Rainawari of My Childhood

 

Rainawari is where I grew up, where my playfields were located and where I formed my childhood friendships. It lies about three miles east of Srinagar city, and is separated from it by Malkhah, a stretch of land consisting of ancient graveyards and agricultural tracts, where haakh (collards) was grown. Rainawari consists of several localities, including Panditpora, Kocha Nidhan, Bagh Jogi-Lankar, Kralyar, Motiyar and Naidyar. While Panditpora reaches Gagribal Lake on the east, Naidyar touches the Nageen and Dal Lakes on the north.

 

Those who lived in Srinagar city derisively called Rainawari a village without an Octroi check-post, and a land of simple people. This, to some extent, was true. Rainawari lacked the bustle and élan of Srinagar city. Its inhabitants were plain folk, often unaware of the ways of city life, but they were honest and hardworking.

 

Unlike the city, Rainawari was not choked with narrow twisty lanes, ramshackle shops or houses that leant on each other, or rose abruptly from narrow winding streets. On the contrary, it was open, airy and bucolic. Chinar, willow, poplar and mulberry trees dotted the neighbourhood. The houses were surrounded by large fenced-off kitchen gardens, which were irrigated by the toul, a unique feature of Rainawari. This wood pole, about fifteen feet tall, was supported on a pair of stubby wood piles, and braced to a cross-bar which acted as the fulcrum. Several stones, lashed to the base of the pole, acted as the counterweight. A bucket, often leaky, hung on a rope tied to the top-end of the pole. To draw water, the top-end was pulled down by the rope into a canal or a well. The counterweight was sufficient to gently bring the full bucket up. When not in use the toul remained upright. The appearance of a number of these poles resembled the masts of a fishing fleet in harbour. Rainawari, in many ways, was a quiet backwater hamlet.

 

Rainawari’s network of canals and waterways yielded bounties of fish, pamposh (lotus flower), water lilies and water chestnuts. One could often see kingfishers flash their iridescent colours as they dove silently into the waters and emerged with twitching, silver-bellied quarry in their beaks, while geese flapped their wings on the banks or nosed around in the marshes. The waterways, spanned by low wood bridges, provided ample opportunities for a quick splash. No wonder the people of Rainawari were sometimes jocularly called batakhs (ducks). Many doongas, their holds stocked with vegetables, hendvend (water melons), nadir geji (lotus stems) or wicker baskets full of fish, lay anchored by the canal banks. Larger doongas, often loaded with timber, sand or bricks, were ponderously poled through the canals by the boatmen.

 

The slender but busy shikara, invariably paddled using a heart-shaped chappa (oar), moved about everywhere on the waters. People ferried to the city or to the Mughal Gardens at Nishat, Shalimar and Cheshma-Shahi, located on the shores of Dal Lake, along the Bund. This broad promenade starts at Dal Gate, a massive wooden lock to control the flow of water from the lake, and then loops along the lakeshore towards Dachigam, the wildlife preserve.

 

The soth (causeway), about fifteen feet wide and three miles long and bordered with willow trees, links Naidyar to Nishat, and divides Dal Lake into the Loqut Dal (small Dal) and the Bodd Dal (big Dal). The soth is spanned by five small wooden bridges, of which the tallest and the narrowest, is named woonth kadal (camel bridge) because it resembles a camel’s back. Gliding in a shikara, under the peaked arch of this footbridge, was a treat. One could see and hear the clear waters sluicing between the two parts of the lake.

 

The people of Rainawari were not apolitical, but events that occurred in the city found a delayed and muffled echo in Rainawari. The pace of life was slow. The localities were connected by unpaved roads and vehicular traffic was nonexistent. Rainawari had a police station, a dispensary, and a high school, but it did not have a bank or a post office. Items of daily use were sold in a few shops, but people relied on the markets in Srinagar city for expensive goods. Tangas (two-wheeled horse-drawn carriages) could be hired at Soorteng, the nearest terminus to the city, but people preferred to walk or ferry to the city.

 

The ration depot at Kralyar, with rice-laden doongas pulled up along the canal bank, was a busy place. People holding their ration books, waited from early morning for the clerk to call out their names. The rice, sold at a subsidised rate, was not the best quality, but everybody purchased it.

