Wandering Shadow

DEATH IN SPRING

2012-01-21T13:46:00.000-08:00

Aditya Raj Kaul

Home had been a withered dream. It was a distant memory which had brought convulsions of pain along. Yet fragments of the memory remained stitched to wander in the sphere of chaos. There was a wish a writer had once. It was the longing to die.

And today Chandanwadi was in an unnerving calm atmosphere. The sky was clear even though the air was gloomy. For once it wasn’t the sandalwood fragrance but the sea of humanity converged to fare final adieu to the man of his words. The man, who had attempted to stand on raging fire without any mark of pain, was draped in white.

It was autumn. Crumbled dry leaves made screeching sound. Marine Lines was in a curfew like state. Traffic was replaced by mourning crowd; thousands of men and women walking alongside the railway tracks. The sea on the other side was still, in melancholy. It was too silent for a sea.

It was an end of an unannounced journey. It was an end to an effortless flight in the vast skyline of desire. There was deafening silence which remained. Silence was where it all began, once.

And for yet another hour he stared in silence towards his laptop in search of words as his mind transferred into thoughts. The story was vivid in his mind, frame after frame, concise. Only the words played hide and seek with his imagination. For a journalist worth his caliber, it wasn’t a mammoth task to link characters and their quotes with the idea of the subject. To ink a remarkable, memorable story was an art worth his salt. He carved heartening stories with magical words out of nowhere it seemed. But, this wasn’t a normal 500 word byline. By any means it was no ordinary story on his desk. The tale of his longing would be narrated in no simple words. Every word had to travel a two decade long silence in search of hope.

Samsar was under an ocean load worth of thoughts. He was a wandering shadow searching for a lost identity. His 23 winters had been spent in intense thought about his misplaced existence in an unknown land among people from different castes, regions. He was in a metropolis with varied cultural identities. Often he fumbled to question the very essence of his role here. In a rebellious zeal always, he lamented being part of a civilization of confusion. At the end, perhaps always, he stood against the tide, silent and neglected by the pace of the world inching towards a dream. And today he logged on his desk the memory which he would carry every passing minute as a burden of his ancestors; the memory, which had to be narrated before meeting a dead end in history. It was a threshold to a new journey of faith.

The amber light of dusk had withdrawn Samsar from the worldly pleasures around the city on a regular Friday night. While his friends took over the discotheques and pubs in town, he would sit silent recollecting past anecdotes. In anxious gulps of breath, he stood, and surrendering, shut the laptop, ran towards the door. He paced in the boxed elevator, which had a toy sound in its background, all the way to the ground floor to catch an auto rickshaw to the Andheri station. As light trails of passing vehicles reflected in his eyes, Samsar thought of another journey he had undertaken, possibly, the very first in his life. The journey, was etched as a story forever within him, since the time he heard it in complete from his mother.

In this hour of dusk, time was crawling at a slow pace, passing through the ever crowded narrow passage with shops on both sides to enter the station, Samsar held his chocolate brown bag tight to make way safe through sea of humanity. He was used to the Mumbai way of life, running around with bags held in front over the shoulders only to manage a comfortable entry into the congested local trains. It had been six long months in this city of dreams. The monsoons were the worst time of the year to be here. Not just because of the scale of rainfall in this city living over a sea but because Samsar avoided using an umbrella. It wasn’t his usual lazy style that was the hurdle. He was in love with the transparent German raincoat that his mother was gifted by her pen friend from Munich. It was a 20-year-old raincoat which almost never came handy in plains of the north where rainfall wasn’t as harsh. “Or, was it 23 year old?” he wondered. Memory faded as Samsar climbed the stairs to reach platform five of one of the busiest suburban stations, boarding the Churchgate fast local train to Bandra.

Within minutes Ville Parle passed and soon came Santacruz with an Air India flight taking off right above the train at shooting speed. After Khar Road, the train made a screeching halt at Bandra. Samsar spent these fifteen minutes standing at the door of his first class bogie holding the pole for support as the evening breeze cuffed his face. The calm chill, that the waves brought reminded him of his mother, who used to pamper him right up till his late teen years. Both mother and son often used to travel to explore new destinations, across the country. While the mother loved the unique historical and cultural insight to a region new to them, the son indulged in photography and often engaged in friendly conversations with inhabitants. He had a genteel way with people, of striking a chord even in an alien environment. Though often huddled and sporting a serious look, Samsar had a humorous side. It took his friends longer than usual to understand him. It was difficult to decipher his mind.

His mind was filled with an emotional conflict with which he grappled alone. Any interference from others wasn’t welcome, although he was never rude to curious acquaintances trying to partake the responsibility of conflict resolution through psychological mediation. He was polite in his gesture to show them the door.

For years there was an image he encountered in dreams. An old nailed blue door with its handle locked. A bottle green cloth hung from its top corner, partially visible to his eye. The door must have existed forever with a rusted metallic sheet covering it from left bottom. Nothing existed beyond this door. It was an image that haunted him since childhood.

Most of his early years were spent in haste; there weren’t any happy memories. Samsar was ten-months-old when his longest journey began. A journey which only his mother recounted well. The very first and the longest journey which began with no end, no destination. Just like a migratory bird travels in the sky, he undertook this journey in utter chaos. Not for food or shelter. For hope and safety across a long tunnel. Jawahar tunnel.

It was 19^th January, 1990. A wintery haze had set in. Dal Lake was frozen, so were the shaken bodies of those hundreds of frightened pigeons who were to embark on a journey. And there crawled Samsar in the courtyard of his home on the banks of Dal Lake. It was an island like formation on the river bed with houses scattered around. Rainawari, a unique mixture of a town and a village was often called the Venice of the east by European travellers. It was situated amidst the most beautiful environs overseeing the Himalayas on one side and the magnificent Dal on the other.

It had been little more than nine months since Samar was born. His mother, still completing her PhD in history for the University, had to manage her infant and research at the same time. For the lady worth her salt, it wasn’t a challenging burden to shoulder such a responsibility. She could handle Samsar well as he was unusually quiet child from the very beginning, but curious.

Things didn’t move steadily for many days. It was that fateful winter night when the loud speakers uttered raucous warnings against them to leave. The warning became more unbearable than the terrible winter chill in the valley. It had been pouring snow all night. Old houses with white flakes covering their slanting roofs stood silent witness to these gory voices. The electricity went off early that night, unexpected. Sometime late into the night gun shots rang in the air. Someone on the street corner had been screaming “Thathye saeb ha morukh mandras nish” (Thathye, elderly person, was killed near the local temple), until his family members pulled him inside holding his mouth in silence. The eerie calm surrounded the valley of sorrow at night.

It was the longest night of trauma as death marched to and fro in the darkness. All through the rendezvous with death, these souls waited for the first morning rays to escape fate. Even the animals could be heard sulking on the street. That night humanity didn’t get enough sleep.

As birds braved their way into the morning, people emerged to flee from the reign of fear. Houses were locked in the hope to return when the situation improved over the next few days. Samsar was huddled into a white cloth by his mother and covered by woolens. His mother packed few bags to carry necessary clothing, utensils and some cash along with some age-old photographs and rare paintings that were close to her heart. Never would she have imagined that these photographs would become relics in the years to come.

Majid, a friendly milkman in Rainawari who owned an auto rickshaw helped some families escape their way with light luggage to Lalchowk. He had already made almost six rounds from Rainawari to the bus stand at Lalchowk. At the cost of suspicion by local area commanders of terror outfits, Majid made a brave attempt to rescue families risking his own life.

“Welyiv jaldi, bus hay aasyi weny nernas tayaar” (Please come fast, the bus would be ready to leave), he screamed from the porch outside her house. It was a vast compound overlooking a giant tree that was worshipped as a deity.

Holding Samsar the white bundle that was, she raced to sit inside the auto rickshaw after locking the main door. She stopped mid-way and ran towards the tree which wasn’t far off. Bowing her hands in prayer with tears in her eyes, she took the basme tyok (ash formed by burning the holy lamp) slowly pasting it on Samsar’s forehead. Samsar stared into her eyes silently. Holding back her tears, his mother boarded the auto rickshaw to Lalchowk. And the journey began...

***

The fear of turning old had been recurring all through these last few months. Not that the grey hair would bother his ego, not even the flab of dry whitish-brown skin protruding out from calcium-less bones. Samsar wasn’t too conscious of his looks or even the ever growing beard lately. Most of his life had been without any particular fear.

As he was driving away in the dark to seek solitude, the fear grew stronger. It brought quick sweat on his face and the deep forehead, added along was a rattling effect on his nerves. His right foot pressed hard against the accelerator on this empty city road far away from the city of his thoughts. The racing heart was faster than the car. “I wish to stop and run away to my home”, he thought. Though he knew he couldn’t.

“There seems no end to this journey. The farther I travel, the more I seek to return. The time dissolves into memory. In this thorny path ahead of me, I see an identity-less non-stop journey into darkness. The journey itself begins in darkness of hope. An ironic life of a wandering soul”, he scribbled on his brown notepad.

“Most nights are spent in the ‘white and black’ of the unseen past. Past being a predicament as much as the future”, he continued to write. Samsar had a poetic touch to his intricate prose writing.

“I stare at the photograph of a rare sparrow sitting on the gate of a mausoleum with her back turned towards me; on the front is a ‘hazy green’. One of the many photographs pasted above my work desk. The haziness of this forced journey is unpredictable. In this concrete jungle, I do not long for another machine. All I yell for is my lost abode,” he concluded.

The past nostalgia was still churning itself inside him; and the hope for future burning all around.

Was it the fear of turning old? Or, perhaps of being a homeless man, which was an ordeal haunting him since years together.

“No matter how much the fear grapples within my silent heart. It’s too late now; for the journey has been halted”, he had noted on the last page of his diary.

Samsar once crept on the walkway talking in doddering tone to his own self, “Just as the withered dislocated leaf of ‘Chinar’ which narrates the agony in its fire brown tint before being crumbled, the fear in me shall pass. The silent journey alone to my home shall never end. I shall remain young forever to recount the ‘untold story’ of a forgotten tribe. The tribe that existed in their homeland, not so far long ago”, he mumbled.

“Freedom is a prison for I am not at home. I remain confined in that prison lark”, he once told Tarangini, staring into her eyes sitting at Marine Drive way past midnight.

Tarangini, who was a well-known journalist with a popular news channel, would hear his anguish patiently. His words would echo in her dream.

Samar had a strange way with words. He loved his hearth as much he loved Tarangini.

Tarangini had met him over half a decade ago on a walkway in New Delhi. It was not as silent as Marine Drive. At that time it was a sweltering June summer at Jantar Mantar, the protest junction of the country where an entire sea of humanity would converge to sing through their tears on tragedy and travesty of justice.

It was a late afternoon. Samsar in his late teens at that time was more of a crusader of justice who worked as a cub reporter. He was the focus of attention for uniting masses to protest against the police for botching up a brutal case of rape and murder. While journalists jostled for space to grab him by his arm for a quick sound-byte, his eyes fixated on a figure at a distance. The figure, restless, holding a placard in hand led the protest as a passing storm. Samsar couldn’t gather strength to look into the eyes of the figure, as he was too steady for the storm to catch pace. It was an extraordinary moment for the teenager. For a moment, he stood unaware about the cause that had led him to this place. It was a Bollywood story; love at first sight.

As loud music reverberated around Samsar stared at the figure without a breathing break. In darkness, the crowd mingled, limbs moved in all directions uncontrollably while he stood there with his hand in the denim jeans pocket and eyes still fixed in the direction of the creation, “the one created for him, perhaps”, he thought.

In the motionless stance among mechanical bodies, his mind didn’t flicker an inch. The loveless figure sat at a distance with uncomforted eyes but smile glued on the melancholy filled face; the perfect smile of a disappeared love regaining consciousness slowly.

Their path in-between still crammed by souls in tempo didn’t let them move, or was it the velocity of pain shared by them?

As a couple of years passed in their relationship, Samsar traveling through the mountains in a distant land on work assignment wrote in his diary, “Love doesn’t fade away. It griddles fine and tosses well. And, then it returns with a thud for good. Because love isn’t a relationship, it’s madness. The madness is of patience and heart-aches. It’s a revolution shaping up each day, tangled with missiles landing everywhere. The missiles are in a confused state of consciousness. It’s a state of longing for the beloved with abated heartbeats. Love doesn’t end anywhere, it only grows till eternity”.

The short span of separation from Tarangini had left him sleepless. He was restless in love. While the nights passed sleepless, during the winter days Samsar walked around the hills amidst natural green environs away from the clatter of the city.

“Your absence is a deep wound in my silent heart. It doesn’t heal. In solitary moments, it pains till I fall asleep. And find you smiling in a sweet dream”, he wrote in his diary.

Love was her innocence and his commitment; her sweetness and his gentleness; her talking, him listening. Love was her sunshine and his moonlight.

Tarangini returning from office often stayed back with Samsar in his room at Carter Road overlooking the magnificent sea. They would talk endlessly into the night. Their stagnant bodies would meet in silence making love. Devoid of the pain they would part.

Their love wasn’t a secret anymore. It wasn’t the paparazzi filling the air with rumors but their families came to know of the secret affair. They had begun coercing both to tie the knot. It was a matter of few days.

Early evening on a Sunday, Samsar left his room to meet Tarangini at Kayani Bakery. It had been a usual day with bright sky. He took the local train at Bandra to Churchgate. On way he decided to get off a station before Churchgate at Marine lines and began walking towards Kayani. Thoughts mingled inside his mind in a joyous overtone as he thought of making love the previous night with Tarangini.

It became sultry as he walked in pace. At the Metro Cinema he halted for the traffic to stop to cross the road. He had a habit of avoiding the subway which meant climbing up and down the stairs. Escalators were still restricted to the upscale malls. He thought of taking the subway but since the traffic signal turned green he brushed away the thought. He continued walking.

Jarring sound suddenly left the road ahead of Metro Cinema in thick black smoke. Passing vehicles flew in air as wailing sound filled the area. Minutes later emergency sirens took to the street.

Samsar died. The chains of longing ended in spring of his youth.

And, home remained a withered dream.

Kashmiri Pandits: The Forgotten Victims

2012-01-20T16:08:00.000-08:00

Published in Mid Day

Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. - Buddha

In Kashmir there is no common truth. Every individual perhaps has a distinct version of truth. The conflict ridden valley, however has over the past two decades hidden one significant truth, that of the forced displacement of Kashmiri Pandits in 1990.

As India was inching towards reforms to transform its economic outlook in 1989, its northern-most state of Jammu & Kashmir faced a sudden violent rebellion from separatist groups who took up arms against the state machinery. While V.P. Singh took hold of the Prime Minister's Office (PMO) in December that year, situation had turned grave as terrorists aided by Pakistan began selectively targeting the minority Kashmiri Pandits.

The Pandits' story today is one of the tragic and often overlooked catastrophes of a conflict that has claimed thousands of lives, and forced hundreds of thousands from their native land into exile in their own country.

The roots of this tragedy are immersed in 1986 with a well-planned strategy to execute Hindus from the valley. By 1990, the population saw their age old temples turned to ruins and lives at risk.

