Raag and the Rain

June 13, 2018 at 9:15 PMJun (Friends, Music, Musings, Poetry, Slice Of Life, Soliloquy)

One afternoon, in the third week of this April, I was with my friend Randheer in Jammu University. I had gone back to that campus after two years. In a while, our other friends- Sonia, Nisha and Shaabaaz joined. As we sat under a tree with chai in our hands, we requested Nisha to sing and Shaabaaz to recite his poems. Understanding the mood of the situation, Shaabaaz called his friend Aakash, a trained and passionate singer, to join us. Akash was with us in two minutes.

Nisha began the mehfil by singing a gazal by Begum Akthar. After Nisha sang and Shaabaaz recited his poems, now it was Akash’s turn. Akash sang quite a few songs and ghazals for us, pausing his singing to explain which raag it is, other musical details and some related anecdotes. Once while he was explaining a raag to us, the impulsive and innocent Sonia asked Akash if its true that some raag bring rains and some light the lamps. My immediate reaction was, “What a juvenile question,” which of course I did not say loud. I do not know what others thought but Akash clearly did not think so. Very spontaneously he said, “I am not sure if it happens in the outside world. But it has happened within me. I have witnessed rain within me, while listening to some raag and have witnessed lamps being lit within me, while listening to some other raag. That is all I can say.”

I was glad Sonia asked that question. When Akash’s singing continued, I could feel a new vibration within me.

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Madhu’s Murder and Questions Unanswered

March 1, 2018 at 9:15 PMMar (Activism, Friends, Media, Musings, Soliloquy)

(On February 22, the locals of Agali town in Attapadi region of Kerala beat up an Adivasi Madhu,for stealing rice. He had succumbed to death in the police jeep on the way to the hospital. The police said that he was suffering from a mental illness. The post-mortem concluded that Madhu died of head injuries. Sixteen persons have been arrested in connection to Madhu’s death so far. The tragic event had evoked outrage across the country. The author imagines different reactions had Madhu’s life not taken the turn it did before he was nabbed by the mob.)

An Adivasi youth named Madhu was beaten to death in Attapadi, Kerala by the public, for having stolen food items.

Following the death of Madhu, there has been an outrage against the murder and the murderers, who were not just inhumane to beat Madhu to death but also rejoiced the entire act which has been reflected in their acts of taking selfie during the incident.

While this outrage is justified, let us see what could have been an alternate script…

Madhu subscribes to the middle class values and believes stealing is bad, unethical, immoral and also criminal. But since he is hungry and as a result, dies of hunger.

The fact is before us. In Attapadi there have been several incidences of death among the Adivasis because of malnutrition and starvation. Madhu would have added himself to the statistics, had he not attempted, in desperation, to steal food items.

Facts tell us that Attapadi, heartland of Adivasis in Kerala, is where the Adivasi land was encroached in the last few decades. It is ironic that the settlers who deprived Madhu and his community of their way of life and way to living have now murdered Madhu, for stealing food.

Yes, the ones who beat Madhu to death needs to be condemned and be punished for their crime. But in the midst of this outrage against the murderers let us also be brutal on ourselves a bit and scratch the matter below the surface.

If this alternate script was to play out, who would have been responsible for his death/ silent murder? If this alternate script was to play out and had Madhu died of starvation, to begin with his death would have gone unnoticed and even if it came to our notice, we the middle class would have questioned Madhu why he wouldn’t work (hard like us), why he wouldn’t take up a job, and similar questions.

We are, secretly, thankful to the murderers because they have saved us of some guilt. But we are such hypocrites and worse, deceptive, that we are using this as an opportunity to play holier than thou with all our statements about the murderers.

Let us not forget that we are a part of the system which led to a moment which handed over Madhu to the murderers.

The question of identity is not something that can be ignored in the case of Madhu’s murder. It is not just the middle class morality around stealing which has led, as I see, to the murder of Madhu.

What we also have to ask ourselves is; whose ‘unacceptable’ (the question ‘to whom?’ remains) acts irritates, angers and outrages us to the point of murdering them? Of course, not every act unacceptable to us awakens the murderer in us. Some people’s actions anger us more than that of others. Who are these people, who are lesser humans to the society at large? More than often, people who are weak, economically, socially and politically. In other words, it is the poor, the women, the Dalit-Bahujans, the LGBT community and also the Adivasis.

By reducing the death of Madhu to a matter caused by poverty we are trying to hide the issue of identity, in such a hierarchical society, because we have not been able to liberate ourselves from this prejudice even while we fancy ourselves as just, caring and sensitive lot.

Madhu being mentally unstable gives the society more courage to be violent because the mentally ill have no social, economic, legal and political power and representation in this country.
Let us now be positive (a great fancy of the middle class, aspirational India) and imagine another alternative script of Madhu…

Madhu went to school and later got a seat in some prestigious university.

We the middle class would start complaining about how reservation is eating up our seats in educational spaces and at jobs. We the middle class would laugh at Madhu for his English pronunciation, for his ‘not-so-civilized’ mannerisms and then ask whether the subaltern can adjust themselves to the mainstream way of living.

Madhu’s murder is not the first murder caused by the insensitivity of the greater commons of this country. And every murder leaves behind several questions, which we do not even acknowledge, forget coming face to face with it. Of these questions two seem significant, to me, at least at this point; how many murders does it take to be called a massacre? How many murders does it take for us to become humans?

(Originally published in Hind Kisan on 27 Feb 2018)

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Beyond Common Sense…

February 2, 2018 at 9:15 PMFeb (Cinema, Friends, Letter, Musings, Slice Of Life, Soliloquy)

While watching a short film shot in some exotic locations, those places through which the camera moves appeared very familiar. Those allies, the flowing water, those ancient structures, that park, those broken ceramic ornaments covered benches… No, I have never been to that place. But still I knew those places and had memories of those places. It dint take any effort to realize how I knew those places, where had I seen them and why I am able to recognize them and also feel a sense of connection.

Somebody I used to know was there some years ago.

In such strange ways memories of a lost love resurfaces!

Suddenly now it feels like love is a place I never visited yet a place that visited me. It feels like love is like a memory of a journey I never took but still lived.

In a very strange way in few frames of a film I was seeing for the first time, I met her who I am probably never going to meet again. Yet in a place outside of the present, outside of the past, outside of the real, outside of the reel, in a place beyond common sense, I met her again!

That is enough.

