Chapter 1: Homecoming

Finally, there!

He skipped over the glistening rocks along the dried brook, worn down by water to no larger than ostrich eggs. He landed softly on the spur with a clear view of the village spread out before him. He touched the grass, his eyes twinkling at the sight of the swaying yellow dandelions. Perhaps the last of them that spring, but they still spread such cheer, he thought with a smile.

Ah, home at last!

Memories flooded back with images from childhood, from a time long ago—the time they came scrambling up these hills, picking flowers along the way, loudly reciting a poem they learned in school:

How many kinds of sweet flowers
In the Kashmir Valley grow?
I’ll tell you the ones I love most
The names of which I know
Daffodils and pansies, tall hollyhocks
Marigolds, tulips, pretty snowdrops
Roses, asters, blue forget-me-nots
Poppies, daisies, and blooms of apricot.

A whiff of those carefree days of his childhood and their early May peccadilloes in the orchards filled the air. He wanted to whistle, but he dared not.

Not today.

They had learned to toot like birds to warn their playmates while stealing fruit from the orchards.

Mehmood Ghani’s orchards were famed for having the sweetest apricots, but it wasn’t just the fruit’s deliciousness that lured the boys to the garden like moths to a flame. The thrill of their youthful escapades added an extra sweetness to those apples and apricots.

Irfan fondly recalled their many failed attempts, each one tinged with excitement, even when they couldn’t make it past the tall walls of the several larger orchards at first. He especially remembered that first time, when they finally managed to scale one of the tall walls. It had felt like reaching the moon.

That first time was eventful in more ways than one. Their initial excitement had been short-lived. The moment they landed in the garden with a series of thuds, Ghani’s guards were immediately alerted. “Chor, chor,” they yelled from a distance, rushing toward the boys, who were not prepared for a quick getaway. In their panic, they let their human ladder collapse, and down they went in one fell swoop. They made such a spectacle that even the usually stern guards couldn't help but laugh.

Soon, Ghani appeared. A short man with a long, flowing beard, he resembled a gentle jinn. “I don’t like thieves. I hate them,” he said softly, though not unkindly. “You can play in the garden if you wish, but on one condition: you must help my men pluck the apricots. Once you fill one whole bag, you’ll get a small one for yourselves. Let me know if that sounds fair." His face was lit with a kind smile.

What an offer! What could they say? The boys exchanged quick glances and nodded in unison, eager to escape further trouble. As punishment, they spent the next hour doing garden chores, which wasn't bad at all as each of them received a handful of apricots to relish as well.

Irfan remembered how, the moment they were out, they whooped and leaped into the air in triumph. Within minutes, they were already plotting their next orchard raid—this time with a better exit plan. A better exit plan—that’s all they needed to live happily ever after.

It was such a long time ago. Irfan heaved a deep sigh. Was he happy or sad? He wasn’t sure. He had been walking for hours, for days, for ages it seemed. But in his eagerness to meet Tariq, he had forgotten all pain and hunger. Except for a shooting pain in the old wound in his left leg, nothing fazed him.

His young, worn face, riddled with lines like parched earth, broke into a smile at the thought of Tariq. Caught in crossfire that summer when they lost their little sister Faiza, something had changed for them forever. Faiza was running down that very hill when a ricochet from the security force’s firing came and hit her ankle.

Tariq and he watched her tumble down like a rubber ball to their utter shock. When they rushed to the bottom, they couldn’t recognize her. She had turned into a lifeless sack. She was only 9 years old.

Trapped in their rage, the brothers, had looked for answers. The price of following the straight and narrow path had given them nothing but pain. The words of the local commander of JKLF provided some succour, at last. A new prism, a new lens, a new narrative stared them in the face.

It was decided that Tariq would stay back to make sure Abbu and Ammi were safe, and Irfan would join the mujahids right away. Tariq was 16 at that time. Irfan had turned 19.

Irfan wasn’t sure he knew what azadi truly implied. All he wanted was the freedom of every Kashmiri boy and girl to run up the hills and down the orchards without fear for their lives.