Pakistan stepped up their campaign against India, new Islamist terror outfits swiftly mushroomed in the state; even as Jamait-e-Islami financed all madarsas to poison them against the minority Hindus and India, Pakistan further dictated youth to launch Jihad against India. A terror strike so meticulously planned that its unprecedented display was terrifying. The camps in Pakistan Occupied Kashmir (POK) began to provide training to innumerable Muslim men; India witnessed the emergence of the bloodiest Kalashnikov culture in the valley.

Almost after two decades of the exodus, the Abdullah family - who are politically the strongest family of J&K - broke their silence over the issue. Omar Abdullah wrote a detailed post on his official blog blaming the local Muslim population to be 'mute spectators' to the forced exodus.

On May 15th, 2008 Chief Minister of J&K Omar Abdullah, who back then was the president of the J&K National Conference, wrote in detail his views about the Kashmiri Pandits exodus. Excrepts: "It's so easy to say that we will lay down our lives to bring Kashmiri Pandits back to the Valley and I appreciate the sentiment as I am sure the Kashmiri Pandits reading it will. Pity that sentiment was missing when our mosques were being used to drive these people out."

"None of us was willing to stand up and be counted when it mattered. None of us grabbed the mikes (microphones) in the mosques and said 'this is wrong and the Kashmiri Pandits had every right to continue living in the valley."

"Our educated, well-to-do relatives and neighbours were spewing venom 24-hours a day and we were mute spectators either mute in agreement or mute in abject fear but mute nonetheless."

"And talking about mosques -- what a great symbol of mass uprising they proved to be. While I can't claim to have lived through it I have enough friends who did and they tell me about the early 90's where attendance was taken in mosques to force people to pray."

There has been a persistent silence over the issue of the Pandits' exile in the lofty corridors of power in New Delhi. The revolutionaries in the Human Rights camp too have conveniently ignored the hapless community. On the other hand, the comparatively free press, at least free of ideological compulsions, has rendered lip-service to the ethnic minority community of Kashmir. In this process, history may have been led to erase one of the most haunting chapters from its custody.

"Kashmir should get Azadi (freedom) from bhookhe-nange (starving-naked) Hindustan (India)," said Arundhati Roy, seen by many as a champion on 'human rights', at a seminar in New Delhi in October 2010 where a Maoist frontline group Committee for Release of Political Prisoners (CRPP) hosted Kashmir secessionist leader Syed Ali Shah Geelani. The seminar which was conducted few kilometers away from the Parliament of India saw sudden clash between people protesting against the speech of Roy and police. Almost eight people including Roy and Geelani were booked for inciting violence by a Delhi Court later.

Human Rights groups in India, mostly tilted towards left have remained silent on the displacement of Pandits or demanding justice for the acts of violence perpetuated against the community. People's Union for Civil Liberties, one of the oldest Human Rights groups existing in India went on to make sweeping statements and vague conclusions on the forced displacement of Kashmiri Pandits.

Manoj Joshi, senior journalist, writes in his book The Lost Rebellion - Kashmir in the Nineties, "In an article in The Times of India, Harish Khare rightly blamed the entire 'secular establishment' for turning 'its back on the Hindu migration from the valley'. Indeed, its most extreme, the PUCL, went out of its way to skew testimony to prove that Jagmohan had engineered the migration, ignoring the brutal rapes and killings that preceded it."

Former National Vice-President of PUCL, Yogesh Kamdar denies such an occurrence, "I do not think PUCL ever believed that one individual (Jagmohan) and his "propaganda" can result in the migration of lakhs of people in such a short span of time and lasting so long. Holding such a view implies that the victims lacked basic intelligence and common sense."

On the Pandits' plight, he says the media and the human rights groups have "unfortunately remained muted all through. In my opinion it is largely due to the desire to assume politically correct postures (rather than to be true to one's brief). And sadly, there has not been adequate attempts of introspection by either of them."

"I protested against the deception and distortion of the so-called human rights bodies like People's Union for Civil Liberties. I was not listened to; rather I was run down by the members of the present day ruling-party who cited false and motivated reports of these bodies in the Parliament," writes the than Governor of J&K, Jagmohan in his book The Frozen Turbulence citing several reports of the PUCL ignoring plight of the Kashmiri Pandits.

The exodus of Pandits, largest forced migration since partition of India, is a bitter saga in the modern day history. It is seldom repeated on news-channels and newspapers as are the anti-Sikh riots of 1984 in New Delhi, the Babri Masjid demolition of 1991 and the Gujarat riots of 2002. Even though several hundred temples continue to remain desecrated in the Kashmir valley and an entire community waiting for the wheels of justice to move, not much is expected more than two decades after their forced displacement.

Will Government of India prosecute those responsible for the exodus of the community? Will the Kashmiri Pandits return to their homeland? Or, will the community remain in exile, at home?

"Freedom became a prison for the exiles", wrote Siddharth Gigoo, author of The Garden of Solitude, first-ever novel on the exodus of Pandits. Perhaps, the Pandits will remain confined in the prison.

Aditya Raj Kaul is the India Editor of the monthly The Indian published from Australia. The article is an excerpt from the research, 'The Forced Displacement of Kashmiri Pandits - Myths & Half Truths' conducted for the Xavier Institute of Communications, Mumbai. Kaul blogs at activistsdiary.blogspot.com and can be reached at kauladityaraj@gmail.com

Who am I ?

2012-01-05T14:32:00.000-08:00

I am ‘longings’. I am ‘fears’.

I am a sea; besotted. I am death in spring.

I am a gloomy dark night of longing.

I am ‘hopes’. I am ‘faiths’.

I am a silent time; wandering. I am shadow in sunlight.

I am a frozen mist blinded in passion.

I am ‘memories’. I am ‘pains’.

On Kapil Sibal - Censorship Row

2011-12-10T03:43:00.000-08:00

Covered by The Independent (UK), New Zealand Herald (NZ) and Deccan Chronicle (India)

India cries censorship after minister tells Google to screen out 'offensive' content

Andrew Buncombe, The Independent, UK

The Indian authorities have sparked outcry by demanding internet companies such as Google and Facebook pre-screen material on their websites and remove anything Indians might consider offensive.

The country's telecommunications minister, Kapil Sibal, confirmed yesterday that the government was preparing a plan for controlling such material, after the large internet firms he had approached had failed to come up with a proposal for self-regulation.

"This is a matter of great concern to us. We have to take care of the sensibility of our people," he told a press conference. "We are seeking their cooperation, and if somebody is not willing to co-operate on incendiary material like this, it is the duty of government to think of steps that we need to take.

"We don't want to interfere in freedom of the press, but this kind of material should not be allowed."

Officials claimed Mr Sibal was in particular trying to prevent the spread of material that was offensive to various religious or ethnic communities. Yesterday, before the press conference in Delhi, he shared details of a website that showed pigs running through the city of Mecca – images that would be deeply offensive to Muslims.

But he also referred to material that purportedly showed Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and Sonia Gandhi, leader of the ruling Congress Party, in compromising positions. Other reports suggested that he had expressed particular concern during his meetings with internet firms in recent months over offensive material relating to Mrs Gandhi

"I believe that no reasonable person aware of these sensibilities of large sections of communities in this country, and aware of community standards as they are applicable in India, would wish to see this content in the public domain," Mr Sibal said.

The announcement sparked instant controversy, especially on the internet, with people accusing the government of threatening to limit free speech.

Many questioned whether the move would be technically possible. India has around 100 million internet users, and is placed fourth behind China, the United States and Japan in global rankings. The number of users is growing all the time.

"The statement... is a blow to Indian democracy. I feel such a policy will only lead to a curtailing of basic freedom of expression," said Aditya Raj Kaul, an online activist and journalist.

"As a journalist, I fear the days of [a State of Emergency] are not far away if such measures are forced in our system."

Facebook said it would remove material that was "hateful, threatening, incites violence or contains nudity". Its statement added: "We recognise the government's interest in minimising the amount of abusive content that is available online and will continue to engage with the Indian authorities as they debate this important issue."

This is not the first time that the authorities in Delhi have clashed with information technology companies.

Last year, the government threatened to ban the use of BlackBerry devices amid concerns over access to encrypted information.

Research In Motion – maker of the BlackBerry – provided some information to the authorities, but declined to permit the monitoring of its email. The government subsequently backed down.

Devil’s Advocate – Middle-Class turning to Protest Theatre?

2011-11-17T10:07:00.000-08:00

A raging debate on safety seems to have taken Mumbai by its tide as the conscience of the Mumbaikar has shaken after the recent murder of two youth in the suburbs. Has the city which is known for its ‘night life’ lost its much talked about safety tag. Aditya Raj Kaul elaborates on the mindset that the city needs to fight against in this crucial hour.

Once known as a ‘safe haven’, Mumbai has suffered a major jolt after the recent cold-blooded killings of Reuben Fernandes and Keenan Santos while they were defending their female friends from drunk hooligans outside a restaurant in the suburbs of the city. The killings didn’t merely send tremors across the country but forced the Chief Minister of Maharashtra Prithviraj Chavan to appear on national television ensuring people that the state would demand ‘death penalty’ for the accused since the crime committed could not be tolerated by any means. He however failed to guarantee better policing and complete digitalisation of the Police Control Room (PCR) for efficiency in tackling life threatening eventuality.

Even as it took more than two weeks for the murder story to get front page lead status in the newspapers and catch the attention of the otherwise busy TRP driven news channels, a fear psychosis seems to have engulfed upon the city which never sleeps. The dastardly act is talk of the town in local trains, colleges, private establishments and even government offices. The youth are burning with rage and especially women feel a sudden sense of insecurity to walk free in the city. And, the murmurs continue to falter the spirits of the Mumbaikars.

The collective conscience of civil society now turns itself into yet another candlelight vigil and an online etition demanding zero tolerance towards crime against women. Who are we protesting against? There are no ‘elite’ powers behind the crime, not even money-muscle men of politicians. The killers, apparently uneducated and from the lowest strata of society who have confessed to the crime and are behind bars facing trial before court. Are we moving towards a protest theatre?

While organizing the very first online protests and candlelight vigils in the country demanding justice for Jessica Lall, Priyadarshini Mattoo, Nitish Katara, Aman Kachroo and several others since early 2006 what activists had in mind was a deterrent which would impact the criminal mindset from acting in the most barbaric way they had in these cases. The remarkable judgments in the Mattoo and Lall case could have sent a precedent even for the investigative agencies and criminal justice system in the country. While the gory criminal mindset continues to rattle us, it most importantly raises an alarm bell for the governing system to dwell into introspection, furnish modern policing and give the citizens basic rights of security and emergency needs.

The Home Minister of the state has recommended the case to a ‘fast track court’, which is one of the biggest positive developments in the case. The aged parents of murdered Priyadarshini Mattoo had to wait for seven long years for the Delhi High Court to take notice of the dust gathering file and put the case on speedy trial. It didn’t happen overnight. ‘Justice For Priyadarshini Mattoo’, was launched to pressure the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI), while people took to the streets across the country demanding fair trial. Now, having come a long way watching such criminal trials, wonder why the middle-class takes on to the streets every time a crime strikes the semi-conscious conscience of us all. Is it to gather the attention of sometimes ignorant national media? Is it the anger against the justice delivery mechanism? Is it the wave against the establishment in the country? Or, are we losing patience to see instant justice on the street in the Rang De Basanti way?

The candle light vigils in the country have sadly now become clichés of upmarket protests for photo opportunities and sound bytes. The online petitions do help spread awareness but not much is achieved till the news channels swoon to action. Till Reuben Fernandes died battling his life in the hospital, the news channels continued to wonder still whether to take up the story. More than eleven days had passed since Keenan Santos had been dead. This underlines the apathy of the common man in the country. Or, for that matter the power of the press!

What hope do we have for justice in a state where a civil rights activist Arun Ferreira is falsely implicated for having Maoist links and kept as an under trial in jail for years, or 26/11 Mumbai attacks convicted terrorist Kasab who continues to enjoy luxuries of the Arthur Road Jail with ‘death penalty’ pending on till the tedious judicial process ends in this country?

The middle-class has significantly broken the cocoon and ventured out to vent anger against injustice by modern means of protest. While the anger needs to be nourished well to see light of the day, it now seems to have been famished by the undersupply of arguments and misguided missiles being launched. If the democratic values are the essence of these protests, aim should be to spread awareness against the horrific crimes being committed, aim should be to cultivate the notion of right and wrong in the society, aim should be to restore moral education and restrict anger. ‘Death Penalty’ isn’t ultimate justice.

The anger emanating shouldn’t flicker. All shouldn’t end with a candle light vigil. It has to be a fight against a growing mindset of hate. We ought to reflect the idea of a just society by learning tough lessons. Not all should end as the TV Cameras and reporters disappear.

Featured as Youth Achiever in the India Today Magazine (Simply Delhi)

2011-11-17T09:57:00.000-08:00

(Click on the image to enlarge)

From 'Sexy Insurgency' to 'Writing Revolution'

2011-07-27T01:29:00.000-07:00

Originally published for The Indian, Australia. Reprinted for Afternoon Despatch & Courier, Mumbai, India

“Who is on the Maoist side? Who is on the side of the State?

And it is the ordinary tribals who are getting stuck in this war between the Maoists and the State. Reporting from conflict areas is always hard.” - Rahul Pandita

In the last two decades, Rahul Pandita has travelled a long way. From his home terrorist-infested state of Kashmir to the urban jungle of New Delhi and further into the Maoist red corridor, he has travelled more on foot rather than surrendering to the editorial comforts of media. A journalist with print and television experience, Rahul is also a recipient of the Red Cross Award for Conflict Reporting 2011 and Northeast Media Fellowship 2001.

For the first time since the days of the Naxalbari movement, a young journalist narrates not a touristy impatient tale, but an on-ground picture of the modern Maoist movement. With direct access to the top Maoist leadership, he provides an authoritative account in his latest book Hello, Bastar – The Untold Story of India’s Maoist Movement, recently released in Mumbai. It tells how a handful of young men and women entered Bastar in Central India in 1980 and created a powerful movement that New Delhi now terms as India’s biggest internal security threat. Aditya Raj Kaul in conversation with Rahul Pandita.

How did your reporting from the Maoist conflict zone begin?
Well, I’ve been in journalism for about fifteen years now and very early in my career, I had begun to travel and report from the theatres of war in the heart of India. I’m referring to 1997-98 when every journalist worth his salt would go to Kashmir because Kashmir was the ‘sexy insurgency’. But in the forests of Central India, I could get a sense that in the coming years, the Maoist issue would turn into something big. So I kept on reporting, documenting the lives of ordinary people. Of course, we know now that from 2004-05 onwards, the Maoist insurgency turned into what New Delhi now calls ‘India’s biggest internal security threat’. So, in a way, in the mid-90s itself, I had expected it would have far reaching impact in the coming years.

Were the Maoists apprehensive initially about interacting with someone from far-off urban ‘New Delhi’?
Not really! What happens in these areas is — and it is true of all conflict zones — that such areas are like snake pits, one doesn’t really know who is who. Who is on the Maoist side? Who is on the side of the State? And it is the ordinary tribals who are getting stuck in this war between the Maoists and the State. Reporting from conflict areas is always hard. But gradually I established contact with Maoist guerillas, and over the years, we have formed a working relationship. Now, I am not a Maoist sympathiser. And the Maoists know it. But in my reports I try to be as close to the truth as possible and they know it and respect it. The high point of the trust Maoists have in me came in 2009 when I got this rare opportunity to meet their supreme commander Mupalla Laxman Rao popularly known as Ganapathi. I think I am the only journalist he has met in person. He has done a couple of interviews with the BBC through e-mail. But that is it. And then, all of a sudden, I get this interview.

