Kashmir, 2030

“We will get it,today or tomorrow. Azadi is our birthright and we shall have it.”

These lines are engraved on a wall of Sariya’s school. She remembers her mother talking about the graffiti on the walls of her school, which would read:“Enter to learn, leave to serve.”

It is winter in Azadpur and people mostly stay indoors. Icy winds are sending chills everywhere. Snow is drizzling in a rush. Bukharis and Hamams are actively ablazed. Schools are closed down for a vacation. But times are different now. Children no more take tuitions. They do all the prescribed homework themselves. Parents also don’t bother to help them. Kashmir’s future has learned to stay self-dependent,self-sufficient.

Sariya and Sayir are the children of the famous household of Kashmir—Camariya. They are both primary school graders.

Sariya begins to work on her assignments early unlike her brother who is always lost counting the mortality rate in Azadpur.

“You should do this assignment at the outset of vacations,” Sariya suggests to her brother, who is still counting.“You never know, the figures may increase by then.”

Sariya looks back into her syllabus and takes out her English poetry book, titled The fear of Separation. She randomly flips pages, but stops at page no. 15to read a poem:Come now—or, come in a moment / but do come /Let thou worship thy God back home only /I will ask for forgiveness on thy behalf /But let’s make a Masjid back home only…

She takes out her notebook and pencil to paraphrase it:

“The poet in these lines is trying to be the voice of a mother who is awaiting her son for long. She pleads her son to make home a place for worship. She asks him not to go out for fear of getting disappeared. Moreover, she takes the responsibility to ask forgiveness from God for not letting her son go out to Masjid for prayers.”

Sariya flips to another page and reads the next couplet:I won’t let you go in to the dark /Nor you would see the daylight / Let my embrace be your world / And my heart your Universe…

Thus, begins another paraphrasing:“The poet in these lines is showing the resistance of a mother who is not letting her son to go out. She wants him to be home, always. To compensate with his worldly pleasures, she tells him to consider her embrace as his world and her heart, his universe.”

Before she can read further, her mother calls her up for another round of morning tea. Sayir is asked to spread Dastarkhawn in Hamam—the task, which finally makes him stop counting the mortality rate. He gets up and does as told, albeit with a heavy heart.

Sariya brings hot thermo flask, bread, butter and cups on the Dastarkhawn. All of them sit down and say some verses from the Holy Quran before touching the cups. Amid sips of tea, their father begins his customary inspection of their assignments.

Sariya speaks first.

“Dad,” she says enthusiastically,“I started my day with English poetry. I am almost done paraphrasing two pages.”

“That’s like my girl.And, what about you, Mr. Calculator?” the father asks his son still lost in the count.

“Dad, I was doing my mortality rate assignment—but Sariya suggested me to do it in the end, reasoning of possible escalation in the figures by the time they will announce our vacations.”

“OK! But make sure to narrate me the Burhan Chapter from the book Legend.”

“Sure, Dad!”Sayir replies with a big smile on his face.

Burhan has always been a confusing character in Sayir’s life. His parents have two different narratives about him. His mother says: “They say people are born alone and they die alone too—and then, life goes on. But Burhan didn’t die alone. Hundreds died with him. Thousands were left lifeless.They are surviving but not living anymore. I respect his martyrdom, but then not everybody does.”

But their Dad has a different perspective—especially when it comes to killing and oppression in Valley:“Resistance in Kashmir is a matter of flashing and flickering. Burhan could just spark it. People didn’t die for him, they died for the cause. We have a context and that is to secede from an occupation. Burhan was martyred and the following martyrdoms were situational. Your mother tries to be subjective in these matters and I cannot stop contextualizing situations.”

Grooming in such a family setup is maturing the siblings beyond their years. But then, they aren’t the only politically-matured kids in Azadpur. There are countless like them. And all of them have a different idea of fun.

Lately when snow carpets the entire valley white, these kids come out in droves to reenact that vintage street act. Some choose to be cops, while most of them, masked protesters. For the day, snow becomes a cold weapon in their tiny hands. But that rage—that set Azadpur free from the idea of death since long—remains quite real in display. Even chilliakalan’s bone-numbing cold can’t ice up their ignited passion for liberation.

Such are Azadpur’s children.

About the Author

Saima Rashid is a student of journalism and former reporter at Kashmir Life.

The post Azadpur’s Children by Saima Rashid first appeared on Prachya Review.

Dear Omar: I forgot to tell you, I got a friend request on facebook one day. I accepted since I was an infant facebook user. You hunger for friend requests in the beginning. Anyway, when I confirmed it, his first message was, “Why the hell is Omar Abdullah in your ‘political ideology’. I swear, I defended you for a complete year. But then, I could only see you dying your hair white to fool us. I left your fan club because you were doing nothing in the name of good governance. By the way, why do you look like Rahul Gandhi? Is he your brother? But then he cannot compete with your looks. Where do you shop? I can see you have nice taste in clothes. Meanwhile, does your Dad know about that video? Trust me; I was expecting him to become a victim of a public beating. But then, you people aren’t in the media as much nowadays. Oh, I forgot to ask you, do you use that twitter account yourself? How come you have that much time? I will suggest you to hire you someone.  Come on man, you are losing your credibility. People might think, I don’t like you. Why should I let them? Your photo was my profile pic for two years. I would only upload your pics.

