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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 5 |
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| Rendezvous |
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“In meeting, we meet friends and
foe.
In meeting, we conquer our fears.”
Jesse |
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| Near Khuni Nallah |
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(1000h, 05 Mar)
The chase was endless. He was running non-stop since his birth. That tireless
cur, the executioner from hell, seemed to be gaining on him continuously.
He was running through the fires of jahannum. His soles were on fire. A
big fire, emanating from his feet upwards was engulfing his whole torso.
He could smell the damnatory odour of his charred skin and it was revolting.
How much he tried, jumped, acrobatically danced, twisted, turned or hid
in coolness of water, the confounding fire never left his side. Demons on
the side alleys were jabbing their red-hot tongs at him, laughing maniacally.
Kafirs were enjoying his acute misery. Shitless, inhuman rascals. Oh, ammi
jan help me, he had to escape. But escape from which side? Holes in the
ground were gushing out dancing flames. They were blocking all conceivable
escape paths.
That slit-eyed mad monkey was just a few steps away.
He quickened his pace but it seemed to be a losing battle. His feet were
refusing to obey his screaming commands. Run, run, run, he shouted to his
feet but terror-stricken idiots did not move. He was also being weighed
down by tonnes of rock mysteriously tied to his back by those demons.
That ferocious, scheming, evil-intent jinn wanted him dead.
He looked back in abject terror.
Ablaze monkey-eyes focussed on the back of his head, the piercing gaze burnt,
as the monkey-man raised his big hooked knife, to strike. His jitterbug
constitution allowed his jittery bowels to open and he heard himself scream
into oblivion.
Gul woke up with a jerk.
The hot rays of the sun basking him were awful and were hurting his eyes.
He was totally drenched in sweat.
His morbid, wildly pulsating heart burst instantaneously with joy on perceiving
the falsehood of his earlier situation. There was no death like chase. That
monkey-man was an illusion. Thank God, it was only a silly but scary dream.
He felt relieved of his phantasmagoric state.
He tried getting up but doubled back in pain. Oh God, he was hurt. Much
later he willed himself to move his hands slowly, feeling goodness of each
good part of his body. Everything seemed fine except his right shoulder
and the chest. Oh shit, he had also urinated in his salwar. His thighs were
wet from inside, but worst his right shoulder. It hurt very badly. The aching
throb was sharp and acute.
It seemed a million seconds before he could turnover to his better and less
painful left side and slowly unshackle the heavy rucksack off from his back.
He looked up and saw the straight face of the cliff from where he had slipped.
It was a clean twenty-metre rock face. The thick bushes had broken his fall.
He was just plain lucky, he thought. Allah was with him, as always. He turned
his wrist to see the time. It read 10 AM, March 12. Dear God, he had been
lying here for more than twenty-four hours.
His shoulder stung as if it was on fire. He slowly turned his face to examine
his area of discomfort. The sleeve of his shirt was full of clotted blood.
With effort he tore his shirt’s sleeve to expose his wound. It was
a bloody mess. He again praised Allah for small mercies. The bullet had
grazed through the biceps muscles, missing the bone, thus causing superficial
tissue damage. With bone being gone he wouldn’t have been able to
move his arm or the shoulders. The shoulder rotated without much pain in
its socket. The fact that he was lying unconscious on this very shoulder
for a long time had helped in ebbing the blood flow. Small dark brown crusts
were visible on the sides of the deep gnash.
He dug into his rucksack and rummaged through the contents till he hit upon
a small plastic bag. Gingerly going through various coloured pills, he palmed
four red ones. Yes, he remembered the doctor telling him that that the red
ones were for pain and it was the excruciating pain he wanted to kill. He
opened his dry mouth and popped up four painkillers. He looked around for
his water bottle, but not finding it nearby, he quickly worked up some saliva
and swallowed them. The pungent bitterness of the medicine was insignificant
in relation to the agony of pain he was experiencing. He then opened up
the bottle of antiseptic powder and emptied almost half of it on the wound’s
gaping mouth. He clenched his teeth, as it hurt more and suppressed a scream
moving up his throat, while he simultaneously pressed the powdered wound,
with his other palm. The blood seeped through the white powder making big
crimson spots. Somehow he managed to dress his wound shoddily with a bandage.
The efforts had drained him totally. He felt very tired. Suddenly his vision
dimmed. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he slumped back into
a fitful slumber.
Next time, when he woke up, the sun had disappeared behind the Pir Panjal
ranges. Slowly he managed to sit up. He was definitely feeling better. The
pain was less acute; demons had not reappeared and he was breathing easier.
A happy situation given the circumstances but he could experience a vague
unidentifiable discomfort throughout his body. May be it was the general
stiffness, he reasoned. He again opened the rucksack and took out his emergency
rations. He satiated his hunger, relishing a piece of jaggery and numerous
monkey-nuts. Suddenly, he sighted his green plastic water bottle, about
ten yards to his right. With tremendous effort he crawled up to it and gleefully
took large sips to drench his parched throat. Much later, after finishing
half his supply of precious water and food, he unsteadily got up and took
few unsure steps back towards the place he had fallen. Removing the plastic
lid of the medicine container, he again mouthed four more magical red pills.
It’s better to kill the pain till he recovered fully, he thought.
After changing his urine stained salwar, he overturned his rucksack and
started discarding the non-essentials. One must travel light, if you want
to survive, he again reasoned with himself. In any case he was not in a
physical state to lug his full equipment. Equipping himself with one AK-47,
two magazines, two grenades, his family heirloom .38 police special revolver,
the medicine box and dry emergency food packet, he got up to survey the
scene. On second thought, he quickly hid the other weapons and extra military
items in the bushes, lest the Indians lay their hands on them and this pile
further becomes a cause for another death-chase.
