The half lies of Koshur Identity

We need a psychological home as much as we need a physical one. A sort of a refuge where we go back, refuted by the world of allegiance.  Home is a place very special to Humans. Nothing in the world can replace it. It atones to our vulnerabilities.

Recently a good number of netizens took to social media, displaying their affiliation towards Kashmiri identity. Apparently, phiran forms a large part of it. This was a reaction to some government advisory that phiran must not be allowed in offices. While everyone is free and entitled to their opinion, however, I found the reactions very hallow and reeking of hypocrisy. In Kashmir, everybody knows each other. It’s a small place and the society is closely knit. We rarely marry outside our mores. The inter mixing with rest of the cultures of sub-continent was almost neglible till very recent. However, a lot of those things are changing. In the age of internet and technology one can choose a partner by just a click. Yes, tinder does that! A lot Kashmiris are travelling outside, exposing themselves to a whole lot of cultures. While all of this is fine, it becomes very necessary that in the process we don’t lose our essential character. So what is that character? What is it that netizens were displaying their anguish against? A piece of cloak that you wear and click selfies in? And this by those people who abhor when their children speak in Koshur –regarding the language downright lowly. This tribe of poor self-esteem walking strivers is dime a dozen in Kashmir and they give two hoots to your culture and identity.

Hypocrisy is being double faced. While all the hoopla goes on for my identity and my Kashmir- whatever that means, the situation on the ground is glaringly something else. Our indifference to our civic sensibilities is pathetic to say the least. There is zero accountability. Illegal construction by real estate mafia is rampant. Most of the hotels in ‘world famous’ Gulmarg and Pahalgam have flouted rules, illegally occupying forest land.  Footpaths are used for everything else but walking. Anyone in power seems unapproachable. Bullying of the marginalized is order of the day. The honest is mocked.  The system is so effing against the common man. Yet all of it is accepted. Corruption is so rooted that it has become a system. As long as you don’t come in my way, I don’t give a fig! That’s the attitude.

I’m a downtowner. Though we shifted to city suburbs in mid 90s, yet the downtown boy in me never left me. I usually walk over through its tiny labyrinth alleys, when I visit home in summers, finding a long gone memory in some alcove of my mind. It’s the only place where I feel I have arrived. All of this may be gone though. The vandalism of our architecture is everywhere. The art deco old is giving way to the brash glassy new and nothing is being done to protect it.

If you visit any European city, the care and effort to maintain the architecture of a city is so visible. The new is given a way, but not at the expense of the old. There is a concerned effort made to stick to their identities. You can destroy a city and its people easily by obliterating its architecture. Take the old city out of Srinagar, what remains is a ghost city. Ugly and morose. That’s because the sophistication and richness lays inside the realms of our old houses.  Their features being so distinct if one walks along the Nallamar.  A wooden porch on the first or second floor; red oxidized floors; baroque carving on windows; thin brown bricks.   The air smelling of its people who lived for hundreds of years. Along the walls that I walk in my ancestral home, that I touch and feel, I find the souls of my ancestors. Their sounds echo in the oxidized floors. It is said everyone must leave something behind when they die:  A child, a book, a house, a planted garden. Something that your hand touched so that the soul has somewhere to go when you die, when people look at that tree or house or garden.

I wonder what I would leave behind for my son, to know his identity. Certainly must be more than a phiran!

Books, Grandfather and Life Lessons

The Japanese literary great Haruki Murakami said, 'If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.' Books are that axe which titillate one's soul. But how does one go about reading the right kind of books?  What got me writing about this was when I posted some pictures from my library on social media. The idea was to share my personal journey; which necessarily a potential bibliophile may not follow. I've always believed reading is your own personal jaunt.  As adults we can encourage and suggest especially to youngsters what books to read. That is how and where I picked my love for them.

