Room in our Hearts and Other Stories

by K L Chowdhury

  ‘He is not in good shape. Can’t say how long and hard it is going to be. You have to gird up your loins, my dear. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Mahara, I know.’

  ‘You really are insightful.’

  ‘Having known you nearly all my life, I can read your face. I know what you have wanted to tell me the past several weeks.’

  ‘And yet, you laid the carpet of petals for me, as if I was going to perform a miracle.’

  ‘It was to honour your visit; it has nothing to do with the outcome. I know that you will do the best by my father, as you did by my mother. If he gets another lease it will be my good fortune; if he doesn’t— God forbid— I will have no regrets. But I would if you had not examined him.’

  ‘You are a crusader; you make me proud.’

  ‘You trained me to be a nurse during my mother’s long illness. You gave her fresh lease every time she was given up as hopeless. In the process, you steeled my nerves.’

  ‘And now, there is more work waiting for you. I will be going. Give me a phone call in the evening.’

  Then she did something I will never forget. She bent down, picked a flower from Shiva’s crown and put it on mine before I could stop her.

  I was stunned.

  She walked with me in silence to the gate. I sat in the car that had been parked near. Her cousin drove it forward and took a U-turn from the blind end of the lane. As we drove past her, she extended her hand inside the window to touch mine in gratitude, almost running with the car for a short distance.I looked back. She was watching, wiping her tears. My heart beat faster, agonising how long her father would last and what course her life would take.

  NOTES

  lingam – a symbol of Shiva

  thokur kuth – prayer room

  mahara – sir

  OF GOD, RELIGION AND RITUAL

  ‘Salaam, Doctor Sahib. This is Fayaz, my nephew. I brought him along from Pulwama to see you. During our journey we were discussing how unlucky we are to miss our Pandit brethren in Kashmir. Militancy gave us nothing but unhappiness and all-round devastation. The rivers and springs are drying up and the Valley turning into a desert. They must be angry, for you venerated them and kept them clean. You worshipped nature, we defiled and destroyed it.’

  I did not know how to answer him. Noor-u-din was not the first Muslim to extol our contribution to the socio-cultural life of Kashmir or to bemoan the devastation that terrorism had left in its wake. However, such regrets and expressions of guilt were possible only in Jammu. In the Valley, either they were never mouthed or were inundated in the cacophony of Islamic zealotry. Noor-u-din was not a sycophant; he was not speaking just to win my favour. Sincerity oozed from his speech and demeanour.

  ‘My disease almost vanished with your treatment. The cough has abated, my breathing has become much easier and I can walk a mile without feeling out of breath. This was not possible a month back,’ he went on.

  ‘I must give you credit because, it seems to me, you have given up smoking,’ I replied.

  ‘You exhorted me with such concern; you were so emphatic that I had no choice. I felt I would be betraying your trust if I did not keep my promise. I wonder now why I smoked all my life and why God did not lead me to you much earlier.’

  ‘God’s hands are full. He has to handle bigger problems of our own creation; the smaller ones have to wait. Besides, I believe there is a time for everything. But we have a responsibility to ourselves and to others, and we cannot expect God to do everything for us. Now let me hear the story of this young man,’ I urged him.

  Noor-u-din beckoned his nephew, ‘Tell him all. Inshallah, you will be restored to full health.’

  ‘Sir, I have pain in my heart;’ Fayaz said, placing his right hand across the left chest. ‘There is a big weight here and I feel suffocated as if there were no air. My tummy doesn’t feel all right; there is a lot of gas and I belch when I should not. Sometimes my head is heavy, other times it is dizzy. I cannot concentrate on my work. My limbs hurt; my legs are restless in the evenings. Sleep has deserted me; I don’t remember when I last slept seven hours at a stretch. I have been to several doctors who ran numerous tests on me but no clue to my suffering.’

