J & K

Two of them had nothing in common but the desire to be seen as victims of persecution. Perceived sense of persecution! This perceived sense of collective victim hood was what brought them together.
J was thin as a rattle snake, had a long nose, two beautiful eyes and hair like that of a jute mat. Here he was, with a newfound sense of freedom, unbridled passion and love for his land. He was head and shoulders above his peers, was well versed with history, geography and politics and was always on right of his own self. Passion was his middle name; his biggest asset and his biggest liability.
K was a fat as a bean bag and had a balanced head over his distorted body. It was hard to describe him because he never behaved in a certain manner. Freud would have scratched his balls to decode K’s personality type. At different times in the same situations he would react so differently that you would keep wondering whether it is Dr.Jekyll now or was it Mr.Hyde then. His passion lasted shorter than his orgasm. He was always on his own side, left and right could fuck them-selves.
Yet destiny had brought them together. They met in an alien land where shoulders are so welcome. The sign of 10 that they made looked wonderful when they walked together. They fitted the Watson - Crick Model of Lock and Key and made a perfect enzyme structure for themselves. An Ardhnareshwara of sorts……
An all male version of Ardhnareshwara……..

Futile Search

I search for an address
My permanent address
The one they write on our passports
And ration cards
Yet again, I am to vote
Without an address, a post office, a home

I search for my source
In distant lands
In faces that look fairer, in noses which are pointed
In houses that have land and a permanent roof
Yet again, I am without one
The only one that I had
Is lost now

I search for my roots, in flower pots

Induced Hallucination

Jim Morisson lay pasted on his wall. It was one of those centre page posters from a magazine called Sun. This small room in the otherwise palatial house was “his only” space. It was a place where he could give vent to his idiosyncrasies, where he could think like Majorission (the inverted Jim Morisson), where he could be “creative” and most important where he could in letter and spirit, emulate his idol-Jim Morrison.
On a floor above his, was the Thokur Kuth or the God’s Room. The room for the God was almost as the same size as that of Jim Morrison’s. K seldom had anything to do with this room. He grew up in his own world in what was otherwise a very orthodox Brahmin Family. He was antithesis of everything that they stood for. He called his family members crazy and to them he epitomised madness.
When they sang,”Maat Pitta tum mere” he would be rocking his guitar and singing”O mother,I wanna fuck you,O Father I wanna Kill you”.
Soon all this was going to change.
One day his father brought a calendar: the ones that shopkeepers, halwais, newspaper agencies and the likes publish every-year to boost their sales. One more God, K thought. His father had a fetish for picking up and bringing home every image that even bore a brief resemblance to any of the myriad deities that Hindus have. There wasn’t a wall in the entire house but for K’s room where some god, demi-god or saint did not lay pasted or hung. K had resigned to this fetish of his father though more was in store for him. His father thought of upgrading the washrooms. New tiles were brought in to the replace the old ones. A white new commode with Hindustan written on it was to be the centrepiece of the new room. The changes in the washroom forced K to look for a new place to please himself. After all how could a man masturbate under the prying eyes of the gods?
The calendar had to be hung somewhere. In a house where gods occupied every square millimetre of wall space making house for another god was going to be as difficult as finding God himself. But K’s father was resolute.
Oh No,not in my room.K said.
When K was away,his father had a nail hammered into a wall in K’s room.Jim Morisson had an unusual neighbour in Bhagwan Gopinath-a chillum smoking and dreamy eyed Kashmiri saint.K was indignant. He wanted none of this but poor K .Poor K still wasn’t as Kafkaesque as his elder namesake. He did not have the courage to leave the comforts of his home and the protection of his mother. He had read enough not to be foolhardy. That night he did not play The Doors.He sung Yesterday instead.
He was curious about this new inhabitant. Bhagwan Gopinath- what kind of a name is that? K’s mother was a usual doting mom. She would do anything to please K as long as she did not invite her husband’s ire. She would placate him but that was no comfort. He needed a space to handle his cock without the ubiquitous overloading over. And it wasn’t just that, the very idea of an all pervading, all encompassing, giver of boons was repulsive to him. He could not reconcile with the thought that we must beg before someone whose existence himself was doubtful.
But Bhagwan Gopinath was still living. He could see him if he wanted. His mother said why don’t you go and meet Bhagwanji? What me and why would I want to meet a man who calls himself Bhagwan and yet smokes grass like any other rock star would. Is this Bhagwanji of yours a rock star of some kind, he taunted his mother. Trahe Trahe she said, and left the room. Despite her love for K, she hurled abuses and cursed him for being an atheist and a non-conformist.
He was happy she was gone. As soon as she left, K lit up a fag. He loved grass .He took a deep puff and let out a ring of smoke. The ring kept expanding and a halo was formed over his head. There were too many similarities, he thought. Both smoke grass, are high on life it seems, both have a cult icon image in the eyes of their followers, both have taken to unknown in their own ways. His fascination for this other Jim Morrison began to grow.

