सैयार कहानी

मंदिर मे
मकानों मे
मिलता अक्सर दुकानों पे
सैयार प्रलय 

कभी मस्जिद की मीनारों पे

शंकर चीनी
बुद्ध नेपाली
अल्लाह 
नानक
पाकिस्तानी है

पहाड़ो मे

कश्मीर इक उपवन
उपवन कश्मीर

उपवन कश्मीर

चिनार ऊधमी   

जल खारा 
पंछी विध्वंसक
सूरज हरा
बर्फ काली
ये  रक्तरंजीत
सैयार कहानी
फानी है
-०- 

True Legend of Kaunsa Nag

Further up, ten miles northwest from merchant town of Shikaspora,
or ‘Trash Town’, nestled in the Himalayan glaciers is a lake of pure waters known
as Kaunsa Nag, or the ‘Witch Lake’. All through the year, most of the lake is
covered under a thick sheet of ice that moves with the wind. On the eastern
shore of the lake can be seen a Muslim Mosque and a Hindu Temple. The
construction is recent but the natives believe them to be ancient. The rugged old
look of the two structures is due to the rather half-witted engineering by
locals that relies heavily on abundant ice cut stones found strewn all around
the lake. They look like piles of stones hurriedly put together by children,
something like the beach castle that Little Elsie made last summer on the beach
of Northumberland. Only these are much bigger.
I must say there is something mystical about this lake and
its two ancient sentinels, standing next to each other, guarding the faithful
from cold indifferent beauty of nature.  Hasn’t
our lord said, “…for truly I say to you, if you have faith the size of a
mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it
will move; and nothing will be impossible to you.”
The place does cast a certain spell on you.  You can almost lose yourself here. The only
thing that keeps you grounded to reality is the constant fluttering sound of
the green banner on the Mosque and the Saffron banner on the temple. It found
them a bit loud. Little Elsie however found those flags quite amusing. She took
out the whitest of her handkerchief and holding it over her head went
fluttering around the two shrines. Towards noon the wind grew a bit stronger.
Our native helpers were mortally scared that he would be blown into the lake
and captured by the Jinn. He claims the place is infested by a Jinni named Wav.
Muslims of the valley believe Prophet Solomon commanded a powerful Jinni to
guard this place. Hindus believes a divine snake of Vishnu (or Shiva, natives are always confused about it) sleeps
under its waters. Native will swear on the truth of such fantastical tales.
Only last year, Professor Knowtall in Lahore published a collection of the
fantastical tales told by Kashmiris. At the lake I heard a story worthy of
Professor Knowtall’s collection. My narrators were the two holy men, one Muslim
and another Hindu, the lonesome inhabitants of the two shrines. These men stay
here on the lake even in peak of winter. They claim it is just their faith and
mutual hatred of each other that keeps their blood warm in the coldest of
winters. The two came to dwell here atop this mountain in rather dramatic
circumstances.
Many years ago, during the reign of Sultan Shamatudin, the
two sects went to war with each other over the religious rights to the lake. Both
had scriptural evidence to support their claim. One was rooting for Giant
Serpents and another for Windy Jinn, both protectors of Kashmir. The leaders on
both sides were very powerful and advanced in mystical prowess. Of them it was
said, ‘Even a stare can silence a brook. A tear can flood a town. A laugh can
make a lion pee.’ (My translation doesn’t do justice to the lines, but they sounds
much better in native tongue). With power of righteousness on their sides they
armed themselves with weapons that could shred hundreds in a matter of seconds.
Many thousands died. Three times Kashmir was denuded of human population, three
time they all were reborn, risen from dead after having their sins accounted.
Yet the solution was not found. After much bloodshed it was decided that the
matter be settled by a duel of faith. It was a simple affair. Each side was to
choose one man, the one most faithful among them. Then the two men were sent to
live up at the lake for the entire duration of winter. At the end of winter,
the man still alive could claim the lake for his people. Each side chose one
pious man to whom were handed some Kehwa leaves (Kashmiri mild tea leaves), a
handful of almonds and some sugar candies. Before sending their heroes off with
a pat on the back, the tribesmen came out to greet them and shouted out loud, ‘Bala’ey
Dafa
’ (a most emotional Kashmiri farewell greeting meaning ‘I wish I could come
with you but I love my life’. Natives have a knack for expressing their feeling
in very few words). On reaching the lake, the first thing the two men did was
to build their respective dwellings. These men built the first mosque and the
temple on the lake.  Chanting
Blissmilla’ and ‘Wham Bham Bhoolay’, the two holy warriors went into their
respective caves and waited for the winter to pass them by.
At the end of the winter, people waited with bated breath for
their hero to arrive. One of them was going to return alive. But to their much surprise, both holy men walked down
from the lake alive. Thus the Gods had spoken. The lake belonged to the
followers of both religions. There were much celebrations and festivities.  People showered Kehwa leaves, almonds and
sugar candies on the returning heroes. Thus was born the festival of
Daud-e-Dua’ for Muslims or ‘Chalo Bulawa’ for Hindus. But the joyous times
lasted only a year. During this year, certain unknown powerful people jealous
of the fame that the two holy men had attained started spreading scandalous rumours
(the natives are highly prone to rumours). In whispers (at first) it was said
the two men had become ‘humbistar’ (Shacked up) in the mountains. They asked,
