Who is a Kashmiri?
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I spent the early years of my life with my family in Jammu, famously called the city of Temples. My family migrated to Jammu in the early 90s leaving behind not just their homes but their life. All they brought with them was a world of stories to pass down through generations, and the zeal to start their lives afresh.
My grandparents often spoke of the Kashmir they once knew, gushing about their grand houses having doors and windows carved out of the precious Deodar wood. Their blooming apple orchards, saffron farms and their carefree life. I always tried to paint the world they described, to capture the essence of what they spoke about but it always seemed difficult, because to me, their stories were just stories!
My mother who was raised across India always called Srinagar home and would visit Rainawari from time to time. My father’s roots, on the other hand, ran deep through Tral’s earthy lanes. What connected both sides, was the songs of rivers, stories of the snow capped mountains, swaying willow trees and a home that no longer existed.
As I grew, I realised the years I added to my life were mirrored by the years Kashmiri Pandits had been in exile. Who can forget the fateful night of January 19th, 1990?
Despite being away from Kashmir, my family tried best to keep our traditions and culture alive. They made sure we understood the significance of our festivals with Shivratri standing out in particular. After all, we are the Saraswat Shaivites, the ones who belong to the land once graced by Adi Shankaracharya himself. All these festivals and traditions have served as an anchor for my generation and have helped us preserve our identity to some extent. Yet, as a Kashmiri Pandit born after the exodus and raised in Jammu, I often wrestle with an uneasy feeling. Why, despite being part of these traditions, do I feel a void?
Perhaps it is because tradition without its soil, feels like a language that can’t be understood.
After high school, I moved to Delhi. Almost immediately, I became “the Kashmiri ” a label that sparked wide eyed curiosity. Then came the flood of questions: “Isn’t it always snowing there?” “What’s life like in Kashmir, isn’t it unsafe there?”
Some questions carried wonder and some felt like assumptions wrapped in ignorance.
The questions came like a whirlpool, and one truth that echoed loudest was that Kashmir wasn’t safe for us, the Kashmiri Pandits. That is why we left our homes.
A couple of years down the line, even after moving abroad, the questions didn’t stop. Now the questions changed to that "Did I belong to India’s Kashmir or the Pakistan-occupied Kashmir?"
The pain of explaining that which side "my Kashmir" belonged to, is unfathomable.
"My Kashmir" where I never got to live. It reminded me of the agony of being a refugee in my own country. Kashmir is a part of India, yet I always return as a tourist and it never feels like home. I’ve lost what was rightfully mine and in that loss, a part of the Kashmiri in me has gone quiet.
I carry the identity, yet it often feels like a story passed down rather than one I’ve lived by myself.
Now that I’m in my 30s, I try to hold on tightly to whatever fragments of being Kashmiri still live within me. I look at my grandfather whom we fondly call Papaji, now in his mid 90s, drifting deeper into dementia with each passing year. Yet, what remains most vivid in his fading memory is Kashmir. The home he left, the life he never got to live till the end. That place, those memories are frozen in time for him, untouched and incomplete.
And I wonder will I, too carry a similar ache when I grow old?
The ache not just of losing my homeland, but of the quiet regret that I didn’t do enough to keep the Kashmiri in me alive.
