The Unbearables -- A Kashmir Diary

Last Man Boarding
Two days after I had come back from Srinagar, I was heading back to Kashmir. The provocation – a senior Huriyat Conference leader leading a group of demonstrators had been shot dead by the police. The next day in sporadic incidents of violence 15 people had been shot dead in different areas of the Kashmir valley. The administration had imposed curfew in Srinagar and a few other trouble spots in the valley. As news of the violence poured in, we planned to go to Srinagar the next day.

The Huriyat Conference has over the years led the separatist movement in the Kashmir valley. Despite claims to the contrary by the Indian government, the Huriyat leadership has a mass following in the valley. Just how much of a following I was going to find out first hand over the next ten days.

For me to do that though I had to first board my flight to Srinagar, which as I sat in my car in a long traffic jam looked increasingly improbable. My driver calmly informed me that right-wing Hindu activists of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad were preventing vehicles from entering Delhi. I tried another road to sneak into the city and quickly realised I had been out thought by the VHP.

After three hours in that jam, during which I had booked myself into a later flight to Srinagar, news came in that the hoods in saffron had relented. I duly informed Kingfisher Airlines staff that I was running seriously late, they in turn informed me the flight was delayed by 30 minutes. My colleagues had checked me in, the only problem was I could just take one hand baggage. I packed quickly in the car, trading off the laptop for four shirts. The only pair of trousers I had was the one I was wearing.

After a dash through the security, during which my name was announced twice on the public address system (“This is the last call for Mr. Rajan Chakravarty”), as I made it to the bus carrying the passengers, my colleagues, Todd Baer and Maruya Gautam clapped.

The Unbearables

Remember The Untouchables? Nooo, not Mayawati, silly. Remember the movie with Kevin Costner, Sean Connery and Andy Garcia? Like that, we were The Unbearables.

Behind every great story is a great television crew. Behind the stories that have now passed into the realms of television legend, was us, The Unbearables.

The name, The Unbearables, is inspired by the part American, part Lebanese (and who I now believe is for a large part a Martian), Todd Baer, correspondent extraordinaire. It also had more than a little to do with the beer drinking abilities of the trio – Todd, Maurya and yours truly.

In curfew-bound Srinagar, our lovely hotel which looked down on the Dal Lake had few occupants. On most evenings we three were the only ones in the hotel bar. But we drank enough beers and ate enough finger-licking Roganjosh and Yakhnis to leave a lasting impression. At least, so we thought…

I Accept!

Though it was my second trip to Srinagar in three days, this time round the tension was palpable. We were given our curfew passes at the airport. The driver was watchful as we drove into the city. He warned, despite the curfew and patrolling by security forces, angry mobs had been roaming the streets and over the last few days, some members of the media had been thrashed by mobs.

We progressed uneventfully for the first 20 minutes, and then Maruya, our ace cameraman spotted a slogan shouting crowd behind us. “I need a few shots, Rajan”, he said, as he asked the driver to stop. I eyed the flak jackets warily as the crowd came closer. They were on the other side of the road. Maruya took his shots, Todd scribbled notes, as the crowd raised anti Indian slogans. As the group passed us by, and we heaved a sigh of relief, another group came towards us from the other side. We quickly hopped inside our SUV.

Soon the mob had surrounded the car. Some of them angrily beat on the bonet of the vehicle, others said we should “go back to India”. We tried to explain we were from Al Jazeera, and that we had been covering the events in the valley since the recent unrest began over the Amarnath Yatra land transfer controversy. The crowd was unyielding, even as we argued our case, interspersing everything we were saying with “Al Jazeera”, hoping that enough of them had watched the channel in the valley, and would let us through.

And then one of the young men looked at us, broke into a smile, and roared, “I Accept”. Suddenly the mob made way for our vehicle to pass, many among the crowd shouted “Al Jazeera, Al Jazeera”, and smiled at us. “Get us out of here, fast”, I barked to the driver.

Later in the hotel over a glass of cold beer Todd, Maurya and me discussed the significance of the “I Accept” remark. In another world, it would have simply meant, “I let you live.”
Phew, weren’t we grateful!