Each Sunday without fail my grandfather’s cousin and bosom buddy Khwaja Ali Buchh would drop in at our place, in his crisp white kurtas: a man of impeccable honor and love for books. What would transpire in next few hours would absolutely enthrall the curious kid in me. From Babur’s battle at Panipat to Jinnah’s jibe at Molvi Yusuf Shah, they discussed everything. They would often exchange books and though they had aged, the brothers retained their penchant for book reading. I remember one of the earliest books that they suggested to me was ‘Kashmir towards Insurgency’ by Balraj Puri. A thin book which awakened me to the complex nitty gritty of Kashmir issue. In addition my grandfather insisted that I and my sisters read everything. At one time we were subscribing  eight to ten magazines: Reader’s digest, India Today, Frontline, Sportstar, Woman’s era, Femina. You name it.

Abba’s idea was to cultivate the habit of reading in us. Igniting the curiosity bulb in us.  And, I see the wisdom in it now. Books must essentially be read for pleasure. If a book, however popular it may be, fails to strike with you, just don’t read it. Put it on your shelf. Never be stuck with it. There are so many books out there to be read and learned from.

As the saying in sufis goes, ‘what you seek, seeks you.  In my adolescence days, like any other youth, I had my existential crisis. There were far too many questions in my mind. And unfortunately my pillar of strength my grandfather was no more there to guide me. While aimlessly travelling in south India, I met Thimma, a 45-50 year old Brahmin, introduced by my friend. Thimma owned a farm house on the foothills of Coorg district and had a married a widow. He was a rebel in a family of illustrious blood line. His grandfather was the first surgeon in Coorg and he proudly displayed his accreditations in his farm house. We spend the night talking about love, wars, philosophy.

The next morning while handing over my morning cup of tea, Thimma passed on a worn out book to me. Its pages were loose, murky yellow and smelled exactly how old books do. Still sleepy, I turned its pages and I started reading it. Not realizing I had already read much of it, I turned to its cover and looked for the title – it read- The Wisdom of Kahlil Gibran. I remember standing up and hugging Thimma, who was looking over me. He wryly passed that smile he owned and told me he knew, I would like it. The book was passed onto him by his grandfather. In a matter of time, frozen on its shackles, I remembered my own grandfather. Of the life lessons he taught me. Of being compassionate. Honest to oneself. And more importantly, keeping myself open to new ideas and thought process. It was his blessings perhaps that I found a teacher in Kahlil Gibran. Long after he was gone, he left an anchor for me. Reading ensures to us that we are not alone and protect us from having a closed mind. An open mind is a sea of possibilities.

So, primarily as adults it’s our responsibility to create that atmosphere at our homes, from which our children learn. Children, as it is, are great learners. They pick from us what we do. Conscious and sub consciously.  I was lucky to have a grandfather who created this atmosphere around us. We must pledge to do the same.

Srinagar- Our Altar

If a painter is to paint Srinagar of current times, as for instance so many 19th century Renaissance era painters painted European cities in- the beautiful promenades of Paris , city squares of Florence and majestic Roman boulevards, the scenes wouldn’t be smooth or intimate. Instead there would be constant jostling for space on traffic lights. Conspicuous drivers looking right and left, as if everyone is scheming against them. We worry that our space would be snatched from us. Few meters away there would be a scuffle over a trivial matter, and entire traffic would come to a halt. Choicest of invectives swirl in our already smoke polluted air; arms swindling in apparent rage. A slump of a humans begging on your wind shield. The cacophony would be mindless and inhuman.

A friend of mine once told me that he a drove a Israeli backpacker around in his car. The young traveller was very disturbed and told him that though they had holocaust, but they have put it behind them. ‘Why does everyone here feel like they are being left behind’, which he said wasn’t the case when he had last travelled to Vale with his parents in late 80s. What really has occurred with Srinagar that it looks nothing like it did? In her present state she seems like a disfigured wretched old woman.

One may imagine what all this says about us? In the midst of an ugly war that the city is gripped in, we tend to overlook such introspections. That sadly is the reality about war. It numbs you. But reality, of war gripped cities too, as it goes, is never linear. It is multi layered, and it has many hues to it.

Srinagar has become a city of privileges. If you have contacts with the right people, anything can be done. Pay a bribe and get your work done. There are people who work in Middle East for years, holding on to their government jobs back home, utilizing the tactic of north Indian word to it- jugaad.

