Plan for India: Lest we forget - Tales of Kashmiri Pandits forced to flee their homeland of 5000 years

Tales of Kashmiri Pandits forced to flee their homeland of 5000 years

For all my "secular" friends who keep on saying that Mr. Jagmohan was responsible for my community to leave their 5000 year homeland and happily survive in tents in other parts of India.

One day we will go back to our Vitasta and our Khir Bhavani and the land of Sharda Peeth. The land for which hundreds including Sikh Gurus (and their families) gave their life, we will return. It took jews nearly 1000+ years to get their place and we will wait even longer but will go back to our roots.

SURVIVOR’S STORY

Srinagar

For past couple of months the situation had been extremely tense in the valley. Everywhere there was fear and uncertainty. A lot of our relatives and friends had already fled from Kashmir. My mother and I were still resisting because we had nowhere to go, no home outside Kashmir, no source of income outside the valley. My mother had told me on 19th January that no one could make her leave her home. “This is my home and my state, I was born here and I will die here, no body can drive me out of here”, she told me categorically. Little did she know that she would have to change her statement in less than 24 hours. My school had been closed down because of the turmoil and I was restless and fear stricken at home desperately listening to every news bulletin on the radio.

On 20th morning everything looked normal or so it seemed. It was my grandfather’s birthday. Usually this occasion was a big day for our entire clan. All my cousins and aunts and uncles got together in my grandfather’s house and we all spent this day together with traditional gaiety and tons of happiness. But today was different. Everything was gloomy and sad. We lived about 15 mins away from my grandfather’s house but my other aunts lived far away. For the first time in my life we were contemplating whether we should go to our grandfather’s house or not on this day. My mother was crying since morning. She told me she had never felt so helpless all her life. I had known my mother to be a rock who would face every situation with calm and poise. ‘If she was feeling helpless something must be terribly wrong’, I told myself.

Around lunchtime my mother told me to dress up in my warm clothes.’ We are going to nana’s house’ she told me simply. I quickly dressed up and we set out. My mother held my hand and two of us walked down to my nana’s house. January is probably the coldest month in Kashmir. The walk to my grandfather’s house had never seemed so long before. My mother held my hand firmly in her hand and we walked, shivering more with fear than cold. We were met with cold stares from policemen and BSF officials who could be spotted everywhere. It must have been quite a sight for them to see two women walking on the deserted road. My mother told me not to look at anybody and we quietly walked. Little did we know that this would be our last trip to nana’s house. My mother told me that we would wish nana happy birthday and come back before it gets dark. Finally we reached nana’s house. For the first time I found their door locked. I don’t remember them ever locking their front door, but today things were different. We lived in tough times. My mother knocked on the door. My grandmother shouted from inside asking who it was. After confirming that it was my mother and I, she opened the door and let us in. The fear on her face was obvious. She was glad that we could make it. She was almost sure that her two other daughters would not be able to make it because they lived little far away and would not be able to brave the situation. Inside the house my grandfather sat at his usual place with hookah in front of him, but he was not smoking today. He looked worried too. I quickly ran to him and wished him happy birthday and he in return hugged me and told me to sit in the blanket because I was very cold. He told my mother to stay over for the night. ‘Your brother will drop you back tomorrow morning.’ My mother agreed and soon we were chatting away and for some time forgot what was happening outside. That night after dinner we sat around the TV watching some old classic movie. After a while I saw my mother get up and suddenly I heard a loud shriek from her. All of us rushed to the courtyard and heard loud noises coming from loud speakers. At first we were too shocked to understand what was happening. All the noises seemed like battle cries and we all huddled together in fear. We were standing in the courtyard and our faces were white with fear. Slowly everything started making sense. All the militants or so-called Jehadis were declaring Jehad from the loudspeakers placed in the mosques. They were coaxing Muslim men, women and children to come out of their houses and join them in the so-called holy Jehad. All kafirs or Pandits were threatened to join them or face serious consequences. In the fifteen years of my existence I had not known what fear really was and for the first time I asked my mother that why was being Hindu such a big crime. The noises were getting louder and louder and we all had blank expressions on our faces. No one knew what all this meant or why all this was happening to us. Later we got to know that all the Mujahideens or simply militants had crowded in Maisuma Chowk and a battle ensued between security forces and militants. That night the government of India had named Jagmohan as the governor of Kashmir and then Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah had resigned in protest. So that night, on 20th of January 1990 there was no government in Kashmir, no one to control the situation and no one to protect us. My grandfather went around his house like a mad man frantically praying to God to protect his family. Tears were trickling down his eyes and he kept repeating ‘ kabali loot gav, kabali loot gav’ [the kabalis have struck again! (ref to kabali invasion that Pakistan had masterminded in 1947)]. My mother looked at me and said ‘ my child we will have to leave Kashmir, for you I will have to go. You are more precious to me than anything else’

