Gray
Alisha Rahman
With his life in one hand and a prayer in the other, he’s off. He knows nothing of what just happened, but he knows one thing for sure: he needs to start running. Over the loud speakers a robotic voice instructs, “Stay where you are, remain calm.” Babu knows when to run for his life, and this loud speaker is not convincing him otherwise. He thinks for a second about taking the elevator, but, considering what he just saw, he is not going to risk getting trapped. It has to be the stairs. Starting from the 92nd floor, he runs down the first of thousands of gray stairs. How many steps would he need to take to escape? A million thoughts rush through him and tug at his mind.
He repeats, “La illaha illallah muhammadur rassulallah”. There is no god except Allah and Muhammad is his messenger. Over and over. He clings to the words as he considers heaven. Would he see his uncles? Would he be able to welcome his family’s souls when their times came around? No. This won’t be how he falls. He’s worked too hard. Naheed.
Ammi calls Naheed to the TV. She is putting tea on the stove in the kitchen. Since her father’s sudden death, she has traveled to Pakistan to take care of her mom. She fills the kettle, adds black tea and green cardamom.
She heads over to the other room. Videos of New York City ablaze fill the screen. For a moment she is genuinely confused.
Kya? What?
She looks at her newly widowed mother, eyes wide with disbelief. She turns to find her gray flip phone. The first contact reads Babu. She dials. No response. She looks again to her mother. This time her eyes well with tears.
“Ammi. Ammi waha thaa wo,” Mom. Mom, he was there. “Ammi.” Sobs rack her body as she cries in her mother’s arms, and her own seven-month-old daughter cries in hers.
Babu’s 37-year-old body has never been tested like this before. Unable to catch his breath, he realizes he needs to stop for a second or else he risks his legs collapsing under himself. But I don’t have seconds to spare. Bassma.
He looks up from the gray stairs and sees two men watching the chaos out the window with cups of coffee in their hands.
“Let’s go! We have to get out of here, come on!” Babu shouts.
Adrenaline pumps through his veins. His confusion meshes with anger, heat, and sweat. What the hell is wrong with them? They don’t move.
“Calm down man, they’re not gonna hit the South Tower too,” the first one insists. The second one barely regards Babu, and refers to the scene at the bottom of the North building, saying, “It’s crazy what’s happening down there.”
Babu decides he doesn’t have time to argue with idiots. He’s off down the next set of gray steps. He fishes his cell phone from his pocket. He dials and dials. The busy tone sounds.
Nilu was a couple blocks away when his world flipped upside down. He’s sprinting.
He’s in there. Babu’s in there!
That morning, him and Babu had taken the train up from Kearny, NJ, and headed into the city for work. He knew that day Babu had a meeting with another engineer in the World Trade Center.
No, I just saw him! Nilu’s shock and disbelief prevent his mind from accepting the possibility that something bad may have happened to Babu when his phone rings. It’s their sister.
“Nilu where is Babu?” She screams, “Find Babu!”
He shoves through hoards of people, scanning their faces, wanting so badly to see Babu so that they can go home together. With no luck, he finally sets his eyes on the South Tower, still intact. Without a thought he runs towards the building. He is going to leave with his brother. Alive.
Suddenly his arm is yanked back and someone screams at him. It doesn’t matter what they’re saying. He tries to wriggle free.
“No, it’s my brother! My younger brother’s in there!” He gasps, “Babu! Babu!”
It’s no use. These firemen already saw him try to go in, and they are watching him now.
“Get out of here! Get out! We’ll help everyone we can! You can’t do anything by running in there!”
Firefighters and police start telling people to move back and eventually, he is pushed back so far away from the building that even if Babu would get out, he questions how they would find each other. The phone lines are down and Babu isn’t picking up his calls. But Nilu and his brother have something in common: they won’t give up. He searches the sea of distressed faces for anyone that looks like his little brother.
In the midst of the infinite gray stairwell Babu catches a glimpse of a panicked woman. He stops and recognizes his friend’s wife. He calls out:
“Let’s go, Linda, come on!”
She runs over to him as best as she can, tears streaming down her face. She is wearing heels. He doesn’t have time to care. He grabs her hand and drags her after him. Together they sprint as fast as their feet can carry them down the ugly colorless stairs. Prayers tremble on his tongue and pull at the edges of his soul on their way out.
His phone rings.
“Hello!”
“Babu! Babu, where are you?”
“I’m running, I’m fine. I’ll call you when I’m out.” He ends the phone call. He does not have time to focus on Shanu. What does someone even say to their brother, their best friend, in this situation?
This is not fair. He was promised! He was promised that if he worked hard he would be safe in America. He survived a war where he was persecuted and was forbidden to leave his home in fear of being killed in the streets at just seven-years-old. Nilu and Shuja were sent away because they were older, and if someone had discovered them, it would surely be lethal. His uncles were not so lucky – they were shot dead. Among many things, the war stole his opportunity to attend school until he was ten years old. He therefore struggled to keep up with the other students.
Even so, he persisted and overcame nearly impossible hurdles. He graduated from the top school in the country and, as such an educated man in a developing country, his government did not want him to leave. They wanted people like him to stay and build up the country, so they made immigration a hellish process.
But he did it. He dealt with corrupted government officials and forked over the last of his money and he survived it. Babu came to the States and got another degree and a good job. He married his wife and they had a baby. So no, it was not fair. This would not be the way his soul leaves his body, leaves everything he had accomplished in his life, leaves the country that promised him safety.
As he’s running, he hears a bone chilling, undeniable sound.
No.
As much as he wishes it isn’t true, it is.
No.
Above him comes crashing
No.
down bricks and debris.
This will not be how I go.
The building starts crumbling down on top of them. His breathing becomes erratic. Panic and dread fill him and his hope is fleeting. He picks up the pace, Linda following closely behind, his body doing ten percent of the work, his adrenaline doing forty percent and his spirit doing the final fifty. He loses count of what floor he’s on and his head is getting dizzy. His eyes dart around the gray stairs as they start meshing into a blur and he comes to terms with the fact that they may be the last thing he ever sees.
“La illaha illallah muhammadur rassulallah”
There is no god except Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.
Amma Abu Feroza Appa
Nilu Shanu Shuja
Naheed Bassma
no.
La illaha illallah…
There is no god except Allah…
The tower is coming down on him, he flings himself down the remaining stairs. One second all he can see is the next set of gray stairs, and the next – a ray of sunlight.
Yes.
Alisha Rahman is a student at Rutgers Business School pursuing a major in marketing and supply chain management with an anticipated graduation year of 2027.
Alisha wrote this piece in a course taught by Richard Murray, who selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.