Bernier, the first European to enter Kashmir, called it the kingdom that surpasses in beauty all that his warmest imaginations could anticipate. Never in the figment of his imaginations would he or any one have predicted what it is today. Each house in its vale has a story of its own to share. The stories may be different but all have sufferings in common, with a difference just in intensity. As kashmiris, we are very emotional people but these emotions are also accompanied by grave amnesia. This may be an adoption to live in a hostile environment where daily incidents will, otherwise, leave us in psychiatric wards of hospitals.
I am an old man in my early 50s, older than people of my age. I am educated enough to make calculations for my customers who buy grocery from my small shop in the downtown area of my city. I wasn’t lucky enough to continue studies after my father had a paralytic attack that paralysed our lives for very long. Me and my younger brother Aquib managed house by selling vegetables door to door. We earned to open a small grocery shop later; something we were happy to call prosperity in our own words. But that too didn’t last longer. My neighbours and relatives called it evil eye of enemies and my family calls it gonhan hinz shahmat (our own ill deeds).
Aquib, like the boys of his age, dreams big. In a moment he converts our small grocery shop into valley’s biggest retail and wholesale shop. He is child at heart and young in enthusiasm. Akke for us and Akke bayi for my little daughter is the angel of our house. He makes us believe and laugh at adventures that may never happen but in his imaginative thoughts, works like a diligent labour and lives like the last prince of Chak dynasty in Kashmir. Everyone in the house would wait for him to get things done – “Akke yiyin su kari paanai” (let Akke come and he will get it done). He has a long friend circle and often leaves the shop early to give them time, and then make us wait long for dinner.
It was mid autumn; morning and evening cold breeze had already started tickling our bones. Call for shutdown in protest of a slain militant was given by a popular militant organization and supported by unlimited others who would get a free publicity on an advertisement bandwagon. We started for the day a little late. Aquib wanted to see his friends but I insisted he should accompany me. He agreed without much resistance. We opened the shutter of our shop, which is actually wooden assembles, to half. We didn’t get too many customers for obvious reasons and Akke kept entertaining me with his insatiable stories. Clouds started bursting in the afternoon which added to the disconsolate ambience. It was like an alarm of a school peon declaring closing of a day and Akke seemed to wait for that like a tired student in the last lecture of the day. He left with a promise not to make us wait for dinner and he is still to keep his promise. He never returned!!
Every knock, blow or bash outside seemed his arrival. The night seemed like never ending desert of winters. His friends told me next morning that he was taken up by a patrolling party. Soon my early haggles at sabzi mandis were interchanged to inquires at places which later become the places of my daily visit. Camps at Qalamabad, Yahama, Langate, Hamray, Papa2, Badamibagh cantonment, which are known more for their notorious activities, became my destinations for a hope. I was given a hope at times and made to lose that on my very next visit. Never did I give up till the day when I was made to realize something in a spur of moment. With lot of thoughts hovering my mind, I reached home once like a tired clumsy old man; laid down to take some rest. I opened my eyes to see Zohra, my daughter, standing in front of me carrying a glass of water. She had those hopeful curious looks on her face but what I realized next left me shocked. Zohra had grown up, unaware of my ominous eyes and thoughts. Our financial health had deteriorated to the extent that she was just managing to save her modesty with her old clothes. I could hardly realize that seven calendars had changed since Aquib’s disappearance. All that we had in abundance now was fear and tears. I couldn’t resist shedding few more that time also. Zohra left without uttering a word. Her eyes were wet and she was intelligent enough to read the answer in my eyes. That night added one more to the many more sleepless painful nights I had, but never did they seem as dark. It was like Roze Mehshar and my family questioning me for abandoning them.
Next day, early in the morning I left home with an excuse that I received a call from some distant border area asking me to recognize a body of a slain militant who looks like our Aquib. Not that this was something I was never asked to do before, but this time I was to fake it, learning things from masters who control us and kill our children. I have left photographs at almost every police station in the near by areas. I spent my whole day at Khanka Mohalla seeking divine intervention for lightening this extra burden. I reached back home late at night. “It was our Akke”, I said when Zohra’s mother opened the door. They buried him after an encounter and showed me a photograph. She shrilled and I cried like a kid for killing my own kid.
We mourned and rituals followed. Molvi sahib was also requested to come for dinner and offer fatiha khwani. Days passed and people in the family started thinking about other problems in the house. I also joined them till an intruder started confabulating me with his frequent visits. “Ba kati trovthas?, mei kyazi chhukh ni csadaan” (Where did you leave me?, why don’t you look for me any more?). It was no one but Aquib asking me these questions. He comes to see me on my shop aswell, finds me in the crowd and asks me, “Aes chhina akisi maaji hin (ain’t we from the same blood, of same mother), teli kyazi trovthas? (why then did you abandon me?). He was just here and I always try to make him understand but he doesn’t listen.... like the kid he is/was??
