I’m
in Athens, at the Syntagma square, and at the same time, I’m in
Beirut, I’m in Kampala, I’m in Havana, I’m in Barcelona, and
I’m in Srinagar, now going around Dal lake, one of the bigger lakes
in the Jammu and Kashmir region. But, back to Athens, back to
Syntagma Square, the Hellenic parliament on my back, a huge pink
building that I have nothing to talk about. Then Beirut, now going
along Rue Gouraud, Gemmayzeh neighborhood, and then going up the
Saint-Nicolas stairs, taking a look at some graffities, including a
heart being trespassed by eighteen huge bullets, each of these
bullets representing one of the eighteen recognized religious sects
of Lebanon, I got to know. And I’m in Kampala, Uganda’s capital,
this is, here I’m at some café with two other guys, actually the
founders of the Nyege Nyege collective, they are Arlen Dilsizian and
Derek Debru, this is, Debru was born in Burundi, grew up in Belgium
and moved later to Uganda to teach at the Kampala Film School.
Dilsizian is actually Greco-Armenian, studied ethnomusicology and
philosophy in the UK before relocating to this city. And then Havana,
more precisely at the roof of a not so tall building in El Cerro, a
poor neighborhood that extends from the Bahía de la Habana until La
Víbora, a neighborhood mentioned in the Broadway musical In the
Heights. And then I’m in Barcelona again, now going down La Rambla
dels Estudis, this is, the upper part of a long pedestal street
starting at Plaza de Catalunya and going until the harbord area. And
afterwards I’m Srinagar, this is, by now I’m actually burying
myself in the slime of Dal lake. But, back in Athens, here I’m,
at the Syntagma square, seated on some stairs on the side of the
metro entrance, I face the people now getting in and getting
out of the stairs for metro entrance, not many, and their
expressions, surprisingly, doesn't look so bored, this is, actually,
they express some equilibrium, and about their pose, they are
dressing casual, not pretenders, judging by the looks. Thus, as it
goes, I think to myself, from where is this feeling of boredom coming
after all, perhaps from the openness of the place itself, or, who
knows, maybe the heaviness of the walls containing the square, plus
this sun, full of empty promises… and therefore, while
thinking about that, I have no problems about sprawling my loneliness
here, like a viscous, pouring from the top of this imposing staircase
in front of the parliament, and then, spreading through the veins of
this marble floor down there, this is, blazing veins that will
debouch around that neoclassic fountain installed in the middle of
the square, fountain from where some kind of yellowish water is being
projected, from time to time, randomly. And so, from here I also
descry this old bearded man, hanging around this same fountain, a man
actually murmuring or emitting a kind of speech more like a cry. And,
I also may say, that, he carries a stick with him, a stick with
some plastic bottles and other sorts of plastic packages attached to
it, holding it over his shoulders, or waving it around, and some kind
of flag is hanging from the tip of it, a flag where I read the word
“cancer” written with big letters, and jointly other smaller
letters from the Greek alphabet that I can’t understand. And so,
some tourists are actually approaching the fountain from time to
time, but when they see the man, they stand back and leave the place,
scared. But the locals passing by his side, they do not look shocked
at all, this is, they just pass by informally, smiling, this is, some
even act out small conversations with him, but not for long.
