Lost Home! -Childhood memories of a Kashmiri Hindu woman...

Writer: Suveni Kaul

‘Kashmir’, as this word flash across the mind, what comes alive is my very vivid childhood. So vivid, that even after 25 years, I can still feel the warmth of the winter sunshine, smell those bright roses of spring and hear the rustling of the autumn gold….Everything, after the winter of 1990 in my life is like a blur. Life just went on fast-forward and years have gone by like days yet Kashmir is tha place where time for me has eternally stopped....

Life in Kashmir for me, oscillated around the banks of the river, ironically called, ‘Doodh Ganga’ (milky Ganga). It was anything but ‘milky’. It was always muddy, yet very much a living, breathing river. Over the ‘Doodh Ganga’, hung a rickety old wooden bridge, which sometimes gave away during heavy rains. On one side of this river, was my unassuming home, which my father had built with scant resources, at the young age of 25 to put a roof over the head of his family and his ageing parents. And on the other, in the midst of a sprawling garden, stood the towering three storied house of my maternal grand-father who had built it after the entire life of toil and sweat around the towns of Kashmir while raising a family of four children. That house in the locality of Chhanapura, was the fruition of struggles all his life that started as a child who had lost his father, in a poor household. In that house my grand pa had put all that he had i.e. money, resources and hopes of a peaceful life in retirement.

My earliest memory of our own house in the early 80’s on our side of the ‘Doodh Ganga’ (a locality called Rawalpora) is of a diminutive one storied building with skeletal furnishings and a shaky tin roof. It was a poorly house in a rich neighborhood, comprising mostly of affluent Kashmiri Hindu (Pandit) families. Their houses with expansive gardens towered above it. And the neighbors’ barely talked to each other except yearly exchange of ‘roth and dooin’ (Prasad) after MahaShivratri.  It was a standalone silent locality and somewhat eerie during long winter months especially because my father was mostly away for work.  The house had four large rooms, a bathroom and a large kitchen with a decent lawn and an ample kitchen garden. In the spring and summer, along with vibrant pansies, a riot of bright yellow marigolds sprang in the garden and a delectable giant pink rose bush came to life. A large pumpkin creeper criss-crossed the garden, and a bottle gourd wine climbed a cherry tree in a corner. Along the western side of the house grew a large patch of mint shrubs and the air on that side was forever fresh and minty.  At the back of the house, there was a towering grape vine on which hung large bunches of sour grapes during the summer. Me and my younger brother, helped granny plant the brinjals, chillies, beans, corn, tomatoes and other assorted vegetables in the kitchen garden. This was how, this humble house of my daddy came to life in the warm sun along with buzzing bees and butterflies. I loved this house, I remember kissing and hugging its pillars as a child…watering its western walls thinking the poor house was getting too hot in the summer sun but I secretly wished that it was a bit more ‘handsome’. The house was thus nothing short of a “living entity” for me in those golden days of my childhood. My wish did come true in 1989 when my father made our home much more handsome. But cruel fate would have it, we could not stay in our home any more as soon the Islamic terrorism cast their horrific shadow over our entire community in Jan 1990.

I had my brother and not friends in the neighborhood, as my companion and I generally hated my school probably because I had no real friends. At home, I mostly played alone but was never lonely. My own company and the garden was enough. I was friends with my-self, something that holds true to this day. I shared, my little joys, fears, disappointments, hopes with my-self and found solace. As much as I enjoyed being in the little haven of our Rawalpora home, the ‘magic’ of my childhood years was on the other side of the ‘Doodh Ganga’…Chhanapora -my maternal grand pa’s house- whom we lovingly called, ‘Babu ji’ (pronounced a bit weirdly in Kashmiri). My father says, the distance between our home and that of my maternal grandpa’s house was a mere 1 km but I can vouch that my little legs thought it was far less than that on the way to Chhanapora & twice as much on the way back! My mother, could make me and my brother do almost anything if she uttered the charmed words, ‘We are going to Chhanapora!’ To give few instances, large & disagreeable milk glasses which would make our noses twist and which normally took 10 minutes to reach the belly would be gulped down in 5 straight seconds! We would quickly get dressed, put on our shoes, dash through the gate around a park, over the old wooden bridge on the ‘Doodh ganga’, past a mosque, an old Chinar tree, across the road and the first right turn took me & my brother to the place that was like a promised land of our childhood…the main wooden gate read, ‘S.N. Kaw, Door no 71’.

