The Incarnate of Subservience

I was nineteen when I crossed over to the other side of the border, and I still remember how difficult it had been. It was a treacherous expedition through the mighty Pir Panjal mountains, decorated with crusts of snows, the enormous walnut trees stood gazing silently, unperturbed by the new visitors. They had seen it often, they had seen it all, for they knew of the men who had walked past them before. The weather was inclement, this bitter chill of Kashmir - a curse for most Kashmiris and an experience to look forward to for most Indians during their sweltering summers.

It was early October and Kashmir was already cold... cold enough that some naive tourists had begun flocking to Gulmarg, and to Pahalgam, in hope of snow, which surely wasn't coming until late November. I would have told them about this place, this narrow alley through sliding land, where a date with death was as simple as a misconstrued step, the deep down gorge, with all its history, and all its mysteries, waiting to assimilate one into a deep slumber. But I was not a tourist. I was...OK let me tell you the names that have been given to our clan over the years - Terrorists, Infiltrators; Mercenaries, Militants and so on...You might ask - where was I headed to?...In a training camp on the other side of the border where those who train us speak Punjabi and those who abuse us are Afghanis. So far so good?...I see that you have already formed a perception, and before you draw any conclusions, allow me to tell you about my journey...

Unfortunately, my father had married early in life, not because his beak demanded it of him, but it was the norm in those days. As soon as the elders saw trifle hair on a young boy's face, the die was cast and it was time to tie him with someone who would prevent him from becoming a hounding dog. But what surely wasn't the norm was producing seven daughters, one after another, with a consistency which would have put Zaheer Abass' career record to shame. The thought of marrying off all seven of them would have made a man go sick in his head, but my father, with the enormous trust he had on Allah, decided to give it one last shot. He was searching for that all-elusive male child who would grow up to do big things, like ploughing lands all through the day or allying himself to the subservience of a powerful landlord, who someday will be so pleased with his dedication that he will take out his sparkling gold chain and say, "Hey, here you take it...Go, marry off all your seven sisters" - like a mythological king on Doordarshan does on hearing that he has fathered his eleventh son. (who later goes on to kill all his ten brothers and puts his father behind the bars to die) My birth was celebrated with aplomb and fervor, with twenty-two or so cuisines of goat meat on display (we call it waazwan), but all those who had a sumptuous meal that day had no idea that my father had taken an advance from his master, the powerful and stoic Haji Abdul Hamid.

You know when you are welcomed in the world like this, there is a lot of expectation from you...So, the first thing that you do when you turn sixteen in this part or rather any part of India is to seek an employment. I am told many in Europe get a license to drink at this age, but we in the sub-continent don't need a license to work...Every year thousands of children, in a desperate move to come out of their abject poverty throng to big cities - working in the coal mines, at that cramped-for-space cracker factory, and at the visible of all places - the roadside 'dhabas', where elders fondly or rather languidly call them 'chotu'... Therefore, a couple of months after I turned sixteen, I found employment or rather was forced to find it at M/S Jannat Electricians, working in the shop of Ahmed Dar - fixing radios and watches, but may be, like every 'optimistic loser' proclaims, I was not made to do such petty tasks. No watch that I repaired ever kept time. I applied for the post of a peon at the local school, but as is the case with most government establishments, the doors only opened for only those who had the means to bribe their way in. Irrespective of my jovial personality, I have to admit that it was a time of frustration and guilt, for I was a sixteen-year old, whose father saluted every car that drove in, a chore of his position as a gatekeeper of the imposing mansion of the Haji Abdul Hamid, whose sons after completing their Masters in England had become the laughing-stock of the village because of their weird accents, something that you get when you spend the first two decades of your life speaking nothing but Kashmiri, and the next five hearing nothing but English.

Frankly speaking, this phase of poverty and misery was one of the most difficult phases for me. Like all of you youngsters in big cities like Delhi and Mumbai, I too had aspirations, I too wanted to make it big in life. But given the lack of education and opportunities, this seemed like a dream, a distant dream... During this period, numerous thoughts occurred to me, for I had plenty of time. Sometimes I would think of running far away, to unknown lands, where nobody would know that I was a failure, a liability on my family...

Well, being unemployed is not a good phase to go through. I am told of the Great Depression of 1921, when Americans plummeted to poverty because there were no jobs, and many had to wait hours in a queue outside a soup kitchen to get the much desired loaf of bread. But, being really honest, and without an ounce of snobbery, I would like you to appreciate the fact that nobody dies of hunger in Kashmir...Nobody stands in front of a soup-kitchen (well, there are no soup-kitchens to be found in Kashmir, and any mention of it may lead to discussions on the benefits of having soup in supper). Doesn't matter how poor you are, you will still own a piece of land somewhere which when perspired upon reaps you rice and wheat...and most Kashmiris do without a portico, instead they have a garden, (vaer as we call it in Kashmiri) on each side of which you can see vegetable plantations. This ensures that Kashmiris don't go without food in circumstances my family found itself in now.

