Despite Stolen Dreams

By Anita Krishan

Deep within the Kashmir Valley, a group of terrorists are left stumped as a man they were holding hostage vanishes into thin air with his family from right under their noses. Amidst the dust and grime of Delhi, this man reappears, only to sink back into the obscurity that a teeming metropolitan city offers, even as he grapples with the strange twists and turns of city life. Far away, at the Line of Control, an exchange of fire between the Indian Army and a group of terrorists leaves one man seriously wounded. Stranded and alone atop an icy mountain, he can either die or fight to stay alive. This masterfully crafted tale will take you on a voyage through lives that are divergent, and yet, are interconnected. From the land of chinars, to the pulsating heart of India . . . it will lay bare for you, all the nuances of human emotions, from the darkest of thoughts to, tears, laughter, fear and courage, all indispensable parts of our lives, all inescapable facts of our existence . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jul 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9789386538109

Book preview

FOOL'S PARADISE

PROLOGUE

SEEDS OF TERRORISM

The madrassa for orphaned boys on the outskirts of Mirpura had been in operation for twelve years when Hashim joined it. He was a shrivelled, emaciated boy who was still trying to cope up with the shock of having lost his entire family to a brutal murderer. His anxiety and his trauma naturally made him an easy target for all the bullies in the orphanage who had no idea of what the small boy had undergone. Making their beds, washing their clothes in the icy cold water in the wee hours of the morning, then getting late for class because of all the extra work, and receiving a few canes on the open palm of his nearly frozen hand, not to mention the missed breakfast, all this became a part of his daily routine. Many a time he wanted to just sit and weep at the turn his life had taken. And many a time he wanted to throttle his tormentors. But, he learnt to quietly wipe his tears and hold back his anger. Did he have any other choice? This was the life fate seemed to have chosen for him, at least until he could break out on his own. He would simply have to wait for the day when he could begin to settle scores. This realisation helped Hashim adjust to the harsh realities of his new life.

It was after a couple of months of Hashim having joined the madrassa, that some men visited it.

Hafez Sahib, the leader of the group addressed the headmaster and founder of the madrassa, Imam Sahib wants you to enthuse these boys with some serious religious fervour.

Oh! Please tell Imam Sahib that he doesn’t need to worry. I am taking good care of these boys, making pious, Islamic men out of them! They will grow up to fervidly carry on the word of our Prophet.

No, no, you don’t understand. We need them to be fighters, militants, more than just pious men! The man scoffed.

But why? Do we need more men in the army after their defeat in East Bengal? Are we planning something against the Indian aggressors?

In a way we are . . . We are planning a different type of warfare now—short, sudden attacks, lethal strikes on select targets. But, the demand for fresh recruits has come up primarily from insurgent groups, the Peshawar Seven and the Tehran Eight, to fight in Afghanistan. We need your students to be mujahideen. They will continue the struggle in Afghanistan to overthrow the government there.

Hafez nodded, but his brows were creased with worry. He had no means of training his boys to be militants. He was a modest man who had dedicated his life to his religion. But he knew that mujahideen training camps were coming up in a big way in Pakistan. He also knew that aid in the form of billions of dollars and sophisticated weaponry was pouring in not just from some of the countries of the Middle East, but also from America, and even from some European countries.

These orphaned boys are perfect for the training, for they have no familial attachments, no one in the world to fall back upon. Don’t allow them any taste of normal life and keep them away from females. Brainwash them thoroughly. Fill them with such fervour that they will beg to be sent on suicidal attacks, the man directed before leaving.

Dazed and a little worried, Hafez, nevertheless, began planning his strategies. As such, he was a staunch disciplinarian and believed in never sparing the rod. Now, he became even stricter. How else would he train the boys? How else would he fill them with hatred and anger?

And so, Hashim grew up on a regular dose of thrashings and beatings into a robust young man, oblivious to the kind of life that lay ahead for him.

The madrassa flourished under the continuous flow of funds from the imam. There was never a lack of food for the boys and that suited Hafez well. Special guests, introduced as warriors of their faith to the boys, began paying frequent visits to the school. They stayed for days on end to conduct recruitment trials of the adolescent boys.

