I love my father. I miss him. He never stayed with us. He used to come occasionally. Sometimes I couldn’t even know when he came and when he left. I would be fast asleep.
I asked my mother about my father. She would parry my questions. When I insisted, she said that he was living with his friends. I knew it was rather unusual. I too have friends. I like playing with them but I always wanted to go back to my mother. Sometimes I would stop playing in the middle, however interesting the game might be, and run to my mother. My father is different and so his friends.
When I was in fifth grade, he used to visit us frequently. He was affectionate to me. One day I was playing and my friends disturbed a honeycomb. The honeybees chased us. I ran fast into my house and closed the doors but two bees were faster than I was. They bit on my cheeks and I started weeping. My cheeks started burning and my face was swollen. My father applied some medicine and the whole night he was awake sitting near my bed telling me stories. Sometime late in the night I slept. When I woke up, I found that he had already left.
Whenever I wanted to see my father, I would bring our family photo album and would spend hours looking at photos. One day I searched and searched for the album and couldn’t find it. Then I asked my mother. She had a weakness. Whenever I said anything about my father, she would shed tears. I didn’t want to make her weep. Therefore, I searched for the album on my own. My mother called me for lunch and I didn’t go. She yelled and then I asked her to look for the album.
She said, “Have lunch first.”
I was sitting tight. I refused to eat.
Then she said, “Your father took the album with him to show it to his friends.”
However, one day I could see his picture on wall posters and in newspapers. He carried a reward on his head, someone told me. I couldn’t understand. Meanwhile I got promotion to sixth grade but I couldn’t go to school for several days. My mother had no money to pay the fee.
“Don’t worry; there are many schools in Srinagar. You can go to one of those schools where they charge less,” my mother said.
I protested but I looked at my mother’s face and felt sorry. My class teacher Ms Zubeda gave us some money. My mother bought a sewing machine and started stitching school uniforms. The dress now I am wearing too was stitched by my mother.
Last month one terrible incident happened. The students of Lal Chowk School were celebrating their school anniversary. Some militants lobbed grenades. They burnt the school bus. Six children and three adults died and several others were injured.
I felt bad for my neighbour Fathima. I met her the day before.
“I’ll sing a patriotic song tomorrow,” she said.
“Oh, I can’t attend the function, so sorry,” I said.
“Yes, only parents are allowed and not friends,” she said. The grenades exploded near the stage. It happened when Fathima was singing. Militants never liked patriotic songs. Her right hand was blown off. There were splinters in her eyes. She died after half an hour.
The next day newspapers printed my father’s photo. My classmates said, “Your father is a killer. He threw bombs on the school children.”
When I asked my mother she said, “He is not in good company.”
After that incident, I stopped mixing with my classmates. I never had many friends, anyway. Last night I watched the most horrible news on the TV. My father and his friends raided the underground jail at Bharuchili. They wanted to help the inmates escape, but the security guards were alert. There was a fierce battle and my father and his friends were killed.
The next morning, I saw some children in our neighbourhood distributing sweets. They were celebrating as the militants who threw grenades on the school were killed. One boy whom I never met earlier, stretched the sweet box towards me. I shook my head and ran home. I didn’t feel like staying at home either. My house was full of our neighbours. I walked down to the house of my class teacher Ms Zubeda. I had many doubts.
“Was my father a killer?” I asked.
She turned her face away just like my mother. She removed her glasses and started wiping them with her hanky. I knew she was thinking or perhaps she was pretending that she was busy, but I was determined to get answer from her.
“Killing is a crime, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“My father and his friends were killed. Why there are celebrations if killing is bad? Are the security guards bad people?”
“It all depends on the cause rather than the action. The guards killed the militants for the good of the society.”
“How could my father be so bad? I couldn’t understand it. He was kind and affectionate.”
“He was a good man but he had bad friends. Overtime he too became bad.”
The teacher may be right. My mum often says, “Don’t play with that girl; don’t move with that boy.” Now I understand it. We should be careful while selecting our friends. My father took just one wrong decision. What a difference it all made!
