Shame

After days of dithering over how to go about Kashmir and apparently not finding a way out, New Delhi finally found the talisman. Some smart ass in the South Block probably suggested a punitive crackdown to deal with the situation. So three days ago, India flexed its military muscle in Kashmir. Everthing since has been gasping for some air.

I met Arundhati Roy today. She agrees it is the cruelest curfew ever in the chequered history of the valley. Ms Roy retains a beautiful sense of satire. She said, “You know, I was in Kashmir recently and I witnessed the million strong marches. The most striking thing about them was that they were all very peaceful”. This curfew is the government’s way of telling the people that we would tolerate no non-violence, she said with a chuckle. I couldn’t agree more.

The curfew has been a total clamp-down. The security agencies were perhaps given a clear brief. Not a soul should exit their homes. Not a single silly slogan must echo. It matters not that someone could be sick and would want immediate medical attention or someone may need to travel urgently. There are no concessions. It was like the big brother finally coming down heavily on its small pestering cousins. And the para-military forces acted exactly as was expected of them, like mechanical creatures, completely insensitive to human plight.

I cringe with dejection to think of this hobgoblin. One of my friends was supposed to fly to the middle-east where he works as a surgeon. He had a connecting flight to catch from Delhi. Stuck in curfew in Kashmir, he tried arguing with the troopers manning the curfew-colored roads. All in vain. He missed the flight and his schedule went haywire. This is nothing. I read in news-papers today that even emergency services were disallowed. As a result ambulances couldn’t ply. A girl, from south Kashmir, withering with stomach ache, died in the ambulance while her aged father trying to convince the mechanical creatures. Again in vain.

The curfew is so cruel that it looks like a revenge exercise. A collective punishment is being meted out to people for daring to look at the state in the eye. I see no other reason why local media must be gagged. Why national/international media should be barred from reporting. Why doctors who show their curfew passes are asked to back-off and return home. On the humanitarian side, bodies of people who have died in hospitals over the past three days -- due to natural causes -- are lying in morgues for the want of transportation. No ambulance driver wants to risk his life. There are reports that water tankers couldn’t reach orphanages. This is a dire and deliberate agony.

There are times in history when states act nasty. A very few states treat people -- they never tire to call their own -- in such high-handed fashion. I asked Arundhati -- one of the best living writers of English -- about her article, espousing Azadi for Kashmir. She was candid in her response. “India is giving the same arguments that the British once gave us -- That the natives are not yet ready. We shall send the Simon commission.” New Delhi, Ms Roy added, continues to live behind glass walls. I throw these stones at the wall so that it develops some cracks and they wake up to realize that there is a problem in Kashmir.

One can immediately draw parallels between Arundhati and that great Frenchman Jean Paul Sartre --who once famously refused the Nobel prize. Sartre would exactly poke the administration of the legendary French President Charles de Gaulle over French atrocities in Colonial Algeria. Intellectuals and writers, wherever they are, always speak up the gospel truth.

Dissent and debate is part of any democracy. While India's self-righteous leaders never fail to highlight our democratic credentials, they remain ignorantly indifferent to the misery of more than six million people, who have been cooped inside one of the world's biggest and the most beautiful prisons. The state calls its own violence law, but that of the individual crime, Max Stirner the German philosopher once averred.

The Kashmir problem shall remain.

Sameer.

What ails Kashmir

And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honour'd in the breach than the observance.
Shakespeare Hamlet

There was an angry stir in Kashmir this time. Rebellion was rife in the August air. People hollered quite a lot. Newspapers wrote in wolfish Urdu. There were protest marches and corteges. Flags were fiercely fluttered. The rage was alarming. What began as a minor land row has snow-balled into a major controversy. It has split the two main regions of Kashmir and Jammu across communal lines and galvanized the entire populace of Kashmir into almost hysterical calls for Azadi [Freedom]. All of a sudden!

So what went wrong. And so suddenly.

For once India’s Kashmir policy is flawed. Two, the Indian leadership is plain dumb. They should never have allowed things to come to such a pass. The rot could have been stemmed right in the beginning. But hindsight is always 20/20. Yes I can say these things now but the truth be told, one just can’t fathom why India gets it so wrong in Kashmir, always.

Not withstanding the diplomatic language -- that Kashmir is an integral part of India, we need to do a little introspection here. The valley is -- almost always -- on a slow sauté. India understands that but deludes itself in choosing to ignore it. There is a history to the disenchantment of the Kashmiris, kept alive in their memories by a string of rigged elections, broken promises and a spate of terrible human rights violations. Tulip gardens can’t meliorate the hurt. It is quite deep and dark.

Rather than talk to the people of Kashmir, New Delhi got busy with gloss work. Energy was spent on conducting the national games in the winter resort of Gulmarg and erecting lush parks in Srinagar. The sentiment was left unaddressed. Unattended it festered and festered. The Amarnath spat provided the spark. Kashmir was suddenly on fire again.

Being in Kashmir during the latest rounds of protestations, I was caught completely off guard by the people’s power. So was the administration. They ordered the police to fire on un-armed people. 29 innocent people lost their lives. Tempers frayed and emotions swelled further. The Hurriyet grabbed the God-sent opportunity to channelize the sentiment. They are the one’s who call the shots now.

New Delhi, lackadaisical as ever, should have reined in the right winger hoodlums in Jammu and never allowed an economic blockade of the valley, for however small time, in the first instance. The blackmail sent a very wrong signal. Politicians played politics, as they are often wont to, in that small time span. The separatists swiftly made plans for Muzzafarabad. The effort was more symbolic than practical but it was a political masterstroke. That one single call for march undid a lot of achievement. All good-will went down the drain.

Whoever is responsible for administrating Kashmir is a bad administrator. I think the current governor -- a good old retired civil servant -- fumbled. Either don’t let the people assemble at all [easily achievable] and if you do then don’t allow your cops to fire in their chest. Brute force was used to quell protests and that is not done. You can't afford to do that, as a democracy and you don’t do that on people, some of whom think that you are an occupation force. If the intention is to win hearts then you don’t fire on the heart, right?

So how do you fix the blame? Who do you blame? Is it Azad, the supremely dis-connected congressman, who failed to read the writing on the proverbial wall? Is it the Abdulla’s who created the shrine board problem in the first place? Is it Mufti with his dual stances? Is it the stupid fat ex-governor? Is it the wily separatists who upped the ante? Is it the Jammu based Hindu right wingers who are non-players in the entire issue? Who is the culprit? Who do we blame? Perhaps none.

Methinks there is no alternative to dialogue. New Delhi should talk to the leadership in Jammu and Kashmir, across the board. It should have a bold, progressive Kashmir policy. Alleviate some unfounded fears that they harbour. The gloss work should be halted and the main issue addressed.

For once, the sentiment, however irrational, must be considered. Junk the damn funk, as they say.

Sameer

Cooings on a Curfew morning

Day Three

Third consecutive day of curfew in Kashmir. Movement was mostly trammeled as people remained confined to their homes. There is news though that curfew was defied in a couple of spots. The cops fired upon protestors in several places. Many were beaten up mercilessly in full media glare. The death toll in three days has now gone past 25. The toll of the injured is countless. Hospitals are inundated with the wounded. In Sopore the gun fire just does not abate. It is a perpetual reminder that all is not well and despite the apparent calm, a storm is brewing in the distance.


The local news papers are full of obituaries and tributes to Sheikh Abdul Aziz, a top rung Hurriyet leader who was gunned down Monday as he led a two hundred thousand strong procession during the march to Muzzafarabad. The general strike against the incident is expected to continue till the weekend. Prez Musharraf praised Mr Aziz today. Pakistan has suddenly gotten active after a sinister silence and has passed a resolution condemning the excessive police action in Kashmir. It is preparing to report the matter to UN. India is clearly peeved.


One of my friends managed to click some amazing pictures of the Monday march to Muzzafarabad. In this rare picture, the Hurriyet leader Mr Aziz is seen sitting atop a tractor -- on the right hand side in white Pathani dress -- leading a peaceful demonstration.


This may well be one of the last images of the slain leader because moments later the police shot him dead from point blank. People accompanying him say that the leader was deliberately targeted. The government, of course, refutes the charges.


On a much social level, the changed political climate has altered established norms. With all educational establishments closed for the past one week, children are making merry. No school means the kids are home to pester their parents 24 x 7. There is also an acute shortage of food stuff here. Vegetables are in short supply. Villages have however risen to the occasion. Cartfuls laden with fresh veggies are being brought into townships and city peripheries from the countryside to help the urban populace tide over the hard times.


Staying in Kashmir in these times is riveting and draggy at the same time. These are extraordinary circumstances and each passing day is dramatic. I don’t know how people manage to survive in such settings -- amidst strikes, strife and the suffering. Still they live on! Call it the indomitable human spirit.


Sameer.