Hafez, we are depending on you to raise some tough militants, one of the men told the madrassa teacher on one occasion. Otherwise, the money we are putting into your school would be a sheer waste.

Haven’t I already given you enough? Hafez asked, slightly offended.

"Till now, only five worth mentioning, and even out of that, three have already become shaheed. We want all your boys to be trained in such a way that they can all join us eventually. Last month, a group of your boys ran away from our training camp! All the money that we put into feeding them and training them, all gone down the drain. Who will give all that money back, you? the man scoffed. Look at this boy, he continued angrily, pointing at Hashim who happened to be serving the men tea at that moment. He doesn’t seem fit to do anything but serve tea at a dhaba. Look at him! Can you see him fighting a war?" The man shook his head in disgust.

Hafez dismissed Hashim from the room. After an awkward silence, he reacted heatedly, "In that case, why don’t you start some training classes yourself? All I can do is to generate patriotism in them. But to fight, they need training, and I am an ordinary teacher who can’t even operate a basic gun!"

And so it was that two months later, a batch of armed men landed at Hafez’s madrassa and took over it completely. Hafez watched helplessly as flowerbeds disappeared and tents got pitched in their place, as some boys vacated their rooms so that they could be turned into storehouses for weapons and arsenal, as the madrassa, slowly but surely, got transformed into a mujahideen training camp.

You’re going to be heroes of our country soon, waging war in Afghanistan, in Indian Punjab and Kashmir. You’ll be soldiers of the Islamic Caliphate, protecting and spreading Islam, hollered the new leader of the camp, a man dressed in fake army fatigues. "Each one of you is lucky, for Allah has chosen you for this honour. It’ll be a different kind of war, with sudden surprise attacks on unarmed and unsuspecting targets. You’ll cause great losses to the infidels before joining Allah in jannat!"

The boys nodded happily, their chests puffing up with pride.

What will we fight with? came a hesitant question from among the boys.

With guns, real guns with bullets, and with bombs. The announcement caused a stir. The boys looked at each other, beaming, thrilled. They cheered. They shouted the slogans their new leader incited them to, their zeal terrifying in its intensity.

But the happiest at this new lease of life, and the loudest in cheering was Hashim. There was meaning in being alive now. There was a chance to take revenge from all the boys who had made life miserable so far.

The boys immediately began to learn the basics of the various types of weapons that militant group used––the Kalashnikovs, the hand grenades, light machine guns, rocket launchers, etc. Their study period was also reduced to less than an hour, and only religious tenets about sacrifice and martyrdom were taught now. The newspapers were stopped. Even Hafez’s radio was confiscated. The boys were to remain cut off from the outside world for the brainwashing to work. It wasn’t so difficult, therefore, to manipulate their young sentiments in such an atmosphere.

Gradually, the physical training became rougher and the discipline regime sterner. The students were woken up at four in the morning, and after performing the wudzu, they read Salat al-fajr, the morning namaz. Post that, with just a cup of tepid tea and some dry bread in their stomachs, they were made to sprint up and down the hills for hours till they dropped half dead. They were being toughened, yes, for where they were heading, life wasn’t going to be easy, but many boys began to groan and complain as the sore muscles and swollen tendons began to give them trouble. The dissenters were also all beaten mercilessly and blacklisted as unreliable for serious tasks. They, along with those less bright but passionate, would end up as human bombs, happy to die in the name of religion.

"Once in jannat, you’ll be surrounded by riches that will blind you, you’ll bathe in milk and honey, and each one of you will be surrounded by seventy-two virgins," the boys were told again and again. Eventually, the boys were to develop a total disregard for life, be it someone else’s or their own. And this was where the training came in, in infusing fanaticism into the very soul of these impressionable young boys.

Hashim remained steadfast throughout the training and the trainers began to notice him. He was fierce and not averse to bloodshed. He was made the leader of a group of trainees and he immediately exercised his authority over them, taking revenge on those who had once made life a living hell for him. He gave them the toughest duties and punished them for the most minor slip-ups, the punishments ranging from running extra errands, going without food or sleep to getting flogged secretly till they begged for mercy. Hashim’s viciousness demarcated him from the others, making him ideal for enrolment.

