Justice Delayed, Justice Denied - Zee News

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Modasa Pradesh Brahm Samaj, Gujarat organized a public session on "The facts and feelings about Kashmiri Pandits"

Modasa Pradesh Brahm Samaj, Gujarat
organized a public session on "The facts and feelings about Kashmiri Pandits" on 24th February, 2018 at Modasa, Gujrat, where hundreds of people assembled to pledge their support to the Kashmiri Pandit cause. The session had Roots in Kashmir activists, Sh. Sushil Pandit and Sh. Amit Raina adressing the gathering. While Amit Raina spoke about the fast losing identity of Kashmiri Pandits and encroachment of Temples, Sushil Pandit higlighted the pain and struggle of Kashmiri Pandits in both pre and post exodus days. He also highlighted the broken promises of succesive governments in getting Kashmiri Pandits their homes back with justice and dignity. He requested people of Gujarat to force their representatives to push the government in Delhi to not succumb to the pressures of PDP and the love of power.

Sh. Jogender Upadhyay, from the Madosa Brahm Samaj assured Kashmiri Pandits of support from all people of Gujarat, especially from the 65 lakh Brahmin Community.

Modasa Brahm Samaj also passed a resolution covering the following points:

1.  Abolishing Article 370 and 35 (A)

2. Kashmiri Pandits are the aborigines of Kashmir valley; they should get the status of Native (Schedule Tribe) and Minority for the protection of their religious and ethnic rights.

3. To immediately establish a Kashmiri Pandit’s Commission for the purpose of social justice and legislative empowerment of Kashmiri Pandits

4. To appoint two members in state legislative assembly and one member in Rajya-sabha from the Kashmiri Pandit community. To allocate separate district for their safe rehabilitation in the Kashmir valley.

5.The names of the ancient villages, towns, religious places and monuments of the Kashmir Valley should not be changed.

6. Temples and religious places in the Kashmir valley are heritage of Indian culture therefore the “Temple and Shrine Protection Bill' should be implemented immediately to stop the encroachment of temple land and premises
                                                                                
 https://www.facebook.com/groups/rootsinkashmir/permalink/1962393310456458/

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Open letter to Shehla Rashid from a Kashmiri Hindu

Shehla Rashid,

I am Aditya Tikoo. It was the morning of 19th January 1990. I (then 5) was playing with my mother on the bed. She was 7 months pregnant. She took me in her lap and asked – “what do you want – baby brother or sister?”. “Brother” – I replied. She kissed my forehead and held her hand on my head in affection.

Suddenly we heard a noise outside. It was some mob that was nearing our house. It kept getting noisy with each moment. My father who had gone outside rushed into the house and came to our room. I saw his eyes full of fear for the first time. He was a school master in Srinagar. “They are coming”, he said.

I felt my mother’s grip around me was tightened suddenly. I looked at her face. She fainted. I asked, what happened? She almost cried, said- nothing Bachcha. She covered me with her shawl. I could clearly hear her heartbeats as my ears were pushed against her. Her heart was beating abnormally. I could not see her face now. It was all dark inside. But now I could realise, she was wiping her tears.

The procession was now outside our locality which had 7-8 Hindu homes. Someone from the mob shouted – “Thats the master’s house”. And then started the announcement from the nearby mosques – “Asi gachchi Pakistan, Batao roas te Batanev san” (we want to become Pakistan with Hindu women not with their men). It was announced by the mob. All men must leave valley leaving behind their women. Some of them kicked the gate and pelted stones at the window. We were terrified. I was in mother’s arms. Who was shivering. Carrying three hearts. Two within, one in arms.

Mosques started making announcements after announcements. It was a recorded cassette with Islamic songs warning the idolaters. To free Kashmir from Kufra. Azadi ka matlab kya La ilaah illillaah.

Few minutes later, 3-4 males from the locality knocked the door. My father opened it in fear. They were Hindu neighbours. Came to inform we are leaving in 2 hours. They have gone mad. They won’t listen to us. They won’t let us live anymore. This is our last day in valley.

While they were discussing how to flee, those words of mob – Asi gachchi Pakistan, Batao roas te Batanev san were playing in my mind endlessly. I only knew a woman in my life. She was my mother. I asked myself, what will they do with my mother? Why do they want her for Pakistan? I asked after a silence – Maa, what are they saying? Who are they? Why will they take you away? Will I go with you?

Na bachcha. I am your mother. I will be with you always – she cried bursting into tears.

In few hours, my father arranged tickets for us. Mother packed a few things – some jewellery, cash and a Shiva Ling. I was looking at her in fear while she was packing. She was constantly crying. She consoled me a couple of times and pretended she is fine. But I knew she wasn’t.

We left home in the noise of loudspeakers from mosques. I can still hear those voices. Those aggressive tones, words and call for action. I could see skullcaps around staring at us with the glare of victory. Eyes that wanted to peel the skin off my mother and eat her flesh.

My father tried to pick me up since mother was advised not to lift heavy things. I thought if I leave her, she will go with mob.

I cried like never before. I said – Maa take me with you. Don’t leave. She tried to explain- I am not leaving. I am with you. Just be with Dad. I refused. My father cried for the first time. He forcibly snatched me from mother again. I was so terrified that I almost felt unconscious.

When I got my consciousness back, I found myself in mother’s lap in the bus. She was crying and thanking God. We fled the valley. There were thousands like us. We lived in a tent in Jammu for next 2 months. A lot happened there.

My mother had miscarriage. She lost the child. She lost the smile forever. A few years ago, I got to know the full story. When I fell unconscious, she did not let Dad touch me. She carried me for all the time so that when I open my eyes, I find her right in front. Because this is what I wanted. To be carried by her. She walked and ran for 5 long kilometers carrying two children – one in arms, one inside to catch the bus. She got the bus but lost her other child.

We are settled in Delhi now. With her sacrifice and blessings, I am doing well in life. My mother doesn’t talk much.

Listen Shehla Rashid, I am not a storyteller. Neither are you some dear to me with whom I wanted to share what I never did till today.

I just want you to know one thing. Whenever my mother listens to the Azadi slogans or Kashmiriyat or La ilah illillaah on TV in Kashmir or Delhi, she sees her child bleeding to death. She cries in other room. Thinking about her child. Who was snatched away from him by the slogans of Azadi, Pakistan and La ilaah illillaah.

