The Informer
The city was agog with rumours that informers were hounded and put to death. For the past fifty years, the valley had not witnessed a single death, but now four or five killings a day had become routine.
Fear was writ large on everyone's faces. It was difficult to trust one's own shadow. People started questioning themselves, “Does my name appear in the list of informers? Am I suspected of any connection with security forces? or, “Has anyone seen me talking to any security personnel?” The very idea was agonising.
With every question that a person asked himself, restlessness would increase.“Does anyone know about my political allegiance?” His heart would beat faster with anxiety. “I do not think I have any animosity with anyone influential in the present time, so why should I worry?” Yet his blood pressure would soar high with apprehension. The next day, he would issue an advertisement in a local daily clarifying publicly that he was neither affiliated with any political party nor connected with any espionage agency, even remotely.
A person does not fear death as much as he fears the idea of impending death. Hence, everyone was busy working out methods to escape the dragnet of death. Some people tendered apologies in the press, while others explained their position to the public at large, and some quietly bid goodbye to the valley.
On the contrary, Nilakanth did not take recourse to any such thing. He had spent sixty-five years of his life with utmost austerity and honesty in Kashmir. Even now, he spent his days without worrying about the vitiated atmosphere around him. The house of Nilakanth, made of tile-like Maharaji bricks, plastered with husk-mixed yellow clay and covered with a shingle roof, was situated on the right bank of Jehlum, which had been flowing majestically for centuries. He lived at a place called Habbakadal. This was the hub of Srinagar city that would come to life every day with the cock's crow in the morning. On the one hand, temple bells would start ringing, and on the other, the muezzin would call the faithful to prayer in the mosque. Within no time, hawkers would throng the Habbakadal bridge and persuade passers-by to purchase their goods. You could hear vegetable sellers selling collard greens (Haak saag), kohlrabi and lotus roots (Nadru) while fisherwomen could be heard swearing by God that their fish was fresh from Dal Lake. In one corner arose the pleasant and appetising smells from the baker's ovens, while in the other corner, the sweet fragrance of milk arose from the large woks of Sweetmeat shops. You could see a Hindu customer buying fish while reciting the Gayatri Mantra, as well as notice a Muslim checking a bundle of lotus roots, incanting Surah Bakr of the Holy Quran. As the day progressed, the atmosphere became lively with horses galloping on the road, bicycles ringing and making their way through the crowd and auto-rickshaws puttering through the traffic. The noise continued till midnight. The road presented a captivating picture when students marched to their schools and colleges. Groups of pretty belles, clad in snow-white kurtas and shalwars, were seen followed by young handsome boys looking for an opportunity to tease them. The latter seized every opportunity to pass a remark while the coy young girls simply blushed, perspired and yet felt amused.
Today, it looked different. There was a sudden change in the air. God knows why Nilakanth was immersed in deep thoughts. His aged wife had just cleaned his Hookah and changed the water of the receptacle. He himself filled the uppermost earthen bowl with tobacco, topped it with burning charcoal drawn from his firepot (Kangri), and then sucked in long draughts of smoke through the pipe. While exhaling, clouds of smoke gushed out from his mouth. For a moment, he looked blank, but coughed after some time and tried to recollect his thoughts again.
Nilakanth recollected the day of his marriage. He had just crossed the Habbakadal bridge since the house of Arundati was situated on the opposite bank of the river. He could see her house from his own window, and sometimes watch her standing near the window. It was the majestic Jhelum that separated their houses from each other.
After finishing her daily chores, Arundati sat next to him.
“One doesn't know how time flies. Forty-five years have passed since we got married," Nilakanth said to Arundati, looking at her pleasing face with disbelief.
"Hope you are okay. You suddenly sound romantic today. How come you remembered your marriage, that too after all these years?" Arundati was astonished.
"Just like that. Do you know what date it is today?"
"Date and Time….! Who cares to remember these at this stage of life? Don't you see our life is like a calendar of the bygone years which hangs on the wall simply because it carries the picture of a Deity? Had there been no picture on it, it would have been thrown away a long time back. We ourselves are hanging by a slender thread of time, and our children hold us in esteem and are unable to abandon us. Look, we are like these deities waiting for time to wither us?"
"You are right, Arni. We too are waiting for our end like those obsolete calendars on the wall".
Poor old Arundati remembered that she had kept Kahwa, the milkless Kashmiri tea, on the heater. "It might have started boiling," she thought to herself, and stood up, taking support from the wall. She brought the kettle and two brass cups (Khasus). Nilakanth put his pipe aside and held a Khasu with his right hand, covered with the sleeve of his smock (Pheran), which acted as insulation. Arundati carefully poured tea into his Khasu and then went back, filled another Khasu for herself and again sat next to her husband.
"Arni, do you remember I used to watch you for hours from the roof of my house?"
"What has possessed you today? You sound strange," she interrupted her husband. After some time, she, too, turned nostalgic about her childhood. Arundati was five years younger than her husband, but due to acute arthritis for the last ten years, her fingers had become swollen and ankylosed. Winters aggravated her pain. The joint pain restricted the movement of her hands and feet, and there was no remedy. The household chores had to be performed because nobody was around to help her in her old age. Somebody has rightly said that a woman never retires. Not that she had no children to look after her, but they were all gone, fending for their own families, one in America and the other in Mumbai.
"My right eye has been twitching for the last few days which seems ominous. God alone knows what is to befall us". Arundati tore a tiny piece of straw from the straw-mat under her bed, moistened it with her saliva and then put it on her right eyelid to stop its twitching.
"Our destiny is written in the Heavens above. Whatever has to happen will definitely happen", Nilakanth sounded stoical and resigned.
