BLOWBACK (3 page)
As were those of sixteen others who happened to be in the vicinity. Only seven had anything to do with the Taliban or Al Qaeda. The nine others were merely bystanders, neighbours, or villagers whose only fault was that they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But such are the vagaries of war.
Asif Sharif’s distinguishing feature was the glint in his eyes. His eyes glowed with the cold, mesmerizing light of a zealot – or a psychopath. A barely average student with no exceptional skills, barring his extraordinary street-smartness, twenty-one-yearold Asif would have passed through life unnoticed and unremembered had it not been for a chance encounter with Mansoor Ahmed Salafi, one of the founders of Youth for Purity in Society (YPS).
The YPS was set up in Aligarh in April 1997. It began as a students’ movement with the stated objective of liberating India from decadent, materialistic Western influences and converting it into an Islamic state where pure Islam would reign supreme, unfettered by the shackles of democracy. Its main architect was a student of journalism called Ishtiyaque Khan. It was a matter of great discomfort for YPS that, a couple of years later, Ishtiyaque Khan succumbed to the same deplorable Western influences that he had earlier attempted to eliminate, and migrated to America where he began to teach the virtues of free speech and journalism to college students.
The nine-year-old organization was still struggling to establish an identity for itself when Salafi picked Asif as one of its office-bearers. Asif had then been trying, and not very successfully, to graduate from the University of Aligarh. For him, this sudden call to potential glory and fame was irresistable.
Salafi was fuming when he left the weekly YPS meeting midway. ‘I don’t understand why these idiots can’t see the writing on the wall!’ The short man with his stylish goatee, prominent Adam’s apple and horn-rimmed spectacles was walking so fast that Asif had to struggle to keep up. ‘All they want to do is sit around and talk all day, or spend hours drafting stupid petitions to be submitted to the government. Bloody morons!’
For want of anything better to say, Asif made the appropriate noises. In any case, he was still too much in awe of Salafi’s knowledge, enthusiasm and energy to express an opinion in front of him, especially when Salafi was in such a frenzy. They strode on through the corridor, their leather shoes clicking sharply on the erratic stone tiles.
‘While these fools are faffing around, the kafir government is screwing us all over the place.’ Salafi hawked loudly and spat out a blob of bile. It hit the corridor wall and trickled thickly down the yellowing walls, which were already streaked with betel juice. ‘Can’t they see how Muslims are driven into a corner and stepped upon all the time? Ayodhya, Gujarat, Kashmir... are they blind?’ Salafi fumed in silence for a while. ‘The more I listen to these fools, the more I begin to believe that Mujib is right.’
‘Who is Mujib?’ Asif asked after he had run through the list of YPS office-bearers in his head and failed to put a face to the name.
‘You have not met him – yet!’ Salafi threw out the last word theatrically. ‘But I think the time has come for us to sit with him and work out a more action-oriented plan that will actually allow us to achieve our goals.’ He paused for thought, his goatee tilted upward. ‘If we want to achieve something, we must be more aggressive and take action... instead of farting around with our mouths like those morons.’ This last was thrown back contemptuously at the others who were still at the YPS meeting.
‘If you say so, bhaijaan,’ Asif replied. Salafi’s words always stirred something deep inside him. ‘I am with you.’
‘I know you are, Asif!’ Salafi bestowed a keen, approving look on him. ‘You are the kind of person we need if YPS has to make a mark.’
They met Mujib late that night, when even the confirmed insomniacs of the college had finally gone to sleep. He was waiting for them in a dirty, beaten up SUV outside the campus gates.
‘Salaam waleikum, Mujib bhai,’ Salafi greeted him in what struck Asif as a strangely deferential tone as they got into the rear seat of the SUV. ‘This is Asif... Asif, Mujib bhai.’
The two men shook hands cautiously, each assessing the other in the murky darkness of the car. The cigarette smoke made Asif want to cough. He wound down the window a little.
‘Can we talk in front of him?’ Mujib asked Salafi, throwing an almost spent cigarette stub out of his window before rolling it up again.
‘Of course, bhai!’ Salafi was emphatic. ‘Would I have brought him along otherwise? He is trustworthy... one of us for sure.’
‘Uh huh.’ Mujib stared at Asif. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Azampur.’
‘How long have you known him?’ Mujib gestured at Salafi.
