tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-122154642024-03-07T15:41:31.054+04:00Kashur KotKashur Kot is Kashmiri for Kashmiri lad. These are notes of one such tramp, from Kashmir and beyond. Prone to instant outbursts of laughter/creativity, I operate from wherever life takes me.
Catch me at sameer20[at]gmail.com!Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comBlogger712125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-68562021498494080412017-06-25T17:32:00.000+04:002017-06-25T17:50:47.875+04:00Eid has finally comeEid has finally come. It always comes. In the best of times and the worst. Yes we will polish off the finest bakery in town and break bread with family. That's what festivals are all about. Getting together with loved ones and shutting yourself off all the absurdities of this cruel world. Yet in a place like Kashmir where a never-ending conflict hexes the lives of almost everyone, one can't totally afford to disconnect with what goes on around us. It is a jinx that refuses to cast loose. Like Tasrup of the old times. However much we go away from it and pretend to be like everyone else: flashy mobiles, big homes, cafe shops et al, it comes back in the evening.<br />
<br />
Not a day goes without stories of some new variety of suffering emerging. Rebels are now charred so bad, even in their death, that no one is able to tell who is who. A cop is lynched on the most auspicious of nights. Till last week we thought only those lowlife retards in mainland India hack people to death. Even the sky doesn't turn red now. Vazul nub, grandparents would often say. Lore had it that if someone died accidently, a drowning, mayhap, the evening sky would go crimson over Srinagar, as if God was galled at what was happening with his devout back on earth. But these are different times. As the Bard would say 'Tis the times plague, when madmen lead the blind'.<br />
<br />
I'm convinced that we are addicted to kharab haalat. Our addiction to violence has a political context that exposes our vulnerability and at the same time reinforces our fortitude. We know that TV news is shit (one feels so repetitive to say it now), yet we devour it en mass and feel more pessimistic about ourselves. Someone recently asked me why Kashmiris care about what some compromised TV anchor has to say on Prime Time. I replied that given the lack of reading culture in Kashmir, people are addicted to TV. Violence is pain that one learns to internalise. All these images of coffins after coffins, 'declared brought dead' web headlines, disfigured young boys, graves, slogans, funerals, are painful. <br />
<br />
There might be an element of mass hysteria to it but ultimately, when a sister wrings her hands as her brother's corpse is taken away (rebel/non-rebel is besides the point), it is pain, plain and simple. A mother crying in the crook of her arm at night is not her pain alone. It lacerates everyone's soul. So how does a society, collectively, deal with this? No one knows the answer. We just know the short-cut. We have all gotten addicted to something that takes away the pain. That might be one reason we care about what some Sanghi KP has to disparagingly say about us on TV. Be as it may, we need to get away from the nuisance. Also we must stay clear of political hookers who lurk around in our neck of woods by the dozen. They will sleep with anyone who pays them a price.<br />
<br />
Kashmir has endured a lot. We need to get a handle on our grief without allowing any toff to appropriate it for us. It's hard to live normal lives in a conflict. We just need to look around and honour the dignity and countenance of those who have lost their loved ones. Kashmir may have a dozen maslaks and firqas but after all that we undergo, what must glue us is empathy and love and tolerance towards each other. To all my fellow compatriots back home -- from Nowhata to Nishat, Banihal to Bandipora and all the valiant villages and vicinages in between: Eid Mubarak<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-15697488249516738602016-12-30T18:00:00.001+04:002023-08-20T10:42:37.046+04:002016 – Our year of scarsThe year began on a somber note. The king was no more. Mufti Sayed’s ascension to throne had come at a great price. He bartered his party’s balmy image to enter into an alliance with the <i>Sanghis</i> – quite a treacherous thing to do in the context of Kashmir, given the generic disgust people have for the BJP. Yet the astute player that he was, Mufti went ahead with the alliance, hailing Modi as <i>‘toofan ka admi’</i>. When the CM tragically passed away, fewer than 3,000 people turned up for his funeral. The PM, known to spend more time air-dashing than in the PMO, didn’t come for the last rites. You see, one may be top of the food chain but often enough in history, when you go against the grain, you endear yourself to no one in particular. Your own people disown you, while India’s PM has much more pressing matters to attend to.<br />
<br />
As his heir-apparent, Mehbooba Mufti, the lady who always wears green scarves, was anointed. The PDP flag is also green. Call it symbolism, optics, implied subliminal comparison to all things <i>Sabz</i>. Be as it may, some showmanship emanated before Miss Mufti formally sat on the throne. While some alluded it to <i>narazgi </i>(a typical Kashmiri trait) with Delhi, others said that she was genuinely upset at how RSS (those cunning half-kickers) were hijacking her father’s grand vision. For a while it appeared that she might actually take the moral high ground and renounce the hot seat but soon fat politicians convinced her that only the naïve give up power so easily. In due course Mehbooba became the first woman CM of the state. Her party was over the moon but the honeymoon was not to last. Less than three months later, Kashmiris rebelled, wholesale. <br />
<br />
Just after <i>Eid ul Fitr</i> when many of us attempted to plot our holidays, news came that the inevitable had happened. In no time sloganeering started, whatsapp groups went in near-frenzy and pictures of a dead rebel – Burhan Wani – went viral. It appeared as if someone from the state police, perhaps accompanied by the army, had flung open the gates of hell. Impromptu protests erupted all over the valley. Everyone wanted to show up at Tral. One was at pains to explain the outpouring of extreme emotion for this 20-something, dapper lad from a nondescript village in South Kashmir. God knows if it was a mix of his swashbuckling social media persona or plain chutzpah that animated the masses. Or was it our collective aspirations coming to the fore? In any case, post-2016, no one would remember Tral for its dry fruits and sweet springs. In the estimation of public, it has become Burhan’s village, his final resting place. Legends endure.<br />
<br />
Caught totally unawares, Miss Mufti’s government acted on expected lines: i.e. by bringing on the full might of the security apparatus upon protesters. Bloodshed followed. Scores lost their lives. Thousands were injured. Many more were arrested, sometimes on the mere suspicion of raising their fists. The summer witnessed deadly effects of a particularly debilitating weapon in the state’s armory. Pellets became a bane. Hundreds of young men and women were directly impacted by these sharp projectiles fired into public gatherings, sometimes blinding those at the receiving end. When July melded into August, no one actually realized. There were just too many funerals. Such seething anxiety. Too much storminess. A muffled solitude overhung Kashmir. Each sleet of pellets carried more blindings with it. <br />
<br />
A crippling strike brought things to a grinding halt. The writ of the state was challenged in a somewhat donnybrook fashion. Surrounded by sad-looking guards, the government literally crumbled. Apart from issuing orders that varied between banning newspapers, snapping internet, blocking mobile services and announcing curfews (none of which brought it any approbation), there was nary a trace of governance. More than five months on, the valley opened and shut as per the ‘calendar’ issued by Hurriyat. All along, Miss Mufti alternated between keeping the pro-freedom leadership in jail and under house-arrest. Nothing seemed to work. Initially appeals were made to kids to attend school. That soon changed to warnings for teachers. All that the CM desired, her sidekicks insisted, was a shot at peace and happiness. Happiness, like peace, cannot be fabricated; it must ensue. One must have a reason to be happy.<br />
<br />
When the phone lines went dead and newspapers were outlawed, 2016 felt like 1989 over again. Across villages protests raged on. The distant songs came in mockery of the pounding of hearts. The hills, it seemed, were singing and the city was irate. People were besides themselves with rage. TV anchors in Delhi, shrill and ultra-nationalistic even on a dry day, were unable to discern the fury. Their talking heads tried to offer several clumsy reasons about what was going on in the ‘atoot ang’ . Since TV as a medium is shallow and provides little scope for depth, the channels entirely failed to explain the spontaneous nature of the uprising. <br /><br />
<br />
To paraphrase the late Aga Shahid Ali, the cold testifies to the earth’s fidelities, stronger in Kashmir than anywhere else. We are currently in the lap of winter with frost and freeze upon us. It is only human to want to sip more <i>noon-chai</i> and clutch our <i>kangris</i> tightly. When the snow falls from a dreary sky, lest we forget, there shall be many hundreds of eyes that cannot see the flakes. And some of us, full of pep this time last year, are not alive to witness the stilled beauty of a mid-winter’s night. There are certain moments in the life of a nation that are at once reflective and melancholic, just like the winter. Everyone deserves a spring. <br />
<br />
Sameer
Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-77829111943226562982016-10-06T14:21:00.004+04:002023-08-20T13:39:14.314+04:00Our many squandered songs <br />
Every time I made an attempt, they sent me back.<br />
<br />
I was in Kashmir recently. As has happened many times in the past, I often get caught up in the middle of political upheavals. There were no signs of any impending disaster. As with earthquakes, no early warning system went off.<br />
<br />
Boulevard — that lovely drive by the Dal Lake that is at once romantic and old-world — was abuzz with tourists, huddling together, pouting, and taking selfies with wooden houseboats in the backdrop. A faint scattering of lights had begun to appear on Kohi-Maran. A little ahead, a Kingfisher, a common sight in Kashmir, darted obliquely into the lake, at a fish, it was perhaps espying. <br />
<br />
Eid passed off tranquilly. The bakery smelled of heaven. Food was plentiful. There was much socializing. I met my friends. Neighbours came over. Some relatives called. Several invitations were extended over phone. While drawing up plans for a picnic in the hills — complete with camping gear — I was suddenly reminded of a distant uncle. He lived in another part of the town and had been unwell. In the excitement of being home, and getting around, uncle had escaped my memory.<br />
<br />
On the second evening after Eid, I rang him up. He didn’t answer. I called up his son, who picked up the phone. He sounded pleased and asked why I hadn’t come over. A shade embarrassed, I apologized. I understand the social mise en scène in Kashmir. People feel bad, doubly so, if you come from foreign lands, and don’t visit them. <br />
<br />
I asked about uncle. It is bad news, he replied. Uncle is bedridden, suffering from bronchial asthma. A chain smoker (it was once rumored that he wanted to marry a tobacconist’s daughter simply because of an allure of free tobacco supply for a lifetime), his lungs had finally given up at 65. It was chronic, his son said, and father gets severe attacks of coughing, shortness of breath, and chest tightness at night. I promised to drop by. Uncle’s face kept flashing in my head. Even in my thoughts, he had a cigarette dangling on his lip.<br />
<br />
Suddenly I wanted to see him right away. If I were abroad — as I mostly am — I would have jumped in my car and driven off to see someone, but Kashmir has its own cultural circumference. You may go unannounced to a friend or a relative but to turn up at someone’s home at night, just like that, might make you a social bumpkin, an awkward. I decided to wait it out till next morning. <br />
<br />
This must have been the same time that first political tremors were being felt in the valley. All at once a flurry of messages started coming on my phone. This popular rebel then (now almost a cult figure in death) but still a Himalayan Robin Hood at that instant, was killed. ‘No way — I thought.’ I expressed my incredulity to a journalist friend on whatsapp. Must be a rumor, I tried to sound reasonable. Next he sent me a gory picture of the rebel’s body.<br />
<br />
It was the young lad — in his early 20s, lips a little ajar, as if insufflating his boyhood to whoever had clicked his body. The sharp lines of his long stubble were perfectly aligned. He lay lifeless on a police stretcher, photographed at an unflattering angle — perhaps in a deliberate effort to denigrate his aura, in death, if not in life. I understood the significance of the moment. It was pivotal. Things would change.<br />
<br />
And things did change. Authorities quickly slapped curfew. A concomitant strike called by the pro-freedom camp ensued. All businesses remained shut. No milkmen came with supplies. Villagers ferrying vegetables to the town were sent back by cops. Overnight an invisible curse had transformed the paradise into a penitentiary. <br />
