Echoes of the Ganga on the Heart of Brahmaputra

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                                   (With officers of Assam and J&K at Kamakshya temple) 

The officers of Jammu and Kasmir had already reached by the time we arrived at Kamakshya temple. The officers of Commercial Tax Department of Assam, in cooperation with the temple management had made special arrangement for our easy darshan of the Goddess. One servitor of the Goddess escorted us to the sanctum sanctorum.

To reach the Goddess in the sanctum sanctorum one has to climb down eight or ten stairs. The cone shaped room was dark except a lamp near the Goddess. One woman officer from J & K said, “Why the room is so dark?” P.K.Bhat, also an officer from J & K, standing in the queue replied, “Darkness has mystery and mystery attracts the devotees.”

                                                            ( With P K Bhat)

The stairs leading to the Goddess have been divided by a steel fence. For discipline and easy darshan, devotees have to climb down on the left of the fence and after darshan, climb up on the right to come out of the temple. We stood in a queue on the left. One Minister from one of the States participating in the GST Council meeting reached with his assistants. The police looked at the queue on the left, and he ushered the Minister and his cohorts on the right. After their darshan the police also escorted them back on the right side of the fence. We had to keep standing till the Minister and his cronies left the precincts.

I was a bit annoyed for breaking of the rules and discipline, and for the VIP treatment given to the Minister. But the next moment I thought we had also been given VIP treatment. Had we come to visit like ordinary devotees, we would have taken at least four-five hours for the darshan. But we finished the darshan within half an hour. Why should we have any grudge against the Minister, a VVIP?

                                                                          II

The full name of Rupa was Ester Rupa Sahu Jyrowa. I asked, “Rupa Sahu seems to be an Odia name, Ester is Christian and Jyrowa seems to have some connection with a tribe. How can you have such a name?”

Rupa said, “My grandfather was an Odia, my grandmother was Assamese. My mother is from Meghalaya. My name contains all of them. We are Christian.”

I asked, “Your husband?”

She said, “He is a Hindu."

Rupa is talkative.  We were returning from Kamakshya temple on the zigzag road of the hills. From the hills, the city of Guwahati looked like a postcard painting. I asked, “Yours was a love marriage?”

She said, “Yes."

I asked, “Didn’t your husband’s parents object?”

Rupa said, “When we knew each other and our friendship grew, my would be husband told, if his parents would approve we would proceed further, and marry. One day he invited me for tea to his house. On the first meeting itself, his father agreed and then we married.”

“What does your father in law do?” I asked.

“He is a member of the RSS, now a leader of the BJP.” She replied

                                                                    (With Rupa Sahu)

Normally the members of RSS were staunch believers of Hinduism, believed to be conservative and Hindu fundamentalists. But her father in law was broad minded, perhaps impact of the liberal cultural tradition of Assam. Rupa said, “Sir, you are a Hindu, I am Christian and our driver, Rehman is a Muslim. This is real India.”

I added, “You are truly a representative of our pluralistic Indian tradition.”

                                                                       III

After a hard labour of the day when the tea planter reached the club in the evening and said, “Koi hai”, the club boy served the saheb drinks. “Koi hai” had been synonymous with serving drinks in the club culture of the tea planters; and the clubs of the tea planters were called koi hai clubs.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth century, the Britishers imported tea from China and exported cotton and opium. But they had to pay more for tea. To compensate trade deficit they had to export opium four times more. Later, China put restrictions on import of opium. As a result, there was a war between Chinese and Britishers, called the opium war. To meet the demands of tea, during this period, the Britishers started tea plantation on the Brahmaputra valley.

The British planters set up clubs for their recreation. They were playing polo, cricket, and also having drinks in the club to relax. The British ladies came to the club well-attired and played with the gentlemen. These clubs became second homes for the British planters and administrators.

Misa club is around one hundred and fifty kms from Guwahati on the way to Kaziranga. This club was established in 1888. Mainly the British tea planters and district administrators were members of the club. American soldiers had camped in this club for a few months during World War II.

