In Kashmir, tulips bloomed flaming yellow and red this spring too. As spring segues into summer, they fade. The wheel turns, another season arrives. And the Valley sighs, wondering if an ancient promise will materialise. Will the train to Kashmir, linking it to the rest of the country, ever morph from dream to reality? How long does it take for a dream to ripen? How many generations must turn to grass before the wait ends?
An eternity has passed since the ambitious project was first conceived. The Maharaja of Kashmir once wanted to try his hand at it. The British had plans to execute it in the heydays of the Raj. In the fifty year lifetime of the Indian republic, governments have come and gone, holding out the promise like a shimmering dream. Work on the rail goes on, some deadlines have been met, many have fallen like ninepins on the way.
Older Kashmiris have accepted this as a fact of life. They treat the project with the same stoicism reserved for birth and death. "It goes on…" they say. Their tone is laced with neither hope nor cynicism. "How long will it take? Who can tell," they sigh and get on with the business of life.
Time has whittled down their hope to resignation. The story goes back to 1898 when Maharaja Pratap Singh enticed his subjects with the prospect of a railway line connecting Srinagar with Jammu. But the empire objected. Bowing to imperialist dictate, the idea was abandoned. Many moons later, the British proposed a rail link between the two. It was a spectacular project – a line snaking over the formidable Pir Panjal mountain range climbing up to a height of 11,000 feet. Powered by hydro-electricity drawn from mountain streams generously strewn over the range. The Maharaja approved the plan. But harsh reality never let it take off. The engineering challenges involved in negotiating the terrain sounded its death knell.
In 1983, the Indian government flagged off the construction of a rail line linking Jammu to Udhampur. Work on the fifty-kilometre stretch was to be completed in five years. The line, cutting across the Shivalik Hills would have 20 tunnels and 160 bridges. The Shivalik Hills posed lesser topographical challenges than the Pir Panjals to engineers. Even so, the line took 21 years to be functional. Built at an estimated cost of 550 crores, it was inaugurated on April 13, 2005.
It didn't take a savant to see that a rail link to the isolated Valley would bring its people closer to the mainstream. Years of centre-state hostility could be bridged at least to some extent through the connection. In 1994, the central government announced that a railway line connecting Udhampur-Quazigund and Srinagar, running all the way up to far-flung Baramullah was in the pipeline. It would make travel to and within Kashmir a less daunting task for residents as well as tourists. It would end years of Kashmir's alienation and open up new channels of communication. It was a prospect full of promise.
But hurdles loom large on its horizon. The project is one of the most challenging railway engineering feats ever attempted. Experts compare it to the recently completed China-Tibet railway line in terms of complexity.
Construction has to keep in mind the challenge posed by extreme winters and heavy snowfalls. The route crosses the Pir Panjals whose peaks touch dizzying heights of about 15,000 feet. Bridges, tunnels and via ducts have to be erected. The mountain stands tall in the face of puny mankind. Then, there is the mighty Chenab. A rail bridge -- 1315 metres long and 395 metres above the river bed – is being built across a stretch. Once completed, this structure will be the highest railway bridge in the world.
"Water seepage threatens the tunnels. The mountain exerts pressure on the tunnel beds and their dimensions have to be squeezed," says an engineer who has been working on the Quazigund stretch. Avalanches and snowfall has often put a stop to construction work. They also stand in the way of transporting coaches from Jammu to the Valley for trial runs.
"I've seen a train onscreen…in a Mithun Chakrabarty film," grins fourteen-year-old Vijay. He lives in Nowgam, a sleepy village in Srinagar's suburbs where the newly constructed railway station is located. Vijay and his parents have watched the coaches chugging across the line during the recent trial runs. "I can't wait to get on the train," says Vijay. "I want to hop on it and travel to Bombay, Delhi." He imagines the metros as exotic fairylands the train will ferry him to. His parents are sceptical about whether they will live long enough to see the train service become operational.
"Who knows what the government is planning!" asks Sabah. Her family has lived in Nowgam for generations. Sabah's family distrusts the rail link. "It will erode the essence of Kashmiri culture by throwing our doors wide open to the world," says Sabah's grandfather. "It will bring us closer to the rest of the country, the world," Sabah agrees. "But I worry that it will change us in ways we don't expect."
The latest update is that the stretch within Kashmir, from Qazigund to Rajwansher, will begin operations in 2008-2009. According to the railway budget of 2008, the deadline for the Udhampur- Qazigund link has been stretched to 2012. The authorities are tight lipped about the Udhampur-Katra route after recent tunneling difficulties. There was hope that it would be completed by 2013, but more delays are expected.
