03.1 The Staging Post

A row of to-lets stood by the west wall and doors painted blue. Inside the confines of a whitewashed wall, forecourt covered of thick white sand, a ring of garden plotted in the centre and four o’clock flowers near the walls in pink, white, yellow, purple and mixes. They were disciplined not to disrupt the sand in the courtyard. This sand turned dusty in a year and would be replaced by a new fill. Savari Osman Shakir sat on a grandeur swing – undoli – having afternoon tea with his distinguished guests.

Irish lady, Margaret O’Connell, set outside her door, third one in the row, knitting wool. She would gladly take a cup of jasmine-scented tea. Though she couldn’t eat much of the local titbits. She kept toffees and chocolates in her room. She was in her fifties and spent six years in Malé without taking a break. She was a teacher at Sanavi School. Students called her Miss Connell, without an O, and at home; Marge.

Saudul and Abdel, with their sisters, had to take a lesson every afternoon from Miss Connell before taking shower for the evening.

Saudul was fifteen and five years older than Abdel. He was intelligent, adventurous and rule-breaking. When he did, their mother didn’t find it wrong but if Abdel did, he’d be corrected.

Saudul would take him to east Embèru, down the pathways cut in the thicket to a cow farm. At first, they had to cross flat and dusty roads. Around a hushed Chandni Magu corner, they crossed the sacred centres; the gardens, the minaret, the shrines, the defence house and Etherecoil – Palace of the Sultan. A scarce area not allowed to pass and in case maintain utmost silence.

At the farm, Saudul fed the cattle with garlic that made those muscular bulls charge in sudden rage to knock down the fences and fight aggressively. At some point the keepers would notice and chase the kids out.

Saudul Shakir died when Abdel was ten years old. Osman Shakir sent Abdel to Ceylon and boarded at St Peter’s College in Colombo where he spent eleven years studying.

When he returned at the age of twenty-one, he was assigned to Wizarat-Al-Kharijia – the Ministry of Foreign Affairs established on 22^nd December 1932. He was a clerk capable to draft letters, translate and type. He was one of the juniors allowed to wear trousers. A decade ago, lower class could hardly own a footwear, ride a bicycle, carry an umbrella or wear a pair of trousers. He belonged to the privileged.

Savari Shakir crossed Chandni Magu on a bicycle. Hedge plants skirted the edges and grass should not be stepped. Cypress trees pruned into barrels. Cockscombs, cattails and firecrackers in the mantles of spacious esplanades. Oleanders, flame trees, Cook pines and plumerias in the next row, shady trees beyond.

It was a sunny day. He sat down beside his desk. Messenger came to a standstill right in front of the door in the sun, “Savari! You will be transferred to Wizarat-Al-Dakhilia today,” his speech of the ordinary.

“I haven’t spent a year!” uttered Shakir.

“You will this time,” returned Kotar the messenger who knew it all before word leak out and because he was the source, “They are waiting for you.”

“Who are waiting?” Messenger’s word should be taken for granted.

Kotar replied, “The Undersecretary of Wizarat-Al-Aman-Am at Doshi Màine Malam.”

“Do you think I should ask? Oh, never mind!”

Fifty minutes later, Shakir was ushered to the Defence Minister’s Office.

“Shakir, sit down!” waved Manan Rock, “You just turned twenty-two. I am looking for a person who can read, write, translate and comprehend English at a very good level. And you come highly recommended.”

The peon said they were waiting but it occurred the minister here sat alone behind a desk in his private room.

“I know your family well,” he carried on, “Savari Osman Shakir is a patriot and a loyal servant of the state. I am trusting on you to do a huge service for your country. Can I count on you?”

“Yes sir, I will do my best,” he replied.

“What you’re going to hear is top secret and by all means shouldn’t pass between your lips. Nothing goes beyond these walls. Can you keep your word?”

“Yes sir.”

“It requires you to be away from home for a very long time. Are you fine with that?”

“Yes sir.”

“Once you are assigned to the mission, there can be no turning back. Can you stick with it?”

“Absolutely.”

There was a pause and the minister continued, “You need to think maturely and stand committed. You’ll be posted as assistant to the representative stationed in Addu Atoll but your job is channelled to a sentinel. You are entitled to assist him. There stands a wall between him and others. You are answerable only to him!” Rock put it in statement.

“I understand, sir,” Shakir responded promptly.

“Then you’ll take this letter to Dakhilia and get settled at the Home Office until I send for you.”

A week later, Shakir was summoned to Hakra House and ushered into a map room. What he saw changed his life forever to be dedicated at work. There lay a largescale ‘sand table’ model in the middle. A local artist in a messy shirt with long salt and pepper hair sat working beside it. His name was Sayye Saeed in a chequered sarong. He was reconstructing this model according to new information gathered. It was a relief model of Gan.

Rock said, “This is where you are going. You will be based in Hittadu. We are focused on Gan. Saeed here will explain it all. You come here every day and study the photographs in those two albums and contents in the folder,” and he left the room.