One More Navreh

Different Navrehs bring with them different sets of emotions .Most of the time Navrehs in exile have been nostalgic. They bring back memories of my childhood. Of days, when the day begun with an obeisance to the mother goddess atop the Hari Parvat. As a kid, Sanskrit prayers would make no sense to me, yet there was this strange sense of achievement that I could recite them alongside my elders.
There are fond memories of collective recitations of various prayers but one prayer would stand apart. Whenever we sang “Maej Sharikay Kar Daya”(Oh Mother Sharika,be benign to us) it would move us all to tears: tears of communion with our higher selves; tears of joy, of being alive in a hostile Kashmir; Tears of her being our saviour and confidante.
Soon the action would move to the Devi Anagan where hundreds of revellers like us would lay their picnic paraphernalia. Over hot cups of Kahwa,the quintessential politician among us would uselessly discuss the situation in Iran,the diehard poet would bore us with one more of his Leelas’ but the day belonged to the children. The weather on most occasions would participate in the festival. Kids like butterflies were unstoppable. Festivity was in the air, in minds, in hearts and in souls of all those Brahmins who had been brutally murdered on this given day, many centuries before, by Islamic invaders. The Goddess would overlook it all.
The Badam Vaer’s (The Almond Orchard) bloom was divine to say the least. In Kashmiri folklore and poetry so much has been written about the bloom, yet so much is lost between what his eyes see and what his pen writes. The ephemeral nature of the Almond Bloom notwithstanding was a sight to behold and a divinity to be felt. Rides, toys, love, were abundant in the Vaer. Every child represented a free soul- fearless of present, unaware of the past and careless about the future. It was then that my grandfather would recite at the top of his voice-Abhinavgupt’s “Vyapt Charachar Bhav Vishesham”.
As I grow grey in Exile,Navrehs seem to carry different messages for me.Although I try to celebrate them with the same fervour as I would back home,I obviously cannot offer my daughter the luxury of a Badam Vaer or the Devi Angan.I rue the loss but am proud that I carry the legacy forward.A legacy of the people of the verge of extinction.Tomorrow as she sees the Thal(A ritual associated with the NavreH) she will in some way become the bearer of the ember of our existence that is fast turning to ashes.Will she be able to make fire(Reh) from it or will the embers turn to ashes is something we may not live to see.
Many years back in this Zaalim Vonth Ros Shaher(Cruel Endless City as my friend, a refugee from our land , Zahoor Zargar calls it) I was depressed on this day.I saw no hope,no fire,no refuge but my solitary words …..

Yi Kyuth Navreh,Kames chi reh
Na Che, ti ,na maey
Tale Kyuth Navreh

What Navreh is this
Inside whom do the embers glow
Not you,not me
Then What Navreh is this

It isn’t as if I have all these years been despondent and hopeless in exile but there have long periods when I saw no hope of return. But it wasn’t just about return. What depressed me more was our own hollowness or crumbling of our hope.

The message last year though was one of hope.
My solitary words did not fail me in the moment of hope and I sang…..

