Kashmiriyat, A Ghazal Of Tears

 SOUBHAGINI PARIDA

 

Summary:The melancholic epic of entire life is written by only two drops of tears.

Keywords; Kashmir, romance,ustad,sikara, tulip, sambhal, refugee, kangdi, jannat, sitar

She hurtled into the room. With her, the gush of breeze and fragrance of the blooms of the entire valley. She queried in her lyrical voice, ‘Is Ustad (master of melody) present?’

-He had told me his destination towards Sonmarg and it may be deep dark on return.

At the reply of Rudra, Ira dragged the scarf from her head and spoke giggling. Then my fingers shall dance on the strings of sitar till the dusk.

Her gorgeous face was only visible through the green-coloured woollen pheran (a coat from neck to toe) as if an angel from paradise has landed on earth as Irawati.

Ira squatted in the centre of takt-posh, where she listens to the biography of Sitar from Ustad Mirza.’ The romantic story of this 4 feet long wonderful musical equipment is that it was brought in from Persians and was exalted to fame in the Mughal court by Amir Khusro. Ustad is still a bachelor mesmerised by the waves of the chime emitted from 21 strings in the organ. Any other apparatus does not generate such an amazing tune in the universe. He can make the chenab basin nostalgic with his magical hit of ragas like Nata Bhairavi, Vatiyar, Hum Sadwani on a device made up of dead mahogany wood fitted with copper wires. He speaks diligently while drinking saffron qawah or deluging different ragas and raginis (genre of music). Ira did not have a penchant for Hindustani classical tunes or complex instruments like the sitar. But now she had fallen in love with Surbahara Sitar. She has fathomed in her core, its 13 sympathetic strings. The other name for the mesmerisation of Ah is probably Sitar.

Another inkling of Ira besides sitar was the boy in Ustad’s home named Rudra. By whose attraction, she fell in a proclivity of sitar, but Rudra pretends not to understand her.

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Ira sat down beside Rudra and smiled a little. He could conceive the reason of arrival of Ira despite being aware of the journey of the Ustad.

Niraj Bhat, an affluent businessman of pashmina shawl and carpet, drew his younger daughter to Ustad for training on sitar six months back. No one matches the expertise of the Ustad in the valley. Equally, he is also known as a saintly person. He does not claim any fees to impart this angelic knowledge but wants, this reverberation must vibrate from the earth to heaven after his permanent departure.

Rudra cannot behold the charming face of Ira during her action on sitar under the watchful views of Ustad. He gazes at her artistic fingers that generate ripples on the cords of sitar. The beauty of her hand by the soft touch of mehndi is further embellished by a few pairs of diamond studded bangles. Her fingers are like buds of lotus when plays on the cords, the vibration migrates to the core of the heart of Rudra.

He accompanies her till the facade of her mansion obeying instruction of the Ustad. He is an obedient son and disciplined disciple. Not to step forward is the order.

He continues under the dense pista tree in front of the facade of her residence, till her smiling face vanishes into the cruel foundation of her home. The multitude of colourful Sambhal flowers in her garden mesmerise him many times. Time stands still there. Ira’s mommy sends saffron and packets of pista and acrot when Ira's papa returns from a business trip from abroad.

An incremental affair between Ira and Rudra merges. Once or twice they had clandestine trip to Dal lake and rode on Shikara (boat) to be amazed by the crystal clear water. Ran inside the oak forest. They sang with the melodious chirping of the migrating birds from Arctic Siberia and Europe.

Once Ira’s mom cautioned her, any rumour of her relationship with Rudra shall conclude her training on the sitar. There must not be any stigma on the flamboyant portrait of her papa in the entire valley and to her, highly born. Her elder sister’s marriage plan with a guy from a reputed family in Jammu is under discussion. If the image is tarnished, they may refuse the proposal. Ira must not forget that Rudra is an orphan, although a Hindu, and is being brought up in the Muslim Ustad household.

The voice of her mom depresses Ira. Ustad was not at home or Ira’s folk, too. She has escaped, seizing this opportune moment. Practising on sitar is an alibi only.

