Friday

I feel very insecure today. I believe I am transforming into something new, may be better. My life has changed; tomorrow my values might change as well. You do not understand what I am going through. I feel, soon nothing will matter to me. No, I am not talking about Nirvana. I am not even leaving my worldly possession. Do I really have any? Come on, that’s a secondary question. I know it’s not going to matter to any of you. And as if I am dying to make it matter to you.

Az chu Jummah. Fifth day of week and ongoing protests as well. I just despise this illegal transfer of land. I am getting frustrated; I am running out of stocks. I sipped last can of Rani Juice (Peach Flavor) yesterday morning. My 3 year old cousin ran away with the last ‘five star’ chocolate today morning. Last few salted peanuts are left in the peanut box. No, this is no NASA thing. Last evening when I went out to have a walk and more than that to find a shop where I could buy my stocks, I could only see few medical shops open. For some time I thought I would buy some vitamin, calcium and iron injections and pills. I might die of hunger. But if I do not stop eating all this, I will surely die of over weight. But then who cares. All I am worried about right now is illegal transfer of land.

All I could smell today is burnt rubber and all my eyes can feel is brunt of tear gas. It has been busy few days for every one. The Indian army has killed few more young people. Government is still unmoved except the opposition and coalition partner who are trying to take political mileage out of the issue for the “so- called” elections to come. Did I tell you, I even despise elections under occupation? Yes, I do and every one except India does. Newspapers are filled with same. Every one talking on same lines but action is yet to be seen except of Pro-Freedom leaders, who have with masses taken to roads.

One good thing which has come up in these protests is people are leading themselves, they no more feel handicapped for the instructions. Some how, Kashmir is finally maturing in its existence. It is a “Revolution” indeed. Time is coming up to expectations. Even the mob is behaving in a civilized manner, pretty much understanding the consequences. Every protestor I believe has framed a complete picture of what’s happening and what can happen. Protests can’t get civilized than this one.

Phew, why do we have to talk about these things? Let’s get back to stories. Yes, I have started loving “story telling”. I heard some one saying it’s an art. I am learning it too. Would you hear something from my childhood? Where do I start? Okay.

There was a guy, yeah the one who ran away with the team money. Every one of us friends hated him, he always scared us. So one day, we had Crack down. It meant walking in a single line across the black gypsy, like we did in school, passing our Sikh teacher who would check our hair with his stick; we always wondered why any one didn’t check his hair. We had seen him with his hair open once on a camp. If the gypsy blew horn, the one standing in front was taken away. Many have not returned till this day. While this guy was walking towards the gypsy, all of us prayed that horn should take him away from us for some time. The guy finally reached the place and horn blew. We jumped in excitement, only to get a fierce look from our elders.

Next few days were so good, we played our hearts out. But we never saw that guy again. Some time after, I heard his left leg was broken and he had to use a walking stick since. I really felt bad that day. I wanted to confess to him. All of us wanted to, but then they say “Life is like that”. Many a times we don’t even get second a chance. But I know things will get better in a jiffy, I just know things will get better. How can they not? Some innocent and beautiful people have given blood for the cause and the cause is just.

I don’t know if I can go on a walk today, things have heated up again. I feel so sorry for myself. I can’t even have a Coffee, with Mutton Shwarma and Chocolate Truffel. Coffee Arabica will be so lonely without me. Even Robusta would do today. Let it be, I will wait till the end.

I’m not a Story Teller.

Doubtless, you want me to tell you a story. But I told you I am not a story teller. Neither do I remember things so well. No, I am not old enough to have a chest full of experiences. But now, when you force me to do so, I am left thinking. Today, when I look back at quarter of a century, no, it’s little less than that. I have a sigh of relief. I remember life, facts and lies. Pain and love in balance. No, I have much more to say. I am not deaf and dumb; I am a pretty normal human being. I have every right to speak and tell you the truth. I have had the privilege of being a mystery. People were always curious to know more about me. And now I want to talk, for long something has been cursing inside.

