by Mukul Deva
‘Where do you think you are going?’ The tone was not unkind, but the steel of command was unmistakable.
Conditioned to six months of unflinchingly obeying orders it brought Iqbal to a dead halt. ‘I’m…he is…so much blood…’ Iqbal fumbled, barely coherent.
‘Here…’ said the sentry as he dumped the woodchips in Iqbal’s arms and nudged him back inside. ‘Throw some into the fire. Let’s have a little more light.’
Back inside, the sentry took in the dead man lying in a pool of blood. He did not bother to check his breath or pulse. The sentry had seen too many dead men not to be able to recognize death when he saw it. ‘Come on. We need to bury him. Come and help me.’
‘Bury him? Isn’t he from the Pakistan Army? Do you think it is okay to bury him here?’ Even as he spoke Iqbal realized it was not a very smart remark and his voice trailed off.
The sentry gave a short mirthless laugh. More like a bark. ‘What do you think we should do? Take him back to Chakoti, hain? You think those buggers care?’ He waved a vague hand in the direction of POK. ‘They refused to collect their dead even when the Indian Army was handing their bodies over at Kargil. Because that would have meant acknowledging that they were Pakistanis.’ The anger he felt came through loud and clear.
‘Why do you say that? Why are you so cynical about them? You know they are helping us. They train us, give us money, weapons and…’
The sentry’s bitter laugh shocked Iqbal. ‘You think they are doing it for us? You silly fuck!’ He hawked loudly and spat in the corner of the hut. ‘They just don’t have the balls for a fair fight. They have lost every damn war with India, that is why they have inflicted this endless, aimless jihad on India. They are trying to bleed India by forcing it to fight this constant low-intensity war.’
Standing there in the cold mountain air the sentry jabbed a finger at him, his anger evident even in the darkness. ‘For the college guy that you seem to be, you are quite a fucking moron. Can’t you do some simple maths? They didn’t hire you for money, but they know you need it to live so they give you…what? A few thousand bucks, right? What do they give you if you die? Bugger all, right?’ He made another vehement gesture. ‘But what happens when one of their own regular army soldiers dies? They have to pay hundreds of thousands as insurance, gratuity and pension to his family, right?’
He gave Iqbal a long angry glare: ‘Twenty dead jihadis like us cost them less than one dead Pakistani soldier. Plus they have the comfort of denying that they are the ones who train us and task us to fight their war. They get to fight a cheap war at almost no cost to them. Even the few bucks they throw at us we earn for them by bringing out their drugs.’
‘Drugs?’ There was an incredulous look on Iqbal’s face.
‘How do you think the drugs from Afghanistan reach America and Europe? Do you have any idea how many millions of dollars those shit-eaters earn from drugs? Most of it fills the coffers of those fancy ISI Generals, CIA agents and our great fearless leaders…a few paltry pieces are also thrown at us to buy arms and ammunitions.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Iqbal answered with angry vehemence.
‘Really? You want to go and take a look at the backpack of that guy? Go on!’ He gestured angrily toward the dead man lying between them. ‘You want to come with me to the main camp in the next valley and have a look? Damn you!’ he shouted. ‘I know what you are feeling. Exactly how I felt when I came to know how I had been used and abused…’
The sentry stopped suddenly. He threw up his hands in a weary gesture as though the futility of it all had gotten to him.
‘They are ruthless bastards. We are just pawns in their great game. Irrelevant. Expendable. They don’t fucking care who lives or who dies…’ He looked away. The pain and confusion starkly etched on his face reached out to Iqbal, overwhelming his mind with confusion. Suddenly the sentry shook himself and returned to reality. ‘Come, let us bury the poor bugger before he begins to stink.’
‘Then why do you still accept their support if you know all this?’ Iqbal finally mustered the gall to ask as they carried the body towards the forest. ‘Why do you continue fighting if you think all this is futile?’
