With my father on way to Amarnath Cave before exodus
Snippets of My exodus Story…How it robbed me of my home and childhood - Part 1
I remember the day when my Dad handed me a wooden ice axe and said, "You are stronger than what will happen here. "
As militants came marching towards our home in Habbakadal, Kashmir, I stood motionless, frozen in fear holding that wooden ice axe with tears rolling down my eyes.
I looked at my parents, wondering if we would survive another day, little knowing what death meant. I was a child who should have been holding hope and smiles in my heart and not frigid fear. As we stood huddled close to each other fearing the unknown, the footsteps stopped near our doorstep. I vividly remember the mob retreating from our doorstep. They retreated as the roaring echo of "kill pandit men and rape pandit women" slowly faded away.
Was it the grace of Shiva or a fervent prayer of a trembling girl? I would never know…
Down the years, the same ice axe became a symbol of my strength and defiance. The same ice axe took me to Amarnath Cave as a child and shaped my life as a mountaineer later in life. The wooden ice axe has now turned to cold steel and my will is wooden now. My father is no longer around but the power of the grit that he passed onto me lingers on.
Me climbing Kolahoi peak in Kashmir
I didn't let the exodus make me bitter but the world around made sure I only saw apathy, indifference, callousness and false narrative. In my student years, I went back to Kashmir to pursue MBBS. A part of me also yearned to connect with my home and roots and to understand why it all happened. During my stay there, all I would hear was that the then Governor, Jagmohan (and not militants) was responsible for driving Kashmiri Pandits out of the valley. Rather than being inquired about my life, I would get questions in my face whether we have sold our house and why did we run away. The smirk on their faces could not be missed.
There was a time when I would get worked up and retaliate but I have realized we can never change the consciousness of people with aggression and hate. The people believe what they have been fed and brainwashed into believing. I reckon that sensitivity is an asset you are born with.
I wonder where does this deep level of insensitivity spring from? Perhaps I would never know...
My pain and suffering have only made me more aware of what it means to see your house burned to ashes and for an entire community threatened. In the midst of all this, some Kashmiri Muslims defied the frozen apathy and made me believe in the goodness and kindness of humanity.
Our home in Habbakadal. Me posing with Papa
Whether it was my dad's friend, Ghulam Hassan Mir uncle or my Anatomy Professor, Mudassir Sir who would recite Bhagwat Gita shlokas to many friends who loved me unconditionally. My heart is filled with warmth for strangers who have come forward and said sorry to me for what happened. I know it's their heartfelt expression.My brother Adil with whom I shared my life stories and plans of climbing together before God snatched him from us and would too deep to heal.
My Kashmiri Muslim Sister
My dad told me an anecdote where he spotted a militant with a gun who had come to kill a Kashmiri Pandit. But upon seeing Dad, he lowered his gun and walked away as he remembered Dad and him used to play Cricket together a few years ago. Dad spared no words as he asked him to get out of there. This story made me realize that Cricket bats are mightier than guns!
There was a time when I could no longer hold back and went back to Hababkadal to see the ruins of my burned house with my father. The faint glimmer of hope was met with jeers from locals. I was glad that my pain was so deafening that the jeers merely ricocheted away.
These days, I see pictures of Kashmir and the social media influencers posing as brand ambassadors with their cosy pherans and snow walks in slow motion. I wonder at the random people talking about the Kashmir issue and katlams and kehwa and it all takes me back down the memory lane where I, as a young girl had planted a seed of French Bean before we were forced to leave our homes.
A home that once echoed with the sounds of laughter and carefree banter, now laid burned to the ground. As the land grabbers slowly encroached and my mulberry tree dried up yet stood tall as a spectator to the fury around it, I could feel my face flush with incessant tears rolling down my eyes and cooled the scorched home of mine.
Even though houses of so many people were burnt, the memories remain as fresh as ever, untouched by the flames of hate and extremism. Even as people scampered to gather their belongings, my heroic dad managed to get most of his books and a few documents. I remember people asking my dad, "why did you save these books and not jewellery and clothes?" He said that books were the only treasure worth keeping.
Mir uncle poignantly reminisces the time when together they went to see our house after it was burned down.
"As he stood amidst a somber pile of torn books at the entrance, he said that Home is where the heart lives. And my heart lives in these four damaged walls. I don't lament as much for the house as I do for my library. It pains me beyond words to rue the loss of a hand-written 300 year old holy Quran that once graced this library."
