The Question of the Gun

That's the dark irony: you can leave Kashmir, but Kashmir never leaves you

Majid Maqbool Delhi

It's a cold, dark November day in Delhi. There is no sunshine on the foggy streets. I board an auto rickshaw to meet two of my friends based in Delhi. We are meeting after a gap of one year since they left Kashmir to pursue their careers. On the road, the chatty auto rickshaw driver, stealing occasional glances at me from the rear view mirror, finally asks the question that is uppermost on his mind since he saw my face: so where is the place I come from?

I am from Kashmir, I tell him. Hearing this, he breaks into a brief monologue about the beauty he has heard Kashmir is famous for. And how he always wanted to visit Kashmir but never could
And then, after a brief pause, almost hesitantly, he adds: "Kashmir say bohat dar lagta hai..." (Kashmir makes me afraid) Why, I ask.

"Aaj Tak par dikhatay hain na..."

His reply, though not unexpected, evoked an uneasy smile. I tell him that Aj Tak can be wrong on Kashmir. He is quiet. Unconvinced, he drives on.
I remember: Aaj Tak is sabsay tez!.

The auto rickshaw halts at the red light. A swanky Ford pulls up next to it. Inside, a group of middle-aged ladies wearing sunglasses are in a constant chatting on their expensive handsets. This brief, uneasy traffic halt becomes an opportunity for the poor street kids to sell their miscellaneous objects to potential customers on the move.

Suddenly, they appear on the scene, from nowhere. And, like a spider's web, spread themselves around the vehicles to sell glossy magazines, books, bestsellers, toys, incense sticks, mobile chargers. They gently tap the windscreen of the vehicles. And the rest of the kids, who have nothing in hand to sell, perform their little tricks on the road. Barefoot, with no woollens, in tattered clothes, shivering, some kids do somersaults, while another beats a drum, and others sing in this open-air theatre at the traffic crossing. Then, all of them ask for some pennies.

Some street kids, carrying bright coloured window wipers in their hands, start cleaning the windows of the vehicles. For this unasked work, they expect some money. Every time these kids come near the vehicles, the drivers scroll the windows up, and those inside look away, uninterested. Some even abuse these underfed, malnourished kids, and push them away. But they would come back, persist. With an eye on the green light, the kids keep asking till the green light blinks. The vehicles speed away, leaving behind the street kids blurring, diminishing from sight with distance and time.

In the worn-out, bruised, little hands of these kids, the skimpily clad models or Bollywood stars on the glossy covers of high society lifestyle magazines present a stark contrast. Magazines like Cosmopolitan, Hello, People, Vogue... and books with titles like...You can win, The Great Indian Dream...You can't miss the terrible irony - of this absurd and tragic theatre of the rich and poor - played out on the streets of Delhi. Those who read this stuff will never know what it means to be poor, homeless, abandoned on the streets. They are a world apart.
I say to myself: These abandoned street kids, this sickening poverty, this does not happen in my Kashmir. The auto driver revs up the engine to full speed.