By Deepak Budki 

The city was agog with the rumours that informers were being hounded out, put to death. For the past fifty years the Valley had not known of even a single death but now four or five killings every day had become the order of the day.

Fear and anguish were writ large on everyone's face. It was difficult to trust one's own shadow. People started questioning  themselves 'Does my name appear in the list of informers?'...'Do they suspect me of connection with security forces?', or 'Has someone seen me talking to any security personnel?'

With every question that one asked oneself, restlessness would increase. 'Does anyone know about my political allegiance?'  And then his heart would beat faster with anxiety.. 'I do not suppose I have any enmity with any one that matters in today's world, then why should I be singled out?' His blood pressure would soar still high. Next day he would issue a clarificatoryadvertisement in a local daily so that people came to know that he was not connected with any political party nor did he have anything to do with any espionage agency.

One does not fear death as much as one fears the very idea of death. Everyone was working out plans to escape the inevitable death. Some tendered apologies in the press, some resorted to explaining their position, while others simply bade goodbye to the Valley.

However, Nilakanth did not take recourse to any of these. He had spent the sixty five years of his life honestly and with utmost austerity in the Valley. Even now he spent his days without worrying about the vitiated atmosphere around him.

The house of Nilakanth, made of Maharaja bricks akin to today's tiles, plastered with mud and covered with shingle roof, was situated on the bank of River Jehlum, which majestically flowed by since ages. He lived in a place called Habbakadal. This was the only place in the city of Srinagar that would come to life everyday with the cock's first crow. On the one hand the temple bells would start ringing, while on the other the Muezzin would call the faithful to pray to God. Within no time, the hawkers would throng theHabbakadal bridge and lure customers with the best sells. You could hear the vegetable sellers selling knol khol, lotus roots and Kashmiri saag, and fisherwomen taking swearing on petty pretexts to sell their fish. From one corner arose the appetizing smells from the baker's ovens, while from the other corner the sweet fragrance of milk arose from the Karahis of theSweatmeat shops. You could see a Hindu customer incanting Gaytri Mantra while buying fish, while you could see a Muslim incanting Surah Bakr of HolyQuran while checking the bundle of lotus roots. During the day the atmosphere became lively with the horses galloping on the road, bicycles ringing and making their way through the crowd and the puttering noise of the autorickshaws. The noise would continue till midnight. The road presented a captivating picture at the time boys and girls marched to their schools and colleges. Groups of young beautiful belles, clad in snowwhite kurta andshalwars, would be seen followed by young sadistic boys looking  for an opportunity to tease them. They would seize every little chance to pass a remark, while the coy young girl would simply blush, perspire and yet feel amused.

Today, it looked different. There was a sudden change in the air. God knew why Nilakanth was immersed in deep thoughts. His aged wife had just cleaned the pipe of his Hookah and changed its water. He filled the chilamwith tobacco and topped it with burning charcoal and then sucked in a long draught of smoke through the pipe. While exhaling, clouds of smoke came out from his mouth. He looked blank for a moment with no thought whatsoever. He coughed for a while and then got immersed in his thoughts again.

He remembered the day of his marriage when he had to simply cross theHabbakadal bridge since the house of Arundati was situated on the opposite bank of the river. He could see her parental house from his own window, and watch her standing near the window. It was just the majestic Jehlum that separated their houses from each other.

After finishing her daily chores, Arundati sat by his side. One doesn't know how time flies. "Forty five years have passed since we got married,"Nilakanth said to Arundati while looking at her face with disbelief.

"You sound romantic. How come you remembered your marriage, that too after all these years", Arundati was surprised.

"Just like that. Do you know what date is it today?"

"Date and Time! Who cares to remember them at this age? Don't you see our life is like a calendar of bygone year which hangs on the wall simply because it contains the picture of a God. Had there been no picture of God on it we would have thrown it away long back. We too are there hanging with the thread of time because they rever us and cannot throw us into the dustbin. Don't you think we too have become such Gods, waiting for time to wither us?"