                                                            (With Rajeev Chaudhury)

I left Guwahati for Kaziranga at 8.30 in the morning and reached Misa club at eleven. We had our brunch in the club. I met Rajeev Choudhury, an officer from Haryana. In course of conversation I learnt he was a student of Kurukshetra University where I had done my M.Phil.  He was happy to know we had same alma mater. He invited me to Kurukhsetra and told he would make all arrangements for my stay and conveyance to move and revisit the places in and around the holy and historic city.

                                                                               IV

In the Kaziranga sanctuary we were fortunate to have come across a few rhinos, deer and wild buffaloes. When we were returning in the forest road by an open jeep, our guide said, “A tiger had just crossed the road two minutes ago. It must be somewhere here. It may come out any time. Let’s us wait, we may see it.”

We waited. The guide cautioned, “Don’t talk, and don’t make noise. Tiger will not come out if there is any noise.” The three-four year old daughter of my co-passenger of the jeep put her fingers on her lips to indicate me not to open my mouth.

The sun was readying itself to take rest behind the hills. The golden rays of the setting sun on the tree leaves and water of the channel in the jungle created a kind of magic beauty. The tiger perhaps had come to drink in the channel and having heard the sound of the jeep, had hidden amidst the elephant grass grown in two sides of the channel. I watched the green hills, the setting sun and its glowing rays on the elephant grass.

The guide said, “One will be fortunate to see a tiger in the forest. It does not happen for everybody.”

I asked, “Won’t the tiger attack the man?"

He said, “As we fear the tiger, so also the tiger fears the man. To my knowledge, the tiger has never injured a person in this sanctuary. If tiger’s belly is full, it does not take pains to prey.”

  ( Vivek Kumar, an officer from UP with his wife on Elephant Safari in Kaziranga)

To see the tiger in the jungle was not in our fate. The sun disappeared behind the hills, darkness engulfed the jungle and we had to return without further waiting to meet the tiger.

                                                                          V

Assam government had arranged dinner and cultural programme for the delegates on a patch of sand on the heart of the river Brahmaputra. I had heard about the vastness of the Brahmaputra. We went to the place where dinner was arranged by motor boat. In the dark night, under the starlit sky, the boat sailed making a gorgeous sound on the water. The song of Brahmaputra of Bhupen Hazarika, heard long time back, reverberated in my mind:

Mahabahu Brahmaputra mahamilanara tirtha

Kata juga dhari aise prakashi samanwayara artha

I felt like the song beating my heart. Bhupen was no more; I thought someone would sing

Bhupen Hazarika’s song of Brahmaputra.

( Neelakain, a magazine on culture and literature had published my travelogue of Assam in its March-April issue, 2018).                                                                                                                       

In the cultural programme, Kalpna Potwari, the famed folk singer of Assam sang Bhupen Hazarika’s song of the Ganga instead of the song of the Brahmaputra:

Bistar he apaar, praja dono paar

Kare hahakaar nisabda sada

O Ganga tum, O baheti ho kyon

The delegates of all the States of India listened with rapt attention the song of the Ganga sung by Kalpana Potwari in her sweet melodious voice on the vast heart of Brahmaputra,.

                                                                  *****

KASATANDIRA SWAPNA

(Dreams of Kash flowers)

1^st August, 1975.  His first day in the college. Ajay had reached the college the day before and stayed with his senior in school, a friend who had gone to the college the previous year. In the morning, when he was going from the hostel to the class, they heard a commotion, and saw students running to college square. Both joined them. They saw the police had detained a lecturer in the college square.

That day, the police were forcibly cutting the long hair of the boys of those who had hippie style and tearing the bell bottom pants of the girls those who wore. The lecturer did not have hippie style hair, but had long sideburns. The police insisted on shortening his sideburns.