Next morning Curfew was clamped in the city. We were at Nana’s place for a week. And then returned to our house. I still remember how sad my house looked that day. As soon as we reached all our immediate neighbors came to meet us and they all were sure that the time to leave their homeland had come. Nobody said anything but they all knew that it was all over. After that we hardly left our homes. We were literally trapped in our own homes. All we could see everywhere were security forces marching up and down. Soon it was almost clear that schools could not run properly in this situation and my mother was concerned about my studies. All our neighbors had fled and we were the only Pandit family in that neighborhood. Militants had also started selective killings of Pandits and one of our close relatives had also become a victim of this manslaughter. By now it had become clear that militants wanted all Pandits to leave Kashmir. The gory tales of their violence spread everywhere like wild fire. My mother was concerned about our safety and well being. With a heavy heart she woke me up one night and said, ‘ I have decided to go to Delhi and get you enrolled in some school there.’ She was heart broken. We had no where to go in Delhi. We had to start life all over again. My mother would have to look for a job there and it would be a very different life from what we were leading at Kashmir. In about two weeks, we packed just the bare essentials and left our home forever.

I still remember the night before we left our homes. My mother cooked our last meal in the house that we still called our own. She had been quiet the whole day and in the evening as she was serving the food she could bear it no longer. She broke down and told me ‘ I came to this house as a young bride. This house has been a witness to all my good times and bad times and even when your father left us forever, this house protected me against all outsiders and evils. Today I am leaving the security of my house and don’t know where I am going. I cannot pack the moments spent in this house. I cannot pack my memories, why am I being forced to leave my homeland, I have not committed any crime, why am I paying the price for the mistakes of others.’ I was too small then to say anything. I just wiped the tears from the face of my mother and two of us quietly ate our last meal in our house and wept till we could weep no more.

The moment we left our house we were branded as ‘MIGRANTS’ by the Government and so called ‘ALREADY SETTLED’ Pandits living outside valley. For the first time I realized how tough it was to survive in this harsh world. We lived in a rented apartment in Faridabad, near Delhi. The house we lived in had no windows and no fans. For first couple of weeks we didn’t even have a refrigerator. We had to battle against a lot of things outside valley, heat of plains being one of them. God somehow gave us, and many families like us, a lot of strength. We survived and took everything as a challenge. My mother found a job for herself. We started gathering the threads of our life with time. But strangely enough, the scars have only become bigger with time. My grandfather literally went insane. He could not bear the fact that he was being forcibly made to leave his house. He could not bear that he had left his palatial bungalow and was living in a rented home in Jammu with absolutely no amenities. He soon stopped recognizing people and stopped eating. We lost him soon and the tragedy was that we could not even mourn for him properly. Many more such tragedies happened. Many people have been languishing ever since in the migrant camps and normal life has never been restored for them.

More than a decade has passed but the wounds are still there. When I see how callously the Kashmir situation is being handled the wounds start bleeding all over again. When I hear of Bamiyan Buddhas being destroyed by Afghan Vandals my wounds become fresh and I am reminded of the vandalism I am a victim of. When I see no one taking up the cause of Kashmiri Pandits because we don’t form the vote bank for any politician my wounds start aching.

Although we are all survivors but something has died in all of us. We are all leading an incomplete life. Our homes have been burnt down, our dreams have been trampled upon, our numbers are decreasing fast, yet we are holding against all odds hoping that one day we will return to our land of ancestors, our home land.

I can only say in the end

‘zuv chum braman ghar ghasha”…..[I am pining to go back to my home]

Sunanda Vashisht (Zadu) - 2004-09-13

That Scary Night....

It was horrible to witness the night, when the roads, lanes were filled with people and crying for the Azadi. We were taken aback and could expect anything possible. Even we could not decide that why people are on the roads, unexpectedly. One of our neighbors came to us and knocked our door, saying, "Do you know what is happening?". We also were as surprised and shocked as they were. We could not respond a little bit, other than saying "What to do next?" They too had no reply, quite obviously. Then we quickly decided to segregate our ladies lot, so that at least they are saved and nothing adverse happens in our presence. This was what we could decide instantaneously/briskly, without a second to wait. Thereafter, my two friends went to the KPs in our belt, which were about 10 to 12 and told them to send the ladies folk to one house which was slightly off in our belt and gave them some money, so that they can save their honor/ lives, if it comes to running away from the place.

Everybody had a little option to decide otherwise and we landed all the ladies/girls in one house, which we thought was safer as compared to other ones. Though this was a only a matter of self-satisfaction, which we could depend during that crisis. We all men folk decided to guard our houses and it was crystal clear that we could prefer to die rather than witnessing our ladies folk to be dishonored in front of our eyes. We called the police station, and they advised us to stay inside rather than giving any hope for a safety. This was the height of desperation, but we had little to do about it. Every second of that night passed on like a hell, not knowing what shall be the next, but fortunately nothing happened as we were expecting. we had a sigh of relief in the morning, thinking that we had got a breathing time to decide what to do. The next move landed us only at Jammu without bag and baggage and reeling under the tremendous agony, desperation and exasperation, thinking what is in our fate. Rest all of us are very well aware and need not to be updated.

