THE CLOUDS HAD dispersed and the sun was ablaze in all its glory. Naseem was still sleeping in the Baba’s lap. His legs had stayed motionless for an eternity and he could feel the pins and needles in his feet. But he stayed still, willing himself to avoid any movement that might disturb the sleeping girl.
When Naseem finally opened her eyes, the Baba gave her the doting gaze of a loving mother and said, ‘Get up, my child. This is no time to sleep. The ones who have left this world have been spared our trials and tribulations. But we have to set our mind to getting out of this place and reaching a safe destination.’
Naseem’s eyes opened wide as she looked at the Baba. She thought that his words weren’t entering her mind through her ears. They were piercing her skin and reaching straight into the depths of her heart. Her soul, which had been traversing through valleys of great tranquillity, was summoned to return immediately to its moorings. The nightmarish scenes of the previous night began appearing before her eyes.
Naseem could hear a cacophony build inside her, each new voice exploding with the violence of a cannon. ‘My dear brother Aziz is dead … my older brother has also been killed … Rukman bhabi has been abducted … Bapu’s precious trunk, the one worth some twenty or twenty-five thousand rupees according to the Chaudhry, has been stolen … my own little trunk has also vanished…’
‘Please don’t cry, my child,’ Naseem felt the Baba’s trembling hand stroke her head. ‘What are you crying for, silly girl … No one in this world of ours belongs to anyone forever. The amount of time we are allotted with each other is already destined. That’s how this life is. We journey together for a while and then we go our separate ways. This world of ours … it’s like an inn on a roadside, my child. You meet, and you part. So put an end to this business of crying and bow your head before the Lord in submission. Submit to the Lord…’
‘Submit to the Lord!’ Naseem’s mind focused on that simple phrase. The Baba was still speaking but she didn’t hear anything else. Submit to the Lord. Those words seemed to rejuvenate something within her, giving her renewed energy and purpose.
A little while later, the Baba’s hand was leaning on Naseem’s shoulder for support and they were walking together. The Baba was matching his pace with Naseem’s and was saying something as they walked. But she was no longer paying attention. ‘Submit to the Lord.’ Those words were getting embossed loud and clear on her heart as she walked, her mind concentrating on the message and shutting out all distractions.
Her head was lowered as she walked. She was paying obeisance, not to some shrine made of bricks and mortar, but to one that was located in a distant spiritual realm. It wasn’t so long ago that a carefree old fakir passing by her home had shown her its location.
The Creator resides within you
Submit to the Lord, whatever you do…
She remembered the verses of the fakir as they echoed in the depths of her being. Somewhere along the way, they made their way to her lips and she was gently humming them as she walked.
After being shaken by the turmoil and tragedy of the recent past, Naseem felt her mind again being transported into a serene space. She had finally found a sense of stillness, a calm that had resolutely eluded her over the last few days. The fakir’s melodious verses were cleansing her heart; she sensed a dark cloud leave her body and float into the sky, carrying with it all the intense grief of losing loved ones and the profound fear of what the morrow might bring.
As she walked in the cave with the Baba, she felt a new lightness in her being. The weight of sorrow and fear had lifted, the sobs and sighs were replaced with a sense of anticipation. The despair in her eyes was replaced with a new resolve, the faltering steps had discovered a fresh wellspring of energy. When she lifted her head to look at the Baba, their eyes locked and their lips appeared to move in unison as they sang:
Let Allah o Allah be your song
And leave those sighs so painful and long
The Creator resides within you
Submit to the Lord, whatever you do…
Swaying gently to the rhythm of the melody, they made their way carefully through the cave. The pools of blood, the corpses spread-eagled across their path could neither halt their steps nor still their voices. They had transcended the reality of the cave even as it reeked of violence and death. They were in a realm of their own, floating away in a flying chariot that was carrying them into the skies.
Naseem found herself repeating the last lines of the fakir’s song:
Will pull you down, this sorrow of yours
And drown you in its deathly wave
Like a boat so frail, these eyes of yours
Filled to the brim, pose danger grave
Let Allah o Allah be your song
And leave those sighs so painful and long.
As she finished the verses, a wave of self-belief ran through her body. Gone was the feeling of being frail or vulnerable. She felt that she had the power to take on the whole world and to change it if she had to.
The ways of the Lord are truly mysterious. How can one explain the transformation of a soul by the touch of a song? The helpless cries of yesterday turning into today’s soothing melody? Surely there must be a strong, invisible force that enabled Mansour to chant ‘Ana al-Haq’ even as he was hanging from a noose. Or think of Bhai Matidas who was sawn into two halves and calmly sang, ‘I find this saw ever so sweet’ as he died. What is this unseen, unfathomable power that the human mind just can’t comprehend?
It appeared that both the Baba and Naseem had been touched by the rays of that unique sun which endows its chosen ones with such powers. How else could the heart-rending cries of this sensitive young girl abruptly have transformed into a soulful melody?
