Pigeons in Monsoon

In the last 50 yrs of our independence the tourism industry has lost more than 60% of its tourists to Kashmir, India, you know for the wars and terrorism and stuff like that. For me, a 46 year old station master in the small insignificant rail road town of "Kashipur" (Kashmir) was what I used to see in "Shammi Kapoor"(popular Indian actor of the 60s and 70s) movies as a child and as a teenager. So I see it as a heaven on earth place where people play on the snow and romance blossoms at sunset.

Then two years back my transfer had been to "Pahalgam", 96 kilometers from the capital city of Srinagar; just one more of those those dreamy small hilly railway stations. Beauty lay before my eyes, all that I had ever dreamed of after a movie night. Pahalgam was one of those isolated villages, where one by one winters passed away in the back of beyond, people in a cabin community environment living and living till they realize they have grown too old. For the people here were a long-lived yet friendly race, must be the fresh air and the crystal clear water they drink, I'd say.

As the months creep-ed away, my face became more radiant as my body recuperated in the freshness of early morning air of a hill station and I amalgamated into their community. Pahalgam was a humble shepherd's village with breathtaking views. Situated rather lower than "Gulmarg" the nighttime temperatures do not drop so low and it has the further advantage of the beautiful "Lidder" river running right through the town. People were either shepherds or fishermen who welcomed their new stationmaster into their "hookah"; a traditional tobacco smoke; chat forums one fine evening. Then one by one it happened, I began to remember their names when I saw their face.

There was "Farooq", "Sheikh", "Asif" and so on and so forth, their wives and their children. All the men used to gather for a smoke every evening after driving their flocks home. But one, one man used to drive his flock everyday in front of us till his house that dipped below the view of the road, and stay there till he repeated it the next day, without ever glancing at us; as the bent rays of the sun split into its spectral colors by the moist air, just behind that hilly peak.

Drawn by the curiosity that small insects feel towards bonfires, I began to inquire about this man, who looked to be in his late forties or may be early fifties. Apparently his name was "Omar Abdullah" and most people remember him to be that way till they remember. The older folk knew a little more of his early years. One monsoon evening when fewer men had assembled to chat, Farooq "chacha" (meaning uncle) narrated a kind of love-story that many naive novels are made up of. A simple story, in his late teen years Omar had fallen in love with a young girl and people, he recalls seeing the few furtive meetings of these two lovers. Omar had been a strong athletic boy in his early years, but for reasons as obvious as the rising of the sun here, the girl's father enraged at the very thought of a Hindu "banya" (merchant) girl being with a Muslim had quickly married off the girl to a boy of the proper caste in a neighboring village.

Omar reconciled to his fate after a few foolishly designed unsuccessful attempts to meet "Sonal", the name of our heroine. He remained in his house during the following year or so, which I feel to be the apathetic melancholia that sets in our mind following bereavement that makes us disinclined to drink till we’re too thirsty or may be remain silent when a psychiatrist asks you questions. Two or so years later Omar's father died leaving the young man to think of the cardinal truth that “When one must, one can”, taking up his shepherd’s job in the silent grassy plateaus he had grown up on. Saying precious little with his village folk, he boycotted all social gatherings, the villagers caring little for the rude man outcast. Though he married soon keeping his dying father's wishes, he forbid his wife from talking to others. No big boat sank and no flying fishes jumped out of the waves, even if they did people here were not aware of such events or the fact that  smoothness of life is sometimes perturbed by cataclysms. The couple had no children which the people took by default to be the woman's fault and cursed her sterility and felt pity for the unfortunate man. Last year his wife left him, and Omar was seen less and less in markets and places he had to visit to sustain his earthly life. As to what trespassed between Omar and his wife behind closed doors no one knew.

As the rains got heavier we had to disperse that day and leave this story unfinished. Before I could run to the nearest shade the rains drenched me, coming at an angle, blown by cold winds. My brain's curiosity not being dulled by indifference mixed anger for rudeness, or by the light temperature I developed next day, I felt strongly inclined to visit Omar's house and may be talk to him a little. That night I followed my heart. The house seemed to be poorly maintained even from a distance. I came closer, silently opened the bamboo pane gate. Then the moment a gust of cold wind bellowed I was overwhelmed with fear of what was I doing? Summing up my courage I went close to the door, I could not get myself to knock. Inside I could see a dim oil lamp glowing, the light as seen from under the doors. As I listened to any noises, I heard a continuous brooding murmuring noise. Fear filled my heart, then suddenly I realized how silly I was, the noises were just brooding pigeons, must have built their nest inside in monsoon. Maybe there were baby pigeons. I turned away to go. Not a star could be seen that night, dark clouds ominously rolling in the sky, not red as from re-reflected street lights in a city, just violet-black. Occasional lightning looked beautiful splitting apart the heart of the sky. I walked slowly thinking of my own pathetic life, but soon cheered by the smell of fore coming rain, I speed-ed up. I had better, the air moistened and I felt needle like rain on my face. I nearly ran home, not without getting drenched again by cold night rain.

Of course the next day was spent in trying every cold remedy my mother had taught me, ginger with lime, lemon and brandy and of course eventual recourse to an anti-histamine. It rained all day, heavily and every green leaf looked slightly greener. I got my assistant to fill in for my job that day. My feverish thoughts ran wild, dreaming and waking all mixed up, I thought more of Omar, his wife, built up my own movie in my mind, my own life getting mixed in the story. By next day 2 doses of Paracetamol 500 mg had subsided my fever, or maybe the mother's recipe, God take care of her soul.

Man cannot brood on for ever, time heals all wounds, I thought on my recovery. The next day was sunny; the sweet smell of rain-drenched air filled with me with a new zest for life, maybe everyday is the beginning of a new life. I did my job, a week passed by and I didn't see Omar again, he might be sick in this weather I thought. When this new mystery filled my days of loneliness, I finally convinced Farooq chacha and few others to go to Omar's house, that evening after our smoke. Of course it had rained almost every night intermittently, and depressions in the roads filled with clear water, that nobodies had soiled. The accidental missteps and splashy wet were our feet.

The dilapidated thatched roof threatening to crash on us, I tried my best to think of happy thoughts. knocked and no one answered. After four knocks and  five minute wait we forced our way in. Omar's body was on the floor, a foul smell came. The pigeons feeling perturbed flew madly from one corner to another. The rope he had used to hang from the roof had finally crashed and lay on dirty floor and nearby was a lamp whose wick had burnt off as the oil supply dwindled and sadly a small pigeon chick dead, having fallen from its nest on the floor, by fierce winds. Everybody fixated by the shock, remained silent, making the pigeon murmur ear piercing. Eventually I told others to go and start preparations for the needful.

As I walked past the Lidder river, water murmuring and the evanescent twilight slipping into darkness, when newborn stars light up the sky. I tried to think happy-thoughts rather forcibly. I remembered my beautiful fairy tale Kashmir, as seen in the movies. I thanked God being able to see this paradise on earth, and thought of sayings like "Life goes on", the pure virginity of nature, and not let my mind slip into a burial and thoughts that haunt me always, about death ending it all. I couldn't sleep much that night and the sunrise reminded me how stars at dawn were like lives drawing to a close. Few days later I requested for my transfer, and my wishes were fulfilled 2 months later. The Lord is thy shepherd, thou shalt not want. I wondered how many lives like Omar get lost in the pages of unwritten history. In the 2 months before I left, I persuaded myself to forget the past and try to get inspired by observing the diligence of nature. In the village, nothing more happened.

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