Death in the Desert

His mind was clouded.

He tried hard to remember what he was doing in the middle of the desert here. Some flashing memories came back, of the camp , of the Buzkashi going on in full flow and then a sudden blank. He tried hard to remember what had happened. Zemar , his elder brother had come running, shouting something, then there was a general alarm and then and then ... ... ...

Inexplicably his mind remained blank. He was also feeling thirsty and hungry but as far as he could see their was no oasis or any pool nearby. Of course there was a mirage of water visible towards south but he knew by long experience what was a mirage and what was not. No water pool would exist between two sand dunes. From far the dunes looked like islands surrounded by water. But that was only an optical illusion and he knew it. He felt the weight of his wineskin, it was fast diminishing and he had to find his way to to ... where was he going ? He had no idea . It felt like dream this whole thing him being alone in the desert. He almost believed that it was dream. He would close his eyes and would soon wake up back at the camp . There would familiar sounds of men laughing and the horses neighing. His brother would be lying besides him having a good sip of the Hookah. He would offer him one sip ...

But there were no sounds of men laughing or horses neighing or his brother having a hookah. There was only the energy sapping heat and the throat parching thirst and gnawing hunger. He tried to remember when he had last had food but could not even remember that. He slowly stood up shading his eyes against the sun (his leg was paining even more) and started walking towards the west, towards Medina. Allah was testing him and he remembered one thing that his father had taught him before he had left for the war against those whites from north , whenever in doubt turn towards Allah he would always help. Now he was turning towards Allah and he was sure that Allah would help.

***

The boy's name was Zalmai, Afghani for "young" he was the second son of his family and the third among the siblings. His father was a farmer or had been a farmer until the Russians had attacked and then he had turned to a soldier. Afghans were hardy and no matter what professions they belonged to and Zalmai's father a devout follower of Islam. As soon as the Imam had issued the order to fight to save the country he had been one of the first to leave home and among the first to die. First to die in a battle among the unequals, where the Russian tanks had run over a small group of afghan soldiers. The Russians had beheaded all of them and hung their bodies from broken trees to strike fear in the heart of the afghans. But they hardy hearts of afghans were not to be daunted so easily. Now both Zemar and Zalmai had joined the army even though Zalmai was only thirteen years old . War had rendered his childhood to a battleground.

The battle was tough with little food and lesser water. Often Zalmai cried remembering his home and his mother and sisters. He dreamt of his mother weeping as both of them walked away from their small house, never to return. But Zemar was always with him. Zemar was brave and had been the breadwinner of the family since their father had gone. Indeed his name meant "the Lion" and he was never afraid. Zalmai looked up to his brother and he had taken care of him during the journey and at the camp. Soon Zalmai had grown used to the war, it only meant that there was less food and drink and they kept moving from one place to the other. But he had yet to see any real action. They did not take him to fight yet as they told him he was not old enough and so he kept in the camp tending to the animals and looking forward when Zemar came back. Because he was secretly afraid, afraid that Zemar, just like his father would not return some day and then he would be alone ,again this time without anybody. A thirteen year old boy does not have many adult friends to look after him.

But Zalmai was not to remain sheltered from the war. Their camp had been steadily moving towards the north-eastern border closer and closer to the Russian territory.

Zalmai had also noticed that more and more men were going in groups to the skirmishes and less and less were returning. Thankfully, Zemar had returned always. But once he had returned deeply wounded and Zalmai had cried when he had crept up to the Hakim's tent and had heard that his brother had little chance to live. He had prayed to Allah with great fervor to save his brother's life and miraculously (it was nothing less than miracle , the Hakim had remarked later) Zemar had recovered. And from then on Zalmai's faith in Allah had increased manifold. He always performed the Namaaz five times in a day like most in the camp. But he also remembered Allah in every other thing he did . But nothing had prepared him or anybody else for what had happened that day.

It had begun normally enough. No skirmishes were to be that day. The loosely knit afghan army had few communication lines and their commander had received news that afghans were winning against the Russians in the border. So their commander had decided to move forward rather than wait behind. After all he wanted a share in the ultimate afghan victory. It would bring fame and may be he would become a warlord. So their leader decided to give his soldiers the much needed rest that day and follow it up with a long march right up to the borders where he would have the glory and satisfaction of driving out the Russians. There had been a lot of enthusiasm among the soldiers at the announcement of the Buzkashi. There were not very many means on entertainment in those days and Buzkashi was one. Buzkashi was an old game of the afghans. It involved bringing a beheaded calf within a white circle in the middle of the field. The players rode on horses and the one having the calf was greatly impeded by others. And only those who have great skill with horses and also ruthless with others (a skill not very uncommon among afghan soldiers) . There would be a lot of blood in the field and some broken bones too but it was a game after all. And then the Buzkashi had begun and soon it was in full flow. There was a lot of flurry of horses wherever the carcass of the calf and already a few men had fallen off their horses but the game continued nevertheless. Zalmai followed the horses excitedly as he observed the riders . He knew how to ride a horse but that was as far as his knowledge went. He wanted to become an expert horse-rider a skill much required and respected among the afghans. He tried to learn from the riders as he watched their movements closely. Zemar unfortunately was not very interested in the game and had instead gone with a party to bring water from the nearby wells. Zalmai had stayed on to watch the game. No one had emerged a winner yet .Any one who got hold of the carcass was mobbed by other horsemen and either he had been unhorsed or the carcass snatched . The one who got the carcass almost always rushed away towards the end of the field. with a trail of horsemen in his track. The game was in full flow so no one noticed Zemar who was running towards the camp signalling frantically. When they did notice him it was already too late. For just behind Zemar rose his cause of fright . A Russian helicopter was coming on to the village.

