There were three of them; two were from Srinagar, to the south and east, but the other one called the village his home. They were returning for the first time after they had left, in the great patriotic upsurge of pride, five months before, for training across the border none of them recognised as a valid boundary.
Khalid was in the lead. He turned round every now and then as he led the way down the narrow and treacherous jumble of rocks that served for a path. The others were only shadows behind him, almost invisible in the near-darkness, and they moved very slowly and clumsily. He wished he could have brought them down by daylight. All they needed was for someone to fall and break a leg, or worse.
Faintly, he heard a village dog bark. He stopped and waited a moment, but the animal didn’t bark again, so he went down further. By now he could just glimpse the roofs of the village, and from memory he named them to himself: old uncle Ghulam’s house, and beyond it, the dwelling of the widow Fatima Bibi, whose son had joined the army. Beyond that was the house of...no, he decided, he would not think of her. This was not the time to think of such things.
“Careful,” he hissed, as a small shower of pebbles slid past him. “You’ll break your stupid necks.” Fortunately, the path levelled out from here and wound down through the forest until it joined the slightly bigger and better-maintained path to the village, so there were no further mishaps. Fifteen minutes later, they were at the outskirts of the village.
“Wait here.” Khalid left them sitting on the flat rock on which he had sat so often as a child while herding his family’s goats, before he was old enough to be sent to school. That rock was perfectly adapted as a seat, in the shelter of the trees and flat and smooth and just about thigh-high. Even now, the village kids used it as a seat, he thought, and smiled at the contrast of Mohsin and Hassan waiting with their AK 47s and stick grenades where the children sat all day and played their games. Then he wondered if the children still sat on the rock or played games at all any more in these times, and he stopped smiling.
The dog barked again as he entered the village. He thought he recognised the bark. It was probably Aseem’s dog, a shaggy black creature of immense size which its master had bought from a Tibetan family in Ladakh. The bark was taken up by other dogs around the village, so there was a cacophony of sound. The barking and the starlight on the village roofs made his heart shiver with delight. It was homecoming.
“Who’s there?” He stiffened and automatically lifted the AK to firing position, but it was no military patrol, only a quavering old voice. He knew that voice.
“It’s only me, Uncle Ghulam,” he said. “Khalid, you know, Farooq’s son.”
“Khalid?” He could see the old man now, standing in his doorway, not showing any light. “I heard you had gone to Pakistan.”
“Yes, uncle. But I’m back.” He was growing tired of standing in the lane talking to the old man. The cold was so intense that it seemed to flay the skin and flesh from his bones. “I’m going home, uncle. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Your mother will be glad to see you,” Ghulam said. “You’re alone?”
Khalid hesitated a moment. But there wasn’t really a point in hiding the facts. “No, uncle, there are two more. From the city.”
“Ah. Well, they’ll be glad to come in out of the cold, I’ll bet.” Still mumbling softly to himself, the old man withdrew. Khalid spared him hardly a second glance; he was already walking down the familiar alley, and a moment later he had raised his hand to knock at the thick old door.
It opened almost at once. “Khalid?” His sister peered out at him. “We knew you’d come back. Come in.”
“How did you know that?” he asked, following her in. He felt vaguely cheated. He had envisioned surprise and delight, not this mater-of-factness. “I didn’t send word I’d be coming or anything.”
“We expected you every evening,” she said, grinning over her shoulder. “Amma offered namaaz every day asking for you to come back that very night.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. Father’s not here; he’s gone to the town on work. He’ll be back tomorrow though.” They stood facing each other in the cramped living room. It was cold but felt warm to him after the chill of the night outside. Naushaba looked at his gun and the grenades at his belt. “You’d better put those away, Khalid.”
“I’m a mujahid now,” he informed her. “I have to keep my weapons with me.”
“Yes, you look very much the warrior. But you still need to put them away. Don’t worry, there’s no danger. The army hasn’t been this way for days.”
“Who is it?” The voice came from the kitchen at the back, and a moment later Ameena came into the room. She and he, Khalid, stood staring at each other. “Khalid,” she whispered at last. “You came.”