And then, I’m in Beirut again, still going along the Gouraud
street, a street crossing the bohemian neighborhood of Gemmayzeh, and
then at some crossroads, I see, there are motorcycles converted into
stalls, and under some huge parasols, some guys are actually selling
Baba Ghanoush, this is, some kind of eggplant and tahini dip;
Fattoush, some sort of mint-garnished salad; Foul, a bean and lentil
dip; and Labneh, some sort of creamy cheese with hummus. And then,
I’m in Kampala again, still at this cafe accompanied by the two
founding members of the Nyege Nyege collective, Arlen Dilsizian and
Derek Debru, and as it goes, this is, as we talk about the activities
the Nyege Nyege collective have been developing, we are actually
drinking cocktails of tonto, ajon and omuramba, being tonto a
cocktails made of rotten bananas, ajon, a cocktail made from
millet, and omuramba, a cocktail actually made from brown sorghum
and… And then, I’m back in Havana, still on the roof of that not
so tall building in El Cerro, a poor neighborhood that once was, this
is, by the end of the 19th century, home to palaces and sumptuous
villas now fallen into a certain decay. And so, the facades of the
buildings that I can see from here, have faded paintings; and a
labyrinth of black cracks crossing the dry frontages and potholed
sidewalks. Whatsoever this is the neighborhood that holds the key,
"El Cerro tiene la llave" they say. a recurring statement
around here. A phrase linked to the fact that the water source for
the city and the headquarters of the aqueduct that still exists are
located in this territory. The entrance channel of “La Zanja Real”
is located around here, in this neighborhood, and that was the first
aqueduct in Havana that brought water to the city by gravity from the
founding of the city until the 19th century, aqueduct already
deactivated, being nowadays just a huge pipe covered with moss, I got
to know. And then I’m in Barcelona again, still going down the main
pedestal street of this city, La Rambla, this is, after the Carrer
del Carmen, I enter the Mercat de la Boqueria, one of the oldest
markets in this city, a market that is still somehow traditional, and
very well frequented by tourists, and so, here you can find all kind
of tapas abandoned on the tables by the fumbling tourists, this is,
not only tapas, but also, cocktails of various fruits and certain
traditional sweets like Mató, Panellets, Xuixos, Catànies and many
kinds of stuffed churros. Srinagar again, and, well, I just got
rescued from that swamp area by a boatman mounting what they call
here a shikara, this is, some kind of canoe with a small shed
in the middle, and, as it goes, Rahul, the canoeist, is already
asking me what was I myself doing there in the middle of that mud
afterall afteralls, and well, after some silence, “Looking for
Eels,” I manage to say, and as I say this, the canoeist, looking to
me at a glance, just scoffs, this while pushing a long stick into the
water, the stick that, apparently, is giving the needed propulsion
that gets us on the move, and then, he says. And now, here we go,
coming back to the Syntagma square in Athens, this is, this square is
not totally dry, as I said before, actually it has two two “green”
areas, one on my left side, where the metro exit is, and another on
my right side, an area with with much bigger trees and even some
benches under it, where some people seated now, I can say, mainly
alone, one per bench, some looking inside themselves, some looking
around, and some others dozing while eating that kind of circular
sesame bread you can buy at any square here, the koulouri.
And as it goes, at some point I’m already
approaching some youngsters and sitting on the scarce grass of this
garden on their side, and well, they offer me beers and we talk,
informally, a shallow conversation, about nothing. And then, at some
point, for some reason, I see myself moving to the gardens on the
other side of the fountain, I mean, that one with the big withered
trees. And, well, as I’m actually reaching it now, I can already
see that the ones wandering through this part of the garden have
darker skin, and some of them are even carrying baggage, like me.
Plus, everyone looks kinda lonely here. And so, as I wander through
these people, quickly I can understand that they are Georgians,
Armenians, Albanian migrants, some with an inquisitive attitude
towards me, so it is not with them that I end up creating
relationships, but rather with a small group of Pakistanis, Indians
and Bangladeshis that I will sit down, we drink together and I
share with them how was my staying in kashmir years ago, and then, as
it goes, I even can say some words in this Hindi and Urdu, words i
remember from my travels, and one or other sentence, like “ek bahat
khoobsurt aurt”, I say, and they all smile, and then, they even
offer me some kind of tea, and as it goes, after dealing with this
guys for a while, I come back to the bottom of the big staircase on
the side of the metro exit from where I came, and begin unpacking my
stuff, I mean, my music staff, I mean, my percussion stuff,
this is, buckets, pots and pans, cymbals, singing bowls, a xylophone,
a few contact mics, an effects box, some speakers. And, it takes me
time to unpack all these trinkets and set everything, and I do it
slowly and at ease. And well, people, I mean, the passers-by, it
seems that they do not actually care about what I’m building here,
so I can do it without any pressure… this is, there are no
questions and almost no looks, what is good. And as it goes, then,
after doing some body exercises, to warm up, here I go, already
sitting properly over some kind of bucket in front of my
percussion set, and, despite the soft headache, I'm ready to start my
performance. Beirut again, and so, at this point, I’m actually
walking by the southwestern part of the Gemmayzeh neighborhood, this
is, now passing on the side of an egg shaped building, apparently
abandoned, graffitied all around, and so, as I walk about it, I ask
what this was, and well, the answers I get are peremptory, they tell
me that “The Egg, or Albayd”, it’s an unfinished cinema
