It was a cold evening. The only thing that warmed me up was the thought that my father would bring the sweets and other stuff served at the fatiha-khaani for me, as usual. He loved his children as every father does. He was strict too. My brother often narrates a story that once he was even hung upside down by him when he found my brother reluctant to study. However, being the youngest in the family and a toddler, I had a privilege to be free from all sorts of such punishments, to sleep with him and to be the core of his attention, no matter what. I still remember, he would forget his Identity card sometimes at home or elsewhere but he would never forget to keep anti-spasmodic in his pocket for me, as I used to suffer from the occasional abdominal pain. That night too, when people checked his pocket there was a pain killer for me.
He was late today. It was autumn. Mountains were silent like anything. No chirping of birds could be heard. Perhaps they too had migrated to other places as men and women did. Perhaps they too were scared of the gun-shots, the crackdowns and the fear that haunted everyone. Although most of the time, he used to come a little late, but he never came this late. Everyone was worried. I wasn’t worried at all. And if at all, I was worried, I was worried only about his being good to the other children of village. What if he already has distributed all the sweets to the children who would meet him on his way? I was worried about his generosity which I felt, only I was entitled to.
Night fell. My sisters started shouting paapaa, paapaa, paapaa to know, if he was nearby. This was a normal practice in those days as there were no phones. They kept calling him for almost half an hour. Then suddenly his voice echoed from the nearby forest that comes on the way to our home. I was more than happy. No sooner did I hear him shouting back, I went to the kitchen side of our house and brought a bowl to collect the sweets and other eatables.
He took another fifteen minutes to reach the nearby house that was situated at around a hundred terraces down our home. I smiled. To be clearer from my other siblings, I made a distance from them, so that he did not forget to put a large proportion of those eatables he has, in my bowl.
In a few minutes he was just in front of every one of us. I ran mid-way and without saying anything passed my bowl to him. He smiled, as he lifted me up and kissed. He filled that bowl and asked me to give some to my siblings just to listen that I won’t.
My elder sister, then only around sixteen, was mad at him for being so irresponsible and coming so late. She had become a little more mature than her age group. Perhaps this happens to most of the girls living in conflict zones. At an age when their age mates outside, watch cartoons, play, and listen to the fairy tales, they are acquainted with the terms like molestation, rape and the like. War perhaps makes everyone mature before age.
Night was spreading its wings on the mountains, making them more vulnerable and more fearful. Nobody would dare to go outside, after this time, except me and Papa. I would often ask him to accompany me for the loo as there was no toilet inside the house. I actually would feel good to keep him busy whenever he is with me. So going out at night was also fun as he always would accompany me. He had become my best friend. The only friend perhaps, till then.Kids usually are more close to their mothers than their fathers. In our family reverse has been the case for almost all of us-the siblings.
On asking the reason for being late at the dining–mat, the only explanation he gave was a very similar and familiar one to all of us- He was stopped by some villager on the way to pray for his ailing wife. Owing to his nature, he was dear to the most of villagers. Perhaps he never said a “no” to anyone, for any possible thing he could do. And that is why he would always come a little late in the evening.
Dinner was served. I ate in his plate, as usual. It was a one-hall Kacha-house. I kept the bowl with me till the time I went to bed, with him. We had a a little chat as per routine. Most of the times, he would ask me to spell names, places, things etc. I don’t remember what exactly did he talk that night, but for almost everything I just uttered umm…umm, for everything he asked. I was more interested in finishing with the sweets in the bowl. I ate them as soon as possible so that nothing is left, for anyone else. I laid on his left arm. He always kept me on the left side (the wall-side), so that I don’t fall from the Khat in sleep.
He still was talking about something, and I fell asleep. It was midnight, when I woke up, as usual. I asked him to take me out for the loo. He moaned and murmured that he can’t. I was still half-slept. I repeated, “Get up, and take me out for a loo”. He again moaned and said, “I can’t”.
I came to my senses out of an unknown and unpredictable fear, only to hear him saying “lift my head” bache (son). It was all pitch-dark inside the house. The only Chimni (kerosene burner) we had was kept on the other side of the house, where my sister and brother (an year or two elder than me) were sleeping. I was thrilled this time. I went weak in my knees and back. How can any child see his hero moaning in pain and helpless? Although his voice was not clear, but I could somehow understand that “he can’t” means “he is unable to do it”. He is sick. Then he again moaned and asked me to lift his arm- the left arm. I tried to lift his head as well as the left arm, thrice, but I couldn’t. I cried and shouted at the top of my voice “Pape ki kuj hoi ghya” (something has happened to papa).
The sister woke up and lit the Chimni. They both started crying. Sister ran to the neighbourhood to call someone for help, all alone. She perhaps was no more scared of the gun-yielding men or anything else.
She came back in a few minutes with some neighbours- few ladies who made a little noise, some men and their children too. I was stunned, stopped crying for sometimes. I developed the notion that, it all happened because of me. I thought, as I sleep daily on his left arm, so he is not able to move his left arm. I even wowed to myself and to the God, I feared more than I loved, not to sleep on his arms ever, if he gets well soon. Without letting anyone know, I lived with this guilt for many years after him. “Falaj hoi ghaas” (He has been paralysed) murmured the man standing beside the Khat.
Everyone waited till morning to take him to the hospital in Surankote which was at a distance of around 3 to 4 hours from the village. Travelling at night was both difficult and dangerous, as there was no electricity in those days and more than that, it were the curfew hours.
after a while they carried him on the same Khat, we were sleeping on, to the hospital. I and my siblings were left at home, perhaps for two reasons. First, it was difficult for us to travel that far on foot. the second reason perhaps, was the extra-expenditure.
As soon they left, the night was over. But for me night had just begun. I was crying continuously and was feeling ashamed and guilty as well. Guilty of all the trouble. I still was immersed in the night that had passed for everyone. The night that never passed for me.
The century-long day passed. We saw many more people coming towards our home in the evening. They were reciting Kalima. My sister started yelling as soon as she heard them. In a while my elder brother tore his shirt into parts, screaming at the top his voice, in-front of just everyone. when I saw him screaming and shouting said “marhya-paapa, mrhya paapa” (my papa, my papa). I was stunned. I disliked him doing it. I still didn’t want to believe that their yelling has some meaning at all. I consoled my brother, who was lying on the ground with his torn shirt and flowing-eyes. I said the words, I believe even today, and the words I myself wanted someone else to say that night-“paapa zinda ya” (Papa is alive).
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