Guest post by Pratush Koul, one of the younger reader who is sharing his bits and pieces. This one for “things that crossed over” series.
Grandfather’s Matriculation certificate from Panjab University, Lahore.
At the time the results were announced, partition had taken place and the students in India were later given these certificate from Solan. The result had been announced in 1947 but due to the migration and teachers moving across the border… the issuance of certificates was delayed.
Just prior to the violence of 1947, my Grandfather Dwarka Nath Koul had a job offer that would have taken him to Muzzafarabad. Somehow he didn’t take the offer, which later turned out to be a blessing. His mother’s brother, Mama Ji, Jiya Lal Pandita was a renowned priest in Sharda village and died in the violence of that year.
This was not the only 1947 tragedy in the family. My father tells me:
In 1947, when the Kaabali raid was going on his Nanaji, Niranjan Nath Raina (called taetha) and family were living in Pattan near Baramulla and when the Kabaalis reached their village, the whole of the area was reduced to ashes. Nanaji’s father was hiding somewhere in drygrass and he was burnt alive. Nanaji then shifted to Srinagar. My dad’s Nanaji had a lot of land back then but due to the “land to tiller” law, they lost most of the land in 50s.
As per my elementary urdu (taught by grandfather) – the name on cover is “aman Umeed ki rah”.
My grandfather once found this inside his trunk in Jammu and told me that he got it from some Christian missionaries back in Srinagar, back when they used to give these away for free in Buses and Matadors. Around late 1970s-80s.
My father was born in Amira Kadal. We lived there till 70s. Then, brick by brick, he built a small new house in Habba Kadal. He lived in that house for only seven years.
The violence of late 80s seems “normal” to them, Kashmir had lately seen lot of such violence. But, the killing of Tikka Lal Taploo brought the violence too close to home. Then there were other signs. My mother was working in Social welfare department at the time and was posted in Baramulla. It was in Baramulla, she was one day advised by a Muslim office clerk to leave early as there was going to be trouble in the town. She travelled from Baramulla to Srinagar in an “azaadi procession” bus. She hid her ears rings and took off her bindi. Identifiers of her religion and boarded the bus screaming, “Azaadi”. Soon after these event, mother and my grandparents shifted to Jammu. My father later joined them, leaving Kashmir on a Chetak scooter.
The house he built was burnt down somewhere in 90s.
I visited the house in Habba Kadal in 2014 with my father. I was 15 years old at the time and traveling to the place where my house once stood. The house was sold under distress.
I have among my possessions a very special thing which is responsible for keeping the “Kashmir” alive in me…it is the most valuable thing which is dearest to my heart and cannot be compared with any other thing.
I didn’t have the chance to see personally my Kashmir house as it was reduced to rubble like many other pandit houses… My dad found these keys inside an old box while we were painting our house in Jammu… I could see the attachment of Kashmir in his eyes when they held these keys… I asked my parents about it, they then sat me down and told me about each key and which door and lock they unlocked. They also became quite sad to realize that these keys couldn’t serve their function anymore. It was then given to me.
-0-
[Update December 2018: This piece is now part of anthology “Once we had everything – Literature in Exile (2018). Ed. Arvind Gigoo, Siddhartha Gigoo, Adarsh Ajit. ]
Somewhere around 1989, I dislocated my left shoulder after falling from a broken chair while dancing. In 1990, while leaving Kashmir, among the important things taken along was this X-ray. Things that have to be borne. I think my shoulder is still a little off balance-0-
Bimla Raina with her daughter June, 1964 Qarfalli Mohalla, Srinagar. Came across it in an old family album at my Matamal My Nani’s elder brother, D.N. Raina was Bimla Raina’s father-in-law. Mother tells me she married when she was in 9th standard and then soon discontinued education. Moved to Jammu much before 1990. Known to be a fun loving and cheerful person. And a great singer.