‘How else could the men have kept themselves warm?’ Some said the deities of
the lake had swallowed them up but were vomited out for their bodies were fouled by sin. Some said the men hadn’t even been on the lake for the entire duration.
They were hiding in the houses of their ‘in-laws’ in a nearby village.  In the beginning, afraid of the two holy men,
people laughed at these claims. The holy men sure of their clout, ignored
the snide remarks. All these allegations were serious, but the last straw that
broke the proverbial camel’s back came when someone accused them of stealing village goats at night during their stay at lake to satiate their bellies. When the holy men had gone up the hill, only days later the goats
had suddenly started disappearing at night. At that time, the villagers
had blamed  ‘Rantus or a ‘Demoness’ for the theft. They had even caught an old
Rantus in the act of stealing and burnt her alive. But, in light of these new
revelations, they blamed the holy men for all that had gone wrong in the village.  The holy men claimed innocence on all
counts.  They rallied their supporters. The
people started calling them ‘Drokhlads’ or the ‘Chronic Vomitters’, the ones rejected even by Gods. (Even today their
followers are known as ‘Drokhlads’, however the two are separated along
religious lines owing to the position of goat in their respective theology).
At this point of the story, my two narrators broke into
tears for they were the Drokhlads of their generation. After their eyes and
nose ran dry, they continued:
As was the fair ancient law of the land, the men demanded
that they be proven guilty of these crimes. The matter went to the court of
Sultan Shahmatudin. The wise king asked for four witnesses to be presented.
Readily four goats were presented in the court. The king asked them, ‘Do you
bear witness to their crimes?’ Goats in reply just nodded their heads sideways.
Among the natives, a sideway nod can mean a ‘Yes’ and even a ‘No’. The king
took it as a yes nod and promptly delivered justice. The men were to be
banished back to the lake.
Drokhlads and their sympathizers protested. They claimed the
Goat had implied no. Abraham’s goat, God’s gentle creature that was ever ready
to sacrifice its life for faithful could never lie. Surly, it meant no. We
didn’t do nothing. The animal symbol of Prajapati Daksha would loose its proud
head before siding with falsehood. We didn’t do nothing. Surly, it meant no. The
Jinns and the Snakes left us alive, surely it meant no.  Our skins didn’t melt under mountain snow. We didn’t do
nothing Surely it meant no. The sun on the lake rose in the east. Surely it meant
no. The moon spilt in two. Surely it meant no.
[These lamentations went on for days it seems for they now
form a bulky work of lyrics known as ‘Drokh-tar-Tarana‘, a MSC of which is
easily procurable in markets of Srinagar]
After tearful farewell from even their enemies, whose hearts
had by now melted on hearing these lamentation, Drokhlad at the start of winter were
finally back at the lake and into their individual cave shrines. The villagers could be heard crying and chanting, ‘Ek sindh Drokh Bey sindh Gizah‘ (One man’s vomit, another man’s food). It is said at the end of winter when their
followers went to check on them, the caves were found empty with only two
empty wine cups inside each cave. The holy men had descended to heaven after
receiving the divine nectar. It is said the Day of Judgment and final Fair Beginnings
shall be near when the two return with proof of ‘Na’.
The followers assigned two men, a Hindu and a Muslim, to
keep watch at the spot and to wait for the two holy men. The watch has since been
maintained. Every year believers throng the place on the day of
Chalo-Bulawa-Daud-e-Dua (We got to go, faith calls). They drop Kehwa leaves, a handful of almonds and some
sugar candies into the lake, hoping the lake would boil one day transform into
a a giant teakettle that will serve the nectar of truth to all the dwellers of
the valley, and later perhaps to the whole world. [It is quite a scene I am told when the natives visit the place with their wives and children in tow carrying samavars to the lake on their head.]
Centuries later, when Kashmir was annexed by Emperor Akhbaar,
he had a grand mosque and a temple constructed at the lake. Great Akhbaar understood
the true meaning of the story. His court poet, Aull Fazuul had the meaning inscribed
on a black marble and placed at the spot:-
“This temple and this mosque were erected for the purpose of
binding together the hearts of the believers in Hindustan, and especially those
of His worshippers that live in the province of Kashmir,
By order of the Lord of the throne and the crown, the lamp
of creation, Shah Akhbaar,
In whom the seven minerals find uniformity, in whom the four
elements attain perfect mixture.
He who from insincere motives destroys this temple, should
first destroy the mosque;
he who from insincere motives destroys this mosque, should
first destroy the temple;
for if we follow the dictates of the heart, we must bear up
with all men, but if we look to the internal, we find everything ought to be destroyed
proper.
O God, Thou art just and judges an action by the motive;
Thou knowest whether a motive is sublime, and tellest the
king what motives people should have.”
 A few years later, Orangezeb had the two shrines sincerely cannoned simultaneously.
His motives weren’t religious, he just didn’t approve of the
design (and possibly out of environmental concerns) .
The mosque was again
built during the Afghan governorship and the temple came up during the Dogra
rule. The ticket counter I presume will follow soon. 
~ Extract from private diary of an anonymous European woman
who visited Kashmir in 1874 with her children.

