A Place to Die

A Place to Die Not only did the Kashmiri Pandits (read as Kashmiri Hindus) have to suffer from the agony of fleeing their homes leaving behind everything just to escape wrath of the terrorists and their bullets and to save the honor of their womenfolk from the fundamentalist terrorists operating in Kashmir Valley, but when they tried to find a roof over their heads in alien places like the migrant camps in Jammu or Delhi; the real miseries began to unfold for them in many ways. Many in the community which boasts of almost 100% literacy were left jobless with nothing much to do and nowhere to go. Some young men and women who were spared by terrorists ended up with medical conditions like depression and other psychiatric diseases, and some others ended up committing suicide. The living condition was and still is deplorable in the tents and as Kashmiri Pandits were not used to the harsh hot climate of plains, many could not tolerate the heat and succumbed to diseases like heat strokes. Many more died because of snake bites as the tents in which they were living provided them no respite from deadly snakes and scorpions. Imagine of a situation where a young boy gets married and has to share the same one room with his elderly parents and younger siblings. The only privacy such people enjoy is a cloth curtain dividing their sleeping space from the rest of the family members. As a result, such people could not have normal married life and ended up with no privacy, childless, or with psychiatric problems. Kashmiri pandits longed to go back to their roots and some in fact went back only to find their properties looted, houses either burnt or without doors and windows, and a cold look by fellow Kashmiri Muslims. The miseries are many folded. Shockingly, as Kashmiri Pandits had thought that the rest of the country will have empathy and sympathy with them and understand their woes and come to their rescue, nothing of that sort happened. On the contrary, people started exploiting them and even the cowsheds without any basic amenities were rented out as accommodation for money. I came across a true story about a young man who had nowhere to go with his dying father. Tears rolled down my cheeks when I read this story and I want to share the same with the readers. The story is titled “A Space to Die”. The story goes as follows and is written by the doctor who was treating the patient (consent has been obtained from Dr. K. L. Chowdray to reproduce this story): Cancer is a horrific disease; terminal cancer is death waiting in the shadows. Waiting, yet in no hurry to pounce on its victim and gobble it up. It goes about its work leisurely and kills at its own pleasure. Like the wily cat does with the mouse, catching it in its paws only to let go for a while, tantalizing and terrorizing, turning and twisting , throwing up and dashing down, enough to mesmerize and paralyze but not hard enough to kill. By then the victim is prostrate and helpless, begging mercy, waiting for release that comes only when death is ready to embrace him and not the other way round. I knew Omkar Nath from the time he came to me in 1975 with his pretty little daughter, Nimmi, who was suffering from pleural tuberculosis. That was nearly two and half decades back. Subsequently he got his son, Dileep, to me whom I diagnosed rheumatic heart disease; and then his wife, who suffered from a duodenal ulcer. Since then I was their family physician and friend till the times when the happy valley was overtaken by a cataclysm that bruised and sundered human relationships and drove hundreds of thousands into exile. Omkar Nath landed in Jammu in the first wave of exodus in the winter of 1989-90. He was one of the estimated three hundred and fifty thousand Pandits who were hounded out in the terror that took the valley of Kashmir in its deathly grip. Exodus scattered the Pandits like people in a shipwreck. Some where drowned in the first storm of violence, others found rafts that carried them to far off lands, yet others are still floating in the choppy sea trying to come ashore. Within a few weeks of his arrival in Jammu, Omkar Nath took ill and his family found itself miserably alone and helpless. They had lost contact with most of their relatives and friends. They looked for me but did not know that I was still in Srinagar. Much later, in May 1990, I moved to Delhi spending eight trying months there before I migrated to Jammu. By that time he had been going from one doctor to another, not knowing anyone in the host city. Soon after I settled down in Jammu, word went round in the refugee camps, and patients started pouring in. The family finally found me out and brought him to my rented lodgings at New Plots. Omkar Nath had never been ill since I knew him. He was always sparsely built, lean, and sallow complexioned. But now I could barely recognize him. He was run down and had acquired a darker tan, partly from the sun and partly from disease. He stooped with pain, his eyes proptosed with fear and he looked a shadow of his old self - a distorted, dwarfed shadow. He wore an unmistakable cancer visage. By the time I heard his story the visage grew larger and when I finished with his examination it became more real than life. He had already developed metastasis in his liver. It was the beginning of the end. Without much ado I divulged the prognosis to his rheumatic-heart-afflicted son, Dileep. By now he had exploited