AN IRONY - Boy befriends a terrorist

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Fiction

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