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The Being and Becoming of Gauri Lankesh

January 28, 2018 at 9:15 PMJan (Activism, Friends, Media, Musings, Poetry, Slice Of Life, Soliloquy)

It was in the year 2003 that I first met Gauri Lankesh. I was studying at the St. Aloysius College, Mangalore then and Gauri Lankesh had come as the chief guest for a seminar held by our department. Though I hadn’t read much of her writings back then, I was moved by the affectionate way in which she spoke to all of us and impressed with the clarity of thought when she spoke about justice. Our brief interaction that day ended when she wrote on my note book her postal address saying, “Keep in touch.”

Till sometime in 2005 I used to write to Gauri once in a while responding to something that was published in the weekly of which she was the Editor. Gauri responded to some of those letters too. But after 2005 monsoon I got absorbed in my own world and also lost touch with Gauri’s weekly and also Gauri.

One day in 2009 when I was working for The Hindu in Mangalore I got a call while I was filing a story. “Hello Samvartha, this is Gauri Lankesh,” the voice from the other side said. She had called to give me a pat on the back for a story I did after the attack on minorities in Kaup following the Hindu Samajotsava. She wanted to honour those who had saved the lives at an event that was to be held in memory of her father and she asked me for their contact details. The story I did which carried the headline ‘Hindutva People Attacked Us, Hindus Saved Us’ was translated by Gauri and carried as a part of her editorial the following week.

During that noon’s talk there was so much warmth in her voice that I believed she remembered me from my teenage days when I first met her and also wrote to her. But it wasn’t so. It was only in 2014 she realized that I was the same boy who had met her a decade ago and written to her saying the translation of Gulzar and Javed Akthar in the special issue of her weekly was bad. We both had met in Mysore for a seminar on Sufism then. We spent the evening together roaming the streets of Mysore and talking about our movements, literature, journalism, common friends and our own personal lives. When I recollected a letter she had written in response to mine Gauri, that evening, gulped down the sip of whisky in a hurry to say, “Are you the same boy?” When I smiled to answer in the positive Gauri said, “I was not very much home those days with writing in Kannada though I could speak and read quite well in Kannada. So I used to find it slightly difficult to respond to letters after the task of writing an editorial,” and followed it up with anecdotes of her struggle during the early days of Kannada journalism, which made us have good laugh.

Gauri who was working in Delhi with an English media returned to Bangalore when her father, giant of a writer and journalist, P. Lankesh passed away. Those were the early days of 21st century and soon Gauri took over as the editor of the weekly her father used to edit. Until she took charge of Lankesh Patrike as its Editor she did not share a bond with the people’s lives of Karnataka. Moreover she hardly could speak and write in Kannada fluently. The huge fan following that Lankesh and Lankesh Patrike had by then looked at Gauri and her ability to carry forward the legacy of Lankesh and Lankesh Patrike very sceptically. But over the years Gauri surprised all and probably herself too, to become a prominent ‘Activist-Journalist’ (as she liked to refer herself) from Karnataka.

The last 17 years of Gauri’s life spent in Karnataka, Kannada journalism and lives of Kannada people and the transformation Gauri went through in the last 17 years is not just phenomenal and defining of Gauri but also holds the message of her life. Those were the years of becoming of Gauri.

In the year 2000, as said earlier, Gauri could hardly write and speak Kannada fluently. Her editorials of those days and the letters she wrote those days stand as witness to this. She was just a broad liberal humanist, values she imbibed through the living of her father, when she returned to Karnataka. But soon when she became more and more familiar with the lives and issues of Karnataka her politics became sharper and sharper. If her learning Kannada marked the first move of her becoming, after her return to the native, the second major move in her transmogrification came with her being one of the founding member of Karnataka Forum for Communal Harmony (Karnataka Komu Sauharda Vedike) which was started as a response to the communal violence of Gujarat 2002 and the oath taken by the right wingers in Karnataka to make Karnataka another Gujarat. This politics of the right wing escalated with their attempt to make the syncretic Bababudangiri the Ayodhya of the south. This was met with strong resistance by the Karnataka Forum for Communal Harmony where many, including Gauri, were jailed. This movement to preserve the syncretic culture of Bababudangiri shifted gears of the activist life of Gauri and brought her closer to the activist circles in Karnataka and tuned her politics.

Around the same time armed struggles was finding ground in Karnataka and that had disturbed Gauri to a large extent. In 2004 she was one of the journalists who were invited by the Naxalites for a press meet in the western ghat forest. It is during this visit that she met her college senior Saketh Rajan alias Prem alias Saki who was leading the Naxalite movement in Karnataka and also saw the lives of the Naxalites closely. She developed great respect for people who had left all comforts and luxuries of life and come to the forest where they lived under difficult circumstances. Their commitment they had for the values they believed in and the dream they had for the world humbled her. But that did not eclipse her mind and she did see the possible violence that could unfold. She started her work of becoming a mediator between the Naxalites and the Government to arrange for a meeting between the two and resolve the issues. Both the parties agreed but the Government acted prematurely and hunted Saketh in the early days of 2005. Angered by this, Gauri got on to the streets to condemn the Government’s act. This earned her the title Naxalite sympathiser when all she desired was for peace and resolving of issue without arms!

As a continuation of this she along with freedom fighter like HS Doraiswamy started the Citizen’s Initiative for Peace which mediated between the Naxalites and the Government and brought back many a Naxalites to the mainstream. Noor Sridhar being one of the Naxalites who came to the mainstream in an article on Gauri written after her assassination says that the Naxalites have been fonder of Gauri than Gauri being fond of them, as the mass seem to believe or has been made to believe. In the very same article Noor Shridhar says though Gauri associated with the Communists was never a communist, though had sympathies for the Naxalites never endorsed their method and though had immense respect for the Dalits and the Dalit movement was never an Ambedkarite. Continuing his observation he said, in the same article, that Gauri’s solidarity was with values she believed in and she always saw the limitations of the organizations. Probably that is why she was never a member of any organization. Her participation was purely value based and agenda based.

Very recently K. Phaniraj was recollecting how Gauri was not familiar with the divisions within the communists and the several parties that burst out of the Communist Party of India. On learning about over 64 organizations in existence, Phaniraj remembered, Gauri reacted with a, “Whatever.” That, “Whatever,” was not of a dismissive nature but an “I cannot be bothered” in nature.