building that survived from the Lebanese Civil War of the seventies,
a building that despite is derelict condition is still in function,
and have “recently been used as a center for talks and lectures by
academics, artists, and others sort of petty criminals". And
then I’m in Kampala again, more precisely going across Bukasa, an
area in south Kampala, and so, here we go, this is, by we I mean, me
and my friends Arlen and Derek Debru, now walking along the Namuwongo
road, a road following on the side of some kind of train line, that,
as we get to know, is actually making the connection between the city
itself and some sort of port, on the north branch of Victoria
lake.But, back in Havana, back in El Cerro, this is, from this
balcony here I can watch all the havana vieja, the Ensenada de Atáres
and the Ensenada de Guanabacoa, and the Máximo Gómez avenue, that
goes from the Calzada
del Cerro
until the Museo de Los Orishas. But closer, at some back streets,
now, I’m actually watching some kids playing football at an
improvised pitch with beacons made of metal drums, bidons, where the
goalkeepers make some percussion from time to time, an act done to
prompt the strikers wearing Ronaldo, Messi, Raul, Osvaldo Alonso and
Onel Hernandez shirts, etc… and then, in the meanwhile, as they
play, some street vendor comes by with his scooter, invading the
makeshift field and the players get disoriented… looking for the
ball that has just disappeared… and others, already surrounding the
scooter men, and, as it goes, the driver is already offering jugs of
colorful drinks, fried malanga, coconut yam, bags of various seeds
and American brand chocolates… and then, as the kids come back to
the pitch, they begin spitting seeds in each other's faces, and
another kind of game is being developed there, this while the
plump-faced trader, still mounting his scooter, begins to shout some
interjections to the confuse players, things we can’t understand.
And I’m Barcelona again, coming back to the Ramblas, the main
pedestrian street on this city, and so, after getting out from the
La Boqueria market, I pass the crossroad with the Carrer
de l'Hospital street,
and, in front of the Restaurant
Rei d'Istanbul, there
is a circle of tourists surrounding what I come to see, I mean, there
is man dressed as a Sevillana making tap dancing on top of some kind
of door, and as he taps and taps, he also sings and dances, this is,
he turns around raising its arms, hands folded down, and, as it goes,
at some point, he even pushes his dress up showing the padding on his
underwear, and well, tourists are actually clapping, flashes going
off, etc. And then, I’m Srinagar again, still aboard this small
barge going across the Dal lake, a barge being conducted by Rahul,
and so, after some time talking about the fauna and flora present on
this lake, here we go, now mooring on a bank on the other side of the
lake, a bank where there are some houses, cottages, supported by
thick stilts raising, apparently, from the bottom of this lake. And
so, in between those sticks we pass, and then, after
disembarking, there we go, already going up through some slippery
wooden stairs, soon reaching some kind of balcony, a balcony where we
see an women seated on the floor, dealing with some plants, plants
that I recognise from that swamp area on the other side of the lake…
but, I don’t mention this, we just exchange some mislaid smiles as
we meet, and then “this is my wife Eshal” the boat man tells me.
And as it goes, after they have exchanged some words in their native
language, the boatman is already conducting me to the main door of
the house, and so, as we go inside, into some sort of
kitchen/living-room, I instantly come to meet his son, Maumoon, that
is actually just here, seated on the main table of this room,
apparently working on some drawings, and so, as me and his father
approach he stands up and comes to great me in the kashmiri style,
and then I also stare at the drawings spread over the table, and also
the ruler and a set-square on the side, and thus, what I actually see
in those sheets here spread over the table, is some sort of
architectural designs, straight geometric lines over another straight
geometric lines and in the middle of all them some sort of very small
abstract bodies, and, as I look at it, after the father has left this
room, I ask what is this what is that, and he, well, in a while, he
tells me he will tell me about it later, once we are out, as he says
that, he is already packing some of the staff that were there over
the table, and then, said and done, off we go. And then, back
in Athens, back in Syntagma square, here I am, acting now,
performing, this is, I’m actually rolling my hands and arms over a
bunch of plastic buckets with different shapes and sizes,
hitting some pots and pans located around the kit of buckets, plus
some cymbals elevated on the air, and also, making some intermediate
melodies on a mutant xylophone installed just here, in between my
feet. And so, as I play, people bring me coins, people bring
liquids... some even bring me smiles, complicated expressions… and
then, as the sun goes down I get even more enthusiastic, the flow
extends, and at some point, I spot, a small group of guys are
actually coming down one of the sides of this square, this is, they
are actually marching, protesting about something I can’t really
understand, something political for sure… but, as they come by, I
just keep banging. This is, I can see that they have flags with
slogans and that, some, are actually carrying traffic signs with
them… and then, on their back, it looks like the people that are
coming out of the metro exit are now moving in their direction, no
more in my direction, and so, no money coming to me by now, because
of them, anyway, I don’t care too much about this, and so, well, I
keep on banging, hitting this fucking buckets, this fucking pots and
pans, this fucking cymbals, until that, then, at some point,
some youngsters are actually running in my direction, coming to give
me their support, this is, as they come, they are actually making
enthusiastic gestures while saying “yeah, yeah, yeah, synéchise”.
