Clouds were hanging low, nearly black. Rain as delicate as silk began to fall. It was not a day like any other. Prayers I sent to heavens had been answered.
Maryam, my wife, was in labour room. Lying on a stretcher, she was screaming in pain. A living being is not born without a stern test of the mother. She gave birth to a girl. I burst into tears of happiness. Long had been the nights of our barrenness.
The atmosphere at home was festive. However, celebrations are subject to permissions in conflict zones like ours. “Events in the village, be it marriage or any other event, camp officer should be informed in advance” – read the notice pasted on the door of the village mosque.
It was a Sunday morning. The air was too heavy to breathe. I left home to inform the camp officer. As I approached the camp, barbed wires welcomed me. Shaking, sweating and shivering, I entered the camp. Hours went by. Summoned at last to the office, I informed the man behind the table about the scheduled function at my home. The name plate on the officer’s uniform showed his rank as “Major”.
Next day as the morning spread its wings, the Major along with his troops arrived at our village. They headed straight to my house and called me out. He had a gift for my newborn: a box full of toys and clothes. This was given under operation “Reach Out”. Photographs were clicked. Tea was served. For us, hospitality is not a custom but religion.
As days slipped into weeks, everything seemed fine. Until one evening, the village Sarpanch visited my house. He was worried. Two large hoardings with photographs clicked at my home had been put up outside the army camp.
In conflict zones it is unsafe to be on any side. During the night I could not sleep. I was frozen. The night seemed longer than usual. Early morning when the first rays of the sun kissed the mountains, I went to the camp again. The high hoardings welcomed me from far. Looking at them I could smell death. After frisking, the security personnel at the gate let me in. Waiting for a while outside the office, I was called in. The Major was not in a good mood. Maybe it was too early to disturb him. I requested for removal of the hoardings. My request was rejected authoritatively. Coming out of the camp, I had many fears in my mind.
Many moons passed. The aroma of autumn was in the air now. Trees were pregnant with fruits. I was working in my orchard, busy in packing apples. A young man, half my age, approached me. His beard and curly hair gave me his introduction. He was a rebel. He handed over to me a letter, then left without eye contact or a word. As I opened the letter, the stamp at the top confirmed my fear. I was asked about my visits to the camp.
Days passed into weeks. The dying light of sunset came through the broken window of my room. There was a knock at my door. The young boy who had come to me earlier had come with another. They took me along with them. As we reached the crest of the hill overlooking the village, everything around grew dark. Without asking anything they fired bullets at me. The bullets pierced my body. I fell on the ground with an enormous thud. The earth which was carpeted in green turned red. Neighbours rushed towards the hill. I was dead, but my eyes were open. I had paid the price of happiness with my blood.
Now, in the quite moments of my grave, I seek answers to my questions. My eyes are still wide open, perhaps sketching in the dark the shades of conflict.

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Baseer Abbas