Meeting Khushboo's family...

May 16, 2009
As the cab turned into the street, images from that day of the protests appeared before me. The point where blood had been smeared just 5 days ago was full of dust and stones- a sign of how one is not even entitled to mourn enough in this valley.

I was visiting the family of Khushboo, 10, who had been crushed 5 days ago at Lasjan in Srinagar. The house was locked and neighbours said the family had moved into a relative’s place nearby. The entire locale seemed deserted.

Following instructions, we found ourselves outside the gate beyond which sat a family that had lost a young child sometime before. Grim faces and moist eyes welcomed us. A gloom seemed to have fallen upon the entire place. Even young kids were quiet, sullen. An old man, presumably the family patriarch, wept bitterly in a corner of the courtyard.

“Our daughter was destined to die. The driver could have been more watchful but it was an accident. He did not do it purposely and I wish he isn’t punished too harshly. After all, he might be having a family too”, said Abdul Qayoom, Khushboo’s father said, as he escorted us into the house.

Qayoom was away at work that day and it was several hours before he got the news. By then, the badly shaped body of his daughter had been brought home. For a moment, he could not understand why so many people had gathered at his place. When someone did tell him about all that had happened he could not compose himself.

“Her face could not be recognized. The entire body was smeared with blood. Family, friends, neighbors…everyone is in a state of shock”, he said tearfully.

Even at this time of loss, this Kashmiri family had not given up their sense of hospitality. The traditional namkeen Chai was placed before me and Mubashir (my cameraman). It was then that Khushboo’s mother, Hafiza, entered the room. My heart sank as I looked at her. She walked silently and sat down in a corner, her eyes fixed at the ground. Even after repeated prompting by family members, she did not say much; just mumbled every once in a while.

“She did not eat for 2 days, but kept repeating her daughter’s name. Later, we advised Abdul to shift from their place and stay for a few days here, at our residence”, explained Khushboo’s Khala.

13 year old Bisma relates how her sister was fond of playing. “She was good at studies too. It was her dream to be a pilot. All our friends and teachers visited us. Her absence is painful.”

Lighting his second cigarette, a visibly shaken Qayoom opined, “I am a driver myself and know for a fact that any vehicle being driven at a speed of 40 KMPH or less stops if brakes are applied. So, this driver must have been plying the truck at a speed of no less than 60, and that too during rush evening hours.”

He added how the state government has failed to provide them with necessary infrastructure. “People blame Central Government for all mishaps. But, it always sanctions funds.We need more roads because traffic flow is heavy. Footpaths are required. The width of roads needs to be increased. Speed limit on vehicles must be fixed when there are colonies nearby. But the state government is least concerned.”

Ever since the armed forces entered the valley, normal life has been jolted. They ply heavy trucks all day long. Even emergency cases are not given priority over them. The convoys are always the first ones to be allowed to pass, even if there is a heart patient or a maternity case amongst those waiting.

“They might offer us compensation but money cannot bring our child back. And neither will killing that army driver”, added Qayoom, before he left the room for his next cigarette.

I looked at Hafiza’s face one last time before I was to leave. The tea and bread kept before her had gone cold. She was still looking at some unrecognizable point on the floor.

Had that young girl lived, what could she have made of herself? She might have become a pilot, as she had wished. Or perhaps a doctor, as her parents had envisioned her to be. But does it really matter now?