Abid R Baba
Much to the woes of his parents, Aamir would readily mix with his village boys. No reprimand was rigid enough to confine his frequent outdoor movements. And, the same was making his poor parents anxious, very anxious. His regular run would race up their hearts. It would stir up the nightmare of some haunted past. They had lost something very dear to the outside movement. That happened three years before Aamir’s birth. In the face of that very loss, they had driven themselves crazy. They couldn’t have afforded another loss. So, they imposed a tough stand on their son to prevent another trauma.
At dusk, his coppersmith father Mohammad Rafiq would down the shutter of his shop and rush to offer prayers in local mosque before returning home with kehnsa for Aamir. His wife Mymoona alias Baaji would pray at length inside that 6/8 lobby in their mud house. What solace those moments on praying mat would give her! Those minutes would be her departure from the usual. And those tears trickling from her closed eyes would stare at her cupping hands. She would ask Almighty to end the withering wait for her missing son. Praying over the years had become pleading for her. But, perhaps, she was blessed with the life of an extra-ordinary struggle.
*
A Class 12 student, Irfan was preparing for prayers after Sehri (pre-dawn meals) on the seventh day of 1990 Ramadan. No longer he stepped out, he was blindfolded, handcuffed and bundled in a jeep.
A neighbourhood lady saw it happen while unpacking dustbin. She rushed inside, feeling edgy. “Someone in our locality was taken away. They grabbed him. He protested. They shoved him into the jeep and ran away,” she broke the news to her husband before pleading him to pray at home.
*
Mymoona was fast losing her mental balance. Everyone would empathize with her. But she was unable to resurrect her normal self. Two years after her son’s mysterious disappearance, she started getting those unconscious bouts in bazaars, inside bus and where not.
Her worsening condition alarmed Rafiq. He soon consulted his neighbour, Shahid Gulfaam, a doctor-cum-poet. Known for his generous nature, Gulfaam was akin to a text-book philanthropist.
Medical check-up was done. Mymoona was diagnosed with severe depression. In her prescription slip, Dr Gulfaam wrote in an unreadable handwriting, otherwise a hallmark of medicos: “a case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
Before Rafiq left, Dr Gulfaam cautioned him: “Make sure to keep her away from stress.” The doctor also advised him to take Mymoona to valley’s premier Mental Health Hospital in old Srinagar’s Rainawari for proper mental check-up.
For his partner-in-grief (and long-parted-joy), Rafiq made up his mind to visit Rainawari.
It was cloudy day when the couple boarded Sumo vehicle at Baramulla main market. Amid the shrilling sounds inside, they sat silent, wearing tired eyes of wanderers. Mymoona set her gaze outside the window. She was lazily watching everything on road drifting back. The sight was slowly sending her in past. She was smiling upon recalling certain memories of Irfan – his unending nagging as a child, his first day at school, his shy smiles…
A sudden brake broke her trance.
She found herself in bustling Pattan market. A soft-melancholic song of 60s playing inside the vehicle caught her attention. Her gloom returned. She rested her head on Rafiq’s shoulder. He was looking like a haggard man with that unshaven face. His growing grey beard appeared bushy.
Her murmurs became audible to him amid the vehicular din. He tilted his head close to Mymooma. “Are we meeting Irfan today?” Her query stung him. He straightened his head and resumed his frozen stance. Mymoona slept sans raising anymore questions.
*
At Rainawari’s Mental Hospital, Mymoona was getting nervy. “I am okay! But, no! Leave me aside. You won’t understand the pain of a mother whose child…” She broke down.
Rafiq stood standstill. After a long pause he retorted her, “What do you mean? What about a father? Do you think only you (mothers) bear the brunt?” Tears brimmed out of their eyes. Cry, console and concern followed.
Their Lapat’ta chashme chirag had turned Rafiq and Mymoona into a wretched couple. He grabbed her hand. They returned to their modest house in Baramulla.
*
On April 15, 1993, Mymoona gave birth to Aamir. His birth didn’t create the same celebrations as that of his disappeared sibling’s, Irfan.
Amid unfading gloom at his home, Aamir started growing up. He was cheerful besides funny. He made quick friends in village. He was receptive and smart enough to read the conditions around him. But he wasn’t fortunate enough to tap out his talents in the face of the tragedy.
