On the banks of mighty River Jhelum stood a single-storey house, painted red. At a distance of about 300 metres stood a bunker, facing the Jhelum, guarded by two security personnel. We could feel the waves of fresh air coming from the river. We couldn’t decipher what these men, who stood guarded, were pointing their guns at. Maybe the breeze; maybe the murky waters; maybe this house – the house which was painted red. Maybe this house was still a threat. A house that sheltered only two souls. A widow, namely Tabasum Guru, and her son, Ghalib Guru.
It was the late Afzal Guru’s house. Mohammad Afzal Guru (30 June 1969 – 9 February 2013) was convicted for his role in the 2001 Indian Parliament attack. He received a death sentence for his involvement, which was upheld by the Indian Supreme Court. Following the rejection of a mercy petition by the President of India, he was executed on 9 February 2013. His body was buried within the precincts of Delhi’s Tihar Jail. Independent commentators have questioned his sentence, stating that he did not receive adequate legal representation and that his execution was carried out in secrecy.
This house was built by his wife, Tabasum Guru – a simple, soft spoken lady with an iron heart. She, with her husband and his family, used to live in Sopore, but then she decided to shift and built this house near her brother’s residence.
This newly-constructed house was full of memories. There was a picture of Afzal Guru hanging on a wall of a neatly maintained drawing room. The colour of the curtains was also red. We don’t know why, but we found lots of red inside that house. And outside it was a different scene altogether. While looking from outside, this house seemed to be a normal one, with red paint. But the moment one steps in, the mystery of ‘Reds’ unfold.
During the humid days of May, we went to the Baramulla – a town about 65 kms away from the capital, Srinagar. The town, divided by the Jhelum into two halves, guarded by mountains and populated with Sikhs and Muslims, is a living example of peace and harmony. We were told to reach Gulnar Park, where Ghalib lived with his mother. A sumo driver pointed his finger and directed us to take the link road on the right side. After 15 minutes of walking, with dried throats and perspiring foreheads, we reached Gulnar Park. We dialled Tabasum Guru’s number, and when we asked about Ghalib, she said he was playing cricket in the playground, “Meet him and bring him along.”
The last time a newspaper carried Ghalib’s photo when he was in the 8th standard. But now, it was hard to recognise him. About thirteen players were on the ground, all wearing white cricket uniform. A tall boy waved his hands and walked towards us with a smile on his face. He was also expecting the ‘unknown’ guests. Ghalib greeted us with an Asalaamu Alaikum, shaking our hands. We hugged each other. It was as if we had known each other for ages. Our familiarity was similar to when we meet an old friend or a relative living far away from us.
It was hard for him to leave the cricket match midway and escort us home. We did not want to upset him either; rather, we let him play and decided to just be spectators. He played like a bird with wings open, enjoying the endless sky. The cricket field with little patches of grass was his realm. It was quite a hot day, and rays of sun were mercilessly beating down on us. But he was playing as if under the shade of God – passionate and determined.
On the other side of the playground stood a huge mountain, and on top of it: the Indian tricolour was unfurling. Ghalib was so deep into the game that he didn’t get time to stare at the tricolour. The flag, a symbol of injustice for him. This flag represents a country which separated him from his father; but he did not seem interested. He went on and on with his game.
(The writer is a post-graduate student at Kashmir University’s Media Education Research Centre. This is a personal blog and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)
(This article has been republished from The Quint’s archives to mark the fourth anniversary of the hanging of Azfal Guru. It was first published on 2 July 2016)
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