Satish Raina - 2004-09-13

Why my 24 years old son was killed? My son Dilip was promised a job by one Habib Rishi of Reshipora Zanipora a local Congress leader. He assured us of all protection being head of a militant outfit in the area. It was 1990. He directed some militants to help us to do our normal business (looking after our orchards and agricultural land). As insurgency escalated, Habib asked for money to be paid to some Govt. authority for issuing appointment order to Dilip. We had no money. "Sell your land which after sometime will be usurped by the militants and you will have neither land nor job" he repeatedly said. Dilip sold a portion of land. Habib borrowed spray machine and other Agro-equipments (costing Rs. 50,000). In all he made Rs. 70,000 from us. But as no orders were received, Dilip asked for return of the money. This annoyed Habib who had obtained money to the tune of Rs 70,000 - including cost of agricultural equipment with the promise of returning the equipment back costing about Rs. 50,000.

Dilip was mercilessly beaten by Unidentified militants and his body badly mutilated thrown on a street. Dilip's Grandmother, Mother (both widows), sister and unemployed younger brother were brought to Jammu with the help of security forces. The Grandmother passed away with a heat stroke. Rest of the destitute family, all females, are in the Muthi camp today.

Mother of one Dilip Kumar, B.A. (aged 24 years) S/o of Late Mohan Lal R/O village Mujamarg, Tehsil Shopiyan, District Pulwama, J&K, India, presently in Muthi Refugee Camp, Jammu, J&K, India.

A Mother - 2004-09-13

What is my greatest problem in the Valley?

"When you kill one person, you go to the prison. When you kill one hundred persons, you are a hero. And when you are responsible for the killings of hundreds of persons you are invited to peace talks."

My father a petty shopkeeper was picked up from our home, within minutes hanged to death in the precincts of our house in presence of my mother, sister and brother with no charge, rhyme or reason. Neighbouring elderly Muslim women came to console us. Some of them said that it was God's will. Not an insect can be killed unless Allah wills. There were tears in the eyes of a few girls, my class mates, but when one of them told me to forget the dark past and rejoice in the new faith I was greatly hurt. She told me this while the dead body was still hanging from our walnut tree in front of our house. I was shown a Muslim neighbour elder to me 10 or 15 years to be my husband.

BSF by chance suspected something wrong as they saw hundreds of men, women and children running to our house. BSF helped us to move to Jammu. In Jammu I pin-pointed names of all those who mercilessly eliminated my dearest father but all in vain. Kashmir is 100% Islamised now. If I return to my home in the valley someday, how shall I feel when I face the same people who proved so cruel and barbaric and easily escaped any punishment even the formality of being questioned.

(Name withheld), Resident of District Badgam, J&K, India.

Name withheld - 2004-09-13

Where is secularism in Kashmir?

I belong to downtown Srinagar. During 1987-88 I spent Rs. 80,000 of my life savings to renovate my house. The lure of property kept me in my home till August,1990 while my Hindu neighbours fled from Jan, 1990. But I had to pay Rs. 300 per month from March to July 1990 for being allowed to stay back in my house towards donation to the so-called freedom movement (Aazadi).

In mid August, 1990 militants from some far of place in Srinagar came with arms. They packed up all our valuables, beat us mercilessly and asked us to flee. No neighbour even whispered in our favour, not even those who recovered the monthly Jaziya from us.

Now six long years have elapsed. Our house in Srinagar has become residence of a militant family. Here in Jammu I pay Rs. 1200 monthly as rent without getting even a penny from the one who occupied my house. I am not an exception. Same is true with many many families in exile. For the Central Govt., things have improved. There is a change in Muslim hearts. For me it is a blatant lie and bluff of the nincompoop rulers ignorant of ground realities.

Mohan Rani (Surname withheld upon request)

Camp Muthi-Jammu, J&K, India.

Mohan Rani - 2004-09-13

Kashmiri Hindu - the acid test for secularism in India

You can retain the land called Kashmir but can you give a place of honour and dignity to the exiled Kashmiri Hindu when he returns back to his 10,000 year old homeland ? The future of Kashmiri Hindu is the acid test for secularism in India.

How was it that every Muslim contributed to the hounding out of Kashmiri Hindu from the valley from 1947-90. Now when the dream of gifting away the land to Pakistan became impossible they purchase immovable property of Hindus on throw away prices. Day in and day out you see Kashmiri Muslims in refugee camps in Jammu, Delhi and elsewhere. They are erstwhile neighbours urging ailing patients, starving inhabitants, parents with grown up girls with no means for their weddings to sell their property in Kashmir. They did so in 1992-93 in a different way. Then terrorists openly threatened them that their houses would be set ablaze if not sold. In many cases Insurance Companies refused to entertain the insurance proposals of the exiled Hindus.

