Mahmud was our domestic help ever since I have any remembrance of childhood. He would rarely smile wide open lest his irregular teeth lay exposed by his expressions. Occasionally his simple utterances would be the reason for the children gang laughs. His routine was comically regimental, a mix of timing adherence with flip-flop confidence. Those days a color TV was a rarity and the imported Panasonic VCR and a Sony TV combo had attained a status symbol. DD was the evening magnet and full families would stick to around the color box for the evening broadcasts. Mahmud was one big TV enthusiast and would ensure to finish all his domestic jobs well before the evenings. The Sunday movie would especially make him glued to his seat, you could not expect him to connect to the real world then. He came from a village in Bandipora (north Kashmir) and back home he would weave stories out of the movies with a modified script and replay them to his domestic audience.

 I was in very early school and just remember cricket broadcast from outside India giving DD programs a run for their timings and viewership. My life was still limited to the joys of evolving from the primary school level, unaware of what the sport meant for many others. The cricket talks of elder boys seemed alien for me, they having mesmerized the detailed statistics of cricket stars. I now understand, that back then their discussions were country and team neutral, team shirt color fanatism and the war cries associated now with cricket had not been not invented yet.

On a sunny April day an eerie silence had taken over the house: in the drawing room Dad, my two cousins and Mahmud were sitting on their edges. All eyes were glued to the screen watching the India Pak cricket encounter being played in Sharjah. My cousin would occasionally come out the figures (that later in life I understood was the jargon of the permutation combination analysis).  All this was Greek to me then, but nevertheless I too joined the cricket watching family. Till the last moments of the match, many of nails had been bitten off: and then the final ball turned the match head on. I watched in bewilderment at the post Miandad six result of the match. This was followed by the sobs of Mahmud and my sadness. I flung the pillow at the window in anger while Mahmud turned into shrieks. What the heck! We were mourning the loss of a cricket match by India while one of my cousins was laughing at us.  I stood astonished. Mahmud never even understood the basics of cricket: I hardly believe he had ever held a bat in his hand all his life, but his India love was the reason for his heart break caused by Sharjah and my belief was the reason for my sadness. Soon after the match Mahmud left for his village and did not return for next three days. Mom had to bear the brunt of the Sharjah sixer by losing the domestic help for good part of the week. In the following days the match was hardly discussed at home, generally for better things to do and especially for not aggravating Mahmud’s heart break further, that had fled northwards with him.

After Mahmud rejoined the family, he had gained more respect with me and Mom. He soon overcame Chetan Sharma’s folly and got back into the rhythm. Later on, I learnt Mahmud for many years had made it a point to attend the 15th august parade at the Bakhsi Stadium in Srinagar. He would not miss the 26^th January parade telecast from New Delhi on TV, which we eagerly watched together, and if electricity played spoilsport he would frown for the whole day. His distant allegiance and amorousness for India nourished a desire in him to see the land for himself. Late 80’s one winter a relative offered to take him along on a trip to Delhi. A casual offer was seized by Mahmud as a God send opportunity. That relative used to have his business dealings in Delhi so spend some time of the year at his Delhi residence. Nobody wanted to play spoilsport so his travel was arranged for. Since by that time I was already in boarding school, could not see him leave on his journey, but I hear that his excitement had elevated him to ebullience.

Later longing to be back home on holidays, the yearning for visiting Mum and Dad was coupled by my wanting to hear & see Mahmud after his short of month sojourn, to hear from him his Delhi tales which I expected him to narrate with a modified screenplay as he used to subject the stories of those Hindi movies watched back home.

Back home on my holidays I encountered a sobered Mahmud so quite within himself.  Any mention of Delhi would evoke a fake smile, trying to portray more and hide less but succeeding in doing the invert. I gave him time to himself and did not force my questions on him: although I was missing the much-anticipated tales of this traveler. It was after slow and subtle persuasion he narrate the unmodified and factual travelogue. In Delhi uncle afforded him have plenty free time and often Uncles domestic help there would act as Mahmud’s Delhi guide. His travels had found him fluctuating between his distinct dress, dialect and wanting to identify with his Indian dream. The shopkeepers at Chandni Chowk had squealed from ‘Khan sahab’ to ‘saala Kashmiri’, the policeman at the Fatehpuri gates had quizzed him endlessly and ended with a tenner, his attire had been subject to stares, his dialect had been tagged as buffoonery there. There had been kindness too but the rough side overwhelmed it. I listened to these familiar concerns, not unusual encounters. But for him this was like a jolt: and more was to come. In Delhi he had expressed his longing for the Vale and our relative was to arrange for his return. Mahmud was arranged for travel with a fellow Kashmiri who worked in Delhi. In those days Punjab was still under the influence of insurgency and the blood gore there had not yet ended. During the Delhi Jammu train journey as the train entered Punjab, Mahmud was confronted in the train by the local Punjab Police men, two of whom were on a spirited night high. Mahmud was quizzed in detailed and some reaction from Mahmud got him stripped of all his pockets. As a follow-up he was left with a swollen face and a bruised soul. The gifts that he had bought for his family from Delhi lay unsettled.  I wanted to understand his emotions and his anger but could not do any justice to them. I left him to be with his self. Mahmud had left some of his ardency beyond the Banihal tunnel.

Nineties started saw the start of turmoil in Kashmir. The trance of death and agony had started to cast its spell in the valley, flames of pain touching every soul, everybody. Mahmud wanted to leave for his village; Dad gave a serious thought and allowed him. We were to drop him there and as soon as Mahmud felt he would come back. His village in Bandipora was postcard picturesque; overlooking lofty mountains covered all green, natures’ bounties all around.

Sometime later Mahmud came home to meet Dad, confiding his desire to take his only son away from Kashmir to New Delhi. He had seen the flames of conflict consume many, and was fearful of his own son. ‘What about the safety of your son in New Delhi?’, Mahmud was asked.

A worn out and wrinkled Mahmud paused and then quipped “Some people in Dilli may have been bad with me but Hindustan is still my Wattan and I will trust them with my son, rather than let him die in Kashmir”.

Time proved him right. His son survived the flames of Kashmir by escaping to New Delhi, and his (our) Wattan, in time, while many others could not.

Saadut Hussain

27^th March 2010