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The disappeared of Kashmir

His unibrow twists and arches furiously. The creases on his face tighten. His eyes shift from the door and with his index finger he points towards the ceiling. Then he stares straight at me and begins to speak - his voice like a calamitous clap of thunder, echoing off the cold walls and ringing in my ears.
I have no idea what he is saying, but his tone conveys everything.
"Take it easy ... they are here to listen to your story ... don't be angry," says Parveena Ahangar, the chairperson of the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons (APDP), one of two organisations going by the same name in Kashmir, as she tugs gently at the old man's knee.
But he refuses and embarks on a second tirade; spitting as he pronounces a series of adjectives that I recognise as expletives.
A friend who has accompanied me for the purpose of translating whispers: "I can't translate all of this. He is cursing just about everyone there is to possibly swear at."
Ghulam Muhammad Wani needs a moment to clear his mind. I happily give him three.
The 80-year-old is short and stocky but cuts an imposing figure. Dressed in a dirty, brown pheran, he sits on the floor of his living room in Rajbagh, Srinagar. His overstretched woolen socks loop around the contours of his feet, stealing dust from the parched carpet below.
He tells us his story.

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