A Curfew in Spring: Rich Autumns
RICH AUTUMNS writes from Srinagar: The capital of Kashmir is under tight curfew. Tight does not qualify curfew. It qualifies Srinagar. Srinagar is tight under curfew. The city has stopped breathing. It is an enforced exercise that the Valley undergoes regularly for the sake of law and order. On the deserted streets of Srinagar, Indian Army men stand in army issued jackets nursing rifles under the fresh green leaves of the Chinar. Occasionally a milk man cycles by. Sometimes, he is stopped and turned back. Sometimes he is allowed to pass, after an identity check.
In the frightening unsafe quiet of the curfew, spring has quietly arrived in the gardens of Kashmir. Of course, without the gardeners there is not much it could do. The snow has melted away and the grass is slowly turning green. The sky, however, is alternating between blue and red. An occasional shower of both hues keeps the memories alive. The memories of Kashmir!
At different knots in the city people gathered to shout angry slogans. At various places groups of young men collected to pelt stones at the armed paramilitary forces. They ran hither and thither, fired pepper cans, bullets and hid behind their armoured vehicles. Days like these are rare, when no one is killed in such clashes. However, by evening the news of casualties were unleashed upon us. A man injured here, a boy assaulted there. So many cars damaged, so many policemen injured. People now read these reports with the discomforting air of a terminally ill person reading his medical reports. It’s a relief that something faintly positive comes up. Dozens have been injured in the past week of curfew.
The mildly warm afternoon sun lulls the branches of the apricot trees where new buds are only yet germinating. The vines are turning green on caged bricks of the wall, wondering if it is the right time to break into flowers, or shall they wait for a more opportune time. The breeze treads cautiously over the dangerous terrain. Carrying too much perfume in such times could be unholy. The zephyr understands that. It loads itself with the laments of the weeping silent. Some those who cry out loud, others that obscure the pain.