MASOOD RAJA
weera!
"I shot him through the heart. He swayed forward, his face twisted in shock. He touched his wound with his index finger, lifted it slowly to his eyes, and looked at his own blood in disbelief. He fell flat on his chest and died with a questioning look etched on his face as if he could not comprehend the idea of dying—not even when he was dying. Then I rushed forward, and robbed him of his manhood with my hunting knife, and crushed it under my big military boots. Then, having finished, I turned around to face my onrushing subordinates."
"Were you really angry at that time?" asks the defending officer, a longtime friend, trying to make a point.
Yes, I was angry. I was mad like Arjun, or Achilles, for that matter. Why do you think I killed him? Out of anger, of course, after having been used for years. Especially because this time he had done something which even I—his most loyal officer—could not accept. Yes, I was burning with rage when I put my service revolver right at his heart and pulled the trigger gently—as if squeezing an orange, like they had taught us in the military academy. I felt like the bullet itself and experienced the sensation of moving through his body, his heart, at the velocity of 720m/sec. Yes, I tell you I was truly incensed.
"Oh, not at all; I was totally calm—in fact I enjoyed killing the bastard."
"One more word like that and I’ll hold you in contempt, Major," says the gray headed colonel from the J.A.G. branch who is presiding over the court martial.
"I am extremely sorry, sir; I’ll be more careful from now on."
That’s so stupid; I mean what difference does it make to me if he holds me in contempt? Will I have to serve two sentences? What difference does it make to a man already condemned?
"Continue with your statement, Major," says the judge.
"As soon as I turned around, I faced my second in command who had rushed to the general’s suite, hearing the bang. He asked me to hand over my gun to him, which I did, and then I was arrested and held until the military police reached the scene. I have no regrets, no remorse; I am rather glad I did it—someone had to do it. My only regret is that it took me so long. That’s all I have to say; I rest my case."
There was a woman, too—more of a girl than a woman. She stood there stark naked. Her clothes and shawl had been ripped from her body. Before Akbar, my second in command, reached the scene, I covered the girl with a bedsheet and told her to wait. She was scared to death and stood silently trembling in one corner.
"Hand me your gun," said Akbar.
"I will, upon one condition," said I. "Let the girl go before the MPs come."
"You have my word I’ll let her go."
"You may leave," he said to the girl. His word was good.
She came up to me and kissed my brow. It was a sweet, tender kiss; I can still feel its lingering warmth. She said, " Rab Rakha Weera, God be with you, brother," and ran out of the room like a scared gazelle. I handed my gun to Akbar and waited for the MPs to arrive.
"What was the reason for you to kill the very person you were assigned to protect—the man that you sometimes very lovingly referred to as ‘my general’?" asks the prosecuting officer, trying to establish the all-important motive behind the murder. "What drove you to take the life of your own benefactor?"
"No reason in particular; let’s just say I didn’t like his looks. He was bald, with hairy, conical ears; beady eyes; a nose as wide as a shovel; and a mouth as big as a crater—he just made all my senses revolt against him. I just didn’t like his looks; he was ugly and revolting."
Yet, I had loved the man. He was a great general, and I would certainly have died protecting him. I would have willingly died under his command in any battle. Why would I care how he looked. No, it didn’t matter whether he was ugly or handsome; I liked him for his professionalism, his military genius, and his strong sense of caring for his subordinates.
"Simply the general’s so-called bad looks couldn’t have been a reason for the murder; there must be something deeper than that. Please think again and tell us why you killed him. You may take your time because your answer is important, both for you and for us. Can you recall anything that the general did in particular that you did not like and that might have eventually resulted in your taking his life?" asks the relentless prosecutor.
"Objection; that’s a leading question," shouts my fiery defending officer.
"Overruled," says the colonel, "the accused will answer the question."
No, there was nothing that he did that I disliked. Every now and then I would accompany him on his vacations. He would often retire to some remote guesthouse, usually owned by local politicians or landowners with a small bunch of our trusted security men. During these vacations the general drank a lot and had fun with top class professional women who were either contracted by me, or were brought in by the hosts. I never even bothered to think it odd, for what he did in the privacy of his own suite was his business. It wasn’t for me to judge him; my job was to ensure that no harm came to him, and I did that well.
"Do you have an answer to the question, Major?" asks the colonel, becoming increasingly agitated with my silence.
"I am still thinking, sir; I am trying to come up with the right answer. I need a little more time."
"Alright then, take your time."
The girl whom the hosts had brought in that night was different. She was not a professional. I could tell that the moment I saw her enter through the main gate of the building. She was flanked by two rough looking bodyguards of the local zameendaar, and tried to hide under her chaddor as if wishing to become invisible. She looked deathly pale—her eyes darted all over the place like an innocent dove surrounded by hawks. She was tall and fair, with brown almond shaped eyes. A gold nose pin adorned her small pug nose. There was a strange innocence on her face—a mixture of beauty and despair—as if she were still trying to comprehend what was happening to her.
