Huddled together against the back wall of Bod Mandir, Kuka Rawul regales us with the famous gazals. His voice is as mellifluous as the original singers. Most of us also take turns in puffing at the solitary cigarette available with some one. We also indulge in all the discussions and debates that youth of our age is supposed to do. Bitta Mot, Bitta Sepoy and Muna Kachur are always ready with their wit and humour. The exile has scattered us and thrown us thousands of miles apart. My exile has made me to lose the pleasure of my friends’ company. I have lost my humour. I don’t know about others. Exile has made me serious and deprived me of enjoying life’s little eccentricities.

Sitting near the extreme end of the demba nav ( A simple rudimentary boat) Lalla for his friends, Chaman Lal for many and Nika Halvoy for most of the Rainawarians, digs his fingers into the hot utensil to test the hardness of mutton. He has kept the customary chopped onions and tomatoes ready for appropriate time. Some of us are rowing the boat while others are animated over flash or monga patta. Except for Lalla, no specific job is assigned to any body. We take turns in rowing the boat and taking space in the playing circle. Lalla is busy with pumping the kerosene stove. Soon we are in the middle of Dal and Lalla insists on opening the bottle. The cool breeze and the gentle rocking waves add romance to the occasion. Enjoying in the boat among others are a doctor, a banker, a pharma executive, a business man, a veterinarian and a halvoy. At the end of it all group automatically washes the glasses, plates and other things. There is a fulfilling camaraderie between every one. My exile has made me to lose the sense of bonhomie.

The shop ledge near Kralyar ghat can accommodate only three persons. It is first come first occupy. The rest are standing in front facing the persons sitting. Somebody cracks a jock. Some one suggests a picture for night show. The discussion is generally about different boys and girls of the locality. Suddenly, Ava Jalail talks about a book he is reading. A stimulating literary discussion follows and concludes with Sunil Krund insisting on borrowing the book. There is usual banter of refusals and finally acceptance. The talk diverts to some other subject. Some time back I tried to discuss books on Shelfari and found it devoid of any human sentiments. My exile has made me to lose soul refreshing moments with my friends.

This is going to be my first visit to the cremation ground in Rainawari. Sitting in the boat besides the body of my friend’s father I am apprehensive and tense. Soon we reach the picturesque island that is the cremation ground. I step out of the boat and immediately get a feeling of immense peace and bliss. The atmosphere is so serene that it immediately takes you away from the grief. Today, the cremation arrangements are being made by the wife of the Kavuj. Some time later, she asks the mourners to raise their hands and pray for the deceased. And while granting us leave, she remarks, “This is a very pious place and any body who is cremated here automatically goes to heaven.” I am not aware where I will finally meet my creator. But one thing seems to be sure; my exile has lost me the opportunity of going straight to heaven.

The writer is a senior political analyst and Panun Kashmir activis, based in New Delhi, India.

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