The Kashmir Pulse

By: Koshur Mazloom
Hitler has captured most of the land. The remnants of resistance have surrendered to Nazis. Most of the rebels have either been killed or captured alive. One of the rebels, Guruvski has been sent to a special designated prison in Berlin so that to showcase him as symbol souvenir of victory. All the Nazi propaganda machinery has started to churn out stories of his 'crime'. He is being prepared for a theatrical trial.His trial has started. He has been accused of helping the killers of Nazi soldiers in a macabre fashion. He has been labelled as a threat to Nazi superiority. To make his trial look real, he has been given a Nazi counsel named Amicus Curie. His counsel promises a fair trial, so do his opponents. Court has sat down to establish his crime. His counsel is asked to put forth his argument. Counsel gives all the accounts of his capture and culpability. Opponent lawyer shouts, "You waged a war against Great Aryans. You shouted resistance and you are not an Aryan".Amicus deposed, "He only helped to arm his countrymen against the marching Nazis, he shouted resistance because he wanted to kill and he is not an Aryan, that is his guilt. If you send him to gallows, that will serve the justice which he himself yearns for."Judge pronounces the judgement."To satisfy the collective conscience of Nazis, it is necessary that this menace of resistance should be made to become extinct". Judge further pronounced, "Although there is no categorical evidence to establish your guilt but the circumstantial evidence points out that you are involved in the crime. You are a threat to Nazi Interests. You are a non - Aryan who challenged the magnanimity of Aryans. Court is awarding you the death."Rising of the Court.Execution of the prisoner has been fixed. Jailer came and informed Guruvski that he is going to be put before the firingsquad next morning. Guruvski has been asked about his last wish. Guruvski wished. "Do not tell my wife about my death, do not bury me in my native land. Telling my wife about my execution would make her cry in solitude amid the slumbering of her countrymen and burying me there where your men trample upon the honour of my people will make me turn in the grave".His wish was granted. Nazis extinguished the light with roaring of guns pointed towards his chest and sent the letter of execution to his wife only after the Immortal remains of Guruvski were put to rest inside the Nazi cage. A lesser Conscience was buried inside the prison.Nazis rejoiced with pride and celebrated their Greatness one voice. Their white collared hangmen shouted from the pulpits of their propaganda temples, "Those who want to show sympathy with Guruvski, will not be allowed to do so. No one will be allowed to spoil the victory march. Only empathy will be entertained".High conscience of Aryans satisfied itself and no one was seen mourning the death of the lesser conscience.Meanwhile the letter of execution reaches the native land of Guruvski. Stamp on the letter has fragrance of the conscienceful blood. The letter is addressed to his wife. She won't read the letter for she knows the last wish of Guruvski must have been "Spare my blood, spare her." She stands up to his wish. And then an Aryan with quenched conscience knocks at her door and tells that, emperor Nerov did not order his execution. Nerov has again set the town on fire and is playing the flute. His birds are tweeting with excitement while the lesser birds have fallen silent in the cage and some have burned their wings flying over the inferno. The conflagration of the resistance is being watched over by Aryans. But the resistance somehow lives on. The Conscience Quenching Blood of Guruvki shall fuel yet another revolution!God Bless The Satiated Conscience.