Your slogans and defence of Azadi lovers remind my mother of her child who was brutally murdered by you, your fathers and Islamists.

Thus, you are my enemy. Whenever someone tries to harm you or slaps you or beats you or threatens you, I feel he is standing with me for my lost sibling who I never saw. Whenever someone silences the voices of Azadi, hum le ke rahenge azadi, hum kya chahte azadi etc whether Army in Kashmir or people like ABVP or Agniveer in Delhi, we feel as if someone is coming to rescue us and our lost baby.

I find you personally responsible for tears of blood my mother shed all these years. You and millions of Azadi seeker Islamist swines are the reason she has never smiled since 19th January 1989. She is the victim. You are the attackers. Game will begin now.

You Jihadis will be slapped, beaten up and destroyed wherever you are. Those whom army can’t shoot, will be taken care of by us. You cry victim. We will beat you more. For our mother’s blood. For her tears. For her lost child. For her lost smile.

For all those hundreds of mothers whom you raped. For all mothers whom you abducted and snatched away from their children forever. Mothers who are still missing from the valley. Mothers whose breasts were cut off with the slogans of Allahu Akbar. Mothers whose private parts were mutilated with slogans of Islam Zindabad. Mothers whose thighs were tattooed with Islam Zindabad. Mothers whom you disrobed. Mothers whom you forced to parade naked in front of their children.

Whatever has happened to you is just a trailer. You cry that a few stones hit you and gave you scratches. Know that my mother almost bled to death. My mother saw her child bleed to death. Yours is a drama. Hers was real.

We swear to the dignity of all those mothers. All rapist Jihadi Kashmiri Islamists will be silenced by all means. Kashmir is not yours. Forget about it. Forever.

– From a real Kashmiri and son of Mother India

PS : The post has been edited for few typos. This Brother (name changed) contacted Agniveer with following message:

Vashi Bhai, my salutes to Agniveer! Sanjeev Bhai and you are doing greatest service to the nation. I am sharing this letter with you so that you can publish it. I want you to post it for me. I know not many have guts to do it. But you are different. I hope you will do it. Always with you. Thank you in advance. And count me in for service of Bharat Mata.

http://agniveer.com/open-letter-shehla-rashid-kashmiri-hindu/

The Butcher of Kashmir - Yasin Malik.

Yasin Malik BBC Hard Talk Interview

Yasin Malik BBC Hard Talk Interview
Yasin Malik admitting to the killing of Indian Air Force Officers and others in an interview with Tim Sebastian of BBC on Hard Talk. The sympathizers of Yasin Malik had ensured that the video goes missing from You Tube and BBC archives. But they forgot that crime does not hide for long

Brave Girl Shabroza

Roots in Kashmir salutes the brave girl Shabroza from Badgam for the immense courage displayed by her by raising the Indian flag at her house roof top in Badgam district, in the process defying the writ of separatists and their masters based out of Pakistan and showing way to many Kashmiris who are patriotic and Indian but don't have the courage to express it due to the threat of violence and terrorism.

Addressing a gathering of Roots in Kashmir members, Ashish Zutshi, senior member, Roots in Kashmir said "No one understands the price one has to pay to be nationalistic in Kashmir better than Kashmiri Pandits and hence the Roots in Kashmir is worried about the safety and security of this young Kashmiri girl."

At the meeting it was unanimously agreed by all members present that the group will provide all possible support to Shabroza including the completion of her education outside the valley in case she feels threatened or finds it difficult to pursue her studies in the valley.

Aroop Rayu of Roots in Kashmir said "as a fellow Kashmiri girl, I assure Shabroza that all the girls and all the members of Roots in Kashmir are with her"

A Mind Of Winter - Twenty-five years into exile, a Pandit selects memory props to remind him like shrapnel pain of the day his family looked its last upon Kashmir Valley

 

