by Mukul Deva
‘What kind of training, Maulavi Sahib?’ Omar asked.
‘My boy, you are going to wage a tough and dangerous war against a well-trained enemy. To do so you must be trained equally well. We will be sending you out of the country for the required training.’
The very thought of going abroad to train to fight the kafir in exotic battlefields the world over sent the blood coursing through Iqbal’s veins and thrilled him more deeply than words could express; he shivered with excitement as the Maulavi continued: ‘We understand that all of you are family people and cannot just run away from your basic responsibilities. You will all be handsomely compensated. In fact, just before we leave for training you shall receive one lakh rupees each.’ The generous amount took the youngsters by surprise. ‘There will be more once your training is over. We will take good care of you at all times,’ the Maulavi smiled.
Iqbal’s mind was in a whirl. He was unable to focus on anything except the glorious visions that were described to them. He imagined himself firing guns, handling explosives and radio sets…like they did in the movies. The only problem was that he could not talk about it to his family or to anyone else for that matter.
Still, Rashid did not look shocked when Iqbal handed over the money that the Maulavi had given to him. ‘Please have a bank draft made and send it to Ammi.’ Iqbal was smart enough to know that his mother would ask too many questions if he called her himself. Sure enough, she phoned the next day.
‘Where on earth did you get so much money from, Iqbal?’
‘This is the training stipend they have given us, Ammi.’
‘Training stipend? Who gives out so much money in advance to people they have barely hired?’ Hamida felt a little sick. ‘Iqbal, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Come on, Ammi! Do you think I will do anything dumb?’ Iqbal went into a long spiel about a company in the Middle-East that had come to the college to recruit students and send them abroad for training.
Then Rashid mamu took the phone from Iqbal and gently persuaded his sister that all was fine. Her son was doing well in college, he assured her. With his diligence and dedication it was no wonder that the Middle-East company had picked him out. One day her son would be famous all over the world.
And so Iqbal found himself a few days later, en route to Nepal along with Omar and Akram.
Two weeks later the three boys got off the bus at Bahraich on the Indo–Nepal border just as the sun was coming up over the horizon. There were not too many people about at that hour and the bus-stand wore a deserted look. They walked over to the telephone booth in the corner and called the number they had been given. It was snatched up: ‘Go towards the exit gate. To the right of the gate is a bookstall. I will be there in ten minutes. Don’t wander off, I can’t go looking for you all over the damn place,’ a voice said curtly before banging down the phone.
The three young men did as they were told. About twenty minutes later a stocky, hard-looking man in his late thirties walked into the bus station. He loitered around for a few minutes, pretending to be waiting for someone before walking up to them. ‘You have something for me?’
For a moment they were all nonplussed; then Omar’s face brightened. ‘Yes, yes. We do.’ Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the postcard that the Maulavi had given him the day they were leaving. All three of them had read the brief message on it a dozen times, but it had communicated nothing to them. Apparently it did make sense to the man who stood before them now. ‘I’m Khurram. I will be taking you across.’ The way he said his name Iqbal knew that it was not his real one.
‘Hullo.’ Omar couldn’t help being himself; he extended his hand, ‘I’m Omar.’
‘Enchanted,’ Khurram’s voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Alas, I have no wish to socialize with you. I suggest we communicate as little as required.’ Khurram led them to a battered-looking Maruti Gypsy parked outside. A man waited behind the wheel. He started the engine when he saw them approach. Iqbal had heard enough engines in Rashid’s garage to figure that the powerful, well-maintained engine belied the dented exterior of the vehicle.
Half an hour out of the town the driver abruptly drove off the road and swerved onto a scarcely visible dirt track. The hardened mud track ran through a forest that became progressively thicker as time passed. The bumpy ride was made more uncomfortable by the tense silence that pervaded the jeep and the clouds of dust that streamed in from the windows. No one said a word to the three of them, but they knew for sure that they were in the middle of an illegal border crossing.
