article that you had written.’
Kulwant Singh froze. There was only one name that cropped up in his mind. And when Majeed spoke the name, tears welled up in his eyes.
‘Mushtaq Ahmad Khokar … from Saharanpur.’
Kulwant’s hands began to shake. He walked up to the window in his tent and looked outside. A few soldiers were crossing the camp in step with each other.
Majeed spoke softly, ‘Commander Mushtaq Ahmad is my sister’s father-in-law.’
Kulwant turned sharply, ‘Father-in-law? Oye, your sister’s married to Naseema’s son?’
‘Ji.’
Kulwant blurted out, ‘Oye you …’
Major Kulwant Singh began to choke on his own words. He picked up his glass and scoffed the whiskey down his throat as if he was trying to swallow the lump that was there.
Mushtaq and Kulwant both belonged to Saharanpur. Once upon a time they had both studied together at the Doon College. And they had both trained together at the Doon Military Academy. Their mothers—Mushtaq’s ammi and Kulwant’s beji—were fast friends. And then the country was partitioned—and along with the country the army was divided too. Mushtaq went over to the other side with his entire family, and Kulwant stayed behind. Thereafter the two families had had no contact with each other.
A few days later, Kulwant walked a few miles from the camp along with a junior officer named Vishwa and made him establish radio contact with the commander on the other side. Mushtaq was a little taken aback. But once he got over his surprise, the two friends began to sling such choice profanities and obscenities at each other in their native Punjabi that their hearts opened up and their eyes began to water. When Kulwant finally found his breath, he asked, ‘How’s Fattu Masi?’
Mushtaq said, ‘Ammi has grown very old now. She had invoked Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti for a
mannat
and all she wants now is to go to Ajmer Sharif and offera chador on his shrine with her own hands. But Rabiya cannot leave the children alone to go with her … I just keep blabbering, you probably don’t have the foggiest idea who Rabiya is.’
‘Of course I do. Majeed’s sister … that’s Rabiya, right?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Majeed’s my junior, bhai.’
‘Oye … oye …’ and another torrent of obscenities ensued.
‘Take good care of him,’ Mushtaq said in an emotionally charged voice.
Then the two of them decided that Mushtaq would bring his mother to the Wagah border where Kulwant’s wife Santosh would meet up with her. Santosh would then bring her over to their house in Delhi. She would take her on a pilgrimage to Ajmer Sharif, and then to meet Beji in Saharanpur. Wouldn’t the two old women just love to spend a few days together? To Mushtaq it seemed that a huge load had been heaved off his chest.
Then one day, a message arrived from Mushtaq: ammi’s visa has come through. Kulwant called up his wife to fix the date for her to come to the Wagah border. All arrangements were made. All that was left was to inform Mushtaq.
And that was the day that the defence minister landed up at the outpost and guns began to sound on both sides of the border. Kulwant knew that this was only a matter of a few days—this too would pass. He may not be able to contact Mushtaq over the wireless in this situation buthe could always send across a villager from below with the message; Majeed had the resources. But yet, Kulwant could not stop himself from worrying. Santosh would say that now even Beji had started calling from the local post office and had started shooting questions. ‘Ni … Fattu’s coming, right? Will you be able to reach Wagah on your own? Will you be able to recognize her or do you want me to come along?’
Majeed reported, ‘Sir, the Pakistanis have started heavy shelling.’
Kulwant was already irritated, ‘
Khasma nu khaaye
Pakistan … to hell with Pakistan, what about Fattu Masi?’
On the fifth day of August, Pakistani forces attacked Chambh and
Kulwant Singh froze. There was only one name that cropped up in his mind. And when Majeed spoke the name, tears welled up in his eyes.
‘Mushtaq Ahmad Khokar … from Saharanpur.’
Kulwant’s hands began to shake. He walked up to the window in his tent and looked outside. A few soldiers were crossing the camp in step with each other.
Majeed spoke softly, ‘Commander Mushtaq Ahmad is my sister’s father-in-law.’
Kulwant turned sharply, ‘Father-in-law? Oye, your sister’s married to Naseema’s son?’
‘Ji.’
Kulwant blurted out, ‘Oye you …’
Major Kulwant Singh began to choke on his own words. He picked up his glass and scoffed the whiskey down his throat as if he was trying to swallow the lump that was there.
Mushtaq and Kulwant both belonged to Saharanpur. Once upon a time they had both studied together at the Doon College. And they had both trained together at the Doon Military Academy. Their mothers—Mushtaq’s ammi and Kulwant’s beji—were fast friends. And then the country was partitioned—and along with the country the army was divided too. Mushtaq went over to the other side with his entire family, and Kulwant stayed behind. Thereafter the two families had had no contact with each other.
A few days later, Kulwant walked a few miles from the camp along with a junior officer named Vishwa and made him establish radio contact with the commander on the other side. Mushtaq was a little taken aback. But once he got over his surprise, the two friends began to sling such choice profanities and obscenities at each other in their native Punjabi that their hearts opened up and their eyes began to water. When Kulwant finally found his breath, he asked, ‘How’s Fattu Masi?’
Mushtaq said, ‘Ammi has grown very old now. She had invoked Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti for a
mannat
and all she wants now is to go to Ajmer Sharif and offera chador on his shrine with her own hands. But Rabiya cannot leave the children alone to go with her … I just keep blabbering, you probably don’t have the foggiest idea who Rabiya is.’
‘Of course I do. Majeed’s sister … that’s Rabiya, right?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Majeed’s my junior, bhai.’
‘Oye … oye …’ and another torrent of obscenities ensued.
‘Take good care of him,’ Mushtaq said in an emotionally charged voice.
Then the two of them decided that Mushtaq would bring his mother to the Wagah border where Kulwant’s wife Santosh would meet up with her. Santosh would then bring her over to their house in Delhi. She would take her on a pilgrimage to Ajmer Sharif, and then to meet Beji in Saharanpur. Wouldn’t the two old women just love to spend a few days together? To Mushtaq it seemed that a huge load had been heaved off his chest.
Then one day, a message arrived from Mushtaq: ammi’s visa has come through. Kulwant called up his wife to fix the date for her to come to the Wagah border. All arrangements were made. All that was left was to inform Mushtaq.
And that was the day that the defence minister landed up at the outpost and guns began to sound on both sides of the border. Kulwant knew that this was only a matter of a few days—this too would pass. He may not be able to contact Mushtaq over the wireless in this situation buthe could always send across a villager from below with the message; Majeed had the resources. But yet, Kulwant could not stop himself from worrying. Santosh would say that now even Beji had started calling from the local post office and had started shooting questions. ‘Ni … Fattu’s coming, right? Will you be able to reach Wagah on your own? Will you be able to recognize her or do you want me to come along?’
Majeed reported, ‘Sir, the Pakistanis have started heavy shelling.’
Kulwant was already irritated, ‘
Khasma nu khaaye
Pakistan … to hell with Pakistan, what about Fattu Masi?’
On the fifth day of August, Pakistani forces attacked Chambh and
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