Budki's World

Jigree-My Kinship Carer Mother

2026-09-13T11:57:46.523+05:30

One mother gave me birth, and the other brought me up. I am more indebted to the latter, who looked after me from the age of twelve onwards. In fact, she was my father's sister, a kinship carer, who had been a victim of child marriage and was widowed at a very young age. Her name was Mandhodari Budki, which changed to Pranashuri Chowdhury after marriage. We fondly called her Jigree. I learnt that her husband was handsome and intelligent but didn't live long. She spent her days with her parents and later on with her sister, but her greatness was that she loved her in-laws' family, which was joint and comprised more than twenty individuals at one time. Consequently, they adored and respected her throughout her life, so much so that, under divine intervention, she went to Jammu to visit her in-laws in 1988 and breathed her last there. Though she had adopted her brother-in-law as her son, the relationship was more formal than emotional. After my mother's death in 1962, when I was just twelve, she joined our family and looked after her brother and four naughty children, three girls and one boy.

Jigree was quiet, unassuming and pragmatic. She didn't like extravagance and showing off. She was frugal, and her eating habits were minimal, just a few morsels and that was all. No snacks, no tasty foods, and no temptations. She was an epitome of contentedness, always wary of the evil eye of the people. I remember once a distant Muslim neighbour asked her which class I was studying in. She replied, "I am uneducated and don't know much about it. It is something after matriculation, most probably." Surprisingly, I was in M.Sc. Botany; her son was a professor of Botany, and I often consulted him. Jigree never scolded anyone or talked loudly to show her disapproval. Despite being uneducated, she was very intelligent, and even elderly ladies, particularly from her in-laws, would consult her to solve domestic problems and even seek guidance on living a better life. I once noticed her advising a young, newly married lady to peel the bark from firewood, put it in her mouth, and hold it tightly with her teeth whenever she anticipated her mother-in-law's wrath. When I asked, she told me that since she couldn't reply to her mother-in-law, the latter would get exhausted and stop frowning at her. In most cases, it worked.

Many misfortunes visited our family. My father had three accidents one after the other during winter. First, he fell from his bicycle and broke his hip joint and femur bone. We consulted a doctor, but the matter worsened. One of our relatives advised us to see someone who was a sock-maker for a living but was also a bonesetter. He mostly used local herbs after resetting the affected bones. He came, removed the doctor's plaster, pulled the leg a few times, and then prescribed several herbs to be boiled, ground, and applied over the entire area. Then he bandaged it for two days. The process of boiling herbs was repeated and applied to the hip repeatedly till the leg recovered and started moving. After about a month, my father could move but couldn't ride a bicycle. So he walked to his office, a distance of 4-5 kms, every day. One day, while returning from the office, his shoelaces got loose; he raised his leg and placed it on the wooden ledge of a shop to tighten them. No sooner had he kept his foot on the ledge than a big signboard of the shop fell on his foot due to the heavily accumulated snow behind it. My father writhed in pain; his foot was swollen due to a fracture of the ankle bones, and the foot resembled a foot having elephantiasis. Somehow, a few people managed to carry him home. Again, the bone setter worked a miracle, and by March my father had recovered. Because of his meagre salary and heavy expenditure, he couldn't afford to take auto-rickshaws every day. So he tried riding the bicycle again and, after a few days, had yet another fall, but the injury was minor compared to the earlier one, and he recovered soon. That whole winter was a nightmare not only for him but for his sister, Jigree, as well, who left no stone unturned to nurse him, prepare the herbs, paste them on the injured area and bandage the affected part heavily and securely. She had to stay awake for many nights when her brother would cry due to unbearable pain. Jigree managed it all single-handedly and ensured her brother was back to normal. Mother Teresa would have been no match for her.

I faced turmoil when I had to appear for my M. Sc. (Previous) examination. Frustrated, I decided to give up my studies and seek a job. She was startled. One day, as she served me breakfast, she asked, "Why don't you want to appear in your examination?" In reply, I gave her my reasons. She was as cool as a cucumber and said, "Do you know why I have joined this family after your mother's death?" Without waiting for my answer, she continued, "It is for you and you alone. Your sisters will get married and go their way, but you are the scion and pride of my brother's family and carry further the mantle of his name. You need to save my grey hair from disgrace, failure and dishonour." She didn't say anything more, but it moved me, and I reassembled my life, appeared for my examination, and was successful. As a result, my one year was not wasted.

Even regarding my marriage, she warned me that I was making the wrong choice. She gave her reasons, but I didn't appreciate them then. Her prophecy proved correct. The marriage proved a total failure, and looking back, I think my obstinacy proved me wrong.

Her only regret in her life was that she was not educated. Had she been a matriculate, she could have got a decent job and lived her life independently and much more gracefully. But that was not to be. A song she often hummed: "Awaz de kahan hai, duniya meri jawan hai; Abaad mere dil mein umeed ka jahan hai, duniya meri jawan hai; Barbad main yahan hun, Abaad tu kahan hai, Bedard aasman hai, duniya meri jawan hai." The song portrayed her life more than her autobiography could.

Apart from being indebted to her for whatever she did for me, I love her intensely and remember her at every moment of my life.

*****

Rishton Ke Maheen Reshe: Ashma Kaul – Deepak Budki

2026-03-28T20:25:00.000+05:30

Rishton Ke Maheen Reshe: Ashma Kaul

– Deepak Budki

A collection of Hindi short stories titled ‘Rishton Ke Maheen Reshe’ authored by Ms Ashma Kaul has been published recently in the year 2025 by India Netbooks Private Limited, Noida-201301.

Asthma Kaul was born in Srinagar, Kashmir and educated at Delhi University. She retired as a Gazetted Officer from the Ministry of Agriculture and Farmers Welfare, Govt. of India. She has to her credit ten collections of poems and a collection of Mini short stories, besides the present book. Her book, ‘Jannat-e-Kashmir’, has been translated into English. Moreover, she has edited a collection of poems titled ‘Inder Danush Kavita Ka’ and has received many awards for her publications. Ashma Kaul grew up in a joint family where relationships were valued, and due emphasis was placed on maintaining their sacredness, as opposed to the fragility of relationships in modern nuclear families. For her, the intimacy of blood relations matters greatly in human life, and he who is blessed with the love of a father, mother, and siblings is very fortunate.

The present collection contains 24 short stories, most of which are centred on family life and the value of interrelationships. The very first story, Aankhen, reveals the central character's attachment to her mother’s watchful blue eyes, the loss of which leaves her despondent. ‘Yatra’ reminds me of Urdu poet Zafar’s couplet, “Umre daraz mang kar laye the char din; do arzoo mein cut gaye, do intezar mein.” The central character of this story yearns to travel with her husband, but her wish remains unfulfilled. At last, her son decides to take her to the USA, but unfortunately, she leaves for her eternal journey before going with her son. In the short story ‘Grahasti’, a mirror is held up to society, which brags of providing security to the women of India. It also reflects the fragile relations between life partners as the husband disowns his beloved for no fault of hers. ‘Adrishya Dewar’ is a sad reminder of the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits from the Kashmir valley. A Pandit family visits their ancestral home in the valley after 30 years, and, to their surprise, is received with love and affection by the people there, who also show remorse for what happened in 1990. Another story reflecting the present-day social crisis is ‘Doodh Ka Qarz’, where the parents are abandoned by their children due to incompatibility. Abandoning elderly parents has been a dominant theme in many of the author's short stories. ‘Niyat’ and ‘Pyari Ki Ardas’ also have a similar theme.

‘Amma Ka Roothna’ revolves around longing and expression of love; ‘Badi Bahu Kamla’ paints the train of misfortunes faced by a woman in her life; the cycle of Karma is shown in ‘Samay Ka Khel’ where during youth, the father has no time for his children and later when he grows old, children have no time for him, and ‘Maan Ki Chita Ke Phool’ depicts altruism and selfless love of a mother. Atonement by an alcoholic gambler, who mortgages his son for inability to pay his debt, is portrayed in ‘Prayshchit’; ‘Waham’ is a story based on superstition; ‘Faisla’ proves the adage that blood is thicker than water, and ‘Yadon Ke Anmol Dastavez’ throws light on a steel trunk which contains many old, priceless letters. Furthermore, ‘Maan Ki Aakhri Khwahish’ highlights the reaction of elder son at the death of his mother as he carries a grudge against her that she loved her younger son more than him; in ‘Garbpaat’ communal riots cause abortion of a pregnant woman; ‘Dhal’ is a story based on inferiority complex and incompatibility; while in the story ‘God Bharai’ the wish of an infertile woman is fulfilled and surprisingly, she is duly supported by her in-laws. The story ‘Pareeksha’ sheds light on the cost a woman pays for pursuing her studies after marriage, to the point where her children feel completely neglected, and the family is disrupted.

Ashma Kaul's stories feature a variety of themes and characters. Her diction and style are simple, direct and vivid. She weaves the story with finesse and chooses her characters to support her thoughts and ideas. Her stories are didactic, conveying a hidden message to the reader without overburdening them. I feel that she has a bright future ahead in her endeavours, and if she persists, she will make a name for herself.

*****

U-Turn: A Saga of Agony & Ecstasy: Dr Gauri Shankar Raina – Deepak Budki

2026-03-28T19:39:00.003+05:30

U-Turn: A Saga of Agony & Ecstasy

– Deepak Budki

Kashmir has, of late, produced many fiction writers both within and outside the Valley. The latter were forced to settle outside Kashmir due to the rise of militancy in the early nineties. Nevertheless, the writings of both groups are like two sides of the same coin: one depicts the suffering of people living in the Valley, and the other portrays the nightmare migrants endured during and after the exodus. Many of them are vitriolic in their outpourings, depicting the pain and tribulation their community has endured over the last thirty-five years.

Gauri Shankar Raina's collection of short stories titled 'U-Turn and Other Stories', published by Niyogi Books, New Delhi, in 2025, is a valuable addition to this series. He has penned these short stories in Kashmiri. At the same time, Pankaj Bhan, an English academic and editor of the journal 'Meeras', published by Kasheer Foundation, has eloquently and comprehensively translated them into English.

Born in Srinagar in 1955, Dr Gauri Shankar holds a doctorate from JLN University and is a well-known writer, playwright, translator and filmmaker. He started writing during his school days and adopted the pen name 'Mast'. He is proficient in Kashmiri, Hindi and English with around two dozen publications in Hindi and Kashmiri to his credit. Professionally, he remained associated with Doordarshan Srinagar.

The book 'U-Turn' contains twelve short stories, predominantly set in Kashmir and focusing on its culture before and after militancy. He has consciously refrained from hyperbole and evaded narrating horrifying events of the militancy era to maintain a secular undercurrent and continue the thread of togetherness of Kashmiris called Kashmiryat.

The first and a significant short story 'U-Turn' deals with the most topical subject, environmental degradation, especially of Dal Lake, besides the apathy of the State Government and bureaucracy towards tackling this grave problem, which frustrates a sincere, honest and internationally acclaimed environmentalist, A R Bhat, who undergoes a bout of depression and ultimately seeks an escape route.

As a Botanist, I have witnessed this phenomenon with a heavy heart during my long stay in Srinagar. I have watched the silting of Dal Lake, quarrying in the foothills of Shankracharya, and encroachments in Pahalgam, Gulmarg, and Sonmarg right under the noses of politicians who were expected to protect them. Even the mountains of Amarnath and Vaishnodevi have been disfigured under the pretext of temple tourism.

'A Journey by Bus' is a story of love at first sight between two young co-passengers on a day-long bus journey from Jammu to Srinagar that, unfortunately, ends in a fiasco, thereby highlighting the disadvantages of stratification in Hindu society. The writer also presents a panoramic view of the picturesque hill stations en route.

Another story is titled 'Babuji's Miracle', which deals with a social evil prevalent in our country called land and property grabbing by gangsters who have political clout, and therefore, the police and judiciary are ineffective against them. A person whose property is under siege cleverly tricks the usurper by clandestinely circulating a rumour that the earmarked property is haunted, as ghosts are said to inhabit it. This forces the grabber to give up its claim on it.

The short story 'Boarding Card' again reflects the orthodox and conservative nature of Kashmiri Pandit society, as in 'A Journey by Bus'. A handsome young Kashmiri man working at the Airport falls in love with Lora, a model from Berlin seeking a break in Bollywood. He wants to marry her, but his family disagrees. Later on, he learns that she is suffering from Mesothelioma, a rare lung cancer and may not live long. He, in turn, informs his parents, and the same conservative parents advise him not to ditch her and instead marry her. She, however, decides to go and join her mother in Berlin.

'He and She' is a story set in modern life, with fragile bonds shadowed by material gain. It narrates a love affair that bears no fruit; the two get separated, the girl becomes an event manager, while the boy remains a poor artist. After a long time, he is commissioned to present a programme in Mumbai, where he meets the same girl in the garb of the event manager, but she refuses to recognise him. This prompts him to reconsider the relationship and accept a colleague's pending proposal.

'Interlude' is a story about a thanatophobic person, Shibanji, who undergoes a surrealistic experience that opens the door to his subconscious and unconscious mind. He confides in his close friend, who, too, is greatly worried, yet reassures him. While preparing for his inevitable death, he tries to expedite the nominations on his bank accounts and pension papers. Surprisingly, after some time, he recuperates, and his friend feels happy to see him again in good spirits.

'Mannequins' is an impressive, thought-provoking and symbolic story. It is a story of an uprooted Kashmiri migrant, Vinod, who is forced to move along with his ailing wife from Jammu to Chandigarh and finally to Delhi in search of shelter and employment, besides the availability of AIIMS, where he wants his wife with a terminal illness to get proper medical attention. Being skilled in draping mannequins, his employer once ordered him to get a mannequin from a distant market. He thinks about the mannequins, which to him are inanimate idols, yet when draped and beautified, they attract customers. He is led to a store where he faints, and later, after recovery, he carries the mannequin to his shop. On reaching the shop, he receives a message that his wife, Prabha, is in serious condition. He rushes to his house, takes his wife to AIIMS, tries to console her, but all along he thinks of Death and His justice and prays that his wife should be relieved from the unbearable pain.

In the story 'Home Coming', the writer recounts the journey of Kashi Nath, who visits Kheer Bhawani (Abode of Goddess Ragñya) along with other Kashmiri Pandit devotees. He is seen by his Muslim neighbour, who insists that he should stay with them for a few days. He and his son enjoy the neighbour's hospitality. While he visits his old house in the neighbourhood, his neighbour returns to him all the precious things he had recovered from his house and preserved, and his son goes on an errand with the neighbour's son. He does not return in the evening or the following day, which makes his father anxious. Fortunately, he returns the day after, accompanied by a policeman who informs the parents that he was rounded up by the police, suspecting him to be one of the miscreants, and only after verification has he been released and brought here for handing over to his parents. This relieves Kashi Nath, who wastes no time in leaving the Valley the next morning.

'Reverie' reflects a person's emotions as he remembers his partner, who departed from this mortal world long ago.