*
One evening, Rafiq was returning home. Throughout the way, he was a brooding man lost in his usual sombre thoughts. Without realising, he started walking towards the centre of the road. Speedy vehicles would whiz past him. He was living dangerously.
Soon, a loud impact was heard.
A speedy Tata Sumo flattened him on the ground. Blood oozed out of his head like a fountain. Nearby shoppers took him to the hospital. He was shifted to ICU at Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Science (SKIMS), Soura. Six pints of blood were immediately needed. Or, he wouldn’t survive. Nobody volunteered for the cause. Aamir became orphan. Mymoona, a widow.
*
Aamir was still a bud who was indecisive about life. But he was sensible enough to realise that he was a sole support of his bed-ridden mother.
To begin with, they sold their shop, to make both ends meet. But soon savings dried up. To run home expenses, Aamir started doing some odd jobs. But earning wasn’t sufficient even to buy him one strip of the prescription for his mother.
Aamir then decided to work as a domestic labourer. He would wash clothes, utensils and other things to take care of his ailing mother. To his woes, he was told to be at the workplace round the clock. But he couldn’t have left his bed-ridden mother alone. So, he left.
*
The day of his birthday dawned. It was April 15. It was his 13th birthday. But the day was a just a routine for him. It meant nothing, except to be on job hunt. But to his worries, he would leave for the market early in the morning. Till noon, nobody would hire him. His tender age and lean figure were his apparent woes.
With scorching sun overhead, Aamir saw a clean-shaven man dressed in jeans and blue shirt stepping out of the mosque one day. He greeted him and asked for some alms. His innocent pleading moved the man. He took Aamir home and offered him food. He assured Aamir that he would take care of him after knowing his story. But Aamir wasn’t alone. He grew anxious for his ailing mother.
*
Six months had passed. Aamir was still receiving financial help and care of the generous man he met outside the mosque. But one day, the man got a job in a multi-national company in Hyderabad and settled there. Aamir was back to square one.
But he pulled his socks and went for stone chiselling in a nearby Drangbal village. He sweated hard and was soon earning enough to feed his mother. Miraculously, his mother, who was on medication, started recovering. For first six months, he worked hard and was feeling slightly better.
*
On one wintry night, he woke up after a shriek broke lull of the night. He heard his mother’s fainting voice, “Irfanoo… behaaa ayesai…”
It unnerved him. He tried to wake up his mother. She wasn’t responding at all. He grew panic. A shout for help followed. But none turned up. He rushed to unbolt the door, pushed it hard and came out in open lawn. He started raising cries for help: “Anybody, please come to my rescue! My mother needs help. Please…” And soon, a swarm of them were inside, feeling sorry for him.
*
A short while later, it was decided, she would be buried after Fajr (morning) prayers. With dawn, neighbourhood women came wailing; others screaming.
Days after the demise of his mother, Aamir was carrying heavy logs of wood for the living. It was too much burden for his tiny shoulders.
One afternoon, with heavy heart, he rested under a walnut tree. Soon he spotted Shakir.
*
Shakir was the son of Dr Gulfaam. He was returning from school and sat with Aamir who was in great pain. Shakir didn’t notice Aamir’s pain and went on to talk about his school activities. Naively, he raised his eyebrows and posed a question to Aamir, “Why don’t you come to school with us?” Aamir tossed volley of questions back to Shakir, “What do you do there? How much hours do you work a day? Do they treat you indifferently and exploit you in the name of work…” Aamir had never been to school. His queries baffled Shakir. In between their chitchat, it was growing dark. Soon, they walked away.
Aamir stepped inside his dingy room, feeling dull. In the hindsight, he tried to make a sketch of a school. But due to bad back, he couldn’t continue. He skipped dinner and went to sleep.
*
He woke up at 10, next morning. Sun was shining. He stepped outside. It was a customary day for him. But his waning strength for doing tough work didn’t encourage him to work for a day. Instead, he visited his distant relatives nearby. He stayed there for a night. At dinner, everybody discussed Aamir. But he stayed quiet. The relatives decided to send him to an orphanage. A long spell of motivation began. Quotes from Quran and Hadith were recited to dissolve all his confusions.
Next day, family patriarch, Ismael dropped him at a local seminary meant for orphans. This was the last time he saw one of his own.
(The author is pursuing graduation in Journalism and can be contacted at: [email protected])
