Hey Readers 🙂

Just for starters, this is a new concept I’m trying. I’ll be putting up my story in parts, and the parts would continue one after the other.Hope you all like this one, and if you do please comment on and promote my blog 😀

And just a disclaimer, the story or its names do not denote real life incidences nor am I targeting any religious group for any activities.

The Radical Guy

Part I

She ran through the woods, her laughter echoing through the silent jungle. I ran behind her, but somehow she always remained elusive of my reach. I ran after her, but she playfully always managed to dodge my grip. Her laughter filled the forest and then suddenly a shot rang out. Birds flew in all directions. Blood spew all over me, and I ran forward to catch her. Blood oozed from her as I caught her, but she was already limp. I turned around to find a man in a black mask. Same height. Same built. A same. Me. I looked at her body, the eyes were open, the lips parting and she had started to smile. The smile then turned into a grin and then broke into a hysterical laughter, and she screamed was “I thought u loved me, Javed”

I woke up, sweating and stared at the clock. The blue light blared 3:20 am. I felt thirsty, but the nightmare was too much for me to take, and I did not want to wander in the house at this hour. I felt my hand shaking as i lit up, the smoke filling the balcony. My head lightened as the nicotine worked on my mind. But my patience was breaking. It was happening all over again. The same dream. Again and again. I stared at Imran’s back and watched him sleep, but even his face was like his mother’s. I had become a morbid soul. Unable to sleep, unable to work, I saw her face everywhere. For eight years I had with stood the nightmares but that stupid dog finding that skull had been the final nail in the coffin. I could not take it anymore.

I picked up the telephone and dialed 911.

Detective Stoner looked at me squarely in the eye, not blinking once. His piercing gaze made me stare back, while detective Fuller paced around the room, his footsteps echoing in the area.

“My head hurts”, I said.

Fuller stopped walking and stared at me. Stoner did not move an inch.

“Why the fuck did you do it?”

“What is this Good Cop, Bad Cop ?” I sneered.

“Playing funny are we ?” I felt a sting on my cheek as a swift right hand left a red hand print on my face.

I piped down. Silently whispering my prayers.

“Stop fucking with me. I need answers. Goddammit”.

“She knew. Had to be taken care of”, I whispered.

“What did she know ? She was your wife, god damn it, not some side walking bitch that you killed.”

I knew I was a dead man, when I had surrendered to the police. The orders of execution would be on its way.My organization did not believe in weak men. But I could not survive the dreams, or I’d have to take a bullet to my head. I figured better them than me.

“Mr.Hassan, Why did you kill her ? What did she know ?”

A single tear rolled down my eye and my mind went back to my past.


I sprinted down the Heathrow’s aisle, amongst the usual hustle and bustle, my footsteps drowned in the din of the worldly chaos. The terminus was swarming with people but she stood out from the rest of the universe, those glaring eyes piercing at me amongst the thousands who stood on that busy airport. I stopped in front of her. She locked her dark, black eyes into my, her gaze holding mine. She frowned and turned away and started walking.

I shook my head and started after her and called out to her, “Aasma, Aasma, I’m sorry. Please wait up”. I caught up with her and held her hand; she turned around, that angry gaze and had mellowed to become moist and wet. She knew my weakness and used it to the maximum effect.

“I’m sorry Aasma.I just got caught with some work”, I tried to calm her down, as I wiped the tears off her cheeks.
“Javed, this would have been the third flight that I would have missed and them I and Imran would have to leave without seeing you”, she said as she guided my hand to her enlarged tummy. I ran a hand over her stomach, as if asking my unborn son to calm his mother down.

She looked at me skeptically, but I had no anger over the woman I loved. She was already going through the pregnancy tantrums and she was also intimidated of flying. I kissed her forehead; she took my hand and kissed my scar. I smiled and bent down and whispered sweet nothings to my son. She smiled despite her tears.

