Kashyap drove his brand new car himself. He never liked the idea of having a chauffeur. Driving alone in Kashmir’s countryside was a spiritual experience and he was almost in a mood of meditation, sitting quietly behind the driving wheel. Travel around in the charming surroundings of Kashmir he often did, and this evening he was returning after three days of hassles at his sprawling apple orchard near the apple city, affectionately nicknamed the chota London of Kashmir by the locals.
He had to see off the last consignment of fragrant sweet apples bound for the markets in the vast and sweltering plains of India. He also attended to the last rites—yes, he called them last rites as he believed that with autumn, every tree in his orchard entered into a state of suspended animation, to be draped gracefully in its white snow raiment for its annual burial a little later, and then reincarnated again the next spring.
Doing some pruning here, burning some dried leaves and dead twigs there, setting right a patch of fencing here,a bit of earth work there and, finally, spraying all the trees with a pesticide to prevent deadly scab which ate into his profits. Kashyap was happy with this year’s returns; a good harvest, he thought.
He accelerated his apple red Maruti-1000 to full speed. He wanted to reach home before darkness fell, take a hot bath and then hit the bed to sleep off the day’s labour. Finally, he took the turn off the main road and entered his estate, situated on the periphery of Srinagar city. The long driveway cut his estate into two and the tall poplar trees stood like guards in full attention as his car sped towards the mansion situated at the other end. There he was. At the first honk, his wife appeared in the porch and, as usual, she was at her charming best, ready to receive him. One of his servants ran behind the car and, even before it came to a halt, opened the door to help him out. He entered the porch, put his arm around his wife and both went inside to the warm comforts of their luxurious life.
He heard the ringing of a bell. It was the ringing of a telephone. Suspended in that luminal state between sleep and wakefulness, he ignored it for a while, and drifted back into oblivion. But it was there again, persistent and nagging. He could no longer ignore it. Someone wanted to reach him. He sat up in his bed, turned on his bedside light, reached for the telephone, and called out in a sonorous voice, “Hello.” For quite some time, there was no response and then, just as he was about to hang up, there came a deep voice, speaking in measured tones, pronouncing each syllable clearly.
“1 am Jaladbhava…I am Jaladbhava…I am Jaladbhava…Kashyap cannot be spared…Kashyap cannot be spared,” and then the line was disconnected.
Kashyap did not understand a word. “Hello…Hello…” He continued to speak into the mouthpiece.
He wife, sleeping beside him, had got up by now. “Oh, come on. Must be some madcap not able to sleep and disturbing others. Darling, it is 2 o’clock; come sleep,” she said, yawning.
They had hardly stretched their bodies when the phone rang again. Kashyap again went through the motions and listened to the taped message from the other end. Again, he stretched himself and sat up. It continued like this till finally he disconnected the phone and both of them snuggled close to each other and entered the valley of bliss.
Five days later, an innocent looking letter sent by post lay on Kashyap’s table. By then, he had totally forgotten about the mysterious phone call he had received in the middle of the night four days earlier. The letter read:
Dear Kashyap
Our Tanzeem has learnt from highly dependable sources that you are trying to create hurdles in the ongoing movement for freedom. We have earlier also warned you but it appears you are bent upon mischief and determined to continue with your activities. It is therefore ordered that you be punished with death.
Yours Sincerely
Jaladbhava
Commander- In-Chief
The same day Kashyap and his family crossed the Pirpanchal range.
***
The announcement over the public address system at Jammu Railway Station about the late running of Jehlum Express sent a wave of indignation among the scores of passengers who were waiting for the train. Sitting on the bench at the platform, both heard the announcement and, for the first time, the elder seemed to take notice of his very robust and extremely handsome companion who was dressed in jeans and denim jacket, and was clutching a black briefcase with his hands. The young man seemed to be the sales representative of some company and appeared to be gazing at a point far beyond his immediate neighbourhood, unattached, unconcerned. Turning, the elder one addressed him, “Where are you going?”
He too seemed to notice his companion for the first
time; with a start, he turned his gaze and replied briefly, “Delhi.”
The elder wanted to strike a conversation, so he continued. “The train is delayed.”
“Yes and you too go to Delhi?” was the response.
“No, young man, I am going beyond Delhi,” said the elder and stretched out his hand, “I am Maqsood Shah, the carpet dealer.”
The young man shook the hand held out to him and replied, “I am Budshah.”
The elder was dumbstuck. “Budshah”? When he was a child, he had heard about “Budshah” and…and that was all. The young man seemed to read his thoughts and continued with a royal grace,“Yes I am Budshah Sultan Zain-ul-Abidin, the Monarch of Kashmir.”
The elder was totally swept off his feet. How sad, he thought! What a fine looking young man, but nuts. The young man understood, “You do not believe me. Listen, I had come to visit the migrant camps at Geeta Bhawan and Muthi and now I go to Delhi to see for myself the plight of my people.”
The elder was now sure that the man was crazy but he had to pass time, so he decided to play on. With a lot of reverence, he submitted, “Well, my lord! Will you please tell me—in what condition did you find your people when you visited the camps?”
Budshah thought for a moment and declared in a voice choked with emotion, “I am in search of my people but alas! I have not so far found even one person from my nation, neither here nor beyond those mountains.” Having said this, he got up and, walking briskly, disappeared into the crowd of passengers on Jammu Railway platform No1.
to be continued
Ayaz Rasool Nazki is a Multilingual poet, scholar, translator, researcher & columnist.
