The traffic was heavy as usual. It was already 7:30 in the evening and I was driving back home. The FM Radio somehow distracted me a bit from this nasty choc-a-bloc situation. The peppy hindi song was followed by the RJ’s commentary. Normally the incessant babbling of the show hosts pisses me off but this time the voice appeared alarming. The breaking news was narrated in a grave tone “51 people killed in a terrorist attack in Srinagar. Today around 6:00 PM two gunmen wreaked havoc in the market area firing madly at the crowd. The army men stationed at the nearest chowk retaliated and the attackers were killed. Many have been injured and taken to the hospital. The Defence Minister...”

I changed the radio channel. We have now got used to these things. Whether it’s Mumbai, Delhi, Jaipur or Kashmir - everywhere such nefarious acts spring up every now and then. After toiling for half an hour more, I dodged my way back home. Shikha, my wife, started to describe how her day went. She was supposed to go for an interview today which got postponed. She went to the kitchen to bring me water and tea and I eased myself onto the sofa doing away with my socks and shoes. The hand almost involuntarily reached out for the T.V remote and I switched the set on. After playing a news channel, I saw that the Srinagar massacre was packaged as “SRINAGAR AMBUSH” and the hashtag was going viral on social media. The loudmouth anchor was describing this ghastly incident with horrific images of the shooting. Probably a slant angle camera had a few footage of the shooting which showed two terrorists creating carnage with bullets and the public was scampering desperately for their lives. “God knows when this Kashmir issue will end? What do these people get by claiming innocent lives?” opined my wife, staring at the TV set with a tray of tea and water in her hand. She placed the tray in front of the table and I sipped the water keeping my eyes glued to the television. The mutilated corpses of the renegades were shown repeatedly. Their faces were riveted with bullets. Both were local Kashmiris trained near the border area and were a part of the infamous Lashkar group. One of them was Hassan Raja, a former wood merchant and the other, Rasul Ahmed Faiz, a local restaurant worker. I began to feel nauseated. A strange numbness was overpowering me. Shikha was venting her anger on the criminals but I couldn’t utter a word. Someone or something was gagging me slowly. “Rasul Ahmed Faiz - the name and the face - it can’t be”, I felt. But it was him. The face has become gaunt but there is a resemblance. It is him. It is him. A trance took me back seventeen years in time.

I was studying in the sixth standard then. Father was a war correspondent and went to Kargil to cover the war. After we gained victory and normalcy was restored in exchange for the sacrifice of a number of our men, Father returned home with a rich yet devastating experience and a young boy. The boy was the same age as me. Fair-Skinned with sharp features and a gratuitous smile is what I can still recollect of him on the very first day. Father introduced him as Ahmed, an inhabitant of Sonmarg. The boy’s Father was a Kawah seller and he was his father’s helper at the stall. When my Father and the rest of the team were stationed at Zozilla, the boy performed a lot of petty errands for them. When my Father’s colleague Vijay uncle was wounded by a sharp-nail, this boy took special care of him. Ahmed’s parents were very poor and could not afford an education for their child. Father took a liking for the boy and brought him to Kolkata with his parent’s permission. He made it very clear to me and Mom that Ahmed was not supposed to be treated as a Man-Friday and I in particular should consider him as a brother. The boy was lovable and extremely good-natured and soon became a part of the family. Initially he addressed Father as “Baada Sabaah” and me as “Chota Sabaah”. Mother was adoringly titled “Malkin” but after repeated corrections and forbidding, we managed to squeeze “Uncle”, “Aunt” and “Dada” out of him. He assisted Mom immensely in her chores. When my Mother mildly rebuked him “Are you a servant?” he would reply with a twinkle in his eyes “Are you a maid?” We often studied together, played cricket in the garden, ran around the park and even pulled out a few mischiefs for which we got jointly thrashed. At night, Father had the habit of chilling in the garden over coffee. Ahmed entertained us at that hour of the night with melodious Kashmiri songs. His voice was a bit feeble but I noticed the glistening of his eyes when he sang those. Father got him enrolled in my school at the same grade as mine. He was an intelligent student too. However one thing I noticed was he felt odd in a group and remained secluded from the bunch as much as possible. His socialist tendencies were only limited to me and my family. His reticence in school got aggravated when a few of the boys jeered at him as if he was a total misfit. “Oh you are a servant right?”, “Rustic crap” were some of the attempts of derision hurled against him but he did not mind too much.