Is the latest book a diary of your journey into the jungles of Bastar?
In 2009, Kobad Ghandy, who is one of the senior Maoist ideologues, was arrested from Delhi. He writes a lot of articles and essays. Before his arrest, there was no difference between a terrorist killed on the Line of Control and a Maoist Guerilla killed in the jungles of Bastar, as far as ordinary people were concerned. But after his arrest, I think that perception changed largely. People came to realise that here was this person who was educated at the Doon School and he was the classmate of the likes of Sanjay Gandhi and Kamal Nath. He (Kobad) came from a very well-to-do Parsi family. And yet, he chose to be a part of this movement. Along with his wife Anuradha, who was also a brilliant student, he chose to live a life of hardship in the jungles of Bastar with tarpaulin sheet as their bedding. We can question their ideology etc. but I don’t think we can raise a question about their commitment. After his arrest, I thought that this book must come out, based on frontline reporting. Primary sources have been used in 99.9 per cent instances. Most of the books on Maoists read like party literature. But I have kept it very racy. There is a lot of storytelling.

You’ve been a war correspondent for over a decade, covering the Gulf and even at home in Kargil. How hard has it been to report from a troubled zone?
Reporting from a troubled zone is always hard. Like I said, Conflict zones are like snake pits. When I was reporting from Baghdad in 2003, we were at this hotel called Hotel Palestine. As a conflict reporter, one knows that there is very thin line between guts and stupidity. You’ve to keep your eyes and ears open. You remain alive and bring back that story to your readers. Otherwise, when you are dead, you are a bad journalist.

Have you faced any difficulty from the state for covering such a sensitive developing story?
It always helps when you are from the national mainstream media. It is not that easy for the state to touch a journalist who reports from New Delhi, a correspondent from one of the most trusted weeklies. In that way I haven’t been touched directly but as one of the handful of journalists who reports extensively from conflict areas, over a couple of years I would say from the time Binayak Sen was arrested, there has always been this paranoia and we always have this fear that someday the state might hit back at us and brand us a Maoist sympathizers, which is very easy. The Government has done this in the past, they will send a police party to your house or your office and they will pick up some Maoist literature to say that this is objectionable material. The spectrum of sedition is so vague that anybody can come in that domain.

You yourself belong to Kashmir, another troubled state. How difficult or different is covering Kashmir from the Maoist zone?
Kashmir and Maoist zone are completely different problems. As far as I’m concerned, of course, there is a human angle to both tragedies but Kashmir to me is more of a political problem. As for Maoist insurgency, it took the Government of India many years to reluctantly accept that it is not a law and order problem but a socio-economic problem. And I don’t think they still understand it. I think the dimensions of the problem are very different. Over the years the Maoist problem stares back at us at our faces, and the situation there is much grimmer than what we have in Kashmir as of now.

Do you tend to get emotional while covering poverty or hunger? How do you reconcile with it?
As journalists we are told while training that our job is to report and detach yourself from what we’ve seen and report. But there are times when you just cannot do that. Sometimes while reporting from these areas, you tend to become a pressure cooker of emotions. It is very difficult to detach from what you’ve seen. Also,
when you have a reference of context to a better life. So, when I go to Orissa and look at a child who is malnourished, who is on the verge of death and when you visit a particular village and see an old person, aged far beyond his time, and you speak to him and he says, ‘Sahab, my son died last week’. On asking how, he’ll say he died of a ‘disease’, ‘bookh ka bhimaari’. For such people, it is a disease. Then you come back to a metropolis like Delhi where you have access to far better life, meet friends in a bar over drinks and end up spending Rs.1,500 for meals for two, which is the amount tribals earn in more than three months.

The Autumn of Love

2011-07-21T13:42:00.000-07:00

Every year while celebrating the arrival of spring the chords of emotion create ripples through my veins. Today the sea besides me has turned silent. I lay hidden on the boulders besides it with questions galore. The evening is hidden somewhere behind the sea. Darkness isn't far away. It is a matter of few moments. Life has brought me here at a new pedestal in haste. Just as the evening sets in every passing minute, autumn seems to have set in life. The process of detachment has begun. All this while I thought I was in consistent never ending attachment. Now, I remain in waiting for the tide of time to return.

I stare at the melancholy around the sea. Strange shadows seem to be running on these boulders where I sit. In search of a soul. The lost soul of the body. Perhaps, I see my own reflection. My eyes cannot match the pace of the running shadows. I float effortlessly like a bird lost in the vast skyline of desire!

It is an unannounced journey far away from home. In an unknown land of dreams two hours away from the land of reality where I remained in exile all these last twenty two years. In exile, every shelter is home. I remain in exile, at home!

The separation has left me sleepless. I am like a wandering shadow in love. Shadows have a short life span. They die much before an opportunity to clench hands of the beloved till eternity. Shadow is dead before turning at the fork on the road. The fork for which I waited has disappeared in a sweet fragrance. A girl named love is lost. Lost she is. Before those hands could meet to rest forever in union!

Those eyes understand love. The echoes of my silent heart reflecting in them. Her face like a fairy. Smile as a tender flower. I wonder how many rebirths will it take to find my lost beloved?

The lifeless shell on the sea shore shook me from this solitude! Only to become a catalyst in itself!

I want to turn the wheels of time. And, scream before the world, to get me the one who is lost. The one who let me drown in the depth of the sparkling eyes of faith. The kohl eyes! 

Like that poet who is a phoenix writing his last song longing for love before being consumed by the flames of his own fire! I see my own reflection in the phoenix.

In such times when I weep for the lost beloved through the gloomy night, Shiv Kumar Batalvi, the phoenix above, gives me solace.  

In the 'Pinch of Separation' (translation into English of the song 'Maae Nii Maae') he says:

My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep!

Soaked in perfume,
But the pain does not recede.
I foment them
With warm sighs,
Yet they turn on me ferociously.

And need guidance myself.
Who can advise him?
Mother, would you tell him,
To clench his lips when he weeps,
Or the world will hear him cry.

Tell him, mother, to swallow the bread
Of separation.
He is fated to mourn.
Tell him to lick the salty dew
On the roses of sorrow,
And stay strong.

Who are the snake handlers
From whom I can get another skin?
Give me a cover for myself.
How can I wait like a jogi
At the doorstep of these people
Greedy for gold?

Listen, o my pain,
Love is that butterfly
Which is pinned forever to a stake.
Love is that bee,
From whom desire,
Stays miles away.

Love is that palace
Where nothing lives
Except for the birds.
Love is that hearth
Where the colored bed of fulfillment,
Is never laid.

Mother, tell him not to
Call out the name of his dead friends
So loudly in the middle of the night.
When I am gone, I fear
That this malicious world,
Will say that my songs were evil.

Mother, o mother
My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep!

Hello Bastar - The Untold Story Of India's Maoist Movement by Rahul Pandita

2011-06-08T04:24:00.000-07:00

With direct access to the top Maoist leadership, Rahul Pandita provides an authoritative account of how a handful of men and women, who believed in the idea of revolution, entered Bastar in Central India in 1980 and created a powerful movement that New Delhi now terms as India's biggest internal security threat. It traces the circumstances due to which the Maoist movement entrenched itself in about 10 states of India, carrying out deadly attacks against the Indian establishment in the name of the poor and the marginalised. It offers rare insight into the lives of Maoist guerillas and also of the Adivasi tribals living in the Red zone. Based on exten- sive on-ground reportage and exhaustive interviews with Maoist leaders including their supreme command- er Ganapathi, Kobad Ghandy and others who are jailed or have been killed in police encounters, this book is a combination of firsthand storytelling and intrepid analysis.

Rahul Pandita, seen here in the jungles of Bastar, along a flooded river, with a friend.

About the Author

Rahul Pandita is a senior Special Correspondent with the Open Magazine. He is the co-author of the critically acclaimed book on insurgency: The Absent State. He has extensively reported from conflict zones ranging from Bastar to Baghdad.

Edition - Published in June 2011

Price - Rs. 250 (Shipping, Courier extra)

The Book can be ordered from Utpal Publications - www.utpalpublications.blogspot.com/

E-mail - utpalpublications.blogspot.com/

From the diary of an exile

2011-05-17T15:43:00.000-07:00

This piece was also published at NEWSGRAM

The fear of turning old has been recurring all through these last few months. Not that the grey hair would bother my ego, not even the flab of dry whitish-brown skin protruding out from the calcium-less bones. I for once haven’t tried being conscious of my looks or even the ever growing beard lately. Most of my life has been without any particular fear. In more liberal fashioned tone, it has been ‘fearless’.

As I’m driving away in the dark to seek solitude, the fear develops stronger. It brings some quick sweat on my face and the deep forehead, added along is some rattling effect on my nerves. With my right foot pressed hard against the accelerator on this empty city road far away from the city of my thoughts. The racing heart is faster than the car at this point. I wish to stop and run away to my ‘home’. Though I know I can’t.

There seems no ‘bring to an end’ to this journey. The farther I travel, more I seek to return. The time dissolves into memory. In this thorny path ahead of me, I see an identity-less non-stop journey into darkness. The journey itself begins in darkness of hope. An ironic life of a wandering soul!

Most nights are spent in the ‘white and black’ of the unseen past. Past being a predicament as much as the future.

I stare at the photograph of a rare sparrow sitting on the gate of a mausoleum with her back turned towards me; on the front is a ‘hazy green’. One of the many photographs pasted above my work desk. The haziness of this forced journey is unpredictable. In this concrete jungle, I do not long for another machine. All I yell for is my lost abode.

Is it the fear of turning old? Or, perhaps of being a ‘homeless’ at the fag-end of life; an ordeal haunting an exile. ‘Freedom is a prison for the exiles’, says an author friend. I remain confined in that prison lark.

Just as the withered dislocated leaf of ‘Chinar’ which narrates the agony in its fire brown tint before being crumbled, the fear in me shall pass. The silent journey alone to my homeland shall never end. I shall remain young forever to recount the ‘untold story’ of a forgotten tribe. The tribe that existed in their homeland, not so far long ago!

In the words of Gulzar,

ज़िन्दगी यूं ना हुई बसर तनहा, काफिला साथ और सफ़र तनहा!

हमने दरवाजे तक तो देखा था, फिर ना जाने गए किधर तनहा!

The Kohl Eyes

2011-04-29T12:55:00.000-07:00

Not all eyes speak. ‘To the point’, they always remain neglected, ignored.

Those eyes, however, engage me in a soft conversation. The kohl of her eyes, as if protecting the melancholy. Perhaps, the hidden melancholy of her lost love. Or, my own!

I could see myself in her fixed eyes. Not just in her shades. Within them in those sparkling eyes I stood with a moment less gaze.

Where do I take refuge now to escape from this time of parting? I wonder! The pain has replaced the savour. I hope this pain remains unbroken, forever. Until those eyes return! The kohl eyes!

As we are drawn closer to the time of parting, I’m withdrawn apart in Shiv Kumar Batalvi’s song 'Ik Kudi' :

Ik kudi
Jidda naam mohabbat
Saad muradi
Soni fabbat
Gumm hai, gumm hai
Gumm hai

(A girl
Named love
Simple
Lovely
She is lost
Lost she is)

And, I hope I don’t change, as till this day. The ‘point of view’ would matter as it does today!

The day isn’t far, when the lost will be found. The coffee will taste the same, as the shreds of garlic bread will remain mute spectators to us both. You and me.

Amid a quiet journey on my way home, I hum a song from ‘I AM’ - “Aankhein Kuch Keh Rahi, Yeh Aankhein, Yeh Kuch Keh Rahi, Keh De Tu Keh De Tujhe, Chup Chap Kaise Rahein”.

The changing face of Revolution through New Media

2011-04-20T05:05:00.000-07:00

by Aditya Raj Kaul

Published in 'Media Watch' of The Sunday Indian Magazine and Free Press Journal, Mumbai

In the year 1930, Mahatma Gandhi launched the Civil Disobedience Movement in India against the forced British rule, which ultimately set the base for the final leg of freedom struggle. The Gandhian era wasn’t communication friendly. In those times, messengers had to travel on foot or on a horse across the length and breadth of the country to convey important information. A collective movement in a large country such as India was a mighty task to achieve with primitive means of communication and restricted mode of travel.

Almost eighty years after Gandhi launched Satyagraha through the historic Dandi March, yet another part of the world took inspiration to step ahead towards democracy. Egypt, popularly known as Misre in India fought long time president Hosni Mubarak to gain ultimate freedom, though it didn’t take years of struggle this time. In merely 18 days, Egypt was a nation celebrating fresh democracy. This in spite of the new age weaponry and defence arsenal baggage carried by the thrown away president Mubarak.

Mohamed ElBaradei, the face of the revolution in Egypt in his own words praised Gandhi for helping him bring political transformation to his home nation. "I told protesters about Gandhi and the way he took on the British colonial rulers. Gandhi's non-violent struggle helped us in our journey to freedom," ElBaradei, the noble laureate, was quoted saying in media.

ElBaradei’s technique of non-violence and Gandhian non-cooperation, however, may not have alone led to Egypt taste freedom so early had Wael Ghonim, a young crusader and an expert on internet technology not been in picture. Ghonim, who initiated massive campaign on facebook and twitter has become a symbol for the Egyptian movement.

On Facebook, more than 85,000 people pledged to attend a nationwide anti-government protest planned for January 25th, in Egypt this year.

“This revolution started online. This revolution started on Facebook. This revolution started [...] in June 2010 when hundreds of thousands of Egyptians started collaborating content. We would post a video on Facebook that would be shared by 60,000 people on their walls within a few hours. I've always said that if you want to liberate a society just give them the Internet,” said Ghonim in an internationally televised interview.

All thanks to such instant modes of communication which we call the ‘new media’, the more traditional forms of media have taken a backseat. The TRPs of the various news channels have fallen gradually. On the other hand in the past decade, the newspaper readership has decreased more than 5% which according to experts is a massive shift being seen globally. The ‘internet’ connectivity has been only increasing all this time.

The ‘new media’ has as well contributed an altogether new format of news production being called the ‘Citizen Journalism’. An individual today is merely just a click away from pool of information sharing. Twitter is being seen as the CNN of the west.

New Media expert Jeff Pulver calls this the era of “now” media, fuelled by new and social media and the people who power Twitter and other popular networks. The pursuit of “now” is conditioning us to expect information as it happens, whether it’s accurate or developing.

News media can’t keep pace with the new world of media consumption and the insatiable appetite for information—especially when it has yet to understand the true promise and opportunity that Social Media represents. This isn’t about adapting an existing model to new, popular broadcast channels. It’s about expanding and forcing a fundamental renaissance within the news machine itself—transforming and creating how these media giants can monetize new streams and platforms.

Clearly, as someone just tweeted, “News doesn’t break, it tweets.”

