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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 6 |
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| God’s Men |
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“From heavens they came, evil to slay.
From heavens came the God’s men.”
— Jesse |
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| Sopore |
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(1323h, 05 Apr)
The life was good.
For a former convict, who had only slain his brother’s daughter in
Baluchistan, Pakistan, in a justifiable honour killing, the life until now
had been excellent. That prostitute, his shameless niece, had held that
boy’s hand in public. Imagine, that clan-honour-soiling-bitch. He
would have killed that boy too had he dutifully not run off to seek protection
of the mullah in the village masjid.
He laughed at his fate. Jihad was pious, self-cleansing and he liked it.
Thirty-year-old Jalal Omar, the District Commander of his tanzeem of Sopore
area, was licking his fingers greedily and his jaws were simultaneously
working noisily on the tender lamb-flesh, placed in front of him, in form
of “rogan josh.” He had an AK-47 slung across his back. Never
part with it, echoed the cautionary remark of his instructor at Harkut-ul-Ansar
camp, on the outskirts of Peshawar. He was proud that he had never parted
with it, even while screwing women here. The gosht was tasty, but these
idiots laced their food with too much of chillies and oil and above all,
he hated rice, never ever having eaten a morsel of it in Baluchistan. “Roti,”
he shouted, blowing his nose into his sleeves. A woman appeared and tried
to place one in the basket in front of him. Even before the roti could be
put down, Jalal grabbed at it and began dipping it in his sumptuous, red-hot
curry.
Frail, grey-haired, Abdul Malik, sitting on the floor opposite was slowly
playing with his rice. His sane reasoning had left him nude, a long time
back. He watched in sheer disgust as Jalal let out a loud belch. Cannibals,
he thought. Sheer muck, cultureless bastards. But what could he do. He and
all others around were partly to blame. They had burst crackers, danced
like silly monkeys, thinking that azadi was around the corner and Pakistan,
the land of pure, will deliver them from yoke of slavery. He had donated
money to innumerable outfits. He even had forgotten the names of half of
them, which had mushroomed overnight. He had hugged initial Kashmiri youth
returning from training camps across, he had seen their true passion. His
friends, his family, all had out-vied others to invite foreign returned
guests to their houses. All had caressed the mujahid beards to honour them.
Why did the same hands seem so sullied now?
His heart knew the answer.
He had gauged his passion, a diehard “jamaiti” and his coterie
of friends had galvanized the whole village, in driving out Kashmiri Hindu
Pandits and making everything Indian not work, or at best be a broken past
for them. But much later, the truth hurt, when locals gave away to foreign
brand of jihad, their unfamiliar Deobandi Islamic ideology, brutalism, mistrust,
contempt for valley’s youth, rapine lust for our beautiful women,
blood of innocent Kashmiris used as cannon fodder, betrayal by so-called
puritans across, pilferage of money to build palaces at Jammu, Delhi and
even Dubai, had broken his heart. Worst was that public conveniences had
disappeared. No lady doctors, no schools, no electricity, no water, no industry,
no investment and he a graduate of economics from Aligarh Muslim University,
was convinced that they were moving slowly back into the quagmire of under-development,
reflecting seventeenth century social development index. Afghanistan had
stepped back into Stone Age, with their pure and successful bandwagon of
jihad. They had fine tuned ochlocratic oligarchy to perfection and will
ensure that his prosperous Kashmir also meets the same fate. There was still
happiness, available in abundance, in this magical vale for these God’s
men to comprehend logically and ration their loot. But this glorious Jihad,
being run from across Pakistan, on shoulders of petty criminals, who will
infuse sanity or reason?
Jalal slyly smiled at Karina, baring his yellow naswar stained teeth, as
she hurried around serving food. What a luxury, he thought. This was the
land of plenty. Back home, four rotis with tea in the whole day was considered
a good gratifying meal. War-ravaged fields grew almost nothing with people
having forgotten how to plough the fields. Gosht was restricted to a few
festive days. He had better make the best of his stay here.
“Gosht,” he almost shouted.
Karina, avoiding any eye contact, poured him more red-hot meat. Jalal stared
at the outline of her small, ah yes, firm breasts he saw through the neckline
of Karina’s firan. She felt Jalal’s blatant stare burning her
chest. She quickly adjusted her chunni around her neck.
Jalal giggled softly.
Jalal liked what he saw: the obedient and compliant women of this sissy
valley. They have so much and still they crib. One look at the barren landscape
of his native Baluchistan, these buggers will realize how lucky they were
due to the quirk of geographical bonanza. Still they cannot fight their
war by themselves. Women – all of them.
He giggled again at the thought of spineless clan-members around. It was
worth fighting jihad here. White, spotless white women like Karina, all
to be taken at his will. This was a warriors’ land. The land for brave
and courageous people like him, who defied death, who wanted shahadat for
God’s cause, who had the will to crush opponents of Islam. He was
fighting for these people, it was their war, they had invited him here and
they bloody well look after him nicely. He had no remorse of his earlier
pickings and those planned in the future. In the last eleven months, it
was his ninth house and he had refused the services of two families, which
had only old ugly hags to serve him.
Wiping the steel plate clean of any traces of mutton gravy with the last
morsel of his roti, he barked his orders directly staring at Karina. “I
will take tea in my room, after fifteen minutes,” and walked out of
the room.
