M4NDY

Summary:

In short, this is just something written so that Hamza can brutally fucks Iqbal(human log version). Yes, my exact words were: “An Iqbal who’s lost both legs isn’t much different from a warm fleshlight… So I delayed the time of Hamza’s arrest… sigh, it’s kind of hot: Hamza, covered in blood, dragging a half-legless Iqbal along the road. It’s almost like a wolf carrying a chunk of meat through the night… I originally wanted to write it as an omegaverse story, but later realized that would be pointless. The essence of omegaverse lies in the social structure created by that setting, and the stories that unfold within it. But all I wanted was for the Major to become pregnant and miscarry… I didn’t need any of that… So in this story, only the Major alone will possess 🐔🐔and 🐱🐱(?

Our words may leave a deeper mark on the world than our lives ever could.

Who says only the learned are granted such a distinction? Even a vivid, crude joke, once spoken, can be remembered. Take, for instance, among those who died alongside Rehman’s rule, that bald man, Donga--his remains have most likely been gnawed by worms and rats, lost without a trace. The others at least were laid to rest in thin coffins. But in his final clash with SP Chaudhry, he strapped grenades to himself and charged the police, determined to die with them…

In the end, people only found his eyes-open head, one arm, one and a half legs, and a length of intestines flung out, over a meter long in total. The rest had become food for animals. Even that stretch of gut, when Uzair’s men found it, already had crows pecking at it. And yet all his jokes about filth, bodily waste, and genitals remained in Hamza’s mind. His metaphors were too novel, once heard, never forgotten.

And Rehman. Hamza attended his funeral, standing beside his brother Uzair at the edge of the grave, helping to fill it in. During those days, Hamza was tormented by auditory hallucinations. When the doctor announced that Rehman would not survive his injuries, he looked out the window in a daze. The moon hung in the sky, nearly full, its light slanting in. It shone into the eyes of this Indian disguised as a Baloch. Hamza could not bear the brightness and turned away. Even the moon over Pakistan seemed to provoke him. It brought tears to his eyes. It summoned Rehman’s ghost. From nights of the full moon to nights when the moon be a eyebrow-like blade, he could always hear that familiar voice.

“Traitor,” the dead Rehman said.

“How I wish you knew who I am.” Hamza sat up in bed. Yalina lay beside him, feeling peace because she knew nothing; Rehman suffered the pain of the betrayal by someone close because he knew nothing. The false Baloch muttered to himself: “If you knew you’d been made a fool of by a spy, you might feel better. You see, what we had between us, my affection for you like family, Lyari's corrupt politics couldn’t shake it… Aqlaakh, who served you and Uzair for decades, Uzair nearly saw him as an uncle, and Arshad bought him with a bit of money. But not me, Rehman.... You never cared how many families you destroyed. Pakistani lives and Indian lives had different prices in your eyes, but the difference was only a few rupees. Only your own family was made of gold. Still… you once gave me a home. I won’t--no one can make me betray you. I only knew, before I came, I knew, that one day I might drag you down from your throne in Lyari, or send you to prison, or consign you to some extrajudicial killing… even kill you myself…”

“I’m not a traitor,” Hamza said. “I’m just a…”

He didn’t finish. Yalina slept beside him, curled up. She liked sleeping that way. When they first lived together, Hamza had tried to correct the habit several times. He said it was bad for her spine and heart, that she would become a hunched old woman. She didn’t care. She said if she ever became hunched, Hamza would dare to abandon her or take a second wife, and then she would turn on the gas and make everyone die together. Her steady breathing kept him from saying the word “spy.”

Fortunately, the dead Rehman said nothing else. Hamza rubbed his face and lay back down to sleep. The hallucinations tormented him until the day Rehman was buried. Ever since he had carried Rehman back, covered in blood, this was the first time he saw him again.

Killing Rehman had not been easy. First, Hamza had crashed the car into a fire hydrant. His resistance training and the airbag ensured he regained consciousness quickly. He had to escape before SP Chaudhry arrived with the police. Partly to conceal his collusion with them, and partly because Hamza suspected Chaudhry didn’t care whether this Baloch collaborator lived or died in the crossfire. His time working in Balochistan had made him hate every able-bodied Baloch man he saw. Each one, in his eyes, a potential member of the Baloch Liberation Army, or a pickpocket, or a gangster. Unfortunately, Hamza really was part of a gang. So he fled in haste. As he did, he glanced back at Rehman--unconscious in the back seat, no obvious wounds, only minor abrasions on his face. The loss of consciousness from the impact might last only minutes. Hamza had little time.

Not long after escaping, he heard Siyahi shouting “traitor” as he chased him down. Siyahi ran faster than the injured Hamza, but his death also ran faster than Siyahi. When he caught up, he died at Hamza’s hands. Hamza hanged him with his own hands. Siyahi’s feet slowly lifted off the ground as he struggled. The vine Hamza used to strangle him proved unexpectedly strong. Hamza judged his life by the force of his resistance, until Siyahi stopped moving. Then Hamza loosened the noose, and the body fell. With a broken neck, the head bent at nearly a right angle…

After killing Siyahi, Hamza realized Rehman had not actually lost consciousness. Otherwise, how would Siyahi have known which way to pursue him? He considered returning to the crash site, but would Rehman simply wait there to die? The only place nearby to hide was the forest. So Hamza stayed, listening carefully for the sound of dry branches snapping under fleeing footsteps. When he saw Rehman again, the short Balochi was firmly straddling the burly SP. Rehman had more injuries on his face now, but none that would leave lasting marks. During the years Hamza had spent living among the Baloch gang--half within Rehman’s family--he had pieced together a more vivid image of him than any intelligence file could provide. Ulfat sometimes envied her husband a little: Rehman didn’t scar easily. Aside from life-threatening knife or gun wounds, his injuries faded quickly. But when Ulfat cut the back of her hand on broken glass, even after two months, faint marks remained.

