An Exploration of Unintended Consequences

And then I noticed something. Four dark specks in the surrounding mountains, discernible only because of the whiter-than-white backdrop, slowly making their way downwards in the direction of the tea shop. I pointed them out to the others, and we decided it must be goats, there can’t be anything else up there but, as they got closer, we could see that they were not goats, they were men, in long and loose all-covering phirans, alternating between stepping and rolling downwards in the snow. There was a palpable tension in the room as they got within hailing distance, when we could see that they were young, bearded, and armed. Militants! “We should get out of here quickly,” we said to each other. The others agreed, except for Thara, who was bristling with rage. She said, “How dare they come here? I will not go until I have given them a piece of my mind.” “Thara, these are militants, armed and dangerous,” I signed at her so that the others could not follow. “These are not the boys from school, who were terrified at the sight of you. Look at them. They are different. Let us leave. This is none of our business.” But Thara seemed to have rediscovered her inner rakshasi. She signed back at me, “Bloody rascals, they are coming here to create trouble in my country, I am not going to sit back and let it go. They are going to think one hundred times before going ahead with their stupid plans. How can we just leave, Akka?” “And what language are you going to give them a piece of your mind in, Thara?” I signed. “Tamil or English?” “It doesn’t matter, Akka,” she signed back, ignoring my sarcastic undertone, “They will know what I have to say when I say it.” The militants had come in while we were doing all this signing. They were tall and extremely tough-looking, but also deeply tired, with faces upon which elements such as wind, snow, ice, and sun had left their marks in the form of haphazard tans that were criss-crossed with burns on what were originally fair skins. Their guns remained inside their phirans as they walked in and removed their knapsacks, but we could make them out from the occasional glimpse into their loose sleeves. They asked for tea in a language that was not Kashmiri, and then one of them sat down on a table near me, two of them went to another table just next to the room’s entrance, and one took a chair outside and sat facing the path by which we had reached here. Thara by then had instigated the three others to get up, park themselves across the two militants sitting together, and let them know what she thought of their nefarious intentions. And I sat by myself thinking, poor fellows, they are going to get a blasting in a mix of Tamil and Tamil-accented Hindi, and they are either going to kill us all quickly or to wish that they were back home, wherever this was, with their mothers. And then I saw the fellow near me looking at me and then at his hands, then again, repeating the move until he got my attention. He was trying to communicate with me in sign language. “Can you understand?” he signed, not very efficiently but discernible, nonetheless. I glared at him. And he signed the same again, and then for a third time. “Yes, I can,” I finally signed back. “Please look at my hands when I am signing, and when you sign, look in another direction. Nobody should make out that we are communicating.” What did the fellow think? That I would have a cosy conversation with him while Thara was blasting his friends? I just continued glaring. “Now, I need you and your friends to leave this place soon. There is going to be trouble. You should be out of here.” “I don’t follow instructions from militants,” I signed and continued glaring. He slapped his hand on his forehead and signed, “We are not militants. We are Army!” “Bullshit!” I signed back, making the interlocked forearms with the inner two fingers of the upper hand pressing the thumb and the outer fingers pointing upwards, and using the fingers of the lower hand at the other end move in a manner indicating a splatter. And then I put my fingers over my open mouth and reprimanded myself. ‘Theynmozhi (for some reason, I have always used my full name for such soliloquies),’ I said to myself, ‘what has happened to you? You, who has never uttered such a word, has never even thought such a word, why are you doing so now? What would your Appa think? Whatever and whoever this fellow is, it doesn’t make it OK.’ But the recipient of the pejorative only looked amused and continued signing, “I am going to get up and walk out. When I walk past you, a little paper will drop. It is a picture of me receiving my commission. I will come back and pick it up. Don’t do anything, don’t touch it, don’t draw attention to it, just see it.” A small photograph dropped as he passed. I couldn’t make out anything other than a very young and cleanshaven man holding a sword. “Convinced?” he signed when he returned. “Not in the slightest,” I responded. “It could be anybody.” “Please, whatever you think I am, please just leave this place. You are in danger.” “OK!” I signed finally, after a long lag. “Leave it to me.” But how could I orchestrate a quick departure? I looked across at the others – they were on a roll, speaking animatedly at the two militants across them on the table, who in turn did not look as though they understood a word but had anyway adopted hangdog expressions. No one gave the impression of being willing to leave without being prised out of the place.