There you go again, Mr.President!!

by Pooja Shali

Asif Ali Zardari seems to be creating one storm after another. As if his extremely vocal appreciation of Sarah Palin’s beauty was not enough, there appeared one more explosion from the late Benazir Bhutto’s husband. The recent one, however, is more dramatic and exclusive. In an interview to Bret Stephens of The Wall Street Journal, Zardari confessed to the active presence of militant Islamic groups in J&K (according to him within the Indian occupied border). He elaborated by referring to them as ‘terrorists’ and continued to say that they are not ‘freedom fighters’ as Musharraf must have liked.

As the broadcast and print media began to flash these exclusive words, our countrymen were stunned. Coming from a Pakistani President, predecessors of whom have supported the absurd so-called freedom struggle, this was an uncanny moment.

The defence minister of Pakistan (on Times Now) expressed shock at this statement, and tried to cover up the matter stating that the president was misconstrued. So was it really a preposterous blunder by Zardari? Or the leadership of Pakistan has decided to finally withdraw its support to the ongoing terrorism in Kashmir? Or was it just another well planned political move?

The author would like to believe that it’s all three of the above. Pakistan has thought and rethought its stand on Kashmir. The upheaval that their government has supported for decades in Kashmir, which ruined a million lives, has begun to haunt them now in the global arena. While its favourite neighbour is all set to sign a nuclear deal, Pakistan is busy trying to hide its inner turmoil that has also paralysed its borders. Constant references to terrorism in India supported by the ISI, became too much of a burden for its leadership. The inability to counter such claims has also unwrapped Pakistan’s insecure present and uncertain future. Perhaps, it was obvious that Zardari came out to be an authority against terrorism in the valley as opposed to supporting it. Whether or not he meant his words, is a different game altogether.

The Pakistani government weighed too much of its integrity on Kashmir, but failed miserably to convince the world that it was a fair deal. They seemed to have realised the rickety platform on which Pakistan currently stands. Expanding space for Kashmir will only push them into murky waters. For a while it shall be a wise standpoint for Pakistan to depart from their pretentious adoration of the valley and concentrate on its inner advancement.

PPP might try to clarify his stance by distinguishing terrorism and Kashmir Liberation Movement as two separate entities, but the debacle has been witnessed. The smouldering divide between Muslim separatists and Pakistani leadership is unbolted for the world to see.

Going by the current scenario in valley where ‘Yahan chalo’ and ‘Wahan chalo’ movements are in vogue, the isolation of separatists is visible. A Frankenstein they created against non-Muslims in Kashmir has today re-emerged to attack their own side, and certainly with a more monstrous outline.

As for Zardari, if he tries to clarify his words anymore, I too shall have a small advice for him- “Mr.President, the sooner you try and understand the ideology of Pakistani leadership the better it shall be for your throne”.

Don't flush please...

A friend suggested us the Arizona hotel at the end of the lane. The moment, I and Rajat checked into a room, it suddenly dawned on me that I’ve spent few days five years back in the same hotel, and interestingly in the same room. Rajat suspiciously looked at me and with a sarcastic grin asked who was the one I spent, “my few days with”.

“My parents u jerk”!

“Acha.?! Now c’mon tell me honestly, who was it…? Which boyfriend?”

Rajat is a painter/writer and I, as you all know, a sloppy journalist. It’s been 15 months of our happy marriage.

“Arrey, don’t talk nonsense yaar. It was daddy and mummy I had come with, for a weekend”. I shrugged off any further questions and went to take out my bathrobe from the suitcase.

Suddenly a washroom flush roared in the next room, across ours. “Hmm... so at least we are not alone in this dreary quiet hotel”.

As I came out tying the knot of my bathrobe, I told Rajat that I’ve decided that we shift into another room. I do not want to think of my parents while I enjoy my time with you. He thought it did not make sense, and that we would only be wasting our time. I, as always, did not budge. The knock on our door coincided with the voice of the receptionist. Dressed in black formals, she came in to ask if we were doing fine. I told her we would like to shift into another room.

“I am sorry Ma’m but there’s no empty room at this moment”.

“Not even one”? I questioned, taking it as my failure to convince her.

Rajat seemed to be alright with it and continued with painting the sunset that looked exceptional from our window. Just to strike a conversation I asked her whether it is a family staying across our room.

“Across your room Ma’m? Aah...there’s no-one in that room.”

“No-one? But I just heard the sound of a washroom flush!”

