The life of a Rebel

Fatima was taking stock of the jars of dry Fruit. Packing the Almonds, pistachios, walnuts, dried apricots, cashew nuts and dates Manzoor Ahmed, on a vacation from the school eagerly waited for his mother to go out so that he may take a handful. The wind was blowing harshly, so Fatima asked her 15 year old boy to shut the windows. Manzoor lived in a locality with closely packed houses. Opposite to it was a bakery shop that used to be hub of hot gossip and the crispy breaking news. Early Morning, people from the locality used to gather at the small shop of ‘NAB KAAK’ built in wood, with smoked walls to get to hear the crunchy news. They used to chit chat about the Rise of Muslim United Front and the price rise and like all world’s most reputed intellectuals they would confer the most vital issues.

Peeping through the window, Manzoor saw his friends waiting near the shop of Nab Kaak; they had planned to go for a walk. His Friends did not dare to enter his house out of the fear of his mother. Shamim one of Manzoor’s friends had been scarcely slapped by Fatima when he had given Manzoor a puff from the cigarette. The 15 year old kid was too experienced to know when to leave without being caught by his mother and he successfully reached his friends. After a few minutes of discussions, they finally decided to go to “AAD” a vast field.

It was December; the trees had bowed to the callous autumn and were eagerly waiting for snow. Walking these muddy paths, these four youngsters wearing phiran, who never got consent to carry Kangris when they were out of their homes, lit a cigarette. To scare these young boys Zahoor, the eldest member of the group told them of Jinn who used to reside in the woods of the paths they were passing on. On the way, up the hill, it is not the sound of the woods; the twittering and the rhythmic chatter of unknown birds and insects that made the morning feel ominous. It is the trees. The stillness of the trees, they do not rustle, their leaves do not hiss and murmur and crackle. They just do not make any sound. The fallen leaves under their feet produced a sound which horrified them at times on these silent tracks. Finally folding their pants, they crossed the cold watered river and reached their destination. Zahoor carried a matchbox. They all sat down on the grass. After a while, Zahoor asked them to collect dry wood, to get warm. The place is full of trees and anyone residing in this part of the world must be acquainted with the fact that it’s easy breaking and burning wood in winters. The fire was lit up. Manzoor asked for a puff from the second cigarette and Shamim said “no one wants to die here” But Manzoor never stopped asking which was habitual with him. So they handed over the cigarette to him. By 1130, the sun came out from the murky clouds and a pleasurable sunshine kissed their cheeks sunshine. Shamim, Manzoor and Sajad were in class 9^th then but Zahoor was in Senior Secondary where there were no girls and the three of them used to disparage Zahoor for this which often resulted to exchange of abuses and blows. Manzoor was a tall, averagely built, fair, witty boy who was liked by teachers as well as girls. But he was comparatively diffident.

Manzoor like any common boy would go playing, smoking; he would read Mewlana Rumi and Baba Bulleh Shah. He used to visit his relatives often. Narrating stories to young kids was something he really loved to do. He had dozens of them, cousin. But among all, he had fallen to one Sabina. They were in the same school. They used to have lunches together and for no reason would they miss accompanying each other when the school gets off. They looked at each other with a shiny smile and for all the reasons in the world, that smile in the Epic love stories of Heer Ranjha, Laila Majnoo would be more than adequate to illustrate their exquisite appreciation for each other. Manzoor used to get her chocolates. Assembling all his viable courage; Maznoor penned down his admiration for this girl. But he tore down the paper to small piece in the apprehension of being beaten by his mother. The fine finicky companionship continued for the next two years. Sabina stoutly believed that the guy was to initiate the talking and take the initiative.

A great revolution started in 1987 in the name of Muslim United Front. The revolution that that believed the huge spontaneous upheaval of the entire nation, Kashmir, it was not a revolution planned or carried out by any particular race, or group, party or any individual, but a deep elemental boiling over of all the contradictions that have ever been witnessed by this nation, a revelation of chaotic and oppressive campaigns by the alien forces. It was no something we have chosen nor was it something anyone could avoid. It was a revolution supported and cherished by the entire nation. People  from all walks of life treasured this epic epoch.. The age saw men and women chiefly the young men finding their interests with political beliefs. People who previously refrained from conversing politics now gave a clean chit and a green gesture. The Lives of most of the teenagers, youngsters drastically tainted with the Rise and fall of Muslim United Front.

Like most of the commoners, the fathers of these three young boys joined MUF as polling agents. But the enigmatic bliss of the charismatic revolution did not stay long as MUF was fallaciously cheated out of the elections. Now their fathers used to discuss the frustration back home. “Court Arrest” announced the leaders of MUF to protest the fateful rigging. Manzoor’s Father also courted arrest. Manzoor went to see his father at the Police Station on the first Day. His Father was proud like never before as he glanced into the eyes of his Son, “Son, Your Father is here for a cause, for a Nation, if I have to sacrifice my life like lacs of others, I will never hesitate to” Manzoor was shakily amazed to hear his father. All these years he witnessed his father as a Family man, someone who never even diminutively minded causes and nations, he would do everything for his family, no matter who dies and lives. Manzoor and the other kids grew up with the anxious happenings for the next two years. The fall of 1987 resulted into an armed Rebellion in 1989. The year witnessed Kashmiris pushed against their peaceful and Calm Nature and forced to pick Arms against one of the supreme Military might of the world.

