Feroz Rather's book is a collection of thirteen interconnected short stories describing the violence in Kashmir
I gazed westward from the top of the hill. The cottage where Inspector Masoodi’s son had recently moved his father stood in the thin clearing by the lake. Its old wooden walls painted over in a dark shade of green, the cottage had two narrow slits for the windows in the front. Between them, a door clung to a feeble frame on rusting metal hinges – a door that I could break with a single blow of my axe.
I had come to see the cowherd, Gulzar, who reared my master’s cows along with the rest of his herd. He was a thin boy of sixteen with a soft face bursting with a new beard and pimples. Whatever the season, he never took off his long woollen pheran. Although he always carried a stout staff, I had rarely seen him hit a cow, and that only when it tore away from the herd to enter someone’s kitchen or front garden. He hit his cows below the shoulder – never on the haunches – gently guiding them back. Like me, he was not much of a talker. But while I had lost my loquacity during my time inside the prison, Gulzar was quiet by disposition. As soon as he had his herd settled on the slope, between the foot of the hill – where I had walked down to and was standing now – and the courtyard of the cottage thick with willows – which I kept an eye on – he reclined on the grass. Then, from the deep side-pocket of his pheran, he produced his flute of rosewood.
‘This makes me and the cows happy,’ he said before he began to play.
In summer, when the air became hot and full of mosquitoes and other blood-sucking insects, Gulzar sweated profusely, giving off an odour. However, I never told him to remove his pheran or ever complained about his lack of hygiene. I could not imagine him as someone capable of beating me and I liked him. His reticence, his raggedness, his sour smell and his unshaven pimply face infused a sense of security and self-worth in me.
I saw Inspector Masoodi’s son standing by the wire zareba that fenced the courtyard in. He had his father’s cold, expressionless face. His eyes were deep and bloodshot, and filled with contempt as he stared at me rudely. I understood his unspoken command beckoning me to go to him so he could charge me with an errand. He came close to the fence.
‘I want you to clear the lawn,’ he said peremptorily. He sounded haughty but in need of me.
I looked him straight in the eye, confronting his arrogance for a moment. Then I smiled quickly and said, ‘I can bring you an axe from my master’s house.’ Although his eyes softened a bit, his face remained the same – frigid.
‘Where is your master’s house?’ he asked. I turned around and pointed to the top of the hill. ‘I will pay you well if you help me cut the willows,’ he said.
‘Do not worry about the money,’ I replied.
I walked up the hill to my master’s house. Everything in the house belonged to him. And, because I had told him that I had no one in the world, he felt that I belonged to him as well. In any case, I was ready to risk his wrath for Masoodi’s son. I looked for the axe that I had hidden under the staircase in the corridor a while ago. I found it securely wrapped inside a bundle of dusty gunny bags, just where I had left it. I weighed it in my hands as I picked it up. It was a light axe with a heavy head, perfect for chopping. I touched the metal with my hand and then furtively looked around. When I was completely assured of my master’s absence, I licked the edge clean with my tongue. I liked the taste of cold metal on my tongue. I went down the hill and offered Masoodi’s son the axe.
Over the sound of his blows on the willow trunks and branches, I heard his father cough. The trunks and branches were gnarly and he was soon exhausted. He panted outside while his father coughed inside. All this panting and coughing seemed strangely ludicrous, both father and son in a state of utter helplessness, and for a moment there, I nearly burst out laughing.
‘Can you give him some water?’ Masoodi’s son asked abruptly. I rose from the ground and obliged mutely.
However, as soon as I was inside the dark cottage, my mirth could no longer be held in check and I laughed out loud in reckless jubilation that he had finally asked for my help. For years I had dreamt of this very moment.
I stood in the kitchen, groping in the sudden darkness after the glare of the sunlight outside. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I dipped a tumbler into the copper pitcher on the sink. I noticed a knife gleaming on the shelf above. I did not touch the knife, but the sight of its shiny metal thrilled me. The water was cold and I wondered whether it would have a debilitating effect on Inspector Masoodi’s already weakened lungs. They sounded rotten and depleted every time he coughed. Would the cold water trigger a fresh bout of hacking?
When I entered Inspector Masoodi’s room, I could not believe the sight that met my eyes. His body had shrunk to less than half its size. He lay on the bed, facing the ceiling, his arms crossed over his chest. His long, oval face was furrowed with wrinkles. His eyes were closed. His mouth was slightly open, and his lips were colourless as though contoured with dry chalk.
*Excerpted from Feroz Rather’s The Night of Broken Glass with permission from HarperCollins India*