Lest we forget-the refugee camps

Some pictures that depict the life of a Kashmiri pandit in a refugee camp.

Scenes from the 3 Decades of Kashmiri Pandits

(3 Decades of Kps)

Year1989-90

Dulari-The Seventy year old Matriarch , was standing in the middle of her Garden. Not a leaf of Grass was left in her frost-bitten-lawn. It was the peak of winter. She gave a cursory look around and strolled slowly , occasionally touching some of the dried up plants . She stopped near the Rose shrub and began to inspect the marigold plant, she has sown last summer just adjacent to it.

‘The marigold plant has dried up completely , so has this The Rose Bush’, She thought gloomily.

‘These winters eat up everything. I really wish the summers come soon.’ She looked upwards to the Post –Noon- Sun . Even though it was a bright shimmering sunny day, Nevertheless, The Sun too seemed to shiver.

After inspecting her Garden, she goes inside. It is around 1 Pm and time for Lunch. She washes her hands and sits in her Extended Kitchen- That basically serves as a Dining area for her family. She calls her daughter-in-law Phoolaji.

‘Hayayi Phoolaji, Battae sharei’ (Phoolaji serve the lunch)

It was the end of the year 1989.The Terrorists had become Blatantly Brazen after the kidnapping of Rubaiyya Syed. The Muslim neighbors too in hushed tones could be heard talking about, soon-to-get ‘Azadi’ . The Blanket curfew in the valley had forced all the family members of Dulari to stay indoors. Her family as well as Kashmiri Pandits neighbors too talked about the prevailing political circumstances that was filled with uncertainty. Yet, No one had imagined that a majority of Kashmiri Pandits will have to flee Kashmir within a month!

The Macabre dance of Death unleashed by the AK-47 laden Terrorists on KP’s had started and were targeting minority Hindus with impunity,

And then came the night of 19 Jan 1990-That changed forever the history of Kashmiri Pandits! The Kp’s were fleeing Kashmir in hordes. Dulari was no exception. She too left Kashmir as did her neighbors and relatives.
Future looks uncertain in Kashmir.

Year-2000-01

Dulari is now surrounded by new neighbors of Pan-India ethnicity in Faridabad . All these years, she has managed to speak her own version of Hindi. She uses a lot of Gesticulations in her conversations with neighbours as Kashmiri words pops up now and then unintentionally from her Mouth.

Dulari along with her Family had shifted to Faridabad in late 1995. Her elder Son has bought a House in Faridabad. It is built on a 100 sq yard plot. The front as well as the back yard is cemented . She is Old but still hard working and has lost no love for Gardening. She has secured and fenced a small patch of land may be 100 sq feet bordering the front side of her house. She religiously looks after that small garden. She has also sown with love the famous ‘Haak’ (collard greens) of Kashmiris in that lawn.

It is the month of March. She is inspecting her kitchen garden. Not much is there. Just one gaze is enough to tell about the health of her green friends. She opens the make-Shift gate of her garden. She squats near the marigold Plant and touches the flower.
‘Dear, If we would have been in Kashmir, I would have surrounded you with many more flowers and attended you better’. She was silently conveying her feelings to the flower.

‘Soon the marigold will be gone and so will be Haakh’ . These Harsh summers don’t spare anything’. She whispered .

‘Alas ! Kashmir was so beautiful!’ she sighed.

She does not have the same vigor, She once had in Kashmir. She feels the heat of the March Sun and slowly walks inside .

‘Hayyeyi Phoolaji Batta shaer’ (serve the lunch) – She orders her.

It has been 10 years now since KPs were forced into exile. Future in Kashmir still holds uncertain for them. She and her family are amongst the Lucky ones, who didn’t had to live in the dirty, unhygienic tattered tents of the refugee Camps-where still many of the community members were languishing .

Year-2018-19

Phoolaji-Her Daughter-in-law has become the new Matriarch since Dularis Death 12 years back.They now live in an apartment in Mumbai. After the death of her Mother-in-law; Phoolaji too has developed some love for Gardening.

In the balcony of her Flat, she has sown some saplings of Marigold as well as ‘Tulasi’ (Basil). Whenever, she waters or de-weeds the plants, The face of Dulari flashes in front of her mind. By planting and looking after the potted-Plants, she gets a strange sense of satisfaction. It is as if the soul of Dulari is watching her and is bestowing her with blessings.