One of the biggest setbacks that the Governments all across the globe today suffer is through the Wikileaks expose by young Julian Assange. The website of the portal defines its objectives clearly as, “WikiLeaks is a non-profit media organization dedicated to bringing important news and information to the public. We provide an innovative, secure and anonymous way for independent sources around the world to leak information to our journalists. We publish material of ethical, political and historical significance while keeping the identity of our sources anonymous, thus providing a universal way for the revealing of suppressed and censored injustices.”

According to the Time Magazine, “Wikileaks could become as important a journalistic tool as a freedom of information act”. It certainly without an inch of doubt brings a paradigm shift in the way news is gathered and thrown open to public without delay in packaging content.

While Wikileaks ethically practices journalism of utmost courage and confidentiality, the response of the Governments all across globe which have been exposed in public is shocking. Assange, faces serious cases of rape in Sweden, while he has been announced an enemy of the state by his home state Australia and even the United States. The United Kingdom on the other hand is planning to extradite him to Sweden to face trial even though the Judge in the Sweden Court trashed the file of cases slapped against him. In the days ahead, it would be important to monitor the further Wikileaks expose and if at all any upcoming global power would be willing to shelter its most wanted founder Julian Aassange.

India, for that matter is still a generation behind other global powers in terms of an online revolution. In the years gone past, virtual campaigns for justice in various cases of murder, rape and even accountability have met successful culmination. These campaigns among which include justice campaigns for slain model Jessica Lall and law student Priyadarshini Mattoo were initiated online in the year 2006 and forced the courts and investigative agencies to act without delay. The same year in April, students from all across India campaigned against the directive of the Government of India to implement further caste based reservations to Other Backward Castes (OBC) in institutions of higher learning and central universities. Interestingly, student community mobilised support online through a petition asking signatures. The then president of India noticing lakhs of signatures invited the representatives of the student community for talks on the reservation policy and promised to request government to re-think the policy.

In the year 2005 after much campaign by activists across India, the Government was forced to enact the Right to Information Act which called for greater transparency in the functioning of the Government. It was a movement of euphoria. All citizens of India could now easily demand and question the Government on any policy or delay in work. This could happen online and the department concerned had to reply within a stipulated time or face penalty. There even have been campaigns over the internet to motivate people to understand the importance of a single vote in the elections. This has proved beneficial to the largest democracy.

All didn’t go positive. The year 2010 saw pro-secession separatist groups in Kashmir using online medium for instigating violent protests against minority communities and India as a whole. The Police had a tough time facing the paid stone pelters and the state was locked down for several months.

However, India still needs a focused online platform to raise awareness against the growing menace of corruption which has crippled the functioning of the state in a non-partisan manner. A platform which unites all the citizens and makes the representatives in the Parliament suffer the cost of indulging in such malpractices. It would still take time as the recent ‘Radia tapes’ tell us the story of our own media bosses who are purchased for a hefty sum to help the interests of a particular lobby. In the days ahead, perhaps, the online medium of communication generates a non-purchasable, non-breakable platform for a newer stronger nation to emerge.

Taking on Separatist Syed Ali Shah Geelani at the India Today Conclave 2011

2011-03-22T06:29:00.000-07:00

Aditya Raj Kaul, India Editor of The Indian, Australia and Founder of Roots In Kashmir who was participating in the India Today Conclave 2011, talked about his own experience and accused Geelani of being true only to his "masters" in Pakistan and not even to his own moderate leaders, such as Abdul Gani Lone who was allegedly killed by the Hurriyat hardliners.

“Freedom is a prison for the exiles,” Siddhartha Gigoo

2011-02-28T05:13:00.000-08:00

Blerim Kasneci once wrote “I am old sorrow and past predicament/Now, without identity in a street nameless to me, I am a stranger/I am longings, I am fears.” Kasneci’s poetry in exile reflects in Sridhar, a character in The Garden of Solitude written by debut novelist Siddhartha Gigoo.

Gigoo, who hails from India’s northern most part of Kashmir, met exodus in 1990 along with half a million Kashmiri Pandits, an ethnic minority in the region. The novel which released early this year has conquered among the top three in fiction charts across India.

Aditya Raj Kaul, India Editor, The Indian, Australia interviewed the author on the day he completes 21 years in exile.

1. What made you to write a novel on the exile of Kashmiri Pandits?

When I was a kid, I dreamt of becoming a writer. That was because I was a reader of novels and hated text books. I was fascinated with how writers create a universe. A universe more alive and more magical than the one in which we live. And sometimes more real too! I always wanted to write a story of a boy who gets to journey through the vicissitudes of life in search of something ineffable. This was my fancy perhaps. An odyssey of sorts in which the protagonist is trapped in a world riddled with love, hate, madness, and paradoxes. Those were the peaceful times in Kashmir. And I was in my teens. But in the years 1989 and 1990, things changed; almost overnight! As if a war had broken out in Kashmir. In the days to follow, I saw thousands of Kashmiri Pandits leave their homes, in the dead of the nights, and seek refuge in camps and small tenements elsewhere. And then the divide between the Muslims and the Pandits! It was sad. People changed overnight. There was bitterness all around; there was chaos too. Over the years both communities lost a lot. The life of Pandits in exile haunted me.

When I started writing the novel, I had to excavate some remnants of my memory from an abyss. I struggled with the craft. It was difficult at times when I found myself dissatisfied with my writing. I still am. One must learn to live with one's failures. And yet have the courage to go on, despite the misery, the despair and the loneliness. I wrote during nights. I forced myself to get transported into the past, so that I could write about it. Moreover, I saw that my dream had returned to haunt me. I saw myself at the same places that I had dreamt of during my childhood. Those places were a refugee camp, a dwelling by a riverside, a decrepit house with windows open, a vast saffron field and a no-place. Freedom became a prison for the exiles.

2. Who has been your inspiration?

I am not sure who my inspiration is. But I owe a lot to those nameless people who lost their precious possessions due to the conflict in Kashmir. In some cases those possessions were time, beauty, love, peace and silence. Their stories, however small, have moved me and inspired me. My family supported me, always.

3. Does the main character Sridar in your novel reflect memoirs from your own life?

The protagonist could be my 'other' or the 'other me'. I yearn to be like him. How I wish I was a character in any of the great novels I have read.

4. What is your own recollection from the period of exodus around 1990?

When I go back to those days, I can still hear some echoes of shrieks and silences. Mute faces of old exiles! Old men and women pining for one last look at their homes which they had left behind. And later, the loss of memory! The chaos, the long wait! The young men and women, dazed and directionless, yet with fire in them, struggling in alien surroundings! Then more years and a long silence! My memory is hazy a bit now.

5. What do you think is the solution to Kashmir problem?

I wish I had a clue. Can one get back what has been lost forever? Common people have paid for the mistakes of the politicians. But this is how the world is. This is how history descends upon innocence and tramples it.

6. Do the Kashmiri Pandits in the camps of Jammu know about your book?

I don't know. My book is dedicated to an exile. How I wish I could visit the camps once more and present copies of my novel to them.

7. How has been the overall response after the book hit the stores on 7th January?

I am more interested in what readers say and comment. Yet I am scared that my book is being read. Have I exposed my imperfections, I fear?

8. What are you more comfortable with - prose or poetry? Why?

I love poetry. I love to read poetry from across the world. But I was bad at writing poetry. Prose has its challenges. I wanted to give it a try. And I am learning how to write by reading some great modern novelists.

9. Was it difficult to pen a novel on such sensitive subject because of grave ideological clashes in the region?

Kashmir is a sensitive subject. My story is not. The story is just like any other story; of love, of loss and of longing. I am aware of the ideological aspects, especially when people discuss Kashmir. I keep away from ideology. I revel in ironies and paradoxes of life and people.

10. Who all do you read more often among the Indian and International authors?

Some of my favourites are Nikos Kazantzakis, Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Anatole France, Fernando Pessoa, GW Sebald, Garcia Marquez, Faulkner, John Fowls, Salman Rushdie, among others.

11. Any more future projects lined up?

I am trying to write short stories.

26 years later ‘Killer’ of Bhopal walks free...

2010-07-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

Bhopal is now synonymous with industrial disaster. The city which is located 700 Kilometers south of the Indian capital New Delhi died in its sleep 26 years ago. As the final judgment in the longest of cases pending in the Indian courts was being delivered, the chief culprit of the catastrophe enjoyed a retired life somewhere in the USA.

Aditya Raj Kaul, the India Editor of The Indian analyses the causes of the real tragedy of injustice and asks “Has the judgment served its purpose?”

During the early hours of December 3^rd 1984 the world's worst industrial accident unfolded at the American-owned Union Carbide Pesticide Plant almost 5Kms from the Indian city of Bhopal in Madhya Pradesh. Poisonous gas escaped from a chemical plant due to negligence killing 3,000 people, according to official estimates. Non Government agencies claim the figure to be above 15,000. Around 50,000 suffered permanent disabilities, and more died later. The casualty increased as many people lived in shanty towns built alongside the factory and thousands more lived nearby in the old city. A worker cleaning out pipes with water sparked the disaster, say investigators. He was the first one to die though. After a legal agreement the firm provided victims with compensation averaging $500 (£300).

26 years later, all hope for justice has been crushed with the eagerly awaited verdict in the case pronounced by the local court in Bhopal. The court convicted seven ex-employees, including the former chairman of UCIL of causing death by negligence and sentenced to two years imprisonment and a fine of about $2,000 each, the maximum punishment allowed by law. An eighth former employee was also convicted but had died before judgment was passed. All those convicted walked free immediately after the verdict after submitting bail bonds.

The court however failed to nail Warren Anderson, CEO of Union Carbide at the time of the disaster. In November 2002 Indian Government had said it was seeking the extradition of former Union Carbide boss Warren Anderson from the US. Despite repeated attempts there was no success. Anderson faces charges of "culpable homicide" for cost-cutting at the plant which is alleged to have compromised safety standards. Union Carbide accepted "moral responsibility" for the disaster. It later blamed sabotage by a disgruntled worker.

Since the sentencing, while the streets of Bhopal have been jammed with protesters angered by the verdict; the news discussions have leaders of the ruling Congress Government passing the buck on Judiciary. In reality, the Government of India and the Judiciary both have shown no urgency to expedite the Bhopal case and the process of justice for that abominable negligence of December 1984.

Rights groups however allege a larger political nexus as the reason of injustice. “In 2007, Right to Information (RTI) documents unearthed by activists revealed the nexus between the Prime Minister Office and Dow Chemicals. Home Minister Chidamabaram and Kamal Nath whom the documents revealed as advocating in favour of Dow are now made members of a Group of Ministers on Bhopal. Another addition to the reconstituted GoM is environment Minister Jairam Ramesh who had recently declared there there is nothing toxic about toxics in Bhopal” said Kaveri Rajaraman, a civil rights activist.

The tragedy could have been averted. It need never have happened if the warnings of one man, journalist Rajkumar Keswani, had been heard. In September 1982, after almost nine months of study - following a phosgene leak in late 1981 which reportedly killed one and injured three others - Keswani wrote an article in Rapat to the effect that the whole city could be wiped out if certain precautions were not taken. He entitled his article, which attracted the attention only of those powerless to act, "Please Save This City."

"The Union Carbide officials were not prepared to speak to me at the time, but I managed to get hold of some documents from inside. It was apparent that the potentially lethal materials were being handled in an unsatisfactory way, and the apparent cost-cutting programmes being undertaken by the management alarmed me." Two weeks later, in early October, Keswani published a second article entitled, "Bhopal: Sitting on top of a Volcano." In this piece, Keswani chronicled the plant's history of accidents since its 1980 opening.

Four days after publication of his second article, there was a leak at the plant. "Nobody died, but a few were injured by the gas, and many more were forced to flee," said Keswani.

Keswani later petitioned the Supreme Court and the Prime Minister. He met no success. As on date, Keswani still finds it difficult to work for very long at a stretch. He won several awards for outstanding journalism, but was cornered by the power centre and his campaign to save Bhopal went unheard.

As of today 390 tons of toxic chemicals abandoned at the UCIL plant continues to leak and pollute the city of Bhopal risking the lives of millions of its residents. Up to 500,000 survivors still suffer symptoms such as paralysis, partial blindness and impaired immune systems.

The memories of that early-hours assault on the senses will never fade. The world seems to have forgotten it; while India seems to have failed Bhopal after a long wait in hope.

Bhopal however hasn’t stopped. The protests and cries demanding justice block the city noise. “We won’t end it here. It might take 15 to 20 more years but our fight will be lead to its logical conclusion” said 65 year old Kamla Devi who has been blind ever since the disaster.

“We have seen the worst. We fear nothing”, she further said.

Tibetans in exile say, “Thank You India” at 50!

2010-06-11T13:00:00.000-07:00

As published in The Indian newspaper, Australia

Tibetans-in-exile living in various settlements across northern India are celebrating the 50th anniversary of their spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama’s arrival in Dharmasala town.

Aditya Raj Kaul, the India Editor of The Indian went exploring Dharamsala and interacted with the locals and the Tibetan administration to know the insight of the campaign ‘Free Tibet’.

On 10 March 1959 Tibet’s national uprising began but it ended with many Tibetans escaping into exile. Fifty years later, to mark the occasion, the Central Tibetan Administration organized a two-day event “Thank You India” from April 30 to May 01, to express the Tibetan people’s gratitude to the people and the government of India.

One of the first actions that His Holiness the Dalai Lama took when he escaped to India was to reconstitute the government of Tibet. On April 29, 1959, he established the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA), which has been located in Dharamsala, India since May 1960. Dharamsala is a city in the upper reaches of the Kangra Valley, in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh. Unique to the Tibetan exile government is the Dalai Lama’s leadership in transitioning to a democratic form of governance.

With the Dalai Lama as the head of state, the CTA consists of the Kashag, or Council of Ministers, headed by the Kalon Tripa, and the Tibetan Parliament-in-Exile, 43 members of which are democratically elected and 3 of which are appointed by the Dalai Lama. The Kalon Tripa is directly elected for a term of five years by members of the exile Tibetan community. The CTA governs according to The Charter of the Tibetans in Exile and includes an independent judiciary, the Tibetan Supreme Justice Commission.

The CTA Departments of Religion and Culture, Health, Home, Education, Finance Security, and Information and International Relations are responsible for the rehabilitation of newly arrived refugees, sustaining a cohesive and self-reliant exile community, managing the CTA’s international affairs and fostering political, human rights and environmental consciousness among the Tibetans.

The exile government has offices in eleven countries around the world namely Brussels, Canberra, Geneva, Kathmandu, London, Moscow, New Delhi, New York, Pretoria, Taipei, and Tokyo.

In their 50 years of exile, Tibetans have produced a healthy, flourishing democracy focused on both day-to-day community administration and political action for Tibet.

The exiled Tibetan spiritual leader Dalai Lama says the Tibetan exile movement must press forward with its talks with the Chinese government despite years of negotiations that have resulted in almost no progress. He has been living in Dharamsala since fleeing Tibet more than five decades ago. Dalai Lama was awarded the Noble prize for peace in Oslo, Norway on the occasion of World Human Rights Day, 10th December, 1989.

Beyond the official institutions, many individual Tibetans are helping to forge 21st century Tibetan culture. Poets, contemporary artists, journalists, photographers, filmmakers, and rock-and-roll musicians work alongside traditional artisans to jointly celebrate and create Tibetan culture and identity in exile.

