Chronicles from Kashmir E-Book

Nandita Dinesh

• Herausgeber: Open Book Publishers
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

‘What is happening in Kashmir?’

Chronicles from Kashmir explores this question through a site-adaptive 24-hour theatrical performance. Developed between 2013 and 2018 by the Ensemble Kashmir Theatre Akademi and Nandita Dinesh, the play uses a durational, promenade format to immerse its audience within a multitude of perspectives on life in Kashmir. From a wedding celebration that is interrupted by curfew, to schoolboys divided by policing strategies, and soldiers struggling with a toxic mixture of boredom and trauma, Chronicles from Kashmir uses performance, installation and collaborative creation to grapple with Kashmir’s conflicts through the lenses of outsiders, insiders, and everyone in between.

Due to varying degrees of censorship and suppression, the play has not been performed live since 2017. This book is, therefore, an attempt to keep Chronicles from Kashmir alive by including filmed scenes, a script, contextual questions, a glossary, and illuminating introductions by Nandita Dinesh and EKTA founder Bhawani Bashir Yasir. A valuable Open Access resource for practitioners, educators and students of performance and conflict, this book is also stimulating reading for anybody who has asked, ‘What is happening in Kashmir?’

This playscript includes:

• Twenty filmed scenes of the play in performance
• A range of contextual questions to stimulate discussion on staging site-adaptive theatre in places of conflict
• A helpful glossary

Leseprobe

CHRONICLES FROM KASHMIR

Chronicles from Kashmir

An Annotated, Multimedia Script

Nandita Dinesh

https://www.openbookpublishers.com

© 2020 Nandita Dinesh

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license (CC BY 4.0). This license allows you to share, copy, distribute and transmit the text; to adapt the text and to make commercial use of the text providing attribution is made to the author (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

Attribution should include the following information:

Nandita Dinesh, Chronicles from Kashmir: An Annotated, Multimedia Script. Cambridge, UK: Open Book Publishers, 2020, https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223

In order to access detailed and updated information on the license, please visit, https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223#copyright

Further details about CC BY licenses are available at: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

All external links were active at the time of publication unless otherwise stated and have been archived via the Internet Archive Wayback Machine at https://archive.org/web

Updated digital material and resources associated with this volume are available at https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223#resources

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Applied Theatre Praxis Series, Vol. 2

ISSN (Print): 2515-0758

ISSN (Online): 2515-0766

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-80064-017-7

ISBN Hardback: 978-1-80064-018-4

ISBN Digital (PDF): 978-1-80064-019-1

ISBN Digital ebook (epub): 978-1-80064-020-7

ISBN Digital ebook (mobi): 978-1-80064-021-4

ISBN XML: 978-1-80064-022-1

DOI: 10.11647/OBP.0223

Cover image: Photo by Vladimir Palyanov on Unsplash from https://unsplash.com/photos/Q8qTersW9Fk

Cover design: Anna Gatti.

Contents

Videos: Chronicles from Kashmir

vii

GLOSSARY

ix

Introduction: Chronicles from Kashmir

xi

Summaries and Deconstructions

1

The Schedule

19

The Journey Begins

21

Scene 0: Framing the Experience

25

Scene One: The Experiment

31

Scene Two: The Departure

47

Scene Three: The Man & the Woman

55

INSTALLATION A

67

Scene Four: The Artists

75

Scene Five: The Puppets

85

INSTALLATION B

89

Scene Six: The Incarcerated

95

Scene Seven: The Soldiers

101

Scene Eight: The Argumentation Cultures

109

The First Coalition

115

Scene Nine: The Sikhs

119

Scene Ten: The Apples

125

INSTALLATION C

127

The Second Coalition

131

Scene Eleven: The Village-City Love Affair

133

A WEDDING and a CURFEWED NIGHT

139

Scene Twelve: The Mirrors & a Poetic Lament

147

The Third Coalition

155

Scene Thirteen: The Pelters

157

Scene Fourteen: The Banalities

161

Scene Fifteen: The Time

165

INSTALLATION D

171

Scene Sixteen: The Women

175

Scene Seventeen: The Game Show

179

INSTALLATION E

187

Scene Eighteen: The Hideout

193

Scene Nineteen: The Return

199

Scene Twenty: The Seesaws

205

Scene Twenty-One: The Disappeared & the Police

209

Scene Twenty-Two: The Hope

221

The Last Coalition

225

Bibliography

231

Videos: Chronicles from Kashmir

The Condensed, Two-Hour, Film:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/7f37b8b1

The Beginning:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/26fe800f

The Experiment:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/cbac2e87

The Departure:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/ab436b9e

The Man & the Woman:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/324ada06

The Artists:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/f5dde0b9

The Incarcerated:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/69cf0a75

The Soldiers:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/8afdb7fe

The Argumentation Cultures:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/97a54d49

The Apples:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/619424ff

The Village City Love Affair:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/3afc6f47

The Wedding:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/fe68a6bd

The Curfewed Nights:

Part 1:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/e9252776

Part 2:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/49c94c02

The Pelters:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/20d5d863

The Banalities:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/3d6ef2d4

The Game Show:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/589ed14c

The Hideout:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/78d379e1

The Return:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/092182ab

The Disappeared & the Police:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/55ba313b

The Hope:

http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12434/55ba313c

GLOSSARY

Aam: Mango

Aam aadmi and aurat: Common man and woman

Anaar: Grapes

Arre: Hey

Asalaam alaikum: May peace be upon you

Beta: Son (colloquially used as the equivalent of “my dear”)

Bhand Pather: Traditional folk theatre of Kashmir

Billi: Cat

Chalo: Let’s go (literally) or Alright (colloquially)

Chooha: Mouse

Dastarkhaans: Long cloth that is set on the floor/table in order to serve food

Dil toh chahta hai: The heart wants it

Dupatta: A type of scarf

Halaat: The condition/the situation

Hartal: A strike

Hijab: Scarf worn by Muslim women

Ikhwan: Armed militia that are sponsored by the Indian government

Insh’Allah: If it is the will of God/ God willing

Jahaaz: Ship

Janab: Your Excellency (a colloquialism that is used to connote respect, regardless of the gender of the person being addressed)

Kaun Banega Crorepati: Who wants to be a millionaire?

