Short Story: He Took The Road Less Travelled.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

He was leaning against the willow tree, on a day when sun was besotted with dimness. October brings with it brume miasma. Reading Yuri Zhivago- the heartbreak Russian poet, the city around him was at war; aroused  and cowed. Frightened, faint-hearted and trembling, he was fighting within. Trying hard. Someone had mumbled in his tiny ears when he was growing along the banks of Vitasta- ' there is never a time for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single thrashing, throbbing moment.' He had held tight to the nursery naivety. In a heart beat, in a moment that he had felt love, it would last till eternity, the Vitasta boy thought. He had no notion of loving people by halves. It was not his nature. Some godly, given virtues he carried. 

Years had piled. Memories heaped in dust and ashes. He thought he had moved on. Silly. The willow tree under which they had sat together still carried her sweetness. The boats that row in the city lake still carried her carefree intimacy. The walks around the ancient gardens through a layer of colored leaves still held the rustle of her feet. The more he tried to forget her, the harder it got. Here, the conflict torn city was his muse, the falling autumn leaves his grief. His wearied heart could not bid her a proper farewell. He commenced wondering, for he could never find what he imagined for. The city was empty of sentiments. War had played pangs too deep in its crate. Love was repressed, hate preached. 

Within weeks, the scene was converted from a mirthful and pleasant wedding celebration of crimsoned chinars and quiet primroses into a coarse and mundane orgy of tipsiness. The dark wings of winter engulfed the city upon which nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth while continuous war crimes by the state layed waste a few more graveyards. A squall of gloom had doused in the city homes, heavy with turmoil. The multitudes raining on the faces, appearing in signs of his remorse. 

The young, feverishly idealogical poet  was charged by the state for speaking against it. His last book being banned. The state had been spying on him for some time. He had run into a suburban old hut, in the dark snarls of eventide, escaping from the trigger-happy cops. In the recess of that hovel was a poor bed on which this dying youth lay, staring at the dim light of his oil lamp, made to flicker by the entering winds. The man in the thaw of his life could clearly see the peaceful hour of freeing himself from the clutches of life fast nearing. He awaited death gratefully, upon his pale face, on his lips a sorrowful smile; in his eyes, disbelief. 

He was a poet perishing from emptiness in the city of living interests. Would she come back for one last time.

Hope is the thing with feathers 

That perches on the soul 

And sings the tune without the words 

And never stops at all- Emily Dickson.

Guru Dutt- Remembered

He was ahead of his times. Ahead of himself may be too. In the history of Indian cinema, Guru Dutt's legacy remains unparalleled even 50 years after his tragic death. He was the first of its kind. And perhaps the only one. 

Born in Karnataka as a Padukone, the master craftsman had Calcutta running in his jugular veins. He thus adopted Dutt as his imbibed surname. Suits him. A thinker before anything else, Guru Dutt's contemplating cinema failed to appeal to the newly independent nation of India. Personally I wasn't a great fan of Guru Dutt as an actor. I don't think he was a natural at it. He was a wonderful filmmaker, though. Pyaasa, Kaagaz Ke Phool, Sahib Biwi aur Ghulam are Bollywood classics by this ace director. One of my regrets remains Guru Dutt and Dilip Kumars ego hassles, which potentially robbed us of a cinematic treat. They never worked together, though Guru Dutts orginal star cast for Pyaasa had- Dilip Kumar, Nargis and Madhu Bala in lead roles.

Gurez.

At Gurez you notice that the dwellers and the scenery are kind of alike. Men stand around a lot, flicking their hands, breaking wind, doing nothing in general. Mountains and trees follow them. They stand quiet in solitude. The similarity disguises a major difference in temperament. Gurezi's are soft-spoken mild-mannered fellows. It are the goblins in here that are ferocious. 

While walking along a stream, in afternoon sunshine, that carried waters of Habba Khatoon spring, on the base of eponymous pyramid shaped peak, a couple of ladies sprawled indolently beside the Queens spring. Biting on the head scarf the sunbathers looked preposterously beautiful, as if aping the insouciance of the monarchs and courtiers who enjoyed this leisure back in the 16th century. With their imperial airs, the resident damsels appeared to be the inheritors of Habba's colossal beauty. 

We had been actually walking for a hour or so, if thats what my calculation told me. You see it isn't difficult to get engrossed in this ancient land of Dards. Having chosen Gurez as our destination, with an eye to capture Habba's imagination, meandering as she used to in these ravines centuries ago, singing pathos in memory of her prince Yusuf Shah Chak, I was searching for: eyes open, senses glued; Tzche kemou sone myane bram nith neo nakho.

A little earlier in the day, when mid day sun was brimming bright and clouds still had not gathered around craggy peaks at Line Of Control, we had come back from what was the last Indian picket on the border- where the lieutenant ordered us to seek his officers permission. I protested and dragged Shawl and Akhter from there. I could not understand why we had to flash another piece of paper to have a glimpse of our own land, just across a ridge. The sentries, senile and ugly behavior added. Akhter would bring it up in days to come, very often- a missed opportunity that he saw in it. 

