From the rubble resurrects the resistance.
Qadri Inzamam
Fifty Seven people killed. More than 350 structures gutted in Sopore. The figures. The data. The numbers. The bloody statistics that conceal the untold, heart-wrenching and horrendous tales of catastrophe which humans inflict on humans.
A three-year old child, who clenches with his small, tender and soft fists, his mother’s Pheran, whose hands have not yet started to hold toys properly, is snatched. Snatched by the frenzied Indian army, whose eyes are blurred with rage, revenge and madness. They snatch the child from his mother, they snatch the hope from the love and then toss him into a burning bus where already dozens of dreams are turning into ash. A three-year old child, tossed and burned in flames! How does God watch it all from the above silently?
The cries of the toddler reach the crescendo, the ultimate courage he has to call for help. The cries. The shrieks. And then a barrage of bullets. The shrieks die. There is a silence. But the crackle of burning child does not die. The crackle is a woe to the marauders. Fifty Seven people killed. More than 350 structures gutted. The headlines next day stare at the people, coldly, lifelessly. A light breeze passes and the page flutters. The paper turns. Fifty Seven people killed. More than 350 structures gutted.
Did they mention that next year the three-year old child was to be admitted in the school? Did they mention how many votive threads his mother had tied in the shrine of his beloved saint for him – each thread a wish, a hope, a prayer? Each thread burns and with it fades the hopes, the dreams and prayers into the smoke.
It is a chilly January morning. People are resuming their day. Shopkeepers are hopeful. Today will be a good day. Children are happy. They are enjoying the winter vacations. Employees wait for the buses to reach for the office. Market is waking up from the slumber and becoming lively. A gunshot is heard from a distance. People are startled. It comes closer. And with it comes marching the herd of marauders, donned in the uniform. They have been let loose. The firing grows intense and the market falls into rigor mortis.
Smoke. That is no fog. That is the plume of smoke emanating from the homes. Homes built from lifetime savings and years of dreams. Why are you running frenzy, did they burn your home too? Fifty Seven people killed. More than 350 structures gutted.
Photo: Twitter, @KashmirInPhotos
There is a white Ambassador car parked in the market. There is chaos. People are running for cover. But where will they hide? They are shooting blindly.
An old man – weak, cold and schlepping in fear. He has seen the life’s tragedies. But he wants to die in his home, in his warm bed, surrounded by his child, comforting him. He wants to die in peace. His last wish. Bury me next to my mother.
The marauders are there, wielding guns, eyes full of terror and hearts… No, marauders don’t have hearts. The white ambassador car – the old man finds a space behind it to hide. This is not his cozy bed now. He does not want to die like this. No. I deserve a better death.
He is seen. They come close to him, point the gun at him. The blood splashes on the white ambassador car. The old man dies on the road, in the dust, alone and helplessly. Have you seen my father, I can’t find him. Yes, behind that car. But he is dead.
Fifty Seven people killed. More than 350 structures gutted.
Roads are deserted. Just the gun-shots roam around, inflicting the terror. No one dares to walk in the open. The marauders are everywhere on the prowl. Where are you going? Did they kill your son too?
He had been in market with his cousin. They saw the chaos. They heard the cries and saw the blood spilling on the road. They took shelter in the Women’s college Sopore – in one of its remote classrooms so nobody hunts them there. But marauders smell them. He listens to the approaching footsteps. He recites the Kalima – There is none worthy of worship except Allah. Muhammad (PBUH) is Messenger of Allah. La illaha Illalah…. The door slams open. “Salay Aazadi Chahye”. The recitation grows louder – La illaha Illalah Muhammadur Rasool Ullah… A volley of bullets pumped in his chests. He dies. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. To Allah we belong and to Him we shall return.
Fifty Seven people killed. More than 350 structures gutted.
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P.S.: On January 06, 1993, 57 innocent Kashmiris were killed by the Indian army when they burned the Sopore town. Hundreds were injured. More than 350 structures reduced to ashes. Hundreds of shops looted and the whole town left traumatized for the lifetime.
Afsana 
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