Abdul Malik, an economics honours student, sole owner of sixty- eight acres
of prime apple orchards, on the banks of river Jhelum near village Acham,
sat quietly, without touching his food-laden plate.
He could not meet the accusing gaze of his eldest daughter Karina.
Back in his room, Jalal dragged a wooden box from underneath the bed and
opened it to examine its booty. Four AK-47’s and one rocket launcher
would be adequate for the mission. He had clarified from Gilani, his superior
commander that the basic ammunition for training and operation would be
provided by the Maulana. They all had to march to the South somewhere. The
exact location would be disclosed later. He did not like it and had let
his reservation known, in working under some other umbrella organization,
he had never heard of. Gilani, his mentor, had said it was for Kashmir’s
cause and he had been instructed not to raise any question. His boss had
been very adamant at his participation. “Cause,” he had said.
Bloody hell, what did they think he was doing here, without a cause. Stupid,
mindless idiots, all his senior bosses of Harkut-ul-Ansar. Someone was hijacking
their fight and all these eunuchs were clapping for someone else’s
success.
A soft tap on the door diverted his attention.
Karina stood there holding a glass of brown coloured broth in her marble
white nimble hands. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her roughly inside
the door and a light kick by his right foot closed the privacy-granting
door. He guided her to the bed and sat facing her. Her hands were shivering
in fear or excitement, he could not fathom. Whatever be it, he did not care.
Bending his torso, he slid his coarse hands slowly up her long slim legs.
He liked what he felt. Hairless, creamy, soft touch. She was not wearing
any underclothes as usual. This was another thing he liked about women of
this valley. As he roughly pulled her to him, the tea spilt on the carpet.
“Bitch,” he muttered, as he got busy undressing Karina. Head
bowed down in shame, her small budding breasts quivered as Jalal mouthed
them to taste another lump of his favourite food; raw flesh. This sure was
a good jihad. This sure was heaven on earth or that bloody Mughal emperor
would not have uttered those famous words.
Abdul Malik heard the door slam shut.
He was still sitting cross-legged in the dining room. Intricate designs,
on his very precious Kashmiri silk carpet, did not evoke any pride-sprouting
‘look it’s mine’ interest.
He also heard stifled muted screams of Karina.
Sometime later, his youngest seven year old Zarina came to her abbu. Seeing
him sit so solemnly, she quietly lay down and rolling over the carpet, placed
her head on the comfort zone of her father’s lap.
She was puzzled and could not understand why the tears were slowly trickling
down from her abbu’s cheeks. In spite of her desperate loving hug
they would not stop.
She also could not comprehend his senseless mutterings, “Khudda maaf
karna, khudda maaf karna.” (God please forgive me) |
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| Diwar, Lolab
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(1200h, 06 Apr)
Both had been seeking each other. The seeker and the sought. Actors had
exchanged places. Need was same. Mutual profit. A meeting without a profit
was never heard of late in Kashmir.
They exchanged notes not for more than three minutes. Beyond that duration
there was no trust.
Three hours later, Major Yadav leading his battalion and other operational
teams, surrounded and killed two Lashkar terrorists, holed inside a hideout
in the basement of a house. They had been quartered there since the last
two months. Not many knew of this secret house address.
Six hours later, in the middle of the night, Nazir’s wife received
Rs. 30,000. Out of that Rs. 24,000 for two heads and an additional six,
as a future investment in trust. |
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| Rajauri |
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(1056h, 07 Apr)
The bill took Sardar Ranjit Singh aback.
The bakarwal had paid Rs. 882/- in cash and had taken the receipt. After
he left, he switched on his computer machine and noted the number through
the recall facility.
Strange, absolutely strange, indeed.
A bakarwal making an international call to Thailand was strange and then
paying more than fifty bucks was mind-boggling. Till, Delhi or Bombay a
call would not have aroused any interest, but this was certainly suspicious.
He had mused over what to do for more than a day. Exposing oneself now-a-days
was fraught with danger and the terrorists displayed no remorse in killing
informers. But his inner-self did not agree to his cowardly inaction. A
coward Sikh, no never. He recalled the community security-coordinating meeting
in which inspector Narinder Singh Pathania had asked them to report anything
unusual. Even a dog not strolling along its usual path was unusual and should
be reported, he had reiterated. This call was quiet unusual. He scanned
his diary and dialed the inspector’s number.
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| Srinagar |
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(Same Day, Afternoon)
As usual, it had been a busy day.
Rasool Bhat had been on his routine morning ramble. His army of little monkeys,
as he had nicknamed them, had passed good information. Border Security Force
and Special Operations Group of Jammu and Kashmir Police had conducted a
pre-dawn raid at Batmalu locality, but had found nothing. The anonymous
tip off had reached camped Harkat-ul-Ansar cadres just in the nick of time,
to affect a panicky flight. Three injured Hizbul men had been admitted to
a private hospital in Lal Chowk. The latest on security forces pickets was
also known and marked on his city map. It would help him plan the route
for his nightly sojourns. While walking he picked up a local paper. It was
the good old ‘Greater Kashmir’ an excellent expression of all
things anti-Indian and recourse of all Jihadi views. Of late, there was
nothing in it, which eulogized its greater name, covering only the distorted
news of the valley and its longing love for Pakistan. It was also a medium
for passing secure terrorist messages right under the Indian noses.
The headlines screamed “LIFE IMPRISONMENT NOT ACCEPTABLE. DEATH FOR
ARMY RAPISTS.”
