Current Events 6: 'Ghar Wapsi', the Homecoming

Ten years ago, my mother died with an unfulfilled dream in her eyes. Dream of seeing her home for one last time, home that she and my father had built saving each and every penny they could manage, home that was meant to house high hopes and dreams for their children and their future.

My children who are now living in their comfortable homes in this metropolitan city, busy with their busy lives, obviously don't recall anything about their first home. They were just babies at the time. Nor do they ask me or their mother any questions about that home. About that day we left, about what we had seen or heard or experienced. Maybe they don't want to, and I don't blame them for not wanting to. It is too painful. I know because I can not forget the pain.

For years now my wife has been telling me that I should try to forget the past and be grateful that we could escape safely and that we have been able to make a new life for ourselves despite all the hardships and struggle. She has been telling me to have faith and look toward the future, see our future in our children's eyes and move on. I know she is right.

But I am right too. Right in remembering that twenty five years have passed and my people still remain homeless, in their own country.

Right in remembering that nobody from our muhalla, our long-time friends, had come for the small puja that my mother had arranged for my month-old son's naming ceremony, just a week before the day we left. I don't blame them, they were afraid for their lives, we all were afraid. Very afraid.

Right in not wanting to forget that horrible night when that boy who used to work for my brother had somehow managed to reach our home in a state of complete shock and absolute fear. In his frightened state he told us some of what he had witnessed before he could escape. My brother was being beaten by iron rods, his wife was being ruthlessly shoved around and raped while their 2-year-old daughter kept shouting and crying until she couldn't. She was shot in the head by one of the attackers who just couldn't take all that shouting and crying.

Right in not being able to forget that all this was happening less than a mile away but I couldn't do anything. I couldn't leave the house, I was too afraid for my life, we all were. Completely shocked and scared, we were trying to gather a few of our belongings, hurriedly and haphazardly in a completely darkened house. A part of me was constantly praying, I don't know to which god, but another part of me knew the gods weren't listening. And yet I prayed silently and fearfully.

My wife somehow managed to feed something to our little children and put them to bed, and we silently waited. For the crack of dawn, and for the car that was supposed to pick us up and take us to bus depot.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the boy who escaped from my brother's house ran away. I don't know where or why. Maybe he had seen too much. Maybe he was too afraid to go with us because our family had now become the target.

The dawn came. And with my wife, two young children, a frail mother and a younger sister, I left the valley, our home, the only home I had known since birth. Wait, I said something wrong -- we didn't "leave" the valley; we, like hundreds of thousands of people like us, were literally forced to leave.

My hardware shop was in the main bazaar and that's how I heard all the news even before it became news. Everyday there was fresh violence, more killings, more people tortured and threatened, more rapes, more beatings, more abductions, more shops looted, more buildings vandalised, more houses burned, more people forced to convert. Everyday more lives were being completely destroyed. All in the name of the Holy War. All in the name of their One True God.

For the news people, my brother, his wife and their daughter were just that. News.

For us, it was the beginning of the end. End of our dreams and hopes. Of peace and possibilities of peace. My brother, a school teacher, had been secretly putting together a small reconciliation team for the past few months. He was perhaps becoming a threat to the larger plans of the separatists and terrorists. They had no choice. They had to eliminate him.

We had no choice, we had to leave while we still could. And we did.

But my wife is right. I should forget the past, forget the pain, forget the horror, I should live in present. My friends joke with me that I should listen to my wife because she knows best.

She does, but what she doesn't know is that on many occasions I have seen something in her eyes too. That emptiness in her eyes, that longing, that dream she isn't sure will ever come true. Dream to return one last time to her long lost home, her home in the valley where she came to live as a young bride, where she gave birth to her two children.

Will that home even be there? Will there ever be a 'ghar wapsi' for us? For my wife and me? For my people?

Displaced, refugees, exiled, persecuted. They call us by many names. Some even use that rather strange word -- migrant. Really? What drug are they on? The simple truth, for me, is -- we are homeless.

I hear that now they make movies about people who hounded us out, as if they are heroes of some type. Freedom fighters, some call them. Freedom to do what? To hate, to spread hate, to spread fear, to kill, to torture? I don't watch movies, but my friends who do tell me that we aren't even a footnote in such movies. I say that's okay because we don't want movies about us. We want our homes. We want our dignity.

