Call Of The Community 67 By the early 1990’s(The Last Smile: A Father’s Love Story by Jeevan Zutshi-9)

The Last Smile: A Father’s Love Story by Jeevan Zutshi (Looking back at the untimely death of a promising young man by his father-)

Chapter Nine 

Call Of The Community 67 By the early 1990's, Kashmir was on fire because of the previously mentioned Pakistan-backed insurgency. All of our remaining relatives and friends, along with nearly a third of a million people of Hindu faith, had to flee for their lives. Although insurgents were killing many people, I was astonished that the press here in America barely took notice. Terrorism was alive and well in Kashmir, once again coming across the border from Pakistan. There is an anecdotal story I'd like to tell since it captures what many in Kashmir were experiencing at that time. It is about a refugee who was dying from cancer and had difficulty finding a place in which to live out his final days. The story is told by the doctor who was treating him at the time, K. L. Chowdhury, who wrote an article about the story called, “Of Gods, Men and Militants.” The title comes from the fact that from 1986 to 1990, Pakistan took advantage of the sentiments of the Muslim youth in Kashmir to lure them over the border to training camps “for religious indoctrination and instruction in subversion and guerrilla warfare.” Thousands of these youth were equipped with arms and ammunition to “wage a war of 'liberation' (Jihad)” in Kashmir. “The 'Jihad' started with threats, abduction, torture and killing of the minority Hindus of the Kashmir valley (the Kahmiri Pandits), who were forced to flee.” 

Apparently, after the exodus of hundreds of thousands of Hindus, the militants aimed at moderate Muslims. As they engaged in looting and rape, they lost all local support. However, foreign mercenaries continued to flood into the valley expanding their operations to Jammu in the first half of the 1990s. Omakar, the man who was sick with cancer, came into Jammu in the “first wave of exodus in the winter of 1989-90.” The family had lost contact with friends and family and had looked for Dr. Chowdhury but failed to find him, since he was still in Srinagar. However, once the doctor was in Jammu, refugee patients began filling his office. When Omakar came in for treatment, the doctor barely recognized him. He was bent over from the pain and fear filled his eyes. What the doctor was seeing was the visage of cancer, “the beginning of the end.” His son was shocked at the prognosis, but there was some relief in knowing they could be done with chasing after doctors and submitting his father to endless tests. 

However the prognosis in such an environment had complications that nobody knew how to deal with. The doctor writes: Our plan was to make the patient as much pain free as possible and let him die in peace. But peace has so many variables like a complex equation. There is the outer peace that comes from outside influences; The Last Smile 68 Chapter Nine - Call Of The Community 69 in this case, the place one lives in, the attitude of caregivers, the attending doctors, and visitors. And there is the inner peace which is hard to define and harder to attain. How was peace to come to one suffering from the grinding pain of terminal cancer, condemned to exile, without a roof on his head, and no place to die? Upon hearing of his illness, relatives began to come to Jammu. Many of them were also refugees searching for lost relatives, and going through “the elaborate formalities to register as 'migrants' with the relief authorities” as they searched for a place to live, schools for their children, and jobs amid a populace now rootless and filled with grief. Indeed, the man had found a place to live, but the landlord could not accept the number of visitors that began crowding around his tenant. 

The small dwelling could not accommodate the extra number of people using the facilities and he gave the sick man a month to find another place. As the doctor notes, “The family could not stop visitors; that was not done in our part of the world. We do not shut our doors to monks, mendicants or mongrels; there is no question shutting it to relatives, friends and well wishers.” One might add, what else does one have at the end of life, but the faces of those who knows one? However the landlord wouldn't budge even when offered higher rent. The son went searching for other accommodations, but by this time Jammu was brimming with refugees. The family had arrived as one of the first refugees, and now everyone was struggling to find a place to dwell as rents skyrocketed and every conceivable space was taken. Tents had been provided by the government, but even those were full. As the doctor reports, “The scatter became wide in no time as the exodus from Kashmir caught momentum parallel with the escalation of violence and terror.” People began moving to other towns, even Delhi, but the sick man could not move. 

