Unarmed Soldiers!

A clear spring morning,

draped with the smell of blood.

Pathways, all across

have been painted red.

How many would they kill today?

Perhaps not a million on the way.

I fear my death for no reason,

Life doesn’t promise honor either.

Daggers have stabbed our hearts,

bullets have pierced through.

Stun guns fired from short range,

killing all in family though.

We march on the streets,

with hands high above shoulders.

We are the unarmed soldiers

of an occupied nation.

I do not face the mirror,

I saw a martyr in a friend.

He lives in the memories

in soul of her mother.

Millions are on the roads,

for thousands who have been killed.

We shoulder them to graveyards,

not their convictions.

Kashmir is in news again,

but they painted it colourless.

Again we are discarded,

again we go unnoticed.

They glorify their tales, acclaim our Killers.

They called our freedom struggle, “Terrorism”.

What would end our woes?

We have genocide in waiting.

Entitle me an opinion,

Do not hijack my thoughts.

Let me talk,

…world hears.

Return to Freedom.

Fear has almost lost its way into the hearts of people. No, I am not designing illusion. I am talking reality. It is the truth of people, moreover the power of masses. I haven’t seen anything like this before but am sure, things more than this are on the way to follow. Its pure obsession for something people have been starving for. It can’t be any far now, but its not going to be easy either. We need to blend our sentiments and our intellect, so that we reach our much desired goal.

While I walk lanes and by-lanes from my house to reach the place of tryst, which is almost the walking distance, to the barren piece of land. Where I would stand, shoulder to shoulder, with my brothers who like me are part of this Revolution, I am stunned to see the sea of people walking along and walking adjacent to me. I slow down my speed, my heart thumping with joy. I wanted some one to hear my heartbeats, but of course there were better things to do. I want to catch my breath, but who cares when one is walking to freedom.

I catch a glimpse of young boys, who have made a circle. Almost 10 of them. They have a pleasant revolutionary voice. Lyrics perfectly pronounced, and tempo rose slowly. Every one of them has right leg inside the circle they have made, while left leg is firmly placed on the ground.

I hear them reciting, Raggda, Raggda, De Raggda, followed by any Indian thing. They are lyrics of a long poem; they seem to have connected various poems but perfectly blend together.

Then there is this young guy, hanging on the bus. One hand cutting through the air like a sharp razor and singing with around hundred people,

Saeb Tou Bahana Hai,

Rawalpindi Jaana hai.

I finally make my way through to the place; all I could see is people. Old and young, rich and poor, father and son and what not. It’s a treat to the eyes. I have never seen something like this before.

And I hear a voice atop the truck, which worked like a stage. It’s a familiar voice, it moves through the air like a sickle. Its rhetoric. Nothing less than a dose of opium.

One single voice asks Hum kya Chahtay? And the one million people reply in one voice. Azaadi. Every single respond reverberates in air till the next slogan is raised.

I then hear one more voice, it familiar as well. He asks people raise their hands, people do. He asks them to raise both hands, and people do. And we have two million hands in the air, a sight very rare.

While people began to leave, I very much see the stampede in coming. But the discipline in people joyously shocks me. I also happen to see a bunch of people shielding army, so that no untoward incident takes place. Now, where do you get to see the discipline in a mob. It seemed Indian government and their agents failed to do their assigned work, that was to create panic, which would leave hundreds dead.

Bravo people, bravo. And yes as they say, “It’s a Revolution”. Indeed it is. And may be we finally have it.

Chronicle- MBA 2006-08 -I

Two years. They say its pretty long time, but for me it has just winged away. I would have never believed time but I have been clicked on both my birthdays which came through. I have every reason to cry and bring out the emotions; something precious is slipping through my hands, leaving memories to live by, for the life to come. I feel the bond with each of 39 students in my class, and will definitely miss each of them. I will miss the stairs, something which attracted me to the department. I will miss my classrooms, walls I hated during lectures. And may be I will miss the faculty for one or the other reason. I have seen the department changing from DMS to TBS; I have seen the Heads change and so did the nomenclature. I am witness to everything that happened during past two years and more than that I have been the part.

Even though the journey starts much before we joined the department and may be ends much longer after we leave – Legacies behind. I thought of sketching my memories through alphabets, with the intention that whenever I feel low in life, I will have memoirs of this wonderful epoch.

My mind is as blank as SAP’s first internal assessment paper. And I walk in through huge aluminum gate. Not even the police guard is standing there. And I dream of owning this university, No idiot’s I don’t want buy it; I just want to be granted an admission. Far away I see bunch of guys standing outside the commerce department. I want to make sure, I look into every one’s eye and see if they feel the same. First time I see Lubaid khan, we look into eyes, shake hands coldly. There is nothing like friendship, it’s just a formality. Never knew life would bring us this close.

Zaib is around too, he was friend since college, so we roam around for some time before he gets into the GD hall. When they come back, I see one guy with all his blood rushed to cheeks throwing away a file containing some documents I took to be certificates. Zaib and I move away just to show our rejection for that very gesture. Yes, that’s Gazi Toufeeq, Roll no: 1, of our class. Prof Shabir was about to promise him a long stay in university if his luck hadn’t favored. And yeah, that long walk to Karim’s on a hot Delhi day, every one is going to remember and curse you for that Gazi.