Ye chu nov Navreh,
vich prazlaan chay na chaney reh
chuy chane rahey,rang rotumut maey
chakh aash baneth vaen aamech chey,
kad valenje maenae,yus chuy vaeh
Aakash ti pataal sar kar aaz
chey prarran panchalech ,che divay
haeth pagahuk gaash,che aayak aaz
bar-e-chirninaev kin mae chaye divay
vanvas me mokelaav mahsoosas
aaz kaluk ravan karetan khay

Wonder what message this Navreh has for me….

Nonetheless Happy Navreh!

A Vain Soul

Once with him,I was here...Valley of Flowers

Poets are vain. Scholars are even vainer. Now, imagine one who is a bit of both.

Vanity personified.

He was one of those”vanity personified types”. He had answers to all questions or at-least he claimed to have answers. He selected his audiences carefully; he always made sure they are ignoramuses compared to him. He quoted verses out of thin air, even thick mist sometimes. His understanding of history,languages,poetry,aesthetics,art,drama and literature seemed too vast to be true. To me it looked as if he had perfected the art of lying. In my opinion, that probably was the only art that he had. Almost nonchalantly he dismissed and even rubbished everyone else’s knowledge.He had grudging admirers by the day who turned knife sharpening foes by the fall of dusk.They all hated him and he knew it.In a way he enjoyed being hated.

And then his travels....

His travels had often taken him far and wide,he would tell me. He would often reminisce about his travels to the other Himalyas, to villages where ordinary tourists do not go, to saints who lived in caves and to ghosts of his own making.It was strange that he was never eaten by a beast nor did he fall prey to a mermaid who enticed him to make love to her.But that he had been an avid traveller was known to me,since I did sometimes travel with him.His experiences were strange almost alien to us city bred uncultured and ignorant chatterati.That is how he described people like us.

Somehow every once in a while he managed to get an audience of rag-tag youngsters and old assholes to hear him. He hated them all for their ignorance yet he loved them because they were his only audience.He would tell me ,It wasn’t as if I don’t have audiences elsewhere, but what I knew as a matter of fact was that they were his only audience for what he called his favourite subjects.

It would hurt him immensely if someone ever laughed or even slighted his vanity.After all how could a vain be insulted for the only trait that he has.

In the height of his vanity he would quote Ghalib’s heights of vanity,partly as a cover up for his lesser vice and partly to justify his own.

hotaa hai nihaaN gard men seharaa mere hote

ghisataa hai jabiin Khaak pe dariyaa mere aage

aashiq hoon mashooq farebi hain mera kaam
majnoon ko bhi bura kehte hain laila meray aage

A bird this morning came to my house to inform me about the death of this vain.

Someone had insulted his vanity so much that he had apparently tried to shed away his vanity and his soul slipped too. The dead body started evaporating. As the cloud of his body went up, someone was heard singing

huee muddat ke ‘GHalib’ mar gaya par yaad aata hai

wo har ek baat pe kehana, ke yooN hota to kya hota ?

