Room in our Hearts and Other Stories

by K L Chowdhury

  Having being cleansed of their owners, Batta houses were looted, windows and doors yanked out from their hinges, tin roofs ripped off, even bricks and stones whisked away. All that remained of the Battas was their abandoned ghostly houses, empty barns, barren fields and hazy memories.

  It was a sizzling day in June. Jammu reeled under a hot spell. People preferred to stay indoors in the afternoons. Just when Om Ji Bhat stretched his legs on the bed for his midday nap, there was a knock at the gate. Ashok, his son, opened the door to find a man, accompanied by woman and a young girl.

  ‘We are from Kashmir; we are looking for Om Ji of Manzhara,’ the man said. ‘If he lives here, we would like to meet him. We used to be neighbours.’

  Ashok did not understand why anyone from their village should seek his father after a lapse of 11 years. Meanwhile, Om Ji crept out of his bed and looked out the window. He did not recognise any of them but decided to meet them all the same.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he asked the man.

  ‘Om Ji, don’t you recognise us? I am Gaffar, your neighbour.’ Pointing to the women, ‘This is Jana, my sister, and this is her daughter, Tabbasum. You might not place her for she was a mere child when you left Manzhara.’

  Om Ji did recognise Jana from her round face, low forehead and sharp nose even as she had changed from the lively young woman he knew into a sombre matronly figure. She seemed frightened and was almost glued to her daughter, gripping her arm tightly. But it was Gaffar who had changed radically and looked rather comical with a huge paunch, long greying beard, plethoric face and a shiny balding pate on which drops of sweat shone like pearls. The transformation was unbelievable. Om Ji marvelled at the clothes he was wearing in the hot weather—a grey baggy shalwar, a green shirt that came down all the way to his knees and a heavy waistcoat.

  ‘It is hard to believe how much you two have changed. So Tabbasum is the little girl who would dance like a peacock and chatter like a sparrow?’ Om Ji asked.

  ‘Brother, so much has happened since you fled, it will take long to recount. But won’t you ask us in? We never realised it would be hot like hell here.’

  ‘That is what we have been braving all these years—the fires of hell. And I would like to correct you; we did not flee, we were hounded out. Anyway, please feel welcome, step in.’

  Hesitant to enter, Jana clung closer to her daughter, fear writ large on her face. Gaffar urged her, ‘Come in, Jana. Don’t you recognise Om Ji? He is like another brother to you. There is nothing to fear.’ But Jana looked confused.

  ‘You are not strangers. Pray don’t be shy; consider this your own home,’ Shyama, Om Ji’s wife, held her hand and guided her inside.

  They took their seats on the floor in the small living room. The south sun baked the cemented walls of the room, turning it into an oven. The ceiling fan blew hot air onto their faces and they kept wiping their sweat with hand towels. Shyama offered them chilled water.

  ‘Tell us, how is your family; how is everyone at Manzhara?’ Om Ji asked. ‘And what brings you here unless it is to find out if we are still alive?’

  ‘Please don’t taunt us. We know it has been hard on you, but we have faced worse times,’ Gaffar moaned. Jana, sitting close to her daughter, still holding her arm, looked around vacuously.

  ‘She doesn’t seem well; looks rather frightened. I wonder why you chose the hottest month of the year to visit Jammu.’

  ‘We have not come here on a holiday, but for something urgent. I don’t know where to begin,’ Gaffar heaved a long sigh.

  ‘Hope it is nothing serious.’

  ‘You left us to wolves and jackals…’

  ‘I thought you drove them away 11 years ago!’ Om Ji sniggered.

  ‘You always revelled in witticisms, Om Ji. I realise how deeply hurt you are, but it was not our doing. There were evil forces at work that brutalised the whole society. Look, we are at the mercy of the militants on the one hand and the military on the other.’

  ‘But that is none of our doing.’

  Tabbasum spoke for the first time, ‘Your departure brought a curse upon the village; that is what the elders tell us.’ Around 20, she wore a long jade kurta with an embroidered front, a black shalwar, a deep green scarf covering her head and neck except for a portion of the face that had taken the shape of a full moon. Was this the dress code that had been enforced on the men and women of Kashmir, Om Ji wondered.

