Kashmir: An Open Letter To Prashant Bhushan: (English); Deepak Budki

Kashmir: An Open Letter To Prashant Bhushan:

 (English); Deepak Budki

Dear Shri Bhushan,

At the very outset let me introduce myself. I am neither a rightist nor a leftist, nor even a centrist. I am just one out of one hundred and twenty crores of Indians, and I belong to Kashmir. I am the original inhabitant of Kashmir with history dating back to five thousand years which is older than Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Over a period of last seven centuries I have been reduced to a minuscule minority of not more than five lakh souls due to repeated invasions, proselytizing and persecution. However, I rejoiced the day my country was declared independent in 1947 though I remained in a state of fix because my brothers and sisters in Baramulla were facing genocide and rapine till such time Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir finally decided to accede to India. From that day onwards I preferred to exist without complaint in a state of continuous deprivation and denial.The only solace for me was that I lived in my own homeland and country.

But your recent statement pained me immensely. I had heard similar things earlier from a few more self styled activists like Arundathi Roy who has taken upon herself the burden of the nation just because she has written a book in English which has won her acclaim.Had she written the same in any other language she would not be known even beyond her street for you know the fate of other writers in India. Incidentally I have written seven books in Urdu till date. Your statement came as a bolt from the blue because I had pinned many a hope upon the Anna team since I regard Anna as the saviour of the  country in modern times.

May I again emphasise that I am the original inhabitant of Kashmir which has a hindu tradition of five thousand years. Not only that, Jammu and Kashmir is not inhabited by only Kashmiri Muslims but by Dogras, Sikhs, Budhists and Christians as well. Even among Kashmiri Muslims there are differnt sects and schisms such as sunnis and shias, gujjars, Kargil and Ladakh muslims who do not see eye to eye with each other. When you talk of Plebiscite as the ultimate resolution of Kashmir problem you seem to ignore these facts.The Plebiscite carries certain obligations on the part of all the parties involved viz India, Pakistan and the State of Jammu and Kashmir. You may be aware of Pakistan having annexed parts of erstwhile J&K State like Gilgit, Skardu, Hunza, Nagar and Baltistan with mainland Pakistan and having ceded a part of the state to China for strategic purposes to encircle India. Whatever was left was assigned the nomenclature of Azad Kashmir by Pakistan which ironically never enjoyed freedom and democracy in the past six decades as opposed to the Jammu and Kashmir State, a part of India, where liberty, equality and freedom of worship is enjoyed by all the citizens. The original idea of plebiscite was that it was required to be undertaken on return of normalcy in in whole of J&K state without any attempt of ethnic cleansing in any part. Is this practicable now when whole of Pakistan occupied Kashmir has been homogenised  by the Pakistan government and no hindu, sikh or budhist can be seen in the entire Pakistan occupied Kashmir so much so they carried out this ethnic cleansing in Kashmir valley across the LOC by sponsoring terrorism in the valley.

I would perhaps still agree with you if I could understand the basis of such an opinion. Kashmiri separatist leaders have been asserting all through that they are muslims and would like to be part of a Muslim State called Pakistan or form a separate state with Islam as the state religion. That would mean that we accept the two nation theory once again in the same manner as we accepted in 1947 by default though our leaders have been continuously denying the same notwithstanding the creation of Islamic state of Pakistan. In the event we accept this secession of part of our country what prevents other inimical forces to gain strength and seek independence for states like Tamil Nadu, Punjab, Nagaland, Assam, Mizoram, Manipur, Arunachal and Sikkim.Would this situation be acceptable to you to witness this country get fragmented into small innumerable states just because we could not administer them properly and that people like you and Roy lived in posh glass houses with security given at our nation's expense.