We the People

They were hanging.There was hardly a peg,a tree trunk,an electric pole from where they were not hanging. They came in all sizes and colours. Some were made of old pherans and others of the colourful but torn summer dresses.The noose was tight.It almost ensured that the effigy dies the moment it is hanged..Entire valley had descended into a pall of gloom..People wore black bands and shouted slogans against Gen.Zia-ul-Haq. The day was marked by sporadic incidents of violence and curfew had to be clamped in many parts of Kashmir.
Meanwhile Pakistan went about its business normally.
Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was hanged that morning.It was a move that evoked widespread condemnation the world over, but protests, only in Kashmir. While Bhutto was hanged in Pakistan, Zia was hanged in Kashmir.
As time passed by Zia became the hero of the masses. He was seen as an icon of resurgent Islam, someone who brought back faith to people and implemented Sharia as the law of land.Many years later when Zia was killed in a plane crash, Kashmir was again wailing and weeping. Many took to the streets.In seminars, held in his memory, he was called the Amir-ul-Moimeen(The leader of the Faithful),the true muslim, the upholder of Sharia. Everyone seemed to have forgotten that he was hanged many years back, in this land.
Sheikh Mohammed Abdullah (love him or hate him) was one of the tallest leaders of Kashmir(both literally as well as metaphorically).People loved him, sorry, adored him. It may be true that most Pandits did not like him yet he had his share of admirers or chamchas among Pandits as well, depending upon which side of the fence you are on. Kashmiris called him the Lion of Kashmir, an epithet that almost personified him. There were lakhs of people on the streets of Kashmir to attend his funeral. They were full of sorrow and wondered how the void created by his death would be filled. His grave was like a Dargah with people pouring out in large numbers to read Fatiya,place flowers and spray Itr(perfume).
Not many years later a movie named,”Omar Mukhtar-The Lion of the Desert” was screened in Kashmir. The screening led to violent protests and people bayed for Sheikh’s blood. They wanted to dig his grave and some even wanted to urinate on it. They all wondered why Shiekh did not fight the Indians like Omar Mukhtar, the Libyan Tribal Leader fought his opponents. A Lion it seemed had eclipsed another Lion.
The arrival of militancy saw many people calling Sheikh Mohammed Abdullah a traitor. They said the title of Sher-i-Kashmir was a title bestowed on the Sheikh by the Indians.Once again the voices wanting to dig him out of his grave got louder and shriller. Police and Para-Military Forces were now guarding the shrine of who was once “the greatest leader of Kashmir”.No one came to place flowers at his grave anymore. No one wanted to spray Itr on his grave.
Suddenly one day two young boys turned up with a small bottle of Itr.It was pleasant surprise for the Policeman posted there. They allowed them to go to the grave.The boys hurriedly emptied the contents of the bottle on his grave and left.As soon as the young boys left, the stench of urine filled the place. By the time the Police could react the two boys had vanished.
Tailpiece:Once a journalist asked Sadiq Saab(one of the Chief Minster’s of Kashmir),about his support base in the valley.Sadiq Saab replied 40 lacs.The journalist asked him about Sheikh Saab’s support base.The answer was still the same.The perplexed journalist asked him,What is the population of the valley.The answer was still the same.

Rashneek Kher

Harmukh Vich Deedar

The title of this post may not be in consonance with the contents of the post but as it unfolds we will find the title relevant.Be patient for it may be a long,dry and sometimes scholastic.

I have been requested by many of my friends to write something on the controversy sorrounding the Amarnath Land Lease Issue.I have really been postponing writing my thoughts becuase the issue was so mired in controversy that I did not know where to start from.

It was 30th of June,08 and it was my daughter's third birthday.I had travelled to Ahmedabad to be with my family so that we could all celebrate the day.In exile,I have many outposts but no home.However,in the back of my head was this feeling of uneasiness.Crowds in Kashmir were swelling against the land transfer to the SASB.Kashmir was turning green.The green of Islam was clothed in the green of environmental conservation.We were told Kashmiri Muslims are protesting because giving this land meant environmental degradation while the slogans and the frenzy on the streets had a different story to tell.It was Pakistan se Rsihta Kya-La Illah Illlaha and Hum Kya Chahtee-Azadi.

When I woke up on 30th morning,Mehbooba Mufti had a cruel smile as she appeared on Times Now.The land given to Shrine Board was revoked.To say that I felt hurt or helpless would be an understatement.I took the evening flight back to Delhi.As I sat waiting for the flight to take off I called my friend Aditya and told him,"we are born at a wrong time in History".

I for one am in favour of a Yatra which extends for no more than 15 days.This two month Yatra is against the established ritual of the Yatra as prescribed in the Amaraeshwar Mahatmaya.The Yatra has lost its sanctity because of this unwanted extension.There is a prescribed period for the Yatra which we must follow both as a matter of tradition as well as religion.