Tibetan cultural traditions are flourishing in exile. From dance to language, music to textiles, art to poetry, architecture to woodworking, Tibetan refugees have successfully preserved many cultural practices, revitalized and refined others, and integrated new ideas and technologies into their cultural repertoire.

The Tibet Museum was established in Dharamsala in 1998 to archive photographs and the life stories of the Tibetan people, present Tibet’s modern history, and strengthen Tibetan identity through various educational programs and special exhibitions.

In Nepal, Tibetan refugees established carpet factories in the 1960s to promote the Tibetan art of weaving and to become economically self-sufficient. By the mid-1980s the carpet factories provided jobs to millions in Nepal and the export of Tibetan carpets became the highest source of income from foreign currencies for the refugees.

Today thousands of Tibetan exiles are settled in Dharamsala and most of them live in the upper Dharamsala called McLeodganj, where they have built monasteries, temples and schools. McLeodganj is also popularly called ‘Little Lhasa’ after the name of Tibetan capital city. McLeod Ganj was named after Sir David McLeod, a Lieutenant Governor of Punjab, while the suffix Ganj is common Hindi word for ‘neighborhood’.

One of the most haunting claims by the Tibetans is that – China’s efforts to control Tibet entailed mass-scale physical destruction combined with policies aimed at erasing Tibetan culture, religion and ultimately its identity. According to them, the exploitation of Tibet’s natural resources, massive deforestation and unchecked hunting has severely damaged Tibet’s fragile ecosystem. Shockingly, they say, parts of Tibet are used as nuclear test sites and dumping grounds for nuclear waste.

At present there are about 1, 30,000 Tibetans in exile. Most of them live in India, Nepal and Bhutan, with smaller communities in the USA, Switzerland, Canada and others western countries.

Recently, at the Kalchakra Mandala ritual in the Namgyal Monastery in Dharamsala, a 55 year old women who had traveled from all across Tiben, said while flicking prayer beads through her fingers, “In Tibet, people are eager to see the Dalai Lama. I am lucky to be here today.”

Though teary eyed, she concludes, “I don’t know what will happen to us after Dalai Lama is no more. We will be directionless, left with crisis of existence’.

Many believe that when the fourteenth Dalai Lama dies the Chinese will choose their own reincarnation. They see the case of the Panchen Lama, Tibet’s second highest-ranking religious figure, as a prologue. In 1995 the Dalai Lama recognized a 6-year-old boy in Tibet as the successor to the 10th Panchen Lama, who died in 1989.

China detained the boy and chose another in his place. The Dalai Lama’s choice and his family have not been seen since. The Dalai Lama has said that to avoid such a situation his reincarnation will be born outside Tibet.

But Tibetans in exile say they must eventually face the future after the Dalai Lama’s death. Kalsang Phuntsok Godrukpa, president of the Tibetan Youth Congress, a group that advocates direct action for Tibetan independence, tells members of his group to prepare for that time.

“I believe Tibet will be free one day. It may take 500 years, 1,000 years. We may not see it in our lifetime,” he said. “One thing we have to face in our lifetime is the time after His Holiness.”

The Old Man from Mcleodganj

2010-05-19T05:49:00.000-07:00

Alone, gazing at the endless street, he stood at the fork besides a pole. With a light-grey English cap over his head, he slanted his face at a peculiar angle. The market cries or the tourist rush didn’t bother this old man. His aged body bowed to the gravity but the walking stick kept it firm. Perhaps it wasn’t the wooden stick, but the resolve to keep going on.

The shining thick white beard attracted the passer by. I was at the Village Café on the roof top when I noticed his presence far down the street at the intersection. As I ran closer to the verandah of the cafe to frame a picture on my lens, he raced on the street towards the Nowrojee General Merchants shop. The fraction of a second was enough for him to get going towards his destination.

He gave me a glance, perhaps for the frame which i managed to fix, and as I clicked... he walked away.

Commonwealth Games to be a grand spectacle – Dr. M.S. Gill

2010-05-17T03:55:00.000-07:00

As published in The Indian Newspaper, Australia

Over fifteen thousand people from around the globe will participate in the 19^th Commonwealth Games scheduled to be held in New Delhi from 3 – 14 October 2010. Estimated as the most expensive and lavish, the organizing team has been under tremendous pressure since the last few months to meet the deadline.

Aditya Raj Kaul interacted with the man who is going to shape this into reality – Dr. M.S. Gill, Youth Affairs and Sports Minister of India at the Inauguration of the largest Indira Gandhi Indoor Stadium at New Delhi.

1) The Commonwealth Games (CWG) 2010 in New Delhi is merely five months away from now. How prepared is the country to face this mega event after decades?

Few days back we were at the Thyagraaj Stadium and that was remarkable. We have the Indira Gandhi Indoor Stadium being opened as we talk. Apart from being an air-conditioned Indoor stadium, it also has a remarkably done up roof. The seating capacity is of about fifteen to twenty thousand. The colours are vibrant. We can include all sorts of games here, like gymnastics, volleyball, basketball, wrestling and Judo. You name it and we are capable of it. People of our country will remember the infrastructure well after the Commonwealth Games are over.

2) The media and even Commonwealth Games International Committee, which came to monitor the progress, said that the authorities are running slow on constructions. Is there a challenge to meet the deadline?

I hope the press has little more faith and confidence in the possibility that Indians can do it. Every other week we are inaugurating and bring forth a new stadium. And I am certain we’ll be ready in good time.

I agree if things would have been different we could have achieved this much before. We should have been prepared well in advance, a year and half back perhaps. But we’ll be ready now.

I am satisfied that the work is going smoothly, and there are no technical difficulties being faced. Jawahar Lal Nehru Stadium which will host both the opening and closing ceremonies of Commonwealth Games will be ready by June.

Of course, there are challenges. We have a great facility, but important is to look after it, to make sure it looks same as it does today, not just for 15 days of the Commonwealth Games but forever. These are things we have to think about. But if India can build this, they can also think and work out.

3) It is estimated that the upcoming CWG is the most expensive ever after the last CWG at Melbourne in 2006. What is the total budget and are we going to see world class facilities which are going to permanently shape up the city for good? What kind of facilities would these be?

US$ 1.6 billion is to be the total budget estimated for hosting the 19th Commonwealth.

Security is a big concern for us. We have spent Rs.350 crores on CCTV Cameras that will be installed all across the city. We do not want to leave any stone unturned as far as security is concerned. The recent Hockey World cup and the Commonwealth shooting, archery and boxing championships have provided opportunities to have a test run of security.

I have been personally visiting every now and then stadiums and other construction sites all over the city. I have also traveled worldwide in my lifetime. Frankly, there is nothing like this in London, Melbourne or going to be in Glasgow. I am not exaggerating. The Commonwealth Games truly have been far more modest than what Delhi is going to show. This will be proven to the world. The CWG President himself has said this more than once in the past. The Dhyaanchand hockey stadium is the world best and the shooting range has lavish facility and a background of a prominent city fort Tuglaquabad. I have even been to Beijing and went to Mexico long ago when they had the Olympics, nothing like this was there. Each of this is going to surprise the world. These are being built with much larger standard than the Commonwealth games.

4) How important are these games for India as the emphasis is most often given to Cricket?

India is very confident. India is young India. Everybody knows who reads economic writings in the press that we have the largest percentage of young people in the world, barring none. Even China has less, Japan is totally aged. Europe, America and the white world is aged. This is all for the young population of India. I think young India has to come forward and look after it.

5) Everyone is expecting a grand function to celebrate the arrival of CWG in India as the Queen’s baton reaches Sydney on 19^th April by the local Indian community. Any message for the Indian Community in Australia?

I wholeheartedly wish them luck for the event. At the same time I ask them to be the ambassadors of our country and invite people for the opening ceremony on the 3^rd of October where we’ll have an extravaganza which will be remembered for times to come.

The Jihadi behind the Innocence - Free Press Journal (Weekend Edition)

2010-05-12T05:24:00.000-07:00

Aditya Raj Kaul wonders how long would it take the Taliban to conquer Kashmir if Indian troops were withdrawn?

Mohammed Ajmal Amir Kasab, the oth erwise innocent looking face in the midst of travellers thronging Mumbai, turned out to be the unforgettable symbol of 26/11 Mumbai attacks. Sentenced to death, the verdict is being termed as a conclusion to one of the fastest trials' in a terror case in India; but the evil root of 'Jihadi terrorism' continues to flourish not so far from the country.

Pakistan's history of using Kalashnikovs and attacks such as these to terrorise and enforce its right on Jammu and Kashmir has taken a toll now on the entire country.

Almost two decades ago, Pakistan gave arms training to Kashmiri Muslim youth who crossed over to POK. Today not just J&K, but all major cities in India are under terror radar of sleeper cells killing people out of 'lust for blood'.

Unfortunately, over the years the communal turned pseudo-secular Kashmiri separatists grab the headlines while the plight of the innocent terror victims remains a non-issue. It isn't the so-called Azadi that the people of Kashmir desire. They long for an immediate crackdown on terrorists, an end to the separatist elements and those unbearable puppets in the Valley all for normalcy to return and development of the state.

Though sidelined for now, the political patronage they enjoy could soon take the voices from the Hurriyat and Jammu Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF) spreading propaganda of terror and hatred to the frontlines of politics.

Ambassador Harriet Winsar Isom former United States Ambassador to Afghanistan and Pakistan quoted recently through a study by an NGO that 3/4th of people in Pakistan of all shades and grades believe that they first are Muslims and only second feel as Pakistanis. She further observed that this makes it easy for the Islamic organisa tions involved in hard-line terrorist and Jihadi activities in Pakistan to attract the support on all levels. We all know how Muslims have been recruited from various parts of Islamic World to be trained and transported to Afghanistan and Kashmir as non-state actors but with a covert support of established Pakistani Institutions like ISI and Military.

Now that it has started biting Pakistan, they are now crying foul against these players in a new brand name of nonstate actors (a crude lie) and Pakistan is attempting to wash their hands off this murky trade. Pakistan brands them as foreign terrorists beyond their control. Can a civilised society and world accept such lame excuses? Ambassador Isom's words find echo in the recent arrest of Faisal Shahzad, a 30year-old naturalised citizen of Pakistani descent and his reported confession that he planned the failed bombing at Times Square, New York. The world should take note, and hard look at the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan, which is emerging as the new and sinister face of global Islamist jihad and its links with Jamaat-udDawa.

Bomb blasts on the streets of Pakistan are as common as encounters in the Kashmir valley today. Ambassador G. Parthasarthy, former Indian High Commissioner to Pakistan believes it isn't hidden anymore that the democratically elected government of Pakistan has much lesser role in decision making on India as compared to General Ashfaq Parvez Kayani in Rawalpindi.

General Kayani's long-standing links with terrorist groups like the Lashkar-e-Tayyeba from his days, as the Commander of the 12th Infantry Division in Murree over a decade ago cannot be easily ignored. Moreover, he has recorded to have described Afghan Taliban leader Sirajuddin Haqqani, who masterminded two terrorist attacks on our Embassy in Kabul, as a "strategic asset".

It is understandable that India is under pressure from United States for talks with Pakistan and as well troop reduction from terrorism infected Kashmir. The pertinent question is How long would it take the Taliban to conquer Kashmir if Indian troops were withdrawn?

At the same time it is opening the channels of communication to demonstrate to the world its openness to peace while the constant rigidity from the other side; even though India has miserably failed to capitalise on this opportunity. Little purpose is served while talking to civilian leadership of Pakistan when in reality it has no control over the 'cross-border terrorism'.

The need of the hour is for Pakistan to establish its sincerity. It has to stop living in this denial mode for things to move further in a positive direction. Peace cannot be achieved merely by civil society debates, media campaigns and ignorance towards the 'root cause'. The need of the hour is a world-wide diplomatic offensive by India to expose the direct involvement of Pakistan in terror operations and its abatement to violence. India has to demand vocally for Pakistan to dismantle its infrastructure of terrorism before the dialogue process can be taken ahead, if at all.

While India celebrates the conviction, matters haven't been resolved as Kasab's masters across the border ponder over recreating more such merciless massacres. In February 1984, Jammu Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF) terrorist Maqbool Bhat was hanged after his clemency petition was quickly forwarded through the Indira Gandhi Government and rejected by the President of India. The state back then showed its tough stance against the terror machinery. The unanswered question today after the death penalty pronounced on Kasab is that when actually will we see justice delivered on ground. Will Kasab meet his fate soon or will he survive on Indian Governments mercy, just as the way Afzal Guru, the architect of the Indian Parliament attack continues to stay all these years?

The Government of India perhaps needs to dwell into the statecraft of the great philosopher Chanakya in this 21st century and be motivated to act as was Chandragupta Maurya by Arthashastra.

Kashmir born Aditya Raj Kaul, is the India Editor of 'The Indian' newspaper pub lished from Sydney, Australia

Withered dream

2010-03-06T08:45:00.001-08:00

The road doesn’t seem to end. I am moving ahead and further more. The dividing wall on the middle of this path moves all along as my sole companion. It isn’t dark still though the evening is near. The street lights are lit in advance. Not that they were shut during the day!

As a set of crammed images moving in rotation in front of my eyes, I observe the people on the sidewalks. Tired faces waiting at the bus stop. A group of ladies cross the road at the zebra crossing. They must have been in a rush to go home out of this maddening crowd of vehicles. To meet their loved ones, spend moment of joy and call it a day.

At the red light, beggars trying to cry for a penny or two. An obstinate driver of a Mercedes closing the window of his car in sheer repugnance. On another window, a girl with a hand on the wheel trying to text a message with another. There is perfection in her multitasking. Her eyes focused on the traffic light signal to turn green. With a smile she leaves the next minute. Perhaps an - I love you from her beloved.

I move on with someone in my mind. The sky turns cloudy. There is some uninvited rain on my windscreen. I reach my destination drenched with thoughts, of the road gone past, and the one which lies ahead of me. I search my bookshelf to break apart. Yet no solace!

Perhaps in the vein of a withered dream I give up.

September Rain

2010-02-15T02:40:00.000-08:00

Rain hasn’t been too kind lately. Dark clouds fill up the evening sky only to disappear within minutes. A sudden cold breeze crosses with some hope of respite. No rain drops even an hour later. The chill in the air stays on till late.

Showers are thing of the past.

There were times when standing on a bus stop on busy Ring road amidst heavy crowd, rain would splash without a signal of caution. Sheer joy it used to be. Two-wheelers would struggle for space along with those waiting for the DTC and the Blue Lines.

And there were times when finding a Rickshaw used to be a pain in this rain at the Delhi University. Sorry, North Campus! With no ricky-man visible, students in hordes used to walk up to the Mall Road.

India Gate and Dilli Haat became a meeting point for rain lovers. Perhaps it still does, for lovers alone though!

Noise isn’t meant for a writer. He, who writes, wanders for silence. The beautiful sound of rain is blessing for a writer, or someone who wishes the ink to flow.

At the café on that September evening, rain took us by surprise. With no transport, we started on foot. The water flooded the street. Our trousers at knee length and an umbrella in hand the journey began.

Our hands tied together, and clothes soaked with rain water. We crossed traffic snarls speeding against rain.

Halfway through, our eyes met. There was silence. Smiling faces stared each other.

