Something was pushing me to go there. Something that I didn't understand. Some mysterious force. Some incomprehensible power. My struggled against my heart. It warned and begged my heart to hold back those inconsequential steps but I still kept moving. For a second I did withdraw my footsteps but then again I mustered up some courage and I began my journey. Yes, it was for the first time since the migration I decided to visit my homeland, the Heaven on the Earth, Kashmir.
I wanted to go there alone so I had no one to accompany me. My parents protested and asked me to take someone along with me but I denied. I wanted to be alone, alone in the lap of my motherland. I wanted to talk to the wailing valley, the broken walls, the lamenting fields, the snow-covered roofs in solitude. I wanted to be there all by myself.
The next morning I started off with 'the journey' I had been longing to undertake since quite a while. After a tiresome journey of about 10 hours we crossed the BANIHAL tunnel (Banihal is kashmiri for Blizzard ), also known as The Jawahar Tunnel. I looked outside my window and I couldn't take my eyes off the beautiful Pir Panjal ranges, the green mountains, the fields, the cold breeze that ran through my hairs. The enchanting fragrance of the soil was enough for me to know that I was home, my real home.
I reached Anantnag, the city where my parents had met 24 years ago, the city my grandparents had spent 50 years of their life , the place talking about which still make my grandmom's eyes wet.
I started recalling all the stories I had grown up listening to. Kashmir was beautiful indeed. I was awestruck.
Ad mist all the bewitching beauty of Kashmir, I noticed something missing. It wasn't the same as before.
The laughter was gone. The smiles no longer existed on the faces. The warmth had ceased to exist. All I could see was skeptical gazes or sad faces. The curfew was still being imposed in some areas. Apparently the place never recovered. Controlling these overwhelming emotions I drove to the house my family owned. I stepped down from the car only to see that the place was burnt down to shatters. A chill ran down my spine. My breath started getting deeper, steps slower and I felt cold. Oh so cold!
I looked around and I could hear people wail over the dead bodies of their loved ones, the cries of the women who were raped, the screams of children. I could see blood all around. I could see the woman suicide, jumping into the well to save their honor. I could hear mourns of the children left orphaned. I could see people leaving their houses feeling helpless. I could hear the people assuring each other that they would return one day to their places. I fell down on my knees and I cried. I cried thinking about the night everyone had to leave this place, the suffering and struggle that followed this migration, the unarmed people who were murdered, the people who never recovered back, the people who still live in migrant camps. I stood up and with shivering legs I hurried back towards my car. The void in my heart had just got bigger.
It has been 23 years of exile but deep down something still assures me that one fine day the world will realize that Kashmiri Pandits have indeed returned back to Kashmir.
I wanted to go there alone so I had no one to accompany me. My parents protested and asked me to take someone along with me but I denied. I wanted to be alone, alone in the lap of my motherland. I wanted to talk to the wailing valley, the broken walls, the lamenting fields, the snow-covered roofs in solitude. I wanted to be there all by myself.
The next morning I started off with 'the journey' I had been longing to undertake since quite a while. After a tiresome journey of about 10 hours we crossed the BANIHAL tunnel (Banihal is kashmiri for Blizzard ), also known as The Jawahar Tunnel. I looked outside my window and I couldn't take my eyes off the beautiful Pir Panjal ranges, the green mountains, the fields, the cold breeze that ran through my hairs. The enchanting fragrance of the soil was enough for me to know that I was home, my real home.
I reached Anantnag, the city where my parents had met 24 years ago, the city my grandparents had spent 50 years of their life , the place talking about which still make my grandmom's eyes wet.
I started recalling all the stories I had grown up listening to. Kashmir was beautiful indeed. I was awestruck.
Ad mist all the bewitching beauty of Kashmir, I noticed something missing. It wasn't the same as before.
The laughter was gone. The smiles no longer existed on the faces. The warmth had ceased to exist. All I could see was skeptical gazes or sad faces. The curfew was still being imposed in some areas. Apparently the place never recovered. Controlling these overwhelming emotions I drove to the house my family owned. I stepped down from the car only to see that the place was burnt down to shatters. A chill ran down my spine. My breath started getting deeper, steps slower and I felt cold. Oh so cold!
I looked around and I could hear people wail over the dead bodies of their loved ones, the cries of the women who were raped, the screams of children. I could see blood all around. I could see the woman suicide, jumping into the well to save their honor. I could hear mourns of the children left orphaned. I could see people leaving their houses feeling helpless. I could hear the people assuring each other that they would return one day to their places. I fell down on my knees and I cried. I cried thinking about the night everyone had to leave this place, the suffering and struggle that followed this migration, the unarmed people who were murdered, the people who never recovered back, the people who still live in migrant camps. I stood up and with shivering legs I hurried back towards my car. The void in my heart had just got bigger.
It has been 23 years of exile but deep down something still assures me that one fine day the world will realize that Kashmiri Pandits have indeed returned back to Kashmir.