Twenty five years....and the dream for elusive peace lives on. The dream for a peaceful home. The dream for dignity.


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Yesterday, 19th January 2015 marked the 25th year since the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits began. Thousands were killed, tortured, abducted, raped, and hundreds of thousands were forced to flee their homes by the Islamic fanatics, separatists and terrorists. The systematic killing of Pandits had started a year before, September 14, 1989.

To read up more about the plight of Kashmiri Pandits and their struggle for rehabilitation, click here. 

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The first and principal article of these established and formal religions runs always, “Mine is the supreme, the only truth, all others are in falsehood or inferior.” For without this fundamental dogma, established credal religions could not have existed. If you do not believe and proclaim that you alone possess the one or the highest truth, you will not be able to impress people and make them flock to you.

~ The Mother, CWM, Vol. 3, p. 77 

Kashmir has been a constant problem for so many decades now, but we have not confronted the problem squarely. In Kashmir the problem is connected with Partition. Unfortunately, the same argument which was applied to justify Partition continues to be applied today -- the idea that religion is the basis of nationalism. This is the basis of the whole conflict. Yet from early times there have been many religions in India. When Buddhism came, India was not divided on the basis of Buddhism and Hinduism, when Jainism came there was no such division. If religion is the basis of nationalism, every country should be divided. Therefore the whole theory is false.

~ Dr. Kireet Joshi

Read the full interview here 

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To read more posts in the Current Events series, click here.

To read more Fictional Jottings, click here.

The New Age Guru Who Wasn't

He badly needed to rediscover that lost enthusiasm and zeal for his work. Was he devoid of fresh ideas, was he simply over-exhausted?

He had never felt so ‘blocked’ before. He desperately needed to churn out creatively told stories and well-researched essays for his next self-help book. His fame depended on it, so did his fancy lifestyle.

That afternoon as he walked home after his book signing event, he felt a strange unease. Out of nowhere a rainbow appeared in the sky. He stood in awe for a few minutes when a piece of paper came flying out at him from somewhere. He noticed some words were scribbled on it.

He knew this was his rainbow.

He had to experience. He had to live the truths he wrote about in his fast-selling books. He had to ‘be’ before he could ‘express’.

He couldn't be a sham anymore.


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“The rainbow is the sign of peace and deliverance.” ~ Sri Aurobindo, Letters on Yoga

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To read more Fictional Jottings on this blog, click here.

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Written for Wordy Wednesday for Blog-a-rhythm, Word Prompt: Rainbow

Linking up with ABC Wednesday, Z: Z is for Zeal

Image: Google, altered

Standing Tall....

A New Post in the Series: When a Picture Leads

Am I invisible? A freak? An anomaly?

An object to amuse the onlookers? Look, they aren't even looking. Self-absorbed as they are.

What is with most people today, always needing newer forms of entertainment?

Will they ever be satisfied?

I stand tall, not to entertain, but to see the world from the heights of contentment.

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To see the previous post in the series, click here. 

To see all the posts in the series, click here

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Linking this with Write Tribe's 55 on Friday: Picture Prompt. 

Image credit: Vidya Sury

Knowing by Grace

A special post for Navratri

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

Stifled by her own fears, trapped in her own powerlessness, and caught in her own vulnerability, she didn't even realize how deep she was getting into a pattern of life that would soon be an all-enveloping, a kind of a vicious circle that will be almost impossible to break.

Till one day in that very rare moment when all had become so very quiet within…in that moment when she got a glimpse of Her, looking radiant, resilient, self-possessed, self-assured, blissfully happy with no care in the world, yet with eyes that spoke the language of care, compassion and kindness.

And she instantly knew this was a moment of Grace; this was no chance meeting.

Whom she saw was none other but a vision of what she too could become; in fact She was none other but she, without all the veils, all the masks.

Then in another moment of Grace she knew exactly which way to steer the wheels of her life, she received the knowledge to begin the journey to slowly turn the vision into reality, she knew the masks that must be gotten rid of, she could sense the truth which needed to be unveiled slowly, layer by layer; the Shakti was waking up.

Pictures taken by Suhas Mehra 

Event: Dance Drama titled Naari (Woman)

Venue: Sri Aurobindo Auditorium, Auroville

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To read previous post in the series, click here.

