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.

His favourite song

… and we decided to meet
Again.
In the orchards of almonds
blooming flowers, shimmering sun
the temping smell of garden
I waited for long.

I looked at Zabarvan,
the calmness of Dal,
the rowing noise.
What on earth could stop him from coming?
He never broke his promise.
Phone rang, Kashmiri music.
It was his favorite song,
Unknown number I thought for a while…

I ran to the hospital, Sweating.
Perspiration covered my forehead,
drained my body shaking with fear.
Traffic jam, horn blow,
vendor’s noise, smoke, stink.
Borrowed cigarette choked me,
water gushed through my eyes.

Some one offered water,
in a dirty steel glass.
I drank without hesitation.

I could read the hoarding,
SMHS on left.
I got down from the bus.
Fingers tracing his name, trauma ward.
Sign board showed straight and left,
I rushed up.
The ward was crowded,
I made my way.
I could barely see him,
he wall all red.
He hated to wear red,
he always said it was the colour of women.
Bathed in this colour now
he looked at me with a faint smile.

Doctor caught my hand
took me away, my hand was sweating.
He felt uneasy,
firm and strong hands loosing grip.
I wanted to run away.

…again trauma ward,
Faint smile had not gone,
eyes still wide open, staring without blink,
body cold
lungs not breathing.
Phone rang,
Kashmiri music, his favourite song
he wasn’t listening.

Who killed him?

Morning breeze,
I heard the yelling words
Lal-Chowk, tower clock
Its hour needle still missing.

New bus!
Smell of steel, suffocating.
Young faces, all around.
Exotic perfume, a relief.

Conductor,collecting money.
A young boy,
green tie and grey pant.
Not very tidy.

His old dented geometry box
Half-broken, half tattoed
coins made clinking noise,
he paid the fare.

Memories revisited me.
School, my old school days.
I always walked the distance.
It had been some years now.

Ashai bagh bridge,
Nageen and Dal met
What Nostalgia!

Obscure, but I see
Minaret, architectural excellence blend with faith,
Dastgeer sae’b,
hearts filled with prayers.

Green knots tied,
they call them wishes.
Who knows what the wishes are?
rewarded or not!

They asked driver to turn,
hundreds of voices together.
Who were they?
No one dared to ask

“They killed feroze”, some one screamed.
Everything blacked out, I was blind,
I can’t believe them, he
Has a promise yet to fulfill.

How could they,
it wasn’t easy
to fix between two finites
An infinite.