In embers, the rage of an angel
Kashmiri indignation remains well-fed, generation to generation
I'VE BEEN looking at the renewed powderflash from Kashmir on the television screens, and I've been looking at old notes in my diary. Some of it is worth repeating because some things, sadly, never change.
The Bodo jawan, small and fair, stops the small car ahead of us. He leans his head inside and asks the elderly man, in pheran and skull cap, to step out. Taking slow and clumsy steps, the man walks towards the checkpost about 700 metres down the road. His car crawls behind him. We are on a dusty stretch near Padgampora in Pulwama, 35 kilometres south of Srinagar.
It's our turn now. Curiously, the young soldier allows us through without a question.
"You are spared because you are an Indian," quips my driver, Mehraj, a burly man in his late 50s. By "Indian" he meant non-Kashmiri.
Random checks, unprovoked summons and unwarranted detentions are common for local Kashmiris. "We are treated as outsiders in our own land" - is a common refrain.
Journalists on assignment from Delhi have it far easier than anyone Kashmiri. While we roam the curfewed streets of Srinagar freely, flaunting the central government's Press Information Bureau tag, Kashmiri journalists, by contrast, must scout escape routes through Srinagar's narrow bylanes to reach safety when there's trouble.
One afternoon, during the 2010 unrest, I was on my way to downtown Srinagar, when I heard a Kashmiri journalist frantically call out. He had been thrashed by CRPF jawans who wouldn't be convinced that he ran a news agency and actually published "pro-Indian" content.
It's November 2016. I am back in the Valley. At Bandipora, I am passing by a landscape of burnt tyres, broken spokes and logs of wood. We are manoeuvring through the barricades and gun-toting soldiers. Two militants were killed in a nearby village the previous night.
Kashmir has been on high alert for several months now. A summer full of blooms has been busted by the killing of the young Hizb-ul Mujahideen commander Burhan Wani in July. Months of unrest followed. Close to a hundred people died, thousands were injured or permanently disabled, Kashmir recorded its longest time under curfew.
It's nearing the end of autumn now. In fact, a delayed autumn, Mehraj corrects me. The unusual calm in the fog-ridden air resounds with tales of a wounded summer. The tall chinar trees, bereft of the leaves, stand in a row. The skies are heavy with grey clouds turning darker. We hear thunder in the distance. In a while, thick drops of rain start falling on the windshield. I roll down the window to feel the rain-freshened air.
This sudden downpour is as unpredictable as the unrest in Kashmir, says Basit, a Sopore lawyer, as we munch on crispy lavassas (flat bread made of finely-milled wheat flour), bundhh (salted bun) and chochwour (bread with sesame coating) at his house.
Basit is telling me about the unlawful detention of stone-pelters and how their cases progress in court. As we get engrossed in our conversation, Basit's little nephew, all of three, sits coyly next to him. He and his elder brother have been confined to home for months now; the schools are shut. His brother is now restless and is keen to go back to school but he isn't. "Whenever we tell him, he would go to the kindergarten soon, he would say, ' Pehle India ko bhagaao, phir school jayenge (Let India leave Kashmir, then I will go to school)," his lawyer uncle says chirpily.
The child looks on with a glassy stare as Basit narrates more stories of his revolt at home. He even ignores his mother's summons. The boy pulls a kangri (little pot with lighted charcoal) closer to himself for some warmth. I could see the glowing embers of the kangri. These embers, perhaps, resemble the rage of a young Kashmiri.
This rage remained subdued in the autumn and through the winter. But what's the coming summer, already blistered, to bring? Kashmir is aflame again.