<br />
I wanted to visit my chain-smoking uncle but there was no way to go. Wherever one looked, stones rained. Without warning, locks of anger, pent up for years, had been flung open. It seemed that the only weapons, which the dispossessed had in its armory, were stones. This was responded to with brute force — bullets, pellets and stun grenades. The street outside uncle’s home was red. There was no way I could go to see him.<br />
<br />
Over phone, his son, voice laced with panic, said that tear gas shells had further aggravated uncle’s asthma. The previous morning, he had nearly chocked to death. I reassured him that things would be better; curfew would be lifted soon and we could take his father to a good doctor or move him elsewhere — to breathe some fresh air. <div><br /></div><div>I recalled their sizable apple orchard with dozens of delicious apple trees. When we were younger, we would often run around those trees, amidst apple fragrance, as uncle oversaw workers in his farms. It was hard, all these years later, to see our memories being set alight.<br />
<br />
A few days later I attempted to walk to uncle’s home. By now all phones were blocked and Internet was switched off in Kashmir. I took the interior alleyway. From a distance I saw soldiers manning the back road that would have led me to uncle’s home. </div><div><br /></div><div>These were pathways, doted with turtledoves, which we had taken all our lives. As I got near, the cops signaled me to go back. I tried to shout, saying I must see a patient. They didn’t listen.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZT7B2GZNiH6ahL9H864-umiDHicueTe3FmH_fEpDHVz7rDO6hIExLpcQ4HVnu0JCIuFLERQqIV9F2qYfdI6VbroqCjpzWpwLHx8bjaaFKPWz6j8_dqMJJmadqepUD0mcpG-uAjQ/s1600/IMG_0270.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZT7B2GZNiH6ahL9H864-umiDHicueTe3FmH_fEpDHVz7rDO6hIExLpcQ4HVnu0JCIuFLERQqIV9F2qYfdI6VbroqCjpzWpwLHx8bjaaFKPWz6j8_dqMJJmadqepUD0mcpG-uAjQ/s320/IMG_0270.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sopore, June 2016 (Photo: Sameer) </span><br />
<br />
Someone said that the only way to reach the airport was just after dawn. One had to wait outside the airport for a few hours till they opened the gates and allow you in. I was supposed to fly out of India the next day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Overcome by the guilt of not being able to see my uncle — or even ask about his well-being over phone (the internet continues to be blocked and outgoing calls barred in Kashmir even three months later), I decided to make one last ditch attempt.<br />
<br />
Once again — third time during two weeks — I took off on foot for uncle’s home. You couldn’t take the main road because concertina wire blocked all entry and exit points. Cops acknowledged no curfew passes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Walking along the pasturage of our little town, down the back alley, past the singing turtledoves, by the dirt track, it began to drizzle. My uncle’s home was in sight now. A hundred yards and a road separated us. I felt deeply poignant.<br />
<br />
Here is an extract of the exact conversation I had with cops.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Can I cross this road?”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“There is curfew.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“I need to see my uncle. He is very sick.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“We have orders to not allow anyone to cross.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Please. I have to fly tomorrow.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Go away.”</i><br />
<br />
I turned back. It was futile. <br />
<br />
The turtledove was still singing on my way back. It had a sad song. <br />
<br />
Sameer
</div>Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-81094202397602999552016-06-23T15:44:00.000+04:002016-06-23T15:44:15.459+04:00No notes tonight <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgyJOkCnoCWg8H8GxFdMB-p522AuoYtbJG-x7OvwvzjkwbdX7vm40WeSeGgvhp6vBwh4P-y_DmINu5mCfGjsvGemyD4En7cFX3bCPcdJCMeruRT8zv77NMtzGW22wSmV03YycZuA/s1600/13528917_1008381072544367_4332062617266323094_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgyJOkCnoCWg8H8GxFdMB-p522AuoYtbJG-x7OvwvzjkwbdX7vm40WeSeGgvhp6vBwh4P-y_DmINu5mCfGjsvGemyD4En7cFX3bCPcdJCMeruRT8zv77NMtzGW22wSmV03YycZuA/s320/13528917_1008381072544367_4332062617266323094_n.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
It was not Amjad Sabri, who was the colossus of the famed Sabri clan — a family that chewed betel leaves and made magical music — but his father Ghulam Farid Sabri. Direct descendants of Mian Tansen — a Navaratna in the royal court of the Mughal Emperor Jalal ud-din Muhammed Akbar — they belonged to the Sabriya silsila of Sufism. Humble people who conquered the world with a simple harmonium and the power of their vocals. The Sabri brothers universalised Qawali — an energetic rendition in which words spiral high above all those assembled, like a whirlwind, to gently tap on the doors of heaven.<br />
<br />
Amjad certainly carried forward the illustrious legacy of his extremely talented father and forefathers. Although less commercially-inclined than his contemporary Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Sabri carried within his heavyset form a deep-seated love for God and His messenger. He would sing paeans to the Lord in a baritone that had no match, over and over again. He burst into a song as if the whole world was his. That is the thing with Sufis. They transcend the realm of love, which the forces of hate can never fathom.<br />
<br />
With his murder, the last of the great Sabris has been silenced forever. The mystic notes are gone. They say that Sufi kalaam is akin to the chirrup of birds in a jungle; the jungle being a metaphor for the temporal. Rumi wrote nearly 750 years ago, ‘Sing like the birds that sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think.’
Tragic that we should witness birdsongs being erased right in front of our eyes.<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-74020479655559903012016-06-19T13:35:00.000+04:002016-06-19T13:35:28.889+04:00What a time to be alive!In all probability the empress is fasting. Why else would she say then that there are just four bunkers in the valley? Kashmir is a continuous bunker. The state, with a population of slightly more than 10 million, has an estimated 700,000 soldiers, making it perhaps the highest civilian military ratio anywhere in the world. (70:1,000). The American counter insurgency manual says that ratios close to 25:1,000 are enough to achieve geographical dominance. Four bunkers? Like you can’t be serious?<br />
<br />
You have to be fasting. Or anxious.
In two days the Anantnag constituency will go to bypolls. Miss Mufti, the incumbent CM of J&K, is likely to win. According to press reports, between 50 to 100 people gathered at different spots during her road trips. Complete with paraphernalia, Miss Mufti’s Mama ji and other PDP stalwarts are camping in the constituency, criss-crossing villages, galvanizing voters. Raj Babbar has also arrived to campaign. New Delhi-based TV channels are itching to call it ‘Return of Peace’. They just can’t wait.<br />
<br />
Even as Ramzan and polls concur in the South of Kashmir, everyone and his uncle who might have dissented and spoken otherwise, are under lock and key. Democracy is a clever sahar-khawn. It knows where to beat its drums. It would be insane, for instance, to let Geelani sahib, out of Hyderpora. Not only will people pour out in droves, he might actually put his fierce Urdu to a devastating effect. Best to keep pro-freedom leadership from upsetting the TV achors, who have specially flown from Delhi. Iftar parties, after all, cannot be a vinegary affair.<br />
<br />
Even if 5% of those who attend a fallen rebel’s funeral were to vote, one would call it representative. The fact is that people don’t really enjoy this panoply of farce upon a farce. Yes, putting all the state machinery to use for over a month, wandering from village to village, panchayat to panchayat, does provide for some lazy Ramzan-time entertainment, but it means little if you don’t address the lament in people’s hearts; their aspirations and hopes.<br />
<br />
Back in Srinagar a school founded by DP Dhar’s son shall now tell us how to dress. In the middle of Ramzan.
This is 2016, not 1971.<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-18813065200871597392016-06-06T14:09:00.000+04:002016-06-06T14:09:15.382+04:00Theorizing in RamzanWhen non-namazis outnumber regular mosque goers, you can safely conclude that the holiest month in the Islamic calendar is here. All roads shall lead to masjids tonight, where the devout will read the Quran; supplications shall be made. Butchers will cut more lamb, bakeries will bake more and Rajasthani dates will sell like hot cakes. During Iftar the dilemma that many faithful shall confront is not whether the Imam will recite long suras in the shaam namaz, but where to keep the seed of the date? A theory on what to do with the seed is yet to come from the IAS academy.<br />
<br />
In related developments, the bickering between mainstream political parties has suddenly spiraled in the valley. Rashid engineer – with his fingers in too many pies – is spoiling the party for the PDP in exactly the same fashion that he used to spoil it for Omar. A few days back, in an act of sudden nostalgia, engineer trained guns at his old nemesis — NC — again. Perturbed, the grand old party of Kashmir unleashed their best weapon: Akbar Lone. In big headmaster glasses and freshly dyed hair, he led a verbal-carnage on engineer. Being a man of the street, MLA Langate gave it back to the old boor, only to be dubbed as an agent. ‘You are an IB man’. That is like the worst form of gaali in Kashmir. Worse than wishing someone death. Engineer is still recovering from the shock.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile democracy continues unabated in the valley. All pro-freedom leaders have been imprisoned or detained or house-arrested in a major pre-Ramzan sweep, you see, just to make it more democratic during the holy month. Miss Mufti has to campaign in her bypolls, cut a few red ribbons at ATMs and coffee shops, and propose more cat and dog tales. There must be no noise in the backdrop. It spoils the carefully designed prop and ends up showing everything in a bad light. So a case dating back to the Maharaja’s time will be dusted and old boy Yasin shall be booked under it. Madame will cut more ribbons. A rented crowd will clap. Perfect. Democracy. 10/10.<br />
<br />
As Satan is put in chains (imagine someone like Donald Trump without his wig, confined to Trump Towers for a month), Kashmiris get ready to welcome Ramzan. They shall, however, await a word from Radio Pakistan tonight, not withstanding all the hearts and minds, and pigeon and cat, and other propaganda theories. They will wait and wait until the announcement comes. Even the IAS afsars will wait. There is no theory to beat that sentiment.<br />
<br />
Ramzan Mubarak
<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-23954021643549757912016-05-29T17:02:00.001+04:002016-05-29T17:02:58.489+04:00Throwing the cat among the pigeons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When our parents were growing up, there used to be a huge <i>sheri-bakra</i> divide in the valley. So essentially there were lions and there were lambs. Srinagar was a very dangerous jungle. The lions would attempt to frighten the lambs and call it fair. These were democratic rules of the jungle. The circus masters in Delhi cheered them on. This carried on for a long time.<br />
<br />
Then one day the lambs got together in Srinagar, in Sopore, in Islamabad, in Bandipore, in Kupwara, in Kokernag — all over the place. They decided enough is enough. If the lions can maul us, and call it democratic, let us beat them at their own game. Let us run for elections. Let us show them we are not meek pushovers. The year was 1987.<br />
<br />
Sure enough the lions panicked. The circus masters in Delhi were alarmed. They were afraid of two things — a) lions are a better deal. When they perform, the audience claps, b) lambs were untested. They were ideologically inverse, even if easily bullied. Also the lions had many ruffians and butchers on their side. Intellectuals are brilliant but they are not good at rigging elections.<br />
<br />
So the lions — cunning old boys that they were — beat them at the democratic exercise. Lambs lost badly. Their votes floated in the Jhelum and flowed all the way to Pakistan. The ringmasters breathed a sigh of relief. Geelani sahib — whom Sanghi retards like to call a broker these days — and others went into oblivion. The lions continued their rule, unchallenged.<br />
<br />
A few years later there was mutiny in the jungle. The lions fled. Their ringmasters vanished into thin air. What started as a take-over, a revolution of sorts, soon turned into pandemonium. While it is true that uprisings, because of their very nature of insubordination, are usually messy, ours was a little extra sloppy. Two and a half decades on, we are still unsure about what hit us in 1989.<br />
<br />
What we remember — for sure — is everything that transpired in this interim. The horrid, hellish stuff that took place. But even before we could figure out how to make our way out of the woods — that are deep and dark, the ringmasters were back. This time around they had another set of creatures to cheer on.<br />
<br />
And as if to paper-over everything that we have been through, and make little of our collective indignations, we now have a new name: cats.