After about a year’s training, the boys were deemed ready for recruitment. Hashim was the first to be selected. That was perhaps the happiest day in the boy’s life. Never had he been that proud of himself and from that day on, all his energies were focussed singularly on the tasks that were given to him. Within a short period, he began to accompany insurgent groups on their strikes. It didn’t take him much effort or time to become a hardcore militant leader with an entire team under him. By and by, he was given the responsibility of converting the pro-azaadi militants of Kashmir into pro-Pakistan separatists.

All the virtues that the holy scriptures taught lay buried under the mantle of brutality and cruelty that Hashim had chosen to wear. His cold world was colder still. He never realised that he was weak to have allowed circumstances to prevail over him, to mould him into a killing machine. Hatred and anger were the fires of hell Hashim had decided to embrace, fires that only singe and destroy.

And this is how Hashim came in contact with Ahmed, Shakeel and Shaukat in a training camp. They were the young Kashmiri boys who had taken up militancy after being provoked by the separatist sentiments gathering strength in the valley and by the state sponsored propaganda flowing in from the neighbouring country. It was unfortunate indeed for Wali that he came under Hashim’s scrutiny because of the fanciful ideas of Shakeel, ideas that left him deeply traumatised and that completely devastated his world.

THE ESCAPE

All four men are loaded with AK47s Abdul! We can’t allow any loopholes in our escape plan or we’re doomed. Wali dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face.

The houseboat rocked wildly just then, making the three men—Wali, Wasim, and Abdul—jump up in fright. Wasim, who was standing closest to a window, dashed to peep out. After a moment of stunned silence he turned, shook his head as his lips quivered to form a nervous smile. A shikara bumped against our houseboat. Wali and Abdul relaxed visibly. The boatman is busy chatting with his customers, not watching where he’s going––a young boy, a novice, Wasim muttered under his breath.

Wali sank back into his chair. The houseboat slowly steadied itself. I thought the rascals are back, he said and sighed deeply. I’ve taken the gamble, but I’m nervous. Those men are keeping a tight vigil on us. Abdul, I can’t give you any assurance of success. None whatsoever. We might not even survive to see another day! Wali fell silent. His ashen face and slumped shoulders made Abdul tearful. He shuddered. Never had he seen Wali so broken, so scared. Never.

This was just a few hours ago.

Now, Abdul shivered as he sat alone in a dark corner at the back of the house. He noted the faint outline of his shadow on the wall and shrank further into the shadow of the pillar. Wa ufawwidu amri ila ‘Llah . . ., he muttered to overcome his fear. The uncanny silence all around him was being regularly broken by the sound of crude laughter originating from his room which was now occupied by the devious men. Abdul folded his legs and hugged them, resting his head on his arms, trying to control the persisting tremor that racked his body.

That idiot, Shaukat, he made an attempt on my life! As if shooting at a man is child’s play! The nerves of the brat! He clenched his teeth and tightened his hold on his legs, as if he was holding Shaukat’s neck. But the next moment, his hands went limp. Bismillahi tawakkaltu ‘ala ‘Llah . . . Allah, let me escape from this perilous territory, please! The realization that death was lurking so close to him now began to sink in. He was alone, with four deadly assassins on the premises. I just want to say goodbye to my daughters before I go, see them just one more time, Allah, then I’ll be ready to go anywhere, even die and join You. I won’t have any regrets. But Abdul knew that what he was asking for was simply not possible today. It wouldn’t be easy to break away from the house. The militants had turned it into a fortress. Moreover, all the strength and bravado that he had been mustering since yesterday, it had all vanished with that one rifle shot. He was now petrified of the men who, he knew, wouldn’t hesitate to use their guns again. Having had the muzzle of a rifle pointed right at him, he was now as nervous as Wali had been in the afternoon. He would surely die tonight. But was he really ready to die? No one is really ready to die; they are only helpless in the face of it!

He sat listlessly, making no effort to brush aside the bloodthirsty mosquitoes buzzing around him. His entire focus was on any sound announcing danger. Soon he would be attempting his escape. Would he be successful, with four men guarding him and the house?

