I am here

[Foreword: I feel that the point of talk after reading this piece will be that why I have chosen the “I” as female here. Reason is I found women and girls of in this country either give up their survival succumbing to circumstances or surrender to circumstances. This piece is an attempt to make them realize life’s worth, their individual dreams and aspirations and make them dare to come out of that stereotypical mediocre Indian living which is draped with a fear of breaching “values” and committing a “sin” at every step. And above all this writing is an effort to make them believe that spirit of fighting to live (not just survival) is worth more than anything in this world !!!]

It was that mindless (Today I am wise enough to personify it as mindless) event of a night around three months ago that brought me to this landscape. At 11:30 PM Sunday I slit my left wrist in order to end up my tale of self-secluded survival on this earth. And as I lay today, staring out from the tent to the Glacier Mountains glittering with partial moon light and counting the few days left for my return from here, I could recall what has changed me and how.

At the age of 22 I was a wild, whimsical girl when I completed my Master’s in journalism. By the trait of rationality I never harbored my thinking in a boundary of idealism. Though I rarely rebelled against my parent’s sanctimonious teachings of heritage and cultural values yet most of the times I was in silent dissent from inside against these after speaking out many times and realizing that they have no answer to my challenges other than taking a moralistic view of things and stressing on becoming a respectable citizen. After four years of my journalism career I was made to marry; I was not entirely unhappy because I could continue the passion of my profession.

Within few months it surfaced that in our married life the working couple concept was neglecting the family chores. I needed to give up my full fledged profession and switch to a columnist. I began to watch news, read and read voraciously and embellish various columns, but a part of my soul still remained thirsty for my core passion. On many afternoons when I sat down to read, I used to get strangely distracted by a longing of having him at that moment. I could never lodge any complaint against him in my mind, not even to satisfy my ego. Not that he ever became furious, raged or gripped in blue spirits; he did in the way as we all in our life but in those moments I was contented find that I was not the reason. I made sure never on any day at any moment my self ignored the tasks.  And slowly I was getting confined and strangled in my thoughts and life.

On weekends, driving our way back to home under the city lights, I used to realize myself gasping for a living so hard that upon entering home I felt like taking our fish aquarium to the terrace and drop it to the ground from there. I was haunted by the dreams of myself sitting, robbed off my clothes, in front of a diminishing bonfire inside a log hut of a deep forest. When I used to wake up from that dream at night, I, at first, looked out of my window to asses where I am and I found myself, on one side, surrounded by a window of next building, dark from inside and from other side a faint stream of street light filtered off the green curtains kissing the fingers of my feet. He lay beside me with his fingers resting on my palm as if a paper weight was needed to keep a bunch of papers arranged at its place. Although I did not have any trouble to continue my sleep after that yet the next day brought with it an oppressive self withdrawal; on such days I used to visit my collection of books and write my name on the first page of those. If I happened to find a book on which I already wrote my name, I used to overwrite to make it more prominent. These courses made me raise a question time and again what if I had continued my profession? Probably down the line I had to fight an intense battle to choose either my profession or my family and probably I could have won the battle but lost the dignity among my parents and relatives and probably I could have been labelled as an arrogant woman who don’t know to respect family duties and my parents could have lectured me about what they taught and what I did. I tried to discharge partially this frozen, mounting frustration by alleging him but never found any conclusive reason. Not able to take the toll of repeated knockings of above probabilities to my head, I decided to end my survival to make myself eloped from the things.

I was fortunate enough that he caught hold of this incident quickly and within no time I was on the treatment bed of a hospital by virtue of one of our doctor friend. He was stunned to face this within one and a half years of our married life and I was morose. His questioning was not getting stopped and my muteness was as stubborn. On a rainy afternoon, three days later, when I came back home I got a call from one of my colleague turned friend to inquire if I can re-consider my decision to leave journalism because the channel was looking for an able professional for reporting from Kashmir border because the news was that there was every chance of a possible war on the border. In the beginning I was adamant to be in love with my reclusion, but his reprimanding persuasion hurt my ego and sparked me to take a chance. And the very next day I was off for my job leaving him in the city without me. While moving out, I left a note to him, “Please don’t try to search me, I will be definitely back soon."

A side of our way to the war front was covered with a barren land ending with high glacier mountain. There were convoys of soldiers, troops of reporting teams from different news channels moving along with us under the sunlight. I, at that time also, was not fully on the job and much absorbed to the thought of what I left behind in the city. I was pre-occupied with the fear of neighbor's and parent’s judgement on my this step but the numbing of fingers by the freezing cold was interfering my thoughts from time to time. Suddenly I looked out of my vehicle and the glance of the clear white sky leveraged softly a sheepish smile at the corner of my lips, I felt a tiring relief.

I remember my first night in the bunker on the second day after the declaration of war; never heard sounds of gun trotting and heavy shelling was striking my ears. It was much dark inside with a feeble light of a bulb, I was frozen partially by cold and majorly by the sounds. Although surrounded by quite a few people yet I was not able to withdraw myself from grimness of outside; I tried hard to recollect me at my home but I couldn’t able to make a stay with that. An impenetrable silence inside the bunker was making me restless and with each passing moment I was begining to think will I able to reach my home in the city. It was when the outside sounds began to calm down I realized, for the first time that I am alive. I was alive and I was able to touch the soil, the walls and myself; I realized that I want to breathe, I want to see people and I fear death. There I was sitting on the ground and feeling my pulse at every moment with an exhilarated, serene eyes. I attempted suicide not because I didn’t want to live but because I never knew what it means to be alive, here on the war front I touched and felt the alive me. On the next morning I sent to him a handful of sand in an envelop with a note- “I was alive but I witnessed so today.”