This ‘not being bothered’ did not mean she did not care. It only meant she did not want to focus on it. Instead focusing on the possibilities of a united force to make the world stand on its legs was important for her. Her solidarity with every movement for justice spoke this nature of her. It was very well reflected in her efforts to bring together the ‘red’ and the ‘blue’. This effort was not a strategic position or move for her but something she believed with all her heart.

During the Chalo Udupi in October 2016, which was the last time I met her face to face, it was decided that only blue flags would be taken during the event. But on the day of the event many organizations which showed solidarity had brought their own flags and I was witness to Gauri politely requesting those organizations with other flags to fold their flags and keep it inside. That showed how in movements Gauri participated not like a leader but like a cadre. It also showed how she had slowly started to absorb Ambedkarite thoughts and was preferring ‘blue’ over ‘red’ though she wanted both these colours to come together as a united force.

Gauri had not read Ambedkar till some years ago. But when she read Ambedkar she let Ambedkarite thoughts to seep into her and she also expressed her regret for not having read Ambedkar for long. Not to say that she was not sensitive to the cause of Dalits prior to this. But her Dalit consciousness had not formed in a strict Ambedkarite sense and was still within the large framework of human rights and civil rights. That started to change around 2013-14 with she starting to read Ambedkar. The birthday gift I received last year from her was the biography of Periyar and that kind of hints the path she was progressing in.

The last time I met Gauri was during Chalo Udupi , as I remembered earlier, in 2016 October. I had then just returned from my visit to Jammu & Kashmir post Burhan Wani assassination for a book project. Gauri was keen on knowing what I had seen and heard. She insisted I take her for a good fish meal and as we drove and later had lunch in a small hotel in Udupi she heard with utmost curiosity the story of my travel. In the end she asked me if I would be ready to go to Kashmir with Shivasunder, a comrade of concern, to do a series of reports for the weekly, Gauri Lankesh Patrike. I immediately agreed. After some weeks when I reminded her about the plan Gauri said, “Shivasunder seems to have other commitments. We both can go together.”

Couple of months later Gauri called me very late in the night. She had just completed reading Basharat Peer’s book Curfewed Nights and had called to thank me for having suggested the book to her. That night I suggested some more books on Kashmir and she made note of them. Her excitement showed how Kashmir issue was not a preoccupation for her until then and slowly was becoming one. That is exactly why she was planning a trip to Kashmir with this young boy.

But by then I had heard from a common friend and a senior activist that demonetization had hit the circulation of Gauri’s weekly and she was in a financial crunch. That information made me realize why the Kashmir plan was not materializing soon and I stopped asking Gauri about it. The financial crunch made he write columns for Bangalore Mirror so that she can earn some money to sustain her tabloid. Eventually her column was stopped. The space for liberal radical was closing down swiftly. Gauri herself spoke of the financial crunch when in August she called to say how a particular article by someone in J&K thrilled her and how badly she wanted to meet the writer. “We can meet when we go there,” I told her. In response, she explained the financial matters saying, “Let me recover a bit and then we can go.”

A month later Gauri was assassinated and the dream of our Kashmir visit also died.

Soon I heard that she had made many a plans earlier which could not materialize soon because of her financial crunch. Ramesh Aroli had translated Gudipati Venkatachalam’s novel ‘maidaanam’ which she was to publish, a new book by Revathi, whose autobiography ‘The Truth About Me- The Story of A Hijra’ was also published in Kannada by Gauri, and a translation of Curfewed Nights which I was to do- all had got delayed because of the way in which demonetization hit Gauri.

When a person like Gauri dies several dreams die and though movements don’t die they feel a jolt and lose some energy. The day following her assassination a protest was held in Udupi, like in many places across the country, where a Dalit activist held me tightly and weeping uncontrollably said, “Now who will care for us? Now who will give space to our issues in media?” Gauri did not believe in becoming the voice of someone else but always made sure she listens to the voice of the people and within her means whatever was possible to amplify that voice, through her tabloid, through her publication etc, she did. Her life coming to an abrupt end shook many, spaces shrunk for many and many felt orphaned.

A week after Gauri’s assassination a huge protest event was held in Bangalore. Revathi whose autobiography Gauri had published and whose next book Gauri was to publish was on the stage representing the community of sexual minorities. Akkai was seen in tears and embracing Gauri’s mother and sister who too were in tears. It was learnt that the community of sexual minorities from Bangalore had actually collected money for the protest event through begging. This showed Gauri’s close association with the sexual minorities which hardly made news.

An interesting article by a Kannada website revealed the backstory of Gauri’s association with the sexual minorities. Sometime during the early days of Gauri’s editorship at Lankesh Patrike a reporter had filed a story on the sexual minorities which was slightly derogatory in nature. A case was filed against the tabloid for the published report. The case was being fought by one B.T. Venkatesh who once took Gauri to meet members of the sexual minority community which became the beginning of her association with the community and becoming a part of their struggles; social and political. Gauri became “akka” (elder sister) to the community. This says that Gauri’s relationship with the sexual minorities was not just as a reporter grounded on a certain kind of political correctness but extended to a personal relationship with them. That is why in Bangalore on 12 Sep the stigmatized, excluded and abandoned community cried loudly, “I am Gauri.”

In the last seventeen years of her life Gauri became a lady of movements, as a journalist, through her active participation in different movements for rights and justice. This was a long journey from where she began in 2000 as a person of broad liberal humanistic values. She herself, for sure, was aware of the change she had undergone- of becoming an activist, learning Kannada, internalizing Ambedkarite thoughts, developing sensitivity towards with sexual minorities, coming to understand the Naxalite struggle, arriving at a solution for the Naxalite problem, working towards understanding the Kashmir struggle etc. Probably her own life taught her the possibility of the change human heart and intellect can go when it faces reality and truth. May be that was the reason for her immense faith in dialogue. Even when she was trolled on social media by people half her age and younger than that, she engaged with them, dialogued with them. In all possibilities it is her own becoming of what she became in her 17 years of life that she could invest faith in the possibility of those ‘misguided children’ of hers (as she called those trolls who wished her death) becoming a better, socially sensitive and politically conscious human. At the same time through her becoming she gave us the message of her life i.e. the possibility of change in humans and in society through humans.

It must also be said that Gauri is what the times in which she lived made out of her. The pressure of history was such that Gauri became Gauri. But it is not the call of the times which alone makes a historic figure like Gauri but also the way in which they respond to the times. As much as Gauri was shaped by the times, the times she lived also got shaped by Gauri.

