The Finger Point at me …. 

Kamal Hak

[Well known political activist and intellectual Kamal Hak is nostalgic here about his

"pleasing moments" witual, with people in Kashmir.]

(An incident happened in Motiyar, Rainawari, when I was less than ten years old. A gentleman developed differences with his wife and wanted to desert her. He found his mother supporting him on this. Around 45 years back this was a scandal, the community men. They failed to make the mother and son see reason. A direct public action was launched. Every evening a large group of men, women and children would assemble outside the family's house and raise slogans against them. I remember a line, "Danwati Charba- Hadood-e-arba." The family resisted the public outcry for some days but later succumbed to the pressure. The couple lived happily thereafter.)

I am still going through the pleasantries of exchanging greetings with my relatives and acquaintances when someone catches hold of my arm and forces me away from the group. I want to excuse myself from him and enjoy the pleasing moments of nostalgia with the people, some of whom I am seeing after ages. This is also precisely the reason for me marking my presence in all marriages where I am invited. Many times, of course, at the cost of great personal inconvenience. Invariably also later, while driving back, fighting sleep and negotiating the mad and dangerous midnight traffic, I always feel it is worth the trouble.

I find it a welcome and pleasant exception. Looking around the banquet hall, I derive immense pleasure at the sight of young and old ladies of the community going around with their dejours dangling majestically with unhindered abandon.

All the guests around appear very familiar Perhaps, the fact of the groom and the bride being within the community has ensured the presence of recognizable faces in the gathering. I find it a welcome and a pleasant exception. Looking around the banquet hall, I derive immense pleasure at the sight of young and old ladies of the community going around with their dejours dangling majestically with unhindered abandon. Deep inside my heart I suppress ak is a well the overbearing urge of thanking the bride and the groom for giving us the opportunity of proudly enjoying a wonderful evening.

My intruder leads me to a far corner where a group of people seem to be awaiting him. I am relieved to find a few acquaintances amongst them and am instantly introduced to others. Right across the hall in the far away corner, a professional band is entertaining the guests with some peppy Hindi film music.

"Don't you think some Kashmiri music would have been more appropriate?" A person in the group starts the conversation.

"I don't think many people now like our traditional music," another member responds.

"What is your opinion, Hak Sahib?"

"I think not many Pandits liked Kashmiri music even in Kashmir. It was restricted only to Mainizraat's and an occasional Saturday evening mandli in some temples."

"Don't you think Kashmiri music is still stuck up in a time wrap and it needs modernization?" A question pops up and is directed at me.

"I am no expert on music." | admit unhesitatingly.

"You are now avoiding the subject. I remember having purchased a Kashmiri music CD last year only after reading your review in Koshur Samachar." I wish my friend Brij Nath Betab,

editor of Koshur Samachar's Hindi section had been present to listen to these words. Not that he is an authority and connoisseur of Kashmiri language, but because he feels Kashmiri Pandits are not good appreciators of written words.

"Don't you think Kashmiri music is still stuck up in a time wrap and it needs modernization?" A question pops up and is directed at me. "I am no expert on music." I admit unhesitatingly.

I am glad the discussion is prolonging on the subject of Kashmiri music and singers only. Somewhere it connects me to my roots. The music continues to be our topic till the newlyweds swagger right across the comer where we are conversing.

"A lovely couple."

I can't agree more. However, something appears disconcerting. Mercifully I don't have to scratch my head for the answer. It comes to me instantly. The singers at the far end of the hall are now belting out a Panjabi number. The bride's flaming red typical Panjabi Lehnga suit completes the encore. I look around and get a feeling of the ninety nine percent ethnic gathering within the community marriage where both groom and the bride are of the same socio-cultural and linguistic background enjoying the warm hospitality of the host being totally oblivious to what I have just noticed. Something must be wrong with me and get reminded of a famous Munna Bhai dialogue which says,

"Dimag mein locha hai

"How was the programme today?" Somebody poses a question. I remain busy in my thoughts. It takes me a moment to realise the question is actually directed towards me. "Sorry, which programme?" 1 a feeling of the ninety nine encore. I look around and get

enquire "Why, AIKS programme. Weren't you there?"