Gul looked up the cliff face.
It had a small narrow cleft covered by clump of bushes. No wonder, the Indians
could not locate him. He was more than sure that they would have searched
the encounter site in great details. On parting the thick bushes, he saw
a small animal trail disappearing around the bend in rocks, jutting out
from the side of the cliff. Slowly he placed the rucksack onto the good
side of his body and started moving up, labouring step-by-step, in spasmodic
pain.
It took him twenty minutes less to an hour to bypass the approximate place
of the previous encounter site.
Initially, as he trudged the very death-evoking path, he was awed and at
the same time moved by the innocence of the locale. Bodies of his men were
missing. He saw the body drag marks going upslope. So the Indians had come
and searched the place. His men had died; many of them had died. It was
a haunting experience. He half-shut his eyes as he made his way through
the mounds of blood-soaked slopes. This temple of death was brutal in appearance,
too savage to look straight in the eye and move.
By now his vitals had heated to a pleasant circulation of warm blood considerably
diminishing aches, sores and stiffness in general including senseless fear.
Gul paused to look up and observed the slopes above, this time very deliberately.
He could not detect any abnormality in bushy spur-line just ahead despite
repeated scans. He knew the Indians would be back within an hour. The daylight
was still out in good measure but the shadows of the trees were elongating
every minute. It was now or never, to cross that much-hated spur, into the
safety of Indian-occupied hinterland. But the earlier haunting memories
came rushing back. That madman had almost got him and it was God’s
providence that he was still alive.
He had been a fool to be taken in by that idiotic guide’s assessment.
The Indians had not deployed their ambushes on the crest line as appreciated
by those moronic goons. They had surprised his whole group by coming more
than halfway down to the forward slopes of Khuni Nallah. Idiot like, he
too had violated the basic tenet of war, to never underestimate the enemy.
In his preliminary fact finding talks with other jihadis, who had operated
in Indian Kashmir, they had confirmed that most of their troops were junglee
cannibals. Unlike white pig eating Russians, these soldiers chased you on
foot. Helicopters were easy to fool and evade, but not foot soldiers on
a hot chase. They will home on like ants on to a drop of honey, bemoaned
one legless veteran. Firefights in an encounter could go on for days and
days.
It was his over-confidence that had made him disregard their advice. He
had been naïve.
If he had chilled the Russians into fear, so who were these feminine Indians.
He had boasted. It was a mistake, a mistake he had paid dearly in terms
of his men and almost his life. He resolved not to underestimate these dhoti-clad
heathens again and moved a few steps forward.
It was precisely on the fourth step that the twin imps, yin and yang rushed
to greet him.
His heart punctured, a fear tipped arrow slammed straight into his heart.
The stomach magically rumbled painful sensation laden warnings. The mind
went numb. Unknown dread danced a Tango with his incompliant body. Terror
returned from nowhere. His feet faltered and body shivered in dread. He
was alone and was being brutally hunted, that too without the safety of
his faithfuls. His third eye did a double take, brain sensing out an exact
replica of frightening acoustics witnessed not so behind in time. He captured
the chatter of automatic fire and screaming hail of whining bombs coming
straight at him.
Fear had no bindings. It had flown, found him alone, exposed on this desolate
slope.
I should go back, the yin in Gul reasoned.
He was wounded, alone and tired.
The reason was adequate enough to accommodate any misdeeds. Yin, was a reasonable
pal, yin listened. It understood the needs of a man, like the perfect woman
in him he saw the reason of his pain, but above all yin understood. Good
mistress yin.
But then go back with what face. Why, any cowardly face would do.
He, the most feared and successful commander of mujahidin special task force,
was running away from fear of Indians. The wound was just but a mere scratch.
Faithfuls were dead, so what. All died for a cause and then why was he alive
with a belief similar to that of his friends.
Running from the battlefield. It would be a good, wholesome, body-saving
run.
It would be blasphemy. Pure un-Islamic.
The entire mujahid community will laugh at him. His standing in the council
of chiefs would be ridiculed. His family for generations dishonoured, eyes
never to leave the sight of peoples’ soiled feet. No, it was not acceptable.
His ass would literally be the butt of all known cowardly jokes. Then the
mocking darling yang melodiously sang, “Gul gya dul,” (Gul has
fallen).
Yang with guile, won the fear induced immobilizing debate, hands down.
Mustering all the courage he could, he slid through the tall wild grass,
upslope, directly eastwards, towards the Indian administered Kashmir, muttering
Allah, Allah, at each step.
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| Srinagar
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(0800h, 05 Mar)
The girls’ hostel in the university campus as always was a hotbed
of sundry activity.
Chatter, music, love-hymns, discotheque drums, soft laughter and more mindless
chatter, permeated along the long white marble chipped corridor. The musical
din was pouring out from plush rooms that adjoined the corridor, housing
some very beautiful girls. They were heartbreak models for most egoistic
goons who had elevated their infallible male human status on the campus.
Whole communities of teenaged, little above teenagers, young adults, middle
aged adults, old adults, found reasons enough to sniff this hostel’s
surroundings, if not the actual women residing inside. Only spying on this
famed building rushed their oxygen starved brain and delicate hearts. They
skipped, they hopped, they jogged, in vain hope of some black magic attaching
them to the famed beauties inside. Even sweepers had a strict rooster to
avail the privilege of rummaging through its discarded trash.
Khushbu was sitting in front of the dressing table, eyeing herself very
critically in the mirror across. Her face definitely required a beautician’s
sitting. The dullness of her skin was disheartening. Few frustrating hairs
on her upper lip would also definitely go by the time the sun goes down.
Only problem was that she could not do it openly, as it was against her
religious upbringing and Islamic atmosphere, created of late. Then through
the mirror her eyes suddenly fell on her friend Nafisa, lying on her bed.
