The Professor
Author: Saadut
•6:49 PM

 

At the starting corner of the lane that split out right from the downhill road was this four storied old house. Made of old ‘half a size’ bricks that fitted closely in a pattern and latticed windows with small stained glass, it was home to many families of Kashmir Pandits. With a rusted iron roof, this old structure stood quietly overlooking the mohalla square. A mud and rock wall bordering it ended by the old wooden door that creaked and opened with some effort, leading to a barren mud baked courtyard. On the fourth floor of this cluttered house lived my mathematics teacher, my tuitions of evenings became a journey of sorts from here. The mathematics professor took fewer and small groups of tuitions, not more than 4 or 5; more often than not it had Muslim students.

 

A low entrance door on the ground floor led to an old narrow staircase that wound up to small and dimly lit rooms. The professor’s family had three rooms of this house, three and a half to be precise. The room on the top floor overlooking the square had the ‘dubb’, a wooden extension that gave more space (dub could be seen somewhat a cross between a porch and a Rajasthani Jarokha). This room was the kitchen and the sitting room combined, divided by a half wooden partition in between; we sat by the first partition where the professor used to enjoy his ‘kho’ess’ full of tea during sessions of learning. A family of three, the professor had a beautiful daughter, who we never dared to see in the face or talk about; the sanctity of teacher – student relation was adhered to by us in totality. Form a learned family, our professor’s other brother was also into education, an English professor known to resemble a famous movie star of his years, lived in a separate house next lane.

 

Mushtaq and I studied together in this group and even though were not from the same school (I had come from boarding & he studied locally), became best buddies. Mushtaq would take out his shoes outside the ground floor low entrance only; some of us would carry them to inside where the professor also had his pairs kept. My pairs soon joined Mushtaq’s outside the ground floor main door, part of his code of teacher house ethics.

 

Two bends down main road near the govt boys’ school was the post office. The road widened here to narrow again ahead, and it was here that Mushtaq leant of this bully lad, who had been troubling the professor, his imputations that reeked of viciousness. One of those occasions when the professor passed that way and we witnessed the bully at his wily ways, Mushtaq and I confronted him. For all the ‘bully’ that this lad was worth, he stood no ground before us and fled. We thought he was done with, but he was not. The fox won’t try conviction & bravery but will attempt deceit. The ‘paper bully’ tried provoking the local milkman’s son, a strong wide bodied young man with a flat nose known to throw his weight around, against us but unsuccessfully.

 

Next day afternoon during tuitions for the first time ever tea was offered to us by the professor. Aroma that had always tinged me during learning sessions of complex theorems was finally conquered, the ‘kho’ess’ of tea was briefly in my hand.

 

It was a bleak winter morning that had cast barricades over a curfewed night, January clouds gathered ferociously across Kashmir. In many places even the Muezzin has gone silent, his Azaan muted by a petrified quiet. Days barely passed, lengthened by their own shadows, time had no course to escape. By one of these evenings, I juggled by the inner lanes, crisscrossing bolted doors and sobs of a terrified population. Over a dirt filled track which had not been cleaned for days, I crossed over the square being placed right in front of the old four storied house. I was all alone confronting the brutal emptiness that blew like the tundra wind in my face, Mushtaq had since taken to sleep (Mushtaq died, shot near Hawal while he was coming out from his classes). Confronted by an intriguing noiselessness, the old house stood like a lifeless monolith, occasionally only disturbed by the hum of overhead wires. Everybody was gone and soullessness had taken over. On the top floor, an old latticed window by the ‘dubb’ was creaking, hung in stillness of time. Had the window been left unlatched by the fleeing owners as the only sign of a lifeless existence or was it trying to break free from the bonds of this reluctant lull? I kept searching for souls, for voices in this forced insipidness, but in vain.

