Tears of Jhelum

By Anita Krishan

Kashmir has seen long years of strife and turmoil and Wali Mohammad Khan has been a silent witness to it all. The violence that terrorism unleashed in the Valley was every bit as senseless as the men who propagated it with manic intensity, but Wali managed to create a seemingly normal life for himself and his family within the protective walls of his home, na vely believing that the madness beyond would never touch them. But Wali's illusions get shattered when a ghost from his past returns to bring the insanity of terrorism right into his home, threatening everything he holds dear. Tears of Jhelum lays bare before us, the story of one of those victims of terrorism, whose heartbreaking stories are otherwise lost forever behind the smokescreen of apathy and indifference.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9788172345105

Book preview

August 4, 2006

11:00 a.m.

Srinagar

The houseboat rocked gently in the mild breeze. Not a soul was visible except Wali who sat alone on the steps of the houseboat. Even from a distance, one could see his anxiety. His brow was creased into deep furrows, his lips were pressed tight accentuating his grim visage, and he was breathing with great effort. His life had turned upside down all of a sudden, and he was feeling as helpless as a mouse caught in a cat’s mouth.

Life had been so simple, so much at ease until yesterday. But a sudden icy blizzard had struck him now, catching him totally unawares. How will I bail out from this dreadful trap? Will I bail out at all?

The soothing breeze, the shimmering waters of the Dal Lake, the riot of green on the bank, the profusion of aquatic flowers . . . everything was like a blank canvas.

His agitated mind was singularly focussed on his trauma. How I wish a time machine actually existed and I could reverse time by one day, just one day. I want to erase the events of last evening from my life forever . . . events that have buried me under their crushing weight and are threatening to finish me! Where’s the time now to plan things carefully and find a safe way out? The escape plan that I have so hurriedly hatched, has very slim chances of success. After all, can an unarmed man really match four AK47-wielding men? Oh, I am doomed!

Life in my strife-torn Kashmir has never been easy, but now, after years of relentless turbulence, it’s worse still. Terrorist strikes, army excesses, political rivalries, peoples’ agitations, calls for Azaadi, cross-border conflicts . . . everything has added up to making us feel increasingly insecure. The soil of this Valley is red with futile bloodshed, and the waters of Jhelum are soiled with tears of pain. Peace has remained shattered and broken, like the debris of a house that was bombed . . .

A bee buzzed around Wali’s head, breaking his chain of thoughts. He waved it away irritably, but it returned to pester him.

These terrorists . . . they are the nasty assassins of peace. But, can anyone even dare think about expressing such a view openly? No! I’ve kept my distance from the agitation and the futile aggression, but the merciless butchery of the mild and gentle Pandits has aggrieved me immensely. If only someone could guarantee the safety of my family, I would be the loudest in voicing protest. I have the blood of a rationalist in my veins and I would uphold my Kashmiriyat, if I could . . . But the very thing I was trying to avoid all this while is now right here, inside my house. Wali sighed deeply, the pain in his voice reverberating through the air. My survival is at stake now, and the lives of my loved ones are in danger. Ya Allah, assure me our survival tonight.

Unnoticed by him, the sun had continued its journey across the sky. It warmed him now, and he raised his head in surprise to gaze at it in the azure noon sky. There was not a cloud in sight and he wondered when the monsoon would arrive in the valley. It was already late this year. He needed the rain for his orchard, for the fruit to ripen and turn juicier. But how does that matter now? In all probability, I won’t get to taste this year’s pick at all. The thought added another layer of gloom in his heart.

A sudden choppy movement in the waters of the lake broke his reverie. He raised his head in alarm; like a hunted prey. He didn’t have a complete view of the lake from where he sat. Only a narrow channel of water along the bank was visible to him. Beyond that, he could see the vast marsh, overgrown with reeds, at the end of which the land rose into the lush green undulating peaks of the Zabarwan Hills.

He sprang to his feet to check the cause for the turbulence. His lean and stately six-foot stature sagged today as if he was carrying a heavy load on his back. His eyes, normally open and expressive, appeared fearful and tired. A thousand worry lines had appeared on his face, and had he looked at himself in a mirror, he would’ve been shocked at how much he had aged in half a day.

He walked down the narrow passage of the houseboat towards the foredeck, in quick nervous strides, and suddenly stopped short. A few steps more and he would have been fully exposed to whoever was approaching the houseboat. That could have been disastrous.

He now saw the prow of a boat rounding the curve at a painfully slow pace. Wasim Bhai can’t return so soon. He left barely an hour ago. He couldn’t possibly have finished the work already.

