PART ONE: ‘Escaping’ the Past : As I tune into the news night after night and listen to the heartbreaking news from the Kashmir valley, I am taken into my primary school geography class. 'Valley: a stretch of land surrounded by mountains.' For us Kashmiri Pandits the world outside the Banihall tunnel was alien, and whatever taste we had of it during the winter vacations was nothing compared to the cozy familiarity of the valley. I remember very vividly going to picnic spots and hearing echoes. For all little children this was the highlight of any outing - going to a secluded spot...and shouting one's name and waiting for the name to be echoed by the mountains once, twice, thrice sometimes. 

The news anchor jolts me back to here-and-now! So many dead, so many injured, protest, tears, blood, smoke, sighs! Sighs that echo in the valley. I remember my dear Rasool uncle talking animatedly about 'aah-e-badd'. His theory was that one has to repay all one's debts in this world. When you do good, good things happen. When you sow evil, you reap evil. Simple theory really!

When a Monster goes about hounding, killing and chasing nearly half a million people from their homes, what kind of ‘aah’ is generated? What kind of aah is generated when innocent blood drips from the sewing machine? Or when innocent blood seeps from the rice drum? Or when innocent blood lies 100 yards from home clutching a cricket bat? Or when innocent blood dries on the street as no one is allowed to pick up the body. Killed, because the monster accused you of being a mukhbir. Killed, because you were of the other faith. Killed, because Nizam-e-mustafa was being heralded. Killed, because aazaadi was just around the corner.

Spouse, children, parents with blank looks and forlorn eyes confused by the turn of events. Everyone suddenly feeling scared in their own world, untrusting of their own friends and neighbors. Clinging to dear life, casting one last longing look at the room where they had the last meal together. Tugging the lock as if it would protect all memories inside, including the blood stained kameez.

Sighs of those half a million people forced to gather their life and honor and flee in the cover of the night. Half a million eyes at the Banihall tunnel looking back, half a million sighs reverberating in the valley casting aah-e-badd on everything, everyone. Every old man who died of heat stroke, every child who was bitten by a snake, every woman who had to defecate and wash in the open, sent a deep sigh laced with aah-e-badd.

Millions, longing for the shade of a chinaar tree and drink from the yaarbal. Longing to hear the bells from a neighborhood temple, the social interactions, the stability of a roof and a job. Longing to marry off the daughter well, get son into a college, and get a government teaching job for the daughter-in-law. Longing to celebrate heyrath, kav punim, sahiban henz sattam, gaad batt, shraad and vohorvod. Longing in a 5X5 tent. Sighing, longing, tending to sick, mourning the dead, sending aah-e-badd.

Every sigh, every aah-e-badd travelled back to the valley, haunting those who were responsible for the exodus. The man who called him a mukhbir in the village mosque, the women who pointed to the rice drum where he was hiding, the boy who pasted a poster on the door, the girl who hid the pistol in her pheran. Aah-e-badd seeking its victims, chasing them till the end. You see there is a something about aah-e-badd that Rasool uncle told me. It comes and gets you – you may run but you can’t hide.

PART – TWO: Terrorists and ‘Aazadi’

Aah-e-badd seeks its victims, chasing them till the end. You see there is a something about aah-e-badd that Rasool uncle told me. It comes and gets you – you may run but you can’t hide. Sighs of half a million humanity find their way and echo about in the valley.

A terrorist is killed... aah-e-badd has struck. Discontented monster takes to streets to mourn the killing of the supposed 'martyr'. Discontented monster attacks the security forces who, while protecting themselves, retaliate and shoot some protesters. Security forces check village after village for hidden monsters and their ammunition. Being caught with AK47 in the pheran is not exactly legal, neither is shooting at security forces from inside the house. Youngsters are arrested, beaten and even exterminated. Innocent blood and desperate tears stain the streets. Wails of mothers and sisters reverberate in the valley. Parents, children, fiancé and friends shocked, clutching the blood stained kameez, deep sighs, and more aah-e-badd. 

Discontented monster is still not satisfied. It calls for more bandh and hartal ensuring that riots damage public property every Friday. Shopkeepers are not allowed to trade, boatsmen not allowed to ferry people, children not allowed to go to school, artists not allowed to perform, bureaucrats not allowed to officiate, police not allowed to protect. When hungry bellies sigh, the discontented monster claims that this is much bigger than a hungry belly and a dead son.