Minutes passed. I was left alone with a beautiful fragrance. Rain vanished; water clogged on the street remained.

People tell me it has rained much more than ever before this season.

Perhaps just the time never returned. I tried to reach you. Memories remained.

September Rain.

Love in darkness

2009-12-08T02:26:00.000-08:00

It takes a second for love to happen.

I stood alone in the crowding alley.

As loud music reverberated around I stared at a figure without a breathing break. In darkness, the crowd mingled, limbs moved in all directions uncontrollably while I stood there with my hand in my denim jeans pocket and eyes still fixed in the direction of the creation, the one created.

In the motionless stance among mechanical bodies, my mind didn’t flicker an inch. The loveless figure sat at a distance with uncomforted eyes but smile glued on the melancholy filled face; the perfect smile of a disappeared love regaining consciousness slowly.

Our path in-between still crammed by souls in tempo didn’t let us move, or was it the velocity of pain shared by us. The stagnant bodies met in silence. Devoid of the pain we parted.

It reminded me of ‘Karla’ from the book Shantaram. Her poem in the diary narrated by Gregory David Roberts says it all...

To make sure none followed where you led

I used my hair to cover our tracks.

Sun set on the island of our bed

night rose

eating echoes

and we were beached there, in tangles of flicker,

candles whispering at our driftwood backs.

Your eyes above me

Afraid of the promises I might keep

regretting the truth we did say

Less than the lie we didn’t,

I went in deep, I went in deep,

to fight the past for you.

Now we both know

sorrow are the seeds of loving.

Now we both know I will live and

I will die for this love.

In darkness, the figure disappeared among flying limbs. Anxious; I wandered around smoking hopelessly. The moonlight soft skin remained intact in my mind. The ringing shadow of a temple bell gave me solace.

I stood alone in the empty alley.

It takes a second for darkness to give way to yet another dawn.

Dhoope ke Sikke and my home, lost home...

2009-08-21T02:48:00.000-07:00

Never has a song really reminded me of my home, lost home. Never at least a bollywood song. Kashmir, which meant home till the first 9 months of my life has been in centre frame of my mind always. It has brought tears, longing along with imagination of my neighborhood, my garden back in the valley. My three storey house near the famous Dal Lake, which was filled mostly with old and new books. I’ve heard.

It would now be hard to trace the ashes of those old and new books on that barren land. They burned it all to the bottom.

धुप के सिक्के उठाकर गुनगुनाने दो उसे,
बैंगनी कच्चे हथेली पर सजाने दो उसे!
भोली भाली भोली भाली रहने दो
ज़िन्दगी को ज़न्दगी को बहाने दो..!

Prasoon Joshi, famous lyricist has a magical gift of writing Hindi songs. After the much adored ‘Meri Ma’ from the film ‘Taree Zameen Par’, he has returned with yet another surreal ‘Dhoop Ke Sikke’ in the newly released film ‘Sikander’, which I’m told has an undercurrent of terrorism. I would refrain to comment on the film from what I’ve observed of it till now. No offence meant. I know at the most it would talk about the present locals of the valley (their suffering), or the army and the state. Peace would be its message. Though it would as always not touch me or my community. I’m still considered untouchable by our intellectuals. I’m not a revolutionary mass-murderer; I’m just a Kashmiri Pandit. The Pandits (Hindus) of Kashmir valley who were ethnically cleansed.

मगर धोके से तुने उसका बचपन भी तोह लूटा है,
ज़रा देखो तोह उसकी आँख में वोह कबसे रूठा है!!
जुगनुओं की रौशनी में दिल लगाने दो उसे...

Sanjay Suri is my only hope for now. He plays a reformed terrorist in this film. Many rumours claim he is being portrayed as a mixture of Hurriyat's MirwaizUmar Farooq, JKLF's Yasin Malik and slain separatist Abdul Gani Lone. In real life, Virenderveer Suri, Sanjay's father was gunned down one morning in 1990. His only crime, being a 'Hindu' in a predominantly Muslim Kashmir. Sanjay may have been 19 then.

Today we complete 19 years in exile from our land. The above lines by Prasoon, made my mind travel, it reminded me of my pain. I'm missing my home that I've never seen. Perhaps, never will.

अकेले छोड़कर उसको क्या कहने चाह रहे है हम,
क्या कहना चाह रहे है हम!
एक गहरी नींद से हमको जगाने दो उसे!!

I've been alone in these gone years. I've been left alone..

On the chair, my friend...

2009-06-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

I’m tired. The mornings are no different anymore. I’m tired of the surroundings. My eyes open only late into the afternoon. I struggle to find words to pen down this post. The same words which are so deeply visible on my face, in my mind; just all over my day.

Over days, I’ve become a subject to my room. A lifeless subject, sitting motionless on the comforting wooden chair. All day staring at a 14 inch screen, full of life. The same screen which revolves the world and brings it closer by the second.

The verandah door to my left, takes my attention every now and then. It’s after months there is a sudden after rain chill in the air. It isn’t humid strangely. The green curtain dancing to its tunes brushes through my face every time there is a wave. The heat it seems had not taken me alone as its victim.

The longing for love isn’t visible in me. There is a silence, however.

I look up myself in the mirror each day and introspect. The past, present and the future.

A lot seems to have changed. Change is good, they say. I wonder!

..And what remains is the chair, my friend in the room.

Though I’m still tired... of the darkness, stillness and lonely soul within me. I want to break free from the city into the mountains again. Till then I remain wandering sitting on my chair..

The hour I got stoned

2009-05-05T12:55:00.000-07:00

Blurred Busy Street

In search of my own self I wander still. I wander around the busy streets of the city in light and on the narrow empty pathways in darkness. I haven’t found myself still. My reflection plays with me, mimicking my own self. It holds me tight once for a while and releases me as soon as I move out and run in search again. This circle of my existence and exploration continues in a roundabout.

With a chilling wave across my body I found myself on a pavement bench on a busy market-street in the city. My body had never felt so light. It was late afternoon and the sun was bright on this summer day in Delhi. I enjoyed the heat, the rays of the sun as they fell on my face, tearing across drops of sweat. It was heaven or even better.

The early morning exam in the college had finally given me a chance to pamper myself. I had roamed around the streets and at friend’s place doing everything they did; following their routine of good and the bad. It never happened as I had imagined. Rather I never imagined I’ll be stoned to a blurred vision and almost loss of memory into just a couple of hours. The squares appeared triangular while the rectangular appeared shapeless. It did circles around my mind. Circles with high frequency juggling around. I had however managed my way out early and followed my daily commuting pattern unknowingly. I found my way after a long journey finally at the bench on the pavement on the busiest market in the city. I was safe but without my senses in control. I was high. Or even higher than I expected ever to be. I didn’t realize it then. Maybe I shouldn’t have and I didn’t.

In-between sun rays, my mind circled exploring around for love, hate and life. Life had been there and lay still within me. It was, but had it a reason to move on I wondered away. Hate wasn’t there. It wasn’t visible unless even if it was blur to my vision. Love was there I suppose. Even in that blurred vision, in that senseless body I found love. Love in my life, love in myself. Wonder where did it vanish suddenly now that I’ve been in senses for a while, my love?

The hour long stay on that bench had moved me drastically. The hour I got stoned. It had put myself in front of me open. My wandering self in search, was over for sometime. Only to begin soon yet again. Myself that I had found had disappeared minutes after I gained my senses.

Since I’ve again been in waiting; wandering across the city, measuring its long roads again. I’ve been helpless in my search. The hours have only grown into further many hours. The days have given way to darkness in hope for me. The darkness in return has assured me of a new tomorrow with a new beginning. The crack of dawn with its first light and fresh fragrance awaits me. I wait for myself in hope. In hope for the same love. Senseless love.

Hope on the riverside..

2009-04-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

Mind is dead it seems. It doesn’t anymore direct me to pen down my thoughts. For days I’ve tried to place my thoughts on a page of Microsoft word. It has been a hard exercise. Oh yes, it isn’t just the empty mind; there is much more to it. The bustling noise behind is something devastating for a writer. Hey listen, I don’t claim to be a writer. I’m just writing away...

Yet again on the eve of my birthday; here I stand. This is the 20^th time. Two long decades. It was a long wait friends. Long back, the age of 20 looked as a milestone I was dying to cross

For days I wanted to share with my friends, a few photographic collections from my visit to a ghat (river side), near Nigambodh Ghat in Delhi. It was the 10^th day Kriya (ceremony) of my distant relative; who passed away almost a month back.

It was a cold morning. The Yamuna looked pathetic with clutter of rubbish on its bank. Though I loved its beauty, its vastness and the surrounding green belt. The metro far above on a platform of the river looked a miracle, flying away in jet speed. It took my gaze to and fro between the two sides of the river every few minutes.

A blue colored boat lay lazily still on the riverside. So did I. On the steps I sat, staring away at the far length of the river.

The boatman lived just on the entrance of the lane near the steps. The blue door of his house attracted my attention. I was told it was decades old. Two decades old it was.

...The blue door of his house attracted my attention. I was told it was decades old. Two decades old it was.

I still see some hope for future Hope of returning to my land, my home. The door of my home in Kashmir would be old enough now. I hope it will attract my attention.

The home that I want to return. My home which was burnt to ashes in 1995.

The past nostalgia is still churning itself inside me; the hope for future is burning all around me.

It wasn't to be..

2009-03-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

It wasn't a fair day. It wasn't. The bus after long had caught pace. It had been moving at snail pace either due to traffic or else the command of the driver.

It was well into mid-night by now. The sudden dramatic speed of the bus had put my face peep off the window to grasp the cool breeze through the quiet highway. It was a relief; not from hot climate but the congested bus and the frustration it had put me into. As if the day gone by had had less burdens in my share. The breeze had set me thinking. As I pressed my hand through my hair; my mind flew through the hours gone by, the day which was about to end or which just did with the culmination of this journey. The bus inside was lit in white fluorescent but the outside was dark.

The breeze I noticed had put my hair into locks of curls towards the right. I have this peculiar habit of not combing my hair most of the times. Only formal engagements force my hand towards the comb. Rest always my hands are best treated for it. The window pane by now had to be shut after instructions from the irritated conductor. I presume few other passengers couldn't adjust with the breeze; and found more pragmatic to be inside the four moving walls. Soon after the lights inside were even switched off. I however continued my gaze through the barrier of tinted windowpane..

The outside came visible with the bus inside going dark. I wasn't supposed to be in the bus, the circumstances somehow had led me into it. The bus journey on highways are something I look forward to most of the times. This time I was compelled silently into the journey of these few hours against my wish.

My friend seated to my right forced me into conversations ranging from Politics to even finding clues to guess the name of my girl friend. I was least responsive of his ever growing dialogues of interest. He shifted to listening music from my cell phone in utter disgust. I finally had silence and darkness at my end; somethings which rarely come in this fast paced life. I wanted to write after long but the situation didn't allow me to move ahead with my idea of penning down my thoughts. The thoughts continued and gave birth to newer ones.

The short break at the roadside dhaba came and went away. I found my way to puff for a few minutes a cigarette in between. The bus journey continued as did the timeline of my own mind..

The brown shirt I wore still had its long hands folded. Someone had made me fold the sleeves till my elbow to make me look smarter along with the pair of jeans. Into that someones thoughts I rested deep into my seat till I reached home..

Nostalgia, Coffee and Love..

2009-02-21T11:11:00.000-08:00

Winter Chill is all it takes to make me jump out in action. The raised eyebrows of the not so warmly sun catch my eye just every morning, only to make me slip deep each time into the tent of my blanket. Warm soft as silk. This long blanket has been a companion for few years now. Years which have pushed me into the maddening pace of life, pricked me to settle a foot in the most appropriate way and further thrown, pulled and yet again thrown me aside in a corner unnoticed, alone. It has been a pushcart journey on a rickety road..a long road indeed!

Filtered Coffee Mug at ICH

I've been punctual all these years I talk about. Late to sleep and late to rise has been an interesting unstoppable practise which lingers on even now. This isn't just my lazy attitude but a strong rational reason attached. During the day the commotion, the activities of all but me, the colours and not so colours of life have a way to move on without a break. The peace within is lost. Lost until night falls and supper ends. As the tungsten bulbs switch off, my lights turn on. The peace within discovers me at this moment. Not always though.

Barakhamba Road

All these years there has been change all over. Though my evening coffee on a Friday still makes its way almost always. The group meets over a filtered coffee and piles of planning, work and strategy build-up. The Palak Pakoras still have the same taste with Red Tomato sauce at the Indian Coffee House (ICH) in Cannought Place.The roof-top here remains dark during the evening rush hour. The furniture is old, and the walls have lost their charm.

Busy Cannounght Place at Night

That doesn't really deter people from coming here in large groups; young and the old; salesmen or insurance agents; activists or writers all heard along on simple broken wooden chairs. The atmosphere is philosophic and the people are lost into hours of discussions on topics from Politics to new insurance policy in the neighbouring LIC. The arguments followed by counter arguments carry on till late evenings. Nights have changed in the city though. Discs and Pubs are the new elite crowd destinations. 'Times Change' they say. Times have changed sure enough.

The filtered coffee and the love for Palak Pakoras hasn't changed though.

At the Oxford Bookstore in Statesmen House at Barakhamba Road, I walk into thousands of books on parted shelves as I discover a new trendy way of a book bar as one may put it. Bookstore tied up along a 'CHA BAR' for snacks. I gulp down the Sandwich and the chilly coffee as I wonder about my upcoming Friday Coffee at the Indian Coffee House (ICH), a few lanes ahead. The nostalgia over a cup of coffee continues still.. wonder how long this will continue..!

19 years to the 19th day of 1990: Exodus of Kashmiri Pandits

2009-01-24T11:51:00.000-08:00

I haven't been writing on the blog for long. Though I couldn't think of a reason strong enough to mention for this but maybe I have been a bit too occupied with college, newspaper writings and to top all reasons 'friends' (read:friend!). In last few months I earned some new friends (read this as friends!) and discovered some new ideas to explore in the times to come. I even drove straight to 'Neemrana' in Rajasthan for a day long trip with friends recently.

Last week, I was done with my college internals and now plan to get back to writing and as usual reading books which I've piled for days and kept in a strange order of sequence on my bookshelves. For days I've been thinking to write, write and write here...but sometimes the brain can just not 'zero in' on a subject. A subject, so different, so challenging and yet so simple, yet so common. This is just that time which people term as '..one of those days' when mind is in constant warfare within; with thoughts contradicting thoughts and much more happening inside me. What I could however come down to and know well enough was that I've a strange habit of writing during 'nights' or rather 'in dark'.

After days of procrastination from a friend, I had to bow and get on to writing yet again. Not to satisfy the said friend's wish alone, but for myself; for me to get better each day with writing skills. It was 19th last Monday, and I completed 19 years in exile, quite strange but even I'm 19 years old.

'..19 years ago I was - 19 years after I still am - but 19 years I lost..'

Thought of sharing an article I wrote for my Campaign Blog here. It is reproduced below. It was very encouraging to see storm of comments and a debate being generated on my writing. Few others also thought of re-publishing my brief piece at the following links :

1. Vijay Vaani - http://www.vijayvaani.com/FrmPublicDisplayArticle.aspx?id=353

2. Sachiniti - http://sachiniti.wordpress.com/2009/01/20/19-years-to-the-19th-day-of-1990-exodus-of-kashmiri-pandits/

and here it goes..