May I further ask you whether Pakistan would also hold such a plebiscite in Sindh, Bulochistan and NWFP? I have not noticed you or Arundhati Roy taking any steps or doing anything substantial to coerce China to hold plebiscite in Tibet or grant independence to them. What action did you take when Sri Lankan Tamils were massacred and butchered by the Sri Lankan Army  recently? You and Arundhati Roy could at least have gone to Colombo, courted arrest and gone on indefinite fast to stop the army of Sri Lanka to conduct such a heinous massacre. But you would not do that because no body would care for you. More so they would have annhilated you in no time. Here in India you can get recognition and big name by speaking such things and posing as pseudo human rights activists and our mass media would give you maximum coverage because they increase their market share by such methods.

I understand your love for human rights and sympathise with you. May I know how many Kashmiri Pandit refugee camps did you visit after their exodus in 1990. How much financial help did you render to them from your personal wealth. How many Kashmiri Pandit refugees did you lodge in your house till they could find some accommodation on their own? If you have not done any of these it does not behove you to talk of human rights and human suffering.

Needless to remind you that USA and European nations, after realising what wrong they had done to the Jews in the past, atoned for it and re-established them in Israel by creating a separate home land for them notwithstanding the opposition from the middle east countries and the whole Islamic bloc. On the contrary, you are keen that Kashmir should secede from India and the Kashmiri Pandits should be deprived of their home land and not allowed to return as also perish in due course of time. I only wish good sense prevails upon you and people like you because parasites grow only at the expense of other's.

With regards,
Yours sincerely, 
Deepak Budki.

Kashmiri Surnames - Nehru & Budki (English)

Kashmiri Surnames - Nehru & Budki: (English)

deepak budki 31st December 2009	There is a misconception that 'Nehru' surname in Kashmiri Pandits has been drawn from Nehar, a canal..There is no evidence to show that Nehrus lived by the side of a canal and therefore were called Nehrus, Can any one name the Canal that Nehrus lived near to. Infact in Kashmiri the surname is actually NOUR (singular) or NAER (plural) which means Duct or Drain for carrying of waste water.Hence, the common belief that Nehrus got the surname because they lived by the side of a canal is misconceived.
Deepak Kumar Budki 18th May 2009	The surname 'Budki' does not mean 'Burki'  but as per folk lore 'Budk'i word was used for gold coins in ancient time in Kashmir and somebody had found these coins hidden under the soil which had been uncovered at the time of rebuilding of the ancestoral house. Needless to mention that in olden days such a practice was prevalent in absence of the banks. As a result people started calling the household as 'Budkiwallahs' which later got metamorphosed into 'Budki'.
deepak budki (delhi) 6th April 2009	It has appeared in wikipaedia that 'Budki' surname is essentially a derivative of 'Burki' which has not been substantiated by factual data.Infact Budkis were the gold coins which had been found in the house of our ancestors while rebuilding the house. Eversince the nickname 'Budkiwallahs' and later 'Budkis' came into existence. There are hardly a few households by this name, 5 in Jammu,1 in Mumbai, 2 in Varanasi and 2 in Delhi at present.

Dr Brij Premi-A Tireless Scholar; (Englsih); Urdu Short Story Writer & Critic

Dr Brij Premi-A Tireless Scholar; (English)

