Philosophy and travel are inter-linked, especially train
travel. The view from the window, the idle journey, cacophonous smells from
various platforms, glimpses of stations passing by and the perpetual periodic
rattling and rustling sound of train’s coaches brings out the metaphysical
quests of a lonesome traveller, just like those rhythmic metal beating in the
metal market made Rumi dance in philosophical ecstasy. A long train journey is
a perfect metaphor for the journey of life.
I personally am an appreciator of long train journeys but
most of my train journeys have been one-night travel to New Delhi which is
pretty much spent sleeping. However one day in a long train journey from Jammu
to Mumbai I found myself between a rock and a hard place.
It was ending January of 2015 and I was in particularly good
mood that day. I was returning from a satisfying two week long home visit after
four months on a sunny day after many bone rattling, piercing cold days of concluding
“Chillai Kalaan”( forty days of harsh
winter) in Kashmir. Another reason for my happiness was my 3rd Tier
A.C.’s reserved upper-side berth in a surprisingly busy schedule. I arrived
around ten minutes before the departure time and was welcomed by the nice
Gujarati boy from Vasai, Mumbai. He was in his early 30s, an artificial jewellery
merchant and visited Jammu once a month for business. In the main compartment
an elderly Sikh couple was sitting and opposite to them an army man in his
ending 40s. The army bags, trunk, his demeanour and my armed force background
clearly depicted that he was an army man who joined the force as a Sipahi(trooper) and now has reached the
rank of Havaldar probably. Hav. Prefix
to his name on his trunk proved me right. Courtesy glances were shared and
small talk with the nice Gujarati boy began. As the train started with the
jerk, I heard Kashmiri in thick and shrill accent which is generally attributed
to the boys of South Kashmir, the Pulwama-Anantnag belt, the accent that is
total contrast to the sophisticated & slightly anglicised and Urdu-fused
accent of the city boys schooled from Tyndale Biscoe and Burn hall.
Two Kashmiri boys of around 19-20 bubbled with fresh
cigarette-odour joined in looking around the recently filled compartment. They
had that familiar insecure yet posing glance that borders on rude and rogue
which is common to many young kids from interiors of Kashmir when they are
outside Kashmir among Indians.
As the journey began the elderly Sikh couple joined another
elderly Sikh couple in the next compartment. Either they were known to them or
they had too much in common. This left just the two Kashmiri boys and an army
man in the same compartment for a 30 hour long journey. To me this
juxtaposition was slightly amusing and a bit uncomfortable. I have a bi-polar
public alter ego that urges me to intervene in every public argument and shuts
me down even with slightest and dumbest instigating confrontation the very next
moment. So I decided no matter what, I
have my headphones which I will put on if an argument breaks out and listen to
the spat silently.
There is a primitive urge in human beings especially in our
part of the world to know the person sitting next to you in a long journey.
Basically to see if they conform to the perception you have conjured of them.
This urge led the Kashmiri boys to initiate the conversation. It was the
archaic, cursory small talk of where to and where from. The army man was posted
in Baramullah and was on leave citing a heart condition worsening due to long
hours in chilling cold in a semi-covered check-post. He hailed from a village
in Dahod, Gujarat. The two boys were cousins and hailed from Avantipora, near
Tral in South Kashmir. They studied Computer Science Engineering (Surprise, surprise) in “some trust”
college of technology in Rajpura, Punjab. They were off to Vashi in Navi Mumbai
for industrial training which basically meant two months of fun filled holiday
on the expense of their elder cousin who worked in a bank in Vashi.
Another common human trait is to find commonality among
strangers. I successfully managed to find it with army man due to my father’s armed
force background and my Kashmiri ancestry and a Bhua (paternal aunt) from Tral affirmed my connection to the boys.
