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  It was in the fifth century in Tibet that a Pandit scholar was given the honorary title of Bhatta—which means someone who is learned. This name stuck. For the outside world, we were Kashmiri Brahmins or Pandits. But in Kashmir, we remained Battas, a derivative of Bhatta.

  But somehow the gods couldn’t make peace with us. So they would wreak upon us disease, earthquakes, floods, famines and fires. And then they gave us rulers susceptible to greed, lust and deceit. And savagery. Fourteen hundred years ago, a ruler called Mihirakula is believed to have been travelling with his army through the Pir Panjal mountain pass when an elephant slipped and fell into a ravine. The cruel king loved the cries of the falling elephant so much that he ordered a hundred elephants to be forced down the mountain.

  The two golden phases in Kashmir’s history were during the reigns of Lalitaditya and Avantivarman. Lalitaditya ruled Kashmir for about four decades in the early eighth century AD. He was considered a great administrator, and among his achievements the building of the Sun temple at Martand in south Kashmir is considered the greatest. It stands even today in spite of being ravaged by invaders, and is considered one of the most important archaeological sites in India. Of the temple, the British explorer Francis Younghusband wrote:

  The temple is built on the most sublime site occupied by any building in the world—finer far than the site of Parthenon, or of the Taj, or of St. Peters. It is second only to the Egyptians in massiveness and strength and to the Greeks in elegance and grace.

  Avantivarman ruled Kashmir for about three decades from 855 AD. Under his rule, the people of Kashmir prospered. He built magnificent temples and Buddhist monasteries and offered patronage to learned scholars.

  From the fourteenth century onwards, Islam made inroads into Kashmir. Initially, it fused with local practices and evolved into a way of life rather than a strict, monotheistic religion. There is nothing that reflects this melding more than a vaakh by Lal Ded, Kashmir’s revered poetess-saint:

  Shiv chhuy thali’e thali’e rozaan

  Mo zaan Hyon’d tey Musalmaan

  God pervades every particle, every being

  Don’t distinguish between a Hindu and a Muslim

  But towards the century’s end a fanatical ruler called Sultan Sikandar took over the reins of Kashmir and let loose a reign of terror and brutality against his Hindu subjects. He tried to destroy the Martand temple but failed. He imposed taxes on Hindus and forbade them from practising their religion. So much so that he came to be known as Butshikan—the idol-breaker. He and his ministers destroyed any Hindu texts they could find. It is said of him that the number of Pandits he murdered was so large that seven maunds of sacred thread worn by them were burnt.

  It was during Sikandar’s reign that a cry escaped from the lips of the hapless Pandits, to be spared the sword: Na Bhatto Aham, Na Bhatto Aham! (I’m not a Pandit, I’m not a Pandit!)

  During Sikandar’s rule a large number of Islamic scholars flocked to the Valley; many mosques were built and Islam gained influence in Kashmir. Sikandar was succeeded by his son Ali Shah.

  After him, his brother Zain-ul-Abidin took over in 1420 AD; he proved to be a tolerant ruler. Legend has it that by this time only eleven Pandit families were left in Kashmir, the majority having either fled or converted to Islam. The historian Srivara, Zain-ul-Abidin’s court pandit and musician, described his rule as being, ‘like the cooling sandal paste after the harsh summer heat in a desert’. At the insistence of a Pandit physician, Shri Bhatt, the king partially removed religious restrictions on the Pandits. It is believed that the king suffered from a mysterious ailment that nobody could cure and that ultimately, it was Shri Bhatt who cured him. Upon his recovery, Zain-ul-Abidin asked the physician to seek any gift he wanted from him. Shri Bhatt asked that all restrictions imposed upon his fellow Pandits be lifted, and the king readily agreed. He extended an invitation to those Pandits who had fled the Valley to escape Sikandar’s wrath. Many of them returned. He appointed many Pandits as his administrators.

  Around the late fifteenth century, the Chaks, who were of Dardic descent, came to power. They belonged to the Shia sect of Islam and were intolerant towards both Pandits and Muslims who belonged to the Sunni sect. In 1589, Kashmir was taken over by the Mughals. The Mughal emperor Akbar visited Kashmir that same year. It was during his third visit to Kashmir in 1598 that two Europeans, Father Gerome Xavier and Benoist de Gois, set foot in the Valley for the first time.

