The ticket seller had run out of coins. Word travelled down the restless queue. For a change, I was useful. I emptied out my wallet weighed down by the detritus of a long journey that had started in Guwahati and was ending with a train to Kashmir.
Last summer, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and United Progressive Alliance chairperson Sonia Gandhi had flown down to the town of Banihal in Jammu division to show the green flag to a red train that runs past ice blue mountains, fields of yellow-coloured mustard and violet-hued saffron, orchards of apples and almonds, the towns of Anantnag, Srinagar and Sopore to come to an end in Baramulla in Kashmir.
In railway parlance, it is a DEMU, a diesel electric multiple unit. The slick-looking suburban train has a head shaped like a snake and chairs that are not only cushioned but also upholstered. It is not listed on the railway ticketing website. To buy a ticket, you need to show up at the counter. Perhaps that has kept the Indian tourist from discovering the Banihal-Baramulla DEMU. And for good reason – the train has no space for tourists. At least, not the first train that leaves Banihal at 7.10 in the morning. It is packed with office-goers and students. It’s so packed that some of them ride on the roof.
The similarity with other trains in India does not end here. With men pressed tight against each other, there are fewer women to be found on the train.
At Banihal, the station where the train starts, the compartments were relatively empty. I found a seat next to a young woman traveling with her baby and mother. The three generations were riding a train for the first time. They were going to Anantnag, the young woman said, because she was unwell and needed to see a doctor. Her mother, who spoke only Kashmiri, gave a broad smile, and when she saw me taking pictures, she was kind enough to offer me her window seat.
Three rows behind us sat two bright-faced young women who kept up a constant chatter. They were sisters, Saiqa and Azrat, both attending the first year of college. One of them had enrolled for a medical course. "Had the train not been available, we might not have taken admission in Anantnag," Saiqa said.
The train has cut down both journey time and cost. "It would take two hours from Banihal to Anantnag. Now it takes just 45 minutes. The taxi would cost Rs 180 for a return journey. By train, it comes to just Rs 20."
"And in the winter, the road often closes due to snow," added a young man listening to our conversation.
By boring Asia’s third-longest tunnel through the Pir Panjal range, the Indian Railways has ensured that Kashmir would remain connected with the Jammu region and the rest of India all year round, come rain or snow.
On the inaugural run of the train, The Hindu reported, Sonia Gandhi expressed the hope that the rail link would improve trade and tourism.
She chose her words carefully, but a retired army general, Afsar Karim, speaking with Mint, gave a more instrumental view of the train. “The people of Kashmir have been feeling deprived for years,” he said. “The more facilities you provide, the more it will help link them to the rest of India.”
Not everyone agreed. “If the government thinks the train would integrate Kashmir with India,” an activist in Banihal told me, “it is living in false hope. The train would only integrate Kashmiris further against India.”
The train’s inauguration had prompted cautious words from chief minister Omar Abdullah: “Kashmir is not simply an economic problem. It is essentially a political problem that needs a political solution.”
***
At Anantnag, the train grew heavy with passengers. Four people squeezed into chairs for three. The young man seated next to me was an electrician travelling to his office in Srinagar. "I work for the Central Excise department," he said. "Gine chune factory hai. Only 25 factories in Kashmir produce enough output to come under our jurisdiction. But there is a lot of trade that the department needs to monitor."
As the office electrician, his job included the task of keeping the office computers safe from the valley's power fluctuations.
He had found the job through a newspaper advertisement. “Since it was a central government office, they were not satisfied with just looking at certificates. They wanted me to repair a fan from the era of Maharaja Hari Singh," he laughed, remembering his interview. His neat clothes got soiled but he came out with flying colours.
Getting the job within a year of completing his electrician training course was a stroke of good luck. “Unemployment rates are very high,” he said. He had completed about five years at the job.
How old was he, I asked.
Thirty six.
How come he started his first job past the age of 30, I asked, and instantly regretted my question.
Those who grew up in the turmoil-hit Kashmir of the 1990s were out of school as much as they were in it. After he passed school, the young man told me, his parents did not allow him to go to college for many years. They wanted to hold him safe and close, and confined him to looking after the family's orchards. It would take them many years to let him go to the city for study and work. If there was a trace of anger in his mellow voice, it was hard to spot.