Two months ago, he finally received the message he had long been waiting for. Tariq wanted to see him. Under the lone pine tree, at the break of dawn, he would come to meet him. He had sent word across. After three whole years, they would be together again. Tariq was now 19.  Irfan was eager to see how much taller he had grown.

From his vantage position up on the spur, Irfan tried to get a better view of the path that led to his village—his beautiful village. Scattered houses with wavering plumes of smoke stoked a fire in his belly with a rude reminder of a home-cooked meal—his mother’s lyodur tschaman, something she made especially and only for him. Irfan loved this vegetarian fare.

He could hear his stomach rumble. Digging deep into the pockets of his salwar, he brought out a handful of dry fruits and popped them into his mouth. Ammi, Abbu, Wasina—faraway, forlorn faces tugged at his heart, and a small pearly drop danced on the rims of his eyes. Another involuntary sigh escaped his lips as he bent down to tighten the laces of his scruffy boots.

Did he smell smoke? It was fresh smoke, not more than a day old…could it be an army patrol? Or was it the shepherd? On his way up, he had seen a lone sheep. Whatever it was, he had to take cover until dawn. He looked for a cleft in the hillside to sidle in. He could rest here for a while. He was exhausted and sleepy. The gnawing pain in his ankle came back to remind him of Faiza

Chapter 2: Faiza – The Victorious One

I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it's wrong what they say about the past. I have learned that you can't bury it. Because the past claws its way out.

I couldn’t stand the shriek of Ammi anymore. Tariq was seven. I was ten. We had been waiting for this moment for nine months now. But that day, since dawn, Ammi had started moaning and groaning so much that it became frightening after a while. Tariq and I ran to play soldiers behind the crumbling mud walls of the old school---our usual hideout. From there, we had a good view of the road all the way to chashma, the village spring.

Finally, by evening, when the air grew thick with the scent of pine, the entire village was alive with the sounds of laughter, songs, and the jubilant cries of "yih chhi akh kurr! It’s a girl! It’s a girl!"

A girl, after generations of boys. Faiza. The name itself felt like a triumph—The Successful One, Winner, Victorious, Triumphant. I can still see Abbu’s face, beaming with pride, as he lifted her in his arms, swaddled in soft wool. Ammi’s eyes glistened with tears of joy, the kind that come when a prayer is answered. The courtyard was filled with relatives, neighbours, and friends, all eager to see the baby girl, who had broken the long lineage of boys in our family. The women ululated, their voices rising and falling in waves of joy. Men patted each other on the back, congratulating Abbu on his ‘victorious’ daughter.

Faiza grew unbridled, like a wildflower in the meadows. She was as free as the wind, as untameable as the mountains that surrounded us. She became the apple of everyone’s eye, especially mine and Tariq’s. She was our favourite toy. Fiery, feisty, and gorgeously beautiful, with a spirit that refused to be tamed, she was also our biggest ally.

We particularly enjoyed running after her and tickling her just to hear her laugh, which was so infectious—a sound that could brighten even the darkest of days. She enjoyed it as much. Her eyes lit up the moment she realized we could start the tickle game. She would run in all directions, trying to duck us, all the time gurgling with laughter.

"Mey trav kunyizuna! Leave me alone!" she would cry out in jest, but we knew she was savouring every moment of the chase.

And if we were not following her, it was she following us everywhere—her little feet trying to keep up with our long strides. Faiza adored us, and we adored her. In those moments, the world seemed perfect, bathed in the golden light of her laughter and the boundless love that flowed between us.

I remember one particular day. We had gone exploring in the hills. Tariq, me, and a few friends. Faiza insisted on coming along. "I’ll be good, Bhaiya! I won’t be a bother, Bi kar na ttung!," she pleaded, her big eyes shimmering. How could we say, ‘no’?

As we ventured deeper into the woods, laughing and joking, Tariq, the quieter one, walked alone ahead. Nasim and Noor and I were behind him hatching a plot to steal peaches from a new orchard we had discovered. The sun was high, casting long shadows, when suddenly, Tariq froze. "Cobra!" he hissed, pointing to a patch of grass ahead.