I admit frankly I wasn't invited. The people in the group collectively express surprise. I am myself surprised at their surprise. However, nice ambience, fantastically homely crowd and a large number of familiar faces leaves me with no inclination to be a part of any political discussion.

The singers at the far end of the hall are now belting out a Panjabi number. The bride's flaming red typical Punjabi Lehenga suit completes the percent ethnic gathering within the community marriage where both groom and the bride are of the same socio-cultural and linguistic background enjoying the warm hospitality of the host being totally oblivious to what I have just noticed.

I chose to remain silent and mentally decide to look for the opportunity of detaching myself from the group. I get a strong urge of mingling with the crowd and renewing the nostalgia of the decades gone by I don't think anything else gives me as much peace and pleasure as sitting back relaxed and talking about our pre-ninety life in Kashmir with friends and relatives.

Those days now appear like dreams which refuse to get erased. I still derive immense joy and pleasure in remembering special characters who doted and were peculiar to every locality and neighbourhood in Kashmir. Remembering those great souls still gives me a lot of inspiration. I often miss Kashmir only for the people like Mahi Kak, the effervescent newspaper vendor in Rainawari with whose helpful though unpredictable nature opened vistas of information and knowledge to scores of young boys including me; Pandit Pitambar Shastri (Pita Kak) whose indomitable style of lacing his Katha with earthy wit and humour will remain unmatched; Pandit Janki Nath Kundu (Jana Kundu) who, perhaps, attained the highest state of karma yoga by willingly assisting in performing the last rites of the departed souls, Nera Kak and Kanya Lal Mattoo who didn't allow their inadequacies to hamper their zeal for Saturday night bhajan mandali in Bod Mandir. Then there was that omnipresent duo of Chuni Watul and Shomba Kalpush. Readers will pardon me for addressing these great souls by their commonly known nicknames, who were always present as troubleshooters; I can't forget the hours spent on discussing various issues, mostly irrelevant, in front of Nika Halwoi's (fondly known as Lalla) shop or inside Teja Watul's cloth shop. One would require reams of paper to portray the full kaleidoscopic colourful characters who one can't forget easily. Sometimes, I feel pity for my children who were deprived of fun and frolic of growing up amidst such persons.

I get a strong urge of mingling with the crowd and renewing the nostalgia of the decades gone by. I don't think anything else gives me as much peace and pleasure as sitting back relaxed and talking about our remaining aloof of any political pre-ninety life in Kashmir with friends and relatives.

This evening I am not lucky. The group that surrounds me doesn't allow me the opportunity of discussion. They force me into a debate concerning the state of affairs within the displaced Kashmiri Pandit community. I don't find myself inclined to participate. I just listen and once a while reluctantly contribute a comment.. The discussion centres on Panun Kashmir, All India Kashmiri Samaj, the contributions of our leaders; their Shivratri Puja, K successes and failures; their personal ambitions and (Tekni), Gun Milan the damage to the community interests because of 328-Vipin Garden, N that, and mushrooming growth of Kashmiri Pandit organisations, the number of which, someone commented, had already crossed one hundred and fifty.

"Hak Sahib, why are you silent today? You have not expressed any opinion today. Please tell us who is responsible for the mess in the community organisations?"

I have a strong opinion on the subject but am not inclined to say anything. I only offer a smile and am luckily rescued by my wife who calls me for giving her company to dinner.

Inside the catering section of the banquet hall, I find a lavish spread of delicacies sensibly chosen to satisfy the choices of a wide section of guests. I fill my plate and find the food tasting only a shade of what you normally expect in a Kashmiri party. I look around and quickly decide my opinion on the food is, perhaps, limited to my perception only. All guests around are enjoying the sumptuous plates with carefree abundance. The scotch is flowing like water and the starters are disappearing like vapour in the air. The waiters are finding a tough time replenishing the food trays and I am reminded of the question posed to me just a while ago.

"Who is responsible for the mess in the community organisations?"

I wonder how the questioner missed an obvious answer. Perhaps he is unaware of the Dhanwati story.

(It goes without saying that I have had absolutely no reasons for being disrespectful towards the Danwati's family. The reference to the incident is purely incidental.) (Reprinted from Koshur Samachar, December 2009.)

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Courtesy:- Kamal Hak and May 2016 Koshur Samachar