And then, as the marching protest continues, the police are arriving,
coming all armed with sticks, helmets and armors, already advancing
in the direction of the guys protesting on the other side of the
square, and so, as they reach the protesters down there, I keep
hitting my percussion paraphernalia here, making as much noise as I
can. And so, as it goes, I see that, there are more people coming out
of the metro exit now, some coming here, some moving in the direction
of the protests, and in the meanwhile, the protesters are even moving
around the square, forming different groups, and the police does the
same, dividing themselves into small groups, walking around the
square, circulating the protestors, and as this happens, I keep on
banging, I mean, no one told me to stop, so, I must continue, already
throwing the cymbals on the concrete, and then, as this happens, one
tiny girl with some holes on her leggings comes closer, running,
already catching the cymbals I’m actually throwing around, and
then, joining me in this musical allegory, and yes, I may say, she
really knows what she is doing, this is, she is able to catch my
rhythmic patterns and impose her own way of playing. And so, as we
jam, after a while, I notice, some of the protesters are actually
leaving the demonstration groups now and coming here, already dancing
around us. But then, as it goes, we can hear some kind of explosions,
screams around the square, smoke, and well, in a jiffy, all the
public dancing around us disappears, and just then, when we start to
get really intoxicated by the smoke coming from the so-said
explosions, we stop. And so, as fast as I can, I’m already packing
all my stuff inside a big camping bag, I mean everything minus the
plastic buckets, that this girl, Hera, is already kicking around…
and then, there we go, laughing, while leaving this square, and then,
going down Ermou street, the street with all the multinational cloth
stores, where there are more protests, some broken showcases, and so,
as we run through it, I see people being arrested, screams from upper
windows, claims against capitalism coming from the other end of the
street, and then, we even have to take care to not step over
some piles of horse shit spread around the Panagia Kapnikarea
square. And then, I’m again in Beirut, this is, by now, I’m
actually inside that egg shaped building I have referred before, the
so-called Albayd, some kind of rotten ovni landed in the middle of
the city, and so, at this point, I’m here inside some dark rooms
with some piles of papers stacked from floor to ceiling, and a skate
track in the middle of it, and so, as it goes, I’m actually talking
with some of the skaters here, this is, we are actually chatting
about Hezbollah, rap music made-in middle-east, and some lebanese
philosophers like Mikhail Naimy, Said Akl, Charles Malik, etc.
And then I’m in Kampala again, more precisely, walking along the
train line on the side of the Namuwongo road, still accompanied by my
local friends Arlen and Derek Debru, and so, as we follow along this
train line, we pass some groups of people cooking food here on the
side of the tracks, and so, as we advance, we are actually snacking
here and there, as people make us stop, picking some roasted sweet
potato from here, some rice with with roasted locusts from there,
some roasted beans with honey from over there, some roasted bamboo
shoots from a next stall, and then, there also other things like,
fried crocodile legs, ostrich eggs omelette, larvae stew etc. And
then, I’m in Habana again, still at the El Cerro neighborhood, now
attending some kind of Santeria ceremony, this is, at this point I’m
already joining the circle of musicians and dancers touring around
some guys and girls crawling on the floor, and then, I get to know
about the Orula, a middle age man seated here, on the lotus flower
position, being fanned by some maidens, and the babalawo or priest,
now moving between the guys crawling on the floor, listening what
they have to say, and then coming to the Orula, and whispering things
on his ears. And then I’m in Barcelona again, now arriving that the
bottom of the big pedestrian street called “las ramblas”, being
this last part of the Las Ramblas called Santa Mònica, ending just
in front of the Colon, this is, some kind of square with a
