I am not greeted by militants on my way to school. Neither have I walked through the streets of Kerala carrying three identity cards which are frequently subjected to scrutiny, or questioned about my nationalism from my birth.
I remember reading Basharat Peer’s “Curfewed Night” six years ago, but the teenager within me couldn’t very well relate to the cry for freedom in the lives of the Kashmiri population or their demand of justice in any manner. My privileged self convincingly ignored the book without giving it any afterthoughts. Years after, when the sedition cases bloom across the Universities in India, I happened to talk to a student from Kashmir, sharing my pain being a victim of anti-national narratives. Of course, his life has been worse and nowhere near mine! I am not greeted by militants on my way to school. Neither have I walked through the streets of Kerala carrying three identity cards which are frequently subjected to scrutiny, or questioned about my nationalism from my birth. Without even uttering a word, he listened to everything that I had to say and never replied. I remember, earlier when asked about the beauty of his land, he replied to me in bits and pieces. Maybe he doesn't remember when was the last time his Kashmir seemed beautiful to him. Now I understand why the old man in the movie which I saw in school sings "O my God, please return my Kashmir again".
I remained still for the longest five minutes of my life, unable to utter a word.
I remained still for the longest five minutes of my life, unable to utter a word.
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