Flight from mArtANDamandira

“namastae Sharadae Devi kaashmeera puravaasini

tvaamaham praarthayae nityam vidyaadaanam cha daehi mae…”

Dr. Aditi Chauhan, Author of “Saffron: the colour of Kashmir” recited these evocative lines at her unique book release function today, held befittingly in the vicinity of Sharda Peeth, amongst a select august audience of Kashmiri Pandits, who trekked along with her to this sacred spot, to raise awareness amongst youth, of the surviving cultural heritage of this region. While paying tribute to the Goddess of Knowledge, Sharada Devi, who has blessed the land to be the seat of learning for centuries, Dr. Chauhan spoke of the traditional university it once was, frequented by Hindus for aeons from all over the sub-continent in search of rare texts or a long lost commentary of an obscure work. After a short reading of a passage from her book, she concluded her talk by a clever wordplay on the title of her newly published work, saying that kesar was not alien to Kashmir, it had been in use for making kumkum, in preparing Ayurvedic medicines, in embellishing cuisines, as well as in being a much sought after export commodity, for a long time now, so this outcry against saffronisation of Kaashmeera Pradesha was a bid by the erstwhile power grabbers to relegate Kashmir’s economy back to dependency and loans. The average Kashmiri was so much more aware now, s/he could no longer be taken for a ride by a few families acting on their behalf to their detriment, as in the past.

Aditi was not someone who would normally cause riots, yet she had. And this is how:

The riots in the town of Mattan have continued unabated for the past three days, two police constables have sustained injuries in subsequent stone-pelting, and a civilian has been taken to the nearest military hospital in critical condition. The situation is tense but under control. Clashes erupted between two communities a few days ago when an idol was found in the ruins of Martand, an ancient Hindu site from 479 B.C.E., later renovated by the famous King Lalitaditya Muktapida of the Karkota dynasty in the 8th cent. C.E. This used to be a Hindu Temple dedicated to the Sun God. Mattan saw a heavy influx of pilgrims and tourists from all parts of the country last month wanting to participate in this miracle. The idol was found installed overnight, garlanded with fresh flowers. Incense and other pooja items were also found in the vicinity. After a video by a visitor went viral on Youtube, devotees kept vigil to guard their deity from miscreants. Threats to destroy it started making rounds on Social Media soon after. Business was booming in the tiny town of Mattan, recently in news for its unique grape cultivation methods, after years of lull in the economy, until the bomb-blast last Tuesday, which reduced the idol to smithereens. No separatist group has claimed this heinous act yet. Local youth, and students from Anantnag, the larger town 5 kms away, are protesting in large numbers to prevent pilgrims from visiting the holy site as they fear retaliation and escalation in violence. They are demanding that the area they refer to as Shaitan ki Gufa be cordoned off and ……..

Aditi stood in front of the crystal clear blue-green waters mesmerized. The skies teared up too, to keep her company. She was lost in the beauty of the place, so taken in that she hardly noticed the broken heads of the various murtis dotting the octagonal niches, nor the shivlinga awaiting her acknowledgement. Small fish jumped up to the surface of the nag to play with her teardrops. The chinars that formed the backdrop of the open-air temple sighed at her fate. It was hopeless they told her, making whooshing sounds. The gurgling waters that carried the solitary maple leaves to their soul-mates understood her pain…would she want a ride too, they seemed to ask. Two men in drab coloured phirens walked by in the outer enclosure. No, she was not threatened or scared by their presence, they seemed gentle enough, old-world almost. Except for the Quit Kashmir, India Go Back scribbles on some of the walls, she felt the most at peace here in Verinag. Not so in Srinagar where she was merely another ‘Indian’ to be fleeced. Here, she could think. This is where goddess Vitasta wanted to emerge from, and Aditi could well appreciate why, she too would want to be born of this spring, transparent, ever bubbling, overflowing with joy. This home of the Neela naga comforted her in a strange mysterious way. Back from her reverie, she knew why. This is where her parents had stood a quarter of a century ago, in black and white, their happiness enveloped in an embryo. She could be silent here, she could be with herself, converse with that which was lying dormant. Her subconscious which was dreading this confrontation tried to look away, it looked at the arches of the arcade around her, at the small school kids in shalwars and hijabs collecting autumn leaves, at her cell phone for that much-awaited SMS, at the sun-rays taking a peek through the yellow-gold of the trees, calling her to take the right decision.

Aditi tried hard not to, but it had to take place one day. Better here where the sacred waters are your witness than in a crowded soulless city of Delhi where she was visiting from, nor in a town whose soul had been smeared with raliv galiv tchaliv; Srinagar. Did she really want this land to be her sasuraal? Land, yes. People, no. The little that she had seen, the little that she had experienced, it pained her deeply. While her love transcended all barriers, and she was holding onto only this magnificent fact, what she was getting in exchange was a complete overhaul of her identity, her being. Was it even worth it? Here she was, willing to overlook history, overlook her classmate’s lived experience, her parents’ memories, her own observations, to give love a chance to bloom in an unknown landscape, to give peaceful coexistence a home to flower in, in what would be her marital haven, yet what she was sensing from the other end was that despite her practising kshama and shanti, despite her going out of her way to be accepting of all differences and celebrating the diversity between them, there was distrust, there was dislike, and most importantly there was institutionalised derision.

How I wish I could flow along with no agenda….with no wanting or desiring…how I wish you were with me right now sharing this majestic scene, how I wish you could be magnanimous enough to brush away temporal distinctions. Shrugging off her foolish hopes, Aditi hit her heart a few times to make the terrible ache in her chest go away. She had trusted him despite all warnings, all advice, all proofs to the contrary. She had been vigilant, kept her wits about her, just in case. Having read so many cases of love jihad victims, she was not willing to be woolly eyed like most girls her age, there was an agenda for sure and it was not a conspiracy theory, there were enough numbers, there was enough proof out there to ignore such horrific happenings. But here was a man who had made it to the top of the ranks of the bureaucracy, through the UPSC, through the whole system which must have surely vetted him, yet…yet they had missed the fact that he had been married before? How? None of his batchmates seemed to know of her existence, this wife of his. They had definitely not mentioned this fact in Aditi’s presence.

Her heart heavy, her throat stuck with inexpressible feelings, she felt a slight hope that maybe she had misunderstood, perhaps he was not really married, it must be so. No. She had seen the album, the photos, and she had talked to his school friend who was excited that Mustafa was marrying again. Again. It had taken a lot of resolve and strength on her part to be reticent and not go probing after the wife. His wife. Saying that aloud in her head made her dizzy. Why had he lied to her? Why not be honest? In this day and age! There had been no children, so why this secrecy? Worse, he had always acted as though she was his one and only. And she had believed him. So Stupid.

All the tables are taken, not an empty spot to be found, her hands full of books, Aditi smiled wanly at the spiffily dressed man nearest to her, “Do you mind?”, and laid them next to his empty cup, dropping a few on the floor inadvertently. She had heard that Cafe Turtle was very popular, although it seemed to her that Delhi was suffering from a dearth of good book stores and hang out joints, everyone and anyone seemed to be here, in this tiny cramped space. He picked up the books from the floor with his left hand, she noted this with a hint of disapproval, and dusted them, and placed them neatly on the table after wiping it fastidiously with his right hand, “Please..” he said getting up, “do sit down, I was leaving anyway”. Aditi sized him up, affluent, educated, worldly-wise, and more importantly, he had continued in perfect accented English, “that is one of my favourite books too, Camus, am never sure if I pronounce it right ..one can never tell with the French can you….such a wonderful writer…..wish I could write like him..have you read…” That is how it had started. “Aditi” she said extending her hand, “soft ‘d’ and soft ‘t’ haan, not like how some Delhiites pronounce my name..as though they have never heard it before…it is not that uncommon na..although I like my name coz it is not too common..I mean..” she blushed and stopped when she saw him look at her quizzically, amused, caught midway between leaving the space and offering her the chair. His eyes spoke to her, and she felt good in her being. Delhi’s pollution did not seem to bother her today, not at this magical moment.

Their common interest in books, reading, and writing, had brought them together. Or so she thought. Perhaps it was part of a plan. Her mother’s warnings rang in her head as a faint echo. The poor among them kidnap directly, the middle-class among them fool you with false identities, but the rich among them just blind you with their cosmopolitan veneer. A made-up ersatz veneer. Beneath that dashing debonair form is a heart that actually believes that a kaffir will go to hell and that idolatry is the worst sin.

A man who reads Camus, drinks champagne and wine, dresses perfectly for every occasion, a man who makes you tremble, makes you look good among your friends, who speaks with a self-assuredness, a subtle suaveness that can make any woman feel safe, a fellow countryman in training to be a diplomat, when he says that his name is Mustafa, you let it slide. You believe in him and what he tells you, “DeeTee, this is the 21st century, what counts is class, not religion or caste or whatever..see how easily we struck a chord..background matters, education matters ..family will come around eventually….”. Much as she wanted to believe in him, in what he was saying, and in how he was convincing her, she knew that this was a relationship that her family would never ever accept. Not after how her father had died. Yet, her heart reasoned, not everyone is the same, plus she trusted herself, and her love for him, that would surely transform him, make him appreciate how much was at stake, he had to notice how hard it was for her to be with him, and how hard she was trying to fit in, into this circle of his. Surely he would take a few steps towards her, towards her beliefs and customs too, wouldn’t he?