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day
What hours, O what black hours we have spent…

- Gerard Manley Hopkins

19th January 1990. Kashmir was breathing still; Kashmiri Pandits lay hidden like frightened pigeons in their own nest. Today on behalf of my fellow brothers and sisters, I wish to revisit the pain of my separation from my own home 19 years ago, when the cruel hands of Allah-Wallahs butchered members of my community for being idol worshipers, for rejecting the call for unholy Jihad and for siding with their own nation India. The Islamic murderers played dire warnings from their Mosques which pierced each nerve of anybody who held a Hindu name. As the sun turned pale, exhortations became louder, and three taped slogans repeatedly played their terror: 'Kashmir mei agar rehna hai, Allah-O-Akbar kehna hai' (If you want to stay in Kashmir, you have to say Allah is great); 'Yahan kya chalega, Nizam-e-Mustafa' (What do we want here? Rule of Shariah); 'Asi gachchi Pakistan, Batao roas te Batanev san' (We want Pakistan along with Hindu women but without their men).

The roots of this unparalleled tragedy are immersed in 1986 with a well-planned strategy to execute Hindus from the valley. By 1990, the population saw their age old temples turned to ruins and lives at risk. As Pakistan stepped up their campaign against India, new Islamic terror outfits suddenly mushroomed in the state. As Jamait-e-Islami financed all madarsas to poison them against the minority Hindus and India, Pakistan further dictated youth to launch Jihad against India. A terror strike so meticulously planned that its unprecedented display was terrifying. As camps in Pakistan Occupied Kashmir (POK) began to provide training to innumerable Muslim men, India witnessed the emergence of the bloodiest Kalashnikov culture in the valley. The victims- innocent and non-violent minority- the Kashmiri Pandits.

The Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah, abandoned his responsibilities and the administration, the state and people lay like cattle on an open road. The hidden fact of rigged elections in 1987 had by then become a lucid statement. Today 22 years later, Omar Abdullah takes position of the same majestic throne, though I wonder how efficiently he would carry forward the state of affairs. Will he like his father ruin the backbone of the state and leave the minority Hindus helpless as always, or will he rise above politics, religion to create space for Pandits in their valley? The unanswered question lingers on.

When Farooq Abdullah escaped underground, Jagmohan took reigns as the governor of the state. Though not very competent to handle an already ruined socio-political situation, he as a mark of remarkable leadership helped Kashmiri Pandits receive safe shelter. Jagmohan charted out an exceptional strategy to counter Islamic fanatics and also opened his Durbar (Office) to public irrespective of time. He visited families of the martyred Hindus. About one such meeting with the family of Satish Tickoo, murdered by communal JKLF goon Bitta Karate , he wrote an outstanding excerpt in his book, ‘My Frozen Turbulence in Kashmir’- “In Habba-Kadal, except for the long row of our vehicles, nothing was seen on the streets. The afternoon rain appeared to have soaked the houses with depression. The few windows that were open were without even the usual dim light. The dark clouds overhead completed the picture of gloom… The house of Tickoo was like a shattered nest. Everything lay scattered. The grim atmosphere around told the tale more vividly...”

He further wrote, “As I was about to leave, Satish’s uncle who was a bit vociferous and assertive, insisted that I should go upstairs and see the family deity. I agreed. A calm majestic figure was soon visible. It looked so imposing even in the darkness… With tears in their eyes, the family members thanked me and the accompanying officers. We were all moved over the sad plight of the family”.

However one excerpt that mirrored my anxiety of 19 years was composed in words by Jagmohan, “Looking at the compact and enmeshed houses, and the by-lanes which acted like fine threads of a well-knit fabric, I wondered how these families, who had all their Gods and Goddesses here, and had deep roots in the soil, could leave and settle in distant and unfamiliar lands. Sometimes life is unaccountably cruel. And we human beings have, perhaps, no option but to suffer – suffer in silence, or wail”.

Satish Tickoo was not the lone martyr who fell to the bullets of so-called revolutionaries. Tika lal Taploo, Nilkanth Ganjoo, Sarla Bhat, and countless others followed the target list of JKLF and other Islamic Terror outfits backed by Pakistan financially, psychologically and politically. An absent government, collapsed administration, and a petrified community saw despondency set in. As the moonlight of January 19, 1990 wore itself out, despondency gave way to desperation. Tens of thousands of Kashmiri Pandits across the valley decided to take an agonizing decision, to flee their homeland and save their lives and religion from rabid Jihadis…

..Thus took place a 20th century Exodus.

Pandits left the valley, with an approximate statistics of more than three lakh and fifty thousand. Almost a thousand Pandit men, women and children were slaughtered to death in 1990 alone by these revolutionaries of Islam. Surprisingly on paper, official figures clogged at only 209 killed! Alas! Soon the J&K government shall disown the whole Pandit community as aborigines of Kashmir.

In this 19th year, a few hundred frightened Pandits still live scattered across the valley in far flung areas hoping against hope for peace and their brethren to step on the snow once again.

This 19th year embarks upon a history of bullets to makeshift camps in Jammu with torturous summer heat to snake and scorpion bites and finally dreadful diseases. Seven camps in Jammu are an uninhabitable asylum for around 50,000 Kashmiri Pandits. The only perceptible change is an upgradation of some to permanent structures.

My heart bleeds when I watch communal turned pseudo-secular Kashmiri separatists grab the headlines while the plight of the Pandits remains a non-issue. It isn’t the so-called Azaadi that the people of Kashmir desire. They long for an immediate crackdown on terrorists, an end to the separatist elements and those unbearable puppets in the Valley- all for normalcy to return. Though sidelined for now, the political patronage they enjoy could soon take the voices from the Hurriyat and JKLF spreading propaganda of terror and hatred to the frontlines of politics.

An entire community uprooted from the land of their ancestors is today struggling for its identity. The weak-kneed Indian state shamelessly panders to Islamic terrorists and separatists who claim they are the final arbiters of Jammu and Kashmir's destiny. A part of India's cultural heritage is destroyed; a chapter of India's civilization has been erased. And, our jhola-wallah brigade of ‘secular’ activists unabashedly turns their back to the plight of Kashmiri Pandits. To them I believe, ‘Hindu sorrow, inflicted by Islamic terror’ is a truth perhaps too harsh to accept. Thereby hangs a tragic tale that is completely wiped out from public memory.

I am reminded of a stanza by a Jewish poet: ‘...without identity in a street nameless to me, I am a stranger: I am longings, I am fears. I am child longing to belong to his lost childhood and not be outside the present, always withdrawn, apart...’

I’m as old as the terrorism in the Valley. In these 19 years, the only time I felt the breeze of my land was through the closed windows of my airplane. She beckons me and I am too desperate now to grab its serene quilt. My mother nature has summoned me, and I shall answer her call soon, very soon.

Till then, in this 19th year of exile like the unanswered questions of our human rights …my struggle for existence also continues.

2008-11-27T09:47:00.000-08:00

Jamia : Life after Encounter

2008-10-04T04:28:00.000-07:00

Spirit willing

Life is slowly limping back to normal,

Aditya Raj Kaul, Jamia Nagar - (complete column for The Times of India's - South Delhi Plus)

Saturday, October 4th, 2008
-

“Jamia Millia Islamia stands for Peace, Communal Harmony and Tolerance”; posters with messages such as these welcome us inside the Jamia campus bordering South Delhi. Moving along the University, the road narrows down ahead at the chowk. An elevated cemetery to our left marks the entrance to the famous Batla House.

An uneasy calm prevails through the lanes of the market inside Batla House and Zakir Nagar; days after an encounter took place at the neighboring Jamia Nagar killing an inspector and two terrorists. Life in and around the locality has come a long way since then. Fear psychosis runs deep here.

While some shopkeepers lament a decline in footfall, there are some who find no difference in the number of people thronging the markets before and after the blasts. Tahir Aalam, a shopkeeper, says “There is a constant fear in our mind. Bomb Blasts have become so common; and after the encounter it’s not easy to carry on. Compared to last year the sales have come down to 60%."
However, Akram, his younger brother, pipes up, “We were even open on the day of the encounter; when the entire market was shut.”

The days of Ramzan seem to have brought back the lost festive spirit. As we hop inside the busy lane towards the centre of the main market on a rickety rickshaw; our eyes come across the crowd and the activity along the market-side. There is hardly space to move. Chicken Kurta and Salwar shops; along side the eateries are full abuzz. Outside shops, banners, wish “Ramzan Mubarak” to one and all. Ladies clad in black burqa can be seen enjoying the shopping season with their children. The pushcart peddlers, hawkers and sweetmeat stalls are a common sight due to the festive season.

Shafiq, owner of a Duppatta store, feels, “It was difficult for a few days. But, Things seem back to normal. Markets have regained strength. It’s festive all over”.

The policemen can still be seen standing guard on the various corners with barricades on the middle of the road.

On the pavement, just besides the door-mat shop on the road, my eyes freeze on an old man, perhaps talking to him-self; selling white skullcaps. Luckily, he is happy to converse and speak his mind out. As I ask him, “Chacha, kaisa mahol hai?” (Uncle, how is the atmosphere out here?); a distinct sparkle reflects through his smile.

He replies, “Aman hai. (There is Peace)”.

The 70 year old, with a wrinkled face; is fearless in his words. Mohammad Rahat Khan lives near the Khalilullah mosque lane, meters away from the place of the encounter. “Violence and non-violence; death and birth, peace and war, good and bad; its all a continuous cycle. It doesn’t stop at any turn. We shouldn’t bother much towards the negative.”

As the journey ends, its evening, and slowly getting dark. The call of aazaan breaks the eerie calm. It is time to break fast, commonly known as Iftaar. Batla House is left behind at a distance. Walking down the road, an unknown security officer at one of the gates of the campus offers a few dates to eat. Happily accepting the treat we move on.

There surely is much more to Jamia Nagar; apart from the narrow lanes, the white skull caps and the black burqa. Thoughts of Mohammad Rahat Khan remain simple, basic yet so intense.

(All photographs by Aditya Raj Kaul)

Wandhama: A Forgotten Carnage

2008-06-19T00:45:00.000-07:00

“It didn’t occur on the midnight of 25th of January, 1998. It wasn’t those odd 23 Kashmiri Pandits including 4 young children from Wandhama; a village on the outskirts of Srinagar who fell to the bullets”. This is what the state government of J&K wishes all the common people to believe.

-
It surely may seem to be a strange occurrence but is a hard fact. The J&K Police has closed its investigations into one of the most cold-blooded massacres and that too in its 10th anniversary year.
-
This is not the first massacre of its kind in the valley. In March 1998 alone, seven members of three Kashmiri Pandit families were gunned down in Sangrampora. It’s now almost day in and day out that we hear of such selective killings in the valley. The complete silence on the plight of Kashmiri Pandits is deafening. In the modern times, no community has suffered as much and yet got the least attention on their plight as the miniscule community of Kashmiri Pandits. Hindu Minority of the valley is not targeted just for media attention but it surely does convey more.

The agencies even after a decade long silence have only ended up in failing to nab the people behind the gory scene in the Wandhama Village. Not only that, they now have closed the investigations and don’t think a CBI Probe to be a just decision.
-
On the other hand, the Central Government is unaware about the investigations into this incident carried out by the state police, though it fortunately remembers its occurrence. This has been clearly mentioned in a reply to an RTI application moved into the Home Ministry by a rights activist.
-
It again should not look strange as such has been the fate of the Kashmiri Pandits since last almost two decades. Already for the state and the central government Pandits don’t seem to exist anymore.

Government stands exposed
-
Wandhama is one such incident which reveals the lack of coordination among the various agencies of security, administration and intelligence of state and sadly as well at the central level.
-
On Januray 27th, 2008, the army disclosed that the group of militants responsible for the killings has been identified and it included almost 12 foreign mercenaries. A Defence Ministry statement a few days after this gruesome incident said, “The local militants operating with the group are known to have links with certain political leaders of that area and it is because of these political links that they have certain amount of confidence in carrying out suck acts”.

The local Police on the other hand claimed that it had recovered a letter in which an unknown terrorist outfit “Intikaam-ul-Muslimoon” had claimed responsibility for the killings further warning a begginning of a tirade of killings.
-
Do we need to wake the security apparatus to deal with investigations in a much sensitive and professional manner? It’s a cause of concern which needs to be addressed.
-
It would be important here to mention a statement by the former ISI Chief Lt.-Gen. Hamid Gul the same year, he said “Our Country (Pakistan) spends almost 250 Crore’s annually on the “Kashmir Struggle”. The majority of the funds come from the Islamic Nations”. It as well remains no secret this day that a large sum keeps pouring in from the heroin smugglers from Pakistan and Afghanistan. A recent investigative report monitoring the Middle-East and South-East Asia Terrorism and Crime belt says 1 kg of Heroin gets you almost 30 AK 47 Rifles if not more.
-
It leads us to think weather the Intelligence in India is delibrately silent under pressure or just lazy to act in order to keep things in charge.

With elections round the corner in the valley political parties and even the present governmnet are turning shelves to accommodate Pandits whereever possible and even cry of normalcy and return to the valley. One wonders at these times; weather it is the same government, the same politicians and the same people who change colours in different situations. A 1600 Crore Package for Pandits and a mini township at Jagti has been now been planned by the Union Governmnet for the Pandit Community. But, is it a solution in real terms ? Even before, the ruling PDP came with the idea of colonies for Pandits in some secluded corners of the valley. One needs to understand the situation on ground and then construct a plan for the community of Pandits. Governments have changed in the past two decades but a solution is awaited by Pandits languishing in camps, suffocated in the valley under terror or who are living as Internally Displaced People elsewhere.
-
Wandhama thus again reminds us of the tragic fate that looms over this unfortunate community. The Governmnet at the state and the central level and as well the Human Rights bodies at national and international level have remained totally silent on this act of ethnic cleansing. Amnesty International did demand a probe into the carnage, but the Government refused by its mere silence and Amnesty didn’t find it logical to follow on with the demand.
-
It would be interesting to see how things shape up in the valley and what the fate has in store for the Kashmiri Pandits. Its time India changes its worn-out policies especially in regard to Kashmir and Terrorism; or else the disintegration phase has begun.
-

Another Catastrophe
-
Mohd. Yasin Malik, one of the key initiators of terrorism in the valley in 1989 has recently yet again warned India of a Catastrophe in Kashmir; if his wishes were not addressed.
-
Talking to media-persons on his visit to Pakistan, Malik said, “If our wishes were not addressed immediately; it would engulf the Kashmir region in another Catastrophe”. Interestingly, Yasin Malik said this while meeting the Chief of Jamait-e-Islami in Pakistan. He further said; “This meeting was their first step”.
-
Observers feel the situation has again turned tense and a violent phase may begin yet again; whose tremors are being felt already. It’s now upto key player India to act. It needs to read in-between the statement and strategies.
-
It’s altogether a cruel irony. Only future would help us solve the unanswered complex theories revolving around Kashmir, Terrorism and Kashmiri Pandits.
-
The Political and Intellectual marketplace here in India is truly in a superficial phase in the present day. While it does sympathies and has concern for a minority which numbers several million; it mischievously remains silent on the misery of the other who numbers just a few lakhs.
-

There maybe a need to wake them from this highly dangerous position which might yield its threatening results much later. One needs to jostle their inner consciousness and sanity needs to rule.