“That’s not possible Ma’m. That room always stays empty. I do not want to scare you but will tell you a lil secret. We call it the haunted room… after an accident few months back”

My insides shook as I heard that, but remained silent and gave Rajat a frightened smirk. His fingers continued to colour the dying orange sun. The receptionist waved goodbye and reminded us of the facilities available.

I closed the door and sat by Rajat wondering why he did not reply to the haunted room story. He knows how scared I am of the ghosts!!! Though he wasn’t very glad that I disturbed him but still he looked up at me, and laughed.

“O c’mon, do you really believe her? She was just trying to keep you away from picking up your luggage and moving out to a different room. And am sure there are loads of empty rooms in this hotel and the one across ours might be empty too”.

He then pulled me to his side and kissed me on the cheek. His point seemed convincing. I decided to lie down on our bed and relax. And suddenly, the flush roared again. I shuddered thinking there is in fact a ghost staying in that room, and oh we are doomed now. Rajat heard it too and looked at me expecting the reaction of a scary cow.

I ignored him.

But after a few minutes my alarmed senses embraced a pragmatic thought.

“Hey hang on… why would the ghost be relieving himself and with so much decency to ‘flush’ his waste down the sewer? Hmm that’s really interesting…”

The journalistic streak overpowered my inborn ghost fear. I unzipped my bag and took out my video camera to check its battery.

“There is something extremely suspicious going on here. Be that as it may, ghost or no ghost, I am going to find out”.

We digested a sumptuous dinner in our room, enjoyed a few vodka shots, and then charted out our plan for tomorrow. At 5.30 the car would be ready with an escort to take us on our planned journey. All this while, my brain simultaneously created a graphic representation on how to catch hold of our neighbour convinced that no ghost stood behind that door.

The lights had dimmed in our room and I switched on my camera and set the mode on night-shooting, prepared to toil in darkness. The vodka shots had helped. Perhaps, today was meant to be the day when I would capture all my fears. Scary ghosts and their safe haven- darkness.

Meanwhile Rajat grumbled in his sleep that even on a vacation weekend his stupid wife was geared up with her camera trying to grab a story… so much torture to marry a journalist.

The door creaked open and I heard muffled footsteps head towards the corridor.
I picked up my camera and followed; prepared to unravel the concealed secret……

The Silent Scream

And then he breathed his last….

A year before he was shot dead, the child was sucking milk from the soft white breasts of his mother. The mother recited those infamous Lalded’s verses to soothe his nerves while her golden pair of athoor dangled in the air, from the upper earlobes.

The dreams for this young infant were being passionately weaved like the sweater he would have worn, if he had managed to stay alive. But alas..! Even before he understood that he was to pray with hands folded in Namaskar (and not otherwise), the guests had arrived. He, perhaps, was trying to figure out these new unfamiliar voices in the room which soon transformed into the disturbing noise of fireworks. A noise, profoundly, he heard for the last time, ever.

Terrorism in Kashmir had emerged, yet again. A second phase- more brutal, more inhuman and more prepared to kill innocents. For 23 Kashmiri Pandits, the brave struggle to survive ended that very instant. For the one (and only) young survivor- a teenager- life would never be the same again. Wandhama, an unknown village somewhere in Kashmir was suddenly into the limelight. The lifeless queue of two dozen bodies, smeared in blood marked its space in the press. But the one photograph that stood out, like no other, was of that infant. Blood oozing out of the tiny nose, and one eye damaged. The petite still body bore the enormous weight of twenty one bullets. On his sweater was a yellow coloured clown jumping in happiness, I wonder why?

Unlike others, these courageous families in Wandhama had decided to stake their precious lives for their treasured homes. They, however, lost both. After they were murdered in cold blood the homes of these Pandits were set ablaze by the gunmen. The sacred temple was not spared either. Indian Express quoted the remarks of the young survivor-" …all I saw were bodies lying scattered everywhere... my mother, my sisters, relatives... all dead…I saw the other three houses burning, a temple near our home was also in flames..."

Take into account the neighbourhood u grew in, and the sacred place u worshipped at. Reminisce of those friends and siblings you played with, in your childhood. Now try to imagine the flames you might have to light for their pyre and the flames you would extinguish of your burning home. It was more brutal than that.

Recently commissions were set up to probe into the killings of innocent Muslims by the Indian army in Kashmir, movies are made on the brutal use of AFSPA, politicians/ NGOs are always eloquent about Human Rights Violations of the population that currently resides in the valley. But strangely and interestingly, no intellectual of a high authority ever stood up in support of the initial victims- the Kashmiri Pandits.