The next story in the book is 'The Shroud Maker', a poignant tale of a master craftsman who earns his livelihood as a tailor and focuses on educating his children. A known, respectable social worker persuades him to sew some shrouds for the disposal of the dead. He accepts the gratuitous work but loses his clientele as a result. People get angry about him doing that kind of job. He is ostracised and forced to leave the place for good. After a long time, the equation changes when his daughter returns to the same place as the District Magistrate.

'The Umbrella Man' is yet another touching story in which a starving man, abandoned by his employer and friends, takes up a low-grade occupation repairing umbrellas against the wishes of his acquaintances. Later, due to militancy, his family is uprooted, but his daughter pursues her goals and gets a job in a foreign bank, which totally changes their status. She carries her father with her to the astonishment of all who looked down upon them earlier. The woes of Kashmiri Pandits, refugees in their own land, are very effectively narrated in this story by the author.

The last story in the book is 'Cave', in which a group of archaeologists is on an expedition to unearth the secrets of a cave in Kashmir, but heavy rains prevent them from doing so. As one of them, a Kashmiri Pandit, walks down the hill, which is brimming with water, he is overwhelmed by the scenery as he visualises how the Valley must have looked when it was Satisar lake, thus mentally exploring his own past.

Shankar's short stories mostly revolve around human travesties and the endeavours of their protagonists to overcome adversity. His characters are strong, analytical, and often spiritual, and they exude a 'never give up' attitude. In Mannequins, he has highlighted the fact that Kashmiri Migrants concentrated on the education of their children at the expense of their own health and comfort.

The writer remains optimistic about the future of Kashmir and its syncretic culture. He often experiences nostalgia for life in Kashmir and reminisces about his past. Most of his recollections find mention in his stories like description of an abandoned house in 'Boarding Card', the view of Vitasta (River Jhelum) in the evening with floating lighted earthen lamps, crossing the river by shikaras (boats), a bird's eye view of Habbakadal (A bridge in Srinagar bubbling with life) in 'The umbrella Man', visit to abandoned house, sudden public demonstrations and police excesses in 'Home Coming', life in the refugee camp in Delhi in 'He and She', life in one-room Barsati given to him as refugee in Delhi, and purchase of Himachal apples in 'Mannequins'.

The writing style is very smooth and captivating, further underscoring the dexterity and artistry of the original Kashmiri language. The author remains a passive narrator, neither imposing himself on the text nor using melodramatic expressions to describe situations that otherwise could have led him to do so. In the end, I congratulate both the author for such excellent fiction and the translator for a beautiful translation.

*****

Shabnam’s Parting Gift to Kashmiri Literature — Deepak Budki

2026-03-27T20:03:00.002+05:30

Shabnam’s Parting Gift to Kashmiri Literature

— Deepak Budki

Two books written by Omkar Nath ‘Shabnam’, a known Kashmiri humorist and satirist, have been published posthumously by his wife, Anjali Bhat, in 2024, titled ‘Myein Kath-Wachi Pyatha Vaishali Taam’ (Autobiography) and ‘Harf Katstam Rudim Toti Baqi’ (Collection of Poems). Before these, his poetry collection ‘Tyoth Modur’ was published in 1988. All his life, he enthralled listeners with his humorous poetry in Mushaiaras and on the radio.

Born on 12 January 1945 in Wachi, Shopian, Kashmir, Omkar Nath Bhat (Pen name ‘Shabnam’) was adopted by his widowed grandmother’s sister and grew up in Zainapora until her death, after which he rejoined his parents. He lost his siblings, except his younger brother, who is also a poet. In his short autobiography, Omkar Nath nostalgically recounts the ups and downs of his life and describes the relatives who mattered to him. He also relates important anecdotes that added spice to his life’s journey. Shabnam has narrated an interesting account of how Som Nath Sadhu, Agha Sahib of ‘Zoone Dab’, visited his house to fulfil his father's wishes, and, after a warm welcome, lost his prized pen, which was found after his departure and sent to him the next morning. He has also given glimpses of the said programme, which was very popular in those days. Other anecdotes concern the reactions of various poets to his poetry, etc. He recalls that at his primary school in Wachi, the medium of instruction was Kashmiri. He joined the middle school at Zainapora and stayed with his adopted mother, but unfortunately lost his actual mother in 1959.

He was introduced to writing by the famous Kashmiri writer Arjan Dev Majboor, who taught at his school. He accompanied Majboor Sahib to Mushairas and met well-known poets such as Dina Nath Nadim, etc. Other influencers were his maternal uncle Daya Ram Kastoor and Radhey Nath Masarat. After passing the 8th standard examination, he joined the high school in Bijbehara, from where he completed his matriculation. Moreover, he obtained a degree in Basic Education Course and joined the teaching profession as a primary school teacher.

Shabnam started writing poetry in 1965 with a Tarhi Nazm in the daily Khadmat, a couplet from which is reproduced hereunder:

Myeti Zoal chael chael danus zyun,

Tohe keth paeth baele tchapan naar

Afterwards, he continued to write for all the prominent Urdu and Kashmiri journals and newspapers, as well as for Yuva Vani and Radio Kashmir. He was transferred from place to place during his career. At Saraf Kadal, Srinagar, he was fortunate to meet Ghulam Nabi Firaq and Hasrat Gadda, the former of whom became his Ustad and taught him the nuances of poetic diction. Later, he was shifted to Kapran, where he met poets, viz. Naji Munawwar and Shafi Shauq. At this juncture, he had to leave his ill mother alone in the house. His pain and helplessness are portrayed in his poem, ‘Maej’. Three couplets:

Ye chu maje pyomut thane suy baluk,

Maeng maeng yus taem hyut astanun;

Hu chaey motus saet dabe dabe karwen,

Ye che nazrav nishe tus waryah door…….

Yem shure kut taam tchepi tchor gindan,

Mae che aalav aalav Maej divaan

It was during his stay at Kaparan that he responded to an invitation from Radio Kashmir for young poets to submit their poems, and his poem was selected. Thereafter, he became a regular on Yuva Vani and AIR programmes. It is here that he got another guide, Autar Krishen Rehbar, who taught him to focus on his strengths, i.e. humour and satire, instead of trying his hand at every genre. As a result, Shabnam became very popular and was always cheered on in Mushaiaras. After about five months, his Officer was impressed by his recitation of poetry at a Mushaira, which prompted his transfer to Zainapora, near his home, where he stayed for almost 15 years. As per his assertion, he was thus convinced that “Pen is mightier than the sword.” While in service, he completed his graduation in 1973, post-graduation in Persian in 1976, in Kashmiri in 1983, and B.Ed. in 1978.

In May 1990, he had to migrate from the valley along with his community members due to militancy. He initially stayed in Jammu for some time, but in view of employment opportunities for his children, he shifted to Delhi-NCR and ultimately settled in Vaishali, Ghaziabad. In Delhi, he himself was employed as a translator and later as a newsreader in Kashmiri at the AIR. Here, too, he remained associated with Kashmiri literary associations and contributed to magazines. Various organisations awarded him many prizes.

As regards ‘Shabnam’s latest collection of poems titled ‘Harf Katstam Rudim Toti Baqi’, it has 32 poems, including 4 ghazals, apart from introductory essays by Moti Lal Kaul ‘Naaz’, Roop Krishen Bhat and Ms Anjali Bhat, wife of Late Omkar Nath ‘Shabnam’. The poems are mostly humorous and portray human behaviour in the contemporary age, his personal experiences, and the evil practices prevalent in our modern society. As per Richard G. Scott, “ A good sense of humour is an escape valve for the pressures of Life.” Suffice it to say that humour is a gift from God to Shabnam, and it is subtle and thought-provoking. He often uses satire to poke at the dying embers of the unresponsive society's fire. The poem ‘Zang’, and quatrains like ‘Tukh’ and ‘Parody’ are the best examples.

Ratus dohus vaze chaie, kus kheye te kus kare zaye;

Gushtabe maran graye, Ristan andar sarmaye,

Tchaman te palak draye, aeke tyoth te aek mung myooth,

Kastam chu sapdan looth, kastam chu sapdan looth. (Looth)

Demand vemand ti ma kaerev; Kore maelis panun hub,

Chequey hargah ditchin, ratav; tath kya karav su gaye zang.(Zang)

Manz Wandus akh sheene maharaze wuchum khandar karan,

Salarav maend rub te dub lug yazmanus manz aangnus (Parody)

His humorous poems are interspersed with some serious ones, which are a direct result of the pain and agony he suffered in early life due to separation from his biological mother and migration in old age, which made him extra-sensitive. Examples are ‘Maej’, ‘Yaad’ and ‘Sarfaene’. In his poem ‘Okus Bokus’, he seeks to realise himself. In ‘Shamat’, he portrays the nightmare he underwent due to the militant uprising in Kashmir, while in ‘Raete Koul’, he describes the pain and suffering he faced after migrating out of the valley. In ‘Praznath’, he questions why people nurture hate. The poem ‘Ghush’ reminds us of Aesop's tale of a woodcutter and a goddess.

Kanh zan deyi kadlus naar tchallav kut,

Vyethe vaenis mileve su khak wanav kus.

2) Yeli reshtis watte lug dugnyaruk,

Gaye nazre te napaak wanav kus

3) Gharan qulaf te waanan falav dith naerav,

Saeriy gatchav jamah, yas nish yus hethyar chu,

Su heth naerav jehadus,

Tethuy ditch bronthe kanek hamsaye kaet aek,

Lut lut kraekh, mukhbirus ditchekh goel

Kaefir morukh, Kaem? Koche gale manze pritchus kore ake…

Even on his deathbed, he never lost his sense of humour while interacting with his doctors and nurses. He wrote:

Mae chu door tchallun, tchyen dith rishtan

Kenh praevith, path kun travun az.

After going through the above books, I felt that if Shabnam Sahab had also concentrated on prose writing, he would have greatly enriched Kashmiri literature. His style is unique and precise; he uses similes and metaphors frequently to adorn his prose.

*****

DEHATI-A SYMBOL OF PASSION AND PATRIOTISM – Deepak Budki

2026-03-27T14:11:00.003+05:30

DEHATI-A SYMBOL OF PASSION AND PATRIOTISM

– Deepak Budki

There are many unsung poets and writers in Kashmiri literature; Gangadhar Bhat ‘Dehati’ is one of them. He contributed to both Urdu and Kashmiri, though Kashmiri was his mainstay. During his lifetime, he was not able to publish his writings, which, however, were done posthumously by his worthy son Kuldeep Kumar Bhat by compiling, editing and publishing his combined collection of poems in Kashmiri and Urdu titled ‘Sontuk Partav’ in 2024.

Gangadhar Bhat was born in Murran, Pulwama, on 7th February 1917. After completing his Post-graduation (Hon’s) in Urdu and B.Ed., he took to teaching in the State Department of Education in 1943, with a short stint on deputation as editor of Dehati Duniya from 1951 to 1954. He also obtained a Prabhakar degree in Hindi. Gangadhar started writing when he was just 14 years old and a student in the 9th class; his first short story was titled ‘Khooni Tamanna’, which was published in the Daily Martand, Srinagar. He adopted the pen name of ‘Dilkash Kashmiri’ but soon changed it to ‘Dehati’. From 1938 onwards, he remained associated with the Weekly Desh owned by the great social reformer and freedom fighter, Kashyap Bandhu.

Dehati wrote Urdu and Kashmiri short stories, poems (ghazals, nazms and Qata’at), dramas, and essays on social and political topics. His ghazals are mostly continuous and, like his nazms, deal with his favourite subjects such as existence, struggle, equality, justice and patriotism. A few couplets are reproduced here:

1) Gahe chum qatre bapat tamblawan,

Gahe baer baer thawan paymane myonuy

2) Wachus peth yemen zindagi khaetch kadith dub,

Paekh shrakh seenus, buthyan zan peyekh rub.

3) Athe khur yem waey Taemsey daulath gaye qurban,

Matche khash Yem dyut Taemsey ade tothev Bhagwan.

4) Pritchyomus me wantum chu kya zindagi mul,

Awezan dopun che akis aami dawe.

In the poem ‘Myaen Shaeyri’, he writes about what drove him to write poetry:

Hyatechi talkhyev dup ban tche shaeyir,

Dukhav daadev dopum zev tche metchrav.

Dehati’s literary endeavours came to fruition at a time when the Progressive Movement was at its zenith. Hence, he was deeply influenced by it, and even though he continued writing beyond the 60’s when Modernism replaced Progressivism, he remained insulated from the latter. His writings depict the patriotic fervour prevalent at his time (Watan Son, Myon Yaar, Hum Dushman ka Munh Toden ge), as well as the pain and pestilence, poverty, and helplessness of the peasants and labourers, and their exploitation by the zamindars and the capitalists (Shael Tarakh, Jande te Dyaar). He also focused on the social evils of his time. Mehjoor and Azad, his contemporaries, influenced his Kashmiri poetry. He believes that only the destruction of established systems can create a new ideal egalitarian society. He uses words such as Tongue, Fire, Revolution, Progression, and Self-respect as symbols of the pursuit of justice and equality in society. It can be noticed in his Urdu poem, ‘Hamari Duniya’, an excerpt of which is reproduced below:

Aag laga do is duniya ko,

Jis se ho jaye ujyala,

Raj yahan hai andhyare ka,

Bhook, Ghulami, Bemari ka,

Sadti hai makhlooq khuda ki,

Tehkhanon men, zindanon men…

Raj yahan karta hai moorakh,

Gyani khata dar dar thokar…

Nirbal yaan par khoon rote hain,

Anndata marta hay bhookhon…

The situation remains unchanged to date. As regards the tongue, the poet believes that your speech must stand for truth even if it drags you to the gallows.

Zev gaye suye pez yues pez kath kare,

Paezi khaetre yus darus peth mare. (Zev)

He wrote against people's superstitious behaviour and religious rituals, as well as God’s indifference to the plight of the common masses, as in ‘Soen Khuda’. However, this did not mean that he was anti-religious, as he has written some beautiful poems on Lord Krishna, Herath (Shiv Ratri), Bhagwan Ke Darshan, Bhajan, etc.

Ashan sanyev chav sontuk wav,

Chukh bael beye tchael dillek aamtav,

Suey toshnavan beye aaye Haerath. (Haerath)

Dehati has also written poems on some great men of the past l, such as Shri Bhat, Lal Bahadur Shastri, Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad, G M Sadiq, Patrice Lumumba and Pt Deendayal Upadhyay. His translations from other languages include Tagore’s Bengali poem (Zenun te Harun), Iqbal’s Urdu poem (Ram) and Boris Pasternak’s Russian poem (Ehtejaj). Dehati’s elegy on the death of his daughter, “Boe Lekhus Name’ is both melancholic and poignant. A similar atmosphere is created in the poem titled ‘Vedwah’ (A Widow). On Mahatma Gandhi’s death h,e hawrote beautiful, heart-rending poem, ‘Theher Kahan Bhage Hatyare’.

One thing that characterises his poetry is his Optimism. Despite dwelling at length on vice prevailing over virtue in the modern world, he firmly believes that with the advent of independence and democracy, things are going to change for the better (Jamhoor, Nuv Farhad, Woh Shubh Garhi, Navyug ki Prabhat).