When Shakeel had appeared at their doorstep the day before with those three uncouth and treacherous-looking men, he had felt a frisson of fear run down his spine. He had put on a bold front, had tried to warn Wali, but now, he wanted nothing more than to just get away. It was a pity he had to wait a while longer. Would I have to run to save my life, like I did when Shaukat fired at me? Abdul wondered next. What a mighty leap I’d taken then to hide behind the wall, like an antelope diving to save itself from a pursuing predator! Is Shaukat any less than a predator? No! He is even worse, he belongs to the new breed of unpredictable predators who do unexpected things, like killing unarmed innocents for no reason. Perhaps it boosts their ego, to feel the cold metallic power of their weapons in their hands. Perhaps they savour the terror in the eyes of their victims and find pleasure in the tragedies they create. And they call it jihad! How many innocents have they butchered in the name of this so-called jihad? How they downgrade the value of life and the teachings of our Prophets! How easily they distort the tenets of Islam! Abdul shook his head in contempt.

Was it just yesterday that the men had gained an entry into our house? It seems like an eternity of torment! Had I known the purpose of their visit, I wouldn’t have allowed them in. Wali Sahib should have booted them out the instant they made their immoral demands. And Shakeel, he should be handed over to the police and imprisoned for life! That stupid, unlettered man, that militant will marry Meher? With his gun pointed at her family, he will force a doctor to marry him! Can he even spell the word ‘doctor’? It’s insanity! The decision taken by Wali Sahib to sneak out under the night’s cover is undoubtedly sensible. Like any father, he has put his life at stake to save his daughter. But for how long will he be able to hide his family from these men? For how long will they remain homeless? Allah, be with them, protect them. He raised his eyes and his cupped hands in appeal. Times are so bad that you can’t tell a friend from an enemy. And then there are those who seek out the help of terrorists to settle enmities! Abdul sighed deeply. Never in life had he felt so forlorn. All the thoughts boomeranging inside his head were giving him a headache. Holding his head in his hands, he pressed it hard. Shakeel claims to be a freedom fighter, but the idiot is nothing more than an opportunist. A sudden loud laughter from the direction of his room jerked Abdul out of his thoughts and he looked in the direction with disdain. Is Shakeel rejoicing over having terrorised a simple, honest family? Ya Allah, how I wish this is all a nightmare that’ll end when I wake up in the morning!

It was much past his sleeping time, but sleep totally eluded Abdul today. He felt tired, sore, battered, as if someone had beaten him with an iron rod and left him half dead. He slowly stretched his arms, testing to see if there was still life in them. All of a sudden, he sat up straight, alert. There were sounds coming from the direction of the footpath. Someone was walking up the footpath. But who could be coming up this late? Had the family returned for some reason? Had they forgotten something? But they wouldn’t announce their approach so loudly! Abdul stood up slowly—he wasn’t sure his legs would support him, but they did—and he tiptoed to the edge of the compound.

Two men were walking up the footpath to reach the front of the house. One was the unmistakably tall figure of Hashim and the other man appeared to be a stranger. All this time I thought Hashim was in his room, sleeping, and he was out! But where is he coming back from this late? Only a while back Wali Sahib and the family had headed down this very path! Dread made a momentary comeback, but Abdul applied logic. Had there been a debacle, I would have known. I would have heard something! And these two appear unruffled. They are not aware of the family’s escape. Not yet.

Abdul retreated to his hideout and hoped the men wouldn’t come looking for him. The chances were slim, for the men were least interested in him, the servant. That was good. His bag was packed and kept hidden in a cluster of trees next to the pathway. He didn’t want to be caught with a bag slung on his shoulder. That would’ve definitely made him face the barrel of a gun again. No, he would wait for everyone to turn in for the night and then try to slip out at the first opportunity.

Abdul stretched his legs, and closing his eyes, rested his back against the pillar. Minutes passed peacefully. The devils must have gone back to the room. Abdul began to relax, one muscle at a time. But the very next moment, the sound of approaching footsteps jerked him up. His brain proposed frantically, Avoid all confrontations! Pretend to be fast asleep! Frantic now, he crept further behind the pillar and hid his head between his folded knees.

Where is he? Hashim’s gruff voice stabbed through the silence.

Last I saw him, he was sitting here, in the veranda. It was Shaukat, the deceptive dangerous mole.