No, I am not writing a political article. I swear, I don’t even know what will this end up on. But then I don’t have anything else to do. Az chus chuhrum. Yes, its fourth day and we haven’t heard anything from the government yet. Oppressors are fighting us hard. Some one just said,’ Its going out of hand’. Do the traitors not understand this? Why does India have to prove every time that it doesn’t worry about people of Kashmir. All it cares about is the piece of land and it has started formally with the illegal transfer of 100 acres to a non-entity. I think this politics is never going to leave me. I just want to make myself remember that I am not writing a political piece. By now people would have started thinking, do I really know how to write a political piece. But let me tell you, you should be polite enough, to not ask in public.

Let’s come back to the story, which one do you want to hear. My story, no please I just said, I am a mystery. What about a Badshah daleel? No, fine. Have you heard that Kashmiri folk song in which they talk about of a Cock and Hen, yes they also talk about the cat? Fiction, what’s wrong with that. What do you want to hear about then, 1931 martyrs? Maqbool Bhat, 1988 elections, Dargah and Chrar-i-Sharief Siege. How do you know about all this? Shhhh, keep quiet. Okay, I will tell you a story. Few men on their way back from the heights made way to Chrar-i-Sharief. These people were headed by Mast Gul. Somehow the Army sensed their presence and laid a cordon around the shrine. Insiders were cut off from light and electricity. They say these men of faith were offered a safe way back to their land. And, Indian Army just to save their face burned thousands of houses in the locality.

I was a young child those days. Unaware of what was happening around, I loved my holidays. Yes, a month long holidays were so pleasing. I played a lot of cricket. The siege was so long that we made a cricket team and it broke before the siege was over. And the nominated treasurer, who had our Rs.75, ran away with them. He was elder to us and more than that a rogue. So, no one dared to ask back for money. It was during those days that I started reading stories. Tom sawyer and Ben Hur were the two of my first books. I did not like to read, but reading made my parents happy. I also remember all in the family crying when Ishfaq Majeed was killed. For a long time I thought he was some close relative, otherwise why would some one cry over his death. But then I got to know, he was not even seen by many of us. I felt so proud of my family that day.

Conflict taught us so many things. In snowy winters, we made bunkers of snow. And, we used icicles as rockets, snow balls as bombs. One day, when we had built our bunkers and fresh snow was still falling, army turned up in our house. All the children were so afraid of bunkers being taken as real that we promised to our selves, we would not play for the rest of the day if nothing serious followed. The first thing we did after they left was bombardment of bunkers. We just ran over them. What do Americans say,” we raised them to dust”. And please that should not be considered as playing. We fulfilled the promise that day.

Its getting dark, I think I should have a walk. But some one just came in to say that curfew has been imposed in few areas. Damn, things are seriously going out of control. I just pity India. They must have got to know, Kashmir can still fight for a hundred years to come. Let’s end this non political piece with a heart felt slogan,

Kashmeer Ki Neelami,

Manzoor Nahi, Manzoor Nahi.

No Mechanism- People!

Something has struck me real hard. I am in a pure state of confusion. How could this be? Not that I have turned an infidel. Nothing can shake my faith, except God. But the stress level has jumped to an alarming stage and the coping strategies I learnt in OB class are not helping. I feel every bone in my body is broken, my muscles torn apart. I want to sleep and I want few days of solitude. If it had not been for fear, I would have not opened my eyes at least for last three days now. Things have suddenly turned ugly.

I don’t exactly remember what did we suffer in early 90’s, but people say it has been something of a sort. Two young people, protesting over the land transfer, were killed last night and whole of the valley has been burning since. If you ask me, I will say they want to change the demography of Kashmir. And our wait now is not going to be too long before an absolute genocide takes place. But then I am not writing a political piece.

Morning schedule has unexpectedly changed for me, before I even open up my eyes I grab my Nokia phone, GPRS enabled. Irfan’s (Rising Kashmir) Newspaper is in the favorite list. My fingers just remember where to click and where not. I travel the distance in moments. And may be that’s where ‘Time and Space’ ceases to be. I do not remember leaving an instance to tease him on his Beat- as they call it in their journalistic terminology, and I am being very genuine. His beat is Hurriyat but I only find one name around there, Geelani. May be for the right reasons, but then as I said I am not writing a political article. One reason I check news on that particular newspaper for that particular beat because I believe he has got a better understanding than others who do the same beat. Prejudices may creep in because he is a friend. Also because, I feel he might have some news for me. Once they carried a news, a good one but it has become a bad omen since.

