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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 9 |
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| Fires
of Hell |
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“The fire of hell, is fiercer in heat”
— Verse 81, Surah 9 |
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| Srinagar |
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(2330h, 24 May)
In the dead of night, suppressed sobs were very noticeable and within the
confines of the four walls they were ear-splitting in harshness. Just beyond
them, the silence was total.
Nafisa had no knowledge of it.
She had stopped comprehending the situation around her long time back. She
had cried, wailed, shouted and pleaded to the bare walls. No one, no one
came to speak to her. The only welcome sounds were metallic screech of a
food plate, along with a plastic water bottle, being pushed in twice a day
and the dirty bucket of her ablutions being dragged out, once in cycle of
twenty-four hours. But were they twenty-four hours, a day or half of it?
She was not sure. She had gone insane, rambling on like a lunatic. Only
daily incantations of her love, made her retain little sanity. No one cared.
Who would care for her?
Those pointed nail tips of accusing fingers.
Her own best friend, turning on her.
It was too much. Where was Khushbu? If she could not find her, then no one
could. Without her knowledge, she could not have been dragged and kept here.
Khushbu was a woman completely immersed in her jihadi ideology. She would
not change. If she could rebel against her family, then she was just a mere
acquaintance and now not even a friend. And now her status was of a mukhbir,
a clitoris snapped useless bitch.
Her present predicament had strengthened her pain bearing capabilities and
her sentiments seasoned in present turmoil allowed a deed peep into her
inner-self. Her small cell gave her the isolation and the time, to reflect
on her soul, her beliefs, her wants and desires. She played and toyed with
them in plenty. With a newfound conviction she knew, she would never be
a jihadi. She could never ever trust people with that innate ideology. She
knew, she would free herself of her rigid bindings. She would soar in skies
to fly with birds. She would reach heavens to hold and stare into the face
of her loving abbu, who had shown her the right path. She would never walk
with this pack of animals. She would teach. Teach love, teach happiness,
teach how to achieve goals and most of all be a dutiful loving wife to Imran.
Suddenly, the bolts made a jarring din and the door opened. Sheer abundance
of light hit her. She shielded her eyes; the brilliance of it was hurting
her eyes.
They immediately watered.
Through the haze of her wet eyes and the glimmer of the light, she saw a
feminish man leering at her.
The same finger painted eunuch, who had accused her.
“Out, you bitch. Today, we will show you what is life. You will enjoy
tonight. We will enjoy tonight. We will see what your lover has taught you.
If his efforts are found not noteworthy, then we surely will teach you very
expertly. Our sexual class instructor is knowledgeable, charming, with massive
long dick. You will be impressed. It’s the beginning of a new life,
so enjoy you bloody mukhbir,” he very calmly hissed.
He and one more boy dragged her out. Her heels could not dig in.
“She is smelling like a pig,” said the smaller boy, twitching
his nose.
They kept on dragging her till she was enclosed in a modern tiled bathroom.
Before she realized, they were tearing her clothes away. She screamed uselessly.
She put up a determined but a losing fight. She had no strength left. More
sadly, she had no will to resist. She lay on the cold tiles and let the
victors have their way. They peeled her like an onion, their eyes watering
with lust; they peeled on her till she was in her raw form. Totally nude,
she stared back, her arms crossing her breasts to cover her dignity.
The little boy was jumping up and down, like a little toad. “Take
a bath little woman. Shampoo and soaps are here. Bath well and smell well
in right nooks,” he giggled like a little girl further.
She didn’t mind this part a bit.
Month-old layers of dirt had accumulated on her. She could feel those yucky
scabs. She indeed, herself felt like a dirty pig. She had lived like an
animal, in her own filth.
Post her much-required bath, she was unceremoniously picked up. Giddy and
in total gloom she allowed herself to be dragged to her new altar, a feather
soft bed, in the adjoining room.
“Bye, bye love. Behave well, little darling. Move your ass well dear
darling,” smirked the girlish man, as he moved out of the room, swaying
his hips suggestively.
She guessed the outcome of such a predictable largesse. The stark fact seemed
inevitable, but she was helpless. Again, suddenly an adjoining door opened.
She gasped in horror, covering the big surprised ‘O’ of her
mouth with her both hands.
Khushbu’s defender of faith, was staring at her.
He was standing stark naked.