Why can’t these army guys keep their dicks in place, he thought. Maybe
their virility stemmed from the barrel of the gun. Shameful incident. These
buggers should be hanged and local sentiments were not far misplaced.
He scanned around.
The city had started bustling to its peak activity.
Shouts, screams, haggling, vendors, shopkeepers, were all hustling for space
and scheming for quick profits during available time. God only knew for
how many days the town would close, on some stupid organization’s
call. Make hay while the sun shines, had become a subconscious ethics of
this society. He entered a tea kiosk and told the proprietor “phone.”
He was well known and respected for needing any basic introductions. The
bespectacled, beggarly looking owner moved to the rear room of his tea stall
swarming with flies and removed the telephone hidden in a cupboard. Rasool
dismissed the tea maker, before he started punching the numbers. Continuous
faint rings echoed back into his ears. Thank God, the lines were through.
Even a fainter click confirmed the connection. He spoke rapidly, “Baba
here, send five freedom fighters from Alpha Squad by tomorrow. You know
the place.” Not waiting for any reply, he replaced the handset. He
liked this private arrangement and avoided public call offices, as most
of them were monitored. Bills could lead you to actual owners and locations.
He had talked the old tea stall man into installing the phone. Obviously,
he had agreed when he had offered to pay all the bills, with his calls included,
but only with a rider that the original bills were handed over to him instantaneously.
|
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| Bangkok |
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(1630h, 08 Apr)
He had been sweating since a long time.
About hundred metres across the Pakistan International Airlines office,
Mr Sibal Kumar, the third secretary of Indian Embassy, Thailand, sat behind
a spotless white console, housed inside a specially constructed graphite
steel dome. “Grave,” the nickname given lovingly by the embassy
staff, to this steel structure, housed all electronic and signal devices
used by them. Most importantly, it was the make-shift branch office of the
Research and Analysis Wing, India’s premier foreign intelligence agency,
in Thailand. Sibal headed the outfit.
He was sweating despite central air-conditioning, as he laboriously worked
on the monitored transcript. The duty communication operator had ticked
him of a coded message and had placed the hard copy of it yesterday. He
studied the whole message again, reproduced on a white bond paper. So the
beautiful Rani was on her routine masterly performance again. He would love
to crack her skull to dwell into the secrets of her mind. Computer analysis
had given him a faint direction to look into. Previous data bank, in fact
all earlier Pakistan generated messages had drawn a blank. No link to anything
previous. Codes were being used for the first time. Must be a big, deep
secret? Something sinister was assuredly on and like all intelligence staff
all over the world, even premier agencies like CIA etc, he would have to
start from scratch, to make any reasonable guess-estimates out of it.
Dabbing at the liberal production of sweat, housed on his forehead, with
his spotless white handkerchief, he pulled out a blank sheet and rearranged
the intercepted data with his assessments.
BADSHAH FROM MULTAN - Activation code.
FREE PRESENTS FOR CHILDREN - Requirement?
BOW AND ARROW - Specific equipment dispatched.
BROKEN BOW, ARROW FINE - Few items received.
SOUTHERN BOUND, 17 APR - New route and schedule.
The more he pondered over what he had deduced, more irritated he became.
Something was happening, but he could not place his finger on it. Wish he
had the ability to trace the incoming call, but the telephone line maintainer,
Ratna Buddhir Rama could not help more in this regard. Whatever little coup
he had generated, he had to be thankful to his good detective work and Ratna.
Seven months ago, when Pakistan International Airlines had acquired the
office complex in the second storey commercial building, just overlooking
and opposite the Indian embassy, he had been very worried. He knew it would
be used for surveillance, both covert and electronic.
The “Grave” was the consequence of it.
He had discreetly visited the office site when the interiors were being
reconstructed. It had been a quagmire of unlaid electric and telephone wires.
He, by sheer luck had stumbled upon Ratna working on the telephone distribution
panel, outside the building, when an idea struck him. After that, he had
followed Ratna for more than a month, and was sure that he knew more of
him, than his poor, pale-looking, and plain simple wife. Ratna stayed in
a two-room ramshackle cardboard house in downtown city. Maybe it was the
dank smell of that crowded place which forced Ratna to the open beaches,
very regularly. Whatever be it, Ratna loved to roam alone.
On the third weekend, when he had tailed Ratna to Pattaya beach, did he
get an opportunity to intervene? The telephone man loved drinks, sleazy
dances, cheap girls, and obviously all vices above his meager pay packet.
He was having an argument with the owner of the “Dragon Ladies”
club who was using his hired muscle to throw Ratna out, due to non-payment
of earlier dues, when Sibal had thrown innumerable Bahts on the counter
saying, “My friend, look after him and the whole show is on me.”
Groggy, incoherent Ratna was suspicious and confused at first but polite,
shy, backslapping; innocent-smiling stranger quickly submerged his apprehensions
with more scotch. A bottle of Vat 69 later, both had humped hussies of Ratna’s
choice. They had become weekly drinking and whoring pals.
The request had been innocent two months later.
Ratna had surprised him with vigour and energy to repay a trusted friend.
By the time Pakistan International Airlines front office opened to public,
he had managed to monitor the first congratulatory call from Pakistan International
Airlines headquarters from Islamabad.
Ratna received his monthly retainers for whoring and drinking, but all alone
after that.
