We all have little stories from our childhood to share. I have mine too- as a 7 year old witnessing the carnage at Kow Dara (when the whole area was set ablaze by the Indian troops). It was late October, a season when rolling incense of the roadside chestnuts warms the quivering breathe while walking down Lal Chowk. The bees were still in their hives, flowers faded and curled. Circling birds and emanating smoke was unsual to the stray chinar leaves that burned at every nook of of the autumn city- some grim event we could suspect was unfurling while driving through the city fringes.
I remember we took a detour from Nishat, I was attending my cousin's marriage ceremony in Buchpora , going back home to Khanyar, watching the whole area going up in smoke, as we inched nearer to the carnage. The blaring siren of the fire engines going past us- the siren haunted me for years to come. It gave me sleepless nights. Even now when I hear that siren, those ghostly moments of that fateful autumn day sends shivers down my spine.
The innocent child in me could not comprehend what was going around me. Monopoly, snake & ladder games were replaced by penchant for guns & bunkers. I remember vividly building bunkers out of pillows everywhere I could & firing bullets. Making weird sounds. Suddenly guessing correctly the right gun from which a bullet was shot in a cross firing was competition amongst us cousins, rather than the woodcutter's story learned at school. A army sepoy we were told should be referred as major, to wee away his wrath. Pak train, Afghan train, Kashmir train were courses I thought. So, I asked my cousin who came from Bangalore that year, completing his engineering, if he was Bangalore train. He smiled.
I remember we took a detour from Nishat, I was attending my cousin's marriage ceremony in Buchpora , going back home to Khanyar, watching the whole area going up in smoke, as we inched nearer to the carnage. The blaring siren of the fire engines going past us- the siren haunted me for years to come. It gave me sleepless nights. Even now when I hear that siren, those ghostly moments of that fateful autumn day sends shivers down my spine.
The innocent child in me could not comprehend what was going around me. Monopoly, snake & ladder games were replaced by penchant for guns & bunkers. I remember vividly building bunkers out of pillows everywhere I could & firing bullets. Making weird sounds. Suddenly guessing correctly the right gun from which a bullet was shot in a cross firing was competition amongst us cousins, rather than the woodcutter's story learned at school. A army sepoy we were told should be referred as major, to wee away his wrath. Pak train, Afghan train, Kashmir train were courses I thought. So, I asked my cousin who came from Bangalore that year, completing his engineering, if he was Bangalore train. He smiled.
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