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Saturday 7 April 2012

Adil and Friends




The roundness of cricket ball always escaped his little palm, but the handle of cricket bat always came in full grip to him as Achilles held his shield. He was a good batsman. He was known as ‘Sachin’ in his mohalla, and after some time he really came to believe that he was Sachin. Whenever he played, he thought Sachin, not Adil, was hitting the ball towards the boundary. The children of his age as well as older boys liked to watch his game. But they never took Adil in their teams. He still was a child for them. Adil did everything to convince them that he was skilled enough to play with them. He knowingly played in their field so that they recognize his game. But, all in vain. Disgusted by all his efforts, one day he decided to move. Move away from the gaming world of elders.

“Let’s find our own playground”, He said to his friends.
Masjid’s Baagh”, One of them suggested.
Naa! It’s full of flowers.”
“Factory Ground”, another cried. Then he himself replied, “But that is reserved for Football.”
After a long discussion, they had to go to the place which everyone avoided. But, that was the only option left. It was a desolate piece of land which served as a beautiful garden some years back. That was before Junaid was buried in there. Junaid was killed a year ago in the uprising against the military when stone pelting was the form of protest. Junaid was not a stone-pelter, but he was accidently killed (at point blank range by military), at least that was what the official reports said. When people gathered for his burial, military arrangements were made such that they had to bury him in the nearby garden rather than his ancestral graveyard some distance away.
And it was there Adil and his friends were standing now. Gazing upon the weeds and shrubs that had grown on and around Junaid’s grave as well as all over the garden, Majid said, “Yaar! It’s impossible to play here”.
“Why?” Adil asked.
“Can’t you see? It’s full of ups and downs . . . these weeds . . . and this grave.” Suhail answered.
“You should not say grave”. Shahid corrected Suhail, “My father says he’s shaheed, and shaheeds are never dead.”
“So?” asked Majid.
“So . . . you should say Junaid is here, not ‘this grave’.”
“He’s right Suhail” said Adil. “Okay! We’ll do one thing. Junaid will also play with us . . .”.
Adil was yet to complete his sentence when all the others unanimously exclaimed, “What!”
“He will be the fielder. If the ball touches his grave . . .” Adil looked at Shahid and quickly corrected himself, “If Junaid catches the ball, one will be out.”
Everyone smiled.
“But before that we have to clear these weeds” Adil said.
They all picked up some fallen branches of trees and beat the shrubs, imagining themselves as Kings fighting enemies. When the sky turned blood red they all stopped. With Maghrib azaan they finished their work. The ground was almost cleared of weeds. Ups and downs they had to bear. All of them happily went home.
From that day onwards, they regularly went to their own playground except on curfewed days. From last few weeks curfews had become a normal and daily routine as the next wave of resistance was throbbing the streets, beating with stones. The slogans of azaadi echoed from highways to streets as blood flowing through arteries and veins. The valley roared with life.
Adil was imprisoned in his home. He was yearning to go out but he knew he could not. He did not need his mother to tell him it was not safe outside. He could see it himself. With a bat on his shoulder, he watched from the window of his room boys pelting stones at the military. He didn’t remember having ever wept so much in his home as he did now, because tear-gas was the air he breathed. For hours and hours Adil and his family would weep without any reason. Sometimes they all laughed seeing each other weeping. In the periods of low gas intensity, Adil kept practicing his bat.
Next day when he went to the playground, Shahid was waiting for him.
“Suhail didn’t come?” Adil asked.
“No, he won’t come”, Shahid answered while playing with the ball in his hands. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?” Adil asked out of curiosity.
“Tufail was telling me that Suhail was with him in stone pelting. Now he goes out regularly. I don’t think he will come to play.”
Adil mused for a second at Shahid’s face and then replied, “He will be a good stone-pelter, he is a good bowler”.
Shahid looked at Adil with strangeness.
“Shall we start now?” Adil asked.
“Ya we can, but the problem is that you will have to ball now as well.”
