Collared round their necks they were on leash and as all three of them reached the platform they moved on their haunches. The lady stood in the center and the young men crawled to her. They began by licking her ankles, her legs and her knees. Then she removed her skirt altogether and they licked her thighs. They howled like dogs. The lady then removed her top. Her full breasts came into view. They hung on to her breasts, sucking, licking and growling. It went on and on. Unable to bear it any longer, the lady picked up a leather strap and began hitting her pets. This did not deter them. They went for her with renewed vigour. They barked at her and using their hands as their paws tried to claw at her breasts. In the melee that followed one of them went straight for her panty and holding it with his teeth tore it into shreds. As her hidden body was exposed all the three charged at it, barking, fighting and growling at each other.
Ajab Malik was in a stupor. He did not know what to think. He did not know how to react. He turned his head around and saw that the entire assembly of men and women were frantically reaching for each other. It was an orgy in full swing. He was dazed. He did not know when the young girl sitting next to him had come closer. He could only see the top of the girl’s head in his lap.
Nullah Khan, the Supreme Head had broken the protocol by coming to the bus stand at Muzaffarbad to receive Yousuf Shah. As the bus coming from Rawalpindi drove into the stand the Azadi party volunteers raised pro-Azadi slogans. The bus came to a halt and passengers began alighting from it. The crowd waited expectantly looking at each face that emerged. After a while Yousuf Shah appeared. The crowd, which had till then been silent burst out, “We want Azadi.”
As Yousuf Shah’s feet touched the ground, Nullah Khan took a few steps forward and embraced his chief in the valley. It was an emotional reunion. Nullah Khan’s father had served as a horseman in the Kashmir palace. When Yousuf Shah was a king, Nullah Khan had been drafted as his personal attendant. Times had changed and now Yousuf Shah was a crownless king. Nullah Khan had come a long way. Having been thrown out of the palace for stealing a horse from the royal stables, he had moved aimlessly in the countryside. It was during one of these aimless travels that he came face to face with Maqbool and his dream of Azadi. Maqbool went to the gallows and Nullah Khan ascended the throne vacated by him.
Khan enjoyed every bit of his new role. As he embraced young Yousuf Shah, he was aware of the challenge this young man could pose. He patted his shoulder and escorted him through the crowd to a waiting Cadillac. Yousuf Shah waved to the crowd and wanted to make a short speech but Nullah Khan held his arm and almost pushed him into the car. Once inside, Nullah Khan began to clear his throat. The driver started the engine and the car began to move. As it cleared the crowd and came onto the wider road Nullah Khan began, “Yousuf Sahib, I welcome you to this place.” Yousuf Shah turned towards him, “Chief, I am really touched by the welcome.” Nullah Khan shifted in his seat. He said, “You have to be careful. We have no friends, all are our enemies.”
Yousuf Shah did not expect a serious discussion to commence immediately. He just nodded in agreement and this was enough. Nullah Khan began his monologue. “One attacks us from the front and the other from behind. We are sandwiched between two enemies. They are both usurpers. Both want to finish us. Sometimes I feel the smaller one is more dangerous.”
Now Yousuf Shah had to say something. He stopped Nullah Khan with a wave of his hand. “Chief, listen to me. You have not faced what we are facing, so it will not be wise to draw conclusions.” Nullah Khan was not used to criticism. He turned red. His eyelid flickered incessantly. The corners of his mouth twitched but somehow he held on. He became silent and still. Yousuf Shah looked out of the moving car. He could see tented hutments in the distance. Ah! Refugees. Refugees and more refugees, that too in one’s own land. I too am a refugee he thought and shifted his gaze.
Kalhan Pandit brought out his pen from an inner pocket. He looked at the pen, his faithful companion of fifty years. This was the pen that his father had bequeathed him along with the family heritage of genealogical tables. Kalhan Pundit’s shaking hand steadied itself and slowly his composure returned to him. He sat there holding the pen in his hand. His tormentors waited expectantly. The sheaf of papers lay neatly stacked in front of him. As if in a trance Kalhan spoke to himself, ‘I will never betray you. I will never compel you. I will never break you.’ His captors were taken aback. One of them put his hand on Kalhan’s shoulder, “Hey Pandit, what is this nonsense? Put your signature on the paper or be ready to die.”
