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.
