Mulla Tahir Gani Kashmirisat in the open window of his house, which overlooked the Mar waterway. The exquisitely latticed wooden windows were wide open and a pair of pigeons sat perched on their top, basking in the morning sun. It was a usualy bright autumn morning. Outside, Mar was beginning to come to life. Boats carrying merchandize of all sorts were arriving at the opposite ghat. The buyers would soon flock to the ghat and the normal hustle and bustle would commence. Within an hour’s time, the boat bazaar would be at its best. These boats brought fruit, cloth, earthenware, copper ware, sliver and even gold jewellery and ornaments. Gani sat there in his little window watching the ghat. It somehow pleased him—this traffic on the waterway with boats of all shapes and sizes. The bigger ones carrying rice, timber, fodder, or the charcoal from far off villages and the smaller ones, the doonga, with the boatman’s entire family on it, and the shikaras—the multi-coloured, delicate boats moving about like butterflies on the crystal clear water of Mar.
Gani had an important appointment for lunch. He had been invited by one of his admirers, none other than the Mughal Governor of Kashmir himself. Should he or should he not go. Gani considered. He led the life of a recluse and shunned the wealthy and mighty. He lived in his own world of poetry and was a happy, contented man. He had not married, had neither longings nor belongings and it did not matter who came to see him. For him, nothing mattered. He spent most of his time in seclusion, detesting any intrusion into his privacy. He had not many visitors to his house. Only some obstinate pupils who would not let go of him. But right now, he pondered over one thing only; should he go for that lunch? He looked out; the bazaar had picked up. The men with the merchandize on boats were shouting at the top of their voices, advertising their ware, calling out to the buyers; the buyers too had started pouring in from all the adjoining mohallas. Traffic on Mar was at its peak. Gani had no ear for the noise. He wanted to get up and close the window, but looking at the pigeons, he decided against leaving his post as his movement would surely disturb them. He waited.
He looked out again. Beautifully decorated shikaras followed by a dozen doongas. He heard the notes of music flowing to his window from one of the doongas. Yes, he could make out—a party was on inside it. The ghat now reverbated with a milling crowd—men, women and children; the hawkers, the women selling vegetables and fish, the boats selling fodder for the cows, tobacco for the hookah and fabrics for clothes. In this hustle and bustle, two boys appeared from a bylane. One of them carried a grenade, which he aimed at the passing security vehicle but the vehicle sped away. The grenade landed on the road and there was a big explosion. People ran helter skelter, hawkers’ calls gave way to cries and shrieks and alarmed voices. Soon, everything at that spot seemed dead. Only a few injured men and women lay on the ground. The crowd had vanished! The pigeons perched on Gani’s window had flown away. He stood up, stretched out his hands and shut his window.
****
They had long and heated discussions on every subject. Kashyap had always been curious, inquisitive and restless, whereas his companion, Arjun, was serene, composed and calm. Kashyap did not take anything at its face value, not even the exalted word of their guru. He always questioned. The ultimate aim being: to perceive the reality—Om. But he always failed to comprehend the ultimate reality. Shakti? Shanti? Vibhinta? Power? Peace? Diversity? What was it really like?
Arjun, on the other hand, accepted every word of his guru as the ultimate revelation. For him Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva were realities. Roles were assigned to each. Brahma was the ultimate fountainhead of existence, Vishnu sustained it, and Shiva caused all the upheavals.
Kashyap was never satisfied with this sort of dispensation. He thought of other possibilities.Why three? Why not one? He always objected to set theories, challenging them. His guru was always patient, ignoring his outbursts of suspicion and doubt. One day, after a really heated debate in the pathshala, Arjun remained behind even after all the pupils had taken leave of their master. He reverentially fell at the guru’s feet and said, “Master! forgive him for he does not know what he says.”
The guru lifted him up by his shoulders and with a luminous smile said, “Arjun, I am proud of Kashyap. He is the last hope of the Gurukul.”
And now the last hope of the Gurukul was leaving the Gurukul in search of an unknown world. A world hitherto concealed from the human eye. A chaste, pure and virgin land. It had all begun with a discourse by the guru. He had talked of accounts he had studied in ancient texts that there lay a country to the north of the plains, surrounded on all sides by lofty snow clad mountains and all lush green, dense forests, shimmering waters, vales and dales. The Guru had depicted it as Swarg (heaven) on earth. Beauty personified.
The Lord having assembled everything beautiful, and then concealing it from the human eye. Kashyap at first thought that it was a myth. How could such a country remain hidden from the greedy human eye? But the more he questioned the guru, the more he was convinced that it was true. Such a land did exist! Beauty! That was it! Kashyap began thinking of a new concept. Couldn’t the ultimate reality be beauty with all other attributes flowing from it? Sundarta, yes, Sundarta Bhagwan hai. Satyam Shivam Sundaram! The more he thought, the more convincing the concept appeared and more appealing too. Shanti, the peace, flows from beauty. Shakti, the power, attends on beauty with folded hands and Vibhinta, the diversity, is but a shade of beauty. Arjun and the trinity are misconceptions. Yes. Satyam Shivam Sundaram. As this new thought took hold of Kashyap, a new resolve began to grow inside him. He would go to Sundar Desh and see the lord in all His glory. That would be his moksha—to become a part, even if a miniscule one, of Sundarta, a shimmer, a wave of sweet breeze, a drop of dew, a petal of a flower or a particle of fragrant clay.
His friends, especially Arjun, tried to dissuade him. His Guru warned him of the impossibility of his mission, the existence of Jaladbhava, the demon king, who with millions of demons guarded the country from intruders. The long unending battle between Shiva and Jaladbhava and the stalemate that continued, but Kashyap listened to none when he listened to himself. He set out on his journey.
An excerpt from Ayaz Rasool Nazki’s book SATISAR, THE VALLEY OF DEMONS published by Vitasta Publishing and the book is available on www.vitastapublishing.com