As the train sped past the spread of yellow mustard at the foot of grey mountains outlined against a startlingly blue sky, he pointed to chinars that had fallen to a harsh winter, and the almond and apple trees waiting to blossom. "This is nothing," he said. "You must see the rest of Kashmir."
The conversation turned to elections. Who were the candidates contesting from Anantnag, I asked.
He struggled to remember their names but eventually did: Mehboob Beg of the National Conference and Mehbooba Mufti of the People’s Democratic Party.
He didn’t seem to have much interest in politics, I remarked.
Elections don't mean much, he said. “Yeh logon ko bewakoof banate hai. The politicians fool people. The foundation of a bridge was laid in my village four years ago. It has still not been built.”
Does he vote, I asked.
“Agar koi banda hoga jo awaam ki khidmat karega. If there is a candidate who would serve the people,” he said.
We could be discussing politics anywhere in the world.
The train had stopped at yet another station. People were struggling to get in. Policemen were walking up and down the platform, waving their batons, gesturing to people in the aisles that they needed to move forward. “There is space inside the bogeys,” an announcer was saying. “We request passengers to move forward. Please do not jam the doors.” With people dangling from the doors, they would not close. The train was stuck.
“There are more crowds today because there was a strike yesterday and people were not able to travel,” explained the man.
The strike had been called by the separatists as part of their call for the boycott of elections.
“No one is forced to boycott elections,” the man explained, as the train finally began to pull out. “Those who want to vote are free to step out…But usually only those are connected to the politician in some way or the other and are expecting doosri taraf se help (personal favours) are the ones who vote.”
Voter turnouts in Kashmir have been low ever since the state assembly elections in 1987 were allegedly rigged. In 1984, 68% of voters in Kashmir came out to vote. Two decades later, in the elections of 2004, voting percentages in the three constituencies of Kashmir had sunk: 16% in Anantnag, 19% in Srinagar and 36% in Baramulla.
Not only are voter turnouts in the valley low, fewer people enroll as voters. As a report of the Election Commission outlines, while the expected electoral population ratio – the ratio of people of voting age in the general population – is 62% in Srinagar, the actual electoral population ratio is just 46%. In effect, this means that the actual voter participation is even lower than what the turnout figures suggest.
So far, in the ongoing Lok Sabha election, two constituencies of Kashmir have gone to the polls. Anantnag saw a 28% voter turnout, while Srinagar saw 26%. A 24-year-old man, Bashir Ahmad Bhat, pelted stones on voting day and was shot dead by the CRPF.
That morning on the train, a week before Srinagar went to polls, it took a reference to the stone pelting that had been taking place in the run-up to polls for the young man who cared little for politics to turn political. “People pelt stones only when zyaati gets out of hand,” he said, keeping his voice steady and gentle. "Our mothers and sisters are assaulted by army men. Not a single house has been spared. There are seven lakh soldiers stationed in the state. Koi na koi to galti karega. Not everyone can be a farishta."
While it was hard to find any official document of the government confirming the presence of seven lakh soldiers on the ground, the Election Commission report states that personnel of the armed forces and paramilitary forces make up 3.3% of the state's population, which would mean more than four lakh troops.
"Puraaana gairat aa jaata hai, zayada zyaati hoti hai phir sadak par utar jaate hai, humein azaadi chahiye na India na Pakistan humein apne haal pe chod do. When there is injustice, people’s sense of honour is awakened. They come out on the streets and say we want independence, we don’t want to be with either India or Pakistan, please leave us alone.” The young man's voice was still steady.
What did he want, I asked him. “Kashmir azad rahe albatta jo business hai India ke saath kare. That Kashmir remains independent while doing business with India. We could sign an ilhaq (agreement) with India that it would be our main trading partner.”
Whatever the view in Delhi, for people in Kashmir, political freedom and economic security are not mutually exclusive categories.
As the train approached Srinagar, we looked up to see the dense mass of bodies bunched up in the aisles, and I found myself speaking aloud: “Why doesn’t the government start more trains?” Only three train services are available between Banihal to Baramulla every day.
“People have been asking for more services. There have even been some protests,” the young man said, adding a parting shot laced with laughter, “Maybe the government wants to keep Kashmiris busy protesting.”