Midsummer Mayhem

Day Two


Kashmir continues to simmer. I woke up to gun-shots today. Curfew has been imposed in the valley and everyone is confined to their homes. I am also cooped inside. Cell phones just don’t stop ringing and each ring is a constant reminder that yet more violence has taken place. It is evening time, as I post, and I can still hear crackle of gunfire nearby. I am being told that the police and para-military troopers -- deployed all over the place -- are firing intermittently in the air to stop people from coming out. This is a major clamp-down, as the establishment looks for desperate measures to control the situation, which is clearly slipping out of their hands.

Trying to make most of my fallow time I managed to have a word with some neighbors, my friends and a couple of acquaintances over the phone. The general mood is somber and tempers are clearly on the roil. Almost everyone talks of double standards adopted by the government. While the authorities were lax in Jammu when the Hindu right wing hit the roof there, brute force was used in Kashmir from Day one.

Sample this: While the Jammu agitation was controlled by hooligans, who torched public property and resorted to mass violence, brandishing weapons and tridents, only three people were shot in more than 37 days in the temple city. Two days of protests have already left 20 dead in Kashmir. More than 500 injured. Why the iniquity? People ask. What happened to the famed democratic scruples of India? For once, I have no ready answers.

The separatist leader gunned down yesterday has been buried in Srinagar in the afternoon. A hundred thousand people marched in Srinagar today. They managed to free two prominent Hurriyet leaders -- Mirwaiz Omar and Syed Ali Geelani -- from their respective house-arrests. There have been reports of confrontation between the people and cops from across the valley. Sopore, where I live, witnessed similar scenes. All hamlets around the township are on a slow flame. Emotions are alpine high and curfew is being breached with impunity. For the moment it looks like there is no solution in the sight.

There is a mix of fear and bravado among the people. The defiance is new-found and alarming. Incidents of mob fury are continuously pouring in. Military bunkers are being razed, politicians’ homes are being stoned, police posts are being attacked with a never before ferocity. People justify their acts by citing police’s naked aggression. The government, which bundled in handling the situation initially, is finding it difficult to control the mobs. The flower blossom in the garden of paradise appears abruptly shriveled up.

Rhetoric is flying thick and fast, so are the rumors. Everyone has his own slant and a tale to tell. The curfew, clamp-down and clamor is reminiscent of the early 90’s. Is it back to square one?

Only the other day I saw a tulip trampled on the roadside.


Sameer

March to Muzzafarabad

Day One

Kashmir has been precarious since the day I landed here. My itinerary was rather hectic this time around. I attended a string of fantastic weddings, drove around the famous Dal lake, boated around with pals high up in the hills, took in as much local gossip as possible and breathed in great fistfuls of cold pine air. But more on that later. I start my Kashmir dairy with a distressing note.

First things foremost. The Amarnath land row has completely consumed people here. It has become an emotive and nationalistic issue. The economic blockade of the valley by Jammu based groups has led to much bitterness in Kashmir. In reality the revocation of the land transfer order by the state government is largely perceived as a psychological defeat by the right-wing Hindu lunatic fringe in Jammu. And the mad horde has upped the ante. They have stoned and looted most of the supplies to Kashmir, leading to an acute shortage of essentials in the land-locked valley. Kashmir naturally felt blackmailed and arm-twisted.

Since fuel has run dangerously low in gas stations, cash has dried up in most ATM machines, weddings cancelled en masse, hospitals have gone low on life saving drugs and Kashmir’s famous apple has rotted in the wooden boxes for the lack of transportation, it was unanimously decided that on a pleasant Monday morning, the people of Kashmir shall march to Muzzafarabad, the capital of Pakistan Kashmir. Hurriyet, it was opined, would lead from the front. It would be Kashmir’s answer to Jammu’s blackjack. The argument was that it would be an alternative means to do business in a substitute market. It was also an extremely desperate and symbolic bid.

Though the move was fraught with much danger, the people of Kashmir marched in their thousands. The separatists had already set the tenor: Muzzafarabad Jayenge, Khooni Lakeer toodenge [We shall march onto Muzzafarabad; we shall breach the bloody border]. Incidentally I was away from the clamor, holidaying in Gulmarg but I kept getting regular updates since morning. Some of my acquaintances were in the procession. They kept calling me up from time to time. One of my kinsman was in the border town of Uri. He gave me live dispatches from ground zero. The grapevine was abuzz for the whole day. A hundred thousand people, two hundred thousand, five hundred thousand. It appeared that the entire valley had converged into one huge parade. The grand caravan was on its way to Muzzafarabad. Amidst conflicting reports we decided to drive back home.



Everyone I spoke to, rambled with a bated breath. My sister, my friends…everyone. People who formed part of the procession were naturally out of breath. While chatting with Raj over the cell I overheard someone talking about plucking fruit from one of the many orchards lining the picturesque way to Muzzafarabad. In between someone wanted to know the price tag of the latest I-Phone. Such talk often keeps spirits high when you are marching on in an important march. Meantime my own band had a tough time clearing small roads blocks -- felled trees and rocks -- as we neared home, criss-crossing small, idyllic, verdant but sluggish villages. Once we hit the national highway [the original route of the march], did the reality dawn upon me. Kashmir had really answered the call to march. All roads led to Muzzafarabad. We saw a lame man trundling on. An elderly woman was shouting at the top of her voice. I reckon the movement is mass based now while the momentum is clearly indigenous. This is dangerous maths.

By evening, as I post, bad news has started to trickle in. They didn’t let them breach the border, finally. On the contrary the march seems to have taken an ugly turn, as was anticipated. A confrontation between police and protestors ensued near the border. A prominent separatist leader -- leading one huge procession -- has been shot dead. Scores others have either been killed or injured. The strike, which has been continuing for the last six days, is now expected to go on. People seem resigned to it. They wait for some divine solution. I saw people squatting in little groups all the way from Gulmarg to my home, exchanging conspiracy theories in very hushed tones. They shot angry glances at our way-faring car. An unusual tension is palpable in the air. Everything is closed down. All one can feel is a deep and shrill sense of rancor.

Sloganeering often becomes both a source of strength and lament in a situation such as this. As I blog the day’s developments, I can hear people shouting outside. Call it Kashmir’s second uprising or an irrational exuberance.

I get a feeling it is going to exacerbate in the days to come. I pray it doesn’t.

Sameer

Photo Credits: Raj

Kashmir

Time for a sabbatical.

I haven’t taken a vacation for ages now. It has been work and shit-loads of it. One of the most annoying things about the corporate world is this almost hysterical obsession with duty. The bugging sense of accountability. Attending to it. Creating stuff, in my case, on an hour-to-hour, day-to-day, week-to-week basis. Unrelenting in your endeavor. Trying to create value and capital for your organization and helping them help themselves to bloat their bottom-lines. The modern man has been reduced to that -- a mechanical creature, who works like an assembly line -- for someone else.

I’ve been lucky enough to be bestowed with a few creative bones. They keep me in good shape. Sub-consciously I always try to stave-off these demons of value creation, that drain your energy and time. Still I think I need to re-condition myself. Delhi is a huge, humid, haphazard metropolis that can distract you from reality and cut you from the roots. People perpetually keep hammering away at life here -- on the traffic signals, underneath over-bridges and across the road -- in those little cubby-hole shops. It is a constant commotion.

So all my bags are packed for destination Kashmir. A very enviable chunk of land, whose people are a little touched but sweet. It is full of butterflies and gossip but I don’t mind such hare-brained distractions, as long as it is naïve. Inwardly you sketch a smile at their rather simplistic perspective of life, which is mostly sappy. And you know that however hard you try to, you cannot unbelong to them. Slowly you end up loving the quietude of the place.

Amidst these pastoral settings, I am going to attend two weddings of two incredible people. Four really, their spouses included. Two of my closest pals are tying the knot. It is going to be loads of fun and frolic and feasting. The finger-licking Wazwan. And I shall try to stay connected to my blog -- and post -- while in Kashmir.

Till then, au revoir.

Sameer

Liberty

June was pretty eventful. It rained, clouds burst, lightening flickered and people shouted quite a bit. So while Europe played some spry football in relentless rain and as parts of India witnessed their first queer parade, Kashmir marched to re-claim its forest land. The endgame warmed some hearts and ached others. So while the Spaniards walked away with the UEFA cup and the unqueer bystanders watched the Delhi parade in a mix of horror and amusement, two significant things went completely unnoticed.

Both things concern us -- at a very basic level. And they are both connected to the larger question of human freedom and civil liberty. First, the US Supreme Court ruled on a key constitutional case. The 5-4 verdict stated that all prisoners detained at Guantánamo Bay are now constitutionally entitled to bring Habeas Corpus in a federal court to challenge the legality of their detention, thus upholding the iconic right of any individual, whether guilty or not, to petition. Second, in the UK, the very courageous David Davis, Britain’s shadow home secretary shocked everyone when he resigned over a proposed 42-day detention plan [part of the Counter Terrorism Bill] authored by Messer’s Gordon Brown and co.

