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Meera Bhat consulted me for poor appetite, disturbed sleep, suffocation and bouts of palpitation that had started soon after she took up a teaching assignment in Kashmir. Anxiety was writ large on her face and in her demeanour. Notwithstanding, she proved to be a good communicator and readily answered my questions. Meera is twenty five. She was six when her parents fled their Habba Kadal home in Kashmir. Islamic militants had given them a 24-hr notice to leave or face death. On the freezing morning of 25 January 1990, her father dumped the few clothes he could get hold of into a suitcase and picked Meera on his shoulders, while his wife grabbed the arm of son Ashutosh. The family walked out of their home to catch the first taxi passing by. They drove to Jammu and landed in a serai in the outskirts of the city where they stayed for three months, moving into a stable for three years and, finally, to the Mishriwalla Migrant Camp set up by the government for thousands of Kashmiri refugees like them. Eighteen years after the mass exodus of the Kashmiri Pandits, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh announced a package for their rehabilitation. Among other sops, the half-baked package included 6000 jobs for their youth, to be funded and financed by the Central Government. By that time, Meera had completed her MA in English and taken up a contractual job with BSNL for five thousand a month. It took the exiled community three years, numerous appeals and memoranda, and umpteen meetings with mandarins, ministers and politicians, before the State Government of J&K opened the prime minister’s package and created the first batch of 1500 jobs for the unemployed youth. Several stringent preconditions, all contrary to the existing rules and regulations for state employees, were attached to the jobs, not the least that the recruits would be posted only in their home districts from where they had been driven out two decades earlier, that they would not seek transfer anywhere else, that they would not leave the station without prior permission, that they would not be entitled to any superannuation on retirement -- in short, they would work there, live there, and die there. There were no guarantees of safety and security for them, and most of them were asked to make their own arrangements for lodgings until such time as the administration would provide them with living space. After much debate in the family Meera Bhat gave up her job with BSNL at Jammu in favour of the government job at Srinagar. She had been selected as a teacher in a Government High School at Budgam. She had hazy memories of her childhood in Kashmir but the images she had formed of the place from various accounts as she grew up in exile were quite forbidding. It was with a mixed feeling that, accompanied by her parents, she took the bus to Srinagar. The family stayed in a rented room until she completed the tortuous official formalities. When they left, Meera’s father had parting words for her: “Daughter, it is an odd twist of fate that we had to hire a room when could have lived in our own little house in Habbakadal where you were born. But it was vandalized soon after we fled and, I hear, it is in shambles. I have no heart to visit it now. Let us leave that to a later date once you settle down here. Meanwhile, I would like you to remember that you are now an ambassador of your community in your own homeland from where we were driven out. So are all the other fresh Pandit recruits. It should be your endeavour to focus on your job and give your best to the students. You should try to be friendly with everyone, and avoid engaging in debates or discussions on politics, religion, militancy and related topics. That would be the best way to generate a feeling of goodwill and help re-establish the old fraternal ties between the two estranged communities.” “Father, you are asking the victim to placate the criminal?” Meera could not resist asking. “It is time to revive the spirit of Kashmiriyat if we want to return to our homeland. The onus has always been on us to keep it alive. It is not going to be easy for you to live in the changed milieu of Kashmir, not easy with the conditions akin to bonded labour that are attached to your job. But you have to give it your best shot.” Meera -- pretty, pink faced and rotund -- created a stir in the school in the very first week with her attractive demeanour, outgoing ways, and penchant for teaching of which she was unaware till she took up the job. She was assigned the students of eleventh and twelfth grades. She insisted on punctuality, never missed a class, and always came well prepared. For the students, she was a breath of fresh air; she enforced discipline, encouraged questions, and assigned homework that demanded their wholehearted participation. But life was not easy for the new recruits in Kashmir. Meera was allotted a room she had to share with another recruit, in the