The night before my departure I have accumulated a long wish list from friends and relatives. People’s requests have come for things like gushtaba’s and Ahdoo’s bakery to embroidered pherans and shawls. My daughter wants a handful of snow.  I do a quick calculation on the money required to fulfill all the wishes received and promptly decide to ignore all the requests.

My travel arrangements are all made. The local manager of my office has dutifully offered to receive me at the airport. All my papers are neatly placed in a folder and I am about to call it a day when my phone starts ringing. It is an associate calling from Srinagar. He wants to know where I would be staying. My heart starts sinking and a strange melancholy seizes me. In my excitement of visiting my home after thirteen years I have overlooked a basic reality. My home no longer has a room, which I could call my own. I realize I have nowhere to go in Srinagar. I call up my associate and request him to book me a room in a hotel. Later, while driving home, my mind is seized with an agitating conflict. I am unable to decide whether the happiness of going back to valley is more than the sadness of having lost my home.

The flight to Srinagar is fully booked with no empty seat visible. There are more non- Kashmiri’s than the locals in the aircraft. The two seats to my left are occupied by an elderly Kashmiri lady and a young newly wed women whose dark complexion and ordinary features are typical of the people living in the hot plains of India. There is a newspaper in the jacket in front of me but I decide to soak in the beauty of the brilliant view offered by the snow-clad peaks of the tall mountains. I am totally lost in my thoughts and the mountains and am constantly getting reminded of the times I used to be one with the nature during my innumerable sojourns in the hills and valleys of Kashmir. The whole experience is ecstatic. I am totally oblivious to the happenings inside the plane and thus fail to enjoy the endeavors of the ladies sitting besides me in trying to communicate with each other. The elder lady’s attempt at speaking in Urdu and the resultant effect could fit in any comedy sitcom on the tube. The plane lands in Srinagar and I come to know the newly wed lady is a Hyderabadi married to a Kashmiri.

I disembark from the plane into the cold weather and an uncertain world outside. My first step on the soil of my beloved motherland sends a wave of current through my body. I find myself immobilized and unable to move forward. Every thing around me including the time and the life seem to have got frozen. I instinctively bend on my knees to pay obeisance to the land on whose soil I was born and which gave me a sense for aesthetics, appreciation for beauty and nurtured my intellect and creativity. The other passengers walking past me give me a surprised look but ask no questions.

The drive into the city is exhilarating. There is no greenery around and the trees are all shorn of leaves. The fields are barren. The entire landscape looks like a new bride bereft of all her ornaments and make up. I still find the view outside the car simply breathtaking.

The car is nearing the city and the surroundings start appearing familiar. It is all so beautiful. My companion, in the meantime, tries to reassure me about my safety. I am getting the feeling of being cuddled up in the warm lap of my grandmother. The matter of personal safety is the last thing on my mind.

We are passing through Budshah Chowk. The cruelty imposed by the uncertainty of the time has left no outward mark on the busy commercial hub of the city. I find the place exactly the same as I remember it to be in 1990. The minor changes visible now are the one-way traffic in imposition, the police picket in the chowk and the change in profile of some of the shops that the exiles left behind.

I check into Hotel Broadway. The grim look of the place is a pale shadow of its earlier grandeur and affluence. The place gives you a feeling of being in some sort of bereavement. The forlorn appearance, the empty lobby and an eerie silence seem to be a testimony of its grief of having lost its past glory. There are only two smartly dressed young boys behind the reception. They seem to be visibly surprised when I respond to their queries in Kashmiri. They, however, choose to speak only in English or Hindustani.

I am feeling very uncomfortable due to rising conflict in my thoughts. I have a friend with whom I have had no contact during these years. His business is situated in Maisuma. The heart is eager to establish a quick contact but the mind has other thoughts. Heart finally rules over the mind and my hands reach towards the telephone directory. My friend takes a while before recognizing the voice. His excitement is easily discernible by the high pitch of his speech. He shows his annoyance at my decision of staying in a hotel.

The hotel room is quite cozy. The temperature inside is heavenly as compared to the sub-zero conditions outside. I stare out from behind the huge glass window into the vast darkness outside. The night is still and there is no movement on the road. I am finding it difficult to fall asleep. The fact of my requiring a hotel room in a city, which I continue to mention as my permanent address, is troubling me a lot. I find the whole experience very traumatic. I switch on the TV and find no Kashmiri channel. I read every word of the newspaper kept in the room but the sleep still eludes me.

