Through her books, author Paro Anand has mainstreamed the problems of young adults and found strength in their unspoken effort to forge ahead
Author Paro Anand prefers stories which are more realistic rather than those that meander into the escapist world of fantasy. Her stories often take off from a fragment of a headline, a sound bite or an overheard conversation.
Anand has worked with Kashmiri children through The Rajiv Gandhi Foundation, the National Book Trust, Help Foundation and the Army. She realised that they were hemmed in by the tragedies that were unfolding around them, which made them uncertain of their future. But despite them, they were open to the idea of finding a way out of the morass.
Through her books, Anand has sensitively helped young adults deal with their reality so that they are not just a collection of dismembered lives. like Smoke, a short story in a collection by the same name, becomes more relevant with the release of the movie Secret Superstar, where a young girl follows her dreams. The short story holds out a very contemporary appeal to not just teenagers from the Valley but other places as well. We reproduce an extract:
She hums her early morning song as she deftly packs the lunch for her mother and father. She’s already pretended to have cooked her own, wrapping a plastic bag around a cloth duster so that it looks like a packet of food. She knows her mother is dead against her plan to diet but Zeenat knows that she is getting fat. She’s started hating looking at herself in the mirror. She felt her chin was wobbly and her cheeks too round. She sucked her cheeks in to give her that beautiful gaunt look that she loved. Her friend Farida had it. But then she also had that haunted look that came from too much loss. Yes, Farida was used to loss. She’d seen her own father and brother being dragged away in the late evening, never to return.
That way, Zeenat was lucky. Most of her other classmates had similar violent losses in their families. Zeenat’s family had been spared “by god’s grace”, she muttered under her breath as she spooned rice and potato curry into her parents’ tiffin boxes.
She missed school. It had been months now that school had been shut by strikes, bandhs and curfews. She missed not going out now. Her parents went out every day, leaving her behind with warnings to lock the door, draw the curtains and pretend no one was home.
She was proud of the fact that her mother went to work, too. She was a nursing assistant in a hospital nearby. It was hard work and often not very rewarding either. She was supposed to be in the delivery ward, but there weren’t many babies being delivered nowadays. What with all the stress and tension that women lived with, they weren’t conceiving babies.
Not to mention that many, many men had been lost in all the violence that rocked their beautiful Kashmir valley at regular intervals, often peace being a very short interlude, between terrifying incidents of violence. So Ammi had been transferred into the Emergency ward. She didn’t like this work. There were always gunshot victims and blast survivors coming in. And this disturbed Ammi a lot. Zeenat could tell what her Ammi’s day was like even before she came home. For Zeenat spent a lot of time in front of the television, listening and listening to the news. There was very rarely good news.
Not much at all after that cute Kashmiri boy had won Indian Idol. Zeenat smiled at the memory. Her Abbu had scolded her when her mobile phone bill came then. Much higher than normal because of all the text messages she’d sent to vote for the boy. He was Kashmiri and besides, he was cute. Of course, Zeenat, being Zeenat, had ignored the stupid fatwas that had been issued by the extremist organisations. Warning Kashmiris not to show support for a traitor who turned his back on his Kashmiriyat by participating in an Indian programme. “Kashmir is not a part of India,” they urged.
To which Zeenat had replied-out loud-to an empty room, “Well, there isn’t a Kashmiri Idol, is there. So what is the poor boy to doIJ’’
Singing is against Islam, especially singing of these vulgar film songs.
“If Allah had not meant for him to sing, he wouldn’t have poured so much talent into his throat,” announced Zeenat firmly, turning her back on dire warnings as she sms-ed her way to an inflated bill and her father’s scoldings. She watched the daytime re-runs, too. And then, when she was alone in the house, she would sing along, on top of her voice. Almost, but she knew she had to be careful that her voice didn’t carry too far. Danger was always lurking in unexpected places. Zeenat secretly wished she could also enter Indian Idol. She had a sweet voice. She knew, looking at the level of competition, that she would probably not be able to win, but, oh, just to even audition, be in front of a camera, be in front of people and just sing! Just even for the joy of it. But it was a dream that was very, very far away.