Zalmai was stupefied at the sight. He had heard his brother speak of these flying machines but this was the first time he had seen one. But what happened later made him forget completely about the helicopter. Bullets were already arcing out of the helicopter and he saw his brother fall. The bullet had hit Zemar! Uttering a strangled cry Zalmai ran towards his brother but another man grabbed him from behind and carried him away. Zalmai saw his brother's crumpled body moving away from him and kept on screaming. The man had thrown him into one of the sand pits and shouted at him to stay there in safety. Zalmai was already crying and started to climb the walls of the pits. He had to get to Zemar. But the walls were slippery and however he tried he remained at the floor . Suddenly there was an explosion nearby and debris rained down into the pit. A rock hit Zalmai in the head and Zalmai crumpled - unconscious. Unknown to him the carnage against humanity continued all around him.

What had gone wrong ? The leader had received a message regarding Afghani victories and so had relaxed the alert in the camp. But what the leader had not accounted for was the time delay. He had received the old news about some hollow and pyrrhic victories of the heavily outnumbered Afghanis against the heavily armored Russians and had gone into the false belief that Afghanis alone, had any chance holding out agianst the Russians. The Russians had attacked with new vigor and easily defeated the already stretched and loosely knit Afghani "army". And now they were busily incursing into the Afghani territory with regular helicopter patrols, that were sent out to clear the way ahead for the main army. Zalmai's camp had come in the way of such a helicopter patrol. With the surprise element with them the helicopters had efficiently wiped out the whole camp. Leaving only smoldering tents and dead bodies. Only Zalmai , by stroke of ironic luck had survived hidden in the sand pit lying unconscious.

When Zalmai regained consciousness everything was silent. Only the ghostly wind could be heard. He slowly got up, his left leg was cramped having lain in a awkward position for more than two hours. A portion of the debris had hit the wall of the sand pit had crumbled providing him a kind of a causeway to to level ground. He slowly climbed over it, the debris crumbling under his weight, Crawling over to the ground he saw the horrible scene around him.

Everything was destroyed .The tents around him were smoldering and the stench of death was in air. Zemar! where was Zemar, Zalmai ran across the destroyed camp shouting for Zemar at the top of his voice. He spied out the place where he had been standing watching the Buzkashi and ran out towards the place where he had seen Zemar fall. H came to the crumpled body of Zalmai's heart beating wildly. He bent down and sat on his knees half sobbing as he took his brothers head in his arms. There was no response. He kept of futilely shaking is brother's head crying out his name. It was after full five minutes of shaking did he realize that his brother was dead. His hands shaking he lay down his head on his brother's chest and wept , wept the tears of a child.

It was noon when he woke up. He had passed out on his dead brother's body. A moment he again felt the full shock of the grief but there was something in the air that alarmed him. The wind was blowing with the force of a mid gale. The boys senses honed by the life in the desert were at once alerted. The "Seistan" was coming. Quickly he ran towards the provisions tent and grabbed a wineskin filled with water and another bag kept ready filled with food (for the foot soldiers who went out on the patrol). The after giving a long sad look at the camp he ran west towards the caves where there would be shelter.

The "Seistan" is one of the deadliest enemies of anyone in the Afghani desert. Soldiers could be defeated, thirst and hunger could be defeated but none could face the Seistan. The deadly 120 days Wind. It blew for four months across the deserts of Afghanistan reaching speeds of 155 mph during its peak periods (in the noons). The coming of these winds were heralded with sudden decrease in temperature and a steady breeze that would soon morph into a terrific desert storm. The best way to save oneself from these winds was to go to a sturdy shelter and that meant caves. Nature and habit had made Afghanis mark routes that were close to caves at certain points so that the travelers could go to their safety in the case of a desert storm. It was to such a cave that Zalmai was heading.

