Sorry For Loving You
“Tere saath rishta kya , Jabri Kabza aur kya”
Pakistan’s romp became our pomp. Kashmir became Pakistan and nation wants to know? Who paid for firecrackers, from where feelings and emotions crossed LOC, who let the open jail open, how did prayers travel all the way from Kashmir to The Oval, how did unthinkable become thinkable, unexpected became expected? Why Kashmiris support and love Pakistan?
Banging fist on the table.
Again shout and finally India all out, and NATION WANTS TO KNOW faints. Blank, bleak, black screen. Ambulance siren arrived like a cup in Pakistan’s hand.
Kashmiris mouths ajar, hands and fists in the air, jumping landing, landing jumping, and smiles shone at night, happy hearts lit up.
Over the years my love for things changed; slowly but surely. I had in my room photos of Indian players like Sachin (who’s batting style I still try to imitate), Sehwag and Sachin opening the team video clips, Laxmans and Dravids defense that accompanies me still and often forces my friends to pull their hair (my aggressive, cricket enthusiastic, Journalism friends) , who often played Pakistani National Anthem to me but it never gave me goose bumps, they always thought and named themselves as Pakistani cricketers in matches ( while playing cricket in our subconscious mind there is always; that player, that team whom we identify with). But I was the other way round: an Indian. Often when India lost, I wept and became sad. And when they won, it was like laughing and being happy in a family in which someone has recently died.
Someone dies every day within me and I don’t know who it is? And I just write this, to mourn its passing.
Sehwag and sports star Hindi to Indian corporate voyeuristic media to eternally war mongers, with their entire diatribe, seems more like “Sehwag stinking sports star sewage stinking war mongering India”- a new name for him and them or HimThem. With growing age and growing India, he seems to be slipping out of his senses like rest of his country. By country, I mean imminent eternally superpower Bharat. India seems to be in him and him in India. I don’t seem to like India anymore because I’m falling for …And because I’m a Kashmiri.
What India does in Kashmir acted like a banana peel thrown by banana republic on which my love slipped?
While Indians on television smashed TV’s we hugged our already censored TVs.
While Indians burnt effigies and photos of their players we lit the sky with firecrackers.
While the noise on TV sets subsided, we came on streets with a voice.
On a bright Sunday here in Kashmir and there at Oval, Pakistan with everything going its way like prayers playing on the ground, lit up eternally mourning, gloomy Kashmir.
Here in downtown, each four and six, no ball and wide, was greeted with melodious, harmonising, an orchestra of firecrackers like carpet beating, like encounter going on especially near camps of Indian forces. That must have filled eternally up in air nostrils! And then like a mosquito danced in their head.
With every over, the intensity of crackers grew, so did the demand for freedom to slogans to anti-India slogans.
Orchestra of “ De- Ragdo, tapping of feet, different coloured and multi- sounded firecrackers, to mobile flashlights shining like mini million stars, an ocean of green flags to Pakistan is ours and we are Pakistani slogans- all just felt like it is Independence; everyone happy and smiling. Old in young, young in old, everyone was in, everyone. History in Present and Present in future.
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