One evening, not long after these tragic events, there was a knock on the door. It was Nalicha.
‘What a pleasant surprise; I have been thinking a lot about you,’ Kakaji welcomed him with more than usual warmth.
‘It is gratifying that someone remembers me in these times.’
‘But you are special, Nalicha; we are neighbours, we have been classmates, we played together as kids.’
‘Well, well. I came to find out how you are faring.’
‘Not well. That day, when we met by chance at Aziz’s home, his conduct was humiliating, even menacing. No doubt the on-going turmoil has strained relationships, but it was excruciating coming from one whom we always treated with affection. Do you know, only yesterday I was waylaid by two thugs on the street? They threatened and bullied me; wanted to know why I had chosen to stay back when all the Pandits from the locality have taken flight. Was I a spy or an informer, they quizzed. It was mortifying. Would you know them, by any chance, Nalicha?’
‘I have no idea. In fact, after what you say, I find extra justification in coming to see you.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘To advise you to leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘Yes, for some time until...’
‘Leave for where?’
‘Go to Jammu or some such place. Disappear for some time.’
‘Why should I disappear? My home is here; we don’t have any relatives or friends outside Kashmir.’
‘Look, I am speaking for your own safety.’
‘Am I in danger?’
‘We all are in danger—you, me, everyone. A swirling flood swallows everything that comes its way.’
‘But we have good Muslim neighbours.’
‘Times have changed. You can’t trust anyone these days. There are forces pulling everyone apart.’
‘Can’t I even trust you? We have been friends ever since we moved about in knickers.’
‘That is why I am asking you.’
‘Once we are out of here, it may be impossible to return.’
‘Inshallah, you will come back as soon as we free Kashmir.’
‘Does that mean you approve of the on-going terror and mayhem? Are you a militant?’
‘Don’t ever use that word. Don’t insult our freedom movement. Call me a Mujahid, if you must.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘We stand for everyone in Kashmir, for the Pandits as much as for Muslims.’
‘We?’
‘I mean Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front, JKLF in short.’
‘But Pandits are being hounded out.’
‘Only the moles and informers amongst them.’
‘And innocent people as well, who have nothing to do with politics…’
‘Unfortunately, there are other groups operating who don’t want you here.’
‘Is that why you are asking me to disappear?’
‘People ask questions. How many mouths can you seal?’
‘But I need not worry so long as you are there; right?’
Nalicha did not answer.
‘I am not going,’ Kakaji declared with rare stubbornness.
‘Give it serious thought.’
‘What?’
‘I will not be around always. This place is going to explode.’
‘Explode?’
‘That is what I came to warn you about.’
Nalicha’s visit left Kakaji in a daze. Was he a terrorist? Could he be involved in the murder of innocent people? Yet it seemed he had come in good faith and out of concern for his safety. But the idea of leaving Kashmir was abhorrent, more so after hearing about the travails of those who had fled and were condemned to live as refugees in Jammu and neighbouring towns, herded in dharamashalas, temples and tents.
After much deliberation, Kakaji persuaded his parents and siblings to migrate temporarily to Jammu. He stayed back to look into pending business affairs, maintaining a low profile, and hoping that the situation would improve and he would not have to quit.
But that was not to be. On a cold February morning of 1990, when the vestiges of snow still held out on the roofs against a warming sun, and the faint fragrance of spring blended sweetly with the gentle chill in the air, Kakaji woke up in an unusually cheerful mood. A high value customer had promised to square off part of his debt. He flung the door wide open to take a stroll in the lawn and look at the peeping narcissi sprouting from under the wet clay. To his utter horror, he found a shrouded figure lying on his veranda. Thinking it was a joke someone had played on him, he moved closer and took the cover off the head gingerly only to find a face frozen in death, eyes staring at him in terror. He screamed and passed out. When he came to, he was trembling with fear. Standing up with difficulty, he walked inside, his mind numb from the terrifying spectacle. He strayed around like a somnambulist, fished out his small attaché, took all the cash from the locker and dumped it inside the attaché along with a handful of clothes. He put on his warm jacket, locked the main door and left, walking hurriedly to hail a taxi.
‘Please drive me out of here.’
‘Where to, Pandit ji?’ the driver asked.
‘Some faraway place.’
The driver thought him crazy. ‘Come on, where do you want me to take you?’
‘Any hell which is a lesser hell than here.’ Kakaji slumped on the back seat, still shaking with terror.
As the taxi drove on the bumpy road, he had no idea of the time or direction until the driver stopped at a petrol station near Broadway cinema. Kakaji rubbed his eyes and looked around as if waking up from a nightmare.
‘Pandit ji, you behave as if you have seen a ghost.’
‘You’re right; it must have been a ghost,’ Kakaji replied.
The driver was puzzled. ‘Do you want me to drive you to Jammu?’
‘How do you know?’
‘That is where all the Pandits are going, holding their attachés close to their breasts,’ the driver quipped.
‘Why are they going there?’ Kakaji spoke like an amnesic.