“But you know I can’t”, Adil replied helplessly.
“But you will have to. What else can we do?”
Adil was unable to bowl. The roundness of ball always escaped his palm. Whenever he picked a ball, it seemed to him as if he was holding the globe. His balls were never up to the mark. Either wides or what his friends called ‘dead balls’. Understanding the situation well, Adil agreed saying, “well… what else can we do!”
And they started their game.
This was the first day among these curfewed days that Adil had kept his bat down. And it was because Suhail was dead. He was killed while pelting stones. A tear-gas shell had hollowed out his teeming head. The atmosphere was grey in the neighborhood. One could hear the cries of mothers as loudly as gun shots. In natural deaths, the environment of death is more deadly than death itself, but here the death was more deadly than the environment. Adil sat silently in the corner of the room as his mother had advised him not to go out. He was there all alone. He did not know what to do, how to react. He resembled the grey pillow by his side.
He stood up when there was a huge hue and cry down in the street. His sister came to the room to look out from the window. He accompanied her. They could see the military forces barricading the people carrying Suhail’s body.
“Why they doing so?” Adil asked his sister.
“They aren’t allowing them to bury him out in the graveyard. It’s the same that happened with Junaid.” His sister turned her face and sat down helplessly and in a moment Adil could hear her sobbing heavily.
After a week, Adil was able to come out of his home. He took his bat and went to call Shahid. Shahid’s mother told him that he would not go out. Adil went alone to the playground. He still had two players with him in the playground. Just besides Junaid, Suhail was ready to play.
The next day was hartal, but it was quite normal. Shahid came to call Adil after lunch and both of them went to the playground.
“Fielding is tight now”, Shahid said to Adil. With that they got involved in their game.
It was time for Asar azaan when they heard gun shots. They stopped their game against their wish and agreed, “Let’s go home.”
They left the playground towards the home. On the way they met a boy of their mohalla and they enquired him about the fusillade. He told them that the people were pelting stones on the main road. “You better go through the old military camp. That way is safe”, the boy advised.
Both of them changed their route and walked up the road that took them through the old military camp to their home. The road was all quiet. No one was walking on the road. It was really safe. As soon as they were about to leave the military confinement, one of the army men called on them.
“Hey, you two! Come here!”
They turned and came to him.
“What are you doing here. Pelting stones, ha?”
“No sir”, Adil said, “we were playing and now we’re going home.”
“Hmm . . . cricket”, the Army personnel said. As he was interrogating them, two other fellow personnel joined him. Adil and Shahid became a bit scared.
“What happened?” one of the personnel asked his fellow.
“Nothing. They say that they were not pelting stones. That they were playing.”
“O! Playing. You people either play or pelt stones. Don’t you study, ha?”
“sir, we are in 5th standard”, Shahid replied.
“So you play and study and pelt stones.”
“No sir, we don’t”, Adil said.
“We will come to know just now whether you are stone-pelters or not. Tell me, who’s your favorite cricket player?”
There was silence.
“Sachin”, Adil broke the silence.
“hmm . . . and your?”
“Afridi”, replied Shahid.
And with that the army personnel slapped him hard. The tears of crystal clear water bloomed within the petals of Shahid’s eyelids. He did not want them to flow. Adil moved towards Shahid but one of the army personnel held him back.
“Afridi says this saala!
And with that he kicked Shahid in his tiny tummy. Adil cried. Shahid fell down on the road.
The army personnel held his leg high and let it fall with full force on Shahid’s back.
“Pakistani saala
Shahid lay there on the road. Adil kept crying and the army personnel holding him shut his mouth tight with his strong hand. Adil could see the other two army personnel kicking and beating Shahid. He tried to break loose but the army personnel hit Adil with the butt of his riffle. Adil fell unconscious.
When Adil woke up, he found his family around him. His mother hugged him. He cried ‘Shahid’ and in response his mother held him tight and wept.
The roughness of stones never escapes Adil’s little palm. It comes in full grip to be pelt as thunder came to Zeus. He is now a good bowler.

Muzaffar Karim