But what to do with this half-baked knowledge, thought Sibal, staring at
the paper in front of him. It was best if he let the spooks at Delhi reduce
a bit of fat from their heads worrying over the problem. He quickly made
a brief along with his assessment and fed the hand-written paper in the
fax machine. He started breathing easier only after he had pressed the transmit
button. |
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| Srinagar |
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(1200h, 15 Apr)
It was the peak-trading hour of Srinagar’s Lal Chowk commercial market.
Everyone wanted to complete their chores within those compressed 14 hours
from 5 AM till 7 PM, before the curfew was imposed again. People had crawled
out of their depressed homes like ants. Mad-rush disease had infected all.
Old men trotted, the middle-year ones cantered and young surely galloped.
One could not waste time walking.
In one remote corner of the bazaar, a fortified bunker, with four men sticking
out their Self-Loading Rifles, indicated that not all was as calm, as reflected
by the daily hustle and bustle of the bazaar.
Their nervous eyes were darting at everyone who moved.
Tension in their eyes lasered out and could be felt by all who crossed them
from minimum twenty metres away, a line inside which, they will shoot anyone,
without an iota of remorse.
The town folk had seen many such bunkers crop up in all corners of the city,
over the years. They had seen many bunkers go down and men behind them turn
into bloody goo, due to some sneak grenade attack. Both, the men in khakhi
uniform and the city folk protected their drawn-lines, fanatically.
The noise, the din, the babble of voices, click-tic-click of tongas, shouts,
fights and haggling, all rose into a crescendo, that carried to a room in
the left extreme corner of Zahir Silk Factory.
Maulana Amjad Ali sat on a raised divan, dressed in white silk kurta-pyajama,
with an equally striking white toosh shawl draped around his shoulders.
His eyes were closed. The face reflected flushed red concentration. Facial
muscles were taut and rigid. Nothing on his face moved except the mouth
in repeated intervals.
“Lashkar-e-Toiba”
“Yes”
“Tarique-e-Jihad”
“Yes”
“Jammat-e-Islami”
“Yes”
“Al Badar”
“Yes”
“Hizbul Mujahidin”
“Yes”
“Muslim Janbez Force”
“Yes”
“Harkat-ul-Ansar”
“Yes”
“Jammat-ul-Mujahidin”
“Yes”
“Freedom Fighters”
“Yes”
All eyes turned towards Rasool Bhat. Various commanders stared at him for
they had never ever heard of this group.
“Allah be praised,” said Maulana opening his big buffalo eyes.
He stared at the gathering in front of him and felt elated at his own achievement.
Something impossible a few weeks back was unfolding like a dream in front
of his eyes.
“We have all gathered here to achieve the ultimate objective of our
cause. I know, that all of you brave honourable men tread different paths,
but, if you peep into your hearts, all of you have only one aim. The liberation
of Kashmir from the shackles of India. You are the true believers. You are
Allah’s chosen ones. God has given you power to see reason. Your reason
for participating in this holy war was initially to fight infidels. You
came to this Dar-ul-Harb to propagate our Muslim brotherhood. Our enemies
have been defeated in Iran, Afghanistan, Chechnya, and Bosnia. How were
they defeated?” Maulana paused for effect. He liked the rapt attention
encountered.
“They were defeated by the loyal and combined participation of believers
from Sudan, England, Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Afghanistan, Malaysia and Bangladesh.
Name a country in the world from where they did not come,” Maulana
thundered, with his fingers jabbing at each man in front of him, he continued,
“You, you and you are all here for Mohammed so wills. Without his
grace, would we all be sitting here? You all combined have the strength
in you to throw the violators of true faith. This pure land is being raped
by these kafirs from Hindustan. Our women are in danger. We cannot protect
their dignity. We must liberate its oppressed people. Once this beautiful
vale falls into our hands, the coveted crown of India will fall on its feet.
India will whither and die like a headless corpse. Then the armies from
Dar-ul-Islam will sweep the only bastion of non-believers in South Asia.
From shores of Atlantic to Indian Ocean, we will have a land worth living
for, for centuries. To see that our children beget heaven on earth, your
cooperation is necessary. We must fight Indians like a single clenched fist.
Shahadat, if it comes to you, will take you to heavens,” Maulana paused
to palm his long white beard and then added, “Before we proceed further,
I want to know, who all are with me for this righteous cause.” He
looked around. A general murmur of consent rose from all sitting. The Maulana
had crooned the right words, which played straight with your heart.
“Good. You will all head south. Details have been worked out. Initial
trail by fire is in your hands. If we succeed in this one mission, then
we can participate in bigger events and engulf our enemies. Remember, when
the might of the combined hurricanes hit the enemy, it will sweep away all
the non-believers from its path.”
“Who will control the operation?” asked the Al Badar representative.
“A tiger like yourself,” answered the Maulana.
“How can we trust these smaller groups? Their capabilities are peanuts
in front of us,” the Hizbul man boasted.
“All are equal in the eyes of the God,” Maulana held his voice
expressionless.
“But, all of us have connived against each other, one time or another.
Without faith, we cannot fight together,” the Lashkar man thundered.
“When blood flows from the wounds inflicted by a common enemy, your
blood will bind you together in faith,” replied Maulana calmly staring
at the eyes of Lashkar commander.
“But who is that man and his group? We have never heard of him or
his tanzeem,” asked Jalal the representative of Harkat, pointing at
Rasool Bhat. He had observed all the commanders assembled. This person was
different. His steady cool demeanour disturbed him. All others had met,
passed glances, smiles, and nods of acceptance, except that man in the black
turban.