Suddenly it feels as if a cat has kittened in our mouths. Move over, bakras. The cats have cometh.<br />
<br />
Ms Mufti is a fellow Kashmiri. If we have cat whiskers, she too has cat claws. Eventually all cats are gray in the dark.<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-69700515051341120392016-03-22T14:24:00.003+04:002016-03-22T14:26:10.839+04:00Ek Mulaqat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_tJVw9zvH3UDmCkLiOkW5UDlrEX6T12NLpvE_77S7LILT7qB4vZdjZj9gdbfwexVK5Mko-rxLAVed0MPw4HCRlTyKxoepCwnCcKwIyMeyxIhMF-P6-t4QY_XZjY70AeUXIHwag/s1600/CeIsMDdUsAA5Dg4.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_tJVw9zvH3UDmCkLiOkW5UDlrEX6T12NLpvE_77S7LILT7qB4vZdjZj9gdbfwexVK5Mko-rxLAVed0MPw4HCRlTyKxoepCwnCcKwIyMeyxIhMF-P6-t4QY_XZjY70AeUXIHwag/s320/CeIsMDdUsAA5Dg4.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
PM: I know you are upset.<br />
<br />
MM: One is ‘naraz’ with one's own.<br />
<br />
PM: Getting angry doesn’t solve anything.<br />
<br />
MM: That is why I'm here.<br />
<br />
PM: Leave these tantrums.<br />
<br />
MM: Give me a few CBMs.<br />
<br />
PM: I shall write you a nice tweet.<br />
<br />
MM: I’m not Omar.<br />
<br />
PM: OK, I will say something nasty about the Abdullahs.<br />
<br />
MM: I want something concrete.<br />
<br />
PM: How about evening flights at the Srinagar airport?<br />
<br />
MM: Big deal! These NC wallas track night flights.<br />
<br />
PM: I don’t know what else to give you.<br />
<br />
MM: You know what I want.<br />
<br />
PM: Listen, you shall be exempt from singing Bharat Mata Ki.<br />
<br />
(At this point Amit Shah and other heavy-duty gents in the ante-room come running, hollering: Jai, Jai. The PM looks at them sternly, signaling ‘all is well’!)<br />
<br />
MM: Can’t you offer me something better?<br />
<br />
PM: Would you like Anupam Kher as the brand ambassador of Kashmir?<br />
<br />
MM: No way. He is like an Amritsari shawl. Not even proper Kashmiri.<br />
<br />
PM: You mean a cheapster?<br />
<br />
MM: A fake shawl. If you know what that means.<br />
<br />
PM: Get me an original pashmina shawl next time.<br />
<br />
MM: I will. I promise. Just give me something — this one time.<br />
<br />
PM: We can give you a quota in JNU.<br />
<br />
MM (snidely): I hope you won’t call it anti-national quota?<br />
<br />
PM: You just gave me a poor joke (PJ) for my new tweet.<br />
<br />
MM: Keep my request in mind, please.<br />
<br />
PM: Yes, yes. Of course.<br />
<br />
MM: See you soon.<br />
<br />
PM: Make sure the shawl has my name all over it.<br />
<br />
@Sameer | PS: This communication is pure pasquinade. tongue emoticonSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-92003893508853704862015-12-31T14:07:00.003+04:002016-06-09T15:07:19.548+04:00#Kashmir2015 — A year of quakingPerhaps only a gay marriage would scandalize Kashmiris more. So when PDP entered into a wedlock with the BJP earlier this year, most people’s WTF meter went up several notches. It was blasphemy — of the highest order, some thought. You can’t afford to have a Shyama Prasad Mukherjee school of thought coming up bang in the middle of Srinagar.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPtZaMrn0vZ12IaqwSBxKLH_lIJwf8IG1e5S9ebC6334uoxDX0L0YS5Jzu5eJn2EYYVn629gfa25gz-EYuHrpPSAsAZDiljolqn-bFMaOu1djqO6haUJXqeesxb6lDBehOrc0oA/s1600/mufti-mohammad_759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPtZaMrn0vZ12IaqwSBxKLH_lIJwf8IG1e5S9ebC6334uoxDX0L0YS5Jzu5eJn2EYYVn629gfa25gz-EYuHrpPSAsAZDiljolqn-bFMaOu1djqO6haUJXqeesxb6lDBehOrc0oA/s320/mufti-mohammad_759.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Nine months after taking oath as the 6th CM of J&K, Sayed is in the ICU at Delhi's AIIMS</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Days following the coronation of Mufti Sayed and his motley cabinet, the common refrain was one of shock. Darn, it was clearly not what Kashmiris had risked their voting fingers for, but you see, the inevitable had already happened. Nine months on, the PDP-BJP combine seems to be going steady, with occasional <i>tu-tu-mein-mein</i> but then what is a marriage without an occasional feud. Wise men call it the spice of life.<br />
<br />
There were more rumours in end-March. It continued to rain for days on end. Big deal — it pours incessantly in many parts of the world but Kashmir is different. We have a creaky infrastructure, our rivulets aren’t properly drained and sewage overflows in rainfall. A non-stop spell of rain can spell doom.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsxXmfUtG22lZjysPXLUBtifOthGv-nSaX26PvnetagHRYm_mpyV5dXG-zDcfG8HKc9DwfrqC1W5O5BF7nzTsPdFrlDghGTFZYVBllRHzXy7au-cFWVP1SItm7Vx1FEGF3O441Q/s1600/IMG_6155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsxXmfUtG22lZjysPXLUBtifOthGv-nSaX26PvnetagHRYm_mpyV5dXG-zDcfG8HKc9DwfrqC1W5O5BF7nzTsPdFrlDghGTFZYVBllRHzXy7au-cFWVP1SItm7Vx1FEGF3O441Q/s320/IMG_6155.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Everyone uploaded flood gauge readings — Sangam, Ram Munshibagh and Asham — on social media — 24 X 7</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Memory afresh with the flooding of 2014, March rains bothered us a great deal. Social media, with its increasing flocks of rumor-mongers meant that pictures from previous year’s big floods went into circulation. Naturally the nation’s collective blood pressure shot up. It came down only when the rains stopped. Soon the usual madness resumed.<br />
<br />
In between there were several mid-summer tremors. Some shadowy guys emerged from the woodwork and started bumping off people in the telecom business apart from targeting cell phone towers. In the last 25 years almost everything has been attacked in Kashmir — from the headless white horse that stood outside Pestonji building on Residency Road (now relocated to an godawful mini mall, I hear) to lorries carrying cattle.<br />
<br />
Targeting the sad-looking towers was a new low, even by Kashmiri standards. In any case several landlords, frightened to death, asked telecom operators to remove the vile towers from their properties. Since dismantling of towers was going to take some time, an enterprising landlord got a hastily written banner up outside his home: <i>Is badbakht tower ko hum ne nakara kar kiya hai.</i> (We have rendered this wretched tower useless). Just by way of abundant precaution, some would say.<br />
<br />
And autumn gave way to winter. Suddenly a political quake swayed the valley on Christmas. Just when Pakistan was getting ready to celebrate the birthday of its two great fathers — Jinnah (founding father) and Nawaz Sharif (father of all things rich), in strode the selfie <i>samrath</i> of India — PM Modi — along with 100 wise men.<br />
<br />
By some fluke or luck it was also the wedding day of Mehr-u-Nisa, the beautiful granddaughter of PM Sharif, and who better to bless the newly-weds than Don Corleone himself. Kashmiris watched in horror as Nawaz Sharif, himself a true-blooded Kashmiri, strutted around in a pink turban gifted by his bbf, a token of endearment understood only by those under 30, with the exception of Pakistan’s Prime Minister, perhaps.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnZSdVD4sWcT66RNiRAXX0kkoVwHT2Gk6sxQgSmM2f2lkXbkJqjQnlRC2nh7Ns_Eu8GU8cbcFimyQvEyPc2iOvTu3TAzAdKqOjvSk7P7JBvtQj2D7z4MEsXlD_TJWzN-HagYVHg/s1600/nawaz-sharif7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnZSdVD4sWcT66RNiRAXX0kkoVwHT2Gk6sxQgSmM2f2lkXbkJqjQnlRC2nh7Ns_Eu8GU8cbcFimyQvEyPc2iOvTu3TAzAdKqOjvSk7P7JBvtQj2D7z4MEsXlD_TJWzN-HagYVHg/s320/nawaz-sharif7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Sharif has been at pains to explain that the pink turban — now an urban myth — was not from Modi. The media refuses to believe.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That same night there was a massive earthquake, shaking parts of Pakistan and Kashmir. Since the epicenter was somewhere in Afghanistan, conspiracy theorists and gossip mills got their grist — almost readymade. So Modi visited Afghanistan, and then Pakistan, bringing about the quake. As Kashmir is at the core of it all, we had to shake along.<br />
<br />
Heck, despite <i>chilay-kalan</i> and the icebox chill it brings along, millions of Kashmiris ran outside at midnight, huffing and puffing, seeking forgiveness from Almighty. Attributed to a combination of our many grave sins, Modi’s impromptu Pakistan visit and the wrath of God, social media updates came thick and fast. Next morning less than 0.5 per cent of the population was up at <i>fajr</i> for prayers. Over 99 per cent slept it off.<br />
<br />
God, it is expected, shall be merciful in 2016. Hope is the step-brother of faith.<br />
<br />
© SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-12573472488049471152015-12-28T11:21:00.002+04:002015-12-29T10:06:19.213+04:00For mom(Dec 25, 1950-Dec 28, 1995)<br />
<br />
Was it effortless like your smile?<br />
<br />
Did they wake you up one last time?<br />
Or was it quick
like a burglar in the night?<br />
<br />
Was it a grim-reaper or an archangel?<br />
How many wings did it have?<br />
Did you float or glide?<br />
Was it heady like dope?<br />
<br />
Is it hot or cold beyond the stars?<br />
Do souls have footprints<br />
in the kingdom of heaven?<br />
Is it limitless hence?<br />
Are you weightless tonight?<br />
<br />
Do they let you see God<br />
from a crack in the heavens?<br />
Here, by your grave in Sopore<br />
Jasmine blooms in winter.<br />
<br />
© Sameer<br />
Her 20th anniversarySameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-29736657671272122312015-09-20T15:15:00.002+04:002015-09-20T17:15:21.067+04:00Whose martyr is this? “And the CM prays for his jannah” reads the last line of the press communiqué. That is the official elegy for the three-year old Burhan, who was killed in his father’s lap the other day in a village near Sopore. I, quite frankly, had pledged to tear myself away from whatever keeps happening in our neck of woods on a day-to-day basis and instead keep my focus entirely on some creative endeavors that I am undertaking but the senselessness of it drags you right back in. There is no escaping this.<br />
<br />
By now I’m utterly convinced that we inhabit a very broken world. Those who perhaps took a call to bump off the kid’s father might not have anticipated the new situation but the wickedness of Kashmir’s dirty wars is such that anything goes. There would be condemnations and the press will run a few stories and then it is back to square one. The debate on beef shall resume.<br />
<br />
Here is the catch though: As a society we fail to understand that something profound is happening to us. We think, Oh! As long as we are in our comfort zones — in our big brick-and-glass-homes, as long as it is some poor kid in the countryside, it is perhaps OK. Can’t happen to us, for sure. The problem with this sort of logic is profounder than what we might even anticipate. Our complacency clearly points to something deeper. At an emotional level we have ceased to be tender, to be human.<br />
<br />
It does not require telling but we need to do more than express cynicism. Yes, life must go on but what we must not fail to remember is that empathy is the most essential characteristic of a civilization. The silk carpets in our homes, our shiny new roofs or our new-found fascination for full-length beards don’t necessarily make us cultured. We must instead ask ourselves why is this happening to us, to our future?<br />
<br />
