remained devoted to a single wife. While the Qur’an sanctioned polygamy, Ghalib’s view was that the Surah An-Nisa of the Qur’an actually said, ‘Marry other women of your choice, two or three, or four, but if you fear that you shall not be able to deal evenly with them, then only one . . . ’

  Ghalib had decided on only one. She was the most exquisite creature that had ever lived, and he was hopelessly devoted to her. He lovingly ran his fingers through her silky reddish-brown hair as she nestled her head on his shoulder.

  Presently, she got up to retrieve a small phial that she had prepared during the day. It was an intense, warm and fragrant musk that she had extracted from the fibrous spindle-like needles of the nalada plants that grew in the area.‘This is just a small token of my love,’ she said to Ghalib as she opened the phial and poured it over his feet. She applied the perfume to his feet and then lowered her head over them. Her soft hair trailed along his soles and produced exquisite sensations throughout his entire body. She then began kissing his feet and gently licking his toes. She playfully sucked on his toes while her hair continued to caress his skin. She guided him to her already wet and warm core and once he was fully inside, she kissed him passionately.

  Gar bar-ru-e-zamin ast; hamin ast, hamin ast, hamin asto. The Persian couplet, uttered by the Mughal Emperor Jehangir to describe the beauty of Kashmir, meant, ‘If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here!’57

  Ghalib remained in paradise with the wonderful scent of nalada wafting through his tent.

  Bethany, Israel, A.D. 27

  The Latin name nardostachys jatamansi58 was derived from the Sanskrit word nalada. This tough and hardy herb grew in the Himalayan foothills. The fibrous spindles of the plant grew underground and were rich in oil. This oil was made into a dry rhizome oil extract called nardin. This was the source of nard.

  Six days before the Passover, Jesus arrived at Bethany, where Mary Magdalene took a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume, poured it on Jesus’s feet and wiped his feet with her hair. The house in which he sat was filled with the aromatic fragrance of the perfume.

  Chapter Nine

  New York, USA, 2012

  British Airways flight BA 0178 left John F. Kennedy airport at 9:15 am and was scheduled to reach Heathrow at 9 pm GMT. Occupying two seats in the second row of World Traveller Class, with 351 other passengers and 39,900 pounds of luggage on the 747-400, were Martha and Vincent Sinclair.

  The customary drinks and salted peanuts had arrived, and aunt and nephew were getting into the mood of the trip. ‘Vincent, you must write down whatever you saw in your visions. Very often we tend to forget things like that,’ said Martha.

  Vincent replied, ‘Actually Nana, I’ve already done that. In fact, I’ve brought along my notes of the images that I saw during Mom and Dad’s funeral, as well as what I saw when I had those crazy flashes in Central Park.’

  Vincent got up, opened the overhead luggage bin and pulled out his duffel bag. Unzipping it, he quickly found his leather-bound notebook. Taking it out, he zipped up the bag and returned it to the overhead storage before sitting down. Opening it, he turned to a page that had been tabbed with a yellow Post-it. He gave the notebook to Martha. There were several notations on the page:

  ‘St John Cemetery: Daughters of Jerusalem. Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani? Jerusalem. Wooden cross. Blood. Wailing women. Impale him. Simon. Alexander. Rufus.’

  These entries were followed by: ‘Central Park: Blood. Wounded soldiers. Bandages. Greek cross. Red. Bassano portrait. Stately house. Number 18. London street. Iron fencing with an “S” logo. Indian antiques. Parties. Food. Musicians. 1940s’ La Salle ambulance. Buckingham Palace. Bell. Grave. So soon?’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Would you prefer the chicken casserole or the sliced roast beef?’ enquired the flight attendant. ‘Neither. I’ve pre-ordered a vegetarian meal,’ said Martha. The stewardess referred to a list and immediately pulled out an appropriate tray from her cart. Stir-fried vegetables with basmati rice, pasta salad and fresh fruit yoghurt for Ms Martha Sinclair.

  Vincent tucked into a meal of sliced roast beef with scalloped cheese potatoes and green beans, garden salad with ranch dressing, and blueberry cheesecake; not bad for airline food. For a while at least, they forgot about the notebook and its contents.

  London, UK, 2012

  The ridiculous name, Airways Hotel, belonged to a nineteenth-century period home that was located just a stone’s throw away from Buckingham Palace. It had now been converted into a forty-room bed-and-breakfast priced at £45 a night. It was just one of the many little family-run places that one saw in the oddest parts of London. They all looked identical to one another—in fact, without the signboards outside, one wouldn’t be able to tell any given Victorian townhouse-hotel, with its pillars and white façade, from another.

