The day they were forced to leave their home in Kashmir

A photo album, a samovar (kettle) and a trunk full of fuzzy memories of cherry trees, lazy lunches and friendly neighbours — it’s been more than 30 years since they left Kashmir, and yet the families sound wistful when they talk about “home”. Between 1990 and 1992, over 70,000 Kashmiri Pandits fled from the Valley due to militancy, seeking refuge elsewhere. Many left their homes in a state of panic, under duress, not knowing if they would ever return.Thirty-one years on, we spoke to a few families about what they recall of the day they had to leave, their idea of home and whether they would like to return to the Valley today, if given a chance. While the occasional visits of those who have gone back have been emotional and sometimes even bitter, they all share fond memories of their Kashmiri Muslim neighbours who are “eager to have them back home”.'Didn't know I would never see my home again'Renu Kotru, 56, homemaker | Lived in Ali Kadal | Now lives in DelhiOn her way back from school in the 1970s, Renu Kotru would often stop at her friend’s house for lunch. “Her mother would feed both of us from the same plate, one morsel in her mouth, one in mine. Such was the love between Kashmiri Pandits and Kashmiri Muslims. And then in the mid-80s, the environment changed and voices asking for the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits grew louder,” recalls the 56-year-old.Born and raised in Kashmir, Kotru left for Jammu in 1990 along with her brother, sister-in-law and niece, hoping to return home in a few months. “It was one afternoon in March. We were having lunch when our Kashmiri Muslim neighbours came home and advised my father that the women need to immediately leave since it was no longer safe. Within a few minutes, it was decided that at night, I will leave with my sister-in-law, niece and brother. We cried all day. How could I leave my parents at home? We left in a bus,” she says. “Little did I know that I will never see my home again. I left only with some clothes.” medium nocaption84853184 medium nocaption84853200A year later, her parents, too, moved to Jammu, and soon the family’s two-storey house — with a garden in which her mother grew spinach, brinjal and chillies — was sold to an acquaintance. “We sold the house after it was caught in a crossfire. My brother’s friend, a Kashmiri Muslim, went to the house later and found our photo albums. He safely returned them to us,” Renu says.In 1992, she got married and moved to Delhi. In the last 31 years, not once has she returned to the Valley. In Delhi, the memories of that childhood are retained in the form of a samovar and a kangri (a claypot with charcoal to keep warm in the winters). “I want to go back. My brother has a mooh-boli sister there, who is a Kashmiri Muslim, and they talk often. They want us to come back. If normalcy returns and things are the same as they were when I was growing up then I would settle down in Kashmir. It’s where I was born, and I miss home. One day I would like to go back to Ali Kadal,” she says. medium84857210'I don't blame all Kashmiri Muslims, but those who stayed silent are to blame'Pooja Razdan, 57, business owner | Born in Anantnag, raised in Srinagar |Now lives in MumbaiIn September 1989, Pooja’s father received a threat in the form of an unsigned letter, ordering him to “leave Kashmir if he cared for his life”. The elders of the colony, located near the Srinagar airport, she recalls, gathered to discuss the matter. After all, they weren’t the only Kashmiri Pandit family in the neighbourhood that had got this anonymous letter. “Our Kashmiri Muslim neighbours assured us it must be a prank. They said that if anyone tries to harm us, they will first have to deal with them,” recalls the 57-year-old. “But we were scared.”On the night of January 10, four months later, Pooja and a few young women from the neighbourhood left for Delhi, with her brother, in a bus. “By then I had quit my job and we were all at home. One of our neighbours told my parents that we should leave. I fought with him, and said this is home, how can we go? But the decision had been made and we began packing. My mum stitched some gold inside the pheran (Kashmiri outfit) I was wearing and I carried some clothes. The move to Delhi was supposed to be temporary, but 15 days later, my parents flew to Delhi too. It was so risky,” says Pooja, whose father was a state government employee, and mother, a homemaker. medium nocaption84853360 medium nocaption84882013The years preceding her exit from Kashmir were “scary and hurtful”, she recalls. In 1988, she was at work when news came that a Kashmiri Pandit activist had been killed. The institute, where she worked, was closed for a few days, and soon after she had to quit her job. “I don’t blame all Kashmiri Muslims for what happened because so many tried to protect us, but all those who stayed silent are to