Two glorious heroes, two tragic ends.
Arjun Singh Rangi was a brave man. A fauji. A Lieutenant Colonel in the Indian Armed Forces. He was the head of the humble Rangi family which consisted of his beloved wife, Prableen Kaur Rangi and his two dear daughters, Harleen and Jasleen, and his son- Jaskirat whom he held very close to his heart.
Since his childhood, Jaskirat or Jassi, as they called him, had looked up to his father as a role model. He worshipped the man and admired his values. When his father was away at posting, his Maa would tell him and his sisters anecdotes about him, that way his Baba was still near him even though not physically present. He thought of his father’s bravery, the love he harboured for his nation and his family, and his heart swelled with pride.
From a very young age, Jaskirat had decided that he wanted to be like his father. And, he made sure that the world knew it too. When the elders and his teachers asked him what he wanted to become when he grew up, he would say that he wanted to become his father. Everyone used to laugh at him, and he would never understand why.
Rajkumar Abhimanyu was a brave boy. He had always been brave. The glorious Prince was said to have inherited the best qualities of and from all five Pandavas. But he liked to believe that his courage came from his Pitashree, Gaandivdhaari Arjuna.
Abhimanyu’s father hadn’t been around when he was born and he hadn’t appeared once in thirteen years of his life. Both of his Mamashrees, whom he loved and adored deeply, had been his guardians and the constant anchor in his life.
His mother, Subhadra had told him how his father’s cousins had tricked them in a game of dice and had stripped them of their wealth, honour and the self-respect of their common wife, Draupadi. He had learnt that his father, his uncles along with his other mother had gone into twelve years of Vanvaas and one year of Agyatvaas.
The little boy, merely ten years in age, had decided then and there that he would serve himself to avenge the disrespect of his father and his family. Even when he had never met Arjuna, Abhimanyu practiced day and night to become a warrior as skilled as his father.
It was a pleasant summer night and the Rangi children’s Baba had come home for a holiday. It was a rare occurrence, so the three siblings were eager to make most of their time in the company of their Baba.
It was after dinner that the children had rushed upstairs to the roof and pulled their father with them. Laying down on the thick blankets, the trio stared at the starry night sky while their Baba told them the incidents from his posting at the border. The stories soon shifted into the recalling of the bravery their Baba’s friends had shown in times of emergency. The kids were awestruck by these people and their willingness to put themselves at risk for their country. To their small minds, these people, their Baba and his friends were like superheroes from their comic books.
After an hour or so, Baba was left with no more stories. The girls, Harleen and Jasleen had fallen asleep halfway through the tales and were snoring heavily. Looking at the peaceful faces of his children, Papa Rangi laid down beside them and closed his eyes with a sigh. Jaskirat had closed his eyes momentarily, but he was wide-awake and curious to listen to more stories about what happened in the army cantonments.
When he propped himself on his elbow and looked at his Baba trying to sleep, Jassi understood that he must be exhausted and homesick and that it wouldn’t be right to wake him up. So, he allowed his father to drift into slumber, while he fell onto his back and counted the stars in the sky before sleep took over him too.
After every visit when his Baba told him such stories of his fellow soldiers, Jaskirat was moved by their sacrifice. He used to get inspired by them. He imagined himself in their place, protecting his country and its people, bringing pride to his family and donning the wardi his father had worn too.
Subhadra was seven months pregnant and her husband who had devoted his afternoons to her, chose a particularly niche topic of discussion that day. Warfare. Who discusses battle formations with their pregnant wife? Gaandivdhaari Arjuna.
As she settled down on the chaise, her hand resting on her swollen belly, she tried her best to observe the circular formation in which the miniature soldiers were arranged in the sandpit. She would have rather enjoyed talking about their baby- guessing whether it would be a boy or a girl? Discussing the names they had selected for it, and the impulsive purchases she had been making of baby toys.
