Daastan PVT LTD 

House # A-41, Madni Street, Lala Rukh, Wah Cantt, Punjab 47040 

 

www.daastan.com 

www.meraqissa.com

 

Text copyright  © Haleemah Malik
Book cover copyright © Haleemah Malik


Edited & Formatted by Maliha Zafar

The moral rights of the writer and illustrator have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

ISBN 978-969-696-641-8

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

 

Printed and bound in Pakistan.

Dedicated solely to the Mujahidin of Kashmir. To all the men, women, and children who have shown the world that they have messed with the wrong nation.

Don’t ever give up.

C  O  N  T  E  N  T  S

 

PROLOGUE  

 

PART ONE:

The Sky That Fell 

 

PART TWO:

False-flag  

 

PART THREE:

Mujahid  

 

PART FOUR:

The Rising  

 

EPILOGUE  

 

PROLOGUE

 

~

Srinagar

 

Tonight, she thought, the sky seems too full of stars.

With the streets damp with the rain, the trees prancing with the breezes, the clouds wrapping themselves around the moon, hiding its beauty, the houses being locked up, the lights turning off, it seemed to her as if even the Earth was asleep as if a spell of tranquility had taken over Kashmir. But a dim yellow light, from the red-bricked house at the end of street 36 of Srinagar, illuminated the inky night.

She was still looking out of the window, still wringing her hands back and forth, when she said to her husband, in a hushed voice, “so you’re going there then?”

Her husband was tying his shoelaces when he answered “yes.” Not looking up.

“You’re going right now? I mean, in the middle of the night?”

 “Yes.” And then he grabbed his coat from the closet.

“Is it that necessary for you to go?”

He was calmly finger-combing his black hair, “yes, my dear wife.” He drew a ragged breath, “yes. It is.”

Why do you pretend like nothing is wrong? She wanted to scream.

She gave it a last attempt, “do you not know we are under curfew today?”

He picked a big black binder from the side table, and sat on the edge of the bed, and buried his face in it. For a long time, he said nothing, and she was about to repeat the question whose answer she knew quite well, when he said in a hoarse voice, “my love, yes. I am well aware.”

Then why are you going? Have you lost your mind? Do you have a death wish? 

She wearily rubbed her face. Bit her lip. 

Slowly, dragging her feet quite deliberately, she took a step towards him. Then two. His head was bent over a number of bound papers, stacked upon his left thigh, his eyes skimming through the printed text.

When she dropped down next to him, he showed no sign of acknowledging her presence. His eyes were glued to the paper. She let her eyes examine the stiff set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, and the paleness of his face. It was enough to tell her that he was thoroughly stressed.

Of course, he was thoroughly stressed.  Who would not be stressed up in such a situation? 

She cleared her throat. A barely audible sound, and reached for him. Touched his shoulder, very gently.

He smiled a lopsided smile. His eyes softened as a faint flicker of amusement flashed in the two lapis lazuli-hued pools. And then he put the files away to face his wife.

For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze. But as soon as his blue eyes burned into hers, she felt the intensity was too much for her to bear, so she looked away. Stared at the ceiling, at the floor, at her palms, at the walls. Everywhere but his face.

He was quite confused. He didn’t know what to make of the tension between them. So he finally said, “honey?” A pause. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. Just barely. She opened her mouth a few times and searched for the right words. It seemed to him as if she was never going to say anything, but then-

“Can I— Can I say something?” she said, feeling sheepish as soon as the words left her mouth.

His brows furrowed. 

“Sweetheart” he whispered, “why are you asking for permission?”

He was quite successful in ignoring the tension in the air. Quite successful in pretending nothing was wrong. But she was breaking, slowly unraveling.

“Don’t go,” she blurted out. Now her heart could not contain it. “Please, please, please, for the love of God, don’t go. Don’t leave me. For goodness sake, Please—”

She closed her eyes, stabled her voice, her tone. “Don’t. Go.” She stressed upon each word.

He reached to touch her hand and she was startled at the unexpected impact.

“I have to,” he whispered, still studying her hand.

This conversation is pointless, and we have had this very same conversation thrice in the same week. But I still have to explain it every time. He thought to himself.

“It’s not a choice,” he said.

She stole her hand back.

“Please can you skip this mission? Just this once? I promise I will never ever ask you to stay again. Never. Please, this one mission? Please?”

She sounded like a child, begging for more sweets, and despite feeling the heavyweight and intenseness of this situation, he could not help the devilish smirk that tugged on his lips. He shook his head. Looked at the ceiling, and leaned back, now shifting his weight to his palms, “you know I can’t.”

There was no hope of convincing him, he was a mountain, the strongest one, and she was just the wind that flew by, the wind that could make no change. And despite knowing that, she still went on. 

She couldn’t lose him. He was all she had. 