  ‘The village was cursed when we were there, and cursed when we were forced to leave. I think the curse travelled with us to haunt us in exile,’ he bemoaned.

  ‘No,’ said Gaffar, ‘it stayed behind and turned upon the villagers.’

  ‘I hope your family is safe.’

  ‘On the contrary, we are its worst victims…Jana lost both her sons.’

  Om Ji was wild eyed with disbelief. ‘I am terribly sorry to hear that. How did that happen?’

  Gaffar heaved another long sigh. ‘It is no use hiding the truth. The boys got sucked into the vortex of militancy. There was persuasion and pressure and, of course, the mad frenzy for Jihad that had taken hold of every one’s imagination.’

  ‘They were hardly in their teens when we left,’ Om Ji commiserated.

  Gaffar nodded. ‘The merchants of Jihad catch them young and plant the poison of hatred and violence in their fertile brains. They school them in savagery and set them loose to destroy and kill and…get killed. That is what happened to both her sons.’

  ‘It is a terrible tragedy to befall anyone.’

  ‘It is the curse of Razaseb that haunts us now and again.’

  ‘Don’t tell me! You never believed in Razaseb; you always ridiculed us.’

  ‘That was a folly. We have sinned and provoked him. We did nothing to stop you from leaving Manzhara. Our misguided youth went berserk and destroyed everything that our Batta brethren had left behind. Even the snakes that guarded the spring were not spared. Jana’s first son, seized by the frenzy, killed one of the snakes with a club. The next day, he went to kill its mate but the reptile struck back and bit him twice. He died a terrible death from bleeding and convulsions. In mad revenge, the villagers cleared the bushes, found the snake and cut it into pieces. How could we expect Razaseb to sit quietly after such atrocities? He exacted retribution in several ways. Scores of village boys who had taken up arms died in action. Five years later, Jana’s second son, along with four militants, fell during an encounter when the army stormed their hideout in the high mountains. But something worse has befallen us now; that is why we are here.’

  Om Ji was curious. What could be worse than the violent death of two sons? When he first saw the guests, he surmised that his old neighbour had come with a proposal to buy his land and whatever remained of their house in the village. That is what the erstwhile neighbours of Battas generally came to Jammu for. He was not quite prepared to hear of the sinister happenings in the wake of their exodus.

  Gaffar continued, ‘We are here because of Jana. When her first son died, she cursed the villagers for having incited him to kill the guardian snake. She tore her hair out, refused food and cried for days on end. But she rallied after a few months. When she lost her second son, she was inconsolable. She refused to come out of the house, lost all interest in life, and wept bitterly for her sons every time she heard about militants dying in combat.’

  Jana remained glued to her daughter. She was remote, seemingly unaware that she was the subject of discussion. Om Ji looked at her with sympathy. ‘It is heart-rending to hear this,’ he said; ‘I have no words to console you. Didn’t you consult doctors?’

  Tabbasum picked the thread of the conversation. ‘That is what we did. She improved slowly and started taking interest in domestic chores, although even minor irritants would trigger a relapse. We kept our fingers crossed but luck cheated us again. She started throwing fits…’

  ‘Different types of fits,’ elaborated Gaffar. ‘Sometimes she faints and falls down, at other times she speaks a strange language in a funn
y voice; sometimes she gets convulsions and lapses into an unconscious state, at other times she turns violent and breaks cups and saucers.’

  ‘When did the fits begin?’

  ‘One day, not quite six months ago, while tidying up a closet belonging to her second son, she discovered a statuette the likes of which we have not seen before except in Batta homes, possibly one of the idols of the gods that you worship. She gave out a shrill cry. We rushed to see what the matter was. She looked wild, trembling with fear, cursing everyone for knocking down Batta property and stealing their belongings. That is when the fits began. Ever since, she behaves oddly, seems lost, sleeps little and speaks even less.’

  ‘What did she do with the statuette?’

  ‘We have no idea. The village elders warned us about the misfortunes it would inflict on our family. We looked for it but couldn’t find it anywhere. ‘

  ‘What about the fits; didn’t you consult anyone?’

