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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 8 |
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| Ambush |
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“Slay quick, sudden violence in death.
On thy earth, thy time, violent death.
Slay silent, slay his sane serene mind.”
— Jesse |
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Km Stone 235,
Jammu-Srinagar Highway |
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(1345h, 15 Jun)
What a waste of muscle power.
Brain, by any standards of a civilized society, the army was excused in
its rightful application, he forcefully reasoned with his inner conviction
of six years service. God forbid if you mentioned it in any civilian forum.
They brazenly will flake apart laughing. Goons, all of them plus sheer wastage
of time and effort.
Scrawny Major Ashutosh Gupta, sitting under the shade of an apple tree,
was quiet reflective. Lying on his bony bums, staring up at the green budding
leaves on top, smoothened his tense nerves. From his grassy den, he could
see the entire stretch of the winding road, a seven km stretch, which formed
the part of his daily, seven times a week, road opening duties and responsibility.
He thanked the good man, who had painstakingly created such a lovely and
an exclusive orchard, on such a strategic height. The furnace-hot May sun
was directly atop them. Standing out in the open, was heat wilting and heart
stopping. Personally, he loved the months of September and October, when
the apples were ripe and he would shamelessly scrump on them. Munching as
much as his heart willed was good for his cholesterol filled heart. He had
become a burning chimney and one could smelt steel in his burning lungs.
His saner senses rebelled at this nicotine dependence but excuses as always
labelled the tensions floating here with his job to think rationally. This
apple orchard was the pick of an area. That ever-pleasing Mir was always
ready to oblige.
Gunpowder power? Maybe.
He remembered the days, when innocent tourists lured by enchanting orchards
plucked, an apple. “ Oye Allah, katil-katil. Buchus Amri marakh. Khudda
tala buchus un kon. (Oh God you murderer. My Amri apple has been killed.
God turn me blind.) Oh! my God, did you pluck the apple straight down? Oh!
God, what a ruination (as if there were other ways of plucking an apple).
That poor branch will not bear any fruit for the next five years. Oh! Allah,
you have ruined me. You must pay rupees five hundred, for compensating this
evil loss,” they would lament. The poor tourist, five hundred rupees
lighter, would tread back, considering himself lucky, to escape the rampaging
mobs, who would materialise magically.
Wily enterprising people.
He had also witnessed chickens magically appear under the tyres of running
cars and the confused tourists getting overawed by the resultant threatening
village. Same mammoth breast beating lamentations, about their golden goose,
would start. Tears, actual big tears, on their red rosy cheeks, were a dream
twenty yards basketball three pointer. The conniving taxicab operator would
also screech to a perfect skidding halt, in a wide-open lonely road and
beg forgiveness, palms open, pleading the furious mob to let his poor tourists
go. He would collect his share of the loot on the way back.
Rupees five hundred for an apple and double that for a chicken. It was a
well-oiled extortion racket.
But now, no tourists to cheat; sad, very sad, very very sad indeed.
Of late, mundane lackluster life. No zest to live, no abetting con artists,
no cunning excitement, lest of course, when the terrorists came knocking
by.
Poor, flea-infected, scrotum-scratching, goat odour like, ankle thought
bound, pitiable terrorists.
Give rupees five hundred per lay for a dirty village belle and rupees two
hundred for a grassy meal.
On this, he remembered some Major Jesse’s law that the price of a
strumpet was directly proportional to her English speaking abilities. Good
business sense, fleecing Jihadis – no the terrorists, no-no foreign
terrorists, no, not terrorists but pure Islamic tourists.
Notwithstanding a bagful of endless noxious cribs, a Kashmiri always on
top.
He chuckled at this glorious situation.
Road piqueting was one of the most boring, repetitive and tiring operations.
It was difficult to stimulate men, again and again, come hail, storm or
snow, to do their tasks, effectively. Heavens would plummet and he will
face annoying music, if anything happened on his part of the responsibility.
His boss had developed piles, just watching the convoys pass safely through
his battalion boundary. Bums in air, unit doctor was having a torrid time,
staring endlessly up the malodorous ass of the old man.
Today the up-convoy was half an hour late. It would further complicate his
operations, planned for the night. There was no let up and no respite. Wish
they could post in some humanoid robots, to do this task. Tell any commander
that the troops were tired; they will stare back accusingly, as if you have
raped an innocent idea. Motivate your command, was their advice, wrapped
in silver foils of their age-old wisdom, a facade behind which everyone
seemed to hide, like an ostrich.
Abruptly, a slow hum of noise built up into a large crescendo, as he sighted
the convoy of fifty trucks, meandering towards his area. Almost instantly
his radio operator informed him of the same and as a drill he passed this
information to various parties scattered along the road. He watched the
serpentine lumbering move of vehicles towards him with a jaded expression.
He had seen the identical scene a hundred times earlier.
He took a quick puff on his Charminar cigarette and concurrently lifted
his ass to one side and let out a huge fart. You couldn’t fart with
both bums on the ground. You just cannot, however hard you try, he thought
and he was ready to place an undisclosed amount of wager on anyone who could
do so. These puris and alus, his daily cold stale food, would be the death
of his digestive system. He unconsciously started counting each vehicle
of the cavalcade as they blurred past him, one, two, three, four...
So did Gul and Captain Ahmad, hiding on the upper loft of a mud walled house,
fifty metres from the road.
So did Jalal Omar, dragging hay-filled bullock cart, on the road.
So did Rasool Bhat, hidden behind a huge bush, on left flank of Gul’s
party.
So did Mehmood Usman, under a culvert, on the main highway.