Before Maulana could reply, Rasool got up shrugged his shoulders and spoke
softly, “I am nobody. A man without an army, but few dedicated men
who believe in Kashmir and all it stands for. Had it not been for me,”
he pointed to Jalal, “your five men would have been shot like dogs
yesterday night in Batmalu. My timely information saved their miserable
lives. At present three of your men injured at Gandarbal, in army encounter
are taking treatment not more than four blocks from here,” he looked
squarely at the Hizbul leader. “We might be nobody, but nothing moves
in Srinagar without my knowledge and those are my credentials,” he
sat down amongst open stares.
Maulana smiled openly perhaps for the first time. “I agree and am
indebted to such patriots of Kashmir. Now go out and work for God’s
cause,” he goaded others.
“Like a clenched fist,” he shouted again as all got up to leave.
|
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| Same City |
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(1400h, 16 Apr)
Within the confines of now evil-dread city, this place was Shangri-La.
Hotel Cecil was one of the few left in Srinagar, which still attracted locals
during the day.
The hotel had been a hallmark in hospitality for the last 80 years of its
existence. The old grandeur and ambience permeated from its furnishings.
Mr Nusrat Ali, the present proprietor, prided in the fact, that despite
uncertain political climate, the Cecil was still open to public. Trade conferences,
entertainment of friends and families were organized in this heavily guarded
hotel. Constructed on illegal land adjoining Dal Lake, it provided a scenic
backdrop, which awe-struck many people. Serenity was a welcome contrast
to the madness of violence prevalent outside. The waiters in their light
blue uniforms were scurrying to meet the demands of a few, old and many,
new rich Muslims.
They had struck gold, on driving away even a richer band of Hindus, almost
a decade ago. Sipping on wines, the fat money belts, gold-laden females
justified the Hindu massacre. They had become rich, hadn’t they?
Nafisa walked into the white Italian marble-floored lobby, anxiously scanning
the strange faces. Imran, after a gap of one month, had contacted her last
week through a letter. It had shattered her fairytale love story. The straight
round precise words had shaken the foundation of her existence. Imran’s
parents, a known Muslim ICS family, were contemplating his marriage this
year and Imran like a true gentleman had come to her asking for a commitment.
How could she, a bakarwal girl and against the wishes of her family, take
such a bold step. All alone and marry? It would be sacrilege, enough to
start a generation of bloody family feuds.
She remembered with lump in her throat, the day she had accidentally bumped
into him at Delhi’s Palika Bazaar, as she was rushing out, after arguing
with the Kashmiri-artifacts shop manager for charging such unearthly prices.
She had wanted to pick up presents for her younger sister and amma when
her three-month-old teacher’s contact program was coming to an end.
Delhi had rocked her life and evoked feelings of which dreams were made
of. Hesitating and apprehensive, the unsure bakarwal girl saw the open world,
through the eyes of a life-imprisoned convict on a parole. Freedom, laughter,
casualness, openness, clothes, oh God, what clothes, beautiful women, their
uncaring attitude and zest for life, was too much to take in one outing
from Kashmir. She had thought herself to be cat whiskers, coming to Srinagar
from an obscure village, in the Pir Panjal ranges. Delhi had stoned her
soul to think and live. What savages we were, she thought. This will continue
till education did not reach all, but who the hell will be educated in Madrasas.
They teach nothing except religion and of late, only hate. Modern education
was needed, and Allah permitting, she would provide it.
Imran lying on his bums, blue jeans, and legs apart, with his books scattered
all around had been a comical sight. Despite two second old acquaintance,
she had instantaneously leaned down and helped and Imran hesitatingly hobbled
to life, collecting his books. Apology, a few smatterings of continuous
sorry had given Imran the courage to safely escort her to the bus stand,
before she toppled more people around, he had remarked jokingly. Later they
found themselves sipping coffee in the Indian Coffee House and discussing
their lives. God had his hand in their union and she had always maintained
that belief. A lone Muslim girl, to meet in Delhi, a smart Muslim boy, out
of millions of people, had to be God’s intervention.
Now Imran had only two months left. His parents were getting him married.
He had bared his child-like soggy heart to her in his letter and thus this
sudden meeting. The girl in question was the only daughter of a very rich
Muslim businessman. Despite his firm no, his parents were unrelenting. In
a standoff, he had taken leave to come and meet her at Srinagar.
Imran’s profession initially had come as a rude shock. He shockingly
was a captain in the Indian Army. But seeing his love for his uniform, his
die-hard spirit for his country, she was a little confused and later softened
her views. She had loathed anyone in olive greens and the Indian Army in
particular, as many hair-raising tales of their brutality against their
Muslim brothers, had fed her developing intellectual beliefs.
Her community, of late, had dreamed of Pakistan as the saviours.
Everyone’s sacrifice had been supreme and they were so ready to welcome
the Khaki coloured marching Muslim armies in 1990. But their hopes had been
belied in 1990. Then they hoped of it in 1991 and then every subsequent
year till 1996. By then they knew they would never come. It was then, many
tongues started wagging that Pakistan did not have the guts to throw out
the infidels and their army was full of useless heretics, who farted loud
and did nothing.
Kashmiris were being used shamelessly.
