“The Heaviest Burden that a Man Carries”

Shashi Kadapa

Art of Creative Unity Award 2020 | First Prize


The blast flung me back against the table just as I reached to grab him. When the dust settled, the terrorist Abdul Ahmad had disappeared and months of surveillance was gone, like the mist that disappears with the sun.

***

My name is Major Hari Prasad, commanding a counter insurgency operations unit of the Indian Army in Kashmir. There is mutual suspicion between us and the local Muslims, often unfounded. Locals consider all soldiers as aggressors, and we regard all locals as potential militants. 

Who would kill who and when. That was the psychological terror and war that hounded us. This was the occasion for healing and trust. However, there was no healer or trust.

***

The small teashop where I sat was crowded, and I closely watched my target. Our unit was hunting a spy ring and terrorist group. My informant had tipped me off that Abdul, the master planner would visit the tea shop.

The bustle, the clattering of pots and the chatter of people rang in the background. The locals gossiped, uncaring about the terror that engulfed the valley. Hot steaming tea was poured into large glasses, and people blew the misty fragrance, spreading fine pungent aroma in the shop. 

My target was almost within reach now. I leaned back on the rickety bench, trying to look casual, and blend with the crowd. He was close and I tensed, waiting, my legs coiled to spring. 

As I reached out to grab him, a bomb exploded in the adjacent building. 

The blast flung me back and as I lay in the rubble, my target, Abdul Ahmad, the suspected planner and handler, disappeared. Gone in an instant was months of intensive surveillance that our team had put up. I got up, dusted my clothes, and walked stared at the ruins.

The bomber had been through in his work and had placed the device near a grocery and a butcher shop. Indian troops, their families, and local Kashmiris frequented the stores. Torn limbs and bloodied bodies mingled with mutton pieces from the butchers shop, and it was difficult to make out one bloodied limb from another. 

Strangers were reaching out to help the wounded, gently wiping away the blood, bearing their sorrows and burden in silence. The bereaved lamented in gut wrenching shrieks, a dear one, had passed away, and leaving empty names in memories. This was life of in terror struck Kashmir, to live in constant fear and sorrow. No words of healing, no soothing the psyche.

***

Home grown terrorists and from our neighboring country, stone pelters, and conniving politicians was the bane of the society. I was fed up with the increasing brazenness of these people. It was getting difficult to differentiate between a peace loving Kashmiri and a terrorist.  

An old man we had rounded up in one of the interrogation drives had summed up their taqdeer or fate.

“Sahib, we the Qomain, people do not believe in this violence. We are Muslims, peaceful people. We pray to Allah, we love our forests, the mountains, our Shikaras, and the rivers. We seek aman, peace. If we do not support the terrorists, we are hunted, if we support them, then the army persecutes us.”

Raging in anger he continued. “Worst are the terrorists from the neighboring country who demand shelter in our home, then rape our women at gunpoint.”

Not much of a choice, I rued. While men fight, the innocents bleed and suffer, and this sad story repeated in many homes.

Long years in the army and constant exposure to violence had inured me to pain, suffering, and feelings. I had become insensitive, no different from my gun and only my duty and mission mattered. Target acquired and eliminated were the only words we wanted to hear. The human face and suffering of terror had dissolved away a long time back.

Jammu was under strict curfew and it was relaxed for a few hours daily to let the citizens buy groceries and medicines. This was a vulnerable time, when people scurried around, buying provisions, casting frightened looks at the police and at each other. 

Fear gripped the city, held it in its choking grasp; fear from fear, and from the trigger-happy soldiers. People stepped out only if they had to, and one was never sure if he would return home. As I said, everyone was psychologically strung, ready to snap into action.

Spring was a season when terror groups became active. My team was tracking a group of insurgents who had crossed over from the border and were heading for their handlers. They were intercepted after an encounter. Some were eliminated and others were our prisoners. Our commander wanted details of the local contacts that sheltered these terrorists.

Among the wounded was a native, who mentioned a few names that led to Abdul Hamid, and we were trying to track them down. The trail led to Tahra village then across the thawing Tawi River to Chilah, then Baljata and finally to the run down tea shop in Jammu where I was about to catch Abdul.

The trek through the snow-filled land and across the melting rivers and streams was very tiring. The local radicalized youths were cannon fodder for the terror module handlers. As we stopped under a stone outcrop, the ethereal beauty of the land struck me. 

Crystal clear rivers slipped under the frozen ice, sparkling and glinting from the thaw. Lofty snow covered mountains with fingers of trees peeked out, and the immense horizon was breathtaking. A man could live here forever in peace, and the beauty of the land held you. One never tired of looking at the mountains that thrust at the clouds and reached to the blue skies.     

Surveillance had shown that this seemingly harmless old Abdul Hamid was a carpenter who repaired houseboats and fixed other stuff. He carried a heavy sack and though troops had checked the bag many times, the contents were always chisels, saws, hammer, and other stuff that carpenters use. To us, this was a perfect cover. A carpenter could enter any house, meet anyone, and carry an innocuous bag openly.

More investigation unearthed some very sinister details. His two sons had turned extremists, and were killed in encounters with the troops. He lived with his family in the ghettos, where it was difficult to trace him. He had changed his residence, and it was clear that the death of his sons had turned the old man. We believed that he was helping them with logistics and information. 

We let him operate, marking down the homes, he visited and people with whom he drank tea. Gradually, a network was appearing. However, there were still gaps and we had to pick him up for interrogation. Then our luck played out and Abdul was gone in the bombing outside the tea shop.

