She was born into a Hindu-Brahmin-Saasan family in the early
1930s, on the Pakistan-administered side of Kashmir, not far from what is
described as the Line of Control (LoC). The communal frenzy and folly that was
August 1947 in the Punjab was replicated in Kashmir by October 1947. My nani’s
life changed forever.
Misplaced from her fleeing family, destitution was quickly
evident, dishonour imminent and death almost certain. What had started out as a
rescue mission by my nana, or maternal grandfather, led to her having to
convert from the faith of her forefathers, marry a stranger in a strange
environment, bear children, rear grandchildren, even great-grandchildren, and
engage in almost 61 years of constant extemporisation to combat the persistent
estrangement she endured. Her background was literally a closed chapter, sealed
and suppressed. Not so unlike the border that has unnaturally divided Kashmir.
My nani had probably accepted her predicament as fate as
soon as she entered my nana’s house way back in October 1947. I however
have increasingly felt otherwise. I’ve always considered this to be part of a
perverse political drama. Lack of imagination by the rulers accompanied denial
of creative expression for the ruled. Improvising a constructive alternative has
been my self-imposed mission for the past four years.
I first heard her story in 1988 while I was visiting my
grandparents in Mirpur, in Pakistan-administered Kashmir. News had filtered
through the 70 kilometres or so of mountainous terrain that her mother had
passed away. We listened to a cassette recording that narrated her kid brother’s
forlorn attempt at getting a Pakistani visa a few years earlier.
A year later, after my GCSEs, I took a year off to explore my
"origins". I visited my nani’s family in Rajouri, in Indian-administered
Kashmir, in December 1989. Three days was all I got with them – my father had
accompanied me to India and, being a staunch and orthodox Muslim, he couldn’t
stomach the prospect of spending too much time with non-Muslims. The emotions of
my nani’s siblings and their offspring etched a permanent impression in
my mind. I promised them that I would reunite them with their sister.
Travelling from India to Pakistan and relaying my adventure to
all and sundry had a mildly sensational effect on the local population.
Forty-two years of jingoism was momentarily set aside and human emotion was
purposefully reflected on. This cut little ice with my nana, though. He
remained rigid and paranoid about the idea of my nani visiting her
siblings, fearing she may never return.
The 1990s raced past, conflict in the region easily
overshadowing all else. Nevertheless, I made an attempt in 1993 when I tried to
insist on my nani accompanying me to India. Eventually, after a month of
unsuccessful insistence, I crossed the Wagah-Attari border by myself. Lonesome
figure that I was, instead of venturing north to visit her family, I decided to
ride out my sorrow and angst by proceeding south to Bombay and Goa. The mere
idea of meeting them without nani was unbearable.
Life carried on but the emotional baggage increased. Nani’s
kid brother’s death in February 2004 proved to be the final shock that I was
willing to passively endure. It wasn’t until March 2005 that we were informed of
this tragedy. A subsequent emotional exchange between my nana and me
secured his long sought-for consent to my nani visiting her family.
In April 2005 I went to Pakistan again. The three of us applied
for an Indian visa in Islamabad together, acting on advice I was given by an
Indian visa officer in London once he got over his disbelief that I could be
related to both a Muslim and a Hindu family. We waited in vain. The Indian high
commission told us they were waiting for a no objection certificate for my visa
application from the high commission in London. The delay in getting an Indian
visa prompted my nana to revert to his original stance – not allowing my
nani to travel to India. In effect, the Indian government had
inadvertently done him a favour, as he wasn’t overly keen on the visit in the
first place.
In October 2005, in the wake of the deadly earthquake that
struck Kashmir, I applied for a cross-LoC permit, under the impression that
people would be allowed to travel in a matter of weeks if not days. Finally, in
February 2008 my cross-LoC permit came through. I visited my nani’s
family in Mendhar, in the Poonch district of Indian-administered Kashmir. There
was mutual elation. I witnessed the fourth death anniversary of my nani’s
younger brother, Sita Ram Sharma. He and his parents had lived in constant
anxiety about their sister and daughter respectively. They all died before their
fears could be put to rest. Anyway, meeting my nani’s remaining two
siblings after 19 years evoked a mutual revival of hope. I explained my nana’s
intransigence and they eventually managed to convince him to apply for a cross-LoC
permit so that he and my nani could visit them. My nani’s heart
condition had become such that travelling via Wagah-Attari or Lahore-Delhi would
be almost impossible.
In March 2008 I returned to the Pakistan-administered part of
Kashmir and promptly made applications for cross-LoC permits for my nani
and nana and for myself. It took many months of haggling with the local
authorities and the ISI to get them to send the forms across the LoC and this
did not happen until October. We were given to understand that the authorities
on the Indian side cleared our applications in March this year. However, their
counterparts on the Pakistani side maintain (in June 2009) that they have not
received our applications.
Although I received email confirmation from the sorting centre
in Srinagar, Muzaffarabad was bent on a ‘dispatch date’ in order to locate the
files. My nani in Pakistan-administered Kashmir and her two siblings on
the Indian-administered side are ailing and 63 years of separation will not, I
fear, withstand the test of time for much longer. This thought has been etched
in my mind for the past several years. Not a day passes without it continuing to
haunt me.
Before 2005, my nana was the main obstacle between my
nani and her family. Now it’s the relationship between India and Pakistan.
My nani is now 79 years old. Please help me reunite her with her family,
separated for over 60 years by a distance of not much more than 60 kilometres.
I desperately hope this story doesn’t culminate in that most
agonising of clichés: "So near and yet so far".