It takes lot of efforts to have a normal burial in curfewed Kashmir. Mohammad Raafi finds out after making unsuccessful nocturnal sojourns while seeking a shroud for a still born
On August 26, 2016, I had retired early to bed because of extreme pain in my left ear, tooth and eyes. I have sinusitis. I might have slept for barely five minutes when my cell-phone rang. It was my neighbour and childhood friend.
“My wife suffered premature labour pain. I have rushed her to the hospital. Can you please inform my parents,” he said without waiting for my response. “Tell them she is admitted at Shiekh-ul Aalam hospital Kani Kadal Srinagar. My father’s phone is not working,” he added quickly.
I got up quickly. Before I could have rushed out of my house he called again: “Tell my father to reach hospital immediately as doctors want to go for emergency surgery.”
By 9 PM, his father and I were out on the street, trying to find out the ‘safe’ route to reach the said hospital. The first one we tried was though small, dark, and deserted lanes of Hazratbal-Rainawari-Lalchowk. But we were turned back by the government forces deployed at almost every intersection. Then we took Mughal Mohalla-Puj Mohalla route through the interiors of Naidyar. This worked.
The hospital looked more like a warzone with angry faces and helpless eyes following every new visitor with suspicion.
I met my friend outside the operation theatre. He was sobbing. “The baby had died,” he cried and hugged me.
One of the doctors took me aside and asked me to arrange a shroud and make funeral arrangements for the deceased child. He told me to take a written note along so that I am allowed to pass through the curfewed streets. It was a brief note requesting the authorities to let me go and buy a shroud for the deceased child and return.
It was already 10 pm. Within minutes we were back on the deserted road looking for a shroud.
At this hour, and given the situation, my friend’s employee, who was accompanying us suggested we should try market outside Lal Ded hospital. “Take Shaheed Gunj road,” he said.
But once we reached near Old Secretariat gate, government forces deployed there hurled abuses at us and ordered us to turn back. Immediately I got down from the vehicle and with my hands raised in the air, I shouted back, “I have to buy a shroud for a dead baby.”
It hardly moved them as one of the men-in-uniform ordered, “wapas ja sale, warna goli marenge (Go back or I will shoot).”
Left with no option, I rushed back to my vehicle and drove off back towards the hospital. Then we decided to take the Batamaloo route to reach Lal Ded hospital. But once we reached near Fourway Chowk in Karan Nagar, policemen deployed there stopped us and asked why we are out at this hour. When we described our purpose, the policeman immediately allowed us to move ahead. However, when we were about to reach the main road near Fire Services Headquarter, government forces, who had their faces covered, began shouting at us so violently that we began shivering. We all began praying silently thinking this is the end now. Before I could turn around, my friend’s father, who was sobbing because of his grandson’s death, stepped out of the vehicle and explained the men in uniform why and where we are going. Instead of listening to his pleas, a policeman came forward and tried to hit him with his AK 47 rifle.
He cried out loud, “Mae haez chu kafan anun (I have to buy a shroud).”
The policeman replied, “Az chu curfew, su gov pagah dafnawun (Today is curfew. Bury him tomorrow).”
His indifference made me numb, so I quickly turned around once again. It was already 10:30 pm.
In the meantime, I called my brother-in-law, who resides in Kak Sarai, and asked him if I can get a shroud in downtown.
“Are you mad? Don’t even think of coming to downtown,” he almost yelled on the phone. “I just returned from Naid Kadal, and it is like a war zone. CRPF and police have gone mad; they are attacking civilians irrespective of their age and gender.”
Five minutes later he called back, this time he spoke in a bit relaxed tone. “Come to Kak Sarai,” he said, “I have an Ahram (A special white robe worn during Haj) at home. You can use that as kaffan (Shroud).”
Once there, we took the Ahram, and then asked for a lantern, and a spade to dig the newborn’s grave. “You are right, no gravedigger would be available at this hour,” he said while handing over the spade.
From there we went back to the hospital. Then after wrapping the newborn inside the Ahram, we all headed towards their ancestral graveyard at Kahnq-e-Mollah.
At Zaina Kadal, CRPF personnel accompanied by local policemen stopped our vehicles and ordered us to turn back.
This enraged my friend, who was carrying his dead son in his arms, and he got down and shouted: “waen deevoon na murde to dafnavne (Now you won’t let us bury our dead).”
Immediately a policeman came rushing forward and asked the CRPF men to let us pass. At around midnight, the newborn baby, who couldn’t open his eyes even for once, was laid to rest.