Arundati had never seen her husband completely spent and exhausted in such a manner. She would show her annoyance whenever she couldn't get a proper reply to her query. For the last several days, she observed Nilakanth closing windows and doors carefully before going to bed. He double-checked every latch to ensure that nothing was left. Sometimes, he would suddenly wake up during the night, carefully pull the curtain of a window slightly and peep into the darkness outside. Except for the movement of army vehicles and the footfall of soldiers on their nightly rounds, he could hear nothing. And then would return to his bed quietly, still gripped with fear and anxiety.
"There is so much anxiety on your face. What is it that is eating you up? Have faith in God, everything will be all right,” Arundati consoled her husband to put his fears to rest.
"Arni, it is not momentary anxiety but the situation here has taken a bloody turn never witnessed before. Lord Yama is trudging in every direction on the buffalo, his vahana. Only he knows what is going to happen next,” Nilakanth laid bare the facts since he could not control himself any longer.
Old Arundati remembered the time when the Valley was invaded by the tribals from across the border who indulged in gang rape and mass murder. She was eighteen then. Heart-rending accounts of killings and rapes every day sent shivers down the spine of everyone. The city received the news that the tribal invaders had killed thousands of unarmed, innocent people while marching from Uri to Baramulla. They had not even spared the nuns of the local convent in Baramulla town and were heading towards Srinagar. People expected them anytime. Women, particularly the young girls, decided to electrocute themselves to save their honour, but as luck would have it, the electric supply to the city was cut off for days on end, and all of them looked helpless. In such a situation, they could hardly have executed their suicide plans. They imagined the tribals entering the city and unleashing terror. Every moment turned into a death alarm. Death was approaching slowly but steadily.
One day, news was received that the Indian army had landed in Srinagar, pushed back the tribal raiders and the latter were on the run. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Arundati had displayed unbounded courage in those days. To this day, she was proud of herself. Now, a similar situation has arisen. She implored her husband, "Why do you worry? We have been through hell during the tribal raids immediately after the partition. Don’t lose heart, we will be through this as well."
After hearing his wife's courageous words, Nilakanth heaved a sigh of relief, yet took pity on her innocence and simplicity. Every morning, he read the newspaper in between the lines to assess the ground situation. The newspaper was the only link with the outside world. News came but in trickles, more dreadful than the previous one. Both souls writhed in anguish like clipped wingless birds.
"Remember, this is all your doing. Now face it. Veeru had invited us to America so many times, but every time you refused to go. God knows what keeps you glued to this place. Even though his wife is American, how does it matter? We would just occupy a corner of their house. She would not throw us out. We could have taken care of their children. Children, after all, are the biggest source of satisfaction to the old people," Arundati spoke her heart out.
"It is not the question of Veeru's wife, dear. You don't understand. At this age, one is afraid to leave one's home. All our lives, we have not even ventured beyond Jawahar Tunnel. How do you think of going and staying beyond the vast ocean? Who knows what kind of country America is, what kind of people are there, and what is their style of life? And then, why do you put all the blame on me? Your heart, too, was not inclined to leave this place".
"Okay, leave Veeru aside; Kaki, too, had invited you to Mumbai. You refused to go there because you thought breaking bread at a daughter's house was like eating beef. Have you forgotten that?"
"Arni, you just can't understand. If they really loved us, they could have come here and taken us along with them. We would not have refused then."
"Both of them were ready to come but afraid of you. Your decisions were irrevocable. You were headstrong and recalcitrant. Why do you forget that you had written letters to them, not to force you to go with them?"
Veeru and Kaki remained busy with their families in the far-off cities. In the Valley, the old couple was counting their days. How many have passed and how many remain!
"Today is the seventh of Shrawan, the birthday of Veeru's son. You should have prepared 'Tahri', the auspicious yellow rice.” Neelkanth used to remind his wife.”
"It is Janam Ashtami today. Kaki's daughter was born on this day. I hope you have sent a telegram to her?" Arundati would ask her husband.
Both the husband and wife remembered Veeru, Kaki and their children every passing moment. It seemed ages since they had received a letter from their children. Old age and loneliness are painful. Old people long to see their children, while on the other hand, the children think they do it out of selfishness. How can one live without near and dear ones?
"Now forget what happened in the past. Do one thing. Just write to your son tomorrow asking him to send us tickets," Arundati enjoined her husband.
"I am also thinking likewise. I shall call Kaki tomorrow and tell her that we will come over to Mumbai for a few days and then go to Veeru's place.”
"Do whatever you think right. It is already too late in the night. Now try to sleep".
Arundati switched on the night lamp after all other lights were turned off. Nilakanth was still uneasy. He got up from the bed and reassured himself that all the windows and doors had been secured. For a few minutes, he strolled in the room wantonly without giving vent to his apprehensions. After he was convinced that everything was in the right place, he crawled into his warm bed again. He handed over his Kangri to Arundati to keep it safely aside and then entered deeper into his quilt. Sleep eluded him tonight. He kept turning in his bed.
In the meantime, there was a loud bang on the main door. “Who could it be at such a late hour?”, they thought. Their souls were gripped by fear, and they shrank within their beds. They even stopped breathing out of fear.
Next, they heard the cracking sound as the main door was broken open. Someone kicked open the door of the room as well. The door opened wide like a wound inflicted by a sword. Two masked young men carrying Kalashnikovs in their hands rushed into the room.
Without loss of time, both of them started firing indiscriminately at the two beds spread on the floor. The souls of both elderly people had already left their bodies out of fear, though the bodies still had blood running in them, which gushed out from underneath the quilts. The armed youth turned round and left after a while, leaving death and silence behind.
The next day, all local newspapers carried the following headlines: “The Mujahids have killed two informers, Nilakanth and Arundati, in the Habbakadal area. They were suspected of spying for the Indian army.”
*****
