The Morning to 'die' for - the way the protester saw it (Morning Story #03)

Tahrir Square

I clearly remember. It was a Sunday, 30th January, 2011. The day I would want to forget forever.

Almost a week before this day, an uprising had finally led to a revolution, and the whole of Cairo had its eyes wide open. With acts of rebellion, which had now surmounted into a major labour strike, I had become more than confident to stand upright in front of an arsenal that could easily take my life in a jiffy. But, death was not on my mind; only freedom of my own rights, and that of the people.  But freedom, as we all know it, is so hard to find.

On a Sunday morning, one would think of heading out for a day-long trip, or spending time with family and friends. That was certainly not the case today. This morning, unlike any other was shrouded by an air of rage. And this sense of resentment was quite noticeable on every face of this enormous crowd that had gathered on Tahrir Square, which had now become the war zone.

I had painted a tattoo on my left forearm. It read “DEMOCRACY”. Many others were carrying pro-democracy banners and posters, or wearing t-shirts in favour of the ousting of Hosni Mubarak.  It was still early hours in the morning, but not a soul was asleep. In fact, the tents which had sheltered every protester through the night were already removed, folded and packed in their life-size bag-packs. Laptops were on, and the scent of the Jasmine Revolution was going viral instantly. Tahrir Square had become the new home of these people, but not for long.

Tearing through the fog with the sun rays reflecting off their Kevlar-coated transparent shields, policemen came marching in numbers. And they were walking up to the square with an order - to put an end to this protest without a formal request. Tension arose in the camp, as everyone now had their eyes fixed on the black-jacket policemen wearing helmets and who were armed as well. Everyone was caught off-guard, but all of us with the Egyptian flag wrapped onto our bodies, also knew that it’s now or never. The silent protest was about to get ugly, and the square was about to turn into a pool of blood.

Soon after, tear gas cans were thrown upon us for us to draw back. But, we were unmoved. Nobody budged. Then some more cans were hurled at us, and now with a group or two on the ground, the protesters, including myself, started moving back, but not all. Unafraid by the possibility of death, a wave of protesters plucked up some more courage and started running in the direction of the policemen and began pelting stones at them. And this outburst even included numerous teenagers and women. Age was no bar in this fight. The sun was up now and so was the temper on both sides. The flags began to wave with vigor  Holding the top corners, I was waving one, too, sitting on top of a shoulder of one of my fellow protesters. To break this resistance, another order was given, and it all turned into a riot. Cars were burned, houses were set on fire and the street became a battlefield. Number of protesters, in a matter of minutes, began to ask for medical help. I got hit by a tear gas can twice and was also planted a blow in my abdomen by one of the thick sticks carried by a policeman. Even boys not more than 15 years of age were badly bruised with numerous cuts on their body. Blood dripped through those cuts, and the pain was excruciating. No morning in the history of Cairo looked so terrifying. With no breath of fresh air, there was only smoke all over with cries of pain heard all the time. With lives lost in quite a few numbers, the police receded and stopped the massacre for the time being. Even the protesters, now heavily exhausted, pulled back as well.

The thunderous fight reignited after a few hours, and for many more mornings to follow. Today, when I look back, and I’m sure many others like me, would never would have wanted to wake up to a dawn that went dark in a matter of seconds.

Kanchenjunga - A Mountaineer's Upward Journey (Morning Story #02)

• Every now and then when we want to leave our hometown to have a memorable trip, we often think of places that reside in the nature's heart. Places that arrest you with either their sheer beauty, or their remarkable size, or sometimes, both.

  
  

  A few years back, I got an opportunity to make a 10-day tour to North India.  At times, I suppose we travelled a little too much to go from one point to another, sitting for long hours in our 30-seater mini-bus. But having said all that, it was worth it. After reaching to a particular destination, nobody complained. Just like no one nagged to get up at 2:30 in the morning to witness the best sunrise anyone has ever seen. At the stroke of 3, in the almost unbearable chilling morning, we headed to the mighty Kanchenjunga. Considering the narrow roads curving up on the modest hills (modest as compared to the height of Kanchenjunga), it was sort of a rough ride with absolutely no seat vacant in the bone-crushing Armada. And finally, after a half an hour bumpy ride of constant ascending, we reached our destination with one eye still lost in our respective half-shattered dreams. To our good fortunes, the weather was clear without a single cloud in the sky. So, the spectacle was definitely going to get its due appreciation.

