Rafiq slowly opened
his eyes. For a moment, he could not understand where he was. Then it all
slowly came to him in bits and pieces. He looked around to get his bearings. On
his right was a mud bank about ten feet high. On his left, he could see the
town in the distance. He now realised he was somewhere off the road, and a
little way above the town.
He tried to move his
hand but a searing pain shot through his body. He moved his head and saw the
ground near his middle, a darker shade of brown. He recognized it for what it
was – his own blood mixed with the dirt. He had taken a bullet but he could not
locate where he was hit.
He tried to estimate
the time of the day, but the overcast conditions would not allow him to put an
accurate fix on it. Must be quite early, for the bullet got him while it was
still dark. How long he had been lying there, he was not sure, but it could not
have been more than a couple of hours at the most. Had it been longer, he was
sure he would have been discovered.
He remembered that
someone had been trying to shake him awake in the night. No words were spoken,
no light was shone. That someone must have been a friend, for he was trying to
wake him and at the same time trying to pull him towards the window. He had
been expecting this for the last many months – every new location brought a
sanctuary and also new risks. Each location had to be understood afresh but
there was so little time.
He and his group
would be moved every few days for fear of discovery and to keep a step ahead of
the forces. He could not remember how long he had been on the run – but it was
not more than a few weeks. He had lost track of time after the first few days
and it was a new place, new faces, new dangers every couple of days. Earlier he
could not sleep in a new bed, but that habit had been overcome more than a year
ago.
He had moved towards
the window along with the other shadowy figures, but before he could reach out
to open it, someone had pulled him down. He did not question this, but he could
vaguely see a small trapdoor near the floor and one person slipping through it.
He ducked low and went through.
He found himself in a
ditch with shallow water. The side of the ditch was not very high but by
crawling in it, he was sure that he would not be visible to anyone a little
distance away. He felt the urge to pop his head up but that could be very
dangerous. He controlled the urge and started crawling as silently as possible.
After a few minutes
of crawling, he was sure that he was far enough to now leave the ditch. They
had been trained so – split up after an escape, move away at least a couple of kilometers,
and hide in the forest. After two days, meet at the predetermined spot when a
new hiding place would be arranged.
In case someone was
caught, the orders were very clear – don’t be taken alive, you could be a
potential source of danger to others. Take down as many as possible. No
heroics! All the attacking was to be done only as a last resort. You are much
more valuable alive to the cause, than you are dead.
He saw a cluster of
trees a little to his right. That could be a good spot, but it could also be
crawling with the forces. He had to wait for signs lest he walked right into
the waiting arms of the enemy.
He did not have to
wait long. There was a sudden whistle followed by a burst of gunfire. The
firing came from the left. There was retaliation from the house, which he had
vacated recently.
The sounds of the
firing would cover any noise that he made while moving towards the cluster of
trees. Yet he moved cautiously to avoid detection until he reached the trees.
He understood that peripheral vision in such situations was quite enhanced and
any sudden movement detected by any one of the force personnel would be a quick
invitation to a shot.
However, he made it
safely to the trees and found that there was another one of his comrades
already there. Two were usually better than one, but not when you were making a
getaway. If there were two chances of being recognised also went up.
However, nothing
could be done now. They would split up as soon as they were a little distance
away. After a while, they reached a spot, which could be later identified and
was far enough away from the beaten track to hide their weapons. They could not
travel with weapons; there were too many check-points. They carefully dug a
shallow pit using their knives and this took the better part of an hour. The
darkness did not help.
The wrapped the
weapons as best as they could in thin plastic sheets that they always carried
and put them in the pit. Covering it with the earth and then with stones as
best as they could in the darkness, they bid their goodbyes and moved off in
the darkness. They could not be sure that the concealment was adequate or not,
but it could not be helped. They had done the best they could, and staying
there in the darkness would be a risk.
He moved away from
the road uphill and keeping to the shadows provided by the trees. It was safer
as he would not be caught in the headlight of any passing vehicle. Not that
many civilian vehicles would be moving in the darkness given the tense
atmosphere in the valley. If any vehicle did come along, chances were high that
it belonged to the security forces.
After about an hour
and half he was reasonably sure that he was near the town and that any hiding
spot in the vicinity would give him higher chances of access to bare
necessities for survival and also afford a quick getaway if required. He was
sure that he was far away from the encounter spot to escape the search cordon.
He would also be
closer to the next rendezvous location. He would have to wait for the first
light to start looking for a suitable “home” for hiding for the next two days.