Engaging her with a crooked menacing smile, he approached her. His hands
were indulging unashamedly with his semi-erect maleness. The fist was moving
to and fro, along its entire length, but with deliberate slowness. He looked
very amused, with desperation reflected in her face. She stared helplessly
at the neon light shining at the end of his stub. He intercepted the flight
path of her looks and laughed maniacally. He liked what he saw, shocked
fear.
“So, the wheel comes a full circle, dear darling. I had asked you
once to sleep with me. You had the nerve to humiliate me by rejecting, such
a wonderful offer. Now little girl, what will you do? Scream and cry to
your heart’s content. Do that to drown your fears. Today, I will bed
you. A befitting tribute of your treachery and your loving friendship with
Khushbu. You don’t know, what your lovely friend does with her mouth.
By end of the day or lets say a week, you will enjoy performing them,”
he grunted excitedly, continuing, “And if you don’t, I will
definitely kill your lover, that cute Indian Army Officer.”
“No, no, please don’t kill him,” a totally nude wet-eyed
girl opposite him begged.
He moved forward laughing, his hard dark brown penis, rock steady, straight
and erect, shining, advancing before him. Left-right, left-right, Tahir
marched forward, nude in his rippling muscles, his satanic manhood-tuber
danced and spasmodically lanced in a life-threatening posture ahead of him.
A sharp noise diverted his attention.
It was most irritating.
Not when he was ready to do the prick penetrating rites.
Something again crashed and brushed heavily against the closed wooden door.
He rotated his handsome face to inquire and in anger shouted, “You
mother-fuckers, dare you peep. I will kill you. You will get your humping
chance later. Learn the virtues of patience you imbeciles and join the queue
like good citizens.”
The door still had the audacity to open, despite his warning.
Usman and little Altaf fell inside the room, their faces bloody and quivering
with fear.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said a firm voice, from the darkness
behind his fallen men.
He stared at a pistol, its round bullet-pushing hole, staring shamelessly
at his crotch.
His egoistic swelled penis, finding no succour, quickly swallowed its manly
pride and fell, instantaneously limp.
Who were these silly, fun-killing, terrible people?
What, how, why, when, by whom, all questions flooded his muddled senses.
By the time they had secured his feet, his mouth, he had started shaking
violently, white with fear and his famous loving cunt pampered Tahir junior
displayed the consistency of swaying in the wind, like a withered ‘fenugreek’
shrub.
Events flashed past Nafisa’s confused mind to comprehend exactly,
what was happening. Oh my God, so many men, all to rape her. Oh Allah, what
have I done to deserve such a punishment, she sobbed and pleaded. She could
not bear to see all this. She quickly pressed palms of her hands, over her
already shut-eyes, to doubly ensure she did not witness this unholy drama.
Expecting the deadly assault to begin any second, she kept on murmuring
incoherently, lying on the bed. Constant fear, pecking and inability to
live the way she wanted, angered her.
It was now or never.
Her ire against her state, slowly rose from her heart, subverted her fear
pumped mind and she shouted opening her eyes, “You rascals, kill me
now. Be and done with it. May you all rot in hell. You scum, you worst form
of worldly conception.” Then she screamed and screamed and screamed
insanely.
Unexpectedly, in-between her ground shaking wails, she saw the stunned inquisitive
face of her Imran. Her own beloved Imran. Totally nude, this time in sheer
shame, she blissfully fainted again.
|
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| Arampur Op Base
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(2114h, 01 Jul)
Single strand of rusted concertina coil, separated the lush green countryside,
from the military area. The wire had been very lazily put, not for any protection,
but basically to keep the flea-infected cows at bay. The termites had weakened
the wooden supports. The wire mostly lay on ground than in air.
The fence was actually pathetic in its stated purpose and purely symbolic
in nature.
Naik Hamid Bhai, was feeling good.
The night was pleasantly cool. Life was not bad. It was definitely better
than in his parent unit. Rashtriya Rifles tenure was not turning out as
scary as his counterparts had told him. Good administration, good food,
timely duty, no favouritism and best was leave when you asked for. Shit,
he could plan his stint at home once in three or four months, not bad at
all, for planning leave had become almost a managing exercise, by getting
false letters and telegrams, in his previous unit. One did not mind operations.
There were hordes of volunteers to go out, than be cooped inside the base.
Do your operation, come back and be pampered. Yes, the boys were not familiar,
faces changed very fast, but basic goodness and caring was there. Officers
ensured this. In his own pleasant thoughts, he moved to complete his beat
of twenty yards, peeping into grey darkness, which had just set in, one
hour back. He could not see anything beyond twenty metres. The moon was
yet to come out.
