An Evening in Kashmir

[The article has been taken from the following link with the permission of the writer. All credit goes to Umar Shafi for this write up. I liked this article and needless to say reminds me of my times in kashmir.http://www.bloggerskashmir.com/bk/?q=node/58 ]

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It was one of those April evenings in Srinagar, “Tahreek”, as we used to call it, at its peak. Our day in Kashmir used to start at 8am and would end at around 6pm. After that you would hardly find a single soul venturing out on roads, an unseen danger keeping them away. It was the time for dogs to rule on roads, after that. Dogs, who would rarely find themselves ill treated, ill treated by the saviours of society. Yeah, they have another name. Some call them BSF, some CRPF and some simply “Miltary woal”. Dogs would get more attention than the humans would.

As always, I was watching some boring serial aired on Doordarshan barely occupying my attention aired. Dogs, as always, busy making all kinds of noise. I would wonder if it was the calmness in the air they celebrated or the absence of humans on the roads. If it was the time they were happy about or the simple truth that they were better treated than the humans. Whatever it was, they always seemed to me in jubilation of some kind.

A violent bang on our door shook my inner soul and I could see a similar effect on my parents. My younger brothers shrinking into the corners, hardly visible in the 60v electricity gifted to us by our great PDD. It was none other than the “Military woal” banging at our door. I had heard about crackdowns, as we used to call those door to door searches, being held during nights but had believed them to be a figment of some insane’s imagination. It seemed to come to reality. I started to move to open the door only to be stopped by my father, for he would prefer himself open the door to a force which hardly was sane. My father insisted me on sitting inside until he called. Did I tell u I was just 14years, and the fear on my father’s face was enough to suggest me that I should not venture out in any case unless he wishes me to. I could hear some conversation going on between the Military woal and my father, if it qualifies to be called conversation by any standards. It was a thunderous sound at one end and needless to say, a soft murmur on the other. My father called me out and explained that it is a “Chaapea” (as we know it in English by the term Raid) and not the crackdown for whole “Mohalla”.

Just the sight of me, and those military woallye (group of security people), charged at me and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me out of my house in front of my parents. I could see my mother wailing behind my father. My father pleading them, tears rolling down his cheeks and he hardly was able to speak properly. I had never seen him in tears until then,  and he probably was anticipating his worst fears. Receiving kicks from military woal on all parts of my body, every conceivable place and “Chapaath” (slaps) on my face. I could see anguish and helplessness in my father’s face. I will never ever in my life forget that…Nor will others who have undergone such ordeal as you will find many many who have faced it not once or twice, but many a times… Humiliation…

I was imagining all kinds of worst things I could be going through behind bars, despite the fact I had no hand in any militancy related incidents. It had happened to people, innocent people like me,  getting arrested for no fault of theirs. And some, even disappearing…

I was asked to face the Gypsy, where I think they had the so called “mukhbir”. I couldn’t see what was happening inside as the head lights were flashing straight into my eyes. I was reciting all the supplications I had learnt my life, I was hoping they would work somehow. A small nod by a military woal standing next to gypsy, and my heart was pounding faster. I didn’ know what it meant, but my heart was pounding faster and faster. I was hoping it wont burst my chest. To my amazement, the military woal came to me and asked me to get back to my house. My joy knew no bounds…I hurried to my house, where my mom was in a state of hysteria…

But then, it was time to rejoice. I was back, thanks to God. Did my supplications work, I would never know.

(Needless to say, it is a true story. My words would hardly explain the fear we were subjugated to, but then we had to live. )

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Nice piece. Thanks umar for allowing me to post this excellent piece on this blog.