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.