False Dream of Jannat and The Lost Son of Kashmir

By Nasiruddin Hamid

THE winter winds howled through the snow-covered streets of Kulgam, a small town nestled in the Kashmir Valley. The year was 1990, and conflict had already plagued every corner of the land.

Basheer had once been just another boy, running through the orchards, playing by the river, and listening to his mother’s lullabies. But that life was long gone before he even knew it. He had traded it for a dream—a dream whispered to him by men who spoke of paradise, of glory, of rewards beyond imagination. They told him that if he fought against the Indian government, if he killed the Kafirs, he would earn a place in heaven, where rivers of wine flowed and where hundreds of Hoors (divine concubines) awaited him.The small tea stall stood at the corner of a busy street. Smoke curled up from the old stove, where a blackened kettle hissed with boiling tea. The tea vendor, a wrinkled old man, poured the hot liquid from one glass to another, his hands steady from years of practice.Basheer stood nearby, dressed in a thick woolen coat and polished leather shoes. He was not like the other boys who came to the stall. His father was one of the richest men in town, and he had never needed to drink tea at a roadside stall before. But today, he wanted to be anywhere but home.At one of the wooden benches, a group of men sat, speaking in low voices. They wore long coats and had sharp eyes. One of them noticed Basheer and smiled."A rich boy like you, sitting at a place like this?" the man asked.Basheer frowned. "Money doesn’t mean anything. My parents don’t understand me. They think I should just study and obey rules."The man leaned closer. "Maybe they don’t see the real you. You are meant for something bigger."

Basheer looked at him, curious. "What do you mean?"

The man’s voice was calm but firm. "Come with us. We will show you a world where you don’t have to follow rules. A world where you have power, respect, and purpose."

Basheer hesitated. The tea vendor, listening quietly, gave him a warning look, but he said nothing.Basheer felt a strange excitement in his heart. For the first time, someone was telling him he could be more than just a boy from a rich family. He took a last sip of tea, left his glass on the counter, and followed the men down the road.

The men called themselves warriors of faith. They took him in when he was only a teenager, filling his mind with stories of martyrdom, feeding him their beliefs, their poison, and corrupted his juvenile mind with their filth. And when he resisted, when doubt flickered in his young mind, they subdued him with drugs—they called it the divine water from heaven—made him weak, made him theirs. His superiors, those he once respected, abused him, raped him, claiming divine permission. Each night, he lost more of himself and gained more hatred against the government and the so-called Kafirs.

Then, one day, he was given his first mission. The AK47 felt heavy in his hands, but the praise of his handlers rang in his ears. They called him brave, a soldier of faith. They promised him paradise. And so, he killed. Innocent men, women, children. Their cries haunted him, but he drowned them in drugs, in the words of his leaders. His parents begged him to return home, to see the truth, but he refused. When they pleaded too much, he raised his hand on them. His own blood, his own mother and father—nothing mattered anymore.

Then came the night of the ambush.

The Indian army had been tracking their group. Gunfire erupted in the dark, shouts echoed in the valley, and one by one, his comrades fell. A bullet tore through Basheer’s side. He ran, blood pouring from his wound, his breath ragged. He found shelter in an abandoned barn on the outskirts of the village. The cold seeped into his bones, but it was nothing compared to the realization that dawned upon him.

He was dying. Fear of death raw and primal, gripped him. For the first time in years, his mind cleared. He saw flashes of his past—his father carrying him on his shoulders, his mother feeding him by the fireplace, the scent of Apples in the air. His home. His childhood. His innocence. It had all been stolen from him by the hypocrites.

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his wound. He wanted to go back. He wanted to run into his mother’s arms, beg for her forgiveness. He wanted to hear his father’s voice one last time, to sit with his friends by the river, to feel the warmth of home. He tried to stand, tried to walk, but his legs failed him.

No, he thought. He would not die here."

With every ounce of strength left in his broken body and every trace of grit in his broken heart, he pushed himself forward. He stumbled out of the barn, limping, then running, then sprinting. His mind was clouded with pain and misery, his vision blurred with tears. He ran towards the village, towards the home he had once abandoned. He would give anything just to reach his home, to be with his parents.His voice cracked as he screamed, screamed with pain from the depth of his heart. "Ammi!", "Abbu!"

He didn’t know if he was crying in joy or misery. The world spun around him. He longed to reach his home, where everything would be all right again.. He could see it now—his childhood home, his mother waiting for him at the door, her arms open.

And then— A gunshot.

The bullet tore through the back of his head, and he fell to the ground like a stone in the water. The cold earth devoured him as darkness consumed his hope. His breathing stopped. His body lay motionless in the snow. Somewhere in the distance, the call to prayer (Azan) echoed through the valley but Basheer heard nothing.

By Nasiruddin Hamid