Only one option was left to the Secularist pro-Indian Hindu that was to sell his house under duress. Will anybody believe that a house built at the cost of 15 lakhs in 1983 fetched Rs. 2 lakhs to a family when one of their members became victim of kidney failure ?

Roshan Lal in exile in Mishriwalla Refugee Camp, Jammu, J&K, India.

Roshan Lal - 2004-09-13

I want to share the experience we had in our colony on the day when all Muslims came out on the road and started crying for Azadi. It was sudden outburst of something underlying since a longtime, but we were certainly unfortunate not to have taken any cognizance of it before hand, otherwise, we would have not been taken aback. The horrible experience on that night still passes shudders in my body. We were certainly out of wits to decide what to do and what no to do on witnessing a mammoth crowd out on the roads. One of our neighbors came to us with his wits off to have a interaction what is happening and what could we do. We had a few young boys in our colony and we immediately decided to collect the ladies/girls of our colony at one place and gave them some money so that if something untoward happens at least they would be equipped to tackle the problem of running away in what ever transport available. All the gents gathered to see what they had to face next, but it was pre-decided that we would not see our mothers/sisters/wives being dishonored with our eyes. We had very little to save ourselves, except to alter our lives for our the sake of our families. The conditions seemed to be like a person where he finds himself deserted amid a huge populace, but we had hardly anything to do about it. we were left with no alternative, but to reconcile with the situations presented to us.

With the blessing of that Almighty, nothing happened to us except for a huge amount of tension which we reeled for that full night. We had a sigh of relief on finding ourselves with our families again. The amount of exhilaration can not be described in words, this one can only feel and I do not find any words to explain the moments which rejoined us with our families. There and then everybody of us felt that we are unsafe here, hence the resultant was an exodus from our birth place. I am forced to put on record that when we left our houses, we all had a last glance of it and thereafter till date , things are amply clear to everyone of us.

We still long to go back, but how and when is a question which haunts all of us.

Satish Raina - 2004-09-13

My family suffered not only once....

We used to stay at a small village about 15kms from Anantnag.

I still remember Shivratri(a major festival of Kashmiris) of the year 1986.My maternal grandfather was in the last stages of his cancer so all my masis(aunts)and mausas(uncles)were there at his place trying their best to serve him during his last days of life.During this period,riots had started in the southern part of the valley and some miscreants in Kashmir had started looting the Hindu families.One morning we got the news that my Aunt's place had been looted.It was like a nightmare, on one side my grandfather was very sick and on the other side we had no knowledge of the whereabouts of my cousins and their paternal grandmother who were there at that time.

Then my Masi(Aunt) borrowed a burkha(veil)from a neighbour to conceal her identity as a hindu woman and walked for hours to reach her village just to find her wrecked house and shocked children and mother-in-law.

After a few days my grandfather passed away and slowly we had to return to our normal lives trying to forget the painful past.

Then came a time (ending 1989 onwards)when everybody had to decide whether to leave the valley or not.My parents had to stay there for a little longer than everybody else did due our personal problems.I was sent to Jammu,since my school had been shut down, to take admission in another school there.

One night,when my perents,grandmother and great grandmother were getting ready for the dinner, they heard a knock at the door.My mother went to open the door and the first thing to enter was a barrel of a gun followed by two masked terrorists.She almost lost consciousness. They took my father in a separate room and started questioning him about him having a wireless telephone and being involved with the Indian Army calling him mukhbir(informer).Truth being, my father had nothing to do with a wireless telephone.He is a man of principle and has always believed in a live and let live policy. They showed him a letter stamped by some area commander saying that if they found him guilty he would be given the appropriate punishment according to the rules.

In the other room my mother and grandmother tried to escape through the window to get some help when they realised that our house had been surrounded from all sides by the terrorists.

My great grandmother who was a courageous and selfless woman, forcefully entered the room where they were questioning my father and she started screaming at the top her voice, condemning them of killing innocent people without any reason. With her entrance in the room, my father gathered courage and started yelling at them telling them to do whatever they had to do in front of the whole village. He told them that they were cowards and challenged them to prove his guilt and then punish him in front of everyone in the village.

The terrorists were really shocked as my father pushed them aside and dragged one of the two terrorists outside in the courtyard and told him repeatedly to call the villagers. They got confused and fled without harming anyone from my family.

Later when my father reported the incident to the so-called elders of the village(who tried to assure him that nothing like this would happen in future and he doesn't have to fear any more),they did an investigation and we came know that an ex-tiller of ours had hired these terrorists so that he could own our land that was just next to his.

My family had to leave the place soon after this incident since my family no longer felt secure there.

I am thankful to God for blessing us with my father's precious life.

It is really shameful that we have lost so many precious and innocents lives and the culprits are still at large.