To read all posts in the series, When a Picture Leads, click here.

To read last year's Navratri special posts, click here and here. 

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Linking this with Five Sentence Fiction, Prompt: Wheels
Linking this with ABCWednesday, K: K is for Knowledge

Current Events 2: Seeing Anew

Why had Kareem-bhai and his friends bombed the army-camps? They were wrong.

The soldiers who rescued me, ammi, and thousands in our flood-ravaged village weren't the enemy.

Who was?


“I’ll join the army, protect my people,” 14-year-old Hamida suddenly beamed.

“Inshallah, may more children see the light,” said her ammi.

Image: Source 

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A post dedicated to the victims of devastating floods that ravaged the state of Jammu & Kashmir.
And to the brave soldiers of Indian Army who bravely rescued thousands of people.

To read my previous entry in the Current Events series, click here.

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Linking this to the Fiction Challenge ‘From 15 to 50′ hosted by Shailaja at The Moving Quill. Word prompt: Perspective. 

Current Events

In a dilapidated hall of what was once a prestigious college in a small city of the troubled border-state that had seen many decades of ethnic cleansing and terrorism, the young, energetic and dynamic cabinet minister of the newly elected central government was speaking to a large audience of students, teachers, soldiers and out-of-work businessmen.

"We must build roads, factories, schools, colleges, dams, bridges, hospitals, vocational institutions, skill-training centers, and invest in many such projects if we want to bring in more employment opportunities and provide a real boost to the development of this state; we don't want the youth of the state to experience any longer a sense of alienation, hopelessness and despair, because we have seen how severe deprivation makes them an easy prey to the destructive ideology being regularly fed by the separatists and other extremists.

But let me also say this to everyone present here that our government will have a zero-tolerance policy toward all kinds of terrorism and extremism, and we will do all that is necessary to eradicate this poison, using all constitutional and law-enforcement means available to the government.

We believe a two-pronged approach is needed: development of the state is most essential to bring a sense of hope and optimism for the future, and dealing with the terrorist groups and other anti-national elements  is like cleaning the house in the present...."

While the photographers present in the room got busy clicking their shots amidst the thunderous applause and cheering of the audience, there was no one to witness the gut-wrenching sight of two teenagers, a boy and a girl, being blown away to pieces as a bomb exploded in what used to be the college library, the spot where the young lovebirds had been hiding to steal their first kiss while their friends and peers were occupied with the minister's speech.

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Linking this with Five Sentence Fiction, prompt: Conflict

From Those Other Worlds

Cushions. Check.

Colour. Check.

Wall-art. Check.

Pizzazz. Check.

Midnight. Even the most inviting divan couldn’t do it. Her monkey-mind kept running over many details. Her tired body, aching knees, sore back….all were craving for rest. But she was too restless.

And then the music began…

Three days later, their dream-home was almost all set. Back from his business trip he was happily surprised.

"It does feel like home, doesn't it?"

"Absolutely! But did you sleep at all?"

"Every midnight the pianist next-door played my favourite lullaby. That made me sleep like a baby."

"But nobody lives in that house, dear!"

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Linking this with Write Tribe 100 words on Saturday, Prompt : It does feel like home, doesn't it?

Image 1: mine, Image 2: google, altered

Village Temple

On her evening walk Ramabai noticed a big log, all around which were strewn the sacred yellow flowers.

On a closer look, the wise and saintly woman recognized the log to be from a sacred banyan tree. But there wasn’t a single banyan tree in the entire area. Seeing this as a Divine Grace she started meditating at that spot every morning and evening.

Soon the villagers passing by began sensing a change in the aura and energy of that place.

A village temple was born, one with no walls, no murti, no pujari. Only She, the Shakti, Cosmic Energy.

An Indian temple, to whatever godhead it may be built, is in its inmost reality an altar raised to the divine Self, a house of the Cosmic Spirit, an appeal and aspiration to the Infinite.

~ Sri Aurobindo

Image courtesy: vidyasury.com

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Linking this post with Write Tribe - 100 words on Saturday: Picture prompt

Also linking with ABC Wednesday - V: V is for Village Temple

Designing Mom

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

(The difference this time is that the picture is given as a writing prompt by Write Tribe - a wonderful resource supporting writers, bloggers, and wanna-be writers)

One look at the “girl’s room” of the ‘model-home’ in the residential complex where they would soon relocate, and her 10-year-old instantaneously pronounced – “Not even for a second think about doing my room like this.” 

