The City and the Siege

There is a profound sadness that hangs over Srinagar, the particularly piercing sadness of war that is yet to end, writes Majid Maqbool.

 

“It was a dark time and everywhere the soldiers
had made sure we were thirsty for their garrisoned water.”

—Agha Shahid Ali, Call me Ishmael Tonight

 

Kashmir is a sad place. There is sadness in the stories people recount, in the lives they live, in their personal histories, and in the regret for lives that they should have lived but couldn’t. There is sadness, and fear, for a future that might not be different from the present. There is sadness, for being a witness to a blood-soaked past, replete with pain, injustices, and death of the beloved. There is sadness, for promises not kept. There is sadness, for having lived among people whose loved ones were subjected to enforced disappearances, some tortured, others killed. It is this collective sadness that lends a sorrowful aura to Kashmir. Memories come in the way of happiness here; past rushes onto the present. And sorrow, like that ubiquitous bunker on the street, seems to have found a permanent home in Kashmir.

The wounded architecture of Srinagar city is saddening. Burnt buildings, abandoned remnants of encounter sites evoke a particularly piercing sadness—of war that is yet to end. Blackened, charred wood in place of windows; damaged walls, sprinkled with bullets; exposed bricks, punctured with bullet holes. All these destroyed buildings—once people’s homes, public offices, shops—are devoid of life now. So are the houses of Kashmiri Pandits, some abandoned, some in ruins, without windows and doors, as if perpetually waiting for their inhabitants.

All these disfigured, burnt, abandoned structures act as building blocks of sadness. They stand testimony to a blood soaked past. New buildings get erected in their place, but the sadness remains, forever locked in these sites. And the memories of the wounds remain, intact. Kashmir’s past—every Kashmiri’s past for that matter—is a powder keg of unresolved memories and immense pain that refuses to subside by forgetting. Even a little remembrance can explode these memories.

It is this collective sadness that lends a sorrowful aura to Kashmir. Memories come in the way of happiness here; past rushes onto the present. And sorrow, like that ubiquitous bunker on the street, seems to have found a permanent home in Kashmir.

There is sadness on the faces of the omnipresent troops, as if they want to go back to where they came from, but can’t out of fear of disobeying orders from their generals and officers, who live far from these harsh realities on ground. Guns slung across their shoulder, a few metres away from each other, their anxious presence adds to the collective sadness of the city. They remind us of what we have lost, of what they have lost too, despite their dominant, authoritative presence. They remind us of what is taken away from us. They, we are told, are here to “protect” us, keep us safe! Innumerable barricades carrying short messages painted in capital red letters on a white background are kept on the streets: “Your cooperation is solicited.” “Your safety is our concern.” “Peace keepers of the nation.”

Kashmir’s ambassador of pain, the poet Agha Shahid Ali, the beloved witness:

If home is found on both sides of the globe,
home is of course here—and always a missed land.

 

People there are helpful but they don’t smile,” wrote a writer who had visited Srinagar for the first time some years ago. Where does this sadness stem from? Is there a wellspring of sadness that refuses to be exhausted, pouring out of all corners of the city? It’s difficult to reconcile with a troubled past, look ahead as if nothing happened, and live a peaceful life. It is difficult to foresee a future that has no place for the memories of the past. You can forgive—or can you?—but you cannot forget.

There is sadness on the faces of the omnipresent troops, as if they want to go back to where they came from, but can’t out of fear of disobeying orders from their generals and officers, who live far from these harsh realities on ground. Guns slung across their shoulder, a few metres away from each other, their anxious presence adds to the collective sadness of the city.

Behind the joyous shouts and protests for freedom, which are sought to be repressed, there’s sadness. Sadness, for example, in the life an old man I met in a cricket ground in the Srinagar city during the summer 2008 civil uprising during which over 50 unarmed people were killed by the government forces. His brother and his son could not survive the turbulent nineties. He knew what sadness meant. Travelling all the way from his hometown in north Kashmir, he joined a sea of people that poured into the ground on that humid summer day. Only one cry rang into the sky—Azadi! He too put his arms up, shouting for azadi. For every collective shout of Hum kya chahte that reverberated in the air, he seconded—Azadi! And he waited for his leaders, who struggled to speak in once voice what he felt.

