Review by K L Chowdhury
Name of Book : Endless longings
Author : Sharmishtha
In her introduction to Endless Longings, Sharmishtha claims it to be purely a piece of fiction. Yet, one can’t escape the feeling that this book which falls neither in the genre of a novel nor travelogue nor diary but comprises five loosely connected sections of an absorbing narrative, is largely, if not entirely, autobiographical. I wish that the author had neither appended an introduction (which reads like a review) to her work, nor made a statement about it being fictional. This because Sheen, the protagonist, is our Anne Frank, who is not in hiding for two years in her father’s annex but in the open and bumpy terrains of exile – a refugee forced to move from her home in Kashmir to Geeta Bhavan in Jammu, finally to land in what she calls a ‘cloth house’ in the tent colony of migrants. The thirteen year old girl, like Anne Frank of the same age, and like a holocaust survivor, relates, in simple language, her poignant tale of the harsh realities of life in alien lands far removed from the comfort and luxury of home, of the loss of loved ones, of the shattering of dreams, of erosion in relationships, of the loss of identity. Like Anne, she has questions to ask, numerous questions – about life and death, conflict and peace, religion and ritual, bonds and relationships. Like Anne’s diary, Sheen’s memoir revolves around just a handful of people. Besides Aashnaan who comes close to being her foster mother, and friend Tasleena, Sheen’s life is largely inspired by, and revolves around, her grandpa. In fact, the story does not begin with her birth on a snowy January day in 1977 but of her grandpa way back in 1929.
Sheen is a metaphor of the times we live in. The story here is not only her story, but of all the girls and boys of or around her age who were too young and too innocent to understand the contours, content and connotations of the religious frenzy that raged in their homeland and drove them into a subhuman existence. Out of Chilei Kalan (the acme of winter in Kashmir) Sheen, literally snow, is ‘born of snow-dreams /of cozy cuddles and huddles / in kangri-warmed beddings …../ Supernal, serene, white / soft, smiling, bright …’ and grows up like any other girl in a warm and loving family ambience, in the traditional atmosphere of inter-religious harmony between Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs, only to be hurled into exile and branded with a new identity, which is summed up in one word – ‘Migrant’. She ‘stands out’ everywhere as a migrant and is distressed by the new lexicon that springs up around the refugees from Kashmir – migrant relief, migrant salary, migrant ration card, migrant school, migrant employee, migrant student, migrant camp, migrant shift, migrant relatives, migrant teacher, migrant doctor, migrant leader …. ‘I stand out as a Kashmiri migrant in the crowd, in the bazaar, in a bus where the driver and conductor makes fun of my language ….No doubt, some children of the tent colony have stopped speaking Kashmiri even with their parents,’ she laments. ‘I do not like this word migrant which has become attached to everything I have and can be.’ Sometimes she is frightened even to move out of the tent. ‘Young girls remain mostly indoors as good looks also pose some dangers in the unknown land.’
Sheen rues the loss of relationships and bonds, of her friends and confidantes, of her school and home, of the joy and spirit of the festivals that were the spice of life in the valley. Her birthdays turn into fiascoes; shivratris become non-events in the tent; her family is spurned by close kin who had settled in Jammu much before the turmoil, who enjoyed great hospitality in their home in Kashmir, who now do not even wish to be identified as their relatives. ‘Many relatives who had already settled in Jammu ‘do not visit us often. They feel ashamed of (our newfound status) as migrant.’
But her greatest tragedy is the death of her loved ones. While Aashnaan is felled by bullets on the road, her blood coloring the snow red, exile swallows her grandmother, and later, her loving grandpa – her friend, philosopher and guide – who succumbs to a degenerative disease, Parkinsonism, making her wonder: how can an artist’s brain cells degenerate.
Sheen gets philosophical in the last section, speaking of judgment day, of everything returning to mother earth, of soul being a small voice within to which one can listen in quiet and calm, of Karma, of energy and matter, of Shiv-Shakhti, and about the miracle of survival amid the dance of death. Even as her grandpa says, ‘we are not born for decay’, he is not afraid of death, for ‘death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.’
Some of Sheen’s chilling accounts make one feel guilty as a fellow refugee of having been spared her horrendous experiences. While Sheen registers her menarche when she discovers ‘wetness below’ with shock and horror in Geeta Bhavan teeming with refugees and no privacy whatsoever, it is attending the calls of nature that is her greatest nightmare. ‘We need to go to the nearby community toilet or the (open) grounds quite early – no flashlight, tall grasses, filthy lands – where anything can bite our bodies. If the open grounds expose our privacy, the toilets are abominable. The limited water results in piles of excreta where larvae, insects, mosquitoes all abound. We carefully walk over the toilet for there is likelihood of slipping over. Sonu of the nearby tent once fell into the mound and was (drenched) all over. Her mother vomited twice while bathing her and she hated herself for days after, the stench seemed to suffocate her. The toilets are roofless; when trucks pass by, we hide ourselves straining our body and mind, as the drivers and conductors hoot and we dig our eyes into the filth. We have to cope up with the filth – of spaces and minds.’
Notwithstanding ‘the limitations and shortcomings of the text’ as the author herself acknowledges in the introduction, Endless Longings is another valuable addition to exiled literature for it mirrors the mind of a teen age girl trying to figure out the deeper meaning behind the mindlessness that has seized her world.
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