Then came my birthday. Mother called a few of my friends in the evening. A large cake was ordered. Ahmed has been busy since morning decorating the house. Mom was in the kitchen since morning. Unfortunately my Father was off to New York to attend the U.N Summit. In the evening my friends came and there was a mood of jollity in the house. Ahmed confided in me that he had nothing worthwhile to give to me. He felt sad but I shrugged the issue with ease. Among the friends who came, there were a lot of friends from the neighbourhood who had seen Ahmed but didn’t know who he was. I introduced Ahmed to them. One of them, in jest, asked him “Are you a Pakistani?” A few of my friends giggled at the question but Ahmed appeared a bit cornered. He tried to reply firmly “No I am an Indian. I am a Kashmiri.” A few others grasped the opportunity to take a dig at him;

“Have you ever been to Pakistan?”

“Do your relatives stay in Pakistan?”

“Are you a spy?”

Every such humiliating question was accompanied by scores of laughter. Ahmed stood bayoneted in the extreme corner in the most decrepit manner. It seemed as if he was stripped and flogged with a whip. He did not however give in and in a tone of utmost sobriety tried to prove his Indianness to the group. I felt like resisting but was unable to gather courage. All these friends were a part of my society. How could I have offended them for someone who was a beneficiary of my Father’s mercy? I was hoping that Mom would come and reprimand the group but she was too busy in dinner arrangements. I looked at Ahmed. He seemed to be shaking a bit. His gaze was down. He was trying to muster courage lest he may break down. The boys still were not done with him. One of them, Rajesh, who happens to be a school-teacher now, asked, “Whom did you support in the World Cup finals? Australia or Pakistan?” Ahmed was unable to apprehend the real intent behind the question and he naively replied, “Pakistan.” That was it. The attackers finally found what they were looking for. They labeled him as “traitor”, “anti-national”, “extremist mullah” and what not. No matter how much he tried to convince them, they were not ready to be restrained. They screeched about all the dastardly acts of the Islamic terrorists and Pakistani army as if Ahmed was responsible for everything. I kept my silence & did not offer any protest whatsoever. The insult session was finally over when Mother gave a call for dinner. She was thoroughly unaware of the cheap act displayed in the drawing room. Ahmed did not join the table. He retired back to his room seeking permission from my mother on the pretext of not feeling well. He never came out of the room. My heart became heavy with guilt. My room was just adjacent to his. I knocked a couple of times at his door but there was no answer. “He must have fallen asleep,” I thought.

The next day I was woken up by Mom who appeared to be in a state of hysteria. She gasped while informing me that Ahmed has left all of a sudden just by leaving a note in his room. He was nowhere to be found. We searched the neighbourhood, went to the station and even called up many but none turned with the solution. Mom interrogated me regarding what happened during the birthday evening. I made a clean breast of everything. She scolded me vehemently and wept for the poor boy. My hand reached out to the note which read;

“Sabaah I am grateful for what you have done for me. You have showered immense affection and treated me like a child. You have been my Father. In Malkin, I found a doting Mother. Chota Sabaah was a brother and friend. I will never forget you people. I am sorry that I have to go like this but if fortune permits I will meet you all again. May Allah bless you.”

There was not an iota of grievance, not the slightest trace of complaint for the wrongdoing inflicted on him. But there was a deep sorrow behind those simple words which I could realize. I tore apart the note sobbing and finally retreating in my mother’s arms. When Father came, we cooked up the news that Ahmed’s uncle came and took him away. Father felt a bit disappointed but his life in the war-front has taught him to deal with losses.

The news report was still repeating the same news. Shikha was pleading with me to freshen up and have the tea which by that time had turned cold. There was a commotion in the room but my mind could not sense anything. Instead what I could feel was a tender rendition of a Kashmiri song with a bit of moistness in my eyes.