There was no bell. We always just opened the door and walked straight in and the door used to closed with a loud thud. Before us, stood a sprawling well maintained garden and the three storied house was a good long walk away. As we moved towards the house, on our right was the evergreen bush and the left of the pavement was dotted by tall, slim Poplar trees that stood up proudly reaching out to the sky. The garden of Babu ji’s house was dotted with flowers of all sorts such as marigold, roses of all hues, daisies, dog flowers, scarlet’s, pansies, daffodils. It was an alluring riot of colours. The fruit trees gave it an orchard look. There were apple trees, plum trees, an almond tree, a cherry tree and a pomegranate tree. A part of this vast expanse was also devoted to vegetables. Babu ji always gave my mother something from the kitchen garden on her way back.  At the back of the house, was my star attraction -the hen house! I remember spending many patient hours waiting for the hen to make that typical clucking sound to indicate that she has laid an egg. I always hurried before anyone else could (there was a fair degree of competition). Carefully, I would reach into the hen house and take the warm egg. It was my prized possession, back home, in my study table. I would add it to my ‘egg collection’. My ‘pheran’ in winter usually had an egg along with all sorts of stuff, someone has rightly said, there is no child in the world so poor so as to have empty pockets!

The main house was huge, large rooms on two floors and third floor was incomplete, it was like a massive attic. In this house, Babu ji lived on the second floor with my grand ma, we called her Baabi and their youngest son. The second floor had a decent sized pooja room as well, where paintings of many a Gods and Goddesses were kept in reverence. I spent many a solitary hours just gazing at the Gods, looking intricately at their forms. I wonder if those were the moments that lay the foundation of my Spiritual life as a grown up?  Babu ji and Baabi both were devoutly religious. Babu ji used to wake up very early throughout the year and perform pooja at the break of dawn and recite mantras in his free time. His two older sons shared the ground floor, each son lived independently like a nuclear family.  Even viewed through the most rose tinted glasses, as happens with many large families, this house was dysfunctional.  There was a ‘cold war’ going on always between one faction or another, over one or another matter. But this sordid reality (which i guess is generally there in most large families) did not affect the child in me at all. This house of Babu ji was like an enchanted castle to me where in I could get lost in happiness without anybody bothering me!

So, what was Babu ji like as a person? During the 80’s in my perception as a child, he seemed to oscillate between being a villain and a hero. He was affectionate in his actions, the most caring grandfather ever but he had a sharp, unpardoning tongue! He would lash it with a vengeance especially on my most favourite member of the family, Baabi, the gentlest of them all. So, I resented him quite a bit. It was not until the years of exile came upon us, that I discovered that my grand pa was really a COCONUT! Hard outside and so mushy inside! And over the years, I realised the DEEP bond that my mother shared with her father.  Mom shared quite a bit of her father’s temper. She would get angry quickly and both slogged till they dropped!  Her father was to her what an oasis is to a desert. He was the cool shade against the scorching sun of life. No matter what she was undergoing, she always knew that she could go to her father…to ‘Chhanapora’ at any point in her life.  Mother was the only daughter among three brothers, and was doted upon, especially during her father’s last decade in service (he was the Regional Manager in J&K Bank) when there was plenty to go around. As destiny would have it, she got married into a large family that comes with its drudgery. Mother was not a working lady while the other daughter-in-law was, added to her uncomfortable situation. The pressure of domestic life was such that, mum even suffered a nervous breakdown, it was at this point that her father took a stand that his daughter needed a job, any job. She needed to get out of the house. As it happened, upon the birth of my younger brother, she got really sick, had multiple operations and was at fathers place to recuperate. Babu ji and Baabi were taking care of my baby brother and despite mom not been so keen, he insisted her taking the job of a teacher that fetched all of Rs 200. Babu ji baby sat my brother, while mother started working… Rs 200 a month liberated her. These and many episodes throughout her life, created an unwavering bond between the father and daughter.

