Remembering Agha Shahid Ali on his death anniversary

Agha Shahid Ali was one of the finest poets the world has known. A Kashmiri by origin, many of his poems are set in the backdrop of Kashmir. Although settled in the United States of America, his poems vividly describe the Kashmiri uprising and the then scenario.

He was a hero for many, one who had given voice to Kashmiri sentiments. His poetry has been praised worldwide. A few extracts from some of his poems I have mentioned in this post.

I find 'The wolf's post script to Little Red Riding Hood' very amusing and worth sharing:

First, grant me my sense of history:

I did it for posterity,

for kindergarten teachers

and a clear moral:

Little girls shouldn't wander off

in search of strange flowers,

and they mustn't speak to strangers.

And then grant me my generous sense of plot:

Couldn't I have gobbled her up

right there in the jungle?

Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?

As if I, a forest-dweller,

didn't know of the cottage

under the three oak trees

and the old woman lived there

all alone?

As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before?

And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf,

now my only reputation.

But I was no child-molester

though you'll agree she was pretty.

And the huntsman:

Was I sleeping while he snipped

my thick black fur

and filled me with garbage and stones?

I ran with that weight and fell down,

simply so children could laugh

at the noise of the stones

cutting through my belly,

at the garbage spilling out

with a perfect sense of timing,

just when the tale

should have come to an end.

By Kashmiris he is known and still remembered for the heart wrenching lines he wrote for his homeland. His death was immense loss to Kashmiris. Their only voice was lost. Agha Shahid Ali had breached an opening for the thoughts and agony of the Kashmiris.

Let me cry out in that void, say it as I can. I write on that void: Kashmir, Kaschmir, Cashmere, Qashmir, Cashmir, Cashmire, Kashmere, Cachemire, Cushmeer, Cachmiere, Casmir. Or Cauchemar in a sea of stories? Or: Kacmir, Kaschemir, Kasmere, Kachmire, Kasmir. Kerseymere?

The following is an excerpt from ‘Postcard from Kashmir’:

Kashmir shrinks into my mailbox,

my home a neat four by six inches......

......This is home. And this the closest

I'll ever be to home. When I return,

the colors won't be so brilliant,

the Jhelum's waters so clean,

so ultramarine. My love

so overexposed.

 Although far away from home, Agha Shahid Ali writes about Kashmir in the most ardent manner. His separation from his motherland becomes the reason for his growing passion for Kashmir. It is no longer the place he knew but he recreates an image of his home. His familiarity with Kashmir is limited to the news he receives in his mailbox. A feeling of helplessness creeps in as he realises how far away from home he is.

Agha Shahid Ali beautifully expresses the two contrasting sides of Kashmir, heaven on one end, hell let loose on the other. The bloodied face of terror and torture is revealed in the backdrop of serene beauty. It is this ability of his that makes one vulnerable to the disturbing truth of this place, such that his poetry touches the hearts of the masses in the most tragic manner.

The following is an excerpt from ‘The Blessed Word’:

 “Srinagar was under curfew. The identity pass may or may not have helped in the crackdown. Son after son- never to return from the night of torture-was taken away. “Srinagar hunches like a wild cat: lonely sentries, wretched in bunkers at the city’s bridges ,  far from their homes in the plains, licensed to kill.”

Shahid brings to life, the torment faced by the local Kashmiris, where they are asked to prove their identity, asked to prove that they are indeed who they claim to be, asked by men who came as visitors, and decided to settle down and dominate. He talks about thousands of those who disappeared and never returned as Kashmir continues to be under the surveillance of those who claimed to be the mightiest.

The following is an excerpt from ‘I see Kashmir from New Delhi at midnight’:

 From Zero Bridge


a shadow chased by searchlights is running


away to find its body. On the edge


of the Cantonment, where Gupkar Road ends, 


it shrinks almost into nothing, is

nothing by Interrogation gates


so it can slip, unseen, into the cells:


Drippings from a suspended burning tire


are falling on the back of a prisoner, 
the naked boy screaming, “I know nothing.”

"Rizwan, it’s you, Rizwan, it’s you," I cry out 
as he steps closer, the sleeves of his phiren torn.


"Each night put Kashmir in your dreams," he says, 
then touches me, his hands crusted with snow, 
whispers, “I have been cold a long, long time.”