It was one of the God’s good omens. An omen, a soldier prays for throughout
his life.
He died instantaneously.
Before Naik Bhai hit the ground his mind was frozen to his happy inebriated
state. The burst of four bullets from Klashnikov model 56, fired from fifteen
metres, had caught him squarely in his chest just below his twenty-seven
year old heart.
Abu Hilal smiled, as his hated target fell. He had been stalking and observing
them, for the last two hours. Working as a farm hand, with the family who
were sowing rice, along the camp’s fence, had been easy. When girls
came in evening to deliver tea and food, they had got his weapons hidden
inside their firans, along with his second Baluchi friend. Baluchi was a
good man. Motivated, pure Islamic and had passion to kill, like him.
It had been easy to seduce the sickening Kashmiri family of Rashid Pandit,
to help them in this venture. Though the above became possible only after
using expected death threats, for non-cooperation.
Bloody half-cast.
The chap had converted maybe a few generations back. Not of uncontaminated
Muslim blood. No wonder he was shaking in terror for aiding them. A true
Musalman should wage jihad and assist them with their chest open. Must be
his old scared shitless earlier Hindu side. It will take them a few more
generations, to make them more solid, dependable Muslims, he thought.
The plan hatched by Gul, had been daring. A first of its kind in this valley.
It would shake these revolting Hindu soldiers. They will run in panic. What
a plan.
A fidayeen in their camp.
They will be terrorised out of their wits.
Baluchi was already inside the wires, slithering like a cobra. Baluchi will
sure create mayhem tonight, Hilal reflected contentedly. Dose of opium had
killed his friend’s all known sum-of-fears. He let out another burst
at the adjoining post, where the second sentry should have been. His plan
was just to create diversion to effect an entry inside the encampment.
His other Lashkar friends, hidden fifty yards away in the forest fringes,
in two separate groups on hearing the sweet clear sound of bullets being
fired, in unison, let loose five rocket launchers and three PIKA machine
guns. They were part of even bigger diversion. Confuse these Indian dogs
totally. Make them run around in circles, like a rabid dog chasing his flea-infected
tail. Not only it will divert their attention but reaction as well. In this
generated-panic, they planned to kill all in their sleep.
The brave dope-laced Baluchi will spit venom tonight.
Sepoy Karuna Shankar, the number-two sentry, fifteen days old into his new
tenure, was gazing towards his buddy, when he was whacked by the gunfire.
He was frozen in panic. His bladder suddenly let loose. Warm liquid trickled
down from the side of his trousers in a hurried rush. Suddenly, a loud explosion
around him further rocked his vanished confidence. In sheer horror, his
fingers clamped tightly on his already cocked LMG. Bullets flew haphazardly
towards the direction, he had seen the initial fire come from. Engrossed
in tracer chasing, he did not notice a grenade lobbed into his post from
his behind. He could not comprehend, why suddenly his otherwise sturdy legs
refused to support him. His weapon kept on firing in an upward arc towards
the sky, as his weight dragged his weapon down. Last few rounds went through
the tin roof above, just where his previously alive head had been as he
slumped dead.
Major Vikrant Dutt, the post commander was staring wide-eyed, mouth agape
at the TV screen in front of him, engrossed in a blue movie he was sneakingly
watching and at the same time browsing through an unabridged manuscript
of some Major Jesses’ laws stating that the virility of a bachelor
is directly proportional to the ability of a virgin getting pregnant doing
yoga on his semen stained carpet. He nodded intelligently at the quote and
shifted his concentration to the screen in front, engrossed in capturing
timeless details of sexual gymnastics on display. After three days of jungle
bashing, he was entitled to his only entertainment. It was cleaner than
trying to nose at the smelly local hussies around. He grunted, as the white
blond haired woman riding a black man, screamed on the brink of her orgasm.
Major Dutt, mimicking the passionate scream silently, now screamed back
full throatily, as his room fell on him, after a huge earth-shaking blast.
Lance Naik Cook Himant Kumar, ran out of his kitchen in chest erupting panic,
clutching his AK-47 rifle. His heart was pounding like a hammer and steam
like breath chiseling his chest. Cold sweat broke from his brow. In fear,
the only reason he could think for dashing out was to hit his protected
bunker, to safety against the bursting bombs. Just outside, while running
and fiddling with not so intimate parts of his personal weapon, clutched
in iron grasp for first time in last three months, his shaky feet slipped
on the cookhouse sullage. His feet flew straight backwards as he fell smack
on his stomach, arms extended forward holding his rifle.