A lot changed in 1989, when democracy became a cussword in Kashmir, and any mention of it at the Republic day President's address evoked a collective brouhaha of hisses and boos (by the way, I want to ask my fellow Kashmiris, why on earth would you wake up at 7 in the morning and listen to every word that's being said when you hate a country more than you hate your mother-in-law...my uncle explained to me later that the person who heard it from the horse's mouth and could foresee the context of things vis-a-vis Kashmir would get the luxury of sitting on an elevated seat during the joint hookah sessions). I am not a politician, but for me, 1989 was the year when the muted angst in the hearts was allowed to galvanize into an armed uprising - aided by a rigged election a couple of years ago and the show of solidarity from the country bordering Kashmir.

The only way of getting aazadi was by shedding blood, didn't matter whose - your enemy's, the confidant's, or your own. The passion in the valley raised to such heights that a dinner was hosted for anyone joining a militant group or returning home after completing his training - something Kashmiris usually reserved for their son-in-laws. Most teenagers who I grew up with, joined the rebellion after being ideologically 'inspired' by the clerics and religious heads with a promise that it was a noble cause, a fight against the unholy, a fight for justice.

Honestly, it is not a nice feeling that you get when you see a guy who spent his summers umpiring cricket matches because nobody wanted him in the team, being bestowed with so much love and respect, because one fine day he decides enough is enough, walks a few miles to the border, and comes back with an AK-47 in his hand - and a resolve so strong that can make him kill anyone, even if it was his own mother, if they came in between him and his jehad. The guy you thought was a loser, now talking to village-heads with a demeanor as if negotiating the cost of aqcuiring their entire lands with their daughters thrown in as a goodwill, gives you a kind of envy that no self-help book can relieve. And then, you realize that everyone is joining one militant group or the other, leaving you the only one out who would still run pillar-to-post for getting a job which will also involve wiping spit off a babu's shoes, while your mujahid friends get the power to scare the shit out of that very same babu.

One day sitting beneath an apple tree, I felt like someone who was just about to miss the last bus home. I wished I had expressed my desire to become 'one of them'. Bolstered by the feeling that I could still make it, I walked down to the home of Aadil Bhat, the 'acting recruiter' of our village. I told him how I had found the devout soul inside me, how I was feeling ashamed of chickening out of this noble cause. "This life", I told him, "Was bestowed upon us by the Almighty, we did not create it, so we had no moral right to shy away from sacrificing it for him. I am so sorry my brother, I became so selfish, my mind was corrupted by the materialistic pleasures this world has to offer, but I forgot that all this is unreal, temporary, diminutive, and this noble cause is the only way to make some good use of one's life. My brother, give me an opportunity to join you guys in this struggle. I cannot be a mute spectator to the atrocities that are being committed on us. I will lay down my life fighting for the cause." How did I say all this, I really do not know but it was good enough to convince Aadil that good sense had prevailed on me, and without hesitating he opened his arms, saying "I am proud of you, we all are so proud of you. We welcome you with open arms."

There was a code of conduct that we all had to adhere to, which included not discussing when and how we all were going to cross over, for there were many informers in Kashmir who were on the payroll of government agencies. The gag included one's family as well, as they could be tortured to retrieve our whereabouts. So, at home, I behaved normally, diminishing any scope of suspicion. I was happy for the fact that soon my father would have a new identity. The world had only known him as Haji Abdul Hamid's gatekeeper, now, he would be the father of a Mujahid, a cult figure in war-torn Kashmir. My mother would no longer need to try amulets and philters to woo young men to marry her aging daughters. Many would gleefully accept them as their daughter-in-laws because of who their brother was and what a great sacrifice he had made for the cause... My heart was filled with great satisfaction, I was at peace with myself...My heart told me what I always believed, I was not made to do petty tasks...After seven girls, a boy was not born without any reason...My father had desired big things of me, and yes, finally, after years of wilderness, I was taking a step in that direction. I was going to become an outlaw, I was going to command respect, and I was going to have tea with Haji Abdul Hamid and his anglicized sons, and it was going to be 'me' sitting on that elevated surface during the joint hookah sessions. Despite being a gatekeeper's son, I was going to have the power to open any gate that came my way, either out of respect or fear - whichever was more feasible. I was going to make it big in life, and nobody could stop me now, especially, when I had an AK-47 mounted on my shoulder, and the resolve of a man who would kill anyone who came in between him and greatness, even if it was his own......