Kehewa: A tea preparation that is particular to Kashmir

Kharghosh: Rabbit

Kurta: A tunic

Mehandi: Henna

Mohalla: Neighborhood

Namaskar: Greetings

Nimaaz: The ritualistic prayer that is performed by Muslims five times a day

Pangas: Colloquial term to refer to picking fights

Patang: Kite

Pheran: A type of tunic that is particular to Kashmir

Raat: Night

Rabab: A stringed instrument that is used in various Asian contexts

Rouf: A folk-dance form performed by women in Kashmir

Rotis: A kind of bread

Saab: Sir

Samar: Fruit

Tamatar: Tomato

Titili: Butterfly

Topi: A hat that functions as a marker of one’s identity

Walaikum asalaam: And may peace be upon you as well

Wanvun: A style of choral singing that is particular to Kashmir

Wazwaan: A multi-course meal that is particular to Kashmir, served during celebratory occasions

Yakhni: A yogurt-based dish that is particular to Kashmiri cuisine

Zaalim: Oppressor

Introduction: Chronicles from Kashmir

B. B. Yasir

© Bhawani Bashir Yasir, CC BY 4.0 https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223.37

Exploring the legitimate scope and space for theatre in a conflict zone like Kashmir is an extremely uphill task. It involves many social, cultural, religious, political and economic challenges, and above all, the risk to one’s life, property and reputation.

Jammu and Kashmir have been a bone of contention since 1947, when this Subcontinent was divided after the termination of British rule into two new nations — India and Pakistan. This partition also forcibly divided the multi-regional but then politically united fabric of Jammu and Kashmir State, which fractured the State geographically, intellectually, socially, culturally and politically.

After the uprising of the militancy in 1988, Kashmir has become an uncontrolled conflict zone that presents multi-dimensional socio-political and humanitarian challenges, including risk to life, prosecutions and persecutions, unabated violence, military operations, and above all, uncertainty and loss of peace in the region. While peace of mind and a peaceful atmosphere is the basis for every theatrical activity, turbulent situations like these can provide rich dramatic content.

As an “insider,” I would not like to say much about the history of this region, as my comments are likely to be treated as stemming from a biased viewpoint. Besides, Nandita (the “outsider”) has already thrown sufficient light on the subject in her introduction, with the big question: “what is happening in Kashmir?”

Being a theatre professional and a Kashmiri nationalist, I have long felt it to be my moral obligation to give new impetus to the theatre movement of Kashmir and to carve a legitimate space for theatre after a dark era during 1990–2005. Thus my decision to establish the Ensemble Kashmir Theatre Akademi — EKTA (School of Drama & Repertory) in 2006, as a step forward in that direction. EKTA soon went on to become recognized as a national institution; the first of its kind in Kashmir.

In 2012, Nandita Dinesh — who had gone through a tough experience during her first visit to Kashmir in 2011, which had made her desperately sick and reluctant to return at first — came to see me at EKTA in Srinagar, referred to me by one of my students, who happened to be a college professor. After hearing about her work and her wish to collaborate with EKTA as part of her doctoral project, we embarked on a multi-year collaboration.

It is important to remark here that providing a platform for an outsider is extremely challenging in Kashmir due to potential security risks and suspicions of secret agendas. But given my commitment to the theatre, I decided to take on these risks and to provide space open for Nandita to work with the artistes of EKTA, without putting any restrictions or limitations on the work. The only suggestion I made was that we had to be very careful about the sensitivities and sensibilities of people in Kashmir when dealing with their unimaginable suffering, while approaching the subject with honesty and constructing/deconstructing the content of the play. Such conversations formed the basis of the characters Guide #1 and Guide #2 in the play, representing the insider and the outsider views that were present at every step of the creation of “Chronicles of Kashmir”.

While Nandita explains the process in detail in this book, I would like to draw your attention to some important points:

Being “insiders” who have lived the conflict, our Kashmiri actors and audience could easily connect with the content of the play and its immersion in everyday life in Kashmir.

When performing in Kashmir, every scene — however much we tried to be indirect — was immediately connected to someone’s real-life experience.

During the process of revealing some concealed realities of Kashmir, about which I happened to be a first-hand source, the actors and the audience often reacted furiously towards Nandita and me, and suspected that we had some secret agenda.

There were big questions raised, even among my friendship circles within the theatre fraternity, concerning my collaboration with an (Indian) outsider who could not be deemed as “trustworthy”. On many occasions, even my actors and members of EKTA asked: why are we doing such a project?

In spite of having been a leading pro-freedom activist, in many political and public circles I was viewed suspiciously for my approach to theatre activities that were unconventional.

It was also a big challenge to maintain consistency of performance in this multi-year project. Every stage included a gap of one year, and there were always new additions of content, concepts, thoughts, audiences and artists — but we did not let the spine of the play break.

From 2012 to 2014, the play was performed at the EKTA campus and all of the scenes were set in different rooms and spaces. Most of the scenes were very intense, but the movement of the audience from one space to another allowed them a sigh of relief to prepare for the next powerful scene. I don’t mean that the audience was alienated from the play, as Brecht has put it, but that moving from one space to another provided them with time to connect with the action intellectually.

However, the final live performance of the play at a theatre space in Kamshet, Maharashtra, was a bitter experience in comparison with the performances in Kashmir. I do not understand why a group of high-profile police officers raided the campus, and although they did not actively disturb our performance, their arrival disturbed the audience mentally and added to the intensity of the play. It showed us all how the word “Kashmir” is disturbing for Indian authoritarian rulers.

I am sure this play will be a new milestone in the landscape of world theatre in general, and a landmark in the evolution of the contemporary theatre of Kashmir, in particular. I feel proud to be part of it, as co-author and a lead actor.

Bhawani Bashir Yasir

Srinagar-Kashmir (J&K)

Pin-190005, India.

Summaries and Deconstructions

© Nandita Dinesh, CC BY 4.0 https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223.01

What is happening in Kashmir?

A deceptive simple query to which there are no simple answers.

Like other complex issues that leave their considerers perplexed for stretches of time, the answer to the question “What is happening in Kashmir?” depends on a range of factors. It depends on who is being asked the question. It depends on who is doing the asking. It depends on the context in which the question is being asked — the place, the time, the perceived intentionality, and the audience.