all his reserves of energy and financial resources and, though the revelation that his father would not last long came as a shock, he could not hide a sense of relief. Sometimes relief from knowledge of the worst is better than the torture of suspense. Now he was free to organize the ritual of terminal care without having to run after doctors and subjecting him to unending lab tests, ultrasounds and x-rays. Our plan was to make the patient as much pain free as possible and let him die in peace. But peace has so many variables like a complex equation. There is the outer peace that comes from outside influences; in this case, the place one lives in, the attitude of care givers, the attending doctors, and visitors. And there is the inner peace which is hard to define and harder to attain. How was peace to come to one suffering from the grinding pain of terminal cancer, condemned to exile, without a roof on his head, and no place to die? When his condition deteriorated and his relatives came to learn of his illness they started pouring in. Most of them were refugees who had fled Kashmir like him and had little else to do except to search for their lost tribes and to exchange notes of the travails they had to go through the elaborate formalities to register as ‘migrants’ with the relief authorities, scouring for shelter, finding schools for their children, hunting jobs for themselves, establishing new contacts, striking new roots. The least they could do was to visit each other, and share their cups of sorrow. The landlord was unhappy when he estimated the number of people visiting his sick tenant everyday from the number of footwear that they would take off outside the room he had rented out to Omkar Nath and his family of four - his wife, son and a daughter. He did not like crowds in his already cramped house. The common corridor to his own rooms and to the room he had rented out to the family, and the only restroom for his own use as well as for his tenants, could not accommodate the additional traffic of numerous visitors. The place was getting choked. He gave them notice of one month to find alternative accommodation. The family could not stop visitors; that was not done in our part of the world. We do not shut our doors to monks, mendicants or mongrels; there is no question shutting it to relatives, friends and well wishers. But the landlord saw no logic in this argument and asked them to quit. They offered higher rent. No, he had made up his mind. Dileep went from door to door to find a place but there was no available space. The family had found the present accommodation in Sarwal without any difficulty, being amongst the early ‘migrants’. Now, Jammu was bursting at the seams with the refugee avalanche from Kashmir that settled itself at all conceivable space in houses, stables, cellars, storerooms, dungeons. The rents had hit the roof and were touching the sky. The tents provided by the administration were all taken. Some old and dilapidated buildings were thrown open to accommodate the rush. Those who found no place in Jammu moved on to neighboring towns - Samba, Kathua, Kistawar, Doda, Kud, Batote. Many others filtered to Punjab, Himachal and Haryana. A lot more moved to Delhi and the rest to other metropolis. The scatter became wide in no time as the exodus from Kashmir caught momentum parallel with the escalation of violence and terror. As the deadline drew to a close and frustration mounted, Dileep met an old friend by chance who knew of a family with a spare room and asked him to have a look. It was an ill-ventilated room in a dilapidated house in the innermost recesses of the old city accessed through narrow lanes where pedestrians had to squeeze themselves to avoid brushing against each other. But beggars cannot be choosers. Dileep hoped his family would somehow tide over the stormy end in this bleak retreat. That was a false hope, though. It was literally moving from the frying pan into fire. Omkar Nath deteriorated rapidly. He became claustrophobic in this dark, damp room. The plaster was peeling off the walls, sculpting monstrous shapes that took the visage of Yama and frightened him. A small window in a wrought iron frame looked out at the dingy lane outside, bringing in stench from the drains. He asked them to keep it shut. But summer made it hotter inside. The fan, the only means available to beat the heat, made it worse, for it blew gusts of hot air on his already febrile frame. Were these the burning fires of hell that he had heard about? How long had he to go through the agony before the end came? Was he really dying? His thoughts often wandered to his past. Back home, he had lived from hand to mouth right from his childhood, yet always in contentment. His father had left him a modest dwelling and a small front yard with a solitary pomegranate tree and a flower bed where he planted marigolds for his gods. He offered them fresh when they bloomed and dried the reminder for winter use. There was a rose bush near the porch which he doted upon like his own children. He had worked hard to provide education for his son and daughter. But there was still unfinished family responsibility that plagued his troubled soul. Dileep, an agricultural graduate was jobless, and Nimmy, a commerce student, without a trousseau, yet to be married off. What tortured him most was the thought of his wife, much younger than him, donning the mantle of widowhood. He wanted to go back