Monday, Nov 4 2002
And The Jhelum Was Red...
- Vikram Jagadish
Vikram Jagadish is the legislative director of the Center for the Advancement of Indo-American Relations and is an active member of the Indo-American Kashmir forum. His passion is working for the Kashmiri Pandits, victims of terror that have been ignored by the world. He is a contributor to various newspapers on the Kashmir issue and is a frequent visitor to the state.
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As I step off of the bus at the Batamaloo stand in Downtown Srinagar, India, I have no idea what is coming for me. I am a Hindu in my own land, and everywhere around me there are those who want my blood. There was a time when I rejoiced with my Muslim bretheren, and we all respected each other as Indians. But, little did I know that their smiles were farcical, their concern for our welfare superficial, and I never saw the fire burning in their eyes as they thought of how best to torture me. Was I to share the fate of more than 700,000 fellow Kashmiri Hindus and the countless muslims who believed in India? Would I be the next man floating dead in the river Jhelum? Or would I be spared of prolonged pain and be left hanging naked from a chinar tree?
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In the bylanes of Habbakadal and the towering majesty of Shankaracharya hill, there is an eerie silence from once populated temples. The sweet sound of the Hindu puja has been replaced by the azaan from nearby mosques. Wherever I go in the Kashmiri capital, there is the ghost of the Kashmiri Hindus, killed simply because they believed in India. The cold breeze sweeping through Zainakadal carries their screams, while the posh locality of Rajbagh echoes with Muslims' laughter over what they have done to us. As I row a Shikara down the majestic Dal Lake, Muslim craftsmen view me with suspicion. I can still sense the burning hatred in their hearts for everything that represents India.
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A chill runs down my spine as I pass the Hazratbal Mosque, knowing at any moment a terrorist's bullet can finish me. I instantly remember the horror of 1990, when Indian flags were desecrated and Kashmiri Hindu women were gang-raped. The vegetables at Char Chinar are not growing as they used to. The saffron fields of Badgam are lost. The apple orchards of Sopore have rotted. This is my Kashmir, once a paradise, now a hell of unspeakable proportions. The only glimpse of the paradise that it was comes as the sun sets over Srinagar and a rosy hue is added to the snow-clad Himalayas. Maybe this is a sign of hope, that one day we will return to Kashmir. But for now I am a refugee in my own land, suffering horrific terrorism in the face of an apathetic world.
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