When the boat drew nearer, Wali saw the colourful trimmings that adorned its canvas roof and realised that it was one of those fancy shikaras meant for tourists. Wasim wouldn’t hire such a showy shikara to return to the houseboat. In fact, he didn’t even know if Wasim was going to use the waterway or the hidden passage running through the reeds while coming back. He had forgotten to ask him about that.

The advancing shikara sent his heart trembling with fear and anxiety. Who would be interested in this remote part of the lake? It could only be the villains he was trying to evade. He turned to rush inside the houseboat, but paused. Those devils wouldn’t hire such a shikara. It is too extravagant for their purpose. It is an ordinary, modest boat I should be wary of. He continued his scrutiny of the shikara and began to relax as he spotted the European tourists in it, out to enjoy a leisurely cruise on the lake. One of them aimed his camera at him and Wali turned his face away in annoyance. Why does he want to click a picture of a distressed man? But his irritation instantly turned into envy. How he wished he too, could be drifting through the Dal Lake like them, freely and without any fear. He yearned to change places with the cameraman and click a hundred photographs of the enchanted landscape. I should be happy that tourists have begun to flock to the Valley once again, Wali thought to himself. The Valley needed them desperately. For years there hadn’t been many. The fear of the terrorists had been keeping them away . . ."

Reaching a water channel halfway between the bank and the houseboat, the shikara began to change its course, and as the skilled boatman manoeuvred the boat around the curve and into a narrow inlet, Wali was left alone to his uneasy peace and solitude once again. A snake-like head emerged out of the water now. A darter. It was swaying its long blackish-brown neck to and fro and swimming in circles, hunting for its prey. He watched the bird with indifference as it suddenly dipped into the water and came out a moment later, this time, with a struggling fish caught tightly in its pointed, dagger-like bill. The fish was then shaken off, tossed into the air, and was caught once again between the mandibles of the bird. As the darter began to swallow its prey, head first, Wali couldn’t help but draw a similarity between his own self and the helpless fish. I too, am a struggling fish caught in a terrible hook, and someone is impatient to swallow me alive . . ."

There was a strange lull all around now that the shikara was completely out of sight and the darter had swum away. Wali slowly returned to sit on the steps of the houseboat. His thoughts resumed their voyage. He had barely twelve hours to save his family from being ruined, and with each passing minute, his agitation was on the increase.

His throat soon felt like a dried up stick. He continued to sit limply and tried swallowing his saliva, but that gave him no relief. Reluctantly, he pushed up his body with an effort, like an old man, and walked inside to find water. He needed it as much to soothe his anxiety as to bring relief to his parched throat.

Wasim had left a large flask filled with water on the dining table. Wali picked up a glass from the crockery cabinet in the room, but as he poured water into the glass, his hand wobbled and he spilled water on the table. I am losing control. Shaking his head dejectedly, he wiped the table with his handkerchief and then drained the whole glass of water in one go. Leaving the glass on the dining table, he walked into the bedroom, aimlessly, for he had hours to kill and in his present state, it was an onerous task.

There was nothing much of interest in the bedroom, except a comfortable-looking double bed. Wali moved towards one of the windows in the room and shifted the curtain aside to peep out. The glistening waters of the vast lake were a welcome sight. There was more activity on this side of the lake, with a number of boats and shikaras plying back and forth with local people and a handful of tourists. He could also spot boats laden with vegetables, indigenous craftwork, and other knick-knacks as they trawled through the lake in search of prospective buyers. His gaze moved further ahead and halted at the famous Char Chinar—a clump of four massive chinar trees on an island in the middle of the lake. The trees were a lush green right now, but very soon, they would change colours and go from flaming yellow to warm russet and red in autumn. He loved the chinars in their fiery shroud.

Beyond the lake, his gaze travelled up the low hills that surrounded the valley and then stopped abruptly at a distant point on a small hillock. He spotted his double-storey house, with its slanting green roof, half-hidden by his terraced orchards. The sight sent a shaft of sudden pain through his heart. The trees are laden with fruits ready to be picked and sold in about a month and a half . . . Will I be able to come back well in time to see to the proper packing of the fruits? Wali had his doubts. But he knew he could depend on Abdul for it. After all, Abdul was his most trusted man. He had worked with him for more than two decades now, and had never given him a chance to doubt his integrity.