‘To become refugees,’ the driver sighed in sympathy.
‘In that case, I too want to be a refugee. That is better than living in the company of a corpse.’
‘What are you talking about, Pandit ji?’
‘My name is Kakaji.’
‘I am Bashir.’
The taxi drove on as the two engaged in conversation.
As drenching humidity glued clothes to his body and his skin smarted with prickly sensations, Kakaji sat in a corner of his small room, flapping his open shirt to create a little breeze. After a nine-year nomadic life, he had finally moved into a hut in this outlying Jammu slum—a wasteland colonised by refugees from Kashmir.
There was a knock on the door. Kakaji’s son got up to find out. Two middle-aged men with flowing beards stood outside, wiping sweat off their faces.
‘Does Kakaji live here?’ one of them asked.
‘Yes,’ replied the boy.
‘We are from Kashmir. If he is in, we would like to meet him.’
Kakaji came out, recognised his neighbourhood grocer from Kashmir and rushed to greet him, shouting, ‘If I am not mistaken you must be Mohammad Sultan even as you look so different with your long beard and the Khan dress.’
‘You are right, and this is Subhan, my friend,’ Mohammad Sultan introduced his companion.
‘Good to see you after such a long time. But what brings you here in this wretched season?’
They looked at each other.
‘Why don’t you come in?’
‘Thank you, we won’t take long.’
‘I have just moved here. Sorry, you will have to sit on the bare floor.’
‘It is a shame that you are cramped here when you have a three-storey house back home,’ Mohammad Sultan commiserated.
‘I hear a butcher lives there.’
‘After the Pandits left, it was a take-your-pick situation. Whoever got into your houses first, occupied them w
ith no intention to leave.’
Kakaji heaved a long, cold, indignant sigh.
‘We felt bad after you ran away.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t perpetuate that myth. We didn’t run away; we were forced to run for our lives.’
‘Those were hellish times, beyond anyone’s control.’
Cold drinks were served and Mohammad Sultan came to the point. ‘Subhan’s brother, Javed, is in Hira Nagar prison. We have come to meet him.’
‘What is he in prison for?’
‘He was just picked up one day. The usual charge, that he is a militant. Of course, there is no proof.’
‘How can there be proof when none of you is willing to come forward and testify?’
‘Look, the boys were misguided; they were too young to understand what they got themselves into. Inshallah, they will mend their ways after they are let off.’
‘Anyway, where do I come in the picture?’
‘We already got the permit to meet Javed. We want you to accompany us, just in case.’
‘How can an outcast from Kashmir help you?’ he asked bluntly.
‘You might know some official at the prison, so our meeting runs without a hitch.’
‘I am a refugee, a nonentity here.’
‘You see, we are in Jammu for the first time. We don’t even know where Hira Nagar is.’
‘Nor do I.’
‘We hear there is a Pandit officer. You might know him.’
‘I have no connections here; just me and whatever is left of my family.
‘What about your parents?’
‘The heat killed them.’
‘May Allah grant them jannat!’
There was silence. Suddenly, Kakaji wanted to be left alone. Old wounds had been bared.
‘Would you like a cup of kehva?’ he asked.
‘We should be going. We had hoped you would come along,’ they said, disappointment writ on their faces.
When they got up to leave, Kakaji had second thoughts. Could he afford to annoy his visitors? If his house in Kashmir was standing today, it could go up in flames tomorrow.
‘Look, I don’t mind accompanying you, though I wonder if I can be of any help,’ he said.
The taxi stopped at the gate of the Hira Nagar Detention Centre. Mohammad Sultan produced the permit from the Home Ministry. They were led into a large room where the detainees met their visitors. After a few minutes, Javed, a handsome young man in his early twenties, entered the room. He was followed by a tall figure with dreamy eyes, a longish face, a strong, square jaw and hefty hands. Kakaji recognised Mushtaq Nalicha at once as he walked with a swagger towards them in a crisp snow-white kurta and shalwar, sporting a narrow moustache and a well-trimmed beard. On seeing Kakaji, he bawled, ‘Look, who do I see here!’ as he hurried towards him, holding him in a tight embrace. Kakaji flinched. He had watched the interview that Nalicha had given to a TV channel after having been captured. Nalicha had confessed to having killed at least 20 Pandits.
The interview flashed back to him with horror:
‘So you got orders to kill and you killed?’ the interviewer asked.
‘Yes,’ Nalicha replied.
‘Anyone?’
‘Yes, anyone.’
‘Even if you were asked to kill your real brother?’
‘I would have killed.’
‘Even your own mother?’
‘I had taken an oath to do the bidding of my superiors.’
‘Did you suffer no guilt when you killed people?’
‘In the beginning I felt a twinge; later, I had no feelings.’
‘What do you think will be your punishment?’ the interviewer asked.
‘I might get life. I might be hanged.’
Mushtaq Nalicha was hugging him, squeezing his hands tight in his grip, and repeating, ‘I can’t believe it is my old chum.’
Kakaji did not know how to conceal the turbulence in his mind.
