Our Moon Has Blood Clots: The Exodus of the Kashmiri Pandits (25 page)

The Jhelum was very wide here, and it roared as it neared a bend. We got busy, catching the river’s colourful fish. Somewhere nearby, a group of hunters were trying to shoot down a flock of cranes, which they would later sell. This thought made me sad, because I was reminded of father getting its delicious meat when we were in Baramulla, before the misfortune of migration had struck us. This memory and its accompanying sadness cast a shadow of depression over my mind, and I cut myself away from the boys. I lay in the compound of Sopore’s ancient temple, staring at the vast expanse of sky above. I heard a gunshot, and I knew someone would have a feast in the evening. I began to cry. After a while, I heard my cousins calling my name, but I didn’t feel like answering.

I don’t know when I slipped into sleep, but I did sleep at some point. And I only awakened from that sleep after eight months.

When my cousins could not find me, they informed my uncle that I was missing. He, along with other neighbours, was about to start looking for me, when the temple priest told them about a boy who had been found lying unconscious in the temple compound. That was me. I was dazed and hallucinating with fever. A doctor was summoned, and he prescribed a few medicines and cold packs. But I did not recover. For months, I kept slipping in and out of consciousness. The doctor eventually came to the conclusion that I was suffering from a rare form of fever, which would go away only with time. I don’t remember much of that eight-month period, which felt like a long dream. I dreamt of my burnt-down house. I dreamt of that tribesman who had snatched the bundle of gold from my sister. I could hear the tribesman’s laughter. I dreamt of Ambardar’s stick. I dreamt that I was starving. I was later told that I cried often during that period.

When I finally opened my eyes, winter had already arrived. The first thing I saw from the window of my room was snowfall. Large but light flakes of snow fell from the sky, and froze in the chilly wind, turning the ground icy. Occasionally, I could hear the sound of a huge mass of snow falling from the slanting tin rooftops of houses. The mass would land with a noisy thud, as if the heavens were falling. Boys would pluck icicles from their windows and roofs and suck on them like ice lollies. My parents thanked God and the lungs of a sheep were offered to the goddess Kali, in gratitude for my revival.

I had lost a lot of weight during my illness. So I was fed with milk and cheese, and a lot of eggs. The first thing I said when I could speak was—I don’t want to go back to Srinagar. Bowing to pressure and keeping in mind my fragile mental state, Father agreed to let me stay in Sopore and study there. This brought a mixed bag of emotions. On the one hand, I was elated that I could now stay in Sopore. I felt as if wings were borne out of my shoulders. But on the other hand, there was also a sense of rootlessness—a feeling that I would be away from my father’s gentle but firm gaze, mother’s lullabies and my sisters’ innocent conversations. But I could not imagine myself living in those narrow lanes of Srinagar. The mere thought of it brought bile to my mouth.

It snowed so heavily that winter that the Sopore–Srinagar road was blocked. Labourers were hired by the state administration to clear the roads. No amount of work they did seemed adequate. Even as they cleared the snow from the road, a fresh fall would begin tracing its way down from the sky, into the depths beneath. The snow would freeze overnight.

Father got stuck in Sopore because of me. It took a week for the weather situation to ease. After taking a tonga halfway, walking in the snow for miles, then taking a bus, Father eventually reached Srinagar. I was later told that Mother wept inconsolably when she did not see me with Father and that she could not speak properly for days without tears overcoming her.

I began attending school, along with my cousins. In the morning, after a breakfast of milk and rotis made of rice flour, we would leave home for school, carrying our slates in our hands, and our books tied up in a cloth. Many times after school, when we went out to play, I would sneak alone into the compound of the temple, which was built on the banks of the Jhelum. I would lie down in the same place where I had slipped into oblivion months ago, with my face towards the sky. I got into the habit of looking at the clouds for hours, observing them as they took various shapes. Sometimes a cloud would be an elephant, sometimes a horse, sometimes a demon, and sometimes a fairy. And sometimes, when a wicked cloud assumed the shape of that tribesman, I would close my eyes against it, rise, and rush back home. I would try not to think about it.