  Noor-u-din continued, ‘God has provided everything to him. He has loving parents; he is financially sound and heir to one of the richest families of Pulwama. At his age, he should be bubbling with health, but I always find him down with one or the other ailment. He has forgotten how to smile or laugh.’

  Dressed in a short woollen jacket and striped trousers, Fayaz was good-looking, well built, about 5’8”. He sported an expensive wristwatch and wore a couple of amulets around his biceps. He looked at me with sad eyes.

  ‘Who is in your family?’ I asked.

  ‘My parents. I had an older brother but he is no more. His wife and son live with us.’

  ‘Are you not married?’

  A thick veil of melancholy descended on his face.

  ‘He is divorced,’ Noor-u-din replied for him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is a long story. Fayaz was married to Fatima, his maternal cousin. In 1997, his brother, Javid, was murdered. That led to a misunderstanding between the families and he divorced her.’

  ‘It makes no sense. Why should Javid’s murder cause them to separate?’ I asked.

  ‘Fatima is the daughter of one Shamas-u-din, and Javid was the business partner of this same person, who also happened to be an Akhwani.’

  Akhwanis, I remembered, were the renegade militants who worked as informers for the police and the army, and ran their own militias to settle scores with their erstwhile comrades.

  ‘One day a group of militants went to seek Shamas-u-din in his office to kill him. Instead they found Javid. When asked about Shamas-u-din’s whereabouts, he feigned ignorance. They gunned him down for shielding, what they called, an enemy of Jihad.’

  ‘I still fail to understand why the death of his brother should result in the divorce?’ I asked.

  ‘Javid became a martyr for his partner, but when time came for his wife to seek her dead husband’s share in the business, Shamas-u-din opened the account books and made the perfidious claim of huge outstanding dues against Javid. He claimed that Javid had defrauded him of large sums that had ruined their business, so there was nothing to share except bankruptcy. The only reason he had been tolerating Javid as a partner was because he was the brother of Fayaz, his son-in-law. The charge of embezzlement, wild and baseless as it appeared, was repugnant to Fayaz who would not take the vilification of his innocent brother lying down, especially now that he was dead.’

  ‘So he sought revenge in divorce?’

  ‘No sir, Fayaz is not vengeful.’

  ‘The divorce seems totally irrational, unless there is something else in the story that has not been revealed.’ I looked at Fayaz, seeking an answer from him. He wore a mournful expression.

  ‘How many years were you married to Fatima?’ I asked him

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Did you love her?’

  He nodded in the affirmative.

  ‘Did she love you?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘It sounds tragic that a loving couple should separate on a matter that has little direct bearing on them.’

  His right eye twitched, and he avoided my gaze, looking vacantly at my writing table.

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  He raised his index finger.

  ‘Where is the child?’

  ‘With his mother.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘I didn’t even see him properly. He was only a few weeks old when we separated.’

  ‘Did your wife marry again?’

  Fayaz did not answer but Noor-u-din filled in for him. ‘No sir, not so far. Shamas-u-din died a few years after Javid’s murder. He left her his whole estate.’

  ‘You didn’t marry again?’ I asked Fayaz.

  ‘No,’ he nodded.

 
‘You said you loved your first wife and she loved you. Had the marriage really worked?’

  He heaved a long sigh and looked me in the face for the first time during the interview, ‘No, it never worked. The fact is that Shamas-u-din was not only my father-in-law but also my maternal uncle. It was shocking for me to take as wife a girl whom I grew up with from childhood as a brother. We were first cousins, and as close as real siblings. I don’t remember how often we played together, ate from the same plate, slept in the same bed. It was unnatural to have married her, to bed her. How could we be husband and wife?’ Fayaz was suddenly eloquent, as if a moratorium on his speech had ended.

  ‘Why did you agree to marry her in the first instance?’

  ‘Our parents forced us. Our families were close, and my brother ran his business with his uncle. Our parents believed that uniting us in wedlock would reinforce not only our relationships but also seal the business in an unbreakable bond.’

  ‘So you agreed?’

