The Jungle I Live In
By Suhail Khan
10 September, 2009
Countercurrents.org
An ’86 born, I am a Living Dead.
Living Dead is a terrible composition. Like a psychotic’s description. Breathing, but deceased. Young and old at once. On the face of it, too confusing an equation even for Him to make a decision. Or perhaps, too simple to be bothered at all. Why be silly minding a dead!
As for my Jungle, it is baffling that the Creator could be so Uncreatorly. In having allowed Himself to so painstakingly craft a part of the globe that was to become what it is. It has the same oddity to it as seemingly bathing a dead to be buried in soil.
Perhaps I should avoid that sort of indulgence if there is change of fortune to be sought in the hereafter. And abide by my fate here. Be a Living Dead.
A mourner. Of the years I have Dead Lived in The Jungle. Of those I have not quite – those I do not remember. Cannot recall.
Surely, I have had my share of joy anyway, although of a different brand and from a source that is unusual. Not that it is very unusual given that the half of the life in my Jungle comprises it. Hartal.
A sweet-sounding word. Even sweeter meaning, deadly connotations notwithstanding.
I would supplicate to Him for it, unmindful that I was in fact praying for Someone’s Slaughter. Or, worse still, Someone Else’s Rape.
This as I was oblivious of my Unfortunate Fortune. Of the Fatal Fact that my Jungle was The Paradise of Earth and therefore the most dangerous place on it.
That we were Prisoners of war. The very worst genus of war. War that did not (does not) and would not (will not) end.
War that has led to the prevailing State of Affairs. Terrible State of Affairs, which has adulterated our mind. Our perspective. Our sense of belonging. Our purpose of life. Our dreams.
Which has made us admire our captors and scorn ourselves. Appreciate the intent behind the presence of forces and see an indefensible fault in our existence. Respect the frisks and censure our clothes.
It is not many of us who wear a pheran now anyway.
While we are on it, State of Affairs is also that something which has largely caused me to be a Dead Living. To grow up against the Laws of Age. To know the Secret at an unforgivably young age. (Which could have meant lethal. But did not. Courtesy, in all probability, the Adulteration.) ‘Ours is an occupied nation.’
Ours is an occupied Jungle, is more like it.
The Barrage of Bullets, Ambush of Grenade Explosions, Carnage, Bloodbaths, Gore, Mayhem – I understood why.
‘Some of the brave sons of the soil have taken a stand to fight for the cause.’ It heard like one of the many exhilarating stories in my General English books I had been delighting in during the contemporary years of schoolings.
Taking stand, fighting occupation – were compositions of words winning enough for a school-going to take a pride in. Until the Adulterated Smell could be smelled. Markedly Contaminated Intentions seen in the spilled blood of the nationals.
Until no doubt remained that it was an addict’s urge to explode grenades. No matter who the victims are, Explode Grenades we must!
As for the Barrage of Bullets and its Exclusive Dealers, I had almost thought that some delay was permitted before carrying on with the trend of Turns, until the reports had my delusion cleared away. Nelofar and Asiya had already had their Turn, with rape preceding the murder. Or did it happen the other way round? Who can tell? (I’ll laugh out loud and cannot be blamed for insensitivity if you think that’s CBI.)
Surely, they had it in The Jungle. In their own hometown. In the fields they had known all their life. Like Musician Inayat and Student Sheikh’s.
Unlike Engineer Irshad Lone’s, which took place in police custody. In Delhi. When the Act remained and the Scene shifted – like in the stories in my English books – from The Jungle to The Shining India.
The Shining India. Sadly, the Terrible Story of my Jungle and I cannot end on the note. Continues. As the Tragic Chapters remain. Are looming.
As the times are ripe as always for the Next Fated to have their Turn and take over. Perhaps I. Or maybe you.
Let us not repeat the folly. For, each time we hope it does not, it does. For a people who belong nowhere, whose lives are never important enough to matter, it is wise to Control the hopes.
To abide by our fate. Be Living Dead.
Welcome to my world of The Jungle. But beware! There is no going back once gotten into.
Suhail Khan is a Kashmir-based writer, who is currently studying International Journalism at the Institute of Communication Studies, University of Leeds, Leeds, UK. Suhail has worked as Staff Writer with a New Delhi-based lifestyle magazine, Traffic Life, which is a flagship branch of Twenty Onwards Media Pvt. Ltd., and Compere and Moderator with All India Radio’s Radio Kashmir, Srinagar.
Email him to [email protected]
