When will you visit Kashmir?
When you have been cheated for too long, it’s natural that you’ll have trust issues. This particular piece of truth is at the heart of the ongoing migrant crisis in India. It’s quite easy (read: callous) to suggest that they are being overtly selfish and unreasonable. And that they, and nobody else, are responsible for their fate whether we live in peacetime or otherwise. Such a reductive way of looking at the bigger picture — and there is a bigger picture given how much India depends on migrant workers for its daily motion — Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and Bengal account for more than 50% of the migrant workers in the country — shows exactly how our society has failed its major component. These folks might be walking away from our cities but our markets run on their sweatbeads. In capitalism, we tend to prioritize convenience over other factors and that has what has brought us to this strange stage in our independence: for the first time since 1947, a mass exodus has taken place from the cities towards our villages instead of the other way around. Had we shown them that we really cared for them and could hold off their worries for a few months until stability took over, they wouldn’t have taken to the highways, be it on foot, bicycle or worse. Even if you grant the benefit of doubt to our central and respective state governments — yes, this avoidable crisis cascaded with another out-of-syllabus unavoidable crisis fondly called Karuna — there is no way one can justify the number of horror stories spilling out on our roads. Imagine spending your entire life mistreated by the so-called institutions that you reach a point that you don’t believe in them anymore. You’ve learned over time that there is no reward for standing in a queue; chances are you’ll end up without a ration kit if you don’t rush in like zombies. Your experiences tell you that they are not going to save you, let alone provide you a life of dignity. There is a higher probability of you making it in the uncertainty of your village than in the certainty of your city. No wonder you are on your own.
Gandhiji once conceded that one of his biggest regrets in life was not improving his handwriting when he had a chance. During his younger days, his teachers often pointed out to him that he must practise calligraphy. But like most students at his age, he didn’t care. That’s perhaps the only thing I have common with the great man. My handwriting sucks so much that even I can’t read what I’ve written. It wasn’t always like this though. During my school days, I had a decent script but after quitting college, my pen started declining as I grew more and more comfortable with keyboard. Nowadays, I can hit 100 WPM sometimes but can’t write more than 5 sentences at a stretch. Knuckles hurt and whatnot. At moments like these, I remember kids from my childhood — I do remember their names — who had gorgeous handwriting but were terrible at studies. One heck of an irony at play.
I sincerely don’t buy the if-you-love-dogs-you-are-a-good-person bunkum. In my book, if you love dogs, it means you are a person who happens to love dogs. Nothing more. Nothing less. Although we can romanticize our 15000-year-old association with these beautiful creatures for our species’ PR optics, it won’t change ground realities. There are dog-loving folks who make horrible neighbours. Conversely, there are people who can’t stand dogs — for various reasons like morbid fear to fur allergy — but are absolute gems. Not to get into the cat-lovers’ territory, having cats as pets doesn’t entirely define you either. You can be cool or rude irrespective of who purr in your house. So, yes, the aforementioned conjecture is flawed as duck. And let’s not get into ducks.
Since we are on the subject of pets, have you noticed how suave western pets are? It’s like they have an in-built gene to act for the camera. They perform all these supercute routines on Twitter/Instagram/TikTok that you can’t imagine your desi-assed dog ever executing in your sight. Fortunately, I am least interested in making Ranga do anything for camera’s sake. True to his grandpa personality, he just strolls around the house, lies down dead like a bean bag and begs your attention only when he is hungry or wants to relieve himself. Very rarely would he come looking for affection. Since me and my missus generally talk to him in Tulu — as if he understands any of it except his name — we never got to say the ubiquitous “good boy”. It never happened. Not even once. There was a phase when a Chennai-based friend of ours tried her level best to teach Ranga to sit down on “sit, Ranga”. Long story short, the mission failed spectacularly. Our dog has no respect for others’ expectations. Being a lonely dog is more than enough of an emotional baggage to carry. Our neighbourhood has these purebreds who are often gifted “good boy” and “good girl” — for their dedication to command. I might start calling Ranga “good boy” because he hears our requests (not commands) but chooses not to listen.