Her mother, of course, called every week to check on her, and the fact that she had not confided in her about Mustafa should have been a red herring, “……haaaaaaan…am eating, sleeping studying on time, not going out alone, not going out at night at all….daada daadi ko pyaar….muaaah!” Ma was the ideal bahu, despite losing her husband twenty years ago, Ma continued to serve his parents, with love and care of a newly married bride, a bride whose husband loved her dearly, but was far away….somewhere…never to return. Her mother had wanted to leave the town where her husband had been murdered, but her in-laws would not leave the land that their ancestor Ajaypal Chauhan had founded, nor their family haveli, or their kuldevi Chamunda, so that was that, it would be Ajayameru then, where her last rites would be performed.

It was not clear if Aditi’s father was dead or alive, he was last seen saving a young girl from molesters, as per a newspaper report, after which some say he was spotted walking into the Ajmer Sharif Dargah angrily, some say a few men beat him up and carried him away…the plot was never unravelled, and hung like a mystery novel half complete in their house. Growing up, Aditi had always felt that oppressive guilt and pain of losing her father in such terrible circumstances, if only she had not insisted that they visit the Taragarh fort on that fateful day, apparently she had been jumping around mouthing “fort fort fort”, and her father bemused by his precocious child had complied by driving her there on his motorbike along with his wife. The base of the fort is where the famed dargah is, and that is when her father had spotted a girl being assaulted in broad daylight, right near it.

None of this would have happened but for his fatherly love, she was only five, what did she know of Anwar Chisty, Farooq Chisty, Nafis Chisty and others who were simply too powerful to confront, what did she know of her bold father who did not let such trivial matters deter him, he had fought battles on the border after all! So like a brave Rajput, he went ahead, bash on regardless, and disappeared into oblivion. She was proud that her father had been the first to raise his voice against such an atrocity, even so, he was not here with her now, to guide her, to be her protector when she needed him. She was all alone, left to fend for herself. It did ache acutely at times.

Aditi did not know of the terrible past of Ajmer growing up until much later, a past to which she had lost her father to, a much-decorated military man, a Chauhan who would not merely watch a young girl being coerced in front of him, he had to intervene. Ajmer became a town of ill-repute soon after, for the infamous blackmail scandal that rocked the city out of slumber, hundreds of Hindu women caught in a rape racket by the politically influential members of the khadem khaandaan. Her father had stepped in to safeguard a woman’s honour, one of their victims, and that was his death warrant. From newspaper clippings that her mother hid from her, from frantic online searches, from talking to seniors in Sophia College and plain and simple dogged research, Aditi had pieced together information of what might have transpired on that day. She blamed herself again and again, and also her kuldevi for failing them, for leaving her mother and grandmother in such a sorry state, such devout women too, who despite everything held on to their traditional ways and held their head high, even while passing through the khadem mohalla. Sometimes her grandmother would wander into that area looking for her long lost son, and some kind neighbour would bring her back home, the whole town knew their family of course, knew of the terrible tragedy that had befallen them too, but no one dared say anything out aloud in support.

Aditi’s only solace while growing up fatherless was to look at the albums that her mother had painstakingly put together, of every precious memory of their happy togetherness, when they were like any other normal family. The last time they were caught carefree and together on camera was in Kashmir. Aditya had insisted that his wife join him in Srinagar for a few months, despite the fact that it was a field posting for him then. And what a time they had had! Ma would regale her with stories of their various impromptu motorcycle drives to Dachigam, picnics by the Lidder, and treks to the various Nags, there was a black and white photo of Verinag with her parents in the foreground smiling gaily, looking sweet and much in love, in which her father had scribbled at the back, ‘We are going to be parents!’, Aditi would read that sentence again and again for some clue ..some message that he might have left for her…his only daughter, his only child. I was conceived in Srinagar, Kashmir. Soon after, Ma moved back to Ajmer with her in-laws, as her father was literally at the border most of the time-fighting insurgents.

Not wanting the past to affect her daughter, Mrs Chauhan, w/o late Lt.Col.Aditya Chauhan, forced Aditi to leave Ajmer for Delhi, to make a future for herself. Aditi had been preparing for Civils even during her college days at Sophia, and that was part of the attraction, the success of the one who spoke Kashmiri and who was a Muslim, the attraction of the unknown and the forbidden. That he had completed his probationary training at the Foreign Service Institute and was now working the desk at the MEA was just as well. He was soon to be gone serving some Indian Mission abroad, a reflection of her dream too.

It became an unsaid rendezvous, the rooftop at Cafe Turtle. Aditi would wait anxiously pacing up and down the stairs, to catch a glimpse of him, was he coming this Saturday or did he have other diplomat-y stuff to do. From the bookshelves to the street, and then back up to the cafe to drink a quick ginger tea to quench her excitement, to quell her eager anticipation. A visit to the loo to adjust hair, clothes, look. And then again at the table for two, their table. Until she would see his silhouette glide past her, when her heart stopped, her breath caught in her throat, and she would exhale with deliberation, a sigh of relief known only to those who have given of themselves completely. And just as quickly she would transform from a delicate flower pining for a bee to catch her heavenly fragrance, to a no-holds-barred-political junkie.

“What is your problem with Amarnath? Why can’t the J&K government give more land to build facilities for pilgrims?” Mustafa, always taken aback at her innocent direct questioning, answered with equal straightforwardness, “…they trash the pristine mountains, the type of the pilgrims who visit the cave are very different from …I don’t know. ..umm….in other temple towns… it is a different class of devotees….all kinds of people come here you know, and it just disturbs the peace and quiet of the place…I have trekked there, it is indeed a very powerful space….” He never brought in any religious angle, and she was always on high alert to catch that when it came.

Soon her defences dropped and she got used to his eccentric and unique way of looking at things. Aditi grew to love this man, wanting a future with him. They matched in their goals, they complimented each other in their interests, even her friends who were initially reluctant to even hear about him said so after meeting Mustafa. “If you can convince your mother and grandparents… he seems to be really smart and nice…lucky you…” It was definitely cool and kind of rebellious although that had not been her intention at all. She could also sense the curious glances and the stamp of approval from his crowd at their inter-religious pairing. They seemed to be a showcase of sorts for secularism. She cherished the fact that they both would be serving their country, the government, to the best of their abilities.

The Army has been called out in the towns of Anantnag and Mattan, as the agitations have turned violent with many youngsters participating in daily stone-pelting against the police officials, causing the death of five policemen and also a few children caught unfortunately in the crossfire. Their demand is that the ASI protected monument of Martand be shut off for public use since it is disturbing the peace in the valley. Their official press release said that this incident has caused more harm than good, that idol worship is against their local culture. They do not mind the occasional film shooting which helps the economy of the land and brings in tourism, but they do not want the pristine site to be revived as a Hindu temple. This is haraam, said one of the protesters not wishing to be identified. For the past one month skirmishes in the obscure town of Mattan brought it to international limelight as Martand saw one after another numerous murties of Surya Dev appearing miraculously in the garbha griha (sanctum sanctorum) of this long-abandoned quarter. Just as the idols are being destroyed or broken, a new idol is taking its place with bigger fanfare.

From the start, their relationship had been devoid of any pretence, Aditi would come to Khan Market via her weekly visit to the Kali Bari near her PG digs, and offer him prashaad, and Mustafa would gladly accept saying, “For an atheist it does not matter where his ladoos are coming from as long as they keep coming….next week get me some of those..you know the dry rasgullas….right …just gollas..those….” There had not been any facade between them, no mind games, no catch-me-if-you-can, blow hot blow cold vibes that her friends always worried about. She felt so fortunate and so elated. She had missed having a father in her life, a male figure to lean on and look up to, and this Kashmiri man, god sent, filled up her emptiness. Aditi you come from the line of Prithviraj Chauhan, is this the best you could do! Just because you lost your dad when you were barely five. Who could warn her though? Her own internal warning system had been disabled because she had let her heart run away, neglecting all history, and all precedence, worse, she knew of every danger that lay on this path, she was well aware of the landmines ahead, and yet.

Mustafa noticed with irritation nearly 10 -15 missed calls from Aditi. She must have come back from Srinagar. If he did not pick up this time she would hound him all the way to South Block, better to get it over with. To his shock and utter surprise, Nisar had called him yesterday, eager to congratulate, revealing Aditi’s whereabouts and much else, all with good intentions. “So, did you get to see anything at all apart from police check posts and men in uniform?” he questioned her mockingly, not to be outdone, Aditi kept her anger and sorrow in check and let out a sarcastic, “Given that Geelani and Masarat Alam between them have called for a bandh almost everyday, no”. She continued her know-it-all tone to hide her disappointment, “By the way saw your wedding pictures at Nisar’s house, did not realize Kashmiri Muslim Weddings have so much music and dancing….is that common…?”. Not to be outdone Mustafa gave it back to her, “I wouldn’t know, have been married just once, not four times as you might assume”. Exhausted with the forced volley, the charade went silent. Each of them breathing into their phones, waiting. As usual, Aditi gave in but not without a fight, “Are there others too waiting in the wings that I should know of?” He matched up with a dismissive, “Variety is always exciting DeeTee, try it yourself sometime, stop being such a prude”. And that was that. No sorry, no apology, no assurances or any information about this ‘wife’ of his. All she knew is what Nisar bhaiyya had told her, which was very little.

Two days ago, before coming to Verinag, Aditi had requested to visit the Shankaracharya Temple. Nisar, now thinking of Aditi as a potential bhaabhi had agreed to drive her around to a few places. She was surprised at the number of police personnel at the temple entrance. Assuming that Nisar would also be joining her she looked around for him after the security check, but he waved to her from afar where he had parked his car. Odd, she thought and started to climb the steps. There was no one on the way up, except for a stray dog, and some crows flying high. The view from the very top was spectacular, and she tried to spot her houseboat on the Dal from here. The temple priest told her to go to the cave where Adi Shankara had meditated and there Aditi saw a few people who looked like tourists seated on the floor, eyes transfixed on the image before them, she was far too excited to sit still, and ran down the stairs prashaad in hand for Nisar, her palm all sticky from the mishri. “na na.. baabi….aap kao” Refusing her politely, he started the car and continued casually to cover up any awkwardness between them, “no sugar ”.

