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  She never wants to forget this.

  Kupwara, Kashmir

  As Sanam was holding forth on Kashmir and its mountain of issues on stage, there is another equally distinguished mortal tuned to the same topic. Aamir is supine on the verdant greens, a few kilometres from that heaven on earth known as Lolab Valley, eyes shut, listening to the news on the radio.

  The government plans to heal wounds in the Valley by offering more scholarships to Kashmiri children. Ten seats per sector per college will now be offered to Kashmiri students under the Pradhan Mantri Scholarship Scheme. Funds have also been sanctioned to set up girls’ hostels and two engineering colleges in the state.

  Aamir listens intently.

  Ten seats! That would mean a lot if the scheme actually reached the students. Two seats are already available under this scheme, but funds are often denied to the students, compelling them to return home mid-session, dejected and disgruntled. Policies are well-intended; the only problem is that they are rarely, if ever, implemented as they should be . . .

  Something thuds right next to Aamir, derailing his train of thought. It’s Moeen in a billowing phiran that, despite its voluminous cut, fails to disguise his gaunt frame. Before Aamir can lever himself up on his elbows, his cousin leans over and turns off the radio.

  ‘Saalon ka propaganda never ends. Why do you even bother listening?’

  Aamir says nothing. His cousin is on a roll, ‘You want news? I’ll give you news—they removed the bunkers from Lal Chowk last week to show the world that all is fine in Kashmir . . .’ Moeen pauses, shakes his head and then continues, ‘ . . . those bunkers haven’t really gone and everything is far from “fine” in Kashmir.’

  Aamir furrows his brow, trying to recall. No, the bunkers hadn’t been there at Lal Chowk that day. But Moeen couldn’t be wrong. He knew the reality on the ground, stuff that is never reported or broadcast.

  ‘You don’t need bunkers when you can occupy buildings and rule from there,’ explains Moeen, sensing the doubt in Aamir’s mind. ‘As soon as the TV cameras have done their rounds, everything comes back—the pickets, the concertina wire, the Border Security Force, everything.’

  Aamir remembers how their motorbike had been stopped and Moeen questioned. Their names, mobile numbers and the motorbike’s registration number had been noted down. This had never happened before, not at Lal Chowk. His expression changes.

  ‘Yes. Now you get it!’ Super sharp that Moeen was, he had barged into Aamir’s thoughts and gloated. ‘All that info they took from us goes into a list at the police station. They record who’s coming here and how often. If everything is “fine” as they announce, why do this? Tell me.’

  Aamir stays silent.

  ‘And these scholarships, they make you happy, but what happens when our boys are forced to quit and return? Every time there’s a terror attack, our boys get attacked in their colleges. Why?’

  He goes on and on, cursing the netas, the security forces, the spineless local leaders, the hyper media anchors.

  ‘Bloody netas . . . mouthing sops . . . from Dilli and their bungalows . . . idiots they take us to be . . . Arrey, leave your kursi and come here and see how our people are dying . . . like flies . . . and who is bloody killing us?’

  There is some truth in Moeen’s bitterness, but things are more nuanced than Moeen’s stark take on the situation. Aamir is aware of this and therefore prefers to keep a balanced view and an open mind. Yes, the undercurrents are certainly there in Srinagar and he has felt them all along. However, in Kupwara, things are even more tense. The massive build-up of forces in the district has not calmed things down; it has simply made the locals angrier. Shouldn’t the presence of forces mean greater security? Here, it only adds to their anxieties. So, who is wrong? No one. The way he sees it—Kashmir is mostly a battle of perceptions and each side had gotten their part wrong.

  Watching him quietly chew on his thoughts irritates Moeen.

  ‘Got no words, padhaku!? All those years and years of studying . . . what has come of it? . . . You just sit here tongue-tied? Fizool hi gaye Srinagar University, useless! I could’ve taught you gun chalana right here, for free.’

  At this Aamir breaks into a smile and playfully punches his older cousin. Moeen leaps on him and the two happily wrestle for a bit, rolling on the grass, snatching some moments of fun. All their concerns—political, social, economic—fade away. Clashing viewpoints, opposing choices and differing tracks fade into the background . . . love and a shared carefree past is all that remains and it keeps them laughing joyfully in the golden sunshine for the next half an hour.

