by Musaib Khaleel Wani

All it began with the thundering gunshots while nature was painting night into day and hiding it behind the bright layers of light. I heard the booming sounds and it made me feel exhausted as if I was running through the bushes and a monster was chasing me. Everytime a bullet left the barrel, I thought it’s going to hit my chest and make my   blood flow down my body soaking me into it.  Unrest in me atom by atom took my soul out, I was dead while I was alive.

I woke up confused lit my Lalteen went up to the cowshed to get some fuel wood down to cook for my family. I was hiding and tip toeing slowly for the reasons unknown. I prepared tea for family without letting my utensils clank. I was intimidated to death. The rattling sounds made my children wake-up earlier than usual. I saw my daughter Humaira frightened, having no question in her mind as it has become a daily thing. Zuhaib her elder brother embraced her put his hand on her head and said, “Beni mei khoch”-don’t be afraid sister. Humaira rested her head in his lap, took deep breaths and slowed down the lubb, dupp of her heart. The nervous voice of the mullah was reverberating in all the directions obviously, we didn’t pay heed to what he was talking about. My husband held both Humaira and Zuhaib in a wide embraces in his hairy brown robust arms. I watched them with my water-filled eyes and wished to slice my chest into two place them in and stitch it back in no time.

It was 7 am when everyone came out of their houses including children to fight. Youth took to streets, covering their faces and started pelting stones to get the fighters out of the encounter sight. Every house was empty except to that of mine because Zuhaib was adamant on going out so I had to lock him in a room. Most of the times I used to scold Zuhaib when he insisted to go out on occasions like these. I would say trying to cajole him that “how can I let you go out, you are the noor of my eyes.” I knew letting him go out can have worse consequences on us besides no parent wants their children to be  a stonepelter. Zuhaib fought hard but could not win me. I locked him in but kept a watch on him through the window. Walking restlessly around  the room he  finally landed  as a Helicropter does after buzzing for a while. He kept a pillow on his knees and a book of biology in his hand – pretending to read but his mind was wandered somewhere else. Zuhaib wanted to  be a doctor though conflict hit his studies hard.

The ongoing encounter took a longtime as the suspicous house was located in congestion, it became difficult for the forces to trace it. I looked at the wall clock as it struck 2:00 pm and every nook and corner of our village was filled with dust ,tear gas and smoke. It reminded me of winters when the fog takes our village into its  fold and our view is  limited . I peeped through the  window, waited until the smoke passed by and what I saw was  houses gutting in fire and its flames touching the sky. A tear drop crawled out of  my eye, flowed down my cheek  and I saw everything around me  mourning and saying , “basti basti wairan wairan , kitna sasta khoon”.I took a look around the house saw the   streets deserted,   houses empty , hue and  cry everywhere. My eyes rested on some armed men wearing earth coloured uniforms, holding long wooden and plastic sticks with them. They were furious making tik-tok sounds on the ground. They matched Mongols in my imagination. Without entering the gate or without directing me to open it, they jumped over the walls kicked the front gate and barged into my house. Some of them were breaking  windows and glass panes. I could not understand anything or what is going on and why. They dragged my son Zuhaib out of his room ,I held his left sleeve tightly and in a nano second or two I was left with an empty torn sleeve in my hand. They started beating him ruthlessly while I followed them here ,there and everywhere. My husband was screaming at me telling me to stop compelling them and that they will let him go. Then suddenly a gun shot lit our ‘Aangan’ like a fire cracker making a deafening sound. The bullet had hit zuhaib’s chest and baptised him in his own blood, made his soul fly above the mountains which reverberated with the high pitched slogans.

I was transfix to the ground while all his blood spilled on the ground it reached and touched my toes. A part of me was spilling on the ground, A part of me was dying that moment and an unfathomable incessant pain was taking birth that moment. I lost my senses when I saw my lone son dying in front of me and  the only thing  I could do was watch him dying. He did not ask me for help for he knew I was as helpless as was he. He planted his gaze on me , questioning  me why didn’t I let him go earlier and that he could have fought with them and died as fearless man, as a freedom fighter. I something times ask my self did I actually stop him or did I let him go. Years have passed by and it feels we had just met. I think of that moment as a moment before this one.

All I know is the dawn that fills many people with enthusiasm haunts me. The coming of mornings scare me and the afternoons choke me to death. Everything from that day puts me in trepidation.

About the Author: 

Musaib Khaleel Wani hails from Kulgam, Kashmir and is pursuing B.A in English Literature from govt degree college Bijbehra, Anantnag.