Source: HoB
The Kashmir that I grew up in was different– whenever I close my eyes, I can see the gorgeous Chinar tree, the Dudhganga river, and the Bhairav temple lit all year round. I grew up in a close-knit Pandit family of 18 members in my ancestral home. But in 1989, everything changed–bandhs had become the norm; we’d have strikes every alternate day.
A Kashmiri Pandit judge was gunned down–we were too slow to understand why we were being targeted. The family elders speculated–Dad would say, ‘Maybe because they were in high positions?’ Thathyaji, my grandfather, guessed, ‘They must’ve clashed with politicians.’ The first blow struck us when a relative was shot dead by terrorists in broad daylight. Still, nobody had the slightest suspicion that a conspiracy was being hatched to wipe out an entire race.
On the 19th of Jan 1990, there was an announcement at the Mosque. I was in my room, preparing for my medical entrance test, when Chacha came running into my room, switched off the lights and sat in the corner, shivering. The rest of my family followed; we huddled together in pitch darkness. Then, we heard the announcement clearly–
‘Kashmir Liberation, Zindabad. We have to wipe out all the Hindus from Kashmir. We want our land to be free from Hindu men; the men must go and leave their women for us.’
As thousands of Kashmiri Muslims poured into the streets shouting ‘Death to India’, ‘Death to kafirs’, Chacha broke the silence–‘Koi nahi bachega.’ People immediately began fleeing–I didn’t even realise when we’d become a minority in our own land. We should’ve vacated immediately, but Thathyaji had faith–‘We’ve been living with them for so long, they won’t let us down,’ he’d say. But then, the Bhairav Mandir opposite our house was vandalized. Warnings were scribbled on the walls– ‘Anyone wanting to live here will have to convert to Islam.’
As time passed, concealing our identity of being Hindus became our only resort. Whenever Mom or Nani went out, they’d wipe off their sindoor. Dad stopped wearing Janeyus, our holy thread. Then on Shivratri, a young bank employee was killed in front of a hundred people. Later, a neighbour told us how it had happened–‘Till his last breath, the mob kept hitting him…they were urinating on him till he choked.’
In panic, my Chacha tried to convince us to go with him to Chandigarh. But Dad was adamant–‘This is our home, why should we leave?’ But Chacha somehow convinced Dad to take me, my other uncle and aunt with him. When he asked me to pack my bags, I asked–‘When will we come back?’ To which he said, ‘Maybe never.’ Those words still echo in my mind. We had no time for goodbyes. Past midnight, Chacha booked a taxi with a trusted driver and we left. The only thing I remember from that evening was Dad standing at the door, waving helplessly as our taxi faded into the night. I never saw him again.