May The Ghulam Hassans Please Stand Up

The year was 1992. The classrooms were dusty with their entrances hidden at the ends of dark, gloomy corridors in the dilapidated structures of the S.P. Higher Secondary School in Srinagar.

Kashmir had gone militant. Rebellion was pouring out, where it was due and where it was not; irrespective. Defiance of authority was in fashion that season. Anarchy was the law. For the fashion conscious young in school and college, this new style often manifested in defiance of (and frequently disrespect towards) all teachers and teaching institutions. The boys could come to class or to examinations armed, either with a weapon or with the possibility of pointing one later. Lecturers could get shouted at, and worse. Someone might desire a personal advantage; someone else might do it just because it was fun. Teachers, as an institution (and as individuals, by large) behaved like all other institutions and individuals in choosing to look the other way; wisdom favored discretion, rather than valor. The (otherwise sacred) spirit of rebellion among youth had cut loose of any constraints of direction.

Most classes were never held. Often, the lecturer would not show up. No one bothered to ask why. One assumed it had to do with the "haalaat" being "kharaab" (the times being bad). Maybe his haalaat were really kharaab that day. Maybe he was apprehensive his haalaat could turn kharaab in the hands of his class! Maybe he had just lost his drive to go thru the motions of holding class. The class wouldnt miss him much anyway. Even if he had turned up, few would have shown up in his bare classroom. Yes, many classrooms were indeed bare of furniture or held just remnants (I once took an annual exam in a bare room. The next day was better; they had desks; no chairs though!).

Among all this chaos, in a barely furnished damp classroom at the end of the same dark gloomy corridor, Ghulam Hassan would hold his English Literature class. Whatever desks were present in that hall would be occupied, as one might expect in normal times. However, the rest of the room would be packed as well; taken up by students standing to listen to the lecture. Some would be sitting on the window sills; others would be standing outside the large ground floor windows trying to listen in.

That year, the class had three different sections, each with its own lecturer. The overcrowding just described was due to all enrolled showing up in Ghulam Hassans class, while ignoring their assigned lectures.

Such a crowd and such absolute silence. Such times and such respect for authority. An amazing display of commanding respect, based in my opinion, on the sheer force of personality and individual ability.

As i write, the year is 2007. May the Ghulam Hassans please stand up.

How much Panun is Kashmir

Taking off from where this blog was left last, i was thinking about the time when this uprising was in its infancy, probably not only new as an infant, but definitely as innocent as well. Most definitely i was a blind eye witness to the scenario. Was it Governor Jagmohan, the theory i myself adhere to, or was it just panic? It was not the Kashmiri muslims, the honest pandits would definitely tell you that, or was it a third person? Whatever it was, we definitely needed to stand up to the trying moment. And by we, I mean all kashmiris who think kashmir is their panun, not only in an euphemism for a lost cause but in the honesty of the blood in the veins. So, i might not know the reason or the cause, heck, i might not even know the effect in the long run but i definitely know this - the panun in that kashmiri was just a statement and probably a motto as strong as that kashmiri himself was. Life has taught me that what i love, i will stick to it no matter the trials and tribulations i have to go through. Turning ones back used to be the last of the options that 'men' used to consider but probably there is not much of manhood left in the man anymore. Who stood up to the challenges? Who showed the relentless love for his motherland? Who owned the responsibility and decided to stand as one against the relentless forces that have been hounding my motherland for the last so many decades?

Well, i guess no matter what the reason for the mass exodus was, there definitely was a factor and that was the kashmiris for whom kashmir became panun only once they left, had a place to go to, a place that they could call their own, that always considered them a part unlike the kind that stayed behind. Where would the other kind flee to? Out of the frying pan into the fire? I guess they took their chances with the pan. As for the others they decided to get on the bandwagon and watch the show of barbarism , cruelty and ruthlessness from outside of their Panun Kashmir.