Gauri emotionally adopted Kanhaiyya, Jignesh Mevani and Umair as her sons. To think about it one is a boy with communist influence, the other an Ambedkaraite and one with naxalite influence. When Gauri passed away Sheila Rasheed, a Kashmiri girl, on record referred to her as ‘Amma’ (mother). That kind of symbolizes the various streams of thoughts that capped within her.

When Gauri would refer to all these young ones of my generation as sons, at times I (later I learnt many did the same) would playfully ask her why wouldn’t she adopt as her son and notoriously ask for T-Shirts when she bought one for one of the three. Gauri would know that we were pulling her leg and would respond saying, “You have been adopted by me long ago. These are new ones.” It was not an intelligent answer to our notorious remarks but an honest answer. She actually had always treated me and many like her own children.

I can never forget how once she called me to ask how I was doing after she discovered (through my couplets posted on social media) that I had parted ways with someone I love and was saddened by it. She consoled me like a friend and like a friend asked me to not spend much time over lost love because that would eat up the time I can dedicate to find new love. The concern was genuine and each word spoken was honest. Few months before her assassination I had messaged her about the fellowship I had received to make a film on mental health and that night, late night, she had called me to discuss what her thoughts around mental health, depression to be specific, were and to suggest what possibilities can be explored.

I am recollecting some of these very personal matters just to say that Gauri saw me and many like me not just as comrades of concern but as fellow humans, as friends, who meant a lot to her beyond social political movements, thoughts and idea that we shared etc. She cared for all humans she was associated with. There was immense truth in her concern for her fellow beings.

Gauri was like a mother, friend and guide all at the same time.

Gauri would publish some of the poems I used to translate in her weekly and tell me after the week’s edition would be out. Once when I told her she had to take permission in advance before publishing them she laughed loud asking me to repeat myself. I felt so embarrassed that I shut my mouth first and then opened it only to join her in laughing. She would publish my translations without my permission because she believed that among friends it is okay to take such liberties.

Once Gauri called me an hour before the weekly was to go for print asking me to translate a poem “asap.” It was the poem by Hussain Haidry which had gone viral. I was at an ice cream parlour with a friend at that point of time. I ended up translating the poem on a tissue paper. After half an hour when I called her she typed down the translation as I read it out. Immediately then she said, “now listen” and read out her translation of Abul Kalam Azad’s poem which he had written as a response to Hussain Haidry’s poem. She was to carry both the poems in her coming issue which was to go for print in the next few minutes. Though Abul’s poem appeared to counter the poem of Hussain at one level, to Gauri they were complementing poems. More over even if it was countering she would still carry it because Gauri always had space for dissent.

Once when I had argued with Gauri saying the abandonment of a fellow activist from the organization for a wrong he did was not acceptable to me because I believe excommunication is a very brahminical idea. Guess she hadn’t given much thought about it and when I uttered my feelings she immediately said, “Yes, you are right. I will see what can be done,” and told me she would speak to the ex-communicated activist since she also felt that all he needed was some talking and making him realize his mistake. There was no space for abandoning and excommunicating in her world. My former colleague and friend Sudipto in a piece had remembered how he once opposed Gauri on ideological grounds and thought that would end his ties with her but was only surprised when she spoke to him with the same affection next time and introduced him to a friend as, “son.”

Gauri believed in and lived what Makhdoom wrote as, “hayaat leke chalo kaayenaat leke chalo, chalo toh saarey zamaaney ko saath leke chalo.”

That night in Mysore when Gauri and I had the longest conversation ever, she had asked me if I had read her mother’s autobiography. I had answered in the negative and Gauri promised to send me the book so that I could read it. But Gauri forgot to send the book. I later read the book as a jury member for the annual book award given by the Karnataka Sahitya Akademi, since it was one of the book contesting for the award. I was thrilled reading the book by Indira Lankesh. After reading it, I called Gauri and she asked me what I thought it. The outstanding book chronicles the coming of age of both Lankesh and Indira. In my reading of the book I saw how the coming of age of a man is more than often individualistic and personal success/ achievement oriented while the coming of age of a woman is more than often a collective growth and the success is measured through the contribution made to others lives. Gauri had liked my reading of the book. In this conversation around her mother’s book I had told Gauri that she should write her autobiography because that would give us a third dimension to the life of her father. She had dismissed the idea. Had she written would it give us a third dimension to the life of Lankesh, I don’t know. But I am sure it would still be a story of coming of age where growth is collective and life cooperative.

Gauri would have turned 56 today had she been alive. I weep in silence as I remember her and write this.

Rest in power, Gauri!

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Home

December 27, 2017 at 9:15 AMDec (Friends, Musings, Slice Of Life, Soliloquy)

I usually don’t remember my dreams. They evaporate before sleep divorces me. But on rare occasions I remember my dreams. In the recent past couple of times in my dreams I saw myself in the house we once occupied for over twenty years. Leaving that house, in the University quarters, was painful. But I must acknowledge that I did not miss that house much once we moved to our own house eleven years ago. So when in my recent dreams I saw myself in that house I felt quite strange and was naturally puzzled.

During my recent visit to Pune I sat for a class in the screenwriting department. The class was on subtext. When the teacher conducting the class, giving an example, said, “Like rosebud is not a rosebud in Citizen Kane,” I felt my dream, like rosebud, was just a longing for something lost

Home after all is not a structure but a feeling.

Explaining my existential depression to my psychiatrist once I had said, “I don’t feel at home with myself.” Is home supposed to be a state of peace, a state of harmony?

Some years ago when I came back home after a long time and after an experience which changed me greatly I felt distant from what I was at home before I embarked on that journey. I had changed and to come back to something that was still the same felt like a very alienating experience. When I had shared that experience with a friend I had received a reply which said, “Its the same with me too. Every time I go back home I feel more and more distant from home and home is not home anymore.”

“Home is too simple a concept for complicated people,” once said a friend elaborating on how those who divert from the ways of the family/ community kind of become homeless, especially when the diversion is in ideological terms.

In an ever changing world, ever changing landscape of life how is the ever changing self expected to find a home? I dont know.

A friend who grew up in different towns, cities and countries and says each of those spaces did shape her in some ways, at times feels homesick not knowing which home among all the homes she is longing for and feeling homesick for. Home is where the heart is, but which home is the heart desiring?