‘Come on, why don’t you speak? Are you sore about something?’
‘I don’t know how to say it, but you seem changed.’
‘The jail changes you.’
‘Do they mistreat you?’
‘On the contrary, we are well looked after. And I have company here. Look around, there are so many of us, new friends and old comrades-in-arms. But I like to meet people visiting from the Valley. When I heard Javed had visitors, I came along. And what a coincidence; I had not even dreamt of meeting you.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘Passing through this phase of penitence.’
‘Penitence? What kind of penitence?’ Kakaji could not suppress the deep sarcasm in his voice.
‘I hope I come out a changed man from here one day.’
‘Was it you that killed Ashok Tiku?’ Kakaji finally became bold to ask the question that had been haunting him.
Nalicha’s smugness waned, but only for a while, and he resumed his composure. ‘Let’s forget the past, Kakaji? That was a different time—wild, vicious, violent. Tell me about yourself. Did you marry?’
‘Yes, after I left Kashmir.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘The day I found a dead man on my veranda. I still fail to understand who had planted the body there and why.’
‘Because that was the only way to scare you away.’
A shiver ran through Kakaji’s frame. ‘So it was you, Nalicha?’
‘Not me.’
‘Your men?’
‘I had warned you against staying on, but you would not listen.’
‘It is shocking to know that an innocent man was killed just to terrorise me?’
‘He was an informer working against the tehreek.’
‘What if I had not left?’
‘You would have come to harm.’
‘Why didn’t you follow the orders to liquidate me?’
‘I would not raise my hands against a childhood friend.’
‘That is not what you said in the interview.’
‘Which interview are you speaking about?’
‘The one you gave to the TV channel after you were arrested.’
‘Oh, that?’
‘You said if you were ordered to kill your own brother or even your mother, you would do it.’
‘But friendship is a different matter,’ he grinned.
What a lofty moral code! This was different from the compulsive killer image people had of him. All the same, Kakaji wanted nothing to do with him.
‘Can’t we forget it? Can’t we just move on in life? Tell me, where do you live? What do you do for a living?’
‘I am doing as well as can be expected in displacement.’ Kakaji was in no mood to speak about his life after he left Kashmir. Was it going to make any difference to anyone?
‘Militancy has given us nothing. Inshallah, there will be good old times again. Let’s hope you will return home one day.’
‘Return to a neighbourhood where there is not a single Pandit family, to a home which has been occupied?’ he asked in a hurt voice.
‘Who has taken possession of your house?’
‘A butcher I know nothing about.’
‘I wouldn’t let anyone even to cast a look at your house had I been around.’
‘When are you walking out of this place?’
‘They can’t keep me here for ever. There is not a shred of hard evidence against me. The police have failed to make a case.’
‘What about the interview? Was that not an admission of guilt?’
‘That was just bravado.’
The meeting ended with more hugs and handshakes. Kakaji was left with mixed feelings and many questions: What makes a terrorist? Is a monster capable of tender sentiments? Does friendship stand on a higher pedestal than kinship? Is a serial killer capable of reformation?
Barely a month after the Hira Nagar episode, a stranger called on Kakaji.
‘My name is Gulam Mustafa,’ he introduced himself politely; ‘I am the one who moved into your
house after you fled from Kashmir. It was in shambles. Everything had been stolen—furniture and fixtures, pots and pans. Several windows and doors had been whacked out and your garden was in utter ruin.’
Kakaji felt no emotion. A strange sense of detachment for Kashmir and all that he owned there had seized him. It was as if he were listening to yet another story of a Pandit house looted, occupied or burnt down.
Gulam Mustafa continued, ‘I renovated it to make it habitable again.’
‘For humans or for cattle?’ Kakaji could not help the sarcasm.
‘I am a butcher by profession, but not a butcher of humanity. Let me tell you, it is easier to live with cattle than with humans,’ he said, peering into his eyes like a philosopher driving home a truism.
Kakaji liked his candour. ‘Why do you come here now after having grabbed my house and lived there for nine years?’
‘I have come with a proposal.’
Kakaji screwed up his eyes and looked at him in scrutiny.
‘Would you like to sell your house?’
‘Frankly, I have never given it a thought.’
‘If you do, I would like to make you an offer.’
‘This is rather sudden.’
‘Do you intend to return to Kashmir?’
‘That is beside the point, but I would like my house vacated.’
‘I will vacate it when you want me to, but I know someone else will move in after I leave. Everybody’s eyes are on your house.’
‘Why this change of heart after all these years? I have not even sent you a legal notice, not that anyone in authority would care.’
‘It is at someone’s behest.’
‘May I know who?’
‘You might, some day. For now, I have been asked to vacate your house and hand the keys over to you. That is why I made a proposal.’
‘In that case, please vacate at your earliest,’ Kakaji urged him.
Gulam Mustafa left, promising to come back with the keys. But Kakaji did not believe he would return, nor could he imagine a mysterious benefactor working behind the scenes to get his house vacated.
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 3