Nice song and a great video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkQCmf-K60o&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXZ4MRAxcow&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klKAOSF7BcY&feature=related

… and many more…

Rediff News on Fake Encounters

Hindustan Times on Fake Encounters(Sorry, the link doesn’t work anymore)

 Tribune India on Fake Encounters

Now it has been few months since i thought i would write a small post on Fake Encounters and Missing People. But I just cant put my words together. I cant even get into the psyche of a person who has a brother, or a son or a father missing. They are not even sure if they are dead for they would like to perform the last rites, nor are they sure if they are alive for they would like to look forward to a reunion. I dont know how it is for them. I wonder, how do they start the day. Is it just another day or is it just another painful day. A reality that is not there, a certainity of nothing, and a loss which they are not sure about. Should they wail at the death of the dear one or should they wait for him to return. They did return for some, in the form of coffins. Atleast, these fortunate unfortunates were able to see how the life ended. Yes, i am talking of those fake killings which came into fore lately. Well, it was few months back… Have we forgotten that…

The indian media for the first time was perplexed as to what should they say to the people. A truth, which they are having hard time to digest or another mixed story… It is hard to believe for the majority in india that the soldier of the movie LOC, could do something of that kind. For that matters soldiers of all the movies which they see on television and cinema. But then, the real soldier is also a human. And a human can be both good or bad… There are bad people in paramilitary forces, and this fact is hard to digest for the people in india.

 I did not intend to write this long a piece. But then i could not stop my thoughts and my fingers wouldn’t stop until i reached this word. I hope the reality of life in kashmir comes in front of the world. The sooner it does, the sooner we will be out of this misery.

God bless those families who have one or the other missing. May god give them patience, to bear the loss which they are not sure of.

This is a tale of three people. Three people with different ways of living, different motives from life, brought together by an unfortunate twist of fate to share a similar END.

Ahmed, a 19 year old, was jubilant as he scrolled down the list of candidates selected for REC, Srinagar. His friend had informed him that his name appears in the list. Keenly going through it, wearing a smile of triumph. There he spots it. 155 points, not far from the topper. A sense of pride fills him as he tries to search for the names of his friends. It was a well deserved success.

Just six months back, he was on the verge of breakdown. The fact that he was the best in his class wouldn’t console him, the fact that he was the most hardworking wouldn’t either. Anything could have happened on a bad day. But on the day of exam, it was a good day. A lucky one because he had fallen ill the night before and barely managed to reach the examination hall. He, despite not in his senses, managed to answer most of the questions. And it was rewarded, finally, with his name in the selection list.

Ahmed, being from a poor family, was aiming at this selection since his childhood, the only goal he had. His father had somehow managed to bear the expense of his studies. A small shop, selling grocery, and managing a family of 7, it was not easy for Ahmed’s father to support Ahmed’s education. At the time when so called professors would charge anything between 200 to 250 rupees for a month long tution. A month filled with hartals and curfews.

But, it was his day. He did it.

His friends already started addressing him as engineer saahib. And he was enjoying it all.

It was a week after the results were declared that Ahmed was preparing to board a bus at Lal chowk for REC Srinagar. With all the certificates in his hand, and good wishes of his parents, he started off to get his admission done in REC. Being the only brother to his 2 sisters, he received all the love and good wishes from his sisters. An ailing mother, and Old grandfather, who could barely see, he was the hope of his home. His parents looking forward to his completion of degree and getting a job which could get them out of this misery. The marriage of elder sister to be planned, education of younger, health of mother. But everything is going to be fine soon, he thought.

Anil, like ahmed, was waiting for the bus in Lal chowk. Lost in his thoughts, he was wondering whether he should stay put. All his relatives were leaving for Jammu. The death of a pandit in his neighbourhood the previous day had brought shivers. It was not worth taking a risk, staying put at the time when death looms all around. Nobody seems to be safe. With a mother to look after, and two kids to take care of, he must take a decision. Probably, thinking of leaving that night. All he needs to do is pack the essentials and move in the middle of the night, without getting noticed. After all it is just a matter of months, after that he will be back to his home and live happily with his friends and neighbours. With all these thoughts going through his mind, he was finding it difficult to make a decision. In his forties, it was not difficult for him to move his small family, the only concern however was his small kid, 1 year old. He was hoping to do it without problems.

Standing by his side there in the lalchowk was Bashir. A guy who would hardly be noticed in a crowd. Not a feature which could distinguish him from the rest. People unaware around him of the small piece in his pocket. He was going to accomplish what he had been asked to.