I was once conversing with a top ranked officer on how frequently he communicates with his family. He replied, “Not as frequently as an ordinary person can communicate living in a city different than his family. Some of us found a bond among our fellow colleagues, some of us haven’t, but still there comes times, bounded by our profession, when we can’t get in touch with the person far off even if we want to. In those times we either get starkly curled up from inside or console our loneliness staring to that peak of hill that baths under the sun.” My heart stirred and repented by thinking how stubbornly obsessed I am to name silence and muteness a language. I am blessed to have persons to share, to communicate but was adamantly withdrawn. I asked how often do you feel lonely and he replied, “Not very often. More I feel lonely the more it will make me to be and that’s not right in this world. I always try to find out with what or whom I can connect to, quite often I don’t find anything but that doesn’t cease me to withdraw my efforts.” I was amazed to witness his spirit to strive for himself. In this barren sun-lit landscape, under the open sky, far off from usual life they toil day in and day out. I saluted him before departing from there; he smiled as if he know what he’s.

I visited army hospitals to have a look at the injured. Blood soaked uniforms, amputated bodies made my head spinning. In those times I used to touch my cut mark on the wrist to make sure I am not bleeding. A young officer was sleeping on a bed, medicated freshly and was taking the blood. I stared at his face thinking how he’s feeling – pain (probably not because he might be on sedatives), emotionally restless to get fit to be on field again (probably not because he might be too weak to think of that), relieved to be on rest for few days (probably not because the country is in danger and his profession didn’t teach him this), longing to be at home (probably not because he might not want to reveal his condition to his family members). I looked out of the window to the evening sky with melting hues and thought why have I not fought for myself? Was I frightened of consequences and if yes would my result, if I lose, be like this officer lying in bed? Was I dreaming of some savior who would have taken away my suppressed sorrows to a distant place from where there’ll be no path that returns to me? Or was I waiting to have a bottle of medicine, filled with a spirit to take on things, injected inside me? Indeed on many evenings standing on the terrace and looking at the fading light of horizon I wished for these and at last I sighed on every occasion with tears. Bathed in the rain I never told myself that I am drenched, I never told any book that you are a wonderful read, I never looked at any rose to say you are red and beautiful. I ran my palm softly on his forehead, he was still asleep and I smiled.

Those gun battle days made me fearful of my survival  for the next day yet I was enthralled of my living and discovering the different shades of human life amidst that lethal ambience. I saw them marching forward with indomitable spirits knowing they might not return alive; they killed people knowing that soon one of them will be killed. One of the senior officer told me this, “When I was young , newly joined army, I was oozing with an ardent love for my motherland and ready to kill any intruder. As time passed by I learnt to kill them by profession and save myself first before saving any land.” His words gave me goose pimples on that freezing morning; my fighting won’t kill anybody still I remained dormant to myself. Weeks passed by and I was getting more convinced that my life so far was a self-imposed treachery to myself that grew obsessive and created a black hole inside me; a black hole that has robbed me off to being courageous enough to face the delusional impossibilities of my life. I was like a bird that has accepted that it can’t fly just because somebody established the theory that a bird, caged for long, can’t fly. Coming here, I was at the crossroad of being guilty that if they can fight two battles simultaneously (one for their survival and other for themselves) why can’t I fight one battle for myself; but at the same time I breathed to know it’s never late.

With each news of Indian army’s victory over different points, I was getting proud and feeling blessed that I was a live witness to these, I could feel my happiness and I could see the jubilant people. On one such frosty night I was sleepless, other members of my crew was in deep sleep. A young officer on guard of age in early twenties was sitting with a gun at the entrance of the tent. For his clumsy countenance, I asked him the reason. He replied, “They killed my friend in the battle of capturing today’s point in way as if they were practicing bullet firing on a cardboard dart. I am awaiting my turn to march forward and I will give them more brutal death.” I sensed that his friend must have been most cruelly shot down. I sat down beside him but he went away immediately; I heard him vomit. Few minutes later he came back and haven’t uttered any word but was showing up a restless melancholy. I was perplexed what to say; he was moving his fingers on the round edges nozzle of his gun. Short of words I ran my palm over his for few minutes when he took my palm between both of his. Watching the far away twinkled stars he said, “I was never fearful of anything in life, but joining army made me fear death. Not because I fear to die but because I fear that I won’t be able to see this world and myself ever if I die. When I die I won’t be able to wish and hope anything for myself, I won’t be able to see what is beautiful and what is ugly, I won’t be able to touch people, I won’t be able to feel  joy and sorrow, I won’t be able to realize victory and defeat. I want to see the different genres of everything I mentioned. I want to identify the colors which a sunrise and a sunset takes, I want to see how an ocean is different from river, I want to know how much it pains when the skin is cut.” On that on a star studded night surrounded with gun firings I was spell bindingly engrossed in the talks of a young boy revealing his intense passion to live knowing that he might be wiped off in this battlefield, from this earth at anytime. I was weeping in remorse for never loving my life and treated it as mine however it is. He, with a touch of awkwardness and trembling fingers, clothing my tears. I kissed him on his lips; he gave a proud expression that he is alive. I then rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes until the morning light dazzled my eyes.

Within few days I will depart from here. As I recollect today of all the happenings since the day I married, I discovered that I never attempted to dare something in my life fearing continuously of failure due to which I never knew what is failure; I never fought for something considering that my imagination is horizon. And above all I forgot that the life’s deepest pleasure is in living it, not just surviving. Throughout my war reporting I found that the different shades of human life assume colors what the human asks it to be. Not many are fortunate enough to understand the value of living by being on a war front; to reach out to them I will be publishing this transcript as a column in various circulations.

On my way back home, I will miss the people here who exemplified the spirit of human life. And I will miss that young boy... What a magician he is !!!