I believe a revolution begins when an individual starts to become aware of the subtle manifestations of oppression in a society (to which most people are oblivious because these manifestations have been normalized) and this recognition makes the person want to do something about that oppression.
Maqbool was one such person; he began to perceive the signs of tyranny very early in his life. Let me tell you the story of how his lifelong fight against all forms of oppression began in a remote village located somewhere in the valley of Kashmir.
At twelve, he revealed himself to be unusually perceptive. He had already begun to notice how on special occasions at his school, such as award ceremonies and annual days, some parents were provided with chairs on one side and some were made to sit on mats on the other side. One award ceremony day, on his way back from school, he was trying hard to find a reason for this differential treatment. He reached the door of his home. He could still not find anything to justify it. He slipped off his slippers and shouted, “mouj bi hey aasai!”
“Chappin thai zi lobkun,” his mother answered from inside the house and he pushed his slippers to one side of the door with his left foot. He entered the main corridor, his mind still engaged in search for a reason. He stepped into the kitchen, dropped his bag near the door and sat in front of his mother. His mother was seated on a takhti against a worn out and lopsided cushion. To her left was the daan and to her right was the seandir, on the other side of which was a stand for a couple of copper naT’. Above the naT’, the rest of the utensils were arranged on wooden shelves. His mother placed a taasiful of bati in front of him and ladled a generous quantity of watery haakh onto it. He placed his right hand above the saendir and his mother poured water over it from a copper tumbler; and he dug into his bati ban with gusto. After wiping his taasi clean of every last bit of haakh and bati and licking it off his fingers, he turned to his mother and asked, “Mouj, why do they make bab, and nabi, rusul, habi, etc.’s fathers sit on one side on mats and panditji, mokdam saeb, moulvi saeb and the rest of them in chairs on the other side at the award ceremonies?”
“Hunh?”
“Why do they make some parents sit on one side on mats and some in chairs on the other side? It doesn’t seem right.”
“Gobra, Khoda saeb has given each of us a suitable position in life and we should all be grateful for what we have.”
“But, mouji, does it mean they have to sit separately?”
“Gobra, yi chu panun panun rotbi.”
“Hasn’t Khoda saeb made all of us from the same clay? And doesn’t that mean we are all equal?”
“Yes, it does. But then He has given each of us a function in life and we must perform it and be grateful.”
“Yes, mother; but how does it mean that some people get to sit in chairs and others on mats, on two separate sides?”
“Tse chai zyadi kathi gamtsi. Go and play with your friends,” his mother said in exasperation.
He got up and left.
He and his friends—Rusul, Rashi, Nabi and Habi—had gathered in a dragud just outside their village to play Lathi Kij Loth. Maqbool was still preoccupied. He couldn’t help asking his friends, “Isn’t it wrong that the rich parents are given chairs to sit in while the poor parents have to sit on mats at the award ceremonies at our school?”
“Tala kar tshopi; tse chuya gindun kini na,” Rusul, the blacksmith’s kid replied.
“What are you talking about?” asked Habi, the local barber’s son.
“Tsi kya ba chukh az praanev ruhav niumut,” Nabi, the baker’s son declared.
“Yes, I guess it is not fair; but what can we do about it?” Rashi, Anbir dasil’s son, added.
“We can talk to the headmaster about it, can’t we?” Maqbool replied.
“I am going home,” said Rusul.
“Asi cha gindun kini na?” asked Nabi.
“That is not going to make any difference, and we will get in trouble,” said Rashi.
“Hmmm…,” said Maqbool and added, “Let us play now or I will have to hear about it for at least a month.”
So they played until it was dusk when they left for their homes.
The following day was an unusually exciting one at school. Maqbool confronted the headmaster on the veranda after the morning assembly prayer. He just wanted a reasonable explanation for the difference in the treatment of the affluent and the poor fathers. The headmaster couldn’t satisfy him and ordered him to go quietly to his classroom. The whole school was buzzing all day about Maqbool’s questions to the headmaster. For most students, he became a hero; someone who was brave enough to ask questions to a person who was in the habit of putting questions to everyone else and punish them if their responses failed to please him. Some said that Maqbool was right and this differential treatment should be ended; others were of the opinion that it was how things were supposed to be, that it was preordained; still others believed that some people work hard to attain an elevated status in the society and deserve more respect than the rest.
In the evening, Maqbool was taken to task by his parents at home, but he did not stop asking uncomfortable questions and the unequal treatment of the students’ parents continued to plague his mind until he became one of the awardees.
His mother had a separate taasi for musaafirs. Once, back from school, he saw a musaafir eating bati on their braand. When his mother placed a taasiful of bati in front of him, he didn’t start eating, but asked her why she had kept a separate bani for musaafirs? Weren’t they humans like everybody else?
“Yima chi gobra makir aasaan.Vuchaan chukh na kota mal chus.”
“Mouji, me tey chu mali balai. Me kyazi chu ni alag bani?”
“Khe paanas bati, me mi khal khoshketh, me chi waara kaem.”
Maqbool, though not convinced, let his mother off the hook and tucked into his bati baneh.
Maqbool was an intelligent and hardworking student. When he matriculated, he did so by obtaining the most marks in his class. So he became one of the awardees at a ceremony at his school.
That morning he sat at the front of the assembly. The headmaster called the names of the awardees and one by one, they got up, came forward, received their awards to loud cheering by their peers, and sat back. When the headmaster called out, “Maqbool Ahmad Bhat!”, Maqbool got up, climbed onto the dais and, as one of the bigwigs got up from his chair to hang a golden medal around his neck, did not bend his neck; instead he turned towards the assembled students and made the following speech:
“My dear brothers and sisters, Khoda Saeb has created all of us from the same clay. We are all equal. No person is superior to any other. It is true that we are assigned different functions in life. Some of us are teachers; some are carpenters; some are weavers; some, hakeems; some, sweepers; some, moulvis; some, labourers; some, shopkeepers. But it does not mean that some of us deserve more respect than others do; it does not mean that some of us should get preferential treatment; it does not mean that some of us, just because we happen to be pandits, mokdams, teachers, moulvis and the like, get to sit in chairs while others, just because they happen to be carpenters, masons, sweepers and the like, must sit on mats separately.”
A murmur traversed through the assembled students and teachers. No one tried to stop him. He continued:
“Yes, I am referring to the seating arrangement of our parents here, which is clearly based on whether someone is well-to-do or poor.”
Those sitting in the chairs shifted in them uneasily. The headmaster took a step towards where Maqbool was standing, but a spontaneous and unanimous shout from the students anchored him back to his place. Maqbool didn’t even turn to look.
“We have to do something about it, my brothers and sisters. Unless and until we wake up and stand up against this discrimination, we will never be truly free.Therefore, today, in protest against this unjust arrangement, I refuse to accept this honour from the administration of our school, which is clearly dedicated to the perpetuation of such unfair treatment of the people in our society.”
There was a moment’s silence and then a huge round of applause from the assembled students; some of the teachers couldn’t help clapping and others, though inwardly applauding, maintained a calm appearance.
The headmaster’s ears had turned red and he was running a finger along the inside of his collar. Those sitting in the chairs had stood up and were trying to melt into the background. Maqbool walked back to his position among the assembled students.
That was the end of that unfair seating arrangement in Maqbool’s school. Next time I will tell you how that fearless freedom warrior tried to stop the unfair collection of taxes from his village by the landlord.