A couple of people recognize me. One youthful looking young man walks up to me and introduces himself as my neighbour in Rainawari.  He knows quite a bit about my family. I feel guilty of having forgotten about many people in my locality and apologize for my misdemeanor. The young man declares he was in fifth class at the time of my exodus. I see some hope in this particular generation. In the mean time a few of the old acquaintances have added to the small crowd around me. They are all enthused by my presence and ask many questions about my welfare. My friend declares the Kashmiris are a very unpredictable people. They will first kill you, throw you out and then treat you like a royalty. I find the statement very bold for the times. Other people show no reaction at all.

My companion is an energetic young man who lives in Soura. He offers to take me to various temples in the city. I gladly accept his offer and express my wish to visit the Chakreshwar Temple on Hari Parbat and Zethyar on the foothills of Zaberwan. The young man is embarrassed, as he has never heard of the places. Nevertheless, he becomes keener to explore the places. We visit both the places with Guru Dwara Chatti Patshahi and Shankaracharya thrown in as bonus. The condition of both Chakreshwar Temple and Zethyar does not betray the fact of devotees having dried up. The temples make me more sad than happy.

I enter the Shankaracharya temple with a strange feeling.  The temple is totally devoid of any devotees at this hour. The idol of Lord Shiva is sitting alone as if in a deep trance. I sit before the idol and focus my gaze on the majestic linga. Soon I am lost in some thoughts. I am suddenly brought back to reality by a loud burst of a jarring music. A young pujari enters the temple followed by a newly wed couple. The couple makes their offerings and pay obeisance to the deity as well as the pujari. The pujari puts a large pink vermilion marks on their foreheads and extends his fingers towards me also. He is visibly surprised at my reluctance to apply the mark. The couple also gives me a curious look. I give a final glance to the linga and wonder if it understood my apprehensions.

My car is driving past Nehru Hospital. I find every thing so familiar as if I am a part of the surroundings. Being so near to my place of birth sends down a wave of excitement through my body. I can sense reddening of my cheeks and ears. The events of my entire life run before my eyes like a fast moving picture. I wonder about the condition of my beloved Rainawari and try to suppress my desire for taking a detour into the interiors of the locality. My companion senses the state of mind and offers to take me to my old neighborhood. I decline his offer and experience a lump in my heart.

Srinagar has undergone a sea change in its life style. I find many young girls working in small offices and businesses. I walk into some up-market restaurants of the city and find a lot of unaccompanied young ladies enjoying the delicacies. There are quite a few young boys and girls exchanging coy smiles and glimpses between each other. No body seems to be talking in Kashmiri.

There are a lot of young girls and ladies walking around on the roads. The make up on their faces and attire would enable them to straight away mingle with the crowds in any modern Indian city. I do not see many veils around. The beauty, the sharp features and the un-blemished complexion make the Kashmiri women breathlessly beautiful. I am reminded about the Hyderabadi bride and wonder what makes the Kashmiri’s graze in the alien pastures when the grass is so green on this side of the fence.

It is time to say good-bye. I am overwhelmed by the love and hospitality showered upon me by my friends and acquaintances. The return to my roots after thirteen long years is giving me mixed feelings. The pangs of having lost my moorings are too severe for me to endure. No body has talked about my permanent return. On the contrary, everybody wants to know if I would come back. I am starting to feel like an alien in his own home.

Our car is stopped some two kilometers before the airport and put behind a long queue.

My companion informs me about the elaborate security check one has to go through while going to the airport. The slow pace at which the cars ahead are moving is nerve wrecking and the possibility of my missing the flight suddenly appears to be a reality. My luck, however, holds and I reach the airport in time only to find a two-hour delay in the flight.

There is some commotion near one of the check-in counters at the airport. I venture to explore and am not surprised to find many people having missed an earlier flight. Many people are trying to enter into a heated argument with the Manager, who is completely unruffled. The onus of reaching the airport in time is on the passengers and not him, he declares firmly. Some people find this as yet another example of Indian persecution. Incidentally, the airline manager is a local. I drift away while contemplating the situation, had the manager not been a local.

An elderly gentleman occupies the empty seat besides and immediately strikes a conversation with me. Soon he seems to be suspecting my mindset and I decide to end the suspense. I reveal to him the fact of me not being his co-religionist. He immediately changes the direction of the conversation and terms my exile as a will of Allah. He also does not want any body to blame the boys who indulged in the mindless orgy of violence and intimidation during the early phase of turmoil. They were acting at the behest of Allah.

I find his explanation similar to heads I win tails you lose situation.