  Akbar was succeeded by his son Jehangir who, enamoured by Kashmir’s natural beauty, built many gardens. At the time of his death in 1627 when Jehangir was asked what he desired, he replied: ‘Kashmir, nothing else.’

  During Aurangzeb’s rule, which lasted for forty-nine years from 1658 onwards, there were many phases during which Pandits were persecuted. One of his fourteen governors, Iftikhar Khan, who ruled for four years from 1671, was particularly brutal towards the community. It was during his rule that a group of Pandits approached the ninth Sikh Guru, Tegh Bahadur, in Punjab and begged him to save their faith. He told them to return to Kashmir and tell the Mughal rulers that if they could convert him (Tegh Bahadur), all Kashmiri Pandits would accept Islam. This later led to the Guru’s martyrdom, but the Pandits were saved.

  From 1752 onwards, the Valley slipped into the terrible misfortune of being ruled by Afghans for almost seven decades. In his book The Valley of Kashmir, Walter R. Lawrence writes of one of the Afghan governors, Assad Khan:

  It was his practice to tie up the Pandits, two and two, in grass sacks and sink them in the Dal lake. As an amusement, a pitcher filled with ordure would be placed on a Pandit’s head and Musalmans would pelt the pitcher with stones till it broke, the unfortunate Hindu being blinded with filth.

  During the rule of another governor, Atta Muhammad Khan, Lawrence writes:

  Any Musalman who met a Pandit would jump on his back, and take a ride.

  During this tumultuous period, there were mass conversions. The Afghan rulers would surround a group of Pandits with naked swords and ask them to convert. Those who did not comply would be put to death immediately. For the rest, a calf would be slaughtered, and they would be fed its meat and their sacred thread would be snapped.

  The troubles at home forced many Pandits to migrate. Many took shelter in Delhi, Lucknow, Lahore and Allahabad, among other places. It was one such family that produced India’s first prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru.

  Following the period of Afghan rule, the Valley passed into the hands of Sikh rulers in 1819, and then to the Dogra dynasty, who bought it from the British colonialists for seventy-five lakh rupees, one horse, twelve goats and three cashmere shawls. The Dogra rulers were benevolent towards the Pandits, but treated their Muslim subjects roughly. Many Muslims were forced to work as unpaid labourers. There was widespread discontent and anger towards the Dogra rulers.

  That anger also translated into violence against the Pandits.

  In 1931, when a Muslim butcher vented his ire against the Dogra Maharaja outside Kashmir’s Central Jail, his actions assumed the shape of a riot. A procession then stormed through Srinagar; it torched the Hindu shops in the burgeoning business centre of Maharaj Ganj. As the ‘freedom procession’ marched on, the crowd stormed into the Vichar Nag area, about nine kilometres from Maharaj Ganj, and recklessly beat up Hindus. Some were killed as well.

  In 1947, at a time when the rest of the nation was ravaged with the violence of Partition, Mahatma Gandhi saw the only ray of hope in Kashmir. But he saw that ray in the state’s summer capital, Srinagar. In towns bordering Pakistan—Muzaffarabad, Baramulla, Kupwara—the Pandits had to wade through patches of darkness. The last Dogra Maharaja, Hari Singh, was reluctant to join India or Pakistan and wanted to remain independent for as long as possible. In October 1947, Pakistan sent tribal invaders from the Northwest Frontier Province, aided by Pakistani Army regulars, to occupy Kashmir. In many places, they were aided and guided by Muslims in Kashmir. But at the last moment, when the Valley was abou
t to slip into the hands of the invaders, Maharaja Hari Singh signed the instrument of accession and Kashmir became a part of India. The Indian Army arrived in Srinagar and the tribal invaders were pushed back.

  In 1948, the Kashmiri political leader Sheikh Mohammed Abdullah, who had been a strong opponent of Dogra rule in Kashmir, made his pact with India by standing next to Jawaharlal Nehru and reciting a Persian couplet: ‘Mann tu shudi, tu mann shudi, Ta kas na goyed, Man degram tu degri.’ (I became you and you became me, so nobody can think of us as separate.)