Whether the land is given or not given to Shrine Board is also not an issue.What is really important in all this is the reaction to simple land transfer.It raises serious questions about how Islamized the valley has become.How much they hate the very presence of any vestige of any non-Islamic institution in the Kashmir.For those who may not know that an University (to be called Sharda Peeth) was to be established in Kashmir.This project also faced similar protests and is now scrapped.On this blog I have often gone into the details of Kashmir's hoary vedic past and its being an abode for heterogenity before the invasion at the hands of Muslim Invaders.The Muslims of Kashmir today want to draw their ancesstery to the pagans of Arab or fleeing Mullahs of Iran.And that is the root cause of all the protests.The pattern of religious and ethnic cleansing is bare for all of us to see.First they drove away the Pandits,then they burnt their houses and then desecrated their temples and shrines.Amarnath Shrine was increasingly being seen as the last vestige of the Hindu(mind you not Pandit) connection to the mainland India because Shiva as a deity has a pan Indian presence unlike goddesses like Rajgyna or Sharika who are the Isht Devis of the Kashmiri Pandits alone.This was consistently irking the separtists,the Muftis and their masters across the border.They wanted it be stopped somehow.

The necessity for the land to be leased to the Yatris was felt by the board because a lot of people died in a snow storm some years back.All these could have been saved if we had some structures where they could have escaped the wrath of the nature.Probably thats why the government acceded to the request of the Board.It was eventually two PDP ministers,who cleared the decks for the land transfer to the SASB for a two months' period.

However as soon as the separatists(read Pan-Islamists) started protesting against the land transfer, the Muftis,who I often called the plagirized version of Hurriyat,felt losing their turf.They joined the bandwagon and called for revocation of the very order that they had stamped.Kashmiri Muslims have increasinly been used to bringing people down to streets to scare the government.More often than not has the Indian State fallen to this and many desicions in the past have been revoked or softened because the Indian state did not have balls to call the separtists' bluff.

So shrill have the voices emanating from Kashmir become that Sajjad Lone(not even a Mohallah leader) had the cheek to tell Barkha Dutt to mute Dr,Jiteneder Singh's mike on the TV Show.He even had the audacity to tell Dr.Ajay Chrungoo that his stance could irk someone in Kashmir which can lead to further problems for Pandits living in Kashmir.Little does he realise that he himslef spends a lot of time in Delhi,in a predominantly Hindu dominated area.

What the government did not expect was the reaction from Jammu.They were taken aback as people in Jammu took to streets in far greater numbers than Kashmiri Muslims.Everything came to a standstill.The bandh was complete and voluntary.The movement was drawing support from everyone.Yet it was Omar Abdullah's speech that it gave it the required impetus.He said "hum jaan de denge par zameen nahee denge" as if the Abdullah's already had the title of the land.Kuldeep Dogra's suicide as a reaction to Omar's speech re-kindled passions and now the entire Jammu province joined the Sangarsh Samiti.There were ofcourse the underlying dormant hurts which got an opportunity to vent.Jammu has often been treated as a poor cousin of Kashmiris.Jamuities,who contribute 75% to the state ex-chequer have been treated badly by the State.The Kashmiri Pandits never got a chance to vent their hurt and humiliation.They have been angry at the way the State has treated them.

So Jammu burst.The separatists were getting a taste of their own medicine.They cried "Economic Blockade".The "economic blockade" was made an alibi for going to Muzzafarabad.Although newspaper after newspaper kept chruning out stories of no blockade yet the separtists have seldom taken truth from elsewhere but Pakistan.Don't we all know that Eid in Kashmir is celebrated only when the Hilal Committee of Pakistan approves that"they have sighted moon".Indian Muslim, it seems,is not a part of the Ummah.

Now when the land is restored to the SASAB for three months of Yatra,the separtists must be nursing their wounds and learning to mend their tongues.Sajjad Lone's statement that "the land issue is resolved,touch me if you can" must be stuck somewhere in Kupwara trying to cross to Rawalpindi.

As all this happens I remember the myraid verses that scores of Muslim poets have written to the ominpoetent glory of Shiva.In all this my favourite remains, Shams Faqir's verses

Zaane wale kar zaanee yaar,Harmukh* Vichu Deedar

Parde Zaal Aaz dard-e-naar,Harmukh Vichu Deedar

O! seeker of truth,turn to Harmukh

Burn the veil of ignorance,turn to Harmukh

(*In Kashmir,the mountain of Harmukh is believed to be the abode of Shiva)

We as Kashmiris still can redeem ourselves by turning back to Harmukh for burning our ignorance.The sooner the separtists and Muslims in general realise this the better it will be for Kashmir.