Ram-O-Omar !
The mission was on.
Seven men, all trained to kill, entered Ahmedabad in the wee hours of the morning. Omar, a tall man in his late twenties, was one of them. Nine years of intense training in difficult conditions had left his once-loose-muscles tightened and twelve years of grieving had hardened his mind. In a heart where once innocence resided was now filled with hatred and revenge. The eyes that were once warm scanned the streets of his hometown eagerly. It was not the same anymore.
The narrow streets were gone. The stink of blood was gone. And the tension that used to cloud the city was gone too. It seemed the city had distanced itself from its history as if the memories were too painful to hold onto. Instead of dwelling in the past, it was marching towards the future. It was mourning its loss in its own way. Omar was not going to take that. Yes, Ahmedabad will mourn, but on his terms.
The city will cry. It will come down to its knees. And it will feel pain.
Omar already saw him on the front page tomorrow. His act will make headlines. Millions, maybe billions, will read about him and what he had done. They will also know what happened to him and his family. He had no illusions of martyrdom, but he hoped at least a few empathised with him. Yes, he was simply doing his duty. And someone will see it.
Twenty years ago, the world was a different place. At least Omar's World was. Then, he was just a six year old who could not differentiate a mosque from a temple, just another reluctant schoolboy who could spell neither 'hindu' nor 'muslim' correctly, to whom both Ayesha and Vidya were little sisters and Ram was the best friend.
Then one day, his World changed.
A place of worship was razed to ground. Schools were closed. Streets emptied. Rumours were abound. And newspapers filled their pages with two words, 'hindu' and 'muslim'. Normal life came to an abrupt halt for Omar after Ram and Vidya were forced out of the neighbourhood. In the next few days, within the fortified walls of his house, Omar learnt the differences between a mosque and a temple. He was taught a namaz, though it serves the same purpose as the prayer, is not the same. He was told Allah did not belong in the leagues of Krishna and he did not belong with the likes of Ram.
The schools reopened soon, but they had changed too. Boys who wore ash treated him with contempt. Girls who did not wear the burqha shied away from him. Teachers always spoke of how Mughals destroyed thousands of temples when they invaded India. And his neighbours always gossiped in fear on how the majority had crushed the minority under the heels of their boots.
Yes, Omar's World changed, but he did not.
Passage into India had been easy. A few hundred rupee notes had ensured that their bags went unsearched at the checkpoints along the border. The planning though had taken over six months. Two days ago, Omar and the others were briefed by the head of their organisation.
Somewhere in the icy northern mountains, in a small tent, on a sheet of tarpaulin sat ten men. Holding a tablet in his hand, the head of the organisation showed on a map of Ahmedabad the individual entry-points of each of the seven men into the city, directions to individual hotels from the bus terminus, bus numbers that will take them there, the mission site and escape routes each of them have to take. He also explained to them how to stay off the radars of the cops and hands of the crowd that might foolishly turn heroic. Finally, he wished them luck and reminded them of their cause.
Al anima um-mah, slightly small to be called an Organisation, was just 278 men strong. 277 of them fought for a cause, a Caliphate. Omar who ranked somewhere in the middle fought for a different one. And in his aid was an AK-47, two 9mm Berettas, a dozen hand grenades and 1000 rounds of ammunition. Odd friends for a human being, Omar thought as he ran through the plan for the evening in his head.
Hanif at the eastern end of the Sangam Marg, Pasha and Mohammed at northern end of the Sunrise Park Road open fire at the crowd with their AK-47s exactly at 6.50P.M, driving the frenzied mob towards the junction of the two roads. Two minutes later, Sameer uses hand grenades to direct the confused crowd towards the Hyatt, the priciest hotel in Ahmedabad and AlphaOne, the biggest mall in the city. Seconds later, Raja and Naushad ambush the crowd entering the Hyatt as Omar waits inside AlphaOne.
The automatic is in his hands, the pistols are in their holsters, and the hand grenades are in his shoulder bag. His eyes are fixed on the entrance, but his heart is elsewhere.
Omar and his team rendezvoused a few minutes before six near AlphaOne on that Saturday evening. Being the first day of the weekend, the mall was crowded with unsuspecting shoppers, just what was needed for their plan to work. Omar signaled his men a go-ahead with a thumbs-up, telling them to be prepared. The watches were synced before the men left to take their positions.
Omar slipped into the mall through a service entrance at the back where only one CCTV camera stood watch. He would be long gone before anyone reviews the footage, he thought as he fished his pocket for his earphone and the leather gloves. He climbed two flight of stairs, crawled through a ventilator tunnel, and slid down an air duct before he reached the roof over the first floor wash room. There, he waited till the washroom emptied and jumped down to the floor after removing a steel panel on the roof. Once inside the mall, he grabbed a bar of chocolate and sat himself on a bench and caught his breath. Once his breathing relaxed, he looked at his watch. It read 6.32. With eighteen minutes to go and nothing else to do, he unwrapped the chocolate and started gnawing on it. Soon, he felt a pair of eyes settled on him. No, not on him. On the chocolate.