“Nafisa begum, do you plan to rest your tender buttocks throughout
the day?” she inquired casually.
“Yes, I think so,” Khushbu heard a faint mumbled reply.
“Why?”
“I am in no mood to go out. Firstly, the first two classes are of
Mrs. Fatima, and I hate that flat-chested crone. Secondly, she squeaks like
a crow and I hate her voice,” Nafisa said half-rising up slowly, with
her slender back gently supported by a cotton pillow.
“What’s your problem enlightened one. You have not been in your
elements lately. I see you fighting with everyone. Ahm, tell your beloved
friend. Tell me what’s eating you up,” crooned Khushbu softly.
“You have your jihad, but I may lose my life, my dreams, my hopes,
my happiness all together,” sobbed Nafisa. “Chachu jan wants
me to get married to an uneducated fool,” she sobbed further in more
short gasps, with tears running down and wetting her rosy red cheeks.
“Ahm, that’s a big problem. I understand. Keep your head up,”
Khushbu walked over and ruffled Nafisa’s long tassels. Caressing her
soft cheeks she added, “What does your prince charming do,”
she asked smiling.
“An idiotic goat-herder,” Nafisa wailed more loudly this time.
“What’s this education for? To produce endless kids,”
she cried shamelessly into the pillow.
“Shut up you lovely fool. You know that’s blasphemy. We are
what we are. Wasn’t your abbu a goat-herder or your mother a daughter
of one for that matter? We should do what our elders wish us to do,”
quipped in Khushbu sternly.
Nafisa was momentarily taken aback by the hostility in Khushbu’s voice.
“You didn’t listen to your abbu or your mother, when you jumped
into jihadi bandwagon,” Nafisa accused.
“Because, it is jihad. That’s what our Allah wills us to do.
That’s what my countrymen will want me to do,” Khushbu literally
shouted getting up adjusting her parrot green kaftan and walked out of the
room.
Khushbu was a bit peeved at Nafisa. Though her best friend, her total disregard
for Islamic way of life perturbed her immensely. Not that she agreed totally
with what Islam taught personally. For example, she hated most in this whole
Muslim awakening, was this stupid fatwa on the dress code, no cosmetics,
no jewellery, no fashionable clothes, no skin baring ones and burqa for
every occasion. The clerics screamed it not being sanctioned in shariat.
Who will tell those learned men that the holy book was written a thousand
years back and its relevance now had to be re-worked. Thank Allah that at
least the burqa was not required inside the university campus. No jeans,
no tops or jewellery was infuriating. But she reasoned that by unity, Kashmir’s
cause was being projected by women’s solidarity. She felt sad about
her little trite with Nafisa. I will make up with her, when I come back
from this vital mission, she said to herself. Nafisa was always forgiving
and very loving.
Khushbu had discovered the thrill of senseless power, when she on a whim
had joined a sit-in demonstration, demanding a human right probe into firing
and killing of a student inside the boys’ hostel. She watched helpless
security forces, big gun trotting macho men; make a fool of themselves in
trying to remove a few determined girls. Police said, an AK-47 had been
recovered, from the dead boy.
“All rubbish,” Tahir had animatedly shouted. “We are the
students of tomorrow and we fight without arms, at an intellectual level.”
There was magic in his forceful sweet voice. When he spoke from a makeshift
pedestal, all girls had swooned. They listened to him in rapt attention.
Each word made sense. Each spoken sentence told them of their useless existence.
The black verbal magic had ripped her emotions apart and had pulled her
to him.
“I want to help you, ask of me of what you want,” she had said
boldly. Boldly enough with her eyes speaking of a lusty surrender. “I
will, when the right time comes,” he had replied, dismissing her with
a wave of hand. As the demonstrators were being physically removed, with
her in the middle, the international media had a field day. Anything to
capture Indian brutality and the shocking stories which emerged through
clandestine Pakistani grapevine.
She became a local queen overnight.
Then came respect, awe and fear. She loved every second of it, a socialite
holding a centrestage. She got the best dollops in the canteen, people ran
to attend on her, students did her silly class assignments and she was happy.
Even teachers called her lovingly in a soft respectful voice and ignored
her disappearances from their classes, when she was toiling for her jihad.
It was a lovely feeling.
Tahir had said that it was extremely urgent, when he called her last evening,
to the university cafeteria. She was to deliver a small letter to some silk
factory in downtown Lal Chowk residential area. She smiled with pride. Her
already ripe breasts ballooned egoistically. She was amongst the trustworthiest.
Khushbu purposefully walked out of the big cast-iron gates of the university
compound. Outside, seeing the teeming bustle of humanity, she hesitated
and then pulled a burqa from her handbag. One could never be sure of some
old heretic spraying her face with acid. Sadly a few girls, of late, had
become victims of such an enforcement. Adorning it on her head, she walked
towards the auto-rickshaw stand, a few yards away. We are in twenty-first
century and she had to cover her face. This was definitely not kashmiriyat,
but positively Islamic. How senseless she thought, almost climbing into
a three-wheeler taxi but then suddenly changed her mind. It was a nice cool
morning for a walk. At least she will see people she so dearly missed inside
the quiet confines of the university campus. Life cannot go on in this backward
manner. But things would certainly improve for better, she was sure.
A small unassuming boy of twelve, employed by the canteen contractor, stepped
out of the shadows of big Chinar trees lining the main road and started
stalking a striking figure clad in green kaftan.
It was not very difficult to miss Miss Khushbu in the crowd.
Back in her room, Nafisa was sobbing silently going over a few spreads of
littered paper. Imran, my sweet Imran, why is God testing our love. Imran
was the only secret in her life that she had kept from Khushbu. Her only
likely saviour, a saviour of her shattered dreams. And if the events went
the way they were written, he too will disappear. She also knew that Khushbu
would never ever understand this unyielding desire.