"You are right, Arni. We too are waiting for our fate like those obsolete calendars on the wall".

Poor old Arni remembered that she had kept 'Kahwa' on the heater. "Perhaps, it must have started boiling", she thought with herself and taking support of the wall stood up and brought the tea kettle and two khasus, the brass cups.Nilakanth put his pipe aside, held the Khasu with his right hand, covered with the arm of phiran to use it as an insulation. Arundati poured tea into hisKhasu and then went back, filled another Khasu for herself and again sat by the side of her husband.

"Arundati, do you remember that I used to watch you for hours from the roof of my house?"

"What has possessed you, you sound strange today".

She interrupted her husband and later herself became nostalgic about her childhood. Arundati was five years younger than her husband but due to acute arthritis for the last ten years her fingers had become ankylosed and swollen. Winter season aggravated her pain. The joint pain restricted the movement of her hands and feet but there was no way out, the household chores had to be performed because there was nobody to help her in this old age. Not that she did not have children but they were all gone, fending for their own families.One in America and the other in Mumbai.

"My right eyelid has been trembling for the last so many days. God knows what is to befall us". Arundati tore a small piece from the strawmatunderneath, moistening it with saliva she then put it on right eyelid in order to stop trembling.

"Our destiny is written in the Heavens above. Whatever has to happen will definitely happen", Nilakanth sounded pensive and resigned.

Arundati had never seen her husband resigned to fate earlier. She showed her annoyance when she couldn't get replies to her queries. For the last several days she had observed Nilakanth closing windows and the doors before going to sleep. He would check each latch of those to make sure that he had closed them properly. Sometimes, he would suddenly get up from his bed at night, carefully push the curtain of a window aside and peep into the darkness outside. Except the movement of the army vehicles and the foot fall of the soldiers on their nightly rounds he could hear nothing. And then he would return to his bed gripped with fear and anxiety.

"There is so much anxiety on your face, what is it that is eating you up? Have faith in God, everything will be all right, "Arundati would console her husband to put his fears to rest.

"Arni, it is not anxiety, but you should know that the situation has taken a bloody turn never witnessed before. The Lord Yama is plodding in every street on his Vahana., the buffalo. Only he knows what is going to happen next", Nilakanth laid bare the facts for he could contain himself no longer.

Old Arundati remembered the time when the Valley was invaded by thetribals from across the border, indulging in rape and slaughter. She was eighteen then. Heart-rending accounts of killing and rape everyday sent shivers through the spine of everybody. Srinagar city received the news that the tribal invaders had killed thousands of unarmed innocent people from Uri to Baramulla. They had not even spared the nuns of the local convent inBaramulla town and were heading towards Srinagar. People expected them anytime. Women, particularly the young girls decided to electrocute themselves to save their honour but as luck would have it the electric supply to the city was snatched away for days on end and they looked helpless. Their suicide plans could not be executed in the event the tribals entered the city and every moment turned into death alarm. Death that was approaching slowly but steadily.

One fine day news was received that the Indian army had pushed back the raiders and they were on the run. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Arundatihad depicted unbounded courage those days. To this day she was proud of herself. How a similar situation had arisen. She implored to her husband, "Why do you worry? We have been through hell during the tribal raid. We will be through it somehow, why do you lose heart".

Having heard his wife's courageous words, Nilakanth heaved a sigh of relief but at the same time he pitied her innocence and simplicity.

Every morning he would lap up every line of newspapers. This was the only link left with the outside world. News came but in trickles, more fearsome than the previous one. Both souls writhed in anguish like clipped wingless birds.

"This is all your doing. Now face it. Veeru had invited us to America so many times but everytime you refused to go. God knows what keeps you glued to this place. Agreed that his wife is an American but how does it matter. She would not throw us out of her house. We would just occupy a corner of their house. We could have looked after their children. Children after all are the biggest source of satisfaction to the old people," Arundati spoke her heart out.

