Life Among the Scorpions Read online

  Following India’s victory in the 1971 War, her return to normalcy became visible when flights resumed and we had once again access to our daily bread. Normal life meant frozen raw eggs being boiled before they could be fried, and washed clothes frozen stiff on the clothesline as soon as they were hung. They had to be melted around the bukhari in the evenings before they could dry properly. At a minus 10 degrees celsius, the mug in the bathroom stuck to the top of the washbasin. No water flowed through the pipes and taps but unlike our first home in Srinagar, we did have washbasins.

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  Determination and persistence helps me pursue what I really want, and I knew I wanted another child despite the risk of facing another loss. In 1972, Ashok pursued and obtained a year’s study-leave at Cambridge University. This gave us an opportunity to access advanced medical treatment in England. Ashok left a month before me. In those days, one needed permission and finances sanctioned by the Reserve Bank of India (RBI) to travel for medical reasons and expenses abroad for a year. The man at the desk at the RBI headquarters in Delhi quoted rules that essentially meant I could only apply when I was pregnant. I asked him, ‘But how can I get pregnant unless I am with my husband and he is already there?’ This conundrum so stumped the poor official that he quickly signed the papers without looking up again.

  At Cambridge, I cooked and cleaned and cared for Akshay, became pregnant and went off alone into London every few weeks to St Elizabeth’s Hospital at Hammersmith for tests and transfusions. The procedures were making international medical history but they were experimental. The process only had a 50 per cent success rate but I was willing to take the risk of another tragedy to achieve what I wanted. To save myself future pain, I studiously avoided looking into baby shop windows and made no concrete plans for another child. I could see the foetus clearly on the ultrasound screen but the position in which it lay, determined whether the transfusion could take place or not. Each time was a matter of chance. It never occurred to anyone to note the gender of the child. Forty interns looked on, taking notes during the procedure done by Professor Richard Dewhurst who was so eminent that he had a full page story on him in The Times. Our daughter Aditi was born as the successful result of this medical adventure with five intra-uterine transfusions, a caesarean section, a complete change of blood after birth, a few days in the incubator, and also after contending a post-birth bleeding crisis leading to further transfusions. This was done in Cambridge under the supervision of Dr Robin Coombs who had devised the famous Coombs test. The most highly experienced and qualified doctors in the world attended on me by pure chance and all for free, thanks to blessings from somewhere and the remarkable British Medical Welfare system. We returned to Srinagar from London with infant Aditi, as the first Iran-Iraq war began in 1980.

  Oil prices shot up, creating a world crisis. Prominent J&K leader Sheikh Abdullah was released from detention and came to power supposedly through the benevolence of Indira Gandhi. The Janata government refused to accept the advice of some that since earlier, the elections here were believed to be fixed, this one should be fixed too. Charan Singh, the Home Minister, flatly rejected this idea, and the state saw its first free and fair election. The celebrations that erupted at his victory were euphoric and hundreds of shikaras (boats) decked with flowers, flowed down the Jhelum river through Srinagar. The Kashmiris felt free from oppression of a different kind. The first thing Sheikh Abdullah did, was exhort the Kashmiris to value their sense of self-respect and give up the subsidy that gave them rice at two rupees per kilogram. Everyone agreed. Sheikh Abdullah loomed tall in every way, and was all charm with young government officers and their families. At a government tea party, he had once asked me how many children I had. When I told him he smiled broadly and asked, ‘Unme se zyada natkhat kaun hain?’ (Who is the more mischievous of the two?)

  In 1975, Sheikh Abdullah was the first brave leader in India to denounce Indira Gandhi’s Emergency. My friends from Delhi like Khushwant Singh’s son Rahul visited and argued in favour over dinner, saying the trains were running on time. We were angry and horrified at what was happening through the rest of India. News was controlled but people from Delhi brought us the latest happenings. Being in government, we could not express our views. The late political leader D.P. Dhar’s son Vijay Dhar and his family were close friends. We spent the night of the election results at their house watching television since we did not own a set. By morning, it was clear that Indira Gandhi and the Congress had been defeated by the people of India. A few months after March 1977, George Fernandes became Union Minister for Industries in the freshly minted Janata Party government appointing Ashok as his Special Assistant. After twelve continuous years in J&K, we packed our bags for a new life in Delhi.

