One understands the first two, a nurse who would heal physical, emotional and psychological wounds, the towel to dry moist eyes that capture horrible pictures. But then loud weeping. Is it a therapy? One wonders.
The sage blurts out, "Actually no one is weeping loudly to get heard by Gods. That is why he does not come to the rescue of His people".
He would have indeed come to the aid of the Surat tourist Bhavika who froze on the fateful day her child got killed in an attack on Srinagar suburbs. He would have extended a helping hand to eight-year old Rajdip whose father's body is being stitched inside the hospital and he is tirelessly punching his cellphone number barely yards away in a police gypsy.
Had Kashmiris wept with effect, the aging Syeda of downtown Srinagar would have raced through the thousand staircases of Saint Mukhdoom Sahib, seeking blessings for her only teenaged daughter. She may (or may not) come to terms with the death of four sons, consumed one by one by the prolonged and senseless violence. She can't, the sage remarks, because she did not cry to be heard by the Almighty.
Had humanity wept, the CRPF man who shot himself through his neck after being denied leave to get married, would have lived blissfully with the bride, awaiting in Rajasthani ghagra-choli.
Had people at helm cared about the sufferings and shrieked about the human loss in Kashmir, the about-to-retire CRPF Inspector Tiwari, would never tremble to tell his wife in Uttar Pradesh that he escaped death and lives for another day.
Had our leaders wept, little Bisma of Bemina, Srinagar, would have hoped for the rendezvous with his missing father. So would have other Bismas' waiting for hundreds of their dear kins.
Had we realised the agony of the mothers', many jailed Kashmiris would have returned to their hearths. Or the soldier living on the edge who waits every month to dispatch 'money-order' to his famine-stricken family in Haryana or Andra Pradesh. Or wife of the young fledgling merchant who was shot by troops in paddy fields and is now bringing up five small kids, and nursing his aged parents.
But, we don't weep, goes on the sage, to get supernatural result. The Hand of God, his divine invocation. We don't know how to sustain grief. Frankly speaking, we have forgotten to weep though we do shed tears. We do go in a shell but are moved seldom.
I am at a loss why can't we express sorrow today. When my dear grandmother died 17 years ago, I remember I wept for weeks and ate nothing for two days. But two years back, when a bosom friend died in an accident, I hardly had a tear in my eyes.
Over the last 16 years, this place has stopped getting shocked. Violence has desensitized everyone. It is difficult to place the magnitude of a tragedy in Kashmir. Five deaths, 10 deaths, these invite a cursory look from a morning newspaper reader. An overdose of violence has gradually made us numb to miseries. And people here just don't know how to express pain. Or how to handle it.
Kashmir does not need a rudali, a borrowed mourner. Given its unending miseries, it needs a collective lamentation, from Jhelum to Krishna to Kaveri to Godawari to Brahmaputra and towards the Ghats and Vindyas.
It needs weeping not in bursts but with permanence. It requires, according to the white-bearded saint, an overwhelming grief that would spill to places and touch Gods in heaven. No human, the saint goes on, is capable of coming to its rescue. It will continue to have its familiar dose of pictures. Mutilated bodies, lifeless limbs flying out of booby-trapped security vehicles, bodies bearing torture and gouged-out eyes, glass and metal shards heaped in city squares, iron scraps, smoke billowing out of houses, and terrifying explosions.
As for the healing, it needs a hell of weeping. It is another day in paradise! Let all gear up. first published:June 01, 2006, 19:59 ISTlast updated:June 01, 2006, 19:59 IST
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Kashmir, mumbled, the unkempt gray-haired sage of Anantnag, needs a nurse, a big towel to soak tears and a lot of loud cries and weeping.
One understands the first two, a nurse who would heal physical, emotional and psychological wounds, the towel to dry moist eyes that capture horrible pictures. But then loud weeping. Is it a therapy? One wonders.
The sage blurts out, "Actually no one is weeping loudly to get heard by Gods. That is why he does not come to the rescue of His people".
He would have indeed come to the aid of the Surat tourist Bhavika who froze on the fateful day her child got killed in an attack on Srinagar suburbs. He would have extended a helping hand to eight-year old Rajdip whose father's body is being stitched inside the hospital and he is tirelessly punching his cellphone number barely yards away in a police gypsy.
Had Kashmiris wept with effect, the aging Syeda of downtown Srinagar would have raced through the thousand staircases of Saint Mukhdoom Sahib, seeking blessings for her only teenaged daughter. She may (or may not) come to terms with the death of four sons, consumed one by one by the prolonged and senseless violence. She can't, the sage remarks, because she did not cry to be heard by the Almighty.
Had humanity wept, the CRPF man who shot himself through his neck after being denied leave to get married, would have lived blissfully with the bride, awaiting in Rajasthani ghagra-choli.
Had people at helm cared about the sufferings and shrieked about the human loss in Kashmir, the about-to-retire CRPF Inspector Tiwari, would never tremble to tell his wife in Uttar Pradesh that he escaped death and lives for another day.
Had our leaders wept, little Bisma of Bemina, Srinagar, would have hoped for the rendezvous with his missing father. So would have other Bismas' waiting for hundreds of their dear kins.
Had we realised the agony of the mothers', many jailed Kashmiris would have returned to their hearths. Or the soldier living on the edge who waits every month to dispatch 'money-order' to his famine-stricken family in Haryana or Andra Pradesh. Or wife of the young fledgling merchant who was shot by troops in paddy fields and is now bringing up five small kids, and nursing his aged parents.
But, we don't weep, goes on the sage, to get supernatural result. The Hand of God, his divine invocation. We don't know how to sustain grief. Frankly speaking, we have forgotten to weep though we do shed tears. We do go in a shell but are moved seldom.
I am at a loss why can't we express sorrow today. When my dear grandmother died 17 years ago, I remember I wept for weeks and ate nothing for two days. But two years back, when a bosom friend died in an accident, I hardly had a tear in my eyes.
Over the last 16 years, this place has stopped getting shocked. Violence has desensitized everyone. It is difficult to place the magnitude of a tragedy in Kashmir. Five deaths, 10 deaths, these invite a cursory look from a morning newspaper reader. An overdose of violence has gradually made us numb to miseries. And people here just don't know how to express pain. Or how to handle it.
Kashmir does not need a rudali, a borrowed mourner. Given its unending miseries, it needs a collective lamentation, from Jhelum to Krishna to Kaveri to Godawari to Brahmaputra and towards the Ghats and Vindyas.
It needs weeping not in bursts but with permanence. It requires, according to the white-bearded saint, an overwhelming grief that would spill to places and touch Gods in heaven. No human, the saint goes on, is capable of coming to its rescue. It will continue to have its familiar dose of pictures. Mutilated bodies, lifeless limbs flying out of booby-trapped security vehicles, bodies bearing torture and gouged-out eyes, glass and metal shards heaped in city squares, iron scraps, smoke billowing out of houses, and terrifying explosions.
As for the healing, it needs a hell of weeping. It is another day in paradise! Let all gear up.
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