As was done to the thousands of cases concerning Kashmiri Hindus, the Wandhama Massacre too was paid a tribute- the case was shut down. I do not know where and in what health is the lone survivor- Vinod Kumar Dhar. However, I am certain that he is a survivor in the real sense of the word. The memory of the affectionate mother, who unknowingly served hot simmering kehwa to her killers, is unforgettable. The rare valour of these few families unfortunately proved to be fatal for their own lives, but it was the worst possible blow to a community that was already at the brink of extinction.

The readers would have loved to read as to who killed these innocent souls. Were they criminals, communalists? I apologise but I was not able to pursue a conclusion to these words. I have absolutely no idea as to what name must I render to those who kill innocents on the basis of religion. Others might call them terrorists or warriors of God but in my dictionary… they have no name.

Like a thief, I silently walked behind him fretfully watching his every move. As he crossed the by lanes of the city, I kept up my pace so as not to lose sight of him. I knew he took long steps to walk. I had, after all, walked miles with him- in dreams and in reality. The maroon shirt that he wore today, while he briskly rushed past everyone, was a gift from me to him on our first anniversary. The bag that hung on his left shoulder was the one I had forced him to buy for himself, when we were out on our vacation to Sikkim. As I was half asleep this morning, I had seen him pack the same bag; and I made up my mind to follow him.

Today I was breathlessly running to spy on the man who had, a few years back, taken my breath away. That day he had knelt down on his knees; with a ring pressed between his fingers and a chivalrous grin between the lips. I had scolded him for proposing to me with such an obsolete European style, which totally turned me off…. Then, how he had pampered me for innumerable days before my mood turned normal, and we walked down the altar.

He loved me like none else had. He would understand what my thoughts were, even before they came slipping out of my mouth. The first time we were about to kiss, I tried to shiver and shy away (in true filmy style) but by then we had grown so comfortable with each other, that the lips united without any slow motion. It turned out to be the most boring kiss, without any stories to remember..!

But the years following that kiss were remarkable. It was as if, the dreams were coming true and heaven had finally bestowed some blessings on my roof. We were the best of friends, who shared each moment like a celebration. True soul mates that fought like devils when a solution didn’t seem to flourish. We made love, like same.

But something had gone wrong for the past few weeks. Each moment became an individual celebration and there was hardly anyone to fight… or laugh with. I tried to reason out with him. It seemed alright for a day or two. But the following weeks I found myself alone at ‘the home’, which we had built together.

Was he angry... for so many weeks? Couldn’t be. Was there a new woman? I asked him; but his ‘no’ was as clear as my question. Then what was taking away my once ‘European styled knight’ into a loner?

This morning as I turned to the other side of the bed; he got dressed up, picked up the Sikkim bag, gave me one last look (I know he must have, even though my back faced him), called up someone and in a soft whisper said, “ I am coming..”, and walked out. Without acknowledging anything else, I wore my pair of chappals (may be it was his) and followed him. It seemed he was determined to reach some destination soon. Not batting an eyelid for any soul on the road, he just kept walking.

The shopkeepers were opening the shutters and it felt like the façade of our relationship was opening up…with a jerk...step by step. Both of us were walking, I behind him, like when we had walked around the fire. Sometimes he slowed down, and often he walked as if he had to, had to win this time. I walked accordingly, wondering hard where he is heading to.

And then…suddenly… he stopped. I was startled. “Should I hide myself behind the chai shop”? I thought. “But why should I…I have not done anything wrong...!!” Decisively, I kept my feet intact with the ground. He turned, and looked at me. The blood red eyes pierced through every bone of my body. I do not know, if that was anger on following him through the lanes, or was it his tiredness on swinging past so many lanes just to fool me, or were they tears just about to flow down his cheeks.

But I knew one thing for sure; it was to tell me to stop walking behind him. Strangely, I did. I stood there on the cement road, and saw him disappear into the crowd. I stood there, dumbfounded, for almost five minutes. It was when Khan Chacha came and asked what was wrong that I moved and headed back to “our home”. I took a bath, and left for office. There was no time for tears.

...it has been a week now that I wrote this in my diary. He rang me up today evening and wanted to come over to take the rest of his stuff. He’ll come over at 10 pm tomorrow.

Should I ask him why did he leave?