Abdul too will have to leave the town. He isn’t aware of the situation yet, but his life will be in grave danger if he stays back. How will he react to the idea of being uprooted from his native land? Wali wrung his hands in nervous helplessness.

It wouldn’t be too difficult for Abdul to leave, however. He had lost his wife a few years ago and his daughters were happily married and busy raising their families. He didn’t have anything tying him down really. He spent almost all his time with Wali and his family and had become like a family member himself.

Wali remembered those early days when he had just purchased the orchard and Abdul was his first employee. His resources had been exhausted in buying the land and he couldn’t have afforded to hire more help. Abdul, a young sturdy man then, had slogged day and night along with him to plant the orchard. Wali had been impressed by his sincerity and diligence. And Abdul hadn’t changed much, except that he looked an old man now, a man wrinkled and baked in the sun.

Wali’s orchard was his cherished treasure, his life’s ambition. He had quit his job to devote his time and attention to it in entirety. He had painfully and carefully selected each of the four hundred saplings that made up the orchard. He had had to wage a continuous battle against hail, frost, and pests to save the delicate saplings. He had nurtured the trees like his own children, showering them with fatherly tenderness and devotion. The first time the trees had borne fruit, he couldn’t contain his happiness. It was like the pride of a father whose child had brought him laurels. And like a loving and obedient child, never had his orchard failed him. Year after year, it had given him considerable earnings. But now, this swarm of locusts has descended on my trees and is threatening instant ruin. My treasured orchard, my labour of years, will simply be wasted. I cannot let that happen! I will have to hand over my orchard to Wasim Bhai for safe keeping. But he is a busy man. It is not right to burden him with added responsibilities. The orchard will have to be given to someone on contract, though that would be quite a loss. These contractors are a deceitful lot, always out to make extra money by cheating. But is there a choice?

And the house! What will become of my house? Wali gazed wistfully at his house from across the lake. He had constructed this house on Abba Jaan’s insistence, exactly twenty-three years ago. Sakina had been expecting their second child at the time, their Meher.

We need a bigger house now, Wali, Abba Jaan had said. My grandchildren will need some space to grow up in. And what am I going to do with the money in the bank? You are my only son, my biggest asset. I have full faith that you will not let us starve. What else do we want at this point in our lives anyway? Perhaps we would like to go for Hajj one day. For that, I will keep aside a little money . . . the rest will come once the orchard begins to bear fruit.

After Abba Jaan had retired as the District Educational Officer, they had been required to vacate the government quarter they had been living in until then and move into a rented house. It was then that Abba Jaan had decided to start the construction of a house of their own. He sold the small piece of land he owned in their ancestral village and along with his other savings—his gratuity and the provident fund—and Wali’s savings from his first job as the supervisor of a carpet factory, they had managed to buy the land where their house now stood.

Wali let the curtain drop and moved away from the window. He came and sat on the bed. The memory of Abba Jaan had brought tears to his eyes. He missed him so much. Never before had he felt such an intense need to have his father present by his side. Abba Jaan was the epitome of strength and courage . . . and here I am, his son, a pathetic specimen of spinelessness. That wretch has emasculated me and rendered me powerless . . . like an animal caught in a snare. Would he have dared to do so in front of Abba Jaan? No. He would’ve been thrown out like a rat if Abba Jaan was still here. And what have I done? I’ve found myself a hole to hide in.

Wali’s brimming emotions now found their way out through unrestrained tears. He didn’t try to stop them; he cried until the painful lump in his throat had eased a little.

He got up, washed his face, and returning to the window, he gazed longingly at his house once again. Abba Jaan died a little too soon. I am about to surrender almost all my assets without any surety that I will ever get them back. But am I doing the right thing? Should I dump everythingand run away like this? Would Abba Jaan have figured out a better way to escape all of this? I desperately need advice, but he is beyond reach . . .

Last evening, a hasty and impulsive reaction would have been stupid and fatal, especially in front of a man like Hashim. Shakeel has certainly brought him along to frighten us into submission . . . Perhaps, what I am doing is the right thing. Wisdom lies not in challenging the mean-minded, but in outsmarting them. Discretion is the better part of valour, after all. A fraction of Wali’s self-esteem restored itself with this thought. He had to take his family to a safe place, and he had to go to Salim. He had no choice.

But he had certain reservations about going to his son and demanding permanent shelter. If I were not guilty of treating his wife so shabbily, I wouldn’t have had any qualms about going to him unannounced. I’ve been mean and spiteful towards Subina just because she belonged to a different religion. Abba Jaan was so liberal in his thinking, but I have been such a contrast. He told me often enough that we are all His children and if He wanted any differences between us, He would have made us different.