The lecturer, pleasing and handsome, had acted in a few Odia films and had his own admirers in the college and locality. He argued with the police and was heard repeatedly saying, “What crime I have committed in keeping the sideburns and what discipline of the emergency I broke?” But the police did not heed to his arguments, and pestering him to shorten his long sideburns. Students present, the public gathered there to witness the scene and a few lecturers who had gone to see what was the matter were just silent spectators. One lecturer meekly requested the police to leave the lecturer with sideburns. The police did not listen.

Ajay protested against the injustice and police atrocities. The police took both Ajay and the lecturer to the police station. The crowd comprising the students, a few teachers and general public dispersed.

Ajay got his first taste of Emergency Mrs Indira Gandhi had imposed in India. The Board had declared the Matriculation result on the day emergency was promulgated, on 25^th June, 1975. Ajay had passed Matriculation with a first division securing good marks in the exam and had gone to the college for higher study.

Ajay is the main protagonist of the novel Kasatandira Swapna (Dreams of Kash flowers).

This was my first novel, published in 2003. Santosh Publications, Sutahat, Cittack published the book; Tanuj Mallik had designed the cover. The book was priced at Rs.70/

II

Bibhuti Misra rang me up just after he had finished reading the novel. He was in full praise of the novel. He appreciated the style, the treatment of the characters and the theme of the novel.

Bubhuti was my batch mate in Utkal University, Vanivihar, doing his Masters in English literature. He had topped the University in B.A. (English) and also got a first class in M.A. He joined State Bank of India, but the bank proved boring to him; his creativity could not cope with dreary demands of a banking job. He left the bank for a career in journalism and writing.

Within a span of a short period, he established himself as one of the finest journalist and a good writer. He was freelancing with the Hindu, Indian Express, Statesman, Dharitri and many others. His weekly column, misraraga in Dharitri was very popular. He wrote both in English and Odia and had published a few books including one titled, ‘Banking on Pen’.

Bibhuti had reviewed kasatandira swapna in Indian Express, Dharitri and Bahi-jagata (world of books), a magazine only on books, he was editing.

At this point in time I was awfully busy with my office work. I was in charge of the VAT Cell and associated with its implementation in Odisha. The State implemented VAT from 1^st April, 2005 along with other states in India. Our meetings were infrequent. He stayed in Bhubaneswar and I in Cuttack and we both were preoccupied with our own jobs. We talked over phone, and had promised to meet at the book fair in Bhubaneswar; we usually met there every year.

I had been to Delhi on  training on VAT administration. I returned on a Sunday. While browsing the newspapers I came across a story of Bubhuti published in Sunday literary page of Sambad, and the editor had captioned, Bubhuti Misranka Sesha Galpa (The Last Story of Bibhuti Misra). I could not understand. (It was a time when cell phones were not widely used; only a few had the privilege of using cell phones). My daughter, then in school, told me Bubhuti uncle had died.

It was a great shock to me, the first shock I got losing a dear friend at an early age. I lost a personal friend, and Odisha lost a brilliant journalist and a writer.

*****

OLASUNI: Where Dried Fish Offered in Worship

In Hindu temples or in any religious place, non-vegetarian food are not allowed, and on auspicious days, especially those related to religious festivities, non-vegetarian food is avoided even in homes. But Olasuni is a place where dried fish is offered in worship. This may appear queer to a believing Hindu. An old and wise man of the nearby village explains in simple terms, “The body is a temple where soul resides. The body, which is the temple, needs to be protected and kept intact for the residence of the soul. Why should there be distinction in food required for the upkeep of the body? The God never gets polluted with whatever is required for the maintenance of the temple.”

In Olasuni, dried fish, podapitha (baked rice cake) and kanji (prepared out of watered rice) are offered in worship.

Olasuni, adjacent to Lalitgiri, the Budhist site (2^nd century AD to 13^th century AD), one of the famous Budhist Diamond Triangle (the other two being Ratnagiri and Udayagiri) is in Jajpur district, 90 kms from Bhubaneswar. Every year a great fair is held here on the eleventh day of the dark fortnight in the month of Magha, and it continues for ten days. On this day in 1837AD, saint Arakshita Das attained his mahasamadhi (great burial). Olasuni Hill was his place of meditation and spiritual attainment.

