He began working on the panel giving commands and receiving replies, analyzing them and framing new questions. It took a lot of time to come to some conclusion. At the end, the doctor had resolved to break the energy barrier surrounding this unique bird. He postulated that once the barrier was neutralized, a more favourable situation would emerge. He wasn’t sure, but nothing else could be done. He began preparing the high-energy beam. He worked out the entire sequence. The beam would be fired from his laboratory but before that it was necessary to transport Ajab Malik to the area where the object was situated. He could be of immense help as the new situation arose. He devised the entire plan and discussed the matter with some of his colleagues over telephone. Ajab Malik readily agreed on the condition that Noshlab’s safety would not be jeopardized.
Ajab Malik set out on his journey to the woods. Dr Speilberg had established phone contact with him while he drove on the highway. The doctor wanted him to calm his nerves. He was monitoring the entire operation from the laboratory. His scan had picked up Ajab’s car and he waited for the moment Ajab came closer to his goal.
Misra Begum was all alone in her palatial house at Muzaffarbad. Time hung heavy on her. What should she do? She picked up the remote control of her TV, pressed a button and the screen in front of her came alive. PTV was telecasting a documentary on Kashmir. She had seen it a number of times. Same processions of men and women, soldiers in battle dress, military convoys, freedom fighters, wailing women, shots of martyrs, the ever increasing graves in the graveyard. Misra Begum switched off the television; reclining on a divan she closed her eyes. Her childhood memories surfaced in her mind. She was a little girl sitting in the company of her classmates in a small dingy room, the window overlooking the Jhelum river. The teacher, a bearded turbaned Maulvi Saheb was reading from a book and the children recited after him. She clearly recollected the lines. Yeh tamanna hai ki apni ma ki soorat dekh lun.(My only wish is to see the face of my mother).
It was a poem, titled Lament of a blind girl. Misra Begum opened her eyes. Her mother. Ah! Her mother!
Misra Begum had not seen her mother for the last forty-four years. She was born in a large family. They were five sisters and two brothers. She was the youngest. Her father was a maulvi who led prayers in the local mosque. His disciples lived in far off countryside. Each morning he would attend to the needs of those who had faith in his spiritual powers. He would listen to them one by one, write a Taweez or simply recite a few verses and blow his breath on the afflicted. His followers had great faith in his healing powers and touch. Everyone pampered Misra,her being the youngest child in the family. As she grew up, a British nun started a girl’s school in the vicinity. The entire clergy was up in arms against this move. As the lady disembarked every morning on the banks of the river, people ran into their homes, and tightly shut the doors and windows. The lady just smiled and took the few steps that led to her school. In the beginning only a few girls from Kashmiri Pandit households attended her classes. One day the lady was found knocking at the door of Misra’s father’s house. As the word spread in the household that the Mem Saheb was waiting at the door, Imam Saheb considered the situation. What should he do? He could not risk the wrath of the authorities, that too of the Sahebs. On the other hand, welcoming the lady would amount to blasphemy. As Imam Saheb fretted and fumed, the little devil Misra ran the entire length of the courtyard and opened the door for the Mem Saheb. The lady was pleased. She picked up Misra in her arms and came in. Now nothing could be done. Imam Saheb beckoned his Begum to receive the lady and escort her into the house. A curious horde of onlookers gathered in the courtyard of Imam Saheb’s house.
The Mem Saheb was very forthright. She straightaway declared, “Look Imam Saheb, I have come to discuss the girl’s education with you. I hear you are a great Islamic scholar, well versed with the scriptures.”
The Imam wiped the beads of sweat from his face and brow and said, “Please sit down.”
‘What does the Holy Quran say about it?” The lady confronted the Imam with a specific question. He sat there. He did not know what to say.The lady continued,“Is it true that the Prophet’s own wife is considered as one of the greatest Islamic scholars?”
“Yes,” the Imam Saheb managed to say.
“Would it be possible without the education she received from the holy Prophet himself?”
“No.”
“Then what is the basis for denying education to these wonderful girls of yours?”
There was no escape for the Imam Saheb. At the end of this first encounter, the Imam had consented to allow the youngest of his daughters, Misra, to join Mem Saheb’s classes.