 Urdu Short Story Writer & Critic 

                         By Deepak Budki 

	Urdu literature is indeed indebted  to writers like Mir, Ghalib, Iqbal, Prem Chand, Mantoo and Bedi for their creative and original writings but one cannot undermine the contributions of critics and research scholars like Altaf  Hussain Hali, Ehtesham Hussain, Aal-e-Ahmed Suroor, Qamar Rais and the like for exploring the worlds of these writers in depth and preparing the common mind to appreciate them. One such scholar is Dr Brij Premi who despite meagre resources at his disposal explored the intricate world of Manto, a doyen of Urdu fiction. In fact, it took Premi almost a decade to collect data about Saadat Hassan Manto from different  parts of the Sub-continent where Manto had either stayed  for a short time or lived for a longer duration, especially  from across the border i.e. Pakistan where Manto had ultimately migrated  at the time of partition never to return to the land he loved the most, viz Bombay, now rechristened  as Mumbai.  Brij Premi set out to explore the virgin world of Manto at a time when Urdu, Iqbal and Manto had become an anathema in India. The boldness, promiscuity and notoriety attached to Manto, the D H Lawrence of Urdu Literature, had invited the ire of self-styled purists in both India and Pakistan. Brij Krishen Aima was born in a lower-middle-class family in Kashmir Valley. He lost his father at an early age and had to support his family when he was just fourteen. He joined the Boy-service in the State Dept. of Education after giving up his education. As a teacher, he suffered as a result of transfers from one village to another. His first pay packet was a meagre sum of thirty rupees. Under such circumstances, it was but natural that he should join the bandwagon of Progressive writers who were very active at that time. His first short story “Aqa” (The Master) was published in ‘the Amarjyoti’, Srinagar. Thereafter his stories appeared one after the other in a number of newspapers and magazines within and without the state of Jammu and Kashmir. He adopted the pen name of ‘Brij Premi’ and established himself as a short story writer in the valley. He writes about himself,  "My literary life as a short-story writer started in the middle of twentieth century. More often than not I used to pour out the pain and anguish of my soul into my stories. Even now whenever my inner agony makes me restless, a story is born. In fact, short-story writing is my first love (Harfe Justajoo)." Brij Premi’s inner world was no different from the outer world in which he was constrained to live. The peasants, the labourers and the artisans of Kashmir were continuously being exploited by landlords and the capitalists, and consequently rendered poor, starved and penniless. The sub-human conditions in which his brethren lived haunted him day and night and hence he used his pen to depict their plight. He drew inspiration from  Prem Nath Pardesi, another progressive writer who was popularly known as ‘the Prem Chand of Kashmir’. Apart from Pardesi, Brij Premi was influenced by the great romanticist, Krishen Chander, who had an emotional attachment with J&K State and used to describe its natural beauty in the mesmerising  narrative in his short-stories. Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi too had influenced Brij Premi’s style to some extent. Notwithstanding, the writer who most influenced Brij Premi in his later life was the bespectacled, Liquor–addict workhorse known as Saadat Hassan Manto. The latter had such an impact on his mind that he devoted his rest of life to undertake extensive research on Manto. Premi not only wrote ‘Saadat Hassan Manto-Life and works’ and ‘Manto Katha’ but also conducted research on several writers of J&K State besides other historical and literary topics. Alas, the cruel jaws of death snatched him away at a time when he was at his productive best. While talking of Brij Premi I must acknowledge the dedication and devotion of his worthy son Dr Premi Romani towards his illustrious father.  I came to know Dr.Brij Premi through his son only when I was beginning to enter the ‘Make believe world of Literature’ from that of ‘Matter of the fact world of Science’. Romani having noticed my flair for calligraphy asked me to write the final copies of his father’s thesis. We used to sit till late in the night in his house at  Ali Kadal, Brij Premi used to give the corrected copy of his thesis which I used to write legibly. However, I could not keep my promise to the end due to some personal compulsions and wrote about sixty percent of the thesis only. Later Romani himself completed the rest. However, at the end, I  decorated the thesis by drawing caricatures of Manto at the beginning of each chapter.  