People have some questions for you, since you don’t meet the commons except when you are out of people’s mind. Anyway, let me start –

Dear Omar and all others like him, who may or may not be handsome:

When people vote for you and consider your propaganda as your promises, do you later feel a bit of guilt in deceiving them?

When children and adults alike fall prey to the bullets of our “security personnels”, does any part of you mourn?

When young fellows attempt suicide due to unemployment, do you take a pledge to stop them from doing it? Do you think of employing them?

When women like of Kunan Poshpora are raped all night, kept at gunpoint, naked, and they can do nothing but stand there helpless, doesn’t your body tremble. Doesn’t your inner conscience want to chop the hands off those bloody rapists? They could be anyone. Tell me do you have a heart?

Your children are born to live a life of luxury. Don’t we have the same rights? Can’t you contribute a part of it towards us?

Most importantly, do you think of your own mortality when you are asked about everything?

Omar, don’t worry, you are still in my favorites. But I am sorry; I can’t save you from the prayers of those mothers who lost their children. I am sorry. You have earned it for yourself.

Oops. Sorry. I was supposed to explain cognitive illusion to you. It occurs when you relate objects with other information stored in your mind.  Omar is a hot topic here; let’s use him to make you explain it. He plays lots of black and white games with his hair. But my mom would always sympathize with his white hair season. “Oh God, see girl, Omar’s hair has turned white due to stress. He cares so much for Kashmir. And still people curse him. Guess my response: “Mom, hair dyes are available in market abundantly and Omar can at least afford that. What I mean is we relate white hair to stress, which is nothing but an illusion.

So my dear ‘close friends’, ‘friends’,  ‘friends of friends’ and ‘public’, smiling lips are not always happy. ‘I am okay’, doesn’t mean I am literally okay. Come out of that virtual world and virtual emotions, we are humans. Your eyes tell everything. I ask you to look less at lips and more in the eyes. Excuse me! I am trying to be filmy enough “Ankhein kabi dokha nai de sakti”. You know that cliché dialogue of Hindi actors,  “Meri ankhu mai dekho aur kaho tumhe mujpe ab b yakeen nahi hai”. God, give me a break.

To all the diehard fans of Bollywood, Hollywood, Nollywood, but not Lollywood, they at least show some sense in their content. An actor was once asked, “When will the cinema industry close?”, and do you know what. He replied, “When people understand our process. To my delight, they never will.” So for now all the ‘woods have a long life.

An aspiring writer, Saima Rashid is graduated from a City College in Srinagar and can be reached at wanisam058@gmail.com

The post Dear Omar by Saima Rashid first appeared on Prachya Review.

They call our homeland a beast of beauty. It is somebody’s obsession and other’s desperation. Amid the claims and counter claims, they have reduced natives into a laughing stock.

They think, they are tritons among the minnows. But there is something, they must know: Boston Tea Party is truism even today!

In the heart of their hearts, they think: Kashmiris deserve their dungeon. And then, they call us one among them. Their method has, indeed, lost all madness.

Once inside mountains; souls from the nations ballooned in billions use choicest adjectives to describe what they call “heaven on earth”. By the way, folks, shall I ask something straight from the horse’s mouth? It is something, which is really making me feel a bit schizophrenic! Shall, I? OK, let me ask: make it a dreadful garrison of the world by stationing over 700000 troops here and then—OMG! They still call it heaven. “Hell with it,” this is how my peers sum up their perception.

And then heed to their farce: you should better salute the rising sun. This assertion invigorates a bygone blow. You know, they thought: Titanic was not made to drown. But then, when that iceberg hit it, it sank all dreams and perished all egos.

So, what is the point to quote history? You may ask, right? Alright, hear this out: they have a saffron harbinger as their messiah now. He talks loud like that Italian fascist, who is now an obscure figure of history. Nature suggests: what rises, has to set. So stop coercing these bigot logic.

And yes, such a great respect they have for us—that they make every effort to cut our feathers, tear us apart and mow us down. Only a fortnight back, my philosopher friend had his nightmare under Delhi’s scorched sun. He got his burns when some of his fanatics in the skin of friends jabbed him hard on his belly for recounting India’s ‘noble mission’ in Kashmir. That fellow—since then, is feeling sick of all dialogues.

Well, I told the poor fellow: “Look, through whispers they engaged our moderates and then, exposed them in public for talking to them. Shrug off, mate. Habitual offenders can’t be labeled as true patrons.”

But yes, it is no nice feeling when your dear one faces their music. As a matter of fact, they have always used their music to bridge the gap! Last time when my cousin heard mad verses and tunes of that Punjabi rapper, yo yo Honey Singh, she quipped: “His toxic tunes are discrediting honey, my dear. What disgrace, gawaya!” I didn’t know how to respond. I said what I often say on such occasions, “whatever!”

Anyway, on page number 235 of their holy law book, it is written, “It is their right to fiddle with life.”

About the Author

An aspiring writer, Saima Rashid is studying Journalism from a City College in Srinagar and can be reached at wanisam058@gmail.com

The post Renaissance Has Begun by Saima Rashid first appeared on Prachya Review.