"No words.

I have no words to describe the anguish we're going through as a community. 16th December shall forever be remembered as a black day. A black day for students. A black day for teachers. And a black day for Pakistan. APS (Army Public School) Peshawar...We stand with you, at this hour devastation.

This issue is dedicated to the memory of all those who lost their lives fighting for their right to live, love, and laugh.

Never Forget." - (Nitty Gritty, Issue no 791, December '14)

Layla:

"He wants to talk to you Laylee." Ruby extends her mini iPad towards me. I wordlessly chewed on my toast before gulping down some coffee. Zaif thinks if he pesters every member of the family enough times, I will give up, and Skype with him. 

He thinks wrong.

"I'm late for The Vigil. Tell him to call me when he isn't on the Most Wanted shit-list." I lash out before grabbing a black dupatta (scarf) I had swiped from Mama's leftover trash in the design room. I ignored Ruby's entreating pleas, and muffled sounds coming from the Video Call. 

I'm not ready to talk to my brother. What he did, three years ago, goes against everything I believe in. No matter how well-intended, I cannot simply pretend that he didn't ruin all of our lives when he let his anger take control of his actions. In defending my honor (uninvited, may I add) he took himself away from us. I can't forgive him for that. At least not so soon. 

The situation of the entire country cannot be graver. For the past two days, we've been mourning for Peshawar. It seems fitting that our clothes reflect our moods. Our very aura is Black. Today, I was uncharacteristically desi in my plain dark Shalwar Kameez and a black Dupatta draped around my head like a veil. At the moment, colors just repel me. Red in particular, makes me anxious. 

After watching the live news coverage of the massacre for six hours straight, Ruby finally switched off the TV. My senses were numb with acute pain. I couldn't bear watching yet another refreshed head-count of dead children. A number which seemed to increase, appallingly, on an hourly basis. I couldn't bear watching yet another hysterical mother searching the casualty lists for her child's name. 

 Mama ordered a week long suspension of all business at her outlets, out of respect for the tragedy. The Pakistani flag was flying half-mast by order of the government. Since APS was an army-run school, supposedly secured and protected by the Pakistani Military, the Army was taking this attack very personally, and retaliating by intensifying armed operations against the Tehreek-e-Taliban Terrorist Groups in the northern parts of the country.  Everyone had an opinion on the Army's operations. At this point, the military was under intense internal pressure to fix the Taliban situation. The Government (scared of the outraged Plebeians) hurriedly went along with whatever liberties the Army demanded. After six years, the death moratorium was to be lifted on terrorism charges, which basically meant that we were speeding up the justice process by lopping off heads. And people were celebrating it.

"Hang the bastards," They said. "An eye for an eye,"...Social media was going berserk.

This is what terrorism reduces passive, law-abiding citizens to. It sharpens the blood lust. 

But it also united us, as a nation. For once, I didn't hear about ethnic politics, and ideological divides. For better or for worse, the death of those 144 children served as a painful unification factor. What does that say about us as a community though? It seems that two factors always cause us to unite together; Terrorism, and Cricket matches against India. Sad really.

If I'm being insensitively blunt about it; perhaps the one good thing that came out of this tragedy (for our family) was the fact that Zaif's news never made it to the big News channels. The media had enough fodder with the APS tragedy to last for weeks to come. I make it sound like the Media is a fire demon residing in the pits of Hades. A demon which requires that its stomach be full at all times. The latest news trends, the latest tragedy brings in new life and excitement to the screens. It's like they revel in misery. 

As if I don't have enough agony on my mind, I also have Azaan to be tormented about. He isn't the same anymore. It's like someone turned off a personality switch inside him. He isn't sleeping. Huge bruise-like shadows under his eyes are testament of that. His stubble is growing darker, and his clothes look like he has given up on life. All of us our deeply effected, but he seems to have taken this incident the hardest. I called him up to check on him, and he couldn't even speak full sentences to me. He'd reply in monosyllabic answers that just hurt me even more. 

Yesterday, Pareeshae was the one who suggested a vigil for the victims. We were supposed to bring lanterns, candles, flowers, letters and donations to campus tonight. We're going to pray, and say a few words to remember the departed. The idea was eagerly circulated among the student body. Being so far from Peshawar, we felt like we were out of the loop. We couldn't all physically travel up north and console the bereaved...but we needed this. A place. A time to mourn them once before the wounds eventually heal over.