Kalhan Pandit seemed to listen to nothing. He continued to murmur, “I will never lose you, I will never misuse you.” The young man shook his shoulder but to no effect. He looked at his companions, “What has got into him? Is he mad? Has he gone crazy?”
“No, no, he is just trying to fool us. He is a clever Pandit. You don’t know them. He wants to wriggle out of this, but he can’t. We will kill him straightaway. We have no time for his pranks.”
“But will that solve our problem! If he dies we do not get his signature.”
“Oh yes, that is a problem. Leave him for the present. Report to the commander. He will find a way.”
They stood up and leaving Kalhan alone in the room moved out. Kalhan continued to stare at his pen. He lifted his hand and touched his forehead with it, then kissed it and said aloud, “Thank you. Thank you. You have saved me for the present, you shall save me hereafter too.”
He suddenly felt a new resolve deep inside him. He would not sign. After all why should he be scared? He had lived a full life. He should be ready to die even if it was at the hands of these rogues. As if to translate his inner thoughts into action he stood up and moved around. He no longer felt his legs sagging, his heart pounding or his mouth dry.
Lally moved under the almond trees. Dazed, she looked at nothing. She simply continued to walk barefooted and totally naked under the loose and ill-fitting pheran. Her hair was disheveled and it flew all around. Her arms hung by her sides as she walked. One almond orchard ended and another began. She continued to move. A thorn gored into her sole but oblivious to the pain, she moved on. At last she came out of the woods and into a clear expanse of land on the bank of a beautiful lake. She stopped and moved her head. She looked at the lake, then shifted her gaze, moved her head and saw the shrine perched on a cliff by the side of a bare brown hill. Her feet moved and with her stare fixed on the shrine she continued to take small steps. After going some distance, the flat and plain ground gave way to a steep terrain. Lally kept on moving. She rammed into the rocks, she stumbled against the boulders. She fell here, she fell there but she continued to move. Her gaze remained fixed on the towering shrine. As she inched her way her feet bled, her naked legs were bruised. Her pheran got entangled in a thorny bush but she moved on carrying all the thorns on her garment and in her soles.
It was almost evening when she finally arrived in the marbled courtyard of the grand mausoleum. The mausoleum of a saint revered by all.
Her bleeding feet left blood marks on the glistening marble tiles. A flock of pigeons stood in her way but oblivious to their presence she continued to move and reached the beautifully decorated entrance. There she could see the sanctum sanctorum. One glance at it and she slumped into a heap on the floor. The few men standing around saw her going down. They rushed to her and carried her away into an adjoining area. They brought her into a small cabin and placed her on the floor. An elderly lady, a nun living at the shrine was called in and she took charge.
Kashyap ruled over his newly acquired kingdom with an iron hand. State functionaries loyal to Jaladbhava were eased out of their jobs and loyal people imported from outside. Kashyap’s own tribesmen were inducted. The entire system of governance was taken over by these fair-skinned, sweet-tongued intelligent men. The local populace was banished to meaner roles. Certain areas were earmarked as exclusive domain of the superior race, the ruling class. The natives had no rights—no right to freedom, no right to liberty of action and thought, or right to property; all rights were withdrawn. Special care was taken to discourage, and at times prevent natives from acquiring knowledge. Thus sat Kashyap on the throne of Kashmir. Jaladbhava’s nation slipped into slavery although pockets of resistance remained, but over a period of time Kashyap overcame all that remained of native pride. He felt happy and contented too. He had achieved what he had sought. Kashyap had become possessive of his kingdom. So much so that he did not like the friendly intrusions of his benefactor, the great monarch Nilnag. The mistrust grew day by day and after sometime Kashyap was convinced that Nilnag was out to usurp his kingdom. Nilnag had been receiving reports from his agents. These reports pointed towards the change in Kashyap’s temperament. But initially he had kept quiet. As reports of more serious nature continued to pour in, he decided to act. He called one of his senior ministers and discussed the whole affair with him. It was concluded that the senior minister would travel to Satisar as a special emissary of Nilnag and sort out the differences. Kashyap was duly informed. But on the appointed day Kashyap chose to be away from his palace. The meeting could not take place. The minister returned to Pataal disgusted and disappointed. Nilnag was furious. How could he, a protege of Nilnag get away with such brazen defiance? After all it was he who had landed his troops and got the country for Kashyap. Nilnag decided to teach Kashyap a lesson.
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