The sentry didn’t answer for a long time. When he finally did, he spoke softly, almost as though he was talking more to himself than answering Iqbal’s question:
‘What choice do I have now?’ His voice was almost lost in the wind and Iqbal had to strain to hear what he was saying. ‘Back in those days…when the blood ran hot and the cause burned bright I killed many Indian soldiers. Seventeen…you know…I have taken part in seventeen operations. My rifle has accounted for many of them. They know about me…’ for a fleeting moment his face shone with a deeply buried, long-forgotten pride before it grew dark again – ‘Do you know what they will do if they catch me?’
He didn’t speak again till they were putting down the body to start digging: ‘The Indian soldiers have become hard today. Much harder than they were when the jihad began. These days, they are far more willing and ready to pull the trigger than they used to be.’ He paused. ‘I guess their patience is running thin. Maybe they are tired of waiting to be shot at…’
The silence returned as they started to dig. The ground was cold and hard. The chilling cold only made it tougher to dig. ‘Do you know what happened once?’ The sentry spoke again. ‘We had gone to pick up rations and stores from Srinagar when Indian soldiers suddenly started a cordon-and-search of the area. I was standing right there, barely ten feet away, when one of our guys panicked and tried to run. He was a young kid barely out of his teens…a new recruit who had just gotten back from training. They shot him down like a dog. They must have pumped him at least a dozen times. He was still alive…trying desperately to crawl away when one of the Indian soldiers walked right up to him and put one last bullet through his head. Can you imagine…just walked up to him and…Bang!.. right between the bloody eyes.’ The sentry snorted. ‘Do you know what I heard the soldier say when he was walking away from the boy he had shot?’ The sentry looked at Iqbal, as though he expected him to know. ‘”Motherfucking Pakis…the only good ones are dead ones.”’
The fire had almost died down when they re-entered the hut. Despite this, the warmth inside was heavenly after the bone-chilling wind in the jungle outside. Omar was awake and watching the two men in wary silence. The sentry seemed to unnerve him.
‘We need to get some food into you,’ Iqbal said going up to him and touching his forehead to check his temperature. It felt normal.
‘I appreciate all the trouble you are taking of me, Iqbal,’ Omar smiled weakly. ‘I would not be alive if it wasn’t for you.’
‘You’d have done the same for me, I am sure.’ Iqbal gave him some of the thick broth the sentry had made. Having ensured he had eaten enough of the broth Iqbal then gave Omar the last of the pills. ‘Try and get as much rest as you can, we have a long journey ahead,’ he said as he stepped away and sat down to eat his own food.
Surprisingly, the sentry joined him. After they had consumed their meal in silence, the sentry looked him straight in the eye. ‘When do you two plan to move out?’ he asked pointedly. ‘I have very limited provisions here, you know. I cannot feed you two much longer.’
Iqbal turned to look at Omar who returned his gaze worriedly. ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.
‘Are you feeling well enough to move out now?’
‘Now?’ An expression of dismay crossed Omar’s face. ‘You want to move right away?’
Iqbal did, but he could see that Omar was not up to it. ‘I mean, are you up to travelling tomorrow morning?’
‘I guess so.’
In fact it was Omar who shook him awake the next morning. The sentry was hunkered down by the fire, watching them with narrowed eyes. He did not say anything as Omar handed a bowl of broth to Iqbal, but the minute they’d finished eating he took them to the edge of the jungle. ‘Do you see that?’ The sentry pointed to a thin sliver of road t
wisting away in the distance at the foot of the mountain. ‘Get to that road and hitch a ride. Try to get hold of a truck or bus. Avoid private cars and government vehicles. They tend to ask too many questions. If you stop the wrong one you may well end up in prison…or dead. Understand?’
Both men nodded wordlessly at him.
‘Good! If you head that way,’ he said, ‘you will get to Srinagar. Catch a bus from there to Jammu or Pathankot. From there you can get a train to wherever it is you have to go.’
When they went back to the hut to pick up their backpacks the sentry stopped them. He pointed to a thick polythene sheet, slick with oil, in a corner of the hut. ‘Wrap your weapons in this sheet and bury them.’ He handed them a pick and shovel. ‘Here…use these.’