tower in the middle, tower honoring the navigator Christofer
Columbus. And so, as I cross the road, and then move around this
tower, there are some beggar guy stopped here, speaking with one of
the angels located at the bottom of the column, and so, he is
actually saying something like, “Sí, yo pienso que pienso y tú
crees que yo creo que todo es una ilusión… todos pensamos en esto
y en aquello… más precisamente, pensamos innumerables planes para
engañar al mundo… pero, no quiero saber quién soy… el
caso es que puede que necesite un guía, o más bien un guía con
pechos, no importa el tamaño de la agenda… preferiblemente,
alguien con un sentido del humor espeluznante, es decir, un fugitivo
que todavía sepa hacer cálculos... quizá, alguien a quien le guste
bailar cuando se trata de escenas sucias... si, déjame soñar con
langostas y campos de amapolas hasta donde alcanza la vista…”
Then I’m back in Srinagar, and so, here we go again, aboard this
shikara boat across the Dal lake again, this is, Maumoon is guiding
the barge now, guiding it while pushing this big skewer into the
water, like we have seen his father doing before. And then, while we
float, he reveals “I got into a private university in New York, to
study fine art, but I didn’t get along with all that
pretentiousness of the Americans and a year later I was back here”,
and so, I tell him I have never been to America, “but I have been
to Tijuana, a Mexican city on the border with the state of Texas”,
plus I tell him about my staying there, and as I recount that, he
tells me about his Mexican friends in the university he has attended.
We even discuss some similarities between Mexican and Indian culture.
And then, we get into a conversation about the kashmiri language etc.
And so, I ask him if there are some Chinese words in his mother
language, as Kashmir makes a border with China, and he says this “but
between Kashmir and China there is also Tibet, and the borders are
closed since long time, so there is no real communication or
transportation between these two countries, since my birth”. And
so, I ask why, and he tells me that is “because there is a
territorial conflict around the borders going on, primarily between
India and Pakistan, with China playing a third-party role, the
conflict started after the partition of India in the beginning of the
20’s century, as both India and Pakistan claimed the entirety of
the former princely state of Jammu and Kashmir…”, “What about
Tibet?”, I insist, “Tibetians call us Kachëy! That's what I
know… there are different kinds of theories about the origins of
the kashmiri language, and some even say that it has a Jewish origin,
but as I can see, for me it's a mix of Sanskrit, Urdu, Persian,
Arabic and some english”. And then, he even tells me that kashmiri
is also spoken in the east part of Pakistan, “but there is some
difference between the Kashmiri Hindus and the Kashmiri Muslims, in
language terms, say, Kashmiri Muslims have more Urdu words while
Hindu Kashmiris have more Sanskrit words, as for example the word
“water” is "aabh" for a kashmiri muslim, but hindus say
"pooyan"… anyway, in my point of view this language
doesn't sound Hindi at all, I find it more persian related,
say, when I watch some Irani movies I always find it sounding like
Kashmiri, not a single word is the same but I fell that the
tone-pitch and the way persian people speak is similar to kashmiri…”;
“OK” I say. And then I tell him “Can you teach me the meaning
of some kashmiri words”. “Êen”
he says, “means yes…
and for example, Varakara,
it means Good luck”; “Thought that was Hindi” I say. “No,
actually it comes from arab, they say Al
Barakah,
and it means “blessings”; “Uooouh!” I say, “in spanish
language "Barraca"
means "cottage" or "hut”. “Kus
Tavaan!”
he replies, “is what we say for ‘What
a hell’
or ‘what
the fuck’”
he explains, then adding “I’m exaggerating a bit, just for fun,
but whenever you see any Kashmiri getting angry, this is the most
used expression”; “ok” I say, “that looks the turkish
expression “a bird in the ceiling”, coz “kus” or “kush”
is the turkish word for “bird” and “tavan” is the turkish or
ottoman word for “ceiling”. “Tha
Saa Wen
– Let it be” he says, and then we make some silence for a while,
just watching the bubbles bursting in the dark waters of this lake.