residential complex at Sheikhpura few kilometres away from her school. There was barely enough space to stretch her limbs, let alone inviting any of her own visiting kin even for a single night. Besides a Sikh female colleague, Meera was the only Pandit amongst the staff of fifteen. There was not a single Pandit student in the school. The day at school started with an Islamic prayer, the dress code, the academic calendar and the whole ambience was Islamic. Sometimes she wondered if she was on an alien planet where the customs, rituals, mannerisms, conversational nuances, greetings, colloquialisms, jokes and invocations, were all different from hers. There was nothing common with these people except that she looked like them and spoke Kashmiri, that too with an accent. She found raised eyebrows when she went about with her head bare during the initial days, so she decided to wear a scarf to cover her head, besides the traditional shirt and shalwar. Over a period of weeks and months, in an attempt to communicate with her students and colleagues in their vernacular and style, she unknowingly acquired some of their mannerisms, body language and lingo. Even as she found her colleagues generally friendly and deferential, and even as most of them were a combination of deep orthodoxy and a show of camaraderie, there was a wide, albeit invisible, gulf between them. She seemed to live a false and constricted existence that suffocated her inside. There was nowhere to go to after school hours, no family, no social life. She suffered a deep sense of loss; she missed the free and fraternal spirit that she had grown up with living in the stables and refugee camps in Jammu. She missed her friends, missed going to the temple with her mother, missed the festivals, and other social functions. She turned vegetarian for she could never be sure if it was beef or mutton that was being sold at the shops. Her salary was not released for three months on one excuse or other until she found out that she had to grease the palms of every functionary in the official hierarchy -- the peons who passed the files from one table to another, the clerks who managed the files, the treasury officials who passed the bills, the cashier who delivered the pay cheques and so on. With passing days, the strain proved too much and symptoms of anxiety started weighing her down. She found herself crying silently in bed after a day’s work. That is when she came to pay her first visit to her parents, and her father accompanied her to my clinic. The interview passed off well and proved a cathartic for her. I advised her to eschew the negative reactions. After all, these were early days; things would improve with time as she would get to find her space. Besides, she was not alone in this; there were another one and a half thousand recruits like her, going through the same travails. She had to prove to herself and her family that she was no coward. I prescribed anti-anxiety pills for her. Armed with renewed determination, Meera returned to Kashmir cheered up after spending three days with her family in the Jagti Township built for the exiled people. She assumed a breezy stance and resumed teaching with fervour. No doubt then, she became very popular with everyone, and a darling of the students, some of whom being in the adolescent and pubescent age groups, were quite enamoured of her. Since she passed as a friendly and frank mentor, her students spoke freely with her, sometimes asking questions even about her personal matters. She did not mind this meddlesomeness, for she had nothing to be shy or afraid of. She was an open book -- pure and innocent, filled with the zest for life one finds in a girl who has seen horrible days, struggled hard, and reached a stage where her dreams of settling down in life and being on her own look like finding some realization. One day, while checking the essay, The Essence of Religions, that her students had chosen to write on, Aslam, a twelfth grade student asked her, “Madam, do you believe in Islam?” She was surprised by this abrupt question from her student and it took her a while before she answered, “I believe in all religions that teach brotherhood and peace.” “That is what Islam stands for, Madam.” “It is good for mankind,” she said matter-of-factly. “Yes, it is good for everyone. But you are not Muslim?” “No, I am not.” “What is your religion, Madam?” “I am a Hindu.” “But Islam is the best religion.” “How can one know unless one has studied all religions?” “Well this is an established fact; Islam is the best and most compassionate.” He spoke with bravado, his eyes smiling at her. “I hope it is.” “Madam, why don’t you accept Islam?” he asked in a conciliatory tone. “I have not rejected it.” “I mean, why don’t you convert?” “Convert?” “Yes, convert to Islam.” “Why do I need to convert? My conversion doesn’t make Islam any better. Besides, I have no problem with being what I am.” The boy shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness, excused