Any search in the darkness was futile. He sat down to wait. Daybreak was not
far away, but it was cold. He shivered, but tried to put the thought of
discomfort away. Lighting a fire would be too risky!
The
wait without any activity led to drowsiness and sitting against a tree trunk he
nodded off.
Something woke him
up. He could not be sure what it was. He waited – still and alert. Then he
heard it again. A distant sound of a bark! The light had still not broken. So
it could not be some local taking his dog for a walk. That meant it could only
be a security patrol.
It was still some
distance away but he would have to move away. If they came closer, the dogs
would hear his movement or would smell him. There would be no hope. He could
not be sure exactly which direction the sound had come from. He had to depend
on his instincts.
He started moving
away, as quietly as possible, pausing every once in a while to listen. He could
hear no sound so he was reasonably sure that he was moving farther away from
the patrol.
After some time, he
came to a road. He found that the road fell away on his side rather steeply and
moving on his side would be quite difficult. He needed to cross the road, but
that had to be done carefully. He waited. He listened. When he was certain that
he was alone on the stretch, he decided to dart across. He had almost reached
the other side when he heard the shout – “Kaun hai?” The simple words were
chilling. He dashed into the bushes on the other side and rolled so that he was
lying on the ground on his belly.
He saw a couple of
torch-lights swinging in his direction and slowly moving towards him. A
security patrol apparently has been resting after moving through the night and
he had been unlucky enough to choose this spot to cross the road. He surveyed
the side he had arrived on. He could not see the sky, except directly overhead;
meaning that there was a sharp upward incline on his side of the road. The
other side of course had a sharp downward incline as he already knew.
With the security
forces moving towards him he was faced with a tough choice. If he continued to
move away from the road on his side he would have to move uphill making his
progress slow while the security forces could move along the road much faster
and reach him quickly.
The other option was
to dash across the road to the other side and run downhill in the dense bush.
It would be risky and could be very uncomfortable, but it would deny the forces
any real advantage as the shrubbery was thick and his movement would be faster.
He decided to take
his chances with the second option; it offered a better chance although there
would be the initial dander of exposure.
He acted.
Suddenly, springing
up, he dashed out of his cover and made a run for it. Immediately shots rang
out though none hit him. He was certain that while the forces could see some
movement, they could not pin it down exactly. He was now almost at the edge of
the bushes across the road when he was hit.
It was a lucky shot
for one of the pursuers but he was thrown off with a burning sensation around
his midriff. In a frenzy, he got up and kept running blindly through the bush
and the trees till he fell himself falling, rolling on and on without control.
He was not aware of the hits that his battered body was taking. He must have
run for about fifty or maybe sixty yards when he fell. He blacked out.
His throat was dry
and the surroundings appeared to be curving and going in and out of focus. He
was in a situation, which his trainers had not prepared him for. He was alive
but barely so. He could not move his limbs far less attempt to kill himself. He
could not afford to get caught. He was sure that anytime now the search party
would be here since it was already light.
He was at a loss to
understand why the search party was not already there. He was bleeding to death
but he could not hasten it. There was nothing to do but wait. Surprisingly
there was virtually no pain. On the other hand, maybe his senses had been
dulled due to loss of blood.
With
nothing to do, his mind drifted. How had he come about to be here?
His grandfather was
dozing in the sun. A tall gentle old man, he would tolerate all of the mischief
of his grandson. His sister, a year older than him, was sitting in his
grandfather’s lap playing with his white beard. The old man would sometimes
smile with his eyes closed. It was a blissful scene broken only by the arrival
of his two elder brothers. They started pestering him for a story.
It was a story that
they had heard often. It never bored them. It was about his grandfather’s time
as a freedom fighter during the British Raj. A mere teenager at the time, he
narrated the passion of people fighting for freedom.
The story was in many
parts -of the bravery of his friends, of the lack of fear that his comrades
displayed in the face of an armed force, of the joy of independence, of the
pain of partition, of the advance of the newly formed Pakistani army in
Kashmir, of the heroic resistance of Kashmiris and of the Indian Army.
It was a story which was
narrated with passion and his grandfather seemed to be transported to a time
which he cherished. He told them about his move back to the valley in 1950 to
be with his people. He spoke about his dream to see Kashmir as the Heaven that
he had dreamt of.