Back in Athens, this is, after leaving the Ermou street area,
and go along the Stadium and Panepistimiou streets, we reach the
Exarchia neighborhood, where Hera claims to have some radical
friends, but she doesn't know exactly where they live, and so, there
we go through some back streets, looking for her friends location,
still hearing explosions and screams coming from the neighboring
block, and so, as we go through, we pass some interesting graffities
like, some figures of androids asleep in the middle of exuberant
gardens, monsters with broken wings carrying suitcases, childs
crawling through the city, with money on their mouth, etc. And so,
after several attempts of going inside some buildings, knocking on
doors of people she said she knew, it turned out they didn’t open
or do not show any sign of recognizing my friend as a relative
of them. Thus, like this we follow, stealing decoration stuff from
the entrance halls of this and that building, like if we were playing
some kind of game, and so, as we go through this or that stairs, this
or that hall, at some point, Hera begins to make some explanations
about Cretan mythology. Like, she says that Zeus, the father of gods
and humans, was born in Crete, and “it was there, that secretly he
copulated with the beautiful nymph Europe, who gave her name to our
continent…” And then I’m in Beirut again, now going through the
Bechara El Khoury avenue, an avenue taking me to the seafront. And
then, back in south Kampala, this is, after having been walking along
that derelict train line we (me, Arlen and Derek Debru) have just
reached the Murchison Bay, already a branch of the famous Victoria
lake, the biggest lake in Africa, considered one of the main sources
of the Nile River, and so, here we are now, already at the
immigration Office in Port Bell, asking about connections between
this bay here and Buvuma island, an island on the mouth of Jinja, the
city where the Nyege Nyege festival will happen. Havana now, walking
in the direction of the old town town, I go around Ensenada de
Atarés, I pass the La Coubre Train Station, Av. de Bélgica, San
Isidro, Leonor Peréz, Santa Clara, Calle Sol, Desamparados, and
then, I’m in front of a dilapidated building with circa five
hundred years, officially the building of the Aduana del Puerto de La
Habana, where I meet Mr Cheche, a clone of the famous Che Guevara.
And then, I’m back in Barcelona, now at the top of the
Montjuïc, a broad shallow hill overlooking the city center, the
harbour, and the surrounding coastline.And then, I’m in Srinagar
again, this is, after disembarking, me and Maumoon walk past a huge
white mosque my mate calls Hazratbal Shrine, “a local landmark,
popularly called Dargah Sharif - the Holy Shrine… they say it
contains the Moi-e-Muqaddas, which is believed to be the hair of the
Islamic prophet Muhammad''; “Aluuu'' I say, and he continues “hair
that was brought from south arabia centuries ago by some guys from
the Mughal empire” he says with a quaint smile, and I ask him if he
really believes in all that, “for me it's just a story, but… they
went to court in the sixties because of that, coz some hair strands
have disappeared… and the Bengals or the tourists or the Indians
from the south were the culprits, but they found a way of bringing
the hair back and…”; “I seeeee”, and I kinda ask him if he’s
really religious person, to what he says “not sure, and you?”,
“same-same”. Then he tells me that the name of the place
“hazratbal” is a combination of the Arabic word “hazrat”,
meaning 'respected', and the Kashmiri word “bal”, meaning
'place'. “Hum… Bal in french is an old word for a dance event,
and the root for the world Ballet”
I say. And 9then we get into moving, so, we enter the Dargah Market
on the side of the Mosque complex, and there we go, passing all that
stands with religious artifacts, passing the carpet stands that also
sell colorful shawls they call here Pashmina, and as we face it,
Maumoon says that “they used to be made from goat fur but now…”
and then we approach some shops with wood items, items that are
decorative and functional at the same time, some with very detailed
patterns carved out, Maumoon says “It's walnut wood, it can last
for a very long time.” And then we approach some other shops with
papier-mache artifacts, cooperware, spices, flowers, fruits and
vegetables and off we go. We walk through the Nasem Bagh Park now,
which is still on the side of the Dal lake. And here I see women
behaving very softly, and men looking a bit childish in their way of
playing. Then we cross the main road and go through another park with
the floor covered with dry leaves, leaves of platanus trees, I can
see, being Chinar
the kashmiri word for Platanus, Maumoon tells me. So, as we go
through, I can say that around here the scenarium looks kinda
romantic, old school romantic, that is, we can see couples
seated on the grass, or leaning against the trunks of these same
trees, enjoying the silence, or playing with the amounts of dry
leaves all around them. And as we beckon to some of them, they smile
back, sometimes. “This garden belongs to the university campus,”
Maumoon tells me, "I know some of these people''. And then we
approach some light green shacks, and on its facade it's written with
big letters, Microbiology
CORD,
so, we go inside and drink coffee and off we go through another door.