The song ended and the Baba found himself being hurled back into the reality confronting them. He gazed at Naseem for a while, reflecting on the speed with which his expansive world had shrunk. His universe was now limited to this eighteen-year-old girl, no more and no less. All his hopes and aspirations were encompassed within her slender frame.
In the flow of the fakir’s song, Naseem too had lost track of her journey. As the song finished, she looked around and saw that they were standing amidst the very same corpses over which she had cried not so long ago. She sank to the ground beside their lifeless bodies, unable to move until the Baba grasped her arm and pulled her back to her feet. As she stood up, Naseem found the dark clouds of grief and despair again beginning to rise within her. The dam of tears had burst its banks and was flowing freely down her face.
How to leave this place? Which way to go? Even as they pondered over these questions, there was a more pressing matter before them. What should they do about the corpses? They couldn’t just leave them there in the open. This much was sure.
After some deliberation, they decided that it would be best to reach the road and try to seek the help of a passing army truck. The surge in communal violence had created hectic military activity in the area, with army trucks going back and forth as they tried to ferry survivors to the safety of refugee camps that had sprung up in places like Chakwal. They were also collecting dead bodies from massacre sites like this one so that they could be granted their last rites.
They knew that going to the road carried its own hazards. They would be sitting ducks if another mob passed that way before an army truck. But there seemed no other option. Besides, they had reached a state of mind where they were no longer afraid of confronting Death. They had lived in its shadow and witnessed it at close quarters.
Before heading for the road, they decided to go to the cave and pick up a few clothes and other essentials for the journey. They had barely walked a few minutes and were near the entrance of the cave when the Baba signalled for her to stop. He had spotted a couple of scrawny dogs chewing into a body that already looked badly mutilated.
‘Seema! My child, if we leave this place now, we can be sure that these dogs are going to mangle all the bodies,’ the Baba observed.
‘What do you suggest we do, Bapuji?’
‘I suggest,’ the Baba looked around and paused briefly before replying, ‘that you look around and see if we can find an axe or some other weapon that they might have left behind.’
Naseem set off without asking why the Baba wanted some kind of weapon at a time like this. She didn’t have to go far before she spotted a broken spear, a couple of axes and a dagger. She collected everything and took it across to the Baba, who was sitting on a rock besides the bodies of Boote Shah and Aziz. Placing the weapons at his feet, she mentioned that she also had the dagger that the Baba had given her.
‘These axes should serve the purpose,’ the Baba said as he took one in his hand and gave the other one to Naseem.
It didn’t need much effort to dig a pit. The area was full of natural hollows and trenches. The Baba selected a largish hollow that was close by and turned to Naseem to outline his plan.
They abandoned their intent of going to the road for help and got to work on their arduous project, lifting the bodies by the arms and legs and heaving them into the hollow.
It was tough work and it needed a hardened soul to carry out. And who was doing it? A seventy-year-old man and a wispy eighteen-year-old girl. God alone knows where they found the mental and physical strength to perform the task. Without a thought to their weary bodies, they searched the caves for the corpses and paused only after they were sure that they had carried every single one of them to their final resting place.
It took four or five hours to finish their grim project, leaving them psychologically drained and physically exhausted. They were also hungry and thirsty and their clothes were soaked in the blood of the bodies that they had carried. They stopped to rest besides a small stream and washed the blood off their hands and feet.
‘Let’s begin, Bapuji,’ Naseem urged as she rose to her feet. She picked up an axe and started hacking at the dense shrubs that were scattered around the stream. The Baba also got up and joined her with his axe. After an hour or two of strenuous effort, they had managed to put together a sizeable pile of branches, twigs and leaves. The next step was to reach into the pile, pick up whatever they could carry in their arms and spread it over the bodies in the hollow. They continued until they were sure that all the bodies were properly covered with leaves and branches and not a single naked limb could be seen from any direction. The Baba looked at Naseem’s hands and took a deep breath as he saw the patches of raw skin and blisters caused from wielding the axe.
‘You must be tired, my child?’ he asked with all the affection of a loving father.
‘I am absolutely exhausted, Bapuji,’ she replied without hesitation.
‘But it’s going to be dark soon, my dear,’ he continued tenderly. ‘I wish we had the time to rest. I feel it would be prudent if we can somehow manage to reach Dhurnaali during the night. There is a road from there that goes to Khaurh and we might find an army lorry on that route.’
‘Then let’s move, Bapuji,’ she responded as she rose to her feet. The Baba felt a trifle embarrassed at being forced to push her but there was no option.
They went back into the cave to retrieve the couple of bundles that had their remaining possessions. When they emerged back into the open, the sun had also completed a long and weary day and left their environs submerged in a sea of inky darkness.
The path they had chosen to Dhurnaali was a gruelling one, rough and irregular. It rolled through high rocks and dense undergrowth, the track no more than an indistinct shadow on which the two of them treaded uncertainly. It was becoming darker with every step, making their journey even more tortuous as they proceeded.