How those old Kanz Mool photographs were actually shot

Because there are hundreds of these photographs with ‘native women with pestle and mortar, pounding rice’…every photographer worth his salt had to have this shot in his Kashmir inventory…

 

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A questing man with camera came,
And Kashmir maiden fled in shame,
Her heartbeat quickening in her haste,
Her twinkling bare feet keeping pace.
The, feeling safe from distant arms,
She, woman-like, did feel her charms
And, courage held in tight-gripped calm,
She slowly, fawnlike, came again,
And gave him face and form and name

~’Of Hills’ by Tom Ashley Lakeman, 1944.

kashmirsahasranāma

KaSir in Kashmiri
KasHmir in Persian
KASmir in Hindi
Kasmira in Sanskrit of Panini and Patanjali
Kashmiras of Mahabharata and Puranas
Kasmira or Kasmiraja.
from may be Saffron or root of kustha
In whimsical etymologies of early Persian Tarikhs – 
Kashap (Kasyapa) + mar (matha)

Or
Kasvira in Prakrit
Kasmir of Kalhana

Maybe Ki-pin of Chinese
Shie-mi of To Yeng and Sung Yun
Hiuen Tsiang’s Kia-shi-mi-lo
Ptolemy’s Kaspeiria
Maybe Kaspatyros of Herodotos
Kaspeiroi in Dionysiaca of Nonnos
Maybe Wilson’s Kasyapapura
This Cashmir 
of early Angrez and their Casyapapur
Their Cassimere, Chismeer, Ouexmir
Our KasHmir, KASmir, KaSir
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Letters to Dead Poets

To Kshemendra,

You were funny. How come no one tried to kill you for it?