  But this bonhomie was shortlived. The relationship between Sheikh Abdullah and Jawaharlal Nehru soured, and Kashmir and India remained at loggerheads with each other. Later, forgetting how many Pandits had taken an active part in his struggle against the Dogra Maharaja, Sheikh Abdullah would also direct his bitterness towards the Pandits, a community to which his own grandfather belonged, before he converted to Islam. He would tell Pandits: ‘Raliv, Chaliv, ya Galiv.’ (Be one among us, flee, or be decimated.)

  Srinagar, Early 1980s

  Dedda believed that Charlie Chaplin was the Englishman’s god. She had a poster of him pinned up on a wall in her room, and sometimes I caught her looking at it with rapt attention, one hand clutching a corner of her muslin sari. Sometimes she would have an argument with a family member and afterwards, she would stand in front of it and mumble—in complaint or prayer, I don’t know.

  Dedda was my mother’s mother. She lived next door with her son’s family in a house separated from ours by a dwarf wooden fence. Between the two houses lay our respective kitchen gardens, and I suspect there was some kind of competition between us and my uncle’s household. But, overall, it was a level playing field. There were brinjals, collard greens, chillies, radish, pumpkin, bottle gourd, corn, cucumber, knol-khol, and mountain mint. There were fruit trees in the garden as well—an apple tree in ours and an apricot tree in theirs. When I was very young, I remember other fruit trees as well, but they had been cut down before a family wedding to accommodate a giant tent. Our tree produced apples of the sour variety and I remember Dedda plucking one or two on sunny afternoons and then slicing them with her pocketknife, and applying salt over them with girlish delight. It must have given her immense joy and I believe it was her idea of sin—the sour juice gurgling in her mouth, tingling her senses, resulting in her gently scratching her cheeks.

  Dedda would get up early and light the fire in her hearth. She always cooked in earthen pots until she became old and her daughter-in-law took over, bringing with her steel and aluminium utensils. Dedda stirred her dishes with a wooden ladle, reciting verses of Lal Ded. She was a magician with everything but I particularly remember her delicious beans and dried turnip, and dried bottle gourd and brinjals.

  Often Tathya, my maternal grandfather, brought guests to the house and they invariably stayed for lunch. Tathya would worry that there might not be enough food and he would steal questioning glances at Dedda. She always responded with a smile. She wouldn’t allow even a peep inside her vessels. No matter how many guests came, her vessels produced food. The guests would go away content, their bellies warm with tasty food. ‘Shobha’s vessels have barkat,’ they said.

  My father had constructed our house next to my maternal uncle’s at Ma’s insistence. Their family had fled Baramulla in north Kashmir during the tribal invasion of 1947. As a toddler, Ma had been carried by her 10-year-old brother on his back for miles to safety.

  In constructing the house, my father had exhausted his entire Provident Fund; whatever little jewellery my mother possessed was also sold to help finance the construction. My father often talked about how he started the first phase of construction when he had only 3,600 rupees in his pocket. The other part of the house was built by two of my father’s brothers. So in one house, we had three homes. The house was built in one of the new suburbs of Srinagar.

  I was born a year after my parents moved to the new house. There were very few houses in our neighbourhood at that time, and ours didn’t even have a boundary wall. Shepherds brought their flocks to graze in the open space around our house. The only theft that ever occurred was when a thief stole a bulb and a pair of old rubber slippers that belonged to my father from our veranda. There was a pair of new rubber slippers there as well, but the thief was considerate enough to leave them behind. As I was growing up, the house was also built up bit by bit. A boundary wall came up and pillars were built in the veranda. Smooth red cement was laid in the corridor and wardrobes and cupboards were built in the rooms. We also owned a black and white Weston television that took several minutes to warm up before coming to life. In those days, all of us would be excited about the feature film telecast on Doordarshan on Sunday evenings. Gradually, other families occupied the locality as well.