Omar and Iqbal looked at him uncomprehendingly so he explained, ‘Bury the weapons here. You don’t need them. They won’t help you. In fact, if you are caught with them on your person by Indian soldiers you are more likely to be killed by them.’
The sentry led them to a small cluster of rocks on the edge of a ravine that ran down the side of the mountain, about four hundred metres from the hut. Working quickly, Iqbal dug a shallow hole and Omar placed the weapons, wrapped in the polythene to prevent them being spoiled, into the crevice. On the other lip of the ravine was the spot where they had buried the instructor.
An hour later the two young jihadis descended the mountain and skirting Hari village hit the road a little ahead of it; they lay hidden by the side of the road till a truck drove by some time later. Iqbal ran forward to flag it down but it did not stop. As it rattled past dangerously close to him Iqbal caught a glimpse of the angry grimace on the driver’s face. The second truck did not stop either. Nor did the third.
‘Maybe we should stand in the middle of the road and force it to stop?’
‘Be my guest, Omar…please. You’re welcome to give it a try,’ said Iqbal sarcastically, only to follow it up with, ‘Why didn’t you think of it earlier?’ when twenty minutes later, the fourth truck screeched to a noisy halt.
‘Can you give us a lift to Srinagar?’
The man behind the wheel gave them a long, dubious look.
‘We can pay,’ Iqbal added hurriedly. ‘My friend here is unwell and we really need to get him to a doctor.’
The mention of money brought a flicker of interest to the man’s face. He reached out and took the two crisp five-hundred-rupee notes that Iqbal held out. ‘Get in at the back.’
Neither of the three knew it but the notes were fake. They had been printed at an ISI-sponsored, illicit printing press operating deep in the alleys of Multan. As a forgery it was excellent and would have passed anything but a detailed scrutiny at a bank. The note was an integral part of the ISI strategy to destabilize the Indian economy by pumping in fake currency.
Iqbal helped Omar into the rear of the truck and then climbed over the tailboard. He patted his rucksack into a kind of seat and was sitting down when he felt something hard in it. A little puzzled he opened the rucksack to see two grenades nestled at the bottom of the bag. He had wrapped them in the spare trousers he had carried in his rucksack when they were leaving Chakoti and then forgotten all about them. ‘If you are caught with weapons you will surely die or, at the very least, you will rot in some Indian prison for a very long time.’ The sentry’s words came back to him. He toyed with the thought of throwing them out of the truck. The grenades were the typical fragmentation types that splintered into thirty odd bits of shrapnel when thrown. The feel of cold knobby metal spread a chill in him. Iqbal shivered.
In the end he held on to them. Reaching inside the rucksack he re-wrapped them in his clothing and pushed them to the bottom of his bag.
‘You need to get off here.’ The truck was parked on the side of the road. There was no other vehicle in sight. However, some evidence of human habitation was starting to reveal itself in the distance. ‘The town is just ahead.’ The trucker looked at the two men as they jumped off: ‘I can’t take you further. There are security checkpoints all over.’ He looked away for a moment. ‘I don’t know who you are but I strongly suggest you avoid the main roads. Stick to the back alleys and you will be safe. Inshahallah.’ He gave a short wave and engaged the gear. ‘By the way, in case you are stopped, don’t try to run.’ Another short pause. ‘Nobody hesitates to shoot these days.’
The roar of the engine escalated and the truck moved off in a cloud of dust leaving the two men standing there with confusion in their minds and fear in their hearts.
Iqbal and Omar gave each other a long look.
‘Have you ever been to Srinagar before?’
Omar answered with a shake of his head.
‘Me neither.’
‘Inshahallah, we will be fine.’
‘Let’s take that lane.’ Iqbal nodded at the dirtiest, narrowest lane leading away from them towards the town.
The two men hefted their packs and started to walk.