So did Tahir, sipping on overtly sweet kawa at a tea stall, bang on the
road.
So did the three other parties of three men each, very ingeniously placed,
between the Indian stops guarding the road axis.
Ashutosh espied the third leading vehicle lift clean into the air. He had
been saved the drudgery of counting beyond four.
The shattering blast hit his ears much later. Intoxicating cancer smoke
choked on his collapsing windpipe.
The airborne vehicle in a slow motion sailed down and on hitting the mother
earth it majestically rolled over. Did he also see men flying like birds?
Yes, he was sure. Then his peripheral vision, captured a huge ball of fire,
hundred metres down the road, engulf another vehicle. Permeating acoustics
of firing defied any stereophonic Dolby music system with those beat enhancing
Bose speakers.
Rasool Bhat, tapped a little man to his left, his best sniper. “I
don’t have to tell you to what to do,” he whispered. His slayer
nodded silently lifting his weapon to aim. The single whip like cracks got
suppressed in general mayhem. He then slipped sideways about ten metres
to his Rocket Launcher detachment to supervise its death like effects. A
similar caution and a similar reaction later, the big executioner started
selling his strong points fast.
Bloody shit, a jolly good show screamed the dazed brain of Major Ashutosh.
Yes, like a real war movie, on hundred and five millimetre screen. Yes,
it was vile, fascinating magic. He had the best seat in this amphitheatre.
Bewildered, he stood up in sheer confused admiration. Short of clapping
and cheering for the home run, he was stunned. A bullet, grazing his thigh,
snapped him out of his enjoyable dream. He turned back for his radio operator.
Krishan Kumar was lying on the ground facedown; his back decorated by a
spray of red paint. The fire was coming from a hillock above. The terrorists
had sneaked behind his position.
Where were his men?
He heard a distant earth splitting thunderclap.
Bravo.
Some good soldier had fired a rocket launcher at the terrorist location.
Bravo and to boot a direct hit. Again in repetitive cine-vision, he saw
two terrorists, firing at him a little earlier, tumble. “Fire, fire,
fire,” was all he could recollect, yelling later.
Jalal laughed maniacally as flames ate up the vehicle and its occupants
inside. He got up to fire at the vehicles, halted a little away, from which
soldiers were jumping out like rats. He slumped suddenly, maintaining that
silly despicable smile. There was a gaping hole, bang in the middle on his
forehead.
The convoy had come to a grinding halt. Befuddled drivers finding the road
blocked with no latitude to manoeuver screeched to halt wherever they could.
Few dumb ones sat inert awaiting orders to roast inside their driver cabins,
while a few smarter ones ditched the entire sundry in tune with the confused
mayhem of the situation to survive unscratched. Vehicles piled up, bumper
to bumper haphazardly along the road, an ejaculatory target for anyone.
Initial shock over, men from the inside vehicles, over the vehicles, under
the vehicles, along the road culverts, in the open fields, of road opening
party, not of road opening party, specific protection parties, just tagging
reaction teams, anyone with a weapon, started firing back.
On whom or which target, they were not very astute in their vision, nor
had they the silliest inclination to find out such useless details.
First magazine fired was just to kick start the right amount of adrenaline
into your veins.
It had no target.
The second magazine brought your spasmodic breathing under control.
It also had no specific target.
The third magazine allowed aimed fire provided the phantom enemy presented
a target. He seldom did. Elusive foresights aimed elusively, firing pointlessly.
Any knoll, any bush, any house, any window, any nook, any defile, was being
raked with fire by six hundred and seventy eight souls which constituted
the rolling armada. Commotion, disorder and total confusion prevailed. Officers
zipped, party hopping, trying to maximize the fire-effect and control the
madness? Any management tip in confining madness was welcome, when faceless
men, not their men, when overawed men lose basics of piss-control. Men did
not recognize the officers. Even if they did, they refused to acknowledge
their existence. More than elusive fictitious rank, the bonds of blood ran
stronger. Men in self-formed, self-serving hordes were seeing and directing
fire. Some in panic had poofed authorized quota of ammunition and were scrambling
or yelling for more, robbing the dead for bullets. Some in terror had faces
struck inside the earth, their big round bottoms protruding out in air.
Heart rendering shrieks erupted from those alit or catching lead.
Blood, fire, smoke, sobs, shouts, bullets, rockets, grenades, this was definitely
madness. Still a few brave men, gallant but foolish men, ran exposing their
soft permeate skin to evacuate and provide firstaid to the injured.
Abruptly, Gul’s temporary abode caught a direct rocket launcher hit.
It shook its mud foundations. There was a big gaping hole. One whole sidewall
disappeared along with his two Paki bodyguards. How come these mother-fuckers
could home on to him so fast, not even two minutes into the ambush, he furiously
thought. The top floor started creaking and listing to one side dangerously.
Dazed, he jumped below, onto the haystack, stockpiled for this specific
purpose. “Abandon, abandon,” he kept shouting on his set, as
he ran to safety, quiet perplexed at this peripeteia.
Tahir mysteriously patented unbearable stomach cramps. Not that he was ill
by any figment of imagination earlier. It definitely had to do with those
awful sounds coming from the front. He had taken his weapon out, to fire,
but just couldn’t. He fitfully froze in horror. For millions of seconds,
he kept on fiddling with the safety catch of his Klashnikov. This was acutely
different from aspects of delivering a fiery oration. Oh Allah, all the
fire was directed towards him. Forgetting, his own group hidden behind the
tea stall, waiting for him to open fire, he dashed to the side alley where
his getaway car was parked. He had no time to call his comrades in arms.