To Kalhana,

You will be surprised to know how often Kashmiris were bought with money. And did you ever talk to common folks on the street? You should have read Marx first.

To Lal Ded,

Winters must have been tough for you. But then, you do sound like a warm person.

To Rupa Bhawani,

You know they say something similar happened to Kabir’s body. And a few others. What’s with the flower act?

To Arinimaal,

Sad Kashmiri wives with stupid husbands always made good poets. Much before you, there was one Vikatanitamba too (Bad Mandal in Kashmiri for you. Hideous Butt). But unlike you she wrote really naughty poems. You know they say you never existed. Just a figment of imagination. If it is a consolation, no one has even heard about your husband’s highbrow persian poetry.

To Habba Khatoon,

This is a personal question. Now, I read Chaks were Shias. I know you loved him and everyone loves you…but did anyone ever question your religious beliefs. And let me tell you where he was while you were wandering around singing songs about him. He was in Bihar holding the Mughal flag. It’s sad. Write a poem about that.

P.S. Did you know about Kshemendra’s wandering heroine Kankali? She was quite a heartbreaker.

To Ghani, 

You should have locked the doors. Even after death they stole from you. Even Ghalib took a line

To Parmanand, 

Have you seen tractors ploughing the fields? Try to write about that.

To Mahjoor,

I appreciate the sentiment but you do know what happens to sugar when you add it to milk. It dissolves and disappears. It seems they took it too literally. I am out of the great solvation equation.

To Abul Ahad Azad,

I know poets, especially Kashmiri poets always had a thing for seven veil dance with words, but you could have been a bit more clear about your views on religion. With all this polarization, it’s tough to fit you in. And not a lot of people now take your name. Only ‘Azad’ with an ‘i’. Mahjoor with his birds and the bees is more comforting.

To Nadim,

Lo! Another revolution. Stop singing.

To Master ji,

In the last days, from your window, did you see Tawi or Jhelum? What are your views about antidepressant pills?

To Mahav,

Did people give you wet ones on your dirty mouth?

-0-

Two Weeks in Absurdistan


Spent last two weeks in Absurdistan
attending an ailing old man who has
now definitely lost his memories
or maybe not
He wouldn’t admit
Grandfather hasn’t spoken for a year

In the ER, next to his bed
A dying old woman fell off a rusty, naked iron bed
broke her skull
all this while
her son was trying to find a place to keep the medicines

In the ward, next to my Grandfather’s bed
to the left was an old Sikh from Budgam

He had a failing body part
but yet lively he would wave his arms in air, time to time
Scream at his sons, still angry about scant quantity of chicken in his last meal at home

His daughter said I looked familiar
Thought I looked like Afzal

She is happy her family never left Kashmir
‘Why did you leave? Sometime they throw stones at us…but we stay put…Didn’t you read about conversions and the protests?’
Her brother says she is rich
‘Property worth 75 Lakh’
but she wouldn’t even gift him a Kashmiri shawl

Brother is in police. He think Kashmir will be over this time if ‘it’ starts all over again
Nothing of it will exist
He thinks I am familiar. A friend.

‘Let me tell you what is really happening…’

He whispers in my ears, what he wouldn’t say out loud in front of ladies.
‘Even Muslims will have to move. And I don’t even like them. Even ten year old girls not left…the Militants, the BSF, the Police, the Army…all of them. ‘
He makes a loud vulgar rapid hand movement as he speaks about not so virginal Kashmir.

I wish away his existence. Or my own. He disappears.

His sister isn’t happy they didn’t move.

‘If we couldn’t move out, at least we too should have tried for migration certificates. College admissions are tough…My daughter is in Convent. It still has some discipline. Biscoe. It is worst of the lot. Boys now carry knives to school. And have you seen the size of those boys…all muscles. My son is friends with some…they eat at our place all the time…sometime secretly even during Ramazan. My son never eats at their place. Strong traditions, you see. And no young people speak Kashmiri there…they are ashamed of their mother tongue. You don’t have a Kashmiri accent…you speak hindi quite clearly. How long have you been out? Where do you live? How much money do you make?’