Why still killing of militants calls for protests and killing of unarmed Kashmiri pandits is work of Unknown forces and life goes on Kashmir.
I believe that hatred is an easy path to take but it's no surprise that no flowers will ever bloom there. I hope someday I can go back to the place I call my home.
Dark and lonely night,
When I felt alone,
Fear held me by hand,
And I felt less alone
Death came in cloak of friend,
And yet again I was deceived
Life in fear she felt
Was much worse than death….
Kolahoi peak
There are times when I feel I am back home again. My dad is with me and we are climbing our beloved hills together. The reason for writing this article is not to condone the suffering of others but to narrate how the exodus and the violence and the unforgiving living conditions affected a young Kashmiri Pandit girl. I have neither political commentaries to make nor is there any space for jingoism or hatred in my heart.
Sometimes, I take a pause and look back. From the eyes of a child that were once full of wonder and later turned to despair and agony of losing her home. Or perhaps the entire childhood. I wonder how the world went on and on while we went down and down.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Jan 19, 2022
32nd year of Exodus and counting
Story of Kashmiri Pandits Exodus from the Kashmir Valley as a result of systematic Islamic Terrorism in 1990
Rajender Koul
AVTAR KRISHEN JI
One more fiction ,close to a matching real story written as a rich message giving yet emotionally charged and an interesting piece layered in a prose, focusing deeply only on Avtar Krishen’s ” bond with nature,
his life’s journey, and the legacy he left behind.
The narrative tone is poetic and reflective, echoing Avtar’s inner world and connection with the valley he loved.
Speaking from The Silent Heartbeat of the Valley…
A Life Remembered a thousand times.
In the heart of Habba Kadal, Srinagar ,kmr beside the gentle whisper of the Jhelum and under the fading shadow of an old chinar tree, stood a wooden house fragile yet standing, like the dreams it sheltered.
There, amidst peeling paint and creaking floors, lived Avtar Krishen, a young boy with searching eyes and a soul tethered not to wealth, but to the earth, the sky,
and the unseen poetry between them.
His father, Radha Krishen, was a retired schoolteacher, a man of few words and fewer luxuries.
His mother, Kishni , kept the home warm with her quiet devotion, feeding the family on her husband’s meagre pension and the strength of her prayers.
They lived simply, but not without dignity. Their greatest hope rested in Avtar their only son , whom they called Avtar Ji.
Avtar Ji was no scholar by conventional measure. When his B.A. results from S.P. College arrived, he had only just passed.
There was no applause, no garlands, only the soft sigh of a father whose dreams dimmed behind tired eyes.
Radha Krishen had hoped his son would bring home the security of a government job.
But fifty percent marks stood as a cruel threshold Avtar Ji could not cross.
And yet, Avtar was not broken……………
He would mind his own business only.
Going to the mountains and hiking was his passion from early childhood.
His connection with hiking provided a way to immerse his ‘self ‘ in the natural world and experience its beauty and benefits.
Hiking allowed individual like him to connect with nature, appreciate its landscapes and wildlife, and experience
a sense of peace and well-being.
The activity offered him both physical and mental health benefits, making it a popular choice for him seeking an active and enriching outdoor experience.
He had something far rarer a mind that wandered freely and a heart that beat in rhythm with nature.
While others prepared for exams, Avtar Ji found solace in old novels, history books, the day’s newspaper, and most of all, in the long silences of Kashmir’s hills.
From childhood, he would disappear for hours into meadows, return with nature gloss wildflowers in his hands and verses on his lips.
He had developed a poetic taste in his habits and very often would narrate big stories of the past , about Kashmir Himalayas .
He almost started behaving like an ambassdor of the nature closely watched by the highest degree of patience and understanding.
He felt the trees breathing, and often said the mountains spoke to him if one sat still long enough.
One day at Lal Chowk, his friend Ashok, full of fire and ambition, asked, “Why don’t you sit for the JKAS exam?
You speak like a teacher and think like a poet. That’s what the valley needs.”
Avtar chuckled. “I barely passed college.”
Ashok smiled, “Marks aren’t everything. Sometimes, the heart writes the answers.”
That night, with the wind rustling through the Chinar trees, Avtar stared at the starlit ceiling of his room.
