NEW YEARS THEN AND NOW

Let’s wind back the clock to the 1980s – my bubbling teen years. But don’t simply imagine this – feel it: a lone Doordarshan program serving as the New Year’s gala – a solitary annual bash. The family huddled together, glued to the grainy TV screen that lived on the whims of a crow disturbing its antenna (Weston, Salora, Crown, or Rangreth-made EC TV) hoping against hope that the electricity wouldn’t abandon them mid-program. It almost always did.

If snow had graced the valley a day earlier, power outages were a sure-shot companion. And when it snowed on New Year’s Eve? Well, you could bid farewell to Doordarshan and welcome an impromptu session of candle-lit family bonding. Someone (good at Hindi than Urdu) would inevitably joke, "Waliv Doordarshanas thavow naav ‘Door’-darshan!" (Let’s rename Doordarshan to 'Distant Vision’).

Ah, New Year’s Day in Kashmir! A day that has undergone a remarkable evolution in spirit but remains stubbornly tethered to the same old power cuts. Power cuts to Kashmiris have been, and are, what Uncle Chips are to kids. They love it. We love power cuts. As Lalded once lamented, "Wuchhum yeli wuchhane, vanun tsali na rukham;" (I saw when I had to see, no time to speak my words), this is the perpetual plight of Kashmiris – we see light only when it isn’t urgent.

Or, as the more modern Kashmiri might quip, "Power comes and goes like a cat in heat – no schedule, only mischief of spilling milk and then waging its tail." Having lived most of my life as an exile in ‘power-ful’ places where even a short annual maintenance cut on Diwali is announced in newspapers, I can’t tell you how much I hate these cuts in Kashmir. I even hate those who promise 200 units of electricity free to gullible (read mazloom) Kashmiris. But, let’s not get personal here. Because we are entering 2025 – with or without electricity. It feels orgasmic.

Gosh, I have this nasty habit of drifting away. Let’s get back to ‘80s. Well, the celebration wasn’t all gloom, though. Dad’s friend from Khag would gift us akh trakh (a little less than 5 kilograms) rajma, which was no less than culinary gold, and my summer harvest of morel mushrooms, carefully stashed away by my mother, would make their annual appearance.

Without the Doordarshan’s khaas peshkash, morel mushrooms would be our mehman-e-khasoosi. The aroma of these delicacies wafting through the air almost made up for the darkness – almost. Though we wished morel mushrooms also carried some flicker like jugnus at their tips!  But as they say in Kashmir, "Wuchhan chu su khyeth, khyaav chu su sang” (Whatever you see is a feast; what you eat is a dream).

Fast forward four decades, and here we are. The television sets have evolved into LED screens, but they still display the same dismal darkness during power cuts. Bad technology! Modern-day LEDs should also enable us to watch Al Jazeera when it is dark around us. We are Kashmiris. And we deserve such advancement!

Back to Khag – of now, not of then. Now, Khag, once a remote hamlet (at least for Malmoh), is accessible via rash and brash Sumo and Scorpion vehicles. Even though we are hitching a hike with a Tavera. We would still call it a Sumo. But that is how we are. And we are lovely. Trust me. Yet, as Nund Rishi’s wisdom echoes, "Tim roza rozan timan sanz prarth" (They fast for others, not themselves).

Roads have connected places, but hearts have drifted apart. The power shortages, however, remain a constant thread tying these decades together, a shared sadness that transcends time. Most of us need sadness to bind us to each other – in happiness though, we spare ourselves from nazr-e-adam. Adam, more often than, could be our neighbor. Back then, he would be our mentor.

But the question remains: what does New Year’s Day in Kashmir look like in this era of ‘advancement’? Let’s paint a picture. As the clock strikes midnight, families across the valley prepare to ring in the new year. Some clutch their smartphones, ready to flood social media with well-lit selfies, and others eagerly set up for a cozy evening by the heater.

But wait – poof! The electricity, true to its cat’s nature, decides to bid adieu. You feel like complaining. But you won’t! It is sedition. Even the gallant Kashmiri is scared of it; especially after this sensuous integration of 2019 – with or without electricity.

Hukumrans should understand that now lack of electricity ensues hilarity. Kids scream in dismay as their gaming consoles shut down mid-battle. Parents grope in the dark for candles (if they have not kept this chargeable lantern yet), reminiscing about the good ol’ days when darkness was the norm. The dog in the street outside, who is wungaan, suddenly becomes the only source of a flashlight – but not as fairy as a jugnu.

New Year’s resolutions, if they happen at all, revolve around getting a reliable inverter or moving to a city where uninterrupted electricity is not a luxury. But all can’t afford that luxury. Yet, despite the gloom, the spirit of Kashmir endures. As the dawn of the new year breaks through the mountains, families wake up to the sight of pristine snow and the tantalizing smell of kehwa or noon chai. (That is, if we do not have so much of gunah up our sleeves (like that of last year) when there was no trace of snow anywhere until we had almost bumped into 2024 spring). I sometimes wonder, what shall we do, without the two? Alhamdulillah, 2019 didn’t take these away from us. Shukraan New Delhi!.

Lalded’s words ring true, "Shiv chuy thali thali rozan, mozan hyund ta musalman" (Shiva resides in every particle; don’t differentiate between Hindu and Muslim). Perhaps, amidst these collective grievances, we find a unifying force – the collective suppleness of a valley that knows how to find humor in the darkest of times. After all, as Nund Rishi might say, "Marnai chu gol, rozanai chu phol" (Death is round, light is the flower). In Kashmir, we know how to bloom even in the shadow of darkness – one morel mushroom at a time.

May God bless us through 2025 and keep us happier ever than before. Warkar!