The following is an excerpt from M.K. Raina’s Before I Forget: A Memoir published by Penguin India.
It was the winter of January 1990 when I suddenly received a call from Srinagar from my brother-in-law saying that my mother had a brain haemorrhage and had been admitted to the government hospital. In those days, terrorism in Kashmir was in full force. There were daily reports announcing killings and bomb blasts all over the Valley. With a curfew in place, I knew it would be difficult for me to move from home to the hospital. I rang my childhood friend, M.K. Razdan, now the CEO of PTI, and told him about my mother and that I needed to get home. Could he please help me to acquire a curfew pass? Razdan replied, ‘When you land in Kashmir, go straight to Lambert Lane near Regal Chowk to our PTI office and meet Mr Sofi there. He will issue you two press curfew passes. Don’t worry. I will phone him right away, and I hope all goes well with your mother.’ I bought my ticket, packed my few winter clothes and some cash, and left for Srinagar on a full flight. People on the plane talked about the state of affairs in the Valley, and somebody said that Jag Mohan had again been appointed as the governor of the state. Silence took over the passengers, and after some time the flight landed in Srinagar.
M.K. Raina,
Before I forget: A memoir,
Penguin India (2024)
I did not know what to expect, but I was clear in my mind that I would take my mother and father to Delhi as soon as possible, where we could get my mother the best possible medical treatment. I left the airport by taxi, picked up my curfew passes from the PTI office and rushed home. My sister Girija was there; her children, aged six and eight years; my sister-in-law Shobha; and Babuji, my father. After dropping my bag there, I rushed to the hospital. It was a late afternoon; it was biting cold, and the streets were wet. There was a general air of gloom. There were hardly any people walking on the streets. I was soon at my mother’s bed. I saw that she was restless and wanted to use the washroom. The nurse and the doctor would not allow her to move, but she insisted on getting up. I don’t know if she noticed or recognised me, because she was uncomfortable, disoriented and semi-conscious. The doctor finally gave her an injection, which immediately put her into a deep sleep. I asked the doctor in charge, ‘What injection have you given her? Could you please let me know what the condition of the patient is?’ All he said was that she had had a haemorrhage in the brain, and at this stage she needed to be placed under observation. And he abruptly moved on. My cousin tended to her that night. As it grew dark, I returned home, and in the night the family debated what was to be done. I suggested that the best option was to take her to Delhi, where we could all provide her with the best treatment. Under the prevailing circumstances in Srinagar, nothing much was possible there.
The next morning, I reached the hospital early, at around nine. I wished to meet the doctor. They had shifted my mother to a room with two beds. On the other bed lay a Muslim lady who had come from some far-off village. I went to meet the doctor in charge. He was a Kashmiri Pandit, also a Raina. I introduced myself, and he recognised me. I asked him about my mother’s condition and expressed my intention to take her to Delhi for treatment. He explained that my mother had gone into a coma, and under such conditions, she could not be moved. And that would be so even if she were in New York. We would have to wait for at least two weeks to see if her condition stabilised, and then maybe fly her to Delhi. These two weeks were crucial as the bleeding in her brain had to stop. The treatment involved the prescribed injections. She could not eat in the regular way, and she was fed milk and orange juice through a tube. I thanked him and went to the ward to visit my mother lying there. The atmosphere in the hospital didn’t look normal; there seemed to linger some kind of tension. To spend two weeks in such a hospital with a patient in a coma was not a comforting thought. But with no other choice, we had to do it. The family decided that my elder brother and I would take turns staying at the hospital, while my sister and sister-in-law would take care of Babuji and my sister’s two small children.
My first night at the hospital, sitting on a steel stool in the chilly winter, was tough. There was no canteen to buy food or some hot tea from. It was after many years that I was in my hometown in the winter. At around midnight, I heard loud screams followed by a general commotion just outside, in the main corridor. I grew tense but did not venture out to see what the noise was. I heard running footsteps and sometimes painful wails and cries of helplessness. I guessed something serious had happened, perhaps a terrorist attack on the hospital. I shrank on to my stool with fear, looking at my mother’s gentle, calm face. For a moment I thought it may be the end for both of us. After some time, the noise subsided. The gentleman attending to the other patient in the room also sat quietly, occasionally looking at me but not saying anything. The silence in the room was scary. A few hours later, this gentleman gathered some courage and quietly opened the door without making a sound to peep out. Then again, he quietly sat back on his stool. After a few seconds, we looked at each other, and he whispered, ‘The wounded have come, and they’re being operated upon now.’ I did not say a word, but I wondered, ‘Wounded? From where they have come?’ He must have recognised my confused expression and explained, ‘These are the wounded Mujahideen.’ When his statement sank in for me, I passed out on the stool.
In the morning, all was normal, as if nothing had happened in the night. I walked through the corridor thinking I would see the wounded Mujahideen in the wards, but I did not see anyone. There was no trace of them. I grew curious and wanted to know where they had disappeared, but I did not have the courage to ask anyone. I went back to the room to make some orange juice for my mother and started feeding her through the tube. There was a knock on the door. Before either of us could open it, a young man entered and asked, ‘What is wrong with your patient?’ As I explained, he shot back. ‘What do you do?’ I thought, ‘Oh my God, if I tell him I’m a theatre and film man from Delhi, he might misunderstand.’ So, I lied, ‘I teach English in a private college in Delhi and have just come to look after my mother.’ He took a long and penetrating look around the room, and then again said, ‘What do you need?’ I said, ‘Not much. I need milk and oranges for my patient.’ He explained, ‘If you need milk for the patient, go to the duty room. They will give you cow’s milk, but if you need milk for your tea, then they will give you powdered milk.’ I thanked him, and he gave a last look around the room and left.
The duty room distributed free milk to all. It was a strange thing. I knew that duty rooms were meant for doctors to take breaks in between their duty rounds. Eventually, I did get milk from the duty room. Most of the day I spent just walking the corridors of this government hospital. In the morning, the curfew would relax for two hours or so. I would leave for home and my brother would leave home for the hospital. We would both meet on the road for a few minutes, exchange notes quickly and plan on what was to be done. Then our paths would cross, I heading home and he to the hospital. While walking back home, I could sense the stress in the city. Groups of people, mainly men, talked in agitation to each other. I stopped near one of these groups and overheard them talking. They were annoyed because all night there had been a gunfight between the terrorists and the security forces. Soldiers had entered homes and roughed up people, broken the wooden platforms of shops. Someone had even provoked people, suggesting that they burn the Pandit shops to recover their losses. Fortunately, nobody paid any heed to that suggestion. Looking at the anger that seethed among the people, I sensed that it was not going to be an easy road ahead. Upon reaching home I decided to stock up on provisions for our daily needs. Since all the main street shops were closed, one had to look for the tiny mohalla shops located in the narrow lanes and by lanes of the locality. Fortunately, some of these shops remained open. I found one and ordered dal, cooking oil, rice, soaps, and sugar in bulk quantities. Snow had started falling. No porters were out and around to hire to help me carry the provisions home. I asked the shopkeeper for a big gunny bag, and I carried the heavy load on my back like a coolie. I had no choice. The streets were wet and slippery from the thin film of snow beginning to collect on the ground. When my father and my sister saw me with this huge bag, they couldn’t believe their eyes. My father was upset, but I made him laugh when I said, ‘You made me quite strong in my growing-up days. So now let us have some tea together.’
M.K. Raina is a theatre actor and director.