The sudden jerk initiated his weapon. Fire raked the tall Baluchi, as he
got up to throw another grenade.
Dumbstruck Subedar Shakti Singh, of high caste warrior clan, from behind
his room’s window, crouched in sheer self-preservation posture, witnessed
the brave deed, executed by the lowly low caste man, which stopped this
suicidal attack.
|
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| Kot
Buddhal |
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(1630h, 03 Jul)
He was bushed, brain weary and very tired.
Big blisters on his feet were a reality check of his lovely physical condition
and it was not inspiring. Sitting on the chair in the office had taken its
toll. He had trudged, to almost all the places, where his target in the
black salwar kameez had boarded the bus, a week back. But he was happy and
immensely satisfied, despite the painful exhaustion.
He had not been detected.
He would do his pompous instructor at Criminal Bureau of Investigations
proud. He had spent three useful months at their academy at Delhi, trying
to master this art. Though initially sent on deputation from state police,
to learn about criminal investigation procedure, he had got around his temporary
boss and attended a course on population surveillance and monitoring, as
an additional study. He would never be caught napping again or put his family
in danger. He had strong reasons to keep an eye on all suspects.
He, as a teenager, had picked up subtle behavioural changes of his neighbours,
in Batmalu Srinagar, more than a decade back. He had warned his father,
a retired forest officer, of his fears, but the old man had dismissed it,
with an irritated wave of his hand. His father had loved his friends, had
placed total faith in them, despite the religious divide. He loved them,
despite the political turmoil brewing around them. He loved them, blind
to the ugliness erupting around them. He had burned in his house with his
wife, in total shock and confusion, still calling for help of his best Muslim
friends, who had conveniently disappeared on that fateful hour. Strangely,
he had not seen any hate registered in his father’s eyes, when he
himself had jumped out of the first floor window to escape those screaming
flames.
His father was a sage, but he was not. He did not want to show it, for it
would compromise his career, in an already militant-infected police force
of his state. His present boss, Gulam Dar, Superintendent of Police, was
a known Hizbul sympathizer. His esteemed elder brother was a Hizbul commander
in Baramula. An army unit in valley even had his voice on tape attending
one such meeting. He had been removed, but largesse bestowed by an equally
tainted home minister from Shopian, had reinstated him. It was an open secret,
but what could he do. He was sure of one thing that his fat corrupt boss
would by now be hopping mad, as he had not reported his movements, since
the last week.
In any case, reporting to him would have to be modified. A few facts spiced
with lot of lies. If he told him what he was up to, he was sure that somehow
the terrorists would be forewarned and he will be dispatched on a wild goose
chase, in a dramatically opposite direction. Many of his colleagues had
suffered this fate. For now, he must find a way to contact the nearest army
unit for actual drama and create a meaningful diversion for his boss.
Inspector Pathania, sipped on his nunchai, slowly munching on the baked
kulcha, as he plotted his next move. His efforts till now were brewing the
right ingredients. The resultant aroma was invigorating. He had another
twenty minutes to kill, before he boarded the dilapidated state transport
bus back to Rajauri and to his routine boredom. |
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| Pattan
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(1146h, 05 Jul)
The medical camp seemed to be a run-away success.
Tired doctors had already treated or attended over four hundred patients,
but instead of lines diminishing, throngs of crowd kept on swelling. It
would be good news coverage. The TV anchor had said that it would be aired
on the national news tonight. No wonder he had massaged and oiled his sleek
moustache and twirled them with his fingers, into stunning ice picks. With
his square determined jaw, blue eyes and this ‘Bhagat Singh’
like moustache, he definitely looked handsome. He knew it and prided himself
in it. In animated zeal, he was shuffling from one leg to another, congratulating
himself for the good show organized. His boss was just ten minutes away,
coming to see this event and have sumptuous wazwan he had prepared for him
and his bubbly wife.
Waiting impatiently, with nothing purposeful to do, he lit a cigarette,
his favourite, Wills Navy Cut. After a deep inhale, he remembered he had
vowed to give it up, a promise to his lovely daughter. He stared at the
nicotine stained butt, but an alien interloper subverted his mind, the body,
and his furiously sucking lips. He puffed on. It was not very intricate
to his mind that he had in fact, very little will to give up this habit.
As he exhaled a long column of intoxicant smoke, lazily through his nose,
he thought, no, his mind registered, a huge rock being thrown from amongst
the crowd towards the row, where harassed doctors sat. He instantly got
up, in anger to shout at the offender, when a rippling blast knocked him
down.