He had quit his job
in Delhi as a professor and taken up work as a teacher in a Srinagar school. He
talked about his new group of friends who shared his passion and of the long
debates that they had on setting priorities for all the work that required to be
done.
While narrating these
stories many shades of emotion would flit across his wizened old face – joy,
pride, pain, hope, anger…….
His father had been a
different man. He was a reasonably educated man, who started his own business
since there were few opportunities for educated people but a reasonable living
could be made in the tourist trade. A religious but not an overtly or
demonstratively pious man, his life revolved around making a reasonable living,
which would give his children the opportunity he never had.
The responsibilities
towards his ailing father did not allow him to move away from Srinagar to Delhi
or other parts of India where opportunities existed. After the purge of Pundits,
the tourist trade suffered. But his father had the foresight to set aside enough
to ensure that his children would have access to education outside Kashmir.
Meanwhile, a cerebral
stroke had rendered his grandfather paralyzed and over a period of time the old
man became so frail that he spoke less and less and spent his days lying in the
cot in the corner of the front room. The cot would be moved into the sun when
the weather allowed and then silently the old man would gaze at the hills with
love.
He remembered the
visits vaguely. But he remembered the fear in the eyes of his father and the
disappointment, nay contempt, in the eyes of his grandfather. The visitors were
ordinary looking folk who initially spoke with camaraderie but soon the tone
changed to demands and threats and they always left with something wrapped in a
packet.
At these times, his
father would gesture him to stay inside but he would still manage to see from
behind the curtains and hear snatches of the conversation. He could not really
understand what was said but he could sense his father’s fear and this was very
confusing for the people were men they knew and they never did any
harm.
When he was about
fourteen or fifteen, he found one day his classmates going out while school was
on. He was curious and when he asked what was happening, one of his classmates
laughed and asked him to tag along.
Soon they came to a
place which was packed with youngsters like him. At the other end of the street
were policemen with guns. The group of students would dash out from niches and
hurl stones – it was good fun because the stones barely reached the police
officers. He too at the behest of his friend hurled a couple of stones but soon
left in a hurry when the police officers started charging towards them.
His friend took him
to a house, which was packed with youngsters. There was a lot of laughing and
joking and suddenly a twenty-rupee note was placed in his hand. He did not know
why but when he reached home, he found his father sitting quietly. This was the
case quite often nowadays and he did not much think about it.
A couple of days
later, when he reached home, he could sense that there was something wrong. His
father was looking grim and his mother was looking worried. Then he saw the twenty-rupee
note in her hand.
“Where
did you get this?” she asked gently.
He
was quite speechless. He had forgotten about the money. He could not lie.
“A
man gave it to me.” The answer, though true, sounded lame.
“For
what?” his father’s voice was gruff and he could sense apprehension.
“Don’t
know. But he was giving everybody money.”
“Did
you go throwing stones at the police?”
He could just nod. Now
vaguely he could understand that what he had done was wrong, very wrong. He saw
his father clutch his head and also noticed that his grandfather was looking at
him, his eyes moist.
His mother caught
hold of his wrist and dragged him inside. She was saying something, explaining,
but the words barely registered.
A couple of months
later, he found himself on a bus with his father on way to Delhi via Jammu. He
was to stay with his father’s friends, the Bhats. His dad explained that he
would be attending school in Delhi and would stay with the family.
Their son Khawer was
a couple of years younger and would provide him company. He would be able to
come home during the holidays but he was never to travel alone. His father
would come to fetch him and also visit him as often as he could manage.
Though he took time
to get used to his new home, he found the family loving and soon adjusted to
his new circumstances. Khawer and he shared a room and soon they were more like
brothers.
He was treated no
differently than the rest and soon adopted the customs of the family. Though
Uncle took him to the mosque from time to time, especially during Eid, he would
enthusiastically participate in Diwali and Holi.
But over a period of
time he noticed something. There were infrequent but periodic meetings of
people in the Bhat’s drawing room. These meetings were not social gatherings
and the children were told not to go downstairs. But children, being children,
would take every opportunity to eavesdrop and Rafiq was old enough to
understand the gist of what was discussed.
It was mostly about
petitions, collections, actions to reclaim property left behind. Rafiq was not aware
about the purge but he made it a point to read about it. Surely, this could not
all be true! These must be biased reports. He would have to get his hands on
the other stuff to really understand this. But unfortunately other stuff was
not widely available.
