The Pan or the Fire

(2000 HRS)

You Only Live Twice.

——James Bond

WHEN JAVED OPENED his eyes it was pitch dark. He guessed it must be around eight in the night, which meant he had been unconscious for the last three hours or so. He felt a throbbing pain in his right leg and a quick check confirmed the bullet had smashed his ankle bone. He knew that if he didn’t get medical attention soon, he would die. Clenching his teeth and summoning great will power, Javed managed to pull himself erect on his one good foot and began the painful ordeal to find help. A motorable jungle track, built by the forest department for transporting timber, ran barely an hour from where he now stood. But it took him another three hours to go down cross-country before he dragged himself and flopped down on the road, completely spent. His clothes torn, body lacerated and bruised, Javed Jabbar was as close to death by exhaustion as a man can be. The will to survive however, still flickered strong in the ex-barber.

But luck seemed to be on his side. A short while later, a forest department truck collecting timber came down on its way to Kuligam, where the department had their depot. In the headlight, the driver saw a badly wounded man lying prone across the track and his first thoughts were that the person had perhaps been mauled by a leopard. The man was conscious and the driver and his partner carried him down to a couple of unused shepherd huts. They made him comfortable, covered him with a shawl, bandaged his foot crudely with a handkerchief, lit a fire in the corner and propped his weapon next to him. The man then asked them to go down to Varno village to fetch a doctor.

At two in the morning, Major Hari Haran, company commander Kuligam post, was woken up from his sleep by the sentry on duty. The frightened driver and his partner were ushered in.

‘A wounded mujahid, you say?’ asked a still sleepy Harry. ‘Strange. We’ve had no contact and no other army unit could be operating in our area. Are you certain it was a gunshot wound?’

‘Jenab, he has a gun and is in bad shape,’ said the driver. ‘He can’t possibly walk. He is waiting for us to get him the doctor. We have told you the place sir, can we go home now?’

‘No you can’t,’ said Harry. ‘Well done, but the job is only half complete. He is waiting for the doctor and the doctor will arrive in your truck. To walk will take another two hours.’ ‘Sahib,’ Harry addressed the subedar standing in the corner, ‘give them a cup of tea and get ten men ready. Unload the timber from the truck and tell Bobby sahib to rise and shine. Departure in the next twenty minutes.’

From the dispensary at Khurama, the road swings north along the riverbed and turns into a potholed dirt track. In forty minutes, they arrived at the stream crossing and eight men got off with orders to walk up the stream and cover the huts from the south. Bobby and Harry continued in the truck. The driver was instructed to keep the engine running and the two of them walked down towards a hut where a fire could be seen flickering through the cracks in the wooden wall. Both the officers were wearing shalwar kameez and phirans.

Lady luck, it seemed, had deserted Javed once again and was intent on playing a cruel game of Lolab roulette. He was lying with his head resting on a log next to the fire, dozing in and out of sleep, when he heard the truck. His hopes went up and he thanked Allah. In his weakened state he saw two men enter with weapons. While one of them kicked his rifle away, the other scooped him up and turned him around. In a jiffy, his hands were tied behind his back. It had happened so fast that he was not even sure whether it was real or if he was hallucinating in his current condition.

He saw the two strangers looking down at him with an amused but bored sort of expression. Javed’s first thought was they were Sher Khan’s men, but then the tall one with the beard spoke and Javed’s innards shrank, for he had heard the voice many times on the radio and knew immediately that it belonged to the major at Kuligam. It was the army this time.

‘Asalaam-walekum,’ said Harry. ‘You asked for a doctor and we got here as soon as possible.’ There was a brief pause. ‘From an initial inspection, your state is not good, but don’t worry. As a doctor, let me tell you,’ and he looked deeply into Javed’s eyes, ‘it’s going to get worse, brother.’

And at that, both men laughed. ‘Treating a mujahidin,’ he continued, ‘is like mind over matter. I don’t mind and you don’t matter.’ More laughter followed.

