Raja Ram Dev, accompanied by his two gurus, was on his way to the deep woods. He had come to realize that in all the hustle and bustle at the Partishiver temple, it was not possible to meditate with single-minded devotion. They had set out in search of a cave, about which it was said that it was almost inaccessible and hidden from the human eye. Raja Ram Dev walked barefooted in the company of his gurus. The three men were similarly dressed in the traditional saffron coloured robes and carried identical trishuls and kashkols in their hands. They walked silently, negotiating the boulders and thorny bushes they met on the way.
Raja Ram Dev was lost in deep thought. He was amazed to realize that on the Lord’s earth, one had to search for a place for establishing communion with the Lord. He was deep in thought; the day his father had died arose in the deep crevices of long held memory. His father had been a kind-hearted king. Ram Dev had taken over the reins of the kingdom at a tender age, but eventually, it was quite correct to say that, overcoming all odds, he had done well. He had spent a lot of his time in looking after his subjects. He felt pleased. He had established many new cities and towns.
He built hundreds of temples, and finally with the construction of the Martand Shiver, a dream had come true. He had toiled for years on this architectural marvel, calling craftsmen from far and wide. At times, he had feared that he would not be able to complete the Martand in his lifetime but at the end he had succeeded. Free from Martand, Raja Ram Dev was attracted to the idea of enhancing his power, conquering new territories, humbling established kingdoms and creating a vast empire. He raised a big army and set out on his conquests. The initial victories created an aura of invincibility. Dozens of Rajas surrendered without a fight. Be it Punjab, far away Bengal or Kannauj, no one resisted his advance. Raja Ram Dev, walking in the serene cool surroundings of his valley, suddenly found himself in the scorching heat of a battlefield. He saw himself leaving behind a trail of destruction, death and misery. He felt surrounded by thousands of dead, wailing women and crying children. He heard the clutter of fast moving warhorses; he felt all the dust and smoke rise to his eyes. He was stuck in those days of his past when a mere mention of his name would bring down powerful kingdoms, when his approaching feet would set cities on fire. He continued to be haunted by these memories. What is life, he had asked. Why all this violence, he had questioned. And finally he had given it up all. Why should there be wars? Why should peace not be eternal? He had approached his gurus and they told him that violence and war were based on greed and greed was in itself a sin.
‘Moh Maya’ was a web, and once in, no one gets out; there and then, Raja Ram Dev had decided to cast away this net. Come out of this maze and begin a new life in the company of gurus and pursuit of the Lord, he had commanded himself. The Lord to him was Shanti—peace— peace of mind, peace of the body, peace of the soul, peace of mankind, peace of animal life, peace of vegetation, peace of the elements, peace of nature.
But even after casting away his royal robe, peace had seemed far away, beyond his reach. Where to find peace? Peace is the Lord but where is the Lord? Not in Moh; was it in the sadhu’s kashkol, in his trishul? Or in the helplessness of a child whose parents were killed in war? Or in the miserable widow whose husband had been ambushed? Or in the handicapped father whose son had fallen in battle?
This life and death question appeared really complicated, and to solve this single question was the fiercest of all battles that Raja Ram Dev had ever fought.
Lally Tigress, as she was popularly known, had assumed dangerous proportions. She was the self-styled commander-in-chief of a militant outfit “Dukhtaran”. She was a special pain in the neck for Col Sharma, for she concentrated all her activities in the areas falling under Sharma’s control. He had a dossier on her prepared by his field intelligence and leafing through it, he became increasingly intrigued. An impressive record, he thought. Born in a noble family of aristocratic lineage, Laila Dorabi was well educated. From her early childhood, she had evinced keen interest in religion and by the age of ten, she had memorized the entire Quran. She had studied Islam in great detail and while still in her teens, had begun delivering sermons to groups and gatherings of women. A graduate with a sound background of current affairs, she was naturally drawn to the movement. She established her own outfit, the Dukhtaran, which became the female equivalent of all the established male militant groups. She had received her training together with a hundred hardcore followers, all young girls, fired by religious zeal. She made her presence felt when she led a group of burqa clad girls and demolished all cinema hoardings in the city protesting against the use of women as sex objects.
This was followed by imposing a ban on the sale of cosmetics for women, and a call for observing the veil. The response was unimaginable. The very next day, ladies of high society were found donning the veil all over the city. Her writ seemed to run large. This emboldened her and she moved on to more dangerous areas.
She began her activities in the movement by providing shelter to the fighters, helping them as couriers and guides within the city. But after a while, she fired the first shots on a security vehicle, causing extensive damage. There was no turning back after this. Her girls were highly motivated, indoctrinated to do or die. Col Sharma wanted to know more about her. For instance, where did she ordinarily reside? But the dossier he had on her was incomplete. The field intelligence had merely recorded its inability to gather all such information as no one was prepared to risk it. Col Sharma thought that to be incredible. The lady seemed to be invincible. A way had to be found; she had to be eliminated and her gang had to be busted as he was under tremendous pressure from his superiors. Kill her or catch her was the only command he had received, but no one had hinted how he was to achieve that. That was the problem in Kashmir, the Col thought. Those sitting in AC offices in Delhi did not or could not understand the ground realities. Or they simply did not care to.
The telephone bell interrupted Col Sharma’s thoughts. He lifted the receiver. “Yes, Col Sharma here. Yes, oh yes, go on. Good, where? Airport? When…second flight from Delhi? Good. Excellent job. Thank you. Okay.” Col Sharma replaced the receiver and stood up, picking up his cap, checking his revolver. Then, he briskly moved out and went straight to his command room. Taking charge, he yelled instructions over the wireless. “I want a full team immediately and the entire area sealed. Urgent. I will see you at the Airport. Okay.”
Having ordered the mobilization of forces, he sped away in his bulletproof vehicle, followed by a string of vehicles carrying soldiers. They headed for the airport. This was going to be the catch of the year, he thought as he negotiated the last curve on his way. At a distance, he could see an aircraft hovering over the runway.
An excerpt from Ayaz Rasool Nazki’s book SATISAR, THE VALLEY OF DEMONS published by Vitasta Publishing and the book is available on www.vitastapublishing.com
