The Lost Native

I have just retired from the Indian Defense Services, namely the Indian Army, and I am now in the process of reorienting myself in an entirely different world. After putting in about 30 years of service with the Indian Army, I have come to realize that one is only born as a fauji. Now that I am looking back, the previous years of my life are rewritten by the colours of service shades.
The other day I was wondering why I experience such a sense of unease with the civilian environment; after all, I was born and brought up in this environment. I have been educated and groomed around this setup, yet it makes me feel so out of place after my retirement. How has the military training of such a short period successfully remoulded my personality forever and managed to erase the previous impressions and beliefs I had? From what I can see, the norms have changed, so have the ways of life that seem to be acceptable. Is this rather newly developed idea and way of life going to be of any advantage to me, or shall it put me in distress of unknown dimensions? All these answers feel like they will come forth in due course of time, but one thing is for sure, I am finding myself in a different environmental pool in which floating appears to be difficult, and if I’m being honest, swimming across will also be a very hard task.

Anyway, I am (Retd) Colonel Hira lal Kher from rural Kashmir. My family belonged to the Khar family of Batsargam, Kulgam Kashmir. Batsargam was a small beautiful village that fell within the district of Kulgam, in the now infamous valley of Kashmir! There were about ten Hindu and four Muslim families that considered Bastsargam as home back then. With all the Pandit families having moved out of Batsargam, my village is no more the same as it used to be, and I would not mind if it is called something else now. It has now become the victim of the unpleasant change in its culture, demography, structure, form, and shape in every respect.
A small Hindu majority village in the entire district was made Hindu free within no time. Obviously, everything in the village has changed for the worse as far as Kashmiri Pandits are concerned. Most of the families in my village were small-time landlords. The primary profession of all the residents was farming. In the villages, jobs were taken up as additional sources of income, and in some sense, they were also considered a social status symbol. Education was not on the front burner for most families back then, but it had started gaining importance, and efforts were made to educate the children more and more.
There were hardly any private schools in the villages and towns around Batsargaam, and the source of education was mainly Govt schools. The teachers those days were highly committed even though they weren’t all that qualified. Many teachers were hardly educated, and their contribution was obviously negative as they used to create an environment of disinterest and poor performance. However, it is important to mention here that few of the teachers were highly committed, and whatever students of that time achieved in their life subsequently, a major portion of the credit goes to these class of teachers. Respected teachers like Bashir Ahmed ( Maths), Bashir Ahmed (Science), Deena Nath Ji( Maths), Bushan Lal ji (Science), Md Ayub ( Non Medical), and many more stalwarts who have made a great deal of contribution in laying the foundation of many successful professionals subsequently. So by effect, their contribution to the society in general, and individual students in particular, is praiseworthy. I have my personal gratitude to all these Gurus and salute them with humility.

This is similar to the story of the rest of the valley, that is why you would find an overall development in the field of education in Kashmir. There may be many more factors, but the contribution of a few teachers, especially those of science and maths are the major contributors to this development. We, the students of the valley, never felt out of place or inferior in knowledge when we moved out of the valley for further education or training. The other factors, like the cheap fee and free education for the poor, also contributed simultaneously. The fee was paid annually and was in the range of six to eight rupees. Many students did not pay, and it used to be written off for them. Similarly, uniform and books were provided free of cost. The overall support system was very kind and facilitating. All credit goes to the system that existed then, except for the enrollment of underqualified teachers within the establishment. Lots of incompetent, uninterested, and unfit teachers were employed during that time and subsequently. Although separate schools existed for boys and girls, coeducation was also accepted as a norm. Come to think of it the culture of Kashmir back in the day was based in progressive values while also balancing our local traditions.
A lot of teachers and allied staff were following the leftist ideology. These teachers were generally well-read and committed to their profession. Surprisingly most of these teachers joined Jamaat later and supported the separatist ideology. In fact, I am told that these teachers played a critical role in providing support to the anti-national movement while being part of the system and taking full benefits from it. Why these developments were not picked up by Govt agencies in general and the designated agencies that supposedly work for the security of the countrymen and women, is a million-dollar question. Anyway, the attitude of the elders to educate their children irrespective of sex was changing and changing fast. There are many logical reasons for this change. The disadvantages of not being educated were being realised more and more. One such aspect was letter reading and writing.
During my childhood, I had regularly observed the postman being requested by people on a routine basis to read their letters. These were letters that people received from their children who used to go outside the valley with the aim of earning some extra money during the winter season. This is the period of the seventies and early eighties; back then, these letters at times carried a lot of secrets of the families, and the local postman was privy to all these by default. That is why the postman was well received and respected during those days in rural areas, more because of character than the fear of letting the secrets out.

