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.