Although doubt was palpable in the fractured voice of leaders that addressed people assembled in the ground that day, there was no doubt in the old man’s mind. He can never forget his son, his brother, and how they were snatched from him. That’s why he came that day, having walked several miles on foot. He came to mark his presence, to respect the beloved memory of his loved ones. They are dead, but they live on in his memories. They were killed, he told me, his words drowning in the din of freedom slogans that reverberated throughout the city that day.

Sitting beside me in the middle of the ground, surrounded by thousands of people of all age groups, he seemed momentarily lost in his thoughts. Turning towards me, looking intently into my eyes, he said, “My son was young…like you…when he was killed…” I said nothing; I just looked down, speechless.

Where does this sadness stem from? Is there a wellspring of sadness that refuses to be exhausted, pouring out of all corners of the city? It’s difficult to reconcile with a troubled past, look ahead as if nothing happened, and live a peaceful life. It is difficult to foresee a future that has no place for the memories of the past.

“Enough young people have died in Kashmir,” he went on after a brief, thoughtful pause. Then he looked away into the distance. The ground kept swelling with people. His spirits rose. His eyes welled up.

 

With the onset of harsh winter in Kashmir, the idea of leaving home and staying in Delhi, where my brother is based, suddenly sounds appealing. Bereft of leaves at the end of autumn, the naked chinar trees lining both sides of the city streets are reduced to a shadow of their earlier, majestic self in the colder months of late November and December. The exposed nests in their massive branches and the eagles hovering in the grey skies signal a session of decay. The days get shorter, streets emptied of people who prefer to stay away in the warmth of their houses. Nothing much happens. A sense of desolation grips the city landscape. The uninspiring, ever colder months ahead, this long wait for the promise of a faraway spring fills me with a longing to depart, at least till the passing of this punishing, gloomy season. I leave home to find peace and meaning in another city.

And yet, even when I am away, after a few weeks, the dilapidated, dusty, potholed streets of Srinagar, which seemed uninspiring, even evoking disgust at times, suddenly appeal to the nostalgia of missing home. You want to go back—to make peace with your city of unrest.

The days get shorter, streets emptied of people who prefer to stay away in the warmth of their houses. Nothing much happens. A sense of desolation grips the city landscape. The uninspiring, ever colder months ahead, this long wait for the promise of a faraway spring fills me with a longing to depart, at least till the passing of this punishing, gloomy season.

Sometimes, in another city, a casual notice triggers the remembrance of all that is wrong with your own city. Spotting an occasional military truck zooming past a road in Delhi, for example, brings back all those dreaded, inescapable memories of a militarised home, of my city that appears to be forever in a quiet, agreeable siege. At home, the presence of troops patrolling the city streets has come to be accepted as an everyday reality. It is as if they arrest the streets from the people who cannot walk freely on their streets anymore, always mindful of the presence of troops, always waiting for the military convoys to pass by. The mere sight of a single military vehicle, away from home, stirs a raging hornet of unresolved memories.

There is no running away from such memories. No easy escape. They come back in quieter hours, rushing back a troubled childhood, and all those youthful years lived amidst the siege—of army camps and crackdowns and identification parades and bunkers and convoys and guns pointing out from the peepholes of sandbag bunkers dotting the city streets.

In Delhi, I always think of Srinagar, my beloved and bruised city of sadness. The probing searchlights zooming out of military camps and bunkers, the checkpoints and guns and barricades and the barbed wire that grows out of military camps, guarding those who want to be left alone, not forcefully protected against their will. I think of my city, where the fear of the unknown is palpable and the question of who will pull the trigger next, and if tomorrow will bring any cheer, cannot be answered with certainty. But I still hope, for the promise of an unpredictable tomorrow, for the many possibilities of a better tomorrow that might not be as bleak as our present, or our past fast forwarded into our present.

There is no running away from such memories. No easy escape. They come back in quieter hours, rushing back a troubled childhood, and all those youthful years lived amidst the siege

Because hope is the only thing left now. We can’t afford to lose hope.