He quickly started his 800cc Maruti car and abandoned his point even before
he received Gul’s message to “abandon”. Despite the fresh
air clean blasting on his face, through the open windows, he was drenched
in his personal perspiration up to his underpants. It was not only irritating,
but also mind-meandering, at this crucial juncture of his escape. Somehow,
he could not fathom why his car was also stinking with a very strong irritating
aroma of human crap.
“Run, run,” exhorted Rasool to his men, as bullets raked the
bushy mound, where they were hiding. Oh my God, one Indian stop party was
also closing towards them. They were advancing in an extended line, firing
from their hips. His four men were panting like dogs, running along a small
rivulet. He looked left. There was a steep precipice forty feet down. Without
thinking, he jumped. While half way down, in the air, his twisted head could
register four of his men, also hanging in air against the backdrop of the
azure blue sky.
To stop their wild useless and aimless firing, later, much-much later, many
tender butts had to be whacked ruthlessly, into military loving submissive
control.
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| Awantipura
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(1845h, 16 Jun)
“How’s Ashutosh?” Colonel Tejinder asked his unit RMO.
“Still in a state of acute shock. His wound is more superficial, than
life threatening,” replied harried Captain Bhola, who had been treating
casualties nonstop. Few doctors from Srinagar had just flown in by helicopter
to assist.
The Colonel reflected on recent tidings, sitting on a campstool, watching
the casualties being treated. In this hour of adversity he lay shattered,
totally a broken man. All the awesome and professional reputation built
over last two years, washed down in one stroke. All those days he had dedicated
and even sold his soul to the Army, all lost. All the days he had neglected
his family over mundane military matters, all gone. Staff College, crucial
key appointments, and foreign postings, all written off in one disaster.
This uniform was too unforgiving. He had been the part of a diabolical decision-making
process once. There were too many waiting in the wings, to take over. There
were too many to start, a sad, rueful, whispering campaign. “Poor
old chap,” they will say, “He always flew too high. No, you
don’t know the inner story,” and some fables would be born.
He can’t blame them. He too had been so shortsighted, once.
Now suddenly he wished that he should have spent more time with his lovely
caring wife and two cute doll-like daughters, than his boss’s intentions.
Bad fate.
But you can’t blame fate, for terrorists infiltrating eight parties,
into his road-opening piquets.
It had been a massacre.
One officer and eighteen soldiers killed, including twenty wounded, in critical
state and not to mention five vehicles written off. Saving grace was that
eight bodies of militants had also been recovered. Despite the loss, the
stops and all his men seemed to have reacted very fast and professionally.
Otherwise, these jihadis wouldn’t have broken contact, in just a few
minutes. Initial success could be attributed to sheer surprise and detonation
of two Improvised Explosive Devices. After that, man-to-man battle was taken
to equal terms. Eight jihadis wouldn’t have been dead, just like that.
Officers on spot had confirmed this and admitted that had it not been for
one rocket launcher detachment, they all would have been dead. Which was
that elusive detachment, which had knocked out two terrorist positions,
within first few minutes? Must be Ashutosh’s detachment. But he couldn’t
ask anyone, as all his team of six persons lay dead. But all the circumstantial
evidence, pointed towards the execution of a brave deed, on their part.
He must ensure they were adequately compensated.
He got up looking aloof and beaten. That confident gait was gone. His shoulders
slumped and chest awkwardly shrunk inwards. He felt like an extremely old
man. Still, he had his battalion to run. It was time to exercise his brains,
to try and snatch something positive, from the jaws of this shocking defeat.
He also had this sudden, strange, but definitely an alien desire, to be
in the comforting arms of his wife.
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| Badami Bagh, Srinagar |
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(2100h, 16 Jun)
There was a hushed silence.
No one dared to speak. Infact, no one wanted to speak.
Even silently eying each other was painful. Speaking about own casualties
was heart-breaking and very demoralizing.
“Have you found out exactly how the ambush was perpetuated,”
inquired glum General Dass staring at somber and affliction-ridden faces
of his staff sitting opposite.
“Yes, sir,” spoke his not-so-thin looking Brigadier General
Staff, expecting expectantly, a gutter-gush of words to flood the small
confines of the briefing room, any second.
He slowly walked up to the newly displayed enlargement and explained its
various annotations to his boss. “The terrorists had planned it very
well and without a detailed recce it could not have been done. The ambush
was very professionally executed, a hallmark of military planning. They
escaped the road opening area clearance parties by some clever maneouver
and innovation. They had dug three feet deep pits near the road, in which
they had hid and escaped detection. They knew precise areas, which are not
swept by mine detectors. Five of such have been discovered till now, sir.
Fields of fire were clear, fire zones effective and over-lapping. The ingenuity
in placing explosives was quiet remarkable,” he paused to catch his
breath.
The General violently interjected, “I am not here to hear the superhuman
capabilities of these worthless scums and stop bloody glorifying these terrorists.
These rats will be dealt like any lowly vermin that they are. Your work
is to find out what went wrong and how it can be ensured that such a shameful
act and a military disgrace is not repeated again. Please also constitute
a full-fledged inquiry. Timeframe its completion in next forty-eight hours.
Pin point the responsibility and onus. No individual can be a bystander
in this episode. The inquiry should logically scar all the idiots sitting
and accumulating fat around their ass-lips in all the headquarters along
the lines of communications,” he thundered, leaving no room for doubt
of his intentions as he got up to leave his raped audience.
At his departure, microseconds later, orally raped soldiers ran in fitful
circles to heed to the summons of their teamster.
In his room later, all alone, he cried. He lamented at his gross military
neglect.