"Don’t tell my father I have died," he says, 
and I follow him through blood on the road


and hundreds of pairs of shoes the mourners 
left behind, as they ran from the funeral, 
victims of the firing. From windows we hear


grieving mothers, and snow begins to fall 
on us, like ash. Black on edges of flames, 
it cannot extinguish the neighborhoods, 
the homes set ablaze by midnight soldiers,

Kashmir is burning:

Agha Shahid Ali talks about Rizwan, the victim, one among many who face the same end as him. The fear in which the Kashmiri youth lives is recreated as Shahid writes about one such young man being chased by the army as he begs for his life and repeatedly proclaims his innocence. These lines further talk about Moulvi Farooq’s funeral procession.

 By that dazzling light


we see men removing statues from temples.


We beg them, “Who will protect us if you leave?

”
They don’t answer, they just disappear


on the road to the plains, clutching the gods.

I’ve tied a knot


with green thread at Shah Hamdan, to be


untied only when the atrocities


are stunned by your jewelled return, but no news


escapes the curfew, nothing of your shadow, 
and I’m back,

five hundred miles, taking off


my ice, the mountains granite again as I see


men coming from those Abodes of Snow


with gods asleep like children in their arms.

 The departure of the Kashmiri Pandits was a major loss. Shahid in a touching manner narrates the exodus of the Pandits, who were never able to return, who as much belonged to Kashmir as the local Muslims.

Some wounds time may heal, but how does one compensate for such loss? The loss was not of just those Pandits who left, but also of those Muslims who stayed back and continued to live, never being able to fill the void thus created. God knows, Kashmir never knew of religious distinction, how happily the two communities lived like one, until misfortune knocked on the doors of Kashmir.

Shahid died of brain tumour, at the age of 52, on December 8, 2001 at Massachusetts. He had wished to be carried to Kashmir, such that he could live his last days, and be laid to rest at home. Due to various reasons he changed his mind about being carried to Kashmir and  was buried at Northampton.

Agha Shahid Ali continues to live in the hearts of those who admired his poetry and especially all those Kashmiris who respect and cherish him for the love he had for his motherland. Years later after his death, he is still remembered as the voice of Kashmir, resounding as loud and clear as ever. Even though not actually being among those who suffered as a result of the upsurge, his poems seem to be a first hand account of the unfortunate times that the valley experienced.

 I will die, in autumn, in Kashmir,

and the shadowed routine of each vein

will almost be news, the blood censored, 
for the Saffron Sun and the Times of Rain….

So much to say, yet words won't come. - Afzal Guru

I woke up this morning to an NDTV news update on my iPad which said Afzal Guru had been hanged. It took me a while to take in this news. I remember hearing about this guy when I was a kid, so many years had passed. It was when a strike had been called for because Afzal Guru had been sentenced to death. I read and tried to find out what this was all about. I concluded and believed; Afzal Guru was innocent of what he had been charged with. Afzal Guru was not hanged. Years passed and I forgot about this man, no news of him. He continued to live, a life where he did not belong, his family left alone to suffer.It was a few months back that I came across this online petition which aimed at getting justice delivered to Afzal Guru. So many memories of this man returned, his story returned in flashes. This time I did a detailed study. Following the news by Indian media I came to know that there never was sufficient proof against Afzal.

The Supreme Court categorically stated that there was no evidence to show that Mohammad Afzal was a member of any banned organization. In fact the Court acquitted Afzal of the charges under POTA. They held: “The conviction under section 3 (2) of POTA is set aside. The conviction under section 3 (5) of POTA is also set aside because there is no evidence that he is a member of a terrorist organization, once the confessional statement is excluded. Incidentally, we may mention that even going by confessional statement, it is doubtful whether the membership of a terrorist gang or organization is established.”

None of the 80 prosecution witnesses ever even alleged that Afzal was in any way associated or belonged to any terrorist organization. Despite these facts the police and a section of the media still refer to Afzal as a “JeM activist”.