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  After barely two years in Delhi, Ashok was transferred back to Kashmir. Although this was against service rules that hadn’t changed since British times, he had to return. I stayed back in Delhi since the children had settled into schools and I, had begun work with the Gujarat State Handicrafts Corporation as a design and marketing consultant. However, since Ashok was stationed away from home, the children and I kept visiting him in the years to follow.

  In 1982, Sheikh Abdullah passed away. It was a foregone conclusion that Farooq Abdullah would take over. He came to rely heavily on Ashok. The relationship between us was never like that between politicians but of trust and camaraderie which Farooq based solely on his respect for Ashok’s integrity and administrative abilities. Ashok was popular among the locals in Kashmir. He was unfazed with wearing his frayed shirt collar turned, and his modest salary. Only once did his driver plead with him not to embarrass him by sending him to have his jackets repaired from the rafoowallah and instead get some new ones. But of course, the trouble is, if one is honest and relied upon by those in power for precisely that reason, it does not sit well with rivals.

  The state assembly elections were to take place in 1983. I often scribbled letters to George Fernandes in Delhi reporting on Kashmir, politically and otherwise. Although I had come to be quite politically indoctrinated by then, I was still immature. In one letter dated 3 June, I wrote,

  The weather is wonderful. Kashmir is full of election excitement. Lots of red [National Conference] flags everywhere. Farooq on whistle stop trips through all the villages. We got caught up in one of them so he grabs my hand from the Matador and yells, ‘Do you think we’ll make it?’!

  So far everyone predicts a tough fight and Congress (I) people are flexing their muscles as much as they can but I personally anticipate an emotional swing to the NC in the last days. Farooq’s immaturity isn’t helping but he means well. He has fought a tough fight.… All our friends who have been around with him say his popularity is immense and he is able to reach out warmly and directly to the people. Rural women go hysterical! They don’t care what he says, they just love him.

  The house is full as six of Akshay’s friends have arrived to go trekking. Large new house with painters, carpenters, engineers all janaab-ing away to glory. Very disorienting being treated like a ‘memsahib’ again!

  That year, the Congress had wanted an electoral arrangement with the National Conference which Farooq refused. They subsequently won 23 seats largely in Jammu while the National Conference won 46 in the valley.

  I remember that at times we used to go to hear Indira Gandhi’s speeches during the election campaigns. As families of senior officials on duty, we had seating fairly close to the stage. Once, after her speech was over, we saw her pass close by and in a few seconds she was in her car and away. The next morning we were astounded to read headlines from newspapers from Delhi saying ‘blood and thunder in Kashmir’. Subsequently, former Governor Jagmohan described in his book My Frozen Turbulence in Kashmir (1995) that as Mrs Gandhi had left that meeting, a group of hostile Kashmiri men had lowered their pyjamas and shown their backs to her. This rumour spread like wildfire and became part of history. We had been ten feet away and can vouch for the fact that no s
uch thing happened. When his book was published, I was asked to write a review of it for the Calutta Telegraph. I challenged many of his facts mentioning repeatedly that many of these details were untrue. Graciously, much later, when Jagmohan became Minister for Communications in the first NDA government, he fixed a chronic problem concerning my telephone by personally calling me to enquire about my complaint.

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  In 1989, I visited Srinagar once again, to identify artists and crafts in the state for a book I was writing on the crafts of Jammu, Kashmir and Ladakh.* A photographer friend, Kamal Sahai, and I travelled to many remote areas combing through their intricate by-lanes to engage with and photograph the finest artisans and their crafts. We followed the Gujjar and Bakarwal trails, examining the crafts these nomads practised. We focused on crafts that were not even considered worthy of attention earlier, like the simple waggu mats woven from wild reeds collected from the Nagin and Dal lakes. By the time the book came out in 1991, Kashmir was aflame and the serene, idyllic scenery we had photographed for the book, was soon to be a thing of the past. By then, the tranquil groves that had embraced our embroiderers, had become shelters for militants with AK-47s.