Where Aditi came from, you did not question what prashaad was made of, you simply accepted whatever was given with reverence. She smiled sweetly at him to make him comfortable, “No, no, I am sorry I should have known, I did not think…I don’t think before I do something…” Nisar accepted her apology immediately as though it was his right! She was taken aback, she had expected him to protest, and to ask for the prashaad, to prove that all was okay between them, and that such religious differences did not matter, but obviously they did, as she was now slowly discovering.

Aditi sank back into her passenger seat looking out at Srinagar passing her by, the car entered what seemed to be an older locality. Ahead of them was a roadblock with more uniformed men perhaps the CRPF, although the press routinely used the word ‘army’ as though the Indian Army had nothing better to do than to maintain civilian peace, their car was stopped, “Delhi se, ….abee Shankaracharya dikaayaa..” The uniformed men peered into the car, seeing Aditi with a tika they nodded to her and asked, “Madam kyaa kaam hai yahaan, akele ho?” they were polite yet firm, Aditi answered extra sweetly, “bhaiyya Srinagar dekhna hai …..”. The men looked at one another, looked at her again and said, “safe nahin hai madam, ghar jao jaldi”, and with that stern warning they let the car pass. Now she could see only narrow alleys and rickety wooden balconies with zoon dubs, Nisar made a few turns, and although she tried to memorize her way from her houseboat, it got too complicated, so she simply surrendered and sat waiting, they passed by a few young boys playing cricket. She could not spot one woman on the road or outside the residences. An eerie quiet paraded these near-empty spaces.

“dekiye baabi Khanqah-e-Moula, very spiritual, sufi place..in memory of Mir Syed Ali Hamadani from Iran”, this was not a part of the itinerary and she had not heard of this place, but if it helped her to know more about the man she was hoping to spend her life with, then of course she must-visit. Nisar said that Mustafa’s family was closely connected to this place, so all the more reason to explore. He tapped her hand and made a gesture with his palm on his forehead, he was asking her to wipe off her tika from the temple! How rude..how could he…but she complied when he said, “..safety ke liye..”. But why should it be so? The car came to a halt outside Shah-e- Hamadan Masjid and Khanqah. This time Nisar accompanied her inside and told her the way to the women’s section which was behind the main hallway. It was a grand wooden structure with iconic khatamband architecture, pyramidical in a typical Kashmiri style. The board at the entrance said, “Only Muslims Allowed”. This completely shocked her. No wonder her bindi was a hindrance. Aditi had never come across any public space in all her limited travels between Ajmer and Delhi which forbade entry based on religion. Nisar did not seem to care, he was not embarrassed by the signage, nor did he feel the need to explain it away. Strange. She peeked into the main hall where only men were allowed, it was carpeted from wall to wall, chandeliers hung high on the ceilings, it was completely bare yet spoke of opulence. Outside was a box for donations and a man sat monitoring the coming and going of people. She heard Nisar say, “Ajmer….IAS….Mustafa…”. She would have corrected him, IAS nahin IFS, but she was too upset with what was slowly unfolding before her, to do so.

Aditi had covered her head as it was September and cold, plus it seemed to avert prying eyes, this had helped her entry. In Ajmer, it was normal for girls to go about on their scooties with their heads covered and hands in long gloves to prevent the scorching heat from burning their skin. She went towards the back in an anti-clockwise direction which seemed all wrong to her, and found the women’s section, and entered. There was no one inside. The back of the building was overlooking the river Jhelum. She felt the thrill of discovering something unknown, the adventure of it filled her with trepidation, at the same time she was miffed at this whole episode of having to wipe off her bindi and that terrible sign keeping Hindus like her out. Why should it be so? Is not God for everyone? Why, in Pushkar anyone and everyone can go into Brahma ji’s temple to have darshan, to the Brahmakund, to the Shaktipeeth, and pay respects to Chamunda, to the devi maata temples on the hillock, she herself had seen many Muslims having picnic lunches on Sundays on the hills, near the temple.

Aditi was not very religious, unlike her mother and grandmother, but she did know a few battle cries evoking shakti which she was fond of and chanted them whenever she felt the need to be brave, so she started in a low voice, ambae hey ambae bhavaani maa…hu ha hu….self conscious, she looked around to check if she had company, seeing that there was no one to witness her discomfort, she sat for a few more minutes fidgeting before she gingerly stepped out into the courtyard. At the back was the river flowing oblivious to human confusions, in no hurry to meet with the ocean, languorously moving about, calling attention to its serpentine beauty as it slid like a snake cutting the city into halves. Aditi viewed two old bridges on either side of where she was standing and was transported to another world, another time. She continued anticlockwise until she found Nisar who was chatting with the young man at the entrance…she wore her shoes quickly…and walked out with a heavy heart. Some things started to make sense. One, when her mother warned her that she must be wary of ‘others’, that there was an unseen ‘us versus them’ divide which Aditi was always trying to bridge, her mother, as usual, had been right. Another, it seemed to her that mere sweet words and love talk would not, could not join that which had been torn asunder by design, and kept separate by deliberation.

“But I want to visit Kashmir ya, Ma has told me sooo much about Srinagar…why can’t we go together? You said your family knows….” Aditi’s Saturday was spoilt when Mustafa failed to show up at their table at Cafe Turtle, this meant she would be eating lunch alone for the third Saturday in a row. He had been out of town on some kind of field training, and now that he was back, he said he needed to finish up some pending work. It seemed to Aditi that he was avoiding her, rethinking if there was to be a them. “DeeTee, this is not going to work. Our worlds are very different, I am an atheist anyway, but you are so strong in your beliefs, this is not going to work I am telling you…” He would not budge from his hard-headed stand, despite her pleadings.

So she had decided to fly herself to Srinagar and learn first hand what these insurmountable obstacles were, what were these man-made factors that could not be overridden, let me look them in the eye, she told herself! She did not inform her flatmates, nor her mother, definitely not Mustafa. Aditi simply walked into the airport and looked for the next flight to Srinagar and bought herself a ticket. She had not planned any of this, her backpack which was always ready for a quick trip to Ajmer, contained two sets of clothes and toiletries, that was all she took with her. When the woman at the counter asked her if she wanted a return ticket booked, she stared at her blankly for a few seconds, and then said, ‘no’.

It was not fair. You cannot make me fall in love with you, knowing fully well the two separate worlds we belong to, you cannot make me believe in you, saying differences don’t matter, only to make a U-turn soon after saying we would not work. I will make it work, you just wait and see. Aditi was determined, she would not let such silly inhibitions on his part spoil what they had, which was really special. Ok.. first things first, where to stay…where to stay…she found a boathouse that she liked, she read the safety ratings for a lone female traveller, and sent an SMS, booking for 2 nights on a whim. She received a call immediately, “Madam, you want taxi from airport? Also sightseeing? We will arrange. You are coming for holiday ..yes? …how many?…..alone! …” he sounded shocked, Adil his name was. His houseboat had some great reviews on Tripadvisor so she went with it. Ceylon it was called. There must definitely be a Kashmir Cafe or some such place in Sri Lanka thought Aditi with amusement. She knew the lure of the unknown very well.

That is when she decided to call Nisar. A few months ago when Mustafa had not been well and she had gone to his quarters to look after him, she heard his phone ring, before she could give it to him lying on the bed with high fever, the phone battery had run out, while putting it to charge she said, ‘Someone called Nisar ….’. Mustafa had asked for her phone immediately, to make a call back to Nisar, his childhood friend. Chatting happily in Kashmiri, which sounded so exotic to her, like a secret that was not to be spoken in public, he hardly looked like a patient in pain.. She had saved Nisar’s number that day for the future…..just in case. All she knew was that he was Mustafa’s classmate in school, and that they had been together even in college, after which Mustafa had moved to Delhi for his Masters, which lead him to prepare for UPSC with the Zakat Foundation India.

“Nisar? bhaiyya…umm… Aditi, Mustafa’s ..ummm friend…are you in Srinagar now? I landed here today, yes just now by the 4.00pm flight..haan ji…no no, Mustafa is not with me ..he couldn’t come …actually ..umm…if you are free ..can we meet..I can explain..”

And so it was that Nisar took on the job of her chauffeur, and tourist guide, and showed her around his city, more like a large town. “So you went to school together! And college too? SP college na?..” Aditi was very excited about finally meeting someone from Mustafa’s childhood, someone who knew him before his foray into the world of bureaucracy. Someone as raw and simple, like Nisar was, it was a delight to chat with him. He had no pretences or airs about him, no unnecessary defences either.

She had not asked for it, but Nisar drove her from the khanqah straight to the Jamia Masjid in Nowhatta, again the strange eeriness, the lack of people on the roads due to the bandh. On entering the precincts devoid of anyone, the beautiful courtyards and numerous columns of the large prayer hall spoke of a time when there might have been only calls to worship and not to war. Almost innocuous if you did not know its history. Looking around Aditi thought to herself, so this is where the slogans to kill kaffirs originated from; convert, flee, or die, this is the place where neighbours and friends were taught to hate their Hindu brethren, the reason why Abhinav Bhan had to run away from his motherland, the reason why he had to grow up in a tent. Her mother had told her of their Pandit friends, the Wanchoos, and the sad fate that had befallen them, not one of the men in their family had managed to escape the wrath of the Islamists, shot dead in broad daylight, merely for being Hindu. Their women and children had been smuggled away to Jammu hurriedly, overnite, entrusting them to Ragnya devi’s care. They had built their lives from scratch, having nothing on their person but clothes when fleeing the mobs. Their lives were made up of sheer grit and determination, despite all the injustices and indignities they had suffered for being unapologetically Hindu, for being patriotic towards their country India, not one of them had turned into a terrorist. Thankfully the Wanchoo sisters made it to Jammu with their honour intact, they were fortunate enough not to fall prey to unmentionable horrors as some others had. What would Nisar say if she asked him a simple question, “Why did Muslim neighbours in Srinagar participate in the genocide of their fellow Kashmiris?”, he would probably deny it outright, just as Mustafa had done. Or blame Jagmohan.

