Pandit Shyam Lal, a retired middle rung official of the Public Works Department, lived at Chattabal in downtown Srinagar. On a cold afternoon of February 1990, when Kashmir was gripped by terrorism, he sat sipping tea with his wife. The atmosphere inside the house was one of gloom and foreboding. Shyam Lal and his wife were debating whether they should stay behind or, like many other Kashmiri Pandit families, leave the valley for the unknown terrains of exile.
The debate went thus: The situation here is explosive. Terrorists have killed many innocent Kashmiri Pandits. They are targeting our youth in particular. We cannot be faulted for sending our children away for some time. Let us hope they will find refuge somewhere and return when the situation improves. There is nobody in Jammu or Delhi that we could call our own and who could provide us a roof on our heads in case we too decide to move. Hopefully, that should not be necessary since we are ordinary civilians without any party or political affiliations. We have always led a quiet and simple life, in complete harmony with our Muslim neighbours. We hardly need to step outdoors except to buy groceries, and we do not have any enemies. The neighbours were supportive when we sent our sons away, and we have not received any threats from anyone. Why should we abandon our home and leap into the unknown? Let us watch the situation and wait before we take a step we may regret. Just when they seemed to settle on this line of thinking, there was a knock on the door. Shyam Lal rose to find out. He barely opened a chink when he was pushed back. He staggered and the turban fell off his head. Attired in leather jackets and jeans, four young men forced entry into the house. They were rough and gruff, and seemed in desperate haste. The couple was completely taken by surprise and, before they could remonstrate, the intruders started searching the house frantically, going from one room to another, turning the furniture upside down, and looking under the beds, behind the doors and inside the bathroom. One of them ran up the stairs to the attic and returned to tell the others that he found no trace of the quarry. Another, pointing a knife at Shyam Lal and looking at him menacingly, growled, “Where are your sons?” Shyam Lal’s heart skipped a beat, his breathing ceased momentarily and his speech froze even as he thanked god that he had sent his sons away just in time. It seemed like an eternity. “Speak, you old villain; where are your sons hiding?” The knife came closer to his chest. “We sent them away. They must be in Jammu.” He could barely speak through his trembling lips. “So they ran away, eh, before we could lay our hands on them, bloody spies? We will seek them out wherever they are. Meanwhile, you need to come with us to answer some questions, old rascal.” Shyam Lal slumped on the floor, begging them to leave him alone. His wife folded her hands for mercy when they seized hold of him and started dragging him out of the house. His arm hurt badly and he squealed in pain. They shouted at him to shut up or they would kill him. Realizing that there was no point in resisting, he stood up and let them lead him out, looking back helplessly at his wife. She picked his turban from the floor and shuffled towards the door to pass it on to her husband. They snatched it from her, flung it on the verandah and closed the door behind them. She was left alone, wailing and weeping, not knowing where to turn to for help. The neighbours watched from behind half-closed windows as the desperadoes blindfolded him, pushed him into a waiting Ambassador and sped away. The car zigzagged through side streets and narrow lanes and stopped after about fifteen minutes. When they removed his blindfold, he found himself in a deserted willow field. The trees stood in rows with their bare branches touching each other in a fantastic pageant. The sky was overcast but the trees were full of promise, their pink buds ready to unfold in the first flush of spring. The kidnappers lit a cigarette each and the interrogation began in earnest through spirals and jets of smoke let off from their mouths and nostrils. The militant flashing the knife took the lead. He was the tallest and seemed to command authority. “Now, let us know, you old devil, where have you hidden your sons? We will spare you if you tell us the truth, otherwise we can be very nasty,” he threatened. Shyam Lal looked at their stern faces for the first time. They were between twenty and twenty five years old, bareheaded, sporting short hair and cropped beards, speaking chaste Kashmiri. “I swear by god, they are not here. But, why do you ask? Have they done anything wrong?” The militant slapped him hard on his face. “Do not pretend ignorance, you bloody Indian agent. We know that all of you Pandits are in league with the police and the military. You spy on us and inform them about our movements and activities. You are the enemies of Jihad.” “But we do not even know you. How can we inform on you? I see you as nice young men who should be in school rather than intimidating old men, pointing knives at them, dragging them out of their homes for no reason,” he replied, looking his tormentor in the face. “You will get to know us soon, you wily old fox. We have information that your sons are around. They