himself and left. But Meera was left with more questions than what her student had posed. Why should a twelfth grader try to motivate her to change her religion? She did not have to wait long for the answer. “Madam, when are you going to marry?” Majid, another twelfth grader asked her on another day. “I am in no hurry. But why do you ask?” “We all are keen to know who will be the lucky man.” “I haven’t given it much thought yet.” “But you are already settled in a job. You are alone. You need a husband.” “O boy, I don’t need a husband; a husband may need me.” She winked at him mischievously. “That is one and the same thing, Madam,” he replied, feeling emboldened “It is not. Go, think about it at home,” she said dismissively. Majid was not to be deterred by her ready wit. “Well, there may be someone who does need you.” “In that case, and when it is time, I will consider.” “What about Mushtaq sir?” She gave him a stern look, flabbergasted at his audacity. Was this boy in his senses to suggest a husband for her! But Majid was unfazed. “Mushtaq sir, the Urdu teacher is handsome; he is from a descent family. They have orchards, mills and other business.” “How does that concern me? Besides, you know I am a Hindu?” “What is wrong in marrying a Muslim, Madam? Is Islam not the best of all religions?” Here was another boy speaking the same language, she thought to herself. “All the same I am quite happy being a Hindu. I love my religion like you seem to love yours.” “What is your religion about, Madam; worshipping stones and pictures of funny gods, some with several arms, others with elephant heads and riding rats?” “That is what my religion is about the great legends, the symbolism, the most fascinating stories. If you really want to know about other religions you should try to explore and understand, and not to denigrate them. It goes against ethics, against your Islam.” “I have watched the Mahabharata. In Hinduism it seems there is adultery all over the place; your gods seduce women and they bear illegitimate children who go to war with each other.” Red with rage, she did not lose her self assurance. “This is preposterous. I don’t like my students to be so deluded. What you speak about are the greatest epics ever written.” “Then what is your religion if not Mahabharata and Ramayana?” “It is a lot more than what you believe; it is the Vedas and Upanishads and much more; it is the great philosophy enshrined in the Gita. It is the higher truths of life that the sages sought answers for.” “Madam, if you don’t mind could you tell me why you worship stones?” He was going far, but she decided to cut him short. “So do you. When you go on the pilgrimage to Mecca and take a round of the Kaba with the black stone inside, is that not stone worship?” Cut to the quick, Majid blushed, and left without salaaming her as was the custom when students took leave of their teachers. But more questions arose in Meera’s head than what the two students had posed. Was it just the inquisitiveness and impetuosity of juveniles or was she the victim of a subtle conspiracy? Why was religion the most dominant theme in Kashmir, occupying almost all the space? Why were teenagers, who are expected to focus on their studies, obsessed with religion? There were other thoughts troubling her as well on the home front. Her parents were eager to see her settled in matrimony. They had resumed visits to the match makers after Meera got the job, for they thought it was bound to improve her prospects. In fact, there were two proposals within a few months. Shivratri was near and Meera was coming for a four-day sojourn to celebrate the festival with her family. Her parents had arranged her to meet the two prospective grooms during this time. The first interview went bust from the very start. The candidate was a deputy manager with a manufacturing firm at Gangyal. He was loudmouthed and boorish, cynical and self aggrandizing. He boasting unabashedly about his authority in the factory, the trust that his boss placed on him, the fear he had instilled in the workers. He felt no compunction asking her what portion of her salary she gifted to her parents who, he had the cheek to remind her, had no source of income other than the government dole, and, how much she gave to her older brother who was still unemployed. It was a mismatch and she dropped him like a red hot coal. The second interview started off well with the usual introduction and preliminary questioning. He was an arts graduate, running an electronic goods shop that earned him a reasonable income. He lived with his parents who had built a small home in Muthi soon after the exodus from Kashmir. He was good looking, gentle, suave. She liked his forthrightness and she seemd to answer all his requirements for a wife except that she was posted in Kashmir. “If we get married, will you agree to forgo your job?” he asked her. “I worked hard to get this job. It will be a terrible disappointment to give it up,” she replied. “We don’t