She is standing in her Balcony. The Black clouds are moving fast as if they are on a mission! Needless to say, The infamous monsoons of the Mumbai have already arrived . Now and then the sky is roaring and it seems , it is going to pour too. To save the plants from being flooded by the downpours; Phoolaji shifts the pots to that area of the balcony, where they will be safe and Dry.

As soon as she had shifted the pots to a safer Dry place, The rains start.

‘Madamji, please come inside. The lunch is ready.’ Her maid shouts from the Kitchen.

She walks slowly towards the Dining area of her Flat and sits on the dining chair. She is served food by her maid. Today her maid has made ‘Haakh’. She is about to eat, when the familiar thought crosses her mind, yet once again.

‘The taste of Haakh was divine at Kashmir ! It would have been much more fun and happiness, had we been living at Kashmir !

But, Alas! Mahadev(God) had different plans. The medley of thoughts and emotions was disturbing somewhere in her Heart and Mind.

Soon after, the aroma of the food diverted her mind and brought her to her present at Mumbai. She takes the morsel of rice mixed with Haakh .

She can not forget that It has been 29 years and The situation for KPs in the valley has not changed a bit yet. To forget about the past, she switches on the TV , browses the channels to watch her favourite serial. While browsing, her eye catches the fleeting headline in one of the News channels. She stops at that Channel. The focus of the news is Kashmir again. The newsreader announces about the clashes between the protestors and the security forces. She again changes the channel and finally stops at a “Bhakti” (Devotional) channel.

Phoolaji is carrying forward the legacy,Customs and rituals left behind by her Late Mother-in-law.She has immortalised ‘Dulari’ by keeping her Photograph at the same pedestal as that of Devis and Devtaas in their small in-house temple.In the mornings and sometimes in the evenings too , incense sticks or Dhoop is gyrated reverentially around her photo too; along with the idols and photos of all major Devis and Devtaas to invoke their blessings!

The Show of life Continues …..

The Night-A story of a Kashmiri Hindu.(stories of exodus)

It was jan 1998. Veenaji was in the Kitchen. Her Husband Rosshanlal was reading the newspaper in the living/Drawing room of their cramped two-room Govt. Quarters at Tope Sherkhanian. She could hear the flipping sound, when her Husband turned the leaf of the Newspaper. She was thinking about her children, who were perusing ‘B.E’ in Pune. A knock at the Door was heard clearly in the backdrop of the silence of the Quarter. Roshanlal stood up and opened the Door.

A man was standing outside.

‘Namaskar Roshanlalji. I am Irfaan. Your neighbor from Banamohallah’. Veenaji too had heard the knock, she came out from the Kitchen out of curiosity. Her Husband, greeted Irfaan with a Handshake. ‘Come inside. Why are you standing there!’. Pointing towards Veenaji, Roshanlal asked Veenaji, ‘Did you recognize him’?

The face looked familiar, But She could not recognize him. Irfaan, it seemed understood the confusion of Veenaji. ‘I am the Son of Khatijah. Remember my Mother!’, he exclaimed with joy. Veenaji’s face lit with happiness.
’Oh Yes! I remember her. How is she?’ asked Veenaji.
‘She died last year because of Heart Failure.’ Said Irfaan with a visible regret.

She was saddened to hear what he said.

‘I am so sorry. Please have a seat. I will make tea for both of you.’
She went back to the Kitchen.

Irfaan had come to Roshanlal to persuade him to sell his share of ancestral house. Veenaji was listening to them, while she started making tea . The memories of her last visit to Kashmir were still vivid. She recalled how she along with her Husband Roshan Lal and their two Children , a Son-Sachin and Daughter- Meenakshi had moved to Jammu .
Her Husband was working in the Govt.Secretariat. They now lived in the Govt. Quarters Tope Sherkhanian. They had moved to jammu in Dec-1989.

J&K has two capitals, i.e, summer capital-Srinagar and winter capital-Jammu. Every year,In winters, the employees of the Govt. Secretariat move to Jammu for 6 months ; and move back to Srinagar in summers for rest of the 6 months. This custom was/is in vogue since the times of Dogra Rulers . This was/is termed as “Durbaar Move”.

veenaji lit the Gas Stove. She put some milk, sugar and water in an utensil and placed it on the stove. She looked through the Kitchen Window, her eyes fixed to the horizon.

The clouds of her past started floating in front of her mind.