And despite being exposed to such teachings all my life, I have acted on a petty whim, like a fool. A person should avoid doing things which he will no doubt regret someday, for nothing is more painful than repentance. Didn’t Abba Jaan say that one must make amends before it is too late, or forever carry the heavy burden of remorse right to one’s very grave?

Is it too late for me to make amends now? Wali wondered, regret and repentance closing in around him like fetters. Allah, please allow me the time to atone my sins. Let me live to bestow upon Subina the affection she deserves, he prayed.

I have been blind. No, I have pretended to be blind to her noble qualities all this while. But in spite of everything that I have done and said to hurt her, I am convinced that in this hour of need, she will welcome us with open arms . . .

With nothing to do but wait, Wali felt time slow down even as he desperately wished for it to move faster and reveal to him what destiny had in store for him and his family.

Alas! Time would never move at one’s behest. And as the idle and restless hours spun out before him, events from his past began to haunt him. Snippets of memories came in flashes—at times rankling and at times pleasing. Wali didn’t resist; instead, he welcomed the past and floated away along the gentle currents of his reminiscences.

It was the summer of 2003, and it was his son’s wedding.

He had ignored the celebrations of the previous night as well, when, as was the custom of the mehndi raat, Salim’s small finger had been covered with henna and then wrapped in paper currency to declare him as the groom-to-be. A few close relatives and some of Salim’s friends had attended the function, and there had been music and dancing till late into the night. He had joined in only for a short while at dinner, sitting impassively, refusing to talk to anyone, and openly exhibiting his total lack of interest in the goings-on. Dinner over, he had instantly retreated to his room where he had lain awake for hours, listening to the sounds of revelry coming from below.

The morning of Salim’s nikaah, the house was bursting with guests. Everyone appeared happy; everyone, except Wali. With whose permission has Salim invited so many people, especially my friends, when I have specifically told you all that I won’t be attending the nikaah ceremony? He complained to Sakina when she made the tenth trip to their bedroom to check on him and to see if her endless pleading since morning had had any effect on his inflexible demeanour.

What has happened cannot be reverted. The guests have arrived and they can’t be asked to leave now. Sakina had made an effort to not sound annoyed, even though, on this morning, her endurance had probably reached its limit after months of constant bickering and unremitting opinion clashes in the house. Softening her tone, she tried pacifying her husband, It is our son’s nikaah today and all we need to do is pray to Allah that everything goes well in his life. Why don’t you join the guests downstairs? Refreshments are being served and you are being missed. Wasim Bhai has also arrived and he has been enquiring about you.

But even the arrival of his favourite cousin could not lure him to go down. I don’t feel like meeting anyone. I am fine in my room. It is Salim’s show, so let him handle it. He had spoken rather belligerently.

Sakina had pleaded again, "If you don’t want to join in now, that’s all right. But at least get ready to go to the dargah?"

He had remained unyielding. What kind of a nikaah is this where the bride’s family is missing and Salim’s friend is acting as her guardian instead? It appears to be more of a staged show than a real wedding. I don’t want to be a part of this suspicious business. Now leave me alone and go!

Meher had entered their room at this point and had overheard his grumbling. "Abbu, please be supportive. It’s Salim Bhai’s nikaah! Please get ready to go to the dargah. We are leaving in ten minutes."

I am not stopping anyone from going, am I? But I will be more comfortable at home, so I am staying back. He had stood his ground.

That is not possible, Abbu. You will be the main witness at the nikaah. You can’t abandon Bhai at this very last moment! Come on Abbu ji, get dressed. Look, Ammi has even ironed and kept your clothes ready. You can’t act like a stubborn child. Now hurry up! We are not leaving without you. Meher had then held out her hands to coax him out of his chair, but he had continued to sit inert, still not making any effort to get up and get dressed. Finally, Meher had spoken exasperatedly, Abbu ji, stop sulking! It is a very important occasion for Bhai Jaan and you cannot act like this! She had turned to her mother then and said, Come Ammi, let him get dressed. Abbu ji, we are waiting for you downstairs. Be there in ten minutes. She had spoken like an army general, leaving him no chance to brood any further. Dragging her mother out with her, Meher had left the room in an angry huff. He had no choice then, but to relent because he didn’t have the heart to upset Meher.