Misra Begum’s chain of thoughts was abruptly broken by a knock at the door. She got up from her comfortable seat and moved across the length of her sitting room. She opened the door and seeing the visitor, a young lad living in the vicinity, smiled at him and beckoned him in. Misra Begum was reminded of her only son whenever she came across a handsome young man. Her son was away in a country in the Gulf, earning petro-dollars. Her daughters, four in all, had been married off and lived in different cities of Pakistan. The boy came in and Misra Begum followed him. As he sat, she enquired,“What would you like to have son? A cup of tea?”
“No khala nothing. I only came to tell you that a group of Mujahideen is leaving for the valley tomorrow. You wanted to send something there. Anyway, two Mujahids will spend the night in your guest room. You can talk to them.”
“So kind of you, my boy, to have remembered. I will eagerly await their arrival. When shall they come?”
“By evening, I was told.”
Saying this the boy stood up and took leave. Misra Begum showered all blessings on the young man and saw him to the door.
As she returned to her seat, tears welled up in her eyes. Kashmir. Ah, those mujahideen were going to Kashmir—her mother—her Kashmir.
Kalhan Pandit continued to hold his tormentors at bay. His eccentric behaviour had earned him some reprieve. He was in no mood to relent. His captors tried hard to bring him to his senses. He would at times behave quite normally but as soon as his captors mentioned a pen, Kalhan Pandit would feign a possessed state of mind. Left to himself, he would think of ways and means to end this captivity. He could, however, never reach any conclusion. There seemed to be no way out. He had tried everything. He had pleaded with his tormentors. He had gone on a hunger strike, only to ask for food after three days. Having got used to him, his captors had lowered their vigil. Occasionally he would be allowed the luxury of coming out of the secluded hut and into the open yard through which ran a shimmering stream. There were a couple of poplars planted on one side and a majestic chinar stood on the other. On one such excursion, he saw a young man squatting on the green turf by the side of the brook. A copy of the holy Quran stood on a wooden stand in front and the youth recited from it in a rich voice. As Kalhan came nearer, he could see tears rolling down the cheeks of the youth disappearing into his thick beard. The young man saw him and stopped reciting. Kalhan beckoned him to continue. The young man hesitated but Kalhan with folded hands pleaded, “Son, please continue, I would bartar my life for listening to these holy words, they soothe my soul. Please read.”
The young man smiled and resumed his recitation. Kalhan sat behind the young man in all humility and devotion. After a while the young man stopped reciting. He began reading aloud the translation of the verses he had recited.
“He is Allah, other than whom there is no deity, knower of the unseen and the witnessed. He is the entirely merciful, the especially merciful. He is Allah, other than whom there is no deity, the sovereign, the pure, the perfection, the bestower of faiths, the overseer, the exalted in might, the compeller, the superior. Exalted is Allah above whatever they associate with Him.He is Allah, the creater, the inventor, the fashioner; to Him belong the best of names. Whatever is in the heavens and earth is exalting Him.And He is the exalted in might, the wise.”
As the young man paused for breath Kalhan picked up from him, reciting from his memory the shaivite mantras he had learnt when he was a toddler “He is self radiant, self-sufficient, self-dependent, self-explanatory, self-conscious and self-evident. He is all that exists and that does not exist and yet He transcends the whole phenomenal universe. He is all pervading and transcends the physical barriers of time and space. Everything is in Him and He is in everything. All this is mere manifestation of his own powers brought about by his supreme will. It is a long and continuous drama wherein He plays different roles though apparently looking various characters. But actually, it is His and his show alone. When this reality dawns upon an aspirant, he attains true knowledge. He becomes an enlightened soul, a liberated soul. He becomes one with Shiva and virtually merges in Him by getting dissolved in that boundless luminosity, he utters in great ecstasy ‘Shiva Aham.’
The young man looked at him in awe. Kalhan spoke as if in a trance. His whole form seemed to be transformed. Words coming from his lips appeared to emanate from his soul. As he stopped, the young man got up and came to him. “Panditji.” He touched his shoulder. Kalhan seemed to wake from a slumber. He opened his eyes, took a look at the dazed young man and said, “My son, if only people knew, we quench our thirst from the same spring.”
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