Answering a question about what is happening in Kashmir is complicated because there are myriad ways in which the region’s story has been told and re-told. To choose only one of these versions would give the reader an incomplete picture; it would create a false sense of certainty about a conundrum that has perplexed the finest of minds, for decades.

So, in an attempt to highlight the polyvocality that has been so crucial both to Chronicles from Kashmir’s development and to my own understanding of the region, there follows a less-than-conventional approach to framing Kashmir’s historical and contemporary socio-political condition. In this less-than-conventional approach, a one-paragraph summary of the conflict is deconstructed, in order to performatively communicate the various layers of what has happened/ is happening/ is understood as happening in the region of Kashmir.

Before going into the summary and its deconstructions, I have to tell the reader that my knowledge of these different layers of Kashmir’s condition stems primarily from formal interviews and informal conversations with a range of individuals within and outside Kashmir, with a healthy sprinkling of archival research. My process of understanding Kashmir’s history has been theatre-based, subjective, and fragmented, and it is precisely this lens that I would like to share with the reader of this book. So, embrace the subjectivity that follows. It is intentional; it is problematic; it is, to me, more real than any declarations of certainty and fact when it comes to understanding Kashmir.1

Since one version of events is not an option, let’s start with a very general summary — a summary that can then be pulled apart.

Perhaps the most well-known version of Kashmir’s history is the one in which recent conflicts are described as being rooted in the Partition of 1947, when the Hindu ruler of a majority Muslim region initially refused to join either of the newly created nation-states of India or Pakistan.

This initial refusal changed when Pakistani forces invaded Kashmir a few years later, causing the Hindu ruler to approach India for assistance — assistance that was offered on the condition that Kashmir would accede to the Indian nation-state.

The Indian Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, is said to have assured Kashmiris that this accession would be temporary and last only until law and order returned to the region.

This assurance also included a promise that, when law and order returned to the region, a plebiscite would be held so that the people of Kashmir could decide their fate.

Would they want to join India? Pakistan? Or function as an independent nation-state?

That’s the reductive, less complex version. But now, let’s break those ideas apart, shall we?

Perhaps the most well-known version of Kashmir’s history is the one in which the conflicts are described as being rooted in the Partition of 1947, when the Hindu ruler of a majority Muslim region initially refused to join either of the newly created nation-states of India and Pakistan.

There are others who say that the region of Kashmir — comprised of Jammu, the parts of the Kashmir Valley that are currently within Indian borders, Ladakh, the parts of the Kashmir Valley that are currently within Pakistani borders, Gilgit, and Baltistan — has never been conflict-free. According to this view, there have always been conflicts between the different groups inhabiting Kashmir, and many of today’s tensions existed much before Partition. It is the historical conflicts, these opinion-holders suggest, that underpin the ongoing stalemate that exists when it comes to solving the region’s problems.

There are others who say that the region was, historically, a centre of religious syncretism and that it is the communal agendas of India and Pakistan that have caused a seemingly unresolvable situation in which positions are being drawn based on religious lines. In this view, the religion of the ruler during Partition was politicized in relation to the religious composition of his citizens — a politicization that has since rendered a chasm across the region and the subcontinent. Part of the argument that is contained within this narrative is that Kashmiris have historically been unique; different; embodying a

Kashmiriyat

(Kashmiri-ness, for the lack of a better translation) that has been threatened by forces of communalism. So, for those who agree with this view, all the regions of Jammu and Kashmir belong together, as an autonomous nation-state. Kashmiris are not, and have never been, Indian or Pakistani.

There are those who say that the region of Kashmir should have gone to Pakistan as soon as Partition occurred. And that it was the placement of power in the hands of minority groups that did not allow this natural affiliation to take place.

Then, there are the arguments that fall somewhere between all of the above.

This initial refusal changed when Pakistani forces invaded Kashmir a few years later, causing the Hindu ruler to approach India for assistance — assistance that was offered on the condition that Kashmir would accede to the Indian nation-state.

Could the event be called an invasion if scores of people in the region wanted to join Pakistan to begin with, but were disallowed because of their Hindu ruler?

And if it wasn’t an invasion, what was it?

How might we interpret India’s involvement at the behest of a monarch, rather than his citizens?

Did the Hindu ruler truly come to India for temporary assistance? Or did he, knowing that his citizens would otherwise never agree to an accession to India, use Pakistani aggression as an excuse for accession?

What are the ethics of the Indian Prime Minister’s offer, in asking for an agreement of such massive gravity, at a time when Kashmir’s ruler had his back against a wall?

Then, there are the questions that are offshoots and derivatives of all of the above.

Indian Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, is said to have assured Kashmiris that this accession would be temporary and last only until law and order returned to the region.

Some speak to a continued involvement by the Indian government in perpetuating Kashmir’s turmoil precisely to prevent the return of law and order. After all, if law and order never return to Kashmir, the pre-conditions for the plebiscite will never be met.

The counterargument that is offered here, of course, is that law and order are never achievable because of Pakistan’s involvement in the region (not India’s).

Who would decide that law and order have come to prevail in Kashmir? Would that status need to be decided and verified by the UN? Or would it be a status that needs to be declared and agreed upon by the governments of India and Pakistan (and China, for the parts of Ladakh that fall within its control)?

Then, there are the questions that are offshoots and derivatives of all of the above.

An assurance that also included a promise that, when law and order returned to the region, a plebiscite would be held so that the people of Kashmir could decide their fate.

Even in the unlikely event that a plebiscite is under consideration, which Kashmiris are we talking about? The Kashmiris who live in the Valley that is under Indian administration? Does that also include the citizens of Hindu-dominated Jammu and Buddhist-majority Ladakh? Does the pool of plebiscite respondents also include the Kashmiris who live in Pakistan-administered Kashmir, Gilgit, and Baltistan? What about the Kashmiris who live in the part of Ladakh that is contested by China? What about the huge Kashmiri Diaspora that now inhabits regions across the world, many of whom — the Kashmiri Pandits (Hindus) in particular —are said to have been driven out of the Valley in fear for their lives? When we talk about carrying out a plebiscite, which Kashmiris are we referring to?

