DHAMAKA
Dilshada felt her heart beating like a drum…she held the cloth bag in her trembling hands and fervently prayed to God as she walked through the narrow path in the paddy fields to Chak Village….she stood near the electric pole as instructed and awaited with a bated breath. She could hear the crickets chirping in the pleasant night….wind whistling through the nearby Chinar trees.
She saw the headlight of a motorcycle, her heart pounding hard and throat dry.The motorcycle stopped near her…
“Salam-Walekum…” the bearded man in the pillion said in a heavy voice. Her throat choked and she couldn’t speak. He stretched his hand and took the bag….But the time she could understand, the motorcycle was gone. Her consciousness returned as the dust blown by the spinning wheels entered her nostrils. She exhaled with a noise….wiping her forehead As she turned to go back into the fields, she saw head lights of a four wheeler coming towards her. She started to run on the narrow path, she slipped and fell into the paddy field. She took the scarf into her mouth lest she utter a sound. It was a jeep, that slowed down…someone from that jeep took out a torch and flashed it around…she pushed herself to the ground…..her nose rubbing against the moist earth. It must have been ten minutes that the jeep had left but she kept lying there in total dread. Limping and cursing she returned home…she washed her face and saw herself in the mirror.
“I will never do it again” she clenched her fists in rage.
She kept tossing and turning in the bed…..her father’s snoring and dogs barking were the only two things she could hear….and she cursed Mudassir…..whole night.
Next morning’s sun gave her the courage she wanted…and when Mudassir called up, she said point blank
“I will not be your courier again…..I never thought you will ‘use’ me…like this…no lover would do that….”
“I am sorry…but it was your first time….you will be stronger…do it for me jaan?”
She disconnected the call…her thoughts went back to the days when she used to smuggle homemade mutton for Mudassir……and went through the same paddy fields towards Chak Village where he would be waiting in the apple orchard….
“…mmm…what a taste !” he would say…and she would keep looking into his blue eyes. The chirping birds, blowing wind and two souls that loved each other……picture perfect.
She would frown and fret when he spoke about guns and violence…then he would laugh and swear that he will not talk about it again…..she would rest her head on his shoulders and it felt like heaven. God knows what went into his head…..the glamour of guns, the love for violence or greed to become a local ‘Robinhood’. Whatever it was, she couldn’t believe that she had ferried live grenades for him. What if they had blasted or she was caught? Mudassir will never come back to live a normal life…the day he picked up a weapon, he wrote an expiry date on his head .. ..her dreams had shattered like sand castles on the beach. ..she was thinking.
Mudassir called up in the morning and said “Mubarak…tumhari wajah se karnaama badiya hua.”
Dilshada’s heart skipped a beat…she disconnected the phone. TV was speaking about it…grenade blast in crowded market…two policemen, three passersby including a toddler killed.
It has been three years but she has not forgiven herself….only solace she has is her job as a nurse…..healing wounds, alas physical…..the wounds of her conscience will perhaps never heal.
‘Kam galat’ ya ‘jyada galat’ kuchh nahin hota, Galat, galat hi hota hai, aur kuchh nahin hota