Most of this talk around ‘unidentified’ and ‘identified’ is bunkum. We are politically intelligent enough to understand who pulls the trigger. The slaughter and hard knocks have gone on for too long. And it has taken the shape of what wise people call reductio ad absurdum. How can we allow this to be carried on to such an absurd extreme? How can toddlers be allowed to become casualties in some senseless agency warfare?<br />
<br />
And then we have the gall to wish everyone ‘heaven’. Let’s not blame the CM or our pro-freedom ideologues but honestly this entire concept of martyrs at pearly gates and paradise’s milky streams has gotten a little daffy. Life is precious, especially if it is a three-year old’s and does not deserve to be snuffed out anywhere — neither on a Turkish beach nor in a Kashmiri village. Burhan must have been allowed to live and wonder. He must have been allowed to see the world, explore and make his own mark. His killing — any innocent’s killing — is not normal. It must make everyone — our political class across the board, our citizenry, everyone — intellectually and morally uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
That discomfort is humanity. Let’s not lose it.<br />
<br />
Sameer<br />
<br />
Toon: Suhail <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdW3dX2D5V1hyBc6FnJBl-83QKq_MVu2eyBfj9Hj2kD2keAlEiKCdD_cbl01tieDfOgCeZxCas3JD-we6y2MCUbvXMFnVuo44Kqa4HsDKzbwdDH3D0v2I2uAL0zmygkfe5WY9Eg/s1600/12043121_10207916858498248_212753296727132744_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdW3dX2D5V1hyBc6FnJBl-83QKq_MVu2eyBfj9Hj2kD2keAlEiKCdD_cbl01tieDfOgCeZxCas3JD-we6y2MCUbvXMFnVuo44Kqa4HsDKzbwdDH3D0v2I2uAL0zmygkfe5WY9Eg/s400/12043121_10207916858498248_212753296727132744_n.jpg" /></a>
Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-83091632135993163442015-04-01T19:19:00.000+04:002015-04-01T19:20:45.563+04:00When Nature strikes<b>Destruction, hence, like creation, is one of Nature's mandates</b>.<br />
~Marquis de Sade, French thinker<br />
<br />
Something is really the matter with our world these days. Heavens are refusing to let up. There is water everywhere in Kashmir. April used to be an utterly pleasant time, as far as I can remember, but not anymore. These days everyone and his uncle is watching over the flood gauge at Ram Munshi Bagh. Sure, there used to be rain earlier too but fear seldom prefixed Jhelum.<br />
<br />
Carrying their big black umbrellas, people used go about work gingerly in Duckback shoes in those years. You would still find laborers, with inverted burlaps on their heads, waiting to be picked up in Lal Chowk. Women would usually make razma at home, which somehow, almost magically, tasted better with hot rice and pickle, during rains. Not anymore. Looks like the idea of a romantically wet spring is lost.<br />
<br />
These days with the first hint of rainfall, everything goes under. Water has replaced CRPF men -- with twirled moustaches -- in our nightmares. May it be that we have entered into a phase of collective fear-psychosis, exacerbated by social media? Sadly one of the downers of living in information age is that bad news travels fast. Good news is like that tortoise in Aesop's Fable. Rumors run like hare in Kashmir.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately there is no Omar Abdullah to blame this time. The new dispensation stays away from social media as if it were plague. One has to make do with the good old Radio Kashmir for its calm and sedate updates about the unfolding flood situation. Apart from putting out reliable information, they play good music too. It is only during political broadcasts that something happens to them. Suddenly they become government parrots.<br />
<br />
Jokes apart, this is about serious stuff. Forget about finding faults with the government. With hardly enough money to pay salaries to its employees, where is the money to upgrade the infrastructure? Authorities do have responsibilities, loads of them, but people need to soul-search. Temperamentally we are a knee-jerk nation. In a super panic-mode right now, a month down the line, when the rains stop and situation stabilizes, everything will be conveniently forgotten.<br />
<br />
The focus -- to upgrade our disaster management system and fix the shaky infrastructure -- is likely to waver. Everyone will basically continue with making new homes, railway tracks would be cut through natural barriers, flood channels would be encroached upon, wetlands will keep shrinking, pilgrims will ride in hundreds of thousands to glaciers and sewage will continue to fill up Dal. This shall continue till it rains again and suddenly we would be jolted into thinking that we might all sink. Over again.<br />
<br />
How long shall we keep fooling ourselves? Every time I fly to Kashmir, the widespread disfiguration of its landscape astonishes me. It is a shame that hillocks in Srinagar should be blasted away to make way for more quarry sites and concrete structures should come up on ridges in the countryside. When we fell trees indiscriminately, crazily, the soil is bound to slip some day. And lo and behold, it is slipping now.<br />
<br />
Nature, for which we often pat ourselves in Kashmir, has destructive powers. The same Jhelum, our lifeline since ages, can carry away structures poorly equipped to withstand its might. Bridges, houses, trees, and cars can wash away like detritus in its ferocious waters. The erosive force can easily drag dirt from under shaky foundations. Our homes, along with our greed, can quite easily take a tumble.<br />
<br />
We must wrap our heads around the fact that we cannot afford to screw with nature because if we do that nature often has a very strong comeback. Disasters, lets not forget, are divine interventions in disguise. We, the people, are both the cause and the remedy. <br />
<br />
Lets fix us.<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-84307900082926133472015-03-12T14:53:00.000+04:002015-03-12T15:52:07.170+04:00Arnoub, Alam and other Amusements It appears that Arnoub Goswami, India’s insulter-in-chief, is getting more converts than poor Mother Teresa could ever dream of. Every single night, day after day, this outgrown schoolboy invites guests to his high-decibel show, only to put them out of countenance.<br />
<br />
One wonders if there is wisdom in accepting an invite from a somewhat bizarre host, if you know that he might spit in your coffee. Still people flock to him. Whoever said that ‘sensation’ is intoxicating must be bestowed an Order of the Night Hour.<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, the very mention of the word Kashmir sends Arnoub on a hallucinatory trip, as if he was a grumpy farmer and Kashmiris, collectively, have stolen his cow. So this past week the insulter-in-chief was besides himself, delirious with rage, because Masrat Alam, a Kashmiri separatist leader happened to complete his jail term. <br />
<br />
Along with his flunkey, a very sad-looking gentleman called Maroof, the anchor drowned his guests, as usual, in tons of pure nonsense. They got a hasgtag #ProPakCM trending on Twitter India. In the end the only take-away was this: If Arnoub has verbal diarrhea, Maroof has got mental diarrhea. <br />
<br />
Since Kashmiris have forever romanticized anything that exhibits a degree of nuisance value, his show is a hit in the valley. Recently on a press trip to the island of Cyprus, I instinctively asked the concierge if they get Times Now in the hotel. ‘What is that, sir? A monthly magazine on watches.’ <br />
<br />
I smiled at the chap, who perhaps grew up around the Mediterranean Sea, and imagined him in front of India’s judge, jury and executioner – all rolled into one. “What? You don’t know Times Now. Isn’t that an insult to 1.2 billion Indians and viewers in 57 countries? You shameless little bugger. The nation demands that you should be lynched. Right away.”<br />
<br />
Everyone watched in amusement as the anchor grilled, first a somewhat uneasy Zafar Mehraj of the PDP, and then Haseeb Drabu, J&K’s Fin Min, the next day. Both gentlemen tried to reason, unsuccessfully, with a man who has built an edifice of bullshit and who regularly talks down to people from its putrid balconies. <br />
<br />
It is almost comical how he pontificates unsuspecting people not to get ‘worked up’ after launching a tirade against them. It is akin to someone dragging the ‘freedom of expression’ by its pigtails to the attic and molesting both freedom and expression, while a highly aroused audience watches on. Like reality TV on Viagra. Only that the host himself is a dick here.<br />
<br />
As if we didn’t have a million worries already, now we have an ex-top cop, known for his notorious policing ways, saying that he was asked to ‘bump off’ Masrat way back in 2010. Strangely, the busy handle that just doesn’t stop tweeting, has fallen silent since yesterday. Let’s just hope, for the sake of <i>Dastageer</i>, that the Nuisance Merchant at Times Now doesn’t speak before our ex-CM does.<br />
<br />
Sameer<br />
@Mini blogsSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-69020499398878484002015-02-27T15:27:00.002+04:002015-02-27T15:27:34.349+04:00Love in the times of swine fluThese days nothing much happens to the liking of Kashmiris. There is swine flu in Srinagar and no one has a clue why. If that is not a worry big enough, those juvenile Pakistani cricketers are not helping with their lousy performance Down Under. Anxiety levels are up. For the first time ever – since Kalhana wrote Rajtarangni – more people are buying tobacco than mutton. This is bloody alarming.<br />
<br />
Disappointment comes to Kashmir like Omar Abdullah’s tweets. Those thousands upon thousands who defied old boy Geelani, the padre of resistance, and came out in droves to vote during pre-winter assembly elections, were faced with a big downer aka fractured mandate. In a major what-the-hell scenario, they were to soon learn that Mufti Mohammad Sayed, the ageing groom from Bijbehara, is to take Narendra Damodardas Modi of Vadnagar, in a political marriage. <br />
<br />
No, Modi’s sense of fashion didn’t steal any hearts here (he scores self-goals on that count anyway by wearing silly pinstriped dresses); it was the months-long courtship that surprised everyone. While everyone tried to discourage Mufti and Co from wooing the wrong set of people and notwithstanding some serious trolling by Omar, nothing could stop the inevitable. The wedlock has happened. In a few days we will have the PDP walking down the aisle with BJP. <br />
<br />
In a comical anticlimax of sorts, the same mademoiselle, who was supposed bring bad luck to the household, became the bride. Kashmiris, by and large, are witnessing the celebrations with a ring of consternation and amusement. When I asked a senior PDP neta over phone the main reason for this liaison, pat came the reply: ‘Marriage is the only war in which you sleep with the enemy’. One cannot completely disagree with the wisdom, at least figuratively. <br />
<br />
True the two creatures – PDP and BJP -- have very little in common (South Pole and North Pole, confesses the groom). While the former peddles a mild strain of soft-separatism in Kashmir, the latter has a pan-India presence, thanks largely due to a very shrill form of nationalism that is somewhat antithetical to all things <i>Hum Kya Chatey</i>. It would be interesting to see how, and by what alchemy, will Mufti Sayed manage this alliance. After all persuading Kashmiris to dip the nib of their collective fate in saffron ink (incidentally in a green inkpot) is no mean feat.