“It’s not safe to leave today, we are under curfew. You can go some other day maybe? Or… Or I don’t know… But please just don’t go—“ 

He smiled again, trying to change the direction in which this talk was going. “Can we not repeat this conversation, please? I’m right here, love. I’m not going anywhere,” he said gently. 

She vigorously shook her head, biting back the tears. “Stop acting like this is okay. Stop acting like you have some super shield and you are invincible. This is dangerous and you know it. I don’t want to lose you. I— I need you more than you know.”

He gripped the back of his neck, running a hand through his hair, and tenderly said, “I know you need me. I need you too.” He met her eyes, “but Kashmir needs me more.”

This time there was no stopping of the waterfall that streamed down her cheeks. She rubbed her nose. 

“You know this is not safe.” Her voice was broken, she was staring into her palms, silent tears falling down, “What if— I mean, something could go wrong— What will I do without you? How will I survive? Do you even care about me? About your family? About your infant daughter? About your sons? We can’t live without you! Does your family mean nothing to you? Do I mean nothing?” she asked him, relieving herself of the burden, yet, not having the spine to meet his eyes.

Despite the heavy accusations, all that happened was that a dimple appeared on his cheek. He was smiling. He shifted, drawing himself closer to her. He put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him.

“You’re talking like I am already dead.” He murmured. His eyes were calm like the ocean. He tipped her chin, so her eyes met his, and he solemnly looked into her gray eyes.

“I do care for you. So much, sometimes I cannot think about anything but you. I do care for our family. More than you think, more than you know. I do love my home. But you need to understand that I’m doing this for us, for our home. Who would want their children to grow in this hell? This land is ours. And we are the ones who are supposed to take it back. We will fight, for our home, for our future, for our Kashmir. This is our war, and we must win it. No angel will ascend from the heavens to get it for us.”

He went on, trying to make her see his side of the story, and at this point, he felt like the sounds of her sobs would probably wake others. And if he were to face his children, things could get more complicated. Overwhelming, in fact.

So he tried to console her further, “Besides, we all have to go back one day. We all have to die. Fate decides my death. I will return if it is decreed. And if not, we shall reunite. One day. Soon.”

She pulled away from him, away from his arms that were previously draped around her. He was taken aback by the reaction he had not anticipated.

“You may be right.” She snapped, “But I am right too. It is equal to a suicide mission and you know it! I can’t lose you. I— I can’t—just— please try to understand.” Her voice was panicked. Worried.  

“Nothing is happening.” He said, tenderly, “you are not losing anything. You’re not losing anyone. My love, no one is going on a suicide mission.” He enveloped her frozen hands in his.

“God, why are you crying like that?” He brushed his thumb against the apple of her cheek, wiping away a hot tear.

“My lovely, beautiful, brave wife.” He said quietly, pushing back a lock of hair behind her ear, “I need you to be stronger than this. I need your support. I can’t leave you in this state, it breaks my heart to see you like this. I need you to smile, to laugh. I want to see the glee in your eyes. Allah doesn’t burden us beyond our capability, love. I will continue to live if it is decreed. I will get death if it is decreed. I can’t run from my destiny, can I? Death will come to me, no matter where I am, whether that’s at home with my kids, whether that’s in a war. And I think I prefer martyrdom over a death which means nothing, and over a life that helps no one.”

A small pause. A deep breath.

“Don’t make this hard for me. Stay strong. Make them wonder why you are still smiling. Okay?”

He lingered against her skin for a moment longer than he intended to, the warm curve of her cheek was damp with tears. He felt like the hurt in her grey eyes was more than he could bear. Her hands were shaking, her heart beating a strange beat. He did not want to leave her side. He wanted to wipe every tear that was rolling down her cheeks, but he knew he could not waste any more time. He was already getting late.

He sighed. Released her face from his grip.

There was work to be done. Places to be freed. People to be avenged.

He walked over to the corner of the room. To the small mattress bed on the floor, on which his 5-year-old daughter was sleeping. He crouched next to her, dropped on one knee. He watched her, his eyes bright with emotion. And he felt like he could spend an eternity, beside her, just like this.

She was sleeping, hugging a pillow to her chest. Her long, black eyelashes rested against her cheeks. The blue blanket brought up to her neck. Her cheeks were rosy, and there was a faint smile on her lips.

Probably dreaming about flying eagles and rainbows.  

The dimple on his cheek once again appeared, this time deeper and he could feel his eyes growing watery. He pulled a few strands of brown hair away from her face. He touched her cheek and gently pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

For a moment, he just sat there on one knee, staring at the most precious thing he had in life: his daughter. She was the answer to every time he looked up at the sky and asked for a miracle. She was his heart, his soul, the best thing that ever happened to him. She was his world, and he just loved her. He loved her too much—

This is no time to get emotional. Highly impractical. How can I go out with a puffy nose and swollen eyes? He thought to himself.

