Oh it is hot and my Hijab!

Well, women of Kashmir were very progressive and they used to wear all sorts of western clothes, Hell! This reverse trend, masculine militancy, oh! They have got women all veiled and oppressed once again. Oh well, this is true of post intifada Palestanian women also. Thank God, we can still boast of Egypt were women protested by burning that ‘damn thing’ in public, I guess in the 18^th century itself. Those were the progressive women and what has come to become of women’s emancipation and the movement. Wait a minute, doesn’t this sound like the Rightwing agenda in India, what are feminists talking about? Are they saying the same thing?

I was standing at a stall, munching away on some snacks when suddenly a young boy stepped out of an ATM machine right next to the stall. He caught my eye and he applied an unusual break to the speed of his feet and stood like a pole catching the diagonal view of my face. I could sense, he waited for me to give him an eye contact. I did so out of genuine curiosity to see, if it was someone I know. Well, before I could take my eyes off him, he intervened, ‘It is so damn hot today’, I stood blank for a moment, a moderate smile played on my lips to acknowledge that it was hot indeed. I turned my head in the direction of the stall when I heard him muttering, ‘it is so damn hot and ….’, I turned again to make sure he wasn’t just continuing the conversation and to my surprise, he was. He continued, do you not feel very hot in that head thing? I was not surprised, nor angry, because this question has come to me number of times and every time I have given a suited reply that charmed my mood.

May be he asked to understand why women wear that thing or what was its use, but I was in no mood to vex all my knowledge of the issue, that whole thing can bore people, since in their head they would be counting, ‘what a material loss to waste time on a conversation like that, when actually I would just have wanted a plain flirt’. So instead I said, ‘We generally feel hot in our clothes, should we get rid of them too’, this embarrassed him to an extent and he came out with a direct apology.

I smiled and said, it is okay, but we Muslim women are quite used to all this. Well sometimes I actually feel hot in the veil and at time wearing clothes too, so I don’t mind people asking. But yes, this gentleman’s idea was to show solidarity in the plight of me having to wear a veil. So he continued, I think you misunderstood me, ‘I also want to know why you should be wearing this? And before he could complete his sentence, I intervened; well I am not oppressed by this.

Logically speaking a ‘piece of cloth’ if I reduce it to that should do no harm to any person, women, children, old aged, aunties, uncles, governments, States, industrialists, capitalists, Marxists, Islamists and also feminists? Isn’t it funny that almost 100% of social constituents have an opinion about a piece of cloth?

Ok I won’t produce my opinion as a ‘choice debate’ that I want to wear and veil because it is my choice? No, Indeed any sane woman in today’s upbringing cannot choose to be veiled or use it as a marker of identity. I will tell you how it oppresses women in today’s world,

1. You are watched and researched, I don’t want that for myself, I love my private life

2. Everybody gives you ‘sympathy’ when you actually want respect

3. Despite your qualifications you are not useful for anybody in the capitalist market

4. Marxists would not need you, since you might look like a very moral woman and oppressed women can’t fight the struggle of the working class.

In short there are more chances for you to become absolute piece of trash, with no money or any contributory role to play. And yes if the men in your community still think you are not moral enough they could further alienate you by getting into all sorts of debate like what is the extent, amount and prescription of the veil. Sometimes you might feel there is nothing else for the men in the house to discuss other then the veil. Well, but the veil discussion is not a part of my family though, since my mum doesn’t veil.

Oh now you still thinking why the hell should I wear it, if my Mom doesn’t?

Because I want to exist as a ‘woman’ demanding equal respect as a ‘man’ as is my God given right, I would not want to dress that shows my body in a corporate only to keep the work environment blooming, I would not wear a ‘black burkha’ showing my eyes only to be able to gain that respect, I will veil just as is ordained to me, I will make a decision of my own. The world, your world will bow to me, when capitalist’s lose their money, feminists lose their bodies, Marxist’s their struggle against religion and Islamists their purpose to dominate women. I shall stand on my own world view to watch it fade away.