 

 
Excerpts from Mohammad Afzal’s Letter to his Lawyer, Sushil Kumar, Sr. Advocate, Supreme Court :

“Special police told me that if I speak according to their wishes they will not harm my family members and also gave me false assurance that they will make my case weak so that after sometime I get released. “


“I was presented before media hand- cuffed. There were NDTV, Aaj tak, Zee news, Sahara TV etc. Rajbeer Singh (A.C.P.) was also there. When one of the interviewers Shams Tahir asked me about the role of Geelani in parliament attack, I just said that Geelani is innocent. This moment A.C.P. Rajbeer Singh got up from his moving chair, shouted at me and said that he had already told me not to speak about Geelani in front of everybody (Media-person). Rajbeer Singh’s behaviour exposed my helplessness and media personnel at least came to know that what I am saying is under threat or duress. Then Rajbir Singh (A.C.P.) requested the T.V. personnel that the question regarding Geelani should be washed away or not to be shown before public. In the evening Rajbir Singh asked me if I wanted to talk to my family, I replied with a yes. Then I talked to my wife. After finishing my phone call he told me if I wanted to see my wife & family alive I must co- operate with them at every step. “

“They made me to sign on at least 200-300 blank pages. I was never given a chance in the designated court to tell the real story. The judge told me that I will be given full opportunity to speak at the end of case but at the end he even did not record all my statements.”

(To read further follow: http://www.justiceforafzalguru.org/background/AfzalBooklet-1.pdf)

As Ajmal Kasab was hanged on 21st November, oblivious Indians awaited and prayed for a similar death sentence for Afzal Guru.

Something deep within me went on believing that Afzal Guru would never be executed, he would emerge as a winner one day, free. I had undoubtedly forgotten about this place he belonged to, growing up where I had never heard of justice. I had hoped he’d return to his family one day, because he was innocent and never got a chance to tell his story. Its agonising how people in India demanded a death sentence for him, believing what the media reported and not caring to know what the truth actually was. It is not because we are a stupid people, its because, we have a disregard for all things Kashmiri. Somehow, after everything else, I still deep down believed a little in the Indian system of justice. Today I realised that all that ever existed for us Kashmiris were unfair trials and subjugations.

Afzal Guru was hanged on 9th February 2013 at Delhi’s Tihar Jail at 8.00 AM and buried at the same place. Curfew immediately imposed in all districts of Kashmir.

I cry, I cry

I see black, I see black

I cry, I cry

Time and again we have been given hard blows for standing up, this blow the hardest, for a crime we never committed. As Afzal Guru was hanged to death today, with him died an entire nation, all hopes of an Indian Kashmir. Its just us now, may Allah be with us. I have never felt such a loss of expressions, hardly any words left, just cries of pain and tears trickling down my face. How can one possibly express such loss?

I die, I die

Every time I dream of life

I die, I die


As I write this post, casualties are reported in Kashmir in clashes over Guru’s hanging.

I see fire

Beware, I see fire

It is a funeral procession

The untrue love.

Losing the love I had
The distance seems to amplify everyday
Had I not been a sincere lover?
Knowing little of the piety that such love calls for
I believed that I loved you
A true lover


Can living in a different city seize the love you had for your land? Make it fade away?
Is some time away from home enough to dismiss from your mind all the feelings you hold for that one place, those people, that name KASHMIR.


I was born from you
But I’m just not sure if I still smell of you
They sent me away and I like it here
People here smile and are happy
Unlike yours
They don’t talk of blood.
When I go out, Mom is not worried about losing me to a bullet
I live here everyday
I have been taken away from you


Sitting alone, at home one night, I tried to hear the silence. There was none.
I sought solace in you, my lost love.

I imagined walking along the Dal and the cool breeze sweeping across my face. I smiled. I still remembered the feeling. Just then the nearby mosque broke into the call for prayer
“Allahuakbar”
The adhan went on and so did I, along the banks of the lake.
I stopped.
Was I heading towards home or away from it?
Where exactly was home? The place in my head? Or the one where I actually was?


“Hayya ‘ala-s-Salah
Hayya ‘ala-l-Falah”


Something called me, back home.
Back to Kashmir.

 O my love, I’m here again
I left you to find peace
My search for the same led me back to you
Now, I live here everyday
I live Kashmir everyday

The burning colours of Autumn

With burning colours is how we welcome the winters. The word "burning" does identify with the current scenario which has been so since a long time now, ever since I can remember.

Burning on the outside of course

And burning on the inside too

Winters seem to be dreary, removing all signs of life, sucking the spirit out of the air. Still the beauty of autumn is enough to entrance one and dismiss from his mind the advancing end of life.