She smiled and felt relieved. Her aesthetic sensibility and preference for simple design had passed on to her daughter. 

“What if she'd wanted some ‘artificial’ décor, like that ‘beach-ey’ poster on the wall in this concrete jungle? Would the designer-in-me agree?” She shook her head as if to not even entertain the thought and walked out, knowing exactly what their ‘real’ home would look like. 

Source: Image 1, Image 2 mine

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To read previous posts in the series "When a Picture Leads" click here.

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Written for Write Tribe 100 words on Saturday Prompt - using prepositions in, on, at, and the picture of the pink bedroom above.

The Remains of the Moment

Quietly they came and took him away. 

What remains are the moments, moments before and after. The images, the words spoken and unspoken, that's all that remains. That's everything. Yet nothing but words.

Does it only feel like or was it really yesterday? 

She can no longer hide herself from the truth, she has to let go. Let go of the moment, the pain and the agonizing helplessness, for the new life breathing within. 

This moment is all there is. That's everything. Yet nothing but words. The truth is in remembering that nothing remains but the remains of the moment.

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Linking this post with Write Tribe 100 words on Saturday prompt: She realized she could no longer hide the truth. (I have taken the liberty of slightly re-interpreting the prompt).

Linking this post with ABC Wednesday, R: R is for Remains

Photo by Suhas Mehra

A Family Teatime Tradition

A little behind-the-scene look (I am really beginning to like this sort of thing):
This is one of those writings that I wasn't not really planning on doing, but somehow it happened. When I first came to know of an ongoing prompt at Write Tribe about using 6 body part idioms, I was quite sure that this was not my cup of tea. I couldn't see myself using an idiom-filled expression, that is just not me I thought. But somehow a few days later came this little idea from somewhere which somehow didn't mind expressing itself through an idiom-filled language. And there you have it…

I feel like I am back in my English class in middle school, but it is fun being back there. I enjoyed my English classes :)

The two often didn't see eye to eye on many things.

Most of the mornings during their teatime on the veranda…

…she would tell her that real world of business was not what was taught in the management schools. One has to learn by experience how the game is played, learn the rules of the game, and then also learn how and when to break the rules. This, she would say, was the only way to keep moving up.

…she would tell her about those hard times when she got a real kick in the teeth, and that too from colleagues she thought were on her side.

...she would tell her about an important lesson she had learned in her 20+ years in the world of big business - one must always walk with an ear glued to the ground so as not to be caught unaware.

…she would tell her that sometimes the best thing to do in some pesky situations at workplace was simply to do nothing or drag one’s feet at the most.

…she would tell her to protect her self-interest at all cost and not get involved in things like personality clashes and inter-personal conflicts, because while the clever ones get away unharmed it is generally the more idealistic ones who end up with egg on their face in such situations.

She knew her words often went unheard. Deep in her heart she didn't mind being ignored. But still she had to speak of those things...


And today her daughter was forced to resign from her job after just a few months, because she wouldn't let go of her idealism. “Like father, like daughter,” she mumbled as she kept her phone down and got ready for her next meeting. As a senior vice president in the same company, she couldn't let a silly thing like idealism come in the way of her upcoming promotion. Even if it was her daughter’s idealism.

That night when she reached home after 11 and saw her 23-year-old daughter sleeping soundly as if nothing is wrong with the world, she had a gut feeling that all would be well with her child. She closed gently the half-open book 'Management by Consciousness' resting on her daughter's quilt, kept it on the bedside table and switched off the light. And she smiled at her dead husband’s picture in her room, mumbled “like father, like daughter” and picked up her laptop for a video-call to the US.

She and he too could not see eye to eye on many things, her mind wandered to those morning teatime conversations with her husband as she waited for others to join the call.

“The pragmatic intellect is only sure of a thing when it finds it realised in Power; therefore it has a certain contempt for the ideal, for the vision, because it drives always at execution and material realisation. But Power is not the only term of the Godhead; Knowledge is the elder sister of Power…” 

~ Sri Aurobindo, CWSA, Volume 13, p. 112

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Linking this post to Write Tribe Wednesday Prompt: Eye to Eye