By: Koshur Mazloom

Just three years have passed by. It was 29 of May 2009. My body has not yet turned into the dust in the grave. My bones are still aching. Blood on my face has not yet dried up. My beloved Aasiya is still having those tears in her stony eyes. I still remember how beasts tore apart our chaste bodies. I still remember how those savages pounced upon our modesty and trampled upon our honour. They were filled with lust and hate. I still remember how they were enjoying and were deriving sadistic pleasure out of our helplessness. Our weakness was our Womanhood. We struggled till our last bit of energy. Our fatigue from the vainful struggle became their strength. I still remember how frightening it was. I could hear angels screaming in agony, with us. I could hear my voice had gone hoarse and I was only waiting for my end. No one came to our rescue. Aasiya was calling me for help but I myself was helpless. I was crying, “Ha Myanii Khodayoo” (O! My beloved God) and she was screaming, “Katuoo Chukhh Myanii Babboo” (Where are you? my father). But savages were relentlessly obliterating our chaste bodies with their savage lust. I was already pregnant by two months and was so happy for becoming a second time mother. My toddler son Suzanne was waiting for me at home. My husband Shakeel had called me up just few minutes back and was worried for us. I had told him, not to worry as we had already walked halfway towards our home from our orchard where we had gone for the work. I did not know the cruel fate is awaiting us in the shape of some beasts wearing Indian uniform. As we passed by their camp, they stopped us and took us forcibly inside the vehicle which was parked in front of their camp. They pounced upon us like hyenas, tearing apart our flesh. Our helplessness was our only companion. Our faith was our crime and our womanhood was our punishment. Even Satan would have wept at our plight but those beasts did not show any mercy. They were establishing their superemacy over our possessed bodies. They were plundering us like barbarians used to plunder the conquered lands. After they satisfied their wild lust, they delivered some humanity on us. They just killed us and set our souls free. They saved us from living the lives of humiliation and burden. Had they left us alive, we would have cursed them for letting us to live. Then they threw our mauled bodies into the pristine waters of a nearby stream only to get rid of their own crime. Waters in that stream were not enough to touch our molested flesh. Stream was too shallow to drown our bodies. We were left there in the stream in dead of the night. That night was too long and too dark. And when the chirping of birds started and skies above us started to become blue for those looking for us, Shakeel along with my brother found us lying dead on those lifeless boulders. Aasiya was lying some distance away from me and she was left there with an uncovered body. Shakeel covered her body with his shirt and we were lifted from there. That day sky did not look like the way it used to look to me. It had turned red and every human face around looked black. We were placed on a stretcher and taken to a nearby hospital for conducting what they say an 'autopsy'. They wanted to determine whether we were raped or not? How pathetic. We were again subjected to shame. They dissected the un-dissected parts of our bodies, took out samples of our molested flesh and confirmed our rape. But then the henchmen of molesters in the uniform came with an order for those who were doing the autopsy. They told them to change their verdict and call our death, a case of simple drowning in shallow knee deep waters. How shameful. Doctors complied with orders from the above and declared, whatever was dictated to them. This exasperated our shame. Our blood drenched faces were not enough for them, so they stabbed us again in the heart. How can power and lust be so cruel? How can those who have come into the existence from the wombs of women like me, be so unremorseful. And some of them even worship women in temples and consider them goddesses. I wonder after tormenting our souls with misery and dread, those beasts must have visited the temples of Durga or Vaishno Devi with donations and thankfulness for saving them from getting exposed. Some of them even might have taken a holy dip in the waters of river Ganga to purify their sinful souls from the burden of crime. Crime which they had left to drown in another stream which also eventually culminates into the same sea which the waters of Ganges also end up into. I wonder how our blood shall forgive their crime. No wonder why rivers of Kashmir do not pass through their lands.