My joy knew no bounds when only after 2-3 months I came to know that Brij Premi had been awarded the Doctorate by the Univesity of Kashmir. Having come to know Brij Premi so closely, I found him an unassuming, soft-spoken and a thorough gentleman who had devoted a lifetime to Urdu literature and   Kashmir History. He would not, however, display his knowledge by talking about it everywhere which was a distinct sign of his humility. He was simple in his lifestyle, coy and modest and showed no signs of promiscuousness commonly attributed to the poets and prose writers. Abdul  Ghani Sheikh writes about Dr Brij Premi, “Krishen Chander and Manto have a vivid influence on the thought and style of Premi. His choice of words and felicity of his diction are superlative”. I do not, however, entirely agree with AG Sheikh. It is true that Brij Premi spent his lifetime on Manto and his works and one can see the latter’s influence on Premi’s writing in the later part of his life but fact remains that most of the short stories written by Premi had been penned down much before Manto had made any impact on his mind. Though Premi wanted to write stories based on psychology and human behaviour in the footsteps of Manto yet his own gentlemanliness and lack of exposure to what Manto called ‘Sewers of society’  became a stumbling block for him. There were no brothels to visit in Kashmir, no Saugandhis or Sultanas to keep him company nor were there any Babu Gopi Nath's to sacrifice everything for these forlorn castaways. Pushkar Nath, a well-known writer from Kashmir comments, “Those days Manto started dominating the literary scene and slowly Brij Premi got attracted towards him. Though he could not write exactly like Manto since he did not have a similar environment as Manto was beset in, yet he absorbed and assimilated each and every word of Manto and ultimately it all fructified in the form of his thesis ‘Sa’adat Hassan Manto Life and Works’. ‘Sapnoon Ki Sham’, a collection of short stories written by Dr.Brij Premi contains sixteen short stories. Most of them are written against the backdrop of beautiful lush green fields of Kashmir surrounded by blue snow- capped mountains but poverty and exploitation which resulted in pestilence and consumption ultimately take over and expose the delicate moth-eaten fabric of the society. In  “Mansbal Jab Sookh Gaya” (When Manasbal Dried), a helpless mentally delinquent servant stakes his life to protect the property of his master. In ‘Larazte Aansoo’ (Trembling Tears), a man seeking transfer on account of unhygienic conditions is asked by his boss to send his daughter which enrages him and turns him into a Socialist. “Hansi Ki Maut” (Death of a Smile) is a story of brave educated and hardworking lady who struggles all her life to support her unemployed husband and the child. ‘Bahte Nasoor’ (Festering Sores) comprises three short short-stories or what we now call Mini stories. In the first, Prakash seduces his girlfriend and later sells her in Bombay red light area. In the second, a father loses his son for mere four annas which he could not afford. In the third story, two friends are compared, one who has acquired riches while the other still remains a pauper. ‘Nanhi Kahanyan’ (possibly the word was coined to mean Mini Stories)comprises two short- short-stories. In the first, the exploitation of police is exposed while in the second a master kills his servant for not supplying him his wife. ‘Ujhri Baharoon Ke Ujhre Phool’ (The Withered Flowers of Wasted Spring) is a story revealed by a madman who loses his wife and child as a result of unemployment and consequent penury and finds his dreams shattered. In ‘Yaad’ (The Memories) the narrator keeps watching the oarsman while crossing a river. The Oarsman is lost in his thoughts trying to recollect his love-affair in youth. ‘Sharnarthi’ (The Refugee) is a story of a refugee who has lost his father defending his village and is himself crushed mercilessly by a rich man under his car. Surprisingly, the rich man is not booked by the police. ‘Chilman Ke Sayoon Mein’(Behind the curtain) is based on fetishism and has a distinct imprint of Manto in its treatment. ‘Aansoon ke Deep’ (The Tearful Farewell) is a story of a mother saying goodbye to a dying child. ‘Sapnoon ki Sham’ is a romantic story written in the style of Krishan Chander in which an uneducated woman Saaji falls in love with a village teacher who saves her life. She is later married to another