“I’m going to miss you Javed, Ammi and Abbu did want you to come see them too. Told me to bring you along”

“No, Aasma, we’ve been over this. If I didn’t have this important work I would have surely come”

“Boarding for the flight Qnt 842 bound for Karachi, Pakistan has begun. Please proceed to gate number 8”, rang over the aisle.

I watched as the flight slowly mounted to the skies and finally out of sight. I held my hand against the glass, missing them already, as the rising sun gleamed through the glass panes.
My phone rang. Startled, broken out of trance, I fumbled to find it.

A harsh voice boomed on the other side. “Commence operation Pashtun .Allah be with you”.

The person who held the phone was no longer the man who was lost in thought of family. His eyes lost their innocence, his face became taut, his lips whispering a silent prayer to his Allah for victory and the scar on his hand seared.


The person who held the phone was no longer the man who was lost in thought of family. His eyes lost their innocence, his face became taut, his lips whispering a silent prayer to his Allah for victory and the scar on his hand seared.

I adjusted my glasses, but the frown on my face remained. The time was upon us. The mission that I had prepared for my whole life was about to begin. An orphan adopted by the rebel camps in remote Afghanistan, thrust into the blind followership of Islam and Jihad by the Mujahidin and fuelled by the revenge that burned inside me. I was the son of the local teacher; my father was the richest man in terms of what riches meant to us: cows, sheeps and goats. These along with a lot of hard work in the fields provided meat, milk and hides. Patches of corn grown provided bread and porridge.

There was no reason for me to leave the village till I was eight. The twenty odd families that stayed in the village shared a small mosque. My days were spent tending to the animals and my nights when my father and his brothers gathered around the fire and told stories of the Pashtuani warriors had defeated the red Angleez in these mountains a hundred and fifty years ago, only like it was yesterday.”Always fear a Tiger’s claw, a Cobra’s bite and an Afghani’s vengeance, he used to say. My father taught me some of the language of the foreign land that lay beyond our Afghanistan. Beyond my home in these mountains, there lay an Afghanistan which called itself the Democratic Republic, heavily supported by USSR.

This was the time before the entire Soviet Army rolled through Salang Pass and had taken over Kabul. It was not about Islam now. This was an insult. My father had taught me the rules of the Pukhtunwali, the code by which a Pashtun should live by. Honor, Hospitality and the necessity of vendetta to avenge any insult. These were the rules of the code and Moscow had insulted them. My village did not survive the attack that was brought about by the men from the east. The entire village was burned down and it my father shot while trying to protect the soil that he’d grown on so fiercely protected. It was only a matter of hours before my village and all in it were wiped away. All except me. My Allah had kept me alive to avenge the death of my father and my village.

I found my way to the resistance that had begun in the mountains, to the men who called themselves the warriors of God, Mujahidin. We knew nothing of the cold war but I came to know that my Sardar had powerful friends with the fundamentalist dictator General Zia Ul Haq, the Pakistani President and the Angleez who were the enemies of Russia.

I grew up amongst boys like me, educated in the Koranic school where I was endlessly learning to recite the verses of the Koran, and the rest would be learnt in war. War I went to, but due to my father’s teachings of the Angleez’s language, I was moved out of Afghanistan to London, where the image of a loan manager with a degree from the London School of Economics. Javed Sheikh was not only a well settled man in the society with a family about to start, but he was also one of the revered financer and bomb maker from the camp.

The mission that I had prepared for my whole life was about to begin. I had promised my Sardar, I would do his bidding, even if my life depended on it. This was also the vengeance of a son who had seen his family being ripped by bullets and his village burned down by the Russian and American troops in the name of the land. The time to bid the plan was upon us. The plan was in place and so were the bombs and the so were the men.

On August 13th 1994, five men left their haversack bombs in Central and North London on Subways and the buses. Their bombs ripped apart through the jam packed areas killing eighty two people and injuring several hundred, leaving at least a hundred crippled for life.

The news said that within twenty fours of the explosion the men had been identified and traced to their various residences in and around London and their leader called Mohammad Siddique Khan. Their financer still at large.

My contribution was well rewarded by my Sardar but he said that he still had campaigns planned for me. My vengeance still unquenched.