But her husband had already begun to explain the advantages of this specific type of Chakravyuha, the Padmavyuha, the lotus trap. She listened attentively as he told her the methodical way to penetrate the deceptive Vyuha. Entering it was comparatively easy, but emerging out of it unharmed was the real challenge. Subhadra only knew of three warriors who could infiltrate the trap, and all of them were her family. Arjuna, Krishna, and her nephew Pradyumna.
Subhadra was paying attention to what Arjuna was saying, until her eyelids began to flutter close, surrendering to darkness while Arjuna’s monotonous lecture acted as a lullaby to her.
Arjuna looked over at his wife, who had dozed off halfway through his discourse. He put the pointer down and walked towards her sleeping form, an involuntary smile curving on his lips. He placed a kiss on her forehead, and draped a quilt over her.
In her womb, the growing foetus had assimilated all the knowledge required for entering a Chakravyuha but it was never taught how to come out of it alive and safe. Years later, the formidable warrior Prince would be defeated by this unlearned knowledge alone.
Jaskirat was taught courage by his father. He was taught loyalty. Patriotism. Selflessness. So, that was all he had when he enrolled in the training academy after clearing his NDA examination.
The letter had come almost a year later. A bad news. The tragedy that had struck his family. His father, his brave and strong Baba was gone. Hanged to death on the tree in their farmland. His Didi, the girl he only ever imagined with a bright smile on her face, was brutally raped and murdered. His chotti Jasleen, had been abducted and taken away to God knew where and his Maa, oh his mother who had been stripped off all that she had was wandering from police station to doors of politicians, begging for justice that he was told was abundant and fair in this nation. A blatant lie, as he now realized.
So when he got down at the Chakki Bank railway station after securing the AK 47 and the pistol from Pinda’s acquaintance, he had been driven by the very same principles that he had inherited from his father. He had trespassed into the haveli of Sukhwinder Singh, without caring for himself even when he knew what this could result in if things didn’t go his way.
But things had gone his way. He hadn’t left a chance for anyone to turn the situation against him. An hour of gunshots and harrowing screams later when he had completely forgotten himself, Jaskirat Singh Rangi stood painted in the blood of the twelve men he had massacred. Without flinching once.
The fear got to him only when he reached his sister. Dread twisted deep in his stomach before seeing her. But he had managed to rescue her and bring her back home, despite the cruelty those twelve men had repeatedly subjected her to.
The FIR, the court case and his sentence followed. He had imagined it would happen in the days before he had committed the crime. However, he had never thought of the increased pain it would inflict upon his surviving family. That was the hardest part of it all. Seeing his mother break down and cry in front of his lawyer, begging her to save him. Jasleen telling him repeatedly that he should not have done this for her, even though the relief in her eyes when he had stepped in that dark room contradicted her words.
Apparently the system and the judiciary which had denied a simple hearing to his innocent mother, was surprisingly fastidious and quick in delivering justice to those twelve men who did not even deserve an ounce of it.
On the thirteenth day of the barbaric war, the vast armies clashed once again in the blood-soaked ground of Kurukshetra. Prince Abhimanyu had fought ferociously since the war had begun, fuelled by the sacrifices of his family in the past dozen days.
But now he stood along with the four Pandavas in front of what looked like a challenge to them. Amidst an attack, the Kaurava army had suddenly realigned itself into a novel formation. The Pandavas waited for the dust that had risen as an effect of the more than thousand footsteps to settle down and then the realization dawned upon the eldest son of Pandu.
No one in the Pandava army knew how to break into the Vyuha. No one except Arjuna. But the devious Kauravas had planned an attack of the Samsaptakas to challenge Arjuna and drive him away in the southern direction. They knew the Pandava force would be indestructible if they had Dhananjaya by their side.
Prince Abhimanyu approached his uncles and declared that he was aware of the ways to tear into the Vyuha, but he did not know how to come out of it. Yudhisthira, his eldest uncle, motivated him to go ahead and enter the formation. He assured Abhimanyu that the four of them, Bhima, Nakul, Sahdev and he himself would follow him closely and create a path for him, assuring his safety.
Gaining his permission, the fearless Prince, vowed that his actions would bring pride and joy to his uncle Krishna and his father. He swore that if he let go even a single enemy without killing him, then he would not be called Arjuna’s son!