  This is where Martha and Vincent checked in upon arriving in London. Vincent had decided that he would rather be near Buckingham Palace in order to experience the area a little better. They had boarded the Piccadilly Line from Heathrow to Hammersmith and had then taken the District Line to Victoria Station, which was just a short walk away from the hotel.

  The front desk was supervised by a middle-aged matron. She was the proverbial English landlady with rosy cheeks, wide matronly hips and checked apron. She quickly rattled off the deal to Vincent: ‘Your bedrooms have independent bathrooms. Both rooms have a telly, hairdryer, fridge and tea-coffee maker. Direct dial in your room gets billed to your account. The tariff includes traditional English breakfast served downstairs in the morning between eight and nine o’clock. VAT included. Any questions, luv?’

  The traditional English breakfast the next morning was essentially a full-blown frontal cholesterol attack. Besides toast, marmalade, fruit and porridge was the fry-up which included sausages, bacon, kippers, black pudding, fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans and hash browns. Vincent couldn’t believe the amount of grease the English consumed each morning, until Martha told him that not all English people ate like that every day. While Martha attempted to rid herself of her jet lag, Vincent settled for some tea and toast. He then quickly made his way to Buckingham Palace.

  During the journey from New York to London, Vincent had succeeded in convincing himself that his trip to London was going to be a waste of time—this talk about past-life experiences was humbug. He now headed along St George’s Drive till he reached Warwick Square where he turned left and started walking down Belgrave Road. When he reached the intersection with Buckingham Palace Road, he turned right and kept walking until he reached Buckingham Gate. The walk had taken him less than thirty minutes. It was only when he reached Buckingham Palace that it struck him.

  He hadn’t asked for directions. He hadn’t referred to a map. He hadn’t visited London ever in his life. And yet he had walked effortlessly from his hotel to the palace as if he had lived there his entire life!

  Buckingham House had originally been built in 1703 as the private residence of the Duke of Buckingham. In 1762, the house had been purchased by George III to be used as one among many homes belonging to the royals. George IV had subsequently engaged the services of architect John Nash, who had redesigned Buckingham House with a marble arch as its entrance; this would later be relocated to Hyde Park. In 1837, Queen Victoria had made Buckingham House her principal residence in London and Buckingham House had now officially been rechristened Buckingham Palace.59

  The Household Troops had guarded the monarchy since 1660, their foot guards attired in the familiar uniforms of red tunics and bearskins. In summer, the main attraction for tourists continued to be the changing of the guard, which happened in the forecourt of the palace at 11:30 each morning. The forty-five-minute, minutely choreographed ceremony involved the new guard marching to the palace from Wellington Barracks accompanied by a band, and taking over duty from the old guard.
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  It was only around 10:30 in the morning when Vincent arrived and the forecourt was quiet at this hour except for a few enthusiastic tourists. Vincent just stood and surveyed the façade of the palace, attempting to see whether it stirred any latent memories inside him. Nothing. So it was a false alarm after all, a complete waste of time, as he’d expected.

  After half an hour of wandering about, Vincent decided to make his way back to the hotel to check on Martha. He walked along Buckingham Palace Road and turned right into Eccleston Street. He kept walking till he reached a lovely Victorian residential quarter. For some uncanny reason, Vincent walked further towards it. He now found himself in Belgrave Square.

  Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon? It struck him like a thunderbolt! It was one word—Belgrave, not two! Belgrave had been the word hitting his brain cells during his memory flashes in Central Park. If the past-life theory held true, and if Vincent had indeed lived in this area earlier, he would have passed Buckingham Palace often. His primary recollection should have been of Belgrave Square, but he would also have a fleeting memory of the Buckingham Palace environs. Yes, that made sense.

  Vincent looked around the square. The grand white-stuccoed townhouses with their uniform pillared façades gave him a sense of déjà vu. He felt a chill run down his spine. He trembled; this was eerie. All the terraced houses had the same Victorian ‘period feel’ to them. The house that he had mentally seen in his visions in Central Park was very much like these homes.

  He quickly consulted his notebook. Number 18. Could that mean a house number? He kept walking along the side of the square that he had entered until, about halfway along, he saw Number 18. It had a sign outside which read ‘The Royal College of Psychiatrists’. This couldn’t be what he had seen—a psychiatric college? No. He had clearly seen a residential house, not a college. Vincent was about to do an about-turn when he noticed the ‘S’ logo that had been delicately incorporated into the iron railings running along the boundary.