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.
---------------------
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.
--------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
--------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
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