Paradise Lost

Paradise Lost
Sukhmani Singh

It was an election in which Kashmiris were forced to vote by the security forces. Simply because the Indian government wanted to show the world that they had brought back democratic rule to Kashmir. I had flown to Kashmir to cover the election. As I rushed around various districts on the polling day, I witnessed sullen crowds standing in queues like cattle waiting to engage in an exercise against their will.

They protested that they had been threatened with dire consequences if they did not come out to vote. A Rashtriya Rifles jawan admitted that he had been herding people out of their homes since the morning. Some far-flung booths boasted only a handful of voters. Staid government babus, flown in as election officials, were cringing with fear on their first visit to this paradise lost. Like the people, they too were reluctant to perform their duties. But we all went through with the farce. No one had a choice.

Circa 2000. There has been much elation and debate over the fact that the Kashmiri wants autonomy, not azaadi. The truth is that all he wants is peace. In the six tumultuous years that I covered Kashmir, I did not once hear the common man demanding either of the two. Yes, whenever anyone from the foreign media was visible, a group of professional screamers would emerge from nowhere and chant pro-azaadi slogans. In 1996, I remember, I was swept into one such demonstration!

But, privately, no one ever told me he wanted azaadi. Yes, they wanted peace, they wanted to lead simple, humdrum lives where they could walk the streets without fear, the all-pervasive fear of the bullet, both from the security forces and the militants. They wanted to live with dignity, to do things you and I take for granted. They wanted to know someone cared for them, not for the scenic territory they occupied. They wished to be addressed with respect, not as iMusalman kutter, the normal pejorative hurled on them by the forces. These are the basics they still hanker for.

And, no, contrary to the standard statements made by city-slickers after brief, tourist visits to the Valley, all Kashmiris are not anti-India and pro-Pakistan. I remember the generous hospitality lavished on me by villagers in remote, hauntingly beautiful hamlets. Within minutes, they would conjure up a meal of fried chicken and neem chai. When I was leaving the saffron fields of Pampore, an elderly farmer once presented me with a bunch of fragrant saffron, straight from his fields.

There is a particular incident permanently etched in my memory. I once had to leave Srinagar for Uri at 5 a.m. My elderly taxi-driver woke up his 90-year-old mother at some ungodly hour to prepare a sumptuous chicken curry with rice. At lunch, he produced it with a flourish. We picnicked alfresco on the banks of the mighty Jhelum, oblivious to our fortified surroundings.

For half an hour, the bearded, old driver and I companionably munched together. Momentarily, we forgot the war-like situation around us. But a couple of hours later, as the eerie darkness descended, my driver was transformed into a quaking mass of nerves. It was not safe to be out so late, he muttered. I urged him to relax. No one would bother him, I reassured him. Yet, as we traversed the scenic route back to Srinagar, we were stopped, searched and roughly accosted every now and then. Each time my Hindi and Punjabi came to the rescue as I chatted up the troops. When we reached Srinagar, my driver virtually collapsed with relief.

Now, too, ad hoc conclusions are being drawn about what the Kashmiri public wants. Ironically, the ``visiting'' Chief Minister of the state has been making impassioned speeches about autonomy. What the people there need, above all, is the healing touch, applied by a dynamic, caring statesman. Does anyone out there fit the bill?