Townlog.com

Going to Kashmir came as a result of boredom and a break-up, in the ratio of 3:2 to be precise. I know it sounds pretty weird, but boredom did the packing up, the break-up just made me give away my clothes and cut my hair that had grown till my waist. But that is not the point here. The point is what happened when I reached Kashmir.
I was supposed to reach Srinagar by five in the evening and board a bus or a taxi to Baramulla, nick named ‘Chota Pakistan’, where a twist in my life lay waiting. However, when I reached Srinagar, the watch showed 7p.m., not my watch, a co-passenger’s watch, I don’t wear a watch. Public transport shuts after 6:30 in the evening in the valley. The streets that are otherwise buzzing with commerce and kebabs, amidst strict vigilance by camouflaged uniforms and AK47s suddenly gave a deserted look. The only commerce are the military jeeps and trucks, with jawans standing at corners in regular intervals of distance and few locals tracing their way back home through the dark lanes. How I got a houseboat to stay the night with food, a guitar and a stranger who was a story teller is a different story. Night came, and so did slumber, casting her spell on everything that came her way, including the candle that was burning inside my cozy room in the boat floating on the still lake. The only beings that weren’t sleeping were the ones in the camouflaged uniforms and the night.
I took a taxi in the morning to Baramulla, a two and a half hour drive through the bohemian streets of interior Kashmir. I was to get down at Rangwar, a colony that fell on the way, where someone would be waiting for me. I reached, after several stops of security rather insecurity checks, and was received by Saqib, a 22 year old dark Kashmiri boy with good looks and a hefty personality. Somehow we recognized each other without an introduction as the ones we were supposed to meet. A handshake, few smiles and a look that said ‘you’re back!’ welcomed me, rather mystically. We had to walk to the end of the road that went through the colony to the house I was supposed to live for the next few months. It felt like a dream just oozed out of my sleep and took me in it and whispered in my ears, “hey, welcome to my world”. As I walked with Saqib in my sweater and denims and a converse, with a rug-sack hanging on my back, it was strange what I saw. The people, boys, girls, men and women clad in ‘firans’ standing in front of shops, houses and homes, engaged in activity or conversations paused as i passed them. They looked at me, first in astonishment, then a clueless smile, and would whisper something in each other’s ears still looking at me from the corner of their eyes. It was a ten minute walk to the house I was going to stay, and in those ten minutes everyone walking or standing on the streets except for little children, gave the same strange reaction; astonishment, a clueless smile and whispers. Some even clasped their hands to their mouths and hurried inside their homes. There was a certain warmth in the cold atmosphere I felt. There was a strange acceptance in the astonishment that I saw on the faces, there was a sense of belonging in the clueless smile that they gave me, and there was a secret in the whispers that they spoke to each other. What was it, I wanted to know! Absorbed by the stillness in the cold breeze I walked on. And when I looked at Saqib with some kind of anticipation, I saw that same clueless smile on his face……
…..he was returning from the post office, that was where he worked, he was late that evening, it was snowing, a cold sullen night had already crept in…. the taxi left him on the main road… he paid the driver and turned to enter the colony, the yellow bulbs were giving a dim effect to the otherwise dark street…there was no one there, not even the soldiers standing guard all through the night. “something’s weird” he thought…he continued walking till he reached the small bridge… he saw him sitting there on the side, but he ignored him and walked on…but he could feel it..he was being followed…he could hear the footsteps as distinctly as his own heartbeat…he kept walking, he felt him come closer, he didnt want to turn around…. “chacha” … he stopped, he had heard that voice before… “yakubchacha”… he looked behind and saw him standing…bloody clothes..smiling…. he let out a scream and toppled a glass of water which was on the stool as he woke up, startled… “what happened.,had a bad dream..?”asked his shocked wife… “yeah….i saw him…i saw bhola…” “what..?” asked his still shocked wife… “i saw bhola., its ok, i’m fine, you sleep, i’ll get some water for myself” he muttered and went off to the kitchen………

Saqib took me to the house I would be staying in. It was eccentrically beautiful, and the most interesting thing was a chopped apple tree in the small bald garden. Snowfall was yet to come, another few weeks before the white settled in. He still had that secretive grin when he said, “I’ll see you at dinner at my place”, and left. I absorbed the still, cold atmosphere, the wooden construction, the chopped apple tree, and the mystery lingering in the air of ‘rangwar’. I entered the house and soon got absorbed in a long tiring sleep.
“Eby….eby….” I thought it was a dream, but as the voice crawled out of my sleep and into the room, I realized it was Saqib calling from outside the window. I looked out groggy; he was there smiling, “open the door, get ready, time for dinner”. It was 7:30 in the evening. Activities settle down at this time in this part of the world, it is like an unsaid rule that everyone follows. It was a bit cooler as we walked to his place.
“slept well ?” he asked through his heavy grin.
“yeah, didn’t realize when it came”, I replied smiling.
“is there something going on ?” I furthered,
“you have caused quite a pleasant disturbance in the air”, he said waving to a young kashmiri lad passing by,
“that i figured…but i’m clueless, care to explain ?” I rejoined.
“wait till you get home, some people are waiting to see you, you will know”, he smiled.
Saqib’s house had a bigger porch, and had an apple tree too, but not chopped, his house was one of the first houses that stood on the right as you entered ‘rangwar’. He opened the main door and showed me in. It was so warm inside. There was a small door to the right which led to the kitchen cum dining area, walking through that door was like walking into a sauna dripping with the aroma of Indian spices, truly “jannat”. Saqib came in after me; smiling people were sitting there, felt so differently amazing.
“Meet my dad”, he said, “my mom, grandmom, isaak my younger brother, yusuf my dad’s brother and sheena, his wife, and yohanna their boy”. I met them with warm hands, pure smiles and a gentle belongingness. There was another man sitting fairly distant, next to the “bukhari” a furnace where you burn wood for warmth. “This is yaakub chacha” Saqib gestured. I looked at him staring at me rather, in me, like some haunted sight. “he had a dream three days ago…….’’
Bhola, that was his name. He walked into ‘rangwar’ few winters ago, a sweater, denims, converse and a rugsack. He stayed with his uncle, who had been living there for years, an eversmilingBhola. In the years he stayed there, he did a few special things that made a special place in the hearts of every home in that colony. They loved him. They found him dead one Friday, in a well, in a pool of blood in the shallow pond. No one knows what happened.
They called me his reincarnated twin.
The six months I lived there was like a dream, lucid, surreal. It was garnished with the first snowfall of the season, ‘chai’ invitations everyday from homes as I would pass them, a white christmas, beautiful friends, an army showdown, education, and a serene eternal winter for three months.
And Bhola… lived on…..