Rough grass tickled the backs of her bare legs as Naseem lay on her back, watching the chinar leaves dance in the zephyr.
Aslam lay next to her, whistling tunelessly.
Suddenly, Aslam said, “Close your eyes!”
“Why?”
“I want to give you something.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes first!”
Smiling, Naseem followed Aslam's instructions.
Lifting her hand, Aslam placed something round and cold on her palm.
Naseem opened her eyes to see a polished black stone.
Answering her look of surprise, Aslam gave her a gap-toothed grin.
“So that you never forget me,” he said.
Naseem rolled her eyes. “Where are you going? You are my brother. We will always be together, lying under the chinar tree, watching the leaves dance.”
****
Naseem carefully wrapped the hijab around her head, making sure no wisps of hair were visible. Securing the loose end with a pin, she stepped back to check her reflection. A shapeless form covered from head to toe in black blinked back. She turned away to pick up her bag when her eyes fell on the black, polished stone on the windowsill. Her eyes lingered on the stone for a few minutes before she walked out of the room into the living room.
The bright threads of Kashida embroidery cushions contrasted with the dark of the walnut wood walls. But Naseem was oblivious to the beauty of the room. Her eyes were on the woman. Wearing a brown wollen pheran, her grey hair covered with a daejj, the woman knelt on the cushions, staring out of the bank of windows that covered one wall.
How many women like her, Naseem wondered, stare out of windows in Kashmir, waiting eternally?
Naseem walked across the room on the floor covered with soft, woolen carpet. She lightly touched the shoulder of the woman and waited as the woman turned away from the window. The woman's eyes slowly lost their faraway look as they focussed on Naseem.
“Naseem?” she asked, her voice soft.
Naseem nodded.
Once, Zeenat had been a strapping, ruddy-cheeked woman whose laughter had boomed through the house. Now, a shadow of her former self, like a waif, she would spend hours staring out the window, waiting for Aslam. Some days, even the fact that Naseem was her daughter would slip from her mind.
“I am leaving for school. There is haak and rice in the kitchen for lunch. I will be back by four.”
Zeenat gave a slight smile, acknowledging she had heard Naseem before turning back to the window.
Dropping a kiss on Zeenat’s head, Naseem walked away. Locking the front door from outside, she walked down the narrow stairs to hand over the keys to Khan Chacha, the owner of the kandur downstairs.
“Beti, I think you should hire a caretaker for Zeenat Bibi,” Khan Chacha advised, taking the keys.
“Chacha, you know how difficult it was to get this job. The salary is barely enough for necessities. A caretaker is beyond my pocket. But after last week, when Ammi wandered off into the forest looking for Aslam, I can’t take another chance and leave her alone,” replied Naseem.
He sighed in reply. “Aslam should not have taken the wrong path, putting all the burden on your shoulders.”
Naseem flushed at the censure and pity in Khan Chacha's words. Without replying, she walked towards the taxi stand.
Boarding the shared taxi to Lal Chowk, she swallowed a sob as memories of Aslam, which
she kept caged in a box in her heart, threatened to break free.
Aslam, with his cheeky grin and a permanent twinkle in the eye. Aslam, with an idealistic streak everyone had been unaware of. Aslam who, unable to understand why his beloved valley was changing, slowly grew morose. Aslam, who one day disappeared from their lives forever.
Later that afternoon, Naseem walked through Lal Chowk to board the taxi back home, lethargy making her steps slow. She was exhausted after struggling with high school students the whole day. Today, once again, more than half of the children were absent. The ones who did come to school were angry and uninterested. They did not want to learn about Shakespeare when there was no future to look forward to. Jostling for space inside the taxi, she wondered if the children of the valley would ever have a normal adolescence.
As the taxi careened past Nishat Bagh towards home, Naseem remembered the simpler times when the whole family would go for picnics there. Laughter was a constant in those days. Like how fear was now.
Lost in her thoughts, Naseem didn’t notice the taxi slowing down before coming to a stop.
A soldier was dragging a roll of barbed wire to block the road.
Murmurs of dismay filled the vehicle as Naseem felt her heartbeat grow faster.
One would have imagined that after so many years surrounded by violence, guns and barbed wires, she would be used to seeing soldiers in army fatigues. But who gets used to violence and bloodshed?
An army officer came to talk to the driver. Naseem, seated just behind the driver, leaned forward. A roadblock could mean a delay of a few minutes or hours. Worried about Zeenat locked alone in the house, she tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.
Noticing her actions, the officer raised an eyebrow. Flushing, Naseem looked away. She knew officers usually had a short fuse. She couldn’t afford to get into trouble with them. She had to think of Zeenat first. Always.
The officer stood by the taxi as a convoy of army trucks passed them on the other side of the road. Full of soldiers dressed in fatigues, they looked menacing with machine guns cradled in their arms, their eyes expressionless.
