My Life in Kashmir!

It was a sunny morning, when I left my home not aware of the things going to occur; as nobody knows here what is next; especially in Kashmir, nobody knows whether he/she will come back alive to see his/her loved ones once again, or just a dead body. ‘Allah Hafiz’ (Allah be your protector) my mother uttered these words when I left for the morning tuition classes. Being in 12^th standard, I was aiming to become a doctor to serve my countrymen who face daily tortures, ruthless beatings, scratches, broken limbs and ironed backs, besides all the commoners. As usual, my routine was Home to Tuition Centre, from tuition to School and back Home – not to become a militant but to become a doctor. But on this fateful day, I was forced to change my routine timetable, simply to add one more subject and this subject was ‘subject to ruthless beating’. I was beaten to pulp for the reasons still unknown to me.

I was waiting for a bus along with my friends, holding some documents in my hand. A single gunshot, followed by a volley of bullets flying over our heads– everyone running here and there, shouts, shrieks, cries, weeping, hiding to save life; really painful moments. The surroundings reverberated with gunshots and sirens. Nobody knew what was happening but all were running away. I saw one of my friends holding his satchel, running away and entering an old building. Following him, I entered a dark room; nothing was visible. I was all alone, searching for my friend who entered before me. I got petrified, till I heard some female voice weeping by my side. It was a tuition centre, full of students; all weeping, but silently. Suddenly, there was a huge explosion outside; everyone shrieked with fear. Due to fear, some girls started weeping, but were made to stop by the teachers and the boys; as if they were heard by the security forces, the boys would be beaten to pulp. Comments started about the explosion. Some termed it a mine blast, some a mortar shell which the Indian army uses for houses in which militants hold position to raise them to the ground. A few rounds more, and lastly it stopped. Everyone was feeling relieved now, but a certain fear was still there. Whispering followed by chats as to how many militants or security forces would have been killed? Everyone was doubling the number of Indian security forces, because all Kashmiris hate them for one reason or the other.

The discussion came to an abrupt stop when knocking was followed by ‘apne hath upar karke, bahar aajao!’ (Come out, while holding your hands high!). ‘Come out fast, bastards. You terrorists.’ Once again started the weeping and shrieking, but to no avail. The tutor got up, opened the door and was about to explain to the army men that it was a classroom and all here were students and not terrorists. Instead of listening to him, he was slapped and beaten ruthlessly. ‘Why didn’t you open the door instantly, you bastard? Be a cock!’ The teacher, who usually ordered students to become a cock, is himself made a cock by the shameless, illiterate, gun totting security forces of one of the largest democracies of the world. Those who don’t respect the teachers of a society cannot be regarded as humans. ‘Come out, you bastards; come out, one by one.’ Card checking, frisking followed by beating by gun butts and kicks by jack boots. Now the classroom in which students were taught the Indian democracy and its Constitution; human rights; Indian struggle for freedom, was now changed into an interrogation centre where all these rules, regulations, constitutions and rights were changed and new ones were made and applied instantly. Everyone tried to be the last in the row, but all in vain, as all got the same treatment at the hands of the brutal forces, the reasons of which I am still in search of.