There is a friend who told me that once while holidaying with friends far from home the music player on shuffle played ‘madhurashtakam‘ between all the peppy songs they were playing, her friends were about to change the music and she stopped them. My friend who is an atheist now had heard, during her growing up years, her mother sing ‘madhurashtakam‘ in her evening prayers. Narrating this my friend told me that she did not even know that ‘madhurashtakam‘ was in her music folder and that some unknown part inside her felt calm listening to it. “For all the intellectuals shifts that as taken place in me,” she said, “Some things within me doesnt seem to have changed.” The very next day, my friend recollected, she saw some brahminical rituals being practiced around the place where she and her friends were holidaying and relaxing which irritated her.

If there are various sides to human existence can one feel completely at home with anything, any one thing? While one aspect of life feels at home, because of conditioning, with something another part of the self might feel totally not at home with that something. Can one actually feel completely at home ever?

A friend who came from the mountains would often tell how beautiful the mountains are and say how much she missed the mountains. Each time she spoke of the mountains her voice sounded like breeze flowing over the mountains. But interestingly I have never heard her say she misses home. Her narrations more than once made me ask myself do I miss the sea, a very prominent part of world I belong to like the mountains for my friend. Yes, when away from home for a long time I do miss the sea and I remember once during my Delhi days how I had tears in my eyes when I had held the conch to my ears and heard the sound of the waves in it.

During some of my phases of melancholia when I feel homeless within myself, I do go to the sea and while listening to the roaring of the waves punctuated by moments of silence, have felt comforted, have felt a bit at home with myself. But that is a very temporary feeling, felt only at that moment.

Recollecting these I have often wondered if home is what our spirit our temperament relates to, associates with? And if home is only a very temporary feeling?

Once while speaking to a friend about a lost love I was told that I was unnecessarily being stuck in a phase and that I had to “get over her,” and that this kind of “hangover” was unhealthy. The words like “Hangover” “Stuck” and “Get over” with regard to lost love and broken relationships have never appealed to me. So I tried to explain myself and words which I had not thought of took wings from my heart. I said, “I am not stuck. I feel homesick because of this lost love,” to mean I felt at home in the company of this particular someone and separation from that someone meant losing a feeling of home, a home a feeling I am missing now.

Is home a person we love? Is love home? Is home nothing but a sense of belonging?

Speaking of homesickness a friend used the word Hiraeth which means longing for a home you cannot return to. That echoed the inner space of what I felt of the lost love.

The saints of spirituality call the other world a home. That is where we have to reach and that is the place the heart longs for, through the spirit. A home is a place where we havent been but dream of.

May be we can read ‘home as a place to reach’ and ‘home as the other world’ as home is the place one needs to create and strive for. Does the ‘other world’ exist? One doesnt know.

Lost self, lost love, lost home. Accessed, possibly, only through dreams.

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A Tour in Nostalgia: Begamon Ka Bhopal

December 25, 2017 at 9:15 AMDec (Cinema, Friends, Letter, Literature, Media, Music, Musings, Poetry, Slice Of Life)

Begamon Ka Bhopal an experimental and experiential documentary directed by Rachita Gorowala was premiered on 09 Dec 2017 in the city of Bhopal, inside the structure of Taj Mahal.

I was fortunate to be a part of this memorable event and experience. That evening the beautiful Taj became a tour in nostalgia. This was designed by turning the structure of Taj into a canvas for light and shadow and through the several installations curated by Rachita Gorowala, Puloma and Farzeen Khan. All of these created an atmosphere for the film and also enhanced the experience of the film.

To be in tune with the experiential nature of the film, instead of writing a review I would like to reproduce a letter/ mail (with minor editing) I wrote to Rachita, trying to join the dots of my first impressions, soon after I watched the film Begamon Ka Bhopal in the month of September.

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Hi Rachita

First of all accept my congratulations. Now accept my apologies for being late in viewing the film. After a month of you sending me the link, finally I watched the film today. But I am not delaying in writing to you my impressions about the film.

In the context of Begums and Bhopal this film is predominantly about Huzun, it appeared to me. This is made quite clear at the very beginning of the film and the interiority of the the feeling of nostalgia is felt throughout the film.

Nostalgia is not just remembrance but also longing with the knowledge that the longing for the remembered will be un-achieved which gives the happy recollection of past a shade of melancholy. When the word nostalgia first made an entry into human language it was considered a disease and it is said that during the civil war in America few soldiers actually died because of nostalgia. But eventually the world of psychology stopped viewing nostalgia as a disease and also started viewing it as a factor which can generate some kind of ease to fight the decay of life in the present. Like the meaning of nostalgia has conflicting and complementing meanings the history of how nostalgia was viewed by medical science is also conflicting and complementing.

Nostalgia in some sense is a rebel against death, it is a fight for life, even if in the form of a memory, and in a subliminal way a reminder of continuity of life, the presence of absence and the shadow of past on present.

Like a river time flows. Its the same river but not the same water. And as the famous Buddhist saying goes one cannot take dip in the same river twice because the river is ever flowing. But there is something interesting about the rivers especially in India, the physical river and mythical rivers are not the same. While the mythical river is the same forever the physical river is ever changing. But in the mindscape of this civilization the mythical and physical merge and become inseparable, like the past is ever present in the present in nostalgia.

Nostalgia is also a way of keeping the past alive. It is, in a strange way a non-tangible form of architecture, graves, writing, film, ornaments which freeze time in themselves and then slowly melt into meanings and stories when time slowly passes and sun shines on them.

In nostalgia the past shows the design to beautify and the present gives the threads and colors to beautify. Nostalgia is an effort towards beautifying life.

While nostalgia is a way of coping with the present for some, like those who lived the past, for some others, like the writer and you the filmmaker, it is a way of coping with the past.

The past gains significance in the present not because of nostalgia but the nostalgia exists because the past is of significance even in the present. Hence someone finds it important to write about it and someone finds it necessary to film it.

At a closer look there is no clear cut between past and present. The past flows seamlessly into the present, like the azaan echoing in the distance, grass growing on a tomb.

A collection of 8mm films shot in and around Bhopal during the years 1929-75 by Salahuddin Ahmed’s father and grandfather

When memory/ past is being turned into a memorial through institutes or by the state the memory is turned into a ritual without meaning like a hymn learnt through rote. Memories or past can be kept alive only through living, through body, through touch, through stories, through songs and not by making museum. But that doesnt deny the significance of institutions making memorials of memories. They are necessary and it requires great labor too but still is inadequate.