Finally they found him a poorly ventilated small room in a run down house, which was difficult to access through narrow streets. The sick man began to decline rapidly in such an environment with plaster peeling off the walls and the only air coming in the room was from the lane outside the house, which was “bringing in stench from the drains.” He wanted to die in Kashmir, telling his family, “It is better to face the bullets in Kashmir than the living hell here.” As his health deteriorated, he needed painkillers that were stronger than the ones the doctor could prescribe. Stronger narcotics like morphine were banned because the city's youth got them from the pharmacies before the patients could. Codeine was banned also. The landlord asked him to see another physician as he would hear his howls of pain and assumed he was not getting good treatment. The patient felt that in order to appease his landlord, he had to see the doctor the landlord recommended. The new doctor ran more tests and prescribed different medicines. The son asked the original doctor for advice, and he considered the situation: Medical ethics does not justify meddling with a dying patient, or trying questionable remedies without his consent. Death, when its time has come, should be welcome. 

In trying to prolong life in such irredeemable situations, we might make it more insufferable. Therefore, it was all right to have brought the doctor home to satisfy the whim of the landlord but that is where the farce should stop. The landlord grew uncomfortable with the idea of a tenant dying in his building. He knew about Kashmiri Pandit rituals of death and the “post funeral rituals extending beyond the days of mourning into the 10th day ceremony with all the relatives and friends gathered at the river ghat … the immersion of rice balls and earthen pots, followed by three days of more elaborate yajnas--mini shraddhas” and he decided he would not have this in his dwelling. The landlord insisted that they move. The doctor was again asked his advice. The son pleaded with him to do something to extend his father's life. He asked the doctor to prescribe him something, so he could live “a little longer till I find a place for him to die.” The doctor wrote down a simple ad to place in the newspaper, “Wanted: A Place to Die. A family of four, one of them sick and dying, in desperate need of lodgings. Size of accommodation and rent no consideration; just enough space to die.” The rest of the story begins this way, “When all hope is lost, there is hope lurking somewhere in the least expected place like a beautiful flower behind a boulder in a remote corner of the garden.” 

That evening a man responded to the ad, telling the doctor he had accommodations that he had no intention of letting. The son saw the two rooms and thought that the place was an ideal place to live and to die. The man would take no rent and wondered why the son would even ask after placing such a “frank ad.” The son answered, “Death is the last visitor anyone would want to ever see in one's house,” to which the landlord replied that it was for that reason he so readily answered the ad. He said, “My rooms have been lying vacant for a long time and I had no idea to rent them out. I would do so only in very special circumstances. Well, my home is here to welcome death, if that is what you are bringing along with you. Everyone has to die one day, some sooner than later.” The sick man had had a pomegranate tree in his home in the Kashmir valley and had lived a simple life. Out of the window from the room where he would The Last Smile 70 Chapter Nine - Call Of The Community 71 die, he also had one to look at. His wife told him, “We are home. That is your pomegranate tree. Look at the red flowers in bloom,” as she pointed to the tree. 

As the doctor tells it, when the man saw the tree, “A strange light shone in his eyes and a flicker of a smile on his lips before he passed out again and was helped to the bed. On his dark and yellow face … there was deep contentment, the same that he had worn as a motif of his plain living all his life.” He died the next day. The doctor added, “Peace prevailed in death.” The landlord arranged the cremation and vacated the premises so that the tenants could have the place to themselves throughout the rituals. It's difficult to describe the feelings that I, as well as many in the Indian community, felt watching these events from our peaceful homes in America. For myself, I could not imagine what had become of the peaceful town I grew up in. The simple pleasures I took as a youth, watching Bollywood movies, were shut down by Islamic militants. Movie houses were burnt or shut down as symbols of the Indian/Hindu culture. 

Houses that Hindus had vacated were also reported to have been burnt down. Living safely in this country did not diminish the sense of fear we had. Perhaps the reason we felt that way was due to the knowledge that this kind of terrorism does not honor any country's boundaries. I believe that my desire to do something about it extended beyond the impetus to simply protect my family. I understood that if there were ever a chance for Indians to be safe here or anywhere, we would have to know how to make a difference in this country's political arena. And in order to do that, we had to become involved in politics. The more I thought about this, the more I realized that this kind of effort would serve the community in more than one way. It was a way to bring us together and a way to be politically forceful on behalf of our community. Part of the problem that this kind of activism would solve was apathy. 

A community that is newly arrived in any country naturally works hard to find success within the structures of their new environment. But I also noticed that, as a natural outgrowth of striving to create a successful life here, many individual families began to take less of an interest in their own community. By the 1980s and early 1990s Americans of Indian heritage had started doing very well financially, but they had become a private island in the communities where they lived. Each was busy within his own world. Although this works on one level, it is destructive on another. I knew that if they wanted to accomplish anything outside of their family, they would not know where to start or what to do. When I looked in the mirror, I saw that I was either going to perpetuate the problem or be part of the solution. So I began to get involved in mainstream America's political structure. I volunteered on different committees, commissions, and boards in California with a two-fold purpose. 