Dehati’s style is his own. He has a firm grasp of both languages, but his command of Kashmiri is complete. In his Urdu poetry, he frequently uses Hindi words, which at times seem unnecessary.

*****

LAL-DED REVISITED-Jawahar Lal Bhat (Review by Deepak Budki)

2026-03-27T13:22:00.003+05:30

LAL DED REVISITED-Jawahar Lal Bhat

— Deepak Budki

Kashmir, often called Resh-Vaer, has been an abode of many Rishis and Sufis. The valley has stood as an epitome of a multicultural and multi-religious ethos, the foundation of which was laid by some renowned visionaries. Since time immemorial, it has been a seat of learning and discourse on human existence and the purpose of life. Philosophies such as Shaivism, Tantra, and Trika were propounded by great thinkers, including Somananda, Vasugupta, Utpaldeva, Abhinav Gupta, and Lakshmanadeva. On the other hand, Kalhana pioneered historical research in the subcontinent, a tradition followed by Jonaraja, Srivara, Prajya Bhatta, Shuka, and the rest. With the advent of Islam in the valley, a syncretic ideology was propagated by both Hindu and Muslim seers who emphasised worship of one God through devotion, called Bakhti-Marga or Sufism, rather than through academic pursuit and study of scriptures, called Gyana-Marga. Sufis and Saints like Nund Rishi, Rupa Bhavani, Arni Maal, Parmanand and Krishen Joo Razdan came forward to guide people towards their ultimate destiny. The most outstanding among them, Lalleshwari (Lalla Arifa) of Padmanpore (Pampore), is revered equally by both Hindus and Muslims. The famous quatrains of this fourteenth-century mystic poet, called Vaakh in Kashmiri (Vaakh is derived from the Sanskrit word Vakya, meaning 'sentence'), have ever since been filling the air with the fragrance of divine and celestial lyric. These short, pithy, moral aphorisms, carried through word of mouth for many centuries in the past, often distorted, interpolated and mutilated, in the absence of a written word, so much so that it became difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Kashmir has an age-old tradition of singing and playing music in places of worship and at personal functions such as weddings. At the beginning of a singing or dancing session, a singer generally starts with the recitation of a few Lalla Vaakhs, which are regarded as a good omen. Well-trained singers often sing these quatrains as a separate genre with utmost devotion.

In the recent past, several scholars have made commendable efforts to collect and explain Lalla Vaakh, and various books have been published from time to time. Mention of such scholars is made briefly in the present book. Still, many poems may have been lost, while some have been substituted. The latest collection of these quatrains has been attempted by Jawahar Lal Bhat, an English teacher by profession, who, after extensive research and verification of their genuineness, has included 244 Lalla-vaakhs in his book entitled ‘Lal Ded Revisited’. The book stands as a testimony to his lifetime achievement. What gives this book an edge over others is that it is written in English, a language read and understood worldwide. The commendable job done by the author is that these Kashmiri vaakhs are printed in three different scripts, viz. Roman, Devanagari, and Nastaliq, for the convenience of different readers, with a brief translation at the end of each vaakh.

Last but not least, each vaakh has been further elucidated in light of its contextual significance and its religious and spiritual background to make her philosophy intelligible to the reader. The foreword to the book has been penned by an eminent Kashmiri scholar, T N Dhar ‘Kundan’, who has aptly set the tone with dexterity. In the introductory chapters, Jawahar Lal Bhat discusses the life and works of the great mystic poet Lalleshwari, fondly called Lal Ded by Kashmiris. Proud of her Brahmanic descent, the Yogini was revered by both Hindus and Muslims alike. Lal Ded believes that the universe is controlled by the Supreme Lord, who has no religion, caste or creed, and therefore, people should seek refuge in Him and attain the said goal through self-realisation (V-111):---
Shiv chuy thale thale rozaan,
Mo zaan hyund ti Musslman;
Truk ay chukh ti panun paan parzaan,
Soy chaey Sahibus zaenie zaan.
(The presence of Shiva can be felt everywhere, in every object and creature. How stupid it is to discriminate between individuals—Hindus and Muslims! If you are truly sensible, recognise yourself. It will help you achieve the eternal truth- the Supreme Lord)
The author sets many myths about Lalla’s life at rest. However, he confirms the ill-treatment meted out to her by her husband and in-laws, which she herself mentions in a few vaakhs besides the ridicule, jeering and fun poked at her by the public (V- 54 & 105). These acts drove her to seek peace and enlightenment through worship of Shiva, the absolute, at the feet of her Guru, Shri Sidh Sri Kanth, known as Sedh-Mol. She strongly believes that only a good teacher (Guru) can show us the right path, and one must choose the right Guru to attain salvation in life (V-202-209). In vaakh 206, she writes:--
Guraey mol tay guraey maejey,
Guraey divan nyaetren gaash;
Yem tchaeris maeris vastir laegiy,
Chuy punyaes bhaegiy te papan nash.
(The Guru is both mother and father to his disciple. It is he who gives his eyes the spiritual sight and clothes his bare self with celestial garments. The Guru is the participant in the returns for his good deeds and a crusader for all sins committed by him.)
Lalleshwari acknowledges that she learnt the truth about existence only through discourse (V-18) and believes that most of us are led astray because we choose the wrong skills and paths to reach the absolute (V-20). She further forbids people from wasting time on rituals such as chanting mantras or counting rosary beads (V-26). As regards spiritual attainments, she says that God blesses some without asking, others are bestowed with spiritual powers after hard work and labour, while still others, despite achieving the objective, let it go to waste due to negligence (V-98).
In V-29 & 85, Lal Ded highlights the ephemeral character of life and material acquisitions, which have to be abandoned ultimately. In this connection, the poetess says in Vaakh-165;
Kus mari tay kasu maran,
Mari kus tay maran kus;
Yus Har Har traevith ghar ghar kare,
Adhi suy mari tay maran tus.
(Who will die? Who will be killed? One who is always worried about the interests of himself, home and family and forgets the name of the Lord, would certainly die and be killed for sure.)
In contrast to Sanyas, Lal Ded believes that a seeker need not give up their Grahast Ashram (normal family life) to seek union with the Absolute. Yet she wants a human being to give up sensual pleasures, material wealth, and ego in pursuit of a better spiritual experience through suffering and the awakening of the soul, reflecting Hindu philosophy. In Vaakh-123 she says;
Traishe bochche mo kraish na vun,
Yani tcheye taane sandarun deeh;
Phrath chon daarun te paarun,
Kar vopkarun suy chuy krey.
(Don’t torture your body by refusing it food and drink to appease the gods. Feed it whenever it needs. Hell, expensive clothes and delicious food can’t make you better. Help others in their need; there is no better worship.)
Lalleshwari believes in maintaining a moderate lifestyle coupled with contentment (V-99). In some vaakhs, she uses the Socratic method of dialogue by asking questions and seeking answers to reach the goal of life (cf. 102-103, 237-238).
According to Lalla, the awakening of the soul and self-realisation are essential for attaining salvation from the pain of the continuous cycle of births and deaths. Her teachings are strewn all over her quatrains like gems of pearl, which the author has tried to make a rosary of. As per the author, “Lalleshuri was one of the leading expounders of Kashmir Shaivism, the internationally renowned philosophy depicting oneness of man with the absolute. As a poet and an ascetic, she sang in an easily intelligible word the terse principles of Kashmir Shaivism, Yoga and Tantra, henceforth limited within the corridors of highly educated scholars and saints of yore.” Further, she relates her ecstasy when she watched Shiva and Shakti together in their heavenly abode as per V-177.
In vaakhs 215 to 221, she has highlighted the importance of ‘OM ’, which she considers pivotal to life, as it represents the basic sound of life (Naad) that sustains the world. In Vaakh 215, she says;
Omai akuy achchur porum,
Suy ha mali rotum wondus manz;
Suy ha mali kani paeth gurum ti tchurum,
Aises saas ti sapnis soen.

(I chanted repeatedly the unique divine word OM and saved it lovingly in my heart with my persistent dedication and love. I was just ash and by its divine grace got transformed into gold.)
Lalleshwari’s similes and metaphors, which enrich her poetry, are drawn from normal life. At times, she uses common items like the Kangri and charcoal made from Chinar leaves as symbols to convey her viewpoint, so that the commoner can quickly and vividly understand her philosophy (V199). It is one of the reasons her poetry became very popular and is still quoted today, despite its many archaic words.
The exegesis at the end of the book, in the form of ‘Notes’, is exhaustive. For the sake of convenience, the author has classified the quatrains into seven groups and arranged them accordingly, though their order may not be chronological. It has been done to link vaakhs with similar dispositions and bring out their unity through this linkage. The groups are: i) Personal celestial experience, ii) The essential purpose of life, iii) The concept of Universal Lord, iv) On Pranayama and Kundalini Yoga, v) Guru Saadhna, vi) On the divine syllable ‘Om’, vii) Miscellaneous.
It may not be an exaggeration to say that the book is a direct result of the author’s faith, devotion, and hard work, and will hopefully be well received by the reading public, especially those who want to understand her philosophy and the ancient thought of Kashmiri sages.

*****

Employment: The First Innings - II

2026-01-15T07:23:00.002+05:30

Employment: The First Innings - II

After getting frustrated, I wrote a letter to my father informing him that I would stop making any further efforts and would now work like other Managers of the Emporium. Having written so, I indulged in corrupt practices like other Managers and took my share from overcharging customers more than the labelled prices. I also converted dollars received in the branch into Indian currency and pocketed the premium of around four rupees per dollar. In one case, I was confronted by a member of the Indian Foreign Service posted in an embassy in a foreign country. He visited my shop and chose a carpet for purchase. I quoted Rs 3600/- against the actual cost of Rs 1800/-. He asked me to send it to his residence. In the meantime, he visited our main showroom at Prithviraj Rd, New Delhi, where a similar carpet was quoted at Rs 4500/-, which convinced him of a good bargain. However, when the packet was delivered to him, he insisted on a receipt and rang me up. I told him that, in case he wants a receipt, he will have to pay an additional 10% as tax on the product, which I had tried to save for him. That was our usual alibi in such situations. He countered in a loud voice, “Do you know to whom you are talking? He revealed his identity and said, “There is no tax levied on handmade carpets.” I said, “Sorry, Sir, I shall have to check up with my main branch and report back to you. I rang him up after half an hour and told him that he was right, and the receipt is on the way. Thank God the matter ended there. Thus, one carpet was spared and sold without a receipt to another customer. The staff in other branches of KGAE were surprised to hear about my change of heart.

Many people visited our showroom, notable among those were Sonia Gandhi and Rehana Sultan. Sonia Gandhi looked like a foreigner with a cool, calm, dignified and composed demeanour. She was wearing a soft and pleasing dress. She came in quietly, walked across the showroom and checked different shelves on which goods were displayed. She picked a dozen papier mache coasters, placed them on my table and said to me before she left, “I shall have these.” In the meantime, an old lady, whom I knew was the governess of Indira Gandhi, called me out and said, “She is Bahuji. Whatever she picks, please send it to the PM’s house.” I was taken by surprise and tried to recall if I had passed any mischievous smile or done anything rude. After satisfying myself, I rang up the Manager of our main branch, who further guided me on how to proceed in the matter. The bill was cleared by the PM’s house within a fortnight. Similarly, I remember Rehana Sultana, the lead actress in the film ‘Dastak’, entered the showroom, followed by a snobbish person. I was alone in the showroom, and he prompted me to get up quickly and attend to her. I enquired who she was. Sharp came the reply, “She is Rehana Sultana, a famous actress.” I asked, “And you?” He said, "I am Johnny.” The meaning of the term ‘Johnny’ was revealed to me much later when I read an Urdu book by Krishen Chander titled ‘Filmi Qayda’. Rehana smiled and asked me in Hindi, “Don’t you watch Hindi movies?” I had not watched many films, but I replied, “No, I don’t like them.” “What do you like?” She asked. I had no answer, but blurted out, hoping that she would not ask any questions about English movies, “I watch only English movies.” I would have drawn a blank had she done so. Nevertheless, she enquired, “But why?” I replied, “Hindi movies are stereotyped.” She replied with all humility, “Please watch the movie, Dastak, it is totally different. You will surely like it.” There the matter ended.

Another case was much more dramatic. A jet black customer named Abu Bakr Kabeke from Nigeria, entered the showroom dressed in a white Agbada. I was at that time attending to an American customer who was so impressed that she invited me for dinner in the Peacock restaurant opposite our showroom. As the Nigerian entered, he looked at a tiger skin on display in the showroom. He asked me to show it to him by spreading it on the floor. I told him that it cannot be sold as it is forbidden under wildlife conservation. He said in incoherent English, “I supervise Nigeria embassies all over the world. Diplomatic Immunity. Nobody dares touch my luggage.” Still, in order to avoid selling it, I quoted the price at Rs 11000/- instead of Rs 7000/-. He invited the American woman who had praised his Agbada, and they got some photographs taken jointly sitting on the tiger skin. While we finalised the deal, she also selected some items worth more than Rs 3000/-, which he paid for. Besides, he insisted on wrapping it in a costly bedsheet fully embroidered with fine needlework, as well as putting the item in a suitcase which, in fact, had the office records of the consignment dealer in it and was not for sale. I was reluctant to part with it, but he was adamant, and I had to yield. The total amount worked out to around $2000/-, and I got them exchanged the next day, earning Rs 8000/- as a premium. I was, however, afraid of getting caught for selling the banned skin, so I followed Abu Bakr to the airport till his baggage was cleared and the aeroplane took off. The tiger skin was on consignment in the showroom and its salesman was on leave. He came after a few days and was told of the deal. He was furious as he did not expect that I might have sold it at a premium, but he kept quiet when I paid him the actual sale price and his own share of Rs 3000/- in addition. I also paid some amounts to the visiting accountant and the peon in the showroom. It was a windfall for me. Later on, Kebeke visited the showroom again after a few months. I had been transferred from the branch by then. Fortunately, I visited the branch to say goodbye to the staff who informed me that Kebeke is looking for you. I visited his room, where he gifted me a suit which he had purchased from Paris.

Those days, the Asia '72 exhibition was going on, and Manager, KGAE, Connaught Place Branch, Nissar Hussain and I visited the exhibition as our organisation had a pavilion there. By a stroke of luck, I made friends with one of the Girl Guides there, Jyothibala Kulkarni, a Maratha Brahmin from Coimbatore, posted in our pavilion and we came very close to each other. I was very much interested in marrying her, but when she went back to Coimbatore, she wrote to me that her conservative parents wanted her to marry a Maratha Brahmin only. Anyway, the ill-got money described earlier was spent during those days on lunches, discotheques and showing her around the city. Nothing was saved except a few dresses I had purchased for myself.