 

“Barkath, Akh, Zhe, Treh ... (Bounty, One, Two, Three...),” grunted the squatting loader, as he dug one pan of his weighing scale into the mound of rice on the doonga’s wood floor, anchored his left elbow on his left knee, and held up the scale, by its grimy fob, in his clenched fist. The puck­shaped Sèr (0.93 kilogram) measure, often augmented by a rounded stone or two, formed the counterweight. The loader’s right thumb swung into action, furtively flipping away the grains from the pan, until the scale-beam was horizontal. Then, with a smile of resigned satisfaction, he emptied the pan into the open mouth of the purchaser’s buhir (gunny sack).

 

Transferring the heavy buhirs from the doonga’s hold to terra firma, and then home, was an arduous task. Negotiating the narrow wood planks, which formed the gangway from the doonga to the oozy canal bank, was the trickiest part of the task. Any lack of coordination while walking the unpredictably springy gangway was likely to tip the hauler into the water. Laughter, tinged with ridicule, greeted the splashing acrobat who waded out muttering curses.

 

The kandur vaan (baker’s shop) was another point of interest. Jialal hailed from the Kishtwar area but had lived in Kralyar for decades. He could be seen every day in his shop, sifting flour or kneading dough. Once the fire in the tandoor (large clay oven) was lit, Jialal grabbed a dough-ball from under a moist cloth, spread it out on a wood plank with the ball of his hand, and tapped a pattern into the round with his fingers. Then he slapped the round onto the inside wall of the tandoor, grimacing at the heat of the flames. Minutes later, he peered over the tandoor’s wide mouth and fished out the nans (flat baked bread), spotted with crispy brown air-pockets, using long iron skewers. Any burnt crusts he crumbled or pieced out to us, while we waited by his shop. Once the morning rush of customers was over, Jialal settled down to bake katlam (soft layered buns), or taelvorr (sesame seed-encrusted buns) or to chat with Sultan Angraiz, the milkman, who ran the adjoining shop.

 

Sri Gaash was a popular figure in Motiyar. His kiryana (merchandise) shop was broad and deep and always busy. Bulging buhirs, each filled with dried tea leaves, rock salt, sugar, sheerin (white candy), narjeel (coconut), dates, or dried apricots, were arranged neatly on the shop floor next to tins of cooking oil. Items needed for religious functions, such as kophoor (camphor) or incense sticks, were also available. The shop was like a cornucopia, and a child’s dream come true to me. Sometime, I went there with timid hesitation to buy sheerin or wedges of narjeel which I chewed with great contentment. The aroma of the shop’s wares mixed with the fragrance of a nearby honeysuckle bush which bloomed with white flowers in summer and red berries in autumn.

 

Sri Gaash sat cross-legged on a padded platform, next to his weighing scale and under a dusty light bulb, cheerfully greeting everyone who stopped by. He measured out the items carefully, wrapped them deftly in old newspapers, tied the package with jute string, and handed it to the buyer with a broad smile, a muttered caution, or a whispered reminder that the account needed to be settled. Most transactions were on credit. He recorded each sale in a well-thumbed, gilt-edged ledger which he kept close by him. Customers usually lingered to draw at his jajeer, talk about events, or drop hints about matrimonial alliances. Sri Gaash had a pulse on each family’s situation in Motiyar. He served as a curator of such information, necessary for whetting the proposed alliances. His assessments were discrete and restrained.

 

The Zinda Shah Playfield, a large oval area in Malkhah, was another busy place. Boys and young men played football and hockey there. Headstones – old and new, some sunken in and others bulging out of the ground – fringed the playfield, and stood as silent witnesses to the sport of mortals.

 

The Kashmiri Muslim and the Kashmiri Pandit communities, though adherents of different religions, lived as good neighbours. Religion did not divide them; their roots were the same. The Kashmiri Muslims, as converts from the Hindu population generations ago, retained many of their pre-conversion traditions and beliefs. The two communities often venerated the same saints. The Rishi tradition of the Kashmiri Pandits complemented the Sufi traditions of the Kashmiri Muslims, who considered themselves as wardens of the Kashmiri Pandit shrines. However, they did not enter them, but the Kashmiri Pandits frequently visited the shrines of Muslim Sufis.