Rudra fixed his views on the gibbus vision of Ira, mesmerised. Ira turned into a complete sitar from Kunti to Tumbi who is an impeccable architecture by the Invisible, mere touch of any part of whom evokes Pancham raga. The name of that sitar made by the passion of the entire universe is Irawati. The expert hand of Rudra, chiselled over many years, has committed no

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blunder to recite a raga. The name of that raga today is ‘Love’. He has not learnt it from his Ustad Abajan (father). Rather, the youth has taught it.

Every child of the valley knows the history of Rudra. Ustad Mirza says that this valley has given a gift as a child in return for his service of playing sitar for ages. What can be his name other than Rudra, the paramount musician and dancer? When he would go to the grave and would lie with his head towards Mecca, Rudra shall offer a handful of soil first. Rudra is the zenith student in playing sitar. He is the inheritor and shall keep up this musical art in the valley. He would pay the musical debt of his Abajan and be an ultimate gift to his teacher.

Ira retreated that time with a heavy mind and body by the initial touch of Rudra. It was her original step in the forbidden land of romance. Her passion was blind-ended. Despite being aware, her disobedient mind did not fathom the emotional exuberance of her frame. Probably this is the fate of her love; breaking the social norms and the desire to march on a forbidden path, the route having a beginning without exit.

Next day, the valley was turbulent. The Hindu business residences were captured and fundamental slogans resounded in the basin, ’Accept or perish.' Ira’s papa’s tall showroom had likewise such a handwritten poster pasted on the wall. They further attacked his car. He paid deaf ears to such orders as they were original inhabitants, from his forefathers to his father of six generations. Only he enhanced his security. Within a few days his godown was set ablaze. The youths moved on the streets with arms. The outcry of detonated grenades outrageously perturbed the gorge.

Niraj Bhat notified his family to be alarmed of any consequence.

After that, Ira has not visited Ustad Abjan’s house. Ustad also sanctified Rudra not to stride out of his dwelling. Both the hearts were burning at a nearby distance. At midnight, a house burns and with it, the uproar of shrieking of unprotected women and children hoots the basin in that scary night. The next day onwards, the home is shut down. Where they deserted, no one knows, but were lost forever. Hearsay that the Hindus of Anantnag and Bandipore flew, quitting their households to save their lives. Even daughters and daughter in laws (bohu) were not spared on the street.

Niraj’s family is under house arrest. The guard in the showroom, Ghani, was providing essential commodities daily. He was the informer of the events in the valley. The assassins were killing mercilessly on the road. The attack on his people may be a reality, Niraj perceived now. Where they would resort, leaving his asset and building made by his blood and tears. To provide a square meal for 4 members of his family may be an upheaval task. His heart grew heavier and was about to burst. Both the girls were worthy for marriage. The sword of eloping safely was hanging on his neck.

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That midnight, Ghani brought with him 3 burkas and two mules. Niraj must quit the valley with limited resources.

But in front of his mansion, the armed radicals were waiting. The first bullet hit the chest of Ghani. Both the animals ran away with harsh bray. The second shot pierced the core of Niraj. The wailing of Abhinanda was slowly fading away. Mama’s strict instruction, ’fly Ira fly. Escape from the death basin.’

Ira that midnight was running with a wounded heart and injured frame......from her native soil.....like a desperado.

Ustad Mirza no more vibrates sitar. But without sitar his life is meaningless. The tears from his eyes were disobedient and directionless. He is ignorant of divisive politics. In front of him, hundreds of houses burn, thousands die, and thousands escape from death and dwelling. There was no path to keep the track of their whereabouts. He was perplexed by the security of Rudra.

That unfortunate moment loomed one midnight.

The uproar of hundreds of knocking sounds on the leading door of the Ustad. Knowing strongly that the poor door shall give way soon. It’s time to depart from his heart, Rudra. His moistened speech opened. ’Rudra! you promise not to look back. I shall not go to Jannat (paradise) without your fistful of soil. I shall wait for you sleeping inside my grave till that day.’ Old Mirza hugged Rudra to his chest brimful of tears for a few seconds and gave him a modest velvet bag. Opened the narrow backdoor, beyond the notice of all.

Then Ustad unleased the leading door in disgust and drowsy eyes. ’Why did you bother me at such midnight?’ 6 or7 enamoured fanatics were waiting like ghosts. One of them shouted in outrageous cry, ’call that kafer (disbeliever). We will punish him. Kashmir valley belongs to us only.’