<br />
<br />
Coming back to the wedding, ofcourse like all weddings in the subcontinent there is an exchange of dowry, give-aways and largess involved in this one too. In plain speak it is called quid pro quo. Basically both the bride and the groom have agreed to behave and shall not bitch about each other (and the in-laws) on complicated stuff like Article 370, AFSPA and the like. Self-rule and other such romantic talk will be considered kid stuff henceforth.<br />
<br />
The famous Kashmiri custom of flattery is expected to kick in any day now. Muzzafar Baig, who once unsuccessfully attempted to save Maqbool Bhat from the gallows, has already started quoting Syama Prasad Mukherjee, the founder of Jan Sangh. Who would have thought that those promising us autonomy and self-rule would one day deliver sermons in the name of those who would deny us those very freedoms?<br />
<br />
Meanwhile having perfected the art of not speaking out of turn, unlike his detractors who talk nineteen to a dozen, Mufti will –- in all probability -- try to recreate that Midas touch, variously called healing touch, that he is famed for. Now that he has trucked with an incredibly influential set of people, one should expect some of the dowry to be used in our neighborhoods.<br />
<br />
Known to throw lavish wazwans, where local journalists are also invited, Mufti has finally ascended the throne that evaded him all along. Even as guests struggle to dichotomize<i> tabakmaz</i> at his grand feast, the wizard of Bijbehara will have little respite. He shall constantly be on the look, cautiously tiptoeing the jungle, making sure that the witches and werewolves on prowl don’t mix his drinks. <br />
<br />
If Amit Shah be the djinn, Mufti is the peer.<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-15690090198172300292015-01-21T09:42:00.002+04:002015-01-21T09:42:49.263+04:00Elegy for a bridge<b>It has been 25 years since the massacre on Srinagar’s Gaw Kadal, one of Kashmir’s worst human rights violations</b><br />
<br />
<i>You are an afternoon,</i><br />
<i>a memory that hangs together, </i><br />
<i>a half-eaten pear,
a winter, </i><br />
<i>a chopped off arm </i><br />
<i>and a healthy stray dog chomping off that arm. </i><br />
<i>Nobody can eat winter like a pear. </i><br />
<i>Nobody can live inside a pear like winter. </i><br />
<i>You are a dying voice drowned by a shout “Don’t waste your bullet. I’ve pumped enough rounds into his body. He’ll die on his own”.</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>G</b>aw Kadal is a small bridge that leads you to the fashionable Residency Road in the heart of Srinagar. A small strait from Jhelum flows beneath it. Street vendors sell dry fish on the bridge during winters. Shikaras, laden with collards or haak, Kashmir’s staple diet, can be seen anchored below the bridge as people and auto rickshaws scurry past. There used to be an old world feel to Gaw Kadal’s balustrades, trusses and curbs. Although much water has flown between its decrepit pillars, the memories of what happened on this bridge -- this day -- on a cold winter morning, 25 years ago, refuse to go away. Memories, like wood, seldom sink.<br />
<br />
Sure quarter of a century is a long time. Democracies are usually good at wearing make up and going about town in the hope that people disremember. It would be a shame if we fail to bear witness to what happened to our neighbours, our friends and those who perished at Gaw Kadal. For the dead and the living, we must bear witness, the Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel, whom the Nobel committee called ‘a messenger to mankind’, once said.<br />
<br />
Why did the Indian paramilitary forces kill those innocent people on the small bridge that cold January morning? Fifty people, all civilians, wearing pherans and holding kangris, innocent. Killed at point blank by the CRPF. There could be many answers. The cop version, the CRPF version and the standard government press note (I often wonder the press note guy must keep his heart with devil for safekeeping while he peddles all those lies). The issue with truth, however, is that it shines through all interpretations.<br />
<br />
Early that morning people had been anxious about reports of nighttime raids conducted by the CRPF in several areas of Srinagar on the preceding night (January 20, 1990). Close to 300 ordinary people were detained in these operations, most of them innocent. In areas like Chota Bazar, reports came that the paramilitary forces misbehaved with women in some homes. There was a pattern to it. The harassment and intimidation appeared part of a new government policy to break the spirit of Kashmiris.<br />
<br />
The newly elected governor of J&K, Jagmohan, a well-known communal character, had recently been dispatched to Srinagar to break the uprising that enjoyed popular support. Soon an atmosphere of fear was introduced, which started with humiliating crackdown operations and ended in a systematic brutalisation of an entire population. Those poor men, who marched to Gaw Kadal that afternoon, protesting against house-to-house searches in Chota Bazar and adjoining areas, had no idea what was to befall them. No efforts were made to stop the march until it reached Gaw Kadal. Once they got to the bridge, bullets swiftly cut them down.<br />
<br />
The historian William Dalrymple, who visited Srinagar the next day wrote about the horror thus: “When I got to Srinagar the following day, I went straight to the city hospital. Every bed there was occupied and the overflow lined the corridors. One man, an educated and urbane city engineer named Farooq Ahmed, described how after the firing, the CRPF walked slowly forward across the bridge, finishing off those who were lying wounded on the ground. When the shooting began, Ahmed had fallen flat on his face and managed to escape completely unhurt. “Just as I was about to get up,” he told me, “I saw soldiers coming forward, shooting anyone who was injured. Someone pointed at me and shouted, ‘that man is alive,’ and a soldier began firing at me with a machine gun. I was hit four times in the back and twice in the arms.” Seeing that he was still alive, another soldier raised his gun, but the officer told him not to waste ammunition. “The man said I would anyway die soon.”<br />
<br />
The engineer lived to tell the tale. There were several other eyewitnesses to the massacre who recounted the brutality and horror of what happened on the bridge. Through psychological bruises, they spoke of the torment, of having to recall what could have been their end. Suddenly Gaw Kadal stopped being a wooden bridge. In the mental landscape of countless, it transformed into a memorial. It became a totem of the occupation. It began to be identified with everything that India represented in Kashmir.<br />
<br />
The incident sent shockwaves across the valley. In the wicked sense of humor that Kashmiris are famous for, Jagmohan quickly became ‘Jage-Khor’ (the baldie), an ugly cartoonish caricature in big, thick glasses, who wanted to punish the entire classroom because a few kids in the back said boo. Of course he couldn’t break the spirit of people, forget about taming it. The resolve may appear weary after all these years but aspirations have been known to outlive cartoons and bridges.<br />
<br />
“How many bridges do you have in Srinagar?” a friend asked me in London recently. It used to be the city of several bridges, I replied, while walking with him on the Millennium Bridge that links Bankside with the City of London. There used to be seven or perhaps nine bridges that connected the Srinagar city of our childhood. Unsure of which bridge to cross and which bridge to burn, they marked some with ugly sand bunkers and others with the red of our blood. The Londoner thought I was being philosophical. The truth is that the recent history of our bridges (and rivers) is full of unspeakable crimes.<br />
<br />
No one was ever punished for the Gaw Kadal massacre. Twenty-five years on, no one has been charged. No CRPF walla, none of the authorities who issued the orders, not the top cop Allah Baksh (who passed away a few years ago) and of course, not Jagmohan, the venal governor, whiling his time away in comfort, perhaps content at 90 to initiate a policy that sent 15-year olds to graves.<br />
<br />
Gaw Kadal stands as a silent testament to the depravation of Kashmir’s brutal oppression.<br />
<br />
@SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-19487036182083484242015-01-08T09:49:00.000+04:002015-03-15T16:12:25.839+04:00How to avenge a cartoon?You can’t possibly avenge a cartoon. You can’t take vengeance at visual art. That is because no one can physically fight an idea, however ugly, however profane, and however sacrilegious.<br />
<br />
Yes, we do feel offended. Humans are programmed that way. But here in lies the rub. The moment you feel provoked, you allow all the crazy, provocative arguments to make sense. That is any rabble rouser’s dream come true.<br />
<br />
Islam is a faith that straddles the entire planet. It requires no character certificates from anyone. On TV or Twitter. If some nutcase Muslim or a section of them continue to behave like psychopaths -- with blood on their minds – the stereotype only gets emboldened.<br />
<br />
Should your faith be so frail that a cartoonist’s curved lines must shake it? Should the great God of Adam and Moses and Jesus and Muhammad want you to draw first blood because a little known, trashy, weekly mag, somewhere in Paris lampoons the divine? That would be a very narrow, fragile understanding of faith itself.<br />
<br />
The truth is that we inhabit a crazy world. Freedom is like a hooker that is not available to all. Ideally there should be reasonable limits to what passes as freedom but since nothing is deemed sacred anymore, we need not fret or blow ourselves up. There is a virtue called tolerance. Quran talks about it quite a bit.<br />
<br />
It is an incredible tool because not only does it insulate us from ignorance, tolerance often leads to real emancipation. It allows us to fight ideas with counter ideas, greater ideas, and greater art. If you are tolerant, you will -- in all probability -- not get multiple orgasms at these calls of baying for blood.<br />
<br />
Killing someone because you dislike his or her version of the story, however gross, however repugnant, is a moral defeat of our own viewpoint. We must debate and express our opinions, vociferously. The right to feel irate is all too human. We must outrage when we feel slandered and offended but the answer should never be sword. It must always be the pen.<br />
<br />
History, and the course of it, is always about ideas.<br />
<br />
Peace<br />
<br />
SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-2686094102311710912015-01-07T16:18:00.000+04:002015-01-07T16:18:17.536+04:00There is a new Pasha on FairviewWho would have thought that the BJP, known to most Kashmiris as Jan Sanghis before the advent of satellite TV, would one day come to form the government in Srinagar? It would seem beyond question that the same BJP, called by the PDP as ‘foreigners’ in TV debates (perhaps to score quick brownies) during election time has now transformed into a lovely bride, wearing saffron earrings. PDP, ofcourse being the prospective groom.<br />
<br />
God knows Muzzi Beg, Drabu and Co could be gearing up for <i>dastar poshi</i>, as we get ready for the big fat Kashmiri wedding. Don’t be surprised if a certain Mevlana Gun Joo Rumi, who used to teach philosophy in another age, is seen dancing in the wedding party. Politics, especially the flighty variety practiced in Kashmir, can be nutty as fruitcake.<br />
<br />
If Syed Ali Geelani is the big Peer of the freedom-loving generation, Mufti Sayed is no little Peer. In his 80s, the prodigal from Bijbehara is all set to be anointed as the valley’s new majesty. All his active life – in various political avatars and combinations – the elusive high chair played hide and seek with him. No more. It is time to glue him to it.<br />
<br />
In between Mufti did manage to crown himself for three brief years, which was never going to be enough. For a man of his ambition, who is always well-turned out, wearing immaculate Sacoor suits even in <i>Chillay Kalan</i> and someone who spent a lifetime doing maths of getting to the top, three years is loose change. Kashmir needs a new healing touch and Mufti is the Midas.<br />
<br />
For years old boy Geelani taunted the mainstreamers, calling them ‘daily wagers’ of New Delhi. While it hurt them in private, publicly they put up a brave face, attempting to reverse-mock Geelani, calling him an agent of Islamabad.The mainstreamers were however left with little excuse when Geelani began blasting Pakistan too, not too long ago, accusing it of over-passing the Kashmir cause.<br />
<br />
It was in this context that pro-India parties began flirting with the idea of soft-separatism. While they would never enunciate the <i>Azadi</i> word in TV debates, occasional mouth-honor would be accorded to issues like AFSPA et al. When a certain General (now a federal minister) let the cat out of the bag last year, saying the mainstreamers in Kashmir are on army’s payrolls, everyone cried foul but no one had the balls to impeach him. So much for tokenism!<br />
<br />
In the winter of 2015, the mighty National Conference of Sheri-Kashmir is discombobulated. Down to 15 seats, it is all but finished in large parts. The most Omar Abdullah, the erstwhile <i>Czar of Gupkar</i>, can do to salvage his honor is to taunt the <i>Pasha of Fairview</i> on Twitter. While it may have irked the PDP spokesperson somewhat, expect Mufti to stay unruffled and calm, holding cards close to his chest. Amit Shah or Saifuddin Soz, you never know how the Pasha will play his hand!<br />
<br />
At the appointed hour, when soothsayers and Peers say that time is ripe and the stars are in perfect alignment, the groom shall wear one of his smart suits and a tie (done in Windsor knot to rub it in Abdullahs, proper).<br />
<br />