The years passed by. I went to school, following more or less the same routine each year. I lived in Sopore, but I would visit Srinagar during winter vacations, and sometimes even during the summers.

During such visits to my parents’ home in Srinagar, Mother would stuff me with the choicest dishes. Beans and dry turnips. Dried brinjals and a hotchpotch of rice and pulses. Uncle would treat me too, in his own way, putting cashews, chestnuts, and raw walnuts and almonds into my pocket.

During those visits to Srinagar, I began to notice that Father was getting some grey hair. He spoke very little, preferring to read the scriptures while sitting in a corner of a room. He had also developed a terrible temper, and had several times thrown a plate of rice across the room, just because he’d detected chaff amidst the rice grains, or a seed in a chilli that Mother had used to garnish a dish. I asked Father about this, one evening. He was silent for a long while. When he spoke at last, he said, ‘You are young. When you grow up, then you will realize what pride is all about, and how essential it is for manhood.’

A few years later, I took the matriculation exams, and stood first in the entire Baramulla district. I was ecstatic. I was in Srinagar when the results were declared, but when I told Father, he just nodded his head. If he was happy, he did not show it. He kept his lips glued to his hookah. The only sign of his possible happiness and pride in my accomplishment was that after hearing the results, he pulled on his hookah a little harder than usual. My mother, though, went to the temple, and offered thanksgiving to Lord Ganpati.

My father decided that for a few months, I would work in a chemist shop run by a family acquaintance. I remember making a feeble attempt to protest against his decision that I work in Shamnath Tickoo’s chemist shop. ‘I don’t want to work there,’ I told him, looking at the ground near my feet.

I could feel father staring at me. He was writing a letter to someone, and though I didn’t look at him, I knew that he had taken off his spectacles. They rested on his thigh, and he put his pen down, and finally spoke to me.

‘Son, though you were young, I hope you remember that handful of coins those Pathans took away, along with my coat. It seems as if along with those coins, our luck has been abducted. No matter how hard we try, I don’t think it will come back now.’

He cleared his throat, then continued.

‘You know our circumstances, nothing is hidden from you. You know that I will not be able to support your education further. I am trying to secure a government job for you. I have requested some of my friends to try and arrange a job for you. Until that happens, you must work with Shamnath.’

I contemplated Father’s words. He was right. Even when I registered for the matriculation exams, I had to seek help from a friend’s family for my registration fees. My thoughts were interrupted by Father, who spoke again.

‘Remember one thing, Prithvi. There is only one thing that will help us Kashmiri Pandits for years to come. No matter what happens, we must get ourselves government jobs, all of us. That is the only key to our survival now.’

Now, years later, I realize how prophetic my father’s advice was.

So it happened that I began working with Shamnath, as his apprentice.

Shamnath Tickoo’s chemist shop was situated on the road that ran along the banks of the Jhelum. Though he was just a regular medical practitioner, he was very popular among the people of old Srinagar. During those days, there was a dearth of doctors, and people would usually go to experienced men like Shamnath for treatment. And Shamnath treated them with such expertise, that they would never even think of going to a doctor.

Inside his shop, at the front, was a huge wooden desk on which was placed a thick slab of glass. Underneath the glass slab, Shamnath had placed a few pictures depicting the scenic beauty of Kashmir. Pictures of his family deities hung on the wall behind his desk. Along the other two walls, he had erected wooden shelves on which were placed his medicines—pills in various glass bottles, solutions, syrups, and ointments. Medicine ran in Shamnath Tickoo’s blood.

Shamnath would arrive at his shop early in the morning and after he had offered his prayers to his family deities, he’d make a list of medicines that needed to be bought and then tend to his patients.