The loss was personally his. It was his wrong assessment, of not warning
the troops, despite inputs to the contrary. On Gods’ forgiveness mode
he wished that he had sounded the general alarm at the first instance and
may be this massacre could have been averted. He sat glum faced for a long
time staring endlessly at his graying reflection in the massive mirror capturing
his whole double bed frame. He got up slowly and dragged himself to his
walnut writing table. He took out a sheet of his demi-official letter pad
decorated by his Corps insignia, a parrot green Chinar leaf, and started
writing of his failure, in this regard, to his boss at Udhampur.
It was his first step to his contemplated resignation.
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| Sedau |
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(0930h, 20 Jun)
The journey, or more exactly, the runback had been swift, uneventful, but
tiring.
The safe house organized, in the residence of the local member of the Legislature
Assembly of Jammu and Kashmir was not unexpected. Maulana from Srinagar
had personally arranged it.
Mr Lone, a very reputable member of the Indian Government machinery, had
been subverted, a long time back. Obviously few threats and one consummate
killing, a year back, had made this suave politician, talking big in meets
organized in the name of Kashmir, with complete anti-Pakistan bias, help
them with open arms, in his backyard.
“Allah be praised,” said Gul, after all the commanders and their
cronies had assembled. “You have just tasted blood. See, what I was
telling you all along. If we combine our might, then nothing can stop us.
This was the result of only five men each from you all. Imagine, if there
were fifteen each. We will storm the kafir’s headquarters in Srinagar.
This bloody Hindu fauj will scamper out of Kashmir with tails under their
legs,” he paused for effect and again continued, “Indian casualty
figures must be at least four times of what they have published. They are
known liars. I salute you all and the martyrdoms of our brothers. It was
a great ambush.”
But Gul was shocked by his other colleague’s reactions. It was not
what he had expected. There was general murmur of disagreement, especially
from those who had lost their cadres.
“If ambush was so successful, how come we lost eight men,” cried
Mehmood.
“Yes, he is right,” butted in Rasool. “My wise one let
us not underestimate our adversary. It would be our greatest folly,”
he further advised.
“Then how come within only two minutes, if surprise was with us, the
operation was abandoned. Just because the place you were in, got hit. Before
that, I lost my two men. My boys killed the entire enemy lot in the apple
orchards. We did not request to abandon positions. Blood and danger must
be equal to all,” thundered the Lashkar Commander.
“Stop bickering,” thundered the Pakistani Captain in jihadi
fatigues. “No operation, I repeat no operation, goes as planned. We
had reconnoitered the place. We had rehearsed known issues. Bilal’s
sacrifice was not in vain. Yes, we were surprised by the Indian reaction.
Next time, we will cater for it. We are fighters and soldiers. I lost my
two men and I am not crying like a little baby. If you are a warrior, death
will come your way. So let’s not spoil the success of our first mission.
Let us see what we have achieved and what is to be done next,” he
forcefully reasoned giving none any counter.
“Yes, spoken like a true believer,” carried on Gul from where
the cocky Army man had left. He couldn’t let the cause slip into the
hands of a war green rookie. “Now, we will begin phase two of the
operation. Select fifteen men each. We meet at same old RV, say within four
weeks from now. Remember, training now will be for a month. We will plan
operations in between. Time, method and mode same as last time. Any question?”
“But that site cannot hold so many men,” observed Rasool.
“Don’t worry, we are blessed by Allah. We will be going to Allah’s
Rock, our new camp site,” replied Gul. “One question. All have
been accounted for, except for Commander Tahir.”
“We are sure, he got separated due to the nature of events. You will
get confirmation through the normal channels,” replied a feminish-looking
man.
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| Srinagar |
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Such an illustrious success, wonderful, he pondered reading of it in the
newspaper. Had he participated, it would have been more wonderful. But these
were trifle matters.
More importantly he had been in perfect hiding, since his dramatic escape.
All his aunts and cousins had gathered around to facilitate his grand success,
of course only after he had made himself presentable. Now the key issue
was how to contact his group.
University was dangerous and most obvious place to be searched in a general
crackdown, which had been started by agitated Security Forces in full animosity.
It was expected. More the people will get troubled, more would join our
cause willingly, he reflected. For now that place must be avoided. But more
vexing was how to explain his sudden desertion from the battle-scene. Knowing
the men under him, he was sure they would believe what he utters. Wasn’t
he the one with a magical tongue?
He, as an area commander of Muslim Janbaz Force, had more vital tasks at
hand, as to increase his mass base, recheck funds supply, collect intelligence
and supervise justice to traitors. Commanders overwhelm the enemy by their
strategic thinking. Bloody, but necessary fighting should be left to foot
soldiers, who were obtainable in plenty. Perceptive commanders, like him,
were few. He should remind himself, not to partake in such childish activities,
again.
On intelligence feedback check, Usman had told him of the interesting tale
of Nafisa. In the camp, he had received a message from his organization
that she had been safely interned. If the allegations were true, she will
make great headlines. He will organize it in a way, so that the military
officer, will hang and hang long.
It will also fix that bitch.
She had refused to bed with him. Now he will ensure that she begs him to
romp her dry, Tahir pictured, excitedly. Oh Allah, the very thought was
intoxicating.
His groins creaked.
The feeling was good enough to rub off the guilt and humiliation of his
earlier deeds. It was time to contact his best lay till date, kissing Khushbu.
She did things with her lips, he could never imagine existed. Why women
in general are so gullible? He prayed hurriedly to God to keep them in that
natural stupid state or otherwise how will he reach his personal target,
he had so modestly set for himself of a century. Till date, his magnificent
Tahir junior had pinned down, seventy-six. Not bad for a man who had lost
his virginity, only three years back.
