Prologue

Sir, My name is Junaid Khan. My father’s name is Ali Asgar Khan. I am 23 years and 11 months old. I will be 24 in the next month, if you do not transfer me to the other jail tonight as you did with that stone-faced, blindfolded boy, whom I first saw in the police van, handcuffed, afraid and strained as though he was puzzled by everything happening to him. Look, I am not half-literate like him. I understand what it means when they transfer someone from one jail to other during the darker hours of the day, blindfolded and handcuffed.

Ah! I forget. You have no other choice; you are simply following your orders.

You know, I like this cell. It reminds me of my childhood days, these damped walls, the pale lightened bulb hanging from the ceiling, and that rustic window. This foul odor coming from these damped walls might make you nauseous, but I perceive tranquility and calmness. It somehow soothes me. I think I am accustomed to it. I am familiar to this foulness. You see that spot at the front wall, just below the window, from where plaster has withered off? Didn't you say it looks like a high heel shoe to you? But it reminds me of the distorted Australian map that you have seen in your geography text book and below that you might have read – 'Earth’s map in early nineteenth century'. See that joint from where long heel starts; there lies Sydney, the home of Sydney Opera House and Sydney Harbor Bridge. I remember the moment when I first saw these structures in my geography text book; I was mesmerized and lost somewhere in that black and white picture. Other boys were reading loudly the economy of Australia, while I was watching it amazingly with my eyes wide opened. I was assured I could continue dreaming of it till those loud economies were coming into my ears as well as into the ears of my teacher, who was snoring in his chair with his legs stretched over the table, and with a long dark greenish bamboo rule in his lap. He used to repeat these words while applying it on the boys shivering hands – Dukh-Haran hai ye, Dukh-Haran hai ye….' (It is a pain reliever, It is a pain reliever.). Believe me Sir, Those words were quite intriguing for a boy of age somewhat 11 and whenever I got those doses, I was confused how it could have been a pain reliever.

See in that black spot molded due to dampness in the upper corner of that wall. Don’t you think, it looks like the west coast of United States of America? It was covered with cobwebs till yesterday night. A mosquito got trapped. For some time, he tried with his full strength to get rid of those sticking traps, and then he stopped, after some time he swayed his undulating body furiously and again stopped. He kept his futile efforts alive till he could. After a long time, all that was to be seen were the small movements of his legs, coming intermittently, just to signal the remains of life left inside him. The whole scene was being observed by me quietly and of course, by that red headed spider, very close to his trap, standstill, and silent. I was feeling nauseous, so I destroyed his home and crushed that bastard into dust under my slippers. Leave that Sir, you see where those black spots ends, here is San Francisco, the home of the famous Golden Gate suspension Bridge over the San Francisco Bay. I used to dream of, having a white ferry and a voyage from Sydney Opera house to Golden Gate in those days when I strived to register my existence in this world. Now, I am a complete unknown and it is not that they don’t know my identity; it is something they refuse to see me. I realized the futility involved in chasing those dreams when I became a complete unknown piece of morsel.

I know you have left no stone unturned to extract my identity. I shall tell you my true identity when I am assured enough that it is no longer important for you. Nobody is going to dig my true identity. They are the same blindfolded people; they see what you show them.

Beyond the burning Chinar

Neither I am a native of Kashmir, nor have I ever been there in my life. I may not be affected directly by the problems in Kashmir; still my emotions get stirred up when I see thousands of uncontrolled youth slinging stones on armed forces; not because, I share some kind of affinity to them, but the "sense of Nationalism" and "realization of belonging to a nation" prompt me to think about Kashmir.
History has witnessed these countless slinging stones since Indian Independence. Solutions given to combat situations were far from the reality, never leading to reconciliation with Kashmiris. The only thing that remained intact in last 60 years, were the opinions expressed through the years intermittently and fiascoes ensuing them. Opinions are bound to appear frivolous in democratic context unless they are free from any personal hidden interest , (no matter who proposed it) and the summit conference held at the beautiful hill station of Murree on September 21, 1960, can be held as one of the candid examples. Though, it failed with sad consequences, but successfully revealed some hidden interests. Ayub Khan, then-President of Pakistan, proposed his opinions at a certain node in which all he expected at that stage was that the process of discussion on Kashmir be initiated without preconditions and advocated a solution that would be satisfactory with the point of view of the people of Jammu and Kashmir. Nehru on the other hand, was fully aware of the claustrophobic disaster involved in accomplishment of any of these steps, which certainly was not in favor of his popularity in India. He accurately envisaged the end of Congress in Indian politics if any one of these steps were mandated. However, Nehru’s decision is self explanatory because losing control over a territory, which belongs to you legally but not ethically, may be the most flaking thing ever for a country and could possibly have thought of bridging the chasm in between by providing better infrastructure, roads, educations, employments.
India’s failure is clear in an attempt to blossom the sense of Indian nationality in Kashmiri youth, even having strong hold on Kashmir over last 60 years, although, it is not the case with Hyderabad and Junagadh where their acceptances of Indian sovereignty are similar to that of Kashmir. Ideologies can never be altered just by building good roads and bridges, if this is the case, India wouldn’t have got freedom and possibly Nehru wouldn’t have made any tryst with destiny.
Kashmiris have grown up with an inherent contempt and betrayal. Curfews, high alerts, military marches are the integral parts of their daily life. Their own army, that is supposed to protect them, has become their biggest enemy. At any moment, they are not sure which bullet would shatter their life, whether it is from their own army or from militants. Many cases have been filed in last decades against army men, in which they were found guilty of raping Kashmiri girls. Martyrdom is a romantic subject and can easily allure young blood to rebel against system. It is justifiable on their perspective when they join militants. A TV channel aired a debate on the stone-pelting recently, in which they tried to capture young and highly educated Kashmiri’s views on riots. None left an impression of being mislead or spelled by any clergy. One of them disguised himself as a die-hard fan of John Lennon, dressed himself exactly the same as we see Lennon in his song -Imagine, from round shape spec to his hair style. When he got a chance to speak, he sneered contemptuously," They call it Democracy, we call it Hippocracy."

