Indians in Pakistan

About the Author

Vivek Pereira studied at St. Stanislaus High School, Bandra, and later at M.M.K College where a poem appeared in his examination paper much to the chagrin of the Economics professor. He went on to contribute humorous short stories and thought-provoking poetry to online websites like indolink.com and hindustan.net (literaryindia.com). Rose Garden and Minefields, a compilation of some of his finest poems, short stories and essays, was published in 2010.

Based on the confessions of Ajmal Kasab, the surviving terrorist in the Mumbai attacks, and the courageous deeds of Kukka Parrey and the Ikhwan-ul –Muslimeen; Indians in Pakistan, is a fast-paced action-thriller, which explores the existence of cross border terrorism, the failure of the Pakistani state, the emotional bonding between people and the resilience of the human spirit.

Prologue

I smiled at the irony that while we, the trainees, were equipped with rocket launchers, AK47s and other sophisticated weaponry, the head of the mission confronted us with a measly pistol. I was still smiling as my fingers pulled the trigger. The short, bald leader collapsed in a heap. Our jeep sped away.

We left the camp that night, leaving a trail of destruction in our wake. Scores of dismembered bloody bodies lay strewn all over the place. Almost every solid structure had been reduced to rubble. Small fires flared at various places. There were a couple of big fires that lit up the night sky. But what I remember most vividly was the ghastly silence just before we left the site.

Acknowledgements

I am greatly indebted to Santosh Patil, my dear friend, for the brilliant artwork on the cover. I sincerely thank Douglas Misquita, Irwin Saldanha, Devendra Kothawade, Vikas Sharan, Narendra Pingle, Rajiv Tandon and Kaushik Sabnis for their valuable suggestions. This book owes its existence to Pothi.com and I am deeply grateful to the entire staff who worked on it.

A special thanks to the following persons for their support:

my parents: Spridion and Eva;

my wife: Venessa;

my family: Anil, Delyse, Natasha, Anthony, Nilesh, Inez, Ashton, Nasya, Savita, Simone & Eliana;

my in-laws: Vency, Teresa and Oberoi;

Teacher Alice Carvalho and Professor Iyer; Cheryl Hansoo and Sidney Pereira (Godparents), Sunita Noronha and Shana Susan Ninan (Reviewers), and all relatives, friends, colleagues and neighbours who supported me in my endeavours

Preface

I read with great intensity and emotion about the courageous deeds of Kukka Parrey, the founder of the Ikhwan-ul-Muslimeen, and other renegade militants in Kashmir who eliminated hundreds of hardcore terrorists to drastically reduce the militant threat in the valley. In fact, I desired to write a book entitled 'The Anti-Terrorist' based on their heroics about a decade ago. However, my tribute to these brave martyrs did not materialise for several reasons.

I began writing ‘Indians in Pakistan’ in January 2009, immediately after the Mumbai attacks and much of this work is based on the confessions of Ajmal Kasab, the Pakistani terrorist who has been sentenced to death. After promoting my first published work, 'Rose Gardens and Minefields', I once again turned my attention to the unfinished manuscript. I have incorporated several of the ideas previously intended for 'The Anti-Terrorist' in this action-packed novel.

However, the characters, organisations and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to them is purely coincidental. The reader has to view the ideas expressed in this book from the perspective of a hardened terrorist. Jihad has several connotations in Islam and it has been used in this book with reference to the physical struggle of radical jihadis. I sincerely apologise to all readers who feel offended by the views or statements expressed by the fictitious characters in this novel.

Chapter 1

We were not discernibly different from the other passengers on Flight PK-269. We spoke Urdu fluently just like most of them. We wore kurtas just like many of the other male passengers. There was nothing in our physical appearance that gave us away either. But we were different - we were Indians in Pakistan.

Irfan, my companion, was getting quite restless on the flight. He kept staring around at the other passengers in an extremely suspicious manner. I cursed my luck. The last person I wanted besides me right now was a jerk like Irfan. He kept having doubts, and I simply hated those who had doubts. We were doing this for our religion - and for the whole of mankind. When the whole world looked through our eyes then there would be nothing but peace. But till such time, there had to be some violence.

It was early March. It had been nearly a week since we left our homes in Lucknow for this jihadi mission. We had sneaked across the border into Nepal before boarding the PIA flight from Kathmandu to Karachi. The exact details of our mission had not yet been revealed to us, but we were confident that before the training got over they would give us a detailed briefing on what we were supposed to do.

‘Take it easy,’ I told my companion curtly.

‘We should never have left India, Zameer,’ Irfan complained. ‘Our jihad could have been waged over there itself without coming to Pakistan.’

‘Shhh,’ I whispered to the stupid fellow. ‘Be careful of what you speak. And talk softly, you fool.’