In 1982 I went to Madras for my engineering. At that time, it was superficially peaceful back in the valley, but a sense of discomfort had set in. This could be sensed by those who allowed themselves to be exposed to it. More importantly, the situation could be well-read by those who took a pause from the routine of life and allowed the mental faculty to analyse the existing environment and suggest alternatives. Such people took intelligent decisions about their future and left the valley in a planned manner. Such people did not go through the difficulties and troubles of the forced migration process. The majority of such people were from the cities and a few from the villages. The rest of the Pandit community refused to smell the coffee, although they drank it hard and raw later when the distress struck. Many threads of the incoming situations did exist, and all one needed to do is track one such thread. The Campus of the University of Kashmir was one such place, where the display of the fast-changing environment was free, open, loud, and clear. More than regular education, other ideologies were openly debated and propagated. It is during this time that open celebrations used to be held whenever the Pakistani Cricket team won a match against us, which was, unfortunately, getting more and more discomforting for nationalists.
During those days, there used to be protests all around the valley for every irrelevant issue, and we Pandits were the targets. Imagine, an incident of firing in Afghanistan would lead to a strike in the Valley, and the pandit students in the colleges would be invariably made the targets. Also, during these times, Hindus remained indoors to avoid trouble and considered each incident as an isolated case. I suppose the situation existing at that time was gaining momentum rapidly for future events to follow. This wave was neither read nor evaluated properly by the Pandit community and other minorities. Thus, the telltale signs of ensuing trouble were unfortunately ignored, and a heavy price was paid by all of us subsequently.

Kashmiri Pandits who are considered to be a community with special attributes could not understand how our central Govt pampered the then ruling family of the state. There were various speeches of Sheik Abdulla at various gatherings that almost threatened the merger of the state with Pakistan, and within the next few days, you would find the same Abdulla making a statement in Delhi that no power on earth could take Kashmir away from India. In those days, the Govt at the centre was intellectually inept and lacked foresight. It was as if they were all intoxicated during the day and sozzled during the night. It is this state of mind that made the politicians of the valley, in the beginning, think that the regions of Ladakh and Jammu did not matter and the fate of the state would be decided by the politicians of the Valley. This sense of false superiority is something that was expressed by the politicians loud and clear in the time to come. It became a monster that did a lot of harm, and this harm continued until the year 2014. It is this overconfidence that made Dr Abdulla state that even if Mr Modi comes to power many times, no power on earth can revoke Article 370 and 35A because he and his family had continued to get away with everything anti-national until then.
A certain section of people within the valley are well aware of who has harmed the valley the maximum and how. They also know that many parties like Pakistan, China, etc. are interested in finishing Kashmir once and forever if they are given a chance. It is clear to them that Pakistan and Afghanistan are both failed states, and no such country can do any good to the valley. Unfortunately, the intellectuals and moderates in the valley are shit scared of the rogue elements who are out there to target such people and their ideologies. I have no doubt about the intellectual competence of my community, but I am sure, in this regard, most of the community failed to pick up the leads.

What the Kashmiri Pandit community should not forget is that most of the Kashmiri Muslims are converted Kashmiri Pandits and that too not many years back. So the intellectual attributes of the Kashmiri Muslims, wise as they are, are no less than those of the Kashmiri Hindus. This was very evident from the status of the three regions of the state. Both Jammu and Ladakh were left behind in everything and that too, with the support of politicians from both these regions. Honestly speaking, the most suitable region when we talk of development is the Jammu region because of obvious reasons such as proximity, accessibility, and favourable weather, but Jammu was left high and dry. Apart from the dominant nature of Kashmiri politicians, it was the lack of commitment, foresight, dedication, and planning of politicians from the Jammu region that harmed the city. They are mainly responsible for neglecting Jammu. While the politicians in the valley recommended the opening of schools, politicians in Jammu were interested in opening local liquor shops. Obviously, the damage was done to the roots of the society, then expecting the tree and its fruit to be healthy and tasty is like chasing a wild goose.

I have seen quite a few of such scary incidents in Kashmir, which should have been eye-openers for the administration and should have stood out to the minorities of the valley. One such incident was the one which took place in Habba Kadal area post, at a ceremony where Dr Farook Abdulla was taking over as the president of the state party. Some people in the procession raised Pakistani flags during the ceremony. The atmosphere was full of undesired expressions to notice. Since not many Hindus were part of the procession, such activities were neither observed nor reported with the intensity and importance that they deserved. Moreover, there were people with the procession to moderate such activities. I was shaken up by the sheer number of people participating in the procession. My imagination of how destructive such a procession could turn if it was instigated haunted me for weeks. A few bad elements are more than enough… The next day while sharing the details with one of my friends, I was educated by him that procession management is an art, and these artists know how, where, and when to channelise it as per directions received from the organisers. It is a sort of harnessed energy for the purpose of displaying one’s strength, and at times it takes a destructive shape.