Oh well when I said good bye to that boy, who hailed from Bihar, I had said much till then to him, the conversation had moved to Kashmir and Militarization. I only said to him to ask the Indian government to stop sending the poor people in the army to kill the poor people of my land, only to enjoy their riches in their family groups. I asked him not to worry about a 'veiled woman' next time; since we need to rescue men first.

A memoir, Habla; Women of Kashmir

So be it, you listen to a story of a woman who lived not but exemplified. At the age of 16, merely glancing at a post card size photo of a young man, she agreed a marriage. The one that is a subject of sharing that finds no expressions, no facial picture at all. Habla was the depiction of God’s promise, an exclusive one for her heirs. Born and brought up in a well known family of “Meheengars” claimed to be one of their kinds into imitation jewelry business. Habla has seen the rise and the fall, the fall of a kind that gave no choices, life then fell like a decree, like a plan. However, the most absurd sounding plot of God makes sense with time. The man she had agreed to marry was the son of the man she actually did. The photo was a deception, horror of its kinds. She married the man who had sent his son’s picture for her to see. 

The injustice of those dark times did not hear her sigh, her complaint. Ghulam Ahmed was married twice; he lost both his wives untimely leaving him a destitute widower with a trial of children of the same age group as his new wife Habla. Habla later bore three of his children, two sons and a daughter. A year after into a marriage of this sort, it suddenly occurred to Habla, that her youthful self was disrespected by this absurd covenant with a man as old as her father. She could no longer place her eyes on his grey hair; it reminded her of what a waste she has become. One day she packed up little of what she had from her family and left to a broken empire “khojabazar”, her home. Her poor parents were astonished, petrified at this untimely return of their daughter who they had been able to get married somehow despite their acute poverty. Habla took days before she could express her discontent about the marriage fully to her father. Her mother was hesitant to take any further steps about it and demanded Habla leaves to Ahmed’s house. 

However, the despair on Habla’s face turned the warmth of the poor household into cold of mid-winter. The laughter of the house had disappeared until one morning Habla said to her father, “I want a divorce from that old man who is as good as my father”. This numbed her father, he at once imagined the plight of a young woman like his daughter and agreed to whatever Habla’s mind was up to. They called the “istamfarosh” fixing an appointment for a divorce. Habla relaxed in her mind, she felt the day was not far when she would live a life, she deserved. 

Habla twisted and turned in her bed the whole night before the day “istamfarosh” was to come. She often looked at her father’s face during that night and she felt nervous if her father was never able to get her married off again. But she consoled herself at the thought of marrying someone who was more youthful and deserving of her. She kept dreaming and thinking all night. As the dawn broke, as was the norm in the household Habla prepared herself for “Fajar” prayer, the thought of what the day would bring to her did not leave her during the ablution or the prayer. She kept seeking God’s intervention; she was nervous, fearful but hopeful too. Habla’s mother seemed too worried and Habla was lost in her thoughts for most part of the day watching sun rise slowly. Her head would turn from the edge of the window every time someone opened the main gate to their house. She kept waiting and waiting. A smile spread across her deserted face as the door opened wide and a fat man with files in his hand shoved in through. Istamfarosh became the icon of doorway to freedom for Habla. Her blood rush increased and heart beat rose considerably only to sink back into nothingness and the smile which was governing her face disappeared slowly at the resurgence of Ahmed’s face.

The fear of God had stuck her, her heart beat stopped, the voice of her conscience spoke with such intensity that she felt numb in her veins. She thought, ‘What if Ahmed married me for a reason, his needs that God saw her most befitting of fulfilling? Or Does Ahmed need nothing but love, which she possesses? Is that why she married him in the most treacherous, illogical ways?

Suddenly a coarse voice interrupted her thought process, Habla do you agree to divorce Ahmed? It was but the flash of that second and Habla said, ‘No’. The crowd dispersed, Habla smiled to her own self, it felt like the first time she had consciously made up a mind to live with him, that is when she actually married Ahmed.