‘I’m sorry,’ replied Irfan, ‘but ever since we left Lucknow I’m feeling quite uneasy.’

‘We will also feel like this sometimes, you fool,’ I scolded him in an undertone. ‘This is our mission in life. This is what we do. We’re doing it for our God and for our religion. Just stay focused on the mission.’

There was a long period of silence as Irfan pondered over what I had just told him. I was angry at his stupidity, but I, too, lost focus for a while. My mind strayed back to the distant past. There was my mother asking me whether I hobnobbed with the gun-wielding militants in our area. I remember denying vehemently and stating that it was not the case. I had told her, rather untruthfully, that my friends were religious people who did not believe in violence. Then I remembered leaving home forever in a huff after a quarrel with my older brother over Kashmir. He had the temerity to insist that Kashmir was an integral part of India. Had he not been my brother and the head of my family at the time, I would surely have killed him on the spot. I hadn’t heard from my family since that day more than a decade ago.

But I had no regrets. When we fight for the glory of Islam, we need to forget our families and friends. We need to leave them behind and see the vision of the future - a world in which Islam reigns supreme over all religions and even over such evil doctrines as communism. Towards this end, we need to focus our thoughts and actions.

Irfan looked at me again. His manner was abrupt and nervous. Evidently, he had lost focus a long time ago. I wished there was some way I could keep him focused on our goals and ambitions. This reluctant rebel was straying away from us at a rapid pace.

‘How long is this flight taking, Zameer?’ he grumbled.

‘It’s not been that long since we left Kathmandu,’ I retorted. ‘It should land in an hour.’

‘Good,’ he remarked. ‘I just can’t wait to get off this plane, although I’m not too keen on stepping on Pakistani soil either.’

‘You should have stayed back home,’ I whispered, angrily. ‘Why did you come here anyway?’

‘Haroon threatened to wipe off my entire family if I didn’t volunteer for this mission.’

That’s what I didn’t like about some of these people. They forced and coerced reluctant Muslims like Irfan to join our cause. What was the use of all their actions if it didn’t come from the heart?

Haroon Rashid was a top Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT) commander, covertly living in India. He had formed numerous sleeper cells of local extremists ready to perpetrate acts of violence all over the country. These sleeper cells were randomly activated at regular intervals to unleash a spate of violence whenever the Pakistani bosses gave the orders. Rashid was in charge of LeT’s operations in the state of Uttar Pradesh. Since Irfan and I belonged to that state, Rashid was the one who had approached us for this mission.

Meanwhile, Irfan became quieter as he seemed to be mulling over the pros and cons of our mission. The other passengers on the flight were oblivious to our presence. We maintained this low profile until the plane landed at Karachi Airport. Irfan and I got off along with the other passengers.

At last, we were on Pakistani soil. Honestly, I was quite thrilled to set foot on Pakistani soil. Pakistan is revered by jihadis in much the same way as America is revered by capitalists. It was indeed a dream come true for me.

Irfan, on the other hand, walked cautiously on the ground at the airport as if it were heavily mined. There was one thing I could bet my entire life on. I was absolutely certain that that jerk would never kiss the soil in reverence.

At length, we approached a small group of men standing at the exit. One of them held a placard bearing our names. We simply nodded our heads to signal our arrival. They crowded around us.

‘Welcome to Karachi,’ said a burly man. ‘I’m Lieutenant Ashraf. I will be in charge of you during your stay here. You will do what I tell you - nothing more, nothing less. If you go against my command then God alone can help you.’

‘Hi, I’m Zameer Khan,’ I introduced myself nonchalantly. ‘This is my colleague, Irfan Ahmed.’

‘Assalamu Alaykum,’ greeted Irfan, in a subdued tone.

‘I’m Commander Inzamam of the ISI,’ a tall bearded man told us. ‘I will be coordinating with the head of this entire mission. This is him.’

Commander Inzamam’s finger pointed towards a man of short stature. His round head was completely bald but it still gave him a somewhat imposing appearance. There was a distinct coldness in his eyes that seemed to be an outpouring of the coldness in his soul. I shivered a bit. Yes, I had been trained to be cold and heartless by the local jihadi group in Lucknow, but this short man succeeded in giving me the creeps as well. He introduced himself as Commander Abu Hamza of the LeT.

After the introductions had been completed, the group split into different teams. Each team left the airport in a separate vehicle. There were four of us seated in the old jeep. Lieutenant Ashraf sat besides the chauffeur while I joined Irfan at the rear. There was utter silence for a while as the jeep sped past urban structures and headed towards a range of hills on the outskirts of the city.

My mind strayed once again to the past. This time it went further back to the riots that had erupted after the demolition of the Babri Masjid. I was only twelve years at the time, but I can still remember it all so vividly. My father had come to reach me to school that day.

