LASHKAR Read Online Free PDF Page B

2005. Rehman did not seem very pleased but then what choice did he really have? He and his terror clansmen were almost totally at the mercy of the ISI.
    On his part, Salim was beyond caring what anyone else thought about it. He had seen these dim-witted jihadis mess up one mission after another with their ham-handed approach and was quite fed up with it all. They are motivated and ready to die, but they lack the perception and creativity to actually strike a lethal blow. This time I am going to ensure that things go exactly as planned. This is my final mission; there cannot be any mess-up .
    Salim carefully picked each man himself and took personal charge of every little detail; he wanted his final mission to be a memorable one, a fitting end to an eventful career. As Salim went over the minutiae of the operation for the hundredth time in his mind he wished he had more time to plan and execute the hit. Unfortunately, the day of the strike was predetermined. If the damage had to be both to Indian morale and material, there could be no better day for it.

IQBAL
    December 2004, New Delhi, India.
    It was the feeling that something was missing from his life that had made Iqbal first accompany his uncle Rashid to the mosque. Six months had passed since Iqbal had moved to Delhi from Lucknow to join a diploma course in engineering and work with his uncle in his spare parts shop. But the impersonal monotony of life in the metro had begun to get to him. ‘You don’t seem very happy these days, son,’ Rashid mamu said to him one day. His uncle was a perceptive man, quite sensitive to the feelings of others.
    ‘I’m fine, mamu jaan,’ Iqbal replied with a polite smile. But the truth is that he wasn’t. He missed his friends and family back home. The day scholars in the engineering college he had enrolled at had all grown up in Delhi and had their own cliques. The out-of-towners were all in the hostel and stuck together because of that. The long evenings he spent tinkering in his uncle’s shop were becoming less the pursuit of an enjoyable hobby and more a refuge from loneliness.
    Rashid waved his hand expansively at the shop – ‘I could never have imagined that my little shop would turn into such a goldmine. All the credit goes to you of course, my boy. But you need a break. Maybe I can introduce you to some of the neighbourhood boys at the mosque?’
    ‘Yes, mamu,’ Iqbal said, not wanting to offend his uncle.
    The only religious experience that Iqbal had hitherto been exposed to had been the morning chapel service at La Martiniere, his school in Lucknow. Despite the tranquil beauty of the school chapel and the soothing cadence of the hymns, the service had never been an exceptionally moving experience for him. Iqbal only attended because it was mandatory. In any case, Iqbal always made sure he blended in as much as possible. He was only too aware of the fact that he would never have been admitted to such a fancy school had his father not been a staff member; something the rich brats in his class seldom let him forget.
    Unlike the strangely sterile chapel service, Iqbal’s first visit to the mosque left him disturbed and confused. The serene, softly-lit, incense-laden school chapel contrasted starkly with the densely-packed mosque that smelt of sweat and toil – a smell Iqbal associated with the workers in the garage. And the angry talk of harsh realities that the Maulavi gave later was so unlike the namby-pamby teachings of his school. He thought of the soft, well-fed, self-absorbed boys at school and college and was surprised at the bitterness he suddenly felt.
    Iqbal was not sure why he returned to the mosque again, but return he did. On his second visit to the mosque Iqbal found himself listening closely to the Maulavi’s sermon. Something in the man’s words touched his own barely articulated feelings of persecution. He was completely engrossed in the sermon the Maulavi gave that day. Possibly that is why Maulavi