Who would conduct the plebiscite? How would it be implemented? Who would monitor the results? What would be the plan for transition, for each of the possible outcomes?

Then, there are the questions that are offshoots and derivatives of all of the above.

Would they want to join India? Pakistan? Or function as an independent nation-state?

What options are on the ballot for the plebiscite (should it ever happen)?

Some say that Kashmiris only get to choose between India and Pakistan. Others insist that there is, and always has been, a third option: an autonomous Kashmiri nation-state.

And if all these conundrums weren’t enough, in August 2019, the Indian government revoked an Act that gave the region of Jammu & Kashmir special status in the Indian constitution — an Act that ensured that the complexities surrounding the resolution of Kashmir’s conflicts were acknowledged, albeit symbolically. With this Act’s revocation, Kashmir’s fate has become even more unpredictable. If Kashmir has now been absorbed into the Indian nation-state, unilaterally, is the government even bound to acknowledge that a conflict exists?

If one summary can be deconstructed in so many ways, imagine how many more summaries could be written and rewritten, deconstructed and reconstructed.

So, what is happening in Kashmir? Many, many things.

And just like the conflicts that drove its creation, there is no simplified way to speak about the evolution of Chronicles from Kashmir.

The summary is this. Between 2011 and 2018, Chronicles from Kashmir evolved:

from being a doctoral project to becoming a longer-term undertaking;

from being a piece with no particular durational restrictions, to becoming a 24-hour immersive experience;

from being a play conceptualized for the theatre, to straddling the worlds of theatre, writing, film, and education.

This summary, just like the one that came before, needs to be deconstructed. This time around though, it might be easier to take the summary apart through a linear timeline.

Before doing so, I should inform the reader that I have written extensively about my work in Kashmir. And like most acts of re-telling, there are slight differences each time that I (re)tell the story. Sometimes, moments that were once considered to be essential, fade in their importance. Sometimes, occurrences that were once glossed over, seem more deserving of attention. Each time I talk about Chronicles from Kashmir — a project that has consumed my life for almost a decade — the narrative is the same, but different.

2009

Sometime in 2009, a friend sent me a copy of Griselda Gambaro’s (1992) Information for Foreigners (IFF); the same friend who also sent me Susan Haedicke’s (2002) article about the immersive work, Un Voyage Pas Comme Les Autres Sur Le Chemins De’l Exil (Chemins). This friend clearly knew my aesthetic preferences before I could even articulate them myself.

Reading Gambaro and Haedicke struck a chord, and from the time that I encountered IFF and Chemins, I have been consumed by:

immersive aesthetics — works that are multisensorial and alter traditional modes of engagement between audience and spectators;

the use of the promenade — where the audience walks from one space to another rather than engaging with a performance in one, predetermined location and position;

site-responsive strategies — where performances take place in response to unexpected spaces.

Beginning in 2009, in every theatre project that I undertook, I would try to find a way to include these elements — sometimes successfully; most of the time, not so successfully. It was a time in my practice when I could not articulate why these particular aesthetic choices spoke to me. All I knew was that they did, and that I had to explore them.

2011

My very first visit to Kashmir was by way of Jammu, where I began my time in the region by conducting theatre workshops with young girls in a home for orphans. Jammu, I thought at the time, would be a gentler first entry to the region before jumping directly into the intensities of what was happening in Kashmir. Eventually, the administrators of this organization invited me to visit a similar home that was operated by their organization in Kashmir; a home that was a few kilometres form the border with Pakistan.

And so, I landed in Kupwara in the harshness of winter, and fell terribly sick.

Most of what I remember from that trip is through a haze of watering eyes, nose, and throat. I think I was taken to a funeral. I think I got stuck in the middle of a protest on my way to the airport. I think I got questioned by an army officer about why I wanted to visit Kashmir.

I don’t remember much. At all. My first visit to Kashmir was a complete blur.

2012

After that not-so-great first visit, I didn’t think I would return to Kashmir. Until a colleague reached out. This colleague was visiting India from the UK and wanted to conduct a theatre workshop in Kashmir. Somehow, she convinced me that I should go with her, as a collaborator. And so, I returned.

The same organization that I had worked with the previous year agreed to host us, in a different city this time: Anantnag. And while the project got off to a very slow start, with neither of us thinking that anything more than a few theatre-games-based workshops with the young women would be possible, circumstances slowly began to shift.

Suddenly we found ourselves meeting people, running additional workshops, forming wonderful friendships, and being connected to theatre folks around the Valley — one of whom was the director of the Ensemble Kashmir Theatre Akademi (EKTA); an ensemble that would become my partner for years to come.

As these connections developed, so did my thinking about the role for theatre within the Kashmiri context. Would it be possible for Indian army soldiers to immerse themselves (theatrically) in the life of Kashmiri civilians? And if they did, would such an immersion enable them to become more empathetic in the way they carried out their jobs? Would it be possible for militants to step, theatrically, into the shoes of soldiers in the Indian army? Could Immersive Theatre, in this context, become a powerful way for Others to engage in perspectives and experiences that they had not lived themselves?

With grandiose ideas for how theatre could intervene in the region, and a newfound potential partner in EKTA, I realized that I needed to develop a critical framework to better articulate my considerations. After all, creating cross-community Immersive Theatre works in an active conflict zone needed some rigorous analysis and design. Enter the decision to pursue a doctoral project and to frame that undertaking as a theatrical exploration of the grey zones in Kashmir’s conflicts.2The grey zones — the areas of murkiness where traditional understandings of victimhood and perpetration need to be questioned — in relation to soldiers, militants, and civilians in Kashmir.

2013

This year saw my first collaboration with EKTA and the first time that I had to systematize the process of conducting a formal workshop around Immersive Theatre. Given the newness of these challenges and partnerships, I decided to start my collaboration with EKTA by focusing on the most accessible of three identity groups that I wanted to work with: civil society.

The workshop’s focus on understanding the civilian experience in Kashmir was informed by the ensemble members in the workshop, civilians who shared various aspects of their experience with me; I realized that these experiences revealed many blurred boundaries between the more obvious identity groupings of civilian, soldier, and militant. The month-long process led to the creation an immersive performance about women’s experiences in the region; a performance entitled Pinjare (Cages)that could only admit two spectators at a time, and that was targeted toward male, Kashmiri spectators.