  Until the next batch of dark clouds drift in, bringing in its wake, another storm.

  3

  Whether one is a girl or a boy in Delhi, a win is not a win without a celebratory party. A night out in a Mumbai college campus after winning a trophy does not count. Until you’ve taken your Dilli-wallah crowd to eat, drink and make merry, your trophy is just a meaningless piece of metal. Sanam knows better than to flout this rule. Back in Delhi now, Sanam drives her triad of girlfriends to the elite Playboy club at the Samrat Hotel. No boys; a girls’ night out is what she needs to relax nerves stretched taut from all the festival excitement, before plunging into her MBA admission battle involving applications, entrance tests, group discussions and interviews.

  The privilege of being a young woman is best appreciated at the entrance door of a nightclub, where the unfortunate men are compelled to cough up big bucks for stag entry while the women can just waltz in. Sanam bounces past the bouncers, her spirits soaring. But high drama makes her pause at the door. Has the entertainment for the night kicked off at the entry point? she wonders.

  Someone is arguing loudly, emphatically thumping his fist on the counter; the gold bracelet, glittering menacingly on his wrist, proclaims his elevated status.

  Craning her neck with curiosity, she gathers that there is some issue with his shoes. They are the wrong ones.

  ‘So, what if they’re Nike Air?’ he is arguing doggedly, despite being, clearly and politely, and then firmly, informed by the gentleman manning the entry that sports shoes are not acceptable in the elite club. The beefy guard who looms over the doorway bolsters the doorman’s resolve to prohibit Gold Bracelet’s entry. The Nike-fan’s ring of fans add their voices drowning out the throb of drumbeats and rumble of bass emanating from behind the door. At this juncture, Sanam’s friends nudge her through the door before the situation deteriorates further and they get sucked in as collateral damage. Just before she steps into the club, Sanam glimpses a wad of notes being flashed to sway the deal. How cheap! Such crass exhibitionism always makes her blood boil.

  The swanky interiors and fabulous audio system instantly transport her into a different world and a couple of minutes later, the incident at the door is completely forgotten. The DJ is playing some awesome sets and the girls immediately get grooving. Music moves Sanam like nothing else does and she gives in to the sheer joy of the beats drumming into her soul.

  Dancing is fun, but also thirsty business. The girls move to the bar for martinis and vodkas. The bartender acknowledges their order with a smile and he turns away to reach for the bottles stacked behind him when a jab in his back and a string of filthy abuses make him swivel back to face the bar.

  ‘My whisky first, asshole!’

  ‘In a minute, sir, after the ladies.’

  However, the whisky-demanding lout mistakes professionalism for insulting behaviour and keeps up the tirade, demanding that he be served first.

  Sanam and her friends realize that it’s none other than the boor who had kicked up a fuss at the entrance door.

  Although Sanam’s friend resignedly gestures to the sorely beset bartender to serve the brute first, Sanam finds this wholly unacceptable and decides to step in.

  ‘Wait for your turn!’ she snaps at him, tapping his shoulder.

  He turns to her and leans in. Their red alerts pinging, Sanam’s friends nudge her to back
off. But it’s too late.

  ‘Did you say something, ma’am?’ His close-set, dark eyes bore into her.

  ‘This bar is for everybody, not exclusively for you!’ she stands her ground.

  He eyes her insultingly, first taking in her pretty face, her lips pursed in disapproval at the moment, then the flame-coloured, thigh-length dress on her slim figure and finally at her ankles strapped in delicate high heels. His scrutiny makes her recoil in disgust.

  ‘Average . . .’ he declares airily and his cronies snigger on cue.

  ‘How dare you!’ Sanam blazes.

  ‘Kya?’ he sneers. ‘Are you looking for a high score? Come on, then . . . come here,’ he leers at her.

  Sanam slaps him—a tight thwack across his smug macho grin.

  She is shaking with rage—never has she lost control like this before; but then again, never in her sheltered life has anyone misbehaved this way with her before. She knows about chauvinists and their misogynistic attitudes but she has never experienced it personally, until tonight.