The other scary incident was when Mr. Z A Buttoo was hanged in Pakistan. The amount of loot, burning, and destruction that took place in Kashmir was more horrifying than an English World War movie. I witnessed the entire scenery unfolding in front of my eyes. There were mobs that looted shops, burned properties, and they were absolutely ruthless. Every village was on fire, and in some cases, close relatives participated in the process of destruction. The fire and smoke covered each and every village and town, it engulfed the valley. In fact, people participating in these activities were seen carrying the looted material. Suffice to say that telltale signs were bold and clear for the Kashmiri Pandit community to take note off, but these early warnings were unfortunately ignored. Those pandit families who read the situation well did not go through the hell of migration and established themselves well in advance. Thus a huge price was paid by almost the entire community. I am more surprised by the lack of foresight of the Pandit community from Srinagar, who were by and large mobile and could have planned and executed an early exit cum settlement outside the valley. I was studying in Srinagar and knew all too well that most of the Pandits from Srinagar were well connected outside the valley. It was not that hard for them to relocate in a planned phased manner. The villagers, however, had little time to think and were under the impression that the Indian Army would come for their rescue. They also had huge immobile assets such as land and cattle, which could not be disposed of so easily. It is also true that the magnitude and intensity of the crisis were kept secret by Kashmiri Muslims to such an extent that they did not inform their Hindu neighbours in advance. While everything appeared normal during the day, the situation underneath was highly turbulent. It is these turbulent currents that took the shape of a volcanic eruption, the magnitude of which surprised each and every one. In many cases, the Kashmiri Muslims participated in destroying the properties of their neighbours after looting them. Some even compelled the Pandits for the distress sale of their assets. The Govt at the centre during those critical years was practically nonexistent. There was no stability, and its survival was on a day to day basis or maybe less than that. It was during this period when a complete cultural transition took place with sonic speed.

In the late seventies and early eighties, audio systems in buses played Hindi movie songs, and people of all ages enjoyed listening to those numbers. A few years later, this music was replaced by the preaching of Islam. I used to observe these things. There are many observations of a similar kind during that time. Therefore, to say that everything was sudden is neither true nor practical. The situation got further momentum, and the recipe was cooked enough for a great taste of all-round death and destruction. Surprisingly the Muslim community eagerly waited for this dish to be served to them and liked the sweetness of the poison initially but never found a suitable antidote for reducing the pain that this sweetness caused to their community. The victims of the violence were the ignorant, the innocent, the simple, the noble, and the harmless. In the history of mankind, there is no parallel example of cruelty to a community that has never been involved in any kind of violence, even under distress situations. The previously recorded forced migrations of the same community, from the same place, at the hands of the same community is a testimony to this claim. No doubt, genocides have taken place in many parts of the world, but in those cases, both the parties were involved more or less, be it directly or indirectly. But in the case of the Kashmiri Pandits, who have a record of being peaceful and nonviolent, the action of planned killing with an aim to eliminate or convert the whole community is even worse than what we now call a genocide. Furthermore, it is important to mention here if the majority community of 97%, with some percent of it well-armed, threatens the minority of 3% it is a proof of them being cowards and fundamentalists. A level playing field would have shown different results and even then it would not have been justified to select the methodology of inhumanity and insanity.

I am surprised with no reaction from national and international human rights bodies. Nobody in the world took notice of it, and no action was initiated by national and international human rights organisations. Such organisations are not caged with the constraints of vote bank politics or other appeasement compulsions. The miseries continued thereafter, and this community continues to live deprived of all the constitutional guarantees of this nation in particular and international bodies in general. The emotional, social, and physical distresses continue. In spite of our relentless hard work to avoid getting sucked in this whirlpool, the deliberately manifested destructive eddy currents of pain and helplessness submerge us repeatedly. The mental pain, agony, physical distress, and fatigue that the community has been unnecessarily subjected to, needs to be recorded in all possible prints, forms and signatures and preserved to display for generations of humanity to come. It will be a document of mammoth dimensions and holocaustic effects that historians will get horrified to analyse. It will be a testament that will convey the absence of any government and nongovernment body during this period in the country. It will also stand as proof of biased decision making at international levels, including the UN. Kashmiri Pandits have all the rights to denounce the UN for not taking up their case at that time as it does for other communities on a regular basis. A small step by the UN at that time would have been of great help and would have saved a lot of human lives. It would have reduced the intensity of pain and destruction that the community went through then and continues to suffer through till this day. UN, as a body, must hold its head in shame for this serious neglect in which one of the world’s most peace-loving communities was planned to be eliminated. A group of scholars and volunteers need to put in this effort for the sake of the entire community and humanity as a whole.

