Beloved Kashmiri Pandits, come back to your paradise
Can pain be quantified?
Can memories be erased?
Should it end so soon?
I vividly recall standing next to my Kashmiri Pandit classmate Rahul in the morning assemblies at my first school in Srinagar. Together, we would sing "We Shall Overcome, We Shall Overcome, Hum Honge Kamyab, Hum Honge Kamyab" prayer in a melodious and rhythmic tone while exchanging smiles.
Our principal Bharti Kaul and senior teacher Teja ma’am would shower immense love and praise on me. Their motivation and appreciation at such a young age immensely helped me in shaping my personality. I owe a lot to them for whatever I am today.
From another school, I remember Ms Anita who taught us English. I remember how she would ensure that I secured the first position in my class by making me work harder and harder. Then there was Usha ma’am, another Pandit teacher who taught us Social Studies, who wanted me to be the best of the lot. I remember everything.
After my mother’s lap, the "Angels World" in Srinagar was my second home. This was a place where I learnt the fundamental lessons of humanity, treating people as people, not as Musalman (Muslim), Sikh or Hindu. It seemed as if our teachers belonged to one big family.
I also remember Jan Ded, our school maid, who was like another granny. Much later, as a young boy, I visited her home a couple of times on the insistence of my mother. She was nearly 100 years old. She is no more with us in the physical sense. May she rest in peace.
Kashmir was like a beautiful garden, with flowers of different hues adding to its charm and attraction.
I remember picking delicious apples from an orchard owned by one of my Pandit teachers in Srinagar. I also remember Upendra Uncle paying regular visits to our home. Later on, he left Kashmir and settled down in Kolkata.
In the Muslim-majority Kashmir valley, it was part of our daily life and social milieu to have friends and acquaintances from Pandit and Sikh communities.
Since I loved cricket since childhood, one of my favourite local cricket teams had two excellent Pandit players in Ramesh and Sunil. The duo was adored by the spectators from neighbouring areas. They would come in droves to watch cricket games at Badam Bagh.
Everything appeared so wonderful. Almost picture perfect.
Those were beautiful and peaceful days in our Kashmir, full of sweet memories.
Muslims, Pandits and Sikhs studying in the same school, playing together, sharing lunch and dinner, attending marriage functions, birthday parties, offering condolences when someone in the neighbourhood died (those days most of the people would die of natural causes, not by the bullets of Indian paramilitary troops, CRPF or in grenade attacks by militants), sympathising with each other and even engaging in verbal brawls as friends would normally do.
Then, all of a sudden, tranquility vanished into thin air. Peace didn't stay. It was blown away into pieces.
Music of bullets replaced the "recess" bells in our school. Instead of new paint on the walls, there were newer bullet marks and holes. Every single bullet mark had a story to tell. Every hole was a grim reminder of the times we were living in. That was how many of us grew up as school kids.
It was a wake-up call, an alarming bell that announced in no uncertain terms: Hell in Paradise.
The paintings of poet Allama Iqbal, educationist Sir Syed Ahmed Khan and literary genius Rabindranath Tagore that once hung on our school walls were now being hit by stray bullets on a regular basis.
My memories are a mixed recollection of school picnics, freedom songs, army crackdowns, random arrests and brutal killings. But I can’t forget that my teachers — whether Hindus or Muslims — at various schools never discriminated against pupils on the basis of their faith, colour of skin, or ideology. I consider myself fortunate to have grown up under the guidance of teachers whose colour-blind humanity taught us many a good lesson of life.
For the outside world and foreign tourists, Kashmir is renowned for its snow-clad mountains, Mughal gardens, pristine waters, Wullar, Dal and Nigeen lakes, Chenab, Indus and Jehlum rivers, valleys, meadows, glaciers, et al, but for the last two-and-a-half decades, the Valley has hogged the headlines internationally for human rights abuse, rape, massacre, abductions, custodial disappearances, custodial killings, extra-judicial killings, fake encounters, mass graves, torture and violence at the hands of Indian security forces, army, paramilitary personnel, state police, and also violence by non-state actors - renegades and militants.
Life was not the same again after 1989. Everything changed, dramatically. I remember everything.
I remember the army crackdowns, operation "Catch and Kill", the firing incidents, cross-firing incidents, grenade blasts, mine blasts, encounters, massive anti-India protest demonstrations, slogans for freedom from India, slogans in favour of militants.
I remember how the Indian armed forces humiliated our elderly and the hurled choicest invectives at our youth, day in and day out; how they made some people bend on their knees on both declared and undeclared curfew days in the early 1990s.
I also remember departures of Kashmiri Pandits from our Valley. That is a painful memory.
Yes, I know I was a school-going boy at that time. Not influential enough to be responsible for their migration or prevent their departure.
Ideally, I believe that the unfortunate circumstances should not have dictated our collective destiny. But I know those were not ideal times. The unfavourable circumstances should have united us as never before, but unfortunately they ended up dividing us.
Life hasn't been the same for Pandits during or after relocation. It hasn't been easy for them in the migrant camps of Jammu or various parts of India.
Sameer, my former colleague at Eenadu Television in Hyderabad, would often narrate the painful stories of getting uprooted. Sameer, his wife and kids, and ailing mother would bear the scorching heat of Jammu while living in a temporary shed that consisted of a single room. His stories were moving and would often leave a pang in my heart. Like hundreds of other Pandit families, his family too had left Kashmir in the early 1990s.