He woke up amongst sirens. He was confused. Why was he sleeping in the first
place? Numerous jeeps along with array of escorts of his boss, pulled inside
the driveway. He quickly got up and walked smartly ahead to receive him.
Commandant Y S Gaur of 46 Border Security Force Battalion could not comprehend,
why abruptly the place was tomblike quiet, with three of his doctors covered
in white bed sheets and he, bleeding from his face, copiously.
Reminiscent, the forty-nine-year-old officer smiled in his hospital bed,
on the only goodness that had emerged out of that fateful day. He had stuck
that dirty cigarette butt between his lips, for the last time, in so many
days.
|
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| Kupwara |
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(1100h, 08 Jul)
The events had left him astounded.
He felt like a blustering slapstick comedian explaining it to his boss.
His superior’s retort also had left no room for misinterpreting that
infinitesimal observation.
Three groups of three burka clad supposedly women tagging three unkempt
children each had approached three of his different units at the same time
spread twenty leagues apart. All three had engaged the sentries on the duty
as children had dutifully lobbed grenades at the bewildered recipients.
They were further stunned into silence as those three manly women magically
produced automatic weapons, raking other sundry to oblivion. In the melee,
they also escaped.
Four soldiers fatal and six with serious injuries was a foolish enough feeling.
|
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| Badami
Bagh Srinagar
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(0930h, 10 Jul)
The underground operational room of 15 Corps HQ, was very very solicitous.
Officers from the operational and intelligence branch, nominated for its
upkeep, ensured this. Running tapes around the maps they earned the same
hazardous pay as their counterparts facing terrorist bullets in the jungles.
Their jungle was their map. Their terrorist was their big-big boss and his
insatiable yen for information. Not that it was in anyway less informative,
during the last incumbent in the office, but this short, energetic, white
haired boss had penchant for inventing work and more work. Of late, they
had realized information in any form could be gleaned, tabulated and presented.
It would not at least surprise them, if ordered to find out how many farts,
smelly or odourless, a soldier would oblige the environment with, hour per
hour, when fed with fresh food, stale food, rice, puree etc-etc. It was
information. It could be obtained. Period. The lists were endless, but it
was their job and millions of charts, annotations, markings, supported their
untiring endeavours.
Collected inside was a bedlam of unruly jumble of officers, backslapping,
exchanging serious notes, chest beating on terrorist killed, and cracking
tainted jokes. It all rose to a deafening din. All commanding officers had
been called for this sudden extravaganza. Like long lost women friends,
they babbled not wanting to miss any chance to babble, jet releasing their
pent up tensions invested firmly in their own minds. The Commanding Officer
was the loneliest person on the galaxy, rarest of the atypical species,
found only West of the planet Mars. With only himself to brood in trouble
or happiness and latter a minus commodity in the valley, they made hay while
they could. Few such meetings were as rare in chronology of a witnessed
blue moon and rarely would they not pamper themselves, to indulge in such
shameless babble.
But the hullabaloo of the general babble died down, twice.
Once, when all the other minor generals, entered the sacred podium, then
the little forty-five year old plus youngsters i.e. the old men of their
units rose quietly, in marked respect. These minor generals merely commanded
a division, had only three to four brigadiers to boot and at best ten colonels
to slay.
Then the real general-babble of minor generals rose, to sidelong smirks
and acknowledgements of all other sundry present. They were even worse than
young colonels, for their digs were well below the decency of their ill-fitting
belts. Maybe, old age made them do that.
Hush the second time descended when Lieutenant General Rocky Dass, SM, VSM,
and newly bestowed AVSM, strode, purposefully into the room. He was neither
a minor general, nor a major general and was not to be confused with the
lower status of minor major general.
He was a general man-eater.
He did not boot officers. It was not his stated or makeup of his constitution.
He only clubbed inefficient to death and drove not so efficient to insanity
and the efficient the ones just luckily survived.
His face was grim.
Muscles of his forehead were vibrating in anger.
The fury emitting radiations were evidently comprehensible.
But when was he not that, thought the young major, the grade two operations.
In any case by trait, Rocky was inexpiable. General’s eyebrows cocked
up and his mouth rounded in a sarcastic scowl, as he began his monologue,
“I am most dissatisfied with the present state of affairs———,”
and it went on uninterrupted for the next seventy-seven minutes, covering
the entire spectrum of officers’ useless pathetic existence and inert
professional incompetence. President had done a sinful sin in granting them
stupid commissions. The castigations were also liberal in character and
content. Words like command responsibility, command failure, onus, fixing
the responsibility, Court Martial etc were also uttered repeatedly and in
ample measure. When all of them got up for a short tea break, none felt
hungry, being well fed on diet of nonstop ineffable tirade.
