Accompanied by his wife and children, Kashyap arrived at Jammu. Jaladbhava had finally succeeded in throwing him out. Kashyap imagined the frustration Jaladbhava must have experienced in not finding him in the valley. He felt good. But it also reminded him of his plight—he, a well-to-do, wealthy, and respectable citizen had become a homeless migrant within a few hours—yes, all within a matter of some hours only. His mansion, his cars, his estate, the orchard and all other possessions were left behind. He had merely saved his own and his family’s lives. He had to sort out many things; there was much thinking to be done. But let this initial shock be over. In any case, there was no way that Jaladbhava could be allowed to rule indefinitely.
It is a passing cloud; he comforted himself. I shall be back in my mansion, in my estate and in my orchard, and soon, Kashyap reasoned.
Standing at Jammu Bus Stand, Kashyap saw a multitude of men and women, children and infants arriving from the valley. Some one told him that Raja Jag Lochan had made immaculate arrangements to receive these people and house them at Muthi and Mishri Walla. Kashyap was now happy. He immediately hired an autorickshaw and started for Muthi. A huge number of men and women were already there. He became a part of this multitude. His own community, his own tribe. Really immaculate arrangements were underway. He asked an official on the scene, “Sir, why are you pitching these tents? Do you think we can live in them?”
The officer replied in a confidential tone, “Don’t you know, this is where you will have to be for a fortnight and within this fortnight, Jag Lochan will bombard all the Jaladbhava’s demons and the Swarg Dharti will once again come under your noble feet.”
Kashyap turned this piece of just received information over in his mind. He did not mind spending few days in a tent, or even under the open sky. He gladly led his wife and children to the tent allotted to them. His wife was not impressed but Kashyap gave her a passionate hug and a long kiss and then in a hushed tone let her know, “Sweetheart, we shall go back and when we do, you shall have three mansions instead of one, ten orchards instead of one and I shall buy all the jewellry and all the gold that you desire.”
***
It was a ‘crack down’. The armed forces directed the men who had been ordered out of their homes to fall in a line, and when commanded, move one by one in front of a parked vehicle. This was called an identification parade. An informer sat behind the smoked windshield of the parked vehicle and if a suspicious character passed, he would press the horn. The attending military men would pounce on the man and take him away.
Gani and Fani were in the queue. The line moved very slowly. Gani, looking at the men in the queue and the palpable tension in the air, was reminded of all the accounts of the day of judgement that he had read and had been told about variously—first by his mother when he was a child, then his elders in the family, later the mullah in the mosque and in sundry discussions with friends when he was already an adult. That is the day when, it is believed, all mortals will stand trial and be awarded with the entry to heaven or hell. The entire existence of these unfortunate people depended on the pressing of a button. Everyone in the queue moved with stone heavy feet. Fear was writ large on each face. Gani on the other hand seemed to have gone beyond all emotion.
He was not even angry with these uniformed men. In his heart of hearts, he sympathized with his fellow beings, but maintained silence as no one was allowed to speak. To him, these men seemed to have been transformed. They moved like mechanical robots, their movements being guided and controlled by the men in steel. Gani turned round his head to see Fani. There he was with an acid smile on his lips and fire seemed to emanate from his eyes, so furious did they glow. With his whole frame shaking wildly, he lifted both his arms up and high into the skies. Not a word did he utter, though his soul felt as if it would burst forth from him. The silence was defeaning!
Those in the queue saw him but remained motionless. Gani finally turned round to attend to his master. Noticing an agitated Fani, the soldiers ran. They began pushing and beating him and succeeded in separating him from the queue. The military men made a circle around him and with lathis and rifle butts began to thrash him. Fani, who till now could not utter a word, suddenly came alive. A thunderous laughter burst from his heavy frame. Laughter like the roar of a thousand cannons fired at once. Roar of a pack of hundred lions, a laughter reverberating and echoing all around, from each dale and each hillside. It went on and on, drifting, spreading throughout the entire chowk, till it reached the loud speaker fitted on the minar of the nearby mosque and was then amplified several times more and broadcast far and wide. The armed men ran in panic. They tried to stop this roaring man. They went on hitting the laughing man. Lathis and rifle butts and heavy boots rained down on Fani for what seemed to be decades. But Fani’s laughter did not wane. The army men were getting frustrated. Gani continued to be in the queue watching his teacher, philosopher and guide, listening to him as he laughed and then suddenly—it stopped.
There was a deathly silence all around. It seemed as if the air too had frozen into stillness. The army men were relieved. They removed the pile of lathis and guns so that Fani’s body could be recovered. But alas! He had cheated them yet again. There, under the heap of lathis, nothing remained. Fani had in his true style disappeared. The commanding officer ordered his men to conduct a thorough search for him. The armed men again converged on the queue of unfortunate men, asking each one “Who is Fani amongst you? Who is Fani amongst you?” The forces were again frustrated after a while. They went to report failure to their commander. No sooner had they done that, when the laughter rose yet again, across the valley, echoing all around, till after what seemed an eternity, a voice from somewhere behind the mountain peaks roared, “Commanding Officer! You are Fani!”
Gani later informed the Commanding Officer that in Persian, Fani meant mortal.
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
