The Kheer Bhawani temple in Tulmulla stands like a quiet sentinel, its sacred spring reflecting the weight of a thousand unspoken prayers. Each year, on Kheersagali, the air hums with devotion, the scent of kheer and incense weaving through the ancient chinar trees. For the Kashmiri Pandits, this is more than a pilgrimage; it is a tether to a homeland stolen by the storm of 1990. For me, Bilal, a Muslim from a village near Srinagar, it is a place of atonement, where I carry the ache of a promise unfulfilled and the memory of my friend, Sanjay Pandita—Sanj Bhat—whose departure in the pre-dawn dark of that fateful year left a void no time can fill.
I was twelve, a boy who knew more about cricket than the politics tearing our Valley apart. It was January 1990, and Kashmir, once a symphony of shared laughter and walnut-scented evenings, was unraveling. The terrorists’ slogans echoed through our village, their posters plastered on walls, demanding the Pandits leave or die. Sanjay, my classmate and best friend, was one of them. His family, like others, planned their escape in secret, aiming to cross the Jawahar Tunnel before sunrise. My father, his eyes heavy with worry, woke me at 3 a.m. “Bilal, help the Panditas,” he said. I didn’t understand the finality of it then. I thought Sanjay was off on an adventure to Jammu, a place where cinemas still played movies—unlike our Valley, where terrorists had banned them.
In the dim glow of lanterns, I ran to the village square, where trucks groaned under the weight of hurried lives—clothes, utensils, and memories bundled in haste. Sanjay stood by his family’s truck, his face lit with a mix of fear and excitement. “Bilal,” he whispered, his breath misting in the cold, “I’ll watch Sholay in Jammu. I’ll come back and tell you the whole story—every fight, every song!” I grinned, jealous. Sanjay was a storyteller, the best I knew. His family had one of the few TVs in our village, a luxury my mother, devout and wary, called “shaitan’s box” and forbade. At school, Sanjay’s tales of movies—heroes, villains, and epic battles—were my escape. I helped him lift a heavy trunk, my small hands shaking. His mother hugged me, whispering, “Stay safe, Bilal.” His father ruffled my hair. As their truck rumbled into the dark, Sanjay waved, promising, “I’ll be back!” I believed him.
That was thirty-five years ago. I’m forty-seven now, a father myself, but the boy in me still waits for Sanjay’s stories. The Pandits never returned. Their homes, including Sanjay’s with its creaky gate and walnut tree, stand empty, crumbling under time’s neglect. The terrorism that drove them out wasn’t just an act of violence; it was a fracture in Kashmir’s soul. Our village, once alive with Eid feasts at our home and Diwali sweets at Sanjay’s, became a shadow of itself. I carry a question that haunts me: why didn’t we stop it? There were only a few hundred terrorists then, armed with guns and hate. Why didn’t we, the Muslim majority, protect our Pandit neighbors? My father tried, arguing in hushed tones at the mosque, but fear silenced most. “They’ll kill us too,” they said. And so, we let our friends slip away, our silence a betrayal I can’t forgive.
Each year, I visit Kheer Bhawani during Kheersagali, drawn by guilt and hope. The temple, dedicated to Maa Ragnya Devi, is a sanctuary where Pandits pour kheer into the sacred spring, their prayers mingling with the rustle of chinars. I see their faces—etched with loss, yet alight with faith—and search for Sanjay. The spring, said to change color with the Valley’s fate, shimmers faintly pink, a whisper of hope or a memory of blood. I’m a Muslim, but I stand here, offering my own silent prayer to the goddess who binds us all. She is more than a Pandit deity; she is Kashmir’s mother, watching over a land torn apart.
Last year, I met an elderly Pandit woman at the temple who knew Sanjay’s family. “They settled in Delhi,” she said. “Sanjay became a teacher.” My heart surged, then sank—she didn’t know where he was now. I left a note tucked into a chinar’s bark: “Sanj Bhat, come back. Tell me about Sholay.” It was a childish gesture, but it felt like a vow. I dream of a Kashmir where Sanjay and I could sit under that walnut tree, laughing over movie tales. The Valley is calmer now, but the wounds of 1990 linger. Trust is fragile, yet I see glimmers of hope—Muslim friends who mourn the exodus, young Kashmiris who speak of unity.
At Kheer Bhawani, as the sun dips low, casting gold on the spring, I feel Maa Ragnya’s presence. She whispers through the leaves: “The day will come.” I pray for a Kashmir where temples and mosques stand together, where Sanjay’s children and mine can play in the lanes of our village. Until then, I wait, carrying the weight of a broken promise and the hope that one day, my friend will return—not just with stories, but with the harmony we lost, so we can call Kashmir home again.