Grade two could not help but notice that the backsides of the entire sundry
looked, badly crumpled, deflated and ruthlessly whipped. The earlier camaraderie
of unbridled babble was noticeably pregnant in pause.
|
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| Old Airport, Srinagar
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(0130h, 10 Jul)
Exactly after seven days, did someone speak to him?
He was thankful for that.
Living in his misery alone, with his fellow mates tied like dogs, in the
cell opposite had been a nightmare of satanic proportions. He had broken
down and howled to be shown mercy. His friends even howled louder. Less
him, Usman and Altaf had been taken out of their cells. They had come back
bloody and whimpering. They had even started shouting in fear, at shadows,
or on just hearing the approach of their tormentors. After each such occasion
when their eyes met, they howled in unison, even louder. But the captors
only stared back, stone cold, sometimes smiling.
He was sitting on a single metallic chair, hands tied to his back and legs
to the chair’s steel leg support. Worst, he was almost naked, his
decency covered by his soiled underwear. Despite summer heat, he was shivering.
The chair danced to the tune of his terror.
“Who are you?” asked the faceless man. His eyes bored into him.
“Tarik, third year student of law at Kashmir University,” he
rasped back, looking down and surprised at the gentleness of the questioner’s
voice.
“You look me in the eye when answering, son. Do you understand,”
his expressionless face instructed.
“Yes,” he looked up.
“What’s your profession?” asked the faceless man, again.
“I am a student?” he rasped back a little confidently, but eyes
still shy of looking up.
One stunning slap across his face made him reel back in pain. His eyes watered
and he hissed continuously in pain. The chair sang to loud metallic notes
of total fear.
“I will ask each question again, normally. Please reply back truthfully
or you will learn that lies will become more painful with each wrong answer,”
said the faceless impassionate tormentor. “Did you understand what
I said,” the smiling face reiterated to now desperately nodding Tahir.
“Look up, I said look up, and dare you not look me in my eyes,”
he further threateningly shouted.
“Yes, yes, please don’t beat me. I will do what you say. Please
don’t beat me,” quivered the young man on the chair. “I
will tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I swear by the holy
Quran,” he said again, straining to stare back.
“Said like a true patriot and a good law student,” smirked the
interrogator. “Now tell me again, who are you?” he crooned softly.
“I am Tahir Yusuf, s/o Abdullah Yusuf, r/o Batmalu. I am District
Commander of Muslim Janbaz Force of Srinagar district. I operate from Kashmir
University, where I study Law,” he howled back, not taking his eyes
off his interrogator.
“But friend, tell me something that we don’t know. Here is your
resume…” and he rattled out all the known details.
At each truth, his testes sank a millimetre into his scrotum. His heart
beat raced into limits of heart attack zone. It seemed he was sinking into
a quicksand, quick time and nothing could save him. The plain truth of his
life heard from an alien mouth was indeed shocking and disheartening. When
that pig narrated his participation in the recent raid, he saw thorny gallows,
his testicles had disappeared totally, and he, the hijra in making was running
high fever.
Seeing the sweating dejected man in front, the expressionless man opposite,
Srivastva let out a bellowing laughter. For a change, his demonic eyes smiled.
Tahir looked up through his feverish eyes, confused. What worse could be
awaiting him?
The interrogator came up and opened a small green familiar looking dairy.
Yes it was his handwriting. He recognised it as it was shoved into his face.
He turned white.
Oh no, not this, screamed Tahir not so silently.
The bad man laughingly carried on, “But this is the real cake, my
boy. Your first step into the world of Noble prize. A first Noble laureate,
in literature, of Islamic world. No need for cleansing your soul by Hajj.
A real beauty. A gem unlike written after Omar Khayam. Ahm, let’s
see, Zarina’s vagina is too tight... nice, Doctor Yusuf’s wife
is like humping a mattress…. very nice, Mariam wants simultaneous
multiple orifice’s blocked…good, Gulbadan’s boobs are
perfect and suckable... very good, Jan bibi loves it only in the backside…
excellent, Khushbu uses her deep mouth perfectly…. fantastic, my boy,
you are just too good. What an endless summation, for eager public consumption.
