Sabzar: Means Green, Turns Crimson

Last Sunday was just another day.

The dark of night was about to leave it to the light of the day, when the Mu’zzin mixed the warmth of the divine call into the calm, nippy air. People woke up, jilted the cosy quilts, refreshed, and left for the Mohalla Masjids. One, two, three and the mosques started filling up.  Prayed, and left; one, two, three and the God’s house was empty. Meanwhile many more woke up in their houses, and the morning in Kashmir brisked.  After our soul revives, stomach comes calling. From masjids, and from homes, people walk down to the Mohalla baker. One, two, three and the small crowds; people meet and greet while each waits for his, or her, turn to fetch oven fresh bread.  And the day began. Sunday.

In the morning of the same Sunday, in the South of Kashmir, in the village called Laroo, it was not a calm start to the day. A fight broke out between the armed militants, holed up in a house, and the state forces. One, two, and three; all the lives inside the house were taken. As if we are now mere statistics. Three sons set in the morning, announcing a lasting evening for the families. The encounter ended, but the tragedy had more to offer. More to snatch! 

To the uninformed world, actually to the oppressors and to the victims of their propaganda, these boys are terrorists, hence neutralised! Eliminated! But for the people they are the loved ones of the families that brought them up; certainly not for this day! They are the light of the eyes of the parents. They are the shoulders, sisters can fall back on. They are the soulmates of the friends. Driven by rage, anger, emotions, and a lasting love for the dead, people rush to the spot, never knowing that the site was asking for more blood. An explosion happens and more sons are lost to this beast, called conflict. Young boys, just about to begin their lives…… “these lives stopped at the start of their stories.” 

Last Sunday was just another day in Kashmir. 

If we momentarily keep aside the memory of those we lost in the earlier decades starting 1990s, to this beast called oppression, the fresh wounds are too deep to heal soon. After the 2016 mass agitation we are in a perpetual state of mourning. Our boys in teens and twenties are dying every week. Whatever our opinion about the situation, we area all mourners. Whatever our understanding of the oppressor, we are all its victims. Whatever our analysis of the ways of resistance, we are all grief-stricken. These little boys don’t grow on trees; mothers have carried them in their wombs. Every inch of their’s is a repository of  the love parents fed them. When we talk about them in past tense, we all know their mothers and fathers had deposited future in them. These mothers will live for the years destiny holds for them, but the loss of sons will kill them each minute of their lives. These fathers will return to the routine of life, but the pain will never leave them.  A traumatic emptiness will settle permanently in these families. 

Though we are all grieved, but we all move on, leaving behind the bereaved. The problem with collective grief is that it hides the actual grief.  If the last 30 years are anything to go by, the families are finally left to hold this grief in a disguised isolation. That is another side to this grim tale of ours.

Last Sunday was no different a day in Kashmir. The week following this day, we had more boys lowered in graves. More families devastated.  

In another encounter a boy named Sabzar was killed. Let’s not value these lives by the degrees they hold, all of them are priceless pearls for their parents. What moves me in this case is the name. Sabzar. Green. Lush. Verdant. It all stands for life, and life giving. But here is this guy, Sabzar, who leaves his parents, his family, his friends, and all of us, devastated. Like dead leaves of a merciless autumn, we cry for the Green; Sabzar.

Sometimes the yearbook of life closes too soon

Sabzar’s yearbook, and of many others, was closed this week; and it was too soon. It was his time to grow, to flourish, and to sooth the eyes of his parents. 

Tomorrow is Sunday. Another day in Kashmir. People will again wake up, go to the Mohalla Masjids, and pray. Pray, our Sabzars grow into a lush green future for their parents. Pray, our sons don’t set in the morning. Pray, our eyes lighten up, our hearts wake up, and our minds open up. Pray, we see mourning as mourning, understand grief as grief, appreciate loss as loss.

Pray, darkness ends, light begins, and Sabzar grows. Pray, the beast vanishes. 

mrvaid@greaterkashmir.com