want to get married and live in two different cities 300 km apart, with hardly many opportunities of meeting and living together, given your working conditions.” “You can move to Kashmir and set up your business there rather than me giving up my job with no chances of getting one in Jammu?” “It has taken me several years and a lot of hard work to establish my business. I don’t want to be the laughing stock for living off my wife’s earnings. It will take me years to find a shop, a house, a business in Kashmir. By now, you should know it better than me what it takes to start a private enterprise in Kashmir for people who were hounded out from there. I hate the very idea of living in a place where we are not welcome.” She could not fault his argument, nor was she prepared to give up her job. The failure to make any headway on the matrimonial front, even as she put up a bold face, did not leave her unscathed. Her anxiety resurfaced and she came to consult me a second time before she would return to Kashmir. An element of depression had crept into the clinical picture besides the resurgent anxiety. She sighed often during the interview and broke down a couple of times, even expressed her disenchantment with marriage. It took a long session of counselling to calm her down. She was a self-made woman, I explained to her; she didn’t need anyone’s advice to guide her life, certainly not the crutches of a man to survive. Meera returned to her job in Kashmir and settled into an easy rhythm where life goes on from one day to another without much happening, without much expectations of change -- an uneasy calm which descends from being trapped in drabness and monotony that tend to become a habit over time. She went about her job, teaching with passion, bonding with her students, fraternising with her colleagues. For some time she all but forgot about matrimony. Then a strange wind blew. Her father informed her about a fresh marriage proposal. She was not interested in going through the ordeal of another interview, but her father beseeched her not to let go this opportunity. As with the earlier proposals, the teknis had been matched and a propitious day fixed for a meeting with the prospective groom who agreed to travel to Srinagar since Meera was denied permission to leave the station. On a Saturday Rajesh Dhar took the bus to Srinagar. He was to meet Meera Sunday morning in the premises of the Hanuman temple near Amirakadal. The Vitasta flowed quietly by as they sat on the steps of the ghat, sharing the home-made aaloo parathas that Meera’s mother had asked her to carry along that she shared with him during the course of the interview. Rajesh was an engineering graduate, looking for a job and a wife. He seemed the prototype of a self-opinionated Kashmiri Pandit, waxing eloquent on his views on culture, tradition, and family values. He expatiated freely upon himself and his family and seemed to have done his homework on her family antecedents. He seemed quite interested in her scholastic achievements, even her marks percentages in different examinations; her likes and dislikes; her culinary skills; her parents and brother; her friends, her cousins and so on. He asked her about her salary, her bank balance and the gifts she would bring with the dowry for his parents, siblings, uncles and aunts. It went on for about an hour. Meera felt an irritation rising within her but kept calm. That is what her mother had begged of her. She replied that she had no idea what her parents had kept aside for dowry and gifts, but it would be within their means. He was fair and good looking, but arrogance oozed from his speech and demeanour. “I am quite happy with the interview, Miss Bhat,” he said finally like an examiner declaring the result of a student. “Thank you,” she said half-heartedly. “But there is a snag.” She looked at him with an expression of surprise and sarcasm. “Your mother is not a Kashmiri.” This crude statement cut her to the quick and she asked the first question during the whole interview. “How is she not?” “She is from Doda.” “That she is. Is that a disqualification? You sound as if she is from some alien planet. I hope you know that Doda is a part of J&K.” “But people there are not Kashmiri Pandits.” “My mother is a staunch Batni, more than others who parade their lineage.” she declared proudly. “You see, our families don’t match.” “What is the mismatch about?” she asked, irritation rising. “I belong to the well-known Dhar clan,” he continued. When she heard the word clan, her eyes flashed in anger. Looking him in the face, she snapped, “I have heard of a man from the Dhar clan who would go home drunk and beat up his wife and kids. It seems he finally died of a bad liver.” Grievously outsmarted, he looked at her in disbelief, and stammered, “But what has that to do with our marriage?” “The same as my mother being from Doda; the same as the demands you make for dowry and gifts for your uncles and aunts. Look here, I am proud to be the