to Kashmir and die there in his ancestral home. And he repeated his wish every day to his family: “It is better to face the bullets in Kashmir than the living hell here.” The pain grew and Omkar Nath groaned day and night. Painkillers that I prescribed did not seem to work. Pethidine, morphine and other narcotic drugs were banned from sale because the city youth would lap them up from the pharmacies before it reached the deserving patients. The substance abusers resorted to cough mixtures with codeine as an ingredient. That too was banned. I was left with no choice except to prescribe heavy doses of sedatives and available pain killers, with little effect. The pain came in fits and spasms and he whined like a bitten dog, rousing the whole neighborhood. His anguished cries tore the stillness of night and it was not long before the landlord complained to the family. “Your patient is howling all the time. Pray who is treating him?” He was told that their patient was in the best hands, but he was not impressed with my name. “I have never heard of him. Why don’t you go and get a local specialist. Your patient may be suffering from some regional affliction which your doctor has not come across so far. The ‘migrant’ doctors will take time before they get acquainted with the problems specific to this place. I would suggest you get Doctor Gandotra; he is the best in town.” Dileep had no choice but to keep his landlord in good humor. He found the doctor’s address and brought him to see his father. The patient was not happy with a doctor whom he did not know, with whom he could neither communicate freely in his own language nor strike a wavelength that is so vital in healing. But he was asked to bear with this arrangement. The doctor ordered some more tests and prescribed a different set of medicines. Dileep rushed to me with the new prescription asking me what he was to do. Normally I leave it to the choice of the patient and his attendants to exercise their own discretion if they invite more opinions on a patient under my care. But this was no time to take offence. Here was this desperate young man having to make all decisions at a tender age and me as his only hope. The family was left with scarce resource for the luxury of unnecessary tests and cancer medication which would be, in my opinion, futile at best and painful at worst. Medical ethics does not justify meddling with a dying patient, or trying questionable remedies without his consent. Death, when its time has come, should be welcome. In trying to prolong life in such irredeemable situations, we might make it more insufferable. Therefore, it was alright to have brought the doctor home to satisfy the whim of the landlord but that is where the farce should stop. Omkar Nath was wasting away fast. Days and nights merged into each other in a miasma of nausea, retching, pain, and passing out from sheer exhaustion. He developed jaundice from cancer invasion into the bile channels and his complexion took an eerie hue of black and yellow. The landlord sensed the specter of death in the room. The doctor he had recommended had failed. It made him uncomfortable as the specter grew bigger every day threatening to shroud his own dwelling. He did not like the idea of his tenant dying in his house. He had learned of the elaborate Kashmiri Pandit rituals of death and the post funeral rituals extending beyond the days of mourning into the 10th day ceremony with all the relatives and friends gathered at the river ghat while the bereaved son goes through a tonsure and a clean shave, a dip in the water, and the immersion of rice balls and earthen pots, followed by three days of more elaborate yajnas - mini shraddhas - that steer the deceased through his arduous journey in the world beyond and ensures a place in heaven. The fortnightly, monthly, six-monthly and yearly ceremonies would follow with unfailing regularity. No, he would not allow any of this in his house. “Mr. Dileep, your father is getting worse every day. You will have to do something about it,” the landlord called him aside. “I know. We tried everything, including the doctor you suggested, and even phanda, your local voodoo, at the behest of your wife.” “But he is dying, can’t you see?” “Yes, he is deteriorating fast. My mother keeps hoping but the doctors do not give him much of a chance.” “You will have to quit before the time comes.” “That cannot be. Where will we go with a dying man? You have been kind to let us your room; please bear with us a little longer.” “I will not allow any mishap in my house. You must move before it is too late.” “Give me a few days and I will start looking for room elsewhere.” “Do it right away, before you find your belongings on the street.” Dileep was on the hunt again for alternative lodgings. He sounded his relatives and friends; he went from door to door in the immediate neighborhood and in far away suburbs but drew a blank everywhere. The landlord visited his father every evening, saw death closing in, and repeated his threats. Dileep dared not show him his face and returned home much after the landlord had gone to bed. Omkarnath lapsed into a twilight state alternating between drowsiness and light wakefulness. His son came rushing to me. “Doctor, my father is sinking and the landlord wants us out before he attains nirvana. Please do something, try some miracle to keep him alive a little longer till I find a place for him to die. Please