The Last Rite

Eid was the biggest day and the family gathered together to enjoy the wholesome feast at Mustafa’s house at Shopian, Kashmir. On the table lay wazwan of Gushtaba, Rogan Josh, Tabak Maas, Dhaniwala Korma with Chicken Pulao and much more. Incidentally, the word wazwan is said to have come from ‘waz’ or chef and ‘wan’ denotes a spread of meat curries and other dishes and is also popularly called the feast fit for kings. The reason for celebrations this year was even greater as his son, Tauseef, was home, taking a quick short break from his unending work. Tauseef was a young rifleman in the Territorial Army and, inevitably, he would be on duty on almost all the family get- togethers and festival celebrations since his seniors would remind him and his fellow soldiers that these would be the days when the police and the army had to be on higher alert than on normal days for fear of attacks by militants. The residents of the Valley lived in a state of perpetual fear not knowing whether bullet fired from the gun of the militant would knock them off or the one fired by the security forces. The dance of death was more often seen than the dance of joyous celebrations  which had, literally, become the Eid ka Chand….seldom seen.

Post the feast, a teary eyed mother and his sisters bid Tauseef adieu. Mustafa could hide his emotions well and put up a brave smile to wave Tauseef goodbye as he switched on his bike’s key and drove away waving to all. About half an hour later, Mustafa’s phone started ringing…it was Tauseef calling…

Tauseef, what happened? Have you reached your barracks already?

No Abbu. I will go there later. I just met a few old friends. They want me to spend some time with them. Just in case anyone from my command calls to find out about me, tell them, I am at home and will be returning to the barracks slightly later. Won’t stay here for long.

Who are these friends? Do I know them?  You should not delay as it is already getting dark and the roads are not too safe….chinta hoti hai…

Keeping the phone away now Abbu…Khuda Haafiz.

Allah Haafiz….do call or message me after you reach the camp.

Mustafa kept looking at the screen of his mobile waiting for that one text message from his loving son Tauseef who was his favourite among all his children. Even though all the relatives and friends cautioned him not to join the security forces….Indian forces as they would often refer to it.. but Tauseef was not to be deterred. Even though a lot of his school friends had joined the militants and were hailed as heroes by the locals, Tauseef was always determined to wield the gun for the country. He was treated by a section of people as a traitor and a pariah. He just ignored them.

Mustafa was thinking…5pm he left our house and called me at 5.30pm. Even if he were to spend two hours with his friends…it would be 7.30pm when he should have departed from Balapora…. From there Bashirbagh Camp should take him another twenty minutes to reach….so by 8pm he should have reached….it is already 8.30pm and there is no message or a call. This is not like Tauseef at all! Let me call him up instead. He dialed the last number on his phone…..

Sorry, this number cannot be reached….came the recorded voice message.

Mustafa was now worried as was his wife and his daughters. They sat around him in a circle as he kept dialing Tauseef’s number….all waiting to hear his voice and know about his well-being. It was not 10pm and Mustafa got panicky. He kept on dialing uninterruptedly but there was no change in status of the response….

Sorry, this number cannot be reached…please call back later…

Mustafa dialed Habib who was also in Tauseef’s command.

Habib Beta….Assalam Walekum….Mustafa Chacha bol raha hoon…Tauseef’s father.

Chacha, Tauseef has not returned to the camp till now. Our Commandant is also very upset with him. How can he be so irresponsible? He was given a couple of hours of special leave for Eid and it is almost twelve hours and he has not reported back.

Mustafa narrated the whole story to Habib.

Chacha, you please report the matter to the local police. I will also tell our commandant and we will do whatever we can to trace him. Don’t worry. He must be sleeping somewhere now after a good round of drinks with his friends.

Mustafa knew his son well. He was always very different. He was completely clean with no smoke and no drinks ever. But he did not refute Habib and kept the phone down. He wanted to go to the local thana immediately but was stopped by his wife as there would be no one there at that hour and they would anyway not be able to do much so late.

Mustafa did not sleep that night. He just twisted and turned in his bed. He did not get up fearing others would get disturbed. What he did not know that no one in his house was sleeping….they were all awake with eyes closed, just waiting for morning to break. Sharp at 6am, Mustafa wrapped his warm shawl and walked to the thana which was about a couple of kilometres away. It was pretty dark and sun was still some hours away from peeping out from behind the clouds over the snow clad mountains. He reached the small hutment with the board hung outside. There was no one around, so Mustafa sat down on the steps of the police station waiting for help to arrive. Finally, the policemen arrived around 9am and after finishing their tea and breakfast and Mustafa got an audience.

Sir, my son is missing since last evening.

The potbellied man in khakhi, sitting behind the desk laughed…He must have gone to the other side. We get such complaints every day. Go home now. He will come back soon, well trained and equipped and when we put him down in an encounter, we will bring him to your home for you to do the last rites….ha ha ha….

Mustafa was outraged at the clichéd comment but controlled his anger. He pleaded before heartless people who took him to be a mad man. Fortunately, Habib arrived at the station in his uniform and then the wheel started turning. A case of missing person was registered and all details were noted.

Chacha, you now go home. We will start our search now and get back to you with our findings.

Reluctantly, Mustafa went home and every day, for the next six days, he would arrive at the police station sharp at 6am to be disappointed by 10am and again to return at 4pm in the evening and once again return home without any news of Tauseef. The mood in the house had completely changed. The chandni of that one evening had given way to amavasya for the remaining six days.

On day seven, the station master shouted… Chacha come quickly…we have found…we have found….

Mustafa rushed to him…..Thank Allah, you have found my son.

Nahin Chacha….we have found his bike in Kulgam. Sorry to say, it is completely charred.

Mustafa sat down on the floor holding his hands over his head.  What he feared most seemed to be coming true but he still nurtured hope….after all Tauseef’s body had not yet been found.

After much search of the area where the bike was found, the police found Tauseef’s clothes in a ditch. Mustafa went there to see and he saw the beige trouser and brown shirt, the very clothes Tauseef was wearing on that fateful day, the only difference was that today they were soaked in blood and mud.

The police also found a piece of his shirt around the place that the bike was found and assumed that there was a scuffle first between Tauseef and his abductors before they would have overpowered and kidnapped him. The police claimed that ‘the case is under investigation and we are trying to trace the body.’ Actually, no one was looking for anyone any more. For them it was just another case and the file was open yet closed.

Mustafa accepted his fate and believed that his son was no more. He was surely killed by militants who hated all those who joined the Indian forces. But sadly, since the body has not been found and the police file is still open till date, so Tauseef cannot be declared dead and his last dues and pension for his family cannot be paid. All of Mustafa’s begging fell on deaf ears, which only wanted solid evidence and that was not there. A woman did come forward to confirm that she had seen Tauseef fighting with four men but that evidence was treated as not admissible.

Mustafa was helpless, so he decided to take things in his control. So now, for the last ten months, every morning he sets out from his house with a shovel and spade in his hands. He walks to the spot where the clothes were found and starts digging.  He hopes one day he will find his son’s body. Nowadays, some of the neighbours and friends have also started going along with Mustafa and they dig around the places and they have helped to increase the periphery of the search. In the evenings the search party returns home, rest and walk out the next day with shovels and spades.

I just want to give my son an honourable burial. I know he is no more but everyone deserves a proper departure before he proceeds to Allah’s home. He also deserves to be honoured by the country he wore the uniform for, fought for and eventually gave up his life for. My son deserves some respect, some honour and deep inside, as a father, I want to lay my son down gently one last time.

SS

NB. This is inspired by a real life story which appeared in the national newspapers. The names have been changed and some factual details have been dramatized in the narrative.