Today, the sun does not shine in the sky. Its brilliance is suppressed by the smoke, and it has been like this for a long time. Neighboring villages of the destroyed city were invaded by the terrorists, and the inhabitants burnt to death, the women buried alive. Those who managed to escape sought refuge in the dark ruins where the assailants did not tread. Most of them died within days after their escape because of a rapidly spreading disease. The terrible ailment spread like wildfire throughout the north-eastern plains. The weak died soon without much suffering, the strong suffered more.

The rebels usually wear a large gas mask and are covered from head to foot in thick rugged clothing. They stopped wearing turbans after the war, and had acquired sophisticated equipment and gear from their foreign supporters. A small percentage of them who survived the explosions in the large cities were left crippled and diseased because of the biological weapons used in the invasion. Those affected experienced wrinkling and tearing of their skin, and a mushrooming outgrowth of small pus filled protrusions all over their bodies. The disease was contagious, and those with severe infection were killed and then quietly burned in one of the many incinerators active in the industrial areas of the cities.

They go to the cities to make sure that survivors are not causing any trouble. Millions of people are rendered homeless after the carpet bombing. Half of that lot is dying on the streets, and the others are no different than animals. The people scour the city’s waste looking for scraps of food and water, their clothing being the least of their worries. Makeshift hospitals setup by the United Nations work round the clock tending the sick, yet they grow weary and continue to lose hope. The rebels make matters worse for them by confiscating their supplies, claiming that they are better able to look after the people of the city, yet a large portion of what they took was never to be seen again.

A child, still wearing his prayer cap headed to one of the makeshift hospitals on the Ferozpur road in what once used to be the city of Lahore. It was almost time for the evening prayer, yet one could not tell the difference between day and night. The voice of a muezzin calling to prayer on a megaphone could be heard in the distance, but the mosques were silent.

…

It is Akhtar’s fifth year in captivity. Like the others, he too is given the food confiscated from the UN and other aids which came in frequently at different locations in the city. The terrorists had permanent installations at those locations, and had a sort of ‘understanding’ with representatives and volunteers of the world aid organizations. Most of the food goes straight into the bellies of the rebel alliance and for their captives; the rest of it is then distributed to their agents who provide food to the people of the city.

In what looks like an earth version of hell, the captives sit along the walls devouring their food greedily when it is served. It is usually tasteless, and the meat does not even seem familiar. For one cell there are usually 7-8 eight prisoners, and for every two cells there is a combined toilet which is accessible through a small rusty metal gate behind each cell. The prisoners have to ask the attendant ‘officer’ to let them use the toilet. Sometimes they are even denied that luxury when no one is around, and they have to relieve themselves inside the cell while the others looked on.

Akhtar was held captive for being a member of the All Pakistan Progressive Muslims Association (APPMA), an organization founded by a small group of doctors and technologists in the early phases of the second revolution, three years before the war. Some believe that they had gone too far in their mission to rid the country of the terrorist uprising. In their efforts to modernize educational institutions with western syllabi, they turned a lot of allies into enemies. The uprising claimed that they were injecting anti-religion philosophy into the mind of the students. They were particularly angered when Creationism was banned by some major educational institutions by APPMA’s influence. A year later, a series of tragic events resulting from the follies of the government occurred which left most of the country in a state of shock as major cities suspected of being the safe havens of the elements belonging to the uprising were shaken to the core with state of the art weapons technology. The terrorists were suspected of having access to weapons of mass destruction. The war with the terrorists turned in a different direction. Disease, death and famine spread throughout the cities, and the rebels took full advantage of the situation to exercise their powers with tremendous support from unidentified foreign elements. Many key members of the terrorist organization perished in the attacks, yet the immediate support they received helped them regain their control over the region. The foreign elements responsible for the attacks were tangled up in intense international security issues, and the tussle for control over this hostile region had begun.

The last time Akhtar had seen his family was when he was with them in the market days before the eid celebrations. He remembered his little Asma’s gray-blue eyes, the way she innocently looked at him near the ice-cream stand in the bazaar. He wished so much he was with her again. Sometimes when he was awake at night while the others in his cell slept, he sang to himself. Random words came to his mouth and he would carelessly join them together to make a song. Sometimes when the attendant was around, he would shout his incoherent songs just to annoy him. In return he would either get his head beaten against the unforgiving metal bars of the cell, or even dragged out into the corridor for a whipping. He was getting used to it now, and pretended to enjoy it when the beating was too severe. But with every passing day his mind grew numb, like those of the others around him, and his heart sunk deeper and deeper into a dark chasm where there was no hope, and only fear reigned.

One morning, when he woke up to the sound of the semi-automatic gun’s butt hitting against the metal doors, he saw the one of the inmates was being dragged out of the cell by a group of masked terrorists. A few other inmates were trying to persuade the terrorists to let him be, to let him die in the cell, but they would not listen. With a powerful smash to his head, the unfortunate man fell to the floor, his left eye sunk deeper into the skull because of the impact and his cheekbone shattered. His screams turned to moans, and soon he was dragged out of the cell and outside on the firing range. It was not too late when Akhtar heard a piercing scream followed by a muffled sound and a gunshot.