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| Indian Hinterland |
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(0430h, 08 Mar)
He had been walking through the night for the last three days.
He was tired, in fact very tired.
The discomfort had returned as his supply of pain reducing red pills had
finished. The blood had started oozing out from his biceps and the wound
had turned nasty blue. Fever had hit him for the first time, this morning.
Yesterday, his last morsel too had vanished into his ever-eager mouth. His
stomach protested with painful hunger-laden pangs. Thank God that there
was water in abundance in the mountain streams, unlike dry and arid Afghanistan.
The pain had slowed down his pace considerably. The tortured breaths were
coming out with great effort, in short gasps. His lungs protested at their
sheer fatigued misuse. The distance he was to cover in one night had taken
over two and he was still not sure where he was. Without those bakarwal
guides, moving cross-country in an alien terrain was maddening. Forced to
move only at night and hide during the day had further impeded his progress.
He had navigated by keeping Pir Panjal to his left and was sure that Poonch
town was generally behind towards his right and rear. On the midnight of
the third day, he had started climbing directly up slope to the North, from
where on the crest line he hoped to see more area around. The vegetation
on the slopes obscured his vision to arrive at any reasonable assessment
of his location.
The day was about to break as darkness had started giving away to pale light.
From the break in the trees, for the first time he could make out a big
feature in front of him. Oh! praise Allah, he seemed to be near the top.
With sweat pouring out from all orifices of his body, he quietly trudged
on in sheer agony. He then stopped. Oh! he had to find a shelter before
the day broke in full honesty. He desperately looked around and saw a big
uprooted tree. Where it had fallen, its branches had rested on a raised
rock, creating a natural shelter. He moved tenderly through the thicket
and sat under the tree trunk.
Gul threw his pack on the ground and using it like a pillow, slowly eased
into it. Lying face up he could not see the sky above. Excellent he thought.
He would be hidden from air. At least, one worry less. He had also seen
those small moth-shaped Indian helicopters, crisscrossing the jungle slopes
for the first two days. He was safe from them, for now. Before he could
reason further, his heavy feverish eyelids closed, momentarily. Before Gul
could comprehend what was happening, he was snoring in cool black comfort.
His badly beaten and ravaged body did not protest against such a blissful
luxury.
It was not only collective, but also sharp and ferocious barks, which woke
him. In alarm he jumped straight up. On his haunches he reasoned with the
logic of the noise. Shit, Indians were using dogs to track him. How stupid
of him not to have planned for that. His defensive reasoning was diminishing
and he reprimanded himself for that.
He was in no condition to run. He was sick and tired of running.
Brave men do not run, he reasoned. Cowards do and he was not a coward.
He will fight.
God willing he will make a glorious stand here. Yes, he will make a stand.
Yes, a last great memorable stand. He will take out many Indian bastards
today. Let there be lamentation in Delhi, squealing hordes of breast beating
Hindu women.
He quickly took out and placed his two remaining grenades on his left side
and laid his one remaining magazine on to the other, for easy loading. He
patted his grandfathers’ British revolver for assurance. That would
be his last line of defence. The barks were just around the corner, and
soldiers surely a few feet behind.
He smiled to thank his almighty God.
He brought his weapon to aim, resting confidently on his right shoulder.
This is it, he thought.
Two black majestic beasts broke cover, along the spur he had climbed. They
were growling excitedly as they advanced sniffing the ground in front. Strangely
no uniformed targets appeared to avenge back his place in heaven. Suspicion
laden, he maintained his unwavering aim.
The dogs stopped about twenty metres short from where Gul hid. The blood
trail was further infuriating their nubile senses. The blood was fresh and
the prey wounded, their odour sensitive brain registered. The movement of
the prey was also laboured, well; it will make the task of killing that
much easier, the dog brain further reasoned. Thick white froth dribbled
in savory anticipation from their lower jaws. The leader-dog gave an excited
whine, as he went down on his front paws. He then looked around for his
mate. She was approaching those bushes from a different direction. Good
sensible bitch, he growled in appreciation and then yelped to pass his latest
tactical instructions. The she dogs gave him a knowing bark of complete
understanding and turned towards the meat-laden bush. He will attack when
she charges from the flank. He looked confused as the bitch momentarily
stopped. She gave a menacing threatened growl and looked expectantly at
her mates’ direction for support. As he saw a man emerge from the
bush, he knew what was the reason of her discontent. He joined her fearlessly
in a full throated yelping stand.
It’s better to kill them, than die a terrible death, Gul bravely whined.
Their killing abilities were legendary. These bakarwali shepherd dogs in
a pair could butcher a leopard alone into gulp-able shreds in seconds. And
he was a mere man, not a tiger and nothing, a complete zero without his
weapons.
Confused, his mind refused to accept such a pitiable unsoldierly death.
Where were the bhainchod Indians.
Sending dogs ahead to kill.
Cowards, as always lurking behind the safety of petticoats of their women.
Come and fight Gul face-to-face you cowards, he silently screamed. He, the
brave Afghani will not give them that ejaculatory satisfaction of seeing
him dead, killed by these rabid dogs. Kill the dogs and let the cowards
come ahead to kill me, he reasoned.
He took a careful aim at the centre of the growling head and was about to
pull the trigger when a female in red flashed through the lips of his foresight.
“Shera, Bibi, Shera come back you fools,” sang the houri from
hell in melodious voice. “Come back Shera to your amma. You stupid
Bibi, where are you,” houri continued to sing the devilish song from
hell.
The death, fatigue and fear forgotten, Gul lowered his AK-47 and stared
unblinkingly at the graceful gait of the houri from hell.
