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Insomnia

26/1/2012

18 Comments

 
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The voices were back. He could hear them in the dark. “Mat maaro sa’ab. Woh ham ko gaon se utha kar le gaye the.”  The boyish Kashmiri accent was unmistakeable. It had the bristle of a first beard in it. The bulge of a newly-sprouted Adam’s apple. The rush of a shikara splashing through the water lilies in the Jhelum. Or Jah-lam, as the Kashmiris pronounced it. It was uncanny how clearly he remembered those details even after all these years. The razor sharp nose, the grey eyes flecked with green, the accent with a brush of sandpaper in it. And then his wife cribbed that he was getting Alzeimer's. Just because he couldn’t recollect where he had placed the car keys or kept the stick they used to chase monkeys out of the vegetable patch. Nagging old woman. Good that she had started sleeping in the other room. He preferred being alone.
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The General switched on his bedside lamp and looked at  the clock. 1.15 am.  Swearing under his breath, he shut his eyes and let his head drop back on the pillows. “Mat maaro sa’ab. Baccha hai. Aapko dua dega.” It was the old man this time. He knew there were five of them. Standing outside his window in the darkness. Tired, unwashed and starving. In their dirty frayed phirans with holes burnt from the kangdis that had kept them alive in the – 5 degree temperature. They were sobbing and pleading and waking him up from alcohol-induced sleep to beg for their lives. It had been almost twenty years but they hadn’t stopped whining in his ear like dogs.

His mind travelled. He could feel the chill of Kashmir turning his nose cold, the snug wrap of his thick smock Denison, the reassuring grip of his old green helmet with that little rip in the lining where the cold metal pressed against his scalp. And the smell. The smell of smoking pine wood mingled with the stench of unwashed clothes. And garlic. Yes, he had definitely smelt garlic on the boy’s breath. The starving bastard had been chewing garlic. Where the fuck had he managed garlic from on that barren peak. The smell was so nauseating that he had to turn his head and grope for a cigarette.

-------------------

Last visit to the Base hospital, the doctor had told him to quit smoking. He had burnt out a portion of his lungs. He could no longer walk without getting breathless. The raspy cough returned each morning. And lately (he hadn’t told his wife though) he had been spitting blood into the white bathroom sink. He didn’t care. He’d rather die breathing in the sweetness of nicotine than smell the garlic on that Kashmiri bastard’s breath.
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Sa’ab zee. Sa’ab. O Sa’ab! The whispers were getting louder. They had walked right upto the wire mesh on the window. Their faces were hidden in the shadows of the shawls draped around their heads and shoulders. They were reciting the Quran now. The General was feeling compelled to pull the curtain, press his nose against the glass and look out but he stopped himself. He had done it before so many times. There was never anyone there. Just abject darkness and the droopy outline of the Alphonso mango tree that his daughter had sent him from Ratnagiri some years back. He looked at the double barrel gun standing behind the door with a piece of cotton stuffed down its nozzle. One day he would open the window, call out to them and when they showed their faces from behind the hedge where he knew they hid each night he would shoot them in their heads.                                                                                                                                                

Nineteen years back…
There were five of them. They were trying to shelter from the cold winds between the rocks on the barren peak. Through his binoculars, the Major could make out the outlines of their guns against the jagged rock face. Nasty bloody AK 47s. Handed over to young boys who had been bribed to die in a meaningless war noone wanted to fight anymore. Not the villagers, not the Pakistanis, not the Indian Army. And least of all, him. He was tired and frustrated and only interested in staying alive so that he could get back home to his wife and kids. Kashmir tenure was a bloody curse. A bleeding cross on the shoulder that could not be put down. It could only change heads. He would be free only when another  unfortunate officer replaced him for his two years of walking on the edge of hell. He didn’t care if a nuclear bomb dropped on Kashmir that very night. He hated those squealing pigs who lived on government grants and doublecrossed the soldiers courting death to make their lives safe. He hated them as much as he hated the politicians who were responsible for the mess they were all in.

"Climb down and walk to us with your hands in the air. We will spare your lives," he shouted once again, his voice cracking in the cold. “Surrender. You shall be given government protection. This is my promise to you.”  The armed rebels were surrounded and outnumbered. They didn’t really have a choice. The Major wanted them to come down without having to take his men up the slope. Some of them would die in the gun fight and he didn’t want that to happen. That was why his company had been sitting there for 48 hours, waiting.  Like cats wait for mice. He lit a cigarette and squinted in the light of the setting sun. He had to convince them to come to him. 
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They were finally making their way down, weapons slung across their backs. He watched with narrowed eyes. His soldiers had their guns trained at them as they came closer. “Walekum salaam,” he said to the old man leading the group of young boys. He was polite but curt with the rebels. He made them drop their weapons and interrogated them for all the information they could give. Then he made them stand in a row and gestured to his company second in command to offer them water. They drank thirstily from cupped palms. Their cracked lips and sunken eyes showed that they had been starving on that hill. Lifting his gun, he looked the old man in the eye, “I’m sorry,” he said, “but that’s all I can give you”. The old man’s eyes were sad. “You are breaking your promise, sa’ab,” he said softly and then dropped to his knees reciting the Quran.