Namrata Kaul - 2004-09-13

My Dad had a good business in the heart of city which was first targetted by the radicals so we have to sit idle for the next four months and one day we had to leave our home in the dead of night leaving our belongings. Then we came to Faridabad were we do not have anything to do, for the next 6months. Then my sister found a job as a teacher in Faridabad to sustain us. Now our precious 15years have passed and we are not able to go to our birth place freely. Some people are going there just as tourists. No Govt. Central or State is doing anything for us as we are not a vote bank for them , but we have a glorious past of 5000 years and one day we will see the light of the tunnel. As we are not a vote bank no one is interested in us , it is our fault we should elect our leader who can raise our voice and who can be heard, I would prefer Shri Jag Mohan as every K.P. know what he is for us. When 2500 sikhs died in 1984 riots, now politicians are creating hue and cry and they bow they heads in shame, Sikhs are coming on streets. When about 600-800 Muslims died in Gujrat Riots politicians are saying that it is black blot in ones party face (BJP). When around 1lacs K.P. were forced to leave their homes and apprx. 1500 were mercillesly killed by radicals ,where were these politicians then, when one is focibly taken out of their homes and given the name of migrants in their own country. DO NOT THEY FEEL ASHAMED they should also bow their heads for this community. If our politicians do not stop appeasing these radicals, one day OUR HINDUSTAN will become ISLAMISTAN. Hope some good sense will prevail to our politicians and will work earnestly to solve the Kashmir problem and pave for our return to our maez kashir.

