Their first calling was to pay obeisance to the deity. Brimming with faith, eyes lit up with devotion, they moved into the sanctum sanctorum for the audience. Bowing reverentially, they offered flowers and herbs, lit earthen lamps, burned incense, made circumambulations, recited mantras, and chanted hymns. They were enthralled by the deity in her regal resplendence—smiling at them, blessing them, wanting them to return to Kashmir. It was a rejuvenating and blissful feeling which they wanted to carry with them back to Jammu to mitigate the feeling of loss.
Greatly animated, they returned to their camp and cooked a grand lunch of teher and cheese, dum aloo and dal. They spread a mat on the grass to sit down and relax. Food was served in thalis and they started eating, gossiping, exchanging jokes. Watching them with great curiosity was a bevy of girls, mostly teens, who had come from the village to witness the festivities for the first time in their lives.
Eating from his thali, Bushan stood up and moved towards them. They were dressed in short pherans and shalwars, head scarves tied neatly in front of their necks.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked the girls.
‘From Khrew and Ballahama, jenab,’ replied one of them respectfully.
‘You should be in school.’
‘We came to find out how Battas and Battnis look like.’
‘Have you never seen them before?’
The girls nodded their heads and chorused, ‘No, never.’
‘Now that you have seen them, what did you find? Are they any different from you?’
‘No, they look like the rest of us; they speak Kashmiri like us; they eat teher as we do. But their women dress differently and wear a peculiar ornament dangling from their ears.’ This was from a rather tall, green-eyed girl with a red scarf.
‘You are right. The dress is called sari and the ornament is dejhour, which married women wear, like a wedding ring,’ he explained.
‘Jenab, how come you are with them?’ she asked in wonderment.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘They are Battas.’
‘Yes, they are.’
‘Why are you eating their teher?’ She finally asked the question they all were dying to ask.
‘Is it wrong to eat teher?’
‘Not really, but you are a Muslim.’
‘So what; don’t Muslims eat teher?’
‘But, how can you eat their teher? It is wrong.’
‘Does it look any different? Believe me, this teher is as delicious as any.’ He started lapping it up, looking mischievously at each one of them in turn. ‘Would you like to try some?’ he asked tantalisingly.
They retreated; taken aback by his offer.
‘Please don’t panic; it is not poisoned.’
‘But it is cursed.’
Bushan couldn’t help laughing aloud. They were flabbergasted. ‘Please stop eating it, jenab. Don’t you know how impure Battas are?’ admonished the first girl, a grimace despoiling her pretty face.
‘Who said so?’ Bushan asked amusedly, opening his eyes wide.
‘Our elders,’ said the green-eyed one.
‘And the teachers at school,’ blurted another.
‘I am sorry to hear that. It seems quite misplaced. This food is fresh. It has been cooked hygienically,’ he explained.
‘All the same, it is against our religion to eat off their hands. You should have come to the village and eaten with us. Come down and we will cook some chicken for you.’ They were extending the traditional Kashmiri hospitality.
‘Next time, maybe,’ Bushan said, ‘but, let me tell you girls, it is all in the mind. I will give you an example. If you were lost in a Batta village with not a Muslim in sight and nothing to eat or drink, would you refuse water and food from their hands and prefer to die thirsty and hungry?’
The girls fell silent and looked at each other. After a while one of them asked, ‘How come you are in their company?’
‘I am the driver; I drove them here in a Tata Sumo,’ he said, pointing at the vehicle parked nearby.
‘Jenab, are they going to stay on?’
‘Some of them intend to stay back; others will go back to Jammu. Would you like them to stay on?’
‘No; never. We do not want this pestilence here anymore,’ the green-eyed girl exclaimed. Others nodded in agreement.
‘Why do you call them that?’ Bushan asked impassively, without giving vent to his disgust at the extent of brainwashing of these young minds, and the hatred they harboured for his community.
‘Because they’re evil.’
‘What is evil about them?’ he asked.