One cold night in 1989, Showket Ahmed a young kid barely 9 was shot dead by the paramilitary troopers. Manzoor joined the funeral prayers and disappeared for the next many days. Fatima presumed him to be dead and lost the hope of him returning home, like thousands of others who had left home for some or the other reason but been taken by some beast and never returned afterwards. Manzoor had been taken by the same dark beast like the old fairy tale Jinn, who takes children and their dear ones never get to know about them.

Sabina one of the Cousins of Maznoor who habitually visited lonely Fatima after the natural death of her Husband was frying onions when someone knocked at the door on a cold night in January in 1990. It was 09 30 pm and since it was winter, they grew in suspicion of Army knocking at the door. It was a routine those days, the crackdowns and the Night searches. People were arrested, later tortured, women raped, men beaten to pulp if found outside, or may be shot dead, they have these insensitive provisions and license to do the same in this forgotten part of the world.  Fatima asked Sabina not to open the door to the beasts who had snatched her son. He had been the lonely hope for the lonely mother, the sole bread earner after his father had passed away. She had seen him grow up from a small child who once played with toys to a man who fed his mother. She was proud to see her son talking Religion and teaching many students at the Local Darasgah and  the winter tuitions. She adored the way her son talked and respected and was loved and respected by everyone in the Locality. She had once heard men at  Nab Kaaks shop praising Manzoor Ahmed Shair, which was very rare.

The Knocking at the door grew and then there was a call in Kashmiri “BIH CHUS” (It’s me) and Sabina was educated enough to know that the beast never spoke her language. She opened the door without the consent of her Aunt just to find a young man with Long beard with a Kalashnikov walking into the house. She closed the door and then the young man narrated the Islamic greeting. “Asalamualkum” Sabina was befuddled if she knew the man. Yes, she did, it was her Cousin Manzoor, the one whom she adored the most, who used to bring gifts and chocolates for her, who used to narrate the stories of Jinns and Fairies to her.  She had secretly fallen into love with Manzoor but she never dared to tell him. His thoughts blessed her days. She had been in love with this man since she was 12. The Lunches, The walks, they had together, She felt nostalgic. Once Manzoor had taken her to a Mughal Garden and got her some roses. They had bunked the school. They had their lunches together and Manzoor had fed her with his hands. They ogled into the eyes of each other. Manzoor praised her hair and from then she stopped wearing a scarf so that Manzoor sees her praised hair every day. Manzoor had once bashed a senior in the school after he had insulted Sabina which resulted in his suspension. She ran into the room and informed Fatima that her Sun was shining at the door, her wishes had come true. She had tied knots at the shrine of every Awliya for the return of her son. She burst into tears when Sabina told her. She couldn’t bear the isolation anymore so she ran to the other room where Manzoor was offering Isha prayers. 

Sabina cooked for her dream man whilst the mother son conversed and the food had to be special. She run to the neighbor’s house who sold chickens in the dim of that night and called Gulzar for a chicken. Gulzar was a gentle and polite man and always helped the people of the locality. They dined together and Fatima went down the memory lane to all those precious lunches they had together. After finishing their dinner, they talked over certain issues in the peaceful silence of that dark, where everything had been forced to silence, just a few dogs barked at quite a distance who were presumably shot dead, only a few gun shots were heard and the barking vanished.

At Night Sabina woke up sweating. Even the Blanket felt damp, she felt like water was seeping from every part of her skin, and she smelled fear, the fear of losing Manzoor again, She thought of Sajad, the friend of Manzoor who had been heartlessly killed in a usual  crackdown a couple of weeks earlier.  A lot of things flooded her mind “What if Army comes and shot at Manzoor? They will torture him or beat him to death, I want him to stay, but I do not want him to be killed.

Sabina hurriedly ran into the room of Manzoor just to find him mediating. She asked him to leave. Manzoor argued first, But after counter arguments he finally decided to flee. Sabina had always dreamed of a family with him, she always took fantasy to the fact that she would be the wife of Manzoor. She had written many cards to Manzoor and many love letters, but never dared to give them to Manzoor.

 Shamim and Maznoor together had joined MJF, Muslim Janzbaaz Force, one of the Pro Independence Rebel Groups resisting against the Indian Oppression in Kashmir. Like thousands of Youngsters from disputed land of Jammu Kashmir Shamim and Manzoor too joined the Militant ranks, perhaps it was the only way; they believed that their voices would be heard. There was a series of incidents that pushed them to this extreme. One of them was an untoward instance soon after they had passed their boards exams. Manzoor and Sajad had been beaten to pulp and Shamim almost to death when they failed to prove their identity cards during a crackdown, they had been arrested and tortured severely for three days continuously. Shamim had been forced to urine on an electric heater.