Veenaji and her family loved the winters of Jammu. It would be sunny and warm in Jammu, compared to the cold and gloomy weather of the Srinagar winters. But that year, in 1989-90, It was different. In spite of the warm and sunny weather, she would occasionally feel the shivers. Not because of the weather, but because , on T.V and Radio; the gory news had announced an unusual wave of violence and lawlessness has dawned.

And then came the horrendous macabre night of 19 jan 1990.And everything changed after that.

In the last week of Jan 1990, Her elder Brother Makhan lal along with his family landed at their residence in Jammu, late at night. He had come by a taxi. His old mother –Amaji, wife-Lalitaji and two sons Rakesh and Sunil too had come.
As soon as they arrived at their residence, Lalitaji hugged tightly Veenaji and started crying.
‘It is only by God’s grace that we have reached here safely.’ She complained amidst sobs . Amaji tried to console her as she said,
‘Lalitaji, don’t be a weakling. Be bold. You have yet to face the hardships of life. Be always grateful to God.’

They stayed with Veenaji for some days with this hope that the violence unleashed by the terrorists will be abated soon. But the destiny of Kashmir had its own plans. After a month, They realized that it might take a long time before they would return back to Kashmir. It was decided by the two families that, they would enroll their children in Jammu for studies , as it was safe.

Veenaji and her Family didn’t knew that the situation would deteriorate so much in Kashmir. They were in Jammu because of the ‘Darbaad Move’. They had not taken any documents such as the Mark sheets and other educational documents related to the education of their children. Without these papers, it would have been very difficult to get the admissions in the Schools and Colleges. Also, She wanted to get the documents related to banks such as FD, Saving a/c etc.

Hence,Somewhere in March 1990, She decided to go back to her residence at “Bana Mohallah” , Habbakadal, Kashmir.It was decided that Her sister-in-law lalitaji too would accompany her. In fact Lalitaji had volunteered herself to accompany her. The Males of the House were barred to go to Kashmir as they were more prone to be Shot at by the Militants.

They flew to Srinagar and landed at the Airport by 3-4 P.m. It took them almost 4 hrs. to reach their house at Bana Mohallah. The lanes and by-lanes were slushy as it had rained the previous night. Some Muslim neighbors , who saw them entering their Mohallah, murmured something.
By their Gaze , it looked as if they didn’t wanted them to be there. As they were about to enter their House, Khatijah-the neighbor and friend of Veenaji , came from nowhere and greeted her with a Broad smile.
‘How are you veenaji. I missed you. Now since Durbaar move will be over shortly, will you be staying in Kashmir till November!’ she exclaimed! Veenaji warmly asserted ‘No, I will stay here for a few days and rejoin my family. We will come back in Mid-April.’ She half-lied.

Veenaji knew that she will leave Kashmir tomorrow for Jammu and may not come back next month.

‘Then stay put for the night at my house. The curfew will be imposed very soon and you will not get Rice and any other food-item after 15 mintes’ Pleaded Khatijah.

‘ I have brought some rice and Dried-vegetables with me. Thanks for your concern .’

Veenaji kindly declined. But her friend, the verbose-Khatijah kept her conversation going on and it took another 20-25 minutes before Veenaji and her Sister-in-law entered their house.

Veenaji’s Husband Roshanlal lived in their ancestral house along with his three Brothers and 3 cousins. Their house was Big and hoary with a courtyard. The house had 25 rooms and it housed 7 nuclear families. Though, Roshanlal, his 3 Brothers and 3 Cousins(Brothers) were living in one house, But they all had separate kitchens for their Families(consisting of Husband and Children).All the 7 Brothers had partitioned the 25 rooms in almost equal proportion. Apart from a Kitchen, Veenaji and her Husband had inherited 2 big rooms.
On a normal day, prior to 1990, their house was abuzz with activity. In the morning and in the evenings, many a times, one would hear the synchronous hissing sound from the steaming pressure-cooker, coming from 2 or more Kitchens of the House at the same time. The floating aroma of Knol Khol(Hak) or lamb-meat would titillate the Olfactory of the whole neighborhood. In the afternoon, the shrilled voices of the Children playing in the courtyard was common .In spite of 7 separate kitchens, Veenaji and her 6 co- sister-in-law would often share their delicacies with each other.

But the House was different this time.

As soon as Veenaji entered her House, she was welcomed by the eerie silence. It was frightening. All her 6 co-sister-in-law and their families too had moved to Jammu. The last family that had moved from this house to jammu was almost 15 days back.As she climbed-up the stairs of her house, a strange fear crept into her heart. It was almost 8.00 P.M by now and the darkness had covered almost everything.