We must surely make it public, all your legendry escapades of jihad. For
one page of your private diary, you surely will be hanged, balls first,
by your own loving tanzeem. Good, now you can keep quiet, act dumb or come
out clean. I will see how best I can help you, to save your wretched rotten
hide.”
The fever turned into a delirious inferno.
The shrinking feat of his cute balls, was now vigorously repeating on his
magnificent junior. The fenugreek shrub was wilting in heat at an endangered
species pace. His parched throat was making strange noises, quality of it
not even decipherable to his own ears. He slumped down in total defeat.
Even his chair had stopped making those courageous protesting metallic tunes.
His body, his brain, his heart, all were chilled to a deathly silence.
The door opposite jerked open.
Khushbu and Nafisa came inside the cell holding big mutton chopping knives.
They looked very onerous.
Without much ado they stripped him and placed his junior on a wooden block.
He screamed, as they raised their arms, to strike a cutting blow.
He must escape.
He kicked his feet in sheer horror and tumbled down in his chair. In mindless
haze, he was propped up again. They again roughly dragged out his junior
and displayed it on the chopping block. He pleaded and pleaded for mercy,
but the blow still came and his manhood lay twitching at their feet.
The bitches were smiling. No, laughing animatedly.
He opened his eyes in terror. He could see nothing but darkness. He was
in total agony, but strangely felt no pain. He was totally ball-less and
cock-less. Now, he was a perfect hijra. Tied, bound and at other’s
mercy, he did what he could best do. He cried and wailed out aloud like
a little baby first time circumcised.
Watching the raving lunatic from ten feet away, the interrogator was more
than happy. He let out a satisfied grunt, sipping his overtly sweet coffee.
He had worked on the subject psychologically. He was completely broken.
Those two police girls were magnificent with that dummy rubber imitation
and goat blood. Shit, they should be in the movies. They had played their
part, befitting an Oscar nomination. The plan had worked in clockwork precision.
Now the quality of truth will be crystal pure. By evening next day, he knew
he would have more information than he wished. Despite his boss pressing
for immediate results, he will play it slowly and deliberately. His experience
had shown, that this was the best method; otherwise most of the subjects,
to avoid immediate pain, lied and lied more imaginatively and comprehensively,
to avoid more pain.
Humming an old melody, “Hasina Man Jayegi,” he sauntered out
of the room, with his clean hands in the pocket.
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| Patrol Blue Thunder |
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(0500h, 11 Jul)
It was almost twilight.
The halo around the peaks of Pir Panjal were glowing fiercer every second.
Major PK, having been woken up fifteen minutes back, with a cup of piping
hot aniseed flavoured tea, was ready to go for his morning oblutions. He
absent-mindedly scratched his chin, supporting a two week old beard to kill
furious itching. Devoid of luxuries bathing, it was taking a furious toll
on his soft skin.
He was very irritated.
Now as per latest instructions, he was to move more east, along the Pir
Panjal ridge. He had been following orders to the last letter and spirit.
Move by night and rest by day. But the biological clock was never in consonance
with military needs and orders. For once breaking them, he had struck camp
for one night rest, near a small brook, where his soldiers could take a
much-needed bath, during the day including washing their dirty clothes.
Left to his boss, he would be walking another twenty km in wilderness. Major
Jesse’s relieving party, now was being inducted through a different
route, by vehicles, where they will relieve him after two weeks. Thus the
return trip had been extended to their optimum forward march. The whole
issue till now had gone off splendidly. Loads had reduced to bearable levels.
Only worry was his guide, Altaf. Since his last visit to his house, he had
been howling silently. Altaf had gone into a complete shell. God only knew
for what. He must now cosy up to him to find the problem but before that
he must remind Major Jesse to bring along his private mail. He missed his
wife’s daily one letter a day routine.
Jesse Sir was an enigma.
A contradiction, which defied logic in his otherwise simple life.
He was a tall, handsome, carefree, pukka Thakur, whose smile could melt
a chocolate, ten metres away. The face was a bit oval, cheeks spouting,
big bushy manly moustache and big beholding eyes, gave him an arresting
face. He had seen many women glance back at him a second time. Worst was
that Jesse knew it, and to irk them, he totally ignored them to irk them
more. If he was a teetotaller, sir adored whiskey, if he was pure vegetarian,
Jesse sir savoured meats, if he was perfectionist to a detail, the Thakur
sahib called it babugiri and pure rubbish, if he was in awe of his superiors,
he fought them tooth and nail, if he studied hard in courses and barely
passed, sahib would gallivant and top it, if he prayed daily, his six months
senior remarked “spirituality at this age, one had to be completely
mad,” if the girls flocked to him due to his gentle loveable disposition,
Jesse sir ridiculed all of them to bed. And all those idiotic women outdid
each other to be violated, despite his subtle warnings.
