The Reassurance- Part 2 August 2007, Jayanagar, Bangalore On that Sunday afternoon in 2007, Omair, his brother Ozair and their mother were watching TV in our rented accommodation at the upscale Jayanagar in Bangalore. The heavy lunch had permeated deep and we were getting ready for afternoon siesta, when unfamiliar faces barged in and started ransacking our belongings. Our pleas asking for their identities fell on deaf ears as they continued with their searching. Only when I saw the Bangalore Police constable standing near the vehicle outside the flat, I knew the word was out that bunch of Kashmiris are living together and our friends had come to be sure of our wellbeing. They asked for our credentials, tried best to make serious faces and asked all the ‘relevant’ questions. Fortunately for us, two of us worked with media. Our demeanour coupled with possession of all important ‘identity cards’ with PRESS emblazoned on them convinced them about our ‘impeccable credentials’. The presence of an elderly female in the home also sedated the ‘trying really hard to look stern’ policeman. They left convinced that these Kashmiris were not a danger to what would later become ‘collective conscience’ of India. For those of us, who have lived in Kashmir through the 90s, we honestly, were least impressed by this raid. We concluded it to be a puny effort. Back home, raid like this starts with a slap, ends with a broken bone and some spicy abuses served in between. If you get lucky, you will get bullet served either hot and cold. A little exaggeration comes naturally to people from mountains. That evening, another of our friends Aamir, joined as we made fun of way the policeman conducted themselves during those hours. Our laughter didn’t go too well with Omair’s mother who was disturbed and worried about our safety. Aunty knew we too were shaken and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t camouflage our anxiety. Omair’s mom had reasons to be worried. All that week, I don’t know why, I had read to them umpteen stories of young Kashmiri students, professionals and business men, some tortured, some killed and some summarily disappeared by ambitious officers to get out of turn promotions and ‘gallantry’ medals. Some of these stories, were part of the chapters of ‘enforced disappearances,’ ‘custodial killings’ and ‘Tortures’ that we at Jammu Kashmir Coalition of Civil Society (JKCCS) had complied in 2004. The side note for that chapter, I wrote more than a decade read. “I want to meet in person the cops who kill innocent boys for money and promotions and ask them. Do the wails of the mothers whose sons they murder for few pennies disturb them or do the cries of children they orphan let them sleep? I know for certain that I will be knocking the wrong doors for the glint of money and headiness of power is too strong to allow any voice to permeate”. That is too subjective, my senior at JKCCS, Parvez Sahab had concluded. Marked it with red and had it deleted. Aasiya, then still alive, had unsuccessfully objected. Khurram correctly termed it as a rant. “Our report is based on facts and we don’t need to get too emotional,” Khurram tried to pacify. Omair’s mom was possibly leaving three potential gallantry medals for cops who were in hurry to climb up the ladder. For rest of evening and till late into the night, we cracked jokes to make aunty feel better. Everyone went to sleep. No one slept. We expected to the door to open anytime. Back home, raids were rarely a solo affair. And the parting words of policemen, asking us to be ‘careful’, weren’t comforting. Careful was pregnant with many a subtle and not so subtle warnings. In the morning, Omair’s mom cheered us. Trying hard to forget what had transpired on that Sunday afternoon. Omair left for his office in MG road, Ozair to New India Express and I to the Cyber Media Online Limited (CIOL) office packed in 3rd floor of the Shree Complex on the Saint John Road in busy Commercial Street. ……………… The dingy CIOL office was located amidst the maze of stinking drains and open sewers. When the beautiful public relations professionals from Text 100 and 2020 Media would request a meeting in CIOL office, I would rattle all the beautiful landmarks only to find the desirous ones, had lost their way. No sooner, I would point the obnoxious drain, they would in no time locate the office and a ruptured ego. “Your office should have been in a better place,” Padmini had remarked. Padmini, the sultry Public Professional from 2020, had said in a tone that tried hard not to reek of sarcasm. Mamta, her friend had tried suit only to find the dagger had slipped few notches deeper into the bleeding ego. Calling CIOL office dingy is probably little polite. Pigeon holes were bigger than the working desks. If two persons would stand together, there would be commotion. The washroom could not accommodate the plus 70 kilogram category and more often than not the taps ran dry. It was here where I met ND for the first time at 3 P.M on 11th July 2006. I already had bagged an appointment letter from Huawei Technologies a month later was to join their swanky office on the third floor of Leela Palace. I had visited CIOL only to answer the last interview call. And the claustrophobic CIOL office had killed any interest, I had of joining them. Impressed by IT and telecom reports, I had written in Kashmir, ND has directed me to Latha Chandradeep, the executive editor at CIOL. She along with ND would go on to become huge influence in my life. “I won’t offer you what Huawei is offering. But trust me, you will have the best team, you will learn a lot and you will be writing on the cutting edge technology,” Latha had remarked in a tenor that left me with no reason to doubt. Latha was a typical no nonsense Malyalee who lived, loved and breathed online media. Cloud computing, Web2.0, Semantic web, SEO, intelligent CMS were her favourite buzz words. But I admired and loved her most for her ‘care a damn’ attitude towards religion. “You can’t end the nonsense played out in the name of religion” “One can only hope we can never ever get caught in the cross fire,” Latha had remarked to me in one of many discussions we had on the futile exercise on deciding whose God was better. But you know Idhries, I support Burqa. You are seriously kidding Latha, had remarked. “I do. I swear. Muslim women from Kashmir, Egypt, Iran are extremely beautiful. It is better they remain in Burqa otherwise our men will never look at us,” If she hadn’t have winked, I would have taken that as the gospel truth. When she invited her colleagues to her home, I was overwhelmed with emotion for the respect and love she gave me. She shared with me the story of her struggles to construct her home with her husband, Chandradeep, who Latha in presence of everyone addressed as Mr. handsome. And handsome he surely was. Latha had a beautifully done home. But nothing was more beautiful that the stairs that led to her bedroom. Every step of her that ladder told a story. Every step of that ladder had Chandradeep’s picture. “This is when he was three,” her laughter hiding the embarrassment of sharing his husband’s picture in nappies. “This is when he went to college and this is immediately after marriage,” her face swelled with pride. For the next year and half at CIOL office, I didn’t find any reason to look back at the offer, Latha had made, But on that Monday morning, I was not sure. That morning, while coming to office, I didn’t whiz past commuters on my new black pulsar. My mind kept playing all the scenarios, mostly the worst ones. I was suddenly feeling alone. I suddenly felt isolated. Back home, after the raids, we found solace in the strong support system of relatives and community to fall back on and dissolve our fears. Here in this alien city, I felt all abandoned. I felt alone. I harboured thoughts of leaving Bangalore for good.... Part 3 and concluding part tomorrow...
Posted on: Mon, 20 Oct 2014 04:19:15 +0000
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