I don’t tell her my tongue still sometimes rolls out Kakaz instead of Kagaz.

She fiddles with Fluid meter of Oxygen mask that covers the mouth of old Sikh.

‘Never enough Nurses here. And all of them lazy. Munchers. In Bemina, it is worst lot. All running after money.’

I notice that the Humidifier is empty. I fill it up.

In the ward, next to my Grandfather’s bed
to the right was an old Kashmiri Muslim living in Poonch
A sturdy looking old man, his legs had suddenly failed him.
My father kept saying, ‘In five days they pumped in injections worth 3 Lakh into him’

The old man was happy all his sons were with him
including his adopted son – a house help named Ramzaan.
All of them kept massaging his legs from time to time.

Ramzaan, himself an old man, said I bestowed much respect on his old man
after I helped him carry his master to the bed once.

They were in awe that my Grandfather’s daughter-in-law should be changing his dirty diapers.
‘Sawab. Sawab.’

Much later Ramzaan asked, ‘Are there no good hospitals in Srinagar too? Why is Pandit Ji admitted here in Jammu?’
I laughed at the puzzle. His brothers laughed too. We laughed out loud. Miraculously, this poor man was untouched by history. Nothing had happened in Kashmir. All this time he was massaging someone’s leg.

I laughed at the Amar, Akbar, Arminder set-up created by the hospital.

A young surgeon came to check up on my Grandfather. It’s a private call. A distant relative. Son of a man who was killed by militants in 1990. My mother remembers that the boy was around two at the time.

Two days later. Hospital has extra security set-up. Access to canteen is blocked.
Either some minister is visiting
or something bad has happened.

Victims from ‘Gool firing incident’ start filling the ER.
It started over some insult.
It can’t say much about it
except that the hospital in which they were admitted
it has no clean, functional toilets.
The drains are clogged. Taps always running. There are no soaps.
There are no electric bulbs.
And no separate toilets for men and women.
The private ‘NGO’ toilet outside the hospital
costs rupees five and closes at 10 in night.

Some indignations, you just get used to.

Brought Grandfather home. It is Friday. The loud speakers of local mosque are angry. Jammu is peaceful. ER ward had one good facility besides good but overworked doctors, the ACs were on 24/7. However, at Home there never is enough voltage for an AC to work. The power scenario has been like that for almost fifteen years. Even if I can now afford to install an AC in each room, I can’t actually afford it.

I hear Jammu is in grip of a mass hysteria. In outer reaches of the city there are stories about a gang of magical thieves that steal children. They enter the house in the form of an animal, a dog, a cat, or a goat, and then transform to human state and pick sleeping kids and leave. Kuttey Billi ka Khel, they say. At night locals are keeping vigil. There are stories that people are beating up stray animals screaming, ‘Ban InsaanBan Insaan, Turn human,Turn human!’ The local paper carries appeals from police that there is no such gang stealing any children. Our old house help, Makhni, Buttery, who lives outside the city, rolls her head and insists such things are indeed happening. Children are missing.

I try to teach my grandmother to operate a medical pump on my Grandfather’s lungs. I tell her, ‘It is simple.’

She laughs and sings me a simple song about marriage:

Syim’pul Khandar
Woth Kar Panas
Ye Chuuy Cha’nas 
Ganimath

Simple Marriage
Go for it
There is still chance
Be glad

I read two books. One by a white woman in 1989 about the early European visitors to Kashmir and about the crafts of Kashmir. Other by a white man in 1953 about his travels in all the areas of the divided Kingdom of Kashmir through roads and through air, and that too at a time when officially the common inhabitant of the subcontinent could never even imagine the possibility of it.

I prepared to leave again. My flight had a stop-over at Srinagar. My maiden flight. I was foolishly delighted. I was going to now capture Kashmir from skies. Flying over formidable Pir Panjal, I would perhaps capture its beauty.