In addition to this focus on aestheticizing the grey zones of civilian experience, 2013 was also the year in which I started— always in consultation with my colleagues at EKTA— creating future theatrical partnerships with Kashmiri militants and with soldiers in the Indian Army. And while my attempts to reach active militants failed, my attempts to reach the army did not. A Brigadier agreed to speak with me, to chat about the potential for arts-based practices in the training of soldiers; he also agreed to attend a performance of Cages. This was all before I left Kashmir, of course. After I left, the Brigadier simply became impossible to reach.

As many project initiators do, I learned more from my failures than my successes. From my failure to reach the militants, I realized that there was no way an active militant would agree to speak with me and that even if they did, all of us would be at too much risk. From the failed conversations with the Brigadier, I eventually learned about the ways in which armies tend to isolate themselves. From intense conversations with audience members of Cages, I slowly began to unpack the sheer extent of the politics in which I was embroiled by my very presence in Kashmir: as a woman; as an Indian.

2014

When I returned to EKTA in 2014, the goal was to figure out how to include the voices of militants, when active militants would not or could not engage with me. I quickly realized that former militants were perhaps the only group that would be able/willing to meet with me; creating material for a Documentary Theatre piece about former militants thus became the focus of that year’s collaboration with EKTA.

Upon connecting with an organization that works for the welfare of former militants, two EKTA actors and I travelled to parts of Kashmir I had never been to before: homes that lay inside small villages; homes that were far away from witnesses; homes in which former militants talked to me about their particular experiences. They described why they had joined the militancy; what they were fighting for; why they had decided to leave.

I did all of this not realizing that I was stepping into a veritable minefield. That listening to the voices of these men and their wives, as an Indian woman, was going to spark reactions that I did not even know to expect, let alone predict. Although the process of creating Meri Kahani Meri Zabani (My Story, My Words; MKMZ)was incredibly rewarding for myself and for the actors — and seemingly for the folks we had interviewed — things changed quickly, intensely, and in a volatile fashion.

The man who was my primary contact in facilitating interviews with the former militants disappeared after the first showing of MKMZ. The post-performance discussions with audience members who had not been involved in the interviews became explosive. And quickly, I realized that I had to question both my right to tell the stories that I was telling, and my dubious decision to share those narratives with people who had borne the brunt of each other’s traumas for decades. Suddenly, I had to acknowledge the idea that the work I was making in Kashmir might not be for Kashmiri audiences; that my grandiose notions of sharing work about an Other with an Other, in that context, was impossible.

So I left EKTA that year, considering two potential target audiences for the work we were creating: an audience of young Kashmiris who might be more willing and able to engage with content about the histories of their land; an audience of non-Kashmiris, like myself, who did not have the lived experience of war and needed to learn more about the region in order to become better allies, in whatever way we could.

That’s the primary question with which I left Kashmir in 2014: for whom were EKTA and I creating this work? And how could we do a more effective job of framing it for its target audiences? Did we need to consider a pre-performance workshop of some kind, to ensure that our spectators — especially in Kashmir — had the chance to hear about our intentions and objectives, before being immersed in the work?

2014 was also the year in which I accepted the fact that my overtures to reach out to the Indian Armed Forces in Kashmir were likely to go unacknowledged. So, what were the voices in the army that would engage with me? Where were the Armed Forces personnel who had the time and ability to do so, rather than being constantly on alert in an active conflict zone? Who were the sub-group of soldiers in the Indian Armed Forces that I could access, given the specific resources that I had at my disposal? With these questions in mind, there was only target group that I could work with: cadets in training at a Defence Academy in western India. So, that’s what I did. A process that led to a creation called Waiting, composed from monologues written by the young men: for what/whom were they waiting?

The rest of 2014 was spent collating and curating the material that had emerged from the previous years’ collaborations with EKTA, my work with the cadets, and experiences from my visits to Kashmir in 2011 and 2012. Slowly, a script began to form, in dialogue with a work that I had been obsessed with for a long time: Griselda Gambaro’s IFF.3

As a first step, I sat with Gambaro’s work and forced myself to adapt each of her scenes in a way that would make sense for Kashmir. At this stage, I very much considered the work as an adaptation of IFF, rather than a new work that simply used Gambaro’s script as inspiration.

2015

The first iteration of our Kashmiri adaptation of IFF stuck closely to the source material. But as most plays tend to do, the shape of the text morphed as soon as it was in the actors’ hands and voices; we collaboratively designed ideas that altered both the form and content of Gambaro’s work. Suddenly, I realized that Gambaro’s play was nothing more or less than a point of departure for us. Our IFF was a different play. And while a couple of the scenes functioned as adaptations (The Experiment and The Man & the Woman) our IFF had started to grow into its own aesthetic.

But once again, despite a rewarding process of exchange and collaborative development with EKTA, the response from the audience members was explosive.

The adult audiences that were composed of members of Srinagar’s theatre community rejected the fragmented, promenade form: the distance from Realism troubled this audience; it is possible that their discomfort was gravely magnified by my being Indian. “You can never imagine what we have lived through,” was the response that seemed underscore it all. And they were right, of course; I cannot.

This year, though, learning from the lessons of years past, we also made sure to work with a younger audience: high-school students in Srinagar who, we thought, were distant enough from the material to engage with it differently. And once again, we were wrong: “This is not our past,” the young people said. “The things that you’re showing us are still happening. They are not history. They are our present. Why are you showing us what we are already living with?”

Listening to the young people was illuminating. They were able — through their youthful articulation — to enable me to understand what the adults, with their emotional intensity, had not managed to communicate. Nothing I could create in Kashmir, if it was about Kashmir, could be for Kashmiris. It would have to be for others like myself. Non-Kashmiris. Foreigners. Outsiders.

2016

When I returned to Kashmir a year after that revelation about target audience and audience framing, the mission was to return to EKTA and to sculpt IFF — which had now been renamed Information for/from Outsiders: Chronicles form Kashmir — for an audience of outsiders.

Unfortunately, this was not to be. Two days before the workshop was set to commence, a young rebel/militant/terrorist/leader (depending on who you ask) was killed by the Indian Army. And just like that, a curfew was declared in the Valley.