doctor, some glucose infusions, some untried remedy that sustains life a little longer.” It was heart-wrenching. I had watched this young man grow from a kid, carrying the burden of an enlarged heart, and a larger family responsibility. I did not know how to help him but an idea flashed in my mind. “Why don’t you give an ad in the paper? After all, there may be someone out there who has room to spare.” “But we will have to keep quiet about my father’s illness. Who will let us room with the knowledge that we will be moving with a dying person?” he asked. I scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it over to him. The ad appeared next day in the local newspaper. Wanted: A Place to Die. A family of four, one of them sick and dying, in desperate need of lodgings. Size of accommodation and rent no consideration; just enough space to die. I gave my phone for contact because the family did not own a phone. When all hope is lost, there is hope lurking somewhere in the least expected place like a beautiful flower behind a boulder in a remote corner of the garden. Sardar Gurbax Singh of Nanak Nagar phoned me the same evening. He had two rooms to let, would I care to have a look. I sent for Dileep and directed him to the address. “Whatever the rent go ahead and clinch the deal,” I urged him. Gurbax Singh was a jovial Sikh, the kindness of his heart matching the span of his moustache which he twirled after every sentence he spoke. He invited Dileep to a cup of tea before he showed him two well ventilated, lightly painted and furnished rooms. Dileep would not believe his eyes. The ideal place to live, he thought to himself; and to die. He inquired about the rent. “Who is bothered about the rent, young man? Pay whatever you think is right, and when you have the money. No advance, no security. And, no rent for the duration your father is alive. This is a matter of life and death and monetary transactions are unbecoming.” Then, patting his back lightly, “I liked your frankness in the advertisement. Now, why did you have to mention about it?” “My doctor wrote the ad for me. I hesitated for sometime before I gave it to the newspaper. He was right; I would not be able to face you if I carried a dying man into your house without your knowledge. You could deny us entry and we would be on the road. We have been turned out once and my present landlord is waiting hammer and tongs to knock us out of his house. Death is the last visitor anyone would want to ever see in one’s house.” “And, yet, that is the very reason I lost no time in making contact. My rooms have been lying vacant for a long time and I had no idea to rent them out. I would do so only in very special circumstances. Well, my home is here to welcome death, if that is what you are bringing along with you. Everyone has to die one day, some sooner than later.” He twirled his moustache harder and let off a long sneeze as if in attestation of what he said. “Go get your family, the dinner is on me tomorrow when you move in.” Was it real or was he having a pleasant reverie? Dileep pinched his skin hard in his thigh from within the pockets of his trousers and almost gave a startle. He shook the Sardar’s hand so hard that his own started to ache and tears of gratitude rolled down his cheeks. He ran out of the house almost delirious with joy that his dear father would not die on the road but in the very congenial environs of an extraordinary man. He cried aloud, to the amazement of the passersby, “Jo bole so nihal, sat saria akal!” Reaching home in that fit of excitement, Dileep rushed to his dying father and gently shook him out of stupor. “We are returning home tomorrow,” he spoke near his ear. Omkar Nath opened his eyes lightly, looked at his son in bewilderment, and closed them again as he started mumbling, “Home, home…” and relapsed into stupor. Next day the family moved to Nanak Nagar and, first time in many days, stretched their limbs that had become cramped in a hell hole. It was after they settled in the rooms that Dileep’s mother threw open a window and saw a pomegranate tree in its second bloom in the front garden. She asked her son to seat his father in a chair and bring it near the window. “We are home. That is your pomegranate tree. Look at the red flowers in bloom,” she pointed to the tree. Omkar Nath opened his eyes wide, looked out, and held his right arm out to reach the tree. He touched a flower gently - the familiar inflorescence - smooth shiny tubular base with vermilion petals at the top. A strange light shone in his eyes and a flicker of a smile on his lips before he passed out again and was helped to the bed. On his dark and yellow face, now assuming a light vermilion hue like the flower he touched, there was deep contentment, the same that he had worn as a motif of his plain living all his life. The following day, the lord of lords, deciding finally to embrace Omkar Nath, made the formal visitation and took his spirit away with reverence and care, to the chants of Om Nama Shivae and Sat saria akal as his head lay on the thigh of his son and the family helped him to the last mortal drink of holy water from the Ganges. Peace prevailed in death. The beneficent Sikh arranged everything that goes with the cremation and on the morrow he vacated the ground floor where he lived with his wife and went to his brother’s place for the next fortnight so that the tenets would observe the rituals without any let or hinder.