Sighing, he attempted to collect himself and somehow managed to tuck his daughter back into her bed, pulling the sheets higher, so she would not get cold.

He craned his neck, to look at his wife. And, Goodness, she was still weeping. He could just see her back. The brown shawl wrapped around her frame, her long, black hair loose, reaching up to her waist, a black clip pulling them away from her face.

Don’t cry. He wanted to say. Please don’t cry. This mission is already hard. Don’t make it harder. Don’t cry. You will make me cry too. I don’t want to leave. But I have to. 

He ran a hand down the length of his face. Walked to her. Sat beside her, just to cup her face, and the last thing he said to her was, “take care of this little eagle for me.”

And, she saw him get up, turn, pivot on one heel, open the door, and disappear in the late-night mist. Strolling to his destiny, his chin up, his back straight, his heart strong, and steps calculated. Fearless and ferocious. Like every Kashmiri was. Like every Mujahid was.

PART ONE:

The Sky That Fell

 

1

Maha Burhan Kashmiri
Anantnag

Maha Burhan Kashmiri was sitting on the sofa, curled up in a blue blanket, her chin propped up on a fist. She had crossed her legs in front of herself, and her long brown hair hung loose, falling in waves, down her shoulders. 

In her right hand, she clutched a steaming cup of Kashmiri kehwa and she slurped from it, pressing her lips against the brim, and savoring its deliciousness as the warm liquid drained down her throat. She stared with immense concentration at the broken TV screen in the middle of her room with yellow tapes wrapped on the edges and a big crack running from one corner to the other, which further made it hard to watch. 

The screen was fissured. But it was not too bad. Readable, at least. The signals were poor. But then again, when were the signals not poor in Indian Illegally Occupied Jammu and Kashmir? She had learned to cope with all of it. By now.

She narrowed her eyes, summoning every bit of focus in herself, and tried to listen to what the journalists were trying to say, despite the loud buzzing and screeching sounds.

On the 38-inch screen, an Indian woman stood, a black microphone in her hand, with a plum shade of lipstick on her lips, wearing an orange saari. She spoke something rapidly, half Hindi and half English that Maha didn’t quite catch, so she read the headlines running on the end of the screen, in the bold black letters saying, “Violent Kashmiri rebels hold riots on Mujahid Nasar’s 12th death anniversary, 8th December, causing unrest and turmoil in the valley. However, the Armed forces are trying to maintain peace, and are working to sort things out.”

Maha tried her best not to throw the cup on the screen. Her face was slowly turning red.

Rebels? Riots? Turmoil? The hell with paramilitary agencies going to maintain peace, she thought with a scowl. The protestors will not step back, she knew. They wanted their time in chanting slogans and marching. And it would end the same way it always did.

The infirmaries filled with wounded men. The streets patched with crimson blood. Cries of children echoing. Funerals. Pellet guns. Tear gases. Another week of curfews.

Is there no way to avoid all of this? Her mind yelled.

Is there no way to end this? What do these protests give us? She wanted to ask them. If only she could make them see.

Nothing. Exactly nothing. These protests give us nothing. So, for god’s sake, just sit back in your houses and keep your hands to yourselves, because we don’t want to die. Because, if you would like to pay attention, some people here are trying to just survive. Why do you act like you have nuclear bombs in your pockets? We, Kashmiris have next to nothing, so why pry the god-damn monsters?

She threw her hands up in frustration with an exasperating hiss escaping her lips. The movements made a curtain of hair fall in front of her face and she pushed it back, behind her ear. There was no use in fussing over this, she thought. 

The screen next showed a huge throng of people, men mostly, marching on the damp roads, clutching numerous flags, posters, and holding out their fists above their heads, as they flooded the dark, empty streets of Kashmir. Most of them covered their faces in balaclava masks and other clothes. They were shouting in loud, coarse voices.

Maha could just make out some of the words. But even a few were enough to make her breath rattle.  

Meray kaffan pe likh do, Azaadi
Bharat se lain ge, Azaadi
Meray khoon main likha, Azaadi

It was raining, the sky grey, the clouds dominating and the ground damp. Drops of water poured upon them, drenching their pherans, and disheveling their hair. Their posters too had started to get wet from the corners and ink had started to spread all over the paper. Their trousers were covered in mud, till the knees, but what rain could stop them when death had surrendered in front of them?

Each year, like today, men would march out of their homes, on 8th December. On the death anniversary of the very famous, Mujahid Nasar, Kashmir’s most celebrated, most chivalrous martyr. A man, whose courage was adored by every child, every man, and woman. A Mujahid, who became legendary just within a few late hours of January. A martyr whose story everyone knew. And was proud of. And they were here to honor his cause.