Finally I get into GD, make sure I do my task well and come out happily. I believe that’s how you feel when you take on nine other guys single handedly. Personnel interview is much simpler, it’s almost cake walk. We discuss books and talk about Da Vinci Code and Holy Grail. It’s almost seems to be a friendly talk.

Few days before when results are expected, I meet Prof.Shabir for the first time in the office of a known Lecturer. I just take one assurance, RESULTS are not MANIPULATED. I simply do not understand what assurances did I want to take, I somehow felt, he just wanted to say, “Come along, I will screw you all through two Sems”. Not many days latter, when I am sitting with few friends in MBA department and the results are expected in few days, I irritate a Mam in Dean’s office to confirm if I have made it. She is very reluctant to answer. When she leaves the office, some one calls my name “Irtif”; she looks back and says, “Is your name Irtif Mehraj”. I nod in assurance. “I typed this name in both the lists of MBA and MFC”, is what I get to hear. I don’t look back and I jump in excitement. I find my friends happier than me. And since this day, I have felt like I own this university.

Chronicle- MBA 2006-08 -II

Where do I start? May be when for the first time I see three people talking, Mubashir, Roof and Sheen, damn you guys, they were meeting for the first time and planning a picnic for the class which was yet to meet. It very well describes where it takes us for the next two years.

First class- Ajaz Mattoo comes in with the faculty, for the first and last time I see class as silent as that. Everyone seemed to be keen on ‘INTERNALISING’ each and every word spoken there and then. Silence was killing, I wanted to fracture the empty chair next to me on one of the professor’s skull, his old hair style is so ugly. Stillness broke with the knock on the door, a simple but pretty girl comes in, roughly nervous. I latter came to know, her name is Makhmoora.

I assure that every student in class felt like he was part of KIM-Hazratbal, some thing as strong an institution as IIM-Ahmadabad. And we had every reason to believe it. Prof.Shabir elated us more by talking about MIT and Harvard’s method of teaching. That till date remains to be the most motivating class; I sat in, in DMS. Iflah khan latter confessed of being scared of that untrue and full of lies lecture. Where the hell did he think he would fetch us jobs worth 10 Million Dollar? If nothing but every student learned how to fake his accent and some people proved far better in “FAKING”.

First break and all of us walk like the flock of sheep to Naseem Bagh, sit adjacent to little green shed, under the shade of a mighty chinar. We introduce ourselves, so many names, hush, information overload. I just do not listen to every name and make sure whichever I listen to I remember. Midway through the conversation, Insha, Deeba and Aasima get some tea and snacks, and I comically comment, “That’s what I would like for next two years”. And fortunately that’s what follows. What was not included was Kicks, new Pinches and Punches. Something I will miss “Fortunately”. Through next few days I remember every name.

Next day early morning, I see Fawzaan. He was in the same college I was in. We just knew each other and were much less than friends. But for the coming months, we started knowing each other better and somewhere we hit the right chord in each other.

Prof Shabir, complimented us by dedicating a theory in his class. “Like Irtif and Fawzaan, who got into trouble together, and are found on the same bench”. Some way these troubles got us much closer. (Perfectly under normal human norms).

Even before Insha and I were friends, one day she whacked me with the scale, I justifiably run after her and she broke last bench of our first class. Damn, I thought she broke her limbs as well but she proved to be hard for the wood used in furniture. Latter I got to know, even steel is used. But then that was just the start.

Iflah and I started writing on copies of unknown guys and girls in class. Signing pages just to make them unusable, filling the information, which we couldn’t even guess. Silly and absurd things which are endearing and not irritating at all. Amir’s scolding lesson’s started right that day, when we filled his J&K Bank Diary; he still uses the dairy this day. I am still unsure if he washes that dairy after every sem.

Somewhere in the first semester, when I was scheduled to go to Delhi for conference, I read my rough which was inscribed with:

Jewellery for Rouf; Sandals for Sheen; Clothes for Saba.

Damn, these kinds of silly things brought us together only to part away one day, in the longer run of life. Something which we cannot escape or run away from, something all of us morally and ethically are bound to do. But in this longer run for life we shall make it sure, Insha Allah, that we don’t enslave ourselves to the blind dream.

First picnic -Pahalgam. Boys empty handed and girls falling sides with heavy hot cases. One thing I am sure of, we always enjoyed the travel, more then the picnic spot. Waseem, Tabish and Faizan singing in full swing, Raat Ko Baara Bajay, Department ma Hulad Macha, Maina Suna, Kya Suna? And then a song for every one, followed. Where do I get friends to sing songs for me now? It’s hard to believe that no pranks are to follow. It’s hard to believe, Life won’t be same again. No class picnics, No friends to serve food, no friends to click you in disgusting acts.

Guys I appreciate your appetite, after having the feast girls had bought along, where did that packed food brought by Nazima’s Dad go? Waseem you must be still hungry? Zahoor we digested it all, I remember they made us wash the dishes. I still have the pic with me. But then that won’t count to any expirence in corporate sector.