jatinder - 2005-08-21

16 years back “Wake up Shreyas, wake up. We have to leave, wake up”, said my mother shaking my hand briskly. On opening my eyes, I saw my father unfastening the chain of his bag and inserting his clothes and other personal things in it. Shree was standing in corner of room gazing mother continuously. I went up to her and asked, “What is happening didi, where is papa going”. She murmured, “We all are going”, as if she was talking to herself. I turned to mother and asked, “Where are we going ma”. “GOD knows where are we going, what all I know is that we are leaving KASHMIR, and don’t ask anything just wear your clothes,” she said, “Shree will help you. Go now”. “Should I pack up my passbook, cheque book, job related credentials and other documents?” asked ma to papa. I saw tears swelling and rolling down her eyes. Papa replied in negation and said, “better keep them in locker or handover them to pitaji”. I kept on asking the same questions repeatedly to Shree while she was buttoning my shirt but was not reciprocated with answers. She was looking eccentric to me, as I had never ever seen her so blank and numb. As it was a usual December night with sub zero temperature I was left covered with woolen from top to bottom. While papa, ma and didi continued what they were doing, I rushed to my grandparents' room. Dadi was sitting on her couch with her legs folded and her wrinkled yet glowing face resting on her knees, which was vacant and reddened eye. Dada on seeing me came forward, kissed me on my forehead, and said, “Let them go now, we need not to be anxious about anything and if you wish so, we will join them afterwards. Let them go and do not increase their troubles. Come, come and help them”. Dada raised me into his arms and walked into our bedroom with dadi following him. “Don’t you worry about us. We will stay here. They will not harm us. We are old and of no value for them. After all this is our motherland, we have been living here for centuries. We share common blood and a mere difference of faith will not make them so brittle. If GOD will be kind upon us then we won’t be required to leave our home and you too will return”. Tears rolled down on cheeks of dadi nevertheless she quickly wiped them off. “Onkar beta take all necessary things and your personal belongings with you so that you don’t have to look up at others for aid and support’’ said dadi and while she articulated these words I clearly saw her hands quacking. Dadi headed toward ma, brought ma close to her and murmured something into her ears. What she said , I will never ever be able to know but after completing her words she bursted into tears. As if tears are contagious, they instantaneously infected ma and Shree and swelled up in their eyes. Dada walked out of the room. When packing was done papa ringed up Hariom Uncle and asked his whereabouts. Leaving valley was a group resolution and pundits fled away in large chunks, some in their own vehicles and some in private vehicles. The centuries old tradition of KASHMIRIYAT was being torned by PUPPETS of ALLAH. This mass exodus of pundits was not very first incidence of its kind in the history of Kashmir. This time we were driven out of our homes, of our motherland, of our culture for the fifth time. This time it was for the AZADI of Kashmir from the illicit occupation of INDIA. Pundits, the centuries old inhabitants of KASHMIR were tagged as INDIAN agents and KASHMIR was being unfurnished by MUJAHIDIENS from this unwanted debris. Names of pundits were being pasted on walls of civic buildings and on local mosques. Letters bearing threats and warning notes were left on doorsteps by anonymous. Such edicts were also published in local Urdu newspapers. It all started something around November 1989 when I was just seven years old and shree was something around 12 years. Our four-storied dwelling was located in GANPATYAR locality of SRINAGAR district. My grandfather Sh. Brij Nath Koul was ex-chairman of history Department in Kashmir University. He was a man of values. Everyone in our locality knew him well. He was a divine lover of Kashmir and was a devout SHIVAIT. My father Sh. Onkar Nath Koul was Jr. Engineer in state Electricity board. He was the only son of my dadaji. My mother Smt. Kalpana Koul, carried on the profession of dadaji and was reader of zoology in Kashmir university. Hariom uncle, my ma’s brother was a resident of Jawaher Nager and ran a store in Residency Road area. We were living a reasonably happy life before it all started. My parents all the time thought that happen what may we will not be harmed by anyone for we were not drawn in anything happening at that time in valley. Our firm consideration was further strengthened by words of uncle Junaid Ahmed Bhatt and Aashiq Rasool Wani, both of them being my father’s friends. Uncle JUNAID was also our neighbor. His son waseem and I were of same age and therefore were best of friends, that time. However, destiny played a harsh game with us. One fine evening Junaid uncle informed papa that his name was pasted on wall of a nearby mosque with names of many other pundits counting Hariom mamaji as well, asking all of them to abscond Kashmir or to get ready to see their fate. A small group of pundits assembled and it was decided that we will leave Kashmir for the interim as a safety measure only and will come back to our dwellings as soon as the blizzard vanishes. The governor of the state, then, is also blamed for our exodus from our houses. As dada’s name was not on the list, he decided to stay back. Our turn arrived a bit late; a number of Pundits had already fled away to JAMMU. It was our turn now. After discussing, the situation with Hariom uncle on phone papa asked all of us to walk down to garage and get seated in our car. Hariom uncle was coming to our house with whole of his kin and some other pundits. Ma jam-packed five large bags, all of them full of our household things and other necessary items. All that time dadi kept on howling and cursing the terrorists. Ma tried to console nevertheless she was weeping herself. Papa, dada and didi were all vacant and pale with no emotions on their faces except that of fright. Thirteen other cars and mini buses arrived near our house and Hariom uncle jumped out of one of them speedily. He wished my grandparents, kissed me on my forehead, and said, “Onkar bhaisaab the valley is burning and situations are worse for Hindus to continue here. Do not wait even for a second; just run for your lives”. Hearing his words dadi started crying as if she was mourning for someone who is dead now. Junaid uncle might have heard our conversation by then so he opened his door and walked out of his house. He took papa’s hand and said with a heavy throat, “what a day has arrived. My friend is being forced to leave his home and I am not in a position to do anything. Oh Allah, what should I do. How can I see you fleeing away like this?” “Don’t you worry Junaid everything will end up correctly and we will be back before long” said papa “and pitaji and ma are staying here so please look after my old parents. If conditions will become fatal then I will take them away with me but until then they and my house are your responsibility. Please take care of them”. “Oh don’t worry at all they are my own parents, mouj is mirror image of my mother for me. Now you all should leave. Go,” said he “Allah hafiz Onkar bhai”. He handed over his kangri to ma and kissed didi’s forehead. While all this was happening Zarina aunty, wife of Junaid uncle and Waseem were peeping out at us through window in their house. Our car became an entity of long caravan of vehicles taking pundits away to safer places. I turned and gazed at my grand parents standing with Junaid uncle at our gate. Dadi was continuously crying and dada was trying to console her. That time I didn’t thought that I was seeing my grandparents for the last time. I kept on looking them continuously until they were in my range of vision. Along with Hariom uncle, we were five souls in that fastening car and all were as silent and immovable as dead. Snow was heavily pouring down and the chill was shivering our bones and jaws. As we moved on and came near GOW KADAL (a bridge in Srinagar city), I don’t know what happened to ma that she started beating her forehead with her palms and started crying. Those outbursts of emotions bring a shivering in my spine even today whenever I think of it. Our cars kept on moving until a mad crowd of our Kashmiri counterpart stopped them. It was a mob of over hundred Kashmiri men, all of them dressed in pheren and carrying kangris in their hands. They all were shouting “Allah o akbar, Allah o akbar. Kashmir mian rehna hoga, Allah o akbar kehna hoga. (Saying Allah o akbar is the only condition to live in Kashmir). Asi gachi Pakistan bata rosta batanev san (We will go to Pakistan and will take hindu women folk with us)”. That throng emerged out from nowhere like a flash mob, enmeshed us, chanted out these slogans, grimed at us and suddenly disappeared in dark. Some of them turned back and forced out all pundit men out of their cars