“Those who sleep past sunrise are marked dead at attendance in Allah’s morning assembly”, He would proudly say this to his 10-year-old son. He thought he had crafted a beautiful metaphor his son could easily relate to.
Akram, or as people called him ak-hanz (ak is a short word for Akram and Hanz is a fisherman in Kashmiri), was a man who kept changing his professions throughout the year. Still, he often went fishing early in the morning. This way he kept his family tradition alive and brought some money home.
Umar was his youngest child. A special child born only after his mother went to every single pir she heard of and asked for a male child. Akram too loved him. He thought he had a sharp brain and could really excel in academics. So he admitted him to the school while people like him would teach their sons some crafts to run the family. He couldn’t read himself but always pretended when Umar showed him his finished homework. He would always say “That’s good but you will have to improve”.
Omar happily took the slate and started writing one single line repeatedly.
الّلہ سب سے بڑا ھے
(Urdu for God is the greatest of all)
Why write the single thing so many times wasting slate space as well as the ink? He never asked the question.
He finished it and packed his school stuff. He had his cup of noonchai with satoo. And headed to his school. It was a just quarter a mile away and just ahead of a mosque. Bell rang and he was just in time. The children swarmed in through the school gates and just when they stood idly in lines for morning assembly an announcement was made:
“There is a cordon in the mosque nearby, some mujahideen are hiding there and we have been asked by major sahib to call off the school today. So return to your homes immediately”.
Children loved these surprises. They always wished these to happen. Little did they know that these surprises costed lives and love?
As everyone was about to leave gunshots were heard and everyone screamed. Everyone except children. But they did run. Umar did too. But his steps fell short somehow. Somehow his fate landed him in between the two firing parties. He was ignorant though until a bullet pierced his skull and he felt a jerk. The one like your arm feels when elbow hits something The only difference was that his whole body shook and he fell unconscious and out of breath. Nobody ran for help. Blood kept running and running until he took his last breath and laid there dead, his yellow face pointing towards skies.
Hours passed and firing hadn’t stopped yet. Akram had been looking for him since he heard the first gunshots. He kept running between the encounter site and his home to update his worried wife and daughters of the situation. It stopped just before the sunset. The army assured that the militants were dead, left. And left it for the locals to search the dead bodies in the rubble. But before they could they found Umar laying down dead, a red coagulated blood pool just beneath his head. They carried him to the local hospital and hopelessly poured water over his face and in his mouth. His father held him in his lap and cried like a baby. They didn’t stay at the hospital longer as he was declared dead on the first examination. He was carried back to his home to let his family wail over his dead body. His mother fainted and his sisters mourned until he was shouldered to the graveyard. It was late at night without moon and people kept coming and going. Akram kept sobbing while his brothers and friends occasionally pacified him.
He didn’t sleep that night remembering his son. Nor did he sleep 3 nights after for he knew his son’s murderer was either out there wearing the badge of honor or already dead. In both cases unknown.
It was a “collateral damage”, as they call it. A term in military occupation dictionary that has enough power to shut any objection or any case of deaths and property damage by military or militants. The two-word monster had gulped down thousands of Kashmiris ever since the armed fight started in Kashmir.
He knew justice died long before his son was shot dead. It is hard, though. For a father to see his dead son. To fail to bring justice.
He doesn’t do much now. But visits Umar’s grave frequently. He runs his fingers on his name inscribed on his epitaph. He carries the blood-stained slate in his other sweaty hand and sobs helplessly. Sweat washes the words away and tears wash away the blood. There are a few lines written now on it and he wishes he had bought him a bigger slate or thousand other slates to never let his last words wash away:
“God is greatest of all”
“Indeed He is”, he confirms.
No comments:
Post a Comment