Kashmir- The Bruised Wife

by Pallavi Sareen (India)

I didn't expect to find India

The eerie silence surrounded me as soon as I crossed the Jawahar Tunnel for the first time. Kashmir – it was so serene. You could think a lot there and write a lot. Even weep a lot, if you thought too deep. The view of the picturesque valley became overshadowed only by the military presence. The air changed on the other side, not only because it got colder but because you wonder about all the stories which never got told. I crossed Lal Chowk on my way to the hotel and didn’t expect to find barbed wire around a harmless watchtower. Where could a watchtower move that it needed restraining? This showed the realities of the place. Such futile attempts had often been made there, to control the uncontrollable. How naive of one to think that they could bind time and bend it to will. Yet, for the group of people sitting, waiting around it, looking with curious eyes at passer-by even in the middle of the night, it was hope. Hope that their time will inevitably change despite such futile actions. After August 5, when Kashmir went into lockdown mode, everything changed. The same people who welcomed tourists with welcoming eyes now eyed the number plate of my car, noticed my dark skin and their eyes seemed to be asking – ‘Are you an Indian?’ When you heard about Kashmir before, you heard of its beauty or its zero crime rate against tourists or of the human rights violations. Suddenly, the narrative had changed. What no one talked about before was the only thing being talked about — the everyday problems – the traffic congestion, the non-metalled roads, the barren faces of people after 6 O’ clock, the empty shops, the fast-food void and the familiar faces in unfamiliar accents repeating the words the country wished for them to speak if they didn’t want to be demonised. When I talked to Reyaz, the Shikara-owner as he rowed through Dal Lake , he told me “Kashmir is like no place else.” I believe Kashmir revels in the glory of being different than the places it could have been. But that doesn’t wash off the blood of those who died dreaming of an unachievable freedom. Rukaiyya Begum sat near Dal Lake with me saddened over the absence of crowds watching vendors sit on the footpath even at midnight. Dal Lake was its most beautiful during the night with boats lit up with multi-coloured lights and their reflections swirling in the calm water. Only, it was used to awe-struck spectators which were suddenly missing from the scene. “Sometimes this place feels like a beautiful bride subjected to domestic violence. That’s how I see the conflict inside it. People are emotional and mistrusting of everyone but it is due to the fear and pain,” she said. They were afraid to speak, to open up with anyone they did not consider as their own. Gazing at the tranquil lake I realised that if you looked far away, the scene was mesmerising but a closer view at the water made you realize how filthy it actually was. Rukaiyya’s analogy made me perceive the situation similarly. I viewed Kashmir as if she was the second wife of a country and everyone was so busy disputing the legalities of the marriage that no one noticed her bruises, or her tears. And so sometimes she erupted into fits of rage, crying for attention, asking people to look at her, talk to her instead of talking about her. But the world was too busy looking at the husband she was tied to, and the first wife who once shared the same home and now wanted to separate the two out of spite. But history is history. And legalities were not going to heal the bruises. Only time would tell whether peace would ever enter Kashmir through the Jawahar Tunnel, never to leave again.