Escape from Kashmir: 2016

 

In the summer of 2016, I found myself stationed in Anantnag as an engineer, living and working in a district soaked in centuries of history yet shadowed by contemporary chaos Along with my Muslim colleagues, we led regimented lives-like birds in gilded cages under the omnipresent specter of militant attacks. The work wasn't much to write home about our 9-to-4 jobs were more a symbolic presence than a profesional engagement. It was. after all, the quintessential Kashmiri Pandit dream: a government job with steady pay, as it security could be bought in a land where even time seems uncertain. But security, much like the peace in Kashmir, was an illusion-thin as mist and just as fleeting We lived in isolated, "safe' enclaves, separated from the rest of the valley by walls of fear, suspicion, and barbed wire. For the first time, we felt how freedom had slipped through our fingers, like sand in a broken hourglass. Gone were the carefree strolls of Jammu; here, every outing felt like a calculated risk in a game of Russian roulette. Life plodded on uneventfully, until the day the valley ignited like dry tinder set ablaze. A young militant commander, Burhan Wani, had been gunned down by security forces in Kokernag, not far from where we lived. The news crackled through the air like an electric jolt, delivered by a friend from Kokernag who warned me to brace for the storm. Burhan was no ordinary militant; he was a digital-age warrior, a social media sensation with Facebook videos and a cult following. His death wasn't just a bullet in the chest-it was a spark thrown into a barrel of resentment. The political backdrop was equally combustible. The uneasy coalition between PDP and BJP had already left locals simmering with anger, and Burhan's killing was the catalyst that turned simmer into boil. Protenes erpted with the ferocity of a dam bunting, woring ac South Kashmir and beyond. Stone pelters armed with rocks and rage, took to the sthe breaking windshields, blocking mads with inp and turning the valley into a dystopian battlefield Inside our rented homes and transit camps the anxiety was palpable. Blood pressures meet sugar levels spiked, and the old trauma of the 1990s came rashing back, like a nightmare we thought we'd left behind. It was deja v wrapped in barbed wire and tear gas. One afternoon, as I stepped into the bathroom, the ground beneath me shuddered violently. I rushed out, dripping and wrapped in a towel, to find my father's face dark with worry "Such a powerful blast," he said, rubbing his ears as d trying to chase away the ringing. "In this place, you never know when your number's up" "Do you think wie can make it to Jammu?" he asked. Before I could answer, sirens wailed in the distance, and a voice crackled over the speakers announcing a red alert. The army had taken charge, and terror hung in the air like umoke from an unseen fire. I called the local police station, hoping for a shred of reassurance "Jenab," came the weary voice on the other end, "the situation is grim. Boys are dying, protests are spreading, and roads ane blincked It doesn't seem likely you'll make it to Jam anytime soon" That night, desperation drove us to glamour escape. I contacted several taxi drivers begging them to take us to Jammu. Most flatly refused, unwilling to risk their lives for a few thousand rupees. Finally, one driver-a Sardari-agreed but at a potice "Fiche thund rupees be sand, as casually as if he were quoting the prior of a wedding least Fifteen thousand That's robbery protested. "The usual tape be four thousand Pandit be replied with a shrug I could almost heat, "in times like these lite is the real omrency Reluctantly, we apnsed. But before we could Simalize the plan, the government snapped private telecom cumction, rendering our phones weless. It was someone had cut the last thread connection is to the outside world. As protests raged outside, with slogans filling the air and sheds of glass littering the sberts we waited, lese and samt. The news channels were full of angry debates, each voice louder and shriller than the last, but none oblering any comfort. The valley was a pressure cooker and we were trapped inside. Just when hope seemed lost, a friend of my father's-a fellow Sardarji-vated us. "I know the drivet," he said. "Till go to his house and bring him here myself. It felt like a lifeline towwed to a drowning man Late that night, the Sardarji driver arrived tall and sort-spoken, with a king beard and a calm demeanor that belied the danger of the journey ahead. "Panditji, we are brothers, he said with a gentle smile, and for the first time in days, 1 vita flicker of hope We põrd into the Tavera, our bags and fears 1 crammed into the backseat, Istead of taking the main road, he navigated narrow twisting lanes, eveling army checkpoints and probest hotspees The night was pitch dark, but his confiderice lit the way As we neared Qarigund, the gateway to the Jawahar Tunnel, our tense silence gave way to cautious optimism. When we finally crossed the tunnel and saw the sign that read "Jammu 180 KM a collective sigh of relief tilled the car. We were free We reached Jammu at dawn, exhausted but alive. As we handed the driver his lare, we debated whether to thank him or lodge a complaint against his exorbitant rates. But in the end, gratitude son out. "Panditji," he said, his voice warm with sincerity, we are brothers." Back in Jammu, the protests continued, with PM package employees demanding safety and justice. But for us, the nightmare was over-at least for now. In Kashmir, peace is a tragile thing, as fleeting as a whisper in the wind. And as I lay down to rest that moming, I couldn't help but wonder how many more escapes would it take before we could truly call any place home?

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Courtesy : Vinod Tikoo and Koshur Samachar-2025 , March