She and Lalitajee were feeling the Hunger pangs. Veenaji took a handful of rice from the polythene bag and poured into the utensil, that she had brought with her from Jammu. Soon, she realized that she has forgotten to get a matchbox or lighter to light up the cooking gas stove.

‘I will go downstairs to Ashaji’s kitchen and get the lighter ‘. she informed Lalitaji.

‘Do you have the keys of that Kitchen?’ asked Lalitaji.
‘No, she never locks her Kitchen.’ Replied Veenaji.
‘It is so scary here, I too will accompany you.’ Said Lalitajee.

The Kitchen-door was indeed open. As soon as Veenajee, switched-on the light, her face became pale out of fear. Shockingly, she exclaimed ‘Oh! My God. Someone is already cooking here!’.
‘Hey Bhagwan ! what will we do now?’ asked Lalitajee nervously. She was Gaping and beating her chest. Veenaji knew that her sister-in-law is weak-hearted and might behave strangely or may even faint.

She assessed the situation quickly. There was a matchbox lying on the ground. Many burnt match sticks were scattered over the floor of the Kitchen. From The cooked rice in the utensils, it looked as if a few hours back, someone had cooked it.

She did not waste much time in investigating. She opened the cupboard that was at the right corner of the Kitchen. She swept her fingers over the things in the cupboard and soon took a lighter , a torch and a candle from the cupboard. And switched off the main light of the Kitchen and closed the door.

‘Follow me quickly’, she whispered . Lalitajee did not protest and followed the instructions.
‘Someone is using the Kitchen of Ashajee, It might be a militant or a group of Militants. We cannot afford to switch-on the lights and invite any unwanted trouble.’ she looked at her sister-in-law.

Lalitaji was very scared, She tried to be a Bravado, but the fear was palpable in her eyes. But, she still mustered courage and said , ‘Yes, I do. You are right. But can we make the dinner for us?’she asked.
‘No. We cannot, since, the aroma of the Rice might give them a clue, that someone is inside the house.’ she explained to Lalitaji.
‘Anyways, I don’t feel hungry now’, lied Lalitaji.
They ran up towards the room.

Veenaji pulled an iron-Chest, that was placed at the corner of the room . She opened the lid and switched-on the Torch. suddenly, Lalitaji could see A bundle of papers, some folders containing some documents, a photo album, and some books. Veenaji took only a couple of Folders from the Box, closed the lid and placed it to the original position. Lifting the two folders in her hands, she said to Lalitaji, ‘This is for what we have came here’. She kept the two folders in the bag, that she had brought with her from Jammu.

They were sitting besides a window, so that they could have a direct and unobstructed view of the main Door, leading towards the courtyard. As it was still quite cold, they had draped themselves in the blankets.
The main wooden Door of their House was Huge. A big rectangular latch, may be one feet long and 5 inches wide was connected to a wooden Knob .The latch moved up or down angularly on the rotation of the Knob. The latch faced towards the courtyard and the Knob towards the by-lane. It would make a lot of noise, if someone would open or close the Latch of the Door.

Lalitaji was constantly praying to Mother Goddess for their protection. They had even made a plan, in case a militant or a group of Militants enter their house.
‘In case any intruder comes here, we will slip beneath the Bed. Understand!’ explained Veenaji to her Sister-In-Law. Lalitaji had nodded her head in approval.

Just past the midnight, It began to pour heavily. The staccato of the rain hitting the tin-roofs of the Houses was rather unwanted and irritating. The odd street lamp positioned on the pole went off too. It was pitch dark outside. Because of the darkness and noise, they thought, they have lost the chance of detecting any intruder. Lalitaji was chanting the Hymns of Goddess Indrakshi rather loudly to invoke the blessings. But the sound of heavy rains subsided the frequency of her voice modulation .It stopped raining after a couple of Hours.

Both of them were feeling very sleepy. Pretending to be vigilant at this odd hour of the night, they were looking at the main Wooden Door. They were drowsing. Their heads would inadvertently hit the wooden window pane and then they would concentrate briefly their attention on the wooden door again. And, they would drowse yet again. They did not talk to each other for couple of Hours.

And then Dogs began to Bark. They woke up.

