Prologue

 

My grandchildren – Anirudh, Sumedh, Shiva, Surya, Shriya and Siddha – were born and brought up outside Kashmir. They speak broken Kashmiri which at times sounds funny. The soulful saying of Lalleshwari or Arin Maal, the emancipated verses of Mehjoor or Nadim, and the mellifluous voice of Raj Begum or Ghulam Hassan Sofi are alien to them. They have lost contact with their roots in Kashmir, but for no fault of their own. Like many Kashmiri boys and girls born after 1989, they have little knowledge about the composite culture of Kashmir. They are Kashmiris only in name, yet the past clings to them.

Like young Wilhelmine and Peterkin querying Old Kaspar, they ask what drove the Kashmiri Pandits from the land of their ancestors. They are surprised to learn that the Muslims of Kashmir were once Pandits and that the two communities shared bonds of amity and tolerance, even when communal frenzy was raging during the Partition of India. “What changed all that?” they ask.

 

So, I relate the story of their ancestors, the values they cherished, their insistence on education, and their aspirations to shape their conservative society into a progressive one. I tell them about the prejudices a Kashmiri Pandit had to face under antagonistic regimes of majority rule, introduced in Kashmir since 1947, which imperceptibly made him feel irrelevant and emasculated. I tell them about the Emergency of 1975, when unconstitutional means were used to smother democratic rights. I tell them how small acts of kindness, by total strangers, helped keep the cheer in what was a difficult and dark time in India. I tell them how the caustic brew of religious fervour, political machinations and the failure of leadership, warped the fabric of Kashmiri society, eroded its culture of tolerance, and ultimately forced the Kashmiri Pandits from the Valley.

 

I am a teacher and learning is my passion. Like a keen observer who, while watching a sports event, gets drawn into it, kicks and gesticulates and cries and laughs as the game proceeds, I have witnessed momentous events unfold in Kashmir and India, during the past eighty years. These include the Partition of the sub-continent, the accession of Jammu & Kashmir to India, the wars with China and Pakistan, and other subsequent developments. There were moments of ecstasy and sorrow, of triumph and trepidation, of humour and humiliation, and of resolve and resilience. I participated in many directly, sometimes peripherally, or often as an alert observer. Viewed another way, these events, a distillation of my life story, capture the dreams, foibles, and struggles of my generation of Kashmiri Pandits. They form a vignette of our collective heritage.

 

All events in this book are true and every name is real. Events and people are recalled through my eyes and my memory or as recounted by my elders, making the retelling a personal and a subjective account. It is, perhaps, in part, similar to the many untold stories of loss and suffering in Kashmir. It also represents a part of the story which now has been crowded out by the stories of the Kashmiri Muslims’ loss. Each loss is a new welt in the collective conscience of India. Kashmiri society has been rent by anger and retribution, prompted by men of strident ideology and violence. However, one cannot help but recall that the Kashmiri social fabric, until recently, was a composite mosaic: a syncretism of moderate Islam and moderate Hinduism. This is the picture I carry in my mind.

 

My story is not easily told, and the effort to tell it cannot be made without sadness. However, the story, though fading, must be told so history records that we too had our ooul (nest) in Kashmir. We must tell it ourselves rather than have others represent us, or interpret what we lived through in the days of destiny. Otherwise, it is likely to become a footnote of history, or be glossed over by those who did not experience the tussle of politicians scheming for power, and the conflicting pulls of nationalism and Islamic fanaticism. Readers can judge for themselves how the story represents a challenge to the idea that India is a secular democracy.

 

The events in my story cannot be easily put away as belonging to another time or another people. They belong to me and are worthy of recording as history lived. The recounting might strike a nostalgic chord in those who resided in Kashmir, graduated from its schools and colleges, or hold memories of the place. It might also serve a useful purpose of helping readers develop a sense of the history of contemporary Kashmir and India and, perhaps, gain something of value.

 

More importantly, I hope this account, selective and subjective as it might be, helps readers realise that sectarian thinking, strident ideologies and authoritarianism severely damage the lives of ordinary people. Perhaps these strands of my memory will help the new generation better understand the traditions of friendship of Kashmiri culture. I urge them to be fair to others, reciprocate acts of kindness, and if given the choice between being right and being kind, choose to be kind.

 

I wish to record my hearty thanks to Rattan, my dear wife. She has been my unfailing support, encouragement and reliable counsel through the years. Rattan has not shied from asking the inconvenient but penetrating questions. In many ways, this book is hers too. Together we have been through it all. The passage, thus far, has been interesting. The next treat at Gagribal Lake will be on me.

 

Shanti Swarup Ambardar
26 April 2014
Delhi-110092