  The evening has ended for her then and there. Sanam storms out of the pub, bristling, annoyed beyond belief that that godforsaken jerk has upset her mood. She is done with this tamasha.

  However, one has no control over the course of events in one’s life.

  The girls have just reached the portico of the hotel and one of them has summoned a valet to bring their car around when they hear another commotion. The sports shoe-wearing lout is hurrying down the stairs with his sidekicks, talking loudly; he reaches Sanam’s side, grabs her arm and swings her around to face him.

  ‘Aye, ladki! Do you know who I am? Haan? Chandrav Pandey, Bihar ka raja!’ Tightening his grip on her, he blabbers on. ‘Neta logon ko only salaam . . . get it, bitch? No one taught you this, huh? Salute your minister.’

  She is too shocked to react.

  He continues, ‘Sorry bol and get lost . . . you . . . Rita . . . no? Mita . . . no?’

  She struggles to extricate her arm from his grasp. He scratches his head in inebriated confusion and then exclaims, ‘Shit! I never asked you your name . . . did I? Aukat nahin itni . . . no, you’re not worth it . . . bitch!’

  Her friends surge forward to defuse the situation when Chandrav pulls out a nasty-looking revolver and waving it at the terrified girls, screams, ‘Aye . . . move back . . . move!’

  As soon as his attention switches to her friends, Sanam wrenches herself from his grip and steps back several paces to join her friends. She isn’t done yet and she barks, ‘Drunk on power you are, huh? You bloody ministers and their sons . . . that’s what you feed on!’

  ‘Haan . . . so?’ he shrugs off her insult, totally unaffected.

  ‘Who gave you this power, haan?’ Sanam is in full vitriolic mode now. ‘We did. Kyu? Why? To work . . . not to go flashing it.’

  Still waving his weapon, he steps in so close that she can smell his foul breath, ‘Aye ladki, first acquire some power, then talk, until then, bitch, hold your tongue!’ He then shoos her away with a dismissive wave of his hand before staggering back into the nightclub with his simpering chamcha coterie.

  Sanam stands rooted to the spot, feeling small and humiliated. But her brain is busy reflecting on the words that were just said to her. Her car has pulled in. As she is about to get into the car with her friends, something makes her turn around and run back to confront Chandrav who is halfway up the stairs. She says, ‘You’re right! Only power can puncture power . . . it’s all about power, you’re dead right!’

  Chandrav and his group smirk and gesture with a finger rotating at the temple to indicate that she has lost her mind.

  But Sanam is far from done. She is so deeply affected by his dismissive words that she seethes, ‘And haan . . . thank you for telling me where I stand and why. No one else has had the balls to tell me this! No one!’ As her group leads her away, she can be heard grumbling, ‘Power is what matters . . . nothing else . . . only power . . . and I have to become powerful . . . and I will . . . just wait and watch!’

  * * *

  One battle rages outside the house in Kashmir—between the security forces and the rebels (the rebels, many of whom are ironically the very people whose cause the security forces are supposedly defending). Another is being fought indoors—when the personal interests and thinking of those within the four walls clash. A third and far deadlier struggle occurs within the person, this one notorious for pulling in opposite directions, until driven to a conclusion. Aamir grapples with all three.

  Home after four years and everything indoors seems to have changed. Especially, Abbu. He is forever out and about. Ammi is also no longer the Ammi he knew. Okay, he’s quite used to her keeping him galaxies apart from their extended jumbo family of uncles, aunts and cousins, especially from Moeen—she has her reasons. But Abbu! Why was she raising a wall between them? What grievance against Abbu has she bottled up within her? And why Abbu, of all people? Doesn’t she know that Abbu is his idol? He was the one who had introduced Aamir to books, telling him that he could reach the skies if he so wished and then showing him how to do so. A schoolteacher, wedded to discipline and his Ammi, Abbu spends his free hours not with a hookah or kangri, but teaching poor kids in the madrasa. That’s where he says he is going this evening as well. Aamir follows him and finds him teaching as always. Only, the lessons don’t quite sound right. The man who taught Aamir right from wrong seems to be training these boys to pick up guns and stones! In that one moment, all that he has idolized Abbu for has been negated.

