Broken Ice

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That year winter had set in early and it looked like the sun was on a long
sabbatical. Early mornings at this time have a grayish tinge to them; everything
including the air is still; puddles of last night are covered with a thin crust of ice;
and icicles, long and sharp, hang from the corners of thatched roofs. But all this
wouldn’t deter Showkat, wide eyed, fair and skinny boy of eleven, from walking
down to the bakery to buy four lavasas for the family breakfast. It had taken
them long since the death of Ramazan, his father, to have four proper meals a
day. Ramazan was an expert at thrashing walnuts, a task that requires great
athletic skill and concentration. But on that fateful day he was caught off guard
by the loud sound of a blast and gunfire, the shock making him lose his grip and
life too. After that Showkat’s elder brother and sister left school midway. Zubair
now worked at a shop in Sopore and Gulshan had learnt weaving carpets apart
from assisting their mother Fahmida in the fields.

On his way to the bakery Showkat, red nosed by now, enjoyed breaking the
sheets of ice with a stick in hand. He liked to hear the crisp sound it made and
feel the cracks spread under his rubber shoes. At his age innocence is
unadulterated and the spirit to explore small pleasures still alive. Ahad Kak, the
baker, wore a worn out conical cap to cover his bald patch and a pleasant nature
to cover his not so happy past. His repertoire of anecdotes and stories matched
his fifty plus years and with these he garnished the loaves of bread. But
nowadays only a few people sat to listen to his stories which were also now
mostly about crackdown in the neighbouring villages, the gun battle in the town
and whispers about the boy who had crossed over to become a mujahid. Now he
would only remove one panel of the darkened wood shutters to protect against
the cold and any unwanted attention.

Invariably Showkat would be his first customer of the day and he liked the
cheerful disposition of the boy. The boy was fascinated with the light glowing
from the pit of the tandoor, its warmth and even the musty smell. Amma mot,
the village lunatic would also come and sit in sometimes. Many in the village
believed he was a dervish with spiritual powers and often asked him to bless
their kids and help them get over their problems. He would always oblige.

That morning, Showkat reached the bakery a little late. He hadn’t been able to
sleep properly after Zubair told him about Prince, the neighbour’s son who had
returned as a mujahid. Showkat was curious and wanted to know how a mujahid
looked like and behaved, even though he had seen Prince wander around the
village all his life. But now he was a hero, the whole village would be talking
about him, he carried a kalshinkof which in Showkat’s imagination made him
invincible. All the thoughts had made him toss and tumble in his bed the whole
night.

Ahad Kak was worried, he felt there would be a crackdown in the village soon
and wished Prince had been more circumspect about his return to the village. He
had heard about crackdowns where the whole village men would be made to
assemble in the fields and paraded before masked informers. Sometimes military
would take away few of them only to return them with bruised self – esteem and
bodies. Showkat only worried about not being able to play the cricket match, if
there was a crackdown. Childhood is unencumbered by other conflicts of the
world, those invented by the grown-ups.
So when they heard the grunting sound of the army trucks outside, Ahad Kak
could feel beads of cold sweat on his forehead. When the vehicle stopped outside
and a soldier appeared at the door one could hear a loud thud coming from his
chest. Even though there was no crackdown, being accosted by a soldier rattled
Ahad Kak. Showkat had to translate the request for a cup of tea him. Satpal
Singh, was in his mid forties, his handle bar moustache contradicted by the
serene look of his eyes. Placing the gun carefully in his lap, he sat on the ledge of
the shop sipping the hot noon chai along with the assortment of kulchas and
bakirkhanis that Ahad Kak had quickly managed to put on the tray. Showkat’s
eyes had grown ever wider with curiosity; he had never seen a soldier so up
close, real and human. When Satpal asked him his name, and pronounced it back
with a little stretch Shookaat, the ice had broken between them. He wanted to
know if the gun was a kalshinkof, Satpal good-naturedly told him to worry about
his cricket bat instead. He told him that he also had a son, Arjun who was a little
older than Showkat, perhaps a little taller too. He was talking through memory
having seen him more than a year back, the yearning in his voice was palpable.
Ahad Kak who had by now regained his composure partly, watched suspiciously.
After a while he picked the courage to tell Showkat to run back home, as his
mother would be waiting.

For the next many days Showkat would spend a lot of time with Satpal, telling
him about his heroics in cricket, the few friends he had and inundating him with
his insatiable curiosity. Satpal would in turn tell him about the world outside; of
places that Showkat hadn’t heard of; of his village in Rajasthan; of the desert
where the sun showed its prowess, mercilessly; of how he hoped Arjun would
study to become a collector and his daughter got married into a good family. He
would tell Showkat to also study hard and make something out of his life
because that was the only salvation for the poor. A few times Showkat would get
some walnuts from home and share it with him and Satpal would read letters
from home to him. Even Ahad Kak had started feeling that Satpal wasn’t like the
rest of the uniformed men but his doubts stayed. On days when he wasn’t there,
Showkat would come searching a few times a day and whenever there was talk
of a gun battle he would think of Satpal, his son and the all hopes he carried. The
instincts of a father and the longing for one had started to coalesce.

