Our Moon has Blood Clots Page 16

  ‘After facing the marauding tribesmen, Father changed his plan. The couple was still accompanying us,’ my Uncle recalled.

  ‘Let us go back to Ambardar’s village; at least we will have a roof over our heads. God only knows the fate of Baramulla. Let us see if we can spend a few days with Ambardar and then move on home,’ Father said.

  After many hours of walking, we reached Ambardar’s village. We walked with caution, taking measured steps. It was evening and the sky was overcast with grey clouds. We could barely see the streets and walked through slush.

  Eventually we reached Ambardar’s house and saw that the main gate was half open. As Father opened it to let us enter, it made a strange, creaking sound. Two dogs that were sniffing at a bundle lying on the steps of Ambardar’s house ran away. Father went forward and as he came close to the steps a cry escaped his lips. ‘Om Namah Shivay,’ he invoked Lord Shiva. What we had thought was a bundle in the darkness was actually Ambardar’s body. It lay on the second step, in almost a sitting position, with the head hanging backwards. Ambardar’s walking stick lay at his feet, like a faithful dog. It seemed as though he would open his eyes, pick up his stick, and go out for a walk. But the blood on the stairs, which had turned black, narrated the truth. The tribesmen had sieved his body with bullets.

  We were so tired that none of us could feel the grief of losing a friend, even one who had helped us in bad times.

  ‘I want to die like him,’ Father said pointing towards Ambardar’s corpse. ‘Let us go home. If we have to die, it makes sense to die like Ambardar. At least our blood will be absorbed in our own soil.’

  Reciting ceremonial hymns, Father folded his hands. All of us folded our hands and turned back. Mother had put one corner of her sari in her mouth to muffle her sobs.

  As for me, I could only hear Ambardar blessing me in his baritone voice: Las te nav—may you live long and prosper.

  After we left Ambardar’s village, the couple parted from us. We kept on walking towards home.

  From a distance, we could see smoke emanating from our village. We walked, or rather limped with exhaustion, towards the street where our home stood. There were burnt houses all around, many of them still smoldering. A number of household items were strewn across the road. A child’s frock. A brass tumbler. A few books. My father picked one up. It was Kalhana’s Rajatarangini. There lay a wooden cupboard, with its door still locked. A pack of tobacco. A few pashmina shawls. One half-burnt carpet. One hookah, with its brass base ripped off. My father started reciting prayers. I could not understand why.

  In a few minutes, we stood at the head of our street. Father looked at Mother, as if asking whether she had the courage to delve into the painful discovery of the fate of our home. Before we could take a step further, we heard a wail. We looked around. It was one of our neighbours. He started beating his forehead.

  ‘Everything has been reduced to ashes, Damodar,’ he cried.

  The fire had spread in our locality after the invaders had entered and killed two sons of one of our neighbours. The boys had been asked to recite the Kalma by the marauders, but they had refused. The tribesmen had then shot them both. Their mother had then asked her husband to carry their bodies to the kitchen, to be cremated. The parents chose to burn alive along with their dead sons. The fire soon engulfed the house and then spread to the entire locality.

  My mother could no longer stand on her feet. She sat on the road and sobbed. Father caught hold of my arm, and led me along the street to our home. On both sides of the street, houses were reduced to burnt stubs. We just kept walking. Here was our neighbour’s house. The poor man had toiled for decades, and had lived a life of penury to build this house. Now it was gone.

  And then we stood in front of what used to be our house. It had been devastated in the fire as well. Smoke still emanated from the window frames. All our belongings had been looted. My father walked slowly, as if he were walking in his sleep. He picked up a piece of dried turnip from the ground, and chewed on it. Then, as if he had gained energy from that dried turnip, he started rummaging through the debris. He was searching for something. I looked around our courtyard. For what seemed like hours, Father kept uttering something to himself as his hands kept working frantically, searching. He upturned bricks, stones and burnt wood. Finally he broke down. After a while, he paused and looked at me. He wiped his tears. ‘I was looking for your grandfather’s chillum. That is the last thing he touched before he left us.’

  There was still no news of Totha when we boarded a tonga that would eventually take us to Srinagar. He was not at home when the news of the attack was broken to us.