Zalmai had reached the caves in nick of time. Already there was sand when he reached the mouth and where he had settled down for a long wait there was the storm in full blast. As the wind was in the opposite direction as the mouth of the cave Zalmai kept looking out with his tear stained cheeks as the full enormity of his situation struck to him. Here he was in a cave stuck in a full scale Seistan wind and there was no one in this world who knew he was here or even cared that he was here. His brother was dead and so were probably all the people of the camp and he had no idea where he was to go. Suddenly Zalmai felt afraid he closed his eyes hoping all this would pass , it was just a bad dream, a very bad and graphic dream. It would pass. When he opened his eyes he would be back in the camp with his brother. Everything would be fine. There would be familiar sounds of the cattle, the men and the camp.

But there was only the roaring of the wind that seemed to mock his wishes. He slowly opened his eyes only to see a vast thick curtain of sand blocking his view. Resignedly he settled down in between two rocks and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Hunger woke Zalmai at the evening. Slowly, he got up and blinked his eyes. The storm had abated and it was cool now . But Zalmai knew more about Afghan nights than to be happy. Nights as in contrast to the hot days grew to be very cold, temperatures often reaching up to 10 degrees. He sat up and stared blankly at the desolate stretch of land in front of him. It was only hunger that broke his mind from the stasis. He nibbled at the loaf in the food bag and thought about what he should do. He would have to go to the camp, of course. He would try to find anybody else who was alive. If he was lucky he would get a horse and that would certainly make things easy for him. And then where would he go ? He had no idea of where he was and he also had no idea where th maps had been kept in the camp. Even if there had been maps he would not have known how to read them. He though about his father's advice. "Turn to Allah he will help" he had always said. And so he decided to turn to Allah to the west.

But fate it seemed was not on Zalmai's side. He got out of the cave and turned towards the direction of the camp and kept on walking and walking but found no sign of the camp. Strange, he thought, perhaps he had taken the wrong direction. He looked back towards the cave. No he had taken the right direction . But where was the camp ? He looked around wildly. And suddenly the truth dawned on him. The sand storm! The sand storm had buried everything. For all he would know he could be standing right over his camp buried under tons and tons of sand. He looked around wildly for any sign of his camp but only miles and miles of sand greeted his eyesight. He started digging furiously but he got only sand and sand and sand. Suddenly he realized he was being foolish. Digging would not help. Even if he got to the camp level he would hardly know where the food was kept and now no cattle was alive. He let out a frustrated wail and again silently settled own on his knees unable to believe his bad luck.

But all these experiences had hardened him . Allah was testing him. But he would go on. Sadly he loaded the wineskin and the food bag on his shoulders and head off towards the west where the rays of the setting sun shone making the desert in front of him seem like a golden carpet, a deadly golden carpet.

Zalmai lay on the sand exhausted unable even to lift his hand and shield his eyes from the sun. His food had run out two days earlier and water had run out yesterday. He was very, very weak and he needed some nourishment desperately. He had lost his footing this morning over a dune and had rolled down breaking his leg in the process. He had then crawled. But crawling over hot sand scorched his whole body making him a mass of scratches and pains. Finally he had passed out. Consciousness came in intermittent phases due to hunger and pain. But what could he do. He was practically unable to move. It was only in the evening that the lower temperatures soothed his body, and he had regained some strength. He slowly crawled to a stony outcrop and lay down besides thinking of his chances. His left leg was broken or at least badly sprained. He wondered how far he could go with this. He spied out a few dead branches nearby. Collecting them together he tied them to the side of his leg with a rope fashioned out of the hem of his shirt. Then he lay down to rest. But hunger did not let him sleep and soon it was gnawing his stomach. He slowly crawled out (his leg was too painful to stand on) and looked around There were only a few shrubs and none of them looked edible. He plucked a few leaves and nibbled them. They were bitter but still they were something. He looked around the roots and caught a desert ant . Plucking its head off he swallowed its not so small body his mouth feeling the crunchy taste. He ate some more ants and he even caught a spider but decided against eating it. Who knew where its poison sacs were. He simply quashed it and watched as the ants quickly scurried at the scent of death towards the dead body of the spider. He then lay down on the rock and drifted to painful sleep.

He dreamed about his home, his village and his friends. He dreamed he was back home with his mothers and sisters. He was playing with his friends in the village square. But suddenly out of nowhere a helicopter swooped down from the skies and all his friends , the houses ,the whole village scattered under its terrific wind. Zalmai ran and ran but the helicopter was right behind him. He heard Zemar crying "To west, run to west."

He woke with a start . It was dream after all. The sun was blazing away. He slowly got up .The leg was painful but the pain had numbed. He hobbled again turning towards west.

***

He lay on his last legs. This was it. He did not even remember where he was going or what he was doing in the middle of the desert. And now he heard the deadly noise of the Seistan brewing behind him. He did not have the energy nor the will to hide. He wanted this to end. But he would die like a man.He turned round to face the wall of sand nearing him by the second. He kept his eyes open as the wall came nearer and then suddenly that puny little body was swallowed in the vast sand storm taking his soul to Jannat, the promised heaven. His last thought was that his father and Zemar would have been proud of his bravery. He had faced the Seistan like a man.

My try to realism, I know its not too good. I wasn't satisfied either.