  ‘I was too immature to understand what it meant. I was 16 and just out of high school. You see, I feel it was unnatural what happened, even unethical. I do not know if God has ordained such a thing.’

  ‘You fathered a child all the same?’ I confronted him gently.

  ‘Yes, I did. It was a duty enjoined upon me, a duty I never wanted to perform, never really enjoyed. It always weighed on my mind. I felt like an incestuous barbarian. Where was the dividing line? If I could marry a cousin whom I considered my sister, why could I not also marry my own sister? I feel that is weird.’ He was flush with emotion and held his hand against his heart.

  ‘So you were waiting for an excuse to get out of the relationship? When your father-in-law made an insinuation against your brother, you seized the opportunity to make it an excuse for breaking off?’

  ‘That is not the case. You see, it was a terrible betrayal that caused tempers to run high between our families. Father was very sore about what he called the triple perfidy of my fatherin-law. One, his ingratitude for my brother’s sacrifice; two, calling my brother a cheat; three, the treachery of denying the share of the joint business to the widow of my brother. Yes sir, this is the truth, as I reason it out while talking to you. I was myself never sure why I took that extreme step of divorcing my wife. I think it was on the spur of the moment because I got carried away in the wave of anger running through the family. I regretted my decision, but it was too late.’ His eyes were moist as if with a new realisation.

  ‘Now that the wrecker-in-chief of the relationship is dead, don’t you feel it is high time to revive your ties with your cousin and marry her again? She might be waiting for you?’

  ‘Mother wants me to remarry my wife because she is her niece who she still loves a lot. She says a little misunderstanding should not have come in the way of this relationship. But father cannot forget the murder of his first son. He feels that Shamus-u-din was responsible for it directly or indirectly so he doesn’t want to have any dealings with the family. He wants me to marry Javid’s wife. He says that I owe it to my brother’s memory and that she will get a good husband and her son a father. No one can answer that role better than me, he feels. My parents are running this debate every day and no one asks my opinion.’

  ‘What is your opinion?’

  ‘I am totally confused. The thought of marrying my sisterin-law is contrary to my understanding. She is older than me and I have never even entertained the thought that I could ever wed her. Besides, I feel marrying her will be a betrayal of an unwritten moral code between two brothers not to lust for their spouses.’

  ‘But you are not averse to the idea of remarrying your first wife. Would she accept the proposal? Has anyone probed her mind? ‘

  ‘My mother did speak with her. She found her inclined.’

  ‘Then what is the hitch?’

  ‘But, in our religion, a woman can’t remarry her divorced husband unless she marries a second person and then gets a divorce from him to marry her first husband again.’

  ‘That is a long and torturous process, no doubt. How do you feel about it?’

  ‘The whole exercise is ridiculous, even abhorrent, an insult not only to womanhood but also to male pride. I told my mother I just can’t imagine being an actor in this farce. Imagine how reviling it must be for women. I can’t understand why a man is not similarly condemned to marry another woman and seek a divorce before wanting to remarry the first wife? Why is God cruel to women?’

  I turned to Fayaz with some impatience. ‘My dear young man, pray do not confuse religion and ritual with God.’

  ‘I do not understand the difference. Is our scripture not the word of God?’

  ‘That depends,’ I replied, ‘on how you interpret your scripture, and how you make it a tool in your hands. Pray leave God alone from what we invented for ourselves—I mean the laws men formulate from time to time to suit our needs under different circumstances. Why do you torture your mind about them? For now, start on a clean slate and wash yourself off any feelings of guilt. Start your life again.’

  He nodded his head as if some new message had been revealed to him, an epiphany.

  ‘Yes, he must start his life all over again and put away his despondency,’ Noor-u-din interjected. ‘Thank you, doctor, for your advice; I am happy I called him here to see you. Does he need a prescription?’

  ‘I think he needs to shed his melancholy garb and look for new apparel.’