  My mother’s head was resting on the wooden frame of the tonga, as she held one of my sisters in her lap. Father held my other sister, and I sat next to him.

  Srinagar was fifty miles away. But for us, it was a leap to another world. From the security of a household to the uncertainty of a nomadic life. From light to darkness. From heaven to hell. We had no idea what lay in store for us once we reached Srinagar. From other fleeing families, we learnt that the Indian government had established refugee camps for those who came to Srinagar, escaping from areas like Baramulla, Sopore and Uri.

  It was a dusty evening, and grey clouds, pregnant with water, held sway in the sky. Soon it started raining. Raindrops, each the size of a big pearl, started falling. Everyone ran for shelter. We took ours under the extended roof of a shop. Minutes before, the tongawallah had declared that we had reached Srinagar. Like our misfortune, the rain was also waiting for an appropriate moment to show that we were born when the gods had been looking the other way.

  Volunteers of the National Conference were managing a few refugee camps, which had been set up in the heart of the city. Many Pandit volunteers from the city were helping as well with clothes, food and other essential items. We went to one of the camps where we were given a couple of blankets and a few handfuls of rice, which Mother held in a bundle fashioned out of one corner of her sari. This had to be cooked in community chullahs set up in the camp, using earthen pots provided by the government (though God knows which government was in command). Someone gave my sister a handful of dried brinjals. That evening, and for many evenings to come, we survived on rice and dried brinjals, turnips, onion, or just plain salt.

  After we made the camp our temporary home, Father started searching for Totha. He checked every other refugee camp, hoping that he had reached Srinagar. He spoke to other families that came from Baramulla, but nobody seemed to have any clue about Totha. He had just disappeared. After some time, Father gave up. He thought that his brother had fallen to the bullets of the Pathans.

  The sun-mottled streets of Srinagar brought no succour to our souls. The clouds of our despair were so thick, no ray of hope could penetrate them. The future was like a vast, barren landscape. We possessed nothing except memories of our home. We took stock of our battered selves, and began to plan for the times to come. Our first priority was to move out of the refugee camp. A fortnight after our arrival in Srinagar, we found a place. My father knew someone, who knew someone, who had a room available in his house in downtown Srinagar. In a locality known as Ganpatyar—the abode of Lord Ganpati, who resided in an ancient temple there.

  Someone remarked to me later, and how right he was when I think of it, that the houses in Ganpatyar looked like sozzled men, leaning their heads on each others’ shoulders. Only narrow, dark lanes, overflowing with filth separated them, with great effort. Gone were the days of living in airy rooms, supported by sturdy beams of wood. Rooms in Ganpatyar were dingy, with damp mud walls. We were given a room on the first floor. The kitchen was on the ground floor. It was a dreary, repulsive hole. There, the verses of Lal Ded would cause no compassion in hearts. No festival could ever be celebrated, no feast ever cooked. We lost our appetites. Not that there was much to cook.

  In the front of the house was a small courtyard, which had never seen the sun. It was used for washing clothes and grinding spices in heavy
stone mortars. Throughout the day, we could hear the landlady crushing red chillies, turmeric and cinnamon barks. Water for washing, cooking and bathing had to be carried from a public tap in one corner of the street. Women, carrying their dirty utensils in a wicker basket for washing, would assemble at the tap, and gossip about their husbands and mothers-in-law. My mother cried day and night. She feared that in that single dark room, without sun and air, her children would turn anaemic and die.

  There was absolutely no work for Father. He tried seeking work in Srinagar, but the whole atmosphere was so gloomy that nobody celebrated anything, so his talents as an astrologer weren’t needed for the moment. Even the dead were cremated in a hush, as if wailing over their bodies would result in the tribesmen gaining entry into Srinagar.

  One could see men, their heads lowered, whispering silent prayers to the gods and beyond.

  Then one day, Totha appeared. He had grown a beard and he wore a tattered pheran. Father hugged him and so did mother. She cried as well. Totha sat quietly in one corner and would not talk at all about where he had been for so many days. ‘I am all right, don’t worry,’ he kept saying, but wouldn’t tell us anything further. After a few days, he finally spoke about what had happened. He said he had been in hiding for days with volunteers of the National Conference. ‘I’ve terrible news to share,’ he said. ‘Maqbool Sherwani is dead.’