Meher had been right. I had really behaved like a stubborn child that morning, Wali now realized. Three years have passed since then, but until today, I never regretted my conduct. It has taken me three years and a terrible jolt to finally come to my senses . . . I am guilty of being a biased, narrow-minded chauvinist, and that is the sole reason why it is a painful proposition to knock at Salim’s door now and seek refuge. But since I was the one to start the cold war, I will be the one to end it now.

The roots of the troubled relationship between Salim and him had appeared a year after Abba Jaan’s death. Salim had recently passed out from the regional engineering college and was looking around for a job. Wali had wanted his son to help him look after the orchard, at least until he found himself a job, but that was not to be. Salim would disappear for hours every day. He would leave soon after breakfast and only return when the sun went down. Wali had started becoming worried that he was getting into wrong company, for lately there had been plenty of hawks lurking around to mislead and trap the youth of the valley.

Then one day, the secret of Salim’s long hours of absence got exposed.

It happened on the day one of Wali’s prospective clients had come from Delhi to explore further business possibilities with him. The man had shown a keen interest in the handicrafts manufacturing that Wali undertook as his secondary line of business. The meeting had been quite positive and he was happy with the prospect of exporting naquash and brass filigree items to some European countries. After the meeting, therefore, he had decided to entertain his client by taking him around the city.

After a half an hour shikara cruise on the Dal Lake, Wali had chosen to visit Nishat Bagh. They had taken a leisurely walk through the gardens, enjoying the gentle breeze and admiring the line of chinars along the pathway. The moisture rising from the fountains in the water channel that ran through the centre of the entire length of the famous Mughal gardens, showered them with cool spray. His enthusiastic client had made Wali walk right up to the last terrace which had originally been the twelfth terrace of the garden and the most exclusive and impressive one.

Wali had stopped here to show his client the magnificent view of the snow-clad peaks of the Pir Panjal range, when his eyes got drawn towards a familiar figure half-hidden behind a grove. He had stopped in his tracks, shocked. It was Salim! He was sitting on a parapet with his back towards the pathway, totally unaware of the trouble he was going to be in.

What had shocked Wali was not so much seeing Salim there. Rather, it was Salim’s companion—a young girl. From his position, Wali could clearly see the bare feet of the pair dangling and moving around playfully in the water pool below them. Salim’s arm was casually draped around the girl’s shoulder and both of them appeared lost in their own world. Wali watched with disbelief as Salim brought his face close to the girl’s ear and whispered something. Had Salim’s face lingered next to the girl’s longer than necessary? Wali wasn’t sure, but he immediately knew that the relationship was an intimate one. The girl had laughed just then, and Wali had gone red with rage.

How could his son show such a flagrant disregard for propriety and engage in such behaviour in a public place? Didn’t he have any concern about the family’s reputation? And what kind of a family did the girl come from? She didn’t seem the least bit bothered about the bad name her impropriety might fetch her family.

Wali would have reprimanded Salim there and then if it hadn’t been for the client with him. He turned and looked at his guest and saw him peering at him confusedly.

Is there anything wrong, Wali Sahib? he had asked.

No, no, I was just thinking of something. I . . . I just recalled an important matter that I must attend to immediately, Wali had quickly covered up. Thereafter, he had lost all interest in his client, and cutting short the sightseeing tour, he had returned home as soon as he could. "Do you know what your sahibzada is up to?" he had angrily asked Sakina the minute he got home.

What?

Since he has plenty of time to waste, he is indulging in romance!

What kind of romance? Sakina had asked innocently.

What kind of romance? Are there different kinds of romances? A variety of them like dishes on a menu card? he had shouted at her. Sakina could comprehend neither the reason for her husband’s ire, nor the rationale behind it being aimed at her. It had instantly brought tears to her eyes, for she was not used to being shouted at.

Noticing Sakina’s distress, Wali had tried to control his voice before continuing, He is dating a girl! I saw him sitting with her . . . openly, in Nishat Bagh, with his arm wrapped around her shoulders, whispering God knows what in her ears. He has no consideration for the prestige of our family. What if any of our relatives or friends had seen him like that? They would have said, ‘Wali and his wife have no control over their children. They are going astray.’ Would I be able to show my face to the world?

Expecting Sakina to be highly dismayed by this piece of disturbing news, Wali had then waited for her reaction, but seeing her expressionless visage, he had continued volubly, Perhaps, some of them already know that he is monkeying around with girls and are poking fun at us behind our backs. Sakina had now begun to look more hurt than distressed. Was it the upsetting news or his shouting that was the cause, Wali was confused. He had lowered his voice further nevertheless. "You better find out what