daughter of a woman from Doda. Your family could learn a lesson or two in cultural traditions and graces from her. I don’t understand why, if you have a problem with my Doda origin, did you come for this meeting? In any case, even if you were the prince of a kingdom I would think twice before accepting your proposal.” She rose from the steps to indicate that the interview was over. Rajesh did not know how to slink away. Next day, when she entered the classroom it was abuzz. “Congratulations, Madam,” the students chorused in merriment. “What is the news?” she asked surprised. “Madam, we hear an aspirant had come from Jammu to meet you. Has your marriage been settled?” Majid spoke. “Let us start the lesson of the day,” she quipped. “Madam, we want mithai sweets.” “Everything at its time,” she replied firmly, her face assuming an inscrutable expression. But Meera lapsed into melancholy from that day. Her ebullience vanished. She lost interest in teaching. Her sleep and appetite became erratic. She had so many questions in her head that seemed to have no answers. Where young Kashmiri Pandits going astray? How could they be so crude, callous, uncaring? Had they not learnt any lessons from history? Had exile taught them nothing? How could the Pandits claim to be intellectuals and liberated souls and call the Muslims retrograde and medieval?. Meera did not explain all the reasons for the fiasco to her parents. She thought it would hurt her mother to learn that her Doda origins could have been the trigger. She hardly phoned them and answered their questions briefly. Her worried father travelled to Kashmir to find her in a state of depression. He persuaded her to apply for sick leave and come to Jammu for a change. That is when she saw me the third time. “I am sorry for what you have gone through,” I told her after acquainting myself with the details of her unsavoury experiences. “It is better to stay a spinster and be a free person than plunge into the dark pit of wedlock,” she went on. “It has been rather unusual with you, I agree. But every Pandit young man is not as bad as you might have come to believe.” “Three interviews have opened my eyes, Doctor Sahib. “Yet, there are many success stories.” “Lots of divorces too,” she quipped. “Come on, forget it. You need to move on in life.” “But the world is a strange place; I am not allowed to be myself.” “Is it your family? Are they too obsessed with your marriage?” “No, on the contrary they are very understanding.” “What about your students and colleagues? Do they now know about your failed interviews?” “Yes the students know. They seem to get all the information. Sometimes I get a feeling there are sleuths stalking me.” “Did any of them broach on this topic?” “Yes, they did. Three weeks after the event, Majid, the boy who had ridiculed Ganesha as an elephant-headed god riding a mouse, came to see me during the midday recess seeking guidance for a debate he was participating in. I think he was waiting for an opportunity to get even with me. “‘Madam, we were sad to learn about the interview,’ he said.” ‘“What interview are you speaking about?’ I asked him.” “‘With the Jammu guy who had come to propose to you.’ ‘“You don’t need to be sorry?” ‘“But we care about our teacher; we can’t believe a gifted person like you can be rejected.’ ‘“Why do you think I was rejected rather than the other way round?” “‘Either way, it is the same end result. Madam, will you now reconsider my sincere suggestion?’ “‘I don’t get you.” ‘“I mean Mushtaq sir, the Urdu teacher. He is a gentleman par excellence.’ ‘“So he is.” “‘What about marrying him?’ “I reminded him that he was a student and not a matrimonial consultant. But he was undeterred. ‘What about Gani sir, the science teacher. Such a pious man; knows Koran by the heart, goes for nimaz five times a day. There are others who would consider it a favour to earn your hand.’ ‘“You are crossing the red line between a teacher and student, Majid. It doesn’t behove you. I command you to leave me alone.” ‘“Madam, I am sorry, but I said it in good faith.’ “He bowed respectfully and left. It was exasperating. There was nobody to share my thoughts with. I felt friendless, helpless. But I did not give vent to my inner turmoil and went about my job. A few days later, Aslam, the student who had asked me to convert, followed me as I was walking out of the school premises to go home. Catching up, he said, ‘Salaam Madam, how are you?’ ‘“I am fine, thank you?’ I replied.” “‘We are all concerned about you.’ “‘Why should you be concerned?” “‘I mean the way you have been treated meanly by the prospective Pandit grooms. Madam, don’t you see sense in what I said the last time I met you?’ ‘“About what?” “‘About accepting Islam.’ ‘“Your advice is uncalled for, outrageous. It has nothing to do with me.” ‘“But Islam is a great religion.’ ‘“To you your religion, to me mine. Isn’t that what Islam teaches?’ I reminded him.” ‘“It does, that is why I am asking you. What is your religion worth if you can’t find a suitable husband because it fails to teach your young men how to treat women?’ he asked in derision. I was shocked.” ‘“If they can’t see the good in you, they must be blind. You need to convert and find for yourself the respect you will get, the due place in society, the security and safety. Muslims treats women much better than you might know.’ ‘“I am alright as I am. And now, can you please leave me alone,’ I said in exasperation.” “‘Madam, I have another suggestion, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you consider marrying Mushtaq sir, the Urdu teacher?’ “I warned him that if he didn’t leave me alone I would report to the principal. “‘I am sorry if I sounded disrespectful, but that is not my intention; I said it in good faith. Good bye, Madam.’ “I was utterly distressed. Everyone was speaking in ‘good faith.’ What was this faith all about” Why should I be the target of this faith, this uncalled for indulgence? Why couldn’t my students leave me alone to let me live my life my way?” “Did the Urdu teacher, or any other colleague, ever propose directly or indirectly to you?” I asked Meera. “No, Mr. Mushtaq Ahmad did not. He is too refined to be proposing to me, even if he wants to.” “Do you think he wants to?” “I don’t know.” “But he could have thrown hints during a general conversation, or through gestures and actions.” “I can’t say with any degree of certitude.” “Could he have employed the students, now that two of them suggested his name to you?” “I can’t say.” “What is their behaviour with you, I mean the teachers?” “Most of them are respectful. However, politics and religion are like their life and soul.” “It must be a daily challenge to face this obsession with religion in Kashmir.” “It is. The place is soaked in it. You just can’t escape it.” “You are not at any point of time considering giving up your job and returning to Jammu?” “I love my job, even as I live in sufferance as an alien in Kashmir, because there is no hope I can get anything equivalent at Jammu.” “How long can you do it?” “As long as it takes.” “And you are convinced, come what may you want to stick to your faith?” “I have no reason to do otherwise.” “Have you shut the doors to marriage?” “Yes, for now.” “You would not marry a Muslim by any chance?” “I hope I don’t.” “But you are angry with the young men from your own community.” “I am not angry; I feel ashamed. I believe this is not their fault but of our effete and outworn attitudes. Nothing seems to have changed since the times my father married a girl from Doda because no Pandit would give his daughter to a shopkeeper of modest means. He would have remained a bachelor had he not looked elsewhere and I would not have been born to suffer the humiliation that I do now.” “You appear very bitter?” “Not really. More than bitterness I feel sad about our prejudices, about the false values and demeaning practices that have plagued our lives. Look how our elders and leaders blame our girls for marrying outside the community without trying to eliminate the rot within!” She breathed a long sigh. I had no answer, but that sigh appeared one of relief after having given expression to the troubling thoughts that were weighing her down. | |
*Dr. K L Chowdhury Dr. K L Chowdhury retired as a Professor of Medicine, Medical College, Srinagar. Presently he is the Director of a charitable institution, Shriya Bhatt Mission Hospital and Research Center, Durga Nagar, Jammu. He is a physician and neurologist, a medical researcher, poet, social activist. He writes on diverse subjects medical, literary, social and political and has numerous research papers to his credit, his pioneering work being “The Health Trauma in a Displaced Population” which was presented at national and international conferences. He has published three anthologies namely: 1- “Of Gods, Men and Militants”. Minerva Press (Pvt.) India -2000 2- “A Thousand-Petalled Garland and other Poems”. Writers Workshop Kolkata 2003 3- “Enchanting world of Infants” Peacock Books, Atlantic Publishers and Distributors-2007 He was declared Shehjar's 'Kashmiri Person of the year' for 2007. | |
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So simple but powerful truth but I still do not subscribe to the view that Meera was that desperate. I rather be poor and proud than to go in an enemy zone as a lonely soldier. Meera went to kashmir for the same reason what her family left on 25th of january 1990.
Added By Raj Ambardar
Very touching and expressive. Truly a great story.
Added By Deepak Ganju
Dr.Chowdhury Sahib,your writing style has honesty and impact, can make a seasoned playwright pale.Thank you for being so considerate in treating the ills of our society even by writing it for the benefit of all so that we delve in our hearts and minds to access the situation and mend our thought process and hypocritical culture. We're proud of your great contribution to our society.You are like a family member of all Kashmiri Pandit homes. Namaskar.
