In her dreams, Innayat always woke up to the enchanting and re-assuring sound of the morning azaan, and opened the windows, which her nani would slyly shut after she had slept.
The morning breeze would bring with it, freshness and a whiff of roses, the pine trees, the first batch of Kashmiri rotis being baked and the nun chai simmering in the kitchen. It would gently caress her on the cheek and she would fall back into a sweet slumber.
Inaayat, was the eldest granddaughter of the Qazi family, a respected one in the valley. Even the fact that her mother had married a Hindu, did not taint the goodwill that the family had earned over the years. Her grand dad, Hussain Qazi, was a kind-hearted man, had a high post in the government, was respected and admired by all who worked with him. He was also loved dearly by his family. He was their lifeline.
Hussain and Innayat shared a beautiful relationship. She was the apple of his eyes, his little princess. She remembered calling him ‘ta‘, one of the first words she ever uttered. He would encourage her doodles and sketches, gift her with the newest and the best drawing and painting books, colours and brushes. She remembers having a whole wall dedicated to the untidy eggplants, balloons, fishes and flowers she had drawn. It was ‘Inaayat’s corner’, so affectionately maintained by ta.
But he passed away while she was still young. And how well she remembers that dreadful day. They were in Delhi, where her parents lived and her father, Abhay Chaudhary worked. Hussain had come there for a meeting. Inaayat remembers playing in the balcony, waiting for ta to come back from work, and then hearing her mother cry when he finally came back. Stains on his shirt. He had vomited blood. And the next thing she knew, she was sitting in the reception lounge of the hospital, her domestic help, Meeta, with her. No one letting her see ta, everyone just saying, he is sleeping. Then finally she did go in the room. He looked at her and smiled, his beautiful, warm, heart touching smile. He told her that she should draw and write. He also said she had long legs and that she was his PT Usha. And then the doctors said, he needs more rest. But after a few hours, she saw him again, this time covered from head to toe, being carried on a stretcher. Her mum weeping. Inaayat was silent.
They rushed back home, and she knew she would never see him again. Somehow her eyes didn’t well up. The 10-year-old didn’t know how to express grief. There was chaos all around, her parents calling the family in Kashmir, her mum still weeping uncontrollably. She remembers going to the washroom to pee and absent mindedly peeing in her under garment and then trembling from head to toe.
Years later she still wishes ta was with them, looking at the many framed memories that adorned the walls of his house in Srinagar. Although she had lived all her life in Delhi, she never felt at home there. That house was where she had been through a lot. The walls knew the secrets, and had grown accustomed to all the misery like she had.
She yearned to move to Kashmir forever. She wanted to lead a simple life, where she could sit and talk to her family members, get a healthy scolding from her elders when she was wrong, and warm hugs and kisses when she was low. Where she could chat and play with her cousins. Where she ate without thinking about her belly, or the skinny shorts she had to fit in. Where the day started with salaam to all the elders, breakfast with all sitting together and chatting, working, walking down the boulevard, next to the Dal lake, the mountains always in sight.
The valley soaked in simplicity. The evenings spent with cousins, laughing about frivolous things, sharing secrets, and the night spent with all of them sitting huddled in front of the television, commenting on the shows, telling each other anecdotes from the day and sometimes hopping into the car with mamu and going for an ice cream. She also yearned to have a culture she could call her own. Delhi had left her confused and rootless. She felt inclined to Islam and the fact that she grew amongst people who thought all Muslims were Osama’s distant cousins saddened her. She wanted to be able to understand the kalmaas she had learnt by rote and had been reciting since she was a child.
Sitting many miles apart from Kashmir, she looked at her laptop, and the pending work and tried to hear something, at least one word from the silence that always loomed in her house, a silence that was only broken by unhealthy arguments and a lot of screaming.
The only escape for her being… her little leather bound notebook, where she wrote stories and poems. She would lock herself in her room and write away. The last penned down a troubled picture.
“Why am I such a mess?
A piece that doesn’t fit into the puzzle,
Obsolete
A silent wish whispered by the heart at dawn
A hope crushed at dusk
And between the two sleepless voids I lie..
Eyes, empty.”
And she lived, longing to live. Because the present was just a noise. A soap opera with episodes that did not connect. Scenes that had no script but just a disjointed screen play.
In the car: AC kharab ho gaya kya? Turn it towards me! Radio Gaga, welcomes you. Uff ho.. break lagao. Red light cross kar di! Zaroor Innayat ne belt nahin pehni hogi!
Car screeches to a halt. More voices while her head pains, pulse pounds and sweat pours out profusely.
Madam license do. Bhaiya 50 rupay lelo. Sir, yeh ladki toh paagal hai, sorry. Shutup maaa!
In the Café: Where is the tea? Hmm, should we order food from the Kashmiri kitchen in the evening?
She started trembling, sweating still. Her heart sinking. She was dying, was she? Why wouldn’t everyone shut up? Why would the voices not stop?
In her head: ”Where are you? This is Tanya, the intern calling.” The beep beep of a fading battery. Was it her or the phone? Who is this calling me? Tanya? Who is calling my name ? Is it ta? Inaayattt? Why is the coffee machine coming apart? Why won’t they stop calling my name? Inaayat, Inaayatt, Inaayattttttt!!!
Crash.
Natascha Shah is the Editor of http://tlfmagazine.com/ Having graduated from the University of New South Wales, Sydney with a degree in Literature and Journalism, she worked as a journalist for four years and then felt a need for unrestricted creativity beyond formulaic writing. Thus TLF was conceived. And yes, she believes, every moment in life is worth tripping on.