As I walk into the bare, frosted streets of Srinagar, the cold breeze is still making me feel warm, giving me a sense of belonging and making me comfortable, whispering into my ears, “You are at home.” But I do not stop here. I keep moving. As I move further towards the city, I come across the Jhelum. Oh, the Jhelum. It has some heart breaking stories to tell making it the biggest storyteller of all time. But for now, it has chosen to become a silent spectator rather than being a narrator. It has expressed itself enough over the years, it seems tired now. For now, silence is all it knows. As I stare into the waters of Jhelum, it reminds me of the drowning youths, wailing mothers, and bodies being found every now and then. The Jhelum erupted only when it couldn’t bear the thoughtlessness of people and flooded out itself, and as it cried, it took people along with itself. It took them to the secret dwellings situated somewhere deep in the woods where boys roam around freely without the fear of being captured, mothers are contended that their sons are safe, the teens are writing letters to their assumed loved ones, wives are waiting for their husbands to come home with some surprise gifts while the older ones are there sitting peacefully listening to Janbaz’s (also known as Dolwal)“ Zamanai pokne hamdam toti kya gov ”(literally , Nobody could be my companion, but how does it matter) while the women are doing their daily chores singing Rasul Mir’s “Rind posh maal ginde ne drayi lolo” (literally, A young girl comes out for a play). The young separated lovers, however prefer humming to themselves Nyame Saeb’s “ Mayi chani rovum me raath doh “ (I have lost my days and nights in your love). Alas, the street cry of the fish-selling women takes me out of my imagination. Now my focus shifted to them, and I started to wonder how little the world writes about them and how deprived they are of their rights facing huge disparity in society.
I once again take a look at Jhelum. The colorful houseboats and shikaras are confusing me, and my eyes can only see the decorated boards they are laden with showcasing the names of their respective owners, imparting a sense of possession. But didn’t they know yet that nothing belongs to anyone here? It all goes away eventually. People have lost their loved ones; the children are still looking for their lost storybooks while the young teens are still looking out if there is some enjoyment left out or not.
I moved away from Jhelum. It was drowning me into itself. I preferred Dal Lake over it and glanced over the Dargah Sharif (The Hazratbal Shrine). This white mosque was always a symbol of purity for me. My heart found peace here amidst the noisy crowd. People come to this place to pray for their loved ones. I saw a young man arguing with God to return him his lover whom he lost to death. I wondered if I should continue to hear his sorrowful argument and what he had to complain about further. But grief makes me hopeless. So, I moved on. I saw mothers praying to see their dead sons for the last time so they could hug them with the intensity if they knew it was the last time. As I was examining their numb faces, I assumed they might be reflecting over two things: if it was their fault to send their sons to buy groceries from the nearby shop or their fault of not bidding them a proper farewell despite not knowing they would never come back to their mouji (‘mother’).
Suddenly I found myself in the large, silent, and scary meadow. This was northern region of Kashmir. It brought back dreadful memories of the 1991 incident. I wondered how the atmosphere would have been in this wide, silent meadow back then. I could imagine the atrocities faced by women; how the pherans of women must have been shattered here and there. I didn’t want to think beyond this. I didn’t want to recall the stories of the survivors.
After this, I heard my younger sister calling me, insisting I wake up for we were getting late for a wedding. I realized all this was a dream. But never had I encountered a dream so real. I kept wondering if dreams and facts were a combination or not, if they ever go hand in hand. I got up because I couldn’t afford to miss the wazwan, the traditional cuisine of Kashmir. As soon as I started eating, I missed all those who couldn’t enjoy their last wazwan with the zeal that it would be their last feast. The stories of my watan had compelled me to travel more but I preferred happiness over grief, not knowing if it was selflessness or an inclination towards ignorance.
The bulbul sings to the flowers:
‘ A garden is our land!’
Mahjoor, our motherland
Is the loveliest on earth!
Shall we not love her best?
A garden is our land
-From Gulshan Watan by Mehjoor;
Translated by Trilokinath Raina
