An Excerpt from - TANZEEM - by Mukul Deva

‘How is the old man now?’ The Ameer turned to face him, watching him closely this time.

‘Not so good.’ There was a short, hesitant pause, as though the speaker was reluctant to speak, unsure what the fate of the bearer of bad news would be. ‘In fact he is slipping away fast.’ He gave a slight, almost apologetic shrug. ‘We have tried everything, but there has been too much internal damage. May be I could have done something if I had the facilities of a full-fledged hospital available to me. Right now… here…’ He shrugged again and his voice trailed away.

‘I want to see him.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

‘Okay.’ The doctor gingerly helped the Ameer to his feet and began to walk him to the door. Pausing at the door the Ameer rid himself of the doctor’s supporting hands, took a deep breath and straightening his back walked out unaided. He was enough of a leader to know that in this part of the world any show of weakness was unacceptable. He was also smart enough to know that weakness was a clear invitation for the enemy to close in for the kill; and Allah alone knew that for a man like him there were enough enemies around. As he came out of the hut he threw a look at the men gathered outside. In the world they inhabited it was hard to tell who harboured what ambitions and who aspired for what.

Shrugging inwardly he commanded his body to ignore the pain and followed the doctor to the hut across the alley.

Moans of pain greeted him at the door and the smell of spirit and blood hit him when he entered. There were two men hovering around the elderly, frail looking and heavily bearded mullah lying on the bed. More than half of Hamidi’s upper body was drenched in blood and he seemed to be just about holding on to life. Miraculously his face had been left untouched by the American missiles.

At a glance from the Ameer everyone in the room left silently; except the doctor who maintained a careful vigil from near the door. The unmistakable, sickly sweet smell of blood and death thickened as the Ameer came up to the mullah.

‘How is it going old man?’ There was an unmistakable trace of affection in the Ameer’s voice as he settled down on the bed beside him and took one of his hands in both of his own.

‘Not so well.’ The reply was so weak that it almost got drowned out by Hamidi’s wheezing, rattling breath; death seemed to be sharing the bed with him. The Ameer had to lean forward to catch the low, pain-laden whisper.

‘We will soon have you up and about.’ The Ameer ensured there was a strong reassuring note in his voice.

‘No you won’t.’ Despite the pain the mullah gave a weak smile. He was about to say something more when a sudden bout of coughing seized him. Flecks of blood spotted his lips and beard by the time it had subsided. Picking up a wad of cotton from the bedside table, the Ameer gently wiped his mouth clean. It was a weirdly uncharacteristic gesture from the cold, bloodthirsty warlord. Mullah Hamidi acknowledged it with a grateful smile. ‘But there are no regrets, my son. We have had a long and eventful journey. Have we not?’

‘Yes we have and by the grace of Allah it has been a glorious one.’

‘Do you remember how it all began?’ Mullah Hamidi’s voice was weakening rapidly.

‘Of course! Of course I do.’ Even the Ameer’s voice had dropped to a half whisper. ‘Could I ever forget?’

‘That’s good. Don’t ever let go of the past. Remember that we are what we are because of what lies behind us.’ Another burst of blood-flecked coughing silenced him for a moment. After it had subsided he drew a deep breath to regain his composure. ‘You will remember what Allah wants from you? You will not stray from the path, will you Jalal?’

‘Of course not.’ The Ameer’s fingers pressed down reassuringly on the fragile, almost lifeless hand held by them.

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise you that.’

‘Good! Do not let these treacherous army bastards get away with this betrayal. Remember that Pakistan was established exclusively so that sharia and rule of Allah the Magnificent could be implemented.’

‘Ameen. And so it shall be.’ Jalaluddin’s face was tight in anger. ‘If they think they can play fast and loose with us they are mistaken. Don’t worry I am going to make the traitors pay for siding with the crusaders.’

‘You must, but be very careful. Remember there is too much at stake. Everything we have worked for is now almost within our grasp.’ Hamidi wanted to say more but he was tiring fast and his breathing was becoming audibly heavier and harsher. It wheezed through him agonizingly.

For a very long moment the two were held together by an uneasy, yet strangely companionable silence. Suddenly another bout of coughing wracked the old man. Yet again, despite his best efforts, flecks of blood sprayed out from his mouth; they were much larger and far more plentiful this time, obviously the internal hemorrhaging had intensified. His hand, held in the Ameer’s much larger ones, betrayed the pain throbbing through him.

‘Can I ask you for a favour?’ The mullah whispered when the coughing finally subsided and he had managed to overcome the pain momentarily. ‘One final favour… for an old friend?’

The Ameer looked deep into his eyes, a hint of sadness lining them, as though he knew what the old man was going to ask for. ‘Of course!’ he finally replied, slowly, softly, and very reluctantly.

Watching him equally closely the old man gave a weak smile. ‘You know me well, my son.’

‘And how could I not? You have been like a father to me… the only father I have ever known.’ There was an unexpected depth of affection in the glance they exchanged. ‘Are you sure?’ The Ameer finally whispered, as though even voicing the thought hurt him. Those who had known him well would have been surprised with the realization that such softer emotions even existed in this ruthless brute of a man.

‘Yes. I am certain.’ By now Hamidi’s voice was fading and laced with pain. ‘There is no point in delaying the inevitable and prolonging the agony my son. Let me go now.’

Jalaluddin threw a rapid backward glance at the doctor. He saw no hope reflected there. Turning back to the mullah he gave a tiny nod. He leaned forward, gently clasped the dying man in his arms and raising him up held him close. ‘Sleep well. I shall miss your guidance and your support; especially now when the end is almost in touching reach.’ His grip on the old man tightened briefly, before he freed his right hand, reached for the pistol stuck in his waistband and bringing it up, placed it against the dying man’s heart. Mullah Ismail Hamidi held his former student’s gaze firmly, meeting death as he had always lived his life, head-on, without flinching.

The doctor manning the door winced slightly as the solitary pistol shot crackled through the room.

TANZEEM the last book of the LASHKAR series is scheduled for release in Feb 2011