Three months ago, he approached the area commander and asked him if he could join the tanzeem. Area commander, self styled area commander of tanzeem, had looked at him a long time. Sensing Bashir’s zeal for Tahreek, he asked him to join, but cautioned it is going to be a risky affair. Bashir knew most of his friends were already enjoying the responsibility. Atleast, that is what he felt. A pistol in a pocket, they felt no less than a hero. Once a while they would show the bulge in their pockets to indicate to the passerby that he is, what he is. Bashir was looking forward to the time when he could carry a pistol and show off. A week’s training in one of the villages of automatic weapon and bombs, made him a part of a tehreek. He was feeling on top of the world. Waiting for his pistol, which was yet to reach him. His area commander had promised him as soon as he does a successfull “action”, he will be rewarded one. It was after two months that he was asked to do an “action”. “Action”, as it was commonly called, firing at a bunker, lobbing a grenade at security forces.

Bashir was waiting for his kill. Nervous, sweating, and conscious. He could feel moisture developing between his fingers and the bomb he had in his pocket. He was ready for attack, clutching the bomb tightly. All he had to do was throw the thing at the gypsy passing by.

Ahmed, Anil and Bashir, were lost in their repective thoughts. Ahmed, wondering how it would look entering the college. Anil, busy planning his escape to jammu and Bashir, nervously waiting for the gypsy. They were not the only ones waiting there. There were others, who were busy with their thoughts.

As the gypsy started to appear far ahead in the road, Bashir started to panick. His grip on the grenade began to get loose. The sweat started to make it moist. His heart started pounding fast. It was not supposed to be like that, he wondered. All he had to do is throw it at the gypsy, as it nears. He started shivering, with the bomb in his pocket. As the gypsy was nearing the area, he took out this deadly piece of iron from his pocket. And BOOM!!!, it went in his hand. Smoke all around. Pieces of flesh thrown all around, pool of blood. People crying for help. People running for shelter. This big blast was followed by shots. Shots coming from gun. The soldier in the gypsy, in response to the blast shooting in all directions. The panic had taken better of him and he started shooting in all directions.

Bashir, with his arm torn apart, lay their in pool of blood and flesh. Ahmed beside him with his certificates colored in red, dead as his eyes stare at the sky. Perhaps, asking god, as he dies, to give him a chance. With loads of blood coming out of the chest, Anil looking desperately for help. Cries of help coming from all the directions, and not a single soul coming forward. Everyone trying to save his life.

Anil started to find his pain subsiding slowly. Wondering how it could get better without doctors work. His eyelids started to close, as if a lead was placed on his lids. And soon, he finds himself unconcsious.

As the people start moving and trying to attend to injured, anil is put in a car and taken to hospital by some unknown. As he is examined on the stretcher by a doctor at hospital, he is declared dead. He couldn’t make it, says the doctor. Too much of blood loss.

In the evening news, people learn that 5 people died in the blast at lal chowk and 10 were injured. Among injured, was a 10 year old. Not all knew that he was with his father who was taking him to school as he had missed his bus.

5 people died, but 5 families devastated. Devastated, by a single stroke of fate. With all what ifs, the families will live their lives, but the scar will stay. The scar of missing brother, the scar of a missing son, the scar of a missing father….

Coming back to the main subject, is this a new beginning and an end to miseries, pain and suffering. Has God finally tested us enough to finally provide us much wanted relief. I somehow feel so. May be i am wrong. But i hope i am right.

 It doesn’t feel good when you move out of your house in the morning and are casualty of a blast somewhere. You end up in a hospital with your leg amputated, or your arm amputated or worst, found dead.

Kashmiries have so grown in this state of uncertainity, that they have started to accept it as part of their lives. Death of a near one in his teens doesn’t come as a shocking surprise. I remember, when it all started back in 90s’, a death of a youth was mourned with the departure of a “Maharaaz” (Groom). Songs were said, which were no different from what were sung on the marriages. The grief was so deep, that it could loom on you for weeks.

Nothing of such sort happens now, because we have accepted it as part of our life.

I wonder, what if i wake up tomorrow and find everything normal. Not a single security man or a bunker on a street. What if we are sent in a time machine back to when it all started. But.. then.. we dont really know when it started. I wonder, if we are given a choice to start a fresh from a certain point in time, where would we like to start. Would it be ’89 or ’71 or ’63 or ’47 or … dont know where.

I wish i could wander around the streets of Srinagar at 2 in the morning without fear. I wish i could play with my friends the same way i did during the days without fear of a “security woul”. I wish we didn’t have to live in this fear. I wish we could see flourishing business-shikaras full of tourists, those tourists from all over the world.

I wish and hope this is a beginning to a new kashmir, a kashmir free of fear and injustice. A kashmir free from uninvited death at every nook and corner. A kashmir full of beauty and security. I wish.. this is it.. this is the time that god had chosen to take us out of this misery and pain.