At the airport when asked if I had any R6 battery on me, I told them my camera doesn’t work on R6. They asked what I planned to do with my camera, I truthfully replied, ‘I plan to photograph.’

‘Have you gone mad? This is Kashmir. Take the battery out and leave them in the bag.’

It was too late by the time I realised my mistake. I may have captured Delhi, Mumbai, Goa, Chennai, Everest, Ganga, Yamuna, Narmada from the sky, in flight. But this is Kashmir. I should have lied. I should have replied, ‘No. Nothing. Jenaab. Maibaap. Sarkar.’

I tried to reason. I screamed. I even told them, just imagine I never said that.

‘We have no imagination. Do not stall.’

I told them I made a mistake.

Ab toh ho gayi na. You did it. And you admit it too. Move on. This is Kashmir.’

I cursed that white man from 1953 who managed to move around with impunity even after divisions. I cursed Bernier, Forster, Moorcroft, Jacquemont and Vigne. I cursed all their houses. And I cursed this sad land and it’s mad people. I unimagined that my ancestors lived in these lands for thousands of years. I calculated the years that the ancestors of the man who stopped me must have lived in Kashmir. A hundred, a two hundred, a three hundred. Where do they stand against my thousands?

I howled and howled. It didn’t matter.

I realised I too melt into incoherence
when confronted by absurdity.

-0-

Geographical Model of Jammu&Kashmir kept at Hari Singh Palace in Jammu

Comic Story of Kashmir continues

With expert inputs from yours truly…first part of the last concluding part of Sumit Kumar’s ‘Kashmir Ki Kahani’ is out. Read and become an instant expert on Masala-e-Kashmir. Check it out at newslaundry.com

Expert comments like: “But…but… Ornub, back then times-n-climes were different… we forget Maqbool Butt was handed over to the police by a Kashmiri Mob who didn’t know or care who he was…I am only talking about the social narratives that have been undermined by the mainstream media….” are welcome. As are comments like: “Indian Trith”

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Previously: Comic Story of Kashmir

Comic: Story of Kashmir

Cross-posted at my other blog.

If you know a Kashmiri who you would, just out of common courtesy, ask a question about Kashmir, a simple ‘Aur Aaj Kal Waha Kay Halaat Kaisay Hai?’ but then end-up praying to your God may guy please drop dead because he wouldn’t just shut up going on and on about Kashmir until you have learn’t by heart all the clauses and sub-clauses in article 370 and the exact chronology of  signing of the Instrument of Accession, before you even get a chance to offer your sympathies or apologies, leave alone a solution, that there, that crazy Kashmiri guy with possible terrorist looks, would have been me. Back when I was in college, the ignorance of Indians about Kashmir infuriated me and like any other good Kashmir, I took upon the charge of educating Indians about the real Kashmir. I became the resident Kashmir expert of the college, of Chai ki Dukan, of Cinema Hall, of train, of bus.  You could ask m anything you want but the problem was that a question asked at around 11 P.M. would often end-up in a session lasting till 5 A.M., with at least last 2 hours of the session often ending-up with me talking to myself. After a few such sessions with Indians from all corners of the country, I soon learnt that there are basically two type of Indian listeners to ‘Kashmir Ki Kahani’. First Type, Sympathizers: those who mean good, who do want to know it all, but because of reasons beyond their control, can’t stay awake beyond 11:30 P.M.. Note to self: the story has to be short, precise, not too much details but juicy all the time. Second Type, Antagonizers: they just want in on dirty details. These otherwise normal human beings on usage of some specific keywords like ‘Muslims’, ‘Islam’, ‘Pakistan’, ‘Hindus’ transform into raging chimpanzees from Space Odyssey, even maybe a bit more advanced because at times they actually beg to be deliberately fed these magic words. I once was made to tell the story in a  train. Ten minutes into the story the guys cut me off, ‘Yaar, Maza Nahi Aa raha‘. Why? Because not enough people were dying in the story (and I had only told them about exploits of Lalitaditya yet!). I made another note to self: Some Indian have seen and known much more violence than Kashmiris, your stories won’t move even a hair inside their ear, not unless your Kashmir story involves a neutron bomb accidently going off in Kangri of a Kashmiri terrorist who was going to bring it to Delhi, and the blast taking out entire Kashmir and half of Pakistan, problem solved. But how many nuclear explosions can one have. But, I did not lose hope in humanity I continued to bore people with stories of Kashmir. And just so that Kashmiris don’t feel left out I even started a blog to bore Kashmiris with stories of Kashmir. This blog. Do you realize the efforts it takes to bore Kashmiris with Kashmir story. Ask me. It became such an effort that I forgot all about educating Indians.