 

Many years later on one of my autumn vacations from college, I was revisiting this place (my family had long ago migrated from these habitations in that coerced winter chill, to city suburbs, nocturnal flights of a lifeless land). In the faint sundown golden glow, the monolith structure stood as lifeless as could be. The creaking latticed window of the ‘du’bb’ remained no more, perhaps blown away by the winds of desolation; a philosophical interpretation could be ‘it finally managed a union with its fleeing souls’. The rusted iron roof had caved in, no longer able to sustain the burden of neglect in this conflict. When human lives become collateral, skies are known to have collapsed in torment and twinge.

 

I stood there still and frozen in infinite turbulence. Deep inside I heard the professor asking me to redo the mathematical theorem, I heard him praise Mushtaq for his efforts and hard work. I could see the glee of his daughter running down the old stair case, his wife by the kitchen corner stove and the latticed window open by the professor’s side. It soon rained, outside and within me; the skies had opened up. Time and apathy had swept ruin to homes of Kashmir and time like sand slips from our hands even before we realize it.

 

 

The burden of our relentless wounds far overweighs our human capacity to heal. When will peace return and when will we all heal? Will Kashmir return to the old happy days when all faiths and beliefs lived happily under the same sun, when peace reigned? 

 

 

 

 

 

10th July, 2012

 

 

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Kidnapped !
Author: Saadut
•9:15 PM
 
 
 

Four years ago, we had shifted from our home in the old city, to the peripheries, the northernmost urban expansion of Srinagar, which had started to be converted from orchard lands to sprouting habitations, especially for those fleeing the chaos of the city, that had just started to be ignited into flames by violence. With the valley in general and the old city in particular, starting to sink into a perpetual loop of mindless violence, Dad had early on decided to migrate as far from the city core as he could. In a tearing hurry to escape, we had shifted to an incomplete house, where windows were without glass, temporary doors hung by loose hinges creaking loudly every time they turned, the first-floor walls still damp from recent plastering. Dad had prioritized safety of family before convenience. For the first year, family had to coexist with the noise and dust of carpentry, electrical work, plumbing, painting et all. It took more than a year for the house to settle down towards some semblance of a worth living structure.

 

I had moved outside India for studies just months before family migrated to the new place. A year later when I came back on holidays to our new home, the road from the airport to the city and then moving further north to the peripheries, seemed terrifyingly forbidding, endlessly turning over concertina corners and crater filled desolate paths that broke not only your morale but also the back.   

 

It was a subdued autumn of September ’93, when silences were forced in homes lest the flames raging outside find their way in. Even the autumn breeze meandered slowly afraid of being conspicuous and then be blamed for carrying any of the sparks those had turned the valley into cinder. Silence and detachment to the outside havoc was desired for survival, but hardly achieved. The willow trees lined outside our main gate, extending in rows bordering the road, tall with drooping arms like the helplessness of enfeebled hands that had nothing of any support to offer, feared to sway in the breeze, afraid of making any noise lest they be noticed and marked. Yet despite their resistance to create a sound, they could be heard reluctantly venting melancholic notes of despair and loneliness.   

 

The unwritten rule of those years was to bolt the main gate early every day and retreat to the assumed safety of our home, trying to escape from being trampled by any melee outside. That evening also Dad had bolted the main gate early and the family was sitting huddled together in the sitting room, adjacent to the kitchen, watching TV where a stern-faced news anchor was broadcasting the bulletin, a repertoire of the same events with just place and names changed and the same routine condemnations printed on older political letterheads to be read in the similar ceremonious manner every day.  In the middle of the TV broadcast, there were loud shouts and commotion from Uncles home, who lived behind our house, with one orchard between the two houses. Then suddenly there was a call on our landline, Dad picked up, someone on the other side was crying “Boitoeth’a, Bhaijan ha nuookh” (Bhaijan (younger uncle) is being taken away). My father used to be addressed as Boitoeth (loving elder brother) while uncle used to be called as Bhaijan (dear brother). Dad dashed bare footed, out of the rear door that led from the kitchen towards the rear side of our home, directing the family to lock up and stay inside, rushing out of the small door that would lead to Uncles house beyond the small orchard.