How she’d forced Abbu to watch the finale with herIJ He was not so well that day, coughing away. So, while Ammi was away, they’d watched the grand finale. Of course they’d kept the volume low just in case “someone” was listening. But she knew that all her friends were watching, as was half of Kashmir which was rooting for their candidate, ignoring the naysayers.
And Zeenat, caught up in the moment of the last few songs, had grabbed a hairbrush and stood next to the TV, singing the song, swaying to the music. Her father had watched, a huge grin on his face, his eyes shining. When the song ended, he had teared up a little, stroked her head and said, “My darling child, what a beautiful voice you have. I’m so proud of you. And what a poor father I’ve been that I never knew.”
“It’s okay, Abbu, how were you to knowIJ”
“One day, my baby girl, you will sing in front of a big crowd and they will be cheering for you.”
“Will you come to see me, AbbuIJ’
He had only nodded and hugged her tight. And then he’d turned away quickly. She only knew that he was crying a little because she was, too.
And then, Zeenat had thrown her arms around her father when he cheered and clapped unabashedly as their Kashmiri lad was crowned Indian Idol. She was happy that he’d won, but was even more happy that her darling Abbu had watched and cheered, not even bothering to keep his voice down.
Zeenat adored her father. Of course, she loved Ammi too, but her mother had become so morose. Dour, almost, as lines of tension pulled at her mouth so it could hardly shape a smile any more. It seemed to Zeenat that Ammi disapproved of her every time she laughed. After trying to get through the growing walls of disapproval, Zeenat had more or less given up. She had the solid presence of her father, who would laugh along with her in her every moment of joy. And Zeenat had a joyous laugh. Head thrown back, her head scarf slipping off, her hair unwinding, wanting to join into the engulfing pleasure. It was a mighty, splendid, infectious laugh that invited others to join in. And they most often did. Whether they wanted to or not, others caught and rode on the waves of Zeenat’s laughter. Even Ammi. Sometimes. Turning away so that no one would see that she still had a smile left in her.
“Teach that girl to behave more demurely,” Ammi often implored her husband. But Abbu would put a protective arm around his daughter’s shoulders and declare, “If any one tries to subdue my bachchi’s laughter, I’ll make sure they never smile again. She is a heaven-sent angel, who brings laughter to this godforsaken land of ours. As long as I’m around, Zeenat must only laugh her mighty laugh.”
So Zeenat watched television almost all day long, listening for the rare bit of good news or looking out for news that would tell her what her mother’s mood would be that evening. It was like watching a weather report. And often it warned, “storm ahead!”
If there had been a blast or shoot-out in their part of restless Kashmir, Ammi would have spent the day in blood and her demeanour and dreams would also be blood-soaked. Of course, they’d suggested to Ammi that she find some other line of work, but Ammi knew that it was very important that she be available for those who needed her. Abbu and Zeenat would tread softly that evening. For loud sounds upset her mother. Zeenat would finish the cooking early, as the sound of the pressure cooker’s whistle startled her. Zeenat lovingly massaged her Ammi’s temples and aching feet, and she was careful not to laugh. Though Abbu and she would exchange quiet smiles, reassuring each other that happiness was not too far away. Even on a night like this.
There was only one thing that Zeenat didn’t like about Abbu. And that was his smoking. He smoked altogether too much. Although he pretended that he did not. It was the only thing that they quarrelled over.
That and school. Zeenat wanted to go to school. Desperately. But school here had become so unpredictable. Always shut. Their exams had not taken place for a year now. There was talk that all students would simply repeat their class this year again. But Zeenat did not want to repeat class VIII. She’d already gained from it all that she could. She wanted to go to the ninth grade. She wanted to move a step closer to finishing school, to becoming the computer engineer she dreamed of becoming. She begged her parents to let her study in a school in Delhi, or one of the boarding schools that some of her classmates had gone to. But they would not let her go. Fear had seeped deep into their minds and hearts. It had set their bones hard against sending their precious daughter away. Better safe and uneducated than running risks in the great unknown.