person Salaama. Saaji is drowned in the rivulet flowing by while trying to build a bund on its banks to provide help to her husband. The village teacher offers a wreath of his tears to the deceased while sitting on the bank of the rivulet. ‘Mere Bache Ki Saalgirah’  (The Birthday of my Son) is a story of dreams and apprehensions with romantic narrative in Krishan Chander style. The story touches the personal life of the progressive writer who is congratulated by his friends prophesying that ‘Mao’ had taken birth in his house in the shape of his child. Needless to say that the writer must have felt proud dreaming his child to be a Mao in the making at a time when Socialism was regarded as the ultimate goal of a  civilised society. ‘Amar Jyoti’ (The Eternal Flame) is another story influenced by Socialism where a Russian lady honours a dead body by digging a grave for him under the cloud of bullets and cannons. Later on, she lights a flame on his grave. ‘Lamhon Ki Rakh’ (The Embers of Time) is a nostalgic  recollection of the narrator’s past love affair with Almas.‘Teesein Dard Ki’ (Writhes of pain) is a story of an apprehensive husband who always doubts his wife for her affair during the premarital days. On the contrary, the wife is magnanimous to look after her husband during his sickness unmindful of the treatment meted out to her by him earlier.‘Khwaboon Ke Dareeche’ ( A Peep into the Dreams) is a story based on sadism and Voyeurism and has a clear stamp of Mantovian style on it. As per Abdul  Gani Sheikh, “Brij Premi nurtured his writings with his blood and never bothered about the returns from such writings”. Moti Lal Saqi is of the opinion that “Premi’s stories describe men in bone and flesh. They transgress the romanticism of middle class and venture into the areas of spiritualism and realism together. On the other hand, Prof. Manzoor Azmi believes that “ He(Premi) creates stories by describing a chain of events but does not believe in unnecessary conflicts between the events and characters in order to give it   a  melodramatic effect.” One thing must be admitted here that Dr.Brij Premi picked up his pen at a time when the world of Urdu fiction was dominated by stalwarts like Krishen Chander, Bedi, Manto, Ashq, Ismat Chugtai and Qurratulain Hyder. The centre of activity had shifted to Bombay after the exit of Prem Chand and ‘futwas’ were being issued by writers’ organisations who would not entertain any newcomers. Under such circumstances, Dr Brij Premi had a herculean task to get himself recognised while sitting in a remote corner of India. Further, the local problems focussed by him were not considered as mainstream problems of India and therefore overlooked completely. Worse still, his state was the first state announcing land reforms bestowing ‘land to tillers’ which left no ammunition with the progressive writers of the State. Though the political instability witnessed by the state could have provided raw material to Dr Brij Premi yet he could neither afford to take sides with such elements who were responsible for creating such instability nor could he afford to subscribe to their subversive politics. It would also mean that he had to stake his job for a cause to which he did not subscribe. But then Dr.Premi  sublimated his inner desire by turning towards research work and exploring the maniacal world of Manto. Coming back to Premi’s research on Manto, Premi had to understand Manto’s mind in three phases; first, the socialist Manto, second, the Freudian Manto, and third, the real Manto. Brij Premi had already been groomed in socialism and had studied Russian writers like Gorky, Dostoevsky and Chekhov. He had also familiarised himself with the writings of the french writer Maupassant who left an indelible impression on the mind of Manto. Premi had to learn the basics of psychology and other behavioural sciences to understand the bulk of Manto’s stories like ‘Thanda Gosht’ and ‘Hatak’. Last, Brij Premi had to internalise the pain and agony of migration caused as a result of the division of the country and understand stories such as ‘Khol Do’ and ‘Mozelle’. Nevertheless,  Dr Premi has lived up to the expectations of the Urdu fraternity by documenting the life and works of Manto with deftness and dexterity. As I said earlier, we lost Dr Brij Premi at a time when he was in the prime of his life. The best was yet to come from him. Alas, nightmarish turmoil in the valley and consequent migration to inhospitable plains took its toll and snatched us of an inquisitive soul. May God bestow peace upon the departed soul.                           ********

