Morning, September 8, 2016
New Delhi
Ma and Pa have come from Jammu for the festival of Vinayak Chorum. We call it Pann (thread). The day is associated with the spinning of cotton. On this auspicious day, roth (sweet bread) is prepared and an age-old story is narrated. The day marks the end of deprivation and the beginning of prosperity. Ma cleans the kitchen, washes the utensils, kneads the dough and makes roth. Then, in accordance with the ritual, she does what all Pandit women do. She assembles us – Pa, Aishwarya, Amia and me – in front of a vessel containing the roth and recounts a story that has been narrated for generations:
“Once upon a time, in a village in Kashmir, lived a woman, her husband and their daughter. They made a living working in the households of the rich. One day, while working in a house, the girl saw the women making roth. She had never seen such a beautiful sight. When she returned home, she narrated the incident to her parents. Her mother told her about their past. “When we had everything,” said her mother, “we celebrated Pann, too. Then, our fortunes changed and we were left with nothing.” Sensing her daughter’s despair, the mother went in search of some wheat and condiments. All she was able to collect were five grains of wheat. She washed them, ground them and made roth. She placed the five pieces of roth in a basket and covered them. Then she offered a prayer for the good times to return. When she lifted the cover off the basket, the five pieces of roth had turned into five gold coins. “You’ve returned to us whatever we had lost,” she said to God. “From now on, we shall always celebrate Pann on this day.”’
Ma pauses. “What happens next?” I ask her.
“If Babi were alive, she would have told us what happens next,” Ma says. “May we always be happy and flourish. May we always be together!”
A Day in September
1989 Home, Srinagar, Kashmir
Morning
Babi is cleaning the house and preparing for Pann. The thread she has spun from cotton wool is dangling off her right earlobe and holding the gold dejhor (earring). I am eager to eat the roth and other sweets and listen to Babi’s story. She asks me to sit beside her. She begins:
“Once upon a time, in a village not far from here, lived an adventurous little girl with her mother and father. Once, when she was collecting walnuts in a forest, a lion descended from a mountain and blocked her way. The girl wasn’t scared. Just as the lion was about to pounce on her, she raised her hand and gave him a smack. Stunned at the girl’s valour, the lion ran for his life. The girl returned home and narrated her encounter with the lion to her parents . . .”
Daytime
Babuji, Pa, Ma, Henna and I gather in the kitchen for the prayer. After the prayer, Babi resumes narrating the story of the family who lost everything due to difficult circumstances. As always, she doesn’t finish the story. She ends by offering another prayer. “May the darkness dispel. May we never get to leave our beautiful house, our beautiful land. May we live and die happily here. May our children flourish.”
Elsewhere in the Valley, women across 50,000 Pandit households narrate the same story and offer the same prayer.
Evening
We sit next to empty tin trunks. We stare at our household possessions: utensils, bedding, clothes, rugs, jewellery, documents, certificates, bicycles, photographs, books, paintings, boxes, mirrors, etc. Babi is chanting a prayer.
Shamboo Nath, our neighbour, has sent his granddaughters to Jammu.
“We shouldn’t leave yet,” a Pandit says. “We will be killed if we stay,” says another. “Don’t you know what militants did to Niranjan’s son? They won’t spare us if we don’t give in to their demands. Ismail and his two sons have arms in their house now. What do you think they intend doing? This is a signal for us to leave . . .”
“What if, God forbid, something was to happen to . . .” whispers Ma. “I know what you are thinking. You don’t want to . . . even though many others are already preparing to leave . . . but you very well know what is going on outside . . .”
“The very thought of leaving is unsettling. Where will we go? We will wait it out . . .”
“May we never be thrown out of our home,” Babi prays. She tells the story of the brave little girl once again. I know who the little girl in the story is. Fear has forced its way into our house.
Outside, a frightful night reigns.
“In the spring, Kashmir will become part of Pakistan,” a Muslim neighbour has said to us. “What will you do that day, Panditji?”
A Day in September 1996
Udhampur, Jammu Province
Morning
I have come to Udhampur to spend some days at home. Home is where everyone is. It is my semester break. Babuji is sitting in a corner like a child. Pa has given him children’s games to keep him engrossed. At times, Babuji expresses himself in baby talk. Babi is the only one who understands his desires and tantrums. Home is where Babuji wants to go. Babi gives him the good news once again. “Stop worrying; we’re going home one of these days. We will celebrate Pann at our house. You will have things to do. You must start preparing. Do you remember everything or not? Don’t tell me you don’t . . .”
A smile appears on Babuji’s face. His eyes light up like a child’s. He wants to stand up, rush to the closet, get dressed and be ready for the departure. “Not yet,” says Babi. “Tomorrow!”
Out of desperation and helplessness, I look for ways to see improvement in Babuji’s condition. He has developed an uncanny ability to be in different places and different eras at the same time. A time traveller performs similar feats! Whatever I do, I will never be able to see or know those places or join him on his travels. Such is the nature of Babuji’s affliction. It’s left him with an estrangement, which has led to a terrifying state.
Excerpted with permission from A Long Season of Ashes: A Memoir, Siddhartha Gigoo, Penguin India.
