ONE

    Rafiq stubbed the end of a half-smoked cigarette with the butt of his 303 rifle, and cursed softly in the dusty gloom of the canopied jungle, on the edge of which he was squatting. Through the thick bushes he could see lush paddy fields stretching towards a cluster of huts, which comprised a typical village of East Pakistan. On the western horizon, the sun had finished setting, in a dull orange haze.
    A warm May day was concluding. The odours of cowdung, jackal urine, hot earth, and musty bamboo leaves, made a heady mixture, both rich and offensive.
    He shifted his hams, tight and hot in a pair of close-fitting green pants. A thick belt around his waist hugged his youthful figure, and his groin ached as he squatted, a green shirt glued to his back with the sweat of his tense body.
    Rafiq was sixteen, and in the civil war raging in East Pakistan, he was a Razakar : one of a fanatical force, hurriedly recruited by the Pakistan army, to form combat units against the Freedom Fighters, who, trained across the border in India, were spearheading the guerrilla struggle for Bangladesh.
    He was a good-looking boy, with a lean body, the torso long and well-shaped, a flat abdomen, and slim hips. He had sharp, handsome features, a mop of unruly dark hair and his complexion was the colour of light teak.
    Rafiq was the son of a doctor, whose successful practice in the town had been rudely interrupted by the advent of the civil war. He had taken his wife and two daughters, Salma and Shaheen, to the safety of their village home, and the Pakistan army had taken his only son, Rafiq.
    Both by nature and temperament, Rafiq was a stranger to politics. He inclined towards studies and sports, and was only dimly aware of what his father and his friends occasionally got very heated about. Many of Rafiq's school-friends had joined the Freedom Fighters, and later made a wild dash across the border to India. But Rafiq had obeyed his father, and spurned his friends advances to join the glorious struggle for freedom. Moreover, had he not been brought up to believe that India was the implacable and deadly enemy of Pakistan?
    Rafiq lit another cigarette (a recently acquired habit) and reviewed his brief "military" career: how to use a rifle, how to dig a trench, how to handle a grenade; augmented by severe discipline and loyalty. But the drill part of it was terrible!
    A Captain in charge of Rafiq's batch of Razakars had been strongly attracted to the youth, and had singled him out for special protection from some of the Behari* boys, who were often taunting, and sometimes vicious. They regarded the Bengalees as spies of the Freedom Fighters, and warned their army masters, like anxious dogs, to be on guard against treachery and betrayal. The Captain had become more and more affectionate, and one night, calling Rafiq to his room, had savagely seduced the boy, whose innocence now bore a scar. Rafiq recalled that night with a shudder, and ground his cigarette into the earth.
    Now the dark began swiftly to fall, and from the cluster of huts in the near distance, pinpoints of light glowed, as lamps were lit. Then a long low whistle from his right was a signal for Rafiq to get up and emerge from cover. A score of stealthy figures were silently leaving the jungle, and advancing like shadows across the paddy fields, ahead of him. He was the last in line of a small company, under a Lieutenant of the Pakistan army, and their mission was to encircle the village, where some Freedom Fighters were believed to be hiding.
    Rafiq peered into gathering darkness, trying to judge the distance to the first few huts. Five hundred yards was his guess. He strode on, lifting heavy boots, which stuck in the squelching earth. Suddenly, the field ended, and ahead of him the Lieutenant shouted: "Spread out - some to the left, some to the right. Converge on the market place!"
    As Rafiq entered the clearing, he found the market-place empty. He was afraid. Fear lay like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere a baby screamed, a cock crowed, a dog barked. Then a rifle shot rang out, followed by a burst of machine- gun fire.
    "Run for cover," the Lieutenant yelled.
    Rafiq ran forward, fell sharply to the ground, and sprawled there. The firing stopped. Then the Lieutenant abruptly opened up with his LMG. There was a confusion of shouting voices, and rapid firing broke out from all sides. Rafiq raised his head a little, and saw two bodies of his companions crumple and fall. The Lieutenant charged into a hut, and with his LMG sprayed the area outside from, a window.
    In an agony of fear Rafiq scrambled to his feet, and ran towards one of the huts for safety. He felt a thud against his back, and then a stabbing pain seemed to splinter his spine. He pitched forward on his face. The Freedom Fighters swarmed into the clearing. A grenade exploded in the hut where the Lieutenant crouched behind a window. Then there was silence. The Razakars had fled, but there were three dead bodies lying on the ground. A Freedom Fighter shone a torch on Rafiq's face, after rolling his body over Then he exclaimed:
    "Mintu - come and see. It's Rafiq!"
    They stood over the body, and Mintu said:
    "Poor idiot! What did he join the razakars for? Come on, we've got to get out of here."