My curiosity as a writer also made me visit the red-light area of Delhi along with a few friends of mine. After a few setbacks, I befriended the Madam of a brothel and enjoyed her company but had no intention to indulge in sex. My two friends chose their partners and went into the available cubicles. I stayed by the side of the Madam and started smoking a cigarette. She asked for a matchstick, but I offered the cigarette as well, saying in Hindi, “Hamein pilana bhi aata hai aur jalana bhi.” She smiled and retorted, “Shair maloom hote ho. Andar nahi jana kya?” I said, “Nahi, aap ke sath batein karna acha lag raha hai.” In the meantime, she called for tea for herself and started drinking it. I quipped, “Ajeeb mehman nawazi hai, Chai apne liye mangwai, aur hum dekhte reh gaye.” She replied, “Aap hamari chai piyein ge kya?” I said, “ Haan, kyun nahi.” She immediately called the boy back and asked him to bring another special cup of tea for me. Believe me, the taste of that cup of tea still haunts me. I visited her a few more times along with my friends and studied the environs as well as the behaviour of the sex-workers there. I have penned down two short stories on the subject in Urdu, which are included in my first collection of short stories.

The MD of our organisation visited Delhi after about a month and found my attire changed completely. Some of my colleagues who had earlier come from Srinagar had become jealous of me and carried tales to him. He had become wary of my conduct and issued my transfer orders to Srinagar as Statistical & Review Officer, where there was no possibility of earning any extra money. I reached Srinagar on 26th January 1973. The posting was a great shock and an eye-opener for me. It made me introspect and think seriously about my future. It dawned on me that all these indulgences had no intrinsic value and were ephemeral. They would surely lead me to an abyss of immorality. Hence, I decided not to follow such ways further and repeat them again in future. I pledged to live an honest life thereafter and concentrate on my career instead. (to be continued)

Employment: The First Innings - I

2026-01-13T18:05:00.020+05:30

Employment: The First Innings - I

Let me turn the clock back a few decades. After completing my Master's in Botany from Kashmir University, I received a call to join the Kashmir Government Arts Emporium (KGAE), a unit of J&K Handicrafts (S&E) Corporation, as Assistant Manager. I had successfully appeared for the written and oral examinations earlier and was placed third in the merit list. However, I had prepared myself for the teaching profession and was attending the B.Ed. classes in Gandhi Memorial College, Srinagar. My father, too, was working in KGAE, and as far as I remembered, had faced a tough time there for almost a decade. Yet he wanted me to join the organisation because the then Managing Director, Mufti Mohd Maqbool, was kind to him. One day, his MD told him that he had come from Delhi after a long time, and his children were suffering on the educational front since the standard of education in Kashmir was nowhere in comparison to Delhi. He asked my father to find a good teacher for them. My father replied, “Sir, my son is a good teacher, but I don’t know whether he will agree.” Mufti told him, “Bring him one day and I shall personally request him.” It so happened that my father took me to his home one Sunday, where his elder daughter, a pre-medical student, requested me to draw some difficult diagrams in her practical notebook. It hardly took me a few minutes to complete the job. She was speechless and quietly whispered to her father to request me to draw all the diagrams in the notebook afresh. I carried the book to my home and did the needful. The next day, when I delivered the notebook, his other four children were waiting for me to teach them. I could not say no to them, as teaching was my passion. I taught them for more than a year without any remuneration. In the meantime, Mufti Maqbool announced many vacancies in KGAE and directed my father to send my application. I refused, but his MD told him to apply himself on my behalf. After this, I received a call for a written examination. My father insisted that I should appear, and I may not need to join if I don’t feel like it. The same words were repeated when the call for an interview was received. In the final merit list, I was placed third, and one candidate ahead of me did not join.

My father prevailed upon me through his brother-in-law, Pt Sham Lal Saraf, who had served as a Minister in the J&K cabinet for 15 years and was later nominated as MP, Lok Sabha for another 5 years. He had seen life and was experienced enough to be my guide and mentor. He said, “Deepak ji, you know your father is retired and has been given an extension in service. You have three motherless, unmarried sisters. Suppose he doesn’t get a further extension. What do you do? There are no government teaching jobs in the market. It is better to avail oneself of the opportunity available now.”

I explained to him the discriminatory attitude of the employer, as I was offered an Assistant Manager’s job despite having a third position in the merit list, while the candidates far below me were made Managers. Having served as Minister in the state, he was aware of the situation, yet he convinced me not to refuse the offer. He said, “I started my career with just a Rs 10/- per month job after my graduation, but continued to pursue my goals. Nothing stops you from achieving bigger things in life.”

“Uncle, my educational background doesn’t match the managerial job, because I am trained to be a teacher. By the time I aspire to be promoted to a Manager’s post, there will be dozens of MBAs standing in line to fill that job in this fast-changing world.”

“I agree, but given the circumstances, you have no choice right now. You can change as and when you get an alternative job.”

I joined my first assignment as Assistant Manager, heading the retail showroom of the Emporium in Chandigarh in April 1971. My basic pay was Rs 140/- pm, and my take-home pay was about Rs 250/-. I rented one room for which I had to pay Rs 60/-. Other daily expenses left no room to save or send some money to my home. As they say in Hindustani, Nanga nahaye ga kya aur nichode ga kya. However, the place had a very soothing effect on my health. The air and water of the developing city, Chandigarh, were clean, and helped me to regain my health. Those days, I was thin and emaciated, suffering from ulcerative colitis for the previous three years, and blood used to run with my stools. A stay in Chandigarh did the trick. I ate only what was permitted, prepared at home myself and used to have a long walk in the evening up to the lake. I was cured slowly. In addition, I joined art and painting classes next to my residence to pursue my hobby of painting.

I continued my BEd studies because only examinations were left. Flew for my practical and theory examination from Chandigarh and was successful in due course.

The organisation did not suit me, and the staff indulged in corrupt practices, which I tried to stop. This resulted in their non-cooperation, but the branch showed progress in sales. Suddenly, the management thought of opening branches in foreign countries, and therefore, shifted me to the Ashoka Hotel, Delhi Branch, so that I could join Spanish classes in Bhartiya Vidya Bhawan, KG Marg, Delhi, which I did. Three other officers were also directed to learn the French and German languages. Since they did not report satisfactory progress, the scheme was abandoned halfway. I had completed one semester of 6 months and stood first in the class, which had two IFS officers also. This encouraged me, and I thought let me also compete in the Civil Services examination. I took initial guidance from them; however, some distractions delayed my resolve, though the idea kept knocking at my brain regularly.

In the meantime, I registered myself in the Employment Exchange and got offers from private educational institutions. I had some noteworthy experiences during the interviews. When I reported for an interview at the Apeejay School, Faidabad, one of the members of the interview board remarked that he had a very bad experience with the Kashmir University, wherefrom I had obtained my degrees. He said that he had learnt that the University delays payments of evaluated answer books, and therefore, insisted upon payment before the answer books are returned to them. Neither did they send the payment, nor did he return the answer books. The University declared the result without receiving the answer books. I felt that the story put a question mark in the minds of other members about my capability. I had to make an additional effort to win them over.

I said, “Sir, do you want to assess the university or my ability? If it is me, please ask whatever questions you feel like, and I shall try to answer them.” This restored their neutrality to some extent. Then a volley of questions was put by each member, which I answered satisfactorily. At the end, I asked them, “ Sir, may I know whether I have got the job?”

“There are another 12 candidates to be interviewed, how can we tell you?”

“Sir, I appreciate that. I shall wait till the end of the interview because I have come all the way from Srinagar on my own and can’t bear the expenses further.” After saying that, I left the room.

At the end of the interview, I entered the room again and asked the same question, “Sir, now that you have interviewed all the candidates, may you please tell me the result?”

“No, it is not possible. Though we have finalised the result, we shall have to put it before the top management for approval before it is announced.”

“Sir, that means you, too, are bound by prescribed rules and regulations, as was my university. The rules said that they cannot send the payment until the answer books are received back by them. I hope, Sir, you now understand how the system works. Anyway, if I receive a call once I am back in Srinagar, I fear I may not be able to join unless I am paid for the journey.”

After a few days, I received a postcard asking me to join immediately. I replied through a postcard myself, informing that since my offer on the spot was not honoured, I am unable to join. This, however, I could afford to do because I already had a job in the Emporium.

I was called for an interview for a Post Graduate Teacher (PGT) post in the Delhi Administration. I had learnt that usually they get candidates with an MSc degree or a BSc & BEd degree, but not MSc and BEd together. This worked to my advantage, and I was selected. While I waited for the order, a Khalsa School organisation called me for an interview at their school in Lajpat Nagar. I reported in the office and met an elderly Sardar with a long grey beard. He sympathised with me and told me to come to his home in the evening, and he would put in a word to the Principal. I suspected his intentions and replied, “Ok, I will see.” In the interview hall, the chairman saw my testimonials and was surprised. He asked, “What is this, BSc (Hon’s), M Sc (Botany), B Ed, and then Adibe-Mahir (Urdu)?

I replied, “Sir, I completed my education to become a teacher and got the Urdu degree as I write Urdu short stories.”

“Why do you want to be a teacher?”

He expected me to say that I want to serve my country or children, but I did not oblige. Instead, I replied, “Sir, I am an introvert and teaching is a profession that suits me. His face looked blank as I guessed, so I continued, “Sir, there are two types of personalities, the artistic or Introverts who like creative jobs and the athletic or extroverts who like

Outdoor and business-oriented jobs.”

“Do you mean you are an artist?”

“Sir, one doesn't need to be an artist; it is merely one’s trait. However, I do write short stories in Urdu and have painting as my hobby”

He told me to wait outside till the other candidates are interviewed. At the end of the interviews, he personally came out and found me sitting in the office. He directed me to come to the interview hall again. We had a fruitful discussion for almost half an hour. Tea and hot samosas were called for the interview board, and I also had a nice cup of tea. Suddenly, he rang the bell; the same person, with whom I had interacted earlier, came in and was asked to prepare an order for my appointment immediately. He told me that I shall personally come to see you delivering a lecture. But that did not mature as I got a call from the Delhi Administration, which was preferable, being a government job.

In those days, I was holding the entire stock of my branch personally since my salesman had gone on leave, assuring me that he would come within ten days, because I had told him that I was likely to get a job. But he did not return. I rang up my father and asked him to talk to the MD and get me relieved, but he maintained a stony silence because he was himself averse to the teaching profession. The only other person I could think of was my maternal uncle, who was working as a Principal in a Delhi school but was not reliable. He told me that he is going to Srinagar and will convince my father, but on his return, he said, “Deepak, your father has duplicity of character. He did not want to commit. It seems he has a lot of faith in his MD, who has assured him of making your future. I failed to convince him.” In the meantime, his wife had approached BN Raina, Deputy Director in the Andrews Gunj region to which I had been allotted and got me further posted to the School in Sector 7, R K Puram, which was within a stone’s throw of my residence. All my efforts failed, and I had no option but to continue in the Kashmir Government Arts Emporium. (to be continued)

Dreams Shattered

2026-01-11T10:45:00.009+05:30

Dreams Shattered

After discharge from the Army in February 1988, I had requested a transfer to Srinagar to settle my family. I had thought I could spend five to six years there without any interruption. During this period, my children would complete their school education and, possibly thereafter, go to professional colleges outside the state. Getting admission for them in the Burn Hall School, the number one school of the valley, was a boon, which was not beyond my imagination.

I had purchased a piece of land at Bagh-e-Mehtab in Chadora district on the outskirts of Srinagar. I entrusted the job of walling the land to one of my friends, who, however, did not take proper care to check that the cementing of the wall was properly done, and water was sufficiently sprinkled on the wall from time to time for a few days. This was not done.

We had a neighbour, A R Mir, an Accounts Officer in the State Finance Department, who lived nearby across the main road. He suggested building a house and told me that he had a very sincere mason known to him who could be entrusted with the job. I made the outline drawing of the house myself, but as a precaution, I showed it to the departmental architect who had fortunately come to Srinagar. He approved the drawing but suggested a change in bathroom design, which was incorporated. The mason was entrusted with the job while the carpenter was available next door. The mason was a master of many related jobs, and he, along with his team, did the work very well. Materials like stones, sand and cement were arranged. A part of the front wall was built with chiselled green stones costing Rs 100/- per stone. This proved quite expensive, but there was no way to escape subsequently. The work went on till the winter fall when it was stopped at the slab level of the first storey. During the winter, we performed the house entry puja and gave a feast to many relatives who were invited. The next job of covering the first storey with a roof of CGI sheets and making some additional rooms underneath the said roof was postponed to next spring.

In the ensuing winter itself, an uprising in Kashmir prevented any further additions or alterations to the house. In fact, I was targeted by the militants because I was an Officer in the Postal department, and therefore, I could not go and see the half-constructed house. The whole work was stalled for several years.

The house remained unprotected and unguarded for almost a decade since I was posted far away from Srinagar. Meanwhile, I had made enquiries through my departmental officials to find a buyer for the same. The militants had forbidden any Muslim to purchase the houses of Kashmiri Pandits. This plunged the prices of Kashmiri Pandit property. However, the locals found methods to purchase such property on a power of attorney. I got the first quote of two lakhs rupees which gradually increased to four lakhs. During my next tenure as PMG, I entered into a deal with a buyer introduced to me by my close friend for six lakh rupees in 1998, though I had spent the same amount on the construction of the house about ten years back. It was a distress sale. Nevertheless, I thought it better to go in for a stop-loss sale rather than wait indefinitely. I had also inherited an ancestral house, which I handed over to my youngest sister, who preferred to stay put in Srinagar permanently.

The other area where destiny played its part was the education of the children. Schools and colleges remained closed, and it was dangerous to send children to school. The Hindu staff of the school and the Hindu children too migrated out of the valley. I also asked my wife to go to Shimla, but she returned. By the time a branch of Burn Hall was opened as St Peter's Higher Secondary School, Jammu and my children joined the same and later shifted to Kendriya Vidyalaya. This arrangement did not last too long as I was deputed to join a year-long in-service course in the National Defence College, New Delhi. My family joined me as soon as I got government accommodation in Kaka Nagar, Delhi.

Though my tenure in J&K came to an end with the start of 1992, even after that, I was posted twice to the circle, firstly, as PMG, and lastly, as CPMG. (to be continued)

Streamlining Procedures

2026-01-10T22:16:00.011+05:30

Streamlining Procedures

With the valley in deep turmoil, we did our best not only to adjust the current staff outside the valley so that no one is left without a means of livelihood, but also to transfer the pensions of affected pensioners to their current locations. This would mean a lengthy procedure that could take a month or so, and the pensioners would be distraught under such conditions. So, I issued blanket orders that all pensions of Kashmiri Pandits should be transferred to Jammu and pursued with the three head offices in Kashmir. Kashmiri Pandits, as is well known, raise a hue and cry over even minor things. A few pensioners who had not migrated were represented by their unions regarding the non-payment of their pensions. I asked all three HOs to collect the particulars of pensioners who had stayed back, numbering no more than ten, and to have their pensions transferred immediately to the respective offices. The accounts received in Jammu were transferred to Udhampur and Kathua Head Offices, as required.

