A Cowardly Hero by Muhammad Ashfaq

A Cowardly Hero

by Muhammad Ashfaq

We like this story because:
it has a narrative authority which pulls
us into places most of us may never
face, while dealing with the eternal
struggle between doing what is
expected and what is desirable.

The 1960s-vintage smoke-emitting monster with a rocking structure, smashed body, rump-
cushioned seats, and a strange mechanical clatter was moving at a snail’s pace under the
sweltering sun of South Punjab.

Out of anxiety and impatience he marked time on his corroded wrist-watch a zillionth time
since morning when he happened to have that purely incidental far-look at that now nearly
worn-out cheap local morninger, which the passenger sitting a few rows ahead of him across
the aisle was skimming. A bunch of images beneath the headline cast in red that he could
vaguely figure out sent him cartwheeling in the air. The bus stopped and the conductor
shoved in another horde willing to travel by standing. This disturbed his view. Now an
ostrich’s neck was needed to steal a glimpse through the commuters leaning back and forth
along the bubbling body of the gas-guzzler.

Abdullah Akhtar wanted the newspaper and immediately. But the owner’s rebuff to another
co-traveler to lend the paper badly dampened his hopes. Borrowing a worn-out paper was
not a big deal, but it was only his second journey by himself in all life, and he did not know
how the world outside behaved. The owner unwrapped his homemade lunch draped in
printed cotton-cloth and started eating it. Of course, he needed a napkin. Then he protectively
tucked the paper between his knees lest the hot desert air gushing in through the broken
windowpanes sweeps it away.

While Abdullah Akhtar repeatedly wiped off perspiration from his face with the mustard
turban, his relentless prayers attained fruition. The owner dozed off and the paper fell from
his knees. Mustering all courage that he had at his command, he plucked it from the floor in a
jiffy.

Qaim Kote was good sixty miles away.

Looking at the front page, he staggered and went in vertigo. He strongly held his seat to avoid
falling down. The world outside the broken window rotated in a whirlwind, and he was there,
right there – in the eye of the storm. He could not trust his eyes. He could not believe the
flickering words dancing like grim reapers. How could it be true that he had been killed in a
suicide attack on an Eid-ul-Adha prayer congregation and also butchered seventy-five other
people? Wasn’t he alive anymore? He questioned himself in an utterly horrifying
astonishment. Just yesterday he had led Eid-ul-Adha prayers in Pir Pur, and slaughtered
lambs, cows, camels, and whatever came his way. Yes, this could be the number of sacrificial
animals that he had cut in the village, he recollected. But how come he could have blown
himself up with a bang and caused all the bloodshed. He focused the blood-drenched blown
up body-parts and touched himself twice to ascertain he was one piece. He thanked God.

“How could I be dead and alive at the same time?” He thought as he went through the
storyline. The mutilated face of the suicide bomber had been found beyond recognition, but
based on the eyewitness accounts his detailed sketch had been drawn. This was an artwork
done to the finest props. Abdullah Akhtar was half-convinced without a mirror.

Just beneath the sketch, Bashir Akhtar was relating the catastrophe to press reporters as an
eyewitness. “Oh, you will not get into heaven like that, Bashir Akhtar!” he muttered
instinctively.

The paper also carried the prize-proclamation of one crore rupees for the provider of clue to
the perpetrator’s identity.

Abdullah Akhtar rued his timidity. The golden opportunity to attain glory in here and the
hereafter had fallen his way rather easy – on Abdul Rashid Ghazi’s commemoration
ceremony a month ago. He had squandered it, and was fired and forsaken.

“Forsaken.” Impinged on and tormented his mind incessantly. What a cowardly creature he
had turned out be – an ugly hairy ape and a repulsive dirty worm. He had started hating
himself. He had spurned glory and courted Ustad’s annoyance in a single shot – a
monumental “No”.

“Abdullah Akhtar what have you done? You have undone the toil of a lifetime. You have
shaken foundations of the Brotherhood. A desertion in my league after all? Where did I go
wrong? How come kid you even imagined of an exit?” Ustad had couched his angst in such an
agonized tone that Abdullah Akhtar’s heart almost ceased to beat.

Akhtar was not his given name. It was not even his father’s name or family name. He had to
suffix it to his name out of extreme reverence for Ustad – Qari Habibullah Akhtar. Such was
the convention across the Brotherhood horizons. Seminaries representing various shades of
thought within the Brotherhood fold employed multiple symbols – titles, way of salutation,
length and breadth of beard, thickness and thinness of moustache, types of outfit, and the
color and size of turbans. The use of symbolisms at times bred confrontation but was
considered a pre-requisite for regimentation; discipline.

