Recently two innocent civilians were killed and two others were injured in Kashmir when the Indian Army fired on them. Basharat Ali writes a fictional, but emotional piece, on the rampant killings in Kashmir.
My friend, did the news of my murder reach you?
Yes, I am killed, yesterday, tomorrow, day before yesterday or day after tomorrow. In Budgam. In Baramulla or Banihal. I am your friend. Somebody from somewhere, anywhere in Kashmir. I am killed. I remember it exactly. I remember my death. I remember the face of my killer, his clothes and his weapon. I know his intention. I know him. He is in Kashmir, everywhere.
So I leave my home, with the battery of my phone half-charged. I tell my girl I can’t Whatsapp her for some time as I am going out. My younger cousin joins me. He is to get his haircut. Another one follows. He just needs the drive. One more, the youngest, wants to come along for something, anything. When cousins are together it is fun. Isn’t it? Music is loud and there are too many jokes.
So we are in the car.
We cross the marketplace carefully, safely. It is alive with commuters and traffic. There is no curfew. There is a usual rush at the barbeque stall at the corner of the curve on the road. We drive past fast to avoid the temptation. Ahead, under the shade of that mighty chinar, the smell of aloo munje (no, French fries stand nowhere in comparison) makes the air erotic. We take for Rs100 worth. Four packets, Rs. 25 each, with chutni added.
Some half a kilometer away, near the revered shrine, we lower the volume of the music player. We drive fast and see a military camp from a distance. Since it is day time, we are not supposed to play with the lights. We are not on foot, there is no need to raise our pherans. Aloo munje taste sumptuous, by the way. We don’t talk to each other. We eat fast so that we can eat more from another’s share. I don’t know what is happening on the road. We just drive.
The music plays on but there is silence. Our car hits the poplar tree by the roadside. I don’t exactly remember how many rounds they fire. But they fire and fire and keep firing. It is red. There is blood. There is glass. My blood and glass. My cousin’s blood and glass. My cousin’s blood and glass. My cousin’s blood and glass. Our blood and glass.
I look back from the rear window. We are still the aim. They hit the bull’s eye, the shooters, but we still are the aim. I die there, looking at them, my killers. I know them, all of them. I see them every day. I know they don’t belong here. I know they are not us, they are some other.
They fire at us because they can; because they have the power to do so; because they have the gun in their hands. They fire at us because that is what they are meant to do; because that is what they are here for; because that is what keeps them here. The day they don’t fire, they won’t be here. The day they won’t be here, means we have won; without firing back, without killing them.
I lie there, dead. I don’t see anything now, but I see everything. They don’t let people come near our car. They think it would soon explode. They had aimed at the tank too. They have missed it. The car won’t explode reducing us to nothingness. We are identifiable. We can’t be labeled as terrorists now.
People all around begin chanting slogans, that’s the best thing we do in Kashmir. We have slogans for everything, from power cut to Azaadi, from death to victory. They finally come close. My body moves out in some hands, carefully. I drop my slippers and my phone inside the car.
My friend, please go to my home and tell someone there to get back my slippers from the car. Or bring them yourself. Remember. Remember, don’t tell my mother about them. She is possessive about my belongings. She cannot see my slippers drenched in stale blood. She will go mad. Don’t even tell my father. He will hold them close to his chest and start crying all over again. Please bring back my slippers from the car, wash them and keep them on the shoe rack outside.
Please don’t touch my phone after you pick it up. Destroy it. I don’t want it to exist after me. Don’t open anything on it. And especially not Whatsapp. “Please come back soon and message me”, or something like this must be there. She too, like my mother, is possessive about me. I don’t want you or anyone to see all this. Burn it down.
This is not the detail of my death, my friend. It is tale of my existence, my reality. They kill and then apologize. They kill again and apologize. I will be shot again, they will apologize again, tomorrow and day after tomorrow. Inside my car or on the roadside, in some far off jungle or in my own orchard. I will be killed again. But one day, some day, I will live forever. Free. In freedom. Till then, live and die. Die and live.
