Miles to go..

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 3; the third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Thought a lot, on what to write for Blog-a-ton. Tried dreaming quite early compared to last minute thinking of last time’s post. Finally, one dream flowed out, and forced me into writing it, and here it is… A dream, which pains us, make other countries mock us and even challenge us …

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“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
by narrow domestic walls;”

Kiran sighed. The kids  flew off like butterflies.  Kiran glanced the graffiti wall again and read the lines silently. She pressed her book harder to her chest, as if trying to stop the heart from beating.

“Where the head is held high” – she whispered.
“Where……??” – the statement was turning more like a question in her lips.
“Maa’m, paagal ho gaye kya? Are you talking to yourself?” – the question woke Kiran from the trance, it was Saira. “Nothing, I was just reading the poem. The everlasting words of Tagore.” She eyed the graffiti wall, while speaking. Though Saira said nothing, Kiran could read her mind. Both of them walked towards the school building.

Saira was enthusiastically talking about so many things. Almost everything  was new for Kiran. Coming from Mumbai, this part of the country surprised her each time with some new stuff she didn’t know before. Pahalgam, widely known as “Village of Shepherds”, is a quiet beauty near Srinagar. Coming from a bustling crowded city, the quiet place with comparatively very less inhabitants was a surprise to her at first. The surprise gradually changed to an awe, watching the seasons change and the beauty of nature around.

“Oops” – Kiran smiled at herself, noticing that she has reached her room. When did Saira say good bye and leave?  The memories, instead of haunting,  had drowned her in it this time.

The room was quite small, neatly arranged, with a cot near the door and a writing desk near the window. The writing desk was one of Kiran’s favorite places. Through the window, she observed the seasons change, the water level in the river Lidder increase or decrease and the snow in the mountains vary. Sitting there she wrote letters to her friends. Everyone wanted to know how she was managing with life. Some were concerned about her safety. A few wondered whether she was really mad.

“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;”
She was reciting the lines aloud. The last time she quoted them, was to win an argument with her dad. An argument which decided her future. An argument which any other father would have won by dictating. “Papa”.. she sighed.

***
Everything started when Kiran got her dream job as a journalist 3 years back.  The job took her many times to the land of news and scoops, Kashmir. With the enthusiasm of a novice, she traveled through Srinagar, Baramulla and even visited Amarnath with the pilgrims once. It was on the way to Amarnath, she stayed in Pahalgam. She still remembers that day vividly.

The day they reached Pahalgam, Kiran took her personal camera and went out for a walk to the local market in the evening. The security was kind of stiff due to the pilgrimage season. She didn’t find much interferences, thanks to her ID card. It was there she met Saira. Saira was sitting in a small shop, surrounded by neatly stacked paintings and embroidered shawls. Saira’s eyes fascinated Kiran, more than the paintings around. Throughout  Kashmir, she had been disturbed many times by the sight of native women. Those who lost parents, houses, husbands, children… Those eyes spoke of fear or hopelessness, and some burning with anger or anguish. The eyes, irrespective of religion, exhibited the same helplessness.

Now, here is a pair of resolute eyes, shining brightly, looking at her from the middle of a palette of colors. The journalist in Kiran, nudged her to go inside. Kiran stepped into the store and found herself going through the paintings and art works. The prices surprised her, being mediocre even for some exceptionally good ones. She inquired about the artist and why he lets Saira  sell them for such low prices. When Saira said that it was all her work, Kiran was not ready to accept it at face value. Without a word, Saira drew out a piece of paper, and started scribbling something. 5 minutes later, she handed it over to Kiran.  It was the picture of Kiran, touching an embroidered shawl. The boldness of the strokes were amazing. Kiran was about to ask the next question, when a little boy of 4 years ran into the store. He had a real charming smile and some magic around him.
“What is your name, Son?”
“Aamir”
“Wow, nice name”
“I know” – he smiled.
“Can I take a photo of yours?”
“Of course”
He posed with that innocent smile, till Kiran got the right frame and clicked many times.
“Aamir, did you finish your lesson?”
“That— uhmm – not yet”
“Didn’t I tell you not to enter the shop, till you finish your lessons for the day?” – Chided the girl.
Kiran was watching everything. When Aamir left the shop, Kiran asked the girl, “what is your name?”
“Saira”
“Saira, your artistic skills are excellent. If you come to Mumbai with me —”
“I know. I know. If I come to Mumbai with you, you will make me a renowned artist :-) I have got similar offers from many. One person even offered me an admission to the school of fine arts. I had to say No.”
“Why? You could have —”
Kiran was interrupted again.
“See, Maa’m. Suppose your mother is terminally ill, and is in a critical situation in hospital (God forgive me), doctors are nearly hopeless and you got to go to college. Will you sit by your mother, or go to the college?”
“You are right. I will sit by my mother.  What is your mother’s illness? We can take her to Mumbai as well”
“I am an orphan. Rather, I was orphaned when I was 15″
“Then who is the sick person?”
“My motherland, maa’m. If I leave the place today, I won’t know what will happen to this land tomorrow. It could be ripped off. It could be added to another country. It could be conquered by the terrorists who think they know what is right. But, whatever happens, I need to be here to see it, experience it, fight for it if I can and die with it if I have to.”
Kiran sat speechless. Those daring eyes were turning sharper and sharper. Kiran  tried to resume conversation again.
“Aamir is your brother?”
“No. He is not my relative by blood. I got him from this market. He used to live across the street. I make a living for all of us by selling these stuffs.”
“All of us?”
“Yes, there are 3 more, like Aamir. Orphaned, having seen their parents getting killed – by terrorists, bomb blasts, or in police encounters. I had to shoot a terrorist to save at least Aamir from the attack on his family, which killed his parents. Those sights could have turned them to either a terrorist or a weak, hopeless person. I want neither. I want them to be  among the real Kashmiris who would protect their motherland with faith and trust.”
“You are sending them to school?”
“No, I don’t have any money to send them to the good schools. I teach them on my own.”
“Saira, you have taken up an almost impossible task here”
“Maa’m, think of it this way. You said you are a journalist. You are taking pictures. Will the entire newspaper be filled with your pictures or writing?”
“No— There will be others who write”
“Yes, there will be others. Some write  articles. Some write criticisms. Some space for advertisements. Some for sports. Yet another space for showing up the film stars.  Like the way you concentrate on your column, I concentrate on my task however small it is. It alone may not change the destiny of this place. But, it will definitely help, I am sure.”