The young boy had started to cry. “Mat maariye sa’ab zee. Ham aatankwaadi nahin hain. Woh ham ko gaon se utha kar le gaye the,” he was pleading. “Close your eyes,” the Major said, his voice colder than the wind, and shot him through the heart. Tall and fair with a razor sharp nose, the boy wasn’t older than 17. His open eyes had turned glassy in death. They were a beautiful grey flecked with green. “Fucker, could have been a film star.”  Four more shots rang out through the barren valley. The soldier with the walkie talkie connected the circuit and held the speaker out to him. “Charlie to Alpha. Charlie to Alpha,” the Major said , “Militants refused to surrender. We have made a kill”.
 -------------------

Sa’ab. O sa’ab! The whispers were getting louder. They were inside the room now. There was sweat on their phirans. He got up coughing and rummaged in his drawer for the box of cartridges that lay between the woolen socks and underwear. It took him a while to cock the heavy 12 bore rifle after all these years. The boy was shaking him by the shoulder. It was the garlic on his breath that he couldn’t stand anymore. He pressed the trigger and then switched on the light. 

His wife lay there in a pool of blood beside a shattered glass of  water. A shawl was draped around her head. Her unclasped hand held his strip of sleeping pills.

The General sat at the edge of his bed in his pyjamas and looked at her for what seemed like 19 years and then dipped a trembling hand into the box by his side. He put all his weight on the barrel and snapped the gun open to push a cartridge in one last time.


Mat maaro sa’ab zee. Woh ham ko gaon se utha kar le gaye the: Don’t kill us Sahab. They had abducted us from our village; Mat maro sa’ab. Baccha hai: Don’t kill him Sahab. He’s a child; Kangdi: small, coal lit portable oven used by Kashmiris to stay warm in the cold.
18 Comments
RITEN
26/1/2012 04:59:03 pm

You have again chosen a plot on the otherside of midnight.Yes,hearing voices is no abstraction,it happens,I have personally escorted a case for treatment to( Vimhans,Delhi) who is better now.The more acute ones see figures too. The story is a spine chilling account and credible because the backdrop is all too real.Very well written,Rachna.Now that the Republic Day flypast is over,can you revert to Comedy.

Reply
Mahendra
27/1/2012 10:46:28 am

Excellent story!
Rachna, you must submit this for publication somewhere!

One suggestion I have is to provide some more color as to why the Major chose to shoot the kids rather than arrest them as POWs (e.g. he did not want to get involved with the paperwork or the justification to NGOs etc), and why does he not shoot them even as they are walking up to him (rather than offer them water first and then do it)

But it is good as it is too, so unless you have more nit pickers like me in the audience, no changes are required :-)

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rachna
28/1/2012 02:42:37 pm

Thank you for these questions. I have purposely been leaving some threads unravelled in the stories. It is my tribute to the imaginations of readers. I feel it makes a story more interesting. But if its leaving them with a "what the hell is she talking about" then I guess I need to work on the technique more.

Reply
Mahendra
28/1/2012 04:38:22 pm

No, no - As I said the story is good as is. Just thought that adding some hints to those questions would flesh out the Major's character a little more.
But I agree, each writer has his/her signature style, and it is quite OK to leave some threads unravelled - then fans like us can speculate on the blogs and keep ourselves occupied :-)

Prithvi
27/1/2012 01:48:15 pm

Going against stereotypes.Needs courage and a lot of talent. Wonderful job!

Reply
BIG B JB
27/1/2012 02:14:45 pm

Dear Ma'am....wonderful story.....indeed it reminds the bitter past which one has faced/experienced.....yes there are some bad experiences few old soldiers burrying inside their heart...but old soldiers/soldiers are not god..ought to make some mistakes and their pure honest heart still cry for their misdeeds committed in the hype of revenge/frustration/disgustion......but mistakes are mistakes..Proxy war started by Ms Benzir Bhutto..this war has taken the lives of many innocent people/soldiers ....militants have shown their dirty face...but soldiers..at time do make mistakes..but do remeber and repent unlike terrorists.....very well written...love this story....hats off to General sahib..