Something stirred. And one fine morning, with hope he hadn’t known he possessed, he sat for the exam.
Weeks passed as routine in his life.Busy with his books and magazines lying in hundreds in number , in his library at home in his small L shaped room, he would find peace all the times in the world.
Then, one evening, as dusk painted the sky in violet hues, a knock on the door changed everything.
Ashok stood there, breathless and gleaming.
He hugged Avtar tightly and whispered, “You’ve done it. You’re in.” You are one of the successful candidates who has cleared the Jk civil services exam.
The old house shook with joy. His father
Radha Krishen, silent at first, later wept.
He kept touching his son’s shoulders
as if confirming this wasn’t a dream.
Avtar Krishen had cleared the JKAS exam. He was appointed as Under Secretary, Revenue Department, Kupwara.
Soon after, he married Naina, a graceful, insightful lecturer from Bana mohalla .
She shared his love for books, for silence, for depth.
With her, Avtar didn’t have to explain his pauses or his wanderings. She understood the unspoken parts of him.
As the years passed, Avtar rose in service. His sincerity was rare. His decisions were quiet but firm.
And yet, he never let bureaucracy dull
the poet within him. As Assistant Director, Tourism Department, he rediscovered the valley not from files and reports but with
his feet.
He walked the unseen paths—trekking through Gangabal , Harmukh, Dachigam,Sonamarg, Ladakh, Pahalgam High altitudes of Gulmarg, Khilanmarg and Kounsernag etc and into the soul of Himachal through Leh Manali.
He often traveled alone, carrying his Nepal brought , backpack Haversack, a book, journal, and flask of some soft drink, , and his eternal curiosity. “The mountains,” he once said, “are not places to conquer.
They are places to listen.”
Every journey he undertook, every shepherd he met, every nameless stream he drank from, he wove into his lines in the journal.
Years later, those pages became his book.
The book titled came in ….
My Kashmir Travel and Tour…….
A journey Beyond the Beauties” by Avtar.
It wasn’t a travel guide. It was a love letter to Kashmir to its trees and clouds, to its forgotten villages, to its aching wounds and quiet joys.
When the book was published by some top publishing Group, with ten thousand copies, Avtar was no longer just an officer.
He had become Kashmir’s wandering soul in words.
Then the Seasons of Life Changed …….
Avtar and Naina were blessed with two children.
Their daughter Aarushi, curious and fearless, chased her father’s dreams into science.
She eventually joined an Antarctic mission, her boots walking over ice
caps her father only read about.
Their son, Arun, soft-spoken and wise, became a renowned doctor at AIIMS Delhi, healing hearts while nursing the ache of losing his father’s.
After Avtar’s sudden demise, Naina found a new calling.
She started an NGO for the destitute and forgotten, helping abandoned elders, widows, and orphans.
People whispered her name in reverence. She had turned her grief into purpose.
Her educated peace with silent mind reminding again ‘The Last Lecture’ of her beloved husband ,
Avtar’s final day had come without any warning.
He had been invited to IIMPA Delhi, to deliver a lecture to MBA graduates on “Tourism and Soul of a Nation.” Standing before the young minds.
He spoke with rare fervor not of GDPs and data — but of kasmir beauty ,Kokernag’s silence, Lolab’s scent, and the golden rare longing breath of Sonmarg in autumn.
The unending breath breeze on the banks of lether waters in Pahalgam.
Then, in mid-sentence, he paused. His hand trembled.
And before the crowd could rise, his heart gave way.
The man who loved nature, returned to it gently, suddenly, completely.
The Memory that Lingers…….
His loss was devastating — for his wife, for his children, for the valley. But his life did not end. It became a flame.
Today, in schools, libraries, old wooden homes across the valley, his book is read aloud. His words echo with the wind.
Let Kashmir not be measured only in snowfall or conflict,
but in the heartbeats it has sheltered,
in the footsteps that left no wounds,
and in the silence that speaks of love.
We remember , Avtar Krishen not only because he served, but because he listened to the call of the wild, the cry of the forgotten, the hush between the leaves.
He taught us that life is not about being loud. It’s about being true.
And when you next walk a trail in the mountains, pause. You might hear his
voice in the breeze, whispering,
“Love your land. Walk lightly. And leave a trail of stories behind.”
Jai Bhagwan Ji,
Bhakta,
Rajender Koul.