‘For many years now, bhaijaan. We are neighbours… In fact, our parents have known each other a long time.’
‘What are you doing here in Aligarh?’
‘I’m in the final year. Eco Honours.’
‘You understand what loyalty and secrecy mean?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you understand that we will not take it lightly if you betray us in any way?’ There was a sudden edge in his voice as he turned and looked at Asif.
Asif met his gaze and nodded. Mujib finally looked away, seemingly satisfied, at least for the moment. ‘Good.’ He started the vehicle and they began to crawl through the dark, narrow streets of Aligarh. ‘So what have you decided, Salafi?’
‘I’m beginning to believe you are right, Mujib bhai. The others are just wasting our time with all their talk, petitions and shit like that.’ Salafi thumped the seat with his fist. ‘We need to take action! We need to make those bastards sit up and take notice of us... and treat us with respect.’
‘How exactly are you are going to do that? And more importantly, who is going to stand by you in this battle?’
‘I know who is with me. Asif is, for one. Aren’t you?’ He looked at Asif.
‘Why else am I here, bhaijaan?’
‘I am pretty sure that some of the other key members are also with me… Irfan, Zaheer, Nissar and...’ He reeled off a few more names before his voice trailed away.
After a moment, Mujib asked softly, ‘And who is against us, miyan? Knowing your friends is good, but it’s far more important to know your enemies.’
Asif was not sure why, but he intuitively knew that something important was about to go down. Salafi’s voice was low when he replied.
‘I know for a fact that Omar and Shafique are going to oppose anything we try to do. Those damn do-gooders are definitely going to fight us tooth and nail. As for the others…’ He thought for a moment. ‘They are fence sitters. Bloody sheep! They’ll just flow with the tide. But Omar and Shafique – they certainly are the enemy.’
‘So be it!’ Mujib’s voice was cold and sent a shiver down Asif’s spine. ‘What are we going to do about them?’
‘I don’t know,’ Salafi replied, almost petulantly.
‘What do you think we should do, Salafi?’ Mujib continued, his voice still chillingly low. ‘What
does
one do with the enemy?’
Silence shrouded the occupants of the car. The game had changed, and each of them was acutely aware of it. They were no longer young students playing at bringing about a change in society or attempting to bring their misguided co-religionists back into the folds of pure Islam. Suddenly there was something else riding with them, something grim and ominous.
‘What do you suggest, Mujib?’ Salafi’s words came out a strangled whisper, as though he was having trouble speaking. The sudden display of weakness in someone he admired so much shocked Asif more than he cared to admit and this unexpected betrayal caused a sudden rush of anger in him.
‘What does one do with the enemy?’ Mujib repeated softly, his tone neutral.
He needs to know which side of the fence Salafi is on.
The thought hit Asif immediately.
And so do I.
He found himself watching Salafi carefully.
Talking the talk and walking the talk are two different things.
Salafi seemed to be struggling with his thoughts, his inner turmoil evident. Both men watched him closely.
‘Fight those who believe not in Allah nor the Last Day, nor hold that forbidden which hath been forbidden by Allah and His Messenger, nor acknowledge the religion of Truth (even if they are) of the People of the Book, until they pay the Jizya with willing submission, and feel themselves subdued.’ Mujib chanted the sura in a low, flat tone, almost in a whisper. He was among those who had helped design the Al Qaeda recruitment and training manuals; he knew when the time was right to quote from the Scriptures.
‘But they are also believers, Mujib,’ Salafi protested weakly. ‘We must give them the chance to see...’
‘Are they? Then they will understand that the jihad takes supremacy. After all, battles are not won without martyrs.’ Mujib pulled over to the side of a deserted road; the shadow of a tree smothered what little light there had been inside the vehicle. ‘So what
do
we do with the enemy?’ he asked again, swivelling around in the driver’s seat to face Salafi.
‘We kill them.’ Salafi swallowed as he whispered the answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing comically in his throat. Asif suppressed a sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh.
‘And do you have it in you?’ Mujib continued in a low voice. Salafi’s goatee and his Adam’s apple did another rapid bob.
‘No!’ he finally replied in a strangled whisper. ‘I cannot ki...’ Even the word eluded him and his voice faded into the night.
Salafi’s weak, whining voice was beginning to irritate Asif. He could not believe that this was the same man he had admired for being strong in his beliefs and clear in his call for action.