  When he learnt about the tribal invasion, Sherwani rode out on his horse, going from village to village, urging people, particularly the Pandits, not to leave. He had been galvanizing people to put up a brave front against the invaders. His party had coined a slogan to instill confidence among the people.

  Hamlawar khabardaar, hum Kashmiri hein tayyar.

  O invader beware, we Kashmiris are ready for you.

  But when it became clear that the lives of many people were in jeopardy because thousands of tribesmen were approaching, he decided to sabotage their advance. For the invaders, reaching Srinagar was important and they were using local guides to show them the way. Through his network, Sherwani misguided the tribals, causing them to lose crucial time. But eventually, they saw through his trickery and captured him. He was dragged to a hillock where nails were hammered into his hands. Perhaps the marauders had taken a cue from the picture of Jesus Christ in St. Joseph’s Chapel at the foot of the hillock. ‘Victory to Hindu–Muslim unity,’ Sherwani had shouted. A squad of invaders pumped bullets into his body and then nailed a piece of tin to his forehead. On it they had scribbled: ‘A traitor deserves death as punishment.’

  The marauders did not spare the chapel either. The chaplain, Colonel Dykes, believed the tribesmen would leave them untouched. ‘Keep to the left and let them march,’ he had assuredly told others in the chapel. But when the tribesmen arrived, they tore through the chapel and killed seven people, including Colonel Dykes and his wife Biddy Dykes who had given birth to their third son only days ago. Then the interior of the chapel was destroyed.

  The tribesmen converted Baramulla’s cinema hall into a rape house. Hundreds of women were taken there and raped. Some of them were later abducted and taken to Rawalpindi and Peshawar and sold like cattle. Many women had jumped into the Jhelum to save their honour.

  A long while ago, one of my father’s cousins had constructed a house in Ganpatyar. For some reason, Father and his cousin had not spoken to each other for years. I had no idea who he was, until he saw me one day in the Ganpatyar temple. It was my birthday, and Mother had asked me to visit the temple to pray.

  There were quite a few devotees in the temple that late morning. The middle-aged priest, with his unshaven cheeks, looked grim while distributing prasad. I had just taken the offering from him, when I felt the tip of a stick tapping me on my left shoulder. I looked around to see a man holding the other end of the stick. With a bemused look on his face, and almost suppressing a smile, he asked me, ‘Are you Damodar’s son?’

  Before I could answer, he spoke again. ‘I have been told that you are staying in that ramshackle house. The landlord is shikaslad—a miser. His face is like the ruins that he calls his house.’ He paused, looking intensely into my eyes.

  ‘Tell your father to leave his trakjaar—his stiff ego. Tell him that I am his brother, though he has never bothered to check whether I exist or not. Tell him that I will come later in the day, to meet him and take you all to my house.’ He patted my head and left.

  I ran like mad from the temple to our temporary home, to break the news to my father. ‘Which spirit has possessed you?’ the landlady yelled at me. She was coming out of the main gate and I almost crashed into her as I was charging in. Without paying heed to her, I went inside, breathless.

  Mother was cooking and Father was sitting on a seat of dry grass, reciting hymns. Immediately, I told Mother about my encounter in the temple. When I looked around, Father had stopped his recitation. He was looking at me, but it was obvious from the look on his face that he was lost in thought. There was silence for a while. The earthen pot set on the hearth whistled gently.

  And then Mother spoke. ‘You must go and buy some cardamom and cinnamon. If he comes, at least we should be able to offer him a khasoo of kahwa.’

  Father did not say anything. I was thankful that I didn’t tell him that his cousin had called him stiff. Without uttering a word, Father went out, and when he returned, besides the spices for kahwa, he had also got some hot bagels.