Where would one find love in the name of God or love for the love of God? Habla inspires not as a picture of submissiveness but an emblem of ‘love’. The love she continued to share even after Ahmed left his huge family behind. She was all of thirty years, youthful and epitome of strength. Apart from this Habla’s religious intensity had a political expression too. A regular attendant of Moulana Farooq’s sermons, all her Friday’s where a dedication to Jama Masjid. She would not give up a Friday even against the mountain of gold. Ahmed’s family of four sons and seven daughters where all strong supporters of National conference but that never deterred Habla’s conviction to be openly political and show allegiance to what was degraded in her family. Her own son’s were NC party workers from time to time. All her life Habla detested going to shrines, it was the biggest turn off for her, despite her step daughter-in-laws (often elder to her) great adulation for shrines, and she managed to keep away from the business all her life. 

After Ahmed’s death, extreme hardships stuck her family and she was forced to live separately in a shabby small room on the outward of the grand house, good enough for the rats. It was her political vision that inspired her to always lay emphasis on education of her daughter. Her daughter later became someone who taught the children in entire neighborhood. 

Habla’s story is the depiction of women’s rights and expression of self in a Kashmiri society about 50 years ago. It is a story of a woman from a lower class household and her difficult life. It is the attempt to break the monolith of Kashmiri society especially about women.

A Seed of remorse don’t kill my contempt

There is more to the word rebel than what culminates at the façade of an incident and which is shown religiously every day in the news. Whether or not they show, the rebel instincts will not seize in us because it is us who have kept the tradition of oral transfer of pain alive and upheld the values of “death for justice”. It is bestowed on us by our fore fathers that we strive for the betterment. Interestingly when I sit down in one of those dark rooms of my house whose windows are cut deliberately in the direction of Shah Hamdam Shrine, so that I never forget that truth and justice shall prevail. If that hasn’t sufficed, many of us have called for the best portraits of the Kaba, so that the sight of it fills us with hope. What not have we done so far to breed and survive idealism but all seems to be falling short to make us stand for what we believe in.

It fills me with pain like all others when I see innocent blood spilled like that; we have used blood to cultivate our trees and greenery. The beauty of Kashmir is upheld and serene because it has swallowed human flesh. It grows blood red roses to please all. For every rose a life it takes. You can’t count the roses in Kashmir nor can you the lives we sacrificed. Have we ever attempted to marry the two different identities of Kashmir? If we did so, it would be a beautiful mother who survives on its own children’s blood.

“Gas Karmak Khodayas Hawala” said my mother and for a minute my heart is stilled at the thought that God himself is going to accompany me, but it crushes me to see mothers don’t mean to bestow protection on kids anymore. They watch at a distance and one after the other the kids seep down the death well at the call of a ‘paid piper’. I must have died a long time back or it is a hallucination that has caught me or you. How many times should I be caught in the same treacherous realization of being a subject and muster the courage to go through what I have been, all over again?

I succumb to the might just as when I was frail, but hopeful. Now life has endorsed me to the realization of being strong and helpless at the same time. What could it be, my heart a pale heavy stone locked in a tender walled chest bumping as the screams got closer, the ‘Daen’ haunts me, compelling my father forever to stand by my side and put our best knives under my pillow. The most absurd joke done to any nation was Daen, sponsored by the occupiers, equipped with steel bodies, she didn’t just scare children but all alike. I remember ‘Prina’ a footballer was nailed down by her in the foot ball ground in one of those 1990's chilling winters. Daen ate young people of Kashmir and looks like she is hungry for more and here comes the news that she has penetrated her teeth in a son’s throat. Daen is the adversary to my beautiful mother Kashmir

I tremble with the same fear and helplessness overwhelms my conscience. Pain must end somewhere unless it is a stream, or a lake or an ocean. Than there must be no rescue for the plight we have or it must rent asunder the surroundings, because streams will become lakes, and lakes will flood. God’s promise is just, let it be an ocean and the land beneath will tremble and set the oceans to fight the cause pristine.