Both instances have been moral victories, if nothing else, for all those who value and cherish freedom and who find it preposterous that Prez Bush and his British acolytes are hell bent on trampling the fundamental freedoms of human beings. Bush, the war-monger, whose political countdown has already begun and who is, for sure, going to go down in text-books as a classical case of America’s most stupid Prez, began this by suspending the most efficient safeguard of the liberty of a human being -- the Habeas Corpus. Under Bush, anyone with a slightly different skin-hue, could arise the suspicion of the state, and hence could be held against his wish. Interrogated and thrown in some hell-hole to rot. Worse still, he could not fight or prove his innocence in any court of law. Thankfully the Supreme Court, in its June 2008 order, set the record straight -- while Bush is still in the dying days of his flawed Presidency. That is like one more egg on his arrogant face.

Across the Atlantic, continuing with the mini-me policies of the discredited Tony Blair, one fine afternoon Gordon Brown came up with his own parchment of draconian laws. He wanted to extend the detention period of anyone, innocent or otherwise, with a slightly different hue of skin -- and hence perfectly mistrustful -- to 42 full days from the current 28, reducing the emblematic and historic Magna Carta to a joke. Having convinced the Conservatives, Brown did manage to pass the parchment in the House of Commons. Just when it looked like a connivance, there was light: David Davis stood up in the Westminster to tell his own party and Brown -- that they had got it all messed up. Just like the kid in Andersen’s Emperors new clothes, he uttered the real truth: The 42-day joke was nothing more than an erosion of civil liberties in the United Kingdom. David resigned, while Brown fumed. However hope bobbed in the island country.

As I post, a major poll for the respected Joseph Rowntree Reform Trust has found that more than 61% of Britons believe six weeks detention is too long. The Upper house in the British Parliament or the House of Lords appears set to reject Brown’s parchment, since Labor has no majority in the upper house. Most political scientists in the UK now opine that the 42-day clause is almost certain to be scooped out of the Counter Terrorism Bill and thrown into history‘s trash bin. Meantime, David Davis is expected to do well, as he stands for a by-election tomorrow, having resigned his MP post on the issue, and stirring a nation-wide debate on liberty and rights in his country. I hope he makes it.

But that the roar of thy Democracies,
Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
Mirror my wildest passions like the sea,
And give my rage a brother! Liberty!

Oscar Wilde wrote in the Sonnet to Liberty. It was in the 19th century. I am convinced he was right, then, as he sounds now.

Sameer

Friday, July 04, 2008

A rendezvous with reason

Tariq Ramadan, 45, Muslim, scholar, activist, Swiss citizen, resident of Britain, active on several continents, is a hard man to pin down. That is how the New York Times portraits the western world’s most noted Muslim thinker. Two of the world’s most influential magazines Prospect and Foreign Policy rank him at number 8 in a list of the world’s top 100 contemporary intellectuals. He is regularly called Islam’s ‘Martin Luther’. Tariq teaches theology at Oxford. I had a chance to hear his profound views last night. We had tea together, afterwards.

My first impression of the wiry Tariq Ramadan was this: God, how could someone so lean and so Egyptian-looking be so smart. For beginners, Tariq oozes humility. He is witty and has a brilliant sense of humor. His English may be just okay but his understanding of life and logic is exceptional. The comprehension is both erudite and sharp. Like a cut diamond. And Tariq Ramadan has a beautiful conviction that is simply disarming. He swiftly anatomizes the most complex argument to barebones and does so with an immaculate ease, that doesn’t come to all.

The glitter in Tariq’s eye is haunting. Beneath his soft exterior lies an uber-cool intellect. The man constantly questions which is perhaps the most endearing thing about any great intellectual. He poses tough questions and then ventures out to provide equally stirring answers. ‘Criticism, Tariq began his talk, is important’. To be able to ask questions, unflinchingly, any question, regarding faith or life or politics is essential. Without being dogmatic. It not only clears doubts, he added, it unblocks the mind to many wonders, and it dusts away cobwebs. Although I haven’t read any of Tariq’s major works [which I hope to; I’ve been through some of his brilliant essays, though] I could immediately draw parallels with the likes of modern day thinkers like Zia-u-din Sardar and Karen Armstrong.

Tariq Ramadan greatly stressed Ijtihad. That is critical reasoning. In his 60 minutes of talk, he accentuated the theme many times. It is perhaps Tariq’s idea of reconciling Islam with modernity. ‘Don’t Google Everything’, Tariq said in his characteristic manner. He continued: Superficial knowledge is often hypothetical. Literal interpretation of a religious scripture can be equally damning. Elucidating the example of one of the 7th century Islamic wars, when Prophet Muhammamad wanted to position his army near a particular fortification but his military commanders didn’t agree. Muhammad said, ’I think the position is fine.’ At this a commander leaped forth and asked, ‘Is that God’s commandment or your own opinion, Sir’. Because if it is God’s command, then we don’t have much choice but in case it is your opinion, that may not be very prudent under the present circumstances. The prophet shot back, ‘It is my opinion and if you think I’m not right, let’s change the positions‘. This, Tariq extolled, is critical reasoning.

Tariq was candid with his views on the raging debates of the time. He opined that he gets really put off by this talk of religions being outwardly peaceful. Are they really peaceful? Have major world faiths being peaceful? Has Christianity been peaceful? No. Has Islam been always peaceful? The honest answer is: No, Tariq said to a mainly Muslim crowd. The reasons aren’t always religious or ambiguous. They can be attributed to human nature. Human beings are inherently violent creatures. They can be easily provoked. ’I can just say something that makes all of you irate’. That is human psychology. All religious histories are ridden with flaws because a religion is all about humanity. Humanity is about humans -- and humans can be flawed.

There is a pressing need to understand the other point of view. Tariq said he often puts himself in the other’s shoe to be able to comprehend his stated position. He wants Muslims, the younger gen, especially to try and connect the dots. Islam is a continuation of the great monotheistic faiths. If a Christian were to acknowledge Islam, he would have to forfeit his Christian beliefs about Jesus. That would be, naturally, an impossible situation for him. So one has to develop an intellectual empathy with adherents of other faiths. Simplified it means that we must sometimes attempt to look at things from a different perspective rather than insist upon rigidity or a literalist, narrow interpretation of our own texts. That would bring about symphony and love -- something terribly needed in the modern world.

Talking about the tendency of people to glorify their own religions, Tariq pointed to the rather common religious sentiment: We are the best. Muslims often say that. The best of all Ummahs. The Jews say that too: We are the chosen people. Christians tom-tom: Jesus atoned for us, so we are a privileged bunch. So who is right, Tariq went on? Muslims. Jews. Christians. Who? Everyone thinks he is the best. The answer is not Muslims, as -- may be -- a Muslim audience would want to hear. It is not Christianity or Judiasm. The true answer, before God, is not the one whose religion is better, because all of us would tend to differ on that, but whose character is better. It is the in-born human-ness that is important. It is the redeeming features of goodness and not where you are born. It is your constant struggle to be a better human-being that counts.

And religion indeed is an important vessel. Tariq explained: There is something called spiritual communion. It is a set of values you inherit and imbibe in your formidable years. It grows inside you all along. You could be modern or western or capitalistic or un-capitalistic but somewhere hidden in you is a sense of affection, of association, of connection, of fraternity with another Muslim. Same with a Christian, a Jew, a Hindu. It is not about segregation. It is a mystical connect. A bond. A pledge, that after all your wanderings and disassociations, you can always return to. You can only experience that with your co-religionist.

Tariq Ramadan prelected about the concept of humility. Education is mandatory. And with knowledge comes humility. It is a very strange thing. The moment you think you have it, you lose it. Accusing professors and universities of elitism, Tariq underlined the need to connect universities with cities and with the common man. Without a practical understanding of humanity around you, your books and academic discourses won’t lead you anywhere, he said, looking to the Jamia vice chancellor in the eye. And arrogance never helps. Apparently the first reason, Tariq winked, why I hate Bush junior is his arrogance. He talks like a pharaoh.

In hindsight listening to Tariq was enriching. Tariq is a religious reformer par excellence. He has been lately accused, by several right-wing elements, of trying to Islamize the west. Tariq is the grandson to the legendary Hassan Al-Bana, the spiritual head of the pan-Islamic Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, who was assasinated in 1949 by government agents. Named after the African military commander Tariq ibn Zaid, who conquered Spain in 711, Tariq has an illustrious pedigree but that hasn’t deterred the man. The Nietzsche quoting, French speaking, ever touring, ever debating, academic, philanthropist, Oxford professor, dialectical, charismatic, devout Muslim -- Tariq Ramadan strives to build bridges between Islam and the west.

He continuously talks about constructions, connections, intersections and the universal values that align every religion. He debates Prez Sarkozy on prime time French TV, amidst intense heartache and friction, and manages to outwit him. Tariq continues to be the universalist intellectual that he is. His views on a constellation of issues from stoning to hijab are both profound and welcome. An almost recurring theme in his conversation is love.