Arakshita Das was born in a royal family as the first son of the king of Badakhemundi, the kingdom situated in south Odisha. His name was Balabhadra Dev. The principle of primogeniture was that Balabhadra, being the first son, would  succeed his father and become the king. But his mind was elsewhere. He refused to marry when his father arranged for his marriage with the princess of another king. He left the palace at 19, and went on the path of his spiritual quest.

Balabhadra suffered a lot. He had to take whatever food and wherever he got it; from the homes of a sabar or from a fisherman, the low caste people, just to survive and continue his quest. There were times when he did not get any food to eat. He had to starve, sometimes weeks together. On few occasions, he was mistaken as a thief or a mad man, and beaten by lowly people. He had travelled many places and at last reached Olasuni. Radhashyam Narendra, the zamindar of Kendrapara donated him Olasuni Hill and there, he completed Maheemandal Geeta which he had started in Khandagiri, his previous sojourn. Balabhadra Dev became Arakshita Das.

Maheemandal Geeta is his autobiography and a travelogue in verse, the first autobiography and a travelogue in Odia. It also contains his philosophy.

Arakshita was born in the second half of the eighteenth century and died in the first half of the nineteenth century. During the period the kings ruled most parts of Odisha. The British had direct rule only over a few portions of Odisha comprising areas of the undivided districts of Cuttack, Puri and Balasore (not even the entire area of the districts). There were twenty six princely states in Odisha at the time India got independence. The British had occupied Odisha in 1803, but had made separate treaties with the princely states. The British rulers did not interfere in the administration of the kings. The kings exploited their subjects and tortured them.

The Hindu society was caste stratified; religions divided the people. Ritualism was all pervasive. The Odia society and its people were virtually prisoners of caste, rituals, religion and orthodoxy. The life and philosophy of Arakshita Das was a voice of protest and revolt against the existing political, social and religious conditions of the period.

Arakshita Das wrote, “My father is an emperor, he tortures his subjects. The soul weeps, I condemns kingship.” Despite being the son of a king, Balabhadra Dev could not tolerate the torture of the subjects. He realised that the soul existed in every man. The torture of the soul tormented him and he condemned kingship. Balabhadra Dev left the luxury of the palace life and allure of the kingship, and adopted a life of a wild traveller and became Arakshita Das. His was a silent non-violent revolt against kingship with its associated torture and exploitation of the people.

Arakshita Das did not believe in caste system. His philosophy was that the Almighty dwelt in every person and one could see Him in everybody like, “Cows are of different colours, but they give milk of the same kind.” He did not make a distinction and accepted food from everybody. He said, “I accept food wherever I get; be it a house of Brahmin, or of a chandal, because I believe, He exists in everybody.” He believed, “The rain, the sun, the moon, the air and the fire do not discriminate and they touch all.” And he questioned, “Then why should one distinguish between touchable and untouchables?”

(My write up on Olasuni, published in Sambad in February, 2014. P.C. Sefali Suman)

Arakshita traversed the jungles and mountains, met with wild beasts, risked his life, and had to starve to reach Puri. But the sentry did not allow him to enter into the temple of Lord Jagannath. He had to return from the temple gate, come to Atharnala, and then to Satyabadi. A bauri (a low caste man) mistook him as a thief and beat him severely. With an empty belly and a pained body he remembered the Lord and slept. In the morning when he woke up, he found his pain had gone. He did not lose belief in God, but lost faith in image worship. He said, “The fools are under a false belief to attain salvation by worshipping stone or wooden images.” He propagated, “The invisible God exists inside the temple of body and He also pervades the entire world. The soul is neither male nor female. The soul resides in male body or in female body.” To obtain Godly bliss and attain salvation he advocated the path of Bhakti (devotion). If one practiced Bhaktiyoga he would be immortal.

