Author:
Publication: Greater Kashmir
Date: August 4, 2011
URL: http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/2011/Aug/4/revisiting-my-homeland-17.asp
What An Experience It Has Been For Me To Smell
The Fragrance Of My Motherland After Two Decades of Separation,Writes Indu
Raina
There have been many instances of sporadic
conflicts in the past but in January 1990, an uprising in Kashmir led to the
killing of Kashimiri Pandits resulting in mass migration of the community
from the valley. We too had to vacate our home and since then, I always had
a nostalgic feeling of my past and a great craving to visit my birth place.
With this aim in mind, I visited the valley
last summer after twenty years. During this period almost everything had undergone
a tremendous change and the whole scenario appeared unfamiliar to me even
to the extent of recognizing the place where I had spent a pretty long part
of my life. Though the whole surrounding wore a new look yet the age-old Maple
tree still stood magnanimously witnessing the change over decades. No doubt,
the cement pavement around it, where my father would often spend his evenings,
had suffered total wear and tear due to the vagaries of weather. This landmark
led me to my ancestral house. I recognized the crisscross wooden paneling.
Yes, this is my home, I assured myself. Peeping through the fence, I got a
glimpse of the kitchen garden where my mother used to bask in the sun. As
I ventured to open the gate, my whole body shivered perhaps due to fear. In
the process, my hand got struck in the hinges and it bled profusely. However,
I knocked at the door. "Yes, who are you? What do you want"? Asked
a frail old lady. Standing silently, I showed her my hand.
"Oh! You need first aid, come inside".
She said. As I followed her. I forgot my hand altogether and began to reconnect
the lost threads of the days gone by. More so when I saw the familiar things
like huge mirror covering the wall, which my grandfather had imported from
abroad in his hey days and also the rocking chair of my father. It seemed
as if the time in between had melted away and I was back in my home. I felt
a lump in my throat and wanted to cry. My hostess got confused at my strange
behaviour. "How did you hurt your hand? Who are you? What brought you
here"? These were the questions I was supposed to reply.
"This is my home". Soon I corrected myself and said "No, not
-now, but once it used to be. My grandfather built it and since then we had
been living here. It was January, 1990. When tsunami like turmoil engulfed
the entire valley and a Muslim well wisher in our neighbourhood advised us
to leave immediately for safety. There was a great commotion. To avoid anyone's
attention, we decided to leave everything behind. We simply locked the house
and walked out.
It was a heart-rending scene. At midnight
our terrorized family, leaving behind hearth and home and the souls of our
ancestors moving on with faltering steps on the deserted street, we looked
behind again and again at the still structure, till the dim light on the terrace
got out of sight. Mickey, our pet dog followed us a long way, sensing something
wrong had befallen to the family. After a while, a truck carrying chicks happened
to pass by. We requested the driver to carry us along. We boarded it for a
destination not known to us. There was complete silence during the whole journey
but each one of us was deeply engrossed in finding solutions to forthcoming
problems. In the wee hours of the morning we reached the plains. No doubt
we did feel a fresh air of security but a tough struggle for basic needs,
food and shelter put our patience to test. However, we were provided with
torn out tents for our rehabilitation in a make shift camp.
Living in such tents at 43° C, confronting snakes and scorpions and withstanding
rains and the wind was too hard to bear for a delicate and ease loving people
like us. Many a time, the wind blew out pegs of our tents, and the rain would
wash away our belongings. We were a big colony of migrants dwelling in close
vicinity. People would fight over their turns to fill water.
All this made our life miserable. My parents
could not compromise with such a way of living and consequently, it affected
their health. Father became a somnambulist. In his sleep, he would kick and
abuse who so ever was nearby, mistaking him for a militant. He would also
look for his glasses and other personal belongings on the imaginary shelves
of his home.
This was probably the onset of Alzheimer disease
he lived with for the remaining short span of life. Time moved on and dislocation
acted as termite hollowing the physical and mental health of my parents. Mother
grew a tendency of always lamenting over the past and soon suffered a stroke,
plunged into deep coma and ultimately passed away. Her absence gave us a big
jolt. Parting from home, was still tolerable but living without her was just
unbearable. Father never came out of this trauma and we could feel his deep
anguish & pain. He started living in seclusion. Our effort to keep him
at bay from depression turned out futile. One morning, he woke up confused
and shaken. He asked "Whose house is this? What are we doing here? Let
us go home". He would go back in to time zone by five decades when he
was young and working. He would call his imaginary staff members. Give them
directions, attend meetings, suspend defaulters and ward the efficient.
In his hallucination, he would also talk to
my mother. On asking as to why he would talk to a person who was not alive,
he would get angry and say "Why do you speak like that? She is sitting
by my side right now". Gradually the number of such imaginary persons
swelled and so continued the inaudible and in cohesive talk with them. Upon
asking whom he was talking to when there was no one around, he would retort
saying "Why can't you see these patients, blood oozing from their foreheads.
Bring a glass of water for them at least". I once handed over a fruit
bowl to offer to his imaginary guests. He stood near his bed with the bowl
for a moment and soon forgot the matter. The intensity of the problem grew
alarming day by day. We knew it but helplessly had to yield to the doctor's
opinion who said that there was no cure for such disease except prayers. We
left no stone unturned but all in vain. His condition deteriorated day by
day. At one point of time, his mathematical calculations were so accurate
and fast but now he would miss the count from one to ten. Days would somehow
pass but nights were real nightmares. On one of such nights, no sooner I had
dozed off than I heard a painful cry and found my father pointing towards
his mouth. He appeared to be in great pain. "What happened"? I asked
patting his shoulders. He said that he had swallowed his wrist watch. "No,
it cannot be. How is that possible". I assured him but he was very nervous.
He put finger in his mouth and might have scratched his tongue as blood drops
fell out scaring me awfully. I quickly moved the sheet and the pillow; lo
and behold, a shimmering object fell down. I heaved a sign of relief and showed
him his wrist watch.
He would often pack his bag, put on his shoes
and set out to go home. One night when everybody was fast asleep. I intuitionally
woke up and found him with bag hung on his shoulders, and silently pushing
'the tent door open. I said aloud "wait, father, where are you going
at the dead of the night"? "I am going home. I will board the bus"
he said. With tears in his eyes, like a child he again pleaded "Let me
go home". I pacified him saying "We all shall go home tomorrow morning.
Let there be dawn first. We shall have to wait a little more." I consoled
him. He believed me and lay down in the bed.
That was the most undisturbed night for everybody.
He did not sleep that night but kept his eyes open for the dawn to come. When
it dawned and the golden rays of the sun peeped through the tent. I found
my father with eyes wide open looking composed and serene. He had already
boarded the bus for his eternal home."
As I finished my tale, the old lady wiped
her eyes, hugged me assuring that this is still my home. She took me to our
prayer room. I was astonished to find our religious symbol "OM"
still glittering on the wall. "See, I too offer my Nimaz in this room.
After all, God is one", she said.
Holding my hand, we came outside and bid goodbye
to each other perhaps never to meet again, Soon it started raining. As I walked
on the road, I kept on looking back again and again at the frail old lady
and the house as if I was leaving my childhood behind for ever!