 

The common heritage of language, food and dress, bound them in friendships based on unwritten codes of accommodative tolerance. The young went to the same school, and the old sought medical advice from the same physician. Sharing in each other’s joys and woes, visiting each other’s homes on festivals, was a way of life for the communities. Kashmiri Muslim women performed rouf (traditional folk dance) at Kashmiri Pandit weddings, while the latter presented sheerin to the groom at the wedding of a Muslim neighbour. Menzim-yaer (middlemen), usually Kashmiri Muslims, negotiated marriage proposals between Kashmiri Pandit families. Kashmiri Muslim ladies chaperoned newly married Kashmiri Pandit brides to their in-laws. The two communities generally trusted one another.

 

However, economic disparity was clearly visible. The Kashmiri Muslims were poorer than the Kashmiri Pandits. Their family budget usually extended from Jummah to Jummah (Friday to Friday), while that of a Kashmiri Pandit family from Sankranth to Sankranth (first day of each month in the Indian calendar). The Kashmiri Pandits formed the static lower-middle class while the Kashmiri Muslims worked as peasants, boatmen, dairymen, labourers or shopkeepers. Some were engaged in wood-carving, papier-mâché, and the shawl and carpet weaving trades.

 

Another key difference was in the field of education. The Kashmiri Pandits were eager for education. Most were reliably proficient in Urdu, Persian and English. They were employed with the government in posts no higher than clerks. This gave them some advantages, the primary one being the assurance of a modest, but steady income. It also conferred a degree of social standing.

 

Most Kashmiri Muslim families, unfortunately, did not avail themselves of the limited, yet increasing, educational opportunities emerging in the state. The boys reluctantly completed their primary schooling. Most dropped out after the seventh or eighth grade, preferring to join their father’s trade. Some attended religious schools, but girls did not attend school at all. Nevertheless, several families insisted on education. The Aghas, Fazilis, Kamlis, Naqashbands, Peerzadas, Shahmiris, and Shahs were well-educated Kashmiri Muslim families. They held positions of authority in Maharaja Hari Singh’s government.

 

Politically, most Kashmiri Muslims aligned with Sheikh Abdullah and his National Conference Party. Few Kashmiri Pandits associated with this party, which they considered a collection of trouble-makers, itching to challenge Hari Singh. Being low-level employees, the Kashmiri Pandits participated in the administrative mechanisms of the state, and felt safe under the Dogra Raj. However, their relations with the Punjabi or Bengali officers, who monopolised the higher-level administrative strata, were uneasy and marked by deference and docility.

 

The Kashmiri Pandits mostly supported the Sanatan Dharam Yuvak Sabha. This organisation was loyal to Maharaja Hari Singh. It focussed on protecting the rights of the minority community and eradicating social ills such as the dowry system and child marriage. The Kashmiri Pandits also supported the Indian National Congress in its struggle against the British, but did not approve of its support for Sheikh Abdullah’s struggle against Maharaja Hari Singh. They were wary of any move to change the Hindu character of the state. This earned them the nickname Da­yihh Kangress, an imprecise term meaning that their heart was with the Indian National Congress not four quarters, but only two-and-a-half quarters.

 

The Kashmiri Pandits, especially the older generation, were a conservative community. They held on to ideas of superiority and inferiority of families. The elders did not dine with Kashmiri Muslims, but the younger men were less conservative and did not observe this restraint strictly. The Kashmiri Muslims respected the restrictions of the Kashmiri Pandits. Abhorrence for intoxicants was the one characteristic that was observed strictly by the two communities. Except for use of tobacco or nass (snuff), intoxicants were not used. The consumption of alcohol was unheard of. This stricture contributed in a large measure to the stability of the families.

 

Twenty-five Kashmiri Pandit families lived in my neighbourhood. On the numerous religious occasions, my cousins and I would be given twenty-five navid (consecrated food) packages to be distributed to our neighbours. We knew exactly which homes to go to, and whom to deliver the packages to. The ladies received the packages warmly and in return gave us a few badaams (almonds) or lumps of rock salt. These traditions of sharing developed a sense of goodwill.