Added By rakesh raina
Excellent fiction. Despite experiencing exodus, Pundits are very proud to a fault. The community has to change to survive. Leaders should ask BJP to teach them self defense. I feel that Pundits should change and carry firearms for defensive purposes, just like every Swiss Citizen does. This is will not allow past to repeat itself. Self defense should be Jihad for Hindu Pundits in Valley.
Added By Surinder Mohan
Does not it depict Kashmiri Hindus as racists.Forget about Islamists.We know about them.Such stories about KPs were part of our folklore, even when we were in Kashmir.I remember a TV drama, where the KP Taxi driver had to run from pillar to post for marriage.The middleman tells the poor Taxi driver to some how get a Govt.job, even if that of a peon and he will find a match.We never had respect for dignity.A lot of introspection and course correction, may lead to better and happy community.
Added By Ramesh Kampasi
Does not it depict Kashmiri Hindus as racists.Forget about Islamists.We know about them.Such stories about KPs were part of our folklore, even when we were in Kashmir.I remember a TV drama, where the KP Taxi driver had to run from pillar to post for marriage.The middleman tells the poor Taxi driver to some how get a Govt.job, even if that of a peon and he will find a match.We never had respect for dignity.A lot of introspection and course correction, may lead to better and happy community.
Added By Ramesh Kampasi
well written psycological profile of a young woman who is faced with multiple challenges yet is trying to preserve her true identity and values.Hope you will keep us posted with her progress.
Added By Chand Bhan
Dear readers Love Jihad is very much in the news. Its existence is as vehemently denied by our so called liberal intelligentsia as it is emotivly highlighted by others who see its inexorable invasion into our society, both urban and rural. Most of My stories are fictionalised true events. My aim is to place the truth in a story format. I wll not tell you what happed with Meera. Her last few dialogues with me in the story should give you enough indication.
Added By K l Chowdhury
It is obvious that she has married that teacher.she was playing more the victim than she really was.If she had respect for her values she should have never given BSNL job up at first place and No 2 offer groom that she rejected. Love Jihad is a reality, 1339 Kashmiri pandit population in kashmir was 100% now ? too many mistakes,too many Birbals,perhaps we need to stand firmly,proudly and caringly in the world crowd that who we are without making meanings out of meaningless meanings.
Added By Raj Ambardar
Ambardar Ji, Pray don't rush in with unfeeling appraisal of the protagonist.. The conundrum of KP recruits in Kashmir raises many more fundamental questions. Unless you address them there will be more Meeras going through similar tragic experiences.
Added By K l Chowdhury
Dear Dr. Chowdhury, Your story has touched a very large number of readers and created thoughtful introspection and debate. We can only marvel at your compassion and caring for others and your gift of writing.
Added By Arun Koul
Very well written and meaningful. If this is happening in our society then I am not surprised if our girls are marrying outside our community. We have countless no. of organisations claiming to be "working for welfare of KPs", it is high time they start working to handle these types of issues in our society otherwise we know what will happen eventually. Ultimately, we will have only organisations left with no people to be served.
Added By Surender Kaul
Chowdhury sahib, 2 people may have same circumstances but one will be a hero and other a victim all with the choices they make. Recruitments in kashmir are not safe so why to plunge in an unsafe zone unless camp people were there for a summer holidays for last 3 decades. Yes,I love and Respect your concern for kp community so do I but hard pill must be swallowed. Teach children values lane than a money lane.
Added By Raj Ambardar
There is a proper system in Islam, when you convert a non muslim you will go to heaven and their belief is stronger than documentary proofs. Problem is when secularists who are among us do more damage than we realise. I think kashmir recruitment is a catagoric bait to kp females who then fall prey to love jihad. Yes, we need to do much much more and surely there are ways to stop it, love those who care.
Added By Raj Ambardar
KPs are like this only,but what is solution.how to save our community is million dollor question.Intellectuals and well known KP community stalwarts like you can give solutions rather like posing more problmes and writing stories.Proud to be KASHMIRI PANDIT.
Added By VIKAS BHAT