Good, God evoking jihad.
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| Rajauri |
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(0930h, 22 Jun)
“Kulche garam kulche,” echoed the voice, behind a makeshift
stall, from which delicious aroma was emanating.
Sardar Ranjit Singh, peeped out of his Public Call Office and saw a thin
man with a flowing beard and supporting an out-of-proportion thick nose,
set about his stall. This man had suddenly appeared one day, a fortnight
back. Despite the man’s ugliness, his eatables had been an instantaneous
success. Not that it bothered him in any way, as crowds around the stall
gave him more business. He had contacted Inspector Pathania thrice, as he
had sighted the same bakarwal, in the bus stand. Could he be a terrorist
planning some bomb blasts? Must be, otherwise Pathania would not have given
him rupees 5000 for nothing. He had warned his fellow Sikh brethren. The
only instruction Pathania had given was to instantaneously glue a red square
paper, on his window.
How odd.
Wouldn’t it have been better to contact him on a telephone? But today
he will have to shut his calling booth. He had work to do in local district
courts, basically to attest through bribe-infected lower courts that his
son was a state subject, so he could buy some agriculture land near Jammu.
It was a wise strategic thinking, to move out from this Muslim-besieged
place.
As he turned inside the main gates of a ramshackle barrack-type building
of local administration, a few minutes later, he saw him again. Call it
luck, providence or sheer intervention of his Guru. He was destined to catch
that terrorist. He pressed along the throng of people to be positioned unobtrusively,
just behind that lanky tall bakarwal criminal.
Reshab went straight into grazing land-permit section. The lower divisional
clerk Shammi Khan, jumped up in joy on seeing Reshab. The mother-fucker
wouldn’t have leapt so high, if he had not got his fat retainer, thought
Reshab. Earlier, the clerk had barely moved his corpulent ass from his chair,
during his first visit.
“Salam-e-lekum, Reshab bhai. What a pleasure in seeing you,”
he cajoled Reshab, clutching his hands.
“Permit,” said Reshab without wasting any effort.
“Oh, here it is. I have been waiting for the last one week for you
to collect it. Why the sudden departure from your old haven,” Shammi
inquired smilingly.
“The lands have been overgrazed. By the way, thanks,” replied
Reshab.
He shook hands and hugged the obliging man. Shammi’s clasp was ‘
please-more-dollops’ entreating.
Ranjit saw an envelope being slipped into Shammi’s pocket.
After that Ranjit ran.
Sprint back; a replication of his clan’s famous son, Milkha’s
unforgettable Roman Olympic medal-less run, was life-dependent. He did not
repeat the legendary Roman medal-costing mistake. He ran straight, eyes
fixed ahead, never looking back even once.
He huffed and puffed and on reaching his shop he quickly pasted a red square
patch onto its glass window. Before he sat down on his padded chair, the
thin ugly looking eatable stall owner was on him and asked, “Where
is he?”
Sardar Ranjit Singh was taken aback, each beard-frayed barnacle sending
‘save my sanity’ SOS signals, jamming him to his leather cushion
seat.
He stared stupidly, till Inspector Pathania removed his false beard, spectacles
and a false nose projection. Ranjit Singh started staring more in awe, mouth
opening and closing like an oxygen-starved fish. However, he managed to
croak, “He is heading towards the bus stand.”
Without much ado, Pathania shut his stall, to the total surprise of his
clients and ran towards the destination, with a bulky tall Khalsa in tow.
Forty-five minutes later, Inspector Narendra Singh Pathania was seated in
the last row of the bus, heading for Kalakot, with the bakarwal in a black
salwar kameez, firmly in his sights.
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| Bn HQ14 Raj Rif
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(1130h, 23 Jun)
Major PK Singh stood very still. His cute ever smiling baby doll face showed
no protest, mind though rebelling to the contrary. He listened to his boss.
“PK, you will be self-contained for four weeks. Route is marked. Your
task, as already reiterated by commander, is to conduct surveillance of
rear zones with an aim to identify likely terrorist concentration areas.
Your modus operandi will be, to move at night and observe during the day.
Any question?” said Colonel PP Singh, authoritatively.
“No problem sir, I will fix RV for relieving the party later. However,
administrative replenishment will be needed after fourteen days, basically
the replacement for batteries for the radio sets,” replied Major PK.
“Negative. No transmission except once each in morning and evening
or in crisis. We cannot compromise your exposure by sending another party.
I am sure that after four to five days, loads will become manageable. Please
carry extra batteries and take that solar battery charger. One more thing,
don’t leave this captured guide. He is weak, but keep him covered
and bound always,” he further instructed.
“Anything else sir,” inquired PK pensively. Hell, the load was
becoming unmanageable. It will be a backbreaking exercise and it was no
use cribbing to the boss who would surely quote a similar patrol he had
undertaken in more battering circumstances a centuary before.
“Yes, when can I hear your briefing?” the Colonel asked flipping
through the office mail, placed in a flat red folder in front of him.
“Patrol Blue Thunder, will be ready for the briefing at 1630h today,
sir,” PK saluted and cursing his luck, on now giving a formal briefing.
That too was manageable. How the hell was he to lug loads for four weeks.
Ammunition, rations, control stores and personal clothing were touching
well above thirty-five kg per man.
Before the briefing in the evening, Risal, sitting amongst the group of
soldiers, had mixed feelings. Less bedsores he was fine. He was amazed to
be alive. Till now he had been treated very well, almost like a friend.
Stories on which he had graduated, of torture and inhuman treatment seemed
a distant distorted memory.