The next step was to help the public at large immediately access the amounts they had saved in the post offices in the valley in the shape of savings, recurring and fixed deposits, as well as savings certificates. The problem was how to get such accounts transferred expeditiously, despite an acute shortage of staff in the valley. I was shocked to learn that the migrant officials deputed in batches to the valley were collecting migrants' passbooks to expedite their transfer, charging Rs 100/- per passbook as their commission. This was done in collusion with local postmasters. It was apparent that they had forgotten their own suffering. I immediately created a ‘Migrant Cell’ in my office, headed by A K Bindroo, an honest and trustworthy official and issued orders that no account will hereafter be received or transferred directly to any post office. From then on, all accounts were routed through the ‘Migrant Cell’. This helped monitor dispatch and receipt and prevent corruption. I was also told that the transfer of accounts was wilfully delayed by some offices in the valley. I spoke with the concerned Head Postmasters and received positive responses from the HPOs of Anantnag and Baramulla. Srinagar HO did not give a positive response. Unfortunately, most of the accounts pertained to Habbakadal SO in Srinagar, and the SPM posted there, Mr Shodda, had nursed a grudge against Kashmiri Pandits because some of his KP bosses had troubled him in the past. The SO was working on one of the counters in Srinagar HO. I flew to Srinagar and caught hold of him. I warned him to transfer all the pending accounts within ten days, failing which he would be transferred to Jammu and made to do the needful in the scorching heat there. This warning worked. Fortunately, I had very cordial relations with all communities during my career; therefore, he took my advice seriously and began transferring the accounts without delay. The accounts were transferred expeditiously, mitigating the sufferings of the migrants.

In the meantime, a bigger problem was reported to me. People were asking for the maturity amounts of the savings certificates they possessed. According to the rules, such certificates were required to be verified from the offices of issue to prevent any fraud or mischief. This created a bottleneck. Some local postmasters took risks and paid the maturity amounts on their own without any verification from the office of issue. They were reportedly charging a commission as a percentage of the maturity amount. In yet another incident, my wife went to a refugee settlement camp to visit a relative. They were scheduled to perform their daughter's wedding in a fortnight. A migrant official going to Srinagar had promised them immediate payment of the amount, provided a 10% commission on the maturity amount was paid to him, which, as he said, he had to share with others. In yet another case, it was reported to me that a lady had approached the Head Postmaster of Jammu HO to inquire about the maturity amount of her savings certificates. He informed her about the procedure involved and asked her to apply with photocopies of the certificates. After the verification was received, she would get the amount, which could take roughly 1-2 months. She begged him, saying that she and her small children had nothing to eat or wear. Looking at the stony silence of the postmaster, she tore her blouse in front of him and offered her body for sale. These incidents struck me like arrows. I immediately contacted the Director, Savings Bank, in the Directorate, Late Raghav Lal, and asked him to allow us to encash such certificates without prior verification. He asked me, “Who will sign the payments?” I replied, “I shall do it myself”. Suddenly, it dawned upon me that it would be a huge responsibility that I would be undertaking. An inner voice guided me, and I told Raghav Lal that, since it is an ad hoc measure to meet the urgent needs of migrant depositors, let us limit the total withdrawal per individual to Rs 20,000/-. That worked. The next day, the Directorate issued orders that were circulated to all dependent offices. As a result, the migrants queued up in my office to seek payment. For this job, too, I had kept some officials known for their integrity. I must have issued orders totalling more than 4 crores during my tenure in office. No fraud or corrupt practice was noticed except for one. In that particular case, it was a postmaster who had worked in Srinagar and retired a long time ago. He accompanied the clerk concerned. I read the name on the certificate, which had the surname Razdan, while the person standing in front of me had Koul as his surname. I asked, “I remember you were working in Naseem Bagh PO, and your surname is Koul, not Razdan." He blabbered and put forward an alibi: “Sir, yes, he is a relative of mine and is currently bedridden in Delhi. That is why I have come to represent him.”

“Sorry, I cannot permit it; he can present it in Delhi itself.”

“Sir, this is in a joint account with his wife.”

“Then produce the joint account holder.”

“Sir, she too is in Delhi.”

I suspected some foul play. Since he had been a postmaster, I thought he might have stolen an investor's certificate. I got furious. Now that he was a public man, I couldn’t do him any harm, but I threw the entire file, almost 400 pages, at the concerned postal assistant and shouted at him. Further, I called the staff clerk and asked him to transfer this fellow to Udhampur immediately. Whether he had done it on purpose or not, I couldn’t verify. He was otherwise a well-educated person with a PhD in Sanskrit and was not known for any misconduct in the past. Subsequently, many staff members came and pleaded on his behalf, so I revised my orders and posted him to another branch in my office, with no monetary involvement. I would often come out of my office to check on the assistants posted in the migrant cell to ensure they did not indulge in corrupt practices, especially by using my name.

Some mischief was also committed by a few staff members who were temporarily provided shelter in vacant government accommodation in Jammu, Udhampur, etc., on an ad hoc basis, with the condition that they would shift as soon as possible. After some time, it was noticed that there was a likelihood of such people losing their HRA on account of occupying government accommodation, howsoever uninhabitable it might be. I asked all the occupants to find alternative rented accommodation immediately, but a few of them resisted, and it took me considerable time to persuade them to vacate the said accommodation.

Yet another unresolved problem was the adjustment of Extra-departmental Agents (EDAs), now redesignated as Gram Dak Sewaks. The EDAs used to assemble in front of our office every day and raise slogans. I, in turn, would inform the Directorate and the PMG of the developments, as I had no power to negotiate with them. DDG Establishment, K Diesh, came to Jammu, and so did the PMG, N D Dayal. Surprisingly, K L Moza, erstwhile SPM of S R Gunj PO, Srinagar, on deputation as General Secretary of the National Federation of Postal Unions, Delhi at that time, also reached Jammu. All of them discussed the matter in the inspection quarters over drinks and dinner. I heard Diesh prompting Moza to persuade the leader of EDAs to call off the protest. Moza came to the venue the next day and directed the EDA leader to call off the strike. The leader wisely asked for some time to think and consult the protestors. He quietly came to my office to consult me, knowing fully well how I had been helping the rehabilitation of Kashmiri Pandit migrants. He had high expectations of me, but my problem was that I could neither say ‘Yes’ nor ‘No’ as a responsible officer. All I did was remind him of the Kashmiri Pandit agitation of 1967, in which the KP leaders informed the agitating public that they had reached an understanding with the Sadiq Government and that their demands were settled. Papers signed by the private secretary of D P Dhar, and not the Minister himself, were flaunted from the stage. The people believed them. Once the agitation was over, no fruitful results ensued. The leader of EDAs got the cue. I told him that since he had come to my room, it would tarnish my image as an officer, so I advised him not to go back the same way he had come but to take a route through the railway station and spend a few minutes there before joining the agitators. He did as advised, and once he was back, he told Moza that he had thought over the matter and would not like to call off the agitation before orders are issued, which infuriated Moza as it belittled his authority. Diesh and Dayal came to my room and informed me that the leaders of the EDAs did not agree to call off the agitation, so the only option was to adjust them. PMG asked me whether we could do it immediately. I replied affirmatively and told him that we have many EDAs vacancies outside the Kashmir valley, against which we can adjust many. Once that is done, we can transfer the remaining posts from the valley and deploy them to offices where the workload has increased due to population migration. This was agreed, and by the same evening, orders were issued for the first set of EDAs, which satisfied them, and the protest was called off. Other EDAs were gradually adjusted, and the entire problem was solved. The local and valley unions created some problems, but I convinced them and dispelled their doubts.

After some time, the problem of migrants, both departmental and extradepartmental, was resolved, and we began concentrating on other areas of postal activity to increase the department's efficiency, which had been overlooked until then. Streamlining the system required a Herculean effort, and I must confess that late Meena Dutta, then APMG (Staff), contributed significantly. Moreover, the reorganisation of the PLI section was carried out meticulously by VB Abrol, the then AD (PLI). In fact, the exercise we undertook could be a perfect example of ‘Crisis Management’. I made an important decision while overseeing the circle in the PMG's absence. I issued orders to stop the booking of inland and foreign parcels throughout the valley. All the circles were informed about it and told not to book parcels addressed to post offices in Kashmir. No prior permission was taken from the Directorate. This was aimed at reducing the vulnerability of post offices against parcel bombs and stopping drug smugglers from using postal channels to carry drugs to and from the valley. After a few orders, when I was working in the Directorate, the then DPS, Jammu, asked me over the phone who had authorised the stoppage. I avoided saying that the same must have been noted in the relevant file, knowing full well that records were not readily available for those emergency days. (to be continued)...

*****

Adjustment of Migrants: A Pioneering Effort

2026-01-08T14:13:00.000+05:30

Adjustment of Migrants: A Pioneering Effort

The Postal Department was the first to relocate part of the Circle Office to Jammu. Other Central Government Offices followed suit. The story of how it was done is told hereunder. K Diesh was replaced by N D Dayal as PMG. I was inspecting the Divisional Office, Jammu, when I received a telephone call from the then Secretary, Kailash Prakash. I requested that he speak with the PMG, who was incidentally sitting next to me. He used a few bad words and said, “ No, I want to talk to you only.” In fact, he did not like Dayal and considered him to be part of the Diesh lobby, which was working against him. He said to me, “Deepak, my son Amit Prakash is working for the Illustrated Weekly of India, and he has been asked to write a story on the situation in the Kashmir Valley. He will fly to Srinagar after three days. Please receive him. His mother has been crying ever since she heard it.”

I replied, “Sir, you don’t worry, I will hand him over to some guys known to the militants, and they will escort him wherever he wants to go.”

“Deepak, I hope you know what you are talking about.”

I realised that I should not have said what I said. But now that words had been uttered, I had to stand by them. I assured him that the guys I referred to are from the department and they have cordial terms with the people on the other side.”

“Okay, do what you think is proper. I want my son to be safe.”

I flew back to Srinagar, and Amit Prakash arrived on the specified day. Two postal officials were assigned the job of escorting him, and they carried him places in the downtown. In the evening, he returned, had some drinks and a sumptuous dinner. The next day, he was sent back by Indian Airlines to Delhi. As soon as I received the message of the aeroplane leaving Srinagar Airport, I called the Secretary and informed him, “Sir, your son has safely departed by air to Delhi, please let me know when he reaches.”

After about two hours, Kailash Prakash rang me up and said, “Deepak, Amit’s mother and I are highly grateful to you. She is happy to see her son back. Amit was all praise for your hospitality.”

“Sir, these are small things in life. I wish him a bright future.”

“Deepak, can I be of any help to you?”

I paused for a moment. Remembered a story of Shri Bhat, who had cured Sultan Zainul Abedin Budshah, and was asked the same thing by the Sultan. Shri Bhat, in turn, requested him to resettle Kashmiri Pandits and allow those who were forcibly converted to return to the Pandit fold.” The Sultan granted his wish and issued the necessary orders. Taking a cue from that story, I requested the Secretary, “Sir, there is nothing I want for my person. But, Sir, if you can help my community, please do so. Sir, a large number of staff of the Circle offices have migrated to Jammu. We could open a part of the CO at Jammu and let them work there. Incidentally, out of nine divisions (Postal and logistical), only two are directly affected by militancy. The closure of CO has affected all the divisions. If a part of CO functions at Jammu, the work of all subordinate divisions can be streamlined. PMG can be posted in Jammu while I shall look after the residual office in Srinagar.”

He immediately grasped my viewpoint and told me, “Okay. Tomorrow morning, I shall meet the Minister, and by 10:30 AM, you will receive your orders. The next day, at exactly 10:30 AM, the P.S. to the Secretary rang me and read out the order, which was almost a one-liner saying, “Shri Deepak Kumar Budki, DPS, J&K Circle will hereafter work from Jammu as his headquarters.” I showed it to the PMG, who had returned to Srinagar. He ordered me to prepare a plan for the distribution of work between the Jammu and Srinagar wings, which was done smoothly during the night. The orders were issued, and the migrant staff in Jammu were asked to join the office immediately. I also flew to Jammu and tried to hire a building, but the quoted rent was beyond the financial powers of the PMG. Getting approval from the Directorate would mean a delay of at least 2-3 months. So I zeroed in on the RMS Office housed in a departmental building at the Jammu Railway Station, which had some spare space. I called all the staff to be deployed there and told them that due to paucity of space, they should not expect facilities as were available in Srinagar. Even the size of their tables was drastically reduced. All records of concerned branches were transferred gradually, utilising the services of the mail bus plying between Srinagar and Jammu. The most important branch of CO, which was shifted and proved very fruitful, was the PLI section. After establishing it in Jammu, the work of PLI increased multifold, and so did the efficiency.

The arrangement worked well. The only question that remained was how to adjust the remaining migrant Officials from the operative offices. I discussed the matter with the PMG and called for the Options from such officials. Orders were issued to attach them to the POs near their present places of residence, but the salaries were to be drawn from the parent offices only. It was made clear that the migrant officials will not be considered transferred to the offices where they are attached and will work in a subordinate capacity, even if they are senior to the Postmaster in the SO attached to. These orders were made transparent in order there are no complaints from the local unions against them. The system came on rails slowly. This arrangement was emulated by the Telecom department, as also other Central Government departments.

Another pressing problem that we faced was staffing post offices in the Kashmir Valley so that they do not suffer due to a shortage of manpower. A scheme was launched to send migrant staff back to the Offices periodically, where security cover was available, viz. GPO Srinagar, Anantnag HO, and Baramullah HO. Since many incentives had been announced by the Central Government in regard to staff working in the valley, many Postal migrants volunteered to go back to work in these post offices. Batches of such officials were sent by special buses escorted by security forces from Jammu to Srinagar, Anantnag and Baramulla. Initially, the batches were exchanged every three months, but later, it was noticed that migrant officials were reluctant to come back to Jammu or Udhampur and preferred to stay in the valley. The periodicity of sending batches of staff to the valley was accordingly increased.

By and by, the conditions in the valley improved. Tourists started arriving, and the migrant staff started moving out of the secure premises, which had been prohibited earlier. My relations with N D Dayal remained cordial throughout. Though I was working in Jammu now, both of us remained in touch with each other regarding sensitive matters. However, the incident of Kailash Prakash did create some doubt in his mind. Fortunately, my constant reminders to the Directorate ensured two direct officers, V Pati and P S Negi, were posted, who really shouldered the work well. I, on my part, recommended some subordinated staff for the Meghdoot award, which was further sent by the PMG to the Directorate, and a few officers received it. Some were awarded at the Circle level by the PMG with Dak Sewa Awards. However, surprisingly, no PMG ever thought me worthy of such an award despite my facing the situation single-handedly for so long. Anyway, I did my duty to the best of my capability and have no regrets. ….(To be continued)

Paralysis of Administration in the Valley

2026-01-07T22:02:00.000+05:30

Paralysis of Administration in the Valley

With the increase in the intensity of militancy in the valley since January 1990, things got out of control for the State Administration. Postal Services and Banks were closed, there was no attendance in Central and State Government Offices, public transport was disrupted, and food supplies were received from outside the state by the local food and supplies department, control of which had been seized by the extremist elements who distributed it further as per their will. Some meetings were called for, but with no result. In one of the meetings at the beginning of the extremism, I remember that I accompanied the then PMG, Ved Kumar, who was a short, puny gentleman. While he was dressed in a formal suit, I, a six-footer, had put on a beige coloured safari suit. The guard at the entrance stopped me, saying, “Security men are not allowed into the hall.” Ved Kumar looked back and told them, “Bhai, he is our Director.” And that is how I got in with a wry smile on my face.

