Dear Reader,
Travelling in Kashmir last November, I found the presence of army men at every corner disconcerting. They were there on the highways, in tourist places, busy markets, even in the middle of tilled fields, standing in suspended animation, rifle in hand. How does it feel to live your life under constant surveillance, I wondered. And I also wondered about the soldiers, who must view everybody with suspicion and be viewed with suspicion by the very crowds amid whom they stand. Although an unignorable part of the Kashmiris’ daily lives, the soldiers can never be their friends. The situation seemed dehumanising, beyond the comprehension of a casual tourist.
It took me back to Madhuri Vijay’s brilliant debut novel set partly in Kashmir, The Far Field. There, the protagonist, Shalini, a Bengaluru-based woman from a privileged family, travels to Kashmir to experience firsthand what living there is like. If life in the beleaguered Valley was messy to begin with, Shalini’s well-intended attempt to repair a bit of it turns it into a dangerous muddle. She says at one point, “For people like me, safe and protected, even the greatest risk is, ultimately, an indulgence.” The sentence rang in my ears as I journeyed through the verdant Valley pockmarked with barbed wire.
Kashmiri writer Hari Krishna Kaul gives an insider’s view of life in the Valley in his hard-hitting collection of short stories, For Now, It Is Night. The vision it offers can make outsiders feel ashamed and guilty of their entitlement. Read the superb review of the book by Aditya Mani Jha here.
Alhough the conflict in Kashmir is pegged on religion, the idea of Kashmiriyat, which moulded the Valley’s identity from the 14th century onward, goes beyond individual religious doctrines. This profound philosophy, created by the amalgamation of Sufi (Islamic) and Shaivite (Hindu) beliefs, foregrounds tolerance and peace.
It is a pity that syncretic belief systems have become niche not just in Kashmir but all over India today. Sanjay Kumar’s review of the emended Kabir Granthawali is enlightening in what it tells us about early modern Indian society, which, unlike present times, allowed divergent views to coexist, and so could birth someone like Kabir, who said, “You spent your life turning the rosary beads, but could not turn your own heart. Leave the rosary and try to change the evil in your heart.”
Meanwhile, down with a virulent strain of flu, I am having fevered dreams with shards of images from childhood. Last night, I dreamt about my Amar Chitra Katha edition of Kabir whose cover showed the saint walking on water. It had made me believe for a long time that Kabir and Jesus were one and the same.
On that note, I bid goodbye. See you again soon.
Anusua Mukherjee
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