And so the Valley waits.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Moving
Landlords move in mysterious ways. At least, mine does. All through the mellow months of January and February, he seemed fine with life as we know it. Perfectly civil tenant-landlord ties, we shared. Loosely translated, this meant polite 'good mornings' and good evenings' when I crossed the path of my landlord and his lawfully wedded wife. Our occasional chats covered the weather (too hot/too cold/ what fine weather), my job (journalism, such an exciting job, no?), annoying breakdowns (no water/ no power/bad plumbing).
Not that I took it to be a bond for life or anything, but we seemed to be getting along just fine. Lulled into a false sense of security by this state of affairs, I was trudging up the stairs one fine March evening. Living in a barsaati is an elevating experience. Both for body and soul. The terrace, a wide open space, such a rarity in the national capital. Blue skies above. The wind in your face. As for the daily climb up seemingly endless flights of stairs, that's mandatory exercise I can't shirk if I want to get home at the end of the day.
So, as I was humming a tune and floating (in a metaphorical sort of way, of course) up the stairway, my landlord decided to drop the bomb. There are many ways to shock tenants out of their minds. You could do it at a gradual pace. Begin by dropping a hint or two every week to warn the unsuspecting victim. Build up the tension a bit before pulling the plug. That way, the tenant might actually be prepared for the blow. And be left unscarred to move on to live a more productive life some place else.
Of course, my landlord did not subscribe to this school of thought. He executed his mission with the rashness of Bush ordering his men to bomb Afghanistan or blow up Iraq. No warning or prologue. Just a brusque announcement that he was not planning on renewing my lease. Ergo, I must clear out of the house as soon as humanly possible. End of conversation.
If only landlords didn't make arbitrary choices. If only they believed in reason or rhyme. If only there was a law against arbitrariness. If only someone would issue a fatwa against
feudal lords like these...After wasting a few precious days on such bizarre wishes, I started my preparations for the move.
There must be people out there who can move houses in the blink of an eye. They break down the convoluted process into pre-orchestrated steps. The moment they hear their landlords string together 'lease' and 'move' in a sentence, they speed dial their realtor's office. Movers and packers are summoned. Curtains and carpets and cushions and kitchenware are bundled into cartons. Books are bubble wrapped. Antiques and trinkets, photographs and paintings. Each in its own case, neatly packed, colour coded. Walls stripped bare in the blink of an eye. House dismantled in the space of a heartbeat. Moving at a war footing. Made ruthlessly efficient.
I must confess my circle of friends does not include members of this exemplary tribe. But I am not ruling out the possibility of their existence. Unlike the Sufis, I am not a stickler for experiential truth. I assume they occupy the planet, these ruthless movers, though I haven't actually run into any yet. The efficient movers must be zipping from apartment A to apartment B, belongings safely in tow, even as we speak. Some of them may write best selling guides on 'moving made easy' in the near future. Dish out dollops of chicken soup for the mover's soul. Enlighten the faint-hearted on the art of moving without moping.
But until that day dawns, moving will continue to be a loopy, disorienting, emotionally exhausting experience for us mortals.
First, the fundamental annoyances. Wheeling and dealing with your realtor. Infinite number of expeditions under the blazing summer sun to zoom in on a new place. Inane conversations with landlords/ladies haggling over astronomical rents. Your concept of a house – lots of light, airy and light, many windows to let in the light. Power, water, plumbing in place. Their concept – four walls, a ceiling. What else could you possibly want?
Bruised and battered from these encounters, you enter the next round. Knowing where you are going is not the end of the story. Round two lies in wait. Deciding what you want to take with you and what you can junk/leave behind.
This is no simple task. It's as befuddling as life's most enigmatic questions. If death and sex are eternal riddles hovering over humankind, so is this one. It calls for stock taking of the worst kind. It demands superhuman objectivity. It asks you to make an inventory of your life and then whittle it down to bare essentials. Packing up is letting go. In every sense of the cliched phrase.
For example. I have lived in three cities in the last three years. Souvenirs from all three are part of my baggage. Some of them have no utilitarian value. Some do, but I picked them up more for their finely crafted exterior than their actual, everyday purpose. Wicker baskets from Kashmir. A hookah from Srinagar. Metal work from the interiors of Maharashtra.
So I line them up and give them the once over. What must I take? What can I junk to lighten my load?
I single out the wicker baskets. But in comes a flood of memories. This one – I picked up in a crowded Srinagar market during my first assignment in Kashmir. This one – during a lazy jaunt in Sopore, strolling past saffron fields in bloom. That one...
Move on to the piles of books and magazines that have sprouted like hillocks on the floor. Saying goodbye to a book is like having an organ removed from your body. Better not risk it, I decide.
An old picture in a smashed frame. May be that could go into the trash can. But the people in the photograph have electric eyes. They watch my every move. If you dump us in the bin, there will be retribution, says their glint.
As the evening fades to night, I put a stop to my hopeless pruning exercise. Step out on the terrace and breathe in the cool air. Across the street, the familiar green of the tall neem tree. Darkened a shade deeper by the night. I hear parrots chirping from their perch in the branches. This tree is their home, asylum at twilight. I listen to them. This tree. This green. These birds.