One was to help the community that gave me so much opportunity to succeed here, and the second was to expand my network of contacts to help the Indian community join together to create a political voice in mainstream America. The most urgent reason to do this was to find a viable solution to the Kashmir imbroglio, which continues till today. Many times I would find myself to be the only Indian involved in activities, such as serving on a homeless shelter board or on a human relations commission. At times, I must admit, it was lonely. And other people serving in these capacities would view me as the only Indian. Once, a successful mainstream contractor, who was also involved in the community, told me that it was a huge task to motivate the Indian community to emerge from their island. I told him that they would indeed come out one day. 

Throughout the 1990s and into the next decade I have remained involved with the community here and have worked through Indian networks to bring hope to the our community in Kashmir, who have become refugees in their own country, scattered in camps with tents throughout the northern part of India. I brought delegations of community leaders from here in the United States to India. We visited the camps in Kashmir and it was gut wrenching to see. No one could look upon them and not feel compassion. No matter what race or ethnicity, no human being should suffer the loss of one's homeland and dignity. In 1993, I founded the Indo American Community Federation, an organization dedicated to bringing the Indo-American community together and promoting its involvement in the mainstream through understanding the larger issues that affect the community. It also promotes understanding and relationships with other cultures. 

Since its inception, it has been politically active in connecting Indo-Americans to politicians and policy makers, providing support for the homeless, assisting members who seek office, and educating lawmakers. In 2000, members of the organization met with President Clinton to advise him before his trip to India. The organization continues to provide scholarships to children and education and awareness on the predicament of the Kashmir refugees. While I was involved in learning about community action and bringing awareness to the problem in Kashmir, Usha and my parents took care of our children. By the turn of the decade, century, and millennium, I decided to become politically active on a larger level. I decided to run for an office on my local school board. It was an exciting experience to see support coming from many diverse social, political, and ethnic groups. The Last Smile 72 Chapter Nine - Call Of The Community 73 My bid for office was almost successful and the votes I garnered were just short of winning the seat. 

However, even though I did not win the election, I felt as though I had won a larger victory, one for my community. The population of Fremont, which was about 208,000, was about 10 percent Indian at that time. More Indians started getting involved in voluntary activities, like serving their larger community, and in the next election cycle there were more Indians running for offices. I was proud to have helped sow the seeds that motivated the Indian community to indeed come off its remote island. The greatest part of this for me was that I realized how much difference one person could make. Telling my own and my son's story has the potential to make a difference in shedding some light into an area that many may not be aware of. My son left our family much too early and left many dreams unfulfilled. In the next section of this book you will learn about Amit's life from his birth to his sudden passing away. It is my goal here to make sure that what happened to Amit will have a positive impact on the lives of others. Some who read this may notice members of their own families adopting a similar lifestyle. 

The system is only as trustworthy as the citizens are vigilant in ensuring that it serves them. If we find areas that need correcting, we must use our political muscle to make sure those areas are reformed. This story is worth sharing, even if only one family benefits from hearing it. Although I realize that I cannot go back now and change anything, I also have learned through community service that what I do can make a difference in the lives of others. My goal of leading our community into the mainstream was fulfilled. The younger, highly educated youth have been showing considerable interest in politics. The country today looks entirely different than when I moved here in the Seventies. Indo-Americans are not only getting involved in mainstream political issues, but they have made a name for themselves in the world of technology as a result of several entrepreneurial stars who set the stage for the entry of Indian entrepreneurs to the valley of opportunities--which is Silicon Valley, of course. With their early ventures in the late 1980s and 1990s, this elite group of people played a significant role in shaping the future of Indians in the region. California is home to 3,500 companies founded and owned by Indians. 

The real deluge came as Y2K approached. As the demand for information technology (IT) professionals grew exponentially in the U.S., dozens of training institutes flourished in India and began to provide a steady stream of IT professionals who were literally invited to the shores of the U.S.–a development that opened up the entrepreneurial eyes of Indians both in their diaspora and in India. To date, Indians have founded one-fourth of the foreign IT firms in the United States. Indian entrepreneurs have helped to commandeer businesses in a disciplined and profitable way. In fact, until the present circumstances, including sky-rocketing employment numbers throughout the nation and the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, Indians were making valuable contributions to the U.S. economy, especially in terms of creating jobs. Getting involved in technology, medicine, business, and politics is a must for any community to survive, and Indians have been successful in virtually every field of endeavor in the United States.