Going South

by Ishaq Bhat (India)

A leap into the unknown India

Struggling to find the right frame I always dreamed of as a filmmaker and working restlessly behind pretensive cameras for seven winters, away from home, a production house in Mumbai fired me in December last year. I took an early morning flight to home. Two hours in air when the time for descent came, the pilot struggled because of dense fog. A common hazard in winters. But frequent warnings from cockpit worried everyone. I peeped through the window. Somehow, I was also sure that we are going to crash. As instructed by a gorgeous airhostess in blue skirt which was complimented by a white top, I pulled life jacket from below my seat. I skimmed through the emergency landing procedures. The passenger next to me was reciting verses from The Holy Quran, seeking salvation and forgiveness for his sins. With every announcement, panic was growing. Some moments had passed when I felt couple of jolts. This was it? I thought both the engines had failed and we were at the mercy of God. But the aircraft halted. ‘Welcome to Srinagar,” the pilot announced, “Due to security reasons, photography is prohibited.” It was a hazy, freezing morning. I often wonder how flocks of migratory birds manage to fly to this part of the world when even the rays of sun struggle to find way into this godforsaken land. I took a prepaid taxi to home, in the ‘Troubled South’. In this part of the world, ‘Going South’ seems more adventurous than Nestro Almendros’s late nineties action film. It is an fascinating ride through vast saffron fields in the lap of snowclad mountains obscured by countless army wagons and security checkpoints. Luckily, on the way, I got a chance to visit Uncle Sam, one of my father’s friend. Entering Uncle Sam’s premise in itself is an adventure. It is like crossing the treacherous Line of Control (LOC) that cuts Kashmir into two. Once you reach the entrance, two German Shepherds fancy tasting a bite of you. Or so I thought! Scarier was the noticeboard hanging besides the gate: ‘Be Aware of Dogs.’ It reminded me of a very popular quote scribbled in Urdu on every local bus that runs in Kashmir. ‘Sawari apne saamaan ki khud zimaidaar hogi (Passenger is solely responsible for their belongings). I rang the bell. After what seemed like lightyears had passed, someone peeped through a small window of the gate, similar to the one at Tihar Jail entrance gate. Oh! Jaan sahib, thair sa (Oh! It is you dear, wait). It was Uncle Sam’s caretaker, Samad Kak, and his age-old way of welcoming guests. Once I stepped in, it looked more like zoo than house. Like Uncle Sam’s loyal soldiers, flocks of swans, ducks, pigeons and chickens, and even a couple of filthy ponds appeared to be scrutinizing me. Uncle Sam is feeding his favorite pigeon, ‘Jiger’ but an unusually colorful bird is caged besides ‘Jiger’. Before Uncle Sam asked how my ‘film-life’ was going, I prevaricated. “I have never seen this bird before,” I asked. “Oh! It is the National Bird of Pakistan (Chakur),” he replied. “Woho! National Bird. I feel like meeting all my friends living there.” “Yes! These birds migrate to Kashmir during winters. It’s an evasive bird for most hunters because of its surgical upward flight. It disappears in bushes and camouflages itself so beautifully that it is difficult to figure it out,” Uncle said. He told me he had six such creatures. All of them in cages! “What are you thinking? You did not tell me what you are here for?” “For these birds,” I replied, without thinking. “What are you going to do with them?” “Set them free,” I continued. “Are you out of your mind. I brought these for 6000 bucks. It’s like dream come true to have them in cages,” he said. ‘I will not visit for six years, one year each for every bird, if you let them go’ He paused for a moment. I tried emotional cards and even offered to pay what he had spent for buying them. But nothing worked. I failed to melt his heart of steel. Dejected, I left the premises.