Barkha Butt will be air dropped on a <i>shikara</i> at night, somewhere near Dal, where she will hold fort with nothing but a solitary <i>Kangri</i> and Nazir Masoodi's smirk. Her guests will be hauled from their <i>hammams</i> and a midnight debate shall ensue.<br />
<br />
Mufti Mohamad Sayed would step out of Fairview to be the 9th CM of J&K.<br />
<br />
Till then, lets just eat Harisa and stay calm.<br />
<br />
@SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-82951944216964785922014-11-27T12:00:00.000+04:002014-12-30T12:05:43.229+04:00Lay thy finger thus<b>Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed</b><br />
—Othello, Act 2, Scene 1<br />
William Shakespeare<br />
<br />
The die has been cast. Inked fingers are fashionable in Kashmir now. Another matter it feels like we are fingering our own memories, which unfortunately are short-lived.<br />
<br />
So the high priestess of Indian TV, Madame Barkha Dutt, has declared the elections a success. In the television mumbo-jumbo that TV anchors are usually good at, she called it ‘a thaw in the winter chill’ or some related smart crack. Squatting on a <i>dastar-khawan</i> with a few copper <i>tramis</i> laden with <i>wazwan</i>, there was a celebratory ring to her show. It had an artsy feel, complete with vapours rising from the food. Nazir Masoodi's self-control on such occasions must be appreciated.<br />
<br />
The participants included Karan Singh’s son, with all the silk in his family heirloom, bound around his neck, and stuffed in his pockets and a KP film-maker (God knows what he has made) in an ill-fitting jacket and huge shirt collars. There was an elegant professor also. PDP’s spokesperson, draped in a black shawl, looked like a wise sage, who knows that success is near. Ofcourse the NC spokesperson, an old pal of mine, tried to sound intuitive but came across as a sailor who knows the storm is fierce and his ship is doomed.<br />
<br />
In another space, another channel (I watch them in clutches on Youtube when I have a moment) the rabid Arnoub had assembled (as usual) a dozen people, none of whom he allowed to speak. Going a step further than Barkha, he announced the total rejection of separatism, now that Bandipora has voted 75% and the dawn of a new era in Kashmir. God knows where he wriggled the old fogey Hashim Qureshi from. Since the host has institutionalized the idea of being seriously a joke and a farce at the same time, he easily wasted another 60 minutes of the nation. In an ideal world they would put him in a rehab.<br />
<br />
As the season of absurd continues, the vote frenzy has climaxed. Kashmir is very cold around this time and usually boring. Elections, the spectacle that it is, infuse some life into these drab settings. With the BJP rocking the show in the centre, Madison Square Garden and elsewhere, it appears that Modi’s star is on the ascendency. Flush with victory after another victory, he has already announced that India is where stem cell gyaan originated. Taking a clue, his minions are now saying Vedic India (1750–1000 BCE) had helicopters. Obviously by that logic Kashmir straight away belongs to Mohan Bhagwat’s RSS.<br />
<br />
I reckon Kashmiris, being politically sharp if somewhat humbug, decided to spoil the party for the BJP. The generic political wisdom is that Jammu and its sphere of influence is under a spell of Modi and his jinn, the crazy as fox, Amit Shah, so lets join ranks and make sure that the saffron ghouls don’t come here in their Vedic drones. The overwhelming sentiment after Round 1, journalist friends inform, is that this indiscretion in the winter chill is not seen as disrespect to old boy Geelani. No way! If he wrote a book of calligraphy, tomorrow, and called it <i>The Delicate Art of Defiance</i>, by God, it will sell like hot cakes. But today people are simply in a mood to vote.<br />
<br />
Sameer
Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-20995262936958297392014-11-17T11:55:00.000+04:002014-12-30T11:58:24.056+04:00Mehboob Ki MehndiLast night Mehboob Beg abandoned the ship. Perhaps hindsight is a good thing but Mirza Afzal Beg’s son didn’t wait for hindsight to dawn on him. Instead he dumped Omar. Like he had dumped Dr Farooq in the past to put Gul Shah on the throne. Then mysteriously he made up with doctor sahib and was politically rehabilitated.<br />
<br />
His father, the legendary Mirza Afzal Beg, was Shiekh Abdullah’s lieutenant for decades, and was often hailed as <i>Fakhr-e-Kashmir</i>. He presided over the Plebiscite Front (Ah, how many times have we flirted with this darned Azadi business!) and was the legal brain behind the famous Indira-Sheikh accord.<br />
<br />
Beg senior was sent to jail along with Sher-i-Kashmir in the infamous Kashmir conspiracy case. When the Sheikh was allowed to perform Hajj in 1965, he took two people along -- his wife, Begum Abdullah and Afzal Beg. Well all that is history now. In a hurriedly-called press conference yesterday, the NC called Beg junior a chameleon. Politics, they say, is colorful business. People change affiliations like a baby’s diapers.<br />
<br />
Here is a clutch of Gupkar conversation from last night that we managed to pick up from our palace sources. It had to be brief because some BSF walla, stationed outside Omar’s villa, went mad this morning and started shooting at ducks in the compound.<br />
<br />
A big black rotary dial telephone, without lettering on the finger wheel, comes alive. Sheikh Abdullah used it once to make calls to Nehru. It has become fashionable to abuse Nehru in Delhi these days. Sheikh’s grave needs to be protected in Srinagar by men in uniform with carbines.<br />
<br />
The phone rings. Omar, a cross between looking glum and tickled, takes the call.<br />
<br />
OA: Yes, dad, it is true. What do you mean how true? <br />
<br />
Doc: <i>Faan ha karov atey saersi</i>.<br />
<br />
OA: Talk in English or Urdu, dad. What is <i>Faan</i>?<br />
<br />
Doc: <i>Kihi na.</i> It is the Muftis, I know.<br />
<br />
OA: Why blame them? It is our deadwood.<br />
<br />
Doc: <i>Haya potra</i> if we lose men at this rate, soon it will be you and Nasir alone left in the party.<br />
<br />
OA: Mehboob wanted to be a hero.<br />
<br />
Doc: Hero, my foot! What is happening in Beeroh (Beerwah). Put a pheran on and visit Beeroh daily, booztha.<br />
<br />
OA: I tweet daily, dad.<br />
<br />
Doc: <i>Haya</i> only journalists read your tweets.<br />
<br />
OA: Mehboob was bad-mouthing them till Saturday.<br />
<br />
Doc: Beg calls Mufti a ‘visionary’. <i>Jigar ha dodum</i>. It was like a dagger in the bosom.<br />
<br />
OA: We are the only and the oldest nationalistic party. They can’t possibly take us on.<br />
<br />
Doc: <i>Haya</i> Sheikh Ghulam Rasool <i>tya nivok. Kuni na rood na kah</i>.<br />
<br />
OA: You know dad I was joking with Devender last night that they have Ashiq and Mehboob both.<br />
<br />
Doc: You think it is funny! That Devender’s brother is BJP’s CM aspirant.<br />
<br />
OA: You trusted Karan Singh’s son Ajatshatru. He is also supping with the devil.<br />
<br />
Doc: <i>Hay kus tavan</i>.<br />
<br />
OA: Electoral politics, dad. PDP's time perhaps.<br />
<br />
Doc: It should be <i>Al-bain</i> always. <br />
<br />
OA: Let Mufti yield the broom.<br />
<br />
Doc: <i>Kursi </i>is important. <br />
<br />
OA: Now what?<br />
<br />
Doc: Make sure no one takes the leader of the opposition kursi from you.<br />
<br />
@SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-52499070870774781432014-10-03T21:52:00.000+04:002016-03-15T15:26:27.820+04:00Haider: Shakespeare in SrinagarHaider suffers from a fundamental flaw. It attempts to marry the Kashmir narrative to Hamlet, a famous play by William Shakespeare. The Bard’s play (written between 1599-1602) is about ‘revenge’ while Kashmir, any dispassionate observer will tell you, is essentially about ‘aspiration’. Whilst it is sincere, even daring, of Vishal Bhardwaj to make a very different film, I reckon he may have ended up confounding it. Hamlet is a revenge saga. Haider has revenge as a recurring theme running for most parts. Kashmiris seek no retribution. Ask any random Kashmiri. It was and always has been about aspirations.<br />
<br />
I had a lump in my throat when they showed naked men being brutally tortured in Srinagar’s infamous incarceration centers. Waves of young men have been through that torment; those godawful times when spelling out the word ‘Freedom’ meant you had to undergo third-degree. Democracy has its moods, you see. Times have changed. Kashmiris are now writing furious books. The problem is that audiences in India do not consume much literature. They consume movies. That is why Haider becomes important. It rewinds us back to the dark 90s and the political intrigue at play during those days. <br />
<br />
Given that Bollywood usually ends up making trashy films around Kashmir, Haider indeed sets the bar a notch higher. It has its strong points and a number of weaknesses. The story drags at times but captivates you in equal parts. Dreary skies and a silent snowfall, captured almost poetically, transports you smack to countryside Kashmir. Watch it for lovely cinematography; watch it for the Kashmiri accented Urdu and English words (deliberate, beautifully delivered) and some powerful acting. <br />
<br />
Kashmiri peculiarities, like our accents and the way a majority of us speak English and even Hindi/Urdu has been nicely outlined. Vishal has captured the oddity that a lot of non-Kashmiris may not notice – our emphasis on Vs and Ds for instance -- when talking in the Queen’s language. Shraddha Kapoor, playing Shahid’s love interest, effectively conveys this when she says lo-V-ed (with an emphasis on V), much to the delight of her lover and the Kashmiri audiences. This requires a keen ear. Her unearthly crooning of a Kashmiri folk song in the snow, towards the end, is equally poignant.<br />
<br />
Tabu is a class apart. She reprises the role of Gertrude powerfully. The turbulent relationship with her son Haider, who resents her for falling for his uncle Khurram (Kay Kay in a career best performance) after he conspired to have his Tehreek- loving brother ‘disappear’ has been beautifully handled. There is an undertone of Oedipus complex and a subtle erotic tension between the mother and son, which surely is part of Hamlet, but could have been easily done away while dealing with a sensitive topic like half-widows.<br />
<br />
Not a masterpiece by any stretch of imagination but a sincere effort. Never before has a film of such intensity been attempted on Kashmir by Bollywood, so this is definitely a first. As long as the medium of movies – in this case Haider -- initiates a dialogue about the dark secrets of democracy – custodial killings, disappearances, half-widows – I am all for it. There indeed is a danger of compartmentalizing the tragedy of Kashmir into neat boxes of human rights abuse and harsh laws like AFSPA. In some scenes the film adds nothing new with its standard Bollywood-style pontification to the gumrah natives.<br />
<br />
There are several compelling moments in the film though. Haider’s thoughtful conversation in a single-shot frame with his mother leaves you shifty; there is a hauntingly surreal scene at the clock tower in Lal Chowk, Srinagar’s focal point. A power-packed dialogue – at once philosophical and abstract -- in which Haider weighs the moral ramifications of living and dying is insanely real. Comparing death to sleep, he talks about the end to suffering and uncertainty it might bring, paraphrasing the iconic Shakespearean adage: To be, or not to be: that is the question.<br />
<br />
Curiously the protagonist uses the word chutzpah at key points in Haider. Vishal – or Basharat may be – has smartly inserted the Hebrew word to reflect a double entendre – or a double-edged sword – depending upon how you see it. Chutzpah rhymes with both AFSPA and a common Hindi profanity. Since Kashmir is often likened to a paradox, wedged dangerously between two nuclear-armed nations, the film-maker appears to draw attention to the tomfoolery of it all. Ironically they get it wrong. Chutzpah is pronounced Khutz-pah with K.<br />
<br />
The confusion prevails. No pièce de résistance this. A very good film.<br />
<br />
@Sameer <br />
<br />
PS: You can safely ignore the cynics and morally f*** up Twitter nationalists.Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-85266966015353526832014-07-20T15:14:00.000+04:002014-07-20T17:56:04.313+04:00Four boys on a beach<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wGkEMjqreRLwRqu0rQrLFVS7HGBVPMA4PT3xG4Jy75okznnVPAN2dMT4O2Yj-TMX1Mbr-tyur9u_e9LxqFGOXPE0rQnXXZDeabCke1Hsydah5U-zq1K5wWLVm9_fYACtmUEcNQ/s1600/10427276_10153006501114992_7716946946491083694_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wGkEMjqreRLwRqu0rQrLFVS7HGBVPMA4PT3xG4Jy75okznnVPAN2dMT4O2Yj-TMX1Mbr-tyur9u_e9LxqFGOXPE0rQnXXZDeabCke1Hsydah5U-zq1K5wWLVm9_fYACtmUEcNQ/s400/10427276_10153006501114992_7716946946491083694_n.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A </span>sea has no roof<br />
whither warning bombs knock<br />
<br />
Just fisherfolk digging happiness<br />
upon sands of time<br />
<br />
Beaches of Gaza<br />
with no Iron Domes<br />
<br />
Only shore-fulls of sea shell<br />
with sea secrets in them<br />
<br />
Merging point
of waves<br />
and four little boys<br />
<br />
Running on spindly legs<br />
after a soft white ball<br />
<br />
Upon small smooth pebbles<br />
carried by the tide<br />
<br />
Near a stubborn sea<br />
where fishing is a crime<br />
<br />
Leaning against sky<br />
toes deep in sand<br />
<br />
Whisper whisping<br />
chasing a tattered ball<br />
<br />
Birds, like bumble bees<br />
chirruping on their breath<br />
<br />
Suddenly a sea storm<br />
and drumfire from hell<br />
<br />
Like sea burnt wood<br />
legs bent at odd angles<br />
<br />
Pirates drawn by laughter<br />
horridly asphyxiating happiness<br />
<br />
The ball and the beach exist<br />
only the boys don't<br />
<br />
Sameer<br />
<br />
<br />
Tribute to Mohammed 9, Ahed 10, Zakaria 10, and Mohammed Bakr 11, the four boys killed on the beach in Gaza on July 16, 2014.
