At 1:23:30 p.m.

Mrs.Mehta’s 14 year old daughter was being raped in front of her very eyes. The aged widow cried out in desperation and in helplessness. Jyoti Mehta’s screams of pain shredded the cold Kashmir air with a cold brutality as her untouched virgin body was being massacred. Mrs.Mehta, poor, old and tied down – was shaking feverishly as her ‘little, pure Jyoti’ was being lustily devoured by this pack of dirty Muslim soldiers.

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12:45 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta was running after another pack of dirty Muslim soldiers, his hatred of the Muslims increasing with every step. Shekhar was one of those low, narrow-minded Hindus who felt an eternal hatred towards the entire Muslim fraternity. A dozen armed Indians along with him crossed the dreaded Line Of Control. His mind rushed back wildly to his humble home in Kashmir, his mother’s doctor’s appointment scheduled for later that week, his sister ‘little, pure Jyoti’ just arrived from Delhi…he wished he was back home. Cold snow flew at him from ten different directions. He ran on, after those turban clad enemies, with a greater effort, wiping the snow from his frost bitten face.

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12:49 p.m.

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Afzal Hussain wiped his sweaty face. He pushed back the ravaged body of young Jyoti Mehta, eased his shirt and was in the act of fastening his belt buckle on his grey trousers. Underneath the layers of shirts, cloaks and overcoats, Afzal’s pulse was steadily thumping in rhythm with the brass wall clock on a wall behind him. Mrs.Mehta was convulsing on the wooden floor, her oddly white furious hair trawling, as her tears dried reluctantly with the dust particles on the floor. Jyoti was unconscious.

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12:54 p.m.

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Unconscious of the distorted and deformed surroundings, almost knee-deep in snow, Shekhar Mehta moved rapidly whichever way the greenish brown coats turned. Beeps on his wireless walkie-talkie stopped him for a second. Two armed men flew past him into the icy depths, pursuing the Pakistani terrorists. He pulled out his little device, a voice floated to him –

“Major Mehta, come in. Come in Major…”

“Major Mehta…here sir…reporti…ng…for….uty sir.”

“Major, do not cross LOC. I repeat do NOT cross LOC. They have 2 fortified bases. Return to base, Major. I repeat, return to base.”

“Sir…cannot…..zero connection….peat order….sir…lease repeat…..der..”

The line went off. Shoving the walkie-talkie in his inner pocket, Shekhar rubbed his eyes with his heavily gloved hands. Shaking off the accumulated dust-like snow from his shoulders, he moved forward.

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1:00 p.m.

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Afzal moved forward. “Sprinkle a little water on her face. Don’t be soft. Remember, they are bloody Indians.”

The Muslim soldier moved ahead. Afzal had a three day stubble on his face. He felt no remorse, no pang of guilt that he had just raped a 14 year old girl.

“You MONSTER!”, suddenly screamed Mrs.Mehta, up on her knees, her black and white hair strewn across her wrinkled visage, red with rage. “You…you raped my…my...daughter…”, she pointed her shaky finger at the convict, now glaring at her with an angry gleam in his eyes.

He hastily took the water tumbler from the hands of another fellow soldier and with exemplary force, hurled the liquid onto the captive woman’s face. 

“You bitch. You dirty HINDU.” Saying these, he spat on her face bitterly.

One of the gathered Muslims winced at the sight of this torture. Afzal noticed.

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1:03 p.m.

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 “Sir, have you noticed this? Those Pakistanis have taken refuge behind that barrage of tanks, in an old warehouse due north 4 o’clock.”

Shekhar Mehta’s mind was working furiously, screaming – “NO MERCY.”

The calculation was simple. Around 18 Pakistani soldiers, 12 armed Indians. It was a tough risk. Victory was probable.

His mind went back once again to his little home, his happy home and the thought of his lovely sister Jyoti, waiting for him to come home and spend time with her. He thought of homemade parathas and hot jalebis. He thought of his mother. His subordinates had gathered around him. Few of them were wiping their faces; others were wiping their hands vigorously, attempting to warm them. They had their AK-56s clutched roughly, waiting for further orders.

Shekhar Mehta was still thinking of home, as he said – “We move in. Aim to kill. No survivors. No mercy.”

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1:08 p.m.

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 “Don’t show any mercy to these Indian Hindus”, spoke Afzal Hussain. He noticed, from the corner of his eye, that Jyoti Mehta was moving. Her clothes were ripped obscenely. The young adolescent’s once radiant face was now dark and seemed 20 years older. There were ugly nail marks and cuts on her arms and neck, where she had been deviously clawed at by the Muslim soldiers.

“Pick her up”, ordered Afzal, “and bring her in front of her mother.”

Two men roughly held Jyoti, dragged her from one end of the room to the other, and lay her by her mother’s side.

“There you go,”, spoke Afzal. “She’s fit to be a prostitute now.”

