Childhood memories are usually vague. You hardly remember the times. You just know that they did happen. And like flashes from your previous life they often set your mind racing through the life that you have left behind. Of what you went through, what you endured and what made who you what you are. Kashmiri children like their adult counterparts have a bizarre set of memories. As far from utopia as they could be, it is amazing how those times are remembered as fondly as any beautiful memory would be, atleast for me. My memories were not life taking or breathtaking if compared with others from my place, but for me, they sure were life changing and left a trial of impacts. So, I pen down a few of my disturbing but fond memories of my childhood.
To get up in the morning to go to school and have your parents telling you to go back to bed to have an extra hour of sleep because there is a curfew out there is a very commonplace in Kashmir. But what used to happen rarely but regularly enough was your parents waking you up at 5 in the morning telling you to grab your warm clothes and leave because we were going to have a crackdown. I have spent a considerable amount of time in my childhood at my maternal grandparents’ place in Baramulla. It was a hub for anti-militant activities because it was the hub of militant activities. So, whenever there was a slight confrontation between the two armed forces’ Baramulla used to get a taste of it. I have experienced a lot of crack downs, they sounded fun. We got to miss school, sit outside in the pleasant morning, usually in somebody’s apple orchard and because we were asked to get out of our place at 4 or 5 in the morning to breakfast was not what we were privileged to have breakfast. It used to be one of those times when my mother would not stop me from having as many apples as I wanted.
It always bothered me why all the other female members of my family had such worried faces. After all, all we were having was an unplanned excursion. It was later in my years that I learned that they were worried for the men of the house wondering if they were being beaten to pulp. And I always concluded they did not know how to have fun.
It always bothered me why all the other female members of my family had such worried faces. After all, all we were having was an unplanned excursion. It was later in my years that I learned that they were worried for the men of the house wondering if they were being beaten to pulp. And I always concluded they did not know how to have fun.
I remember my maternal aunt always crib about how the army men never bother to take off their shoes before entering a house and how they always used to dirty her house. I always thought that was her biggest worry and tragedy in a crackdown.
I remember how she once scolded my grandmom for cooking food early in the morning telling if the army heard her pressure cooker whistle at 5 in the morning they might think you are preparing food for militants and get us all killed. The reason she cited pinched me but I couldn’t quite figure out what exactly was wrong with the reason. I knew it were the times of war. Now I know.
I remember my cousin once reminiscing about how there was a crack down at her place. It so happens that all my paternal cousins live there. So, the army was very furious because they had recently suffered an attack from the opposition and they were here to teach us a lesson. So, she tells me how the boys in the area had to dig out their old examination slips to get out of the crackdown, for this was no ordinary one. The army had pitched a shamiana. They don’t do that generally, they do it only if they felt like ‘teaching you a lesson’. I hear they did beat the men to pulp that day.
I remember my cousin once reminiscing about how there was a crack down at her place. It so happens that all my paternal cousins live there. So, the army was very furious because they had recently suffered an attack from the opposition and they were here to teach us a lesson. So, she tells me how the boys in the area had to dig out their old examination slips to get out of the crackdown, for this was no ordinary one. The army had pitched a shamiana. They don’t do that generally, they do it only if they felt like ‘teaching you a lesson’. I hear they did beat the men to pulp that day.
I remember waving at the army men when their vehicles past me and my little but oh-so-wise cousins tell me how you were not supposed to interact with them coz they might shoot you if they were in a bad mood. I remember my grandparents telling me how when an army guy is angry he can do anything and so not to EVER bother them.
I remember my grandmom recalling the days when militancy had started and in one of the worst crack downs they had witnessed, everyone left their place and in the middle of the night and walked away. Walk where? She said she had no idea, they just knew they were not supposed to be at their place and so they walked. I remember her telling me how my uncle took his whole trunk of books because he figured it was stupid being alive without them. She said he carried the whole box on his head. I could see the pride in her eyes when she says that.
It once happened that my family decided to go for an evening trip to Dal Lake. We parked the car in the parking, carried our picnic food across the road. We ask the shikara waala guy (shikaara's ferry man) to take us to the park in the Lake. I place my foot on the boat and a gunshot; and a few more. And we cross the road again. This time running and ducked. And that is how I remember that trip. We might have had some fun that night. But it was the night for fireworks.
And this one time, at midnight, when the entire world had gone to sleep and I was wondering how I would fare in tomorrow’s maths paper, considering it was not one of my favorite subject, suddenly I hear a gunshot. A gunshot and my heart begin to race. It is something the generation of turmoil was used to. It might have started as a part of the natural reflex, but now it had turned into one of those feelings which if didn’t come soon enough you would wonder why it isn’t back. It’s not like you love it but its absence does bother you. I hear a few more of those gunshots and then a scream and I know the thing has turned ugly. My mom asks me to go to sleep. How could I? There is something going on close by which is shrouded with this air of mystery and agony and I sleep? Out of question. Who cares about the test?! I was not going to score well anyway, now I have a reason why I couldn’t score well. As the memory has faded I don’t remember what made me go to sleep but the first thing I do in the morning was ask my grandmother what the yesterdays’ commotion was about. She tells me a lady in the village was killed and her sons were beaten up. Rumor has it that that an army guy had fallen in love with the lady’s daughter. I ask my grandmother to go to that place and get the accurate info but she is too scared to go to that place alone and promises to go if she finds someone to along. I never got to hear about what the truth was till now and till date I still wonder what the real story behind that attack was. Maybe it’s time I ask my grandmother again.