When the last of the trucks had passed, the officer walked away. Noticing his swagger, Naseem couldn’t help but feel a spark of resentment.
How would it feel to have power? she wondered, before chuckling to herself. As a Kashmiri woman, power and peace were two things she had no experience of.
The taxi moved again, and everyone sighed in relief.
“Thank God, it was a brief delay,” said a young woman, bouncing a plump baby in her
lap. “This one is going to get hungry soon,” she said, grinning at Naseem.
Naseem gave a polite smile in reply. After so many years of fending for herself, she had forgotten the art of making inane conversation.
The clock hands showed six when Naseem unlocked the door to the house. Zeenat was
still sitting on the same cushion, looking out from the window on the darkening street below.
“Ammi, I am back,” she called out, bolting the door and sliding the safety chain in.
There was no answer or movement from Zeenat. She continued to look out, softly humming to herself.
Naseem sighed. Sometimes she wondered how Zeenat would have behaved if instead of Aslam, Naseem had disappeared. She scoffed. What a fanciful thought. Where would Naseem disappear? Her dream had been to marry and raise children. She had no wars to fight.
War was for men, who had the freedom and luxury to fight for ideals. For women, surviving was more important.
Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. Naseem frowned.
It was too late for someone to be visiting them.
Feeling uneasy, she peeked through the peephole. It was Aslam’s former best friend, Afroz.
****
“Kahwa?” she said, offering a cup to Afroz, who sat next to Zeenat, trying to converse with her. Zeenat continued to ignore him.
“Shukriya,” he replied, his hands brushing against Naseem’s.
Looking him, she realised that the touch had been deliberate. She fought the urge to wipe away her hand as she sat as far away as possible from him.
“I am glad you followed my advice about hijab,” Afroz said, his eyes lingering on her.
Seeing the blatant desire in his eyes, Naseem nodded despite the shiver of revulsion.
“How are you, Naseem? I came to check on Zeenat Khala,” he said.
Naseem noted he no longer added aapa after her name as he used to when they were young.
Naseem shrugged. “She has good days and bad.”
“I heard about her being lost in the forest. I wish you would stop being stubborn and take help from us. She needs a caretaker,” Afroz said.
Naseem wanted to scream, “She deserves the son she doted on. But you filled poison in Aslam's mind by showing him videos and giving him incendiary literature. You subtly pressurized my sensitive brother to join the rebels. You are the reason she is alone in her old age. You are the one responsible for our suffering.”
But she didn’t. Lowering her eyes, she sipped her kahwa.
“She is the mother of a shaheed. You know we want to help,” he insisted.
Trying to keep her tone even, she prevaricated, “Aslam’s actions made it very difficult for us to survive. I got a government schoolteacher job only because the principal was Baba’s friend. If I take help from you, the government will suspect me.”
“Aslam gave his life for the cause. Please don’t be called a collaborator,” Afroz replied.
Naseem felt fear run up her spine when she heard the underlying menace in Afroz's words. She glanced towards him. His eyes reminded her of the snake she had seen once in the forest. Hooded, they were waiting for the correct moment to strike. Naseem knew she couldn’t afford to make an enemy out of him, not if she wanted to survive in Kashmir.
She nodded once before bowing her head again.
“I will ask if we need anything,” she said softly, hoping her submissive action would placate Afroz.
“Aren’t you Afroz, Aslam’s friend? Is Aslam at your home? Tell him I am waiting for him,” Zeenat spoke, startling them both.
Naseem rushed to Zeenat’s side.
“No, Ammi, Aslam is not there. He will come in the morning,” she soothed.
Realising further conversation with Naseem was not possible with Zeenat in this state, Afroz left. Re-bolting the door, Naseem felt her shoulders slump. The roadblock and mental games with Afroz had exhausted her. She lay down on the cushion next to Zeenat, who had turned back to look out of the window into the darkness again.
She waited a long time for Zeenat’s hand to caress her hair like she used to when Naseem was a young girl. When a caress from Zeenat's hand would make her troubles disappear. But Zeenat kept whispering, “Aslam, Aslam.”
Naseem swallowed a sob, her chest threatening to burst with unshed tears. Slowly, Naseem got up and walked to her room. Taking off the abaya, she threw it on the floor, resisting the urge to stamp on it. She started unwinding the hijab, her chestnut tresses sighing in relief at the freedom. With her fingertips she massaged her scalp, hoping to soothe the headache that had started throbbing between her eyebrows, when her eyes once again, fell on the polished stone.
She picked it up. It felt heavy and cold in her hand, just like her heart. She wanted to scream and hurl it through the window. But she did neither. She placed it back on the windowsill.
Turning she bent down to pick up the abaya from the floor where she had flung it when the sounds of boots stomping on the cobbled streets reached her.