As he got off the train, he broke into a brisk run. So did the others. Even the women. The commuter in Mumbai would be out-paced by her Srinagar counterpart.
“Why is everyone running?” I asked a fellow passenger.
“To grab a seat on the buses, of which there aren’t too many,” came the reply.
Maybe the government actually wants to keep Kashmiris too busy to come out to protest.
Soon, I found I had to run too. The train had abruptly terminated at Srinagar. An announcement was being made. Passengers to Baramulla were being asked to switch to another train.
***
This time, I was the fourth person to squeeze into a seat for three. A middle-aged man dressed in bottle green pullover and denims was kind enough to make space for me.
He could be a journalist the way he asked questions. After I finished explaining that I was a reporter visiting Kashmir to cover elections, I took the chance to ask him: "Do you vote?"
“Ji nahi. Sachh bolenge. Jhooth nahi.”
Why not, I asked. “Kyunki koi fayada nahi?”
“Nafa nuksaan ki baat nahi hai. It is not about cost and benefit. Yahan ki government Dilli waale chalaate hai. The government here is run by Delhi. Our leaders are useless people. They don’t even speak up. Ab dekh lijeye Mamta Banerjee ko. Now look at Mamta Banerjee. Aurat hote hue bhi bahut kuch kiya hai. She speaks up even though she is a woman.”
The oddity of the Trinamool Congress leader cropping up in a conversation in Kashmir was explained by the fact that the man was a handicrafts trader who set up shop in Siliguri in the foothills of Bengal for five months every year.
“Yahan se achcha wahin lagta hai. Sach. Kasam se. Bekhauf hai. It is much better to live there. There is no fear. Here, when turmoil takes place, even an innocent man could get caught for no reason. Without sukun (peace), even home is no good."
Why did he choose West Bengal of all the states in India, I asked him.
“During peak of militancy, there was only one man…kya naam tha uska…Jyoti Basu, chief minister of Bengal, who said we welcome Kashmiris and no one would harm them. In other states, we were viewed with suspicion.”
Then, to display his knowledge of Bengali, he said, “Ami apna dar juni khoob bhalu hi karbo. The politicians in Bengal assured our people that we would stand you in good stead.”
It was his turn to ask a question: “What do you think of Kashmir and its people?”
He heard out my effusive praise and then asked another one: “To phir aap bahar mein yeh kyun nahi bolte? Then why don’t you speak up for us outside?"
He added, "A hundred thousand tourists come here and praise us at the time of leaving. Kashmiri log bahut simple hai, bahut achche hai, mizaz ke hai, milansaar hai. But once they are home, they forget us. Agar India hum logon ko bolta hai Kashmiri humare hai, chaliye do minute ke liye maan lein. Let’s believe for a moment that we are a part of India, then why don’t fellow Indians speak up when we are tortured?
“A man is shot dead here. They set up a bench. An enquiry takes place but nothing happens. There’s been no justice in most cases. Ab aap hi bataiye vote dena hum logon ke liye theek hai? Please tell us, do you think it would be right for us to cast votes?”
At this point, a young man, a student of agricultural science, seated next to us, who had been carefully following the conversation, decided to join in. "Some people vote because a government is needed to run the day-to-day administration in the state," he said. "A government would be formed anyway, even if we don’t vote. So we might as well vote and exercise some choice.” That could perhaps explain why there is greater participation of people in the village panchayat and state assembly level elections. People feel more invested in elections that would impact local governance. "People vote for improving their lives. It does not mean they support India, as the government goes proclaiming around the world."
For the student, it was the first time he had the choice to vote. He was still making up his mind whether he should. “If I vote, I would go for the Aam Aadmi Party,” he said. “Wo party janata ke bare mein soochti hai.” The leading candidate from his constituency, Srinagar, was Farooq Abdullah, the leader of the National Conference. “Most people don’t like him,” claimed the student. Then how does he keeping winning elections, I asked. “Because most people don’t vote.” At this, his classmate and friend, a young girl, the fourth person on our seat, who had been gazing out of the window all the while, seemingly indifferent to the conversation, turned around and burst out laughing. The train pulled into the station. And the conundrum remained unresolved.
Click here to read all the stories Supriya Sharma has filed about her 2,500-km rail journey from Guwahati to Jammu to listen to India's conversations about the elections – and life.