After wrapping the outrage of our chastity in the package of lies, a hell broke loose all around. People were agitated in flash anger and chanted high pitched false slogans of revenge. One shame was that our honour was trampled on with Jackboots of suppression and the other one was that we were raped again after our death. If only dead could speak, I would have yelled at their faces," how dare you molest us again and again". That day they did not molest me only, they also molested my unborn child living in my womb. We were taken in a procession towards our graves after someone from the puppet administration pacified the restive public with a promise of usual 'impartial' probe. We were buried in the soil which gave our bodies a soothing relief. But that was not enough; they exhumed us from our graves after few days again to conduct another 'autopsy' under the supervision of some doctors from Delhi which they claimed were ‘impartial’. They raped us again that day. Result was a usual pack of lies only to shield those vultures who represent the Indian state in our gloomy nation. Our death was again confirmed as a natural case of drowning. Not so strange anymore. This is not a shame for only those who shredded our modesty to smithereens to satisfy their lunatic lust, but this is even a bigger shame for those who shielded the criminals in uniform. This is a shame for those who claim to be the vanguards of Indian democracy and justice. Omar Abdullah, the Indian ruler of this land tried his best to convert our rape and murder into an ordinary case of death. He manipulated with medical findings, bullied those who were speaking the truth, fudged the autopsy reports, and arrested those who were protesting against this rape of justice. These thugs left no stone unturned to shield their henchmen. Indian democracy again raised its ugly head in Kashmir and the person heading that farce in Kashmir revealed his real dreadful identity. He showed his scornful indifference and reminded us that, Slaves should not yearn for justice. He became a compatriot of molesters all willfully only to satiate and safeguard his lust for power. Since this case has been closed down now by those who themselves committed the crime of compliance with the crime, I do not want you to agitate and beg before them to open it again. I know justice cannot be delivered as long as you are dead in the slumber of life. I just want you not to spectate anymore again, when some other Neelofar and Aasiya would become objects of vengeful assertiveness of hegemonic brutality. Oppressors always would want you to be remindful of your inferiority of being possessed by a frenzied army of brutal occupation. Do not become collaborators of their crime by behaving like a herd of sheep in the slaughterhouse of a butcher. Today it was us; tomorrow your turn will also come to experience the sharpness of the butcher’s knife on your throats. If you want to live a life of dignity, then do not forget our pain. I know, you all are too much preoccupied with your lives. You are in slumber of your meaningless lives. You cannot change anything. I wish if dead could come out of their graves to fight for the freedom of their living companions. But dead cannot come alive. But I still wish to see a change as I have left my innocent lad Suzanne there to suffer with you. I hope he will not live a meaningless life of shame.

Kolaveri is Tamil for ‘murderous rage’. That perhaps explains why the song ‘Why this Kolaveri Di…!’ from south is such a rage nowadays in this land way up north. You see it gives expression to everybody’s wonder at this rage about a particular alphabet!
And this is how it all started… Daroga ji was in deep sleep on this particular morning and was enjoying a particularly lovely dream. Now dreams as we all know tend to be ridiculously disjointed reality shows with incongruities thrown in for extra measure. In his dream Daroga ji, having arrested the last of the stonepelters, was being awarded for restoring peace on earth. He wondered which eminent personality was going to bestow the honour... the chief perhaps or may be even the minister… but then as he reached the venue of the award ceremony he saw that it was President Obama himself who stood there wearing a pheran! A man standing nearby said in a loud whisper to someone, ‘He is getting the Nobel’. Daroga ji’s chest swelled with pride. He reached the podium and Obama, who wasn’t Obama any longer but Daroga ji’s long dead school headmaster, reached out towards him and patted his cheek. “I thought you were dead!” Daroga ji said. The headmaster laughed and said, “Aren’t we all?” He picked up a medal from the nearby table but as he tried to pin it to Daroga ji’s chest somebody started to shake Daroga ji. Daroga ji struggled hard to steady himself but the shaking was so vigorous that the medal slipped from the headmaster’s hand and fell to the ground… and Daroga ji woke up!
He was being shaken by his son who was shouting in his ear, “Baba your picture is in my book!” Daroga ji still in a dream-hangover state muttered, “It must be because of the Nobel prize…” The tiny tot thrust his Urdu primer under Daroga ji’s nose. One look at the picture and Daroga ji (who was wide awake by this time) got into a Kolaveri, i.e., murderous rage. Not only was the picture quite unflattering but it also portrayed him as a tyrant. To add insult to injury the medal was missing! He hurriedly dressed and, slipping the primer with the offending alphabet into his pants, left for the Kotwali. While on his way he kicked not less than 20 pedestrians and shook his fist at many more but his Kolaveri showed no signs of abating.