He would feel their pulses, and ask most of them to show him their tongues. He would ask some of them to lie down on a wooden bench. A muslin sari, probably his wife’s, had been hung over a string to act as a curtain. But the sari was so thin that one could see through it. So I would see him bending over his patients, pressing their stomachs and listening to their heartbeat. Then he would pack some pills in a piece of paper and give them to the patient.

Shamnath had a knack for packing pills. He could fold a sheet of paper into a packet that seemed almost impenetrable, like a Mughal fort. I often imagined patients struggling to open their packets, once they reached their homes and needed to take their medicines. But nobody ever complained.

Initially, Shamnath made me supervise the supply of medicines. My duty was to write down the names of medicines that were almost finished. Then, I’d have to remind him repeatedly to order them.

Once he was satisfied with how I handled my job responsibilities, Shamnath urged me to take an interest in the treatment of patients. He made me sit next to him and observe his methods, as he listened to his patients’ woes and inspected their tongues.

‘Remember, Prithvi, a clear tongue is an indication of good health. A tongue that looks like a drought-ridden piece of land means trouble. It means, more often than not, troubles of the stomach and liver. So the key to an accurate diagnosis is to check the state of the patient’s tongue. If you have learnt this, rest assured, you are halfway to being a doctor.’

Within a few weeks, I had learnt the names of almost all the medicines Shamnath prescribed to his patients. I even began prescribing them myself, when he was absent from his shop.

Shamnath kept his shop closed on Fridays. So each Friday, I would board an early morning bus to Sopore. I would return on Saturday evening and resume my duties Sunday morning. Though Shamnath never said anything to me directly, I learnt from my sisters that in my absence he would visit our home, and speak to my father about my weekly ritual.

During one visit to Sopore, my plastic slippers broke, and I had to return barefooted to Srinagar. When I reached home, I asked my father for some money to buy new slippers, but he said he could not spare any. That night, as I lay awake in the darkness, I decided to ask Shamnath for some money. Throughout the night, I thought of various ways to ask Shamnath to loosen his purse. By the time I’d decided on a way, dawn had broken.

That morning, I went to the shop barefoot. For the next hour or so, I made every possible attempt to get him to notice my bare feet. I climbed on a stool pretending to clean the shelves. I pretended to do some stretching exercises where I touched my feet with my hands. But no matter what I did, Shamnath seemed to remain oblivious to my misery.

No patient had turned up since the morning, and Shamnath sat on his chair, shooing away the mongrel dogs that attempted to relieve themselves at the base of the stone steps leading to his shop. When not shooing away the dogs, he fanned himself with a towel, singing songs of longing penned by a Kashmiri poet. Finally, I lost my patience.

‘
Mahra
, I need to tell you something,’ I said, using the standard Kashmiri way to address him.

Shamnath stopped fanning himself, and looked at me.

I looked at him rather hesitantly, and then continued, ‘In fact, I want to ask you something. Are you happy with my performance?’ Before he could answer, I continued, ‘If you are satisfied and I am sure you are—I have given you no chance to be unhappy—then please give me some money. Please pay me for my work here.’

I paused in order to gauge his reaction, but there was nothing to read on his face. ‘I have never asked for money from you, so far, and I did not intend to, even now, but a great misery has befallen me,’ I said, as I looked at my feet. I saw Shamnath’s eyes following mine.

Finally, he said what I’d been waiting to hear since the morning.

‘Where are your slippers, Prithvi?’ he asked.

I had been waiting for this cue, and told him my story.

After I finished, he smiled. He rose from his chair, came up to me, took out some money and put it in my pocket.

I did not check it immediately. But, later in the evening, I took out the money. Shamnath had given me twenty rupees. I rushed barefoot to Lal Chowk, and immediately bought myself a pair of leather sandals. They cost me seventeen rupees. For days, I loved to just walk, so I could show off my sandals to friends, and anyone else who cared to see them.