Ramendra Kumar
Dr Neeraj Kaul was roused from his sleep by a sudden noise. He was a light sleeper and even the slightest sound was enough to wake him. He switched on the lamp on the bedside table and looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. His impulse was to call out to Madan, the family servant who had been with him for more than twenty years, but he decided against it. He got out of bed. It was very cold. He put on his dressing gown and left his bedroom to investigate.
There was that noise again. Was it a soft knock on the door? Or was it something else?
He opened the door and stepped back in horror. A boy was lying on the ground, bleeding. He looked up and mumbled something and then his head rolled to one side.
“Madan! Madan!” Dr. Kaul’s voice rang out, sharp and clear.
A few minutes later, Madan came out of his room, rubbing his eyes.
“Come, help me get this boy inside. Let’s take him to the guest room. He seems to have lost a lot of blood.”
“But, Bhaiyyaji, shouldn’t we inform the police? He might be a jihadi.”
“Forget about all that and do exactly as I say. He is a human being first and everything else later. And as a doctor my first duty is to save a life and then investigate the antecedents of the patient.”
They carried the boy to the guest room, which was at the back of the house, next to the kitchen.
Dr Kaul was an experienced surgeon. He had retired from the Government Hospital two years ago, after serving for more than three decades.
In thirty minutes, Dr Kaul’s job was done.
“He had taken a bullet in his left shoulder. I have removed it. The next few hours are crucial. If he makes it till morning, he will survive. Or else . . . ”
“Bhaiyyaji, what about the police? Should we not inform them?”
“Leave that to me. Let the child survive first.”
Dr Kaul pulled an armchair near the bed and settled himself for a long watch.
It was afternoon when the boy woke up and asked the inevitable question. “Where am I?”
Dr Kaul leaned forward and placing his hand on the boy’s forehead gently said, “You are safe here. Don’t worry. Just relax. Once you are better, we’ll get on with the introductions.”
It took two more days for the boy to gain enough strength to talk about himself.
His name was Ejaaz and he lived with his grandfather, his baba, Akhtar Mian, in Phulwama. Ejaaz’s parents had died when he was still very young and his grandparents had brought him up. Two years ago, his grandmother had suffered a stroke and since then Ejaaz and Baba had lived together.
Baba owned a small shop where he sold stationery, tea, cold drinks, chips, and biscuits. His kahva was considered the best in town. Baba managed to earn enough to send Ejaaz to a government school. He wanted his grandson to become an engineer.
One day, a police jeep stopped in front of Baba’s shop. Two baton-wielding policemen pulled him out and shoved him into the jeep. Before the owners of the neighbouring shops could even react, the jeep had sped away. When Ejaaz came home from school, he found a large crowd gathered in front of his house.
“What happened, Chachu?” he asked his neighbour Siddiqui.
“The police came and picked up Akhtar Mian. I was waiting for you. Come, let us go to the police station.”
For the next four days, they went from one police station to another, pleading for answers and begging for information, but there was no trace of Baba. He seemed to have disappeared. Finally, Siddiqui came one morning to Ejaaz’s house.
“Come with me. We have to go to the Phulwama police station.”
Ejaaz’s eyes lit up with hope. “Is there any news of Baba?”
Siddiqui’s face was grim. He did not answer. He just held Ejaaz’s hand and led him to the police station.
An army officer was sitting there and beside him was an inspector of the J&K Police. The officer was a tall, burly man. The nameplate on his chest said: Dheeraj Singh. He pointed to a bundle on the floor to his right.
“Open it,” he commanded.
With trembling hands Ejaaz opened the bundle and recognized all his baba’s belongings.
“Do you know who these things belong to?”
“My . . . my baba. Where is he?” Ejaaz asked with dread.
“Where he belongs—in hell. He was a traitor. He was passing information to military organizations in Pakistan.”
“You are lying!”
In a flash, displaying surprising agility for a man of his large frame, the officer reached out and slapped Ejaaz, sending him flying across the room.
“Akhtar was using his shop as a front. After we captured him, he tried to escape from the lockup and was shot dead.”