“It was all Jagmohan’s doing, you tell me how did so many army vehicles become available for the Pandits to flee in such a coordinated manner? You think we have not suffered, I wrote exams with bullets flying overhead, that is how I grew up, not living a protected cushy life like you in havelis, cantonments, and convents, sheltered and ignorant …this was a conspiracy don’t you get it, to make us Muslims look bad…”, that was uncalled for and it hurt, but Aditi let it pass. He was obviously upset and probably went through tough times too. Despite all his efforts to convince her of their side of the events, what was unacceptable was that no one really spoke of the Pandit pain, as though it were taboo.

So much reconciliation was happening in other countries…..look at Rwanda for example, wasn’t that country prospering now, despite such a horrific past; Hutus killing Tutsis provoked by the Catholic Church machinery, Tutsis being played by the Belgians against the majority Hutus as a divide and rule policy…far too familiar a story…but they were working at sharing pain and healing their wounds. That could happen only if both sides found a common ground to work on, but here in Kashmir, it was as though Sunni Muslims had existed forever in these realms, and no one else had any right over it. No other narrative was acceptable to the majority in the valley, feeling victimized for no valid reason, they actively shut out their hearts to the searing stories of the Pandits.

What of the hate sermons from the mosques? What of neighbours assisting murders, rapes, kidnappings? What of the the ideology of Ghazwa-e-Hind? No, this was never discussed. Hindus like her were too polite to make someone like Nisar feel uncomfortable. This terrible situation was allowed to fester because Hindus do not like to make people uncomfortable. We are too gentle, thought Aditi angrily. She was angry at herself too, that she had allowed her heart to run away with someone who did not care about the plight of a whole community, a fellow Kashmiri community at that, which was uprooted and stateless. She had not expected this of a civil servant. An Indian civil servant. Yet, given that she believed in freedom of expression and the fact that Mustafa did not hide his true feelings, this was probably a sign that he trusted her with baring his heart, however bitter the contents might be, to her this was a sign that he cared deeply for her, even though he was always nonchalant about his feelings towards her, brushing away her lofty declarations of love as childish, girlish, mawkish.

“Fine, let us say Jagmohan did this and the government had a hand and what not, sure we want Muslims to look bad, hence we dole out millions to your state where you enjoy the highest standard of living while the rest of India pays taxes for you to own bungalows and gardens… imagine we have a Minority Ministry and various schemes only for Muslims in a secular country! How come Hindus or Sikhs in Jammu and Kashmir have no minority rights? What stops you from accepting their minority status?” Aditi was no fool, preparing for Civils meant that each occasion was a battleground where you practiced your pitches. “You are not doing us any favour, our waters provide electricity for the whole of northern India, why would India give away our waters to Pakistan in such a lopsided treaty, have you even read the Indus Waters Treaty, the complete document, I have? Or you want to be an IFS officer for the glamour of it? And by the way, all that monetary package and assistance that you Indians keep cribbing about, none of it reaches the common man..”, it hurt even more when he said ‘you Indians’, not because of the fact that he felt excluded, but because he and his ilk were occupying the land that is Bharat while not feeling any sacred connection to it, except for claiming it as their religious domain, and enjoying benefits by the state while hurling abuses at it.

The tragedy of such a false narrative which was repeated ad nauseum was that, world over the Sunni Muslim version was taken as the only truth, just as it had happened with Kosovo, populate it with Albanians, and Bosniaks, both Muslim communities, then claim demographic majority to usurp land, and when in majority deny rights to all minorities, repeat the formula! Poor Serbs already much-maligned due to their skirmishes with the Bosnians and Croats had to take it on their chin and had let go of their ancestral lands, orthodox churches, and sacred battlegrounds, because the world over they had already been branded guilty.

Even if their political sparring was a mere intellectual exercise, Aditi was being awakened from her idealist paradise bit by bit. The only saving grace was that Mustafa was honest with her, there was deceit in his honesty somewhere, she could sense it, yet she was unable to pinpoint what, while her own honesty had never deviated from the truth, neither in its ignorance nor in its idealism. Until that time when she could unravel this knot, he was someone she looked forward to meeting every Saturday at their table.

Nisar took this opportunity of being in her company to try and convert her. His next stop was to be the Pir Dastgir Sahib close by in Khanyar, ”Very beautiful place, Kashmir has many peers you know, we are very spiritual people, so many sufis, this is dedicated to Sheikh Syed Abdul Qadir Jelani of Baghdad…best place in Srinagar, very powerful…” Aditi understood this to be a confession that Nisar was a follower of this saint. The interior was definitely spectacular with ornate crystal chandeliers and the floors completely carpeted, the whole building was decorated with stained glass windows, lacquer work, papier-mache, tiled walls and roofs, yet understated. It was like walking into a movie set of Pakeezah. She liked it here despite the dazzling glitter, it was beautiful and peaceful. Unsure of what to do by herself, she simply followed the crowd. Although there were not many women, in fact none, except for the old ladies outside kneeling and kissing the ground in front of the green and white structure. Aditi came out of the building, enjoying this intercultural experience, and in a good mood.

Nisar though seemed a bit reluctant to appreciate the decor and did not agree with her pronouncement, “It was much better before, this is the new building, old building was burnt down…I liked the old one..”, he added ruefully, “Who destroyed it?” Aditi was curious because it was obvious that the valley was left with only one kind of people now. “Oh…lot of money is coming from Saudi, Middle-East…they don’t like our ways of praying, our believing in the supernatural, our music…they say this is not Islam..must be them…” How different is this from when people are taught that idols are forbidden, that they are haraam, and it becomes state policy to go about breaking murtis and temples thought Aditi, but kept her thoughts to herself. Nisar was evidently still in pain, and she did not want to hurt him for no reason.

Nisar went silent for a while, but on hearing Aditi make empathetic sounds, he looked up at her for a few seconds longer than he should have, so she knew something untoward was coming her way, and then he said it, “Maybe you can keep roza, it is very holy during this time”, Aditi’s smile vanished, why did he have to spoil this wonderful moment. Couldn’t she simply participate without going all the way? Liking this space did not mean that she disliked what she had or where she came from. This was the whole trouble. This inability to co-exist, inability to let others be as they are. This assumption that one’s belief system is superior and the only way, that it has a right to change and convert everything else into its fold. Azaadi ka matlab ya? La-Illa-Il-Allah, Hum kya chaahte hain? Nizam-e-Mustafa! This was the crux of the Kashmiri ‘struggle’, a struggle to deny everything pre-Islamic deeming it as non-existent, and everyone not-Islamic labelling them as oppressors. Why else would an Iranian be revered at the cost of local devi devatas? Why else would someone from Iraq be celebrated thus over local rishis, all of whom had taught and lived the truth of inclusive plurality long before any outsider set foot here? But how should she deny Nisar who was hosting her, without being rude? How should she say, ‘Sorry I am not going to be a Muslim just because I like one’? She used health as an excuse to get out of this bind, and was further upset at herself for not voicing her objections openly to him, due to her internalized ‘nicety’.

In fact, while she was quite capable of appreciating this place, with its Islamic heritage and all, would Nisar or Mustafa ever step into a Dilwara or Ranakpur or Ambaji? That beauty which was incomparable would never be theirs to enjoy, only to destroy! The skill, the craftsmanship, the stone carvings, the architecture, all that which went into making them, along with the visionary belief systems that stood the test of time embracing all within its fold, all that would be replaced by chandeliers and carpets which financed the likes of Bhatta Mazar. You come from Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, find a perfect valley, there you persecute the locals, forbid them their customs and practices through state power, break their temples, and lo! now you own the place. And when a simple eager girl shows up with love in her heart, try and convert her. The very idea that two different diverse entities can co-exist is simply alien to most faiths, but look at India, it has celebrated this core concept and put that grand vision into practice for centuries. This is what defines my desh, and makes it special, unlike any other land, Aditi’s heart always filled with pride whenever she thought thus, of ‘my country’.

The Sun Temple at Martand was so magnificent and grand that it is said that it took Sikander Butshikan, the tyrannical idol breaker, a full two years or more to burn the whole complex down in the 15th cent. C.E.. It was during his reign of terror that 700 or more Muslims, foreign settlers from Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, came along with the Sufi Hamadani, who helped the despot further by making lives of ordinary Hindus unbearable in their own land, making way for one exodus after another from their beloved Kashmir to other parts of Bharat. Despite centuries of gathering dust, Martand is a remarkable example of Kashmiri architecture, a fusion of various styles such as Byzantine, Chinese, Gandharan, Gupta, Greek, and Roman. With 84 fluted columns surrounding the main shrine, housing 70-80 smaller shrines outside, and a surya kund in front of the main building, this must have been a sight to behold when draped in gold as commissioned by Lalitaditya. Currently, the central shrine contains 30 odd disfigured images, in front of which is a chamber with broken carvings of Ganga and Yamuna. There are no records of what happened to the main idol in the premises, but the location of Martand on this karewas is one of the best vantage points overlooking the vale of Kashmir.