Everything was cordial and “unity in diversity”. I expressed my regret over the cancelled long
holiday past year in Kashmir due to the devastating floods. The army man shared his concerns about “Chilai-Kalaan”, troublesome floods and
army’s rescue operations in floods. The boys suggested places to visit in
Kashmir in different seasons, the travesty of floods and the incredible rescue
operations that followed especially by the Kashmiris living in India and abroad
displaying love for the motherland. Everybody expressed their love for Wazwaan,
I mentioned my peculiar affinity to mix roganjosh and yakhni with rice. There was a
meaty, mouth-watering trance for a few seconds in the compartment. The nice
Gujarati boy was silently relishing the Kashmir talks and expressed his desire
for a tour. Surprisingly, he has never visited the place due to the “issue” in
his 12 years of constant visits to Jammu. I, the Kashmiri boys and the army man
vociferously explained to him that the conflict hasn’t reached to the tourists.
Of course he should visit on the non-curfew days. His less expressive face
emitted some astonishment. Unlike Kashmiri leaders, ex-armymen and random film
people with distant Kashmiri ancestry in TV studios, this group of Kashmiris,
armyman and Non-resident Kashmiri weren’t snapping, shouting and barking at
each other like madmen. Perhaps the confines of the moving metal box and the
perpetual periodic rattling and rustling of train’s coaches evoked a sense of
camaraderie in this unlikely group.
The train was somewhere between Pathankot and Jalandhar when
in the lazy haze of after-lunch hours the boys opened their laptop. I was
having my dose of weird surrealism through Kafka’s short story “In the Penal Colony” when I heard
Tabu’s not-so satisfying Kashmiri accent, “Kis
taraf hain aap?” and Narendra Jha’s convincing mannerism, “Zindagi ki”. The Kashmiri boys were
watching Haider, yes a cliché, I know but it is what happened. The
uncomfortable “between a rock and a hard place” situation was initiated by this
question;” Have you seen this film?” asked by one of the boys to the army man.
“It’s on Kashmir issue, very accurate” added the other one.
“It’s an adaptation of Shakespeare’s play Hamlet, Kashmir is
just a backdrop” The compulsive pacifist side of my bi-polar public alter-ego
spoke. “Still, it’s the only true portrayal of Kashmir in Bollywood” said one
cousin in slightly stern voice. “Oh! Is it that movie, the one that shows army
as killers?” asked the concerned army man.
“Yes...” “Actually the killer
is., well I don’t want to kill the suspense but not the army, if you watch it
you’ll know”. I wanted to rescue the happy, welcoming. Post card image of
Kashmir in front of the nice Gujarati boy so that he speaks of J&K in
positive light in front of his peers in Mumbai. Somehow it mattered to me.
Haider film was
still fresh and a big issue at that time. News channels have pounced on it to
create endless, absurd debates with the people who have no say whatsoever on
the Kashmir issue or the film. It might have acted as the initiator of the
whole, “freedom of expression” debacle.
I personally was blown away by the film. Once I was called “Muslim at
heart” in a passive aggressive manner by a smiling idiotic, hyper nationalist
roommate in Mumbai when I defended the filmmaker’s choice to have a take on the
issue.
The army man had reservations in many scenes but was gripped
by the plot and what he called “apt behaviour of these actors as Kashmiris.”
The boys were thrilled by the fact that they were conducting a personal viewing
of the film for an army man. They felt it a moral responsibility to explain
various nuances of the film like what “Ikhwaan-e-muslameen” is, why in the
mid-90s it was a huge risk to cross the downtown bridge and how Anantnag is
also called Islamabad. The army man was
silent for most of the film except a few reserved displays of disagreement.
Perhaps the maturity of age, civilian dress, absence of weapon and shrill,
testing duty at the check-post made him a calm elderly man who doesn’t get
carried away with the passions of young, excitable boys.
In the second half the film shifted towards the conflict of
Hamlet and army man was engulfed in the plot just when in the Lal chowk scene,
Haider’s charcter starts rambling about, “Is
paar bhi lenge azadi, us paar bhi lenge azadi, arrey leke rahenge Azaadi!” The army man was clearly disappointed with Indians
making such films yet he watched the whole film, Hamlet sure is very
intriguing. The film ended and the silence followed without any harsh
confrontations and I was a bit relaxed. The nice Gujarati boy too was day
dreaming about some unknown fantasy.