It was unfortunate that many Officers were killed during the period, prominent among them were Musheer-ul-Haq, an Islamic Scholar and VC of Kashmir University, H L Khera, General Manager of HMT, Lassa Kaul, Director of Doordarshan and other Officers from the State Government. I recollect that only about a month earlier, Lassa Kaul, who was then Director, Radio Kashmir, a Director from the Staff Selection Commission and I had conducted an interview in the AIR, Kashmir premises. During the interview, a bomb was hurled at the gate of the AIR. I suspect the killing of Lassa Koul must have been an insider's job who must have informed the militants about his movements. He was a thorough gentleman, handsome and soft-spoken. With a military background, I anticipated the moves of the enemy, and therefore, restricted my movements, and as described earlier, shifted my entire office to the GPO complex.

One by one, the post offices were targeted by the terrorists, either burnt or looted or threatened. Most of them were closed, though some of them were shifted to secure Head Offices. I approached the IG police, a Muslim gentleman, who, while discussing, objected to my saying Anantnag and said that it is Islamabad. Besides, he told me that the Department of Posts will have to bear the cost of the security personnel provided. He asked me to write down my requirements so that he could order the recruitment of further policemen and get them trained before posting them as per my requirements. I could gauge his attitude and slowly eased myself out, never to show him my face again.

Surprisingly, a lady officer, Indu Gupta, was posted as Director, Vigilance in Srinagar. It simply showed the apathy of the Directorate towards the conditions prevailing in Kashmir. I had been holding the charge of both Director (HQ) and Director Vigilance jointly till she reported. Now I had to look after her also. She did not know the environment, and in my absence, she rushed to Sathu, Barbarshah S O, which was ransacked by the militants. As I came to know about this on my arrival in the office, I immediately sent a vehicle and called her back. I explained to her the situation and advised her not to venture out of her office in any case. Slowly, she got scared seeing the situation for herself. She was living alone in the IQ, and one evening she had nothing to eat as markets were closed and she had not stored anything. So she came to our quarter, talked to my wife, who assured her not to worry till we are here. She had her dinner with us. They became good friends thereafter. Over a period of time, she managed her transfer out of the Circle.

I also received an order to attend a training course in IIPA, New Delhi during the said period, which further showed that the Directorate did not know about the ground reality in the Circle. There was no PMG, and I was alone at that time. I could have eased myself after handing over charge locally to some senior officer, but I preferred not to. On the contrary, I wrote to the DDG concerned, firstly, to cancel my orders, and secondly, not to send any Officer or staff member for training till the situation improves.

However, I did feel concerned about my family and the education of my children. A few times, the processions returning from the UN Office stopped at Sheri Kashmir Park in front of GPO, and started throwing stones at the building inside the park. They ransacked it as well. It was a crowd of roughly a lakh of people. I thought to myself that if this crowd attacks the GPO, what will a small group of CRPF men do? How many rounds of fire can they fire to control the mob? The very thought sent shivers down my spine. I instantly resolved to send my family out of the valley. I told my wife to go to Shimla and try to get admission for the children in some reputed school there, and if possible, also seek employment there as a teacher. She showed reluctance by saying, “How can I leave you alone. I had to explain to her that this step was taken at least to save the lives of the children and not to hamper their education. She agreed and went to Shimla, but returned to Jammu, saying that only one school agreed but offered me a job as a warden, which I refused. Fortunately, by then, Burn Hall School, Srinagar, had opened a branch in Jammu titled St Peter’s Higher Secondary School and all children from the erstwhile Burn Hall School were admitted there. My wife also got a job there.

The situation under Governor Jagmohan changed gradually. Things were slowly brought to near-normal, though the migration of Kashmiri Pandits could not be reversed. They are still languishing in Jammu and other places in the country, hoping that a day will come when they will be back in their homeland. One good thing that happened was that the Governor posted a Relief Commissioner, who distributed relief to the migrant Kashmiri Pandits who were not employed. In addition, tents, blankets and warm clothing were also distributed initially, and food items and milk were supplied thereafter. This was a great step for the rehabilitation of the migrants who were either accommodated in vacant schools and other office buildings or in camps at specified places in Jammu, Nagrota and Udhampur. In fact, the Kashmiri Pandits regard Jagmohan as a messiah for the work he did for their resettlement outside the Kashmir valley. (to be continued)

The Cup that Never Finished

2026-01-07T09:22:00.002+05:30

The Cup that Never Finished

Once K Diesh was settled in the Inspection Quarters (IQ), I started attending to my routine work. When Ved Kumar was in charge of the Circle, the Circle Office was located in a hired building belonging to the Auqaf at the foothills of Shankaracharya. Gradually, the situation started changing. Huge processions were seen on the streets carrying flags of different organisations and chanting slogans against India and in favour of freedom. Most of them passed by the side of our Office. In the meantime, a series of abductions and killings of many Central Government Officers were reported, which prompted me to stop going to the office. I organised the shifting of the office records to the GPO and reopened the office in the GPO premises.

Another major development had taken place in the valley. On the intervening night of 19 and 20 January 1990, there was a massive uprising organised by the extremists on instructions from across the border. You could hear slogans on the loudspeakers of the mosques, which, besides seeking freedom, also threatened Kashmiri Pandits. Kashmiri Pandits were also dragged out of their homes to head the processions to provide human shields to the armed processions. This made them nervous, and almost instantly, they decided to leave the valley, abandoning their houses and material possessions. Our staff also left without seeking permission and took shelter in Jammu. Administrative Offices and Operative Offices, i.e. the Post Offices, wore a deserted look.

The State Government imposed a curfew in the valley continuously for several months. Nobody was allowed to move, though some processions defied the curfew orders in the peripheral areas. During that period, I managed the office alone and had to issue transfer orders without any staff from the Circle Office (C.O.). No files were moved. I had recorded the names and current postings of all the staff whose postings were handled by the C.O. Some staff members took advantage of the situation, while others suffered due to the abnormal circumstances. However, things remained under control.

Shockingly, the takeover by K Diesh as the Circle Head was more of a liability than an asset. I virtually shouldered all the responsibility myself. He had a penchant for flitting between Srinagar and Delhi, where his family resided. Meanwhile, in Kashmir, the postal operations had come to a halt, yet he would send false reports to the Directorate and inform them that the services were normal. A copy was also sent unauthorisedly to a fellow in the PMO named George, who was very close to the PM and was known to him. The ground reality was that only our mail vehicle used to ply between Srinagar Airport and GPO, and the suburban mail accumulated in the RMS and the GPO. However, during the hours the curfew was relaxed, some banking transactions were permitted to be carried out to mitigate the sufferings of the general public. Since many of our Town Sub-Offices had been closed for security reasons, some of them were restarted functioning as single counters in Offices like GPO Srinagar, HPO Anantnag, HPO Baramulla and SO Pulwama, where adequate security was available.

Diesh was short in stature, agile and persuasive. He used to relate tales of his bravery when we sat together in the verandah of the IQ, as there was nothing much to do. During such casual conversation, he once remarked that Ved Kumar, his predecessor, was a timid clerk and not an officer at all. I could not bear it because I had learnt a lot from Ved Kumar when he was my boss. Anyway, I chose to remain silent and did not respond. He insisted I give my opinion. In a lighter mood, I said, “Sir, I cannot afford to deny what you said because I believe we bureaucrats are like prostitutes who are forced to say yes to the customer’s mannerisms till such time they foot the bill. Later, he is shown the door with disdain on their faces. Similarly, we bureaucrats agree with whatever our bosses say until they write our annual confidential report. And once it has been written, we can afford to speak the truth thereafter. He was tipsy, so he laughed and said, “Deepak, you are naughty.” He was a person who loved alcohol. I was not aware of this aspect of his personality. One day, I observed that while sitting and talking, he had a cup in front of him, apparently filled with tea. He called out to the caretaker and ordered tea for me as well. Periodically, he would get up and take his cup into his room and refill it. I thought over it and ultimately found that he would fill it with liquor in his room, though for strangers it looked as if it were tea. The cup remained on his table during office hours and was never finished.

He decided to call on the Governor, Jagmohan, along with the Chief General Manager, Telecommunications. I beseeched him not to take the CGMT along with him, as we would get overshadowed by his presence but he did not listen. An appointment was granted. It so happened that the Governor complained about his personal telephones which often went dead, besides many other complaints from the public regarding telephone services. At the close, he asked us if we had a brief about our departmental problems which he needs to look into. I had fortunately prepared one and handed it over to Ved Marwah, the Governor’s Adviser. With that, we left the office. Back in GPO, some union members were standing there by chance. The Union Leader greeted the PMG, who reciprocated. Then he started bragging about his visit to the Governor. He told them that he apprised the Governor of how our postal staff are facing the situation bravely. He said, “I told him if bullets come our way, I will be the first person to take them on my chest.” Then he asked me to confirm what he said. I had no option but to affirm it with a smile on my face.

One day, when the GPO was open during the curfew relaxation hours, he saw a destitute woman begging in front of the rear gate on the bund side. He quickly rushed down, taking me along with him. He talked to the beggar woman and asked her in Hindi, “How much do you earn per day?” She replied, ‘By the grace of Allah, about ten rupees.” He took out a twenty-rupee note, gave it to her, and told her to go away. But she would not budge an inch. So he got annoyed and asked the CRPF jawan on duty to ensure she does not sit there in future. On our return to the IQ, he said to me, “Deepak, you don’t know. She is an ISI agent and works for the enemy country.” I simply kept quiet and did not reply. On another day, he saw two stout Iranian youth moving around in the GPO complex. He approached them and said in a loud voice, “What are you doing here, you terrorists?” They had come to collect their poste restante mail from the GPO, so it annoyed them and they were ready to fight. Before they could react, I called out a few staff members of RMS and asked them to take them away and give them their mail, if there was any. Things would have worsened but for my timely intervention. On another occasion, he called me from my residence late at night and took me to the RMS office. He started checking some mailbags and ordered the staff standing there to open them and show their contents. He suspected that the bags contained Charas (Drug), which was going out of the valley in connivance with the post office staff. The RMS staff was reluctant to obey as they had not closed the bags, but were only transit offices. Anyway, I convinced them that you may open and write in the error book the reasons for opening such bags while the PMG and DPS were present.

One day, we were sitting in the verandah enjoying different teas, and an aeroplane flew by. He stood up and told me that he was informed by IGP (Security) that the terrorists had planted a bomb in its tail and it would be blown off at any time. I again did not answer and simply kept quiet. But I was wondering which IGP would be foolish enough to tell him, even if he were his friend and supposing the story was true, would the IGP let the aeroplane fly? Would he not stop it and get it evacuated? I had to bear his idiosyncrasies for so long he stayed as PMG J&K. Fortunately, he managed his transfer out of the Circle after a few months. He made one of his close friends in the Postal Service a scapegoat as the latter agreed to be posted as PMG J&K. (to be continued)

Facing Militancy in Kashmir-III

2026-01-05T10:56:00.009+05:30

Facing Militancy in Kashmir-III

As we started our journey from the Airport to the General Post Office, I was praying that nothing untoward should happen. The cab driver did not follow the normal route but took a detour via Sanatnagar for reasons best known to him. On my enquiry, he informed me that there is a problem on the normal route. As we approached Sanatnagar, a large crowd had gathered there, dressed in local attire, chanting slogans of Azadi. A person clad in a pheran stopped our taxi and started questioning the driver. I was at my wits’ end, yet I mustered the courage to intervene and speak to the man directly in Kashmiri. Since I belonged to the downtown, I had the advantage of conversing like a typical Muslim. I addressed him directly, “Don’t you see how thousands of our innocent youth have been killed, and Idgah has become a big graveyard. I have brought this fellow from Delhi (pointing to K Diesh) to show him the ground reality by taking him to all the places in downtown. He represents a world news agency. Bloody local mass media do not cover the real happenings.” He was convinced and told the taxi driver to move on. I put my arm out of the window, took my air ticket and waved it wherever we encountered a policeman so that he would not stop us. The driver did not know what was happening, and perhaps it created some doubts in his mind. At Ram Bagh bridge, he suddenly stopped and informed me that he would not proceed further. I was surprised and asked him why he refused to drop us off at the destination as agreed upon.

“Sir, I am not sure of the situation beyond this point. I am concerned about my own life,” he replied.

“Don’t you worry. I shall accompany you back and drop you here. But I have guests with me and you must move on.”

Reluctantly, he agreed to move on. The taxi reached the GPO, which was fortified and security personnel at the gate stopped the taxi driver. As they saw me, they opened the gate at once and let the taxi in. The security personnel knew that I had served in the Army and would generally address me as “Colonel Sahib”. As the cab parked inside the GPO, the security personnel around saluted me, which I reciprocated, and one of the security men cried out to the caretaker of the inspection quarter where the incoming PMG was to reside, “Darbari, Colonel Sahib has arrived, come quickly and pick up his luggage. The driver was flabbergasted on hearing this. I offered to accompany him back but he refused so much so that he even refused to take the money. But I forced him to accept the promised amount and let him go. K Diesh was settled in the inspection quarters, and he was told by the accompanying officers how I had saved everybody’s life.

Facing Militancy in Kashmir-II

2026-01-04T12:18:00.002+05:30

Facing Militancy in Kashmir-II

In such turbulent times, I expected the PMG to return in a week or so, but he did not. Instead, he managed his transfer out of J&K Circle. It was winter months, fuel and thick curtains were to be provided to all post offices, besides supplying the postmen with warm clothing. Even transfers to the Ladakh Division had not been finalised. I had no time to lose. Tenders were called, and I had to reject defaulters one after the other in short periods. I received a threat to my life from one of the tenderers. On checking his bona fides, it came to be known that he was an insider from the sister Telecom department and the telephone given in the tender was an official number. I warned him of the consequences and eliminated him once and for all. Subsequently, the tenders were finalised hurriedly, and hard coke and wood were supplied to all the post offices.

Meanwhile, a bomb blast took place in the S R Gunj P O located in a newly constructed departmental building. Some portion of the upper story was affected. I sent the report to the Directorate. I was directed to get it repaired immediately which was impossible. The concerned DDG pestered me, so I was forced to write a demi-official letter to the Secretary directly informing him about the ground reality in Kashmir, which, seemingly, he was unaware of. In Kashmir, repeated attacks were continued on the Central Government institutions, especially on post offices and banks. The banking as well as postal system got paralysed. Rumours were afloat that all these institutions were going to run away from Kashmir, and the public money was going to be swindled. Hence, all money should be transferred to J&K Bank. Curfews were imposed by the State Government and the terror outfits alternatively, resulting in a complete breakdown of the administrative and financial system.

