A Discourse on Writing in Kashmir

In our part of the world, recently a historical predicament brought everything to a standstill. It was abrupt and not absolutely expected the way it happened. Its impact was unpleasantly overpowering. It suddenly cut us off from our history. Our collective memory was ransacked. We ushered into an era of stifling silence, an era that brutally took to defamiliarizing the familiar. The age-old binaries based on commonsense and conventional wisdom were redefined. The new era was spitefully disciplinary, an era with an excessive thrust on clear-cut instructions and directions. It didn’t bring with it less grief but silence more. It resembled an overnight snowfall of silence. It silenced even those who had the loudest and sweetest voice. Suffering, indisputably, is the part of our being. However, I had never thought before that the undeserved suffering and voicelessness can also be inflicted and normalized in practice. Reflecting on the changes under this new peculiar system, I am reminded of a recent conversation I had with a Professor who taught me when I had just begun to study Sociology. 

In a gruff tone, the Professor’s voice came through the phone, “Hello, this is Professor Aflak Padder. Am I speaking to Mr. Junejo?” Without hesitation, I replied, “Yes.” Professor Aflak had a habit of addressing me as ‘Junejo’ during class. Unfortunately, my classmates would mockingly exploit it with a sickening enthusiasm. To this day, I’ve never bothered to discover the true meaning behind ‘Junejo.’ Some words carry more weight when their actual meaning remains unknown. “There are rumors circulating about your excessive chatter regarding trivial matters,” he continued. “You, being a naive young man, should come to my residence tomorrow morning. It’s a serious matter that requires discussion.” With that, he abruptly ended the call, leaving me anxious, guessing, and digging through my memories.

On that misty morning, I won’t delve into the specifics of how a group of ravenous dogs savagely ripped apart the hem of my pheran in the narrow, elongated lane that led to the Professor’s residence. 

“Still youthful, Junejo,” he muttered, flicking off the cigarette ash from his pheran. Apart from his vibrant, gleaming eyes and an intriguing conversational energy, his physical appearance seemed lackluster and frail. His upper lip was entirely concealed by an overgrown salt and pepper mustache. “I happened to come across an article of yours recently, published in a local magazine that’s dime a dozen. Frankly, it was rather too simple and, in my opinion, mere trash. We can no longer subsist on such writing. It should embrace a Barthesian approach, dwelling within a circuitous and oblique realm where meanings are ambiguous and paradoxical, yet not overtly direct. Otherwise, we might as well abandon the craft of writing,” he continued, his forehead furrowing with more pronounced lines of concern. 

“I will be more cautious in the future, sir,” I responded, hastily concealing the tattered remains of my pheran. My legs still trembled with unease. Meanwhile, the Professor let out a belch and sluggishly shifted to his left, propping his back against a pile of bedding in the corner. “Your writing style seems akin to the language of ordinary people. However, literature teaches us to defamiliarize the ordinary in various ways, transforming it into something extraordinary, intriguing, and indirect. I worry that you might fall into the trap of surveillance. If only I had mastered the craft of veiling or camouflaging my pain, or anyone’s pain, behind the mask of metaphor, or skillfully employed that detached authorial stance where the author is dissolved, perhaps I wouldn’t have faced relentless criticism in my old age, like an incessantly battered teenager. I was also summoned recently and beaten for being so direct in my writings. Another issue lies in the outdated monological appreciation or interpretation of literature. Our interpretations tend to focus more on hunting down and categorizing the author, rather than appreciating the inherent diversity of voices within the text,” the Professor explained, coughing loudly. He clumsily reached for the spittoon on his right.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I understand these are challenging times, but it is truly regrettable to witness the mistreatment of a professor for merely exercising the inherent nature of his profession. However, I can’t help but wonder, is it truly possible for a metaphor or linguistic ambiguity to elude what you refer to as the ‘trap of surveillance’?”

As thick curls of smoke escaped the Professor’s lips, he brushed away ashes from the glowing embers in his kanger. “You see,” he began, “you must infuse language with a complexity that prevents the reader from easily categorizing the writer. You are aware of the perilous categories I am referring to. It is acceptable as long as they label you as abstruse, recondite, or impalpable.” 

“I believe our readers are neither naive nor unlearned. Take, for instance, Orwell’s Animal Farm, a beast fable that didn’t diminish his standing as a democratic socialist. Writing within the realm of fiction should, in theory, provide enough protection against the perils of surveillance for a writer,” I replied. 

“Well, fiction doesn’t grant immunity to writing just anything and expecting to go unnoticed. Surveillance doesn’t discriminate based on genres; it simply pounces on words. Moreover, fiction is not merely a whimsical indulgence or a frivolous manifestation of human imagination. It has the power to delve into social truths more profoundly than newspaper editorials. Even the esteemed Karl Marx acknowledged that Dickens, Thackeray, and the Bronte sisters have imparted to the world more political and social truths than all the professional politicians, publicists, and moralists combined,” the Professor explained. 

“Sir, I’m just a regular student, an occasional writer. Why should we trouble ourselves with discussions about employing writing techniques that render meaning ambiguous? Perhaps it’s best to cease writing altogether. I mean, I won’t continue writing from now on. I had always believed that writing was a safe and innocuous endeavor. It’s truly distressing to realize that writing can inflict such humiliating torment upon an esteemed and elderly professor like yourself.” 

“No, no, no,” grumbled the elderly Professor, his voice filled with frustration. “You spineless, incompetent fool! Let me tell you, they once beat me mercilessly with hard sticks. My swollen behind ached for weeks on end. If this ordeal had crushed me into submission, I would have warned you over the phone to never write again. It’s quite simple, isn’t it? But I know that time is the greatest equalizer. Time has reduced mighty empires to mere dust. I don’t want you to give up something today just because I care, only to resent me for it tomorrow. Writing, my dear, is the essence of time. I don’t want you to abandon it. Perhaps I don’t know exactly what advice to offer, but I encourage you to experiment with your writing techniques. Perhaps magical realism might be of some help. Our style of writing is, in essence, an anecdotal documentation of history that disrupts the established and normalized narrative sequence of our past. Anecdotal in the way Gallagher and Greenblatt advocated in Practicing New Historicism. Therefore, writing for us will always be fraught with uncertainty.” The Professor continued smoking relentlessly, with the smoke lingering like a shroud in the corners of the spacious hall.

“When it comes to writing, we become our own adversaries because we struggle to write about ourselves. Diverging to unrelated themes would be a disservice to the essence of writing itself. We are left with two options: either cease writing altogether or, as you suggested, embrace new methods of writing and learn from them.” 

“Dear Junejo, our subject is undoubtedly challenging, but the absence of writing would result in the gradual erosion of the very essence we seek to explore. You…” The sudden interruption of a knock at the door abruptly filled the room with silence. 

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