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AN IRONY
Fiction by Gautam Shahi
If life is a story, then destiny is the script. Together, they
sometimes present such irony, that we mighty humans are humbled by
it. This story is one such irony in itself.
At that time I was living with my father, an army officer, in
Brahmenbari. A small town near Jammu. It was the year 1993 and
militancy was at its height in valley. I was a lad of 15 years and
full of hatred for such militants.
Brahmenbari or B.D. bari in military language, has been bestowed
gracefully by the nature. And the climate is perfect for playing
cricket, another of my craze. It was on one such day that I met
him first. We were running short of a player when
this 22 year
old, shortly build, fair guy with orange hair offered to fill in. Aamir Khan was lightning fast with bat and soon became a regular
player of our team. Aamir at that time was earning his living by
doing small chores for people in the cantt. I was always drawn to
him because of his batting and light humorous nature. But this
attraction of mine got a shock when I got to know that he was an
erstwhile terrorist and was a virtual prisoner in the cantt. As
per my first instinct I started avoiding talking to him and kept a
distance from him. But I could not maintain this distance for
long. How could I keep my face straight when his jokes made me
laugh out of my breath. In fact because of his nature, nobody
could remain away from him and his company.
So instead of keeping the distance I became a good friend and his
close confident. We used to talk till late in the evenings after
playing cricket. Mostly about cricket, my friend and foes on the
school. He used to tell me about his militant organization and its
activities. I remember that once he told me that his head quarters
were under a three star hotel. And during one such talk he told me
his story. He used to live in a Hindu dominated border village
with his parents and two brothers of eight and three years
respectively. As if it was not bad enough to live in between
people who consider every Muslim a terrorist, his family also
suffered the pang of poverty. But the condition worsened when his
father, while trying to go to a neighboring village, was killed in
cross border shelling. They brought him back in pieces and was
recognized by his clothes. He never got to know whether it was a
Pakistani shell or Indian shell, nor did he care. All he cared
about was his family. Hunger became the order of the day. And who
was going to help a Muslim whose brothers were out to kill every
Hindu in the valley. Though some Muslim villagers tried help but
their own poverty was the barrier. There were times when the whole
family went without food for days. A bowl full of rice became a
treat and Aamir, sixteen at that time, was helpless. Who offered
job to a Muslim boy who may turnout to be militant. The matter of
fact was that they were afraid of Muslims and preferred stay away
from them. Such were the conditions that Aamir started hating his
village.
And then an agent of some militant organization came in the
neighboring village for recruiting youths for zehad or holy fight.
Aamir joined him because he offered good money. Aamir later told
me that it was not desperation that drove him towards it but it
was the happiness that he saw on the face of his brothers on
getting proper food.
Aamir had told me of his fear that his organization would
certainly come back for him for they did not so easily let go the
youths so labouredly trained. And sure enough one day Aamir was
found missing from his quarters. A wide scale search was made but
was he was lost forever. Some people called army foolish for
keeping him alive while others like my mother thanked God that he
had not harmed kids.
My father was posted to Bikaner and I forgot all about B.D.bari
and Aamir Khan. But a few days ago while going from Pune to Bombay
on train I met an army officer who was returning from valley. In
the course of our conversation he proudly showed me photographs of
militants killed by his unit. While shuffling through the
photographs one of the faces sent shiver through my spine. Same
eyes same face, though bearded and clothes smitten with his own
blood. Yes Aamir was dead. Taking his permission I quietly put the
photo in my pocket.
I don't know who's right. That officer who killed for his nation
or Aamir who got killed neither for his nation nor for his
religion, but for his family. I don't say that Aamir was right but
was he wrong?
BY:- GAUTAM SHAHI
CONTACT: shahigautam_64@rediffmail.com
STORY TYPE:- SHORT STORY
Reviews and comments requested
Posted 06/01/2002
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