Because the longing for the past remains unfulfilled, nostalgia has a Sufiyana touch to it for the available but inaccessible quality of the subject/ object of longing/ desire/ love.

These are some of the quick thoughts that pass trough my mind. I am sorry for I have written this in a general way but all these general words are pointed to specific things in the film, which I am sure you are able to see.

Through this journey what we learn of the Begums of Bhopal is not much. But telling the story of Begums, I guess, is not the purpose or the intent of the film. The Begums like history live not through their details and documents but through the impact/ impression they leave on the times to come and generations to come and when the future lives them not by celebrating anniversaries but through living in daily lives.

You have captured the junction where past meets present, the youthful beauty of the wrinkles on the skin, the shine in the rings that are fading away.

A warm hug to you, Rachita.

~ Samvartha ‘Sahil’
19 Sep 2017

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Love & Poetry

November 12, 2017 at 9:15 AMNov (Friends, Literature, Musings, Poetry, Slice Of Life, Soliloquy)

A year ago I received an official mail asking me for an article on something I would love to write. The mail also broke my heart when I was referred to, in the mail, as “Dear Samvartha.”

Yes, of course it is my name and I have identified myself with that name all my life. But the person on the other end, who was writing the official mail, was someone I knew personally though silence and distance had come between us from some time. So it was strange at one level and beautiful at another level to receive an official mail from someone who had been a part of my very personal world and mindspace.

The person, never once before had referred to me as Samvartha. I was Sahil and just Sahil to this person. Sahil is a name I chose for myself and a name with which not just me but also my poetry in Hindustani/ Urdu got identified. But there was something special when this person called me by the name Sahil, a name I had heard several times earlier. It felt like someone breathed poetry into that name and breathed into me a life not known/ felt before. The way this person called me Sahil made me feel alive more than ever and it made me see myself as a person different than how I saw myself before. It made me realize what Gulzar felt like and what he meant while saying/ writing, “You called out to me, ‘Gulzar’/ It was as if a pearl emerged from its shell / I now had a meaning / Oh, this is a beautiful name / Call out to me again!”

Shakespeare needs to know that not just in name there is a lot in pseudonym too.

This person over a period of time and over a series of word exchange became so much a part of my life my emotional world that I declared the person to be Urdu in flesh and blood for me. So when the same person wrote to me, after a long time, its not just the formal tone of the mail and the formal nature of the mail being written by this person which made my heart ache silently but also not being called Sahil by this person. It felt like the part of me which weaved poetry had got disconnected with its language, with its Urdu. It felt like a name which breathed life into me had lost its meaning. I felt a part of me die within me, when that side of me that name of me went unidentified or unacknowledged by the same person who made that side of me that name of me more meaningful and more beautiful an experience.

When I look back at the 17 years of my poetic journey in Hindustani/ Urdu it is in the last one year that I have written the least. No, it is not a conscious decision I took following the above narrated incident to not write as a rebellion or as a depiction of some devdas syndrome. But somewhere poetry did distance itself from me. May be I took my pseudonym very seriously or may be I took this person concerned very seriously or the matter itself is a very serious matter. I dont know. But I know that I have written less in the last one year and the person who once breathed meaning and value to my pseudonym Sahil, is not responsible for it.

Like there can never be a convincing and clear answer for why one writes poetry there can never be a clear and convincing answer for why one reduces or stops writing poetry. Its the same with love too. Nobody knows why we love someone or why we cease to love someone.

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Manja

October 30, 2017 at 9:15 PMOct (Friends, Literature, Musings, Poetry, Slice Of Life, Soliloquy, Uncategorized)

Few days after my book rooparoopagaLanu daaTi, in which 74 poems from various languages and cultures have been translated into Kannada by me, was released in June 2016, I met a friend who is one among the few schoolmates I have stayed in touch with. This friend very casually asked, after congratulating me for the book, “In school you were never interested in reading and writing. When did the enlightenment happen finally? And why were you not interested in reading and writing back then?” I just smiled saying, “May be something was wrong with the school.”

Why I was disinterested in reading and writing in school can have various reasons; the system of education, the environment at school, my own nature, my growing up atmosphere etc. I who was disinterested in reading and writing going on to become a writer is not a great feet actually. But then at one level it is a sort of small leap given the fact that I am a second generation educated OBC boy. Still, the world need not stop and assess itself and its order of things when presented by this story of my disinterest in reading and writing, being branded as a dull student who went on to become a writer, whatever the literary quality of the writing be. But the world certainly needs to look at itself in the mirror for how the life of Manjunath, a batch-mate of mine during school, spanned out.

The school where I studied had two sections, one where the medium of instruction was English and the other where the medium of instruction was Kannada. We, for no justifiable reason, felt we were superiors and looked down upon the students who were from the Kannada section. Some of the students there had earlier studied in the primary school (Government school where the medium of instruction was Kannada) where my mother used to teach and were her students, including Manjunath who was popular as Manja.

My first memory of Manja is from the football ground where Manja was known for his rough game. Though small in physique I have always been a head-strong fellow who would never be cautious and avoid Manja. As a result of this nature of mine I was injured several times, thanks to the forceful kicks of Manja. This went on for some time.

When we were in class ten for the first time the school organized an extempore poetry writing competition. I was surprised when I went for the competition and found Manja seated on the same bench allotted to me on the other end. The reason for my surprise was that it was difficult to imagine the rough and tough aggressive football player Manja holding the pen to write poetry. We were given patriotism as the topic for writing poetry, if I remember correctly. Also I remember seeing from the corner of my eyes Manja writing poem with great concentration and focus. Its only when the results of the poetry competition were announced that I got to know that the aggressive football player Manja is also a poet!

The poem written by Manja was published in the college magazine of that academic year which was handed over to us when we went to either take admission for class eleven or take a transfer certificate to migrate to another college for class eleven. I was mighty impressed by the poem written by Manja. When I looked for him to congratulate him for the poem I got to learn that he had failed in the 10th board exam.

I did not see Manja in college and also conveniently forgot him till he suddenly I met him one day in the college. When I met him and told him how much I liked his poem he thanked me and said he had cleared the board exams in the supplementary exam and would be joining college soon opting commerce as his stream. I had opted for Arts stream and Manja and I would be in the same class for Kannada language class for the next two years. Its during this course of time that we actually got to know each other better and became friends, though we dint speak much to each other in comparison to the conversations we used to have with others separately.