Aditi’s first encounter with the Kashmiri language were these lines: asi gachi Pakistan, batni rosin batta gatssin, this was much before she met Mustafa, she had heard these horrible lines from her classmate in school, and they had hit a raw nerve. For something like this to have happened in this day and age, where the masses come out onto the streets, among them people you have grown up with, studied or worked with, who call jihad against you, calling you kaffir, chanting at you to leave the valley, to leave your womenfolk behind. What is it but an open call for mass rapes, the gall of it! And for these persecuted Pandits to be still living as refugees in their own country, in tents, in camps in Jammu, was something she could not digest. She got to know bits and pieces of the struggle from her classmate Abhinav Bhan, who was a shy young boy, conscious of the way he spoke Hindi, who had grown up in one such tenement of Nagrota, he was hardworking and eager to make it big academically, he was ready to fight the odds that had been laid before him, and to win. He never talked about those difficult days, the only time he said something was when she pestered him with questions like how many such camps are there? Are they all in Jammu? He would look far into the horizon to answer softly, his voice trembling Muthi, Purkhoo, Jagti…seeing his utter helplessness in even mouthing these names, Aditi soon stopped asking him curious questions about Kashmir. But that seed had been sown. She knew a bit of the other side of the story now, the side that was never acknowledged. Abhinav would sit by himself at the window staring out, whispering these lines over and over again. Was he saying this so as to not forget his painful past, or was it to remember the enemy by?

The Rajput in her was instantly enraged every time she remembered this phrase. Her ancestors had committed jauhar rather than be defiled by the invading mlecchas. The Pandits though had chosen to escape, and were reviled for surviving rape and pillage! You could call them cowardly for not staying back and fighting it out, but even Shree Krishna was a Ranchod, he chose to run away to Dwaraka to save his community and his people rather than be decimated. Why should the choice be between fight or flight, why can it not be simple harmonious coexistence, with all the differences intact? She was trying this experiment with Mustafa, but she knew that all the trying was from her end only. He had already given up on them, when he realized that she would not convert nor change her ways. “What old fashioned backward ideas you still hold onto DeeTee! paapa-punya…so filmi…what do you mean punarjanma….such a ridiculous concept, merely greed on your part, to come back again and again in different bodies……for what! It is laughable, take this one life and do your best, that is it!” This was him mocking her and her beliefs yet again, Mustafa did this ever so often, her customs, her ideals, her beliefs were all up for grabs to be scoffed at, they were fair game, but not once did he mistakenly mock his own people or call out their supremacist tendencies. She laughed and smiled at his seemingly harmless jokes but she was making a silent note.

“It is their home too you know”, Aditi had time and again said this to Mustafa, although she should have said, “It is their home which you all have usurped you know” but the Hindu gentleness and sanskaar prevented her from putting him in a spot. “They have done well for themselves, haven’t they? Pandits have always been more educated and literate at the cost of the Muslims of the valley, and now they get all kinds of dole from the government, and sympathy from people like you, they have had it good both ways”, Mustafa surely did not mince words, and meant every word that he spat out with no trace of compassion in him. “Don’t blame the Dogras Mustafa, for protecting Hindu interests, Afghan rulers and Mughals were no better, in fact, they were worse. Have you forgotten about how they executed Guru Tegh Bahadur for not converting to Islam?” Aditi’s first outing in Delhi was to the Sis Ganj and Rakabganj Gurudwaras. If there was a community that matched the Rajputs in their valour it was the Sikhs, born to protect dharma. Imagine watching your disciples being sawn in half, being boiled alive, being set on fire, and yet not budging an inch to give up on one’s ancestral faith. Bhai Mati Dass, Bhai Dayal Dass, and Bhai Sati Dass were household legends in her grandparents’ house.

Having grown up in Ajmer, Aditi was not new to peers, dargahs, and Muslim culture, there too a Sufi from Sistan, Moinuddin Chisti had set up shop to convert the indigenous peoples to an alien faith, but what intrigued her with Mustafa was the Kashmiri aspect of her relationship. The language, the place, the people, their customs, she was connected to all this in some bizarre way. She was open to learning and was excitedly looking forward to every new experience here in Srinagar. Her youthful enthusiasm always overcame her doubts and fears, “How far is Kheer Bhavani? Maybe we can cover that too today, tomorrow I will keep free for the flower markets, and to visit your house…and ..” What she really wanted was to ask Nisar about Mustafa’s family, if they lived here, if she could visit them, get to know them..but she was a bit apprehensive about opening up her heart to this stranger. “No no baabi there is pathraav happening in Gandarbal daily, very dangerous to go ..” Nisar did not sound convincing at all. How come they were able to travel to all the mosques, khanqahs, and the dargahs trouble-free, perhaps she was overthinking as always. “What about Sharika Devi..on the hilltop, Hari Parbat?” she asked pointedly, “Koh-e-Maran? band hai…renovation chal rahaa hai…” Well, it definitely seems like I will have to come back to Srinagar thought Aditi.

Nisar would clearly not be taking her to any other Hindu temple that much was apparent. It is about what we grow up with, what we are used to, and what speaks to us. Comfort comes from familiarity, of knowing something deeply. And with civilizational memory, of who we are, as an individual, as a people. Her comfort lay in being Hindu, being Rajput. Aditi was not one of those to abandon her identity for the sake of a man. Her curiosity and her interest in the other was genuine and sincere but it seemed to her more and more that her openness and easy acceptance of the other was being misconstrued and misunderstood. Back in her commodious and elegant shikaara reached via a short ride in a lovely doonga, she could hardly relax, one after another, peddlers of wares came knocking, wanting to show off their artwork and to sell. Aditi was merely a source of income for them, an Indian source. This Kashmiri exceptionalism was laughable, given that the Rajputs too felt the same! Each clan and community was awed by itself, totally impervious to the existence of others. This was not too bad though, thought Aditi, until and unless it lead to supremacism which is what had happened in the Kashmir Valley. A Buddhist-Hindu land wiped clean of its people and their memories.

“Shankaracharya came here, and had to run back south as no one converted to his line of thinking” Mustafa could be so ignorant and thoughtless sometimes. “Ya, that is why you call your city Srinagar! Because he had no influence there!”, Aditi never let him get away with mocking her people or her culture. He was constantly taking jibes and potshots albeit in a friendly-fire manner. “How about making fun of your own people for once? Or are you too scared for your life!” It was strange that an atheist should be so interested in religion, especially hers. It drained her to be constantly on guard, but it was worth it. Sparring with him helped her understand her background better too. Her mother was surprised nowadays at how easily Aditi accepted to perform certain customs and rituals which she had once called archaic or patriarchial.

That morning in the houseboat was gorgeous, she came out of the beautifully wood worked main salon, to the sit-out area in the front with its pinjiraakari windows, and lace curtains, overlooking the lake, just as dawn was breaking. Adil had sent over a guy who was ready with his doonga to take her to the flower market. In the brightening darkness, and the sound of lapping waters, she spread out her hand to play with the ripples, which were rhythmically dancing to the tune of the pre-dawn Ramzaan prayers. They sounded familiar, no not from Ajmer, they sounded Vedic, just as Mustafa had said, “When the Sufis came they copied the Sama Veda style of chanting, you can hear it even today if you go there during Ramzaan…..but why would you…” The clamour of the tourists despite the call for a bandh, the early morning hours, along with the various vegetable and fruit sellers juxtaposing the fabulous array of flowers on display took her breath away. A water market with real people with real lives, these were the regular Kashmiris wanting to make ends meet, here was a slice of life, a window to normality. The houseboat owner had also confided the same in her, “We don’t have any issue with Indians, our livelihood depends on tourists, but what can we do, our fate is to see so much violence..”

In a few hours Aditi was ferried back to the houseboat where she had breakfast by the lake watching the birds perform for her on the placid waters – purple coots, terns, ducks, grebes, moorhens… a kite sat atop the rafters of the adjacent shikaara watching her with its piercing eyes, even as she watched the birds…far ahead a lady was cleaning the weeds, or perhaps she was harvesting the water plants, a man appeared from nowhere silently in his Kashmiri kayak full of resplendent flowers, he went past smiling gently at her, waving, she waved back at him, thankful that he did not treat her as yet another customer… ..then she heard the temple bells from the Shankaracharya Hill, across from where she was, which brought her back to the here and now, yes I could live here she thought. As long as there are temple bells ringing, I could definitely live here.

Nisar called and asked her to come to the main road as early as possible, he would take her to the gardens, some shopping, and then to his place for dinner, his mother was excited to meet Aditi. Thus she found herself invited to their Iftar party. Aditi was looking forward to the food as she had heard so much about it from Mustafa who was always nostalgic about Monj Haak or Doon Chetin or some such unheard-of dish. The table was well laid out with numerous items, she asked Nisar to explain them to her, not wanting to be caught unawares like she had been with Mustafa once. On one of their Saturday outings, they had gone to a Kashmiri restaurant and he had ordered beef, without even wanting to know if she was okay with it, she attributed it to him missing food from home, but it hurt, that memory was still so fresh that she wanted to be doubly sure here too. If Mustafa was invited home she would make sure that she did not serve what was forbidden for him, but he, knowing fully well that she was a devout Hindu, had been very inconsiderate. She had been very upset at his lack of basic niceties, was it out of ignorance or was it premeditated she was not sure, and then it slowly dawned on her, this is what Mustafa meant when he said we are two different worlds. Was he trying to force her to choose, to accept his world? Was it out of love? Or was it out of disdain? Despite this dishonour, an indignity meted out to her perhaps unwittingly, Aditi had excused him, but she let that incident stay in her mind, to be counted against him when the time came, just as Shree Krishna had done with Shishupala.