............

Azaan:

It's happening again. 

I'm sick. 

This perpetual feeling of nausea, and headaches. It's happened before. I barely got over the sickness after Amaan's passing. It took a lot away from me. And it's back again. I can't stop seeing it. The blood. Covering the floors and walls of a place I used to be a part of. It's been a few years, but school has a special nostalgic place in your hearts. You can see a younger version of yourself learning algebra, ink-stained hands getting into mischief, your mother twisting your ears after being called in for your "Hyperactive Conduct"....

I can still remember the day our austere Principal Qazi caught me sneaking out of class, to help a distressed kitten stuck in the shrubbery...After she assisted me in helping the poor animal, she caned my hands, and made me stand in the sun for two hours. During my five years at APS Peshawar, I have lost count of the time my Mother was called in for my mischief. In fact by the time Baba was transferred back to Karachi, my family was very well acquainted with the Principal, Vice principal and School-Nurse... Now I come to hear about her valiant efforts to save her school-children. Mom couldn't stop sobbing when she heard that Principal Qazi was rescued three times, but she refused to evacuate the premises. 

"I will leave when the last child is safe." She told the rescue team. 

Her body was later found behind a bush; riddled with bullets. 

I can't help but relive the moment I found out about Amaan's death...26th November, 2011*. Getting that fateful phone-call from the Director General himself. 

"Aap khushqismat hain. Aap kay betay ko shahadat naseeb hui hay..."

(You're fortunate, to have a martyr as a son)

"Shaheed toh hamesha zinda rehtay hain..."

(Martyrs live forever)

"Humari qoum khusqismat hay. Kay Amaan jesay jawan uskay liye shaheed honay ko tayyar hain..."

(Our nation is fortunate. To have brave sons like Amaan. Ready to lay their lives to protect it)

We didn't scream. We didn't howl with the agony of our loss. We didn't beat at our heads with helplessness... That's not how you honor a Shaheed. Every time someone in our family joins the armed forces, they pledge their lives to this cause. Ever since Amaan got drafted after cadet college, ever since he brought home his Sword of honor from the academy, ever since he joined the Infantry division, aiming for special ops, I think we had mentally braced ourselves for his greatness. His heroism. 

But losing him so soon after his draft...we hadn't anticipated that. No consolation call from the President, and Army General praising his bravery would lessen that pain. No posthumous Hilal-i-Jura'at* (Crescent Of Courage) made it easier for me and my Dad to fly overnight to Baluchistan and fetch my brother's body for burial. 

Shrapnel to the chest. Quick death. His face was barely scratched. He looked so peaceful, he could have been asleep. My big brother. My oldest friend. My protector. His blood was still fresh even after hours; oozing into the Kafan (white shroud). They say if a corpse's blood stains the Kafan, it's a sign of true martyrdom. I don't think I was prepared to see him like that. Because I fainted. I couldn't stop throwing up for hours afterwards. That's when my blood-aversion started. It took me a year to pull myself together; to shed the survivor's guilt that plagued me. To finally accept his death. To decide what to do with my life. 

APS shook me. It brought back all the helpless grief and horror flooding right back. I keep getting calls from my old friends in Peshawar. Someone lost a younger sibling. A cousin. A neighbor. It's a living nightmare.

.......

"We're donating the money to TCF schools. Because they seriously need to funds for better security," Pareeshae explained to the organizing members of the vigil. "It seems pointless to just light candles and leave flowers in memorial of those school children. We need to do more. We need this to be a message to the extremists out there; that we will do everything to protect the right of every child to go to school. Safely. Fearlessly...."

I've been sitting in a corner of the campus cricket ground since morning. I couldn't even muster enough willpower to help Shay and her team set up the vigil as the sky darkened. 

"Hey. You doing okay?" Layla's voice startles me. I look up from my knees into her concerned face. She looks entirely overwhelmed with all the fabric swathed around her. Dark dupatta covering her head and torso, trailing behind her like a cape, dwarfing her petite frame. 