‘They are spies and informers,’ said the first one.
‘They are against the tehreek,’ said the green-eyed one.
‘Who told you this?’ he probed them gently.
‘Why, everyone knows it,’ said the first girl.
‘They are serpents in the grass, waiting to bite you,’ said the second.
‘We know about their ugly deeds from our elders,’ said another.
Bushan tried to reason with them, ‘I feel the Battas want to return to their own homes. As far as I know, they have no intention of snatching anything from you. I don’t think anyone has the right to stop them.’
‘We have the right,’ said the first one.
‘I don’t understand how?’ Bushan asked.
‘Because, this whole place, including the temple, actually belongs to the Muslims.’ It was the impetuous green-eyed girl speaking with great self-assurance again.
The unusual turn in the discourse astonished Bushan even more.
‘Does it, really?’ he asked innocently.
‘Yes, it does. Have you not heard of Hazrat Suleiman?’
The word Suleiman rang alarm bells. Like the Battas, who believe that Vishnu, the god of creation, walked across the Valley and left his footprints everywhere, and Shiva, the supreme God, meditated on the high snowy mountains, the Muslims were turning the myth around and rewriting the history of Kashmir, changing the ancient names of cities and towns, monuments and mountains, lakes and rivers, streets and bridges. They had rechristened the most outstanding landmark in the city that stands like a sentinel, the Shankaracharya Hill. It was rechristened Suleiman Teing, after a story that Suleiman ruled the land from the top of the commanding hill. Here was another story being fabricated to advance a claim on the Jwalla temple, thought Bushan.
‘Yes, I have,’ he replied. ‘Suleiman, also known as Suleiman the Magnificent, was the sixteenth century ruler of Turkey who never visited Kashmir.’
‘You must be misinformed, jenab. Kashmir was part of his vast empire. He used to walk these hills. He loved the beauty and solitude of this place. One day, unknown to him, his ring fell off his finger. Centuries later, a poor goatherd happened to shepherd his cattle to these hills for grazing on the rich foliage. When he started clearing the ground near a huge rock so he could rest a while, he saw a glittering object. He picked it up and couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a ring inlaid with an exquisite diamond—the lost ring of Suleiman!’ The green-eyed girl was a great narrator. Other girls nodded their heads while Bushan listened, enthralled.
She continued, ‘The goatherd did not know what to do with the ring. Muslims were illiterate, ignorant and credulous. Battas were educated, clever and cunning. The goatherd took the ring to the most learned Batta of Khrew. The Batta asked to be taken to the place where the goatherd had found the ring. They waded through dense shrubbery to the rock. The Batta looked around the plateau with wide-eyed wonder and declared, “I feel the presence of the divine here. It is not without reason that this fabulous ring was dropped here. It is a sign. God wants us to build a temple here. The rock will mark the exact site. The diamond will adorn the deity in the temple.”’
Bushan was amazed at this grand concoction, but didn’t interrupt her.
‘Soon after, this temple was built around the rock. Since then the Battas have been in possession of this place which should rightfully belong to Mus
lims,’ she concluded.
‘Why do you think it should belong to Muslims and not Battas who built it in the first place?’ Bushan prodded her on.
‘Because the rock is where Hazrat Suleiman would often rest. It is sacred to his followers. The ring with the diamond is the one he wore.’
‘Who related this story to you?’ Bushan could not rest his curiosity.
‘Why, this is known to everyone here. How long can truth remain buried?’
‘You mean this whole place should belong to the Muslims?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ she declared emphatically.
‘But I am told that the temple is much older than when Suleiman was around. And, now that the Battas have been driven away, why don’t you occupy it?’
‘We would have taken it over long back had it not been for the dogs,’ she said with disdain.
‘Which dogs?’ Bushan was taken aback.
‘The men in uniform who have been camping here ever since the Battas ran away,’ she said contemptuously. ‘But it won’t be long before we get our Azadi and they will be forced to leave the Valley, their tails curled between their legs.’
