The Informer: (English);Short Story
Author & Translator: Deepak Budki
The city was agog with the rumors that informers were being
hounded out, put to death. For the past fifty years the Valley had not known of
even a single death but now four or five killings every day had become the
order of the day.
Fear and anguish were writ large on everyone's face. It was
difficult to trust one's own shadow. People started questioning themselves "Does my name appear in the list
of informers?"..."Do they suspect me of connection with security forces?", or
'Has someone seen me talking to any security personnel?'
With every question that one asked oneself, restlessness
would increase. 'Does anyone know about my political allegiance?' And then his heart would beat faster with
anxiety.. 'I do not suppose I have any enmity with anyone that matters in
today's world, then why should I be singled out?' His blood pressure would soar
still high. The next day he would issue a clarificatory advertisement in a local
daily so that people came to know that he was not connected with any political
party nor did he have anything to do with any espionage agency.
One does not fear death as much as one fears the very idea
of death. Everyone was working out plans to escape the inevitable death. Some
tendered apologies in the press, some resorted to explaining their position,
while others simply bade goodbye to the Valley.
However, Nilakanth did not take recourse to any of these. He
had spent the sixty-five years of his life honestly and with utmost austerity
in the Valley. Even now he spent his days without worrying about the vitiated
atmosphere around him.
The house of Nilakanth, made of Maharaja bricks akin to
today's tiles, plastered with mud and covered with a shingle roof, was situated
on the bank of River Jehlum, which majestically flowed by since ages. He lived
in a place called Habbakadal. This was the only place in the city of Srinagar
that would come to life every day with the cock's first crow. On the one hand, the temple bells would start ringing, while on the other the Muezzin would call
the faithful to pray to God. Within no time, the hawkers would throng the
Habbakadal bridge and lure customers with the best sales. You could hear the
vegetable sellers selling knol khol, lotus roots and Kashmiri saag, and
fisherwomen taking swearing on petty pretexts to sell their fish. From one corner
arose the appetizing smells from the baker's ovens, while from the other corner
the sweet fragrance of milk arose from the Karahis of the Sweat meat shops. You
could see a Hindu customer incanting Gaytri Mantra while buying fish, while you
could see a Muslim incanting Surah Bakr of the Holy Quran while checking the bundle
of lotus roots. During the day the atmosphere became lively with the horses
galloping on the road, bicycles ringing and making their way through the crowd
and the puttering noise of the autorickshaws. The noise would continue till
midnight. The road presented a captivating picture at the time boys and girls
marched to their schools and colleges. Groups of young beautiful belles, clad
in snow-white kurta and shalwars, would be seen followed by young sadistic boys
looking for an opportunity to tease
them. They would seize every little chance to pass a remark, while the coy
young girl would simply blush, perspire and yet feel amused.
Today, it looked different. There was a sudden change in the
air. God knew why Nilakanth was immersed in deep thoughts. His aged wife had
just cleaned the pipe of his Hookah and changed its water. He filled the chilam
with tobacco and topped it with burning charcoal and then sucked in a long
draught of smoke through the pipe. While exhaling, clouds of smoke came out
from his mouth. He looked blank for a moment with no thought whatsoever. He
coughed for a while and then got immersed in his thoughts again.
He remembered the day of his marriage when he had to simply
cross the Habbakadal bridge since the house of Arundati was situated on the
opposite bank of the river. He could see her parental house from his own
window, and watch her standing near the window. It was just the majestic Jehlum
that separated their houses from each other.
After finishing her daily chores, Arundati sat by his side.
One doesn't know how time flies. "Forty-five years have passed since we
got married," Nilakanth said to Arundati while looking at her face with
disbelief.
"You sound romantic. How come you remembered your
marriage, that too after all these years", Arundati was surprised.
"Just like that. Do you know what date is it
today?"
"Date and Time! Who cares to remember them at this age?
Don't you see our life is like a calendar of the bygone year which hangs on the
wall simply because it contains the picture of a God. Had there been no picture
of God on it we would have thrown it away long back. We too are there hanging
with the thread of time because they respect us and cannot throw us into the dustbin.
Don't you think we too have become such Gods, waiting for time to wither
us?"
"You are right, Arni. We too are waiting for our fate
like those obsolete calendars on the wall".
Poor old Arni remembered that she had kept 'Kahwa' on the
heater. "Perhaps, it must have started boiling", she thought with
herself and taking the support of the wall stood up and brought the tea kettle and
two khasus, the brass cups. Nilakanth put his pipe aside, held the Khasu with
his right hand, covered with the arm of phiran to use it as insulation.
Arundati poured tea into his Khasu and then went back, filled another Khasu for
herself and again sat by the side of her husband.
"Arundati, do you remember that I used to watch you for
hours from the roof of my house?"
"What has possessed you, you sound strange today".
She interrupted her husband and later herself became
nostalgic about her childhood. Arundati was five years younger than her husband
but due to acute arthritis for the last ten years, her fingers had become
ankylosed and swollen. Winter season aggravated her pain. The joint pain
restricted the movement of her hands and feet but there was no way out, the
household chores had to be performed because there was nobody to help her in
this old age. Not that she did not have children but they were all gone,
fending for their own families. One in America and the other in Mumbai.
"My right eyelid has been trembling for the last so
many days. God knows what is to befall us". Arundati tore a small piece
from the straw-mat underneath, moistening it with saliva she then put it on the right eyelid in order to stop trembling.
"Our destiny is written in the Heavens above. Whatever
has to happen will definitely happen", Nilakanth sounded pensive and
resigned.
