Homeland after Eighteen Years - A 48 hour Travelogue

K L Chowdhury
99 100
Homeland after Eighteen Years
Like my home,
the school is yet another casualty
to the frenzy of Azadi.
I am told,
it had to be burnt down,
for, education could wait
when Azadi was at stake,
and the boys had to weild the gun
in place of the pen.
As we drive to Ali Kadal nearby,
I draw another cold sigh
for I shudder to think
that a similar fate might have befallen
my Rangteng High.
Along the way
I try to recall and locate
the house of Ved Lal, my father’s associate,
of Nilakanth Bazaz, his lifelong friend,
of Gopi Nath, his rummy playing mate,
of Bansilal, my classmate,
and of so many others –
friends, relatives, and neighbours.
I can’t find anyone here
in the changed topography.
Some have passed away,
others have moved on,
yet others remain unknown
to the new generation -
the new breed that now lives
in what remains of those homes.
The new Ali Kadal Bridge
looks surprisingly alien,
and does not seem to connect.
The old was so familiar,
and imposing in its obsolescence!
The baker’s shop in the corner,
from whom I would buy every morning
hot loaves of bread for the family
(so much mouth-watering were they
I would munch a couple on the way),
is nowhere in evidence.
No one knows where the baker fled
and whether he is living or dead.
Wherever you inquire,
the Kashmiri Pandits are spoken of
in past tense here -
they were,
they have been,
they had been.
Who were they, anyway,
they might ask, one day?