Let me shout out a really big ‘WOW’ to M. Romail Khan here. Boys, this is what they call ‘a story with appeal’. Romail, besides enjoying appreciation, mind looking for all those bits of editing in this updated version of your story by constantly keeping that original version by your side. Note them all carefully down, and then reach me at school to show how much, where and why the text was edited. (Humayun)

'Despite my devoted care, I couldn't save that boy from dying.'

"No, I can't take care of him..., Sir." I exclaimed with shock, though I couldn’t believe it was I who had reacted to captain Abdullah’s order with that sharp and high pitched

voice.

"You have to... that’s an ORDER!" blared Cap Abdullah, only a few centimeters away from my face, blue from the cold and brown from the shock. "It is your responsibility as a Muslim to take care of the prisoners of war." he stated with a lowered voice, pointing at the weak, helpless soul standing and shivering at my side. Before I could say anything further, he walked away, back into the station, not giving a single look back to see the desperation, or surprise, or... I can’t describe the kind of expression I had been holding on my face ever since I had been 'assigned' the new 'mission', completely out of the blue.

 The inter-racial war was raging on, but it was gradually becoming more and more eminent that it would soon end, with a victory for Pakistan.

"HURRAY!" blazed the mixed sound of us all troops at the base a week later, all my brothers in arms filling the large underground hall with shouts of laughter and happiness. Cheering and holding up our cups of "Kashmiri Tea" to beat the dreadful cold prevalent all around outside our base camp. The camp was at Srinagar, now a part of Pakistan, alongside the entire state which once called Srinagar its capital. That's right. Kashmir was now a permanent part of Pakistan.

"India didn't stand a chance" boasted one of our troops sipping down on his Tea.

“Captain Abdullah is calling the whole unit outside for an announcement" informed one of our troops, standing at the door.

“Here comes the long awaited Victory Speech from our beloved Captain" sighed the soldier sitting next to me.

The whole unit, including me moved outside, our pupils dilating from the sudden change of atmosphere from the lighted and warm base camp.

Mounts of snow melting underneath the horde of our feet, we stood halt in our formation, in an 'at ease' position, facing our captain. In the dark and cold night, Captain Abdullah stationed a young shivering child, each either a boy or a girl, no older than 12 beside each one of us and informed us to take care of these young 'prisoners of war'. After the captain had left us all stunned and gone inside, we all looked at each other as if rendered dumb from the short 10 minutes experience we had just had.

"What's your name" I asked with a soft voice facing the young 11 years old boy who stood there scared and shivering just an arm's length distance away from my crouched position.  " Ranbir Divani" replied his blue lips, same color as his eyes. "Let's get you inside" covering him with my thick army jacket, I took him to my room.

The following week I drove home, a new addition to my luggage in the form of a beautiful 11 years old boy, just two years older than my own daughter, whom I was finally going to meet after three years.

After having driven into my humble garage and having exchanged the prolonged emotional greeting with my wife and daughter, I introduced the new edition to our family. Fortunately, the family didn't have any grudges against the Indians but least could be said about my neighbors. The victory had come for Pakistan with the price of 20,000 innocent Pakistanis’ lives in the long three years of war. Thus it was not surprising that the Pakistanis failed to show any sympathy towards any Indians.

The following two months were difficult. Thanks to the devoting care of my beautiful wife, Ranbir was well. And was healthier from when he had been brought home.  But sadly, this was always at risk from the extremist neighbors my house was surrounded with. There had been a couple of attempts by the neighbors to hurt Ranbir, and it mostly always led to our house being vandalized, or me or my wife being hurt, trying to save Ranbir from bamboo sticks and machetes.

One could always see deep shadows of sorrow in Ranbir's eyes, resulting from the wounds his new family endured merely due to his former nationality.

He had become a good older brother to my daughter Nafisa and then came the day when Nafisa got hurt... trying to save his new brother from our neighbor's bamboo stick.

This was the last straw. His little sister had been hurt, punished for the beating originally intended for Ranbir.

The following day, I arrived home after getting my neighbor arrested, and my wife in the hospital with a wounded Nafisa, but it was too late.

Shocked beyond contemplation, I was struck dumb at the sight of the stool, the rope noose, and Ranbir's neck in between. Seconds turning into minutes, the horrifying reality gradually came back. I stepping forward I picked up the letter pressed under the feet of the 11 year old corpse. It was full of innocent apologies Ranbir had quickly jotted down in his recently-learned Urdu for the damage he thought his presence had caused for my family, sending his innocent love and appreciation for his new parents and sweet sis Nafisa.

I dropped back. Leaning against the wall with tearful eyes, I stood there with my heart pounding in my throat. I regretfully looked at the still body hanging beside me, now his innocent blue eyes shut.

Grieved, I shut my eyes too. Despite my devoted care, I couldn't save the boy from dying.

Authored by:
M. Romail Khan
O' Level Final Year
PakTurk Schools
Islamabad

M. Romail Khan