I remember breathing in the crisp air, the blushed face I saw in the mirror every day, I remember
the kind flower lady on the Dal who let me have a whole three extra flowers than what we paid
for, and I remember the wonder and nervousness that coursed through my body as I sat by the sides
of the Lidder river and listened to my grandmother narrate stories of how only those children who
would not run off here and there and be ‘good’, would be blessed if they threw a coin into it.
But most vividly, I remember careening down the slopes of Baisaran as my friends yelled ‘ice’ and
‘water.’ And for the longest time, I preserved these moments- too cherished, and too distant to ever
feel touched by grief.
Until now.
As I sit here, trying to make sense of the images, headlines, and eyewitness accounts emerging
from Kashmir- Pahalgam, of all places-I feel gutted.
There were Kaluchak, Pampore, Uri, Pulwama, Reasi-names I had tucked away in some far-off
corner of the mind. I, like most, chose not to imagine. Because imagining meant fearing for every
friend, soldier, or stranger you’d once met who called the Valley home.
But now that there is no need for imagination, now that Pahalgam is as fresh in memory as snow
on a January morning, what does one do?
Pahalgam is no longer just a word soaked in nostalgia. The death toll at this hour is 28- including
2 foreign nationals and a newly-married naval officer. Shot, in front of their families, because they
were Hindu. And that sentence alone feels like a rupture. One that we thought we had healed from
after Mumbai. After Pulwama. After so many others.
It feels like 26/11 has returned, but this time it came for our holidays, our memories.
And yet, in my heart, something reminds me, that this hatred has no religion. It never did. It is a
bastard child of the politics of division, fostered first by invading powers, then empires, and now,
by something even worse-disillusioned minds with weapons and no remorse. We have been
divided for centuries-by race, by caste, by scripture. But what has bled through these divisions is
always the same- it is always the children, the students, the bystanders, the unarmed.
I used to read only one genre with real intent- terrorism. Out of fear for our safety while we lived
in remote cantonments and stretches in the region. Out of needing to understand why we had to
undergo emergency drills at my school after Peshawar. And as a result, I still scan for hiding places
at every new residence.
And it all makes sense now. Far too much.
Because it could have been you.
It could have been me.
It could have been us.
We often pray for peace in Kashmir like it’s some distant fantasy. But how does one pray when the
snow has turned into a shroud?
Maybe this article, these words, are my prayer.
A prayer for the flower lady who gave me three extra blooms.
A prayer for the officer who never made it home.
A prayer for the bus driver who just wanted to keep his passengers safe.
A prayer for those who died in Kaluchak, Pampore, Uri, Pulwama, Reasi, and Pahalgam—not just
in the attacks, but in their prevention, their aftermath, their echoes.
A prayer for those who live with fear tucked into their coat pockets, right beside their faith.
May we never become used to this.
May we never stop grieving.
May we remember, even when it hurts.
Because the moment we stop remembering,
Is the moment we stop belonging.
-This article has been written by Anushka (3rd Year).