TWO

    Rafiq's father, the doctor, was dressing a wound. The boy had staggered into the village early in the morning, with a damaged knee. The cap was badly cracked and the area a bloody mess. Luckily the doctor had some penicillin and proper bandages. These were not normal times, and when he fled from the town with his wife and daughters to their village home, he had taken all the medical supplies he could find.
    The boy shivered and groaned. "It's burning like fire," he said, through clenched teeth. The doctor felt a hot brow, and decided to administer a sedative. "You must rest now," he said. "Soon you will sleep."
    The boy tired to smile. "Will I be able to walk again?" he asked.
    "Of course. You will even be able to run!"
    The boy looked up at the doctor. "Have you no son?" he asked. "I have only seen your daughters."
    "Yes, I have a son. He's with the Freedom Fighters." It was a convenient lie, but the doctor felt a twinge of shame. The boy closed his eyes after swallowing the sleeping tablet.
    Dr. Amjad Hussain stood outside the house and lit a cigarette. He sat on a bamboo stool, and wondered where Rafiq was. Why had he let the Pakistan army take him away! But what else could be have done? What a cruel world! What a cruel God! To the west, as far as the eye could see, paddy fields stretched as far as the horizon, where the sun was setting, large and dull, in an orange haze. He trod on the butt of his cigarette, and went into the house.
    In one of the rooms, his wife sat on a carpet, reading the Koran. His elder daughter, twenty, and her younger sister, fifteen, were mending a saree together. They looked up. Salma, the elder, asked: "How is he father?"
    "He'll live," the doctor said. "It could have been much worse."
    The mother closed the Holy Book, rose, and went towards the kitchen. "I'll cook him a light meal," she said. "Poor boy. It might have happened to Rafiq!"
    A few miles away a company of Pakistani soldiers, commanded by the Captain who had trained and known Rafiq, was planning to advance towards its destination, which was the doctor's village, in pursuit of some Freedom Fighters who had fled in that direction. It was hoped to take them by surprise, should they have found shelter in the village.
    As night fell, the two girls lit lamps in the rooms. Rafiq's mother was stirring a pot in the kitchen. The doctor was perusing a volume of Wordsworth, a relic of his college days.
    It was around eight o' clock when the army men entered the village, firing a few volleys in the air. A stealthy approach had been discarded as unsuitable. The only chance of bagging anything was to create surprise, panic, confusion - drive the game out into the open, and make them take to the fields, scattered and afraid. Then halt in the village for the night, collect information, and press on in the morning.
    The doctor, hearing the volleys, ran to shut the windows, shouting to his daughters in the kitchen to do the same. The doors too must be shut, but alas - he was too late. As he reached the front door it opened, and the Captain strode across the threshold, accompanied by two soldiers.
    "So! This is the largest house in the village. Who are you?"
    "My name is Hussain. Syed Amjad Hussain. I am a doctor."
    "Are there any rebels in this village?"
    "No."
    "Tell me the truth."
    "That is the truth. A few passed through last night, I believe, but I saw nothing."
    "Well, my men are searching. If they find any traces of the rebels I shall hold you and some others as hostages." He sat down on a chair. "I am tired, bring me some tea." He ordered the two soldiers to report to the Sergeant, and make arrangements for food and quarters for the night. The men saluted and went out of the door.
    "Who else lives here with you?"
    "My wife, and two daughters."
    "Bring them here"
    "Please. Couldn't you leave them out of this?"
    "Bring them here!"
    The doctor returned with his wife and daughters, who, he had begged to be brave. The homely room now seemed charged with danger.
    "A Salaam Alikum," said the wife, in good Muslim fashion, her lips trembling slightly.
    The Captain grunted something, and appraised her with half-closed eyes. But his gaze soon shifted to the girls, and his right eye began its nervous twitch. He stared long at Salma. She seemed to remind him of something, somebody.
    "Sit down, all of you." They sat down. "I shall sleep here tonight. As long as you behave, and follow my orders, no harm will come to you. But do not try any tricks, I warn you. Do you understand me? Good. I am a kind man. But if you try and harm me, or my men, I shall be brutal. This is not my war. It's yours."
    The doctor was thinking of only two things: the boy, and the rifle, in the next room!
    His wife seemed to read his thoughts, for she said to her daughters: "Come, we shall make some tea for the Captain Sahib." Then with a quick look at her husband, she added: "Don't worry, I'll arrange everything." The doctor relaxed, and made a swift decision.
    "I have a young son who is ill," he said to the Captain. "He has a fever, and I have put him to sleep in the next room." The Captain paid no attention to this. He was tired. he stretched and asked:
    "Do you always live here, in this small place? An educated man like you?"
    "No, we have come here from the town. My wife and daughters were afraid."