were spotted here last week.” “Yes, they were here until four days back. By my honour, we are innocent. We have nothing to do with the military or the police.” “As if you infidels have any honour,” the leader spat at him and guffawed. He was enjoying the experience, impressing his mates. “Your sons were leading the agitation to get the temple reopened, were they not? You want to reclaim the temple land that belongs to us, eh?” This was from the second in command. He was referring to the Bhairav temple in Chattabal. Muslims of the mohalla had laid claim to the temple land and forced the closure of the temple. The dispute had gone on for several years and was left unresolved after the temple was locked by a court order and Pandits were stopped from praying there. In any case, the charge was irrelevant and had nothing to do with the present turmoil in Kashmir. It was the old lamb and the lion story. “That was a long time back. The temple has been locked up for years. My sons have nothing to do with the temple dispute or with your Jihad.” “Why did your sons run to Jammu if they are innocent?” “Because innocent folk are being hounded out and done to death. We are being forced to run away to save our lives.” That incensed the inquisitors. How dare this old wretch answer them back! They stung him with burning cigarette butts, kicked him, and slapped him harder. He winced in pain and begged to be left alone. He swore repeatedly that he and his family had nothing against them and no link whatsoever with the security agencies. “What are you doing here when you have already sent your sons away if it is not to spy on us?” “Yes, I have no reason to be here now. I will leave at the first opportunity if you let me go.” He was bold, defiant. “Before we do that, you have a lot more questions to answer,” snarled the leader. “First, tell us which hole in Jammu your two snakes are hiding in? We can’t wait to ferret them out, cut their forked tongues and crush their poison filled heads.” “You have to believe me; I do not even know where they are. I have no news from them so far. We have no relatives in Jammu; no friends. They must have sought shelter in a temple or in one of the tents that the government has put up for the refugees.” “You are a liar. Your sons are informers. You are spies. You are members of RSS. Tell us the truth and we will let you off. Hide it and we will cut off your ears.” He denied all allegations. They boxed his ears and kicked his legs. He writhed in pain but did not cry. They stripped him off his pheron and tore his vest and shirt. He lay crumpled on the ground. “We will give you one last chance,” the leader thundered as he kicked him again. “We have information that both your sons are in hiding here and have not left for Jammu. Tell us where they are and we will let you off.” “Kill me if you must but I have nothing more to reveal and nothing to hide,” he made bold to declare. The militants detested his audacity. They moved away towards a large willow tree and huddled into a quick conference. Meanwhile, Shyam Lal stood up and looked around for the first time. This seemed a familiar place. He realized that it was hardly a mile from his home and that the river was quite near. There was a bridge on the river nearby which was guarded by a police picket. But that would not make any difference to him. If he shouted for help, it would be his end. He was in the jaws of death from which only some superior power could pull him out. It took them just five minutes to negotiate his fate and pass the death sentence on him. “We do not believe a word of what you have said. We have definite information that you and your sons are spies; that you are in league with the enemy; that you are harming the cause of Azadi. Death is a fitting punishment for these heinous crimes. We decree that you be hanged right away,” the leader pronounced the judgment. Without losing time, they set about their business. Shyam Lal made a last desperate plea while they slung a rope around a stout branch of the tree, made a noose and secured it around his neck, and stood him on a rock. “Please let me go. Have mercy on this old man. If I die, my wife will die with me and you will have committed a double murder. Is this what your religion teaches you - to kill innocent people?” “Don’t try to teach us our religion, you infidel,” the leader growled. Invoking the intervention of Prophet Muhammad, Shyam Lal said, “I might let you know that I have great faith in the dargah at Hazratbal that houses the Prophet’s sacred hair. I was a daily visitor to the dargah during the last five years of my service because I was a maintenance engineer of the sacred precincts. I believe the Prophet’s holy relic will come to my rescue for he knows that I am blameless.” They ridiculed his claim, calling him a hypocrite, an old villain, an impostor who deserves death. And then they pushed the rock away from under Shyam Lal’s feet. Instead of hanging, Shaym Lal fell down with a thud and the tree sprung back. The few leaves that still clung to the branches rained down on him in a gentle shower. He stood up immediately, gave them an I-told-you-so look, and started dusting the dirt off his clothes. He seemed unharmed and unperturbed. The militants were stunned. Shyam Lal retained the presence of mind to seek divine intervention