What was it like to be number 8 among the world’s top 100 intellectuals? That is the 100 most gifted people among 6.6 billion. And you are at number 8 in the planet, Sir ! Just how does it feel ? I asked Tariq over black tea. ‘Normal, very normal,’ the gentle giant said with a tiny smile.

Sameer

Thursday, July 03, 2008

The secular sentiment

I’m pained to see several sections of the rightist media trying to paint the latest uprising in Kashmir as communal. Without being apologetic, the skew needs to be straightened: The fact remains that there is nothing remotely communal or sectarian about this tumult. It has been secular from the word go. Infact it has never been about religion. It has been a fight between the people, on the whole, versus a discredited establishment. No one in Kashmir is against the Amarnath yatra.

There was a complete ten day shut-down in Kashmir against the transfer of land. Nothing much moved. Even emergency services kept strictly off the roads. Small children would dig-in around every alley to fight tough street battles with the police and paramilitary troopers. Even journalists were stopped. The only vehicles that breezed past the stone-wielding kids, the tear-gas smelling airs, the barricaded roads of Srinagar, the tyre-burned turnpikes -- were the Yatra cabs. About 9,000-10,000 yatris visit the mountain-god daily. Without one minor incident, not a single Yatri [pilgrim] was hurt. This is not communal!

In the intense impasse between people and the government, the feud was mainly about land. The argument ran thus: The yatra is fine. The increase in the number of yatris is also fine. Providing the pilgrims better amenities too is fine but why the heck does the government need to transfer prime forest land to the missionary board. It could very well extend all these facilities without the transfer of land. After all the yatra has been going on for more than a century. At no point in this tussle with the government did anyone -- people, separatists, opposition political parties -- in Kashmir say anything against the yatra. This is not communal!

People vented their anger against the establishment because the whole land transfer/diversion deal was done surreptitiously. Secretly like a gang of thugs, the establishment appeared to be apportioning the loot. It took the ex-CEO of the board Arun [poison tongued, petty minded] to come out with some of the clandestine details in a press conference. No wonder his rants shocked people. Mainstream political forces immediately saw red and decided to go with the grain. Yet just as the state festered -- on the touchy issue of identity and just when the government was feeling plain helpless, the yatra went along. Long queues continued their sing-song trek to the cave. This is not communal!

Despite the charged atmosphere and all the bad blood, the last ten days saw a restraint that is typical of Kashmir. Call it Kashmiryat, call it the legendary Sufi ethos or call it pure secularism -- that while politicians bayed for each others blood and people felled to bullets and hospital wards were inundated with the injured, local people in Srinagar [as reported by national and International press] set up langars [mass-community-kitchens] to feed the returning Yatris. Since the entire city was closed and transport was non-existent, local people rose to the occasion, taking care of the yatris who in some way were central to this enfolding drama. This is not communal!

Separatist leaders in Kashmir are known for their hard-talk. Yet they appealed for calm. Time and again the likes of Mr Geelani and Mirwaiz Umar, despite their efforts to color everything green, called for tolerance. Appeals were issued to help the stranded Yatris. The truth be told mainstream guys across the board -- Omar Abdullah to Mehbooba Mufti -- too extolled lenity. There were no reprisals, no assaults and no hate-talk against any community. It was a simple case of masses versus the state on an emotive issue -- that of identity and selfhood. This is not communal!

Never before -- in more than 130 years of its being -- has the Yatra needed the land. People of Kashmir have a right to ask, and rightly so, why now? Why so secretly? Why hush-hush? Why give it to a missionary board that has behaved so aggressively in the recent past? Why couldn’t the state tourism provide all the facilities for which the land is sought? The government response was, as usual, pathetic: Nary a word. Late confusing noises emerged. But these were just noises that jarred and made no sense. Results: An uprising on a massive scale. A tide that swept everything. All parks with aubergine colored tulips in them.

End-result: Land is back with the state.

Contrast this with the multiple attacks by the Hindu right wing, who with no understanding of the issue, muddle things with their rusticity. In Jammu and elsewhere. Listen to their communal language. The irrational outrage. The threats. The prevailing confusion. An extremely fake sense of jingoism. The vulgar brandishing of tridents. The ultimatums.

This is, for sure, communal.

Sameer

Monday, June 30, 2008

Kashmir's newest Intifada

Something dramatic has happened in Kashmir over the past one week. It has gotten murky like a bat out of hell. Tulips and tourists have suddenly been abandoned, like used condoms. All of a sudden, as if on cue, people revolted. Despite government's assurances of peace and the all-is-well rhetoric, these last couple of days have pointed to the contrary. Much to the chagrin of New Delhi, the ruling establishment and intelligence sleuths in Kashmir, the make-up wore off. The mask slipped unexpectedly. And Kashmir rebelled -- again.

One cannot comment in hindsight because we still seem to be trapped in some sort of mindless frenzy. From the outside it looks like a maelstrom where everything seems to be going inwards. Including sanity. From whatever I've managed to glean from my interaction with a cross section of intellectuals and Kashmir-watchers here in New Delhi and my conversation with folks over the phone, it is clear: India has gotten it afield in Kashmir. Somehow they just can't fathom the sentiment.

Oflate I've posted on the ecological fall-out of the now-communally colored Amarnath yatra. The pilgrimage has been an annual affair for more than a century. Being brought up in Kashmir, I vividly remember how peacefully the yatra used to be conducted in the past. There never was anything sectarian about it. Till winds of hate blew in. And there was a missionary board! Things soon spiraled out of control.

***

Kashmir is a theatre of many vicissitudes. It has many legatees. There is India. There is Pakistan. Then there is Kashmir itself. There are pro and anti India parties. There are pro and anti Pakistan bodies. Mainstream parties often compete with separatists for attention span in Kashmir. Both have a visceral hatred that is often mutual and both follow a distinct brand of politics. While the separatists live off dissent and hard-talk, the mainstream guys tweak their policies, as and when expedient.

Ergo -- after all the peaceful years of yatra, the National Conference [Dr Farooq Abdullah's party] decided to form the Amarnath board in 2000 to streamline the yatra. It soon turned out to be Frankenstein's monster. In 2003 Gov Sinha took over its reigns. He picked a petty minded official [Arun Kumar] -- who looked more like a ring-master with a whip than a state bureaucrat -- to run the board. Slowly the missionary board flexed its muscles. It began a parallel government. They started collecting taxes on their own. They tried to insulate the annual religious exercise and reduce its local dependence. So the poor pony-wallas and restaurateurs and porters, who made their livelihood out of it and eagerly awaited the annual yatra, were soon out-of-business. It completely altered the local economic parameters.

Not completely satisfied, the board looked further ahead. With no respect for the fragile eco-system of the area, it worked on plans to increase the influx of yatris. More yatris meant more pollution. More environmental depletion. The missionary board would have none of it. It now eyed prime forest land. Hundreds of yards of it. Green, lush real-estate in the middle of gorgeous woods with European hoopoes in them. It appeared to silence the wood-songs for ever. It wanted to dig up the myriad fragrant flowers to erect hundreds of thousands of toilets on it.

Gov Sinha is an old ailing gentleman who took pre-mature retirement from army before taking up boring assignments like the ambassadorship of tiny Nepal. In 2003 he was send to Kashmir. Sinha quickly turned aggressive in the usually peaceful Raj Bhawan and teamed with Arun [petty-minded, poison-tounged] to carry out a number of scams. Only last year the gang tried to hoodwink people by installing a fake ice-cube in place of the naturally occuring formation, because the stala-gmite melted away quickly. Prior to that Arun's wife [also a civil servant in JK state] unscrupulously attempted to expedite the land transfer. To his credit Mufti Sayed initially did try to block the deal. Raj Bhawan eventually persuaded the current state government to allow the transfer.

The Congress led government led by Ghulam Nabi Azad put its John Hancock on it. They rather insensitively -- and irrationally -- endorsed the transfer of land to the missionary board. The ever tipsy Mufti Sayed's PDP too signed on the dotted line. Like good ol' boys. At this point it looked like an arrangement that suited all stakeholders. The land transfer was quietly sanctioned. The board could not have asked for more. The poison-tounged Arun was wild with glee and whipped at the terrified June air. It was a co-ordinated chorus. NC-creates the monster. The monster is hungry, as they usually tend to be. It asks for land. Congress gives it land to graze upon. PDP's sloppy gatekeeper [forest minister] throws open the doors. The monster triumphantly walks in, looks at its spoils and wags it tail. It doesn't look back though. In a distance a storm was brewing.