Ejaaz broke down and cried all the way home. His neighbours looked after him for some time and then got busy with their own lives.
Ejaaz eventually went to Srinagar and managed to find a job in a small restaurant. He worked during the day and slept on the restaurant floor at night.
A few months later, when the stone pelting started, he joined the movement. It gave him a chance to earn some money as well as to hit out at the policemen, each one of whom reminded him of Dheeraj Singh.
Three days back, the police had opened fire on the stone-pelters. A bullet had hit Ejaaz and he had collapsed. He had somehow managed to reach Dr Kaul’s house.
“What did your baba look like?” Dr Kaul asked, reaching out and ruffling Ejaaz’s hair.
“He looked like you,” Ejaaz said.
Later Dr Neeraj Kaul told Ejaaz about himself.
He had graduated from AIIMS, New Delhi, and then returned to his hometown, Srinagar, to work at the Government Hospital. He had married Rukmini, who was a paediatrician and who ran her own clinic. They had no children. Rukmini had died two years ago, a few months before he retired. After his retirement, Dr Kaul continued working.
Ever since trouble had erupted in Kashmir in 1989, Dr Kaul had been advised by his friends and relatives to leave the valley before it was too late. His answer had always been the same: “Only my dead body will leave Kashmir.”
A week after Ejaaz’s rather sudden entry into the Kaul household, Madan once again broached the subject that had been uppermost in his mind.
“When are you going to inform the police, Bhaiyyaji?”
“What is there to inform?”
“Then what are you going to do with this boy?”
“He is going to live here, like my grandson. I never had a son. Now God has given me a grandson. I am going to treat Ejaaz like His benediction and keep him.”
“But, Bhaiyyaji, he is a Muslim. How can he live in a Kashmiri Pundit’s house? This would be blasphemy.”
“A greater blasphemy would be to turn a poor orphan out on the streets.”
***
Ejaaz joined an English-medium school, thanks to his ‘new’ baba’s contacts.
A year passed. The turmoil in the Kashmir valley continued to increase. One day, an inspector of the J&K Police called on Dr Kaul.
“Doctor saab, we have received information that your life is in danger. A militant organization has come out with a list of prominent Kashmiri Pundits who they are going to target. Your name figures on that list. We have decided to give you police protection. Two constables will be with you round the clock.”
“Thank you, inspector, but I really don’t think it is necessary. Kashmir is not merely my homeland. It is also my faith and my religion. I shall never be harmed here.”
“As you wish, Doctor saab.” The inspector got up. “One more thing, Dr Kaul. We have come to know that you are sheltering a Muslim boy. I am afraid he might be a danger to you. I am not sure whether you are aware or not, but his grandfather was a member of a militant organization. He was captured and was killed when he tried to flee.”
“I am sorry, inspector, but you have got your facts completely wrong. His grandfather is Dr Neeraj Kaul, Retired Surgeon, Sher-e-Kashmir Government Hospital, Srinagar.”
Three days later, Dr Neeraj Kaul was shot dead as he was getting out of his car. Insaaf-e-Ulooma, a pro-Pakistan militant organization, claimed responsibility for the killing.
“I am going to light the pyre,” Ejaaz told Madan.
“You can’t, you are a Muslim. It will be a sin. His soul will never attain salvation.”
“Try stopping me,” Ejaaz said. Seeing the look in his eyes, Madan kept quiet.
The entire ceremony was performed by Ejaaz in front of scores of well-wishers, admirers, and former and present colleagues of Dr Kaul.
The next day, Ejaaz collected the ashes and immersed them in the Jhelum.
One of my grandfathers was killed by a Hindu and the other one was murdered by a Muslim. Which religion do I love and which do I hate? Ejaaz thought as he watched the ashes float in the river.
He then remembered the words of his baba, “Beta, violence has no religion.”
Excerpted from ‘And The Jhelum Flows….’
https://www.amazon.in/Jhelum-Flows-Ramendra-Kumar/dp/9385137433
Ramendra Kumar is an award-winning writer, storyteller, inspirational speaker and cancer warrior with 50 books, can be reached at 13ramenpr@gmail.com