  When he returns home, Ammi sees the disillusionment reflected in his eyes. She serves him dinner without a word. She knows her son will not eat but says nothing. Aamir returns to his room, shattered. Abbu comes into his room that night and lingers by his bed. Although Ammi has not spoken to Aamir, she has said something to Abbu. The father now gently touches his son’s shoulder, who is pretending to be asleep.

  ‘Why?’ Abbu faces that unspoken question. With moist eyes he tells Aamir that two years ago the police had knocked at their door late one night. Although it has been quite some time ago, he still lives the nightmare every day. They drag him to the police station, supposedly to interrogate him. Instead, they beat him into accepting the false allegations and accusations of deeds perpetrated by zealots like Moeen and other locals. Those hours in the lock-up and the torture he had to endure has strained his moral fibre to breaking point. He begins to see things through Moeen’s eyes—the boy has been right, and he has been wrong all along. The next sunrise sees him doing all that he has told others not to do. Ammi tries to check this downslide, but his mind is now fixated on schooling the madrasa students to arm themselves against the kind of ill-treatment that he has personally undergone. The new syllabus includes jihad.

  Abbu leaves the room as soon as his story ends. Aamir’s world plunges into an abyss that is pitch black, darker than any night he has ever known. He tosses and turns in his bed. So this was why Ammi discouraged him from coming home from college. Just a bus ride away, yet Ammi had kept him away, always finding an excuse to postpone his homecoming.

  ‘When there is no sun, bring your own light!’ Abbu’s words, said years ago, echo in his mind. Flinging off the quilt, Aamir slips into his walking shoes and decides to take a walk to get his head around what his father has just said to him. The wind outside blows gustily around. Only the silhouettes of the trees, rocks and concrete structures are visible. Aamir walks heavy-hearted, weighing his options, now that he is faced with a new reality.

  He wants to study further. But who will keep the home fires burning? Abbu no longer has his government school job. They have been surviving on his meagre savings and the tuitions he gives at home, which are scant to begin with in Kupwara. Ammi was right in wanting her son to be away from Kupwara. What befell Abbu can happen to him tomorrow. But should he leave his parents alone here? By relocating to Kupwara, Aamir wasn’t going to be able to help his parents much because the limited opportunities in the area meant that thei
r circumstances would not improve so easily; therefore, it will be best that he acquire the wherewithal to improve his earning capacity first. A high-profile and well-paying job can elevate him to a position of advantage. That requires an MBA from a reputed college in Srinagar or beyond. But should he go for it right away or work for a year or two to stabilize things at home first? Night ripens into dawn, leaving the last question unanswered.

  The morning sunshine slants inside the house as the men sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor and Ammi serves breakfast. Aamir tells his family of his plans to do a MBA, without which his chances of getting a good job are bleak. There are truckloads of graduates floating around in Kupwara, Anantnag and the neighbouring towns. Casual labour is the only thing that comes their way. Srinagar is no better. Aamir describes how he has seen post-graduates ending up as ward boys and office clerks in the government medical college. The question remains: should he scout for a job first and postpone his MBA? Or should he get the degree first and then go job-hunting?

  Ammi favours the MBA plan. Aamir knows that her emotions are driving her—she wants him as far away from here as possible, and fast. But running away never gets you anywhere. He turns to Abbu. The old man advises him to keep his options open and take whichever comes first. This makes sense. Aamir nods.

  In the evening, Aamir is at his laptop with multiple windows open. He has selected the colleges. Now he has to fill out the online forms. He has updated his LinkedIn profile and his CV on the local job boards as well. He has even bookmarked a job opening that caught his eye. Now, it is a toss up between whether he should complete the Delhi University’s (DU) online form first or apply for that job? Aamir needs to decide quickly. Internet connectivity in Kashmir is intermittent and unreliable.

  Abbu walks into the room just then. A smile lights up his weathered face, softening the ravages of age and stress. Placing a hand on his son’s head, he informs him that he has managed to find him a job in the top local hotel, very popular with the few tourists who still visited. They’ll see if he fits in at the front desk or else absorb him into the housekeeping section.