know that despite the most thorough planning anything could go wrong. There were simply too many variables to be able to factor them all in. So be it. After all, men must fall in battle. Their sacrifice will not go waste.
The youngest of the men was totally impervious to the tension that hung in the room like a naked wire. The other six men were more seasoned. They were tight-lipped and avoided looking at or talking to each other. He is too young and inexperienced to know about the fear that comes as a precursor to battle. The fear that keeps men alert and alive. For a moment the Maulavi thought he should speak to the youngster. Then he decided against it. This is not the time to raise doubts in his head. Instead the Maulavi sent up a silent, special prayer for Allah to watch over him. Then he looked at the men clustered before him and nodded. ‘It is time.’
The men left the room in pairs at irregular intervals of five to ten minutes. Only Furkan waited for almost twenty minutes after the third pair had left. Pausing at the door he nodded to the Maulavi and said in a soft undertone, ‘I will keep you informed. Keep your phone on. Khuda Hafiz!’
IQBAL
Life in training camp was the typical bittersweet experience that most military type trainings are – more bitter than sweet, with the sheer buggery of relentless physical exercise ensuring a constantly aching body sweetened by the occasional thrill of weapon-handling and bomb-making that appeals to young male minds as nothing else does.
In the first week itself Omar, Abu Khan and Iqbal got dubbed the ‘English school types’. The instructors took a special delight in what they called ‘sorting out their wrong notions’. ‘We are going to make men out of you, boys,’ the instructors told the recruits gleefully each morning till they began to dread the gruelling pre-dawn runs, the mind-numbing physical training and the forced marches with heavy weights on their backs and dummy rifles in their hands.
The instructors were better tolerated when the recruits moved on to weapon-handling, firing and bomb-making, from the third month of their training. Iqbal loved the thrill and excitement of bomb-making. In fact, he became so adept at it that even the explosives instructor acknowledged his mastery. But this was not much solace when they lay on their cots at night with every bone aching from the rigours of the day.
‘These thick-headed Army clods are complete masochists. They thrive on torturing themselves and us,’ said Abu Khan.
Omar was silent for a moment. ‘You think they are from the Pakistan Army?’
‘Well, they definitely don’t look like Salvation Army types to me. Of course they are Army. Can’t you tell from their haircuts, the way they walk and talk to each other?’Abu Khan answered.
It was an open secret that the instructors were junior and non-commissioned officers from the regular Pakistan Army. Though no one spoke openly about its support, the Pakistan Army’s involvement was clearly evident in every aspect of the training camp; from the vehicles that ferried them about to the weapons and ammunition the jihadis used; but mostly in the manner in which people from the villages around avoided coming near the camp.
‘I want the camp spotless and shining today,’ they heard Maulana Fazlur Rehman tell the instructors during the morning parade, one day in their fourth month of training. ‘Salim Sahib is going to be visiting us.’
The tall, heavily-bearded Fazlur Rehman was not only the camp commander, but also the founder of the group that sponsored this particular camp. He was a mesmerizing man. His deep commanding tone and bottomless eyes signalled the fire in his belly and the passion that jihad generated in him. He was a much-respected man and his group had the honour of being responsible for the highest number of successful strikes against the Indians, not just in Kashmir Valley but all the way down to the Akshardham Temple in Gujarat and
The youngest of the men was totally impervious to the tension that hung in the room like a naked wire. The other six men were more seasoned. They were tight-lipped and avoided looking at or talking to each other. He is too young and inexperienced to know about the fear that comes as a precursor to battle. The fear that keeps men alert and alive. For a moment the Maulavi thought he should speak to the youngster. Then he decided against it. This is not the time to raise doubts in his head. Instead the Maulavi sent up a silent, special prayer for Allah to watch over him. Then he looked at the men clustered before him and nodded. ‘It is time.’
The men left the room in pairs at irregular intervals of five to ten minutes. Only Furkan waited for almost twenty minutes after the third pair had left. Pausing at the door he nodded to the Maulavi and said in a soft undertone, ‘I will keep you informed. Keep your phone on. Khuda Hafiz!’
IQBAL
Life in training camp was the typical bittersweet experience that most military type trainings are – more bitter than sweet, with the sheer buggery of relentless physical exercise ensuring a constantly aching body sweetened by the occasional thrill of weapon-handling and bomb-making that appeals to young male minds as nothing else does.
In the first week itself Omar, Abu Khan and Iqbal got dubbed the ‘English school types’. The instructors took a special delight in what they called ‘sorting out their wrong notions’. ‘We are going to make men out of you, boys,’ the instructors told the recruits gleefully each morning till they began to dread the gruelling pre-dawn runs, the mind-numbing physical training and the forced marches with heavy weights on their backs and dummy rifles in their hands.
The instructors were better tolerated when the recruits moved on to weapon-handling, firing and bomb-making, from the third month of their training. Iqbal loved the thrill and excitement of bomb-making. In fact, he became so adept at it that even the explosives instructor acknowledged his mastery. But this was not much solace when they lay on their cots at night with every bone aching from the rigours of the day.
‘These thick-headed Army clods are complete masochists. They thrive on torturing themselves and us,’ said Abu Khan.
Omar was silent for a moment. ‘You think they are from the Pakistan Army?’
‘Well, they definitely don’t look like Salvation Army types to me. Of course they are Army. Can’t you tell from their haircuts, the way they walk and talk to each other?’Abu Khan answered.
It was an open secret that the instructors were junior and non-commissioned officers from the regular Pakistan Army. Though no one spoke openly about its support, the Pakistan Army’s involvement was clearly evident in every aspect of the training camp; from the vehicles that ferried them about to the weapons and ammunition the jihadis used; but mostly in the manner in which people from the villages around avoided coming near the camp.
‘I want the camp spotless and shining today,’ they heard Maulana Fazlur Rehman tell the instructors during the morning parade, one day in their fourth month of training. ‘Salim Sahib is going to be visiting us.’
The tall, heavily-bearded Fazlur Rehman was not only the camp commander, but also the founder of the group that sponsored this particular camp. He was a mesmerizing man. His deep commanding tone and bottomless eyes signalled the fire in his belly and the passion that jihad generated in him. He was a much-respected man and his group had the honour of being responsible for the highest number of successful strikes against the Indians, not just in Kashmir Valley but all the way down to the Akshardham Temple in Gujarat and
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