The bullet that killed Mathematics…

Hakeem Irfan Rashid Madroo

An empty greenish black water bottle was slinging from the neck. A whole consignment of books hanging from his back in a bag with dysfunctional chain (dysfuntionality of the chain was function of the same day as he had a scuffle with his bench mate on the demarcation of territory of their common bench). Running through the seemingly unending corridors of an apparent dungeon (as it appears to every normally abnormal kid) but conventionally called school.

Haroon; yet to enter his tweens. It was 1992, Srinagar Spring. Summers following were special as his father had promised to buy a cycle for him after his 1st term exams. He was a part of hundreds moving in the corridors. Kicking at nothing. Piercing the silence with their stylish snivels and cries. Haroon was making way through the crowd in order to be able to reserve a seat in the last row of the (52 seater) bus number 2. It was parked in the school campus.

The last row was special as it was for the seniors and it was a matter of pride to be with seniors those days. Besides he never liked the conductor of the bus Manzoor. He was always sitting with the juniors in front and scolding little ones for the slightest movement. Manzoor, a tall, lean man with drooped shoulders, bony chest over which the jacket he wore always seemed to be hanging, crooked nose as if trying to somehow kiss the upper lip of his mouth, protruded neck, and always with a cigarette between the little and second last finger of his left hand. He was a complaint box with a complaint for every parent waiting at each stop for their children.

Bus number 2 cruised along the whole of the downtown ( Shehr-e-Khas) old town of Srinagar city. Some 60 children used to travel in the bus. Traveling in the bus was fun only if Haroon was at the back.

The Valley those days was living a different phase. Innocence and naughtiness was limited to the minds of children only. Kashmir was living the best and worst part of its history. It was a state and phenomenon too complicated to be understood by under tween Haroon. He boarded his bus number 2. Luckily he was victorious in reserving a seat on the back side that too from a window (a business class seat for young Haroon).

Crisscrossing along the narrow streets of 1992 downtown Haroon was biding a bye to everyone getting down from the bus. Bus had taken a turn from Fateh Kadal road (Bridge on the famous River Jehlum) to Baba Demb road (Fresh water body turned into a swamp). Suddenly, Haroon heard a bang followed by a thud as if some strong thing exploded.Yes, it was a Grenade attack on a camp near Gandhi Memorial College, known less for its studies and more for its co –education my uncle says so who is alumnus of this college. Cries were heard all over the bus and firing had already started. Many of the children wet their pants and seniors were thinking of the aftershocks given by the army in the form of arrests, tortures and crackdowns.

Bus number 2 was in the middle of nowhere. Manzoor was for the first time trying to take all the kids under his arms which miraculously he was able to do to a very large extent. He himself was all wet with sweat. Driver was trying his best to come out of the area and all of the students were lying on the floor (best position when you are in the line of fire). Somehow, he managed to come out of the place and all the students were safe. But psychologically every one definitely was in some sort of trauma.

By then the news had reached all over the Valley. Parents waiting anxiously at the respective bus stops fainted when they saw their children coming out of bus number 2 alive.Haroon too was a bit confused and traumatized but the unlikely grand welcome at his bus stop made him to forget earlier pain and stress. He was living the moment king size. His parents offered three chocolates which otherwise with an addition of the juice as well.

Haroon was preparing for the home work in the evening. As he checked his diary, it was mathematics all over and thus he opened his mathematics book. To his utter shock and surprise the book was torn apart. There was a big hole in middle of it. When he tried to somehow open it, there was some pointed semi hot ironish thing in it. He immediately ran to his parents at the other corner of the room and showed it to them. Haroon’s mother started crying and his father (Abuji) looking at his uncle (Papaji) said it is a “Bullet”. I

t could have pierced his body. His mother (Amiji) said “This is a second life for my child, taking Haroon in her arms and kissing him with tears rolling down her eyes.”Haroon went back to his place of home work but now he thought he should post pone his maths home work. Next day he got the new book but still he did not like to do mathematics.

Haroon was a topper in the class but his score in maths was comparably low in the final exams. He went on with his studies but maths was always a stumbling stone. He was topper for next seven years but maths was always lagging behind. He got the best of coaches for maths still could not improve.In 12th standard he took maths as an additional subject but was feeling a sort of continuous dyslexia with the subject. And when the results of 12th came, Haroon was failing in mathematics. He had got only 53 out of 150 while the pass points were 54 out of 150.

He was not eligible for the coming All India Engineering Entrance Exams (AIEEE). Interestingly AIEEE is scheduled in April this year again but Haroon still cannot appear. Actually Haroon survived the firing in 1992 but it killed his mathematical skill. It affected him psychologically and could not retrieve the love for the subject.Conflict is a situation where abnormality becomes normal and vice versa.