“Do I have a chance of redeeming myself?” He was pondering over this critical question when
that lightening news flashed before his eyes just moments ago.

The mechanical clatter did not bother him anymore.

Ustad’s last words echoed in his ears.

“No, I am not disappointed … no … no … not at all. We all must contribute towards the
ultimate goal of the Brotherhood – eventually – one way or the other. I may be upset but I am
not hopeless. We all owe to Jamia and would pay back and contribute to its cause … definitely
each one of us would. Cowardice is bad but go on son … go on … push off …!” Ustad was
scratching his head in usual style for dramatic effects.

Abdullah Akhtar knew Ustad was in a state of inexorable fret. He was generally as cold as
stone and unirascible, but when anger got him over, he was a bit of an eccentric. He knew him
as one would know one’s brother. He had lived along with Ustad for fourteen long years
under one roof of Jamia. Sharif Akhtar had joined them a year later.

Returning from the final combat training test in the foothills, he was over the moon. He had
now qualified all tests required for a degree to become a professional. He could now lead
prayers and preach in a seminary. Perhaps more important was the fact that Abdullah Akhtar
was now going to be a free bird. He was excited – at what prospects he did not exactly know.
The horizon was nebulous, but he was happy.

“First of all I shall go and find out Assadullah. Other things come much later,” he attempted to
prioritize his jumbled-up agenda and give it some order. “How would I get to Qaim Kote?”
“How Assadullah and auntie will react to my sudden re-appearance?” “Assadullah would be a
big boy now but how would he look like.” He had been thinking about these questions for
many months, but restlessness had crept in at his leaving Pir Pur this morning. Had it not
been for strict instructions to join in Pir Pur immediately, he would have dashed to Qaim Kote
right away. He knew he had violated the instructions even now. He was not supposed to have
left Pir Pur at all until nodded. But there he was – in the bus – that looked to die down any
moment.

Abdullah Akhtar was the tale of a childhood lost. Both parents’ death within a few months left
the elder brother in a local seminary and the younger one at his paternal aunt’s house in
Qaim Kote. A few months into his seminary, and Abdullah was transported to Jamia far away
from his village into the North West, and he lost contact with his people – only two in the
entire world. He also had two memories; a sweet one of the small mud-built home where he
and his younger brother lived happily with their parents, and the hard, uninteresting and
uneventful life of Jamia spanning twice over the first one. In his lonely melancholy moments,
he bitterly wept unto himself – particularly on Eids when most of the other boys would
return to their homes. This would give him a lot of relief. Sharif Akhtar had no parents or
home like him but he never wept. This was kind of strange for Abdullah Akhtar.

Last few weeks before his graduation, he had constantly thought about Assadullah. “I would
take him along to Pir Pur… and then speak to auntie about Hajra.” Hajra was a sweet and
special thought. He would blush awkwardly. Hajra was the only woman he had spoken to in
all life and not seen any since his mother’s death. Even Hajra had not dropped her veil before
him. But still she was the girl of his sweet dreams.

The convocation was to take place the next afternoon – after Friday prayers.

This had now become a convention over the past decade that annual degree distribution
ceremony was combined with commemoration of the martyrs, which had transformed it into
a festival within the environs of Jamia. The Brotherhood leadership, prominent alumni, and
field commanders were invited to participate in the daylong activities that included parade,
march past, war games, distribution of degrees, annual dinner, induction of martyrs into the
hall of fame, and to top all – the decision of the recipient of the highest achievement award –
the Great Martyr.

After the evening prayers, while juniors were making preparations for the next day, their
entire batch went into gossip in smaller groups of friends considering it was their last night
together in Jamia.

There was a lot of curiosity within Jamia as to whether the title of Great Martyr would rest
with Afzal Guru or it would go over to Ghazi. While Guru’s exploits had already formed part
of their syllabus for many years, those of Ghazi were yet to make way to their textbooks.
Since Ghazi recently had caused ripples internationally, it was widely being predicted that he
would edge past Guru for the coveted title.

“Who knows when do we meet again, if at all?” Abdullah Akhtar asked his best buddy rather
sadly.

“Soon and in the gardens of heaven,” Sharif Akhtar replied in all seriousness.

