Reading Time: 5 minutes
Dr Roopali delves deeper, in the second and concluding part, to reveal what azaadi meant to a Kashmiri schoolgirl, living in a troubled paradise. An exclusive for Different Truths.
Father’s office at the Secretariat in Jammu was once a palace. His office room had pink and pistachio green floral tiles. It had a certain opulence, and once when my sister and I visited, Panditji, Father’s PA proudly informed us, “this room Maharaja Gulab Singh born!”
His English made us giggle. I wish Panditji had not accompanied us on our short holiday to Srinagar. He kept cracking walnuts all the way. Thin and fair, he had a swing about him as he walked. And he wore a neat Nehru jacket and a big orange mark on his forehead.
Ahhh, Kashmir …Mother breathed the fragrant air…
Ahhh, Kashmir …Mother breathed the fragrant air… “Jannat no talking. This Kashmir swarg.” Panditji corrected her. Again the walnut. Like a limpet, he stuck to Mother and Father, directing their every move.
Kashmiri Pandit
Beautiful carpets, the incredible papier-mache bowls and boxes and flowerpots. The carved furniture is made out of walnut wood. Although he just would not let us look at anything. Whispering close into Mother’s ear, sometimes touching Father’s sleeves and asking us to move away. He was a Kashmiri Pandit. The know-it-all!
What was he whispering? My sister had turned six. She was older by a-year-and-a-half. She slipped close and caught the whisper. “Inka dharam alag hai. Yahan se nahi kharido!” Bewildered, Mother looked at him. “No buying…outside people.”
The stinky water was too much revenge by the boatman, who was not of our religion.
The Shikaara rower, Panditji informed Father, had deliberately brought us under the seven bridges of the Jhelum River. The stinky water was too much revenge by the boatman, who was not of our religion. This time it was not a whisper. It was an angry voice.
The Whispering Holiday
Until we crossed under all seven bridges, Panditji kept scolding Abdullah, the boatman. The whispering holiday ended sooner than expected as mother had had enough of Panditji and anyway, other whispering had begun in offices and streets in Jammu and other parts of Kashmir.
Three decades later, I stepped out of a military Jonga vehicle with its recently stoned-cracked windows and walked across to a tiny grocery shop.
An indifferent surly man half lay on a carpet with no desire to sell his wares.
An indifferent surly man half lay on a carpet with no desire to sell his wares. An unknown man in a salwaar and woolen phiran with a cap on his head had slithered up from somewhere and stuck to me like…yes…a limpet! This time he was whispering, but not to me. Shelves full of Maggi Noodles and Tomato ketchup. “One tomato sauce please and two Maggi Noodles.” Blank look. Whisper-whisper. I waited. “No …No have.”
Surprised, I repeated…pointing to the shelf. First, he ignored me. I persisted. “Not for you!” he spoke aggressively. The whispering limpet spoke up…” Only for Kaashmeer…no Army. No Indian.”
Furious, I said, “Kashmir is in India!”
Furious, I said, “Kashmir is in India!” The worried military driver quietly escorted me away.
Everything had come full circle.
I could hear Panditji cracking walnuts. On the Dal Lake, a Shikaara bobbed up and down. Its curious name…Peg of My Heart!
We Want Azaadi
“We want azaadi, ma’am!” The smart bright young girl at the Navodaya School in one of the most turbulent areas in the valley stood up and spoke. Escorted by army security I was doing my job as a senior military spouse.
Sadbhavna is one of the important initiatives of our forces to extend all kinds of help, succour, counsel, access to educational institutions, medical aid etc. to our communities. “What do you mean by azaadi?” I had asked.
It was then a-decade-and-a-half since I had been to this paradisal land of ours.
The drive from the airport to headquarters was not what I had thought it would be. It was then a-decade-and-a-half since I had been to this paradisal land of ours. Since the Maggi Noodles man had refused. I had hoped to stop and look at the valley and its beautiful pine trees. Stop and buy some almonds and walnuts …little shops vending on the roadside.
Cricket Bats
The cricket bats hanging from the trees …my cricketing son would love it. The young woman in uniform, a Captain, who had come to receive me at the airport said a categorical “No!” The jeep was rushing at great speed. Everything blurred as we whizzed past. “I am sorry ma’am it’s not possible to stop. It’s not safe.” She was armed.
A strange palpable sadness hung in the air.
I had travelled to many places. Nowhere else had I felt sadness so strongly. Once inside the sand bagged enclosures with the olive green people, I tried to relax. It was not possible. There was always something happening that I was not a party to.
Basset Hounds
Our Basset Hounds waddled about, their long ears almost touching the ground, and helping us ease some stress. The sense of isolation was high. The next day, I offered to cook dinner for the spouse and for his team of young officers.
As a Bengali my only identity was that of a fish curry cook!
The primitive military camp kitchen met me with its battered old frying pan and handle broken kadhai wok and a not so happy to see me there, uniformed cook with his freshly caught fish from the Lidder River. As a Bengali my only identity was that of a fish curry cook! Could anyone refuse? Or even hesitate?
The young men, our best from Delhi and Lucknow and Cochin and Bihar, and the lone woman from Orissa with her gun, what were they doing here? What was their identity? How were they so full of vigour? And the josh? Why was it so high?
Fish Curry
So here I was, the Commander’s wife, cooking fish curry. The next day they had all gone somewhere. Not all returned. Tension was at its peak. Two of the basset hounds were seriously ill. The milk from the village was perhaps poisoned. I would have to leave soon.
Oh, yes…azaadi, what does azaadi mean? We are an azaad, independent nation. The British left a long time ago. “Ma’am, we are so tired of our lunch boxes being searched and we are so tired of our parents being forced to make us wear burkhas and hijabs and not go out to play. We want to be free, ma’am!”
And then I knew why sadness hung like a cloak wrapping us all into it.
And then I knew why sadness hung like a cloak wrapping us all into it. “Ma’am, we also want to be free like girls in Delhi and Bombay. Free to dress as we wish, eat our lunch packed by our moms, choose our careers. Will we ever? That is what Azaadi means to us. “
The girls had all clapped for their friend!
(An excerpt from Dr. Roopali’s forthcoming novel, Porridge and I)
Concluded
Visuals by Different Truths