Kiran came out of the shop with  a renewed energy,  some fresh thoughts and a handful of items purchased liberally  from Saira, with the sole intention of giving her a profit.
****
Back in Mumbai, Kiran approached her father with the story. He had been her best guide in all matters of  conscience. After finishing the story, she sat there, watching him intently. She saw the old man smiling.
“Beti, It is not the story alone. You want to add something to it. What is it? You need my help? What is bothering  you?”
“Papa— You are right. I have been thinking about Saira, ever since I met her. Here I am, some Kiran, journalist of some news paper, going to Kashmir to report some situation. I report about terrorists, I report about how terrorism is brewed in the valleys, I report how Kashmir is a wound for India.”
“Yes, I read your reports. I am proud of you”
“No, Papa. Its not that. Ever since I met Saira, my conscience has been pricking me. We know how much agitated we were, when a VIP hotel in this city was attacked. We were scared, we said India is under attack. I did write emotional words in my column too. But, look at this part of the country, which has been under attack ever since the day of partition. We write about it,  still, now I look back, I feel there is something terribly missing in our approach”
“So, what do you think?”
“Papa.. when we talk about Kashmir, every Indian passionately says that it is our land. Let me stress the word, land. How many of us feel the same passion about the people in that land? How many of us truthfully worry about the blood sheds there? Are we  not considering them as aliens, atleast at times? “

Kiran presented her plan. She wanted to form an NGO and return to Pahalgam. Her parents opposed the idea strongly. They argued that going for a short tenure is very different from living there permanently. They even suggested alternatives on how she can send help to Kashmir, sitting in Mumbai.

“Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
by narrow domestic walls;”
Where the words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;”
Kiran smiled. She had to use Tagore again, to disarm her Papa.
“Papa, these are the verses you taught me when I was a small child. You told me, it is not a poem, but a lesson to practise”
“Yes”
“Now, do you want me to tear that off my heart? if not, let me practise it”
*****
The birds chirped through the window. Through the air, a 100 voices chanted :

“karmany evadhikaras te
ma phalesu kadacana
ma karma-phala-hetur bhur
ma te sango ’stv akarmani
(You have a right to perform your prescribed duty, but you are not entitled to the fruits of action. Never consider yourself the cause of the results of your activities, and never be attached to not doing your duty.)”

When she set up this  school, the first thing she asked Saira was to find a Sanskrit Pandit and a Muslim scholar. The 100 children are taught both Bhagavat Gita and Quran with meaning. Atleast, the next generation should not be poisoned with the misinterpretation of scriptures.

So much water has flowed down the Lidder since she came to Pahalgam first. Still so many fights, so many blood sheds. More Orphans. More work for Kiran and Saira. Atleast at times, Kiran asks this question to herself – “Am I doing it correct? God, when is this valley going to be peaceful again?”

“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments

by narrow domestic walls;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening

thought and action–

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father,

let my country awake. “

Kiran didn’t see Saira joining her in the prayer. There was no need for the prayer to be loud. With the intensity of that look in Kiran’s face, Saira knew what she is praying. The prayer to make their dream, the dream of Kashmir to be an Indian dream.
“Into that heaven of freedom, my Father,
let my country awake”

The beautiful rays of evening sun fell on their faces. Tear drops on their eyes shone like golden pearls in the evening light. They stood there, as if those were the rays of hope for the future.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.