National / Essays MAGAZINE | JAN 26, 2015 Memory sharper The author is the boy with the toy gun ESSAY A Mind Of Winter Twenty-five years into exile, a Pandit selects memory props to remind him like shrapnel pain of the day his family looked its last upon Kashmir Valley RAHUL PANDITA I often think of a man I saw dead 30 years ago in Srinagar on the road outside the Silk Factory. The man had died after being hit by a truck; he lay face down, and the pieces of meat he was carrying in a newspaper sheet lay strewn all over him. The bus from which I saw him stopped for a moment and I remember trying to read the crumpled and stained newspaper. I wanted to read the printed matter so that it could serve as a prop to remember the dead man. I always needed a prop to remember things by. Six years after I saw that dead man, I was in a taxi, huddled with my parents, who like every Kashmiri Pandit at that time were desperate to see the light on the other end of the Jawahar tunnel. While crossing south Kashmir, we came across a man pushing a wheelbarrow on the road; he looked at us in disgust, pumped his fist in the air, and shouted: “Maryu, Batav, maryu! (Die, you Pandits, die!).” The man’s  wheelbarrow and his raised fist are among the many props reminding me of my exile. Anniversaries are also like props. January 19 this year, for example, will mark 25 years of our exodus from the Kashmir Valley. I don’t know whether this date means something to my father. I don’t think he will even remember it. His day will be the same: he will wake up, worry about what we will cook for lunch, ask me with remarkable sangfroid if I have plans to get married, recite mantras in front of a picture of our ancestral goddess. Later, he will ring up the grocer to order something, beginning with: “Hello, Mintuji, mein Uncle bol raha hun!” and then place his order. Earlier, I’d find it funny, since I thought Mintu must be dealing with 50 uncles like Father. But then I paid attention and realised Mintu never asks: “Which uncle?” The system worked perfectly for Father, the groceries always got delivered on time. That is how he operated back home in Kashmir; that is how it works for him in Gurgaon. But I know Father misses home. We never talk about it. Not even when he is watching DD Kashmir, when he is humming along with Tibet Bakal singing a Krishan Joo Razdan Leela, an ode to Shiva. Father has never returned to Kashmir since April 4, 1990. I don’t think he wants to. The Kashmir he left 25 years ago has changed. And he remembers every moment of the time that change occurred. So January 19, in his mind, is no different from all those days of fear and trauma in 1989-90. As Robert Frank writes in La memoire des Francais, “That which is sadly memorable is not co-memorable.” Somehow, in my head—and perhaps that is the way it is with every son and daughter—Father has always been ‘old’. But how old was he when we left home? He was 44. Forty-four! At that age, like thousands of other Kashmiri Pandit parents, he had to provide for the family in so uncertain times. At that age, he lost everything he had so lovingly built along with my mother: a home, its red-cemented corridor, its lawn, its kitchen garden, its windows with stained glass, its wardrobes, its false ceiling, its book-shelves. Everything my parents earned for years was diligently put into our home. And, suddenly, one day, your neighbours, your colleagues, your friends, your grocer and your milkman decide that you cannot live in a home that you built with your sweat and blood. They also decide that it is time for you to leave not only your home, but also the land where your ancestors lived for thousands of years. So they burst out on the streets on the night of January 19, 1990, and shout on loudspeakers from the mosques all over the Valley that they want Kashmir to become Pakistan, where only Pandit women (and no men) will be allowed. Oh, that night! How can I forget it! How can any Kashmiri Pandit forget it! But I am still searching for more and more props to remember that night. I want it to be like shrapnel pain. Here is one prop I acquired recently: on that night Doordarshan was playing a V. Shantaram film, Teen Batti, Chaar Raasta. Also, that night, along with frenzied cries for our annihilation, they played a song used in Afghanistan to inspire the anti-Soviet militia: Khoon-e-shahidan rang laaya, fatah ka parcham lehraya, jaago jaago subah hui (The blood of the martyrs has come true, the flag of victory has been unfurled, wake up, wake up, he dawn has appeared). It is now available on YouTube and, sometimes, when a few friends get silly drunk, we play it on and laugh as we imitate the singer’s nasal drone. This is what I believe Michael Taussig called the “normality of the abnormal” inNervous System, when he referred to the notion of “despair and macabre humour”. But I cannot play the song when Father is around. I cannot play it to a man who spent that entire night standing at his window, offering the solace of his presence to an old woman who was alone in the neighbouring house, as mobs outside were calling for the death of Pandits. I cannot play it to a woman, then a child, whose mouth was stuffed with Parle-G biscuits by her mother to prevent her from crying and attracting the attention of the mob outside her home. I cannot play it to the widow of Naveen Sapru, who at the age of 37 was waylaid by a mob outside a mosque and then shot. “Bus, be moodus wanye (Okay, I have died now),” he told his murderers, after which he was shot again and silenced forever. Naveen was on his way to collect his coat from a tailor. But he was killed before that. Two years ago, while in the US, I bought a coat from Macy’s and it reminded me of him. Did anyone collect his coat later? Twenty-five years is a long time. For a refugee, it indicates a sense of permanent exile. In exile, most of us are doing well for ourselves. But beneath our tiepins, our PowerPoint presentations, our single malts, our Harvard ‘five-foot shelf’ classics, we suffer from an acute sense of homelessness. In exile, our achievements are like pieces of meat over that man’s dead body. In exile, we are like Orwell’s Unhappy Bella, waiting for unknown fishermen to sing the sad song of our betrayal. We wait for the spring. But on January 19, twenty-five years later, the exile is winter. A mind of winter, as Wallace Stevens would have preferred to call it. (Rahul Pandita is the author of Our Moon Has Blood Clots (2013), a memoir of exile from Kashmir.) Click here to see the article in its standard web format

 

 

The longest night - Akshay Ambardar

“And this is the pain & glory, I said,

 That after bidding Africa goodbye,

                                we still cannot leave her behind, said I” — Femi Osofisan

The words belong to a Nigerian writer, Femi Osofisan. Femi, am sure is unknown to most people reading this post. I choose his words today to symbolize the state of Kashmir Pandits like his popularity in India – negligent & negligible.  He in my head represents 8 Lakh Femi Osofisan(s) in the largest republic of the world. Femi, even with hindsight couldn’t have used better prose to describe the state of a community which is pushing itself to bear the 25th year of exile and lives in nostalgic pain each day thinking of their homes in Kashmir . 25th year - quarter of a century, sum of two decades and importantly end of one generation in a family.

19th January, 1990 was the night of horror for a community which had learned to survive subjugation, political un-touch-ability & religious intolerance. A night where Kashmiri Hindu women , who by the way were used to forgoing “bindi” on Fridays to avoid getting abused and cussed, were told on mosque mounted loudspeakers, that “they” are desired in Kashmir but without their men. A night they were shouted at, from loudspeakers to be part of Kashmir where religion other than the one would be basis of “right to live”.

It is difficult to relive horror. More difficult to recollect it. Most difficult to keep narrating it to people at large. Recollection is vital armor of  exilees to keep race memory going. Every Kashmiri Pandit who lived to re-tell that night, lives in a perpetual paradox – Paradox of exile.

“That even when we know her love has waned

  we can never stop her odors clinging on”

Kahsmiri Pandits could have fled, left en-mass or in lots since the time they were reduced to 11 families in kashmir in 1400 AD, yet majority of them chose to stay in land of their Gods and ancestors, resisting the humiliation of being humiliated for being a) Indian b) Indian flag saluting minority, in Kashmir. Ironic in same Kashmir Nehru and Gandhi both saw hope against 2 state theory of Jinnah. Who let this minority community down is a question that can be asked over and over again with no answers , for secularism demands not to name those who did it for reasons that were not political but religious – Islamfication of Kashmir. “Pakistan se rishta kya, ya Ilaha, Illallah” (Whats kashmir’s relation with Pakistan? Allah is great) “Yaha kya chalega , Nizame-mustafa“( what shall rule in Kashmir, reign of Islam ) – 2 most popular slogans shouted by kashmiris.

19th Jan, 1990 has been etched in my memory for lack of comprehension mixed with certain understanding that death seemed certain. As a 6 year old you do not understand death but you recognize fear ridden frozen faces. A nearby CRPF camp was glitter of hope and instructions were to run straight to it if the prowling mob chanting “Hum kya chahte Azadi” and anti KP slogans break in. My grand parents had realized fanaticism outside the house was too wild to be stopped by main wooden door that was additionally nailed with ply boards. This mind you, was not some remote corner of kashmir, this was heart of main Srinagar city. This personal piece is just one of many such cases that happened. Crowds were assembling in Srinagar , all parts of it. Whispering of crowd was reaching the status of sloganeering. Anti India, pro Pakistan slogans. It was dark and scary. And in all this few houses remained painted in darkness, their occupants huddled together in fear. Calls, desperate calls, to JK Police yielded no results. Unfortunately, then Governor Mr Jaghmohan was in Jammu Raj Bhawan. What was whispering , now ate the night with its loudness. Men , who could, decided to fight, women they prepared for self immolation. And all this in heart of Srinagar city.  KPs waited with anxious patience for the eventuality of the longest night of their lives – death.