“Yes, amma.” He hugged his mother then, swinging the AK on its sling behind his back, but she felt it anyway and drew back in disgust. “You put that thing down. You don’t need it in your own home.”
Meekly, he pulled off the rifle and propped it in a corner, on its stock. The magazine pouches on his belt felt strange, heavy and awkward, so he took it off too. His mother was already bustling around. “I’ll make some tea for you, and then you can eat.”
“There are two more waiting, amma. I have to fetch them.” She looked old and tired, he saw, with a sudden stab of pity and guilt. What had she been through in the months that he had been gone? “They’re from Srinagar.”
“Well, get them then. Why did you make them wait? They must be frozen to death by now.” She went back to the kitchen. Naushaba returned with a small stove, wood smouldering in it. “She’s not been well,” she whispered.
“You told me she was fine,” he accused.
“Physically, she’s all right. But when you left it broke something inside her.” She followed him to the door. “The army was here once, you know, and the officer insulted her, asked her what sort of mother she was to raise a traitor to the nation.”
He said nothing. The cold outside felt like a slap all along his body. He felt naked without his weapons, and for a moment wondered whether he should go back and fetch them. But the idea of getting warmed in the stove’s heat and then freezing again disheartened him, and he was by then already passing Ghulam’s house, from which there was neither sound nor movement. Just a little later he was outside the village and could see the rock glimmering faintly in the light of the stars.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You can come in.”
“What kept you so long?” Hassan asked. “We’re dying of cold here.”
Without answering, he turned back towards the village. The dogs, which had fallen silent, barked again, and a couple of them appeared, standing well back and yelling from a safe distance. Mohsin mimed throwing a stone and the dogs, veterans of a thousand throws, scattered. Khalid led them back to the house.
“This is Hassan,” he said. “Mohsin.” Ameena acknowledged them with a nod. She looked at their guns and ammunition until they took the hint and removed them. “You’re from Srinagar?” she asked them then.
“Yes, Auntie.” Mohsin was the youngest of the three, not yet eighteen, and the only one who had actually finished school. He was also shy and inarticulate. “Both of us.” Naushaba came in then, carrying a pot of tea. He saw her and blushed.
“My sister,” Khalid introduced. He saw her then, for a moment, as she would appear to them; of medium height, thin-faced, with the long Kashmiri nose and her large grey eyes that could never be serious no matter how hard she tried. In the lantern’s flickering light she looked achingly beautiful, and he wondered how he had missed her beauty before.
“Why don’t you all sit down?” Naushaba indicated the mat spread on the floor. “We’ll be getting you food in a moment. Drink the tea, you must all be freezing to death.” As she poured out tea to Hassan and Mohsin, she nodded at Khalid. “Amma says I’ll sleep with her tonight and the three of you can have my room and yours.”
“That’s not necessary,” Khalid said. “We can’t stay.”
“You’ll stay for a few days at least?” Ameena asked. Her face looked old and grey. “You can’t just come and go away like this.”
“We must, amma. We’ll be leaving before dawn. We just came for a visit.”
“Yes,” Hassan agreed, his eyes on Naushaba. “We’d love to stay, but we can’t.”
“You must be missing your city,” she said to him. He was the most handsome of the three, with his curling black beard and high cheekbones. “It must be hard for you here.”
“It’s all right.” He smiled at her. “We’re mujahideen, we can put up with anything.” He began to say something more and sneezed violently instead.
She looked at him and snorted. “Just now, you look as though you’re in for a bad cold, that’s all.” Ameena was sitting in the corner looking down at her hands and Khalid went over to her. “Amma,” he said, “we’d love to stay, but we can’t.”
“I know you say that,” she mumbled, and began to cry. “I should be glad I saw you at all,” she said. “Aftab’s mother keeps asking about him. She’s gone almost mad. You know where Aftab is?”