He was their enemy. By all logic, they should have killed him. But you can
never trust this Hindu fauj. Fundamentally, you can never trust a Hindu.
Wily merchandisers, all of them.
They all were out to convert his community by all available guile. If conversion
was not possible, massacre all the Muslims. That’s what the Hindu
fauj was doing in Kashmir. Why Kashmir, in entire India they were mixing
population control medicine and administrating it to our children in name
of Polio drops. It was a known established fact found out by a few true
devoted Muslim doctors and maulvis. They want to make our whole generation
impotent.
Being a Muslim, he could only trust his fellow Muslims. Hindus were unworthy
of trust.
But why such a nice treatment.
It was confusing.
There had to be an ulterior motive.
Any one of their soldiers in any Pakistani piquet or in their hands would
have been systematically mutilated by now. Still, he had to do their biddings,
till the time was ripe, to organize his escape.
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| Srinagar
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(2300h, 26 Jun)
Tahir peeped from the sidewall of the girls hostel.
In the neon light below, a fat cow, the lady chowkidar was snoring, her
head awkwardly hidden between her two mammoth breasts. It had taken him
better part of two hours, to slowly make his way unobtrusively, into the
Kashmir University campus, from where he had been in hiding for last few
days. Almost a week hidden in his safe house, he had mustered adequate courage
to move out.
He threw a small pebble, which struck Jan Bibi’s nose. She woke up
with a start and stifled her scream as she saw a gorgeous familiar face
beam at her. He nodded at her. She smiled back naughtily and walked upstairs
to knock on Tahir’s latest girlfriends door.
Behind the hibiscus hedge, surrounding a small garden, hugging the sidewalls
of the girls hostel periphery, Khushbu was finding it difficult to breath
under the barrage of kisses and very intimate fondling. The first fifteen
minutes passed erotically, without a word, desperately catching up with
almost a month of separation and most importantly, of intimate, sexual physical
contact. Only after Tahir’s spasmodic grunts and a blissful moan did
he untangle himself and asked, “How is my moon. Missed you terribly.”
“So did I, very much,” blushed Khushbu, trying to work on her
lover’s fingers, struck lazily, inside her wet legs. As usual, she
was left high and dry, before she reached the magical moment of an orgasm.
Ignoring her desperate hip movements, he pulled out his wet slippery hand
and asked in serious authority, “What is the information. Update me,
now.” It’s better to keep them panting always, making them linger
more desperately for more, he silently opined.
It took Khushbu, a few seconds to realize her lost cause. Catching her breath,
she spoke incessantly, for the next ten minutes.
Unmarried, devoid of known physical pleasures due to her sheer massive frightening
size and ugliness, Jan Bibi always had managed a peep on sly onto Tahirs
activities, from her very own secret spy hole in the bushes.
It gave her excitement she was always denied of.
Though she loved her brood and fussed over them, but could not stop that
handsome local jihadi, the pleasure of romping her girls. He was a bidder
of Allah’s cause. To help him was her solemn spiritual duty. Suddenly,
the passionate voices grew harsher and she heard Nafisa’s name, repeatedly
being mentioned animatedly, by both the lovers. Her dear Nafisa, one of
her own blood, first time in a University. Herself being a daughter of a
wandering gypsy, her non-bakarwal community mother had died lusting for
her handsome father, who made appearances once a year. Nafisa had become
her secret icon. A flame to be nurtured and to make her the first modern
educated teacher of her clan. Her Nafisa was missing and ominous silence
of everyone was too heart rendering.
She had seen pain in the eyes of that young man, who had come inquiring.
She was helpless in helping. But what about Nafisa did they know, which
was unknown to others. Everyone had said that she had left for home, very
hurriedly. She had not believed it at least. Nafisa would have surely told
her.
What? Did she hear it right?
A prisoner, a mukhbir.
No, no it could not be, something was terribly wrong. To be executed and
made an example of.
For what?
She could not trust what she was hearing. She must investigate further.
No one steals her girls, not Nafisa, her only bloodline, studying for the
greatness of her tribe.
Later, when Khushbu was walking up the stairs to her room, she no longer
felt the wetness between her legs. Her lips below felt dry, as dry as the
arid Sahara desert. The tingling pleasure had been replaced by whiplashes
on her inner most soul. She felt broken, terribly beaten. Her each bone
creaked and protested in pain. She felt cheated of her cause. She felt used
by her cause. Wet eyed, in incomprehensible state of mind she entered her
room. She did not notice Jan Bibi following her with a fierce, purposeful
look on her big black massive face. It looked ominous.
Nor did both of them notice, canteen contractors’ small working hand,
wide-eyed, awake, under the staircase loft.
|
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| Batmalu, Srinagar
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(1030h, 27 Jun)
He strode around with a sense of purpose, heels on back burner combustion.
He had a lot of catching up to do. Since yesterday evening, he had been
frequenting his old haunts to obtain intelligence. He could fathom that
events were moving very fast. Next month would be crucial, in stepping up
violence against Indian Security Forces. Many major and minor issues had
to be attended. He had been out of circulation since the last four weeks,
enough, time-wise to lose one’s intelligence base and enough for other
people to wreck his organization, he alone had created. He had loved his
work. He had painstakingly, observed, selected, cajoled and trained his
people. The cause was too great. Kashmir was at stake. There was no other
better or bigger cause worth dying for.
He moved on unobtrusively and entered the vegetable market. Swarms of small,
big and bigger flies, stray dogs, goats, cattle, men, women and children,
ran in circles hiding behind each other. A nice place to meet people innocently.