  After escaping from Baramulla in 1947, most of my mother’s family had relocated to Habba Kadal, an old locality in Srinagar named after the sixteenth-century Kashmiri poetess Habba Khatoon, who wrote beautiful verses of love and longing. My father’s family came from a village in central Kashmir. My father’s father was a Sanskrit scholar and he also dabbled in astrology to make ends meet. He had borne extreme hardships to raise his family. During a period of severe food scarcity in the 1950s, he had saved a sack of rice from a gang of robbers by jumping into a ditch overgrown with nettle grass. For days after, mudpacks had to be applied to his body to provide him relief. Every morning, even in the harshest winter, he would wake up in the ambrosial hours and walk to the shrine of our family goddess and recite the Durgasaptashati.

  Everything in my grandfather’s house was done with extreme care, as per Hindu tradition. Early in the morning, grandmother would clean her kitchen, applying a paste of mud and dried straw over its walls for purification. No onions or garlic were allowed. Often, my grandfather would invite home the sadhus and ascetics and scholars who came to the Kshir Bhawani shrine from all over India. Some were believed to have supreme yogic powers—one of them, it was said, could pull out his intestines from his mouth, wash them and push them back in. Grandfather was particularly fond of an ascetic from Bengal who visited the Valley in the summer. He would sit on a straw mat, speak very little, and would only drink a glass of sugarless milk. I have faint memories of him talking to me. One summer he did not return and we never saw him again.

  Grandmother was betrothed to Grandfather at the age of thirteen. She would remember those days with a faint smile on her lips, of how difficult it was to cope with her father-in-law, who was a widower and prone to opium-induced aggression, and would come home late in the night and demand a curry of dried fish spicy enough to set the rice afire.

  In Father’s village, many things could be obtained through the barter system. The family grew paddy and kept some cows as well. Often, fishermen, plying their shikaras along the small river that flowed past the house, would give fish in exchange for rice. Food was easy to come by in villages. But in the city, it was harder. After finishing school, Father had to stay with his aunt in Srinagar to attend college. It was difficult to feed an extra person. Often, my father said, he would buy a sesame bagel from the baker, moisten it with water and eat it for lunch.

  In those days the results of the Board Exams would be declared on the radio. The day Father’s higher secondary exam results were to be declared, he sat glued to it. But they wouldn’t announce his name. Distraught, he thought he had failed. But it turned out to be a mistake. Afterwards, at his father’s insistence, my father joined government service and worked with the irrigation department.

  It was in the city that my parents met and later got married. Around that time, there was tension in the Valley. Riots had broken out over an episode of a Pandit girl marrying a Muslim boy. The Pandits had risen in a rare gesture and launched an agitation. On the day my parents got married, curfew had been declared in some parts of the Valley.

  After the wedding ceremony, the newly-wed couple arrived at my father’s village in a tonga. It had rained earlier, and there was muddy slush all ar
ound, and heaps of dried straw had to be put on the road to enable the bride from the city to walk without getting her shoes soiled. For years my mother would taunt Father about that particular evening.

  Ma was hard-working. She would often carry dirty utensils in sub-zero temperatures to wash them under a tap in a corner of the street in Habba Kadal where she lived with her parents before marriage. She was also known to have climbed up on the tin roof of their house wearing her brother’s Duckback gumboots to shovel down the snow lest the roof collapsed under its weight—a feat that only the most courageous men could achieve. It was this spirit that led her to start working right after completing her education, choosing not to be a housewife. She served in the state health department.

  One of my earliest memories is of her wearing a red sweater with a floral pattern. It was much later that I came to know it was a gift from my father, who had ordered it from Amritsar through a visiting cousin. For years, I think, the image of India for an ordinary Kashmiri was restricted to Punjab—to Amritsar and Ludhiana. Kashmiris went to Delhi, or Bombay, or Calcutta, but any non-Kashmiri was a Punjabi for them.

  For many years after their marriage, my parents served in far-flung villages where people were so innocent that some of them believed that the Hindu nationalist party, the Jan Sangh, was a demon that pounced upon hapless people were they to be found alone in the fields. Sometimes Father and Ma would come to the city and watch movies at the Palladium cinema—old films with soulful Mukesh and Rafi songs. One of my mother’s favourites was a song from Awaara, where Nargis wished that the moon would turn its face away from them for a moment so that she could love Raj Kapoor. I often found her humming this song to herself at home.