As he grew older, he
often went about alone. Sometimes Khawer would accompany him. On one such visit
to Old Delhi, they found themselves unable to move because of the crowd. Then
they saw it. A Muharram procession led by groups of young men hurling strung
sharp knives on their backs so that they were bleeding while others hurled
water to provide some relief.
He felt Khawer tense
beside him. Rafiq smiled gently at Khawer and squeezed his hand to reassure
him. But the horror in Khawer’s eyes was plain to see. Somehow, they managed to
squeeze past the milling crowds and return. Rafiq was unable to understand this
fear then.
During one of his
visits home he decided to ask his grandfather why he did not go to Pakistan at
the time of partition. The old man looked puzzled at first and did not say
anything. Rafiq repeated the question. The old man did not respond for a long
time. Finally, he mumbled weakly but with a sparkle in his eyes. It was
difficult to understand for his voice was so weak. He just said this one word
–“My land!”
That is what it was.
For the old man it was his land- land which could not be divided on basis of
anything – geography, politics, religion, whims….. What was important was that
he was part of this land, for good or for worse, he was the land!
Rafiq got the meaning
of what the old man was saying, but at the time he failed to comprehend the
sentiment behind it, the depth of attachment, the tie to the roots.
On another occasion
he was sitting with his father and enjoying a cup of steaming tea. His
grandfather was, as usual, lying on his cot in the corner, apparently asleep.
Rafiq never really could converse with his father but felt comfort in his
presence.
His father was a man
of few words and the only exchange that they had since he had come home was
about his studies. However, Rafiq gathered himself for what he was about to
ask. It was a question, which had fascinated him and troubled him for long. He
asked about the purge of the Pundits from the valley.
Perhaps the question
was too sudden. Perhaps his father was not prepared for it. He jerked his head
up from his cup and looked at Rafiq. He kept silent, but in his eyes Rafiq
could see pain, shame and…….fear. Then his father hung his head and did not say
anything. It was impossible to say what he was thinking. For Rafiq, it was not
a satisfactory response.
Unlike his father,
his grandfather was looking animated. The old man was by now so weak that, it
was impossible to understand his mumblings. The old man was shaking his head
from side to side. The moan coming from his throat was distressed and tears
were wetting his cheeks. Both of them rushed to comfort the old man but it was
a while before he calmed down.
While his quivering
had stopped, the tears continued to flow. Finally, the man was too tired even
to cry and dozed off. From that day on, Rafiq could feel the eyes of the old
man following him whenever he was around. It was as if the old man wanted to
warn him, to keep an eye on him so that Rafiq could be protected – from what-
he did not know.
Rafiq had soon
returned to Delhi to join college. He had done well in school and had joined a
course for graduation in commerce. He was also attending a part time course in
Programming. These two courses took up most of his time. He had wanted to move
to a hostel or a dormitory with some of his classmates, but Mr. Bhat would have
none of it. So he stayed on with the family. With this change, there was little
time that he could spend with Khawer who was also growing up and had his own
circle.
While in college one
of his friends introduced him to Khurshid. Khurshid appeared to be a well read
person and was one of the people who could make good intelligent conversation.
Rafiq found
himself drawn more and more to Khurshid who appeared to know something about
everything. He could speak about technology, science, politics, religion and
many other things. He also appeared to be well travelled and Rafiq always felt
at ease in his presence.
There were others who
joined Rafiq and Khurshid from time to time. Gradually the discussions became
more and more Kashmir oriented. This started when Rafiq asked Khurshid about
the purge in Kashmir – a topic which had intrigued him for long. Khurshid did
not reply immediately but over a period of time, the topic came up again and
again, usually many insights being provided by others in the group.
All snippets of these
conversations convinced Rafiq about the need for such a move. His young mind,
with the inquisitiveness of youth, wanted to know more and more and thus the
opinions and convictions were taking seed.
To an outsider, by
the end of the second year, Rafiq would have seemed a perfect example of an
educated jihadi. To his own mind, there had been too many injustices heaped on
the brother Kashmiris and Muslims to not allow him turn his back on them.
He did not want to
stay with the Bhats anymore but Khurshid convinced him that he had been put in
the perfect place for observing the enemy. He started by passing information
about what was being discussed. His indoctrination was well on the way.
Gradually he started introducing more and more youngsters to the group. Over a
period of time his role was defined – he had to appear to be the perfect
moderate Muslim youth – at ease with technology, staying with Hindus, no overt
radical opinions.