As he reached the Kotwali he found his junior waiting impatiently for him. The junior had this love-struck maiden in his neighborhood and on this particular morning the said lady’s passion had finally burst out into a song. One look at the junior as he was leaving for the Kotwali, and she belted out the classic lyrics about the tyranny of love and the beloved, “Zulmi piya, bada bedardi…” The junior took instant notice of the word Zulmi (a variation, albeit romantic, of Zaalim or tyrant!) and got into a Kolaveri. Hearing the episode Daroga ji’s Kolaveri hit the roof and he summoned the ‘culprits’ responsible for the seditious primer (and subsequent fall-outs like the Zulmi song!) to the Kotwali.
The ‘culprits’ tried to explain that whereas since times immemorial the letter Z had stood for Zaeef, i.e., a feeble man, in view of the authorities being fond of talking about empowering the common man it was decided to start the empowerment process with the Z-equivalent of the Urdu alphabet. Power corrupts and might being right, Z for Zaeef became Z for Zaalim! However at the Kotwali the ‘culprits’ were… er… firmly convinced that this empowerment of the Z-equivalent amounted to an act against the state. The status of Z for Zaeef was sought to be restored but that raised some unforeseen difficulties. The whole thing, having received wide publicity, had come to the notice of the Americans who immediately protested that since Z for Zaeef is likely to remind people of Mulla Zaeef of Taliban fame especially with the picture of a bearded man alongside, this amounted to talibanization of education! So there was no going back to Z for Zaeef either.
After much brainstorming a consensus was reached that the picture of the bearded old man in the old primer and Daroga ji’s likeness in the controversial new one would be replaced by that of a fool and Z would henceforth stand for Zaeef-ul-Aql, i.e., feeble-minded. This was acceptable to all because in this part of the world the authorities believe the common man to be feeble-minded, the common man takes the authorities as feeble-minded; while most of the separatists include both, and the rest of the world (watching the events of the last two decades!) includes all, in this Z-category. Meanwhile the common man in his innocent ignorance continues to wonder as to why all this rage about ‘Z for whatever’ and that’s why everybody is singing, ‘Why this Kolaveri… Kolaveri… Kolaveri Di?!’

( Truth is mostly unpalatable… but truth cannot be ignored! Here we serve the truth, seasoned with salt and pepper and a dash of sauce (iness!))

An old man met a young man while walking on the Bund. Old man inquired about the time from him. As they walked a few steps, old man asked, “What is your name?”
“My name is Furkan - Furkan Shah.”
“Do you know Zoi?” asked Furkan, a 20-year-old student.
“No, what is it?” old man replied.
“Let’s sit somewhere for a while and I will tell you about the Zoi,” Furkan said with a smile.
They sat on the banks of Jehlum, at the Bund, near Lambert Lane. Old man with sunken eyes, wrinkled face, was confused. He was thinking what the Zoi is. He was lost in what the young man is going to say. Wearing a brown colour Tweed Pheran - a cloak, he sat with Furkan on the stairs which ends down at the water of the river. Furkan was wearing a black Polo jacket and had a backpack with him. He was still holding that smile. An excitement was brewing on his face. After he had read a news story “Police Files Sedition Case against BOSE” in a newspaper, he was restless to share his thoughts with someone.
A cold evening. Sun was setting behind the foot bridge and then vanished at the roof tops of old houses in Goni Khan Market. Mist was mating the air. The people walking on the Bund have a tinge of red on their ears. Their nose tips too had the tinge. Everyone walking on the Bund had their hands in their pockets. Some had their arms inside their Pherans. Just near the ruins of an old building near Lambert Lane, rag pickers were fanning a fire pot. It had burning charcoal in it.
The smoke from the pot passed through the stairs where Furkan and old man sat. As Furkan sat a few minutes after the old man spoke, “So tell me what the Zoi you were talking about is?”
“Yes, I will,” replied Furkan.
“Well, you might know it through its history. Children read about it in their books at primary level. It is an Urdu alphabet. We can name many things starting from it. It sounds as Zo-oeyy.”
