The Saffron Autumn

The phone by his bedside crackled, his hand was trembling as he moved it to pick up the receiver. His thoughts raced back to the afternoon when in the Kashmir University auditorium a girl, not him, got the best student of the year award, which he thought of as his birth right.

"Kus Chuh?" (Who is it?), he spoke in Kashmiri. He hated Hello's of English, but loved and wanted to master this alien language. "Hi! It is me..." the name sounded like a grenade blast near his ear. " What do you want," he asked in a tone filled with rage, anger and hatred. "Don't be upset that I got the prize. Situations change, so do priorities; don't they," she said calmly in her sweet voice. "Get to the point, what do you want?" He asked in the same tone as before. "How about meeting tomorrow at 4 at the Waterfall cafe." "No way!" he tried to shout, but the sweetness of her voice, the hidden shyness, the smile he could visualize made him say, "why not?" and she snapped cut the line.

"Why would she want to meet me?" He contemplated many answers but none seemed appropriate.

A table had already been reserved, he took the seat, sipped Kahwa, waited, waited and waited. She finally arrived, just half an hour late. "Sorry! Got caught up in a crackdown (a cordon and search operation of the army)" "What do you want from me after you have taken away from me the award I cherished most." He asked even before she had taken the seat. " Oh! Come on, cheer up, lets order something, what would you like to have?" "Anything," he shouted but felt bad about it as soon as he cast his eyes directly on her for the first time. Over a lunch, which was nothing less than a feast, she talked in detail about a novel she was writing and she wanted him to be the co - novelist. The novel was about Kashmir, its agony and pain - seen through the eyes of a young boy. He had always dreamed of writing a novel and he agreed, feeling himself on cloud nine.

Over long walks on the boulevard, running along the Dal Lake, they talked, laughed, tried fishing and discussed the novel. The cool spring breezes gave way to a warm summer and their walks continued. What was destined to happen did happen. They grew closer emotionally. Suhail's hatred gave way to love. A love he said would last forever!

These discussions had one more effect; they led Suhail to realize how so far he had been oblivious to the happenings around him. How he even ignored to read the news on the deaths, the daily death tolls. For him news about the killings was never worth to be read beyond the headlines. He realized that he should not be discussing a novel but fighting for the freedom of his valley, the Vale of Kashmir.

"Are these newspaper reports true?" a foreign journalist visiting Kashmir for the first time, asked him. Suhail could just recall Agah Shahid's,a Kashmiri poet, words:

"But the reports are true, and with out songs: mass rapes in the villages, towns left in cinder, neighborhoods torched. "Power is hideous/ like a barber's hand." The rubble of downtown Srinagar stares at me from the Times.

Summer went by, gave way to autumn. Suhail's mind each day seemed to probe deeper and deeper the reason for him to live. She was one. How important? Situations change, so do priorities, hadn't she told him that? He knew what he should be doing. He got the answers.

On a lovely autumn day walking slowly on the Residency Road carpeted saffron by the Chinar leaves she could see in him a desire to rebel. To fight. To die. How true was her feeling? Only time would answer. After their thorough frisking on the Residency Road by a patrolling party, they walked on to have Nun Chai, local salted tea, in Ahdoo’s restaurant. "I am leaving. I have met all I need to meet. I am going to fight and die for my land." Tears moved faster out of her eyes than did the Jhelum. She could say nothing as he spoke these words which pierced her more than a bullet ever could. She loved him, didn't she? How could he be so inconsiderate? He left...not answering any of her questions. He left her? How could he? But deep down she knew he was going for a right cause. She knew that had he stayed to answer her questions and talked to her, neither her nor him would have been able to separate.

The blown off body of a young man. The blood had frozen before it could color red the snow, splashed across the front page of the newspaper. The news read: A young man blew himself off in front of an installation. Unidentified." It was him," she knew. She could recognize, even if it was blown off, him. She could see the smile that he always wore on his face. A suicide bomber was unheard of in this vale. She frantically tried to call Suhail's home. His phone was out of order, as was a usual happening in winter. She could hear the sound of boots of a patrolling party on the road. She could not move out. Indefinite curfew had been imposed and shoot at sight orders had been given after the attack. She could do just one thing - cry - and cry she did.

The moon shone brightly and lighted up the whole valley covered with snow. The phone crackled. She looked at it with longing eyes, wishing it were he. But it couldn't be him. Could it be? "Hello, who is it." "Me." Suhail said in a calm voice. She fell down. "You!" she left out a cry of loneliness, despair and happiness. "Yes, it its me, I knew that you would be worried after seeing the newspaper reports. He was of my age and looked a lot like me. We were good friends. Just wanted to tell you it was not me, my attack will be tomorrow."