Last July, for the first time in a decade, we read reports of a drop in stone pelting in J&K. It was strange. As you know, stone-pelting has been a regular feature of the Azaadi movement in an erstwhile state of India. Apparently, stone pelting incidents had come down from 2600+ in 2016 to barely a few dozen in the first half of 2019. Amazing, right? Well. The equations changed a month later when the northernmost state was stripped of its special privileges. By the end of 2019, there were about 2000 stone-pelting incidents with 1193 of them taking place post the abrogation of Article 370. In case you were wondering why there was heightened efforts by Delhi to smother voices in the valley. There is a shhhh in Kashmir for a reason. Statistics may lie and so would the numbers but there is an unmistakable truth in the lost voice of agony.
I am not an expert on the most (per capita) militarized zone in the world nor am in favour of the longest ever Internet blockade in a democracy but I do read a lot. And from what I’ve absorbed so far, I can safely conclude that every country out there has a Kashmir of its own. The levels of suppression, oppression and repression — these aren’t the same — change according to the sociopolitical environment. Stone-pelting is a staple for our narrative just like self-immolation had been for Tibetan and Vietnamese causes and long rallies is for Catalans. Every time I see a picture of a masked young Kashmiri man, I wonder — “Who’s going to clean the street afterwards?” The armed forces don’t care because it’s neither their home nor their street. Sad state of affairs. However, here is a cracker of a plan that I’ve come up with. One Friday afternoon, following the prayers, as usual, instead of throwing stones, perhaps the protestors should sling roses. Imagine what this reverse psychology would do to the soldiers standing on the other end of the road. Even when the sky is filled with stones, they stand their ground as ordered by the higher command. But when these bullets of roses (along with their green stems, obviously) rain down on them, they will run for their lives like never before.
When Pulitzer awarded three of our journalists — Dar Yasin, Mukhtar Khan and Channi Anand — for their courageous work, there was an expected consternation from some quarters with regards to their identity. To a lot, they are Indians. To some, they are Kashmiris. Isn’t this a strange love-hate relationship? On one hand, you want them to claim them as your own but at the same time, you aren’t happy with their work. In the same vein, you want to label them based on their ethnicity while granting no such attribution for so many other ethnic groups in the country whose stories you aren’t even willing to record.
The Western media is known for pushing their respective countries’ agenda under the garb of neutrality. Nothing new. They constantly turn a blind eye to the mess in their own background but would leave no stone unturned when it comes to sermonizing the so-called Third World. Think about it. The powers-at-desk have failed in gauging their own countries so badly that they have the likes of Trump and Johnson at the helm. And yet, they somehow believe that they have the moral standards to poke their pink noses into other countries’ front yards, with scarce attention to details and skewed definition of goodwill.
Every man-made entity is worthy of criticism and religion tops the list. Check from whichever angle you wish to, religion just can’t do without business. Not very long ago, the richest temple in the world (in terms of cash flow) declared that it doesn’t have the money to pay for its employees during the lockdown. Gods do work in mysterious ways. As is the norm, money has to flow in whether there is an afterlife or not. And nobody gets close to the Catholic Church (read: Vatican) in this field. Its wealth is unparalleled and like every well-oiled system, it requires new adherents to continue with lord’s good work. For all its pontifications on banking ethics, the history of the Holy See is rife with questionable sources of cash. I hope we stumble upon a religion that is immune to money.
The British might have left us 70 years ago but Indians continue to assault their language. My mother tongue, Tulu, isn’t an exception. There are so many English words that have mutated phonetically — without impacting the etymological bits — that keep popping up in my everyday conversations. Words like frush (fresh), impliance (influence), firit (spirit), soba (sofa), estamina (stamina), fud (food), etc. Accent plays a heavy role (of tongue) here. There are English words that were adopted by Tuluvas during the colonial days too. For instance, laayk (like) is to denote something positive whereas naays (nice) is to indicate fineness of sugar/salt/masala. It’s interesting to note these slow transformations in a language. Similarly, there are Urdu words in Tulu as well: pursot (fursat) meaning free time, nasheeb meaning destiny, bejaar meaning sadness, tamashe meaning prank, andaji meaning guess, parwa meaning concern, amongst others. Borrowing for eternity, if you may.