I fondled the child Divine
in my lap
and was lit up within
by slow degrees;
the little juggler I caressed
gave me the slip,
but I crossed the bar
through the shortest route
~ Bimla Raina, vakh from ‘Veth Maa Chhe Shongith‘ (Is Vitasta Asleep, 2003). Translation by A.N. Dhar (Country of the Soul, 2009).
Last of the tribe continuing to write in the format of Kashmiri poetry made famous by Lal Ded in 14th century.
While clearing his bag of old papers to be thrown away, my father found this old envelope. Before I could stop him, he tore it into two. It carried our old Srinagar address. I kept it
Last month my father packed his bags from Delhi NCR and moved back to Jammu. Fourteen years ago, I wasn’t there when he moved in, and I wasn’t there when he moved out. While moving in, none of my stuff had to be moved in but while moving out, he had to pack seven cartons of books collected over my seven year stay in the city.
Once the news of unpacking was passed on, my mind was caught in a strange mathematics. My grandfather spent a major portion of his life at that Srinagar address, about 65 years. At no other place did he live for a longer duration. So did my father, about 35 years. And weirdly enough, so did I, about 8 years. I haven’t stayed at a single place for more that 8 years. Right now, Chattabal is still the place were I have spent a major portion of my life.
-0-
My Address
Today I effaced my house number
the name of the street at the outset.
I wiped away the directions of every road.
And still if you must search me out
just knock at the door
in each street of each city of each country
it’s a curse, a benediction both
and wherever you find a free soul
– that’s my home!
Amrita Pritam, translated from Punjabi by the poet.
From – ‘India: An Anthology of Contemporary Writings’ (1983), Ed. by David Ray and Amritjit Singh.
Guest post by Sakshi Kaul Dhar about visiting her ancestral home and pieces she retrieved.
The house was constructed by my Great Grandfather Tara Chand Thass and was completed in June of year 1924. We called it “Thass Mansion”.
Tara Chand Dhar was married to Posh Kuj who belonged to Kathlishwar area of Srinagar . Together they had nine children – six sons and three daughters – among them my grandfather, Kashi Nath Thass was the eldest.
Tara Chand Thass ‘Dhar’ and Posh Kuj
I am Kashmiri, born and brought up in Delhi, but even then haven’t been able to cut my umbilical cord with a place my father and grandfather were born.
I visited this house for the first time in 2012. Locating a house without a House Number can be hell of a difficult task in Srinagar now. And whose house should you say when they ask you the name of the owner of the House. A proud and naive me, in my insanity and emotional state/euphoria declared, ‘ It’s my House …. I am the Makan Malik.’
Nearly all families had moved out of the house before the breakout of militancy as the house was proving to be small for expanding families of six sons.
One of my Uncle’s still lives in some of the rooms in the house. A couple of rooms are rented.
The furniture and the other fixtures were taken out during the period when no one was in the house at the peak of militancy. There is nothing much left in the house except for papers, photographs, old letters etc which were of no economic value for any one who ransacked the place.
It’s nearly a three floor house. After first floor, all you find is papers lying everywhere and of course bats and the smell of dead rats. It took me almost three hours to sift through the dust and newspapers looking for things that meant something.
There were note books of my cousins, engineering project reports of my cousin who was in REC, Srinagar in the late eighties. Letters of my uncles and aunts filled with love, complaints, their joys and sorrows. Bills. The report cards of my cousin, which he surely did not want me to bring back.
Things I found scattered around and brought back:
Letters from year 1929 about my Grandfather Pt. Kashi Nath’s training at Government School of Engineering, Rasul, Panjab [now in Pakistan] as an Overseer [Avarseer, as we say in Kashmir].
Pt. Kashi Nath Dhar Thass [seated first from right] as part of Football team.
Government School of Engineering, Rasul. 1930
The English Guy in the middle is C.E. Blaker, Principal of the School
My Grandfather Kashi Nath Thass was married to Kamlawati Kaul, daughter of Master Shanker Pandit, the famous Head Master of Biscoe School.