Unlucky him and lucky Jesse Sir.
He was stark opposite to his beliefs and revered covenants of his faith,
but he still loved him. Jesse was a perfect human being, with no malice
and infinite love for the organization, he earned his namak from. It would
be great to be with him, even if it were for just a day.
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| Surankot
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(1626h, 11 Jul)
Mehboob was ecstatic.
It was a golden chance to redeem of his self-perpetuated friends’
treachery, the dreams of which had eaten his innards. For once, he was amongst
the most trusted. With affable pride, he now knew what it would have been
to be in the inner circle of the ‘Messenger of Allah’.
A unique honour, a rare holy privilege.
But what Gul had instructed him to undertake was next to impossible. To
organize almost a tonne of medicines. But he must do it, for he was one
of the gentle Gabriel’s angels. In fact, he was an angel. It was his
blind duty to deliver. He must serve, he must treat the less fortunate.
Time was desperately short to organize such massive medical aid. He must
do it and also not arouse any suspicion. He knew the gravity of his endeavours.
Alone in small driblets, he must meet the target in the next three weeks.
He was thankful that movement of the stores was to be coordinated by Reshab,
by his own means.
First things first, he must put in an application for long leave. Yes, a
long indefinite leave. Yes, a leave to escape the clutches of his evil employers.
Gul wanted him at the camp. Gul wanted him to run the camp’s infirmary,
when established. Who could refuse Gul.
Gul was life.
Gul was reason to live.
Gul was his daily breath.
Gul was his blood.
Gul was the brother he never had.
Gul was the friend, he had lost.
Gul was redemption of his earlier sins.
Gul was the magic he had been seeking so furtively till now.
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| Allah’s Rock
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(0930h, 12 Jul)
Across him, sitting in semicircle, sat his faithfuls.
Each man apart, each man a Gaznavi.
He brimmed with pride for he knew of each man’s capability. They were
the best Muslim soldiers in the entire world. None could match their skills
and dedication. Even Americans vouched their professionalism and had used
their capabilities impudently. They wouldn’t have won the war in Afghanistan
otherwise, left only to their Rambo imaged but punk-less men. They were
the pure, of true religion and his trusted hands, to destroy the worshipers
of Mannat.
He saw the young angrez officer walk in.
Half infidel and not an ardent namazi.
He had been visibly peeved in Murree where he had seen him going through
satanic magazines, picturing Indian film girls and to boot sipping ungodly
alcohol. On the plus side, he planned operations very well and lead fearlessly
from the front.
“So, Kaptan Sahib. How are the preparations for establishment for
the camp coming up,” he inquired.
His eyes only looked up.
Gul’s indolent tone did not please him a bit.
“Slow, too slow for my liking. Everyone moves like a lumbering Indian
elephant. Even the fearsome jihadis are lazy, their vigour, fervour to work
is missing. Money, money, and more money. Without money, they don’t
even talk to you sweetly. I don’t know whether they are here to earn
money or wage jihad,” Ahmad uttered contemptuously.
“Leave the motivation to me. I am the sword of God. I am the chosen
one. I will make them see light and reason. But now specifically, how many
more days for camp’s readiness,” Gul beamed.
“Another four weeks at this pace. If I can get them running, then
may be in two. Only then can training start in the real sense,” said
the Captain.
“Ahm, I see,” Gul replied, nodding his head, contemplating the
outcome of the news.
“We have to reschedule everyone’s arrival. Temporary camp was
no problem. It was near a village, accessible, but here even a needle has
to be planned and procured. Reshab is too sluggish. Always struck up for
want of money. Rascal wishes for three months running advance. The chap
is a swindler. In spite of abundance of money in our account, full stocking
of food has not been done till now, leave aside arms, ammunition and other
things which have to be dumped,” he further complained.
“Ahm, I see. I will pass necessary instructions,” Gul said strolling
away.
Only if the idiot thought more from his head, than from the sticky maleness,
pumping that bakarwal woman, half the issues would have been resolved amicably
by now, Captain of the Pakistani Special Forces reflected. Strangely unlike
his known dossier he had memorised earlier, Gul was acting out of character.
His earlier reasoning had failed. He did not want to jeopardize the whole
operation, for want of a jihadi’s desire of humping a local woman. |
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