It is very common these days in Srinagar, to see people driving cars much more expensive than they can afford. It is kind of an announcement from them that they have arrived. Where? I really don’t have an idea. The impact of such vulgarism is visible. There are countless rash driving cases. Children barely the age of 10, drive expensive cars, in absolutely no parenting guidance. In fact, parents don’t wish to leave their child behind in the race. More is better. The nouveau rich class especially in their quest to show off their newly acquired riches, are creating ugly ghosts.  We are getting Punjabi-fied in that sense. The annoying fixation with Punjabi culture and ethos is breaking our own fragile traditions and values.

As for an expat like me who visits home, once every year in summers, the apparent change is glaring and disturbing. Being away from all this, gives to someone like me an advantage. Sometimes when we are in the middle of madness; we become immune to it. With time the abhorred becomes acceptable. That’s how human mind works. Adaptability isn’t always good.

However, there is the other side of being in exile- unimposed, unintentional it may be, but real all the same.  It is the listlessness.  The inchoate grief it holds in itself. The hollow feeling of never having arrived in the adopted city. The understanding that the road I take every day for work, has no idea about my strife. It is as alien, as it was, the first time I drove over it. At times it’s even difficult to articulate it. It strikes in odd situations. Mostly during morning showers, when the inkling of reality hits: being a nobody in this place, I am trying to call home.

But then trips back home are far less satisfying. There is very little left of what I remember as home. Things have changed. Last year I attended a wedding of a friend. There was Punjabi music played there and Bhangra in the tent. It was nothing less than a cultural shock for me. Which is why at times I find nothing of myself in Srinagar; which leaves me perplexed. Is that what you call being homeless? Is that the fate of living in exile?

Everything though is not lost. And I’m not merely stating it for being positive and not brushing everything aside as lost. We just need to find our way back. With time we have not moved forward. What was once a robust cosmopolitan city has been reduced to a poor Delhi cousin. Srinagar, ironic as it may sound to those who don’t know, was a city where display of wealth was regarded as a vice. People believed in living frugally. That meant the poor never felt left behind. There was a dignity in every life: rich or poor. The parvenu displays of wealth that stink like our many open drains, had no takers.

We must understand, our values and culture are very different to Punjab. In our uniqueness, lies our strength. A soulless city creates soulless people.  I hope we realize it. For if we don’t, the history definitely shall condemn us.

“For those who are lost, there will always be cities that feel like home.”

I hope, I can find back that Srinagar.

The Ashes Story

The Australian Ashes squad, 1892.

There are some sporting rivalries that go beyond the realm of the sport and the sportsmen. They take a place in posterity. England-Argentina in soccer, for example. Maradona's one genius head, and one godly work, gave it an altogether different meaning. Remember Mexico '86?

Then there was Bjorn Borg and McEnroe fighting it out on French clay and English grass. Fans sighed. The rockstar Borg had females bating. The headband and sweaty forearms had them swooning all over. McEnroe had a temper and personality. Contrasting styles, great tennis for fans. The aficionados called the rivalry 'Fire and Ice'.

India- Pakistan in cricket has had its moments. But, it is marred by politics. The rivalry, as I see it, is more political than sporting. For a reason or the other, cricket often takes a backseat. The pressure shows on players and it affects their performance.

Then there is the mother of them all – The Ashes. Tradition, stories, enmity, folklore, you name it. 

On the eve of the 1992 World Cup final held in Australia, Australian Cricket Board (ACB) threw a dinner party for the finalists England and Pakistan that was also graced by a host of dignitaries other than cricketers.   God knows what got into the mind of the organizers as they impersonated the Queen through a renowned Australian comedian Gerry Connolly. In what has become a famous walk out, Ian Botham, arguably England’s greatest cricketer and all-rounder, stormed out of the party, visibly angry and scathing out at the Australian press.

“I’m very proud of my history and culture. You guys wouldn’t know about it obviously, you’ve none of it,” yelled Beefy. The jibe, directed to hit where it hurts the most, underscores the intensity of the uneasy relationship and hardcore rivalry between the two cricketing nations.