***

Before we go to the eye of the storm, a quick word about the opera of normalcy in Kashmir. Frankly, the peace concerts by Junoon and artificial tulip gardens, named after a former dead prime minister, is a big farce. It is a joke with a fake gloss. Beneath the façade of golf courses and houseboats and Farooq Abdulla's dance jigs and ski resorts, Kashmir has big, dark, deep wounds. Big enough to keep dolphins in. The wounds from the war years haven't healed yet. The
alienation sentiment lives on. And unfortunately India is a little unsighted on this.

So our monster's whinnying was soon picked up by the deflated separatists. It was God sent fodder for them. They swiftly banded with the conspiracy theorists. Slogans came up at an amazing speed. 'Kashmir on sale'. History tells us that nothing moves masses like nationalism with a dash of religion thrown in. Soon Kashmir poured out on streets. In scenes reminiscent of the early 1990's when the struggle started, an Intifada [uprising] began. It all came back, the Kane Jung's [stone pelting], flag-waving, the songs, the exuberance.

Young men marched on in their hundreds demanding the revoking of land transfer. Politicians were caught unawares with their pants down. Police panicked. They used excessive force to quell the protests. People held on. Years of war have made them tough fiber. A week of complete shut-down ensued. Such open defiance of authority came as an utter jolt. Kashmir wanted no compromise on its land. Men love their country, not because it is great, but because it is their own, Seneca the Roman thinker averred long years ago. Correctly so.

Politicians being politicians, soon did a volte face. PDP started making noises. The deputy CM, a PDP guy, spoke in such harsh language [against the land transfer] that Mr Geelani, the no-nonsense separatist leader seemed to have genuine competition in a long time. NC threw up its arms. They thought the land deal was plain bad and admitted that the monster made by Farooq Abdullah had got some of his stupid brain and was behaving ugly. Meanwhile Kashmir burned.


****

Day six of the Intifada, PDP pulled the carpet beneath Congress' feet. The government clearly is in a minority now. It may drag on though with some little support. The missionary board has been de-fanged. The state government has taken over the yatra management, as I post. The posion-tounge has been diagnosed with a rare foot-in-mouth disease and dispatched to some less aggressive errand. For the moment the storm seems to be slightly weakening. However nothing short of a complete revocation of the original transfer order will satisfy the masses. The ruling Congress party is playing it safe though, trying to balance the equation because the hindu right-wing is seething in Jammu provence. Ironically hot heads -- on both sides of the divide -- always think they get a raw deal.

Remarkably the last one week witnessed a hundred marches. People's power. Green flags on Srinagar's main clock tower, mass cancelling of weddings, torching of CRPF bunkers and 500 injured. Five dead. An outpouring of emotions as if all hell had broken loose. Warring Hurriyet factions united. No business, no schools, no transport, not a whimper of life for more than a week. An issue that connected and electrified seven million people. In a week of mass mutiny -- on an unprecedented scale.

I reckon it is about two things.

One: Kashmir is not 100% healed. It is still wounded, despite the swaddles and doles. Rather than concentrating on trivial issues, like concerts and silly parks, the government of India must address the main problem: the strong sense of detachment Kashmiris harbor. Un-healed it is a tinder-box.

Two: Kashmir's newest Intifada is nothing but pure nationalism. People in all societies and all ages have experienced it. There is nothing odd about it. Though the separatists may claim victory and the mainstream parties like PDP may attribute it to their born-again activism, the truth remains that more than religion, more than communalism, more than separatist politics, more than the environment [that's my position], it is about love for Kashmir -- Her waters. Her colored birds and trees. Her forgotten culture and greens. Her land. It may be latent but events in this past few days have shown that it takes only a couple of hours to fly off the handle.

Sameer

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Rain rain!

It is high June and it is raining. Again, the rain-winds paid no heed to the poor weatherman’s forecasts and arrived un-invited [but still welcome]. Caught off guard, and not wanting to loose his silly job [of forewarning, forecasting, and foreseeing], the weatherman quickly went to town saying the Monsoon has arrived -- early. They never get it right, do they? Why do we need the weatherman?

Rains have been intermittent for the entire last week. I love the sound of ceaseless tapping made by a million tiny rain globs. It is like an ancient aqua dance. Nature is an orchestra conductor with a magical wand-in-hand. An unseen choirmaster to whom the clouds bobble. Winds blow. Plants prance. And heaven’s open up. Like tiny teardrops, which are beautiful, glistening and innocent, rains come.

Longfellow says that the best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain. So it rains. All the world’s umbrellas and parasols, raincoats and rain-shelters cannot stop it. The orchestra continues. The smell of earth after the first rains is raw, sharp and unlike any human scent. It seems to remind us that we are all earth-people with earth-color. Despite our earthy prejudices.

Rain is a temptation, I can hardly resist. I wish it always rains. I like to walk in rain. When it rains on me it cleans up many dusty layers and cuts through the cobwebs. I imagine old chimney’s happily piping up smoke in a distance. I think about a flock of swallows fluttering somewhere in a frenzy, caught up in the rain, looking for some dryness.

I feel like a rain man. When it is dark and cloudy outside, I’m oft transfixed by lightning -- the ferocious signature of God on his palimpsest. In red ink. Like a furious school teacher, signing a poor marks sheet. In red. Cross at us for some archaic reason. Don’t we do our home work well enough?

It is high June and it is raining. On our new development. On flyovers. On Boeing tailfins. On farmhouses. On half-constructed skyscrapers. On mega malls. On metallic eight-way lanes. On high-rise buildings. On cherry color low-rise buses. On flower beds.

It is raining. In-to our old miseries. In large puddles. In the begging bowls of the homeless who have nowhere to go. In desolate alleys. In the plastic tea-cups of construction workers. In the hollow of abandoned beer cans. In the crevices of history.

Mystic summer rain.

Sameer

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Obama for America

Finally after a tortuous journey and an intense stand-off, Barack Obama has clinched the Democratic presidential nomination. In doing so, he has not only done the impossible, he has made history. He shall be the first ever black to run for office. And if he beats the Republican fella John McCain in November – I so hope he does -- he will be the first ever African-American in history to do so.

There are a few quick things to be learnt here. The beauty of liberal democracy in action. Even if Obama was vying for the top slot within the Democratic Party, it was a real battle of nerves. In the beginning, all odds were stacked against Barack --100% rookie, a political nobody, a completely green guy, with no clout or pedigree to take on the mighty Hillary. And yet he beat her and how! Obama is black, a junior senator from Illinois, has a Muslim parentage and zero lobbyists to back him. All he possessed and used to a devastating effect in these preliminaries was – vintage Hope. And hope sailed him through.

Obama impressed all and sundry. He mesmerized the audiences. He was inspiring from the word go. The consistency with which he debated his opponents and came out tops was indeed moving. His foes pulled every dirty trick in the dirty political kitty against him but he stood his ground. Then his pastor said something silly. Remarkably he didn’t disown him but rather gave a stirring race speech that went down as one of the finest ever on racial relations. End of it, Obama actually looked the Change he promised.

And he went from state to state, coast to coast, turf upon turf, taking on the extremely well-heeled, well-funded, politically suave Clinton. If Hillary was popular among the elderly whites, the Hispanics and the women, Barack’s appeal cut across the board – white and black, East to West Coast, students and workers and more importantly -- the youth. People absolutely loved his policies. His promises. His energy. The glint in his eye and the hiss in his voice struck an immediate chord. He seemed the right answer to everything wrong about Bush and his mad-men.

In endorsing Obama one is also compelled to marvel at the beauty of American democracy. It is downright participatory and grass-root level. Each candidate is laid bare as he goes through the grind. It is about wits as much as issues. It is about integrity as much as values. It is compassionate and long-winded but worth every slogan. And it is fascinatingly lovable. Barack of course chartered the choppy waters and emerged stronger and more lovable.

Now he battles the other big genie – John McCain. Barack is 46. John is 71. It is youthfulness versus experience, as they say. Courage against arrogance. Hope against fear. Already camp John has filched Obama’s election motto and tweaked it a little for their own conservative campaign. No issues here. Barack, I hope, doesn’t mind petty pilferages. We have won myriad battles; we are ready for the big war. McCain?..Bring him on.

Wait till Jan 20, 2009. You’ll have a young man as the 43rd President of the United States. Unless they don’t shoot him, as Gore Vidal and Doris Lessing think.

Sameer

Monday, June 02, 2008

Juices

I’ve been bitten by the walking bug. I brisk-walk for more than half an hour every day. It has been two weeks now and I hope to continue with the routine. Surprisingly I seem to be enjoying the evening mosey. The weather was utterly pleasant all through May and I must have walked a few miles – in a long long while – and actually sweated. Day-1, I was content to perspire only a little. Finally I was breaking free of my mechanized life – car and workstation and press conferences and copy-editing and creating stuff – and into the openness of a verdant cricket field. And I loved the smell of sudor.