  ‘I took her to several doctors, but there was no respite from these episodes. The best neurologists and psychiatrists in Srinagar failed. A celebrated pir tried his armoury of potions, taweez and recitations, but the fits came with unerring regularity. Finally, when he came to know about the killing of the snakes and the reprisals, he diagnosed Batta Tassaruf.’

  Om Ji screwed his eyes amusedly. ‘Batta Tassaruf? Does it have anything to do with us? Pray what does it mean?’

  ‘The curse of Battas. That is what the pir said.’

  ‘If, by any chance, we uttered an imprecation, let me assure you, we never meant it,’ Om Ji spoke in all sincerity.

  ‘I am sure you never cursed us, but the spirit of Razaseb, the village deity, has possessed her. Everyone believes that he is seeking revenge on behalf of the Battas. We have been advised that only someone with the know-how may be able to exorcise the Tassaruf out of her by propitiating Razaseb. I went to Kupwara to inquire about you from the few Battas who still live there. One of them said he was remotely related to you and gave me your address.’

  Om Ji was mystified. He took a good look at Jana for the first time now. She wore a grey cotton pheran embroidered at the sleeves and collar, and a green silk scarf around her head and neck like her daughter. She seemed lost in her own world, fiddling with the hem of her pheran, biting her lower lip, her eyes fixed on the floor. She had not spoken a word since they stepped inside his house.

  ‘I have no idea how to help you. In fact, I don’t know if anyone here can. All I can think of is to seek the services of a phanda specialist. They are the experts here in driving curses and spirits away. You might have to stay back until I find one. I wonder if you can brave the heat.’

  ‘If you braved it all these years, we should have no problem. After all, we are from the same stock.’

  Om Ji looked sharply at him. ‘How strange, yet sweet, it sounds coming from you. I wish our Muslim brothers had not disregarded our common ancestry when we were being terrorised.’

  ‘I can understand your bitterness. We are deeply repentant for what happened. The cataclysm took all of us in its mad sweep and we lost our judgement, our values, our very bearing. We are still suffering the consequences.’

  ‘Well, there will be another time to deliberate upon it. For now, let us see how we can help Jana. Where are you staying?’

  ‘We arrived late last evening and spent the night in a hotel near the bus stand, but we suffered the worst embarrassment ever when Jana had a prolonged fit just when we were checking in. I can’t muster the courage to ask if we may share your place, for I see there is just enough room for your own family.’

  ‘Come on, there is plenty of room in our hearts.’

  Gaffar’s eyes turned misty. ‘You overwhelm me with your kindness.’

  Om Ji had built a small house, still unfinished—a bedroom, a puja room and a hall that served as family room during the day and bedroom for his son during nights. He asked Ashok to move his folding bed to the puja room to create space for the guests. Shyama served them glasses of lassi and started cooking dinner. Jana hardly spoke with anyone and ate little.

  The next morning, everyone was up early. Jana cowered in a corner, still confused and tongue-tied. Shyama placed lemonade by her side on a small table, but she left it untouched.

  Om Ji left soon after breakfast and returned with a phanda practitioner. Armed with flowers, resins, incense sticks and a small nylon broom, he was a queer little fellow in a loose shirt and pyjamas, a pink turban on his head, an ochre muffler thrown across his neck and shoulders. He spread his paraphernalia in a corner of the hall, and directed Om Ji to seat the possessed woman on his left.

  The proceedings started right away with a burst of invocations as he lit a lamp, ignited the incense and burned the sweet smelling resin in an earthen pot. It raised clouds of smoke that soon enveloped the small dwelling like an all-pervading spirit. He took turns with the broom in his right hand and the smoking pan in his left that he moved in circles in front of Jana’s face, chanting fast and loud, sweeping the smoke away with the broom. Everyone watched his performance in awe. This went on for some time when Jana started sniffing and coughing. Soon, she suddenly slumped on her side and fainted, her torso arching backwards, her head shaking from side to side. Strange croaking sounds emanated from her mouth, her arms moved randomly in the air and her legs thrashed the floor.

  They were unnerved. The phanda appeared to have triggered a fit instead of ridding Jana of the Batta Tassaruf. Gaffar stood up and begged the man to call off the proceedings. Tabbasum started crying and beating her chest. Om Ji requested the exorcist to wind up and leave. The windows and doors were thrown open to let the smoke out. Everyone was coughing while Jana lay prostrate on the floor, her daughter fanning her with a handkerchief. Shyama exchanged helpless glances with her husband. Ashok slipped out.