Nurie screamed at the sight of the devil. Her two companions tore their
throats in appreciative barking, nodding vehemently in agreement of the
unknown man-danger. Her hands flew to her mouth and eyes registered a faint
curious shock. Sure indeed, a man devil stood in front of her.
The devil in black smiled. His eyes bored into houri from hell. His eyes
mesmerized the shocked women into submission. He felt the vibrations of
her naked flesh, beneath her firan.
The devil seemed pale and tired. Sweat was pouring onto his stubbed goatee
beard. He smelled like an animal full of dung. Strangely the aroma seemed
sweet. She looked down at her feet, feeling uncomfortable. The devil’s
eyes were burning. They were emitting eerie red laser beam. It was scalding
her soft skin. Shera and Bibi having climbed down from their earlier intransigent
stand were as confused as their mistress and ran around in circles on her
heels, growling in low screechy whines.
The initial three seconds of mutual assessment seemed to go on for ages.
Time stood still, staring at infinity. When the two sided staring became
uncomfortable, Nurie then mustered up some courage. “Who are you?”
she asked, throwing her chin up initially but a little later, turned her
head sideways to avoid the devils blood-red unblinking gaze.
“Asif Gul, commander of El Jihadi Special Force Group,” the
voice of the devil echoed slowly in the mountains, “And I am an Afghani,”
he added on an after thought. He was totally fascinated by her voice, and
she, equally by his.
“Oh! Allah,” she sang bringing the black burqa down to cover
her face. “Bibi keep quiet,” she caressed the foreheads of her
beasts, calming their frayed nerves.
“Which place is this?” asked the devil.
“Upper Nusur,” the houri sang further. .
A wave of relief rippled through his body, “And Pedro point,”
the devil further inquired.
The houri from hell pointed towards a cliff face to the North.
“Seen any army, Indian Army,” Gul added. Houri’s head
danced, implying no.
“Take me to Reshab Mehmood’s stead,” the devil instructed
forcefully. His red eyes did not move and locked to her breasts like a hawk.
Eyeballs moved up and down with each rise and fall of her excited chest.
Without a word, the graceful doe-eyed houri turned her back and started
walking along the path of zannat. After a few steps she looked back and
beckoned him on. Houri’s hips were swaying as beholding Chinar trees,
dancing to the gentle cool breeze.
Like a child entranced, brain-dead, he followed.
Never before had he seen so much beauty in one moment. It jammed his senses.
In any case, in his native country, beauty had vanished decades back. Only
cold, brutal, dead countryside, with even more defeated dead-faced people,
littered the landscape. Never before had his heart stopped seeing a woman,
devil’s own creation. Never before had his loins stirred as badly
as they were doing today. He was thankful that she was walking ahead of
him, oblivious of the obvious bulge, in front of his salwar.
He put his rifle lower to cover his decency.
Yes, yes, no wonder Kashmir was heaven on earth. No wonder, all his friends
queued and fought to come here and die in this land. No wonder, this was
the den of non-believers. No wonder, people of this land required people
from his land, to come here, to fight for their jihad. No wonder he was
here to drum sense into those idolaters.
She took him around the edge of forests full of fir trees, along a small
mud track. Despite her bewitching gait, her strides were purposeful and
almost running. Never did she look back again, as much as his heart desired.
Her two beasts stuck to her heels, occasionally glancing back baring their
white fangs, if he came a bit closer.
Suddenly he felt good, pain and exhaustion forgotten, he was a free fearless
man. There was love and happiness in life, and there was that bouncy spring
in his walk. The houri stopped. Lifting her hand, she pointed through a
clearing in the trees, to a massive stone brick house, tucked inside a small
culvert, surrounded by black rocks from three directions. Smoke was lazily
spiraling upwards through one of its chimneys.
The fence on the western side of the house housed numerous goats. Their
animalistic putrid smell, flavoured with their dung and urine filled the
air. He turned back to face his lovely houri. She had vanished as silently
as she had enchanted him earlier. Carefully picking his steps through the
boulder-ridden path, he started moving down towards the house.
He had hidden his AK-47 under the folds of his loose kurta when he knocked
on the door. The noise of shuffling feet across the other side of the door,
made him curl his finger on the trigger of his gun.
The door opened.
He saw the bewildered face of Reshab Mehmood. Gul fainted. |
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| Lalpura, Lolab Valley
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(1630h, 09 Mar)
The earlier sought, now sought the seeker. Their roles had reversed.
A second meeting was arranged.
The time and the location had changed. Other elements remained same. No
faith, no trust, a betrayal, surely yes.
Few issues needed to be ironed out. The price earlier offered was unacceptable.
Not rupees six thousand per head but twenty. They haggled like unscrupulous
traders and ultimately settled for twelve.
A meeting without profit, definitely not in Kashmir.
They parted silently, as silently as they had come. |
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| Upper Nusur
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(2030h, 12 Mar)
The body lying on the makeshift bed had been racked by unabated fever, continuously
for the last four days.
It was the body of his famous commander and he could not let such a situation
persist for long.
It was only when the bluish green pus began oozing through the bandages
on Gul’s right shoulder, did Reshab start getting worried. The concoction
of local herbs and village medical attendants antiseptic powder had failed.
It was time for modern satanic medicines.
Gul would have died had it not been for his younger niece Nurie, the daughter
of his eldest late brother Karim, who had been instrumental in getting their,
very poor family, into money, prestige and power they enjoyed today.
May God bless his eldest brother Karim.