The two were clearly enjoying themselves and from their behaviour, Javed knew he could expect no mercy. His course was run and his time drawing near. The only hope was to somehow manage a swift death. He definitely could stand no more pain. Something told him that to lie and beg for clemency would be useless.

‘Right,’ said the tall man, making himself comfortable next to the fire while the other stood leaning against the wall. ‘We are all honourable people in this hut and call ourselves soldier. Soldiers of Allah or soldiers of a nation, but soldiers all the same. So let’s speak the truth. Any deviation from the truth and I will know and it shall fetch you exquisite pain.’

Harry picked up a burning twig from the fire and lit Javed’s long beard. There was a spark, a sizzle, and a simmering glow appeared at the end of his fast diminishing beard. The embers extinguished before they could reach his chin, and an acrid smell of burnt hair filled the small hut.

‘Start with your name and bring us up to date of how you happen to have presented yourself to us on a platter.’

Javed paused for some time to collect his thoughts and then gave out his name. There was a moment of silence as both the officers exchanged a look and Bobby viciously kicked his broken ankle.

‘The barber, or someone with a similar name?’ he asked, as Javed winced in pain and tried to move his injured leg out of Bobby’s reach.

‘The barber, jenab.’

‘Talk about luck! Look at him—with his bloody reputation, one would expect a larger than life figure and what do we have here! With this kind of a build you should have stuck to cutting hair!’ exclaimed Harry, examining the razor they had found in his pocket. ‘You still like carrying the tools of your last profession don’t you? Really Javed, minus your weapon you are such a nice man that we can actually have a decent conversation now. So how long have you been a militant or a mujahid, whichever is politically correct, depending on which side of the fence one stands?’

‘Hazoor, I should be completing four winters,’

‘You see, Bobby?’ and Harry switched to English, ‘some wise guy has calculated that the average life of an active militant is about four years. This guy is just about there.’

‘You bet sir, so he is a good militant then. You hear that Javed, you are good mujahid. Shabash!’ answered Bobby, patting Javed’s dirty matted hair, as one would a dog.

‘And a battalion commander in four years,’ continued Harry. ‘He is a career militant! A pity his innings comes to an end.’

Javed didn’t understand the exchange in English between the two officers, but he knew they were talking about him.

‘Javed,’ said Harry, ‘you have done better than me in your profession. I am just a major in eleven years of hard service and look at you, a battalion commander in just four years!’

‘But, jenab,’ Javed tried a bit of servile flattery, ‘you are an officer who commands a regular company and highly paid in your job. I am just a small man, who out of necessity had to become a mujahid to earn a little money. If I had the same opportunities that you have had in your life, why would have I followed this path?’

The deep stare that Harry fixed on Javed made him wonder if his appeal had touched a sympathetic chord in the man. But a little later he felt uncomfortable under the gaze, especially with the cruel half smile that lingered more in the eyes than on Harry’s lips.

‘Javed Jabbar,’ Harry finally spoke. ‘Given better circumstances you would still have been a murderer and a bigger one at that.

The police profile and your reputation amongst the villagers confirm you as a bloody psychopath. Why do you still carry a razor, friend?’

‘On happy days,’ interjected Bobby, ‘he probably gives his mates a shave to stay in practice. Maybe he plans to run an upmarket salon, when all this jehad nonsense is over.’ Both the officers chuckled.

They sat in silence except for the odd question to verify facts, while Javed narrated the story up until his arrival in the hut.

‘The rest you know, sir,’ he continued, ‘I was in any case going to pass on information about Sher Khan’s departure to you. The third week of this month, between the fifteenth to the eighteenth, has moonless nights and the attempt to cross will be during that time. They plan to use the Rang route. Bagalsor to Palpathri, leaving Kanzalwan and Bagtor to the right. Then they will hit the Naushera nar and cross over into POK. A Gujjar by the name of Hathkari is the guide and I have paid him to lead the group till Palpathri. He will make sure they arrive at night and thereafter he will desert. Sher Khan is yours for the taking.’

