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Yesterday in Srinagar
The rain slackens, ends, and I want to take a stroll. My wife does as well, and we walk out of the colony.
Near the gate a shop is half open, with a group of paras – CRPF or BSF, I cannot tell – hanging around.
The rain slackens, ends, and I want to take a stroll. My wife does as well, and we walk out of the colony.
Near the gate a shop is half open, with a group of paras – CRPF or BSF, I cannot tell – hanging around.
I ask my wife to wait, duck in to ask for a matchbox.
I am running out of matchsticks.
Even these things disappear under lockdown.
The paras are asking to buy chicken, ten kilos, for their meals. But the butcher shop is next door and closed.
I am running out of matchsticks.
Even these things disappear under lockdown.
The paras are asking to buy chicken, ten kilos, for their meals. But the butcher shop is next door and closed.
The matchbox costs one rupee, and I have only a tenner.
The shopkeeper brushes it off, says “next time”, although neither he nor I know when that will be.
A small grace in the larger gracelessness. The size of trash dump has been reduced somewhat opposite the colony.
The shopkeeper brushes it off, says “next time”, although neither he nor I know when that will be.
A small grace in the larger gracelessness. The size of trash dump has been reduced somewhat opposite the colony.
It seems Javed Bhaijaan’s efforts have seen some success, but it is limited.
A huge mound of rubbish remains. We hang a left at the main road, towards the direction of the flood channel and – in the far distance – the airport.
Clump after clump of paras spot the pavement.
A huge mound of rubbish remains. We hang a left at the main road, towards the direction of the flood channel and – in the far distance – the airport.
Clump after clump of paras spot the pavement.
As I glance across the flood channel I notice one poor man in his camouflage, loaded down with equipment sitting under a tree with a small black umbrella over his head.
A man hails me, and I realise one of the BSF chappies that I had talked to is among the paras approaching us.
A man hails me, and I realise one of the BSF chappies that I had talked to is among the paras approaching us.
My wife’s face closes up, but it is minute gestures, and the BSF man is not looking at her.
I had spoken to him in a friendly manner, and in this hostile terrain he has taken me for a friend, with a wide grin for a man whose name he does not know.
I had spoken to him in a friendly manner, and in this hostile terrain he has taken me for a friend, with a wide grin for a man whose name he does not know.
I ask him how he is doing, how they are making do in the weather.
“Ah, we are sent to do these things by the government. It does not matter what the weather is, we have to stand here.”
“Ah, we are sent to do these things by the government. It does not matter what the weather is, we have to stand here.”
He rests a friendly hand on my shoulder, and continues, “we are not like you that we can do as we please.”
It is friendly banter, with not a touch of slyness or double meaning, just the emotions of a lonely man on a lonely job.
It is friendly banter, with not a touch of slyness or double meaning, just the emotions of a lonely man on a lonely job.
With a few words we break away, and I think that the communications clampdown must affect these men too.
I wonder how they communicate with their families, what their loved ones think is happening to them.
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I wonder how they communicate with their families, what their loved ones think is happening to them.
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