My resentment had a reason. Since arriving in Bandipur two days earlier, where there were no taverns, no hotels, no pleasure boats to row

on the quaint Wular, everyone seemed to be amused about our trip- the glaring eyes pooping on our backpacks. A permit card from the district police officer was required must to travel further, we were told by our  grey faced lodge owner. We understood the security concerns and thus approached the district police HQ at Bandipur. Our wide smiles and visible enthusiasm soon waned, like sun does, behind the whirling clouds of late spring afternoon Bandipur- once we were behind high walls and barbed wires of the freshly varnished cream colored building- whose  gothic alleys reeked of spurious liquor and echoing invectives of the sentries. It would take us at least two days to get the required pass, we were told. The queue was long.  

'It is an ill-planned travel. I had warned you', Akhter protested. 

A bearded police constable offered some help. 

'Come tomorrow morning. I will do something. Matter of some chai',

he shouted even as we walked away in increasing darkness towards our shanty lodge. 

Shawl rang up someone while Akhter continued with his rants which were starting to annoy me now.

'Tomorrow morning at 9 we have to meet SP, Wasim Qadri. Permit will be ready',

Shawl shouted after dropping the call. Knowing people around helps and no one other than Shawl knows how to use it. I've always been amazed at his network and the ease with which he gets work done. Years of honchoing at big IT corporates he would often credit.

We were in Gurez the next day afternoon, with it's shops and ancient dressmakers, shanty lodges behind which sprawled lanes on either side by rickety wooden structures. The eerie silence broken every now and then by a scurrying monstrous LeyLand army truck. Our stay at the guest house was pleasant. Newly constructed and built in stone the single storey edifice offered much more than what we expected, more than 120 miles away from Srinagar. 

The six hour drive from Bandipur though was arduous, every vertebrae of our back, crying on the drudgery of the road. Ascending on the Razdan pass led us through sparsely dense pine forests. The jungle robbery was done in day light, here. The pass, 1100 feet above, was bracingly cold even in May. At the pass, on our right  was M L Steins Mohand Marg and Mount Harmukh; on left the plains of Kupwara and Handwara and facing us were the sparsely visible peaks of Nun and Kun in Nubra Valley- Ladakh. If the landscape had yet to mesmerize us, the first glimpse of a Dard village (Kanzalwan) almost flicked a switch in me. I could over hear Habba. The village and the setting was fairytale style. Log huts sprawled on either side of the KishenGanga river, the mist flurrying along their withered wooden fences. Lilacs and daisies grew alongside the flossy green moth by the raptous river. Due to the unusually late thaw, wild flowers were only just coming out on the hillsides.

Toying with Habba's songs in effervescent weather, we drove into the valley of Gurez- with its dark brown cultivable fields in this milder climate, hazy uplands, steep gorges and the town of Dawar at the distance- which seemed mostly of one-two storey houses with graceful upward curving eaves. I thought about the violence of history and the resilience with it, the response to hate and suffering this ancient forgotten place lives with it. 

We pulled up in front of a culvert at Village Badwan- home to Habba's mother. From here the pyramid shaped mysterious mountain named Habba Khatoon stood stilled. There were number of folklores associated with this mountain, one of which I heard from a friendly old farmer, while taking an evening walk around the tilled fields the next evening. It is said that once when moon poured magic silver down on the purple fields of iris, and workers were singing while plucking Berries in the garden, Zoon and Yusuf Shah took a walk.  The emperor endowed by the beauty of Habba and Gurez, looked above at the starry skies, that glowed the expanse in rapturous vanity. At this the Mountains spoke and trees bowed- the eyes of the lovers met. The emperor in a spontaneous outpour of love, kissed his mademoiselle, and named the shimmering mountain in distance, as Habba Khatoon. The folklores of Habba and Yusuf Shah continue to reverberate in this land with quite a few versions. A land that is siphoned off from civilizations, clinging on its own history. Though, it needs more than a earful to sense it. 

We spent next couple of days loitering around Gurez, making friends everywhere. Our cook, Nazir Gurezi, was a young boy with hopeful eyes. His Seekh kebabs over the breakfast were remarkably delicious. So was his green spinach that he cooked on the day we left, simmered on home-made ghee.  

Exploring the landscape around Dawar: Markote, Achurr and Cherwan were ancient Dardic villages that played an important halt over the silk route, for centuries. The houses were made up of log wood, thudded over one another, clothing was mostly suited for winter. The striking features of this aboriginal Aryan race is the first thing that can catch a travelers eye. 

Over the horizon I kept seeing the birds that almost looked familiar, just as trees and flowers looked familiar here. This was the sheer variety of the gene pool or I was walking in a parallel universe, more ancient than the one I'm used to, and more strange. An old gray stone wall on the left side of the trail; one on the steepest parts. There were lots of wild flowers around. A deep forest smell. Tangles of wild grape in the undergrowth. I veneered inside, against my audible heart-beats. It looked like  a hermit's shack, the little stone on through the wall served as an entrance to the grotto. I could not go go all the way in- but just inside framed by the arch of tunnel, a Buddhist stupa sits, carved out of stone and hugely calm.