There it was, coiled and ready to strike, its hood flared in warning. Faiza, only six at that time and walking beside me, gasped. She hadn’t seen a cobra before. “Yii chha khatarnak janawar? Is it a bad animal?" she looked at me innocently and asked.

"Stay back!" I whispered, pulling her behind me. But before I could do anything, she darted forward, her little hand clutching a stick she had picked up along the way.

"Chho chho! Go away! Leave my brothers alone!" she shouted, her voice sounding like a sweet summer stream. She waved the stick at the cobra, which, surprisingly, slithered away into the undergrowth, intimidated by our tiny warrior princess.

Tariq and I were stunned. "Faiza, what were you thinking?!" I scolded, but there was a hint of pride in my voice. She looked up at us with those big, innocent eyes and said, " Bi chus tse hifazat karne. I will protect you, don’t worry."

That was Faiza—brave beyond her years.

The day Faiza turned eight, Tariq and I decided to take her to a new hideout we had discovered. We spent the day running through the orchards, playing tag. Faiza, as usual, was trailing behind, her short legs struggling to keep up. We were laughing and teasing her until we reached a thicket. We didn’t notice the well until it was too late. Tariq and I plunged into the darkness, landing hard on the rocky bottom. Both of us fractured our legs that day.

For a moment, there was silence. I could hear Tariq groaning beside me, clutching his ankle. My heart pounded in my chest. What if Faiza tried to jump in?

"Faiza!" I yelled, my voice echoing off the walls. "Run, Faiza! Call Abbu!"

Then I heard her. "What are you doing down there in the darkness? "

“We’ve fallen by mistake. Don’t come closer. Find your way home and get help. We’ve broken our legs. Run, before it gets too dark.”

She stood there, silent for a while. I think I heard her sniffle, and then her feet scuffled through the dead leaves. Finally, I heard the sound of her running. Her footsteps grew fainter as she disappeared into the distance. Faiza had run for an hour that evening to get help from home. Our fractured legs healed with time.

A year later, Faiza would be gone, leaving us with gaping wounds in our hearts that would never ever heal. We would never forget how we failed to protect our little sister.

Chapter 3: The Cold Night Vigil

Irfan would have drifted off to sleep, but not for long. He woke up teary-eyed, the cold night air stinging his face. Adjusting his thick woollen shawl over his shoulder, he brought down the AK-47 to check it. Only one magazine with 30 rounds was left. He had filled his water canteen downstream earlier, and his combat jacket held a few band-aids and a handheld citizen band FM radio transceiver, used to communicate with his team at scheduled times.

Emerging from the hideout, he scanned the surroundings, looking for another vantage point. His eyes settled on a jagged rock face at the top, an ideal spot for cover and to gauge the situation. It took him a good half an hour to reach the rock face. No, no one seemed to be around. Strangely, there was no activity down the road either. That couldn’t be a good sign. But perhaps, being the last day of Ramadan, people were at home, waiting to break their fast. Rozas were a daily affair for him; it had been seven months that he was in hiding—running from one bleak mountain ridge to another.

A rustle nearby made him start. It was another stray sheep. Its owner would come looking for it, or it would have made a nice meal for a few days. But he would have to be lucky enough to roast it over a low fire without attracting attention. He couldn’t do that at night. Nights were meant for walking, planning, and dreaming. His eyes had grown accustomed to navigating through the dark.

He glanced up at the sky. Half an hour until nightfall. The sun shone demurely, about five degrees over the hilltop. The sun wouldn’t rise until six in the morning. He needed to check the track once more for fresh tyre marks. If there were any, he would have to climb down the nala (ravine) to his left. That was the only safe exit.

Left alone with his thoughts, slumber began to creep in. He rested against the steep edge of a rock behind a tree and started dozing off. His dreams were tinged with the colours of chinars (maple) and the snow-capped Zabarwan mountains. They carried the smell of dawn on a shikara on the waters, filled with the sound of the morning azan...and there he was, amidst a jostling crowd of smiling faces, fair red-cheeked boys and girls. It made him smile momentarily before a burst of firecrackers shook him back to his senses. The villagers must be celebrating down below.