Had big brother Karim not landed in a government job of a peon with that
big merciful large-hearted Hindu Minister, their life would have been one
of an undignified bonded labourer. God bless his late brother’s soul
for helping their clan and having a dutiful daughter like Nurie, unlike
her spoilt elder sister. Nurie had helped initially in placing cold press
on Gul’s forehead. She had sat hours at night without complaining,
changing one wet cloth strip with another. During the day she worked as
if she had slept throughout the night. Together, both had managed to clean
Gul’s grime infested body thrice by sponging, but only under the stern
eye of his old senile mother.
Even in delirium, Gul was a difficult man to control.
He had to call in other woman of the house, to hold him down, when he was
thrashing about in pain. Gul must have revered his abbu and Maulvi Islam,
for he repeatedly begged for their mercy, for failing them on this sacred
mission.
By the evening of the fourth day, Reshab resolved to go to Surankot. He,
during his stay in Azad Kashmir freedom fighters camps, had come to know
of a great Islamic missionary, who could revive almost a dead man. He was
loved and revered by all mujahids of various tanzeems, with equal respect.
For that, he would have to speak with a few elders, in Srinagar. For that,
he needed a telephone and they did not exist in his isolated village. For
that, he would have to go to the nearest town, which was a minimum eight
hour trek. To save Gul, he would have to leave immediately. He quickly opened
his diary hidden under his room’s wooden plank and turned few pages.
As he started walking down from his rusty sleepy village at night, he precisely
knew whom to seek.
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| Surankot |
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(1030h, 14 Mar)
“I need you angel,” a voice boomed.
Doctor Mehboob Shah, MD, resident doctor of Surankot’s 30-bedded civil
hospital, looked up in fear at the big man in a brown salwar kameez, who
had uttered his magical code name.
He did not recognize the face.
Fear returned instantaneously, his stomach spewed juices straight to his
anal passage and in sweaty desperation he stared across.
Who was he?
How did he know his code word?
Should he respond immediately? Was he an Indian plant? Was he a renegade,
working for Indian Security Forces? All unimaginable dark thoughts lurked
simultaneously in his mind. Screaming face of Sikander and his inability
to stand two minutes of interrogation by that mother-fucking jet black South
Indian, Indian Army Major, nine years earlier, came haunting back with vengeance.
That ruthless Major had rubbed his black cheeks with his pure white ones
and had very suggestively asked ‘ what will happen when…’
and he had shamefully begged forgiveness. That black rub still burnt. He
avoided looking at the present questioner’s eyes and looked the other
way as if he had not heard anything.
“I need your help,” repeated Reshab and added ‘angel’
in a whisper to complete the sentence.
“Who are you? What is your medical problem?” stuttered back
Doctor Mehboob Shah. “Why are you calling me that?” he further
added, still avoiding a direct eye contact. His hands were trembling. He
quickly took them below the table and tucked them under the warm confines
of his thighs. The fear flogged fingers clasped other nervous protruding
comfort zones.
“Doctor Mehboob, I am sorry. I spoke to maulana in Srinagar. We have
a grave emergency. He told me to immediately contact you,” Reshab
spoke in a hushed tone.
“Which Maulana are you referring to? There are so many of them floating
around uselessly in Srinagar,” angel questioned quietly.
“Maulana Amjad Ali of Lal Chowk area. He told me to tell you that
Sikander lives in heaven,” Reshab answered.
“Oh, it’s OK, state the problem.” Blood rushed back to
his veins, in a gush of relief. “You should have stated the last portion
first. There are many enemies around to pounce on us. I cannot take chances
with so many Indian spies floating around,” he said. The operative
line was right. Maulana and his few handful of men knew the exact code.
They huddled in for about ten minutes and spoke in animated whispers.
Angel quickly grabbed his leather medical bag, stuffed up to the brim, with
free samples of medicines provided by numerous medical sales representatives
and stood up to leave. He quickly grabbed the telephone and spoke to his
boss, “Sir, I want two days of leave. Emergency in the family. My
mother is not well. Oh no, she has an exaggerated case of acute angina.
Sir, I will try my level best to be back by twenty-seventh morning but I
hope you will cover for me if I am late due to the exigencies at home. Yes,
yes, I will definitely keep you posted. Thank you sir,” dropping the
phone, he walked out into a bright sunny day, with Reshab tagging behind.
Reshab thanked his stars and was amazed at Allah’s providence that
one “angel” he was seeking throughout Jammu and Kashmir was
available at his back door. Allah had strange ways to repay and reward his
beloveds.
Gul certainly was a star amongst them. |
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| Upper Nusur
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(0100h, 16 Mar)
Mercifully short, but a stiff climb of an hour and fifteen minutes, got
them to Nusur village, from the road junction below.
The first sight of the wound had sickened him.
It had hastened angel’s actions immediately.
The wound was badly infected and the situation was precarious. It was a
classical case of wet gangrene. The affected area was deep blue and emitting
foul flesh rotting odour. High body temperature reflected the intensity
of spread of infection. He was glad that the girl was giving the hydrotherapy
correctly. He felt the pulse and it echoed back on his stethoscope, faintly.
He then quickly broke one-gram penicillin ampoule and deftly filled the
injection. Without much remorse, he sank it on the left buttock of the naked
body, covered only with a dirty woolen shawl. No time for niceties of his
profession, like cleaning to sterilize the area of proposed prick with antiseptic,
he reflected. Why this, there was no time to check the rudimentary fundamentals
of penicillin reaction before hand. If anything happened, he had the antidote
ready. He now broke another ampoule, 2cc of paracetamol and sucked its dose
into the syringe. This time he poked it with even more apathy into the neighbouring
buttock.
Nurie wincing, watched the show, in agape fascination.
