Our Moon Has Blood Clots: The Exodus of the Kashmiri Pandits (23 page)

It was only later that we realized the truth of what the man had told us. When the Pathans set foot on the soil of Kashmir, they nursed a desire to lay their hands upon as much gold as they could. Their eyes blinded with greed, the tribesmen could not even distinguish between brass and gold. Brass was the metal that Kashmiris used the most. Brass plates to eat food, brass tumblers and
khasoos
to drink water and tea, and brass spoons to rekindle simmering coals in kangris. Even the bases of hookahs and toothpicks were made of brass. All this was taken away by the Pathans. And even gold teeth from people’s mouths, before putting them to death.

We kept walking, accompanied by the couple. The woman, I noticed, was carrying a bundle, which she held under her arm. There was no one in sight as far as the eye could see. Only trails of smoke appeared in the distant sky.

‘They have plundered Baramulla,’ the man remarked. ‘Nothing is left for us to go back to.’ We looked hopelessly towards the sky. Above us, eagles circled.

The sun was shadowed by clouds, which made the surroundings even more depressing. Mother’s feet were swollen and she was finding it difficult to walk. She held Father’s shoulder for support.

Eventually we came across two hillocks overlooking a huge, barren field. We hoped that there might be a village beyond the hillocks where we could take refuge for a few days before continuing our journey towards Baramulla. But before we could proceed, the sound of gunfire shook us. Birds flew out of the trees, scattering leaves weakened by autumn. We could not escape now. The tribesmen were somewhere near us.

‘Don’t panic,’ Father muttered and then he began to say loudly, ‘
Allah ho Akbar!
’ My heart beat furiously. Mother’s face turned pale. The woman rushed towards my younger sister. ‘Keep this under your pheran,’ she said, handing her bundle to my sister. No sooner had she done this than we saw three tribesmen descending from a hillock towards our left. ‘
Allah ho Akbar, Allah ho Akbar,
’ my father kept repeating loudly. One of the tribesmen said something in Punjabi and signalled us to stop. We froze.

I could see the Pathans clearly now. They had long beards, dyed with henna. One of them wore a turban. His face was sunburnt. They wore sandals made of dried straw, and carried guns. One of them came forward and began frisking us. His two accomplices spread an embroidered bed sheet on the ground. They were looking for gold and other precious items that they suspected we were carrying. But the search disappointed them. The third tribesman was gazing at my sister. She must have looked nervous, as she was trying to hide behind Mother. The tribesman came forward and with the speed of a hawk lifted my sister’s pheran. A cry escaped her lips, and the bundle fell down. As they opened it, I saw their eyes gleaming. They laughed demonically. Two of them clapped furiously while laughing with their faces turned upwards. I looked at the woman, whose fortune had just been snatched away. She was crying silently. There was a strange expression on my sister’s face, as if she had committed a crime. The Pathans were shouting with joy, hurling expletives in their language. Suddenly, one of them lifted my sister in his arms and placed a kiss on her forehead. That was their way of thanking her.

One of the tribesmen then pointed at my father’s shoes. At first, father did not understand. The Pathan shouted again and pointed again towards the shoes. This time it was clear. Father unlaced his shoes and handed them over to the Pathan. The Pathan put them on, leaving his straw sandals for father to wear. Then the three invaders moved on. After a little while, when we could no longer see them, Father threw away the sandals in disgust. The woman’s tears had turned into sobs. Her husband was consoling her. No one from my family uttered a word.

Walking had become a habit. We had walked another mile or so when we were again confronted by a few Pathans. We raised our hands, while Father started chanting
Allah ho Akbar
. We were frisked again. But now there was truly nothing to offer. In frustration, the Pathans kicked the men, then carried on with their forward march. We had walked just a few steps when the Pathans shouted at us from behind. We stood transfixed in our places. One of them pushed my father, and took off his coat. Then with a wave of his hand, he signalled us to go. We moved on.

Father was muttering inaudibly and mother tried to console him, knowing that he was distraught because of the loss of the coat.

‘Don’t think too much about the coat. Thank God that at least they spared our lives,’ Mother said. ‘I am not mourning the loss of that wretched coat. I feel sorry for having lost the money I had put in the coat’s pocket. I thought it would enable me to buy some food for the children once we reached home,’ he said and then slipped into silence. I did not look at him, but I knew he was crying.

I don’t know why, but Tathya’s loss of his shoes, coat and a little money took me back to December 1990. We were in Bhagwati Nagar, and we had very little bedding. One evening, a neighbour came and told Father that a local politician was distributing blankets. Ma looked at me. ‘Why don’t you go there? Maybe we could get a blanket as well,’ she said. I didn’t want to do it. It reminded me of the embarrassment of that half tomato that had been thrust in my hand that June. ‘I won’t go,’ I said. ‘We badly require that blanket,’ Ma said. It frustrated me. I didn’t want to go, but I could not ignore the helplessness I saw in my mother’s eyes. And so I went. I stood in the queue. I got that blanket
.