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Y S Rawat
28/1/2012 06:37:48 pm

Good story well written Rachna.

This well could be a true story even today. Men of Indian security forces including Indian Army posted in Kashmir certainly go through tremendous mental trauma. General impression one may get after reading your story could be of cruelly on the part of Maj. But if so called abducted local Kashmiris had cited the Maj and his men first, at least some of them including Maj would have been killed. Killing a human being is not easy specially for we people and it is much more difficult to live with the guilt of killing a person whom you have never known. But then such circumstances, if you do not kill, he will kill you.
Common Kashmiri unfortunately is sandwiched between Pakistani agents/infiltrators and Indian security forces and has little option. The Government does not seem to have any clear policy on Kashmir. It does not want to take harsh and unpopular decisions due to unspecified political compulsions; so dishing out a few lakhs of tax payers money to NOKs of martyred soldiers of Indian security forces seems cheaper and more acceptable option. There may be many in the security forces even today who may be undergoing similar trauma or will be undergoing in the future. What option do they really have? Get killed or leave them for next encounter and hope to be second time lucky to sight them first? If you try to settle a political problem militarily, results will invariably be similar. Today probably an innocent Kashmiri is the victim next may be a security force soldier. How about writing the story of soldiers of Indian security forces being brutally killed, may even be headed by Pakistani infiltrators or local Kashmiri 'volunteers' or may be those abducted and forced to kill. How does one differentiate between them for safty of those under his command and of his own?

Reply
Anima
29/1/2012 12:01:49 pm

Just to let you know your stories take me into the character's state of mind... so how about a very sugary-sweet happily-ever-after...:) please!

Reply
Ritha Hegde
29/1/2012 08:30:40 pm

I shuddered....I frowned.....I panicked....I almost shrieked...
You are as awesome as ever. But its terrible to think that there can be people who have lived the hell, and still have to live it because of what they had to do under whatever circumstances.

Reply
rachna
29/1/2012 11:57:26 pm

you put the crux of the 1000 plus words i wrote in one sentence. that was what i wanted to say and did't know it myself till you put is forth so simply. thank you from the bottom of my heart

Reply
rachna
30/1/2012 12:15:50 am

i think that was exactly what i wanted to say and didn't know it myself till you put it so simply in one sentence. thank you from the bottom of my heart for your sensibility and for finding time to read my blogs

Reply
ather
7/2/2012 05:23:16 am

well well well- you have returned to form rachna.You know I had my reservations about the earlier story but in this you have weaved colour with the narrative to create a picture in our mind's eye of events that have unfolded in the past and the present of the Maj.I love your evocative style and adore the picture-postcard snapshots of India you present in your blogs, In this you have married two styles of writing with the descriptive (in which you are truly gifted) and the fictional narrative which although brutal and rough-edged in parts, it provides a perfect contrast in styles. Like some of your other fans, I still prefer your descriptive writing but this story also does you proud. Keep it up...

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Dipti Nair
9/2/2012 04:56:35 pm

This is deep, Rachna. As usual the atmosphere you create is almost 3D. I like the little details like the "...the reassuring grip of his old green helmet with that little rip in the lining where the cold metal pressed against his scalp."
That was a very good read :-)

Reply
vivek
15/2/2012 07:05:47 pm

HI Rachna!!! as a writer u r par excellence. comments on "Insomnia"; story is beautiful, but handling of the subject is not as simple as could be visualized by a writer. still, from the point of view of a creative & imaginative writer the effort is praise worthy. by the way, unintendedly it provides the critics of the armed forces an easy handle 2 bash the org, particularly when projected by an army offr's wife.
very few can appreciate the ideas & emotions, most take it as vindication or vilification of their pre-set notions.
all in all, my expression is not complete. it warrants a definite visit 2 Bareilly/Firozpur

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Pamela
16/2/2012 06:29:00 pm

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to read this... brutal stuff.... where did it come from? I hope this is fiction. Have started reading a lot of poetry of late and the title of your piece brought to mind a favourite of mine by Maya Angelou. This is titled Insomniac
There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

Keep writing... for those who like reading...

Reply
suman thapliyal
16/2/2012 10:19:37 pm

Wow! I was so engrossed in your story.I could actually visualize the whole scene.The' Fauj" connect to your stories is unmistakable.

Reply
xyz
20/2/2012 04:19:24 am

This comes close to neither fiction nor reality. Too simplistic in concept ,but emotive narration.

Reply
rachna
23/2/2012 01:41:33 pm

thanks for reading it and for your comment xyz

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    Rachna Bisht Rawat is a full time mom and part time writer. She is married to an Army officer whose work takes the family to some of the most interesting corners of India.

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