After my retirement from the Army, I decided to visit some religious places in the valley, which we, as a family, used to frequently visit like Kheer Bawani, Manzgam, Nagbal, Martand, etc. Manzagam was my favourite place to visit as a young boy. We used to go there as a family and enjoy a couple of days of stay there. It was full of natural beauty. I was shocked to see the place being encroached. I was told that the intent of the locals was to encroach the entire temple property. If it hadn’t been for the efforts of Mr Kuldeep Raina, this religious place would have been taken over and converted. A lot of effort has been made, and many facilities are made available by the team that looks after this place, but the attractive surroundings are lost forever. Incidentally, the sadhu (Late Shri Sukh dev Giri) who used to be there in the temple did not migrate and was murdered brutally. Does it not indicate the scale of insecurity that prevailed at that time and the distress that the community was facing? If a saint in a temple cannot be spared, then one can imagine how bad the situation was then and how destructive a mentality existed.
On my return journey, I decided to take the route via my village to show it to my family, who had not seen it before as I got married post-migration. I used to tell them the stories of my beautiful village, but once we halted there, the situation turned out to be quite the opposite. My son refused to get down from the vehicle. It was very challenging for me to convince them that my village indeed was beautiful then, and the present form is totally different. Our stay that lasted just around five minutes’ was so draining that I have failed to put it in words. The place which belonged to me for generations and generations was now illegally occupied by outsiders, and it was me who was not welcomed there. Most of the places are either encroached or being misused. The area of Ganash Bal (Temple area) has lost its semblance of a temple, and the charm in the surroundings feel like a distant dream. It was a temple of meditation, with no buildings but an environment of peace and harmony with all the creations and elements of nature. There was no restriction for any one to visit or rest in its premises irrespective of faith and belief system. Its majestic tree cover was a constant reminder of power and supremacy of nature and the Almighty to all the visitors and devotees. The same place has now been converted to a village with an incredibly toxic environment, giving a feeling of visiting a radioactively affected area. In fact, worse than that. It was shocking to experience the ground realities. The exact assessment of the change can only be done by those who have lived there prior to our forced migration because the parameters of comparison are available for constructive analysis.
In my village, all the houses belonging to the Pandits had been burnt off in one go and just in one night. One could only find heaps of the ruminants of debris. All of the construction material that our families took generations to build were now of no use to the local population. The land encroachments were everywhere. I found the situation highly compromising, disgusting, annoying, frustrating, and intimidating. I could hardly recognise the place. The complete alignment, layout, and surroundings had changed. Apart from a few fading landmarks, everything had changed. What frustrated me the most was the casual behaviour of locals as if nothing had happened. It was a painful experience. Although my intention was to spend some time there, I was restless and distressed with the existing environment there. A place which is mine legally, socially, culturally and traditionally has been forcibly made alien for me and a sense of insecurity and discomfort has set in, which is frankly, just soul-crushing. The property that we as a family worshipped and looked after like a spiritual gift is now in ruins. My home is being misused and exploited by people who are neither known to us nor were part of the village. These people, disinterested and ill-behaved, have changed this heaven into hell, full of pain, destruction, and disbelief. I wish I had not taken up this tour as it has ended up shattering me emotionally, spiritually, and physically. I could not sleep for some time after this visit. The encroachment of land was to the extent that the village had lost its original orientation and alignment. The five minutes I spent in the place I once called home, felt like being put in boiling oil. I saw drugs being cultivated in the gifted land of this area. This area is the most fertile land and used to be the rice bowl of the valley. Now it has become a drug-producing area. I consider a drug menace the worst crisis on the planet. I am sure very soon there will be many addicts around that area. What a tragedy!
Most of the Islamic terrorist outfits have used drugs as a source of huge income, which they used for the purchase of arms and ammunition—what a tragic exploitation by an ideology.
It was a very draining, painful, shocking, distressing, horrifying, and maddening experience. Imagine the property on which our buildings existed 30 years back is being encroached, and semi-permanent structures are built by those who neither belong to the village nor are even remotely known to anyone in my family.
Assuming that this encroachment has taken place without the active support of the local community and administration in a structured manner is outrightly foolish and devoid of any logic. The fact is that the properties of Kashmiri Pandits in the valley are up for grabs and these are not isolated incidents, it is a pattern. This cannot be done by known people, so the other alternative is to settle unknown outsiders and name them whatever suits as per the situation. Well, if it is for the welfare of some community members, then locals should give them a place in their property. It appears that the aim is to allow encroachment on our homes by the Muslim community for some years, and then they would grab it. It must be happening all around the valley wherever the Pandits have their properties.

Who the hell says that state administration existed there for the last 30 years. If it existed, some action would have been taken, and the properties of the Pandit community could have been identified and freed from encroachers. Necessary legal action should have been initiated so that others would get discouraged from resorting to such activities. But nothing of that sort seems to be happening on the ground, although administrative orders to that effect exist.

When the men, material, and machinery are together out there to target a particular minority, tall claims of Govt Of India have no meaning. Because of poor response, or shall I say no response, from the administration, the Pandit community is in such distress, that they have to sell their properties. That serves the most desired objective of the local population in general and Islamic fundamentalists in particular. I was also told that maximum loot is done by the families who have one or more members in the police department because they fear no law. I don’t know how far it is true, but there are signs of such a phenomenon.
Staying there any further was neither healthy nor desired. The drive back to Srinagar was full of old memories of happy times and comparisons with the present situation. Although the village is physically there but its soul is dead. The reincarnation of Kashmir is possible only if conditions on the ground become conducive again. In its present form, THE NATIVE IS LOST FOREVER!