Since her childhood, Maha was herself the biggest admirer of Mujahid Nasar. She had always idolized him. He was a man she desperately wanted to be like. Despite being a 17-year old grown-up, she stopped exactly anywhere, to listen to his fantastically exaggerated stories. Her bookshelf was filled with newspapers and magazines of him. But her mind always told her that these protests were no rational way to honor his cause.

Did Mujahid Nasar want to see his people suffer like this? Did he want innocent blood to be spilled? Was this blood the cost of their freedom? If it was the cost, it was not worth it.

It was not that Maha was unpatriotic. It was not that she was an advocate of the brutal Indian forces. She hated what they were doing to her country, but just the burning longing for peace and tranquility forced her to believe that violence was no way out of this mess. They could talk. They could be diplomatic. What was the need of murdering people? What had those children done to deserve to see all of this? What had any of them done to see this? What crime had those families committed, whose parents were martyred? Whose children were martyred? Life was never fair, was it? 

She sighed.

Her eyes suddenly caught the paramilitary soldiers, standing on the sides of the streets, their features afraid that if they step into the stampede, they might never come out alive again. But on the other hand, Maha could bet their hands were itching when they watched these Kashmiris roaming free as they did. They undoubtedly wanted to grab them by the collars and give a good beating, but they’d probably get trampled upon in the stampede. And the Kashmiris were unfailing in taking advantage of this freedom. Even if this freedom was available only momentarily.

Maha gulped the last sips of the kehwa and placed the cup on the table in front of her. And then out of nowhere, the TV blacked out.

Please no. Not now

She got up from the sofa to check the antennas, and tried to fix them, bending and turning the wires, the way she had seen her brother do. But it was of no use. The screen was black. And it would stay black for as long as it wanted. Nothing could make it work now.

Forget it, she told herself. I’ve seen what I wanted to see.

Maha carried the empty cup to the small kitchen and washed it. She put it back in the cupboard, with the other plates and headed to her brother’s room in search of an extra pillow. Her own pillow was not as fluffy as the ones in his room. Her elder brothers were not at home today.

Taimur, the eldest one, had gone out in the morning, telling Maha to keep the doors and windows closed, and to stay away from the barbed wires at the end of their street, and to not open the door if any soldier knocked and the rest of the usual set of instructions. Apart from that, he also told her that he could get late tonight, because of some important stuff, so she should not wait for him and sleep when she wanted to. Maha didn’t pry him. She knew the stuff would be important, for sure.

However, her brother, Salar’s disappearance was unexpected. Unexpected, but not unusual. 

Among the three siblings, Salar was always the restless, adventurous one. He would often go out, without telling anyone and would come back days later. Maha had numerous arguments with him over the hazards of stepping out of your house in curfews with soldiers stationed on your front door, but each debate would end up in Salar putting on his victory smirk, and Maha slapping her forehead in vexation.

Salar was stubborn. Intelligent, no doubt, but also very stubborn. He would listen to no one but himself. Maha had taught herself to let him be.  Stubborn people get themselves in a lot of trouble. But they also always get things done.

She kicked open the brown door with the edge of her foot and cringed at the sight of his room.

Salar’s shoes were thrown out on the floor, and his jeans were splayed over the couch. He kept his books in a messy pile on the table, and a whole stack of papers was on the edge of the table. Maha was sure that even one small blow would make the pile topple over. His shirts were on the bed, and the sheets were rumpled, as always, the pillows under the blankets, and all over the floor. 

She was about to puke.

Shaking her head, Maha dodged the things on the ground and walked on her tip-toes to the foot of the bed. She bent down, on her knees and reached for the pillow, which she had spotted under the bed. Her hand caught the soft fabric, and she pulled it out. But then her fingers brushed by something. Something hard. Hard and cold.

What’s that? Maha raised her eyebrows.

Out of curiosity or maybe suspicion, she tossed the pillow aside and grabbed that thing from under the bed. She could just make out the silhouette of it in the darkness. She blindly reached for it, feeling her fingers brush against rigid metal. When she tugged it out under the lights, she stared at it closely, carefully, taking notice of the symbols drawn on it, and the flags. Disbelief was written raw across her face, and as soon as she realized what she was holding— 

She threw that thing away, immediately, into a corner of the room, fear crawling over her. Her arms went limp, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips. Her eyes went wide and her whole figure was shaking violently.

She sat there for a few minutes, paralyzed with fear and shock, her pupils dilating and her breaths coming out in short, heavy pants.

Salar? Even her thoughts whispered. Oh god, Salar, what the hell have you done?

 

2

Salar Burhan Kashmiri
Anantnag

When he came home, it was late. Too late, in fact. The moon was shining, the sky was dark and the winds hummed merry tunes, while the birds listened to them.

