Abhay Narayan Sapru - In the Valley of Shadows

Praise for the book

This is the first combat book written in India, by a Spetsnaz, a special forces officer who knows the Kashmir Ops the way it really isno frills, no arm chair theorystraight from the hip. You can smell the cordite and the fear and most important you can get into the head of the enemy!

Great read specially if you want to know what the fuck is going on in Kashmir.

Prahlad Kakkar, a man with many hats

The aroma of deodar trees mixes with the acrid odour of gunpowder in this taut adventure story set in Kashmir. The drama is gripping, the characters finely-etched and the plotting authentic. But even as his characters engage in a good-versus-evil battle to the death, Sapru sensitively shows his reader how Kashmir is a tragedy not just for Kashmiris, but equally for the Indian soldier and the Pakistan-backed mercenary.

Ravindra Kumar, Editor, The Statesman

Though his first novel, Abhay shows class of a seasoned writer. Descriptions of terrain, actions, emotions, drama, and violence keep you spell-bound. The tragic reality of Kashmir is so well articulated through this gripping drama, it is guaranteed to win your rapt attention from beginning to end.

Lt Gen PC Katoch, PVSM, UYSM, AVSM, SC

(Retd)-Parachute Regiment

Abhay Narayan Sapru

First published 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwisewithout the prior permission of the author and the publisher.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any living or dead person or events or places will be entirely co-incidental.

ISBN 978-81-8328-267-3

Published by
Wisdom Tree,
4779/23, Ansari Road,
Darya Ganj, New Delhi-2
Ph.: 23247966/67/68
wisdomtreebooks@gmail.com

Printed in India at Print Perfect

This book is dedicated to:

The Indian Special Forces, whose profession I had the privilege of following.

My late Father (Colonel Sahib) for showing me the way.

My late Mother for silently bearing the disappearances from time to time.

All ex-comrades in arms: my gratitude and thanks for the good times and bad.

Little AryMay you follow the romance.

Agar firdous barrui-e-zameen ast,

Hamin ast-o-hamin-ast-o-hamin ast

If there be paradise on earth,

It is here, it is here, it is here

Urfi

If a thousand beings like me are annihilated,

what does it matter?

Allah wont have any fewer warriors with wounded hearts!

If my passion is madness, Allah knows I have a reason.

I am a slave to a cause, which has a million drum and standards.

Anonymous Mujahidin

We are the pilgrims, master we shall go

All ways a little further it may be.

Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,

Across the angry and the glimmering sea.

James Elroy Flecker

Preface

There is a dry wind blowing through the East, and the parched grasses wait the spark. And the wind is blowing towards the Indian border. Whence comes that wind, think you?

John Buchan

A MASSIVE STORM was raging on the mountain. There was relentless rain and thunder, and forked lightning split the sky from end to end so often, that it charged the atmosphere with static electricitythe kind that made your hair stand on end and suddenly converted an innocently exposed iron surface, into a conductor. There was an ominous hiss in the air because of the highly charged particles and it was one of those nights when umbrellas, rifle barrels and radio antennae needed to be covered, or the owner ran the risk of grievous harm. It was Nature at its destructive best. A sensible man, on such an occasion, seeks the comfort and safety of home. But sense and soldiering often dont go hand in hand; in fact, in a Special Force outfit, it is taught that it is precisely this kind of bad weather that is ideal for surprise and one often hears the remark that a dark night and inclement weather is a commandos best friend.

On such a night then, in the summer of 1996, I was out with a group of men on a mission to raid a militant hideout, somewhere on a mountain in the Lolab Valley in north Kashmir. As we crested the three thousand metre high top sometime during first light,the rain had exhausted itself and it promised to be a crisp, clear day. I called for a halt. As I sat wet and shivering, munching my puri and gazing over the valley across Zulu Gali (as it was called by the army), my sight was held by a range of very high snow clad mountains. Puffs of white clouds floated on their shoulders and the tops glowed pink in the early morning light. From amongst them, rose a towering giant, head and shoulder above the rest.

Nanga Parbat, jenab , the local Gujjar guide said, reading my thoughts. Thats in Gilgit, Pakistan.

I allowed my soul to briefly rise and soar over the valleys and mountains, for the distance to the big mountain did not look too much. I wondered about the kind of fundamentalist adventurers who came from there, calling themselves the mujahidinsoldiers of God. Was it purely religion that drove them to take such risks, or some sort of rustic romance with soldiering? I wished times had been different and I could have just continued walking. Gilgit, Hunza, Chitralnames on a map never to visit. It was then that I had a strong urge to capture in a tale, the people, the place and the setting of this so-called Jehad-e-Kashmir.

In the context of time and place, most of the main characters of the novel are based on real life people; Sher Khan and his cronies definitely are, but it is fair to say that it was a common code-name used by foreign militants across the valley, and often when one Sher Khan perished, another would step into his shoes. This particular Sher Khan and I inhabited the same valley for a year or so. Proud of his Pashtun lineage to the point of arrogance,

A polite way of addressing a senior in age or experience.

Holy war in Kashmir.

cocky about his fighting ability with complete conviction in his cause and effort, Sher Khan displayed utter disdain for the Hindu race. He was a perfect example of some of the leaders who ran and managed the Jehad for the Pakistani establishment in Kashmir. I often heard him speaking to cadres on the radio and did manage to engage him in conversation a couple of times, but these were always brief and ended with, Well meet in the field, fauji bhai.

In fact, on one occasion where we managed to eliminate a few members of his group, Sher Khan came onto the Brigade radio network. He was furious and kept challenging the army. By the time we turned up at the decided rendezvous, he had left. Along with most of his cronies, he was killed barely a kilometre and a half away from the divisional headquarter. They had spent the night planning mischief in a house very close to the road. It was the wrong choice for a meeting place and no sentry was posted for an early warning. They had been sitting down for breakfast at ten in the morning when the army cordoned off the house. His arrogant over-confidence finally got him an unmarked grave.