A very nice place to bargain for food and information. A very very nice
place to meet his various little monkeys. Most selected had to be here to
bid for daily needs of their rich, innocent masters. Still none knew each
other. He moved from one vendor to another critically inspecting vegetables.
At each hidden kiosk a small hand would slip into his firan. Bits of papers,
received from faceless informants, fattened his pockets. He would be a very
enlightened man by the end of the day. From terrorists, whoring and other
escapades, he would be the information king of Srinagar by midnight.
It was a very tired man, who opened his green wooden gate by late evening.
He had approximately fifty-two slips to go through. At 2030 hours when he
was browsing through the twenty-fourth one, he bit his lips. Not that it
was serious, but definitely the actions were not in conformity with his
own ideology, certainly defaming Islam and belying the already tottering
remnants of Kashmiriyat.
He went to his kitchen, where his food tiffin was prepared and kept by the
widow of a slain Hizbul Commander. The aroma was delicious as always. She
was a fantastic cook. For her services, he paid her handsomely. She did
not mind her eccentric houseguest. Herself with one daughter, without any
support, she had welcomed the stranger. Worst still, she could not go back
to her parents as she was a Hindu Brahmin girl, who had fallen in disgrace
in the eyes of her community, by eloping with, then a dashing young Muslim
computer engineer. A South Indian girl of seventeen could not comprehend
her emotions when studying at Bangalore. He was an orphan, self-made man.
She had fallen for his ideals first and body later. He had provided her
well. Only seven months pregnant she had learnt of her husband’s real
work. She had cried and begged. He had been adamant. She loved him too much.
Her daughter was seven months old when he was killed in a military encounter.
The tanzeem men sometimes came calling on her. All wanted to marry her on
the rebound. She was their showcase, a Hindu woman extolling a Muslim jihad.
Very rich and influential Muslim men had proposed to her. But once was enough.
Superficially Muslim, at heart Hindu, she continued to live in the heart
of Srinagar, till this stranger had proposed an arrangement.
It was too good financially to refuse.
The tiffin was at the same place. Not an inch left or right. A small plate
with napkin adorned the plastic table, ahead of a majestically carved, walnut-wood
chair. Strange decor for a make shift dining table, but adequate.
He bent forward and dragged the heavy walnut, his very own food eating and
buttock-resting chair, three feet back. Bending down, he rolled up a small
drugget and with his penknife removed a small eight-inch square wooden plank
from the floor. It was well meshed and the opening was very innocent.
From the small hollow below, he removed a telephone set with an aerial jutting
out. Quickly plugging on the device to an electrical source he made a call
and spoke quickly into the phone. His voice routed through the actual device,
two hundred metres away, from the house of a retired High Court judge, was
relayed to its destination. It was also an identical setup as that of tea
stall owner, but here he let the terrorised judge make the payment. Judge
sahib knew better than to tap the conversation or his ex-militant son, he
had so painstakingly re-employed as a court clerk in Mumbai, would be behind
the bars and he would have to miss his yearly sojourn with his loving grandchildren,
an event which prolonged his otherwise miserable life.
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| Patrol
Blue Thunder
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(1800h, 28 Jun)
Cool breeze, slapping Major Pankaj Kumar’s face, sent an involuntary
shiver down his spine. He quickly tightened the bulky army issue windcheater,
around his shoulder. He had planned to rest here for the daybreak and move
out on the last light, which was definitely after two hours. Under his Second-in-Command,
Subedar Bahadur Singh, he had sent that bakarwal guide just on top of his
native place, to gauge the activity below in the village. His acceding to
that mumbling terrorist guide could jeopardize the entire mission. If his
risk worked, at least he will have the loyalty of that terrorist toward
him. At worst, if not loyalty, then an overburdening obligation will bind
that chap to him. Loyalty, was a very serious word, as a person working
against his country, could not be loyal to people working for that state.
It was give and take.
He had given something and taking part was yet to be seen.
“Sahib, that is my house. Look at those lands below and on to your
left, the green ones, yes, and those goats. They are all mine,” pointed
Risal proudly towards a lone house, nestled innocently between three huge
black rocks. A small brook flowed quietly near it. A photogenic scene out
of a picture book, reflected his captor.
Subedar Bahadur just grunted, acknowledging the fact. His party of eight
men was hidden inside thick shrubs, on a slope overlooking this small vale,
only forty metres away, for the last half an hour. Bahadur, despite spitting
out pure hate, could see gleam of excitement in Risal’s eyes.
One should never trust these traitors, the patrol leader reflected, but
PK sahib was too humane.
“Sister-fucker, with such a big house, so many cattle, goats and land
holding, what are you doing hobnobbing with militants?” Bahadur asked
after observing the house for few more minutes.
Risal had no words. His eyes looked down in shame.
“You mother-fucker’s are of no one. You can sell your father
in a second. So what is a nation for your emotions? Basically, all of you
are namak haram. Jis thali pe khate ho, usme me ched karte ho. (Unfaithful.
In the plate you eat, you are drilling a hole) Had I all this property,
I wouldn’t have ever joined fauj. Bhainchod, kutta,” added Bahadur
venting out hot disgust. “You have another forty minutes, before we
move back,” he added a little later with a deadpan expression supporting
his face.
The next twenty minutes shook Risal’s life.
He almost jumped in joy, as Bijli moved out to clean some utensils. Barrel
of the gun, nudging his back, made him slink down again, into the bushes.
“Bhainchod, agar awaj nikli, tere ko bhun dunga,” (Sister-fucker,
if you utter a sound, I wil fry you) threatened Phool Singh.
