Curfewed Night: A Frontline Memoir of Life, Love and War in Kashmir. Basharat Peer
tried not to look nervous. The mukhbir waited for a moment and asked me to move on. But Manzoor, my neighbor’s sixteen-year-old son, was taken away for interrogation. His father used to run a hotel at a nearby tourist resort. After the fighting began and the tourists stopped coming to Kashmir, they locked up the hotel. His father opened a grocery shop after modifying a room on the ground floor of their house. Manzoor went to school, but on the frequent days of hartals against an arrest, arson, or custodial killing by the soldiers, he manned the shop when the schools remained closed. He was a gregarious and talkative teenager. Occasionally, the militants passing by would stop to buy something or simply sit and talk. Manzoor loved the attention and being able to talk to many commanders. The army seemed to have heard that the militants stopped by his shop.
I returned to my place on the lawns and sat near Father and Grandfather, who were consoling Manzoor’s distraught father. Then two soldiers came toward us. “Is someone called Basharat Peer here? He is a ninth-class student.” They had the name of my school. I stood up. “Come with us,” one said. “But … I am a student,” I tried protesting. “We know. We just need you to identify somebody,” the soldier said curtly. They walked toward the doctor’s-residence-turned-interrogation center. I followed them, not turning back to see how my father or grandfather were reacting. We entered the three-room building. I had been there many times to see the doctor, who was a family friend. I was told to sit in the storeroom, and the soldiers slammed the door behind me.
The room was empty and had a single window facing the village mountain. I stood near the window and stared at the door. It was a plain wooden door, painted in the regulation bluish-green of hospital buildings. I stared at the door and looked at my watch. I turned to the window and looked at the mountain, at the pine trees standing in bright morning light, at the rough track skirting up the slope to the canal, and at the lone old hut in the clearing beside the canal. I looked at my watch again and turned toward the door. It stood still, wooden. I sat down on the floor and stared at the door. I was somewhat numb. The anticipation of interrogation is worse than the interrogation.
Loud cries and shrieks from the rooms next door startled me. Over and over I heard the words: Khodayo Bachaav (Save me, God!) and Nahin Pata, sir! (I don’t know, sir!). They were torturing the men and the boys who had been taken away after the mukhbir had pointed them out. I thought of Manzoor. How would his reedy body endure anything? I thought of the boy from my school whom they wanted me to identify. I muttered all the prayers I had ever known. The door stood still. I stared at the dusty bare floor and waited. The shrieks continued, with brief intervals of silence.
Around two hours later, the door opened violently. Two soldiers stood there with their guns pointed at me. I stood up. I was stiff, scared, and staring into their faces. But they did not hit me. One of them began questioning me. “What is your name?”
“Basharat, sir!”
“Full name?”
“Basharat Ahmad Peer, sir!”
“Father’s name?”
“Ghulam Ahmad Peer, sir!”
“What does he do?”
“Government officer, sir!” Quickly adding for the effect, hoping it might help, “Kashmir Administrative Services officer, sir!”
He didn’t seem to hear me. “Where in the village do you live?”
“Down the road, sir! Next to the pharmacy.”
I continued looking at him and then briefly at the other soldier. But their stern, impassive faces gave away nothing.
Suddenly: “Which group are you with? KLF or HM?”
“With nobody, sir! I am a student.”
He paused and looked at me. “Everyone says he is a student. “How many of your friends are with them?”
“None of my friends, sir! They are all students.” I took out my student identity card from my shirt pocket and presented it.
He scanned it, turned it around, and returned it. “Where are the weapons?”
“I have no weapons, sir! I am a student.”
“Come on, tell us. You know we have other ways of finding out.”
“I know, sir! But I am only a student!” I pleaded.
“Think harder. I will come back in a few minutes,” said the interrogator, and left.
The other soldier stood there in silence. I tried to persuade him that I was merely a student. “Talk to the officer when he returns,” he said, and maintained his frightening silence. After a while, the interrogator returned and asked the same questions again. I had the same answer: “I am a student.”
“All right,” he said, “I know you are a student.” He seemed to soften a bit. He asked me about a student from my school who was still enrolled but didn’t come to school much. He was Pervez, my best friend from school, bad singer of Bollywood songs, center forward on the football team, and a boy with pink cheeks and a blue tracksuit. I answered quickly and gave Pervez’s father’s name, profession, and the name of their village. I also mentioned that he had relatives in our village. Pervez had been visiting his relatives and had been arrested in the crackdown. They had wanted to cross-check his identity. The interrogator looked at me for a moment and said, “All right! You can leave.”
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