After some time, I received the transfer order of the PMG from the Directorate with further instructions to assume his duties without any additional remuneration. I refused to comply and shot out a letter to the concerned DDG that I shall only shoulder the additional responsibility provided I am paid honorarium for it. My letter created a great commotion in the Directorate since such a response was unknown in the bureaucratic setup. The Secretary, Posts, held a meeting of Senior Officers to discuss the situation in Kashmir. No one was willing to work in such times in the Circle. However, K Deish, a senior officer, who had earlier worked as PMG in the Circle, volunteered to look after the charge of PMG, J&K, in addition to his own as DDG, Establishment. This was approved. I received a phone call from him with instructions to come to Jammu to receive him. It was very difficult to move around that too unescorted. The State Government had been very choosy in providing security guards to the Officers posted in Kashmir. Somehow, I managed to reach Jammu along with R K Ganjoo, ASP Vigilance. K Deish called us and PA to SSP JT and instructed him to take down his dictation, which in short meant to decentralise all the powers of the PMG to the Director, including the financial and disciplinary powers which was a surprise to me. I objected by saying, “Sir, I hope you know why you are here? You are here because I refused to do any additional duty without extra remuneration. What are you aiming at, Sir, the same thing in a different manner? Sir, I shall do my duty only and your files will be stacked on your table in Srinagar.”

“Deepak, what are you saying. I believe in grooming young officers to shoulder higher jobs efficiently. Your predecessor used to do it.”

“Sir, I am aware of it. My predecessor may have some personal interest in doing so. I have none. I came here with a suitcase and two steel trunks of baggage and shall go with the same. You are free to check with me on that day. Incidentally, I was told that you had hardly signed four to five files during your entire tenure.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sir, the whole Circle Office was saying.”

“OK. Do you have any files to sign right now?”

“Yes Sir.”

I told my Inspector Vigilance to produce all five files before him, four of which he signed instantly while standing. Suddenly, he realised he may be taken for granted, so he raised some objections in one file to stamp his authority. Surprisingly, the said file had a nil report to be sent to the Directorate.

He asked for his move to Srinagar as soon as possible. Air Tickets were arranged, and the next day we flew to Srinagar. I had asked our office in Srinagar to arrange to send the PMG’s vehicle to the airport at the right time. But due to some miscommunication, the vehicle had not arrived. It was already 2 pm. The Airport would be closed after some time. There were no mobiles, and being a Sunday, the Airport Post Office was closed. I was at a loss to know how to react given the situation prevailing at the time. I called for a taxi to drop us at the GPO Srinagar. Payment was negotiated, and K Diesh, A N Raina, SSRM JT and R K Ganjoo ASP Vigilance took their respective seats in the ambassador. K Diesh sat between ASP Vig and me in the back seat. … to be continued.

Facing Militancy in Kashmir-I

2026-01-03T13:31:00.062+05:30

Facing Militancy in Kashmir-I

After my discharge from the Army Postal Service, I was posted to Kashmir as Director of Postal Services in the Circle Office, Srinagar, in 1988. I had long yearned to go back to my own state and help improve its postal services, especially the conditions of the post offices. I had earlier attempted to do so during my tenure as Senior Superintendent of Post Offices, Kashmir Division. Unfortunately, my tenure was cut short due to differences with the then Director, who was officiating as Postmaster General of J&K Circle. This will be related separately.

Many positive things happened initially. I was eager to get admission for my children to Burn Hall School, Srinagar. I initiated the process from Mathura itself, where I was working as an ADAPS in the Army Postal Service in the rank of Lt. Col. I sent an application to the Principal of the School, giving details about the children and the parents, both of whom were highly qualified. My work in the Army was obvious. On reaching Srinagar, I sent an Inspector of Post Offices to meet the Principal and manage the admission of my children, with reference to my letter sent from Mathura. I purposely avoided going myself as I was aware of the long queue for admission, especially for local influential people. Accordingly, I advised the Inspector to prevent my meeting with the Principal before the admissions. He did this and was successful, as he told the Principal that I had gone on a long tour to check the post offices in remote areas. The admission was granted, and my children went to the school regularly. After a few days, both my wife and I met the Principal. He came to know that my wife was not employed and had served in some missionary schools, so he offered her a job teaching Hindi to the secondary classes. I was overjoyed at the developments.

Another good thing happened simultaneously. I started constructing a house on a 1.2 kanal vacant plot in Baghe-e-Mehtab, which I had purchased through my father, who unfortunately died in 1986. There were a few trees of delicious apples and scented plums in the plot. For construction purposes, there is no contractual system in Kashmir. By a stroke of luck, I employed a mason, who was sincere and did all the work in my absence. The Carpenter employed was living adjacent to my said house. I drew the architectural plan of the house myself, though a minor modification was suggested by the Departmental Architect, which was accepted. The construction started in 1989.

With everything moving smoothly, I resolved to stay in Srinagar for a long period and ensure the completion of the education of my children there. But that was not to be. I was reminded of a proverb, Man proposes, and God disposes. In 1989, the bugle of militancy was blown through sporadic incidents of bomb blasts, exchange of fire, attacks on police posts, killing of people branded informers, targeting Kashmiri Pandits, which gradually became more defined and a daily routine. No day would pass by without a few incidents. Earlier in 1987, an election was rigged in J&K by the then CM, Farooq Abdullah, which had forced some MUF leaders to cross over to POK and create an organisational network there. In 1989, Rubaiya Syeed, the daughter of Mufti Syed, the then Home Minister in the Centre, was kidnapped by JKLF militants, and five terrorists were released in exchange, which emboldened the militants to intensify their activities in the valley and some peripheral areas like Poonch, Rajouri and Doda. The released terrorists created an organisational network in the valley, supported by ISI and the Pakistan Army. Young people were lured from Kashmir, crossed the LOC, and were trained in warfare in Pakistan and Afghanistan, the latter by the Taliban. On completion of their training, they returned to the valley accompanied by the mercenaries from Pakistan, Afghanistan and other Islamic countries. A few postal officials also absented from their duties, crossed the LOC and received proper military training. On their return, they surrendered and were rehabilitated by my successors. They revealed some dreadful details of their training. Many post offices, about sixty-five in number, were bombed, burnt or ransacked and their records destroyed. Thankfully, there were no casualties. The Kashmiri Pandit staff in all the post offices had already fled from Kashmir.

Mr Ved Kumar was the Post Master General at the time. He was living alone, and his family was in Delhi. His blood sugar level suddenly dropped, and he went to Sheri Kashmir Medical Institute for consultation. This happened in my absence, and later, when I came to know about this, I was furious. The Institute was reportedly a den of militants, and he could have been a prized catch for them. Fortunately, he returned safely. Meanwhile, I had instructed APMG Staff to advise him to take the next flight to Delhi and consult a specialist. Accordingly, he agreed and, without losing time, went to Delhi. I was thus left alone to face the situation in Kashmir in the cold winter of 1989. … to be continued.

At The Zebra Crossing

2025-09-14T15:27:00.000+05:30

At the Zebra Crossing

To cross or not to cross? That was the question which baffled him for more than an hour. Puzzled and petrified, he helplessly watched the speeding vehicles passing by. The civility on the road demanded that drivers should stop or slow down near the zebra crossing and let pedestrians cross the road, but they did not show any signs of responsibility. Why should they? There were no policemen to regulate them at this place. Self-discipline is something unknown in our country. Every driver is in a hurry and wants to overtake the other.

Under the circumstances, the pedestrians in Delhi throw caution to the wind while crossing the roads. They watch the flowing traffic for a while and, at the first available opportunity, push ahead to make way for themselves. His case, however, was different. He could not muster enough courage to cross this busy road. The lorries, motorcars, jeeps, motor-bicycles, scooters and auto-rickshaws were speeding mercilessly past him. He feared that one of them might crush him to death in a similar manner to how his son had been crushed a day before. He was aware of his liabilities at home and therefore did not want to die so soon.

Black and white stripes on the roads meant for pedestrians were hardly visible in the place where he had come from, or more appropriately, had been forced to come from. In the entire district, one could notice just a few zebra crossings in certain posh areas, which had no utility except that they were indicative of a VIP area. You could walk across any road, anywhere and at any time. The vehicles would slow down automatically and even stop to allow you to cross the road.

Nonetheless, in metropolitan cities, such black and white stripes offered an open invitation to persons wanting to cross the busy road, assuring them precedence and safe passage. It is the duty and responsibility of every driver to stop when people are walking over the stripes.

Duty…! Responsibility…! Good gracious…! He felt nauseated and reacted instantly, “Who cares about duties and responsibilities in this country? Everyone wants to outwit everyone else. Even if a few people lose their lives or get hurt, it does not matter because human life has no value in this overpopulated country.”

At that very instant, a Mercedes sped past him, leaving a gap of just a whisker. Shivers ran down his spine. He withdrew both his feet from the road immediately for fear of being run over. He was reminded of the death of his son the day before. His son had also attempted to cross a road when he was run over by a speeding truck. The body had lain in a pool of blood the whole night till it was noticed the next morning. The police registered a case against an unknown driver, conducted a post-mortem of the body, and in the end declared the case as untraced. It would not have been difficult for the police to trace the murderer had they pursued the case sincerely, but they were not willing to shoulder additional responsibility. In our country, the police are overburdened with traffic violation cases and many of these concern VIPs. However, the police found a diary on the dead body, which helped them trace his house and hand him over to his parents. Otherwise, the body would have been consumed as unclaimed.

Trace his house…! Was it worth calling a house? A tattered canvas tent, repaired at several places, which gave it a patchy look. The family of six huddled up to spend their allotted days. They were forced to abandon their majestic house in Anantnag, Kashmir. A building of three storeys with a foundation made of green flawless stones drawn from one of the most reputed quarries, walls made of high-quality bricks, ceilings, doors and windows made of deodar wood and an inclined roof covered with Tata corrugated galvanised iron sheets, which did not permit snow to stick to it for too long. The building was surrounded by lush green meadows and paddy fields that extended up to the foothills on the far side. At a short distance from the main door of the house, one could see a large stone mortar placed permanently under a huge walnut tree. Four-foot-high wooden pestles were kept in the cow shed nearby for use by the women of the household to pound paddy, red chillies and condiments during the autumn season, accompanied by melodious Kashmiri songs. Behind the house grew many almond, plum and peach trees, blossoms of which would enchant the passers-by. The family obtained grains, pulses, vegetables, fruits and marigold flowers for the entire year from their own farm and refrained from making any additional purchases from the market.

Many a time, he had thought of going on a pilgrimage to the four dhams across the country before his mortal self would breathe its last, but his ties with the family prevented him from doing so. All his life, he had not ventured out of his small town except on a few occasions when he had gone to Srinagar, where minibuses, tempos, and taxis had not yet replaced tongas. He saw the train for the first time after migrating from the valley.

“What a fool am I? What wild thoughts besiege my mind? That house is a lost dream. Never to be seen again,” He laughed at himself and continued thinking. “They call this suffocating, torn tent a house. My cowshed at Anantnag was bigger than this tent.”

Suddenly, he remembered the face of his lost son. His son was a tall, fair and handsome youth with apple-red cheeks and sky-blue eyes that fairies would yearn to possess. He was intelligent as well as sharp in his studies and got excellent reports from his school. Yet one thing that differentiated him from his class fellows was his compassion and sentimental behaviour. Lately, he had started brooding and thinking endlessly about his glorious past, insecure present and uncertain future. He must have been lost in his thoughts at the time of crossing the road and was therefore run over by the truck.

“Brooding has become a permanent feature of this afflicted community, coupled with hypertension and diabetes. Nobody can escape. This is what they will leave as a heritage for their future generations till the whole community becomes extinct and part of history,” he shook his head briskly to get rid of all the painful thoughts. Then he fixed his gaze on the pedestrian crossing in front of him. It was as expectant as ever, shining bright under the scorching sun. The vehicular traffic, too, was as brisk as before.

He gathered his courage and moved his right foot forward to walk over the stripes. At that very moment, a speeding motor bicycle passed by, almost touching his advanced foot and leaving him no option but to pull it back hastily. The biker turned round and spewed abuse at him, calling him blind. He was at a loss to understand how to cross the road under such circumstances.

It was the month of June with scorching sun overhead. His family had cautioned him about the high temperature outside, but being a villager, he was confident of his physical fitness. He had no choice but to leave his home to collect his monthly relief and rations, for which he had to traverse a distance of around ten kilometres. Earlier, he was entitled to sixteen hundred rupees a month, but after the death of his son, he could draw twelve hundred rupees only as relief.

His son was a great asset to him. The young man would do all the work, such as collecting rations and relief, purchasing bread and vegetables from the market, taking his parents to the doctor and getting them the prescribed medicines. But now the entire burden had fallen on his old shoulders, worn out by time and circumstances.

Being a peasant, he was entirely dependent on the meagre relief provided by the government, unlike government servants who were assured of their full salaries without work. Worse still, in Anantnag, he lived jointly with his two brothers, but at the time of migration, the three fled in three different directions, and nobody knew where the other person had gone. Anyway, he was successful in taking his family safely out of the valley, which by itself was a great solace to him. He had rescued his wife, a son and two teenage daughters, not knowing that Death awaited his son on one of Delhi's roadways.

“Relief of just twelve hundred rupees and rations for the family every month, besides a tattered tent to take shelter under,” he lamented, “Neither a roof overhead nor a piece of land to stand on. Moreover, so many mouths to feed. What a contrast! There was a time when everything was in plenty: wealth, food grains, dry fruits, and spices. We used to expect one or the other guest in our home every day and cook food for one or two extra people. What a turn the wheel of fortune had taken! We have to live from hand to mouth now. Out of twelve hundred rupees, the clerk in the relief commissioner's office takes away one hundred as his commission. What remains is eleven hundred rupees to feed four mouths, purchase their apparel and pay for their education. My wife is illiterate and unskilled and cannot get a job. It had never occurred to us that such a day would ever come in our lives. The only hope was my son, who was snatched away by the jaws of death even before he could complete his studies. All that is left are two daughters who are studying in school.”

All of a sudden, he remembered that his wife wanted him to return home before lunch. She had given him a small towel wetted with ice-cold water which by now had dried up. He turned around and asked for time from the water-seller beside him.

“It is quarter past one,” sharp came the reply. The vendor had curiously watched him since he had stood there and felt pity for him. “Babuji, you have been standing in this scorching sun for more than an hour. Pray tell me, where do you want to go?”

“I want to cross this road but this uncontrolled traffic does not allow me to do so,” he replied.

“So many people have crossed since the time you stood here. What are you afraid of?”

“No, no, the traffic is so much and so fast that anyone may crush me. Then where will my family go? I have already lost my only son recently while crossing a road. The drivers should at least have some consideration for those walking on foot. Nobody is bothered. Brother, it is not so in our town. Neither too much traffic nor too much speed. No, not at all. In our place, if an old man is unable to cross the road on his own, people will catch hold of his hand and help him till he reaches the other end. I have done it myself so many times when I was young.”

He wondered why people in this city were so apathetic and inhuman, and then laughed to himself. “What a fool am I? Which place do I claim to be mine? If that is my town, then what am I doing here under this scorching sun?”

“Babuji, please have this glass of water. You need not pay for it,” the vendor said while handing over a glass of ice-cold water to him. “You seem flustered. Which country are you from?”

“Country…! What makes you think so? No, brother, I belong to this very country. I am no foreigner.” He drank the water in one sip and requested the vendor to wet his towel if possible.