I went outside again. The view across the pine covered mountains, some that touched in Drass, to the miles of fields was hazy, evanescent. It was intensely quiet, this moment. My heart hurt. I tried to absorb to what I was deeply attached to, even if it made me feel miserable. If ever I had wanted a brilliant, vindicating spiritual experience; my heart leapt towards it; like a dog greeting his master. 

There is no great importance attached to many of such caves, that are man-made carved into these mountains- which is very surprising and immensely sad. Gurez having a strategic location on the silk route may have housed some Buddhist council meetings, if that may give some clue. The last such council held at Sharda in around 300-400 AD, is only a few miles away from here, on the other side of the border. 

Yi Aas Akh Padshah Bai ( There was a Queen once)

http://www.cultureunplugged.com/play/4613/Yi-As-Akh-Padshah-Bai--There-Was-a-Queen-

Pe'ot digruk ous taaph

te aachvon harud veshun

aavay che ratich ze be asis

darvaay tarfich yaeth zonne daabey paith

vas vin vyeth'i, thet aebras goebras

neelis nab te the bay rangnavan

aech aech vay bay bhoj tulaan

Dalvun doh ous thukmut thukmut

sukhbol sukhbol mausum meoth

hume bathi, hoetnas trushphael aen aen 

naara zalith, boeth vaeshla vith 

shuer aes naech naech chaeri-pop vayaan

soroii aend paet ous vesaan

Soi waqt, soi mausum te toethey lukh

shaam, harud te baye taaph chhu khushvun veyn gov 

na chhu aaz konni shueer choergish

na che range naave

na chhu vyeth'i su qarar

na chhu bonin paith Kaw yene volye

na chu mey nazran manz kahn shok

humei bathe hang-te mange

naar heten vasse

pranis lare gagris  gov soor

zanni khuda keoth vav 

sou dol aede

adde daed kadad khaet asmaan

mye thee, mye bronthe kanne gov soroii

na chhu krake-naad

na chhu lukh arsaath

maeth gom, baye chatte baagh

dapakh haez chaet tav chopey hund yee parde

shueer ney daptav andrun travith

chaer-pop vavith khushyah karhan

koche galen paith thade thade gayvhan

bhuje ya bhuje laer hay daze'ye

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The afterglow of the receding day

The sweetly creeping warmth of autumn

Only yesterday was I sitting 

on the moonlit balcony, 

gazing at the gently tumbling Vitasta, 

the gathering clouds

the crystal blue sky, the colorful boats

The tranquil sight entered my eyes,

and gladdened my heart

The day was waning, tired

Its embrace warm to the touch

Over there, on the other bank,

Collecting twigs, lighting fires

Dancing and clapping, the children gathered

their faces aglow

All around was but radiance

It is the same warm autumn evening,

The same fading light of day

But there is no babble of children anymore

No colorful boats

Even the Vitasta has lost her old ease

No crows nest in the mighty Chinars

No desire touched my empty eyes

The other bank

is aflame suddenly!

The old manors burn to ash,

as if an angry wind

has dropped a spark

The pieces of paper burn

Their embers rising skyward

Before me has this ensued

I am witness to all

But no one speaks, no one comes forward

I want to lament, wail and shout

"Tear apart these veils of silence!"

Tell the children to clap and dance

And run from alley to alley shouting

"Old crone, old crone, your hut is on fire.."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ye aas akh padshah bai

Yehay aes prath doh shaman

bar meich-ravith pyaraan

paninyn lokten lokten shahzadan

kehn-cha mandchith

kehn-cha trahvith

hamsay bayin aes prechaan

tohe te cheva vene shuerr aaz nebray

myenan gharre chune yaad pyavaan

zanni khuda kath kun gaye nerith

batte phel chikh na banan sherith

Aem sey kemtaam, khetaam

voen adde, darri te bar thopravith beeth

apoez rutle grekh chatravith grekh sodran

hamsayav booz brakha zeeth...

Matte maertav vene chev na vansi kam

Matte maertav vene chev na manze nam

---------------------------------------------------------------

There was a Queen who with the onset of evening,

Would wait at her doorsteps, restless, impatient

A little afraid, a little shy

She'd ask every passenger by, "Tell me.."

Have your children not come home?

Mine have forgotten they have a home

There's little cause for worry really

Its just that I'd laid out dinner

That night, that Mother, that Queen, 

heard something

Tonight, she sits silently in the dark

With all the doors and windows closed

But from her house, in the dead of the night

A cry pierced the silence and was heard by all

Do not go yet, do not die

You're too young to die

Do not die yet,

The henna on your nails is still fresh.

Naseem Shifai- Yi aas akh padshah bai ( There was a Queen).

Saath Saath- The Idealist Farooq Sheikh.

Saath Saath released in 1982 immediately stuck a chord with me. With a story line that deals with the predicament of an idealist- worn and torn by materialism, I could associate with Faruq Sheikh's character at many a levels. It so happens in life so often, we begin with strong principles, with an opinion for everything, only to be brought down by worldly pressure. Give-in is such a common excuse. 