There is something there when these two countries meet. On a first day of the first test at Edgbaston or Brisbane, the atmosphere is electric, the spectators are charged, the buzz is in the air. Everything else is secondary; cricket is all that matters. A bouncer is hurled, a hook is returned, a menacing glare follows. The Barmy army sings ‘The Ashes are coming home’. The Aussie sledging is raised to a new level.

The coveted tiny urn for which the two countries rough it out carries the weight of a century and more; of sweat and squabs; of long sea voyages in the early 20th century; of Bodyline and Jardine; of Bradman and Jim Laker; of Botham at Headingley and Warne at Old Trafford. 

The story goes back a century and a quarter. In a mock obituary carried by a British newspaper in 1877 after Australia’s victory at The Oval, it stated that the English cricket died, body will be cremated and the ashes will be taken to Australia. And the legend of The Ashes was thus born.

The avowed foes have met in many epic battles since. When the English steamship docked on Australian shores in the winter of 1932-33, the press was all over the unstoppable Don Bradman who had averaged 130 in the previous Ashes. England were under pressure. However, Douglas Jardine, their captain, born in the British Raj of India had a plan. His tactics included Larwood, who is said to have never bowled a wide in his career, to bowl fast on the rib cage, with seven fielders on the leg side. It worked; England regained The Ashes. Wisden calls it the most unpleasant series. On one occasion, Australian captain Bill Woodfull was left down on the ground after being struck just above the heart by a Larwood bouncer. The Australian crowd booed. That wouldn’t change much in the cold and calculating Jardine. Moments later, he called out to Larwood  - "Well bowled Harold" - and set the fielders again in the hated Bodyline formation. Police had to be deployed on the boundary. The Australian captain next day retorted angrily: “There are two teams out there. One is trying to play cricket and the other is not.”

How zealously the Aussie spectators had started hating Jardine is underlined by a small incident that happened when the England captain was at the crease during the fifth test at Sydney, England about to complete a 4-1 series win. When the play stopped for a drinks break, Australian captain was about to hand over a bottle of water to Jardine when a spectator yelled out to him: “Don’t give the bastard a drink. Let him die of thirst.” Even the stoic Jardine enjoyed that little moment and recalled later that “it was one of the few humourous remarks which we were privileged to hear on this tour.”

At the height of Vietnam War in the 60s, a young US marine James Stockdale was captured by the Viet Cong and sent to the infamous Hanoi torture centre. He was interrogated, beaten and tortured. Stockdale spent 7 years in the prison. He could have easily avoided abuse by cozying up to his tormentors somewhat. An occasional anti-American statement and they would have treated him like any other ordinary inmate. Yet it never crossed his mind. He willingly gave himself up. As he later explained, it was the only way he could maintain self-respect. He didn’t do it for the love of his country. Nor was it about the war. It was purely about not breaking down inside. He did it solely for himself.  Sometimes, I wonder how many English and Australian players think this way when it comes to Ashes: of not breaking down, for there is so much at stake for both England and Australia. A part of that credit must also go to the writers, who have woven remarkable stories around The Ashes. Cricket is one of those few sports that give scope for prolific writing and the likes of Neville Cardus, CLR James, Mike Coward, Peter Roebuck have given it a gourmet treatment for the reading aficionados.

My first brush with The Ashes was in ’93 when Allan Border’s side routed an insipid England led by the Groucho mustachioed Graham Gooch. England, in those days of misery, were used to frequently changing their playing XI (in the previous Ashes of ’89, English selectors led by Ted Dexter had used as many as 29 players throughout the series).

From that bright summer of Kashmir, the romanticism of Ashes stuck to me forever. With the internet still a good decade away, those days the only means of keeping track of the series was through Times of India sports page, which would arrive in the afternoons, and the weekly Sportstar magazine that I read with great enthusiasm - the tour diaries of Mike Coward in particular.

