The midnight knock

Tuk, Tuk. Taps on the wooden door suddenly break the tenuous calm of the night. Within seconds my insomniac uncle walks across the house, kn...

Tuk, Tuk. Taps on the wooden door suddenly break the tenuous calm of the night. Within seconds my insomniac uncle walks across the house, knocking at doors, to wake each one of us up. As my eyes adjust to the pitch dark, I see shadows of fear in his eyes. He whispers. 8216;8216;There is a knock8217;8217;.

I am rubbing my eyes. I see my aunt and her daughter huddled close behind. My cousin is sleeping a few feet away. He wakes up, perhaps in the middle of a dream. We all understand the reason for the panic. A midnight knock is always bad news in Kashmir.

It is a moonless night. And somebody 8212; or is it a group? 8212; is standing outside with unknown intent. Perhaps to kill. Perhaps to kidnap. Perhaps to deliver a warning. Perhaps to search. Or to find shelter for the night.

The knocks start again. This time all of us are awake. 8216;8216;Who could it be?8217;8217; whispers my aunt. 8216;8216;Perhaps, they are militants,8217;8217; says my uncle.

8216;8216;They must have come for me,8217;8217; he says. That breaks my aunt8217;s restraint. She starts crying in the ground floor passageway.

The knocks resume. 8216;8216;No, this must be the military,8217;8217; contradicts his daughter, her face awash with eloquent terror. 8216;8216;I saw them patrolling the road in the day8217;8217;.

8216;8216;No, no, they are Ikhwanies pro-government gunmen. One of their commanders thinks I am hostile to them,8217;8217; reveals my cousin. 8216;8216;They must have come for me8217;8217;. This makes my aunt more distraught. He is her only son. But my uncle insists they are militants and only he could be the target. 8216;8216;An army officer recently met me on the road. Many people saw me talking to him,8217;8217; he discloses, in a remorseful confession of guilt. 8216;8216;But, it was a chance encounter. He stopped me for a routine inquiry. I am not an informer,8217;8217; he goes on explaining as if to the unknown presence in the darkness outside. 8216;8216;We have nothing to do with the militancy. Why should the military be after us?8217;8217; asks my cousin.

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The knocks start again. This time, in a long uninterrupted drumbeat. We all rush together to the cramped store room, fearing a burst of gunfire through the door. Then it falls silent.

The knocking doesn8217;t resume. 8216;8216;Who is it,8217;8217; my cousin screams. 8216;8216;Who is it,8217;8217; my uncle shouts. Silence. We wait. Now we are desperate. Ignoring my aunt, I and my cousin resolve to open the door. Torchlight in hand and my aunt tugging at us, we grasp the knob and turn it.

A silhouette slips away. But its furry four-legged form doesn8217;t startle us. It is a dog. Shivering in the December chill, it had been sitting close to the door, pawing periodically at it. Fear disappears, relief sets in. There is an instant rage too. My cousin picks up a stone and takes after the dog.

It is a resigned violent gesture. Perhaps a retaliation against our own demons which had come alive in all their grotesque, dreadful forms. The dog was an incidental trigger.