Of course, nothing from the food or worship is common, in fact they belonged to opposing banks of a river, how was it even possible to co-exist or cohabit! Unless one of them gave in. It seemed to her that in this union, she was expected to be that person, the one who gave up her chaap and tilak. Aah! There you are much mistaken thought Aditi, not for nothing am I a Chauhan, could I ever sell my beliefs and my being for a few moments of lust, or even a lifetime of ‘love’, no. Not after those countless wars to maintain our self-respect and dignity, not after those countless jauhars by my ancestors, no never. She could hardly touch anything once she even thought of the word ‘beef’, so she excused herself to the bathroom, wanting to vomit.

Aditi thanked Nisar’s servant maid who looked demure in a hijab, who served Sherbet no sooner had Aditi entered their house – it was made with basil seeds – she really liked it, and told them how much she enjoyed Srinagar too. To bridge the uncomfortable silence and language barrier with Nisar’s father and mother, she asked for photo albums to browse through, “Bhaiyya show me your school photos na, how did you all look in school uniforms…”, and that is when she saw the wedding photo. Mustafa standing next to a beautiful woman, surrounded by friends and family, all smiling and tired, at a wedding, which seemed to be like ….his own….her heart was pounding hard, and it broke without making too much noise, lest Aditi would hear her mother say, “I told you so, don’t trust them”.

She realized a tad bit late that it was not really so much about trust as it was about fundamental differences. On one hand, Ma was so devoted to her husband, not knowing whether he was dead or alive, even after 20 years, that promise of saat janam ka saath was kept alive and well, and on the other hand there was a contract, which could be torn apart at will, at one’s whim and fancy.

Aditi shut the albums instantly, unable to bear the penetrating pain that passed through her heart, as though an arrow had been released, and she was the target, whoever the archer was, was a great shot, it hit home and dug deep. She was dumbstruck. To allay suspicions that she had been ignorant of Mustafa’s marital status, she had to come up with something else, “Was your house affected during the floods? I saw photos online, and in the news, it must have been very hard during that time na?” Nasir did not reply immediately, he took his time, as though not wanting to credit his saviours, “Yes yes so much water came baabi, it was a very bad time for Srinagar..all neighbours helped…” He did not seem to elaborate, so Aditi handed him some words, “I saw that the Army personnel were very helpful na?”, she looked at him expectantly, “haan…Army also helped little”. He did not let the word Army stay long in his mouth, as though it would pollute his tongue. The same Army that had helped the valley tirelessly, selflessly during the floods, the same Army that her father had been a proud part of. The same Army that was helping to keep this land from becoming a Gaza or a Syria.

She would have to reconsider her leanings, her ideology, her belief system, how could someone dislike the very people who help and save your life? If there was no terrorism there would be no army presence, and if there was no funding from across the border, from other nations, wanting to play the Islamic card, there would be no Kashmir problem. Aditi had seen videos of how Benazir had whipped up passions with her fiery speeches against India and Hindus in the late 80s, how when the war with Soviets ended the battle hardy mujahideen crossed over to try their luck in establishing their writ here, just as they had done with Afghanistan.

Martand Temple is also called Pandu-Koru by the locals, and the belief is that it was first built in honour of the Sun God Surya either by the Pandavas or their descendents, or that the Pandavas resided here. Who is Martand? He was the 13th son of Aditi, and was born lifeless unlike her other 12 sons, the Adityas, hence he was abandoned into the sea for many yugas, the Satisar was then drained, from which he was rescued by his father Kashyapa, and thereafter worshipped as Martand here. He is known to bestow great health and fortune when prayed to especially on his janmadin which falls on Magha Shukla Saptami. A new temple has been built nearby which houses Surya Bhagavan, and is in worship now. The waters of the Vimala Kamala kunds here are said to be very holy and people collect them and take them home just as they do with the Ganga. Pilgrims on their way back from Amarnath feed the sacred fish of these temple tanks, and only then complete their teerth-yatra.

Aditi was led to the table which was laden with dates, dry and fresh fruits, and Nisar rolled out the menu to her; kebabs, phirni, sheer khurma, kashmiri pulao, haak, nadroo yakhni, rogan josh…. and some other dishes whose names sounded like murmurs from another era, for by now she was too shaken by this inescapable reality to be angry, and too heartbroken to be hungry. She did enjoy the dum aloo though, and asked about the masala, how else could she thank this generous elderly lady, Nisar’s mother, she was grateful that they had invited her, hosted her. Not letting her hosts suspect something was amiss, she casually made a comment while sipping Kahwa, “…..so Nisar bhaiyya where are you in this group photo, I don’t see you…you must be working hard at the wedding …?” She was not sure how her voice would sound when she said this, but it obviously worked, no one was perturbed, and Nisar started rummaging for a photo with him in it, “..deko… I am here in the group photo with Zarine baabi’s family…”, and as she had hoped, he slowly let out bits and pieces of information that she was looking for. So that was her name, Zarine. Where is she, what does she do…..how to ask all this without giving away the fact that she had not known of her existence until a few minutes ago.

What she gathered finally, thanks to Nisar’s enthusiasm and wanting to be useful, was that Zarine’s family did not want Mustafa to join the Indian government which they felt was a betrayal of their cause of Azaadi, they were orthodox people too, and thus the young couple’s relationship had suffered, which at the moment seemed to be on hold. Well, as per the Muslim Personal Law, (Shariat), Application Act 1937, which was applicable all over India, Mustafa was entitled to this wife and three more, why did Aditi think that this would not happen to her, that this piece of information, which she had tucked away in a corner of her brain, which was filled with a lot of such information as preparation for Prelims, would not come backbiting at her. She also gleaned that Mustafa’s sister whom they all had been so fond of, had married ’out’, and thus was excommunicated by the whole family. No wonder he hardly spoke of his people, his siblings. “She lost her place here when she married…him” Nasir could not even bring himself to say the Hindu name. “She does not come here anymore”. That law that disenfranchised women in J&K, she had to look it up in detail when she got back to the houseboat, Aditi remembered reading something about how draconian it was, how discriminatory. This much she understood though that while his own sister could not live here in Kashmir because the law mandates that if a woman marries out of state she loses her right to property, government education, employment and health care, Mustafa was free to marry anyone, more than once, and could settle anywhere in India. A fantastic idea to overtake any land! You can’t claim mine, but I claim mine and yours too. If you say a word, I shall scream victim. And right on cue Nisar divulged, “…this photo is from his reception in their Bombay house..I went also, first time in Bombay….did not see any filam stars…so sad… ” saying this Nisar laughed heartily at his own feebly attempted joke.

The night was endless, and the ground shaky, the waters seemed to invite her to jump in and not resurface ever, yet dawn broke with its promise for brightness, shining its orbs on the cragged edges of the Zabarwan, and as she looked towards Mahadev’s peak, she prayed for his assistance. There was not much else that she could do at this time.

Yesterday, before the dinner at his place, Nisar had taken her shopping by the way of the famed gardens of Chashma Shahi, Shalimar, Nishat, and Pari Mahal, all built by Mughals, made famous by movie stars and their songs, with numerous quotations declaring this land as paradise, but was it really, for the Pandits? A place is a paradise if the people are likeable, they have something special to offer, but if the people here refuse to accept history, and may have perhaps participated in the genocide of their neighbours silently or actively, would you still call it a paradise? A place is not merely land, water, flowers, and hills…it is the living beings that it is populated with, the humans that connect to the land in a certain way and thus complete the cycle of life. Now, who are the ones more rooted to this land, who are the ones whose memories irrigate this land…what is 500-600 years when compared to a Mahayuga! Your memories are nothing compared to ours, we remember our mother from afar since you snatched her away from us, you will bear the brunt of guilt, while we shall prosper in endurance.

The gorgeous gardens although perfectly laid out did not appeal to her wild self, she preferred spontaneous unkempt forests. But Aditi was a keen naturalist, and she asked Nisar for the Kashmiri names of the various flowers, plants, trees, at the numerous well-manicured grounds, names of the various birds, some migratory too, that she had spotted on the lake… it was all so beautiful, heavenly too, yes…..what do you call this in Kashmiri?…..what do you call that in Kashmiri? Aditi felt that with Mustafa, the way to his heart was via his mouth, therefore her eagerness to spout a bit of Kashmiri when she returned to Delhi. But sadly Nisar’s answers were mostly in Urdu…..he told her that Urdu was their state language! Strange for a land that is so proud of its culture and ethnicity, that it should choose to forget its own tongue and speak in pidgin!

“Come in March baabi, I will show Tulips”, Nisar had taken time to show her around Srinagar second day in a row, what did he do for a living she wondered, but was too polite to ask, “And I should come back in November for the Saffron harvest hai na!” She added, to show him that she was not completely clueless. Nisar smiled broadly and said, “Settle down here only, like Mustafa’s mother”. What? “What do you mean bhaiyya?” Aditi had been preparing herself mentally for all kinds of information about Mustafa’s family, hence she was immediately curious. “..woh bee Rajput hai..” replied Nisar, smiling approvingly, since she was now converted, hmm that explained a lot. Mustafa’s fascination for someone like Aditi was finally clear, she was of a ‘different world’ in his own words, yet so much was similar!

