Growing up in a cage But this prison cannot imprison our memories SAFEENA WANI In 1989, amidst slogans for Azadi, I was set free from the ‘cage’ of my mother’s womb. Freedom was short-lived as frequent curbs soon made me realize that I am part of a larger prison now. And then I lost the track of my pals as my home was turned into a prison. My doll, which is still safe in my closet, became my Samaritan all these years and compensated the loss of my friendship. Our home became a cage and it still remains imprisoned. And it turned even more suffocating on Feb 9 this year. “You know what,” my younger sister informed me early that morning, sounding full of suspense, “They hanged Afzal Guru!” The news was vicious in itself, but the next move from the government was outrageous. To contain rage, they locked- up their “integral part”. They again denied people their right to mourn. I remember the day when I was playing Saze- Loung (tip-toe) with my friends on the streets of Malaratta in old Srinagar. Suddenly, loud gunshots that rang up in the area left me and my friends shell-shocked. And we ran for our lives. As a little girl, I hid my head in the bosom of my mother to overcome shock. I was comforted by my equally terrified mother. For the sake of her child, she did put up a brave face that day. But I never played on the streets after that incident. Many such incidents followed and I lost track of my friends. That was my first rendezvous with this cage, and it is still on. That day, yes the day when another Kashmiri was hanged in Tihar jail, I saw a little girl gazing at me through my window from the opposite whitewashed house. Her breaths spread mist over the windowpane. With her little finger, she drew zigzag lines on the glass. Those lines seemed to resemble that of iron gates of prison. When she lifted her eyes, we both exchanged smiles. With the eagerness of a child, she waved her petty hands at me, as if suggesting that a small bird wanted to come out of the cage to soar high and free in the air. “Since the arrivals of Mughals in the valley, we all are caged,” my grandmother told me once when curfews would be enforced for days together. She would narrate countless tales about Zulm in Kashmir. After losing her to death-angel, I realized that she wanted me to understand the reality of Kashmir, the reality of our cage. And that is why perhaps she never told me Raja-Rani stories as a kid, even when I would plead her to narrate one. Even generational gaps couldn’t wane this realization of living in a cage, which seems deeply embedded in our DNA. I remember a youth who was arrested on charges of having affiliations with militant ranks in late nineties. The poor soul was interrogated to such an extent that he lost touch with his sanity forever. Wearing a ragged and shabby Pheran, he is now wandering like a lunatic in the old city. Located in this city of pain, ours is a modest brick house, next to a garment shop. My grandmother used to sit in a corner of her room, facing the road chanting verses from the Holy Quran. Just outside our window, I would gaze at Hari Parbat for hours, a hill over which Afghans have built the fort. The fort was later taken over by Indian troops. “They see everything from this bunker,” my grandmother used to tell me. “Don’t point your finger towards it. Militare wyel lagaunay goule (They will fire at you).” These remarks would send chills down the spine and the cage would instill even more fright. There was one Bazaz bunker situated between garment shops near our residence. My Father often talks about that afternoon in early nineties when militants attacked Bazaz bunker. “It took Indian troops few seconds to shoot Haji Sahab, a local shopkeeper,” my father remembers. He was killed by the same troops whom he used to offer tea every morning as the bunker was adjacent to his shop. His lamenting relatives were heard crying over his death: “Haji Sahab, didn’t they even consider your sweet nature before pointing their guns at you?” During Haji’s lifetime only, his own shop near the bunker was turned into a cage. The siege that bunker imposed on nearby shops and households in the nineties is hard to forget. Few days ago, I passed by Haji Sahab’s shop. The hoarding outside his shop now reads ‘Mushtaq and Sons’ instead of Haji and Sons. An old man waiting near the shop asked me to assist in crossing the road. While showering blessings, he poured his heart out. He has lost his grandson in an encounter with security forces in late nineties. And since then this old man is finding himself caught in a mental cage. How I wished to erase the pain that was palpable on his wrinkled face. Don’t we have countless elders like him who are silently enduring the pain of separation of their loved ones? Their psychological cage is only deepening their miseries. One among them is our neighbor, CC Ji, as we fondly call her. Last summer, after my vacation, I got a chance to meet her. Her stern temperament makes her come across as an unfriendly woman, but she wasn’t like this always. Before Kashmir insurgency broke out, CC Ji lived happily with her family. The first major jolt to her life came when her husband was killed by some unidentified persons. However, she endured the loss and fought hard to educate her son, but only to part with him later. Her son, Lateef was one among those who lost his life on May 1990. Kashmir was on boil after witnessing Gawkadal Massacre, where around 50 unarmed protestors were allegedly killed by Indian troops. Only a few months after Gawkadal massacre, 51 unarmed protesters were killed in Zakura Crossing and Tengpura. On that day Lateef was leading the Zakura protest. He fell to the bullets and thus pushed CC Ji further into the abyss of life full of misery. “What do you want?” an old roly-poly woman dressed in long cotton gown and black trousers asked me in a harsh tone while finding me at the gate of her house. “Nothing,” I replied. “I have just brought your official papers from school.” “Who are you?” she asked. “These papers have been sent by Kounsar ji,” I replied. She paused for a moment as I handed over papers to her. “Are you Kounser’s daughter?” She enquired. “No, she is my aunt,” I replied. Then she asked me to come in. Two black and one brown dog guarded her house. Her room was adorned with ironical images. Apart from lively landscape image of Gulmarg, pictures of her late husband in a black coat were hung on the walls. His son was present in the room too but in the form of a portrait, wearing red jacket, sitting on a chair in some restaurant. My aunt usually talks about her weird behavior. But her bitterness isn’t for nothing. It is gift of conflict in Kashmir which she is sharing with scores of other wives and mothers like her. Their cage of solitude, and the void created by it, must be haunting them. No balm, no therapy and no pill can ever ease their pain and melancholy. Surging visits to Srinagar’s psychiatric hospital will tell you that. Gloomy faces, absorbed minds and silent souls can now be seen in the hospitals and elsewhere in this beautiful prison. In Kashmir, where mourners have learnt to paint smile on their faces, right to express rage over injustices and killings is still denied for the sake of larger ‘national interest.’ And when streets simmer in frustration, then they name it fanaticism. But we aren’t given to forgetfulness as we can never afford to forget. Memories are our legacies and we are their heir-apparent. #_ridx33_
Posted on: Sat, 14 Sep 2013 16:53:11 +0000
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