In the following winter, with enough time to kill during the winter school break, my cousin brought some VHS cassettes from his Delhi trip for me, sensing my love for the game. Two of those cassettes included ‘That Man Botham’ and ‘Richie Benaud Presents’. One of the most visible memories from it remains Richie Benaud, in his typical soft tone, speaking about the 1974/75 Ashes played in Australia. Those were the times when young people around the world had started experimenting with LSD, free sex and personal freedom. Shackles were breaking. Students rose up in Paris one morning with placards of revolution. Cricket, the game of nobles was finding its hippie fad too, ready to break the norms. Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, when they ran fast, sending bullets down to the batsmen at the other end, were egged on by the aggressive Aussie spectators. Cricket was no more a gentleman’s game!  And Australia were led by a certain Ian Chappell who believed in granting the opposition no quarter. He played tough cricket and led from the front.

Those days, any footage from Australia used to be a rarity. I remember being totally mesmerized by the whole atmosphere. Sunny Australian summers, sun kissed bodies, bouncy pitches, good coverage and sea gulls, plus some great aggressive cricket.

Tony Greig fends off a Thomson snorter, Gabba 1974

John Edrich is brought down by a Lillee bouncer

BBC correspondent, Christopher Jenkins on 1974/75 Ashes.

Usually, fast bowling is associated with West Indian quicks of the 70s and the 80s, that famous pace battery. However, the pioneers were Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, and 74/75 Ashes was their baby. Their fast bowling was frighteningly quick and England by the end of it were bruised and battered - both physically and psychologically. Lilliee and Thomson took 25 and 33 wickets respectively. ‘I thought  stuff that stiff upper lip crap. Let’s see how stiff it is when it’s split’, Jeff Thomson had said in a post-match press conference. England were so plagued by injuries that they needed reinforcements from England - one of them the 41 year old Colin Cowdrey. In what may be called a futile exercise in the midst of a bloody war, Cowdrey’s inclusion had little impact on the series. Australia trounced England 3-1. Post series, writer and historian Gideon Haigh wrote about the fearsome duo. “Lillee and Thomson remain a combination to conjure with, as sinister in England as Burke and Hare, or Bismarck and Tirpitz.” 

With Packer’s circus taking over the game in the late 70s, cricket in England was losing its popularity, until that man Botham propped up in one English summer, producing a feat that remains unparalleled. Not surprisingly, the ’81 Ashes came to be known as the Botham’s Ashes. The ‘81 story is stuff of legends and plots that seems like a carefully crafted Erich Segal fiction.

England, captained by a young 24-year old Botham, were 1-0 down when the third test at Headingley began. Beefy relinquished his captaincy after the second test. His form had dropped and according to David Gower when Beefy was out for naught in the second test at Lord's, almost sealing his fate as captain, even a hair strand dropping would have broken the silence that descended in the England dressing room. English cricket had plummeted to a low. Mike Brearley, the 38-year old professor of philosophy, was appointed as the captain for the third test. England’s fortunes however didn’t seem to be turning. They were annihilated in the first innings and asked to follow on. At 130/7 with still some hundred runs short of making Aussies bat again, in a remarkable turnaround and back to the walls blitzkrieg, Botham and Graham Dilley added 130 odd for the 8th wicket. Bouncers from Lillee and co. were smashed by the mercurial Botham to all corners on a cold July English afternoon with utter disdain. But even after such spectacular display, all Australia required was 130 to win on the final day. By now clouds had given way to bright luminous sunshine. When Australia looked well on course at 56/1, Mike Brearley in one stroke of brilliant astuteness changed Bob Willis' end and asked him to bowl down the hill. Result: Australia bowled out for 111. England had fashioned one of the most remarkable come-from-behind victories in cricketing history. 

With the momentum and impetus well rooted with the English, they went on to win the next test at Edgbaston where Australia, yet again, failed to chase a low target. For now it was Botham's turn to light up the magic with the red cherry. In a hostile spell of fast bowling, Beefy returned with figures of 5 for 1 and England went on to win the test by 29 runs.

In the fifth test at Old Trafford, Botham hit a sparkling century. Studded with marvelous square drives and swaggered hooks, the flamboyant all-rounder brought the Manchester crowd to its feet with a quicker than run-a-ball century. England won the test by 103 runs. The final test at The Oval was a draw and England regained The Ashes.

The 1981 Ashes gave Britain its first sporting hero since Bobby Charlton in Ian Terence Botham. Australian captain Kim Hughes’ remarks post series perhaps described their frustration aptly: “This series will be remembered in a hundred years. Unfortunately!”