Arundati had never seen her husband resigned to fate
earlier. She showed her annoyance when she couldn't get replies to her queries.
For the last several days she had observed Nilakanth closing windows and the
doors before going to sleep. He would check each latch of those to make sure
that he had closed them properly. Sometimes, he would suddenly get up from his
bed at night, carefully push the curtain of a window aside and peep into the
darkness outside. Except for the movement of the army vehicles and the footfall of
the soldiers on their nightly rounds he could hear nothing. And then he would
return to his bed gripped with fear and anxiety.
"There is so much anxiety on your face, what is it that
is eating you up? Have faith in God, everything will be all right,
"Arundati would console her husband to put his fears to rest.
"Arni, it is not anxiety, but you should know that the
situation has taken a bloody turn never witnessed before. The Lord Yama is
plodding in every street on his Vahana., the buffalo. Only he knows what is
going to happen next", Nilakanth laid bare the facts for he could contain
himself no longer.
Old Arundati remembered the time when the Valley was invaded
by the tribals from across the border, indulging in rape and slaughter. She was
eighteen then. Heart-rending accounts of killing and rape every day sent shivers
through the spine of everybody. Srinagar city received the news that the tribal
invaders had killed thousands of unarmed innocent people from Uri to Baramulla.
They had not even spared the nuns of the local convent in Baramulla town and
were heading towards Srinagar. People expected them anytime. Women,
particularly the young girls decided to electrocute themselves to save their
honor but as luck would have it the electric supply to the city was snatched
away for days on end and they looked helpless. Their suicide plans could not be
executed in the event the tribals entered the city and every moment turned into
death alarm. The death that was approaching slowly but steadily.
One fine day news was received that the Indian army had
pushed back the raiders and they were on the run. Everyone heaved a sigh of
relief. Arundati had depicted unbounded courage in those days. To this day she was
proud of herself. How a similar situation had arisen. She implored to her
husband, "Why do you worry? We have been through hell during the tribal
raid. We will be through it somehow, why do you lose heart".
Having heard his wife's courageous words, Nilakanth heaved a
sigh of relief but at the same time, he pitied her innocence and simplicity.
Every morning he would lap up every line of newspapers. This
was the only link left with the outside world. The news came but in trickles, more
fearsome than the previous one. Both souls writhed in anguish like clipped wingless
birds.
"This is all your doing. Now face it. Veeru had invited
us to America so many times but every time you refused to go. God knows what
keeps you glued to this place. Agreed that his wife is an American but how does
it matter. She would not throw us out of her house. We would just occupy a
corner of their house. We could have looked after their children. Children, after all, are the biggest source of satisfaction to the old people,"
Arundati spoke her heart out.
"It is not the question of Veeru's wife. You don't
understand. At this age one is afraid to leave one's home. All our lives we
have not even gone beyond Jawahar Tunnel, how can we think of going and staying
beyond the vast ocean. Who knows what kind of country that would be, what kind
of people would we come across, what is their style of life. And then why do
you put all the blame on me? Your heart too was not inclined to leave this
place".
"Ok, leave Veeru aside, Kaki too had invited you to
Mumbai. You refused to go there because you thought breaking bread at a
daughter's house was like eating beef. Have you forgotten that?"
"Arni, you just can't understand. If they really loved
us they could have come here and taken us with them. How could we have refused
then?"
"Both of them were ready to come but they were afraid
of you. Your decisions are final. You are untractable. Remember, you had
written letters to them not to come".
Veeru and Kaki both remained busy looking after their
families in those metropolitan cities. In the Valley, the old couple would count
the days. How many were past! God knows how many remain.
"Today is the 7th of Shrawan. Birthday of Veeru's son.
You should have prepared 'Tahri', the auspicious yellow rice today.
"It is Janam Ashtami today. Kaki's daughter was born today
only. I hope you have sent a telegram to her?"
Both husband and wife remembered Veeru and Kaki, their
children every passing moment. It seemed ages when we had received letters from
them. Old age and loneliness are killing. One longs to see one's children but
they think it is our selfishness to crave children. How can one live
without near and dear ones.
"Write to your son tomorrow asking him to send us
tickets," Arundati ordered her husband.
"I am also thinking likewise. I shall call Kaki today.
We shall stay in Mumbai for a few days and then go to Veeru's place".
"Do whatever you think right. It is already late in the
night. Now go to sleep".
Arundati switched on the night lamp after all other lights
were put off. Nilakanth was still uneasy. He got up from the bed and reassured
himself that all the windows and doors had been secured. Till he was not
convinced that everything was in place he strolled in the room wantonly. And
then he was back in his warm bed. He handed over his Kangri to Arundati to keep
it safely aside and then burrowed deep under the quilt. Sleep eluded him
tonight. He kept turning in his bed. In the meantime, there was a loud tap on
the main door. Who could be at such a late hour? Their souls were gripped by
fear; they shrank into their beds. Even stopped breathing out of fear.
Then they heard the cracking sound of the door being opened.
Someone kicked the door of the room as well. The door opened wide like a wound.
Two young men with mufflers masking their faces and with sten-guns in their
hands entered the room.
Without waiting they started firing indiscriminately. Though
the souls of both old creatures had already left their bodies out of fear, yet
the bodies had blood in them which gushed out from underneath the quilts. The
armed youth turned around and left after a while, leaving death and silence
behind.
Next day, the local newspaper carried the following headline:
The Mujahids killed two informers, Nilakanth and Arundati in
Habbakadal. They were suspected of being spies working for the Indian army.