He was completely drenched in water. Coughing slightly, he stumbled to the edge of the door and steadied himself. His bright red shirt clung closely to his chest, the fabric crumpled and tattered.

The umbrella in his left hand was broken, now just a useless piece of metal, and bits of cloth. His hair was a bad mess, and it was splayed all over his forehead. There was a dire need to push it away from his face. His boot soles had holes, and his jeans were muddy and soaked. His lips were tinted blue, because of the cold, and his cheeks were also a little too red. He was coughing and sneezing, his teeth clattering.

Why didn’t I bring the god damn coat? He thought.

Shuddering with cold, he reached for the keys in his pocket, and he turned the lock of the brown door of their house, as stealthily as he could. Looking rapidly from left to right with the corner of his right eye, he slipped into the house. He had just taken a few steps in when every bit of sanity and consciousness slipped away from him, and he inevitably slumped against the wall, with an audible thud.

He groaned, shook off his boots, and tossed them into a corner. I need new boots. He threw the umbrella away, not caring a bit about where it landed. He rubbed his thumb down his muscular arms, savoring the little warmth in the air. His eyes landed on the door of his room.

I have to walk all the way to that door? I can’t even stand by myself, let alone walk to my room. 

Nevertheless, he still tried. And failed badly. 

He was still against the wall, arms wrapped around his frame of lean muscle, and a furrow on his brow when he wearily spotted his younger sister. Running towards him.  

She threw open the door, and she was actually running, her black shirt ruffled and her hair tousled, against her back. She looked like hell just broke loose, her eyes genuinely surprised and shocked. Her lips set in a small O. 

“Salar!” she shrieked. “What—Oh my god— Salar, are you okay?”

The question was rhetorical. She didn’t anticipate an answer. Salar tried to offer her a smile and tried to tell her he was fine, but when she made an attempt to get him on his feet, her arms hauling him up, he quite willingly surrendered in front of her, letting her support him, his arms around her neck.

“Relax, Maha,” he managed to whisper when he saw her bite her lip real hard. Salar felt fatigued and weary, in a way he had never felt before. He was on the verge of collapsing and freezing. Both at the same time.  

“Just try to stand up, can you?” Maha said, almost all of his weight on her shoulders. Her voice was more of a grunt, and Salar couldn’t imagine how she would drag him. Salar was just a tonne of lean muscle. His bedroom door was a meter away. I have to do this.

“Okay.” He murmured quietly, more in control than before. Salar could feel his blue fingers growing numb. It took an eternity for them to reach the room. Salar could hear Maha breathe loudly.

She kicked open the door, and with a loud gruff, she let Salar settle on the bed. It’s so cold. He thought.

Maha took one good look at her brother’s face. Surveying the black circles under his dark blue eyes, and the soaked clothes on his shivering body. She seemed out of breath as if she’d just run a marathon. Pinching the space between her brows, she said, “I’m bringing something warm for you. Until then, change into dry clothes. You look miserable.”

Salar tried to laugh. It ended up in a coughing fit. She went out.

Salar quickly grabbed the shirt and jeans from the nearby drawer, pulling them on, and discarding the older ones in a basket. He wore a deep blue sweater and black jeans. The sweater matched the color of his eyes. His sister’s eyes were light blue, but Salar’s were somehow a richer, deeper shade of blue. Like an ocean.

After a knock, Maha came back, holding a large cup of milk in her hands, steam rising from it. Her hair was now tied, pulled away from her face, the usual dull brown shawl wrapped around her.

She placed the white cup on the table. “Drink it,” she murmured. Looking down at her hands, clicking her tongue.

“Thank you,” he said but she just nodded in response and brought a few blankets from the other room for him. Salar wasted no time in pulling the blankets over himself. He knew no other way to hide his shivering limbs. When he was buried, deep inside, he picked up the milk and started sipping on it. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, staring at the clock.

 “Yes.” He said, a little too quickly. “I am sorry I woke you up. You should go to sleep.” And not ask me any questions about where I went, why I went, what I was doing.  

“You don’t look fine.” She insisted. “I think you have a fever. A very bad one.”

Salar gulped down the last sips of milk and placed the cup on the table. “No, I’m fine. It’s just a normal fever. It will break away itself. It’s quite late, you should have some sleep.”

She shook her head. Sat down on the edge of the bed. “Do you need more blankets? It’s cold. Do you feel cold?” She was looking at the flower embroidery on the blanket.

“No, Maha.” He sighed. “I’m okay.”

Maha nodded and immediately looked sideways. Salar noticed her face was too pale. Not like it usually was, alluring in an elegant way. Salar’s brows knitted together.