‘Inshallah!’ exclaimed others as they started dispersing.
Bushan was stunned. He stood there for a long time, reflecting on the portentous exchange, as he watched the girls frisk down the hill.
NOTES
shukla paksha – the bright lunar fortnight
Ashadha – 4th month by the lunar calendar
teher – rice, fried and spiced with turmeric
dum aloo– potatoes, fried and cooked on low fire with spices and chillies
daal – lentil curry
thalis – dining plates of stainless steel
dejhour – a golden ornament worn by married women, hung around the ear
tehreek – freedom movement
VIRJI’S DREAM
Virji had a dream. A sadhu informed him that a book was on its way. ‘Don’t forget to look at page 63,’ the sadhu reminded him before fading away.
Virji is a great believer in the mystic, spiritual and supernatural. For him a dream has a meaning, a purpose, a message. He was intrigued by the penetrating gaze of the sadhu and his huge white turban that almost swallowed his forehead. He could not place him with anyone living or dead. Nor did he remember ordering any book or wanting to buy one. Why the dream?
The following evening, his friend, Ravi, turned up after a long absence.
‘What a pleasant surprise, Ravi. Where have you been all these days?’
‘I was in Delhi for a week to attend a wedding; I returned this morning.’
‘What did you get for me?’ Virji asked abruptly.
Ravi was surprised at this unusual query.
‘If I knew you wanted anything in particular, I would have gladly got it.’
‘It just occurred to me that you might have visited Connaught Circus and stumbled on an interesting title in the pavement shops.’
‘Are you looking for any special title?’ Ravi asked, not convinced with his reply. To his knowledge Virji had hardly ever shown any special interest in books.
‘Not really; I asked just out of curiosity.’ Virji didn’t mention his dream.
Ravi chuckled. ‘I don’t know if it is just a coincidence; the fact is I did carry a book with me from Delhi. Not a book in the strict sense, but a biennial journal, Shudh Vidya, published by Bhagwan Gopi Nath Ashram at Delhi. They gifted it to me when I went visiting there. Would you like to read it?’
Virji’s eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped, and he could not conceal his excitement.
‘Can I have a look?’
‘I will bring it here one of these days.’
Virji’s curiosity got the better of him. Could it be the book mentioned in the dream? He couldn’t sleep well that night nor wait for his friend to visit him with the book. Early next morning, he went to meet Ravi, returned home with the copy of Shudh Vidya, and went straight to his study. He flipped through the pages and got to number 63. There was a personal anecdote by a devotee of Bhagwan Gopi Nath captioned ‘A Mystifying Experience’ that ran as follows:
The year was 1963. Bhagwan Gopi Nath was alive then. At his Kharyar Ashram in Srinagar, a portion of the plumbing had rotted and was leaking. A water pipe needed replacement. Most hardware stores were located in the Amira Kadal area of the city. Since it was on the way to my office, I was chosen to fetch one pipe length for the Ashram. After my office hours, I sauntered inside a store and purchased a pipe length. While I was still there, wondering how to carry it to the Ashram, a tanga came along. I motioned it to stop.
‘Can I hire your tanga to carry this pipe to Kharyar,’ I asked the tangawalla.
‘It will cost you Re 1,’ he replied.
‘That is about twice I had bargained for,’ I remonstrated.
‘It is a long pipe and I will have to drive carefully to steer clear of the pedestrians. Re 1 is not a big sum for this service.’
He was right; not only would he have to go slowly; it would not be possible to take other passengers on the tanga.
‘All right, turn your tanga around and bring it near the curb.’
Just when he parked by the side of the store, a voice thundered in my ears, ‘Are your arms so weak that they can’t carry a pipe length? Does it mean nothing to you to waste Re 1 of the Ashram?’
I was astonished and looked around for the rude interloper. There was nobody except the storeowner.
‘Come on sir, let me help you with the pipe and lug it on to the tanga,’ the tangawalla offered.