Faruq Sheikh (Avinash Verma) loathes the bourgeois in his fiery lectures during his college days. His strong ethos (though not made visually visible) drawing inspiration from communism, where gaining riches more than one's needs is mounted to recreancy and sellout- perhaps rightly. He sees deceit and corruption everywhere, working as a part-time writer. His work though praised by everyone, is seldom published- the publishing houses look out for quick money, be it through sleazy articles- that hardly matters.

His concerned orates though has an admirer in Deepti Naval (Geeta), who immediately falls for his ideas. Moved by his ideals and disregard for capitalist clowns, she marries him against her rich parents wishes. Later on however, to her dismay , Avinash gets drawn and lured by materialism, though in effect you do not blame him. One feels sorry not for Avinash but for the society that we have grown up in. And the society that is averse to many such Avinash's. His helplessness does not go unnoticed. He worries about his family, his two square- meals, his humble cramped one-room flat. Thus begins his brush with what he used to condemn. Bribing people to get things done; compromising on his writing to appease the publisher; praising the wealth of the same bourgeois worms for a favor or two. And all this his wife Geeta, regrettably watches. She is disappointed to have married a man who was unnerved by the world- her idealistic man who she fell her- betraying her and eventually himself. 

At the end Avinash realizes he is gaining nothing in this mad rush for the crown- as his wife confronts him on his own ideas that he used to sermonize not long ago. It leaves a feeling of fulfillment and hope, and it goes to the directors credit for doing it all subtly. 

As far as performances are concerned Faruq Sheikh as Avinash is very impactful. I cannot imagine anyone else pulling his strife all so elegantly. Deepti Naval as his muse and then wife comes across all very natural. Her expressions are wonderful. Rest of the supporting cast adds adequately to the plot barring the all too frequent Neena Gupta's stupidity- which was totally not required. 

Papillon- The butterfly of freedom

Shawshank Redemption for me and many others is the Wordsworth of Prison break movies. Papillon matches it for me if not overcoming its awe. And reasons are quite a few.

The beauty of Papillon lies in its sweat infecting, malaria prone, mosquito squabs that literally swells the viewer with shocks and brazenness about the penal colony conditions in French Guinea. One exactly feels the misery of the inmates, the helplessness of the convicts and the inhuman behavior of the wardens- the visuals and the background score accentuating the whole cinematic experience. The characters played by Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffmann couldn't have been better accomplished- with both actors doing absolute justice. The camaraderie and friendship between two visibly different men who're bought together by fate is subtly yet effectively portrayed.

The movie also brings to point the basic psychology of convicts- for it is the innocent Papillon, who though being battered with two physical and soul crushing terms, in what is called as the silent torture cell, yet yearns for freedom, achieving it finally in his last attempt. The defiance of the innocent is admirable. On the other hand, his friend Louis Dega (Dustin Hoffmann) is always reluctant and in fact never interested in breaking the prison walls. He has forged, and he perhaps knows that he deserves the incarceration. 

The sequences where Papillon meets the helpful lepers, the erotic Indians and the treacherous nun is reflectively melancholic but beautiful in essence- capturing the whole indictment of unfortunate consequences that unfold.   

The final scenes in the 'Devil Island' are poignant, as the much battered old friends re-unite. Nothing though has changed in the spirits of these two surviving prisoners. Papillon still dreams of freedom while Dega is still closely clinging to fate.

Fed up with non-sense.

The only adjective that comes to my mind after this post and the comments that followed is: sad! It seems history hasn't taught us our lessons well. Beginning from the 16th century when the spring blossoms of our virtuous valley fell for the first time to Mughal lustre; to the ensuing shia-sunni feuds that lasted for centuries, inviting one tyrannical regime to the other through the now much hyped Mughal road via Shupiyan, our history has failed to teach us. A certain Kanth and Dedamari invited the Afghans in 18th century to fight the mughals, only to see years later Birbal Dhar fleeing to Punjab and inviting the furious wrath of Ranbir Singh upon us. We still had not learned our lessons. With a century to boot, the eldest and the ab-orginal Abdulla in one master stroke of treachery shook hands with Bharat Mata- the Mata is teaching us lessons as we deliberate here, yet the lessons have fallen deaf.

Though it is innocuous to draw magnanimous inferences from what the narrow alleys of Srinagar think about Azadi or what the incense smoke of autumn'y hinterland infers along its drift, through KSN, yet we cannot ignore such developments. In fact it represents the chaos which beseeches us in our own liberation. Sadly!

The above para I wrote as a reply to constant Koshur bickering on one of the facebook pages.

Shyam Benegal's Trilogy- Ankur, Nishant and Manthan.

When you talk about trilogy the great Satyajit Ray's AppuTrilogy immediately comes to one's mind, and honestly till recently it was the only one I knew ever existed. Till of course I chanced upon Shyam Benegal's Ankur (1973). 

Essentially these three movies depicted the feudal system in post and pre Independent India. In Ankur the oppressed peasants wife who is left to fend for by her tormenter, in Nishant the prying feudal sons of  the Zamindar run their own justice system and in Manthan the village empowerment against the wishes of their feudal lord. Shyam Benegal's stress on detailing and strong social outburst is evident in all of them. 