at their gunpoint. This increased the trauma of my mother manifold. She soaked Shree didi and me into her shawl. A shrouded face came to us, knocked at glass of window, and pointed out his armament on father. Ma started pleading him of our lives. I remember those eyes behind that mask. They were full of fury and revenge. The image of those eyes is intact in my memories. Even today, I can identify them. He stared at all of us for a while and pulled out papa from the driver’s seat. Papa was pulled as if he was not a human being but a sack of flesh and bones. Ma at once jumped out of car, took hold of his arm and begged “As per instructions we are leaving Kashmir then why are you holding us here like this”. The man opened his mouth for the first time “We are letting you go out of valley, is that not enough for you. What are you people taking with you in these bags? Your lives are the only thing, which you will be allowed to take from Kashmir. Rest all belongs to poor and oppressed muslims of our Kashmir whom you pundits have never considered as human as yourself. You handful pundits have always been overweighed. For centuries, you cowards have dominated in every run of life. It’s our turn now. Leave Kashmir, India awaits you and Kashmir awaits NIZAM -E- MUSTAFA”. His question was immediately answered by ma and she pulled out all five bags out of car and handed over to him. By then he let papa free from his grip. “I said punditani take your lives with you, rest all is ours,” he shouted “don’t you listen”. “We have given you all our belongings, nothing is left to us. What the hell do you want now, for GOD’S sake let us go now at least” said Hariom uncle. The man replied at once in an angry tone “look at your lady. She is wearing dejharoos, handover them to me immediately otherwise bullets of my gun are ready to penetrate your body”. Ma handed over her dejharoos to him at once and he gave a silent permission to all of us to proceed. Ma collected a bit of courage within her and asked that man to give our bag of clothes back to us. I think this irritated him a lot, he turned back to her and snatched the kangri which uncle Junaid had given her and crushed that kangri under his boots. He looked at us and asked us to leave immediately. Our fellow pundits were also bereaved. Life cheats, sometimes atleast. The same scenes were repeated in other parts of valley too. Pundits were appalled in every corner of valley. In our way, we saw thousands of eyes staring at us, ‘the busted pundits’ from their windows. The streets were all deserted as it was nighttime and curfew was imposed in all parts of the valley. The last thing, which I remember of that night, is JAWAHER TUNNEL. This tunnel is gateway to Kashmir. After passing safely out of valley well and safe, my parents and all of us felt relieved and in warm lap of my mother I felt asleep soon. TODAY That night changed the course of my life, not only mine but of over four hundred thousand Kashmiri Hindus who are popularly known as pundits for their knowledge, intelligence and standard of education. I am Shreyas Koul and I am 24 years old now. I am living in a tent made up of plastic sheet with my parents in outskirts of Jammu district on Jammu-Udhampur road. Ours is a complete village comprising of about 800 tents and a population of over 7600. I have graduated in commerce from Government Degree College three years back and I am still looking out for a job. In meantime I had learned repairing and maintenance of mobile phones at a near by electronic shop and presently I am earning about Rs. 1700 from it. My elder sister Shree(now 28) is married to Vijay Zaroo and Mrs. Shree Koul Zaroo is now a mother of three tiny tots who were born in the same tent in which they are living presently. One of her boy child is suffering from hysteria. My brother-in-law, Vijay assists a pharmacist at his drug shop. Hariom uncle left our tent village six years back when he got a job in a private textile mill in SURAT. They are now living an enjoyable lower middle class life, over there. As my parents left their papers back home, the government found itself hapless in providing them their salaries and any other job. On inquiry papa found that, his service book was missing from office records. Ma was not differently treated. God knows who had eaten up the service books. Ma is something around 52 but she looks like 102. Reader of zoology in Kashmir University now gives home tuition for 300 bucks. Papa works with PANUN KASHMIR and thinks that one day they will succeed in carving a separate homeland for pundits within the valley. He is 125 years old now, I suppose. My grandparents thought they were of no value for those freedom seekers but they were so wrong. They made a huge contribution in freedom struggle and cleaning of Kashmir. As per what we were told by those who fled late, some freedom seekers rushed into our house two nights after we left valley. They pumped thirteen bullets into my dada’s body, three of them in head, two in heart, and three in his legs and rest in his groin region. Before this, his head was beaten with hammer and skin was pealed off on which he used to apply a TIKA very proudly. There was no scar on my dadi’s body. They say she just died of shock. Death of my grandparents paved a way for easy and automatic cleansing of Kashmir from unwanted debris. Junaid uncle who kept every word of what he had promised to papa did the cremation rites of my grandparents. He was rewarded for this deed by freedom seekers. He was beaten mercilessly for showing sympathy to pundits. We still have some contact with each other by exchange of letters. His son Waseem, whom I had not seen since we left Kashmir, is now pursuing his degree in medicine from AMU Aligarh. Destiny has been kind upon him. Agony hurts. He is rising and I am in a pitfall. The exile of Shree RAM was of fourteen years but we are out of our homes for over sixteen years and RAVAN has not been identified yet. In these past sixteen years life had taught me a number of lessons. Life has made me tolerant. Today I know a lot about life but the biggest agony of my life will be that I don’t know myself. I am a rootless sapling, planted on a barren land. I do not know what does being a Kashmiri Hindu means. I don’t remember anything about Kashmir. I had never been there since we came here. That night is very much there in front of my eyes as it was a night that deserted my life but besides that, I don’t have anything in my mind. I barely remember our house, except for our bedroom. Neither I remember much of it nor will I ever be able to see it again because it was burnt down to ashes as an act of revenge after demolition of BABRI MASJID. Along with our house, the tiny temple of our locality was rocked down to a heap of bricks and mud. My ma often talks about SHANKARACHARYA TEMPLE and KHEER BHAVANI TEMPLE both of which are in Kashmir. She describes how fondly she used to take me there; but here too I am blank. I will never know how SHIVRATRI and NAVRATRA were celebrated over there in Kashmir. MAA SHARDA is already behind iron bars in AZAD JAMMU and KASHMIR. Although I am a Kashmiri pundit yet I found it difficult to talk in KOSHUR; HINDI and DOGRI are much easy, at least for me. I think the game is about to get over in near future. Soon the culturally and otherwise distinct community of Kashmiri pundits will be extinct. Today I am just a Hindu, nothing more than that. Let them be proud about their Kashmir ‘the paradise on earth’. The heaven has lost its charm in my eyes when they ‘hell-bent for AZADI’ ruined my life and made it a living hell. Today my tent is heaven for me and for next few centuries, it will remain so. I wonder how people live in cages of concrete and bricks. We don’t think about future anymore. We left everything in valley which we owned; by everything I mean our culture, traditions, kashmiriyat and our future too. We have stopped dreaming. Making the ends meet is in itself quite troublesome. My biggest desire presently is to owe a TV set and to have electricity connection in our tent. Silly thought; I know it is. A tent does not deserve to have an electricity connection but an ailing old Jr engineer in state electricity board needs and deserves a bit of comfort, atleast at dusk of his life. I don’t know when did all this started. Neither have I had any clue of it nor am I interested in that rubbish thought. Some say the root cause is marked differences in both the faiths. Some others are of firm belief that it is result of incomplete partition of the sub continent. A few also believe that misgovernance of the state governments of nineteen eighties’ is the mother of this freedom struggle. However, for me it all started when my mother waked me up one night saying “wake up Shreyas, wake up. We have to leave”. its a piece of fiction which i had written taking tha name of shreyas. i am aniruddh singh, 21 years old and presently living in aligarh with my parents. i feel as if i a also a kashmiri. i want to do something for kashmir. if you find me worth entertaining then please do reply me at aniruddh_singh85@yahoo.co.in

