Seated
on the floor Varuna looked around excitedly at other neighborhood children. She
was my best friend, lively and vibrant. This was not her first visit to the
mosque, where she had often accompanied me for Friday prayers, but the mosque
had changed. It had become a public school in May, 1990, six months after the
armed conflict between India and Kashmiri militants began in Kashmir. This was
the clash of the sacred with the profane. Education was crucial for children’s
success, the only hope for Kashmiris
during the tumultuous years of the political conflict. Public schools had been
closed for about a month and amid the endless deaths from bombings, the mosque
harbored hope.
Children
were perplexed, perhaps contemplating how they would open a textbook in the
mosque. It hardly looked the place where people prayed and found solace in
God’s embrace. Besides, we had never
studied together. We had played puzzle games and scrabble together. Sometimes,
in the winter, we would make snowwomen and snowmen with coal for their eyes and
noses. We would use scraps of colorful woolen fabrics to adorn them.
Without
desks and chairs, the children were scattered. Some were still standing, trying
to find a comfortable spot on the carpet, green speckled with blossoming,
cockscomb: many settled down, set their textbook-loaded backpacks on the
rug.
I
stood shivering in my grey woolen pheran,
afraid to sit down. I felt their eyes judge me. Varuna tugged my hand to sit down. Her round, cheerful face
flashed a smile. She wore rimmed glasses, their hinges matching her black eyes
and eyebrows. A neat braided pigtail cascaded down her right shoulder. She wore
a blue wrist watch. The silver earrings mirrored the necklace neatly draped
around her neck.
“Are you comfortable now?” asked Varuna.
I
smiled and nodded.
We
were opposites. Varuna was vibrant and made friends easily. I was reserved and
unsociable. She loved to talk and everyone felt comfortable with her. I was
cold, but her warmth made me talkative.
Varuna was also a great entertainer: she told stories that demonstrated
her incredible strength. One of her favorites was the black coffin story. She
told this story more than once and always in the same manner; her red cheeks,
sweeter than cherries, glowed as she waved her hands in excitement, asserting
her power over death:
Once upon a time, some magicians at a
concert asked the crowd for participation. Before I could raise my hand, a man
agreed. He repeated a few things proposed by the magicians and then lay inside
a coffin. They closed it, muttering incantations. Time passed and they looked
into the coffin, turned it upside down to show the audience that the man had
disappeared. They put the coffin back in place, reclosed it, waving the cape
over it as they murmured again to bring the man back. When they reopened the
coffin, the man remained missing. The magic failed. Confused, the magicians
requested the crowd’s participation to bring back the man.
I put up my hand in a flash and smiled at
the silent crowd. I looked at you, Huma; tears were swelling in your eyes.
“Don’t worry, I will be fine, Huma,” I
said.
Worried,
you couldn’t hang on to the thought to carry it through a sentence. “Can you
breathe in the c…coff…in, Varuna?” you stuttered at me.
“I will come back, I promise, Huma,” I
said.
I went in the coffin. Inside the coffin, the man’s distant bright glow
indicated my obligation to help him. I reached my hand out to him, sending my
light to the distance to show him the way and he came back. The man stood
beside me, the crowd was cheering, and you wore a bright smile. When I woke, I
felt I had arisen from slumber for the first time. I was elated.
As I
sat by Varuna’s side at the mosque, it was this spontaneity of her upbeat
character that glowed confidence in my eyes. I never envied Varuna, never
wished I could acquire her phenomenal vigor that delighted everyone around her.
Instead, the most important thing lay close to wherever her soul resided. It
was buried in my heart. We were two bodies of the same soul.
***
Varuna
had an excellent voice. Singing came as naturally to her as walking. At recess
in the mosque, she sang with unbelievable ease: Yeh haseen vaadiyan yeh khula aasamaan (The beautiful valleys, the
open sky, Oh my darling, where we have come). The gentle strains of her voice,
even the high notes, chaed lou tum aaj
koi pyaar ki raagini (sing, oh my darling, sing a song of love) were
mesmerizing. This movie song was shot in Kashmir, against the backdrop of
beautiful mountains. With its ivy façade, this newly married couple sang
praises for the Valley, dancing and running freely in expansive lawn. This was like a dream. The reality was we were
huddled in the mosque and felt death in the air.
Before
class resumed, the teachers stopped to listen to Varuna’s songs. We forgot to
eat lunch. After some time, the group began to disperse. I gathered up my
belongings, a plastic lunchbox’s shiny snap on lid displayed a few chunks of pineapple
jam, hanging between two slices of brown bread. I was suddenly hungry.