  Kamal and I witnessed manifestations of violent militancy following our departure from the Coffee House just above Preco Studios in Srinagar one day. No sooner had we left the premises, than there was an explosion in the toilet of the Coffee House. The people of Kashmir were, and still are, peace-loving, sentimental and hospitable. They have always been deeply religious but never radical. They lived in peace with Hindus but did feel a sense of injustice when they saw them occupying high posts in the bureaucracy over the years. The Congress-National Conference electoral tie-up in the previous Assembly elections had made space for an opposition in the form of the Muslim United Front. Victory in some constituencies was denied to them unfairly despite a legitimate election. By 1990, the violence erupted in full force and the Hindus were forced to flee while Muslim youth who were unemployed took to guns distributed by a number of militant groups that were increasing in number every day.

  My book on the crafts of Jammu, Kashmir and Ladakh was released on the lawns of Prime Minister V.P. Singh’s official residence in late 1991 and not at a public venue for security reasons as the National Front government was already in trouble because of the Mandal agitations. The book release function in Delhi proceeded in the usual fashion, with all the stock formalities and important guests. However, it was spoiled for me by a remark from the prime minister. He said, ‘The book is so beautiful that now we do not have to go to Kashmir to see its beauty!’ This was at a time when Kashmir’s craftspersons were bemoaning the fact that tourists—their life blood—were staying away from Kashmir because of militancy, affecting an important source of their livelihood. I hardly wanted my book to serve as an alternative.

  I stayed away from Kashmir during the years of militancy that followed.

  ~

  After nearly twenty years, in the early part of June 2008, I travelled to Kashmir again. Signs of militancy had subsided by then. It was an enlightening and emotional homecoming to a state of which I had been part from 1965 to 1977, and then off and on until 1990. I had been a witness to the Amarnath Yatra, and the first Indo-Pakistani war in 1965. I was in Ladakh when the second Indo-Pakistani war took place in 1971, and rockets whizzed past the dak bungalow in Kargil. It was with a heavy heart that I had left Kashmir in 1977. It had been my home where my children had grown up eating apples and cherries off the trees in our garden, and Gee Enn baker down the road had baked all their birthday cakes.

  During the 2008 visit, I witnessed a Srinagar that was filled with a sense of freedom and casual abandon that the locals agreed had not existed for nearly two decades. Twenty years back, craftspersons would not come out of their small workplaces. However, the next generation was more forthcoming. Upon my arrival, they came with cars to receive me, all excited and warmly welcoming. As we drove out from the airport, a policeman stopped us. The person driving got out and was asked to move away from earshot. When he returned, he recounted what had transpired. The policeman had advised him to squeeze a lot of money out of his visitors and demanded a little ‘something’ for refreshments. It was unfortunate that the local police were extorting minor bribes from their own people so openly.

  Curious to know what had changed since my departure from Kashmir, I soon became aware that the route from the airport into town certainly had. Further, an unending row of houses, busy commercial areas, and hoardings showcasing international brands had replaced paddy and rice fields with the occasional house and a small string of shops encountered every now and then. There was hardly any greenery in sight. There was traffic along the way. Pedestrians, private cars, taxis and buses, tourist coaches and SUVs, shikarawallahs, army jeeps and random hawkers all inched forward on the roads without any discipline. It was frustrating, but underneath the exasperation I felt happy that Kashmir was bustling with tourist activity, and the people were experiencing freedom from fear of militant attacks and the tension of curfews. In intimate, frank conversations with shikarawallahs, craftspersons, former bureaucrats, politicians, proprietors of tourist establishments, school teachers, doctors, former judges, taxi drivers, pony-wallahs, cooks, and local elders, I heard the same words over and over: ‘When there was militancy’, ‘when militancy was at its height’, ‘in the days of militancy’. It was remarkable that everyone spoke of militancy in the past tense. No one was pessimistic, negative, or harboured ill-will towards anyone. They were ready to get on with normal life. What was most striking to me was that Kashmir looked more busy and prosperous than it had ever before, and it was this factor that motivated me to explore the legacy of this twenty-year phase of militancy.