A Morning Turned Dark: A Kashmiri Hindu's Reflections on the Pahalgam Terror Attack

You wake up to a new day with optimism in your heart, ready to embrace the freshness of spring — a season that brings hope, renewal, and a sense of peace. There’s a list of things to do, goals to chase, memories to make. But then, as you casually turn on the television or scroll through the news, your heart sinks. A terrorist attack in Pahalgam, Kashmir. And just like that, the serenity of the morning shatters. A deep sadness replaces the calm. You are left grappling with one question — how can anyone be so barbaric, so inhuman? What was the crime of those people who were attacked? All they wanted was to visit what has always been called “Paradise on Earth.” They weren’t there for any political reason or controversy. They were simply tourists — families, children, elders — people seeking joy, nature, and a break from their everyday struggles. People who invested their time and money into experiencing the magic of Kashmir. In doing so, they not only nourished their own souls, but they also helped the local economy — contributing to the livelihoods of countless Kashmiris by spending on travel, accommodation, food, and local goods. I was in Kashmir myself in November 2024. And I saw the transformation — the peaceful energy, the smiling faces of local people, the thriving tourism industry. It was not the Kashmir we left behind in the 1990s — full of tension and uncertainty. It was a place alive with color, warmth, and hope. The happiness was palpable, and much of it stemmed from the influx of tourists — fellow Indians who come to admire the beauty, and in return, uplift the region economically and socially. But today, I am not just only saddened but outraged as well. As a Kashmiri Hindu, I cannot hold back the pain that surfaces every time something like this happens. I was among those who were forced to flee their homes in 1990 by jihadist forces — rendered homeless in our own country. And even decades later, the wounds are fresh. So why does this keep happening, time and again, whether in Kashmir or Murshidabad? Just sink this in — in a Hindu-majority country, hundreds of thousands of Kashmiri Hindus were made to leave their homes, their land, their temples. Innocent Hindus are still being targeted and killed based solely on their religion be it in Murshidabad or Sambal. Can you imagine the reverse happening anywhere else in the world — say, a Hindu in Pakistan picking up an AK-47 and going on a rampage against Muslims? It’s unimaginable. It can happen only with a Hindu, because a Hindu is always a soft target, whether in India, the USA, or even in Canada, my adopted homeland. And why is that? Perhaps, we are to blame. Because no one criticizes Hindus more than Hindus themselves. Have you ever seen a Muslim public figure speaking out against the atrocities in Gaza or Palestine in their own circles? Rarely. But you’ll find countless Hindus blaming their own people, questioning their culture, their beliefs, and their very identity. Then you have people like Robert Vadra — and I say this with pained reluctance — who claims that Kashmiris took up arms because they were oppressed. Really? So by that logic, shouldn't Kashmiri Hindus, who were truly oppressed, displaced, and brutalized, have also taken up arms? But we didn’t. Because our culture doesn’t teach violence. It teaches resilience. It teaches Sanatan Dharma. And who are these so-called oppressed people? They have complete control of the Kashmir Valley, enjoy religious freedom, and have more mosques than ever — some even built on public land. They travel freely across India, run businesses in Goa, Kerala, Mumbai, and no one stops them. But how many non-Kashmiris can own a shop or property in the Valley? Very few. Because to them, we are just money machines, not fellow Indians. Now, let's ask the hard question — could this attack have happened without local support? Do we really believe those terrorists prepared for this operation in isolation, without food, shelter, or surveillance? They likely had help. Someone sheltered them. Fed them. Guided them. And those aiding the killers must be held accountable. We must strike where it hurts the most — economically. They can wage war only if their stomachs are full. And who feeds them? Tourists. It is time we think seriously. If the government won’t act decisively, we — the people — can make a statement. Stop visiting Kashmir. Enough is enough. India has no shortage of beauty. Let us shift our focus to places like Sikkim, Arunachal Pradesh, Himachal, Uttarakhand. Let's pump our money into regions where we are welcomed with respect and not fear. Where we can walk free as Hindus, as Indians, as human beings. Think about this, my friends. Every small step matters. Only a few ancient nations in the world were colonized but still managed to preserve their identity and India is one of them. Take Iran, for example. Once Zoroastrian for over a millennium, now transformed into an Islamic Republic. There are countless such stories — but let’s not allow ours to be one of them. Let us pledge, from wherever we are — whether in Bharat, Canada, or anywhere else — to protect and preserve our Sanatan Dharma, our culture, our values, and our people. As I write this, I pray for the souls we lost. I pray for the families grieving in silence. I pray for a future where we don’t wake up to such news. Where spring means blooming flowers, not fresh tears. Long live Bharat. Long live Canada. Long live Sanatan Dharma. Deepak Razdan Mississauga, Ontario, Canada.