I soon conspired to bring Wasy and Aaby along. The trick worked. They too liked it. And soon we added aerobics to our walking/running regime. It is an open-air work-out and by the time we begin to stretch and spread ourselves it is almost early evening and inky. You can see endless stars – small to beautiful -- twinkle overhead and it feels like an act from some very romantic 70’s movie. The mise en scène is heavenly. Commercial airplanes fly by the minute and occasionally deflect your attention with their cockpit and tail lights. Reclining on the grass I often think of all the people in the planes and their mixed mid-air laughter. An air-steward ambling across the aisle with a tray laden with chilled juices. On ground – with a fellow on my feet -- I give-out juices of another kind.

Apart from the playground I’ve been spilling my creative juices all over – on glossy copies for ads to mundane finance stories for my org. You don’t get no time for other creative outlets – such is the cruel arrangement of the darned market forces. I’ve been also trying to crack some real good works but –frankly – I have struggled in my efforts. Time is a premium in our lives.

I drink lots of juices. I swilled a can of cranberry juice last night and it was amazing. I’ve reduced milk in my tea by 100% -- leading my band to accuse me of everything from elitism to stupidity – but I am unfazed and am actually liking the bitter taste of the tiny tea granules. With black tea, you can count the number of tea atoms in your cup. I tease my pals for missing out on the real taste of the brew. Expectedly they fume at me ;) and I love it.

Now the secret behind all this frenzy: I’m going to attend a string of VVIIP [very very incredibly-important people's] weddings. I got to shop for suits and shirts. Importantly I want to get into the smart-fit ones. I've always believed that style was more important than fashion, said Yves Saint Laurent, one of the greatest fashion icons of the 21st century. The legendary designer died this morning in Paris.

So the juices will continue to flow till the shopping day dawns.

Sameer

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Rock the party

Now this is rare. As unusual as hen’s teeth. Our generation has seen no live performances. The famed Pakistani Sufi rock band Junoon – means madness in Arabic and obsession in Urdu – performed on the banks of the glistening Dal. A very enthused audience jived to Salman Ahmad, the lead singer, as he crooned hit upon another hit. In the VIP enclosure, Farooq Abdullah [an adrenaline high ex-CM] swayed to the hybrid tunes. The police chief soon joined Abdullah in the fun. Girls, in nearby enclosures, screamed at the top of their voices, cheering on the songster. Boys clapped wildly. The boatmen in the Dal raised their oars in a distance. Music filled the May air of Kashmir.

It was manna for the entertainment starved Kashmiris. 4000 people attended the much hyped-up peace concert. VIPs, children of bureaucrats, friends-of- the-children-of-bureaucrats, students bussed form various missionary schools in Srinagar and a footloose crowd. Security men -- comprising of the local cops [who help erect and maintain the barricades that separate the dignitaries from commoners], the CRPF [who watch over the vehicles of VIPs and can -- alas -- only listen to the tunes from the parking lot] and commandoes [who maintain a hawk-like vigil while the notables tap feet with the songster] – were present in great numbers.

Not surprisingly a great deal is being made of the rock and roll jamboree in Srinagar. It is being made to appear like a prelude to peace. Junoon -- the harbinger. The symbolism is already in place. A Pakistani band singing Sufi rock. The correlation is not too hard to fathom. Former bad guys turned good guys. Former Sufis to radicals -- back to -- Sufism. We just need to join the dots.

Connections apart, music -- no doubt -- is soulful. It is levitating. And no one perhaps needs it better than the Kashmiris. But one is compelled to question the timing of this little show. Kashmir is in a state of flux. We live in tumultuous times where cases of severe human rights violations have not been properly investigated. Where people continue to suffer on a daily basis. A dance jig by Dr Abdullah or a joyous shriek by some top official’s daughter, however shrill, at the Dal concert cannot be called peace.

They may briefly tell you that Junoon's music soared from the shores of Dal. They might as well add that it soared higher than the elegant poplars that line the high-security hotel lawns in which the band played. They won’t tell you that a few miles away hundreds of orphans sleep early – in the Kashmir Yateem Trust – because their parents were lost to the violence years. Their moist, unloved eyes deserve our respect. As do thousands of parents whose children disappeared over the years and no one – none of the VIP’s, none of the police chiefs, no judge present in the music concert – ever tells them anything about their whereabouts. Their parents’ agony – a sad legacy of war -- needs our sensitivity. They require our attention. And solidarity. Not the rock star – Salman.

Let me put this straight. I am not being sardonic here. I admit that there are many recreation outlets available to Kashmiris despite their daily brushes with violence. So you might as well argue -- why should I take offence at a harmless peace concert? Do we stop laughing because people have suffered? Or because they continue to suffer.

The answer is a big no. We must indeed try and live our lives full on. A music band complete with its gear – drums and guitars and microphones – playing in a strife-torn place, with a crowd swaying to them indeed makes great headlines. It also sends out a message. Everything is fine. Normal. There is nothing wrong in this manufactured message only that it is NOT correct.

Scratch beneath the glossy surface – the lush lawns, the imposing mountain backdrop, the legendary Dal, good-looking people, Farooq Abdullah's romps, rich brats hollering [they don’t talk in Kashmiri, by the way] – and you have the real picture. Old men humiliatingly frisked on the roadsides, village elders slapped in front of village gatherings, scores of war orphans, people carrying the sick in horse-carts with a lantern at night, dis-appeared young men, mass graves.

Scratch a little more and you have the real Kashmir. Villages with no electricity, cities with no roads, forests with no trees. Widespread corruption. No awareness for the protection of environment. A slow and painful death of the Kashmiri language in urban Kashmir. Ziltch intellectual curiosity.

Amidst all this a concert looks terribly out of place. Of course no one in the valley will tell you that they have a problem with these shows. ‘It brings peace here,’ some buffoon might tell you. Really, you struggle to say.

We desperately need a truth and reconciliation committee. We need to seriously atone. We need to learn to forget, forgive and forge a completely new beginning. We also need to be sensitive to the plight of so many of our people.

That is step one and we haven’t achieved it yet.

Rock concerts can always follow.

Sameer

Friday, May 23, 2008

Slicing a Forest

When you defile the pleasant streams
And the wild bird's abiding place,
You massacre a million dreams
And cast your spittle in God's face.
~John Drinkwater

Article 77 of the Swiss constitution provides for the preservation and protection of its forest land. Environment is accorded more importance than -- hold your breath: public works, communication, economy and even political rights in Switzerland. In the American forests there are areas designated as wilderness by acts of Congress. No human being can go for logging, mining, road and building construction and land leases in these zones. In 1999 when a road was proposed in a national forest, President Clinton swiftly intervened. He ordered a moratorium. Construction work came to an immediate stop. One of America's great central tasks, Clinton quoted Roosevelt, is “leaving this land even a better land for our descendants than it is for us”.

Contrast this with Kashmir 2008. I’ve posted on this issue previously and I don’t intent to be iterative but this is something – invoking both Presidents Clinton and Roosevelt – we owe to our future generations. Let me simplify it a bit. Countryside Kashmir is being sullied and a lawful body is doing the damage. It is actually a board that oversees a pilgrimage to the Amaranth cave in Kashmir. They work less like a board and more like missionaries-on-a-mission, much to the chagrin of environmentalists/conservationists. The missionary cave board has an ex-military man at its helm. He is also acting as the governor of J&K. And these folks are openly flouting law and wrecking the pine and cedar forests of Kashmir.

Sample these headlines:
May 23, 2008: Greater Kashmir, Kashmir’s major daily:
SASB ERECTS 600 LAVATORIES, 150 HUTS ON FOREST LAND
May 23, 2008: Rising Kashmir, another major publication:
After denial SASB undertakes secret road construction plan in Baltal

SASB is the missionary board with its official appellation. It goes on building hundreds of huts and lavatories in the forest area causing considerable damage to the environment. More than 600 lavatories and 150 prefabricated huts have come up in the recent days. The land, newspapers report, is actually forest land falling in Sindh forest division where construction of any sort is strictly forbidden until proper approval from the state cabinet, forest department and other competent authorities. The law says that no construction – even a temporary one – can be carried out in the green zone.

To its credit the board applied for government permission last year. However the request was TURNED down. Undeterred the missionary board went about its work, making concrete lanes and concrete plinths using brick. In the middle of a virgin forest! Nobody ever tells these tomfools that if they ever attempted this anywhere else on God’s green earth, they would be locked up in some dark dungeon to rot for the rest of their adult lives.

That is not all. The missionary board has been working on a concrete road, cutting through the forest. They have secretly built a 3 km road Dumail onwards. My friend Omar reports in Rising Kashmir that the proposal to construct the macadamized road for the passage of light motor vehicles to the Amaranth cave, situated at a height of 3888 m above the sea level, was made in 2003 on the directions of State Governor. It is a crime. It is crime squared to pity.

Kashmir's beautiful forests have lots of European hoopoes in them. These are green and tranquil realms. And they have remained largely untouched by human intervention. A principal defining characteristic of these forest lands is that they do not have, and in most cases never have had, roads across them. We should let it be. The heady pines are vital havens for wildlife -- indeed, absolutely critical to the survival of some endangered species.

