M A Shabbir
GDC Drass, Kargil (UT Ladakh) India
The azan echoed the snow-peaked mountains, calling out to aurora, the goddess of the dawn. A melody melded with the breeze, tickling across the crystal-clear stream, and gently fondling the leaves of the dignified poplar trees, rested like a basking butterfly on Singey’s ears. The sensation of the euphony seemed like a ewe's calling, Singey, obedient as a lamb responded to the call, reluctantly woke up; leaving the warmth of his cosy bed.
Resplendent Hyperion, the Sun god, lit up the whole universe announcing the break of the day. Perch on a willow tree, a black-billed magpie with a regular stream of raucous call was welcoming the beautiful day. Nearby, a hoopoe was scooping out from a tree with his nuptial gift, an insect, ready to woo a female hoopoe who was wandering from one branch to another, responding in a romantic way. The whole village came alive with the blessing.
Brok, a picturesque village in Kargil is surrounded by the curvaceous & mighty Karakoram mountains, eternally covered by white sheets of snow. Its borders are guarded by hundreds of apricots and Russian olives, and during the plum blossom the whole valley would be perfumed by the pleasant smell of their flowers. The village was near the line of control on the Indian side, protected by a chowki with the sentinels always on alert, their muskets ready to shoot, keenly observing the movements of the enemy in the Brolmo village on the Pakistani side; just a few yards away from the no man’s land.
On rare occasions the sentries magically transformed into friendly messengers, exchanging gifts and souvenirs. Like a postman collecting every kind of emotions in their magic bag from Brok & Brolmo, and distributing it among the villagers on the either side, and whenever this rare magic happened, the divided families on each side made intercessions to God to make this spell last forever; a wish which was never fulfilled. Brok and Brolmo were once the sister villages, but after the war in 1965, a line was drawn and the sisters were separated; never to meet again.
Singey finished with his morning breakfast; a cup of butter- tea mixed with a handful of roasted wheat powder; got ready for his school; went out of his house to serve breakfast to his brother only to find him missing. Both of them were orphans survived by a loving grandmother who mesmerised them with her stories of mysterious djinns who appeared in animal forms, and often carried away little mischievous kids in their sleep, never to be found again. Whenever she was in a nostalgic mood, she carried both of them to the past with stories of her childhood spent in Brolmo, now in Pakistan. The recollections of the memories of separation were always painful and made her cry and the children sad. Each wrinkle on her beautiful time- ridden face had a story to tell, and she had hundreds of them; the saddest was about her family; so near yet oceans apart.
Skarma and Singey were stepbrothers, but their love was like an umbilical cord; a sacred connection. Love for each other was unconditional despite all the differences. Singey was an adolescent when his father, Master Madali which actually was Mohd Ali--- the villagers had a funny way of distorting the names as per the convenience; found him as a baby, injured in a landmine blast, dangerously spread in and around the village periphery.
Do Not Cross, Landmine Area was the random warnings inscribed by the army men on big boulders in the village peripheries which the little one perhaps did not notice. Lost, petrified and in great trauma, he was found wandering aimlessly by the riverside. His whereabouts was a mystery; he was never seen in the Brok village before so Master Madali was kind enough to adopt him. The baby had a star mark on his forehead, how he got it, nobody knew, but the village Akhon believed it to be a divine sign, a good omen for all.
Surprisingly, many good things happened the year when Skarma was found: snow was abundant; harvesting season was good; nobody in the village died, and the sentries at the border were more accommodating and friendly than usual. Everyone in the village was happy with the arrival of this new member. The story a five-year old baby with a star mark spread like a legendary tale across the border too. It was said, a mere glance from him could change one’s fortune for good. Everybody called him Skarma--- a star in Balti language.
Skarma never missed the morning breakfast; he loved to nibble, a lover of good food. Apprehensive, Singey ran inside and told his grandmother that he was not there. Dear! Again? This kid and his errands, grandmother muttered looking at Singey who was staring at her face anxiously. She fumbled for a second, and then said, “Singey, my beloved, don’t worry, he is a wanderer. He will return soon.” She was not sure of what she said, but grandmother could not bear the concern on his innocent face so she had to say something to calm him. An eight-year orphan, whose life revolved around her, and his little brother, she had nothing else to say.
Singey was not satisfied with grandmother’s casual reply, and he knew there was still an hour left for the school assembly. He decided to find his brother; vowed a good scolding for the morning escapade; bring him back home for breakfast, then run to school.
He looked for him in the nearby apple orchard; where Skarma sometimes trespassed thinking himself to be a dare devil, and was always seen running for his life when the landlord chased him away with a big stick; but today he was not there. He decided to look for him near the resting place of Sheikh Brolmo on the hill top: he was a mystic, believed to be the guardian saint of the Brok & Brolmo villages. Skarma was nowhere around except Uncle Ismail’s cow, and the village butcher’s goat. Blessed with the presence of the holy soul, and the luscious green grass grown in and around the mazar; both were so absorbed in savouring the grass that the presence of the little boy did not bother them. Singey was getting anxious and worried; he closed his eyes, paid his obeisance, and promised to the guardian saint that from now onwards he will never steal eggs which he used to do quite often from the neighbour’s hen- shed. Expecting the promise will magically make his little brother to appear before him.
He was disappointed when he opened his eyes.
Out of desperation, he starts shouting out his name, “Skarma! Skarma! Where are you? Please stop playing hide-and-seek. Come home. Grandmother has prepared your favourite dish.” The voiced echoed, Ismail’s uncle cow, and the butcher’s goat were irritated by the sudden harangue, lifted their heads in the direction of the voice while munching, looked at the boy annoyingly for few seconds then went back to their usual business. Singey called out for few more times, but nothing happened. Usually, whenever he called out his name, Skarma was always seen running to him, no matter how far or where he was. Their love was abounding.
Bang! Bang! A sudden crackling echoed the mountains, frantically birds flew away from their nests, and the two guests at the mazar ran confused and directionless. For a moment, Singey could not understand what happened, but suddenly his face turned pale, he froze for a few seconds, and then started running as if he saw a djinn.
The chowki was not very far, and Singey was running like a wild dog. He had never run like that before in his life, but today he had to. He very well knew the sound- unwelcome, ominous sound which was always followed by something unfortunate. He was praying: God! Please! He ran as fast as his ting legs could.
The post was visible now, he could hear the soldiers laughing and joking, the unfurled flag which was tied to a long pole was hanging down- wards, and there between the two posts not very far from each other, a handful of yards away, he saw him, lying on the demarcated line, in a pool of blood: Skarma: his beloved brother, an adorable donkey, shot dead.
Glossary
- Kri’shi: a word in Purgi (a dialect in Kargil) meaning line.
- Singey: king
- Sheikh Brolmo: a tomb of a saint in Brolmo village at the border on Pakistan side.
- Akhon: Muslim religious preacher.