Quietly he lay not even daring to breathe harder. But from within the maze
of leaves, he observed her every move. His heart was in his mouth, pounding
furiously. She was so graceful, ever so beautiful.
His Bijli, his love, his zannat.
But why was she wearing such colourful clothes, looking almost like a newly
wedded bride. May be, she was expecting him back. Suddenly his chest doubled
up in pride. Yes, his beautiful, dutiful, faithful wife. But how would she
know that he was coming back today?
He almost again jumped out with joy, when he observed his beloved, handsome,
half-brother, Reshab walk out of the house towards Bijli. He was calling
her and she seeing him approach, suddenly washed her hands and got up, facing
him smiling.
How odd?
Then his vision froze and seconds later also his already threatened breath.
Why was he holding his wife’s hand?
No dammit hugging her.
No, no caressing her back.
Did he also see gyration of Reshab’s hips on back of his pure Bijli?
No, no, you fucker, it is banned. She is my wife, and your sister-in-law.
You have to be her protector. Its evil, forbidden and not Islamic, he screamed
in voiceless anguish.
Now of one thing he was certain, Reshab, was about to receive a resounding
whack from his spirited woman. She won’t stand or allow for such silly
games. His woman was a pure Islamic wife, a daughter of an esteemed village
cleric from land of the pure, Pakistan.
He choked airless on his rising vomit. His tongue, moving inside his windpipe
started playing silly asphyxial games.
Bijli sensuously smiled back, bouncing her big breasts almost upto his half-brothers
chin, offered her hand willingly allowing Reshab to drag her. Drag her effortlessly
to his evil chest, exchanging vile heartbeats of lust. Then both moved,
moved towards him, smiling, mocking him, with deliberate sway of hips, and
nearing him. You bitch, you whore. How can you? How can you, you insect?
A small gentle nudge from his loved half-brother, Bijli, willingly moved
inside a nook in the rocks, hidden by green shrubs. Little seconds later,
her marble white legs were visible, rising to meet the sky above. Thin male
hips were pumping the flesh below. The pumped adulteress below moaned in
appreciation of positive force being applied from above.
He watched all this from a mere twenty metres away.
So did Subedar Bahadur and his boys, spellbound and speechless, not at least
minding a free pornographic erotica. Guiltily, Subedar looked to his left.
He could not understand why Risal was jerking around, in an epileptic fit.
Big, burly, Naik Phool Singh had clamped Risal’s mouth, to prevent
him from screaming.
Brain deceased, he was silently weeping. Weeping silently, like a small
lost child he swallowed his bitter bile. He wanted to die, he wanted to
kill, he wanted to shout but shame suppressed his emotions. He could not
think coherently. Confused and dazed he slumped onto the ground, listless.
Something he had heard before, kept on resonating inside the confines of
his brain, “Jis thali mein khate ho, usme ched karte ho. Namak haram,
namak haram, namak haram.”
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| Allah’s Rock |
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(2000h, 29 Jun)
She had fallen in love with the place instantly.
It was a citadel, befitting a queen.
Beautiful, calm, serene, with gentle cool breeze blowing inside the carven,
the feeling was wonderful. Across her, on other side of the pine wood log
fire, her love sat cross-legged. He looked so gorgeous, so tall and so full
of life. The face was long, sharp cut of the nose, and healthy outcrop of
beard and fair skin gave him an aura of a movie star. She could dig her
heart for him, on his gentle command. Man, such a good and great man, she
never knew existed. A gentle smile spread across her face, as she stirred
the pot hanging above the fire. Stew of mutton and vegetables seasoned with
herbs was brewing.
A very special dish for her special man and none else.
Others could eat, what others cooked for themselves. She had refused to
do general cooking for others, much to the annoyance of that young angrezi
babu. Gul, her beloved Gul had put a stop to it, in no uncertain terms.
Though that angrezi babu was also some sort of a khudda. His few people
ran in circles around him. But ultimately her khudda was a bigger khudda,
as that angrez always bided to what Gul said. This made her feel very proud
and privileged.
In an effort to look busy, she went deeper inside the cave lit by oil lamps.
Then she quickly adjusted the straw lying on the ground and the cotton mattress.
Her khudda’s bed.
No Gul’s bed.
No her bed.
She blushed and ran out to serve him piping hot food.
Captain Ahmed Khan watched with disdain the movements of the bakarwal girl.
She was a cute little thing and surprisingly beautiful. Jeans and a halter-top
will convert her to an outright city girl, he thought. But he was not here
to admire her strategic assets. The whole idea was loathsome, unmilitary-like
and totally unprofessional. It was not good for the morale and discipline
of his men, whose eyes had been following her tight ass. There was an unmistakable
lump in their salwars and heavy breathing of rapine lust. Only his iron
discipline had reined in a certain mutiny. He had tried to reason it out
with Gul. But he was adamant and behaved like a spoilt child. Gul had ranted
and raved and even threatened to call the whole thing off.
That was unacceptable.
Despite his officer status, the whole mechanics of operation had been explained
to him, in which Gul played the pivotal role. He was the operational planner
and executioner. Gul was the control. He had to lump his ego, dignity and
self-esteem, to subjugate to Gul, to accomplish the mission. He knew this
woman was trouble. He would deal with this problem later. For now, he had
to organize this place to work like a respectable unit. But he had to grant
this rustic, the power to persuade and move things. He had already set few
missions in motion, just by selling an idea. It would be a wonderful achievement
without even training the jihad is as they had planned to do here. After
this camp churns out its corrected personnel, then havoc thrown on the Indian
Army would be worth gloating on.
What his father’s generation could not do in half a century, their
band of dedicated men will accomplish in few months—the destruction
of India. |
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