तुम्हें मैं जानता न था, ना था एहसास तुम्हारे दिल का, पर कुछ बूँदें प्रेम की, चुपचाप बरसती रहीं, बिन आहट, बिन शोर। तुम्हारी आँखों में शायद एक धुंधली सी रौशनी थी, जो मेरे तक पहुँची नहीं, और मैं अंजान रहा, तुम्हारे अनकहे अरमानों से। तुम्हारे दिल में थी एक कहानी, जिसे लफ्ज़ों ने कभी छुआ नहीं, पर तुम मुस्कानों में छुपाकर सब कुछ कहती रहीं, और मैं समझ न सका। अब जब वो पल बीत गए, और वो रास्ते बदल गए, सोचता हूँ, अगर मैं सुन पाता, तुम्हारी ख़ामोश धड़कनों को, तो शायद ये प्रेम कुछ और ही रंग दिखाता। अब बस यादों में है वो एहसास, जो कभी था तुम्हारे पास, पर फिर भी, दिल कहता है, शायद वो प्रेम अब भी कहीं धीरे-धीरे धड़क रहा हो।

Why I left India despite being a Nationalist

I have a lot many times been asked that if I was a nationalist, why did I have to leave India to settle in a foreign country? In fact, many a times my love and passion for India has been questioned and undermined. Being a Kashmiri Hindu, I cannot ever the forget what we had to go through decades back when we had to leave our home in Kashmir. We had a wrong notion that the rest of Indian Hindus are and will be with us if ever something bad happens to us, but we were proven wrong by the majority Hindu population of India. The media distorted our forced migration. Nobody ever cared about the Kashmiri Hindus killed by Islamist forces in the vale. Our temples and religious places were desecrated. There were a lot of abductions, rapes and conversions of our women folk. Even some brazen daylight killings of prominent Kashmiri Hindus. I personally narrowly escaped death and I have no idea why this guy who showed me his AK-47 did not kill me. My only fault, I was talking about alcohol content in one of our pharmaceutical products while traveling in a bus wherein this terrorist was also traveling and listening to our conversation. Kashmiris were never poor, be it a Hindu or a Muslim. Everybody had enough to eat and a roof over their head. Hindus of Kashmir were relatively well off with 100% literacy rate. There were a lot who were dependent on their land and orchards for their livelihood. Yet some others were traders and businessmen, though most were in government or private service. With the situation changed on ground and there was nobody to look up to, we had no other option then to leave the valley. I have personally witnessed the plight of the people who one day had everything and then the next day found themselves on the roads and footpaths of Jammu with their meagre belongings and young children by their side. Lot many others perished due to the harsh temperatures, snake bites and mental illnesses. The pain is immense and can only be imagined if you have not gone through it. I have questioned myself many a times, would it have been okay for us to play in with those elements of Kashmir who were demanding “Azadi” from India? Join them claiming “Azadi” from India. That way, we would not lose our homes, our land, be displaced and most importantly, not lose our culture. At least we would have been spared from the illusion that we were safe and respected outside Kashmir as Hindus in Hindu-majority India. I am sure many of Kashmiri Hindus would have taken that course had the Kashmiri Muslims not terrorised us in the name of religion and had they not persecuted us for religious reasons. Needless to say that instead of helping us selflessly, the people outside Kashmir took full advantage of our situation. Many cowsheds were converted overnight into living quarters and rented out for good money. Our people were exploited in all ways you can imagine. We were not given our due share of respect that we deserved in our own country. My illusion was broken. There was nobody for us in rest of India. Nobody to wipe our tears. Nobody to listen to our stories, nobody to empathise with us and nobody to help us rehabilitate. So, for me, it was “If not Kashmir, then not India”. I started looking up for an opportunity and worked towards it. When the opportunity presented itself, I grabbed it up with both of my hands. I have no regrets leaving India but given a chance/choice, would like to go back to my roots in Kashmir. Notwithstanding the above story, I will always have respect and love my country of birth. Jai Hind.