And so the land of Kurukshetra witnessed the sixteen year old young man piercing through tons of soldiers, wringing out arrows from his quiver and aiming them at the masses. He pounced on his enemies and ended up killing Bribhala and a hundred other small kings. He slaughtered Duryodhana’s son, Lakshmana and made Dushasana and Karna faint. The Prince faced seasoned warriors like Dronacharya and Bhishma with the vigour and rage resembling that of an angry God.
The Kaurava leaders feared that if this continued, their entire Akshauhinis of the army would be wiped out single-handedly by Abhimanyu. They had to put an end to the Prince’s wrath. Saindhava blocked the path of Pandavas who were closely following Abhimanyu, and fought with them skillfully making sure that Abhimanyu had to step further in the Vyuha all alone.
The Prince was now alone and surrounded by warriors like Duryodhana, Dushasana, Dronacharya, Ashwatthama, Kripacharya, Shalya and Shakuni.
When Jaskirat was sentenced to death by hanging, he had let go of all his aspirations and hopes, along with his will to live. He had accepted his fate and he was not guilty for the ‘crime’ he had committed.
So even when he was kidnapped during the jail transfer, and brought in front of the Chief of India’s Intelligence Bureau, Ajay Sanyal, whom he had only seen in newspapers, it did not make him feel like there was a way out. Instead, he folded his hands in front of the prestigious man and told him that he had nothing left to give to his nation.
But Sanyal was a man who had not bent in front of terrorists in their own land, Jaskirat Singh Rangi was an easier nut to crack for him. He told the hopeless young man that it was better to die after causing an uproar rather than accepting a mistaken death placed on his name. Jaskirat knew he had already created the ruckus where he wanted to, but he listened to the Indian officer.
Jaskirat had learnt to be brave, resilient and patriotic from his father. So even when he had nothing left, he joined hands with Ajay Sanyal and Sushant Bansal and became a part of their mission. He had been told the potential cost of it- of being declared dead to his family and the possibility of never coming back,
But he agreed to that cost as well, in the hopes that his otherwise fruitless life would become of some use to his nation and he could follow the steps of his dear Baba.
Abhimanyu knew the cost of entering the Vyuha too, but he stepped in anyways because even death was better than having to surrender and accept defeat. He would not bring shame to his father’s name at least in this lifetime.
The intimidated elders attacked the lone Pandava warrior together but Abhimanyu fought them all strenuously. Dronacharya, the guru of the Pandavas and Kauravas, killed his horses and charioteer, and destroyed his chariot so that it would render the Prince unable to navigate through the battlefield.
The rest of the warriors showered arrows at him from all the directions, until an injured Abhimanyu stepped down from the chariot with his mace in his hand. He began fighting against all warriors single-handedly. It was an egregious scene, a stain on the Kuru clan.
Ten warriors giving all their strength and combating with a single young Prince, like a pack of wicked wolves surrounding and capturing a lion’s brave cub in a deadly hunt.
When Abhimanyu’s mace gave away and fell from his hands, and blood spluttered at the corner of his lips, the older men closed up on him slowly. But even then the Prince did not think of surrender even once. He marched towards the ruins of his chariot and dismantled its wheel with great force.
When Ashwatthama and Dushasana attacked him with swords, he lifted up the huge wheel and thrashed it against their weapons with a roar. Not a single soul in that force pitied the boy who was wounded and was rapidly losing blood and strength.
Arrows were shot at him and they pierced through him. Swords slashed against his armour but still managed to cut through his skin and organs. Duryodhana struck him with his mace on his head and back, until the Prince had coughed up blood. The wise gurus, who had failed to be the protectors of Dharma every single time remained mum and failed yet again as Abhimanyu’s body gave out and he collapsed onto the ground, barely conscious.
Jaskirat Hamza Ali Mazari stepped into the dirty lanes of Lyari in Pakistan after burying what little was left of himself. He had burnt his family photo, the only material memory of them was turned into ashes back in Afghanistan. The year he spent at Aalam Bhai’s shop was a test of his patience. There were nights where he thought that he could never do what he was here to do. He feared he would have to spend his entire life stuck working as a waiter in this shop.