aniruddh singh - 2006-11-10

My story is nothing different from the thousands of KP's who fled from the valley of their dreams (Kashmir) for their life in around Jan/Feb 1990. I lived alongwith my family of four in a small house in Nai Sadak, Near Badiyar Bala in Srinagar. I'm witness to the numerous brutalities that the KP's had to face and the final blow of 19/20 Jan '90 (Night)when the loudspeakers from the Mosques blazed venom and we finally decided to leave. The morning was a scene when the road leading Lalchowk was filled with KP ladies,men and children running with loads of their belongings on their backs and heads and the Muslims on the roadside and windows of their houses laughing away the plight of the hapless Pandits running for their life to get a lift for Jammu outside the bounds of the fanatic Muslim population. The scene is engraved in my memory and can never be viped away. Our journey Jammu also commenced the same morning and what were the odds that we had to face there is a real story to tell but --------------

JL Bhat - 2006-12-22

Dear Sir, I wish to make an appeal thru this portal. Wanted to put an appeal up for one Ms. Kusum Handoo who is alone staying with her parents and her son is batelling lukemia,and to save the precious life docs have recommended bone marrow transplant. The kid is presently hospitalised at Sir Ganga Ram Hospital and needs to undergo the transplant at either Vellore Hoppital-Tamil Nadu or TATA at Bombay. If possible can u post this message on ur portal to help kusum handoo save here kid. She at the moment is batteling it out alone. Should voluntary donors come forward we may b able to save a precious life Kusum Can be reached at her mobile # +919871893360

Rajiv Munshi - 2007-01-05

Though being called a survivor will not be fair to people who actually fought for their existence. I was only 7 year old at the time we left kashmir therefore was unaware of the turbulances my elders faced thus i would call my father and other elders in our community the survivors. I still get shivers when i remember a day when 4 terrorists came to a mosque just behind our house at rainawari(Naidywar).It was the first time in my life i saw a terrorist with a gun hidden under his pheran.He was a bearded man . He shouted anti india anti pandit slogans. It was kind of a festival for local kashmiri muslims. I remember people shouting and pelting stones at our house during the time these terrorist kept speaking. These were same muslims who used to play on our fields. The other incident i remember is of Burning of DAV SCHOOL which was visible from the Kaani(Balcony) of our house. It was during a cold winter night we heard screams of people that DAV SChool is burning. We all went to our balcony and saw the burning DAV. I remember my father had tears in his eyes as it his Alma Mater. I started crying with fear and asked my father to leave for Jammu. The last incident that will be in my memory till i Die is when we left for Jammu. It was early in the morning we left towards the Bus Station.Though i dont remember its location but i remember Shankracharya could be seen from there.My Grandma,My aunty,DAD, Uncle and cousin sister and 3 months old brother all boarded the bus to jammu. I remember the last words uttered by my grandmother"HEY MAEJ KASHIR AES DRAYE" meaning MOTHER KASHMIR WE ARE LEAVING.I would like to mention here that when we reached Jammu it was raining heavly may be raingods also cried . WE LEFT KASHMIR.....

Vithal Motilal Chowdhary - 2007-10-06

credit: Kashmiri pandit websites