Abandoned Valley by Juhi Meshram
wearedarshatha
12:00
Standing in
my lobby that morning, I saw a changed picture of my valley. A layer of smoke
had added a new flavour. The best I could do was to wait, but my mind was flickering
as our village could have been captured too. Just then, I remembered the
previous morning, and realised how different was it.
A day
before, after fajr ki namaz I took a walk around the valley; from the bank
of the river that comes from east, to the beautiful mountains covered with
crops and herbs, to the dense wood forests, to the valley covered with green
lands, to my home. Mornings are my favourite, as they take me to the beauty of
the nature and into the lap of my family. Breakfast is the only meal when all
of us are together, on one table.
The table
occupying 10, was full of dishes; kulche with cholay which is
favourite to all of us, tea, fresh fruits and firni. My wife cooks the
best red rice firni. It’s her own recipe that we all cherish. Red rice
has high market value but as we crop it ourselves, it’s as common as daily meal
for us.
The best
warm breakfast and a light conversation with my family was my source of energy
for the whole day. Being a 65 year old, I never felt really old when I see my
two sons their wives & 3 grandchildren and of course, my lovely life. After
the meal, I headed for our rice fields in the mountain with my elder son. Near
the evening, we were back in the valley.
Before going
home we visited the weekly market near sarhad. I sat there chatting with
some mates till late. The market is the most colourful treat of the valley.
With shops selling fresh vegetable and herbs completely organic, with mates
sitting over hookah near tea stall, with soldiers visiting us on duty, with
young girls husking rice in one corner, with stalls offering hot kulche
and much more; it appeared to be the most happening, yet organised fair. After dinner, I slept early that night as
usual.
When I
recall my days, my life and my family; I see a satisfying picture before my
eyes. But when I see my work, my valley and my people; I feel I could have done
much better with my life. At a young age, I was interested in my state’s
tourism and had even worked as a tourist volunteer. I had great love for the
beauty of my valley and wished the other countries to experience and praise
this beauty too.
So many
times that I tried to actualise my idea of welcoming foreign tourists, at least
from east in the valley with my fellows; I got failed every time. With time, I accepted
the situation for our region, being a state of war, was never ready to take people
from the other side. And this is the only thing that I knew I would regret when
I die.
I stood
there in my lobby for long, hearing those undesirable sounds of guns and blast
and thinking about my whole life as the fear of death followed. I heard my wife
calling me from behind. She asked me to get inside as we could be targeted.
Although they dint come near our headquarters but armed people could never be
trusted during a war.
I walked
inside fast as the heavy arms gun were heard. I followed my wife as she walked
back to our living room from the lobby crossing the drawing room, to reach the
basement.
This house was built by my abbu when I
was fifteen. A perfect three-storied home, crafted with the finest wood of our
forest. There lived the six of us- abbu, ammi, chaccha, chacchi, me and Riaz,
chaccha’s son. I built the third storey later when my grandchildren were
born. The basement was built when the wars became frequent near our valley. It
was built my abbu when I was in my late twenties; it helped us survive
during war. Nearly all the pakka houses constructed these thick walled
basements during that time.
We were all
sitting in the basement for hours as the firing and blast continued near the sarhad.
The sounds became louder. We tried to assume what made them come this near to
us, crossing several kilometres of sarhad. Thirty years had passed since
they came this far last time. It had been thirty years that our family had loosened
a bond.
My wife was
continuously praying for goodwill, bahus were pampering my grandsons as
they were frightened by the sounds, my sons were talking about the possibilities
that could occur next when I went to flashbacks of what had happened thirty years
past.
Before these
thirty years, we had a different relation with the east. Yes! Sarhad
stood there even then, but people from the other side were allowed to visit
this side, with security. They crossed to our side mainly to visit peer
dargah, to visit markets and to meet there closed ones who were once their
neighbours; not the neighbouring country but neighbouring house. Even with the
line that was dividing us, we shared reunion often this way. These visits from
east had inspired my idea of foreign tourism coming to our side.
This was the
time chaccha had taken a leap to the
east when he got a job in a pharmaceutical industry. Abbu never opposed
his decision to move to the other side as chaccha
was passionate about his career and this often visits from east gave us chances
to reunite. But one war changed our fate for once and for all. One war and we
were forbidden to see our family. One war took away Abbu’s peace as he
died in regrets of not meeting his brother and the same war killed my hope to
be brothers, with the other side.
10 a.m.
Morning. Our life resumed as the sounds stopped and they returned to their
side. Later, on the news, we heard that they were soldiers from east who were
taking the call on militants of our side. The next few days went in fear of
wars, hatred, blames on both ends.
But for me,
it was a hope. I was hoping for a positive change after this war. From that day
till date, my prayers recited the same:
Bless us
with love. May this war end the hatred between the two pieces of land, may this
war break the silence between both sides, and may they rejoice the bond they
shared once when they were following your path. I apologise for being selfish
my Lord, as I am hoping this war would erase the line of control and let me
meet my childhood friend, my brother on the other side: Riaz.