We
headed back to class in the next room. To my surprise, the teacher, my paternal
uncle, was seated crossed-legged on the rug, his body covered most of the
cockscomb flowers. I thought I might get special privileges, but this wasn’t
so. Like public schools we were assigned a lot of homework. English was the medium of instruction for all
state-run schools, and because Kashmiri was not taught in schools but rarely in
colleges, hard work was crucial.
Both girls and boys at the mosque school were encouraged by teachers to develop
their reading and writing. We saw a glimmer of hope for peace in education. We opened
our hearts out in paper. The writings were mirrors of our emotions,
illustrations of our impaired, unheard, voice.
After
school, I went to Varuna’s house. She lived a couple blocks from my parents’
house. Inside our yellow houses the interior walls were painted azure blue. A
brown sofa in the living room rested about ten feet from the television. An
upright, white refrigerator stood against the wall to the sofa’s left. The kitchen was across the living room. From
the corner, a paneled staircase led to the basement.
Varuna’s
father was watching television. The news about Kashmir protests came on.
Repeated words—arrests, dead, azadi
(freedom)—resonated through the room. Gory, bloody bodies flashed across the
screen. Before Varuna’s father grabbed
the remote control, placed on a small table slightly away from the sofa, and
flipped the channel, I asked, “Why do we kill one another? Aren’t we all
humans?
“Yes, we are. This is a political
conflict. Kashmiris want azadi (freedom)
from India,” he said.
“But many
Kashmiri Pandits left Kashmir. Are you leaving us, too? Please don’t go,” I
said.
“My dear, we
will never go anywhere. Indian security forces killed many Kashmiri militants
and Kashmiri Muslims. The militants killed Kashmiri Pandits, forcing many
others to leave,” he said.
“But it
doesn’t make sense. We have the same houses. We even speak Kashmiri
and eat the same food,” I said.
“Yes, we are Kashmiris. The killings are a part of emotions rooted in
madness, in which the soul and mind is silenced. I am hoping that we learn who we are—human
beings,” he said.
Varuna
held my hand. She knew I was extremely sensitive. “Come let’s play hide and
seek,” she said. We both knew we had to play in the house. Outside, we could be
trapped in crossfire or a bomb might fall on us. Also, curfews did not allow us
to be on the streets. Living in Kashmir, where no one really lived, was a punishment. The constant
fear of death was a torment.
I ran
through the kitchen, trying to find a good hiding spot. I looked through the
cabinets to fit into one of them, but they were well stocked. I climbed down
the staircase into the basement, pounced on the door knob and turned it open. A
thick coal blanket cloaked my face. I shuffled through the big brown sacks of
coal, crunching them beneath my feet. I felt something as tiny as crystals.
Looking down, I saw rows of rice bags stacked up on one side. Given the
violence, Varuna’s parents, like mine, had stored enough food to last for
several months.
At
that moment, Varuna opened the door, “I found you,” dragging herself further in
the storage bin. We both emerged coal black.
That
night my father said to my mother: “Today, a group of men came to my office,
handed me a pamphlet with slogan: hum kya
chahte azaadi (we want freedom). I was shaking and the pamphlet slipped
from my hands. One of the men, who looked the oldest, motioned to the other
four men. He quietly sat in a chair and said in a calm voice: “All we want is azadi from India. We must
fight for our rights. We are not free yet. India must fulfill its 1947 promise
and give autonomy to Kashmir.”
“Nonviolent
movement for our rights is fine,” my father told my mother, “but violence and
killings on both sides is a public nuisance. I am hoping we can hear the
magical echo of eternity for peace.”
My
mother looked at him and blinked her eyes, which was her way to show her
concern.
The
next day, soon after we opened our textbooks, we heard the thunder of a bomb.
We cradled one another in hugs, hiding. These embrace were cloaked in the
war-like horror of our lives. After some time, we peered beyond our entangled
arms. A thick cloud of black smoke had covered the air. Varuna crawled along
the floor on her elbows toward the window. I followed behind her. We got up slowly
and looked out to see a mangled car in flames, human flesh scattered, and many
disfigured bodies in pools of blood. An explosive-laden car, about one block
from the mosque, was the source of the bomb.