In this part of the world, You always need to carry your identity card with you, if you dare not, you can be arrested, tortured, beaten and even killed.

One Fine Summer Morning people from my locality gathered in numbers shouting the Slogans “Zalzala hai Kufr Ke Aiwaan mein, Lo, Mujahid aa gaye Maidaan mein” (The Oppressors are shaken. Oh Indian Army, Beware, the Rebels are coming). Women were blissfully showering flower petals on some men laden with Guns and heavy ammunition as I peeped through my window. The streets wore a festive look and so did the people. It looked more like Urs. The same continued till evening with hundreds of men and women patrolling the streets. As a young child I never defied to go out alone. In the evening I came to know that Soft drinks and sweets had been distributed amongst children for a successful ACTION. One of The Militant commanders, Munna Shair had delivered a fiery speech, that’s what my friend said when we met at the nightfall. They narrated the tales of the places you always want to go to, the stories from the other side. They said they also wear clothes like us and speak like us, Muna Shair briefed them they are also Kashmiris, love NUN CHAI and KEHWA, they eat rice with spicy deep fried vegetables and they mostly prefer meat. They also have the Waazwan and wear Phiran. Munna Shair sat with the men of the Locality and told them it was almost playing with death crossing to the other side of our own isolated land. He narrated a story of a day when 10 of the Rebels were crossing to the other side and they were sighted by Indian Army. “They started firing on us from all sides, but the voices cannot be crushed by the bullets or any mighty force, Allah was with us, I started firing at them and they all ran for cover, the Army, you know they are mere sheep and the sheep always fear the Lions.  But one thing is for sure, while crossing over there are 99 percent chances of your Liquidation and only 1 percent of survival, but it is all for our People, our Nation, we will not allow any alien to rule us on our own land, to occupy our orchards and fields, our schools and colleges” He said. He told them tales from alien lands and the ACTIONS he had been a part of. “Once the Army raided a Village and beat all the Locals, we were passing from that village, just five of us and we were outnumbered. Initially we planned to pass of, but then we had to fire when we few army men were attempting rape on a small girl, we fired, I had almost 1000 rounds with me, I must have killed at least a dozen. And the Army they ran like Goats, never looked back, And by the time Army left, I had just 8 Rounds with me. We saved the girl and the villagers, some of the naive young men had been lined up to be taken away as they had tagged as called TERRORISTS, may be they would shot them dead in a fake encounter, who knows”

On the 31^st of July Sabina was sitting besides Manzoor’s mother, Hair Uncombed, her teeth turned yellow, her eyes dull, her eyebrows dreary, dirty nails and the dress was also untidy. She once used to be an epitome of beauty in the entire school. Her polished nails used to be the hot gossip in the school. The Boys used to chase her and give her letters, love letters. Fawad, a 7^th class boy who was later killed by Indian Army and entitled a case of ‘Misidentification’ had written I LOVE YOU with his blood. Sabina looked disaster and so did her hope of being a Journalist, her dairy once used to be full of write up’s. She had written about the rally of Al fatah, Iqbal Park Rally , The Hanging of Maqbool Bhat, The Revolution of 1931, Mahaz I rai Shumari, Moi Muqadas, She had written on the massacre of Muslims in 1947 at Jammu. She wrote fiction and the epic love stories of Gul Snober and Laila Majnoo. But now all her dreams had faded away akin to the green leaves from the trees in the unkind autumn. He came, yes he did, but now she knew, it was just a dream; the Army had raided the locality many a times looking for this fierce rebel. She and Fatima rose in surprise to welcome this great man who was everywhere now, in the stories, in the talks, in the gossips of men at the Shop of Nab Kaak, in the Masjids. The children impersonated him in their plays. Her mother often used to wet her eyes with the thought when she saw these kids, Manzoor was a kid too, yes he was, 16 he was when he joined MJF. When his mother rose to hug him, the reunion did not last long after they heard some shots and Manzoor escaped from his house.

On the Ist of August 1992, there was a heavy downpour when some bullet sounds echoed in the main town of this South Kashmir town, Islamabad. It continued for next few hours. Three rebels including Munna Shair, Manzoor Ahmed Shair attacked an Army picket near Lal chowk Islamabad. They engaged almost a hundred troopers for more than four hours till Munna Shair was shot at on his foot. He asked the other two Rebels to flee which they successfully fled from the spot. Tears rolled down his eyes craving to his mother for the one last time, to Sabina and glow of her cheeks and the magic of her eyes, to listen to her saccharine talks and taste her delicious Goshtab, to take one sip from her delectable Kehwa, to listen to her fairy tales.

But, Munna was trapped and surrounded on all sides by alien troopers on his own land shot to death. Munna Shair before getting shot Shouted with his hands raised high in prayers “Oh Allah! I am not to live long now, but I pray, May I get two moments of life when Kashmir witnesses the dawn of Freedom”