A little fire

A little more

A little red

A little more

Leaves you dead, just like before

I have always characterized the season by red and brown chinar leaves, a sight which used to be very common in Autumns at my school. I remember how I used to love playing with the dead, fallen leaves, knowing little what it meant, knowing little of the lifelessness that lurked.

It all begins with a little change. The air is different, the end of something and the beginning of the other thing is sensed.

A little change in colour

A little more

A little stranger air

A little more

A little sleep

A little more

Little by little is how silence appears - the soul departs

It amazes me how I am writing about something and how it relates to a greater something else. A pleasure for those who can put the pieces together and a little dissatisfaction for those who fail to do so.

The entire scene of burning and dying is an exhibition of how life ceases to exist here. Be

it the Chinars in my school or the Kashmir on the streets.

Its remarkable to notice, when one starts to write about Kashmir, no matter what aspect he decides to choose he unintentionally ends up pointing out the most distressing one and the one most obvious to him. The one I have learned to never disunite from the very image I hold of the place. Its the pain deep inside which keeps reminding you that you are alive, still alive.

As this season goes by, the count of the leaves shed rising, the number of Kashmiri lives lost at the hands of those who we despise grows at a faster rate, much faster. This makes it seem that it is much of an uncomplicated and facile task for those who effortlessly bring an end, an end to lives not considered of any value and an end to the pain they have faced all these years, leaving Kashmir again in immeasurable but familiar anguish.

Agha Shahid Ali wrote,

"A Brigadier says, the boys of Kashmir break so easily, we make their bodies sing, on the rack, till no song is left to sing"

" I will die, in autumn, in Kashmir,

and the shadowed routine of each vein

will almost be news, the blood censored,

for the Saffron Sun and the Times of Rain. "

-Agha Shahid Ali

I lay here in rest/unrest, unmarked

They know not where I am,

They keep searching for me.

I try to tell them I lay here, beneath my own soil, with many more like me,

They cannot hear.

“At 38 places visited in north Kashmir, there were 2,156 unidentified dead bodies buried in unmarked graves,” the inquiry report published by the Indian government’s Jammu and Kashmir State Human Rights Commission (J&KSHRC) said.

Yet another revelation which would leave a common Kashmiri thinking, wondering if it is true. It all seems to be an illusive situation, which one would never believe. Those who hear are left gasping, they can’t digest it.

But we, here in Kashmir, have learnt to believe everything, however inhuman it may sound.

We have been subdued when we tried to unite

We have been quietened when we tried to speak

We are used to helpless situations

We are used to domination

Thinking of it, one goes through immeasurable torment, yet we have learnt to live with this never healing wound.

Although accustomed to all the oppression and prejudice we still demand justice.

‘Justice’ is something I would never associate with Kashmir. Growing up here, I never heard of it. I could only feel its absence.

When I die, they’ll carry me on their shoulders draped in a white shroud.

Wailing, screaming, my mother and sisters, calling after me, wanting me to come back.

They’ll bury me and pray, pray to Allah for granting me Jannah and forgive all my sins.

I was killed at their hands, murdered by those who rule over me in my own land.

I contemplate and fail to understand why, I have been wasted.

There is no one to carry me, no one to cry.

I am deprived of my last rites. No prayers for me.

They hide me along with the others, there are too many.

Back home my mother keeps waiting, anticipating my return.

She wouldn’t believe I have died. She’s certain I still exist,

I do, but I might not be able to prove it to her.

She awaits her ‘disappeared’ son like so many others,

He has already reached his final abode.

He lies there in rest/unrest,

Hoping for justice, something which he never heard of in his land.

Ignoring voices in Kashmir

“We’re inside the fire, looking for the dark,”

one card lying on the

street says, “I want

to be he who pours

blood. To soak your hands.

Or I’ll leave mine in

the cold till the rain

is ink, and my

fingers, at the edge of pain,

are seals all night

to cancel the stamps.”

The mad guide! The

lost speak like this. They haunt

a country when it is ash.

“Everything is finished, nothing remains.”

I must force silence

to be a mirror

to see his voice

again for directions.

Fire runs in waves.

Should I cross that river?

Each post office is boarded up. Who will deliver

parchment cut in paisleys, my news to prisons?

Only silence can now trace my letters

to him. Or in a dead office the dark panes.

Excerpts

from “A Country

Without A Post Office” by Agha Shahid Ali

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