Renegade

I

Every night, in his bed, Altaf thinks about the mountain passes and the forests he has to pass through to return home. These musings are frightening but soothes him when he imagines himself in his home, in Srinagar. He has somehow managed to count the distance from Muzzafarabad to Srinagar and has learnt about the paths to cross the border safely, escaping from the sights of Indian troopers who prey for any living-moving- thing coming from the other side of the border, from Pakistan. With these musings and fantasies about his home, Altaf falls in deep slumber and wakes while the Azaan reverberates from the mosque, announcing the morning prayers.

His days start with breakfast in which he is served Daal, two Chapattis and tea. Back home he used to have an egg and a slice of butter in addition. At home, his mother would serve him breakfast and in Muzzafarabad training camps, where he is posted for the last 4 months, he has to do most of the work himself. Though he does not receive arms training in the camps, like his friends and roommates do, he has learnt how to cook and do some basic chores to maintain the ‘household’.

While his friends and roommates go to training camps, he devotes his day to books, poetry of Iqbal and Faiz and sometimes Ghalib. On one of the walls of his room that faces the window, he has scribbled some lines in which Faiz Ahmad Faiz longs for his home.

Meray Dil Meray Musafir[i] Hua Phir Sey Hukm Sadir
Ki Watan Badar Hon Hum Tum
Dein Gali Gali Sadain
Karein Rukh Nagar Nagar Ka
Ke Suraagh Koi Paein
Kisi Yar E Nama Bar Ka
Har Ik Ajnabi Sey Poochein
Jo Pata Tha Apney Ghar Ka

In his bleakly lit room, whose walls bear no paint and the grains of cement from them erodes, forming a thin grey line on floor, he keeps on longing about his home and remembers how he used to spend his days with his friends: strolling around Jamia Masjid, swimming in Jehlum and playing cricket in a nearby playground at his residence in Lal Bazar, Srinagar. With all these flashbacks, he also remembers the time he left his home to cross over other side of Kashmir- to Aazad Kashmir in Pakistan.

II

On January 20, 1990, when Kashmir witnessed one of the bloodiest massacres, one of Altaf’s school friends was killed in a firing in Gowkadal Srinagar. Dozens of people were killed that day. This news weakened Altaf emotionally and he went without food for that whole day, weeping in loneliness in his room. His teenage emotions mixed with the anguish in a rebellion atmosphere motivated him to do what he had never thought of.

After the Gowkadal Massacre, Altaf would seldom go out with his friends because the curfew would remain imposed for weeks altogether, freezing the life in the valley during those winters. He gradually lost the interest in games and ceased to go for walks. He felt no joy in walking by Jehlum and the bliss of sunrise reminded him of the dreadful sunset of January 20 evening. The only occasions he would step out of his home were during the noon and evening prayers that he offered in a nearby mosque. Rest of the prayers, he would offer at his home.

One such evening, when he was returning home after prayers, a thick bearded man with well built body wearing a Ph[ii]eran stopped him on his way to home. Under the moonshine that reflected on the white snow, Altaf could figure out the physique of this stranger. He spoke Urdu and talked softly. After the Urdu-speaking man greeted Altaf, he began a brief conversation with him. Dogs howled nearby and the chilling air of Chillai [iii]Kalan bit their bare faces and hands.

“Don’t hurry home. Stay a while with us in the house of Almighty Allah,” the bearded man said, with a grin and his teeth, which showed up under the dim light of street lamp, shone at par with the snow.

“I offered the Nimaz. It is time to get home now. Mau[iv]j will be worried else,” Altaf said, showing disinterest in what the bearded man said.

“Only Nimaz cannot make you Musalman. There are other things as well that ought to be done to make Allah glad,” bearded man said but this time his broad smile had faded in the dark and the wrinkles on his forehead danced as he spoke.

“We are having a small gathering in the mosque after Isha prayers. We will listen to the pious words of Allah and we will talk about the miseries of our lives,” he continued.

“Insha Allah,” Altaf said and headed towards home that was few meters away from the mosque, on the other side of the street.

“Do come and your anguish will be directed wisely. You will feel relieved,” Altaf heard the bearded man saying this from behind while he was crossing the street. Altaf stopped mid-way and looked back at the man. He was not there. Street lamp was no longer lit. Dogs barked fiercely. He moved again towards home, but nervousness had taken over him. He took quicker steps and the crackling sound of footsteps on the frozen snow panicked him.