The repercussions of what happened were felt on all the Muslim families in and around London. People feared us, looked at us with disrespect and fear . We had become a clan of monsters to the English mongrels. But I did not mind that. In war there will be casualties and blood will flow of your brothers too but let that make you stronger and your passion towards your goal and your religion more defined and stronger, my Sardar had told me.

The pressure of the mission had made me hysterical. I had become a nervous wreck, eating nothing, talking nothing and spent sleepless nights spent in my basement talking to my Afghani brothers plotting the arrangements of the next vengeance on the white men. Aasma’s concern towards her husband were raised. Soon these concerns turned to fears and then to suspicions. She became suspicious of man I had become. I could not tell her anything risking the fear of putting my family in danger. I started taking my daily doses of opium to sooth my nerves. The fights between us grew frequent and many, and beyond control. I raised my hand on her and she left my house with my boy. I was only too happy to see her go.

My new assignment was to get the transfer of the money from the account of Al Mujahidin to another account for the next bombing. The money was to travel from Afghanistan to Syria, then to Cyprus, then to Cuba and finally to London. It the usual night of the hour and the house had a deathly silence to it. I was in the basement talking about decoding the signals from Afghanistan and the financing that was to take place from Cuba for the next bombing on the Wembley Stadium. The Mujahidin network played in the background reminding me of the purpose of my life and to kill anyone who stood in my way, the fanatism rising in me, my opium pipe in hand, my world felt light headed.

The conversation in progress, i swung around on hearing a stair creak, my hand reaching for my Browning 9 mm and the pipe falling to the ground. There stood Aasma, hands on her mouth, her eyes terrified . She stepped back and stumbled at the sight of the gun. I strained my neck to my right and let out a smile. She backed up and fled. I fired. Missed.

The opium running in my blood pumped up my adrenaline. She had a head start and was out of the back door leading to the woods before I got up the stairs. She ran with all her might and I ran behind her, the woods fast approaching, the silence of the night ruptured by the shots from the suppressor of my 9mm. The foliage thickened, the chill of the night air biting at me. But I ran, the fanatism of her ruining my mission pushing me on. She ran but always remained elusive of my reach, the fear in her eyes showing, her hair astray, her face bearing the signs of cuts. I aimed and fired. The bullet shot whistled through the air. She arched and fell forward, her hair astray, a small cry as the bullet went through her head. She fell dead. The wind howled behind me as I went down on my knees, a single tear rolling down my eyes.

I buried her there in the forest.


Next day I went to the officials reporting the missing of my wife. The cops came down and investigated but they could not find the body. The neighbors said they saw a couple of white drunk guys following my wife and misbehaving with her on the road. I was only to happy to suffice with that story and so were the police. Her car was found abandoned in another part of the city. The case was closed with the suspects still at large.

I was taken off from the mission by the Sardar, sensing the insecurities that had been built up within me. He told me that I was still one of his favorites and he could get back to me whenever the force needed me. And then the nightmares came. Night after night I would wake up seeing her in my dreams, the same smile, the same fear that I had seen that day. I used to see her at places in my house and then she suddenly vanished. The Hallucinations continued and my mind weathered the storm.

One day me and Imran were strolling along the lawn when the couple living next door walked into theirs. Seeing us they came over for a chat and I knew the woman adored Imran, she having no child of her own. I held my child close to me as they came and the usual round of talks ensured. Suddenly the neighbor’s English Mastiff came pounding out of the woods and bounded towards it’s master with something in it’s mouth. My blood froze when I saw what it was. It was a human skull.

“The same skull that was brought to us, right??” Stoner asked. I slowly nodded.

“I could not take it anymore. She was there. Right there. Laughing at me. Pointing at me and calling out my name. I cannot take it anymore” and I resumed my prayers.

The door was knocked on a file passed to Fuller. He read it and let out a gasp. Stoner went over to look at it and dropped the file.

I looked up. “What is it u scumbags ?? Tell me !! “

“The skull you found Mr. Javed, ….. is more than 200 years old..”

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