Having said so, he suddenly felt speechless and again started thinking, “Belong to this country…! How? How do I call this country my own? The country that could not ensure my security or sustain me. Isn’t it strange that a person has become a refugee in his own country?”

“Babuji, it seems you wanted to say something but stopped short.”

“Brother, what do I say? There is nothing left for me to say. I have become a refugee in my own country.”

“Babuji, it seems the traffic has thinned out. This is the best time to cross.”

He looked at the road in front of him. The traffic had really become less compared to what it was earlier. Possibly, it had thinned down due to lunchtime in the offices. So he mustered up the courage and put forward his feet one after the other on the black and white stripes. Instantly, he turned around and nodded his gratitude to the vendor and then moved his feet briskly.

One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight... and so on, till he reached the other end of the road.

He stopped on the footpath at the other end and heaved a sigh of relief. Then he wiped his sweaty face with his wet towel. He was feeling feverish. His whole body had turned into a furnace by now. His head was reeling, his eyes had become blurred, and he could not see anything around him. Frothing at the mouth, he fell like a chopped tree right on the footpath.

The vendor whose eyes were fixed on him was shocked. He ran across the road with a bottle of ice-cold water in his hand and sprinkled it over his head, but it was too late. The body was lying motionless on the footpath with white foam in the mouth, and the pulse had already stopped.

People started gathering around the dead body, and soon the police came by, picked up the dead body and took it away in a van. For the police, it was simply a case of heat stroke. That is what it meant for them, another addition to the statistical register of deaths due to sunstroke.

*****

Maqamiat Ki Shanakht:Deepak Budki Ke Novelon Ka Jayza-Munir Abbas Sipra & Dr Munnawar Amin

2025-09-07T05:23:00.000+05:30

Painting the birth of Lord Krishna

2025-08-15T12:34:00.002+05:30

This photograph reminds me of my probationary days at Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy of Indian Administration, Mussoorie in 1976. Preparations were being made for Janam Ashtami celebration in which Director's daughter was to act as Radha and famous classical Kathak dancer, Shovana Narayan, a member of Indian Audit and Accounts Services was to perform as Krishna. The administration had selected some Probationery mostly IAS & IFS for painting a huge background for the stage showing Yamuna in spate. The Krishna's father was to carry the new born baby accross it. Probably they had never acted on stage nor painted big screens. So they were content with doing work like school children with tiny brushes and oil paints. One of the clerks who had collected names for painting, Mr Sham Lal, saw me walking in Charleville Campus though I belonged to Savoy Campus. He enquired from me as to why I had not joined the painters. I replied, "No one asked me to."
He quickly approached the wife of the Director and started praising me as if he had known me well. In fact he was trying to flatter her. So she asked, "Well why don't you join them?"
"Madam for such a huge canvas we don't paint like this with small brushes."
"Then what do you want."
I was perplexed. I had myself not painted the stage background on a huge canvas before but had acted on stage and seen some large canvases painted as background."
Without much thought I told her that the work can be done with water soluble distemper colours and big brushes called Korchis. Since Janamashtami was after just one day, she was also concerned about the slow progress and therefore asked Sham Lal to procure whatever I wanted. I told him to get 2 packets of sky blue 🔵 and 2 packets of dark blue besides a packet of white and 3-4 Kochis. He returned with all things but reported that the dark blue colour is not found in the distemper. I got flustered and didn't know what to do. They say, "Necessity is the mother of invention." Suddenly it flashed in my mind that Neel Blue is a dark colour used by women and is very dark, so I got 4 packets of the same as they are small. I mixed the Neel with blue distemper to make it dark 🌑. Though it did the trick but I remembered that this Neel is used to bleech clothes, what happens when canvas dries? Helpless as I was, I took the chance.
In the meantime, I had got the canvas set at an angle against the wall of the women's hostel, where this work was being done and got 4 room heaters installed behind it to dry the water in the paint fast which worked well. The Probationers who were working quietly left the work leaving me alone. They thought that I was a maverick.
I painted fast with my large brushes and big strokes and painted the river Yamuna in the bottom portion of the huge canvas. Thereafter I turned to the sky.
An IRS probationer Parvathi Krishnamurthy came out of one of the rooms and saw me painting the canvas. She appreciated it and went back into the room and prepared a cup of coffee. She invited me to have the coffee. It was very cold outside so the coffee was refreshing. I felt rejuvenated, thanked her and was back to my work.
After one hour I was surprised to see the River Yamuna in spate on the canvas before me with currents leaping to touch the feet of basket of Krishna and an overcast sky which could burst into thunder and rain anytime in future. Believe me I didn't think the painting was done by me.
I reported to the Director 's wife who was in charge, and requested her to see if it was okay. She approved it without a second thought. I requested her to get the heaters removed once the paint had dried up, which was done.
The day after the programme was organised. My painting formed the background of the large stage. I was seated in the audience watching Vasudev carrying Lord Krishna through the River Yamuna with currents of 🌊 🌊 trying to touch Krishna's feet. Fortunately, the Neel didn't have any bleaching effect. On the contrary the shade of dark blue heightened the currents in river and the clouds in the sky. I took a heavy sigh of relief.

Chinar on Fire

2025-08-15T07:52:00.006+05:30

My short story Chinar Ke Panje was translated into English and published in The Daily Headlines Today, Srinagar. The link is given below. Turn to page 7, please.

https://www.dailyheadlinestoday.com/epaper/view/1124/headlines-today

The Spring Faraway: Ashok Patwari – Deepak Budki

2025-07-17T12:24:00.001+05:30

The Spring Faraway: Ashok Patwari

– Deepak Budki

The maiden English novel by Dr Ashok Patwari titled ‘The Spring Faraway’ is a saga of developments in the Kashmir valley over the past four decades. The State of Jammu and Kashmir has been a festering sore ever since its independence and has been aptly described by Lord Birdwood as a “geographical monstrosity”. India and Pakistan have fought four wars since 1947, so much so that it has adversely affected their economies. resulted in the separation of the Eastern Wing of Pakistan in 1971, the rise of militancy in the state and the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits in 1990. Against this background, Ashok Patwari has chronicled the events, fictionalised them and not only reflected the sentiments of the people of Kashmir but also refracted the ideologies of different stakeholders in the conflict.

Dr Ashok Patwari is a well-known Urdu fiction writer with three collections of short stories, viz. Kuch Lamhe, Kuch Saye, Dastak and Silwatein, besides four books in English, Turquoise Tulips, Down Flows the Stream, Retreat and Other Stories, and Poster Boy and Other Stories. Born in Sopore, Kashmir, on 2 October 1948, he is a paediatrician based in Noida, Delhi NCR, after migrating from Kashmir. Dr Ashok is also a Research Professor of International Health at Boston. Patwaris have a rich tradition of literary accomplishments. In this novel, the author has chiefly focused on the characters who have been neighbours for ages in his homeland, Sopore, spanning three generations and representing antagonistic religious ideologies. Yet they believe in peaceful coexistence, called ‘Kashmiriyat’, a legacy handed down to Kashmiris by great Rishis such as Lal Ded and Nund Reshi. The two families symbolise their communities living peacefully in Kashmir. However, due to the circumstances created by regular conflict between Hindus and Muslims, fuelled by religious bigots and the neighbouring country, Pakistan, some of the younger members have become hardcore right-wing extremists.

The author has picked up the thread from the partition of the country and the tribal invasion when many Kashmiri Pandits (Hindu Brahmins), nicknamed Bhattas, were rescued and saved from the onslaught of invading Tribal barbarians, including members of the family of Prithvi Nath Dhar, a school teacher and an Urdu-Persian scholar. Their parents, Shamboo Nath Dhar and Haji Ghulam Mohammad Dar, were colleagues as well as neighbours. It reinforced the belief in Kashmiriyat of that generation of Pandits and Muslims. The march of time eroded the secular fabric of the two families, and some of their children fell prey to the religious extremism honed by their personal experiences during the militancy in the Kashmir Valley after 1990. While Roshan Lal Dhar continued to believe in Prithvi Nath’s legacy of Kashmiriyat, even if his community had to be second-class citizens in J&K, Dr Surinder Dhar did not and joined a right-wing Hindu organisation in Delhi. However, no Pandit picked up arms despite the loss of land, property and livelihood due to migration. On the contrary, while elder Hajis were sympathetic to Pandit brethren, younger ones were not, and some even picked up the gun to free Kashmir from India. The events in the valley for the last four decades proved that they had local support, were provided with food and shelter, and local youth joined the ranks of terrorists.

The author has dwelt upon the behavioural aspects of different religious communities, the complexes developed by villagers vis-à-vis their Urban counterparts, as well as commitment to non-violence. The last trait is generally believed to be a result of the cowardice of Kashmiris, ignoring the stellar role played by the J&K Militia in the 1962 war, after which the force was incorporated as J&KLI in the Indian Army. The novel highlights subtle differences in the sensibilities of Muslims and Hindus. Muslims in general prefer Sharia law, orthodoxy, veiled women and affection for Pakistan. However, Kashmiri Pandits, being in a minuscule minority, have over the ages learnt how to adapt to the circumstances. After the migration, there was a change in the mindset of the younger generation, who expressed their happiness at the strict enforcement of the law, the abrogation of Articles 370 and 35A of the Constitution, and the bifurcation of the J&K State into two UTs. Some Kashmiri Pandit organisations called for a separate land for them to be named ‘Panun Kashmir’, which concept seems to be impractical and ridiculous. Despite this, the migrant community miss their culture, climate, food and dress.

The militancy in Kashmir started a few years before 1990 under a well-planned strategy, when it reached its peak on 19 January 1990, resulting in the mass migration of Kashmiri Pandits. There are two opinions about their migration, one sponsored by Terrorists and believed by the majority of Muslims in the valley, as well as sympathetic pseudo-secular media and the other held by Pandits themselves based on their personal experiences. On the other hand, many fatalities of Pandits were reported after the migration on account of unbearable climatic conditions. Pandits believe that Muslims invited the curse on themselves by taking up arms. Shockingly, the forcibly displaced Pandits are labelled as MIgrants, which reflects voluntariness rather than forced exile.

Nevertheless, they focused on their children's education, facing the vicissitudes of the climate, poverty, and insecurity, and often succeeded. The novel emphasises that not all Kashmiri Muslims were bad, but many sheltered and helped their Pandit brethren. Prithvi Nath Dhar and his wife stayed put in Sopore despite several requests by their children and were looked after by their friendly Muslim neighbours. However, most of the younger generation were committed to a religious crusade called Jehad, and many got trained across the border and returned to execute their plans as per the diktats of their handlers in POK. Aijaz, assisted by other terrorists, is ordered to abduct Prithvi Nath and his wife, who were provided shelter by his father, which stirs his conscience. Luckily, he can avoid the situation, but later on has to take school children as hostages, which renders him totally helpless. Far away across the oceans, the author finds two young men from the said neighbouring family, viz. Muqbil and Bhavishya are locking horns on the concept of the independence of Kashmir and the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits, yet Bhavishya consoles Muqbil on the death of his grandfather.

While the author has taken pains to portray the excesses of the security forces upon the local Muslims, which resulted in further growth of terrorism, he has, however, conveniently overlooked the killings, abductions and other dastardly acts perpetrated by the terrorists upon the security forces for reasons best known to him. Maybe due to the author’s attempt to balance his narrative or his subconscious effort to eulogise Kashmiriyat and Secularism.

The novel also portrays a character, Gula, who is the son of a labourer killed in crossfire. Though it is normally expected that the employer would sympathise with the family and provide Gula a secure job, instead, he is inducted into terrorism by his employer in the name of Allah, assuring all help to his family. His house is also made into a hideout for a Pakistani terrorist who exploits the innocence of Gula’s sister, forces her to marry him and bear his child. Both Gula and his brother-in-law are ultimately eliminated.

The novel has too many Urdu and Kashmiri words, some repeated, which could have been avoided, and their English equivalents used wherever available, except perhaps where they are used emphatically in the dialogue.

To sum up, the novel The Spring Faraway is both a historical document in the form of fiction and an eyewitness account of events in the Kashmir valley, free of prejudice or exaggeration. Ashok Patwari has indeed produced an interesting piece of fiction, which is praiseworthy. Readers who have not been through the events can visualise what must have happened, while those who have can feel the nostalgia behind every word in the novel.

*****

APNA APNA SUCH (NOVEL) BY DEEPAK BUDKI; REVIEWED BY DR SAIFI SIRONJI

2025-05-15T22:10:00.006+05:30

QARZE KI DUNIYA - URDU AFSANA (Deepak Budki)

2025-02-19T11:44:00.007+05:30

Recollections of Childhood.

2024-12-04T10:31:00.003+05:30

The above two paintings are painted by Frantz Charlet 1862-1928. These paintings remind me of my childhood.

1) I started smoking at an early age of around 11. I was accompanied by a friend who saw someone throw a burning cigarette butt which he rushed to pick up and hid under the pheran (smock). He had a few puffs and next he gave it to me. I was reluctant but he convinced me that it is soothing. So I too smoked a few puffs and coughed instantly. We headed to our home hiding the cigarette under our pheran. Shockingly, I found my mother coming from opposite side in a lane and she saw me throwing out the smoke from my mouth. And you can imagine what must have happened at home. She was angry and furious and beat me with a stick.

Later on we got used to smoking and used to lit the cigarettes from each other's as in the painting.

2) The second painting reminds me of a game called LAGORI which we used to play in childhood. We placed seven earthen tablets one over the other and a player of one team was supposed to hit it. If he succeeded the team had to run away till caught or else they must rebuild the earthen tablets to be declared a winner.

ππππππ

Fortune telling experience

2024-12-02T11:02:00.000+05:30

I was watching Indian Idol on Sony TV today. Nana Patekar had been invited as a guest. Since the beginning of this series of Indian Idol, a participant claimed that she was a Numerologist. She was asked by Nana Patekar to tell what was his age? Nana Patekar obviously showed that he doesn't believe in such things as fortune telling and numerology. She was in a fix and out of confusion blurted out 43. Nana smiled and in his own style said, "You are right, but just add 31 to it. That makes it 74". This was indirectly a dig on her numerology.

I recalled a similar incident that had happened with me in 1971. I was working as Branch Manager, Kashmir Govt Arts Emporium, Sector 17, Chandigarh. A bearded astrologer came into the showroom and entered my cabin. He claimed that he is a fortune teller and can tell me about my future. Of course he expected to be paid for the job. I asked him to sit in the chair in front of me and comforted him.

At the very outset, I asked him a question, "Can you tell me what is my age?"

He got flabbergasted.

He looked at my face intently. My look told him that I may be around 20-25 years old but the atmosphere of the Emporium and the chair I was occupying told him that it cannot be less than 30-35. He got totally confused and out of despair blurted out that your age is around 32.

I laughed and told him that you cannot tell my age though I am sitting in your front, how can you tell my future which is very distant and not yet born. So I requested him to leave without wasting my time. However, while leaving I told him that I was born in 1950 and therefore am 21 years old. He left my cabin hurriedly and didn't look back even once.