“So what, I know all this. I have gone to primary school too. I have read it when I was child. We used to learn it by heart like Zoi se Zuroof,” Old man interrupted.
No. No. Listen to me! Your primary has changed. In those days, it had no side-effects. Now learning it by heart has consequences. You know we are living in Kashmir, the beautiful valley which has been heaven on earth. I am sure you know that too. You might know better than me as you have lived more than me. But the person for whom you used to sing, Alli Karri Wagan Karri Bab Karri Lolo, left many Brinjals and Gourds, here in Kashmir, before he left to rest on the banks of Dal Lake under the shade of Chinars. It has been decades that we have been eating those vegetables. They always taste bitter. They have given names to those vegetables like PSA, DAA, AFSPA, and much more. The latest one is sedition. I am sure they used lot of manure to grow this vegetable. It seems costly. But you know India is a developing country. They can import vegetables from anywhere. They can buy anything!
“Yes I know, I listened to BBC last night,” old man added.
Yes, you are right. Most of these vegetables are grown in India and then send to Kashmir. Many people who asked for their rights were forced to eat these vegetables. And they fell sick. Some are recovering and some couldn’t survive. Some are still lying under soil at different places. They make tulip gardens over that mixture of bones and soil. Some of them even live in those symbols of memory. You see we are getting developed. Isn’t it development that we make luxurious mansions over cemeteries?
Anyways, let me come back to the Zoi. Yes I was talking about Zoi. This Zoi has changed. During your days in primary school, Zoi would have been in books like Zoi se Zuroof, as you said. The change is that Zaalim replaced the Zuroof. You know why that happened?
You learned Zoi se Zuroof by heart. We holding those Zuroof’s but they filled them with vegetables. People had tongues to talk but now they can’t talk. Nobody is allowed to talk. They fill our mouths with vegetables. I am not scared that I am talking to you. I am in a process of overthrowing roots of these vegetable plants. Everyday they are given those bitter vegetables by Zaalim. Now it has become Zoi se Zaalim by heart. So remember it is Zoi se Zaalim!
— * - * - * - * -
Zuroof is an Urdu word which means utensils. Alli Karri Wagan Karri Bab Karri Lolo: “This or that, Father will do.”

By: Gowhar Geelani
Disclaimer:
All characters appearing in this film are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Plot:
Recall Sunny Deol (Ajay Mehra) starrer 'Ghayal' [1990]. Ghayal, a Hindi word, meaning, the wounded. As an amateur boxer, Sunny Deol finds out that his brother, Raj Babbar (Ashok Mehra), is missing. His inquiries and a complaint lodged with the Police only lead him to pain, agony and eventually disaster. Sunny is frustrated. And then, Raj Babbar's body is found. Ironically, Sunny is charged with murdering his own brother, and having an illicit relationship with Raj's wife. In prison, Sunny gets new friends in hardcore convicts. But all of them are good at heart. They make a special and much needed offer to Sunny. After preparing a well-crafted plan, they escape the prison by overpowering the security guards. Thus begins Sunny's just struggle, which ends with the death of the dreadful villain, Amrish Puri (Balwant Rai). And the rest is history.
Now, set aside the reel world. Welcome to the real. Concentrate on the characters, their roles and the plot.
Those who have watched this Filmfare Awards' winning movie would recall why Raj Babbar was killed and by whom? Who the villain was and how much power and influence did he enjoy? It is not that difficult to find some character resemblance to the recent mysterious death of a National Conference sympathizer.Deceased’s son seems convinced about who killed his father and why? One prime eyewitness also seems sure that Shah was interrogated at the boss’s residence/office. "Shah was fine and healthy when he entered there. He vomited blood once he came out," says Abdul Salam Reshi, Kokernag. The second witness, Mohammad Yousuf, Ganderbal, could be the key. But he has zipped his lips. We're told that he'd only speak to the judicial commission.
