Poison Wind

He stood firm there, unruffled by the harshness of Simoom , the winds this time
sccularly, carrying clouds of dust and sand. It produced on Nashavar a suffocating
effect. The hot wind brought more heat to his body than that which could be disposed
of by the evaporation of perspiration. Those bright and mighty clouds placed right
above his head also contained a few evaporated tears. But whose tears were they? He
was looking at something which was moving away from him, as the lower part of her
Burkha swayed to the right ,it gently exposed the shape of those long legs. He was
digesting her legs. his palms lay on the barbed wire which was the border. Each and
every step she tried to place firm on the loose desert sand, his inner palms were
unknowingly being forced into the protrudes of the rusted wire, the symmetric twists
of iron dug into his felsh , slowly yet t out some blood and as the blood started
dripping down his fingers, it spilled on to the bare yellow sand. The drops broke, they
divided into tiny red spots all over the, right beneath Nashavars shadow. As one drop
accidentally fell on his toenail, Nashavars soul sprung back to life as if a spring were
released from the ground. He was back to abnormal.

68 Km.
Peshawar
Upon approaching the Frontier Town she found herself amidst a spreading vale
watered by many streams and surrounded by an unbroken girdle of mountains. Hills
that went past her, both tall and short formed a ring, it seemed as if they were
enclosing her in an open box. But his box was beautiful both from the outside and the
inside. The roads never lost their sheen with people, Pashtuns and pseudo- Pashtuns
from the south-east where the valley lands sloped to the banks of Indus in . She was
accompanied by the pleasant and aesthetic beauty as well as some of her didis. She
was being brought to this place by Azam Chacha, whose words she never dared to
react, whereas with others she kept to being bold. She was always decked up in a
salwaar; the salwaar kameez is such a thing that exposes the curves without exposing
them. She would not step out with Lipisthick adorning her luscious pink lips, she
preferred being artificial all the time. She also had this unusual habit of smoking a
sutta once in a while, she learnt that from her Grandmother, who used to stuff the box
under her Pipli-art pillow with Beedis and Suttas. Azam warned her not to smoke
whenever she felt like, he said , Ye log Humaare quaum ke nahi hai, Ye Pashtun hai ,
par conservative type ke Pashtun bhai-sa hain , zara sambhaal ke rakhna behno he
addressed the group of women who occupied 20 seats of the rollicking bus despite the
roads being in a decent condition.
Nashavar worked for someone; none of his friends were familiar with the well-known
little-known rogue agency, so they never bothered asking Nashavar about his wellbeing. Nashavars friends werent the normal ones, they always looked to keeping a
certain distance from him. Everyone liked him but at the same time everyone disliked
him. Just because he had a thick black beard which rounded his face into a pale-brown
ball, a ball which couldnt be softened by lifes little joys, he merely remained