They told us that my school had been prematurely closed for the day due to the horrendous rioting that was taking place in the city. So, we turned back and headed towards our home. Suddenly, an unruly mob of rioters emerged from nowhere and charged towards us in a state of frenzy. Those crazy men were equipped with sticks and swords. They attacked my poor father, who fell helplessly to the ground. I was terrified and speechless. They walked away quietly without a sign of remorse in their cruel eyes.

I turned around hopelessly. The sight of blood streaming from my father’s mutilated body was simply horrific. I wept bitterly. My father had been such a good and pious man. All of us loved him a lot. It took me a really long time to get over the trauma of this cold-blooded murder.

Soon everybody knew me as the kid who was thirsting for revenge. It showed on my face and in my walk. I hoped and prayed for the opportunity to avenge the murder of my father. When I was just about sixteen years old, a group of fundamentalists convinced me to join their cause. They convinced me that jihad was the only way to find the peace which I was so desperately searching for. I had to join them and fight for the greater glory of Islam. Yes, that’s how I became a terrorist. Of all the militants who choose the path of violence, there are a few like me who are virtually driven to it.

All this simply shows us that communalism and terrorism are nothing but opposite sides of the same coin. They keep feeding on each other in a vicious cycle, resulting in a society full of violence, hatred, sorrow and intolerance. Every communal act is used as a justification for mindless acts of terrorism. Similarly, each act of terrorism is used as a justification for such horrible atrocities like genocide and ethnic cleansing. And, it is always the innocent people who get killed. This is the sad truth. Unfortunately, many of us realize this truth when it is too late. Some of us never do. Luckily, I realised it before the end.

The long spell of silence was finally broken by the burly lieutenant. His voice was loud and commanding.

‘Remember this. Whatever you see or do here should not be disclosed to anyone outside the camp. It is strictly confidential. If you reveal anything, you could jeopardize our cause and the whole jihad could be lost. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ we declared in unison.

‘And remember not to mingle with each other as well,’ the lieutenant went on. ‘Just cooperate as much as possible with each other, but don’t interact with the other jihadis. This is not a place for socializing. If you want to socialize, I’ll stop the jeep right now and you can get off if you wish. Does anyone want to get off now? No, good! Remember this as well. In this camp, you will have to be serious and pious. You will have to offer namaz daily. Remember we are doing all this for our religion. The rest I will tell you when we reach our destination.’

Once again there was a long period of silence. I was quite happy that Irfan was not that irritating any more. I hoped for his sake that he was once again the master of his life. We did not need puppets to fight in the jihad. We needed men who would put their whole heart and soul into it. We needed men who were willing to make all kinds of sacrifices for the greater glory of Islam. We needed men who would even make the ultimate sacrifice for this noblest of causes. So many martyrs have laid down their lives in this global jihad in the hope that our cause will prevail. We were determined to overcome the forces of evil existing in this world.

The vehicle moved quickly on the dusty tar road. It moved westwards and I presumed that we were somewhere near the Baluchistan border. I had done a lot of research before sneaking into Nepal for this mission. I had gone through the detailed maps of our subcontinent. The other jihadis living with me in the Lucknow apartment had supplied valuable information on the geography and history of Pakistan and India. Of course, the historical versions fed to me were not that accurate. They never are!

Ali who had once trained in the famous Muridke camp gave me a thorough briefing on what to expect after I had landed in Karachi. It was Ali himself who had introduced me to Haroon Rashid after learning about the tragedy that had befallen me. Till then I had been a radical jihadi without a mission, a rebel without a clearly defined cause.

Meanwhile, the colour of the sky turned to a pale orange as the sun began to set. But the light was still good, and the chauffeur manoeuvred the jeep skilfully on the winding road. He was not a regular Lashkar operative like us but a member of the large support team that had been specially recruited for this camp.

Soon we reached a desolate hilly area that reminded me a lot of the Himalayan foothills in Uttar Pradesh. In fact, the entire terrain had reminded me of India. But I was in Pakistan and there was no remorse at all in my heart for what I intended to do. I was just paying them back in their own currency, the currency of blood.

‘We are approaching the camp,’ Lieutenant Ashraf told us in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Now relax and enjoy as much as you can. After we reach the camp, there will be no time for relaxation and enjoyment.’

Chapter 2

We gazed at the cluster of trees in the dense jungle through which our vehicle passed. In the fading twilight, we could discern traces of human settlement that steadily grew in proximity to each other. This was a sure sign that we were approaching a significant residential area.

It wasn’t long before a small township came into view. The area was well lit up and so we could observe the structures quite clearly as our jeep passed by. There was a large hospital to take care of the sick and the wounded. Our gaze now fell upon a beautiful mosque on the opposite side of the road. Its onion-shaped dome, the intricate marble carvings and the grand entrance were all clearly visible. I sincerely hoped that this would be our daily place of worship. But I knew that it was not in our hands. Irfan and I were the guests of the Pakistanis, and we had to listen to them. They knew what was best for us, and that’s why we had come here.