    "We?" They were speaking in Urdu, which the doctor knew fairly well. "We have come to save you from these misguided rebels and their Indian masters. But whenever I ask people who have run away from the town to tell me why, they say: We are afraid of the Army! I cannot understand it. We are all Muslims, are we not?"
    The doctor wanted to change the subject. He inhaled deeply, and asked, "Which part of West Pakistan are you from?"
    "Lahore," the Captain replied. "The most beautiful city in the world."
    "Yes," the doctor smiled. "I once went there. For a medical convention."
    Tea was brought on a tray by the mother. Suddenly there was a gunshot, followed by commotion outside. The door opened, and a soldier walked in and saluted.
    "WhatÕs the matter?" The Captain asked.
    "We found a Bangladesh flag in one of the huts. Also a shotgun and some ammunition. The man is said to be a Hindu. He was alone."
    "A Hindu! And still here? These bastards are defiant, aren't they? Maybe he thinks he is being brave. Well, letÕs show him where this kind of bravery leads. Shoot the swine!"
    The soldier saluted and left. The commotion died down, and the Captain sipped his tea in the lull. Then they heard a burst of machine-gun fire.
    "Fools!" the Captain exclaimed. "Wasting so many bullets on one blasted Hindu! I should have had him hanged instead."
    The doctor rose. "I better see how my wife is getting on with your dinner." He went towards the door.
    "Tell her to prepare a bed in this room. I should like to sleep soon, as we shall march off early."
    The soldiers were busy seizing whatever objects of value they could find. A watch here, some ornaments there, money demanded at the point of a gun. After discovering the Bangladesh flag, and killing a Hindu, they complacently gave themselves license to loot. Most of the women had slipped quietly into the darkness of the fields, and the soldiers did not pursue them for fear of ambush. The Sergeant was busy organizing food, which the menfolk would somehow have to cook. It would probably consist of rice and fish, and the soldiers would curse.
    The captain was eventually offered chicken curry, and wheat pancakes lightly fried in butter-fat.
    "This is good," he said, as he munched. "I had expected rice. This is good Muslim food."
    Afterwards he accepted another cigarette from the doctor. They walked out of the house, and stood in the cool darkness, smoking.
    "You know," said the Captain, "this is a beautiful land. It gives us no pleasure to be carrying on this campaign, and having to kill brother Muslims, many of them perhaps innocent. But the disease of Hinduism must be stamped out, once for all. It has infected all your Muslim boys. After all, what is all this nonsense of Bangladesh? We were told that you had fought bravely for the establishment of Pakistan in 1947, and in fact you always claimed all the credit. Look at your great Muslim leaders, like Fazlul Huq and Suhrawardy! Now some of you are clamoring for this Bangladesh, which will be a land, this land, dominated by the Hindus, and once again you will be their slaves."
    The doctor's wife called:
    "Come inside. The bed is prepared."
    A wooden cot and a mattress had been set up in the middle of the room, and beside it stood a table with a lamp.
    The Captain lay down and lit a cigarette. He undid his belt, opened his buttons, and slipped a hand inside. He felt he had earned a little pleasure for himself. For weeks and weeks he had been sent from village to village, recruiting Razakars, hardly sleeping in one place for more than a couple of nights. True, he had not lacked boys on these occasions, but what he wanted now was a girl. He must satisfy the demands of his manhood. Here he was, with two beautiful girls at his mercy. Surely he could be permitted to play with one of them? Puffing at his cigarette he went to the door and called: "Dr Hussain!"
    Presently the doctor appeared, carrying a lamp. "Dr Hussain, I'm feeling a little lonely. Sent your elder daughter in here, I would like to talk to her - have a little chat you know. Now do not be alarmed, I shall do her no harm. Just a chat."
    The doctor stepped back in horror. "Please do not do this. My wife has been afraid that you might, I assured her that you were a good Muslim. We have done you no harm. Why ruin her life and punish us like this?" He raised his hands, imploring pity.
    "I told you not to be alarmed. Just send her in, before I lose my temper."
    Helplessly, the doctor withdrew. After a moment there was a smothered scream, and then his wife began sobbing.
    Salma came timidly into the room.
    "Come and sit beside me here," the Captain said, speaking in Urdu, and patting the bed beside him. "Do not be afraid. What is your name?"
    "Salma."
    "What a nice name, Salma, and what a nice girl too!" He put one arm around her waist, and with his other hand tilted her chin up, and kissed the tip of her nose. She drew back. "You are so soft and inviting, and you are the first Bengalee girl I have yet kissed. Now, be nice to me." His hand slid gently over one breast, and played with it, stroking evenly, slowly massaging the nipple through her blouse. Salma was in a trance of terror.