But that was until a couple of months back when Sumit Kumar e-mailed  me to inform that it was an old post of mine that led him to Andrew Whitehead’s ‘A Mission in Kashmir’ which went on to be one of the sources for his comic take on events around 1947 in Kashmir, the freakishly funny Kashmir Ki Kahani Part – 1. Part 1 involved story about the genesis of the problem. Part 2 was going to be about rise of Sheikh Abdullah. He asked me if I could help him a bit with that. A chance to mess with…eer… re-educate the two type of Indians about Kashmir in an entirely fun new way. I was in. What followed was a series of emails on the subject.

The result: wickedly funny (and educative at the same time) Sumit Kumar’s Kashmir Ki Kahani – Part 2 here. Do check it out!

If you pick subliminal Kashmiri messages in it, you know who to blame. Enjoy!

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P.S.

R.K Laxman’s caricature of Sheikh Abdullah that went on to be the base model for Sheikh in this comic.

Mad sons of Freud on Er. Suyya

#fail
The kind of hacks Freud spawned. Yet, Freud’s impact on people and their way of interpreting stories, written and oral, can’t be ignored. 
Here is ‘A Birth of the Hero Myth from Kashmir’ by Captian M. R.C. Macwatters (based at Lucknow) in International Journal of Psycho-Analysis. Volume II, Sept-Dec 1921. [via archive.org]:

The Valley of Kashmir is a wide alluvial plain which to this day is liable to disastrous floods because at its outlet the main river escapes through a narrow gorge which obstructs the escape of any considerable accumulation of water. In fact the whole valley is almost as dependent as Holland on its drainage and other engineering works.
The first serious attempt to protect it by dams and drainage operations was made by Suyya in the ninth century and an account of his exploits is given by a historian named Kalhana who wrote three centuries later. Although much of his story appears to be historical, the account of Suyya’s origin is a typical birth-myth, which utilizes a part of his engineering exploits for its symbolic expression. Kalhana recounts how such protective works as already existed had been neglected by a series of kings until the reign of Avantivamam and how famine had come upon the land in consequence. He then proceeds as follows: 
Chapter V, Paragraph 72. Then through the merits of Avantivamam there descended to earth the Lord of Food himself, the illustrious Suyya to give fresh life to the people. 
73. The origin of the wise man was not known, and his deeds which deeds which made the world wonder proved that though [he appeared] in the fourth period (Yuga) he was not bom from a [woman’s] womb
74. Once a Candala woman, Suyya by name, found when sweeping up a dust heap on the road a fresh earthen vessel fitted with a cover. 
75. Raising the cover she saw lying in it a baby, which had eyes like two lotus leaves and was sucking his fingers. 
76. ‘Some unfortunate woman must have exposed this lovely boy‘ Thus she thought in her mind, and then from tenderness her breasts gave milk. 
77. Without defiling the child with her touch she arranged for his keep in the house of a Sudra-nurse and brought him up. 
78. Taking the name of Suyya he grew into an intelligent [youth] and having learned his letters became a teacher of small boys in the house of some householder. 
79. As he endeared himself to the virttious by observances in regard to fasts, bathing and the like, and showed a brilliant intellect, men of sense kept around him in assemblies. 
80. When these were complaining in their conversation of the flood calamity he said ‘I have got the knowledge [for preventing it] but what can I do without means?’ 
81. When the King heard through spies that he was saying these words persistently, as if he were deranged In his mind, he was surprised. 
82. The King had him brought up and questioned him about this saying. He calmly replied also in the royal presence ‘I have got the knowledge.’ 
83. Thereupon the Lord of the Earth, though his courtiers declared him (Suyya) crazy, was anxious to test that knowledge and placed his own treasures at his disposal. 
84. He took many pots full of money (dinnara) from the treasury and embarking on a boat proceeded in haste to Madavarajya. 
85. After dropping there a pot full of money at a village called Nandaka which was submerged in the flood he hurriedly turned back. 
86. Though the councillors said ‘that Suyya is surely only a madman’ the King when he heard this account became interested in watching the end of these proceedings. 
87. On reaching in Kramajya the locality called Yaksadara he threw with both hands money (dinnara) into the water. 
88. 89. There where the rocks which had rolled down from the mountains lining both river banks had compressed the Vitasta and made its waters turn backwards the famine stricken villagers then searched for the money, dragged out the rocks from the river, and thus cleared the [bed of the] Vitasta. 
90. After he had in this manner artfully drained off that water for two or three days, he had the Vitasta dammed up in one place by workmen. 
91. The whole river which Nila produced was blocked up by Suyya for seven days by the construction of a stone dam — a wonderful work. 
92. After having the river bed cleared at the bottom and stone walls constructed to protect it against rocks which might roll down he removed the dam. 
93. Then the stream flowing to the ocean set out on its course in haste as if eagerly longing for the sea after its detention. 
94. When the water left it the land was covered with mud and with wriggling fishes and thus resembled the [night] sky which when free from clouds displays black darkness and the stars. 
96. The river with its numerous great channels branching off from the original channel appeared like a black female serpent which has numerous hoods resting on one body. 
Following the example of Otto Rank in ‘The Myth of the Birth of the Hero‘ those points which are common to many such myths are printed in italics. Their analysis has been fully worked out by him and need not be dealt with here, but several features of the present story are worthy of mention. 
We may infer that the hero’s real father is the King. It is true that the phrase which attributes his origin to the merits of the King is a common expression in the flattery of oriental courtiers who attribute all fortunate events to the auspiciousness of their ruler, but we may interpret it as an implication of parenthood also, especially as the scene in which the King receives and welcomes him is very reminiscent of the scenes of reconciliation in other hero-myths. The hostility between father and son is not obvious but is perhaps hinted at in the neglect, not of the King but of his predecessors, and in the activity of his spies. The hostility of the courtiers must surely stand for the hostility between the hero and his brothers. Several points in the story show reduplication, for example he is found in a pot and embarks in a boat upon the water, these symbolising the same idea, and the first foster mother, like Pharoah’s daughter, hands him over to a second. 
We see the expression of a number of childhood fantasies in the tale. The hero boasts insistently ‘I have the knowledge’ and that even in the presence of the King (father). Just so would the child like to be able to boast of sex-knowledge even to his father but cannot, and even when he has the knowledge he lacks ‘the means’. Whereas in some fantasies it is the father who denies knowledge and power to the son, here the father encourages the one and provides the other (wish-fulfillment). Sir Aurel Stein’s notes on the word ‘dinnara’ here used for money are interesting. A dinnara is a unit of value so small that it was more likely a cowrie than a metal coin (and lends itself therefore to identification with seed) while the ideas of money and grain are largely interchangeable since payments were more often made in grain than in coin even up to recent times in Kashmir. 
The ‘infantile theory’ of generation from faeces comes to expression through the dust heap where he is found and through the mud which covered the land and swarmed with wriggling fishes. 
We find also an expression of the common fantasy of being one’s own father. The Hero engages in certain interesting operations at the outlet of the valley where he scatters money (or seed), as a result of which there is an accumulation of the waters for seven days, or if we allow ourselves to add the two or three days mentioned in verse 90, a total period of 9 or 10 days corresponding to the 9 months or 10 moons of pregnancy, and he achieves this result by the erection of a dam whose solidity the’ story emphasises, ‘a wonderful work’ indeed! In the opening sentence we are told that he ‘came to give life’ which he does by fertilising Kashmir, his mother-land. 


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