“Get me boiling water and the stove to heat my implements,”
he ordered without referring to anyone in particular. He quickly unwrapped
the dirty, makeshift bandages. What he saw sickened him further. Dark bluish
tinge had spread to almost two palm lengths. At worst, he would have to
amputate the arm, and would certainly do it, if by next two days nothing
improved. He quickly placed cotton wads below Gul’s shoulder and gently
started pressing the inflamed areas of biceps around the mouth of the wound
hole. The pus erupted as if it was stored behind a big dam. The bluish green
and later yellow discharge intermingled with blood collected on the cotton
wad below, after travelling the whole length of the shoulder. He dabbed
at the molten mass repeatedly and started cleaning the area delicately.
The girl offered him the boiling water. He quickly emptied the whole Dettol
antiseptic bottle into it and started squeezing hot mixture at the gaping
mouth in the biceps, with the help of a cotton sponge.
“Heat this scalpel till it is red hot,” he again instructed
and restarted examining the wound to see the precise area of incision and
likely infected flesh to be surgically removed, to stop the spread of gangrene.
The red-hot scalpel was offered.
“Hold the body down tightly,” the angel instructed. “No
not from here, but here and here,” he said again pointing at the body
parts, which had to be held down. Satisfied, he dipped the scalpel in the
white antiseptic water bowl and then purposefully cut into the soft flesh.
He made a diagonal cut across the earlier wound configuration.
Nurie shrieked as if the scalpel had attacked her. The devil’s pain
was totally, hers.
The doctor looked up at Nurie. The inquisitive face of doctor could not
register the reason why she had shrieked. Weak-hearted woman, he reflected.
The thought made him quickly bite his tongue. Was he any stronger than she,
he reasoned, as he dug deeper into the patient’s flesh, ruthlessly?
Without displaying an iota of any remorse, Mehboob Shah then quickly snipped
the hanging flesh on the sides to expose the wound further. Reshab closed
his eyes at the gruesome sight of blood. Having made three more incisions,
the doctor started pressing the sides again. Various hues of coloured pus
flew out instantly. Only when bright red blood started oozing without interruption
did he stop.
Gul’s body writhed in pain.
Oh, the demons had returned back from hell. He screamed and arched his straining
back upwards. He was to die surely. Terrified, Gul opened his eyes. The
demons were desperately clinging on to him. They wouldn’t let him
move. That bloody madman was back and plunging his knife deep into him.
This time it was not a scary dream, he was awake and that slit-eyed phantom
had a knife. He shrieked and shrieked in abject terror. He wanted to retaliate
but strangely his body again refused to obey his commands. Then there was
this smell, which confused him.
Subconsciously, he tasted an aroma of a woman. The same familiar aroma of
that houri.
His eyelids lowered. He felt breasts pressing against his chest. The feeling
was pleasing. Oh! yes, Oh! God yes. The heavenly houri was clinging to him.
She was a good woman. She will surely ward off the devils. Despite unbearable
pain, he smiled and slumped back again into oblivion.
The commotion allowed the woollen cover to fall exposing Gul fully.
Nurie fascinated, watched the black monster between the devils leg with
unblinking resolve. Were they always so big, she blushed to think, having
spied at thumb like ones of her young male cousins only? The scary snake
was shaking in consonance with Gul’s spasms. She wanted to look somewhere
else, but her eyeballs were impaled to the sight. The black snake, the brinjal,
with its light pink round head, glowed. Oh! my God, what a size, she groaned.
“Oh Allah,” she sighed as a strange wet sensation overtook her
own shaking lower body. Is this desire? Was this love her other friends
so excitedly spoke off in giggled whispers? She was virginally unsure. If
it was love, then she was surely in love.
She had foolishly fallen in love with this unconscious man.
|
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| Rajouri
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(1200h, 01 Apr)
The bus ride was uneventful and except tiredness it had imparted nothing.
Reshab got down from a rickety old Jammu and Kashmir State transport bus,
which had definitely seen better days, a quarter of a century back. The
journey had taken over four hours, to reach from Samhot. He had changed
the buses twice. He had dared not to make a call from Samhot, where almost
everyone knew everyone. The mixed populace of Rajouri town offered safety
in anonymity of numbers. As he emerged out from the bus station, he started
loitering around lazily in the bazaar, thronged by small shops, rising in
terrace, along its inclined pot-holed road.
Gul had made a remarkable recovery. Allah Tala’s hand was surely instrumental
in his welfare. Within two days, his fever had subsided and on third, he
was, pacing the room up and down, like a caged tiger. He had never met anyone
as remarkable as him before. Not that Gul was mountain like, but his six
feet of frame seemed always to burst with energy. His voice was firm, deep,
resonating and pleasant. It came to you from behind your lobes and hit you
like a whiplash.
His eyes, oh yes, his eyes.
At initial glance they looked like a simple pair of small grey-tinged eyes.
If you had the courage to dwell deeper, it would send a chilled shudder
down your spine. They followed you around and registered all infinite movements,
with each blink having a specific purpose. They never moved illogically.
His ice-cold expressionless stare was good enough to out-blink a poisonous
king cobra. Only his smile was a bit awkward, sneer-dipped, and unsmiling.
He had roared like a wounded animal on learning that none of his faithfuls
had made it across the LoC. “By Allah. I will kill these Indians,”
he had ranted again and again.
Running around like a rabbit at Gul’s commands and nursing him to
his feet earlier, had left him no time even to mourn the loss of his cousin
brother. The women like always, like all brave bakarwal women, had taken
the news well. They had dutifully shrieked, wailed, breast thumped in agony.
What more could they do. Moreover, what choice did they have in not taking
it well? Any more lamentation for more than two days was not acceptable
and he would have kicked their round bottoms himself into inducing positive
movement. Who the hell will prepare food, graze goats, get firewood, wean
cows, dump manure, tend to the vegetable garden and do other womanly works.