No sooner than I said ‘thank you,’ the mysterious voice rang in my ears again, ‘Send him away and carry the pipe yourself.’
I was stunned.
The tangawalla came inside the shop and picked the pipe from one end, waiting for me to lift the other end.
‘I am sorry, I have changed my mind. I will carry it by myself,’ I said.
‘If you feel Re 1 is too much, I will give you a concession. I will charge only 12 annas.’
‘Thank you, but on second thought, I think I don’t need the tanga.’
He looked at me more in puzzlement than annoyance.
I apologised profusely, carried the pipe on my shoulder, and walked all the way to the Ashram to the amazement of the passers-by, some of whom recognised me.
Having deposited the pipe in the yard, I entered the Bhagwan’s room to pay my obeisance. He was closeted with the devotees, speaking in riddles. I quietly took my seat in a corner.
I am not sure if he noticed me as he continued with his discourse: ‘Remember, every time a person donates Re 1 to this Ashram it is his hard-earned money that could buy a meal for his family.’
I was astonished at hearing these words. Only a stupid and faithless person would have missed the relevance of that remark just as I entered the Bhagwan’s room. It left me in no doubt that it was the Bhagwan himself who had voiced the message into my ear at the hardware store and exhorted me not to waste a rupee on the tanga. He was no doubt all-seeing and omnipresent.
After reading page 63 story of Shudh Vidya, Virji was left wondering. Why was he chosen to read the devotee’s story? What was the connection between his dream and the write-up? Could there be so many chance coincidences? There had to be a meaning in all this.
‘I have been thinking about it but I am perplexed. Yet I feel there is a message in it somewhere. I can’t think of anyone better than you to, perhaps, interpret it,’ said Virji after relating his experience to me.
Virji is a mid-level functionary in the Accountant General’s office, a social activist who has been a long-time associate and an active member, nay, the pivot of our team that runs the charitable Shriya Bhatt Mission Hospital. His belief in spirituality and mysticism was greatly reinforced by a personal saga. Nearly a decade back, he came to see me for headache. It seemed the common stress-related headache, but I do not know what prompted me to examine, among other systems, his abdomen. To my utter surprise, I discov
ered a massive spleen. I ordered a blood count and my worst fears about chronic myeloid leukaemia, a type of blood cancer, were confirmed. From there on, it was a rollercoaster journey for him—from Jammu to the cancer hospitals in Delhi and Mumbai, to the trial of a new drug that had just arrived in the market and cost a whopping ₹1,000 a tablet, which he could hardly afford. How the path to recovery opened for him at each stage a roadblock threatened to close it, is in itself an amazing story of survival. Suffice it to say, the gruelling experience reinforced his belief in some unknown and unseen force that takes control of our lives and guides us in many miraculous ways.
‘Of course, it is all speculation, but I can have a go at it. Interpretation of dreams is still a grey area in neuropsychological pursuits, but I will attempt an explanation,’ I said. ‘You might have heard of thought transference or telepathy. It is well known that some people endowed with an extrasensory ability beyond the five senses we know of, are, knowingly or unknowingly, able to receive and/or transfer thoughts and feelings across distance and time to other individuals. The extra senses are like the infrared and the ultraviolet of the light spectrum which we can’t see. It is possible that when your friend received the book at Bhagwan Gopinath Ashram he unconsciously thought of you for he may be aware of your faith in the Bhagwan. His thought was transferred to you and you dreamt about it. You dreamt that a book was on its way. It was a sadhu whom you saw in your dream because your friend thought of Bhagwan Gopinath when he received the gift copy since he was in the Bhagwan’s Ashram. You saw the Bhagwan as a sadhu in the dream. The large turban is the clinching evidence, for that is what the Bhagwan would wear in real life.’
‘Now that you tell me this, I also recall the sadhu’s eyes in the dream. They were sharp and penetrating like the Bhagwan’s. But there has to be more to it than meets the eye, sir.’ He bore a self-satisfied mien, a gentle smile playing on his chubby face.
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 18