Ghulam Nabi Khayal
It is about fifteen years ago that I was in Pakistan to meet some relatives over there.In Lahore, I soon developed a close contact with Shoaib-Ibn-Aziz, an affectionate and lovable person. He was also a nice Urdu poet, holding the charge of Director of Information Department of the Punjab government. I used to spend most of my time with Shoaib exchanging pleasantries and talking freely about literature and politics.
One fine morning I received a phone call in my hotel room from Shoiab asking me to come to his office immediately. In a huff and a mental state of confusion, I rushed to his office situated in nearby Lakshmi Chowk. Shoiab showed me a news report that appeared in a newly launched unfamiliar news weekly (then) Nayi Duniya published from Islamabad. The news ran as under:
“Mr Ghulam Nabi Khayal, a renowned writer and journalist from Kashmir has been shot dead in Srinagar. He has been also working as special correspondent from Occupied Kashmir for Pakistan Television News for a number of years. His frank and fearless reporting for PTV was a thorn in the eyes of India’s forces who, reportedly, eliminated him. We deeply condole his death and condemn this barbaric and dastardly act of brute murder and demand severe punishment for culprits in uniform.”
I read the news and could hardly believe that I was still alive.
My friend and a reputed senior Pakistani journalist, Saood Sahir, lost no time in issuing a hard hitting press statement condemning this irresponsible and deplorable reporting against a Kashmir celebrity.
Shoiab could hardly stop his laugh pointing his finger towards me and asking: “Hey, Khayal sahib, are you really alive and sitting with me?” We brushed aside the matter over a cup of tea. In next two days I received numerous phone calls from my friends and well wishers including Shahbaz Sharif, chief minister of Punjab enquiring about my well being.
And, exactly fifteen years later, it was here in Jammu and Kashmir that I was declared dead for the second time. In the evening of 1st December, I received a call from my sister who had listened to Radio Srinagar broadcasting the news of my demise. Again, numerous phone calls, mails and messages followed to know what the fact was. I recalled my first “death” and laughed at this “second” one. Surprisingly, local print media also ran the story next morning much to my discomfort and mental shock to my friends and all others. However, the news titled ‘G N Khayal Drogmuli is dead’ had not disturbed one and all. Drogmula is a far flung village in border district of Kupwara in extreme north-west of Kashmir. Still the enquiries continued for one full week.
In fact this self-styled “Khayal” was a JKLF militant who had surrendered before army. He then fought elections unsuccessfully forfeiting his security. Locally he was known as Naba Peer. After assuming ‘Khayal’ as his nom-de-plum at the advice of a local poet, he took to composing poetry which never crossed the level of insipidity.
I came to know about him when in 2002, I was in Delhi and his name appeared in an English newspaper, Hindu, as a candidate for Assembly elections from his respective constituency. At that time, there was no let up in militancy and as usual; separatist organisations had given a frantic call for total boycott of elections. After appearing this name in the media as a candidate, I became apprehensive that my family back in Srinagar might face some trouble for my being a so-called candidate. I lost no time in writing to Hindu asking for an immediate correction adding that, as mentioned, I was not a candidate at all. Within a few days, I came to learn that the news had been flashed from Srinagar by an irresponsible reporter Omkar Ganjoo without ascertaining from me whether I was in the electoral fray? Hindu did apologise for this inadvertent error.
Many of my well wishers could imagine that the Khayal they knew was not in the news but it was some Drogmuli guy; the adjective saved many to embarrass me and also to be embarrassed.
Recently, I went through a similar news item in a south-Indian news magazine that a 35-year old woman in coma was mischievously declared dead by her in-laws and carried to funeral pyre for her last rites. From the pyre she jumped out menacingly shouting and hurling all abuses at her mourners, “You rascals! You are cremating me. I am not dead. I am alive.”
My story makes me think for a while, whether I am also dead. How astonishing, rather amazing!
Drogmuli “khayal” died but his ghost haunted me, through the local media at least for one week. Here I quote one of my Urdu couplets quite relevant to the episode:
Tum ne to baar baar mujhe maar dia hai
Main kitna sakht jaan hoon ki har baar jia hoon.
(Many a time, you have killed me. What a hard nut I am to crack that every time I have lived and am living)
Tailpiece: To a local vernacular daily newspaper, a village urchin has been contributing his haphazard columns for some time now. He has assumed the name of “Faiz Ahmad Faiz.” We wish him a longer life, but one day or the other, he has to die. And our esteemed media shall again prominently highlight the news of his demise. On the other side of the western boundary of the country in Lahore, Faiz’s two daughters, Salima Hashmi and Muniza Hashmi, shall wail and cry shouting, “O! Our father was alive. The news of his passing away was heard by us only yesterday. O! Our beloved Faiz, why you didn’t tell us so that we could meet you in your Kashmir village. OK, now rest in peace in heaven. Bye.”
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