Irfan sank into the ground, trying to smell the air. He lay still, trying to melt into the earth for safe cover. It was as quiet as ever. What a night, he thought, slouching to make himself comfortable between the rocks. The arresting limbs of sleep soothed his fatigue, gripping him more snugly this time. What was happening to him? Excitement and exhaustion had taken over. He was happy after a long time, and that was such a comforting feeling.

And so, the hours ticked by while Irfan lay curled, covered under his blanket. His thoughts wandered to his family and his young love, Wasina, whom he would probably never see again. Tariq had informed him that they were looking for a groom for her. Who said the life of a patriot would easy? He reasoned with himself. Someone had to ensure that hundreds of other Faizas, Wasinas, Tariqs, and Irfans could live their dreams. Wasina would keep him in her heart forever, he knew. He was doing it for her, for all of them, for the love of his people. At least, that is what his dream was…

Chapter 4: The Fading Light of Azadi

I haven’t shared this with anyone. A part of me has died in the last three years.

It is one thing to live under constant threat, which has left me tired and exhausted. It is another thing to live with no purpose or meaning.  

The life of a mujahid is meant to be hard. I knew that even when I joined the movement. I had heard stories—many heartbreaking tales—from the mujahids themselves. Those stories had steeled my resolve, convincing me that the struggle for azadi required such sacrifices. It was supposed to be a life filled with long days of marching through treacherous terrains, where every step could be your last.

Hiding in the shadows, we had become ghosts in our own land, slipping through the cracks of a world that no longer recognized us. We would linger in safe houses, crouched behind thick curtains, our breath shallow, our hearts pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation. The silence would stretch on for days, broken only by the distant echoes of gunfire or the hushed conversations of our comrades.

And then there was the loneliness that crept in like a thief in the night, gnawing at our resolve. The sadness of not being able to be with family, of missing the warmth of a mother’s embrace, the laughter of siblings, the simple joys of sharing a meal together. Festivals, once filled with colour and light, became distant memories, their warmth replaced by the cold, harsh reality of our existence. The sounds of celebration that reached our hiding places only served to remind us of what we had lost, of the lives we had chosen to leave behind.

My hopes were dashed when the camaraderie I had expected to find among my fellow soldiers began to wither away. What started as a brotherhood bound by a shared dream of freedom slowly transformed into something darker. Every man seemed to look out for himself, driven by fear and ambition rather than loyalty. The ideals we had once held so high became a façade, hiding the ugly reality beneath. To stay in the good books of the seniors, one had to engage in unthinkable acts—acts of immorality, brutality, and treachery that I had never imagined would be part of our struggle.

The day the district commander ordered us to fire on a passing police convoy in a bustling marketplace, in a strange turn of events, I finally saw it all---the hypocrisy and the hopelessness. The orders came swift and cold, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. We were positioned nearby, told to move into the marketplace and start shooting the moment we saw the convoy. I was confused, but I followed orders, rushing to take cover among the innocent civilians, blending in with the chaos of the crowded market.

When the firing began, it felt surreal, like a scene from a movie. Everything happened so fast that I barely had time to process what was unfolding. I think I hit a policeman, but it wasn’t the officer's fall that froze me in my tracks—it was the sight of her. A young mother, no older than twenty, with her two-year-old daughter clutched tightly in her arms. She fell in the midst of the gunfire, her body crumpling to the ground as life slipped away from her. I stood there, paralyzed by the horror of what I saw, waiting for the villagers to rise in fury, to point their fingers at the murderer of an innocent woman and child.

But no one did. No one seemed to notice whose bullets had killed the unfortunate mother and her child. Or maybe they did, but they had no time to react. Our local informers among the villagers acted far more swiftly, as if they had known all along what was about to happen. Within moments, hundreds of furious villagers had been gathered, ready to carry the bodies to the graveyard, As the zenaza passed through the narrow alleys of the village, people started pelting stones at the lone security outposts and screaming slogans of defiance. I was suddenly scared of retaliatory fire and more lives lost. Nothing made sense.