Her people were an excuse to die and keep the pot boiling. If she, a woman
with no interest in politics could understand it, she was sure others had
comprehended the situation much earlier. The problem was that too much of
power and prestige was involved for anyone to dither now. Many in Hurriyat
had gulped in too much of Pak-financed rupees to be allowed to back out.
Imran was sitting in one corner of the coffee shop. His face lit up like
a small boy presented with a chocolate, when he saw her. His innocence in
love was what she would die for, a thousand times over. He ran up to her
and held her firmly. The only place in Srinagar, less inside the four walls
of one’s home, where a boy could do so, thought Nafisa. In their animated
state of words and reassurances which lasted over 45 minutes, just sipping
cold coffee, they did not notice the waiter on the neighbouring table, give
them ugly stares, since long.
Bloody hell, thought Abdullah. That’s no way a decent Muslim woman
should meet a man in public. The man himself looked odd. No, not a local,
not a rare tourist or a journalist either? He was too smartly dressed for
them. Suddenly his cropped hair caught his attention. Oh! my God, he looked
like a defence personnel. Well, very brave of him to come out alone. He
must alert his local commander of Muslim Janbaz Force immediately.
A good soft target, for some good crisp easy money.
Abdullah hurriedly narrated the whole incident to Mehmood Usman, his information
liaison man. “I think he is a fauji,” he added further, “Alone
and unarmed.”
Almost an hour later, when Usman reached the gates of Cecil with his two
executioners, he saw Abdullah waiting outside the parking lot. He ran over
and hurriedly said, “The man caught the tempo which just went out
and the girl is walking down the avenue. She is wearing a red salwar under
a brown firan.
Usman quickly reorganized his men and instructed one of his boyish looking
henchmen, “You follow the girl. See where she goes. Do not alert her.
We will follow the tempo. Quickly to Badami Bagh main entrance, you Bengali,”
he said pointing to the driver. Black, of a small stature, Aminul Rehman
was shaking with fear. These freedom fighters will get him into trouble.
After two years of wandering all over Pakistan and crossing the border twice
he had managed this job. If caught and deported, how will he feed his family
of nine children in Chittagong, Bangladesh. These people will surely get
him into trouble. He quickly kick-started his auto-rickshaw and headed towards
the instructed destination. He will disappear after this. These puritans
of faith will not even give petrol fare, he fearfully reasoned.
By the time they reached the main gate, Usman saw a very smart man dressed
in black trousers and cream coloured shirt with red silken scarf, show his
Identity Card and go inside the security of man-made, wire fortress. Sensing
the uselessness of the situation he punched Rehman in the back and whispered,
“Go man go.” Shit a golden opportunity missed to earn rupees
one lakh and twenty thousand, a price for an Indian officer killed. Bloody
hell, he had also missed the maulana’s invitation, but he was sure
that his immediate boss would attend it. The stupid woman had passed the
wrong dates to him, which he was sure was done very intentionally. That
bitch slaved on his boss and envied his closeness to him. He had apologized
over the phone and now he had to organize five men to move at short notice
when ordered. He had looked at this as a golden opportunity, thrown at his
feet by God that would have restored some confidence in him and made him
look better in the eyes of other commanders. He clenched his fists in sheer
frustration.
Altaf had no trouble in tracking the girl in red to the university and subsequently
to its girl’s hostel. In fact, he was surprised. A traitor, in the
tiger’s den. In his own backyard. He had taken a good look at her
from various angles. She was stunningly beautiful and too pre-occupied to
notice him following her. What could such a heavenly girl be doing with
security forces man? Must be a mukhbir. Our own women, stabbing our backs
was bad, very bad indeed. She will get her reward in due course, he reflected
as he turned away from the hostel gate confronting a massive black cow of
a woman, the chowkidar.
Engrossed, he did not notice a small boy, watering the plants outside the
hostel, staring at him.
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| Murree, Pakistan |
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(1000h, 18 Apr)
It had stunned them all to silence. At such situations silence was like
a loaded pregnant pause. He had mastered to control silence.
The initial reports of the fiasco, at Khuni Nallah near the Kabul post,
had put everyone in a pall of gloom.
It was not a fiasco, but a bloody disaster.
They had chosen the sector very carefully. Only one infiltration, out of
eleven, had been detected in that sector, earlier. He knew the Gurkhas,
who were manning that part of the line of control, were finishing their
tenure next month and by nature of all accumulated military psychology,
troops would naturally be lax. It was basic human nature, not to rake up
trouble before leaving and better to move back intact as a unit, without
losing men in stupid bravados. They had planned the exact slopes for infiltration
keeping in view the nature of ground and accessibility of locals in the
vicinity. He was sure that the Indians would have done their homework in
detail and guarded the approaches more in strength, where the villages were
nearer the LoC and accessible. On the Southern slopes of Pir Panjal, they
were adequately behind. Then how come such a mess, mused the stunned Brigadier.
His boss’s earlier caution mocked at him repeatedly, “Against
Indians count on what you have achieved and not what can be done.”
General Ibrahim Lodhi had ordered the after-action review. It was to be
conducted by his feet-touching lackey, Colonel Imtiaz Ahmed, who had flown
in especially from the capital. They had given their depositions. Major
Irfan had explained all the precautions he had taken to ensure success,
including leading the jihadis personally up to Khuni Nallah twice on dry
runs, just to build up their confidence. Thank God that idiot Subedar Mastan
had goofed up the issue of fire support and the blame was put entirely on
him. In fact, he was facing a court martial, for not exercising proper command
and control and cowardice in the face of the enemy. At least, the blame
was not on him. Good, at least 36 jihadis were confirmed killed, despite
that Indian Lieutenant bragging of 42 dead. Good, that gave him a cool profit
of Rs. 36 Lakhs. He, as always, had persuaded the men to leave half of their
given cash with him, though all had dutifully signed for the full amount
of rupees two lakh per head. Let the holy tanzeems, swindling the money
blatantly from people, pay for their dead.
