My story probably goes back to the times when Mr Modi would have been in his infancy – to the end of November 1958 and the beginning of ’59, long before the Prime Minister dropped that gem that the battle in J & K was for Kashmir not Kashmiris. In other words for men may or men may not go but the vale is ours for ever.
I had just conspired with my mother and her brother to get out of Kashmir to seek a bit of the newly freed Indian sun. Delhi, my destination, was still teeming with refugees and some refugee camps were still in existence. Some of the major eateries in Daryaganj, Connaught Place and Ajmere Gate were operating out of rehris and from the rash of shops that surrounded the Jama Masjid you could pick up the best of books, crockery, furniture etc, sold away at throw away prices by the departing Brits.
There were more expensive ways you could indulge yourself in but then I was just a callow Kashmiri youth out to try my luck, with some education and the prospect at throw away prices, intent on keeping the secret to myself and my two conspirators, keeping poor dad in darkness. The gentleman he was, he passed away the following year at the ripe old age of 50.
Sooner than you would imagine I had found myself a job as a trainee proof-reader in the long dead Indian News Chronicle published from, of all places on earth, a weird place named Mori Gate.
I had enrolled myself for studies as well, and all was hunky dory until my first few days at work. Fellow proof-readers and the subs, for the most part, were refugees (all from Lahore, you were expected to believe). Soon I began to be chased by a voice (Hey, hato Kotru) and this I learnt was their way of calling a (Hato, hey) Kashmiri.
Their Punjabi background and the fact that many Kashmiri workers flocked to the plains in winters had taught them to address a Kashmiri as a hato. Soon enough there were typical jokes to mock the visiting Kashmiris many among whom in pre-partition days moved south, a special one of these being Dhup (sun) tapsee toh thoos karsi. Or that the great plainsman asked a Kashmiri standing in sun on a hard summer day and the Indian asking him to move into the shade to be told ‘how much will you pay’.
This was the image of the Kashmiri, say, in Lahore in 1930s or 40s. Sir Mohammad Iqbal ? Who is he, would be the answer in spite of his being a very familiar name. That was meant to make fun of the Kashmiri non-military ways, keep the loaded gun in the sun and it will fire on its own. Yes, we Kashmiris have generally (always,I would add) been a peace-loving people who would rather be left to themselves.
Time passed by. Refugees had built palaces in mushrooming colonies, dhabas and rehris converted into five star restaurants et al. My journey meanwhile continued and soon found myself as proof-reader cum sports reporter, that’s how my first ever celebrity was born. I jumped into Pakistani cricket team’s bus at Rajghat, receiving finishing touches then, and face to face I was with Abdul Hafeez Kardar, the Oxonian captain of the Pak team. Another year or so I was Kotru not Hato Ho.
Ten years later I was to receive the best Indian journalist award from Nehru and I was Mr. Kotru. Many moons later I am confronted all over again by the Hata Ho, thanks to my years and the poison that has been allowed to grow around the personality of the Kashmiri. So much so, even the Prime Minister of India is willing to forget me, my race, my culture and surely feign ignorance of the commodity called Kashmiri Muslim, his interest ( pray to God I am wrong ?) seems to be the land where I was born and to which I am told I am an alien now. Coincidence, I met the daughter of a Kashmiri friend of mine after some 20 years and she, surprise, surprise, has been living in Gurgaon just 3 km away. And the meeting shook me when she said “Uncle, mein wapas jana chahatee hoon.’ I protested, insisting that she couldn’t leave without a meal. “No, you don’t understand, khana tou khaungee, parr I want to return to Kashmir. Most of my Hindu neighbours give me funny looks now”.
Lucky girl, I thought in reflection, even as I wondered what exactly she was opting for The Iron Heel. She was only getting hostile looks from old Hindu neighbours; how about Kashmiri students studying in Rajasthan, Haryana, Dehradun, Kolkatta and parts of South India as well? I won’t mention their not receiving the promised scholarships from the Prime Minister’s fund but are, regretfully, harassed no end, getting bashed up in college hostels, being discriminated against even in institutions like the Jawaharlal Nehru University for their being hata hos.
How does one explain to the two Kashmiri vendors who had returned to their familiar open air space in the city of Nawabs to sell their wares – dried fruit, in their case only to be roughed up by two saffronite goons who wanted to see their Adhar Cards and were belabored until a kindly Lucknowite turned up to stop them and called for the police. These are no stray incidents. There is a pattern to these. And I don’t have to be an Oracle to tell you what it is. Mr. Modi’s exhortations get repeated times out of number by his party chief and even by one of his junior Ministers who seem to be paying extraordinary attention to Kashmir.
One has come to learn these past few years that election time is the one most coveted by the saffronites to spread their message of hate. The tragedy is the man who is leading the saffron campaign is willing to play the communal card to the hilt. The Hata Hos of Kashmir can stew in their own juices. New Delhi is too busy to b e worried on account of the mess in Kashmir. It has far too many other concerns such as building temples and maths and hectoring the world on our shoddy growth. It has discovered as two Union Ministers said during the week that the route to redemption lies via the Israeli way. Arrogance and intolerance.
The Ministers didn’t didn’t use these words but I have my fears. Were the Ministers seeing a parallel in the Israeli Palestinian conflict India;s own anti-militancy in Kashmir.
I hope not, although, willy nilly, we seem to be heading towards that. The saffronites will find their own Israel-like targets to conquer like their idols,the Jews, did in Jerusalem.I hope Kashmiris don’t fall under that head.
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