I was broken that day. The realization that it was my gunfire that had ended those two innocent lives gnawed at my soul. Even if the villagers didn’t know, I knew and some of my comrades did. The little girl reminded me of Faiza, my sister. How could I live with this act of sin of taking innocent lives? Didn’t I join this war of azadi to keep my people safe?

Later that day, when the district commander summoned me, an instant terror gripped me. As I made my way through the back alleys of Anantnag, moving from safe house to safe house I wondered what my fate had in store. Finally, when I reached the commander’s markaz, my heart heavy with guilt, pain, left me shaking in my knees. As I reached the iron gate, Taufiq led me inside, telling me to wait while zenab, the district commander, finished an important call.

I stood there, trying to summon enough courage to explain myself and to tell zenab how deeply remorseful I was for my mistake. As I waited, I couldn’t but help overhear his conversation. He was probably talking to the local Hurriyat leader, discussing the "success" of the operation. “We have been able to activate this area,” zenab said. “You can report to the commander ‘ospar’. He can issue the press release. No, five lakhs is not enough. As you know, there were two civilian deaths--- a mother and a child. It is ten lakhs for every policeman killed.”

When zenab finally emerged from his room, his face was beaming with joy. Before I could utter a word, he pulled me into a bear hug. “Well done, mujahid,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “That’s the spirit. We don’t want our soldiers to be afraid of anything, anything. These sacrifices you and the awam make today will go a long way toward bringing our freedom. A couple of civilian casualties will only get the awam more agitated and further our cause. You are writing history, don’t forget that. You will be adequately rewarded for your act of daring and bravery today.”

I was the newest blue-eyed boy of zenab after that. My position seemed elevated, to the envy of my comrades. To match up, they would have to be now equally if not more reckless. My soul cringed at the thought of it.

In these three years, there have been several such moments—moments that seemed like triumphs at first. Small victories were constantly glorified and our morale constantly boosted with tales of our bravery and sacrifice. But for me, each so-called victory was quickly overshadowed by the grim reality. I began to see how the mujahids, the very people who had once inspired me, and the larger awam were nothing more than pawns in a sinister game---one that I still struggle to fully comprehend. But this much I understand now—everything we are doing is largely to ensure there’s bloodletting in crossfires. to keep the agitation and unrest alive. This turmoil has become a source of income for all in a twisted economy of death and despair.

The dream of azadi, which had once seemed so pure and clear, now feels distant and unattainable, a mirage fading into the horizon. I am beginning to question everything I had once believed in, everything I had fought for. The ideals that had driven me to join the cause are slowly being eroded. The realization that I am no longer fighting for a noble cause but for a corrupt, brutal agenda fills me with a deep despair.

I have to warn Tariq about this. I have to help him see the truth and find another path. Tariq is still innocent, still filled with the hope and he believes in the goodness of people, in the possibility of a better future. The boy in me is gone now, replaced by a man hardened by the brutality of war and the betrayal of those I once called brothers. I have seen things I can never share or forget, things that will haunt my dreams and fill me with an unshakable sense of loss for the rest of my life. I don’t want Tariq to face that.

I know there is no turning back for me now. I know I can never return to the way things were before. The path I have chosen is a one-way road, and I have no choice but to follow it to the end, wherever it might lead.

'A better exit plan...; I wish I had one. Even surrendering cannot help anymore. The commander won’t leave my family alone, I am certain. And so, I want Tariq to make better choices. I want Tariq to be safe. I want him to live the life I once dreamed of, a life free from the darkness that now consumes me.

Chapter 5:  Embers of Dawn

Rustling footsteps made him sit up. Was it Tariq? Was he there already?

Peering from his cover, Irfan saw a figure with the lanky gait of his beloved brother climbing the hill. It was him indeed. Had Tariq lost more weight, or was it just the shadow playing tricks? Tariq had a slight limp and seemed to be struggling, each step a battle against the incline. The sight of him, frail and weary, struck Irfan with a wave of helplessness. He wanted to throw away the blanket, rush to Tariq, to embrace him, to ask him what was wrong and to offer his support. The urgency of the moment left him frozen, each passing second stretching into eternity.