 

At Uncles house he saw many men in civilian clothing, armed with automatic rifles, standing between the pathway and the kitchen door, while one among them was pointing his rifle at my terrified Uncle. His wife was kneeling before this menacing man, pleading that uncle be spared. A tall bulky man with a short beard and an automatic rifle hung by the shoulder noticed my father, looked at my him and mentioning his name. My father acknowledged being identified, standing composed in front of the armed monstrous man, requested that the rifle pointed at my uncle be turned away.

“Come with us” shouted the medium height person with an unshaven face and uncombed hair, with his rifle pointed towards Uncle, turning his face towards Dad.

“Where to and what is the matter?” asked my father, “We can sit and resolve whatever the issues are”.

“You both have to come with us” retorted the man with the unshaven face and uncombed hair, trying to drag Uncle with him.

Dad sped forward and tried to stop him from dragging Uncle, the unshaven and uncombed man pushing Dad hard on the ground.

 

While Dad had rushed to Uncles place, back home in distress Mom had called up our neighbors, Bashir Sahab and Majeed Sahab, informing them about the happenings. No soon had Dad reached Uncles home, the two neighbors had also rushed there.

When Majeed Sahab saw Dad being pushed to the ground, with unshaven armed man now trying to grab the pheran collar of Dad, he lunged forward and tried to push the armed man away. Majeed Sahab was himself a man of medium height and well built, which despite his being past 60’s had considerable strength, which resulted in the abhorrent gunman with an unshaven face and uncombed hair losing his balance, falling towards his tall and bulky colleague in the rear and hitting the stoned pathway. The bulky man, despite attempting to hold the unbalanced unshaven man could not get down in time to stop his fall.

Suddenly two armed men among the group leaped on Majeed Sahab, pinning him to ground and raising their rifle butts in order to hit him, when the unshaven armed man, who seemed to be their group leader, shouted them to stop. Meanwhile the unshaven group leader unlocked his rifle pointing it towards Dad and Uncle, and directed the tall bulky man to take Uncle and Dad along as the group prepared to leave. While Uncle and Dad were led through orchards and pathways, in the dark, Majeed Sahab and Rather Sahab were directed to stay back lest the group leader shoot any of his hostages.

That night nobody slept at these homes.

 

Early morning next day, message came about the demands, rupees two lacs to free them. Majeed Sahab and Basheer Sahab had traced Dad and Uncle being held at a place close to Zakura, where these militants had been frequenting. Came to fore that Uncle, who had recently purchased some land near his house, had come under the radar of these militants, who now were demanding their ‘cut’ from this purchase. This was their own taxation system in place.

 

The militant group leader was adamant and refused to come down on his demands setting a timeline of evening failing which he would move the hostages to an unknown location. By evening the amount had been settled to one and a half lac rupees. The money had been arranged by Dad’s cousin and he along with another relative proceeded to bring Uncle and Dad back from the militants. Uncle was barely able to walk when released, beaten and dragged while having been led from his home the previous night, while Dad sleepless and distraught from the trauma, had cuts and blisters in his feet having walked barefooted the previous night.  

 

A few days later Majeed Sahab was picked up from his shop by the same group in a very swift move, without giving his family time to resist. There were no demands and he was released later that night in a half dead condition. His body had bruises, face was swollen, hands had marks of electric shocks, legs could hardly carry his own weight and his pheran was torn like a rag. The group leader of the armed gang had not forgotten the humiliation of having been pushed by Majeed Sahab, to the ground. He cunningly had waited for the ransom money to be delivered before enacting his next terror act. For months Majeed sahab could not walk properly, nor venture out as he did earlier.

Dad, despite his own excruciating pain, could not look Majeed Sahab in the eye, feeling guilty for his intolerable condition.

 

The next year, news came that the unshaven, uncombed armed militant with an obnoxious stench had been gunned down somewhere near Ganderbal.

 

 

After a few years, we again migrated further north of the city, in search of a piece of peace.

