Our stories remain unheard

This morning I felt a strong urge of donating some four thousand rupees to Urmila Matondkar who, I believe, is, mightily, distressed as her husband hasn't been able to speak with his parents in Kashmir for more than three weeks now. A news item forwarded to me by a friend, through Whatsapp, suggests that I instinctively, reached to my phone and found a Delhi Srinagar return air ticket costs just around Rs. 3500 these days. I felt bad for my one time favorite actor. Has she fallen to such bad times that instead of painting the town red with her sob story she cannot afford an air ticket for her husband? Or, was she simply fishing in the waters sullied by the availability of media platforms constantly on look out for sensationalizing even trivial issues? I consoled myself with the thought India is a democratic country where freedom of expression is considered a religion. However, I could not help being transported around thirty years back in time.

The Kashmir of April, 1990

I have a nine-month-old daughter. I need to leave her back and run for my life. A local mosque has declared me a 'Mukhbir' and announced my name in the hit list. My wife is scared. In order to save my life I must utilize the cover of darkness to foot a four kilometre distance to Srinagar Cantonment for a promised rendezvous with a Sikh truck driver. My wife finds herself torn apart choosing between allowing me to stay back with the family, amid the definite threat to my life, and ignoring a real high risk danger to me in leaving the house during a night when the city was curfew bound. Earlier, a truck driver has promised to give me a ride up to Delhi. Initially, he had totally refused to allow me an escape by his truck. He thought it was too risky. A little desperate cajoling had softened his heart. Perhaps, also the fact that I had located his truck after braving a strictly imposed curfew by risking a long motorcycle ride to the highway had made him appreciate my distress.

It is nearly 1.30 am. The late April night is unusually dark and wet. It is also very cold. I am still apprehensive but my wife has made up her mind. She will leave our daughter in the care of her grandparents --my parents but will not risk my leaving alone. We bid good-bye to my parents, my aunt and uncle but are unable to muster the courage of kissing our sleeping daughter. A little distance away I turn around to give my home one last look. It is just a silhouette against a deep dark curtain. I feel guilty. I could, at least, have seen the face of my sleeping daughter before venturing out into a life of uncertainty. In the stillness of a cold dark night, nothing is visible beyond ten yards or so. The city seems like a silent ghost town where even stray dogs have gone into hiding. The only thing audible is the feeble sound of our own footsteps. This poses a grave threat. A security person behind a bunker, there are many en route, can easily mistake us for terrorists and finish our journey even before it has started. Our adventures of that night are not relevant to this story. I will skip those for now.

We reach Jammu around 4 pm. It is hot. It is teaming with distraught, confusion and aimless loitering, freshly displaced people. The driver intends to spend a day with his relatives in Jammu. He asks us to join him, two days later, at 6 am for the onward journey to Delhi. My uncle has taken up a room some distance away from where the driver dropped us. My wife shows reluctance to go directly to my uncle's room. Instead, she wants to try locating her brother about who we have had no news for the last three months.

One day after January, 1990, my wife's brother had taken advantage of a half an hour relaxation in curfew to enquire about the welfare of his widowed mother-in-law across the Jhelum river in Karan Nagar. He didn't return that night. There was no curfew relaxation for the next ten days in Srinagar. The family assumed he would be with his mother-in-law. Phones were a luxury then and a privilege available to very few.

Ten days later, the curfew was relaxed for half an hour My wife's brother didn't return The family took comfort in knowing there was no relaxation in the parts of the city across the river A few days later it became known that both sides of the river will have curfew relaxation but at different times My wife's brother seemed to have been caught in the circumstances caused by the difference in curfew relaxation timings. It was now nearly three weeks since he had left his home Meanwhile, my wife's parental family found it no longer tenable to resist exodus. The mounting pressure of the radicals and growing emptiness of their locality was compelling them to flee. They took a call but there was the wife of a person who had gone to see his mother-in-law three weeks back and there was no news about him. Before leaving the home for good, the wife mustered courage to barge through the curfew and reach her mother's place. She found the house locked

The truck driver has driven away. My wife and I go on a blind hunt to find her brother. Success eludes us till we drop dead tired, thirsty and hungry. We reluctantly make our way to my uncle's room. Next day the lady luck smiled on us. We tracked down my wife's missing brother to an under construction brick house with no plaster on the walls, no windows and loosely dumped mountain pebbles as floor. It is nearly four months after we last met. We are still unable to meet my wife's parents and her younger brother.

We hardly sleep during the night. It is early in the morning and my aunt is giving us a tearful and a devastatingly painful farewell. Her tight hugs go on and on while her tears wet my shoulders. The patronizing motherly hugs weaken my knees. I want to lie down and rest my head in her lap but we have to go. Late in the evening, about 10.30 p.m., Sardar ji drops us at a place, which after some days I learn is Srinivaspuri. We have nowhere to go. We do not know anybody in the city.

We have been in Delhi for more than a week. We haven't spoken to my parents in Kashmir. We have a phone back home but we don't have money to make a call. Meanwhile, a son of a family friend tracks us down to Kashmir Bhawan in Lajpat Nagar. He takes us to his rented accommodation in Janakpuri. He shares the flat with three other friends. He also relieves our tension. He has spoken to my parents a few days back. It was during that telephonic call my parents informed him about our departure.

It is now our 30" day in Delhi. We still have not been able to speak with my parents. We know nothing about their welfare. In fact, we are completely oblivious to the welfare of all members of our extended family, friends and relatives. We don't even know where all of them have taken refuge. We have even forgotten our daughter's face.

 

I have landed a small job in Rajendra Place. The owner has been kind enough to extend me a small advance. We, immediately, rented a small LIG flat in Paschim Vihar, near Sayed Gaon My wife insists we must make a call to our parents Today, we have the money. But we don't know from where to make that call neighbour tells us about the nearest STD calling booth. A It is ten kilometres away in a petrol pump near Panjabi Bagh Somebody loans us a scooter and gives us precise directions to the petrol pump. Half an hour later we are outside the phone booth. There is nobody inside but our spirits are soaring at the sight of a black instrument. We look around for an attendant. A person filling a car beckons us towards him. The phone is out of order. I can see tears swelling up in my wife's eyes. The attendant informs me the next booth is outside Super Bazar in Connaught Place. I am not inclined to undertake a 15-20-kilometre scooter drive to CP but my wife is adamant. We reach CP and make the call. It costs us a bomb. And this continues.

This is a micro abstract of our story of those days. The full story will probably occupy many chapters of a book. This is also not only my story. Thousands of Kashmiri Pandits have similar or more heart-wrenching stories to say. I was lucky we had a phone at home. Imagine the travails of the families scattered across different geographical locations.

Unfortunately, there were no news channels then. There were no mobiles and no news portals. The Internet was still an unknown entity. Our stories, therefore, remained untold and unheard. We have moved on with our lives but our stories remain with us as fresh as morning dew.

 (The writer is Delhi-based displaced Kashmiri Pandit, social worker and Panun Kashmir activist)

DISCLAIMER:

The views expressed in the Article above are Kamal Hak’s personal views and kashmiribhatta.in is not in any way responsible for the opinions expressed in the above article.                                                     

Courtesy: - Kamal Hak and October 2019 Koshur Samachar