The Baba knew these winding tracks like the lines on his calloused palm. Over the years, he had walked every inch of this land and knew the area intimately. But his poor eyesight was proving to be a real handicap and he was forced to rely on Naseem. ‘As we emerge from the cave, there is a narrow track on the left,’ he had told Naseem. ‘That’s the one we have to follow. Any departure from the track and we may get lost forever in this desolate jungle. It takes no time to lose your bearings once you make that mistake. We have to cling to this track until we cross the Soan and reach a peepul tree so large that it resembles a banyan. That peepul will tell us that we have crossed into Dhurnaali.’
They were carrying a bundle each as they walked. The Baba had slung his package behind his back, while Naseem had perched hers on her head. Neither appeared mindful of the fact that their clothes were encrusted in blood that had dried a while back.
Naseem had to stay alert and vigilant as they made their way along the track. Her left hand was on her head to keep the bundle in place, while the right palm kept a firm grip on the Baba’s hand as it rested on her shoulder. She was afraid that a single misstep could see the Baba stumbling on the rough surface. But the bigger worry was that she might lose sight of the track in the dark and lead them into disaster.
The Baba had his walking stick in his right hand while the left hand didn’t dare leave Naseem’s shoulder as they gingerly made their way along the track. He was humming some verses that helped break the intense silence of the night as they walked:
Recite the name of Lord Ram and keep your mind at peace,
He will solve your troubles, our Lord Ram Chandra…
The jungle extended for miles in each direction, a gloomy and menacing presence as they walked. Naseem had joined the Baba in his chanting and the line ‘He will solve your troubles, our Lord Ram Chandra’ seemed to banish her fears each time she got anxious about getting lost in the forest.
A puff of cool breeze suddenly wafted across Naseem’s face. She could hear a gentle sound coming from the distance. It must be an angel, she thought, sitting in the middle of the forest and strumming his tambourine to produce music so exceptional that it had to be divine.
‘Bapuji,’ she interrupted his chant of ‘He will solve your troubles…’ as she spoke. ‘What’s this sound we hear?’
‘It’s the Soan, my child,’ he replied.
Naseem’s spirits rose as she got his confirmation. Her steps quickened and her mind sang, ‘My Soan … my childhood companion … my friend … my Soan.’
A few minutes later, Naseem was on the banks of the river. She had set aside the bundle that she’d been carrying on her head and was flapping her legs in its cool waters. The Baba had also placed his bundle on the ground and was leaning back against a rock to rest. He closed his eyes but his lips continued to chant the verses.
Naseem was like a five-year-old child who had discovered the joys of the river for the very first time. She was splashing its water with her hands and feet while her mind was having its own conversation with the river. ‘Hello, dear waters of my Soan! Did you pass through our Chakri before coming to this place? Did you touch the soil of our village on your way? I’ll never forget you, my ever so sweet and gentle Soan. Will I ever get the chance to laze on your banks? Will I join the other girls and swim in your waters again? Ah! My dear dear…’
Her train of thought came to an abrupt halt as she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. It was like someone had suddenly shut her up in the middle of a conversation. The Baba was looking at her with a tired smile as he said, ‘Silly girl! Abandon these foolish thoughts for now and get up, my child. We still have quite a way to go.’
Naseem shook herself to bring her mind back to reality. Getting up and placing the bundle back on her head, she asked, ‘Where are we heading now, Bapuji?’
The Baba also picked up his bundle and slung it over his shoulder before turning towards her. ‘Why don’t you ask these waters, my child … Find out if they will tell you their destination.’
‘But Bapuji,’ Naseem took a deep breath and mumbled, ‘will we never come back to our motherland?’
The Baba recoiled from her question. His lips wanted to say ‘No’ or at the very least, he wanted to convey the same message through a shake of his head. But that single word took an entirely different shape as it emerged from his mouth, his hoarse throat producing an out-of-tune version:
Let Allah o Allah be your song
And leave those sighs so painful and long…
The verse made Naseem forget her painful question. She gathered her salwar and pulled it up to her knees, took the Baba’s hand and carefully led him across the shallow waters of the river. As they reached the other bank, the gentle gurgling of the waters blended into the divine notes of the tambourine that she had heard earlier. The Soan appeared to be humming ‘Allah o Allah’ and the music uplifted her soul once again.
They had walked less than a mile from the river when Naseem spied the grey outline of what appeared to be a huge mound. Looking more carefully as they approached it, she discerned that this was the giant peepul tree that the Baba had mentioned. The roots of the tree were spread like tentacles across a vast area, each one taking a menacing form in the pitch-dark night and producing an eerie sound as the wind rustled through the leaves.
The two weary travellers were walking through this unnatural landscape without a clear idea of their destination. Seen from a distance, they looked like two frail shadows trudging forward into the night, their shoulders bent under the weight of their memories. Their eyes carried the grim picture of the horrors they had witnessed over the last twenty-four hours, their lips pursed as they reflected on the loss of their motherland.
The Baba’s walking stick was striking an uneven rhythm on the rocky terrain. His lips parted to let out a painful sigh before settling into a quavering voice that resonated through the night:
‘O Saviour Lord, save us and take us across…’