‘And how can we trust you? Who knows, you may be leading us into a trap.’ Bobby piped up.

‘Jenab, if your firing standards had been better in Shumrial, you would have practically wiped out militancy in the Lolab,’ he answered sarcastically. ‘There were nearly twenty mujahids in the village that day and five or six were senior commanders including Sher Khan. Incidentally, that information was provided by me.’

‘How many in the group?’ asked Bobby

‘I don’t know…Three or four maybe. Hathkari might take a young lad along, who he is training as a guide. I could take you till Palpathri—I have a score to settle with Sher Khan.’

‘No thanks,’ said Bobby. ‘You are like a blind grenade, completely unpredictable, and who the hell will keep an eye on you all along? In any case, every Gujjar and his dog in north Lolab, knows the way to Palpathri.’

‘Are we carrying any tea Bobby? Just tell someone to get a cup for him too and something to eat.’

Javed’s hands were untied and he hauled himself up on one elbow to drink his tea noisily. He devoured a handful of glucose biscuits, the crumbs littering his half burnt beard as the two men sat quietly and watched the last human actions of a dead man. It’s always sad to watch life extinguished, especially human and if the condemned man conducts himself with dignity, it does lend a certain poignant grace to the setting.

‘Right,’ Harry spoke, as Javed finished the last drags of his tea. ‘Are you a good Muslim, the kind who prays five times a day?’

Javed nodded, uncertain about where the line of questioning was leading.

‘Then tell me honestly, what you would have done, if you had me in a similar situation. And be honest, for unlike what you see in the movies, nothing that you say will be held against you in the court of law. This is the court and I am the judge and the jury and the verdict…Well, it has already been decided.’

Javed could feel the shadow of death very near. He had fought hard to live. Tired and in pain, he now gave up. He knew he had to bow to the will of Allah some time, and if one had to go, then one might as well speak the truth and go in style.

‘Jenab,’ answered Javed without hesitation, ‘You see the razor in your hand? I would have used it to slit your throat.’

‘Glad you spoke the truth, Javed, ‘replied Harry, showing no surprise. ‘If you had lied and told me anything else, I had decided to test the razor and instead of the kalma, I would have recited the gayatri mantra1. That would have had you kicked out of jannat for sure. But I will keep my promise and be merciful. You have five minutes to say your namaz.’

‘I had already recited my kalma when you caught me. I am ready, jenab.’

Harry, looking at the man, couldn’t but marvel at his composure in the face of death. He wondered if he would have acquitted himself in a similar fashion. What was going on in the man’s head?

‘Javed, do you have any regret about turning a militant, now that you are about to die? If you had followed a more peaceful path, maybe you would have been married with kids. There must be some remorse at this early death.’

‘None,’ answered Javed, looking Harry straight in the eye. ‘It was Allah’s desire that I become a mujahid and it was written that I die at your hand. The woman who could have been the mother of my children is already with Allah.’

‘Get up then and sit in a kneeling position, facing the corner.’

‘You shoot a mujahid in the front and not in the back, jenab,’ answered Javed.

‘Can’t but admire your style. For a hajam2, you make a good militant. Pity you are fighting on the wrong side,’ said Harry, kneeling in front of him. ‘Any messages for any one?’ In a whisper, he asked about the Gujjar woman with Sher Khan.

‘She is his woman, jenab and plans to cross over into Pakistan with him. Promise me you will get Sher Khan for what he did to me and have no pity. Kill that bitch too.’

1 A rhyme from Rig Veda.

2 Barber.

The nine millimetre Beretta bullet fired at point blank range, made a neat hole in the forehead and splattered his brains on the soot blackened wall behind. Strangely, Javed didn’t collapse immediately but shuddered a few time, before keeling over, his head hitting the fire with a thud. Blood and brains sizzled and roasted and the smell of burning flesh and hair filled the cabin. Both the officers with expressionless faces looked on for some time, and then, tossing the razor into the fire, the two walked out.