Rajender Koul
Dr Sahab Namaskar Ji,
Hope you are doing well. I knew your father Sh A K Raina( Avtar Ji) whom we all friends called him by name (Maam) means maternal uncle. I was about ten years younger to him in the group of Satish razdan ,Billu, Pushapji, Kukilois bros, Papu Bitu . I have visited habbakadal house several times, his huge collection of books, in that small room in ist floor, would enjoy kehwa etc many times prep. By your Mother and some times your granma. The time we have spent with Avtar Ji we can’t forget lifetime at least not in this Janam. I know mona, sheetu as a three four year child. But I have all these years thought Avtar Ji was proud of you both the day you both were born to do the great things in life. I really appreciate whatever you are doing but through you I and all of us feel proud for your commitments to nature like your father who taught us the art of trekking, mounten aring and how to be close to nature. We all miss him but we know he is now a more than a proud father of his proud daughters. My respectful namaskar to your mother who knows me by my nick name Bitu Ji, Billuji Razdans friend of nai sadak. Many many happy years ahead and long happy healthy life for you and your family.
Rajender Koul
Bittu Ji
Nai sadak , srinagar ,presently at talab tilloo Jammu
I hv written a fictional type resembling story Abt Dear Avtar Ji, not every thing matches in that but the crux of his personality I hv tried to write other things I hv changed to make it a little different. Jai Bhagwan Ji .
Sanjiv Patki
Dear Doc,
Remembered a story of my Colleague who had gone through similar incident. She saw her uncle’s family slautered in front of her eyes. She along with her family had to flee minus her father who was again burned in front of her.
She has now grown up and achieved a very senior position with a software giant. But the pain, hurt and the loss of belonging still haunts her.
I salute you and countless others who faced this situation so bravely and have become successful inspite of all the odds.
Prabhat Jha
I have been in Kashmir valley for 2 years during 2003-05. I could visualize the narrative of your memoir though it’s quite impossible to feel the pains and sufferings faced by those Kashmiri pandits who were robbed off their homes. Your words are powerful and since every word depicts truth and harsh realities, these have a huge impact on the mind of the readers. Read it with teary eyes.
DV
Thanks for sharing your story. So proud of what you’ve become and how you’ve managed to keep hatred at bay. Beautiful write-up. I hope your wish to visit your home comes true. Keep writing and sharing your experiences.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you 🙂
Mehraj Din
Heart touching write up.God bless you.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you 🙏
Romesh Dulloo
After going through your story of pain, I could make out the strength our young generation gathered, despite all odds and reached toa level for which our community is world renowned. Our young generation will prove they are unique with positive approach and love for all. Love will win one day may be we will not see it, but I am of fir.m belief it will definitely win. God bless ❤️
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts and I hope love will take us home one day🙏
daleep k kaul
Thank you young lady, for your wonderful
Rendition of pain and sufferings of our forced Exodus from Our motherland the Kashmir.
Nice attempt :
Woods are lovely dark and deep but I have promises to keep . Miles to go before I sleep , miles to go before I sleep… 🙏
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading 🙏
S K Munshi
Varuna ji, Every word has depicted fear you faced and emergence of strength and grit as a result.Wjat you expressed is similar to many of similar experiences faced by the community.Stay blessed and remain active to keep the flame of community cause alight.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading and till I am alive and throbbing that flame won’t extinguish 🙏
Motilal Kitroo.
Amazing write up. Your courage and warmth in the heart for everyone is really noteworthy. You have miles to go. Stay blessed.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading and warm wishes 🙏
Kripa
Heart Wrenching……My Heart Salute to this brave Girl who is standing strong like a Mountain. May “God” always take care of you…..💐💐💐
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading 🙏
Rudra Raina
Tears rolled down my eyes as I read through.. Only those who have been through this pain understand what it means to survive loss of identity and motherland. Kudos to you for such powerful expression, and thank you for drawing more eyes to this subject. Always remember you in my thoughts n blessings.
Your little sister..
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you Shafu.That fight for chair will continue in our imaginary homes 🙂
Vishal Jala
Koshur baata is almost at the brink of illusion now, may be we generation will bury it with us and be cremated till the last wood has not turned into a soot. Though a lots of us are doing the best they can but an act differs from reality. DODO’s too could not be made to relive again.Thanks is the last word i can contribute to all fellows for being born as a BAATA.