A pack of Dogs were barking on a Shadowy figure. The figure, it seemed was waving something to keep away the Dogs. Soon, another figure appeared, it was smaller in the size than the one who was waving something. The smaller figure grabbed the Loose clothing, most probably the ’ pheran’ of the larger figure . It looked as if, the smaller figure was trying to stop the larger figure. And then, their conversation became louder.

‘Leave me Aapa, I have to follow the orders’, fulminated the belligerent larger figure . The other voice, that of a female in a protesting tone said, ‘No. I will not let you do it. I will talk to them tomorrow. I will tell them to leave’.

Veenaji’s heart sank. She recognized the voice of the female. It was unmistakably that of Khatijah. Her neighbor. An array of thoughts crossed her mind.

‘Is somebody coming here to kill me? Am I going to live for another day or not? Will I be able to see my Children and Husband again!’ She was weighed down by the weltschmerz. Tears began to roll down from the corner of her eyes.

Fortunately for her, Lalitaji’s attention was focused towards the two shadowy figures and was unaware of the upheaval of emotions going on in her sister-in-laws’s mind.

The lone street light began to glow suddenly. They could clearly see the two figures. It was indeed Khatijah. Veenaji recognized the other figure too. It was Ajaz-The youngest Son of Khatijah. And, he was carrying a Gun. Khatijah had held the collar of her Son’s Pheran. Ajaz was approaching towards the main wooden door of Veenaji’s House. Khatijah was getting literally dragged, but she didn’t let loose her Grip on the collar.

Khatijah’s tone was changing constantly. From dominant to Pleading, she was trying her best to stop her son from opening the Door. But Ajaz was equally adamant. He dragged her to the Gate and rotated the Knob of the wooden Door. There was a creepy , unpleasant loud sound of opening of the wooden latch.
Ajaz Kicked the door open.

‘Oh my God! He is coming to Kill us.’Screamed lalitaji.
She threw the Blanket and ran Hysterically from one end of the room to other end.
‘ Control yourself lalitaji. Instead of getting nervous, think of a plan.’. she admonished lalitaji . She too came out from the warmth of the Blanket and held lalitaji’s Shoulders with both of her Hands to calm her down.
‘Let us see and listen to what they are arguing about’. Said Veenaji.
Lalitaji followed her without protest.
Ajaz opened the wooden door. Khatijah’s Grip loosened from the collar. But she grabbed the left leg of her Son. Ajaz kept her dragging. Her pheran was smeared in Mud.
‘ I will kill myself, if you do not listen to me’ moaned Khatijah. Ajaz stopped. He lifted up his Mother and began to clean the dirt from the pheran of his mother. She was still crying Helplessly.

Then Something happened.

Ajaz hugged her mother and said, ‘OK, As you wish. Let us go back’, in a comforting tone. Khatijah kissed the forehead of his Son. They both went back and closed the big wooden door.

The dogs started barking again.

Veenaji and Lalitaji had a sigh of relief. They kept on looking at the wooden door until the Dawn. With the first azaan of the mosque, they left the house. Veenaji opened the wooden latch of the Door. She looked back at her House. Little did she realized that she was looking at her hose for the last time.
Within no time, they were at Habba Kadal. The security guards stopped them and asked, ‘Where are you going?’. Lalitaji’s face lit up at the sight of Indian Armed forced. ‘We are Kashmiri Pandits. We are going to RTC. From there, we will board a Bus for Jammu’. The security Guards let them go. They were intersected and stopped by the Security guards at many places. Upon hearing that they are KP’s, they were let off immediately. It took them more than an Hour and a half to reach RTC by foot.

There were Buses and Taxis waiting for the passengers to take them to Jammu. A sardarji approached them. ‘Where will you go sister? Jammu! Come sister, in my taxi. Let me take you’. Both Veenaji and Lalitaji were exhausted both physically and mentally. They decided to go by Sardarji’s taxi.

They reached Tope Sherkhanian, Jammu by 4.00 p.m. Lalitaji narrated the whole incident to everyone present there melodramatically. Veenaji had not interfered lalitaji. She wanted her to vent off her feelings.
Veenaji’s Brother’s family had stayed with them for more than four months, before they moved to a rented accommodation at Subash Nagar.

The tea was boiling in the utensil. Some portion of the boiling tea fell on the Flame of the cooking gas stove. The burning smell of the tea, drew back Veenaji from her Past. She closed the knob of the gas and cleaned the Stove with a cloth and washed her hands with a soap. After pouring the tea in the cups, she put the cups in the tray and came out of the small kitchen to the living room.She placed the Tray on the top of the Central table.Irfaan and Roshanlal took one cup each from the tray.