Aditi ended up buying a few embroidered kurtas for herself, her cousins, her flatmates, and a Kashmiri silk sari for her mother. Her daadi of course wore only kurti-kanchlis. Saffron was next on the list and the ver masala that Mustafa always spoke so wistfully of. The crafts were indeed a delight, but the carpets, the embroidery, the woodwork, all were said to be brought in from the West, by the Islamic preachers, as though the land before their occupation was populated by barbarians! But that is what they had labelled Saudi Arabia too hadn’t they, as jaahil, before the advent of Islam. As per Muslims, no land is civilized enough until it accepts Islam, might be true of the Middle-east, but it was definitely not true of Bharat, not true of Kashmir which is the crown of Bharat. From Charaka, Vishnu Sharma, Patanjali, Vasugupta, Abhinavagupta, Kshemaraja, Anandavardhana, to Kalhana, to Bilhana, to Mankha, Sarangadeva, Pingala, there was highly developed dance, music, poetry, literature, medicine, mathematics, and science here, long before the 14th century. A whole history was brushed aside when the sufis started coming in from the West, railing against the indigenous peoples and their ways.

Tilak was banned, janeu was forbidden, Hindu clothes could no longer be worn, temples could not be built or renovated…and of course a foreign tongue and script rode roughshod over Kashmiri and Sharada, despite such desperate attempts at usurping a beauteous land from its original inhabitants, it did not perish. Literally seven major genocides took place, if we must keep count, to remove the Pandits from their ancestral lands, attempts to pluck them off of their roots, it did not succeed because the available knowledge is too vast, and too deeply embedded in the psyche of the people, you can burn books or libraries or universities, you can kill and rape at will, but even if one person survives, s/he carries the whole civilizational memory along. Today the land aspires to speak in Urdu, a language that originated in the army camps of the Mughals which is a mish-mash of Arabi, Farsi, Turki nouns, sitting on Sanskrit grammar, structure and Hindi verbs, all the while claiming to be the flag bearer of Kashmiri culture! What a farce.

“It is strange that you have only Muslim Chief Ministers, in all these years you couldn’t find someone else to represent you?” Aditi was ready to confront Mustafa after having finished up GK studies for the weekend, she would read up on Kashmir and come prepared to fight it out with him, it gave both of them some kind of a strange high. “Well, you see we have had Dogra Hindu rulers who banned Urdu and beef before so you can’t blame us for not allowing that to happen again!”, “Wow!” Aditi interjected even as he was about to complete his sentence, “Wow! I can’t believe you said this, so how should Hindus feel given how they were treated from the 14th century onwards haan?”, “Well, whether you like it or not Muslims are the majority in Kashmir, so their sentiments take priority and precedence” answered Mustafa with finality. “Right! Last time I said that about Hindus being the majority, that their sentiments should be honoured, you said India was not a Hindu Rashtra! You cannot have it both ways!” But it seemed crystal clear that they were indeed having it both ways, very happily too. Play the minority card elsewhere and talk of majority sentiments when in large numbers. In just two days Aditi could finally make sense of the various versions and strains of the events that took place here. Everything boiled down to religion, it was plain and simple land grab by political Islam.

After dinner at his place, Nasir dropped off a dazed Aditi for her doonga ride back to her houseboat. She thanked him profusely and pleaded with him to keep her visit a secret as she wanted to surprise Mustafa. He readily agreed, taken in with this love-story unfolding in front of him, in fact, he was far more excited than she was about this whole relationship. She did not confide in him that she was staying back another day for something important, her night time research had revealed horrifying facts of the number of temples destroyed in the valley. Where was the Kashmiriyat that they kept bandying about, this hatred for another culture was a common strain anyway, there was an innate inability in Islam to coexist with another ideology as it considered all other ideologies inferior or worthless in comparison, fit to be put to death. Think Yezidis, think Hindus. Mustafa had been honest enough to admit this fact, saying how their two worlds were parallel tracks that could never meet, there was indeed nothing in common. What else could explain the numerous Hindu temple ruins versus the overboard opulence of the Muslim shrines here?

But then why had he initiated this whole relationship? Why had he convinced her initially that it was class that mattered and nothing else, Aditi thought over this and came to the conclusion that if she had not been so strongly Hindu in her habits and mannerisms, Mustafa would have never revealed his real feelings, she had forced his hand, and he had to finally admit that, yes, as per Islam there can be no happy co-existence, it is either a Muslim rule or a fight for a Muslim rule. Why else create a Pakistan?

Her heart hardening by the day, she asked Adil to rent a car for her, she wanted to go to Anantnag, “Islamabad is not safe now madam, wait for 2-3 days”, he was a genial sort, happy to have customers despite the curfew and bandhs, he was looking for good reviews online and on social media, hence he was eager to please and ready to be of service. “How far is Martand from Anantnag?” Aditi persisted in using the Hindu name of the place, why should she be a party to the extermination of a whole race, including their ancient names of their lands. “Madam, not safe now, next time, very close to Srinagar, I will take, promise”. Not to be defeated so easily, she changed her tactic, “How long is it to Jammu, do you have taxis to take me by road? I did not buy a return air ticket to Delhi, it was very expensive…maybe I will take the train from there…”.

A deal was struck and Aditi was soon on her way, she called Nisar to thank him once again for his time and for taking her around, for showing her those parts of Srinagar which were not usually on a tourist’s itinerary, he had been a great local friend, except for his zeal to convert, which she brushed aside, and wished him luck. At least he was direct and honest. Nisar had expressed great interest in paying his respects to Ghareeb Nawaz at Ajmer, and knowing his love for mystic Muslims, Aditi had warmly invited him home, “You must visit us bhaiyya! pukka, okay?” I think I understand poor Prithviraj Chauhan better now, thought Aditi, how can one not be grateful? How can one be thankless? How can one not forgive? How can one be adhaarmik? She had eaten but one meal at Nisar’s, and she would be forever indebted.

That is when Aditi found herself in Verinag, confronting her inner demons, after her visit to Martand, on a car ride from Srinagar to Jammu.

The whole country is now agog with the happenings in Mattan, it has caught the imagination of the youth. Poems and shorts are filling up social media. Photos, selfies…hashtags..the government is on the back foot once again. In its bid to revive tourism and promote the erstwhile temple of Martand, it seems to have opened up the proverbial can of worms. There are vociferous demands from civil society, Pandits from across the globe, and Hindu revivalist groups, all of whom are demanding fresh construction and renovation of the Martand ruins, as per the numerous architectural drawings available of this site. They want it to set an example of the glorious civilization that Kashmir was once, before it was laid threadbare due to iconoclasm. Various travellers from Auriel Stein to Alexander Cunningham have described this temple complex in the most grandiloquent terms. ‘It is our 5000 year plus history, and we have every right to restore it to its original grandeur’, said one of their spokespersons.

It has been a decade, such a long journey, but feels like yesterday!

Aditi alighted from the aeroplane and looked around the tiny tarmac, she felt a sense of nostalgia even though she had been here only for two days the last time. She had been in love and heartbroken. How immature she was, how clueless. She smiled at her memories, she thought fondly of Mustafa even though they had not parted well. She had moved on and was happy with how life had lead her on this unforeseen path. She was here for the next six months from April to October, she had chosen the dates herself, as she wanted to visit both the Tulip Gardens and the Saffron fields. This was the perfect place to complete her book. She had an agent, she had a publisher, they had liked her premise and the first chapter, so along with her manuscript, and with the handsome advance they gave her, here she was! She had called Adil to check if he was still around, if his houseboat was free to host her, and thus she found herself in Ceylon once again looking at the kite looking at her, perhaps the same one from a decade ago, who knew!

Aditi had been an avid follower of a few of the famous Kashmiri handles on Social Media, but over time had been disappointed at how whether a Sabbah or a Junaid, they always espoused a one-sided partisan view of the place, through their photos, videos, blogs, they managed to garner the sympathy and acclaim of the mainstream Indians while silently working against the country they othered as ‘India’. The only praiseworthy aspect in India for them was ‘Bollywood’, that too if the film had dialogues and songs that were suffused with Urdu. Anything overtly Hindu, or in Hindi was smirked at. So, right after her return to Delhi all those moons ago, Aditi had started blogging about her trip to Srinagar in great detail, she had presented her honest thoughts, and the Hindu point of view. Soon the blog took shape of a Youtube Channel, a Facebook Page, a Twitter and Instagram account, stories came pouring in, and she started compiling them meticulously, this gave voice to many Pandits who were waiting to tell their tales. People sent WhatsApp videos of their lives in refugee camps, of their grandparents and parents who went mute from the suffering, from waiting to return home, of the various travails and achievements of Kashmiri Pandits the world over. She was now unwittingly an honorary member of this much-persecuted society. In a way, her presentation of this whole saga had many more takers, as she was looked at as being more objective, than if the Pandits themselves had talked of their personal trauma directly.

When Mustafa had met her on her return from Srinagar a decade ago, she could sense the change in his body language and attitude towards her. He had not expected her to be so bold as to land up in his territory. After that it was all power play, him trying to reclaim his legitimate position as the superior in the relationship. He was no longer kind, gentle, or quirky with her, he started getting physical, and violent. Aditi understood this to be a clear sign of defeat. She was not his sweet innocent pet anymore. She was ruthless and dangerous. How could she just up and go to Srinagar? Without telling him! Without confiding in him! It was as though he owned the place, as though the city was his jaagir, Aditi was now constantly reprimanded, he started being rude with her for no reason, the facade was slowly peeling, and the last straw was when he got mad at her for gifting him a statue, a bust of Buddha for his birthday. She was sensitive enough not to offer him the glory of Rama or Krishna, she knew that he did not have the bandwidth to appreciate them as divine or beautiful…..but she was aghast at his sudden burst of anger at a human bust, Buddha was a rishi too wasn’t he?

