April 2026

Dal Lake, Kashmir. Copyright Basharat Alam Shah, licensed under CC BY 2.0. So much has changed in the last two weeks. Our lives are completely upended.   I used to rise early, go tutor a student, then teach at school, returning by four to spend the evenings reading or having coffee with my wife along the banks of the famous Dal Lake in Kashmir.  Now I am in Jammu, India with my family, 300 km away, with no student to teach and no school to attend. Along with hundreds of other Sikhs who choose peace over panic and fear of death, I migrated to Jammu, to stay safe and wait until things settle down.  Like me, most of the minority population wanted to migrate to Jammu, but not everyone had the privilege. I am a teacher, a permanent government post with a good salary. I have a small apartment in Jammu as well, and money to travel there quickly.  Those who are staying in Kashmir are holed up in their homes, uncertain of when they could be killed. All the non-Muslim employees have called upon the government for help and won’t attend offices until protection is provided. Public spaces have become unsafe, as most killings happened in broad daylight, in markets and crowded places. So much has changed in the last two weeks. For my wife, Kashmir is the much talked about heaven on earth, the crown of India, a lush green valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains, sparkling lakes resting in the foothills of the Himalayas. A place her whole family wondered if they would ever be lucky enough to visit.  But it is the same place they hear about in the news, where the Indian Army keeps fighting rebel forces amid political turmoil, bomb-blasts and militant encounters.  Just two weeks ago, my wife and I were on an island in the middle of Dal Lake, sitting on the veranda of Gulshan Bookshop, taking in the majestic view of water surrounded by mountains while numerous shikaras, small boats of tourists, glided over the lake. I was reading Rumi, and she was enjoying the sights. She could see the Zabarwan hills with the dramatic view of Hotel Taj and the historical Pari-Mahal, the Palace of Fairies with a seven-terraced garden. Beyond, the snow-capped lesser Himalayas are in the background. In October, the sky turns yellow in the evening, matching the colors of autumn.  ‘‘Kashmir is a nice place for vacations, but the slow and still life here would be difficult if one has to live here forever,” she said. “It is the best place to live, laid-back and relaxed, with a low cost of living, nice people and nicer weather. You might not find much growth in terms of career, but then why do you need growth when you can relax and live peacefully,” I replied.  “And it is the safest place in India for a civilian,” I added. “As a woman, you can roam around in the middle of the night without any fear; the crime rate is so low. People are so helpful. Any random person will come out to help you if you ever need it. And in the last two years, with all the protests gone, it has become more peaceful.” “Yaa, but Bangalore is our place; after my PhD, we will shift there, you have gotten too comfortable in your job, it hampers your growth. You can do much more; you have potential,” she said. We have planned it. In 2023 she will finish her PhD in social science, I will take a two-year sabbatical, and we will move to Bangalore, which is more expensive. She has more job opportunities there, and for someone like me who loves socializing, art and events, Bangalore would be the right place. Once we settle and find employment, then I will quit my job and relocate permanently.  We got married in August 2021. A Hindu from Kerala, a south India state around 3000 km away, she had visited Kashmir only once, for a short vacation two and a half years ago which is when we met. Kerala is one of the most peaceful and highly educated states in India with low crime.  Since our marriage, we have been visiting different Kashmir tourist attractions, coffee houses and restaurants. II The day everything went downhill, we were out eating blueberry cheesecakes.  “I am not going to learn Pahadi, I can’t even understand Hindi, and they don’t even talk in Hindi, how am I supposed to talk to anyone. I just smile like a stupid,” she said. Earlier that day my aunt had told her, “You should learn Pahadi. It’s easy to pick up, and it is always good to learn new languages.” This was the most common advice thrown at her by anyone who visited to congratulate us. “Did I tell you to learn Pahadi? Do my parents tell you to learn Pahadi? No, then why do you worry? These are one-time visitors love, what they say doesn’t matter at all,” I replied. Kashmiri society is very close-knit. People stay together mostly in extended families, in small houses. In winters, when it snows and is extremely cold, the whole family sits around the central fireplace, called Bukhari. There is no central heating and it is expensive to keep the house warm. So people go into the largest room and stay together, even sleeping there. The concept of privacy, individual space and freedom are very blurry. Their remarks might seem intrusive, but they are genuinely concerned and think that advising people is their form of love and guidance.  “There is nothing I can talk to them about, no common interests. All Kashmiris’ talk about is food.” she said. When she was at her home, we discussed politics, religions, women’s rights, books and especially, movies.  In Kashmir, the conversations center around family politics, who to visit and why, what to eat and who made what for dinner and only then religion and Kashmir.  Here our long drives around Dal Lake for our