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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.

But then, it all changed. It all changed too suddenly. And i felt it was changing for good, only to figure out, that it was worst… A beautiful place turned into one of the most ugliest. Heaven transformed into hell. Love into Hatred. Animosity…

But… .. . do i care???

The past 17 years have thrown ugliest moments at my face, and i have seen them all, watched them all pass by. And people around me have seen worst. Sons dying in cold blood, Sisters being raped and killed, brothers being tortured and murdered. And who is responsible for it all? My pandit neighbour says, I am, a kashmiri muslim. For all the wrongs that happened in this beautiful land, I am responsible. For all the killings, I am responsible. For the murder of my loving pandith neighbour, for the grenade blast that took lives of my brothers, for the rape by security forces of my sister, for the torture of my son in interrogation centers, for … for everything in the valley. I am responsible…

 But, i always wonder how?

My pandit neighbour says i should have spoken, spoken when it mattered most, spoken when i felt things are going wrong, spoken against the people who had gun in their hands, asked them to stop this madness, asked them to shun violence… But then, i felt it right then… I felt it right… Why??? Was that because of the rigging in elections? or was it because of the events that took place few decades back? Was that because we felt alienated, or was that because we were deceived by our own leaders. Was that because i couldn’t think beyond my two loaves of bread. Was that a moment of madness? I wouldn’t know, but what i know is that kashmiriat got killed… Kashmiri pandits being killed in broad daylight, those are my memories of the time. I would wonder, if all are mukhbirs… then muslim women getting killed, thought to be mukhbir…Every killing seemed justified.

 When i look back at those events, i feel i lost it all. We lost it all. Every muslim who raised his voice against the movement got killed as mukhbir. And that was the start of the never ending tragedy. After the mass migration of pandits, it was the time for muslims to die and die they did, in thousands and are still dying… Are they dying for keeping mum when they should have spoken, or can we justify the killings.

I would not know, but all i know, is that one day, walking along the street in a busy Lal chowk, I will hear a big sound of grenade, a deafening sound followed by a lul in the air. The pieces of flesh all around me, in pool of blood i see bodies around. And as i breath my last, i wonder, was it all i had to see of this world…

If that is going to be the end of me, then why should i care? Why??

[This article was written during the infamous test series between Pakistan and England, when Pakistan for the first time in the history of cricket forfeited test match, or did they. Read on to know more... ]

(This small article is not for the people who use grey cells 100% of the times. Read and enjoy, Vociferations are welcome)

I feel that i am no expert. Esp the fact that i have not been following these matches or any of the past matches. It so happened that i was working in my hotel, with lots of work to do. Wanted to take a little break and switched this stupid idiot box on. The first channel I see is Fox Sport cuz it is channel 1 and the TV always switches to its first channel in my room. And here commentators are discussing something about Ball Tampering. I remember during the day shumi(a dear friend of mine) writing something of the kind in my chat window. I got a little anxious and continued to watch the game. The game that was to continue after break. I remember Nasir hussain saying “It will be interesting to see if Pakistan opts not to come out to play”.. I was wondering within my mind, why the hell will they opt not to come out, cuz i didn’t realise till that time the gravity of the situation. Oblivious to the state of cricket, I continued to watch the game which was never to start. And then the drama unfolded. Wow.. wat a match or shud i say no match… First the two umpires go to the ground, wait and wait and wait… OOpps.. no one in the ground.. The batsman waiting in dressing room for fielders to come out, they were of course as concerned because there was no one to bowl them…I could feel them saying “Assyi chyi naa pounse barymet”(Haven’t we paid our fee)… With all the wait and watch scenario, umpires devised a plan to have pakistani’s back in ground. That is my guess, of course. They disappeared from the ground only to make paki’s wonder if it was a holiday or were they really playing before tea session. When paki’s still didn’t show up, umpires went to two batsman and requested them to come to the ground. Of course, they did not agree. On Daryll hair’s assurance that if the paki’s dont come out to bowl, the two umpires will bowl. The two batsman thought, it would be good idea to do a little bit of a practice. So, there they go into the field and when they reach the center, up goes the finger of Daryl hair. “You are both out”.  Ooops. “what the heck” says batsman… “I haven’t even faced any ball, how can you say that”. Hair takes out the rule book and efficiently going through the page number 56 para 4 sentence #3 ” …If the batsman stays out of the field for more than 2 minutes, he is OUT…” … And then i saw English team under demonstration and Pakistan team rejoicing at the brave decision taken by Hair. It really was something… Just had to work till 12am to finish my unfinished work that day… Quite a pain in Neck…