An Illusory Peace

Even a thousand tongues cannot unravel the quiet that has become a part of life in the Valley

- Shabir Ahmad Mir

OF all the myths that I came to know of it was the Greek myth of Philomela that I could not reconcile with. In violation of the trust reposed in him a lustful Tereus rapes his wife’s sister Philomela and cuts off her tongue to hide his misdeed. The only justice that the gods could provide was to turn Philomela into a nightingale and leave her to sing her song of woe in perpetuity. That seemed cruel, even for the Greek gods. They could have turned her into one of the Furies at least.

Or so I thought.

August 4 was an ominous day. No sooner was Article 370 abrogated than we were gagged. The Internet was blocked, mobile connectivity barred, and every other conceivable means of communication with the outside world was severed. Silence descended upon our houses and stalked our conversations. As the curfewed days turned into curfewed weeks the stalking grew bolder. And as weeks turned into months somewhere along the way, we had given in to the silence. We had let it in. It was now within us as well as around us. Thus, when eventually mobile phones started to ring again and the Internet limped back onto our screens, it came as no surprise that the silence did not go away. It persisted—within us, around us. It had become a part of us.

It had taken over us.