"Not so much." I shrugged truthfully. I didn't have the energy to be fake-happy tonight. I carefully observe her puffy eyes under her too-big glasses. Her lips are starting to chap with the cold. Apparently, she isn't doing too well either. 

"What about you? Everything okay at home?" I ask carefully. 

"Yes." She mutters too quickly, before biting her lip, "Actually no. It's Zaif. He did...something bad. Because of me. And now he wants to talk to me, and I get so angry when I think about it that I just cry, and avoid him..."

"Why don't you want to talk to him?" 

"Because he is a crim--Well, he is a crappy brother." She swallows once, before worrying her lip further. 

Her answer snaps something within me. For the first time in three days, I'm feeling something other than desolation. I'm angry. 

"At least you still HAVE a brother Layla!" I reply back, sharper than I should have, "What could he have done For you that is just so damn terrible? Did he die? Was he shot down by NATO planes while he was sleeping? Did you have to bring his body back home in a box? "

Her eyes have widened with every word. Her lip is now bleeding unheeded with the added pressure of her clenched jaw. She draws in a shuddered breath, and I realize how much of an asshole I just was to her. 

"Would you stop doing that. I hate blood, dammit." I muttered before reaching out and freeing her tortured lip from under her teeth. I take a corner of her dupatta and dab at the stray blood on her mouth. 

"What was his name?" She whispers against my hands. 

"Amaan." 

"Amaan and Azaan...." She muses.

"Poetic. I know." I smile in spite of myself. Glad that she isn't taking offense at my irrational outburst. I guess she knows more about hiding grief than I gave her credit for. She understood me.

"Is that why you're taking this so hard?" She gestures towards the volunteers setting up posters and home-made cards for the vigil. 

"After Amaan passed...It took me a while to get the depression out of my system. I'm weak Layla. I don't think I can handle blood that well. Particularly the blood of people close to me...APS just...I can't stop thinking about it. At least with my brother it made sense; he was a soldier, and we know the implications of service....But all those innocent children. They were like you and me! Ordinary civilians. They weren't trained soldiers. The deaths were senseless. And I'm so far away, I can't even pay my last respects to my old teachers, Principal Qazi, The Gardener! Ugh, just the visuals make me nauseated--"

Before I could get in another word, she reached for me, wrapping her arms around me. Layla Hayat was comforting me; Big Bad Azaan Malik! Her head barely reached my collar. I couldn't explain the instantaneous peace that overcame me in that moment. I awkwardly patted her back, swallowing down my tears. A subtle scent of almonds and honey engulfed me, and I breathed it in. Letting it calm down the chaos inside of me. All too soon she released me, and I regretted the cold December breeze that replaced her heat. Leaning her head back she stared up at me. And I realized how difficult this must have been for her. She gets so nervous when guys stand too close to her...let alone touch her...

"This doesn't make you weak. Silly. It just means that you care...you care very very deeply. And I think you're taking this harder, because you need closure," She is silent for a heartbeat, before she scrunches up her eyebrows in contemplation. "I think I have an idea..."

........

It was madness. We snuck past Layla's driver and guards parked outside campus. She said that we didn't have time to ask her Mother's permission. For once, I agreed with her. Once we arrived at my place, I turned to her sitting quietly in the passenger seat. 

"Sure you wanna do this?"

"You bet." 

I rubbed my temples tiredly. "I apologize for all the food my mother will press on you, and the chirpy chatter my sisters will drown you in, they love to meet my friends...And if God forbid my Dadi (Paternal Grandmother) is visiting...Nope...let's not even go there."

It was extremely difficult dodging the curious looks, desi food and pointed questions my family threw at Layla. Usually, I don't bring over girl-pals unless it's in a group...but we were sort of pressed for time. The vigil was about to start in twenty minutes. 

"Mmm. This is delicious." Layla said around a mouthful of Mom's special Kebabs. Mom beamed at her, promising to pack a dozen frozen Kebabs for her. I rolled my eyes and went straight to my bedroom. I found what I was looking for in a pile of my documents. 

