At home in Kashmir, with a token of gratitude
Adamant and furious, I declared before hanging up, “I’m going to celebrate my birthday with you and no one can stop me from coming to Kashmir.” My husband on the other side was not prepared for such behaviour.
As I stepped out of the airport, a tall man in army uniform waved at me. It took me a couple of seconds to recognise him behind the overgrown beard.
We passed by streets buzzing with life and silent labyrinths; the vast saffron fields and small houses of wood; the sky touching deodar trees and sheep grazing shallow fields. The snowclad mountains followed us all along as we drove past the little water bodies that were once part of the mighty Chenab. I was reminded of Mughal emperor Jehangir’s verse, “Gar Firdaus bar-rue zamin ast, hami asto, hamin asto, hamin ast (If there is a heaven on earth, it’s here, it’s here, it’s here).”
One morning, despite everyone’s disapproval, the traveller in me decided to take a walk down to the local market. I decided to try kahva (tea) and lavasa, tilwor, katlam and girda (types of Kashmiri breads) from a kaandar (bakery).
The man whose wrinkles made it easier to guess his age, handed me my breakfast and sat at the counter of his small shop, offering to strike a conversation as he asked about my whereabouts. He told me about the Kashmiri cuisine and customs, the landscape and topography, the scenic beauty and the political scenario. He talked about how life is tough in the Valley due to meagre sources of income.
His conversation drifted to his family and his long lost son. Compelled and curious I asked, “What happened to your son?” I didn’t realise that I might bring back forlorn reminiscence. “He was a nice child until he joined college, where he met boys from outside the Valley.
He started remaining out of home till days and later weeks. One day, he went out like other days but never returned. Only his body returned. A gun and maps were recovered from him,” said the old shopkeeper, gazing at infinity. I didn’t find any remorse, regret or hatred on his face.
I decided to make my way back to the battalion and asked him for the bill. Fixing his gaze on me and sensing my uneasiness, he said, “So your husband is in the army?” Alarmed, I waited for a possible hurl of abuses from the old man. “We are thankful to the army that has made our life worth living here. I request you not to pay the bill. Accept this food as a token of gratitude to the men in uniform. The army guards us and protects us from anti-national elements. We are thankful to them,” he said with folded hands.
For the first time in my life, the land seemed so similar to my land, the people so familiar and Kashmir felt safe like home.
WE PASSED BY STREETS BUZZING WITH LIFE AND SILENT LABYRINTHS; THE VAST SAFFRON FIELDS AND SMALL HOUSES OF WOOD