  Om Ji was aghast. Was this, then, the Batta Tassaruf that the pir had diagnosed? But why should they drag Batta name into a misfortune of their own making? Why can’t the Battas be left alone? Why should the past come to haunt them even here in exile? He wondered about the many new expressions, epithets and slur words that must have crept into the Kashmiri lexicon since the departure of Battas. Notwithstanding these thoughts, he felt personally responsible for the unfortunate turn of events.

  Jana rallied by the evening. She opened her eyes, looked around as if woken from a long slumber and asked her daughter for water. Offering her a glass of lemonade, Shyama inquired, ‘How are you feeling?’ She grunted, held the glass in her tremulous hands and drank small sips.

  Om Ji was in a fix; he had run out of ideas.

  A pregnant hush reigned.

  Gaffar broke the silence. ‘We are here because we have been told that only a Manzhara Batta can drive the Tassaruf away. We know that no one is as conversant with Razaseb as the members of your family. Your grandfather, Shivji Bhat, used to propitiate him with the sacrifice. I am ready to go all the way if you agree to perform the ritual in the traditional manner.’

  ‘Yes, it was my revered grandfather who had the power to communicate with the spirits and djinns. Since we left Kashmir, we forgot about them because the most vicious of all, the djinn of terrorism, has taken over. We are still battling it. Exile has consumed both my father and grandfather. The last decade has snapped all our ties with the past, with Manzhara, with the villagers, with the village spring, and even with Razaseb,’ Om Ji’s voice choked up with emotion.

  ‘For Jana’s sake, for old time’s sake, for the sake of Tabbasum…’

  ‘Frankly speaking, I have forgotten much about the rituals that were fundamental to our social fabric. Besides, it will be out of place to sacrifice a sheep, for we have turned vegetarian since we landed in Jammu.’

  ‘Please think of a way out,’ Gaffar pleaded.

  Om Ji chose an enigmatic silence.

  The guests spent another hot and uneasy night. After his morning bath, Om Ji put on a fresh white cotton kurta and pyjamas and retired into the puja room. He asked them t
o go ahead with breakfast; he would fast for the day.

  Sporting a large vermilion tilak on his forehead and a resolute look in his eyes, Om Ji emerged from an elaborate puja, still chanting mantras. He carried vibhuti in a small pan and went around smearing a little bit on the foreheads of everyone, guests included, speaking a blessing for each.

  Picking the umbrella from its hanger in the wall, he left home and walked to the house of his friend Surinder.

  ‘We are having an evening of kirtan and bhajan at our place. I would like you to drop in and play the harmonium. Nobody plays it as good as you.’

  ‘Pray what is the occasion? Why in this horrid season?’ Surinder asked, surprised.

  ‘Come over and you will know; don’t disappoint me,’ he replied and left in a hurry to visit the temple that the exiled Battas had built in the neighbourhood. He borrowed a harmonium, tabla and chumta from the priest and returned home.

  After a short nap, Om Ji ate some fruit, drank two cups of tea, and asked Shyama to prepare halwa and puri for prasadam. Ashok helped him sweep the floor in the corner of the porch near the window. They sprinkled rose water to sanctify it, and moved the idols and images from the puja room, placing them down reverentially, adorning them with flowers. The corner suddenly came alive with a spiritual ambience. Tabbasum watched the proceedings eagerly. Jana sat nearby, remote like a statue. Her daughter, whispering into her ear, tried to engage her in conversation.

  ‘May we share the dialogue between mother and daughter?’ Om Ji asked good-humouredly.

  ‘I was asking mother if she had seen these idols and images before.’

  ‘We had more of them that we could not bring along when we had to leave Kashmir in desperate hurry. They mean a lot to us, for they have passed down from our ancestors. You were little, but Jana must have seen them in our home at Manzhara.’

  ‘Have you, mother?’ Tabbasum asked.

  There was a faint suggestion of movement on Jana’s lips that briefly quivered for a word, but she soon shrank back into herself.