Altaf remained quiet till the Azaan for Isha Prayers made him rush to mosque. After Isha Prayers, a man in his late 30’s, stood up and recited few verses of Holy Quran and then, in Kashmiri, addressed to the small gathering. He spoke about certain obligations a Muslim should be concerned about. He spoke of the Prophet of Islam (PBUH) and his life as a leader and a soldier. He, artistically, shuffled his topic to the Kashmir and spoke about the sufferings of people, about the innocent killings and about the Gow Kadal Massacre. By the time, as he was speaking about Gow Kadal, his face had turned red and despite Chillai Kalan he was sweating.

“Brothers, is it not a shame that our sons are killed and we do nothing but remain silent? Is not a shame that these infidels barge into our homes and humiliate us and we do nothing but cry?” “Is it not a shame….” He kept asking and everyone’s head hung low, as if in shame. His voice was echoing in the mosque and the word “Shame” resonated longer than other words in the ears and thoughts of the congregation. “Is it not a shame, my brothers,” he said in a shrill high pitched voice, “that our daughters are raped in broad day light and we do nothing but wail? Has our Gairat died?”

This stirred Altaf; his eyes turned red and he spoke out at the orator who was by now breathing heavily. “We are helpless. What can we do to fight this Manhoos Hindustan? What can we do Molvi Saeb?”

“Jihad! Jihad is the solution to these miseries. Jihad is the answer to the tyranny. Jihad will safeguard our daughters, mothers and sisters. My brother! This way you can make your Almighty glad. Only Nimaz cannot lead you to Jannat,” Molvi Saeb said looking straightly into the eyes of Altaf. Altaf remained silent and still.

As Altaf returned home that evening, he had a quick dinner and rushed to his room. He took out a bag from the wardrobe and packed some of his clothes in it. He put few poetry books of Faiz and Iqbal in it. He packed some other things like a packet of dry fruits, a family photograph, a pocket comb and new pair of shoes. He then shoved the bag under the bed and took a nap.

Altaf dreamed himself in Pakistan training camps in Military attire and holding a Kalashnikov. He imagined himself walking in the streets of Downtown Srinagar and taking cover in houses and firing at the Indian forces. All of sudden, he imagined his mother waling over his dead body, his old father sitting beside his coffin and his friends shouldering him to the graveyard. Restless, he got off the bed, walked around in his room, shoved out the bag from the bed and headed towards the door. Without bidding farewell to his family, Altaf left his home clandestinely.

It was two hours before the morning Azaan, Altaf reached to mosque where Molvi Saeb was waiting for him. The thick bearded man, whom Altaf had encountered outside the mosque and who now introduced himself as Abdullah, was also there and he passed a smile as he saw Altaf holding a bag in the wee hours.

“Insha Allah, You will be rewarded for treading the Path of Allah,” he said and hugged Altaf. Altaf had thought himself to be a lone boy who was going to cross the border, but as the minutes passed, he found many other boys ready to set off.

An hour before the Azaan, Altaf set off on his journey with a group of 10 people headed by Abdullah. Walking through the labyrinth lanes and de-peopled roads, passing through the Karewas and paddy fields and orchards and villages, escaping from the sights of Indian army; the group reached Kupwara late in the evening. In Kupwara, the group stayed at the house of one of the acquaintances of Abdullah and who was a part of taking-the-boys-across-the-border process.

In the wee hours of next morning, the group set off to the mountains and forests that led to Pakistan- the destination. Through the gorges and ravines, under the tall pines that stood like guards to the wilderness, Altaf and his group kept walking, crawling and creeping for two days without being seen by Indian Army from their pickets. As a good luck of the group, the journey remained safe, albeit tiresome. No one was hurt, no one was missing and no one fell prey to the bullets or the traps of Indian Army that occupied the wilderness of valley apart from its meadows, lakes and rivers, people, thoughts and everything.

On the third morning, the group breathed the air of Muzzafarabad and walked on its soil. Altaf felt buoyancy in his boots. Jovial and enthusiast, Altaf had forgotten his home for a moment.