The drivers were lack
of opportunities for Muslims in general, the lack of education and health
facilities, the exclusion from reservation, the anger at a Hindu Kashmiri ruler
taking the decision to accede to India rather than Pakistan, the frequent use
of Muslims as vote bank by political parties without providing any improvement
in their lot, the growing disillusionment of an increasing number of Muslim
youth with the rigid structure of their religion and their increasing
preoccupation with money and jobs.
One day while returning
from college on his bike, he saw some commotion ahead. It was Kanwar yatra time
and apparently one of the commuters on a bike had accidentally hit one of the
Kanwariyas. The mob of Kanwariyas fell on the youth and was beating him up
mercilessly.
Their ire also fell
on the passing vehicles and the small police presence was proving woefully
inadequate. The general chaos made it impossible to turn back. For the first
time he understood the fear that Khawer had felt at the Muharram procession all
those years ago. Instead of seeing the fanaticism of mobs, Rafiq found that
mobs in frenzy were a source of power.
On completion of his
degree, he returned to Srinagar against the wishes of his father. He had done
so because he was working on a plan with Khurshid’s group. His real work lay
there. What he had done till now was just fringe work. In Kashmir, he would be
trained to become a potent force. Shooting, explosive use, survival in all
conditions – these skills would be taught to him.
New faces were in
demand – faces not in police records. That would allow free movement in the
tight security zones. For as long as possible, he had to keep up the pretence
of being an educated young man struggling to make a living. This would
ultimately be exposed – that much was made clear to him. Then he would have to
take up work, which had claimed the sacrifice of many a young man. He had been
prepared well. There were no doubts in his mind.
His father tried to
get employment for him, but Rafiq’s mind was not in it. He would stay away from
home for days together when he was attending the training camp away in the
hills. He became quite proficient at most of the skills taught in the camp. Whenever
he was home, he could not get away from his grandfather’s eyes.
The eyes would have
hurt, pain, and beseeched him to return. It was an effort to put it out of his
mind. His father’s eyes had pain. Then one day a couple of his comrades came to
visit him. It was then that he noticed that fear was added to the family. They
knew who his comrades were.
Fear for him, for his
other family members. Thereafter, no one really spoke to him. They were afraid
of him- he realized. There was no reason to be afraid of him – he was their
own! What he had not realized was that he was no longer their own. He belonged
to a concept not to a family, nor to a nation.
He had progressed
from small robberies to finally killing an informer. Soon, he would travel
across the border for the advanced training. After his kill, he had been
shaking and had not been able to run away.
He had to be dragged
away from the spot by one of the others. His trainer looked at him with pride
and reassured him that the reaction was natural after the first kill. He would
be more in control the next time. The cause came first and these hurdles had to
be crossed. However, he had probably been recognized and would have to be in
hiding for a time, maybe forever.
And so had started
the series of moves from one place to another, never more than three days at a
stretch; during this time he had time to think and reflect. There were new
questions, which needed answers. New doubts had crept in which needed clearing.
Until the fateful escape!
And now he was lying
in a ditch, shot like a dog. He could not decide whether it would be better to
be discovered and survive or to die like this. There would be no more projects
for him in either case.
He missed his
mother’s touch, his father’s support but the one thing that kept appearing
again and again was the sadness, disappointment, pain and shame in his
grandfather’s eyes. They simply refused to go away.
Whether he was caught
or died, all he would be was a piece of forgotten statistic. Only his family
would remember him. Would it be with fondness or would they prefer to forget
him? Probably it would be impossible to forget him, but they would have to
distance themselves from his actions – to protect the stigma of being a
terrorist’s family, to protect their other children. He had left them with no
choice. Had he failed them?
Was his passion for
the cause any less than his grandfather’s? There was no comparison. His
grandfather never had doubts. He was beset by a horde of them. His grandfather
found a connection to his cause that he was finding it difficult to sustain.
His path had caused
pain and shame; his grandfather’s path had brought only pride. His grandpa’s
motive had been positive and universal – to bring freedom and prosperity. His
motive had been principally negative – a reaction to injustice for a section of
people. Was the injustice limited only to Muslims? Did not many others suffer
from the same – lack of opportunities, prejudice ….. Did he act against the
malaise? The answers were clear but not very flattering!
He now understood,
finally. He had been promised heaven at the end of his life. As the first of
the snowflakes fell he realized that he was not going to heaven, rather he was
leaving what could possibly become heaven had he worked for it.
With
a sad, forlorn look on his face, he finally closed his eyes.