“Ah, you two are Fidayeen. I am not. Perhaps you won’t even recognize me in the lush lawns
of your heavenly palaces surrounded by nymphs and beauties, and everything imaginable to
eat and drink.” Bashir Akhtar, who was always wearing cheap stones on his left ring-finger
and nurtured a relationship of love and hate with them, sounded genuinely grievous.

“Would they try to pressurize Ustad to reverse the decision of hanging martyrs’ portraits?”
Sharif Akhtar picking his nose enquired.

“I don’t think. Ustad was categorical and decisive in his arguments last year. Eventually Shura
had legislated in clear-cut terms that injunctions apart, martyrs’ portraits were to be hung to
generate inspiration in the hearts and minds of the youth to ensure required reinforcements.
It is war and not a battle the Brotherhood is fighting for its ultimate goals.” Bashir Akhtar
echoed Ustad’s weighty arguments with which he had bulldozed all opponents – including
Ghazi – whom he did not like for establishing and operating a female seminary.

“With Ghazi gone I don’t expect anybody to stand up and confront Ustad,” Bashir Akhtar
replied confidently.

The central hall located in the midst of the complex was to hold the ceremony. The diameter
of the complex was large enough to contain a dormitory for about three thousand students at
any given time, a combined kitchen, separate class-halls for all grades, and a management
section. On the eastern ridge were the residential condominiums for the faculty with exclusive
exits. Ustad was a known celibate but even otherwise no women were ever seen there. On the
opposite side, there was a large jogging area, a few hill-tops to climb, and a firing range
carved out for training purposes. All pleasure-seeking activities were considered bad and
banned; misogynism was equated with superior piety.

The hall had an abnormally elevated roof to inject grandeur in its ambience and echo for the
orators. The sound-system obtaining high-bursting loudspeakers was archaic but effective. It
had a mustard paint all over it.

The portraits were hung in seven grades on the sidewalls of the hall. The induction was
possible only through a decision by the Shura; consensus was generally achieved. There was
no fixed number of hall-of-famers, and the Shura was at liberty to induct any number of
martyrs and place them in any grade. The seven rows depicting honors in descending order
of superiority would keep expanding horizontally; except Great Martyr’s position that had
always been kept vacant until Guru filled it up a few years ago. Guru had created a myth by
undertaking a devil-daring run on an enemy’s symbol of independence and sovereignty. But
today he was in the jeopardy of losing it.

Abdullah Akhtar, like most of his friends, had been a great fan of Guru until he met Ghazi the
previous year – declared the “Red Mosque epic year.”

The Red Mosque epic had just come to a bloody end. Ghazi had made headlines across the
globe. The leadership all over the region declared it a great victory from their own
perspective, and dispatched congratulatory posts to one another as they thought they were a
step closer to their cherished dream destination. Bravery, courage, acumen, and the ability to
handle both media and combat action under extreme pressure, won Ghazi accolades and
transformed him into an icon through the rank and file of the Brotherhood. Ghazi’s
martyrdom was not considered martyrdom of an individual, but the martyrdom of an
ideologue. Seminars were arranged to unravel various dimensions of the Red Mosque epic
and its protagonist’s personality. Ghazi’s speeches, like those of other great martyrs, were
now likely to be made part of the curriculum across the Brotherhood.

Abdullah Akhtar had always reveled in the proud distinction of being one of only a few pupils
who had heard Ghazi live and that too in the thick of run up to the Red Mosque bloodbath.
Ustad had dispatched a group of two dozen senior students to Ghazi by way of goodwill, gift,
and reinforcement – despite their well-known peer rivalry. This was just before the Red
Mosque carnage. The services of the group were utilized to guard Red Mosque compound for
about a fortnight. The female students guarded the female half of the compound, and the
males guarded the male half, but since nothing physically separated the two compounds, the
male and female guards could mix up for a gossip and a cup of tea in tandem like any other
bunch of youngsters in an academic environment.

Hajra was studying at the female campus of the Red Mosque complex.

It was during these nightly guards that Abdullah Akhtar and Hajra developed affection. Hajra
shared an identical childhood with him and also belonged to a village in the Qaim Kote area.

“Upon graduation when you come to Qaim Kote to meet your people, do visit my Uncle’s
house. I would be there.” Hajra had said everything in a most melodious voice. She also
prayed for him at the end of his secondment.

