Prisoners

It was a scorching afternoon. The sun was showing no mercy. The air was dry and unforgiving. There was no trace of movement, the sand sat still and the leaves hung dead. The still desert seemed devoid of life. Except that it was not.

Iqbal rested his back along the trunk of a massive tree. The tree, robbed of all its leaves, looked as soul less as the desert itself. Iqbal often wondered if the tree bore any fruits, back in the day. He imagined how serene it would be to sit in the shadow of this tree, while it was young. A fatuous thought. The tree was lifeless now. Just a reminder of what used to be.

He stared across the hills to his east. Beyond those hills, lied the newly formed nation of Hindustan. He spat in disgust. His blood boiled when he thought of how many of his countrymen had been killed by these savages. How could he forget about the day his elder sister was cut into pieces by the swords of those monsters. How powerless he had felt. How he wished he had done something about it. He noticed the rise in his breathing rate. He eased up a little. He picked up his rifle from the ground and kept it in his lap. It was his only friend.

For two months, he had been guarding this outpost station. Not much activity took place in this area, hence, it didn't require heavy guarding. But every now and then, some peasants would cross the boundary and enter Pakistan. The partition had left countless men without land and cattle. Some still believed, that even after partition, their lands which lied in Pakistan now, still belonged to them. Ignorant fools. Most of these "fools" used to come from a small village called "Khadira" which lied across the border, beyond the hills, in Hindustan. He knew the village very well. His father used to take him there for the bi-annual fair, before the partition.

Iqbal's job was to capture these trespassers alive. And if any of them tried absconding, shoot them. Lately, Iqbal had managed to capture eleven trespassers. Just last night, he had captured a man in his early twenties. Another wanderer in search of his long lost land. The sub-inspector would deal with them. The sub-inspector visited him at a weekly basis. He would escort Iqbal's prisoners to a village twenty miles south of the outpost station. What happened to them, once they reached the village, did not concern Iqbal. He was serving his country and he was serving it well.

He felt thirsty. Holding onto his rifle, he entered the small cottage that was his home. He drank from the pitcher, careful not to spill any. From the window in the back of the wall, he looked at the large brick compound which sheltered his prisoners. The sub-inspector sahib would deal with this lot tomorrow. He left the cottage and sat across the same tree. He rested his head upon the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes. It was a quiet day. There was rarely any activity during the afternoons. He could rest for a while.

Within a matter of minutes, Iqbal had descended into a world of dreams and had carelessly forgotten about the world he was a part of.

Iqbal opened his eyes. A noise had woken him up. His hand involuntarily gripped his rifle tightly. He heard it again. A distant shout. A woman's voice.

"Kishan!" the woman screamed.

Iqbal jumped to his feet and scanned the area using the scope of his rifle. He was astonished to see a woman, in her forties, walking towards him fearlessly.

He held up the rifle high and yelled, "Stop!"

The woman froze. Judging by her attire, he knew the woman belonged to the Khadira village. The woman broke the silence.

"My son has been missing since last night. He must have come here in pursuit of his father's land. Do you know where he is?"

"All the Hindustanis who try to trespass into these lands are my prisoners," roared Iqbal. He would have captured her too. But it would insult the ideals of the Holy Quran if he harmed a woman or a child.

"Please forgive him, Brother. He's just a boy. I'll make sure he never sets foot in your territory again," begged the woman.

"I'm not your Brother! You people have killed my brothers and sisters. Your barbarity knows no bounds."

"Forgive me, soldier. But I'm sure my son meant no harm. He's the only have I have left. Please give him back to me."

"Shut up, woman! Go back to where you have come from. Don't force me to shoot you." He kept the rifle pointed straight at her. "Your countrymen killed my sister! Your son will do the same. You're all savages," said Iqbal, his voice trembling.

"You've lost a lot. But trust me, so have I. Mistakes have been made by both the sides. You can be the better one among us. Give me back my son." A solitary tear trickled down her cheek. "Shoot me, if you want to. But I'm not leaving without my son."

She took a step forward.

Iqbal, confused at this sudden commotion, aimed his rifle a few feet away from her feet and shot in the ground.

"I'm warning you!" he roared.

She did not succumb. Her body was trembling, yet she was walking towards him. He saw fearlessness in her eyes. He fired again, but the woman kept coming at him. He realised at that moment, that her resolve was stronger than his rifle.

"You foolish woman! How ungrateful you are? I'm giving you the gift of life. I'm letting you walk away. Yet, you force me to kill you."

"My son is the only reason why I choose to live!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. She did not seem helpless anymore. She seemed resolute.

"Ten years ago, when YOUR countrymen attacked our village, our lives were destroyed. They killed my husband in front of my eyes. Put a spear through his heart. I had a packet of poison with me, all the women in our village had. We would kill ourselves before letting any of those monsters touch us. I knew they were coming for me and I had the poison, but I threw it away. I could not bear the thought of my son, living the life of an orphan. So, I let those men rape me. One by one, they did unspeakable things to me."

Tears swept across her face. She wiped her face clean using her dupatta, her hands trembling in the process.

"My son is the reason why I live. If you are taking that reason away from me, you might as well take my life along with it."

Iqbal just stood there. He was numb. The ground beneath his feet was shaking. His eyes were moist. The rifle was trembling in his hands. He realised that the rifle was useless now. Some people could not be killed by bullets. Some people are not just flesh and bone. They're something else entirely. The woman spoke again.

"So tell me soldier, who are the savages? Both the sides have killed and both have bled. But now is the time to forgive."

Iqbal kept staring at her. He could not believe the followers of Quran were capable of such actions.

"You're taking a son away from his mother. How different are you from the men who took your sister away from you?"

This struck Iqbal right in his heart. Tears dripped down his cheeks. The rifle slipped from his hands. He fell on his knees and he wept. He wept like a baby.

How oblivious he was. He realised that both the sides have committed crimes, yet none had asked for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he bellowed. "I'm sorry my countrymen did this to you."

"I'm sorry about your sister."

At that moment, two very insignificant persons had asked for forgiveness on behalf of their nations. And just like that, the two nations had forgiven each other.

Iqbal got up. His rifle still lying in the dirt. His actions were an insult to the ideals of the Holy Quran. May Allah forgive him. As he unlocked his prisoners, he felt as if the wandering soul of his sister had finally attained salvation. He had given freedom to his prisoners, but in reality, it was his restless heart that had gotten the freedom.