From Kashmir, 2019: A North Korean journalist’s ecstatic diary 

The streets of Srinagar are packed. Dandiya music trills out of loudspeakers while twirling teenagers practise Garba moves. Charming men from the BJP, the RSS and other Hindutva organisations are teaching their little Muslim brothers and sisters how to dance to their tunes. India has never displayed such a strong spirit of secularism before, praise be to Dear Leader and his bestie. In a secluded alley, I see a posse of journalists from self-righteous western nations interviewing stone-pelters disguised as vegetable vendors.

I bet they’re spinning yarns about children being abducted/tortured/whatever and whining about millions of people being in an open-air jail—bah. The stone-pelters notice me and yell: “Government agent!” I run, valiantly suppressing the urge to torture them (western journalists included). No matter. Dear Leader is going all out to ensure that only positive stories about Kashmir go out to the world, thank God.

Sanjay Kapoor, the editor of Hardnews, recently tweeted: “Ever since August 5 abrogation of Article 370, that conferred special status to Kashmir, the Indian government has promised imports worth $6 billion from the US, given a credit line of $1 billion to Russia and the possibility of buying 35 more Rafales from France. The bill for support is growing.”

One of India’s best-selling authors, Chota Bhagwat, is sunning himself on a park bench. He tells me he is writing a new book called Full Idiots. His main protagonist, Virat Balak, is a poor lad who is rejected by every girl he has a crush on because his grammar stinks. Virat moves to Kashmir to join a Hindutva gang so that he can break things (including bones) and feel like a man.

While there, he falls in love with a beautiful, fair Kashmiri Muslim called Nasreen who rejects him too. It is only after her misguided kid brother is jailed that she consents to have coffee with Virat — he has considerable influence, after all. Virat gets her brother released, gives him a lecture that lasts for 3 chapters, and sends him to a shakha to reform.

Finally, Virat marries Nasreen, who changes her name to Neha. Sweet. I assure him that I so love the plot, and walk away. I bet that Canadian chap will be the hero of the film based on this new book! The aroma of freshly steamed dhokla fills the air as I pass by a government office.

Middle-aged mummies are waiting in queue to use one of the few working phones to assure their families outside Kashmir that life is beautiful. They kill time by exchanging recipes they’ve downloaded from the Internet. All marvel at the fact that you can even use pineapple-flavoured Eno anti-acidity fruit salts to make dhokla, and agree that India certainly is incredible!

I feel my heart swell with pride and hum Vande Mataram under my breath. As I stroll down, I pass a government school. The children are chattering like sparrows while eating their midday meal.

An anti-national reporter spots them, gasps in an outraged manner, and whips out his camera. “You should complain to your parents about the food,” he thunders as he clicks close-up shots of the roti and salt on their plates. “No way!” a child pipes up, “I hate veggies!” A teacher glares at the anti-national reporter. If looks could kill, the man would be lynched, and rightly so!

Tired, I sit on a bench that overlooks Dal lake. India’s unofficial poet laureate disembarks from a shikara with a face like thunder. I yell at him: “How’s the josh”. He gloomily tells me that he’s very happy but also very sad because he’s not inspired to write heartbreaking poems about stars in potholes anymore. Then he storms off. Killjoy! I enter my hotel after sunset to see a legal eagle wrapped in hundreds of pashmina shawls sipping tea and gazing at the view. I slap him on the back and invite him to accompany me on a stroll after dinner. He grimaces and says, “Why do you want to move around? It is very cold in Srinagar.” He’s quite right — if people stayed cosily at home, they’d never catch cold or complain about pellet guns! I join him for a cuppa and gaze out of the window too. Ah, joy! If there’s a heaven on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here