be blamed for the exodus,” she says. “This happened not just because of the radicalised groups, but also because of those who stayed quiet.”In 2000, the family sold their Kashmir house. Since 1990, she has visited Kashmir at least four times; her last visit was in 2015. “It’s a lost cause, I feel depressed there,” she says. “I have seen Kashmir in full glory, with communal harmony. I still dream about my home, and I wish I was a painter who could draw the chinar leaves, the pine trees, the pear orchids, our house. But I don’t want to go back and settle there. I am too scared, it was traumatising.” medium84857162'Our Kashmiri Muslim neighbours protected us'Pyare Lal Thusso, 64, retd forest department employee | Lived in village Karihama, district Kupwara | Now lives in Jagti township for Kashmiri migrants in JammuOn his wedding day in 1979, Pyare Lal Thusso got embroiled in an argument between a taxi driver and a tonga driver — both neighbours, Kashmiri Muslims — who wanted to drive him to the venue. “This is how it was, we all participated in each other’s festivities,” says the 64-year-old over the phone from Jammu. “As children, we didn’t even know the difference between Hindus and Muslims. My Kashmiri Muslim neighbour loved me and scolded me like their own. That relationship still exists. We just watched someone’s wedding in Kashmir on our phone because our presence was important,” he says. medium nocaption84853404 medium nocaption84858301Born and raised in Kupwara district’s Karihama village, Thusso left Kashmir on March 6, 1990, along with his parents, siblings, wife and three young daughters. “Our Kashmiri Muslim neighbours protected us and our homes when radicalised groups, who were all outsiders, held a jaloos (procession) in the village. Eventually only 12 Kashmiri Pandit families were left, and the DC of Kupwara visited one day, requesting us to not leave. I asked him to provide us security. I cried. Our Kashmiri Muslim neighbours were angry with him too,” he says. The family spent the next two days wondering if it was time to leave. “We spoke to all our neighbours and well-wishers and told them we were leaving. It was sad, we cried. Our Muslim neighbours packed our belongings and loaded them on the truck. I told them I will be back soon to resume my job. It was supposed to be temporary,” he says.The plan, he says, was to drop off the elderly, the women and the children to Jammu, and rush back because the men had jobs to return to. “Less than a month later, our home was looted, burnt, and so were 183 houses of other Pandits. We lost our home and now we live in Jammu’s Jagti township. It’s a camp, not a township really. There are hardly any amenities here, we are struggling,” he says.The last time Thusso visited “home” was in 2016. He “cried and hugged his old friends”. “The love is still there, it has been passed on to generations. We speak to each other once a month even now, they want us to come back, dil se (from the heart)," he says. I want to settle down in Kashmir with my family if the government ensures security, accommodation, cash relief and an employment plan.” 'How did we become refugees in our own country?'B B Dhar, 80, higher education systems advisor | Lived in Srinagar | Now lives in DelhiIn 1956, B B Dhar left Srinagar to pursue engineering at the Banaras Hindu University, where he went on to become an employee, before moving abroad for a few years with his wife and children. In the late 1980s and early ’90s, when the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits was underway, Dhar was far away from home, but remained updated over calls. He recalls getting worried phone calls from extended family members and friends belonging to the community who lived in Srinagar in those days. “There was a mass exodus. My extended family left Kashmir with almost everything they could carry — clothes, utensils, furniture. How did we become refugees in our own country?” the 80-year-old asks. medium nocaption84853421 medium nocaption84853431Till the ’90s, Dhar continued to visit Srinagar for a few months every year. “Outside Kashmir, I am a Kashmiri, but how can that be when I don’t even have a room of my own there,” he adds. Dhar, who lived in Srinagar with his parents and two brothers, recalls his teenage years that were full of adventure. “My friends and I would go camping in Pahalgam. Our parents never said no because it was such a safe, trusting atmosphere. There was communal harmony like I have never seen before, with communities greeting each other on Eid and Shivratri. Outsiders polluted the atmosphere,” says the president of the Kashmir Education, Culture and Science Society. He says that despite being away from home since a young age, the idea of “home” has always been Kashmir. “No matter where I lived and worked, I would visit home every year for some time. Now, that idea is gone. I can’t say ‘Mujhe ghar jaana hai’ because where is ‘ghar’?”