"It is not the question of Veeru's wife. You don't understand. At this age one is afraid to leave one's home. All our lives we have not even gone beyondJawahar Tunnel, how can we think of going and staying beyond the vast ocean. Who knows what kind of country that would be, what kind of peoplewould we come across, what is their style of life. And then why do you put all the blame on me? Your heart too was not inclined to leave this place".

"Ok, leave Veeru aside, Kaki too had invited you to Mumbai. You refused to go there because you thought breaking bread at a daughter's house was like eating beef. Have you forgotten that?"

"Arni, you just can't understand. If they really loved us they could have come here and taken us with them. How could we have refused then?"

"Both of them were ready to come but they were afraid of you. Your decisions are final. You are untractable. Remember, you had written letters to them not to come".

Veeru and Kaki both remained busy looking after their families in those metropolitan cities. In the Valley the old couple would count the days. How many were past! God knows how many remain.

"Today is the 7th of Shrawan. Birthday of Veeru's son. You should have prepared 'Tahri', the auspicious yellow rice today.

"It is Janam Ashtami today. Kaki's daughter was born today only. I hope you have sent a telegram to her?"

Both husband and wife remembered Veeru and Kaki, their children every passing moment. It seemed ages when we had received letters from them. Old age and loneliness are killing. One longs to see one's children but they think it is our selfishness to crave for children. How can one live without near and dear ones.

"Write to your son tomorrow asking him to send us tickets," Arundati ordered her husband.

"I am also thinking likewise. I shall call Kaki today. We shall stay in Mumbai for a few days and then go to Veeru's place".

"Do whatever you think right. It is already late in the night. Now go to sleep".

Arundati switched on the night lamp after all other lights were put off.Nilakanth was still uneasy. He got up from the bed and reassured himself that all the windows and doors had been secured. Till he was not convinced that everything was in place he strolled in the room wantonly. And then he was back in his warm bed. He handed over his Kangri to Arundati to keep it safely aside and then burrowed deep under the quilt. Sleep eluded him tonight. He kept turning in his bed. In the meantime there was a loud tap on the main door. Who could be at such a late hour? Their souls were gripped by fear; they shrank into their beds. Even stopped breathing out of fear.

Then they heard the cracking sound of the door being opened. Someone kicked the door of the room as well. The door opened wide like a wound. Twoyoungmen with mufflers masking their faces and with sten-guns in theirhands, entered the room.

Without waiting they started firing indiscriminately. Though the souls of both old creatures had already left their bodies out of fear, yet the bodies had blood in them which gushed out from underneath the quilts. The armed youth turned round and left after a while, leaving death and silence behind.

Next day, the local newspaper carried following headline:

The Mujahids killed two informers, Nilakanth and Arundati in Habbakadal. They were suspected of being spies working for the Indian army.

*(This is the English rendering of author's short story 'Mukhbir', originally written in Urdu and published earlier).

By Deepak Budki

Urdu literature is indeed indebted  to writers like Mir, Ghalib, Iqbal, Prem Chand, Mantoo and Bedi for their creative and original writings but one cannot undermine the contributions of critics and research scholars like Altaf  Hussain Hali, Ehtesham Hussain, Aal-e- Ahmed Saroor, Qamar Rais and the like for exploring the worlds of these writers in depth and preparing the common mind to appreciate them. One such scholar is Dr. Brij Premi who despite meager resources at his disposal explored the intricate world of Manto, a doyen of Urdu fiction . In fact, it took Premi almost a decade to collect data about Saadat Hassan Manto from different  parts of the Sub-continent where Manto had either stayed  for a short time or lived for a longer duration, especially  from across the border i.e. Pakistan where Manto had ultimately migrated  at the time of partition never to return to the land he loved the most, viz Bombay, now rechristened  as Mumbai.  Brij Premi set out to explore the virgin world of Manto at a time when Urdu, Iqbal and Manto had become an anathema in India. The boldness, promiscuity and  notoriety attached to Manto, the D H Lawrence of Urdu Literature, had invited the ire of self styled purists in both India and Pakistan.

