In these
times of curfew, people in Srinagar have been caged inside their homes. “Hartals”
and ‘Curfews’ like sale-cum-exhibitions happen every now and then in Kashmir. Anyone
found venturing outside risks being interrogated, chased, beaten, or shot. So,
applying the less used laws of common sense, people sit inside their homes.
Wondering as every car passes by, who could it be? Why is he on the road? Where
is he going? Is it an Army vehicle? As homely pigeons sit under eaves of roofs
of houses listening into the conversations of people they understand the grim
situations of the city. They learn that in times of curfew people come to roost
in living rooms and kitchens. They pass on copious amounts of gossip and a milk
less variety of tea. They eat bread frugally and rice generously for days in
curfew are infinite.
In the
inner lanes of downtown Srinagar there is some commotion, which is quite the
norm, and very well too. Any day without commotion in down town sends up a
fever in the authorities, and the people wonder if times are really changing in
Srinagar and changing for what? So downtown with its pigeons and all is an area
of a lot of activity. Pigeon rearing is an ancient activity in Srinagar. It is
a peaceful activity too, at least as much peaceful as the special peace laws
imposed on the land allow. People, boys usually, who are fond of domesticating
pigeons usually are very possessive of their birds. They are bred to match
colour and qualities (like swift fliers, high fliers, etc.) and then sold at
very high prices to other pigeon-keepers. If the pigeons go missing from any
one coop, things get ugly. Often there
are ugly mohalla wide confrontations.
A lot of swearing is exchanged in lieu of the missing pigeons and as many
accusations charged and dismissed. Normally the local government does not
interfere in this activity. Any charge of pigeon theft is promptly denied, and
it lies on the pigeon rights activists and lawyers specialising in this branch
of law to prove otherwise. The government may if it considers necessary,
order an Enquiry Commission and then trash its report. It happens all too
often. The pigeons and their thieves are never found.
Arif, the
pigeon keeper has lost two of his best fliers. The last time he saw them was
after Friday prayers, just as the boys were about to begin pelting stones on
the CRPF vehicles. He raised his eyes to see the pigeons perched on the
antennae over his balcony and counted all six silhouettes. Then the pigeons
took flight. And in the evening when he went to close the coop for the night
only four returned. There was no cat in the vicinity and he found no feathers. The
pigeons seemed to have disappeared without trace.
The
pigeons fly in circles over the neighbourhood. They don’t go very far.
Sometimes they’d fly high and perch on trees or overhead wires. But usually
they returned to sit in the shade under the eaves of the attic of Arif’s house.
His pigeons were not trained to do anything else. They were swift fliers but
nothing more. In his neighbourhood there were only two boys who kept pigeons.
In
Maisuma the daily wagers gather everyday beneath the awning of a disused
hardware shop and wait for someone to call. The CRPF men keep strict patrol.
Invisible eyes keep peering out of helmets and armoured vans all the time. In
general, the CRPF wallah looked very
bored. Like a wanton apparition he seemed misplaced, and to add to his misery
he looked about fully aware of his misplacement. He chewed Nevla tobacco which came in two rupees pouches incessantly. The gun
weighed heavy on his shoulders and he was acutely trying to distract himself
with the people haggling for oranges at the nearby cart. That day he was not
imposing a curfew. He was just standing there because someone had asked him to.
A pigeon
flew on to the wires above him. His morose reverie was broken. He raised his
gun to shoo the pigeon away. But the pigeon was not interested in the threats a
sundry man in a helmet was issuing from somewhere down below him. The pigeon
did not see them as threats at all. From its perch above he must have appeared
like some fool poking the air with a queer looking stick. The pigeon looked at
the city with red eyes.
Meanwhile,
the old daily wager is perturbed. His noble profession of looking for a new
work every day has been challenged by some authorities in the Assembly. He sighs at the new competition. “These
newbies and wannabes,” he says. They have no clue. A man in a plush grey suit
with white shirt and no tie has screamed from the senatorial pews that he too
is a daily wager. The daily wager is amused. He isn’t outraged. He seeks
company and likes it. The news has reached him late. He chuckles at the pace
his world moves.
The daily
wager is a dusty old man. He has grown beyond his age in numbers like so many
in the conflict. The years seem to have escaped him. The start and the end are
all that remain. The rest of the memories are a jumbled mess of events for the
daily wager. He only knew the amount of work he had lost. He sighed at the
colossal loss it had been. All of it.
Just then
his eye caught the CRPF man poking at the pigeon. He hoped the pigeon wouldn’t
fly away. He sighed at the thought, again.
Oddly he
realised that he had never called himself a daily wager. He wasn’t paid his
wages daily. He wondered if that was any different. He had to negotiate for them every day. On
days like these he may get hired. He may even do his work professionally. On
other days, he would find no takers. People, even those who could hire him,
wouldn’t. No one wants to spend the money, you may not earn tomorrow . He realised that his
grounds are even weaker. He realised that he wasn’t essential. In Kashmir, no
one is.
A bus
conductor was calling people for Dalgate and Batwara. A tired looking group of
people got into the bus, followed by some labourers from India. The bus left
slowly and a number of small cars followed. He checked his pockets for change.
There was none.
****
Arif
doled out the grain. A small stainless
steel for each pigeon was his usual measure. An occasional bulbul or mynah
would join in the feast. He counted four bowls, and stopped. There were only
four left. He threw the bowl back into sack of rice. Hesitated, and with a
sigh, brought out two more.
The
pigeon hadn’t gone away. His fellow para-trooper threw a stick at the wires
above him. The pigeon did not see the stick and it hit on the wings. Both of them
were surprised how well had he aimed. They laughed knowing that there was no
skill involved. Throwing sticks for shooing pigeons is not gallant. The pigeon
fell down and died.
The daily
wager looked at the setting sun. There was a large orange dot in a crimson sky
behind the old buildings of Lal Chowk. The Srinagar he once knew was another
day past; a new city was shaping up. No one wanted to be a part of this city.
It was filled with strange and sudden noises. And it had no pigeons. The daily
wager threw away his cigarette and combed his hair with his fingers. The gravel
beneath his feet made a crushing sound as he jumped from his seat by the side
of the road and walked away. He felt unusually angry at the Assembly mayhem. Humiliated.
The daily
wagers do not shoot pigeons for survival. For those who have nothing to do,
there is ample sport to be had in the spoils of an ungainly war. The pigeons
stay close to their coops. They only
disappear for a while. Some people say that they circle their own houses for
seven days and then come back. The ones you see on the branches have stayed
to sing the songs of lamentations. But sadly the pigeons don’t sing. They
only coo in their ruined coops of how red the skies have become since their
last flight. It is no pleasure for a homely pigeon to fly in a red sky. And under
such red skies, the daily wagers must go out to earn their handful and return
with a handful of feathers and dust.