He could no longer ignore how quiet she was today. His sister was always bubbly, telling him all the unnecessary details of her day. A literal chatterbox. But a quiet Maha meant that something was off. Just like today, she chewed her lips constantly, and her eyes kept on scooting here and there. She hadn’t spoken much since he came home. But most importantly, Salar felt the absence of her routine interrogation. Where did you go? Why did you go in the rain? Who told you to go? Have you gone mad? Salar had now learned to make up creative answers. He was prepared for the elaborate questionnaire today too, but it never came. She was definitely worried about something, his big brother’s sixth sense told him.

“What have you been doing all day?” he asked to get her attention. She didn’t look up from her hands. In fact, she didn’t hear him at all.

Salar snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hello?” 

“What? What— were you saying something?”

Salar shook his head just barely. “I was saying, what did you do today?”

“Me?” she tensed up. “Nothing special.”

“Umhmm.” What should I say next? “Taimur isn’t here, did he tell you when he’d come from work?”

“He said he’ll come home late.” She was doing things with her hands, rubbing and pinching them as if she was anxious before an important exam.

Salar could no longer hold it. “What happened to you?” he blurted out.

Maha’s eyes snapped into his. Her voice was unstable, “What—what could happen to me? You’re the one sick, not me.” She said a bit too quickly, trying to talk him into believing her.

“You’re not saying anything.” Salar retorted.

Maha sighed. ‘What do you want me to say?”

Good question.

“Nothing in particular. But still, I feel like something is bothering you.”

“I think you’re feeling a little too sick,” Maha said, a forced smile plastered on her face.

“Don’t blame this on my sickness.” Salar frowned. “I’ve just caught a normal cold. I am still in my senses. And not dead.”

Both of them had nothing to say next. Maha was thinking of an answer. Salar was waiting for it. “You should tell me. Whatever it is.” He finally broke the unnerving silence.

She stared at him blankly.

“You think I should tell you?” she whispered, sounding like a child. Her glassy eyes bothered.

Salar smiled. His voice was raspy, but he still tried to make it come out smooth and tender. “Of course you should. I am your brother.”

After their parents had died, Salar and Taimur were all that Maha had. Salar had always been close to her. He would often listen to Maha’s problems and rants, whether they would be about the neighbor’s daughter staring at her all the way in the bus, or that physics was very hard, and she was unable to understand anything in class. He had grown used to his little sister’s day-to-day issues. But this didn’t look petty.

Maha sucked in a deep breath. She dropped her face in her hands and massaged her temples.

Spit it out, you’re making me worried.

And then she did. “Salar— I, I don’t know if what I’m thinking is true—It was just, I don’t—” She bit back the rest of her sentence. Her lower lip was wobbling, but Salar was waiting patiently for her to finish.

“I saw the Indian rifle under your bed.” She said it all in one breath. Salar felt like a million invisible fists had punched him straight in his stomach. He could swear he heard his jaw drop to the floor.

“You did what?” he gasped. He didn’t feel angry. Didn’t feel ashamed. He felt nothing, he felt like there was a void inside him, but he somehow kept on going, “Maha did you tell anyone else? Did you put it back? Did you tell Taimur—?”

“No, no, I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t my fault, I promise. I put it back. I was just getting a pillow and then— well, then I saw it.”

I hope that you’re not lying.

 “Dear God,” Salar swore under his breath, running a hand over the slight scruff of hair under his chin.

Maha looked worried.

“Salar I’m sorry I saw it. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.” Salar could say nothing. He just nodded. A speck of understanding in his eyes.

“Just don’t—“ he started.

“I still need to ask you something.” Maha interrupted, holding a hand up. 

Salar crossed his arms over his chest. His hair had dried, but the pale color still remained. Salar was looking handsome. Like the first rain of autumn. The first snow of winter. “Say it.”

Maha’s knuckles were turning white. “What was that gun doing under your bed? It was an Indian rifle, I saw the flag myself.”

Salar opened his mouth to say something, holding up his hands to begin an explanation.

“You can’t deny it wasn’t yours. Can you?” she raised a brow.

He could do nothing but drop his hands in surrender.

“Salar?” she whispered, her voice a plea. “Are you working for the para-military agencies?”

Salar’s eyes widened. He cleared his throat, and rubbed his fingers, to make himself look casual.

“The Indian Agencies? For god’s sake Maha, come back to your senses.” His tone was suddenly neutral.

“Don’t tell me I am wrong or mistaken. It’s the only explanation. Why was that Assault Rifle under your bed? What—what are you hiding from us?” Her voice began to rise.

“You know me too well to ask such a question.” Salar looked at the ceiling. Cold sweat beaded down his forehead. He couldn’t tell whether it was the fever or the tense situation that made his condition worsen.

“Answer me, instead of presenting riddles. Tell me, why was that rifle in your room?”

Salar felt like he was being thrown into a fire that threatened to burn the curtain of his secrets in ashes.

