Fate moves in small circles over our head. Life tests us invarious phases and forms. Growing up isa trap. Man is movable, in search of bread and butter. University life taughtme more than expected. Villages are sleepy. City is vibrant. Classless societyis a utopian concept even in ‘global village’. Regional divide does exist.Kashmir lives in its villages. And a void is visible in urban-ruralrelationship.
City is not superior. We can’t demean creatures living far from the airport or secretariat. I had interesting firsthand accounts with my landlords. Tenants are treated as submissive. The city played a great host and hostile sometimes. I along with my flatmates scampered for shelter. Tenant-landlord relationship is sacred but temporary.
People discriminated among tenants. Greed is natural but fleecing poor students is unjust. If there are better avenues in the city, does it mean villagers are mortals of lesser god? I remember an instance when a biker zoomed past few boys who were out to buy vegetables. I vividly recall what he said, “”Heya gujiriya, Rozov sidas, mekhbirov, tohi ha chukh saen bae karnawan shaheed.”
During 2010 unrest and Sept’14 floods, villagers collected cash, clothes, grocery, and dispatched the items to the city. The gujjar slander reminded me when I was called gujjur at Allama Iqbal Library at Kashmir University since I was pheran-clad.
With no written agreements, rent hike, unreasonable expectations, improper behaviour, it was hard to negotiate with the owners. Landlords were not reachable when accessed in case of shortage of water supply or bad wiring. Reheating meals, refilling gas cylinders, washing pans and pots was a new facet of life.
Rent should be payable but tenant’s requests are notentertained. Ministry of Housing and Urban affairs has mandated certainguidelines but only on papers. There is a formula for percentage of increase inrent annually but it doesn’t exist in world’s tenth worst polluted city. Thetenant is entitled to have visitors to stay overnight or for short periods butwe experience different drama in this city. Villagers are looked down upon,called names and treated as second class citizens.
The rented apartment can never be home for a refugee or an asylum seeker. I received both horror hosts and heart-warming people. Sides of the coin continue to flip. There are episodes when the residents in the city showered immense love, care and concern.
When docs at SMHS declared me drug addict, I was circled by comrades. This Gen Next doc left me in huff and hurry. One female friend almost collapsed. But, the way they handled the situation is hilarious. This food-poisoning episode is embedded in my memory. They spend their time and resources and stayed with me all-day.
We should rethink on the stereotypes which pass on generations. Facebook generates piles of garbage everyday and the obnoxious reactions about this Shahr-gaam debate are ceaseless. We experience deep cuts and wounds daily. Villagers are worst sufferers.
Our cries don’t hog headlines. Recently, when passengers from far off families de-boarded buses at Parimpora, some angry young men with flowing beard kicked children, slapped girls, pelted stones for not obeying boycott call. Many had to attend emergencies.
I felt clueless and captive. As a fresh immigrant, my mind was in a state of, as celebrated writer Mirza Waheed calls it “perennial confusion”. Everything around reminded me of being an outsider. We would miss fresh breeze of mornings of our hamlets.
Village boys and girls who came here from far and wide had something in common- a shared sense of purpose. Kashmir University was the epicentre. I wanted to share some scary stories but this account is not uncensored.
Kashmir is plus minus graves and gardens. Ours is an oily morally exhausted landscape.As I sinked into a big world of kind and unkind strangers, I realized blood isalways thicker than water. In the hearts of men rest both sincere affectionsand visceral resentments, the regional division will stay forever.
There is a rosy picture as well. Some people from the cityhelped when I needed them the most, they didn’t let me feel low. Theyencouraged me and always came back to know if I was worriless. They threw thedoors of their homes open for me, wanted me to stay over as long as I want. Itproves good people still exist.
To err is human. We must not always expect good from people around us. Mistakes reform us, provided we are willing to learn from them. I wish good sense prevails. I want young brigade to debate amicably on virtual world. We must not hurl accusations at each other.
Being Gaamuk or shahruk, we are one; we have been repeatedly committing same mistakes and facing same consequences. Do we consider it when we donate blood to save a precious life? Absolutely not. Then, we must vow from now onwards that we will never indulge in illogical and baloney name-calling.
Post-script: True love is organic. But when money overlapsit, it changes its meaning. Jarring jolts in 2018 forced tenants to rush out ofthe building, the owner didn’t bother to enquire whether we are dead or alive.Landlords knock the door usually at the last day of the month to collect cash.Cities talk, smile, frown, wail and rejoice, but their language can only beheard by those who care to listen. Srinagar has a story to tell.