I too have high hopes and hands full of an illusions of going back to the future unfortunately this is not REEL life but REAL life so to pacify myself write a line or few and read them again and again to have the feel of my home land – my home:
KHAWB VICHAE PUURO GAZHAN
AES VASAN VETHYE TE YAARBALAN
BAEY KOHAN TE SAARAN
TAAR DIVAN
AASI SHUI SHAMBU
SOI MAAJE MEIN
NAAD DIVAN
VILIVO PAKOW IKWATE
BNJEE TE BOBUJEE
HALDAR TE BALDHR
TINKU MINKU SWEETY TE PINKY TYE
SYEET PAKAN
BHE KUS CHE KUS VANSAY BEYI KUS
HAA SAREY SYEET GYAVAN
TAS MAAJI TEMSI SHANKARAS
LOOL BARAN
I STILL DREAM THE MAER (WATER BODY) NEXT TO MY HOME AND WE PERFORMING ALL FESTIVAL RITUALS AND OFFERINGS ON ITS BANKS, THE VISITS TO TULMUL ON ASHTAMIS, THE SHANKRACHARYA ON SUNDAYS, THE HARI PARBAT MANDIR AND NOT TO FORGET THE BADAM FLY, THE KADA PRASAD AT THE GURUDWARA AT THE FOOT HILLS OF PARBHAT. WHAT TO REMEMBER AND WHAT NOT TO RECALL
Dr. Varuna Raina
Poignant lines and I don’t know if going back home is an illusion but in a world where Karma is , I hope we someday can go back home.
Thanks for reading 🙏
Dr.sushil wattal jammu
My dear little kp girl
Proud of you , This is not an article written ,this is the inner voice of a representative of a 5000 year old civilisation wiped out of seat of learning called Kashmir.
You belong to culture of tolerance, acceptance, literature, worshipers of mountains rivers trees and what not, naturalism and overall co existence. These lines are the crying souls of thousands and thousands of peace loving people of kyashp boomi . Nature has lost its glory in Kashmir. Those who did it are on cross roads to find answer, but in vain . Two generations lost but the remembrances remain . Bright sun is to glow on horizon of Kashmir again as land us SEDH PEETH, the forces inimical to nature are to vanish. Hub of spirituality is to vibrate again.
Love you for your feelings.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you so much Pumjee for reading.
Your words like poetry took me to the dream Kashmir once was and hope that one day we can go back to what it was 🙏
Babjee will make it happen one day I know that.
Sayonee
A poignant account from an inspiring girl! Wish you more healing, strength and love <3
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading 🙏
Puneet Arora
Hi Varuna, Awesome Mountain girl, you are amazing, and I won’t call it a good read, as it’s more than that, stay strong, take care.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading 🙏
Rajinder Kaul
Dr sahiba
Touched by your brave story, infact every family has his tale of sufferings, Wounds Given to our community are not able to heal.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading.
Wounds don’t heal but let’s try they don’t make us bitter 🙏
Nalin Chakoo
A splendid read and a real tour de force of your grit. Your journey proves that altruistic behaviour has the power to shape our being and, consequently, our destiny.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thanks Nalin.
Good to hear from you after so long🙏
Zafar
Had to read it more than once.
Ye dastaan kabhi kalam kabhi kafas me rahi..
Band saanso me kabhi toot-ti nafas me rahi..
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you…
Rakshith
So Proud of you Varuna
More power to you.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading 🙏
BS Dabral
Such a touching story which is coming straight from the heart. I have only heard about the incidents in Kashmir and with Kashmiri pandits but your words brought tears in my eyes. All the very best to you to follow the footsteps of your Dad. Namaste 🙏
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading 🙏
Vinod Agrawal
Really very bravely described, the horror of these brutalities.
Great description.
Let humanity take note of it, find a solution for those innocent people of Kashmir.
Pray God for Restoring Peace.
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading 🙏
Dr. P.K Koul
Dr Raina
I remember the time as we all do. How can we forget it. Your tale brings back those days of horror Alive. God bless. Maek Daya kare sareni
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you for reading.May Mata bless us all 🙏
Poulomi Chatterjee
It brought tears in my eyes!! More strength to you!!
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you 😊
Sarandha
Very very powerful
Dr. Varuna Raina
Thank you ☺️