The Faisal I Lost
The journey wasn’t comfortable. The road to my destination had been ripped away by recent floods that had brutally hit my vatan. Locked safely in an old tanker I could still feel the rattling of the tyres in unison. I have spent this day devoid of food and several hours of water. ‘Chacha Jaan’ knew this but he must have smelled some danger hence stops were getting less frequent. It must have been hours since the last one. I was hyper ventilating now. The feeling of nausea was taking over. I heard the sound of the river flowing swiftly within its boundaries and felt our tanker crossing the bridge. Ten minutes later the brakes squealed to a stop. Short, careful whispers followed. I closed my eyes, thus refrain it from getting blind. The lid threw open. To my contradiction, it was dark. It clearly indicated that we had travelled a lot. I rushed out and took gulps of glucose which Chacha jaan had already prepared. He always cares. ‘Hurry up. Eat your meal and get some rest. The patrolling parties are rigorous here.’ He commanded. I could notice years of experience and a cautious look on his face. ‘In a moment, Chacha Jaan.’ I confirmed. I couldn’t afford to fail him. He knew the path to ‘jannat’ and being his companion to this honorary deed made me obliged. This alliance was the will of Allah. I rushed into the nearby woods and made myself comfortable over a stone. Still, something was strange, something churning inside me. Must be a wave of excitement, I thought. I finished my meal and settled for a short nap. The place had a suspecting silence and it wasn’t a good sign. But the thought of resting took away the tension. I dozed off. ‘Time to wake up Fahad…..get up and clear your mess!!’ Chacha Jaan instructed. It clearly stated that even the foot impressions were to be erased. I remembered a lecture that was presided over by Chacha Jaan some four years before. It dealt with ‘Leaving Traces’. ‘Dare you share yourself’ was his motto. I returned to sane and after ensuring the mess being cleared I set for a short walk to the other side of the road where a village stood doleful. Meanwhile the driver inspected the engine. The air was thin. Huts were scattered in this village as islands in a sea, leaving voids in between. There wasn’t any life here, just silent huts, desolated and catastrophe. But something was nudging me to inspect. Something was raising Goosebumps, as if a hint of dark nostalgia. While inspecting I saw a rusted bench, names written on a tree trunk in dire need of waterand many such in bits and pieces. But something that electrified my senses was a broken name plate on which was carved- ‘Mufti Hussain.’ The place was spinning around me, my legs were twitching….. failing me without pain. ‘Which place is this Chacha Jaan?’ I could barely speak. ‘Buhadarpur, it’s a village on the outskirts of Sialkot, the border isn’t far from here.’ He enlightened me with composure. Before I could react, headlights from a distance diverted my agitation. A truck was coming our way. I ran. It wasn’t the truck that horrified me to run. It was the driver. ‘Let’s get out of here Chacha Jaan.’ I was fighting tears after a long time. Chacha Jaan could read my agitation but he remained silent. I hurried back into the tanker’s hole. The driver turned the engine to life. I was sitting numb. My name, my identity, the gun kept beside me and my purpose, all seemed to dissolve in the mist of realization. I
56 Avant Garde 2011