C. E Tyndale Biscoe wrote about Shaker Pandit, “I must express my thanks to my Headmaster Shanker Pandit BA who has allowed me to draw upon his knowledge of ancient history , and of various rites and ceremonies , both of Hindus and Muslims , with respect to birth, death, marriage etc. What my friend Shanker does not know concerning his country is not worth knowing. He remained Head master for 40 years in the school. A very successful teacher in the classroom, but as a leader in all social services for the welfare of his country , he was superb. ”
I found this picture of Shanker Pandit lying on the floor as if it was waiting for me to pick it up.
Picture was taken on November 14, 1946. Biscoe School, Srinagar.
Found on 17th October, 2012
-0-
My father was born in “Thass Mansion”. I lost him very early in my life. This House represent’s his birth to me. Hence the house seems to me like a harbinger of my birth, which was to follow. This house or rather home just reminds me that although he may not be here with me , the home where he was born (even though is miles away from Delhi) is overlooking me .
I may not be able to frequently walk on the roads that they walked or see the places they saw, but I know some where there exists a place…my father’s birth place: Sathoo, Barbarshah, Srinagar , KMR.
Although the house is now old and crumbling , we still have not sold it. Like all Kashmiris, may be some where we still hope and nurture the dream of returning back to the valley some day. We have lost many near and dear ones in the family. We all are now scattered all over the Globe. Unfortunately, we could not hold on to lives but the home is what we have physically held on .
Sometimes Kashmir seems as though slipping from my hands… The fear that I may not be able to go back again….The fear that I may not be able to see it again. Sometimes I think may be ours is the last generation that holds on to Kashmir in our heads as Home…. The place we belong to.
I don’t know what will happen of Kashmir (The Physical Land) amidst political uncertainty and religious fanaticism…but I don’t want to lose the stories and emotions of my people – The Kashmiri Pandits. I don’t want their lives and stories to be buried under the debris like their homes are.
Found while my father was doing his post-retirement file purge – the ritual in which retiree gets rid of all the useless papers accumulated over years of work, bits that at one time must have held some meaning. Among the papers, I found this old pocket phonebook from year 1990. He was going to throw this away. It’s the diary in which he maintained the expenses of moving out of Kashmir.
Truck: 800, the truck in which material possession of three families were hurriedly loaded.
Auto (Driver: 20), for the morning drive from house to the bus stand.
Lunch: 50, had at the bus’s stopover after crossing Kashmir.
Mother: 100, left with his mother who was going to stay in Kashmir.
Satish: 100, for uncle who years later died in an road accident while making his ‘back to Kashmir’ trip.
Muni: 500, for my mother. Father was going to go back for his parents.
In total, the expense was just a little over a month’s salary of my father. And his bank balance stood just has about four times of that.
On the next page is the birth dates of me and my sister.
I don’t think of my father as a literature person but somehow, along with other things that crossed over, a torn away end-part of a book also reached Jammu. I have no clue how the packing decision was made at the time and how this piece of a book was picked. But I am glad it was part of the samaan. Almost a decade after the migration, after my parents managed to build a new house and the samaan was unpacked, I took this piece of a book for myself and put it safe with my school curriculum books. It was in a way the first book in my library. First in the many to come, I promised myself. The ink blots were not originally there. These are remains of an ink-pot accident. Mercifully, the book were still remained legible. I read and re-read the tragic stories it told, stories set in a far away cold land with a river oddly named Don and a land sometimes even more oddly called steppe, stories about old men with bent but strong bones, kids who were perhaps born sad, young men with no legs, women who scratched the chest of their dying men, men who sang folk songs about war, men who went to war and horses that could only be salvaged with death but finds life.
I read these stories often, too often I guess. For a long time this was all I had. Often, I wondered who wrote them. The pages offered no clue. that was originally a collection of English translations of Russian short stories
Now I know that the part that I had was originally an old English translation of ‘Tales from the Don’ by Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov.
