A NAVREH THAT ISN'T
DR. SANJAY PARVA

It is early morning. I have one foot in my mouth, one in the car and mind racing through the client presentation when daddy bumps into me. He normally does so every morning when I leave, to ensure that the daily dose of wisdom goes down my ears. “Delhi roads are bad, and those behind the wheel badder (even if that is not a word), so you should be cautious on the road.”

And then, he comes to what he actually bumped into me for, “batvari chu thaal barun.” “Why,” I ask in bewilderment since we did bor thaal only recently. Before he replies, and in a manner so self-realizing, I recall that that one was for soonth. “It is navreh,” he informs me, and for a moment my whole existence is stilled in silence, in despair. Silence – because that is the only way by which I can travel back to home and recollect those joys of celebrating navreh; and despair – because that is just not the way I can actually be there. I leave – in despair. Daddy understands that he had touched his son’s wrong chord at daybreak.

The presentation is on – and my mind is racing 600 miles away through my home – but the client winks at me for my excellence in creativity. I only wish he could know that my current expertise is just out of compulsion, while I pursued the same with passion back home. Poetry flowed like the gush of Nallah Ferozpura that wound its serpentine way up through Malmoh for its onward journey, probably to merge into Jhelum and later sink into Pakistan. Words – of romantic escapades, of nature’s bounties, of the breathless beauty around – formed the cornerstone of my existence.

Today, when I think of writing this piece, I have to actually grapple with my mind and its thoughts – both are divided between what they are made up for, and what they are compelled to accomplish. Migration, I feel, has done more than physical damage to a pandit. It has robbed him of his subtle mind – a mind that was so simple, so plain, so unhooked, so free, and so pure.

Back in Faridabad, the family is – as always it has been – looking forward to celebrating navreh and thaal barun, but I am not so sure would at all I be able to see the thaal next morning because I am not sure where that day, or the day before it, is going to throw my scheme of things off. It is pathetic, and it is like being in a very desperate situation. You feel like being a part of something that is almost wed to your psyche but still you can’t. And even if you become a part of it, it is difficult to internalize the process of celebration. That is irrespective of how much hope and hoopla they create out of the Muzaffarabad bus, which has kept the whole country politically happy and television channels jostling for the best coverage on this proverbial one-more-step-towards-peace. A peace-loving pandit, however, watches the whole drama so peacefully, so impotently.

I don’t discount the importance of such initiatives, but only in case you first face the truth. And the truth is different from what it has been portrayed. India probably needs tons of courage to accept that Kashmir is a disputed territory. Buses have only been seen connecting places, not solving problems. Srinagar-Muzaffarabad service has become a Sania Mirza of Indo-Pak politics as on today, and like any other sensation, media is going to give it up after it starts looking less sexy. The Kashmir problem, however, will stay on – probably like the strong foundation of my ancestral home in Malmoh.

I am told my home is decaying – and likely only the foundation will remain before I get to see it. That is, if at all I do. When daddy gets to know this, he holds his tears – perhaps for his son who is brought down by the slightest of an emotion, or probably for the man who has commanded strength and respect throughout at home. “Whenever we build a new house, wouldn’t it be great if we replicate our Home’s House,” I ask daddy. He says such naksha cannot withstand this torrid climate. “That means,” I affirm him sadly; “we will have to be happy with only an imprint in our minds.” This imprint follows me clearly and everywhere – on jaeth aethem, on haerath, on pun, on soonth, and on navreh.

The badaam fulai on navreh is as fresh in my mind as it would be now at home. When I take my thinking backwards, I see I am wearing new clothes. Billoo, meun yaar, is giving a naad from his dub, asking me to hurry up; mummy packs the lunchbox with mushrooms (picked up by me and Billoo the previous night), dimpu, loket beni, is angered because I have refused to carry her along with, daddy’s advice labi labi pakizav volleys from behind as I rush to Billoo’s darwaaz to leave for Ahamadpur wodur. Childhood love blooms on the way and atop the badaam bagh, we play cricket and lose the rubber ball, local Musalmaan boys of our age find the ball for us to join the play. The play continues, and all of us win since it was a friendly match.

The setting sun flickers through the badaam fulai, and we pack off. Tired. Sleepy. When I wake up I find myself in mummy’s lap. When you lose home, you lose every bliss associated with it. Tomorrow, when there would be another presentation, another creative trick, another manipulation, I would have lost some more of my Kashmiri self.