By:- Col. Hira Lal Kher

tragedy and humour of being a KP

March 2003.It was a sunny bright day. My Enfield-Bullet bike was in a dire need of a proper service. I took my bike to the local mechanic-Akram in Ghaziabad. As he was inspecting my Bike, an Ambassador car halted in front of me. The glass windows of the car rolled down. I saw an elderly Sikh in an orange dress. He called on me , “ where is this Agarsen Chowk?”.I came closer to the car, gesticulated, and said, “ turn straight and then turn right from the first crossing.” “What is your name?” The turbaned old man asked me abruptly. “My name is sandeep Koul” said I. “Oh! You are a Kashmiri Pandit! Come in my car.” He said excitedly. I was irked by what he said. I hardly knew him and here he was, urging me to accompany him. It looked as if he read my face. He pulled the wallet from his coat, opened it, looked for something and finally picked a card which he handed over to me. “Here! Take my card. My name is B.L.Sharma- “prem”. I am a former MP from BJP.”I looked at the card in my hand. It was white and green in colour and had an emblem of four lions(as seen in Indian currency coins) at the top. The name written on it was indeed B.L.Sharma “prem”(Member of parliament).

I was exited now. For the first time, I was face-to-face speaking to an M.P. with alacrity, I sat besides him in his ambassador. “We have a rally today at Ghaziabad. It seems our local team of Ghaziabad and I are talking on different tracks. There is some miscommunication and we are not able to track each other. Though, they are somewhere nearby. You please talk to them, since you know this place”, he said to me. He dialed some number from his mobile and handed over the phone to me. The voice from the other side in a gushed tone said, “ Sharmaji, where are you?” I answered back, “I am sandeep. We are on NH-24, Near Rahul Vihar. The person on the other side said, “You wait there. we will reach there within 5 minutes.”

Sharmaji told me briefly about his life, his family and his mission. The 1947 partition. He told me that to protect the Hindus, he has embraced Sikhism. At that time, the chief-minister of J&K was Mr.Gulam nabi Azad. He also expressed his views on Him, Hindus of Jammu and as well as Kashmiri Pandits. Soon, his local team traced us.

The local-team were all motor-cyclists. There were at least 20 motor bikes. Each bike carrying two persons. Many of them had Swords in their hands, which they waved at us and at each other with enthusiasm .A person came close to the window of our car. He said to Sharmaji, “Please follow us. we are nearby to the venue of the program. Sharmaji nodded his head in approval and said, “Alright. By the way he is Sandeep koulji. He is an uprooted hindu from Kashmir”, as he pointed towards me. The person’s faced beamed with glee as he said, “ Sandeeji, welcome. you please attend our program.”I did not wanted to attend, as politics was not my cup of tea. But on the behest of Sharmaji, I agreed.

Soon, we reached “Agarsen-chowk”-our venue. Hundreds of supporters had already gathered there. As the crowd saw us, they raised their hands in the air and chanted loud, “Jai shri Ram”, “Bharat Mata ki jai”.I alighted from the car. Sharmaji too followed me. With folded hands(namaskar), he greeted the crowd. Many people rushed towards him and touched his feet in reverence. Many people mistook me for some leader and touched my feet too. Sharmaji was used to this treatment but I was not. I was blushing, feeling embarrassed. I tried to gently push away the crowd, touching my feet.

Sharmaji went up to the podium. I sat down on a chair. But the associates of Sharmaji insisted me to sit on the podium alongside Sharmaji. Before the actual program started, An announcer announced about the program. He spoke about many issues pertaining to Hindus. At last he said, “Today, a special guest has come with Sharmaji .A kashmiri pandit refugee from Kashmir.I request my colleagues to felicitate both of them.”A line of his associates garlanded Sharmaji and me. Though, I had started enjoying the attention, But, Clearly I was not prepared for this impromptu.

Soon, Many speakers spoke in length about the infiltration on the Hindu culture. Examples were cited from the history. Many tales of the 1947 genocide were told poignantly. The mass-exodus of Kashmiri pundits was also cited. “See, how pathetic, the lives of Kashmiri Pandits have become. You can ask our Kashmiri pandit brother here. ”a speaker said. And everybody spoke about Kashmiri Hindus .Each time, Kashmiri Hindus were spoken of, a finger was pointed towards me. Frankly speaking, I was feeling as if I am a culprit.

A member of the organizing team came up to me and said in a low-voice, “you too say something. It will have a very good impact on the listeners.” Their- pointing- fingers –at- me had already made me feel guilty. An object that is loathsome-yet important(this holds true even today). So, I humbly turned down his offer. I went up to Sharmaji and took his permission to leave. He told me to be in touch with him and gave me his mobile number.