 

The Kauls, Mahaldars, Ghanhars and Rainas were our immediate neighbours. Some of them made an impression on me. Ramchand Kaul was a staunch Arya Samaj supporter and a National Conference worker. He wrote for the local newspaper under the pen-name Abhay (fearless). He advocated for widow re-marriage, which was frowned on in those times. He pinned a badge, ‘Freedom or Death’ on his coat lapel in response to Gandhiji’s Quit India movement. Sudharshan Mahaldar was a qualified physician. He was tall and had a mop of shiny white hair on his head. I remember going to him for many of my childhood illnesses. He would feel my pulse, ask me to protrude my tongue, and carefully examine my eyes. He did not accept any payment from his neighbours for such services.

 

Samsar Chand Kaul (Ghanhar), who taught at the Church Mission School, was an environmentalist who fostered in his students a love of the outdoors. He also authored several books including, Birds of Kashmir, which won him acclaim as an ornithologist, and a nomination to the National Geographic Society, Washington, D.C., and to the Royal Geographical Society of Canada.

 

There were other notable neighbours who awed me because of their sense of social service. Shridhar Kaul Dullu belonged to a rare class of teachers who left a mark on society. He opted to stay at Leh for years and assiduously worked to educate the Buddhists of Ladakh. Gobind Bhat Shastri was an orthodox priest, but one of the few who championed and solemnised widow re-marriages. Radha Krishan Mothsib, another neighbour, was employed with the Accountant General’s office. He lived a frugal life, remained a bachelor, and donated all his savings to charity.

 

Samkak and Tarawati Ambardar lived across from us in a very small house that stood on a strip of land which ran along our front yard. Samkak, an orderly in the state government, earned a salary that was barely enough to make ends meet for his large family. Their life was a tale of dignified struggle and survival. During the days, one would often find Tarawati, wearing a voluminous clay-red pheran (a knee-length gown-like woolen garment) drawn tight at the waist and a crisp white taranga (head covering), working in her garden. She spent hours mending berms, transplanting seedlings, and coaxing the collards, brinjals, peppers or gourds to abundance. A profusion of jaffer (marigolds), some with blended red and yellow petals, added colour to the chalky mud wall, which separated her garden from our front yard.

 

Tarawati occasionally sent over a bit of the produce or flowers to us. Most evenings she gathered her seven daughters around her, and sang plaintive hymns that floated across to our home. Tarawati was about twenty years older than me. Her smiles were radiant and wide, and the twinkle in her eyes a source of cheer. Each morning, as I left for school, her encouragements were generous and genuine. She called me Makhanlal, my pet name, and often teased me by mimicking my childhood prattle.

 

Mohammad Sultan, or Sulla as we called him, was the boyhood friend of Cousin Motilal, who was about five years older than me. Sulla’s family lived on a secluded daemb (a small island) near our home. They made their living by weaving and selling waguv (reed mats). Sulla visited us often to play. He was one of us. Motilal and I spent hours with him, threading earthworms on the hook of a bislai (fishing rod) and waiting patiently for the fish to bite. Both Motilal and Sulla passed the matriculation exam and went on to college. Motilal, however, could not make much headway and dropped out, but Sulla persisted. The times had started to favour the Kashmiri Muslim community. A few years later, Sulla became a Naib Tehsildar (deputy head official of a village) and then a Tehsildar;a position of significant authority. Soon thereafter, a well-constructed wood bridge linking Motiyar and the daemb where Mohammad Sultan lived was built. What more proof did people need about his new-found clout?

 

The Kashmiri Pandits of Rainawari formed a cohesive group. They met often, either at the temples or on their hour-long walk to their offices in the city. They were curious and even nosy to a fault. They knew details about each other’s families, sometimes even the embarrassing ones. The progress of their children was a common concern. Underlying this concern was a competitive spirit. This feeling, though muted, existed even among close relatives. Each parent was anxious for his or her child to excel. Given the limited opportunities, the success of a nephew or a niece created less satisfaction than that of their own child. This led to jealousies and unfair comparisons. Petty rivalries and property disputes also existed, but these did not permanently sour neighbourliness.

 

Near our home, by the yaarbal (canal bank), stood the Vital Bhairav Temple, respectfully called Vital Sahib. Legend has it that the eight localities of Srinagar are protected by eight Bhairavs (manifestations of Shiva), with Rainawari being under the guardianship of Vital Sahib. This was a large mulberry tree, around which a temple had been constructed. Many strands of nairvan (homespun cotton string dyed red) garlanded the tree trunk. The clefts in its bark served as niches for incense sticks and flowers. Devotees visited in the morning and evening, rang the temple bell, washed the lingam (symbol associated with Shiva) with milk and water, and performed prakram (circumambulation around the tree trunk), as their lips moved in fervent prayers.