The impact of 19th Jan 1990 unfortunately can never be understood by people unfamiliar with 1990 or not having a Kashmiri Pandit in his or her circle. For there were no newspaper stories covering independent India’s biggest and only exodus within country as focus was on liberal left manifested propaganda of India’s brutality. Its just another fact often ignored that pre 1990 Kashmir had neither – AFSPA , encounters, murders or crimes of horrific nature. In the shadow of Auschwitz , a Jew probably shall always cry. 19th Jan , 1990, shall do same to a Kashmiri Pandit , who saw to live and retell.

It was not the end but start of a process that lead to humiliation of being called refugees and migrants in own land, worse in own state. Life across Pir Panjal consumed elders by heat, youngsters to snake bites. While Pandits live on to remember another year of exile, 25 years on Kashmiri Pandit tourists are in much demand in Kashmir by locals who hounded them out. Imagine a yazdi tourist shown Mosul by a Iranian guide 30 years later? 

https://exiliccogitations.wordpress.com/2015/01/17/the-longest-night/

A Tourist in my Own House

I looked at my suitcase again, wondering if I had missed something. I had the best of clothes and cardigans packed. My new jacket was placed next to the suitcase. “kyoho soori kurtha pack, Ini kehn travak (did you pack everything. Don’t leave anything important behind” was the voice of my Uncle. “What time is your friend coming, are you sure that he will pick you up” he was asking again. I just replied “yes” and picked up my Kangri, placed it under my pheran and went to my grandmother asking for breakfast. With the flight at 3 pm, I still had ample time. “Shraan kurtha. Muth hu gazzi ne kehan (did you have your bath. Don’t go like a dirty mad man)” asked my grandmother. I said first breakfast then everything else. She smiled, and served me some hot rice bread and kehwa, the traditional non milky Kashmiri tea.

I lived in a joint family along with my uncle and cousins in a fairly large independent house, which had been constructed recently. My uncle had one son and two daughters and I had a younger sister. The Kashmiri joint family roots were very strong and it was practically impossible for an outsider to figure out who is a cousin and who is not. I used to call my Uncle “Papa” and my father Kakaji, his pet name. Infact it was quite common for Kashmiris to call their parents with their pet names. One of my cousin’s still calls his mother, aunty, because that’s what all his cousins call her.

It was the month of December, and my exams had just gotten over and new classes were going to start after a few weeks. I was 15 years old and with us stepping into the 10^th standard, the senior most class in our school, I was eagerly awaiting to go back to school to be treated with awe and respect by my juniors.

In school, we were a bunch of unique friends, a very unusual combination in Kashmir of those days. It was a combination of a Pandit, Muslim, Sikh and a Punjabi. I was a Kashmiri Pandit, supposed to be studious, serious and intelligent. I was all except for serious and studious. Mohinder was a Sikh, Iqbal a Muslim and Gauravjit a Punjabi. I, Iqbal and Gaurav studied in the same section and Mohinder in a different one, but still we were inseparable. We went to same teacher for tuitions, flirted with same girls, and skipped school together.

We also had a brush with death together. It was the September of 89 and we all friends were walking on Residency Road, when suddenly we heard an explosion and before we could react, we see Mohinder lying on road with blood all across. Luckily timely medical help saved his life. The other time we all were coming back from a swim and wanted to have some coffee. We decided to go to India Coffee House (ICH), a cheap but decent place. The ICH was on the first floor. The moment we put our foot on the first step, a bomb exploded on the first floor and we all had a lucky escape. All these incidents infact brought us more closer and in spite of being an act of Islamic terrorism, did not evoke any hatred towards the majority community, the Muslims of Kashmir.

“Zang phutravey (will break your legs), if you even think of going anywhere in your vacations”, my father had warned me. 10th standard exams were always taken very seriously in Pandit homes. They were the first board exams and more than the exams, I think it was an opportunity for Pandit families to show off. Pandits in Kashmir were an educated community with literacy rate at 100%. Almost all Pandits were into service, middle class and I think the only thing they could show off was the education and the marks. Thus, education was placed above anything else. Infact Pandit, means a learned person and Hindus of Kashmir have been addressed Kashmiri Pandits for many centuries now. 10th or Matric as it was known was seen as the first step towards getting a good job.

So with no chance of any vacation, I was wondering what to do as the tuitions still had some time to start. “Manu, phone chui” I heard my aunty calling. It was Iqbal on the other side. “Bijapur Chalega”, asked Iqbal. Iqbal prefered to talk in urdu than in Kashmiri. “che shui kaid dalmit (you have lost your brains)”, I said. “Sunn to saley” and he started talking. Suddenly it all made sense and but then who was going to make Hitler at home understand. Iqbals’s sister was in Bijapur and the plan was very simple, to leave in the next 2-3 days, spend a few days in Delhi and Bijapur and be back in a fortnight and join the first batch of tuitions.

I had to work on a plan. My father was in no way going to agree. No logic would work on him. He behaves like Salman Khan “ek baar mene commitment de di, to mein khud ki bhi nahi sunta”. The only person who could make it possible was my Uncle. His word in the family was final and even Salman Khan and the Hitler had to listen to him.

My uncle was a reasonable man and rarely used to lose his cool. But if he did, no one on this planet could save you. Although he had thrashed me only once, that thrashing was enough for my life time. It was not thrashing, it was a third degree torture. Influenced by a cinema ad in my 7th grade, I had purchased “chewing tobacco” and he had caught me with that. He took me into a room, removed my trouser and smeared my sensitive parts with red chilly powder. I had never seen him so angry and after that punishment I even today refuse to look at the chewing tobacco. But I knew, if I have to go for the vacation, there is only one person on this planet that can make it possible and that man was my Uncle.

