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472 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2014
Page 27:
She watched through the window as the intruders, having stuffed themselves with breakfast, and packed the leftovers, walked out the driveway and disappeared into the morning mist as if they were college boys stooped with books and thoughts and not weapons and a cause. Militants. Guerrillas. Insurgents. Freedom Fighters. Zari didn't even know what to call them anymore. She remembered a time when they'd invoke safety, not terror. A time when they'd genuinely belonged to Kashmir, when they had been indigenous fighters and not men overtaken by foreign forces with agendas of their own to push. Now their knocks - whether in a remote village or in her upper-middle-class neighborhood - were met with curses and their forced recruitment with suicides. No one knew which group was knocking, native or outsides, asli or naqli, real or impostor. Which group will shoot you for sheer practice, sheer sport, sheer rage at someone or some other situation that the laws of transference had delivered to your door.
These fighters, once rising to fix what was broken in the land, now a part of the shards themselves, breaking apart as they were into different groups fighting for supremacy amongst themselves; some pro-independence, some pro-Pakistan, some under the Indian government's counter insurgency payroll, and some neither for nor against, just that it felt good to be powerful, thanks to the gun in their hands, the gun that enabled them to bleed each other for different goals although the end results were identical: injecting misery into the lives of ordinary Kashimri citizens.
Page 228:
Billy sat absolutely still. If he moved, he would fall. If he looked at anyone's face, he would crack. If he allowed himself to crack, he would die. Everyone rose for the last prayers of the day and Billy rose too, stumbling through the prayers, through the words, the motions. Nothing virulent had ever been shown at any meeting back home and even the media made sure that death and destruction were cleansed of guts and gore. A fence lined with teddy bears and ribbons and flowers represented hit and run. Shocked neighbors represented the body of a murder victim. A camera panning the outside of a house represented the lair of a serial killer. War, too, was sanitised. Soldiers returned in flag-draped coffins, while battlefields were marked with cenotaphs and bereft relatives looking away from the camera into sombre skies. Nothing like this continuous footage of carnage Billy has just been force fed.
Page 173:
"Nullify differences, ignore them, celebrate them, find a balance ... this is the new trick the old dog must learn if it is not to blow itself up. I just do not believe that breaking countries up on communal or religious or ethnic lines will lead to the ultimate happiness of all those involved. I like to believe that diverse people can live together as long as law and order and justice are meted out equally. But then again," Amman said, "I live in the United States of America; I must believe in this."
Page 174:
"Let me tell you!" Amman sat up. "The end of insurgency does not necessarily means a government better than the one being resisted. It does not mean an end to the bribery and corruption that are rampant in state systems; it does not mean the institution of measures to reign in poverty, or programs to teach ex-freedom fighters a profession. Instead, these unsung 'heroes', as I am sure you'd like to call them, are left high and dry with no education and no practical skills to support themselves and their families in the new world with its changed order. Eventually, these discontented men either turn to overthrowing the very establishment they helped put into place or else, they turn to crime because crime pays better than some menial, back-breaking, reward-less job.
"Look at me Billal," Amman stares into Billy's eyes. "Freedom fighters don't get medals, they don't get any honours. My mother made sure I understand that, and I will make sure you do too before you get caught up in romancing an exaggerated idealisation of a lie."
Page 287:
"Children whose parents die are called orphans, but there is no such word for parents who have lost their children. Omissions like that used to frighten me. As if the world was Godless just because my language was incomplete."