Mahmud Gami-

                                           http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QpkwvopfpE8


Goor Goor Karyo
Kan kay dooro


Lael chay khael mael
hatte hen zooro


Ratik abrik subehik nooro
grazlan keh chuye noore zahooro


Chinma chin'ik shahe phagphooro
saraan vayee kinni santooro


Mahmood Gami gokh mashhooro
Sham gache nav gaan cha kinni Dooru(O)




Mahmud Gami (1765-1855) born in Dooru Shahabad Anantnag was an ingenious poet who brought the Persian masnavi into Kashmiri literature, evident in his works- for they range from romance to devotion to mysticism. It is largely due to this  versatality that Mahmud Gami is held in high esteem in the annals of Kashmiri literature.

Mahjoor- Wordsworth Of Kashmir

                                       Gar wuznaawhakh basti gulan hunz traav zeerobam
                                       bunyul kar vaav kar gagraay kar toofan paida kar

Born in 1885 in Metragam- a quaint village in the boondocks of  the  historically famous Pulvum, Ghulam Ahmad "Mahjoors" poems instilled nationalistic fervor in the submissive and oppressed lot of Kashmiris. Called as the 'Wordsworth' of Kashmiri poetry by Tagore, Mahjoor renewed the folklare and lol premissive in the Kashmiri poetry, which through centuries had been overshadowed by the Persian influence. It remains to Mahjoor's credit for reviving and making accesible the poems, which largely spoke -misery  and tyranny of the peasant lot in the early 20th century Kashmir. After finishing with his elementary education in Kashmir, Mahjoor travelled to Punjab, where he came in touch with many poets. He returned to Kashmir in 1908 and began writing poems; for now mostly in persian and urdu. His first Kashmiri poem he wrote in 1918, and instantly gave him popularity.

Working as a Patwari, 'land record maintainer in erstwhile Kashmir', gave Mahjoor an oppurtunity to closely get across to the plight of poor peasants. Their abject helplessness against the despotic coersive rule of the Dogras gave rise to my tempous poems of the poet. It is said one crisp autumn day when chinars had began turning into crimson-red and lean Poplars blushed pirouetting in their leaves, Mahjoor travelled to far-off rural woods of Pir Panjal mountains. People of the times re-count that fearful winds lashed across the vale that day- the stoutest held their breath. Seeing the dismal state of his men, ignited the tune of fresh pipe in his pen. Thus he wrote,

Wala ho Bhagwano
Nav bahaaruk shaan paida kar
Pholun Gul gath karan Bulbul
tithee samaan paida kar
Chaman varaan, wadaan shabnum
Tchatith jamay, pareshaan gul
Gulan tay bul gulan andar, dubaray jaan paida kar.
Gar wuznaawhakh basti gulan hunz traav zeerobam
bunyul kar vaav kar gagraay kar toofan paida kar.

                               http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PoAzXCXXPQI&feature=related

Wale vasiye gachovay aabas
duniya chhu nendre khaabas 
pyaraan chasiyo jawabas
walo myane poshei madano
chulhama roshey walo myane poshei madno

Yikh na haale dil bapay
Dodmutt sinee hav havayy
Tele yekhaaa yele ha be ravayy
Walo myene poshay madno
Chulhama

Wale vasiye gachevey heyay'y
Yus maare sou kateo yee yaa
Gajisay channe ziyiiy
Walo myene poshay madno
Chulhama

Balle paithe laa yay nadoo
Path phearr haa shahzado
Mav chal, god paal waado
Walo myene poshay madno

Mahjoor veyn dewaan yaaras
Bewafa bazee garas
Dapitos koteh kaal praras
Walo myene poshei madno

Masa kar zulfan vashay
Walo achhe gashe
Madno...

Chronology- Rulers Of Kashmir

Rajatarangni- written in 1148-1150 AD


Earliest record is from great buddhist ruler Ashoka- founder of srinagar city which contained 9,600,000 homes. Probably this place is same as Puranadhisthana or ancient capital, present day Pandrethan.

Between first century A.D and 500 AD were mainly 3 Kushan rulers- Hushka, Jushka, Kanishka. Kanishka is said to have summoned the third Budhhist council in Kashmir, according to Hieun Tsang.

Mihirakula- 551- 550- cruel and slaughterer. Hastivanj episode in his times at Pir Panjal pass. Gopaditya founded the Takht-i-suleiman.Till then known as Gopadiri.

Pravarasena II founded Pravarasenapura, present day Srinagar. Malkha is supposed to have remains of this city.

i) Lalitaditya ( A.D 700-736). Founder of Parihaspura.

ii) Jayapida ( 750- 800 A.D). Founder of Jayapura. Present day village Anderkot, near Sumbal.

iii) Avantivarman ( A.D 855-883), founder of Avantipura. Suyya was a great engineering in his times, after whom the Sopore town or Suyyapura is named.

iv) Shankavarman ( 883- 902). Founded Shankarapura, present day Pattan.