The big eyes belonged to a small kid. The longing look on his face revealed that he wanted to share something with Omar more than the bench. Omar did not hesitate, but the kid did before he eventually took the chocolate from him and gnawed on it greedily. Omar could not resist a smile. There was some kindness left in there.
The clock struck 6.48 and Omar heard distant gunshots and prepared himself for the battle.
The automatic was in his hands, the Berettas were in their holsters, and the grenades were in his bag. His eyes were fixed on the entrance, but his heart was elsewhere.
The day was March 2, 2002. A Saturday. Fear had gripped Ahmedabad as both hindus and muslims went on a killing spree after a train had been set ablaze. Omar, his little sister Ayesha and their father Salim never left the safety of their home for two days. But, the walls that had sworn to protect them forever failed in their endeavour that day. A murderous mob carrying sickles, swords and iron rods broke into the house and ransacked it. The men did not hurt Salim. They killed him with a single blow to the head. Omar and Ayesha were not that fortunate. Omar's little sister was gang-raped before he was knocked out cold. The last thing Omar remembered before slipping into a coma was the smell of Salim's blood and the broken voice of Ayesha. He woke up from his sleep two and half years later only to hear the death of his sister. She had not survived the vicious attack of those animals and Omar did not cry for her.
The clock struck 6.51 and the mob came running into the mall, shouting and screaming. Omar reached for the trigger. Just a small push and there would be blood everywhere. It will not smell as good as that of Salim's. Instead, it will stink. People will cry, but it will not be as innocent and painful as that of Ayesha's. Just a small push and Omar will have avenged his father and his sister. Tears rolled out of his eyes.
Bullets sprayed. People fell. Blood poured. Voices cried. Two lived.
The bereaved turned towards the other. With the same longing look on his face, he eyed the killer. The chocolate was in a pool of blood. The kid's arms reached for it. No, not for the chocolate. For his mother who lay dead on the floor. The small arms tried to wrap the mother, but failed.
Omar dropped the gun and hurried out of the mall. He never glanced back at the kid.
For a long time, the kid lay cuddled against his mother. He did not cry. He did not have to. Slowly, he reached for Omar's gun.
Now, Ram had a cause to fight for.
PS: This story was not written to hurt the sentiments of one religion or another. It simply reflects upon the causes of inter-communal animosity. It takes the stand that though politicians are the instigators, it is the mob that is responsible for the mass murders and to address this enmity, it has to be done bottom-up.
Seven men, all trained to kill, entered Ahmedabad in the wee hours of the morning. Omar, a tall man in his late twenties, was one of them. Nine years of intense training in difficult conditions had left his once-loose-muscles tightened and twelve years of grieving had hardened his mind. In a heart where once innocence resided was now filled with hatred and revenge. The eyes that were once warm scanned the streets of his hometown eagerly. It was not the same anymore.
The narrow streets were gone. The stink of blood was gone. And the tension that used to cloud the city was gone too. It seemed the city had distanced itself from its history as if the memories were too painful to hold onto. Instead of dwelling in the past, it was marching towards the future. It was mourning its loss in its own way. Omar was not going to take that. Yes, Ahmedabad will mourn, but on his terms.
The city will cry. It will come down to its knees. And it will feel pain.
Omar already saw him on the front page tomorrow. His act will make headlines. Millions, maybe billions, will read about him and what he had done. They will also know what happened to him and his family. He had no illusions of martyrdom, but he hoped at least a few empathised with him. Yes, he was simply doing his duty. And someone will see it.
Twenty years ago, the world was a different place. At least Omar's World was. Then, he was just a six year old who could not differentiate a mosque from a temple, just another reluctant schoolboy who could spell neither 'hindu' nor 'muslim' correctly, to whom both Ayesha and Vidya were little sisters and Ram was the best friend.
Then one day, his World changed.
A place of worship was razed to ground. Schools were closed. Streets emptied. Rumours were abound. And newspapers filled their pages with two words, 'hindu' and 'muslim'. Normal life came to an abrupt halt for Omar after Ram and Vidya were forced out of the neighbourhood. In the next few days, within the fortified walls of his house, Omar learnt the differences between a mosque and a temple. He was taught a namaz, though it serves the same purpose as the prayer, is not the same. He was told Allah did not belong in the leagues of Krishna and he did not belong with the likes of Ram.
The schools reopened soon, but they had changed too. Boys who wore ash treated him with contempt. Girls who did not wear the burqha shied away from him. Teachers always spoke of how Mughals destroyed thousands of temples when they invaded India. And his neighbours always gossiped in fear on how the majority had crushed the minority under the heels of their boots.
Yes, Omar's World changed, but he did not.
Passage into India had been easy. A few hundred rupee notes had ensured that their bags went unsearched at the checkpoints along the border. The planning though had taken over six months. Two days ago, Omar and the others were briefed by the head of their organisation.