<br />
<br />
The art work is by Jerusalem-based Amir Schiby who has generously allowed me to use the image.Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-41027805526833369142014-03-27T18:56:00.002+04:002014-03-27T19:52:35.352+04:00Twelve hours in Bombay: A photo feature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdfy5tvT-Lb9k2brnG3n8FLZ1D7yN34Yr7Ysh-tjchAVUdU1-ns_nd9-Nn5exns3bZYaZpwbQW4PPxPNR2SF8T-sA1Dl1EphyphenhyphenJn_-ogANHeNV9JaQG5NFb9dYdImnnMB04xzFwA/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdfy5tvT-Lb9k2brnG3n8FLZ1D7yN34Yr7Ysh-tjchAVUdU1-ns_nd9-Nn5exns3bZYaZpwbQW4PPxPNR2SF8T-sA1Dl1EphyphenhyphenJn_-ogANHeNV9JaQG5NFb9dYdImnnMB04xzFwA/s1600/1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b></b> <span style="font-size: x-small;">(Click on the picture to enlarge)</span><br />
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<b><b></b></b><br />
<div style="display: inline !important;">
<b><b><b>Café Moshe’s</b></b></b><br />
<b><b><b><br /></b></b></b></div>
<b><b>
</b></b></div>
<b>
</b>
With its mauve sunshade, Café Moshe’s in Juhu has a snuggled down feel to it. Founded by Moshe Shek, a
Bombay-based Jew, in 2004, the café has a distinct European feel to it.
With big glass windows, dark furniture, wooden flooring, patio and a high
ceiling, you could be forgiven for thinking that you have hopped into a
little Parisian coffee shop. The whole bakery smells scrumptious but the
thing to die for is Moshe's baked Philadelphia cheesecake. Yes, it is a
million calories. It is decadent too but your taste buds will enjoy this sweet orgy. No Jewish conspiracy here.<br />
<br />
<u>Menu of the day:</u><br />
Muffin<br />
Egg to order<br />
Croissant<br />
Pancakes<br />
Toasties<br />
Sandwiches<br />
Beverages (Hot & Cold)<br />
<br />
***<br />
<div>
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<div>
<br />
<b>St Joseph’s connection</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Aamir
Khan and Rahul Gandhi vie for billboard space in South Bombay. While
the latter has got nothing but his dimples to fight Modi, the former is weeping copious tears these days on his
hit-on-social-conscience show Satyamev Jayate. If you perchance
missed the inconspicuous St. Jospeh’s High School sign in the
billboard litter, that is the oldest school in Juhu. Founded in 1905,
the institution shares its origins with St. Joseph’s Higher Secondary
School, Baramulla (founded 1905). Both schools have their own churches
and graveyards. Faith takes death seriously.<br />
<br />
***</div>
<div>
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<br />
<br />
<b>Hole in the wall</b><br />
<br />
Bombay has a million hole-in-the wall mini shops. This one sells everything from beedi to cigarettes and betel leaves (Paan) in a tony part of the city. If you wish to make a phone call and do not have a
phone, look no further than the quintessential next door cubby hole. You will also get a free tip on how to do a quick <i>jugaad</i> to
balance your rickety plastic chair.<br />
<br />
<br />
***</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div>
<br />
<b>The very important syndrome</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Last
summer when I was in London I saw the British PM David Cameroon
arrive at the Westminster on a silver and black Scott bicycle. A few
days back while driving to work I instantly noticed the G63 AMG
Mercedes-Benz in front of me had a unique license plate number: 1. Over here everyone knows that’s the ruler of Dubai. Out of curiosity I
changed track and sped up to see who was in the driver’s seat. Indeed it was His Highness, driving all alone. No paraphernalia. The electronic reminder to the hoi polloi in Bombay however said it all: VVIP
Visit Today, Traffic Regulated. Inspite of its Kejriwals India’s boorish VIP culture in public
governance refuses to go away.<br />
<br />
***</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
<br />
<b>Back rubs, anyone</b><br />
<br />
One
quick gimmick that marketers have correctly learnt in recent years is
that modern life is quite stressful. Working on this knowledge, a plethora of massage centers have sprung up
all over Bombay. Like mushrooms. You come across signposts on run-down
buses, disfigured walls, tree-trunks and corrugated tin-fences offering
relaxing, natural, authentic, Thai, Tantric and a motley other massages.
There is a phone number provided. Note: It has a shady ring to it, if you know what I mean.<br />
<br />
***</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="text-align: center;"><b>The Don’s den</b></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Amitabh Bachchan is the single biggest cultural export of India. Singlehandedly he epitomises
the country’s soft power status. Naturally his home is a shrine to
millions. If you are new to Bombay and the cabbie detects that,
he will most likely point out the magnificent Bachchan villa on the Juhu
Tara Road to you. Called ‘Jalsa’ (roughly meeting/gathering in Urdu but
I was told it means fun and pleasure also), the 10,000 sq ft property
has attained the status of a Bombay icon. Every Sunday, the guards told
me, hundreds of people stand outside the gate to catch a glimpse of
their superstar, who makes it a point to step out for a while to wave at
the gathering. Now it begins to make sense, Jalsa: gathering. Only
Bachchan knows the meaning but one dare not ask him on Twitter. His
tweets often come laced with strange numbers and humdrum.<br />
<br />
***</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Boot polish</b><br />
<br />
There
was a time when films with protagonists working as shoe-shiners were big hits. Raj Kapoor-produced Boot-polish in 1954 won acclaim at
Cannes and the Filmfare Awards but the era of 'lived-happily-ever-after' is over. Frankly the existence of shoe-shiners had lapsed in my mind
(blame it on my overseas years) until I stumbled across one. Clad in a loose-fitting collar-less shirt, the
shoe-shiner went about his job in the most diligent manner possible,
unruffled by the din around him. I
thought of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva (ex President of Brazil), Alejandro
Toledo (former Peruvian President) and Malcolm X (famed human rights
activist). All of them had been shoe-shine boys.<br />
<br />
***</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Pomfret by the beach</b><br />
<br />
You risk the chance of being branded a bummer if you go on the sea shore and come back without
having seafood. Perched on the Juhu beach, Mahesh Lunch Home is the most
authentic Manglorean seafood eatery in Mumbai. It serves
the most delicious crabs, prawn gassi and black promfret curries in town. The USP
is home-style food. However if you are into star-gazing (which I am
not), you might bump into one of the film-stars. The Kapoors and Bachchans
(who live nearby) are regulars.
Brightly lit, Mahesh Lunch Home has a relaxed feel and attentive staff.