"Release my friend immediately," I snapped my fingers at Amna, Asma and Abeer. As expected, my sisters were eagerly hounding Layla about everything from her famous mother, to her University grades. Mom was busy arranging the entire contents of our deep-freezer and snack cabinets on the coffee table in front of Layla. She seemed lighter than I've seen her in days. What with Dad being flown into GHQ for special orders, things have been too tensed at home. I guess we all needed a distraction. 

I waved the folder under her nose. "I got it. Let's go." 

"Wait. Azaan. Can't they all come with us?" Layla gestured at my family. I found the unspoken request in her eyes. They are grieving too...

Oh, what the heck...

I sighed, "Pile in the car then...and grab some of those Kebabs. We might need to bribe Campus Security..."

................

"...and this is my sixth grade class photo." I passed the photo along the group of people gathered around for our little APS Memorial. "I had math with Ma'am Jameela that year. I think my knuckles still bear the marks of her handy wooden ruler. I spoke to her husband on the phone yesterday. He says she is in critical condition. Bullet wound to the lungs..."

The candles and lanterns added a luminous glow to the faces around me. I saw Pareeshae's face crumple as the tears made their way down her face, glittering in the candlelight. It felt odd to be around my family friends, classmates, Teachers, and grieve in this way. Nobody was comforting anybody else. I think in that moment, in that place...it made sense for us to mourn publicly. Without shame. 

The scent of roses and carnations was in the air as I spoke about my time at APS. All the fond, happy memories I had of that place. We laughed over some of my old school pictures, that Layla and I had rushed off to get. We cried over others. When it was time to pray, we all did it in our own way. Muslims. Hindus. Christians. Putting our hands together in our own ways, muttering our own words. I'm sure He heard us. 

I felt lighter after it was over. I don't understand it. This very shallow, human need of ours. We need to be able to touch, smell, and feel our sorrow. This is why we have funerals. This is why we bury the dead. It's not for them. It's for us.

As we said goodbye for the night, I grinned when I overheard my own mother warning Layla about me.

"Now, Beti (Daughter) whenever you want to visit us, you do it with your other friends okay? I would love to get to know you better, but don't you be going around alone with boys their cars-not even Azaan! I know he is my son, but he is a rascal! Absolutely inappropriate of you two, you hear?" 

"Oh stop with the praises Ma. You're making me blush." I kissed her head before nudging Layla away from my family.

"It feels a little better now, doesn't it?" She asks me hopefully. 

"Yes. Yes it does feel a whole lot better. But Layla, I want you to do something for me..."

She quirks her eyebrows teasingly, "It better be not be anything PG rated. You Rascal..."

"I want you to forgive your brother. Talk to him. Make your amends now before it's too late. Trust me, guilt isn't easy to carry in the afterlife. Look at this tragedy. Isn't it a lesson for us to hold our family close while we still have them?" Look at me. I'm a lesson. 

She schools her face into a mask of indifference. 

"You have no idea what he did..."

"You're right. I don't. But if he did it for you, then he must have had a damned good reason for it. And  I think you owe him your ear." I tucked back a stray lock of hair escaping her scarf, "Promise me, that you'll talk to him?"

"I promise." 

A/N:

*26th November, 2011- Or popularly known as the Salala Checkpost Incident. Recorded as the biggest offensive against the Pakistan army (Unintentional or intentional) from the NATO forces near the Afghan border.It occurred when US-led forces engaged at two Pakistani military checkposts on Saturday, 26 November 2011. 4 fighter jets entered into the Pakistani border area  at 2 a.m. local time, and opened fire at two border patrol check-posts, killing 28 Pakistani soldiers and wounding 12 others. The two Pakistan Army check-posts were codenamed "Boulder" and "Volcano" respectively. This attack resulted in a deterioration of relations between Pakistan and the United States. The Pakistani public reacted with protests all over the country and the government took measures adversely affecting the US exit strategy from Afghanistan including the evacuation of and closure of the .

On 3 July 2012, Hillary Clinton, officially, however briefly, apologized for the losses suffered by the Pakistani military. Subsequently, Pakistan restored the NATO supply routes.*

So! What do you guys make of this? Believe me,this wasn't easy for me. I usually tend to revel in lighter stuff...anyways. Don't forget to Vote and Comment! Your feedback is much appreciated! :) 

(Do point out typos. This is pretty unedited!)