It was a Sunday; he was out in the garden, having a smoke. Gathering all my courage, I went to join him in the garden. I knew he will raise the topic of my tuitions. And he did the same. “When are your tuitions starting? Who are going for math, which have you decided for Science. Go to Durganath for Science, he is good and a friend of my mine. He will take care of you”. I diligently answered all his questions and I said I have a request to make. He looked at me for a moment, and I don’t know why, I still believe that he knew what was in my mind. I cleared my throat and started “the tuitions are not going to start for the next 20 days. And it is going to be hard work with no vacations for the next three years, till I complete my 12th. Iqbal is going to Bijapur for 15 days to meet his sister and he wanted me to accompany him. He will not be alone; his mother and younger brother are also going with him. He wanted me to join him, as he says that this is going to be the last and only vacation, for the next 3 years. Please, can I join him?

Papa, my uncle looked at me for a long time, and then suddenly smiled and said when do you guys want to leave. For a moment, I could not understand what he was asking. He again repeated “kar chuv nerun (when do you guys want to leave” and I said in next 2-3 days. He said ok, inform Iqbal you are coming and I will also call Kaul sahab of Indian Airlines to ensure that you get confirmed tickets as all flights are going full.

I called Iqbal to give him the good news. He informed me that even Mohinder is coming along. He had also spoken to Gaurav, but then Gaurav had to attend the marriage of his cousin and hence could not come. I immediately took out my cycle, and started riding towards Iqbal’s house. It was a good 10 km distance from my house. We sat and planned the whole trip. Next day we met at Indian Airlines Office to book our tickets. The rush was unprecedented with all flights full. We got a waiting list of 685 (yes it was 685 as waiting list number for a flight). Luckily my Uncle had made the call, and Kaul sahab, immediately converted the waiting status to ‘confirmed.’

Finally d-day came; it was 8th of December, 2009. The flight was to depart at 3.00 pm but I was up by 6.30 am. It was a cold winter morning but then my excitement was good enough warmer than any of the best woolens available. My grandmother gave me my breakfast, rice bread and a big mug of kehwa. I rechecked my bag again and again. I had packed best of my clothes, new tooth brush, cologne that was gifted by my cousin in US last year and I had not used it, looking for an opportune moment.

As my house was on the way to airport, Iqbal had promised to pick me up. He arrived around 12.30, and my father, uncle, cousins, sister and grandmother came to see us off. Not in my wildest imagination, did I know that this was the last time I was seeing my house.

We had moved to Srinagar few years back from Lucknow. After my mother’s demise in an accident, my uncle and my grandmother persuaded my father to move to Srinagar so that me and my sister who were small could be taken care of. My father was to be promoted that year but family situation forced him to give up the promotion and take a posting in Srinagar.

As the move was planned to be permanent, we sold our house in Lucknow, liquidated all investments and built a large big house along with Uncle in Srinagar. Who had known that we would be homeless in just 3 years?

At the airport Mohinder joined us and we reached Delhi well in time. My dad’s sister and her husband had come to pick me and Mohinder up, while Iqbal, his mother and brother were staying at Guest House in Chandni Chowk.

Next day we three friends met at Connaught Place, enjoying our just recently confirmed status as grown-ups. We ogled at girls, were mesmerized by the bright trendy clothes in an air-conditioned underground market, known as Palika Babzar, a must visit for all tourist to Delhi in those days

In about two days we left for our final destination Bijapur, travelling by train to Sholapur and then by bus to Bijapur. We had a great time at Bijapur, and even visited the famous the Gol Ghumbuz .

After spending a week at Bijapur, it was time to return back. We returned back to Delhi and were supposed to take a flight 2 days later to Srinagar. But then something unexpected happened. Beginning of the 1989, Kashmir had seen sporadic acts of terrorism. There were bomb blasts, although most of them had not done much damage, some targeted killings, but then no one had even thought the things will turn worse in just few months. Suddenly there had been an increase in bomb blasts and cross fires in Srinagar. Infact just the previous day there were 12 bomb blasts in a single day and many Kashmiri Pandits in last few days had been killed as part of targeted killing. My aunt was very clear that it is not safe to travel back now and my ticket had already been converted to open ticket. Mohinder and Iqbal was also advised the same. Mohinder stayed with us, while Iqbal and his family again went back to the hotel at Chandni chowk.

Days turned into weeks and there was no sign of things improving in the valley. Infact they were turning worse. My dad’s brother-in-law who was a public prosecutor had to represent state against Shabhir Shah, a known terrorist, who had been arrested few days back. To ensure that he does not object to bail hearing, some terrorists had paid a visit to my uncle’s house, put a gun on the head of my 6 year old cousin, his only child and warned my uncle, that his objecting to bail application will result in more dreadful consequences. The very same night my uncle moved his entire family to Delhi and he moved to an unknown location. Next day after completing his duty, he quietly fled in a pre-arranged car to Jammu to join his family.

It still did not occur to us that days of the original inhabitants, the aborigines of Kashmir are almost over in the land of their fore fathers. Bad news just started flowing in. Few more Pandits had been tortured and killed in the most barbaric ways. My uncle called to inform my aunt that terrorists had visited our house and other Pandits houses in the neighborhood, and were insisting that they buy guns including AK-47 and pistols to join the jihad against India. Pandits had resisted and complained to the local Muslim leaders. While the leaders had assured them the Pandits will not have further visits, they did not seem convincing.

Next day my advocate Uncle and his family moved to Delhi as they wanted to move far from the state of Jammu & Kashmir, as there were intelligence reports that his family may be attacked in Jammu. Now my Aunt’s 3 bedrooms had 8 family members living there. No one even at this stage knew that this number would continue growing in the coming weeks.

Bad news was becoming a habit. In few days, another bad news came. My Uncle who had a restaurant on Residency Road had been attacked and burnt to ashes. Infact the restaurant was located in an area where almost all establishments were either owned or run by Kashmiri Pandits or Hindus and it was clear that this act of arson was well planned and the area deliberately chosen.