Saying this, he broke into a cackle. The other Muslims in the room howled with Afzal, re-incarnating his laugh by a manifold, drowning out the frantic sobs of a mother.

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1:11 p.m.

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A flurry of boots made their way into the murky depths of the warehouse. Shekhar Mehta could hear the Pakistanis breathing. He ordered his men to hide behind a huge tank right in the centre of the warehouse.

In a loud voice, he heard a voice speak out – “Stop, Indian soldiers. Go back where you came from. We do not want to hurt you. We are peace-loving people.”

Shekhar screamed – “Right as hell you are. We’ve had this peace nonsense for 50 years. Surrender now, by the order of the Republic of India.”

The same voice answered – “I repeat my words Indian. Retreat immediately. We do not want to hurt you. We will fight you on the war ground like men.”

Like a spark on a tank of oil, Shekhar bellowed – “Where was this peace, when you rascals bombed the Taj, the Parliament, when you attacked Gujarat and Rajasthan? You bloody hypocrites!”

There was silence for a few seconds.

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1:15 p.m.

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“SILENCE!”, screamed Afzal. “You’ve cost us pain, humiliation, torture. The death of our mothers, the rape of OUR sisters, the loss of brothers and fathers. My…my..brother too. That does not matter now. He’s escaped from the Indian camp on the LOC. Hah!”

He clutched Mrs.Mehta’s hair and pulled it, making her writhe and scream in agony. He brought his lips to her ear and spoke, “If its of any comfort to you, I’ll  be killing your daughter now.”

With an almighty wrench, Mrs.Mehta clasped Afzal’s feet and mumbling and muttering painfully – “Please….just a child…spare…her.”

Afzal smiled. “But first, we’ll set fire to your home, and to your dreams.”

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1:18 p.m.

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 “FIRE!”

At once the tank covering them exploded with stupendous force, throwing a bevy of soldiers some feet away. The sound of bullets, shells and mortar echoed incessantly. The Pakistanis were at the vantage points. A bullet pierced through Shekhar’s left hand.

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1:19 p.m.

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His left hand held the matchbox. Afzal’s men set the home ablaze. Picture frames melted into nothingness, the flames leapt about the house. The smell of burning cloth overpowered them as Afzal Hussain dragged the mother and daughter to the centre of the room.

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1:20 p.m.

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The centre of Shekhar’s heart seared with pain. He didn’t want to die. He heard screaming. Maybe of his men. Maybe of the enemies. Shekhar slinked out of sight into a sheltered arena.

People were being delivered to God’s own trial room. He heard heavy breathing him. Shekhar turned.

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1:21 p.m.

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Jyoti was awake now, but looked around the room vaguely – her body shivering inspite of the heat emanating from the wooden walls. Her eyes were wide open, but had a tinge of impending death in them.

Afzal pointed a gun at her.

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1:22 p.m.

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Shekhar pointed his gun. It was a Pakistani, bleeding. His leg was shot. He was unarmed as well.

Shekhar asked, “So, how does it feel? Huh? Speak up!”

“Don’t kill me, brother.”, he whispered.

“DO NOT CALL ME YOUR BROTHER.”, screamed Shekhar. After a second, he asked – “What’s your name?”

“Az…. Azmal Hussain.”

“Be ready to meet your maker, dirty Muslim.”

Azmal started laughing. “Muslim soldiers are raiding western Kashmir today. I…I hope that your mother and sisters are being raped today…ha…ha”

Shekhar Mehta felt dizzy.

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1:23 p.m.

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 “Goodbye missie. Wish my brother were here to taste your fine skin too.”, Afzal Hussain said.

Mrs.Mehta, holding onto Jyoti, screamed.

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1:23:05 p.m.

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What?, asked Shekhar. Confused.

“I hope my brother Afzal does justice to all the Hindus out there”, spoke Azmal in uncontrollable rage.

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1:23:17 p.m.

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BANG.

The lifeless body of Jyoti Mehta, sister of Army Major Shekhar Mehta, collapsed onto her mother’s blood-filled arms. Afzal laughed.

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1:23:22 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta delivered a blow to Azmal’s face.

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1:23:26 p.m.

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Afzal Hussain pointed the gun at Mrs.Mehta.

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1:23:27 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta pointed the gun at Azmal Hussain.

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1:23:28 p.m.

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Afzal pulled the trigger. Shekhar’s mother, Mrs.Mehta, fell with a thud. Dead.

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1:23:29 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta pulled the trigger. Afzal’s brother, Azmal Hussain, fell with a thud. Dead.

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1:23:30 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta took a deep breath.

Afzal Hussain took a deep breath.

At 1:23:30 p.m., these two survivors, with fire in their eyes and hatred in their hearts ; with an angry lump in their throats, did not realize even for a second that their families had perished at each others hand. A cold wind blew through the air. And silence.

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