What started then was a series of repeated torments on his deadened heart. His mind worked efficiently, strategically infiltrating Rehman Baloch’s gang and acquiring their trust with every word he uttered and every action he did. Even then, his deadened heart hadn’t gone completely numb. Everything did hurt him sometimes, like an overwhelming flood of grief had washed over him. But Hamza had learnt to fight and fight was what he did.
The guilt gnawed at him when he had honey-trapped Yalina Jamali, the shrewd politician’s daughter for his own selfish benefit. As he saved Rehman from the SP and became an inseparable member of the gang, accompanying Rehman and Uzair in all their endeavours, life had begun to feel monotonous.
It was then that the meeting with Major Iqbal had happened. Deal of arms and ammunition. Hamza had reported it to Aalam Bhai. A potential attack on Gujarat. He was assured that the Indian force would take appropriate defensive measures. But all hell broke loose on the night of 26th November. The numerous television screens in Iqbal’s office showed him the horrors in Mumbai. Bomb blasts. The terrorists captured in CCTV’s holding the guns he had handed them himself. People, his people screaming and being scared for their life.
He had stood amongst those monsters, paralyzed in shock and terror. He could see the blood on his hands. Warm and red, dripping. He was the killer of his people. He saw his mother’s face, looking at him the same way she had done when he was sentenced to death. The Major’s shove snapped him out of it, and he was forced to scream the chants of ‘Allah hu Akbar!’ along with the others while his nation bled because of them.
That night in front of Aalam Bhai, for the first time he had stepped foot in this land, he acknowledged his belonging to his country. He vowed to end every man who had stood in that room and rejoiced at the slaughter of his people. Iqbal, Khanani, Mir, Bhuttovi, he would finish them all.
And so, he began his advance towards the core of Pakistani terrorism. Little did he know, with every step he took deeper into the labyrinth, he was making it harder for himself to walk out of it unscathed.
Hamza went on to kill Rehman while putting up a facade of his failed saviour. He pulled the right strings with Uzair, the man who had always trusted him too easily, and sent him away. Uzair was a thorn he had pricked out of his path effortlessly. It began after that, his reign. His rule. He became the King of Lyari. The Badshah of Karachi. People prayed for his long life and manifested glory to him.
He devised his way through the twisted politics of Pakistan meticulously, changing alliances and coming to power once again. He reported on the trade of fake currencies and drugs that was ruining his country’s economy and youth.
Then came the unfortunate night and it truly tested how much blows his heart could take before crumbling into pieces. Pinda, his best friend, had arrived in Pakistan and he had become someone Jaskirat could barely recognize. A drug dealer. And even when Hamza himself had become completely unrecognizable, Pinda had managed to recognize him just well.
Hamza had only wanted to silence him and keep his secret from coming out, but he had ended up killing him. His best friend. His sister’s husband. Iqbal’s guest. What happened after that still remains as a repressed blur to Jaskirat. Aalam Bhai had volunteered to be killed. Martyrdom was a euphemized word, but the truth was ugly. He had killed Aalam Bhai too.
That night, Yalina had held a gun to his head. She had come to know about his deception, or his truth. Neither of them was exclusive of the other. She had blamed him for ruining her life, rightfully so. But she had loved him immensely and truly, unlike him, so she had stayed with him regardless. Just warned him of the SP who had begun to doubt him.
Since then, he had gotten things on his feet. Within the span of less than three months, over a hundred members of terrorist organizations had been killed by unknown men. Wiped out in masses across Pakistan.
The final blow was the meeting in Muridke Minar. Stealthily planned. The explosives hidden under arms. The fight with Mir and Iqbal that had felt endless but he had powered through it, brutally hurting them. He had ran after Iqbal, who was now trying to escape like a coward and had slashed the blade against his legs with a roar, before dragging him to the petroleum truck and blasting him to shreds.