Then, we pass the Human
Resource Development Centre,
and the Woman
Study Center,
and the Institute
of Islamic Studies,
and the Institute
of Music & Fine Arts,
and finally we are in front of another shack entitled Mir
Hamid Restaurant,
that actually is a Xerox place where students make all kinds of
copies. So, Maumoon introduces me to one girl that is here making
copies of drawings of hands and feet, only that, hands and feet,
realistic style, and off we go. Now going along Durgah Road. This is,
further the road is half barred with a bunch of military men, and
military gear, and so, there they are, speaking between them, their
equipment unattended. And as we pass by I can notice that they are
approaching none of the passers-byes or the passing vehicles, and so,
“What is this'' I ask. “It's the stationary Indian military sent
from Delhi'', Maumoon says. “As I told you, there is guerilla going
on here since I born, a very slow guerilla, sometimes it calcifies,
they become statues, rusty monuments, mummies, let’s say… but
they can wake up anytime, just one button need to be pressed, and
another button and another button, and in the end they are fighting
between them because they need more buttons.”; “What do you mean”
I ask. “It's because of the borders, the borders between Kashmir
and Pakistan, the borders between Kashmir and China, the borders
between Kashmir and India, they seem not to agree with the real
function of these borders, but that is only a political subject… we
live!” And so, as he says these things, we turn right to the Mughal
Lane, and there is a huge dark green villa here, it looks stiff and
fantasist at the same time; “I like it” I say, and Maumoon tells
me,“it's a religious school and political center” as we proceed.
And then, as we go through, I see that on both sides of the street
there are walls either made of concrete or tin, and it looks like
some of these houses have no door to the street, and so, I wonder how
they enter these houses. “Through the back” Maumoon tells me. And
as we follow on the walkway, here and there I see some inscriptions
on the tin walls, so “What is that?” I ask, “political
propaganda” he tells me. And here and there, if I do leap I can see
what is on the back of these tin walls, this is, some inner gardens
with blooming trees and mounds of rubble, and people walking
their ghosts in the middle of all that. “Many abandonments in this
city” I say. “Half of the population left…” Maumoon says,
“and from time to time they come back, this is, after the big
insurgency from the eighties, a great majority of Pandits felt
threatened and left the Kashmir Valley for other parts of India….
some emigrated Uk, the United States, Canada, Singapore, to never
come back...” And as we keep walking, we pass some other big
vivendas and then he points out some windows apparently covered with
spider webs and says “probably these were the houses of the
Pandits, they left, and now, no one wants to live inside, we are a
strange kind of muslims around here…” and as we go by I can
conclude that there aren't much people on the streets around here,
just some, and I see, they pass by with their heads far away, hands
inside their pockets, and their way of walking is too tender, and
their expressions are scarefree, like someone who has seen it all,
but we can feel the sadness, some amazement and lightness, still. And
now here, there are some young men and women laughing at the entrance
of a backershop, and as we are getting it, I think to myself, these
young people by the entrance are certainly taking the coming to the
bakery as an opportunity for romance, and it looks like Maumoon can
read my thinking. So, already inside, I can see some middle aged men
knelt on the beaten earth floor, managing big bulbs of dough over
large trays placed just above the ground, and “we call them
Kandurus” Maumoon tells me, whispering. And more, against the wall,
on our back, there are big wood stoves, and over these stoves there
are trays covered with the semi-cooked pieces of bread, and on the
other corner of the room there are large clay pots for cooking the
traditional round bread shaped like a flying saucer, swollen in the
center, that here is named Kulcha. So, by now I’m being presented
to the breadmakers by Maummon, and so, they ask my name and what am I
doing here. Thus, I say a name and also ask their name. And, in order
to answer their question about what am I doing here I say “ask
Maumoon, he knows everything”, but “he knows how to paddle”, is
what some guy says, and softly they laugh, like if a bad taste joke
has been said. And then off we go with our bag of Kulchas. “This
thing is stuffed with cheese, potatoes and onion, please try”
Maumoon says, and then, still munching, my comrade makes a strange
kind of hissing sound, and seconds after, we can spot an head over
the gate on the other side of the road, a head and a face with some
big black eyes and a long beard, orange, and so, as it appears,
quickly Maumoon tells me in a low tune that “This is Aga Syed
Ruhullah, doorman, cooker, courier, gardener, boatman and bad actor,
don't forget his name, he lives and works here… and this is the
Kilab, the Kashmir Innovation Laboratory, a kind of art residence and
seclusion place if you get me…” he says.
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