So Zeenat tried to study at home but she was bored. Besides, she was not allowed out of the house alone. Ever. She felt stifled. Surely, surely, she was safe enoughIJ And that’s why she was putting on weight. What could she do — she got no exercise, played no games. She often wanted to run, feel the crisp wintery air against her face, feel the wind rush past her ears that were full of televised voices of doom.
But instead, here she is, face flushed from the stove instead of sunlight, packing up her parents’ lunch so that they can go out into the world while she stays home, television for company. She turns to find her Abbu lighting up yet another cigarette, his third already.’
“Abbu!” she admonishes. “Abbu, you promised, you promised me you’re going to stop smoking. Put that cigarette out, Abbu.’’
“Sorry, sorry,” he says.
“What ‘sorry’ AbbuIJ You always say sorry and then you do the same thing. No, Abbu jaan, put out your cigarette now.’’
“Oh ho, what do you have against my one pleasure, betaIJ’’
“Haw! How can you say your one pleasureIJ Isn’t this home a pleasure for youIJ Isn’t the food Ammi and I cook for you a pleasureIJ Aren’t IIJ’’
“Acha bhai, sorry, sorry,” her Abbu smiles, holding both his ears, his cigarette clenched between his teeth, “Sorry, I was wrong, of course. I have so much joy and pleasure, you’re right. Okay, then let me ask you, what do you have against my one viceIJ’’
“Come on Abbu, you know what’s wrong with smoking. You’re behaving like you’ve never heard of cancer or all the horrible things that can happen. Don’t pretend now, Abbu. Just Stop Smoking. Put it out.’’
“Acha baba, let me finish this, then I’ll not smoke another.’’
“No, no, put it out.’’
“last, last, I promise, this is my last cigarette.’’
“PromiseIJ’’
“Promise, sweetheart, promise. Now let me enjoy my last cigarette in peace.”
Zeenat hugs her father and hands him his lunch. She pulls his nose gently and whispers, “Now remember now, that’s the last one!”
He hugs her and kisses her forehead and heads for the door.
Zeenat watches her father’s phiran-clad back as he slips on his shoes; he waves once more before hurrying out of the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him, keeping the cold out. Not letting the damp mist enter the warmth of his home.
Zeenat hears the door bang shut.And then she hears another bang — a sickeningly familiar bang.
“Abbu . . .” she wrenches the door open. Her father has collapsed on the steps of their house. His blood flows into the melting snow, turning it pink. He has been shot. A jeep speeds away.
“Abbu!” she screams. The cigarette has sizzled out on the cold, wet snow.
“Ammi!” she calls out in despair, turning back into the house. She stops in her tracks.
The smoke from her Abbu’s cigarette, his last cigarette, still hangs in the air. Something as tenuous, as temporary as smoke, still exists. But the solid presence of her father has disappeared.
Afterwards
Ammi took Zeenat and left Kashmir. Zeenat didn’t mind it so much, after all, she could go to school safely now.
Zeenat stands on stage now, ready for her solo. It’s the first time that she is singing on such a big stage, in front of such a big audience. It’s all the mothers and fathers of her school mates. Of course, hers are not here. Ammi is at work, and in any case, she still doesn’t quite like the singing bit. And Abbu, well, Abbu is just a father-shaped hole in her heart. She closes her eyes, asks for her father’s blessings and sings her heart out.
As she opens her eyes at the end of the song, she sees a man standing right at the back, leaning against the door. She sees him look straight at her and her breath catches in her throat. He nods at her and gives her a thumbs up sign. And turns to go, lighting a cigarette as he leaves. leaving just a wisp of smoke behind.