Pride

He has to decide her fate: a disdainful life or a disgraceful death and he has to decide it today itself. He had been waiting for this day for a long time and today he has strengthened himself to speak about this matter to the sinner’s father, an influential person of the village. Although, he knew the futility of this action very well, even then he had chosen to listen to his heart.

It had been insufferable for both father and mother in hiding their 15 year’s old unmarried daughter’s womb. They placed no stone unturned to protect the family pride: bribed a doctor for foeticide , prepared home-made drugs suggested by a distant relative upon whom they were compelled to trust, locked her in a room, told everyone that she had gone to her aunt’s home. The harder they tried to suppress it, the faster the news spread around.

He lives in a typical North-Indian Rajputana village. Pride, ostentation and haughtiness run in the blood of everyone. None needs to exercise these qualities. None can say that illiteracy prevails here. A teen is educated enough for reading pornographic magazines and for hiding it in between his textbooks. An adult is educated enough for evading government taxation, for committing crimes like murder and abduction in the name of politics. Women are also educated here but their education is very centered and limited. They get educated just to make themselves able to get married and to learn new tips for surviving in a married life which is nothing better than a god-damn-hell, and to make themselves realize as soon as possible that they are just basic means of lust for men sovereign society.

Today, he was no more a Rajput, no more obstinate or haughty. His daughter had left no corner for him to show any pride. He tried hard but couldn’t speak anything. His face was set like stone, but the tears welled up in his eyes and ran down his rigid cheeks.

Sinner’s father put his arm around him to comfort him and crafted his every word wisely but his eyes were sly and greedy, “I know my pervert son is also equally responsible for your sufferings. No one can doubt your wisdom and judgment”
Then he wrapped twenty thousands bucks in a newspaper and handed it over to the poor father and asserted further, “You have another daughter and this is just for her marriage.” He paused for a while and added more rigidly, “You are a Rajput. We live for our Pride and die for it. Don’t worry; we will see how to turn it into a suicide case.”

There was an anguish sign of acceptance on his face, acceptance of the obvious, acceptance of the Truth, acceptance of being a poor father of an amorous daughter. But the confusion still lay in a deeper, more secret place.

Why I am on the blogosphere

I am a great follower and I really mean it. Being a true citizen of India, I inherit certain qualities which, I believe, are the very basic birth-rights of a person born in this country. Everyone here is a great follower and I am not an exception. We have nothing original, nothing new, not a single idea except the mathematical concept of zero, discovered around 650AD. Since then, we have nothing new about which we can boast. Starting from our government’s policies, its structure, each idea here is either adopted or stolen form others. It is little bit complicated, whether we follow democracy as in other countries like US, UK (where a person’s social position depends on his merit) or we have communism like in China (or USSR), where a person is restricted to use his merit for his personal gain beyond a given limit. Actually we follow both ideologies; we are democratic as well as communist. But it is not the matter of concern whether we are democratic or communist. We are great follower and great thieves ,story ends up here. Instead of saying follower, I should rather use “sidekick” to describe Indians better.

I read The White Tiger, by Arvind Adiga a few months before .He writes “We Indians are a great follower of Lord Hanuman, a super sidekick of Lord Rama. We are trained to worship Hanuman from our early age and so we are trained to be a sidekick from very tender age.”

(Sorry folks, this is my perception of Indians and if it is causing any resentful displeasure, don’t be reluctant on telling me. Keeping in the mind that I am a great follower, you can think I am a great follower of Adiga too.)

Extending my belief in followership, I decided to be the part of blog-writing rat race. Everyone is writing blog today, everyone is sharing his views on anarchism, monarchism, democracy, communism, music, love, films, his own life etc .Then why shouldn’t I???

So I decided to write my own blog. But what I should write, frankly I don’t know. I don’t know about various “ism” like anarchism, communism, monarchism etc and I don’t even have a good taste of music. I don’t know which song lands up in which genre. I enjoy movies a lot.

So finally I reach to the conclusion of this crap that I know myself better and I should write about myself.