The Informer: English Short Story; Written by Deepak Budki

The Informer: (English);Short Story

 Author & Translator: Deepak Budki

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.”

*****

The Nest: (English Short Story): Deepak Budki

The Nest: (English)Short Story;

 Author & Translator:Deepak Budki

The Nest

Due to the sudden eruption of militancy in the valley, the office could not function in Srinagar, so it was shifted to Jammu. Being the headquarters of the entire circle, all other offices were getting affected. The orders to this effect had been obtained from Delhi. However, the problem was where to accommodate the office. Ultimately, it was decided to accommodate everybody in a departmental building next to the railway station, where some spare accommodation was available, though not sufficient for all eighty officials.

The most noteworthy thing was the cooperation received from the Staff. I, on my part, gave them a pep talk and convinced them that at such a juncture, all of us were expected to adapt to the changed circumstances and work with utmost devotion and dedication. Nobody should expect the same facilities as were available before migration. With faces crestfallen and the future uncertain, they readily agreed.

We lost no time in reorganising our office. Everyone accepted smaller tables and even occupied the corridors of the building in the absence of sufficient space. I too chose a small room for myself facing the railway track. I personally supervised the interior decoration of the room. Opposite the entrance door on the far end, a writing table and a revolving chair were placed, while a sofa set shifted from the valley, along with office records, was adjusted against the wall to the left of the table. Two more chairs were kept on the other side of the table for the guests. A large-sized photograph of Mahatma Gandhi, the father of the nation, was hung on the wall opposite the window facing the railway platform. The window was overlooking a large tract of fallow land beyond the railway track with bristly cacti everywhere, stray cattle searching for food under the scorching sun and dogs scavenging garbage and human excreta. Early in the morning, you could see some poor urchins defecating here and there.

This was a scenery which we were not accustomed to in the valley. On the other side of the Pir Panchal range, there used to be greenery everywhere, the windows of our office overlooking beautiful gardens with majestic chinars, upright poplars and fragrant magnolias. Roses, tulips, dahlias, pansies, sweet williams, lilies, foxgloves, wall flowers, antirrhinums and petunias greeted us as we entered our office premises during spring, while chrysanthemums, zinnias and marigolds bloomed in the garden during autumn. On the contrary, neither a cool morning breeze greeted us here nor cool shades were available under majestic Chinars to rest underneath after lunch. There was no cold, fresh water piped directly from the royal spring of Chashma Shahi into our taps here. It was a different world altogether.

A few glass panes of windows in my room were broken. Nobody had enough time to attend to them, as there were many more urgent jobs to attend to. Hot and dusty winds blew across them and at times produced a burning sensation on my cheeks.

One day, while sitting in my chair, I spotted a sparrow darting down from the blue expanse outside with a dry twig in its beak. It sat on the window bar for a while and then flitted across the room to deposit the twig behind Gandhiji's photograph. Following the little creature came another sparrow with yet another piece of straw in its mouth, and it followed suit. I guessed they must be male and female sparrows. God only knew when they had decided to live together and make a nest for themselves behind the photograph of Gandhiji. A nest where they would spend an entire season together, mate during the forthcoming rainy season, lay eggs, hatch them, see young chicks popping out their tiny beaks and feed them till they would take to their wings. They flew time and again in search of material for building their nest, besides collecting food for themselves. On their return, they deposited tiny pieces of straw, blades of soft grass, wool, cotton flakes and moulted feathers of other birds behind the photograph, unmindful of my presence. At times, I watched these harmless weavers closely and intensely and appreciated their skill and patience. 

The sparrows had migrated from some far-off place where they could not withstand adverse climatic conditions. They were eager to cohabit since the monsoon was fast approaching. While watching them, I felt that building a nest was as instinctive as eating, breathing or drinking among animals. Day in and day out, I saw these two tiny creatures building their nest straw by straw. They collected dry twigs, pieces of bark and straw, cotton wool, fallen dry leaves and bird feathers from places far and near and brought them along into the room with a sense of elation and anticipation. Many a time, they sat on the window rail and looked towards the nest with eagerness and urgency. In the process, more often than not, they forgot their own exhaustion. The very idea of a comfortable nest with their offspring protruding their small beaks evaporated whatever weariness they had felt, and this made them redouble their efforts. As a result, it dawned upon me that it was not only human beings who dreamt of a sweet home but birds too enjoyed the idea of a nice home of their own.

The two weavers kept weaving their nest meticulously with all finesse, intertwining the warp and the weft with dry grass blades and straw. In addition, they used cotton wool and animal hair for cushioning the interior of the nest so as to give it a soft, velvety touch. Simultaneously, they started to live in the nest, though their efforts to embellish it still continued. Gradually, I became accustomed to their presence and lost interest in their untiring activity.