Mujib did not remove his unwavering gaze from Salafi’s face. ‘You don’t have to dirty your hands, miyan.’ His voice was edged with contempt. ‘We’ll do that for you.’
‘Then what do you want me to do?’
‘Just get back in there and keep them talking. Keep them busy and use the nice, clean network the YPS is creating to build a strong nationwide network for us; a network that will provide support, finance and when required, media and legal support; a network which we can cull for the right kind of people from time to time.’ His tone hardened. ‘People who are not so squeamish... people who are ready to kill for Allah.’ He leaned forward, pushing his face closer to Salafi’s. ‘Are you ready to do that at least?’
‘Yes!’ Salafi’s breathing was ragged but he nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, of course I am… I will… but…’
‘Good.’ Mujib pulled away from him slightly.
‘Always bear in mind that there are others out there who are going to put their lives on the line for the cause. They are the flag bearers of the jihad. Don’t ever let them down –
ever.’
The last word hissed out with such shocking vehemence, it made Salafi flinch as though he had been slapped.
‘Never!’ he croaked back. ‘I swear by all that is holy, I will make sure they are never let down.’
‘For your sake, I hope so,’ Mujib replied, his tone almost conversational. Immediately, the atmosphere in the vehicle eased up. ‘Remember this is the best combination in the world.’ He saw the question in Asif’s eyes and explained, ‘While YPS functions over the ground, completely legally, and is thus in a position to provide the propaganda, media support and required legal cover, the Indian Mujahideen shall be free to hit out with a series of terror spectaculars all over the country. The bastards will not even know what hit them.’
‘The Indian Mujahideen?’ Salafi asked.
‘Yes, the Indian Mujahideen.You obviously don’t remember our jihadis. Have you forgotten Shah Ismail Shaheed and Sayeed Ahmed Shaheed?’ Mujib shook an accusing finger at Salafi. ‘Have you forgotten the jihad they waged at Balakot?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘YPS will ensure that every time one of our fighters falls in battle, there will be charges of discrimination and persecution. The ensuing riots must bring life to a standstill.’
‘How will that help, bhai?’
‘Every time it happens, some friendly politician with his own axe to grind will stand by us and ensure that the government becomes wary of us. The mere threat of a communal riot will give us the edge. The aim is to keep the government on tenterhooks and make sure they shy away from confronting us openly.’
‘I see.’ Salafi nodded excitedly.
‘What about you, my young friend?’ Mujib suddenly turned to Asif. ‘Do
you
have it in you – or are you also too squeamish to bloody your hands?’
‘Try me!’ Asif shot back angrily, irritated with Salafi and annoyed that his faith was being questioned.
Mujib held his gaze, a faint smile on his lips. ‘I will,’ he said softly. His hand came up, over the seatback between them. The silenced pistol in his hand exploded into life. The sound was muted, but in the closed confines of the vehicle, it was like thunder. Asif watched shell-shocked as Salafi’s body slammed against the back of the seat. Salafi’s expression changed from disbelief to horror as he looked from Mujib to the hole in his chest, from which blood had begun to gush. Then suddenly his body slumped forward with a tired, hissing sigh, like the sound of air escaping from a punctured balloon. In horrifying slow motion he slid sideways until the door of the vehicle arrested his fall.
Mujib reached out and checked the pulse on the side of Salafi’s neck. Satisfied, he looked at the still open-mouthed Asif. ‘He was weak. Weak people turn traitor and betray the cause.’ He leaned forward slightly, the pistol in his hand not pointing at Asif, but menacingly rocksteady. ‘No?’
Abruptly closing his mouth, Asif replied, ‘I think so too.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice. ‘Weakness should never be tolerated.’
‘I am glad we agree.’ The pistol dropped out of sight. ‘Throw him out!’ He gestured at the body. Asif reached across and opened the door. Mujib watched closely as he gripped the body, gingerly at first and then with confidence, and began to push it out. As the body shifted, a fresh surge of blood gushed out from Salafi’s chest. Asif flinched, pulling back instinctively to avoid being splashed.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you.’
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Asif replied, his head pounding with sudden excitement. ‘I just don’t want to mess up my clothes.’ Salafi’s body toppled out slowly, almost in slow motion, hitting the black, tarmacked road with a meaty thud. As Asif closed the door, Mujib started the engine and they drove into the night.