Irfaan and Roshanlal were engrossed in a conversation and were oblivious to veenaji’s presence. She was wringing her hands impatiently.

‘How is your Brother Ajaz?’, She interrupted Irfaan, with a tone of anger.
Irfaan looked at her, Put the cup down, and with a deep sigh, he said with regret,
‘He died in an encounter with the security Guards 4 years back .He had become a militant. My mother pleaded with him to give up arms .But he did not listen’.

And then he looked the other side.

‘I am so sorry.’ Said Roshanlal apologetically. Veenaji did not tried to comfort him.

‘You carry on. I have some work in the Kitchen. Excuse me.’ She said casually as she did not wanted to be a part of the conversation. She stood up and went again to the Kitchen.

She pretended to dish-wash. But for some reasons, once again, the Flashes of the Horrendous night kept coming to her mind…

The tenants and the landlords(exodus of KP’s)

Naveen-my friend had shifted to a new rented house at shakti nagar, jammu. His mother while making tea for us in the make-shift kitchen said one day to me in presence of Naveen, “see how, we are living here in this one room. Our cow-shed was four times the size of this room. May the curse of Gods befell on all those terrorists who pushed us to this state of wretchedness. May the pall of gloom befell upon them.”I had heard it before, from many of our elders. This reflected the state of helplessness of the whole community during the 90’s.The exodus of Kashmiri pundits though trampled their identity and pushed them to the brink of extinction , On the other side, the miseries and the compromise with their fate made them adept in the art of survival.

My friend Naveen shifted to Jammu in the last week of jan 1990.His family stayed with their relative for some days/weeks and later on they shifted to a migrant camp at talab tiloo. There were at least four families staying in one hall which was roughly 500 sq. feet. Each family had made some arrangements to guard their privacy. He and his neighbors had drawn boundaries ingeniously cost-effective. A rope was tied from one end to another of the hall both lengthwise and breadth wise. An Indian saree or a blanket or a bed-sheet was tied or folded over to those ropes, thus each family making an own private compartment. Each family had a tin-trunk. The trunk housed their meager belongings and clothes. This trunk was also used as a study table by the students such as my friend Naveen.

When Naveen’s father saved/arranged some money, he decided to take a rented room at Shakti nagar, Jammu. Naveen volunteered to find a room. After some days of search, he finally found a room that fitted their budget. His father was a Govt. School teacher back at Kashmir . Naveen’s family consisted of his parents, a younger brother and an elder sister whom they had married off just a year back in Kashmir. And then a day came, when they shifted to their new house or should I say that newly-rented-room. His friends including me helped him to shift to his new room. It did not take us long to unwind their belongings and keep them at their proper places as directed by his mother. His family insisted us all to have a lunch with them at their new house.

In Kashmir, Very few families used a fridge as a household appliance. It was a luxury item rather than a necessity. On the contrary, a fridge was an absolute must in jammu. Naveen’s mother used to heat-up the left-over dishes at least three or four times a day in order to keep the dishes hygienically edible. A fridge was out of their reach.

The new weather conditions were alien to most of the KP’s. By mid-april, temperature began to rise drastically .KP’s had no experience in dealing with the heat of that magnitude . By early May,To beat the heat, Naveen, his younger brother and their parents bathed at least thrice a day. This created a bad blood between them and their landlord Jagdish.

Jagdish was an Auto-Driver. He had somehow built a 2BHK house on roughly a 4 marla land(roughly 100 sq. yards), The washrooms(a bathroom and a latrine) were built separately outside the main building(but inside the main compound wall).His family consisted of his wife and two children. Though, he did not interact much with Naveen’s family, except, when he had to take the rent from them, But His frequent brawls with his wife almost every night had made Naveen and his family believe that he was a dipsomaniac rogue.

In a way, Jagdish was right. The 500 litre overhead water tank was too small to last the whole day keeping in view the usage of water by the two families especially Naveen’s. So one day, when jagdish threatened them to leave his house over the water-issue, Naveen’s family thought of an alternative.

After the incident, The next day, Naveen, his younger brother and their father headed towards the famous “Nehar”(the canal of Chenab with ice-cold water).That day they took a bath in the morning, at evening and at night in the same “nehar” with alacrity. Naveen was looking out for a rented room again, and I was helping him in his endeavor, as I lived close by at Talab-tiloo, just across the canal.