It's all in pursuit of an ideal world in which there will be more aazaadi. Aazaadi to do what, no one dares to ask. Hide your face and cover your head and be ready to sacrifice life of your sons and the honor of your daughters in this fight. Monster wants more people on the streets to protest. Monster tells 7 year old kids about hoors and how guns bring hoors closer. Little kids become monster's body shield. One little kid falls, another takes his place. Little kids fall, tears and blood staining the streets, hunger forgotten. Monster tells little girls that they have been abused by security forces even though tearful little girls know it was the monster.

Of course the discontented monster refuses to take any blame for the carnage. He preaches from the pulpits and from the Facebook that it's all fault of India. Monster gets acclaimed by Pakistan and by certain sections of media. Monster's roar drowns all voice of sanity when all and everything is linked to religion - hoors and jihad and sharia and haram. No one questions the monster anymore. Monster makes aazaadi all about religion and feeds on flesh of young gullible boys and girls. 

Like a cancer that spreads and slowly eats up the internal organs, the monster continues hollowing values, dissing logic, ignoring bloodshed, all the time while blaming India for it. : If India had let the monster do what it wanted i.e. aazaadi, all this wouldn't have happened. To get aazaadi from India one must fight everything that stands for India. Office buildings, buses, temples, police, schools, universities, flags, any development plan. For aazaadi fresh, young, innocent blood has to be shed. Mothers’ eyes should never dry, fathers should dig the graves of their sons.”

The broken mother clutching the blood stained kameez thinks back about a world that was 26 years ago and wonders what was not so aazaad about that. Clasping her heart she lets out a deep sigh, an aah-e-badd reverberating through the high mountains of the valley.

PART THREE: The future of Kashmir

The broken mother clutching the blood stained kameez thinks back about a world that was 26 years ago and wonders what was not so aazaad about that. Clasping her heart she lets out a deep sigh, an aah-e-badd reverberating through the high mountains of the valley. You see there is a something about aah-e-badd that Rasool uncle told me. It comes and gets you – you may run but you can’t hide.

They say that flutter of a butterfly can cause a tornado half way across the world.

What happens to the sighs of half a million people who were hounded out from their homes at gun point? Does that cause earthquakes and floods? What happens to the collective wails of the mothers whose sons get shot by militants? Does it snatch away sons of other mothers? What happens to the broken bangles of wives who send their husbands in uniform and receive them back in the tricolor? Does it shatter the dreams of the young girl whose fiancé has been picked up by the police months ago but not released?

What happens to the tears of those children who push their fathers in wheelchairs as their limbs were blown up by rockets and hand grenades? Does it kill, hurt or disfigure other little children? What happens to the blood on the hands of a father who picks up his daughters’ sawn body parts? Do these turn into tears of the father whose young girl carries the shame of having been raped/molested?

Having planted only violence, hatred and distrust how can anyone expect that the valley of Kashmir will ever reap peace and stability? Any attempt to initiate political dialogue is sabotaged. Any attempt to focus on employment, education and development is thwarted. While valleyites travel all around the country and trade, live and study; Kashmiri Hindus the original inhabitants of the valley are denied their basic right of living and working in the land of their ancestors. If it is not Pakistan instigating war in Kargil, it is the locals disrupting the Amarnath yatra and the Kausar Naag pilgrimage.

Massacres like Wandhama and Nadimarg are still raw in people’s memories.  Those who are not throwing stones are harboring armed mercenaries. Those who are not sending their sons on the militant path are preaching violence from TV studios and masjids. If only resentment, blood, tears and sighs are being harbored, is it possible that happiness and prosperity will ever make a comeback in the valley? If the discontented monster is adamant on sucking the life blood and rest are following like zombies; where will the hope of a fresh start emerge from? The valley is burning and the flames are being fanned by aah-e-badd.  If everyone is only stoking the fire, what is the hope that the flames will ever be doused?

Like a swarm of locusts that destroy everything in their path, the militancy in the valley is annihilating life, property and sanity of its inhabitants. Like a swarm of locusts when all is finished it will turn on itself and obliterate its own kind. The paradise on earth will become the vortex of hell. Hatred can only beget abhorrence, stones can only beget pellets, and guns can only beget bullets.  For peace to prevail, peace needs to be given a chance. Otherwise, like the self-fulfilling slogan of ‘mar ke lenge aazaadi’ the only aazaadi would be in death. The only thing that will survive will be the aah-e-badd reverberating in the high mountains.