Things were turning from bad to worse in the valley. Anarchy was replacing governance and terrorist were ruling the roost. Posters had started appearing on houses of Kashmiri Pandits. Posters threatened the Kafirs with dire consequences. Many notable Pandit personalities like Tika Lal Taploo, Justice Neelkant Ganju had been killed. Then came the most heart chilling and fearing poster. The poster read “We want Kashmir without Pandit men but with Pandit Women”. Along with that came news of many Pandit women being kidnapped and raped by JKLF of Yasin Mallik. An Indian family can face and suffer any hardship, including the threat to life. But what it cannot bear is the threat to the dignity of its women folk. While many Muslims did condemn the posters and the act, the condemnations seemed more political in nature than sincere. While Pandits were still wondering what to do with this threat, the situation in valley was going out of control.

The mosques were broadcasting non-stop threats to Kafirs (infidels). Loudspeakers were on full volume, asking Muslims to join the jihad, kill the Kafirs and take their property and women as booty of Jihad. Pandit houses were attacked with stones, petrol bombs and gun fire.

There were protest marches every day and Pandits and Sikhs were forced to join these anti-India marches against their wishes. Pandits were forced to be in the first row of protestors so that in case of firing by the security forces, Pandits are the casualties. Pandits & Sikhs were used as human shields.

News was flowing out in bits and pieces. Communications lines like letters, telegrams were almost inaccessible and telephone lines functioning was erratic.

On 19th morning, my uncle called my aunt and said that things are going out of control; two of our neighbours, one Pandit and another Sikh have been killed by terrorist in an attack at their homes. Our muslim neighbors have advised us to move out of the valley as soon as possible. But getting out was not easy as the government had placed the entire state under curfew and not a single transport was available.

Cars in those days were a luxury and very few families had it. Meanwhile my Maasi (mother’s sister) who lived in down town had decided that moving the girls was a priority and had to be done the same day. The family had a car and driver was instructed to be on stand-by. She then called my uncle at Srinagar and told him that they have arranged a curfew pass and the driver will pick-up the girls at 3.00 pm. My other uncle who was an army contractor had managed another pass and sent his car to pick my other girl cousins from their homes. It was agreed that all girls will assemble at my maasi’s house and two cars will leave the same day with all girls to Jammu, at midnight. All girls’ cousins, except for one with one small incident of stone throwing assembled safely at my maasi’s house. It was 6. 00 pm and it was decided that they will leave at 9.00 pm non-stop to Jammu. One car was to be driven by my cousin and other by the driver.

At 9.00 both cars were loaded with goods, the drivers instructed on the route to be taken and tea and food packed. Total number of passengers were sixteen, 14 girls and 2 male drivers Instructions were clear; the journey to Jammu has to be non-stop. Nonstop driving through narrow, curvaceous road for minimum 8 hours. Then something unexpected happen, one of the cars, an ambassador broke down. It just refused to start. The situation with it brought in more complex decisions, decisions which could scar your relations, your sub conscious and capabilities of making decisions all your life. Someone recommended we move ahead that the elder girls need to leave first, some others said that at least one girl from each family goes. Some said let’s mix the age because it will not be easy to travel next day with little girls.

While in traditional Indian families, women do not generally take decisions, my maasi by virtue of being the eldest daughter-in-law, had more say than other women in the family. She stepped in saying that all will go. And all will go tonight. With the situation in the valley being unpredictable, anything could happen. And a house with so many women, it surely will be the most targeted house next day. So all elder girls were made to move in the car and sit tightly. In the front seat, three girls sat and in the rear seat, five sat. Then the smaller girls were to sit on laps of these elder girls. Total girls that sat in front seat were 5 and 9 were forced to fit in the rear seat. Even a pack of sardines as a phrase can’t describe the passengers of the car.

My cousin was nominated as the driver. Everyone was emotional, the ladies cried, the India men who think they are above all emotions cried more. And then the car left. It traveled non-stop to Jammu with just one stop of five minutes at Ramban for the girls to freshen up. I still don’t know and still can’t figure out that how fifteen people fitted in one car. But that is fact that can’t be denied.

Meanwhile things at the valley were turning dangerous. The state government had resigned; Jagmohan had to be recalled as the Governor of state. He was a successful administrator with an impeccable record and a successful stint as governor in Jammu Kashmir earlier.

On 20th January around few lakh people gathered from various parts of Kashmir and decided to march towards the central business district of Srinagar. The terrorist and Pakistani insurgents had a clear agenda and using the innocent people as shield they wanted to attack All India Radio, Cental Post Office and Doordarshan. Their plan was to take over these centers and declare independence. This would have been a great symbolic victory.

Jagmohan was a no nonsense administrator. His quick action prevented what otherwise would have been the biggest shame on our nation. Swift action from what was an ineffective government just few days back shocked the terrorist and they retaliated by attacking security forces at many places. And in the cross fire many protestors, some innocent, some guilty died. Around 50 protestors died in the cross fire on that day.

The militants were so sure of the success of their plan that the failure of the same made them act like they were possessed by the devil. Hindu homes were attacked, many burnt, and many Pandits were dragged from their homes and killed.

The fear psychosis gripped Kashmiri Pandits. Lack of communication made things worse. On the night of 20th Jan more than 50% of the valley’s Hindu and Sikh population just left the valley. They traveled on any form of transport that they could lay their hands on, carrying just necessities and some clothes. Even then no one believed they will never be going back home. Every one believed that once things improve and the government is in control of situations they will be back.

My father, my uncle, aunt and grandmother also fled the same night. Just carrying a suitcase my father reached Jammu and then he along with my sister and my paternal cousins, my grandmother traveled to Delhi. Suddenly the 3 bedroom house in Delhi was accommodating eighteen members of the family.

Many Kashmiri Hindus were not as lucky as us. For many this was the first visit they had ever done outside Kashmir valley. With no relatives or friends outside Kashmir, they were left to find a shelter for themselves. Camps were set up by Jagmohan to accommodate these refugees in their own country. NGO and Hindu organizations stepped in to help in the biggest migration post partition.

The deaths were innumerable. Many died of snake bites, heat, lack of sanitation, infections and of diseases, which most of us had never heard of. Some estimates put the death toll to more than 50,000.

Slowly my aunt’s house in Delhi had 30 people living in. Most people still hoped and believed that things will improve in valley and all will soon be back in their homes. But the inflow of refugees was telling different things. More horror stories were coming in. Hindus were now being openly targeted and many well known and unknown names had been brutally killed. Sarla Bhat a nurse in a prestigious hospital was raped and then cut into pieces alive with a saw by the terrorist leader Yasin Mallik. Satish Tickoo was killed in the heart of the city in front of his entire family by his own neighbours.