Fast forward to 1990, it was becoming apparent that life in Kashmir could not go on as Hindus for Kashmiri Pandits. This was the final and fatal blow to the Hindu community that had suffered 800 years of persecution. After selective cold blooded murders, open threats and total collapse of administration, the community had no choice but to uproot itself if it had to have any chance of surviving the Jihadist Islam that had taken a vicious violent turn in Kashmir (a carefully pruned poison plant since independence). So, starting Jan. 19^th 1990, mass exodus started happening. Kashmiri Hindus were looking forward to complete uncertain and scary future. In one single stroke, like many others in Kashmir, Babu ji lost his home and with it everything he had laboured for through all his younger years. He had no pension, no provident fund and no home…He was a homeless man at the age of 68!!

That 5 lakh people had been forced to flee at gun point had not created even a ripple in New Delhi. Most people in India remained unaware of the suffering of the Kashmiri Hindus and their forced exile. Our lives in the heat and hopelessness of Jammu was the muffled tragedy of independent India. Babu ji and Baabi like other elderly people, had suddenly become a ‘burden’ to their struggling children who had huge responsibilities of their own kids future and an uncertain life staring at them. The ‘Lion’ at house no 71 in Chhanapora was facing a present more harder and bleak than he had as a child in Kashmir who had lost his father. While Babu ji and Baabi were in Jammu, my family had moved to Jaipur, talk about going from a freezer to a frying pan! Mom started working as a teacher in a private school, walking 2 km’s to and fro in blistering 45 deg to save the rickshaw fare. Every month, she sent her father Rs 200 by registered post to help him take care of his basic needs. For some reason, the monthly allowance to her father matched her first salary which her father had helped her earn….

Meanwhile, the homes of Hindu Pandits in Kashmir were being looted, burnt or both. The difference was only in the degree of damage. Some were lucky like my father. Our house was occupied by the Army and hence saved from imminent destruction. But Babu ji was not so lucky, as informed by some neighbours, his house was looted repeatedly and occupied by terrorists. He could do nothing but mourn within. During the early 2000’s Babu ji was approached by a respectable looking Muslim gentleman from Kashmir who offered to buy his house, the deal was sealed for an unbelievably measly, Rs 6L! That was the ongoing rate of a Kashmiri Pandit’s houses that would normally have sold in crores. Persuaded by his children who were short on cash, he agreed with a broken heart, I wonder what he must have felt. Or was he too numb to feel anything? With this distress sale, the curtains had come down on one of the most cherished places of our life in Kashmir, Chhanapora, both for our mother and us, the children. There was really, no going back now. There was not even a faint hope. It was all over.

Babu ji succumbed to a debilitating and most agonizing prostate cancer a couple of years later. Mother was devastated and inconsolable for months. Her guiding force, the steady rock that had stood by her through the thick and think of life was no more.

In 2013, my parents decided to visit Kashmir, they wanted to go to the sacred Kheerbhawani temple and other pilgrimages. Kashmir was more or less stable on the ‘surface’. They were going back after 23 years...mother used to speak to me on phone from Kashmir, telling me about her experiences every day. A day before they were to leave, my mother decided to go to Chhanapora, to Babu ji’s and her old home. My father for obvious reasons was reluctant but relented to my mother’s pleadings. They reached the old Chinar tree (it was still there), crossed the road and turned around the corner….there it was!! Her beloved father’s home! Her home! But alas! It did not look familiar.