“Don’t you know what those agencies do to us? How can you side with them? Do you have no conscience? How could you betray your own people?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he growled loudly. “Stop blaming me for nothing.”

Maha could not believe him. “Why are you lying?” She shook her head vigorously, the small hooped earring in her ears ringing back and forth. “I need the answer to my questions if you aren’t working for them.” She challenged.

He let a few seconds of a heavy silence die between them. And then he realized that Maha was still waiting for an explanation.“I am not accountable to you,” he managed.

“You’re not accountable to me?” she threw up her hands, the movements forcing a few strands of hair to slip out of the coil. “If not me, then you are completely accountable to your people, Salar Kashmiri. The people and the land which is occupied by the people you have started to favor.”

 “I can’t tell you, Maha. I will not tell you.” He finally said, attempting to completely close the chapter.

But Maha Burhan Kashmiri wasn’t coming down slow. “What do you mean you can’t tell me? Salar, what are you trying to—?”

“I told you I can’t tell you yet. So let it be.”

“Let it be?” She echoed. “How can I let it be? Are you in your sane mind? My brother has an Indian Assault rifle under his bed and you’re telling me to be quiet? What has happened to you, Salar? This isn’t you! This is not the Salar I remember, how could you do such a thing, how could you side with them? I don’t understand—”

“Be quiet.” He snapped at her, his voice high-pitched. “Stop accusing me of things you don’t know. I am aware of what is wrong and what is right, more than you do. So you better stay silent.”

She looked like she was about to tear up. Maha couldn’t remember the last time Salar screamed or yelled at her like that. Salar Kashmiri was her soft-hearted, affectionate, chivalrous brother. Salar Kashmiri was the one who would help the old woman crossing the roads, and make kites for orphan children. But who was this man? She couldn’t make sense of anything.

Maha turned around, covering her mouth with a hand, muffling the choking sounds, and made her way out of the room. She was crying.

 “Maha please—” He called after her. “You need to have faith in me. I know what I’m doing and…”

He had no intention to break his sister’s heart. He wished he could take back the words he had just said. What am I supposed to tell you? Can you not see how helpless I am in this case? But, deep down in his heart, he knew there would come a day when he had to break this news to her.

 “I don’t want to talk to you.” she snapped. And stomped out of the room, sobbing.

Salar wanted to scream his frustration out. It was just him now, with four empty walls.

 

3

Maha Burhan Kashmiri
Anantnag

I shouldn’t have gone out of the room like that. 

Maha was pacing the kitchen, in big strides, as she restlessly heard Salar puke. It had been an hour since she had left him, and in those 60 minutes Salar had thrown up at least 5 times. She had searched all the cabinets in the house for medicine, but she could find none. It was 2:00 a.m. and the whole house echoed with Salar’s guttural moans.

Who in the fresh hell told you to go out in the rain?

Maha didn’t talk to him even once after their little episode. Salar tried to talk to her, and she had ignored him until he had finally given up. The tears had dried against her cheeks. She had quietly sobbed in a corner of the kitchen, thinking about all the memories she had of Salar, thinking about his rebellious self, and what he had committed now. Maha knew she had to talk about this to Taimur.

Not now, not today. But as soon as Salar went, she would tell all of it to Taimur, and he would know how to deal with his brother. Maybe she was just imagining it? Maybe it was just a misunderstanding? Maybe Salar was just faking it? She refused to believe that her brother could fall that low. But the way Salar had reacted to her accusations, the way he had screamed at her, the way he was acting strange all of a sudden was unpredictable.

Salar’s vomiting had finally stopped.

Maha pulled out a new tissue roll from the drawer and went to his room. She placed it on the table, making it a point not to make eye contact with him in any case.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

Maha quickly walked out of the room.

When will Taimur come?

Taimur could buy medicine for Salar from the pharmacy, and if he found it safe for Maha to come, maybe she could go with him. And tell him about Salar on the way. If only he’d come on time.

She heard a knock on the door. 

Excellent timings. I was just thinking about you.

Maha opened the front door for her brother. Taimur was standing in the doorway, offering a wry smile to Maha, the black umbrella in his gloved hands. His breathing was heavy because of the layers of coats and sweaters he was wearing, and it formed small puffs of air. He looked tired and weary. He had a tough day at the shop, probably. Taimur worked in several shops as an accountant. 

Maha smiled back. She opened the door wider, so he could step in and peek out. The rain had stopped, and we could go to the pharmacy, she thought, and wordlessly greeted him, taking the umbrella from his hands, and putting it away.

“Why are you still awake?” he glanced at his watch, “Dear God, it's 2 a.m., Maha.” He was hanging the coat on the stand and taking off his gloves, finger by finger.

Maha frowned. “Salar is very sick.” She informed.

“Why? What happened to him?” He raised his brows.

