How Green Was My Valley

Akhtar Rasool, a well-built man of forty five, woke up early as usual. After a quick shower, he changed into a fresh set of shalwaar-kameez, said his morning namaaz dutifully and then, without disturbing anyone, quietly opened the front door and just pushed it back as he walked away at 5.30am. There was never fear of anyone entering another’s house in this sleepy town. It was raining heavily and his folding umbrella was of not much use. By the time he reached the furniture factory he was almost fully drenched. There was quite a large number of workers who had arrived and were all walking into the shed. The shed was buzzing with activity as all the men there were changing their regular casual clothes into police uniforms. Rasool’s family, like his other colleagues’, hardly knew where they worked for it would be difficult for them to understand and accept anyone working in the J&K Police or in the Indian Armed Forces. Life for such a man and his family would become unbearable. They would either be ostracized or brutalized by the people claiming to be fighting for independence. The furniture factory was a good cover up for people like Rasool who told the people about the long and awkward working hours.

Rayaz, a young budding cricketer in his teens, too, woke up early at 6am, much earlier than is regular time of 9 to 10am. He quietly brushed his teeth and put on his wind cheater, smart looking sneakers and a check scarf that hung loosely from his shoulders.  He put in two apples in his pockets and slid out of his house from the back door, leaving it slightly ajar as he left. As he stepped out, some of his team members also joined him in his walk towards the Dal Lake.  All the kids looked very enthusiastic as they galloped their way to a huge structure on the outside of which hung a board of a flower store where, possibly, workers like Riyaz would come and decorate the shikaras with flowers. There was flower all over as Riyaz entered the place but he went by into an ante-room where another white board was put up and a bearded man stood looking at his watch impatiently.

Fatema woke up at her usual time. Made herself a hot cup of tea as she went through the morning chores of kitchen and cleaning the house. By around 8am she was out of the house, heading for the make shift medical unit. Fatema always wanted to be a doctor but somehow due to the turmoil in the state, she never got the chance to prepare well enough for the exams. She then set her eyes on becoming a nurse but having been married off early, her dream remained unfulfilled. After the birth of her son she got all the more tied down but once he began going to school, Fatema found enough time to go to the emergency ward in the local hospital where the injured always outstripped the hospital staff, who were only too happy to get additional help from people like Fatema. She slowly learnt many a thing of hospital care especially bullet injuries and stone injuries to people of the town. With the growing tension in the state, which just wouldn’t die out, patients in uniform and in casuals were always there and Fatema never distinguished between the two warring sides. For her, a patient was a patient…nothing more, nothing less.

By 7am the police forces gathered and stood at attention, chests out, guns held tight by the nozzle as the base rested on the ground below. As the Commandant gave the orders, the Indian tricolour was unfurled and in hushed tones the men sang the national anthem. After 52 seconds the song ended and the Commandant now spoke, “Today is 15^th of August, our Independence Day.  All across the state Section 144 has been imposed as we know for certain that the separatists will cause trouble today. We have to be on a tight vigil. We will not let these handful of man men destroy the peace of our land. Each one of you will observe extreme caution in handling the situation. While you have pellet guns in your hands as well as regular guns, do not use them unless the other party gets violent and uncontrollable. There are enough people from the media and Amnesty who think we are the sadists and brutes who enjoy killing and maiming our citizens. Caution to a point but not at the cost of your own safety and security. All the Best. Jai Hind!” Rasool heard everything carefully and instinctively his eyes looked at the gun in his hand.

Riyaz stood with the other youngsters as the man with thick black beard started speaking, “Today is an important day for you. You are the chosen one for showing your love for Allah and many brothers who have perished fighting for independence from India. With curfew at all places, you will split up into groups of 3 and you will be joined in each of the locality by others coming from various camps. The bags you carry will be used for inflicting maximum damage on the imperialist forces. Show no mercy to anyone who sides with India.” Riyaz’s hand slid into the bags that had been given to them as they entered the room. He could feel the coldness of the stones and his eyes lit up as he was eager to step out and start the pelting. He was a fast bowler of his cricket team and batsmen feared his beamers and bouncers. Today the ball had been replaced with stones big and small but the target still was the head of the person 22 yards away. The bearded man spoke again, “For our Azadi we have to make their azadi  hell. In your teams will be one senior who will be in constant touch with us through a walkie-talkie and they will also carry hand grenades and a pistol. Whosoever amongst you tries to run away from your goal of freeing Kashmir, these seniors will shoot you down and the blame will of course be on the security forces. Go out and give them hell today. Jannat awaits you.”

“Today we will have many casualties.”Fatema stood listening to the medical unit head of Sisters of Humanity speak to all the doctors, nurses and helpers like her. “The locals will surely cause trouble intermittently and the security forces will try and quell the problem. We can expect a large number of people with injuries to their eyes and other bullet injuries. We will also have injured policemen as well. We have got in extra bandages and medicines. We must not discriminate. Our religion is service and we shall give it to all those who need it. We have but one religion and that is of service to all. Ameen!”

Till about 10am, the city looked like a ghost town with no movement other than the police and army columns doing flag marches and red beacon cars with hooting sirens driving in great speed. It was an uneasy calm, everyone could guess. Even birds seemed to have sensed something about to erupt and were quietly sitting on branches or holed up in their nests. The main government function was happening at the Sher-e-Kashmir Cricket Stadium where the governor was taking the salute along with the Chief Minister and other dignitaries. Security was at its tightest here. Even roads remotely leading to the venue had been sanitized and every person, be it on bicycle or foot, was subjected to multiple layers of body and metal detector search. After all, the Home Minister from Delhi was the chief guest at the function this year.

