DECEPTIVE TRUTHS [ON HOLD]

CHAPTER 18: LAHORE DIARIES

We were stunned at the same time speechless on seeing ourselves inside a fully secured terrorist camp.
The submarine wasn’t in the sea, but in a small artificial lake which is almost at the centre of the camp.

“I know you’ve many questions in mind, but relax. All of them will be answered. One by one.”,Amar said, looking at our confused expressions.

As we stepped out from the submarine, a batch of almost 10 well built heavily bearded soldiers surrounded us and we were subjected to a thorough security check. Our bags were rummaged again and again by those Mujahideens who acted like hungry scavengers who finally scratched out some food.

Finally after 10 minutes of utter nonsense, we were allowed to enter.

At that very moment, I felt as if I’ve committed a big mistake by taking this decision.

To our left, we could spot some cadets who were practising mixed martial arts. Behind them, were another dozen of them, running with heavy bags and weapons. Their clenched teeth and weary expressions said it all.

As we moved ahead, we reached the weapon’s training camp. Here, Mujahideens were taught how to handle these dreadful medium of terror, ranging from hand grenades  to missile launchers. The sight of the commander in charge slapping a young cadet- roughly around 20 years of age- sent a chill down my spine. Atif and Ali were silent too, as Amar led us, doing his job.

“How did we reach here? Where’s the sea? And..and which place is this exactly?”, Atif asked without any further thought.

“See Atif, the lake here is connected to the sea from under the ground. The very prospect of entering the main land through a common port or any other place where there’s a chance of us being busted led to this underground canal, or tunnel you may call.”, Amar explained.

What the actual heck!

“And the place we are currently in, is Lahore! That was a silly question. Don’t you know the fact that…”

“…those Mujahideens who are selected for Kashmir attacks undergo training at Muzaffarabad whereas the rest of the troop are sent to Lahore.”, I completed his sentence, referring to what Junaid had mentioned to us.

“Perfect. And now we are here at the Chief’s office. He’s the in-charge of this entire camp.”,  Amar said as we neared a small hut.

Too small a mansion for a Chief, I guess.

As the soldier’s who guarded the door saw us approaching, one among them went inside and informed the Chief about our arrival.

We looked at each other in suspense and anticipation.

The Chief was an old man, most probably in his late sixties. His white beard was perfectly knotted at its end. The black sunglasses confused us for a moment about him being blind. His face was covered with battle and training scars, each one of them telling a story of his grit and determination. The heavy shoes made a thumping noise each time he landed his foot on the weak wood platform in front of his house.

As we were trying hard to figure out what would happen next, the soldiers came forward and pushed us to the ground, forcing to bow as a mark of respect to the Chief.

It was a déjà vu moment for me as it reminded me of a similar scene.

The haunted house mystery chronicles.

History repeats itself, once again.

“In the end, it’s all about the respect you get in your lifetime. Right Amar?”, the Chief said in his deep husky voice, trying to sound as if he quoted his own thoughts.