Curfewed Night: A Frontline Memoir of Life, Love and War in Kashmir

Around two hours later, the door opened violently. Two soldiers stood there with their guns pointed at me. I stood up. I was stiff, scared, and staring into their faces. But they did not hit me. One of them began questioning me. “What is your name?”

“Basharat, sir!”

“Full name?”

“Basharat Ahmad Peer, sir!”

“Father’s name?”

“Ghulam Ahmad Peer, sir!”

“What does he do?”

“Government officer, sir!” Quickly adding for the effect, hoping it might help, “Kashmir Administrative Services officer, sir!”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “Where in the village do you live?”

“Down the road, sir! Next to the pharmacy.”

I continued looking at him and then briefly at the other soldier. But their stern, impassive faces gave away nothing.

Suddenly: “Which group are you with? KLF or HM?”

“With nobody, sir! I am a student.”

He paused and looked at me. “Everyone says he is a student. “How many of your friends are with them?”

“None of my friends, sir! They are all students.” I took out my student identity card from my shirt pocket and presented it.

He scanned it, turned it around, and returned it. “Where are the weapons?”

“I have no weapons, sir! I am a student.”

“Come on, tell us. You know we have other ways of finding out.”

“I know, sir! But I am only a student!” I pleaded.

“Think harder. I will come back in a few minutes,” said the interrogator, and left.

The other soldier stood there in silence. I tried to persuade him that I was merely a student. “Talk to the officer when he returns,” he said, and maintained his frightening silence. After a while, the interrogator returned and asked the same questions again. I had the same answer: “I am a student.”

“All right,” he said, “I know you are a student.” He seemed to soften a bit. He asked me about a student from my school who was still enrolled but didn’t come to school much. He was Pervez, my best friend from school, bad singer of Bollywood songs, center forward on the football team, and a boy with pink cheeks and a blue tracksuit. I answered quickly and gave Pervez’s father’s name, profession, and the name of their village. I also mentioned that he had relatives in our village. Pervez had been visiting his relatives and had been arrested in the crackdown. They had wanted to cross-check his identity. The interrogator looked at me for a moment and said, “All right! You can leave.”