Killing him was a delayed gratification that Hamza had craved, but it changed nothing for Jaskirat. He did not run away, he waited outside the Minar for the inevitable to happen. But he had managed to make a last call to Yalina. He had told her his real name- Jaskirat. He had realized bitterly that he had indeed ruined her life, and now Zayan’s too. No amount of remorse could free him of the injustice he had committed with his own wife and son.
When Omar came for him and arrested him, he himself walked into the police van without a protest. The hours that followed were torture. Chained up and bloodied, he was whipped, beaten up, even given electric shocks, but he hadn’t uttered a single word. No matter how hard they tried, they were not able to gain a single piece of information from this Indian captive.
When his sword broke down and Dushasana’s son struck him hard with a blow, Abhimanyu fell to the ground with a thud. The young boy had been subjected to a lot of torture with the blows and slashes.
Amongst the warriors, Angraj Karna was the one who stepped forward. The man knew that this valiant Prince lying in front of him was his own nephew. If nothing else, then at least in blood. But the men too far gone in war never recognized even their own. Suryaputra Karna was no different. He did not see Abhimanyu as his own, just like the Kauravas.
A sharp pain shot through Abhimanyu as Karna speared his sword through his abdomen with a cutting force. His entire body jerked to blunt pain and then stilled as the burning sensation of blood seeping out spread throughout his body.
Moments later, the victorious howls of the Kaurava men echoed in the silent ground while life slipped out of the brave Prince’s body.
The four Pandavas mourned, from a distance, the death of their courageous nephew who had been slaughtered by the Maharathis, and whose death was being celebrated as a victory when it was nothing but shame.
After spending two decades in the sordid streets of Lyari and then the treacherous politics of Pakistan, Jaskirat Singh Rangi had still yielded himself. He had not given up when he had to toil in the Baloch gang. He had not given up when he had lost three of his closest people in the same night, two to death and one to truth. He had done it to himself with his own hands.
He had stayed patient and strong throughout the wait, and the slow killings of the terrorists. He had fought tooth and nail with Iqbal.
But after coming back to India, when he had slipped away to Pathankot in the naive hopes of seeing his family again and his nephews and telling them that he had been alive all along, he had not been prepared for the oblivion.
When he got down from the rickshaw at the other end of the narrow path that led to his home, his eyes full of hope found his mother at the gate. She was sweeping the ground, she looked a little older and a lot exhausted. He spotted Jasleen on the roof wringing out the water from washed clothes. She still looked the same to him, his chotti but she had two children of her own now. His two nephews were playing in the courtyard, just like he used to play with Pinda in the evenings after school.
His eyes filled with tears as he took slow steps towards their house. He was finally going to meet his family after years of pining for them. Then suddenly, his mother looked right at him and she averted her gaze and closed the gate on him. He paused in his tracks, feeling as if he had been shaken out of a dream and the reality had broken his rose-tinted vision.
He saw it then- his mother, who had accepted that her son was long gone and he would never return back. His sister, who had taken to believe her mother and her two sons to be her only world. Even if they had looked at him, they would not see their Jaskirat. They would not recognize him. The twenty years had changed a lot in him too.
So, the man who had suffered injustice, a death sentence, forgetting himself and taking up a new name and life in a hostile land felt like giving up here.Jaskirat Singh Rangi, who had been undefeated by everything, was destroyed by his own family, when they had been unable to recognize him. What else was left for him now? Where else would he go if not his home?
Jaskirat Singh Rangi had truly died that day, standing in front of his home and being so near yet feeling so far. He never walked down that impassable path to what was once his home.
If Arjun Singh Rangi had not taught his son to be so brave, patriotic and selfless, then perhaps Jaskirat would have never done what all he had done.
And, If Arjuna had been there to protect Abhimanyu, he would have emerged out of the delusive Chakravyuha, alive and glorious.
Author's Note: The more I wrote this, the more parallels I saw between Jaskirat and Abhimanyu. Even the fact, that both Yalina and Uttara had to spend their entire lives alone with a son to raise on their own. I hope you liked reading this! Thank you!