Ustad spoke in compassionate speech, ’Baba (dears)! this carpet, Takt posh, sitar is gift from kafers. I survive by the earnings from kafers. Now tell, in my torso kafer’s blood is flowing or not?’ Give me punishment first.'

-Look Chacha (uncle)! we are convincing you only. Hail that boy. We are not interested in ransacking your household. You are of our father’s father age, bujurg (senior man). Do not compel us to touch your body.

Ustad Mirza, in a pose to convince them, ’without peaceful harmony between Muslims and Hindus Kashmiriyat shall be a dream. Those who are implanting the poisonous seeds of division know pretty well that this territory was once the land of Hindus. Then we cohabited. After creating Pakistan and Afghanistan, which Stan (place) they want to develop? To satisfy their selfish motives, they have set swords, rifles, and grenades in your childish hands. If this

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continues, nothing shall be begotten, but Kabristan (cemetery) only. I grant you this guarantee...

-Hey! this Oldman is crack. Don’t spare him too. United's statement reiterated. Rudra realised his imminent death if he stays here further. Ustad Abajan’s melancholic voice, ’do not turn my Allah’s Jannat a graveyard.’ .... Hey Allah!

Rudra was scurrying in darkness on the rough, tough, stony and thorny forest. Ustad did not let him be acquainted with the black night. For the first time, all the faces for the initial few yards seemed like butcher’s faces; Tarique, Wahid, Farooq and others with whom he had spent his childhood, completed schooling, observed Roja in Ramjan, flew kites, felt like his near and dear were thirsty for his blood.

In early April, spring burgeons on mundane paradise, Kashmir. The deciduous leaves falling on the ground creates an illusion of colourful carpet on the earth. Tulip plants sprout in the garden in enormous numbers. The snow canopy on pine, deodhar and oak trees, falls. Dust settles on kangdi (burning coal pot). The morning sunshine on snow covering mountains makes it picturesque, like a golden gem.

Ah! in the history of those days of October, Rudra goes to Pampor the native village of Ustad Mirza. There he runs within the violet colour saffron flower field. Chased after the flecks of clouds floating like a bunch of cottons.

Today after 30 years in the dawn of April Rudra reminisces these glorious days. The wound inside the chest has not healed. Time only anointing layers of pastes on that fresh wound. The sorrow of the past has lost its significance amidst the struggle of life and livelihood. At times those palms decorated by mehndi and diamond studded bangles hit him in dreams. The magnificent melody created on Surbahar sitar by the fingers like a bud of lotus reverberates in his mind. The suppressed desires blossom.

In Delhi’s famous music institute, Rudra is a professor. The salary is not bad. He has heard that article 370 has been abrogated from the Kashmir basin. He has watched some emotional TV bites from returnees to the valley. Rudra also could not forget his birthplace despite all amenities available here.

That old earth invited him by its calling hands. He flew in fine dawn to Srinagar Airport. No more his world is lustrous green, no more hustle bustle life of aristocrats and no more resounds the giggling of beautiful damsels on the streets. Everywhere deadly silence. Dilapidated houses for last 3 decades. Open field. Many suspicious paupers' faces.

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Rudra’s auto rickshaw came to a halt in front of Ira’s house. Attractive citadel, now standing haunted. The glasses and the window frames are almost shattered. Once Ira’s mom asked, 'I have heard, you are observing Roja despite being a Hindu? Rundra spoke candidly, ’Ustad Abajan has caressed me like his son knowing me a Hindu.’

-If you want Ira’s papa can engage you in his business. Don’t you know that you are a kafer in their vision, To what extent do you love them? You followed Ustad as you were ignorant of your identity. Now you are grown up.

Relationships cannot be created by blood, creed or religion. Man develops a rapport with another human being. Ustad Abajan has named him Rudra Priyadarshan. He further forbade him from reading Quran. He has accepted him as his father from those days of innocence, which cannot be rewritten.

Rudra halted there for a long time. At one point, the building was shining in the sunshine like a saffron canopy. In front of the house, the garden of Samabhal flowers, a swing in that and a big pista tree on the facade. One of their neighbours emerged and watched him scornfully. Then he slowly said, ’nearly four lakhs of people have been exuded from the valley. No one knows their whereabouts. But at dark midnight, the dead bodies of Niraj Bhatt and his wife were found. His two daughters have further vanished. You can search for them in the refugee camps in Jammu.