On the other hand, some Pandit families never left Kashmir. Amit, an acquaintance, stayed in Kashmir in spite of the fact that his grandfather, HN Wanchoo, a leading human rights defender, was killed by unidentified assailants.
I believe that India’s former spymaster Amarjit Singh Dulat in his controversial memoir Kashmir: The Vajpayee Years has done a lot of disservice to the Kashmiri Pandit community by suggesting that most of the officers of India’s Intelligence Bureau were Kashmiri Pandits and therefore targeted by the militants.
“…Most of our officers on the ground were Kashmiri Pandits, who lived among the ordinary Kashmiri folk, and they made for easy targets… If anyone in Kashmir had to abuse a political opponent, they would call him an IB agent… The IB, in J&K, had a fair amount of Kashmiri Pandits,” AS Dulat writes at various places.
“The militants, who had come trained and armed from camps across the Line of Control (LoC), had been advised by the ISI (Inter Services Intelligence) to try and roll the State back in Kashmir. Those targeted included Kashmiri Pandits who worked in the government, like Neel Kanth Ganjoo, the judge who had sentenced Maqbool Butt to death, and Lassa Koul, the director of Doordarshan TV’s Srinagar station; and the uniformed services, as part of which was the gunning down of a Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) detail, or of four air force officers. And it included four IB officers in a span of around five weeks,” he writes.
Careless arguments like that only 209 Kashmiri Pandits were killed by militants since 1989 in the Kashmir valley are sometimes made, as if fewer killings mean nothing serious had happened; as if getting uprooted was business as usual - almost like a picnic. At the same time, some extremist elements, who often hijack the debate, exaggerate pain by using words like genocide, holocaust and ethnic cleansing and end up trivialising the whole debate.
The bitter fact is that both Kashmiri Muslims and Pandits have suffered immensely in different ways. The majority community continues to suffer at the hands of state and non-state actors while the minority endures pain at the hands of non-state actors.
The new generation - from both communities in the early or mid-1990s may not be aware of Kashmir’s past and how Muslims and Pandits would visit Sufi shrines, study and play, enjoy parties and picnics, attend weddings and offer condolences together.
One of Kashmir’s many tragedies is that when it comes to any serious deliberation on the Kashmiri Muslim and Pandit communities, more often the vocal minority "representatives" engage in a battle of commotion inside the air-conditioned television studios, which creates further divides, trivialises human sufferings, relationships and bonds, and finally the insensitive debates dehumanise the sufferings on both sides and end up improving the Television Rating Points (TRPs) at the cost of sacrificing any possible headway.
The Muslim-Pandit debate is not all about black and white. It is not about who has suffered more or suffered less. It is more about a history of co-existence, brotherhood and harmony, human bonds, emotional connects and enviable cultures and rich traditions.
It may not be "sexy" for the media to highlight stories how Muslims and Pandits live together, participate in weddings and funerals, attend religious gatherings and festivals together even now, because good stories, they say, make no news.
This is not to say that Muslims and Pandits of Kashmir have similar political ideology. No, it is not the case.
Muslims are not content with the status quo and crave for a political resolution of Kashmir in accordance with dominant aspirations while Pandits are largely happy with India’s rule in Kashmir. Despite this ideological divide they have lived together and shared unforgettable memories for decades and centuries. Why can’t it happen again that they co-live and co-exist while respecting and acknowledging their political differences?
Why can’t this beautiful garden have flowers of different colours without fear of sameness?
To bridge the yawning gaps and avoid further fragmentations and religious divides what the present generation of Kashmiri Pandits and Muslims desperately needs is face-to-face interactions, a tranquil atmosphere to share stories of tragedies and triumphs with one another. They need to laugh and shed tears together, celebrate and mourn together, empathise and sympathise together, live and die together.
During our marriage ceremonies in Kashmir, we extend invitation to guests in an unparalleled way. Even in this age of Facebook, Twitter and Whatsapp, the members of a Kashmiri family that has fixed the marriage of a son or daughter visit homes of their close relatives, friends and neighbours to extend invitations. Then, some two to three weeks before the wedding day, a formal invitation card is dispatched. As the marriage date draws closer, several calls are made. And then, one final call too. At times, even this may not be enough. Such are the levels of expectation from one another.
What Pandits are asking of me is this: “If we left Kashmir, why didn't you call us back? Are merely one or two calls enough? Shouldn't you be doing more and calling us back to receive and welcome us with open arms?”
To this, Muslims say: “Why did you leave us when things were tough, you shouldn't have left us in the first place? Shouldn't you've faced the circumstances and stayed with us?
Today, I once again extend invitation to all my Pandit teachers, friends and acquaintances. Please return. Walev Yeav Wapas!
Is it possible that together we contribute in creating a situation where, irrespective of our collective political future and ideological standpoints, the Rahuls and Gowhars of new generation can again sing "We Shall Overcome, We Shall Overcome, Hum Honge Kamyab, Hum Honge Kamyab" in our schools in Kashmir?
P.S. Even now, I receive messages filled with love, care and warmth from a retired Pandit professor, who taught English at a university. Whenever I write on different subjects, she reiterates that if she had a son he would be exactly like me. I’d have wanted my son to be exactly like you, Gowhar!