Bichkand, 11 years-old, opens her eyes and sees nothing but a desolated garden of date trees surrounded by tall, black mountains covered with dark clouds –thundering and lightning without rain. She shouts “Abba” (Dad) “Amma” (Mom) without hearing back from them. She runs around the fields among the trees which have lost their pulchritude and charm. She runs from one field to the other, shouting out loud and finding none around. In distance, she observes a flock of goats and sheep coming towards her. As they reach near, they change their forms and become scavengers – those which eat lifeless bodies. She runs but falls. They jump and attempt to eat Bichkand. She keeps both her hands on her face and shouts unceasingly.
“Abbbbbbbbaaaa,” she startled from her dream and fell down from her bed. Her parents reached out her immediately, inquiring if she were fine. She had her eyes closed, shouting the same word, feeling as if all she could speak was the only two words: Amma, abba (Mom, Dad).
A student of class 6 in a private school in Turbat, Bichkand is a very bright pupil with outstanding performance in each of her class. Out of 30 students in her class, comprising of 13 boys and 7 girls, she tops in all the class subjects. Besides being the topper of the class, she was a very kind-hearted child, who used to help all her class whenever they were stuck in any matter – whether in terms of class activities, or any matter related to the class – but she was not the class representative (CR).
“She disturbs the class and incites students for going against the school administration which is the only fault in Bichkand,” says the Vice Principal (VP) of the school to the class teachers each time they discuss her or the class matters. “Otherwise, we like her more if she continues to give more time to the class activities only,” she would finish the debate stressing too much on the last word “only”.
“Bichkand is the most active child of our society,” says Mehrii, the Online Journalist of the Singanisar (Bichkand’s hometown in Turbat city) area. The residents have termed her ‘online journalist’ because she brings all the news of the locality – that too after every ten minutes. She is walking from one house to the other all the day. Whatever she hears from one house, forwards it to the other. “Today, Dr Taj Bibi was praising Bichkand a lot,” she said just before Bichkand entered the home, exhausted. “Here comes our little angel,” she says, before leaving for the other home. “Mind my words, there are apprehensions that some thieves are wandering in the city, looting the golds of the people. Hide yours. I have already hidden mine.”
Bichkand changed her school uniforms and sat with her mother, asking what was new in the society, having the online journalist seen there. “Nothing. She says thieves are wandering, hide your things, blah blah,” they both laughed. “She has nothing but to intimidate us with her hearsay news. God knows from where she brings all the news.” Bichkand’s mother said with her head down sewing the clothes.
“Bichkand, why are you not coming to the Zigrana? Aren’t you a Muslim?” Noori Maat (Bichkand’s aunt) says as she enters the room they are sitting in. Zigrana is the Zigri sect’s religious place, while Noori Maat is the cleric of the area, teaching Quran to both, boys and girls of the society. She is reputed and respected by everyone in the surrounding areas. Bichkand’s mother and Noori are sisters, therefore, she loves Bichkand a lot, but she does not like her being absent in the Zigrana. “How can I suggest the other kids to come when my own nieces and nephews are not coming?” she would always complain, but the doubles her love towards Bichkand.
“Bichkand, do not listen to your aunt,” online journalist appears back suddenly. “She is counting her last days with her one leg inside the grave. In the modern world, who gets themselves stuck in the world we aged and received nothing back?” Instead, she asks Bichkand to focus on her studies in the school and become a doctor. “Our Bichkand is very bright. She will be a doctor,” she says with a smile of future, looking deeply into her eyes with so much affection. “Yes, and rest are donkeys only, doctors are only humans,” Noori responds, making her mood darker and mocking annoyingly the online journalist. “Yes, just like one Bichkand and I are talking to,” she says, laughing very loudly pointing out at Noori.
“Let me speak, Noori. Our world war will never finish,” she recalled that she had a news to tell, while her expressions changed suddenly. “Do not send your children outside. There are thieves wandering in search for children,” she conveys the news of some robbers meandering street to street to look for children to rob and sell them (or any of their body parts). “God forbids. How cruel they are. The children we give birth and raise, they take in minutes. Look at these beautiful flowers.” She says looking at Bichkand with warm love and emotions, imagining how the hearts of the thieves could do so. “They, at least, deserve to live and dream freely. It was not so in our time. But now a days, God forbids…”
Bichkand was tired. She had gone to sleep. She rarely slept, but that day, she was so exhausted due to the school tensions and eventually went asleep as soon as she laid down. Her father had also come from his duty and asked for food while gazing with affection his sleeping child. The online journalist had just woke up and went outside.
After around an hour, the news suddenly came that the online journalist was missing, with all the society grieving and remaining in shock. As the day wrapped up its tiredness, people began to analyze what could have happened to the online journalist. Some were saying that she was illegally arrested by the security forces as was the case in Balochistan, while others were claiming thieves had abducted her and would sell her body parts: few were alleging that she had hidden somewhere herself and would come back when she was tired, and a quarter among them was apprehending that she had gone to the mountains – to live her life alone in the darkness of the mountains, or perhaps to accompany the resisting men out there.
The same air of tense has spread in Bichkand’s home as well. As they all sit together to make analysis, Bichkand shouts, “Abbbbbaaaa” in her dream. She is shivering from head to toe and sweating – despite it being cold.
