The clatter of approaching footsteps somewhere in the long corridor can be heard –probably my food or good news! The sound grows louder and strange as it may be, in spite of disappointing me for the last eighteen months, it has never failed to evoke hope on any single day - this morning is no exception either.  Probably it is the last time I hear these footsteps, probably today, sixth of May 2010, I will be given a new lease of life.

 

Hope! A sentiment so dear it may well absorb all disillusions one can live with. It kept an abandoned me, in utterly forlorn surroundings alive in a hostile world.  Each time I hear the footfalls I am hopeful, yet somehow I know there is but a little hope for me. Can I hope to be a free man some day? Can I hope to see my family get the wealth that I was promised. Can I ever even meet them? Can I ever breathe in open air?

 

While I spend my days which the Indian cops do not tire of telling ,me – are numbered, I have no clue if Abba still sells dahi-vadas to support the family, whether they received any paigham for Surraiya – will she ever receive any after what I am facing here ? Does Afzal Bhai still work as a labourer in Lahore?

 

Sometimes I am so anxious that I almost evade all the questions. Still – I miss my home my people, I miss Fridkot, miss Okara, my village and miss those carefree days when worrying about the next meal was the only concern. Most of all I miss my misery for it does not even sound like misery now. My life itself is a misery, rather what is left of it - nothing but anxiety and agony.

 

Home! The sweetest word there can be and home it was I left for a simple concern to wear a new shalwar-kurta for Eid. It does not even sound like a good enough reason anymore to leave home when abba could not provide it.

So give me another chance O God, for I was but innocent and a child and naïve. How could I know what turn my life could take for the want of a new pair of clothing! Naïve to the point of being oblivious of the fact that everything that is not rightfully mine could not become mine by stealing robbing and looting.

But then did not Muzaffar, my dear friend my aziz, say that after all the rich did the same -they stole from the poor. Moreover, it was definitely fun – looting and enjoying the fruits of our labour. It was our hard earned money – these petty crimes steal some money here, some jewellry there and have a good time for days to come – till the next robbery!

 

Working alongside with Afzal bhai in lahore like a daily wage earning labourer, meant working hard the entire day come rain or shine and at the end of the day a pittance was doled out to us like alms! No, I am sure Muzaffar’s way of life was unquestionably far better in all respects. Besides, how else could a man expect to earn a decent living in my village in Faridkot, where most people have no education and lived in utter poverty all their lives?

 

The real fun however was working with the arms, the mere show of a country made pistol instilled fear in anyone who resisted and ended in turning up the wealth they had accumulated, depriving us in turn, depriving us -the poor. Armed robbery was quick and yielded far more than we even hoped to!

 

It was such a chance meet when we were picking up arms at Rawalpindi and I distinctly remember it was on the Bakr Eid day that we came across members of Jama'at-ud-Da'wah, the political wing of Lashkar-e-Taiba, distributing pamphlets. After a brief chat, we decided to sign up for training with the Lashkar-e-Taiba, ending up at their base camp, Markaz Taiba.  Must admit it was a perfect Bakr Eid gift!   

We were told that our big brother India is so rich and we are dying of poverty and hunger. My father sells dahi wada on a stall in Lahore and we do not have enough food to eat from his earnings. I was promised that once they knew that I was successful in my operation, they would give Rs 150,000, to my family.

 "Go for jihad!      Go for jihad!     Go for Jihad!

What is Jihad? And why is this graffiti pasted all over the camp? I don’t know any verses from the Quran that described jihad, in fact I do not know much about Islam or its tenets,” We were told, it is about killing and getting killed and becoming famous.” Come, kill and die after a killing spree. By this, one will become famous and will make Allah proud! Jihad made sense and it would certainly make my family proud and rich!

I trained with a single-minded devotion to wage a war against India, our selfish neighbour. The commanders at the camp told me that a Jihadi, a Fidayeen Suicide Squad Jihadi  kills to the last breath, he does not get arrested or subjects himself to any interrogation. He would first die in the name of Allah, than give away his identity or even this nationality.

Now, in this lonely cell, I wonder if it was worth it? I keep having visions of ammi as she blessed me success in my holy Jihad, her proud smiling face is what I see when loneliness engulfs me. The excitement on the face of the little boys in village as I demonstrated wrestling skills learnt at the camp.

I knew that it would be a remote possibility to visit home  again but then, each passing day, somehow hope keeps building in – may be - just may be !

And why should I not hold on to hope -this last resort, the only thing that keeps me going from day to day?

Why should I let go of hope, the Indians have even found me a lawyer after the likes of Dinesh Mota, curse on him a criminal lawyer for 24 years, who was asked to appear for me but refused, saying “Mumbai is my family. How can I be Kasav’s lawyer?”

Yet I am hopeful, after all, did I not propose my services to the Indian cops? Did I not made an irresistible offer that if I was assured of regular meals, money and shelter I was ready to do the same for them what I did for the Pak. They could make a good use of my training and skills. There was a chance my prayers could be answered.

So what if the CCTV at the CST showed me laughing after the first burst of bullets hit the unsuspecting unarmed people and they fell all around me crying and yelling for help.

So what if I told the indian cops,  I do not regret anything.

So what if I told them I wanted to replicate the Islamabad Marriot hotel attack and reduce Taj hotel to rubble.

So what if I attacked CST and killed many innocent people – they deserved death.

So what if I executed senior Indian police officres Hemant Karkare and Vijay Salaskar. They deserved to die and what a joke was their bullet proof vests to my ammunition.

So what if I fired at and killed the crowd gathered at the metro cinema, it was indeed very fulfilling to kill the policeman whose cell phone rang at that very moment.

Even though I told them I do not want to die and to put me on saline, later I realised  after interrogation in the hospital by the police, that I wanted them to kill me for the safety of my family in Pakistan who could be killed or tortured for surrendering to the Indian police.

Oh to confess, I could not bear the sight of dead bodies and after creating enough havoc and wanted to go back to Pakistan. But a preordained fate awaited me – the Day of Judgment finally arrives, I hear with bated breath the footsteps stop by. If he was allowed mercy he would have killed me long back or the other policemen for that matter but they have to keep me alive and at what cost!  

Whatever the judgment, I know I have done my family, my country and the supreme power the Allah proud! I accept whatever has been decided for me, if Insha-Allah’s I get what I gave – DEATH Ameen !

 

 

^{Category: Talk Free}