01.2 A Broken Wing

“Central government posted spies and officials to defy and infringe the course of the republic formed in January of fifty-nine and waving an independent flag. Savari Shakir was a political official along with Footloose Habib, a private from the national guards. A private but there’s more to it. A private in a sense not to stir disruption by sending a ranking officer. A private who is a tall useless guy and yet a double-crosser – a spy. I did not know about him. There were others of more momentous calibre – Mr Orchard.

“Shakir stays in Hittadu at a secluded house and Habib stays in Maradu. Rebellion intended to kill them all. Six or seven officials from Malé and pretty helpless at that point.

“I saw Shakir run out of the mosque and hide in the bushes. He was trembling like a fish out of water. I had to do something to save his soul. I pulled him out and told him if he wanted to live to follow me. I took him to the RAF bunker in Maradu and told them that his life is at stake…he belongs to the government. The English gave him protection.

“Orchard and Adaran were taken to a steamship and an RAF vessel patrolling it.”

“There you go! I get it. He remembers you for saving his neck,” I thought it all came clear.

“Shakir remembers me for something else,” Huzeir-bé claimed pouring a cup full of coffee from his flask.

“Fire it!”

“I came to Malé, my first time, in 1976. The RAF base was dissolved and the English were leaving. We had to find jobs. I was on the boat in Malé anchorage looking at those whitewashed two-storey blocks of buildings on the waterfront. There came a guy on a motorcycle. He got epaulettes on his shoulders…mahma. I could not recognise him but he did and called out my name. It was Savari Shakir. He looked more healthier.”

“Huzeir! What are you doing there?” he called.

“I come to stay,” Huzeir-bé yelled back, “looking for job.”

“Have you got a place to stay?”

Huzeir-bé shook his head.

“Disembark. I take you to my place.”

“I was staying at his place,” Huzeir-bé continued, “Then one day in the following year he asked me to leave.”

“How did that happen?” I asked.

He gave that look. Finally, he told me, “It was something I said.”

“What did you say?”

“One evening this couple arrived home after spending a good time at the carnival. I uttered, ‘Last night it was a different woman!’ His wife took it seriously and they entered into a brawl that whole night. He asked me to leave. I could no longer stay as his guest.”

Totally an acceptable story. It happens all the time. Women know their husbands and particularly with one as he narrated; ‘frequent casual relationships’ – she’d be overwhelmed with jealousy. And they always fight.

Huzeir-bé would have never thought I would dig this story. And I wouldn’t have quite until years later I came across a name that he mentioned.

“While the United Suvadive Islands flag flew over the defunct Atoll Office in Maradu, a woman was detained by the English. Habib and Shakir escaped to Hulu-Meedu.

“For a fact, Hulu-Meedu folks support the government and we say, they are a more educated folk.

“Nobody knows what happened to her. She disappeared…taken away. Abducted.”

“Why?” I asked.

Huzeir-bé continued, “We don’t know. We heard she was a spy helping Footloose. She was a charming lady and educated. She works in Gan as an interpreter to assist folks coming for medical treatment at the military hospital. She wears a nurse uniform but not actually a nurse. We call her Nurse Deeni. Her real name is Mariam Mala. She is from Huludu. Her father is a stout advocate of the central government. His name is Ali Takhan. She married and gave birth to a boy at her age of twenty-one. She got separated and her husband took away the kid. This boy is a grown-up man now and works as a cashier somewhere. His name is Waheed.”

“Were you working at the RAF?”

“At the mess. I worked as a waiter and catch a bus to Gan.”

“What happened to Mala?”

“Adaran would know,” he said, “There stood this secluded house in deep woods in Odessele. I remember, the English levelled it to the ground. Nobody was allowed to go near. King was there. The English took several items left there by Habib and Shakir. A private house called ‘Etherevari’. A very elegant house with gardens and walkways.”

‘King’ or ‘great man’ is referred to Adaran – President of the United Suvadive Islands Republic.

Those wonderful nights were bleakly coming to end. One evening I was summoned to a staff meeting and the General Manager, American Joe, perused my sleepless nights. “What are you doing in the middle of the night with a magazine tucked under an arm?” He was once stranded on Diego Garcia.

“I wait for departures,” I replied.

“Well, if you must,” said the GM, “you wait in the staff area. Don’t come to this side unless it’s necessary.”

“Button up your shirt!” vociferated Half Lord, one of the resort managers.

And then a few days later I was late on duty. Half Lord was swearing at me. American Joe asked if I should stay or leave. I had to quit Bathala and hopped to Malé on a supply boat in very rough weather.