But the days that followed ebbed away his enthusiasm and sentiments for Aazadi. The longings and the memories of his home that lingered in his heart and mind perpetually weakened him and he cursed himself for crossing the LoC. While others began receiving trainings in camps, Altaf began staying in the room alone that was allotted to him by Abdullah. Altaf pleaded to Abdullah for not being counted among the training-receiving–boys and confined himself to musing, reading and seldom writing about his home and friends, as if he had crossed the LoC decades ago. Many times, he thought of running away, but he had no courage to return alone through the treacherous routes leading to Kashmir. But his wait for an opportunity to runaway back to his home never diminished. Days, weeks and months passed waiting for that opportunity.

III

One early morning in August that year, Altaf wakes up before his usual time. Gentle breeze wafts the scent of roses through the open window into the dark but calm room. Birds start to chirp, perching on the boughs which hang low, touching the windows of Altaf’s room. Amid this chirping and breeze wafting, Altaf hears the sound of footsteps coming from the adjacent rooms. Occasionally he hears people murmuring “Insha Allah Hum Kamyaab Hoge”, “Gabrao Mat, Allah Hamare Sath Hai”, “Ye Khat Pohancha Dena” and other words that one says while bidding farewell to someone in the camp.

Altaf, without wasting any moment, rushes to the room where the murmuring sound comes from and stands there- still and agape. His colleagues and friends are ready to set off to cross the border. They are ready to show to the Indian army what they have learnt in the training camps for months. Some are worried, some excited, some regretful, some reluctant to return and some are in dilemma about their fate. Altaf makes requests to his friends to take him along but they deny at first. After his stubbornness and consistent insisting, the group with the permission of Abdullah agrees to take Altaf along to the Kashmir, his home.

The group that consists of 10 people leaves Muzzafarabad soon after offering Fajr Prayers. Attired in combatant dresses, everyone carries a weapon with him, except Altaf. He carries the same bag that he had while coming to Muzzafarabad. Some mock him for his dimwit nature. Some taunt him for wasting his 6 months sitting idle in Muzzafarabad. Some make mockery of his poetic nature. But the joy of home coming is such that Altaf pretends not to hear what others talk of him. Instead, he hums the lines of Faiz that he had written on the wall of his room in Muzzafarabad.

The group travels through the same haunting ravines, bullet torn mountains, and bewildered paths and amid the fear of death. Forest and the secret paths leading to other side of Kashmir cannot be trusted upon. Forests appear treacherous; more they get into it, more they find themselves under the fear and trap of death. A hidden but certain eye follows them. They take up the paths which are less visible from the pickets of Indian army.

In one of the crevices of a mountain and under the setting sun of August, the group has a rendezvous with their fate. An ambush laid by Indian army cordons off the group with no chance of its escaping. Mercy does not exist in the wilderness. All that exists is a murderer, a rebel and death.

In the next one hour, after the guns have stopped snarling from both the sides, blood has stopped spilling from the carcasses of the men who were, an hour before, buoyed with the joy of home coming and fighting for their people, singing benignly the songs of freedom. Personnel of Indian army, draped in olive green camouflage and emotions completely missing from their faces, eyes as dry as their quench for killing anyone coming from other side of border, start searching everything that lies at the site – bushes, trees, mounds, and everywhere. Behind one of the many grotesque, spiny bushes Altaf lies unconscious; no wound, no blood oozing from his body, not even a scratch visible on his face. Motionless, he lies there. He is found by Indian troopers and dragged to a makeshift camp. After that, he is taken to some unknown place.

After regaining his consciousness, he finds himself somewhere locked in an untraceable, stinky, dark room. His body aches with bruises all over his body caused by the dragging by army men. With his eyes ajar, he gradually realizes where he has landed- at an unknown place  where he can either cease to exist all of sudden like many others before him did, or he can be tortured to the point that he agrees to do what he is ordered by Indian troops. He may be coerced to become a Renegade. To become a renegade will be tantamount to celebrate the death of his friend who was killed in Gowkadal firing.

For next one week, he is kept alone in the room where the stench makes him feel his internal organs coming out with vomiting. He is tortured everyday by some army men who ask him nothing, tell him nothing. They just come, beat him, abuse him, humiliate him and leave. From moving rollers over his bruised legs to electric shocks to his private parts; from pouring chili water in his mouth, nose and eyes to incessant whips on his butts; he bears everything like an obedient patriarch of Indian army who has given up every wish, every desire and every dream that relates him to Kashmir.