By early july, Naveen shortlisted another house, just 50 meters from the “Nehar”. The house owner, Mr.Gupta, was a Govt. employee. This time they rented one room but with a separate kitchen. The room was bigger than the previous one, and it had two water-tanks. One underground and one over-head tank. This time also I and a couple of my friends volunteered to help them in their shifting. Mr. Gupta’s son “Rinku” was as old as Naveen and hence he befriended Naveen and his younger brother quickly.

During the monsoons, with the rise of Humidity, skin rashes and infections were rampant. Almost all KP’s including me and the family of Naveen had no clue how to deal with it. Satish, the elder cousin of Naveen during that monsoon season one fine day said to us “Take a bath in the canal with a “lifebuoy” soap .All skin rashes will go away. I have tried it on myself and it worked like a charm”. We all tried it at once. In fact I too spread this secret advice with my friends. The effectiveness of that remedy is a matter of research to this day.

Naveen stayed in Mr. Gupta’s house for a year or so. It so happened that Mr. Gupta raised their rent by a couple of hundred rupees, which Naveen’s father thought was unfairly steep. when He protested, Mr. Gupta said to him,” I don’t have any enmity with you. In fact I have raised the rent of Mr.Bhat also. It is because you are living here from past one year, and you are a good man, I am only raising the rent by Rs200.Otherwise the room-set you are occupying is worth more.” In the evening their co-tenant Mr.Bhat confirmed Mr. Gupta’s statement as true, and was quick to say,” It is a cumbersome job to hunt for a house again, During my one and a half years stay in jammu as a migrant, this is my third house, I have become familiar to this area, It will be a mental and emotional challenge to settle at a new house in a new area”.Naveen was a witness to the dialogue between his father and their co-tenant. Before retiring for the bed, Mr. Bhat said to his father, “Give him what he wants, you never know , how your new landlord will be, in case you opt to shift.”After a lot of deliberation, Naveen’s father decided to stay put at the Gupta’s house.

I am not sure, whether this move made Naveen’s Dad to take up tuitions or was it pre-meditated before the “rent-rise incident”. Anyways, Tuitions helped the family monetarily to an extent. Naveen’s family purchased a fridge as well as a colour TV after some months. As it happened, Naveen and his family stayed cordially with the Gupta’s for 5 long years. Naveen once said to me years later, “Guptajee knows almost all of our relatives, In fact, sometimes he visits our relatives on his own without informing us”.

I don’t know what happened to Naveen and his family in between 1997 till 2012 as I lost touch with him. Somewhere in 2012, I got a call from Naveen. He told me that he is working in Mumbai.His younger brother is working as a Govt. employee in Jammu with department of agriculture. And that he has purchased a Flat in Mumbai and his brother has built a two and a half storied house in Mutthi,Jammu. After he hung up the phone, for strange reasons, some lingering thoughts took me back to 1990, when they were living in Talab-tiloo migrant camp hall of 500sq feet area, with three other families.And I must confess that The sarees, blankets and bed-sheets as their boundaries to safeguard their privacy will have an everlasting impression on my mind….

Saving my Rakhi Brother(1990)

1990, when jihadi hooliganism was at its peak, My childhood friend and next-door neighbor, Hamida, came to my home late evening. She looked happy and cheerful as always. There was only one discussion that people were interested in, during those turbulent times-Militancy and Militants. Hamida was no exception. She was in privy of the sources/ militants that were carrying the execution orders of the Hindu minorities on the behest of their Pakistani masters sitting across the border. She was in fact proud of her association with the Militants.

“I want to share something with you!” she said to me eagerly. “OK, Tell me”, I said casually.”No, not here, let us go upstairs or into the next room. It is very confidential”. Now, my curiosity was aroused. I said “OK, Let us go upstairs”. We both went upstairs to “Kainee”(parapet/ top most floor of the house). She was bubbling with energy as she said,” Tomorrow morning, It is the turn of Ashok. He will be shot dead by the militants tomorrow. Don’t tell this to anybody ever. I am sharing this with you as you are my friend”. My heart sank, but I composed myself quickly and said, “Let them kill him. He deserves it.” She said, “ Wow! I love militants. Let the pundits who are leaving every day for jammu leave, but you stay here. Don’t you worry. Nothing will ever happen to you or your family.” I smiled back at her.” Militants are only killing Indian agents and informers” she said. I nodded my head.

