“But we common dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, sometimes.” (A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens)
It was on 21st of August, 2019 when I,after a long summer break of three months, boarded a plane at SrinagarInternational Airport for Delhi to join my doctorate studies at Aligarh. Theairport which often wears a festive look, presented a sombre sight. Long queuesI could see at the kiosks of major airlines, with people mostly students,waiting for their turn to book their tickets. I was the luckiest, as I hadbooked a ticket online for my departure a month back – a foreboding, you maycall it. Parents, who accompanied theirchildren looked agitated. They moved from one counter to another, nudged othersin the meantime to occupy top slots in the never-ending queues, arguing withrepresentatives; while some were successful in getting a berth for theirchildren, others were not. Boarding-passes were issued and everyone seemedanxious to leave Kashmir. After all, ithad been just over a fortnight after that 05 August, when Kashmir woke up to anew turn of events. The despondence was visible on everyone’s face; the will wassubdued; the defeat was palpable and something was amiss. With head fallen, Ialong with my fellow passengers, left for the same Place, which ostensibly had”integrated” us in the middle of night ‘when the world was sleeping.’
Landing at Delhi in the late afternoon, wasa harrowing experience; the Delhi-heat boiled us within, literally as well asmetaphorically. The sweat drenched us from top to toe. I could sense also thegeographical incongruity between Delhi and Kashmir, not just sociological andpsychological. Delhi was abuzz with life, while Kashmir fed up with lifeitself! I along with my friends left for Aligarh by a late-night train.
Aligarh is, as has always been one of thehotspots for Kashmiri students. As they say, it is the “Second Home” for,Kashmiris and rightly so. We breathe Kashmir, see Kashmir and feel Kashmir inAligarh and I doubt, whether any other place in India has been as ‘kashmirised’as Aligarh. The whole campus and its precincts are adorned with Kashmiris, thedhabas are replete with discussions about Kashmir, with participants sippingthe famous Aligarh tea, cup after cup. But this time around, everything seemedhostile; I hated what I loved before. My heart longed for my motherland -theland which seemed too far but so close to my heart. I wanted to talk to my DadyJan, to my mouj; talk with them about my watan, but ……….? For the first time,Aligarh environs seemed so suffocating; in fact, I hated Aligarh because, Iloved Kashmir, more.
It was Sunday, I remember when my phonebuzzed from an unknown number. Phone calls, those days were a luxury and thattoo from Kashmir, where cellular networks had been blacked out. The callerspeaking from a landline number, as I had rightly presumed was Dady Jan, as Ilovingly call him. It was after twenty odd days, that I was listening to thevoice of my father. ‘Gobra theek tchuka’, (Hey son, are you fine?) was what Icould hear! He was, it seemed to me in a hurry. Perhaps, a precondition wasset, that only two minutes of calling-time was to be allotted to each person,seeing the huge rush of people waiting in the long queues, who were as eager totalk to their loved ones as my father. After twenty days, only two minutes! Iwas once again enraged. Ahansa theek hasa zchus (yes, I am fine), I respondedbut the voice on the other side was inaudible. I tried to say ‘hello’ ‘hello’ but no response came and the call hung upimmediately. This game of hide and seek continued for almost two months wherewe had to wait for weeks, sometimes around half a month to speak to, and hearour loved ones until Big Brother announced the partial restoration of post-paidcellular network.
It had almost been two and a half monthsnow and my friend-circle included some non-Kashmiri as well, who in the middleof a gossip halted others from speaking, only to pick up calls from theirparents and loved ones. They talked for hours with their parents, theirsiblings and I often envied them for their aazadi, and who had no suchpreconditions attached to them, as with us.
During these eight months, living here inmainland India, I experienced a turn of tales, as it is the whole of India thathas been ‘Kashmirised’ as against Kashmir that has been ‘Indianised’. Thepolitical events ignited the spark in the length and breadth of the country andI feel Kashmir more in India now than India in Kashmir. The precursor to thistransformation indeed, was the Babri- Masjid verdict. The anger was simmering,only it needed a flashpoint. The NRC provided the last nail in the coffin. FromKerala to Kanpur, Shaheenbagh to Siliguri, people transcending religiousbarriers resisted the communalisation of the Citizenship Law.
I see Kashmir day in and day out – in thestreets, in the lawns of campus, on the posters, people joining rallies,raising slogans, boycotting classes, protest- calendars released and followed,leaders making speeches, students lathi-charged, tear-gas shelling on peacefulprotesters, PSA….. Sometimes, I forget whether I am in Kashmir or, as We callit, in India. As and when, I get a call from my loved ones, the first thingthey enquire from me is, ‘Halaat cha atti theek (Is everything alright there?). Though I reason with them thateverything is alright, I am reminded again and again, ‘wal tar garrai’ (comehome, as it is not safe here). This was not the case a few years before.Parents from Kashmir would insist rather compel their children ‘tariw nebar'(move out of the valley) for studies and for safety. Curfews, hartals,agitations, aazadi were the words, only Kashmiris were familiar with. Suchwords were unheard of in the rest of the country. Now, they are as normal here,as in Kashmir. India, as I see, has changed with the change they made toKashmir.
Nadeem Khurshid is Research Scholar. A.M.U, Aligarh