Qayoom, my friend and classmate with a sturdy outlook and always unkempt hair, looked stunned as I turned to ask him if he had done the previous day’s homework. He looked at the sky, stunned, as did other students and teachers of the school.
What had caught everyone’s attention was a ‘red’ balloon. Red indicates danger. It is also a ‘sign of war’. Or it is the war itself. I had known it when I was eight. Eight years and 36 days, precisely.
Gurez in the Kashmir Valley, a repository of tribal culture and military barracks of the Indian armed forces, had just erupted in the bombing and bustling. From that school playground fenced with log planks, everyone witnessed the shelling. It was 2005 and it was my first time witnessing a bombing – one among many of the worst the Valley has seen.
I lived in the upper town of Dawar, a few meters from the army headquarters. There was a playground nearby — adjacent to the barracks — where children would play, but now it was out of sight. Our neighbour, Razak Kak, had fenced his house with flat log sheets which now obstructed the view. I had to peek out of the second floor to have a view, which was tiring. This evening, I did not see anyone on the field; it was deserted. But not for long. A huge army cantonment soon marched along, into and outside the field, with Bofors guns. The 40mm cannons were hurriedly uncovered, set in directions and put into motion.
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After 4800 rounds, with 240 rounds per minute, the evening had already turned frightening and the sky was flaring. People escaped from houses to bunkers as bombing shook the settlements. I did not know they were called bunkers. Our family too, instinctively, took refuge in a nearby blockhouse — it was dark and smelled like petrichor, though it had rained some 15 sunsets ago.
Rashid soab, the favourite shopkeeper who always wore the face of urgency and would often come to eat lunch at our home, rushed to us. Together, we moved to another place, a hole where we were less likely to be hit by artillery. Amid the pain and pathos, my mother carried a briefcase. It was not gold or jewellery, but papers. Children wore gloomy faces, maintained pin-drop silence while fear lingered with each strike and shake. Houses shuddered while life remained suspended.
Markets blazed, houses were razed to ashes, the entire village was muzzled and muffled. As the cry for help surged, a bus was pressed into evacuation — only to be hit by a bomb. Rashid soab, the favourite shopkeeper, lay lifeless — his Noorani hotel that served many good meals to me, rubbled.
Half a moon later, when everything had burnt, December arrived. The cannons were covered, barrels put to rest, the houses and markets blanketed with ash again – albeit white. It had snowed.
The eight-year-old me, now 18 years past, is aware of colours. Red means war. White means peace.
Ishtayaq Rasool is a freelance journalist and postgraduate student of Convergent journalism at AJK-MCRC, Jamia Millia Islamia. His work has been published in The Citizen, Maktoob and Article 14 and local newspapers in Kashmir.
Featured image: Ishtayaq Rasool