*****

All in Their Own Ways

I was in Rourkela from August 1996 to January 1999 working in Investigation Unit of Commercial Tax Department. The office was in Civil Township; it was near to Rourkela Government College. Pravat Tipathy, an eminent writer in Hindi, taught Hindi and Deepak Pal, a poet and writer, taught English in the college, and both were staying in government quarters in the college campus. When I found time I went to them for chatting and gossiping. One day Pravat Tripathy asked me, “Being a literary person, how can you work in bureaucracy, and particularly, in a tax department?”

As the officer in charge of Investigation Unit, my job was to raid, which we called ‘surprise visit’, a trader, industrial unit or business organisation, to examine if  there was evasion , and prepare a report, if he or it was found to have evaded or avoided paying tax. I also sometimes stood on the road at a strategic point, checked the goods carriers to verify, if the goods carried were as he had declared in the documents. In event of any discrepancy, I collected tax and imposed penalty. Not a pleasant job certainly, but I was required to do to earn my salary.

I replied, “Sir, I have the experience that you don’t have. You are teaching in a college, your colleagues and students are urbane and educated, and they speak a polished language. But I have to interact with tax evaders, truck drivers, corrupt officials, and criminals by nature in my day to day official activities, and also with bossy seniors. An officer may be one year senior in service, but he makes you feel always a subordinate, if you forget, he never forgets to remind you by his action or speech. There are varieties in my life what you don’t have.”

They wanted to hear some incidents and I happily described. Both Deepak Pal and Pravat Tripathy suggested me to capitalise my experience and write stories. Later, whenever I met they reminded me.  Pravat Tripathy even suggested, “If you are afraid of your departmental higher-ups, write the stories in good handwriting. I shall translate into Hindi and get it published first in Hindi magazines. Later, you will publish those in Odia.”

I wrote a story. Katha published the story under the caption, Eka Eka (All Alone). The story was about inspection of a senior officer of a subordinate office. The senior officer had come for the inspection with his wife and an officer posted as his assistant. The story caused a stir among the officers and staff of sales tax department, a few seniors fumed; but the common readers liked it. The officers and inspectors, particularly of the Sambalpur Range consisting of Sundargarh, Sambalpur and Bolangir districts discussed the story for a long time; in some places, photocopied and circulated the story. They liked particularly two characters, I had named as Bhuanbiradi (Tomcat) and Sijhaaloo (Boiled potato).

Having seen the readers liked this story, I continued to write such stories from my experience. Manas is the protagonist of all the stories, one situation or an incident in his life is made into a story. Even readers wrote me (It was time before the use of cell phone, internet, etc) to tell them in advance in my reply to their letter, the magazine that was going to publish the next event in the life of Manas. The stories are inter connected and one will get a feel of a novel reading from first story to last one.

Once, one interviewer asked Qurratulain Hyder, the famous Urdu novelist and short story writer, “Why do you write?” She replied something like this: If I got angry or hated someone and I could not do anything to him/her in person, I would write a story, make him/her a character, beat or murder him/her in the story; I took revenge in this way and placated my heart.

 I admit I feel the same writing these stories.

Cuttack Students’ Store, Balubazaar, Cuttack published a book containing fifteen of the stories of Manas’s life under the name, Nija Batare Nije (All in Their Own Ways). This is my third collection of short stories, published in 2002. The book was priced at Rs.70.

****

WAITING FOR LETTERS

The postman never comes to Kalinganagar where I reside unless it’s a registered or speed post. I have been staying here for the last eight years and have not received a single ordinary post. I was in Cuttack for fourteen years in one house, my address remained unchanged, and I used to get letters, complimentary copies of the magazines which published my stories or features. The complimentary copies are sent through ordinary post and in Bhubaneswar, I do not receive complimentary copies since I settled here in August, 2012. Now I have to buy those magazines unless those are couriered or sent by registered post to me. I subscribed a few magazines annually which were sent to me by book post. The postman did not deliver, and I have to stop subscribing those magazines.