Sometimes it does happen

Just like any other place on earth Kashmir is not perfect, neither are its people. We have our own share of strengths and weaknesses. We might not have smooth roads nor continuous supply of electricity, but we have beautiful mountains and valleys. ALLAH puts love in your heart for your birthplace. ALLAH put the love of Kashmir in our hearts with all its shortcomings which exist because we never set them straight or never tried to. As a result of some shortcomings sometimes we don't rise to the occasion and we fail ourselves.
One such occasion that I think when Kashmir as a nation failed itself was when hundreds of thousands of Kashmiri Pandits left their homes. It is very painful to leave a place where you have lived for centuries. Leaving everything behind: homes,friends, aspirations, dreams and even memories. As if you start your life afresh but then you can't really get rid of your past , can you? So for all these Kashmiri Pandits who had to leave Kashmir, it must have been very painful and I am sure Kashmir resides in their hearts.
Different people give different versions for the reasons of their migration. The two most prominent ones are: the Kashmiri muslim version and the kashmiri pandit version. According to the kashmiri muslim version; hindus left because Jagmohan, the governor of Jammu and Kashmir, wanted them to, so that he could have a free hand in crushing the mass movement that was erupting at that time. Kashmiri pandits say, they left because they were killed by muslim militants and feared for their lives and the lives of their families.
I don't know which version to believe. Probably I don't even want to know. One thing I know is that Kashmiris are very loving people. However, I fail to understand, why then did they not stand as a nation and tell these Pandits that we are with you and we will be with you. May be things were too complicated at that time and everything was changing so fast that majority itself didn't know what to do. Ask any Kashmiri pandit and I am sure they will acknowledge, the muslim majority of Kashmir never hated them and they did not drive them out. No matter what the reasons were, on that occasion we failed ourselves. I hope they return back to Kashmir sooner than later.
Things happen and sometimes nations do fail themselves. But then things could be set right, may be.

Hajj on Sale

Visiting my beloved moj kasheer is always a kaleidoscope of mixed feelings. On one hand, the beautiful vale, a cradle for all its children, the sense of belongingness, the family that is mine and the family that is kasheer, the faces that started growing wrinkles as I grew, the same neighborhood, the small streets often serving as our cricket fields, the mosque standing tall as always and the same shop around the corner. On the other hand, the broken roads that never got fixed, the overflowing sewer, the stinking garbage and the hapless child’s first breath in the filthy maternity hospital which smells of corruption and gross negligence. Well, whatever it is, it would not stop me from visiting home this summer. With passion in my heart, love in my eyes and nervousness in my limbs I went out of the aircraft to feel, breathe and see Kashmir. Besides other things, top priority on my to-do list was to convince my maternal aunt and her husband to make the intention of the journey that every Muslim must undertake at least once in his lifetime. Perhaps waiting at the carousel for my baggage never was a more monstrous task as it seemed this time. Anyway, I stepped out of the airport and into the daily life of a Kashmiri visiting Kashmir.

The first step – meeting my aunt itself proved to be quite an uphill task. “We can’t take the car, the main roads are closed for public, the inner roads are jammed with traffic and the buses are taking an hour to reach where it should take them five minutes. It is the assembly”, jeered my dad. “Isn’t the government supposed to be ‘for’ the convenience of the people and ‘main’ road is off-limits for the common man?”, I mused. Anyhow, where nothing goes, the bus no. 11 is what you can always trust. I was greeted by one of the most emotional welcomes and without much-ado I jumped onto my mission. “You guys have to go to your first Hajj this year. I ain’t listening”. “Definitely!”, came what was music to my ears. In no time the papers, pictures and money was ready and in the hands of my dad and there goes the application. “inshaAllah”, I could hear it from the hearts of my aunt and uncle.

Due to a large number of people applying, there will be a lottery draw for the people making it to Hajj this year – I overheard somewhere, but it was time for me to head back to US – adieu. Days passed by and every now and then, I would pick up the invention of Alexander Graham Bell and enquire from my parents. ‘Na gobrya, weni draw ne kiheen’ (No, son, the decisions are not made yet). Anyway, the inevitable had to come and they were the unlucky ones to be dropped out of the list. ‘But there is still hope. The people have requested for more quota and there may be some additions’, was what I heard my dad saying. Indeed, the greaterkashmir.com did give new life to my hopes one day as I read the news that the number of Hujjaj has been increased. “An old couple, its their first time, people who are going for the third and fourth time are getting it. Now, they are definitely going to get it.”, I convinced myself. Anyway, the office of the DC, the nemesis as it proved to be, did not bring any great news. They were dropped the second time also. “Our pleas fell on deaf ears. Hopes were shattered and the hearts were broken”, was what my dad conveyed to me. “Now there is only one way. There are people who paid bribes of five to ten thousand per head to get in. I have already talked to one such person and he has assured us two spots for ten thousand rupees”. “Never”, came my reply, ”you can bribe people, but you cannot bribe Allah. Softly, almost choking at her tears, hardly able to speak out, “teli inshaAllah nawi waryi”, said my aunt.