The date and time was opportune. I was elated after entering my home, after 16 years of militancy, in Sirnoo village. The following day, Pulwama town nearby was in flames. It was June 13, Monday. A major car bomb blast in the main market killed 18 people, leaving 100 injured. In fact, the town was virtually converted into a burial ground. I was moving to and fro, on the same spot, almost at the same time, just 24 hours earlier.

A mere newspaper headline about the blast would have detracted my mind from going there. It would have been impossible. It is not as if I had never been to Kashmir all these years of turmoil. After every alternate year, I would dash off to Srinagar from Mumbai or Pune, where we have temporarily settled after migration. But I never ventured to go beyond the summer capital.

This time, I was mentally prepared to see my place of birth, whatever the consequences. I stayed in Srinagar and Pahalgam for a week, before assessing the ground situation. It looked peaceful. Peace negotiations between India and Pakistan had already set in. Pro-Pakistan Hurriyat Conference leaders, led by Mirwaiz-e-Kashmir, Umar Farooq, were in Pakistan for a fortnight, on their own ‘mission’, which coincided with my visit to Kashmir.

Hurriyat leaders remained engaged in issuing divergent statements--- sometimes pleading for the ‘united states of Kashmir’; asking India and Pakistan to ‘erase’ artificial lines, and at the same time blaming that ‘ Pakistan has no solution (for Kashmir) to offer’. May be, it was their ‘pleasure trip’ as their detractors have charged. JKLF leader Yaseen Malik did not lag behind. He ‘thanked’ Pakistan’s information minister Sheikh Rashid for supporting Kashmiri cause by imparting arms training to ‘our youth’ for jihad in Kashmir.

It was Saturday, June 11. The Sun was shining mildly. Specks of white cloud were hovering in the sky. I left for Pulwama by around 9.30 am. I was in a quandary when I did not come across Pampore bridge in time, as expected, till I reached Kakapora, where a new bridge has been constructed to cross Jhelum. I reached Pulwama by 11.30 am. I travelled in a local bus. It took me nearly two hours for a distance of 32 km, because of heavy traffic. Earlier, it would take just one hour. Pulwama is now a sprawling township. It has changed. It became district headquarters in 1980. Nearby villages have grown in size and shape. Some paddy fields have been converted into orchards. Small-scale industries have also come into existence.

As soon as I spotted an old red mosque, I told the conductor to stop. Many other passengers also alighted at the three-way junction. No one asked me where I was going. Sirnoo is half a km from Pulwama. When I was approaching my native place, I saw a slim woman coming from the opposite direction. As we came nearer, she recognised me. We hugged each other. She was my cousin, Chuni Devi. She is a social worker.

Chuni contested the recent Pulwama District Development Board elections as a nominee of the National Conference. For security reasons, her family members prevailed upon her to withdraw. She agreed reluctantly. She was under security cover during the few days she was out on campaigning. A number of candidates who were elected to the local bodies were killed by the militants.

Chuni Devi, and her husband, Shyam Lal, who is no more now, did not migrate like others. There are five- seven Hindu families still in Sirnoo. At one time, nearly 75 Hindu families used to live there. My uncle Pandit Anand Ram used to tell me that in ancient times, Hindus used to worship the Sun god on the banks of a rivulet, running in the midst of the village. There is a mention about it in Kalhana’s Rajtarangani. A grove of Chinar tree, where people used to take bath, is still extant. The chinars have grown hollow.

As I entered the village, very few people recognised me. Sixteen years is a big gap. Curiously enough, a young Kashmiri Hindu, lame and lunatic, nicknamed as ‘Posh luung’, was conspicuously absent on the roadside. On earlier occasions, one could always see him, smiling and playing pranks with others. He has grown old these years.

I saw my three-storeyed house from a distance. I found it intact, because some members of Chuni Devi family have been using it for the past few years. A Muslim family also stays there, to give them ‘company’. Soon after the migration, the house was looted and partly damaged. The main lane, leading to our house has been encroached upon.

I was thrilled to see a tall pine tree (yarikul) in our compound. It was planted by my mother a few years before she and my brother, along with his family, migrated to Jammu. The tree has made its own history. Such trees rarely grow at low altitudes in the valley. They are only seen in forests.

The tree inspired my filmmaker son Ajay Raina, for giving him the title for his award-winning documentary: “Tell them the Tree they had planted has now grown.” .The documentary won the Golden Counch; Best National Documentary Award, at the Mumbai International Film Festival 2002. It was telecast on Doordarshan several times.

I met Rahman, who used to cultivate our land for years. He was just like our family member. In fact, he is the ‘brain’ behind Ajay’s film title. When Ajay was shooting for his documentary in Sirnoo, Rahman was asked if he had any message for our people who had migrated. He promptly told him: “Tell them that the tree they had planted has grown now”.

There is a saying in Kashmir: “Vanchan yarein, khudaisun sug”. (Pine trees in a forest get divine water to grow). But surprisingly, our pine tree did not grow in a forest. It was god’s grace that it survived even in our absence.

While I was engrossed in conversation with Chuniji, vivid memories of my childhood came criss-crossing into my mind. I developed nostalgic feelings. I remembered my uncle, Pt Anand Ram, who was a great spiritualist. He was my friend and philosopher. I used to listen to him in rapt attention when he would give discourses on religious matters and recite from the Bhagwat Geeta. Periodically, he used to read Ramayana, both in Urdu and Kashmiri, besides other scriptures. I had to recite by rote first chapter of the Geeta every night before going to bed.

My uncle Tika Lal had the habit of speaking at good speed, evoking laughter, if what he meant to convey was not understandable. He would stealthily go to his friend’s place in the evening. It was difficult to trace him when dinner was ready. Anand Ram, as he was known popularly, would then call him hoarsely: “Haya Tikalala ho”. Simultaneously, a barber close by to our house would scream loudly and call his son: “Haya Akramo ho.” Within minutes my uncle would turn up. It is understandable.

I went to see Munganag. There is a spring, surrounded by a number of chinars, one of which has tumbled down. A policeman keeps guard over there. A Shiva lingam that existed earlier has been either removed or damaged. There was a dispute over the place of worship for years, which is still pending in a court.

Chuni Devi’s son, Kukuji (his pet name), is a teacher. He was posted in village Badipora (near Chrar-Magam) for 12 years. One wonders about his brave heart. He was a lone Hindu in that village, a centre of militancy. He told me that initially extremists had some malicious intentions about him, but after gauging his presence of mind, they did not harass him. There was some quid pro quo.

I went to the shrine of Dedamej, worshipped by Hindus and Muslims alike in our village. The shrine has been renovated. Funds were collected jointly by both communities. We used to celebrate annual urs at the shrine.

Home is where one lives permanently; free from outside attack. I was most contended to stay at home for a night at least. We can still go there and live permanently; far from the maddening crowd of Mumbai. But will peace prevail in Kashmir?

The author is a Pune based Kashmiri journalist. He visited his native village near Pulwama in J&K after 16 years.

Courtesy : Syndicate Features

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