Abdul felt the men closing in now. There was no escape. Not anymore.

Suddenly, the veranda lit up, bright as day, as one of the men switched on the light.

There he is! Why are you sleeping out in the open? Has Wali thrown you out of the house? The men guffawed.

Abdul slowly raised his head and opened his eyes to find Hashim’s mean face right in front of his, his eyes probing. Abdul made his hardest effort to smile and managed only a nervous grin. Behind Hashim stood the stranger peering at him, as if he were a curio in a museum. Shaukat stood a few paces away, smirking and toying with his gun.

It’s fine weather to be outdoors, Abdul’s reply sounded dry as his grin refused to stay in place.

Fine weather? Ha ha! Aren’t you trying to soothe your nerves? I know what happened in my absence. Hashim cackled and turned to pat Shaukat. My boy here, he taught you a good lesson, didn’t he, Mr Big Mouth?

Abdul wished he could kick Hashim where it would hurt him the most. But the damn man’s gun was a huge obstruction.

How was it to feel the bullet so close, eh? Hashim prodded again. It could have pierced right through your smart head, and you would have bid farewell to the world. Hashim mimed being dead with his tongue hanging out, his eyes rolled up and his head dropped to a side. The other two chuckled in delight. It took everything for Abdul to prevent his teeth from gnashing. These men must be kept pleased. Wali’s advice screamed in his head yet again. He swallowed hard to contain the words struggling to leap out.

You wouldn’t have had to undergo this experience if you were on our side. Hashim’s voice had suddenly acquired seriousness.

I haven’t been bitten by a mad dog. The words were out of his mouth before Abdul could even think.

Instantly, anger surfaced on Hashim’s face. He stared at Abdul as he slowly unstrapped his AK47 from under his blanket. Abdul’s heart skipped a beat. He looked around like a frightened rabbit. If I run now, will I be successful in remaining alive? Hashim rested his rifle against the wall. Abdul breathed easy.

No, Hashim said, pointing his finger at Abdul, you are a mad dog. You are one of those idiotic dogs who are happy wagging their tales at the slightest pat. Born slaves, the whole lot of you! People like you serve the rich all your lives and get nothing in return except a few morsels thrown by them.

"And I can see what opulence you people are enjoying!" Abdul shot back boldly, looking Hashim up and down, the derision he felt for the man clear on his face. Why should I fear anyone when it is a matter of my convictions and principles?

We may not be very rich, but we are free people, Hashim replied with fervour. And our fight is more important than exhibiting our opulence. He halted momentarily, shooting a fleeting glance at Shaukat who nodded back in agreement. He went on, Though, you must know, we have no dearth of funds. The money keeps coming in constantly as we have a large number of supporters all over the world.

Why you are fighting? Abdul folded his arms across his chest and asked Hashim, despite the obvious risk. Is that the way to fight, by harassing helpless people, by killing innocents, by destroying lives, but Abdul swallowed these words that were at the tip of his tongue. He knew that would be tantamount to asking Hashim to pick up his rifle and shoot him.

We are fighting for the people, you fool, even for traitors like you. If we are successful, all the people of this valley, including you, are going to gain.

Me? What will I gain? Abdul asked sceptically.

Freedom, you idiot! What else?

But I am a free man!

You don’t understand! Hashim grunted, frustrated. Your brain is hollow, filled with nothing but air. We are going to liberate our brothers from these Indian rulers and unite everyone under the Islamic banner. Then, slowly, we will spread our rule far and wide. We’ll create a Muslim caliphate once again!

You mean we should accede to Pakistan? Abdul spoke impassively.

Yes. It is an Islamic country, after all. But, we’ll first get rid of all the infidels there too, those who talk about modernising the country against Islamic guidelines and spread Western culture through bad education. Here, it is the Hindu dominance that needs to be terminated.

But I am happy where I am, Abdul replied, knowing that he was arguing with a fanatic. And I work according to my free will, not under any pressure. So, I am a free man.

Hashim dismissed Abdul’s statement with a disdainful toss of his head. "Shakeel told me what a slave you are, how hard you work for your master. Wake up, man! Wake up to the reality! It is you