Brij Krishen Aima was born in a lower middle class family in Kashmir Valley. He lost his father at an early age and had to support  his family when he was just fourteen. He joined the Boy-service in the State Deptt. of Education after giving up his education. As a teacher, he  suffered as a result of transfers from one village to another. His first pay packet was a meager sum of thirty rupees. Under such circumstances it was but natural that he should join the bandwagon of Progressive writers who were very active at that time.

His first short story “Aqa” (The Master) was published in ‘the Amarjyoti’,Srinagar. Thereafter his stories appeared one after the other in a number of newspapers and magazines within and without the state of Jammu and Kashmir. He adopted the pen name of ‘Brij Premi’ and established himself as a short story writer in the valley. He writes about himself,  "My literary life as a short-story writer started in the middle of twentieth century. More often than not I used to pour out the pain and anguish  of my soul into my stories. Even now whenever my inner agony makes me restless , a story is born. In fact, short-story writing is my first love (Harfe Just-ajoo)."

Brij Premi’s inner world was no different from the outer world in which he was  constrained to live. The peasants, the labourers and the  artisans of Kashmir were continuously being exploited by landlords and the capitalists, and consequently rendered poor, starved and penniless. The sub-human conditions in which his brethren  lived haunted him   day and night and hence he used his pen to depict their plight. He drew inspiration from  Prem Nath Pardesi, another progressive writer who was popularly known as ‘the Prem Chand of Kashmir’. Apart from Pardesi, Brij Premi was influenced by the  great romanticist, Krishen Chander, who had  an emotional attachment with J&K State and used to describe its natural beauty  in mesmerizing  narrative in his short-stories . Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi too had influenced Brij Premi’s style to some extent. Notwithstanding, the writer who most influenced Brij Premi  in his later life was the bespectacled, Liquor–addict  workhorse known as Saadat Hassan Manto. The latter had  such an impact  on his mind that he devoted his rest of life to undertake extensive research on Manto . Premi not only wrote ‘Saadat Hassan Manto-Life and works’ and ‘Manto Katha’ but also conducted research on several writers of J&K State besides other historical and  literary topics. Alas, the cruel jaws of death snatched him away at a time when he was at his productive best.

While talking of Brij Premi I must acknowledge the dedication and devotion of his worthy son Dr. Premi Romani towards his illustrious father.  I came to know Dr.Brij Premi through his son only when I was beginning to enter the ‘Make believe world of Literature’ from that of ‘Matter of the fact world of Science’. Romani having noticed my flair for calligraphy  asked me to write the final copies of his father’s thesis   .We used to sit till late in the night in his house at  Ali Kadal, Brij Premi used to give the corrected copy of his thesis which I used to write legibly. However I could not keep  my promise to the end due to some personal compulsions and wrote  about sixty percent of  the thesis only. Later Romani himself completed the rest. However, at the end, I  decorated  the thesis by drawing  caricatures of Manto at the beginning of each chapter.  My joy knew no bounds when only after 2-3 months I came to know that Brij Premi had been awarded the Doctorate by the Univesity of Kashmir. Having come to know Brij Premi so closely, I found him an unassuming, soft spoken and a thorough gentleman who  had devoted a life time to Urdu literature and   Kashmir History. He  would not, however, display his knowledge by talking about it every where which was a distinct sign of his humility. He was simple in his life style, coy and modest and showed no signs of promiscuousness commonly attributed to the poets and prose writers.