Meanwhile my father had managed to get a transfer to Chandigarh. By end of April, I along with my sister and grandmother moved to Chandigarh. My father was sure that even if things improve in Kashmir, he is not going back. He did not have any faith on majority community of the state and he was not willing to repeat his mistake twice.

For the first few days we stayed at Yatri Niwas, meanwhile my father searched for a house. Finally a house was located and thankfully it was quite close to one of our old family friends who had settled in Chandigarh long time ago.

With all belongings left in Kashmir, the house acted more as a Shelter of four walls than home. Our family friends provided us with beddings and few utensils. My poor grandmother in an age where she should have been resting was forced to work in the kitchen again. For many months we slept on floors with no beds or furniture in the house. Summer had started; the temperature had started crossing 40 C. My grandmother, who had spent all her life in valley where people had seen fans just in movies, was now hoping that the same fan will help her survive summer. While she never complained, she started keeping unwell. Her whole body had rashes and she seemed de-hydrated. My father, who had little savings to bank on, borrowed some money from his colleagues and purchased a cooler. While a cooler was surely no replacement for the wonderful climate of Kashmir, it did help.

New sessions were starting; my father was now focused on getting mine and my sister’s education back on track. And the fool in me still believed that same is not necessary as we will be soon going back to Kashmir and I will be joining my old school. Two slaps from my father made me see things his way.

Slowly and steadily, my father rebuilt the entire home. We got beds, TV, refrigerator, gas connection. It took us few years to be a fully functional home. The unexpected migration brought miseries to three generations at once. The senior citizens suffered the most physically and mentally. At an age when they should have been resting and enjoying the services of their children, they were coping with the brutalities of nature. They were now experiencing heat, which they believed only, existed in a baker’s oven. Most of them could speak only Kashmiri and with the community now scattered into pieces they had no one to talk to, no one of their age they could share their happiness, pain with. Many died ill, bed ridden, with broken hearts and pain which they never shared but their eyes clearly expressed.

The second generation to suffer was our parents. Most of them had invested their savings in Kashmir and spend half of their life building their homes. And now when it was the time to start enjoying the fruits of their labour, they were forced to restart their lives again, that too from scratch along with responsibilities they had not faced when they started their career. Now they had children, wife and retired parents to take care of.

The third generation of was our generation. We were neither children nor adults. We were a generation who was still dreaming and had started working to make those dreams come true. And suddenly we see that the entire karma bhoomi, the conditions, the battle field has changed over night. Yes, I agree these conditions trained us to handle crisis better in life, made us strong, but then I am sure no tree can grow really strong away from its roots; The Roots in Kashmir.

For years I longed to go back to Kashmir, I wanted to meet Iqbal, see my house, meet my neigbours, visit Mata Kheer Bhawani and do endless things. Finally my grandmother’s body could not handle the summer of Indian plains anymore and in the year 2000, she died a painful death, with rashes and boils all over her body. How much I wanted to take her ashes to Kashmir and immerse them in river Vitasta, but could not. And I don’t think I will be able to forgive myself for that.

I got married in 2003 and my job had taken me to a city in South India. And in Oct 2004, I and my wife decided to visit Kashmir. She along with her parents had migrated in January, 1990 and had not traveled back after that.

My travel agent booked our tickets. On d-day, we landed in Srinagar. My father-in-law’s friend, Bhan sahib, who had recently been transferred back to Srinagar, came to the airport to receive us. He straight away took us to his house where he lived on rent. He was now a tenant in the same house which he had owned pre-migration and was forced to sell it to manage the financial crisis post migration.

The journey from the airport to my father-in-law’s friend’s house was nostalgic. This was the same route I had taken 15 years back to go on a vacation. It took me 15 years to take the same route back. Tears started flowing from eyes. It was an outburst of emotion which I could not handle and neither wanted to handle. My wife and Bhan Sahib understood and did not try to stop me. The let the pent up emotions come out.

Next day, I woke up early in the morning and thanked God that there is no call for strike or protest. I wanted to see the house. Iqbal who was living in Srinagar, had promised to take me there. He arrived at 9.am. After customary wishes with Bhan Sahab and my wife, he drove us to my house in his car.

15 years is a lot of time, things had changed. There was a new Rambagh bridge, many old buildings had vanished. The route seemed right but not the surroundings. A couplet from the movie Umrao Jaan was ringing in my ear “ye kis makaam par hayaat muz ko leke aa gaee, naa bas khushee pe hain jahaa, naa gam pe ikhtaiyaar hai’ (to what resting place has life brought me to, where I have neither command over joy, nor power over my sorrow?)

Finally I reached my house and raised my hand to ring the bell, a thought came to my mind “Who would believe I left my home as a traveler and returned back as a tourist”

 

The Garden of Solitude by Siddhartha Gigoo - An Extract

 To order your copy write to utpalpublications@gmail.com or visit http://utpalpublications.blogspot.com/2011/01/new-release-garden-of-solitude-by.html

Book:                The Garden Of Solitude
Author:              Siddhartha Gigoo
ISBN:               978-81-291-1718-2
Binding:            Paperback
Publisher:          Rupa & Co.
Pages:              260
Language:         English
Price:                195

‘Life teaches us that there is beauty in ugliness,’ Sridar said. 

Then Pamposh said something that Sridar was not prepared for. 

