Fakir
Guntasha Tulsi

 

"Fakira hoye Fakira-‘Allah ke Fakir’-Fakira hoye Fakira" reverberated across our ear drums on another lazy morning. Unwillingly though, I had developed a strange affinity for the word ‘Fakir’-the dreamy aspirations of a fifteen year old boy who had witnessed the blood of innocent civilians on the deserted roads of an isolated district in Srinagar were desperate to orchestrate themselves into an ideological mould endowed with the transforming capacity of purifying the streets of Kashmir. My inconsequential existence, apart from my dreamy aspirations was centered on Ammi, Abba, Tauqir, Naved and Niasra. We were (hopefully still are), three brothers and one sister. As for me,Yusuf, Yusuf Shah (as I was known at that time), my world ,though not complacent, was not an unhappy one -those joyous days of childhood were dominated by ‘kanchas’, ‘kulfis’ and ‘kababs’.Though witnessing the bloodshed and unexpected departure of our loved ones in the grim days of 1990 had become a routine ,my existence never faced an optimism deficit since I was confident that a fine day would arrive and I would become a ‘Fakir’-detached from my world yet endowed with an ability to change it for better. I had given up on studies. There was nothing great about them. It was a futile world of letters and digits undeserving of a soul like me. Ammi and Abba were not displeased. They had no reason to be. They were unburdened from additional expenses on my lessons and content with my newly discovered passion-tailoring. Though Srinagar had witnessed an egalitarian ambience with regard to rural economy during Sheikh Abdullah’s regime, population growth made small holdings simply unable to sustain the sons of first generation of land revolution beneficiaries. My Abba was one such beneficiary who was an owner of small piece of land which was to be further distributed between the three of us. So I decided to relinquish the idea of accepting my share and resort to something else-for now tailoring had occupied the sagacity of a precocious fifteen year old boy. I slept every night reminding myself of greatness of my thoughts and woke up into another morning with a new air of detachment-that sore, husky voice singing the usual "Fakira hoye Fakira-".

Days followed. Nights followed. And inconsequential existence continued. And finally that one ‘day’ arrived. I woke up with old man’s ‘Fakira hoye Fakira’ and dressed myself. I wanted to take a long walk. It was the first day of ‘Holy Ramzan’. I along with Tauqir, Niasra, Abba and Ammi read the ‘Namaz’ and secured Allah’s blessings to provide me with the capability of fasting endlessly for the Holy Month. After securing permission from Ammi,I went out, crossed the limitations imposed upon by that isolated street and continued on walking till I reached a mountainous terrain located almost on the outskirts of Kashmir. I placed myself comfortably on one of the rocks. And that moment arrived---a moment that left its indelible imprints on my memory---never to be erased---always to be cursed---that one morning of the year 1990---.His was a gargantuan presence-a huge body; an ugly face with chiselled features. Yet despite his ugliness, there was something attractive about him. It was, as if he had the time and inclination to hear what an unimportant fifteen year old boy like me had to say. He sat beside me. I looked at him. He looked at me. "Your name" uttered the stranger in his sore, husky voice reminiscent of that old man’s voice which was my companion in the early mornings. "-Yusuf", I replied hesitantly. "What do you do", he proceeded. "I tailor", I replied. His voice suddenly assumed a stunningly unconventional dimension-"You tailor-you stitch clothes. A boy like you has been sent as Allah’s Messiah to change the destiny of this traumatized valley. Drop those scissors. Hold this gun. From today you are Muhammad’s ‘Fakir’". I was numbed into immobility. My reason; my thoughts; my past; my present-everything got relegated to the backyard. The passive, subdued inner voice which was cautioning me against holding that gun could not be heard or to be more precise, I refused to hear it. I held the gun, and the terrain echoed -"Fakira-hoye -Fakira-‘Allah -Ke-Fakir’-Fakira-hoye-Fakira"-Kashmir had witnessed the birth of its ‘Fakir’. He took me by my hand and I followed him. I refused to resist. That one moment had finally arrived-my dreamy aspirations had discovered their destination.

After an exhausting journey of eight hours, which encompassed innumerable mountainous areas covered with snow, we finally reached to our destination-this was as my companion informed me, Muzaffarabad. I had heard about this place .Countless evening discussions in my (if I can call it ‘mine’) district were centered on this name-"Muzaffarabad-se hi bheje-hain" -were Iqbal Chacha’s relentless lamentations. As soon as any bombing in the civilian areas occurred, Muzaffarabad and Srinagar’s destiny got sealed-former being the perpetrator and the latter being a victim. Ironically, then a place which had occupied a cursed domain within my limited intellect was to fulfill the dreamy aspirations in the hope of an optimist future. But nevertheless, I welcomed the incoming of a bright future; after all I was no ordinary boy-I was a ‘Fakir’. I was taken to an isolated area where some camps were located. This man’s ugliness was suddenly rendered inconsequential in the face of so many gigantic figures; some smoking ‘hukka’, some admiring their guns and some in engaged in confidential discussions. Once again I refused to resist. I was acutely aware that a ‘Fakir’s’ world had to be different. Suddenly three unfriendly faces emerged from one of the camps. They took my companion by the side-that gargantuan presence which had accompanied me from Srinagar to Muzaffarabad-discussed some things with him and then called me. I followed. They took me into a tiny chamber which was scarcely inhabited with that one distinct entity that had governed fifteen years of my existence-the ‘Namaz’.One of the four men took me by my hand and made me settle in front of the ‘Namaz’-"From this day onwards, Allah’s word would govern your existence. Pledge yourself to the cause of Kashmir. Pledge yourself to the sky of Kashmir-Pledge yourself to Pakistan"’ uttered the stranger and I pledged-"I, Yusuf Shah’---"Stop", intervened the stranger .I looked up. "Fakir", he proceeded, "from this day, you are ‘Fakir’.Yusuf has been destroyed to create ‘Fakir’"