The
mosque’s windows were shattered completely by the blast’s impact. After a few
minutes, shots rang out; the security forces arrived and fired outside our
window. Inside, we ducked down and lay on the floor along with other children
and teachers. Bits of window glass pierced through our entire bodies as we
embraced the carpet. The gunfire lasted for about fifteen minutes. Afterward,
we gathered our courage to stand up, some still bleeding from cuts, and see the
white ambulances with flashing red lights. Most of the dead and injured were
being taken to the hospital.
Almost
everyone knew that they could be dead any minute. People weren’t safe in their
own houses. A bullet fired in the street, in crossfire, could travel through
their windows and pierce their bodies. One night at the sound of a thump outside,
my aunt scooted down to turn off the lights. We lay flat on the floor, face
down, hands stretched out above our heads. Afterward when the lights were
turned back on, the top of my ring finger had fallen off. My aunt had trampled
on my right hand in fear. I had quietly blacked
out in fear. Despite everything, people were concerned about education of their
children. Parents hoped that good education would ultimately be the path to
peace.
As
days passed, Varuna and I, along with most children in the mosque, became
progressively involved in studies. Conflict shattered our innocence at an early
age, replacing it with a sense of responsibility. We buried our faces in books.
War destroyed our childhood.
***
One
day after classes, Varuna scooted toward the stairs, and went thumping down
like a train. I knew she was up to something, I read her mind. Downstairs, I
saw her at the edge of the screen door. When everybody had left, she said, “I
want to play cricket.”
“Here
in the mosque?” I said.
“Yes,
upstairs on the top floor. You know we can’t play outside,” she said.
The
room, its floors lined with art, was under construction. Smooth window frames
lay among scattered wood ruins and sawdust. But it was quite spacious. Varuna
pulled out a yellow plastic bat from her backpack.
“But I
don’t know how to play cricket,” I said.
“I
will teach you,” Varuna said.
“You
lay your bat face down on the ground in front of your feet. Bend your body.
Your hands will go around the handle, like you hold on to poles on a bus. You
place your left hand over the handle and the right hand underneath it. Your
knuckles align as the bat is pointing down.” She grasped the bat to show me.
“You’re
right handed. You’ll have a good grip on the bat if your right hand is closer
to the shoulder of the bat. Like this, let me show you again. Hold it like
this… Right. Good,” she said.
Varuna
walked around the room and picked a wooden square piece from the floor. She
placed it behind me, then walked to the other end of the room.
“The
space between us is the wicket. If a ball hits the piece of wood, you are
bowled out,” she said.
“Yes,
I know that. I have seen that on TV,” I said.
Varuna
tossed the white plastic ball and it went rolling on the ground. I lifted the
bat up, raising a litter of grayish sawdust.
“You
missed the ball,” said Varuna. “Hold it steady. Exert a little pressure on the
bat.”
Varuna
pitched again. I came forward a few steps, scratching along with the bat,
before hitting the ball. The ball zipped down the wicket.
“Good.”
This
was the moment I felt the heavens had opened for us. We were playing in freedom
without restraint. This was magical to forget about the war and be children. Suddenly
the room became a playground and each little ding of the bat didn’t sound like
a bomb’s thud. It broke into a cheerful din. I felt huge crowds of people were
cheering for Varuna as she lifted the bat and the ball went flying into the
air. Along with the crowd, I felt, I was dancing, waving my hands, celebrating
our freedom.
Afterward,
we went to my Grandmother’s house, a few houses down my parents’ home. Grandma
was so full of sweetness. Her unfathomable capacity to love, to be so
protective of us, was not the same as my parents, despite how boundless their
love felt. It was something entirely
different. It tasted like Kahwa that concealed beneath its sweet
lingering fragrance any thoughts of war. It was less fraught with expectation.
She didn’t talk about our education, didn’t think whether or not it be the key
to peace.
She was watching TV when we walked in the
house. Her chair faced only slightly away from the small table on which the
remote control was placed, but it gave her great pleasure to walk to the
television to turn it off. The next thing we knew treats arrived: Grandma
brought Kahwa; two ashen-gold
porcelain cups neatly placed on saucers. The sweet tea with its top layer of
saffron twigs, was the color of yellow to orange, a yoke of tangerine. Then she
brought the big metal bowl, filled with candies and chocolates. The bowl was
always full. As we talked and laughed, she reached over the table across from
the television to collect art supplies. There were crayons scattered about the
table, along with some coloring books and a container of pens and pencils. On a
pale blue, synthetic sofa bed cover, fuzzy with dirty spots, Varuna and I sat,
lost in our coloring. It was a rare carefree time, soon a thing of the past.