again, and to remind them of retribution. “Now you must believe my innocence and let me off. The holy Prophet knows it. That is why he came to my rescue. Please, do not invite his wrath by killing me.” They were mystified. The hanging fiasco made them uneasy. It was a mistake to throw the turban away, they realized. It would have come handy. But, they would not be cowed down by an infidel. How dare he curse them, this non-believer, faking faith in Prophet Muhammad in whose service they had taken up Jihad? No, this was a minor setback. They shall not be taken in by his wizardry. This man has to die, they decided. The leader flicked open his pocket knife and started slashing him, inflicting deep cuts on his limbs. Others watched him bleed as they smoked cigarettes. The red fluid flowed down in narrow trails and congealed in strange shapes on the ground where he lay, making no movement at all, not pleading any more, accepting the inevitable. He turned pale, his breathing became shallow—almost imperceptible—his body lay haphazard on the ground like a rag. “Om Namah Shivaya,” he muttered the Vedic invocation with which he would start each day of his life, and passed out. They rolled him over, kicked him, found him limp and lifeless and, taking him for dead, walked away. The clouds were moving languidly. The setting sun—round, large and red—threw long shadows of the leafless trees, crisscrossing the field like dancing skeletons in a surreal play of light and shade. Dusk was descending fast and the birds were flitting across the sky to their nests. Shyam Lal regained consciousness. He was dazed and too weak to think or move. What was he doing in this wilderness? Where was his wife? He tried to sit up but slumped again. He collected his thoughts. Slowly, he recalled the events of the day and realized that he had survived two attempts on his life that afternoon. He was destined to live, he thought, and must wait till he recovered enough strength to walk. The hope that stirred in his heart surged suddenly when he felt a shadow fall on him ahead of an approaching person. It was a man with a long grey beard in a pheron and a white skullcap. It could be a man returning from the evening nimaz, sent by the almighty to rescue him, he thought. Was it deliverance, finally? “Please help me, brother.” Shyam Lal could barely utter the words when the person halted near him. “Why are you in this condition?” the stranger asked. “The boys tried to hang me but the noose came loose and I was saved. Then they stabbed me repeatedly and I passed out. They must have taken me for dead. But Allah is merciful. I survived, for He wants me to live, and now He sent you to rescue me. Please be a good Muslim and arrange to take me home to my wife. She must be dying to know about my welfare.” He fainted again. “Of course I will. I will finish the unfinished business,” and saying so, the stranger grabbed his arms and dragged him to the riverbank. Pushing him into the river, he yelled, “From here straight to hell, you infidel,” and went his way. Shyam Lal fell headlong into the shallow river. However, this final assault saved his life instead of drowning him. The cold water numbed his pain and stopped the hemorrhaging from the cuts and slashes. The chill caused him to shiver so strongly that he regained full consciousness. Gradually, he recovered enough strength to crawl out of the river and drag his body, heavy with his waterlogged dress, to the nearby police picket. He shouted for help and fainted again. The discourse between Shyam Lal and his wife, that had started on that fateful afternoon in their home at Chattabal, took final shape in the dying moments of the day as he lay recovering in the hospital from a third attempt on his life. They decided to board the first bus that would take them out of the accursed valley as soon as he was declared fit to go home. (From: Faith and Frenzy– Short stories from Kashmir by K L Chowdhury Vitasta 2012) |
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*Dr. K L Chowdhury Dr. K L Chowdhury retired as a Professor of Medicine, Medical College, Srinagar. Presently he is the Director of a charitable institution, Shriya Bhatt Mission Hospital and Research Center, Durga Nagar, Jammu. He is a physician and neurologist, a medical researcher, poet, social activist. He writes on diverse subjects – medical, literary, social and political and has numerous research papers to his credit, his pioneering work being “The Health Trauma in a Displaced Population” which was presented at national and international conferences. He has published three anthologies namely: 1- “Of Gods, Men and Militants”. Minerva Press (Pvt.) India -2000 2- “A Thousand-Petalled Garland and other Poems”. Writers Workshop Kolkata – 2003 3- “Enchanting world of Infants” Peacock Books, Atlantic Publishers and Distributors-2007 He was declared Shehjar's 'Kashmiri Person of the year' for 2007. |
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I agree the divine intervention saved his life for he never gave up his faith and identity with the god.He had to live to tell this painful story. Kundan ji well presented,thanks for your original stories.regards to Leela ji
Added By chand Bhan
Dear Kundan Ji, Your writings will tell our tale till posterity. Thank you and Warm Regards
Added By Arun Koul