I had been in Kashmir during the occasional strike or protest in years past, and these events had led us to cancel rehearsals and the occasional performance. But 2016 was different. This year, there seemed to be no end in sight to the protests. There seemed to be no way for the actors to reach the theatre’s premises for the workshop. The two actors who already happened to be at the facility were so distracted and stressed that trying to create smaller-scale versions of the workshop simply didn’t work. And somewhere in the middle of all of these events, when we were having wide-ranging conversations about the future of IFF, I asked a colleague: “What if this became a 24-hour performance?”

I did not expect his response: “Why not?”

And just like that, on a curfew night in Kashmir, the vision for a 24-hour piece came alive.

I have since been able to articulate that decision in more eloquent ways: the impact of durational immersion on spectators; the necessity of duration in communicating fragmentation and complexity; the necessity of duration in fostering experiential understanding.

But on that night, when the idea first came up, it was almost a whim. There was a curfew. There was nothing else to do. And so, we imagined.

2017

From the day after my colleague and I had that conversation, I wrote. In bits and pieces. In scenes and fragments. No longer were IFF or Chemins useful to me as points of reference. This was a new beast.

In mid-2017, with a rough draft of a script for a 24-hour performance in hand, the ensemble and I decided to meet somewhere else in the subcontinent, outside Kashmir. After all, hadn’t we all realized that the play would be more suitable for an audience of non-Kashmiris?

We went to the only place that would agree to host such an effort, which was also the only place that we could afford. So, in July 2017, a team of about twelve artists went to Kamshet, in western India. The plan was simple: we would workshop the draft that I had been working on for the past year and, ideally, we would test drive an initial version of the 24-hour performance for an audience of non-Kashmiris.

We didn’t know if we could make it happen. We didn’t know if we’d actually manage to pull all of this off in less than a month. But, somehow, with the collective commitment of an ensemble, Chronicles from Kashmir came together.

At the end of an intense period of rehearsal and rewrites, we were able to share a trial performance with a group of audience members that included individuals who knew us, and who were willing to be part of the “dress rehearsal,” as it were. This was the first time we had been able to try the entire 24-hour event with a live audience and the “dress rehearsal” was seminal in our understanding of an event that we had, until then, been only able to rehearse in fragments.

We made a lot of mistakes with that audience; we learned and adapted and re-rehearsed for the next performance: this time for many audience members with whom we did not have prior relationships, and some of whom had travelled for over a day, by train, to get to the experience.

We started the second performance and were only about halfway through the first scene when the police showed up.

The first two policemen who walked in were in plain clothes and I had no reason to think that they were anyone but audience members who were arriving late. But they were police, they said; officers who ushered me out of the performance space so that they could inform me in hushed tones that they had been told about a group of Kashmiris doing something that warranted attention. They had been informed, the police said, that a ‘foreign’ director was in-charge.

“Can we see your visa?”

“I don’t need a visa. I have an Indian passport.”

“Oh.”

Was it the amplified sound of the azaan in a Hindu-dominated locality that caused someone to report us to the police? Was it the sound of fireworks, in conjunction with the sound of the Muslim call to prayer, that set off alarm bells? Or was it a simple case of bias and prejudice and factionalism?

Whatever the case, to this day, we do not know who called the police on Chronicles from Kashmir. All we know is that the police showed up and, suddenly, our theatrical accomplishment became something else. Something unnerving.

The police were a continued presence at the second performance of Chronicles from Kashmir, adding a chilling layer of reality to the content that was being explored. My phone calls to well-placed colleagues went to naught.

“This is not an India in which our connections work,” I was told.

“Get out of there now. Before they file a criminal case against you, and you cannot leave the country.”

A criminal case against me? For what? Hadn’t I offered to let the police officers read the script? Hadn’t I told them that they were welcome to stay? Weren’t they the ones who refused my invitations because the script was too long to read?

“Did they take any pictures?”

“Well, yes, they took some pho —”

“You shouldn’t have let them do that. You never know how they are going to use them. Can you leave now? Can you get out of the country?”

We were in hour 12 of the performance. The police had left in hour 7. Maybe the storm had passed.

They returned though, in hour 19. And this time, they wanted names. What were the names of the artists who had created this performance, and what were our addresses? What were the names of the audience members, and what were their addresses?

These were the questions that scared us.

We knew there were some risks to the work that we had undertaken, but we didn’t expect to have to identify our spectators to the police. We knew that talking about Kashmir could be controversial, but we did not think that it would bring authoritarian voices to our doors. After all, one of the reasons we had decided to go outside Kashmir this year was to give the actors a break… from curfews, and strikes, and fear. But here we were. Doused in the very fear that we were trying to escape.

In a time when Indian newspapers were publishing a fairly regular dose of articles about Muslims being lynched upon suspicion of eating beef, we were terrified. It would have been one thing if the risk was only to me, or to some of the more experienced members of the ensemble who better understood the risks. But it was quite something else when the risks were for an entire company. It was quite something else when the risk was shared by a 16-year old who had partly signed up for this project simply to go outside Kashmir — he had never done that before.

When the risks begin to include so many others besides oneself — including audience members — standing up to the establishment does not seem idealistic or passionate. It just seems stupid.

So, given the fear that was permeating the cast, given that our audience the next day was going to be composed of students from a local high school, we decided to call off the next performance of Chronicles from Kashmir.

We have not been able to perform the work, live, since then.

2018

When multiple festivals and future host organizations in the Indian subcontinent turned down our proposals to perform in their spaces, always citing safety as the reason behind their reticence, our goal became to find new ways to keep the work alive. Through the written script. And, we decided, through film.

So, after a year of fundraising and connecting and hustling, we were ready to shoot a film version of Chronicles from Kashmir, a month before the script was set to be published in Mumbai.

Once again, we began our time together with great hope: the hope that this year would be different; the hope that the time away from Kashmir, shooting the film, would be rejuvenating for the ensemble.

But, once again, our hopes came to naught.

Two weeks into our shooting schedule, with one week left to go, I received a message from the educational institution that was hosting us.

“You need to leave tomorrow,” I was told. “Journalists in this area are asking questions about why we have Kashmiris shooting a film here. This is a Hindu-dominated area. There have been issues in the past. We cannot take any risks.”