At 10.30am sharp, suddenly the bolted doors in the Hazratbal Mosque area near the Dal Lake opened up and a large number of youngsters with their faces covered with scarves were seen running out. And then it started raining…not water but stones. Stones of all shapes and sizes. Each of the youth had a bag slung across his shoulder and in it were the stones, big and strong. Stones, sharp and heavy. Each selected to deliver a deathly blow on whosoever it hit. Today, these arsenals were being aimed at a small battalion of state police forces who were stationed at the heart of the township. The police had their heads covered with helmets and netted visors in front of their eyes. On their legs were strong pads upto the knees, smaller than the cricketing ones, but not as sophisticated. Some of the security personnel had fibre glass shields and long batons and some others, like Rasool, had guns that could fire pellets at rapid succession which could incapacitate the person on the other side without killing. Then there were others who had shot guns that fired tear gas shells.

There was never a more fearsome battle on the streets of Srinagar. Bullets, pellets, tear gas and batons on one side and stones and stones and more stones on the other side. The youngsters had been well trained to quickly pick up the tear gas shells and throw them back at the policemen causing much discomfort to them. Stones were there in abundance and the bravery of the youth was never in question as they fearlessly kept moving ahead, some got hurt and they were quickly carried away on shoulders of the able ones. Others, like Riyaz, fought like David with a sling in hand fighting the Goliath of government machinery. In the melee no one could see where one was shooting or who was getting hurt.

Rasool and his fellow policemen had been surrounded from all four sides and the number of stone pelting youngsters kept growing in strength by the minute. The Commandant asked for additional help from the base camp but since most of the personnel were keeping vigil at the stadium event, he was told that no one could be spared. The Commandant saw before him many of his men bleeding profusely. Helmets had cracked and stones were pouring on naked heads. He could see complete slaughter of his men before his eyes so, in desperation, he ordered his men to break out firing their guns without any concern for lives on the other side. The police did just that and in an instant they started firing at will with their automatic weapons and began running out of the circle of death. Only a few made it past the marauding crowds. Most of them were caught and hammered to death. Some were thrown into the flowing river after breaking their hands and legs. Surely the coldness of Jhelum would be their watery grave.

Fatema and the Sisters of Humanity had their hands full. One youngster after another was being brought in with injuries deep and deadly, each looking more painful than the other. Bodies were getting piled on top of one another and it seemed a lost cause. As she was cleaning the wound of one of the boys, Fatema saw another lad being stretchered off. “Riyaz,” she shouted loud and ran after the stretcher, stopped the wheels and looked at the boy lying atop. Her worst fears had come true…her son Riyaz was bleeding, his face was covered in blood….”Ammi”, said a weak Riyaz who identified Fatema with her voice. His eyes wouldn’t open. The cursed pellets had pierced both his eyes. As Riyaz was wheeled inside the make-shift OT, Fatema took out her mobile phone and dialled for her husband. The phone went on ringing. She tried many times and each time she would get a recorded voice speaking from the other end, “The number you have dialled is not answering. Try again later.” Fatema went back to work and when the doctor emerged from the OT, she knew it was all over for the boy, her loving Riyaz. He will never see the beauty of the valley ever again.

When there was no news of her husband, Fatema went to the ‘furniture factory’ he worked in only to find there was utter gloom. She told the guard at the entrance her husband’s name and she was immediately ushered into the small open enclosure. She was surprised to see the police force there in full uniform. For once she thought she had come to the wrong place. The Commandant walked up to her and with his hand motioned her to follow him till they reached a place where Fatema saw over 20 Indian Flags wrapped on to wooden boxes. Against each box was written a name. the Commandant walked her to one where it was written in bold ‘Sub-Inspector Akhtar Rasool (Body Untraced)’. She stood there in silence as she saw many women like her, most of them younger, some crying aloud, others on their knees bent over the box and some, who were getting hysterical, being comforted by the police women stationed there. A band played a soft note, guns were raised and fired in the air, the tricolours and the uniforms were packed and handed over to women there. Fatema slowly walked back home.

Riyaz was waiting for Fatema. He needed her for everything, from feeding to giving him a bath. Today Fatema continues her work at the Sisters of Humanity. She gets a monthly widow pension which helps her run her house. Riyaz will never come to know that his father was a policeman and that he had died the same day at the same place that he had lost his vision. Whether father and son had come face to face, no one can say. As Riyaz waits for his Azadi and Jannat, Fatema and many like her in the vicinity who, too, had lost their husbands and family in this War for Independence, wait endlessly for a moment of joy in the sea of gloom. Many a Rasool has perished in this War of Independence un-cried for, un-cared for, un-traced and lost as the Jhelum quietly flows by. The whole valley is turning into a valley of widows, a ghetto of the lame and the blind.

Whose independence is this we are protecting? Whose independence are they fighting for?  When will this madness ever end? They once said about the Valley, “Agar Firdaus Bar Roo-e-Zameen Ast, Hameen Ast-O Hameen Ast-O Hameen Ast.” Today, it is the Valley of Death and a Paradise Lost.

SS