The next two weeks were very vicious, with a spate of attacks and stone pelting that left the Kashmir valley shattered. Abdul was still in my mind as I stood with my troops, and helped to move the wounded. 

We used gestures of peace, tried to show that were not evil, that we wanted to heal. Some breakthrough and hope was being kindled. Trust and healing was needed.

***

It was a Friday morning when curfew was relaxed for a few hours and I was at a check post, when Abdul appeared. He was hurrying out from a cluster of shops, looking furtive, as he peeked over his shoulders and moved fast, trying to blend with the other shoppers, avoiding the police.

I quickly moved behind him as he hurried along. What caught my eye was his sack, which appeared heavier and he staggered from the weight. From the way he clutched it to his chest, and caressed the sack with his hands and cheek, it was clear that there was something valuable, perhaps a bomb. Too late, I realized that I had left my radio at the check post, and could not call for backup. 

Abdul walked on, and then stood on the highway, waiting for one of the few buses that were allowed on the road. He had become very desperate now, waving at any vehicle that drove up. I stood under a shop, shuddering at the bitter cold and the howling wind, which pierced my winter suit. 

Finally, a bus skidded to a halt, Abdul clambered inside, and I followed. He hugged his sack closer to his chest, trying to protect the contents from the jerks and swings of the uneven road. 

At one point, I managed to sit a few seats away from him, and I had a close look at him. Abdul was tall, lanky, old, tired, and it seemed that the recent bombings had aged him even more. 

His bearded face was lined, ravaged and haggard, the eyes red and weary, and it appeared he was either crying or the cold wind made the eyes water, as did mine. He seemed oblivious to the people around him, as he sat with the sack held close to his chest. 

The bus stopped when it neared Mansar Lake, a popular tourist spot, and he got down. Two men received him and they set off at a brisk pace marching up to the apple orchards. 

They approached a thick clump of trees, and it appeared to be a disused farm, with a few scraggly apple trees struggling in the snowy gloom. I peeped from behind a tree and saw that a pit had been dug and while the other two stood aside, Abdul had climbed in seemed to be placing something inside. 

Ha, I thought, he is hiding the bombs, perhaps for retrieval by others. I drew my gun and stepped out in the open to confront them.

***

Abdul climbed out and faced me. I looked over his shoulders and in the pit. I stood staring, unbelieving, stricken with what lay in the pit.

In the pit, lay the bodies of two children, a boy and girl, about three. The kafan or shroud was wound over their bodies, and I could see drops of blood that had seeped out staining the shroud

Even in death, they looked beautiful, as they slept the blissful sleep of the innocents. Death was content to take away their lives, and not their soul, which they old man held in his heart.

He walked a couple of steps, gestured at the pit and raised his hands.

“See Sahib,” sobbed Abdul “what they have done to my babies.”

Aghast, I stood I silence, lest my breath foul this moment.

“My grandchildren Sahib”, cried Abdul “my last hopes.”

“They had gone out to play when the curfew was relaxed. An escaping terrorist picked them up, to use them as hostages. He died, but he shot the babies in cold blood.” 

His shoulder shuddered from the deep sobs, as he gathered his breath. 

“Their mother does not know that her babies are dead Sahib”.

He broke down sobbing with the dry rasp of the deeply bereaved.

“She waits at the door, and stares out of the window muttering their names, hoping that each shriek of laughter are of her babies. I am afraid that she will go mad in a few days.”

He sobbed and wiped his eye on his sleeves. “Sahib, You know what is the heaviest weight that a man carries?”

He waited for a moment contemplating and deep in sorrow.

“It is when a father carries his son's and his grand children's bodies to the grave. When an old man does this, there is no heavier burden left in the world, Sahib.”

I stood silent unable to move or talk.

“I am not a terrorist Sahib,” he cried spreading out his work hardened palms. 

“I am a peace loving Kashmiri Muslim. I know you are following me since a few months, seeking clues and answers, to which I have none.”

He added with tears shuddering with his voice. “I am a poor carpenter. It is true that my two sons went astray, and they paid with their lives.”

He knelt down and his shoulders shuddered with sorrow, grief racking his body. 

Waving his arms at the orchards. “This is my ancestral land that my forefathers tended, before our watan, our land was reduced to a graveyard. I have come to bury my grandchildren, so that my ancestors, who are buried here, will look after them.” 

He stood silent for a moment then whispered. “Please leave me in peace.”

I watched in abject silence as Abdul bent down, sobbing out his prayers. It was an intensely personal moment, and I, an intruder, had no place here. This was a very brave man, and he deserved respect. 

He had carried the bodies of the babies in his sack for more than 100 kilometers, braving the danger of terrorists, troops, and the cold, so that the babies could rest in the land of their ancestors. 

The gun seemed out of place, like a sacrilege and insulted the innocents who had fallen to it. I hurriedly put it back.

After his prayers were over, he began intoning. 

“I pray that no mother wait at her door in vain for her children to return.” 

“Ameen”, whispered the two accomplices.

“I pray that our children stop killing each other, for the parents die when their child dies.”

“'Ameen”, they grunted.

“I pray that no father should carry his children’s body to the grave”.

“Ameen”, they chorused.

He raised his arms aloft and whispered “Allah the merciful, please bring peace to our land. Let no person die before you call him.”

I broke down then and started sobbing, long forgotten tears welled up, and a hoarse cry welled up from the lump in my throat. 

I went down on my knees and whispered “Ameen.”