“We cannot afford to change our tickets and leave tomorrow. I simply don’t have the money to make that happen.”

“Maybe we can pay for you to leave?”

“Or maybe we could find a compromise? What if we agreed to restrict our filming to the building in which we are being hosted? You know, what if we voluntarily place ourselves under house arrest of sorts, only coming close to your premises when we need to bring food back up for the ensemble?”

“Maybe that would work.”

For the next week, ten of us undertook an inexplicable form of voluntary house arrest. From having access to an entire campus to shoot Chronicles from Kashmir, suddenly, we only had one building and the area surrounding it. We couldn’t go outside that area for fear of being seen. And being asked to leave.

Between this residential situation, and a simultaneous ban that Facebook imposed on our publisher, prohibiting them from selling the about-to-be-launched first edition of the script on their online marketplace, we found ourselves — again — in the eye of a storm. A storm that had come about so subtly, so unexpectedly, that I still have trouble believing the extent of the fuss that went into censoring a small group of people who were coming together to make theatre.

None of us have names that call attention. None of us come from high-powered spheres of influence and celebrity status. We were — we are — simple folk.

What was all the fuss about?

2019–2020

The first edition of the script exists.

The film exists, in a heavily condensed two-hour-long form and as additional stand-alone segments from the 24-hour experience.

And here we are.

At another turning point in Kashmir’s history — the abrogation of Article 370— when things are more unpredictable than they’ve ever been.

When the government’s unilateral decision to revoke Kashmir’s special status in August 2019 left the region without phone lines for two months.

When, as I write this, the internet remains disconnected and schools remain closed and life remains crippled.

So, here we are.

As artists and as educators.

Wondering, now what?

“Now what?” has led to this second edition of Chronicles from Kashmir that includes more than the script for a performance. An edition that includes:

Links to videos of Chronicles from Kashmir

Discussion questions for the reader to better understand Kashmir and this work

Practical exercises for the reader to gain experiential insight intoChronicles from Kashmir’s aesthetic and pedagogical strategies

Words in translation from Hindustani (a combination of Hindu and Urdu that makes both languages accessible to speakers of either)

“Now what?” has led us to decide that we want more learners, within and outside formal educational environments, to use our script as the jumping-off point to engage with a larger study of what is happening in Kashmir.

“Now what?” has brought us here. To this.

I write this introduction as my colleagues in Kashmir continue to remain under varying forms of lockdown.

I write this introduction after more than a year of wondering whether or not I have the energy to deal with the potential backlash that a second edition might provoke.

I write this introduction after I was finally able speak to my colleagues in EKTA, after months of no communication, and realize that our time together couldn’t end like this. Without “more.”

“More.”

More hope.

More struggle.

More collaboration.

More imagination.

“More.”

There has to be “more.”

Right?

Nandita Dinesh

A Note on Adaptation & Design

If you are approaching this piece as a complete outsider to the conflicts it speaks of,

PLEASE

engage with Kashmiris — andothers with experience of Kashmir — in your local context. They will be best positioned to guide you on elements that you do not understand.

If your local experts disagree with some/many aspects of this text, you are welcome to adapt/edit/change the material and to make choices that seem most ethical in your context.

If there is no one that you are able to engage with locally, and you find yourself in need of guidance, please reach out to us: [email protected]

Every aspect of

Chronicles from Kashmir

has been intentionally crafted to be flexible. So, be as creative as you want in interpreting directions: costuming, props, set, lighting, song, character changes, and the use of Urdu/Hindustani terms. Use what makes sense in your context; use what you can afford; use what you have access to.

1 Readers who would like a more scholarly starting point to explore Kashmir’s histories are encouraged to consider the range of reading material that has been included in the Installations and referenced in the Bibliography. It is not in line with the ethos of this work to make a prescriptive suggestion about where one should begin — so use your discretion; pick your starting point!

2 For a detailed account of the specific trajectory of my explorations, and their positioning within the larger arena of Theatre & Performance studies, please see Theatre & War (Dinesh, 2013), available Open Access, http://www.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0099

3 Gambaro’s play about the Dirty War in Argentina takes place in the promenade, is site-specific, and focuses on the politics and ethics of witnessing acts of violence.

The Schedule

© Nandita Dinesh, CC BY 4.0 https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223.02

WATCH THE CONDENSED FILM

5:30 PM

6:00 PM

Bus picks up spectators and arrives

Notice the time at which the performance begins, and the subsequent impact on how the rest of the experience unfolds.

What are the pedagogical benefits/drawbacks of the chosen timeframe? For example: would there be different impacts if Part 2 ofA Wedding and a Curfewed Nightoccurred from 10 PM to 6 AM, rather than 4 AM to 12 PM?

6:00 PM

6:40 PM

Scene 0

6:40 PM

7:00 PM

Scene 1

7:00 PM

7:20 PM

Scene 2

7:20 PM

7:40 PM

Scene 3

7:40 PM

8:10 PM

Installation A

8:10 PM

8:30 PM

Scene 4

8:30 PM

8:50 PM

Scene 5

8:50 PM

9:20 PM

Installation B

9:20 PM

9:40 PM

Scene 6

9:40 PM

10:00 PM

Scene 7

10:00 PM

10:20 PM

Scene 8

10:20 PM

11:00 PM

The First Coalition

11:00 PM

11:20 PM

Scene 9

11:20 PM

11:40 PM

Scene 10

Different contexts create different understandings of how the hours of a day should be used: which hours are for sleep, for instance, and which hours are for activity? Understanding these particularities can be important for creators to more effectively time events so as to heighten desired impacts.

If you were going to stage Chronicles from Kashmirin your local context, how would you adapt this schedule?