And, from that day onwards, ‘Fakir’ initiated his journey. My daily routine consisted of getting up in the morning and then working for the whole day. Initially, for a few months, I and other juvenile recruits were compelled to work as cooks and cleaners in the camps. Any opposition was treated with an unwelcoming eye. But I continued to resist the temptation to that comfortable existence within an isolated street in Srinagar till that ghastly night occurred. On that particular night, I had fallen into a slumber after a busy day’s work. Suddenly, I felt an unknown palpability on my private body parts. I opened my eyes with terror and discovered that it was my companion -the man who had accompanied me from Srinagar to Muzaffarabad-that gargantuan presence. I shrieked, got up, pushed the man and ran out of the camp. I had made my mind. I hated being a ‘Fakir’ and wanted to return to Yusuf’s land. But, to my dismay, I discovered that any loss can be recovered barring that of one’s life and identity.Yusuf’s physical presence might still be intact but he had already experienced a metaphoric death on that cursed morning of 1990. And, I, ‘Fakir’ was forcefully bought back to that territory which had scripted my damnation.

Days followed---Nights followed---And hateful (‘inconsequential’ was far better) existence continued. After a heavy day’s work, we were taken to heavily forested mountains surrounding the Kashmir valley to receive arms training. After hours of training, we were dispatched back to set up safe houses and infrastructure for these groups. Many of us died in encounters between terrorists and Indian security forces (unfortunately I wasn’t one of them). Back at the camps at Muzaffarabad, any resistance to orders was punished with brutal assault. Part of training consisted of lectures on Islamist ideology, focusing on needs of warfare against enemies of faith.

I continued to live. There were times when I was haunted by Ammi and Abba’s shadow; there were moments when I wanted to relive the past and its precious memories---the ‘kanchas’, ‘kulfis’ and ‘kababs’-Niasra’s graceful innocence,Tauqir’s brotherly love, Naved’s prattle-but then all these memories and moments ideally belonged to Yusuf. I sometimes questioned myself-who was I? Why was I living this life? What was it that compelled me to hold back that gun five years back? But all these questions met with an empty space-an intellectual vacuum. And what to say of ‘Fakir’-a word’ that shared an umbilical cord with me and unfortunately according to my faulty perception had baptized me half a decade back. Everybody called me by that name. I was ‘Fakir’-‘Prophet’s Messiah’-an extraordinary’ immortal soul. While Yusuf played with ‘kanchas’, ‘Fakir’ played with guns; while Yusuf slept peacefully beside his Ammi,’Fakir’ slept in the unholy presence of these perpetrators, settling his conscience under the wrath of their physical and sexual abuse; while Yusuf was a witness to bloodshed of innocent civilians on the streets of Kashmir, ‘Fakir’ became a participant in mercilessly killing hundreds of innocent lives. This was Yusuf christened ‘Fakir’-a soul which dreamt of evolution through detachment; a soul which aspired to change the world.

Fifteen years have passed and I continue to live. Now I have stopped complaining. Killing innocents and witnessing their spilt blood do not necessarily make me happy but provide me with an air of complacence-from being a child recruit to my present stature of child recruiter; the ‘Fakir’; the pioneer of our group’s ideology and cause of Kashmir’s integration with Pakistan, I have traversed a long journey. I have killed people; I have set temples on fire; I have implanted explosives in isolated streets; I have recruited hundreds of children. I have physically and sexually abused them; I have made hundreds of wives widows and rendered mothers childless; I have done it all. These fifteen years have ruptured my conscience and rendered me heartless-guns and blood have become the thriving force of an enforced existence. Who knows, out of those innumerable lives rendered lifeless by me, one of them might be Ammi’s, Abba’s or Tauqir’s?

It was a holy morning in 1990; the Holy Month of Ramzan that took me to that rocky terrain that changed my life forever.

Today, it is an unholy morning of 2005; the Holy Month of Ramzan that will take me back to that rocky terrain. Though I have resisted Yusuf’s district in Srinagar for the past fifteen years, I have to return there-‘Fakir’ cannot avoid this district as some explosives have to be implanted .This district has become an element of disturbance for our group-it has become the hotbed of counter-strategies. And that is why these fifteen years have been ephemeral---they have compelled me to be so ideologically driven that all past affiliations have been rendered futile. And this has been instrumental in instilling in me the courage to return back to a place that I left fifteen years back.

I am ready---------"Fakira-hoye-Fakira-‘Allah-ke-Fakir’-Fakira-hoye-Fakira"---------I have arrived.

 

 

Copyright © 2005 Guntasha Tulsi
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