Somewhere in the icy northern mountains, in a small tent, on a sheet of tarpaulin sat ten men. Holding a tablet in his hand, the head of the organisation showed on a map of Ahmedabad the individual entry-points of each of the seven men into the city, directions to individual hotels from the bus terminus, bus numbers that will take them there, the mission site and escape routes each of them have to take. He also explained to them how to stay off the radars of the cops and hands of the crowd that might foolishly turn heroic. Finally, he wished them luck and reminded them of their cause.
Al anima um-mah, slightly small to be called an Organisation, was just 278 men strong. 277 of them fought for a cause, a Caliphate. Omar who ranked somewhere in the middle fought for a different one. And in his aid was an AK-47, two 9mm Berettas, a dozen hand grenades and 1000 rounds of ammunition. Odd friends for a human being, Omar thought as he ran through the plan for the evening in his head.
Hanif at the eastern end of the Sangam Marg, Pasha and Mohammed at northern end of the Sunrise Park Road open fire at the crowd with their AK-47s exactly at 6.50P.M, driving the frenzied mob towards the junction of the two roads. Two minutes later, Sameer uses hand grenades to direct the confused crowd towards the Hyatt, the priciest hotel in Ahmedabad and AlphaOne, the biggest mall in the city. Seconds later, Raja and Naushad ambush the crowd entering the Hyatt as Omar waits inside AlphaOne.
The automatic is in his hands, the pistols are in their holsters, and the hand grenades are in his shoulder bag. His eyes are fixed on the entrance, but his heart is elsewhere.
Omar and his team rendezvoused a few minutes before six near AlphaOne on that Saturday evening. Being the first day of the weekend, the mall was crowded with unsuspecting shoppers, just what was needed for their plan to work. Omar signaled his men a go-ahead with a thumbs-up, telling them to be prepared. The watches were synced before the men left to take their positions.
Omar slipped into the mall through a service entrance at the back where only one CCTV camera stood watch. He would be long gone before anyone reviews the footage, he thought as he fished his pocket for his earphone and the leather gloves. He climbed two flight of stairs, crawled through a ventilator tunnel, and slid down an air duct before he reached the roof over the first floor wash room. There, he waited till the washroom emptied and jumped down to the floor after removing a steel panel on the roof. Once inside the mall, he grabbed a bar of chocolate and sat himself on a bench and caught his breath. Once his breathing relaxed, he looked at his watch. It read 6.32. With eighteen minutes to go and nothing else to do, he unwrapped the chocolate and started gnawing on it. Soon, he felt a pair of eyes settled on him. No, not on him. On the chocolate.
The big eyes belonged to a small kid. The longing look on his face revealed that he wanted to share something with Omar more than the bench. Omar did not hesitate, but the kid did before he eventually took the chocolate from him and gnawed on it greedily. Omar could not resist a smile. There was some kindness left in there.
The clock struck 6.48 and Omar heard distant gunshots and prepared himself for the battle.
The automatic was in his hands, the Berettas were in their holsters, and the grenades were in his bag. His eyes were fixed on the entrance, but his heart was elsewhere.
The day was March 2, 2002. A Saturday. Fear had gripped Ahmedabad as both hindus and muslims went on a killing spree after a train had been set ablaze. Omar, his little sister Ayesha and their father Salim never left the safety of their home for two days. But, the walls that had sworn to protect them forever failed in their endeavour that day. A murderous mob carrying sickles, swords and iron rods broke into the house and ransacked it. The men did not hurt Salim. They killed him with a single blow to the head. Omar and Ayesha were not that fortunate. Omar's little sister was gang-raped before he was knocked out cold. The last thing Omar remembered before slipping into a coma was the smell of Salim's blood and the broken voice of Ayesha. He woke up from his sleep two and half years later only to hear the death of his sister. She had not survived the vicious attack of those animals and Omar did not cry for her.
The clock struck 6.51 and the mob came running into the mall, shouting and screaming. Omar reached for the trigger. Just a small push and there would be blood everywhere. It will not smell as good as that of Salim's. Instead, it will stink. People will cry, but it will not be as innocent and painful as that of Ayesha's. Just a small push and Omar will have avenged his father and his sister. Tears rolled out of his eyes.
Bullets sprayed. People fell. Blood poured. Voices cried. Two lived.
The bereaved turned towards the other. With the same longing look on his face, he eyed the killer. The chocolate was in a pool of blood. The kid's arms reached for it. No, not for the chocolate. For his mother who lay dead on the floor. The small arms tried to wrap the mother, but failed.
Omar dropped the gun and hurried out of the mall. He never glanced back at the kid.
For a long time, the kid lay cuddled against his mother. He did not cry. He did not have to. Slowly, he reached for Omar's gun.
Now, Ram had a cause to fight for.
PS: This story was not written to hurt the sentiments of one religion or another. It simply reflects upon the causes of inter-communal animosity. It takes the stand that though politicians are the instigators, it is the mob that is responsible for the mass murders and to address this enmity, it has to be done bottom-up.
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