Internets, WhatsApp, cell phone along with courier services have made the postman redundant. The postman has realised it and also cooperates in his redundancy by not attending to ordinary letters/book posts. Now people do not write letters; they talk over phones or send messages. Before the use of internet/cell phone, I got a good number of letters when a magazine published my story; most of the letters were in post cards. (All the writers/poets got letters if the story or poem was good and appealed to the readers). I used to keep the post cards story wise bound with rubber bands. The writers give their addresses below the story with the hope that some may write to them. Now writers are giving their e mail IDs or phone numbers along with addresses. The reader now makes a phone call or sends a message or sometimes, e mails his views.

The charm in letters is missing in messages or phone calls. The letters on a story or a feature are records; you can read later, or even refer, what cannot be in phone calls. Messages are short; the readers’ feelings cannot be adequately reflected in messages. I have also received long letters, not in post card, but in several pages in envelopes. Not many readers use e mail.

The letters are not always appreciation; some letters contain constructive criticism of the story or suggestion to improve upon. If a reader (Don’t confuse with a fellow poet) does not like a poem, normally, he does not react, he thinks, perhaps he does not have that standard or intelligence to appreciate the poem or the philosophy behind the poem. He doubts his own competence to appreciate a poem. But he does not have that compunction with a story. He writes straight to the writer the wrong in the story as he perceives. The writer can assess himself, know what kind of story the readers like or dislike. On a few occasions, I have modified or revised a story before it found its place in a compilation on the basis of views received.

Sambad in its Sunday literary page had published my story, chenaey hasara sansar, perhaps in August 1994. I received a good number of letters from the readers appreciating the story. The letters were pleasing and encouraging. But I received a letter dated 5 September, 1994 from an anonymous person. He liked the story, but with a rider. The story was on a happily married couple, the husband is an officer, the wife a housewife. The husband never discusses office at home. One day his senior reprimands him. He is distraught and irritable. He has been rude to his wife in the morning. Of course, it is sorted out in the afternoon. In this story, after the husband leaves for office after uttering words those hurt her, the wife does all the household chores, washes the clothes, cleans the backyard, etc. I had written a sentence something like this, “She does not do all these to please her husband; she does physical work when she is angry, to mitigate her anger.” The above letter writer has objected to this sentence and said this sentence neutralises what the writer wants to speak in the story. This sentence should not be there. And he advises, before writing a sentence in a story or even in novel or play, the writer should first consider the effect and implications of the sentence.

                  (The letter from the reader)

On receipt of this letter I had rewritten the story and published it in another magazine under the caption poka (Worm).

He had not given his name or address. I do not know him, or never have thought of meeting him. But when I sit to write I keep him always in my mind. When my reader-friends say I do not write a single sentence which is not required for the story or a sentence less, and they like the story for this, I remember that unknown person and the letter he had written twenty-six years back.

*****

CHAKRAVYUHA

I was sub treasury officer, Satyabadi; Jagdish, my batch mate in the O.A.S., was BDO, Kanash. We met regularly as the salary of the employees and other claims of Kanash Block were passed through Satyabadi sub treasury; and he used to come to the treasury at least once in a month.

Jagdish was honest, efficient and a hard working officer. But honesty was his problem. An honest BDO could neither satisfy the authority nor the political boss and nor even the people he worked for. He created only enemies. The collector reprimanded him; his opinion, he was not capable of handling the Block affairs. The Chairman of the Block, an elected representative of the people, openly waged war against him. His friends and seniors or well wishers in the administration said he was tactless. Once the Minister visited the Block to inspect flood situation, he listened the petty politicians of the locality rather to the BDO and humiliated him in presence of the public. The Minister wanted to show up his power before his constituents.

Jagdish could not withstand pressure, he committed suicide.

His death shocked and shattered me. His taking his life haunted me for many days, and provoked me to write a story. In the story, I had written, in a corrupt system, an honest officer would either turn mad or commit suicide. Katha, the most widely circulated monthly story magazine of the time, published this story in the month, coincidently the month of Jagdish’s first death anniversary. The story created a furore in the region, particularly in Puri district. His death had aroused public conscience, and the story published just after one year in the month of his death anniversary made the people livid of the corrupt system. The unfortunate incident was still fresh in their memory.