She rushed to the window to see soldiers marching into their street.
No! Not today! Her mind screamed. She just wasn't strong enough today.
A few minutes later, there was a peremptory knock on the door.
Hastily re-draping the hijab, Naseem ran to unbolt the door.
A group of men in army fatigues stood outside.
“Please be seated for search operations,” a soldier instructed, gesturing for Naseem to sit next to Zeenat on the cushions.
Zeenat looked wide-eyed at the men who filled their small room as they rifled through closets, emptied tins, and upended mattresses.
None of this was new. As Kashmiris, they were used to such violations of their privacy. But Afroz’s visit had agitated Zeenat. She stared at the soldiers, muttering under her breath. Naseem rubbed Zeenat’s back, trying to calm her, but it was futile.
Seeing a soldier, lift and throw the floor cushions, Zeenat shouted. She started raining curses on the soldiers. Pointing to their muddy boots on the carpet, she demanded if their mother hadn’t taught them shoes had to be removed before walking indoors.
Naseem wrapped her arms around Zeenat trying to control her. But fueled by fury, Zeenat wrenched herself free. She launched herself at a soldier, her frail hands beating a tattoo on his chest as she called him Aslam's murderer.
“No!” shouted Naseem, trying to help Zeenat, but another soldier held her back.
The first soldier caught hold of Zeenat’s wrists in one hand, raising his arm to control her.
“Please,” Naseem pleaded, struggling to break free from the soldier who held her. “She is mentally not well.”
Oblivious to the surrounding drama, Zeenat continued to rain curses. Finally, just as suddenly, her energy ran out.
“Aslam’s murderer!” she shouted one last time before her eyes rolled back, and she slumped on the floor.
Her breath coming in shallow pants, Naseem stared at the soldier as he picked up Zeenat’s frail body and placed her on the cushions.
He stood staring at her impassively before his body softened infinitesimally. His finger touched Zeenat's cheek before he looked towards Naseem who stared at him, fear burning in her eyes.
He gave her a curt nod, half-raising his hand in salaam before gesturing to the other soldiers.
The wooden floor thundered as the soldiers marched out of the house, leaving a stunned Naseem alone with Zeenat.
Amidst their belongings strewn throughout the room, Naseem kept a vigil through the long night, whispering dua’s for God to spare Zeenat’s life.
The sky was turning orange when Zeenat’s eyelids fluttered open. She looked around the devastated room and then at Naseem.
“Naseem?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Yes Ammi,” said Naseem, kissing Zeenat’s hand.
“Can I have some chai and roth? I am hungry.”
Naseem gave tremulous smile.
Later, as she sipped her tea, Zeenat asked, “Why is the room messy? Did Aslam come home?”
Naseem ignored the pain in her heart as she replied, “No ammi.”
“Maybe he is studying in the library. That boy loves his books,” she said, taking a delicate bite of the roth.
Ignoring Zeenat's words, Naseem asked, “Would you like to go for a picnic to Nishat Bagh?”
Without replying, Zeenat turned to look out of the window. Naseem felt the clouds gather around her again. Shoulders slumped, she gathered the teacups. She had almost reached the kitchen when Zeenat said, “I want to wear my red pheran for Nishat Bagh.”
Naseem smiled.
****
The rough grass tickled their bare feet as Zeenat and Naseem lay next to each other under a chinar tree. Naseem lightly held Zeenat’s hand in her right hand. Clutched in the left hand was the polished black stone, its smoothness contrasting with the fragility of Zeenat’s skin.
Nearby, a teenager strummed his guitar, crooning,
“ashtyan any ti gatshun gatsey
Pakun gatshey dyanm kyov raath.”
(Ceaselessly we come to ceaselessly go,
Relentlessly moving on is all we can do.)*
Naseem let out a soft sigh.
Naseem was a simple woman caught, between two sides of a conflict, trying to survive each day in a world full of senseless violence.
But today, under the chinar tree, with Zeenat by her side and the stone clasped in her hand, watching the Chinar leaves dance in the zephyr, for a few minutes, Naseem was at peace.
*****
Glossary
Pheran: A long dress, like a kameez worn by Kashmiris
Kashida: Kashmiri embroidery
Daejj: A plain white headscarf
Haak: Collard greens
Kandur: Bakery
Shukriya: Thank you
Khala: Aunt
Aapa: Sister
Shaheed: Martyr
Dua : Blessing/Prayer
Kahwa and Chai: Traditional Kashmiri teas
Roth: Sweet Bread
*A verse by Lalla Dyad ( Lal Ded), fifteenth century
Kashmiri Sufi and mystic. The translation has been taken from “Lalla Dyad, The
Mystic Kashmiri Poetess”, By Shafi Shauq.
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