‘This is the Mistry Khan settlement in the heart of the Manghopir region,’ announced Lieutenant Ashraf, in his familiar dry tone. ‘This is where we send you guys when you fall ill or something.’ ‘Will we be praying in that mosque?’ I asked him, grabbing the opportunity.

‘No,’ replied the lieutenant bluntly. ‘We have a mosque inside our compound.’

‘OK,’ I said, a bit disappointed.

‘But the mosque over here is so beautiful,’ stated Irfan.

‘I know,’ Lieutenant Ashraf told him. ‘But our mosque is nice too.’

The jeep went past a couple of educational institutions as we spoke. It halted at a busy marketplace. The chauffeur honked repeatedly as we made our way slowly through the crowd. The men wore the traditional shalwar kameez and kurtas. Some of them stared hard at us as we drove by. There was not a single woman on the street. Evidently, this was a highly conservative area and the womenfolk preferred to stay indoors after sunset.

Ten minutes later, we were again on a desolate road surrounded by hillocks. We could hear the distinct sound of gunshots being fired in the distance. Irfan and I looked at each other nervously. We had not been given guns as yet. There was no way we could defend ourselves if some gunmen fired at us.

Lieutenant Ashraf observed us and smiled. He knew we were nervous. There was something in his smile that made us relax as well. Obviously, there was nothing to worry about.

‘Those are just the boys practising,’ beamed the burly lieutenant proudly. ‘You, lads, will have to get used to the sound. That’s definitely rounds being fired from an AK47. Our training schedule is tight and so you might have to practise in the darkness as well.’

It was fairly dark as we approached a walled compound. The mud-stained signboard besides the gate read: ‘Jamaat-ud-Dawa Charitable Trust.’ An armed security guard opened the gate and greeted the lieutenant. Our jeep sped past a few double-storied structures on either side.

‘This is the front for our training camp,’ said Lieutenant Ashraf gleefully. ‘This is where we have our mosque, a school and a couple of other buildings. If anyone comes to check the place, we show them this portion only, and they return blissfully ignorant. Of course, the army and the ISI usually take care of everything. It’s only some ignorant government official fishing for bribes who dares to come here. But something bad always happens to these officials after the visit. I wonder why.’

This area was not very large and we quickly reached another gate. The entrance was dimly lit such that we could barely see the area behind it. There seemed to be a lot of commotion at this gate. The sounds of gunshots were loud and relentless. There was no smile on Lieutenant Ashraf’s face now, and we realised that there was trouble ahead.

‘What’s the matter,’ yelled the lieutenant. ‘C’mon, open the gate.’ ‘Sir, there are two Kashmiri boys on the rampage,’ replied the guard. ‘They’ve already killed several of our men.’

‘Why would they do something like that?’ asked Lieutenant Ashraf, angrily.

‘I don’t know, sir. But, you should turn this jeep around and head to safety.’

‘Rubbish. I’ll do nothing of the sort. We’ll go and confront them. My revolver is loaded.’

The gate opened and the vehicle entered the second compound. Irfan and I looked at each other again. The lieutenant had forgotten about us. How were we supposed to fight? I had to bring this to his notice immediately.

‘Er…sir,’ I asked hesitantly. ‘Could you give us guns so that we can kill those Kashmiris if we meet them?’

‘I’m sorry but we have just a single weapon amongst the four of us,’ he replied, brandishing a revolver. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll protect all of you.’

‘No, we’ll manage on our own,’ I told the lieutenant, leaping out of the jeep.

‘I’m with you, Zameer,’ said Irfan, following my cue.

‘I’ll get those bastards,’ yelled Lieutenant Ashraf, in a fit of rage.

Irfan and I took cover in a bushy area near the gate. We knew that the darkness and bushes would protect us from the rebels. Besides, they had no grudge against us. Or did they? Why

would jihadis kill other jihadis? The whole thing was absolutely incomprehensible to us.

The exchange of fire was the heaviest now. We could hear the sounds of men groaning in agony. Apparently, several of the guards had been struck by the bullets. But there was no lull in the shooting. The rebellious duo seemed to be loaded with ammunition. They had created havoc in the entire area. And the worst part of it was that they were heading in our direction. They were planning to escape from the camp on foot.

Meanwhile, the old jeep headed straight towards the Kashmiri rebels. They shot at the jeep and it came to a halt. The chauffeur and the lieutenant seemed to be either wounded or dead. The rebels aimed their machine guns at some other targets as they moved towards the entrance. Their dark silhouettes were now clearly visible to us.

One of the guards suddenly tossed a hand grenade in their direction. There was a loud explosion. The explosion appeared to