Ours is nature unspoiled. A treasured inheritance which we all should be proud of.

We cannot -- and should not -- allow a missionary board to tarnish it.

That is the least we can do for our little dell.

Sameer

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Magical May

I’ve been meaning to post this for a while now, never got around to it.
Suddenly it is high May and it is raining. I just love the steady patter of rain on my pane. It feels almost home. And refreshing too. Newspapers are replete with sloppy explanations, quoting the poor weatherman. Some f******* western disturbance causes the f****** hot air to go up and then winds from Kashmir blow in to fill the seducing gap, they tell us. And it rains. Kashmir, it appears, works like a shot of tranquilizer India cannot do without.

Glad tidings first. Obama seems certain to clinch the Democratic presidential nomination in the US. That is only if that spunky old war-mare Hillary would let him. Looks like she is going to go down fighting. It was exhilarating to see real democracy in action all these previous weeks. Day after day. Primary after primary. Caucus after caucus. Debate after debate. Vote count after vote count, it was sheer catechization. The way a candidate makes it to the top is perhaps the best example of participatory democracy anywhere in the world. [Though democracy is not always flawless, occasionally it does promote a dim-wit. Example: George Bush Jr].

This week also marked the 40th anniversary of the student revolution in France. It was the May of 1968 when a million students abandoned their lycee and university classes to bring upon a profound social change in France. The rebellious youth were disillusioned among other things -- with the Vietnam War, the old society of Europe and traditional morality. Charles de Gaulle [CDG], the iconic French president tried to crush the uprising. Brute force was used to put it down but the students held forth. Soon workers joined them. Intellectuals like the existentialist John Paul Sartre backed the revolution. Police soon swung into action and occupied the prestigious Sorbonne University. Tempers frayed. Protesters were arrested in their hundreds --including Sartre -- and swiftly charged with sedition. At this CDG intervened and had charges against Sartre dropped. ‘You don’t arrest Voltaire’, CDG famously remarked.

A million young men marched in Paris on the magical morning of May 13, 1968. De Gaulle’s administration shuddered at this open defiance of authority. What started as an impromptu protest had become a movement that now seemed completely unstoppable. At one point CDG had to go into hiding. The brilliant Tariq Ali recalls those nostalgic – and eventful years – as the street-fighting years. Eventually France changed forever. Religion, patriotism and respect for authority gave way to liberal morality – epitomized by equality, sexual liberation and respect for human rights. The world watched in total awe. Students in those tumultuous May nights plotted and managed to bring about a dramatic shift in values.

Closer home the rampant pillaging of fragile countryside ecology continues unabated. Everyday -- for the past one week -- whenever I check a Kashmiri newspaper online I am immensely saddened. There are daily reports of impunity with which the beauty of Pahalgam is being destroyed. Dirty CRPF make-shift tentments – where troopers in groups of 10's -- eat, sleep, loll and play cards -- have come up all over the lush dell. And as I mentioned in an earlier post, trenches are being dug for excreting, bang in the middle of a golf course this time.

Kashmir is no doubt a tranquilizer but does that mean we overdose ourselves on it.

Sameer

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

A week in the mall

In the days of yore, Indians had a different meaning of the word mall. ’Mall’ used to be anything but a 1 million square foot exclusive retail and ramble zone. If someone was really loaded -- in the pre-globalization days -- his money was commonly called Mall. And then globalization happened. The Gandhi-esque money of old coffers and deep pockets -- hoarded over many socialist years -- came in direct contact with the Franklin-smelling dollars of the capitalistic west. And lo presto! There was the New Age Mall.

Post-globalization we have become so used to the mall culture that one is likely to find his/her future wife/hubby in some cozy bistro or across a mall aisle. We are abandoning the hot, dirty, pan strewn, beggar-infested marketplace for the climate-controlled confines of the ubiquitous, fast mushrooming malls. Fitted with neon lights and glass and steel escalators and imported trees the malls come abuzz with the generation next Youngistan -- sales boys and sales girls and a whole new range of products – from Namibian butterfly berry crème for cracked heels to Swiss military knives for everyone. Everything and anything you need or do not really need is on offer -- at the swipe of a credit card.

It feels jolly good. The most satisfying argument is: The crowd is decent. Everything stacked [which they unstack for you, in real quick time] is beyond the purchasing power of the lower middle class and the toiling masses, so effectively the poor – and ugly India -- is shut out from the air-conditioned limits of the great Indian malling experience. The middle-middle classes come in their droves. Sari-clad housewives carefully stepping onto the escalators. Families of six. Mostly touch and feel. Check the tag and let go. They are happy hopping shops. Consequently higher the income ladder you go, more you shell out. Cutesy show-windows ambush your attention span. Big brands vie for your eye-balls.

Raj is 6ft2, a childhood pal and on the verge of crossing the dash between bachelorhood and wedlock. He asked me to help him shop for his wedding. Like a nice buddy I obliged. We raided all the major malls. Since Raj is a meticulous fellow, he went about checking the detailing -- from shirt stitching to color combinations to ankle measurements and I joined him in the fun. Enthusiastic salespeople went out of their way to help him get into a jacket or try another mega size shoe. While we were treated like royals on weekdays [when there is barely a soul in the malls], we had to jostle for attention over the weekend [when everyone and his doggy descends on the malls]. End of the eventful week, I too was poorer by a few grands. But that’s exactly what consumerism is all about.

In between an impromptu dance party, quickly set up a mobile ramp and broke into a jig. Nobody knew why but they danced their heart out! Then there is this rather mundane exercise of handing over your shopping bags to the guard – usually a dark skinny guy in blue uniform – and collect a coupon. Usually people bark to the dark guy [who must never have seen a school] in their acquired call-centre accents: Guard, keep the bags together. Gimme a single coupon for all my merchandise. Pronto! Often enough the poor guy looks bewildered. Not to worry though. The confusions are small casualties in a big-big mall.

Overall I’ve mixed feelings about malls. It is vanity but variety. Consumerist zones but comfort. The familiar sight of rich fat kids biting into chocolate-filled ice-cream bars. Heavily powdered females conceit writ large on their glossed faces. Over-excited teens. Retired army officers with curved moustaches in golf Tees. Swagger intact but slightly drooping. High testosterone north Indian males out there to splurge. Credit cards in hand, ready to flitter for an over-prized Kelvin Klein underwear. To be worn beneath low rise jeans, for the lapel to show. An occasional cleaning man, mopping the floor, breaks the decent crowd portrait. But the fiesta continues.

Happy malling

Sameer

Monday, April 28, 2008

Salman, the Salmon

Fact: Salman Rushdie is immensely overrated.

I find Salman Rushdie nothing more than a literary playboy. That he is a fine writer, I have not a dram of doubt about but I hate the way he is feted about in academic circles. The western fixation of hailing him as a fearless author par excellence is more political than scholarly. I understand why Indian news editors fall for him. One, because of Rushdie’s loathe-hate relationship with Islam [highly fashionable in post cold-war], he gives them great news-bites. Two, he has been in many ways the first of the major league home-born authors to catapult India to the International literary scene, with his highly readable Midnight’s children. Alas, apart from that one brilliant tome, Salman has written nothing extraordinary.

Needlessly, among all postwar writers, nobody has been more over praised than Rushdie. I, for once, have read most of his works. Massive portions of Salman are either uninspiring or inescapably boring. I however would be compelled to echo the opinion that the subjects of Rushdie's books are almost always fascinating, but his narrative has no real depth. John Updike perhaps sums him the best in the New Yorker: Rushdie as a literary performer suffers, I think, from being not just an author but a cause célèbre and a free-speech martyr, thanks to the fatwa issued by Ayatollah Khomeini. [What they will never tell you is that soon after the fatwa 44 out of the 45 countries of the Islamic congress called the fatwa illegal]

In essence Salman Rushdie is a product of his times. He was lucky after the publication of his stunning second novel ‘Midnight’s children’ and rode the waves of literary fashion. That fetched him a Booker. His first novel Grimus was largely ignored by critics and public alike. Shame, a book on Pakistan followed in 1983. It was mostly average. The Jaguar Smile: A Nicaraguan Journey (1987) was plain bad. The Satanic Verses generated a lot of heat in 1988. Death threats followed but the book had very poor literary merit. The Moor's Last Sigh came in 1995. The South African literature Nobel laureate JM Coetzee called it both palimpsesting [read confusing] and unoptimistic in a New York Times review.

Salman wrote The Ground beneath Her Feet in 1999. Pankaj Mishra, one of India’s most promising contemporary writers had this to say on The Ground beneath Her Feet: With its banal obsessions and empty bombast, its pseudo-characters and non-events, its fundamental shapelessness and incoherence, The Ground Beneath Her Feet does little more than echo the white noise of the modern world. Rushdie continued to dip his pen in the inkhorn and produce another unreadable in 2001. Fury. Subjective and thankfully slim. Next came Shalimar the Clown in 2005. A mix-bag of cliché. A poor half-hearted effort. Salman’s freshest produce is The Enchantress of Florence (2008). Olivia Cole dissects it in the UK’s independent. The prose, Olivia writes, is lackluster. Period. So while Midnight was a gem the rest of his oeuvre oscillates between mediocre to unreadable.