It wasn’t that Showkat was immune to what was happening around; Zubair would
often feed him with happenings in the town, as he added new words to his
vocabulary – curfew, aazadi, interrogation, mukhbir, torture, shaheed and many
such. News kept trickling in, news about the massacre of fifty people at
Gawkadal, about the mass rapes in a distant village in Kupwara, about an ex-
politician who was hung, about more boys crossing over, about somebody’s
kidnapping. War has its way of cutting short childhood, turning dreams into
nightmares, imagination into jaded ideology. War also has a way of simplifying
choices, you are either on this side or you are on the other, there is no midway.

Showkat and Satpal still met, even though it was for lesser time and the
conversations were more about banal things. Sometimes Ahad Kak would also
join them, the worry lines on his forehead had grown deeper and more intricate.
He would often not come out of his house, in his own way he was trying to close
the door to the winds blowing outside.

After the Friday prayers Showkat was very restive, passions usually flew as the
village head sermonized about fighting the enemy; about saving the honor of
daughters and sisters and about valour filled with all the relevant historical
references. Showkat was unable to comprehend the conflict brewing inside him.
For now he was able to banish the thought of seeing Satpal as one from the
other side. The notions of freedom, sacrifice, suppression and such are yet to be
understood by his age but those of human bonds and love are.

Satpal often appeared to be in a pensive mood and sometimes exhausted also.

His unit had been involved in many operations of late. In one of the fights two of
his men had got serious injuries. In another they had shot down two militants,
barely eighteen year old boys; a sudden sadness had overtaken him at that
moment, his thoughts had wandered towards Showkat. He felt revulsion towards
his helplessness, his inconsequential existence and being overpowered by the
oppressive shadow of death.

Darkness descends very early during the winter and nowadays few dared to
venture out late. With nothing much to keep himself busy, Showkat was already
half – asleep when he heard rapid footsteps in tandem. His heart leaped when he
heard gunfire soon after, first the intermittent knocking of a Kalashinkov and
then the stutter of a machine gun. More knocks and more stuttering followed.
Suddenly the neighbourhood was swathed in sharp white light, almost making it
look naked. The sounds went on for many hours, for a while there was absolute
silence and then a wail went up tearing the skies. Prince was killed, martyred. It
was the darkest night in the village and the longest; no one slept or went home.
Ahad Kak, was shattered, the turmoil of his fifty years had returned, his only son
had died at a young age in an accident. Restlessness occupied Showkat, as tears
rolled incessantly.

At dawn the police jeep came, the four constables carried Prince and left him in
the courtyard on the bench covered with a layer of snow. With a broken tooth
and the distorted face, he did not resemble the handsome face that had walked
the streets with a teenage swagger. He was barely twenty two. A few hours later
he was buried. Disbelief was followed by anguish and then the outrage. Someone
picked up the first stone and hit the police jeep. More followed and the rifle butts
answered. One of them struck Amma mot; he hit the ground muttering
something and then the last word...Allah. The destiny’s orphan belonged to
everyone in his death. Fear could not longer bridle the fury that followed.

The sequence of events had completely insulated the two worlds of Showkat and
Satpal from each other. The sat on the edges of an emotional fault line.

On the fourth day after the death of Prince and Amma mot, people started
coming in from the adjoining villages for the fateha, the prayer for the departed.
The calm was fragile as the soldiers lined up near the burial ground. People had
started assembling, suddenly there was a commotion, a slogan went up and
people joined in, cries for freedom resonated across. Satpal was fighting hard to
restrain his feeling when he saw Showkat from the distance in the front. Again
someone swung the first stone. This time it was Showkat. The crowd pushed
ahead throwing stones, with-standing the teargas shells. Showkat led the way,
till he saw Satpal as their moist eyes met. Showkat froze, his hands were
shivering, in the cacophony he could only hear only one sound, his own crying,
his hands wouldn’t let go of the stone and his heart wouldn’t let him hurl it. And
then almost on an impulse he swung his arm and hit the stationary jeep. The
lines had been drawn.
Satpal felt abandoned and wanted to withdraw to the vacuum. He wanted to
undo everything; love, care, life. There was an order to fire. The metal touched
the skin. But he could feel nothing. He saw Arjun running towards him, to save
him, to protect him. Orders were shouted again – Satpal Singh Fire. Everything
was opaque and dark now. A shot was fired and the air went still again.