  Fayaz understood the metaphor for he at once said, ‘There is a girl in my neighbourhood, sir. I know her for 10 years, but my parents would not agree to my marrying her.’ Fayaz surprised both of us with this confession.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she is from a poor family, besides the reason I spoke to you about their separate choices for me—either my ex-wife or my sister-in-law.’

  ‘Now, is that also in your scripture not to marry outside your class? For God’s sake, now that you bring him into this again, take your parents out of the crucial decisions in your life. You are 35. That is an age you should take control of yourself.’

  ‘But I don’t know if I can ever overcome the sense of guilt; Fatima may be still waiting for me.’

  ‘If you are resolved not to marry her again because of the reservations you described, and if you want to marry this other girl, you better take the plunge now. You will be doing Fatima a good turn finally, to relieve her of uncertainty and indecision. She, too, might look for a new husband.’

  A light of understanding shone in his eyes. ‘Thank you, sir; you have lifted the thick veil of doubt, guilt and remorse from my mind. I hope it augurs well for all of us.’

  They got up, shook my hands vigorously and left.

  ROOM IN OUR HEARTS

  Nestled amid green hills, Manzhara is a charming little hamlet five kilometres from Kupwara, a border town that became famous for the wrong reasons. It was from Kupwara during 1988-90 that young men fired up by Jihad crossed over the hills in droves to Pakistan-occupied Kashmir to undergo training in armed subversion. Equipped with arms and ammunition, they returned and started creating havoc in the Valley. They burnt schools and bridges, caused bomb blasts, terrorised people, exacted donations for Jihad, ordered strikes, enforced a regressive moral code, and threatened, kidnapped and tortured the minority Pandits also known as Battas.

  Manzhara used to be a symbol of communal harmony. Battas and Muslims shared many common beliefs and participated in each other’s festivals and rituals. The villagers were simple and superstitious, religious and God-fearing, trusting and caring. The village spring was the common source of drinking water and a meeting place for the folks, where they exchanged news and views. They held it sacred and kept it clean. The Battas would place pans of milk near the spring to feed the snakes that were sometimes sighted in the bushes nearby. They believed that the spring was guarded by a snake couple and the village by Razaseb, the presiding deity. It was common practice among them to sacrifice a sheep to propitiate Razaseb whenever misfort
une struck anyone.

  December 1989 was a dreadful month. Militancy was peaking. The air was rank with fear and insecurity. Mistrust between the communities spread like an ominous cloud and the 40-odd Batta families of Manzhara and neighbouring villages started deserting their homes to save their limbs, life and honour.

  Even as the exodus gained momentum, and despite the turbulence in his mind, Shivji Bhat, a revered Batta of Manzhara, counselled his people not to abandon their hearths and homes. But his sanguine hope of a let-up in militancy was short-lived. He had a bad dream; he saw Razaseb very upset with the turn of events and angry at the sinful ways that the denizens of the Valley had fallen into. The residual Battas of Manzhara would not take his dream lightly. They sacrificed a lamb to propitiate Razeseb. However, for the first time, the Muslims objected and decried the practice of sacrifice as witchcraft against their community. Two days later, the mutilated body of Pandit Shyam Lal, the village teacher, was found abandoned in a field. This was the first time in the memory of the villagers that there had been a murder in Manzhara. The sacrifice had boomeranged, sending a chilling warning to the Battas that neither Razaseb whom they had tried to propitiate nor the gods that they worshipped were going to save them from the brutality that had been unleashed.

  Shivji Bhat became pensive after the teacher’s gruesome murder. He dreamt another dream—the spring had turned red; dead fish floated on its surface; snakes slithered in the streets; people brandishing knives and swords ran helter-skelter; Razaseb sat by the side of the spring, anguished and agitated, lamenting the demise of communal harmony in the village.

  The second dream soon after the first was interpreted by the Battas as the harbinger of a tsunami of depravity and violence against them. It provided the final push for their exodus. Within days, not a single Batta was left in the village. The Muslims watched like mute spectators.