I was in touch with him for some time. He even introduced me to some people. Out of those people, I am still in touch with few , even today. I somehow lost the number of Sharmaji some years back. But, whenever, I recall that incident, I end up with a Grin. And I am reminded that indeed, “Tragedy is the biggest comedy.”

Saving my Rakhi Brother-2nd and last part

Soon after Ashok and his family left for Jammu, many more Kashmiri Pandits followed their footsteps. By the Mid-spring most of my KP neighbors had left for an alien land. “Raina’s” and “Dhar’s” had gone, so had “Saproo’s” , “Tickoo’s” and “Bhat’s”.My family and the “saraf’s” were the only KP family left in our neighborhood. Most of the time I and my family members were confined indoors because of the activities of the militants and also because Army was patrolling our area almost 24*7. The peal of the neighborhood temple Bell too was silent.

Hamida was still visiting me, though not that frequently. Her wits were still alive, but I could feel something amiss in her normal behavior. One fine day, I asked her , “Hamida, from last few days, I am feeling as if you are not your usual self. Is everything O.k?” She nodded her head in disapproval and said, “Nothing! I am just fine.”, and looked straight in my eyes. Then something happened. She held my hand and pulled me up from the Sofa. “come to the next room, I want to tell you something” she said. Ever since she had told me about the incidence of Ashok; I took every word of her seriously. And then she whispered, “Everything is not fine Didda, things are becoming worse and I doubt It will get only worst. Shabbir, my brother, has advised me not to meet you or any other KP for that matter.” I asked, “But why?”. “Read between the lines, Didda. You are my dear friend and I don’t want anybody to harm you or your family. I think you too should move out of the valley for the time being” said she in a pensive mood. And she left immediately after that. I never saw her after that.

I had to get curd from the “Ismail goor”(Ismail-the milkman).His shop was hardly 100 meters away from my house. I was thinking about my last interaction with Hamida. It was around noon. Ismail’s son Khalid was rolling down the shutters of his shop. I said to him, “ Don’t roll down the shutters, first give me half a Kg of curd.”He said in a rude tone, “Didda, go back to your home quickly.”And looked at me. His looks were threatening. I almost ran back to my house.I was angry at Khalid. My late father had taught him to read and write. He had given him free tuitions and helped him to secure a Govt. Job. He was like a family member to us all. During all these years he had never ever misbehaved with me.

As, I was thinking about the incidence, I heard a loud deafening explosion outside. I ran out to see what happened! I could only see dust and smoke at a distance .My younger brother Ramesh was running from the opposite direction. He held my hand firmly and almost dragged me back to our house. Without my asking, he said, “A bomb exploded just near “Ismail Goor’s” Shop. I was bewildered and scared.

By the evening, everything was normal. I still hadn’t bought curd. I was someone, who would not eat a meal without curd. I went again to the shop of Ismail. The shutters were still down. I decided to go to Ismail’s house and get the curd. His house was just 50 meters away from my house and I had gone there “N” number of times. He had a cowshed at the ground floor of his house and I directly went inside the shed. I shouted “Khalid, Ismailsaab, are you there?”. Khalid quickly came from nowhere. Anger was written all over his face. He pushed me back as he said, “ you mad girl ! what are you doing here. Get out of here.” Even during this commotion, I clearly saw at least 6 strange faces, ducked in between the bovines. It looked as if they were in a hiding. I came back disappointed. During night, I could not sleep for a long time. I was thinking about Hamida, Khalid and the bomb blast.

It was a moonlit night. And Sleep was still miles away. I opened the window of my room .My room was on the first floor and the windows opened towards the compound. The compound was flanked on two sides by our neighbor’s houses . There was an eight foot high by two feet wide wall securing our compound just opposite my room. The roof of compound wall was covered with slanting tin sheets, so that the snow will not accumulate on the top and will fall down smoothly. A cool breeze was blowing outside. The moon looked stunning. I was about to close the window when an image appeared behind the compound wall. I was scared. I hid myself, but I was still peeping outside the window. He was standing on the wall. I could see him clearly. He was a tall guy about 6 feet. He looked more like an Afgani than a Kashmiri. He was talking to someone on the other side of the wall, whom I could not see. I could hear him clearly . He was speaking Afgani or pushto or any other language but Kashmiri. I was scared to death and was sure that they had come to kidnap me.

Suddenly, someone started stoning my house as well as the compound wall. The sound was piercing the silence of the night and was enough to jolt the whole neighborhood and wake them up from their deep sleep. The stoning also alerted the army men outside the street. I could hear the trample of the boots of the armymen. The intruder too got confused and jumped back to the street. I had a sigh of relief.