Then there was silence.

He slowly got up from his corner in the cell and walked towards the only source of light. It was a small rectangular opening higher up in the gray wall shut off by thick metal rods. All he could hear from that window were the shouts of the executioners, and the screams of those executed. Sometimes a heavy vehicle would drive by, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake which usually entered the cell through the window. Akhtar looked at the small particles of dust floating in the light, and recalled how he used to think as a boy that God was in every particle. He slowly swept his hand through the cloud of dust and saw the particles disperse, like people frantically running in every direction after an explosion.

“God is flying”, he thought as he looked at the particles with interest. The other inmates had no doubt that he had gone crazy, and that he foolishly thought that there would be a brighter day again. Sometimes they would console him, but he would only sit there speaking incoherently, staring into nothingness.

The day was not far when his turn would come. He was prepared for it because he had seen many others being dragged out. And when they finally came, he walked towards them as if trying to embrace them, trying to embrace his fate. The terrorist punched him in his stomach and broke his shoulder blade with the butt of his gun.

Two men dragged him out of the cell. He did not struggle. He did not move. With his eyes closed he let them drag him out into the firing range. The coarse sand beneath his bare ankles pained him immensely, for he too was affected by the disease and had developed wounds on most parts of his body. They tied his hands with a thick flexible metal wire which stopped the flow of blood to his hands, and kicked his knees hard to bring him down to the ground. With the ritual of the ceremony completed which included incorrect recitations from the Holy Book, he was shot in the back of his head with a handgun.

But he was elsewhere moments before they pulled the trigger. With his eyes still closed, he saw himself walking down a brightly lit street in the Lahore main bazaar. His friends were with him, and he had his very first computer CD in his hand. He then remembered the first time he saw Saima dressed up as a bride on their wedding day, and she was not holding books in her hands like she used to at their university, but a small bouquet of yellow, white and red flowers. He remembered the day when his daughter came running to him to tell him that she hurt herself while running through the bushes. He felt her pain.

The terrorists shouted Allah Akbar multiple times before throwing Akhtar’s lifeless body in a large pit. They then formed a circle, raised their hands towards the dark heavens, and prayed for better times.

5 years ago, three days before Eid-ul-Fitr

Akhtar felt a light tug at sleeve. He looked down and saw Asma looking up at him.

“Abbu, can I have that ice cream?” said Asma as she pointed to an ice cream vendor in the corner of a shop. The way she said that made his heart melt, and he slipped out a 50 Rupee note from his pocket to hand it over to his daughter. He watched her cautiously walking towards the ice-cream man, looking back a few times questioningly at her father to get a nod of approval and encouragement.

The market was full of people of all shapes and sizes. The small open air restaurant in the center of the market was full of people lazing on the concrete benches, watching the others shop. The perfume and clothes shops were bursting at the seams with shoppers, and the shopkeepers were having a hard time keeping everyone happy.

Akhtar enjoyed going to the markets, particularly before eids and other special occasions. He was dressed in his favorite jeans and striped shirt that Saima and bought him. Saima, holding a couple of shopping bags in her hand, looked at her husband intently as he observed his daughter deal with the ice-cream man.

“Akhtar, you really make a funny face when you’re concentrating too much on something”, she said with a chuckle. “I should take a picture of you and put it up on the APPMA blog of yours”.

Akhtar turned towards his wife and laughed. “If you ever do that I swear I will send all of your funny mehndi pictures to Mrs. Faraz!”

Saima never liked her neighbor Mrs. Faraz, and she didn’t like her husband saying her name either. She did not bother continuing the conversation on the mehndi pictures because a thought struck her mind. She was worried about her husband’s involvement with APPMA, and how the situation was worsening in the region.

Asma returned to her parents jumping with joy after her first successful purchase. Akhtar got down to give her a hug, and kissed her on her cheek. When he got up, he found his wife not looking very happy.

“Is everything ok, Saima? You feeling fine?” he said rather worried of the sudden change in Saima’s expression.

“No I’m alright”, she replied and walked out of the store. But she couldn’t keep her thoughts to herself for too long.

“I’ve been a little worried about your involvement with that organization. I don’t think it’s safe. Have you…”

“Saima”, interrupted Akhtar. “How many times have I told you that nothing will go wrong? We are a strong organization and I am sure that the islamists would eventually give in.”

“But Akhtar, with all this news about war and these explosions happening around the city, I am feeling uneasy about it. You used to have plans to move to Canada not long ago, can’t we go there and live a more peaceful life”.
Akhtar remained silent for a while.

“Look, I know that these are bad days, but things will soon change, ok? It can’t be like this forever! The best we can do right now is to keep working hard to make things right and pray that all will be well. We should always look forward to better times dear”.

Saima looked hopelessly at her husband. Their daughter was wondering what the parents were talking about and squeezed between them to hear their conversation. She sighed and then faked a smile.

“Yes, you’re right Akhtar. We should pray for better times”.
Akhtar merrily flashed a thumbs-up sign, and lifting his daughter up on his shoulders headed towards their car.