In the bazaar or in the office, many of the persons I met were interested to discuss with me his death and the story. One day the collector, Puri was holding a meeting in his office and in the meeting he said, “Satyabadi treasury officer has written something against the collector on the issue of Kanash BDO’s suicide?” An officer present in the meeting, who happened to be my friend, said, “That’s a story published in a literary magazine, not an article.” The DSP, Puri asked officer in charge of Satyabadi police station to collect the magazine that published my story, saying, “He has written against the police.” The narrator in the story was a police officer, a friend of the BDO. He was depicted as pragmatic in the story as the BDO was an idealist. The officer in charge met me and took a photocopy of the story. Both the DSP and the officer in charge were pleased with the story. The latter treated me with a sumptuous lunch in a dhaba.

Many persons, particularly the officers had not read the story, but had formed opinion, which usually happened with the authorities. It still happens also.

One day when I returned to the office after my lunch I saw a person waiting for me. He had been to Puri on his personal work. He was going back to Bhubaneswar by bus. He got down at Satyabadi just to meet me. He had been waiting for me for more than one hour. He (Hrudananda Mallik?) introduced him as former BDO, Kanash. After retirement from government service, he was working for a newspaper. He said he just wanted to see me, the story writer; he had read the unfortunate incident from the newspapers and had read the story from the magazine.

Santosh Publications, Sutahat, Cuttack published my second collection of stories in 2000; I decided to give the name of the book, CHAKRAVYUHA. The book contains fifteen stories. Tanuj Mallik had designed the cover. The book was priced at Rs.60/

****

A River of Tears behind Every Smile

( P.C. Mukhtar Ahmad, adopted from Under the Blue Sky)

P.K.Bhat had posted a photo on his FaceBook timeline. In the photo, he stands on a grassy mound, and has written, “Once upon a time this is where we had our sweet home.” The photo speaks volumes.

Bhat is a pandit; originally belonged to a village in Anantnag district. The separatist movement and terrorist activities reached its peak in 1990.The JKLF terrorists singled out the pandits in the valley, attacked them; looted, and murdered. The pandits fled their villages with their lives leaving everything behind and became refugees in Jammu. Bhat’s family had to leave their village in 1990. The terrorists burnt their house in 1992 after they had looted everything. Once sweet home, it now has turned out a grassy grave.

Rahul Pandita’s book “Our Moon has Blood Clots” captures the sufferings of pundits in Kasmir. His maternal grandfather was from Barmula. The Pakistan sent tribal invaders, who attacked Kasmir in October, 1947. They did the same; loot, rape, murder, burning the house of the pundits as the JKLF terrorists did in 1990. Rahul’s uncle was only ten and her mother was younger to her brother. They fled Barmula and later, settled in Srinagar. In 1990, when most of the pundits left Kasmir, his uncle did not. His cousin Ravi, a lecturer, was very friendly and popular with his friends. He depended on his friends to stay back. But his friends could not save him, and in June, 1997; the terrorists picked him from a bus he was travelling by and killed him. His uncle lost equanimity, and left Srinagar. His uncle said when Jawaharlal Nehru addressed a gathering at Lal Chouk in 1948, I was a refugee in my own state, and sixty years later I am a refugee in my own country.

                                             (With P K Bhat in Srinagar)

The pandits have moved out to different states and countries; the Diaspora has been successful in different fields in different states and countries. Wherever they are, they root for their villages, and want to go back. Bhat says he goes once a year to his village and his sons love their father’s village. When he goes to his village, they stay with his best friend, a Muslim. Their friendship remains intact.

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I was surprised to get a phone call from Irfan Manzoor immediately after I switched on my mobile phone after the plane landed in Srinagar airport. I had not shared my phone number. He had google-searched my name and found the number from my FB account. He was waiting for me at the exit gate.

Irfan was an officer of Kasmir Administrative Service, then working as Under Secretary in Education Department. A shy, but a sincere officer, he had rather a lover’s look with stubble on his cheeks and innocent eyes. After I checked in the hotel he said, “We have arranged for visit to Shankarachrya temple tomorrow in the morning for all the delegates. Where should you like to go now?”