Should I tell you the whole story right now? Should I tell you what your brother has been doing?

“He has a bad fever. He’s been in the rain all day, with a broken umbrella and a soggy red shirt.”

Taimur let out an incoercible laugh. “Soggy red shirt? I’m sure he stole mine.” He chuckled darkly.

“Not funny, bhai,” Maha said. “Not a bit funny. He’s been vomiting for at least an hour now.”

Taimur stopped laughing.

“Really? I better see him.” He said, and walked to Salar’s room, in his cream-colored cashmere sweater and jeans.

Maha followed him.

When Taimur entered the room, Salar gave him a feverish wave. “Before you start saying something, let me tell you, I’m fine,” Salar rasped.

Taimur sat down on the chair beside him.

“Before you say something else, let me tell you, I’m not blind. I can see how well you are.” He pointed at Salar’s blankets. “By the way, why did you go out in the rain?” He asked, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Had some work,” Salar said. A well-practiced lie. Nonetheless, Taimur didn’t question him, because there was no point arguing with Salar, the stubborn.

Maha rolled her eyes. Let’s talk about the pharmacy? Shall we?

Taimur turned his eyes to Maha. “Did you give him something warm?” he asked.

Maha nodded and returned her gaze to the floor when she saw that Salar was looking at her. “He had warm milk. But it didn’t help.”

Taimur was now thoughtful. “What about medicine? Aspirin?”

Now you’re getting to the point. “There is no medicine in the house.” She said.

“Oh.” Taimur frowned. “I thought we had medicine.”

“It’s finished,” Maha repeated.

“It doesn’t matter Taimur. It will go away by itself. You two should go to sleep because—“ Salar began.

“Please shut up.” Taimur pasted a fake smile. Salar rolled his eyes skywards.

“Maha, what date is it?” he asked. Maha didn’t see that question coming. She furrowed her brow.

“Date?” She made a face. “What do you want to do with the date?”

Taimur awkwardly cleared his throat, “Just asking. Just like that.”

“December 8th.” Maha leaned against the doorframe.

“8th December.” Taimur echoed, muttering something else under his breath, deeply submerged in his thoughts. Maha couldn’t catch what he was saying, but it seemed like serious stuff. She fought back the urge to lean closer and listen to him.

“December 9th.” Salar piped up, jolting Taimur from his thoughts, “Technically December 9th, it’s past 12:00.”

“The same thing,” Maha muttered under her breath.

“Not the same thing, there is a difference between 8th  December and 9th December.”

“Whatever.”

Taimur looked from Salar to Maha, then Maha to Salar.

“Did you two get in a fight or something?” He asked, shaking his head, trying to mask his smile.

“No.” both of them said in unison, catching each other’s gaze by accident, and looking away instantly, ashamed for different reasons.

“I can see.” Taimur was still pressing a fist to his mouth, his pearl-grey eyes full of amusement. Taimur wasn’t like Salar. He was leaner and wasn’t muscular. Not as good-looking too. And not ugly too. Just ordinary in looks. 

Very funny, Maha thought, giving Taimur a sharp gaze.

“Yes, uh,” He straightened his spine and ran a hand through his 3-inch black hair. “We were talking about your medicine.”

Salar slapped his forehead. “Go to sleep.” He moaned.

“Maha, are you sleepy? Let’s get it from the pharmacy.” He said.

Yes, please! She opened her mouth to say something but Salar cut her in.

“No, Taimur.” He said, sitting upright all of a sudden.

Taimur looked irritated. “Why not?” He asked.

“The curfews are to resume from 9th December, you know it. You shouldn’t take her with you, it’s not safe, the soldiers must be—“

“It’s completely safe.” Maha snapped. “Besides, the soldiers don’t do anything to you until and unless you do something to them. They don’t bother you just like that.” 

“Taimur bhai, let’s go.” She made sure her tone sounded annoying.

“Maha you don’t understand.” Salar was talking to her this time, but Maha didn’t spare a glance in his direction. She was looking at Taimur who was staring at the door, thinking about something Maha badly wanted to know. “The soldiers do not care about anyone. They are supposed to make arrests, whether they are valid or not. The curfew is very strict this time because of the protests. They’re dragging people to Khanabal Camp, you can’t go there,” he said but Taimur was already up.

“Let’s go Maha,” he said, despite Salar’s speech. “I need to go to Farhan’s house, he borrowed money from me and I need to get it back. In the meantime, you can change.” He said, searching his pockets for his bike’s keys.

“Okay.” Maha smiled.

“Taimur.” Salar was speaking now. “Do not take her with you. I swear this is not going to be good. She might get hurt. You and I have gone out on curfews, but she hasn’t. She doesn’t know how to deal with the soldiers, and the god-damn medicine isn’t as important as her life. You need to stop and—“