Abdul  Ghani Sheikh writes about Dr. Brij Premi, “Krishen Chander and Manto have a vivid influence  on the thought and style of Premi. His choice of words and felicity of his diction are superlative”. I do not, however, entirely agree with AG Sheikh. It is true that Brij Premi spent his life time on Manto and his works and one can see the latter’s influence on Premi’s writing in later part of his life but fact remains that most of the short stories written by Premi had been penned down much before Manto had made any impact on his mind. Though Premi wanted  to write stories based on psychology  and human  behaviour in the footsteps of Manto yet his own gentlemanliness and lack of exposure to what Manto called ‘Sewers of  society’  became a stumbling block for him. There were no brothels to visit in Kashmir, no Saugandhis or Sultanas to keep him company nor were there  any Babu Gopi Naths to sacrifice everything for these forlorn castaways. Pushkar Nath, a well-known writer from Kashmir comments, “Those days Manto started dominating the literary scene and slowly Brij Premi got attracted towards him. Though he could not write exactly like Manto since he did not have a similar environment as Manto was beset in, yet he absorbed and assimilated each and every word  of Manto and ultimately it all fructified in the form of his thesis ‘Sa’adat Hassan Manto Life and Works’.

‘Sapnoon Ki Sham’, a collection of short stories written by Dr.Brij Premi contains sixteen short stories. Most of them are  written against the backdrop of beautiful  lush green fields of Kashmir surrounded by blue snow- capped mountains but poverty and exploitation which resulted in pestilence and consumption ultimately take over and expose the delicate moth-eaten fabric of the society. In  “Mansbal Jab Sookh Gaya” (When Manasbal Dried), a helpless mentally delinquent servant stakes his life to protect the property of his master. In ‘Larazte Aansoo’ (Trembling Tears), a man  seeking transfer on account of unhygienic conditions is asked by his boss to send his daughter which enrages  him  and turns him into a Socialist. “Hansi Ki Maut” (Death of a Smile) is a story of  brave educated and hardworking lady who struggles all her life to support her unemployed  husband and the child. ‘Bahte Nasoor’ (Festering Sores) comprises three short short-stories or what we now call Mini stories. In the first, Prakash seduces his girl friend and  later sells her in Bombay red light area. In the second, a father loses his son for mere four annas which he could not afford. In the third story   two friends are compared, one who has acquired riches while the other  still remains a pauper.

‘Nanhi Kahanyan’ (possibly the word was coined to mean Mini Stories)comprises two short short- stories. In the first the exploitation  of police is exposed while in the second a master kills his servant for not supplying him his wife. ‘Ujhri Baharoon Ke Ujhre Phool’ (The Withered Flowers of Wasted Spring) is a story revealed by a madman who loses his wife and child as a result of  unemployment and consequent penury and finds his dreams  shattered . In ‘Yaad’ (The Memories) the narrator keeps watching the oarsman while crossing a river. The Oarsman  is lost in his thoughts trying to recollect his love-affair  in youth. ‘Sharnarthi’ (The Refugee) is a story of a refugee who has lost his father defending his village and is himself crushed mercilessly by a richman under his car. Surprisingly, the richman is not booked by the police. ‘Chilman Ke Sayoon Mein’ (Behind the curtain) is based on fetishism and has a distinct imprint of Manto in its treatment. ‘Aansoon ke Deep’ (The Tearful Farewell) is a story of a mother saying goodbye to a dying child.

‘Sapnoon ki Sham’ is a romantic story written  in the style of Krishan Chander in which an uneducated woman Saaji falls in love with a village teacher who saves her life. She is later married to another person Salaama. Saaji is drowned in the rivulet  flowing by while trying to build a bund on its banks to provide help to her husband. The village teacher  offers a wreathe of his tears to the deceased while sitting on the bank of the rivulet. ‘Mere Bache Ki Saalgirah’  (The Birthday of my Son) is a story of dreams and apprehensions with romantic narrative in Krishan Chander style. The story touches the personal life of the progressive writer who is congratulated by his friends prophesying  that ‘Mao’ had taken birth in his house in the shape of his child. Needless to say that the writer must have felt proud dreaming his child to be a Mao in the making at  a time when Socialism was regarded as the ultimate goal of a  civilized society. ‘Amar Jyoti’ (The Eternal Flame) is another story influenced by Socialism where a Russian lady honours a dead body by digging a grave for him under the cloud of bullets and canons. Later on she   lights a flame on his grave. ‘Lamhon Ki Rakh’ (The Embers of Time) is a nostalgic  recollection of the narrator’s past love affair with Almas.‘Teesein Dard Ki’ (Writhes of pain) is a story of an apprehensive husband who always doubts his wife for her affair during the premarital days. On the contrary, the wife is magnanimous to look after her husband during his sickness unmindful of the treatment meted out to her by him earlier.‘Khwaboon Ke Dareeche’ ( A Peep into the Dreams) is a story based on sadism and Voyeurism  and has a clear stamp of Mantovian style on it.