It was afternoon, I had a few hours. I had to prepare for next day’s meeting in the evening. I told him to suggest and we decided to wander to Dal Lake.

Last time I had gone to Srinagar in November, 2015 to attend the GST law committee meeting. Our visit coincided with the visit of the Prime Minister. The administration had imposed curfew in most parts of Srinagar to ward off any untoward incident. We had a very restricted movement during our stay. When I went to Srinagar in May, 2017 to attend the GST Council meeting I was also apprehensive. The valley was unquiet after the killing of Burhan Wani, the Hizbul Mujahidden militant in 2016; there were increasing cases of stone pelting by the public and retaliatory pellet firing by the police. I felt Irfan took extra care to see I was comfortable and pleased.

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Last time in 2015 when I returned from Sinagar I had to wait four hours in Delhi airport to catch the next flight to Bhubaneswar. I was browsing the book shop in the airport, and found Curfewed Night by Basharat Peer. I started reading the book to pass time and finished it by the time I reached Bhubaneswar. Curfewed Night narrates the sufferings of Muslims as Our Moon has Blood Clots recounts the plight of pandits in the Valley.

Terrorists attack the army and police, the army retaliates. The terrorists and also a few police or jawans are killed, so also civilians in the cross fire. The civilians protest, often violently, the police/army has to fire to disperse the crowd. Civilians get killed and further people protest against the police/army firing. This is a vicious circle that goes on for years.

The army put up barricades to stop the bus and check if there is any terrorist; and the people travelling have to be subject to harassment. Sometimes there is search, on suspicion of hiding terrorists, of an entire village. Allegations of molestation and rape also float. Sometimes terrorists threaten a villager for food and shelter in the night and if it is known to the police, next day police search and interrogate the innocent villager. Targets of the terrorists are not always the police or army, often the common man of the valley is also a victim. Basharat’s father was an officer of Kasmir Administrative Service and has served a stint as Commissioner of J&K Commercial Taxes. Once the terrorists attempted to blow up the car he was travelling with his wife; fortunately he escaped unhurt.

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After the meeting was over, I wanted to visit some places in Srinagar. I suggested Lal Chouk. Irfan turned grave and discussed with the driver and the PSO (Personal Security Officer) in Kasmiri language, which I could not understand. I said, “If you sense trouble, we should not go to Lal Chouk. I should not embarrass you.” He said, “Sir today is Friday, normally there are speeches after prayer, there may be some trouble. We should not take risk.” I said, “Okay, let’s go to a Kasmiri handloom/ handicraft shop.”

We went to a handicraft shop. On the way I asked Irfan, “The school students including girls pelt stones to the police and police resort to pellet firing that injures and even blinds the boys and girls. Are they not afraid of police retaliation? Why are they damaging their future?”

Irfan remained silent; perhaps, he did not know what to say; he did not answer.

                                                ( With Irfan at Dal Lake)

The next day I read from newspaper there was trouble in Lal Chouk after the Friday prayer. There was news; a reporter asked a ninth class girl, “Why are you pelting stone to the police and risking your future?” The girl answered, “What future we have in Kasmir?”

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Amendment of Article 370 and 35A of the Constitution abolished the special status given to J&K, but J&K still continues to be in a state of unrest. A question haunts, whether P K Bhat will be able to go back to his village? Whether the girl will get confidence that she can also have a future in Kasmir?

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                              ( P.C. Mukhtar Ahmad, adopted from Under the Blue Sky)

I had reached early in Srinagar airport. While waiting for my flight, I was sifting through the book, Under My Blue Sky, through the lens of Mukhtar Ahmad, presented to me by J&K Commercial Tax Department. I came across a photo of a bespectacled old man, with grey beard on cheeks and a beaming smile on his toothless face. Rubina Sushil texts, “There is a river of sorrow in the folds of that face, but you will see only a smile like the winter morning sun.” 

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