Lalitaditya, Jayapida, Avantivarman and Shankavarman belong to Karkota Dynasty (625-1003 AD)

Lohar Dynasty started from 949 A.D. King Harsha ( 1089- 1101 A.D)

At the beginning of 14th century- Reinchan Shah and Shah Mir changed the character of reigning dynasty to Muslims. Reinchan Shah was from Tibet and Shah Mir from Swat.Reinchan killed then king, Sinha Dev and his deputy Ram Chandran. He was a Buddhist. Reverted to Islam, later, and named himself Sadr-ud-din. Shah Mir became king in 1346 A.D.

At end of 14 century a ruler comes Sikander, also called But-shikan (idol breaker). His son was Zain-ul-abidin 'Budshah'.


Excerpts: Kashmir An Historical Perspective by James P Ferguson

Nishat Bagh- James P. Ferguson

Nishat Bagh, or the garden of Gladness, is the most easily reached from Srinagar, and a shikararide through the lotus blossoms of the Dal Lake and underneath the high-arched bridge of the Satu causeway, brings one to the landing-place just outside the small entrances set in the gardens imposing wall. Nishat has ten terraces some of which are of considerable elevation. It was constructed by Asaf Jah, the brother of Jehangir's queen, and a person who because of this connection, suppported by his intrinsic ability, rose to a position of great influence in the royal court. Nishat is the best preserved of the gardens, and its immense chenars and-in proportion- its immense tulips, are its noteworthy features.From its commanding position it has a splendid view across the lake, and in summer one can see throughout the day a continous stream of shikaras converging on it.




Nishat originally stretched down to the lake, and to appreciate its origibal splendor, it has to be remembered that its lawns terminated in the clear waters of the Dal. But modern times have demanded, reasonably enough, the construction of a good road to link up the northern side of the Dal Lake with the capital. Across the proposed route of the road stretched the great length of the Nishat Bagh. To circumvent the garden would have meant an awkward and arduous detour round the hillside. So Nishat lost its lower terraces, sacrificed to the demands of modern convenience. Now its wall stands near the water, yet cutting the garden off and giving it an isolation and land-locked character that for centuries it did not possess. The lost ground constituted a link that increased the attractiveness of the garden many fold, and the combination of the series of terraces with the lake and its lotus blossom must have made up a diversity and perfection that the present garden, beautiful though it is, cannot attain.


Source: Kashmir- An Historical Introduction by James P. Ferguson

Click, click, click: Pretty but a camera can’t capture memories

The offending bunkers have been razed, the summer’s blossoms have erupted. The troops are in the barracks, tourists have become an insurrection on the street.

Milling belly loads of them are disgorging at the Humhama airport and the bus station midtown, as if someone had spread the rumour Kashmir was about to be expurgated from the map.

The Valley’s famed nooks of idyll are exploding with the click-and-pop of cameras, leisure has become a diesel-fumed scurry, bumper to bumper, from one destination to the other — Sonmarg today, Gulmarg tomorrow, Pahalgam the day after, shoot and scoot, fill it up for the family album and be gone before “something happens”; Kashmir safe in a pen-drive snuck in the hip-pocket.

The gardens of Nishat and Shalimar are under footfall that would have shuddered the Mughals, the high meadows are fodder for arriving droves, not all of them cattle, the Dal boulevard is a mad toss of shikaras where honeymooners film their role-play of the vintage Shammi-Sharmila frolic in “Kashmir Ki Kali”. Grab, then go.They reckon two million —or more if “nothing happens” — lenses will be uncapped on these vistas by the end of the season, a record haul of images between the melting of snow and the onset of rain, parcelled out and downloaded countrywide.

They’ll all be paradisiacal: nobody wants a dirty picture in their albums. Sun-swept lakes, meadows gone teal in curtains of distant rain, a riot of tulips, caravans of cuddly sheep, conifered slopes gazing down adolescent streams, a melting glacier, an iridescent sunset, a solitary wood bridge, a padded copse, a rippled houseboat. Kashmir is captivating at the moment, never mind the capturing siege descended on it. Those cameras wouldn’t be lying.But if cameras snap, they shut out equally well. Each frame means two images, what’s in and what’s not, what’s taken, what’s left out.

Within stone-shot of the hectic holiday revelry being unpacked in Srinagar sits a city of ashen aspect. Its habitations lie denuded by time and violent tide, crumbled masonry and boarded timberwork, witness to recurrent paroxysms between disputed ambitions of state and subject.

Rubble roads and manic dogs run through its warren habitations, more than a thousand of them prowling in killer packs that despatch dozens to the rabies wards each day. A river weaves through it, so slowed by its burden of sewage it does not seem to run at all. Its banks are piled with garbage on which kites swoop to snatch what they can in their skirmish with dogs.

Slowly but inexorably, commerce has begun to relieve this dreariness — a glass-front corner café, a snooker dive, a brand boutique, not a bar yet but yes a sheesha joint, a would-be mall, a patch of Italian marble, a shimmering SUV squeezing through lanes that weren’t cut for vehicles of such girth. Some of the cash rolling off the tourism turnstiles has begun to wash up and put a shine on this dilapidated town; queues tail off ATM doors and the bazaars teem with wares and vendors.

