AZADI
Javed stared at his photo on the cracked screen of his weathered mobile phone. Twinkle in the eyes, index finger pointing upwards and an AK-47 in the left hand. He remembered that Friday when in one step he had transformed himself into a man from boy; or so he thought. He almost looked like Farid, who he idolised. Farid…. the ‘mujahid’, who was eliminated a few days back in an encounter; three months after he had picked up a weapon. Farid’s parents were totally broken Javed had heard. He was also told that those who claimed that Farid will never be forgotten had started to avoid his parents who were even finding it difficult to make two ends meet.
Javed wanted to shrug off these negative thoughts but the fact was that the glamour of “jihad” was fast losing its sheen. He had not taken a bath in two months, had not changed his clothes and had not tasted hot food in weeks. He always had to be on the move from one forest to another, deprived of sleep and peace of mind. He clutched the butt of his AK-47 tightly to strengthen his resolve. The call for afternoon prayers in a distant mosque came to his rescue; temporarily.
As he munched the stale “roti”, he could not help reminiscing his days at home when he would get freshly baked“ rotis” from the local baker and relish them with “noon-chai”, sitting happily with his young sister in the grass lawn of his house. He also remembered the carefree days he used to spend with his friends catching fish in the village pond. Playing cricket in sun was another thing he missed badly… and then there were those hundreds of small pleasures of life which were now distant… very distant. Most importantly, it were the brown eyes of his beloved Fathima that haunted him every now and then. Fathima… who had dreamt of starting a life with Javed. Was she proud of the fact that he had become a mujahid? “Yes!! Sure she was…. she had to be”, he thought, however his heart knew that it was not true. Fathima had disconnected the call when he had broken the news to her and had heard her sobbing. He then remembered his carpenter shop. The smell of freshly scraped wood, the noise of hammer & chisel….. the cozy corner of the shop with a mattress where he would rest in the afternoon…… all the things that looked mundane …. he missed them. He had thought that picking up a weapon for ‘azadi’ would fill him up with ecstasy. It did, but only for a few days…. now he was missing the small pleasures of his “azaad” life.
The risks were great but the temptation even greater. He reached the outskirts of Fathima’s village in the wee hours. It was Mansoor, Fathima’s elder brother who spotted Javed in the fields next to the house. Mansoor and Javed had gone to school together and Mansoor always wanted Javed as his brother-in-law…. “Javed the carpenter”, not “Javed the terrorist”. While Javed waited for Fathima to come out, Mansoor informed the security forces. Fathima did come out; but after listening to the gun shots. Javed was eliminated while trying to run towards the forest area. Fathima did not cry for days; struck by shock. She still does not understand what kind of ‘azadi’ Javed wanted to fight for.
Yeh kis azaadi ko khojne nikle the tum ki peeche reh gaye saare apne, Woh kaisi hogi sapnoki jannat jab peeche reh gaye saare sapne”
