FIVE QUESTIONS

This piece was triggered by a poignant painting by the incredibly amazing artist  from Kashmir , Suhail H Naqshbandi, who works in watercolur , acrylics, and digital media. I was completely bowled over by his amazing creativity. you can check this link: behance.net/suhailnaqshbandi and also like his page .Hats off to his stupendous art ! 

THE TODDLERS WHO GREW WINGS

The three year old sat on a boulder, while clouds of all sizes  floated around him, like string- less balloons, [ah , how he had loved balloons ]  trying to tickle him out of his sadness, when another three year old headed towards him, face tear – streaked.

“I miss my mom,” the tiny newcomer said, with a muffled sob, looking listlessly at the feisty, well- meaning clouds.

 “You are a newcomer here, aren’t you? Come on, do not look so sad.”

“But, what can I do? I miss everyone. Oh mommy, my tummy pains, oh how it pains”, and he burst into uncontrollable sobs.

“Wipe those tears from your eyes. I also miss my mom, my dad, and my elder brother Ghalib. He was five. I came here on 2 September, 2015, and have been missing them ever since.” The three year old was saying, his tiny mouth puckering into a sad pout.

 “By the way, I am Aylan Kurdi, you know, I was looking forward to meeting my aunt, my dad’s sister in Canada.  She has been staying there for the past twenty years. ”
 The newcomer looked on, in sad, thoughtful silence, listening to his story.

“You know, dad tried so much to save us, the water lashed and thrashed us, our boat heading for the Greek island of Kos capsized,  it was so scary ….and we were lost in the inky blackness of the Aegean Sea. They were fighting in my home town, in fact everyone is fighting everyone else. Why? Is fighting essential ?  Are there fights from where you come? Come, and sit next to me. Do not cry.” He said, as endless tears streamed down his own cheeks.

The newcomer sat on another boulder, his tears also falling unceasingly, every now and then he looked at the tiny boy sitting on the rock.

“My father is still on the earth, my mom and brother are here, but I have not seen them, only wish I could. You know, dad is so distraught.  A chill of terror ran through me, when I lost the grip of dad’s hand, we clung to the boat. Oh how we clung! That picture of me and Ghalib flanking a teddy bear is so dear to me, it keeps coming back to me, oh brother! You did not tell me what your name is.”

“I am Burhan”. The chubby cheeked newcomer said, tears streaking down his cheeks. “You know, I did not go to school that day, it was a Friday, 18 September, I think.    I was not feeling well, had a slight cough, still have it, oh I miss my mom so much.  Dad picked me on his way back from the evening prayers. They came on motorbikes, I used to like motorbikes, but now I do not. They killed my dad, I was in his arms, and the next day I died.  ” He again burst into uncontrollable tears.  

Two tiny hands stretched towards him, and tried to wipe those tears.

“I am feeling so sleepy. My mom used to sing me to sleep. I was so full of mischief. Can you sing me to sleep? My fifteen month old sister, Hoorain must be missing me too, ah she is so pretty. My tummy pains so terribly, the bullet hit me here.”He lifted his shirt to show his new friend the spot where the bullet had hit him.  

“Why was I born if I had to die so soon? Why was I shot, what did I do? What was my fault?” He added, in tiny baby words, looking at the clouds which were making and unmaking themselves in a vain effort to humour the toddlers.  

 “You know, she loves me so much….my mom.  We live …oh sorry, lived in a two storey house in Segipora village in Sopore , area of North  Kashmir’s Baramullah district .I remember the address because , it was repeated to me so many times. Do not forget your address, do not forget your address  .What is my address now, huh  ? I keep forgetting that I am dead, oh death is so new to me, yet to get used to it. You are as old as me, I think, sorry, as young. I had just started school a few months back, I had a new school uniform, a new tiffin –box, a new school bag. Ah, everything was new. Now, everything is wasted. Who will use my things now?

“Does God reside here? I will plead with Him to bring them here.They say he is kind- hearted. Have you seen Him around? They cannot stay away from me. They say we were needed here, but, why are we needed here? I miss my mommy.

Actually, you know, I was just learning to use words, so I am not very good at the use of words. Sorry for using life where I should be using death. I am stupid, you know – may be that is why I was killed. I do not know anything.

My dad is also somewhere here, hope I see him, soon. But, I will not be able to see my uncles, my aunts, my cousins, I miss the walnut trees in my compound.”
 A fresh wave of tears had engulfed him anew, the other tiny boy left the rock and headed towards him and took him in a tight hug, and again wiped his tears with two tiny hands.  

Soon there was some noise. A contingent seemed to be heading towards them. They looked in its direction. They were children of all ages holding placards on which were inscribed Gaza, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Their faces were tear- streaked, lips parched.

“Look, there is a G,”

“I can also identify  Y.”

“There is the name of my country too S.Y..R..I ..A .” Aylan cried triumphantly.

 “Oh, is that boy, Ghalib? Look, look he is waving to me. Who is he, is he really Ghalib, my elder brother?”

“You know, mom used to sing this song for me, Hu kuss , bu kuss , teley van tche skus , and she even told me the meaning , Who is he ? Who are you? Now, tell me who am I?”Burhan murmured , his face an agonised question mark .

“Yes, who is he? Is he dead or alive?”

“We are all dead, you know. Even people down below are all dead, my mom used to say, as they have no feelings.” Burhan said, on the verge of tears.

They peered in the distance, and saw hordes and hordes of children heading towards them, small and big, tall and short – but all with expressions of stark terror on their faces, as if some Pied Piper had steered them here.  Seeing so many children, the two friends smiled through their tears, ran towards them and all of them started hugging each other.

 It felt like home. A safe home.

A home where children, small and big could live together peacefully, without fear of guns or grenades or drones.   

 A song emerged from some subterranean depths and swept across the surroundings. “Hu kus , bu kus , teley vann , tsa kuss ….Hu kuss , bu kuss , teley van tscha kuss.”* The clouds stopped floating, and pricked their fluffy ears to the mellifluous notes which were pouring from somewhere.

 The children slipped to the ground, drifting into a peaceful sleep, the placards lying by their sides.

The rest was silence.

*Hu kuss bu kuss:  An ageless Kashmiri song, rooted in Kashmir’s spiritual tradition which, with the passage of time morphed into a nonsense verse for children, its rhythmic cadences, it is said, have a soothing effect on toddlers, lulling them to sleep.