  Father’s cousin arrived just before noon. He wore a tweed pheran and a cream-coloured turban. He carried the same walking stick in his hands, and he coughed as he climbed the stairs. That was intended to serve as a signal to us, a signal that he had arrived. Father received him at the door, and they silently hugged each other. Mother served him steaming hot kahwa. Uncle held it with the right cuff of his pheran, and took a sip with a slurping sound. The fragrance of the kahwa spread throughout the entire room, burying the rancid smell of damp walls. The spiced tea appealed to Uncle’s senses, and he closed his eyes, savouring his tea. Eventually, he put the khasoo down, and spoke. ‘Why are you hell-bent on ruining my name?’ he turned towards my father. ‘People say that I have a big three-storeyed house to myself and my tenants, but I cannot accommodate my own cousin’s family. It was one of our mutual friends who pointed out your son to me, and that is how I met him at the temple. Now for God’s sake, leave your trakjaar, and shift to my house.’

  When I heard him calling my father stiff to his face, I thought that there was no chance my father would relent. My father was very proud, almost arrogant. But to my surprise, he replied in a voice that could best be described as feeble. ‘It is not my pride, brother. These are hard times for all of us and I don’t want to be of any inconvenience to you.’

  ‘It is no inconvenience to help one’s own blood during distress. Had it not been for these blood-mongers, you would never have come to this wretched place. It is all Karma, my dear brother. We are mere puppets in his hands,’ said Uncle. Before he left, he kissed my sisters and me, and put some cashews into our hands.

  And so it happened that we shifted to uncle’s house, two days later. We hardly had any possessions that needed shifting—just ourselves, and a few articles that were easy to carry by hand.

  Our new house was situated on the banks of the Jhelum River. Every morning, Father would go down to the freezing river and, immersing himself up to his waist, he would recite shlokas and offer water to the sun god with his copper pitcher.

  I was admitted in a school in Srinagar. But I missed Baramulla terribly. And Sopore, too. The apple town of Sopore, which neighboured Baramulla, was where my father’s sister lived, and a place I had visited often. The family had fled from Sopore during the attack, as we had fled from Baramulla, but upon returning, they at least had found their house to be safe.

  The air of Srinagar never suited me. So at the slightest opportunity, I would escape to Sopore.

  The harsh winter had passed, and tiny white blossoms began to appear on the almond trees. Streams gurgled with t
he icy waters of godly glaciers, and there was spring in the air. Kangris were still used by some. But most were content with the warmth provided by the sun.

  I would return home from school and try to study. Mother kept busy with her domestic chores and taking care of my two sisters. Father had started teaching again, and drawing up horoscopes.

  In school, I made some new friends. But my mind would always wander to Baramulla. And Sopore. The summer had not yet arrived when I took a few annas from my father and rushed to Sopore. My heart swelled with joy as the hustle-bustle of Amira Kadal gave way to the Sopore road, dotted with poplar trees on either side. Beyond the poplar trees stood vast apple orchards. When they bore their fruit, the fruits would be packed into wooden cases, and then sealed with dry straw. But for now, the trees stood bare, laden only with the expectations of their bounty.

  A strange, and yet not so strange, peace prevailed upon me when the bus crossed the bridge over the Jhelum and entered Sopore. I could finally see the tonga stand, near the entrance of the town. As I alighted from the bus, the familiar scent of the town greeted my nostrils. My legs shook, and I ran towards my aunt’s house. A bee flew along with me. I could hear its continuous buzzing. My cheeks must have become flushed from the running, as someone on the road teasingly called me an Ambur apple. An Ambur apple is one of the special Kashmiri apple varieties. I reached the main gate of my aunt’s house and began shouting for my cousins. They were not expecting me, and were surprised when they saw me. I hugged them, and tears leapt from my eyes, and were lapped up by the hem of my aunt’s dress. After a sumptuous lunch of rice, pumpkin and beans, I went with my cousins to the banks of the river.

  The Jhelum was very wide here, and it roared as it neared a bend. We got busy, catching the river’s colourful fish. Somewhere nearby, a group of hunters were trying to shoot down a flock of cranes, which they would later sell. This thought made me sad, because I was reminded of father getting its delicious meat when we were in Baramulla, before the misfortune of migration had struck us. This memory and its accompanying sadness cast a shadow of depression over my mind, and I cut myself away from the boys. I lay in the compound of Sopore’s ancient temple, staring at the vast expanse of sky above. I heard a gunshot, and I knew someone would have a feast in the evening. I began to cry. After a while, I heard my cousins calling my name, but I didn’t feel like answering.