Nature rewarded them soon thereafter with bounteous monsoons. The atmosphere was filled with songs of Koel, the croaking of frogs and the shrills of cicadas. There was romance everywhere. Young maidens riding on the swings welcomed the showers. Not to be left behind, the he-sparrow started petting and necking the she-sparrow with his tiny beak, often spreading his wings as wide as possible to impress upon the sweetheart his virility. After assuring himself that his female partner was ready to receive him, he rode on her back while twitching his tail. For both of them, there could be no better moment of ecstasy than this one.

After some time, I had to go on leave for about a week and could not keep track of these two little birds who had taken refuge in my room to make love. My room remained closed during the week. The two lovers had their heyday in my absence. No watchful human eyes pursued them any longer. There was no human interference whatsoever, and apparently, they had a really good time. They may have thought that I had abandoned the room forever. They sat wherever they liked - on the blade of the fan, on top of the writing table and on the arms of the chairs. Twigs, straws and feathers were strewn all over, and the room was littered with offensive-smelling droppings of these birds.

After spending the week on leave, I was eager to join my office and therefore, reached my office early in the morning. Nobody had yet come to the office except the chowkidar and the sweeper. I asked the chowkidar to open my room. As I entered the room, I was horrified to see its condition. There were pieces of straw, feathers and twigs strewn everywhere. Worse still, the excrement of the two birds was noticed in many places, especially on the upholstery of the sofa and the chairs beside the glass top of the table. I stared helplessly and did not know how to react. Slowly, the anger welled up inside me, and I was beside myself with rage. I immediately called the sweeper and ordered him to clean the room. As if that was not enough, I asked him to remove the nest from behind the photograph. The sweeper had a look at the nest and found eggs laid in it. 

He reported back to me, “Sir, the nest has many eggs inside it, and it would be a sin to throw the nest away.” He was too religious to think of destroying a nest having eggs in it. 

I could notice from his face that he was reluctant to carry out my orders and therefore did not press for the same, as it could hurt his religious sentiments. So I myself removed the nest from behind the photograph and threw it out of the window. The tiny eggs broke open as soon as they landed on the ground, and the fluid in them oozed out and spread over the surface. The chowkidar and the sweeper kept looking helplessly. So did the Mahatma from behind the glass frame.

I left the room for the sweeper to clean and mop it, besides dusting the furniture. As soon as he reported the completion of the work, I returned and took my seat in the chair to dispose of the office files.

About an hour must have passed, the she-sparrow came flying down from the heavens with some food grain in her mouth, which she wanted to share with her mate in the exclusivity of her nest. She sat on the window rail for a while with eyes radiant with hope and promise. Then she flew straight towards the nest behind the photograph, but to her dismay, she could not find her nest anywhere. She kept hovering over the place in utter disbelief, not knowing what had befallen her sweet home. All her dreams had been shattered and her plans destroyed. In frustration and deep anguish, she flitted across the room, unmindful of the rotating fan above. She had totally lost her mind. In one of the rapid moves, her body struck the fast-moving blade of the fan and in no time her wing was torn into pieces, the feathers scattered, and her body fell lifeless on the floor.

Then came the he-sparrow with mirth and joy writ large on his face. He too sat on the window rail. As he peeped into the room, all his happiness evaporated like ether, and he became sullen at the sight of his companion. Reluctantly, he flew towards the photograph to find for himself what had happened. Shocked and bewildered, he darted down to his partner and hovered over her dead body for a long time with the expectation that perhaps she might hear his calls and wake up. But that was not to be. His mate was silent as a stone. He was now convinced that she would not hear his calls any more, nor would the destroyed nest be rebuilt. Dejected and disconsolate, he flew back and sat on the window rail again where he kept brooding for a while. He had lost his mate, his home and his offspring to the wanton desire of a human being. His life had become desolate and held no promise for the future. 

Quietly, he gathered his courage slowly and flew away into the vast blue expanse towards the milky horizon, never to return. 

I kept watching him in horrified silence till he was out of sight.

*****