The bribe-givers belong to the incredible National Conference. The one demanding the bribe, now the deceased, too belonged to the same party. The final destination where the huge amounts of cash money had to reach, it seems, also was the party.
In times of Dusshera, Diwali and Eid the Indian democracy is on sale in Kashmir. For a ministerial berth it is probably only one crore rupee. If your desire is to confirm a seat in the J&K Legislative Council, don't worry! You'll get a 50 percent discount. The rate is only 50 lakh rupee. These rates, however, are fixed. This damn good offer may not remain valid till eternity or after the festive season is over. The practice, albeit, is going to continue. There will be new rates in new seasons. And if, by chance; there is a change of guard, what is going to happen then? The new governments will have their own price tag! The Peoples' Deceptive Party [a new term coined by a journalist friend from the Valley] too will want to take advantage of the new marketing and management skills of politics in modern times.
The whole media is biased. The opposition is unfair and spreading lies after lies. The son of the deceased is not speaking the truth. The victim family too is lying. The eyewitness, is not being impartial. We all are biased. Only the lords and their nodding goats are telling the truth!
What has been revealed and what deliberately kept hidden by the wise men of politics is essential! Shri Anna Hazare's assignments are getting tougher with each passing day.
May I bother you again? Sorry for this. Recall 2010. Sagacious statesman, Farooq Abdullah answering a volley of questions thrown at him by Karan Thapar. Yes, in the audience's favourite television programme, "Devil's Advocate".
Karan's Question:
"Your party, the National Conference passed a resolution for the restoration of autonomy, New Delhi rejected it; your party demanded partial withdrawal of Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), New Delhi rejected it; you, your son and your party demanded change in the status quo in Kashmir; New Delhi rejected it too, aren't you disappointed, isn't your party marginalized, isn't your credibility eroded?
Farooq's Answer:
"No, not at all. I'm not disappointed. Credibility is a temporary thing, it isn't important. It comes and goes. What do you want me to do? Should I jump into a well?
Interjection:
Even jumping into a well needs some credibility!
Scenario after the alleged custodial death of Mr. S M Y Shah:
Scene:
Mr. Omar has been clean bowled on all tracks in all seasons. He's failed to score on all major issues that include the issue of governance, arresting corruption, and safeguarding the human rights. Farooq Abdullah bats for his son. Mr. Farooq addresses a press conference. One of the journalists asks him a question with regards to the eroded credibility of his party. Visibly perturbed, both mentally and emotionally, Farooq talks about his party's credibility and even dares the scribes to go and ask the Cabinet Ministers and the Members of the J&K Legislative Council how much amount of money have they paid to secure their berths?
Interjection:
Why should we ask them if you presumably know the answer! And rates may vary from season to season!!
Enough of this jaded negativity, cynicism and sarcasm. There are two ways of looking at a glass half-filled with water. It is half-empty for you, if you're a born cynic. The glass is half-filled, goes the optimistic expression. Let's be optimistic.
Disclosure of this fraudulent money business scheme highlights at least two positives for all of us. One that Kashmir is really growing and developing. People, especially, the sympathizers of the ruling National Conference have enough money. They're ever ready to pay 50 lakh rupee for securing a seat in the J&K LC and one crore rupee for confirming a ministerial berth. Who says there is dearth of money in Kashmir? Now, don't be negative again and start talking about those poor people, the majority. In most places, more than 70 percent of population survives in poor living conditions anyway. That's normal. Please stop being negative again and again.
Another positive is that Kashmiris will finally have some respite in festival times. So what if there are no discounts on the products meant for domestic consumption on important festivals like Eid, Diwali and Dussehra? At least the Indian model of democracy is on sale in Kashmir. And it is no joke when the system of governance is put on sale!
So, rush and seize this opportunity.
By the way, where have all the bollywood masala script writers gone? Remake or a sequel of 'Ghayal' could be shot in Kashmir this time!
Gowhar Geelani is a Kashmiri journalist.
*Feedback at gowhargeelani@gmail.com