It is five years since that dreadful Eid day when I, along with my one-and-half year old daughter, survived a terrible attack in Srinagar. The distressing memories of that day still linger on.
The 2010 autumn Eid in Kashmir was quite different from any other Eid we have ever celebrated. There were hardly any festivities. People's mood was somber. Socializing was quite modest. For the first time in my living memory, there were no children's toys being sold in the markets. There were no children donning fancy dresses, and going to parks. For the first time ever in our living memory, no celebratory fire crackers were being burst. Indian paramilitary soldiers - armed with AK 47 assault rifles and stone protection gear - dotted almost every nook and corner. Kashmir had been engulfed in profound grief. The soil on the graves of 72 young boys and girls killed by armed forces during peaceful protest demonstrations was still fresh. It was a day when no one was in a mood of making merry.
Kashmir's capital - Srinagar - with its 1.5 million people was akin to a prison that morning. The city's inmates had spent more than a month under curfew. That morning the air smelt of a mood of defiance. Something was on the brink.
Notwithstanding that mood, that Eid was very special to me personally. I had joined my family back after a month-long work assignment in China. It was the first Eid when my baby - Hiba - had just begun calling me 'Baba'. It was her first Eid to hold my hand, and gesture to me to take her out. It was a father's blissful moment.
We left to visit a few relatives. As we drove through Srinagar, the city looked like a powder keg - ready to implode with some long-simmering sentiments. Thousands of people from the countryside had descended on the city - as if to assert their sense of being after weeks of haplessness. Feelings of anger and defiance were palatable. Unmindful of all that, Hiba sat beside me, safely positioned in her car seat, mumbling about the birds, the street dogs and everything she was seeing around.
Old Srinagar looked particularly unsettled. Window panes of most of the houses has been broken by angry paramilitary soldiers during protest demonstrations. Although paramilitary soldiers were still around, they didn't look offensive that day. They were keeping a watch at a distance, expecting no defiance on that day. People's faces were hard to read. They were devoid of smiles.
After a couple of visits-in-a-hurry, we began driving back home. I decided to take the relatively safer Airport Road to home. The road from the Jehangir Crossing towards Hyderpora, nevertheless, looked uneasy. It was littered with stones and brick pieces, most probably thrown by protesters on soldiers. One could spot fewer cars and pedestrians moving. As we reached near the government flats at Aloochi Bagh, the cars moving ahead of us suddenly started to slow down. There was suddenly a scramble for panicky u-turns. Something was going terribly wrong.
As if out of the blue, dozens of paramilitary soldiers, wielding guns and menacing bamboo sticks pounded on the cars on the site. As cars were caught in a gridlock, they began to smash the window panes of every car in front of us. Our car was still at a certain distance but we had no escape. The gridlocked cars had blocked all possibilities of escape. Exiting the cars was more risky. In terrible panic I grabbed Hiba out of the seat belt, wrapped her in both my arms and just gave up to the
inevitable.
Watching the soldiers smashing the cars and then poking their assault rifles and canes into the flesh of the civilian men and women looked menacing. They dragged some men out of the cars and beat them mercilessly. My heart was pounding hard. More than myself I was worried for Hiba. Sensing my panic, she had now started crying. In that mayhem, some cars behind me - trying to turn back - collided with each other. In desperation I tried to maneuver too, but it was all futile.
Within seconds the soldiers reached our car. I ducked, covering Hiba with my body. And there came that terrible sound of our car's wind shield being smashed. They smashed the rear shield too. Some broken glass fell on my back but I didn't look up. I dreaded the sharp tips of the assault rifles being poked into our bodies. Hiba was crying, and was inconsolable. She clung to me in absolute horror.
Luckily, we were not hit, but women’s wailing all around was audible. I raised my head slowly to see what was going around. The soldiers had by then moved to the cars behind us.
And then suddenly in that chaos some cars in front of us, already hit, started to move. Some people were trying to help the injured. Some were leaving their cars and climbing the walls of a Sericulture Department building to run for safety. There was a clear opening for our car to move ahead. Trying to calm down Hiba with my one hand, I used the other one to move ahead, sensing an opportunity to slip out of the place, but I soon realised that moving ahead was a catastrophic mistake. My assumption that once past that group of soldiers, the road ahead to Rambagh might be safe was completely wrong. Much to my horror, I found some hundred-odd angry-looking paramilitary soldiers running towards our car from another direction and signaling me to stop. We were the only two civilians on that road at that moment. I knew if I stopped they will kill me, at least. Their rage was inexpressible.
The soldiers kept on signaling me to stop. But I was so terrified that I did not. They kept raising their sticks in the air to hit us but I kept on evading, driving in an insane rush of desperate ecstasy.
Some soldiers, I know, felt I was defying their orders to stop. And soon I could see some guns being aimed at our car. My sense of judgment had been completely overtaken by fear. Hiba was still in my lap, and I was driving with only one hand. Chills were waving down my spine. Perhaps, they did not open fire after noticing a child with me. From that point up to Rambagh Bridge our car was hit only twice. And miraculously we were not hurt. Hiba was still crying.
I stopped near the Barzulla flyover, where a group of civilians had gathered. I was in a state of shock. Trying to console Hiba, I burst into tears. Her eyes were horror-stricken. The civilians there rushed towards us to check if we were safe. They took us out of the car, and gave us water. Some boys raised slogans of freedom and ‘revenge’. Hiba was still hugging me tight. Someone took us to a nearby house to take rest. Hiba was offered chocolates and biscuits. After about half an hour, I drove towards home. It was another three kilometres, but the road ahead was safe.
We reached home. Our family was devastated. For many nights I couldn't sleep. The horror we had gone through kept flashing back to my mind. My thoughts were with the parents of those 72 boys and girls who were killed by Indian paramilitary soldiers since June 11 that year in Kashmir. I was trying to imagine myself in their shoes. How terrible it is for a parent to lose a child like that?
Hiba was too young then to be told what all had happened. She was too young, perhaps, to even remember those moments. But I can't say if the images of that horror will ever completely fade from her memory. Like millions of other unfortunate Kashmiri children, she has been born in a darkness of violence and pain with still no end in sight. Her Baba still has flashbacks of that dreadful day - the day when our lives were changed for good.
Hiba is older today, and is still young to be told what all happened that day. But one day she will know that story. The agonising memory of that autumn day will not fade away!
Arjimand Hussain Talib
31st October 2015
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