But above the daily humdrum floats a pensive, unassuaged air so insistent it makes prayer sound like a dirge. By twilight, it has risen from the houses of God and become a shroud that defies cameras as well as it defies banishment. Nobody will forget their dead, nobody will cease waiting for the vanished. What’s the count? But don’t even get there, the numbers are too high and it’s not the numbers, its people. Parents, children, siblings, spouses buried, or worse, missing without trace.

Crying resumes each evening beneath the portals of mosques and shrines and rises aloft that shroud to the skies. No place has cried so uninterrupted as Kashmir; it has cried so long, crying has become its song. They don’t hear it in the houseboats, they don’t hear it in hotel rooms; they arrive with their ears plugged, or there’s television, the new season of Indian Idol. The Kashmiri song won’t pass muster, it’s too funereal.

Imran is a spruce young camera journalist who knows a thing or two about keeping appearances; his caller tune is Enrique Iglesias’s I can be your hero, Baby and he likes turning out in fitted jackets and gelled backswept hair. He talks death most.

“I must have covered 50 funerals in my first few weeks as a journalist. Many of them were my friends and I was always thinking: What is it I am doing? Filming my friends on their way to the grave? But that is what I came into, that is what Kashmiris come into, death and mourning, and a lot of anger.”

Perhaps Imran picked a bad time to turn professional. The summer of 2010 was coffin-count season, more than a hundred dead, mostly young and impassioned, in waves of street confrontation.

This summer the count is all about the cash tourist numbers are putting in the can. “You think?” Imran counters, sceptically, “You think? You think money will erase memory? You think they’ll stop crying and hoping? You think I will be less angry in 2012 for 2010?”

Not far from Imran’s downtown home is a graveyard that burst at the seams and will not admit any more dead — three of his mates went there, he remembers. Dogs rummage violently in a waste pile, an armoured paramilitary truck arrives and parks itself for the night, a muezzin calls out despairingly in praise of the Lord, and there is someone weeping close by.

Power has just lapsed on the streetlights. Shadowy figures dart about the dimness, chased by ferocious barking, and a putrescent smell has risen from the river. The tourists never come here, this is off limits, the Kashmir where “something may happen”. Just as well. It’s not a pretty picture. But it’s there, darkened by the shroud above.

The article appeared in The Telegraph- written by Sankarshan Thakur

Kashmir- Etymology and rest.

According to this earliest traditional account the lake called Satisaran, ' the lake of Sati (Durga)', occupied the place of Kashmir from the beginning of kalpa. In the period of the seventh manu the demon Jalodbhava (' water borne') who resided in this lake, caused great distress to all neighboring countries by his devastations. The Muni Kasyapa, the father of all Nagas , while  engaged in a pilgrimage to the Tirthas in the north of India, heard of the cause of this distress from his son Nila, the king of the Kashmir Nagas.

The sage thereupon promised to punish, the evil-doer and proceeded to the seat of Brahman to implore his and other gods' help for the purpose. His prayer was granted. The whole host of by Brahman's command started for satisaras and took up their position on the lofty peaks of Naubandhana Tirtha above the lake Kramasaras ( Kounsar Nag). The demon who was invisible in his own element, refused to come forth from the lake. Vishnu thereupon called upon his brother Balabhadra to drain the lake. This he effected by piercing the mountains with his weapon, the ploughshare. When the lake had become dry, Jalodbhava was attacked by Vishnu and after a fierce combat slain with the god's war-disc.

Source: Kashmir- An Historical Introduction by James P. Ferguson.

Pir Dastgir Sahib-

The shrine of Pir Dastgeer Sahib, stone's throw away from my ancestral house at Khanyar, broke in mysterious fire at the rose-pink dawn of one June morning last year. Much has already been written on the political side of this gory incident- my memoir, is, totally selfish- wrapped up in me.


I perch inside; sneer at the loss- memories stockpile. Scur-ring in timeless moulds, and motionless, I'm lost in the vastness of it, yet miraculously finding myself at every venerated abysses of its rising flames. Some things, some events define you. Though hard it is, and I wrench myself not to think on such lines, but I have lost the definition. Forever!

The chief cleric (with reverence called as Qadir lala ) would take a breather and sit cross-legged on the lunette window, facing the busy Khanyar road below- after a tiring gathering during the days of urs. Devotees did grope him- for a touch of his hand, his cloak or just about anything. The reverence is lavish in our world. Daddy would held my hand tight, and see me through the sea of yowling men, until we were somewhere close to him. He would gently slip his hand inside the scarlet cloak, that he wore over his shoulders; shekel like embellishment reflecting under the ambient lighting, and run it over my head and face. Filling my tiny palms with small white saccharin gobs.


The earliest memory that I can muster from the shrine is fresh. I must have been 6. I can recall the early mornings nipping mist- covering the old city; a pigeon voyage visible from far off shingle roofs; a straying hashish smoking Waje mout ( He reminds me now of Gibran's Mad Man- who threw away all his masks), incessantly talking to himself. Lanterns flickering at crossroads. An old woman with a white scarf. A familiar merry man with a koshur skull cap (beret) on his bald head. A priest wearing a dark grey phiran, an enormous Quran under his arm. Breathing heavily the rarefied air. A strong breeze, smelling of incense and roadside 'masale voul'. 