In between, because our ink-guzzler produced parchments of tolerable -- and intolerable --prose, the British government decided to knight him. I have no doubt in my head that the entire knighthood drama was a political event. Rushdie is a smooth operator. He possesses a mind matter that is part political, part literary. He supported [unlike most intellectuals] the US-UK illegal war on Iraq. No wonder Elizabeth II put her scepter on Rushdie’s bald head and uttered those magical words in her queenly voice: Rise Sir Salmon. [That is how they pronounce him: Salmon, which means a fish not his real name Salman, which is Arabic and means secure]. The flicker of the wand on the head was humbling, Salman said. The brilliant Tariq Ali correctly calls the likes of Rushdie belligerati. [Belligerent and literati]

Salman is still riding on the reputation of Midnight's Children, and the infamy afforded him by the fatwa. Most of his more controversial and mediocre books are not stocked in great numbers because there is no demand. Rushdie has been a has-been for two decades. To his credit, Salman Rushdie is a fairish Postmodernist writer because of the constant themes of coexistence on display in his many works. He aptly emphasizes the independence of local societies and human existence. That’s it. He is no genius.

The truth be said, I like his interplay of words, his tales, his magical realism. I abhor the shallowness, hypothticality and pretence of his canvas. I maintain he is Salman and not Salmon.

And he is hugely over-rated.

Sameer

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

The importance of being Azad

I am not surprised at the recent outbursts of chief minister of J&K. He is perhaps only stating the obvious. Ghulam Nabi Azad has called Kashmiris corrupt. He says they feign fasting during Ramadan, a charge carried by Economic Times [Apr 20, 2008], a much respected newspaper published from New Delhi but subsequently denied by the CM’s office. Another salvo italicizes that a lot of people have amassed an awful lot of wealth, which is mostly ill-gotten and illegal. Azad adds that were he were to open these files [which are apparently lying on his table], most people would find themselves behind bars.

Truth be told, the chief minister has stated nothing utterly shocking. The Transparency International (TI), one of world’s leading Corruption Perception Indexes (CPI) -- in its 2007 report -- ranked JK, at number two, amongst Indian states, in terms of petty corruption. It is there for all to see. For many years now corruption has systematically ruined the state and pervaded onto its very moral fiber. Despite the Islamic faith, which everyone in the valley seems to carry on his/her sleeve, faithlessness hangs around their no-so-fair necks. From Taxi-drivers at Srinagar airport to the corpulent babu in the city civil secretariat, everyone is out to fleece you. So Azad is not entirely wrong to suggest what he is suggesting.

My problem emanates at another level. Rather than threatening to drop names and open some clandestine file, Azad should lead from the front and go ahead and open the damn files. Stem the rot. Book the offenders. Let those charged prove their innocence in the court of law. If found guilty their properties should be swiftly sealed off and auctioned. Rather than going on and on about the fabulous wealth that all Kashmiris have allegedly made during the militancy years, he should get cracking on bribery and graft. May be he can start from his own office in civil secretariat where everyone and is dog is thoroughly corrupt.

Rather than looking at the solution, which I am sure is not entirely unachievable, Azad is trying to be pontific. Does it not highlight Azad’s cynicism rather than his competence? Is he a local pope or an elected administrator? Or plain cynical. In hindsight all the King's men [read Delhi's cronies] become haughty, aloof and preacy once they reach Srinagar. They behave like satraps of Delhi's northern-most outpost.

Azad should just zip his mouth and stop scoring petty political brownies. He is mostly considered a rank outsider. Originally from a far-flung village Soti, in Kishtawar [that falls in Doda district of Jammu], he is nephew to the ex-director of education [Kashmir] G. R. Bhat. The old educationist -- because he disliked his surname or may be he was a poet of some stripe -- dropped Bhat and took the last name Azad. Ghulam Nabi followed suit. Azad has been outside the valley for more than three full decades. That explains the extend of his disconnect.

In reality most people in Kashmir struggle hard to make a living, just like any other Indian state. And not everyone is corrupt. You'll find honest, kind people like everywhere else. The malaise of corruption began in the violence years. An immediate side effect of the armed struggle was a systematic breakdown of the official machinery. The fear of law was simply gone. Vanished into thin air. In Kashmir – even in 2008 – people are really not too scared of cops. They are often referred to as Poonda – in a rather derogatory sense.

With their traditional avenues of income – tourism, farming, handicrafts -- dried up, and limited alternatives available, the ambitious kinds resorted to making a quick buck. The demographics had clearly changed by now. A majority of pro-India politicians and their lackeys and kin began the plunder. They stashed away large parts of the money that came from the government of India. The separatists – most of Hurriyet and ex-militant commanders and their stooges made hay with the easy money that Pakistan smuggled into Kashmir. Ordinary people spoliated each other.

Morality is herd instinct in the individual, Friedrich Nietzsche, the German thinker-philosopher averred in the 19th century. May be it holds true in the 21st century Kashmir. Indeed someone needs to step forward and tell the truth. Rip open the can of worms. But only words won’t help. Deeds are needed. Azad could be sincere but his efforts belie him. He comes from a party that is often called the fountainhead of corruption. It is full of sycophants and me-too’s. He has never talked about corruption in his own party. Isn’t he part of the appeasement polity? Isn’t he part of the same corrupt cliché’, notwithstanding his personal integrity? Why does he want the security forces in Kashmir to carry on with special powers till the year-end elections? [There is consensus emerging in the centre, calling for stripping some of the military’s more harsh powers in the state]. What will fundamentally change at the end of this year? Does he want a rigged election again? Isn’t then he too morally shallow?

In any case no state, like no home, is completely perfect. There are always problems areas. In our culture, as head of the family, a father would rather try to fix the problem because he has got the authority. He can criticize his folks, rap them, throw them out. But he won’t go about town saying my family is evil. My boys are bad and my wife is a compulsive liar.

And he cannot afford to say that he is immune because he has been away all the while.

Azad at 59 can’t afford to be insensitive to his compatriots.

Sameer

Thursday, April 10, 2008

What's in a name?

[Image: Tulip garden, Srinagar]

What's in a name?
That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
~William Shakespeare (1564-1616), greatest of the English dramatists

More than three hundred thousand tulips. Hundreds of exotic varieties in endless sequined rows. A proposed 90-acre golden meadow caressing the foothills of Zabarwan mountains. A riot of colors on the banks of Dal Lake.

To compliment the stunning landscape of Kashmir, they make everything beautiful in the vale. So we have a multi-colored garden, giving off fragrances from heaven, bang in Srinagar. The government claims it is Asia’s largest tulip garden, though I’ve my doubts. They are expecting lots and lots of footfalls as the tourist season unfolds. So far so good.

Since the myriad flowers in the garden radiate fluorescence, someone gave it a name: Siraj. That is Arabic for light. I noticed the dailies have started referring to it – in recent news items -- as Indira Gandhi garden. I don’t know how or why they chose to invoke Mrs Gandhi’s name. Azad, under whose watch the garden was inaugurated, is a balding congressman, whose only shot to fame is being in the good books of 10 Janpath. I reckon changing the name from Siraj – which ain’t frankly cool enough – to Indira doesn’t require much explaining.

We could have a more catchy appellation like ‘Million Blushes’ but I understand the associated basket of problems. The name won’t find many takers. Also it won’t resonate very well with the picnicking school teachers or their pupils. Methinks a simple name like ‘Tulip Garden’ was far simple and secular.

Most places in Kashmir still have ethnic names. There must be a couple of areas/roads where Mrs Gandhi’s name has already been used. I've nothing against the slain former PM but I'm not for overusing dead-names to the extend of boredom.

Kashmiris, historically, have not been too innovative in naming places. Everyone and his uncle – for example— calls the romantic stretch from Dal Gate to Centaur hotel, Boulevard road. Translated it means avenue road, which is wrong. It should be Boulevard. One word. The only fashionable places -- to my mind – are the more English sounding: Residency road, Lambert lane and Forest lane.

[Image: Cars going towards Residency road, Srinagar]

Across the Dal, the quick re-christening notwithstanding, the papers report that authorities are now edgy about the lack of expected visitors [local/non-local] to the garden. Any dignitary visiting Kashmir these days is swiftly taken to the garden and school children are encouraged [and charged] to visit the place. Since the life-span of tulips is short, the government wants to make most of it.

I once read of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the Victorian poetess:
And tulips, children love to stretch
Their fingers down, to feel in each
Its beauty's sweet nearer.

Sameer
April 2008
Srinagar Airport