Abruptly, the Gypsy came to a screeching halt in the middle of nowhere. The man who called himself Khurram got off and vanished into the thick undergrowth. The three lads from Delhi sat in the stifling jeep watching the dust slowly settle around them. About ten minutes later Khurram reappeared as suddenly as he had vanished. ‘Get off,’ he whispered. ‘We go on foot from here. No noise, understand?’ He waited till all three of them had disembarked and then strode off into the undergrowth.
‘I hope there are no snakes around,’ Iqbal heard Omar say softly.
Khurram turned around immediately and glared at him: ‘Shut up, you dumb fuck,’ he hissed. ‘One sound from you can get us all killed. I won’t warn you again.’
Though Iqbal could not see them himself, he knew Khurram was following some markings on the ground as he stopped every so often to check and get his bearings.
Twice during that hour-long walk Khurram came to an abrupt halt. Both times he froze and urgently gestured to the others to follow suit. Mouths went dry and hearts raced as the three young men waited, tense with anxiety. Both times Khurram waited for a good five to ten minutes before he resumed the journey.
The thick foliage ended abruptly and they came to a clearing. A man lolled in the grass on its outer edge. ‘Ah! There you are!’ The obviously Nepalese man clad in faded jeans and a dark brown jacket jumped to his feet when he saw them. He gave a hearty laugh. Startled by the sudden loud sound they looked around nervously, but there seemed to be no further need for silence since the new man and Khurram were conversing in normal tones. Iqbal followed only the occasional word as they were talking in Nepalese. Khurram seemed amazingly fluent in the language. When the Nepalese man turned to walk away his jacket unfurled slightly revealing a pistol stuck in his waistband. It was Iqbal’s first sighting of a real gun and it sent the adrenaline pumping into his system; he could not wait to feel the cold metal of a gun in his own hand.
A few minutes later the small group moved on again. The jungle soon gave way to sparsely cultivated bits of land on the edge of which stood a desolate looking hut with a dilapidated station wagon parked next to it. Though the vehicle was definitely worse than the Gypsy they had left behind, the road ahead was a marked improvement. Thirty minutes later they stopped at a house on the outskirts of a small village. ‘Any idea where we are?’ Omar asked.
‘The signboards are all in Nepalese,’ Iqbal whispered back. ‘But I saw one in English. It said Kathmandu on one side and Nepalganj on the other. I guess we are on the highway from Nepalganj to Kathmandu.’
‘You three have fifteen minutes to freshen up and grab a bite. Then we leave,’ Khurram announced before going across to meet the other nine recruits who had been waiting for them in the house. ‘While they wash up, you guys get your stuff loaded.’ He jerked his thumb at a bus parked outside.
Twenty minutes later they were speeding towards Kathmandu. This time the bus was new and well-maintained. The twelve boys in it exchanged curious glances with each other, but Khurram’s presence went a long way in curtailing any conversation. They halted only twice when bladder pressures threatened to get out of control.
It was just after Pokhara that they took the second proper halt. Another safe house organized specially for transients like them. There was an indifferent but hot meal waiting. After they had eaten, Khurram gathered them around the table and pulled out a bunch of passports. He flipped open each, checked the photograph and
particulars, and handed them out. Iqbal’s passport was made out to a Wasim Khan. It had been issued in Karachi a week ago.
‘The passports are genuine; no immigrations authority anywhere will be able to find any flaws,’ Khurram said. ‘I want all of you to memorize the personal details mentioned in the passport. Go through the brief history of your life on the piece of paper in the passport. These are your official legends. If you’re questioned by anyone that is the story you will give out and no matter what happens, you stick to that story.’ He looked around authoritatively. ‘Once you have memorized the details return the paper to me. You have fifteen minutes before we leave for the airport.’