This was very unexpected behaviour from the atheist gentleman that he always portrayed himself to be. She knew that he knew that he was in the wrong, his people were in the wrong, yet accepting that, accepting history as it was, would take a brave soul, and her Kashmiri had turned out to be a coward. His loss she said to herself, and let go of him without a second thought. Nisar had called her once or twice to check on her and to ask after, he seemed to have more affection for her despite their very brief association, than what Mustafa showed towards her! He had tried to probe as to why everything went south like this, but she had been non-committal, saying that it was tough to maintain a long-distance relationship, given that Mustafa was a diplomat, and Nisar had no choice but to accept this logical reason for the break-up with great sadness.

In the initial days of courtship, she had dreamt of their union as transcending all barriers, looking forward to accepting all differences, as a way to become better human beings together, after all, was this not the grand vision of any relationship? It did not seem so for him. Mustafa’s idea of a perfect couple was when the Hindu in her would erase all differences, which meant that she give up her unnecessary unwarranted bhakti on a daily basis, unless it involved something acceptable like ‘meditation’ – sitting as he called it – that was fashionable, trendy, and very in. He had mentioned once that as a child he would play around as though he was Hanuman burning Lanka…and this had made her heart swell with expectation, with a love that is happy in finding that it has been able to cross a dam, but no….that was but a memory of watching a TV serial and meant nothing more, his current countenance was that of a globalized Indian who wished to stay away from old fashioned ideas which were not modern…and by modern he meant Abrahamic…that is what it was…his mask had dropped, for a self-confessed atheist his hatred for a blameless bust seemed so wrong..and she started seeing and noticing more and more such differences. How blind she had been, how foolishly naive!

Aditi entered a Srinagar where the Hari Parbat was now open to the public, where one could have darshan of Sharika Devi without any hurdle, where one could do the parikrama too if one wanted. This Srinagar was where she could pay respects at the Raghunath Mandir that was renovated after its destruction in the 90s when it was set on fire by jihadis. She was free to go to Kheer Bhavani and to Martand near Anantnag. This was her Srinagar. She would visit Khanqah-e-Moula too, but this time she would go directly to its riverfront and pray to Kali Maa. She would pay tributes at Ganpatyar, perhaps also at all the other 50,000 temples over time that dot the valley, all of which had been either destroyed and or left unused unworshipped. Yes, she would certainly make some Youtube videos on those. Her channel was now one of the most trusted for content on Jammu, Kashmir, and Ladakh. She had travelled extensively interviewing people, Pandits mostly, many of whom still lived in refugee camps. This was her service to the people who had lost everything because they had put their country first, her love for Bharat and their dedication to the same made them her allies.

After returning from Srinagar, Aditi had gone back to Ajmer to get a sense of who she was, and what she really wanted to do with her life. Although people often made fun of Prithviraj Chauhan and blamed him for letting go of Muhammed of Ghor even in a win, it exhibited to her the clear difference between dharma and adharma. A Girija Tickoo or Sarla Bhatt could have just as easily taken place in Ajmer, and they did, except we don’t know their names…like the name of the poor girl her father lost his life for, trying to save her, this was dharma…what was common to both Srinagar and in Ajmer was this ideology that looked upon kaffir women as easy meat. This was adharma. If she had joined the IFS or IAS she was sure to be a sarkaari babu stuck with people like Mustafa, highly bright officers kow-towing the official line only for the position and prestige that the job offered, without an iota of deshbhakti in them, working towards adharma. She would be better off outside the system. Her first Kashmir trip had revealed to her that she was not meant for the stifling air of bureaucracy. It showed her where her svadharma lay. She would instead brave storms and trolls, she would be courageous and bold, just as her father might have been at war, she would bring the reality of this region to the masses, so they could see for themselves the truth that was constantly couched in victimhood and false chest-beatings.

When she broke a story on how the Rohingyas were being settled in Jammu illegally, despite India not being a party to the Refugee Convention of UNHCR nor its 1967 protocol, on how Pandits were still unwelcome in Kashmir Valley, while strangely Jammu was now welcoming Bengali speaking Muslims from far off Myanmar and Bangladesh. On how crimes were now on the rise due to such unhealthy demographic changes, all hell broke loose, that story raised a storm in the Parliament too. Of course, she had done due diligence, her portrayal of facts could not be doubted. First, it was the Europeans who started living off of houseboats in the early 1900s, as this did not need land ownership, they came in large numbers and started forming power centres in the valley, wasn’t it Maharaja Hari Singhji’s Permanent Settlement Law of 1927 that prevented Westerners from taking over Kashmir? Whatever gains that might have accrued from that soon vanished with Sheikh Abdullah granting citizenship rights to Uyghurs (Chinese Muslims) and Bakshi Mohammed to Tibetan Muslims in the 50s. All through, the policy and attitude towards Hindu and Sikh refugees from either POK or the various wars with Pakistan from 1947, ‘65, ‘71, ‘89 did not change, they were left out of the system conveniently. Meanwhile, parts of Pakistan Occupied Kashmir are being happily gifted to China constantly while populating it with Sunnis, and erasing the trace of any non-Muslim from their own land. The Shia inhabitants of Gilgit and Baltistan are now but a minority with no say in their personal affairs. Of course, no one cares about what happens to the Dogras, Gujars, Paharis, Kishtawaris or Ladakhis in all this hullabaloo. The same could be said, and more of Sindh, of Balochistan. What is it about a newly formed Islamic Republic that tends to eat away at its hosts, she asked, concluding her lengthy report.

Given the fearlessness and strength of her writings and research, she was being invited for talk shows and feted by politicians of all hues. Aditi had found seed money right after, to start her own channel, to share her original content on a larger scale, and that was that, there was no looking back. It had not been easy to give up on her childhood dream, but this was essential, and she had had the wherewithal to go full throttle with it.

As an influencer on all matters Kashmir, her recent vlogs had incited someone to put up the murti of Surya devata at Martand! Now that the other side had shown their real intent, by desecrating the sacred space, she put more vigour in her writings and videos and extolled her countrymen and women to land up in Kashmir, in Anantnag, to protect their old ways. People came pouring in by the dozens. She now wanted to shake the whole system up, she wanted to inform people of the dangers of leaving one’s community, one’s kula, for the sake of looking cosmopolitan, or because one’s weak heart was looking for ‘love’, what you might get instead was a bashed skull, a converted name, an alien culture that will never treat you as an equal.

Cafe Turtle had long lost its sheen, it came close to shutting down many times, and finally after sputtering and coughing for a few months, it simply vanished one fine day. Just like him and her, their space gone, their love gone, what remained was the aftermath, that time and space which in fact revealed the hollowness of their short-lived union. If you choose to see, you see very clearly. Now, if ever they met on her insistence, which was extremely rare, she was the one who paid for their lunches, she would buy him small tokens to express what was left of her feelings for him – a pen here, a notepad there – but there was nothing from him to her. He would get Kashmiri scarves for his colleague’s wives, for his instructors..but nothing for her…and when he got to know of her blogs and her writings on Kashmir, he simply cut her off claiming that he ‘felt used’.

Aditi let him go too without a fight. There was nothing left for either of them except disappointment. It did not surprise her in the least when she heard that Mustafa had been criticizing the government and its policies more and more openly now, in the presence of foreign dignitaries and officials. She could handle another wife, she could handle his roving eye, she could even handle his eating beef, she could excuse his cowardice, his parsimony, but what she would not accept nor tolerate was that he was working against the country, while making full use of his position in the government, milking the very system that he hated viscerally. Ironical that he should feel used by her!

Aditi smiled at the fish in the transparent temple tank at the Suryadev temple, “Thank You” she whispered to the keepers of waters, thank you for reviving my dead Martand. Walking up to the beautiful white marble statue of Surya Bhagavan she paid her respects, offered fruits, flowers, distributed sweet boxes among co-pilgrims, added a wad of notes as donation in the hundi, and took prashaad from the poojari. She sent a silent prayer to her father, wherever he might be. May Papa finally go onwards in peace, knowing that his daughter thought of him fondly, and was proud of him, and was no longer sad or lonely. Aditi had found her strength within herself, she paused and thanked Mustafa too, only because he was the main reason that she had finally opened her eyes to the reality around her. She trekked up to the Bumzoo Caves on a whim and sat down to meditate in front of Kaldeva. This time she could sit long and quiet without fidgeting, this time she was still.

At Verinag, again. Ma was visiting after almost thirty-five years. So much had changed in Kashmir from the 90s. It was now safe to return, the many terrorist outfits had to finally shut shop, thanks to the Indian Army, and the political acumen of the central leadership. Right after the state took over control of the mosques and the madrasa curriculum, much of the weekly Friday hate that was spewed against Hindus and India disappeared. Her mother was like a young bride again, she had dressed up in her choicest chiffon, made up her hair in a lovely bun, her lipstick matching her heels, and bangles, she tiptoed to the exact spot where she had stood hand in hand with her dear husband when pregnant with Aditi. She smiled at the reflecting waters and whispered, “Look how she turned out! Just like you Adi”.

Despite heavy patrolling and barricading, another Surya devata murti miraculously appeared at Martand in the main chamber, exactly at the spot where a few days ago a similar murti was demolished by miscreants. It remains a mystery to everyone as to how and when this is happening, with full media glare. No one has been witnessed placing the said images. Some are calling it a political stunt, while the opposition blames the government, saying it is part of their efforts to saffronize the area. The public is convinced that it is indeed the power of Martand who wants to break free from his lifeless shell and be ready to shine his light once again on the Kashmir valley. Many more Surya idols are being ferried from across the country as we speak, in solidarity with the movement. Native leaders world over have condemned the blasting of the sacred images at Martand, and have called for a stop to constant pagan and indigenous persecution by the majoritarian religions of the world.