NH 44
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I saw a large red colour plus sign painted on a white van. A driver, along with a boy standing beside him, outside Jammu Tawi Railway Station, looked at us and asked, “Are you the students from Kashmir?” We were returning home after attending a prestigious program called Prerana, held at Prime Minister Modi’s childhood school in Vadnagar, Gujarat. With me were a girl and a young female teacher, both from Radiant School Anantnag. It was one of the best times of my life. The laughter we shared there probably exceeded all the joy we had ever felt before. But I didn’t return home wearing a pagri and sherwani. Before I left for the program, my teachers had said many things. Some asked, “Will you return safely?” Others, “Will this teacher be able to take you there?” I had already met the teacher, during an orientation program at JNV Ashmuqam. Until the day came to leave for Gujarat, we often talked about her at school, about many things, really. One of our teachers, who taught us Political Science, even said, “Don’t come back wearing a pagri and sherwani. Don’t fall in love and marry the teacher! We used to talk about all this at home too. My family, who are very overprotective, kept saying, “Don’t go, we’ll give you this, we’ll give you that.” They were concerned. “Think about it,” they said, “You’re going to Gujarat… with girls.” They felt uneasy. It was unfamiliar to them. They believed that Ma’am wouldn’t be able to manage the trip. They thought she wasn’t fit for it. Even Sir and I had our doubts. Ma’am had asked a lot of questions during the orientation session, and that made us a bit suspicious. I also felt she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the responsibility of taking a boy and a girl along. But not going never crossed my mind. It was a very prestigious program. We had prepared hard and gone through a rigorous selection process. Only two students were selected from all of District Anantnag, after a tough competition involving schools from every corner of the district, held at JNV Ashmuqam. I remember the day clearly. I had with me our Education Ma’am and my cousin, who also participated. Ma’am had actually studied at the same school and shared some of her old memories. We ate delicious Rajma Chawal and returned home with precious memories. During the second round, which was the interview, I still remember the most difficult question they asked me: “Which class are you in?” The truth was, I wasn’t officially enrolled in any class at the time. I paused, was confused, and to this day, I don’t know how I managed that question. While we were returning from Gujarat, we boarded a train from Ahmedabad Railway Station. Ma’am stayed in constant contact with JNV Ashmuqam and her principal at Radiant School. Her main concern was that our train would reach Jammu Tawi very late, around 12:30 AM. She kept worrying about where we would go at that hour. My own school had no such concern. They didn’t even call to check on us or ask if any assistance was needed. Our HOI didn’t even know exactly where I was. Despite the fact that I had represented the school at a prestigious event, it meant nothing to them. Honestly, I felt very hurt by that. Many things of my school always made me angry. I always tried to improve the condition of the school. But I had no major powers except suggestions and criticism. I tell every teacher, if you give classes only because you think you are paid for it, then you are doing nothing at all. I have seen many, say to students.. don't study, I've to finish my syllabus... I get salary anyway. I believe this is a very very small and cheap way of thinking. Those who think like that are not teachers. They are Criminals. They are corrupt, Anti Nationals. And one must stand against that. It's okay to do so. It's a fact that elders feel disrespected when we don't let them disrespect us. Radiant School’s principal, however, stood by us through everything. Even the next day, as we neared home, she kept checking in, asking Ma’am not to leave me alone in Anantnag. Eventually, they arranged accommodation for us at JNV Gharota Jammu, which brought us some relief. We reached Jammu Tawi station late at night, around 12:30 AM. We hadn’t eaten dinner yet. We were told that a vehicle from JNV would pick us up. As we exited, we saw a man with short white hair and a small white beard, accompanied by a boy, standing next to a van with a large red plus sign painted on it. “Are you the students from Kashmir?” they asked. “Yes,” we replied. “Alright, get in,” they said. We were exhausted and hungry, so we didn’t question what kind of vehicle had been sent. Only after getting in did we realize, it was a small ambulance. It had bed-like seats and a canister inside with cotton-like material. There wasn’t much room to sit comfortably, especially with our luggage. It was Lok Sabha election season, and we were stopped twice by the CRPF and police. They checked the vehicle thoroughly, suspicious of all the luggage and our presence inside. But eventually, they let us go. To be continued....