11:40 PM

12:00 AM

Installation C

12:00 AM

12.20 AM

The Second Coalition

12.30 AM

2 AM

Scene 11

2:00 AM

4 AM

A Wedding and a Curfewed Night: Part 1

4:00 AM

12 PM

A Wedding and a Curfewed Night: Part 2

12:10 PM

12:30 PM

Scene 12

12:30 PM

1:10 PM

The Third Coalition

1:10 PM

1:30 PM

Scene 13

1:30 PM

1:50 PM

Scene 14

1:50 PM

2:10 PM

Scene 15

2:10 PM

2:40 PM

Installation D

2:40 PM

3:00 PM

Scene 16

3:00 PM

3:20 PM

Scene 17

3:20 PM

3:50 PM

Installation E

3:50 PM

4:10 PM

Scene 18

4:10 PM

4:30 PM

Scene 19

4:30 PM

4:50 PM

Scene 20

4:50 PM

5:10 PM

Scene 21

5:10 PM

5:40 PM

Scene 22

5:40 PM

6:10 PM

The Last Coalition

6:00 PM

Bus leaves

The Journey Begins

© Nandita Dinesh, CC BY 4.0 https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223.03

It is important that all fifteen spectators to Information for/from Outsiders: Chronicles from Kashmir arrive at the same time. The group should be asked to meet at a predetermined spot, at 5.30 PM, with prior knowledge of the following information.

Participants can expect:

Walking and physical exertion.

Interaction with the performers.

Regular provision of food and drink.

Time to sleep, if they choose.

Access to washrooms.

What would be the potential impacts ofnotsending this information to spectators before their arrival at the event?

Participants should:

Wear comfortable shoes.

Have some form of government-issued photo identification.

Pack one change of clothes and a towel.

Carry medication for any pre-existing health conditions.

Bring extra water/snacks, if they need time-regulated food/drink.

Make sure they have other location-specific materials (like raingear), based on weather conditions in the performance context.

Participantsshould not:

Carry phones or any other technological devices: it is recommended that they let near and dear ones know that they will be out of touch for a day. In case of emergencies, the number for one crew member can be provided.

Bring any materials that might be used as diversions from the experience (such as books, for example): all materials will be subject to inspection and approval by a member of the production team.

Consider the notion of ‘care’ in relation the audience for a durational, immersive, theatrical experience.

When does the process of caring start?

How does it manifest?

When does it end?

A bus arrives to take spectators to the performance space, and as audience members line up to board the bus, an ACTOR checks their IDs against names on the guest list. The ACTOR then checks the spectators’ bags to ensure that there are no unauthorized, ‘diversionary’ materials that are being brought in. Such material should be returned to the audience member’s private vehicle and/or confiscated by the ACTOR to be kept in a lockbox on the bus until the audience departs the next day.

Rabab

A stringed instrument that is used in various Asian contexts

Once IDs and belongings are cleared, the ACTOR says to each guest as they board the bus: “Welcome.” Nothing more. Nothing less.

On the bus, rabab music plays until audience members arrive at the performance location.

Once at the final destination, audience members are instructed to leave all their belongings on the bus. They are told that the production team will move their belongings to a location where spectators can have access to them at any time. “Just ask the GUIDES if you need access to your belongings during the experience,” the ACTOR tells them.

The ACTOR then takes audience members to a space that is designed as a tourism office and is filled with predictable paraphernalia about sights that they might encounter in Kashmir.

While audience members begin their experience in the tourism office, the production team moves their belongings from the bus and stores them in a central location. If/when spectators make requests for their belongings, one of the GUIDES calls for a crew member to walk the spectator over to that storage location. It is suggested that there should be two crew members who are always on audience duty, so that they can be the ones to facilitate/manage any unforeseen requests/incidents that might arise for specific spectators — leaving the GUIDES and other audience members to carry on with the experience.

The narratives inChronicles from Kashmirhave been crafted with a careful approach to balance.

A lot of care was taken to understand

how many of each type of narrative

(victim, perpetrator, the grey zones between/within)

to include fromeach identity group

(Indian Armed Forces, Civil Society, Militants).

The objective of the calculation was this:

How could we ethically address the reality that some people suffer more than others (civilians, primarily), without resorting to overly simplistic categorizations of victim and perpetrator?

For instance, how many scenes would need to highlight civilians as victims, in order for us to be ethically able to include one scene elsewhere in the performance in which a soldier from the Armed Forces is not depicted solely as a perpetrator?

So, as an exercise, create a table like this:

Victim

Perpetrator

Grey Zones

Armed Forces

Civil Society

Militants

As you read the scenes, make a tally of which perspective is being shown in each one.

Yes, some scenes could be categorized in multiple columns.

Many of them will depend on your interpretation.

But do the counting. Just as an exercise.

And see what such an approach might reveal.

Scene 0: Framing the Experience

© Nandita Dinesh, CC BY 4.0 https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0223.04

WATCH THE VIDEO

What are the complexities inherent in invoking religion/spirituality as a performance strategy?

How do these complexities shift based on the religiosity/ perceived religiosity of the context in which the work is created/ performed?

Throughout the 24-hour experience, the azaan — the Muslim call to prayer — must occur at appropriate times. There should be a designated actor, or recording, giving the call to prayer. Actors who are not performing in that instance, or who are in scenes where the context allows, should pray…if they want to.

When they disembark from the bus, audience members are taken to a space that is designed as a tour operator’s office and is filled with paraphernalia that the “mainstream” tourism industry might tell outsiders to expect in Kashmir. It is important that this space, at the beginning, is “touristy” — that it extolls the natural beauty of the Valley and her peoples; that it reinforces stereotypes, if you will. This is important so as to highlight the layers that will be added to the design of this same space by the end of the 24-hour experience.

There are refreshments that are served here; music is playing (perhaps the same instrumental music that was played on the bus). It is important that there is an air of something akin to celebration.

When audience members arrive at this space, actors at a reception table meet them. The actors wear labels that say INSIDER. Spectators are asked to line up in rows, in front of individual actors. Each audience member is handed the OUTSIDER card below and is asked to fill their card at the table, while the actor watches over them to answer any queries.

OUTSIDER

My name is: _________________.

I am a: ____________________.

I want to be here because:

___________________

PLEASE KEEP THIS CARD WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES

If you need anything over the course of the day, please approach one of the GUIDES for assistance.

What might be reasons underpinning the particular prompts that OUTSIDERS (spectators) need to complete on their identification badges?

Hint: look into adult learning theories.

Pheran

A type of tunic that is particular to Kashmir

Hijab

Scarf worn by Muslim women

Kurta

A tunic

Dupatta

A type of scarf

Once audience members have finished filling out their individual cards, they are asked to place them in lanyards and to hang the lanyards around their necks at all times. The actors at the table then direct each audience member to an area that is designed to be a green room.