Immediately after his return to Jamia, Red Mosque tragedy started. He kept a close eye on the
developments on daily basis, and meticulously went through the names of the casualties and
martyrs reported in the newspapers. The carnage ended but Hajra’s name never appeared in
any list. “Could she be amongst the nine hundred women claimed missing?” “No. God willing
she will be alright when I reach Qaim Kote.” He would question and answer unto himself.

The bus stopped by the roadside hut-hotel. Everybody took something to eat except Abdullah
Akhtar. His eyes were glued on the bodies lying all over the place. He was trying to conceal
the newspaper from the eyes of its owner who had now woken up after rather a short nap.

“What is your guess?” Sharif Akhtar asked returning from their last walk together.

“God willing we will pass,” Abdullah Akhtar replied in an uncanny manner.

“No, I didn’t mean the exams. I enquired about the title of the Great Martyr. Will it go to Ghazi
or Guru would hold on to it?”

“Omm … Ghazi,” while he mumbled somebody tickled him in the mid-section. He curled. Deep
down his heart, he really wanted Ghazi to win, for if Ghazi won, Hajra would win, and if Hajra
won, it would be his own victory.

At the long last, when the seven-member Shura entered the hall in a grandiose style, the
audience exploded into a thunderous applause that would not end. Ustad had to stand up and
raise his hand, and there was pin-drop silence. Students were perched on the floor knee-bent.
The faculty members were seated on floor cushions on both right and left of the elevated dais.

After recitation, Ustad being the host was called upon to address the gathering.

Qari Habibullah Akhtar’s heart bloomed and fluttered like a fresh flower. It was yet another
fantastic show of massive strength. Two thousand seven hundred and twenty three young
boys between five and twenty-five, all clad in identical mustard outfit, all wearing identical
mustard turbans, all having Akhtar as their last name, and to top all, all ready to lay down
their lives at his one wink. It was no mean achievement and even a greater feeling. It was an
empire in its own right that he had single-handedly created and purposefully sustained.

He roared resoundingly on that blasting sound-system. “The goals are dreams with deadlines
and with deadlines drawing close, the dreams would come true. The Brotherhood juggernaut
is now unstoppable. Our self-denying tigers are bulldozing victory after victory. I am destined
to break this auspicious news that we are now close to our dream destination. That the day is
not far when the Brotherhood, when you all would be reigning, when we, when you would
have a territory per destiny. The territory where only divine code would govern, where piety
would rule, and where everybody would wear mustard turban. Let me tell you that both here
and the hereafter belongs to you because you are the believers and the pious, and that there
is death and destruction to the impious and non-believers. You the forces of evil on the land
of the Pure! Your deadlines have drawn close … very close … very very very close …” Ustad
sounding ominous was now fully charged and fired up and would continue until his throat
turned hoarse.

After a few other speeches, Head of the Shura, came to the plinth and in a deafening applause
announced the unanimous decision that Ghazi was being crowned with the title of Great
Martyr. While the Brotherhood anthem was played and sung, the entire hall commemorated
with right hand on chest. Ghazi’s huge gun-toting portrait carrying the inscription “THE
GREAT MARTYR” was hung at the top in extreme reverence.

Outside the hall, twenty-one cannon shots were fired.

Hajra had won.

Qaim Kote was still twenty-five miles away. He had now folded the newspaper and hid it
between his legs. The owner was readying to get off at the next stop.

After the dinner and prayers, when the Shura and other guests retired, Ustad and his top
advisory council met to decide broad strategic issues. Tactical issues were left to be settled by
field commanders.

The meeting continued until well after midnight .

Out of the total lot of graduating youths, eleven had been identified to be Fidayeen for the
exceptional holy missions.

Abdullah Akhtar could observe that these were the eleven boys who had probably no
families back home – no homes rather – as they had neither gone out all these years nor
anybody else had ever visited them. Permission to go out purposelessly was generally denied,
but even otherwise, they were always engaged in cramming and prayers. He felt affinity with
all of them as all stood in a huddle anxiously awaiting the announcement.

Bashir Akhtar was the only one not a Fidayee but still there. “I am a better shooter, better
reciter, better orator, better brother than all of you, and still it is not me but you who don’t
have to wait any longer to get into paradise. At times it is good to be an orphan, isn’t it?” He
uttered the words sprinkled with grudge and animosity.

“Your legs are trembling, Abdullah Akhtar?” Sharif Akhtar interjected probably to avoid
Bashir Akhtar.

“No, I am fine. Just little anxious,” he replied in a low tone.

“I pray I get a good mission which can win me at least a third grade.” Sharif Akhtar was
excited.