Also Visit - www.kashmiris-in-exile.blogspot.com/

The Iron Maiden - A Muse for Indian Citizens

2008-05-29T08:16:00.000-07:00

7, Chelmsford Road is just another house in the capital.

However, it has an altogether different story to narrate and shall be recalled henceforth, in India’s history. For the last six years it has witnessed the iron-lady Neelam Katara stand tall facing various turns and twists of life. She lost her son (Nitesh) and later her husband; but strangely, these concrete walls helped her built a strong resolve to fight the trauma. Neelam decided that she would rest only when justice will be served, in the case of Nitesh. Perhaps, it was ‘only’ hope, which survived with her…

Neelam Katara with son Nitin coming out of the Patiala House Court (TOI)

On the ill-fated day of 17th February 2002; Nitesh Katara a young executive was kidnapped, and battered to death with a hammer before the body was burnt. This heinous act was carried out by Vikas Yadav (along with his cousin Vishal Yadav); son of U.P. mafia turned politician D.P. Yadav.

Interestingly, Bharti Yadav, daughter of D.P. Yadav proved to be an important link in the whole scenario. The motive and intention of killing has been crystal clear since the day of the crime. Both Nitesh and Bharti were in love with each other, a relationship not approved by the Yadav brothers. However, this was proved only today in the court of law after a consistent war against the mafia, which committed the crime and then tried to shield the culprit for as long as it could.

It has been more than 6 years for this dark tunnel of injustice to discover the bright sunshine. Money, Muscle and Power were used each day to delay the proceedings of the honourable court. On quite a few occasions and even recently, certain actions were deliberately performed to deviate the attention of the court.

All this while, Neelam Katara stood like a strong pillar not only in her own case but also for the cause of score of other cases like Jessica Lall and Priyadarshini Mattoo; apart from her own Kashmiri Pandit Community. She never hesitated to voice her opinion against injustice, and to stand up for her idealistic child Nitesh was always a top priority. "He was a fearless warrior; always ready to help and speak out for justice"; she recalls.

It hasn't been an easy journey; Katara's suffered hell in last 6 years. She ran from pillar to post to shift the proceedings of the case from the Ghaziabad court to the Delhi District Court. Official records say, that Neelam Katara was present in all 400 hearings of the case. Need I say more?

It had been two years since we started our campaign for the Justice of these cases. We met success in the Priyadarshini Mattoo and the Jessica Lall Case towards the end of 2006 after rounds of protests, campaigns, awareness drives and candle light vigils. But, the one and only unforgettable loss at heart that I personally suffered was to not be able to witness the conviction of the accused, who had murdered Katara. Nevertheless, it has taken long for the agencies to act; though they finally arrived at an extremely positive verdict. Therefore, as per the new rhetoric, Justice Delayed but not denied…

Neelam Katara, wiping her tears as the verdict was served, remarked, “"He would be happy wherever he is." The relief and satisfaction were visible on the brave face.
-

Nitin Katara, Nitish's younger brother summed it up well when media persons congratulating him on the verdict day stormed him. He said, ""I believe he (Nitish) died for love. He died for freedom of expression, he died for that school of thought...in our generation that we are allowed to make a choice and stand by it and that belief has been vindicated today by this decision."
-
"My mother is my God," he added.

I later met Nitin and his mother while leaving the court complex. They gave me a warm hug, as if I am their own family, and I in turn was all excited to share this moment of long dreamt happiness.
-
I, like always, applauded them for their indomitable zeal and conviction, which has made this, dream a reality. "The fight is on…" they concluded; as they left the Patiala Court premises today.
-
And, the fight is on indeed…Satyamev Jayete!

Do Visit – http://www.justicefornitishkatara.blogspot.com/

The hours In-between Life & Death

2008-05-17T01:33:00.000-07:00

"Doctor, Doctor…!” the Nurse screamed.
-
The Doctor buzzed by the sudden intrusion in his work, replied, "Kya Hua?” (What Happened?)"
-
"Doctor…its urgent, pleaseeee…. Amma Collapsed suddenly", continued the Nurse.

Without wasting much time, the doctor rushed to bed no. 10. An old lady lay unconscious on the bed; her remaining heartbeats were supported by an artificial life-support system.

The clock must have ticked 7:30 (evening). We stood at the Intensive Cardiac Care Unit (CCU) of AIIMS, New Delhi.

Amma - an old lady - had suddenly fallen unconscious. A relative, who was with her, (maybe her own son) was directed by the nurse to head outside the CCU. The doctor and almost six nurses swung into immediate action. The Ventilator Monitor showed a red line passing parallel to a faint green; and the beep was too loud to make us understand the real emergency.

As sweat trickled down the forehead of the relative, a nurse rushed towards the telephone to call help from outside; and within minutes specialists reached the CCU and were on the job. The doctor meticulously pumped her heart; maybe to revive a still being. Injections pierced through her while oxygen was already being propelled into the frail body.

But, was she dead? Is death really so swift to arrive?

I had absolutely no clue.

I was an odd one out in the room as I sat on a chair in one corner of the CCU; observing that godly like relation between the doctors and the helpless patients.

It had all started early, quite early in the morning. After my usual work on the computer and an enjoyable book reading; I slept that day at 4 in the morning. I must have just fallen asleep when two hands woke me up banging hard on my chest. “It isn't afternoon yet…” I confirmed myself half-asleep. Cursing the whole world I wanted to scream, “Then why the hell should I wake up?”

I did anyways.

Dad, who was all set but nervous, ordered me to get ready and escort him to a hospital. “Now?” I wondered with half closed eyes. One of his close friend’s mother had suddenly developed some breathing problem and was shifted to AIIMS at 3 am. I washed my face, put my clothes on and drove past empty roads to the nearby hospital; one of the biggest government hospitals in India.

In 7 minutes; we landed at the Emergency ward of the Hospital. It wouldn't have taken that long if the parking crackpot guy didn't make a hue and cry to park the car in the farthest slot available in the hospital. Wonder, why he was so adamant!

It was very uncommon. The Emergency ward, generally always abuzz with action; seemed dull today. No accident cases, no blood, no deaths and no cops. Actually, Government had recently opened a Trauma centre for such cases; that made this area comparatively less crowded. Normal (non-accident) emergency cases would land here pretty often. The patient was admitted temporarily at the Emergency Ward under observation; but with all the possible life support. A panel of doctors, nurses and attendants was at the job. We, expectedly, were asked to wait. And, we waited…for an hour and another…. and then some more. We were anxious, to know if it was just a minor problem or something to really be concerned about.

Dad's friend was in bad shape and nervous (though it’s not exactly an appropriate word to describe him). He had no clue as to what was coming next. Neither did any of us. I tried to calm him down; haphazardly narrating him some theories about common respiratory problems. Astonishingly and thankfully, he believed them all.

The bright sunlight soon lit the whole ground outside the hospital. The tea stall nearby was doing a brisk business. I bought three cups of eliachi tea and quickly gulped down my share.

Dad requested me to use my available contacts of friends, to get his friend's mother admitted and to be looked after by the hospital. I was a little apprehensive about this. Wasn’t the hospital supposed to take care of the patients- ethically and otherwise?

But my Dad’s request meant the world to me and ought to be fulfilled. I sent a SMS to a senior Resident Doctor friend at AIIMS. Though I've never met him but the Anti-Reservation campaigns had built our friendship. He called back immediately; and in an extremely polite voice asked how could he be of help. It was strange as I looked for an answer, because he did not owe anything to me and he was a doctor; but I was in a dire need of help (not for my own self).

After understanding the case at length he asked me to relax; and promised that he would take care of everything.

Dad was really elated. I chose the moment to rush home and catch up with some sleep. Unfortunately, the sleep ditched me today for a dusty storm followed with heavy rain. The window panes smashed the wall while the rainstorm forcibly drove into my room. I had to run for cover in my own den!

Finally as I lay down again, and was just in middle of my sleep (if you really can afford to call it) my cell beeped. It was my dad's friend. Stressed, he begged me join him again and save his mom. My body began to tremble; an elderly had asked for my help.

I often wonder, does my presence actually matter to people so much?

In this case, I anyways was so young and without any medical knowledge.

Trying not to think about anything else, I decided to rush back to same Emergency Ward where she had been for almost 12 hours now. The senior doctors had come for treatment and described her state as very critical and had also suspected some problem related to the heart. But, there was some strange conflict between two doctors over the heart theory.

In a mere helpless mode and desperation, I called my doctor friend again to know the progress. He apologized for not being in touch due to his hectic schedule; but said he had passed on the word and proper admission would take place soon. On my request he called up the authorities again to push for an early admission to the ICU, preferably. The clock struck 6 pm; and after almost 15 hours in the hospital we managed to get her admitted. The process had begun. By 7pm we had successfully shifted her to the special Cardiac ICU on the 2nd floor of another red building.

We must have been around 10 people (relatives and friends) with the patient. Surprisingly, the doctor called me (out of all those ten) inside the ICU along with another female to make the patient settled properly. I observed the entire shifting procedure. After a little while I got into a major argument with the security guard at the main gate when he didn't allow me to stand near the ward (a closed gate!!). I was adamant to stand till the shifting would begin. I would have never agreed; if my family members had not requested me to move away.

Inside the ICU, it was as if a battle ground was in full swing. Scores of machines and medical equipments were located along the beds and on each one was a patient. Oxygen masks assisted them to maintain their respective breathing flow. I had also witnessed my grandparents suffer when I was a child, so all this seemed familiar, if not comfortable.

Doctors, nurses and the support staff were constantly working, tending to one patient and rushing to another. They shared an enormous responsibility on their shoulders. The total number of the patients would have been around fifteen to twenty. .

As the doctor made arrangements for our patient, I looked on. A new ventilator machine was attached and a few injections inserted. Like an astonished child, I tried to un-jumble the heartbeats lines on the monitor and my heart pounced even harder. It must have been a fully air conditioned hall but sweat seeped out of every pore of my body.

It was then, yes very much at that moment, when I tried to shift my focus to something (if possible); that the Nurse had screamed and Amma had collapsed. I intently listened from someone else’s conversation that she was a lady in her eighties. I had seen her when she was brought into the ICU and was given a bed on the extreme right and we got the extreme left. Astonishingly, the wrinkled face and the dreary oxygen mask could not hide her child-like smile.

As doctors put all possible effort to rescue Amma, I had begun to lose hope and must add that the machines, too had given up. One of our side relatives remarked that she stood no chance of survival now. I couldn't imagine that myself. I had seen death over life in front of me. I turned absolutely numb. I put my head down to rest on both of my hands. I wanted to cry in grief but was I even related to her?

Or was I scared? Or was it just a shock that I was again supposed to come to terms to? I have no answer.

I rushed out to get some medicine and catch some breadth. I returned in a few minutes and stood next to our patient's bed. After around 15 minutes, the ventilator monitor of Amma began to buzz with a strange sound and the lines criss-crossed. I was dumb-founded like the rest of my friends in the room. “How can Amma’s monitor beep, if she was dead?” I wondered. As the rest of us tried to figure out what had happened, the doctors and the medical staff took a sigh of relief. Amma had started breathing …. and was safe as of now.

The moment was surreal. Like a dream… and if nothing else, it for sure appeared like a typical Bollywood masala movie (I did not say I was the male lead!). On a serious note, this was above everything else. My belief in the strange co-existence of life and death became stronger; the doctors are indeed next to God…

Life…. Death…Life…. Scientific. Really?

I couldn't wait to leave the hospital and drive back home. The thought continues to linger in my mind and as I ponder over it, I still have no answers.

At home, I moved to my room and hit the bed as soon as I could. I had spent an exceptional day in the hospital witnessing the strange cycle of life and death change its course in front of my eyes.

As though I had felt it…

The Long Lost Road...

2008-05-06T11:13:00.000-07:00

It wasn't as easy to spend this weekend in the grilling summer heat of Delhi. All alone in my room with books, computer and that single piece of cigarette which I found in some corner. It wasn't as hot as it was during the day; but one could feel a sudden irritation from the changing climate.

I may not remember last night's stroll all alone through the lanes of my posh colony where I live here in the capital; but the past memories flash back like freshness in the humid air. Last year during these very same days I was in a different phase of adulthood; experiencing the best days of my teens.

Home; was hardly where I could be found those days! I was in love with life and wandered all around the city in darkness and in bright light. The time never changed; nor did the places I visited.
-
It was fun to walk miles with a smile all around my teeth those days; I had begun to leave my lazy routine. It was for good. The stroll through the woods or the silent roads late evening was what I looked forward to each day. Wonder why it wasn't damn tiring even to walk kilometers together!

The heat could hardly bother my mind and soul. The markets, food-stalls, shops, lawns etc. all were so full of life. Can't forget the coffee we shared so often. Money, which had always been a problem; as I hardly earned; never came in way somehow.

And, after 12 months I long for those days. I wonder what happened to those chappals, which we used to wear each day; which made us walk those miles after miles. I stare at them like never before. Momories crash in like never before. Have the lawns, markets, and the shops changed their course ? And, What about that Coffee we shared, I wonder!

I can still smell the fragrance, which filled the air and held me forever.
-
Though I still can't recollect much of last night's walk; inside me thoughts juggle among themselves.
-
The heat is at its peak; and it's again uncomfortable to move and live. I close my eyes and think of that freshness in humid air. Its still there; here close to me; forever.

After a while I get up with a shudder; only to find myself in a dream... the dream so true..! The Cigarette smoke can still me smelled in the room.
-
I put on my blanket; to sleep again; the weekend is about to end...

Reincarnation...

2008-04-12T13:59:00.000-07:00

Birth; then after a few moments a close shave in the claws of death and yet again a Rebirth....

-
And, Today I complete 19 years in exile from my homeland. I was born on the 13th day of April, back in 1989 in Rainawari in Srinagar [also known as the Venice of Kashmir]. A few months old in this world, I was forced to leave my land,at the gunpoint and fear of death. First Jammu and later New Delhi became the places I grew in,and received my primary education. My father, a political activist and a known bookseller in the valley, had to struggle to make ends meet. The scorching heat of Delhi was not the only adversity to be swallowed. Infact, it was the uncertainty of our future . His ill health during the time of these hardships only made matters worse, Yet, I managed to witness within him, a strong resolve to fight back.

Bullets continued to shudder in the valley and so did its innocent victims. As concrete lifeless structures came crashing down; the places of worship were not spared either. Devastation and destruction had reached its peak.

Jammu, to be precise, became a new ground zero with thousands of Pandits migrating and the Indian Government settling them in temporary camps. These camps still exist; only the asbestos sheets are a new addition making life worse then death. The poor inmates in these camps are moving on with life as it is; and the wrath of time continues to increase their suffering.

After these innumerable years, I still find it tough to think what lies ahead. I long for my homeland; I know. But, what lies ahead is a complicated mystery. It was just a passing thought, that resulted in this nostalgic post.

The pain and sickness of homelessness continues to throttle my mind. The life of a displaced continues into years unending; but my resolve to return to my lost childhood is alive.

I'm afraid if my valley would be the same ever again…

Would someone please get me my homeland, on my birthday .....?