A HOME AWAY FROM HOME

A HOME AWAY FROM HOME



Most immigrants coming to Canada try to settle either in Greater Toronto Area (GTA) of Ontario province, or in and around Vancouver, the province of British Columbia. I am no exception and landed in GTA. We have most of our community members (out of the 263 families listed in our KOAC directory) settled in GTA. The first thing I looked for as a new immigrant was any community member and/or any community platform. I was fortunate to find our community like a big extended family ready to help a new immigrant like me at every step of settlement.

I remember a couple of decades back when we were forced out of valley, the rest of India seemed to be an alien place for me. After coming out of Kashmir, I felt as if I was thrown into an abyss of large churning and grinding machine of time where I would get tossed by the huge waves of periodic cultural, climatic and linguistic shocks. Well, definitely the climate, the language, the food, culture etc. were big shocks and put me at odds end in places were I was forced to live my life as a nomad. Although Himachal gave me some solace climatically (I call that place my second home), but it still cannot be anywhere near to Maij Kasheer.

Looking for what we had lost, we tried to put our little community together in Mandi, HP, where we had about 30 KP families living in and around this small town. Late Shri A. K. Dhar and Pandit Romesh Dullo were the pivotal points for the community here. I remember the days when we used to celebrate festivals like Zanga threy and Jesth Ashthami with fervour and get pandit ji for havan and the wazza for cooking of prashad from Jammu. The women folk would clean vegetables, peel potatoes for crispy fries and in the evening we would all sing hymns like “maij sharikay kar daya”; the whole scene would be like a large family getting together for something big. The life was drifting on as we were starting to absorb the pain and trauma from the exodus from valley. The serenity of blue snow-clad mountains, the pine trees dancing to the tune of alpine breeze and the bells from temples were like a balm on our wounds and the life was not as bad, although nowhere to where it was when we were in Kashmir; that was undoubtedly one of the best periods of my life.

The biggest shock for me was my transfer from Himachal to Delhi. I could not see anything in common between Kashmir or even for that matter Himachal and Delhi. The mad rush of people, the harsh summers and devilishly bitter cold winters, a materialistic machine-like life; well all these hallmarks of metro were starting to shrink in as a harsh reality for me and my family. Somehow, I was a misfit and this I suppose was never a place for a person like me to be in. I would dream of Mughal Gardens – Nishat, Shalimar and Parimahal; the green pastures of Gulmarg and Phalgam; mighty and shady chinars at Tullamulla; the crystal clear, cold and refreshing water of Ferozpur stream and most importantly my walnut tree which has grown with me and that small “vaar” in my ancestral village. For me the mantra was “if not Kashmir, then not India”.

I started looking for some other place away from the hustling crowd that would be somewhat akin to Kashmir and finally zeroed in on Canada. So my eyes started dreaming of the freshness of daffodils and tulips, mighty chinar trees, blue fresh water lakes, “shisherganth” and white Christmas. I was not proved wrong this time. Most importantly, the well-knit community of about 263 KP families in Canada made me feel quite at home.

Well they say there is no place on earth like home and truly there is no place on earth like Kashmir. There is no comparison between Canada and Kashmir, but still sometimes I feel quite at home here and in dreams often I think and feel as if I am still in Kashmir. The winter here is harsher than it is in Kashmir, but the sight of that white blanket covering every inch is refreshing to eyes as it reminds me of those days when I used to play hide-and-seek at a playground near my home when I was a kid. While doing this write up, I can see through my window the snow flakes coming dancing down on ground.

For those long chilly winter nights when you are sleeping under a blanket and a thick quilt, you don’t feel like coming out of bed in the morning, especially when you come to know that it is snowing outside; that is when sometimes in my subconscious mind I think I am still sleeping in my bedroom in Srinagar. The similarities are in fact many. The spring declares that the most difficult part of year is gone and brings us joy. You can still feel that nippy fragrant air of spring which of course we used to call “poshi teer” in Kashmir; it reminds me of my days in the valley. Come summer, it looks all the Canadians have been released from prison. The well-manicured lush green parks with mighty maple trees are definitely something that reminds me of Kashmir. Everybody is seen busy either having barbeque parties on weekends or going out for a picnic on the lake shores. Canada has extremely large number of freshwater lakes. Although we do not have shikars or houseboats in big lakes here, but if we do miss Dal Lake, we go to Lake Ontario and have some good time there.

The fall is especially a sight and you can see a riot of colors. The maple trees, which are similar to Chinars of Kashmir start changing their color. You can see all shades of green, yellow and red around, which is quite fascinating. This of course reminds me of polo ground where we used I used to see almost the same scene in my younger days.