“Ok,” Abdullah Akhtar muttered distractedly.

“You see for people like us with no loved ones and families, no identities and nothing to look
after and nothing to look up to – we are better placed to get good missions – and win medals
here and land straight in the valleys of heaven. Other boys with parents and siblings; it really
becomes difficult to make a decision. I really commiserate with them,” Sharif Akhtar amplified
his excitement.

They suddenly became strangers. Sharif Akhtar was saying things which Abdullah Akhtar did
not want to hear. The harmony of thoughts that they had shared over the past thirteen years
had evaporated into thin air. “I have a brother to locate and look after … and … and …” he
could not utter … “Hajra”.

An infinite silence prevailed while they stood motionless in that dark and cold corridor of
Jamia.

Eventually the door opened and the awaiting youth eagerly scrambled and circled Ustad for
the declaration.

Ustad hurling all his emotions into his words spoke at an intense bass from the extreme back-
end of his throat. “Look, this is the time to contribute and return to Jamia part of what it has
given you. It has kept you, bred you, and fed you like a mother. All of you are the luckiest
ones and qualify for the best holy missions. The plans identified are such that even if you
execute but miss the target, your position in the first three grades is as good as ensured. Just
imagine you staying alive alongside Guru, Allah Rakha, Ghazi and the likes in this world and
enjoying the best possible heavenly life at the same time – for all times to come. You make up
your mind as to what you choose – the grand heavenly life in the hereafter or a base,
impoverished, and ugly life here. There is no coercion in the creed but remember all of us are
bound to contribute towards the ultimate objectives of the Brotherhood, and loyalty without
ability to deliver is a liability. God bless you, Sons!”

All hands rose up except his. He had chickened out.

In abject dejection, he collected his belongings in a mustard plastic bag, received a few
hundred bucks from the accounts section as a capital to start his professional life and left
Jamia for good.

The last ritual to be performed was to take Ustad’s blessings by touching his feet. He was
denied that rite. He had been forsaken.

Next day, as instructed, Abdullah Akhtar took up his first professional obligation in Pir Pur.

The closer he was getting to Qaim Kote, the faster his blood was drying in the firmament. He
was getting more and more vexed with something unknown. He looked all around a few
times, too. Even Hajra was proving an insufficient distraction.

Suddenly there was a grinding halt. A jeep aggressively overtook the bus and stopped with a
screech right in front of it. Four masked men armed with guns and grenades to the teeth
barged into. While they dragged Abdullah Akhtar out of the bus, he felt the nip of cheap stone
ring right in his throat.

The jeep sped away in no time.

Qaim Kote was still ten miles away.

A week later, the papers reported that the investigators had received very useful tips about
the identity of the Eid-ul-Adha congregation suicide-bomber, and a few arrests including that
of his real brother had been made from a far-flung village in South Punjab. The perpetrator
had been motivated and trained to spread anarchy by an enemy country.

At next year’s commemoration ceremony, Sharif Akhtar was awarded second grade on the
roll of honor for perfectly executing the mission on a high-value target, and taking along
seventy-five other people.

Abdullah Akhtar was also inaugurated into the hall of fame. A portrait carrying the caption:
“A COWARDLY HERO WHO ATTAINED REDEMPTION BY CONTRIBUTING ONE CRORE RUPEES
TO THE BROTHERHOOD!” – was hung separately on the back wall in solemnity.

Outside the hall, twenty-one gunshots were fired.

*****

© Muhammad Ashfaq

All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net

www.millionstories.net

The One Million Stories
Creative Writing Project

One Million Stories...
One Million Dreams...

SUBMIT
YOUR
STORY
TODAY!!!

Find what you're
looking for with
our custom built,
workshop tuned,
competition
ready Search
device thing

Custom Search

The main Terms and Conditions
of submissions to the One Million
Stories Creative Writing Project
are set out on our main Submit
Your Story page. They are there
so we can make sure that
everyone understands that the
Project is set up as a safe place
for authors to present their work in
order to reach a wider readership.
We want writers to be happy here.
(Awww) The Project is run by
writers and very voracious readers
excited by the potential for
creativity that the form begets. And
you might even see one or two of
ours on here from time to time too.

Search the Site...

Buy
The
Books !

Call For
Submissions!
Get writing that great idea you
had in the middle of the night!
Write up that story that came to
you while you were sitting in
traffic! What about the time
when...where...what...who...why!
Send us your story today!
Surprise us! Surprise yourself!

Most Recent
Reader's
Comments