After being tortured, both physically and mentally, Altaf is shifted to another room where he sees sunlight after a week and finds no foul smell nauseating him. The room has a large window that faces a big lawn where many men wearing combatant trousers play football, some walk around with their shinning metallic weapons hanging around their shoulders. Two army men stand guard outside the window with their guns ready to fire on a single pull of the trigger that is curled with their fingers. Inside the room, a man in his 50’s wearing military uniform stands at the window, facing the big lawn and sipping some drink, perhaps wine, from a glass tumbler that he holds in his left hand and twiddling an unlit cigarette in his right hand.

“So you are the new jerk, eh? What brought you here?” he says as he turns, revealing his face to Altaf. His eyes bulged; lips slightly dark and his craggy face clean shaven; wrinkles grown on his forehead, indicate the coming of old-age. He interrogates Altaf; asks him about his family, about his time in Muzzafarabad. Altaf answers without a slightest of lie. He has nothing to hide. He carries no great secrets whose revelation can bring any catastrophe. After the interrogation is over, Altaf is offered with a deal to work for the Indian army as a renegade. In case he denies, he is threatened to be killed along his family. He, having no option to choose, reluctantly agrees with the deal.

His job as a renegade is simple, but horrific. He has to kill the people he is ordered about, without knowing about their fault and guilt. Even if he inquires about it, he is beaten and threatened to death along his family. To kill or to get killed along his family- in this whirl of helplessness Altaf does whatever he is asked to do.

Others, whom Altaf knows as a renegade, are mostly those who kill people for money and without any pressure or harassment of death, they make wealth and relish the life. They feel no pain, no embarrassment and no guilt. Altaf, however, has changed drastically. He speaks lesser than before, his appetite loses day by day. He turns insomniac and unsociable. He tries to return home, but with the fear of being killed, he gives up his idea everytime he thinks of it. For more than 5 months, he does what he is ordered- like a robot, like a mindless child, like a machine.

One January evening, almost half of the year after his return to this side of Kashmir, Altaf goes to his home. Frozen roads, chilling-biting air, eerie calmness and nightfall, and amid it lingers the fear and his old memories. He remembers the time he left his home, the time he crossed over to LoC and the fateful time he was caught. He knocks at the door of his home. An old female voice from inside enquires about his name. As he mutters “I am Altaf” with soft but audible voice, the door opens. His mother, an old lady with furrowed face and wet eyes, stands there, hugs him and incessantly cries till Altaf also breaks down. Altaf’s father stands still, without saying a single word, stares at the mother-son rendezvous. He comes forward, grabs his son by both of his arms and beats his chest and cries ceaselessly.

That evening, Altaf dines with his family. After dinner, he drops his head in the lap of his mother and talks about the time he spent in Pakistan. He does not mention his new job. His mother, tells him about the hardships they had to face after he left. She tells him about the frequent army raids they witnessed, harassment and mental torture they bore. His mother pleads him not to leave them again, to which Altaf agrees and makes them a promise. As the night grows darker and occasional barking of dogs break the wintery silence outside, Altaf falls asleep.

In the middle of the night, a loud bang on the door wakes up everyone in the house. Petrified, Altaf’s mother asks him to hide in the attic. Altaf denies and goes to open the door himself amid the continuous knocks at the door. As he opens the door, a muzzle of gun hits his head and he falls down. Some masked men come in and search the house and ransack everything there. His mother at seeing the scene pants and then falls unconscious. His father is kicked in the abdomen and then another masked man drags him outside his home. Altaf is continuously beaten by two masked men.  He tries to escape, but to no avail. Later, as they feel tired of beating him up and ransacking everything in the house that comes in their way, they grab Altaf by the leg and drag him onto a vehicle that is parked ahead in the street. He is driven away, in the dead of the night, to somewhere that none other than those masked men know of.

Next morning, as everyone gathers at the house of Altaf to show sympathy and assure his family about his safe return, a police vehicle stops outside. They ask Altaf’s father to come along with them for some identification purpose. Few neighbors also accompany him. An hour later, another vehicle stops outside Altaf’s home. Altaf’s father gets out of the vehicle. He teeters as he walks. He carries a sack close to his chest. As he reaches the lawn, where by now whole neighborhood has gathered, he sits down, unfolds the sack and makes a loud, ear piercing and heart rendering cry. Altaf’s head falls down and rests in his lap- eyes ajar and mouth agape.

Altaf returns home but without the torso.