  
  

  Gradually, the border of India and Nepal began to curve towards the sun and each one of us having booked our respective viewpoints, waited with bated breath. Standing in front of us was the humungous and astounding Kanchenjunga and its adjoining tall hills. The white snow-caps slowly began to absorb a tinge of yellow in them, as the sky was turning from navy blue to light blue to dull orange and lemon yellow. There were around a hundred people present to witness this phenomenon, and all eyes were fixed on the third tallest mountain in the world.

  
  

  Though the dawn was chilling, this spectacle was installing warmth in each one of us who were now wide awake. And at that very second, it happened. In an instant, the top of Kanchenjunga turned to gold. It felt as if the first sun ray to hit the India-Nepal border fell on top of this astonishing peak. Within seconds, its adjoining hills, too, were plastered with gold. The snow began to shimmer like a 24 carat diamond-studded necklace on a beautiful woman’s neck. The sun began to reveal itself entirely over the glittering shoulder of this tall mountain to announce its might by sending its rays to every nook and cranny of the whole of North India. But, there was only one king of the sky rising above all at that particular moment – Kanchenjunga.

  
  

  Slowly, the mist over the horizon began to disappear, and the temperatures moved up slightly. The sky was now a large blanket knitted with two shades of wool; off white and light blue. The entire mountain range, which stretches over quite a few miles on either side, was now clearly visible. The air that was getting lifted over these snow-capped peaks did a ballet, mesmerizing everyone with its charm and grace.

  
  

  To make this nature’s exhibition look even better, hot tea was served to everyone. With every sip, people were gazing continuously at this giant mountain with awe. It was quite hard to believe how something can stand so still day in and day out, and yet take everyone by surprise every time one looks at it. An even harder fact to accept was that this mountain is lifeless. Well, to me it isn’t. Kanchenjunga is brimming with life, not exactly in the physical form, but from within. And it brings the morning to life with its unmatched glistening attire nobody on this very earth can replicate. It was a morning I can never ever forget; a morning that will always be close to my heart, as it has gifted me with a memory I will always cherish.

150 and Counting (Morning Story #01)

150+ (or so they say)

I don't know my age. Someone once told me I must be 150, going by the creases that have sculpted my face over the years. Each and every day of my life when I wake up early in the morning, I'm somehow forced to believe that it might be my last. But, then again, I go to sleep at night with hope hidden behind my thick broken glasses, expecting to see a better tomorrow.

I live on a hilltop, not too far away from the ever expanding city, which some years before was not even visible for miles across. Today, I get up, not to the sweet chirping of the sparrows, or to the melodious gush of the river, but to the crackling noise of the traffic, and the roaring engines of the metal-coated cars across the huge tar streets. The fog has now turned into unhealthy air obscuring the clarity of the sky. And as a result, the yellowish-orange morning sun has begun to look brown. And I witness it even after I clean my glasses without a speck of dust sitting on it. Today, the sun rises, but the hope falls. The warmth of the morning now brings a cold wave instead, which chills me to the bone, gripping me with fear till the night comes. Today, the morning doesn't look new at all, but rather looks like a large shadow of the scary tomorrow. The birds that sing their tunes in sync with the morning's rhythm have migrated in search of a better habitat, as their safe and serene haven has been slashed and burned for our quintessential needs. Green is no longer the colour that encircles the periphery of my modest residence with dew drops shining on top of the grassland. Every morning, all that stands in front of my dying, searching eyes is a sight I would want to forget the moment I blink. And all that I believe in now is a distant dream that will infuse life back into these colourless, dark mornings that once used to bring heaven on top of this hill. I hope to see that day before my so-called eternal age finally comes to a permanent halt.