The news of Arrows safety had been a blessing in disguise. It enabled him
to send Colonel Imtiaz Ahmad packing back to Islamabad and keep that stupid
interfering Lodhi in check. Organizing the Bow had been a problem at such
short notice.
The infiltration of seven faithfuls, on special leave from Third Special
Services Group, the elitist commando force in the Arab world, scheduled
to be inducted via Khasghar on 15th March, had to be stopped. The operation
was cancelled, as no news of Gul was forthcoming.
The southern-bound route took frantic calls and threatening language to
Pakistan International Airlines and director, passport and immigrations.
To put the operation back on track in six days had sapped his energy. He
slumped back on his fat cushioned chair and relaxed as he glanced at the
time. In another two hours, the Bow would be airborne. Rest all as always,
will be in Allah’s hands. He picked up the phone and dialed an Islamabad
number. It’s better to satisfy that General’s ego, he thought.
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| Channadaji, Bandipore
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(1353h, 24 Apr)
He was offered a sweet cup of tea.
Thank God, he had graduated to better things in life than to gulp down that
miserable salted version of it. Good life, why not yes. The sexiest woman
in the village, his wife, was also the part of good life. Twenty prime rice-producing
acres of land, two hundred apple-producing trees, thirty almond-bearing
trees, a plot of land in Sopore, a bus plying to Srinagar, two local taxis
in his name, the life was on an upswing. The only crib he had against the
Almighty was that he had no children. Only three feeble girls from five
years of marriage was not manliness in any form. Even his sulking wife showed
no desire to have a male child. Bloody BA educated pampered daughter of
local contractor in Bandipore. Whatever I do for her is inadequate.
Ungrateful bitch.
Ashraf Khan mused over his tidings of fate.
From a poor, landless, uneducated lout, seven years back the fate was certainly
smiling. This Jihad had been also good for his family. He had returned all
his family dues with compound interest. The land where his father used to
work as a daily labourer was his. The owner and his family were dead for
exploiting the village poor. His inhuman previous employer, minus a throat-slit
only son, was now his compliant father-in-law.
The role of an executioner for his tanzeem, Lashkar-e-Toiba was respect
generating.
The whole village, which had mocked the Khans earlier, was at his mercy.
These vermins referred to him as sahib now and they better, if they didn’t
want to land up dead. Respect was good but it was the smell of money, which
came along with it that invigorated his soul. Money came in organizing reception
of the infiltrating groups and motivating young boys to go across. In addition,
as the launch commander for entire valley including areas of Drass in North,
he was filthy rich. He had been instructed to go to Khasgar to receive a
group but before he could put his machinery in motion the orders had been
countermanded. Strange and not to his liking, as missing money-making forays
was not palatable.
As unpalatable, as this sweet tea offered by his wife.
It had a lousy bitter after-taste, which lingered. The right profanity to
rectify his wife’s’ digression was on his lips, when suddenly,
his jaws locked. He could not understand his good fate, nor why foamy bubbles
were emerging out of his mouth or why his beautiful wife was speaking into
his radio set. His chest suddenly heaved and his eyes closed.
A few minutes later, an officer leading a bunch of Garhwali troops entered
the house and took the dead body away into the nearby jungles. He fired
many shots into the inert body of Ashraf Khan to claim an encounter, to
eliminate the traces of poison and most importantly, to stage a drama to
protect the innocence of a women being raped non-stop for the last five
years.
All this, in name of the Almighty God.
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| Bangkok |
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(1200h, 26 Apr)
Sibal had an equally frustrating week.
He had puzzled over the puzzle and it had left him stoned.
He hoped against hope that Delhi would come up with some breakthrough where
he had failed. To ensure that some nincompoop analyst did not file his report
in an obscure corner, he kept on pestering the desk officer. They remained
as much in the dark as he was. They were pouring over all ship and air movements
from Islamabad to Bangkok and Dubai to Bangkok. They had leads but nothing
definite was emerging. He had gone all over the tabulated flight plans of
Pakistan International Airlines. No flight returned back from Dubai on 27
Apr. He had also tabulated all the flight plans. The only flight from Karachi,
which flew South, was Pakistan International Airlines 402A, directly to
Colombo.
He pressed the taped transcripts on once again. Beautiful Rani’s voice
filled his cabin, “Yes Mr Badshah, we confirm your return south-bound
flight non-stop to Bangkok.” This had come in yesterday.
The only south-bound flight was to Colombo and none to Bangkok. He mused
over this information with nothing worthwhile to do; he dialed his counterpart,
in Colombo.
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| Srinagar |
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(1800h, 26 Apr)
“How’s my forlorn Chinar,” quipped Khushbu as she ruffled
her hands through Nafisa’s long hair. She loved this wild bakarwal
girl.
“OK,” shot back Nafisa.
“How’s your mood. Seeing you smiling after a bloody week,”
her friend observed.
“I am fine,” she replied.
“Well gossips are galore. I believe someone was asking for you at
the hostel gates. Bibi just told me so,” crooned Khushbu.