After some yards, Rudra’s home. Despite its smallness, it was called Durbar (court of music), where the aromatic melody from Surbahara sitar was flurrying. Now two broken walls only. It’s still staring at him with a mischievous smile. A bitch has given birth few puppies inside. It further rushed to bite him, assuming him an intruder to her private mansion.

That gentleman guided Rudra to the graveyard of Ustad Abajan. His Abajan was waiting for the last 3 decades, sleeping inside the grave for his handful of soil. He has not gone to Jannat. Kneeling down, Rudra offered two fistfuls of dust with two drops of tears. ’Go Abajan. I opened the door to Jannat after so many years.’

The white beard face of Ustad Mirza surfaced in front of his view.

The dusk was looming at the time he entered the refugee camp in Jammu. Rudra in the last search of Ira, name Irawati Bhatt, age 19 years only. No! 30 cruel winters have passed. On the sketch board of his heart, the magnificent picture of his 19-year-old beloved was hanging like a memento. Time has neither ceased to flow against the scathing attacks, horror and terrorism of fundamentalists nor by the romance of Ira and Rudra.

In the refugee encampment, so many tents were adjacent to each other. They are refugees in their country. For long 30 years, fear, hostility, protest and poverty confronted them. The

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promise evaporates like morning dew by the touch of early sun rays. From 19th January 1990, they are travellers on an endless journey.

Few women with frail health were fetching water from the bore well nearby by plastic jerkin. Rudra in alacrity searched that mehndi decorated hand with diamond studded bangles and fingers like buds of lotus. But nowhere, his eyes touch the bewitching arms. Only many lifeless labours' prominent venous hands. He asked, ’is there any lady named Irawati Bhat? Age around fifty, tall sharp face, can play the sitar.’

Their anaemic face turned toward an elderly woman covering her head with a faded scarf. Extending her legs, she was baking thick chapattis (Indian bread). Rudra despite his sincere efforts to scan her face, could not. He advanced further to ask, ’is there a lady by the name of Irawati Bhat?’

Her body shook a bit like a debased tree shakes by the first touch of the gush of the breeze of the spring, as if it could not withstand a soft jerk. The chapati was burning over the saucepan on the burning coal on an earthen chullah (burner), but she couldn’t turn it. Listening to the question of Rudra, she opened her parched mouth drawing her scarf further down, no! no one stays here by this name. I had heard,' she had died long back.’

The intonation appeared thoroughly familiar, a reincarnation of memory. He blew a few steps forward to elope but suddenly turned his head back. That lady was watching at his escaping steps with a vacant look and tearful eyes.

Ira! Rudra’s emotional outburst.

Ira escaped into the tent, ignoring his call. There was darkness inside the canvas defying the sunshine outside except for a ray of faint light. Ira’s pale and parched face was speechless. Time shall not fly 30 years back. That pencil of light was falling on Ira’s face having a melancholic smile. ’Rudra! you are pretty late. The time of possibilities is gone. The picture of beyond the horizon in my views. That world invites me daily, but couldn’t snatch my existence. I don’t know, for whom my story is waiting?’

Rudra carried Ira to a major hospital. Doctors opined that the case is highly complicated; anaemia, poor nutrition, mental distress and many other similar diseases at a hopeless stage. Old age has struck her before time. Treatment is impossible.

Squatting beside her in the hospital, Rudra said, ’do you remember Ira? when you play the sitar under the vigilance of Ustad Abajan, I couldn’t observe your face. I was only looking at your lotus bud like slender fingers dancing on cords of sitar.’

-When was I playing the sitar?

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Yes! you had an elegant bungalow, in front of your house a beautiful garden, a swing in that. I was waiting under pista plant till you escaped into your home.

-Who snatched away my aromatic past?

-You came once when Ustad Abajan was not present. That day you and me. Time shut its eyes for a few moments...., the only witness to our clandestine affair.

Ira’s voice was heard from a far distance...... Probably from another side of the horizon...."A moment passes but there is no death of memory. That remembrance is the fare for the rest of my journey."

No!...... Recollection never dies.