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Authors: Mukul Deva
Tags: Fiction
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the Indian Parliament in the heart of Delhi itself.
‘Who is Salim Sahib?’ Iqbal heard Omar ask one of the instructors as they were being put to work on cleaning up the camp.
‘Shut up and do what you have been told,’ the man replied irritably as he walked away.
‘Don’t you know better than to ask such dumb questions?’ Abu Khan said to him after the instructor had moved out of earshot. ‘Salim Sahib is Brigadier Murad Salim of the ISI. He is the one who provides our group with the support and money we need.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My cousin told me.’
‘How does he know?’
‘He trained here a year back. He is the one who motivated me to join.’ Abu Khan paused. ‘He was martyred in the Valley last month.’
Brigadier Salim came to the camp often in the last five or six weeks of their training. He spent most of his time with Fazlur Rehman. A tall, hard-looking man in his early thirties accompanied the Brigadier; he was like Salim’s shadow.
On the last three days that the Brigadier was at the training camp a group of eleven men joined him. They spent all their time closeted in the large hut where radio, tactics and explosives theory classes were taught. The newcomers aroused a lot of curiosity amongst the other trainees, especially when it became clear that Brigadier Salim himself was spending a fair amount of time with them. But despite the endless debates their presence generated, no one was any the wiser about their identity. And then, one afternoon when the trainees returned from the firing range, the men were gone. So was Brigadier Murad Salim.
Their sudden disappearance would have surely led to another round of extensive debate if nature had not stepped in the way.
It was the eighth of October 2005. The twelve recruits were returning from the firing range when suddenly the earth began to move. At first Iqbal thought he was feeling giddy but then there was a deafening roar and the whole world started to buck and sway, shiver and tear up. Just as suddenly as it had started the frenzied shaking stopped and a harsh silence slammed down on the mountains. By the time he understood what was happening the earthquake was over. There was no time to be afraid; that came later.
The trainees ran up to the crest of the last hill overlooking the camp; the horrific sight below took their breath away.
The town of Muzaffarabad had been totalled. It was as if a herd of marauding elephants had trampled it to the ground. Even as they watched, weakened walls and buildings crumpled to the ground in softly billowing clouds of dust and debris. From the distance one could not hear the screams but it was not hard to imagine the death and destruction that had decimated the town.
The camp remained miraculously intact barring the hut that stored the arms and ammunition and the communications hut where the radio set was installed. The other huts had weathered the quake reasonably well, being temporary and lightweight structures.
The next two days were like a surreal nightmare; Fazlur Rehman was kind enough to immediately volunteer the services of the trainees for rescue work. It was obvious that Rehman’s decision was more to do with propaganda than any feeling of goodwill. ‘Double the guard on the camp,’ Rehman ordered the senior instructor after sending out the trainees to Muzaffarabad for rescue work. ‘Make sure no one gets at our supplies.’
Screams of anguish and pain met Iqbal as he and his colleagues walked into the devastated town. Bodies and body parts were everywhere, bleeding bewildered people stumbled about with dazed expressions looking for those they had lost, little kids wounded and traumatized with no one left to console them wailed into the wilderness. Iqbal knew he would carry the memories of this horrific nightmare to his grave.
‘Allah is merciful!’ Omar whispered as they started digging through the rubble. ‘Had it been snowing who knows how many more would have
‘Who is Salim Sahib?’ Iqbal heard Omar ask one of the instructors as they were being put to work on cleaning up the camp.
‘Shut up and do what you have been told,’ the man replied irritably as he walked away.
‘Don’t you know better than to ask such dumb questions?’ Abu Khan said to him after the instructor had moved out of earshot. ‘Salim Sahib is Brigadier Murad Salim of the ISI. He is the one who provides our group with the support and money we need.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My cousin told me.’
‘How does he know?’
‘He trained here a year back. He is the one who motivated me to join.’ Abu Khan paused. ‘He was martyred in the Valley last month.’
Brigadier Salim came to the camp often in the last five or six weeks of their training. He spent most of his time with Fazlur Rehman. A tall, hard-looking man in his early thirties accompanied the Brigadier; he was like Salim’s shadow.
On the last three days that the Brigadier was at the training camp a group of eleven men joined him. They spent all their time closeted in the large hut where radio, tactics and explosives theory classes were taught. The newcomers aroused a lot of curiosity amongst the other trainees, especially when it became clear that Brigadier Salim himself was spending a fair amount of time with them. But despite the endless debates their presence generated, no one was any the wiser about their identity. And then, one afternoon when the trainees returned from the firing range, the men were gone. So was Brigadier Murad Salim.
Their sudden disappearance would have surely led to another round of extensive debate if nature had not stepped in the way.
It was the eighth of October 2005. The twelve recruits were returning from the firing range when suddenly the earth began to move. At first Iqbal thought he was feeling giddy but then there was a deafening roar and the whole world started to buck and sway, shiver and tear up. Just as suddenly as it had started the frenzied shaking stopped and a harsh silence slammed down on the mountains. By the time he understood what was happening the earthquake was over. There was no time to be afraid; that came later.
The trainees ran up to the crest of the last hill overlooking the camp; the horrific sight below took their breath away.
The town of Muzaffarabad had been totalled. It was as if a herd of marauding elephants had trampled it to the ground. Even as they watched, weakened walls and buildings crumpled to the ground in softly billowing clouds of dust and debris. From the distance one could not hear the screams but it was not hard to imagine the death and destruction that had decimated the town.
The camp remained miraculously intact barring the hut that stored the arms and ammunition and the communications hut where the radio set was installed. The other huts had weathered the quake reasonably well, being temporary and lightweight structures.
The next two days were like a surreal nightmare; Fazlur Rehman was kind enough to immediately volunteer the services of the trainees for rescue work. It was obvious that Rehman’s decision was more to do with propaganda than any feeling of goodwill. ‘Double the guard on the camp,’ Rehman ordered the senior instructor after sending out the trainees to Muzaffarabad for rescue work. ‘Make sure no one gets at our supplies.’
Screams of anguish and pain met Iqbal as he and his colleagues walked into the devastated town. Bodies and body parts were everywhere, bleeding bewildered people stumbled about with dazed expressions looking for those they had lost, little kids wounded and traumatized with no one left to console them wailed into the wilderness. Iqbal knew he would carry the memories of this horrific nightmare to his grave.
‘Allah is merciful!’ Omar whispered as they started digging through the rubble. ‘Had it been snowing who knows how many more would have
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