30 October 2005, BBC Television Studio, London.
‘Your administration calls Pakistan a key ally in the war against terror,’ Jack Robbins, the anchor said to the American Secretary of State during the popular television show, Brasstacks. This particular episode was a much-publicized one. Not only were the recent Delhi blasts on everyone’s minds, it was also a huge casting coup since the British Foreign Secretary and Pakistani Foreign Minister were also present in the studio and the Indian External Affairs Minister was in attendance via a video conference link from Delhi.
‘Yes, we do,’ the Secretary of State conceded. ‘They are a frontline state in our war against terror.’ The Pakistani Minister nodded vehemently. The Indian one managed to look simultaneously pained and amused. The British Foreign Secretary was quite aware of Jack’s reputation as a journalist who asked uncomfortable questions; he looked apprehensive.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Jack replied. ‘Well, then, you may like to enlighten me on this, Madam. How is it that in the last ten years whenever there is a terrorist attack anywhere in the world it seems to have some link to Pakistan?’
‘I don’t think that is a fair assessment, Jack,’ the Secretary of State replied gravely.
Jack gave her a long look before reaching for a small sheaf of papers on the table before him. He handed them out to the panellists as the camera zoomed into the paper he was holding up for the benefit of the Indian Minister and the audience. ‘You might like to take a look at this. It is a list of recent terrorist attacks carried out all over the globe. In front of each is the list of people apprehended or suspected of these attacks. You will note that in almost every case a fair number are either Pakistanis, people of Pakistani origin, or have visited Pakistan and spent a couple of months there at some point in the twelve months preceding the attack.’
The American Secretary of State took a while to reply; she was still fumbling for an answer when the Pakistani Minister butted in: ‘I think this is a most irresponsible statement for you to make. You must really check your sources.’
‘I am so glad you brought this up, Minister. The sources I have used are freely available to anyone who chooses to make the effort. I suggest you simply log on to the Internet and check out these websites.’ He handed over another sheet of paper to the Pakistani External Affairs Minister.
‘You are right, Jack.’ The Indian Minister could no longer contain his irritation. ‘Our government has provided detailed proof of Pakistani involvement in almost all the terror strikes that have taken place on Indian soil. If you want names I can give them to you right now.’ He pointed to a thick file on a table in front of him.
‘Websites? What hogwash!’ The Pakistani Minister’s face was red with anger. He totally ignored his Indian counterpart and focused his attention on Jack. ‘Anyone can write whatever he wants on a website.’
‘I agree with you, sir. That is why I suggest you stick to the websites of various governments and organizations that have a reputation for being neutral. Please feel free to do your own re
search and yes, we would be more than happy if you shared the data with us for the benefit of our viewers.’ Jack gave a helpful smile that was in sharp contrast with the tension palpable on the screen. He knew when he had his man and could afford to be gracious. ‘And since you have brought up this point, sir, I would like to point out to you that out of the 65 religious terrorist organizations listed on almost any search engine on the Internet you will note that…’ His ever-helpful cameraman flashed another table on the screen as Jack read off:
Religious Terrorist Organizations:
Christian: 07
Hindu: 04
Muslim: 40
Jewish: 03
Sikh: 10
Others: 01
The slide dominated a million television screens across the world backed with Jack’s voice over.
There was a pause as the camera cut back to the men sitting around the table. ‘You will also be interested to note that out of the forty Muslim and ten Sikh organizations listed here seven of the Muslim ones and almost all the Sikh ones have been founded in or are based in and functioning from Pakistani soil,’ Jack pointed out.
There was a marked absence of sound bytes as silence descended on the panellists. Then the Pakistani minister decided that volume was the better part of valour and the show degenerated into an uncontrollable slanging match, which contributed significantly to the channel’s TRPs.
Outraged by the massive carnage and the huge public outcry that this and other such television programmes unleashed even the Americans were forced to sit up and take note. There were too many Americans in the body bags flying in from Afghanistan and Iraq for them to be able to ignore this strike. Each body bag was a rude reminder of what it felt like to be at the receiving end. Each body bag drove home the hard truth that the Indians had been crying hoarse about for all these years.