Hush! More of a plea than a command, it lingered in the air. We've been ensconced behind this forest canopy for three days now, awaiting the culmination of the operation. Rafeeq cradled his gun close, acutely aware of the impending final assault scheduled for tomorrow—three locations earmarked for bombing, two for attack. A shiver traversed his spine. Unveiling his opium pack, he sought solace in a granule. This marked his tenth intake today, each dose gradually erasing his anxieties.
Now, only exhilaration persisted. Opium morphed into courage. Opium transformed into jihad.
From their ivory tower, the cockroaches negotiated spirituality, nationalism, and the lucrative trade of weaponry. Their revelry had spanned epochs, evidenced by the wine glass stains that adorned their maps.
The faithful continued consuming opium. "Jihad through opium," they chanted.
"Try not to kill a Muslim," the commander advised. "How will I discern?" queried Rafeeq.
"Check the genital," replied the commander, callously. "But if it's a woman—"
"How does it matter? Rape her before shooting," the commander chuckled.
Cockroaches permeated every inch. Cockroaches infested the room. Cockroaches inundated the world. Cockroaches swarmed the sky.
In this congregation of cockroaches, the narrative found its way to print in a Nagpur press. Bound for Karachi, opium nestled within its pages, sealed with the imprimatur of China.
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