"I think I didn’t like his drinking habit, sir. The general used very abusive language when drunk, and that, I think, might have caused some resentment in my heart, over the years. I think that night he shouted and cursed at me, dishonoring my mother with his foul mouth. I think that is one reason that might have made me angry at him, but I can assure you that I wasn’t mad when I killed him—it was a well thought out action, and my nerves were ice cold when I squeezed the trigger."
I opened the door for them and conducted the girl to the general’s suite, as I had conducted so many other women during my five years with him. I could feel the agitation of her body; I could even smell her fear. She was pale, and her steps were faltering and unsure as if she could not see clearly, like a sacrificial lamb being led to the altar. She just walked in a trance, in a state of absolute delirium.
Before I knocked at the general’s door, she clutched my hand in her trembling hand and said: "Weera, I am a virgin; I am engaged to be married next month. Zameendar’s men kidnapped me from my home; they snatched me from my poor father who is a shoemaker. Please don’t let this happen to me, please Weera. In the name of God, my brother, don’t let them rob me of my honor."
She called me "Weera"—the most beautiful word in the whole world. I remember how it sounded when my mother called her elder brother by that name. Whenever she said "Weera," I could always feel the intensity of love and feeling packed into that one single word. Yes, Weera, to me was a word that represented the purest forms of love, tenderness, and respect from a sister to a brother. And she, that horror stricken girl, had called me "Weera." No one had ever called me that; I had no sister—not until that moment.
"Please don’t let this happen to me, Weera." Yes, that’s what she whispered in my ear in an innocent, fear- stuck voice, while holding both my shoulders in a strong, paralyzing grip. I stopped for a moment, for I wasn’t sure what to do. Then I took her hands off my body and knocked at the door. She just went limp, as if her last hope had suddenly died, like a mother who had lost her youngest and last son in a war. Yes, I knocked at the door, and as soon as the general opened it, I ushered the girl in, without saying a word, and then returned to my place of duty. She looked imploringly at me when I pushed her into the room. Her face was white as the moon, and there was still a beseeching expression etched on her face, as if she were trying to shout just one sentence with every breath of her whole being: "Weera, don’t let this happen to me!" I had done what I had performed hundreds of times before. I retired to the guardroom and lit a cigarette.
"What did the general say to you in his state of drunkenness. This so-called state of drunkenness? What did he say to you precisely?"
"He called me a Motherfucker; not just once, but repeatedly."
"And that alone, in your view, was enough for you to kill him, to take a life?"
"Yes, it was enough for me to kill him, for defiling my mother’s name."
I sat on my stool and smoked my Gold Leaf faster than I had ever smoked a cigarette in my life. Then I rose and walked back through the corridor to the general’s suite.
"Please, let me go, Sahib; I am as young as your daughter," I heard her plead.
"Shut up, you bitch, and take off your clothes," was the drunken command of the general. Then I heard a loud slap and the sound of ripping fabric: he was tearing off her clothes.
"You are our protectors, Sahib; Your job is to protect our honor, not to crush it under your feet, Sahib," she pleaded. "Please let me go, in the name of God."
"Shut up, you bitch," said the general, smacking her once again.
That was precisely when I knocked at the door. A loud knock.
"What the hell are you doing here?" asked the general when he opened the door.
"Please let the girl go, sir," I beseeched.
"You motherfucker, who the hell are you to intervene? You dog; you are trained only to watch my door, not to enter the privacy of my room. Fuck off. Come only when I whistle for you," he shouted.
I brushed him aside with one swing of my arm and rushed through the door. She stood next to the huge king-sized bed, stark naked. I rushed inside and, shielding her at my back, turned around to face the general, who came rushing toward me, mad as hell. I pulled out my gun, and as soon as he came close to me, I grabbed him from the scruff of his neck, and then placed my gun exactly at his heart. I looked into his drunken eyes and pulled the trigger. It was the noblest action of my whole sorry life.
"Is there anything else you will like to add to your statement?" asks the colonel.
"No sir, I’ve said all I wanted to say."
Yes, there is nothing else to say. I am done with this world, and I have a long way to go. She is in safe hands now, and no one will ever know what happened—or almost happened—on that particular night. I know she’ll pray for me—and I’ll need all her prayers to save my soul. I know they’ll give me the maximum punishment permissible by law—they have to, for they have to make an example of me. I was trained to protect the honor of my nation at the cost of my life. Does it matter if I die by an enemy bullet while protecting something as abstract as the honor of a country, or die at the end of a rope saving one single woman’s honor? Tell me; does it matter?