 

An unusual thing, which did not escape my notice, was that Vital Sahib’s birthday was celebrated twice each year. It was a colourful and festive occasion. Hand-mashed balls of teher (cooked yellow rice), spiced fried-potato wedges and scoops of curds were offered to whoever chose to attend. My cousins and I were rather well represented at these events. The priests quietly shooed us away from the navid line but we would soon reappear, unabashedly angling for more.

 

Jeewan Shah was revered as a saint by the Kashmiri Pandits and Muslims of Rainawari. He lived in the mid-eighteenth century. Jeewan Shah led an austere life of renunciation and penance which invested him with spiritual powers. A legend narrates the rescue of a Kashmiri Pandit girl who had been abducted by Pathan soldiers, during the Afghan Governor Azad Khan’s reign, and was being spirited away in a boat. Jeewan Shah cursed the soldiers:

 

“Agar Hukmi Khuda Naist,

(Though not an order from God,)

Ba Hukam Jeewan Shah, Kishti Garki Aab Khud,

(I command that the boat capsize,)

Hindva Azaab Bala Shud.”

(Drowning all, but the distressed Hindu girl.)

 

Violent storms raced across the lake and the boat capsized, drowning the soldiers. The girl swam to safety.

 

Jeewan Shah’s shrine, situated in Panditpora, is a small bare room, which contains only a wooden plank on which is painted a scene depicting Jeewan Shah sitting in meditation. Passers-by sometimes stopped and touched their foreheads to the door step. The anniversary of Jeewan Shah’s death, observed in February, was a big event in Rainawari. Devotees thronged the shrine to perform a havan (a ritual where offerings are made into a consecrated fire). Another tradition in Rainawari was that the first plate of a wedding feast was offered to the shrine, to seek blessing for the married couple.

 

Beside the canal in the Karapora area of Rainawari, is the shrine of Hazrat Mia Shah Sahib, a Muslim Sufi saint. It attracted many Kashmiri Pandit and Kashmiri Muslim devotees. A fair was held here each December to mark the anniversary of the saint’s death. Firecrackers would be lit and hurled across the canal in a contest between people living on either side. Sometimes, this would lead to small fires but nobody seemed to take heed.

 

The Shiv Temple at Kralyar was the hub of social and religious activities. This temple stands on the bank of a waterway near Bagh Jogi-Lankar. A flight of wide stone steps led to the canal bank. The grounds housed several halls where devotees gathered on Saturday nights to recite hymns. The Janam Ashtami celebrations, held here to mark the birthday of Krishna, drew thousands of devotees and artists. They sang hymns and played on harmoniums and Kashmiri folk instruments, well into the night.

 

The temple also served as the venue to discuss the need for social reforms in the community. This movement, started by Kashyap Bandhu in 1935, spurred, among other things, changes in the orthodox dress code. Young ladies gave up wearing the taranga and the pheran. They adopted the saris in a push towards modernity. The Samaj Sudhar Samiti (Community Reform Committee) met here regularly. This group, launched by Pandit Gopi Krishan in 1947, aimed to eradicate the burdensome dowry system. Members of the Divine Life Society also met here on each Sunday, to comment on scriptures and debate ideas for upliftment of the community. One concrete result of these, often tendentious, debates was the establishment of the Vishwa Bharati Women’s Welfare Institution (VBWWI) at Rainawari.

 

Two miles north-west of Rainawari is the Hari Parbat Fort, built in the early eighteenth century on Hari Parbat Hill by Atta Mohammad Khan, the Afghan governor who ruled Kashmir. A massive stone and brick wall around the base of the hill had twelve large gates. Remnants of the wall and the Kathi Darwaza (gallows gate), named because it is located near the jail where convicted prisoners were hanged, still exist. The Chatti Padshahi Gurdwara, which commemorates the visit of Guru Hargobind Singh to Srinagar, and Maqhdoom Sahib’s shrine are situated on the hill’s southern slope. Devout Kashmiri Pandits walked around the base of the hill each morning and prayed at the shrines located there. People of different faiths lived harmoniously in Rainawari.