I did not disappoint my mother last time she was here. She could still indulge in some Kashmiri delicacies like “bum choonth” the quince apple, good quality nadroo, munja, hak, “alucha chutney” sour cherry chutney, chestnuts and many other heavenly and taste-tingling foods of Kashmir.

To add it all, although I am trying to convince myself to call this place a home, but there is still that “something” which is missing here and for which I do not have any definition or any words. That “something” might have to do with the ground where our ancestors were laid to rest, that apple orchard the trees of which were once touched by my grandfather, who planted them or something else. That halo or emptiness will always be there, even though we are at a home away from home.

अपने मुकद्दर का ये सिला भी क्या कम है,
एक ख़ुशी के पीछे छुपे हजारो गम है

चेहरे पे लिए फिरते है मुस्कराहट फिर भी

और लोग कहते है, कितने खुशनसीब हम है

इन्तियाज़

जिंदिगी का सफ़र

चल पड़े थे ज़िन्दगी के सफ़र पर यूं ही
ना जाने इस सफ़र मैं हम कहाँ बटक गए

एक पल रुक कर सोचना चाहा की जिंदिगी मैं क्या खोया और क्या पाया
पर चाह कर बी कदम रूक ना पाए और कारवां गुज़रता गया

वक्त के दहलीज़ पर अयेने मैं जब देखा
सफ़ेद चादर मे खुद को लिपटता पाया

All desirable things in life are either illegal, banned, expensive or married to someone else!

हम हमशा रहेंगे तुम्हारे

तुम लाख बेरुखी से पेश आओ
मेरे दिल को कितना बी तडपाओ
फिर बी यह वादा रहा मेरी जान
तुज पे तब बी रहेगा दिल कुर्बान

लंबी अमावस के बाद एक पूनम की रत आयी थी
तारे टिमटिमा उठे जिंदिगी मे बहार छाई थी
बिखर गए वोह सपने, टूट गए सब तारे
फिर बी वादा रहा मेरी जान
हम हमशा रहेंगे तुम्हारे

मेरे दिल का अनदेरा मिटा दो ना

मेरे दिल का अनदेरा मिटा दो ना
मुझे गले से लगा लो ना

जो खवाब देखे वोह बिखर गए
मुझे एक बार फिर जुठ्ला दो ना
मेरे दिल का अनदेरा मिटा दो ना
मेरे दिल की तड़प मिटा दो ना

वोह तुम्हारे सपने, तुह्हरे बातें
कहाँ से लाओं वोह सोगातैं
नींद मैं था मुझे जागो ना
मरे दिल का अनदेरा मिटा दो ना

फिर वाही दिल की तड़प और बेचनी
मेरे दिल को कुछ समजा दो ना
तुम ही इस का इलाज सुजा दो ना
मेरे दिल का अनदेरा मिटा दो ना

अब तो तुम्हें बात करना बी गवारा नहीं
चलो यूं ही सही, मेरा गम अब तुम्हारा नहीं
बस सिरिफ इक बार मुझे गले से लगा लो ना
मेरे दिल का अनदेरा मिटा दो ना

Kashmiri skit ammaji Mississauga, March 6th, 2010

http://vimeo.com/10033444


"Ammaji " The Koshur Skit


It was Mahashivratri celebrations 2010 in Toronto and we decided to give a taste of his old love to the KPs in Canada and then he found the skit written by Mrs. N. Ganjoo, USA.  Hope you like this.

Nice song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mjFCidDpcY&feature=related

I like this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agealt_TPQQ&NR=1

Nice clipping

It one day so happened

With grass never so green
water never sparkling clean

World never so majestic
and life so pristine

My world was never the same
up until you came

With "Tuesdays with Morrie" in my lap
I try to take a quick nap

With music so engrossing
and your thoughts so provoking

I have come to a different land
where love is invoking

I love you today and will love you tomorrow
just some words to clear the sorrow

I will be yours until my last breath
as nothing can hold us back now
not even stark, naked, reality of death

Knowing well I set my sails onto abyss of death
but again I promise, I will be with you till my last breath

So on the gates of heaven do we meet
Oh! I am sure those moments will be sweet.




Waiting for you........................Deepak

Mile Do Badan (Blackmail)

Mile Do Badan (Blackmail)



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bry0equZAV8&NR=1&feature=fvwp