The Kites

The evening sky crowded with kites,

Soaring above, scaling the heights

In circles floating and gliding

Behind the feathery clouds hiding,

Diving to take charge or retreat

Or hovering on wings of thin sheet.

The sun appears to slip and fade

Leaving behind it, subtle shade

Of orange on an ornate blue

The sky slowly deepens its hue

Evading all colour but dark

Obtruding and leaving its mark.

Flying farther yet, reaching for height;

Black remains, kites against the night.

The Locked Door

Wanting to be let in at home,

Standing outside the door;

No matter but how hard I try

The door is fastened more!

….

I turn and twist and knock aloud,

Try to hear what’s going on,

But all I hear is muffled sound

All hushed and quietened down.

….

I knock again and see a light,

Illuminating all

That’s here with me outside in night,

But nothing in the hall.

….

Till someone hears with widened scope,

I knock at it for now;

The lighted window gives me hope

Of entry they’ll allow.

….

The bright window so promising

Of someone hearing soon

My plea, my call, my entreaty

Under the dim-lit moon.

….

And here I stand forever more;

The door remains ajar!

Not knowing what’s for me in store,

My thoughts now drift afar:

….

I think of travelling far and wide

Of reaching for the stars;

I hold my breath with each next stride

Afraid to let it mar!

….

The sand in hand I’ve kept for long,

The impression all gone;

Clenching it hard, I sing a song

And blow a loud wild horn.

….

I turn to go and let it be,

Just then I hear a click;

The door opens and welcomes me

Encaging my music.

Holding Hands through Time

My father’s memories of his childhood spent in Srinagar, transfer me into the eyes of a 5 year old, and the world seems magical, grander and larger than what it is to me at this age. Most often, I find him around his mother; and the pair with their colored eyes paint the fantasy a tint brighter, or may be more like a clear and delicate glass sparkling with smiles. His love and respect for both his mother as well as his mother land is crystal clear in the way he relishes the narration.

The stories at times are intermingled as the vapours in the clouds, each distinct as well as unified. And like rain it drenches us to grow and be nourished in a world as far from us as dreams; and so we get the glimpse of a dream of reality.

Not even reaching half the height of his mother, he clutched fast her firm hand with his tiny fingers. The sun shone brighter, and the breeze felt gentler with the nestling of his hand. He trotted along his affectionate mother absorbing the pleasantries surrounding him. Sahab jee is what everybody called them and sahab jee is what he felt, although oblivious to the meaning of the term. He remembers climbing many steps to a mountain top known as Takhte Suleiman, and he wonders how he had the strength to do so. The steps as he recalls must have been more than 100. It used to be very windy at the top and they could see the entire Srinagar from there. It is one of his fondest memories with his mother who was exceptionally articulate at story telling and who must have enhanced the experience by narrating the local myths and legends about the throne of Suleiman floating in the air, with the aid of jinnaat.

Amidst fairy tales and legends the Takhte Suleiman still stands firm in winds. The stories of the Jinnaat and the floating takht, of the Parian still hovering around aiding the illusions of a child living in fantasy, and Kashmir thus remains the Jannat nazeer, the land most sought, the land of memories, the land of parian and the land of a prince and a queen.

The little hand firmly gripped in the hand of the mother, she once took the little boy to Hazrat Bal, a place of reverence for the entire valley, for it housed the Moe-e- Mubarak of Prophet Muhammad (SAW). They were allowed to hold the bottle carrying the hair. They would kiss the bottle, touch their eyes and heart to show their affection and respect. The little boy remembers it as an act of utmost importance. There used to be an exhibition for public every year. He remembers enjoying a ride in the shikara on Dal Lake on his way back, and also that his mother was fond of these nafees and well decorated shikaaray.

“We used to spend our summers in Srinagar. And we used to live on a houseboat. Houseboats were like real homes with all the facilities but only smaller than a proper house. My mother used to take me everywhere with her. Sometimes we used the shikaaray and sometimes the horses. The owner of the horse would walk beside the horse holding its rein. There were many places to see in Srinagar. Tourists would flock the place during summers. It was a favourite place of the angrez specially.

Kashmiris are expert craftsmen, be it wood, stones jewelry or paper mache. They would make all these crafts throughout the winters and sell to the tourists during summer. Their favourite customers must be angrez as they could pay them well unlike the locals. I remember going to exhibitions with my mother. She was very fond of the stone jewellery and bought many. There used to be blue stones. Very well crafted. It was no ordinary jewellery but very sophisticated jewellery made all through the winters to be sold in summers. The blue stones were dug from the mountains and carved into intricate designs. All this was done during the winters to be made ready by summers specially for the tourists. I remember shops set at the exhibition, displaying various items like wood work; carved decorations is something that I do remember but not the furniture.”

The colour in the eyes of the mother and the son always outshone the colour of the cherished blue jewels. And although the jewels were left back, the sparkles can still be seen in the eyes when he remembers a song by Noor Jahan played in the background at the exhibition:

“آواز دے کہاں ہے، دنیا میری جوان ہے-“

The Mughals loved Kashmir, and Mughal Baghaat are one of the prominent features of Srinagar. My father remembers the Nishat Bagh near the Dal lake.

“Nishat Bagh was a Bagh full of fruit trees. All types of fruit. It was a huge garden and beautiful. And it had sher and cheetah there. Those were not alive but stuffed in their original hide as decoration. They looked so real that one would not imagine them to be fake. It was frightening.”

The memories of Kashmir are deeply engraved in the hearts of the Mughals. There is a mention of a garden at a spring(source of River Jhelum) in Tuzk-e-Jahangiri(Jahangirnama):

“The source of the Bihaṭ is a spring in Kashmir called the Vīr-nāg; in the language of India a snake is vīr-nāg. Clearly, there had been a large snake at that place. I went twice to the spring in my father’s lifetime; it is 20 kos from the city of Kashmir. It is an octagonal reservoir about 20 yards by 20. Near it are the remains of a place of worship for recluses; cells cut out of the rock and numerous caves. The water is exceedingly pure. Although I could not guess its depth, a grain of poppy-seed is visible until it touches the bottom. There were many fish to be seen in it. As I had heard that it was unfathomable, I ordered them to throw in a cord with a stone attached, and when this cord was measured in gaz it became evident that the depth was not more than once and a half the height of a man. After my accession I ordered them to build the sides of the spring round with stone, and they made a garden round it with a canal; and built halls and houses about it, and made a place such that travellers over the world can point out few like it.”

The light in the eyes of my father might have dimmed but the memories they hold are deeper and purer than the sparkling waters of Dal Lake and Tawi combined together. He thinks of the clear waters of the same spring mentioned by Jahangir, the Chashma Veri Naag, a point near Srinagar, and remembers being told by the parents that there used to be a huge and dangerous snake(Naag) in the vicinity that would bite whoever approached the spring; thus the spring was named Chashma Veri Naag (Spring of the antagonist snake). Chashma Veri Naag is the source of River Jhelum. The water gushes out with aggression comparable to the wrath of the Naag, but once it becomes Jehlum, snakes it way with fervour, nourishing the lands with its pure soul.

The relationship between the Naag and the Chashma can not be fully ascertained, as the Naag stays at the source but the water leaves for other lands, merging and evolving. And so did the pair, with their hands held firmly, also migrated from the source to flow and claim other lands, leaving their mark, scattering fragments of their being.

Flowing through the time, the little boy outgrew the age to have his hand held, but the protection through the hands continued to grow. For the firm grip that used to hold the little hands, later was always stretched and raised in prayers for him. And though she has moved further on, the bond has only strengthened and can be glimpsed in the reminiscing eyes of my father.