 

 

 

 

9th February, 2012





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Koshur ‘mini reactor’
Author: Saadut
•9:33 PM


In the reclusive freezing cold and the inflicted dark of Kashmir winters, when every service fails to the whims of the state, it is this age old “kaang’er” that continues to warm commoners; portable, independent and cost effective, free from ‘service denial ring’, the individuality of this firepot stays close to winter commoners of these lands; their only amber warm hope.

The skill for carrying this ‘mini reactor’ for Kashmiri’s comes naturally. However during the induction training on handling this ‘mini reactor’ many a shalwaars will have their edges burnt and many a pyjama strings will have been smoked and shrunk. The smell of burning cloth underneath the Pheran or blanket and that expression on the face of the victim bring out those comically capricious expressions. The smoke and burn often followed by a self apologetic red faced victim and the facetiousness stealing onlookers.

Basic users are comfortable with having it under their pherans, shawls or blankets for brief intervals, intermediate users carry it along with ease often in one hand while at the same time juggling work and shopping. Advanced users having gained full control on the ‘mini reactor’ also carrying it along to bed, holding it all night in sleep without tripping; an act of absolute winter companionship.

Like with other fuel reactors, this mini device is also prone to accidents most common being it’s tripping, first causalities becoming the flooring rugs of the Kashmiri households. Irregular brown, black holes and obnoxious smoke smell on rugs and carpets would point to the frequency of such fire tripping disasters, the domestic mini Fukushima’s. 

The “kaan’ger” being very closely knit into the culture of Kashmir, it is obligatory for the new bride to receive a special variety of this ‘firepot’ as a gift from her parents; the “tchaar’e kaang’er” takes its name from “tchaa’r” in central Kashmir where they are specially made. The “tchaar’e kaang’er” comes fully decorated and colored, a stark contrast to its plain, roughened non bridal ‘firepot’ cousins.  Other common varieties used in Kashmir are also known by the places where there are made in, like the “Shopiya’enn kaang’er” and the “Bandei’poer kaang’er”.

Drying the morning towels, warming to change clothes and getting the butter pot to preheat are just some other multitude of tasks assigned to this small device. Much before computers knew what multitasking was, this Kashmiri device had already been practicing it. I remember as a child whenever I used to visit one of my aunts who lives in the Kashmir countryside, their domestic help would offer me an in “kaange’er” baked egg. The timing and accuracy exhibited for this process inside the firepot often amazed me then. Here was one of the most basic, portable and wireless ovens I had ever seen in my life, this was energy efficiency at its best. This recipe should be added to specialties of India. 

Then there are some ‘warriors’ of Kashmir who take the ‘firepot to human’ companionship a little further, this device also used a weapon in Kashmir. Since such ‘warriors’ do not adhere to any ‘no first use pact’ they may use this weapon either for self defense or for the first attack. The successful firing of this weapon often depends on the trajectory of the ‘firepot missile’ launcher and his earlier expertise in such war exercises. The consequences for the aimed target in any successful attack may range from coal black, ash grey to reddish, depending upon the coal to fire ratio inside the ‘firepot missile’.

Like the handyman of a politician, every “kaang’er” has its “tchaalan” often used to stir the coal and adjust the fire. And as does the handyman of a politician hang around him, so does the “tchaalan” usually hang around the “kaang’er”, in most cases tied to wicker ring on it. Not surprisingly just like the ‘politician – handyman’ nexus, in many cases the “kaang’er” may or may not want to be seen with the “tchaalan”, denying it the right to stick around publicly, but inevitably will use it to stir or adjust the fire.

Such an intimate relationship between the “kaang’er” and Kashmir would be incomplete without some incorporation into the Kashmiri proverb and curse lexicon. The system here fully practices the “Ratt’hh mye’n Kaang’er vyechh mye’n davv” (Hold my Kaang’er and watch me flee) *proverb*, more especially in winters when it flees to warmer plains leaving the commoners to their own frosted fate. Winter evenings in Kashmir are often times when the unknown exerts its will on darkness, blinding out electricity from habitations. The cold seeping in, darkness enveloping and left God forsaken then Kashmiri’s are heard saying “Pey’ye naar’e kaang’er yeman pa'warr valyan'n”




January 12th 2012 



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