  In Srinagar, it seemed to me as if the J&K Bank was running the state, not the government. Bank branches that were quite impressive to look at were all over. The Bank was responsible for the conservation of heritage places like the Badamwari, a park full of almond trees that had remained unkempt for years. Kashmiri housewives were seen picnicking there and basking in the sun. The Bank sponsored eco-friendly practices and projects that improved the condition of public spaces and the environment, and had enough money, through sound financial management, to invite a sense of confidence and security in its presence. All this happened throughout the years of militancy, thanks to the dynamic leadership of Kashmiri officers heading the bank, and the fact that the local people continued to propagate and encourage progress. Similarly, the Delhi Public School, set up by the D.P. Dhar Memorial Trust, was probably the best educational infrastructure the capital town had ever had. Facilities for three thousand children including a swimming pool, a golf course and a medical centre to be shared with the public were part of its future plans.

  Areas at the foot of Hari Parbat, along the Airport Road and around Nagin Lake, and others were crowded with palatial mansions built during those troubled years. ‘Many wealthy people have lost money, but many who had nothing have become very rich’, my Kashmiri craftspersons informed me. ‘Where has the money come from?’ I asked. ‘That is the point. It is obviously from illicit activities,’ they replied awkwardly. By 2008, large tracts of government land were seized by militants and sold for tidy sums; officials were pressurized to process the papers, and the government was helpless, unable to control the proliferation of large structures that had come up quite illegally. But what was interesting to note was that no other region subjected to militancy had had such growth and obvious demonstration of wealth. New shops had opened and commercial areas were cultivating a distinctly cosmopolitan air.

  In the bazaars, I saw Kashmiris preparing for the wedding season so that it could be over before elections were announced. Local wazas, who prepared meals for feasts, were charging Rs 50,000 to Rs 1 lakh for an evening. People commented with amusement how earlier, after a feast, no one used to be given anything. Yet now, baskets containing a large bottle of Coke or Pepsi, mineral water bottles, post-dinner mints, Pan Pa
rag, wet, scented towels, a dry towel, toothpicks and soap were being presented to guests. This added to the expenditure of providing hundred to five hundred guests fifteen meat dishes (at Rs 180 per kg) where two kilograms were served to four people sharing a thrami—a large dish on which food was shared by four people at a feast. Milk and curd were being served in copper bowls instead of those made from old earthenware. Elaborate expenditures could only be possible when people had the means, and were comfortable spending it.

  In traditional Kashmiri households, it is a norm to stock homes with enough rations for at least three months. This was in order that they could always be ready to offer their hospitality in the most unanticipated of situations. Yet, it was this very habit that aroused the suspicions of security personnel from Tamil Nadu or Bihar who went searching inside their homes for militants. They accused people of storing up for a jihad or feeding militants surreptitiously, and, as they suspected, quite likely, militants would arrive in the night and insist on being fed. My local friends described how agonizing such nights had been. ‘Could you recognize any of the militants?’ I had asked. ‘No, they were all from other areas, and ran away after a while. Our friends and neighbours would never indulge in wrong activities. Why should we when we have the capacity to live with dignity?’ they answered.

  ‘What were the changes in your lives during this period?’ I asked a group of craftspeople after we had shared a hearty lunch with Kashmiri dishes like tabakmaaz, kababs, ristas and gushtabas at the home of a papier mâché artisan. All of them were under the age of forty. They had been in their teens when militancy had started in their region. They narrated how some of them had fought with their parents so that they could be allowed to go away to see Delhi. Dilli Haat, the crafts marketplace in New Delhi (opened in 1994) gave them a means to earn. They also had opportunities through governments, NGOs and private organizations to travel as part of exhibitions to Goa, Mumbai, Bangalore, and later Madagascar, the UK, Germany and the USA. Their voices were unafraid and frank.