It wasn't to be..

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..

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

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.

Jamia : Life after Encounter

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
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“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

“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.

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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.
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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.

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Government stands exposed
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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.
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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”.

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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.
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Another Catastrophe
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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.
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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”.
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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.
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It’s altogether a cruel irony. Only future would help us solve the unanswered complex theories revolving around Kashmir, Terrorism and Kashmiri Pandits.
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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.
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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.

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

The Iron Maiden - A Muse for Indian Citizens

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

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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…

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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…

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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.
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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."
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"My mother is my God," he added.

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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.
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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.
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And, the fight is on indeed…Satyamev Jayete!

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

The hours In-between Life & Death

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

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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

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I had absolutely no clue.

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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.

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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?”

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I did anyways.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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).

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

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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!

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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.

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

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. .

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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.

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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.

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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?

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

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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.

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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…

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

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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.

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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.

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As though I had felt it…

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The Long Lost Road...

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.

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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.
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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!

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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.
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Though I still can't recollect much of last night's walk; inside me thoughts juggle among themselves.
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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.
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I put on my blanket; to sleep again; the weekend is about to end...

Reincarnation...

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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