These, I must leave behind.
Not that I took it to be a bond for life or anything, but we seemed to be getting along just fine. Lulled into a false sense of security by this state of affairs, I was trudging up the stairs one fine March evening. Living in a barsaati is an elevating experience. Both for body and soul. The terrace, a wide open space, such a rarity in the national capital. Blue skies above. The wind in your face. As for the daily climb up seemingly endless flights of stairs, that's mandatory exercise I can't shirk if I want to get home at the end of the day.
So, as I was humming a tune and floating (in a metaphorical sort of way, of course) up the stairway, my landlord decided to drop the bomb. There are many ways to shock tenants out of their minds. You could do it at a gradual pace. Begin by dropping a hint or two every week to warn the unsuspecting victim. Build up the tension a bit before pulling the plug. That way, the tenant might actually be prepared for the blow. And be left unscarred to move on to live a more productive life some place else.
Of course, my landlord did not subscribe to this school of thought. He executed his mission with the rashness of Bush ordering his men to bomb Afghanistan or blow up Iraq. No warning or prologue. Just a brusque announcement that he was not planning on renewing my lease. Ergo, I must clear out of the house as soon as humanly possible. End of conversation.
If only landlords didn't make arbitrary choices. If only they believed in reason or rhyme. If only there was a law against arbitrariness. If only someone would issue a fatwa against
feudal lords like these...After wasting a few precious days on such bizarre wishes, I started my preparations for the move.
There must be people out there who can move houses in the blink of an eye. They break down the convoluted process into pre-orchestrated steps. The moment they hear their landlords string together 'lease' and 'move' in a sentence, they speed dial their realtor's office. Movers and packers are summoned. Curtains and carpets and cushions and kitchenware are bundled into cartons. Books are bubble wrapped. Antiques and trinkets, photographs and paintings. Each in its own case, neatly packed, colour coded. Walls stripped bare in the blink of an eye. House dismantled in the space of a heartbeat. Moving at a war footing. Made ruthlessly efficient.
I must confess my circle of friends does not include members of this exemplary tribe. But I am not ruling out the possibility of their existence. Unlike the Sufis, I am not a stickler for experiential truth. I assume they occupy the planet, these ruthless movers, though I haven't actually run into any yet. The efficient movers must be zipping from apartment A to apartment B, belongings safely in tow, even as we speak. Some of them may write best selling guides on 'moving made easy' in the near future. Dish out dollops of chicken soup for the mover's soul. Enlighten the faint-hearted on the art of moving without moping.
But until that day dawns, moving will continue to be a loopy, disorienting, emotionally exhausting experience for us mortals.
First, the fundamental annoyances. Wheeling and dealing with your realtor. Infinite number of expeditions under the blazing summer sun to zoom in on a new place. Inane conversations with landlords/ladies haggling over astronomical rents. Your concept of a house – lots of light, airy and light, many windows to let in the light. Power, water, plumbing in place. Their concept – four walls, a ceiling. What else could you possibly want?
Bruised and battered from these encounters, you enter the next round. Knowing where you are going is not the end of the story. Round two lies in wait. Deciding what you want to take with you and what you can junk/leave behind.
This is no simple task. It's as befuddling as life's most enigmatic questions. If death and sex are eternal riddles hovering over humankind, so is this one. It calls for stock taking of the worst kind. It demands superhuman objectivity. It asks you to make an inventory of your life and then whittle it down to bare essentials. Packing up is letting go. In every sense of the cliched phrase.
For example. I have lived in three cities in the last three years. Souvenirs from all three are part of my baggage. Some of them have no utilitarian value. Some do, but I picked them up more for their finely crafted exterior than their actual, everyday purpose. Wicker baskets from Kashmir. A hookah from Srinagar. Metal work from the interiors of Maharashtra.
So I line them up and give them the once over. What must I take? What can I junk to lighten my load?
I single out the wicker baskets. But in comes a flood of memories. This one – I picked up in a crowded Srinagar market during my first assignment in Kashmir. This one – during a lazy jaunt in Sopore, strolling past saffron fields in bloom. That one...
Move on to the piles of books and magazines that have sprouted like hillocks on the floor. Saying goodbye to a book is like having an organ removed from your body. Better not risk it, I decide.
An old picture in a smashed frame. May be that could go into the trash can. But the people in the photograph have electric eyes. They watch my every move. If you dump us in the bin, there will be retribution, says their glint.
As the evening fades to night, I put a stop to my hopeless pruning exercise. Step out on the terrace and breathe in the cool air. Across the street, the familiar green of the tall neem tree. Darkened a shade deeper by the night. I hear parrots chirping from their perch in the branches. This tree is their home, asylum at twilight. I listen to them. This tree. This green. These birds.
These, I must leave behind.
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