Tariq was still barely about 150 yards away, and Irfan wrestled with the urge to break cover. But then, a sound froze him in place—a familiar, haunting toot like a dying nightingale’s last cry. It was Tariq's signal, a desperate plea to flee, just like the warnings they used when sneaking into Mehmood Ghani's orchard.

The sound barely registered before a dozen armed men in uniform seemed to materialize from the darkness, surrounding Tariq. One of them slapped him hard across the face, and another smashed the butt of his rifle into Tariq's head, bringing him down to his knees. The rest of the men spread out to form a human barricade, their boots shuffling ominously in the night air.

Despair and rage surged through Irfan as he watched his brother’s brutal treatment from his hidden vantage point. Tariq's face was a mask of agony, tears mingling with the blood and dirt. Irfan’s heart pounded violently, his mind a whirl of anguish and fury. The early hours of dawn came alive with rage and pain.

The realization struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. The village's eerie silence wasn't due to Ramadan; it was a cover for the police’s cruel machinations. Tariq had been used as a bait in a trap set by the local unit, desperate to justify their existence and advance their own agendas. Irfan saw the conspiracy unfold in his mind—a dark web spun by the security forces and the separatists alike, all of them pawns in a larger game.

Looking at Tariq’s frail, limping figure he could now imagine the torture the entire family may have gone through. The agony in Tariq’s eyes was a reflection of Irfan’s own torment. He couldn’t save anyone…or…anything. He couldn’t save his country, his people, his parents, his brothers or his own soul. As the early dawn filled with the harsh sound of shuffling boots, foraging for a kill, Irfan looked at his brother’s face in dismay—tearfully, endearingly, helplessly—so close, yet so far.

A blaze of anger roared in Irfan's chest. He may not be able to save all the innocent lives crushed under the weight of power games and betrayal, but he had to fight for Tariq.

Without another thought for his own safety, Irfan grabbed his weapon and charged forward, his mind consumed by rage. He fired into the darkness with reckless abandon, each shot a cry for justice and retribution. The world around him exploded in chaos, the cacophony of gunfire and screams.

Amidst the fusillade, as Irfan sprinted towards Tariq, his heart pounded with a desperate need to touch him once, to hold him, to apologize to him. He was a man possessed by fury and sorrow, driven by the urge for some kind of a closure.

As he dashed forward, a searing pain overwhelmed him, and he crumpled to the ground a few feet away from his brother. He threw his weapon aside with his last ounce of strength and called out, “Thhar! Thhar! Stop! I need a moment with my brother.”

Tariq was slumped on the ground, his breaths shallow and hoarse from the brutal torture. With some struggle Irfan clambered forward and the pulled Tariq into a fierce, desperate embrace. “Tariq, look at me. Look at me one last time.” “Aiyukh phirr vuchh mey kunn."

The warmth of Tariq’s body against his own was a bittersweet comfort amid the violence. Holding his brother close, Irfan felt a fleeting sense of zannat, as if this final moment of connection was worth more than anything else. Tariq, too weak to lift his arms, looked at Irfan listlessly and then slumped his head on his shoulder.

It was enough for both of them. Tears mixed with blood on their face, Irfan’s whispered apologies, which were swallowed by the early dawn. In their final embrace, the world around them faded into a blur of darkness and fire, leaving them only with the profound sorrow of their last fateful meeting.

As the security force closed in, they witnessed the two bodies entwined in a final, poignant embrace. “Great job done, boys! Evacuate the bodies. Search the mujahid well. Keep the radio transceiver on. Any information will be vital. Inform the family that it was an encounter,” came swift orders from the officer.

From down below the village masjid, came the sonorous, soulful sound of the first azan after Ramadan, piercing the early dawn. ‘Allahu Akbar’ the earth and sky reverberated with the call of the faithful and the lone pine tree, unwavering and eternal, stood witness to the paradise lost.