As per Abdul  Gani Sheikh, “Brij Premi nurtured his writings with his blood and never bothered about the returns from such writings”. Moti Lal Saqi is of the opinion that “Premi’s stories describe men in bone  and flesh. They transgress the romanticism of middle class and venture into the areas of spiritualism and realism together. On the other hand, Prof. Manzoor Azmi believes that “ He(Premi) creates stories by describing a chain of events but does not believe in unnecessary conflicts between the events and characters in order to give it   a  melodramatic effect.”

One thing must be admitted here that Dr.Brij Premi picked up his pen at a time when the world of Urdu fiction was dominated by stalwarts like Krishen Chander, Bedi, Manto, Ashq, Ismat Chugtai and Qurratulain Hyder. The centre of activity had shifted to Bombay after the exit of Prem Chand and ‘futwas’ were being issued by writers’ organisations who would not entertain any new comers. Under such circumstances, Dr. Brij Premi had a herculean task to get himself  recognized while sitting in a remote corner of India. Further the local problems focussed by him were not considered as mainstream problems of India and therefore overlooked completely. Worse still, his state was the first state announcing land reforms bestowing ‘land to tillers’ which left no  ammunition  with the  progressive writers of the State. Though the political instability witnessed by the state could have provided  raw material to Dr. Brij Premi yet he could neither afford to take sides  with such elements who were responsible for creating such instability  nor  could he afford to subscribe to their subversive  politics. It would also mean that he had to stake his job for a cause to which he did not subscribe. But then Dr.Premi  sublimated  his inner desire  by turning towards research work and exploring the maniacal  world of Manto.

Coming back to Premi’s research on Manto, Premi had to understand Manto’s mind in three phases ; first, the socialist Manto, second,the Freudian Manto, and third, the real Manto. Brij Premi had  already  been groomed in socialism and had studied Russian writers like Gorky, Dostoevesky and Chekhov. He had also familiarized himself with the writings of the french writer Maupassant who left an indelible impression  on the mind of Manto. Premi had to learn the basics of  psychology and other behavioral   sciences to understand  the bulk of Manto’s stories like ‘Thanda Gosht’ and ‘Hatak’. Last of all, Brij Premi had to internalize the pain and agony of migration caused as a result of the division of the country and understand  stories such as ‘Khol Do’ and ‘Mozelle’. Nevertheless,  Dr. Premi has lived upto the expectations of the Urdu fraternity by documenting the life and works of Manto with deftness  and dexterity.

As I said earlier, we lost Dr. Brij Premi at a time when he was in the prime of his life. The best was yet to come from him. Alas, nightmarish turmoil in  the valley and consequent migration to inhospitable plains took its toll and snatched us of an inquisitive soul. May God bestow peace up on the departed soul.

*Sh. Deepak Budki is a noted Urdu short story writer and is presently working as Chief Postmaster General, Jammu and Kashmir Circle. Born on February 15, 1950, the writer did his MSc. B.Ed. fromKashmir University and later graduated from National Defence College. He is also an associate of Insurance Institute of India. More than sixty short stories have been written by him till date which have been published in India, Pakistan and other European countries. Reputed Urdu magazine, "Shair" issued a special number (Gosha) on him in September 2005. Two collections of short stories viz '"Adhoore Chehre" (Urdu and Hindi Editions) and "Chinar Ke Panje" (Urdu edition) are to his credit till date. Another collection of short stories, "Ghonsla”, and a collection of essays on criticism entitled "Asri Tehreerein" are in the pipeline.