The actual check-in at Kathmandu airport was an anti-climax. The people manning the customs and immigrations counters were busy chatting with each other. The twelve trainees collected their boarding passes after being expertly hustled through immigrations by Khurram, who was obviously more than a little well-known; everyone seemed to have a polite nod for him. Then they breezed past security, seeing that none of them had any carry-on baggage.
Khurram walked away from them even as the last of the twelve recruits was being cleared through security.
Once he disappeared from sight, the twelve recruits were on their own. Only then did they actually start talking to each other. The flight from Kathmandu to Karachi was still over an hour away; enough time to catch up on their real life stories.
Though Iqbal didn’t particularly care for Omar, they had started out together on this long journey and they were together when Abu Khan walked up to talk to them. In the months that followed the three of them were to become good friends. Maybe because all three had similar backgrounds as far as their schooling went. Omar and Abu Khan were also from English-medium schools. Omar had just dropped out of law college and Abu Khan had enrolled for a computer course when Allah put them on this path. By the time they reached Karachi they each had a reasonable idea of what the other was about. Over the months they spent together Iqbal would learn a lot more about his new friends. Omar was a skinny, soft-looking guy but he was rock-solid in the head. Sometimes Iqbal had a tough time believing Omar had actually got into law college but, then again, he had yet to meet another person his age who knew the Koran Shareef better than Omar did; the guy could quote it chapter and verse.
Abu Khan, on the other hand, was quiet and dignified with a strong athletic build and rock-star looks. He excelled effortlessly at whatever he did. In all the months they trained together Iqbal never saw him seriously apply himself to anything. It was almost as though he just absorbed stuff he saw happening around him. None of the others in their group felt any shame in admitting that they envied Abu Khan. Possibly the only thing that Iqbal did better than him was handling explosives. It must have been his training with Rashid that gave Iqbal the edge in this department.
All that came much later. The flight to Karachi was short and sweet. It was the first air trip that Omar, Abu Khan and Iqbal had ever taken.
The man who met them at Karachi Airport was waiting right on the airfield when they deplaned. He stopped each of them the moment they got onto the aerobridge and took them aside.
‘This guy has to be Khurram’s twin,’ Omar whispered to Abu and Iqbal.
Abu grinned back. ‘I think he is the elder twin if his surliness is any indication.’
The man in question stood there oblivious to everything around till all twelve of them had deplaned. When they were all finally gathered around him he commanded, ‘Give me all your passports.’ He shoved them into the small laptop bag he was toting. ‘We will leave now.’
‘What about our bags?’
‘They will come. Follow me.’ Then he turned and walked away.
The twelve young men did not encounter a single security, customs or immigrations checkpoint all the way to the small exit on the far left of the airport terminal, where a large, white bus waited outside. They saw their bags already stowed in the boot as they boarded the bus.
The man who escorted them outside sat on the seat behind the driver. He spoke to no one. Nor did he get off the bus when it pulled up outside a large, white building with light green doors two-and-a-half hours later. If there had been a signboard with the name of the madrassa they were being put up in, it had been removed before the recruits got there. But a madrassa it definitely was; that much was obvious from the lay-out of the building, even though it was strangely devoid of people.
A large, robust looking man waited for them. ‘Greetings, brothers!’ His beard wagged as his voice boomed into the bus. ‘Welcome. Welcome to Tatta.’ It was a pleasant change to finally meet someone who did not behave as if he was perpetually sitting on a hard, sharp object.
Early next morning, after a fairly decent breakfast, they were off again. The bus was the same, as was the driver, but the pleasant guy had replaced the surly one. The atmosphere in the bus changed dramatically. Now a light, almost festive, spirit prevailed as decibel levels in the bus rose in animated chatter.
‘I know exactly how you all must be feeling,’ their new escort said as they sped along. ‘I too felt the same way when I came here six years ago.’
‘Six years ago? Wow!’
‘You must have seen a lot of…’
‘Don’t you feel like going home?’