I wanted to tell her, “No! militants are killing Kashmiri Pandits for no reason. I wanted to tell her that militants are killing for the sake of jihad. For fame. For money. For power. For self-importance. For their desires and lust”. But, I could not muster courage. I wanted to tell her that it is the anti-Hindu sentiment that is being fanned by the maulvis of the Mosques by using Islamic terminologies to galvanize the common Muslims, and kill the hindus with impunity and without compunction. I wanted to tell her,” No, There is no bravery and holiness in killing hapless, unarmed innocent Pandits”. But I remained quite. After all, I too wanted to live.

Hamida would not leave me alone that evening for a moment, Though I wanted her to go back, so that I could run into Ashok’s house and inform him about his assassination plans by militants. Ashok was a neighbor and a friend of my brother. He was like my elder brother and I used to tie a “Rakhi” to him every year. Even the thought of getting him killed was suffocating me. But that day Hamida was in no hurry to go back to her home. I wanted to get rid of her so desperately that day. But It looked as if she had other plans. She was chattering incessantly and I was nodding my head in approval cursorily, I was in fact thinking hard, to somehow convey the insidious killing plot of militants to Ashok.

Finally, I came up with a plan. I said to her, “ Hamida, I just realized that I had to call up my relatives in Jammu.” She asked, “ which ones? “. I said, “My maternal uncle. They too fled for Jammu few days back.” “Oh! I see. OK, by the time you will call your uncle, I will buy curd from Ismail Goor”. Ismail Goor, The milkman’s shop was located just opposite to Ashok’s house. I could not go to his house in front of Hamida as that could raise suspicion. My mind was over-working, but I still said,” OK, Let us go”.

During those days, Telephone was a status-symbol and not everybody had the privilege of having a Phone at home. Ashok was a Govt. employee working with the telecom department and was thus in possession of a telephone connection. Adjacent to the Ashok’s house were “Dhar’s” and next to “Dhars” were “Raina’s”. “Raina’s” too had a telephone connection at their home.

We reached too quickly at “Ismail Goor’s” shop.I said to Hamida, “ I will go to Rainas and make a call. You wait for me here.” She said,” alright”. I went towards “Raina’s” house. Before stepping into their house, I turned back. Hamida was staring at me from the milkman’s shop. I quickly went inside the compound of the “Raina’s” and scaled the wall to reach into the compound of “Dhar’s”. I scaled the wall flanking Dhar’s and Ashok’s house and jumped with a “thud” into the compound of Ashok. My knees were aching because of the impact of the jump. But I had no time for small physical pains. The back door of Ashok’s house was ajar.I went inside. Ashok was sitting right there in his Drawing-room. I hugged him and tears rolled down from my cheeks. He was perplexed.”What happened Didda?”he jerked me. I said, “ Leave this place as soon as possible. Militants are planning to kill you.”I told him briefly about my encounter with Hamida and her confidential report. By that time, his wife and brother Satish also came. His wife Dolly too began to cry upon knowing the incident. Ashok and Satish consoled us both and they both thanked me for the information. “I need to go back quickly as Hamida is waiting for me and can suspect something fishy if I take too long.”I said to them. Both Ashok and Satish helped me to scale the compound wall and Very soon I landed in “Dhar’s” compound and finally into the compound of the “Raina’s”. As, I opened the main compound door, that opened into the main street, I was shocked to see Hamida standing in front of the door.”Why did you take so long?” said she. “Line was coming busy. I had to try 50 times, before I could connect to my Uncle.”I said. “Oh! I see” she said casually and quickly added, “I have bought video movie cassettes from Shabbir, We will watch them at your home, since you have a VCP”. I said with a sigh of relief, “ OK. Fine.”That night, we watched couple of movies. She stayed overnight at my home.

Next morning, she went back to her home. I thought, let me check whether Ashok had left or not. As, I was about to leave, Hamida came back. she was panting. I gave her a puzzled look. She said incoherently, “ Ashok has fled”. I said “What! I couldn’t get you”. She put her hand on her chest and said slowly and clearly,” Ashok too has left like other pundits “. I said ,” Oh! I see”. She said, “Lucky guy! The militants fired at the locks also suspecting him to be hiding inside. But they found all his family had fled. Not even their neighbors knew, when they fled,”. I gave her a lugubrious look. I was happy inside and thanked God for saving the life of Ashok-My Rakhi Brother.
narrated by-Mrs. Seema kaul