“It’s an okay film, but doesn’t show army’s predicament” the army man
announced to no-one specific. One cousin
instantly replied, “Maybe you weren’t stationed here in 90s. Have you heard the
stories of fake encounters of opportunist JKP and half widows?” the boys threw
in some more points, somehow the army man’s approval of Kashmiri plight was
important to them. At one point both parties did agreed that “JKP is corrupt
and sinful”, the argument settled for a minute then the other party plucked
some other incident. The nice Gujarati guy was even bigger pacifist than the
pacifist side of my bi-polar public alter ego. He clearly was getting
disgruntled on some attacks on his country’s militia yet he looked at me and
exchanged “what-you-gonna-do” smiles.
Also he could see that this debate was nowhere near the mindless hysteria and
name-calling that happens in times of
hashtag-journalism.
The army man shared an anecdote when around 2008 in his first
of two postings in J&K; he was stationed at Poonch, during the mass
protests and curfews. On one night when curfew was relaxed he was returning
from medical store in uniform but without weapon. His foot tripped over a stone
and seeing this, three young boys on a motorbike tried to run him over. He
jumped and escaped them by inches. He said he really wished he had weapon with
him that day. There was a silence. “Poonchi
boys are Gujjars and real rogues” was the unanimous verdict.
I have no Poonch connection but it ruffled me a bit plus the
army man was falling short on arguments due his low exposure to tabloid fuelled
information. I jumped in the argument and blabbered about how, “the new
Kashmiri generation is quite rogue and savage at times. Some of them have
forgotten the Kashmiri culture. One poll suggested the Kashmiri youth is one of
the 10 least hospitable people in India and how a cousin of mine faced many
instances of eve teasing in her last visit even when she was accompanied by her
family, which was unprecedented earlier.”
The boys admitted that eve-teasing and unprecedented rogue
incidents were increasing in Kashmir. Like everything wrong in the world, they
blamed the “goons” of downtown for
this. However in their opinion the prime culprit was the “nanga-naach” of Game of Thrones and other such series and
Bollywood, which was ironic as they just finished watching a film. The army man
supported the young boys earnestly and added, “girls too have forgotten all
about modesty” and theKashmiri boys in skinny jeans and dripping hair gel gave
the good old “dressing lessons” and “can’t-clap-with-one-hand”. The innocent
debater self of my bi-polar public alter ego took over the pacifist and I
retaliated with, “the choice of women and
modesty lies in beholder’s eyes”.
“What else can you
think is the cause of rising rapes?” point infuriated me to the core yet I
tried to be composed and told the boys it is not their fault but the lack of
healthy female interaction and exposure to a certain idea of modesty. I
explained to them with much futility that a few weeks in Bandra, Versova and
Colaba might open their minds and the nonsense about dressing and modesty. How
the sexual harassment isn’t confined to a particular demographic or to women
with particular style of clothing. They were silent but not convinced.
“Son, you don’t get
it, boys get excited by these girls in skimpy clothes and sometimes harass even
decent girls. These boys should be punished but those girls are also part of
the problem” the army man explained in a patronising parent-like tone. “Exactly sir! You are absolutely right” said
one of the cousins with brimming smile.
“I am not going to meet them again and hence don’t need to
reform them” I told myself and returned to my book. The nice Gujarati boy didn’t
know how to react, maybe he was stunned by the remarks of army man and Kashmiri
boys but it didn’t reflect clearly on his face. Our eyes met and he gave a
brief smile and said, “It is what it is”. Pacifist!
It was around 7 o clock in the evening and army man
expressed a desire to have Kashmiri “Bakarkhani” with tea and to his pleasant
surprise the boys were carrying some with them. They started to bond over tea
and food again. Divided by political turmoil and century old “conflict” but
united by blatant misogyny and millenniums old patriarchy.
At Ambala station, a family entered the compartment with all
seats in our compartment except one three coaches down. They requested me first
to exchange the seat probably because I was with least amount of luggage. I
agreed instantly.
My new seat was same side upper berth and the new
compartment mates slept almost the entire remainder journey. They were still in
the restlessness and rigour of Vaishno devi pilgrimage. I kept silent for the
rest of 20 hours of journey, enjoyed my book and sights from the window and
pondered on the perpetual periodic rattling and rustling of train’s
coaches.
