Fiction: A book of interconnected stories spans the past, present and future in Kashmir

Children, who had created a makeshift cricket pitch, were rushing towards a pile of clothes, mostly pherans, which they had taken off and collected to serve as wickets. Some put them on, and some ran off clutching them in their hands. The scene reminded Gul of the days they too used to play cricket in their neighbourhood. All the family would join in; the elders and their neighbours would also participate.

“Those were the golden years. Why did we grow up?” Gul sighed.

“It was the best,” Ram responded. His mind too had wandered into his childhood. “The more you know, the more you grow. The more you grow, the more quickly you begin to lose it. The taste of happiness.”

That’s right,’ Gul said, lingering over the words. “The taste of happiness.”

They continued walking, engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to their surroundings.

“Have you ever thought about what you will do?” Gul asked.

“About what?” Ram asked.

“Getting a job?”

“It’s not easy to get a government job, Gul. It’s not at all easy. I had no idea it would be so difficult.”

“Yes but, Ram, don’t you want to start the next stage? Of life? We will be able to just as soon as we get a job.”

“What? Do you mean getting married? Having children and working ourselves into the ground to provide for our family?” Ram laughed, a little bitterly.

“Maybe after years of hard work we might save enough money to build our own house – miles away from our parents and brothers. Great! And then we die. Our lives are mapped out for us whether we like it or not.” Gul looked at him sideways. “Girls won’t give you a second look if you don’t have a job.”

“What girls?” Ram asked.

Gul laughed. “You want to get married and not be alone. But you can’t do that without a job.”

“Haha! Maybe. Everyone is after money and good family status here. This money shit! Earning just to barely live.”

“But everyone has to earn money,” Gul said.

“Whoever invented this concept of money should be hanged. Hanged until all life escapes them. Who was it, do you know? Can you imagine! We could be living freely now, if it wasn’t for him.” Ram’s sense of humour had returned, and Gul was relieved to see his anger recede.

“Yes, what a fool he was. But we are all fools now.” Gul laughed. “Would you say Lalita loves you because of your money?”

“You know I have no money.”

“Exactly. Not everything has to be about money. Come, let’s go home now.”

“I mean it,” Ram said. “There has to be a world beyond making money. To dream. To live.”

Gul was quiet, but uneasy.

He put on his cap. “How are you not cold?” he asked. “You can put your hands in the pockets of your trousers.”

“Okay, but I’m not thinking about the cold,” Ram said.

Gul went on, insisting, “How can you not feel it. See, maybe nobody is here today because of the cold. Those children run around so much and stay warm.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Ram said, looking around distracted. “Yes. Those trees were not bare when we came here on Friday – I remember seeing the leaves.” He looked around. “It’s getting late.”

“Yes,” Gul said. “I know. That’s why we’re going home.”

Ram looked back at him and smiled. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked. He wanted to talk more about a world without money. He realised how gently Gul had been taking him out of his black mood and was filled with a rush of affection for his friend.

“Nothing,” Gul said. “Didn’t you see? There’s a strike.”

Ram looked away as they kept walking.

“No,” he finally said, fed up. “I didn’t see. These days you don’t have to see anything, nothing matters. One day the world is at peace, the next day it’s filled with blood.”

“God,” Gul exclaimed miserably. “I wish we could do something.”

They walked in silence.

“You know where to go,” Ram joked. “Join the revolution if you’re serious.”

Gul baulked. “No, I don’t know where to go. You tell me where I should go. How many revolutionaries have you been speaking to?”

“Stop talking rubbish. You said you wanted to do something.”

“And that’s all there is to do? That’s your big idea? Join freedom fighters? Is that our liberation?”

“Don’t if you don’t want to,” Ram said. “It’s not like the uniformed men have tortured us. Why bother.”

Gul looked at him, a small smile on his face, not reaching his eyes.

“Don’t take it like that,” Ram said, rolling his eyes. “You know what I mean. We’re good living our lives like this. What are our wealthy elders doing? Sitting on their money quietly! Do they ever care? How is it our responsibility to fight injustice when we are poor? Don’t you see it’s all they give you if you are poor – the dream of azadi?”

Ram’s face was hot. Gul looked at him and decided to say it.

“You are a Hindu, Ram,” he said gently. “You don’t have to worry about azadi.”

Ram kept walking, now a little faster. “Don’t be so stupid,” he said. “Sometimes I wish my family had also migrated. I would have loved it.”

Excerpted with permission from The Man from Kashmir: A Novella, Muddasir Ramzan, Bloomsbury India.