My other phone, just enabled for voice calls and texts has been put to task by me. I have kept it on silent mode since. It doesn’t have a day, it doesn’t have a night. The first miss call I see in the morning reads Fvxan, trying to spell it like he does. He isn’t getting any sleep more than me. Not even the straightening of his long hair which has been kept under constant cover for past few years is helping. Not even its cost, I mean that would have served some 10 outings at Khyam for Me, Akhtar and Khateeb as well. Khan was never regular and Zeab has got a Job. And, yes if things turn ugly, you would have to give up on Orkutting. Laptops and Cookies aren’t allowed.

Last night while changing sides in my bed, I figured my phone was lighting. The only way you get to know that you have a call after you put it on silent mode. It was a landline number, damn us. Even Akhtar is unable to sleep. In university he pulls me by my hand to talk of bits and pieces. One thing he is keen on doing every now and then is make people laugh. But his smile has been missing since. No, I am not talking of Shahrukh in KANK, Akhtar is a real character.

Lamb, Beni, Nautanki and Teeny have not been able to figure out the real problem yet and we don’t want to tell them. Not that we don’t want to share, but it can be stressful for them. There is much more that I wanted to write for each of the above people but it won’t fit in the mood. Khan was a great support system last evening. I just feel like saying, “We should do it more often”.

I have also had few people calling me, trying to be Leaders. Even though they are just sympathy calls, but I have started hating them. One reason my phone is on silent mode. Also, I also believe that they have forgotten that I have been there “FOUNDER LEADER”. But now who has got time to make them understand, I have loads of other things to do. I am not a braggart, so I admit no one has offered me Rs.10 Million, yet. I haven’t changed sides as well. I don’t use people. I can’t play politics. I am still up for Independence. And I believe time proves for itself. I am not an opportunist as well.

I know things will settle down, everything thing will be set right but I felt like writing. Not just for myself but also for the people to read. And I believe this serves me for one more thing. I just want to declare to all the people whose names have come up in here, “I Love You”. And will keep on loving each one of you all my life.

May God Bless us all.

I am called TERRORIST!

Unseen gap between the iron bars,

dark and dim,

Light no entity.

Future no attribute of life.

My answer might surprise you if you ever ask me. The pain unusually has been a relief for me in the interrogation centre. Not because it was the only time when I would find people around me. But it would make me remember the conviction I stood for and still do. Not many things are worth giving life for, and one would never find a greater but equal cause. While I write these few lines my hands quiver more then they did when they used my skin as a cigarette extinguisher. Whatever I say might be ‘partial truth’ but that’s how I want it to be.

Many a times my soul wished the cell I was in to shrink. Reason logical and clear, it never felt the pain. Every time my body suffered brutalities, showered upon me by the capturer, joyous would be my soul. Reason clear –faith and conventional philosophy. And always said worse the sufferings, exquisite would be the feeling of freedom and still multiplying. But remained an unanswered question, would my dream and the dream of one million people taste the glamour of reality. Would or would not, but pessimism has no way into my heart or mind.

Would there be a day which with its first sun ray would bring the joy of raising a nation. A state of principles where law would be based on morals not alibis. The Kashmir Flag, with a flow of breeze in and out. As if clock tower was designed to be its stand. Hungry lungs breathing the oxygen of freedom and throwing away everything else. But then it still is a dream, yet to cherish the reality.

Not always, during the years of prison was it hard. Moments of pleasure and relief were not a rare commodity. All I needed and had, was the software of optimism loaded into my memory. Never had I thought stars would be my ‘tasbi’ (beads) and moon –‘imam’ of ‘tasbi’. Some times, I would stand up, look high and wish I had more fingers to count all the days I was in here. But did I really want to remember. Not that I want to forget everything, how can I can. I cannot forget the unseen hands which ran through my hair when I was all in pain. Never in my childhood had I seen snow flakes falling without the constraint of time, I had all the time now.

The inhuman acts have changed in 21^st century. Punishment now doesn’t mean, whipping the skin off but filling the bare chest with bullets and burying without a tombstone. Pity, they think they give an infamous death.