Read Online THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Manreet Sodhi Someshwar
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the fashion of peasants, and a henna-coloured wavy beard. Abdullah enquired softly, ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Good, good,’ the mullah nodded enthusiastically. ‘Ready, very ready.’
Qari Abdullah nodded, shook his hand and said, ‘I’ll go inside to talk to him.’ The mullah extended a hand in the direction of the corridor that branched into rooms. As he watched Abdullah shuffle towards the corridor, the mullah bore the smug smile of one who had delivered on his promise.
The boy sat on the floor, his head bowed as if in contemplation. He was dressed in a plain grey shalwar kameez, a bright red chitrali cap on his head. He had not noticed Abdullah’s arrival and was startled when Abdullah spoke.
‘How are you, Mehmud?’
‘Ready for the mission.’ The reply was robotic.
Abdullah liked the answer. Yet, he was there to ensure that the boy’s resolve had not weakened as the deadline approached.
‘Most human beings are scared of death. You are not?’
‘Death in this world does not scare me. This life is temporary. If I achieve martyrdom I shall reach Paradise. Which is the world of meaning.’
‘Good, good,’ Abdullah wagged his head in agreement as he lifted his palms and his eyes skywards. ‘It is the chosen few who are martyrs.’
Mehmud wore a blank look as he rocked back and forth. The boys were instructed in the rocking motion as they spent hours huddled over the Quran, their eyes glazing over the unfamiliar text, their minds absorbing it by rote.
At thirty-six, Qari Abdullah was a regional Taliban commander, in charge of recruiting young suicide bombers. Qari owed his debilitated look to the decades of war in which he had grown up, trailed his family and his community’s elders until at age twelve he became a mujahidin and drove out the Soviets, then joined the Taliban and drove out the home-grown communists, and now was waging a holy war against the infidel Americans.
Abdullah liked the new commander: he had the zeal of Mullah Omar whom Qari had seen as a young boy, and the legendary aura of one Afghan called Khan. The new commander had chosen Qari for the mission because he was reputed to have never failed. That was because Qari had not forgotten what it was like to be a wide-eyed eight-year-old boy enamoured of strapping males with their Kalshnikov guns. They would humour him and allow him to carry the guns from one point to another – a job that could go to a pony, a donkey or an eager boy.
When Qari started to indoctrinate young boys he made sure they got to see the weapons and handle them occasionally. It whetted their appetite and gave them hope that one day, inshallah, they would use the same weapons as soldiers of Allah in the holy war.
From within the folds of his kameez Qari withdrew a disc. ‘Play it,’ he urged Mehmud.
Mechanically, Mehmud proceeded to insert the disc into a DVD player that was arranged below a TV against one wall of the room. He slouched back to his original position and started to rock.
The screen flickered before the grey merged into green. A boy faced the camera, an outsized gun aloft in his right hand. He spoke earnestly into the camera about his mission, about the holy war and how he was going to Paradise. The video ended with a plaintive song about how the boy’s body would never be found – it would be scattered in pieces all over his beloved land. And his soul would look down upon it from heaven.
‘You,’ Abdullah pointed at young Mehmud, ‘you’ll be recording your own video soon. And then, my boy, you will be the hero whom all others will watch!’
Srinagar, India
Monday noon
The washroom was a white-tiled affair with a single washbasin, one mirror and a toilet in a corner. Mehrunisa studied herself in the mirror. She had come there to collect her thoughts before she met her father. Even as she thought about it, it sounded incredible. In the couple of hours she had been in Srinagar, the revelations had grown increasingly
‘Good, good,’ the mullah nodded enthusiastically. ‘Ready, very ready.’
Qari Abdullah nodded, shook his hand and said, ‘I’ll go inside to talk to him.’ The mullah extended a hand in the direction of the corridor that branched into rooms. As he watched Abdullah shuffle towards the corridor, the mullah bore the smug smile of one who had delivered on his promise.
The boy sat on the floor, his head bowed as if in contemplation. He was dressed in a plain grey shalwar kameez, a bright red chitrali cap on his head. He had not noticed Abdullah’s arrival and was startled when Abdullah spoke.
‘How are you, Mehmud?’
‘Ready for the mission.’ The reply was robotic.
Abdullah liked the answer. Yet, he was there to ensure that the boy’s resolve had not weakened as the deadline approached.
‘Most human beings are scared of death. You are not?’
‘Death in this world does not scare me. This life is temporary. If I achieve martyrdom I shall reach Paradise. Which is the world of meaning.’
‘Good, good,’ Abdullah wagged his head in agreement as he lifted his palms and his eyes skywards. ‘It is the chosen few who are martyrs.’
Mehmud wore a blank look as he rocked back and forth. The boys were instructed in the rocking motion as they spent hours huddled over the Quran, their eyes glazing over the unfamiliar text, their minds absorbing it by rote.
At thirty-six, Qari Abdullah was a regional Taliban commander, in charge of recruiting young suicide bombers. Qari owed his debilitated look to the decades of war in which he had grown up, trailed his family and his community’s elders until at age twelve he became a mujahidin and drove out the Soviets, then joined the Taliban and drove out the home-grown communists, and now was waging a holy war against the infidel Americans.
Abdullah liked the new commander: he had the zeal of Mullah Omar whom Qari had seen as a young boy, and the legendary aura of one Afghan called Khan. The new commander had chosen Qari for the mission because he was reputed to have never failed. That was because Qari had not forgotten what it was like to be a wide-eyed eight-year-old boy enamoured of strapping males with their Kalshnikov guns. They would humour him and allow him to carry the guns from one point to another – a job that could go to a pony, a donkey or an eager boy.
When Qari started to indoctrinate young boys he made sure they got to see the weapons and handle them occasionally. It whetted their appetite and gave them hope that one day, inshallah, they would use the same weapons as soldiers of Allah in the holy war.
From within the folds of his kameez Qari withdrew a disc. ‘Play it,’ he urged Mehmud.
Mechanically, Mehmud proceeded to insert the disc into a DVD player that was arranged below a TV against one wall of the room. He slouched back to his original position and started to rock.
The screen flickered before the grey merged into green. A boy faced the camera, an outsized gun aloft in his right hand. He spoke earnestly into the camera about his mission, about the holy war and how he was going to Paradise. The video ended with a plaintive song about how the boy’s body would never be found – it would be scattered in pieces all over his beloved land. And his soul would look down upon it from heaven.
‘You,’ Abdullah pointed at young Mehmud, ‘you’ll be recording your own video soon. And then, my boy, you will be the hero whom all others will watch!’
Srinagar, India
Monday noon
The washroom was a white-tiled affair with a single washbasin, one mirror and a toilet in a corner. Mehrunisa studied herself in the mirror. She had come there to collect her thoughts before she met her father. Even as she thought about it, it sounded incredible. In the couple of hours she had been in Srinagar, the revelations had grown increasingly
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