Not him assuredly. His personal loss was immense. Risal had urged him to
run, as he fell into his arms that day. Wild, inaccurate firing had helped
him to roll down the slope and hide in a small gully. Later, he had heard
a single shot and a chilling scream of Risal. Absolute silence later convinced
him that merciless Indians had killed him, at point blank range.
Savage rascals.
Risal’s wife was barren.
That made the matters a bit easier. He would have to get her married off
again. It was his responsibility being the eldest male member and more importantly
as the head of his clan, he reasoned.
He had only lumbered a few steps down the street when he suddenly froze
on his feet. Allah, what will happen to six thousand goat-heads of Risal.
If Bijli, Risal’s wife remarried, he would have to give more than
half in dowry. Loss was not recoverable or acceptable. She might fight to
have it all quoting those confounding city laws and he will be helpless
in compliance.
It then struck him like a mule-kick.
Why can’t I marry her and keep the wealth in the family. Yes, he was
allowed to have four wives and at present had only one. Yes, it was a good
idea. More he thought of it, more he patted himself, with his original brilliant
thinking. He could easily pressurize Aisha to see reason and manipulate
his grandmother accordingly. Aisha would sulk for a few months but what
else could she do. Bijli talked too much, but on the other hand she was
young and beautiful. He will throw the chaddar on her and settle this issue
within the clan. He had the right, didn’t he?
It was getting late, he thought. He quickly zeroed on two public call offices,
running side by side. Seeing one deserted, he rushed in.
“Private call sardarji. Can you leave me alone? I have to speak to
my wife,” he politely requested.
The pale lanky sardar nodded, got up and left the small cubicle. From outside
he glanced back through the transparent glass frame and noted in amusement
at the bakarwal push telephone buttons deftly. Not strange, but definitely
unusual. The buggers were becoming educated and suave.
After two beeps, Rani Sahida, at Pakistan International Airlines Front Office
at Bangkok, Thailand, picked up the phone and crisply replied, “Rani
from PIA counter, how can I help you sir.” She looked up at the electronic
clock on the wall. It was 1245 PM.
“I am Mr Badshah from Multan. I wanted reservations for a flight to
Dubai. Can I get one?” asked a faint echo. Reshab congratulated himself
for speaking good passable English. His eldest uncle’s determination
that all the clan children were to study at an English school for two years
in Jammu had paid off.
He had hated each and every day of it.
That stupid alien education was not for him. Anyone, who could tell by the
colour of goat-shit, of what illness she was having or by smell of air,
if it’s going to rain or by one look at the ground know how many had
trodden the path and when, was educated enough and his tribe needed that
education only. But English was good time pass to impress village belle’s,
in his native place. He chuckled at the thought how many virginal legs he
had magically parted by a simple, “I love you.” But it was for
this English speaking ability, that he had been specially hand-picked for
working with Gul and ISI spymasters.
Rani, without batting an eyelid and maintaining a sweet smile at the customer
in front of her desk, pressed a black button beneath the counter. The tape
silently twirled as an electronic circuit got connected.
“Can you repeat your requirements once again sir. Yes, thank you,
Rani can certainly help you, Mr Badshah. Can you fill me up with more details
of your travel plans,” she inquired sweetly.
“Please book me on economy class on PIA flight 112, from Dubai to
Bangkok, on 12 April. By the way do you still give free presents for children
on the flight,” the voice across, inquired.
“Yes sir, we still do,” replied Rani.
“Well, last time you gave me a plastic bow and an arrow. I regret,
the quality was so rotten that within a day the bow broke. My son still
carries the arrow around, with a mournful look. Please re-supply a sturdier
one this time,” said Reshab. He glanced back and saw the tall Sikh
loitering outside the closed cubical door. “Good, I will pay cash,
on arrival,” he further added.
“Sir, consider the arrangements complete in all respects. Please report,
two hours earlier. The ETD is 0130 hours on 27th April. Yes sir, want a
return flight? Yes, seats are available. Yes, you will be booked on return
southern bound flight to Karachi on 27th April. Please reconfirm your return
bookings on 25th April. Thank you sir, have a good day,” crooned Rani
replacing the handset on the cradle and simultaneously removed the tape
from the miniature tape recorder.
“Excuse me for a moment please,” she said to the customer in
front and trotted to the ladies powder room at the rear of the building.
Inside the privacy of the smelly toilet cabin, she took out a brown envelope
and sealed it after putting the tape inside and hurriedly scribbled with
her lipstick, Badshah in brackets Multan. She put the envelope in her carry
bag and came back to her desk. Without looking up, but still maintaining
a toothy smile, she dialed a number. After considerable time someone picked
up the phone. Irritated at the delay she snapped, “This is PIA front
clerk. Please send one chicken pizza by home-delivery to Rani,” and
banged the phone down without waiting for any confirmation.
When she looked up, she saw an impatient lady drumming her fingers on the
isle of her counter. “I am sorry madam to have kept you waiting,”
she said. Then she attentively listened to her customer and within seconds
was buried into the sheaf of papers in front, to keep up with their unending
requirements. In any case, her work was a bore and not as exciting as the
one she loved to do for her country cousins. More importantly they paid.
The pizza delivery-boy came, when the rush hour had ebbed to twiddling thumbs,
work-wise, and her counter was deserted. He quickly placed the flat pizza
box in front of her and slowly asked for payment.
The brown envelope was handed over even more quietly.
Pizzas were fun, she mused smiling at her efficiency.
She quickly opened the box and lifted the pizza bread dripping with hot
molten cheese. The aroma was definitely hunger enhancing but more invigorating
than the savoury aroma was that red envelope beneath the crispy roasted
brown bread. It would be a fruitful weekend ahead, she gloated. Another
two thousand Bahts to indulge in perfumes, clothes and jewellery.
These silly games were a load of fun. |
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