Next morning, as I was passing by the shop of “Ismail Goor”, I spotted Khalid sitting in his shop. I was angry at him and tried to ignore him. “Didda, come here”, he said. Though I wanted to avoid him, but I still went up to him. He spoke to me in a cautious low voice. “I have been trying to caution you and your family. I cautioned you before the bomb explosion. I wanted you to go out of the cow-shed yesterday as they(militants) were hiding there and could have harmed you. And It was I Didda who stoned your house yesterday to raise an alarm against those Afganis. I am sorry, I could not inform you earlier as I too fear for my and my family’s life. I beg you to leave this place as soon as possible, for your safety and honor. Now leave this place and act as if nothing has happened. You too are under the surveillance of Militants.”I composed my calm, bought my last curd in Kashmir and went back to my house.

I narrated everything to my Brothers and my mother. We all decided to leave ASAP and come back once the things settle. A taxi was arranged by my Brothers. We only took some clothes and some important papers with us. By 7.00p.m we were at Jammu. We went to our Uncle’s place in Talab tiloo, jammu.

23 years have passed by. The return is still elusive. Who would have thought that KP’s as a community will be scattered emotionally and physically all over the Globe. Who would have thought, the alien land will become so familiar that our own motherland Kashmir will look like an stranger to us. But It has happened.

somebody has rightly said “Truth is stranger than fiction”….

Narrated by-Mrs. Seema Kaul(Didda)

The dilemma of an old KP-A short story

March 1990, Jammu, Pandit Janki nath alighted from the truck, along with his tenants at Rehari Chungi. The 75 year old Kashmiri pandit had nowhere to go. His Kp tenants, the brothers, Ramesh and Rakesh urged him to accompany them. He did not protest .They were not carrying much luggage. He was carrying a Bag containing some clothes and some important documents pertaining to his property in Kashmir. The brothers were carrying a couple of suitcases. Ramesh and his younger brother Rakesh took him to their relative’s place at Govt. Quarters, Subash nagar. There was a visible sign of relief on their faces for they had cheated the Death that was preying Kashmiri pandits in the valley of Kashmir.

Though, tired, Janki nath could not sleep. He recalled his home, back at Habba Kadal. It was just 6 months back that Ramesh and Rakesh had shifted their base to Srinagar and had rented a couple of rooms in his house. The two brothers had recently joined the Govt. services. The elder brother Ramesh was married recently while Rakesh was a bachelor. Originally they were from Anantnag. Ramesh was working with the irrigation department while Rakesh was a Govt. teacher.Apart from the Brothers, there was another KP family from Badgam who had rented three rooms.

He also recalled how his wife had left for the heaven after a brief illness, couple of years back. His daughter-his only child, Lalita, had proved to be his support during those tough times. His wife Prabhawati and he had spent 50 years together. She was a good wife and a wonderful mother. She was the daughter of a landlord from Baramullah. A lively person who loved kashmiri songs. He recalled how she sang some of the verses of Lal-Ded. In the pitch black night, He also remembered his wife’s favorite song and he whispered that song with a sigh, ”Kathyu chuk Nund bane, waloo mashooq mayne”(where are you my beloved!come my beloved.).

Jankinath was the son of a wealthy landlord. He had spent his childhood in opulence. He was the only male-child among six siblings. He could not read beyond class 1 or 2. Nobody knew for sure whether he could read hindi or urdu, But he had memorized many of the Bhajans(devotional songs).He also knew how to use a jantrii(hindu calendar).

His days of opulence did not last long as a couple of reforms by the state government were announced that affected Kashmiri pundits the most.Most of the lands were taken away from KP’s under the scheme. From many years now, his only source of income was from the rent he obtained from his two houses in Habba Kadal area.

The life of Janki nath was flashing before his eyes. He was sure that he will return to his home in Kashmir, once the violence subsides.

But that proved to a Dream. He was never to return his home ever.

Janki nath was a man of honour. He did not lived with his daughter Lalitha deliberately, as it was considered unethical in Kashmir to live with one’s daughter’s family. He along with Ramesh and Rakesh shifted to Geeta Bhavan for a brief period. They got themselves registered as migrants with the govt. agencies. He visited his daughter once a week, but never stayed overnight. His son-in-law and granddaughters Neetu and Nidhi pleaded many times to stay with them forever, but he always declined.

Life was tough for Jankinath. He could not follow a word that was spoken to him by the Dogras-the people of jammu. And His hindi/Urdu was almost impossible to be understood by the Dogras. So he would gesticulate and use Single words to express himself or reach from one place to another. It was a tough task and sometimes it was humiliating. In fact he was subjected to chagrin many a times by the locals.

After a month or so, he was allocated a tent at Misriwala, Jammu. It was a small tent may be 10feet by 10 feet. He was also promised by the govt. relief agencies, that he will be paid a dole of 800Rs/month till his return to Kashmir. His only consolation was that he was not alone as hundreds of KP’s were with him in that refugee camp. The other consolation was a canal with ice cold water from river Chenab, that was running just across the road.In fact, he cherished taking a bath in the canal in the hot summers of Jammu.