Rehman was close to strangling Chaudhry to death. He stared at him, roaring like a madman, driven by a passion Hamza could not comprehend, like a dam breaking. He was no longer human, only a torrent of rage, of hatred, of suppressed emotion(perhaps the passion for revenge?). Before he could drown Chaudhry in it, Hamza had to intervene. Chaudhry didn’t care whether a Balochi lived or died. Jaskirat didn’t care whether a Pakistani lived or died. But today, Rehman had to die.

After their struggle, Hamza left his own marks on Rehman’s face. He grabbed a wooden stick and knocked him off Chaudhry. Rehman flew back lightly, so lightly Hamza couldn’t tell whether he truly weighed so little, or if this was all a dream. Perhaps none of it was real, perhaps he was still waiting for Rehman at the ribbon-cutting ceremony, bored, asleep in the car… He mounted Rehman and struck him, eyes, cheekbones, mouth... no longer caring where he hit. After more than a dozen blows, Rehman stopped moving. Exhausted, Hamza rose from the man who had both loved and hated him deeply. Rehman’s face was covered in blood, flesh torn; even the corners of his eyes had split. His chest rose faintly, coughed up a little blood, his eyes struggling beneath swollen lids. He glanced once at Hamza, then finally at Superintendent Chaudhry. Chaudhry shot him. Now the gravest wound on his body was no longer Hamza’s doing.

When Rehman died, he was almost unrecognizable, a man of blood. And yet, when they prepared his body, they washed away every trace, concealed the wounds with foundation and even tape. When Hamza saw him again, it was as if he were merely asleep. The last time, Hamza heard him say, “Traitor.” They packed the final layer of soil tight. At last, silence returned to Hamza(Jaskirat)’s ears.

As for the others--

Jaskirat, a Pakistani drifter once from Panjab, walked along the road with nowhere to go. Sisyphus make his hand towards to front, pushes his boulder uphill with both hands; Jaskirat’s hands hung behind him, dragging a man like a corpse by the collar, tired. He didn’t even know which direction he was heading. Perhaps, this way would take him to the border where soldiers of the two countries competed high-stepping like rival roosters day after day... Ha! Indian rooster, Pakistani rooster! Hadn’t he just killed several men from Lahore today? Maybe it was time to go home through here… Or perhaps, before he could even see the Wagah–Attari border, a passing driver would be frightened by him and the man he dragged who losing half leg, call the police, and he would be arrested. Iqbal might bleed out before they arrived. Was Iqbal dead already? Jaskirat wasn’t sure. A man who loses a whole thigh usually survives only minutes. Half a calf… he didn’t know. The instructor in their emergency training hadn’t covered that. It had already been half an hour. Still, there were exceptions--sometimes jagged wounds caused vessels to spasm and clamp shut, slowing the bleeding… some people had survived a whole day…

Earlier, Iqbal had still been cursing him, mocking this Indian’s incompetence, saying today’s martyrs were only a fraction, that he dared call this a victory. “Kafir, I hate that I don’t know your name in India, or I’d kill your family too--” But now he had fallen silent. Occasionally, Jaskirat had to shake his head to drive away flies. Only the dead attract flies, don’t they? He barely had the strength to keep walking, let alone stop and look back. Sajid (dead), the unnamed LeT member (dead), Iqbal (in his hand)… the flies, scavenging from garbage in nearby streets, maybe were now swarming toward the ruined mosque left by the clash. And his home...

“SP’s death does sadden me a little. He always caused me trouble, but he was a good man. His deputies, are also all quite capable. Do you remember Omar? He’s brought me some interesting truths…” Iqbal had the others inventory the weapons Hamza delivered, then invited this Balochi, successor to Rehman and Uzair, to sit before him.

“How would you deal with someone who betrayed their country and their faith?” Iqbal lit a cigarette. He preferred cigars and cigarettes, perhaps because the traditional hookah was too inconvenient but he smokes like a chimney. “I’ve heard of, even experienced, the intensity of your Balochi's love and hatred. So what would you do, Hamza?”

“...What fate is there for them but death?”

“That’s what I think too.” Iqbal nodded. “A high official’s daughter, what reason could she have to betray her country? She’s not Baloch, not an infidel, not Pashtun... she’s nothing unfortunate thing. If she were a man, I’d envy her happy life.”

The hall doors closed. Hamza began to tremble.

“A thankless traitor deserves to die, doesn’t she?”

“…...”

When they left his house, did they close the doors and windows? Would the smell of blood seep outside? Would the flies see the despair in Yalina’s eyes? Would Zayan understand, at the end of his life, what had happened?

A car stopped beside Jaskirat. He turned his head numbly. The window rolled down. Jamali looked at the two blood-soaked men without expression.

A father who had lost his only child. A husband who had lost his wife. Two liars from India.

One of the liars asked, “Do you want him to die now, or be tortured first?”