“Must be some stupid love-struck man following me,” replied
Nafisa quiet agitated by this fact. She must speak to Bibi. Bibi, in fact
was a massive black woman, God’s genetic defect, six feet tall and
weighing over hundred kilos. Nothing could get pass her gate, which could
harm her lovely girls. She was the gate-keeper, a friend, sex expert, advisory
board, match-maker, all rolled into one. For one’s happiness, Bibi
had to be kept happy and it was a very rational decision for anyone to be
on her right side.
“Well, we all are going on a picnic, this Sunday to Tsrare Sharif.
Tahir has organized a bus exclusively for the girl’s hostel. He has
even managed the security passes,” said Khushbu.
“If it is Tahir’s doing, then sure, something is amiss. How
come such a largesse is being bestowed on us lesser mortals? How come now-a-days
you blush like a bride taking Tahir’s name,” Nafisa spoke staring
at Khushbu fixedly.
“You devil, I love Tahir, I love his voice, I love his reasoning,
I love his love for Kashmir, I love his killer looks, I love his patriotism,
I love his energy, but more than that he has shown me the way. He has shown
us the reason for existence. Don’t worry; he cannot get girls into
trouble. We are his eyes, ears and subtle hands. In any case, you are coming,”
she said with finality that left no room to say, No.
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| Colombo |
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(0800h, 27 Apr)
Even hurry takes time, he agitatedly mused.
Bloody Sibal had just given them nine hours notice. Not that they had less
work here, keeping tab on various militant groups and eavesdropping on the
numerous political parties and their leaders for their views on India.
This place was fast turning into a quagmire of quick sand.
Tamil groups were emerging stronger day-by-day and Government resolution
was weakening, proportionally. Violence perpetuated more violence and the
solution had to come from within the country. At best, what he could do
was to faithfully record acts of violence. At best India could mediate.
Since the IPKF imbroglio and betrayal later by the invitees themselves,
the nature of conflict had reached very scary proportions. He was not sure
who was helping whom and all including ISI, Mossad and CIA, had jumped into
the fray. Good pickings for any enterprising mercenary on this island, he
thought.
“Fernandez, have you placed your man inside the terminal,” asked
Grover, peering into the terminal, from the car park.
“Yes sir,” he replied.
“I want everyone photographed as they alight from the plane,”
instructed Grover, as he nervously glanced around. You could never be sure
who could be watching you in this bloody hellhole.
“It will be done the way you want it, sir. Rashmi Srivastava will
be doing an article on airport security and they have allowed her to photograph
the whole setup,” answered Fernandez. “It was difficult persuading
her and then even worse organizing the event. It will coincide with the
Pakistan International Airlines 402A landing here,” he whispered further,
avoiding looking at agitated Grover.
Information had been vague. The way Sibal had described the events, it had
become clear that something was definitely on and had strangely coincided
with his own meager inputs. When the Pakistani ambassador’s car was
detailed to go to the airport, his curiosity had been more than aroused.
He was grateful for small bits of information, he could pick via their carpool.
Bloody shit, it was the highest level of RAW infiltration inside the Pak
embassy. His bosses were constantly pestering him, to do something more
worthwhile. Goddamn it, he was not a Superman. Before that, the highest
informant was a mere vendor, selling flowers, outside their green-domed
embassy gate. More, more, more – how much could he do with his four
men and five deep cover agents, who operated in the city? Worst still, he
could control only one of them and that too a woman. He would be glad to
be back. The safety of his wife and two lovely kids always irked him into
anger.
“Announcing the arrival of Pakistan International Airlines flight
402A, non-stop from Karachi. All de-boarding will leave from terminal No.
3. Thank you,” a melodious voice announced on the public address system.
As the passengers moved in their queue, about 15 minutes later from terminal
number three, one by one, De Silva caught a clear angle in her video clip.
“The security of the airport is tight, in fact watertight. They even
checked my video camera as I entered the main entrance,” she spoke
into the microphone. “Professionalism is appreciated and good to see.
Own inconveniences are forgotten when you see smart men and women in their
blue uniforms thoroughly combing all the people and the area,” she
further added into her recording chip.
She moved ahead, for a closer shot.
“In this era of terrorism, bombings and mundane violence, the public
will appreciate the security measures, incorporated here.” As she
moved near the head of the line, two men quickly turned back and started
walking to the rear. Before she could refocus on them, the security lady
tapped her shoulder and said, “Madam, your time is up now. Hope you
will produce a good clipping. It will do a lot good for our morale.”
Rashmi thanked the security officer of the airport and walked out.
Grover saw Rashmi climb into the cab lugging her video equipment.
After a few minutes, three big holdalls were loaded with great difficulty
into the Pakistani ambassador’s Korean car. “Corps Diplomatic
Bags” was boldly splashed on them. Too big for normal mail, observed
Grover, or unless, they were the detailed plans for an invasion of South
East Asia. With break-up of erstwhile Pakistan, the paranoia of its establishment
and its abundant military rulers, they desperately wanted to do the same
honours to India. So the fatness of anything emerging out of Pakistan had
ceased to surprise him anymore.
“Fernandez you move out, we will meet at 1600 hours at Hotel Pearl,”
Grover said. Lot of debriefing had to be done to know what was happening.
“Check with men. Tail any suspect to its destination. Split into twos
if you have to, but then take care,” he said starting his white nameless
Pagero. |
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