When we were in class 12 one day Manja came home in search of me and speaking to me about general matters very hesitantly told me that he had written a novel and asked me if I could read it and give him my feedback. On listening to me say, “Will be happy to read it,” Manja said he would quickly go home and bring the manuscript. I said he need not go home and come back again and suggested that he and I can go together and he can give me the manuscript. He immediately changed the plan and said he would give it to me the next day in college, which made me ask then why he couldn’t have spoken about this in college. “People might listen to our conversation and that would make me uncomfortable,” he said. “Wont people know when you handover the manuscript tomorrow?” I asked Manja to which his answer was, “No. They will think it’s just a note book.” I was not able to understand why he quickly changed his mind and pushed the matter to the next day and to college. But when he forgot to bring the manuscript the next and I insisted he takes me home and hands over the manuscript that I understood why he was trying to avoid taking me home.

Manja’s house was a small shack like structure. His sister was heating water in a corner. Taking out a 200 page long note book from an old trunk Manja said, “Come lets go out and talk.” When Manja handed the book, in which he had written the novel, to me I opened it and saw the title of novel written in bold letters in blue ink on the very first page. ‘Shaanta’- was the title of his novel. “It’s a story about a lady like my mother. While writing I could see my mother in the place of the protagonist, which made me cry profusely while writing it. You read and let me know what you think of it,” said Manja and when I was about to leave added, “Be careful with the book. I don’t have another copy of this work. Its impossible to sit and write all of it again.”

I couldn’t read the novel for a long time. But finally during vacations I picked it up from my shelf and read it. I have forgotten the details of the novel by Manja which appeared very autobiographical to me back then.

After the results of class 12 was announced I went to a different city, not very from Manipal, for higher studies. I used to come home every weekend. On one such weekend Manja came home and asked me if I had read the novel and if he could take it back. On telling him that I had read it and liked it he said, “Its an ordinary story based on the life of my own family. Nothing extra ordinary,” and asked if it is readable. I said it is and he was happy. Manja went home that evening after telling me that he was doing his BA in Manipal itself and had learnt from other common friends that I had joined a college in Mangalore.

On that evening Manja had asked me if anyone would publish his book. I knew no publisher back then and said I don’t know but also told him that I would inquire and find out. But I dint inquire anyone or made any effort in finding out. Not because I dint want to but because my access and circles were limited and also because I was trying to focus more on my own growth.

In the time that followed whenever I met someone from the same college as Manja’s I would ask them for updates about Manja. But slowly my world became more and more distant from the world which I belonged to earlier and the chances of me crossing paths with older friends decreased.

Over a year and half later once while driving back home I saw Manja having tea at a push-cart shop. I stopped my scooter and went to speak to Manja who was wearing a faded shirt and lungi. He had quit college and had started working a daily wage labourer at construction sites. “It was impossible for two members from the family to get educated. So I decided to drop out because she is very bright. If I shoulder her then probably she can cross this fence. If we both try to jump then the possibilities of both not being able to cross it is higher,” said Manja. I dint know what to say. Manja bought me a cup of tea. Sipping hot tea I asked him if he still continues to write. “I had bought a fresh note book because I had a new idea for a novel. But gave that note book to my sister for she would need it in school,” said Manja. When I was about to ask him about the novel he had already written Manja cut me short to say, “It is a matter of bygone days, an old story.”

New story was flowering in the life of his sister. Manja had scripted the story of his mother’s past taking pen into his hand. To script the story of his sister’s future he had dropped the pen.

That was the last time I met Manja. I guess he left not just Manipal but also coastal Karnataka long ago. Later on when doing my masters in journalism I had written about Manja for the fortnightly magazine we had to bring out as a part of our course. Reading my piece on Manja the faculty in-charge for the fortnightly had said that the article had no story value and also went on to suggest that if it was a story about success against all odds then it could have been considered for the fortnightly.

The world which likes only success stories and “inspirational stories,” cant ever pull the courage to look at itself in the mirror of the lives of people like Manja who have been defeated by the structure of system and order of things.

Once while speaking to my mother I had asked her if she remembers Manja. She said she cant. I tried reminding of him by narrating his story. My mother who served as a teacher in Govt school for 24 years listening to the story of Manja said, “That is the story of most of my students. If they had the right atmosphere, right encouragement and right facilities they would have done so much better in life. But most of them couldn’t even complete their primary education.”

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Is there an Indian way of reporting?

September 25, 2017 at 9:15 PMSep (Activism, Friends, Media, Musings, Slice Of Life)

Indian media seems quite thrilled and joyful on spotting the mistake of Maleeha Lodhi, Pakistan’s ambassador to the UN, at the 72nd United Nations General Assembly.

Speaking at the UNGA after the Indian Foreign Minister Sushma Swaraj’s speech where she referred to Pakistan as Terroristan, Ms. Lodhi showed a photo of a war victim saying it was of a Kashmiri injured by pellets shot by the Indian Army. With the photo in her hand she said, “This is the face of Indian democracy.” But the photo that she held in her hand was not from Kashmir but from Gaza. A photo of Rawia Abu Joma clicked in the year 2014 by Heidi Levine.

While the lack of homework on the part of Ms. Lodhi is quite embarrassing for Pakistan and also a matter of irresponsibility though not as shameful and irresponsible as the atrocity of the Indian army in Kashmir about which Ms. Lodhi mentioned and of which the UN is already aware of.

The focus of Indian media on a goof up by the Pakistan’s Ambassador while ignoring the fact mentioned in a way shows the Indian way of reporting when it comes to the issue of Kashmir, where the violence on the people of Kashmir is never reported or highlighted. Even if the matter comes at the UNGA the media choosing to highlight a goof up shows its way of reporting the issue of Kashmir.

On the 24th of June, 2017 a prestigious national newspaper The Indian Express on its front page carried two disturbing news coming from India and India occupied Kashmir on two ends. But the way the two news were worded and presented was quite disturbing and revealed a certain kind of bias.

On the left end was the report on 15 year old Junaid being beaten to death in Haryana while he was travelling back home by train from Delhi after a heated debate on train turned violent where Junaid and his brothers were called “beef-eaters.” On the right end was the news from the summer capital of India occupied Kashmir of Mohammad Ayoub Pandith (DySP) was beaten to death by a mod outside Jamia Masjid, Srinagar after he loitered around the Masjid while thousands were observing Shab and was apprehended for his suspicious presence by people which lead him to fire at the mob which left three injured and the mob angered.