I should have kept that blanket; I should have kept it as a testimony of Ma’s helplessness, of our exile
.

‘
After facing the marauding tribesmen, Father changed his plan. The couple was still accompanying us,’ my Uncle recalled
.

‘Let us go back to Ambardar’s village; at least we will have a roof over our heads. God only knows the fate of Baramulla. Let us see if we can spend a few days with Ambardar and then move on home,’ Father said.

After many hours of walking, we reached Ambardar’s village. We walked with caution, taking measured steps. It was evening and the sky was overcast with grey clouds. We could barely see the streets and walked through slush.

Eventually we reached Ambardar’s house and saw that the main gate was half open. As Father opened it to let us enter, it made a strange, creaking sound. Two dogs that were sniffing at a bundle lying on the steps of Ambardar’s house ran away. Father went forward and as he came close to the steps a cry escaped his lips. ‘
Om Namah Shivay,
’ he invoked Lord Shiva. What we had thought was a bundle in the darkness was actually Ambardar’s body. It lay on the second step, in almost a sitting position, with the head hanging backwards. Ambardar’s walking stick lay at his feet, like a faithful dog. It seemed as though he would open his eyes, pick up his stick, and go out for a walk. But the blood on the stairs, which had turned black, narrated the truth. The tribesmen had sieved his body with bullets.

We were so tired that none of us could feel the grief of losing a friend, even one who had helped us in bad times.

‘I want to die like him,’ Father said pointing towards Ambardar’s corpse. ‘Let us go home. If we have to die, it makes sense to die like Ambardar. At least our blood will be absorbed in our own soil.’

Reciting ceremonial hymns, Father folded his hands. All of us folded our hands and turned back. Mother had put one corner of her sari in her mouth to muffle her sobs.

As for me, I could only hear Ambardar blessing me in his baritone voice:
Las te nav
—may you live long and prosper.

After we left Ambardar’s village, the couple parted from us. We kept on walking towards home.

From a distance, we could see smoke emanating from our village. We walked, or rather limped with exhaustion, towards the street where our home stood. There were burnt houses all around, many of them still smoldering. A number of household items were strewn across the road. A child’s frock. A brass tumbler. A few books. My father picked one up. It was Kalhana’s
Rajatarangini
. There lay a wooden cupboard, with its door still locked. A pack of tobacco. A few pashmina shawls. One half-burnt carpet. One hookah, with its brass base ripped off. My father started reciting prayers. I could not understand why.

In a few minutes, we stood at the head of our street. Father looked at Mother, as if asking whether she had the courage to delve into the painful discovery of the fate of our home. Before we could take a step further, we heard a wail. We looked around. It was one of our neighbours. He started beating his forehead.

‘Everything has been reduced to ashes, Damodar,’ he cried.

The fire had spread in our locality after the invaders had entered and killed two sons of one of our neighbours. The boys had been asked to recite the Kalma by the marauders, but they had refused. The tribesmen had then shot them both. Their mother had then asked her husband to carry their bodies to the kitchen, to be cremated. The parents chose to burn alive along with their dead sons. The fire soon engulfed the house and then spread to the entire locality.

My mother could no longer stand on her feet. She sat on the road and sobbed. Father caught hold of my arm, and led me along the street to our home. On both sides of the street, houses were reduced to burnt stubs. We just kept walking. Here was our neighbour’s house. The poor man had toiled for decades, and had lived a life of penury to build this house. Now it was gone.

And then we stood in front of what used to be our house. It had been devastated in the fire as well. Smoke still emanated from the window frames. All our belongings had been looted. My father walked slowly, as if he were walking in his sleep. He picked up a piece of dried turnip from the ground, and chewed on it. Then, as if he had gained energy from that dried turnip, he started rummaging through the debris. He was searching for something. I looked around our courtyard. For what seemed like hours, Father kept uttering something to himself as his hands kept working frantically, searching. He upturned bricks, stones and burnt wood. Finally he broke down. After a while, he paused and looked at me. He wiped his tears. ‘I was looking for your grandfather’s chillum. That is the last thing he touched before he left us.’

There was still no news of Totha when we boarded a tonga that would eventually take us to Srinagar. He was not at home when the news of the attack was broken to us.

My mother’s head was resting on the wooden frame of the tonga, as she held one of my sisters in her lap. Father held my other sister, and I sat next to him.

Srinagar was fifty miles away. But for us, it was a leap to another world. From the security of a household to the uncertainty of a nomadic life. From light to darkness. From heaven to hell. We had no idea what lay in store for us once we reached Srinagar. From other fleeing families, we learnt that the Indian government had established refugee camps for those who came to Srinagar, escaping from areas like Baramulla, Sopore and Uri.

It was a dusty evening, and grey clouds, pregnant with water, held sway in the sky. Soon it started raining. Raindrops, each the size of a big pearl, started falling. Everyone ran for shelter. We took ours under the extended roof of a shop. Minutes before, the tongawallah had declared that we had reached Srinagar. Like our misfortune, the rain was also waiting for an appropriate moment to show that we were born when the gods had been looking the other way.