CROSS ROADS
During the day, even the small fragments we did remember in the morning, fade away completely, leaving us with nothing more than just the realization that we indeed did dream while asleep, however not knowing or remembering about what.
My dreams are different. Vivid. Graphic. Detailed. Expressive.
Frightening. So intense.
In the morning, I wake up sweating and shaking. Sometimes, I wake up a few times at night. As if, these are not mere dreams, but stories of a past life.
Almost like nightmares.
Women washing their shawls in Dal Lake, Niyand Gyavun by the farmers echoing into the mountains behind them, Waguv in mud houses, Hiket dances-part of the ‘Raas’-,Pashakuri Lake near Pampore.
Today, I’m forty years old. It is impossible that I have ever experienced or seen all the things I see in my dreams, as these have been absent in Srinagar for at least half a century, perhaps more than a century, and have also perished long ago from the villages surrounding it.
This night was again terrifyingly real.
Padamgam Bridge, Pulhoor on walking feet, Muhuls being used by two women simultaneously almost as if wanting to create a musical symphony, kiltas on men’s backs, Melodies of Doub Bai praising the washerwoman, Gulrez poems, Donga on the waters of the Dal and the Jhelum.
I see boiled rice made into balls eaten with oil salt and pepper, Noon Chai without milk.
These dreams are often truer than the life I live. Impossible to forget.
Contrary to reason and absurd.
I have long wondered why I have this wicked second life. I haven’t discussed it with anyone. Not my parents, children, colleagues, friends or even my wife. Excusing myself with backpain, stress of work and a low libido, my wife and I sleep in different rooms for the last so many years. I miss her warmth next to me, but she must not know. She might think I am schizophrenic.
Alack, I have started thinking that I might be schizophrenic.
I dread going to sleep. The idea for normal people of going to bed and resting, is for me a harrowing ordeal. However, I have learned to bargain with myself. Controlling something which is beyond control is arduous while negotiating with yourself is easier.These dreams are indeed not just dreams, but pure realities. Realities of the past. My past. A previous life somewhere in Kashmir.Today’s Kashmir is very different from what it used to before my rebirth. Growing up in this present life, when I was just ten or eleven years old, I saw devastation in Kashmir. Killings, rape, murder, hartals, curfews, disappearances, guns, bombs, police, army, terrorists, politics, religiosity, deceit, hypocrisy, promises, lies.In my previous life I had witnessed extreme pauperism. Some may call it simplicity, but to me it was simplicity with hardships. There was often no food, nothing to drink, not much to wear and certainly very little to flaunt.A bicycle was a rare sight, let alone automobiles, going to the city near Partap Park Chowk was a herculean task only possible for the more affluent of which there were very few, portions of land used to be traded for pieces of bread, trousers beneath our Pheran uncommon, a pine torch was used to keep working past midnight and sleep was limited to five or six hours before the next dawn of hard labour knocked on the door again.
Then suddenly, after the devastation of the time when I was in my teens, came inexplicable wealth.Lavish marriage ceremonies. Quintals of meat, chicken and rice and at least fifteen different dishes, complimented by various side-dishes like chutneys, pickles and salad. Coca-Cola, Pepsi, mineral water, mouth-fresheners, wet-tissues, small drying towels, bags to put into bags, handcrafted boxes of dry fruits, packed yoghurt. Sparkling jewellery and beautiful clothes.
Luxurious houses on five and sometimes ten kanals. Different colours, exquisite wood, indefinite glass windows, huge green gardens, parking spaces for seven vehicles and bright flowerbeds. All secluded by high walls and protected by heavy iron gates.
Cars, scooters, motorcycles, up to four or five per household, maids and servants often more than two per household, open use of drugs, marriages broken at a whim without a second thought given to the future generation, gambling, hidden and not so hidden prostitution, old-age homes for parents and grandparents and religious affiliations and political credentials ambivalent and subject to the quantum of funds provided.
In my previous life, entertaining guests with a few boiled eggs sprinkled with too much salt and a bit of spices and something resembling bread made from rice along with half a cup of tea was not only the norm of hospitality, but the height of graciousness as defined by limitations of resources. However, our hospitality back then was honest.
Today, our hospitality has less to do with warmth and courteousness and more with naked exhibition of grandstanding.
Juice with dry fruits, followed by Lipton Chai accompanied by pastries and chicken or mutton patties prolonged by eight different mutton, chicken and vegetable dishes along with rice and bread and concluded with Noon Chai or Kehwa again with the complimentary condiments.
How much can a person devour in one sitting, I ask myself?
