#38 Making peace with violence

On 22 April, gunmen killed 26 tourists on a meadow in Indian Kashmir's Pahalgam, in front of their families.

Welcome to the third edition of All Things Indian, where I unpack the complexities of contemporary India. Each post is a short piece of fiction based on real people I have seen, heard of and met during my decades of reporting. Each story will give you a short insight into the state of affairs in India today.

I sit behind the wheel everyday for 12 hours, swivelling through narrow streets, up the hills, through the highways. For at least 5 months in a year. I hear the passengers on the backseat, their laughter or fights. Sometimes contempt and sometimes kindness.

I don’t mind it. I actually enjoy that. If I work for 5 months in a year, I can stay at home rest of the time, to see the clouds play hide and seek with the mountains; to enjoy the chill that rains bring along with them; to bury my palms in my phiran; to hold noon chai in my hands every morning and stare at the kids who play in the streets.

That is the Kashmiri way of life. Slow and peaceful.

Tourists come with a tight schedule. They want to beat the forces of nature - drive in the rain or walk out in the snow. I tell them that the Dal Lake has been what it has been for years, sustaining generations of people inside its belly. Many demand for a road that cuts through the Dal to reach Rainawari within minutes.

This year, they got it.

Now there is a “pathway” that takes cars and bikes deep inside the massive lake directly to the houseboats which sell shawls, silver jewellery and paper machie products.

I park my car and walk towards the hotel from where I am to pick up my clients for the day, while my red Innova is soaking the heat on the road.

The daughter comes out first. “We are going to the airport,” she declares.

They have five more days of booking with me, I have plans of taking them to Sonmarg and Gulmarg and Doodhpatri and Pahalgam.

“Don’t ever say Pahalgam!” the madam says.

I stare at her.

“Have you not heard what happened?”

I continue starting at her.

“You Kashmiris never want peace?”

I am not sure if that is a question or a statement. Am I to answer that? Of course, ma’am, no one wants it more than we do. Or should I say, no ma’am, you are mistaken. We want peace but others don’t. Others like the militants or Pakistani army or Kashmiri politicians or Indian government. I want to say they all fight in our name but no one has ever fought for us.

But, how would this privileged woman ever understand that? Also, as taxi drivers we censor what we say to our clients.

Yes ma’am, the Boulevard is dirty [thanks to the tourists who don’t have any civic sense].

Yes ma’am, this is the best vegetarian food in town [why would I eat vegetarian food in a Vaishanv Bhojanalay]

Yes ma’am, it is better to stand in a queue for the Gondola in the morning [so I will save on parking fees outside Gulmarg]

Customer satisfaction is everything.

She goes on to mutter something in a language I do not understand. Marathi or Kannada, perhaps? But, I can read faces. She is irritated and this seems like a different type of irritation to what I saw in the past two days when her husband did not open the windows when she asked him to or when her daughter did not pose for a photo when she asked.

This was a different kind of irritation. What was it?

“You have not heard of the attacks in Pahalagam?” she looks at me. For the first time.

It strikes me that I had forgotten Kashmir was cursed. I was so happy to have bookings for the entire summer that I forgot how fragile this peace was. I made the mistake of booking a new car. While the car has not arrived yet, the bank has begun to sweep up EMIs from my account.

I drop them off the airport, return their advance payment for the five days and head home to my daughter, to whom I had promised a new necklace.

I will now have to tell her that she needs to learn to live with uncertainty. Promises made are not always promises kept.