expressionless. But the sole reason for him being liked by the people surrounding him
would be because of the appreciative nature which was inbuilt within his moral
values. As soon as any other person would offer him a cup of Iraani Masala Chaai ,
even before he accepted it , he thanked them from his heart, he chanted Shukriyaa
almost all a Hazaar times, until the other person would be gratified with a blush on
his face, as if they were helping the needy. He worked as an informer for the U.S
forces based in the North west frontier Province of Pakistan, he was considered to be
the buddy among the officers present at the Red Durgah base camp in Peshawar.
Some parts of Peshawar were cordoned off due to high Taliban activity, there was this
local leader called Maulana Fazlullah, a.k.a Radio Sahab who was the main cause of
concern to the forces deployed there. He was planning to attack specific parts of
Peshawar just because certain immigrants from Afghanistan who belonged to the
Talibani Mulk refused to go back to their native. He had something very bad to tell
through the radio this time. Nashavar being the local sab ka pyaara had access to the
Red Durgah area too, he had friends there too. Nashavar came from a very harsh
background, his father believed in the ideology of separatist nation as conceived by
the Talibans in Afghan, he was very militant oriented, he knew how to procure guns
and use them at the right people, Nashavar did not have a history of dadis and Dadas,
his Baba and Sareena were everything to him. Sareena was his mother, he always
called her by her name, just like his Baba, Sareena taught him all the good things, a
mix of best from both the worlds, coming from both his parents, made him stand on
the border between good and bad, just as his profession suggests.
Azam Chacha announced aa gaye hum apne ghar ko (here we come back to our own
place) as the bus braked , Azam wanted to treat the ladies by offering them to stop by
the chaai-shop , it was pretty close to the Red durgah area, Azam noticed that there
was an increase in the number of military people in and around that place. He didnt
care much. His role was to deliver all of them to the Romance Bazaar Building by the
evening. He took a stroll down that lane accompanied by a hot cup of chaai. He left
behind those women, they were finally free,at least for a few minutes. As soon as
Chacha made an exit they started behaving just as any other grown teenager, fancying
the kurtas they saw at the close-by shops and the choodiyan at aslams shop, they
always had a thing for both the itmes. Now that they had enough money for
themselves than the earlier time they came to this place, all the girls dispersed to
various corners to buy something for themselves, for the very first time..all the money
they earned in Kabul was money ordered to their respective houses after allowing a
share to Azam. She took to this fancy building, it wasnt guarded by US gunmen, she
sees this beautiful painting on the darwaaza and decides to go inside. As she enetered
the dusty garage-like place, she sees Nashavar cooking in one corner of the room. She
walks upto him and asks him, Ye sab aise kyun hai, bhaii-sa?
When he opened his eyes, he gazed fully upon her. Her eyes were drawn inexorably to
his, and for more than a minute they gazed intensely at each other, but after some time
he closed his eyes, and conjuring up a vision of her face, dwelt upon it for some time,
turning his thoughts towards her, creating a flow of mental energy that he hoped
would reach her in waves of telepathic power! His intention, immediately as soon as
he saw her, was to impose his will of belonging on her. Nashavar fell in love, for the
very first time. She looked stunningly beautiful, adjusting the chunni o her salwaar
which never liked staying over her chest, the baali shone continuosly from a distance,
dim lighting of the place could be the reason. Nashavars brown eyes slightly turned

gold as the glitter of her baali occupied most of his eye. She pulled the lac bangles
that adorned her wrists over her soft arms every other minute, they slipped too often.
He was caught by a beauty this time. There was just one thing on Nashavars mind, tey
called it ishq. Just before he could reply , didi someone shouted from her behind.
Recognizing her friends voice, she ran back to the darwaaza, just before she stepped
out of the building, she gave a nominal stare at Nashavar,who was just about to stand
up, was it in appreciation of the sheer beauty which he just saw? She never stood
still, she was in a hurry. Nashavars mind for the next few days was left with her
image. He thought she vanished into those Peshawari crowds. Sometimes when he
would look for her in unknown faces, the only criteria being , a beautiful baali, set
hair, salwaar( which very less number of people used to wear to markets). He was left
looking out for her.
Few days passed, years for Nashavar, he so wanted to meet her again. When she saw
him, she smiled. She was pleased that he remembered her. He was pleased that, she
remembered him. They were both pleased, and it was almost like a meeting of old
friends. Just before Nashavar parted his lips to say something, she raised her hand,
asking him to STOP. Just as a traffic policeman would, she did it with grace though.
She right away told him, Mujhse ishq nahi hoga ji. After declaring this she turned
and ran away, she was about to leave, all her didis were waiting for her at this busstation. They all were leaving now.
What could he do about finding a girl I had seen only twice, who had hardly spoken to
her, and about whom he knew nothing absolutely nothing but for here felt a
tenderness and responsibility that he had never felt before?

Notwithstanding her leaving him forever, Nashavar took a toll on others, all the
others because of whom he was living a decent life. He took his strapped up gun
from his inner jacket and loaded it completely. His body lead him to the red durgah
area and made him fire six rounds at his own talibani dost. He killed six people within
a few seconds, never bothered to look for whom they were, what they were like. The
other people present when all this was happening were armed talibani gunmen. They
refused to shoot at Nashavar, maybe just because he was one of those achche dost
whom they knew. He lost contacts with the US forces too, distanced himself from the
Taliban, who no longer considered him to be loyal.