Sometimes, when alone, I ponder whether we have made proper use of the freedoms, technological advancement and financial growth which all are natural consequences of the evolution of time. Has it really enriched us as a society or has this evolutionary process brought out the worst in us? Since when exactly, did we start thinking that the world revolves around Kashmir and we Kashmiris are God’s gift to this universe?
I often wonder, where did all this sudden wealth come from? And how did it change us so rapidly? Were we always like this, deep inside, but just couldn’t express ourselves due to our financial constraints or is our expression today a manifestation of our insecurities, our guilt, our bragging, our envy or perhaps our collective fear of the past? Are we today true to ourselves or are we concealing our true selves of yesterday?
We Kashmiris have this fantastic trait of always knowing which way the wind blows, and we exactly know when to jump ship and switch to the winning side, yet not necessarily wanting the same winning side to win.
And that is how we survive. In recent years, not only survive, but live handsomely.
How is it otherwise possible that we collectively were living in abject poverty less than a century ago which was then followed by decades of violence and today we boast, especially in the cities and large villages, an opulent lifestyle?
Our opulent lifestyle is the bounty of conflict. Yes, many of us lost. However, let’s not befool anyone.
Many of us gained as well.
Money, land, government jobs, rewards, compensations, decorations, promotions, businesses. We did not shy away from occupying houses left behind by our brothers and sisters by corrupting Patwaris and Tehsildars, forged documents, and even stole the electricity cables in these homes. All the time, while having the gall to call ourselves occupied.
In this fight between two elephants the grass indeed got trampled, but for many of us the grass turned greener the longer the fight lasted as we continued trampling those who were weaker than us and less fortunate. And in this battle, we sold, rebranded, readvertised and resold our loyalty umpteen times to both elephants.
To the highest bidder.
Without actually being sincere to ourselves or any of the two elephants fighting.
And, in the process we willingly and happily forfeited our own loyalty to each other, our culture and our identity, eventually culminating in the loss of our credibility, thinking that we were outwitting the two elephants while we were only deluding ourselves.
Along with our obnoxious yet untameable addiction to show off.
We love flaunting.
Our mansions, clothes, jewellery, feasts, cars, hospitality, network and contacts, our achievements, and at the same time, our sufferings, limitations, compulsions, oppression, misfortunes and restraints.Paradoxically, pompous vaunting of both our successes and our failures. Our joy and our pain. We adore boasting about our achievements while in the same sentence we love lamenting our Mazlumiyat (the state of being a victim) as well.We indulge in showing off. Showing off everything.Even in religious matters. Before going for prayers, we will loudly announce four times that we have to go for prayers, three times that we have done our ablution and six times that we will have our lunch or tea after we have offered our prayers which we just announced to offer four times.Perhaps, our habit of showing off is partly enhanced by our sick characteristic of being jealous at anyone and everyone. While attending a grand wedding with lots of food and extravaganza, we -with the utmost certainty- conclude that the hosts have ‘haram’ (illegal) money which enabled them to pay for such a lavish wedding. If the marriage ceremony is simple and the food is reasonable or just a little less than reasonable compared to our expectations, we -with the utmost arrogance- conclude that the hosts have always been ‘shikaslads’ (beggars).Deep in our hearts, we often do not wish others well, no matter how many times we might say ‘Mubarak’, ‘Masha Allah’ or ‘Khudaiyec’cnich’hawun’ (May God bless) when seeing their new house, car or their child attaining a university degree. A famous proverb in Kashmiri, ‘Bhai baja aas, miane koth pouw waesthi aas’ (My brother should be prosperous, but a bit less than me) is evident of our envious nature.
The dreams haven’t stopped.
Call me indeed schizophrenic or self-loathing, but I believe I have started emulating the sadistic features of today’s society in order to derive fulfilment from the pain that I endure while having those dreams.
In those dreams of mine Kashmir is poor. Destitute and impoverished.
But, it is pure.
Bereft of envy, grandstanding or the collective demise of our rich culture, ethical identity and moral morality. Free from so-called wealth. Free from booty of conflict. Free from unhealthy vying. Free from lies and deception.
I have told my wife about it. She didn’t think I was schizophrenic and understood exactly what I meant.
As if she was there with me in my past life.
She has started sharing my dreams and my life before my rebirth in which we indeed were each other’s beloved before meeting again in this life. I cherish her warmth now that we sleep together again, lying in a tight embrace as if wanting to hold the Kashmir of yester years between us.
We both had the exact same dream last night.
We both were reborn.
Together.
Not into the next life, but into our previous one.
(Author is the Director of European Foundation for South Asian Studies (EFSAS) and can be reached at: [email protected])