On a
Monday morning, I arrived at the mosque around six when it was still dark. A
strong glare of the bulb in the bunker, across the street from my parents’ red-brick
house, stained the towering chinar-tops of a nearby tree. The strange emptiness
of the street, made me tired, made time lag. As I trudged along, I felt the
weight of my yellow backpack burdening my shriveled shoulders, further dragging
down my long grey kameez. A cold red
face of a security personnel emerged from the bunker. As I approached a narrow
alley onto the main road, I saw three other security men. They wore loose
fitting pants and jackets with patterns that looked like drizzles from a water
pistol, of chestnut brown, medium beige and dead grass. They stopped me as I
passed through them. It was unusual. They didn’t on a normal day when I usually
arrived at the mosque at ten. They let me go when I said I was going to school.
Dressed
in her favorite royal blue crinoline skirt, frilled edge around the bottom,
Varuna had insisted that we meet for some time before our classes began. The
skirt had matching gold ivory cream double shoulder straps. She looked lovely
and energetic.
“Come,
let’s play,” Varuna said.
“Play
here?” I said.
“Let’s
pretend the room is a playground, and we are running free, around the field of
flowers,” said Varuna.
Varuna
ran faster and faster. I saw the white frill of her skirt’s hem touching the
floor.
“Call
my name,” she said.
“Varuna,
Varuna, Varuna,” I said.
“Varuna,
Varuna, Varuna, rings in my ear,” she said. “But I won’t stop. I keep running,
now on the land covered with dirt. The dust lifts in my eyes, but I still don’t
stop. What a wonderful day! What a wonderful day! Now I am back again, running
free, around a field of beautiful flowers.”
Later
that day, during our regular classes at the mosque, we heard a gunshot followed
by multiple shots fired outside. When the situation had calmed down, both
Varuna and I managed to evacuate the mosque. As we turned onto the main street,
a bomb went off. Suddenly, the weight of a mountain fell on my left leg. I
tried to move but couldn’t. My left leg was hit by shrapnel. As smoke slowly began to clear, I saw people
running for safety: the horror on their faces at imminent death. Their
adversity, at this moment, was my hope. Their chaos reassured me I was alive. I
looked up, the bomb had torn the chinar-tops down. I circled my gaze, searching
for Varuna. I assumed she was either dead, or like me, lying on the floor,
crying for help. Again, I scanned the flock of people scurrying for escape.
This time, I caught sight of her, running, leaving me behind. She didn’t
realize in her horror that I was on the roadside, screaming for help. I began
to cry. Slowly, I moved my left hand to touch my left leg, but I dipped my hand
in a bloodier pond around my body. The pool kept swelling with each drop of
blood. I was hallucinating yet rolled my blurry gaze upon Varuna again. She was
running away, her silhouette had dropped down to a star. Just a dot was visible
now. After a little while, she disappeared completely. I closed my eyes.
After the surgery I regained consciousness. My
mother sat next to me in the hospital room, wore a severely swollen face, with
puffy-red eyes. I looked around for Varuna.
“Where
is Varuna? Is she ok?” I said to my mother.
Tears
rolled down her face. Confused, I came closer to her. She grasped me to her
chest as we both cried louder and louder. My mother had received word that a
gunshot had pierced Varuna’s heart. She died instantly.
At the
funeral, Varuna’s framed picture sat on a coffee table, surrounded by a
stainless steel agarbati (incense) stands. Each shrinking stick etched
dome-like on the stands’ holes, dropped ashes. The power mounds on a big metal
plate underneath, showered fragrances in the air. Varuna’s parents sat on the
ground of the living room in mourning, comforted by other family members and
friends. The room was moist with tears and incense. My mother brought fruits
for Varuna’s mother, and reached over for her mouth with a slice of an apple. Varuna’s
mother wailed loudly, clutching my mother’s hand, then suddenly dropping her
head over. My mother gently rubbed her head, and put her another arm around
Varuna’s mother. They both cried.
I
moved forward, toward the frame, dragging my leg, wrapped in several layers of
bandages, behind me. Varuna was dressed in that same royal blue crinoline
skirt, frilled edge around the bottom. I touched the frame with my fingers,
shivering still. I pretended I was walking with grass under my feet, sunlight
on my arms, in the real playground,
watching Varuna, playing and running free.
___Huma Sheikh was born in Kashmir and later came to the United States, then received multiple degrees in creative writing, English literature, journalism and communication studies. Huma has taught writing and literature classes at University of South Dakota and Texas A&M University, has a chapbook forthcoming and a first book of creative nonfiction in progress.
