Maha Shivaratri this morning brought an unexpected thrill.
It was a phone call of greetings from Srinagar, from a Musalman classmate of 35
years ago.
To Kashmiri Hindus, Shivaratri is Herath, the most important
festival of the year. In my childhood, it used to be a riotous celebration of
over a fortnight, complete with feasting and fasting, praying and gambling, visiting
relatives and friends, and hoping to catch the eye of the pretty girl who had
come visiting next door. There were elaborate rituals for the occasion, the
little pots and dishes, the leaves and the flowers, the specified mantras, and
the offerings that needed to be made just so if we wanted to avoid the wrath of
God.
Then there was the melodious rendering throughout the fortnight
by my mother and others of Shiv Lagan, a long devotional Kashmiri poem
describing the wedding of Shiv and Parvati. It had magical stories that
fascinated and thrilled me. The mountain-dweller (Shiv) turns into the most
handsome prince. When challenged to show how he would support the princess
Parvati, he causes a snowfall of gold (Sona Sheen in Kashmiri). The gifts that
he showers upon the people gathered there as evidence of his munificence are
described in loving detail.
I used to lap it up.
But one of the most memorable parts of the Herath
celebrations was the steady stream of visitors on Maha Shivaratri, bringing
greetings for the day. While some of them were relatives, the large majority
used to be Musalman, neighbours and friends of my parents and, occasionally,
mine. Parents used to plan for the day well in advance to ensure that we had
arranged for the guests to be entertained and fed well when they came. The
visitors greeted us with the words “Herath Mubarakh”, meaning “May Herath be
blessed and auspicious to you”. We, in turn, said “Salamath”, meaning “May you
stay peaceful, safe and secure”.
Both those words are of Persian/Arabic origin. Their central
usage in the most sacred Kashmiri Hindu religious event of the year says a
great deal about how the Hindu and Musalman traditions co-existed in the
Kashmir of my childhood. On the two Id’s, Id-ul-Fitr and Id-uz-Zuha, we Hindus religiously
went to the houses of our Musalman friends, offering “Id Mubarakh” and being blessed
with a “Salamath” and sweets and savouries in return. Now and then, undoubtedly,
there were reminders of the haunted relations between Hindus and Musalmans. But,
so soon after the madness of the partition, the valley was a daily testimony
that it deserved its name of Reshivaer (the abode of Rishis).
That is why the phone call this morning was a deeply
touching one.
Over the last several years, I have grown resigned to the
idea that Kashmir no longer remembers the days of its being “Salamath”. I have
seen the word “Kashmiriyat” being used in a variety of ways, but rarely in the
sense that we understood it in our childhood: a state of inclusive respect and reaching-out,
an extraordinary capacity for peace that made it possible for Kashmir to be,
simultaneously, a seat of the profound Shaivite Hindu philosophy and the
revered Sufi Islamic tradition.
I have met young Kashmiri Musalmans all over India and
elsewhere and we have connected instantly through our shared language. But I
have despaired over the fact that most of them do not even know that, not long
ago, Kashmir was a thriving composite culture. For many of the younger ones,
the fact that Hindus lived in Kashmir not very long ago does not seem to be
even a historical fact.
Kashmir has lost much in the last few decades. A lot of that
loss is the subject of daily protests, deep anguish and reasoned comment.
However, one loss that is rarely mentioned is the sound of Herath Mubarakh in
Musalman voices on Maha Shivaratri in the streets of Kashmir. A loss that is
rarely acknowledged is the vanishing of the Reshivaer and its centrality to
Kashmiriyat.
For bringing that sound back and re-connecting us with that
glorious possibility through that phone call, thank you, my dear Majid.