‘Every day I lead the life of a centipede. I crawl. I lick. I hide. I sting. I wake up to the fumes of kerosene in the morning and the sting of speeding ants, feeding ravenously on the sugar spilled on the floor of the tent. It feels as if I have never had a morsel of rice for ages. I wake up hungry and go to bed hungry. I lead the life of a centipede, I crawl. All around the camp, there is stench of human excrement and waste. People wake up in the morning, hungry and muddled. The awakenings are pallid. The water in the water tanker smells foul, and children lie whole day in their own vomit. The quivering smile on my mother’s face is false. I want to peel off that false smile from her face, so that she is beautiful once again. Father spends most of the time playing cards with the other migrants near the highway tea shop. I am a mute spectator to the horrors of the life inside my tent. The air inside is squalid. My grandfather barely speaks. He lost his voice while leaving the village. A young man had shown him a gun as he was returning from a butcher’s shop. He still thinks that the young man is hiding around a corner, with a gun, waiting to scare him. He stopped talking after we crossed the Banihal tunnel. I saw him look sadly at the fading mountains for long, till they disappeared completely, one by one, into his frozen dreams. And he swallowed his fright. Today I cannot hear what he says. His words do not come out of his mouth. When we are asleep, we cannot even stretch our arms and legs. There are no hangers to hang our clothes on. No cupboards to keep our personal belongings in. We have no portraits of our gods and goddesses. No pictures of our ancestors. During the day, we hide from the blazing sun. At night we live from one insect bite to another. Centipedes, millipedes and spiders are our companions. We must learn how to live with them.  

‘My grandmother does not recognise the insects. She confuses a lizard for a plastic toy paralysed on the wall. Her gaze is fixed at the crucified lizard. For hours and hours, she just gazes endlessly into a dark nothingness! It is a vacant gaze into a world of oblivion and amnesia. Petrified with a sense of desolation, she does not even feel the presence of hundreds of mosquitoes circling her head constantly, while she stares into blank space. I do not know if she is hungry or thirsty. When asleep, she resembles a corpse. She perspires. I wake up to feel her pulse and feel happy that she is still breathing. She would be happy in her death, I pray. My mother and sister wash their clothes and the utensils in a puddle of water outside our tent. They line up for hours in the morning to use the makeshift toilet made of torn shreds of canvas, pieces of cardboard and tin. They await their turn at the filthy and stinking toilets while the loitering men watch the women wait to relieve themselves. Many women prefer to go to the stinking latrines at midnight, away from the stare of men. Even the mosquitoes keep away from the foul smelling latrines. Sometimes, I hear women shriek, fall silent and then cry in solace behind the filthy tank. The nights bring squalor, pallor and heat. We live in fear of the mangled and naked electric wires, crisscrossed around wooden poles that hold the canvas of the tent together. 

‘There is a large rash on my grandfather’s leg, a rash perhaps from the bite of a millipede. The rash has swollen and become a sore now. It oozes puss and resembles a horrifying wound. He scratches the wound with a knife. The festering wound will never heal. I want to burn the wound. The old man looks at my sister change clothes at bedtime. She puts out the light. There are no curtains to hide behind. She sleeps in snatches, sandwiched like an insect between her mother and her grandmother. She dreams nervy dreams of crawling insects in the sun and the shade. The old man wants to touch her clothes hanging from the hook. He smells the clothes of his own granddaughter. And he relishes their putrid smell. We lick the hours that weigh heavy on our half-asleep existence, and tread laboriously into an endless strain of nightmares. The earthen pot in the tent is empty. A discarded plastic bottle used for the toilet contains a few drops of water. I grab it and empty the drops into my parched mouth. My tongue is dry. It can fall off anytime. My grandmother shrieks when she sees the sun. She dreads stepping out of the tent for fear of fainting in the sun. She soils her clothes every day. She can’t even use the bedpan which my mother got for her. From morning to evening she clings to the old box, which she brought along. It sticks inseparably to her chest. I wonder if there are any ornaments or valuables left in it. 

‘Never before have I felt the desire to unknow myself and others. The smell . . . the touch . . . . the breath . . . the sigh! 

‘In an adjacent tent a family of five torture an old man, their foster-grandfather, who lost his mental balance upon seeing his house fade away in a hazy distance. The old man is a burden for his son and daughter-in-law. Another mouth to feed, they feel! He moans at night constantly, and intermittently wakes up to a cold shiver - a nightmare. His son and daughter-in-law taunt him for their amusement. They whisper in his ears that his mother was dead and that she was beaten mercilessly to death. The old man groans and pleads them not to utter the atrocities. Every evening, the torment continues. The maddening laughter of the men ricochets from the tattered canvas tent. Every night the old man cries. He gapes at his son and daughter-in-law and gives them his blessings. 

‘Darkness! Darkness! 

‘I wonder what is moral and what is immoral.’

Sridar stopped breathing for a while as Pamposh described his experience and condition. He picked up Pamposh’s pack of cheap cigarettes. For the first time, he lit a cigarette and took a puff. The smoke danced its way into the air and disappeared in the whirl of the ceiling fan. 

That day Sridar wrote his thoughts in his journal. He wrote about Pamposh and the horrid mine of his consciousness. 

‘What would it be like to be Pamposh?’ Sridar mused. He remembered the last words Pamposh had told him the previous day. ‘I long for a child’s laughter,’ Pamposh had whispered in Sridar’s ear.

Pamposh never spoke of his days in Kashmir. Sridar tried to strike such conversations with him to get to know about Pamposh’s childhood days in his village in Kashmir. Pamposh’s family came from a village in Kashmir. Some students in the camp told Sridar that Pamposh’s family owned an orchard in Kashmir and grew pomegranates, cherries and walnuts. Pamposh’s childhood may have been full of pranks, Sridar thought. Someone mentioned that Pamposh’s family was the only Pandit family in their village, and that they had to run away from their home in the most horrifying of circumstances. No one was able to narrate what had happened. Pamposh had lost one home and he was not in search of another. 

The migrants sat all day long on a rocky mound and discussed the affairs of their community. Days were spent sitting and talking about whatever came to their minds; their plight and their sordid condition. Waiting kept them busy. For many it was a lacerating wait. They had not yet realised that this waiting was not to end. They did not know what they were waiting for. This waiting was not for returning to their homes, not for peace in the Valley, but for a new day to dawn and the new evening to descend. They prayed for a day without a sunstroke and a night without a snakebite.

Pamposh met Sridar every day after school near an anthill. He wished to demolish the anthill with a spade and to render the snakes homeless, so that no snakebites would take place in the camp. 

There was only one question to be asked during the funeral processions that left the camp every day. 

‘Snakebite or sunstroke?’

In the coming days Sridar and Pamposh saw many camp dwellers line up, one by one, in the crematorium. Between them breathed words bereft of any meaning! Words! Silence! .....................................

...................................

The author Siddhartha Gigoo can be reached at siddhartha.gigoo@tcs.com

Under Separatists Threatning, Kashmiri Pandits forced to leave Kashmir valley