The Village

There are no wreaths on the graves, no embellished epitaphs eulogising the dead. The burial ground looks strangely old-fashioned, with wild grass and thorny bushes swallowing the neglected mounds. The stone walls are crumbling, and children play cricket in a corner. Gundbal has no martyrs, no bullet-ridden bodies of young men lying under its earth. Death in this little village has always come from natural causes. Today, an icy wind shuffles the bare willows that circle the village. In the east, the snowy crests of the towering Harmukh range float like drifts of clouds. We set out early on our journey from Srinagar, 60 km from here. This was to be our last attempt at finding a village where a body bag has never arrived see box. Although we had cross-checked several times about Gundbal, we still weren8217;t sure.

As we take a right turn from Bandipore town to climb the slope up the final few kilometres to Gundbal, I brace myself for another disappointment. The road cuts through a huge Border Security Force BSF camp, where every yard is manned by a soldier in battle gear. Bandipore has one of the highest concentrations of both troops and militants. Four army battalions, a BSF sector headquarters, and several CRPF and J038;K police companies are deployed in the jurisdiction of a single police station, while the number of militants hiding in its mountains is estimated at more than a thousand. Here, the idea of a village untouched by the turmoil seems bizarre.

The road narrows to a dirt track that pierces through unsown paddy fields. Villagers in traditional phirans walk past our cab, staring curiously. Gundbal, I am later told, has no transport, and people walk three km to reach the nearest bus stop. A car comes down the dirt track only in extreme cases like a medical emergency.

We cross the culvert on the little stream, and enter a village of beautiful tin-roofed concrete houses. As we crawl towards the village centre, a group of children shadows our car. Windows swing open as women look out to see the visitors.

THE top floor of Munawar Parvana8217;s two-storeyed brick house is under construction. 8216;8216;When this village was destroyed by the floods in 1992, we had to redo every house,8217;8217; says the 55-year-old as he leads us inside. 8216;8216;But God has saved us in all these years. We haven8217;t had any violent deaths.8221; We sit on the floor and lean back into the pillows as Parvana8217;s 16-year-old son Farhad offers a pile of handmade blankets to keep us warm.

Gundbal lies on the banks of the Arin nallah, a stream responsible for the community8217;s lack of development as well as for its unique good luck. In 1992, the water rose, devastating the village where 105 artisan families8212;mostly Kangri weavers, clay potters, folk singers and carpet weavers8212;lead a basic life. The houses were rebuilt, but the floods snapped Gundbal8217;s link with its volatile neighbours.

Today, a visit to the village is a lonely walk through the paddy fields. The flat terrain makes it impractical for militants to use it as a hideout. The security forces rarely patrol because they have nothing to look for. This village has no militants.

Parvana, who works at the horticulture department in Bandipore, writes Sufi poetry. He has written several volumes, but doesn8217;t have the resources to print them. So he compiled his handwritten books and circulated photocopies to friends and acquaintances. 8216;8216;Our village has no more than 20 people who hold government jobs. The highest ranking official is an assistant sub inspector of police,8217;8217; he says.

The only sign of government presence is the primary school. The last time the state commissioned any work here was in 1972 when the road was built. The tehsildar came once in 1992 to inspect the flood damages. The village has never seen a deputy commissioner or any other officer. It has no clean drinking water, and the nearest health centre is five km away.

So how did this village remain untouched? 8216;8216;Only by the grace of God,8217;8217; says Parvana. 8216;8216;Otherwise who could prevent it.8217;8217;

Outside, unfamiliar songs emanate from a neighbouring house. It8217;s a carpet weaving workshop. A dozen young people work in colourful symphony as one man belts out their weaving game plan in Kashmiri.

8216;8216;I rarely step out of the village,8217;8217; says Ghulam Mohammad Zargar, 35, who has set up a loom in his attic. A polythene cocoon inside the room keeps out the cold. 8216;8216;We are busy and this is our only world,8217;8217; he says.

When violence erupted in 1990, Zargar was 21 and his profile was perfect for the militant movement. But like dozens of others in the village, he kept away. 8216;8216;I was busy weaving carpets,8217;8217; he says, his face lit by a huge grin. 8216;8216;Didn8217;t anybody tell you that this is a village of cowards? Perhaps we were too scared to become militants, or too apprehensive that our families would starve if we left,8217;8217; he says. Zargar earns Rs 5,000 to 6,000 a month and says he is content with life. 8216;8216;I look after my old parents and I am married with children. Thank God, we have a good life,8217;8217; he says. 8216;8216;There is enough food to eat. What more do you need?8217;8217;

His mother, Shaha, 60, thinks they owe the calm to the blessings of Sufi saints that have kept both the militants and the army at bay.

GUNDBAL8217;s only close shave with turmoil was an encounter on its borders, but, once again, luck favoured its inhabitants. 8216;8216;Several years ago, an army patrol was ambushed on the outskirts of the village. There was gunfire and we squeezed into the corners of our houses,8217;8217; recalls Muzzafar Ahmad Lone, 35, a teacher at New Green Valley, a private school. 8216;8216;There was a crackdown operation in the morning. But nobody was picked up. The army knew there are no militants in this village.8217;8217;

The village has remained peaceful, but that hasn8217;t ever stopped the fear and tension from seeping through its invisible protective wall. 8216;8216;Peace has been here all these years, but there isn8217;t any peace of mind,8217;8217; Lone says as he recollects the killing of a policeman, his young son and nephew in a neighbouring hamlet last year. 8220;It was evening. I saw two burkha-clad people walking near the stream towards Madar Chuck on the outskirts of Gundbal. Five minutes later, I heard gunfire. The veiled women were actually militants.8221; Lone8217;s relatives are scattered across the nearby villages. 8220;The bad news keeps on coming. We have escaped physical harm, but pain and anguish have not spared us,8217;8217; he says.

A GROUP of children play in one corner of the graveyard and by the edge of the stream. Eight-year-old Amir Ahmad, a second grade student, wants to be a doctor. Shahnawaz Hussain Khan is 12 and he wants to become a pilot. How? 8216;8216;I will study,8217;8217; he says as he clutches his cricket bat. In a village where there is no road transport, flying seems to be a popular dream among children. 8220;I would like to fly in the sky,8217;8217; says five-year-old Amir Ahmad Bhat. 8220;It must be exciting.8221;

Of course the children know of the grim reality that encircles the village, but none of them wants to be a militant or join the army. Sixteen-year-old Ahsan-ul-Haq is the only youngster who aims to be a police officer, but that8217;s because his father is a cop.

Whether it8217;s divine intervention or a mere stroke of luck, Gundbal remains an outpost of hope. Unlike other parts of Kashmir, sons here still lead the funerals of their fathers and not the other way around. The laughter of children follows us as we bid goodbye to the village. We leave with the hope that Gundbal8217;s happy story survives, and this first visit by journalists does not come as a bad omen.