His immediate neighbour Rattan lal from pulwama, too was a victim of terrorism. He had a big family for a relatively small tent that consisted of his wife ,two daughters ,a son and daughter-in-law. Jankinath during the course of time became very fond of him and his family.

His first night in the Tent was horrible. It was like a bad dream. Though he had bought a fan, but it was not enough. He could get a little relief intermittently, when the hot blow from the fan hit his sweat -drenched body. It would take another fifteen or twenty minutes before he would sweat again. And the fan cool-off his body again.

He would often imagine to be at his home in Habba Kadal in company with his late wife. He would imagine talking to Prabha. He would recall the good old times spent with her. And many a times he would sing in a low whisper the song,”Katyu chuk nund bane,waloo mashooq maine”(where are you my beloved, come my beloved).It used to give him a feeling that will be associated with a thirsty traveler who has suddenly found an oasis.

He brazenly faced the horrid summer , the sultry monsoon and the bone-chilling winters in his dwelling-the tent. He would visit his daughter at Bakshni Nagar once a week. He had also started visiting swami Mastram at paloura. Initially, he would visit once a week, later on he would stay put at the ashram for days or even weeks leaving his tent in the care of his new neighbors. His neighbors always obliged him.

This schedule continued for 6 years.

Janki nath was 81 years now. Ramesh, his erstwhile tenant had died of a cardiac arrest at a young age of 38 years. The tragedy of living as a refugee with little or no social life, and the penury had taken a toll on the health of Janki nath as well. His shining face had turned cadaverous. His back and shoulders had arched downwards. The sun burn had left many dark brown patches on his face. And the thick lenses of his spectacles accentuated his already big eyes.

Both his Grand daughters were studying professional degree courses outside the state of J&K. He used to long for them and loved them more than anything. They used to visit him after every semester exam, each semester lasting for six months. As a man of pride, he used to give them some pocket money. Though, every time they used to decline the money , but finally they had to give up as he insisted with authority. They knew in their hearts that by accepting the money, which used to be a 500 rupee note each, they are in fact respecting his honour.

He used to get some ration and money under the relief scheme that Government of India was running for the migrants of Kashmir. To give the pocket money to his grand-daughters and to give customary gifts to his daughter on the occasions like shiv ratri, jankinath had become a miser or an ascetic .He neglected many of his desires in order to save some money. This austerity was debilitating him physically also.

After a couple of years, His both grand-daughters started working with a company at Delhi. To assist them, his daughter and son-in-law also moved to Delhi. They requested many times to Janaki nath to come with them. But as usual, he declined their offer.

His heart always wanted to go with them. In fact in 1990, when the circumstances forced him to leave his home and come to jammu, He wanted to remain with his daughter and grand-daughters. But his pride always stopped him. All his life, he had lived with pride. He had lived 83 years of his life with honor. Even in depilated tents, his flag of self-respect furled high.

But something changed, when his daughter moved to Delhi.

His daily routine was not the same as before. The pain of separation from his only family in old age was hard to bear. For the first time, he was in such a dilemma. Should he go to Delhi or should he stay at Jammu? for whom should he stay in jammu? He could not decide. He knew the inner feelings of his heart, but decided,not to heed to his heart. It was not as easy as he had thought.

After a few weeks of emotional confusion, one day ,Supinely, in his tent, he started conversing with Prabha in whispers.”Tell me Prabha, should I go?” Prabha said,” Yes, you should go”, “what will the society say?”he asked. She said,” which society, you are talking about! There is no-one dear. Most of your friends are dead. Those who are alive are staying with their children. Why shouldn’t you too stay with Lalita ? Go to Delhi tomorrow. You have the address of her. Give her a surprise” .

He thought for some time, long time, very long time and then He said,” yes, you are right Prabha. I too must go”.

Early morning, He was seen by Rattanlal with a bag. He looked happy. He was humming a song . He crossed the road and waited at the Bus stop. Suddenly his neighbour saw him mowed down by a Bus. Rattanlal raised an alarm and rushed to his rescue. All his neighbours reached to the spot in a moment. He was laying there motionless in a puddle of blood. He was shifted to SMGS hospital immediately by his neighbours.

Some people say, he deliberately jumped in front of the bus, Others say it was an accident.But whatever said and done, He alone knew the answers.

Next day, early morning Rattan lal bought the local 8 Paged newspaper. There was a news of jankinath in page no-6.It read that an 83 year old migrant died of a Road accident. Rattanlal’s eyes became moist. He recalled the last time when he saw Jankinath. He tried hard to recall, the song that jankinath was humming. And instantly Rattanlal whispered the last words he had heard from him. On his last day, Jankinath was heard ,singing ,”Kathyu chuk nundbaane, walo mashooq maine”(where are you my beloved? Come my beloved).