Being inside the grandiose shrine used to be nothing less than a heady trip.The cryptic gordian verses, decked up on corinthian pillars that mullioned through the hall, looked like appeasing antiques, to my young eyes; the finestella angular window panes, deriving effete warmth; a large brass container holding Zam Zam in it; and the palatial chandeliers in the hallway- rich in colors of reds and greens, giving a good idea of the imposing taste and opulence. For a part, the abstruse baroque carving on its walls generated history, that rose from Iran and Kurdistan, 600 years ago along with the 700 Sayedains. The vainglory, complimented now inside the walls, by the revere bating chants of - the khatma sharif.

Daddy would sit in absolute quietness, by the window, engulfed in the mystic ambience, even as my bewildering eyes would find solace in his bowing head. Often, the loose pheran clad, green eyed pir, would sprinkle attar of roses, over the devotees. The droplets carried spirituality. It is almost like a frozen moment of my memory. I close my eyes on it, it is insistent but, like a hangover that never leaves. Hands up in air: strangers I stared with amazement, at a place that was so quiet, under spiritual mists, with silent fever of their eyes. 

As life carried on, I started taking different dispositions on faith and belief. My growing up years were full of days, spent at the shrine, during the days of urs. There was some power their. The small steps, I took, while entering the shrine, brought a natural elation in spirit. For those few moments, in front of the saint- problems looked small; solutions not far.

Man has no nature, Ortega says in his parable. I talk to God, but the sky is empty.



  




  

Unusual Clouds That Day: Khanyar massacre May 1991.

The day had been cut by clouds- unusual ones, looming across the horizon
from Pir Panjal mountains in the west to Zabarwan hills in the south-east.
The valley was quiet due to last nights rattling of bullets- 50 innocent men, children,
old, young, stout, weak had fallen to brazing terror leashed by the Indian Army.
We shuddered in silence, the strongest held their breath, the batons threatened death.
We sat in darkness- the day was so. Each one busy in prayers. The roads were forlorn
all day, winds myriad crushing leaves. The birds had less to say, torn inside,
the song was slain like so many. Roadside flowers wet for blood, expended their
bloom in vain. We stood our ground, fretting and numb.


A sudden roar in the narrow alleys across the road drew out our attention, at once.
The bodies were handed over. Cries were heard, bringing the quiet day to a shrieking
end. The skies protested in a way too- crimson at the horizon. Moments later the
trigger was pushed yet again. Protesters laid in pool of brazen red. In the remorseless
eyes of the murderers, that blood revolved. Incentives they lewd over the dead- mader *****
aur maango azaadi.

A short memory knock, from Khanyar massacre, May 1991.

Wahab Khar- ath kathe chhu Waheb Khar te lajawabe

                                                                 

There is an old Kashmiri adage, 'Ath kathe chhu Wahab Khar te lajawabe'- which is a fitting tribute to the wisdom of this 19th century poet. Wahab Khar, born in Pulwama, was a blacksmith by proffesion. Though being illiterate Wahab Khar rose to become one of the fabled mystic poets of Kashmir. His 'Mehraj Namma' and 'Mach Tuler' are regarded as works of occult mysticism with references.

Wahab Khar used to meander in the wastarwan jungles of Khrew, raising esoteric villanelle poems.

Beha chas dramich Yaras pattey
sou kas pattey goum
mei ha ley ous vechaan vattey
sou kas pattey goum.

Memorable India- Pakistan matches

While recalling memorable Indo-Pak matches the first one that comes immediately to my mind is the '94 Austral-Asia Cup final played at Sharjah. Matches played on friday on this desert oasis Sharjah ground had reached cult status- some subscribed it to divine interventions; come what may India was found hopping always; the Sharjah-friday- Pakistan trio gave them blushes and humiliation profound. On this sunny April day as I remember Pakistan captain Salim Malik chose to bat first.

Those were the days of rickety Tv antennas- we had ours broken due to heavy snowfall in the preceding winter. This was an auspicious game. Not one's to be cowed down I hopped on my cousins 'Hamara' Bajaj scooter and we were on the way to our cousin sister's place. Now here was a family who were stuanch Indian supporters. They swore on Sheikhs and Nehrus. We on the contrary were the quintessential Khanyari's: bleeding Green.

Saeed Anwar and Aamir Sohail, as they used to do often, gave Pakistan a solid start. Consolidated and improved by Basit Ali- whose uncanny resemblance to Javed Miandad was growing by day. Pakistan scored 250 at the end- a difficult target to chase against a strong bowling unit.

India was never in the running except for that small period when Kambli and Atul Bedade were going smooth. But once both had gone, the fate of the match was sealed. Bleak faces of our Indian relatives was an eye soother, every wicket brought a louder cheer from us; and strong resentment from them. Who cared but! We chose to ignore animosity and their host status. And when a round the wicket Wasim got V Prasad plumb in front, the joys were given shape in dancing- even as the hamam rocks shook beneath.

Joyous on our way back, with nadir monje stacked aplenty, the sad news of a young neighbor being killed upon celebrating Pakistan's win by angry Indian troops spread a squall of loom all over. The skies were red and green- that April day!