If Hindu rites are followed, after a funeral, all that remains are ashes. Sarthak Razdan wanted it a different way though. Long ago, he had formulated for his body, post demise, to be donated to the government hospital. This had flared up his family, who disagreed to agree. His leftover is a tall memorial in the children's park, and taller memories. While riots take numerous lives in Pahalgam, the town still respects the remains of this Kashmiri Pandit, who at the age of twenty-four, built brick by brick, an awareness for anatomy-study. He wished to study the wonders of the human-body.
"The number of corpses who remain as unclaimed numbers, by the unified voice of all of us in this town, are to be respectfully turned over to the Hospital, for study. Who knows, one day, a study of that unclaimed number, may end up saving a life, a name. That name which belongs to your family!" Applauds rang deep into the minds of the gatherings. "Whether the body needs to be buried, or put on a pyre, no longer needs to be fought over! Sisters, brothers, children -- give it up for humanity, give it up for what no one ever did!" For this, he had to, unfortunately, join a political party, and with that, grew his opposition and enemies. Politics ran deep in Pahalgam, like the rest of the country, but we knew, that Sarthak Razdan's voice was pure.
And just like that, as in our beautiful state, an ugly bullet hit him right where it triggers a closure to living. Sarthak Razdan was delivering one of his speeches, when this happened. What happened next is what he would have wanted, I would have wanted. The crowd went berserk. They ran for their lives. We ran for our lives. Like always, chaos took over. Meaningless slogans overran underlying meanings. The divide divided.
What if the divide united that day? What if we all circled the body of Sarthak, as he wished to be called, and stood by his body, his dream? The shooter would perhaps be at a loss. Such a sight would be un-thought, un-heard of. Even at death, Sarthak would live the truth of his fragrant, humane Pahalgam. That day, I locked myself up in my room, and played catch with a soft ball against the wall, for a period of many hours. Hours that have remained as moments in me, moments that slowly etched Sarthak's bleeding face sharper and brighter. There was no hunger, no pain, just anger. What were they doing with his body? I went out. His body wasn't where the shoot-out took place. The area was cordoned. I could only pray that his body was well-used. Allah would see to it that Sarthak Razdan's body went where he wished, not jannat, only the hospital. To be further cut, bruised, studied. I had tears in my eyes and missed one catch from the wall.
None of this happened of course. We ran like cowards. And Razdan's party people later held a huge funeral for him. We have the memorial in his name, standing tall in the children's park. His remains remain in us. We, can do nothing but rebuild the incident over and over.
Sarthak Razdan would have had it the other way. I would too.
-- Omaar Habib,
Class XI, Govt Boys' School,
Pahalgam.
THE PAHALGAM PAIGHAM published this entry which won the FIRST PRIZE in the Sarthak Razdan Memorial Essay Competition.
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