Beefy’s popularity skyrocketed to the extent that he was called as the fifth Beatle. It wasn’t just his game, but his looks and his exploits off the field too that often kept him in the news. On one occasion, it is said that Beefy made such passionate love to a Barbadian Miss World that the goddamn bed cracked - perhaps, only in some carnal justice. This escapade became folklore and made its way into many Beefy stories.

Ian Botham on that June 1981 Headingley afternoon.

Bob Willis hits Rod Marsh on the head, Headingley '81.

Iconic moment. Mike Brearley tosses the ball to Bob Willis

In the subsequent years, England maintained its dominance. However, the famous ’89 series when Allan Border’s side, dismissed by the English press as the weakest to have toured England, was to change it. England led by David Gower lost The Ashes 4-0. After the series ended, Allan Border explained how he, very clearly, asked his side not to be friendly with the opposition. Gower called Border’s behaviour strange. They were good friends off the field, however, cometh the test  match, at toss, Border would just shake hands with a glum face, without exchanging any pleasantries, and run back to the pavilion. This was a mind game and a preparation to own the rivals and it seemed to work. Such gamesmanship!

While English cricket in the 90s fell from one low to another, Australia produced some champion players in that era, with Shane Warne’s first Ashes delivery called as the ball of the century. That classic leg spinner’s dismissal: ball pitching outside leg and clipping the left bail. How that ball missed the girth of an oversized Mike Gatting is still beyond me. But it was another addition to The Ashes tales.

Warne's ball of the century, Old Trafford, 1993.

In a cutthroat battle like this, very minute details can catch astronomical proportions. Ask Nasser Hussain. There have been volumes written on his decision to ask Australia to bat, after winning the toss at Gabba in 2002. Scorecard at the end of 1^st day read: Australia 364/2. Derek Pringle, former England medium pacer and now a well-known broadcaster wrote: “In earlier times, inserting the opposition and seeing them finish the day on 364/2 would have been enough for a captain to summon his faithful hound, light a last cigarette and load a single bullet into the revolver.”

While there have been a number of Ashes series that are remembered for the quality of cricket and the intensity with which they were played, the 2005 Ashes stands out as nothing before or after it – perhaps aptly viewed as the greatest Ashes of all time. Apart from top notch cricket and closely fought battles, it was so unpredictable and tense with innumerable moments of drama and suspense. It was also an anticlimax in that nobody expected England to even draw the series, let alone win it. England were so used to humiliation at the hands of the Aussie invincible over the last decade and a half that nobody in England or Australia, or anywhere else on planet Earth where The Ashes was followed, gave England any chance. But then, what we witnessed was an unexpected treat. There is always something special about the underdog turning the tables on the mightier opposition.

From 1986-87 onwards until this series, England couldn’t manage a single series win, most of the times rolled over by the Aussie juggernaut. But not now! A determined England side led by Michael Vaughan was intent on breaking this long string of defeats and break it did. It was a great team effort by the English, but two superstars, Kevin Petersen and Andrew Flintoff shone brighter than the rest and taking the attack to the opposition beat the mighty Aussies at their own game. The 2005 Ashes changed the subsequent results that used to be so heavily lopsided in favour of Australia over the last fifteen years. England went on to win the 2009, 2010-11, 2013 and 2015 Ashes. 

The Ashes were coming back after 18 long years. The triumphant English side at The Oval 2005.

In moments of my procrastination, which by the way are frequent, I picture my best experiences. A ten-year cruise through Caribbean or backpacking in the tropical forests of Brazil or drive in a 1965 Chevy through the ochre landscape of south Spain or an Ashes test at Lord’s.  And if a dazzling fairy like the ones in Aesop fables asks me to choose one from this wish list, I would hands down choose the last one.

Artists go to Italy to pay homage to the great masters like Raphael and Michelangelo, as pilgrims go to Jerusalem and Mecca, or students in the middle ages went to pontiffs and chief seats of learning where science and philosophy had made a mark. Orientalists in 18^th and 19^th centuries travelled far in search of exotic east. I think the romanticism of a puritan Ashes fan belongs to such mystical realms.