    "Now let me really adore your body. Stand up." Quickly he unwound her saree, and with a final tug she was left in a waist-high petticoat, the cord of which he undid. He passed a hand up her slender thigh. Salma prayed desperately for courage. Oh God, let me endure this silently! Let me suffer without screaming. I do not know what is to come, but let me protect the others. Let me die this kind of death, but let them be spared!
    The captain's hand explored further, and his passion was firmly roused. He slipped out of his pants and forced her down on the bed.
    "Look Salma, this is a Punjabi man. Feel him." He guided her trembling hand. "There, isn't he a nice big man? He wants you, Salma. He wants to go deep inside you, part your sweet virgin curtain, and make you his own."
    He ripped off her blouse, as she looked up into his hot eyes. He pressed his mouth against hers, opened her lips, and hose thrusting tongue moved rapidly inside. Then he began sucking one of her breasts, his hands under her buttocks. Presently his tongue moved, flickering, down her body, over her palpitating stomach, down, down.............
    In the next room, the wounded boy was gradually rising through layers of deep sleep towards the surface of consciousness, having lain dormant and lifeless on the ocean-bed of sleep, which is, after all, another kind of death. Slowly he opened his eyes in the dark room, adjusting them to the gloom. In a far corner stood a lamp, its wick turned down low. He realized where he was, and began to feel the pain in his knee. But what was happening in the other room? He heard strange noises - little grunts and meoans. What was going on there? He strained his ears.
    The Captain gently bit Salma's neck, and whispered urgently for her to be still and yield. She began to relax her tense muscles. Her natural instincts rose to meet his passion. Fear and excitement were throbbing in her whole body, her heart beating faster and faster. Then, in one unwary second, she lost her battle. He strove forcefully to find his way clean into her at last. The next step for her was easy - she yielded, and the man was home.
    The boy had slid to the floor, and was crawling towards the door. He quietly pulled the bolt back, and cautiously opened the door a crack. From one bloodshot eye he peered into the room. The movements on the bed in the dim light, and the accompanying sounds, were unmistakable. The gasps and groans of the woman, and the passionate urgings of the man in Urdu, told him what was happening. A Pakistani soldier was raping a Bengalee woman!
    The Captain was nearing the end of his journey, but he paused for a moment. raised his head, and looked down at the girl's face, which was ruined towards the lamp. And then he saw a resemblance. But to whom? He desperately wanted to know with whom he could associate this supreme moment of pleasure. But it was too late to think of it now - the moment had almost come. He buried his face in the girl's sloping shoulder, and with a final thrust the waters closed over his head. And she too was in the grip of a marvelous ecstasy. As she felt him sink completely into her, her body strove towards him, and she was filled with all the waters of the world, the liquors of creation.
    The boy was filled with horror. Brutality had triumphed over innocence. Whatever he understood of honour was being violated and destroyed on that cot. He must do something about it. He must avenge that raped honour. He crawled back towards the bed, and found beneath it, under a carelessly thrown blanket, the only hiding place the doctor's wife had been able to find in a hurry, his rifle.
    The Captain lay heavily on the girl, breathing deeply, wonderfully relieved and happy.
    The door creaked open a little more, and crouching in a painful position the boy took careful aim at the Captain's head, silhouetted against the glow of the lamp. He fired. The recoil of the rifle, and his weakness, made him lose balance a little. The barrel lowered a fraction, and his finger unwittingly pressed the trigger again. The fife went off, and the bullet passed neatly through Salma's head, and embedded itself in the opposite wall.
    The two detonations sounded like major explosions in the stillness of the night. As the doctor rushed into the room, the front door burst open, and a Sergeant came quickly through, followed by three jawans. They realized in a flash what had happened. The terrified doctor rushed into his room and tried to blot the door. But an impetuous jawan kicked it open, and sprayed the room with bullets from his LMG.
    The Sergeant looked down at the cowering boy. He kicked the young face brutally, and began hammering at the fallen body with the butt of his fife. The others joined in, pulverizing the dying boy almost to a jelly.
    The company marched off just before dawn, carrying the Captain's body back to district headquarters.
    The villagers entered the doctor's house, and viewed the carnage with revulsion. Piously, some of the womenfolk, who had crept back from the safety of the fields, began to make preparations for the burial of the women. The men did likewise for the doctor and the boy. What reprisals the night would bring none dared think.
    In the other village, many miles away, kind peasants had long since finished burying the bodies of Rafiq and the other two Razakars.
    These boys had died for a cause they had never properly understood - Pakistan, Islam. What had it really meant to them? Nothing. They had merely been pawns in the time-worn game of honour and war; helpless offerings on the altar of some idealism, victims of the indifference of any God you may care to think about - or pray to.

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