The earlier incident was reported under the headline, ’15 year old killed, brother says were called beef eaters’ and the latter under the headline, ‘J&K police officer lynched in Srinagar, body dumped in drain.’

While the latter headline was published in bold letters the earlier wasn’t, drawing the attention to the earlier with urgency and also making it appear more significant through highlighting it with bold letters. If the earlier incident became an act of ‘killing’ the latter was an incident of ‘lynching’, making the latter incident sound more gory, barbaric, inhumane and cruel.

A year ago following the assassination of Burhan Wani, I visited J&K. It was already two months since the valley had turned violent when I started from home and more than 50 Kashmiri civilians had died in the hands of Indian army and hundreds injured and blinded because of pellets. Everyday, during my JK visit, my mother would call me to ask how I am, how my work is progressing and if I am eating properly and eating at time.

But the day after the Uri attack took place I started receiving several calls from friends and extended family asking me if I was safe and fine!

That night I wondered why all those friends and relatives felt I was in an unsafe zone only when 18 soldiers were killed and not when over 50 Kashmiri people were killed and hundreds of them injured with pellets! The answer was clear, the media which all my friends and relatives consume, had not reported the deaths of Kashmiri people in the hands of Indian army but had reported the attack of Uri in an amplified manner depicting a war situation and created an atmosphere of panic!

The day after the Uri attack the national newspapers carried the Uri attack in bold letters on the front page with the image of the children of the dead soldiers now orphaned. And the local newspapers though carried news of the Uri attack on the front page their main news was of a teenager dying because of cardiac arrest caused by teargas hurled by the Indian army. If the editorials of the national media spoke of terrorism and Pakistan the editorials of the local newspapers while speaking of Uri attack invoked the memory of Chattisinghpura.

So if the Indian media chooses to see and highlight only a goof up ignoring what was said by Ms. Lodhi, a fact which has not even covered properly by the media, then it isn’t surprising because that is the Indian way of reporting Kashmir, like it has done always.

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Gauri Lankesh’s unfulfilled Kashmir dream

September 19, 2017 at 9:15 AMSep (Activism, Friends, Literature, Media, Musings, Slice Of Life, Soliloquy)

One night in April 2017, my phone rang. It was the middle of the night and my heart skipped a beat when the phone rang at that ungodly hour but on seeing Gauri Lankesh’s name flashed across the screen, I settled down. Gauri was the one who always burned the midnight oil and I knew it wasn’t odd for her to call me at this hour.

“Thank you so much,” Captain blurted out when I answered the call. Her voice was filled with immense gratitude. I wondered why she was thanking me while she continued, “I just finished reading Curfewed Night. Thanks for recommending it,” she said and added, “It is so sad that I hadn’t read this book for so long.”

Captain then went on to tell me how the work of her weekly Gauri Lankesh Patrike, her activism and the cases against her – a strategy of her opponents to exhaust and harass her – leave her with very less time to read good books. She told me that she had taken an oath to read at least three books a month. When I heard about her oath, I suggested she read Do You Remember Kunan Poshpora? in the month of May. By the end of May, she had read the book.

It all began on the 9th of October when Captain was in Udupi, close to my home town Manipal, for the historical Chalo Udupi rally. I had just returned home after a brief but intense visit to Kashmir. So when Captain and I met at the rally she insisted I be with her and share with her my Kashmir experience.

That noon, when we were finishing lunch, Captain asked me if I would be ready to go to Kashmir with Shivasunder (another comrade of ours) to do a series of reports for her weekly. I immediately agreed.

That noon Captain told me how she has been trying to argue from over a decade about Jagmohan being the orchestrator of the Pandit exodus but nobody cares to listen. She also told me about her one interview with Syed Ali Geelani. When I told her about the people displaced from the other side of Kashmir living in Jammu she honestly said, “I did not know about this,” and added, “Actually, neither the state nor the media wants us to know.”

Gauri was willing to listen to what the state and the media did not want us to listen and she was willing to speak that which the state and the media did not want us to speak.

Since that day in October 2016 the conversation between me and Captain was majorly about Kashmir.

After some weeks when I reminded her about the plan Captain said, “Shivasunder seems to have other commitments. We both can go together.”

I did not hear from Captain about our Kashmir visit plan for the next few months and I started doubting if it was ever going to happen. Though I never doubted her concern about Kashmir and her longing to give her readers a true picture of Kashmir, I was becoming quite impatient because of the delay.

Later when Captain called me in April 2017 saying she had read Basharat Peer’s book and followed it up with reading the spine chilling book on Kunan Poshpora, I knew the plan was still on. By then I had learnt from a common friend and a senior activist that demonetization had hit the circulation of Captain’s weekly and she was in a financial crunch. The information made me realize why the Kashmir plan was not materializing and I stopped asking her about it.

Captain herself spoke of the financial crunch when in August 2017 she called me to say how a particular article by someone in Kashmir thrilled her and how badly she wanted to meet the writer. When I said, “We can meet the author when we go there,” Captain, who by then had taken loans to run her weekly, explained the economic crunch and said, “Let me recover a bit and then we can go.”

Now Captain is no more with us and I fear with her unfortunate killing – the weekly also will breathe its last. After this calamity, I am afraid that neither the visit to Kashmir nor reporting on Kashmir for the readers of weekly will ever happen.

On that April night when Captain called to tell me she had read Curfewed Night she had asked me if I could translate the book and assured me that she will publish it. I told her that during my interaction with the author Basharat Peer I had asked him if I could do the translation and he had verbally permitted me to do so. She took his email address from me saying, “Then let me write to him as a publisher and avail rights for publishing the translation.” I don’t know if she ever wrote to Basharat Peer. But this too, like our Kashmir visit and writing about Kashmir for the readers of her weekly, remains unfulfilled.

I recollect these interactions, our jointly made but unfulfilled plans while writing this because I believe I am bound by responsibility for letting the friends from Kashmir know that Captain, who stood in solidarity with every struggle across the globe, of the right against the might, understood the struggle of occupied Kashmiris and also longed to meet them and hear their stories and chronicle them for Kannada readers.

I am writing this story of Captain and our plan of Kashmir also because it speaks of how a person is perpetually chained at various levels by the order of things from fighting the system and yet how some determined people like Captain were continuously making efforts to make the world stand on its legs and change this order of things.

(Originally published in Wande Magazine on 11 Sep 2017)

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