They have something called Clams Kashmir also. I reckon, clams are
non-Kosher/non-Halal, though I am not entirely sure.<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<b>Filmi connection</b><br />
<br />
The
Maximum city has a very strong connect with the film industry. Although
Mumbai’s train of thought criss-crosses through planet Bollywood, there
is little comparison between the teeming masses and the industry's perfumed
gaggle. Bollywood is essentially ruled by a gang of
two dozen or more people. They are super-rich and comprise of the
A-list of actors, producers, musicians, directors et al. Rest are the
sub-cast, the also-rans. As a journalist I often get to go and meet up
the best film folk. Yes, they smell fragrant and look beautiful and talk
in a cultured, clipped manner but you don’t have to even look hard to detect that
there is no soul in this enchanted world. Glamour, I daresay, is spurious.<br />
Never meet your heroes, guys.<br />
<br />
Sameer</div>
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-10006397665815447812013-12-31T13:28:00.002+04:002013-12-31T15:57:27.826+04:00An ode to 2013<b>A</b>s December limps its way to oblivion, the timber of our deeds doesn’t smell all that great. The year has been a mixed bag. Just two months into the new year India hanged Afzal Guru, a Kashmiri prisoner languishing in Delhi’s notorious Tihar jail for 12 long years thereby satisfying the collective conscience of the nation, variously defined by sociologists as a massive bout of jingoistic orgy. Many thought the incumbent Congress government took the surprising step to dent the BJP’s blood baying calls and reap electoral gains in the run up to elections. While it did perhaps subside the Hindu right wing’s din of ‘Kill him, Kill him’, the electoral benefits that the ruling dispensation were seeking didn’t come. In fact the Congress party got reduced to rubble, mostly because of their own incompetence. The dead can jinx you from inside the tomb. Can’t they?<br />
<br />
Come summer, Afzal was conveniently forgotten and it was time for music. There were heated arguments and much commentary on whether Kashmir was ready for an orchestra when the issue of mass graves and other serious matters like AFSPA were still unresolved. However Messrs Omar Abdullah and his golfer-turned-gobar-gas-minister-turned-Beethoven-lover dad Dr Farooq would have none of it. Along with a rather obdurate German ambassador Michael Steiner, displaying amazing skills of diplomatic over-reach, the concert was made possible on the same day the CRPF killed four people in Shopian. Zubin Mehta later sheepishly told a TV channel that he was sorry that people felt agitated because some of them were not allowed into the Shalimar garden. Next time, he vowed, it will be in a stadium and ‘<i>mufat, mufat</i>’ (Free, free) for all. No one told poor Zubin uncle that we didn’t bury a hundred thousand people to gate-crash at his concert <i>‘mufat’</i>.<br />
<br />
As autumn leaves began to fall, in strode Narendra Modi, the Hindu Hriday Samrath, grey beard perfectly clipped, hair transplanted and waxed in a halo, neat enough to hide a little pogrom in it. Looking keen in rimless glasses that his spin doctors insist he should wear at all times to give him that educated look, which he badly lacks, Modi set the cat among the pigeons with his talk on article 370. This singular article in the constitution of India has been a tiny mousetrap taken out every now and then by politicians to scare poor Kashmiris. It followed that regular hum on how important the statute is and all that jazz. In reality, notwithstanding the history of Article 370’s socio-economic utility, it has been politically defanged and reduced to a paper tiger. Modi was merely stringing the ruling establishment in J&K, as he has become wont to these days wherever he goes, and not surprisingly everyone took the bait. <br />
<br />
Winter exposed our dark secrets. The high-profile chairman of the J&K Board of Professional Entrance Examinations turned out to be a garden-variety thug. The darling of the ruling cabal was given so many extensions, despite early-warning signals of his corrupt reputation, that he though it is fair game to sell the all-important common entrance test (CET) papers to the highest bidder. In the process he is reported to have offered some lower rung exam papers for a <i>deg </i>of 10kg fish gifted to him. God knows how many bush-league doctors and engineers must have trained, thanks to the corpulent Peer. Let's hope when he is old and out of jail, one of those terrible doctors treats him for greed.<br />
<br />
Kashmiri firms also continued to do us proud in an infamous way. Someone discovered that our ‘world-famous’ spices were, well, ‘impure’, saddening a whole lot of Wazwan lovers from Anantnag to Uri. Carrying the motto of ‘Honest Spice’ and being awarded the Prime Minister's MSME Award for Excellence in 2009 didn’t deter the local firm from using colouring agents like Carmoisine and Tartrazine that can cause cancer, according to the Srinagar Municipal Corporation. Even our milk, that essential nutrient of life, we learnt, was substandard, misbranded and unsafe. The packaged milk, marketed as ‘Purity of Kashmir’ contained washing powder in it. With Jewish conspiracy safely ruled out, it looked like a clear case of Et Tu Brutus.<br />
<br />
For much of 2013 poor boy Geelani was incarcerated in his Hyperpora house. The alibi given by the government was the age-old communist era trope: His release will incite violence. In the end they did let him out and boy, what a showstopper this 80-something man is. Mobbed and showered with flowers everywhere he went, people clambered upon walls to hear him speak, greatly embarrassing Omar and his viziers, who thought the only and the most effectively democratic way to fight this ailing, feeble man was to do what they are best at: Lock him up again. Lo and behold, Geelani was promptly house-arrested again. Democracy was saved again in 2013.<br />
<br />
At the onset of 2014, the food we eat is adulterated, the milk we drink is contaminated and the air we breathe is still unfree. The only beautiful bit is the snowfall on New Year’s eve. The poetry of the earth, they say, is never dead.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year, folks.<br />
<br />
© Sameer<br />
<br />
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Picture credits: AehsanSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-9752139602309000642013-11-29T00:09:00.001+04:002013-12-05T00:47:15.477+04:00On the wine route<div class="MsoNormal">
When you step out of the quaint Larnaka International
airport, the first sight you catch is that of deep blue seas meeting the bright
sandy beaches under an incomparably brilliant sky. Heading out of the city
towards Limassol (Lemesos to the locals), you first chance across the
enchanting little village of Lefkara. Like Lenonardo Da Vinci, five centuries
ago, you can’t help feel seduced by the exquisite handmade lace they make in
Lefkara. It is hard not to buy some. Back in your car (and Cyprus is a place best
explored by car) you marvel at the extraordinary landscape of the Mediterranean
island, reminiscent of Plato’s God geometrizing: Low hills, almost perfect
cones with leveled tops, valleys tapestried with fat tailed sheep, plots of
verdure and a strange mixture of flavours – Biblical, Anatolian and Greek. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Wild mouflon, Cyprus</b></span><br />
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By lunchtime I was in Limassol, one of the most beautiful
beach resorts positioned on the southern coast of the lush island. It only
gladdened my heart that my accommodation -- Hotel Four Seasons -- was perched
right on the gorgeous Amathus beach and for some highfalutin reason my room opened to the Mediterranean Sea. The pathway of the famous beachfront, also known
as the Cypriot Riviera, was visible from the balcony. Stretching for more than 10
miles, the beach is mottled with some of the most interesting cultural
attractions in Europe. After a quick mental math, I decided to spend as little
time in my room -- no matter how vainglorious it made me feel -- as possible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Four Seasons Hotel, Cyprus</span></b><br />
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Limassol has a population of less than 200,000. Stepping out
on a pleasant November evening, I walked for more than seven miles until I got
to the old town. The rhythm of life slows down here and suddenly you feel there
is time for another cup of coffee, which you never find in London or Dubai. A
mix of old and contemporary restaurants and pubs dot the marketplace. Cypriots
love their Keo, a popular light straw-colored lager. Diners sat in the open air
to nibble on their meze, small plates of flame-grilled, delicately spiced meats,
and amazing cheese including halloumi (semi-hard, unripened brined cheese made
from a mixture of goat's and sheep's milk). I had an ofto kleftiko, which is a
Cypriot specialty, foil-wrapped lamb, baked with secret herbs in a sealed oven.
Nearby a musician in blue suit strummed his Spanish guitar. A few domestic cats
wagged their tails as mellifluous music flowed.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Cat country</span></b><br />
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There are cats everywhere you look in Cyprus. Legend has it,
and this a very well-versed Cypriot woman told me, that St Helena, mother of
the emperor Constantine the Great imported hundreds of cats to Cyprus in the
fourth century to rid her monastery (Monastery of St Nicholas) and the country
of snakes that had infested it. Looks like the feline experiment was a success.
The monastery – with lots of cats in it -- exists to the day. Cypriot cats were
later immortalized by the Greek Nobel Laureate, Giorgos Seferis, in his poem The
Cats of St Nicholas. I saw cats in solids and smokes, torties, patched tabbies,
orange, marmalade and ginger colors. Cyprus is an island of cats and crystal
clear waters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is also the land of fine wines with a tradition in
wine-making that goes back centuries. Cyprus grows two main grape varieties –
Mavro and Xynisteri – which are combined to produce the highly acclaimed sweet
Commandaria, one of the world’s finest wines. I criss-crossed the piddly,
idyllic Commadaria villages on the famous Cyprus wine route. The driver pulled
over at some spots along the rolling hills covered with amazing vineyards that are
harvested as early as July. By law Commandaria is aged for two years in oak barrels
because of its distinction as the world’s oldest named wine still in production.
Locals told me that an Ottoman sultan invaded the island just to acquire Commandaria.
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Commadaria wine route</span></b><br />
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There are around fourteen villages on the ancient Commadaria
wine route dating back to 1192 AD. (Around the same time when the third Crusade
ended with Richard I of England and Saladin agreeing to terms for pilgrims
visiting Jerusalem). I drove along the route from Limassol to Pafos to the Kolossi
castle. Constructed in the 13<sup>th</sup> century, the fort is the only extant
fortification belonging to the Frankish period. The impressive, square building,
comprising of three floors was built by the Order of St. John of Jerusalem
(Knights Hospitallers) as the seat of the Supreme military commandment (Grande
Commanderie). The castle was briefly occupied by Knights Templars, the most
wealthy and powerful of the Western Christian military orders and the most
skilled fighting units during the Crusades. The castle was later destroyed
during the raids of the Mameluke tribes in 1525-26.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Kolossi castle</span></b><br />
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From Kolossi we stepped on gas to plantations where oranges,
lemons and kiwi fruit grew. Cypriot farmers grow their citrus trees in long
orderly lines protected by avenues of eucalyptus and fir. On higher
ground where there is no shelter, the grapes on the vines are burnt brown by
the sun. Limassol is surrounded by an abundance of citrus plantations filled with
lemon, orange and grapefruit trees. I could smell the orange fragrance in the
car long after we moved on. In the evening I walked on the beach, alone, for
long hours after the sun was swallowed by the Mediterranean Sea, at a place where
the waters first turned crimson and then a deep shade of scarlet. It is no
secret that Cypriot beaches are not only beautiful; they are certified as among
the cleanest in the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Sundown, Limassol</b></span><br />
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From the pine clad Troodos Mountains, where wild mouflons
roam and cedars grow to the gem-like churches competing with stunning Byzantine
frescoes, Cyprus has a sun-kissed spirit that is truly out of the ordinary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Watch this space for more wanderings through the lovely land.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sameer<o:p></o:p></div>
Sameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12215464.post-57189363656864261082013-09-15T21:16:00.001+04:002013-09-15T22:18:04.473+04:00London: Where the pulse of Europe erupts<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>Travel
blog Part 1</u></b><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I arrived to a cold Heathrow afternoon. Not sure if one must call it pure indolence or plain carelessness, which has become my hallmark now, I forgot to pack anything warm for my British sojourn. Not surprisingly the hair on my arm stood up as soon as I exited the airport’s air-conditioning environs into a chilly day in London. In the parking lot, while my notoriously carefree cousin revved up the engine of his subcompact Volkswagen Golf, the English poet laureate Betjeman’s words swirled in my head: And marbled clouds go scudding by/The many-steepled London sky. And here I was: Poorly clad but eyes wide open in the city of dreams.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Welcome to London</span><br />
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I stayed in the London Borough of Southwark, very close to River Thames. It forms part of Inner London and falls under zone 1, which is the central zone where travel on an Underground is typically more expensive than journey of similar length in other parts of the city. The aesthetically beautiful historic core of London and several major attractions like the Westminster, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Tower Bridge, British Museum etc fall in this zone. I, however, had a completely different reason to feel elated. My stay was close to a treasure trove: Bankside, London. Running from east of the Blackfriars Bridge to just a little distance before the London Bridge, it is a cultural minefield.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Blackfriars Bridge</span><br />
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Although a well-to-do friend who lives in the posh St John’s Wood – nearest Underground stations are St John's Wood and Swiss Cottage --- calls Borough ‘a rough neighbourhood’, I must say that I feel quite at home near the Thames. I like it in the bustle. How does it matter to me if Sir Richard Branson and Imran Khan have quiet homes in St John’s Wood? Southwark is vibrant. It has a rich literary tradition with many novelists like Charles Dickens making it a setting for their works. The site of The Tabard inn (featured in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales), The White Hart inn and The George Inn (which still survives) are all located in Southwark.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The George Inn, London, UK</span><br />
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Borough’s market is a gourmet’s heaven. As one of the oldest food markets in London, the wholesale market opens at 2am in the morning and closes at 8am. The retail market then opens at 11am and closes at 5pm. I got chatty with some local shopkeepers and gleaned a few interesting details. The present day market, an avuncular gentleman told me, was originally located near the London Bridge before it moved to the Southwark Street and Borough High Street just south of Southwark Cathedral. The market has been in existence since 1014. A thousand years later hawkers still sell fresh fruit, organic vegetables, artisan cheese, meat, game, freshly baked bread and pastries. I think Northfield Farm is the best for rare-breed meat, Furness for fish and game, Elsey & Bent for fruit and veg, and Flour Power City Bakery for organic loaves. Curiously a magic scene in the film Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban was shot near a fruit shop in the market some years ago. I bought two real pears and ate them by the Thames.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">A shoppe in Borough market</span><br />
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A few streets from my cousin’s home in Isaac Way is the Red Cross Way. From a distance it appears like a Kashmiri <i>astaan</i> with a million threads and ribbons in multiple colours tied to its gate but as you go closer and peek inside you are met with the strangest of sights. The Cross Bones is an ancient burial ground that was once used as a graveyard for prostitutes. During those days sex workers were called Winchester Geese locally because they were licensed by the Bishop of Winchester to work outside the jurisdiction of the City of London. By 1769, the homeless, paupers and those on the margins of the society began to be buried at the site. The practice was stopped in 1853. Cross Bones graveyard has now assumed a mystical importance and when it is evening tide -- on the 23rd of each month -- a small group of people come and hold a vigil. It is London’s tribute to its outcast dead.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Cross Bones graveyard, Borough, London </span><br />
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David Bailey, one of England’s best photographers, once remarked, if you're curious, London's an amazing place. Watch this space.<br />
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SameerSameer Bhathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11566767776702334881noreply@blogger.com