Meeting Jaya after 28 years, 24.1.16
The biggest tragedy that has hit our community in last 30
years is perhaps the debacle of migration. It has not only robbed us off our
home and hearth but has also affected our identity as a community. One of the
pit falls of migration were the immediate snapping of ties with our neighbours
and relatives as KP’s moved to different parts of the country. Similarly our
family also moved to Jammu as my mother was working with state secretariat and
therefore it was convenient for us to re-settle in Jammu as we already had a
government accommodation in place. In late 1990’s my father who was working
with Accountant General’s office was sent to Gwalior in his first posting post
migration. Those days were tough, really tough. I don’t even like to recall
those days as they were horrendous. KP community which was used to Kashmir’s
cool and mystic climate was suddenly exposed to hot and humid climate of Jammu.
I still remember how people suffered with skin infections and strokes in those
days. Our old generation bore the maximum brunt. You could everyday hear a
story or two about the death of our community member by heat stroke or snake
bites. People were putting up in tents and make shift houses. I remember how 4
families were living in our 4 bedroom under construction house in Jammu. Each
family occupied a single room with all the kitchens being operated in the
common lobby on the make shift tables. It was a difficult time for majority of
the people from our community. Unlike others we were fortunate enough to have a
government accommodation to live. As the days went by, relatives and friends
started moving to different parts of the country in search of better living and
opportunities for themselves and their families. All would remember that in 1990’s;
India was far away from internet and mobile communication. People were
dependent on landline phone and letters for communication. These days it is
relatively easy to be in touch with anybody throughout the globe. It was an era
of pre liberalisation and India was reeling under economic backwardness.
Therefore people who were used to live in closed community in villages and
mohalla’s were suddenly thrown open to entirely different style of living. The
worst affected were elderly and particularly our old womenfolk. Imagine a 60
year old lady, who had spent all her life in a village in Kashmir, working in
fields, raring cattle in her backyard, washing clothes and utensils on the
banks of a crystal clear stream flowing just outside her house, living in a
palatial 40 room house, is suddenly exposed to harsh reality of having lost
everything and now she is living in a two room apartment with an immediate
Dogra or Punjabi neighbour. It was a cultural shock for them. From neighbour to
language everything was alien. This resulted in psychological breakdown and
depression for many. I still remember how my grandmother would start wailing whenever
she recalled her days in Kashmir. In Jammu everything was different. It was her
wish to go back to Kashmir one day. But alas that was not to happen. She
breathed her last in 2003 and I curse myself for not fulfilling her wish. At
least I could have taken her there one last time for a day or two. She probably
would have died at peace. As the days and years have passed, it seems a distant
reality now. Just a reminder that 26 years of our exodus have passed and
nothing has been done as of now about our resettlement in Kashmir. Lots of
proposals have been made by subsequent governments, but all these schemes and proposals
are utopian in nature and have fallen flat on their faces.
For last several years like any other migrant I am living in
Chandigarh (Zirakhpur) and finally have decided to make this my third home.
First was Kashmir, after that Jammu and now Chandigarh. I prefer to live here
because it is very near to Jammu (6 Hour drive) and there are around 200 KP
families living here. In my immediate locality alone there would be around
50-60 families. We enjoy a lot together and have therefore created a parallel
system where we come together and interact. This not only gives comfort to us
but also acts as a safety mechanism. For our older generation it means a lot.
And we also have kind of got used to this. During one such interaction I and my
mother came to know about one of our relative from my maternal side who lives very close to us here in panchkula. My mother was always fond of this lady and
I also remember visiting her lots of times in Srinagar as a kid with my mom and
grandmother. Her name is Jaya. She used to live on the opposite bank of the
river where my maternal home was located. Incidentally her grandson, Pran kumar,
is known to me as we play for the same cricket club. Therefore one Sunday
morning we decided to visit and surprise her. My mother was not sure whether
she would be able to recognise her or not. After all these years in the
wilderness Jaya had grown old. My mother
would talk about how witty and resilient she used to be and her sharp presence
of mind. Her husband died at a very early age and she brought up her 4 children
all alone. She had seen lots of hardships and when everything seemed to be
settling down, Kashmir was struck by pro Pakistan movement and terrorism in which KP's were targeted sytmatically. She initially resisted migrating from Kashmir, but her brother in
law, Pt. Jankinath was killed in cold
blood by terrorists in Kangan while on duty.
Hence the inevitable was witnessed and she moved out with her family.
As we reached her apartment, we rang the bell. My mother was
very excited and at the same time very apprehensive also. We heard crinkling
sound on the door and both of us were thinking whether Jaya herself will open
the door. But that was not to be the case. The door was opened by my friend Pran
kumar’s mother. I must tell you that at a single glance, both she and my mom
recognized each other and immediately hugged. We went inside and asked for Jaya.
She was in the washroom. As soon as she came out, she saw us. But she couldn’t
recognize my mother at first. My mother had to introduce herself and immediately
she hugged her and tears started rolling down her eyes. By then she could make
out who I was? She hugged me as well in a typical kashmiri style. She had seen
me grow in their neighborhood. She then started telling me about the funny
incidences from my childhood days which she still remembered. Although our
families were not in touch all these years, she had all the vital information
about us and about our well being. She vividly remembered my dad (Who is no
more) and how he would spend long vacations with me in my maternal home. She
knew about his demise and was very sad about that. I could see all three ladies
in that house that day living the best time of their lives in a long- long time.
I could see a fresh lease of life in their eyes after meeting each other after
almost three decades. Jaya had also gone through some troubles in all these
years. She was very sad about the fact that her daughter and granddaughter
passed away some time back prematurely. It is of course very sad for lady in
mid 80’s to have gone through such hardships. She also had a narrow escape when
she had a brain hemorrhage three years back. But with the grace of
almighty she bounced back to lead a normal life. However despite that her
spirit was quite high and in between she was cracking a joke or two. I was
sitting immediately next to her and my eyes were glued at her. I was mesmerized
with the way she was talking. She was dressed in the traditional kashmiri
attire. I must say that the dress (Tharga & Pootch) she was wearing has
been long abandoned by our womenfolk. But she looked beautiful in that dress.
After spending 2 hours with her we finally bid farewell to her. It was heart
warming and a memorable meeting with Jaya and once we left we promised to visit
her regularly. My mother was extremely happy after meeting her and I could feel
the same for the other two ladies. As we left it made me go down the memory
lane I again felt like a child playing in my maternal home. I could re live
those days spent there with my grandparents, parents and friends.
My maternal home was in a nondescript village of Manigam in
Kashmir. Manigam was home to the famous Kashmiri saint, Roop Bhawani and Kash
Kak . Its only claim to fame was the annual Roop Bhawani and Kash Kak fair in
which people from all walks of life would come to pay their obeisance to these
two local deities. Manigam was en route Sonmarg and was just 20 kms away from
Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. The total KP population of the village could
be counted on fingers and would not amount to more than 200. I still remember
how picturesque and serene Manigam was in those days. I have no idea how it
looks like now. It was in the winters of 1988 that I last visited my maternal
home in Kashmir. Even after nearly three decades of
separation from my roots I am still looking for a reason why we were cleansed
out permanently from the valley. However one thing is very sure, we have a
reached a point of no return and homeland seems to be a distant and an unrealistic
dream. The only thing that has kept our
community going is the spirit of resilience and courage that our community has
shown in these years of despair and adversity. We as a community have not only
come a long way but have also made a huge impact in the current socio-economic
scene of India. I salute the spirit of Jaya and her ilk who have proved Darwin’s
theory,” Survival of the fittest” true by their sheer grit and determination.