At its gates, my mother was hesitant. The gate did not have her father’s name but a neat nameplate had the name of the new owner- some Khan. The garage gate was large and massive. Mother gathered some courage and opened the gate, there was still no bell and she just walked through like she had always done. Only this time her steps were faltering.  Father decided to stay back and wait for her. There were no Poplar trees lining the pavement to the house anymore, they had long gone but the evergreen bush to the right remained. It was the month of November, the garden did not have any flowers but it was well kept. In front of her stood a massive house as impressive as before but it had been done up, it looked much posh than before…more beautiful & equally painful to her… she continued walking and reached the main door. Like an absolute stranger invading the privacy of some unknown people. She hesitantly knocked at the door. The door was answered by a startled fine-looking man in late thirties who asked politely in Kashmiri: “Who are you looking for?” Mother stole a quick glance at the stairs leading to the second floor. In the past, she had always taken those stairs to reach her father’s abode on the second floor. Mother gathered herself and replied:”‘My father used to own this place. I just came to have a look, may I?” The man, was somewhat taken aback, asked her to wait and hurried inside. He came a little while later, with an elderly lady who looked like his mother. The elderly lady spoke politely and invited my mother in. Mother followed them both to a room where my uncle used to live. The room no more had anything middle-class about it. It had been beautifully furnished with silk carpets and expensive drapes and decorations. 

My mother sat down and looked around, no one was sure of what to say. The awkward silence was broken by the entry of a tall and handsome elderly man who greeted my mother-“‘Namaskar!  Are you the daughter of Pt. Shankar Nath Kaw?” – Mother replied in the affirmative. The man’s face shone with delight and warmth.  At this point, my mum informed the family that my father was waiting outside, the elderly man quickly sent his son for my father to be brought in. By this time, the whole family had assembled in the room, 2 sons, daughter in-laws and the father & mother. There was something about the old man that reminded my mother of her own father. The elderly man enquired about ‘Kaw Sahab’ and seemed genuinely anguished upon hearing the news of his demise. He seemed to have known Babu ji from old days. My mum says thereafter, the senior Khan sahib did not stop, he chatted like an old friend and everybody listened, he told my mum that he even had a horoscope (an astrological document which only Hindus get done for their children)!

The mood in the room had considerably lifted and my mother could not help but feel the cordiality in the atmosphere. Kashmiri tea Kehwa was served. My mother at this point, timidly asked, if they found any item belonging to her father in the house when they took it over. The lady replied courteously, that when they came there was nothing, even the taps and sinks had been taken away and the house was in total ruin. My mother could not stop herself and said: “There was a pooja room upstairs.  If anything found from there?’ The old lady shook her head and uttered:”My dear, when we came here the place was in ruins, covered with human feces. It was disgusting. I am sorry we found nothing.’ At this point, the elderly gentleman told my mum:”Kaw sahib, was my elder brother, I am a father figure to you, this is your house. If you ever come to Kashmir, you must stay with us.” By this time, my mother’s eyes were moist and she saw nothing but genuine warmth in the old man who was addressing them. He asked her, if she would like to look around the house, my mum politely refused and thanked them profusely.

It had been more than an hour and a half when father told my mother that it was getting dark and should leave now. Senior Khan Sahib asked my father where they were put up and then instructed his younger son to drop them despite my parent’s protests. While, my parents were leaving, the whole family came to see them off…as mum was stepping out, the elderly lady, offered her a handful of almonds and raisins(called Atgath in Kashmiri Pandit tradition) and said, a girl never leaves her father’s home empty handed. At this point, my mother could no longer hold back her feelings, she sobbed uncontrollably…she told me later that at that moment she had felt her father’s presence, even in his death,  he had not let her leave his Chanapura house empty handed…

As I listened to my mum’s story of going back to Chhanapora sitting in my Reading apartment in England, we both wept…for our loss…for our rootlessness…and the sheer kindness of the new owner of Babu ji’s house…Babu ji is no more but his spirit lives on in that house….

Perhaps someday a miracle will happen, perhaps someday, we will go back where we belong…back to our roots…back to the places we called Home…back to Kashmir….

|| Om Nama: Shivaya ||