Khalid’s mind flashed an image of Aftab’s grave, across the border, after the accident with the mortar. “No, amma,” he said. “I haven’t seen him.” He looked across the room to where Naushaba was talking to Hassan and Mohsin. “How are you?” he murmured.
“I’m all right.” His mother wiped her tears away on her headscarf. “I should be asking how you are, I suppose. Why you had to join them I never understood.”
“Now, amma...” Khalid suddenly grew restless. He wished, with all the force of his being, that he had not come. “It’s a fight for freedom,” he said, feeling absurd and inadequate. He fingered the beard which he had grown in the months since he had left. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Will you come with me to the mosque tomorrow?” Ameena asked. “I wanted you to talk to the mullah sahib.”
“I told you,” he said, feeling more uncomfortable than ever, “I’m leaving tonight.” He stood up and went over to his sister, who was laughing softly at something Hassan had said. “Naushaba,” he snapped, “if you’re going to feed us, better do it now. We’re leaving in half an hour.”
“Why so soon?” Naushaba asked, wide-eyed. “It’s not even midnight yet.”
“We’re going all the same,” he said, and went through to the kitchen. Naushaba came trotting after him. “Why are you doing this?” she asked angrily. “Because I’m talking to them?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. We have to be going anyway.” He thrust his hands angrily at the wood fire in the stove in the corner. “I should have known better than to come back,” he said.
“”Why?” she asked again. “Can’t the great freedom fighter have emotions?”
“Don’t mock me, Naushaba.” With horror he felt his hand rise automatically, to threaten to hit her. With an effort he brought it back down to his side and hoped she hadn’t noticed. “Whatever this is,” he said, indicating the stew simmering on the wood stove, “it will do us fine. No need to make anything else.”
“All right,” she said, looking down at his hand and at him again. “You’ve changed,” she said. “But at the same time you haven’t changed at all. I don’t know. I can’t understand you.” She began taking bowls off the shelf above the stove. “Go back and keep amma company,” she said. “You ought to do that at least.”
Khalid went back to the living room. Somehow, it felt much colder, even though he was sure it was only his imagination. Ameena had tried to gather herself together and was now asking questions about the boys’ lives in Srinagar and their families. She nodded at their answers, not listening. Khalid sat down cross-legged beside Mohsin, not knowing what to say.
Naushaba brought in the bowls of mutton stew. “Eat,” she said, thrusting a bowl into Khalid’s hands.
“It’s really very good,” Hassan said, chewing.
“No, it’s not,” Naushaba said, and Khalid saw with horror that she was crying. “It’s undercooked and there’s nothing to go with it, but my brother can’t wait.” She jumped up and ran into her room at the back.
“Eat quickly,” Khalid muttered, running his finger along the inside of his bowl. “We must get moving.”
“What’s the hurry?” Mohsin asked.
“It’s not safe.” Khalid put down his bowl and began pulling on his ammunition belt. He picked up his gun. “We have to go, amma,” he said.
“Go with Allah’s blessings,” his mother murmured, not looking at him. She began picking up the empty bowls. He looked at her helplessly. “All right,” he said at last, “we’re going.”
“Wait!” Naushaba came out of her room, with something in her hands. “This is for you.” He recognised it. It was a tiny wooden bear he had carved for her from a piece of wood, years back, and painted black. “It’s going to be a good luck charm for you,” she said, smiling. It wasn’t a real smile. Angrily, he thrust the bear into his pocket and hugged her awkwardly, one-armed. Hassan and Mohsin were watching. “We have to go,” he said, turning away.
“When will we see you again?” Naushaba asked.
“I’ll be back when victory’s won,” he said over his shoulder, walking away.
“Why did you have to leave so soon?” Mohsin demanded, as they went back up the stony path, the barking of the village dogs fading behind them. “We could’ve easily stayed till morning.”
“It wasn’t safe,” Khalid said. “It wasn’t safe,” he repeated, his hand touching the bear in his pocket, his eyes searching the path. “It wasn’t safe,” he said a third time, and hefted the gun, and wondered why his arm was trembling.
No comments:
Post a Comment