Almost everyone had a question to ask or an observation to make. Between sporadic bouts of sleep the chatter continued as Hyderabad, Tando, Nawabshah, Moro, Khairpur, Rohri and a host of other cities and unheard of villages fell away in the dust behind them.
From Tatta onwards the road ran almost parallel to the Indus River. Every so often they crossed a small cluster of houses, very similar to those in India. The terrain on both sides of the road could easily have been mistaken for a part of Rajasthan or Haryana except for the fact that there was a lot more military presence in evidence and the starkness of poverty was more sharply visible.
Iqbal had been watching the milestones along the highway for quite some time and knew they were at Sukkur when the bus halted for the night; once again at a strangely desolate madrassa.
The Indus was left behind on the second day when they crossed it at Uch and the Chenab took over all the way up to Muzaffargarh. From the little geography Iqbal had studied he knew that the Indus still flowed alongside, flanking them, but it was not visible from the road. The madrassa they halted at that night was a much smaller one and not as well maintained. ‘How come all the places we stay at are so deserted?’ Omar wondered aloud.
By the time the bus reached Talagang on the fourth night, their enthusiasm was on the wane. The road from Muzaffargarh to Mianwali had been okay. Not as good as the roads they had covered but a darn sight better than the pot-holed moonwalk they hit once they crossed Mianwali. However the Talagang madrassa they halted at that night was beautiful and old. Even the food was palatable for a change.
Iqbal was not sure what disturbed his sleep but he woke suddenly in the middle of the night. There was a bright moon outside and its silvery light bathed the hall. Iqbal got up and headed out for the courtyard.
It was a clear, beautiful night. The rectangular courtyard had a small water tank almost directly in front of the dormitory. The still water sparkled in the moonlight and beckoned to him like a long lost lover. Iqbal felt an amazing sense of tranquillity as he sat on the edge of the water tank and watched the night sky.
‘Not able to sleep?’ The voice was soft but the suddenness of it jolted Iqbal out of his reverie. He turned to see their genial escort standing behind him.
‘No…something woke me up and then I just couldn’t sleep again.’
The man sat down beside him. They sat in companionable silence for a while until he asked, ‘Where are you from, my friend?’
‘Lucknow.’ It was the first time he’d been asked a personal question in Pakistan. ‘My name is Iqbal. What is yours?’
‘Wasim.’ Then noticing the smile on Iqbal’s face, he asked, ‘Did I say something funny?’
‘Th
at is the name I am travelling under from Kathmandu to Karachi. Strange coincidence, isn’t it?’
Wasim smiled. ‘I am from Aligarh.’
‘I have never been to Aligarh but my folks are originally from there.’
‘Really?’ Wasim laughed softly. ‘Another strange coincidence. You know, it has been almost six years since I have been to Aligarh…Sometimes I really miss my home… but I cannot go back now.’ He took a deep breath: ‘Not that I mind…it is a small sacrifice to make for the cause. There are others who have given up so much more. But then things seldom turn out the way we think they would. True, isn’t it?’
Iqbal shrugged. ‘Tell me, Wasim, how come all the places that we are staying in are totally deserted? Where is everyone?’
The man gave Iqbal a long look before he replied, ‘They’re not abandoned or empty. It is just that we have to be careful and ensure external trainees don’t mix with the others…Salim Sahib is very strict about that.’
‘I don’t understand…what others?’
‘The locals, primarily.’
‘Why?’
‘Not every one here supports the jihad. There are some who feel that Pakistan should worry more about itself and its economy rather than expend time, energy and resources on external problems.’
That is not what they have been telling us. ‘I thought the people of Pakistan were solidly behind us…behind the jihad?’
‘The people of Pakistan?’ Wasim shrugged. ‘People are people…when push comes to shove they tend to worry about basic things like food, shelter and clothing. Everything else is secondary.’
They sat in silence for a minute. Then Iqbal asked, ‘Who is this Salim you just mentioned?’
