guns

As I drove to his house, my mind kept going back to thoughts about him.I hadn’t heard from him for days, in fact no one had. He hadn’t been seen out of his home since the “war” had begun. It is funny how the media can turn a feud into a war and a war into a feud…

When I reached his mansion, I was surprised to see none of his fleet of servants around. The thick layer of dust on his cars parked in the garage gave away the fact that they had not been used in a long time. I rang the door-bell several times but no one answered so I let myself in, wondering why it wasn’t locked. Suddenly, a feeling of apprehension filled me as I nearly ran into the living room, expecting the worst.

And there he was, pacing up and down the room like a madman, unshaven and starved. He didn’t even notice me coming into the house, engrossed in his thoughts, he was oblivious to everything around him. As he turned around and saw me, he was visibly startled, almost jumping.

He looked up and said,” All those innocent kids, the young men and women, all those old people killed or forced to abandon their homes….” He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. “I don’t care who those bastards are, the army, the Taliban or insurgents, I want to pick them one by one and shoot out their brains for every innocent death!”

I smiled thinking of how convenient it was to think like this when one inherited a fortune without moving a limb. He looked at me and caught the brief smile. In a friendship like ours one didn’t need any words..

He thought for a couple of minutes, both of us still standing there in the living room; and then his eyes lit up, just for a few seconds and his lips curved up in a smile. “I know just what to do”, he said.

I thought best not to ask as he was in one of his moods. He asked me to sit and we had a chat. Nothing about the war, nothing about the American drone planes, nothing about our army killing our own people. Just a chat between two  old friends as he didn’t have any family left to talk about…

I didn’t go to see him again for some time. I knew he needed some space. I wish I had. A week or ten days later , as I  was browsing through the newspaper, I saw the piece of news:

A rich Peshawari businessman was killed in an encounter when he was caught smuggling arms to the Taliban. It has been verified that he had sold all his assets and belongings after being recruited and brainwashed by the extremists….” On and on it went. I thought I would cry because only I knew.

I knew that after selling all he owned, he had tried to help the people, had distributed food, clothes and spoke kind words to the affected people. I knew he had gone to Swat and I knew his worst crime was listening to the Swati’s cries of Why? Where? and When? But was this what he deserved for his crime…?